

# Copyright

This book is published for your personal enjoyment only and may not be copied or excerpted without the permission of the author. If you would like to share this book with others, please consider purchasing an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

©2020 Ross Peacock - All Rights Reserved

Print Edition ISBN: 9781099217357

Independently Published

March, 2020

Haliburton, Ontario, Canada

# Introduction

Two men are dying at the same moment in the same hospital. Coincidence is all that connects them. John, the richer, lonelier one, fell to the distraction of greed. Kamal, the poorer and much-loved one was shot in gang violence. Following the rules, their souls should have started over as naked bawling infants; but these are criminals. One soul decides not to leave, just yet. He needs a revived body to remain.

John wakes in Kamal a severely injured black body surrounded by strangers. Confused and fearful, he discovers love for the first time in Kamal's beautiful wife and family. He strives to become Kamal, but is mired in poverty and struggling against gangs that tried to kill him. The family must break out to survive. Can he find a way to tap into his previous body's wealth and skills? Will a former criminal partner accept the unbelievable story of reincarnation and just hand-over his stashed money? John's bumbling family members must come to Toronto to bury his old body. They think that they are ending his story but end up playing a critical, if unintended, supporting role in achieving his new plan.

John's unlikely ally is Jaffery Doswell, a retired crime reporter who has written this fantastic story before to his editor's disbelief. This time around he is determined to prove reincarnation does happen. But first, he must win John's trust. Then as Kamal's family runs from the gang, he must find a way to protect them, even if it means becoming a criminal himself.

Death, or rather things that happen at the moment of death, are both the beginning and the end of the story. Jaff has his documented proof of reincarnation, but in grief, he can't write the story for the family he fell in love with. He agreed to let me try to write it for him.

# Acknowledgements

I remain indebted to my tireless editor and friend Julie Kennedy, whose careful review of the manuscript helped to deliver a better story for all of us.

My first readers, including family members, also helped to clear out both the unlikely scenarios and unbelievable outcomes that find their way into a first cut. Thanks to all.

RP

# Chapter One - Kamal is Dead, John Not So Much

John Thomas Fischer's first death happened in the night without notice or fanfare. His passing, in a hospital bed at four in the morning, came in the half-light of left-on side lamps for the benefit of nursing aides and was accompanied only by the buzzes and beeps of the nearby electronic watchers of conditions and dispensers of drugs.

His final breath was taken in a room shared for the last two days with someone he knew only by his annoying coughs and farts. Considering the hundreds of nearly-dead candidates nearby, sudden passing was pretty commonplace for the big-city institution of ill-health known now by its recent benefactor's name. The pale light of the Schumann Critical Care sign on the top corner of an adjacent building fell only across his feet as the window blind and his privacy curtain were each half-closed.

Had death been expected or more dramatic, the curtain might have been fully-closed and the small drama of attempted resuscitation acted out, making his death more memorable for at least some of those designated to rush to his side; but as it was, he just slipped away, unaccompanied, unmonitored and unobtrusive in his half-illuminated bed, with all of his covers still tucked in.

That should have been the end of it. Death wasn't expected, but as any coroner will tell you, one's expectations don't really matter much when the smallest of failures in any of a few dozen vital body parts can pretty quickly do you in. In John's case, his just-routine death started two weeks previously, when he missed a downward step on his late-again rush into the subway to try to catch the train that he was sure sat waiting with open doors poised to close on a platform two levels below the street.

He made the hurried descent a couple steps at a time, as usual, with loose parts flying, while cursing the currently-uncertain location of the damn Presto fare card buried in one of his six or seven pockets on today's get-up of suit pants, suit jacket, rain coat, and gear satchel. He had the very thought of "Why don't I put the damn thing in the same place each day?", when his next frenzied step downward found a soaked McDonald's bag still half-full of fries and drink container, but absent the McBurger. It and his leather-soled loafer travelled together into open space above the next steps. With one hand deep in a back pocket and the other clutching the designer satchel that he was loath to drop, he had no defense for gravity's embrace taking him headfirst down a half-dozen stairs and into the aptly-named wall of subway tiles waiting just above the gritty terrazzo floor at the next landing.

To their credit, few people stepped over him and at least one called 9-1-1, for soon John was looking up into the capable eyes of a very-efficient EMS person as she strapped his neck into a really-uncomfortable brace and told him to 'just relax' while she and her partner lashed him to a back board for transportation to the above-named trauma centre. He didn't know it at the time, but his neck was fine. A small blood vessel deep in his brain wasn't.

Over the next thirteen days, his condition improved remarkably. A florid bruise bloomed from his hairline to nearly his chin, roughly defining the full area of impact with the referenced tiles. A nasty contusion above his brow at the precise point of first contact was healing nicely, they said, coming out from under bandages early-on and appearing now as a dark-red railway-tracked isthmus of recovery centred in the purple and pale-yellow facial sea of 'give-it-time' persistence that took each of his visitors aback.

He had his lines well-rehearsed. "Looks worse than it feels; I'm fine. Out in a day or two, they say." All responded with something like, "Well, that's good." Most thought, "Jesus, don't come back too soon, I might lose my breakfast looking at that mess each morning." Reactions were less of a problem near the end as most of his friends were of the one-visit type and what family he could claim wasn't close enough for even that.

Curiously, for John anyway, death was where things went off the rail. His body did go through the motions of death as the small cranial hematoma finally did him in. The little bleed, unfortunately well-hidden during a CAT scan behind the beginnings of a tumour that would have killed him in two years anyway, finally made its presence fully-known as it flooded a piece of the brain necessary for a few fairly vital tasks like keeping his heart going. If he made any noise while passing, no-one heard it.

Unlike many of his floor-mates, John didn't have an electronic watcher that night because he had been doing so well. So, death was his secret. The confusion, headaches and general lethargy of his first few days in hospital seemed to be over. As he predicted many times, he probably would have been sent home in only a day or two. So close, he could almost have tasted it—which was a source of some inner irony in his last one or two wakeful moments, when he noted that his heart had stopped, but that he could now distinctly taste stale beer and pot. Just time for a thought, "Weird, other people get life recall, tunnels and bright lights—I get hangover mouth." Then he was gone. Well, his first body was anyway.

As any talkative Buddhist would probably tell you, reincarnation is supposed to be a repurposing of the soul into a newborn entity. Hopefully into a human entity, but maybe into a dog or a goat if your focus is off. Regardless of phylum, the destination time of arrival is supposed to be just at birth. Admittedly, those who claim to know how it works are drawing conclusions from a pretty random data set that doesn't include the reliable testimony of those second-hand souls that do end up in dogs and goats. Dogs will agree to almost any suggestion and goats to none, so it's pretty hard to reach a consensus there.

As a baby's brain has no room for anything but the most transient of thoughts beyond hunger and elimination, there is really no means to verify the theory short of waiting for some familiar trait to appear many years later. That regimen takes a lot of faith and a willingness to equate young Ergot's aptitude for stickball with the departed master's acumen with a flyswatter. Most skeptics would say that you see what you want to see and would deny reincarnation as a mystic crock. But they would be wrong.

Reincarnation is in fact about as common as green eyes, although the two aren't connected. Obviously, a growing population of people requires a lot of new soul issues. So, a brand-new soul is the rule of thumb. But every soul has an allotted lifespan, which, if cut short in one body, simply picks up again in a new entity. The baby brain, as noted, can't do anything with the wealth of experience coming with the been-there, done-that soul, so old knowledge is lost forever or at least until a full lifespan is achieved. Then, as most chose to deny, an accounting is required. But, that's another whole story.

Here, we are only dealing with a simple transition that should have been straightforward, had John's soul got off the metaphysical elevator on Floor Six: High Risk Obstetrics instead of Floor One: ER. The bright and surprisingly healthy little guy who could have been his soul's new owner had to wait an extra few milliseconds for another issue to arrive.

John's soul, his life experiences, his stock of skills and all of his accumulated knowledge was actually flung from his body at the moment of death, for he was dying before his time. But, as sometimes happens, his confused soul crossed paths with another just heading upstairs, made a wrong turn and followed the beaten path of the other in the opposite direction, dropping downstairs into a soulless body already effectively dead, but still quite capable of life.

The kick of a different soul entering caused a flat-lined heart to beat again for the few moments needed by the surgical team to complete the veinous stitch and to pound home another unit of O positive blood, which carried just enough new oxygen to nourish a nearly-starved brain. This brain having already shed its soul, had plenty of room and processing capacity for John's complete persona. It wasn't a great place to set up shop, but once inhabited by John's soul, this body became John in everything except appearance.

The body's previous occupant, Kamal Lewis, died a lot quicker than John did. He was as good as dead when the first bullet hit his hip and ricocheted just past a couple vital organs and into a rib, nicking a branch of his vena cava on route. A second bullet caught him higher in the back as he dove for the ground, shattering his right scapula before tearing a neat hole in a lung and exiting through his pectoral muscle. A third bullet went right through his foot and, while painful, caused no life-threatening damage at all. Kamal might have gotten up and tried to run except for this wound, which pretty much numbed his entire leg. Had he actually known anything about the havoc a 9mm slug creates on its meandering path through a human body, he might have just stayed calm and savoured what consciousness he had left.

With useful blood becoming useless as it filled his abdomen, good advice would have been to conserve it by sitting still. He didn't know anything about the body's desperate attempts at survival playing out just below his heart and deep in his lizard brain, so spent a lot of the remaining oxygenated blood still in his arteries by trying to crawl up the driveway of his neighbour's house. The compact sedan that held the shooter who had actually emptied a full clip in his general direction with only one killing hit to show for it was long gone. He was crawling for no good reason, for he certainly wasn't going to get up and ring the doorbell to summon protection or help. Being pretty familiar with the sound of a handgun being emptied, several other neighbours had already called 911 anyway, mostly in annoyance, but also to quickly get rid of the bleeding man down on the sidewalk that their kids would take to school in the morning.

Kamal may or may not have been an innocent mistake, killed only for his handy availability on a street deemed home turf by the West End Crips and therefore treated as an occasional shooting gallery by the Mount Dennis Boyz. Kamal had ditched his gang affiliation many months before when he moved back home. He had done some deeds and nearly done some time, but was smart enough to see a dismal future if he didn't find a way out. Giving up on the perks and pleasures of the gang life was tough, but a loving mother, a new wife, and then a baby, all tipped the balance. He wasn't rich and never would be, but he was alive, then, mostly free of police harassment and settled-up with any real enemies, he thought. He was feeling pretty good on his walk home from the bus stop, having had a few beers and a small spliff with co-workers, plus there was his Muma's leftover dinner upstairs from his basement apartment, even if his gorgeous new wife couldn't boil an egg.

The steady afternoon shift job at the big distribution centre was starting to feel OK. They had taken him on knowing he was tarnished, but seeing a motivated worker beneath the patina. His boss was tough on him, but with a forget-yesterday attitude and a pretty good sense of humour. With his encouragement, Kamal had even started to think about signing up for some college courses in logistics. The many pleasant thoughts and mild buzz probably contributed to his unfortunate lack of attention to the grey Honda that slowed beside him.

If John's first bedside was calm and shadowed, his second was phrenetic and blazingly bright in an ICU that boasted the best in medical paraphernalia. Four tubes into his new body delivered oxygen, IV drip, thoracic irrigation and nutrition to injured parts, while various tubes out drained away cavity fluids and urine, as if a good part of his destroyed flesh and bone could be fixed just by running enough liquids through them. Monitors watched heart function, respiration, blood pressure, blood oxygen and temperature. When his mother arrived, she needed to search through the maze of tubes and leads to find his unconscious body under all the connection points.

With a good part of this body recently punctured by bullets, cut open by trauma surgeons and now wrapped in dressings, you could hardly tell that he was naked except for a discreet diaper around his middle to cover his privates and to catch any escaping substances the tubes missed. Seeing family in the room, an attendant moved to provide a little more cover, not for privacy, but so that the relatives could focus on the few areas that weren't injured. From experience, staff knew that covering up helped to curtail some of the howling and repetitive "Oh, my God!" exclamations that could really get on your nerves. This guy had a nice unblemished head, which was pretty unusual given the regular ICU intake of car crash victims, fallers from height and toasted, low-probability, house-fire survivors.

Noting the blissful look on his face, a helpful nurse offered, "Kamal's not in any pain right now and will likely wonder what all the fuss is about when he wakes up. We're fixing him; just give it some time."

She had it all right except the Kamal part. Kamal, the former soul, was now a tiny spark in a 71/2 lb. newborn six floors above just figuring out how to latch onto his acquired mother's left tit to deal with the long forgotten and very unpleasant feeling of ravenous infant hunger. John, the newly moved-in resident soul, on the other hand, would wake soon with a whole lot of wonder about what the fuck was going on.

The near-smile on John's relaxed face stemmed from the fairly amazing journey he was taking in his new subconscious with the help of his first hefty doses of opioid pain killers. These little gems left him a lot closer to consciousness than his observers might have suspected, for he was getting inputs from his surroundings, that in his interpretation, put him in an entirely different place.

He was still using his old persona as a reference and was having a great time moving into a brand-new apartment. John loved new stuff that he usually could barely afford, so this great big new apartment with all the bright windows was pretty cool. While he couldn't find it, he figured he must have one of his favourite podcasts playing on his entertainment centre somewhere, for he could hear lots of scattered voices, but couldn't quite figure out what the theme of the episode was. And, damn that AC was working well! He'd have to touch it up a bit warmer when he found the controls for it down one of the many halls he now wandered.

In his doughy-edged dream state, John was alternately elated and desperately sad as he sorted and unpacked boxes of all sizes into furniture pieces and standing shelves that he didn't like very much. His tastes had leaned to sandalwood and leather, but in this new place he was having to deal with wobbly particle board shelves and arborite counters. When he flopped into a chair, he recoiled from the crusty nylon tufts over padding that had long ago lost its place.

"I'm going to have to get rid of a lot of junk in order to fit my good stuff in." He then realized that he had no idea how to get rid of anything. He opened another box to find attachments for childhood toys that may or may not have been his. He had trashed toys pretty much as soon as he got them, so storing or moving any of them seemed unlikely.

He asked of no one, "Where the hell is all my good stuff anyway?"

Eventually he did find some of his own stuff. The small things he could find seemed to have made the move intact, even though fragile items had been loosely tossed into boxes by some idiot doing the packing. Crystal glasses magically tumbled out in one piece, but then he could find no stable shelf to put them on. A treasured picture from a years-ago buddies fishing trip was in its own box, unpadded, but unbroken. But he had no hammer to hang it or shelf to put it on among the junk and clutter in the maze of rooms. As he wandered without any clear understanding of how the place was laid out, he began to realize that something was very wrong. The space that had initially seemed bright and spacious was now filled with many dark and cramped places. He was having trouble getting back to the well-lit rooms. He now declared the dream to be a nightmare.

"OK, jokes over; what am I doing here?" John spoke again to the walls not expecting a narrator's answer, but his question was followed by the surprising silence of startled birds and then a cacophony of sound as the whole flock started up again. He hadn't realized how noisy the place was until then. It seemed that every smart phone ringer, microwave timer, open fridge door warning and car alarm in the neighbourhood was all going off at once. He tried to cover his ears, but had no idea where his hands were.

"Not funny anymore—let's wake up now." He thought about trying the old pinch-me trick, but when he tried to move his arm, he found himself tied down. The damn alarms were getting worse. The more he tried to shake himself awake, the more confusing the dream got. Then the pain broke through.

John started floating above physical contact with the random places. Objects then began sliding away through the confusing construct that no longer seemed to be an apartment. Where walls and corridors had once been familiar in form, if not in function, now they collapsed in on him, turned fleshy and rubbing him raw in many places. The abrasions burned and then ached with throbbing pain as he gained speed and tumbled down long passages of apparently scaly serpent-hide. As he bounced, a sharp pain that started high on his back expanded through his chest and descended in a spasm down his torso and legs, ending with an excruciating spike in his foot. Looking down, he could now actually see a rusty spike sticking through his foot. As hard as he tried while he tumbled, he couldn't reach it or shake it loose.

The exertion of the dream was taking a toll on his breathing. He could barely catch his breath and each ragged inhalation was met with a new explosion of pain. He cried out as the ache moved through him in unrelenting waves while he bounced off the rasp-like teeth of the tunnel wall with increasing momentum.

"Make this stop, please just wake up." When the entreating appeal produced no relief, a second more sinister thought entered his fuzzy dream-logic. "Fuck, I was dying." He couldn't come up with any other answer for the pain and already-dead lack of control he was experiencing.

"I died in that damn hospital and this is the descent into hell." As if in opposition to that declaration, the tumbling stopped and the pain started to coalesce around distinct parts of his body rather than through the needle points that had been piercing him from head to foot. No longer moving, he slowly turned upright in a black pool of tasteless warm fluid. Far above him, he could see a small area of light. While he still couldn't move arms or legs, he could stretch his body towards it. Craning his head, he watched it expand—he was actually moving out of the depths of the dream and up towards a new awareness.

He spoke out, "Finally, I get the promised show. I'm moving to the light and getting the hell out of this gong-show of pain. I must have passed the test. Heaven, here I come!" John smiled his last smile for a long time.

The attending RN, Judith McIntyre, continued to nudge back the morphine drip rate on John's IV. She wanted him conscious for a quick faculties check, but knew that his awakening would be to a shitload of discomfort, no matter how well the proven cocktail of analgesics did its job. His first hours back would be in the sad-face 10 range on the 1-10 chart of pain expressions they used to help patients tell them how they were coping. She mused, "Maybe 11 or 12 for a day of two."

She had hopes that his fairly-fit young body could pick up the fight pretty quickly. Getting him unplugged and through at least one or maybe two more surgeries was the first task. More pleasant recuperation could wait until he got his other lung back in working order and the threat of deadly infection had been beaten back.

She turned to the family, which now included his panicky wife and obviously-irritated older brother. The mother was mumbling a continuous broken-English appeal to some saint or another. This guy, Kamal, was obviously precious to at least two of the three. Some anticipatory caution was called for.

She got their attention by drawing them away from the bedside. "Now listen 'ere, he's going to come out of the anesthetic soon, for just a bit. He'll be confused, maybe have no idea how he got 'ere. He'll likely want t'fight the treatment path that he has t'take. No one gets up and walks away from multiple gunshot injuries. Forget any expectations you 'ave. You need t'be part of the solution that will get him back t'you fully-healed in due time. So, we need t'be encouraging and calm, aye?" She checked for nods all round. "If I tell you t'do something, jus do-it, for him, OK?" More nods; they would try anyway.

This was her well-worn bedside speech for every highly-wound family that came through. She had developed a pretty good sense of ethnic excitability and would allow only limited space for either uncontrolled emotions or physical breakdowns. They got in the way. She couldn't help the thoughts: "Give me a fellow Scot in a crisis." then, "Of course, a Scot wouldn't be here in the first place, would he?" Thoughts never voiced, weren't really wishes. This place was here to deal with the shit the world handed anyone, innocent or not. Her job was to make it work, no matter how stupid the cause or how predictable the outcome. She was damn good at her job.

"So, whas his chances den?" The brother spoke first, not asking about Kamal's condition or treatment, but about his likelihood of dying. Judith sensed that he was pissed at someone or something. She hoped it wasn't at Kamal because this lunkhead was hating the idea of taking on any of his responsibilities.

"Right now, his chances are 100% for full recovery. That's all we're going t'think about until it happens." Judith knew that doctors never wanted to commit themselves to complete fixes, but she had no such inhibitions. In the rare case where she was wrong, she was never asked for an apology. Hope was useful all on its own, even if it was occasionally misplaced.

She did want them informed and focusing on the right things. "He's got some work t'do and we have t'prevent any infection or other complication." That was as technical as she would get. "But, like I said, don't expect anything afore its time."

She wanted to get a sense of what the young wife was feeling, as to this point, she hadn't heard her say a thing. She had great features and pretty smile when it appeared, however briefly. Kamal was a lucky guy in a bunch of ways. Not dying was pretty lucky; having a loving family even better. Judith knew from the incoming patient briefing that there was a baby somewhere and that the family home included the mother. Two women in the house was good for recovery. A baby and the immediate financial needs of a young family missing an income weren't so good.

"It's Michelle, right?" She took a stab at starting a conversation. "I'm Judith. You'll also see Marcie and Annica on other shifts." She put a hand lightly on the woman's arm to keep her close. "How are you doing?"

Michelle was obviously staying quiet because she didn't trust herself to speak. Her first words were tentative, as if she feared letting them out would open the flood gates of fear that she had been holding in.

"I's...I's alright, I guess." Tears were welling up. "You're not lyin, are you? Is he going t'come back jus like before? He loves his little girl s'much. She can't lose her daddy. He never asked fer this. He's a good man. He works hard. Why him? Who would want t'shoot a nice guy and a father...?" Her bottled fears poured out, then the tears took over and she couldn't talk.

Judith moved her hand up to Michelle's shoulder and pulled her in for a gentle hug.

"I promise that I'll never lie t'you Michelle. He's been lucky so far. It coulda been very bad. Who knows why these things happen? I can tell that he's one of the good ones. Know that we've got him and we'll fix him. You can depend on that. Just be patient for both of us, OK?"

She dropped back from the hug, but kept her gentle grip on Michelle's arm. "How's your mother handling it?"

Michelle shook her head before she spoke. "She's Kamal's Muma. Oh, I guess mine too, now we're married." A long pause followed. "I think she's lookin t'blame someone and I'm afraid that'll be me." She shrugged. "She has her church and her preacher. We pried her away t'get her here. They're both so angry." She nodded to the brother. "And not jus them. The others, y'know. It's jus more shots ina war that won't end. I'm afraid for t'baby more than anythin else."

Judith had seen it before. Gang hierarchy. Revenge. Eye for an eye. How many eyes were lost trying to balance an equation that would never solve in anyone's favour? But she needed Michelle empowered. Decisions would be needed. Hopefully good ones, but maybe tough ones too. She couldn't let her be afraid.

She spoke quietly again. "Well, here, you're in charge. You and I, and our other staff will make the decisions we need to make t'look after Kamal. You don't need t'ask anyone or have anyone else agree. It's your call, but we'll make sure that that you've got all the information ya need. You tell us what ya need and ya ask any question; nothing is off-limits, aye?"

Michelle nodded and Judith felt her straighten up a bit. She had been offered a challenge and it looked like she would take it up. Maybe she would have to be the strong one in this family for a long time. She hoped that would work out. Right now, she could step up to responsibility that would make her stronger, whatever came.

Judith smiled. "You'll bring that wee one of yours in for us t'meet, too. If she got a little of you and a little of him," she nodded to the bound and tubed body of Kamal, "I bet that she's just a little darling." She winked. Michelle smiled for real.

Now, Judith could get back to the terrible task of bringing this wounded man back to the world of pain and misery waiting for him.

John had kept on moving towards the light as he brought his unconscious-self closer and closer to conscious awareness. Not at the end of a tunnel, but across a spreading sky, the light was now concentrating into squares of brilliance that seemed to hover over him. Feeling his nearly-closed eyes start to focus for the first time in many hours, he consciously forced a blink, immediately regretting the stiff and scratchy movement. He caught a glimpse of a ceiling above him and for a brief moment brought a wide fluorescent light fixture into focus.

Judith watched for the first blinks and then leaned-in with some lubricating eye drops as she saw the lids move. "There, there Kamal take yer time. You've been sleeping for a while"

John heard the voice, but couldn't connect the words to his current situation. The cold drops shocked his tender eye tissue. He squeezed them shut for a moment before opening again with several full blinks. Now he could clearly make out the ceiling features and bright tube lights. He could also see medical gear arrayed around him and felt the constriction of his various bandages and wraps. He thought about lifting his head, but had no strength. Breathing became conscious again and he realized that he had something painful in the back of his throat. He tried to move his lips to form words but had no moisture and no breath. Finally, after registering all of his painful strictures and intrusions, he brought his focus back to the face of the person leaning in front of him. She touched his lips with a finger and leaned close to his ear.

"You've had quite a time my lad. You're injured, you've been through surgery and you've got a bunch of attachments t'help ya recover. You will sleep some more in just a minute, but I want ya t'help me just a little first, aye?"

Judith didn't expect an answer, but she wanted to head off any panic with strong assurances that everything was in control. She could see confusion behind his rapidly moving eyes, so gave him another few seconds to come back to her.

She smiled. "Plus, your family is here. They've been waiting for ya to wake up too. You'll have trouble talking, but a smile is all they need now."

John felt comfortable in this nurse's care. He didn't understand most of what she was talking about, but now he allowed the interesting possibility that he was still alive. This could be the hospital. He could just be in his bed. But, what the hell had they done to him? He was supposed to be going home. He blinked at her and tried to nod. Then her last statement repeated. Family? His no-good brother from Chicago was here? How close to death had he been?

Judith encouraged Michelle forward. "Just you for now, lass. He won't be awake for long. I want to test his reflexes and have him give a little squeeze of his hands. All routine. But that can wait. Come close and say hello."

Michelle leaned in and kissed John's cheek. Some of her tears fell among the drops still running from his eyes. She pulled back and waited for him to focus on her.

She whispered, "Hello babe. You'sa back. We've been worried. Ya have t'get better, please."

John tried to put the face in front of him in some context. She was pretty and obviously thought she meant something to him. Nothing clicked.

Michelle felt Judith gently pulling her back. As she did, she heard Kamal attempting to speak. Judith wet his lips with a swab to give him a little saliva. Having enough breath to speak was a good sign.

John tried to form words with no result for several seconds, Finally, he got the coordination of breath, larynx and tongue in order and was able whisper his first words.

"Who...who....who the hell are you?"

# Chapter Two - Next of Kin

Winding back the clock a few days put John's old body back in his first hospital bed as the early morning routine of the general surgery floor began. The first person to come into his room was the next shift nursing assistant at 6:30 a.m. There was a lot to get done early on and she found that the best approach to rousing sleeping, or more likely, medicated patients was to be active and boisterous. Her name tag said Jamila, but she preferred Jamie.

"Good morning, John." She fully pushed back the dividing curtain between the beds. You too, Emile. "Hope that you both had a good night. Up and about now, as we need to plot your progress and our wonderful breakfast-in-bed service is just around the corner."

Bowel-section Emile waved an arm at her and rolled over, farting as he did so. He might have mumbled, "Piss-off." Jamie didn't care what he said as long as he was moving.

John didn't respond. In fact, he appeared to be consciously ignoring her by staring at the ceiling.

"Come on, John. Could be the day that they kick you out of here. Let me see how that bruise is coming along."

She moved beside the bed and as the curtain was now fully out of the way she was able to turn up the light and take a good look at John's face. There was little trace of the dark bruise. In fact, his entire face was now uniformly waxy yellow, so almost no distinction between bruised and not-bruised skin was apparent. Jamie puzzled over what she was seeing. As she moved closer, she picked the distinct odour of a bowel movement. John wasn't immobile or incontinent, so should not have messed the bed. With her next step, she knew what she was seeing.

Taking John's wrist under his sheet, she didn't need to register an absent pulse to know that he was dead. His skin was ice cold and the arm stiff. He had been gone for some hours.

She whispered, "Oh, Johnny, poor guy. You left us in the night."

Had John been in the act of dying or even just barely dead, but still warm, Jamie would have hit a button at the bedside to initiate a 'code blue' response. Most medical staff on the floor would have hurried to the room, with someone pushing the 'crash cart' containing defibrillating equipment, respirator and various injectable heart stimulants.

He was obviously already very dead so the code wasn't needed. Jamie calmly and quietly closed the privacy curtain and walked back to the floor nurses' station to summon the supervising nurse. Over the next few minutes, John's body was checked by this nurse and then very briefly, by a medical resident. His chart was updated. Once it was in writing, he was officially dead.

Within the hour, a pair of attendants, who were once known as orderlies, but were now called patient assistants, came into the room and gathered John's belongings in several large plastic bags, which they would tuck into the lower portion of his bed. They rolled his body, stripped off his bedding and opened some clean sheets, arranging the top one around him and pulling it up to his chin.

As his eyes were still partly open, they gently held them closed for a few moments to keep them closed. One of the assistants raised the whole bed and elevated the head portion slightly. The surgical floor and the entire hospital were quite busy at the beginning of the day and a dead patient gave the wrong message entirely, so he placed a surgical mask over John's lower face and rolled his head to one side. Now, John looked like a sedated patient on his way to surgery. The team maneuvered the bed out of the room and down the hall to one of the elevators.

Inserting a key, one attendant called for a key-only car that would take him to the lowest level of the hospital, where John's remains would be offloaded, stripped, cleaned and laid out on a stainless-steel gurney, for autopsy, if so-directed by the coroner. Once downstairs and in front of the morgue entry door, he pulled the sheet fully up and over John. He left him and the bed in the corridor for later collection. Somebody else was paid to handle dead people.

Back on the surgical floor a more interesting drama had started to play out with the confirmation of death. The supervising nurse was required to inform next of kin immediately. Pulling John's records, she read his next of kin as his mother, who had a telephone number with a 775 area-code.

"Where the hell is 775?" she asked the station crew as she picked up the phone. Partway through the dial-out, someone at a computer said: "Nevada, Las Vegas maybe?" This guess was close, but wrong; John's mother lived in Reno. It was 6:50 a.m. in Toronto and 3:50 a.m. in Reno. John's mother was home, having come in a half-hour before and passed-out face-down on the couch.

By the seventh ring, it didn't look like there would be an answer. "Your son is dead" wasn't the kind of message that you left on voicemail. Assuming that there was voicemail. "Please call..." was all that could be said. There was no machine cut-in and no "sorry I missed your call...". No voicemail. Getting this message across was going to take some effort.

Just as she was about to hang-up, the nurse heard a clunk and several bangs that suggested maybe the dog had attempted to answer the phone. In fact, Wilma Fluke had knocked the phone onto the floor and was now having trouble finding the receiver in the dark.

Distantly: "Damn frigging thing. Where the eff did it go?"

When she finally did get her hand on the receiver, her first slurred words intended for the actual caller were, "Quit callin me Jules, I doan have shit left. And I wun't give you none if'n I did. Go away."

Silence followed. If she could have found the base for the phone, she probably would have hung up.

From Toronto, the nurse spoke loudly, "Hello, Mrs. Fluke. Is this Wilma Fluke? It's the hospital. About your son. Are you there?"

More silence. Then slowly, "Yeah, this is Wilma." Pause "What hospital? Geez...tell Billy I won't pay any more of his damn bills." Long pause. "What the hell has he done now?"

"Wilma, this is about your son, John Fischer. We're calling from the Schumann Hospital. He listed you as his next of kin."

She seemed to brighten up at the mention of John's name.

"Oh, Johnny did? He's alright. Pays his own way. Never calls, but at least he doesn't try to steal my money. He's in the hospital? Never heard that. How's he doin?"

"Wilma, are you alone. Is there someone there with you?"

"No. Don't think that there's anyone else here. Middle of the night, you know. What frigging time is it there?"

"It's early here too, ma'am. How about your other son? Did you say his name was Bill? Is he nearby?"

"No, shit. He's in Chicago or thereabouts. Don't hear from him neither, less he needs money. But I'm done with that. No more, I says."

"Wilma, do you have a phone number for Bill?"

"Sure, somewhere. But I'll never find my book in the dark. What do you want him for?"

"Wilma, I'm afraid that I have bad news about John. I'd feel better if I could connect with your other son for you."

"They don't talk much, so whatever you want, better tell me. Does he need some operation or something? Ya'll pay for that kind of stuff from the govr'ment back-there don't you? I can't afford nuthin."

"Yes, we do Wilma. This isn't about a bill."

"Oh, what then?" She was clearly sobering up a little as the call went along.

The nurse hated telling someone that their son was dead by telephone call when the person appeared to be alone and was possibly unstable, but there didn't seem to be any other choice.

"Mrs. Fluke, I'm afraid that it's very bad news. John was in the hospital getting treatment for a bad fall. He had been improving. But overnight, things must have worsened." She paused. "Wilma, John died this morning."

Now there were many seconds of silence, as the mother apparently tried to make sense of what she had just heard.

"Wilma, are you there? Can we call someone else for you? Can we try to reach your other son?"

Finally, she responded. Now completely sober, at least in voice. "Oh."

More silence, then, "Well, that's too bad. He never told me he was sick. What can I do anyway? He lives so far away now that I moved down here. Maybe shoulda stayed round there. Maybe everybody'd be better off."

"Wilma, I'm so sorry for your loss. Please tell me if I can do anything for you."

"No, no, nuthin, I guess." Another long silence, then, "You say John's dead?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. He died peacefully in his sleep. He didn't suffer. It was due to his injury. I'm sorry that you didn't know."

"Oh, well that's somethin then."

"Wilma, we are looking after John for now, but you will need to make arrangements here. The coroner will want to talk to you. Can I give you our phone number for your other son to call?"

More silence.

"Guess that's right. Somebody dies, things need to be done. Hope that we can afford somethin for him. Maybe Billy can. Owes me enough for sure. I'll call him. Let me find a pencil."

Finally, the call was over. The supervisor buried her face in her hands for a few seconds. A colleague who had heard one side of the conversation came over to commiserate.

"Why don't people make arrangements for this shit?" She shook her head. "Guy's here two weeks and his mother has no idea. Where does he say that he worked? Think insurance was covering the semi, probably has some company life insurance too. Maybe we can get them on the case to help out." She shrugged and shook her head again. "Fraid, John might have a long cool stay downstairs waiting for this crew to get their act together."

Wilma didn't call Billy for some time. A conscientious person might have stayed up and gotten to things, but Wilma Fluke, formerly Wilma Fischer: widowed, divorced, disabled and living in Reno on a little bank annuity, was way past conscientious. Her second husband had been well-enough off, but had died too and that had resulted in a one-time deposit to settle up his support payments, which weren't a lot to begin with, but were now not much at all. An appointed bank employee set up an annuity for her, as directed in her former husband's will.

Wilma drank most of that annuity payment each month, at least the part the bank gave her after it paid her rent and utilities directly, also as directed by her late, ex-husband. They were the eff'n 'trustee' weren't they? Bastards were tight and miserable. She knew there was more money there, but a few hundred a month was all that made its way to her pocket.

She actually lied on the phone, when she thought that she was yelling at her two-units over neighbour, Jules. He was an oxy addict and was always running out of both money and pills. Wilma didn't use them that much; booze was her preferred numbing agent. But she had her Medicaid-paid pain prescription to use or sell. Jules begged half of it off of her every month. She used some on bad days and kept a little in reserve, which Jules was constantly trying to get at. Tonight, she added a couple pills to her already significant booze load. Just before fading out, she knocked the phone off the hook.

"Sometime tomorrow," she said to herself, "I'll have to figure something out." She also thought, "Maybe not. Might all be a bad dream." She left the pad of paper with the words: JOHN DEAD and the hospital phone number on the coffee table so that she could consider it whenever she came to.

Bill Fischer considered the display for the incoming call on his cell about eight hours later. It was his mother calling and he wasn't really sure about answering. Maybe better to have her leave a message and then decide if he wanted to call her back. He liked to think about most things a little before jumping in, as most things came with baggage and he hated baggage.

Bill was William Fischer on his current business card and having only one cell number at a time, he needed to offer it there for potential customers to call. Then again, if they were calling him, at least half the time it was to complain or demand money back, or some other baggage thing. So, if he busied out the line gabbing with his mother, it wasn't the worst thing. She had spotted him some money a few times when he was completely bust, so maybe he owed her some courtesy.

His current business card said 'Construction Compliance Consultant' which was an impressive title, created just for that part of the 'do-it-yourself' market that didn't know much about 'it'. His crappy website and brochure said that he would advise homeowners on how to plan their project to economically meet all government requirements. He had the guy that made the website for him put in a background that might be a faint blueprint for a mansion, lots of pictures of engineer types doing measuring or directing and a fancy office front snipped from the website of a far-away business.

What he actually did was exactly the opposite. He charged a flat fee to provide photocopies of somewhat-relevant sections of the building code attached to boilerplate do's and don'ts that were the same for every customer. This was the compliance part. Usually though, he eased the engagement through to a quiet discussion about how to actually get around the code requirements. For a second fee, he would provide an under-the-table set of directions for much cheaper approaches. He also knew phone numbers for guys who did that kind of work, if needed. Why use an expensive plumber or electrician, when nobody would know the difference after the walls were closed-up? Why go nuts with proper foundation depths and fills when concrete probably wouldn't crack for five years anyway, long after the house had been flipped. He joked that he was actually a 'fill-osopher' just asking common sense questions.

It was thin-profit business, but required some fleet-of-foot rebranding under a new business name and phone number occasionally. He made sure that none of his special 'recommendations' ever had his name on them. As long as he could avoid being sued or charged, he could make a little money. Maybe, someday, he would go legit and hire a bunch of licensed guys to quote the big jobs the right way. Maybe not.

While he was still considering his phone, the call went through to voicemail. Decision made. But, within seconds it was ringing again. She'd hung up and called back.

"Guess that you really want to talk to me, huh?" he considered again through the 3rd and 4th rings. On the 5th, he answered. He put on his out-of-breath voice.

"Ma, glad you called back. Coulda left a voicemail. Missed the first call getting back to my phone. Running around a lot today. Real busy, you know. Just got a minute. What's up?"

Wilma hadn't spoken yet, so Billy didn't know how drunk she was. Real drunk was the worst, because he'd probably have to hang up on her. She would repeat the same shit over and over, forgetting that she had already told him. Cold sober was bad too, as she took forever to get to the point, which was often that she was lonely and depressed—conditions which she tried to make his fault. These calls were the worst. Just a little tipsy was best. This put her in a happy-enough middle ground where she still made sense and would normally leave off on her own to go in search of another drink. He waited to see.

"Billy, shut-up, I have to tell you something?" Oh-oh, she sounded sober. "Billy, Johnny's dead."

That was it, no elaboration.

Bill waited a second or two, then responded. "What, who's dead? Who's Johnny?"

"Your brother, you moron. Don't ya even know your own brother's name? He's dead up t'Toronto. Where he lives. You know. They called me and left a number. I wrote it slow so I wouldn't make a mistake. Says here: John Dead. Do you want the phone number? They want us to make arrangements."

"What the hell? How'd he die? When was this? Today? Who called you?"

"Geez, slow down with the eff'n questions. Think it was some hospital, said he was sick, turned worse and he died. Did you know he was in hospital? I dint."

"Oh man, John dead. I didn't know at all. We don't talk, you know. He kinda held a grudge since my business went under. I still owed him and I'm gonna pay him back, but takes a while, y'know. He's eff'n impatient."

Wilma had slowed down. Billy could tell that she was starting to sink under yet another challenge in her life.

She slowly mumbled out her thoughts. "Guess it don't matter now if he was owed. We'll never see him again now. Got to make arrangements. Did I say that already?"

"Yeah, ma. You said that. Geez, I don't know what I can do. Busy here with the new business. All my money tied up. You gonna go up there and get im? Maybe ask the bank for some of your money out."

"Ah Billy, I can't go. I'm too sick and a funeral costs lots. The bank ain't gonna give me money for that. Has to be you that goes. Your exector, anyway."

Bill had forgotten that John had written out a will long ago and asked him to be executor. He tried to recall what the will actually said. Once, he would have had a copy. Jesus knows where it might be now through several moves, some of which were pretty quick in the middle of the night.

"You got a copy of his will there, ma? Need to see what it says. Maybe he done another one since we're away. Probably give all his money t'some broad or t'some charity."

Wilma brightened up a bit. "I kin find it. Pretty sure it's in my papers. He dint leave money to no charity; he left it all to me. Told me so."

Now Bill caught the spirit. "So, you think he has some money then?"

"Must have. He got that good job and had a nice partment and all. Sent me some pictures on the computer. Maybe got a car. He liked cars. Maybe he bought some insurance. I don't know."

Bill had been thinking of nothing but approaching trouble up to this point. Trouble dealing with people that would want him to handle things. People with big bills they would expect him to pay. Maybe even problems with John owing the wrong people money. It did kinda run in the family. But, the mention of insurance changed his thinking. Maybe there was something to be gained here? All of it going to Wilma was the only obvious problem right now.

"OK, ma. Give me that number. I'll call them up and find out what t'do. I'm real busy like I said, but maybe, y'know, I can figure this out for ya. Exector is a big responsibility. Need t'pay lots of bills y'know. Probably need some of that insurance money for that."

"That's OK, Billy. Johnny would want a nice casket and plot. Maybe need t'have a service for all his friends to pay respects. Guess it will all cost money. Hope that you're right about that insurance."

She put the phone down to go get the number.

In Chicago, Bill considered whether he should fly or drive up to Toronto. His old truck probably wouldn't be best if he needed to do a lot of funeral stuff. He'd have to find out about that insurance first, then maybe fly up, rent something nice and stay around awhile. Maybe even go visit the old hometown. Not too busy here at all. Sure, he could look after his brother. Least he could do.

By the time Bill called SCC late in the day, a lot had happened. A patient support associate had picked up the file and started to plan out what might need to happen if they didn't hear back from the family right away. She had been able to connect to John's company HR office and advise them of the death of an employee. The assistant manager there had passed on an insurance company group policy number and contact. This call had started wheels moving on processing a death benefit claim. The specific benefit amount wasn't discussed, but the insureco associate advised that it was normally equivalent to annual salary, plus double indemnity would apply to an accidental death.

The coroner had already waved off an autopsy, citing current medical records that clearly showed the possibility of intracranial bleeding. She would need to talk to the family, but was prepared to link the death to the accident if they were. Noting that the next of kin was located far out of town, the associate had even contacted a local funeral home with a request for a director to handle the family contact for a death certificate once the remains were ready to be released. The file with almost all the legwork done was sitting on the corner of her desk when the Floor Four nursing station transferred Bill Fischer down to her.

"Mr. Fischer, I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Yep, that's why I'm calling, about the arrangements."

"You don't live close I understand. Are you in Chicago?"

"Yep, moved down t'the states with my mother years ago, course she's over to Nevada now, even farther away, so guess I'm in charge."

"Well, I have some of the information you'll need. Have you contacted a funeral home yet?"

"No, ah, don't really know any there. Guess I'll have t'look into that. Not sure what we can afford."

"Well, I think that I can put some of your worry to rest. There should be enough insurance to cover costs here. I also have a nice funeral home to recommend."

"About that insurance, you don't happen to know how much do ya?"

"No, you'll need to talk to the insurance company about that, but they indicated that it should be at least his salary."

"Like for two weeks or somethin?"

"Ah, no, probably for a full year."

"Holy cow! That much, huh?"

"I have the contact information for you. Do you have a copy of the will?"

"Yeah, er no. Did. So, not yet. My mother, er his mother too, has it now. Think she gets all his stuff, but I'm the exector."

"Well, then, your mother and you should come up here, unless you're planning to bring John's remains down there. You need to contact his lawyer for an original version of the will. The funeral home can help you with all those details. But, before we get to that, the coroner here needs to talk to you or your mother. Can she call you?"

"Uh, Ok, I guess, Is there a problem?"

"No, not a problem. She can explain how John died. As a result of his accident." Apparently, the insurance is double-indemnity."

"What's that? So, it doesn't pay out?" Billy could suddenly feel the windfall slipping away.

"No, it means that it pays twice as much if it's an accidental death."

"Holy shit! Excuse my language, Miss. You mean it might pay twice his salary for a whole year?"

"Well, possibly. You'll have to talk to them after you talk to the coroner. I have all the contact information for you."

There was no response. Billy's brain calculator was taking up all of his attention and processing power for the moment.

She continued, "So, we need your direction on John's remains. The funeral home people will come for him once you talk to them. Are you coming to Toronto?"

Now the response was immediate. "Miss, I definitely am. And my mother is too. We have t'pull together at times like this, don't ya think?"

"Yes, certainly. I'm sure that John would want that."

The associate looked at the ceiling and let out a silent breath. "Thank God someone else can deal with these people now."

"Yep, good old John. We'll surely miss him."

Two hours later, after the coroner's call and phone calls with the funeral home and the insurance company in Toronto, Bill called Wilma back. He got straight to the point. "You still sober? You got t'come with me t'Toronto."

Wilma was still mostly hungover, but had managed to put off drinking again for a few hours of designated mourning, so was clear-headed if not very comfortable.

"Can't. Can't afford t'go there."

"I'm going t'buy you a plane ticket. Take me a couple days to round up some cash. I got a little room left on my credit card. We need t'get you and John's will t'Toronto in the next week. Looks like there's some insurance money there, if we can show we're his only kin. His insurance has you as the benficery. Maybe some 'a his stuff t'sell too. We need t'get there to talk to the undertaker and t'find his old lawyer."

"So, I get money from in his will?"

"Yeah, mostly. Maybe only part of it. You know that I git t'pay expenses as exector right. 'Member we said that. Might take a good chunk o' the money."

Wilma hadn't thought that she would be going anywhere on a plane, but if that's what they had to do. "OK Just tell me when t'get to the airport. I still got my old Canadian papers. Got some new American ones, too. Which ones do I need?'

"How old are they?"

"Maybe ten years, I don't know."

"Just put everything together. And find that will. We need t'go see the lawyer that wrote it."

"Oh, OK" There was a long pause then. "Billy, we gonna look after John's burial and such too?"

"Sure ma, we'll get to all of that stuff once we got the paperwork all sorted."

"That's good, then."

Bill hung up. Lots of time to talk with his mother. He was still calculating what two years' salary might add up to. Might be taking home a hundred grand—him and Wilma splitting, of course. What a great day this was.

# Chapter Three - Meet Michelle

With a few passing days, John, in Kamal's body, had started to show real improvement, which considering where he started wasn't that hard. Not bleeding to death from a ruptured thoracic vein and perforated lung had been the first challenge, narrowly achieved thanks to John's sudden soulful intrusion into the otherwise done-for Kamal. Dodging that 'bullet' pretty much ranked all the other tears, fractures, lacerations and bumps down into the classification of no-problem-man trauma.

Feeding and drainage tubes were removed and he was allowed to eat and piss on his own. His lungs were both in service after some minor repairs and re-inflation of the injured one. So far, he had avoided any infection from the removed slugs carrying God-knows what kinds of bacteria and clothing fibers into his body. His shoulder had been wired up and was heavily taped to allow the scapula to heal on its own. His foot still hurt like hell, but miraculously hadn't suffered any major bone breaks. It too would be taped for quite a while. A physiotherapist had stopped by and told him to expect to be in a sling and on a crutch for a few days anyway. Stitches and staples would come out progressively over the next few days.

What no-one had yet explained to him was how he had gone from mostly recovered in a hospital bed to being shot three times and dying out on the street. The black woman now claiming to be his mother and the twitchy guy now claiming to be his brother had both told different versions of what happened. The 'mother' wailed about Hell's criminal denizens coming up from the ground to try to take her sweet boy. The 'brother's' grunted comments suggested just wrong-place-wrong time, but had also referenced some bastards that he would see got payback. John struggled with the slangy mis-use of words and terms that the brother seemed to employ as a boost to his confidence.

"We be backing dis down they turf, know ya sure, li'l bro Kam." left John with his head tipped, obviously confused.

"What ya prob, hearin not be workin now, be clear im?"

Still unsure what he was hearing, John guessed. "I can hear you just fine, but have no idea what you're saying."

The brother gave him a long hard look, then quietly said, "Just sayin, we'll even de score, ya know?"

John had no idea what score was being kept, so just grunted, "Yeah, OK then."

The brother left shortly after and hadn't come back. Apparently, there was a baby somewhere that the mother looked after for this Michelle, so after a day or two it was just her coming in.

A particularly brusque patient assistant who, by coincidence, had also been the one to wheel John's first body to the morgue four days earlier, told him to think about getting his dick back in 'full' service while he painfully yanked out the catheter that had been draining his bladder. The assistant had spent some moments appreciating Michelle, before asking her to step away. He packed up with a wink and a sideways nod to the curtain

John was still in so much pain that he wasn't in the mood for jokes or off-side comments about the black woman who kept showing up claiming to be his wife. He had stopped arguing with her after the first few times he came back to consciousness with her there. Clearly, she wasn't going anywhere and she was both very pretty and very nice. If she was disillusioned that she was his wife, that was really her problem, but he found that he could live with her coming in each day. It had been a long time since any woman had paid him any ongoing attention, so he found that he was actually starting to look forward to seeing her. He reminded himself that as soon as he could, he was getting the hell out of this situation and back to his own life. But he was stuck for now and having Michelle fuss over him was actually making him feel a lot better.

The ICU beds didn't have patient telephones so John hadn't been able to call anyone he knew. He had asked Michelle about a cell phone and after some cajoling, she had produced one at his bedside saying it was his. He didn't recognize it. He couldn't open the security key to use it. Frustrated, he tossed it across the room, which was pretty dumb, as it resulted in a staff conference away from his bed with Michelle, where an assessment of some sort of PTSD-driven dementia or amnesia was suggested. She was advised to give it time and to not push Kamal about who he was or who she was. Until he was ready to leave ICU, he would be closely monitored for erratic behaviour and kept away from telephones.

On his last day in ICU, his primary nurse, Judith McIntyre pulled up a chair at his bed. She had pushed and pulled him along as he emerged from drugged unconsciousness and slowly got his pain medications down to the point where he was alert and coherent most of the time. Now, she would pass him on to the watered-down and generally cursory care of a general surgery ward, where he would be lucky to get the time-of-day from staff, much less any intensive support.

"You're going to be on your own now lad. Get better or don't, most upstairs won't give a shite." She shrugged. "Time for you to give up this injured and confused skit and get the hell back to your wife and wee baby fast as you can. Aye?"

John blinked and thought about arguing, but could see that he was getting some insider advice on how the hell to get out of here as quickly as possible.

He asked, "Give it up, you think. Even if I'm still confused as hell."

She nodded, "Ya got it my boy. Nobody here is gonna fix confusion—that's on you, and maybe some PTSD counsellor you hook up with."

John nodded. He could see the logic of avoiding useless arguments with people who could get in his way.

She smiled, "So, what's your name then? John Fischer?

John thought for a moment. "No, I'm starting to remember now. It's, ah, Kamal. Kamal Lewis."

Judith grinned and nodded. "That's my smart man." She stood and patted his leg as she turned to leave. "I'll come to see how you're doing upstairs...Kamal. Hopefully you're home with your beautiful wife and baby real soon."

As she walked back to station, Judith was still thinking about the handsome man that she had just left. She had looked into the name that Kamal was determined to use: John Fischer. There had been a John Fischer in the hospital the same night that Kamal came in. He had died in his sleep. As far she knew, there was no connection between them, but the coincidence was puzzling. And Kamal's family kept questioning what was wrong with him. The questions weren't in reference to his physical injuries, but were about his mannerisms and speech. Apparently, the high school grad was adding words and knowledge to conversations that sounded a lot like grad school lingo. Funny thing that. She was busy, so didn't give it much more thought except to recall that she saw an online article referencing the now-deceased John Fischer as an MBA hi-flyer at a downtown investment company. Funny thing.

As Kamal was being wheeled upstairs to the fourth floor, he had the sudden déjà vu experience of being pushed down the same corridors that he had walked around only days before. For a moment he thought that they might be taking him back to the same room. He even imagined a bunch of staff with noisemakers and streamers ready to greet him with: "Surprise! It was all a joke."

On the way in he didn't see any familiar faces, but then it was rare to ever see any staff here as they were always on the move between rooms or hustling back into their counter-fortified nurses' station. He had been well enough to walk all around this floor and to observe how the process worked. He had figured out that making too little noise got you ignored and sometimes forgotten. Making too much noise got you on the shit-list and left you in the same shape. Being courteous and conscious of what was easy to do when and of who responded well to compliments, quickly made you a staff favourite and got you just about anything that you wanted. Wasn't too different from his business, which he was pretty good at. Back there, he'd have to do some work to catch up, assuming that his fucking workmates hadn't stolen them all.

After they settled him in the four-bed ward, the aide pushed a walker over to his bed and said, "Toilet's in there," while pointing at the in-room washroom door. "You may as well give it a shot. Let me know if you need help." Then she took off.

Kamal rolled his eyes. Judith had been right. On your own. Kamal hadn't used a washroom since arriving in ICU. The urinal bottle took care of one need and a bloody bed pan had to do for the other. Thinking back, he hadn't needed much help the last time he was up here. This time he would be testing his limits and his pain tolerance. He would have to drag the IV pole still pumping antibiotics into him. But, pissing and shitting on your own and not in a damn bottle, was something to shoot for.

The tricky part about the washroom was the mirror. John, now OK with pretending to be Kamal, knew that he was approaching a crisis moment in this strange dance between his still stable mind and the unsettling appearance of someone else's body around it. He had already considered what he had to acknowledge in the arms and hands and in the rest of the body he could see when they worked on him.

He knew that he was inhabiting a chestnut brown body that was at least thirty pounds heavier than his own, all of which was probably muscle when this started. The way people responded to this face and smile, he assumed that it wasn't ugly. But, until he looked into the eyes, he couldn't be sure that he was still inside, intact and ready to break out. If he looked into someone else's eyes and they told him that this was real, he knew that he might have to accept that this all wasn't just some very weird dream.

That test was only fifteen feet away. But it would stay there for now.

The other interesting thing in this room was the telephone beside his bed. Since the aborted attempt to use Kamal's phone, he had been cut-off from outside contact with anyone he knew. He thought now that this may have been fortuitous, as he had been half-drugged and barely coherent. He had planned to phone one of his few friends, but thinking of it now, none of them would have handled his transition to this appearance very well. He still wasn't sure what happened, but he knew that he needed to carefully consider what he said to whom. Having time now to clearly think about his next steps and who to call would let him put a better plan together.

Michelle arrived just then and his next thought was how glad he was to be Kamal right now. She was pushing a foldable child stroller with a wriggling bundle on it. She also had a good-sized reusable grocery bag over her shoulder. She had a big grin on for just a second as the normally absent staff had suddenly materialized and mobbed her and her baby all the way in from the elevator.

Most people didn't bring babies to visit hospitals for fear of catching something, but Michelle figured that you can't catch gunshots and as long as she kept well away from any other sick people, the baby would be OK. She also thought that Kamal couldn't deny his own daughter, so maybe the short visit would snap him out of it. She checked her grin momentarily as she entered the room, her eyes searching for Kamal, finding him in a far bed and then cautiously checking his expression to see if he was OK with the visit.

John in Kamal couldn't help but smile when he saw Michelle. She was now a daily treat that he definitely looked forward to. Today she wasn't alone. A baby was an entirely foreign concept for John, never having been considered, much less sought after via 'fatherhood' aspirations. Women who thought about babies generally gave him and his few mates a wide berth. If women talked about babies, the steering away was done by the men. Up until a few days ago, the only thought John gave to reproduction was not to cause it. He knew a couple 'oops' dads who had suddenly had their lifestyle crushed by just such an unplanned pregnancy crisis. Although he was rarely able to participate in sporting copulation, he always used his own protection, not trusting female devices or the female mind to ensure both a great game and a shutout in net.

As Michelle wheeled her baby over to his bed, John in Kamal could feel some long bundled-up emotion pushing its way through to the surface. He imagined, for his own brief moment, that this was his wife and child coming to him, that he had made the leap into fatherhood and that he was part of a loving home somewhere away from the lights and buzz of midtown in the city. The feeling passed as quickly as it came, for he knew that the none of that was true. But the smile the thought left behind was stuck on his face whether he wanted it there or not. He wanted to see and hold this little person, somebody else's child and certainly a complete stranger to him. It was the first time in his life that he thought of a baby as a soft, loving creature, that carried something of a parent with it. This baby's soft skin and unique smell was part of Michelle. He had beat down previous thoughts of touching her skin, but in a baby, he could just show the tenderness anyone would show and hold it close. He was sure that they smelled just the same.

Michelle watched Kamal closely. She had anticipated some coolness toward the baby and maybe even another argument about him not being her husband or the baby's father. But Kamal showed none of that. His smile hadn't broken since she entered the room and it appeared genuine. She picked up on him softening towards her over the last few visits. By standards outside their community, he might even be said to be showing some small affection by not turning away from her kiss on his cheek. By the standards of their steamy and expressive relationship, Kamal was still a mile away, but maybe the distance was closing.

John in Kamal watched Michelle settling in and getting the baby covered again in the stroller. He realized that over the eight days he had been in this hospital he had never asked her how she was doing. For the first few days, he was either unconscious or barely awake, denying every aspect of what was happening to him. He guessed that blinding pain, with tubes sticking out of every part of you, might be a good excuse for being indifferent. For the last couple days, free of most of the paraphernalia and mostly out of pain, he could only blame his normal self-centred personality creeping back.

So, OK, he was now Kamal, wink-nudge. That got rid of the arguments. Beyond that, he was happy to tell her how lousy he was feeling, but could only briefly step outside his own crappy situation to exchange pleasantries about the weather or complaints about the hospital.

From past experience, he knew that women put up with him for only so long and then moved on. He had never been too upset by that as he considered their expectations for both attentiveness and affection as unreasonable anyway. Now though, he found he was longing for just a little more affection each time he saw Michelle. Maybe the dick attendant had been right and he was just regaining some normal functions, but John thought that maybe this body he was wearing might just be capable of some feeling that his own couldn't master. He knew that he didn't want to lose Michelle to indifference. It was the first new worry that he had in a week.

"Tis a long way in pushing the baby," Michelle had plopped in the lounge-style chair and was rubbing her foot. "But she's a little darling, eh? Now look at her, asleep again after all the fuss in the hall. No matter, she'll be wake yelling in a minute wanting some food. Need'n a new diaper fer sure. I brought a bottle. Do ya want t'try one arm feeding?" She mimed him holding both the baby and the bottle in one hand, with a giggle. The sparkle in her eye caused a flutter to pass right through John into Kamal's undamaged heart.

Right on cue, the baby began to mew. Michelle had run some warm water into a big mug from the staff kitchen. She had floated the bottle and set the mug on Kamal's windowsill. John in Kamal's body realized that he had no idea about any of this. Now she scooped up the baby and laid her on the bed beside his feet. She quickly peeled back layers and deftly unvelcroed the diaper. John got his first full look at Kamal's baby. She was brown and beautiful. Her little fists punched the lights out of some specter just above her as the volume of her cries started to pick up. Michelle's deft movement continued with a quick wet-wipe clean-up, dab of Vaseline and new diaper in one more or less continuous motion. Pretty soon she was onezee'd up and wrapped back into her soft blanket. Much to his surprise Michelle's next move was to plunk the baby onto his good arm.

"Got 'er?" Michelle really wasn't concerned. Kamal's big arm more or less wrapped completely around the bundle now in his care. As he looked up with big eyes and some concern, the warm bottle came across the bed and into his other hand. With considerable pain, he raised it and tipped it in the general area of the baby's mouth. One full volume yell was all she got out as her lips found the nipple and she eagerly started to drain the bottle.

John hadn't had time to object and Kamal's body seemed capable of remembering. John looked up and grinned.

"Guess that was just in time?" he laughed. "Might have woken some of the near-dead around here."

"Shush, doan talk like that. Ya'll attract de ghosts."

Michelle crossed herself. John in Kamal's body wondered if his host was religious. Did they believe in ghosts? These were just a couple of a hundred questions he would need answers to, if the charade was going to continue for long.

"Michelle, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I don't know her name."

Michelle stopped her clean-up. John could see her face had lost its stoic cheeriness. Her eyes closing were clouds crossing the sun. The tears that followed were a rain that hadn't fallen since she stepped up to the challenge Judith had put before her. Now it all came apart. Her strength was suddenly gone. She crawled up onto the bed to hug both of them. Between sobs, she finally got out, "She's Isabella, but ya call her Izzy." It was all she could say.

John in Kamal's body tried to say the name, but couldn't get it out either. His new body let a backlog of tears go as well. Little tears that John hadn't shed since his cat died. A flood of tears that came from somewhere John had never been. He was loved and in love. The tears were washing away the gray dust of uncertainty. He knew what he wanted. He rolled his head to make contact with Michelle. Through their tears, they found each other's mouth and kissed. It was wet and uncoordinated. The salty shared tears were the best thing John had tasted in a long time.

"Isabella. I remember. I remember Izzy, our Izzy" He whispered it in her ear over and over. He was lying.

Izzy finished her bottle pretty quickly so the hug and shared tears had to end as well. Michelle took her to pat a burp out before giving her back to Kamal. The baby was alert and curious about everything around her. John wondered if there was something he should be doing, but just letting her half-crawl about on the bed seemed to satisfy her. Michelle continued to intervene with her confident mother's hand to redirect her when she got too curious in something out of reach or in the direction of the edge guard. Eventually, she was content to sit up against Kamal and play with some noisy packaging paper left over from a snack tray.

"We have to head back pretty soon. Long trip by subway and bus. Rush hour is coming soon enough. We can get by with some space, but a crowded bus and a screaming kid doesn't work."

John in Kamal's body moved on to some of his next questions.

"Where do you, uh, we live? I'm still completely fuzzy on that."

"Etobicoke, up t'Islington n Dixon area. South Rexdale, I guess. Yer Muma's house is on a nice l'il street. Lot of people in de area, but now we got our own space. She's so great for making a place fer us."

"And you take a bus in? Why not Uber to the subway or over to the UP Express?"

The question was a slip. John immediately regretted asking.

"Baby, ya'll really confuse if'n ya think that we's kin afford Uber. Maybe goin out t'New Year's or somethin. Not on right now wit de l'il money we got left."

"You're out of money?" John couldn't help thinking about the money he was still due at work. "I might be able to get some."

"No, doan ya even think 'bout borrowin off de Crips or somebody like 'em. We kin get by. I kin get back t'work while Muma sits Izzy en you kin apply fer some disability fer a while. Maybe yer work has some kinda sit-down job fer ya when you're ready. Soon 'nough ya'll be back a full strength en pushing fer dat promotion. They likes ya dere. Din't tell them you was shot, just down. Sort o' like hit by a car or somethin. They'll sure t'welcome ya back. We'll git by 'til then. Doan ya be doin nuthin stupid. Dat's all behind us."

Michelle was fully back in her strong-as-need-be mode.

John in Kamal blinked at her reaction. He couldn't know it or maybe even ever ask about it, but this guy that he was wearing obviously had some bad history with debt or with debt from the wrong people. That was something that John actually knew something about through clients he had in the past. His business with clients was completely legit, but others weren't. Owing the bank was scary enough. Owing a guy with a gun was always a very bad idea.

"Michelle, I promise that I won't do anything without asking you. I'm just thinking that maybe I might get a grant or some other government money. Nothing illegal or anything to do with gangs."

She relaxed ever so little, but was obviously still on edge. He let out a quiet breath. He'd come close to showing who he really was.

"Well, ya gots t'be careful. Dil come t'me wit a few hundred folded de other day. Said somethin like you was due for takin de hit. Real shit-for-brains stuff. Gang don't give nuthin. Gang expects. Tol him thanks for de thought, but no."

"Who is Dil?" This was another new name.

"Wo! Guess we's never wore name-tags, did we?" She laughed, "Maybe I won tell ya. Small hope dat maybe ya can ferget him fer good."

Now she was dead serious. John thought that she might have spit on the floor if it wasn't a hospital.

"He be yer fuckin brother, Dillon, who caused all yer problems en who got yer ass shot. T'was him dey thought ya was. He tol me. Said he was known t'be comin home t'visit his Muma maybe. Somebody dun give him up. Who de fuck knows? Shootin at any man walkin in the dark. They's all idiots."

She was on the verge of angry tears. "Anyways, he gone bad agin en ya got t'stay clear. Tol your Muma too. Jus doan want im 'round. Doan even consider if'n he offer ya money. I'd rather we's go on welfare den get dat hook in agin."

John was getting an earful that he hadn't been expecting. He was starting to understand how this body got injured. It was shot down on his own front doorstep. It wasn't wrong place, wrong time or any accident. They thought that they were killing his brother.

An involuntary shiver passed through him. They were in a setting and a way of living that he had never imagined would involve him. Yeah, he'd heard the shots in the night, but from the 15th floor. He never had much sympathy for 'those people'. Unless he could stop this crazy dream, he was about to become one of them. He would be expected to understand rules he didn't know and to follow a path with a lot of pitfalls dug all around it. He had been thinking about just getting out to any home. Now he was convinced that he had to get back to his own safe ground, not someone's else's. He lost any joy the visit gave him.

After Michelle left, John continued to struggle with the idea of being both beaten down and broke. It wasn't something he could do. He couldn't just accept that his resources weren't available. Where the hell was John Fischer's body anyway? Somebody must be looking for him.

He had always thought that a few grand a week wasn't nearly enough. But now that income was a golden ticket out for Michelle and little 'Izzy'. He'd be owed back commissions, full base pay for time in hospital and probably nearly full pay while in long term recovery. Before he even lifted a hand at work again, he was probably due ten grand or more. It could be his gift to her and Izzy. What did it matter what skin he wore? He was still John Fischer inside and the world owed him. He didn't need to be Kamal. He could be John and still have Michelle. She would have the man she married to look at, but would now also have a life never dreamed of before John came along.

#  Chapter Four - Bill and Wilma Make 'Rangements

After a week of screwing around getting his passport updated, Bill Fischer finally arrived in Toronto with no problems. He had scrambled around walking to a picture place and then in to the passport office downtown. The story of a sudden family death got him expressions of sympathy all around but didn't speed up the process one bit. Seemed like it was probably an excuse used a lot, mostly by people who hoped the lie would speed things up.

Once off the plane, the friendly Canada customs lady had smiled and said welcome after scanning the passport. He whispered silent thanks that several past encounters with authorities had stopped just short of charges being laid. He was free and clear. He told her that he was here to bury his brother and she said she was sorry, just like everybody else. Unlike the others, she didn't say "have a good day", suggesting that she may have been the only uniformed type that actually believed him.

Now he was in a departures level bar at Pearson Airport waiting for Wilma's flight to deplane and clear customs. He had arrived two hours earlier, but rather than immediately waiting at her gate after he got their rental car, he had backtracked to the closest bar, which turned out to be upstairs. He walked the path back and forth twice to be sure that he could lead her directly there as she came out of the gate. He expected that she would need one or maybe two drinks to find the zone he wanted her in. He was nursing his one and only for now.

He wished that he had brought her up through Chicago and come on the last leg with her. As it was, she had been on a four-hour flight straight from Reno under strict orders not to get drunk. Getting her through customs with a passport in her married name with a picture that looked nothing like her now required that she be cold stone sober. That was her best 'yes or no' mode, which was what he had counseled her to reply to all questions. Any questions about money were to be strictly answered with 'no'.

He was still uncertain and very nervous about collecting a big insurance payout. Even though she was the named 'benficiary' and he was the estate 'exector', it still felt like a scam. He kept expecting someone to step in their way and say, "Not so fast..." He intentionally hadn't talked to the insurance people again until he consulted with John's lawyer and got more help from the smooth-talking funeral director. He had connected with both by telephone and managed to avoid admitting that he was pretty much broke. The plane tickets, rental car and a few days in a two-star B&B, without the second B, would tap out his card. He needed to get some money advanced from somewhere right away, while convincing Wilma that a whole lot more needed to go to expenses. Tricky sure, but not impossible.

"Long enough in one spot, got to keep movin..." It was one of his mottos. He downed the last inch of his beer. He sat where he could see an arrivals board. The Reno flight had been on the ground for twenty minutes. Full clearance was likely still half an hour away, but he wanted to be sure he caught her coming directly through the door. Based on his last few telephone conversations with her, she was walking a thin line of sobriety. She had to be sober to find and bring all the papers. She had to be sober to get on the plane. She had to be sober to clear customs. In a few minutes she wouldn't need to be sober any more for at least a few hours. It was his promise to her after telling her that her son's only chance at a respectable burial was her ability to get to Toronto.

Getting her to Toronto was actually his only chance at scooping the insurance money before she could see it in a bank account. God knows what she might do with a hundred grand in the bank. Probably show up at the twenty-four-hour wedding chapel with another soused loser who was good at sniffing out unexpected cash. Pretty soon, she'd have half the town drinkin on her tab. So, he needed her to be sober for only a little bit of time here: One meeting at the funeral home, one meeting with the lawyer and one meeting with the insurance company. He could handle the rest and she could be passed-out drunk in her bedroom after that for all he really cared.

After a lot longer than thirty-minutes, the automatic doors started opening and closing and Reno passengers began coming out. Bill stood along the side rail anxiously scanning faces for his mother. He was completely surprised when she came through the doors in a wheelchair pushed by an airline employee. She had a crooked smirk on her face and her eyes appeared unfocused. She appeared to be tipped to one side.

Bill's first thought was: "Jesus H, she's had a stroke." He had visions of a drooling Wilma, needing twenty-four-hour care and being unable to sign the damn insurance cheque. But then she turned and laughed up at her aide, a loose hand rising to wave at him as she focused and made eye-contact from about fifteen feet away.

"You her son?" The employee maintained a fixed-smile, that clearly wasn't connected to his current inner feelings.

"Yeah, she sick or something?" Billy gave up on the stroke idea, but now considered maybe a fall that could have some compensation possibilities.

"Nope, just having a lot of difficulty walking." The employee now rolled his eyes. "Fraid Wilma may have had one too many drinks at altitude, y'know."

He nodded to her and checked for Bill's understanding. "We thought it best that she goes through the handicapped exit lane to avoid a problem with the officer." He tipped his head back and forth.

Now whispering, he continued, "Too loaded and they put you in the tank to dry out for a while." A little smile snuck out for just a moment. "Worked out OK. Maybe he thought she couldn't speak as well; just stamped her through without even a sniff. So not all bad, considering."

Clearly, he was happy to get rid of her. "You can use the chair as long as you need it. Just drop it at any counter on your way out." He turned and was gone.

Before Bill could come around and pick-up Wilma, several people came over to pat her shoulder.

"Be brave, Wilma, you'll get through it."

"Hope that your son's service is very nice"

"Well at least you'll have some insurance to pay for things, hope all goes well."

Bill couldn't believe it. Not only had she not stayed sober, which could have been disaster if the customs officer has started questioning her, but she had told everyone on the plane about John's death, their trip to deal with it and the insurance payout that they were expecting to collect. Now, she was so drunk that she couldn't walk. He swore under his breath and roughly grabbed her chair handles to get out of there. The bar wouldn't be necessary. He hoped he wouldn't have to carry her into the dumpy condo he had rented. It was on the third floor and all the nasty reviews pointed out that the elevator had been broken for months.

Bill had been in a few funeral homes in his day. A whole generation of old people was dying around him and then there were the guys his age who self-destructed with smokes, drink or by just being too damn fat. He'd sat in the back row of many dreary services wondering how much all this shit cost, from the satin-lined and satiny-finished casket to the stupid little sandwiches you wolfed down afterwards. He'd occasionally been involved with a reno job at a funeral home and seen the back office of the place without the soft edges and calming Muzak. It was all business behind the discrete staff doors, whether processing corpses for their 15 minutes of show-and-tell or tallying the big bills that grieving relatives will normally just swallow, because "mother deserves it."

The waiting area of Todd and Poirier's 'chapel' on Bloor Street West fit the bill. Soft edges all round. He would rather have plunked Wilma down in a straight-backed chair with yet another strong coffee, than in these living room sofas with bottled water as the only beverage. Fortunately, Wilma had decided to sober up last night, after correctly picking up that Billy was pissed. She had accepted the crappy accommodations and the tiny rental car without complaint. Even the fast food supper went down without too many complaints. Bill had reviewed what they needed to do over a couple days and been fairly honest in advising that his ability to pay for an extended stay was limited, so until they cashed a cheque, their standard of living would be pretty rough.

Wilma had actually felt bad for not following his instructions, but rationalized that it had all turned out OK so wasn't a problem worth worrying about. She had tried hard to stay straight on the plane, but her seat mate was having one, so it was only sociable to join in. Things got a little fuzzy from there on, but everyone had been so understanding.

She still had a pint bottle of vodka in her suitcase, just for getting to sleep much earlier than normal on Toronto time, but she actually left it there, as the hubbub of the day had exhausted her anyway. This morning, which came three hours early, she blearily followed Billy out to a coffee shop clutching her mangled manila envelope of papers, ready for whoever needed to see them. She wanted to cheer-up Billy too, as he was really in the dumps about losing Johnny. She could tell that he wished that he could do more to help with things, but that his business used up all his cash. She decided that she would offer to pay for all their bills out of her insurance money. Maybe she'd give Billy a couple thousand to help out at home. She could afford to be generous as Johnny really would have wanted to help his brother if they had just gotten along better.

After just a couple minutes, they were greeted by a gray-suited older guy with sprayed-stiff hair, who produced cards for each of them indicating that he was Gary Schultz, associate funeral director. He showed them into a little room with a round table and more business-like chairs. The room had a wrap-around counter with all sorts of sample stuff. The counter and the table also had at least four boxes of kleenex. There wasn't a coffin in sight. Bill knew that they kept an entirely separate showroom for those. Probably needed to work people up to the second shock, beyond having a dead family member, of spending considerably more than a good dining room set cost for a piece of wood that would be on view for a couple hours at most, then burned or buried forever.

Gary allowed them to settle-in, then opened, "I'm so sorry for your family's loss. John passed so suddenly. This must be very difficult, plus needing to travel on short notice."

Bill couldn't help asking, "Did you know John, then?"

"Oh, no. My apologies. He is in our care now, so it feels like we can talk about him as a family member."

Bill responded, "Care, huh? So, the hospital sent his body over then?"

He wanted to close off each piece of the work-in-progress with a check mark. "No issues with the coroner or the like?"

Gary showed no sign of confusion. He continued with his mild tone. "Yes, he's been here a few days now. Were you expecting a problem?"

Bill continued, "Not as far as I know. She was gonna put down that he died by accident is all. That's real important to us. I mean, to know that there was nothing we could do, you know. It was like an act of God or such."

To this point Wilma hadn't said anything, but now she was starting to make a low moaning sound. Gary slid the nearest box of tissues closer to her.

"Well, we can certainly print out the coroner's report for you. They are all online now you know, for professional access. Did you need that for your insurance claim?"

Bill brightened up. Gary got it and could become very useful. He looked forward to slapping that report down in front of the cash counter at the insurance company.

When Bill didn't respond, Gary went back to his scripted approach.

"Now, John is here with us, so we will begin preparations for your viewings and service immediately. We can decide on all the details this morning, but there is no rush to schedule anything. You must still have some other arrangements to make. Will other relatives be travelling in as well?"

Wilma finally broke her silence. "Johnny is our only relative that's alive, uh... well, guess he ain't no more. He was all we got and now, just like that, he's gone."

She was immediately weepy and needed to squeeze the words out between sobs. "I'm sure that he got some friends and work folks will want to come-round though." Sob. "We need to give him all the best for the end of things." Bigger sob. "Course we'll need a service too." Sniffing. "Maybe some local minister can talk a bit."

Gary, to his credit, never moved a muscle in his friendly, but understanding and professional face. He had nodded after each of her fractured declarations and now patted Wilma's arm. The path to a full-service and full-fee funeral had just been laid—all he had to do was take them down it.

"Just a be-jezzus minute Wilma," Bill didn't need to see any expression change to know that the bonus bell had just gone off in Gary's head. He knew the feeling well. 'Just do whatever is needed' were the five loveliest words any pitch man could hear.

Bill wanted to put the brakes on the smorgasbord of premium options that was sure to be laid out and consumed, if cost was taken off the table.

"Look, my mother is a little upset and you know her medications sometimes don't let her think too clear." He was laying his own pipe that said only he was in charge and maybe some communication wouldn't go through the old broad. "We can look at what you've got, but I'll need to take her aside to explain some stuff, you know, just to be sure she understands."

Gary's face had actually changed about as much as one new crack appearing in Bill's poorly-laid concrete work. He and Bill exchanged a glance that said this would be a struggle between what was possible on Gary's side and what they could get by with on Bill's. The bonus bell had a wet blanket thrown over it, temporarily.

Gary responded, "Well, certainly, we'll be very pleased to lay out options for you and you can tell us what works."

He had been down this road before. He was familiar with the cheapo relative. The top-end was still achievable, just now it would take the full motivational basket of life-long guilt, best last impressions, 'he'll only die once', 'what will people think?' and 'what would John really want?' tools to get there.

Wilma looked like she was about to erupt again, but now her weeping was under control. She definitely wanted to get some things on the table, even if Billy would decide on the details.

She questioned, "He probably got no plot, does he?" She was looking off into the distance with some random wheels turning in her head. "Be buried among strangers out on some barren field of weeds."

Both Bill and Gary turned to look at her. Bill was wondering whether she really had lost touch with reality and Gary saw a problem. A burial plot could certainly be secured, but the expense would be substantial and none of it would go through Todd and Poirier. If they went down this side path, they might only take a make-do casket, and he would probably have to fight Gary for every other option. On this point he and Bill were suddenly strange bedfellows.

Gary raised one finger, which saved Bill from blowing up. "Wilma, I'm sure that you have good reasons for concern here, but I can tell you that here in Toronto there are no plots available (not a lie as there hadn't been a new cemetery in Toronto in decades) so unless they already have a place, most families opt for another option." Cremation was a scary word for some people, so was never tabled until a relative asked. This was Bill's cue.

Bill picked it up. "Mom, John wouldn't wanted t'be buried somewhere out in the sticks, even if it is next t'Miss Canada, 1962." He made sure that he had her attention with the random idea. "He was a modern guy—if'n we could ask him, he would definitely say that he would prefer you t'carry his ashes home wit you for safekeeping or maybe t'dump in the ocean or somethin."

Wilma hadn't yet considered that she could take a nice urn full of Johnny home with her. She cracked her first smile of the meeting. "Maybe, you're right. Maybe we can find a nice place for him on a shelf."

Bill winked at Gary. They were allies now. He had saved Gary some grief and would now expect some payback.

"Gary, I think that Wilma could use a break and maybe now that we're making some progress, she could go look over the coffins or urns and stuff. We can have a quick discussion on finances and then get back to doin planning for Johnny."

Gary got the idea. There was some deal to be made here with the brother that would let him make a reasonable pitch for pretty good, if not the best. Arguing every item with someone like him was tiresome, so maybe this was a better approach.

He responded, "Certainly. That's a good idea Bill. I'll get another staff member to make Wilma a cup of coffee and to show her some of the wonderful options for caskets and urns. Just give me a moment." He patted Wilma's arm again and slid out of the room.

"Sorry Mom, but I got to get clear on finances with this guy before he goes off the deep-end on expensive stuff. You know we'll do the best for Johnny, but I need to be sure how to pay for it. You know, they'll have to front us some credit until we get, uh, you get, the insurance money. You go now and see if there is a nice coffin out back that's not too fancy."

Wilma wasn't sure, as she had her own list of stuff to get laid down, like maybe having some country music at the ceremony, but just then a perky young woman arrived to take her away. Gary introduced her and in funeral home code made sure that the girl understood that he would do the selling, so no prices or decisions, right? The assistant had been well-trained, she nodded and took Wilma's arm. "Let's go and get some coffee dear, we'll just stroll around a bit." They left.

Once the door was closed, Bill got right to the point. "I'll lay it out fer ya, Gary. We got no money. Fact is, we're only here by usin up the last few bucks on my credit card. We might as well tell you t'leave ol' John in your freezer or whatever until some insurance cash come through. Less, you guys have some idea on how to handle this. Like maybe we can sit on the bill fer a while. Fact is, we'll be sittin on a few bills til the insurance gets paid out, unless we discover John got some stash of cash waitin for us. You get my problem?"

Gary could feel the wet blanket slipping back off the bonus bell. "Oh, well. I'm sorry that that is the case, but we are very familiar with this situation. Most of us don't plan for significant expenses coming out of the blue. I will need to get approval, but if there is a verified insurance payout coming directly to you, or to Wilma, we can certainly look at an extended term payment for all of our fees. We could even arrange some sort of commitment through your lawyer if you thought the insurance payment would be delayed."

Bill was half-way to where he wanted to be. He knew that he had to dangle the prospect of a fully-paid premium funeral to take Gary the rest of the way.

"Well, your bill is a big part of the concern here and we certainly appreciate the consideration. Knowing that we can use some of the insurance money is a real help. Thing is, Wilma is so sensitive t'all of this getting in the way of what she wants fer John that I need to keep her a little bit removed from the details, y'know? Maybe jus you and me deal with how much and when payment is due, so she can jus worry about her Johnny. That be OK?"

Gary normally felt an obligation to make sure all the family members knew how much the funeral package would be. This saved a change of plans half-way through and also headed off a lawsuit when an uninformed beneficiary found out that tens of thousands were gone from the estate without their specific permission. In this case, it appeared that Bill could control both of these problems.

"Well. we would want to be sure that Wilma fully understood what the family chose for John, but if you would prefer to review that with her, perhaps this will be approved as well." He knew that Bill was probably planning on padding the 'explained' bill for his own benefit, but it wasn't the home's job to administer the estate. The lawyer would most likely ensure that Wilma got all the correct information anyway.

Bill was pleased with the progress that they were making, but now came the difficult final ask that he desperately needed agreed to. He had Gary most of the way to thinking he had a closed deal, so could table the last 'small' item, with some confidence that he could get what he needed.

"That's jus great, Gary. Approvals pending fer sure. There's jus one last little item fer you that's actually our biggest problem this morning. Fact is, we need some cash advanced against your bill or we're just gonna half t'bail out on the whole thing. If'n we kin pay a couple 'mediate bills ourselves, then we'd be wide open t'consider everything else with a lot less stress. What do you think about maybe adding 15% t'your bill as a fee to my company, as a consultant or somethin, you know, and then paying me in cash, uh, like tomorrow? All gets repaid t'you guys from the insurance of course, so no difference to you, maybe even you keep a little interest y'know. Certainly would help us out and would let Wilma be a little more flexible in taking your funeral recommendations directly."

Gary added a blink as one more crack in his stoic countenance. He was being asked for a kickback, in cash, up-front, so that grieving brother here could walk away with a bigger chunk of the estate. As he didn't normally deal with the construction trades in his line of work, this was a completely novel scheme. For Bill, on the other hand, business regularly involved paying or receiving kickbacks, mainly under the table, up-front and in cash. Wasn't unusual at all, 'cept here he wasn't buying rebar, just arranging something a little more complicated. Regardless, he wasn't too embarrassed to ask with a big smile on his face.

Gary wasn't able to respond to Bill's final request without checking with one of Mr. Todd or Mr. Poirier, but he said that he would make the case for a special circumstances' 'advance'. Did Bill think that $2500 would be enough?

Bill strained not to crack a big grin. "Definitely."

Gary had struggled with what to call it, but finally settled on 'advance' as a polite-sounding term that might fly with the firm's accountant. It was, to his knowledge, the first time that T&P would be providing cash to a customer for anything other than a refund because of a screw-up. Screw-ups had included the wrong casket, the wrong menu, the wrong day and, once, the wrong burial plot entirely. In addition to some pacifying cash, that one had required some urgent dark-of-night backhoe work to hump Aunt Lucy over a few spaces.

With Gary's sincere commitment in hand, Bill was much more open to hearing about the Chevy or Buick package from the menu, as long as the Cadillac options were left off. Wilma seemed happy with a nice oak casket and matching ceramic-look plastic urn for ashes later. She didn't care much about food or beverages, but definitely wanted the largest room available for visitation and the actual funeral service. She had great expectations for the crowd that John's passing would attract.

Gary's suggestion for a local retired minister seemed to suit her fine, as long as they played some Johnny Cash and George Jones. Bill suspected that John probably hated country music, but this was an easy one so he went along.

As they were wrapping up, Gary pulled them back into the little interview room. He didn't want to talk price, indicating that maybe Bill would come back tomorrow to 'close off' financial details. Bill just nodded. That would be fine.

Gary had some other things to cover. "I wanted to ask about the obituary. We will put one up on our website, plus if you wish we can put one in the Star for this Saturday." He was all smiles again as the tricky work of selling an $15,000 package was behind him. "Would you like to write it or just provide some notes?"

Bill and Wilma just looked at each other. Neither one knew shit about John's life, where he worked, what he did when he wasn't working or even what schools he had gone to. Bill responded, "Uh, not sure how much we kin contribute there. Being down in the states fer a decade now. Kinda lost touch wit John's details. Is one necessary?"

"Well, we have a viewing room scheduled for two days starting next Wednesday and a funeral set-up for a hundred on Friday, so it's important that we get information to everyone who will want to come. A week is good, so no one is rushed and people can call other people."

He had been here many times before. Family members hated writing nice words as much as they hated having to stand-up and say some sort of eulogy on the day. He was well-prepared to assist.

"We can, if it's OK with you, hand the task off to a retired gentleman from the newspaper business. He can make a few calls and put something together for you to approve. He'll see if someone at John's work can contribute some details. He's quite good, I'm sure that you will be pleased. He can also help with some notes for you at the funeral."

Bill and Wilma both let out a sigh of relief. Bill hadn't thought about this one, but now realized that they couldn't just shuffle John through the process and be done with it. Appearances might be important for the insurance and any other stuff they would get. Plus, a little research might turn up some cash or maybe a property somewhere that they would otherwise miss.

Gary continued, "The other thing is John's suit for his final rest." Wilma and Bill gave each other another raised-eyebrows look of concern. They had figured that the suit maybe came with the embalming. But Wilma had insisted on an open casket for viewing, so a good suit was definitely needed.

Gary continued, "Fortunately, the hospital sent over the clothes John was wearing on the day of his tragic accident. We sent them out for cleaning and they are ready to use, if you wish. We didn't get a tie, but can supply a nice matching one for you. That is, if you don't want to bring in something else."

Bill was struggling with how to hide how little they actually knew about John so didn't reply right away.

Gary kept on, "Oh and we have his other personal effects here." He brought a bulky envelope over from the counter. "You'll need to take possession of these now and sign our little receipt indicating that you are now responsible."

He gently dumped the envelope. Bill and Wilma were looking at a fine wallet, a heavy gold watch, a set of keys, a cellphone, a pen, a comb and one Canadian two-dollar 'tooney'.

Bill resisted grabbing the wallet for a moment, but then casually picked it up and thumbed open the back pocket. It contained thirty-five dollars in cash.

"Shit, don't nobody up here use cash anymore?" The comment popped out before he could stifle the thought.

Gary ignored the question and kept on, "Well, perhaps you can get over to his residence and see if you want to bring something else in. Maybe some nice pictures for the table if there are any."

Bill smiled and nodded, "Yeah, sure, that's what we'll do. Say, can I have that envelope?"

Bill scooped the effects back into the envelope. The wallet contained a driver's license and the key ring looked like it might have a vehicle fob on it. This day could turn out to be very profitable in spite of only finding a few bucks. They could have a nice lunch on John anyway.

Over lunch, now at a better sit-down restaurant, Bill took some time to examine the haul.

"Guess his place is still there. But maybe somebody looking fer rent by now, so we need t'be a little careful just barging in." He had emptied all of the plastic cards and ID pieces out of the wallet.

He continued, "Bet, since maybe nobody tol the bank anythin yet, these here cards are just loaded wit cash." He held up a debit card and a credit card. "No way t'use them though. Don't know the password and I'm pretty sure that using a dead guy's cards is against some law, even if we are kin."

Now he palmed the dead cellphone. "Same here, probably all his friends and business contacts in here, but no way t'get in. Unless we kin get somebody t'unlock it that is. Maybe a little shop somewhere can tell us how valuable this watch is." He checked to see if Wilma was paying attention. "Not that we would sell it, but we should know before we give it away or anything."

Wilma had pretty much glazed over somewhere in the middle of her second bourbon and coke. She finally spoke up. "Well, we should go over there anyway. What if he had a cat or somethin? Could be starving in his place. Maybe plants t'water, too."

Bill now had to check back in from daydreaming about cashing out the valuables.

He responded, "Mom, he was in hospital two weeks. I'm sure that he figured out what to do with a cat long time ago. And he's dead, so his plants can be dead too. But, maybe some important papers there to get before we see that lawyer tomorrow."

Bill still had a little worry down deep that John had written another will somewhere along the way. The old lawyer hadn't known anything about that when they talked on the phone, but John probably hung out with lots of lawyers who could spin off a will anytime for him. Bill had small nightmares about finding a will that gave everything, including his insurance, to some 'save the whales' campaign. He'd also read about some tax deduction scam outa Delaware that got you a donation receipt in advance of dying if you willed your assets to this trust. Be just like fuckin Johnny to have jumped on that one. As a kid, he was always in for any scheme to make money.

# Chapter Five - Jaff the Writer

Jaffrey Doswell is a newspaper guy. He'll tell you that he still has ink in his hands he got from folding 50-page daily papers that he delivered on a local route every morning and every afternoon—you could get either, when he was ten years old. The ink must have been addictive, because as soon as they let him quit school, he was working inside the walls at the Yonge Street plant of the Star.

Soon he was off the press floors and working his way up the editorial floors. It was the era of linotype casting and hand-cut hard galleys, when the dailies might have two or even three editions in a day. Yeah, there was radio and TV, but for most people it wasn't news until they read it in the Star or in the Globe or, way back, in the Telegram. He did everything from running copy up and down the building to eventually being one of the Toronto Star's best known and most feared beat reporters. He was Jaff to his friends. To crooked politicians and business scam artists, he was mostly known as 'that asshole, again'.

After 20 years of chasing down the dirt for headline stories Jaff moved on to investigative features where there were certainly deadlines, but not three times a day. He liked to think that he wasn't slowing down, but the contact meetings were less often and less intense, most research was done by some intern kid rather than in smoky backroom whispers and he was expected to worry about his own grammar as he typed away on a 'keyboard'. Hitting submit in a word-processing app on his screen only meant watching a window close and a little message tell him OK. Wasn't nearly the old thrill of slamming a typewriter-created update onto the copyeditors desk, with typesetting runners trailing him across the floor. Twenty minutes to proof and hand to layout was plenty as far as he was concerned. Trouble was that twenty minutes later his phone would ring and he'd be off again, running with another scoop and wishing that he could turn back the clock.

His lifestyle then was anchored by endless coffees, more than a few whiskies a day and a never-out butt burning unpuffed in his overflowing ashtray. As rough as it was, the bad habits hadn't done him in. They did get more than a few of his investigative subjects, sometimes before he could complete their story. As he reflected much later, he had always sort of been an obit writer. Why someone never had to write his obit during those uncertain and unhealthy days was a mystery to him and, for a long time, to his doctor too.

Once page one headlines had turned to section two or section three bylines, his lifestyle changed just enough for him to survive, more or less happily. Along with everyone else, he gave up the smokes, he cut down on the bad coffee and he moved the whiskies to the end of the day, if at all. His family, which once knew him mostly as a ghost that passed through for a change of shirt, had a chance to finally meet him in daylight. Stepping back, Jaff concluded that a better life was worth it even if it meant giving up the adrenaline rush. He lost some weight, got a bicycle and even took up healthy cooking for the whole family, with him there to eat it with them.

At 61, Jaff probably would have said that he only needed a couple catchy feature pieces to finish out his career. He had led the team that put together the story of provincial politicians wasting billions in taxpayer money on projects in their home ridings. He was the lead back-story investigator when church sex-abuse finally raised its much-cloaked head in the city. His team, writing under his byline, put together award winning features on the uncertain future of transit in the city, the probable second collapse of the financial system and the dirty dealings of an extended family of sleazy contractors inflating bids for publicly-funded projects. His last big feature on the disastrous impact of aging boomers whacking into the healthcare system turned out to be both personal and ironic. Just after the third of four installments in the series was published, Jaff had his stroke.

It turned out that the healthcare system was ready and waiting for Jaff without enduring a crisis. He was lucky to arrive at a trauma centre well-equipped for stroke intervention. The trouble, as it turned out, was Jaff spending three prior hours at home taking Tylenol and trying to walk-off yet one more frigging headache. It was only when his daughter arrived home and observed his lop-sided attempts at both perception and movement that the 911 call went in. Jaff had a small enough blockage in the right side of his brain that speedy injection of clot-breaking meds saved him with most of his capabilities intact. After a few months of rehab, Jaff spoke, read and wrote with no discernable disability. It was only when you got below the surface of his writing that less obvious limitations of faulty syntax and disorganized structure became apparent. Jaff himself laughed at his own foibles of forgetting where he set things down, not seeing half the people in a room and being more of less unaware of any activity in his left side peripheral vision. He learned to cope and pills kept him in a happy place, but he was mostly done as a reporter.

His unexpected return to writing for a newspaper came with a call from the city editor at the Star one sunny afternoon, when he was out back carrying out a savage attack on the weeds in his lawn. His cellphone bounced around on the patio table with the distinctive ring he had set for work calls. Normally, he let voicemail handle random calls, but he hustled across the lawn for this one.

"Yeah, Jaff here. What's up?"

"Forgot how to say hello, you old coot? And what makes you think that anything is up?"

"Figured hello is just a wasted word and six wasted letters on a line for a red pencil guy like you, Petey."

"Well, ya got me there, Jaff. No wasted words is the 11th commandment."

They shared a laugh.

"Say Jaff, you sitting down? No? Well sit the fuck down."

"OK, let's pretend I'm sitting, now what's up? Another one die and you need six old cranks to pretend to sling him out?"

"Nope."

"Then what."

"I need fifteen-hundred words from you by Friday noon."

"What? The sign out front says 'retired gimp'. You forget how to read now?"

"This is a real special. Only you can write it. Special request and special permission."

Jaff should have hung up, but he couldn't resist the appeal to his ego.

"OK, give me the dope. What have ya got?"

"Remember Nutso Nate Bradley?"

"Old Nate. Sure do. He going back to jail again? Can't blame me this time."

"Nope, did his time once and only. Nickel sentence, if you recall, out in three. And you did put him in there, if you recall clearly."

"So, what? Somebody complaining after all this time?"

"Nope. Different angle. He's sick. Terminal. Gonna pull the plug on the weekend."

Jaff paused for a moment. He never saw his role as an adversary and rarely made actual enemies. Mostly, the embarrassed or daylighted parties didn't really hate him either. Most kept his articles framed somewhere in a back room.

"Sorry to hear that, he wasn't such a bad a guy. Just a liar and a thief, but there's lots of those in church every Sunday."

"Yeah, well, apparently he became a nicer guy after the thinking time. Came out reformed. Used legit money to set up a foundation. Talked to anybody about doin good. Spoke on stage. Helped old ladies cross the street, whatever. All very quietly, mostly without his name anywhere to be seen."

Jaff smiled, "How about that? Would have never expected it, but good for him. Too bad he's packin up."

Petey continued, "That's the thing. We need a rich, maybe rousing, maybe ribald, obit. Need to run it Saturday right under the headline says he M.A.I.D. it out. Get it? We'll print it, assuming that he'll do the deed just after he reads in the paper that he's dead. Give him a laugh, then bang. Kind of fun, eh?"

Jaff coughed, "Fuck, that's sick, but great journalism, I guess. So, what's it got to do with me?"

"He wants you to write it. His wife, his kid, they are all in on it. You're due there tomorrow to start interviewing, take any angle you want."

"Surely, some sweet young thing can bang this out better than me."

"Yeah, one will be in touch to drive you around and proof your shit, but you're doing the writing. Your name and your picture are going top of the page. I expect no pulled punches. Friday, noon. Bye."

With that call and that assignment, Jaff Doswell was back in the reporting business. With assisted death all the rage, lots of people wanted to be interviewed for their last appearance in the news. Others just wanted a great obit for their old man. Then a family member wanted help with the eulogy at a big show celebration send-off. Then random people called and asked for research and a write-up on relatives already dead. Jaff was a freelancer whose phone didn't stop ringing. Until he stopped answering it again, that is.

Given how busy he now was at times, Jaff surprised himself when he answered the call with name display of 'T&P Funeral Home'. He had put the place in his contact list when he buried his ninety-four-year old mother a year prior. It was a convenient choice near both her west side home and the Park Lawn Cemetery where a plot had been waiting for her beside dad for many long years. T&P were nice people who went out of their way to accommodate his family. He had made a friend in Gary Schultz and casually mentioned the business he was now in: writing upbeat obits for mostly boring people. Gary asked if he needed business as he had a steady supply of boring dead people. Jaff appreciated the wit, said no, but for sure he would look after anyone really in need.

He had worked with a couple T&P clients already with OK results and no hesitation in paying his 'professional' fees. He had made the offer, so he answered the phone.

"Jaff here. What's up?"

"Mr. Boswell, Gary Schultz."

"Still plantin them happy, Gary?

"We try Jaff, we try." After a pause he continued, "Wonder if I can pass on a request for some help with an obit, probably a eulogy too."

"Hmm...pretty busy. This somethin that your young lady in back can't bang off."

"Well, that's part of the problem. The deceased seems to have been an up-and-coming business guy. Big firm. Successful, far as we know. But he had only two relatives show up, both from the states and they don't know a damn thing about him."

"Still sounds like someone somewhere, maybe at his company, could be tapped to pull something together."

"Maybe so and I'll admit that we haven't tried that route, but his death has a little angle to it that I thought might interest you."

"What's that?"

"It's a bit of a long story, but briefly, two weeks ago the guy is on his way into work heading down into the subway. He hits some refuse on the stairs, goes ass-over-tea-kettle and crashes head first into a wall. EMS comes, hauls him in. Certainly, a concussion and maybe something broken, so he's CAT-scanned and monitored in hospital for ten-plus days. Just a run-of-the-mill accident that didn't stop any trains, so the TTC, Police and EMS reports are all filed and there's no news item. Thirteen days later the guy is ready to go home, but then dies in his sleep. The coroner linked an unseen hematoma back to the accident and even attached all the responder reports to her assessment that it's an accidental death."

"It is a little interesting, tragic maybe, but I still don't see any angle."

"Well, guy's wearing a nice bespoke suit and six-hundred-dollar shoes. I know my stuff. He's no slouch. Guess if it had been death on the spot, due to a McDonald's bag that shouldn't have been there and the guy had even one local relative who can spell lawsuit, this would have made the news, or at least the court, right?"

"Yeah, maybe. So, you're looking for an investigation. Thought the need was just for an obit."

"Yeah, that's all, but maybe when you meet the two characters that showed up as next-of-kin from Reno, you'll find something interesting to write about. They don't fit the same mold, to say the least. Guy shouldn't just slip away into the mist, eh? I'm pretty sure that there's something about his life or his job that deserves some attention in a final write-up. Firm hasn't made any effort to show up, even when it was uncertain if there even was kin. Just seems funny."

"Hmmm...OK, got a number? I may just find a short story here if nothing else."

# Chapter Six - John's Place

Wilma and Bill sat in the little rental car looking at John's apartment building for a long time. The midtown neighbourhood was a nicer setting than either of them was used to and the regular coming and going of Beemers and Benzs didn't do anything to calm their nerves. On the other hand, Bill kept wondering if they were about to open door three with the big prize behind it: car, cash, jewelry, bank book. Who knows what is behind the door of unit 1506? The only significant new problem he and Wilma had now was a formidable concierge desk in the lobby. Clearly, they were gonna haf to convince some big, dumb guard that they had the right to head on up. Did the guy even know John was dead? Was it a good idea to tell him? He'd likely call somebody and then a whole lot of bad things might happen, including somebody looking for a rent payment that they didn't have. Thinking about that, there was probably cable and internet running as well that would take some payments to shut off. Maybe there was a big overdue credit card bill in the mail. Where the fuck would his mail actually be?

All the possibilities were too much to figure out. Bill decided on a quick run in, a sniff around, a chance to grab anything valuable out in the open and then get the hell out. He'd probably have to drag Wilma out. She'd have to hold her weepy could-a-beens until the next time.

They actually could hide behind the lawyer after tomorrow morning, but really needed to see what door three held with nobody's nose in their business right now. Cash was key. Bill kept a little stash in a flower pot for unplanned emergencies and short notice moves, so maybe John did too. They both grew up in the same chaotic home with a drugged-out dad and flighty mother. John probably had some of the same safety habits as him. He really didn't want to toss the place, but a little more cash right now, particularly until the funeral guy came through, would make life a lot easier.

"You ready?" Bill turned to Wilma as he finally broke the nervous silence.

He continued after she slowly turned, "Better bring them papers, case we need to explain Johnny being dead and us being the benficiary and exector. Not that it's any of the rent-a-cop in there's business. But we'll be strangers and the little sticky note in front of him probly says: 'stop all strangers'."

Wilma was still tipsy as hell from lunch, but she might have to do at least some of the talking as it was her name on the will. Too bad that it wasn't the same name as on her current ID. A new, and now done, marriage had screwed that up. Her name had changed to Fluke and she was too lazy to change it back to Fischer. Wilma Fluke was comin at everything that said Wilma Fischer was entitled. Just one more eff'n detail for the lawyer to deal with.

Wilma finally spoke, "I'm gonna be real sad that the first time I see Johnny's place, he's dead." She sniffed, "Shoulda come to visit, maybe meet his girlfriend or such, see the place and set some things straight."

She manically rummaged in her purse trying to find a tissue. Bill had anticipated this kind of shit and had 'borrowed' a box of kleenex from the funeral home. He reached over to the back seat and brought back the whole box for her.

"Jesus, Wilma, you dint visit cuz Johnny never friggin invited you. He told us both t'piss-off enough times that we got the message and did. Not yer fault. Well, that part isn't—guess some other stuff you did does count. You got to be sober at least part of the time to be a welcome house guest."

He gave her one small moment to blow her nose and straighten up.

"Let's go." He started to open his door, but hesitated. "Might be some discussion needed here with the front desk. You shut-up until I tell you to talk. Then only talk enough to explain that you're his kin and the only one mentioned in the will."

Her expression suggested that she had heard words in the air but nothing worth paying attention to. Bill leaned over and took her wrist so that he had her attention.

"All I'm saying is this guy may be a little thick, y'know. Security don't require a lot of intelligence. Don't want to confuse him with a long story that's none of his business anyway. Got that?"

Now she nodded, still looking uncertain.

"Tomorrow, it's your turn t'talk. Tell the eff'n lawyer your life story if ya want. Today, we want t'just check things out. Once we got some legal go-ahead from the lawyer, we can spend all day here. Probably have to, t'clear it out, so don't start blubbering over stuff today."

Now, he was out and headed up the long driveway. Ten steps behind, Wilma finally got out of the car and followed, carrying the kleenex box with her.

The concierge didn't turn out to be too much of a problem.

Bill considered the well-dressed black guy behind the desk. Rather than being big and dumb, this guy was compact and looked pretty sharp. He had a computer screen turned away from the counter on an otherwise clean desk.

Bill thought no point in being shy, so simply spoke to him.

"We're goin up to 1506, John Fischer's place. Got the keys right here." He jangled the keys behind Wilma's manila envelope as if they were connected to some business process.

The concierge guy didn't say anything, but typed something into the computer, considered what came up on screen, then turned to Bill.

"You're the cleaners?"

"Uh, OK, yeah, if that what it says there."

"What it says here is that you come Wednesday mornings. This is Tuesday afternoon." There was no smile or offered way out of the discrepancy.

"Uh, well, he called us in early this week. Somethin on tomorrow. Wants it done today." Clearly the computer didn't say anything about John being dead.

Bill considered whether he was digging a hole with the lie that he would later have to climb out of when they came back with a lawyer's letter or whatever. Fuck it.

The concierge considered the new information for a moment.

"He shoulda told us. He knows the rules. Where's your equipment anyway?"

"Oh, we use his stuff, er our stuff, that's stored in the unit. Easier than hauling it around."

Bill could feel Wilma starting to make her way to the front. He sidestepped to block her as she would certainly start telling this guy the wrong story about dead Johnny, when it looked like the little lie might get them in. She hmphed as she bumped into his shoulder.

"OK, need some ID though to sign you in."

"Uh, we're a small company, don't have fancy ID cards. I kin give you a business card." Bill fished one of his consultant cards out of his wallet.

The concierge was clearly irritated having to deal with scruffy service people who were making his life difficult. He glanced at the card and started to write the company name in a log book, but stopped.

"This says that you're some kind of consultant from Chicago. Seems a long way to come to clean apartments."

"Oh, that. That's the parent company. We're just a division here in, ah, Toronto."

"Seems that you also got the same last name as our Mr. Fischer."

"Yeah, he's my cousin. You know, keep it in the family. We're just starting out and he's givin us some business. Helpin us out, ya might say."

The concierge was getting bored. "OK, remember to sign out. You'll never get back in, ever, if you forget to sign out. Got it?"

Bill, now holding Wilma back with both arms behind his back, nodded.

"Elevator code is five-five just for you today. Don't tell anyone else. Don't open doors for anyone else. Everybody puts in their own code. You need it to go both up and down. Don't leave any crap outside the unit or anywhere else in the building. If you got something for the dumpster you come back to me for another code. Got it?"

He turned back to the computer. They were dismissed. Bill couldn't believe it, they were in. He continued to keep a firm hand on Wilma as he hustled her to the open elevator.

Opening the door to apartment 1506, let Wilma and Bill into John's world for the first time in a decade. Neither had really ever brought their concept of John beyond his impoverished university years, when he survived on broken down furniture in squalid other-side-of-the-tracks dumps. Fending for himself on part-time door-to-door sales jobs and student loans, he had scraped by, paying tuition first, rent next and food last, if there was anything left.

If the door to this apartment had opened onto a room empty except for broken down sofas and packing crates, they wouldn't have had a dissonant reaction. With a few minutes to consider the dump they might have wondered what he did with all his money. As it was, on opening the door they had an immediate idea of what Johnny spent his money on. The suite was an absolute marvel of over-the-top luxury in modern design, with every conceivable electronic device integrated into top-end furniture pieces that might have cost just about what Bill earned in a year. It was all rented, but of course they couldn't know this at the time.

"Holy shit!" Bill walked around the room tracking his fingers through the light coat of dust now gathered on the furniture. Bi-weekly cleaners were actually due tomorrow, and if they could get in after the confusion caused by today's apparent cleaning visit, they would actually get at making everything sparkling clean and polished.

Bill gushed, "There must be a fifty grand in furniture here. Look at this leather. Look at this wood." He touched a control on the credenza and a massive, paper-thin screen rose from a concealed slot.

Wilma was impressed, but unsure of how much she liked it. "Looks like a lot of this stuff would be hard to keep up. Set a glass down wrong and you're got a ring for life." She had a lot of experience with half-empty glasses finding random parking spots on her mostly-arborite furniture.

Someone had visited the apartment on John's behalf to pick up toiletries and some sweats for hanging around at the hospital. There was a note on the table that said:

Sent sweats and shave kit, as requested. Trust they got there. Hope that you used the clean underwear too, slob! Took your plant to my place. Call me when you're back and I'll drop her off...Lee. xx

Bill considered the note. Who was Lee? Someone with keys, maybe a neighbour. Maybe she already came back and helped herself to some good stuff when she found out John was dead?

They both wandered in and out of the one bedroom, ensuite, small kitchen and even smaller study alcove. Bill was looking for any spot that could hold some cash. He opened cupboards, checked food containers, checked the freezer and looked under the bed. The single dresser was jammed with socks and underwear, but with no jewelry box or any kind of knickknack on top. The closet contained mostly suits and shirts, with half a dozen pairs of shoes, polished and lined up. The study desk had a closed laptop and a small filing cabinet that was jammed with hanging files. There was just no place for any valuables to be hidden. Flipping through the file folders Bill found one with 'Legal' scrawled on the tab. Pulling it out, he found various pieces of correspondence on someone else's estate. John must have been someone's exector, but Bill didn't recognize the name. In the back of the folder he found a photocopy of John's will. It was the same one that Wilma had. He was pissed that he hadn't found anything else, but at least they had the one and only will.

The bedroom gave no hint of any regular companion and the large bed was neatly made with cushions clearly placed for show. Bill now considered why a guy would leave it that way, but then he figured out that John had now been gone more than two weeks. The cleaners had been in on the first Wednesday, when John was just barely in the hospital. The place had been straightened and cleaned edge-to-edge. Hence only the light dust for two weeks of disuse.

The kitchen also showed no sign of an occupant. The refrigerator contents were all long-term use types, seasonings and dressings. There was no milk, no meat and no veggies. Maybe the cleaners again? Seemed funny that they would pitch fresh food. Maybe he never ate here? Maybe he never lived here at all, but shacked up with Lee next door and just came home to dress for work? Unless someone popped up with a story, they might never know.

Wilma had come to another disappointing conclusion: there was no booze anywhere in the apartment. She had been losing her buzz since lunch and had planned to recharge out of Johnny's bar. But there wasn't so much as a warm beer in a closet, let alone anything in the fridge or in any of the cabinets.

Now she wandered back into the bedroom to consider the suits in the closet. "These are real nice suits. I can tell, your stepfather used t'buy good ones too."

Bill was still examining every inch of the living room furniture. "He wasn't my eff'n step-father; wasn't anything t'me at all. He was just yer short-lived old man who thought mostly with his dick."

"He was too. Doesn't matter what ya think."

The room-to-room conversation was interrupted as Wilma was now rummaging in the closet.

She squealed in delight. Bill, hoping that she had found John's stash, hustled into the bedroom.

"Found ten bucks!" She held it up. "Ain't Canada money pretty? Nice purple and pictures of stuff. Can't understand why our money is so boring."

"Where was that?"

"In a suit coat pocket. Might be more, ain't looked in em all."

Bill considered pushing her out of the way and doing that himself, but he imagined sticking his hand into a condom or something. He left her to it and went back to the study for a last look."

"Got a real nice tie here, too. We'll take that to Mr. Schultz." She plunked on the bed to rest and rub her temples. It had been a long time between drinks.

She spoke up again. "Do ya think he needs underwear en socks?"

Bill responded, "What fer?"

"In the coffin, y'know. They dress em up nice. Do they put underwear on em?"

"Fucked, if I know. Why would they? Not like they're ever getting undressed again."

"Bet they do. I know that they put a brassiere on old Sharon Durst last year. Her big tits woulda flowed right off the edge and looked terrible les something was holding them up. Maybe they got special underwear jus for laying down."

She wearily climbed back to her feet.

"I'm gonna take some. You wait, bet that they'll be happy to have some nice clean ones. Socks too."

After a few moments of silence, she squealed again, but quickly stifled it. She had uncovered a bottle of liquor in the bottom of the sock drawer. It looked dingy and the shitty label was sort of faded. It just had a cork with some wax over it, so maybe wasn't too good, but as long as it was booze, she didn't care. She worked the cork out with her teeth and took a big swig.

Not being a scotch-drinker, the wallop of the heavy peat liquor set her back a bit. She squeezed her eyes to get over the first weird taste. She waited for a burn that never came; then the warm caress of the rare single malt crept down her throat. Din't really matter what it was, although she preferred vodka, but this was OK, too. She shook her head and smiled.

She whispered, "Guess I could do another one these, if I has to."

After another big glug, she pounded in the cork. She pulled an underwear shirt out to wrap around the bottle. Seeing that she'd got away with finding and hiding the bottle, she now selected some jockey shorts and then pulled open the sock drawer. The socks were all black or brown, nothing exciting. She grabbed a pair and bundling bottle, underwear and socks under her arm, headed back out to her purse on the dining area table. She jammed the whole big bundle in, making sure that the bottle was completely covered.

The quick buzz from the forty-year-old scotch was doing the trick. Wilma now felt more like it. She headed back into the bedroom to straighten up the underwear in a much better mood.

"Say Billy, ya think that we should take his cigars?"

Bill's head popped up from his second-time around inspection of the underside of the living room couch. "What cigars?"

She responded, "Here's a box with a big lastic round it at the bottom of the underwear drawer. Some men like cigars, we could give em out at the funeral home."

Billy hustled back into the bedroom for the second time, cursing himself for not just dumping all the drawers in the first place.

"Let's see em." He took the box and shook it. It wasn't cigars, but something small and hard inside. "Not cigars anymore, must be his odds and ends box."

He pulled off the elastic band and was disappointed again, not to find anything of immediate value. The only items in the box were a long flat key with a four-digit number stamped on it and a small card from the Maritime bank with John's signature inside a designated box. The print on the card said: Key must be presented at each visit. Unfortunately, it didn't say where the visit would be taking place.

Bill could see possibilities in the key. Might be a deposit box, which would explain them finding nothing of any value in the apartment. Getting access would be something that the lawyer could figure out. Banks must have whole departments just to give exectors access to this sort of stuff. Just need to show them he's dead. He carefully returned the key and card to the box, put the elastic back on and carried it to the table where Wilma's envelope and purse sat. Wilma had a brief moment of panic when she thought he might try to put it in her purse, but he just set it down.

"Think we should go." Bill had lost patience with searching. Anything that John owned would eventually pop out of the woodwork. As of tomorrow, they would have a lawyer working on it. Assuming that he would work on credit.

#  Chapter Seven - Lee Knew John

John in Kamal's body was getting antsy just lying in a hospital bed. He had been on the surgical ward for two days. Where before, in ICU, he had felt like crap and appreciated the care and attention to his recovery, now he felt like he should be outa there and saw mostly cleaners and food service staff. Nurses were fleeting images that held still for only a moment. A doctor was apparently a figment of the patient's imagination, appearing at bedside only when they were asleep and mysteriously pronouncing a change in meds from afar as the cure-all required.

John had made the short journey to the washroom to confirm what he already knew, that the body he was in was foreign from foot to head. He was only a little shocked to be greeted by the pleasant face of a black man who was probably better described as toasty brown. Nice teeth, proportioned nose and ears, and soft eyes that confirmed John Fischer was no longer—no longer in his birth-issue body that is. This one appeared healthier, except for the patched-up bullet holes, taped limbs and insides that might still succumb to infection. Kamal could stand tall in this body, get some weight on the injured foot and take a good long piss in the toilet. He didn't know what to make of his extra four inches in that regard. Perhaps, much later, he would see how the extra limp girth translated into stiff performance, but that could wait.

The stay-a-bed time had rounded out his thinking about how he could come out of this dilemma with a win-win. Win one would be returning Kamal's body to Michelle and Izzy, with no immediate rejection. He would play the 'slightly confused' role out, paying close attention to expectations and gradually bringing her over to the new Kamal, who would inherently be better than the first one. He would need to quickly learn a lot to survive even temporarily in their world of gangstas and scrape-by survival, but it would be required to win her over.

Win two would be hanging onto the small amount of wealth that John Fischer had attained and translating it into a much better life for his new family. He would always know that he was John, but others wouldn't. This was a little bad, but maybe good too. Bad in that he'd have to work through any baggage this body brought with it. Good in that people wouldn't know who they were dealing with and would be easy targets for a deal that seemed way too easy and maybe slightly naïve on the black guy's part. They would happily try to take advantage of the new guy; then he would screw them. John smiled at the possibilities, but he needed his stake to make it happen.

He didn't have a complete plan mapped out, but he knew one thing for sure: his buddy Lee would need to be inside. John felt sure that there would be one or more pivot points where he couldn't act entirely on his own and would have to trust someone. Lee Deviers was a professional crook, but not the kind that eventually shoots himself in the foot. He worked only well-thought-out and well-tested schemes and was never greedy. He would see the opportunity. He was also an exceedingly ugly gay guy, ten-years older than John, who accepted everyone and every new thing with a shrug. When John would eventually tell him that he was trapped inside a gang-banger black guy's body, he would expect only the shrug. There would be money to be made and Lee would be in.

The best part about involving Lee was that he wasn't part of any other crowd that knew John Fischer. They had met only through a mutual client. Lee was a precious metals contract trader by day and a precious metals black market dealer by night. They had teamed up at the client's direction. John could move money globally, into and out of various foreign currencies and into and out of any kind of bond in the world. Lee did the same, but was focused on bullion and its various paper derivative cousins, which he handled with equal skill. The client played his own hunches, but demanded instant trade response. He appreciated expertise that made him fractions of a penny per unit across multi-million-unit ins and outs. Lee and John became the perfect henchmen in the shady, but perfectly legal business.

Over drinks, Lee had propositioned John, of course, but then readily accepted his straight inclination with no further discussion. He still entertained him like a hot date though. They regularly met over dinner in classy restaurants that Lee chose, where everyone knew who he was and just assumed that John was another catch. Later in a bar that Lee also chose, John turned out to be a useful wingman, attracting other men like a turd in the sun attracts flies, which allowed Lee to score by default pretty regularly, in spite of his craggy visage. Once persuasive Lee could talk to someone, he could pretty much have his way.

Their relationship took a new turn when Lee asked John if he would like to make some investments in gold bullion at a significant discount to market prices.

John was curious, "How's that work? Gold is gold, trades by the purity and weight."

Lee winked, "Ah yes, of course it does, but you need to stretch out the transaction to the whole supply chain. Most gold buyers are perfectly legit and they carefully track everything coming in against everything going out. A few though, have access to additional supply, shall we say, that is better not to be tracked."

"Stolen stuff?" John stiffened. He had a stock trader's license to protect and any criminal activity would put that at risk.

"No, no; not so much stolen as liberated at discount prices. People need money and some prefer not to have their gold sales tracked to avoid capital gains. Their choice, of course. Others are secretly cashing in family gold jewelry to prop up a lifestyle. Maybe some gold stuff is actually reported stolen or lost, but then inconveniently found long after an insurance settlement. Not something that's asked when they sell it. And, of course, traceable gold pieces can change pretty quickly into just plain untraceable gold. The other source is smuggled bullion itself. Lots leaves the treasury in small countries and ends up on the plane with the outgoing president. Most of these small pot dictators actually store billions in gold outside their country in advance, on the likely possibility of a coup coming down the road."

He winked. "Whether the stuff comes from legit sources or not isn't a concern. No problem, man, as they say." Lee's OK shrug made it clear that he didn't see himself on the illegal purchasing or fencing side of the business.

He continued, "A small, off-the-path smelter needs a marketplace for gold that they produce in bars and ingots. Where their supply comes from is their business. My interest is in their five and ten troy-ounce bars, produced under license for the national mint of an African country and stamped for .9999% purity. This form of bullion does sell at market price and can be disposed of any day, quite legitimately. They need a quiet route to a dispersed market where the odd batch of bars coming out of some speculator's stash doesn't cause a ripple in the larger market. Believe me, most of the bars with these marks are actually very legit contraband; they were stolen from the repository in 'Panabinga' by its own fat-cat politicians before the country went bankrupt."

Now they shared a laugh. This was sounding interesting and provided John with a hint of how Lee supported his lavish lifestyle. John was still uncertain, "So how do you or your investors make any money?"

"Well, the 'used jewelry' buyer you see on TV probably pays less than fifty cents on the dollar by actual gold weight for merchandise. Nervous bullion goes for maybe sixty-five to seventy cents. It's all melted down. We buy these pure gold bars from the smelter at eighty cents or so on the dollar. If we are fleet-of-foot in the market, we can sell directly at the day's current bid price for bullion, less small fees for handling the metal. Gold has consistently sold at over US$1200 a troy ounce and has at times closed way up to $1600. Do the math; each bar has a minimum turnaround profit of about US$2000, but could be worth much more in a rising market. Move ten a month and you're bought a used Porsche in no time. Never buy new; attracts too much attention!"

Now Lee laughed out loud and John joined in. He loved schemes with no risk other than putting a bunch of cash in play for a few days.

Lee continued, giggling as if telling a hilarious story, "The gain, by the way, doesn't need to be reported, as the purchase receipt from the defunct Pana treasury is left blank for your retail sale on the day of purchase. Your customer appears to make twenty or thirty dollars an ounce as an active trader and the tax man is happy taxing 50% of that. Some days they appear to lose money. Only a few bucks actually hit their declared income. Meanwhile, we're invisible."

Lee gave John a minute to consider by ordering another round of drinks.

"So, you interested? Distributors have to move ten bars a month to start. Once you're a 'friend' of the family that can go up. You find your own place to sell them; there are lots of options. Exchanges or private clients both work. With clients, you can pass on some of the discount to keep them interested. Not a difficult pitch when I offer someone a deal with no risk that earns them a thousand in a day. Over time you probably deal only with private clients.

He paused, placed a hand on John's forearm and leaned in. "This is a little favour to my best buddy, but mostly, new distributors help the family disperse the sales of these beauties more widely, giving anybody who might be interested a picture of an honest, open market."

John had jumped in. He bought and immediately sold bars for several months, producing exactly the stream of tax-avoided income that Lee had predicted. Then he considered that gold was a good investment, particularly when purchased at a discount.

He went to his bank and rented the largest safety deposit box available. Then he started keeping his 'profits' in gold bars, safely stacked away out of anybody's snooping eyes. He had accumulated 40 bars, when he started to wonder how much weight the box could actually hold. Might need a second box at another bank? Regardless, he now had close to $250,000 in gold safely hidden away. His first worry sitting in his hospital bed was how to protect it. He would need to trust Lee.

John needed the key to his safety deposit box where he also kept his bullion receipt records. Maybe Lee didn't need to immediately know about the retained gold, just that there was stuff in the box that he didn't want anyone snooping into. He suspected that Bill might show up, drawn in by the search for his missing brother. Or more likely, drawn by the possibility for scooping some money. He might even succeed in getting into his apartment. What John couldn't allow was for anything of value to get into his hands, as there was no way that he would ever give it back to a black guy, no matter how well informed he was about his brother's affairs.

John decided to call Lee tonight. First though, he needed to figure out a way to claim his work money owed without needing to show up to collect it. He had no idea where his wallet, keys and ID went, so couldn't just walk up to any bank machine to get cash. Trying to get them replaced would be pretty much impossible in person. Maybe by telephone, but how then to get it when it would be sent to his home address, which was well-guarded against strangers. John needed to figure out some way to authorize Kamal to do some business for him.

His first call was to his office. He had a direct line that was picked up at reception. He might be able to get connected to someone in HR who wouldn't know his voice.

"Mr. Fischer's office. This is Mandy. Can I help you."

"Hi Mandy, don't think that we've met. This is John Fischer."

Mandy wasn't listening; she was pulling out the script she had to read. "I'm sorry to advise that Mr. Fischer has passed away suddenly. We are all very sad at his passing. Mr. Crawford is looking after his accounts. I'll put you through to him."

John yelled into the phone, "No, no, Mandy. This is John. I haven't passed away, I've just been away. Should have been back in touch. Been in hospital. Can you put me through to HR?"

"I'm sorry sir, I don't know if you are confused. Our Mr. Fischer has definitely died. There is a funeral on Friday. I'm instructed to put all calls on this line through to Mr. Crawford." Click. On-hold music.

"Damn it all."

The grubbing Dieter Crawford was exactly the wrong guy to handle John's legitimate accounts. He had probably driven most of them away by now. He would definitely recognize John's new voice as not old John's voice. Kamal was a register lower and his speech much more deliberate. He could teach himself to sound like the old John, but it would take some time.

"Dieter Crawford, can I help you. You were looking for John." Mandy must have briefed him.

John decided to go with the direct approach and just see what he could learn.

"Yeah, my name is Kamal Lewis. John was putting something together for me. What's happened?"

"Well, I'm very sorry to say that John was tragically killed in an accident a week ago. The firm is in shock and we are all trying to recover with no loss of service to clients." John could hear Dieter madly pounding at the client records database trying to find Kamal Lewis so he could show some continuity. John smiled at his obvious frustration coming through.

He continued, "I'm sorry too. Was a very novel proposal. I didn't even write it down, but sounded like a great way to leverage a few million quickly. You don't have a copy, do you?"

Dieter was scrambling, "Uh, no. I don't have one right now. Perhaps John didn't get a chance to update his files. Very sudden passing, y'know. Can you tell me anything about it, perhaps we can start again for you?"

"Oh, no. It came out of John's brilliant mind. I couldn't do it myself. Can't even really describe it except it had derivatives and FX futures parlayed in a brand-new way. Little risky, but very profitable."

Dieter was grasping at straws. "Well, we have a lot of specialists, perhaps one of them worked with John and has the details."

"Maybe. But you say John died, I had the impressions that he was just away?" John dead was new information to him.

Dieter had a script too. "Yes sir. He was in the hospital for almost two weeks, but then died more than a week ago, from his injuries, I believe. If you would like to pay respects, visitation is Wednesday and Thursday with a funeral on Friday at Todd and Poirier. If you give me an email address, I can send you the details."

"Thank-you. But not needed. I doubt that I can attend and didn't know him that well anyway. Good-bye." Click.

"Shit!" Dieter was pissed. No email and the telephone number appeared to be blocked. No way to follow-up. This wasn't the first of John's clients who didn't want to be helped by anyone else. He had been going through the list trying to make an introduction, but the long story of John's passing always got in the way. He planned to work both visitation nights and the funeral for clients he could pinch. He hoped that John's corpse wouldn't sit up and protest.

John in Kamal's body was stuck. Obviously, if his supposed death was common knowledge at the company, he wouldn't have much luck getting at the money he was owed directly. They were burying his old body and calling all bets off. They would want to pay any money owing into an estate, which meant that it would go to his designated beneficiary: his mother. This outcome was complete bullshit, as she no more deserved it that did his leach of a brother.

He wondered if the dispersal was something that he could cut-off. One way to do that would be to show up and try to convince a lot of people that he was really John Fischer. But doing that would pretty much screw-up any chance he had of convincing Michelle that he was Kamal. The most likely outcome would be a long delay in settling the estate and him getting an unplanned and lengthy stay at 999 Queen. This fucked-up result would demolish both of his wins. Crazy Kamal would just be a nutjob locked up in his own little cell, while everybody else divided up John's money.

The other approach was to engage others to act on his behalf even if they didn't know the whole story. Lee was a guy who would probably deal fairly, particularly if it meant a cut to him. The only other person he could come up with as an ally was his brother Bill. The thought of it made him shudder as Bill was stupid, greedy, untrustworthy, a liar, usually desperate for money and just plain unlikeable. His only consideration was that when you put all of those things together, you should have someone who will believe anything, who will always act in his own interest without thinking too hard and who can be manipulated by threats of either going to jail or of getting absolutely nothing. Yes, maybe Bill could be useful after all.

The late-night call to Lee went much better, sort of.

"It's John."

"Well, it's so very nice to hear from you my dear. Are you back at home now?"

"No, some complications. I'm still in hospital, er a different hospital. Got some bug that's doing horrible things to my body. They had to cut me open a few places to fix it. One of those staph bacteria. It's a real fuck-up."

"Oh Dear! What's happened to your voice? You sound like you're half a bottle into a valium zone-out. Is it for pain?"

"No, no pain, bug just fucked up my voice and slowed me down a lot."

"Well, I'll come to visit and bring you a little something to speed you up. Any cute orderlies changing your nappy?"

"No fucking nappy. All my parts work just fine now. Just got to ride this out a bit. No visitors at this place. Whole place is in isolation. They say that I'll be fine soon. I'll see you in a week or two, but I do want to ask a favour right now."

"OK, sponge bath? foot rub? fresh undies? you name it. I always wanted to be a candy stripper."

"Think that's striper."

"Oh, not as much fun, I bet."

"None of those things, in fact you don't want to be anywhere near me right now."

He waited for another quip, but guessed Lee was now getting bored.

"Here's my problem. My low-life brother is in town and I think that he might have access to my apartment. Thanks to the fucking hospital screwing up, I don't have my wallet or keys right now and I suspect that someone called my mother and she sent him up from Chicago. I had no interest in him being here. He may have got the keys and ID without telling me. He might even pass for me, if someone didn't look too closely, and he didn't open his mouth. I'm worried that he will somehow worm his way in and start nosing around. "

He paused for breath. The damaged lung was only about half up to speed.

Lee was left wondering, "So, what can I do about him?"

"Oh nothing, he's harmless. Might steal my cufflinks; who gives a fuck? There's nothing else valuable in the apartment, except one item I really need him not to get."

He paused again, now not as sure where this might go. "Uh, I have a key to a bank deposit box that holds all my papers" He hesitated again...might as well get the whole story out..."and one other thing—a bunch of our gold bars."

"Jesus, fuck! You're not supposed to hang on to them. If the buyers or the smelter ever got busted, you don't want to have anything around for the cops to inspect."

"Now that I'm fucked-up and in isolation I agree completely. Just seemed an easy way to hang on to some as an investment. Figured I could always sell them on short notice if need be. Anyway, they're locked away in the safety deposit box. The key is in my apartment along with my signature sample card. Wouldn't put it past Bill, my brother, to try to get at it if he finds the key."

"So, you want me to get the key?"

"Yeah, and the signature card. It's in a cigar box in my underwear drawer."

"I repeat, Jesus, fuck! In your underwear drawer? Your goddamn cleaners could walk off with it."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll do better. But who's going to go rummaging in my underwear? Depending how long I'm tied up here, maybe we can find some way through my lawyer to get you access to the deposit box to sell it all for me."

"Another unneeded paper-trail. Don't like where this is going."

"OK, I'm sorry. Just go and get the key. Second drawer. You can have the scotch as partial payment for a big favour."

"Honey, only for you. But, please don't fuck-up again; I'd hate to have to kill you."

After he hung up, John in Kamal's body breathed a huge sigh of relief. This could have been very bad. Then the question occurred: would Lee actually kill him? Maybe staying just a voice on the phone and Kamal in body might actually have one more good point.

# Chapter Eight - Rudy Ostenack at Your Service

Young John Fischer was just entering the world of business as a trainee stock broker in 2005, following completion of his first hard-earned degree in business administration. Hard-earned, not due to academic challenge, but due to a hugely challenging personal life that stacked just about everything against him in the struggle to stay in school, to earn enough to live and to keep one steadying hand on his dysfunctional family.

His father with his many addictions, had finally left to an uncertain and unknown place. A veteran, his father should have been able to tap into resources to help with his addictions and to treat the ailments that fostered the all-day drunks and nights blacked-out by whatever pills he could find, buy or steal. When he wasn't completely blitzed, he was dangerous, mostly to himself, but also to anyone else within arm's reach. He had punched and bruised Wilma, Bill and John in their turn, not for any immediate grievance, but as stand-ins for enemies unknown that he thought were doing their best to kill him.

John had stayed near home to go to university at Laurier in Waterloo. Bill had wisely taken off to work in construction at what he considered a safe distance in Windsor. Safe because William Sr. would have to dry out to get that far and that wasn't likely to happen. John couldn't live at home, so got-by sharing a basement 'apartment' that consisted of flimsy partitions thrown up in the uninsulated basement of a 60-year old house in Kitchener that was bordered by a busy street and two industrial rail spurs. It suited his needs as it was dirt cheap and its location was unknown by his father.

Late in the day in early March when his father had apparently disappeared again, Wilma and John breathed their normal small sighs of relief for maybe 36 or 48 hours of peace. He always came back, sometimes beaten up, sometimes desperately sick and often in the back of a police cruiser. This time he didn't come back on schedule. After a week, Wilma did the required thing and called the police to see if he had been locked up on remand or if they had his body somewhere. Neither was the case. He had just disappeared. Weeks later, a constable came to the door to say that a vagrant had been picked up carrying William's ID and telling a sketchy story about him drowning in the Grand River, which was still running at spring run-off levels.

The constable wasn't too sympathetic, "Can't say what happened. Might be true, so condolences. Guy might have just stolen it off Will passed out somewhere. Will might have caught a ride somewhere, lost it and decided to give you guys a break and harass someone else for a while. He'll probably show up somewhere. Always does. Take a breather while you can."

With some peace, John focused on his finals, got better grades and ended up with a nice offer to join Richards-Green Financial as a trainee stockbroker. His analytical mind took to the challenge and he did well, earning his broker's license in short-order while building a small clientele of investors, who liked his approach and told others. Soon, he was doing fine.

Wilma's life became a little easier, but without William Sr. she was actually lonely. When the opportunity to emigrate to much warmer Nevada came up, she readily joined a girlfriend in the move. It would take years to divorce the absent William, but not nearly as long to hook-up with a patient second husband to-be, who liked just a few drinks and appreciated all the benefits of marriage while he waited. Two years after Wilma and Mr. Fluke finally had their ceremony in the desert, he died. Wilma decided the bottle was her most reliable life partner and took up a full-time relationship.

John meanwhile had made the move to Toronto and was quickly gaining credentials, office space and opportunities to catch small pieces of bigger deals. One of his wealthier clients strong-armed him into buying a table for the firm at a charity event. At the silent-auction table, John put down a $100 bid on each of a half-dozen items, including some nice wine, a dinner out, Blue Jays tickets and a prepared simple will from lawyer Rudy Ostenack. All he got was the will.

The first meeting was instructive to John on the maxim of 'you get what you pay for'. In Rudy's second floor office above a Polish deli, John met a lawyer who knew most of the law, didn't believe in file cabinets and forgot day-old leftovers from said deli on perches around the office.

"So, you bought the will package. My contribution to a great cause. Which one was it? Doesn't matter, glad to do it. You got a family?"

"No, just me."

"OK, makes things simple."

"Need to spread some wealth around? Favourite sister, needy nephew, that sort of thing?"

"Nope."

"Got some weird collection of assets you want to bequeath?"

"Nope, some cash in the bank, few stocks is all."

"OK then, this should be quick."

"Your full name?"

"John Fischer"

Rudy was scribbling on a yellow pad that looked like it already had many notes from other conversations.

"No middle?"

"Nope."

"Picked an executor?"

"My brother: William Fischer Jr., but he goes by Bill. No middle. Forget the junior part."

"Just Bill it is."

"Who gets your stuff?"

"Wilma Jean Fischer"

"Relationship?"

"Mother"

"If she dies first, normal next-in-line would be her children."

"Well, that should just be Bill, in case she picks up some step-children. Not likely that she'll stay unmarried for long. I don't give a shit what Bill decides to do with the estate if I go early. If mom dies, I'll do a new will anyway."

"Good idea, keep it current. Nobody does, then the shit hits the fan when they kick."

"Thanks, I'll remember that."

"Anything else?"

"Nope"

"Didn't think I would, but I might make money from your hundred bucks on this one. I'll have it for signature in a couple days. I'll call you when my new assistant is here to witness. That'll be it."

"Good"

"Say, while you're here. Doin any real estate, getting married, want to sue somebody? How about stop paying your rent and suing the landlord for some little shortcoming. Works great.""

"Not today. But I'll let you know if I find some uneven pavement somewhere."

"That's my boy. Never know how a fall can fuck up your life. Course, can be quite rewarding."

On parting, Rudy had recommended the kielbasa and perogies downstairs.

John, having sat beside a day-old plate of leftovers on the coffee table, gave them a pass.

Wilma and Bill entered the same office, now many years later, clutching the one and only will that John Fischer had ever written. Bill had talked to Rudy on the phone to confirm that he was still in business and that he knew what to do with the will. Rudy's confident confirmation, while thin on actual requirements, pretty much met Bill's need for reassurance that the lawyer would figure it all out for them. He never considered looking for any one of the hundreds of young lawyers who did estate law as their only specialty. Rudy said he would look after everything, not to worry.

After introductions, Rudy showed them to nice leather arm chairs across from his immaculate leather-topped desk. The receptionist, who was introduced as his wife, came in with them and scooped up several in-progress files. She dropped the John Fischer file directly in front of Rudy. She checked if they would like coffee or juice, but having just done Howard Johnson pancakes and a half-dozen refills of coffee, both passed. She brought in bottles of water and a box of tissues for the small table between them.

Wilma had a passing thought that maybe one of these cabinets might hold a bar, but at 9:30 in the morning, it wasn't likely going to be turned out.

"Thank-you, Rosa. Don't know what I'd do without her. Well, yes, I do, I'd disappear under a foot of paper in a week. Crazy, computers all round and we still kill more trees with the law than any other business."

He checked for reaction by either party and getting none, decided to put his chatty approach away for a bit.

"Let's see what we've got here, then we'll talk about what you need to do next, OK?"

Bill was anxious to get to the 'gettin money' part. "Uh, as Wilma's the only benficiary, should be simple, huh? Any stuff or money around jus goes t'her, through me, of course, so I can pay fer the funeral, right?"

"Wish it were that simple, wish it were, but, my Chicago friend, there is someone else in the room with us, that none of us can see. I can tell you that she has her hand out" He paused for effect. "The Queen." He pointed to the corner or the room and did a mock, sitting curtsy.

The oblique reference to the government went over both their heads. Wilma to her credit actually turned to see if someone else had snuck in without her noticing.

Rudy looked from one to the other. This was a tough audience. "We need to satisfy the government of Canada first, my friends, then you will be welcome to have any and all of John's wealth. Less my small fee of course. And the bank will want their piece. If he had any debts, well you know..." He trailed off as the audience was sitting on their hands.

Rudy wanted to get off the topic of his fee, as leaving that open tended to result in a more profitable engagement. He lifted his original copy of the will that had been secured in his safe.

"First things, first. You are certain that this is John's last will and only will?"

"Yep, dint find no other."

"He never married or cohabited?"

The puzzled looks returned. Rudy repeated, "He never lived with anyone in a conjugal relationship for more than a year?"

Still no grasp. "Did he shack up with anyone?"

Wilma now spoke for the first time. "Johnny worked all the time and lived by hisself in a real nice partment. Talked t'him lots, well at least every year, round my birthday and maybe his birthday. Weren't nobody else. He woulda tol me."

"OK, well we can search the law society database for a newer will, just in case, but let's assume there isn't one."

Rudy continued, "I believe you said on the phone that there is insurance, but that it is written with Wilma as the designated beneficiary. This is great, because this money doesn't go through the estate. It goes direct to you Wilma with no tax, by our government anyway. Maybe some explaining to do at home though. Can't just carry a pile of cash across the border anymore."

He now asked, "Do you know what else he owns? Property. Investments? Collectables? Artwork?"

Bill was shaking his head. "No, don't think there's any of that stuff. His apartment has a bunch of nice furniture and there might be a car somewhere, but that's it."

Rudy wasn't convinced. "You sure? Thought that you said you didn't know much about his life here?"

"Yeah, maybe I don't know yet, but whatever there is just all comes t'us, er, t'Wilma, right?"

"Yes, eventually, but Her Majesty over there, demands her cut first. You also need a certificate of appointment as executor. Nothing hard here, but we need to detail everything in the estate, pay a little tax and get you authorized to dispose of it. Or, if it's already cash, to get it out of the bank. Not a big deal, but should take about six months."

Bill had been taking a sip of water. First, he choked, then he spit water onto his shirt, then he had a coughing fit."

When he could finally talk, he exploded, "Six fucking months! What are we supposed to do for six months?"

Rudy thought: "I'm getting too old for this stuff. Maybe I should sell the practice? Maybe just stay down in Boca for the whole year? Maybe get some young-shit new grad in here to deal with the b.o. side of the business. Do these people ever shower? Maybe I'll just head downstairs right now for a latte..."

By the time he had thought through some options, Bill had settled down.

Rudy just stated, "Look, it's just the way that things are done here. The tax isn't much, but the court has to bless the paperwork and it just ain't quick."

He could see that the pair in front of him wasn't very pleased at the prospect of waiting six months for their anticipated immediate windfall. So much for grieving family.

He continued, "Tell you what. Why don't you go do your best for John? Have the funeral. Bury him or whatever. The funeral home knows how long estates take to settle, they'll give you lots of time to pay. Then get to the insurance company and claim the death benefit in his company coverage. He had a pretty good job, right?"

Bill and Wilma both nodded.

Rudy smiled. "Good, should be enough to cover everything and give you something nice to sit on while we figure out the rest. We'll contact his bank and get a statement of cash assets at death, as they know it. He worked for an investment company right. We'll get the same from them for any investment accounts. You say that there's no property. He rented, right? We'll confirm his home address and if he had any mortgages on anything else. Nobody owns anything outright. Credit bureau check should tell us about dealings with any other banks or trust companies. You can check his parking spot for a car. That's about it. Not hard, just takes some time."

Wilma and Bill had glazed over. This detail wasn't what they wanted to hear.

Rudy commiserated, "I'm sorry if this is more complicated that you thought it would be. Used to be simpler, but people cheated. Now, the lady over there keeps her heel right on your neck."

Rudy closed the folder and shrugged. The meeting was nearly over.

He appeared to think of one last thing. "Oh, we'll need you to be around for a couple weeks. Takes that long to get all the info together, then we need to submit some forms to the court. Wilma can go home, but Bill you need to be here."

"For two weeks? Geez, I don't know if I can afford two weeks in a hotel here. My business is in Chicago, y'know. Customers ain't patient."

"So, go home. We can work through your lawyer in Chicago for signatures. Do the insurance claim before you go. They should take no more than sixty days to cut the cheque."

Bill had started to moan. His hoped-for twenty-five hundred from the funeral home wasn't going to cover all the travel or additional legal bills in the states.

"I can't afford all that. I'll need t' get some cash somewhere just t' stick with this. You can't extend a little loan, can you?"

This wasn't the way he had planned to maneuver the lawyer into the same spot as the funeral director, but the shock of all the delays had put him in a defenseless corner.

Rudy considered the dashed hopes of the pair in front of him. Wilma would drown her concerns as soon after 11:00 a.m. as possible. Bill would need another kind of help to get by.

"I don't make client loans, but you know there is a cheque-cashing place just up the street that will probably be prepared to help you bridge the insurance payout. Get the policy and get the benefit commitment in writing, then go see them. If they need more info, let me know. I'll go put some fear into them. Should all work out. You can expense any interest out of the bitch's payment." He waved a hand in the general direction of the imaginary queen in the corner.

Rudy stood and began to usher them out.

"I've asked Rosa to run you a couple notarized copies of the will. Take that along with the death certificate the funeral home will give you to the insurance company. Also, we did a statement for you and us to sign Wilma, saying that Wilma Fluke, by virtue of a second marriage, is one and the same as Wilma Jean Fischer, the beneficiary. Should be straightforward to get the insurance claim going. He sat and appeared to be moving on to other work.

Without looking up, he said, "Bye-bye then, we'll be in touch."

Rosa magically appeared through the door and took over looking after the pair. At her desk, she showed them a piece of correspondence that identified Rudy's role in acting for the estate and directed anyone with an interest or question to contact his office. It noted that Bill Fischer was the authorized executor and should be given full cooperation. There were also two nice fresh legal copies of the will. Wilma was very pleased to get them in a fresh envelope with the firm name in the corner.

She asked, "D'ya think I could git another envelope fer all my other old stuff."

Rosa smiled and said, "Sure." She produced an oversized envelope without the firm name for Wilma. After dumping all her stuff over, Wilma happily gave back the tattered and drink-stained old one for the garbage. Rosa wondered how long the new one would look new, given the variety of food stains and glass rings on the used one. She finger-tipped it into the recycling box.

When they hit the street, Bill needed to figure out what to do next. One thing for sure, he didn't want to put any more of John's 'assets' into the hopper for the govment to tax away than he had too. The safety deposit box key was his first thought. Stuff in there was private. Bank wouldn't even know what it is. If it was just cash or bonds or jewelry, he could just take it away and maybe turn it all inta cash at some pawnbroker. Maybe wouldn't even need to tell Wilma.

He smiled at Wilma and suggested, "Let's go get a drink or two. You look like you could use some rest and I got stuff to take care off. Got to go back to the funeral home for paperwork."

Wilma nodded and started following him to the car parked at a meter on a side street. She had only half-connected with the lawyer's long explanation and didn't really care.

She talked, mostly to the air ten feet behind Bill, "John's coffin'l be out at the home in a few days. You got t'give Mr. Schultz the tie, underwear and socks. Want John looking nice. Isn't someone supposed t'be writing somethin up. Ain't seen that yet either. Have t'get somethin better to wear myself. You got some money t'give me for some clothes and maybe a hairstyle? Lots t'do, lots t'do."

Bill turned and gave her a sideways look. What eff'n shit went through her pickled brain sometimes? He'd have t'do it all on his own. Just get her loaded and out of it so she couldn't screw it up."

"Yeah, ma, we'll get to all that. Let's us see if we can't find one o'them LBCO places. Get you fixed for the day."

Bill kept chewing on one thought, "How the hell can I get into a safety deposit box? Got some legal papers now and the key. Must be most o' the way there."

# Chapter Nine - Jaff Gets Curious

The caller said, "Gary asked me to connect with you about your brother's obituary."

Bill answered his cellphone like he expected to be yelled at, but then saw it was a local number and relaxed a bit.

He responded with, "Who's this?"

The caller said, "Jaffery Doswell, just call me Jaff. I'm a reporter, er, sorry, a writer. Retired reporter. You need someone to write up an obituary for the paper and maybe a little eulogy for you at the funeral."

Bill finally connected. "Oh, yeah. Mr. Schultz said we needed one."

Jaff responded, "Well, you don't have to do one. You can just say buddy's dead, have a nice day. There's no requirement to do anything. But, seems like your brother was an interesting guy who maybe knew lots of people, so a write-up would be nice as part of the death announcement."

Bill Fischer was only reluctantly being dragged back to the detail side of the funeral arrangements. Now, he wished Wilma were sober enough to carry some of the load. Maybe if he told her she had to look after this, she could deal with this guy and keep her nose out of his other business.

"Yeah, well we want to do the right thing by John. Y'know, we don't know lots about him recently—we live in the states."

"So, I understand. I can do a little research—talk to some people for you. Nothing too detailed, but nice to point out any special contributions or awards, that kind of thing."

"OK, I'm gonna get my mother t'talk t'ya. She talked t'him more than I did. She'll probably want t'say somethin nice about him."

Jaff needed to be clear. "Before we start, my fee is five-hundred. It's flat rate, plus expenses, but there shouldn't be any. I'll just bill the funeral home and they add it in. OK for that?"

Bill was actually happy to hear that. "Sure, sure. Might be a while getting paid til the insurance comes through."

Jaff responded, "No rush. They haven't stiffed me yet."

It was a joke that sometimes got a laugh. None here though.

He asked, "What can you tell me about John?"

Bill was uncertain. "Me? Well he was my kid brother. Grew up in Kitchener. He played football. KCI Raiders. Coulda played more, like at university and such, but we had to work, so no time for much else. Wasn't a lot of money with our dad being sort of sick most'a the time, then gone. John was great with the girls, as I remember. No girls around later, working too much again, but he wasn't a homo or anything."

Jaff silently groaned, this was going to be like pulling-teeth.

"OK, good to know. What else?"

Bill was done. "That's pretty much it for me. I moved away about then. Haven't been together much since."

Jaff couldn't resist. "Kind of a big gap, then to now. He did go to university down there, I understand. Done well with his job, I understand. Won the lottery for $20 million, I understand."

"Yeah, yeah...what? He won $20 million, holy shit and he never give me ten cents. Son-of-a-bitch!"

"Sorry, just kidding. Seeing if we are both concentrating here. No lottery. At least not that I heard about so far."

Bill had another one of his up and down rides between suddenly rich and just as suddenly, broke again.

He added, "Yeah, well, I guess he done all right by his job and all. Nice stuff at his apartment, but I honestly don't know shit about it. Maybe you can talk to somebody he worked with?"

Jaff could see a lot more work here than he wanted. But, if they knew the guy well enough to scratch any part of this out, they wouldn't need him.

He replied, "I'll do that. What do you know about how he died?"

This question caught Bill off-guard. "Whatya mean? He just died is all. Was an accident. He fell or something. Hit his head. Coroner lady said something like he had an injury inside his brain."

Jaff continued, "Sorry, I meant the actual accident. Seems like he fell on trash that shouldn't have been there. Maybe some liability to look into. You do have a lawyer, right?"

Bill brightened up. "Yeah, well guess we can look inta that. Y'think there's some money should be paid t'us or somethin?"

Jaff responded, "Not my place to say, but lots of people would be suing everybody from the subway to the city garbage collector. Could argue that the subway entrance should be clean and safe."

Bill considered, "Never thought about that. Where I'm from now, Chicago, garbage in the streets is sort of expected. Not like here, I guess. We just got to get through the funeral, maybe then we'll look into that."

Bill was assessing each new piece of information and each additional task in relation to his need to find some money, quick. The idea of suing for a lot of money was interesting, but unless they paid up in a couple days it wasn't going to do him much good right now.

Jaff continued, "Sorry, didn't mean to add to your troubles. Mind if I talk to some people about it, maybe get some information for you? Not for the obituary. Just to see if there's more to this. I'm local here, know some folks. No charge for this, just me being curious. OK?"

"Maybe. This won't screw up our insurance claim or anything, right?"

"No, no. Just background. I'll get that obit done first."

"OK, then."

Jaff concluded, "Can you ask your mom to call me today? Should have something finished tomorrow for you. Obit deadline is 4:00 p.m., so it can go in the paper the next day."

At the point where humans stopped answering the telephone, a reporter's job got a lot more difficult. Voicemail became the first line of defense against uncomfortable questions. Then frigging 'social media' comes along and now guilty parties can just 'tweet' some stupid comment and say that's it, piss off. It wasn't the reason that Jaff got out of the headline business, but the coincidence of it happening at about the same time as he stopped enjoying his work was noteworthy. He found, however, that showing-up unannounced in-person sometimes still got an unsanitized tidbit, before the public relations and security people descended.

Later, Jaff was walking into the offices of Richards-Green Financial without an appointment. He knew that John had been an up-and-comer here. He walked right past the security desk and headed for an open elevator. Before the doors closed, two other people got in and each pushed the button for their floor. Jaff leaned over to push, but then hesitated, "Oh darn, I forgot which floor HR is on." He mumbled on, "Late for my interview. Nuts, have to go back down I guess? Then louder he turned and asked, "Unless one of you knows?" He looked expectantly one to the other.

"It's floor four." The woman gave him a big welcoming smile. "I can take you to their area, it's my floor too."

"Oh, thank you so much. My name is Jaff." He held out his hand.

"Suzanne. You interviewing for a job?" She was still half-smiling.

He could see her questioning his apparent age and slightly scruffy clothes.

He responded, "Just contract. I'm a writer. Helping with some employee manual updates, maybe. We'll see, I guess."

That answer seemed to satisfy her. A contractor could be anybody. At least this guy spoke the language.

The elevator opened at four.

She moved out and motioned to him. "Come-on this way. I'll take you down to Judy's desk. She'll know where you should be."

He smiled back. "Great. You've been a real help."

Once introduced to Judy as 'the writer' Jaff continued with his mostly-honest approach.

"Nice to meet you, Judy. I'm Jaff Doswell." He gave her one of his 'freelance writer' business cards using both hands to hand it to her and leaning over a little farther than he had to. The Japanese had that part figured out; a small show of respect and deference got you a long way.

He continued, "I'm supposed to do a write-up on John Fischer, our late-colleague. Tragic death, so young. Guess one of the big bosses is gonna say a few words at the funeral. Got a kind-of urgent request to pull something together for noon today. Hope you can help me with some information."

Judy considered the request for a moment, apparently deciding that it might make sense, even though no-one had told her. She didn't hear about lots of stuff that arrived at her desk as a surprise.

Jaff continued, treating her as the most important person he would talk to today. "Wondered if you could pull his file for me so that I can check his CV for schools and graduation dates and maybe get some idea of his positions here over the years. Any awards or special notes in there might help me too. If I could just use a desk somewhere, I'll come back to you if I need a copy of anything."

Judy still wasn't sure, but there was no-one around to ask. Staff functions were thinly-manned at the best of times and the company had been on an efficiency kick. No-one was ever around.

She finally decided and smiled. "OK. Jamie's away, you can sit in her cubicle over there. Do you need a computer?"

Jaff grinned, "No, no. Old school, I'll just make some notes and maybe get a photocopy of external stuff like his CV. Just take a few minutes. You're really helping me out."

Three minutes later, Jaff had John Fischer spread out across the desk.

The file had all the standard HR technical stuff that Jaff expected. There were various forms signed at hire or annually for securities trading approvals. John had attended required and optional courses years back and gained some industry designations he could use after his name if he wanted to. The company had also subsidized his part-time Schulich MBA years back. Jaff pushed all the internal stuff aside.

John's original CV confirmed that he had joined the company right out of school. He had listed various part-time positions as well as summer jobs selling just about anything. Jaff made some notes so that he could get dates and places correct in the obit, but then pushed this stuff aside as well.

The most interesting document was a 'letter-to-permanent-file' noting a securities commission warning about possible mis-use of privileged information. It appeared that they had come up short of any real crime worthy of punishment, but wanted to warn him and the company to cut it out.

The file also had a commendation letter indicating that John had been a top performer four-years back, taking an award for top sales and top new-client generation. Other older pages indicated this sort of performance in prior years too. The file didn't contain salary information, but Jaff could guess that being a top securities sales guy earned you a lot of money. But there was nothing outstanding noted for the last three years.

Jaff decided that he didn't need anything copied. He snapped discreet photos of a couple things onto his phone. He still had a pretty good memory for stuff like this even though he regularly forgot to eat unless reminded and needed his phone to navigate north from south when walking. He considered his slightly damaged brain cells as his reminder to enjoy each day. Today, he was having fun again.

As he returned the file to Judy, he thanked her again so much, then asked if he needed an escort to go, up, he guessed, to meet with John's boss.

He was apologetic. "I'm a little late for the appointment. All such a rush. Fraid I lost the name, Jeff something?"

Judy wrinkled her brow. "Not Jeff, I don't think, but they change so much. Maybe he used to be here before my time. Think it would be Disha Prakash. She has the major accounts group now."

Judy continued to looked troubled. "I should really walk you up, but I'm all alone today. How about I give you directions and you go straight there. You can take my business card—if anyone asks where you're going tell them I sent you. They're mostly pretty scared of me cuz I can screw up their pay cheque." She now laughed.

She made moving and turning motions with her hands. "She's on floor seven. Just turn left out of the elevator, right at the first break in the cubicles and then head for the corner of the building. You'll see her office there, can't miss it."

Jaff anticipated a more significant challenge in just walking into an executive's office, but by brandishing Judy's card he got all the way to the major accounts vice president's office door, where her secretary now considered his request for just a quick word or two.

Luckily, she was in. He did the same routine in handing over his card, but cut out the fibs. He just said that he was writing an obit 'column' about John to be published in the Star. After a few words in the office and passing on of his card, he was waved in, with introductions.

"You a reporter?"

"Used to be. Retired. Still freelance. This is a contract."

She laughed, "OK, so not investigative or sensational or any of that crap that would mean I can't talk to you?"

"Nope, just a write-up on the late John Fischer. Circumstance of his death might get some note, but nothing to do with your firm. No quotes or references. I was really never here."

This seemed to satisfy her and she leaned back. "Yeah, weird death huh? He was getting better. We were expecting him to start working from home again any day. Then he's dead. They saying the hospital screwed something up?"

Jaff shrugged. "Not my beat. Coroner seemed to clear it as just bad luck."

She continued, "Well, not my place to speak ill of the dead, but John was already somewhat of a ghost around here so it isn't much different. He worked mostly out of the office, except for required appearances. Funny thing, we had an accounts 'show and tell' that day or he probably wouldn't have even been coming in. Too bad."

Jaff tipped his head. "Show and tell?"

She clarified, "Just a prospects and forecasts review. Standard sales office stuff. How full is your hopper? What are you working on? What revenue will you do over the quarter? It was early in the day, as everyone wants to get it over with. I'm guessing John was going to be late, as usual."

Jaff wanted to lead the conversation to the apparent change in John's performance. "John was a bit of an all-star, fair to say that?"

She nodded, "Well, was. If you aren't too specific on dates. Wouldn't be accurate for the last couple years."

"Why not?"

She continued, "Again, don't like to speak ill, but lately John was doing the minimum. He has, had, some very loyal clients whose regular churn kept him onside, but folks are expected to bring in new business too. John maybe let that part go a bit. Course, none of this is for an obit, just don't want to give the impression that he walked on water, anymore."

Jaff nodded. "So new client generation is a big part of the job then?

She nodded back. "Generation and retention. This business isn't about small investors anymore. That's all online now. We need high-rollers and organizations with money that needs to earn a return. It's very competitive and they spread their business around. You can't really tell if you're gaining or losing unless an account manager is right in there ensuring we get our share of wallet."

Jaff got it. "So, why the concern about John?"

Disha lowered her voice, even though they were already speaking in private.

"Sorry, I should be telling you what a great guy he was, but I just don't know what his personal clients were really doing. They were loyal to him, is all I can say, so guess you could put that in. Truth is, another few months he probably would have flown the coop with them to a competitor or to his own little business. Who knows? Doesn't matter now."

Jaff suggested, "Guess I should talk in terms of a great career, including his first eight years and not be too specific on dates."

She smiled, "That would probably work, although a few reading it will get a laugh. Sorry, death shouldn't be funny, I guess"

Jaff smiled too. "I like to entertain a little, even at a wake."

The interview was over.

He was packing up. "Well thank-you again for your time. Folks here going to his funeral?"

She shrugged. "Heard it was next Friday? I'll probably go. Maybe drag an admin along. As I said, John wasn't much of a presence around here lately. Most folks won't give up the working time while the markets are open."

Jaff probably had enough for a 300-word obit. This would be placed and paid for, so maybe only 200. Nice thoughts, great guy, business all-star, tragic accident, support your local charity, etc. It seemed flat. He didn't know why, but he just felt like there was more there. The coroner comment from Bill had peaked his interest.

So, she was quick to clear the case with no autopsy? Unexpected death in a hospital should have prompted some investigation. Maybe he could still find out something else about the guy from his stay at Schumann. He thought, "Right around the corner anyway, maybe a stroll over, no problem getting in there anyway.

Once patient visitors to hospitals needed to be relatives, appear in no more than pairs, and show-up only during the half-dozen hours out of twenty-four that they were allowed in. God help you if you got in the way. No children thank-you, even if the kid's parent was never coming home.

Some changes were good. Now, you could show up just about any time and have the entire hockey team in the room to cheer up coach Tom after his friggin bypass, if you wanted. Jaff's short time in hospital gave him some experience with the party-time in the next bed approach. He was glad to go home to get some rest.

Jaff walked into the main lobby at SCC and considered where to go. He didn't know where John had been for his two weeks here, but figured that he came in pretty rough so probably started in ICU. From experience with his mother's final illness, he knew that this turf did have some rules. But he wasn't here for a current patient, just to see if anyone remembered John Fischer. Worth a shot.

Sometimes you get lucky. Jaff had connected at the employer mostly by good luck and a little hutzpah. Heading into the ICU, he knew that the attention time would be short, the duty staff impatient and the trip back out possibly pretty quick. He'd take a stab at it, then retreat and consider his next move.

Jaff approached the central medical station quickly with no indication that he didn't know what he was doing or where he was going. He stopped in front of a heads-down, green-suited nurse, probably, who was banging away at a keyboard with one hand while using the other to track down a column of penned entries on a ruled page. She didn't look up. He waited. Others around the electronically enhanced control centre were also fully engaged, while a bank of screens showed status blips on a bunch of beds. The beeps and buzzes were noisy and some appeared to be in an alarm state. Everyone ignored them.

Finally, the person in front of him looked up.

"Help you?"

Jaff would try 'troubled' first. "Maybe, hope so."

He continued, "I'm a friend of a guy passed through here couple weeks back. He lost a keepsake picture somewhere in his travels. Nothing valuable, but thought maybe it was stuck on a board or something. Said I'd look for his family."

She shook her head, while starting to turn back to the computer. "Two weeks. Nothing likely here anymore. Goes to admin. Think the volunteers maintain a lost and found box for the whole place. Check there."

Jaff was still figuratively playing hat-in-hand. "Maybe. I'll do that. Do you remember him? Name was John Fischer."

The heads-down nurse didn't have any reaction to the name.

She spoke without looking up. "Don't recall that name. You sure you're in the right place? Maybe it was ER."

Just as Jaff was about to turn and go, another voice interrupted.

"Did ya say John Fischer, sir? Tis a coincidence maybe, but I know the name fer another reason. Think that your friend is dead, aye? Come-round here and talk to me, if ya will."

This nurse was more understanding. Jaff and Judith McIntyre exchanged some information about John Fischer before there was any mention of someone else. Judith had been wondering about Fischer off-and-on since Kamal left the unit. Jaff was able to answer some of her questions. After a couple minutes, he was comfortable enough to ask his own.

"If John never actually passed through here, why your interest?"

Judith dropped her voice to a level that would be drowned out by the beeps and buzzes for anyone listening in. She starting to tell the story of a young man, shot-up, pretty much dead on the table, who then pops back to life claiming that he's John Fischer. Really spooky part is that he might have looked death in the face at the exact same moment that Fisher died up in his bed. One lived and the other died.

She continued, "I'm an old-country person, mind ya, and maybe that makes me a tad gullible—but I bet if ya'd asked that young guy ten personal questions about John Fisher, he'd have got them all right."

Jaff could feel a really old memory coming back and it made his neck hair stand, just a little.

He asked, "So, he left here still claiming he was John?"

"Nah. Straightened his head out for his wife and child. So, he said, anyway."

"You never gave him your test then?

She laughed, "No sir. My job is t'fix em, not confuse em. Just hope your John Fischer is, er, was a good guy."

She was busy and had to get back to work. Jaff hadn't learned too much more about John's death, but he was starting to think that he was closer to figuring out the nagging thought that there was something else here.

He winked at Judith. "Forty years in the news business, this isn't the strangest I've heard. Hope that your young man and his family are doing well."

Jaff was now kicking himself for committing to do the obit for John Fischer. He didn't need more drama in his life. But now he wouldn't be able to let it go. His investigator brain wasn't damaged at all and, as always, it wasn't going to rest on a mystery. This wasn't the first time that he'd heard of a dead guy's personality and knowledge showing up in another person.

When he was a cub reporter, he was sent out to get a human-interest piece from a woman who claimed that her husband had come back from the dead. The story had some weird quirks as the resurrected hubby was apparently now residing in a complete stranger, who had been part of a bus crash that killed the original husband and several others. The guy barely survived himself but then started trying to contact the woman with a claim that he was actually her husband trapped in a strange body. Jaff had interviewed them both and had to admit that the guy was believable. That's what he started to write-up.

Another paper scooped him with the 'true' story that the woman was due a good-sized insurance settlement and the guy suddenly shut-up when it was suggested that maybe that's what he was after.

Jaff's story never ran, as an editor thought his approach suggested maybe it was true, when obviously it was a scam. Jaff couldn't explain it and was protective of his reputation, so let it go, but he really felt that the guy was telling the truth.

Judith had been very careful not to mention Kamal's name or to give out any personal information on him, but Jaff didn't need any more than he had to fill in the blanks. Back at his home office, he went to work.

The police incident log is public, if you know how to access it. There was only one shooting response with EMS transporting a wounded victim matching her description to SCC the evening before John's early-morning death. Victims aren't identified unless they die, but locations are. Municipal records showed that Lewis was likely the family name of the victim, shot next door to his home. Kamal didn't pay property taxes, but he did have a driver's license that showed him as a young black man. Before he started writing up his obit, Jaff had to consider whether John Fischer was still very much alive, living in Kamal Lewis.

"Damn it, this shit doesn't let me rest, either." Jaff had never walked away from an unanswered question in his career. Sometimes he didn't like the answer. Sometimes the answer made no sense. He knew that he had been right once.

# Chapter Ten - John Goes Home

Apparently one of the various doctors that briefly passed by John in Kamal's body in the four days he had been upstairs had the ability to send him home. John couldn't have guessed which one, nor have guessed what set of factors might lead to that decision.

He answered questions. How are you feeling? Can you do this? Does this hurt? Any pain here? He tried to get the answers correct, as he was used to doing well on tests and apparently did. Just after 9:00 am, as one more strange hospital breakfast was just settling in his gut and he was considering the possibility of shuffling over to the bathroom to take a crap, John heard that Dr. Something Eastern had exercised his authority and was sending him, not to his home in midtown, but to Kamal's home, in a basement apartment in Rexdale.

The pass-by nurse said, "Called your wife already to come get you Kamal. You'll do fine now; you're over the infection risk; need to keep up the physio; sending meds and dressings home with you; see your own doctor in next few days."

The dialogue with the constant-motion nurse moving around his bed was pretty much one-way. She had removed his IV patch, changed a couple bandages and checked the tensor wrap on his shoulder and foot. John was still processing the first statement: that he was leaving here to go live in a strange house, with near-strangers, about fifty feet from the place where someone had put three bullets in this body and a half-dozen in the lawn, shrubs and one unlucky garbage can.

The nurse continued, "She'll be here around eleven. You can get yourself dressed for then. I'll have your paperwork ready to go." The final statement closed the brackets on his hospital stay. Most good-to-go patients would be doing whatever limited happy dance that they could manage. John felt a little like he had just been told the time and place of his hanging.

Michelle had previously brought in a set of Kamal's clothes that might reasonably work outside the hospital. Sweats, a tee shirt and a bright blue hoody. His underwear was only day-olds and he had some Old Spice d.o. in his rolling table drawer. He had been accumulating small things like a toothbrush, razor and hair brush over various of Michelle's visits. He went through the motions of packing up and was sitting dressed and painfully-ready to go on his bed by 10:45.

At 11:45 Michelle came through the door. She looked harried and nervous on arrival, but quickly wiped any concern from her face and broke into a big smile.

"Goin home today, babe." She was actually a little winded. "Can't be soon 'nough, t'tell truth, trips down 'ere killing me."

She paused, perhaps picking up that he had been waiting a long time. "Sorry. Traffic was shit." She rolled her eyes. "But today it's all OK—ya'll done here, meaning that you be gettin a lot better quick now. Couple weeks this is all behind us." She leaned in and kissed him.

Kamal took the opportunity for an unencumbered hug with only a small wince from the pain. His uneasy thoughts of how this was all going to play out disappeared for the moment.

"If I can just keep hugging her, this will all work out." He was still hugging her when Dillon appeared in the doorway. If Michelle had looked nervous, Dillon looked pissed. John was actually seeing him for the first time.

He made his way over the bed with a hand in his own hoody pocket and his eyes alternatively down on his phone or sideways, but never straight ahead. He seemed to be considering the other beds and patients in the room as some sort of clutter, left around for no purpose other than to distract him from the twitchy agenda running in his head. Kamal couldn't read his mind, but got the distinct impression that he felt he had a lot to complain about. He first comment, unsurprisingly came out as a complaint.

"Lenny says: hurry de fuck up. He be nervous idlin down t'no-parking shithole of a place."

Michelle had obviously had a lot of this on the trip down.

She responded, "You get on top o' shithead Leonard. He's got nothin t'say on how long this takes and we're not hurrying one bit t'please him. You forgetin why we're here again? Tell him to jus keep movin around."

She leaned into Kamal and spoke quietly. "Sorry fer needin Lenny, but he's our only chance fer a ride this morning. They doan tol me yesterday you was out t'day, coulda borrowed somebody's car, but I only gets the call t'come for ya this morning. They made it sound like ya got t'get out quick, like it's a hotel or somethin. Lenny owed Dil; Dil owes you. Parking costs like $15, so we saved that anyway. We jus tol him just t'hang on in the car til we come out. No more after today."

John couldn't come up with who Lenny might be. This name had never come up in conversation, but as he was an associate of Dillon and Michelle hated him, John assumed that he was a gang member. The idea that getting a car ride downtown was a problem was just one new reality he would need to understand. He had sold his car when he moved into his apartment right on the subway. He ran up hundreds in Uber and Lyft bills each month, but considered it a deal, particularly as a two-car couple on floor seventeen was paying him more than that for his unused parking spot each month. This arrangement had been a side deal between them. Guess someone would mourn his passing if they had to give it up.

A blue-smocked, white-haired volunteer showed up at the room door with a wheelchair. She was about eighty, from appearances, and was visibly taken aback by the all-black trio clustered around the far-corner bed. This was T.O.—white had already been fully muddied as the colour of the crowd, but for a real old-timer, the name Lewis must have raised false expectations. Her quick glances to the other three beds with clearly going-nowhere patients still in them confirmed that her charge was in fact the brown kid in the bright blue sweater. By the time she completed the ten or so steps over, she had reestablished her cheery face and never-troubled hospital volunteer's smile.

"Somebody call for a chariot?" Then, perhaps thinking that there might be some racial faux-pas in there, with the fuzzy connection between chariots, romans, slaves and negroes, she quickly corrected "I mean a wheelchair, of course."

Dillon, having little clue of how hospitals work, was quick to react. "Brother not need'n no wheelchair, not parlized or nuthin. He be walkin outa here."

The volunteer whose nametag said 'June' looked Dillon up and down, perhaps wondering why the man hadn't got past grade two grammar in school, but didn't engage him in the argument.

"Everybody rides to the front door. Just how it's done." She now talked to Kamal and Michelle, ignoring Dillon, "Plus, if you've been in bed for a while, any walk is too long a walk. Better to start out on wheels than to fall down and need a stretcher, d'ya think?"

They were sent off with Kamal's grocery bag of things sitting on his lap, minus the bullet-pierced bloody jeans and shirt that were cut off him on arrival. His discharge was probably early by past healthcare standards, but as he was free of machine attachment, not bleeding and probably capable of following instructions for continuing wound care and rehab, he was considered to be 'taking up a bed' unnecessarily.

Had John been able to step out of Kamal, his benefits coverage would have provided comprehensive home nursing care, physio for as long as needed, all the medications and devices he required, as well as counselling, specialist treatments and any support needed for day-to-day mobility. He would have been receiving pretty much full salary on short term disability and would be eligible for years of long-term disability payments at a good percentage of his pay should the injuries or their effects linger. His job return would have been guaranteed, but required only when he was ready, with assurance of accommodation for any limitations that might persist. Outside of basic medical care, Kamal was eligible for none of that.

The rolling trip down halls, into and out of the elevator and into the faded and smelly black Nissan something or other, driven by Lenny, was perceived by John as surrealistic. Michelle kept up an encouraging patter, most of which he barely heard. It was the first time he was travelling through fully-public space in another man's body.

Where before, he might have expressed his mostly validated opinion of his felt superiority to the people he dealt with, now he felt the weight of an assigned cast of significant inferiority that had nothing to do with his knowledge or abilities. His place now had everything to do with the physical persona he had taken on, against his will, but which, nonetheless, was going to continue in spite of his desire and, so far, feeble efforts to break free of it. He knew that he could climb out of the apparent trap he was in, even as a rough-hewn black man, but scaling the obstacles in front of him would need resources currently out of his reach and the help of people he probably shouldn't trust. Regardless, as he sank down in the cramped back seat for the forty-minute meandering trip home, Michelle beside him still offered him his best hope. If he screwed it up with her, everything might be lost.

Leonard had gone through the motions of a reunion with someone he knew well. Apparently forgetting Kamal's broken bones and sewn-up muscles, he had attempted a full-contact chest bump that hurt like hell. John in Kamal's body had no choice but to pump up the amnesia shtick in an effort to avoid some trap of familiarity that he couldn't possibly anticipate.

Lenny commiserated, "Kam, bro. Lookin good, fer time in de house here. Least here dey got nurse babes checkin your comfort en all. Bad deal, ya takin a hit. You been fine wit da fam now en al. Be dealin with dat, y' know still got yu back." Lenny may have been looking for some kind of coded street response, but all he got back was silence and Kamal's confused look.

John knew that he had to try to bridge each gap as he came to it. He ventured, "Yeah, uh, Lenny. You need to forgive me, I just have no memory beyond waking up here. Grateful for the ride though. Uh, to Dillon and you both. Hope to be better soon and maybe get some memory back."

Both Lenny, who Kamal had always called 'dumbfuck Leonard' and had no use for, and Dillon, who was always Dil and barely tolerated, were left looking first at Kamal and then at each other. The car was noisy with a ratty exhaust and leaky windows. At speed, conversation was near impossible. On route, Lenny in the front seats with Dillon apparently thought that he couldn't be heard.

He was having trouble with the explanation. "Shit, memory gone. Wha da fuck dat? No slug d'head. No brain damage, eh? Bro can 'member how t'eat and shit, how come jus street mem gone?" Then he leaned over and whispered, "An what's wit da lingo? He takin on some attitude here? Maybe fakin it?"

Dillon, to his slight credit, wasn't taking any shit on his brother. "Maybe I put three caps in y'ass huh? See what da fuck y'all member en how y'all talk. Y'ain't no docr. Ya keep yur fuckin pinions t' y'self. Jus drive."

Arrival at the little post-war bungalow confirmed to John that he 'wasn't in Kansas anymore'. At his home, he would have stepped out of a nice car at the front of the building, been greeted by a concierge and taken a hushed elevator to the soft-toned and antiseptic hallway leading, on the level, to his front door.

Marella Lewis's house was entered through a spring-loaded screen door at an entrance off the rough driveway that opened onto a set of stairs going up or going down. Kamal's body was still struggling on a foot that could only take about half weight, with damaged core muscles that screamed at every posture correction and a right arm attached to a fractured scapula that couldn't take any weight at all. He had shuffled into and out of the car. The narrow stairs were a whole new challenge.

Michelle had preceded him down and now looked back up the stairs to see if he was following. Kamal considered his best strategy for getting down the stairs in once piece. There was no handrail. He couldn't offset the weight on his injured foot and had nothing to hang onto with his left hand. He was stuck until Michelle came back up, got under his left arm and lifted most of his weight with a strong arm around his waist.

"Got you babe. One small step at a time now."

He whispered, "I feel so stupid, not being able to handle six steps."

She smiled up, "Ya jus keep grinnin through it. Little pain'll pass. Get ya to ya fav chair and ya can rest a while. See if'n I can maybe get ya a cane later."

With little steps and many groans from shots of pain, Kamal got down the steps and around a corner into a darkly-lit, linoleum-tiled little room that featured a laundry sink, washer, dryer and avocado-green fridge. A side-table had a hot plate and a small stack of dishes that may or may not have been clean. Past them, an open doorway led to a larger faux-wood paneled room that stretched to a fake fireplace against a far wall. Two closed doors led off one side, suggesting smaller rooms that were probably a washroom and bedroom. The high small windows let in very little outside light. The less-than-seven-foot tiled ceiling with small squares of recessed lighting added to the cloistered feel of what was surely once called the 'rec room'.

The chair that Michelle was aiming for was a decades-old, blue nylon covered, sofa side-chair that showed wear marks from many years of use. It probably matched the full sofa at right-angle to it, which was fully-draped in a flowered coverlet. The chair proved to be a long way down and, once seated, John in Kamal noted that the upholstery padding had long since moved off of some of the hard spots. The chair did have a familiar feel, which puzzled him.

The far end of the room had double bed against one wall and a mismatched assortment of dressers, kitchen table, straight chairs and storage bins crowded along the other wall. A flat screen TV sat on a rickety particle board wall unit that matched nothing else and looked like it had been moved once too often. A small desk next to it had a pedestal computer, keyboard and large screen that was currently blank. John could see the telltale blinking of a router in behind the monitor Internet access would be very helpful if he was going to pull off his sketched-out plan.

John guessed that one of the side doors led to what was now the baby's room. Clearly this entire set-up was put together to accommodate the young family's most basic needs with a roof over their heads at the minimum possible cost.

As he settled uncomfortably into the chair, John also began to notice the smell of the room for the first time. His apartment smelled vaguely woodsy with oiled wood furniture and 'fresh rain' air fresheners spread around. He really didn't have anyone to impress, but made a point of getting rid of garbage as soon as it was created and of keeping potential trouble spots like the three washrooms well-aired and deodorized with scented oil diffusers. His cleaners used fragrant cleaning products that left an almost-new aroma to the entire apartment.

In Kamal's basement apartment, the smell came from old, possible damp, furniture, baby diapers in a garbage bag somewhere and his mother's stove-top fried fish cooked upstairs two days before. It wasn't a pungent odour and maybe was preferable to the disinfectant-over-piss stink of the hospital, but to John, it was as foreign as any eastern spice market might have smelled. He briefly thought about asking if the notable garbage needed to be taken out, but then repeated his new mantra to himself: don't blow it! He bit his tongue and just closed his eyes. He was exhausted from the trip home—in spite of the setting, he could feel himself drifting off.

Dillon had followed them into the house, but took the high road up the stairs to talk to his mother. The baby was asleep up there, so the entire loud-whisper conversation was bracketed by many 'shushes' from her as the topic and the rhetoric heated up. John was dozing and couldn't make out any part of the patois-laden discussion, but he got the impression that 'Dil' was getting shit and ineffectually attempting to shift the blame to someone else.

Michelle left to go up and join the discussion. At that point, the three-way argument strained the definition of whisper. The argument's conclusion was denoted by a baby starting to cry and Dil stomping across the floor, down the stairs and out the screen door, which slammed behind him. John hadn't needed to see any of it as the house relayed every footfall crisply to the basement.

He became aware of Michelle standing in front of him. He had dozed off for at least a few minutes.

She said, "You need'n to sleep soon, babe."

He replied through a yawn. "Yeah, guess I did more of that in the hospital than I thought. I can't sleep too much here though; I need to help you out; look after Izzy; maybe cook a little."

Michelle laughed. "Whoa, ya try'n t'turn some kinda leaf? Never looked to ya much before for that stuff; how y'gonna do all that on one leg?"

She was tempted to do her one-armed, one-leg parody again, but guessed that Kamal's patience might be shorter here. "Besides, your Muma wants ya t'move upstairs while ya heals up. Says use the spare bed there. Wit the baby in the other room, she kin handle two of ya easier."

She tipped her head, indicating that it was a question for him to answer. "Makes some sense I guess?" She had been careful to position it as his Muma's idea, not wanting any of the expected blowback to land on her.

John considered the double bed down here. He was nowhere close to thinking about sex, at least with him doing any of the work, but the double bed suggested that at least he might experience amazing nights of full contact. Maybe more, who knows?

"You'll come up too?" He had no clue what the upstairs looked like, so was hoping for another doubled bed.

For Michelle, the possible agreement was a huge relief. She hadn't expected reality to sink in until after a couple painful and frustrating days of Kamal trying to be his old stubborn self. She would have borne the brunt of his impatience and anger. She knew that she couldn't look after him downstairs but had been afraid to just come out with it.

"Be too tight'n the single up there, but I kin visit maybe? Or drag ya down here soon's y'can make it." She smiled and leaned in to kiss him.

"Sides, your Muma ain't deaf; tough enough t'be quiet down here, less with her head on the other side o' the wall." Obviously, she was picking up on his lurid, if pain-limited, imagining.

"Right now, wit asshole Dil gone, you gotta come upstairs. Izzy be up and hungry. Ya can feed her; see if she'll be happy play'n wit ya fer while. Then, I gotta get ready fer work. Whether ya like be'n in yo' Muma care, that's what we got fer now."

Michelle waited for some response. Kamal had been opposed to her working full shifts as a cashier at the airport parking garage since the baby arrived. With the bus ride, an eight-hour shift turned into close to ten hours away from home. But it was better pay than anything closer and she had gained some seniority in a union shop. With only a few more weeks of work, some benefits would kick back in, hopefully helping with Kamal's meds and physio before too long. She had been rehearsing her argument expecting that he would object to her being out of the house.

"You still have to go to work today?

"Afternoon shift. Lucky it is, with all the running around."

"Guess Izzy and I will go keep my mother company then. You should go do whatever you need to do."

Michelle blinked at the contradictions in Kamal's response. He would never voluntarily offer to sit with his 'Muma', who he never called mother. He also would never just send her off to work without some guilt pushback on how lonely he would be. Sure, his memory was a problem, but this was a considered response from a completely different guy. She blinked again for a moment, but shook her head to get rid of the thought.

John in Kamal was dreading the climb back up the stairs, but the prospect of getting out of the oppressive basement seemed worth the effort. In his half-awake state, the basement was a confirming symbol of his overall predicament. He was stuck down in a metaphoric 'hole' needing help from others to pull him up. Even then, his body rather than his mind was determining his prospects for getting out. As John alone, he had never been very good at revealing any sort of weakness or in seeking help from others. He recalled his last apartment move, where he hired a mover to complete the work, including unpacking every item, while he spent the weekend gambling in Niagara Falls. Others might have rented a truck and asked friends, although no-one ever asked him to help with their move. He liked it that way. Independence was his strength. 'Was' might now be the operative word.

Now, as his hospital-dispensed pain meds were wearing off, he also needed to decide whether to stick with an oxy prescription that put him in a mostly pain-free, but dull state. He knew all about addictions to the stuff as well, having seen co-workers 'hooked' on pills long after they should have been free of pain from whatever surgery or injury that started the process. Addiction to expensive drugs was bad enough on a premium benefits plan; it was quite something else when the cost was coming out of his, or more accurately, Michelle's pocket.

"Piss on that, I can handle the pain." It was his first decision of many tough choices he would need to make to get out of the hole. If nothing else, he would start by climbing the stairs back to daylight and meeting his new mother on her turf.

"Next step babe, OK? Next step. That's it, you got one good side, so it'll get you there."

John in Kamal had shown a little of his host's old stubbornness by insisting that he needed to manage the stairs by himself. He had considered the challenge from below and figured out that as long as he was doing all the lifting with the good side, the rest of him could just worry about keeping his balance. It was slow, but he was doing it.

He grimaced out, "Won't be rushing to get the doorbell anytime soon. Maybe I should have taken the crutch they were offering."

Michelle countered, "Yeah, you with'n a big stick in y'hands. Not good. I'm rethinkin the cane too. You movin just fine. Got no rush to be anywhere, hey." Kamal had turned and given her a grimace that dissolved into a grin.

Michelle was exploring the possibility that Kamal might just have come home with a sense of humour. She remembered when he had laughed with her at just about everything. They were young, poorer and probably stupid, but none of it mattered. That was before the gang troubles and the baby, but she hung-in hoping for a return to what they had. Three bullets weren't the change she wanted or expected, but maybe brushing close to death was the smack in the head her man needed. She used up her tears. Maybe, smiles might find their way back.

Suddenly there were two screams in succession from the top of the stairs. Both John and Michelle snapped their heads up expecting some crisis. All they saw was Muma screaming for her boy back and Isabella in her arms screaming from being scared by Muma's screams. Kamal had cleared the entry landing and was right in front of Muma when she walked past the stairway door.

With the door window light behind him, he had appeared to be descending out of the sky, or rising from a very bright Hell, in her mind. The last time she saw him, he was still wired up and, as far as she could tell, just about in Jesus's hands.

Now he was delivered back to her and she was gonna tell Jesus how much she appreciated it. She had let her church voice out and scared the shit out of all of them. She was still praising her Lord to the back row of what could have been a very large hall.

She sang, "Lawd da massi. Isa finally gets ma boy back. Jessam, him's up about. Give tanks, Jesus, give tanks t'Jesus for m'Kamal back!"

John in Kamal got the idea of her joy, but had only a vague understanding of what she said. This could be a struggle. As he reached the top step, he tried on a smile. Muma more or less tossed the baby to Michelle, then wrapped her stubby arms around him. Her squeeze could have crushed a beer keg. John didn't have words to respond.

He groaned, "Aaaah!"

As he finally got his breath back, he attempted to tap out of the submission hold. "Ah, geez, mom, you're gonna break something again!"

His mother let him go and stepped back. She held him tightly at the biceps with hands like C-clamps, but now leaned back and gave him an intense look from top to bottom. If anyone might be capable of seeing an imposter hiding in this body it would be her.

She questioned, "Wah wrang wid yuh, boy? Cum een like you be different. His ed be damaged, then?"

The second question was directed to Michelle, who had been down at the hospital most every day so was in charge of his repair and recovery, in Muma's assessment.

Michelle rolled her eyes to Kamal.

She responded, "Take t'easy Muma. Kamal has the amnesia problem I t'oll ya about. Not 'memberin. Maybe talks a little funny like he sees on TV, I guess. He be needin lots of time t'come back to hisself. Speak English. Go slow. None of us ever lived down t'island. Nuff trouble following that jibe when we're clear-headed."

Muma blinked at Michelle, perhaps wondering if 'just wife' had the authority to tell her what to do, but then started murmuring a pleasant-enough gospel song and repeated her hug with a lot less energy. She could celebrate all she wanted in her own house.

Muma shrugged, "OK. Guess he's still needin some time, like ya says. Be switchin up my prayers to gettin his head right. Ya'll see, de Lord'll fix him."

Then, as if realizing that she was drifting off and talking as if Kamal wasn't there, she added, "I got some creole gumbo cookin, that's fix up a lot of what ails yah now mi son. Sit, sit, ya taken my big chair now."

Michelle had her fill of contradictions this day. Muma never let anyone sit in the big chair that her late husband left her. Late as in twelve-years back, but the chair never moved. Other than kid relatives who didn't know any better, no-one else ever sat in it. Even when the preacher visited, he was shown to the couch, while Muma presided from her lounger-throne.

Kamal seemed to have forgotten the rule or figured that under direct Muma orders, it didn't apply. He limped over, turned and sagged into the big brown leather chair, showing a lot of exhaustion, but no hesitation. Michelle kept adding things to her weird list. She went over to hand him the baby, which he handled like a strange zoo-animal at first, but then seemed to remember as his child.

She leaned in to whisper, "Know that ya can't member, but yer mam is 'Muma' to ya and she never calls Isabella, Izzy. Guessin that this still outa your head, but better go with that much if'n ya don't wan her comin at ya wit de incense 'n madonnas."

Kamal gave her a conspiratory smile and nod back. "Thanks, babe."

Michelle crinkled her nose, then whispered back. "Love'n that, but you be my 'babe', ya call me Mich sometimes. But, never liked that much. Maybe we both be babes now.

She was close enough, so she kissed him. John felt another electric rush deep inside. Soon it would be a desire that he hoped he could handle.

He was desperately trying to log all the new information coming in, so he could adapt as quickly as possible. Mich sounded lazy and too masculine. He hated it too. The other lingo was still beyond him, but ever so slowly he would try that out too. Kamal was going to have to talk like John to get some stuff done. John could also learn to talk a little like Kamal, who he had never heard, but who's presence was all around him.

Isabella reclined calmly once Michelle brought a warm bottle of formula over and plunked it between her lips. Her little hands could almost hold the bottle now, so John in Kamal only needed to rest a couple fingers under it. Her wide brown eyes considered him carefully. He probably still smelled of hospital cleaners and his various bandaged parts probably felt much different than before to her, but she quietly accepted that 'daadi' had her in his arms. All she needed was the familiar face to be content.

John was struck again that he held someone's else's child in his arms and desired someone else's woman in his bed. He knew that he possessed Kamal's body, but couldn't help imagining him coming through the front door at any moment enraged at this pale usurper in his skin and looking for blood.

He had considered just running away from it all and somehow creating a brand-new identity. It would still be the smart thing to do. Yet, for the possibility of love from a dead man's woman and child, he was prepared to play a risky game around people who carried guns and killed for no reason at all. He also knew that he would need to be a very different person, forgetting appearances, as his old self was a mean, inconsiderate, and lonely, schmuck, who people didn't like much. How could that guy earn the love of this woman and this child once his injuries were healed and he had no excuses?

# Chapter Eleven - Lee is Confused, Jaff Knows Why

His apartment on the eighth floor was pretty much a mirror-image of John's apartment on the fifteenth floor. The kitchen was almost identical and it wasn't backwards, except that you turned the opposite way to head into the dining area.

Lee Deviers had been up a few times since John had grabbed a unit in his building. Usually it was to drop off a small packet of gold bars and maybe have a glass of one of John's well-aged scotch single malts. The proximity had been convenient enough that Lee had decided to ignore initial concerns he had about John getting too close. He liked his relationships brief and distant, so that there was no expectation of socializing. John was a loner before he moved in and he stayed that way. It had worked out. John had given him a key for the benefit of his one plant as he sometimes travelled on a whim. Lee had lots of plants and a service to look after them. He hadn't offered one of his keys back.

Neither of them entertained much, at least not in the sterile apartments or, God help us, the shared party room on the top floor. The blank beige walls and oops-proof vinyl flooring up there was enough to make Lee gag. When he had boyfriends over, which was often enough, they stayed out late, enjoyed the crowd until the last possible moment, then cabbed it home and fell into bed. His one concession to any cooking expectations was his high-end coffee machine for bolt-upright morning espresso and a toaster oven for bagels. The real oven had never been used. Lee noted that underneath the mess, John's place looked pretty disused as well.

He was certain that the cleaners should have been in, but perhaps they had backed out the door as he nearly had, when they came upon the dumped-out drawers and nearly overturned furniture. As John had feared, the brother must have gotten the door key and talked his way in. Given the mess, it seemed certain that he was tossing the place looking for anything valuable he could steal. Families were strange; Lee had one once and like John, couldn't see much use for one now.

John had directed him to the second drawer of his chest of drawers facing the bed. As that drawer was wide open and the underwear contents were in a slightly mounded pile below, Lee figured that any hidden key in a box was almost certainly gone. A quick look and paw through the discarded clothing confirmed that anything that was there, including the eight-hundred-dollar bottle of Highland Park single malt whiskey was long gone.

He mused, "Too bad about the key; hope that they know what they have in that scotch. Shame to see it mixed with coke or something equally American."

He had tried to raise John by cell a couple times, but the call always went straight to voicemail. Not knowing who had the phone now, he skipped leaving any message. The bullion in the safety deposit box was a problem, but one that he had some time to think about. John should be able to control his brother to find a simple resolution. He found cash usually worked best.

The gold scheme had been one of the better ones he had picked up, but it wasn't entirely his idea. He was only a distributor. The owners of the foundry were the real crooks, as much of the incoming gold was, in fact, stolen or illegally imported through a network of connected families reaching as far as Africa and India. Lee was certain that the local operation was just one small part of a much bigger fencing business operating on a global scale. This was both good and bad. The good part was that they probably wouldn't be too concerned about a little stash of bars that could disappear overnight, once recovered. The bad part was that the bars weren't supposed to be held at all. Small time movers like him and his associates, including John, were valuable because they could tap into legitimate buyers to move individual bars far from Toronto as quickly as possible. In effect, they were laundering proceeds that otherwise would attract too much attention. He didn't need to bring anyone from the family in right away, but dreaded possibly needing to do it later. He doubted that they would consider inadequate solutions or employ ineffective means if the problem had the potential to jeopardize their global operation.

He checked his phone for any message from John. Wasn't something he would normally do, but the silence was irritating. Sick in bed or not, everyone kept their phone with them. He punched a cryptic note into Messenger:

> Got to your place. As you suspected. No bounty here. Need to deal with frere 

He didn't expect an immediate reply so let himself out and headed back downstairs. He was perturbed to be hung-up on a problem that he couldn't just solve. In his business and in his social life, problems weren't uncommon. Weak people wandered the planet and, occasionally, he needed to brush one out of the way.

He wasn't physically menacing, but he was absolutely confident in everything he did. That was usually enough. Plus, he had a knack for getting suckers to think that they had beat him, which they often did in the first hand or two of whatever game they were playing. It was only long after they had parted company and they counted their 'winnings' that they realized that they had been fleeced.

Lately, he had kept the fleecing perfectly legal using hedges and options which put his personal investments 100% offside from the hustlers he engaged. They were sure that they knew better, seemed to be doing better and went away certain that they were just about to win the jackpot. Lee quietly moved his real winnings out of the light and humbly slipped away.

He no sooner got back in his apartment then his phone rang.

"There you go, Johnny, just in time."

He answered, "It's Lee."

"Leester, buddy, it's Freddy!"

Lee grimaced. Freddy was a sometimes party-goer who had gotten a little too close, been backed off and then hung around at a distance. He had Lee's phone number, but had wisely not called since they agreed that casual friendship across the room was appropriate.

Lee replied in a flat tone, "Freddy. Uh, how are you?"

"Good, good. No complaints. Thought I'd call, you know, with condolences, about your buddy there."

Lee was trying to figure out what he was hearing. "Buddy? Who are we talking about?"

"JT, uh, John Fischer. That was him, right? Says he was a trader at Richards. Think he told me that at the bar. Anyway, sorry that he died. Didn't know he was sick. Obit didn't say. Julie posted a link to it. She said 'suddenly' so I guess it wasn't expected. Guess she worked there too, right? I can never keep women straight. Anyway, you need company for a drink or anything, I'm here for you. Y'know, like before..."

Lee was stunned, but called up some of his game skills to keep his response neutral.

"John, uh yeah, knew about that. We weren't that close. Did a couple deals. Hadn't heard from him in a while. Then heard he died. Sudden, like you said."

"Oh, sorry, guess I just saw you guys working on stuff at the bar a lot."

"Certainly, did some stuff. No big deal. But I didn't know about the obit. Text me the link if you will. Might pass it on to some other folks."

"Sure thing. On its way. Like I said, let me know if you need anything else, eh?"

"Yeah, Freddy thanks. Gotta go." He disconnected the call.

Moments later, he was reading John's obituary on-line. The writer had done a nice job of spinning up John's life to sound like it was something special. He was linked back to outstanding school and sports accomplishments and given an important-sounding 'award winning' advisors role in business. He was described as a rising star at Richards-Green, which contradicted Lee's perception that he hated the place and kept his office there only for the trading desks and clerical support. There was a brief reference to a tragic accident, which Lee knew was what put him in the hospital in the first place, but no reference to any complications or infectious illness. There was a pointer to the Todd and Poirier funeral home.

It took Lee a minute to digest what was wrong in the obit. The date of his death was shown as almost two weeks ago. Lee had talked to John only a few days ago, so this must be an error that no-one had caught. Seemed like a pretty important item to get right.

Lee asked 'hey, Google' to pull up John Fischer and the two top items returned were the obit he had just read and a second posting of it at the funeral home, which included reference to two viewing days and a funeral on Friday. The first 'visitation' was this evening. The funeral home's 'date of passing' was the same as in the obit.

Lee was really perplexed, but now had an explanation for the lack of communication over two days. He guessed that John's condition had turned for the worst and he died suddenly, in spite of his assurance that he would be fine. Had his brother been called in anticipation? Maybe whatever he had was incurable and he just hadn't been told. Or maybe he was told and couldn't accept it.

Whatever had happened, now the problem of the twenty pounds of illicit gold bars in a bank safety deposit box was his. And the only means to get to it was John's brother, who now probably had the key legally, but wouldn't be able to use it, except as executor and accompanied by a bank officer. Unless, he might be tempted to do something illegal. Cash, after all, was simpler than gold. And cash for nothing was the ultimate sucker's bait. The situation was a real shit-fuck, but no game was ever lost until the cards had all been dealt.

Lee decided that a visit to the funeral home might be in order. He hated funerals, hated weepy anything and most notably hated faking some kind of sympathy for sloppy grieving relatives, but he had to connect with this brother and he had to find a way to prevent him going to the deposit box until he could plant the idea that it would be more profitable not to.

Jaff Doswell was also going to pay his respects to John Fischer that evening. He, of course, knew all the details of the visitation and funeral arrangements, as he had added a brief reference to the funeral home in the obituary. Gary Schultz had been very happy with what he had submitted and indicated that he would review it with the relatives before filing with the Star.

Jaff met Bill on the phone and was being paid by him, so naturally might show up to express his condolences in person. His true reason for attending wasn't to see John Fischer in a casket—it was to see if John Fischer might actually show up in the room in the person of a young black man named Kamal Lewis. If John was brave or just curious, maybe he couldn't resist coming to see his first body gussied up and ready for disposal. He might not actually believe that it was gone until he saw it there. It was the sort of impulse Jaff himself couldn't have resisted

Jaff figured that John's persona lurking in this Kamal Lewis wouldn't suspect that anyone else was on to his takeover of the body of the young man, so might be caught out by surprise if he just approached him directly. But, from experience and in common sense, this would probably only produce a denial and quick flight out of there. Lewis had to be very confused and was probably scared of being found out until he figured out what to do.

Jaff could hardly claim that he was a magic elf there to fix things. He was an investigative journalist and the kid would likely know that hooking up with someone who might tell his story was a bad idea. Jaff could see the headline and also see the trolls pouncing within minutes to 'out' the kid as insane, or worse, as a fraud. He had no intention of writing about what he hoped to find. He would eventually have to convince the him that it was safe to talk. He planned only to shake his hand and thank him for coming. Once he had a chance to look into his eyes, he would figure out where to go next.

With a couple days to do some intensive research, Jaff had found lots of stories of apparent 'reincarnation' of one individual into another. Many were of the 'hocus-pocus' variety where some so-called medium claimed to speak for someone who was dead and gone. This scam had run for millennia, apparently, with roots in the very-unscientific early AD centuries when the church had exclusive management of the whole life-after-death business, to its great profit.

He imagined an early conversation. Priest: "No, you can't talk to your dead wife, you moron, she's up in the sky with our Lord, but if you give us most of your money and your unwavering gullibility, er belief, you can reconnect with her when you go." It seemed like a reasonable offer. Life was pretty short for most in those days anyway.

A different, more practical offer, often made down a back lane, was to connect with her right now to find out where the hell she hid the three gold coins that represented some poor sod's life savings. The voice of the dead coming through the medium was always too vague to be of much use, except to the thugs who would visit for real later, kill the sod and dig up the place until they found the coins. Considering that this process got the sod and his departed wife together quite quickly, it might actually have been better value for the money.

Over the years, the 'speaking to the dead' thing became a full-fledged theatre production with huge audiences falling for mediums, spiritualists, psychics, clairvoyants and mystics. The acts were always staged and were always just believable enough to suck in thousands. They were also wrapped in just enough disclaimers to keep the promoters out of jail.

Jaff kept drilling down with his search tools until he hit the scientific bedrock of the 'debunkers'. Turns out that studies were actually done and may still be going on, to prove, beyond doubt, that all claims of extra-physical existence are bogus. Real scientists, apparently, from real universities, apparently, had set up all sorts of double-blind, separate room, lead-lined and CAT-scanned tests to prove that no thought, message, command, or certainly, spirit could escape the bounds of one's bone-encased brain. And, when you're dead, said the footnote, you're effing dead.

Having waded through both the fantastic and the dead, no-pun, boring, Jaff finally got to what he knew would be there. In small stories, without big headlines, he read of apparently miraculous interventions where perfect strangers acted to rescue a family in financial despair after the loss of the breadwinner. There were also small stories of turnaround individuals, who, having shown almost no promise before nearly dying, suddenly emerged as capable and energetic. In just a few cases, some small reference was made to unusual insight or connectedness, but none was ever stated as an outright claim to reincarnation, at least outside of the Buddhists, who wrote manuals for it that almost everyone ignored.

Jaff suspected that there must also be stories of individuals who went the other way. Having been someone special only to be suddenly inhabited by a real oaf. There didn't seem to be a rule that all reincarnations had to be for the good. If buddy suddenly fell into the bottle or into the river, no-one was going to suggest that a miserable new inhabitant had taken the old body there. If the tragedy was noteworthy, it was because even the successful can fall to depression, right? Guess their bodies certainly can anyway.

Jaff was also curious about the apparent simultaneous deaths of the people involved. This fact proved very elusive in the literature and in the feel-good stories, except by slight mention that the benefactor may be coming back from near-death with a new understanding of himself and a commitment to a better life. This was an easy sell and probably worked universally as an answer to: "What the heck has gotten into Lazarus over there?"

No amount of research was going to answer Jaff's key question of how someone just takes over someone else's life? This dilemma needs a participant to relate what they felt, what they did and how it worked. The real story would be down the road if young Kamal or John could pull this off. Jaff looked forward to meeting him and to watching how he was coping with a life turned on its head.

# Chapter Twelve - Wilma's Rich

After a week in Toronto, Wilma and Bill had pretty much figured out all of the problems that John's death had caused. That didn't mean that they were solved, just apparent. Bill's idea of a problem wasn't how to dress him up for his date with the crematorium or how to get rid of all his stuff in the now unneeded apartment. Bill's only idea of a problem was something that kept him operating on their ever-diminishing pile of cash. He sometimes felt like he was in a nasty dream where the prize was dangled in front of him but always kept just out of arm's reach.

Armed with the funeral home's print-out of the death documents and contact information Gary had received by fax from John's employer, he had headed downtown with Wilma in tow, to meet with the friendly, but officious specialist at MuniLife, where John's group life insurance policy was held. He imagined a quick meeting, a review of a couple documents and a visit to some sort of cash-out teller to pick up a wad of bills. Of course, none of that had happened as planned.

The 'claims specialist' had accepted each of their documents and all was going well until it was determined that Wilma Fluke was present, while Wilma Fischer was named in the policy. Bill pointed out the paper from the lawyer testifying that she was Wilma Fischer

"Not a problem, of course," she had advised, never breaking her smile, "Happens all the time with marriages, and divorces, of course. People often forget to update their policy information. This affidavit should be good enough, but we'll probably also check the court records in Nevada to confirm the marriage, to, er, the late, Mr. Fluke. The license will certainly have been issued in your previous name. It's all on-line, so it's just a formality"

Although Wilma was dead-sober, under strict, life-threatening orders from Billy to keep away from her not-so-secret stash of liquor bottles, her attentive state was still impacted by a week's nearly-continuous inebriated state. Drying out was a multi-week process—overnight abstention just cleared off the surface fuzz making her either testy or tenuous. Now, she appeared to have actually been listening and piped up, uninvited by Bill.

"Marriage papers ain't gonna be in my previous married name, be in my first last name. Maiden name ain't Fischer, it's Powell." She grinned at her success in making a contribution to the discussion.

The specialist was now confused. "So, you never used Fischer as your name in Nevada? Did you change it back to Powell?"

Bill was finding the pattern of tiles in the ceiling most interesting as he tried to look through them for some help from either the long absent and probably dead Mr. Fischer or the definitely dead Mr. Fluke. If there was a way to fuck things up, Wilma would find it.

Wilma was considering the question and finally came up with her answer. "Well, course I was Fischer most o' the time, in conversation and the like, but fer official-like purposes I was a Powell, like my passport says. Came from a big family out Galt way." She paused again, as if needing some effort to recall why she had done anything years back.

Bill was now silently praying that this story had a simple if not happy ending.

Wilma started up again, "Dumbfuck Mr. Fischer just took off. I figured, less I had to do with him and his name the better. Finally got the divorce you know and became a Powell again."

"So, your divorce papers had you going back to being Wilma Powell?"

"Yep. But, of course, I still used Fischer for the sake o' the boys and such. You know for credit cards and mail and the like. The IRS probably got me as Fluke as I only started paying taxes on the little money Mr. Fluke left me after he died and stopped doing the bills. But, now that I got the disability locked in, don't pay no taxes anymore, so that don't matter. Collectin some social security now, too."

The specialist waited politely to make sure that the story was done, then asked, "So, were you legally Wilma Fischer anywhere?"

"Sure, before the divorce came through, I guess. For some time there. Changed it all to Mrs. Fluke for Mr. Fluke, y'know. Married and all, no need for any of the old names."

Once again, Bill imagined cash bags with wings flapping their way out the window. This was just the kind of technical fuck-up that these guys would use to hang onto the cash forever.

The specialist was considering. "Well, it appears that your son put down the wrong name on his application for the group policy. This isn't a disqualifier as the confusion seems to have come from your use of Fischer as your familiar name. This discrepancy may cause some delay. Maybe we'll need a new affidavit stating that you are one and the same, former Wilma Fischer, mother to the deceased, also known as Wilma Powell and Wilma Fluke. I can discuss this directly with your lawyer's office if you like. They can probably revise this direction."

She could see that Wilma had no grasp on what she had just said and that Bill was close to blowing up. She felt that maybe some better news was needed.

"I can tell you, Wilma, and I'm sure that you'll be pleased, that the claim benefit will be approximately $151,267. If we pay this out within sixty days of death there is no interest added, but if the payment takes longer, you'll also get some interest. This is in Canadian dollars, obviously, so can come as a cheque or via direct deposit, if you have a bank account here. Perhaps you would like to open one for ease of deposit and then get the bank's help in transferring funds to your U.S. account? I believe that this is easier than presenting a Canadian cheque in the U.S. And, of course, you don't want to cross the border with a lot of cash."

Bill was nearly apoplectic. That much money paid to them would wipe out all the funeral costs and would pay for them to stay in luxury accommodation for as long as needed. He had even briefly considered just leaving the money here and moving himself back to Canada. He could probably leave some of his Chicago problems behind by declaring Chapter 11 there while keeping all the cash here in Wilma's name. As long as he could withdraw it when he needed it, as her local caretaker, he would be fine. He could send her the odd payment only when she demanded it to keep her from pissing it all away. He could restart his renovations consulting business here claiming great success in the U.S. But this amazing good luck was all still out of reach.

He thought he may as well try an appeal to the company's goodwill.

He ventured, "Uh, that's really great, for Wilma, that is, but, er, we have a big problem right now in that we, er she, really has no cash, for any expenses, and there are lots of those, with an unexpected death, y'know. Any way that you could advance some of that money as sort of a workin' fund, y'know, so we kin do right by John, as needed, y'know?"

The specialist kept her smile and took a moment to push papers back into the file folder on her desk.

"An advance isn't an option in the policy, I'm afraid. Not that our adjusters will challenge the benefit claim, but until that part of the process is completed, with beneficiary verification and review of documentation, we really don't have any funds released to pay out."

She looked from one to the other, intentionally stopping with Wilma. "I'm sure that you understand that a policy benefit of this size requires thorough review. We wouldn't want John's coverage to be misallocated in the final payout, which once cleared, will certainly come to you with as much speed as possible."

The meeting was ending and Bill was no richer than when he walked in. Wilma was going to need to borrow some money from the storefront loan shark, as the lawyer had suggested. They would want proof of payment coming too. This was going to require her to stay sober a little bit longer.

"Well, say, could you just provide everything that you've told us in writing. Y'know, kind of a meeting summary or such. We, er she, will need to look for a loan somewhere and I'm sure that they'll want proof of the payment to come. Maybe make sure that your name and phone number are there. It would really help, her, out."

The specialist was now being asked to do some work that she normally wasn't required to do. It was her department's job to keep the client informed, but verbal information was less open to embarrassing follow-up than something written that might later prove to be inaccurate. She could see that this pair needed a little help right now though.

"Uh, sure. If you'd like to wait out in reception, I'll pull together a piece of correspondence summarizing what we talked about. I can indicate the expected policy benefit and normal timeframe, but this isn't a commitment to pay. That will come once verification is complete. Maybe that will be enough, do you think?"

Bill had a brief vision of a solution. They owed the funeral home twenty-five hundred and maybe now Wilma could borrow another three or four thousand from the street lenders. They'd pay a whack of interest, but what the hell, it was technically Wilma's money anyway. This might still work out.

After another confusing and tense meeting, Wilma only got another two-thousand from HeyDay Loans. That was with a call from Rudy Ostenack to the manager, who was definitely not pleased afterwards. Neither Wilma nor Bill was much of a loan candidate on the face of it, with no real jobs, no real income and no local address.

Bill wasn't sure if Rudy vouched for them or if he pulled some personal card that gave him leverage, but eventually, after apparently signing away her rights to protect her privacy, her rights to sue and her rights to not be harassed to death if she defaulted, Wilma got the money. In this case, a cashier did count out $20 and $50 bills. Most HeyDay clients didn't have bank accounts to cash a cheque into. Bill hadn't paid much attention to the fine points of the loan form, but was pretty sure that they would owe about twice that amount back in sixty days or so, making the interest something like 400% annually. He had to admit that they had a pretty good little business going there.

Wilma was finally released to go have a drink and zone-out for another day. They had done all they could before the visitation and funeral days coming up. Wilma had blessed final arrangements for some flowers, reception food and various other stupid details. Bill didn't have much left to do for now, except to find some cheap dress-up clothes for them to wear over the three days.

Rudy suggested some place called Winners. He didn't know whether to try to keep Wilma sober or not, finally deciding that she was less trouble loaded than straight, so he let her stock up a bit at the liquor store while they were out. He scratched his head at the empty bottle of some kind of Highland scotch in the condo garbage can as he couldn't remember her ever drinking scotch by choice. But, like any good alcoholic, she was best at getting booze on the sly, no matter the obstacles. He would have to pace her somehow as she would at least have to be vertical for show at the upcoming events.

Bill finally had a chance to think about the key and card in the little cigar box, now locked up in the glove box of the rental car. He should probably just turn it over to the lawyer, who was in touch with John's bank anyway. That would mean that anything valuable in there would end up in the estate and probably be tied up for months. Considering that John was pretty well off, but didn't seem to have a lot of cash laying around, maybe there was something there to look at first and, maybe, scoop up without raising a lot of attention. Wilma was getting everything else, he was due his part. He would have to keep thinking about how to get at it.

# Chapter Thirteen - Payin' Respects

On Wednesday evening, Wilma and Bill arrived at the funeral home about a half-hour before visitation was supposed to start. Wilma was on-notice again, having been allowed only one rum and coke at the restaurant on route. Bill and her were wearing their new duds, recently purchased.

Wilma had chosen a blue dress, after Bill pointed out the likely inappropriate nature of several brightly coloured or flowered ones she pulled off the racks. He reminded her that she wasn't in the desert anymore and that this wasn't a party.

Wilma had finally settled on something dark, but with bright yellow trim. The colour contrast wasn't the best for her sallow complexion, but the choice ended close to an hour of looking, so Bill gave in. He skipped buying a jacket and just got a couple plain shirts to go with his better jeans. Wilma had even found an ironing board in the condo. They looked less harried and more presentable, by their measure anyway.

By the time they arrived, the home had set up John's casket at the front of an ante room down a softly-lit corridor of many similar rooms. As they walked towards their 'suite' Wilma couldn't help noticing that Mrs. Polanski and Mr. Dzurku and Mrs. Walker on the way, all had a lot of flower baskets and sprays in their little rooms. She slowed and nosily poked into each room. The families weren't there yet, fortunately. In one room, the casket was literally buried in huge arrangements.

As she came back to the men, she lamented, "All them others got so many flowers. Our Johnny ain't gonna have many, I guess. Hope'n it doan look too cheap by comparson."

Gary Schultz had greeted them and was walking them down for their first viewing. A young co-op student, fully made-up in standard 'director' attire was waiting for them at the viewing room. Gary intended to spend just a few moments, then get the heck out of there leaving the college co-op person to handle Wilma's expected breakdown. He hoped that she could pull herself together in time to actually greet visitors.

"Now don't be too hard on yourself. You folks have done all that you can. John was a lot younger and single, after all. Not a church-goer or connected to a local community. Most of these folks come from ethnic groups that put a lot of stake in big shows of sympathy. John has several nice arrangements, so his suite is just fine. We can add a few others for the funeral if you wish." He meant that they could repurpose a few of the many arrangements received for others that normally went into the trash after only a day or two on display.

They had now arrived at their room. Gary led them over towards the closed casket, which was bracketed by only two fairly small flower arrangements, with the larger one that Wilma had selected in behind. The casket itself was made of beautiful polished oak, ornately fitted, with bright brass handles. It was a 'better' model designed mostly for above ground display prior to cremation, so not the most expensive in the catalogue. If John was actually being buried, Gary would definitely have extolled the benefits of a bronze and silver beauty for keeping the loved one in fine style over an eternity in the ground.

Gary paused several feet in front of the display and turned to them, now speaking in a dead-person-in-the-room whisper. "Before we open the casket, I just want to remind you that John passed almost two weeks ago. We did our very best to keep him looking just as you remember him, but you will definitely see a little change. This is expected and unavoidable. It's just nature's way."

He could see that Wilma was anxious to see her son again and nervous about the entire process of both viewing and send-off. The first look would tell them how she would hold up. The well-briefed co-op student slid up beside her and gripped her arm. She nodded to Gary.

Neither Bill nor Wilma said anything as the half-lid was lifted and the frilly side liners of the casket were pulled back and over the edges. Gary blocked their view for a moment as he reached beneath the pillow and raised it an inch or two to lift the head with some sort of built-in support. He stepped back out of the way. As he did, a fairly strong flowery aroma carried back from the open casket. In the absence of huge off-setting floral arrangements, there were commercial scents that could be added to the casket to ensure that only a pleasant odour was emitted.

There was definitely a man's body in the casket, but neither one of them appeared to recognize it as John, at first. The body was wearing a nice suit and there was the tie that Wilma had sent in. Above the necktie and shirt collar, the face looked like it was made out of warm plasticine, with cheeks and jowls sagging away and sunken eyes that gave it a concentration camp survivor look. The face colouring looked like a child had picked the wrong Crayola shade when guessing what colour a face should be for her colouring book. Too obvious cheek highlighting suggested the rouge that a helpful volunteer might put on a ninety-eight-year old birthday girl being dragged out of her room to blow out candles at the home. One side of the face seemed to have a distinctive olive background colour and there was clearly some difference in skin texture on the brow showing an attempted chisel-off and buff-out of some disfigurement. Bill looked closely and thought that he could see something like eye-liner marking the edges of the closed eyes and lips. It was probably sealing glue starting to show.

The hands weren't much better. They were neatly crossed over the torso, but looked like they were store dummy's hands roughed up a bit and soaked in water for a few days. Everything about the entire presentation suggested that maybe closing the casket again would be the best idea. Bill was just about to float this suggestion, now that they had seen him, when Wilma burst out.

"Oh, my Johnny! There he is." She paused. "Doan he look good now? Like he could just open his eyes an come back t'us any mint. He's jus like last time I saw him, but now dressed so nice in that fine suit. He looks like he's just restin, don't ya think. Just restin for a bit."

She patted the coffin and seemed ready to pat John too, which prompted all three others to consider how to intercept her, but she turned to them instead.

"I'm sure people'll really appreciate seeing him again, before we send him off. Shame not t'bury him for eternity, looking so good. Shame that you folks did all the work t'get him ready and we're only looking at him for a couple hours then sending him off to the creamtion."

After getting her thoughts out, she finally broke down weeping and leaned onto the poor college kid for support.

Bill and Gary exchanged glances. Even the co-op raised her eyebrows ever so slightly over Wilma's bent head. Clearly none of them shared Wilma's opinion of how good John looked and on what should be done about the obviously well-aged body in the box. But it was her money and her call.

Bill decided that he didn't much give a shit either way. "OK, then. Johnny was sick and all, people won't 'spect too much. Doesn't make much sense just visiting us, who nobody here knows, and a closed box. Maybe we'll just cluster down there in the other end, so's t'kinda keep people movin."

Gary shrugged. He didn't like dealing with old corpses, no matter how well-embalmed and cooled. Gravity and exposure took a toll and there was only so much they could do with make-up. He whispered to the co-op. "Get an aesthetician up here to touch him up a bit. I'll take these two over to my office for a few minutes."

Speaking up, he got an arm behind Wilma and steered her out of the room again. "Let's go over to the office for a minute to cover details for tomorrow. We'll come right back."

The funeral home got busy with the start of evening visits by family and friends at 6:30. As Gary had suggested, the first three tenants were the all-star attractions, with rooms filling and then overflowing. Not that it was a competition, but each family was pleased to see that their show of grief and despair was just a little superior to the one next door, or so they thought. A few overflow relatives wandered down to check in on Mr. Fischer too, not with any avarice, but with the unawares nosiness that only an ethnic senior can pull off.

Wilma and Bill raised their eyes to each person, anticipating that John's crowd was just a little late or maybe was having trouble with traffic or parking. Wilma greeted each person with breath that gave away her forbidden purse mickey, "Oh, hello, c'mon in. I'm his mother."

"Oh, a so sorry, thoughta the room was a-empty; sorta is. Justa lookin. Sorry for your loss-a, mah Nono a-next door."

With similar apologies, when they spoke, each misplaced visitor backed out. Wilma sagged back to her resting state. Bill didn't know what to do with himself. He sure as hell wasn't going to spend any more time than necessary staring at what was left of John.

It wasn't until Dieter Crawford, dragging Mandy something, from the office showed up, that they actually had visitors of their own. Dieter had at first been pleased to see such a big crowd out for John. He hoped that many were clients. He had come with a pocketful of business cards. As he worked his way past the little hanging signs that identified each room occupant, he figured out that the crowd was neither there for John, nor likely high-potential clients in any regard. Old people tended to expect their investments to actually produce some earnings. They had nothing better to do, so called almost every morning to bitch about the slightest decline in any market seen on Bloomberg TV, even if their super-conservative mutual fund was basically paying bank interest, had almost zero connection to an actual market and never really went up or down.

Wilma finally had a live one. Two, if you counted Mandy, who didn't even know who John Fischer was, but had drawn the short straw in the clerical pool.

Wilma moved in quickly, "Oh, hello, c'mon in. I'm his mother."

Dieter took her outstretched hand. "Uh, Dieter. Worked with John. Sorry for your loss. Very tragic how it happened..."

Bill came over with significantly less enthusiasm. He didn't extend a hand, just said, "I'm the brother. We're both from the states, so aren't going to know any of you. Thanks for comin out. Sure that John would 'preciate it."

Dieter was silently cursing his decision to show up. "Shoulda known that prick Fischer wouldn't have any clients that gave a shit about his corpse."

He and Mandy looked at each other, shrugged, then made the long walk of twenty feet over to the casket. Wilma fell in step behind them.

Mandy didn't have a lot of visitation experience, particularly not with an open casket. When they finally got to the appropriate viewing spot, she muttered, just loud enough for Dieter to hear, "Jesus, what the fuck happened to him? Is that really the dead guy? Looks like a bad effort at Halloween."

Dieter caught the movement of Wilma in behind them. "Shush. He was sick, eh? Who knows what they had to work with. Just nod a lot and shut-up."

Wilma had come alongside. "Don't he look so natural, restin like he was jus' sleepin?"

Dieter agreed in principle, "Uh, yeah. John was always a good-lookin guy. Too bad that the illness probably cost him a little, y'know, uh, robustness."

With no one else in the room and Wilma squeezed in close, the two of them were trapped there just a foot or two from the definitely-not-sleeping corpse that looked more like it wanted to fall apart then to wake up. They only got their release when someone else found the room that they intended to come to and entered. Wilma spun and headed over, hand out.

"Oh, hello, c'mon in. I'm his mother."

Jaff Doswell greeted Wilma with more enthusiasm than the first two. He was an old hand at death and its accouterments, having penned lots of obituaries and eulogies. Many necessarily required meeting the grieving family members at the funeral home. He found that even the simplest of people had a story to tell, when you asked them and listened hard. He didn't particularly like the specialization he had developed, but he knew that his work was appreciated by lots of folks who couldn't write the story on their own.

"I'm Jaff." He paused when he didn't get any response. "The writer."

Wilma still gave him back a completely blank look.

"I wrote up the obituary for the paper. I talked to you and Bill on the telephone and you told me some nice things about John."

Wilma was nodding, but Jaff couldn't tell if it was an understanding nod or just a polite 'don't-have-a-clue' nod. Fortunately, Bill came over and helped out.

"Wilma, this is the guy wrote the nice thing in the paper 'bout John."

She smiled now, "Oh. Oh yes, it was very nice."

Bill couldn't help rolling his eyes, but then took over the conversation.

"Not too many folks yet, but guess they'll be around. Really did 'preciate the nice write-up and also yer note for the eulogy-thing tomorra. I couldn't put nuthin together. Just not my thing. Reading what ya wrote, pretty clear I dint know Johnny at all lately."

"Well, I'm happy to help." Jaff brought Wilma back into the conversation by now taking her hand. "I'm so sorry for your family's loss. It is tragic when a young man dies. Illness or not, it certainly feels like it was much too soon."

Wilma now started to tear-up, as other than Jaff and Gary, who was paid to be nice, hardly anybody else had said how sorry they were about John.

"D'ya want to come over t'take a look at Johnny? They did him up real nice."

"Not right away, thank-you Wilma. I'm just going to talk t'Bill here a bit first. No rush to go or anything. I'll just take in the room a bit first."

Wilma gave her ambiguous nod again and turned away. She started to head back to the first two people to come in. They had made their escape from beside the casket and were now lingering in the back corner of the room.

Jaff was looking for anything he had missed the first time he talked to Bill. "So, Bill, I wanted to talk to you again about John's passing. Did you get a chance to ask your lawyer about seeking some damages from the subway company?"

"Ah no. Been back t'deal with some financial issues, but we ain't talked about that kinda stuff. It's usually different kind o' lawyer needed t'pursue that sorta thing, isn't it? Sure is in the states. They got billboards up on every corner."

Bill had some experience with the courts as more than one of his 'customers' ended up suing the contractors he hooked them up with. It was one reason why he never got involved in the actual job quote or payment to those guys. If asked, he would just say that he depended on their stated qualifications in passing on a referral. If it got too hot, he folded up his tent under the current business name and reopened under another. His own sleazy lawyer just put him back in business under a new incorporated shell that had no assets, so he was never much of a target for lawsuits.

Jaff continued, "Well, I'll still keep my eye on it, if you don't mind. No charge, of course. Just an interest thing for me, now that I know John's story and you folks so well. Feel like I'm kinda close to the family. Maybe you hook up with the right kind of lawyer, I can help out later."

Bill had heard the magic words 'no charge', so was open to any help he could get for free.

"Sure, sure. We're probably gonna need t'head home sometime next week. Just got t'clean out the 'partment. Funniest thing, turns out Johnny rented all his furniture. Imagine that, real high-end stuff an all rented. They're pick'n it up Tuesday. We just got t'dump the clothes we don't want in t'the Sally Ann and we can go home.

Gonna drive back to Chicago, put Mom on a plane there to Reno. Lot cheaper. Lawyer says he can call us if'n he needs anything else. Or maybe my lawyer in Chicago will handle stuff. Be back to deal with little bit o'money and such, maybe in two months."

Jaff now nodded agreement, "Oh, so no loose ends, then? That's pretty good. Most families have a lot of tricky details to look after, sometimes having to sell houses or cars, sell a business, that kind of thing."

He paused for a moment, he wanted to lead the questions somewhere, but wasn't sure where yet. Money seemed to get Bill's interest.

"John didn't have a lot of assets, eh? Thought that he was doing pretty well in the investment business."

He let the idea hang there for a moment, then continued, "Maybe he didn't do as well as it appeared. Always a crap-shoot—even the most successful business guys will tell you that they got wiped out more than once taking a gamble. Or maybe, he was just good at hiding his money."

"Tell me about that." Bill shook his head as if commiserating on the challenges of success. "I've gone broke, more than once. Tough haul to get back on your feet. Not sure about hidin things though. D'ya know somethin about him? Like somethin you found out?"

Jaff just shrugged. "Lots of people have secrets. Some go to the grave with them."

Bill looked around and stepped in closer. Even though there were only five of them, six if you included John, in the big room, he whispered to Jaff.

"Say, do you know anything about safety deposit boxes?" He paused and looked around again. "Like how someone might get a look into one without, you know, uh, givin away the farm, to like the tax guys or the queen?"

Jaff was confused by 'the queen' part but had now found something intriguing. A safety deposit box might have something in it that Kamal Lewis would want to get at as well.

"Not sure about that. If, say, someone who died had a safety deposit box, the estate executor would normally present papers to the bank to open it and put a value on what is in there, for probate. Bank probably wouldn't just let him take it away until probate ruling came through."

"Yeah, guess that's right, but I was kinda wondering 'bout if the bank wasn't like completely up t'speed, y'know, like maybe didn't know that the guy was gone. Maybe somebody else could fake his permission t'take a look. Nothing to be removed, y'know. Not stealin. But maybe not everything needs t'be the business of the govment. Know what I'm sayin?"

Jaff nodded again. "Yeah, can see how that would be useful. Sort of like just looking." He turned to lean in and speak closely, as if buying in as a co-conspirator. "Guess it would involve some impersonation. Not sure how legal that is. Obviously, no-one would want to tell a friend to break the law."

Bill shook his head. "Yeah, that's the problem. Even with ID and all, that maybe could pass, buddy wouldn't want t'get caught."

Jaff wasn't about to actually become a co-conspirator, but keeping Bill scheming was OK. Scheming people made mistakes and he made hay with mistakes.

"Guess, it's one of those 'risk-reward' things. If this guy's family had it all coming to them anyway, guy might be able to just apologize later and claim he didn't know any better."

Bill was still downcast. "Yeah, if the stuff was comin t'the whole family like, not just to a drunk old broad."

As if on cue, Wilma piped up with her greeting.

"Oh, hello, c'mon in. I'm his mother."

The three-person group in the doorway finally held some real interest for Jaff. One was black. Could this be Kamal Lewis, now John Fischer, come to look over his old body? A moment of observation seemed to shoot down that theory. This guy was young alright, but clearly hadn't been shot-up two weeks prior. He was very light on his feet. He actually had his arm through the arm of a craggy white guy, who from appearances only, was likely gay. His red jacket and gold lamé scarf kind of gave him away. At least somebody had dressed up to visit John.

The third guy looked just plain bored and might even have been security for the other two. Jaff watched the threesome with only apparent polite interest, but was studying every move they each made. Only the bored one, returned the interest in every other person in the room.

The craggy guy ignored Wilma entirely, said nothing and steamed over to the casket dragging his companion halfway there until he squealed, "Ouuh!", released himself and u-turned back to the safety of the doorway. He had obviously caught sight of the boxed remains, so fascinating to his partner. Security dude just hovered there, now playing mother duck to the nervous black kid hiding behind him.

Wilma had caught up with craggy at the casket and tried her greeting again.

This time he responded, "Oh my apologies. I'm Lee. Friend of John's." He slowly shook his head. "Just such a shock." He was staring hard at the remains as if trying hard to confirm that the droopy, mis-coloured visage was actually that of his friend. There was some doubt, for sure.

Wilma tried out her 'don't he look good speech' but got no response, so eventually lost interest and headed off towards the remainder of the little group, hovering tentatively very near the door.

Wilma's departure was Jaff's cue to go over and take a look at John. He walked up silently beside craggy.

"Shame that he looks a little sad, eh? Couple weeks in the cooler will do that."

Lee gave him one look up and down, then decided that maybe he was the brother, so needed to talk to him. "Two weeks, huh? Seems like just a couple days ago I talked to him. They sure he died that long ago?"

Jaff had another possibility to work on. "Well, seems to be some question for sure. You say that you talked to him when exactly?"

Craggy didn't respond immediately. Jaff tried another approach.

"I'm Jaff, by the way. Also a close friend, of the family, now."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I'm Lee." He didn't offer a handshake. "Guess we were more business associates, but I like John enough. Er, liked, I guess."

Jaff wasn't going to let the first comment go. "I was surprised that they said he died that long ago, too. Remember talking to him as well on the weekend. On the phone, that is."

Lee was still a little uncertain, but wasn't the kind of guy to give much away. "Yeah, me too, I thought. Guess I just lost track of the days. Nothing to do about it, eh? Dead is dead, doesn't really matter how long."

Jaff knew he wasn't going to get anymore, but here was a guy that maybe John in his new body had talked to on the phone and decided to not tell him that he was technically dead. If they were in business together, Lee might be key to connecting with John.

Lee had enough of the casket. "Say, can you point me to his brother? Uh, Bill, I think? I need to talk to him, er, to give my condolences."

"I'll take you over." Jaff couldn't pass up the opportunity to listen in on this conversation. Why does a guy who apparently doesn't have anything to do with this family really need to talk to the brother? Other than maybe, to deliver some kind of message from John.

Jaff introduced Lee to Bill and now there was an extended hand. Jaff could see Bill getting a little squirmy about a guy who looked like a homo getting in close, but he was polite enough in his one-word answers.

"Oh, hi Bill, I'm Lee, friend of John's. We actually live in the same building. He talked about you. Thought I'd say how sorry I am."

"You the guy got his plant?"

"Oh, yeah. When he was in hospital at first, he asked me to water it. It's little, I just took it home. Do you want it back?"

"No, no. Don't give a shit about no plant. Toss it, if it's a problem. Thanks fer that, I guess."

"Say, uh Bill, do you think that we could take a little walk out to the hallway? I need to discuss something personal about John. Kind of a last wish. But, it's a little secret, you know."

Lee gave Jaff a look to say, "You're not invited."

Bill looked at Jaff, shrugged and said, "OK, I guess. Could use a piss anyway."

Lee nodded, "Good idea, let's go hang our cocks out."

Lee grinned at Jaff briefly, figuring he got the joke, if maybe Bill didn't. He put an arm behind Bill and encouraged him towards the door. As they passed, the two companions fell in step behind, with the security guy giving the room one last menacing look. Jaff decided that it wouldn't be wise to try to follow. There was definitely something about Lee. He had seen it before. Lee was a criminal with money.

Bill was gone for a surprisingly long time. In the interval, a couple other friends showed up. One was originally from Kitchener and went to school with John. Jaff observed that she might have been a girlfriend who maybe wished he hadn't got away. She actually had a discussion with Wilma about remembering her from back then. Wilma was clueless, but happy to have a little crowd gathering.

A couple more were clients, who were polite enough with Jaff as a friend of the family until Dieter swooped in and started pumping them for their investment plans, now. Jaff moved away, not wanting to get caught in the over-compensating niceness on both sides.

Bill finally came back into the room. He looked a little pale and definitely hadn't benefitted from the fresh air, if their walk had got that far. He looked like a guy that could use a drink. Jaff kept an eye on him for any urgent conversations with Wilma, but he just stood there, kind of stunned. Eventually Jaff walked over to him.

"You OK? You look like the stress of all this is maybe getting to you."

Bill took a moment to settle whatever thoughts were going through his head.

"No, I'm OK. Just a little tired, I guess."

"Did Lee have a strange last request, like John be buried in his car or something?"

"Car? No John didn't have no car. Least not anymore. Nothin like that at all. Nothin at all, actually."

Jaff was waiting for more. Bill was clearly distracted by something.

He looked around, then said, "Say, uh Jaff, you know how we were discussing that thing 'bout safety deposit boxes, y'know?"

Jaff nodded, "Yeah, about how to get into one."

Bill was nervous. "Well, just forget about that OK. Ain't no safety deposit box to worry about. I was just blowing some hot air, pretending maybe there was one. Ain't one. OK?"

Jaff knew that there was a box and that Lee knew it too. "Uh, sure. We were just talking about maybe if there was one, right? Nobody ever said there was. I don't recall that at all."

Bill looked a little relieved, but still very unsettled. "That's right. Ain't no box."

Jaff hung around until the place was clearly closing up. He hadn't encountered Kamal Lewis as he hoped, but it had been a productive evening, considering that he had basically stood in one spot and let the story come to him.

Bill definitely had a secret and it was probably in the shape of a safety deposit box key that he had come across and decided to keep secret. If John didn't have a lot of money stashed anywhere else, it was probably in the box.

John was almost certainly alive and well somewhere and had taken the chance to talk to Lee about the box, but hadn't told him that he was dead. Or maybe he had, but Lee hadn't believed him. Either way, John was guessing that there was no way that as Kamal Lewis, he was getting at it on his own. He needed help. John had to reach out to somebody.

Lee has enough of an interest in the box contents that he probably threatened Bill into revealing its location. But if the contents are just a little money, why take any risk to get at it? Just let Bill have it. So, there is something else in the box. Maybe, John was a crook too and whatever he locked away is incriminating to others. Safety against being murdered maybe—really inconvenient when you die, without really dying.

Jaff was looking forward to the funeral now. Who knew what other characters, including maybe Kamal Lewis himself, might show up?

# Chapter Fourteen - Bill Meet Lee

The entire process of going to a funeral home was a major pain in the ass for Lee Deviers. First it was something he needed to do rather than something he wanted to do. He had a rule in life that said: only do what you want to do. Anything else, you paid somebody to deal with it. Very few tasks were imposed on him.

Next, it meant going across town and finding his way onto turf that was going to be very unfamiliar. Unfamiliar meant dangerous in his opinion. He was familiar with his preferred bars, with his preferred restaurants and with his preferred companions. He could fix part of that by taking someone along for company and by getting a ride from the value-added limo service that employed drivers who legally carried pistols. But, still, he was humping out into the night for the stupidest reason of not believing something he read on the fucking Internet.

"John is dead." He tried it over again a few times. Yes, it was possible, he guessed. He said that he was pretty sick, quarantined in fact, with some bug that they probably needed nuke-level antibiotics to kill. But he sounded OK. Rough and slow, but OK. How the fuck did he go from that to dead? And what was with this mixed-up date of death in the reports? Clearly, he had been alive enough to carry on a conversation just last week-end. Made no sense.

So, he had to go. Maybe see the body, maybe not. If the disease was contagious, maybe they closed up the body in a bag or something inside the casket. At least he could connect with the brother who probably has the safety box key. Persuade him not to go nosing around. Turn over the key. That probably didn't need a threat, just an offer of enough money. But, then how the hell to get into the box without John?

He couldn't let the bank open it. First thing they would do is to check the LBMA registration of the mint for the gold bars. That was a problem, because there was probably three times the misidentified gold hitting the market than the Panabinga mint could ever produce, if it was still even operating. Anyone in authority would want to know where the new gold came from. Wouldn't take long for Treasury to start tracking backwards, which would mean shutting down and dusting the entire operation, at least temporarily. The families wouldn't be happy. He had heard about what happened when the families got unhappy. The guy who screwed this up was already dead. They would need a stand-in to feel that they had made their point. He had good reason to be pissed.

He called up a companion as he was sure that he would need to go out and get blitzed after the agony of the visit. Charles, as he liked to be called, wasn't the best choice for the first part, but he was more than adequate for the blitzed part and the sleep-over part that he would need to get over this. He took himself up on the option of a security driver too. Not that anyone would be too dangerous at the home, but maybe as the evening wore on, having someone watching over his stoned ass would be prudent.

As they collected 'Charlie' in the car, he sprang the funeral home visit part of the night as a surprise.

Charles acted wounded, "What the fuck? I can't go into a funeral home. Flowers make me sick and all the sad people, make me want to cry. Who is this guy you're visiting anyway? Maybe I'll just stay in the car."

Lee was dismissive. "Don't worry about that. You'll just prance along and give me some support. Try not to outrage any old people. Guy was a friend is all you need to know. Need to check in on him one time and I'm sure as hell not going to a whole funeral. Quick in and out visit. Need to talk some business with his brother. Easy stuff. Just bear up like a man."

Charles feigned taking offence at something in the directions, perhaps the man part, but decided, as most people did with Lee, to shut-up and get it over with.

At the funeral home, the driver dropped them at the door, then went up the street and parked in a handicapped reserved spot. He flipped a 'specialized transportation' card with the standard wheel chair logo onto the dash. He laughed when he came back to them. "Try to limp a little when we come out."

Inside the home, Charles had the worst of his expectations come true. The long corridor to the viewing rooms was rank with flower stink, combined with mothball-infused coats on the ancient men and a vague sewer-like aroma from the silent farts of the old ladies. He was tempted to hold his nose as Lee dragged him through the crowd down to the last room.

He grunted, "Just keep moving. The sooner we get in there, the sooner we get out of here."

Inside the room, five sets of eyes swung to them as they emerged through the doorway. Lee had intentionally picked something bright to avoid feeling like he was doing the sackcloth mourning thing. He spied the casket and charged over, despite an old lady's attempt to intercept him. Charlie was dragged along only until he caught sight of the open casket, then he shrieked and bailed out. Lee gave him a nasty look, but let him go.

As he got close to the casket, he needed a minute to place what he was seeing against the memory of John in his head. There was no resemblance. This might be an explanation. It was a different guy. Mistaken identity. Must happen once in a while.

The old lady came over and tried to engage him again, but he ignored her. She had said that she was his mother. Lee didn't know anything about John's family, except that he had a brother who was a scumbag. When a guy moved in next to him, he figured that's who it was.

As he tried to make sense of the face in front of him, the two weeks ago date-of-death now seemed to fit. Now, he could even see a little of John in the sad face. With some effort, he could now see him. It wasn't a mistake; this could be his John Fischer.

The guy beside him introduced himself and Lee immediately forgot who he was, except that he wasn't the brother. The guy actually started an awkward conversation suggesting that he thought John had been alive last week-end as well. Lee never gave anything away, but couldn't help himself in agreeing with him. He quickly covered it up. No mistakes.

The older guy introduced the brother: Bill. He looked a hell of a lot more like John than the apparition in the casket. Little extra weight and a little less hair, but pretty close. More confirmation that John was dead. They made some small talk, he said the expected thing about the loss and that was that. He needed to talk to the brother alone and the first guy seemed awfully nosy.

He figured polite might be worth a try. "Say, uh Bill, do you think that we could take a little walk out to the hallway? I need to discuss something personal about John. Kind of a last wish. But, it's a little secret, you know."

Bill looked at Jaff, shrugged and said, "OK, I guess. Could use a piss anyway."

"Good idea, let's go hang our cocks out."

Lee could tell that Bill was one of those guys who never said anything derogatory about being gay to your face, but who thought it and was quick to laugh or join in if someone else slagged a 'fag'. He could put up with any attitude as long as it didn't get in the way of making money. Charlie might not be as understanding. He would keep them apart.

Bill actually did head into the washroom. Lee told his companions to keep an eye out for any eavesdroppers, particularly the nosy friend, but to keep their distance so the brother wouldn't feel intimidated. He meant 'squirrely' around one too many queers, but didn't need any pushback, so made it a no-discussion direction.

When Bill came out, he suggested that they get away from the crowd, so they went outside and found an alcove alongside the driveway.

"OK Bill, this should do. Sorry for the secrecy, but it's really for your protection."

"Protection? From what?"

"Well, it's hard to be the one to tell you, but your brother wasn't 100% legal in everything he did. In fact, a good percentage of him was crooked."

"Crooked? How?"

"Well, how he made his money, for one thing."

"Jesus, knew somethin wasn't right. He cheatin on taxes or somethin?" Bill imagined the money bags flying off again.

"No, nothing so simple, though he may have done that too, for all I know." Lee paused, looked around and leaned in towards Bill, so he could continue in a whisper.

"He was a money man for the mob."

Bill gasped, "The mob? You mean like the mafia?"

Lee nodded, "Well, yeah, sort of. Them, couple biker gangs, Chinese syndicate, Russian thugs, you name it, John was into it."

Lee was rhyming off every badass criminal bunch he could think off, without mentioning the Indian gold merchants that they actually worked for. He wanted Bill scared enough to be happy to run away later, after he came up with a solution by himself.

"Damn. Thas a bad bunch. You figure they killed him?"

"No, no. He died of the damn infection they couldn't cure. Didn't they tell you that?"

"Infection? Nope, said it was his head bleeding inside. From the fall. But, fuck, maybe that wasn't no accident then. Maybe, he was pushed."

Lee considered a little extra paranoia useful, so went along with the suggestion.

He nodded again. "Kinda makes more sense doesn't it? Who just falls down stairs and then dies? Maybe they visited the hospital, like in Godfather, you know?"

Bill was buying it. "Jesus, that's right. Fuckers probably came in and pillowed him."

The fantasy had gone far enough for Lee's purpose. He didn't want Bill so frightened that got on a plane or anything else too stupid.

"Whatever. It's OK. I know that they're gone away now and no threat to you or to your mother. No grudges held, eh? Whatever John was in on or screwed up, if he did, is over now, except for one thing that we need to do to make sure that they're satisfied."

Bill's eyes got wider. He knew enough knee-breakers in his business that he didn't want any chance of real mob resentment coming his way.

"What's that? Got no fucking money, if's that's what they 'spect. Not yet anyway. Maybe down the road gettin a little. Months from now, maybe."

He was genuinely scared, but still thinking. Lee had the motivation he was looking for. Now to get him to propose the solution.

"No, no. They only want one thing. It's not much at all, considering."

"What's that?"

"Well John had some counterfeit bullion he was moving for them. You know, gold. Would be in little bars, maybe weigh half a pound each. Might be fifteen-twenty pounds in all. He probably hid it somewhere in his apartment or something. He was supposed to pass it on to somebody to sell for them. But I guess he never got to it. Too bad, because it's actually pretty easy money when sold."

Bill was confused. "Counterfeit gold? What the hell is that? How do you know about it?"

Lee leaned in even closer, now almost touching heads. He put one hand on Bill's arm, noticing no reaction, so he had him thinking only about the mindfuck problem he now had.

"Well, here I have to admit something." He paused. "I've sold some too."

Bill blinked, but leaned back a bit, so was still believing.

"So, they after you too?"

Lee shook his head. "No, not yet anyway, they just want me to get the stuff that John has and sell it like he was supposed to do."

Bill shrugged, "But he doan have it no more. He's dead 'n all."

Lee looked around again. "So, guess that means that you've got the problem then. You've got all his stuff now. We really need to find it."

Bill thought about this for a minute. He hadn't seen anything like gold bars. He could see himself ending up on the wrong end of a beating, trying to explain he didn't know anything. How the fuck was he supposed to return gold that he never even knew existed? This homo wasn't helping any by looking around like nasty fuckers were lurking in the bushes or somethin. Then, the possible answer dawned on him.

He brightened up. "I bet I know where it is. Found a safety box key, y'know, from a bank. Bet that's where he stashed it. Could fit, eh? Wouldn't just leave shit like that laying around. But, no way to get at it that I can figure."

Lee feigned surprise. "Maybe?"

He paused. "That's a good idea. You've got the key and you're the executor, aren't you? You can just go and check it out."

"Nope, can't. Jaff, the newspaper guy in there, toll me, if I tell the bank he's dead they lock up the box for 'spection. Got t'valuate everthing in there. Counterfeit gold would be a big fuckin problem. They'd probly grab it out. Call the cops. Shit, shit, shit."

He was too distraught, Lee had to pull him back.

He patted Bill's arm. "No, no. We don't want to tell the bank anything until we have a solution figured out. No danger yet. I can tell the mob it's safe for now, that we're just figuring out how to get it back. Guess if we can get it, the money can just come to you."

Bill snapped back. "Money?"

Lee smiled and said, "Yeah, maybe twenty-grand. If I can sell it for them, that's the commission. Would have been John's, but now it's yours. Strictly off the books though, eh?"

Bill's anxiety was instantly placated with greed. Lee could see the change come over him like the sun coming out from behind clouds. John had been right, he was an easy mark. Now, he would do anything that Lee suggested and for only about 10% of the actual value of the, very real, gold. This was a pretty good solution.

Lee turned him back towards the door. "Tell you what, Bill, you sit on things. Don't say anything to anybody else about that key. Don't leave town until I call you with a solution. I'll check with some guys. We'll come up with something to fix this. I'm sure that it's nothing. Maybe good news after all."

Bill was still really nervous but, like most suckers, had just put a pretty low value on his life. Twenty-grand was apparently enough to risk it. He'd hang around. Lee just had to come up with a means to get into that box. He also had to worry about the nosy guy becoming more nosy. Jaff, yeah, that was his name. Wrote for the newspapers apparently, so very dangerous. Maybe more dangerous than the pretend mob.

Lee rounded up the other two. He and Charlie did an exaggerated paired limp over to the limo. He was done with the required business and it was out of his head. He sent Bill back in to the home after grabbing a business card from him. Bill stood there, sort of expecting one back, but Lee didn't use them. Very few people had his address, his cell number or his email info. He didn't post anything and wasn't likely to show up in a Google search. The odd time somebody tried to tag him in something they posted, he had it killed pretty quickly. For the few people that were OK to call, memorization was recommended. If his phone got too busy, he changed numbers. They learned, you waited for Lee to call you.

The trio headed back downtown to one of his favourite village bars. It was early, but that was OK as he needed an early night in order to work on his problem more or less clear-headed in the morning. He knew some guys in the banking side of the brokerage business. They'd probably knew somebody in the retail end. Somewhere in there he would get some confidential advice on how to get into a safety deposit box without the owner actually being present. It really was too bad that John was dead—this whole escapade would be a lot easier with him around to just go in and get the damn bars back.

He was three vodka martinis into what he planned to be only a six-drink evening when his cell rang. He ignored it. Whoever called knew better than to leave a message. There was no tell-tale bing of the 'new message' alert. Thirty-seconds later it rang again. He ignored it again. It was pattern he recognized, but now wondered if some computer dialer was just mimicking the sequence that he suggested to very few people, when they really needed to raise him.

He took the phone out and waited. Sure enough, at thirty-seconds it rang again. This time he had the benefit of caller display. He didn't recognize the 647-area number. He let it ring out. But the pattern had him intrigued. He waited. Thirty seconds later the same number called again. Enough of this. His finger was poised over the 'block' key. But, instead, against his better judgement, he answered it.

"Yeah, what?"

"Lee, it's John."

# Chapter Fifteen - Muma Sees a Daemon

John in Kamal hung-on in his mother's living room until Michelle had to leave for work. It was a struggle against the pain that he finally gave into with one of his hospital-issue pain killers. He knew that every pill he took was potentially the one that would put him past the place of no easy return. He rationalized that if he was still in the hospital, he would definitely be given a pill whenever he needed it. The effect was immediate, with the pain subsiding, but the edges of his perception were rounded off again.

He would crash as soon as he had seen Michelle off with another hug, kissed his, er, Kamal's daughter one more time and enjoyed some of Muma's cooking. All three experiences were new and surprisingly exciting.

He had tested the 'sharing' sentiment in his head a few times. He knew that Kamal was gone—he had to believe this to accept wanting to make love to his wife. Old Kamal wouldn't be anything to tiny Isabelle. Regaining Muma's trust, if not her legitimate love, was kind of sharing with Kamal's memory. He was the only person who knew that Kamal's time in this body was over, so he thought of it as kind of a fair deal for both of them. Plus, he still couldn't be absolutely sure that Kamal was actually gone. Maybe they had swapped bodies, like in the comedy movies. Maybe his old body would come charging through the door claiming to be Kamal. He'd decided to give it some time before bedding his wife. Better safe than dead, again.

Michelle helped him into the single bed. "Sorry, I'm gonna be gone so long babe. Full shift is a long haul, but we needs the money, so got to do it. Ya Muma gonna take care a'ya. Izzy be sleepin too, mostly. Maybe ya hear her up, you get up to. Got t'keep a little active, eh?"

"Hurtin all over is such a pain." John flashed Michelle a grin. "But ya make it much better, 'babe'." He guessed that he had flubbed the pet name thing, but got a little smile back for the joke anyway.

John knew that he had to get some rest, but he also had his agenda of stuff that needed to be done running constantly in his head. He still didn't know what was going on in his old life. Had he just disappeared? Was his old body packed up and disposed of? He had money owing from the company, but had little chance of getting it without doing the crazy thing, which he couldn't do and still keep Michelle. For her, he could only be Kamal.

He had the stake he needed in the safe deposit, but couldn't just go get it as Kamal. Lee might be able to help, but even he couldn't get at the gold easily. Then there were the dangerous criminal types hanging around the outside edges. The gold syndicate might kill to make a point, but of course he was already technically dead, so that wasn't as much of a concern.

Dillon and Lenny were a more immediate threat. They were tense and expected Kamal to act in line with homey smarts even if he was out of that life. He only had the 'amnesia' ploy as his excuse for being stupid with them. Lenny already seemed like he wasn't buying it. There were lots of other gang members pretty nearby. Who had Kamal known well enough to offend by not remembering him? The healthier he got, the more pressure there would be to show some deference and maybe respect in ways he knew nothing about.

He figured out his priorities. He had to talk to Lee. Maybe he had to talk to Bill. The house phone would be good enough if he could get some privacy. But, for return calls he needed a cellphone. He needed to hit Google to see what was going on with his old life. Then, he had to plan out an escape route from the threats. He drooped a little as he thought everything through. None of it was possible as long as he was half-conscious and barely able to move. Recovery was the first priority. Everything else depended on that.

John woke with a start. The moment-back baby's cry was just as sudden and something he would have to get used too. Izzy tended to sleep very well until she didn't. Then she let the world know, mostly that she was hungry, but also that she was done with sleep for a couple hours. At only seven-months old, she wasn't getting up in her crib and yelling yet, but she could certainly trash her blanket and make sure that no-one else in the house was sleeping.

John had no experience with a baby, so when the crying persisted, he started to think that maybe Muma had gone out and left him in charge. He didn't know exactly what to do, but figured he needed to do something. Her cries sounded desperate.

He struggled to get his feet on the floor and then to pull himself up with his good hand on the dresser, to a shaky standing position. He willed his feet to start moving towards the door. It was a great opportunity to focus, "Fuck the pain."

As he finally got out into the hall and started towards Izzy's room across the little hall from the dining room, Muma came out of the kitchen with a warmed bottle in her hand.

"Oh, sonny, you'sa up. Not need t'darlin, Isabella jus be done sleepin and wantin her bottle. Ya kin get back'n bed fer some more rest. An doan be fall down, I'sa never gets ya up on da feet, probly." She laughed at her little joke and John grinned.

John hobbled after her into Kamal's old room that had been vacated for the basement apartment, including his double bed, but was now back in service as the stand-in nursery with Muma taking most of the baby-care duties. He was amazed how the experienced hands of a mother, or grandmother, lifted and changed the baby with little concern for fragility or fussing. Once dressed again and eagerly draining her bottle, Izzy was a perfectly happy little tyke.

He said, "I'm gonna sit in the front room again. Please give her t'me...Muma."

Muma blinked a couple times. "You'sa want t'feed d'baby?"

John sensed that the question wasn't just about his injured state, but was telling him something about Kamal. Yes, he was a father, but maybe not yet a daddy. So, being tentative here might be OK.

"Yeah, I'd like to. Sorry I sound so strange. Don't know why neither. But, being near dead once, feeling now I'd better live fer Isabella and Michelle, and fer you too, Muma."

He was testing out an empathetic approach and a little slang that was certainly mostly tactical, to ensure that he was on the good side of these folks. But he also felt that way about his own life. He did anything he wanted to do, but it was all about him. Others were just there as so many on-stage extras. Now he had to bring them into his story as meaningful characters.

After they were settled, his mother sat and watched him with Izzy. She was there to take her back if holding her and playing a little with her became too much for him. She also wanted to watch him carefully for any sign that he was the child she had raised for twenty-five years. She knew his every mannerism, most of which reflected the reality that the last ten of those years had been spent out on the city streets in the company of a lot of bad-influence gangstas.

His worst years were of late, until Michelle came along. But maybe she was just another girl. There had been lots of those. Could be she was different, maybe stronger, maybe more of a match for Kamal's headstrong personality. Even then it might not have lasted. But then came a baby. She made it clear that if Kamal wanted anything to do with his child, he was going to have to clean up his act.

Surprisingly, he agreed, they got married and it was working. He was employed at a good job. Comin home after, mostly. Then he gets shot down. Muma didn't know what would happen now. There was an angry Kamal that hadn't gone very far away before. Muma didn't know if he was comin back. She was watching carefully. But, so far, what she saw worried her for a different reason.

Muma grew up on an island in the Caribbean where polite society hadn't yet smoothed over and hidden all of the strange things that can happen to human beings. In Canada, strangeness was called illness and treated with drugs or hospitalization. In her native land and in her time, strangeness in someone had still been rightly called a daemon or an enchantment.

Muma's family was particularly susceptible t'daemons, it seemed. Her own mother was reduced to silent distraction late in life by an evil neighbour's enchantment cast on her. A cousin was possessed by a cruel spirit that talked to him most of his life.

Her only sister had come out of near-death malaria with a conviction that she was someone else. She had talked differently. She had acted differently. She even tried to leave to return to her 'other' life, or so the daemon inside her said, when they brought her back. The daemon was smart, convincing and very tricky. The old priest and the magic houngans man had finally joined forces to drive out the intruder with bindings and incantations. They never knew if they actually did, but at least the daemon was compelled to silence for what remained of her life. She died in a relapse three years later.

When you are close to death, you are susceptible to daemons who linger waiting for weakness to let them in. Kamal had nearly died. Now Muma wondered if she was looking at a daemon living in her son.

John in Kamal needed to use the telephone. He had to check in with Lee to see if he had any luck finding the safety deposit box key. He wanted to find out what Lee might know about his old life. He needed to begin the conversation that would eventually result in him revealing a whole new, differently-coloured body to Lee. He still wasn't sure how that would work, but one step at a time.

He had a logistical problem. Muma was watching him like a hawk. He assumed that it was out of concern for his condition and hoped-for full-recovery. He suspected that she might be less of an easy-sell on his new 'Kamal' personality than Michelle. His 'wife' needed him back and had lots of other things to worry about, including being out of the house earning money for nine or ten hours every day. Muma was just here. As long as he couldn't get out of here on his own, he was too.

He had been up a couple hours. It was after 7:00 p.m. Michelle wouldn't be home until well after 11:00. The baby was back in the crib, just about asleep. Would Muma take a rest too? Or, maybe if he appeared fit enough, she might even consider going out on errands. He had no idea what was walking distance from the house. She probably took a bus somewhere, like he apparently did, as they told him he had been shot while walking home from the bus.

A city bus was an uncertain concept for him—he hadn't been on one since he was a kid in Kitchener. Subway, just bearable. Bus, forget it! But, the rest of them used them, so he would probably have to as well, until Lee delivered his stake in a new life.

He offered, "Uh, Muma, why don't ya get some rest once the baby is sleepin? I kin look after myself well-enough. Not going anywhere, but I want t'stay up so I kin sleep at night. How about it?"

Muma looked at him like he had suggested that she should go out dancing. He got back a mixture of surprise and suspicion. She actually came over and poked him a couple times, saying something in patois that he didn't understand.

She chanted, "Dat d'fireborosie? Chat di truut. Put guzum pon im? Doah inna him body?"

John blinked and smiled. Then he wondered if a smile was the wrong response. He tried changing to a serious face, but the change of expression didn't seem to satisfy her.

He responded, "I can't understand the island talking, Muma. Maybe I once did, but I've forgotten it all. Hope it comes back, but for now, I need you to speak English."

Crap, he had forgotten to insert some slang and to round off his 'ing' words. He wasn't winning any points with her.

Muma considered and tried again. "I be askin if you feelin alright in da head boy? You'sa never bin too concern about ma weariness afore. Almost, a liken you be a diff'rnt person in dere. You bein Kamal or you bein somebody else a'now?"

John was taken aback. He was being called out by Kamal's mother, who didn't seem to have any problem suspecting that he was inhabiting her son's body. Words from her to Michelle might start her wondering too and that could end everything he hoped for in a new life. The wrong words to Dillon and he could end up dead, again.

He tried to think quickly. If she thought that he was some kind of evil spirit, then she also thought that Kamal was still in there, just taken over. It might work and might get him some sympathy and some working time. But, what would she do about the evil spirit? Better not to go down that road, entirely.

"Muma, ya dink thasa bein wrong mit me? Da spirit doan pushin me'sa down."

It was a blatant attempt at mimickery and probably sounded like shit, but he had to take a shot.

She shrieked, "Kamal, dat you in dere?"

"Yah Muma, jusa bein in here, too. Can't hears ya so well. Sleepin now. Sleepin. So tired."

John knew that he couldn't keep it up, so faded his speech, rolled his eyes up, shook his body and, apparently, fell unconscious. He waited, listening and wondering if the next thing to happen would be getting hit in the face with a towel soaked in goat piss or something equally nasty, intended to drive the spirit out. The silence in the room begged a peek, but he kept his head down and waited her out.

Muma now considered her son's apparently unconscious body. She was a practicing Catholic now, so would need t'get her priest's advice. But da holy father was a second-generation kid from Sudbury, who knowed his bible catechism well enough, but probably didn't know shit 'bout spirits.

Jesus be driven im out, but that was a long time ago. She had to ask around for island advice. One thing, she knew well enough, if you fooled with a spirit in someone, the spirit might leave and take the person with im, leaving da 'coma' behind. Most people in da coma just bein a vegetable with nobody in dere. Couldn't risk that. She could play the spirit's game until she was ready to drive him out quick-like.

Muma gently shook John back awake.

"Das alright my son, no problem here. Preciate y'concern. Maybe I take dat rest. You'sa too. Maybe take nother one dem pills makes ya feel better."

John doubted that he had convinced her of anything, but he hoped that the play to her superstition had at least bought him some adjustment space. She would still be watching his every move, but, perhaps, in time, the polite and considerate spirit might eventually win her over too. The more he heard, the more old Kamal sounded like a self-centred jerk. They actually had a lot in common, funny enough. But now he had a prize worth changing for. If Kamal had been a cautious gambler on a life with Michelle and Izzy, he was all-in for the biggest pot of his life and was determined to win. One thing he knew for sure, he wouldn't be taking any more pills, at least not more than a Tylenol. He would need all his wits to figure this game out. The pain would help to keep him focused.

John raised his head and blinked, as if coming awake or coming back from somewhere.

"Thank-you mother. I'm pleased that you will let me look after myself while I recover. Certainly, we both want Kamal back, just as he was. I expect that will be very soon, with your understanding." Now, he smiled broadly.

The precise language and third-person reference were intentional. He wouldn't keep it up, but he wanted to confirm Kamal's possession in her mind and to ensure that she understood her best behaviour was required to make sure that it was only temporary. She now had a prize to focus on, too.

John bided his time in getting to the phone. Muma declared that she was going to sleep just before 10:00. Izzy would wake for another feeding, but it would be after Michelle got in. When Kamal said that he would stay up for her, Muma shrugged and headed off down the hall.

John wasn't sure but he thought he briefly smelled candles burning. He guessed that Muma kept a little personal shrine in her room and was asking Mary or Jesus or some more localized deity for advice and intervention. As long as she kept her asking in the supernatural realm, she was welcome to give it a shot.

He was getting pretty wiped out by the time he started dialing Lee's cell number. He wouldn't be good for much of a conversation but wanted to check in and give a new excuse for being out of contact. He knew that the calling number would be displayed and captured by his smartphone. A few clicks on reverse look-up and Lee would have his location and Kamal's family name. He had to provide a convincing explanation up-front to head off a suspicious investigation.

He didn't expect an answer on the first try, as he was well-aware of Lee's peculiar relationship with technology. He also knew better than to leave a message. He hoped for an answer on the third. repeat dial. He got it on the fourth.

"Yeh, what?"

"Lee, it's John."

"John who? You got a wrong number. Fuck-off."

"No. No. Lee, wait. It's John Fischer. Sorry I haven't been able to call. Still pretty sick."

"What? Who the fuck is this? How'd you get this number? Not funny."

"Lee, it is John. We talked a few days back, remember. Stuck in hospital. We talked about getting my stuff from the safe place, you know?"

John was cautious about revealing too much on a cellphone conversation. But Lee was unpredictable at the best of times and this wasn't that. He took a few deep breaths to try to get some energy back. He was also trying to keep his voice to a loud whisper, so as not to attract Muma back out with the noise.

"I'm not getting the joke, whoever you are. One thing I know, you're not John Fischer."

"What? Yes, I am. I'm your friend."

"No, my friend is in a box. I just went down and visited him at that nasty funeral home. So, I don't know what you're talking about bud, but like I said it's not funny."

John was getting it. They were burying his old body. Lee must have found out and gone down to see what was going on."

"Lee, I know that this might be hard to believe, but that wasn't me."

"Bullshit."

"Ask me something. I can prove it. Any detail about me, er, about John."

"Doesn't prove anything."

"Try it."

"OK, smart-ass, what does John drink, exclusively?"

"In a bar or at home?"

The fact that John knew there was a difference, got Lee's interest.

"Both."

"OK. Glenlivet 18 out, Highland Park in. Assuming out is at C & T's."

There was silence on the other end. John had added one of Lee's favourite drag bars.

"Want to try something else?"

"What's your mother's name?"

"Wilma."

"Last name?"

"Fischer, no wait Fluke, she never changed it back."

"Could've read that in the obit."

"There was an obituary? So, I guess that there's a funeral too. Shit, feels weird being buried while still being alive and well."

"Still don't get it. You say that you're John. You don't sound like him, but maybe you do sound like the last guy pretending to be John that I talked to."

"The body in the casket isn't me. Probably a good likeness, but not me. You need to believe me."

"That might actually be believable. Corpse didn't look like John at all. Had to kinda squint to figure it out. But the whole family said it was John."

"My drunk mother and asshole brother? You want to believe them, when we've got 200 large to figure out?"

Lee was starting to come around.

"So, assuming I believe you, where are you now?"

"Outa hospital, but now in the care of a nurse in a private home. Some real changes in me that I can't tell you about over the phone, but will, in time."

Lee grunted. He was going along on principle only. Nothing about this story was believable.

"Anyway, any luck with the safety deposit box key?"

Lee had to do some quick thinking. Could be a sting. Feds trying to get him to go pick-up gold that would put him and many others away. Could just be a fraud. Some asshole that did a lot of work and prep to create a believable story. He had done it in his time. But the set-up was so stupid that this seemed unlikely. He'd go along for a bit, ready to bail out at the slightest whiff of shit in the wind.

He responded, "Your brother found it."

"Shit."

Lee asked, "What was your plan, assuming I could get it? You'd come out of the woodwork then?"

John responded, "Fuck, I don't know. I just wanted to keep it out of his hands until we thought of something. Did he turn it over to his lawyer or contact the bank?"

"Nope. Not going to either."

This was better news for John. "That's good. So, you met him, er, talked to him, then. At the funeral home?"

Lee replied, "Yep. He's just hanging on to it until I tell him what to do."

"How'd you convince him to do that?"

Lee laughed, "Let's just say that he has no idea what the stash is worth or what he should get for his services. Money talks. Just a little in his case. But offering a treat got him sitting up and very interested."

John laughed too. "Yeah, he's a dog."

John breathed a sigh of relief. Things were under control as he knew Lee would put them. How to get the gold was tomorrow's problem. Meeting Lee in person in Kamal's body for some time later, maybe.

John said, "Listen, Lee, I can't stay on this phone. Can't thank-you enough for handling this. Kill the number in your phone. No trail, as we say. I'll call you tomorrow with a cellphone number. New one. Hope that this can be in all of our interests then. Plus, really want to tell you the whole fucking story over a couple vodka-ems soon."

Lee shook his head as he hung up and stared blankly at Charlie.

Charlie had only partly heard half the conversation over the bar noise. "Who was that? Haven't heard you talk on the phone for more than ten seconds since I've known you."

Lee now grinned. "Just a dead man talking. Good story. Fucking night for dead men. Hey, order us up another round. I could really use another vodki-em."

At the house, John in Kamal sagged against the wall under the phone. He was absolutely beat, but determined to stay up for Michelle. He needed her breath of fresh air to re-inflate his spirit. Considering that twelve hours earlier he had been in hospital, he was hanging in there as best he could.

Nothing was fixed yet, but he had Lee back on-side, he hoped. That had been close. Lee could really just have told him to fuck-off and gone after the gold himself. Or he could have gotten nervous enough to just abandon the entire thing. Wasn't his money or really his problem in the first place. It would be some time before Bill gave in and revealed the box to anyone that mattered. Lee could probably cut ties with the syndicate and cover his tracks. But none of that had happened yet. He had to ensure that no-one got cold feet before he got the stake he needed to start again.

He now knew that John Fischer was officially dead and that a body was being buried or burned, whatever. If he were in better shape, he might have tried to go to the funeral on a lark. God, they had an open casket. Wouldn't have that been something, to walk up and see himself as a corpse?

He had about an hour to wait for Michelle. If Izzy woke up, he might have to deal with Muma again, but maybe that would be easier now that they had their game rules set out. Right now, he had to go find some Tylenol.

# Chapter Sixteen - Lovely Service

The day of John's funeral turned out sunny and bright. It was too bad that they weren't planting him in a nice corner of a fine old graveyard. The day would have been perfect for standing around a hole in a field of monuments saying nice things about a guy that most of the mourners actually disliked.

Bill was up early, having lost sleep rehashing the problem with the mob's fake gold. Damn John had gotten himself into something and now he had to come up with a way to solve the problem and avoid going to jail while he did it. John was always goody two-shoes to his bad and dangerous. Turns out he was every bit as bad. That in itself was actually a little heartening. They were one happy, criminal, family after all.

The scary homo hadn't exactly threatened his life, but had made it sound like he would just be dust to be blown away by the gangsters that owned the fake gold if he didn't cooperate. His recurring thought was, "I don't need this shit."

He had considered ways out. He thought about just giving the key to the lawyer and getting the hell out of town. He'd tell him the story client-to-lawyer like, so it couldn't be repeated. Let him decide whether to call the cops or not. Maybe the bank could handle it? They have security guys who must care about this kind of stuff. Whole thing just made him very nervous.

But, twenty-grand with no strings or reporting was at least part way to him getting some fairness in all of this. The old broad gets one-fifty and he gets nothing, until now. Maybe he should ask for thirty. That sounded better for all the trouble this could be. After all the rehashing, this was his only conclusion.

He had chased Wilma up out of her bed as soon as he thought that she wouldn't bite his head off. He was letting her drink later in the day, once they were done 'working' as he put it. So, every morning was a toss-up between medicating her hangover or getting her started up with a little nip before breakfast.

Today would be it for work. He was just going to walk his way through the fucking funeral, follow the agenda Gary done-up, read his eulogy thing and get the hell out of there. He just hoped that nothing else and no-one else popped up as a problem.

He had planned to head back to Chicago with her as soon as she had her plastic urn full of Johnny ashes, maybe while they were still cooling off. Gary had said that that human ashes can be carried in checked luggage as long as the packaging met requirements. She would just have to skip any bottles if she hoped to be able to carry her own suitcase. With this goddamn safety box screw-up, he'd have to hang on in Toronto, so he was putting her on a one-stop flight to Reno on Tuesday. Once she passed the gate, she'd be someone else's problem. Whether she got there sober or stoned, or didn't get there at all, wasn't his concern. He'd be glad to have her out of his hair.

She was finally up and somewhat coherent. "Ya'll think that I kin wear the same dress t'day as yesterday? Maybe should be out buying 'nother one."

Bill wasn't goin shopping an hour before the funeral. "Jesus, Wilma, only about six people saw you yesterday and most o' them won't be in t'day. They know'd were in from outa town with no big closet to choose from. Who cares what yer wearin? Just try not to spill nuthin on it before eleven o'clock, is all."

Wilma was disappointed, but was getting tired of being yelled at. "OK then, just want to look nice for Johnny. He'll be off t'day to the creamtion. Last we'll see of him."

She was getting weepy, so Bill was looking for an orange juice in the little fridge he could spike with the damn expensive Canadian vodka. Crazy twenty-five dollars for a small fifth. Could get a half-gallon for ten bucks down home. If the local stuff was fancier, Wilma sure couldn't tell the difference.

"John was gone two weeks ago, mother. We're just wrapping up his remains t'day. If he's anywhere, I'm bettin it's pretty fucking hot, now that I know a little more 'bout him."

Wilma considered his response, wondering if Billy meant Johnny was down south or home in Reno where it was damn hot right now. She finally got that he meant in hell.

"Don't you say nuthin bad 'bout John. Not t'day anyway. Once yer home, say anything ya feel like. I don't give a shit. But, t'day ya'll say nice things. He done right by us wit the 'surance comin. Just read what that nice writer wrote. He did up John real nice fer the paper. I cut it out. Gonna pass it 'round at home."

Bill rolled his eyes, but didn't say any more. Yeah, Johnny had done right. Be a laugh if he just stood up and told the truth instead. Brother John was a counterfeiter who hung out with the mob and bikers. Stole from little old ladies. Got rich on crime and didn't share a dime with his family. Must have blown it all on whores and crack cuz there's nothing left, so we have to pay the bills to pack him off. It would make a more interesting talk than the rosy words that Jaff had written.

Bill wondered if maybe he should just tell Jaff what he found out. Being an old reporter, he'd probably get a laugh too. He knows nothing 'bout the gold, so couldn't do no harm. Homo said not to tell anybody, but what harm can an old retired guy do? Maybe he'd be good for some other advice now that they couldn't just go to the bank legal-like.

"Hurry up, Wilma. Get your daytime face on and let's get goin. Got to get over t'the funeral home early on to check things out. Gary said that we should 'greet' anybody shows up. Jesus knows how many there'll be. Gonna have food left over for a small army, I bet."

Wilma blinked at him. "What makes ya say that? Johnny had lots of people know'd him or worked with 'im here. Bet lots will come out. Funeral's an important thing after somebody dies. Particular if'n they be an important guy like Johnny. Newspaper said he was a ward winner. Lots 'o people gonna come out to see a ward winner off."

Bill didn't have much patience for the argument. As far as he was concerned, the entire funeral was coming out of her half of the insurance. She could blow all the money she wanted. Food for sixty would feed six pretty good. Even though it was technically all hers, he intended to pay lots of his bills too. Exector could do that. He'd read up on it in the little book that Gary gave him.

When they got to the funeral home, Gary introduced them to the rent-a-minister who was gonna lead the 'service'. Bill looked him over and thought, "Another retired guy; we're keepin' the gray hairs employed here for sure."

When 'Reverend Frank' asked if they wanted to suggest any bible readings, Bill pointed him at Wilma. "She's in charge. Don't know how much useful d'rection she can give ya, but if she's happy then it's all OK wit me. Not really a church-goer, sorry."

The minister took Wilma off to a couch to go over her wishes. Bill hoped that the pastor had learned to tolerate a little booze on the breath at ten in the morning in this business.

Gary waved a couple CD's of country and western music at him, in line with Wilma's wishes. Bill smiled and nodded. Another joke on Johnny. Listen to this shit as ya go, brother.

"We'll be set-up in few minutes. If I may suggest it, we should probably just keep the casket closed today, for the ceremony that is. If you and your mother would like a few final minutes with John, we can open it for you before we start."

Bill recalled that the corpse was in pretty bad shape. He'd rather just let it go, but he knew what Wilma's answer would be.

"I agree wit closin it up later, but Wilma'll probly want one last look. Maybe we can tell her it has t'be closed durin the funeral for legal reasons or the like?"

Gary nodded, never really saying that's how he would handle it, but indicating Bill should leave it with him. Bill got ready for another round of Wilma's weeping in front of the sad remains of her other son.

As it turned out, Bill was 200% wrong about John's funeral attendance. He had guessed six, including Wilma and him. Eighteen actually showed up. Of course, other than the one office guy, Dieter, who they met the night before and Jaff, the writer, they didn't know any of them. A few made brief introductions as they passed them at the door.

"We're from his work, I was his boss for a little while, when he was in. So sad, we'll miss him, sort of.

"I was a client. He was pretty good at his work. Made me lots of money a couple times. Had trouble connecting lately, but still sad that he's gone.

"We live on his apartment floor. He came to our party, last fall it was, right dear? Always thought he might be a catch for one of my girlfriends, but he was pretty elusive."

"We're from his building. Say, do you know what's happening with his parking spot?"

A few others, in particular a couple rough-looking East Asian guys who could have been twins, didn't so much introduce themselves as come over and demand to know who Wilma and Bill were.

"Uh, I'm his brother, Bill. This here's our mother, Wilma. Thanks for comin. How did ya'll know John?

The guy didn't appear to like being questioned, but answered, "Guess you could say we were connected by business. You takin over then?"

"Takin over?"

"Yeah, the business, you know. Sort of his franchise. Need somebody to pick it up."

Bill got an immediate clench in his dick and asshole. His danger-meter went off the scale, like it did when he got cornered by some building inspector or lawyer-type on a jobsite. If his back hadn't been just in front of a wall, he might have started backing up. He feared that anything he said would give away that he knew all about 'the business' and then he would immediately owe these guys everything that John had left hanging. But he'd have to respond somehow.

A breezy Wilma jumped in and, and for once, saved the day.

"Oh, we're from the states. Wish we was closer t'here t'help out more, with John's friends and the like, but jus' passin through, I guess. Maybe one o'these other folks can help you? That nice Dieter fella over there is lookin after all John's customers, he told me. Maybe he kin help ya out."

The black-eyed, olive-skinned 'brothers' turned in unison to focus on Dieter. Even though they were probably thugs, they bowed slightly and one mumbled, "thank-you" as they turned and headed over to him. Bill watched them go and wished Dieter good luck. He got the idea that "I don't know what you're talkin 'bout" wasn't gonna to cut it with these two. Well, Dieter was lookin for some business; maybe he'd get some.

When it was obvious that no huge crowd was coming, the minister suggested that they get underway. About a third of the seats were filled. Even though Gary had agreed with Wilma initially on a set-up for 100, he had wisely parred down the room with a temporary pull-out wall and reduced the seats to 50. He had added some large repurposed flower arrangements around the now-closed casket, so Wilma, sitting up front with Bill, could get the experience of a nice tribute to John.

Johnny Cash and Myrle Haggard had been singing sad songs that sort of moved into redemption songs and eventually closed out with Johnny singing "You are my sunshine", which was probably meant to lift spirits, but left everyone wondering if they were back in Sunday School. With a nod to the back from the minister, the music abruptly faded out.

Considering that he had learned everything he knew about Johnny from a half-cut Wilma in ten minutes, Reverend Frank gave a great generic recount of somebody's life well-lived from about baptism, which never happened, through to a well-deserved rest up among the angels. When he kicked into the 'we will meet again' bit, Wilma broke down sobbing and everyone else considered whether there was any way to skip out on the planned meeting. Busy schedule, y'know.

Once tipping on stocks, using parking spots, doing his typing or hooking up a lonely girlfriend were off the table, no one really had too much use for him. Except, of course, the brown brothers, who now glowered at Dieter from the back row.

Then it was Bill's turn to give the eulogy. He hadn't wanted to sit holding the paper in his hand, so he had folded it and stuffed it in his back pocket. He now extracted the creased and slightly damp single page and did his best to unfold it on the little lectern. Of course, he had no water, so he needed several guttural, throat-clearing coughs to get started.

He eventually made a start-stop effort at reading Jaff's script, which had been intentionally dumbed down so not to cause any stumbling on big words. He started reading and got to the end without ever hearing a word he was saying. With little grace and no ad-lib thank-you's or reminiscences, he abruptly returned to his seat.

The Reverend re-took the lectern and thought about asking any others if they would like to speak. But he didn't get a single set of eyes meeting his, so got the message to get it over with. He closed with a standard benediction that asked for blessings on the grieving family, without specifics of size; on John's many friends and loved ones, most apparently busy somewhere else; and on all others who had recently suffered a loss. As the stock market had been on quite a bear slide recently, the last part probably covered more of the small crowd that anything else.

The reception after the service was even more sparsely attended. Gary had once-again intervened quickly to avoid laying out a huge spread of the little sandwiches, chopped veggies and sugary deserts. There was still just about a full tray of each per person, so Bill's army would be well-fed later. Apparently, a local homeless kitchen got all that was left after the family took take-home away, if they wanted it. Somebody would give thanks today in John's memory anyway.

Jaff came over to Bill. "You did great with the eulogy. Couldn't have said it better myself."

He gave him a little pat and a laugh. Bill was loosening up with each step away from the damn casket, which he hoped was now on its way into the furnace out back.

Jaff leaned in. "Who are the unsmiling guys sitting in back? They look like they fell out of a bad Bollywood movie."

Bill wasn't sure how much he wanted to tell Jaff, but needed to unload on someone, so tried to speak in code.

"Yeah, couple strange guys. They were in some sort of business 'rangement with John. Seemed t'think that it should stay in the family, y'know. Maybe, you can guess what sort of stuff stays in families." He raised his eyebrows and looked around conspiratorially.

Jaff had already guessed that these two weren't related to the Fischers and from the look of them, not particularly friendly mourners.

"Geez, didn't come across anything like that in my research."

Jaff now had another interesting set of characters showing up in the continuing mystery of John Fischer and Kamal Lewis. He had assumed that John, if he still existed, would be desperate to find a way to reclaim some parts of his old life. Everybody created some wealth, even if they're young and a spendthrift. John must have some off-the-books cash that Kamal would want, if he can safely get it.

So, the whole safety deposit box saga had a new angle. Bill had learned something from Lee last night that upset him. Now a couple thugs show up and are apparently interested in the same subject. Bill was nervous, but only seemed to want to tell someone else, not run to the cops, as any sane, honest person would do. It was a good bet that the 'honest' part probably didn't apply to him. But was he thinking with all his faculties? Jaff didn't owe him anything, so his welfare wasn't really a concern. But, if Bill screwed things up, then Kamal might fly the coop and Jaff would miss the opportunity to solve a mystery that had nagged him his whole career.

He kept an eye on the thugs, who were momentarily distracted by a sandwich tray. He leaned in and quietly asked Bill, "So, what are these guys really here for? You can't do anything about John being dead. Too bad for their family business, I guess. But what's it got to do with you?"

Bill was still cautious. "Well, yeah. You're right. But maybe some businesses you don't get to just walk away from, even if'n your dead. Maybe they think Johnny owes them somethin."

Jaff wanted to keep him talking. "Is that what they said? That John owed them something."

Bill wasn't shutting down yet. "No, not really, just asked if I was gonna take over the business. Guess they're part of a family so maybe thought we worked that way too. That's a joke, eh? John with all his fucking degrees and certificates havin a business that I could take over."

He gave a small nervous laugh and shrug, then continued, "Nuthin that they wanted today is a problem. Wilma sent them over to recruit Dieter, the sales guy. That might even work out."

He surprised Jaff by continuing, "My problem is that some of their business is currently in John's safety deposit box, if ya get my drift. Don't think that they know it, but Lee does and he says that we have t'fix it before it becomes a 'problem."

Jaff acted confused. "Lee says? You mean the strangely-dressed guy that showed up last night?"

Bill nodded. "Yeah, he knows what's in there and he's gonna help me get it out. Can't say no more. He warned me not t'talk t'anyone—but you kinda know all about us already, so I guess you're OK. But, don't tell no-one about none of this."

Jaff nodded. "Jesus, Bill. I won't. But maybe you should just get your lawyer and call the cops. You didn't do anything wrong, yet. They can't hurt John, but they can hurt you or Wilma if something screws up."

Bill shrugged. "I'm considering, y'know. Lee says, 'no problem' so I'm gonna wait t'see how he wants t'fix it. Getting Wilma outa here in a couple days. She's gone, think that I can handle myself."

Jaff guessed that Lee had used a different approach and appealed to Bill's current broke state. The possibility pf a pay-off was keeping him around.

So at least three people wanted what was in that box. John if he is now Kamal must be thinking about it. Lee said he was solving a problem, but probably intends to scoop John's cash and is planning on somehow using Bill to do it.

The olive-skinned family, when they checked the books, would likely jump into the fray. In two of the three possibilities, a dead Bill, after all was said and done, would wrap up loose ends. But, a not-dead John would really be an inconvenience for some. Finally, Jaff might have something that would open the door if went to call on young Kamal.

# Chapter Seventeen - Izzy and the Plan

The day of his funeral actually turned out to be a productive day for John in Kamal's body. He had hung-in the night before to greet Michelle when she came in. She had been surprised, touched and a little angry, as he was supposed to be getting his rest for a speedy recovery. But the angry part went away pretty quickly. He also got to hold and feed Izzy one more time, although he was half-conscious from both tiredness and his, for sure last, pain pill that he finally gave in to. Michelle had pushed him off to bed with a hug and a nice, very long, kiss that certainly promised of things to come.

He was glad to hit the bed smiling and thinking about getting this body back into the same bed as hers as soon as he could handle it. Physically that could probably be pretty soon. Emotionally and psychologically, maybe a bit longer. He worried about lots of things, including his mild paranoia about having this whole charade somehow ended by a resurrected Kamal coming to kill him. He knew now that his old body was gone, so had some confidence building that old Kamal was also permanently gone. But he still wasn't sure.

He was also concerned about how his performance as a black lover would come across to a black woman. He had no experience other than what a few porno films pretended to portray. It was probably stupid, but much smaller fears left other men unable to perform at all. He imagined finally getting to the point of satisfying his growing desire and then not being able to make this body do what it used to do. It was a dumb worry, but might be one that would keep him out of the double bed longer than necessary.

As he got up and got moving in the morning, he took time to repeat the exercises and stretches that the hospital physiotherapist had laid out for him. In his other life, sickness benefits would have allowed him to contract a physiotherapist to come in every day to work with him for a couple hours. Now, he was due one or two provincial health plan paid visits over two weeks. He knew that he had to take his recovery into his own hands.

The physio had said, "Just get up and move. Walk on the foot. Use your sore arm just like the other one. Breath as deeply as you can to stretch out any scar tissue in your chest. Find the point where pain stops you, then go a little further than that each day."

Right now, the prescribed sling holding the weight of his arm on his injured side was his biggest limitation. But he was free to abandon it when he felt ready. He intended that to be sooner than later.

He took a couple Tylenol. The twenty-pill hospital dispensed bottle of oxy, with seventeen pills left, was in the dresser drawer in the room along with a prescription script for twenty more, which he would have to pay for now, if he 'needed' them. If he kept taking them beyond that he would have to convince his own doctor, or some doctor, of the continuing need. From what he knew of the resale market for opioids, that wasn't very hard. He intended to pitch the pills and the script today, but it wasn't his top priority.

Izzy was up already. He heard her announcing the day very early. Mornings, she stayed up for a few hours. Now she was bouncing in her feeding chair on the table. As he came through the doorway, she broke into a big grin and squealed for his attention. John couldn't remember the last time anyone other than Muma and Michelle, had openly shown affection for him. He melted once again, going over to touch her fingers with his. He was tempted to try baby-talk, but held back under the skeptical stare of Muma. She was in charge in the kitchen, obviously, and while tolerating his daemon as unassailable, for now, wasn't giving it a free-ride to engage with the baby.

"You'sa sitten down, over there, uh, Kamal." She pointed to the far side of the table. "Be gettin y'breakfast. Baby be fine, a watchin, from where she be."

John shuffled around to the designated chair, as directed, but couldn't resist. "Thank-you Muma. You are doing so much. I can't say enough about how much Michelle and I appreciate it."

John wasn't sure if he could see her blush through her dark skin, but from the grunts and huffs, he knew that he could get to her. Kamal probably never much mumbled even a thank-you. Now, she was getting long overdue thanks and appreciation, but from a daemon!

She muttered, so low that John couldn't make it out. "Jesus, I knows this be the devil plying my motions, but, forgives me, if'n I preciate it, jus a little."

Michelle had the morning with them after getting out early to walk to the discount grocer up on Dixon. She was now tag-teaming Muma with the baby, while running laundry downstairs and preparing some homemade baby foods in the kitchen. Izzy was getting into spoon-fed eating and already loved blended vegetables or fruit. Feeding her required some patience, as she was usually hungry enough that the little plastic spoons went flying all over the place spraying whatever brightly-coloured food paste was on the menu.

Michelle talked to Kamal as she and Muma weaved around each other in the small kitchen.

"We kin get the 'E.I.' done on the computer if we get ya downstairs. Read-up on what's needed and talked t'the office over at the Amazon warehouse, t'be sure they had ya down as injured and unable t'work. Should be all set and not miss any weeks, if'n we get it in soon."

John tipped his head involuntarily. "Amazon?"

Michelle stopped what she was doing to look at him. "Yeah, where ya workin. Y'know at the warehouse over t'Malton."

John cursed under his breath. He knew that. He had worked his way through a conversation with Michelle at the hospital about Kamal working there for the last year. But it had been under significant drug-impairment.

She was thrilled about it. He couldn't imagine what physical work packing shipments at light-speed in a huge warehouse might feel like. If Kamal had some skills in basic logistics, he would have none. Nor did he want to develop any. Although, he had traded the stock often enough to have made some good money for clients years back, when he was still doing stock-picking. Sort of poetic that he was now one of the lowliest employees.

He sputtered, "Oh, yeah. Sorry, misheard what ya were sayin. Still be fuzzy. Of, course, I 'member Amazon and the job now. Comin back better every day."

Michelle didn't appear convinced. "Well, whatever. Ya got yer hours needed and it'll help cover expenses some for few weeks anyway. Maybe then y'can get on light-duty or somethin."

Regardless of the reason, getting downstairs onto the Internet was one of his checklist items, so he was good with that. "For sure, I kin put the application in on the website."

Michelle had stopped again and was looking at him with some of the same skepticism that Muma had shown. "You can? Thought that y'couldn't type good-enough t'do any that paperwork type stuff. Or maybe ya jus been sluffin it, so's I have t'do it for ya?"

John needed to recover again—this was tough. "Figure I better try, y'know. Might get work on a computer when I go back. Light duty's usually somethin like that." He had no idea. "Little practice puttin stuff in on the keyboard probably be useful."

"Well, long as ya don't feck it up." She glanced sideways at Muma to see if she'd gotten away with the barely-concealed curse. "Or spend all day playin Gran Theft or Combat, like y'normally do. Y'ain't gettin better sittin in the dark down there movin jus d'thumbs."

John now brightened up a bit. He knew all about video games, particularly the top FPS ones. He played them all the time and was very good at it. This would be good proof that he was recovering. He now could also probably count on a current PC and a fast network connection downstairs. He thought, "Thank-you, Rockstar."

He was thinking through the other things he needed.

"Guess I'll need my wallet for ID. Maybe a bank statement. Maybe I could try that cellphone again too. Code might come back t'me, if I stare at it some."

Michelle was just OK with the request. "Wallet en bank stuff in t'drawer over there." She pointed to a sideboard crammed into the little hallway.

"Not sure what y'need the cellphone fer yet, but it's downstairs. Need t'be plugged in. If y'can't remember how t'open it, it'll need t'go into the shop. Probably wipe it. But we can't ford a new one right now, that's the only choice."

They had never fully talked through the circumstances of Kamal's shooting. She hated the topic, so had been cryptic in responding when he legitimately asked what had happened to him as he came out of anesthetic. Her one outburst had told him that he was shot because he was mistaken for Dillon, but there still seemed to be a forbidden edge to the topic, like maybe he wasn't entirely innocent. John hated the prospect of quizzing Dillon, but it would probably be necessary to get all of the story and to find out more about Kamal's own dangerous side. It was important for him to know what his risks were. It was what he always did. John was in charge now.

He needed a working cell to talk to Lee. He figured he could probably Google a solution to override the log-in code. But he couldn't be that obvious.

"Jus need the phone t'be available t'you or maybe for a doctor's appointment, y'know. I'd never make it t'the wall phone fast enough to answer. Particularly, if'n I'm downstairs. Cell probably still works for calling in anyway." He was starting to get the shortcuts and inflection in the speech patterns. It still felt contrived, but would need to be believable soon.

"Yeah, OK then. I'll go plug it in by t'computer if ya promise not t'throw it this time." She raised her eyebrows.

John could barely remember his first attempt with the phone. Now, he just grinned. It was enough of an apology for her. Michelle came over and squeezed his good shoulder, before picking up the baby and heading towards the bedrooms.

As she left, she said, "When you're done eatin, we'll go down and get t'the EI."

Muma had spent some time putting together a breakfast that was a foreign to John as her native tongue. She plunked a plate of some kind of fish with a steamed vegetable, that was probably cabbage, and fat cakes that looked a little like breakfast pancakes, but were twice as thick and lightly pan-browned on each side. She didn't explain the dishes, so John guessed that this was what Kamal would normally get, when he would sit still long enough for Muma to feed him.

John wondered how much he could enjoy the meal. Breakfast for him was normally coffee, maybe a bagel and on rare occasions, some eggs. This fare was going to take some getting used to.

He needed a preamble to his attempt at it. "Muma, don know if'n my stomach will handle all this food. Pills still makin me a little woozy."

She came over and patted his shoulder. "Thas'a OK. Made ya a Sunday brekfast, firs day back. Yo' favrits, but justa be eatin what ya want."

John took a shot at the biscuit, anticipating something foreign, but getting a nice combination of sweet and salt. The texture was heavier than a bagel, but the fried-in oil made it very tasty. He picked up a forkful of the fish and cabbage and got another surprise. The early time of the day made fish unusual, but the mixture was savory and melt-in-your-mouth tender. John realized that he was starving. A mug of strong coffee, cut with raw sugar and maybe, goat's milk, was perfect to offset the spicy and oily main fare. He loaded another forkful and took another bite of biscuit.

With his mouth half-full, he said, "Muma, ya found m'heart through m'stomach. Tis amazin." Thinking quickly, he added. "Jus like I remember it."

Muma turned away to hide her smile. She quickly wiped her expression back to neutral and said another little apology to Jesus under her breath. This daemon was very tricky indeed.

Michelle eventually came back to hand off Izzy to Muma while they went downstairs. John was determined that he would handle the stairs on his own, as he planned to do this again after Michelle went to work. For now, he took the steps one at a time, leading with his good side and following with his tender foot. He leaned his good side against the smooth wall for stability and just ignored the pain of each step down. He was down in a minute to Michelle's smiling welcome.

"That was quicker'n the last time, fer sure." She laughed, "Be needin a leash to take y'outside soon enough."

John had to play stupid at the computer as he was sure Kamal would have done. He let Michelle turn it on and waited through the Windows loading of various processes and start-up apps. The speed of the load told John that he was dealing with a pretty fast CPU and the screen graphics were crisp. Kamal had splurged on a 'gamer's' machine. Michelle probably had no idea. So, he had secrets.

The Internet connection was automatic. John noted the Wi-Fi stack in the bottom toolbar. He guessed that the cellphone would log-in to Wi-Fi automatically too. It was probably chock full of games. Kamal or Michelle had both Firefox and Chrome browser shortcuts on the desktop. Michelle automatically picked Firefox. John would use only Chrome later, so wouldn't need to clear the Firefox memory and cache.

Michelle was manually typing in a long URL that she had copied down from a computer somewhere else. John guessed that she probably had Internet access on a work terminal, but couldn't email herself a link for fear of getting caught doing personal stuff. She needed a thumb drive.

John would have let Google do all that work for him. He had taken an optional information management course as part of his MBA and necessarily become skilled at Boolean search strings. Google didn't really need them as you could now just ask it whatever you wanted, but John still considered his skills better than the AI machines that were quickly dominating the field. He also had alumni-in-good-standing access to the Schulich School library portal, which gave him index and search access to hundreds of database tools and thousands of publications in full text. He could nail a detailed profile on just about any person, place or opportunity in a matter of hours. Plus, he had research help from some of the best reference librarians in academe. He now wondered when he would be able to use any of that skillset in plain sight again for fear of giving away his 'ringer' status. He also thought about all of his ID's and passwords. Some were in his memory, but most would be a problem to get back. He would have to keep a John Fischer email active somehow.

When they finally got to the EI illness benefits application page, Michelle leaned back and pushed the keyboard over to Kamal. John now expected to have to really dumb-down his typing skills, but when he started with his good hand, he entered error-filled crap that required many back-spaces and corrections. He realized, with some horror, that his mental skills didn't translate to motor control. His hands had never graduated high school. The body and all of its functions were still Kamal's.

After a half-hour of two-finger typing, they were finally done. Assuming that his employer had filed all the required paperwork on its side, the benefits should be approved. Once again, they had to fudge the injury description words to avoid saying 'shot down in driveway', but there was no dishonesty with the serious injuries of broken bones and a collapsed lung, which were backed up by Kamal's hospital discharge papers. It was a fine line he would have to walk out into the future.

Michelle encouraged him on the climb back upstairs after they were done, so that he could lay down for some rest. Izzy was due to go to sleep again too, but as usual, howled for a couple minutes when put into her crib. John listened to her wind down and fell asleep at just about the same time as her.

He was up again to see Michelle off to work. The pain was bearable. He was able to smile and hug her for real. Living in a family, where the needs and desires of others came before his was a brand-new experience for John. Even in childhood, he had been spun-out of his dysfunctional family so early that he really never cared or even thought about anyone as family. Now, he was realizing that he had something to give to these people who loved this body. Just kissing and wishing Michelle a good shift as she left did something for him too. He wanted more of that.

Later, told Muma he had to go back downstairs to complete some work on the computer, plus he said that he intended to relax with just a few minutes of games. Muma couldn't believe that Kamal was telling her anything about what he was doing or why. Jesus was getting a lot of appeals for forgiveness and strength. She couldn't help herself—Muma was starting to like this daemon.

Once downstairs and on the computer, it took John less than thirty seconds to ask Google to find out about John Fischer. Three items on him topped the list it returned. Two were the same obit. He noted that he had missed his funeral that morning. Somewhat solemnly, he acknowledged that the body he had taken such good care of was probably just a pan full of ashes by now. He briefly wondered how his mother and Bill were holding up.

He still had to decide what to do about Bill. He could tell him that he was still alive, but if he were Bill, he would deny it and hang up or, at the very least, demand a meeting with the weirdo on the phone. Bill wasn't nearly broad-minded enough to accept a much-younger black guy as his brother.

He could just be dead and never contact Bill. This was a more-logical route, but left the challenge of getting at his stash to Lee and Bill on their own. They needed a way into the bank's safety deposit box. He had wisely set-up the account and box at another bank, but they had his social insurance number. It wouldn't be long before his dead status on this universal ID caught up with the isolated account. The move to get his gold had to be done quickly.

Out of curiosity, he paged-back to the third item on the search results list. He knew that he would show up randomly in links on pages two through infinity, but that would all be old stuff. This item was brand-new. A small municipality-level news item indicated that there was an open investigation into Transit Commission maintenance standards, that cited potential liability in the death of one John Thomas Fischer two weeks back. There were no details other than a reference to spending cuts and his supposed accidental death, that should possibly really be considered homicide, according to a peoples' transit advocate. The TTC had no comment.

He wasn't sure whether the publicity was a good idea. Some group was using his death to make a point about crappy cleaning at subway stations. It really had nothing to do with him. On the other hand, his death becoming a publicized event that could end up in the news and informing others, like his second bank, that he was dead. Hopefully, like most supposed news, it would fade away quickly. People don't give a shit about anything that doesn't affect them personally. He had just stepped over some garbage. He probably should have just been paying more attention.

The more he thought about Bill having the safe deposit box key and Lee needing to get it, he kept running into the need for identification. If he was alive, he could take Lee along to the bank and add him as a co-owner of the box. But it was too late for that.

He had been in to add gold about once a month, once he got nervous enough about how much he had stashed in a briefcase at home. Each time, the staff had followed the same routine. He went mid-morning. He asked at the service desk for box access. A teller or assistant manager would come out and get him. They would ask him to insert his account card in a reader, with access code.

Then, they would confirm he was him by asking for one piece of picture ID. Then, he would be asked to sign an access record. That signature could be compared with the one on their files, which came up on screen, he assumed. But that had never been more than a glance. The fact that he had the key and picture ID seemed to be the main criteria. Bill had the key. He now wondered if Bill could pass for him.

Bill was almost three years older, but at various times when they were both at home, people had said that they could pass for twins. Thank goodness Wilma had kept the same husband long enough to spawn both of them. But they had been apart for over fifteen years now.

Bill was always a little heavier and, as a smoker for most of his life, more-leathery. But, if the only feature comparison was a quick glance at a driver's license, those things might be overlooked. The real challenge would be his communication ability and ability to match John's signature, if they decided to compare. He wondered: Could Bill pull it off?

John assumed that Bill still had his wallet. He'd had probably thought about tossing it, but also thought about whether any of the plastic in there might be useful. Now, his license and the Maritime Bank card tucked in back might do the trick. John could pass on the four-digit access code via Lee and the check words were always the same. They were both born on Victoria Street and had attended King Edward school. He shouldn't have a problem with those if needed. He would need to memorize John's cell number and his email address, just in case. Everything else could just be a grunt.

If asked, he could answer, "Yes, that's still the address. Yes, I understand that dangerous materials may not be stored. Yes, I accept that the bank is in no way liable for loss or damage." He could be coached to get it right. It should be possible. He wondered how much of the stash, as an incentive, would be enough to get Lee fully motivated to be the coach and babysitter on this risky and illegal, solution.

He needed some more rest soon. His various aches had now overpowered the morning's Tylenol and he needed a clear head to focus on his planned discussion with Lee.

But he had to get the cellphone working first. It was now charged enough. As it had previously gone dead, it wouldn't do anything now without the four-digit unlocking sequence. He checked the manufacturer and worked his way to the exact name of the phone. Entering just that in Google got him back a page of confirming pictures and narratives related to feature operation and comparative performance. He didn't care about any of that right now, he just needed a working phone.

Entering a 'how to unlock?' question with the model info got him back a very specific set of steps recommended to work around the security screen. It involved pressing various keys in order and several at the same time. His first attempt got him nowhere. He re-read the instructions and followed the back and forth dialogue on the screen below. Others had also been unable to open their Android phones using the instructions. The fifth comment down pointed out a flaw in the initial instructions and warned against too many attempts creating a permanent 'administrator-only' lock.

John carefully followed the revised steps, which after several thinking seconds on the network's part, produced a screen asking for a new code to be created. He wasn't sure if this would kill the personal data on the phone, but didn't care. He just wanted a working phone. Once he created a new unlock password, that was what he got. He couldn't see any personal files or photos immediately, but several core apps like Gmail were still showing as icons. With some working time, he could explore what data was backed up in the network and maybe get more of Kamal's info back. He didn't really plan to be too nosy, but thought that some insight might be useful. Clicking the handset icon got him a dialing screen. He was ready to call Lee.

He was also totally bagged. He considered going upstairs to lie down, but then looked over to the double bed, which was only roughly put back in shape by Michelle this morning. It was where she slept. It was where they would sleep together. John felt slightly guilty as he hobbled over to it. The feeling got worse as he noticed a bra and panties tossed on a chair beside the bed. Now he was invading someone's private space that the body had a perfect right to, but which he had never been invited into.

He tried to guess which side that Kamal slept on. The dented pillow next to the chair side gave it away. The matching pillow on the other side was fully fluffed and uncreased. Michelle had laid on the right side of this bed last night. He was touching the foot of the bed with his legs. He wanted nothing more than to stretch out to get some rest, but felt an adolescent fear of getting caught doing something improper. His aches eventually won out. He needed to lie down.

He went to 'his' side of the bed and gradually lowered himself to a sitting position. Then, with more difficulty, he turned, leaned back and lifted his legs onto the bed. He relaxed into the pristine pillow. After several small shifting adjustments to get his weight off his injured shoulder and hip, he was more or less comfortable on his right side. He could now acknowledge that he was just inches away from Michelle's pillow. He could smell her light scents where they lingered. He realized that he was beginning to enter a fantasy of thoughts that put her in the bed, with him, skin to skin. It was all he could do to shut it down. He really needed rest.

Finally, in his only small concession to his desires, he reached over and pulled her pillow over to him, so that he could bury his face into it. He breathed deeply and imagined her just inches away. This time she was fully clothed and was sternly telling him to get some rest. He was being told; he had to put his fantasies away, for now. Within moments he was asleep.

Once again, he was apparently awakened by Izzy's cries, but from far away. Panicked, he saw that she was in a dilapidated carriage across a derelict lot potted with holes and strewn with so much wreckage that he had no hope of crossing to her quickly enough. He realized that the disaster site was his former apartment building, now torn down and roughly hauled away, leaving pieces of interior furnishings, wallboard and broken furniture as an obstacle course between him and Izzy.

As he started hauling himself over the junk with only one arm and one leg working, he realized that the left-behind refuse used to be his own apartment. It now lay in shattered pieces, half buried in dirt and debris, some of which sparkled with gold dust.

Just as he was starting to make progress towards Izzy, her cries stopped. He looked up and saw a cluster of thin young black men in dark hoodies gathered around the carriage. One reached in and lifted her up, declaring her "mine", before putting her gently on his shoulder and leading half the pack away. The other half drew automatic pistols and began advancing across the debris in his direction. One reached him in only a few giant steps neatly placed through the rubble. He began tapping his gun on John's leg. They were chanting, "Imposter, imposter, imposter...'

Muma tapped Kamal's leg again. "Impossible t'wake im es seems, Lod."

Perhaps she was hoping that Jesus had made the trip downstairs as her back-up. She was in her own basement, but now also felt like she was invading someone else's private space. Kamal had told her to stay out their place before he was shot. Now she had to come down to do baby laundry every day and to clean-up. Michelle being way too busy. She decided that the rule had changed. Sides, her house, her rules.

"Kamal, you'sa getting up now? Isabella wake and lookin t'be fed by someone. Me'sa cookin suppa. You'sa wantin t'come up fer while en sit wit her?"

John finally broke out of the dream and came-to with a start. He was face-down on the bed and in the pillows, so needed to raise his head with a spike of pain in his first attempt at figuring out where he was. Nothing about the dark space was familiar. For a moment he thought that he had been shot, but then realized that he was safe enough in a bed. As his full awareness came back to him, he turned in more pain and was startled again by Muma standing, hands-on-hips at the foot of the bed.

"Kamal, Sleepin nuff fer daytime. Get yus'up and come up t'feed Izzy. She be lookin fer her daddy, sure."

Satisfied that he was awake, Muma moved off, went back to the staircase and climbed upstairs again. Kamal now gently rolled onto his back—he could hear her arrive at the top, turn down the hall and go into Izzy's temporary nursery. The dried-out pine floor boards and hardwood floors above the ceiling tiles sang a give-away melody of squeaks and sighs to mark her progress.

John worked himself through the stages of rising, sitting and standing, but this time with no furniture to grab onto. He steadied with a straight arm out to the wall until he was sure that he had his feet under him.

Taking a piss was a priority. He guessed correctly that the second door along the wall led into a bathroom and shuffled in, finding a light switch only after several seconds of pawing the wall. He was used to his pristine three-or four-piece bathrooms, each with open space, massive mirrors, glistening fixtures and marble showers. Here he found an arborite-topped single sink vanity and a low toilet crammed into an incredibly small space. The crooked mirror, with a half-awake and blood-shot-eyed Kamal staring back, was hung by a single screw over the sink. He maneuvered himself over to the toilet and lifted the seat. Then, thinking poorly of his ability to aim and control his new, larger, appendage, he turned and went through the painful and cumbersome process of dropping his sweats and underwear to sit down. Better a little pain than needing to clean up after a runaway fire hose.

Kamal came up the stairs so slowly that Muma checked on him twice for progress. She expected him to either be completely bed-ridden or up and about. In her home-country experience, sick people stayed in bed until they were dead or healthy again. Mostly, it was dead. Pain killers were usually potent local extracts or strong ganja that helped sick people along to death, but rarely had any curative value. Successful hospital-based repairs of the sort that Kamal had gotten were pretty rare, as infection was a constant complication, even when light-duty antibiotics were available. In her mind, if Kamal was back on his feet, he must be cured.

John in Kamal made his way to his temporary bedroom to take another pain pill. He had hoped to be off them today, but his twice up and down excursions, plus the unplanned sleep downstairs, had spiked his pain. He thought back to his physio's advice. "Well, I'm pushing it. Hope that you're right."

Muma had Izzy up and ready to be fed. When John was finally settled beside her, she eagerly bounced in her feeding chair looking for anything she could eat. Muma had provided pureed vegetables to start and fruit for desert. Izzy had on a fresh bib, that still showed faint stains from prior carrots or peas. Michelle had a drawer full of them. John got the idea that feeding a hungry baby was part getting exactly the right amount of mush on the plastic-coated spoon and part getting in and out before one of her lightning-quick hands could grab it. He was only working with one useful arm, so the challenge was extra tough as she had two good ones to attack with.

After several successful interceptions on her part, John was ready to give up.

"Jeez, Izzy, you're makin this harder than needs be." There was vegetable mush all over her hands, the bib and most of her face.

Muma came over, clucking, with a dill pickle in hand. She handed it to Izzy, who immediately focused all of her attention on getting it in her mouth. John wasn't sure how she handled the vinegary distraction, but could now get a spoonful of food directly into her whenever she pulled the pickle out to smack her lips.

"Isabella...just needs somethin t'hold. She be lovin da spice and t'vinegar already. Good island chil. Be chewin jerk 'n no time." She went away laughing and humming a vaguely reggae rhythm. "Soon'es she gots couple teeth, watchin out."

As the oxy kicked in, John was able to relax a little and move more freely. Every muscle twitch stopped hurting and a mellow softness eased into him. He followed Muma and Izzy into the front room where Muma spread open a big quilted blanket and dropped Izzy in the middle.

Mum offered further advice. "Jus be tossin her some noisy tas 'n she'll play long as y'can."

John lowered himself down to the floor ever so slowly, but felt as though he might be able to get back up again, given the couch and side table to climb back up. Fortunately, Izzy wasn't crawling successfully in any direction yet, so he had hopes of keeping her in arms reach. She eagerly watched him finally get down next to her and took his offered rattle-ball with a grin and small laugh.

John couldn't believe how amazing a baby was. He previously thought of them as smelly, barfy and noisy creatures to be avoided under all circumstance, particularly in airplanes. Now he couldn't wait to impose his child on all those other dicks that thought like he used to. 'His child' had rolled off his inner tongue pretty easily there. Yeah, his child.

Muma looked around the corner and shook her head.

"Lod, was am I t'do? Thas daemon be's a better daddy than hers real daddy, any day. Gives me strength t'get ma boy back, I guess."

Eventually Izzy did tire out and after another bottle, went off to her crib. John had found that he could use all of his limbs now that the pain was under control. He got up to standing hand-over-hand on the couch and the table beside it. He could now sit and hold Izzy, relatively pain-free. This was real progress in his mind. He hated that the oxy was a big part of being able to do it. But then he considered that he may as well use it while he built his muscle strength back. The physio had warned against going meds-free too soon. Tomorrow or maybe the next day, it was gone though.

Muma fed him a rich meat and vegetable stew for supper that tested his ability to handle spices and peppery heat. But, with some thick bread, he found that his body really loved both the flavours and the textures. A rough greens salad after with only light oil dressing was perfect as well. He wanted to have Muma tell him all about what was in the stew, just as he might have discussed preparation with the chef on table-tour in one of his favourite Eglinton Ave bistros. But he wisely considered that too much of a contradiction, just yet, for Kamal.

John always asked his waiter for the 'chef's recommendation' without ever looking at the menu. He focused his choices on the right wine, once he knew what he was being served. More than once, word got back to the kitchen as he raved about an entree and the chef would come out to acknowledge his praise. John had learned enough about gourmet cooking to have an insightful discussion on ingredients and technique, even though he never so much as touched a pan himself. His appreciation for excellent fare, plus 25% tips, made him a favoured customer, who could always get a table, even though, most often, he ate early and he ate by himself.

John knew that he had to make one more trip downstairs before Michelle came home at 11:00 p.m. He figured that he might as well take a shot at Lee right now, while his aches were under control and before he got drowsy again. He didn't know if he would reach him easily, but he wanted to propose his plan in time for Lee to consider it and to get back to Bill before banks opened again on Monday. Michelle would be with him for most of the week-end, so talking about any of it would be harder.

He made the trip downstairs easily. Practice was making him better. He didn't cringe at every step with strong enough pain killers in play. Once seated, he opened the cell, now fully charged and noted that Kamal's cloud back-up had repopulated most of the phone's private data. He was looking at a home screen picture of a raucous bunch of young black men and some women, all toasting something or other around a bar table. Who he knew well and who he knew a little would be a mystery for quite a while. Maybe forever, as he didn't plan to rejoin that crowd. But Michelle might have something to say about who they hung with, so no definites for now. The strange realization in his mind was how easily he had shed all of the hangers-on that he couldn't stand from his old life. Just needed to die. Should have thought of it sooner.

He dialed Lee's number, which fortunately was etched in his memory. He didn't have his own contact list, so calls to anybody in his past would be tough. But they were all probably deleting him as he thought that, so no big loss. He didn't expect an answer to the unknown name display and hung-up after four rings. He counted to thirty and redialed, wondering how many repeats it would take today.

"Yeah, what?"

Lee was in good spirits; this was his most gracious response.

"John"

Lee grunted, "Won't ask how you are. Don't really care, as long as it's not dead too."

John laughed, "Nope, alive. And shitty, if you must know."

They were talking.

"Makes two. You got any idea about this fucking deposit box problem? Causing me discomfort and you know how strongly I feel about being comfortable."

"I do. It will work, but not sure how much more comfortable you'll be, for a bit."

"Fuck-it. Spill it out."

"First, I can't go near the bank. I will never pass for me again. You'll see for yourself soon."

Lee grunted something unintelligible.

"Second, Bill has to keep thinking I'd dead and burned up. My 'replacement' was a big investment for a lot of good reasons. He thinks he's getting insurance money, I'm sure. Confusing Bill with my resurrection in the middle of all this would make him pissed and uncooperative."

Lee laughed again. "Yeah, he does, or did, seem pretty happy that you're dead."

John agreed. "We need to count on him wanting to go the course so he doesn't lose any of that payout. Whatever you offered him is a bonus."

Lee was considering how little he wanted his fate to depend on Bill.

"Guess so, but he has no idea that the rest is at risk except maybe he gets killed by the mob, so we're dealing only with what's in it for him to cough up the key."

"What the hell did you tell him?" The mob part confused John.

Lee answered, "Scary enough story. Pretty close to the truth about the risk. We know the family would not like this to come apart. Told him pretty much that."

John responded, "Here's the thing. The key on its own is useless, in spite of what the movies pretend. The only person gaining access to the box right now, without the nose of the bank auditor in there too, is the one and only John Fischer, loyal and living customer—the rightful private owner. And that's a time-limited deal, as banks talk and, by now, my home bank certainly considers me dead."

Lee was confused. "So, you do have to go?"

John countered, "No, somebody who can pass for me has to go: Bill."

The silence gave away Lee's incredulous response to the idea.

John continued before he could interrupt, "We look enough alike that he can present my driver's license as ID. We're the same height. People gain weight. It's a shitty old picture anyway."

He continued before Lee could object. "He has the key and the bank debit card for the account at Maritime. All he needs to do is grunt appropriately, enter the right passcode and sign in with a signature that could be mine. We can brief him on what happens at the box. It should easy."

Lee was really uncertain. "Fuck-me. Do you know how nervous the goof from Chicago, no offense, would be, pretending to be you? What if the bank person remembers you?"

John wanted to keep the discussion positive. "None taken. He isn't as dumb as he lets on, which makes him fine for this. His business is fooling people. Believe me, he can lie with the best of them. He just needs coaching and some practice. Maybe he wears one of my jackets and carries my briefcase. He'll need something to carry out twenty pounds of gold. He'll go in the evening. I always went in the morning. Be different staff on for sure so no recognition."

Lee was still considering. "Might work, I guess. We're fucked if he gets busted. He'll probably just spill the beans."

John had thought about that. "It's a risk, but no more than doing nothing. If anything goes wrong, he has the Will in his briefcase. He just plays stupid and says that he thought that's what he was supposed to do. Anything in that box would eventually be going to the estate anyway and he's the executor. They might yell at him and lock up the box, but what else can they do? He's grieving the sudden loss of his only brother. He's confused. Yeah, the gold gets locked up, but that would happen soon anyway if we do nothing."

Lee was coming around to the idea, but still doubted Bill's ability. "So, you think that he can just go get it?"

John needed more from Lee. "Well, no. He'll need some coaching, a test of his memorization and a bit of practice" This was the kicker. "Fraid that you'll need to spend some time with him."

Lee was cringing on the other end of the line. "Ah, jeez, I'm not sure that I could spend more than thirty minutes alone without killing him."

John laughed. "After, go ahead." Then, considering how little he really knew about Lee, he retracted. "No, change that. If he needs killing later, I'll do it. I'd be evening some scores in my life, believe me."

He continued, "Meet him at my old apartment and pitch it to him. Maybe, front some cash. I'll text you the card passcode and security question answers. Have him sign my name twenty or thirty times until he gets close enough. Not really much else he has to do. Just make sure that my mother isn't around."

John guessed that Lee was doing all of this just because he was a fair-play guy. Not a nice guy, but somebody who didn't screw his friends. Well, excepting his lovers that is.

"Look Lee, I can't tell you how much this means to me. I will tell it all to you over the most extravagant meal when we're done. I've got a lot to live for, all of a sudden. A stake to do it with will make all the difference."

He continued, "Somebody else might just keep it all and tell me to piss-off. I expect that you might tell me that you don't want anything, if I know you well enough. But I want this to be worth your while. You still need to move some stuff after we retrieve it, I can't touch it. All my customers are on a coded list in the box. Bill picks that up too and you can add them to your base. Plus, they'll be looking for another deal by now with gold rising. Should be no problem to move most of the bullion to cash over a couple weeks. Make sure that Bill gets the cash he needs to do his bit and shut-up about it. Get me two-hundred in deposits whenever you can. No-one the wiser."

Lee was way over his conversation time-limit anyway, so wanted to get off the phone. He was still going to confirm what John had said about access with someone at another bank. But, short of Bill completely fucking up, the plan at least offered a possible way out of his dilemma with the family. He thought that he was going to wind himself out of this business shortly anyway. Too long at any one thing created a pattern. Patterns put people in jail. Time to move on. Keeping seventy or eighty thousand would be useful planning funds, so it was good enough all round.

Lee finally said, "OK, I'll tell Bill he's going to acting school. Sure that you don't want to come watch?"

John laughed, "Be fun, but no. I can still hardly walk."

"Well, get the fuck better. Bye." Click. Lee was gone.

John collapsed back into the ratty old chair he was sitting in. The tension-filled conversation had drained him, but he had convinced Lee. Up front, he wouldn't have given it good odds. Now, he wondered if he fully understood Lee's motivation. Was he scared of something else?

His pill was wearing off and he needed to hang onto his daughter again soon, to remind himself why he was doing this. He had considered just making a clean break without money, but with no history, no ability to actually just use his skills right away and the problem of convincing Michelle to come along, he needed this stake. He was certain that he could make them millionaires easily enough, once they could land somewhere else and he could begin opening doors again.

Upstairs, Muma quietly got up off her kitchen chair, where she had been sitting and carefully listening for the last half-hour. She couldn't understand the daemon talk that had made its way up through the thin floor, but she knew that weren't Kamal talking. This daemon had an evil plan, probably along with some other daemons. Dese daemons had tried to kill Dillon and that's how they got Kamal. She now knew that her son was dead and gone. Now she had to protect her granddaughter.

# Chapter Eighteen - Michelle's Bed

Dillon told Lenny to stop the car up the road from Muma's house. He pulled to the curb a couple houses away, leaving the motor running.

Lenny asked, "Wa's d'problem, Dil? Why w'stopping back here? Can't walk dat far. Well, can, but what d'fuck? Thas where d'shits Dens done shot Kamal. Ain't safe walkin just in t'open dere. Maybe d'survelliance shit goin on. Nothin t'do wit it, but shit, no need bein, y'know, obvious."

Dil was studying the house. "Shut d'fuck up. I'm thinkin."

Lenny huffed and said, "Oh, en dat takes a stop car? Why canna ya think while w'get dere, park out t'way en get outa here. Daylight en all. Makes sense, yo muma' house. You bein here, dat is. But hangin out ain't a good idee, yknow."

Dil was still unsettled by the strange responses he got from Kam. He had defended him, but without a lot of conviction. Man change like that, maybe something else goin on. Maybe his amnesia thing is true, but maybe he learned somethin he want to be hidin now. Sides, crew wanting t'do right by him. He need t'know that. Should be OK with dat.

He finally thought it through long enough. He had a task to do here, but also maybe wanted to talk to Kam again. He'd been home from hospital four days now. He should be comin round from his amnesia. Kam had to know what was up, even though he had nuthin to do with it anymore. He also be deserving some cash, want it or not. Mich turned it down, but weren't her call.

Dil finally grunted, "OK, let's go. Park up close t'the garage like normal. But ya wait in de car. Don' need n'shit with Kam en you or wit my Muma."

Lenny nodded as he put the car in gear. "Yeah, fuck, I know'd de drill. Thinkin we should jus get in n'get out man. Fuck talking t'your brother, if'n his head be fucked up. Maybe he come outside want'n some fresh air at the wrong time. Then what? He know'd once, but what's he know now? Maybe got a goody streak, somethin, wit Mich and the baby. Maybe he want to get out from unda, know? Maybe he be loose-lipped in da wrong place?"

They still hadn't moved.

Dil now looked straight at Lenny. "Fuck dat. He still be m'bro. No worry. Nuthin here involve him. Right? Nuthin. He doan know shit, doan need t'know. You wrong ya think anythin but dat, right?"

Lenny wasn't going to push it. "Yeah, yeah, Dil. Whatever ya says."

Dil wanted to get it over with. "Now move."

Lenny did a one-point turn and backed the car up into Muma's empty driveway. He rolled it all the way to the back where it was hidden on both sides by the house and by an overgrown hedge. The back of the car was a couple feet from the garage door. Both Dil and Lenny got out and went to the back. Dil rolled up the garage door and Lenny opened the trunk. Both casually looked around, but the spot was perfectly hidden. Even the house windows looked out either in front of the car or into the backyard. Dil reached into the trunk and pulled out a heavy dark-grey tool box. It had a thick bungie-cord around it and a bright plastic zip-tie tightly cinched through the lock holes. He disappeared with it into the garage.

At the back of the garage, Dil retrieved a key from under a paint can and opened a heavy lock that was through an added hasp on a battered red tool cabinet. He set the lock aside and pulled the door open. He put the tool box in on a shelf alongside another very similar one already there. He closed the cabinet door and relocked it, returning the key to its hiding spot.

Lenny should have been back in the car when Dil came out of the garage, but was standing beside it. Dil picked up a conversation, already underway.

"...you feelin now, Kam? Y'lookin lots better. Y'be memberin more den? Home wit da Muma cookin fix mos anythin. Mich too. She be doin lots, sure."

Dil looked up the driveway straight into the face of his younger brother, now leaning on a cane in front of the car. He spoke bluntly. "Shuts-up, Lenny. Ya make anybody's head hurt worse den afore."

John in Kamal grinned ever so briefly. He was a fan of old movies and briefly flashed Abbott and Costello in front of him.

Dil now turned to his brother. "Hey, Kam. Din't know if ya bein home, en all. Was comin in t'maybe say hi. See Izzy too. So y'feelin some better then?"

John could see that they were both nervous. More nervous than just being embarrassed around an injured guy, whose injuries might have made him a mental invalid. John had seen that kind of embarrassment for almost two weeks from his hospital bed. This was different. This was nervous recovery from being caught doing something they wanted to hide.

"Hey, Dil." He tried out the nickname. "Be doin better. Y'know, every day a little. Michelle brought me a cane" He held it up. "Let's me hump around pretty good up-and-down the drive. Not goin anywhere else, jus yet though." He paused long enough to let some silence hang between them. "What you guys doin back here?"

Lenny wisely said nothing, but John caught a quick nervous glance at Dil, who was much cooler and answered without a pause. "Oh, nuthin particular. Bringin tools back is all. Needed some fer fixin a sink at my place. All done. Brought em back."

John could play dumb without any excuse. "Tools, huh? I jus don't recall nuthin bout what's in t'garage. We got some tools, eh?"

Dil wanted to get off the topic. "Nah, not much. Jus wrenches, But figure, why buy more when we got some, y'know? Wanted t'say hi anyway. How's Mich? How's Izzy?"

He was running on and John could see that he definitely wanted to get off the topic of what was in the garage.

Dil had been walking forward as he spoke and now stood past Kamal on the way to the house. He obviously meant to lead Kamal away from the car and garage. Lenny was getting back in the driver's side door. Clearly, any more interest in the garage wasn't wanted.

Dil walked towards the side entrance door off the driveway near the front of the house. John stood still for a moment considering the garage, then turned and limped after him. Before they got to the door, Dil turned and waited.

He spoke when Kamal was close enough to hear a low voice. "Wanted t'talk t'ya brief, like. None a'Lenny's business, know? Can y'hang on a mint?"

John noted that Dil had a way of checking a lot of things quickly, either like a bird of prey or like one that didn't want to be prey. Had he actually glanced at the window above them to be sure it was closed? He had certainly scanned the street for anybody paying attention. There was nobody there. John had done the same thing in reflex.

John nodded. "Sure, kin stand for a moment. Need t'be up and movin, much as I can."

Dillon nodded as well, then started, "Well, its bout de shootin, y'know. Hope talkin bout it is OK now? Couldn't do at t'hospital. Crew really sorry 'bout it. Me too. Word says dey was lookin fer me. Don know if'n that be true. We be knowin who it was anyways. Y'know, can't let it stand. But that's not yer problem t'fix er t'know 'bout. But, y'still be a crew concern, y'know. You's got a chile to worry 'bout now. All's understandin that. But, still turf. Still out. Y'know we's concern 'bout anythin be a prob."

He was rambling.

John interrupted, '"Dil, sorry, doan get it, but if yer sayin that the gang wants somethin from me, can't do it. Too stupid." He tapped his head. "Plus, done wit it. Kin hardly walk. I jus need t'focus on getting back t'work now."

Dil nodded vigorously. "Yeah, yeah, dat's right. Not a problem. Know'd dat. But crew still owes ya. Tried t'give some paypa to Mich, but she turn me down. Woman be like dat. Be OK fer her."

He paused, then leaned in and continued in a whisper, "But, y'can't really say no, y'know. Maybe taken as some disrespect, like. Crew'l collect sure nuf they end. You gettin some makes em feel they done somethin fer de family, like. Y'still be family, wit me, en all."

John was getting his first lessons on the gang. Kamal probably already knew them well, so his 'amnesia' was an embarrassing problem for Dillon. Debts owed were paid, not forgiven. Gratitude was respect, even if the thing received wasn't wanted. Once in, always in—you don't just walk away. Street family was more important than real family, maybe. These were the rules.

He didn't give a shit, but Dillon's rep was at stake. As the shooter's target, he was the disrespected one now. He owed Kamal as his own family. But, his debt to the gang would be repaid when the gang's honour was restored with payback, which probably meant killing or severely injuring someone in the rival gang.

John was growing desperately afraid for his 'new' brother, but for his new family's stake, he had to accept his role in Dillon's status restoration. He didn't fully understand why, but he knew that he needed to accept the offer of compensation, with some gratitude.

He would have to try to make Michelle understand. Some cash would actually be useful. As long as there were no strings.

Then, he would have to get Michelle and Izzy the hell out of here. Getting his stash was no longer just an option for a quicker return to a lifestyle. It was their ticket out of a deadly situation that could easily spiral out of control. Unlike Dillon, he was worried about getting caught in something illegal. Accessory. Accomplice. Easy words for the Crown to spin out. Hard to duck with a record, no matter how trivial. Now he really wondered what the hell the comedy duo of Dil 'n Lenny had been doing in the garage.

John listened patiently to Dillon. He was going to bring him in to see Izzy and to see how the interaction with Michelle might go. It was Sunday. Muma had gone to church this morning and Michelle had slept in. For the first time since he arrived, Kamal had been given responsibility for Izzy's early feeding and awake time until late morning.

John had been trying more activity and now wanted to walk as much as possible outside. With only a little concern, he had convinced Muma that taking Isabella out in her stroller would be good for both of them. She had helped get her ready and out before she headed off to church.

It had been interesting. His earlier walk up and down the block felt pretty good, with the stroller to offset his sore hip and sore foot limp. His pain pill dulled most of the ache and he now found that his head stayed clear enough. He would definitely just finish out the pack, then be off them for good.

He only realized when he got back that he would need to get her upstairs somehow. After scratching his head a bit, he got the idea to go up the outside front steps backwards, pulling the stroller up one step at a time below him. If anything failed, he could just sit down. It had worked, but then he had to go back down, in the open side door and back up to the main floor to unlock the front door to retrieve her. He quietly laughed at his dumbness when it came to looking after a baby. But Izzy seemed to think that the whole trip out and bouncy multi-step reentry was fun. Turned out that Michelle was awake by then and sat giggling in the kitchen watching him.

She commented, "Ya mus be the mos ingenious cripple there is. Mos might's tried to pick her up wit their only free hand and realize later they got a problem. I was ready to jump in, but ya handled it pretty good, have t'say."

John was a little embarrassed to be observed, but also proud of his minor accomplishment. "Well, y'coulda jumped in, there. Mighta lost m'grip and sent her rolling down the street."

Michelle had laughed again. "Nah, y'had it in control all t'way. Maybe, y'rememberin all 'bout bein a good daddy, now?"

John still wondered how much of a daddy Kamal had been. "Remeberin? Be thinkin this all be new, either way? Muma seems t'think an angel landed on m'head or somethin. Least think thast what she be talkin t'Jesus about me all the time."

Michelle shrugged and tipped her head back and forth. "Well, ya gots a little more time t'be tentative, sure nuf. We'll see if'n it sticks once ya working agin, like the res of us."

They had spent an enjoyable morning playing, until Izzy's nap. Then the two of them were able to just sit and talk without Muma or the rush of getting out to work or back in again for Michelle. It had been good conversation. John had come pretty far in adapting his speech to the way he assumed Kamal might have spoken. Slowly, he would ease that up to proper English and, hopefully, bring Michelle along.

She was really smart, obviously very capable and more beautiful to him every day. One day soon, she would go to college or university, when she didn't need to work anymore. Maybe just before their next baby, which the nanny could look after while she studied up to her potential. John daydreamed it all while staring across the kitchen table at her. His only problem would be explaining why they suddenly had two-hundred thousand dollars. He hadn't come up with anything believable yet. It might need to just be his secret for a while.

They heard the car roll in together. Michelle stood and cursed. John knew that it must be Dillon. He wanted to talk to him anyway.

He motioned her back down, "Sit...My brother, my problem. I'm goin out."

The quiet conversation with Dillon outside ended with John agreeing that 'Dil" should do what he needed to do, as long as it didn't put Kamal or his family at risk.

John asked him, "Been through nuff, don y'think? Dey got t'know that I doan remember. Jus doan know nuthin. Who, what, when, is all fuckin blank. Need them t'know. Tryin hard as I can, but right now, no use t'anyone, one way or t'other. Right?"

Dil had nodded again. John hoped he was getting it.

"Yeah, yeah, bro. Know'd ya needs time en all. No pressure."

John had to press his point. He couldn't afford any misunderstanding.

"Na, not in time. Never. Doan think it's comin back. This be me now. Crew wants t'see me as an ol' stupid friend, fine. But can't be no value t'them now. OK?"

Dil might have been getting it. John couldn't tell. He hoped that whoever had to hear the pitch from him would also get it straight. There seemed to be a lot of assumptions built into the rules. He really didn't know if you could just demand to be left alone, when your brother was obviously still in, but he had to try.

John continued, "I'm agreeing t'somethin from the crew. Not too much or Mich go nuts, yknow? But lil help be very much 'preciated. Y'tell em. Really preciated. But they need t'understand: we out, we gone. Can't do nuthin wit a broken head. Broken body'll heal. But head is fucked-up, far as I kin tell."

He paused. That was it, the conversation was over. "Let's go in."

John hoped that he was making his point that Dil should give up any notion that old Kam was coming back. He was less sure that the message would get carried back to others in any way that made sense. Seemed like this was a 'no bad news' club, if you wanted to stay in good standing.

Dil seemed to get it. "Yeah, yeah. Good, good. Crew will be down wit dat. You be fine, sure."

John opened the door. "Now, be a cool uncle. Cool brother-in-law, too."

He grinned and continued. "Hey, maybe you get your own soon, huh?"

He put his arm around Dil's shoulder. It seemed like something a brother might do.

With Dil on his best behaviour and Kamal helping by being a good occasional moderator and suggestor, the interaction between Michelle and Dillon came across as civilized, if not friendly.

Dillon, to his credit, put on a reasonably-attentive uncle act with Izzy, who, just waking up and getting her bottle, was in a reasonable mood anyway. She watched him the same way that she watched Kamal, as if showing her first feminine interest in these rough, smelly things called men. Actually, she was just interested in anything new and different. Dillon being interested in her and fairly polite with Michelle was new and different.

After he left, saying he didn't want to keep Lenny waiting in the car too long and no invitation for him to come in having been extended, Michelle turned to Kamal, with the only question that was relevant.

"What d'hell were ya talkin 'bout t'him so long out there?"

John had hoped for some thinking time to put his thoughts in order and to plan out a sales pitch for what he knew would be a difficult proposal to Michelle. But, as he was learning as a new husband, husbands got neither thinking nor planning time when the wife had something on her mind.

"He was educatin me on the gang."

Michelle's squint and wrinkled brow told him that he had her attention.

"What? What da fuckin Crips got t'do wit us? Thought I tol ya, leave those shitheads alone. Nuthin good comin and plenty a trouble always there."

John responded, "Nuthin t'do wit us, more t'do wit him. Seems they spectin him t'make some amends wit me, for 'takin a hit' as he put it, on his behalf."

Michelle was ahead of him already. "He tried to give me paypa already. Tol him, we want none o' their blood money. Drugs, guns, hoes, who knows where it come from? Take it, you be no better than them."

John now wished that he had though this through. "Well, whether we want it or not, Dil says he needs t'pay it. No strings. Tol him we want nuthin t'do wit them. Tol him, I can't remember nuthin about back then or bout now. He says, crew just wants t'compensate the injury—kind of like insurance they carry, fer family. Whether we like it or not, with him in, we're family."

Michelle was apoplectic. "You really bein stupid now, if'n ya weren't stupid before. Doan y'know how it works? They buying loyalty, is all. They buyin 'no hear um, no see um'. Crime goes on, nobody sees nuthin. Know why? All be owin somethin or be so shit 'fraid they got t'put up wit it. Fuckers shot ya coulda left a business card, nobody'd turn em in. Crips say 'let us handle it' meaning 'keep yer fuckin nose out or get hurt' Want t'be fraid all the time? Jus go ahead n take their money."

John had more or less agreed with Dil already. Now he had a problem. He could take money from Dil and not tell her. But she was the first person in his life that he wasn't lying to. 'Cept about bein her husband, that is. He planned to make up for that lie with all his ability.

There had to be a way to let Dillon off the hook and still be honest with Michelle. John could only hope to have her come up with a solution. It was a proven technique when a problem was stopping a deal. Could it work here?

"Well, I can't jus leave my brother twistin. He says, he has t'regain respect. Guess we don't need t'know all 'bout that, cept he says he has t'pay me for pain he caused, by being the target. We need t'think o' somethin to solve this."

Michelle wasn't moving. "Not our fuckin problem is it? He got himself in it, let im get himself out."

Kamal tried another tack. "But he's my brother. If there was no gang at all, him comin t'us saying he wants t'help would be pretty normal right? I might even have gone t'him."

She was tempted to call him stupid again. "If there was no gang, ya wouldn't be shot."

John conceded the point. "Yeah, but could still be injured some other way."

She saw that there was no sense arguing reality. "Be different if it wasn't Crips money. Guess, if he wanted t'help with his own money, maybe then."

"What if I tell him that? He works. Drives a truck. He can lend us his own money. We'll pay him back. Nuthin t'do with the gang. He tells them this is personal, somethin he wants t'do on his own. Once I'm back workin, he gets it all back."

Michelle still wasn't convinced, but John had seen enough movement in the direction he needed. He knew from experience that you took ground slowly or not at all. This was good enough.

John wanted to wrap the discussion. "OK, nothin settled. Probably still no, but I'll leave him a few days."

Whether she agreed or was just tired of the conversation, Michelle grunted "sure" and got up to take Izzy into the front room. Her final words were, "Muma's back. Sunday talk only now."

In spite of having spent all morning in church, Muma's first priority coming back into the house was to turn on one of the big music, big sins and big hallelujahs 'mega-cathedrals' from the states that featured several thousand sweaty and gyrating people dancing about over an 800 number. In spite of the obvious decadence of the setting and presumed deep pockets of the faithful on-site, there was apparently a continuing desperate need for money to carry on some obscure mission. The 'prayer line' offered the power of the big congregation's momentary attention to cure warts, get sonny out of jail or put nearly-dead Aunt Lucie a hundred bucks closer to heaven. Canadian funds welcome!

Muma liked her public salvation loud, so the console TV in the front room was turned up to cover the entire upstairs. Mum could dance away her few remaining sins while making lunch in the kitchen. She never felt a compulsion to ask for any additional prayers, her own capabilities being not only sufficient, but probably superior, if a direct connection to Jesus was the measure. She asked and she got back direction, in signs, pretty quickly. Her prayers lately were for her innocent granddaughter, now in the clutches of a slick and fairly convincing daemon in the form of her resurrected child's body. She was still waitin for a sign on that one.

Fortunately, the mega-church show would be over in fifty minutes or so, to be replaced by some far-eastern-themed church service that, while undoubtedly Christian, struck Muma as heretical, what with all them China-type people, strange decorations and foreign-speakin. Plus, they was just too quiet about it—if'n the spirit was truly in-em, they shouldn't be able to sit still and never smile.

Most likely they was hired actors, was her idea. Not very good ones either, else you could pay them to least show they was supposed to be gettin it. Course without the music, how could anyone get the spirit? Gospel music drove out daemons too, accordin to her preacher. She was considering gettin out her 'Malia Jackson CD for her first assault on the daemon in her house.

The TV would go off in disgust just in time for Izzy's next nap. John would probably join her. While the gospel crazies were still on, Michelle, John and Izzy moved downstairs for a little peace and at least partial quiet. The downstairs rugs and floors weren't considered baby territory even with a blanket, so down here she had a playpen. As she hadn't been in it in a while, she initially considered screaming about being put down, but them discovered some familiar and chewable toys, so went about her business without complaining.

Michelle led Kamal over to the bed and half-helped him and half-dragged him down with her.

"Been lonely down here without you." She smiled coyly. "Thinkin you do well enough on those stairs now, maybe you be comin back into my bed. I'd sure like that."

John was a little nervous, but wanted more than anything to give in to the suggestion. He had the same idea just about every night upstairs. But he still had the nagging question of whether he could be, act and perform like Kamal. He felt the young body healing and regaining strength every day. He had to admit that sleeping with Michelle would be just about the greatest thing that ever happened to him.

"I'm thinking the same thing. Still a bit of an invalid—turning over in bed produces a lot of groans, but I'd love to come back to you, if you're ready to have me."

"Ready? You kiddin? I been ready fer you t'come back t'me since ya walked in t'door."

Michelle crawled over-top of Kamal to give him a kiss and a long hug. They could both see Izzy happily chewing on a plastic giraffe in her playpen. She was regarding them with her normal curiosity.

John laughed. "She's keeping a careful eye on us, t'make sure that we're not doing anything naughty."

Michelle was still on top of him. "Yeah, but church noise be over upstairs and be time for naps soon 'nuf. Maybe you be nappin down here today. Maybe that works out, you be comin home to our bed for good, huh?"

John could think of nothing better. "Thas a plan. Maybe give her ten more minutes. Guess Muma stayin upstairs wid her. My nap can wait." He grinned at her and then, for the first time, kissed her. He gave it his best long and deep effort and got the same back, so guessed that it must have been just about right.

Once Izzy showed signs of being ready for her nap, Michell carried her upstairs.

John now considered his lazy cover-ups and T-shirt clothes, thinking that it was hi-time he started dressing up a little. He also now wondered about his day-old washcloth bath. Given that there was only one shower in the house, he suspected that Kamal probably wasn't a two-shower a day guy like he used to be. But at least one probably wouldn't hurt. He made it another of his resolutions. His various wounds and surgical incisions were healed to the point where they only needed good sized band-aides, so he could afford to start acting more normal. For today, he could only be what he was.

Michelle came back downstairs and climbed onto the bed again. She immediately slid over, wrapped one leg over his and dug her face into his neck. She had been wearing a sweater, but had lost it somewhere along the way and now had just a t-shirt and light stretch pants on.

She whispered close to his ear. "Babe, maybe never tol ya how scared I was a losin ya. Nurses was, y'know, upbeat, but I could tell they thought was touch'n go fer a while. Guess ya not really being there with the meds en all, ya couldn't know. But I doan know what I would do without ya. Maybe still doan know what we gonna do t'gether some days, but couldn't bear t'lose you after I jus really found you in m'life."

John wasn't sure how to respond. He couldn't know what Kamal had felt or would feel now. He had no memory of the shooting incident as it happened to someone else. If he reminisced with Michelle about times past, he'd be lying or trying to make up feelings that Kamal may not have had. By rights, he should be very angry or depressed or in some sort of PTSD funk, but he felt better now than he had felt his entire life. Yes, he desperately wanted her, but it was an infatuation based on really meeting her only a few days ago. He didn't know how to translate that into the words a young 'husband' would say to a 'wife' of many months that he almost lost.

He gave it a shot. "Ya make me feel like a man found in the wilderness, maybe fer sure at death's door, when an angel appears 'n rescues him." He grinned, hoping it was coming out as he intended. Michelle was watching him closely from just inches away.

He continued, "I'm so sad I've lost memory of most've our time together. Almos everything up until a few days ago, is jus lost in a fuzzy set o'memories that I can't make no sense of, yet. Hopin they all comes back clear, but all I can say is I'm so much in love with the angel that found me, probly saved me, and wants me for the rest of her life. I'm sorry that ya was scared. I'd give anything t'rewind it all and take it back from you, but guessin we can't. We jus need t'go ahead, together."

John thought that it had come out pretty good. He had tried to put together words that she would want to hear with ones that would let him continue to pretend to have forgotten and, maybe, let him off the hook if he was different, clumsy, or as strange as he knew that he must be. She was expecting the man that she knew well to come back again. He was an interloper trying to jump into that man's bed. He still didn't know if it could work. But, lying this close to the 'angel' of his dreams, he was going to do everthing in his power to hang onto the miraculous second life he had been given.

"Ain't no angel babe. Maybe more of a little devil." Michelle laughed into his neck as she ran her hand up under his t-shirt. She brushed her fingertips over his various bumps and band-aides, then slowly drew her hand back down along his stomach to the top of his pants. There she lingered, slowly drawing finger tips along his skin at the edge of the material. She played slowly back and forth for a moment, then found the drawstring and slowly pulled the knot open. With no further resistance, her fingertips now gently moved inside his waistband and found the elastic top of his boxers. Again, she hesitated, as if not knowing if she should go further, causing John to ache for the final movement that would bring her hand in contact with his rapidly swelling cock.

Michelle now moved her lips across his ear and up over his closed eyelids. With a warm exhalation, she moved across his face and found his lips. She hesitated here again, just as her hand hesitated mere centimeters from his cock. Then, she parted his lips and plunged her tongue into his mouth. At the same time, she moved her hand the final critical distance and took his cock in her warm fingers.

John had been holding his breath for the final moments of the drama, so when he inhaled deeply after the release of the held tension, he drew most of his air around her lips and some from her lungs.

Michelle plunged her tongue even deeper into his mouth while her entire hand now gently moved on his lengthening cock. Then she stopped. She pulled her face back to look into his eyes.

"Whatcha want babe?" She grinned. "It's all yours. You just tell me what. Ya missing anything in particular?"

John was at a loss. He was so excited that he feared even the slightest additional movement might make him explode, way too soon and in horrible failure. But then he realized that Michelle was no longer stroking, but had taken a firm grip on the base of his cock and was bringing him gently back from the brink. He could relax. She was in charge and wanted only to make him happy. This could be better than he had ever dreamed.

John had never had a woman that he loved ask him what he wanted in bed. Most women that he thought he might have loved had never made it that far. They didn't love him.

From the rest, he had gotten it all, but usually in a slightly drunk rush or as part of a convenient sober coupling that they both knew wasn't going anywhere beyond the one night in her bed.

After jumping willingly into the sack, sometimes way too soon, often as not, lovers had either demanded immediate penetration and a quick unsatisfying climax by him, or had an expectation of lengthy external stimulation before somewhat reluctantly pulling him in and grinding to an attempted finish together.

Now, he wanted to be the best lover in the world. He wanted to know what she wanted. How she wanted it? What he should do, when? What could he do to make these moments the very best that they could be? But he wasn't asking her. She was asking him.

Michelle was the first woman that he had ever known who was focused entirely on him and on what he wanted. He knew that he could ask for anything and she would respond without reproach or embarrassment. Whatever he wanted, she would give it and she would make that thing her only focus until he was completely and thoroughly exhausted. Her uninhibited offering was the most amazing thing he had ever experienced.

Of course, he drew a blank. He couldn't put any words together. He wanted it all. He wanted to experience every single thing that they could do together. But he had no idea how to ask for any of it. If Kamal had known how to ask, and he was probably a master at it, he didn't leave John any hints in the body. John the risen, was a high-schooler unhooking his first bra—he was beyond desire into delirium.

Michelle didn't seem at all concerned or even confused by his lack of response. She lifted up to eye-to-eye with him and smiled. "Oh, so you hasn't forgotten that much then? As usual, I has t'do all the work, right round the world, guessing which y'need. Was hopin maybe y'found some voice in yer time off."

She gently shook her head, and raised her eyes, as if chastising a child. Then she grinned again. "Well, ya jus makes some notes now, so's next time we can get right to it."

She kissed him deeply again, then broke contact with his lips and started moving her open mouth across his chin and down his throat. She pushed up his shirt and spent time sucking on his uninjured nipple. Then, she moved her face across his stomach.

She looked up one last time, still smiling, "Jus relax babe, we gonna be at this for quite a while."

John felt his tension and urgency fall away. Maybe the body was remembering all on its own. He was just going along for the ride. And to take notes.

# Chapter Nineteen - Jaff Meet Kamal

There was nothing particularly remarkable about the house. It appeared to be post-war, maybe a second wave bungalow, built not for returning soldiers to start families, in places like Mimico and Kingsway, but for the contingents of less-well-off immigrants that followed.

These newcomers were often displaced, mostly from Europe. They arrived almost penniless in the unknown, but welcoming city, found whatever shared accommodation they could, took strenuous jobs to pay their way and set their sights on a house in the then far reaches of the sprawling suburbs, where they could eventually afford the few hundred dollars needed for a down payment.

Jaff guessed that this one had been built for ten or fiften thousand dollars in maybe 1962, when it was one of block-after-block of punched out side-splits and bungalows, slapped up in few weeks, on farm land near the two-runway airport called Malton.

Rexdale, running north of here, had been a destination then. It would have appeared in the newspapers ads as a place for socially movers-up to aim for. Now it was in newspapers and on the Internet mostly for the criminal antics of its fourth or fifth iteration of immigrant residents, who unlike most that preceded it, didn't find that round-the-clock work in a factory or warehouse adequately funded all of their lifestyle needs.

There was nothing new about organized crime in a city built by Italians, Portuguese, Polish and Ukrainians. What was new was the regular intrusion of gang activity into the everyday awareness of the citizenry via round-the-clock video news coverage that loved blood more than any other lubricant for intense, head-shaking viewer attention.

Old days, criminal inter-gang issues resulted in a quiet disappearance into a building foundation hole or maybe out deep in the lake. If someone was shot, it was up close, in a back room or down an alley, out of public view. Now the punks shot at each other out on the same streets that everybody else used, with destructive inaccuracy, as it was probably the first time they pulled the trigger on the gun handed to them minutes before. Then they ran away, leaving the hoped-for corpse behind for all to see, while swiftly morphing back into someone's quiet, well-adjusted child, once the hoody and gun were safely tucked away.

As Jaff sat parked in just about the same spot that Lenny's car had occupied a day before, he also considered that in spite of the bad rep of some denizens, this was still a pretty nice neighbourhood from this point of view, on a sunny afternoon. The high-rises and row houses that housed most of the troublesome generation were a couple blocks to the north. The arterial roads that flowed thousands of cars into and through the top part of Etobicoke were also blocks away. Here, most lawns were watered, most gardens were tended and most garbage was picked up. The little street was a small oasis reminiscent of a once-flush neighbourhood of families that was now being wrung-out by crime. Safe, contented life in the surrounding blocks was being supplanted by a guns and drugs crisis that wasn't going away any time soon. Jaff liked his own place farther out in the country, away from all that, but thought briefly, "Yeah, younger and working hard, I could probably live here, for a little while anyway."

He had come out on a whim, not really knowing what he planned to do, but curious to see the place where this Kamal Lewis lived, now that he was pretty sure that he was actually the reincarnated John Fischer. He had considered and rejected different ways of contacting John or Kamal, which, given that the place looked calm and that no-one was screaming and running around on the lawn, was what John had apparently decided to pretend to be. If he was loudly proclaiming that he was a dead white guy to his black family, Kamal's friends and the entire neighbourhood, it seemed likely that there would either be a cop car or a funny wagon parked in the drive. There was none, so Jaff figured that he would need to get Kamal somewhere private and just ask him if he was John, using the usually reliable 'you really need a friend' approach.

It was early afternoon on a Monday and the neighbourhood was dead quiet. Jaff had stopped a couple houses away, where he could park in the shade of a tree. He could also see the very driveway that Kamal Lewis had likely been shot and killed in. The 'killed' part contributing to the mystery as the body had apparently come right up against death in order to give up one personality, or soul, or whatever you wanted to call its energy, and to receive another with no overlap or bickering about who's space it was. There was no science that Jaff could find for how this could happen. But there was plenty of mythology. Whole nations readily believed in the possibility. Jaff was determined to find out if there were any provable facts at all about the apparent reincarnation and to write about it, with Kamal or John as the anonymous subject, who would provide most of the verifiable experiential narrative.

Jaff didn't plan to sit too long in his shaded spot today, as most certainly someone would take notice of the suspicious guy 'casing' the neighbourhood. It all looked peaceful enough at the moment, but the general area was certainly home turf for the West End Crips, one of whose maybe-affiliated members had been shot down about thirty metres from where he was parked. Statistically, it wasn't a particularly wise place to hang out.

He hadn't really come up with any plan for meeting John but to go up and knock on the door. Kamal, the body, was seriously injured enough that he probably wasn't going out to work yet. At any other time, he would likely be accompanied out by a family member. If he was playing at impersonation to hide in this family, he would likely also play dumb in response to any probing questions while with someone else. No, Jaff needed him alone, in confessional, where he could unload his great burden to someone who would understand, maybe help him through and certainly keep his mouth shut.

The key question that Jaff had was why a guy like John, who has a lot of smarts, probably has some wealth saved up and who has a much better lifestyle to return to, would give it up and chose to live as this Kamal kid. Yeah, it would be difficult for him as a young black guy to regain the life of an older white professional, but there had to be a way. Get new ID, change employers, move far away, work over the Internet only, whatever—but continue life as John Fischer. What would make that guy chose to be a punk with a record, to live in his mother's house in a dangerous neighbourhood where he has just been shot, and to try to survive with no job credentials to build on? The answer, in part, came out the side door of the house at about 1:10 p.m.

The gorgeous black woman moved like an athlete, with a long stride and a heads-up confidence that Jaff picked up two houses away. She had a backpack on and wore mirrored sunglasses, with swept back curly hair. Her mid-tone complexion was radiant in the sunshine. She wore an open rough denim jacket above tight black pants. The bright sweater under the jacket, worn with shoulders back, would clearly attract a lot of male attention.

Jaff got the impression of someone who knew exactly where she was going, had the world under her control and wasn't to be underestimated. She was Michelle, the almost wife. Add a beautiful baby girl and maybe John had found something that had eluded him his whole life. Mystery at least partly solved.

Michelle turned and moved up the street away from Jaff, who hadn't even merited a glance. She was likely on a schedule that would see her hit the bus stop thirty seconds before her bus, which would drop her at work a minute before her start time. He was making this part up, but in any story that he might write, that would be Michelle's shtick: perfection in motion.

Now Jaff considered that he might have the opportunity he had been looking for. There was certainly a mother inside. Alvita Lewis owned the house, having kept on after the death of her husband Jojon Lewis twelve years earlier. He had been listed as a pipefitter, so would have had time to earn a reasonable living in the ten years after he immigrated from the islands. Alvita followed him later, they had two boys, all was well and then Jojn died of emphysema, probably from smoking, but also likely from breathing industrial asbestos most of his life. In any regard, he at least left the house free and clear for his family.

Jojon's boys hadn't managed to steer clear of trouble. The absence of a no-nonsense father in the home probably contributing. The older, Dillon, had spent some time in jail. Dillon wasn't living at home as his driver's license listed another address in the area. Kamal had passed through the youth system for unspecified problems, but likely been released to his mother's supervision, so had no visible record. He listed this home as his residence on his license, as did his new wife, Michelle. From birth records, they had one child, Isabella.

Jaff guessed that Alvita, Kamal and little Isabella were probably in the house. Someone had to stay with the baby, so if he could convince Kamal to come out, he might have the chance for a private conversation he was looking for. It was worth a shot.

Jaff had thought through possibilities for introducing himself and concluded that just saying he was an investigative journalist probably wasn't going to cut it. Kamal would be jumpy-enough without someone wanting to write up his story. He had come up with another approach that he thought might work. The lack of a car in the driveway helped to support the idea. He needed a reason for being there that would get him in the front door. He had some information to work with. He just needed to tell a believable story. With that thought, he started the car and drove forward, turning into the Lewis driveway.

He knocked on the side door as that was the one that Michelle had come out of. He could be patient waiting for an answer. Old lady, baby, injured guy; nobody probably jumping up to get the door.

Sure enough, it took until his third knock for the door window curtain to be lifted and, moments later, for the door to be opened about six inches. Alvita Lewis was answering the knock.

"Wasa yu wants? No jova witnesses. Not buying no kurroaches. Goes away." The door started to close.

Jaff had to be quick and convincing. He was holding up a piece of blue paper with printed information on it. It was actually the upcoming class schedule for his local community gym, but he had it folded once and the municipality symbol was showing fully on the back.

"Hello, No. No. None of that. I'm coming from the hospital. For Kamal Lewis." He pretended to be referencing some information from his side of the sheet or paper.

"This is his house, correct?"

Muma had stopped closing the door and now swung it halfway back open. "You'sa a doctor?"

Jaff smiled and shook his head. "No. Not that either. Community services, uh, department. I'm a volunteer. Here to see how Kamal is doing. Is he home?"

Jaff hoped that the implied 'official' status of his role might get him in the door anyway. His explanation to Kamal, who was likely the very bright John, would have to be better. He didn't have a fake ID or anything else to prove who he was, but if he could get the old lady to walk him in, with the suggestion that he had already done the ID part, maybe John would accept him at face value. And he had something to offer that might be useful.

Alvita was still regarding him with a lot of suspicion, but like most older citizens, she was fairly compliant now that she thought he was a 'government' type. She said something over her shoulder in thicker patois that he didn't catch. He heard a polite "Sure, sure, come in." response from the living room.

Now Alvita was the picture of island hospitality "OK, you'sa come on in. Sorry fer de confusin Wants some coffee, then?"

Jaff followed her up the half-flight of stairs to the main floor. He took in a house rich in cooking smells that included the bright spices and oils of the islands. The decorating was functional with lots of bright highlights jumping out in pictures, tchotchkes and flowering plants. The kitchen was off to the left. Straight ahead, through an arched doorway was the living room. Kamal sat on the aging double couch bouncing his baby girl on his knee. Little Isabella, Jaff assumed, was giggling loudly with every up and down.

Kamal observed him with a neutral expression, but then broke into a one-sided smile.

"Sorry, can't get up. Hands are full here and I need both of them and both legs to get upright these days. Want to sit?" He pointed to a matching chair, kitty-corner with the couch.

Jaff was quick to take up the invitation. He realized that Alvita was still standing in the doorway, possibly looking for an answer regarding coffee.

Jaff moved over to the chair and responded before sitting, "Sure, this is good." He turned back to the mother and responded, belatedly, "Thank-you Mrs. Lewis, but I'm OK for now. Kamal, please go ahead if you were having coffee."

Kamal looked a little confused as he probably hadn't heard the initial offer over Isabella's laughing. "Me, er no. Don't drink coffee after breakfast."

Alvita nodded, turned and left. She fell back on her prior understanding that Kamal didn't like her nose in his business. But she found a chair in the kitchen as close to the door as possible. Her house, she could listen in if she wanted too.

Jaff observed Kamal and the baby for a moment. If this was John, he was confirming reason number two. This guy looked like he really loved having the baby in his lap.

Jaff opened, "She's a beautiful little girl. Isabella is a wonderful name for her."

As he hadn't introduced himself yet, Jaff could see the brief cloud of suspicion cross Kamal's face. He expected that, it was part of his plan. John would certainly be thinking, "Who is this guy and how does he know my baby's name? Maybe he would also be wondering if this was someone out of Kamal's old life.

Jaff would now answer the question that he had planted.

"I should introduce myself, again. I'm Jeff Dodwell. As I told Alvita, er, your mother, I'm a volunteer. I was at the hospital, talking to Nurse McIntyre, uh Judith. She filled me in on your time at the hospital and she wondered how you were doing now."

He paused until he was sure that John had recalled who his ICU nurse was. He observed the slight nod of recognition. He hadn't told any lies yet, except the little one to Alvita about his possible local government affiliation. But, if ever challenged, old people certainly do confuse what they hear.

He continued, "I decided to make the trip over to answer her question and to see if I can do anything for you. I'm not doctor, I'm actually a former patient with my own recovery story, so I know what a challenge it can be."

He paused again to check for a confirming nod. It was another truthful statement. He was trustworthy guy who had gone through this too.

"As a volunteer, I do have access to a little bit of information, so I know that you're home here with your mother, your wife Michelle and your little girl Isabella. I also know that you probably just came through the worst month of your life."

Now it was time for Kamal or John to talk. Jaff expected only small talk and maybe a 'thanks, but no-thanks' response. People didn't just invite strangers into their life after a minute of introduction.

John in Kamal was actually wondering if there was more to the introduction, like a brochure on what the hospital volunteers did. He was a little surprised that someone had just shown up at his door, considering how hard it had been to get anything else out of the system. He was still waiting to hear from the promised physiotherapist. That would certainly be one thing that he would like help with.

"Uh, Jeff, is it? I appreciate the offer, but I'm starting to recover pretty good. Don't think that I need too much help."

Jaff had his first proof of his hypothesis. Kamal Lewis, growing up in an ethnic island home would speak with a much different accent. John was probably doing all he could to fake it, but now that he was facing someone who spoke just like him, he had forgotten the adaptive twang.

Jaff needed to be careful. Offering too much or appearing to want to barge into the home would put John off and might raise suspicion.

He smiled and nodded, "Well, that's good. I'll be sure to pass that news back to Judith. She was hopeful for your full recovery, but I could tell that she was concerned."

He continued, "I should tell you that the sorts of things I normally help with have nothing to do with your medical treatment. More like running errands, helping with paperwork, maybe driving you to appointments or anywhere else you need to go. Uber is out there too, but pretty expensive. I get reimbursed for my mileage when I'm working, er volunteering. So, can offer a lift, anywhere that you need to go, in town that is." Another pretty close to truth statement. Writing clients did pay his expenses.

John now showed the slightest hint of interest and obviously now realized that Kamal's mother was probably listening around the corner. He responded much differently.

"You'sa could drives m'anywhere? Gots a friend of m'brother's with a car, but kinda a pain t'catch him middle o'the day, y'know."

Jaff had to stifle a laugh at the sudden reemergence of street slang mixed with Caribbean guttural expression.

"Well, then, maybe I can help out." Jaff now smiled broadly. "Sorry, I don't have a baby seat or I'd offer to take you both out for some air today. Unless, you could leave her with your mother, if there's anything you need to get—drugstore, food, clothes, or anything. Or I could go get it for you."

Jaff could see that he had some wheels turning. John was a guy who could jump into a cab or Uber whenever he wanted to go somewhere. Kamal would have taken a bus or bummed a ride. The lack of ready transportation was Jaff's ace in the game. Being available for John to independently get him places at no cost had to be attractive.

Kamal was certainly thinking about something, but eventually just said his "Thanks, but no thanks today." response.

Jaff was satisfied with that. He wanted to build some confidence and a working friendship. Somewhere in the days, or maybe weeks, to come, he would hear John speak up to tell the truth. For now, getting in and out with no problems or suspicions was good enough. He stood.

"Kamal, please don't get up. Isabella is looking pretty comfortable there. She'll probably be asleep soon. My grandkids are just the same in a warm lap."

He smiled again, continuing. "It was great to meet you, and your mother. They don't give me business cards, but I'll write my cell number on this notepad sheet for you. As I said, please call me whenever you need some help with anything. I'm supposed to get out every day, so any call is a good one." He put a little laugh on the end to make the offer seem as light as possible.

Jaff intentionally didn't put his full name down. He scrawled only his first name with what could either be an 'e' or an 'a'. He had intentionally misspoken his name on introduction, knowing that no-one every remembers precise names while they are thinking about something else during an introduction. He knew that John was a very capable professional who certainly knew how to use Google. The first thing he himself would do on getting a new name would be to Google it. If John looked up Jeff Dodwell, he'd find a nice guy in the UK and maybe some vague references to others equally far distant. This Jeff Dodwell wouldn't show at all. He certainly wouldn't find a well-known former investigative reporter based in Toronto.

# Chapter Twenty - Bill Hears the Plan

"How goddamn far is the jezzus counter?" Bill was dragging the new mauve suitcase that Wilma had acquired at Walmart to cart home all the stuff she had accumulated on her trip to Toronto, plus the plastic urn-load of his brother John's ashes, that had actually cooled by the time they got them, but certainly didn't have any time to settle in the bag. John had gone up in smoke later Friday. By early Monday morning, she had her keepsake urn full of him. Now it was weighing down the $49 suitcase rolling, with a slight drift right, on its marginal wheels that probably wouldn't last the trip.

"Fucking urn cost $380, Wilma. You'd better find a nice spot for it, not in your kitchen or bathroom. Do you even have a living room or mantel? Who has a mantel in Reno? That would require a fireplace in the desert."

John had been grumbling since he had seen the total funeral home bill of over $14000.

"Thirty-three hundred-dollar casket, up in smoke. That's a couple hundred for each person that laid eyes on it."

Bill neglected to note that his $2500 advance was included in the bill that Gary had estimated at $15000, so the actual funeral cost was actually reasonable, in relation to the potential for an over-the-top extravaganza, like those happening before and just after John's. His full-service package turned out to be just average. Gary's last-minute downsizing when almost no-one showed-up had saved them some money. He had tossed in the extra second-hand flower arrangements for free.

"Should have had them drive us around in one them limos for the week. Figure somewhere in there we musta paid for it."

He hadn't shown Wilma the actual bill, as he planned to mark-it-up to closer to twenty-grand in his final exector's reporting to her. That, plus maybe that much again for the lawyer. Maybe he'd just double the cost for the flights, condo, car and stuff while they were here. Should easily total about half of what she was getting. He did have to pay the bills, but maybe twenty-grand would cover most of it. If he could pocket fifty clear of her money and thirty from Lee the homo, he would count this trip as worthwhile. He just needed the insurance nobs to get going and give them the money. Too bad about John needin to be dead to get it all, but thems the breaks.

"Come-on Wilma. Try to keep up! We need all the time you got to get ya checked in and to get that damn urn through security. Shit parking lot at the opposite end of this fucking terminal from your airline. Think that they could design it better."

Bill had driven right past the parking entrance for U.S. departures and ended up in the international parking area, which was about a half-mile walk back around the horseshoe-shaped terminal.

Wilma was shuffling along, but at a declining pace. An early-morning flight wouldn't have been her first choice, but Bill had booked her through Dallas with a three-hour layover on one of the only one-stop connections to Reno available on a Tuesday. She was still nursing a mild hangover, for her, from last night's finish-the-bottles smorgasbord of drinks at the condo. Bill had been rushing her this morning and had said to skip breakfast until she was through security.

He wasn't sure if she needed two hours to get on the plane, but wasn't taking any chances. They had been moving since well before dawn. He responded negatively to her appeal for something at every Tim's they passed. "You can get a coffee at a counter inside. Let's just get there. Who knows how many other assholes are trying to get on a plane today?"

She needed a real drink, but had learned on the flights up that she couldn't carry any bottles into the waiting area. Had to toss nice fifth of Smirnoff she had planned to make her little bathroom-stall helper. To top it off, they didn't start serving here until 11:00 a.m. Frigging Methodists must run the country. Bill had given her a hundred US in small bills for stuff on the flights and she planned to start drinking most of it as soon as they would serve her on the plane.

She actually couldn't wait to get back to her friends in Reno with all her stories about Johnny's sad passing, the big funeral with all his friends, sharin the condo with Billy, meetin lawyers and fancy directors n'stuff. Now she had her Johnny's ashes in a beautiful urn that looked like marble. Plus, she had a whole lot of insurance money comin. That was a little excitin, even if it was from Johnny's estate like. Bill had told her not to tell anyone bout the money, but she couldn't keep somethin like that secret from just a couple friends. Once she had her money, she'd be taken the whole crowd out on the town, for a proper celebration o' Johnny, for sure.

"I d'know how y'expect me t'do this by myself in Dallas, en all."

She was panting from trying to keep up with Billy while carrying just the small bag she had arrived with. "Can't hardly walk in the first place, plus carry two suitcases. Shoulda just waited til you were goin home."

Bill grumbled, "Ya don't half t'carry the big one until you get off in Reno, it goes on its own once you check it on the other side of customs. Ashes have t'go that way with the paperwork. In Reno, just tip a porter t'put it and you in a cab. You got lots of cash for that. Just don't fuck anything up gettin through here. I can take ya t'security but then you're on your own. I don't want t'hear that you ended up drunk again and got kicked off the plane.

Wilma responded, "I ain't drinkin. Feelin it too. I'll give em straight answers and they'll understand. Nobody gonna spect a mother in mournin-like t'be perfect anyways."

Bill wasn't convinced, but he wanted to keep her moving. "Yeah, OK. Just doan lose yer second boarding pass in Dallas or miss yer entire flight. Long sit waitin, with a bar right there. You just cool it until yer home, then get blitzed fer a month all I care."

He remembered her objection to travelling alone. "And like I tol you, I still got shit t'do here. Lawyer, insurance office, en all. Take me a few days if all goes well, but maybe a week. Don't need you here soaking up our left money on expensive Canadian booze. I'm the one off work through all this. Hope that ya 'member that. Maybe need some considration fer that in my expenses."

Wilma wasn't listening, so Bill was more or less talking to himself. He wanted to remember stuff like that as all the reasons he needed to keep a lot of the insurance money.

Rudy-the-lawyer's wife, Rosa, had helped him set up a joint Canadian bank account for Wilma and him that allowed remote access and easy conversion to US funds. The bank rep assured him that he, on his own, could either come in a get as much money as he needed or just contact them and have it wired to a US bank. He was warned to keep transactions under $10,000 if he wanted this done without government interference. Once the estate paperwork was done, any remaining money could be transferred into this account, so there wouldn't need to be a trip up. The insurance settlement would also be direct-deposited. The lawyer, the funeral home and the loans place could be paid by electronic transfer. Rosa suggested that he maybe give her temporary access and she could handle it all for him, for a fee of course. Bill said he would let her know. He wasn't actually as dumb around money as maybe he let on.

The joint account arrangement was tantalizing to Bill as it sounded like it would let him take whatever he wanted for himself while trickling a few thousand once in a while to Wilma in Reno. Everybody was content to wait to get paid until the insurance came through, so almost all of Bill's original problems were looked after.

Now he just had to get rid of Wilma and call that scary Lee guy back. Lee had called him on his cell and, in no more than thirty seconds, said there was now a plan, apparently, to get the fake gold out of the vault and safely back to the mob. Lee wouldn't tell him details on the telephone, but wanted him to come back to John's apartment later today. He had said it would be easy. Bill hoped that he wasn't lying. He didn't want to end up dead too.

For her part, Wilma wanted to tell her story to anyone who would listen. She spoke up in the middle of getting her luggage weighed. "My son Johnny's remains are in there."

The agent blinked, interpreting that she had a corpse tucked in her luggage.

"You have what in there?"

Bill quickly corrected, "His ashes—in an urn—sealed up. Meets all the rules. Here."

Bill had been briefed by Gary that there might be some questions, but had been assured that the airline policy is that ashes can travel in checked luggage, with correct documentation. Of course, they hadn't accounted for an agent who had never considered it before.

Wilma was now standing back, but Bill knew that she might need to do this all over again inside at the US Customs desk, so he was trying to educate both the agent and her at the same time.

He had handed the agent the package of five pages stapled together.

Bill had told Gary to make sure that the paperwork was Wilma-proof. "She shouldn't need to do anything more than nod."

The package included certificates: death and cremation, a funeral home declaration of the urn contents, a printed page from the airline website and a printed page from the US Customs website. Both sets of rules allowed cremated remains to be checked through as long as they were in a sealed package that could be X-rayed.

The agent scanned the pages, then shrugged. "Guess that covers it."

Bill let out a sigh of relief. He was a couple minutes and only a few more yards from being rid of Wilma. After Wilma was checked in by the airline, he put the pages in her suitcase, right on top of the urn.

Bill took her aside, just before the gate to the pre-flight security checks.

He took her by the shoulders. It was as close to a hug as they would get. "You're on your own from here. Just don't say anything 'bout the ashes, if that's possible for you. Ya don't need to declare shit. But, if ya feel that ya have to open yer big mouth bout John's ashes, just make sure that the security guy reads the pages."

Wilma was nodding. She too would be happy to be away from Billy. She felt like he had a leash on her that he kept jerking like she was a dumb dog. She could handle all of this without him just fine. See if he sang a different tune, once she had all her money and he needed some. Then, like every time in the last few years he came calling, he'd show up as 'mister manners', begging a couple grand. Her good son Johnny thought 'bout looking after his ma with his insurance. She could really retire now with lots of money t'live on.

Bill finally watched her back disappearing, as she trudged off through departure gates entrance on her way to customs clearance. He gave her about a ten-percent chance of getting through without screwing something up. He had done all he could for her. He turned and started heading the mile and a half, he was sure, back to his car.

Later, he answered his cell and the caller's question with, "Parked outside."

Bill had driven back over to John's old place early in the evening and sat waiting for the call from Lee. The queer guy was skinny and a lot older than him. Bill outweighed him by fifty pounds and could probably toss him across the room, but for some stupid reason Lee terrified Bill. It was probably just his self-confident way of acting like he had it all figured out, when Bill mostly acted confused, even when he wasn't. That, plus the possibility that he could have Bill killed. These things got his attention if not his best efforts. He was distracted enough to need instructions for coming into the building repeated twice.

"No, you don't need anything else. Just tell Eric, the guy at the desk, to call Lee. He will call me then send you up. But, don't come to my place; go to John's. You still have the key and you brought everything else, right?"

Bill wanted to be sure. "Yeah, I got all his stuff: keys, wallet, cellphone, pen, some kinda tokens and his handkerchief. The box, too."

He had brought everything that the funeral home gave him after they got John's body, except the cash of course, which was long spent. He had the cigar box Wilma had found which still held the safety deposit box key and the little card from the bank. He didn't know how Lee was going to figure out getting into the bank box from all this stuff, but he was welcome to it. The credit cards weren't even cancelled yet as Bill had some vague idea that he might still be able to use them.

As he anticipated, Lee laughed at him on the phone. "You can keep the snot rag, just bring everything else up."

Bill was waiting in John's, now mostly empty, apartment for Lee to show up. The rental company had picked up the furniture in the afternoon. There was still a couple little things floatin around, like the stools in the kitchen and some electronics gear that had been roughly disconnected and tossed on the floor. All of John's clothes, minus one tie, were still hanging in the closets or piled in corners. By the end of the week the cleaners would be back in with some big bags to trash everything he left behind. That would include most of the clothes, although they said that they would put some of those in a donation bin somewhere. Bill guessed that anything of value would actually get tossed into somebody's trunk. Didn't matter to him. He wasn't haulin anything back to the States unless it was cash.

The door finally swung in and Lee appeared, now dressed in some sort of tight denim outfit head-to-foot. He had weird red basketball hi-tops on and a red tee-shirt under his faded shirt that showed only the letters 'uc' as part of a word at his undone shirt neck. Bill now considered that he probably outweighed him by seventy pounds as he appeared rail-thin. He once again thought that John should have picked a better friend, but kept his thoughts to himself.

Lee was carrying a suit bag on a hanger in one hand. He gave no indication what it was for, but turned inside the doorway and hung it in the closet to his left. Bill guessed that he was returning something of John's. He'd tell him to take it back later. Leavin it here would just put it on some wino next week or in the back of some wetback's car, if it was anything good.

Lee smiled at him, now offering a more friendly and familiar manner, as they were now partners taking care of some details for their dear friend and dear brother, respectively. Bill was nervous as hell, but Lee acted like he had just left a party-in-progress to come over for a few laughs with his best buddy.

He walked over but didn't extend a hand, much to Bill's relief.

"Bill, Bill or do you prefer Billy? Heard that from your mom. How is she doing? Poor woman, must be tough losing a son. So young. Way too soon, eh? Guess I probably already said that. Can't believe that John, or Johnny, is gone at all. But, guess the empty fucking apartment kind of confirms it. He's gone and we have to keep the faith with him by doing a little work."

He stopped talking briefly, apparently only to catch a breath.

"Hope that you don't mind coming over here. Thought that we may as well use this place to talk. Private. Quiet. Nobody's business really, so better to talk behind closed doors, don't you think? Kind of morgue-like in here with no furniture. No pun there. Sorry."

Lee normally reserved his drug use for the week-end, but had been bouncing high and low a bit in the last few days, so did a little dex as a pick-up earlier. It made him talkative. He realized that he was probably freaking out the brother, so went for a walk over to the pile of John's papers that were laying on the floor where his desk used to be. He was hoping for a couple things with signatures on them. Realizing that Bill was staring after him, he waved back and said '"Scuze me a minute. Need to check for somethin in here."

Bill wanted to discuss his pay-off for getting involved, but had no idea when to raise the subject. Wasn't like he could refuse, not with the mob comin after him, but he really wanted the extra ten-thousand for helping with this. He needed to be cool and maybe give the impression that he was thinking about just heading off to Chicago, as maybe he didn't want to be associated with anything illegal. Get caught, piss off the mob, one way or the other it too risky for just twenty-grand. But headin home with nuthin was stupid too. He figured he could wait some to discuss it once he heard what the plan was.

Lee seemed to have found whatever he was looking for as he came back to the kitchen area. He was carrying a couple pages of paper. He laid these on the island counter. They looked just like a copy of some old lease or rental agreement and maybe a copy of a letter to somebody. Bill had no idea why those were important.

Lee smiled to himself, took a couple breaths to slow down, then turned and asked, "So, John's stuff. Where is it?"

Bill finally had a chance to speak. "In the bag. Here." He lifted a plastic grocery bag from the floor onto the counter.

Lee whistled and now grinned at Bill, "So much for secure transportation. But maybe you were thinking, keep it disguised, under cover, I get it." He abruptly upended the bag onto the counter.

From the contents, he plucked out John's wallet first. Opening it, he ignored all the cards except one that he dug out from a pocket in behind the others. It was a debit card from the Maritime Bank. Once he had laid that on the counter, he went back in for the driver's license. He held it up at near arm's length and looked over top of it at Bill. Bill could see his eyes go up and down a couple times. Lee tipped his head side to side, with a few little nods thrown in.

He then compared the license details to the two papers he had brought over from the pile. Finally, he set all three things down beside each other on the counter. He plucked John's pen from the pile and checked that it still worked by drawing a couple of little circles on one of the papers. He then drew a little circle around John's signature on each document.

He looked up a Bill, now with a sober face. "OK, I guess I owe you some information on how this is going to work. It's a simple plan really. Noting elaborate. We just go over to John's other bank, the one where the safety deposit box is, and pick up the fake gold along with some papers. Nothing more to it than that. Just in and out, maybe take ten minutes, then I buy you a drink, you get your cut and we split. Sound good?"

Bill was confused, but liked the sound of the plan. He figured that they must have found a way to pay off somebody at the bank to look the other way while Lee came in to collect the stuff. He still wanted more money, but this sounded pretty easy. He could probably stay in the car, or better, wait a little ways away in case it didn't work right.

Bill did his best to smile as he responded. "Uh, sure, uh Lee. Sounds real simple then. Guessin ya doan wanna say how ya's doin all that, but I'm good with it."

Lee nodded. "Good then. Let me tell you what your part is. Real simple, like I said, But, does require you to do one little thing, for us that is. Something that the family will really appreciate."

Bill's smile faded just a little. He was hoping not to be involved at all, but guessed that they wanted him to be look-out or to drive or somethin."

"OK, what's that?"

Lee now broke out his largest grin. "You have to be John for the visit. Pretty simple, eh? Just need to be him long enough to go in and get the stuff out of the box."

Bill wasn't quite sure that he heard it right. "Be John? Like impersnate him? Can't do that—I ain't anything like John. Don't see how that would work. No fuckin way."

Lee let him protest until he was done. Then he nodded again and turned serious. He put a hand on Bill's arm and got a satisfying, maybe involuntary, but probably intentional, jerk back. He wasn't sure if Bill was that scared of him or just didn't like the idea of a fag touching his arm. Either way, they weren't friends, so he might as well end the pretend part of this meeting.

"Look, we're doing a lot for you here. I will have the bank location, the box number, instructions for how to ask for access, the code for this bank card here, the answers to any security questions and the means to get rid of the junk we have to get out of there. Your part is actually pretty small. You just stroll in, ask to get at the box, sign a sheet, empty the box and walk out. That's it."

Bill was now feeling sick to his stomach and needed to pee. He was off again. "But I can't impersnate him. What if'n they knowed him? What if somebody talks t'me? I ain't John, don't look like him at all no more. Sure as hell doan talk like him. Fuck, I'm just'a stupid construction guy. How the fuck kin I handle myself up agin some bank security guy or whatever? I'll fuck it up and be goin to jail. Can't do it."

Lee didn't have a lot of patience, but he knew that he couldn't just threaten the performance he needed out of this hick. Bill had to be confident enough not to fall to pieces in there. He also had to remember some stuff, including the card security code, long enough to go through the steps.

He needed to get him to relax a little. He walked back over to the pile of papers and brought back a couple more sheets.

"Bill, please relax. We've covered most of that. We do have an expert inside who is going to help with all of that. No one who knew John will be there or will talk to you. We'll make sure of that. You are needed because only you can pass for John. Sure, you're heavier, but his license picture is a couple years-old and people put on weight. You just need to come close to his signature, which, fortunately, is just a scrawl. You will know exactly what to do and what to say, if asked, so there won't be any screw-ups. What's in the box and what you take out is completely in private and then you just walk out. That's it. The next morning you're on a plane out of here, with twenty-grand in your pocket, or in your bank account, whatever. Easy as pie."

Bill still wasn't convinced, but Lee knew that he never would be. He would probably give him a couple Percocet's a half-hour prior to prevent a panic attack. He had considered sending someone in with him and might still. Maybe a cute little lady, young enough to be his daughter, but professional and well-coached to keep him on track and pick up any fumbles. He knew someone who would fit that bill, and maybe fuck this Bill too, if that was needed.

Lee said, "OK, Bill, I don't need to convince you right now and you don't need to agree, but we do need to start planning as if that's what we're going to do. You'll get completely ready, we'll go over there, and if you can't go through with it, we'll come up with something else. OK? It will all be up to you."

Bill needed a break to go pee. Maybe splash some water in his face too. "Yeah, OK, I'll think 'bout it. Gotta piss." He turned around and walked toward the closest of John's three bathrooms.

Lee got busy at the counter. He laid out the extra pages he had picked up with the blank side up. Looking at the two signatures on the letters and the one on the license, he picked up his pen and took a stab at duplicating it. His first effort was OK, but way too slow. When he speeded-up, he had trouble matching it. After two or three attempts, he got one that would probably pass, but he had to look back and forth to get it. Wouldn't work when he couldn't see the original. This might be harder than he'd imagined.

Bill came back slowly. He stood a little defiantly off to one side until Lee looked up.

He spit out what was on his mind. "If'n I gotta do all that, I need more money." He figured he had get it out now, in spite of nearly dying of nervousness. They wanted him to agree to a whole pile of shit, so he could ask for more.

Lee slowly grinned. So, just like before, knowing that he could easily be tripped up and arrested, he was agreeable to risking his freedom for a little more money.

"Oh, how much?"

"I'm thinkin ten more. Thirty-grand total."

Lee stroked his chin as if slowly considered his request. "You know that nobody's making any money on this deal. We're just solving a problem and getting the fake gold back to the family so nobody has to die. As far as they're concerned, they missed a promised sale of the stuff somewhere when John died. They already lost all their profit."

Bill looked a little defeated. Lee wanted him upbeat and actually had lots of money to pay him more. If it was him in the same boat, he would have demanded a hundred. But then he had a clue, which Bill didn't.

He continued, "Look Bill, I like you, I liked John a lot. He fucked up on this one, but guess he didn't plan to die. If he were here, I'd be the first to tell him that he owes you a lot for fixing this for him."

He paused, looked out the dining area window for a few seconds, then said, "How's twenty-five work for you?"

Bill blinked a couple times, not actually believing that he had negotiated more money.

"Well, guess'n like ya says, as nobody's makin no profit here, I can go fer that."

Lee offered a hand, just to see if he could get Bill to take it. He did. Lee made sure that his hand probably felt like a warm wet noodle in Bill's rough paw, just to confirm any squeamish feelings he had. But they shook and had a deal.

He handed the pen to Bill. "Here's what you need to do first. See the signatures. You have to be able to come close to that, at the same speed that you sign your own name. Start at the top of the page here and keep doing it until you don't need to look up and it matches close enough. We've got a couple days, so you've got time to do a couple thousand attempts, if that's what it takes."

Bill considered the signatures, the heavy gold pen and the paper. He started in slow motion at the top of a clean page. His first effort looked like a grade-three kid's first attempt at writing his name in cursive. Lee avoided saying anything about it, but groaned inside.

"OK, that's a good approach. Get it right first, then speed up. Just keep working on it. I've got to go make a call in the other room. Then we'll talk some more."

John in Kamal's body was downstairs at Muma's house, waiting for the call. He decided that he would sleep down there all the time now, counting the work going up and down the stairs as physical therapy. He could get on the computer and answer the phone in private. Plus, now that he had experienced Michelle in bed for a full night, he never wanted to be separated from her. She warned him that they were benefiting from Muma's willingness to get up when Izzy fussed, which wouldn't happen, once the baby came back downstairs.

She said, "So, enjoy it while y'can. You'll sleep in yer sweats soon 'nuf."

He had also decided not to have any meaningful conversations down here or anywhere in the house, as he picked-up that Muma was carefully monitoring everything he did. He considered her harmless, but figured that he didn't need the complications of her questions or interruptions until this business was settled.

His proposal had a lot of dependencies way beyond his control. Even though he felt Lee could handle just about anything, he wasn't sure that Bill was either capable or trustworthy, so was worried about a screw-up. Having the stake to start his new life would make the difference between getting out of here now or having to slowly work up to it, maybe taking a couple years, with absolutely no front-end cash to start with.

He still hadn't fully come to grips with what it meant to be black, young, have a family depending on him, be stuck in a virtual ghetto and have no assets, credentials or work history. He listed the challenges until he ran out of fingers about once a day. Being injured, having a strange job, having a record, having a gangsta brother and having his own, fairly bad reputation never made it inside the ten. It was too much to contemplate.

He preferred to think about what he could do with his two hundred K. He knew markets and he knew winning investment strategies in good times and in bad. He was one of the best in the business at leveraged plays that used sophisticated options and derivatives. Once he established a trading record under his new persona, he could command margins and leveraged positions like he used to.

He had done well for a select group of clients. At least to start, he would do it just for himself and for his family. Michelle would just have to come along for the ride. She couldn't complain when they got out of this shithole and on to a much better life. He was deep in this daydream when his phone finally rang and made him jump. Waking to the dark basement surroundings felt like a bucket of muddy water was being dumped on his hopes. He shook it off and was glad to connect with his old life.

"Hey Lee."

"Hey, uh, er, Jim... Calling from the apartment, with Johnny's brother Billy, present. Other room, but you know sound travels.

John responded, "OK, I'll be Jimmy, who jus happens t'know all o' John's stuff. Works for me. Give me a second t'get where I kin talk." He started making his way up the stairs and outside. He headed for the side man-door of the garage.

After he was inside, he continued, "OK, all set."

Lee was less than patient. "Fuck, what did you do, move to another planet?"

John responded, "Hey, I'm still badly fucked-up health-wise, but getting better. Takes me a while t'head outside, which is where I am. Good fer now."

"You still sound like dozy as shit. Different each time. Maybe check your medication settings. Sounds like you're stuck on the wrong speed.

"Ha-ha. Hurts t'laugh, so I won't."

Lee now whispered, "Just don't fucking die for real; don't think I could handle burying the same guy twice."

"OK. Deal. Still on with the plan for Bill to stand in?"

"Yeah, and if no failures by our stand-in, the plan should work fine. Checked with a banker on any issues likely to come up. Discussed no details, obviously. Said, ID and having the key is pretty much all there is."

John confirmed, "Yeah, I've gone in and out just on that. The bank card will be inserted and that pops a screen of info, like address, email, phone and probably an image of the signature. He should have that all memorized, but I've never been asked."

"So, give me the rest of the details." Lee patted himself down and realized that he didn't have a pen.

"Hang-on, Jim, need a pen." There was still a souvenir-glass of pens and markers sitting on the floor where the desk used to be. Lee came out of the bedroom to retrieve one and another piece of paper, smiling at Bill, who was bent over the counter, strenuously signing.

Once back, he said, "OK, go ahead."

John listed out the bank card pin, the email that he used for this bank, his telephone was his old cell, the address was the apartment, the deposit box number, which wasn't actually on the key. He listed the exact steps to enter the bank, ask for access, take the elevator to the box vault, wait for a cashier, sign-in, go with the cashier to unlock the box with two keys, pull out the box and take it to the private desk, remove the stuff, close the box and return it for lock-up by buzzing for the manager to come back, then leave. Other ID like Social Insurance was in the wallet. Bill should know where things were. He told Lee to pitch anything with a picture on it except the driver's license.

Lee looked at all the steps he had written and the various things Bill would need to know and do. "Fuck, might be a struggle, but we'll figure it out."

He decided on the spot to hire the actor 'daughter' for him. Couple grand well-invested. She could also tutor and test him, so she would know everything as well, in case he slipped up.

John added, "Jus tell im t'empty the box. They'll seize it back once the fees stop bein paid. Empty, it should jus fade inta obscurity."

John didn't know much about Lee's plans for selling-off some gold and getting the money to him. He had been debating in his head when and how he would tell Lee that he was a different guy entirely. The crunch would come at the handover. It had to be in person, so the jig would be up. He left that issue for later.

"How're you handlin gettin Billy outa this afterwards?"

Lee was still filling in his note. "Uh, that. Yeah. I'll draw some cash and give it to him as soon as we're out. It's more than he can legally carry back, so he'll deposit it, I guess. I'll make sure he doesn't do anything to attract attention by the wrong people."

"Cash'll work. Should shut 'im up permanent. But, make sure that he knows this is done when it's done. He'll blow whatever he makes ina couple months. Doan wan him t'think that there's any reason t'ever call ya."

Lee responded, "My plan exactly."

John had something to add. "The one person in the bank that could possibly remember me is the lady that set up the box. I member her name. I'll call t'find out when she's not workin and let y'know. I assume that it'll be an evening.

Lee was reaching his telephone limit. "Sure, dark of night. Billy and me on a date. Very cute.'

They both laughed.

Lee continued, in a whisper again, "No matter how much profit I wring out of this adventure, you know that you'll still owe me big time...Jimmy! We made lots of dough together, I assume that can still continue, you not dying again that is?"

John had to laugh again. "Sure ting, but I'll leave that t'you t'decide. I may be headed in a new direction. Life changin shit this. Thinkin of goin non-profit."

He wondered if Lee would feel the same way when he got the whole story. Lee found him useful because he was the best, without question. Would he feel the same when he was still the best, but with a shitload of question marks? Remained to be seen.

Lee signed off. "Well, not just yet, eh? Stick by your phone. I'm sure that there will be questions from our friend. Bye." Click. Dead air. He was used to it.

John in Kamal realized that he had been staring at the locked red cabinet in the garage for most of the call. The hasp and lock were heavy-duty and new, standing-out shiny against the rusted doors of the cabinet. Why was there a big new lock on an old cabinet? Had he put it on? More likely this is what Dil had been doing in here. Locking something up, but what? He considered it briefly, then turned to go back into the house. Izzy was probably up—Muma would be lookin for him by now.

At the apartment, Lee returned to find Bill working on his second sheet of paper. The signatures were only slightly better, but he was pulling them off quickly and with a little flourish. Lee assessed that effort counted for something.

He leaned in to interrupt him. "OK, Bill, not sure if you overheard but that was our insider, who gave me all the information you need to know and explained exactly how the process works. Should be fine."

He held up the note he had made. "Looks like a lot, but that's just all possibilities. Most won't be needed. We have to prepare for them, but you shouldn't expect any problems."

Lee smiled, but only got a stony face back from Bill.

"Let's leave that for a bit. I have something else for you."

He walked over to the closet and retrieved the suit bag he had come in with. He hooked it over the fridge door and unzipped it. He pulled out a deep-gray worsted blazer, which had been hanging over a hanger with some lighter gray pants and an off-white button-down shirt.

"This stuff looks exactly like a jacket, shirt and pants in John's closest, but in your size, I hope. My pretty friend, who maybe you remember from our visit to the funeral home, dresses all sorts of people. He guessed for size, but I'll bet it's a perfect fit. He's got a great eye."

He continued, looking over towards the bedroom, "Think that your feet are about the same size as John's, right? Pick the most comfortable pair that fit you from the closet. If none fit, we'll buy you a nice pair. We want you looking and feeling exactly like John, right down to the shoes."

Bill was fingering the cloth of the jacket. It was a nicer coat than he had ever worn. He thought that maybe wearing this, he might feel successful and confident like John. Might just work.

"By the way, this is about two-grand in haberdashery here. Our present for you to take home. Try it all on to make sure that we got the sizes. We can adjust for fit. There's a nice belt in there too. Maybe grab a clean pair of John's socks before they get tossed. We're going to take his cross-grain leather briefcase, too. I might just keep that. Get an expensive haircut and shave on me. You should look and feel like a million."

He laughed, then added, "Fake million, unfortunately."

Then realizing that hadn't come out right, said, "The gold, I mean. Too bad that it's fake."

Lee also advised about the assistant who would work with him, now that they knew how much there was to remember. "You'll like her, trust me." He winked.

He also said that if everything went on schedule, they would be in and out Thursday or Friday night. Between now and then, it was practice time.

Bill finally acknowledged that he could be heading home a lot richer on Saturday. If he wasn't in jail. Or dead.

# Chapter Twenty-One - Ask Jeff for a Favour

He wasn't used to not being at the centre of things. Or, in his mind, to being so far out if it that he was completely dependent on other people to get things done. He was depending on Michelle to put food on the table. He corrected himself, Michelle brought the food home, but Muma put it on the table. They both split looking after Izzy a lot more than him, even though he was starting to attempt everything. On flat ground, John was moving pretty much like normal again.

His future well-being depended on Lee and his normally-useless brother Bill pulling off a tricky recovery of his savings. He was left him waiting for calls that didn't come and wondering what was going on. His incognito call to the bank looking for an appointment revealed that his remembered employee, who might also remember John Fischer, was in during the day. On Wednesday, Lee said another day of practice was needed, without further explanation, in one of his cryptic thirty-second calls. Friday night was picked. That was it, he wasn't needed for anything else.

As Kamal, he was dependent on Dil and Lenny, specifically Lenny's shitbox car, for christsake, to get around, although he guessed he now had the option of calling this Jeff guy. But John guessed his offer might have been just one of those fake promises that people made to glad-hand their way out of the room. Call them on it and they come up full of excuses. John had made a point of only crediting actions, not promises. It had served him well his whole life.

Now he was staring at the walls and going nuts. Idle time inevitably turned into worrying time, as he rehashed all his problems over and over. Dil-the-gangsta had moved up to the front of the top-ten list after another visit with Lenny. There were a couple other guys in the car. Dil had just made a dash into and out of the garage. They hadn't slowed down to say hello, nor stuck around long enough for John to hobble down the half-flight of stairs and get outside. The fact that the visit was at dusk was also worrisome. What could be hidden in the garage that would need to be picked up at night? This was Wednesday night.

Thursday morning's TV news included an item on a Lawrence and Weston area shooting that put a black twenty-something male in hospital in critical condition. The ex-cop remote news guy had a good time pointing out the 'hail-of-bullets' holes in a parked car that may have provided the 'kid' enough cover to prevent him being equally perforated and dead. John got a sick feeling, wondering if the promised payback for Kamal's shooting had happened and if something locked up in their garage had anything to do with it.

He had never experienced the police or a crown prosecutor as a black man with a record, even if only as a juvenile. Now he was afraid. Was everyone like him afraid all the time? Kamal had done absolutely nothing wrong, but now John imagined his new life, his incredible wife and his beautiful child slipping away, just because of what he was and where he was, not who he was.

He knew lawyers in his old life, but knew them as pleasant-enough professionals from the corporate world or from private solicitor practice. Criminal lawyers were completely different. They tended to be rough and tumble, always on the move, with long lists of sketchy clients who mostly needed to 'plea bargain' their way out of indefensible prosecutions. Just getting through preliminary hearings and multiple remands could leave you in jail for months or years, unconvicted, but incarcerated all the same. No wonder most accused would agree to almost anything to get out.

Guilty until proven innocent was the unspoken system rule, if not the constitutional one. Being black tipped the scales even further against you. Being 'known' to police was all that needed to be said for the general public and some judges to conclude that criminality and a danger to the public existed. John knew that anything illegal anywhere near him and certainly on the property, would see him swept up among the presumed guilty. Even if he was exonerated months or years later, he would be fucked for life.

If an MDB member was shot, the first place the cops would be looking for a culprit, or for a rat, would be on West End Crips turf. Muma's house wasn't a gang hangout or probably even an identified residence. Dil had been out of the house for a couple years. But, if any of the characters in that car were involved in the shooting and were picked up, the first thing that would happen would be a cellphone dump of GPS data that would show them passing through here just prior to heading over to Mount Dennis. Wouldn't take much more than that and certainly no more than some scared kid attempting to shift blame, for a search warrant to be issued. John concluded, whatever was in the garage had to go. Right now.

He had Dil as a contact on Kamal's phone. He called him, not really knowing what he would say, but then got voicemail anyway.

He spoke, "You need to come over to the house. Come by yourself." No pleasantries. He hung up. He had no way of knowing if that would get Dil's immediate attention. He added the same message as a text.

Deep in anxiety, he figured that he would give Dil the day to get back, then take matters into his own hands. The locked cabinet wouldn't stand up long to a crowbar. If he found what he suspected, he could figure out a way to dump it. Or at least he could threaten that without any bullshit about what was in there. Dil must move anything to do with criminal activity far away from here or he would. Or maybe he'd just call the cops and say, "Hey, look what I found." He should be afraid of the gang, but right now, he was more afraid for his family's future if he didn't do something about it.

John had another concern. In a week or two, he expected to have two-hundred thousand reasons not to have anybody searching the house. He would have to secure his future stake, probably into a new safety deposit box, but for a little while at least, he'd be sitting on maybe ten or twenty thousand in cash at a minimum.

There would be no explanation Kamal could give for having the cash. Police would assume that it was the proceeds of crime. There was absolutely no way that he could ever allow it to be confiscated and investigated.

He knew that he had to settle himself down. Nothing rash was going to improve the situation. He decided that he would tell Dil quietly, in private, to get rid of whatever was in there. He didn't need to know anything about it. Just had to go, right now, as he was planning on cleaning up and opening up everything in the garage. Wouldn't want anything embarrassing to show up, would we?

After he committed that as his only next step, he could think about the current bank deposit box more clearly. He couldn't sit still just letting things go on without his involvement, or at least without his awareness of what was happening. He thought about the scenario. Lee or Bill didn't know Kamal. No-one at the bank would know him either. He was just another customer. Maybe a potential new depositor who stopped in to pick up some information on RRSP's or mutual funds at just about the same time that 'John Fischer' would come in to get access to his safety deposit box.

Lee wouldn't be coming inside the bank. Banks had video cameras that recorded and stored everything and everybody. No, Lee would be out in the dark somewhere. Even if he was close, there was no reason for him to wonder about or remember a young black guy standing at the information desk or waiting for someone in one of the front chairs, where he could see most everything that was happening in the bank branch.

John liked the idea. It was something constructive to do. Maybe this Jeff guy could be useful after all. A ride to the bank, even it was a little far from here, was a reasonable request. He had offered. Time to see if the offer was BS.

John hesitated for a moment before calling the number that his visitor had left two days before. He hadn't planned to call him for anything unless Michelle had some errand that would be easier with a car ride. But she was busy working and she usually picked up their groceries at the 24-hour mart after work. In a few days John figured he could handle the three or four-block walk out to the main drag and the stores there. He could even take Izzy in her stroller, which gave him something to lean on if he needed it and somewhere to carry anything he picked up.

He hated that he had no money to just order up a ride, but that would change in a week or so too, he hoped. Unfortunately, until he figured out an explanation for where the money came from, he was kind of stuck needing to stay poor, at least to appearances. Dillon had promised some cash as a loan, which neither Michelle or he really wanted, but which would help bridge the gap. Anyway, in the meantime, a free ride would help.

Before he called the guy, he let his twitchy antennae for the unusual kick back in. Not quite so fast.

He bumped downstairs and fired-up the computer. First thing he did was punch in the phone number. Reverse look-up didn't produce anything. Now he turned to Google. If the number appeared anywhere on the Web it would be picked up by the search engine. Post your number in a Kijiji ad, have it included in the club meeting minutes, even just put it in a saved log-in profile and Google would have you.

For a researcher like John, not much more than one point of reference was needed to find everything about someone on social media and the Web. Jeff's number didn't return any hits, which for a landline, would have been a warning sign, but for a cell wasn't that unusual. He might have just got it or maybe he just never listed it on any site.

His name was the next item. John was pretty sure that he had said Jeff Dodwell. But he didn't have a spelling. He tried that name as he thought that it would be spelled, with several results, but nothing local. 'LinkedIn' had a stale profile for an IT consultant with that name who may have been associated with a Toronto office, so that might have been him before he retired.

John still wasn't sure that he had spelled the name correctly so tried the search again using wildcard asterisk characters to pick-up near spellings of the last name. Google suggested lots of last names that were similar, but none, when combined with Jeff produced any meaningful local results. Jeff could be spelled Geoff, but he had written it the other way. Geoff Dodwell didn't produce any results either. So, whoever Jeff was, he either had no social media presence, or he had done a very good job of hiding it. John made a mental note to get his properly-spelled full name and an office number for a reference. He said that he was sent over—so who sent him? Asking for a reference for someone coming into your home would just be normal caution.

At this point, all Jeff was offering was a ride and John needed one, without alerting Michelle, so there was no harm in letting him be his driver one time. Afterall, who knew anything about their next Uber driver? Wasn't like he was defenseless. He could play dumb, while being anything but.

He ducked outside on the way back up the stairs and called the number. The voicemail answer just said, "Sorry I missed you, please leave a message." No new information there.

He responded with, "Hey, Jeff. Kam'l Lewis callin. Hopin that I kin take ya up on the ride offer on Friday night. Need t'go cross town for a bank meetin. Gettin a loan. Tough t'do on transit, specially at my speed. Call t'let me know. Number's 647-556-1425. Thanks."

John was having a hell of a time getting his vocabulary and speech patterns correctly adjusted to the situation. He had successfully added a slur and the rounding of gerunds as he was hearing them from the people around him. He was building a small lexicon of street or island words to toss in for family. For others, who might have known Kamal, he would adjust just a little.

For most of the world he planned to be the best-spoken young black guy that they had ever run into or had the opportunity to collaborate with. Fuck adjusting to expectations; he planned to bowl them over with professional communication skills. But he had to work down to the family level right now, gain full acceptance as Kamal, then gradually bring Michelle back up with him. He planned for Izzy to be educated at the best private school he could find. Life would definitely change for her.

He'd have to watch himself with this Jeff. No small talk and definitely no truthful answers to questions about his plans for once his health was recovered. As far as any nosy neighbour was concerned he was working himself back into shape to return to his job at the distribution centre, as soon as possible.

He avoided making any actual plans until he knew that he had his money. If that plan failed for some stupid reason, he might actually have to get his hands dirty for a few weeks, while he found something involving clients and their money. Hopefully legal, but he wasn't above blurring the line if need be, to start. The stash money would make life a lot easier, but he planned to be outa here and very rich regardless.

When he got around to checking his phone late in the day after a swim and sauna at his rec centre, Jaff Doswell was surprised by the voice message from Kamal Lewis. He had Kamal, or John, on his mind, but he thought that it might take another visit and maybe a couple small favours to work his way far enough inside his defenses to actually engage in some meaningful conversation.

A ride across the city in his car would offer a long time for conversation and, perhaps, would provide some hints about the what was going on in his head. Jaff had no idea what an extra personality felt like from the inside. Understanding how it felt was really his only goal. If he could provide some assistance or, possibly, the only ear that would hear his full story, without judgement, then that was even better. He had a hundred questions, but after a long career as a journalist, knew that you never asked most of them—you just waited for the answers.

He called back the number and got an answer on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Kamal, it's Jeff. How are you doing?"

"Uh, good. Betta each day, guessin."

"Well that's great to hear. Sounds like you're good enough to get out for a bit."

"Yeah. Well, gotta go t'a bank fer some business. Kinda far, but used t'deal wit this branch, so best t'go back there. If'n not too much trouble, fer ya."

"No, not at all. Happy to help. I'm all over the city anyway. What time is your appointment?"

John realized that he had no idea what time Lee and John would get to the bank. He assumed early, but what was early to Lee? Six felt too early, maybe still rush hour traffic. Seven would likely be better, if they got there on time. Getting Bill ready and pumped might delay them a lot. The place was only open until eight, so if he got there for 6:30 he might have to wait an hour for them to show, but probably wouldn't miss them. Of course, hanging around in a bank for an hour or more might be a problem. He might risk a call to find out, but then would have to explain to Lee why he cared. Better just to go early and wait it out.

"Uh, 6:30 is what she said, if'n she's not late, doan know how long it'll take."

"That's OK. What's the cross-streets?"

"The what?"

Jaff was now wondering if he'd made a mistake. Maybe Kamal was just Kamal? He thought that he had caught one language slip when he was there, but everything since had fitted the mix of street lingo and island diction that Kamal grew up with. Not knowing what 'cross-streets' meant suggested a limited vocabulary. But then, John was a smart guy. He would know how to play a role.

Jaff corrected, "I meant, where is the bank?"

John knew what he wanted, but had played dumb. "Oh, down t'St Clair en Dufferin."

It was local streets drive into the middle of the city, but that was fine with Jaff. He wanted John to feel comfortable and could use the time to let him know that he was no threat.

"That is getting into the city a bit. Should allow maybe forty minutes to get there. I'll come by around quarter to six."

John wanted to sound very beholding, so not to tip his still-suspicious hand. "I really preciate that. Maybe, I kin pay ya back later, or somethin."

Jaff laughed lightly. "I'll take a lunch invite sometime to meet your wife, who I hear from the nurses, is really special."

"Guess'n ya got that. Muma lovin a guest t'cook fer too."

Jaff hoped that the sentiments were real, even if coming from a fake guy. "OK see you tomorrow."

"Bye."

John hadn't expected to hear from Dil that evening and he didn't. He figured that he was booked an evening in advance at least, with the gang doing most of its business at night. It didn't matter if he showed in the morning when Michelle was here. John planned on taking him into the garage for their little talk.

He was going to demand that the cabinet be opened, but probably would agree to just stay inside and look the other way while it was emptied. He would definitely look in there expecting it to be empty by end of the week-end. Once he had a solution worked out with Dil, he planned to tell Michelle all about it. No lies and no secrets, except for his one little escapade still to be worked out.

He would need to have a purpose for his trip away with Jeff tomorrow night. Michelle would be at work, but Muma would obviously need to know how long he would be out to take full charge of Izzy. What she knew, she would tell Michelle. He had to have a story figured out in about an hour so he could tell her and get her permission tonight.

The best story he could come up with was one somewhat close to the truth. He was going into Toronto with Jeff to attend a meeting at an office about getting some extra resources for the family once his recovery was underway. Maybe it was sort of a 'victims of violence' fund.

He hoped to keep the type of office unstated, but if a 'bank' came into the discussion, that was OK. He wasn't borrowing money or making any commitments, just going to see how the program worked. Jeff, whom she hadn't met, but who he had talked about, going along might give the purpose some legitimacy.

From that point he planned to play dumb again. Don't know how it works. Don't know how much we might get. Don't know when. But worth going to see and the sooner the better, don't you think? She might scratch her head about his sudden wellness, particularly considering the information apparently required him to travel in person to mid-town Toronto only a week after coming out of hospital, but if he had no answers, he could only suggest those were all good questions.

He had gotten out his explanation, pretty much as he planned, while watching Michelle strip off her outer work clothes and underwear and then pull on her pajamas. The experience of watching her disrobe and redress was almost more exciting that watching her take the pajamas back off in the near dark of their bed. Laying together, he felt like he was her partner, accepted, desired and loved. Watching from across the room gave him the nervous thrill of the voyeur, perhaps seeing something forbidden that rightly belonged to another.

She was so casual about it that it wasn't too hard to set the cautious feelings aside, but he now knew what an 'unnerving' experience was and he liked it. He had noticed that she paid a lot of attention to his undressing as well. He assumed that was out of concern for his now mostly-healed wounds and bruises, but perhaps, she got the same little thrill from Kamal, who, scars aside, had left John a pretty good body to start with.

Michelle grilled him a bit even as she was giving him the peep show that just about put him off his well-rehearsed script.

She questioned, "So this is some kinda government program? Seems funny that you got t'go at night and way cross town fer it."

John had anticipated this one. "The next evening session is tomorrow. Jeff said a daytime one closer might be week or two out. Don't matter where y'apply, apparently. Said if I'm up fer the drive will speed up getting somethin."

"And they just gives ya money? How come I never heard of this?"

John now needed to start the dumb routine. "Doan know how it works. Somethin to do wit the victim fee court collects. Need t'be a crime victim, I'm guessin. That's me, fer sure."

Michelle had finally gotten her most interesting parts, to John, back under clothing. He wanted to end the Q and A.

"Like I said. Might be nuthin. But, this guy Jeff from the hospital is suppose t'do this kinda hook-up. I'll know more after the meetin. Jus gotta go see."

Michelle still wasn't convinced. In her experience, 'free' money was always a scam. Sometimes obvious. Sometimes slick. But, nuthin was ever free. Course, she's never known how a shooting victim really got treated, so maybe this was different. She had once wondered where the victim fees in court went. Heard some guys had to pay thousands. Maybe this was it.

She came over and kissed him, giving John the opportunity to reach out and feel her skin just a thin flannel layer away.

She touched his chest. "OK, jus be careful. Doan agree to nuthin. Jus get the info and if it's legit, sure we can apply on-line like everythin else."

John knew that he would need to have many serious discussions with her in coming days. There was no way that he could suggest that this 'program' had awarded him two hundred thousand, but maybe it might be a useful explanation or the first few thousand, which would buy a used car and give them the means to start moving on. He could trickle some money out, then maybe indicate that he had found a good investment or won a lottery or something slightly plausible. One way or another, she would accept it. Money tended to provide sufficient persuasion all on its own.

# Chapter Twenty-Two - Donna-Jean

Donna-Jean wasn't very happy with her progress. "You might want to consider adding a diaper."

Lee was never sure with her; was this humour or was she actually suggesting that Bill should be nappy-outfitted?

He asked, "So he's that nervous then—you think he might piss his pants?"

She laughed. "No, probably not, but we'll need to do something to calm him down before we go in. I like your suggestion of a couple Percs. If he had to do this on his own, I'd say no, he's dozy enough already. But, if you like my idea for presenting him that way, the dozier the better, probably."

Donna-Jean Seece was a lot of things. Right now, she was Bill's acting coach. Later she would accompany him into the bank. Lee was thanking his stars over and over that he had hired her for this gig, as he never would have had the patience to baby-step Bill through it. Donna had taken charge from the moment she heard the problem and agreed to be Bill's escort for the evening on Lee's tab. Bill was pretty thrilled as well, although both she and Lee were only holding out the possibility of a happy sexual ending with Donna-Jean, as a reward for perfect delivery of his lines and achievement of their goal.

Lee had met Donna-Jean at his former employer. There, she was in charge of the corporate library, which really meant that she marshaled thousands of electronic sources of corporate and economic information into ready-to-use streams that investment analysts could call up on any subject. She held a master's degree in information management and taught part-time at the university.

She also had a professional acting background and regularly disappeared for roles in week-long runs of independent theatre productions. Few people at work knew about this sideline, as she preferred to keep her careers separate. This was wise for her third working role. She was a high-class escort, who served only about a half-dozen special clients with unique needs.

She considered all of her lines of work to be acting. Only the stage changed. Buttoned-up and tweeded-up in flats, with her horn-rimmed glasses, she played the role of the no-nonsense librarian by day. Sparkled-up, heeled-up and deep-cleavaged, she stepped out into the role of head-turning arm-candy for one of her favourite clients by night.

Often, much to her client's delight, she would demolish some smart-ass who was trying to impress with uncertain 'facts' and faulty conclusions. She made a point of being better informed than anyone she would smile at and giggle with on a given evening. Rare clients actually made it through to a night of amazing sex, but when it happened it was always her little reward, if they had behaved as a perfect gentleman, with panache. The fee was the same either way.

Lee had learned about two of her sidelines early in his career, when it became apparent that his gay mannerisms would be a problem at a social event for visiting Saudi clients of the firm. He came to her for some research, or maybe a book, on how to handle it, admitting that he doubted that he could ever pass for straight.

She laughed at his dilemma and lightly suggested that she go along as a prop. Having a suitably-modest Donna-Jean on his arm as his fiancé would go some way towards solving the problem. But Lee was still over-the-top 'gay' by nature. Something he couldn't do anything about on his own. What he really needed, she then suggested, was her script and coaching on 'acting' straight. Afterall, she noted, some of Hollywood's toughest leading men were gay and proud of it, off screen. Lee agreed immediately.

From research, she pointed out the things to do and not to do, then rehearsed with him over several evenings. She even dressed him in the most flat and boring clothes that he had worn since public school. They considered making her appear to be pregnant, as proof of intent, with the help of a costumer, but her research into protocol pointed out that pregnant women weren't particularly welcome in public by Saudis. Certainly not-yet-married ones.

On the evening of the event, Lee's acting and her shy deference to Lee and all of the bath-robed men carried the day. Lee received many follow-up compliments and good wishes for his upcoming wedding and in particular for his wonderful fiancé. He also picked up a lot of business. Donna-Jean was a good investment all on her own.

Lee had since moved on from Donna-Jean's firm, but like her small number of other clients, came back to her for special needs from time to time. His weren't sexual, but still occasionally went down the apparently-straight-couple farce road, when there was no alternative to fool some Southern Baptist, preachy republican asshole with a tens-of-millions to invest.

In this case, he needed all of her skills just to do a small favour for a friend. Brother Bill was special needs on almost all counts. Donna-Jean had suggested the added angle when it became apparent that Bill wasn't going to be able to keep things straight under any kind of pressure.

"How about this: He'll be recovering from a serious illness, if anyone wonders. Still a little slow. We'll teach him to use a cane as if he has a bum leg. He can mumble his lines and look to his 'niece' for help. Gives us credible denial if things go south—he didn't know what he was supposed to do."

She added, "Forgetting protocol or being slow to answer a question could work in his favour."

She paused, letting Lee get the idea. "What d'ya think?"

Lee grinned. It was a great solution. Bill just had to look the part and handle the key. Donna-Jean could prompt him for anything he was forgetting. They could give Bill a couple helper pills to ease his panic impulse. If this made him a little sleepy in his responses, the illness was the reason. Donna-Jean could improvise anything else that was needed. She could carry out the twenty-pound briefcase of bullion.

Lee was impressed. "My dear, yee come through agin. Keep this up and I just might try to make love to you." He laughed out loud now. "Course we'd have to dress you up as a man and give you a cock for the night."

Donna-Jean punched him on the arm for being naughty.

They took the idea to Bill, who had been left signing John Fischer signatures for the seven-hundredth time. That part he had down.

Bill had listened to the pitch quietly, but had also started to grin when the details were laid out. He liked anything that put Donna-Jean at his side for more time. When the idea of a slightly-ailing John Fischer was presented as a role he would play, he actually seemed to grow lighter on the spot as if a burden was being lifted. He nodded and agreed immediately. Donna-Jean hoped that he didn't overplay the character and forget every fucking thing. But with only hours to go until their planned visit to the bank, they had to go with what they had.

Bill was due at a late afternoon appointment with Lee's stylist, who was going to clean him up with a shave and a wrinkle-lessening facial, give him a haircut, get rid of a little grey that had creeped in and pluck or trim any random hairs coming out of ears or nose. They hoped that the effect would be to take a couple years off and make him into a more believable image of John. The clothes had been fitted and the shoes shined. For the ten minutes 'on stage' when they hoped that no one at all would pay any attention to him, he would be pretty well spruced-up and decked-out.

Lee said he would hike over to Shoppers to pick up a cane. He needed ten-minutes of fresh air anyway. Then he would call the number John gave him to let him know that everything was a go. He didn't plan on rehashing details, but thought that John himself might get a kick out of Bill acting as an invalid, given that that's what the real John Fischer apparently was, still.

John in Kamal had waited all morning and most of the afternoon for either of the two things that were bugging him to change in any way. He didn't really expect to hear from Lee, but that was OK as he would see for himself how the recovery of his gold would go at the bank later.

Dil not getting back was more irritating. He didn't really know what the relationship between the brothers had been. Maybe this wasn't the first time that Dil had done something stupid that Kamal needed to fix. Maybe, as the older brother, Dil just told Kam to mind his own business. Maybe things had been different once, when Kamal hung with the gang as well. A lot of maybe's, but none of them mattered now. Kamal was gone. John didn't owe Dil or the gang anything and certainly not a place to stash weapons, if that's what was in the garage, that would get both of them ten-years in jail if it was discovered.

John didn't want any of his frustration or anxiety to show while Michelle was home in the morning. Tonight was her last afternoon shift. They would have a short week-end until she had to be in early Monday for day shift, but then they would have evenings together for a couple weeks. Today, he just wanted to share the pleasure of looking forward to two days without work at all.

He had been upbeat and hopeful about his supposed 'meeting'. He reinforced the idea that maybe he could get some extra money. He also said that maybe Dil would come through with his little loan as he was apparently coming over later. One way or another something good just had to happen today.

Michelle nodded and 'uh-huh'd' through Kamal's enthusiasm. Maybe she was used to her man goin on 'bout one great plan or another. This morning, she had her hands literally full with Izzy, who was trashing diapers with the runs all morning. They were moving her up to more solid food and paying the price for each new item added to the menu until her body got used to it. John stood a little way off trying to adjust as well. He guessed just about every new dad went through the 'holy crap' adjustment.

Michelle left at 1:15 p.m. Dil came through the side door at 1:25. He had been staked out up the street, waiting for her to leave. Lenny was still parked there. John hadn't really had time to put his happy face away and to get his pissed-off one out.

Dil didn't know what was up, but he was more afraid of Michelle's ability to take him apart verbally than he was of Kam's, only slightly diminished, physical ability to beat the crap out of him. He had waited out the morning to avoid a confrontation with her.

He wasn't entirely sure what was wrong, but he suspected. Thursday's run to the garage had been rushed and sloppy. He was told to get a box at the last minute. Being in a rush got you caught or got you dead. Getting shit from his brother was a third possibility and though worrisome, was way better that either of the first two.

Dil said his normal brief hello to Muma, that included neither a hug or a kiss. He had been kicked out two-years back when he returned on early release after five-months completed on a year-less-a-day jail sentence for assault and robbery. The only thing that kept him in provincial lock-up instead of getting years in a federal jail was that he had only pushed the old codger around instead of threatening him with a gun or a knife.

Except for the unnoticed overhead video camera at the small plaza, he might have gotten away with it. As it was, he had been on the sheet often enough that it didn't take long for detectives to show up at the house. The judge decided more than probation was needed. Muma was fed up with his stupid friends givin him ideas and the cops coming around lookin for him.

He now turned to Kam, with a 'what's up' expression. "Ya'll needs t'see me bro?" He paused to look over to Muma, who was considering them both with a suspicious stare, then continued, "Oh, an I gots dat ting we's talk 'bout."

He patted his back pocket.

John nodded towards the door Dil had just come in. "Les go out t'the garage. Got somethin dere needin fixin."

He added to Muma, "Be jus a min Muma, if'n you can looks afta Isabella fer me." She was cranky. He had put another fresh diaper and a slathering of Penaten on her, but suspected that it wouldn't last long.

Muma wasn't smiling, but she nodded. The prospect of a messy diaper change didn't bother her. Her sons headin outside did. She had seen 'n heard fights 'tween these two afore. Goin outside was always the first step. Sometimes one or t'other come back wit a bloody lip. She didn't have a lot a respect for Dillon, but she dint want no daemon takin him over too. Even if'n he was a shit, en it was the nicest daemon round, so would probly be a provement.

John led Dil to the garage and in the man-door on the side facing the backyard. The single large overhead door was closed and normally the side door was locked, but John had looked at all the shit piled around the place and decided that nothing was worth stealing, so left it unlocked. He also wanted to see what Dil's response to the unlocked door was. If he noticed, he said nothing.

John got right to it. "I'm thinkin of cleanin all this shit outa here. Any your's, ya want t'take away. Bicycle, boxes, wood, probly all gonna go t'curb if'n ya doan wan'it."

Dil relaxed a little. "Nah, nuthin left o'mine here. Na that I want, anyways."

He kicked at a couple of piles of boxes. John silently wondered, if nothing of yours in here, why the hell are you over here running in and out all the time?

John nodded. "OK, that's 'bout it. My memory is still shit so I dunno, but we be thinkin a gettin a car soon. Maybe park in here. May's well. Safer outa sight. No snow too."

Dil was nodding. Thinking ahead was a good opportunity for him to act brotherly.

"Sounds good for Michelle and the kid. Buses be tough carryin lot o' shit." Then he continued, as if only remembering just now, "Oh, I gots dat l'il loan we talkd 'bout."

He retrieved a folded wad of fifties from his pocket. "Not much, considerin. Could gets ya more if'n you'd takes it." He handed the money to Kamal.

John took it and pocketed it without counting. It wouldn't be important in a few days, but for now was useful in the trust-building effort. He had decided to play nice, at first.

Kam nodded and smiled. "Thanks Dil. This is good nuf. Help wit the groceries en Izzy's stuff til I get back t'work. Payin ya back regular. This be no funny debt, y'know?"

Dil grinned. Kam had grown so stupid 'bout gang matters that he was almost funny himself. Of course the money was from the gang. Dil dint have no money t'lend. Kam took a hit fer dem and was owed. But, if he wanted t'pay it back, Dil could jus keep it fer himself later.

Dil thought that maybe they were done. Lenny was waiting and they had plans for pool and some beers with some recently-met ladies.

As he was turning to go, Kam interrupted his exit.

"Uh, jus one other thing." He had walked over to the locked red cabinet. "What's in here?"

Dillon turned back and tried t'look only a little perplexed.

He responded, "Uh, jus some valuble tools n'stuff. Keeps it locked cuz. Hope's OK. Not taking no parking room, 'r nuthin."

John expected a first denial. He could play the game too.

He tipped his head, "Tools, huh? Be needin tools maybe, do some work for Muma. Lots needs fixin. Where's the key at?"

Dil was starting to realize that his first concerns had been accurate. Kam was on to his hidin spot for stuff he couldn't keep at his apartment or leave in Lenny's car, for fear of an unexpected police stop.

"Uh, see, not really my stuff, y'know. Kinda calateral like. Holdin fer some of the sociates, y'know. Doan keep a key on me."

John guessed that 'associates' was code for the gang. It was cute, kind of like what Walmart called its minimum-wage stock handlers. 'Punks' didn't seem to fit today's enlightened approach to not labelling people as losers.

John looked at him coolly. "Guessin if yer holdin it here, there's a problem with holdin it at yer place?"

Dil was now scrambling. "Uh, yeah. No room like. Out a lot. Y'know landlord, maybe somebody else nosin round. Might lift somethin."

John had enough. "Well I want to see what it is. I spect not tools at all but maybe fucking guns or the like. This garage bein your stupid idea of a good safe spot t'hold em outa sight."

Dil was slow on a response this time. He knew that continuing to deny was just going to lead to Kam ripping the lock off anyway. He was desperately thinkin about how to explain his dilemma and avoid a problem.

John wasn't finished. "Ya come by here ina big rush other night—hoods got guns and plugging MDB's couple hours later. Hope they goes inta the lake after that. Doan want no Jesus murder weapon laying round here."

The silence left it to Dil to answer the direct question.

"Look Kam. Ya know'd how it is, least ya used to. Crips need somethin, y'do it. Not if ya feels like it or maybe if ya wants t'be nice. I got a job, here. Need to step up. This place is a good solution. Nobody comin round here."

John was livid. "Nobody? Fuck, you come-round and then the Crips plug somebody. You can't be that stupid. GPS or some snitch put you here and the search warrant be right behind. Ya really thinks that cops won't include this garage?"

Dil had to spin this up. "Nah, Kam, ya don't understand. This is clean stuff only and I doan even know what tis. I jus gets a sealed box, no prints, no DNA, none that shit. Nobody knows it's here. Jus my obligation to store it, is all. Might not even be bad stuff, I dunno. I jus gets the box fer while and hands it off when T-Dog wants it."

John wasn't buying it. "I doan give a fuck who, what or why. It's gotta go. This weekend. Shit still here Sunday, I pop de lock and dump it ina swamp somewhere. Considerin how fucked up I am, probly won't be a deep swamp. Stuff be found. But, thas not my prob. So, you gotta get it outa here first."

Dil didn't respond right away. He showed a look of concern and turned up his hands.

"Kam, brother, you can't do dat. I can't move stuff on de spot neither. I'll start lookin for someplace else, maybe storage locker or the like, but can't do this week-end. Need some time t'plan. Need t'explain t'some."

John wasn't satisfied; too much was at risk. "I doan care bout none o'that. It's gone by Sunday or I'm getting rid of it."

Kam started to walk out, but Dil caught him on route to the door with a hand on his arm. Kam spun as quickly as he could, maybe expecting a half-assed fight with his brother.

Dil held on to his arm while he spoke. "Kam, you be fergetting I guess. But ya used to know. Fuckin with Crips kin be a death sentence. Ya lived through the first shooting, good luck 'n all. Take it as a lesson. Next time they'll kill ya sure."

John turned to him in shock, "What do you mean next time?"

Lee's call interrupted the silence between the brothers. John had to take it. The plan might have changed. As he turned away to answer, Dil released his arm, but also used the distraction to quickly exit the garage. John was left looking at the open door with nothing resolved.

After a few seconds of silence, he finally focused on his cell and responded.

"Uh, hi Lee."

Lee was walking and talking. The street noise made it difficult to hear.

He shouted, "John, you there. En route; noisy out here."

John had a moment of panic. They were on the way to the bank already. That was fucked up—the assistant manager that knew John Fischer would still be there. He wouldn't be.

He reacted, "What, you're going t'the bank already? Why so early? Nots a good idea."

Lee had forgotten the reference he'd made to being on the move.

He responded, "No, not now. Later after the day shift is gone. Like you suggested."

John was relieved. "Guess I's misheard ya. Where ya now?"

Lee was confused again at the stranger he was hearing on the phone, but laughed, "Out for a stroll with my new forty-nine-dollar cane. Just about got the limp down. Use the cane at the same time as the dead foot. Kinda get it now."

John wasn't getting it. "So now ya be injured? Fuckin weird dat is."

Lee laughed again. "Nah. Donna-Jean came up with the idea that our friend is supposedly recovering from an illness and a little slow. She's along as the helpful niece, who can remind him or kick him in the shin I guess, if he starts to fuck up. The cane is a prop to sell the invalid part. He limps and she is on his arm to help him along. It's perfect. Adds a set of eyes and another, very bright brain to the approach."

He added, "I needed a break from Billy, so walked over to the drugstore to get the cane. Now I'm perfecting the gimp walk back, ha-ha. Might go get one of these in onyx and ivory or some shit. Can use it to cane the shit out of the submissive types who like a good beating. Plus, could add a little class to my act. Maybe get some sympathy from a muscle-bound hero, who can help me up the stairs now and up his ass later."

John figured that Lee was well into his meds pouch. He was way too happy and unfocused for a day that could put somebody in jail. But then it wouldn't be him. Bill probably didn't know enough about Lee to be very informative with the police if he did fuck it up. John wasn't sure what impersonating someone in a bank was worth in jail time, but considering everything in the box he was trying to get into was coming his way eventually anyway, he'd probably get off at being fined and told to piss-off home. Being stupid was probably a good thing.

The big risk was that the revenue or treasury guys got curious about the origins of the gold bars and seized them. So, Bill had to pull it off. John assessed that Lee was satisfied with the preparation, so could relax a little. Maybe it was a good sign.

John wanted to confirm the timing of the event. "Oh, well nice enough day fer a walk, guessin. Ya'll still on fer early tonight. Bill being ready t'go, I means."

Lee was having trouble paying attention now that he had passed on his funny anecdote.

"Yeah, letting Donna-Jean make the call on time, but sooner the better, I guess. Billy's getting cleaned up as we speak. We'll give him a nice steak and then head over. Guess that makes it seven or so. I'll call ya later. Bye." Click.

John breathed out. He had confirmed the time and his scheduled ride over would work. He'd have time to get Jeff parked somewhere, maybe ask him to come back in an hour and then get comfortable to watch.

As he was walking back into the house, he realized that he hadn't gotten much of a commitment from Dil. He was discomforted by the whole discussion, but hadn't become truly anxious until the end. The ambiguous statement still rang in his head. Who shot him? All he could think about was getting his family out of here.

North of the city, Jaff Doswell had the car tank topped-up and was done reviewing his notes. He didn't plan to pursue any of his suspicions tonight, but only be very observant and be ready to follow any conversation that went in the direction he wanted it to go.

Kamal, if he was John, would still be very suspicious of everyone around him. The fact that he was playing the role so intently, this quickly after his reincarnation, suggested that he either couldn't tell what had happened or knew exactly what was going on and had chosen to hide it in his own interest.

The reason for the bank visit still struck him as contrived. Anyone could do anything at any bank branch. Why head into town to an old-style branch far away from home turf when there was probably a brand new one just around the corner? Unless it had something to do with John Fischer's affairs. He had lots of questions, but would just sit back and observe. The answers always had a way of coming out all on their own.

# Chapter Twenty-Three - Bank Show

Jaff and Kamal had ridden a kilometre down the 427, when Jaff suggested going into town on Eglinton rather than the 401 and then cutting down Scarlett to St. Clair.

'Jeff' had added, "401 is always a mess this close to rush-hour. City streets can be busy too, but not stopped dead. Your choice though."

John in Kamal just shrugged and nodded, he didn't know the city beyond mid-town. Cab and Uber drivers did all of his navigation. But everyone knew that the 401 sucked. He wasn't sure how much he should remember or hide about his driving experience, so didn't offer an informed opinion.

Not liking driving anymore was partly why he had sold his tricked-out Audi. It was a great car the odd time he got it on open road, but mostly he was surrounded by nose-to-tail traffic or the weather was shit or he needed to navigate to some strange address for a date. The nuisance of city driving, plus the wasted cost of just having it sit there depreciating, carried his decision.

The opportunity to rent out his parking space was a bonus that paid him to take Uber. In the suburbs driving himself around might be necessary to start, but he planned to buy a 'beater' and just walk away from it in six months or less, when he would go back to paying someone to drive him.

As they got farther into the city, John grew more nervous and less talkative. At the start of the drive, he had tried to be social in answering Jeff's polite questions about his health, his daughter's progress, Muma's well-being and his still-fuzzy plans. Mostly, he made up the answers as he figured that the questions were just Jeff's way of filling the silence. But he had told him on the phone that he was returning to a bank branch where he had done business before, so he needed to have a story built out in his head for the possible questions about that.

He might also have to pretend to be familiar with that area. In truth, back then he had just randomly picked this Maritime branch after calling their help line to find out where he could get a larger safety deposit box. This branch had a lower floor with a large walk-in vault for boxes. New branches either didn't have boxes at all or only had small ones in a main-floor closet vault. Being out-of-the way from his normal haunts had also been attractive. He hated running into slightly-familiar people who asked intrusive questions about how he was doing or what he was doing. "None of your fucking business," wasn't the kind of answer that kept relations civil, but it was what he always thought.

John decided that he would make up some meaningless past job in the area that made this branch local for a time. Kamal did warehouse work and there were lots of warehouses everywhere. Jeff wasn't nosy enough to ask about the company, so he'd just skip that detail. Sounded good enough to him. He'd say again that he had gotten to know one of the loans managers, so was coming back to see her. It sounded OK as he rehearsed it. He also decided to just depend on his temporary amnesia to put off any other questions that he couldn't answer.

He was wearing the only presentable button-up shirt that Kamal owned. He was dismayed by the hoodies and T-shirts that made up the rest of his wardrobe. Clearly, better clothes was something else to work on once he had his money. Kamal would definitely begin to 'preciate lookin good, or better, anyways. He noted that the khaki pants were snug at the waist. He had lost weight in the hospital, but most of that was muscle disappearing. Sure enough, lay around a bit and flab was starting t'take its place. He would need t'get this body moving again soon or enjoy a lot less of Muma's cooking.

As they got into the area, Kamal finally initiated some conversation.

"Ya'll can drop me near the front, be preciating it. Not walkin the best, but good enough now."

Jeff nodded. "Sure, I'll get a parking spot up the road and do some shopping or maybe grab a bite. You can text me when you're done and I'll come around again."

John had brought along the cane that Michelle got for Kamal. He hadn't used it much, but thought it might help explain him sitting in the bank. The sitting part anyway. He'd have to mumble somethin about waiting for his wife if a nosy employee couldn't resist offering help.

Then they were at the bank. John realized that he hadn't needed any story at all for Jeff. He liked that he wasn't nosy. He hadn't got around to demanding Jeff's spelled-out name, office address and telephone, but maybe it wasn't important. He wouldn't be needed much, but maybe until things settled out, he could help some if he wanted to.

Jeff stopped in the no-parking zone right in front of the bank and John in Kamal worked his way out and onto his feet. The long sit made him a little unsteady. He was actually glad for the cane. As he shut the car door, he waved to Jeff and mouthed 'thanks'. He turned and headed into the bank.

Jaff did more or less what he said he would. He drove up a block, did a U-turn at the next lights and came back going west on St. Clair. He turned left onto Dufferin. As he was going past the bank he glanced over to see if he could see in from a street window. Maybe.

He continued south for half a block then U-turned and came back to a street parking spot only about fifty metres away from the bank. He remembered his parallel parking skills and neatly stuck his car in-between two others. He had his first waiting spot. Looking across the street he spotted a quick chicken place. He hadn't eaten, so his first task was heading over and getting some takeout.

Jaff planned to wait a while, which would be about the time he needed to grab a bite. Then he could casually wander into the bank to wait there for Kamal. He could always say that there wasn't anything interesting in shopping and he was parked right outside. Being inside might offer some useful observation information. Jaff didn't believe a word of Kamal's explanation for coming, because he believed that Kamal wasn't there. Whatever was in this bank was of interest to John.

Lee had booked his 'security-added' driver for the trip over to the bank. Not wanting to give the impression that they were holding up a bank, even though the driver was certainly inscrutable, they spoke in abbreviated and non-specific terms once underway.

Lee and Bill were sitting on the outside, with Donna-Jean in the middle of the substantial back seat in the full-size Caddy limo that brought them over. Bill and Donna-Jean looked ready to attend a business meeting, while Lee looked like he had slept in his clothes. The wrinkled and ripped outfit came that way from the hi-end boutique where he bought most of his stuff. Only his four-hundred-dollar unbranded hi-top sneakers would give him away to a discerning observer. He didn't plan to get out of the car so none would get the chance.

Lee told the driver to stop in front. He said, "Guess this is it. Looks like a shithole, maybe make a better seven-eleven than a bank. But, (wink) if this is where you guys want to do business, who am I to complain? All set?"

Bill was staring straight ahead. He didn't turn to look at Lee or Donna-Jean or say anything at all.

Both Lee and Donna-Jean looked from him to each other. Lee whispered. "He just had the two little helpers, right?"

Donna-Jean shrugged. That was all that she had given him. She tugged on Bill's coat sleeve.

Thinking she should try to get him in character, she spoke softly, "Hey, uh, John. You all set, John. We're at your bank—you need anything else before we go in?"

Bill, now supposed to be John, didn't respond. But he did finally look at them.

"Hey, why are we stopped?"

Lee had a WTF reaction, but managed not to say anything.

Donna-Lee put her hand on Lee's arm. "We're OK here. I think that John is still a little confused by his recent illness and maybe the medications, his doctor prescribed, are slowing him down a little. Is that right, John?"

Bill finally seemed to take in that he was sitting in the back seat of the car with two other people and that maybe something was expected of him. His expression was still blank with a slight forehead wrinkle of uncertainty.

Lee had enough. Whatever was wrong, this was a clear abort signal to him. If Bill had a stroke or something on the way over, he sure as hell didn't want to send him into a bank to more-or-less steal three-hundred thousand in gold. The possibilities for a screw-up were too many and were completely out of his control once they went in.

Lee put up a hand indicating 'hold-on', then leaned forward. "Hey, Gerry, could you give us a minute. Car OK right here for a couple seconds?"

Gerry had lots of experience with back-seat blow-ups that usually happened while he was trying to drive safely at thirty-over in a rainstorm to get some prick VIP to his fucking event on-time. Being parked for this little wig-out was a relief. But he was happy to get out of range before Lee ripped someone.

He replied, "Gotcha. I'll stand right there. Handicapped access is OK here 'n I got the sign in. Take your time." He got out.

Donna-Jean had significant professional investment in making this happen. She would get paid either way, but she hated not delivering on a promise. As far as she was concerned, if Bill could stand, walk and nod, she could handle the rest.

She poked Bill in the ear hard enough that he winced. "Bill, what's going on? Did you hit the bottle or something before left?"

"Ouch!" Bill finally connected with them and where he was, as he rubbed his ear. Getting a hard jab in the ear had produced a loud enough bang in his head that he was hearing bells.

"Oh, Donna-Jean." He leaned forward to look around her. "Er, hi Lee. We ready t'go now? Musta zoned out there a bit. Zoloft does that t'me sometimes."

Lee now burst out. "Zoloft! You took Zoloft? How much?"

Bill was tracking the discussion pretty well, now that he was paying attention. "Uh, just my normal dose. Coupila pills. Well, actually I took one extra, bein stressful day, y'know. But, I'm OK. Used t'the stuff."

Donna-Jean had her phone out and was Googling 'interaction Percocet and Zoloft'.

She read for a few seconds, then said, "Says here he might be a little confused, sweaty, barfy maybe, combining Zed with the Oxy, but if he doesn't pass out, which he hasn't, he should live. This is what we planned on right? He'll fit the doddering uncle role perfectly."

Lee wasn't convinced, but they were here and if Donna-Jean thought it would be OK, then they might as well take a shot.

Lee said, "You're the one inside. You call it off the minute it goes south. Just bail. We're staying the fuck up the street. But, we 'll come right back. You sure you're good?"

Donna-Jean smiled and nodded. There was no way this was screwing up or being postponed on her watch.

Lee opened his door, stood and spoke to Gerry, standing on the sidewalk.

"Hey, Gerry. All good now, after a little family conference." He rolled his eyes towards the car. "Please help Uncle John out."

Gerry opened the rear door and took Bill under his arm with a lift strong-enough to ensure he went nowhere but to his feet on the sidewalk. After he was out, Gerry helped to smooth his jacket and hung-on discreetly until Donna-Jean could take his place. She brought Bill's cane out, along with the empty briefcase. She turned and gave a little thumbs-up to Lee before closing the door.

Once they were plodding toward the bank entrance, Gerry nodded to Donna-Jean and returned to the driver's seat.

Lee was shaking his head in the back. "Park us somewhere out of pistol range. I don't want to be tempted to kill that fucker."

Gerry nodded silently, with the thought: "Just another day in this business."

John in Kamal had found a comfortable seat in the general waiting area of the bank. He picked a couple little brochures out of the rack as props to take back to Jeff on exit. He now sat, apparently reading them, but kept his gaze high-enough to cover the front door. As no-one in the bank would know if he was there with someone in line, waiting for a spouse to arrive or just gathering some knowledge on 'Investing for Your Future' as the brochure was prophetically titled, he wasn't being bothered.

He came to full attention on the entrance, when he saw himself, about twenty pounds heavier, coming in the front door on the arm of a good-looking young lady. He watched them navigate the double sets of doors, which opened automatically after the woman pushed the handicapped button. He only realized that he was looking at his brother Bill when the couple made their way to the information desk about fifteen feet in front of him. He hadn't seen his brother in three years and remembered a rough-edged and disheveled lout, who would slouch his way around, giving the impression that anytime but dinnertime wasn't much to his interest.

This guy looked impressive-enough that passersby's might assume he was a professional or at least a well-to-do guy. It was an amazing transformation. He had to give Lee credit for making his fairly dumb story idea an actual stage play, with Bill in the leading role.

Once they were stopped, the woman talked to the receptionist while Bill leaned on the cane he was carrying and looked around. Only then, did John see that this nicely-dressed and coiffed guy had about the same expression on his face as an eight-year-old must have at Disneyland.

The bedazzled eyes eventually settled directly on Kamal, which caused him to react with a quick look away and covering of his face, until he remembered that Bill, and anybody else here, would have no idea who this young black man was.

Bill though did continue to pay extra attention, lifting his cane and waving. John couldn't figure out what he was seeing until he remembered that he too was holding a cane against his knee. For some reason, nearly-giddy Bill wanted to acknowledge the brotherhood of the cane. When John smiled and raised his cane slightly in acknowledgement, Bill grinned broadly, while still not apparently actually connected to reality. John had his second 'oh, fuck' thought of the moment: He's stoned.

Donna-Jean had more or less dragged Bill through the double sets of doors. Once they were actually inside the bank, she tippy-toed up against him, giving his arm a nice rub with her tits which got his attention. She smiled and got her lips up close to his ear.

She whispered, "Get your fucking act together now or we're quitting this shit and leaving you to the mob." She smiled as he nodded. Then she pointed over to the information desk. "Walk, limp, look feeble, talk when I tell you, got it?"

Bill processed what she had said at about half the speed that she said it. He blinked twice, then said, "OK, lead-on."

His fixed and unwavering smile gave away none of the seriousness of the threat. To most observing, he was a middle-aged guy, rich-enough to afford a nice-looking squeeze and some fine threads. Other guys might smile too if they were nailing that at home. The thought crossed a few male minds whose eyes glanced up reflexively at Donna-Jean. Intentionally-naïve women ignored Bill, but thought what a nice outfit his resourceful daughter had on, as she helped her ailing father.

At the desk, Donna-Jean gave the receptionist her full attention, picking up the name tag of Judy as she leaned in intently before speaking. "Hello Judy, we're here to access uncle John's safety deposit box. Please call a cashier down for us. Thank-you."

The receptionist nodded and was about to start giving instructions for where to go, but realized that the couple was already walking to the elevator at the back of the bank. John watched them go as well. Bill wavering slightly and randomly stabbing the cane at some unseen pestilence on the floor. The woman encouraging and tugging, with declining patience for his disconnected efforts. Lee had mentioned Donna-Jean's role in helping Bill through this. As far as he could tell, she wasn't just helping, she was the ventriloquist and Bill was the dummy. He hoped that their act got rave reviews downstairs if they made it that far.

It took a minute or two after Donna-Jean and her uncle 'John' emerged from the elevator in the lower vault area for a cashier to join them. Donna-Jean was acutely aware of a video camera lens in the corner of the ceiling above them, so kept their performance going in pantomime for any back-office eyes that might be watching. The cashier apologized for the delay as she woke up a terminal on a small counter.

Once she was happy with the screen in front of here, she instructed, "Please insert your bank card." She pushed the little card-reader terminal an inch in their direction.

This was Bill's cue to take out John's wallet and pull the one card left on the right side of the card holder slots. Bill got the wallet out as planned but then stood staring at the inside without a clue what to do next.

Donna-Jean had hoped that this might go without a hitch, but now realized that Bill was as clueless as he now looked. "Uncle John, you need your bank card now. It's the blue one there."

Bill looked at her and moved his fingers around the cards. Blue didn't seem to be a useful reference for him. Finally, he fingered the right card and looked up to her hopefully.

Donna-Jean piped-up. "Yes, that's the one."

Bill pulled the card and was trying to hand it to the cashier.

Donna-Jean intercepted it and now spoke softly to her. "I'm so sorry. I'm afraid that since his illness, John has been a little unsteady on his feet. He's doing well, but I may need to help him a little with moving around. Can I insert the card for him?"

The cashier had on her fixed customer-service smile. "Of, course, but he will need to enter his passcode himself."

"Certainly." Donna-Jean had on her own fixed smile, but was gritting her teeth behind her lips.

"Now?"

"Please."

"OK, Uncle John, you need to put in your PIN on the key pad."

They had drilled the numbers: 5 - 7 - 5 - 7 so many times that Donna-Jean couldn't imaging him screwing this up. Bill leaned in and tapped the keys. He got it wrong. He entered the safety deposit box number of 125 which eventually timed out as not enough digits.

Donna-Jean wished that she could just take over or, at a minimum, just take over Bill fingers and mouth, but she smiled and only said. "Oops, Uncle John, that's wasn't it. It's four numbers, you do this all the time, remember?"

She took his other hand and squeezed the knuckles hard enough to make him wince again. The brief pain seemed to bring him back to what he was doing.

The cashier had reached over, pulled the card and reset the terminal by inserting it again. "Please go ahead."

This time Bill thought hard and remembered the right numbers. He nodded and smiled at Donna-Jean, but seemed to have no idea how to enter them. Then an obvious light went on somewhere inside and he deliberately punched each correct digit one after the other. He completed it within only milliseconds left until the terminal timed out again.

Donna-Jean knew from trying-out being stupid herself at her own bank, that a complete miss on the PIN required the security questions and a nosy review of other ID, plus possibly an escorted walk to one of the ATM's to reset the code. Bill would never have pulled it off in his current state. She breathed a sigh of relief that they had sneaked under the wire.

If the cashier had any concerns, they didn't show through her pleasantly-professional face. She scanned the file that the card had popped-up on her screen and seemed satisfied with what she saw. Donna knew that this general file didn't contain a picture due to privacy laws. That part was still to come, if the cashier opted to pull it up. The 'key agreement' specifically waived some privacy rights, including storage and use of an image. This would be another test that Bill could certainly fuck-up if she asked for any confirming details. Fortunately, she phrased her questions as confirmations of what was on screen.

"Still at this address?" Nod. "Still at this phone?" Nod. "Very good. May I have your key?"

Bill fumbled around patting down all of his pockets until he finally hit the correct pocket on his second time around. He pulled the little key from his jacket pocket, looking again at Donna-Jean as if expecting some praise for his accomplishment. She shifted her eyes and her head left to indicate that he should put it into the outstretched hand of the cashier, which he finally did.

The cashier compared the number on the key with some database and selected a second key from a drawer. Donna-Jean hoped that was it, that the next step was getting the box.

The cashier hesitated, but it wasn't clear if she was concerned about anything. The only evidence was a momentary dip in her appropriate-courtesy smile, which only Donna-Jean observed and noted.

The cashier looked up to Bill, perhaps assessing if he was in good enough shape to be making any financial decisions today. It wouldn't be the first time that a money-grubbing relative had dragged a dementia-addled relative in to clean out his valuables. A manager might need to be called to have a little conversation. Donna-Jean and Lee had thought this through and had a full story ready, but, Bill as John had apparently passed the cognition test.

She finally spoke, "I just need to see the picture ID that you normally show please, John."

Fortunately, Lee's insider had briefed them on just this request. John Fischer had offered his driver's license before and would do so now again, if this John could understand the request, process it as something they had covered, locate his wallet again and find the driver's license, which was prominently located right across from his returned bank card.

Bill looked at Donna-Jean hoping for a hint to point him in the right direction. She had enough of screwing around. She had read the cashier's name tag but was saving a personal appeal until it was absolutely needed.

"In your wallet, Uncle John. Miss..er, Jasmine, needs to see your license." She hoped that her extra instructions would be seen by the cashier as helping to speed things up, rather than somehow suggesting that John was either feeble or had-never-fucking-done-this-before!

Bill, as John, responded, "Oh, of course. That's an easy one." He pulled the wallet again from his rear pants pocket, deftly flipped it open and extracted the license, which he handed over.

While holding the license, Jasmine the cashier, now presented a small form with a bunch of fine print that certainly disclaimed all responsibility or liability for the loss of contents and warned box owners not to store dynamite, drugs or live animals in their boxes, or something similar.

The form required a signature and date. They had practiced John Fischer's signature long enough that this should be second nature, even for stoned Bill, if he remembered to sign the correct name.

Donna-Jean knew that this was the real test of whether Bill could pass for John, based on the shitty two-year-old picture on the license. The cashier hadn't even looked at the license yet as she was waiting for John Fischer to sign in. There was a pen attached to the desk by a chain. Donna-Jean used the opportunity to prompt Bill. She reached for the pen and handed it to him.

"Here's the pen Uncle John."

Once he had the pen in his hand, John seemed to gain some focus on the task. He considered the form, fortunately made no attempt to read it and just placed the pen on the signature line. With a little flourish, he completed the signature and replaced the pen in the holder. If he signed the right name, his apparent confidence should have been convincing. Donna-Jean held her breath as Jasmine now considered the license picture and then slowly looked up at the John in front of her. She also compared the signatures with a back and forth look at the one on the license. Moments passed. If there had been a ticking clock, the scene would have been suspense-novel perfect. There wasn't any ticking, just the buzz of overhead lights and the computer fan.

She pulled the form back. Donna-Jean never saw the signature clearly, but it appeared that she was content that it was the same as on the license. She also must have accepted that the picture was of the guy in front of her, who must have really had let himself go. But then, his niece said he had been sick.

Jasmine handed the license back and said "I'll open your box for you."

Donna-Jean had one final thought, that the box would go from weighing maybe twenty-two pounds with current contents to weighing next-to-nothing, once empty. They hadn't said whether they had something to put in or to take out. That disclosure wasn't required. But avoiding having the cashier lift the loaded box would keep her from knowing that they were emptying it.

She moved to intercept Jasmine in the vault. "Uh, can I take it out? Some heirlooms in there. Very fragile stuff. And the bank isn't accountable for breakage, right?"

The cashier thought about that and just said, "Sure. I'll just get the door for you."

Jasmine inserted two keys into box 125 and turned both, releasing the eight-inch by ten-inch door. Once the door was open, she removed both keys. Donna-Jean pulled out the heavy box and began carrying it to one of the adjacent private carrels.

Jasmine handed John back his key. "Will you be long? I can wait or come back. There's a buzzer for service here."

Donna-Jean piped up, "No we'll just be a minute, if you would wait please."

She carried the box behind the privacy of the carrel and Bill followed her. He was smiling, having done his job flawlessly, as far as he was concerned. Donna-Jean made sure that he was fully behind the privacy screen before talking in a whisper.

"OK Uncle John, let's get what you came for."

She opened the briefcase on one side of the table and then lifted the metal lid on the box. Twenty-five gold coloured, plastic encased bars were neatly stacked. Some were no bigger that a very small gum pack. Some might have been a Kit-Kat. They were all brilliant to Donna-Jean in the dull deep gold of .9999 pure bullion.

Bill stared, shook his head and whispered, "Who the fuck would believe that shit is real gold?"

Donna-Jean gave him a puzzled look, but there was no time for discussion. She picked up the bars two or three at a time and stacked them against the bottom edge of the open briefcase. After all twenty-five were in, she scooped up all of the original, highly-official, stamped and signed purchase receipts from an obscure European retail precious metals dealer, now possibly out of business, that attested to the authorized origins of the bars in lots of four or six from the dispersed gold reserves of the Republic of Panabinga, over a series of dates. Each receipt reflected the approximate market value of the gold on the day of purchase, less small handling fees. The paper would be needed to easily resell the bullion. It all went into the briefcase. She closed it and then the box.

Donna-Jean now spoke up, loud enough to be overheard. "That's everything that you need for today, Uncle John. Please wait for me while we put the box back."

She carried the now-empty box back to the vault, faking some of the same muscle tension that she needed to remove it. Jasmine opened the small door, needing only her key this time as the box was out. Once Donna-Jean inserted the box, the door was closed and could not be opened again without both keys.

A few months in the future, the box would be opened again on an authorized request from John Fischer's executor, the key having turned up in John's things. If challenged, brother Bill might say that he attended at the bank to confirm that the box was empty, with help from his niece, not knowing that he wasn't what he was supposed to do. He told everyone there that it was John's box and they seemed OK with it.

Donna-Jean lifted the heavy briefcase off the desk. The bars made no noise as they were each enclosed in a mylar pouch and she had stacked them carefully against what was now the bottom of the case. She carried the case lightly, even though it now weighed almost twenty pounds. She mentally thanked her circuit trainer for demanding extra reps three-times a week. By the time they exited the bank, the case would be fucking heavy.

Uncle John, his work now mostly done, smiled at Jasmine but said nothing as they waited for the elevator. He was looking forward to ditching these duds and to just breathing again. Once the car came and they were inside behind the closed door, Donna-Jean finally spoke clearly to Uncle John..

In a furious whisper, she said, "Fuck was that? You came damn close to screwing that all...John! But forget that. We still need to leave the bank as we came in. Until you're in Lee's car, you keep it up. Got-it?"

Bill's excess meds were actually starting to wear off and he was more comfortable with where they were and what was happening. He grunted, "Got it."

John in Kamal upstairs was very nervous. He had been in and out of the bank in about twenty minutes every time he made a 'deposit' to his box. Donna-Jean and Bill had been gone over thirty minutes. He gave up the pretense of quietly waiting and got up to take a closer look at the back, where the upper elevator doors were visible.

He was surprised as hell and nearly jumped in the air when a voice very close to him said, "Hey Kamal, all done, then?"

Jeff Dodwell was standing right beside him.

Jaff then said, "I'm parked right out there, so I figured I'd just come in to wait. Not much else doing out on the street."

John got over his surprise and kicked himself for not anticipating this. Of course, a folksy guy like Jeff would wander in if it was taking too long. They should have been out of here by now, but there was nothing to do. He had to hang on to see Bill and Donna-Jean coming out smiling and carrying the heavy case with his future in it.

He needed to think quickly to explain why he was just standing around in the waiting area of the bank.

"Oh, ur Jeff. Surprised me a little der. Had m'meetin, just waitin for d'lady to bring me some forms like. Taken em home fer Michelle t'sign. Said she jus be's a mint, guessin."

He knew that he would have to change the story later, but couldn't think of any other logical reason to still be standing there.

Jaff was interested—the explanation sounded bogus. When you had an appointment, you waited in the small office for forms, not out in the open area. He decided that there was no measure in questioning the story as the kid appeared nervous as hell already. He could wait it out.

He smiled and nodded. "Oh, sure. Know how they like their forms. No hurry, I'll just hang out here." Jaff now perused the same brochure rack that Kamal had selected from earlier.

John in Kamal was still trying to think of how he would get out of the fake rationale, when the elevator doors finally opened. A very serious-looking Donna-Jean had a still goofy-looking John-the-imposter by the arm. Given the slight tilt of her body, he could see that she was carrying a significant weight in the case. They had done it.

John was planning to just let them walk by, as revealing himself, only to Lee, was for another day. But he still had the cane and Bill, as him, remembered their greeting on the way in. He was still moving his cane in random fashion, but as he neared, he raised it almost horizontally and stopped dead, nearly toppling Donna-Jean over.

Bill spoke up in a loud-enough voice to be heard across the small waiting area. "Well, how about this? How the heck is ya, friend? Didn't expect t'see you here. Still working them obits? Guess people keep on dying."

He now laughed at his own lame humour and stood anchored to the spot as Donna-Jean tugged at him, got nowhere and, finally, had to turn back and set the heavy briefcase down.

John in Kamal stood with his mouth open. He couldn't explain how Bill had recognized him. He was about to speak in response, when he heard an equally-loud voice behind him.

"Oh, hey Bill. Still in Toronto? Thought that you'd be back home. But, nice to see you." Jeff walked forward around John in Kamal and proceeded over to shake Bill's hand.

Bill's lost his smile briefly and his brow wrinkled. He quickly looked left and right, then he brought his finger up to his lips in a 'shhh' motion.

Whispering, he said, "Uh, Jaff, not Bill tonight. I'm John. Pretty good look too, eh?" He waved his hand down his jacket and pants and grinned. "Fooled-em downstairs."

Fortunately, he was now speaking only loudly enough for Jaff, Donna-Jean and John in Kamal to hear.

Jaff nodded and leaned in conspiratorially, also whispering, "You mean John, as in John your brother?"

Bill was resisting all of Donna-Jean's efforts to move him. His two-hundred and thirty pounds had apparently taken root right on that spot.

She now moved herself right up between the two of them and said, "This is a nice reunion, I'm sure, but John here needs to keep moving, unless he wants to end up very sorry for things to come. We are on a tight timetable. Right, JOHN?"

Bill still didn't get it. With Donna-Jean standing right there, he now felt the need to introduce them. He returned to his still-loud whisper.

"Donna-Jean...who really isn't my niece...this here's Jaff Doswell. He's a famous reporter fer the Star newspaper here. Lots o' big stories, they says. He done us a real favour en wrote up John's obit en a nice speech fer me."

John in Kamal had been feigning inattention while listening carefully to every word. He was as panicked as Donna-Jean, but couldn't reveal it. Now he heard that his new 'friend' and helpful driver was an investigative reporter. His only thought was, "This is fucked-up."

Bill grinned and continued his confession. "Donna-Jean here is my coach. Maybe we're gonna have a little party later, now that we got our stuff." He raised his eyebrows and grinned.

Donna-Jean was almost apoplectic. Bill wasn't whispering any longer and it was only a matter-of-time before he said something that would put them both in jail.

She tried a different approach. "John, er Bill, we really need to go. Don't want to keep Lee waiting."

It was her first and only mistake of the evening. She didn't know that Jaff knew exactly who Lee was.

She grabbed Bill's arm again and did everything she could to physically move him without creating a scene. She had to do this while repeatedly picking up and setting down the briefcase, when he didn't budge.

Jaff couldn't believe his luck in stumbling into this little escapade. He figured that, under Lee's proxy direction, they must have come for something of John's that was valuable enough that Bill didn't want to do it legally through the estate. It was probably the missing wealth that John-the-financial guy must have had. If Kamal really was John, this would explain his interest. Was he here secretly supervising? But Bill didn't know about the reincarnation, apparently. So maybe John wasn't that happy to be here? Maybe he was watching these two steal his hard-earned fortune, just when he needed it most.

There was only one way to test the theory and maybe open up the real story.

Jaff quickly said, "Well, before you go. I want to introduce the brave young guy I'm here with." He turned and pulled Kamal closer with a strong arm around his shoulder.

This is Kamal Lewis. He paused as both sets of eyes took in Kamal.

"Kamal, this is Bill, er, oops, make that John Fischer, who is rather famous himself for being dead, but is still apparently quite alive."

John in Kamal locked eyes with Jaff. He knew that he knew.

# Chapter Twenty-Four - John Knows Jaff Knows

Jaff considered Lee Deviers a dangerous man. He thought that from the moment he met him at John's funeral. The obviously-armed escort meant that he either had a lot to protect or had a lot to fear. Either situation could make a man dangerous.

Jaff had flirted with dangerous men many times in his journalist career. He found that they were susceptible to fawning attention, particularly from someone who might write a book about their exploits. There was a line that he had figured out long ago that you didn't cross. Ask questions that provoked bravado or maybe a little 'wink-nudge' boasting and you were a good guy. Ask questions that caused public embarrassment and maybe you were a dead guy.

Tonight, Jaff had the opportunity to embarrass Lee Deviers. He judged that Lee only had a lot to protect and wasn't afraid of much. He didn't need to scoop up John's wealth to be better off, but maybe he needed to scoop it up to protect something larger of his own? Forcing that question out in the open too soon would be an embarrassment. Lee was probably the nicest and most accommodating of criminals, but all criminals were only a slip-up away from being killers. Their slip-up usually came when they finally had too much to lose.

If Jaff was plotting out his story on a wall with pictures and strings, which no journalist ever did for real, but each seemed to love doing in the movies, he might post Lee's picture slightly off-centre, but then connect strings to this bank, to John's old firm, to some unknown clients, plus to John, Kamal, Bill, this Donna-Jean, and maybe even Gary or Wilma, with a big unknown blob left open for whoever Lee's gangster friends were. There certainly were some. Rich bad guys didn't get that way alone. They did it by being connected.

Whatever the hypothetical wall-map might look like eventually, for now, Jaff chose to draw a circle around Lee and mentally write 'no-go' there. Later he might be a chapter. For right now he was a distraction that didn't have a lot to do with the story Jaff was after. He hoped that Lee felt the same way about him. He wanted to be just a shrug on Lee's consideration wall.

In the hope of just being a shrug, Jaff chose to let Bill and his 'coach' head out into the evening. He was certain that, if he had been encouraged, Bill would have invited the two of them along to the 'party'. It certainly wouldn't have happened as Bill envisioned it, but putting Jaff and Lee face to face again, after Jaff had pretty much figured out the caper, would have called for a resolution.

Younger days, he might have pressed his advantage. These days, he just wanted John's story, with all characters well-hidden to protect identities and to avoid any possible embarrassment. Later, if he still had the energy, maybe he would float the 'book' idea with Lee, as the potential role of beneficial mastermind was always attractive to crooks with large egos.

He and Kamal watched 'John' for tonight and Donna-Jean finally head out the front doors. Donna-Jean was still lugging the briefcase and John was rapidly returning to being an able-bodied oaf, who might also be realizing that he had just screwed up pretty badly by revealing his secret identity. His relationship with Lee might unfortunately fall into the embarrassment category.

John in Kamal watched them go as well. Then he turned to Jaff and said, "Is it Jeff or Jaff?

Jaff considered for a moment before answering. "It's Jaff, short for Jaffery. Jaffery Doswell."

John was certain that Jaff had mispronounced it originally. He was also certain that a search of Jaffery Doswell would turn up much more information than on the intentional mispronunciation.

John asked, "This Bill guy, he have that right? You're a reporter?"

Jaff smiled, "Used to be. Retired. Just do writing sidelines now. Obits, speeches, articles, that kind of stuff."

John nodded. "So, what's your connection with the hospital and some department of volunteers?"

Jaff noticed that Kamal's affected street and island lingo had disappeared. This was old John talking.

Jaff smiled. "Uh, nothing official. Do volunteer a lot, sometimes with hospital patients."

John wasn't nodding. "But, not right now. Right now, you're still doin reporter shit, right?"

Jaff couldn't deny it as it all had to come out eventually.

"Yeah, just a journalist following a hunch. Not a reporter. Don't work for any news department. I'm just real interested in one subject."

John blinked, but kept his neutral face on. "What's that?"

Jaff said, "Reincarnation."

To his credit, John in Kamal only shrugged and then looked over Jaff towards the exit. He tossed the crushed brochures that he was still holding onto the old chit-writing shelf, still there from a time before ATM's.

He gave Jaff one last look and began walking out. "Thanks for the ride in. I'll cab it home." He paused and turned back once. "Don't call me."

Jaff had expected to be rejected, once he finally made a pitch for honest disclosure. Anyone in his right mind would hide what happened to him far outa sight. While there would be exceptions in the odd person or loved-one who believed him, most people would consider the reincarnated claimant to be completely whacked. Claim it too many times and you're drinking Lithium cocktails and living in a padded room.

Jaff knew that persecution had happened to many rehosted souls over the decades. Most clinical accounts weren't documented well-enough to dig out the reincarnation claim, so a whole cadre of innocent, but vocal, recipients of a repurposed soul were just classified as insane. As enlightened as the current age is, the professional diagnosis would almost certainly be 'fixated schizophrenia'. A psychiatrist might note the details of the claim and even entertain some efforts at substantiation to humour the patient, but they would still conclude mental illness.

If, by some chance, you weren't considered mentally ill, you almost certainly would be judged a scammer. Neither outcome worked in favour of the reincarnated individual. Just keeping quiet and maybe taking advantage of knowledge your host body didn't previously have was the recommended path. So, for John, just walking away was the logical choice. He would need an overriding reason to reveal what happened to him, even to one other person. Jaff just needed to find out what that was.

He hurried after Kamal. If he couldn't drive him home, he hoped that at least he could part on terms that would allow a change of mind later. Jaff wanted a bridge left intact.

Jaff spoke again when he was out on the curb, where Kamal was now looking for an available cab. He had first pulled out his cell to request an Uber driver, only to realize that Kamal didn't have the Uber app on his phone. He would have no account even if he could load the app. Cash and a cab would have to do it. Four of Lenny's fifties were in his pocket.

Jaff came around in front of him and spoke. "Look, John." He paused, looking for a reaction. "Yeah, I know it's John. You will be Kamal someday, but not yet."

John didn't tell him to fuck-off. He took it as a good sign.

Jaff continued, "I just wanted to say that you're not the first, you're not even among the first thousand reincarnations. It's just that nobody in our society has ever accepted it. In Tibet, you could talk all about it and Buddhists would just shrug. They have accepted it for centuries."

He continued, "You and I know it's real, right here. For me, you're the one and only chance I'll ever have to know someone who has come back. Yeah, I'll write about it somewhere down the road and you'll be an unnamed character, in an unnamed town, at an unspecified time. But, if I had your first-person account, still anonymous, together we might be able to move everyone's understanding along. You have to know that there are hundreds like you right now that could use some help and compassion."

John was still scanning traffic for a free cab, with no luck. Every cab that went by was booked. He waved at them anyway, knowing that company guys would call their dispatch for someone free in the area. It was just a matter of time. But then he remembered that he was now black. Maybe not. He might need to call, meaning standing here a long time with Jaff.

He got his phone out again to call, but then realized that he had no cab numbers in his contacts and the over-due account didn't have any data left. He couldn't even ask Google for a number. He looked around for a payphone with a book. Of course, they were all taken-away years ago. He was temporarily stuck looking at and listening to Jaff.

Jaff picked up on his frustration. "Come-on, jump in the car. Let me take you home to Izzy and Michelle. You can yell at me all the way there for being a fraud and a shithead. I won't ask you another question, if that's the way you want it. Best of luck to you and I'll be on my way. What d'ya say?"

John in Kamal should have been silently celebrating tonight's liberation of his fortune. As much of an idiot as Billy was, he had done it. Lee had planned it and put the resources in place to make it happen. Donna-Jean was obviously a pro at what she did and had made the difference. He still had to figure out how to get his money, but at least now he could really look forward.

His old life was only a few small steps away from being gone entirely. He should feel a great loss, but in fact, he felt like he had won the jackpot. He now realized that he was probably a miserable bastard most of the time back then. He might have attracted someone to share his life, but how long would it have lasted? He was greedy, self-centred and generally a prick to be with. How long would anyone put up with that? Now, he could shed all of those traits and just flow into a perfect family life with a beautiful and dynamic wife, who loved him and would stick around. Izzy and, hopefully, a few more children would fill in all that he needed.

As much as he felt that he should just ignore Jaff and have nothing to do with revealing anything that had happened to him, he also had a small niggling thought that, just maybe, his was a story that should be told. He fought back the thought, fearing that it was just old-John seeking to step out again, as a hero or a champion, or, as he had once been so fixated on, as a winner. He decided that he couldn't allow the temptation. Maybe, once he had proven to himself that he had changed for good, it was a possibility. Then, maybe, when there was nothing left to prove, he might talk about it. It was a big maybe and certainly couldn't be a promise. He wondered how to tell that to Jaff without beginning to tell the story in spite of his fears.

Kamal finally looked at Jaff and shrugged. "OK, guess after the circus in the bank, there isn't much more going to happen on a car ride home. Let's go."

When they were both in the car and Jaff had pulled into traffic, the silence begged at least some kind of answer to Jaff from John.

He finally spoke. "I'm not going to yell at you. Could say that you're just doing your job, but I'm guessin that's not it, eh? Seems like you really do want to help, but I have to say that I don't."

He paused, then continued, "I'm not unkind, but I have too much to lose. Michelle, Izzy, even frigging Muma, they are a family that I never had. I can do so much for them. I can't risk it. Not now. Maybe someday. Who knows?"

Jaff waited to see if he had more to say. He had promised not to ask questions and intended to stick to it. When several long moments had gone by, he finally felt that he could respond.

"I get it. I agree entirely with you. I can't know what your plans are or how things will work out, but I absolutely agree that you have to go after it with all that you've got. And you shouldn't risk it for anything. So, for that long time until someday, we will leave it at best wishes. OK?"

John in Kamal looked over and smiled. "OK."

They were still a long way from home, but the silence was more comfortable. Jaff negotiated his way out of the neighbourhood and headed north on Dufferin to the 401. Rush-hour should be over and the highway moving, still nose-to-tail across twenty-two lanes, but at least not stopped dead.

After a few minutes, Kamal started giggling. Jaff looked over, thinking that maybe he was crying, but it was a definite giggle. He smiled too, hoping John would let him in on the joke. He finally did.

"How about fucking Billy?" He now laughed out loud.

He added, "He just about caused Donna-Jean, or whatever her name was, to have a litter of kittens right there in the bank. Only Billy could be that good and that ridiculous at the same time."

Jaff now laughed as well. They had something neutral that they could talk about.

"I met him before your funeral, you know. I know exactly what you mean. Somebody did a hell of a job turning him into you. Sorry, if that's a difficult idea to deal with."

John shrugged. "No." He took a breath. "Already dealt with it, I guess." Another pause. "Liked your obit though, thanks for that. Not sure who the fuck you were writing about, but I was impressed by the guy."

Jaff now laughed again. "You should have heard Bill reading the eulogy. For a moment, I half expected you, er, the person in the casket, to sit up and say "Give me that, I'll read it myself."

Now they were both laughing, nearly to tears. Jaff had what he needed. Kamal had a friend he would need desperately in days to come.

In another car, now very close to its destination, the silence was more difficult. Lee, Donna-Jean and Bill were in their respective spots in the back seat. Nobody was smiling at the moment.

Donna-Jean had abandoned Bill on the sidewalk. She no longer needed to fool anyone and Bill had become a disgusting burden. His antics in the bank had nearly caused the entire operation to fail, in spite of her super-human efforts to keep it all on track. That they had got out at all with Bill blowing the impersonation scam to a complete stranger was some kind of miracle. She was just exhausted.

Gerry had collected Bill and ushered him into the car. He was now on the downside of his chemical high and feeling just as exhausted. He was still pleased that he had pulled off all the required moves and declarations. His long hours of practice had definitely paid-off. He should be the hero of the evening. He was trying to clear his head completely, but the details were still fuzzy and probably would get more so as time went on.

He did recall that he had slipped up a bit near the end when Jaff had showed up, but at the moment he had honestly thought that he was supposed to be there. Just like at the funeral home, Jaff was a supporter and helper. How could he know that he was only there by coincidence and should have been ignored? He was reviewing his explanations in anticipation of Lee or Donna-Jean criticizing his slip-up.

Didn't matter now anyway, they had gotten the fake gold out. Bill expected that Lee would be very relieved to get the junk back to the mob to be disposed of. What a blunder by John to have kept it. How fortunate that they had been able to figure out the problem and had solved it so professionally.

Bill expected the mood to lighten up and maybe Lee and Donna-Jean to suggest how the celebration should start. Maybe they could go hit a club or two and then Donna-Jean and him could spend a little private time together. He knew that he wasn't the type for most women, well, for any women, but he had spent so many hours with Donna-Jean that he was sure they now had a connection. He had resisted imaging her in sexy underwear in a hotel bed with him while they had work to do. Now he was letting his imagination run free.

Lee wasn't sure what to think. He was pleased that they had recovered the gold without any serious hitches. He hadn't seen the struggle with Bill in the bank, but Donna-Jean had described a complete fiasco, with Bill breaking out of character and nearly exposing the entire team. Well, the team in the bank, that is. Although, given Bill's talkative nature, he would probably have been sucked in by testimony in any regard.

So, he had done the job John asked him to do. At today's gold prices, Lee would pocket over a hundred thousand dollars, even after he had paid off Bill and Donna-Jean, with a healthy bonus to her for the extra effort. Two-hundred and fifty thousand would go to John, wherever he was. It appeared that they had left no trace. It was a good night, that way.

The one trouble spot on the otherwise clean sheet was the encounter with this Jaff character, who had been at the funeral. As Lee recalled, he came across as very nosey then. Bill said he was a reporter. The combination of exposure of the operation and a reporter in the mix was disconcerting. The question for Lee was: did he have to do anything about it?

He chose not to think about it, for now. The driver had been told ahead of time to go straight to the midtown hotel that they had moved Bill to. His moderately nice suite had been the practice pad for most of the week. The bed in the room had hinted at possibilities to come with Donna-Jean. She herself had lounged on it more than once to keep Bill motivated when his frustration or fear started to slow him down. Lee knew that she had absolutely no interest or intention of following through on those possibilities.

Lee had an envelope with twenty-five thousand dollars in cash tucked into his jacket pocket. He knew that Bill would be a little disappointed that his expected party wasn't happening, but Lee figured the money would be an acceptable alternative. That, plus maybe a little distraction.

When they pulled up, Lee leaned over. "Bill, great job tonight. Can't say enough about how you helped us out of this jam. Our deal was twenty-five, which I have here for you."

He extended the envelope over Donna-Jean towards Bill, but hung on to one corner.

Not knowing how smart or dumb Bill really was, Lee felt that some advice was needed.

"You can't just carry this home, eh?" He tugged the envelope. "Not sure if you have a bank account here, but I'd go in there tomorrow and tell them that you just sold the family car and want to deposit the money you got. Keep a few grand if you want, but not much or you'll have to declare it and how you got it at the border. Lying to ICE is a problem that will come back to bite you in the ass. Better to just transfer it down in smaller batches over the next few weeks."

Lee didn't want any interrogation at the border to cause Bill to slip up again. He was John's brother, so deserved some respect. But everything he did made Lee nervous. He would be glad to see him back home.

Bill finally had the pay-off he had been working so hard for over the last three weeks in Toronto. When Lee finally let go of the envelope, he couldn't help but look inside to see the two-hundred and fifty, one-hundred-dollar bills neatly lined up. He nodded in response to the advice. He definitely wouldn't fuck-up getting this back home.

Bill finally looked up with a big grin. "So, we headin upstairs right now or out t'some other place first?"

Lee grinned and said, "Ready for a party, eh?"

He laughed at Bill's kid-in-a-candy-store expression. "Well, you certainly deserve one, but I have to get rid of our recovered cargo to a safe spot and I'm sure Donna-Jean wants to do some things too. How about you head up and we'll call you in a bit to talk about plans for the night?"

Bill was disappointed that the team would be splitting up, even for a little bit, but figured that the break would give him a chance to grab a shower and get back into some comfortable clothes. Then, they'd be ready to rock the night away.

He got out and waved back at the other two. He saw Lee pick up his cell to start making the necessary arrangements for the stuff. Donna-Jean might have blown him a kiss. He couldn't tell for sure in the dark car before he closed the door. He smiled again at the possibilities.

As he entered the hotel lobby, he considered that he was still lookin pretty good, so thought that he should pass through the bar for a drink first. Having that much money stuffed in an envelope in his jacket gave him a little thrill. He wouldn't mind sitting at the fancy bar in his nice duds for just a little while longer.

As he headed in, a great-looking lady, also dressed to impress, ended the cellphone conversation she had been on. She rose from her seat in the lobby and casually worked her way towards the bar. Her caller had said earlier that she should go up to a room number, but had just corrected and said she should now 'meet' the man on his way in. It was to be a surprise encounter, on the caller's tab. The man would successfully pick her up. She heard that he might buy her some champagne, if she asked nicely. She was to make his last night in town memorable. It was her kind of assignment.

# Chapter Twenty-Five - Problem Not Solved

The week-end with Michelle and Izzy took on a sparkle for John in Kamal. He went through the same motions and sat in the same places, but, like someone who has just bought his dream house, but has lots to do before moving, he imagined how each of these things would be once they made their break from being hard-luck tenants squeezed into an old woman's house.

As he ate breakfast with Izzy, he saw them at their own table in their own large kitchen. Maybe it was a big country kitchen in a renovated old house or maybe it was ultra-modern in a brand-new build on their rural acreage. He moved to the frayed and faded living room and imagined a great family room with lots of space and the best in high-end electronics. Looking out the front window onto the drab and crowded neighbourhood brought images of lawns and trees stretching away from their estate house on a hill.

The only sobering part of imagining was that he had no way yet to bring Michelle in on the dream. She knew nothing of breaking away and was only relishing a few much-needed hours of rest in whatever place she could raise her feet. Too soon, she would be trudging back out at dawn Monday to put in another eight hours of cold and smelly work leaning out of a cramped cashier hut to take the same payments over and over from unknown and uncaring drivers passing by in a second. None cared about her and she cared nothing for them. Do this all day, pass out from exhaustion and do it all day again the next day. The silly thing was how many people envied her union job that didn't involve slopping crap or busting her body in service of a machine.

John could see the path to his dreams clearly now. He planned to leave this place and this city. He could get rich anywhere—he just needed access to the market and a way for the people who had the big money to access him. They would just give it to him to put it to work, as long as he made just a little more for them back. He knew that he could make a lot more and keep most of it himself. There was no 'job', no matter how cushy or even well-paid, that could match the personal thrill of doubling money and then doubling it again and again. He had done that so many times for clients in the past that he knew his small stake coming from Lee would be enough to start the magic again. He could hardly wait.

He was starting to move pretty well. On Sunday morning, he and Michelle took Izzy out in her stroller for a walk around several blocks. His slight limp was still holding him back, but he felt like the rest of Kamal's body was pretty much back together. The limp wasn't from his injured foot but from the damaged muscles of his hip where the first bullet had entered. His promised physio never did show up, but he researched recovery techniques for patients with hip replacement which seemed to be a perfect fit to his needs. He was getting stronger and more-certain of his footing every day.

Michelle raised the subject that he knew was coming. "Ya'll think that maybe ya should be seeing 'bout gettin back t'work? Maybe they got a sit-down job you can do now."

John knew that she was struggling with bills and, if they really were just Kamal and Michelle, he would be busting to get back to work to earn needed income. They would have some sick-pay EI starting this week, but it was peanuts in the larger picture.

He replied, "This week I'll call. See if'n I kin get in t'see HR. Prob'ly need a doctor's note sayin I'm good t'go for some stuff." He thought about how to put it off longer as he had no intention of carrying the charade as far as going to try out warehouse work. Fuck that.

But he couldn't say that to Michelle, who was killing herself supporting them right now.

He continued, "I'll check what they need. Get back-in soon's they kin take me. Hopefully, keep the shootin a secret."

They walked on a little farther before he spoke up again.

"Y'know that I'll do everythin I can for our family. This was so close. I'm kinda takin it as a message, y'know? Man up there says: "Do better." I kin and I will, you'll see. It will be lots better soon nuff."

Michelle had heard the same words before, when Kamal was still hangin with the Crips some. There was always a big plan for big money with those guys. Most often, the kid at the front didn't come away with shit, while the backroom names banked the take. She was afraid that Kamal had this idea in his head again. She could hear that path callin him.

She knew how it would work. They bring him in and say he should have an opportunity after bein shot—they promise him a sure deal to run. He forgets his job and goes after something illegal. He gets arrested or dies and they count money on his corpse. If not the first time, maybe the next, or the next. Stupid success suck him in. Until luck run out.

He'd beat it once. But gettin out of the gang had been tough. It took all of them speakin the other way to drown out the sexy voice of easy money to be made, gang family t'love and street rep to strut. Give all that up 'n you felt poor, even if you knew you cheated death. He made some enemies of those wit expectations and some was just jealous pricks that wanted t'see him fail. It was dangerous t'even contemplate dealin wit them again.

She knew he didn't like bein told, so she had to speak softly. "Ya jus have t'work, y'know that? Yer doing so well. Work hard as y'can at yer job, get promoted, get better, get on top. I seen it at my place. Garage ain't that different. Guy works hard, gets supervisor, maybe year or two gets manager. Means security and good pay cheque. Fir two of us working, it'll be plenty, y'know. Be nuff to move out. Get our own partment. Sitter for Iz. Maybe git a car back. All we need, babe. You knows that right?"

Kamal had to say that he did. He had to reassure Michelle just with what he had now. John wanted to tell her all about a different future, to say it was just days away and to tell her they were getting the hell outa here. But John had to step back on this one. He guessed Kamal hadn't been strong enough more than once in the past.

Kamal's body spoke up, "I'll never go back to the old ways, babe." John had to agree.

He stopped walking and turned to hug her. Every time he had her in his arms, he knew why he was so certain that he would succeed. He had it all to lose now. He was fully invested with his heart. If Kamal was unsteady, John would be a rock. First, before all else, he would hang on to Michelle and Izzy.

He added, "We'll do it wit hard work. You're right. Time t'step up to a better future. If'n I can do it in this job, I will. If not, hard work will get me somethin better."

Michelle returned his hug and leaned back with small tears in her eyes. "I know ya will babe. After what we come through, nuthin can stop us now. Nuthin can get in the way."

In spite of standing in the sidewalk as people made their way home from church, she gave him a long deep kiss. John felt so light and full of love that he thought he might be lifting off the ground. He could hardly wait to deliver on his promise.

Back at the house, his problem was still waiting. The cabinet in the garage and what it contained was untouched. In spite of his demand to fix it, Dil had done nothing to move the crap in the garage. John knew that they might try to take their time. The owners of the guns or drugs were perfectly happy to leave them right where they were. They were hidden and probably off anybody's radar, or so they thought. To John, the small possibility that an investigation might connect dots that led to their garage was now completely unacceptable.

They thought that they could just call his bluff. But it was no bluff. However pissed they might be later, he had warned them. Nothing confusing about 'get it out or else'. He wasn't used to people ignoring him or not taking him seriously. He had promised Michelle. Tomorrow, he would remove this threat to their future one way or another.

Monday morning saw Michelle off early, with the prospect of an early finish to her day shift, bringing her home in time for supper together as a family. Muma was doing her normal thing of cooking breakfasts and fussing, seemingly able to satisfy Izzy as a sideline with the odd touch in passing.

When John took over, Izzy demanded full-time attention or threatened to yell about it. He shook his head—seven-months-old and the lady already had expectations of men. Muma shook her head too, at how klutzy this daemon was, while trying so hard. Kamal, God-bless, hadn't much tried at all, so there was that. She showed dis daemon how t'do lots wit a baby and he be a pretty good learner. Din't seem too fair d'at the son she wan back gonna also be a'shit wit his chil.

John was relieved of Izzy duty when she went back to the crib for her morning nap. He texted Dil for the third time in the last twenty-four hours demanding to know what the plan was. His return-text bing was silent and had been that way all week-end. For someone who said that he would get back with a plan, he was strangely silent. John suspected that he had no ability to tell anyone above him in the gang that the guns had to move. Saying he had to do something for outside reasons would indicate that he couldn't handle a problem. It might make him the problem. If he did successfully raise the need to find a new stash place, he obviously hadn't got any agreement yet.

John decided that it was time to see for himself what was there. He could decide later how to deal with it, but he had never agreed to stay out of the cabinet, so didn't feel that he owed any privacy to anybody. Like he told Dil to start, he needed to clean out the garage and cleaning out the cabinet is part of that. He can't help it if he finds a bunch of guns in there and dumps them out. Maybe once dogs are pissing on them somewhere out on the curb, he'd have their attention.

The garage hadn't actually been used much since Jojon died. Things of any value had been Kijiji'd out. Some real junk had been tossed, but the cabinets and shelves were pretty much as Jojon left them. John stepped around the newer boxes and other junk on the floor. The old workbench was partly covered in all sorts of weird piece-parts, cans of solvent or adhesive and bottles of screws. Various oil-darkened tools were still hanging on rusting nails right where the old man had probably hung them. His good tools were definitely gone, but the big red tool-cabinet was still there.

John had no idea about any of it. Kamal probably had lots of memories, as he would have built his go-karts or fixed bicycles here. Maybe it had once been a grimy playhouse for a younger age. Later, maybe the odd vehicle or appliance repair had been attempted. Typical of most garages of the era, lighting was a couple bare under-wattage bulbs that put everything in a half-light haze.

John found a small fluorescent light fixture over the bench and turned it on by tracing the wire back to a bare-connections switch screwed onto the wall. The dirty tube added a few lumens to the dark corners of the bench but didn't do much for lighting up far walls or the open-truss ceiling.

The roof shingles outside were worn to the point were hard rain was producing leaks that showed as round dark circles on the cardboard boxes unlucky enough to be in the line of the drip. In a few places, little piles of chewed paper or cloth suggested that mice were actively moving in during cold months. That none of it was swept up or repaired, pretty much confirmed that both of Jojon's sons had little use for his workshop or for his old stuff.

John had been thinking about the formidable hardware-store lock and hasp fastened on the cabinet of interest. While the sheet metal might give up screws easily enough, the fact that the lock had been installed correctly indicated that the person who put it on knew what he was doing. He might have anticipated someone trying to pry it off and reinforced the mount with bolts through a metal backing-plate. This would make prying it off almost impossible. The cabinet itself was mechanic's quality, even though it was surface-rusted. The door probably wouldn't give way t'simple prying. John now realized that he might not be able t'get in, even with time and tools. He might just end up with a battered cabinet and be no further ahead. The failed effort might even produce some laughs from the gangstas. He really didn't want to waste the little energy he had.

Thinkin about Dil's quick ins and outs, John now considered possibilities for opening the lock. Dil didn't drive and he was disorganized as hell. If he was told to get somethin quick, he wouldn't want to risk losing his key. Locks came with two keys—John bet one of them was hidden somewhere in the garage. The challenge would be figuring out where it was in twenty years of clutter.

He did a slow walk to the left away from the cabinet and then back to the right, looking in jars and on any nail in the wall. He found several keys, but all were rusty or not the shape that would fit the expensive lock. He considered the floor and the ceiling. The floor didn't have any mats or loose bricks, which were traditional spots to stick a key. The ceiling was too high and made with open two-by-four trusses. On his second pass, he gave into the idea that he was going to have to go inch-by-inch, and might still never find it.

Maybe Dil left the key with Lenny? They always arrived in his car—why not just put it on his key ring? But that would mean he was dependent on Lenny, which even Dil would avoid. Lenny might not always be around. Maybe Lenny wasn't allowed anywhere near the weapons. The gang had lots of rules, some based on logic, but many others based on status or rank. Superstitions also played a large part. They were kind of like baseball players—if everything is going well, don't change your habits or your socks. He could see that Lenny might not be the guy they would want to have free access to things that could get everyone a mandatory ten-years behind bars.

As he came back to centre for the third time, he noticed the paint cans on a lower shelf right beside the locked cabinet. An empty one would make a good hiding place, but why would there be an empty one? Even though the paint had probably long turned to near-solid gunk, the cans would only be here if there had once been useful paint left over in them. Not a place to store something small like a key. They were all covered in dust anyway.

It was the dust that finally helped him out, or rather the lack of it on a tiny crescent of clean metal showing beside the bottom of one of the outer cans. The can had been moved recently and set back down, slightly off its original position. Twenty years of dirt was missing from the small crescent of the metal shelf.

John picked up the can and was rewarded with a bright new key centred underneath. Dil was just that predictable. He 'hid' the key right next to the cabinet, in a place where he could get it fast. Not the best of hiding spots considering what was likely in the chest, but it wasn't like he thought that anyone would be snooping around.

John picked up the key and tried the lock. The key slid in perfectly and the lock opened with a silky smoothness that only a fifty-dollar lock can deliver.

He swung the cabinet door open to reveal two dark-grey toolboxes. There was one on each of the two shelves. They appeared to be identical, each about eight inches deep and high and maybe fifteen inches long, with red plastic handles and latches. Each was wrapped with a redundant elastic bungie cord, one in red and one in blue. It appeared that the boxes were new and the working latches were properly in place. The cords weren't needed to hold them shut; they were there for some other reason.

Each box was also closed with a bright yellow zip-tie through the built-in hole where a small lock could have gone. The one-use tie could easily be cut off with a knife or snips, but it did provide an assurance that the box hadn't been opened unless the snoop had exactly the same ties and could replace it. John didn't have a lot of experience with the plastic zip ties, but remembered them as coming only in black or white plastic. Yellow must be for an electrical use and would have come from a specialty industrial supply store. Not that the cops couldn't easily get them, but maybe they were only there to ensure that the gang runner didn't get curious about what was in the box. You can't testify about something you don't know. Maybe Dil wasn't just acting dumb. Maybe he didn't actually know what was in the boxes.

John was about to pick up one of the boxes just to see how much it weighed. Heavy would confirm something metal inside. His hand was just inches from the handle when he stopped.

Dil had mumbled something about 'no prints' when he was describing what was in here. He had tried to claim it was just tools, but the caution on leaving finger-prints suggested something illegal and also indicated that the security of the stash was well thought-out.

If anyone handling the boxes wore gloves, then the boxes and anything inside might not have any fingerprints. Unless the cops caught them in the act of retrieving the contraband, there would be no way to tie it to any individual. If John picked up the box with his bare hands and didn't completely dispose of it, or at least completely get rid of the contents, Kamal's would be the only prints on the evidence. He pulled his hand back and stopped moving.

Now he considered what he had touched getting to this point. He had picked up jars and cans around the garage. But it was his fucking garage. None of those prints proved anything other than that he used the workshop. The cabinet, the key and the lock were more incriminating. He could wipe those down. If he was to go any further and not just get rid of the stuff, he would need to find some gloves.

He felt like he had been in the garage long enough that Muma might be getting curious. She had the excuse of checking on whether he was alright. She obviously didn't know anything about what was stored here, but if she saw him with the cabinet door open, she might inadvertently say the wrong thing to someone later.

John wondered if he had tipped over the edge into paranoia. Was he creating a problem in his head that didn't really exist? If whatever was in here was locked up and he had no provable access to the key, couldn't he just claim no knowledge as well? He guessed that if he was still white. middle class and didn't have a gang rep and slightly-criminal background, he could. Black, young and fitting the profile of most shooters around town, there was no chance. The stuff had to go, but he couldn't be rash. He would give Dil one last chance to get it out of here.

He closed the cabinet door and replaced the lock. He found an old rag under the bench and carefully wiped down any parts of the cabinet he might have touched as well as the lock itself. He wiped the key and carefully replaced it in its spot with the rag. He picked up the paint can wire handle with the rag and replaced it on top of the key. This time he made sure that it was centred on its spot. He wiped the handle back and forth a few times.

Was that it? Nothing else was directly connected with the cabinet contents. He couldn't wipe the whole place down and would certainly miss one print somewhere anyway. Better to go the other direction.

He moved around the garage, picking up every tool and moving every old can or piece of crap that might take a print. He even lifted an old, obviously dis-used, computer printer up on the bench and found a rusty screwdriver to put on top of it.

"Just out tryin t'fix our printer, officer." Innocent look.

"Sure, I does stuff in d'garage all the time. Why ya askin?" Curious look.

"Oh, d'red cabinet dere? No, dat belong t'Dillon; think dat he got some valuable power tools or the like in dere. Don't rightly know nuthin 'bout dat."

Sure, they'd believe that. Not. Yeah, he was paranoid.

He checked into the house to confirm that Izzy was still asleep and that Muma was busy doin somethin that didn't involve spying on him. Izzy was out. Muma was watching 100 Huntley. She dint think that the bohunk white preachers be doin anythin for her, but right now, they had a hansome black preacher wit a suthern accent on regular that made her think of her ol Jojon when he got de spirit up.

She grumbled, "Not sendin theses shits no money fer no prayer line. Got all the prayer-power I needs right here."

She tapped her chest. John smiled. Nobody ever put much over on Muma. He wondered how her prayers for him went.

He went downstairs. Michelle had made the last required minimum payment on his credit card, so it was useable. He'd get a high-limit gold or platinum one back soon enough and never carry a balance on anything. He was the only person gonna make money on his money. But his cell was tapped out and needed a payment. He hit '611' on the keypad and followed the menu choices to the billing department. When he finally did talk to an agent, he found out that two months were unpaid and he was close to having the service frozen.

He told her the sad story about finding himself in hospital after an industrial accident and his wife forgetting about his phone. He was truly sorry 'bout dat. Headin back t'work and all good now. Won't happen agin. They agreed that a credit card payment for the full amount owing right now could clear up any misunderstanding. Minutes later, he had data usage back and was feeling much better about having a tool he could run with, if needed. As soon as he could, he'd zero out the credit card balance as well, so that nothin would be a problem.

He tried calling Dil. Of-course he didn't get an answer, but instead got some rap lyric spun out to near-gibberish and then Dil's grunt: "Leave da Message". He hoped that a message might be listened too—he had little hope that he would get any action from it.

He took a breath then spoke, "Dil, fuck'n needs t'hear from ya right now. I'm standing at the cabinet, got de key. Looking at de tool chests. Got a bin right here and I'm dumpin de shit outa here. Warned ya. Gone afore Mich gets home. Call me now, ya wan a save it."

John hung up, now wondering if he'd given away too much. Having the cabinet open and knowing about the chests meant he had definitely wandered onto Crips turf. These were their assets he was talking about dumping. He might avoid jail if he got rid of them, but he would almost certainly be in for a beating. He hoped that his threats would be taken seriously and that they'd just come and take their shit outa there. That way, nobody needed to be too put out or hurt. Hopes usually didn't amount to much in street matters. He needed more leverage and had to think about it quickly enough to be ready to make a demand that they had to listen to.

He had one possible card to play. It wasn't a particularly high-value card, but in the stupid world of posturing and puffery in the gangsta business, you took what you could get.

He went back out to the garage and found his rag. He carefully lifted the paint can and picked up the key with his fingertips. He pocketed it. He was pretty sure that Dil didn't carry another key. He'd probably lost it, or maybe it was stored in some ridiculous hiding place that was hard to get to. Else why leave this one so vulnerable right beside the cabinet? He needed this key to get in.

If Dillon or some other Crips showed up, he now had one piece of leverage in the discussion. If he couldn't get rid of the guns, he could prevent them from getting at them. The tough lock they had put on could certainly be cut off with the right tools, but it was a tedious and noisy job. It would attract a lot of attention if they did it while Michelle was home. Muma might even choose to come out and demand an explanation. They were blue-ragged Crips, but most of them were still fearful of their mama. Muma was possibly the most frightening version of her species and she was quite capable of making any punk's life miserable.

Dillon's call came about twenty minutes before Michelle would get home. He was obviously agitated. He also sounded a little desperate. John guessed that if he actually dumped the guns, the stripes would come out on Dil's ass first and maybe his second. Dil obviously had a lot to lose.

John told him to hang on while he went outside. Izzy was in her feeding chair and Muma was spooning in some blended 'cho-cho' mixed with squashed beans. John guessed this kind of a start was what produced the magnificent grown-up islanders that ruled some sports categories. He was happy that Izzy loved just about anything offered to her.

Outside, he took the phone off hold.

"Dil, finally hears from ya. Little late der."

Dil was a little breathless. Was he running while talking?

"Kam, da shit. Gots t'figure somethin." He puffed a little as he caught his breath. "Ya dint toss de boxes fer real did ya?"

John paused then replied, "Maybe I did. Toll ya dey had t'go. Maybe now dey gone."

Dil groaned, "Ah, Jeses saves us. That be bad Kam. Ya stirrin up some shit. Tryin to move em, but not yet, eh? Takes some time then. Maybe next week. Tryin fer that."

John guessed that next week would always be next week, stretching out just as long as the gang pleased. He needed things to move along. They could bring them back after his family was gone for all he cared, but he had no idea what Lee's schedule was and he didn't want to bug him. He'd hear from Lee when Lee was ready to talk.

He replied, "Thas too late, be long gone by den. Trash truck comin by Wednesday. This be grey bin week. Guess what's gonna be in dat bin when de truck haul it up t'dump. One garbage bag each. They be goners inta de truck. Maybe in our garbage bin, maybe up de street somewhere. But dey be gone. No foolin. Somebody wants em, ya need to come 'n git em tomorrow, nice 'n polite like"

Dil was sputtering feeble protests. His wind had run out on the other end. John guessed that he was walkin fast to get somewhere, probably to some meeting to explain why he was fucking this up.

John didn't give him a chance to propose any alternative.

"You come, de Dog come. Don care, just git em out tomorrow. Der ain't same lock on de cabinet no more. Only I kin get at em now. Ya ask nice, ya take em away. Else dey stay locked then trashed. Dat's it. Tex me when ya comin."

He hung up. Attempting to stay in street lingo when he was pissed of and felt like using his full lexicon of shit words to tear-up Dillon was exhausting. He silently pleaded, "Please release me from the menace of conversing with these guttural degenerates." He wondered if he would ever speak the Queen's English again. Then he thought about his new friend Jaff. Yeah, probably he would.

Michelle arrived home, just as he was feeding Izzy her dessert of blended peaches. Izzy exploded in giggles and coos at the sight of her mother. John in Kamal nearly did too. Michelle was exhausted, but couldn't help but smile at these two with not a care in the world, just enjoying every day together.

# Chapter Twenty-Six - Calm Before the Storm

Lee Deviers surprised himself with his energetic effort at liquidating John's gold. He used the week-end to make a few calls to his own best customers, offering an 'over-stock' deal at two-hundred off the current market-price for bullion, if they would agree to hold onto the physical bars for at least thirty-days before selling it back into the retail market. These guys knew him well and understood that 'over-stock' was code for an unusual source of production that came into his hands for cheap. He never screwed them on .9999 certified bullion from an official-sounding government mint, so they jumped at the chance to subscribe to close to half his briefcase cache of over 200 troy ounces.

The market price that most people associate with gold is actually the 'spot' price for purchase on the market that day, but most of his customers traded in future contracts rather than actual bullion. Futures gold contract prices were rising. Sellers could 'write' a contract to deliver gold to the unknown purchaser in thirty, sixty, or more days at a significant premium and make even more money on the trade. Being 'long' or actually holding the gold on a contract meant that your possible loss was only against what you paid for it. In this deal, they had a two-hundred-dollar cushion. It was really no risk and all upside.

By Tuesday, he also connected with some of John's customers, whose names were found in the documents Bill and Donna-Jean liberated from the safety deposit box. He picked the five most active and called, indicating that he was John's partner looking after some bullion distributions in his absence. Apologies for gap in contact, severe illness and all that BS. Then, he waited for their response.

Amazingly, only two of the five knew that John was 'dead'. For these guys, he accepted condolences and indicated that he was acting on behalf of the estate. For the other three, he heard wishes for a speedy recovery or just a grunt. In that case, he implied that John's absence was temporary and that he was covering. He provided the same apologies. To all, he offered the deal on an immediate physical delivery from John's 'inventory' at two-hundred off spot and close to two-forty off the rising sixty-day futures price, as consideration for the delay.

He extracted the same commitment on holding the bullion for at least thirty days. When he completed all the calls, he only had about thirty thousand in uncommitted bars, which he decided to keep in spite of the family rule not-to. If the market was going to reward 'long contract' speculators right now, he might as well get in. He assumed that the family was also watching the futures price move higher and would be moving reserve stock in a few days, so he didn't want to flood his own customers. He guessed that John would want his customers back and might want to carry on with the business, in spite of his misgivings. Maybe they both would for a while, as long as every other investment looked like shit right now and investors were running back to gold.

He called his accountant, who also ran the transactions side of his business. He said he was sending over a spreadsheet of sales and all customers should be advised that wire transfers should be completed, or bank drafts prepared, for Thursday delivery. His last call was to Gerry, his favourite driver, advising that he had a series of 'secure' deliveries to be made under guard on Thursday. Once all that was lined-up, he only needed to talk to John, under whatever rock he was hiding himself, to see how he wanted to get his two-hundred thousand or so, sometime next week. He assumed maybe a little in cash and the rest in cashier's cheques, but made out to what name? John Fischer was technically dead, even if the corpse was a stand-in. This part of the deal was a mystery. He would call the number he had for him on Thursday night to let him know the good news

Jaff Doswell was still shaking his head at the comedy routine of Bill and whatever-her-name-was as he started the next week. He had agreed to give 'Kamal' time to get fully settled at home, but said that he would like to talk more when he was ready. He assumed that Bill had headed off to the states by now or, at least, was no longer connected to Kamal Lewis in any way. Bill obviously didn't know that John was reincarnated in Kamal, so he did the job just for Lee Deviers.

Lee was certainly spooky, but, on his own, probably not scary enough to force Bill to break the law by impersonating his brother and committing bank fraud. He wasn't sure what penalty a crime like that would a carry, but being in the same league as the ski mask and pistol crowd wouldn't be good. Billy must have needed more motivation.

Bill and Wilma were already in line for a large chunk of insurance cash, so a small payment for taking that kind of risk wouldn't have worked. He was rough and unsophisticated, but he wasn't flat out stupid. If money was offered, it must have been substantial. Or maybe Lee had offered money as the carrot and a bodily injury threat as the stick.

Whatever the means, the apparently successful liberation of something from the bank made John, er, Kamal happier. He was clearly nervous and ill-at-ease on the ride downtown, but was noticeably more relaxed and maybe even pleased with events on the ride home. Maybe he actually was in line for some recovery of John's wealth. But, how would he get it? He was a completely different person now.

Jaff hoped that part of the reason for Kamal's improved outlook was finally sharing his secret with someone he could trust. A completely new identity that came with a whole lot of life-to-this-point baggage would be challenging enough on its own, let alone having to keep every single thing about his old life and who he really was, a secret. Jaff had repeated his offer of help in anything Kamal or his family needed, with no obligation to talk now or in the future. He was sure that the young man would need help, he just wasn't sure what kind.

Jaff's current interest centred on Lee Deviers. He clearly was a main character in the mystery but it wasn't apparent how or if he was connected to Kamal Lewis. If Kamal had somehow established his new identity with Lee, then why the clandestine surveillance at the bank? Jaff suspected that John may have somehow convinced Lee that he was still around, maybe by talking to him, without revealing that he now existed in another man's body. That revelation would also explain why Lee had been so startled to see a saggy, but authentic John Fischer in the casket.

Was he gullible enough to believe that the body in the box was a made-up substitute? Maybe. TV shows try to convince you that anything is possible. Jaff knew he probably couldn't do justice to the reincarnation story of 'John Doe' without understanding the life John Fischer came from. If there was to be a book, the character of 'Levy Smith', standing in for Lee, would need a beginning, a transition and a conclusion. Was he John's unlikely savior in resurrection or was he a barnacled anchor from an old life that would sink him in his new one? Jaff also had to figure this out if he was going to be any use to Kamal.

There wasn't much more to find out about Lee Deviers. He managed to keep a very low social media and Internet profile. Jaff could find dated business references to him as an employee or partner at a couple firms, but none were current. He had no Facebook or LinkedIn profile and didn't pop up with any substance in even the broadest Google search.

Jaff made a call to one of his police department cronies and inquired if the name showed up on any of his screens, without revealing why he was asking. When the answer was no—no license, no vehicle ownership, no record—Jaff said thanks and apologized that he must have the name wrong. He didn't want to cause any interest by the cops for no good reason.

In the end, the one and only reference he found was in someone's public Instagram post where a very disgruntled-looking Lee was tagged in an obviously unauthorized group picture at an over-the-top gathering of fairly-outrageous party-goers. Lee's styled grunge attire was the most conservative in the clutch of, other than Lee, laughing men, most of whom were barely dressed at all.

Jaff decided to bide his time and wait to see what developed.

For all the things that were going on, John in Kamal had a lot of free time to just think. Thinking was causing him more anxiety than the actual events swirling around him. He was imaging life months or years in the future, but now realized that he really needed to think first in terms of the days ahead, which at some point, would turn to the next few hours or minutes, if shit started to go bad.

His first worry should have been for the safety of his new family, but he found that he was more focused on getting his money. He tried to push these thoughts down and to say to himself that it would be OK if that didn't happen, that they would still find their way out, that he would find a way to apply what he knew to making it happen anyway—like they say, rags to riches could happen, with luck and hard work. It was the luck part that had him worried. Luck came in both good and bad versions. This seemed like a bad luck side of town.

He tried putting the things that had to happen in some order. Obviously solving the gang stash problem was first. But next was how to bring Michelle on side with suddenly having two-hundred thousand dollars, more or less, in cash. He considered the problem before, but tossed out the possibilities of a fake lottery win, an amazing good day at the track, a dead rich uncle we never knew, or hey, I just found it in a bag on the sidewalk. No, the money would have to come with a better explanation than any of these or Michelle would assume that it was from criminal activity and reject it. She would probably also reject him.

He considered whether he could say that it was a loan from the bank or, more realistically, from someone rich. But Michelle would still assume that the loan was actually gang money being fronted for drugs or other illegal purposes. He finally concluded that he could only really make use of the money by trickling it into play as part of an extended streak of good fortune, in something that he could show was legal and realistic.

He considered the gold scheme as a possibility. Not quite legal, but you needed to be an expert in the business to know that. So, he somehow comes up with the idea to buy a whack of gold futures, borrows a little money from an honest source and magically hits it big on his first try, with no paperwork to show for it.

He could hear Michelle now. "So, ya'll put us in debt t'bet on some frigging stock market bullshit that y'know nothing about and on yer first try y'do so well that ya suddenly have two-hundred grand?"

Yeah, she wouldn't believe that either. He didn't put the idea away entirely though. The scheme might be a way to create the trickle he was looking for, if he could come up with a plausible explanation for how he was able to get in, up front. Lee posing as a mysterious benefactor wanting to help a crime victim? Maybe. Jaff had almost pulled the fake-counselor scam off. The two of them as a team? John giggled at the image he conjured-up, of the two of them visiting the house, with Bloomberg charts in hand, as pastors of the church of divine speculation.

He thought about telling Michelle the truth that Kamal was dead and that some other guy had moved into his body and was now sleeping with her. That should be OK, cuz the new guy is a much better dad to Izzy and comes with two-hundred grand as sort of a dowry. Was there really anything wrong with the new guy? Seems like win-win for everybody except Kamal, but then, I'm now Kamal! So, on balance, you haven't lost anything, except I can't remember anything about your life together before this shit happened. Don't expect me to be much good at reminiscing. But we are a little bit rich and going to get a lot richer.

He was certain that the truth wouldn't cut it. Except for a half-senile Jaff and maybe, with some convincing, a half-crazy Lee, nobody, particularly Michelle, was going to ever hear about his rebirth as Kamal. He was just Kamal. Whatever happened, Kamal would do it and would own it. He was going to change, quickly, but at each step, he would come up with plausible reasons why. Study hard—get smart. Work hard—get rich. He just had to find a way to get the story started.

In spite of his attempts at positive thinking, he was feeling helpless again. He was getting over the physical limitations of his injuries that had once tied him down, but he was still stuck in a small and dangerous space. He couldn't easily move beyond the confines of the house and neighbourhood without a car. For the moment, his only resources were about three-hundred dollars left of Dill's fifties, after he gave most of the money to Michelle. He maybe had that much room on his one-and-only credit card.

As John Fischer, he once jumped into cabs or on Uber without even thinking about what it cost. When he needed a car, a rental was delivered to his door. Now he not only couldn't afford any of that, he also couldn't absolutely count on a solution coming until he heard from Lee.

The confrontation with the gang was scaring him a little more. His virtual imprisonment was made all the worse by the prospect of a posse of gang bangers descending on his little cell. He hoped for a visit from Dil and maybe a gang leader to give him shit for threatening disobedience, but to also take away the weapons stash or whatever was there. No activity meant that there was a problem on Dil's end. It would have been better to fix things while Michelle was out, but this problem didn't involve the family, so later today could still work. He planned to tell her about Dil's stash and its removal, once it was fixed.

He hoped it would be over that easily. If he couldn't remove the shit from the garage, he was stuck in a risky criminal set-up that had to fall apart. They all did. The only criminals who stayed out of jail were the ones that moved on early, when their buddies were still complimenting themselves on how fool-proof the latest scheme was. None were and fools abounded.

Gangs were also full of guys in some kind of legal trouble, who would attempt to bargain down a charge by being a useful snitch. Ratting on a fellow member might get them killed, but quietly ratting out a weapons' hiding place that made some prosecutor a hero might seem OK. He couldn't move on, yet. If the stash stayed locked in the garage and he couldn't leave the house, he was going to jail, sooner or later.

'Move it or lose it' kept repeating in his head. That's what he said. Did Dill pass it along in those terms or had he implied that he could fix the 'Kamal' problem? Or, as was certainly possible, had he said nothing at all?

He wondered if he was brave enough, or stupid enough, to follow-through on his threat. If Dil didn't show, he would need to decide by tomorrow morning. The big grey trash bin got picked up by the mechanical truck around noon on Wednesdays. A robot-arm just came out and picked up the whole bin and dumped it into the back of the truck. No human would ever see the contents of a well-wrapped bag. It would be crushed in the truck, compacted at the transfer site and buried in the landfill down the highway. If he handled everything with gloves, there would be no way to ever trace anything back to him, even if a gun or some other contraband somehow tumbled out along the way.

As with most of his days, this one was passing without him getting anything productive done. He walked Izzy, paying close attention to moving with no limp. He just about had it down. She cheered him up a lot with her happy-to-be-out response and he even received a compliment from a neighbour on his 'beautiful baby'. The older lady was a little cautious when she looked up and saw them coming, but was raking freshly cut grass right beside the sidewalk so couldn't' avoid a conversation.

She looked at him a little sideways as she leaned over and held out a finger for Izzy to grab. "You have a beautiful baby, er Kamal. Nice to see you up and out with her."

He was stumped. "Ah, thanks-ya Mrs.? Er, I's sorry, m'memory's terrible since, er, my accident."

She stood and smiled slightly. "Dumore."

Kamal tipped his head.

"It's Mrs. Dumore. My name."

John had expected something ethnic in four syllables, but this was easy.

"Oh, sorry, yeh, tis. Mrs. Dumore. I's hoping t'get better at dis soon. Thanks for da compliment on Izzy, but her moms where she got her looks."

He could tell by her eye-shift as she nodded and smiled that she was torn between politely taking off and staying to be nosy. She apparently decided to stay put.

"So, they ever catch the guys that, you know, did it?"

John wasn't sure how much of a story Kamal's shooting was in the neighbourhood, as the neighbours made a point of being far-away from the sidewalk when he walked-by. Like most with an opinion, they probably felt that the victim of a shooting deserved it. So, he was as much of a crook as the shooter.

He guessed that Mrs. Dumore would have ducked-out as well, but having been trapped into talking, she decided she may as well make the most of it. He suspected that if Muma was along, the subject would never come up for fear of an islands-style verbal thrashing at the mention.

He just shrugged. "Nots that I heard. Guessin they hard t'find wit no description. Maybe still. They doan tell me."

She didn't seem satisfied not to have gotten anything juicy.

"Heard they was aiming for your brother. Mistook you for him, they say. Still see him 'round sometimes. Your mama OK with that?"

"Sure. Why not? Doan think Dil had anythin t'do wit it anyhow. Jus a mistake, over all, I'd say.'

She frowned. "Don't know about that. Can't see someone driving through our little street and just shooting anybody, you know? Hate to say it, but the less of Dil around here the better."

Had he been old Kamal, the discussion might have ended badly. As it was, he had no stake in Dillon's rep or the neighbourhood. He shrugged.

"Gots t'keep goin. Have a nice day den."

He moved along without waiting for a reply. Given what he knew, she actually had a point.

As he walked, he let himself go back to thinking about the future. He hadn't explored it yet, but his head was putting them somewhere west of the GTA, maybe back in Kitchener, where he grew up. The city was big enough to have lots of rich guys, but far enough away from the dangerous gang turf of Toronto.

He knew that gang crime was everywhere and knew that he was remembering the Kitchener of his youth, which most certainly had changed a lot. But he remembered a row of old century houses there, that he was sure were still standing, looking right across the lake in Victoria Park. It would be a great place for Izzy to grow up until they moved to the country. Right price, everything is for sale. He kicked himself—days and hours first, years later.

Michelle came home right on time. While exhausted by the long day and two twenty-minute bus rides, she immediately perked up when she found Kamal and Izzy sitting outside in the backyard. Izzy was on her blanket on the ground, but was determined to head off and get at the dandelions that were overrunning the once-tidy backyard. She was about to eat one as Michelle came around the corner. Kamal was sitting on the blanket right beside her, but was apparently lost in thought, again. Michelle assumed that it was part of getting his memory back, but worried a little when he had sole charge of Izzy and was off somewhere mind-wandering.

"Uh, doan think you'll like dat, darlin." She plucked the dandelion out of Izzy's pudgy hand about an inch from her mouth. Izzy frowned and thought about crying, but then considered the dozens of other flowers nearly in her reach. She flipped forward and started to crawl at full-speed towards them, before being scooped up by Michelle.

Getting picked up was even more fun, particularly when it was by her mummy. Izzy laughed and let go a stream of baby gibberish that probably meant welcome back into my little world. Kamal finally looked up at both of them and smiled too.

He commented, "Ya'll mange to look like a million-bucks, even in that company shirt." Then he laughed. "You intentionally get it a little tight across the chest? Think I'm seein a little peak-a-boo lace unda der. If ya was workin at bar servin, I'd leave a big ole tip every time ya leaned in."

Michelle frowned at the suggestion of trampy behaviour, but then admitted to herself that she had, on occasion, worked out something with a man in her favour by leaving an extra button undone. Getting thoughtful compliments and suggestive wordplay out of Kamal was something new that she was still getting used to. Big injury sure did funny things to the brain. He was a lot more attentive and, if she admitted it, seemed smarter for it all.

She laughed. "Ya wait right there ya pervert, while I go gets on one of my scoopy t's. Then I'll give ya all the tit yer crotch kin handle, wit yer daughter still up. No relief fer couple hours yet buster."

Kamal loved the slightly-dirty wordplay he could try around Michelle. He had known women who pushed their tits out then gave a man shit for looking at them. God help you if you joked about them. Michelle took his wandering eyes and newly insatiable desire as a compliment to her look and to her skills. Fully-satisfied men didn't wander. She planned to keep Kamal not only satisfied, but completely entertained.

Supper came and went without any word from Dil. They were just getting Izzy settled when Kamal's phone finally buzzed. Dil was outside.

John told Michelle the truth—that Dil was outside and needed to talk to him. He implied that it might have something to do with his loaned money or other 'family' stuff. She frowned and then rolled her eyes. Dil had been absent from 'round the place for most of the time she was there, but in the last six weeks had been comin and goin, both to talk to Kamal and to get tools. She didn't know what was going on, but definitely blamed him for creating a pattern that led someone to believe he was comin over the night of the shooting. She didn't wish anyone ill, but if Dil was gunna do shit that would get someone shot, it should have been him, not innocent Kamal.

"Just get rid o'him quick-like. Know he's yer brother, en-all, but he's dangerous t'have around here. Wishin he'd just get absent agin."

John wished that he could tell her he was solving a problem that should see Dil outa here for good, but it was too early yet. There might still be trouble and he had to deal with it on his own.

"I'll jus be mint. See what he wants and send him off. Be right back."

He headed out into the late-spring dusk that stretched nearly the full evening. Dil was nowhere to be seen, but then came hustling up the driveway when he saw Kamal. Lenny's ever-present beat-up sedan was two-houses away up the street.

Dil was nervous and might have be a little high. He was talking even before he stopped walking. "Kam, couldn't talk by phone. Y'know, ears."

John didn't have a lot of patience left. "Fuck dat. I kin talk by phone all I want, cuz I ain't the one breaking de law, am I?" He paused but held up a hand to stop Dil from butting in.

"You here to take dat shit away? Dat's all I wan t'hear right now."

Dil looked around. Maybe there was someone else in the car besides Lenny. John couldn't tell through the tinted windows in the half-light.

Dil fumbled his words as if he was repeating someone else's message. "Not able t'do that fer while. Too much else goin on t'be movin stuff. Nobody's business what's der en maybe dangerous t'anybody who's foolin round like. They says no can do, Kam."

He paused, then added, "Y'should jus ferget bout it. Not doing nuthin tucked way out der. Good a spot as any, y'know?"

John stared at him blankly. He wasn't interested in arguing with Dil, as clearly, he had nothing to do with the decision.

Dil still hoped that Kamal might agree. "Y'know I tried t'get it moved, eh? Tried hard as I could. Can't do it. You should jus leave be."

John had heard enough. "Well, yer leavin it up to me t'fix dis then. Tomorrow the shit goes, one way or t'other. They wants it, they has t'come get it. You tell em, one last chance t'night. Tomorrow noon, I toss it. Now fuck-off."

Kamal spun and went back inside, leaving Dil standing on the driveway. He looked at the house and then at the car. Finally, he just shook his head and headed back down the driveway to the street.

John told Michelle he was back in. She didn't ask about what Dil wanted, which meant that he didn't have to lie about it. She was busy with Izzy in the bedroom, so he turned out the front hallway light and went back to look out the small cut-out window in the front door. He could see that Lenny's car hadn't moved. Whether he was arguing with someone in the car or on his phone, John assumed that Dil was making a last-ditch appeal to someone else for permission to take the tool boxes away.

John checked again a couple minutes later and the car was gone. They were calling his bluff.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven - All In

Kamal should have slept better than he did. Michelle's promised relief came early and lasted long enough to wear him out. She was gently snoring, curled beside him in only a few minutes. At first, he tried to drift-off without moving so as not to disturb her but after twenty minutes he knew that he wasn't going right to sleep. He gently extracted himself and got up to take a piss. He would sit up until sleep came to him.

Possibilities for solving his gang problem kept-up a steady parade in his head, each presenting pros and cons over-and-over with no clear or easy winner among them. He chewed over the realization that the contraband in the garage was never going anywhere unless he moved it. He was supposed to be sufficiently intimidated by the gang's warning that he would just forget the whole thing and hide in the house like a terrorized school child when the bullies came up the drive. Being intimidated wasn't John's style or probably Kamal's either.

Certainly, compliance was physically safer for the moment. But, giving-in meant that he would be left swinging in the wind if the cops showed up. Or worse, he would protest that the stuff wasn't his and the cops would demand a 'sting' to prove it. He'd be expected to lure others to claim the tool boxes with the cops ready to spring the trap. He'd still probably do time, just not so much. Of-course, if he didn't die in jail under that scenario, he certainly would soon after getting out.

Sleep didn't come until he decided what he would do. It was an 'all-in' bet with a bluffer's poker hand, but he could finally see a third path between the binary go-to-jail or get-beat-lifeless options that were his only choices on the face of it. At 1:30 a.m., he checked the clock for the last time and climbed back in beside Michelle. He guessed it might be his last good sleep for a while, but at least the parade had stopped. His clear head let sleep and only slightly-frightening dreams take over the night.

Michelle could tell something was wrong in the morning. "What got ya so restless last night? Ya'll look like yer going out t'bury the dog."

They didn't have a dog. But the feeling was pretty close. He guessed that the expression just meant profound sadness. He was trying to stay cheerful, but knew that the odds were still against just carrying on happy-like.

"It's nuthin, babe. Jus got a little upset at Dil last night. Kept me chewin on it some. Trying t'get him free of street toughs and thought I'd made some progress, but he's a'shit. Shouldn't be disappointed, guessin. I'll forget bout it soon nuff."

Michelle had stopped what she was doing and was giving him the kind of truth-testing stare that only a wife can muster. John was glad that he had kept his lie close enough to the truth that it sort-of connected to goings-on around the place.

Michelle finally broke her stare. She hid her own traumatic injury better than he would have, if their places were switched. She saw him dead, if she knew the truth, at the hands of gang violence. Merely mentioning them now, brought back some of the hurt.

She was blunt. "Ya'll jus give up on im and tell im t'leave ya alone. I'd say he's makin his own bed. You don't owe him shit."

Kamal was quietly nodding. "Yer right. Jus tryin to solve a 'brothers' problem between him and me. Don't work out, I'm leavin him go, like ya says. He can choose if he wants help. Otherwise, he can piss off. It'll all be OK."

Michelle wasn't as sure. Now she was picking up some evasiveness, but figured her new Kamal showed her a lot more tenderness and caring. Maybe it was only right that he extend a little of that towards his brother.

She tipped her head. "Jus be careful, huh?"

He managed a weak smile. "Yeah, course babe."

Michelle was ready to head off for her bus. She kissed Kamal longer than a normal peck to make her point. She also kissed Izzy and even gave Muma a hug, which left her standing surprised in her stained apron with a mixing spoon in one hand and a half-filled bowl in the other.

Muma thought, "Daughter-in-law fallin unda dat daemon's spell, sure nuff." Now that Muma knew the daemon's favourites for breakfast, she was smilin 'n singin every morning. She guessed maybe she was losin the fight, too.

John knew it was time to get the garbage bin out. Truck came around noon, but you never knew, they might change times up and come early. Best to have the bin out there, for the smelly garbage already in it and for anything else he wanted to get rid of. It was decision time.

Izzy was happy being with Muma in the kitchen, maybe singing along to island songs and desperately trying to eat anything that she could get into her hands. More teeth were coming every day. Muma somehow knew a whole lotta tricks including some unlikely choices for teething toys like twenty-year-old measuring scoops on a ring.

Kamal called to her, "Gotta put de garbage out, Muma. Cleanin up a bit in d'garage, so be a couple mints."

Muma was happy being in charge. "Takin yer time, but doan strain yersel makin d'bin too heavy."

John figured she was still imagining old-style garbage cans. He said, "Big bin got wheels. Good thing too. Forty pounds a diapers in der." He laughed as he went out the door.

John had found some light work gloves in the basement. He planned to put them on as soon as he got the key out. As he entered the garage, he surveyed the entire room to be sure that everything was still exactly as he left it. He was pretty sure he would have heard if Dill had come in, particularly in Kenny's noisy car, but he might have snuck inside on foot during the night. From appearances, nothing had been moved.

He retrieved the key from his pocket. He put the gloves on. Inserting the key was a little awkward, but from that point on, not leaving a single finger print would be critical, so he could put up with a little fumbling up front. He opened the lock and removed it from the hasp, setting it on the workbench. The cabinet door creaked as he opened it and then he was staring at the two toolboxes, apparently untouched since his first look. Either there was no second key and they couldn't get in or whatever was in there only came out for specific occasions. Maybe they wouldn't even miss it until well after he and Michelle were outa there.

So here it was. He could just relock the cabinet and carry on as normal. Put the key back under the paint can. Get the garbage out and go back into the house. Life might just carry-on, no cops might show, he could wrap up with Lee and get away from here with no problems. But that would be caving in. Cave-in once, the second time is easier. Pretty soon it becomes a habit and other people are running your life. He couldn't start down that road. Plus, they were being assholes. He hated assholes.

John pulled four plastic trash bags out of a cardboard box on the shelf. They were left over from the days before the tall grey bin. The box said 'heavy duty'. He hoped that they were.

He touched a toolbox for the first time. He worked the folding handle up with his gloved hand and lifted. It was heavy, but not overweight. He tipped it end-to-end to see how much noise it made when moved. There was a soft sliding noise and very dull thud against the inside end. Whatever was in there was in plastic or boxed. It made sense with Dillon's brief comment. 'New and untouched.' probably meant still in the manufacturer's packaging. For John, the absence of loud noises that loose metal or bottles might make was good. He planned to hide the boxes in the trash bin and didn't want a whole lot of noise when they were tipped into the truck.

He now made use of some of the junk laying around in the garage to start each double-thick bag. He put a tool box in each bag and then packed more garbage around it. He tied each pair of bags in a double knot. Each completed bag looked and felt like a normal bag of household garbage, if slightly heavy.

He had pulled the grey bin inside the garage and now unloaded about a week's worth of bagged diapers and other un-recyclable trash. He put the two bags on top of the first week's garbage and then repacked week two's garbage on top of them. He pressed everything down for a snug fit. No-one looking in the bin would see anything unusual. The smell would probably be enough to deter any further poking around. Even if the garbage bags were seen, they just looked like any other garbage. As tough as they were and tightly closed, he trusted that they wouldn't bust open.

The only questions that he hadn't been able to find answers for were if they sorted general garbage for metal and how they did it: X-ray? Metal detectors? The trash was on its way to cross the U.S. border in tractor trailer on the way to the Michigan garbage dump Toronto used. He grinned. Sort of poetic that the guns, if that's what was in there, probably came across the border the other way in much the same manner: buried deep in some other cargo. Regardless, he didn't care what happened that far away. As long as the city garbage truck made it off of their street, the stuff was untraceable back to him.

Satisfied with his work, John retrieved the lock and closed the cabinet. He put the key back in his pocket. He considered whether the gloves were a liability for fiber-matching or some CSI shit like that, so pocketed them to pitch somewhere else. Maybe on Izzy's walk, he would just toss them into someone else's bin. He opened the overhead door and pushed the bin out. He went back and closed the door. He rolled the grey bin out to the curb. In a couple of hours, the deed would be done.

At 11:47, he was sitting on the front porch watching the garbage truck work its way up the street. He considered the finality of the next few moments. He could probably still get to the curb and pull the bags, if he limp-sprinted. The truck was four houses away. As it moved again, he concluded that he probably couldn't get there discreetly any longer, but still had the option of yelling and stopping the single man driving the truck while he hauled the bags out.

This moment of opportunity passed as the truck made its way forward. Now it was in front of their house. The mechanical claw came out and grabbed the grey bin. In one smooth motion it went up and over the top of the truck, dumping everything into the back. There was no unusual noise. There was no alarm. If the driver noticed him watching, he hadn't paid any further attention. The empty bin came back down with a thud, its lid hanging open. The truck's engine revved and it moved on. The contraband belonging to the most dangerous gang in north Toronto was in the back, on its way to be crushed and buried. John watched the truck pick-up bins at all of the other houses until it reached the corner and turned out of sight. They were safe.

He felt mixed emotions. On one hand, he was elated that he had shown backbone and gotten rid of the only real threat to his future plans. On the other hand, he knew that there had to be an accounting with the gang. He planned on that and thought that he had a response to them that would fix any problem. But respect was a tricky thing. If he was seen as disrespectful, there might not be an opportunity for discussion. Plus, he didn't know these assholes at all and they surely thought that Kamal did.

John couldn't guess what might happen in the next few hours. They might not be paying any attention to him and a confrontation, if it came, would only happen the next time that someone came to retrieve a box. As he was planning to leave soon anyway, that would be fine with him.

If he had left the boxes behind, the cops were unlikely to arrest Muma, but her vulnerability meant that the trail of the contraband could still follow him wherever his family went. Moving away didn't get you off the hook if you had lived there and, apparently, stored illegal materials for a street gang. Maybe murder weapons. They had to go, one way or another.

Dil's call came at 4:00 p.m., predictably just before Michelle got home. John considered the ringing cell for a moment before answering. He knew that he could handle Dillon, but this would just be the start.

"Yeah, Dil, what you want?"

Dil must have been prepping for voicemail. He stumbled on the live answer.

"Uhm Kam, hey yo-there. How ya doin?" When there we no response, he continued, "Needed t'call, y'know. Need t'tell T-Dog y'got de message. Ya leaving things be couple days anyway. Y'know, til I kin fix it up."

John knew he was dancing around the issue, hoping that saying something was true would make it that way. This would be a good opportunity to lie and duck the issue for a couple days, but he wanted everybody's cards on the table.

"Nah, tol you. Shit's gone. Back 'o de truck dis mornin. Watched em take it. Probly in de crusher, maybe on de way t'dump right now. End o' story."

There was a long silence on the other end. Dil was dumbstruck. It would never occur to him to buck the gang, particularly when the advice had been specific.

"Ah Kam, shouldina done dat. Dis be fucked up now. Stuff was valuable, y'know. Maybe like irraplacable, y'know. I never know'd, just get de box—put da box back. Suppose d'do now? Dey gonna be pissed."

John wanted to cut off the moaning. He wasn't prepared to wait for some uncertain retribution. He had acted, as he said that he would. If they had a problem with that, they needed to see him about it.

"Dil, Dil, nuff dat now. I knowd what I'm doin here. Had t'solve this only way I can. Ya tell Dog or any t'other fucking animals, dey come see me they got sumthin t'say. Meet im nearby. Tomorrow be good. During the day. Dat's all—tell em."

He hung up but continued staring at the phone. The die was cast and nothing would change that now. It was possible that they would laugh it off and say 'just business' figuring he was owed anyway for taking the hit on Crips behalf. Maybe they'd just give him shit for the disrespect, but be understanding that he had to protect his family. Neither was very likely. As Dil said, they would be pissed. He didn't plan to appeal to their better nature anyway. He assumed that they didn't have one.

Meetings were about solving small problems like this. He had handled a lots of tense meetings in his time, many where one party or another felt that they had suffered a great loss due to the others actions. Stock market slide, poor investment choice, outmaneuvered on a deal—they weren't that much different. Course in business, you didn't normally come to a meeting armed with guns and knives. The stakes might be a little higher than he was used to.

Michelle came home as normal and Kamal was happy to see her. They had a good day. His walks with Izzy were stretching out. He was getting back to normal. He hoped that he could get back to work next week, if Muma was OK with Izzy all day. He'd take the bus over t'see HR tomorrow. He was trying to say every normal thing he could think of to keep their conversation focused on the good things happening to them. It worked for about two hours.

The knock on the side door was persistent. John could see a male head in profile through the window. It wasn't dark in the early evening, so this wasn't one of Dil's typical garage-calls. John waved off Michelle when she rose to see who it was.

He smiled to her. "Let me go. Looks like Dillon. We talk some more earlier, guessin he's got more t'say. Be alright."

Michelle clearly wasn't happy, but went back to minding Izzy while watching one of her favourite TV shows. John said silent thanks that she wasn't sitting outside, if this was anybody but Dillon.

He opened the door to an unfamiliar face. He was black, big and fairly tough-looking, but he broke into a wide grin when Kamal stepped out through the door. He raised a fist to waist height in the beginning of what must be the West End Crips gang greeting. Kamal just looked at him blankly. John had no idea who he was or what the hand motion meant.

After a pause due to confusion, the visitor said. "Hey Kam, shaking wit ya? Lookin good, normal-like, nut guessin ya fergets lots, sayin mos. Outa de game en all."

When Kamal still didn't respond, he continued, "Daon tell me ya fergets me. Da shit. Grew up t'gether en all. It's Ka Shawn. Y'know, Kash t'mos. Member?"

John had learned that most people thought that waving their hands about as they said their name actually caused some memory to come back to Kamal. He humoured them as he had his family members at first. There was no memory to recover.

Kamal broke into a grin. "Yeah, sure, Kash. Now be gettin some take on dat. Fuzzy still but gettin better, y'know. Sorry 'bout fergettin. How'a y'doin?"

Kash's grin returned. "Good, good. Feel ya on de memberin troubles. Da shit takin dem rounds. Near do ya en all. Glad ya back den."

When Kamal didn't keep up the conversation. the awkward silence returned for a moment, then Kash shrugged and pointed back to the garage.

"Uh, folks needin a meetin back d'garage. Know that Mich be home en d'baby en all. Came in quiet with Dog 'n Dil, but now dey needs ya fer a mint."

John nodded. He glanced out to the street and saw a white, maybe Navigator, parked against the far curb. It was modified with dark windows, big wheels and bright oversized rims. This wasn't a dark-of-night car. Whoever drove this rig didn't mind being noticed. He probably also never touched anything illegal, leaving that to street urchins who could do the time, with gang credits, if caught. Comin here, right up against some illegal goods meant that he or they were fed up with Dil's efforts at resolving this situation.

Kamal raised a finger to Kash indicating 'give me a moment'. He opened the door and leaned back in.

"Guys need some tools from d'garage. Guessin they be locked in m'dada's cabinet and maybe the key is missin. Dil should have it. Who knows? Be back ina mint."

He didn't wait for a response. He nodded to Kash and headed back to the garage as fast as his sore hip and nervous gut would allow.

The garage party was well underway. Dil had lifted every paint can and was still diggin around on the workbench, moving things in an obvious search for where Kam might have re-hid the key. One other unknown character was leaning against the shelving on the far side, looking bored and somewhat impatient, if John read it right. This guy was big too, with some obvious muscles rippling under a nice t-shirt. He wasn't smiling and while he certainly saw them come in didn't offer any kind of greeting.

John thought that he'd take a shot a guessin a name. "Hey T-Dog. How ya doin."

It appeared that he had got it right. The big guy turned from watching Dil's frantic searching to look squarely at Kamal. "Ho-ho, Kam in the flesh. How you feeling then?"

John was taken aback a bit. This one was literate and possibly well-spoken. A smart boss maybe didn't need to put on the slang to impress. He was tempted to break out of his act, but remembered that Kamal was neither a boss nor very far from the street corner. With these guys, he would affect inclusive tribe language regardless of how some senior ranks spoke. It did make sense that an organization moving millions in product and services every year would have some intelligent life up-top.

Kamal nodded and kept his eyes just a little bit down in faux deference. It would be his last show of respect "Betta thanks. Gettin back normal, slow-like though."

Dog nodded, taking in the information with no show of concern or sympathy. He moved off the shelving in slow motion and walked quietly over to Kamal.

He leaned in, speaking just above a whisper, perhaps suggesting that Dillon or Kash shouldn't hear, even though both could.

"Dillon here, has been telling me a wild story about misplacing some materials that he responsible for. He gets confused. Guess I don't need to tell you that. Thought that we'd help him locate them, but now he can't find the key. You wouldn't have another one or maybe know where HE put it?"

Kamal feigned curiosity at the search and walked over to the cabinet. "For dis lock?"

T-Dog nodded. He appeared to be short on both patience and any need to explain.

Kamal shrugged. "Looks real tough en all, probly not gettin in without da key. Whas in dere?"

Dog ignored the question. "Hmmm. Too bad there's no key." He was hiding his irritation. "We really need to get in there. Guess then we need to knock the whole thing off." He turned to Kash. "Find a sledge or maybe a crowbar if there is one."

He turned back to the brothers, now more or less together in front of the cabinet. "Guess you guys would know better than us if there's a big hammer in here?"

Dil looked at Kamal with obvious concern in his eyes. A hammer could have a lot of different uses. Whatever calm and considerate act the Dog had decided to put on, Dil had probably experienced the opposite when he went in to tell his boss that the stash might be gone. John was now wondering—had he come up with some fantastic story about it being stolen? This would be just like Dil, who spent his whole life coming up with stories and excuses.

Kamal responded to Dog. "Sure, probly one under da bench. Be dirty, since m'dada used it long go, but sure deys a big enough hammer unda der."

Kash came over and bent under the bench. In a moment he came up with a blackened and rusty five-pound hammer out of an old wooden tool box. It was plenty old, but still looked worthy of a shot at the lock.

Dog looked at all three of them and might have flashed the three stooges in his head, as he cracked a small grin. He nodded to the brothers. "You two sure that there's no key?"

Both Dil and Kam shrugged.

Dog shrugged too. "I'll take that as a yes—there is no key. Bust it off."

Kash wasn't sure that he should be the one doing the work, but as he was holding the hammer, he figured he'd take the first swing anyway. He also figured it wouldn't take more than a couple.

He lifted the hammer above his head an brought it down with both hands squarely on the lock. Except for an incredibly loud crash, there was no result. The lock bounced around violently, but came to rest completely unharmed.

Kash swung again and again. The entire front of the cabinet was starting to show an inward curve but the hasp and the lock were still in place.

Kamal grinned. Nobody else was very impressed. He was right about the mounted strength of the hasp and backing plate. There was no way any hammer was busting the premium lock.

Kash was losing enthusiasm. "Not sure dat dis is the right tool. Probably cavein de whole fuckin thing in on topsa whas inside afore she gives."

Dog nodded and put up a hand. He now came over and inspected the cabinet. The door had buckled a bit and a small gap to the inside now showed. He looked around a bit and found an old pry bar in the same box the sledge had come out of. Putting it in the small gap, he gave it a full strength pull, using his foot for leverage against the cabinet. The metal groaned and the gap widened to about three inches. He dropped the bar onto the bench. He wiped the rust off his hands using the same semi-clean rag that John had used to wipe down things earlier. He then took out his phone, turned on the built-in flashlight app and peered through the crack.

He turned back to the trio watching him. "There's nothing in there."

John could see Dil getting wound up to continue his story of mysterious theft. He put his hand on his arm to stop him.

"Coulda tol ya that. I tossed out dem toolboxes in de trash this morin. Picked up, figure on der way t'Michigan by now."

Dil and Kash looked at each other and both spoke the same question: "Michigan?"

T-Dog raised his hand. "Toronto's trash goes to Michigan. Your fucking tax dollars at work."

Now he turned to Kamal. "You sure 'bout that. Didn't jus stick em under something or stash them out back?"

Kamal didn't blink. "Yep. Watched de truck pick em up."

Dil was close to breaking down beside Kamal. He was in double trouble now. First for losing valuable items entrusted to his care and second for lying about it to protect his brother.

T-Dog also didn't blink. He stated the next step as a matter of fact. He wasn't speculating.

"We need to take this problem back to Suss and Jamm. Wasn't somethin you wanted to do. Gone forever is a bad enough. Not gone and found hiding somewhere is a real fuck-up. You need to explain and hope that they feeling generous."

Just then, the side door to the garage burst open as if punched by a whirlwind. All four men turned in surprise, some maybe expecting SWAT stun grenades to follow. John couldn't be sure but he thought that Kash might have started going for a weapon. For a moment nothing else happened, then Muma stomped in with the look of a pissed lioness on her face.

"Wha da jesus hammerin out here. Yo shit-heads be waken d'baby. Get d'fuck outa here else I be calling da cops. Kamal get inside. Dil go home. Rest be gone. Now."

She was waving a hefty gardening trowel that looked like it could do some damage. The men looked at each other as if wondering whose problem this was to solve. None wanted to hurt someone's mama, but if she caused trouble they might have too. Kamal moved over to corral her.

He spoke to T-Dog. "Think you said that we should be going?"

T-Dog just said, "Yeah. Dun enough here. Let's go."

Kamal wanted to wrap this up sooner than later as well.

He walked with Muma to the house door. After she went in, he turned and spoke to T-Dog. "Understand need t'go. No disrespect meant. But I need a mint. Be right back."

Michelle was actually still holding a very wide-awake Izzy. Muma's reference to waking the baby was just rhetorical license in phrasing her threat. She opened the front door and stood plainly visible keeping an eye on the retreating men through the screen door.

John had to go, but didn't know how to explain it to Michelle as she looked up with obvious questions.

He didn't want a discussion. "I'm sorry babe, but I has t'go t'a meeting with these guys. I done somethin brave and maybe stupid t'get them outa our hair once en for all. It's done. I jus need t'go get der word. It's not dangerous en I'll only be an hour."

Michelle was terrified, but tried not to show it. Kamal was different now. He showed what was going on inside and didn't seem capable of lying like he used to. She chose to believe him.

She quietly pleaded, "OK, y'do what y'have t'do. But, ya come back with as much as a scratch on yer head and I won't be forgivin ya anytime soon. Gots to be over babe."

Kamal leaned in and hugged her. He kissed Izzy on the head.

"One hour." He left.

The ride across Rexdale in the butter-leather seats of the Lincoln would have been enjoyable, if not for the prospect of gettin a beatin or worse at the destination. Kamal was in the back with Kash while Dil rode shotgun to the Dog's driving. Thumping rap music had come on when the key was turned but was interrupted by T-Dog using his cell to call ahead. The cryptic conversation on his end consisted of several 'no's' followed by several 'yes's' followed by 'comin in right now'. He hung up but the music didn't come back on. If silence could be ominous, the rest of the outside-sound-deadened ride portended doom, at least to Dil. Kamal was figured he had a shot a coming out of this jam unscathed, but had to hope that his calculations were correct.

He was completely out of his home turf so could only note significant places going by. They were heading straight north on Highway 27 and passed Humber College. He recalled that they had a pretty good business school where he had talked to an Investments class once. In a few blocks they turned east on Finch for short drive and then abruptly turned left into a parking lot for an auto service and auto body shop. He thought he saw the name Four Star or something similar on the bright back-lit banner sign up front. Randomly, he wondered why you wouldn't call your business Five Star, if you were going to use the satisfaction scale as a meme? Maybe it was to lower expectations or maybe Five Star was taken?

By the time he was done wondering, they had pulled up to a rear door of the building with its own small unlit sign: Courtland Employment Agency. John wondered if this was a play on words, as in 'court' was the last place gangstas would want to be. The idea of an employment agency was kind of brilliant though. Lots of rough-looking men and a few women comin and goin would be normal for a temp agency. Maybe they arrange a few jobs for parolees. Heck, it might even be a legitimate business, but he doubted it.

They got out and were headed in with T-Dog in front and Kash in behind. Most of the lights were off, but the Dog walked right through a fairly normal-looking front-office with desks, computers, filing cabinets and even plants. Through a door and down a dark corridor the lights were on in a side room. They stopped there and followed T-Dog in.

The room might have been an executive boardroom, except for the linoleum floor and couches jammed against the walls. Various non-descript posters were hanging on the walls. Some were of women advertising some product. Some were concert announcements. One, inexplicably was a 'hang-in-there' kitten. The largest featured a Harley with a completely-naked woman lounging while discreetly covering the parts that mattered, to get a PG rating.

All of the furniture was mostly pushed to the walls. A few occupied chairs were behind a double set of tables at the far end. There were two full-size fridges, a built-in wet bar counter and a set of cupboards that probably held plates and utensils. There was even a dishwasher stuck in a back corner. The pot lights were dimmed slightly over the kitchen end of the room but turned up full over the conference tables where two guys sat. Three other guys were either standing and talking to the table occupants or to each other on the side.

There were enough hard chairs in the room to seat ten or twelve people, but no-one suggested that they sit. Kash pushed them in a bit to leave them standing more or less in the middle of the room. Dillon probably knew the place well and would normally have just lounged on a side couch, but now stayed beside Kamal nervously shifting his weight foot-to-foot. Kash seemed to consider if he was needed immediately, decided no, and then went over and pulled a can of something out of a fridge. It might have been beer or pop. He did plunk himself in a chair as far from the front as possible and pulled out his phone to check his messages or maybe his 'likes'.

The discussion at the front seemed to be about something completely removed from the antics of the Lewis brothers, so there was nothing to do but wait. Eventually the two guys sitting on the far side of the tables put away the papers, waved off the other guys and looked up at the new arrivals. A couple guys paid them no attention at all and left. The other one sat down off the side and feigned complete disinterest.

T-Dog went around the table and sat down in the third office chair. Now Kam and Dil were facing a Crips tribunal. John guessed that the other two sitting were Suss and Jamm. He didn't know which was which. He also didn't know if they were officially designated president or treasurer or some other title. He hoped one wasn't executioner. He was sure a study of gang organization would show it very similar to any other business, with the exception of employee motivation initiatives. These, he was certain, were unique to the drugs, guns, hookers and extortion industry in which the West End Crips Inc. was a leading firm.

There was no sign of gang logos or colours here. Blue was the colour, as he remembered, for these guys, if they were parading. But organized crime was both a bigger and more consequence-fraught business these days with police surveillance technology almost on par with the military. A very low profile and a blend-in approach lowered the risk, but only marginally.

Finally, Suss or Jamm spoke. "So, de brothers be back t'gether. Ain't dat cute. Both in d'shit as well. Not gonna wonder which one of you is the brains behind this little initiative, but maybe Kam, yer larger brain still be a little fuzzy. Heard ya had trouble memberin much after de hit, by those MDB fucks. How ya feelin now?"

John wondered how dozy he should appear to be. Might be a good plea, but he wasn't looking for forgiveness. He decided that, other than names, he would be 100% with it.

He responded, "Jus fine now. Still fucked-up on names and such, uh Suss, but rest is clear as a bell."

He was making a 50-50 bet on the name. This guy looked like a Suss, although he had no context. Actually, he suspected the other guy probably got his name from Jammin, as he appeared much closer to a shagged-out island character. Suss looked like someone's good-riddance ex-boyfriend, shaved head, puttin on weight and comin up mean most of the time.

He must have got it right. Suss considered the response for a moment and continued, "Well, dats fine. So, no excuses fer nicking the property then. What ya doing wit it? Sellin on yer own. Kijiji be good, eh?" The lesser character in the room laughed at the joke. He may have looked disinterested, but was paying attention. John wondered if he would be the guy to get the order to take them out back.

"Maybe givin some cash t'yer pretty wife? Jus trying t'understand how things disappear t'thin air like dat."

John guessed that they couldn't believe that he had just tossed the tool boxes in the trash.

He responded, "Like I tol T-Dog, disposed of it. It's gone, crushed, landfilled."

Suss gave a sinister smile and raised a finger. "Maybe gots de dumb one wrong ere. Dil, you do this? Maybe ya sol de shit off. Always up fer some extra cash, eh? Ya sell our shit 'n now got yer in valid brother here coverin fer ya?"

Dil took a second to form his words. "No, Suss, y'know wouldn't doit. I come up wit de safe stash, eh? Worked good too, lots o'times, up t'the shootin. Then got tense der y'know. Can't blame Kam neither, he scared now. Shot dead near 'n all. Tol him t'wait on us, but he jus go ahead, guessin. Not stole or sol, know dat now. Jus gone."

Suss wasn't satisfied. He nodded to the back, but kept the brothers' focus on him. "Maybe you two ain't gettin it? Hear me? We want de stuff back, then we gonna decide what's next. Maybe y'need some help memberin where ya hid it."

John heard the old-school sound of a five-shot .32 cal revolver being cocked with a hammer pull and cylinder turn. Kash had stood up behind them and, at Suss's signal, brought the stubby gun from his pocket to a position just behind Dil's left ear. Dil froze with his eyes wide.

Kamal turned to look at Kash and the bright metal gun. Kash raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He was just following some pre-determined orders; nothing personal.

Suss was apparently carrying this interview as no-one else spoke. He smiled again and pretended to consider something on a note in front of him. He spoke loudly, but to the table.

"Say Kash, how many bullets I tell you t'put in dat piece?"

Kash had a script to follow. "Jus one, Suss."

Suss nodded and asked, "Ya spin de cylinder after ya do that?"

"Yep."

Guessin then, y'have no idea if de hot-one under de hammer right-now?

"Nope"

Now he looked up at the brothers again. "So, ya dumb fucks, let's keep dis goin. One or d'other of ya needs t'tell us where de tool boxes are. Last time I'm askin afore Kash squeezes and we see if yer luck still be holdin."

There was complete silence in the room. Dil had nothing to say for his own preservation. It was John's turn to step in and take charge of the situation.

Kam took a small step forward and raised a hand slightly. Then he looked directly at each of the three seated gang bosses in order. He couldn't make the toolboxes pop back into existence, but that didn't mean that they had no options.

"Suss, Jamm, T-Dog. Seein as I took three rounds and near died fer de WEC, thinkin I'm due a mint t'splain?" He waited for a go-ahead and got a barely perceptible nod from Suss.

He continued, "Guessin ya aren't here to shed rank blood for no reason. Dil be true 'n honest. I am de only one touch de those boxes in de lass two weeks."

He paused between statements; he needed all the blame put directly on him. "Ya wanna put de gun somewhere, be my head ya want."

He might have hoped that they would lower the gun on Dil, but nobody moved. Kash was only obeying orders and until a hand moved to wave him off, his cocked gun would stay pressed against Dil's neck.

Kam continued anyway. "Agree I shouldina done it, but had t'protect m'family. Wife, child, mother, even my brother."

Now he feigned some anger. "My property and de stash was dere without my permit. Guessin y'meant no disrespect, but I's feeling some."

He paused to let the disrespect part sink in as it was key to their justice system. "Dint know what was in dere. Drugs, guns, fuckin stain murder piece, dint know. Jus couldn't leave it there."

Now he had to ensure that they believed him. "I destroyed it, put in de city garbage wrap tight. Saw it crushed 'n now it's in a hauler on de way t'landfill in states."

He watched for blinks or headshakes that would show disagreement. He guessed that they were now getting that he was just fuckin crazy, not a thief.

He continued, "Dis solved my problem, but make one fer you. I get that and I kin solve it. Jus need t'hear me out. Wit no pistol t'my brother's head. OK?"

He looked at each of them again. Suss was in charge and decided to hear him out. He waved a hand down to Kash, who lowered the weapon.

Suss now pointed his finger at Kamal and spoke, "Just t'be clear, yer probably wasting our time here. Could be jus bullshit. If we believe ya, then yer both still in da shit. Jus different shit. Ya got one mint or ya both headed to the landfill with de shit. One mint. Speak."

John had achieved a key negotiating edge. He had created the possibility of an alternate solution to the one originally desired. Now he just needed to show it was of higher value before closing on the pitch.

Kamal patted Dillon on the shoulder. He was shaking.

"Can Dil sit?"

Suss nodded. Kamal moved him over to a chair. Now the floor was his alone. He decided to show some bravado to the front table by returning to a spot more centred in the room and a foot closer to the front. He didn't know what they considered their 'executive space' but he wanted to step into it. He needed to gain status with these guys as they would need to accept his pitch on faith.

He spoke directly to Suss, now directly in front of him. "I can't remakes de goods I destroyed, but I kin replace them."

He paused with the slightest hint of a confident smile. "I jus need t'know what dey was worth."

The three leaders had to break eye-contact with him to check if they heard him right. He saw a shrug and head-tip from T-Dog. One down.

Suss wasn't buying it yet. Jamm might be stoned or daydreaming of his country estate. His expression hadn't changed throughout the meeting.

Suss finally said, "So ya plan to buy us replacement shit. How d'ya know you kin get it?"

John responded, "I doan. Never open de boxes. Doan know what was in dere. But I'm figurin dat you'll sell it t'me. Everythin got a price. Use de proceeds t'get replacements. Inconvenient sure, but I be a lil scared stupid, sorry nuff fer dat. Lets a stiff price be my lesson."

This was his pitch. It had to fly with Suss or they were dead.

Suss now gave the same shrug as T-Dog. Unless Jamm was a lurking monster, he probably didn't give a shit one way or another.

Suss leaned in to look at T-Dog and asked, "What's it worth at street?"

T-Dog did some scribbling in a scrap piece of paper before looking up.

"Fifteen."

Suss nodded and then questioned Kamal, "So where ya gonna get fifteen thou right now? We ain't no credit union. And doan give no fucking whine bout earnin it."

John had expected to pay more—this was a bargain.

He stifled a smile. Looking dead serious, he said, "Nope. Fact, jus in case y'got de number a little low fer de replacements, I'll bring ya twenty thousand on Sunday. Ya take de cash, book be settled. And no goods ever comes back our way. No harm. No regrets."

Now the faith part had to kick in. They would suspect that he was just going to run once he was outa there.

Suss was still the only speaker. "Again, where you gonna get twenty by Sunday?"

John now had to lie without Kamal's body showing any sign of an untruth. His eyes couldn't blink. His hands had to stay still. His voice couldn't break.

He now smiled ever so slightly, so that they could see relief on his face. "Already got it, mostly. Ol man I shared de room wit in hospital loaned it t'me. He got lots, he says. No kids. Liked m'family. Supposed t'buy a car and maybe get own partment. Jus a loan, gettin it on week-end. Got t'pay it back t'him. But, I kin work dat out. This be more important."

Now the panel did actually consult. It appeared that both Suss and T-Dog were really subordinate to Jamm. They nodded to him and he finally spoke.

"Kamal Lewis... Always thought you'd be sittin this side one day. So maybe now ya gonna fucking run God damn Amazon, is it?"

The others laughed; the tension was broken. He continued, "Ya probably will, cuz ya got balls. Ya jus need to be a little less of de idiot." He shrugged. He wanted to get on with other stuff or maybe get back to his estate.

"Anyway, twenty should cover dis one. But got t'be Sunday. Here. Six o'clock. No later."

John was set to grab Dil and leave. He didn't want a ride. In fact, just the two of them in a nice smelly cab would be a great relief. Wouldn't be the first time that the gang agreed to terms with someone owing, then shot them anyway.

But Jamm wasn't done speaking. He added, "Jus t'be sure o' yer return, Dil gonna stay over the week-end wit us. Our guest. Now you fuck-off home, git de money and keep yer mouth shut."

This meeting was over. John had his deal, or so he thought. Dil was still at great risk, but John figured all would be forgiven when he delivered the money. All Kamal had to do was get his cash from Lee, somehow bring it here safely and then make a running get-away. How hard could that be?

# Chapter Twenty-Eight - Finders Keepers

Detective-Sergeant Donny Ko of the Metro Gangs and Guns squad wondered once again if this was the job that his mother imagined when she told him at eighteen that he should join the police force to bring respect to the family. His father never progressed beyond manual labour and his mother struggled to raise five kids in a part of Toronto once considered seedy, but now was in-demand as part of the trendy west side. Back-then, their back-door apartment in a large old Victorian was run down and occasionally vermin-infested, but had the advantage of alleyway access that let him and his two older brothers get out unseen to tear around in their pre-teens and get in a lot of trouble later.

His brothers had eventually straightened out and followed their father into the drywall business. They were now driving loaded F-150's between jobsites and home to their Caledon spreads. He though, having received a kick-in-the-ass and then encouragement from the local beat cop, was in his mother's mind and in her frequent adulation, the more notable one, having achieved a leadership role in public service. She now lived with his brother, thankfully.

Today he was climbing up a pile of reeking garbage to retrieve one of two discarded tool boxes that were determined by the first patrol guys on scene to hold handguns. Once they knew this, they shut down the entire facility. Everyone was thankful it wasn't body parts in the garbage bag, as that was another entire level of fuck-up to a city operation that barely kept up with the incoming stream of waste when it was going full-steam.

The garbage pile was on the lower level of Disco Road transfer station. The normal twenty-four-hour operation of receiving and shipping garbage was temporarily halted while the police investigation took over. About a dozen sanitation guys in boots, overalls and yellow or white hard hats were standing around impatiently waiting for him to clear the place in order to resume operations.

Once he got to the box, Donny looked up through the gaping hole in the upper wall where garbage would normally be pushed by massive front loaders to fall to this packing level. The route trucks dropped their loads in front of the chutes. Another gang of loaders on the lower level packed the incoming garbage into semi-trailers for the three-hundred-kilometer trip to a landfill site in Michigan.

He pondered the luck involved in uncovering these boxes. The never-ending garbage stream normally moved more or less without stopping from street pick-up to transfer dumping to repacking and out the door again. Nobody ever paid any attention the vast array of human discards that made up the trash. Most of it was so gag-worthy that no one would want to get close to it. But occasionally the stars aligned and they got lucky.

In this case, the pile upstairs came out of only one truck whose driver was due a piss break and had hung around for a smoke. The front-end loader was trying to get the dump area clean for the next wave of trucks, so immediately pushed the load into the chute. The downstairs loader was right there and was about to move the pile, when it was interrupted by a transport delay due to a wonky trailer air-line.

Everything was paused for an unlikely minute when one of the floor workers asked a question of the front-end loader driver.

He pointed to the pile. "Hey, look at that, somebody threw-out a pretty good tool box with the bright yellow wire. Wonder what's in there?" He actually had to yell over the ninety-decibel idling engine of the loader.

The driver yelled back, "Who the fuck knows? Probably hazardous shit."

They both could see the front side of one box peeking through a ripped garbage bag.

The floor guy was fairly new on the job. Anyone who worked there for more than a few months learned that garbage is garbage, no matter how interesting it looks.

The floor guy wasn't giving up, yelling up, "Think could be tools?"

Yelled back down, "Trus me, it's shit."

Yelled up, "I'm gonna take a look."

Yelled down, "Jus don't get seen doin it. Ya know the rules gainst scavenging."

The worker looked around and then scrambled up two-metre-high pile. He pulled the tool box out and tossed it down to the floor.

He looked up, "Hey, got a knife?"

The driver actually had side-cutters, which were occasionally needed to clear a snagged wire on the loader. He tossed it down.

"Let's see what we got" The worker snipped the yellow zip-tie and opened the box.

The next twenty minutes consisted of various levels of supervisor and manager first individually yelling at the worker for being an idiot, then consulting on what to do and finally calling 911 and shutting the place down. No trucks could move while they all waited for the police to arrive and complete an investigation. Outside the line of blue trucks and green trucks began to stretch back down the two-hundred-metre long driveway and out onto the road that gave the facility its name. It truly was a fuck-up.

Forty-five minutes later, Donny was climbing the pile himself to retrieve what appeared to be a second toolbox, also partly in a bag. He had already been advised of the connected path upwards to the single truck still parked outside and from that driver to the ten-street pick-up route that had resulted in this load. Now he wanted to see what was in the second box.

He had a couple techs in shit-suits and masks ready to do some more recovery work, but wanted to study the location of the box in the pile first. Nothing near the second box added any immediate information. Lots of used baby cleaning junk, including a busted bag of pre-toddler diapers that really reeked. Some bandages and other medical waste that looked like hospital issue rather than standard drugstore stuff. A couple food wrappers indicating maybe West-Indian fare. A take-out box from a place on Dixon—made sense as that was the pick-up area. He climbed back down with the toolbox in a gloved hand.

Years-back, garbage contained lots of mail and other discarded paper with names and addresses that could be very useful. Now that stuff all went into recycling, so the bagged pickings were thinner, but people still tossed incriminating stuff without looking for the blue box.

He directed the techs by pointing and shouting. "Work out and down from the box location there. Get all the stuff right around it. Then, let's turn the whole pile over—pull anything with a name or address. Keep an eye out in case there are more of the boxes or anything else that shouldn't be in the garbage."

He waved the facility manager over.

He had to yell over the idling equipment. "We're gonna search this pile top-to-bottom. Give me couple of your guys rakes. We'll throw it down and they can re-pile it few metres over." He pointed up. "Block that chute up there and give us some working room here. You can start up the rest of the place." He paused, then added, "And open a fucking window."

Twenty foot high doors on all sides were already wide-open.

The facility manager was a happy guy again. Last winter they had a severed head in a bag roll off a pile and it shut the facility down for a day and a half, while every bit of garbage was sorted for the rest of the him. Dogs all over the place having a fucking field day in the shit. Nothing more was found, just a goddamn head. But the head got the killer. He wished fucking criminals would go back to just tossing illegal shit in the river. There wasn't anything he could do about the smell for the dick. Hey, worse it smells, the sooner they'll leave.

Once they had the boxes at the van for pictures and cataloguing, Donny could see that he might have something useful here. There were six guns in total. Four were pristine and still in manufacturer's packaging. They were probably unused, but the serial numbers would at least provide information on the origin and maybe add to the ongoing investigation of illegally imported weapons.

The other two were wrapped in cloths, which probably meant that they had been fired, as the cloth was used to wipe them down and put them away without prints. Most amateur wipe-downs missed something. But prints weren't really needed to ID a gun that had been used in a criminal activity. Every barrel added its own unique marks to an intact bullet. As the punks usually emptied the clip hoping to hit something, there were pretty much always intact rounds recovered. Couple weeks of tests and they might find something.

There were also several ammo cartons, some new and a couple opened. Dumb crooks often forgot about prints on boxes and shell casings. This was another possible source of connection to the hoods in the Rexdale area. If any had records and handled the bullets, they could be linked to the guns. The toolboxes themselves, the bags and the zip-ties might also hold prints. Even the retail source of the toolboxes and the plastic ties, might add some information. Donny decided that it had been worth the climb.

The techs eventually brought out several large plastic bags of recovered materials, mostly envelopes or other discarded mail pieces. Donny noted that they had double-bagged a sample of the nearby diapers, as well as the various bandages, wrappers and food containers, which could yield some DNA in a pinch. All could be dusted for prints. It wasn't illegal to toss wrappers, but if your prints were on a wrapper right next to a gun, maybe you needed to do some explaining. Tie a print to the gun seizure and the punk might be looking at five hard, if uncooperative. Tell the full story of the guns and their owners and this could maybe be adjusted into an easy two.

It wasn't a pinch yet, but recovering six guns headed for the landfill was a good day's work, even if his suit was now headed for the cleaners. He also had the mystery of why the guns had been tossed in the trash. They should have just disappeared down the road to Michigan, but anybody who knew what they were doing wouldn't chose the public trash to toss-out a bunch of guns. As unlikely as the find was, it happened. Pros wouldn't take that chance. No, the person who tossed the boxes either had to get rid of them quick, had no other alternative or was very dumb.

Of course, he could be looking at the end result of a domestic argument, which saw the pissed-off wife tossing out hubby's toys, including his legally-owned and locked-up handguns. Then the garbage might actually make sense, but as there were no bowling balls or skin mags included, this was a long-shot.

Assuming criminal malfeasance, he had ten streets to look at. Admittedly, someone could have driven through and just added the boxes to somebody else's trash, but he guessed that would have been too risky. People were protective of their garbage cans. And why toss the tool boxes too? Much easier to just unpackage and bag the guns. They wouldn't have been found except for the fancy toolboxes.

He liked the idea that that someone tied to these weapons lived or worked in this area. Couple quick cross-tabs queries in the database would populate the guys with priors and any gun-related incidents on the map. It was a much better start than most investigations. He headed for his house for a change of clothes so he could get going on it right away.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine - Help From Friends

Thursday morning, the sun came up early as it usually does. The bright morning hinted of the first heat of summer coming later in the day. In the Lewis house, preparations for it went on as if everything was actually normal. For three of the four early risers. it was a pretty routine start.

Izzy, as usual, was ready to go about the same time as the sun, well before 6:00 a.m. On a day-shift workday that was OK, as Michelle had to be off by 6:30 anyway. Muma, who mysteriously seemed to never actually go into deep sleep, glided out of her room fully-dressed in her most-of-the-day housecoat and ratty slippers, within seconds of Izzy's first exploratory chirps. Both of them knew the routine, so Izzy rarely actually cried—she just let Muma know her eyes were open and within a few moments they were both up and having a baby-talk-to-Patois conversation, with Izzy now able to stand in her crib and Muma wandering in and out while a bottle warmed.

Sometime later, usually just at the point that the bottle was fully consumed, Michelle would emerge from downstairs, mostly dressed for work, but still lacking final touches to face and hair. She would receive the hand-off from Muma and take the play downfield a ways, changing the conversation to English on the big person end. She usually handled the first diaper change, which Izzy had made pretty clear was not to happen pre-bottle if you preferred a quiet morning.

Just about the time that Michelle needed to gulp down a coffee and an obligatory bite of something Muma tried to get into her every morning, Kamal would stagger up, limping less each day, to take the Izzy bundle over the goal line. When the two of them were sitting quietly watching news or sports on TV, the women, both with important stuff to do, could get on with their day.

Kamal hadn't said much to Michelle after he was dropped back at his house in the late evening on Wednesday. He hadn't quite made it in an hour, but he arrived back in reasonable time with no damage, as demanded by Michelle. His driver turned out to be the silent guy in the executive conference room, who laughed at Suss's jokes but didn't say anything else until T-Dog told him to get Kamal out of there. The blacked-out pick-up truck he drove was only slightly less tricked-out than the Dog's wheels. The guy, who never had a name, or if he had one, never thought he needed to tell Kamal, said little on the ride. As they rolled to a stop out front, with no directions needed, he only said to call T-Dog Sunday for pick-up. John guessed being inscrutable had its advantages when you might be told to kill the guy you had just driven home. As Kash had implied: it was 'just business'.

Michelle had been relieved to have Kamal back unscathed and asked only one question about the impromptu meeting. John could have brought her fully up-to-speed, but then there would have been two of them worried enough to lose sleep for most of the night and each wake with a knot in the pit of their stomach this morning. John had learned a lot about hiding things in the last month. It was a skill he hoped to un-learn real quick, as secrets were poison in a relationship, but for this day and the next couple he had to move behind the scenes that Michelle saw to engineer both Dil's survival and his escape. He had answered the "So what was that all about?" question with "Just a misunderstanding" and a shrug, "It's all better now".

"Let's forget about it," ended the possible conversation.

John knew that he couldn't accomplish anything with Lee in the early part of the morning, but was well aware that the imposed deadline of Sunday night meant only having what remained of Thursday and Friday to work with customers, exchanges or banks, if all three were needed for Lee to turn some of his assets into cash. Every hour that went by was one less to make things happen.

He wished that his last-minute ploy to gain time had been the result of more thorough planning, so he could have confirmed some things with Lee ahead of time. He didn't know what Lee might have done with the gold by now, but hoped he hadn't created a problem on his end. He had never implied that there was any rush to cash it out, so Lee might wisely have been timing the sales for the top of the current bullion price escalation. He had a knack for calling the turning points in investor sentiment, so was possibly sitting back and watching the run-up with hopes of adding another thirty or forty thousand to the sale value.

Now John would be telling him to sell urgently. And for what reason? A fuzzy message would confuse Lee and might raise concerns on his end. John couldn't tell him that he needed to settle a gang debt for a pair of black brothers from Rexdale that Lee would normally avoid like the plague. And, oh yeah, one of the pair has John Fischer re-birthed inside him. This wasn't a telephone conversation and he doubted that he was ready for face-to-face just yet.

John had some hope that, once-convinced, Lee could just float him the twenty thousand out of his reserve cash, to be made up from proceeds, if the gold sales were delayed. He expected that Lee could just walk into any bank and take out that much on one of his gold or platinum credit cards. He had joked that the reference to precious metals in the cards was entirely appropriate, given where most of his money came from. Getting the minimum amount of cash wasn't as much a technical problem as a problem of how to complete a difficult conversation and an even more difficult meeting with Lee, neither of which he had fully figured out yet. How do you prove that a complete stranger is someone you actually know well? Just answering questions wouldn't do it as lots of scams had an answer for every question. No, some other proof would be needed for Lee to buy the miraculous story.

Kamal's stomach wasn't getting any less knotted as Michelle made her way out with the normal kisses and hugs.

She still had an edge of uncertainty in her voice. "Babe, what y'all doing t'day? Jus hangin round or you gettin out t'your work office maybe? Fine out bout dat doctors OK t'work thing needed fer light duty."

Kamal worked up a lame smile and shrug. "Dint plan t'go nowhere cept out with Izzy early on. Hot later they says on TV. Anythin we doin, probly early only." He paused, "Maybe I kin jus call de warehouse, talk t'my boss maybe, see what he thinks. Bein a good guy, en all."

Michelle now smiled and responded, "Thas a good idea. He probly wonderin on yer return by now." Then she turned serious again. "Ya let's me know anythin a problem, y'know. Not spectin anythin, sure, but if'n anything comin up, ya texts me. I kin call ya back on break."

Then she was gone and John had the morning to get on with figuring out his dilemma and with calling Lee. He felt that he could handle the call on the fly, but needed to be ready to discuss their get-together plan without any hesitation or uncertainty.

The Kitgo live 'metals' marketplace was displayed across two computer screens set back on the mahogany desk. Other than the blueish light of the screens, the little alcove didn't have any other light source. The absence of any paper on the desk or on any of the surrounding cabinets gave a clue that this wasn't a place where much was written down. One screen clicked a new line into place every few seconds as various spot quotes or news items were pulled through the portal dedicated to precious metals markets, analysts and commentators around the world. The other screen featured moving stacks of numbers, colour-coded green or red for price changes up or down, along with line-filled charts highlighting past directional movement of various market indicators and indices.

At the moment, just before the main U.S and Canadian stock markets opened for the day, there wasn't a lot of actual commodities trading activity to watch, except in future contracts, which traded twenty-four hours a day on electronic exchanges manned only by computers in the dark-as-night labyrinths of servers hidden in concrete bunkers in industrial parks and suburban shopping malls all over the world. The screens showed the millisecond-long transactions that only computers can make as if there was actual human involvement. Only much later, perhaps as long as twenty or thirty seconds later, did any human pick up on a movement, consider if it was a trend and then make a hugely-leveraged bet on the direction of sentiment. The computers had no sentiment, only trading algorithms. Humans still loved the back and forth of yelled offers on actual exchange floors, although as time went on, the computers and their mathematician masters were succeeding in making actual human interaction less and less relevant.

Most come-later players weren't together anywhere that could be named. These traders, riding the bow wave that the great trading CPU's pushed out, made or lost money only a few hundred times a second in dark personal alcoves or in row-upon-row of desks in massive trading offices. It didn't matter where they were, none had any advantage over the computers. The only opponent they could actually beat was a fellow trader who, being slightly slower off the mark, caught the wave only seconds or minutes later. Fractions of a cent earned or lost in those seconds meant thousands in profit or loss on the contracts. The profit in these exchanges wasn't there for the tardy or for the weak of intellect.

So, it was unusual that Lee Deviers did as well as he did. Today he was sitting, heels up, leaned-back in a lovely gray pigskin chair, wearing silk pajamas and a satin robe, while waiting for his morning orange juice and bromo to cut through the haze that must never be called a 'hangover'. There was nothing moving on the screens that changed Lee's opinion about sentiment, so there was no reason to do anything. Today, he didn't have any enthusiasm for the fractional pennies at the margin. His big bets could ride.

With a few mouse clicks, Lee could change the screens to bring up his Bloomberg equities ticker or even the achingly slow, yesterday's-news Financial Post if he felt like an old-fashioned read. But reading or considering 'news' was only for pleasure. Too much worrying cluttered up his day. He made his bets in an hour or two each morning and then turned everything off, while he sought out a lunch companion or, much later, an evening partner. He still believed that cellphones were for very short human conversations and nothing more. Anything else was letting a computer run your life and he fucking hated computers.

So, it wasn't unusual for Lee to be ignoring his screens and instead be letting his focus fall on the four five-ounce gold ingots, each in its protective plastic case, stacked on his desk, on top of which he had perched his phone last night. He made the now five-high stack in the small hours of the morning as a reminder from his fairly-stoned self to his fuzzy early morning self to remember to call JTF. A little window in the corner of one of his screens told him that the stack under the phone was now worth thirty-four thousand and change, up from yesterday's thirty-two and change. The reminder evoked a small sigh from his morning self as he now also recalled that he was missing the straight old shit, dead and buried or not. He would not only remember to call to find out what John wanted him to do with the money, but also to get to the bottom of what the hell was going on.

Kamal's phone rang with the ridiculous rap music intro that his predecessor had left on it. He hadn't changed it to something more sensible yet, as he figured if old-Kamal liked it, maybe new Kamal could learn to like it. It wasn't working.

He suspected Dil or maybe somebody on Dil's behalf might call to check on progress. But it only took a glance at the blocked number display to know it was Lee. He had only seconds to get ready to talk and he knew that he hadn't fully processed how he wanted the conversation to go.

"Hi Lee."

The voice on the other end sounded a little rough. That was Lee in the morning for sure.

"Hey, John, you still kicking?"

"Uh, yeah, doin OK, guess."

Lee sounded disappointed. "That was a joke. Kicking—as in not actually dead."

John wasn't much in the mood for humour, but wanted to be upbeat.

"Oh, fuck. Get it now. Ha-ha. Early en all. Didn't think that you did humour in the morning."

Lee was apparently in a good mood, which lifted John spirits a little.

"How do you know this isn't the end of a great night? Never declare 'morning' until the sun is above the proverbial water tower."

John had no idea where the water tower might be, so only grunted agreement.

That was the extent of small talk from Lee. "You finally sound good enough to get out. Lunch?"

John wished that he could just say "Yes", but still had no idea how to present Kamal's body to Lee.

He responded, "Yeah, good enough, but stuck today. How's Saturday?"

Lee was pleased that John was coming back into circulation, so took what he could get.

"Sure. Late though. Downtown early. Maybe two-o'clock. Waterfront somewhere, look at the near-naked women, for your benefit."

John had a sudden inspiration. "How's about the deck at the Admiral?"

Lee wasn't impressed. "Er, kind of downscale. You slummin or something?"

John went with the thought. "Still hunkered down a bit. Better outa the way from the nosy downtown crowd. I'll tell you the whole story."

Lee laughed, "I can hardly fucking wait for this whole story, particularly the part where you buried some poor fuck as you. Should I come in disguise then?"

John laughed. "Naw, nobody you know will stoop that low."

Lee agreed, "That's for sure. I assume they won't poison me and can make a decent drink. OK. I'll survive."

John sensed that he was wrapping up. He had to know about his money and must tell Lee what he needs.

"Uh, Lee, how's the 'asset' liquidation going?"

"Oh, yeah. Knew I called for something else. All done. Easy when the market helps. Distribution and payments tomorrow. Set up a wire-transfer for you next week, if that works."

John breathed a huge sigh of relief, that must have come across the phone to Lee.

"Hey, you alright? Problem with that?

John had to come out with it. "It's great, but got an immediate need for some cash, if we can do it."

Lee didn't appear to blink on the other end. "How much?"

John knew he needed twenty-grand for the gang. He wanted ten more for contingency, in case they demanded more. Then he wanted to be able to run with his family if things got tense. It added up to lot.

"Fifty?"

Lee should have whistled or expressed some surprise, but this was Lee, who frequently dealt in large sums for purposes best left unexplored.

"Bundled new hundreds OK?

John now blinked at the ease of it. "Uh, yeah."

"See you Sunday. I'll bring your Ettinger case, which I stole from your apartment for our little errand. Or maybe I'll just stuff a ratty gym bag, considering the location. Bye." Click.

John sat holding the phone for a full minute. He was downstairs in front of his computer, which at the moment was cycling through crappy YouTube videos slightly related to his last search on luxury apartments in Kitchener. Nothing private no-more. He was getting packing tips, how to load your van advice and warnings on how to avoid cockroaches and bed bugs. How the hell were 624,361 people interested in that? The views total rivaled the sleeping cat falling off the TV video. He finally came out of his trance, got to his feet. He loud-whispered, "Alright!" and gave a small fist pump. He might pull this off yet.

With twenty or more thousand to work-with they could just drive away from everything they owned and stay in a top-rate hotel for a month. Other than the clothes they would be wearing, nothing else was really important anyway. He did need a vehicle. A rental would do fine. He desperately wished he could bring Michelle in on the plan but that would have to wait.

Unfortunately, even if there wasn't an immediate threat, he might need to 'manufacture' one to get her to pack up and go. He'd feel terrible, but there was probably no other way to get her to abandon her job and her home and to run for the hills.

It was nearly time for Izzy to get up and go out for a walk. He promised himself that he would figure out how to meet Lee and convince him that he was John. He hoped that a long walk would spark some sort of idea. Handle it wrong and Lee could bolt. That happens and Dil might die.

Kamal's phone rang for the second time just as they were crossing a little parkette at the far point of the walk. John usually planned the walk to pass a bench somewhere near the mid-point. He was walking well-enough but the various wounded parts still ached if overused. He now sat and turned Izzy towards him out of the sun.

He glanced at the display and saw a familiar number, but couldn't immediately come up with a name. This call had to be from Dil or Lenny. He didn't plan to tell anyone anything, except to trust him, that he would figure it out.

He answered brusquely. "Yeah, what?" It was Lee's normal answer.

"Oh, hello, Kamal. How are you doing?"

The voice was familiar, clearly not a gang member, but he couldn't immediately place it.

He hated telling anyone he was still pretty fucked up, so always said the same thing.

"Fine. Better each day. Who's this?"

The caller hesitated, then said, "It's Jaff Doswell."

When Kamal didn't say anything, Jaff continued, "Sorry for bothering you, but I really did want to repeat my offer of help with anything. Nothing expected. Got the car and the time, y'know. Drive you and your family somewhere? Maybe you want to get out to a new part of town or just get out."

Kamal still didn't respond. He wasn't trying to be rude, but his mental wheels were spinning.

"Could Jaff be the solution to the Lee problem?"

He finally spoke up. "Sorry, Jaff. Dint mean t'stumble there. Jus got somethin on my mind en ya reminded me of it wit yer offer. Actually, could use lil help wit somethin, but it'd be a lot t'ask."

At his house, Jaff smiled. He was going a little stir crazy knowing that there was a once-in-a-career story to write, but needing to wait out a reluctant subject. In his youth he was more patient. Now he was an unapologetic old fart. He had decided to call Kamal just to say "Hi". He'd run an errand for him once, maybe a casual offer of another would work to get back together.

"Hey, nothing is a lot if it's important to you. What can I do?"

John really didn't want to lay out his problem over the phone. "Tis a lil complicated. Think that ya could drop over later t'talk 'bout it?"

Jaff couldn't believe his luck. Difficult problems were the meat of his story. And he was being invited to help solve one, instead of hearing about it later.

He responded, "Sure. Right after lunch. Say around one-thirty?

Kamal hoped that he could trust him. It was a long shot.

"Dat's good. See ya then."

# Chapter Thirty - Jaff Becomes an Ally

Kamal apologized to Muma for leaving again, when he had been working up to looking after Izzy for most of the day. She, of course, couldn't figure out why he was tellin her any of it as afore he had jus disappeared out the door and into de waiting car whenever he felts like, without no explanation.

She also sensed that somethin was changing in this daemon. He be nervous like a fisherman watchin de big fish finally closin on de bait. Was kind of a scared, happy-like dat made no sense fer man 'bout t'jus return t'his boring old job. But, she din understand daemon a'tall. Thinkin maybe someday she'd jus have t'ask him what's up.

Kamal said, "Off wit Mr. Doswell from the other day. Hospital guy. Y'member meetin him? He's takin me out t'an appointment. Shoun't be too long."

Muma jus nodded and went back to the kitchen.

Kamal decided to wait out on the porch. As he sat, he recalled watching the trash go yesterday and wondered how deeply buried the toolboxes were by now. Probably there for some future anthropologist to uncover and wonder about. Or maybe aliens would find them when they arrived at a burned-out planet earth. They'd just add them to the pile of weapons that was twice as numerous as the apparent final population of humans who used them to kill each other.

Jaff drove into the driveway right on time. He looked-up and saw Kamal on the porch, so waved from the car. As he started to get out, he saw that Kamal coming down the steps towards him. The kid was moving pretty good after only a week more recuperation. Jaff shared Muma's observation—Kamal was moving with a lot of nervous energy but his smile was fixed like a retail counter rep whose day was going to shit.

He leaned into the car's open passenger window. "Thinkin we could go fer a drive, maybe gets a coffee somewheres quiet-like?"

Jaff got all the way back in. "Sure. sure. Whatever works. Maybe not Tim's then. What's a coffee shop that no-one goes to?"

Kamal or John didn't get the joke, but responded. "Drive-through maybe, hit a park bench be good."

Jaff liked the idea, even on a hot day. Maybe a bench in the shade.

After grabbing a couple cool drinks for a hot day, Jaff found a parking spot in the shade at the Humber Valley Golf Course.

He asked Kamal, "Feel like a little walk—probably a few benches out by the practice tees."

Once they found a spot to sit, Jaff took the opportunity to ask the question he had been waiting to ask since figuring out that John Fischer had landed in Kamal Lewis's body.

"When you woke up, what were you feeling?"

Kamal shrugged and smiled, "Pretty much completely fucked-up." He continued, "Y'know the body was terribly injured, had just died, I guess. Then I wake up in terrible pain, surrounded by medical gear and a black family I've never seen before. I was still completely John then, looking out of a strange broken body in a hospital-bed cage onto a world gone nuts."

Jaff knew there was more to explore, but figured this was Kamal's meeting, so wanted to keep his questions to a minimum. "When did you decide that carrying on in Kamal's life was what you wanted?"

Now Kamal really grinned. "When I finally got Michelle in focus. Don't know if it was chemistry that was always there in the body or if it was just me getting hit by a thunderbolt, but when I realized that I could have a life with her and she was already in love with me, I fell head-over heels. It felt like stealing another man's wife, but that man was dead—although I wasn't sure about that at first. Once I got over the fear of being murdered again, I just went with it. It's been rough. I had to learn how to be the Kamal everyone was expecting."

He laughed and did his best old-Kamal. "Guessin be convincin dem mostly, 'cept a Muma, who be 'spicious still, y'know."

Jaff shook his head. It was improbable, but had happened. He wondered if everyone else who came back eventually just fell into their new life.

He smiled and patted Kamal's shoulder. "I'd love to hear every detail, but not today. Today you wanted me to help you with a problem."

John took him through the entire story, including all the details of the 'bank job', as he knew them, and how it had successfully got him access to enough of his former wealth without his brother figuring it out or the banks seizing it. He didn't get into the details of the source of the gold, only that Lee worked in the commodities business and had now turned it into cash and bank drafts for him. He the admitted, they had only ever talked on the phone and he had no idea how to take the next step.

Jaff finally had a chance to ask another question. "So, the problem is that Lee expects to see a facsimile of John Fischer, maybe altered or disguised, but underneath, it's the John he knows."

Kamal nodded and turned his hands up. "If I show up, he's likely to just leave before I can tell him the whole story. Why would he believe it? Reincarnation is a hoax, as far as everyone but you is concerned. No matter how detailed an account of my past life I could provide, he will just see a scam and run away. He'll figure everything he heard on the phone was part of the set-up.

"So, he'll keep your money?"

Kamal now laughed. "Naw, that's the stupid part. Lee's definitely a criminal, but in the most honourable of ways. He's no street crook. He'd probably contact my old lawyer and give the money to the estate along with some story of finding it in my things. Who knows what the fuck Bill and Wilma would do with another couple hundred grand? Get really drunk for a longer time, I guess."

Jaff laughed at his recollections of the pair at the funeral. "Wilma maybe—Bill might have turned a new leaf after seeing you dead and seeing himself as a respectable guy in your place. Never know with people."

Kamal smiled, but seemed to cave in a bit after keeping up a pretty good face to this point. "But I'd be broke."

After a moment, he continued, "Worse: broke, black and an uneducated ex-juvi, with a pretty checkered work history. Yeah, I'll eventually find my way back, one way of another. But, not having the cash right now leaves us in a very dangerous place."

Now he related the 'debt' owed to the gang by his brother and him, again without details on his decision to pitch the toolboxes.

"I need to pay them in cash by Sunday night. Hoping that clears us, but I'd feel a lot better having the money to leave town next week and start again. Gang debt never really goes away when you're living on their turf."

Jaff tried to take it all in without seeing chapters of a book spinning out in his head. Kamal and his family had a serious problem that had a ready solution, apparently just out of reach. He needed to stay focused on the 'here and now' or his book might be about a kid who 'died trying'.

He came back to the present. "How can I help?"

Kamal told him that he had already arranged the meeting with Lee at the waterfront hotel.

He concluded, "But I can't just walk in. I was hoping that you would come along and convince him that the story is real and that I'm John Fischer in a new body."

Jaff frowned. "Why would he believe me. Won't he just figure that I'm part of the scam?"

Kamal tipped his head. "Not if you convince him that reincarnation is real. You were an investigative reporter, right? Isn't that the most skeptical occupation on earth? Yet you believe it."

Jaff laughed again. "Yeah, you could say so. But I met another reincarnated guy long before you came along. It was also long before I became a grizzled no-nonsense crime reporter. I was about your age. This local guy who almost died was considered a nutjob when he recovered and claimed to be a guy died at the same hospital on the same day."

He nodded to Kamal. "This is why your story struck a chord. It was the same thing. John and Kamal dead, essentially, at the same time, but one pops back with the other now inside."

He continued, "I didn't believe it either when I first heard it. But the guy was credible. He eventually shut-up and did exactly what you're doing to hide, but not before he gave me solid proof of his story."

Now, Jaff turned his hands up. "I got laughed out of the newsroom when I tried to write it up, but I stuck the story away in my files. When nurse McIntyre told me about your first few incoherent and crazy days, I figured I might have second chance to tell the truth. Hope that I can someday."

Kamal slumped again. "So, there is no real proof that this can happen?"

Jaff smiled, "Didn't say that—there are dozens of case histories that did get written up. They were individually laughed off too, but when you put them all together, along with some wisdom from our Buddhist friends, the evidence becomes fairly convincing, if you're open-minded."

Kamal brightened again. "If you had a half-hour alone with Lee, could you convince him?"

Jaff tipped his head back and forth. "I can make a pretty good case, if he'll sit and listen. But is Lee open to the weird and wonderful? Is he an accepting kind of guy?"

Kamal now smiled broadly. "That pretty much describes him. The weirder, the better."

Jaff nodded and smiled too. "Then we might have a chance."

He reached over and took Kamal's hand for a confirming shake on the deal.

"Now I don't know about you, but my old ass is getting sore sitting on this bench and I've got some work to do to put together the pitch."

They stood and started walking back to the car.

Jaff had a last question. "What makes you think that he will sit still to talk to me without you there?"

Kamal smiled. "Let me worry about that. If you can drive us down, I'll cover that.

Back at the house, Kamal called the Admiral and asked for a private lunch to be set-up in their largest waterfront guest room on Saturday. They would need the room at noon and lunch would be later, around two-thirty. He gave his credit card number to book it, but advised that all charges would be paid in cash on the day. They said that they would be pleased to arrange it.

He wanted Jaff to have half-an-hour alone with Lee before he came in. He just needed to come up with a compelling reason for him to meet with the nosy journalist from the funeral. He ran through the possible motivations: fear, threat, money, curiosity, self-interest, ego. The last one struck home. He had an idea.

Lee was going to be a leading character in a book, even if not by name. He would want to meet the author to ensure that he did credit to his image. Lee couldn't resist flattery, as long as it was honest. Jaff had convinced mob bosses to tell their story when common sense said that they should just shut-up. Kamal was certain that he could honestly entice Lee with the same pitch. Naturally, he would want to know what the book was about. In half an hour, Jaff could present the case for reincarnation and then a living example could enter the room. It had to work.

# Chapter Thirty-One - Lunch and Learn

Kamal's second call was to Lee. He remembered the three-call pattern to use if you really wanted him to pick up. A few seconds into the third attempt, he was on the line.

"Yeah, what?"

"Lee, it's John. Got some details about lunch tomorrow."

"What details? I show up, we have lunch. You walk out with the case."

Kamal was tempted to laugh at the image of a black guy at a corner table madly waving at Lee, who would look around, ignore him completely and then probably head for the bar.

"I booked us a little side room. Apparently the restaurant gets busy on Saturdays. Didn't want to share knee-space with some overweight tourist."

"Good thinking. But I'm guessing that you're still a little public-view shy too."

"Yeah, maybe. It's room 209; has its own door.

"OK. But if there's a bed, I won't be responsible for my actions."

He laughed at his own joke. Kamal shook his head. He hoped that Jaff was up for this.

"Hey Lee, I have a little favour to ask."

"Another one? I'm not your fucking genie you know."

"Naw, but I owe you a lot just the same. Make that up some day."

"Hey, I'm kidding. I did fine, even after dressing up poor Billy. And then paying to have his whistle blown."

Kamal was a little confused by the last comment, as he assumed that Bill was completely straight, but now wasn't the time to go down a rathole.

He replied, "No, this is easy. Just want you to talk to somebody tomorrow."

Lee was immediately defensive. "What? Who? What for?"

Kamal figured that he may as well just blurt it out—Lee might hang up any time.

"It's the writer you met at my funeral. He actually works for me. He was my spy there. If he seemed a little nosy, it was because I told him to watch everything and report in. Back then, I had to be dead. If anyone suspected that I wasn't...well, they'd kill me."

Lee wasn't saying anything, which meant he hadn't heard a reason yet.

"Now, he's writing a book about what's happened to me. I can't explain over the phone, but he will, in person."

Lee grunted, "How nice, but what's this got to do with me?"

Kamal had to take the shot. "Well, the story needs a hero. I couldn't be as I'm the tragic victim. So, he wants to make you the hero." He paused, trying to guess what wheels were turning in Lee's head. There was no response.

He continued, "It's a 'based-on' character, not your name or anything, but with all of your special qualities. Nothing about the business. Depending on how it comes out, he can identify you as his inspiration in the credits, or not. Your choice."

Lee wasn't sure. "Sounds weird. Is this a flyer by this guy? What makes you think he can write a book?"

"He's already done a best-seller on the mob in Toronto. He's a top writer. I'm excited. Hope you will be too. But this is just a listen-to, to explain what's happened to me, for half-an-hour. Then he leaves."

Lee was reaching the end of his phone-call tolerance. "OK, no harm. He'll be there tomorrow?"

Kamal did a little fist-pump. "Yep, first thing. Meet us in the room."

Lee was done. "OK, see you then." Click.

At his home, Jaff was pulling his research together, thinking that he might run through the examples of reincarnation that were documented around the world. Some were written up as 'amazing stories' with the suggestion of mysticism and magic layered in. Others took an academic approach with the subjects run through various scientific tests in an attempt to prove, or more often, disprove a prior life. None had the dramatic twist of the re-born soul landing in a body so completely different as Kamal's was from John Fischer's.

Some did relate a story of apparent dramatic changes in wealth or status, but these tended to be written as fairy tales and were of little use. Jaff suspected that cases where the re-born person was just dropped back into someone very similar proved so uninteresting that no-one cared. And, of course, the person pretty quickly learned to just accept his or her fate. Maybe they made an effort to re-win the affection of a loved one, now widowed. This would be a story never told.

In the end, he decided that Lee wouldn't sit still for other people's stories anyway. All Jaff could really do was tell what he had found out about John and Kamal. He could pat the thick file as proof, if needed. But, if Lee couldn't accept that the John he saw in the casket was real and the John that he talked to on the phone was also real, there was no sense trying to create belief with abstract proofs. He just had to set the stage for Kamal to come in and make his own case.

Saturday came. Jaff picked up Kamal at his house. He came out waving good-bye to someone in the house.

Once he was in the car, Jaff asked, "You got away without a problem?"

Kamal was a little down and took a while responding. "Yeah, lie number four this week. This ain't been good. I promise myself that I wouldn't do that, but they jus seem t'stack up one after d'other."

Jaff had a question that he had been waiting to ask. It might not be the best time for it, but he figured he'd put it out there anyway.

"Do you think that you'll ever tell Michelle the complete truth, about who you are, er, where?"

Kamal shook his head. "Don't know how I could. I'd be an imposter admitting that I took the place of the husband she had and then lied about doin it. Would mean tellin her Kamal died. Can't see how she could handle that. Anyways, she'd probably just call the white coats."

Jaff had expected that response. "Well, someday there might be a book that won't have your name in it, but will provide a complete story from someone else. She might not like what she reads, but maybe she would consider that she does love the man she's with. The alternative is being a widow, maybe to remarry for Izzy's sake, but still in grief for a long time. One way or another her first Kamal is gone and it isn't your fault. You might be forgiven for trying to make the best of the situation instead of just running away."

Kamal considered this. "Maybe, if the truth does come out, I could make that case. My hope is that we just build a new life together and it never comes up."

Jaff had one more thought. "At least two people, Lee and I, will know the truth. You can be certain that I will never reveal your identity intentionally. Can't speak for your trust in Lee. But no secret is ever absolute. Guess that you need to be prepared for the discussion if it is ever needed."

Kamal didn't say anything. Jaff wanted to change the subject anyway as they were already on Lakeshore. In ten more minutes, they would be at the Admiral.

He wanted to review what was going to happen. "I'll get in the room and wait for Lee. He knows that I'll be there and expects to hear a pitch for a book storyline that will include him. Why aren't you there up front? He'll ask."

He didn't wait for an answer. "Anyway, I start off that way, but lead in the direction of the amazing event that kicked it all off. I'll judge how much he needs to hear about other people, but I'll come back to you as quickly as I can. I'll try to make sure that he won't be completely flipped-out when you walk in."

Kamal wasn't sure at all. Stripping the message back, he was saying the white guy you knew and, maybe loved, for the last three years has been reincarnated in this black kid, who talks funny, was recently a gangsta and is now on the run, possibly for his life. It was a stretch, but he had to count on Lee being open to possibilities.

Kamal nodded, "Sounds 'bout right. Tell him I'm on the way. Say somethin like: 'may as well get this out of the way'. All we can do."

Kamal reached a hand over to Jaff's arm to get his full attention.

He was dead serious. "If'n fer some reason he doan believe us en bolts, the cash bag never leaves the room. Figure two of us can overpower a lil queer guy."

Jaff looked over with raised eyebrows. "You serious?"

Kamal shrugged and laughed. "Fuck no. We jus have t'keep talking til he comes around. But I can't leave that room wit out the cash."

Jaff accepted that he was kidding, but reminded himself that this meeting was serious. Life and death serious maybe. Kamal was right. They couldn't fail to get the bag.

The hotel staff had set up a lunch service for three in the marvelous guest suite with its balcony and lake view. A cold lunch was under clear covers on a side board. The open-face sandwiches on artisan bread looked great, along with cut veggies, dips and fruit. It was light and nibbly. Kamal said he would hang back in the bar until Jaff texted him to come up.

He would ensure that Lee's favourite cocktail arrived by room-service waiter at 2:10. Lee would be on time. He always was. Jaff would get a Fuller's ale, which he would let warm just a little before drinking. The tray would also include John Fischer's preferred Strongbow cider, which Lee would recognize as he complained about it being watery apple juice every time 'JT' ordered it.

Kamal left to head downstairs.

The stage was set. At 1:55, Jaff unlatched the entry door and left it open a crack. He went out on the balcony and took in the wide view of Toronto's waterfront on a beautiful summer day. The setting was only a half-hour away from the worn-down towers and row-houses of Rexdale that bred the Crips, but it seemed like an entirely different country, set with sparking water, sailboats and, uniformly white, sun bathers.

From the balcony, he saw Lee Deviers and a companion enter the lower patio, set with outdoor tables adjacent to the main bar. The jacketed companion looked fit and light on his feet. He wore dark glasses. With only a small head-turn he scanned the entire deck. Jaff was certain that behind the shades, his eyes had landed on every person there. He might be Lee's driver, but he was probably armed and obviously there for protection as well as transportation. Lee patted him on the shoulder and took the bag. He said a few words that Jaff couldn't hear or lip read.

Lee headed back into the adjacent bar. The security guy casually moved to an outside table. Unlike everyone else there, he took a seat facing back towards the hotel. His last move was to raise his eyes up to the balcony and certainly, behind the shades, to lock his stare onto Jaff.

Jaff couldn't resist. He nodded once. Lee's escort nodded back. The professional had scouted the hotel in advance. He knew exactly where the room was. He had probably Googled Jaff and now carried his picture inside that jacket. It was good stuff. Jaff liked dealing with pros. He turned and went inside, anticipating Lee's entry at any moment.

He thought, "Guess that blows the take-it-by-force option." His next thought was that Lee had probably just walked right by Kamal, twice.

Lee found the door to room 209 ajar. He pushed the door inwards without announcing himself, assuming that he would come out of the entranceway and be face-to-face with his mysterious friend. Instead he came upon the writer, sitting at a table set-up for lunch and flipping through papers. He didn't see JT anywhere, although there was a separate door to a bedroom standing part-way open.

The floor rug allowed him to move without making any noise, but he assumed that the writer knew he was there. He guessed, "Maybe John is taking a piss."

As he would when entering a crowded party room, Lee gave up wondering and just walked to a spot he wanted to be. In this case it was out on the balcony. He passed the writer and kept right on going. Now, he was certainly known to be in the room, but the writer still hadn't said anything. Lee figured that he might be waiting for John to come back in for introductions. He had forgotten the guy's name as soon as he said it at the fucking funeral home. He wanted no part of reminiscing about that place or the horror-show in the casket.

Out on the balcony, he immediately had Gerry's attention from down below. He gave him a little thumbs-up sign for 'all OK'. As Jaff had observed, the view and the weather were magnificent. Even the activity around the little pool was interesting in a pects-and-gluts sort of way. But they had some stupid business about a book to get through. He headed back in and finally took off his sunglasses, in order to actually see the inside of the room.

The writer looked up and spoke. "Your man good?"

Lee took a moment to get what he was taking about. "Huh? Oh, you mean Gerry? He's his own man. I like them a little less ropey."

Jaff stood up. "Met before. I'm Jaffery. Jaff to everybody but my mom." He extended a hand.

Lee came over and shook it. From the strong shake, Jaff got the impression of a guy who was probably ropey-enough himself. He was wearing a light-coloured outfit of matching cotton jacket and pants with a bright blue silk puff jammed in the jacket pocket. A light blue silk shirt was open to show off a nice set of neck jewelry. He wore no socks in light blue Crocs, that looked much higher-end than the standard Walmart variety Jaff burned through each summer.

Lee looked around. "Where's JT, er, John at?"

Jaff hadn't thought up with a reason for him not being there, but spontaneously came up with, "He's downstairs getting some drinks sent up."

Lee's brow showed some puzzlement. "Phone doesn't work?"

Jaff shrugged. "Said you were particular. He wants to get it right."

Lee laughed. "Vodka's, vodka when you dump soda on it. Maybe he wanted to personally pick the lime." He frowned again and continued, "Thought he was hiding out? That bar is pretty packed with coconut-oiled walruses right now. But I guess none local."

He was mostly joking. Jaff grinned. Lee finally put the lovely chestnut-brown case down. Jaff last saw it in Donna what's-her-name's hand when it looked like it weighed a ton and she was pissed. Now it appeared featherweight, with only paper to protect.

Jaff had some ground to cover before texting 'JT' as he must have once been called, to come up. Guess that was for John Thomas Fischer. He briefly wondered how the name Kamal would ring with Lee. 'KL' just didn't have the same giddy-up. Maybe Kam? Did Kamal have a second name? He hoped that they got as far as talking with first names.

He suggested, "Why don't we get started, then we can enjoy those drinks and some lunch when he gets back?"

Lee looked very uncertain, but sat down. It was a first step.

Jaff figured that there was no easy way to do this, so he might as well charge straight in.

"Guess John told you that we're writing a book. It'll be an interesting story, although I bet a publisher will only pick it up as a novel. The real story is so fantastic that if we weren't sitting here waiting for John to come back, I wouldn't believe it. I expect that you won't either, at first."

Lee had rocked back in the chair and was looking very skeptical. He wasn't going to sit still for a long story.

He responded, "Yeah, so it's interesting and you want to put a good-looking queer guy in as the hero. Have at it—just don't call him Lee Deviers or anything that rhymes with that. Don't give a fuck what else you do."

Jaff could see them going into a dead-end. He had to scramble back.

"The thing is, the story is true. It starts with John Fischer dying."

Lee grinned, "Yeah, well for all intents, eh? Guess Johnny's got something to hide—he's going to all this trouble. That's what I want to find out."

He paused, then said, "I would prefer that Johnno tell me himself."

Jaff figured beating around the bush wasn't going to do it. He responded, "Well he can't—can't in his first body anyway. It died. You saw it heading to cremation."

Lee tipped his head sideways. "Naw. It was a trick. Stand-in corpse. Ugly one, too. Although I don't know how he pulled that off. Talked to him yesterday. He's very much alive."

Jaff hoped this was the opening he needed. "Yeah, he is—in a completely different body. He was reincarnated as somebody else."

Lee looked at him like he was from the moon. "What?"

There was a knock on the door. Jaff thought, "Not yet Kamal."

As the door was still ajar, a room service waiter made his way in, with apologies for interrupting. He set the tray of drinks down on the sideboard and then brought each one over to the table. He set the vodka-soda, with lime on the side, in front of Lee and the Fuller's he poured mostly into a glass for Jaff. He set the Strongbow in front of the open seat without pouring. Kamal had given specific instructions.

Jaff rose to get out a tip, but the waiter said, "Not necessary sir, all taken care-of by the gentleman downstairs."

Exasperated, Lee asked, "Was the fucking gentleman heading this way by any chance?"

The waiter never missed a beat. "I believe that he may have needed to take a call, sir. If he is still there when I get back down, shall I tell him that you're...ready for him?"

Lee nodded, "Ready and confused. How about that."

The waiter nodded too, as he began exiting. "Certainly, sir. I will pass on the message."

He was gone, closing the door fully behind him.

Lee looked back at Jaff. He had heard him clearly. "Reincarnated? Like came back to life as someone else?"

Jaff nodded. "Ten years younger. Kid that died on an ER table at the same moment as John passed in his hospital room. Don't know how that all works, but he isn't the first. Probably not even the thousandth. Just never gets talked about. Like I said, too fantastic."

Now Lee's scam-antennae came fully-up. "So, you're saying I should believe that some other guy is now JT and, oh, just give him this pile of money I brought along?"

Jaff tried not to take the bait. "Money isn't my concern. I'm involved because I research this stuff. Covered similar occurrences as a reporter." He patted the file. "No-one believes it, except the five-hundred-million Buddhists out there."

Lee was blinking at him and not saying anything.

Jaff continued, "What I can tell you is that usually when it happens, the 'reborn' person is either just a baby, or in some other way never comes to light. Rarely, when it happens with one adult transferring into another adult, it is always hidden. People don't want to be called crazy. John wouldn't have come forward either, except the body he arrived in is in a lot of trouble and John's resources can make the difference between living or dying, again."

Lee was still sitting a little stunned. "So that's what the cloak-and-dagger hiding is all about? Somebody's trying to kill him because he somehow landed in the body of a crook?"

Jaff nodded. "Close. In the body of a victim."

He continued, "He needs us to accept what happened and to help him through. I'll let him tell you about the wife and child he now has, but I can say that their lives are at risk too. The body he got was supposed to stay dead."

Lee was still trying to grasp it. He stood up and looked out to the lake, while muttering, "A-fucking-mazing. JT with a wife and kid. I'm in the twilight zone."

Jaff got his phone out. "Think it's time you met Kamal."

He texted: 'Come up.'

Kamal climbed the stairs up to the suite with a mix of relief and anxiety. Relief that Jaff had taken the conversation far enough that he thought Lee would at least sit still while a strange man entered the room. There was some possibility that he could make his case. Getting the money was a happy outcome, but John valued getting back on truthful terms with his only friend just as much.

The door was closed but unlocked. He hesitated with the door handle in his hand. He had no idea what he was going to say next as he pushed and stepped into the room. He took a few steps in and then stopped. His old friend was staring straight at him.

Lee spoke first. "Who are you?"

Kamal figured he had about twenty words to make his case.

"Hi Lee." Kamal continued walking over until he was only a few feet away. "Hoping by now you've heard what happened. I know it doesn't look like it, but I'm John Fischer. Thanks for listening."

Lee looked from Kamal to Jaff and back again. "You're kidding, right?"

Jaff shook his head. "No. This is John, now in the body of the young man who died of gunshot wounds. John himself died of a brain hematoma, his soul left his body and he lives on in Kamal, who for every person in the world except you and me, he is."

Kamal came over and took the open seat. "What can I tell you to convince you? Ask me any question about our four years of working together, our adventures in the village, your famous parties at the Stroll, our golden investment scheme, the colour of the chairs in your kitchen, whatever."

Lee was shaking his head. "Sorry man, didn't mean to react, but you could have given me a heads-up that you were black. How is that even possible? And what colour are my chairs, smart-ass?"

Kamal laughed. He had mind-fucked Lee and loved it, even if this was going to take a little more work to get through. "Blue, green, red and white. You paid five-hundred a piece for them at the Art Shoppe and none of the fucking things match. The white one was tagged with a winking emoji and 'Love's Lost on Lee', on the back by a six-foot-four trans named Jean, who drinks bourbon and coke with tabasco."

Lee now gasped. "Son-of-a-bitch! Only one person in the world would know that."

Kamal laughed again. "Yeah, and, she or he, can't remember which at the time, borrowed my gold Cross pen and never returned it. That was a seventy-five dollar pen."

Lee stood and walked around the table. He stopped way too close to Kamal for comfort.

He said, "Get up."

Kamal stood and Lee grabbed him by his shoulders so he could stare straight into his eyes.

He commanded, "Say it clearly. No fuzzy words."

Kamal responded. "I was John Fischer. JT to you. I died and came back as Kamal. That's all there is."

Lee looked at him for a minute, then suddenly and roughly pulled him in for a hug.

"Well, why the fuck didn't you just say so?"

# Chapter Thirty-Two - Cops Come Calling

The ride home from the Admiral was Kamal's first chance to relax and just breath. The crazy meeting with Lee had been both sad and, in the end, funny, as Lee took-in the fantastic story of John's rebirth as Kamal, with many laughs. They reordered drinks and demolished the lunch.

Kamal told Lee about waking up in hospital and finding Michelle and Izzy. He told him about landing in a completely different culture. Eventually, he also told him about the gang and the trouble he caused. He told him how important the cash was to getting his new brother Dillon out of trouble.

In the end, Lee happily handed over the case and told Kamal to call at any time if he could help. Kamal told him about his plans to relocate. They said that they would get together, sometime. Maybe they both knew that it wouldn't be soon.

Kamal now had fifty thousand in cash safely tucked away in the briefcase in the back seat. He had discretely pulled one stack of hundred's apart to pay the hotel bill, which he knew his tired credit card wouldn't handle.

All of that could be fixed on Monday. He mentally started to line up the things he would do. Get a rental car, get to the bank to pay off some bills and set up a new account, get moving supplies, maybe get some great take-out food and then get ready to tell Michelle that they were leaving for Kitchener within a week. He still didn't know how he would convince her, but with his worries behind him, if it took a couple of weeks, so be it.

They hadn't said much until they cleared Lakeshore Boulevard and were on the Gardiner Expressway heading west. With light weekend traffic, the ride home would only take twenty minutes at fifteen-over the entire way up the 427. Kamal might have pushed that if he were driving, but Jaff was showing his old man habits and just cruising with the flow.

Jaff finally laughed, "You were right about Lee accepting the wild and crazy. I expected to run into a lot of disbelief. I almost fell off my chair when he said: "Why didn't you just say so? Amazing."

He paused, then continued, "I'll have to try out my theories on aliens, sasquatches and time-travel on him. He did say that he'd buy me a drink downtown anytime."

Kamal laughed too. "Yeah good. Stay in touch with him for an interesting life. But he's probably way ahead of you there. I've seen things that defy either description or explanation while out with him in the village. You may be the one needing to deal with wild and crazy. He's just a guy who does his thing and is willing to let others do theirs."

They made their way off the multi-lane highway, by-passed the airport road maze and eventually were rolling down Kamal's street. He told Michelle that Jaff was taking him back downtown to say thanks to hospital staff at an event for survivors. Another lie—he was keeping track. But he had no choice on this one.

She obviously considered it weird for old Kamal to really care about thanking anybody, but new Kamal was full of surprises. It was a nice gesture. Her only comment was: "Too bad y'couldn't a done de trip durin the week, but guess they did the schedulin, eh?"

He had been able to wear his better clothes and head out with a wave.

Now, as he returned, he saw a car parked in his driveway. A couple guys in suit jackets were talking to Michelle.

"Cops!"

Kamal said it out loud before he realized his exclamation might make Jaff think that more was wrong here than he had revealed. Jaff slowed the car. They couldn't turn around—they were too close. The only option was to stop right in front and deal with it. Jaff could just drop him off. He could see Kamal already reacting in the seat beside him.

He counseled, "Kamal, just take a couple breaths. Stay calm. Tell you what, I'll come up with you. You can handle whatever it is. Be cooperative, but don't add any information. You have amnesia, remember?"

Kamal looked over with obvious fear growing, but nodded. "OK."

They got out of the car and walked up the drive. As they did, both of the suits turned with interest. Michelle had Izzy and was obviously wanting to head inside.

She said, "Here's Kamal now. Y'need me anymore?"

The suit closest to her smiled and said. "No mam, thank-you for your time. You have a beautiful child there—good luck to you."

Now both men turned to Kamal and Jaff. Jaff had dealt with lots of detectives in his day. It was usually over a beer as he was plying them for information, but he had seen them in action too. He noticed the second guy assessing him and his vehicle. It was sad to say, but having a respectable-looking older white guy walk into their unannounced call on the house probably screwed-up their planned tactics of leaning on a scared black kid. Was the kid tipped and now showing up with a lawyer in tow?

The first detective stepped towards Kamal and put out his hand. "Hi Kamal, I'm Donny Ko, Metro Police. My partner over there is Hasan dePatten. How are you doing?"

Kamal had seemed to gain some composure on the walk up. John inside him would need to take over now.

"Jus good, uh detective. How kin I help ya?"

Donny turned to Jaff. "And who are you, sir?"

Jaff knew that he didn't need to identify himself, but also knew that refusing would add a negative edge to the encounter. He had nothing to hide.

"I'm Jaffery Doswell. Hospital volunteer. Occupational therapy outreach."

He was pushing the truth, but figured it would relax these guys and give him a reason to hang around. He could be Kamal's eyes and ears if this went south. He thought about palming his phone pretending to have a call, so he could turn the sound recorder on, but decided against it as Hasan hadn't taken his eyes off his every move.

Donny hadn't lost his smile. He turned back to answer Kamal as if Jaff weren't there. "Oh, nothing much needed, we're gangs and guns, following up on your shooting, mostly just to see how you're doing. Looks like you're pretty much back on your feet. Feeling good too?"

Kamal nodded and said, "Yeah, pretty much back, injuries en all. Still workin on things."

Donny nodded, "Good, good. Beautiful little girl you have there. Bet she's glad to have her daddy back in once piece."

Kamal smiled and nodded.

Donny paused as if hesitant to go on, then continued, "Saw in the file that you came up with some sort of amnesia at the hospital. Couldn't tell us anything about the shooters or what happened."

Jaff didn't like the way that was stated. It sounded like the cop thought the memory loss was a scam. He thought about testing his ability to butt in on Kamal's behalf, but kept his mouth shut for now.

Kamal had nodded to the amnesia question. He answered somewhat truthfully, "No couldn't. They says the PTSD does it sometimes—guess be true."

Donny nodded and asked, "So, nothing more has come back to you since?"

Kamal shook his head. "Naw, nuthin. Jus a blank, Sorry."

Donny actually patted him on the shoulder. "That's OK. You're the victim, eh? Nothing expected, you just take your time."

Now Donny flipped open a little notebook he had been holding in his left hand and read something written there before speaking again.

He finally looked up. "Say, maybe there is something you can help us with though. "

He paused again, hinting that he understood the imposition, but then continued, "We're trying to locate your brother Dillon. Just need to ask him a couple questions. No answer at his place. Pile of flyers at the door. Doesn't look like he's been there in a few days. Thought maybe he was over here, helping out or something, but your good wife, uh Michelle, says no."

He had been watching Kamal closely. Jaff had seen a slight stiffening. Had the cop picked it up?

Donny continued, more directly. "You seen him lately or have any idea where he might be?"

Kamal knew he had to stay neutral, no reactions good or bad.

He replied, "No, sorry. Drops in sometimes. Ain't been here dis week though."

It was the truth, mostly.

Donny had seen the reaction. He guessed that there was more to find out here.

He raised an eyebrow and asked quietly, "So, Dillon still a WEC member?"

Kamal kept a straight face, but added a slight shrug. "Don't know what he does."

Donny shrugged too. "Grapevine says he was the target of the shooter here. Or, over there, I guess." He turned and pointed to the front of the neighbour's driveway

Kamal shrugged again, "Don't know nuthin about that neither."

Donny nodded. He had pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket and clicked it a couple times while asking questions. Now, he paused and actually wrote something in his notebook.

He continued, with more energy, "Well, we also thought that you might be interested in this. There's been a little break in the investigation of the shooting."

He smiled and nodded to his partner, who had finally stopped staring stone-faced at Jaff and was now observing Kamal as well.

Donny continued, "Turns out that one of the bullets recovered here, uh from your neighbour's..." He consulted his notes. "Er, Mr. Dempsey's yard-waste barrel over there, has now been matched to a handgun that was recently recovered."

When Kamal didn't react, he continued, "Could be the break we need to nail the shooter for you."

Kamal nodded, but as he wasn't be asked anything, didn't comment.

Donny consulted his partner with a nod and continued, "Someone around here apparently tried to dispose of it along with some other weapons. But we got lucky and they were discovered."

Kamal felt a cold shiver starting in his lower back. His dick was twitching in nervous fear. It took all his willpower to remain calm. Jaff saw some of the colour drain out of his face. Both cops were watching him—they had to have seen it too.

Donny now looked up directly into Kamal's face. He leaned in and continued in a lower voice, as if sharing a secret. "Looks like they may be able to link these weapons to some known members of the Crips, prints, DNA, that sort of stuff, y'know."

Kamal was rigid, but to his credit, tried to show some curiosity. "De Crips?"

Donny smiled and shook his head. "Yeah. Weird, eh? You were a member once, I see here—that true?"

Kamal said "No." This was dead honest, but he knew a lot about them now. He hoped that the questions would stay focused prior to the shooting.

Donny made a point of scratching out a line in his notebook. "Oh, guess I got that wrong. Just hung out then, eh? Like kids do."

Kamal gave no response to this either.

Donny continued on, "Funny thing about this here investigation—looks like the gun that fired the bullets at you probably belonged to the WEC, not the MDB as everyone guessed, seeing as how they regularly shoot at Crips around here."

He now turned serious and squinted a bit. "Any reason why the local toughs would be shootin at your brother, or maybe actually at you? You guys have some sort of falling out, maybe owe some money, stuff like that?"

Kamal shook his head. "Don't know nuthin 'bout that."

Donny turned his hands up with a look of mild exasperation. "Oh, of course, it would have been before the shooting and you can't remember any of that, can you?"

Jaff thought that it was about time to intervene as this was turning nasty. He wasn't Kamal's lawyer, but he could start making a stink another way.

He spoke up. "Sorry to interrupt here, but Kamal has been out getting some therapy and is probably dead-tired. We can't be standing here any longer. If you want to keep talking, I'll have to get him a chair down."

Both cops turned to him with blank faces. He could see the partner might be considering coming over to ask him some questions. Neither moved.

Donny finally smiled and nodded. "Yeah, of course, Jaffery." The message was that they had his name too now.

"We're done here. Kamal can get some rest."

They turned and started walking towards the doors of the dark sedan.

Donny suddenly stopped and turned back. "Oh, just one other question."

Kamal and Jaff turned back to them.

"An even funnier thing came up. Your brother's thumb print was found nearby these guns. Seems he may have handled them. Doesn't mean anything much. Sure that stuff gets passed around y'know? But wondered, if you had any thought on why your brother might have held the gun that shot you?

Kamal was dumbstruck. He shook his head and squeaked out, "No."

Donny smiled again. "That's OK. We'll be talking to a few of your former buddies once more forensics come in. Any luck, we'll actually be able to identify your shooter. Hope that it wasn't your brother. That would really suck."

He turned to the car, but then turned again and hustled back over.

"Say, keep this under your hat for now would you." He reached into his pocket and produced a business card.

"You see Dillon, tell him to call me. He's probably got a good explanation for the print. Maybe just helped move some shit around, y'know. Like I said, punks always showing off their guns. No crime if he didn't ever possess it or use it. Maybe in his interest to establish some distance from the weapon in question. Quiet discussion, y'know."

He nodded to both of them and finally got in the car. As the sedan was leaving, it paused at the end of the driveway. Jaff was certain that Donny was writing his license plate number in his little book.

Kamal really did need to sit down. Jaff led him to the porch steps.

After they were sitting, he put a hand on his knee. "You handled that fine. Nothing there to involve you in any of this, but your gut reaction to the last bit about the guns and Dillon was pretty obvious. They might put it down to PTSD. You were just shot, after all. But it seemed like they were getting pretty close to your debt problem with the gang. Is there really any reason that they would have shot at you?

Kamal could barely talk. He was suddenly exhausted and desperately afraid.

In a quiet voice he said, "I don't know what Kamal did to deserve it. They are going to kill us and they won't screw it up this time. They will have both of us right there. A ride to the country and we'll be in a ditch somewhere."

Jaff was confused. "But why would they do that? You're paying off your debt. You should be clear. That must have been the problem before. Sounds like it's your brother needs to be worried if this investigation finds enough evidence."

Kamal had his head down. "No, not just him. I'm the one tossed those guns. Found 'em hidden. Told Dil t'get rid of them. They didn't. I threw them in the trash.

Jaff was startled. "Shit! So your prints are on them too?"

Kamal shook his head. "No, wore gloves. Never touched them. They were in cases. Dil must have touched the outside when he hid them here for the gang."

Jaff was trying to think fast. They needed a plan and it had to come together quickly.

Kamal continued, "Cops start hauling guys in saying 'found your guns', gang'll be comin for me."

Silence hung between them for a few moments.

Jaff thought he had it. "So, run now. Go in and tell Michelle the truth about this part. Pack up. You have money. I'll drive you to the airport. Just go on vacation somewhere far away and never come back here.

Kamal shook his head. "Sad shit that he is, I can't abandon Dillon. I know, he's not really my brother, but if I want this life, I get him too. I have to get him away from the gang, at least long enough for him to make a break. Make sure he knows the truth and maybe see what he really knows about the shooting. He didn't shoot me, but I'm betting he knows who did. He can go to the cops and get immunity or something."

Jaff wasn't sure that the loyalty was well-placed. "Guess you have to ask yourself if saving your brother from the gang, when he's likely going to jail anyway, is worth leaving your family at risk and maybe losing you own life. Sounds like these guys don't have a lot of time for explanations."

Kamal knew all that, but also knew that he had to try to save Dillon.

He finally spoke with some conviction. "Cop said that they still had forensics to do. Maybe they don't get that shit done on the week-end. Maybe the gang has no idea that there's a problem. I go up there tomorrow, pay off the debt and get Dillon out. Then we run.

Jaff was skeptical. Plans involving criminals had a way of going off-track.

"What if they plan to kill you anyway? You said that you'd bring them twenty-grand—they figured may as well wait for the money, then take you for the ride. You really believe anything they promised?"

Kamal reluctantly agreed. "You're right. It's a completely stupid idea to walk in there with no bargaining chips in hand. Maybe I can call them and say that I need time. Offer fifteen tomorrow, if Dillon walks and another fifteen when the banks open again. I can courier it to them.

Jaff shook his head. "I doubt that the cash is that important to them. They probably take in multiples of that every time they bring in a trunkful of dope or guns. No, it needs to be once and gone."

Kamal had his head down again. "Then, I guess I'm screwed."

Jaff thought about the problem for a moment and then said, "Look, I don't have a solution for you, but I think I know a guy might give me some advice. Old-school kind of guy, but maybe old school is the way to go with these gang-bangers. Do something they don't expect."

He put his arm around Kamal's shoulder and pulled him up.

"Go inside and get some rest. Take care of your wife and child. There will be a solution for this. We just need to think about it differently. Give it some time. I'll call you later.

They got up and walked to the curb to retrieve Kamal's case from the backseat. They looked up and down the street first for anything unusual, but it was empty. Hopefully the cops were just fishing today.

Jaff patted his back. "Better have a story ready for that bag. Michelle or your mother is probably watching us out the window."

Kamal got out a small laugh, "Least of my problems right now." He headed in.

Jaff considered the problem as he was driving away. His thought about getting advice had come on the spur of the moment. He wanted to sound confident for Kamal but wasn't sure it would work out.

He pulled over in a parking lot and got his phone out. A check of the 'contacts' list showed the name and number he wanted. It was an old entry—maybe the first in a new phone when he realized that the old one was bugged. Different times. He wondered what kind of response he would get. He hit the little green phone icon next to the name.

The first response was as expected: "Piacerelo residence."

Jaff still doubted that he would get through. "Callin for Milo. Tell him it's Jaff Doswell."

There was no voice response, but a click suggested that he was on hold. Of course, this house would have a phone system big enough to have 'hold' buttons and an intercom.

After a wait of maybe thirty seconds, a gruff voice answered. "My God, you still alive? Trùoppu beddu! Come stai?

Jaff grinned, Milo sounded like his old self, even if he was pushing ninety. "Bene bene. Sie bravo?"

Milo knew that Jaff's Italian consisted of about a hundred words mostly connected with drinking and eating. "Yeah, old friend, I'm a still kickin it, as the kids say."

Jaff recalled some good meals and many bottles of liqueurs and wine. He wished he was calling to just reminisce about a couple of interesting years. He had to get right to the point.

"Don Piacerelo, with respect, you said if I ever needed help, to call. I need some advice today. A young man's family is at risk."

There was a longish silence on the other end, then, "You know that I'm retired from the business. You wrote my biography, as I recall."

Jaff smiled, "I do know that, a great book, you deserve the rest, but you can't retire your wisdom. Advice is the help I need."

Milo now responded, "Come for dinner. Maybe I'll get wise again, just for you."

Jaff breathed a small sigh of relief as he hung up. If you were afraid of a small-time gang, who better to consult than the former Don of Toronto's Mafia families?

# Chapter Thirty-Three - Family Wisdom

Milo Piacerelo lived in an estate house set back on a crescent in old Woodbridge. It was modest by rich-guy standards, but had the requisite porticos, statuary and gaudy trim. The street-front view of the two-storey house didn't give away the rear split that soared to almost four stories, with magnificent cut-glass windows overlooking one of Toronto's finest golf courses. Fortunately, the view looked down the long ninth hole with players hitting away from the house. It would be a bad idea for a golfer to jump this fence to retrieve the ball or God-help-him to break a window with an errant drive.

Jaff had rushed home to change to a dress shirt and a tweed jacket. He made sure that his shoes were shined and that his socks were long enough to cover all skin even if he crossed his legs. Over the many weeks he spent with Milo Piacerelo several years back, he observed that 'Nono' never really dressed down. Jaff could never match his satin jackets and bespoke shirts, but he saw that everyone coming to see Milo dressed up just a bit. He also learned that the 'Don' had his own chair in almost every room, which you never sat in. Some of the small peccadillos made their way into the published book, which actually delighted Milo. He denied them all until his son and daughters pointed out that he was the most pattern-driven guy they knew.

Jaff only touched lightly on the family's necessarily violent past in his writing. Events and actions were discussed by coded references and sometimes, as homage to dead compatriots—in the Milo's words: 'unfortunate casualties' that could absolutely be avoided if people followed simple rules and, of course, obeyed a code of silence outside the extended family.

Today Jaff was shown to the same sunroom over the back porch that he had first entered back then. He had come with an olive-branch offer to the guy he had harassed in print for years. He wondered then, as Kamal wondered now, if he might not make it out of the meeting alive. But, like almost every powerful man at the top of his game, the Don had an ego. The idea of a book about his life was irresistible.

When their initial staring match ended with a shared drink of limoncello, the Don simply asked, "You could write this without sending me to jail?"

Jaff didn't know if he could, but simply said, "You will decide. If no, it goes into the fireplace."

They had a deal. They became friends. Two years later, Jaff had a national best-seller that was widely condemned as a whitewash of a criminal enterprise, but got great reviews for the amazing insight into the character who ran the 'mob' in Toronto for so many years, but was never charged with a crime.

Now Jaff waited for Milo to come down from his nap. He noted a new maid had seated him and that there were kid's toys tucked away throughout the house and across the yard. He suspected that a daughter or maybe a grand-daughter had moved back home to help look after her aging grandfather and brought some kids with her. His son had never stepped up to a family role, so Milo's mafia connections were a thing of the distant past. He achieved what few mob bosses ever did: old age. Old age with kids running around in the big house was a dream he shared, now realized.

Jaff wondered if they would talk business before or after dinner. He obviously couldn't discuss his problem over a family dinner with kids. He was well aware that the day was moving along and that Kamal would be sweating out the diminishing hours until he had to go get his brother.

Milo came in, dressed to the nines as usual. They stood and hugged.

Jaff couldn't help pointing out the toys. "Nono, how many bambini you got running around here?"

Milo laughed. "Who knows, they don't stand still to be counted? Pronipote, er, how you say great grand-children. Who knew I would get this old?"

He winked. They shared the morbid joke.

The servant brought in a small decanter of wine and two heavy glasses. She also deposited a plate of crackers and hard cheese, sliced thinly.

Milo lifted the decanter. "Just a little wine for me now. Won't let me drink what I want anymore, but this is pretty good. Friend of mine grows a nice vintage down in Niagara."

After the wine had been poured and tasted, Milo tipped his glass to Jaff. "You honour me by coming for advice. But, considering how smart you are, I don't know what I can add to your knowledge. Is this the type of problem, that perhaps requires knowledge gained through my kind of experience?"

Jaff smiled. Milo had figured out that there was something criminal going on and that Jaff wondered how the family might have handled it, once, long ago, of course.

"Milo, I don't want to spoil your supper with this problem. Should we talk later?"

Milo laughed. "You haven't been here in a while. Later, I'm asleep. Especially after Giulia's supper and some more wine. Tell me now, while you have me wide-awake."

Jaff gave him a run-through on the specifics of a young family caught up in gang violence. He skipped the details of Kamal's rebirth, the guns and the cops' current interest. The real problem was that Kamal was trying to make things right, had the money to do it, but feared that he would be murdered for some old grudge. He had to go to the meeting to save his brother, but in doing so he risked leaving his wife a widow and his child without a father.

Milo thought about the problem, then spoke from his experience. "In my day, we would demand that such a meeting occur under 'tregua'. You would say a truce or under a white flag. By agreement all would come and leave safely, even if one side would prefer, well, to murder the messenger. But this required each side to understand that violence would damage them as much as their foe. A balance of arms, so to speak. Your man's problem is that he has no stature. He is no threat. So, he is vulnerable."

Jaff had listened carefully, without interrupting, but was hearing what he already knew. Kamal heading into the meeting on Crips turf was asking for trouble.

Milo wrinkled his brow and leaned forward to ask a question. "You said that this young man has some money to pay back all his debt. Does he have more money?"

Jaff didn't understand why this was relevant, but answered. "Yes, I believe that he has quite a bit. It is his life savings, but he would gladly add to his gang payment if that would make a difference. But won't they still kill him, no matter how much he offers?"

Milo laughed. "Of course they will, fucking punks. They have no honour, so don't treat them as if they do."

Jaff was still confused. "So, what would he do with more money?"

Milo grinned, "Why hire some talent of a specific type to accompany him. Gain the balance of power he needs."

Jaff wrinkled his brow. "Hire private security guards?"

Milo continued grinning. "Sort of. But these guards, as you call them, need to be a specific type."

Jaff questioned, "What type is that?"

Milo raised a finger and ran it across his throat. "The kind that will kill these stronzo for looking at them wrong. The kind that will scare the shit right out of them."

Now he laughed and almost choked in mirth. He picked up his wine glass and took a long drink.

He winked at Jaff. "It just so happens that I still know of a firm that specializes in this type of escort."

Jaff now grinned as well and then drained his glass too.

"Milo, this will be a room full of gangstas, as they are called, how much will enough of your 'scary' escorts cost?"

Milo tipped his head side to side. "Not too much. Let's say ten to me and ten to the firm. I'll arrange it."

Jaff grinned tightly. It was a steep price. But he nodded agreement.

He had an idea, "Don Piacerelo; one thing that I have not told you about this young man. He is just about the best investment guy on Bay street. Or rather, he would be, if he worked there. He handles only private clients. Can I suggest that you leave your ten with him and he will return many times that to you in a few months."

Milo was interested. "That so? He would take on a debt to me? Then he is a brave lad. Well, you tell him to have ten in cash tomorrow for the crew boss. And tell him he has a new client. I look forward to meeting him, in a couple months."

Milo now suggested that they each go and make a call. Him to his 'firm' and Jaff to his young friend to let him know about the plan.

"Then, we will meet in the dining room for dinner and you will regale my six-year-old twin pronipote with stories from the great newspapers of yesterday."

They laughed again and went out together.

# Chapter Thirty-Four - Showdown

Michelle was waiting for an explanation when Kamal came back into the house on Saturday. She knew that the police were looking for Dillon, as that's what they had asked her about first, but then they also wanted to know where Kamal was. She had enough unfortunate experiences with police questioning, both long before the shooting and immediately after, to know not to speculate on anything. She only told them what she knew for sure. Dillon was nowhere around there and Kamal was out, just for the afternoon, but would be coming back. Her questions to them about why they were asking got the standard cop non-answer. She had Izzy in her arms and was getting fed-up when Jaff brought Kamal home.

"So, what's that whole long conversation 'bout out there?" Michelle was standing with her hands on her hips. Izzy was now in her little playpen and Muma was cooking.

Kamal was carrying the expensive briefcase holding most of the fifty thousand dollars in cash, neatly bundled in packs of a hundred, hundred-dollar bills. There was no opportunity to hide it. He had to decide how much to tell her right now. There was no time or space to go off to make-up a contrived explanation. If he started making things up, he'd have to find a way to unwind the story later. That made no sense. He needed a third ally. It had to be Michelle.

Kamal kept his free hand against his stomach and used it to point to the kitchen, "Oh, they jus inquiring how we doin and updatin on the investigation." He said this loudly. Then, more quietly, he said, "Let's go downstairs. Kinda complicated like. Need t'show ya somethin on the computer 'bout it."

Michelle took a second to get that he really meant: "Let's keep this between you and me."

She finally nodded and leaned into the kitchen, "Muma, going downstairs wit Kam t'the computer fer a mint. You OK t'listen fer Isabelle?"

Muma turned and said, "Sure, sure. She be fine. Got's more da teeth comin. Just happiest sittin and chewing like de puppy. I be watchin her."

Downstairs, Kamal set the case down for later explanation. It might not be obvious how expensive it was, plus he preferred not to reveal its contents right now. He'd see.

Once Michelle came over to him, he put his arms around her and kissed her. Then he pulled her in for a long hug. As they separated, he said, "Ya know I love ya? More than anythin else, that's what matters. I need t'tell ya what's goin on so you kin get ready for it. You need t'know that every single thing I do is for you 'n Izzy 'n for our safety as a family, right?"

Michelle was blinking with tears trying to form. She looked at him with fear building. "I love you too. More than anythin."

She was resigned to hearing bad news. It always came. "Tell me what's goin on."

Kamal moved her to sitting on the edge of the bed. He turned the desk chair around so he could face her close-up, He put his hand on her knee.

He started with the cops. "The police looking for Dil cuz his fingerprint showed up near to some guns they found. Dint say he handled them or did anything wit 'em. Jus been around 'em er somethin."

Michelle frowned. "Son-of-a-bitch. Knew he was still deep to his ass in gang-shit. So, they tryin to arrest him?"

Kamal shrugged. "Who knows wit cops? Said jus want t'talk to him. More likely want t'threaten him inta rolling on somebody else. Maybe somebody in the gang. Maybe they already know stuff, tryin to get more by threatenin. See if they kin get him t'lie. It's shitty, but what they do."

Michelle was still confused. "Why'd they tell ya all dis anyway? Seems like yer likely t'jus tell Dil and he takes off."

He shrugged. "Guessin maybe they think he's in hidin and hope t'flush him. I do know where he is. Dint tell them. I'm not callin him."

Now Kamal had to get the first problem on the table. "The guns they found used t'be in our garage. Dil was hidin em here." He paused to make sure she understood. "That's what Kash 'n him be on 'bout the other night. Wantin the guns."

Michelle was even more confused. "Oh, God." She hesitated, then asked, "But ya say the cops had 'em. Did they take 'em from here?"

Kamal now had to admit the horrible truth. "No, cuz I threw them out first." He paused again. "Din't know they were guns. Jus knew that Dil had some dangerous shit stored here ina couple boxes. Tol him t'get rid of it. He didn't or couldn't, so after tellin him enough times, I tossed them."

Michelle's eyes were wide with fear. "How'd ya do that?"

Kamal shrugged. "Jus put em in the garbage bin on Wednesday. Figured they'd get buried under a ton o'trash far away from here."

Michelle was starting to connect the dots. "So Kash and Dil come for dem and they were gone?"

Kamal nodded. "Dil knew already, but he dint tell em. They busted open the cabinet t'find it empty. Thas when Dil and I got dragged up t'Crips house t'explain. Coulda been bad, but I couldn't leave dat shit sit around here. Tol them. Jus a matter o'time til some bird chirps and the cops show up wit a warrant. We could all gone t'jail."

Michelle was having trouble taking it all in. "So, Kash drags you off. What happen then? Ya dint get beat or nuthin. What d'ya owe them?"

Kamal could see that she knew a lot more about gang practice than he ever would. Debts created easy meant debts owed hard. It was what gang control of people was all about.

He responded, "They said I had t'pay fer the guns." Another pause. "Price is twenty-thousand."

Michelle moaned, "Twenty-thousand-dollars? When the hell we gonna get that much money, ever? Ya gonna be in debt t'them forever. We be ruined."

Kamal moved over to the bed and hugged her. She was crying uncontrollably now and every sob was a knife in his heart.

He said. "No, we ain't. Money's in the bag there. All twenty."

Michelle pulled back and frowned. Through tears, all she could get out was, "What?"

Kamal moved away from her and went over to the briefcase. He opened it just far enough to reach in and extract two bundles of bills. It was twenty-thousand dollars.

Michelle blinked back some tears and came back from the full-on panic she had felt, but replaced it with a new fear. Was it stolen?

She asked, "Where ya get that? How kin ya have that much money? Ya didn't steal it did ya?"

Now Kamal had to move away from the truth again. Five and counting, rang in his conscience. It couldn't be avoided.

"Jaff got it for me."

Michelle was confused yet again. "Jaff? Ya mean the old guy drives ya around. Where'd he get that kina money from?"

Kamal wanted to stay as close to the truth as possible. "It's not his. He knows a guy with lots though." He checked to see if she was following the fib. She seemed to be. OK.

He continued, "Once the downtown guy heard the story, he said he would lend me the money, plus some more, to help us get away. That's where we were t'day. Pickin it up." That the guy was dead John Fischer was left unsaid.

Michelle finally didn't have anything more to say. It was unbelievable. Kamal knew it too. He had to move along by changing focus.

He redirected, "Jaff ain't just some old guy either. Not connected to the hospital—that was a lie. Sorry. (One down) He's a writer. Used t'be a big-time reporter for the Star newspaper. Wrote crime stories. He knows all about the gang. He's after some story that he's 'researchin'. Don't know what tis, but he's lookin for inside information on them. Came t'me cuz I got shot. Guess he figured I might be pissed enough t'blab."

Michelle was back to questioning, "So he wants you t'rat on the gang? That's why he give ya the money? Ya want t'get killed? Owin them is bad enough, but ya'll live t'pay em back anyway."

Kamal nodded. "Yeah, I know that. Said I couldn't tell im nuthin. An I won't. Maybe Dil might, who knows?"

He shrugged. "Jaff said OK, but I tol him 'bout our problem, with no details 'bout the guns, just the debt. He said he could get me a loan from an honest guy instead. Worked out. Gotta take the cash to em tomorrow."

Kamal reached over and took her hands in his. "I'm so sorry. Each step I dint think I had no choice. Maybe shouldn'a tossed the guns, but they wasn't takin them away. I was scared."

Michelle pulled him in and hugged him. She was still teary, but now felt her willpower coming back. They had a big problem, but together they could fix it. Once they were both working again, maybe they could get a bank loan to pay this guy back quick. She hoped that Kamal wasn't bein stupid and hookin up with a shark who would gouge out interest forever. At least they would be free of the Crips.

She leaned back. "Babe, I should be mad as hell fer you lyin about stuff. That's what you used t'do. Thought everything was different now. But maybe we kin go forward bein honest, eh? Be lots easier together."

Kamal now grinned. It was temporary, as the worst part of the story was still to come, but he loved that the wall of deceit he had built between them was finally coming down a little. He knew that he had to get more out now though and he hated the ending.

He said, "There's more."

Now, he related what the cop had told him about recovering the guns from the dump and how there were other prints connected to other gang members.

He had to tell her. "Cops won't get forensics back probably til next week, but when they do start pulling guys in, the gang will know that the guns been found. Be my fault. Anybody falls, they'll be lookin t'punish me. Both Dil and me gonna be marked. Can't see any way 'round it."

He could see her fear building again but he had to get it all out.

"One other thing." He paused, then spit it out. "Cop says the gun that shot me belonged t'the Crips. They wasn't shootin for Dil. Says I was the target. Don't know exactly why, but they wanted me dead. Can't see how that would change. Plus, the guns now."

Michelle was staring, now in horror. "Crips shot you? What de fuck? How could that be? You was outa their shit, dint owe nuthin, Jus tryin t'make a life. Why come after you?"

Kamal could only shrug. "It's all lost t'me. If I ever knew, don't now. Maybe that's it. Nobody supposed t'just step out 'n give it up. Maybe they wanted t'make an example."

"Funny thing." He managed a weak smile. "Jaff may find that answer somewhere, he talks to the right guys. He got cop friends. Maybe he gets access t'somebody willin t'talk in the jail or somethin."

Michelle was trying to figure it all out. She was finally reaching the same conclusion Kamal had, days ago. They had to run.

But she saw the last problem as well. "Ya can't go up der tomorrow. They'll take yer money and kill ya, finish de job, whether or not they know 'bout the guns bein found."

She was searching for a solution. "Can't ya jus send it? Pay some local guy who knows the turf t'deliver it fer ya. Doan tell im it's money. We put it in a pizza box or somethin. Might be OK."

Kamal shook his head. "No, I have t'go. Dint tell ya yet, but they holdin Dil hostage til I show up with the money. That's why the cops can't find im. Guess bosses figured I was lying and would jus take off. Twenty pays for the guns and buys Dil's release. That's the deal. I have t'go."

Michelle couldn't take it. "Ah, no babe. Almos lost ya once. Can't happen agin. Forget the payment and forget Dil. Let's jus go away. Twenty pay for hiding quites a while. Dil look after hisself. He always does."

Kamal took her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "I thought of that too. But a better solution came through."

He began with a small grin. "Turns out Jaff knows some other bad guys too. Wrote some book or somethin 'bout the Mafia. Now they friends. Old-time mob guys, I guess. North-end family, he says. They apparently don't like the Crips much."

He smiled for real now. "For a fee, which is also in the bag, they gonna provide an armed escort in an out tomorrow. These guys are apparently licensed pros, en scary. Bad news and not fraid t'walk in there. They make it safe, stand down any Crips got other ideas, I come in, pay im, get Dil an we're out. Pros be drivin us home."

He paused to let her take it in, then continued, "Crips'll be pissed, but nuthin they can kin do right away. They'll come lookin soon enough, but we be gone by then."

Michelle couldn't imagine how that all would work. It was back to sounding too fantastic.

She blinked and asked, "Assumin that all works, when do we leave?"

Kamal leaned in and kissed her. "Tomorrow night. Jaff is gonna collect you 'n Izzy all packed while the meet is happening. Already got a hotel reservation far enough away from here. We're goin on vacation. You deserve it. Oh, money's in the bag for that, too."

He hugged her again. She knew all that he could ever tell her and they were still together, in love and moving ahead as one. The plan had to work. He had seen it all working out a dozen times over. Just twenty-four hours more and they were free.

He whispered, "Now, what t'do 'bout Muma t'keep her safe. She be needin a trip back t'visit the relatives on the island sure. We both have to sell that one."

Sunday finally came. Muma was up and out to church. The moment she was gone, Kamal and Michelle started throwing stuff together. It would all have to fit in a van. Fortunately, they didn't have a lot accumulated as free-loaders in Muma's place.

Kamal had called for a rental van at Enterprise near the airport. They would come for him whenever he was ready. He checked on-line and saw that a branch of his bank was open after noon on Sundays. He needed to go there to pay off the credit card balance, as soon as he picked up the van. He had a shopping list that included a car seat and portable crib for Izzy. He planned to get a couple large duffel-style bags they could stuff with clothes. They had a cooler that they would load with initial food supplies. Everything else they could buy.

Michelle started making a longer list of things they would need, but that was for later, once they were settled-in somewhere. Kamal had booked a month's stay at the Homewood Suites in Cambridge seventy kilometres down the 401. Long-stay suites there featured a full kitchen, plus there was a nice restaurant and pool. It was only a starting point on their way to an apartment somewhere in the area. But, for tonight, it would be far enough away and safe.

They finally took a break when Izzy went back down for her morning nap. She was too young to understand any of it, but she was laughing at them as they ran around. Michelle kept asking her for her opinion on what to take and what to leave for later. Izzy indicated that everything chewable had to come.

Michelle came back to getting ready to talk to Muma as they were sitting with their third or fourth cup of coffee. They had drained one pot and were half-way through the second.

"So, what do we tell Muma? She got two sons en tonight they're both gonna be on the run away from here. She may not see either of ya fer a long time. If she agrees t'go back to the island for a few weeks til this neighbourhood cools down, then she'll be leavin on her own with no idea what's happenin here. She gotta be sad and broken down by that. We can't jus spring that all on her."

Kamal wished that he knew more about Muma. He played out the lost-memory angle as far as he could, but realized that he actually didn't know anything about her beyond what he saw every day. He didn't have any ideas on how to break the news to her without putting her in a crisis, too. But Michelle was right, by six o'clock or so, they'd be gone.

Michelle shrugged and added, "Guess we jus tell her the truth. The gang be threatenin us. Tis a problem that Dil caused, but ya have t'try t'fix. Now ya both have t'get away or risk being killed."

Kamal agreed. "No lies. And let's not sugar-coat it. She has t'realize that she has t'go too. We could call it a vacation t'home, but she may not buy that."

In the end, it wasn't a difficult discussion, Muma said she knew trouble was a comin. Said that a daemon she couldn't defeat was in de house and probably in her sons. Kin only end in heartache.

She got up and hugged Kamal, saying "Ain't yer fault Kamal in der. Maybe daemon be almost ready t'leave, cuz they didn't stick round once dey known. En I knows dis one."

She stared into his eyes as if trying to see the daemon, then gave it up and shrugged. "Guess can't do nuthin more. Goin back home fer while be a nice idea anyway. I wished I could go lots o'times."

Kamal didn't get the daemon part but hoped she was bein honest. "OK, Muma. You call home, t'island, t'see if'n ya can come down this week. I'll arrange a flight for tomorrow, if ya can. That's best, right now. We'll let y'know when ya can come back up, maybe a few weeks. Maybe we'll be back then too."

Muma laughed, "Tomorra. Bless me, dat's quick, but I kin close de door and go, sure nuff, if yer not here. Give Mrs. next door my veggies. Freeze de rest. Sure, I kin go."

She stood and looked around at all the stuff Kamal and Michelle had pulled out. She came back to them. "Be missin little Izzy sure, but maybe ya'll be comin down too? That be nice."

With that said, she bustled off and got out her book to call her sister. Soon she was engaged on the phone in Patois so thick that neither Michelle or Kamal could understand a word of it.

Kamal hugged Michelle. "Ya know, that's not a bad idea. Maybe we get settled somewhere then head down for a couple weeks. We both pick up a little island culture. Maybe Izzy gets to meet some cousins."

Michelle smiled, but just said, "Let's get through tonight first."

Jaff called later and they worked out the travelling plan. Kamal would drive the van to the back of a hotel parking lot on the airport strip and wait. Jaff would come there for 5:30. The security guys would come there too. Once Kamal was on his way over to the meet, Jaff would drive the van back to the house to pick-up Michelle, Izzy and all their stuff. They'd head back to the parking spot and wait.

The security team was coming in two cars. Kamal would ride in one with two guys and two other guys would ride in the second car. They'd drive the kilometre or so to the gang clubhouse together. The plan was for two guys to go in with Kamal and two to wait outside. If there was trouble, the two outside guys had some heavier 'equipment' to deploy for an extraction.

"But there won't be trouble." The crew boss said it over the phone with such confidence that Kamal almost believed it.

The rental guy arrived. Kamal got the van, got his errands done and installed the car seat. He booked Muma's flight for the next morning. He booked a limo to pick her up. There was nothing else left to do.

Soon enough it was time to go. Kamal put forty thousand in three letter envelopes in a small throwaway bag. He owed the gang twenty and the crew boss ten. He planned to give Dillon ten and have the crew drop him at the airport. If he was smart, he'd get on a plane. His record probably meant he'd have to stay in Canada, but you could get pretty far away staying inside this country. Kamal planned to tell him that was it—he didn't want to hear from him again for a long time. He wasn't really his brother anyway, but it was the right thing to do.

Kamal hugged Michelle and kissed Izzy, He went into the kitchen and hugged Muma. They had gotten all the words out already as they wandered about, so now it was just time to pray and hope for the best.

Michelle said, "We'll see you in an hour or so. No excuses. Ya get yer ass back to me quick as ya kin."

Kamal held her again, just a little longer. "Yes, mam. We'll be there."

He went out and got in the van. It was strange driving again after a long time away from cars of any sort, but it came back. The back was already half-loaded and it felt like trips that maybe he remembered back when Billy and Johnny shared a big back seat while Wilma and their father sat up front smoking and killing six-packs. They had fun while it lasted. Maybe he could find that feeling again.

Fifteen minutes later, he was parked at the back of the lot behind the Sheraton Airport Hotel. Jaff was already there. He jumped into the passenger side of the van while they waited.

Jaff asked, "You OK?"

Kamal never knew how to answer the question, but knew that Jaff was just trying to get him talking to ease the tension. He replied, "Yeah, good as I can be. No idea what t'expect, but we're ready. Precautions are good and, like you said, these guys seem t'know what they're doing. Guess there's no other way out, so we're just gonna have t'make it work."

Jaff nodded. "That's right. You're paying a lot for fifteen minutes of safety, but you have to figure that these guys don't want trouble either, no matter how well they're paid. They're gonna do everything they can to pull it off peacefully. It will work."

They were sitting in silence when the two vehicles came across the lot towards them. Both were good-sized SUV's with heavily tinted side windows. Kamal got out and waved. The cars came over and parked. For a moment nothing happened, but then the doors opened and four guys stepped out to stretch and look around. They were checking the perimeter and probably assessing if what they were seeing was what they had expected. Kamal wondered if they knew that their client was black ahead of time. Jaff probably didn't think to mention it. If it was a disconnect, it was brief and quickly set aside.

One guy separated from the others and came over. Kamal couldn't help but notice that he had a nice sports jacket on over good-looking pants and expensive looking shoes. The others each had some sort of windbreaker on. The boss could best be described as a five-five tall fire hydrant. He appeared nearly as thick as he was tall and had a head that more or less merged into a heavily muscled neck. His short hair was cut in a precise crew top which showed just the beginnings of grey at the temples. Kamal at first though that he was heavily tanned, but then realized that it was natural skin tone. If he was Italian, he was from the far southern part of the country. Sicily was certainly a possibility. He came over and broke into a wide smile, extending a hand.

Kamal took his hand and thought perhaps he had grabbed a two by four. It was square, hard and rough-enough across the knuckles to feel like a bucksaw cut. It was a hand that drew respect all on its own.

He asked, "Hi. You Kamal?"

Kamal answered while still in the grip of the hand. "Yeah, and this here's Jaff."

The hand's owner replied. "Guessed that."

He finally let go and gave Jaff the same weird experience of shaking the meaty paw of a man who probably killed people for a living somewhere in his career, here or, more likely, back there.

He nodded, "I'm Marco. I run the crew. You don't need to know the other guy's names for the job, so they'll just be the 'crew' to you. You hear me using a name, maybe forget it. OK?"

Kamal and Jaff nodded.

Marco smiled. "Good enough. Now, you have something for me?"

Kamal nodded and went back into the van to extract one of the three envelopes he had in the bag. He checked that it contained one bundle of hundreds. He brought it out and handed it to Marco.

"That's good. Feels just right." He laughed as he slipped the envelope money into the breast pocket of his jacket without counting.

"The boys thank you for a nice steak dinner tonight, maybe right over there at the Chop. He pointed to the back of the hotel. You're invited if you're free?"

Both Kamal and Jaff shook their head. Jaff said, "Places to go later, but thanks. Hope that's a good meal."

Marco laughed again. "Kinda post-game celebration like, always a nice time to relax."

He lost the smile quickly and became serious. "So, anything new for us to know before we go?"

Kamal shook his head.

Marco nodded. "OK, then. We stopped by on the way and took a look across the back. Scopes, so we weren't close. Looked quiet. One guy came out and drove off. Four cars there now. Couple big-ass white trucks look pretty showy, so they aren't planning too much. You don't park the fancy ones in the line-of-fire, eh? Nothing that will prevent us rolling right up. Like we said on the phone, first car hangs back out front. We head around, park right at the door and head in. OK?"

Kamal liked the precision and the confidence. He was starting to feel better.

Marco continued, "We'll talk in the car as we roll in, but the plan is for Kamal to lead in with us behind. Anybody asks, you tell them we're there only for 'security'. Kamal's in charge and does all the talking. Say whatever comes to mind. Remember, you're not asking, you're telling. Hope that your brother's right there. If he is, say hi and get him to nod or wave back, so we know which one he is. OK?"

He continued, "Me and number two will come all the way in with you. We are armed, but you know, you do this right and that's never needed. So, don't worry about that. But we won't be searched or disarmed. If that issue gets tense, you just stand out of the way. We'll handle it. Anything noisy happens, you find the floor and stay flat until I pick you up. OK?"

He nodded and smiled again. "Jaff, real nice meeting you. Don Milo says you're the best. Can't get higher praise. We'll 'be right back with Kamal and, uh Dillon, right? Then we can all get on our way on this beautiful day."

He walked back to the SUV's and conferred with his guys out of earshot.

Jaff put a hand on his back, saying, "This will go fine. In and out like he says. I'll go get Michelle and we'll be back here waiting for you in thirty minutes. Then you're off."

Kamal nodded. "Yeah, I'm feeling good here. Hopefully that's all it'll take. Tell Michelle everything is good."

Jaff nodded. "Will do."

Kamal took his bag out of the van and walked over to Marco's car. He got in without looking back. Marco got in to drive and number two got in the back. he was introduced as Lucas. The first car holding two others left and they followed.

Kamal now noticed that the security team was wearing earpieces. They were the most discreet possible and it only showed when Marco leaned forward to adjust the seat. Lucas was considerably taller and must have driven over. So, they would all be in contact.

Kamal now understood what he meant by noise. If the situation inside got troublesome, the outside guys would hear a codeword and enter quickly with lots of noise, probably including the kind of loud bangers that SWAT squads used. The guys inside would think a war had broken out outside and some would rush out of the room, leaving only a couple, probably unarmed Crips inside. It would be noisy and maybe deadly for the guys rushing into the fight, but not for the paying customer.

They pulled up by the garages at the front of the building and hesitated only long enough for the trailing car to pull in and park. Marco just said, "Go."

He drove ahead and, as expected, encountered no other vehicles on the way back. They parked adjacent to the door. Marco said, "Showtime. Lead on, boss."

Kamal walked to the door and pulled it open. Inside a camera picked him up. He smiled and held up his bag. The door lock clicked open. Once Kamal had the door open the two men came through the outside entrance and followed him in.

They crossed the quiet office as T-Dog had a few days before and started down the hallway. If there was going to be an ambush, this is where it would be. Clearly, the Crips weren't expecting any problems as they had no extra members at the front or in the hallway. Kamal led his trio down the hall and into the conference room.

It took only a minute to figure out that they had a problem. Only T-Dog was sitting in the room. Kamal tried to figure it out on the fly. There were cars outside, but no-one was here, not even Dil. Then he made out a second doorway into the room at the far end behind the front table. If someone was monitoring outside cameras, they probably sounded an alert and the others bailed out of the room. The doorway probably led to the garages, where cars could be waiting. They didn't count on Marco's other guys sitting ready to go in the parking lot.

T-Dog, sitting calmly, was watching them. He made no move to get up or to do anything about the two strangers, one stopped in the hall and one in the room.

Finally, he spoke, "Waz up Kam? Who dees guys?"

Kamal had to attempt to rescue the situation. Maybe the bosses and Dil hadn't actually taken off, but were watching to see where this would go. He had to think quickly, but he was getting pretty good at lying, so a story came out easily. He reminded himself to slow down and piece it out. Wait for responses.

"Hey T-Dog. This here's Billy, my driver. I don't have a car. Other guy came along for security. You know, moving a lot of cash here." He held up the cash bag.

He continued, "Expected to pick-up Dil. Due at my Muma's for supper. Where's he at?"

T-Dog was still considering his escorts. "Kind look like cops t'me. Sort of white 'n nasty like. Come flyin in, in da big car. Dey cops Kam?"

Kam tried a laugh. "Fuck-no. Got no truck wit cops. Last place I'd bring em even if dey had a gun t'my head. Truth be, these guys work for my money lender. Dint think I could do twenty from fuckin savings di ya? Guy's a shark, 'n my chit no good t'him if I'm dead. Ya think I could be dead here t'day Dog? I thought maybe, so brought couple friends."

Kamal walked up the centre of the room with Marco following closely. "Get the rest back in here. I need t'see Dil back or I take my money home. My lender won't be happy with that. Won't be happy a t'all."

Kamal didn't know if he had a hand to play by moving on to threaten violence, but he hoped that they might give up the 'cops' idea and decide that it was worth gettin the money anyway.

At that moment, there was a dull thud in the hallway and Lucas walked a semi-conscious Kash into the room and laid him out in a chair. He had obviously tried to interfere with him in the hall and been hit hard enough to knock him unconscious. Lucas just shrugged and went back to his spot outside the doorway.

Marco quietly said, "Come in the front. Get anyone you find back in here."

Kamal was watching T-Dog for any reaction to the developments. He had his hands in his lap partly hidden by the table. He could sense a tightening in his posture.

Marco moved a little ahead of Kamal and opened his jacket to show the butt end of a large caliber revolver in a shoulder holster. "Dog, is it? We're just here to do what the boss tells us. Boss here, says he has an agreement: cash to you; his brother to him. How bout we jus do that? But, first, how 'bout you put both hands on the table. You got a piece there, bring it up in two fingers and lay it down. Be the healthy thing t'do."

T-Dog had been watching Marco carefully, figuring Kamal was no threat. He did have a 9mm Glock in his hand and had thumbed off the safety. He was comin up to decision time. He had a job t'do t'kill Kamal. What difference if a couple of spics go out with him?

He was still thinking about moving when he heard the click of a hammer pull at the back of the room. Gino was steadied against the door frame and had a pistol trained on him.

Marco smiled. "Like I said: unhealthy. Bring it up slow."

T-Dog shrugged and brought the pistol up in his finger-tips. He held it out to Marco.

"That's OK. Don't want it. You keep it. Just need everything where we can all see it.

Kash laid the pistol down in the middle of the table and then put his hands palms down near the back edge.

There was an obvious commotion happening somewhere else in the building. They heard several curses and then some sharp commands. Then there was silence. After a few seconds, the back door opened. Dil walked in with his hands in his pockets, looking a lot worse for lack of sleep and, probably from diet of junk food.

Behind him, Suss and Jamm came in looking pissed. They glared at Kamal and Marco, then at T-Dog. The gun on the table told the story. They weren't in charge anymore. Marco's men came in behind them. One had a gun drawn and the other was carrying another gun by the barrel. Marco nodded to the other gun on the table. "Put them both in the fridge over there."

The crew member picked up T-Dog's piece and went over to the fridge with both guns. He opened it and whistled. They looked over to see all shelves well-stocked with beer and various meats and breads.

Marco looked back at the Crips standing at the front. "Fuck this coulda gone different, eh? You coulda said come on in for a beer boys. Coulda had a good time and left friends. Say, maybe we can crack a couple now? No? Too bad. But, like I told the sitting gentleman here, we're just in to complete a deal. Nothing more."

Marco nodded to Kamal and stepped out of the way.

Kamal looked over to Suss and Jamm. He said, "Unfortunate that I can't trust you fuckers. Gave you the chance to keep an agreement. But, shoulda known, you be shits. We walk in here naked, ya take the money and kill us both anyway. Like maybe ya tried once before, eh? Wish I could member what I did to earn that. Dil, well he tries hard fer ya. But not good enough. So, ya decide t'get rid of both Lewis boys."

He paused, giving them a chance to respond. Nobody said anything.

Kamal shrugged and continued, "Well, now I need to know if you got any honour at all, cuz I'm still good with the deal." He pulled out the envelope and slapped down the two bundles of hundreds.

"You take this, we're square. Dil and me leave—never talk t'you again. You leave us alone. Decide not to have honour and my friends here have already been paid to even the score. Maybe we'll change that: they'll take two for one, starting with the people in this room. You decide."

After a pause, where nobody said anything, he continued, "I'm gonna take that as a deal. Now, we're leaving."

Marco spoke and nodded to Lucas. "Hold the room. He pointed to the others. "You guys get your car."

Once everybody was moving, he motioned Kamal and Dillon to head out the back. He stood facing the front with his hand on the butt of his gun. "Everybody else sit tight, and don't be going for a beer too soon."

As Kamal was nearing the door, Jamm finally spoke, saying, "You know it don't work eh? Story get out, you be marked no matter what we says here. Forever be a long time."

Marco looked over to Kamal for direction. Kamal was tempted to tell him to beat the shit out of him. But then he thought that it was just talk. All gangstas be posers. Can't be tough, at least talk tough.

He laughed. Was this story getting out? Whose gonna tell that a couple of dagos and a punk kid jus walked inta their clubhouse and pulled the bosses pants down. Nah, they might want to put a contract out, but maybe they'd just let it go. Who knew? He had to get going.

The reunion with Michelle, Izzy and Jaff was first a relief and then a small celebration with hugs and kisses. Kamal didn't talk about anything that happened at the clubhouse other than to say it had gone according to plan and he had paid the promised money. He confirmed that they still had to go now. There was no choice.

It was time to deal with Dil. Kamal couldn't make him do anything or ever guarantee his safety, but he had to try to save him anyway.

Kamal took him aside and said, "Dil, wish I had somethin better t'tell ya, but there's no choice. Ya need t'get out of town en stay away from Crips turf forever. They will kill ya now fer what we did today en fer other reasons I can't talk 'bout. One way or another ya want t'disappear."

Dil looked tired and confused. "Ah Kam, thanks fer comin back, but I'm OK. I lay low a bit, might be alright after a while. Maybe kin explain t'Dog. You was jus lookin out fer me. Ya did what ya said is all."

Kamal took him by the shoulders. "No, Dil, it won't be OK. Cops are lookin for ya too. They got some link o' your prints t'a crime scene. Probly not 'nough on its own, but they kin pull ya in. Ya need t'disappear from round here permanently."

Dil looked surprised, but stayed defiant. "Nuthin, new there. Ex-con, black, they doan need t'find shit. Jus plant whatever. I kin jus hide out round here awhile."

Kamal was getting frustrated. "Dil, cops tol me that the gun shot me was Crips. They matched a bullet. Wasn't MDB aimin for ya, was Crips aimin for me. Don't know what we did, but we're marked. We're leavin. You'll need t'go too."

Dil was finally giving in. "Yeah, maybe."

Kamal got his last bundle of hundreds out. He showed Dil and then put it back in the envelope. He took Dil's hand and put it there.

Kamal knew that they had to go quickly. He spoke directly now. These were orders. "Dil, these guys are goin t'drive ya t'your place. They'll watch the street. Ya can grab a shower en pack a bag. Take half-hour tops. Get yer passport and anythin else ya can't replace. Take anythin illegal with ya and pitch it in a public garbage can somewhere. Cops will probly bust in yer door soon 'nuff."

He paused to make sure Dil was getting it, then continued. "These guys will take ya t'the airport en you'll buy a ticket on a plane leaving tonight fer somewhere hours from here. West coast, east coast, doan matter. Use the ten here t'get there and get set-up. Put it in the bank. Couple weeks, get some legal work if ya can. Send me an email if ya need another ten in a couple month. My phone's gone tonight. I probly won't write back, but once ya have an address, I'll send it. That's it."

Dil was looking forlorn, but finally seemed to get that he wasn't going to see his brother again for a long time and maybe never. He held out a hand for a shake. Kamal guessed that the brothers were never 'hugging' close.

He reached up and pulled him in, whispering, "Dil, I'm different in here. Completely. Got too much t'lose now. You have t'change too. Leave all this behind."

Dil nodded without saying anything. The second crew was holding a car door open for him. He turned and walked over, looking back once. It was the last time the 'brothers' would see each other.

Michelle had gotten back into the van where Izzy was asleep in the car seat. Kamal guessed that she had been up all day gettin ready to go. At least she wasn't screaming for this ordeal. It was time to go—he just needed to thank Marco and Lucas for handling things, then say bye to Jaff for a while. Marco just nodded and said to let Milo know if any problems; they were available to help.

Jaff was curious as hell about what happened, but knew that this parking lot wasn't a safe place to hang out.

He said, "Won't ask where you're off to, but when you're ready, we'll get back together, eh?"

Kamal smiled and responded, "Jaff, ya know we owe ya so much. I probly couldn't have done any of this without you. I didn't think I needed friends, but now I know that I need every one I can get. We'll definitely be in touch. I'm guessing that this will all make a great book fer ya in a few months.

He laughed and continued, "Guess I'll be John again one last time in the book. John T. Fischer is dead and gone. But maybe I can be John Smith and be famous fer my fifteen minutes."

Jaff nodded and smiled. "Name won't be anywhere near that boring. Plus, there are too many real John Smiths that readers might start looking at funny. No, we'll create a brand-new name."

They hugged and then Kamal got into the van and drove off. Michelle waved as they left. Jaff walked to his car, still amazed at the last two weeks and the last forty-eight hours. This was a complicated story and one that still had a lot to be written. A young black family on the run with the kind of resources most never have. He thought, "This will be interesting: I can hardly wait for the next chapter."

#  Chapter Thirty-Five - Editor's Note

Jaff Doswell never did write his book. In fact, he handed his draft manuscript of thirty-plus chapters, his rough notes and his various audio files over to me, with the suggestion that I just bury them. After what happened, he was a broken old man, who spent too many days questioning whether he did enough, whether he could have done something different to prevent the tragedy and, most often, whether his butting-into these young peoples' lives had caused it all in the first place. After all, unknown, alive and poor is definitely a better alternative.

I asked him if I could still pull something together with the materials. It seemed like an interesting-enough story that might work as a novel, rather than a non-fiction account. He reluctantly agreed, as long as I further changed the descriptions of the people involved to protect them from any more hurt. Of course, there really is no-one called John Fischer or Kamal Lewis; no Michelle and little Izzy; no Lee Deviers and no West End Crips; and definitely no Bill or Wilma. Jaff had already created the pseudonyms we used for them in his account. There is a Muma. Everyone has a Muma. The people and organizations these characters represent are infinitely more complex. But their story for these short days is pretty much as told here. When a man is reborn as another man, it makes an interesting tale even before the world collapses around him.

Before I can get into the details of the long talks I had with Jaff before he handed over his cardboard boxes of paper files and USB sticks, I need to put everything on a time-line. In total, a little more than two years has passed since the hospital stays that started the story. For Jaff, it must have seemed like a lifetime.

The young family did safely drive off into the evening dusk that day. Although 'Kamal' never shared the details with Jaff, it appears that the short hotel stay worked out for them. They connected with Muma and must have found her happy visiting her sister back home. It's not clear if they ever travelled down to the islands for their planned vacation, but if they did, it must have been an uneventful couple of weeks to recharge and to make plans for the future. Dillon was gone from their lives and has never resurfaced. Whether or not he is dead is unknown.

Jaff's next contact with Kamal happened about three months after their evening departure, when he was invited up to see a newly-rented and newly-furnished apartment in a nice mixed-ethnic neighbourhood in Kitchener. Fortunately for the record, Jaff took along his digital audio recorder, so a complete audio file of their meeting is part of the boxed records.

Jaff started off the meeting, "For my notes, we are meeting in Kitchener in early fall at Kamal's new apartment. Michelle is getting us some coffee and little Izzy is asleep in her room."

He paused, probably flipping open the notebook he always carried, then asked, "Guess the first question is: how is everybody doing?"

Kamal laughed lightly on the recording. "We're doin great. Considerin, I guess. But couldn'a ask for any better right now. I'm doin some work and looks like Michelle gonna have a permanent cashier job at the Cineplex theatre right cross the road. Izzy be startin with a sitter in the building who got a l'il baby herself. We're gonna do fine."

Jaff asked, "So, you're stretching out the funds you got?" The recording doesn't reveal it, but it's possible that Jaff may have winked at Kamal here.

Kamal answered, "Uh, yeah, we're making that work. Jus enough in the bank t'cover things fer now. Hopin my new job gives me the opportunity t'build up a little savings over time. My new boss says 'all things are possible' like they really are, yknow?"

"What are you working at then?"

Kamal may have grinned widely here as Michelle presumably wasn't back in the room yet, or if she was, maybe he succeeded in rolling back some of his 'necessary' lies and just told her they had lots of money. Either way, he was enthusiastic about his job possibilities.

Kamal answered, "Well, I jus walked into a financial guy's office downtown and said I'd like t'learn 'bout the investment business."

Now, he must have winked. "Said that I had an interest and maybe a l'il bit o'money t'invest, but mostly I wanted t'find out if I could sell good investments t'other people like me. Sort the same as me wantin t'drive a nice-enough car, so I go get a salesman job at a used car dealer."

Jaff hesitated in his follow-up question, so may have either been rolling his eyes or frowning. "This worked out then—they hired you as a sales rep?"

Kamal replied, again possibly tongue-in-cheek, "Well, no, not right away. Don't know nothin about investment yet, eh? Guess he liked my enthusiasm or somethin. He did give me a job doin 'organizing', which mostly means straightenin out and cleaning up some back rooms, but he said I's welcome t'sit in on lil training sessions they do mos mornin. So far, guess I musta asked some pretty good questions, cuz one of the licensed reps says I kin help him with some follow-up calls t'customers and maybe get involved in somethin called a 'campaign' when they got these new 'mutual funds' t'promote."

Jaff laughed, "Wow. Sounds like you're moving right along."

Kamal laughed too. "Yeah, Jimmy says he can recommend some investments fer me too if I have some extra money. Guess that's how it works. Gonna try that."

Michelle must have come back into the room during Kamal's answer, as the sound of a spoon clinking in a cup can clearly be heard. She obviously heard Kamal's answer.

Michelle can now be heard laughing, "Who'd a thought this guy be wearing a jacket 'n tie 'n sittin in an office all day? Sheet, couldn'a got him dress up fer a wedding er funeral afore. Now he gonna be a big investment tycoon like." She laughed loudly. "But, I says, anythin keeping him outa the street be good. En guess sittin down ain't bad when ya jus a couple months past hardly bein able t'stand up."

She may have leaned over to kiss him. The recording only includes some giggling.

Michelle continued after the pause. "Plus, he smells real nice too now, wit de cologne en such. Figure mus be some pretty ladies workin there. Be stoppin in wit little Izzy t'set em straight, soon nuff."

Now they all laughed. There was some inaudible kibitzing going on, which certainly suggested a much more relaxed couple than Jaff had described in their last hours in Rexdale.

Jaff probably needed to change the subject and knew that he would need to talk to Kamal alone if he wanted to follow-up on other questions, like if he was in touch with Lee.

He did want to know if the gang had caused any problems.

He asked, "Any contact from the Crips or others?"

Kamal answered, "Naw. Ain't seen nuthin of em here. Not their turf, so they won't jus be here anyway. We keepin little low and watchin out, but this is a safe neighbourhood. Couple cops even live in the building. Security stuff all works too, all the time, so nobody skulkin around anyway."

Jaff followed-up. "How about the Toronto cops then? They give you any trouble?

Kamal hesitated in answering, perhaps making eye contact with Michelle first, then he spoke.

"We figured that runnin away might give em the wrong idea, so I called this Donny guy and tol him that the Crips threatened us, so we're movin. Gave him my new cell number t'call, saying I was worried 'bout Dillon and they was threatenin him to. Said he was hidin out, not from the law, but from the Crips. He didn't seem t'care much about Dil anymore. I asked him t'call me with any developments, y'know. Real cooperative like."

Jaff questioned, "So have you heard from him again?"

Kamal answered, "Just once. Said that they made some Crips arrests. Nuthin t'do with me, but maybe a detective come see me fer a statement on these threats if they's connected. They know where we are now. Got my new cell, but haven't heard any more back. Guessin that they don't have any more interest in me, so we're happy not t'hear from em."

Jaff was apparently still curious on how to avoid contact that would reveal their new location. He asked, "Investigations take a long time, you could still be called to testify. That would be a problem, eh?"

Kamal sounded confident. "Cop said almos all cases plead out, so no disclosure of witnesses and such. Said they would do everythin necessary to keep us out of it. Hopin that's true."

At that point, Izzy sounded off in from the background and Jaff suggests getting some takeout, if Kamal wanted to show him the neighbourhood. The recording ends.

After a break, the recording starts again, this time in a car, with street noises evident outside.

Jaff asked Kamal, "So Lee came through with all the money then?"

Kamal laughs and says, "Yeah, fuckin guy is queer Santa Claus. Sends me nearly three-hundred thousand. I was expecting two. Called him to give him shit for bein so generous and he says it was all my money anyway, he jus took standard commission. And then he says: so, when we getting back in business?"

Jaff must have been puzzled, but finally asked, "You mean in the gold bullion business?"

Kamal responded, "Yeah, shit. I got enough problems dealin with the money I got, let alone adding fifty or sixty grand every time the syndicate wants to peddle more bars."

Jaff's reaction to this scale of semi-legal profiteering isn't recorded. Jaff may have thought it best to be 'off-record'.

The recorder clicked back on and Kamal continued, "I didn't tell him that, but I said that John Fischer is dead and gone so I'm disconnected from those customers. I did say that I still have one guy that I owe a good deal to, so to count me in once. Thinking Milo might like a gold investment. I'll jus get Lee t'handle it."

Jaff now whistled and asked, "That safe? You don't want to, uh...disappoint, Milo. Y'know, he doesn't have a lot of tolerance for explanations."

Kamal must have nodded. "My money'll be at stake, profits t'him. No possibility of disappointment. Still feel like I owe him and the crew a lot for getting us out of that jam. I'm happy to make him very happy. And, if he likes it, he can continue to deal directly with Lee. Figure they sort of deserve each other.

Now both men laughed. The recording ends as Kamal says they're at a great Shawarma shop.

Jaff came back from Kitchener and rounded out the audio files with other notes he had taken. His jotted comments indicate that Kamal's definitive statement that John Fischer is dead reflects the necessary elimination of dual-personality thinking. Trying to maintain two personalities would probably lead to psychosis. Jaff noted that the elimination of the old personality confirms the common thread that he picked-out in all other well-documented cases. Eventually, the re-born person gives up their old personality if the new life is working out. If not, the individual probably just runs away and may or may not search for fragments of their old life. These cases aren't well-documented.

Jaff listed a bunch of questions for a follow-up meeting, including: how Kamal was dealing with inevitable racial prejudice, even if he eventually presents as both educated and successful. He's still basically a white guy now inhabiting a black body. Privileged white guys tend to get angry quickly when discrimination happens to them. Was there a potential blow-up in the cards or would the new Kamal learn that staying in 'his place' is easier, even if it feels wrong?

Jaff observed and noted the initial 'slang-laden' language adaptation John made to pass as Kamal was slowly being worked out to proper English. Kamal must have said he would bring Michelle along on that. Her new job would involve more conversation with customers and peers. Was Kamal happy with progress there? What about children? If his plans worked out, Michelle could take time off. Were they talking about having another child?

Even though Kamal sounded confident about leaving gang troubles behind—unless he changed his name or moved far away, the Crips were really just up the road, maybe less than an hour away. Jaff wrote that if they really wanted to complete their aborted murder of the Lewis brothers, it wouldn't take much more that a Google search to find them, once they started being public in jobs and outside activities. He still wanted to ask about this and maybe help-out Kamal. In hindsight, Jaff had good reason to be worried here.

The next encounter Jaff had with the storyline was a few months later in the form-of a surprise invitation from Lee Deviers for Jaff to attend a downtown party at his favourite dinner club. As Jaff notes, Lee called and said that he was trying to fill out a big table with the most interesting people he knew. Jaff wrote-down and circled a clarification, saying; "Don't have to be in the LGBTQ crowd!

He must have asked what Lee's real motives were, cuz his inclination was very much none of the initials in the ever-expanding acronym. Presumably, Lee made it clear that there were no sexual expectations in the invite.

The audio tape from a portion of the party is nearly inaudible for background noise and half-loaded or entirely-stoned lean-in interruptions from passing party-goers. Numerous times, Lee has to verbally chase the drunks and stoners off, so that he can complete a conversation with Jaff. It sounded like a great party.

Early-on Jaff asks, "So JT, was he part of this scene, before, uh, he left?"

Lee laughs and comments, "Johnno, no, too straight for this particular crowd. Not that straight is bad. Lots of the women in our circles love the scene, but are very happy to dig a straight guy out of the dirt when they get tired of the sisters of all stripes. When he did show-up, JT was a frequent target for those interests, but other than buying lots of drinks and being a great listener, he never took anybody home, far as I know."

Jaff must have leaned-in to be heard as he commented, "You'll have to meet Michelle some-day. We'll come up with some rationale to 'introduce' you, once Kamal's on his feet in his business. She's exactly what they both needed, if that makes any sense."

Lee probably grinned. He said, "Yeah, I'd like that. And to see the final product, so to speak. To check out the life he's chosen. Instant family, huh? Just keep the snotty little one away from my twills."

He paused, perhaps reflecting on the crowd around them, then continued, "Know lots of people in transition or through their transition, but JT takes the cake. Except for the 'needin' to die first' part, the concept of sudden total change would be real attractive to some. Guess that you can't plan it though?"

Jaff may have shaken his head, but commented, "Rare and completely random, sorry to say."

Lee now asked about the planned book. "You movin ahead on the book? Me still being the 'hero' in disguise of-course?"

Jaff's upbeat enthusiasm for the project here is in stark contrast to his disappointment only a few months later.

He responded, "Sure. It's great story to tell, even if you aren't in it by name. Hey, later, if you want to claim to be the guy, I won't deny it."

Lee's laugh can be heard. He eventually responded, "Fuck no. Last thing I need are groupies. Or more groupies. Can you imagine the CBC interviewing me? They'd take one sniff of my lifestyle and declare the entire story to be a mushroom-fuelled hallucination. You'd never live it down."

The back and forth continued over several interruptions, one of which apparently involved someone of unclear gender plunking herself or himself on Jaff's lap and telling him how much she or he likes older, wrinkled men. Lee finally rescued Jaff by sending her or him away, but not before roaring with laughter in the background. The continuing drinks and whatever else was fueling the party were making a real conversation mostly impossible. The recording ends.

Jaff made no additional notes about the evening, other than to write: 'Need to make sure Lee's brilliance comes across. Smart guy who fools most.'

Jaff did get back together with Kamal again about a year after the first meeting. He was continuing his research on the broad topic of reincarnation as his plan was to present Kamal's story only as a running 'case-in-point' not as a sensational standalone event. From his notes and the few comments that I've been able to get from him, it appears that he was in touch more often by phone and perhaps via an anonymous email identity Kamal created. In any regard, he had moved on to more specific questions about the experience by the time they met again.

Jaff references some credible university sources and various non-academic experts on particular aspects of the phenomenon, which he then wished to confirm with Kamal. He does note that there is no scientific rationale for how a complete lifetime of knowledge and experience, which most would assume is dependent on the stored chemical alignment of a billion neurons in the physical brain, can be transferred to someone else instantly and completely with no direct contact. One circled research reference says: 'science is completely wrong about death'. Someday, perhaps, Jaff will come back to the research, after death-itself loses the painful sting it delivered in his life.

In their last meeting, which starts at Kamal's office, Jaff starts the recording by noting the date and describing the impressive surroundings. Kamal's success in his challenging plan must have been evident.

Jaff asked, "It's been what, fifteen months? This is amazing—how did you get this far so fast?"

Kamal must have looked around and shrugged. His answer indicated a guy who was incredibly adaptive.

He responded, "Tried the standard 'financial services' route but couldn't do much with no license. Couldn't advise anybody, couldn't really sell anything 'cept under somebody else's name. Getting a license takes years, with school and courses, plus police checks and the like, so I jus headed-off on my own and made investment decisions jus for me, online. Did well-enough and built up some money. Thought it was good-enough fer a while."

Jaff came back, "But here you've got an entire floor of this old house with four or five employees running around. The room over there has a wall of digital market screens. And there's a studio behind glass down in the corner. What's that all about?"

Kamal laughed. "You didn't let me finish. I was doin well and the guys I knew in the business were always asking what my secrets were. These guys are brokers with big companies shoveling them research every day and they want to know what I'm doing, sitting home in the dark. So, I started telling them what I did the day-before. Bought options, sold options mostly. Some margin positions and some high-Beta bets, but mostly I just liked certain contracts that would work out quick enough."

He continued, "That information wasn't good enough for em, they wanted to know what I was going to do next. I figured that there was nothin in it for me to tell em, so I wouldn't. Plus, that might be seen as giving advice."

Jaff had been following, mostly. He asked, "So you're not buying and holding stocks, you're trading on the movement in prices. Still focused on currencies and commodities"?"

Kamal must have nodded. "Yeah, no interest in owning any company. But, if that company is doing very well or very poorly and I pick up on the possibilities early, I'm going to play the change in investor sentiment I suspect is coming. Same with currencies and metals. Just have t'bet right. Turns out, I'm still pretty good at betting."

Jaff made notes that day and had some big circles around words like: lucky, risky and nuts.

He asked, "You still haven't said why all the people here if you're not in business."

Kamal laughed again. "But, I am. I'm the brains behind 'Walter's Ten Thousand: the Podcast'. We've got around eight hundred thousand subscribers and growing. Walter, my persona, tells listeners what he did yesterday and how that worked out. He then tells them what he's thinking about as reasons for doin somethin tomorrow. Just thinking about—we're clear on that.

He paused, probably to let Jaff catch-up. "The premise is that Walter, off by himself, starts each day with ten-thousand in cash and makes decisions to see what he can do with it. The start of each 'yesterday' segment is the scorecard and analysis. Some days, we made a couple thousand. Some days, we lost a little.

He continued, "Then, the thoughts for tomorrow are only what the winds are saying about possibilities. If someone is investing on their own, they have to make their own decisions each day, they don't get to know what Walter is doing in real time. Sometimes I come on the next day and really fuck with their head by saying that I completely changed my mind during the day."

Jaff now apparently wrote: amazing. He asked, "So you put out a podcast each day?"

Kamal answered, "The team does. Five days a week. Highlights on Sunday. We have a couple different 'on-air' personalities. We even have a little virtual dog named Indy who brings in good 'bones' from listener comments and buries 'bad' bones and troll-spite out back. I get lots of that. Dumb fucks lose money and want to blame me. We invite smart subscribers who offer good bones to come on air with us. A couple of those have turned into popular 'regulars'. It's all legal, as nobody is giving advice, just talking about experiences and feelings."

Jaff now asked, "So this pays off?"

Kamal must have smiled. "Advertisers. They pay enough to rent this house, to pay the salaries and to lease the equipment. I make my income on my own trades away from here. Everything earned through social media gets plowed back into a little corporation that we all own."

The door to the office must have been closed. Jaff now asked about his ongoing transition.

"How is Michelle taking in the new you?"

Kamal answered quietly. "She's still amazed that anybody would believe this Walter guy. Particularly, when he still speaks like a recent street urchin. I keep moving money into our account jus as we need it, so the success isn't mind-boggling t'her. Someday soon, I'll cash it all in and we'll buy that house out in the country. By then, she'll just have t'believe that her dumb husband somehow got smarter than everybody else. Cross that bridge when we get to it."

Jaff's log entry for the day indicated that they were going out to dinner with Michelle and Izzy, so any further questions about the past and Kamal's circumstances must have happened in the car on the way to get them, without the recorder on.

Jaff did add a long note to his files the next day, summarized as follows: John has made it! He has wrapped up all the loose ends and can go forward as just-Kamal. This case shows that adaptation and initiative can take a re-born individual a long way in their new life. Yes, he was smart and highly-skilled, but he came close to being stuck in a no-win situation that could have included jail time, heartache and the loss of the family he found, if he had stumbled at all. Time to write the book. This is the ending readers are looking for.

Months later, when Jaff asked Michelle at the service, she said that she couldn't recall serving the two young black men at her ticket station that day, or whether she thought anything about the extra interest they may have showed. She was an attractive black woman with a nice smile. Lots of young men paid her extra attention. Later, she thought that she might have seen them before, but couldn't make the connection.

The police were able to make the connection by comparing security video of the theatre lobby with video taken from the lobby camera at their apartment building. The men, who bought movie tickets for cash, didn't actually go into a show. They are first seen on their cellphones still in the lobby of the theatre and then seen across the road following another tenant into Kamal's building, by arriving at the normally-locked front door just as it is closing. Michelle, having picked up some groceries before crossing the street, must have been just in front of them and been followed to her floor and her apartment.

She told police and Jaff that the knock on her door wasn't unusual, as the neighbours were friendly. She assumed that someone needed something or had something to return. As she related the incident, a single man first knocked and then forced his way in when she opened the door. Another watching in the hall followed. The series of events proved to be a fatal lapse of attention to their security.

The police report, which was copied by Jaff as his final entry to the files, said that the men were polite enough but demanded to know where they could find Kamal. Michelle refused any information. They weren't violent to her, but did find her cellphone and used it to call Kamal. When he answered, thinking it was Michelle calling, they told him that he needed to be home in fifteen minutes or she would be hurt.

There was never any indication what the men planned to do with Kamal, but the assumption is that they were WEC crew who just happened to be at that theatre. Presumably, their calls to gang leaders resulted in orders to bring Kamal back to Toronto.

Whatever the final outcome might have been, their call was sufficient to put Kamal in motion. He was downtown with Izzy in tow at his office. He made the rules there and bringing kids and real pets in for short visits wasn't unusual. After the call, he packed her up quickly and headed home to their apartment on the west side of the city. While in desperate fear and hurrying to meet the deadline, he took the time to put Izzy into her infant car seat. His car GPS record shows that he drove quickly north and west, taking side streets to avoid traffic. It's unclear why he drove around the closed and flashing railway gates on Park street, but the freight train parked on the nearby siding may have fooled him into thinking that the gates were down for it.

The freight train had lights on but wasn't moving. He became impatient. He drove around the gates and was broadsided by the west-bound VIA express hidden behind the parked freight train until the last second. Reconstruction of the accident suggested that all the correct whistles were sounded and speed limits followed. No-one in their right mind would ever drive around railway gates. Someone out of their mind with worry and counting down the minutes might have.

Kamal Lewis, who wasn't really Kamal Lewis, because Kamal died two years earlier, died instantly. John Fischer in Kamal had reached his allocated lifespan. His soul departed for its final judgement. Little Izzy survived long enough in the ER for her soul to be very nearby the newborn child in Obstetrics that it moved to. She was young enough that her soul would start again with no real loss of opportunity for a wonderful life in a new person.

Michelle survived the gang's threats unharmed. When the police called to ask for her, the punk gangstas assumed that Kamal had alerted them and ran. Michelle was asked to stay where she was until a constable arrived to take her to the hospital. Yes, there was bad news, they would give her details when they got there.

What none of them knew until later was that Kamal had taken twenty thousand dollars from the office safe and was hurrying home to offer it to the hoods. He couldn't imagine them not pocketing the cash and taking off. The family would have to run into the night again, but they knew how to do that and, of course, money wasn't a problem.

Jaff attended the joint funeral. The family had only a few local friends, but the hall was filled by members of their broader community and Kamal's business associates. Many, it seems only knew him as Walter from his podcast. The young black man's success story, persona and real name were part of the last obituary Jaff would ever write. It appeared above the fold on page three and got picked up by the wires. Several shocked fans came up to Michelle to tell her what he meant to them and their financial well-being.

Jaff could only tell her how sorry he was. She took him aside and told him in confidence that she was pregnant with a son. They had a different name picked, but now she planned to call him Kamal. Jaff suggested a nice second name might be John.

Michelle would find out much later that Kamal had left her a small fortune in investments and insurance. Jaff knew about that, but still went home depressed enough to push all of his work off his desk and into the boxes that he intended to throw out. I came over later that day and heard the whole story over the next few hours while we drained a bottle of whiskey together. He pointed to the boxes in his study. I was only the third person to learn the true story of John in Kamal's amazing rebirth, apparent success and sudden second death

He said, "That's all there is to tell. No sense writing it now. No one would believe it anyway."

On that day, I couldn't disagree.

RP

# About the Author

Ross Peacock is a resident of Haliburton, Ontario, Canada.

His previous works include the Draumrs series. (Red and Blue). Draumrs are today's descendants of the ancient Dreamweaver families. Fun-loving, sexy and very creative, they join our dreams with amazing fantasies that they create for us. Book three (Black) is in development for publication late in 2020

Also look for Welcome to Misplacea, an urban fantasy novel of life, love and tempted-fate in one person's battle with drug addiction and, possibly, a reality-shifting psychosis—committed publication is in early 2020.

Check out Ross's short stories and novel excepts at:

rosspeacock.com

