 
STAN LERNER'S

CRIMINAL

By Stan Lerner

HOLLYWOOD BOOK FESTIVAL GRAND PRIZE WINNER

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Lerner Wordsmith Press on Smashwords

Copyright 2005 Stanley R. Lerner. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form without permission.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, incidents, and dialogue, except for the incidental references to public figures, institutions, agencies, products, places services, or companies, are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living person or disparage any company's products or services.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Introduction

So begins the story of one man's evil journey through life. A journey that gave birth to a crime organization that has never been truly understood by anyone until now. Some is fact. Some is fiction. It will be up to you to decide which is which—but even in lies there is truth.

Sam Noah is not famous like Al Capone, John Gotti or Pablo Escobar. But for reasons known only to Sam Noah and his closest associates, the government of the United States of America gave him the only sentence of its kind in the history of the American judicial system. Convinced he was no longer a menace to society, the judge presiding over his case ordered Sam Noah and law enforcement to part ways for good. And so it has been ever since. Or so it seems.

Sam Noah's influence and ideas are everywhere. He lives a quiet and peaceful life now, his past seemingly forgotten by most. Yet the events of today are the result of his deeds long ago. Perhaps he feels some regret and sadness for what he has brought to the world. But isn't evil just the opposite side of good? Sam Noah tossed the coin of fate, and let the world decide on which side it would land. Indeed, without the choice between good and evil, the world as we know it would not exist. It is important to understand that Sam Noah is not simply a criminal, but rather an artist. He creates within the realm of thought, seeing the potential in every moment and manipulating it in his own unique way.

There is great pain in the perpetration of evil, pain that is not felt until the time of reflection. In every life comes a time to reflect, a time to face the truth about one's self. Make no mistake about it, Sam Noah knows of right and wrong, but when he looks into people's hearts, he sees darkness. And darkness is indeed evil's magnet. In the darkness is where you'll find him.

Prologue

Carrington

1991

The voice on the other end of the line was agitated, a caricature of an angry police chief from any procedural drama or B-movie—now on the phone.

"Is this Jim Carrington?" the voice demanded to know.

"Yes. Who's this?" Jim asked, unable to place the voice. He looked around the bedroom for his wallet. He was already running late for the office—even without the unexpected call.

"Detective Metrano—Las Vegas Metro. I've got a homicide scene I think you should see."

A local cop summoning an FBI agent to a crime scene was a first for Jim. "Detective, I go when and where the FBI tells me to. You know that. I suggest you go through the proper channels."

"Fuck the proper channels!" Metrano's voice almost cracked as his eyes did a one-eighty around the modern-day torture chamber. "Your name and number are written in blood on the wall, right here in front of me." The horrible looking instruments were being photographed. He focused on the corpse with no arms and legs hanging from the meat hook. Genitals stuffed partially into his own mouth. "There's a body, I'm guessing that's where the blood came from. I've been working Vegas homicide for twenty years. I've seen everything. Fucking everything. Believe me, I've never seen anything like this. I suggest you go through whatever channels you need to and tell them you're on your way to Vegas."

"Is there anything else?" Jim asked, resigned to the horror he would soon be dealing with. Resigned that there was still much more to come.

"Yeah. There's one more thing," said Metrano. He was the kind of asshole who enjoyed watching an FBI mess unfold. "Someone left a manila envelope addressed to you."

"Has anybody touched that envelope?" Jim asked already knowing what a prick like Metrano's answer would be.

"We're checking it for prints. But in Vegas we don't read other people's mail. No matter how interesting yours must be."

CHAPTER 1

The Beginning

1984

The air was a mild 75-degrees and the sun had progressed to its late afternoon position in the sky. Sam Noah worked out at Gold's Gym in Venice. He was young—only nineteen-years-old, with a clean-cut look that was reminiscent of another time. He wore his hair short and his green eyes, surrounded by more red than white, told the story of a weighty and angry soul. Calm surrounded by fire. One look into Sam Noah's eyes left no doubt that he was always in control. One look at his powerful physique left no doubt he was very capable of asserting his will.

The wind blew through the palm trees. To the trained ear, it sounded like the angels might be crying. Gold's Gym—and the freaks who worked out there—made Sam feel comfortably anonymous. There, he could work out not only with intensity, but with hatred. The energy poured from his body into the cold steel. With every inch that it moved he felt stronger. Sam had discovered the dark side long before he found Gold's. But he never tired of the strength. He was fucking strong—and getting stronger every day.

Sam slammed 425 pounds back down on the narrow hooks of the well-worn bench-press and noticed a local musclehead, Greg Casserdly, making his way towards him. Greg's world revolved around the gym. He wasn't tall. But he was muscular in the way only heavy weights and steroids could make someone.

They usually worked out around the same time and often traded spots as they pushed their bodies for that one final rep. Men who lived Greg's lifestyle, if they weren't criminals or selling their ass, were usually impoverished. Greg was the latter.

Sam sensed Greg was looking for more than a spot before he even began to speak. People were always friendly when they needed something.

"Hey Sam, what are you doing after you're done working out?"

"Not much. Probably going home to watch some TV. Wait for my girlfriend to come over. Why?"

The acne on Greg's back was worse than Sam had ever seen it. He tried not to stare but couldn't stop himself.

_Disgusting. The side effect of roids_. _Steroids I'll never have to take because I'm already stronger than everybody in this fucking gym._

"My car broke down and I don't have a way to get to work. I was wondering...maybe you could give me a ride?" Greg explained, his face filled with a mixture of hope and angst.

Sam thought for a moment of all the people who had fallen upon hard times that his father had helped out. "Where do you need to go?"

Greg was hesitant. "Reseda."

Sam immediately felt the anxiety of getting into a situation that he didn't want to be in. "You work in the Valley? What the fuck are you doing working way out there?"

"I'm a bouncer at Jack Landis's Country Club. Look man, I hate to ask you for this. But I need to work the hours just to get the money together to fix my car. Dude, you would be a lifesaver."

Los Angeles was a large sprawling city with hellish traffic, especially if someone was trying to drive to the wrong place at the wrong time. Most Westsiders rarely ventured to the Valley. But plenty of Valley residents worked on the Westside. By 4:00 p.m. they packed the 405 freeway north trying to get home turning the Sepulveda pass into a parking lot. It was 3:51.

Sam wondered why the right thing to do and the easy thing to do never seemed to be the same. Soon he would be sitting on the 405 North in the worst fucking traffic imaginable.

"I'll give you a lift. But remind me to call my girlfriend and tell her I'm going to be home late."

"Thanks man. I really appreciate it," Greg said giving him a pat on the shoulder, which, like most displays of affection made Sam recoil inside himself. "If you want, I'll drive your car," Greg offered as an afterthought.

"I bet you will," Sam responded from his retracted state of humanity. "Sometime after hell freezes over." He laughed. "Come to think of it, not even then."

Greg smiled. "Can't blame me for trying."

"Sure I can." Sam looked back down at the bench press. The blue paint was chipped and the black vinyl needed to be replaced again. _Plenty of sweat from acne-covered backs like Greg's soaked into that thing._ "I'm gonna finish my workout. Throw another twenty-five on that side for me."

The quarters slammed on each side.

"Do you want a spot?"

"I'm okay, just keep an eye on me." Sam could feel eyes all over the gym on him. All those steroids and all they could do was watch and wonder. "Haaa, haaa, haaaa, haaa, haaaaa." The bar was back on the hooks. _A quarter of a ton; fuckin A, man. Fuckin A._

As soon as Sam pulled his beige 1976 Corvette Stingray into the parking lot behind the club, they were surrounded by five of Greg's co-workers. Each wore a bright red security shirt and dark pants.

"Bro, I love this car," the larger of two black bouncers said. He bent down in front of the hood and took in the lines for a second. "I've always wanted one of these. Man, you got to let me take it for a drive."

A white bouncer with long dark brown hair and an earring that appeared to be a pair of scissors extended his hand. "Excuse his rudeness. I'm Frank. Why don't you introduce everybody to your friend, Greg?"

"I was going to, but you guys pounced." Greg sounded annoyed.

"When a guy our age drives into this neighborhood in a Corvette? Please!" Frank jousted.

Greg nodded towards the smaller black guy. "Sam, this is Melvin. He's the boss." Melvin was an intelligent-looking athletic type: he was the kid who knew the street—but had the intellect to rise up out of it.

"Nice to meet you," Sam said, shaking Melvin's hand.

Melvin smiled. "Don't let these guys scare you off; they're all right once you get to know them." Melvin turned to Greg. "How do you guys know each other?"

"Sam works out at Gold's in Venice. My car broke down and Sam was cool enough to give me a ride."

Greg nodded towards a trailer-trash looking kid with stringy blond hair that looked like it hadn't been washed in a week. "Adam, meet my friend Sam. Adam works the stage door. Mostly, he spends the night fighting off hot little groupies trying to get back to see the bands."

"It's a tough job, but I don't mind doing it," Adam said as he shook Sam's hand.

"I'll bet you don't," Sam said, smiling at the visual of little skanks willing to give up their virtue to skinny guys with long hair and drug habits.

"The big guy here who loves your car is Doug," Greg continued.

"Big guy" was a good description Sam guessed, about six-five, two hundred and eighty pounds. Doug's eyes gave away that he was a young man with a dream. Typical of someone that had moved from somewhere else.

"You can take it around the block if you want," Sam offered.

Doug's smile disappeared. "Bro, don't even joke around like that."

"I never joke," Sam said as he handed him the keys, "just take it around the block and don't crash it."

Doug looked at the keys in his hand; he shook his head as the moment sunk in.

"You're fucking kidding me?" Frank was beside himself. "You're going to let him drive your Vette? Just like that?"

"Yeah, just like that," Sam answered.

Go see what it's like to be me for a while. Then we'll talk, my friends. Then we'll talk.

"You know I'm sitting shotgun," said Frank both bewildered and amused at the same time.

"Knock yourself out. Just don't let him fuck up my car."

"I'll protect this car with my life," Doug said, already halfway into the drivers seat. "Let's go," he said, motioning to Frank.

Frank was sliding into the passenger's seat—when the concerned looking Hispanic bouncer spoke for the first time. "Like he said, just take it around the block. I need you guys back here..."

Frank slammed the door before he could finish.

"We're going to be short-handed tonight." his voice trailed off as the car roared out of its parking space. He noticed the surprise on Sam's face that he spoke with some authority. "I'm Steve. Believe it or not, I'm their supervisor," he said, extending his hand.

Melvin put his hand on Steve's shoulder. "Steve handles everything here at the club for me. I pop in and out to make sure things are going all right. But otherwise, Steve's in charge."

Sam nodded. "At least I know who to talk to if they won't let me in."

"I've got you covered," Steve said clearly more impressed by Sam's menacing build than his Corvette.

Sam got the feeling that Steve was a good guy. He was soft around the middle and his eyes looked fatigued. Sam figured he had to be married with young kids.

Steve looked at Greg and Adam and then at his watch. "You guys were on duty five minutes ago. Get to your spots."

"Nice to meet you," Adam offered with a parting nod.

"Likewise," Sam responded.

Greg turned to Sam. "Thanks for the ride, man. I'll work out getting home, unless you want to stick around and take in the show?"

"It's a good show tonight," Steve said—agreeing with Greg. "Why don't you stick around?"

"I would—but I'm starving. And right now my fridge is packed with food."

Melvin and Steve both smiled. Steve pointed to a little restaurant at the rear of the parking lot. "From 5:00 to 6:00, it's all the dollar burgers you can eat."

"No shit?" Sam said, feeling much hungrier than he had just seconds before.

"No shit." Melvin grinned.

"Alright. Twist my arm," Sam said, awkwardly turning his arm toward himself.

Steve pointed toward the club. "I'm gonna check on the guys, then come grab a bite myself."

"I'll save you a seat," Sam offered, not feeling like he wanted to eat alone. "What about you, Melvin? Joining us?"

Melvin shook his head. "I wish I could. Next time."

Sam started towards the restaurant. "Save a couple of seats for Frank and Doug. They're always hungry and they're not on until 6:00," Steve shouted out after him.

Sam was surprised to find the restaurant empty. It should have been packed. "What's the point of one-dollar burgers if you don't tell anyone?" he asked himself as he read the "Please Wait To Be Seated" sign.

The young hostess in the white blouse and short black skirt seemed bored. "Sit anywhere you want," she managed to say, almost collapsing from the strain of it all.

Sam had barely slid to the end of the booth when the same girl walked up and slammed down a brownish green plastic glass filled with water on the table hard enough for some of the water to slosh out. "What can I get you?"

"I'll take ten burgers and a glass of water." He looked down at the glass. "Ten burgers and a full glass of water."

She actually smiled. "You're kidding, right?"

"Do I look like the kind of person that kids?" The words came out with the threatening tone Sam had intended. The smile disappeared from her face. There was an awkward silence. Sam stared at her blankly. Without saying another word she turned around and walked back to the kitchen.

"Lazy bitch," he said, almost loud enough for her to hear.

I bet you're a good fuck though.

He imagined her naked bent over on her hands and knees, still wearing her waitress get up—only for the image to dissolve back into Greg making his way toward him. "I thought you're supposed to be working?" Sam asked, surprised to see Greg sitting at his table.

Greg lifted the plastic glass of water out of its puddle and took a drink. "I am. Melvin sent me over here to see if you want to work the show tonight? I told him you're about making real money. But I know you like to do off-the-wall shit sometimes. What do you think? You want to work?"

Eight bucks an hour isn't much, but it's more than you'll make sitting home on your ass. What the fuck.

He nodded. "Tell Melvin I'll do it."

"I've never seen him offer someone a job on the fly." Greg chugged the rest of Sam's water and stood back up still crushing some ice-cubes in his mouth.

"It must be fate."

Greg smiled. "It must be."

As Greg walked out, Steve, Frank and Doug walked in. They had smiles on their faces as they sat down. Doug handed Sam his keys. "You know we're brothers now. You and me are family."

"Children of a mixed marriage no doubt," Frank felt compelled to add.

Steve leaned forward. "So I hear you're one of us now?"

"For tonight at least," Sam answered.

"You'll get hooked." Steve's words had the ring of insight. "I'm going to put you at the door with John. He'll show you the ropes."

"Let's order. I'm fuckin starving," Frank said abruptly.

They were looking hungrily at the waitress as she approached the table with two plates of burgers.

"You ordered already?" Frank asked, eyes wide.

Sam could barely concentrate as she put the food on the table. He thought he heard the waitress say something like, "Is this for all of you?"

"No!" all four shouted simultaneously.

"I'll have the same," Doug said without hesitation.

"Me too." Frank had morphed into, a stomach with verbal skills.

"I don't know how you guys can eat so much." Steve looked up at the waitress. "Just give me five burgers and a chocolate shake."

Sam noticed their eyes had drifted to his plate. "You can have some of mine until your food gets here. But I'm paying myself back when it does."

They all reached for the plate. Like a school of piranha had just passed, his burgers were gone.

"Steve, how the fuck did you become a bouncer?" Sam asked.

Steve gave his stomach a pat. "What, because I don't do sit-ups anymore? You try getting married and having three kids."

"I didn't mean it like that. I meant how did you wind up working here?"

"I sold Melvin a suit."

"That makes sense. Was that just after Frank sold him a car?"

Steve laughed. "Just what we need. Another sarcastic bouncer. Frank isn't enough to deal with."

Frank's head turned in Steve's direction, eyes narrowed. "Fuck you! If you would just answer a simple fucking question, I wouldn't be so fucking sarcastic."

Steve ignored Frank. "I was a salesman at Suit Warehouse. But I couldn't pay my bills. When Melvin offered me a job, I took it."

"You're saying that you make more money bouncing than selling suits?" Frank asked unsympathetically. "That's got to be bullshit. I could give you a lesson on not being able to pay your bills."

Steve shook his head. "No you couldn't. Trust me, I used to boil ketchup in hot water to make tomato soup. I ate it three times a day with some saltines so my kids could eat whatever real food we could afford. That's not being able to pay your bills." Steve directed his attention back to Sam. "Anyway, I've got a roof over our heads and food on the table. I'm helping Melvin build something that could have a future."

Steve seemed spent. So Sam turned to Doug.

"I know you're not from around here?"

"Born and raised in Chicago."

"Chicago's a nice town. What brought you to L.A.?"

"I came to California to win a Mr. Olympia title."

"You couldn't do that in Chicago?"

"Bro, you're from here. You work out at Gold's. You know you have to be here. You gotta have the environment."

"So you just packed up and came to L.A.?"

Doug shook his head. "Got married first, bought a car for fifty dollars, then came to L.A."

"You're my age, you can't be married?"

"Don't tell that to sis."

"Who?"

"If we're brothers, my wife is your sister, sis. It's good to have a woman behind you. It keeps you straight.

Sam looked from Doug to Frank. "I'm guessing the long hair and blue streak have some kind of significance?"

"I'm a metal-head. If I wasn't working the shows I'd be down in the pit, banging."

"I like metal. Maybe I should grow hair down to my ass?" Sam's lack of sincerity struck a chord with Frank.

"If you want to fuck metal-head chicks you should. They love long hair." Frank gave a quick, tender glance down at his crotch.

"You got a point," Sam conceded. "So, you're a bouncer who likes heavy metal and fucking metal chicks. How'd you get to this pinnacle of existence?"

"By way of the Merchant Marines. Which sucked ass so bad, being a bouncer really is a fucking huge step up. And don't look so surprised that I know the word pinnacle. I scored twelve-seventy on my SAT's."

"No fucking way."

"Yes, fucking way—I'll show you the paper. My parents framed the fucking thing. I would have done better if I hadn't been stoned out of my mind."

"I didn't mean no way you got a twelve-seventy. I meant no way that you were in the Merchant Marines."

"Fuckin A right I was. I sailed from one shit hole to the next. The worst fucking experience of my life."

"Maybe you should have lost the earring?"

"I didn't have the earring when I was in the Merchant Marines. I got the earring when I started cosmetology school."

Sam's burger dropped from his hand back to the greasy white plate on the brown Formica tabletop. "Shut the fuck up. You're a bouncer at night and a fucking hairdresser by day? I've heard a lot of crazy shit, but this is just too fucking much." Sam looked at Doug and Steve respectively. They both nodded that Frank was telling the truth. Sam shrugged. "At least now I get why you have a pair of gold scissors stuck to your ear."

Doug gave Frank's ear a pinch. "We nicknamed him Scissors."

"It's a good nickname." Sam paused and gave it some thought. "Sounds more like a killer than a hairdresser."

Frank shrugged. The word killer seemed to cause some tension in his shoulders. "I give a fucking killer haircut anyway."

"I might put you to the test," Sam paused for just the slightest moment. "If the price is right." He hated paying for haircuts.

"How does free sound? I'm always looking to practice."

"It sounds perfect to me," Sam answered.

"Is it always this crowded?" Sam asked, impressed by the line for the show that stretched from the front door—down the block to the now-full parking lot.

"The place sells out three to four nights a week," Steve confirmed.

"How many is considered a sellout?" Sam asked.

"Well, when I first started working, twelve hundred was capacity. But the fire martial cut the place back to a thousand."

"Did the club have to take out seats?" Sam asked, trying to imagine how they could cut their capacity.

Steve shook his head. "No. You'll see once we get inside. The place is festival seating, so they just had to sell less tickets."

"What's festival seating?"

"First come, first serve," Frank said, trying to simplify Steve's explanation.

Doug pointed at the line. "That's why they line up two hours before the doors open."

"And that's why we start two hours before the show, to make sure things don't get out of hand in the line," Frank added.

"What can get out of hand?" Sam asked.

Frank smirked. "You should ask Steve that question."

Steve shot Frank a look and then turned to Sam with a little apprehension. "Don't listen to Frank, the asshole. People get a little restless in line, or pissed if they think someone is cutting in front of them. Our job is just to keep the peace while they're out here."

"At least tell him what happened to Willie." He looked at Sam: his right eyebrow went up slightly. "Willie is the guy you're replacing."

Steve sighed. "Two nights ago, Willie caught a little Mexican guy cutting in line and told him to go to the back. Instead of doing what he was asked, he got pissed and sucker-punched Willie in the face with a role of quarters in his hand. Shattered his jaw. That's why we're short a guy."

"Still want to work tonight?" Frank asked.

"I can take care of myself," Sam answered plainly.

Frank's brow lifted, causing his forehead to wrinkle with curiosity. "Really? Willie is a lineman for the L.A. Express and he got knocked on his ass pretty good. But of course you probably learned how to take care of yourself in the mean hallways of UCLA. Isn't that where you said you go to school?"

Sam looked down at the black parking lot pavement, just a hint of a grin on his face—clearly looking for just the right words. He looked back up at Frank, squinting as the last of the day's sun caught his eyes. "Frank, I don't want to sound like a dick or anything. But I assure you, I could kick all three of your asses at the same time and not break a sweat."

There was a moment of tense silence.

Frank looked unsure as to how serious Sam was. He certainly sounded serious. "Well if there's a problem we'll come get you."

"I'd really enjoy that." Sam tried to smile pleasantly, but it came across as threatening and evil.

John stood at the door with the casual comfort of a young man who had found his calling. Boyish looking in his mid-twenties, he was still the high school football player varsity lineman, beer-bong specialist that spent more time blow-drying his hair than he did studying.

The club itself was deceptively large. Sam hadn't imagined from the outside that the main room would be a full-blown showroom—complete with balcony seating. The stage was similar to those he had seen in Las Vegas—concealed by an enormous burgundy curtain. He could only guess that it was about forty feet wide.

Sam stood at the door with John. The entrance area of the club was far less grand than the showroom. They let the mostly white-trash crowd into the sold-out show quickly and without incident. The majority of the crowd headed for the main show area. Still, plenty of people hung around the back bar, under Sam and John's watch from the door.

"You see, we actually have different bosses. You work for Melvin, who has a contract to supply guys like you to the club. I work directly for the club. I've been here for five years. I'm Jack's boy."

"You've been working the door for five years? Isn't there something else you'd rather do?" Sam asked, not really giving a shit about the pecking order John had just made sure that he was aware of.

John seemed bewildered by the question. "Why would I want to do anything else? This is the best job in the world."

"You think opening a door and ripping up little fucking pieces of paper is the best fucking job in the world? John, I know we don't really know each other. But that's some serious lack of ambition."

John folded his arms in front of himself and looked at Sam critically. "What you have, New Guy, is a serious lack of understanding. This job isn't about opening a door or ripping a ticket. It's all about power. We control something that people want. Something people want—badly."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught Doug walking toward them. "What's up?" Sam asked, sensing that something was wrong.

Doug motioned towards the bar with his head. "You see the big biker talking to the little chick with the tattoo?"

He was hard to miss; he looked like a three hundred pound hillbilly. "Yeah, I see him," Sam said.

"He hangs out at the biker club across the street. He asked me if he could come in for a minute, so I let him in. Then I see him ordering a drink and chatting up the chick like he's planning to stay. So I walk up and tell him it's time to go. He tells me, 'Fuck off, you fucking nigger.' I wanted to hit him, but I didn't want to start a racial thing. Do you mind taking care of this?"

Sam walked away without bothering to answer.

"Hey you, fat redneck fuck!" Sam shouted, adrenaline coursing. The biker turned to face him, clearly confused about what was going on. Sam grabbed him by his beard and snapped his head forward so hard and so fast, that the biker lost his balance and fell to his knees, spilling his drink all over himself.

"You fucking tattooed piece of shit!" Sam shouted in his face. The biker tried to pull away but Sam's hand was wrapped tightly in his beard. "Whose club is this, motherfucker?" Sam punched him in the face with his free hand. He felt the biker's nose break. He punched him again and felt his cheekbone crack. It was all he could do to restrain himself as he dragged the bleeding, shocked biker through the bar and out the doors. Once at the curb, Sam let go of his beard and gave him a hard kick to the stomach. It took a second for the blow to take effect. But when it did, the biker just groaned and rolled over into the gutter.

Sam looked up to see three of the biker's friends crossing the street. He felt a surge of excitement.

"What's up, man?" the smallest of the three asked.

Sam's whole body tightened. He felt his momentum move forward before he moved at all. A path to the smallest one whose neck he would break first. "You want to see what's up motherfucker?" Sam glanced at the bleeding biker in the gutter.

"Look, we're just going to get our friend and go," the smaller one said.

Sam wasn't sure he had heard correctly, but he took a step back. Without saying another word they got their buddy to his feet and walked back to where they had come from. He watched them disappear and then turned back to the front door where Doug, Frank, John, and Steve stood staring at him strangely.

"What? You said throw him out. I threw him out."

"You certainly did," Steve agreed sardonically. He crossed his arms in front of himself and rubbed his chin. "You certainly did indeed."

"Thanks bro, you did a good job." Doug tried to keep a straight face.

Frank clapped his hands together and burst out laughing. "I'm sorry. But I mean, you know I mean you actually rearranged his fucking face and kicked the guy into the gutter, the fucking gutter. That's really funny." Frank looked at everybody. "Oh fuck you guys. C'mon that was funny!"

Frank's sense of humor lightened things up a bit. But Sam felt like he should still defend his actions. "People have to know who's in charge. You have to set an example. Why don't you ask biker boy if he's having a good laugh right now?"

There was no stopping Frank. "Oh, trust me. He's over there with his friends in tears right now laughing his ass off. I can hear him now. 'If he had just kicked my whole fucking head in, this would have been the best night ever. Or maybe his foot up my ass would have felt good.'"

Steve turned to Frank. "There's something wrong with you."

Frank was still chuckling as he turned away and walked back into the main showroom. "Something wrong with me? I'm not the one who got kicked into the fucking gutter!" he shouted as he disappeared inside.

"I'm going to rove," Steve said, as he turned and left.

Doug gave Sam's neck a squeeze. "Thanks again, bro. I can't tell you how a situation like that feels."

"Yeah, well screw him. Maybe he'll think twice before he opens his fucking mouth next time."

"Maybe," Doug said, with the sadness of knowing better. "Listen, after work Frank and me grab breakfast across the street at Norm's. You up for it?"

"Dude, I eat ten thousand calories a day. I never say no to food."

"All right then." Doug smiled as he walked away leaving just John, who was looking at Sam strangely.

"What's on your mind?" Sam asked, with no real interest in knowing.

"Nothing. I'm just not into the whole violence thing. You could probably have just talked the guy into leaving."

Sam thought for a moment about what John had just said. "Doug gave him a chance. He asked him to leave nicely and he didn't. Violence is all some people understand."

"He's in a gang. What if he comes back with his friends to start some shit?" John asked, unconvinced.

"Fuck them. If they want to have a problem with me, they won't be happy with how things work out. Trust me."

"Yeah, I guess not," John said, with the thoughtful hesitation of a person who realizes that they might be dealing with someone dangerous, maybe even insane.

"Hey man, I got friends inside. How can I get in?"

John turned from Sam to the well-dressed young Asian at the door. "Sorry dude, it's sold out. The box office is closed."

Without another word the young Asian man pulled out a twenty and handed it to John. "My friends are waiting."

John took the twenty and put it in his pocket. "C'mon in. It's cool."

The young Asian walked past them toward the showroom. John pulled out his wallet, put the twenty in, and pulled out a ten—which he handed to Sam. "That's how it works, you watch my back, I watch yours—and we split the money. Is that cool with you?"

Sam put the ten in his pocket. "It beats working an extra hour."

John smiled. "I never thought of it that way, but you're right. It beats working an extra hour."

Sam thought about the backbreaking work his father forced him to do as a child. A never-ending line of trucks that needed to be unloaded. His dad had once told a friend, "Why would I waste money on a forklift? I've got Sam!" Sam could hear the words like they were being said right in front of him.

A son, a forklift, no fucking difference.

The show ended and the crowd departed uneventfully. Doug, Frank, and Sam walked through the parking lot to make sure all was well before heading across the street to Norm's for breakfast. As they reached the sidewalk, Melvin and Steve came around the corner, cutting them off.

"Headed for Norm's?" Melvin asked.

"Where the fuck else can we eat at two in the morning around here?" answered the mindless stomach called Frank.

Melvin turned to Sam. "So what did you think?"

"It was fun. I wouldn't exactly call it work."

Melvin smiled. "You didn't mind asking the biker to leave?"

Sam shrugged. "No big deal."

"In the future, don't hit anybody once they're outside of the club. Your power ends three feet beyond the door. After that you're on the public sidewalk and you're committing assault." Melvin had turned serious.

Sam nodded but felt compelled to ask the obvious. "What do you mean in the future?"

Steve tapped him on the chest with the Maglite he was holding. "Melvin and me thought you might want to keep working the door."

"Yeah, I'd like to keep working." Sam was genuinely flattered. "To be honest though, it seems like John could pretty much handle things himself."

"Tonight was John's last night. Jack, as in Jack Landis the owner, just gave him the bad news. The club's insurance company doesn't want any employees working positions where they could get involved in a physical altercation. So if you want, you're our new man at the door." Melvin said, holding out his hand.

"I'm your man," Sam confirmed as his hand met Melvin's with a firm grasp.

Doug, Frank and Sam sat in the corner booth of the greasy diner. The horrid fluorescent lighting cast a particularly bad pallor on the living dead that ate there at three in the morning.

"Are you two really happy making eight bucks an hour?"

Frank swallowed, "Fuck no, that's why I'm going to cosmetology school."

"So you can make twenty bucks an hour?" Sam asked looking at him with an expression that screamed, "You've got to be fucking kidding me or yourself. Which is it?"

Frank put down his knife and fork. "I'm all ears if you got a better idea?" His tone was void of feeling and his eyes stared coldly at Sam.

"What about you?" Sam asked Doug.

Doug rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "Sis is working at the Sizzler yesterday and a guy grabs her ass. I want her at home. I want furniture—and I want a car that I don't have to start with a screwdriver. So if you got something, I'm in."

"Tomorrow night, I'll be working the door. Doug, Steve listens to everything you say—so you need to tell him to put Frank in the parking lot and that you're going to rove. But for the first part of the night, you're going to search people as they come through the door."

"We've never searched people before. Not seriously anyway," said Doug.

"I know. Tell Steve it's my idea. Tell him I'm worried about someone getting a weapon in, like a knife, which would be a lot worse than a roll of quarters. He's got a wife and kids. He'll go for it. Believe me. Steve just wants to get his paycheck and get home in one piece." Frank and Doug nodded their agreement.

"Anyway, when the doors open, I'm going to take the first two hundred tickets and stuff them in my right jacket pocket." Sam looked at Frank. "That's the one facing the inside of the club, not the door."

Frank nodded, "I got it."

Sam looked at Doug. "You need to stand back from where I'm standing about three feet and you need to move the crowd past me quickly. They'll be nervous about getting searched, so they won't be thinking about a ticket stub. They're going to be thinking about whether or not they have something that they're going to get busted for. Also, by standing back a few feet, you'll have a clear view down the hallway to the showroom, so you can let me know if we have an unwanted visitor on the way. You guys with me so far?"

They both nodded their heads again.

"Just keep going. I think I'm getting hard," Frank commented.

"Thanks for sharing that Frank," Sam shot back.

Frank looked over at Doug. "Did he just try to say something funny?"

"Anyway," Sam continued, "just before we start letting people in, find out in the parking lot, and in the line, who still needs tickets. Then tell them to meet you behind the building. Watch the door. When it looks like I've let in a hundred people, cruise by to make sure Doug and I are okay. Walk up close on my right side and pull the tickets out of my pocket. It'll be packed up there with people waiting to be searched, so trust me no one will notice. I'm going to keep on taking tickets, and you're going to ask me if we're all right. I'll say 'yeah we're fine', and then you take the un-ripped tickets out to the parking lot and sell them for twenty bucks a piece.

"At the end of the night we'll come here and split the cash. I get fifty percent. Frank gets forty. Doug, you're in for ten. Frank and I will be taking most of the risk, so I think that's fair. And let's face it, neither of us has a wife to answer to if something goes wrong and we get canned. What do you guys think?"

"I'll sell the shit out of those tickets," said Frank.

"I'm cool with it," Doug agreed. "You guys are taking the risk. But from now on you guys are buying breakfast."

"What if there's not a sellout?" Frank asked, with just a hint of greed.

"The place sells out three to four nights a week, right? On the nights it doesn't, we'll just chalk them up to getting paid to hang out. At three to four sellouts a week, we're doing fine. I'm talking six to sixteen grand a week fine." Sam was sure Frank hadn't done the math. He hoped his answer was a reality check.

"Bro, what do you think the chances are of nobody noticing?" Doug looked grave. "You're talking serious money."

"Doug, think about it. It's a lot of money, but it's not out of anybody's pocket. Nobody's gonna notice. The club is happy because they're selling more drinks. And the bands are happy because they're selling more shirts. Everyone's a winner." Sam paused and then slammed his fist against the table. "Shit!"

Frank and Doug exchanged worried glances.

"I forgot to call my girlfriend and tell her I was going to be late. Fuck!"

Doug shook his head with the understanding only married men have. "Bro, you are in trouble."

Frank, unlike Doug, was oblivious to Sam's plight. "Oh come on. Any girl that dates you must be used to all kinds of shit. I'm picturing Calamity-fucking-Jane."

Sam smiled. "You really are a dumbfuck. Do you think for a second I'd date anyone remotely like myself?"

"I'm sorry, my second guess was Mary-fucking-Poppins. C'mon, throw us some details."

"Her name is Stacy. She doesn't smoke, she barely drinks, she's never done drugs, and she was a twenty-one-year-old virgin when we met, so she says. If it was true, she was probably the only one at UCLA."

Frank looked at Doug. "Notice he said _was_ a virgin." He turned back to Sam. "How the fuck did a guy like you meet a girl like her? I've got to hear this."

Sam shrugged. "Opposites attract."

"Oh bullshit! There's more to it than that. Don't make me beg, just tell us the fucking story."

"We met this summer during the Olympics. We were both employed as Los Angeles Olympic hosts by Anheuser-Busch. Busch spent forty million dollars to become an official Olympic sponsor and they spent about the same on hospitality."

"Eighty million dollars. That's a lot of fucking money." Frank was trying to get his head around the number.

"Hospitality for the athletes?" asked Doug.

"No, hospitality for Busch VIP's," Sam clarified. "Mostly distributors and suppliers. There's a lot of money in beer, my brother. I know it's hard to imagine me babysitting a bunch of barley farmers. But I was fucking great at it. Rich people love me. I made the Busch VIP's feel like rock stars. And it wasn't an easy job to get. They had ten thousand all-American kids competing for sixty positions. I was hand-picked."

"You went through all of this to make how much?" Frank asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

"I went through an open call and seven interviews to make two hundred and fifty dollars a day, see every Olympic event, eat all the food I wanted, live at the Century Plaza Hotel, and steal a million dollars worth of Anheuser-Busch Olympic pins."

Frank let out a burst of laughter. "Un-fucking-believable. You met your Mary-fucking-Poppins girlfriend while you were ripping off Anheuser-Busch."

"Bro, I'm not doubting you. But I don't understand. How'd you make money on Olympic pins?" Doug asked.

"On lunatics like my parents," Frank answered for Sam. "Coins, stamps, trading cards, and pins. They actually have a fucking motor home that they drive to shows all over the country where they sell all that kind of shit."

"Very good, Scissors." Sam turned to Doug. "You see bro, pin trading at the Olympics is almost bigger than the Olympics themselves. Every four years people come from all over the world to trade pins. So right down on Exposition Boulevard Busch erected a four story inflatable six-pack of Budweiser Beer that housed the International Pin-Trading Center. They also made a set of Anheuser-Busch trading pins that they put in every VIP gift pack that I was supposed to hand out. Needless to say, the night before the Olympics started, I took every set of pins out of every pack, ten thousand of them. I recruited some fellow all-American VIP hosts to sell them for me. And the rest, as they say, is Olympic History."

Frank leaned back against the booth and clasped his hands behind his head, trying to picture the whole thing. "Okay, you get into the storeroom the night before. That's easy because you're in charge of the bags. But how the fuck does no one notice the missing pins? And why the fuck did Busch put up a pin- trading center?"

"It was a gift bag—nobody knew what was supposed to be in the thing. Basically the guests had no clue. And the only people who did have a fucking clue were back somewhere in Saint Louis. Even if anybody had asked me, I would have just told them I had no idea what's supposed to be in the thing, I just handed them out. As for the six-pack, Busch had no choice; they had to find a way to do their corporate branding thing. The L.A. Olympic committee wouldn't let corporate sponsors hang their tacky fucking signs all over the venues."

"So you were in charge of the pin-trading center?" Frank asked.

"No. Officially I was in charge of 'Sam the Eagle', the Olympic Mascot. There were two of them—a real eagle and a costume eagle, just like the ones you see at Disneyland. After the opening ceremonies the real one dropped dead in its cage. So I had the only official mascot in town. I actually had my own tour bus. When I wasn't shaking down the other corporate sponsors for mascot appearances, I just stayed parked outside of the pin-trading center so I could keep an eye on my pin business."

"You really are a ruthless motherfucker," Frank said with admiration. "You live the American Dream."

"And I do a great job while doing it," Sam said, and paused picturing the pins. "They were selling so fast at eighty bucks a piece that I raised the price to a hundred and twenty. I ran out halfway through the second week of the games."

Frank reached down and pulled his pants away from his crotch. "Okay, so you cleared a million and change. But how did you wind up getting the girl?"

"C'mon man it's late. I'll tell you the rest some other time." Sam was thinking about his drive home and his sound-asleep girlfriend.

"Yeah, fuck that. I want to hear some romantic shit before we leave."

"C'mon, bro," Doug urged.

"Okay, here it is. But if one of you laughs even once, end of story."

Frank waved his hand in front of his face, "I won't even smile."

"All right, it's like this. I was feeling so good about all the fun I was having and all the money I was making that I got the urge to do something. I don't know how to describe it exactly, altruistic maybe. I'm not completely sure."

"Please don't tell me you decided to help some poor fucking-inner-city kids?" Frank pleaded. "Anything but that."

"Day six of the Olympics I call the AP news service and let them know that 'Sam the Eagle' is going to be making an appearance in front of the International Pin-Trading Center. I explained that he's there to bring joy, happiness, and the Olympic spirit to underprivileged children. Then I call some youth organizations and tell them to come on down and bring their cameras. 'Sam the Eagle' was all theirs for half an hour. I also threw in free candy and sodas for everybody.

"That afternoon, it was camera crew mania at the six-pack. Poor, fucking-inner-city kids hanging out with the Olympic mascot, drinking sodas, eating candy, and having the best time of their impoverished young lives. Best of all, it was unfolding in front of a giant six-pack of Budweiser. A billion people around the world were watching. I was so happy with how things worked out that I called it an early day, watched some of the swimming finals, and headed back to the hotel.

Sam's mind drifted back to the hospitality desk of the Century Plaza that summer night.

"The boss left a message that you're supposed to go straight to her office," the attractive young girl at the reception desk informed him in a fairly serious tone.

The door to his boss Kathy's office was slightly open. Sam entered with some apprehension. No employee ever desired to be summoned by his or her superior. To his surprise the room was empty except for an important looking gentleman sitting behind the boss' desk. He had a full head of gray hair and wore a conservative suit.

"Did someone want to see me?" Sam asked.

"Do you know who I am?" His voice was deep. He spoke with authority.

"No." Sam sensed trouble.

"I'm the vice president of Anheuser-Busch. I take it you're the young man who staged the media event at the Pin-Trading Center today?"

Oh shit. This is the end of the Olympics for me. No good deed goes unpunished.

Sam simply said. "I made a few calls. I thought it would be a good idea to get some free publicity."

The vice president didn't look happy. "Have you ever heard of Flashman Alvord?"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"They're our public relations firm. We pay them millions of dollars every year to stage media events. Our relationship with them is very important to us. You embarrassed them today and that's bad for our relationship."

"I was just trying to help," Sam said quietly, penitently.

"I know and that's why you're not going to be fired," the vice president paused—allowing Sam to feel the heat of his blazing stare. "But don't, I repeat, don't, try to help again. Just do your job and let them do theirs. You got it?"

"Yes sir, not a problem."

The vice president's tone softened. "Sam, sit down for a minute." Sam was happy to oblige. "Son, who are you? What's your background?"

"I'm just a street kid from East L.A., sir," Sam said humbly.

"You go to school?"

"Yes sir, I go to UCLA."

"That's a good school. Do you study hard and get good grades?"

Sam thought back to when he actually gave a fuck about his grades. "I used to," he answered politely.

The vice president looked him up and down. "You're one of those one in a million kids. But I'm sensing that something's going wrong. I can't help but wonder what. If you need someone to talk to I'm listening."

"I'm worried about the future," Sam told the important man sitting in front of him

Sam could see the look of concern on the vice president's face ease. The light in the office was soft and warm.

"Off the record," the vice president leaned forward. "A kid who can show up and embarrass, the largest PR firm in the country is very impressive." He lowered his voice like they were good friends about to share a secret. "You just had the idea and went with it?"

Sam saw no benefit in lying to his new friend, the vice president. He had already been told getting fired was off the table. "Yes, sir. I just thought it up this morning and went with it. No big deal."

"Amazing. There's nothing like individual initiative. I tell all my top people that, over and over again. In fact it's the Busch doctrine. I hope you understand I had to say what I said to you. We're one of the largest corporations in the world. We can't just have some kid running around doing whatever he wants. But I appreciate what you did. Our people got caught sitting on their asses. When you're done with school, you give me a call."

A busboy collided with a waitress at the far end of the restaurant. There was a loud crash. The result of someone's bacon and eggs hitting the floor. "Shit!" Sam heard the waitress say. He was surprised she cared enough to use profanity. Then looking over to the scene of the collision he realized she was upset because the food had wound up on her Norm's uniform before the plates took their fall. Sam looked back to his new coworkers and finished his story.

"I was in a bit of a daze as I walked back out to the reception area, thankful that I didn't just get fired. The night shift had arrived—and Stacy was at the hospitality desk."

Frank smiled. "And of course you had never met her before because she worked the night shift."

Sam nodded. "If I hadn't gotten called in for doing the whole underprivileged inner-city kid thing, we would have never met. And that's the story. It's late. Let's get the fuck out of here."

Doug wasn't going anywhere. "No way, bro. I got to know what happened after you saw her."

Frank looked at his watch. "Fuck it, I hate to admit it. But I'm actually finding this fucking story interesting. At least give us the short version. What the fuck did you say to her?"

"I sat down in the chair in front of her and said, 'Who are you?'"

"She asked, 'Who wants to know?' And the rest of the story is for another day." Sam stood up and fished the keys out of his pocket. "Come on, let's go."

CHAPTER 2

Carrington

No Place Like Home

Jim Carrington made the left turn onto the three-mile stretch of dirt road that led to his parents' house. The road was so familiar. But it had been two long years since he had been home.

He was only twenty-six-years-old, but looked older. Working and going to law school full time had contributed to a few premature wrinkles. He still tried to run four miles a day and did plenty of pushups and sit-ups to keep his body from suffering the same fate as his brow. At five-foot-ten, one hundred and sixty-five pounds his physique had not changed at all in the last few years. He wondered what his mother would think of his mustache. "It makes you look older Jim," she would say.

"No, the wrinkles from not sleeping for the last two years did that," he would tell her. There was no point in arguing. It made him look older and he knew it. At least his hair was holding out. Light brown hair and blue green eyes like his mother's side of the family. They were Germans who had somehow wound up in England before immigrating to the United States in the late 1800s.

Window down, Jim breathed in the air of his formative years. The crickets were loud. He had forgotten how loud they were. If you lived in the countryside long enough, the sound of crickets and the other night creatures was just there like background music, like the ticking of the grandfather clock in the den of his family's house. Heard but not listened to, like so many other things in life.

He looked over at his wife Julie, his high-school sweetheart. She looked back at him reassuringly. They were the same age, but she looked five years younger than he did. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and perfect skin. Still every bit the girl who went on to become head cheerleader and homecoming queen he had asked out on a date when they were fourteen-years-old. Having Missy had no adverse effects on her figure. Most women lost it after kids, or ridiculously over compensated. Julie did Jane Fonda for a half hour in the morning and she looked great. And she looked like a woman. Jim wanted to laugh. It was hard to imagine that he owed anything to Jane Fonda, let alone his wife's good figure.

Say Jane Fonda's name in my father's house and see what happens. Could be the last name you say.

Carringtons still called their elders "Sir". Carringtons still honored their parents' wishes.

Julie's hand squeezed his arm. "It's going to be okay. Don't worry so much."

"Don't worry so much? You know my father—"

"Your dad is going to be fine. I mean, after a few years, I'm sure he'll be fine." She looked like she wanted to laugh. Jim's father was a third-generation farmer; he wasn't the type of man who liked surprises.

Jim shook his head. "Not funny. Cruel, in fact."

Julie tilted her head and gave him a wink. "You'll always have me." The car hit a bump and the sound of a baby who didn't want to be woken was immediately audible. Julie laughed. "I think the baby's awake." Jim grimaced.

They didn't talk for the next ten minutes. There was no point. Missy was howling and every bump only made her scream louder. Jim took a deep breath as he pulled up to his parents' single-story farmhouse. There were more cars parked in front than there had been for the wedding. He looked at Julie. "Is there anyone they didn't invite?"

Julie opened the rear door and began unbuckling their now quiet daughter from her car seat. " Oh sweetie, they didn't forget anybody. We're in Tennessee, remember."

Jim loved Tennessee. If his father hadn't insisted on his going to college, he would have been a fourth-generation farmer. "Thanks for reminding me," he said sarcastically.

The dining-room table, built by Jim's great-grandfather, was covered with his mother's unbelievably good cooking. Much like the cluttered table, it seemed every person Jim had ever known was in the room. They stood around the table creating a cacophony of down home farm chatter. Strong, powerfully built men with callused hands—most dressed in jeans and flannel shirts. Fathers and sons, wives and daughters—they had all turned out. Jim noticed Julie had managed to escape with Missy to the kitchen. His mother always offered her refuge back there. Too bad she's not part of the lively conversation, Jim thought to himself.

"I bought the new John Deer 350—but I sent them back their damn baseball cap. I don't care if it's free, if it's made in China they can keep it. I've got plenty of old ones that were made here and I can always wear my Caterpillar hat. You'll see, one day they won't even want to make tractors here. That's the day I stop farming. You hear me, Bob? That's the day."

"Hey, you see the new irrigation ditch they dug over at the Taylor place?"

"Did I see it? I was in it. Tikee jumped out of the back of the truck again and headed straight for the water. If that dog would chase roosters the way he chases cold water..."

There was loud laughter. "Jim, come here. Come here, college boy." A big, powerful farmer's arm was around his neck. Then a pull, similar to that of a combine. He was now in the solid grasp of Big Bill Blackwelder. Dressed in overalls and a flannel shirt, Jim could not recall having ever seen him wear anything else.

"How the hell does Bob keep that damn black lab of his out of irrigation ditches?"

"I mean, don't get me wrong." Bob's voice was filled with sincerity, "He's a good dog, but I'm afraid he's going to jump one day when I'm doing sixty and that's it. Had that dog twelve years. Hate to see anything happen to him."

"Twelve years? Where does time go?" There was another powerful combine-like tug on Jim's neck. Big Bill could uproot a tree with his bare hands. "I remember when this one was just a pup."

"So what do you think Jim? What should I do about that dog?" Bob asked, thankfully before Big Bill could find another reason to give his neck another yank.

"Keep him in the cab if he won't stay settled in back." Jim hoped he sounded more like an adult than a pup.

"Tikee ain't no city dog. You think he'd like being locked up like that? I'd rather just leave him at home than make him ride up front. Maybe I should get him one of those sweaters."

"Or a bandana," another voice offered.

"I just meant..."

"You want to come over and do some work tomorrow?" Big Bill asked. "Get your head back on right?" Laughs, "No joking, Jim. I've got some cows to inseminate. Why don't you come by?"

The sharp ring of the spoon his father had just tapped against the side of the crystal glass in his hand rang out. "Everybody, I'd like to make a toast."

Jim's father was a wiry man with a strong chin and sunken eyes. Although he was a man of few words, he had a powerful voice—driven by strength of character. When Carrington senior spoke, people listened. The room suddenly went quiet. Jim looked down. The night had been going smoothly. But this was the moment he knew would come.

"I'd like to make a toast to my son, Jim. He was the first Carrington to go to college. And now, he's graduated law school." Jim's father looked right at him. "I'm very proud of you." He raised his glass. The rest of the room followed suit. "To my son, Jim." The whole room spoke in unison: "To Jim." They drank to Jim, the local farm boy who done good.

Jim's father looked around the room, beaming with pride. His son had graduated top of his class at Harvard. He had asked many times about what type of job offers Jim was getting. His son had seemed hesitant to say. "You'll make more in a week than a farmer makes in a good year," he had told him.

"Son, have you made a decision as to what type of law you'll be practicing?" Jim's father asked.

Jim respected his father more than any person on earth. So avoiding eye contact was not an option. "Yes sir, I know what I'm going to do. I've already accepted a job."

There was a buzz in the room. "That's fantastic, Jim. Who are you gonna work for?"

"I'll be working for the FBI, sir."

"The FBI? What type of law are you going to practice working for the FBI?"

"Law enforcement, dad. I'm going to be a field agent. And I'm going to practice law enforcement."

Jim's eyes met his father's. Without his dad having to say a word, Jim knew he had just shattered his father's dream.

CHAPTER 3

Back To Work

The dream. The prison. The old man. The damp air.

I've had this dream before.

The blood. His dreams always had blood. And the doctor in the white coat.

Do you really want to go to class today? No. The gym. I'll go to the gym.

Sam opened his eyes and looked out the window. It was bright out.

And the beach. I'll workout and go to the beach. Then, I'll go to work.

He rolled out of bed. His eyes half-open, he walked naked across the hallway to the bathroom. He was drawn to the sound of the shower running. He leaned forward and tried his best to piss out of his morning hard on.

"Sam, are you up?" Stacy's voice echoed from inside the shower.

He looked down at his dick. "Yeah, I'm up." He smiled.

You do have a sense of humor, if people only knew how fucking funny you can be.

"Where were you last night?"

"I got a job." He opened the shower door. She looked good wet.

"You what?" she asked, smiling.

He knew she was always happy to see him naked and hard. Definitely not a pretty boy, the pretty boy type didn't turn her on. Her friends didn't get it, but she had no interest in feeling superior to a man.

"You look like a gladiator standing there like that." Her voice was serious. "Why don't you come in?"

He stepped in. "Ouch." The water always felt so fucking hot when he got in last.

"Why didn't you call? I was worried."

He kissed her and their tongues met. Her mouth was slippery. He lifted her onto his erection and began penetrating her as he held her against the orangish-pink tile.

No, your friends can't understand this. No games necessary, no advice needed, just hard as steel always. In command, totally dominating, but never dirty or humiliating. Always safe, you never have to worry. You never have to worry about anything.

"Don't feel like talking?" she moaned—rubbing the back of his neck.

"Not right now." He continued penetrating her. He fucked a lot of girls. But he always came home to his girlfriend. She was a good person, as much as a woman could be such a thing. Good looks, good cook, good housekeeper, not so adventurous in bed, but she did have a really good pussy. Every man needed a Stacy. Every man needed someone to keep his house in order while he was out doing what he had to do.

"I'm cumming," she whispered in his ear. They always came together. A second later he could feel both their wetness even under the running shower.

Stacy got dressed and headed for the kitchen to make breakfast. Sam's mind drifted to work. He reached for the phone.

"Wake the fuck up."

"Fuck off." There was a pause. Sam imagined Frank trying to focus his eyes on a clock radio on his nightstand. "Are you fucking kidding me? It's still morning, you fuck."

"Get up, jerk-off. Call Doug. I'm thinking we could all meet for one-dollar burger hour. What do you think?"

"Oh fuck, what do I think? I think it's the fucking morning. Oh fuck, I hate the fucking morning. Fuck!"

"See you at five?"

"Yeah."

"You'll call Doug?"

"Yeah, fuck!

Sam sat across the table from Stacy. She had made pancakes and eggs, which was a good thing because deciding not to go to class had put him in the mood for a leisurely breakfast.

"So what's this about you getting a job?" asked Stacy, genuinely interested.

"I gave this guy a lift from the gym to his work yesterday and his boss offered me a job."

"Doing what?"

"Working as a doorman at this club in the Valley. It's actually a pretty nice place.

"You're going to work at night and go to school in the day?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"And when am I going to see you?"

"It's not every night." Sam took a bite of his food and endured her skeptical stare. "I'll be working three to four nights a week."

"You know they're going to want you to work on weekends?"

"Listen, I just want to give this a try for a while. It'll be a good experience. Just be supportive. Have I ever been wrong?"

"No, you're never wrong." She sunk back in her chair resigned to the fact that Sam could never be talked out of something he wanted to do. "I just never really imagined you working as a doorman. You could run a Fortune 500 company one day if you wanted to."

"It's honest work sweetheart. Being a doorman isn't beneath me."

"You know I didn't mean it like that."

He pointed his fork at her. "Are you sure you didn't mean it like that?"

She turned slightly red. "I shouldn't have said anything. I think I just get concerned that you never talk about what you want to do with your future."

"We have everything we need, don't we?"

"Yeah. But you can't live off your savings forever."

"Really?" Sam didn't attempt to hide his irritation. "Do you know how much I have saved?"

"No. And I know it's none of my business, because you've told me so." She got up, walked to his chair and kneeled down facing him. "You're great to me and I love you. I didn't mean to question you. I know whatever you do you'll be successful at. I mean you already are."

"Stacy." He looked deeply into her eyes. She was amazingly beautiful. "Even if I don't wind up running a Fortune 500 company, I promise you we'll never go without anything. Okay?"

Stacy moved forward and kissed him on the lips. " I love you. And I trust you, Sam." She smiled. "Would you like anything else? Because unlike you mister, I'm actually going to go to class today."

"You want to compare GPAs?"

She laughed as she carried his plate into the kitchen. "The fact that you can get an A and not bother to show up for class is not one of your most endearing qualities to us normal students."

Sam opened the door to the club. The long line moved forward—causing just the right amount of congestion. Doug pulled people toward the search zone, quickly filling up a garbage can with contraband from the unsuspecting patrons. Frank appeared at Sam's side, right on schedule and grabbed the tickets out of his bulging pockets. Frank mumbled in Sam's ear, "Are those tickets in your pocket—or are you just glad to see me?"

Sam kept a straight face and kept taking tickets from the throng of people converging at the door. "I'm happy to see you—but I'd prefer to chat later." He turned his head toward Frank slightly and lowered his voice. "I'd also prefer you grab the tickets out of my pocket and leave my dick in tact."

Frank smiled. "Well, if it wasn't so small maybe I could tell the difference."

"Would you just get the fuck back out to the parking lot please?"

Frank nodded. "Catch you later. By the way, I've got them lined up."

Sam felt the corners of his mouth move upwards. "Ticket please. Have your ticket? Thank you."

That's right—I'm smiling I'm so happy to see all of you. I'm so happy to be making twenty dollars a second. Thank you for coming and enjoy the show.

After work, they walked into Norm's again. The scene from "Night Hawk" it wasn't. Even Andy Warhol couldn't capture the essence of a place like Norm's—because it had no essence. Only the passage of a great deal of time could cause such mediocrity to have value.

"Order everything you can think of," Sam said, intentionally empowering Doug. "Bathroom," he said to Frank.

Sam checked the stalls for unwelcome crappers while Frank spread his green army coat over the filthy sink. Sam finished his search and then stood in front of the door to make sure nobody came in.

"Let's do it," Sam said just before he noticed the message scrawled in blue pen on the wall.

"To fuck Jeanine call 818 919-8301. She likes it up the ass and so does her sister."

818 919-8301, 818 919-8301 got to remember that number. Never fucked sisters before. Got to do that. Some dude who got shot down wrote this shit, but so what? I'll call anyway. You never know. Maybe we're meant to meet. Maybe I'm meant to stick my dick up your ass. I mean yours and your sister's asses. I mean, fuck who ever wrote it. Come by the club I'll let you and your sister in for free. That's what I'll tell her. Come by the club, you never know. You might be into me. I might be into your ass. What do you look like, Jeanine?

Frank began pulling cash out of every pocket of the coat and piled it up in the middle of the jacket. He counted out ten stacks of four hundred, then handed Sam his two grand. Frank looked down at the remaining five stacks and put one in his pocket for Doug.

Frank looked at his money. "What a fucking beautiful sight. You know, I haven't had more than five hundred bucks in my pocket since—I can't even remember."

"Yeah, I can imagine."

"No, you can't. There's no way you can imagine," Frank said so seriously it made Sam uncomfortable.

"Do you really want to discuss this in a bathroom?" Sam asked.

Frank instantly lightened up. "Fuck no. Let's eat. This is going to be a great fucking breakfast."

"There's going to be a lot of great fucking breakfasts," Sam said, opening the door.

Frank looked across the restaurant and smiled at all the food being loaded on the table in front of Doug. "What do you think is better, the beginning or the end?"

"Beginnings are always exciting. But endings are what satisfy. So, I say endings are better." Sam looked at all the food on the table. "Doug, my brother, you can order."

"You're not fucking kidding," Frank agreed.

Frank took a bite of the Merchant Marine Mix: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast—all cut up and mixed together so no individual horrible ingredient could be tasted.

"I can't believe you do that to your food. That's a terrible way to eat," Sam commented.

"You get used to it." Frank shoveled another forkful into his mouth. "So, as we last left off, you were sitting in front of Stacy and she was asking you who the fuck wanted to know." He shoveled more food into his mouth and took a swig of coffee before swallowing. "What, you think I forgot? I'm a hopeless fucking romantic." He picked up the Tabasco sauce and poured it over the remaining hash on his plate, then blended the hashed browns and cottage cheese in. "What? Come on, you're both sitting there."

"C'mon bro, it's better than watching him eat," Doug begged.

"Fuck both of you." Frank took another bite.

"Okay, so I'm sitting there. I tell her I'm Sam Noah of Sam the Eagle fame, confident that she hasn't heard this one before."

"You're the Olympic mascot?" She was definitely interested.

''Actually I'm its manager-slash bodyguard. But I'm the man behind the eagle. It's important work," Sam answered—trying to be as falsely serious and self-important as possible.

"You had to pretend to be self-important?" Frank asked picking his teeth. It was a horrible way to come back to the moment.

"I think she recognized my potential to be entertaining." Sam gave Frank the finger. And tried to imagine the elegant Century Plaza.

"I'm Stacy. Why is someone as important as you working here so late? I'd imagine you would be out with some big-time Busch executives."

"'Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice?" Before she could answer, the vice president passed by the desk where they were sitting and gave Sam a wave.

"Sam, I'm meeting everybody downstairs for a drink—if you'd like to join us."

"I'll see. Stacy might need some help up here," Sam said—waving back.

The vice president looked at his watch and added, "Way to put in the hours, son. Keep up the good work."

Sam turned back around in his chair to face Stacy. "I told you the eagle's a big deal."

"You might need to help me do what?" She was definitely amused.

"My basic skill set involves dressing girls up in an eagle costume. You want to give it a try? Not many people can say they were the Olympic mascot."

Frank pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. "This is so fucking touching. Don't tell me you got her to put on the fucking eagle suit?"

"Of course I did. Then I stayed and talked to her until her shift ended at four in the morning. I was so fucking tired the next day I spent most of the day crashed out in my tour bus. Anyway, I waited a couple of days before I asked her out. Our first date was on August 10th."

"Let me guess, it was fucking magical?"

"Not exactly. I took her to the boxing semi-finals. When Hollyfield got disqualified I went absolutely fucking berserk. I think it freaked her out."

"How'd you recover?" Doug asked. "It's hard to come back from something like that."

"I took her to Gladstone's in Malibu for dinner. An incredibly expensive dinner, a view of the moonlit ocean, a couple of Long Island Iced Teas, a walk on the beach, and we were back on track."

"Is that where you popped her cherry?" Frank asked.

"Made out all night—but it took six months to get her to give it up to me."

"Six fucking months?! Are you fucking crazy? Nobody in their right fucking mind would wait six fucking months." Frank pushed his empty plate forward. "Oh, that was fucking nasty. Stop me the next time you see me eat like that. Seriously. I don't get it."

"Got the money, got the girl. Some things just take time." Sam looked at his new friends. "Some shit just takes time, guys."

CHAPTER 4

Carrington

A Time To Die

The phone in the kitchen rang. "I'm coming!" Margaret yelled from mid-stairway. "I'm coming." She wasn't sure whether to go back upstairs or keep making her way to the kitchen. The kitchen, she decided. She had breakfast to make for her soon-to-be-out-of-the-shower husband and her three soon-to-be- late-for-the-school-bus-again kids. And then there was lunch to pack. Shit. Maybe she should have kept her job at the bank.

Yeah, John really would have gone for that. How hard is it after all to take care of a house and three kids? He should give it a try.

At thirty-five, she was still looking good in a housewife kind of way. She liked being a hot housewife. John liked her being a hot housewife. He just had no clue what it took to run a house.

"This is Margaret," she answered into their new cordless phone. "Hello? Can you hear me?" she asked the silence on the line. Nothing. She lifted the skillet from the strainer and looked out of the planter-box window, above the sink. Utah was such a beautiful place. She was glad John made a good living. She loved him for better or worse, but it was good to have a nice house. Even the kitchen had a stellar view. She stared out at the woods just beyond the narrow utility road. "Hello? Can you hear me?" she asked again, wondering if she knew how to use their new phone. She certainly couldn't just hang up. With her luck, it would be John's mother. That'd be great.

Actually, great was having an island in the kitchen. She couldn't understand how she'd done without it before. White tile with blue trim and a few tiles with yellow flowers painted on them. The tile matched the wallpaper perfectly. The whole house felt fresh, from the hardwood floors to the window-box planters. It was a great house. Brand new when they bought it, now only two years old. How had she gotten by without an island in the kitchen and a stainless steel warming drawer in the past?

"I can hear you." The man's voice was unfamiliar and slightly formal.

"I'm sorry," she sprayed the skillet with Pam. John's cholesterol could be lower. "But it's a really bad time if you're trying to sell me something. And I don't buy over the phone anyway."

"I'm not trying to sell you anything. Unfortunately, I've called to give you some bad news."

"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" She put down the skillet. Of course it could only be bad news at this time of the morning. "What's wrong?"

"My name isn't important. I just wanted you to know that you have less than twenty-four hours to live. Make the most of it." The phone went dead.

Margaret stared at the phone in her hand. It was a very mature voice to be making crank calls. What type of world were they living in?

Probably some nut from Los Angeles or New York. Plenty of crazy people in the big cities. Let them live with all the violent black people and stealing Mexicans. The voice sounded kind of black, come to think of it. Who else could it be but some crazy black city dweller talking on the phone to some white housewife a thousand miles away?

"Are you okay?" John's voice interrupted her thoughts, the familiar safe voice of her sane white husband.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I think."

"Why are you staring at the phone? I've been standing here watching you and you didn't even notice."

"I just got the strangest phone call."

"What do you mean?"

"Well I don't know how to put it. Basically a man just told me that I have less than twenty-four hours to live. I mean—I'm sure it's a crank call. But I don't think it's very funny."

"Mommy! Daddy!" Michael, their youngest son, was on his way down the stairs. "I want pancakes."

Margaret looked at the skillet, still not in use. "Sit down you guys, I'm running a little behind."

John stepped closer as Michael climbed to his seat at the breakfast bar. "I'm sure it's just some nut. But once the kids are off, we'll file a report."

"Grown-ups don't have to do book reports," Michael stated, matter-of-factly.

Both Margaret and John looked at their beautiful son and smiled. His long blond curls always made them smile.

"He really needs a haircut," Margaret said, feeling the fantastic warmth of being surrounded by the people she loved. "It might be time to take a father and son trip to the barbe..." The glass shattered and Margaret's brains blew across the kitchen.

Michael screaming. John covered in blood. Michael covered in his mommy's brains. Their two other children running down the stairs. Margaret dead on the floor, dead next to the skillet on the kitchen floor. More screams.

Finally, wide eyed and in shock, John grabbed the cordless phone out of his wife's dead hand.

"911, how can I help you?"

"My wife! Someone just shot my wife!"

"Sir, is she conscious?"

"No! Her head...part of her head is missing!"

The FBI jet was in the air and on its way to Utah within an hour of getting the call.

"Well Harvard, are they related?" Bill Murdoch-the well-put-together Hoover-era agent asked. He ran his right hand through his salt and pepper hair. "What's your take on this?"

More air turbulence. It didn't matter that the FBI had its own private jets. Bad air was bad air. Jim thought it could be some kind of omen: bad air, good case, bad air, bad case. Hard to say. He looked at Murdoch, his partner. Murdoch knew the answer. He was just breaking in the new guy. The new guy that had no business being assigned to a big case.

"They're related," Jim answered confidently.

"Could just be a copycat?" Murdoch eyed him.

"No, the shooting in Oregon didn't make it past the local news. So the one person in Utah who happened to hear about it from their cousin in Portland decides to kill some housewife in her own kitchen. I don't think so."

"Could have happened just like that." Murdock smiled.

Jim looked down at the map in his hand. "It didn't. Our killer or killers are on the move east. But feel free to follow up on your copycat theory. If we get a ballistics match, I'll get going on roadblocks."

"Are you always so serious, Harvard?" Murdoch asked, looking Jim right in the eye.

"You have a family right?" Jim asked, looking straight back at him.

"Yeah, a wife and two kids."

"I have a wife and a daughter. In less than a week, two men have lost their wives and a total of five children have lost their mothers because some criminally insane person is running around with a high-power rifle, shooting people. Could be you, could be me. My house isn't bullet proof, is yours? I don't want to fly to another state. I want to go home to my family. I want everybody to go home to their families. There's nothing not serious about that to me."

"Sorry Jim. I've got a year to go until I retire. Victims and criminals stopped being real to me...I can't even remember when. But you're right. I've just been doing this for such a long time."

Jim took a deep breath of the recycled airplane cabin air. No matter how fresh they tried to make it smell, it was fowl. By the time they landed it would leave a bad taste in his mouth. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what the family he was on the way to meet was feeling.

Murdoch sat with the family in the living room. Jim had no trouble picturing it as a warm place where the family had gathered for holiday dinners. The warmth was gone now. A terrible violation had taken place. In its aftermath there was only cold. The arctic breeze of death had brought strangers who walked around freely in a way that seemed to make the violation so much worse.

The husband repeated what he had said to the local cops word for word. "She said a man called and told her she had less than twenty-four hours to live."

"Did she say anything about the voice?" Murdoch was both sympathetic and thorough.

"No. When I walked downstairs she was just standing there, staring at the phone."

"Why would somebody do this?" their daughter screamed, out of nowhere. "My mother never hurt anybody! Why would somebody do this?" she demanded, crying the angry tears of a fourteen-year-old girl.

Jim tapped Murdoch on the shoulder. "I'm gonna take a look outside."

"Okay." Murdoch turned back to the young girl. "That's what we're here to try and find out."

Jim walked out the front door.

"That's why I have to ask you all so many questions," he heard Murdoch continue. How many families had he said those words to over the years? Enough to make anybody jaded.

The tree line was less than two hundred yards from the side of the house. There was no question where the shot had come from. The locals had already taped off the area. Jim walked to the firing position— the side of the first tree that had a clear view of the window and a ninety-degree trajectory.

The local detective in charge stepped closer. There was a sound of twigs snapping. He was young and confident. He had been a decent back up quarterback at BYU. He still had some jock swagger in his walk.

"That's where he took the shot from."

Jim lined up the shot with an imaginary rifle. "Find any shell casings?"

"No, it's clean. You'll probably want to check the tree for powder."

Jim lowered his imaginary rifle and took a step back. More twigs snapping. "Foot prints? Tire tracks?" He walked around the tree. Still more snapping.

"Nothing."

"Doesn't make sense. Same thing in Oregon."

"Must be some kind of ex-military to cover his tracks like that."

Jim paced a larger area around the tree, the loud snap of twigs underfoot. He stepped back to his original position and drew his imaginary weapon. He moved his feet to steady his shot. "Nothing."

"What?" The detective asked.

"Nothing. Silence. You hear it? No noise, no tracks. Old wood doesn't break twice. The shooter wasn't standing here."

"Well he sure the hell wasn't standing in the middle of the utility road with a rifle while she looked out the window. I've been hunting these woods since I was a kid. I was an Air Force Ranger. This is where you take the shot."

"You'd think." Jim turned, walking deeper into the woods. The detective and two uniforms in tow. One hundred yards: snap snap snap. Two hundred yards: snap snap snap then quiet.

"Three hundred yards away through two hundred yards of thick woods?" The detective's voice rang out in the stillness of the forest. "There's no way."

Jim stood and looked at the x freshly carved into the tree in front of him. He turned and raised his imaginary rifle. A clear line of sight through all of those trees. Who'd have thought? It was a long shot, three football fields, but doable with a scope. He stomped his feet. Silence. "He was standing right here."

The detective looked at the tree. "He wants us to know where he was standing?"

"No." Jim squinted to see the house. "He wants us to know he's good. He wants us to see the forest through the trees."
CHAPTER 5

Two Months Later

"What do you think about that? Nothing like a little fucking competition to ruin your night," Frank said to Sam, pointing across the street at a lone scalper.

Sam looked to where Frank pointed. "Go get Doug."

It took a few minutes for Frank and Doug to return. Sam passed the time by staring at the scalper trying to hustle tickets. The stale smell of beer soaked into the club's deep burgundy carpet filled his nostrils and further agitated him. It usually didn't smell when the place was packed with sweaty patrons. But the scalper standing there trying to sell fucking tickets had somehow heightened his senses.

"Look at that. Nothing we can do about it if he's not on our property," Doug said, shaking his head.

Sam turned to Doug. "Watch the door. Frank, come with me."

Sam walked across the street. Frank was a few steps behind. The scalper was a white kid with an average build, close to Sam's age and height.

"Give me the tickets," Sam said, not breaking his stride toward the scalper.

"I'm not on your property du..."

Before he could finish his sentence, Sam hit him in the solar plexus, the soft spot just above the stomach. Not hard enough to rupture his diaphragm and kill him, but hard enough to drop him to the sidewalk on all fours. Sam repeated himself, "Give me the fucking tickets!"

The scalper gasped for air and extended his shaky right hand. Sam took the tickets and handed them to Frank. He looked down at the scalper. "If you come back here again, I'll kill you. Got it?"

The kid nodded, fearfully.

Frank followed Sam across the street, back to the club. "Well, I guess he won't be scalping here anymore."

"For his sake, I hope not." The words didn't mean anything to Sam. He had no regard for the kid's sake and would have happily killed him. "Looks like you'll have to sell three hundred and five tickets tonight."

"I can handle it," Frank assured him.

"Have you ever noticed when you have a good thing going, people always try to move in on you or screw it up? Why the fuck is that?"

"Until now, I've never had a good thing going," Frank answered wistfully.

"You like having your own place?" Sam asked.

"Fuck yeah," Frank answered. He held his hands to his stomach. "It makes me sick to think about living at my parents' house."

"Well, let assholes like that kid get into your life and you'll be living with your parents again in no time." They were back at the club's front door. Sam turned to Frank. "That's the way it is. The more successful you get, the more people want to fuck you up. So that means the tougher you have to be."

Doug swung the door open for them. "Bro, you shouldn't do shit like that in front of witnesses."

"Do you like your new pickup truck?" Sam asked in the same tone he had just spoken to Frank.

"I just worry about you bro... you know that."

"Yeah, well worry less about me and more about assholes who are trying to move in on our business." Sam looked over at the bar, suddenly very thirsty. "I'm gonna grab a Diet Coke. You guys want anything?"

They shook their heads no.

"He can really hit—for a white kid," Doug said to Frank as Sam walked away.

"If you only knew," Frank said, watching Sam get a drink like nothing had happened. He even looked like he was joking around with the bartender.

Doug put his big arm around Frank, pulled him close, "Are you holding out on your brother?"

"We actually talk when you're not around. Is that okay with you?"

"Not if you don't tell me later."

"Let's just say I don't think he was joking about being able to kick both our asses at the same time and not break a sweat."

"But he looks nice. And he doesn't seem that big. Know what I mean?"

Frank nodded. "He seems nice until he hits you like a fucking freight train. And he's a lot bigger than he looks. It's the way he stands. He has bad posture. When you get up close to him or he stands up straight he doesn't even look like the same person. He's six-one, two-fifty easy. You've seen him lift?"

Doug nodded. "He benched 475 pounds yesterday. Six reps. Like it was nothing."

"I did legs with him last week. I'm not fucking kidding, he squatted a thousand pounds. Eight clean reps."

Doug thought about Frank's comment regarding Sam's posture. "Bro, do you think he does it on purpose? Does he try to look smaller?"

Frank had never even considered the possibility—but it made sense. "Yeah. Pretty fucking scary when you think about it."

An hour later, Sam stood at the door—sipping his second Diet Coke of the night. Frank leaned against the trashcan at the side of the entrance.

"So you actually convinced this girl, whatever the fuck her name is..."

"Her name is Jeanine, you fucking moron. We see it every night on the bathroom wall. How can you not remember her fucking name?"

"Well, as hard as it is to believe. You're the only person that I know who'd actually call a number from a fucking bathroom wall."

"It paid off." Sam's eyes were on fire. The memory of Jeanine and her sister bent over was vivid.

"So, you really convinced her and her little sister to let you fuck them in their asses?"

"At the same time. I got them both down on all fours, on their parents' bed. And then, I just alternated."

"What did you say to this dumb bitch? 'Hey I was taking a shit and I saw your number...'"

"No, I went for the hero and revenge tactic. I told her that some asshole had put her number up and I cleaned it off the wall. I told her that I just thought she should know. She told me it's probably her ex-boyfriend Nick and the next thing you know we're talking. Then jokingly, I tell her we should hook up and send him pictures. You know, I planted the seed."

"You took fucking pictures?"

"Just close-ups of my dick in her ass. And a cum shot. I took one of her and her sister sucking my cock also. She dropped them in his mailbox."

"What the fuck is Adam doing up here?" Frank asked, not ready to conclude their discussion of simultaneous sister anal penetration.

Sam followed Frank's look down the hallway and watched Adam approach.

"You guys got a second?" Adam's voice had an unusual sense of confidence. "I want to run something by you."

Sam wondered why Adam the white-trash bouncer wasn't backstage. The little band fucking savages could riot if left alone for any length of time.

Frank wondered the same thing. "We're just shooting the shit. What's up?" Frank asked.

Adam looked around to make sure there was no one else listening. "Look, I know you guys got your own thing going up here and you're making some serious cash. But I've got my own thing too. Thought maybe we can all make some money..."

Frank glanced at Sam and could tell that he was interested. "Keep talking."

"I told you that I finally got some money from my accident—" Adam continued "Well, I took the money and bought a couple ounces of coke. It's good shit. I'm selling it for a hundred and twenty a gram. If you guys have customers, I'll give it to you for a hundred. You can make twenty a gram. Sam, with all the rich people you know, we could make a shitload of money. Think about how many people you meet every night at the door. Everybody knows that the guy at the door is the guy to talk to. You could be hooking shit up for me while I'm stuck backstage."

There was an awkward moment of silence. "Sounds interesting," Frank said, hoping to head off what seemed to be a negative reaction from Sam.

"Think about it and let me know. I think we could all do okay." Adam was doing the hard sell.

"We'll talk about it and let you know," Frank assured Adam—trying to head off another uncomfortable silence.

Adam gave them a nod and made his way back to the stage door. Not as sure of himself as when he had approached them.

Frank knew if he looked Sam in the face he would start laughing. So, he looked down at the floor— trying to avoid eye contact. "Don't you just love the random, out-of-the-blue shit?"

Sam couldn't help but smile. "You aren't kidding. Adam, the weasel-slash-coke dealer. Unbelievable. Only in America."

"Are we interested?" Frank asked.

Sam nodded. "We're interested. Coke is definitely the business we need to be in. I've been thinking about it for a while."

"What do you want me to work out with Adam the weasel?"

"Is that supposed to be a fucking joke? We're not working out anything with that little prick. He's going to be our supplier and do us the favor of letting us make twenty bucks a gram? I don't think so. Screw him. Tell him we talked about it and it's just too risky to only make twenty bucks, so we're taking a pass. But wait until tomorrow afternoon to tell him."

"Uh, okay. But why do you want me to wait until tomorrow?"

"Because I want you to call him at his house. Ask him if it's okay for you to come over and finish your conversation from last night. He won't want to talk on the phone, so he'll definitely be okay with you coming over. When you get there, give him the bad news but ask him if you can do a line just to check out his stuff. Do a toot, shake his hand, and tell him if something comes our way we'll refer it to him, no charge. Tell him if he's got something that's more up our alley to let us know."

Frank looked down at the floor, thought for a second and then looked back up at Sam. "I'm not to sure what the fuck you're thinking, but I'm guessing it's evil?"

"What I'm thinking is this: if we're selling drugs, I'm not doing it to make twenty bucks a gram. I'm also not gonna start off in competition with Adam because you know he'll rat us out. And I'm also thinking we need some start-up inventory. We need to know where Adam lives and we need to know where he keeps his shit. When we know what we need to know, I'll have Doug convince Steve to put Adam on a day shift. Then we'll rob his place. That's when we get down to some real business because Adam is out of business. We on the same page?"

Frank squinted slightly as he digested Sam's plan. Sighed. Then straightened up, gleam of money in his eye. "I'll give the poor bastard a call tomorrow."

"Poor bastard? Don't tell me you're feeling sorry for the weasel?"

Frank smiled. "No, I mean he's going to be a poor bastard after we take all his money."

Sam laughed. "Better him than us. After we're done selling his shit, we're going to need a supplier. So we need to start asking around."

"No we don't. I know exactly who to talk to."

"Really? Who do you have in mind?"

"My sister cuts this guy's hair. He pays her in coke. He's big-time. I was at her house once when she was cutting him. And when she was done, I shit you not, he opened up his briefcase and there was a slab of coke, like a fucking brick, there. He reached down, broke off a corner, and handed it to her. It had to be half an ounce. He just gave it to her for a fucking haircut. Trust me, he's our guy."

"Let me get this straight. Your sister is cutting a big-time drug dealer's hair? And you don't think to mention it until now? You're a fucking idiot, you know that?"

"Why would I think about it? Most of the time I hate my sister, the worthless cunt. Besides I've never heard you say, 'Hey Frank, maybe we should become drug dealers when we're not running our ticket scam.'"

"You're a fucking idiot," Sam said, shaking his head. "Just talk to this guy and get us a good price on a couple of ounces. Can you do that please? And remember this; there's a difference between a scam and a business. Coke is a fucking business."

Doug walked up. "Hey, little bro. We got a situation for you."

Sam's mind was on money, not bouncing. "C'mon, I was just kidding around when I told you to let me take care of the rough stuff. You've got Victor and Greg in there; they're the size of gorillas."

Doug grinned and shook his head. "Man, you know Victor and Greg are just for show. This guy won the California Golden Gloves Heavyweight title a few years ago."

"How would you know something like that?" Sam felt compelled to ask.

"I know because his name is Kevin and he used to work for Melvin. But Melvin had to let him go because he was too crazy."

Sam looked at Frank. "Too crazy. Not too lazy, but too crazy. Great."

"It's a weird night," Frank laughed. "It's just a weird fucking night. C'mon—I'll help if you want."

"No, you'll just get in the way. Stay here and open the door." Sam turned to Doug. "Point this guy out."

They walked to the center entrance of the packed, main showroom. The stage curtain was still down—as the band Slayer was due to start a head quaking set any moment. The crowd was even hardcore by the Country Club's standard. Doug pointed at a large blond guy wearing jeans and a red Polo shirt, standing in the aisle talking to some girls on the other side of the railing.

"He won't move. If the Fire Marshall sees him standing there, he'll write us up again."

"That's him?" Sam asked. "You're sure?"

Doug nodded. "That's him."

"You know the only thing worse than a guy looking for a fight?" Sam loved this one.

"What?"

"A guy looking for a fight...who can actually fucking fight. I mean look at the size of this fucking beast. If I had a gun I'd just shoot him."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I'm going to need both hands, so make sure his friends and the chicks he's talking to don't get involved"

"Don't worry, bro. I got your back. Be careful. This guy can take a punch."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'm not going to try to punch it out with Mr. Golden Gloves."

Sam nonchalantly walked towards Melvin's ex-employee, making sure to look the other direction so as to give the impression that he couldn't give a shit that he was standing in the aisle. Once behind him, he pivoted, making a quick ninety-degree turn. His forearm clamped across Kevin's carotid artery.

Nothing like a good strangling. Cut that fucking blood off to the brain and choke the fucker into unconsciousness. Be careful not to drop him and break his neck. Get your knee behind him and break his fall. No, break his fucking neck. You can't just walk up and break somebody's neck. Not in front of all these people. Okay I got you, you big, fucking, unconscious cocksucker.

He started dragging the mammoth out of the showroom. Sam stopped to rest when he reached the lobby. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. He looked up at Doug. "This motherfucker is heavy. I need a raise for doing this kind of shit."

"Three grand a night ain't bad, little bro."

Sam looked to the door that Frank was holding open with a jack o' lantern smile.

"All right, final stretch," Sam said to himself for motivation. He resumed the task. Forty-five seconds later, he dropped Melvin's former employee exactly three feet from the door of the club.

"Is he dead?" Frank asked, trying not to laugh.

Sam took a couple of steps back and stared at the very still body. "Oh fuck, don't tell me..." But just as he was about to finish his thought, the body came back to life, coughing and convulsing. Kevin grabbed at his throat, trying to reassure himself that his air-passage was once again open.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief, then turned and walked back toward the door. "I need a drink."

Frank still stared at his former co-worker, who was now throwing up in the gutter. "Should I call an ambulance or something? He doesn't look so good."

"Why don't you give him mouth to mouth, you fucking fag?" Sam answered, as he walked past Frank back into the club.

"Did he just call me a fag?" Frank asked, feigning hurt feelings.

"Little bro is a trip," Doug said, taking in the scene. "He just walked up and started choking him."

Frank was about to comment but noticed Steve had just arrived.

"What happened to Kevin? He looks like he's dying out there?" Steve asked.

Frank shrugged. "Must have had too much to drink."

Steve looked at Doug. "You are the assistant supervisor, you know."

"He wouldn't get out of the aisle. So I asked Sam to talk to him."

Kevin collapsed back into a fetal position, head resting in a pool of his own vomit. Steve pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt. "Tim, you in the office?"

"Yes, I am," Tim's voice crackled back.

"Could you call an ambulance please? A former employee just had an accident outside the club."

The last of the patrons exited the club. Sam was about to bolt the door for the night when a straggler walked up and handed Frank a wallet.

"I found this on the floor. Didn't open it. Figured you guys can get it back to its owner."

"We'll take care of it. Thanks for being honest." Frank said, never sounding more sincere.

"I'd want someone to do the same for me." The straggler said as Sam opened the door for him.

"Have a good night," Sam said, then shut the door and locked it before turning back toward Frank.

Frank opened the wallet. "You're not going to believe this." He grinned wickedly.

"What now?"

"The asshole you threw out tonight. It's his wallet." He showed Sam the license.

"Unbelievable. Is there money in it?"

Frank looked. "I'm counting eighty and look here, an ATM card. Should we call him and give him the good news?"

"No, it's too late to call. I say we just split the fucking money. He doesn't happen to have a social security card in there does he?"

"You mean like this?" Frank said pulling one out.

"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. How much you want to bet that he keeps it in there because he can't remember his pin number which is the same as his social?"

"Why bet?" Frank asked handing Sam forty dollars and putting the wallet into his pocket. "Let's just go to the ATM after breakfast and see. Grab Doug, I'll punch us off the clock."

CHAPTER 6

Franchise

Sam picked up the phone and dialed Karen's number. He wasn't sure if she'd be home this early in the day.

"Hello?"

Sam was glad to hear her voice. "What's up, gorgeous girl?" Karen was a tall blonde with a great personality and a smile that could light up a room.

Karen laughed. "I just got in, what's up with you? You coming out with us tonight?" They had been hanging out since Sam's sophomore year at UCLA.

"Of course. Are you guys going to be staying around the house until we head out?"

"I can't speak for my roommate, but I'm definitely taking a nap." Karen's roommate Wendy was cute, not as good looking as Karen, but cute.

"I want to come over and talk to both of you before we go out."

"Really? What's going on?" Karen asked, sounding excitedly curious.

"I want to talk about some potential business with you ladies."

Sam had to hold the phone away from his ear as Karen shouted, "Wendy! Sam wants to come over and talk about some business! Are you going to be around?"

"Yeah! Ask him if he wants to come over for dinner." Sam could hear Wendy yelling in the background.

"Did you hear that?" Karen asked.

"Yeah I heard her. I'll be there around six. Want me to bring anything?"

"Just bring yourself. Wendy went to the market today, so we're set. Oh, and by the way, even though Wendy's the business brain, I could always use some extra money."

"Not to worry, I think you're going to like this. See you at six."

Sam had spent his first two years at UCLA living across the street from campus. The first year in a fraternity house, the second year he moved up the block into an apartment building—the same building where he met Karen and Wendy.

The girls now lived a couple of blocks away from campus and Sam appreciated the good fortune of finding a parking space right in front of their place. Wendy opened the door and he gave her a hug and a kiss. Karen wasn't far behind and after hugging and kissing her he gave her nice ass a squeeze. Karen squealed. "This business proposition must be really good, it's making you horny."

"I am horny, now that you mention it."

Wendy was giggling. "Aren't you the one who always says, 'Business comes first?'"

"No, I say it's better to cum first." Sam took a sexually menacing step towards her.

"No you didn't, Mr. Business Man!" she said, pushing him back and giggling.

"Since when does anyone listen to me?" Sam said, trying to sound pathetic.

"Come on, Tiger," Karen said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the dining room. "Wendy's right. Let's eat and talk money. Besides, now that you have a girlfriend, you shouldn't be screwing around."

"Yeah, what's with that?" Wendy added. "Last year we couldn't get any action. Now that you have a hot chick you're all sexed up?"

"I won't tell her if you two don't—" Sam smiled devilishly.

"Sit down, horny boy." Karen pointed at the dining room chair assigned to him. "Wendy, the best roommate in the whole world, made us a great dinner. But who knows, afterwards I might feel like getting it on myself."

Wendy glared from the kitchen. "You two need to behave yourselves. Besides, I'm the one who made dinner. So if anyone's getting laid around here, it's me."

Karen and Sam grinned mischievously at each other.

"So what's this business idea you wanted to talk about?" Karen asked while Sam chewed a bite of Wendy's chicken salad.

"Brilliant in class and good in the kitchen, I don't know if I can stand it," Sam said with sincere admiration.

"You're not so bad in the kitchen yourself." Wendy had eaten at Sam's many times. He was the only guy she knew who could cook decently. In fact, he was almost great.

"I'd like to show you how good I am in the kitchen right now," he winked at Karen, who was probably thinking about getting fucked by Sam on the countertop next to the sink. He could always tell.

Wendy ignored his sexual innuendo and brought two more dishes to the table.

"C'mon, you can talk and eat at the same time. What's the great idea?" Karen asked.

Sam looked at his salad, knowing it wasn't going to taste as good once he started talking about business. "We go out together what, maybe six or seven nights a week?" The girls nodded. "Most of our friends have money and love to party?" The girls nodded again. "I'm thinking that we should be selling them coke."

The girls looked at each other. The idea had obviously never occurred to them. "Sell coke? How are we going to do that?" Karen asked, almost stuttering.

"Easy. It'll be a team effort." Sam looked at Karen. "You put the idea in their head, which I know you can do better than anybody." Sam looked at Wendy. "And you, my cute little genius, you take care of the business end. I'll make sure you have the best stuff in town, pre-packed and on consignment. When you get to the end of a batch, just give me the money minus let's say, your fifty percent cut, and I'll restock you. What do you guys think?"

Karen smiled and leaned forward. "All I have to do is get people to do coke? This is the perfect job for me, if Wendy can handle her end."

They both turned to Wendy. "Hey, I've got student loans to pay. But I don't want people to think I'm a drug dealer."

"Not a problem. All Karen has to say is that you can score some blow. She doesn't have to say you have it under the mattress. They give you the money and you make them think you have to go somewhere to pick up the stuff. End of story."

Wendy smiled. "Fuck, I'll give it a try. When do we start?"

Sam pulled five one-gram vials out of his pocket and placed them on the table. "I say we start tonight."

Karen's eyes lit up. "This is what I love about you. Most people just fuck around—but you get shit done."

"No kidding," Wendy said staring at the vials. She reached out and grabbed the merchandise. "I'm putting these away for safe keeping. Don't want her," she nodded towards her already guilty-looking roommate, "sniffing up the profits."

Sam laughed then said, "Remember the Cardinal Rule. Don't get high on your own supply."

Karen sat back in her seat. "I saw 'Scarface'. I know the rule." She smiled. "I'm going to have everybody partying, starting tonight."

"Good!" Wendy and Sam said, simultaneously.

"It's my dream life: cocaine, Cristal, dancing, and sex." Karen had obviously spent a lot of time thinking about this.

"The more we party, the more we make," Wendy added. It was all sinking in. "Can you imagine?"

"I can imagine. Times a thousand," Sam reassured her.

"So, Sam my love. Don't you set any of your supply aside for samples?"

Sam pulled a brown vial from his pocket. It was two and half times the size of the small vials he had just given them. "You mean like this?"

Sam stared down, trying not to move as Karen kneeled in front of him and carefully snorted the line of pure cocaine off of his hard cock. When she looked up and smiled, Wendy started to giggle.

"You two are just fucking crazy."

Sam curled his index finger, motioning her with evil intent towards them. "C'mon, give it a try. You have to be able to stand behind your own product." He started tapping the white powder out of the vile onto his dick.

Karen watched—as hungry for Sam's flesh as she was for the coke. "I love you roommate, but it you don't get your ass down here in three seconds, I'm doing this one too. And plenty more."

"Fuck, I don't believe I'm doing this," Wendy said, falling to her knees next to Karen. Then leaning forward, she snorted the white powder off Sam's dick every bit as efficiently as her roommate had. She tilted her head back. "That's so good."

Sam reached down and used his hand to guide her face back toward his erection. Her lips parted and he was in her mouth. Karen stood and they began kissing in the same rhythm that Wendy was sucking him off to. His fingers began unbuttoning Karen's blouse and in a few short seconds, her top fell to the floor and her breasts pressed against his body.

"You're missing all the fun," Sam whispered in her ear.

She slid down the side of his body to her knees and started licking his balls. Without his even suggesting it, they began to alternate.

What a beautiful fucking site this is, two girls sucking my dick and licking my nuts. Talk about friends with benefits. I should make every girl who deals for me do this. Part of the interview process.

"Open your mouths, you guys. I have something for you."

Like small birds in the nest, their beaks parted and thick white jiz fell on their happy tongues. Drooling more cum than either could handle they began to laugh. High on cocaine and dick in their mouths the night was already off to a good start.

"I could go for another line," Karen said unbuttoning her pants while still sitting on the floor.

"I could go for fucking the two of you side by side on the bed right now."

Karen turned to Wendy. "Sounds like a fair trade to me?"

Wendy stood and took her clothes off. Then got onto all fours on the bed. Sam handed Karen the eight-ball vial of cocaine. "Help yourself my love. I'll be with you in a minute."

CHAPTER 7

School Time

The University of California Los Angeles was a city unto itself. The on-campus population during the day exceeded forty-eight thousand people. Dorms, libraries, a student union with its own bowling alley, a sculpture garden, the famed Royce Concert Hall, Drake Stadium, Pauley Pavilion, UCLA Medical Center, and even a nuclear reactor. And because this was not enough, the building never ended. The gentle rolling hills of the Westwood campus were always under construction.

A high school senior with anything less than a 4.0 grade point average and a fourteen hundred on their Scholastic Aptitude Test need not apply to UCLA. Unless they were a person of color. Not yellow or Jew, but brown or black. Jew CLA, which the school had become known as, needed more blacks and browns and less Jews. Fifty percent of UCLA students were perfectly well-behaved genius Jews. The Board of Regents had been up in arms for years over the never-ending onslaught. Jews made up two percent of the population at large and fifty percent of the student body. It was considered an embarrassment of the worst kind.

Affirmative Action had allowed the Board of Regents to raise the Jew requirement for entrance to a 4.0 grade point average and a fifteen hundred Scholastic Aptitude Test. Still they came more than ever. There was no way to stop the doctor, lawyer, scientist, filmmaker, and Nobel Prize-winning parade. Fortunately the ability to lower the requirements for browns and blacks to a 2.0 grade point average and an eight hundred Scholastic Aptitude Test had finally brought a crop of nearly fifty minority students to the campus.

The campus itself was a donation by the great turn of the 20th century millionaire Howard Jantz. In the very middle of the campus were the steps that bared his name. Jantz Steps led all who dared to climb them to the enormous grass and brick plaza, which fronted Powell Library and Royce Hall. Both stood on the plaza built with the architecture to withstand the harshest East Coast winter that would never come. Because it was the way of the world, few people paid mind to the fortune that Jantz made on the appreciation of his surrounding properties. The building of UCLA in Westwood had indeed made the rich richer.

Like all lecture halls at UCLA, Psychology 15 was larger than most movie theatres. Sam sat jotting down an occasional note. Lori Ghane, pronounced Gan, sat next to him. Her short jean skirt revealed beautiful brown thighs. He tried to will himself to stop looking, but the only place to go was up. Up to her blonde hair, blue eyes, and beautiful face. Maybe she'd catch him looking and smile her perfect white tooth, full-lipped smile. "No, don't look up. Stay focused on the thighs," he told himself. It was the less obvious choice.

"Sam, pay attention to the lecture. I need an A on this paper," she whispered.

"I'm sorry."

"Is it the skirt that's distracting you?" Because she was Jewish, no matter how beautiful she was, no matter how Hamptons she appeared, she sounded like a Jewish mother. The guilt! The wrongness of thinking about licking her pussy was all contained perfectly in her words.

"Not exactly. It's your thighs."

"Sam, I'm not one of those street whores you hang with at your night job. So knock it off and pay attention."

"Lori, the night job is between you and me. Why are you bringing it up in class?"

"Because you're staring at my thighs instead of paying attention to the lecture."

I write this dumb bitch's fucking papers and she talks to me like I'm something stuck to her fucking shoes. If I weren't on campus, I'd fucking rape you—you spoiled fucking cunt. I should stop writing your papers and letting you cheat off my tests. Then you could move your hot no tan-line ass down to South Central and enjoy the barely better than high school education they offer at USC. Then who would I fantasize about during class? Fuck, I hate you. I've got to go to the bathroom and jerk-off.

Was that her tongue in his ear he felt? "Concentrate on the lecture and we'll go down to Palm Springs and work on this paper tonight. I have the keys to my parents' place."

"We'll work on the paper? Or I'll work on the paper while you work on your tan?"

"You'll work on the paper. When you're done I'll let you work on me."

"Mr. Noah!" Professor Liebman's voice rang out. The silver haired, pudgy Liebman had a voice that could shatter glass.

Sam always sat in back. Had he talked loud enough for the professor to notice? Liebman was so animated. So into his lectures. How could he have possibly noticed them whispering?

Even at the speed of sound, he shouldn't have been able to hear us until after class. Fucking Lori and her short fucking skirt. I have no idea what Liebman is talking about.

"Yes, your professorship... Sir... I mean..." The laughter began.

"Mr. Noah, what were you thinking?" he asked, loud and animated. "What was the number one student in his class thinking the second before I said his name? Tell me."

"About having sex with Lori, sir." Loud laughter. "Oral sex to be exact. It's her skirt and the rich brown tone of her thighs." More laughter. Huge laughter. Even Liebman was laughing. "It's not my fault. It's some type of autonomic, nervous reaction. I have no control over it."

"Brilliant! That's why Mr. Noah sets the curve," Liebman yelled out, pointing presumably at Sam. But the room was so large there was no way to be sure. "In the field of Psychobiology, we study the Autonomic Nervous System. It contains, and I want you all to write this down, the three F's. Fighting! Whether or not to fight or flee! Feeding! Whether or not to eat! Tell me you all know what the third F stands for?" He started counting them off with his fingers. "Fighting! Feeding! Don't say it out loud—it's not clinical."

"Fucking!" Sam said, now caught up in the excitement of being a student.

"Mr. Noah!" More laughter. "Thank you. As always, your pearls of wisdom have added to the classroom experience. Fucking, as Mr. Noah so eloquently puts it—or the desire to reproduce—is also part of the Autonomic Nervous System." Pointing to the back of the room again, "Mr. Noah, how often do you think about the third F? Please feel free to factor in all the time that you're supposed to be listening to my brilliant and entertaining lectures."

"Continuously, sir!" More laughter. "Every waking moment—and in my sleep too." Huge laughter. "Even when I'm doing it I'm thinking about doing it with someone else most of the time." Continuous huge laughter. Even Lori was laughing. "Is there something wrong with me, sir?" Liebman was laughing. Everyone was laughing.

"Mr. Noah, there is definitely something wrong with you," Liebman said having trouble getting the words out because he was laughing so hard. "But we still love you—just the way you are."

"Horny, for Lori, sir?"

"Miss Ghane! Control your study partner! I don't know if it's even possible. But you must try!"

"Sir..."

Lori's hand was over Sam's mouth and her other arm had pulled his head to her chest. Her breath was hot in his ear. "Stop, or I'm going to kill you. Do you understand?"

"Every ninety seconds, a man thinks about reproducing!" Liebman said, while gesticulating a forward clockwise motion with his right hand. "With the exception of Mr. Noah, whom we'll probably have to treat one day. Every ninety seconds!" More gesticulation.

"Mmmmm.mmm"

Her hand was clamped over Sam's mouth and his head was crushed against her warm breasts. This felt so good that he started to feel less rambunctious.

"You're like a child," she whispered in his ear. "And if I do actually let you touch me, you better not be thinking about someone else or I'll kill you. Do you understand? My dad is a partner at Irel and Gold. So I'll kill you—and get away with it."

The room went dark. A picture was projected onto a screen behind Liebman. Sam's head sank to Lori's lap. He could feel her hotness right through the denim skirt. She ran her hands through his hair tenderly. No question about it. He'd be between her legs in Palm Springs.

"This bespectacled, nondescript looking gentleman is the true giant of Psychobiology. You will not see much of him in books. You will not hear him quoted or accorded credit very often. Does anyone know why?"

Sam lifted his head from Lori's lap. He stared at the haunting image. The man on the screen was familiar. The man he saw in his dreams. His bloody violent dreams. The doctor in the white coat! No mistake, it was him.

"Claus Hess, the true father of Psychobiology, was a Nazi doctor." Liebman almost seemed to hop as he said this. "He was, by all accounts, a war criminal. Much like Verner Von Braun, the head of the Nazi ballistic missile program. Those would be the V2 rockets that landed every day on the population of London—for those of you who haven't been taking your history electives. Much like Von Braun... who by the way was made the first head of NASA... Claus Hess was captured by our troops and brought to America.

"Unfortunately, there is little if anything known about his work post World War II. However, there is much known about his work before the war. And because we are scientists in this room, not political scientists, but scientists, we will not shy away from the findings of Hess. He was a despicable man whose crimes against humanity are not erased by his achievements. But his are achievements that we must study nonetheless."

Liebman hit a button on the control in his hand and the image on the screened changed. Six identical young men appeared—one standing right next to the other.

"No, this picture has not been manipulated or altered in any way," Liebman said, then paused for dramatic effect so that the grainy, black and white image could sink in.

"Hess started his research on identical twins. Why? Because they are the closest genetic matches provided by nature. The physical similarities of identical twins, which had long captivated the scientific community, were just the beginning for Hess. Again, why? Because Hess was a Psychobiologist and he understood that the physical traits of twins were just a manifestation of the chemical reactions programmed, yes I said programmed, into their genetic code. The genetic code causes chemical reactions in the body. Chemical reactions result in appearance and behavior. Behavior is the result of chemical reactions within your body—chemical reactions that may or may not be influenced by your environment.

"Hess found early on that it was fairly simple to alter the genetic code, with respect to appearance. When I say appearance, I really mean physical attributes. Strength, stamina, and health were all very important to the Nazi's. Most people over-simplify the work of Hess. His boss, Hitler, was a madman. But he was not just trying to make a race of blond haired, blue-eyed Arians. In fact, as you can see in the picture, none of these clones has blond hair. Would anyone like to venture a guess why?"

"They kind of all look like you," Lori said to Sam—nudging his arm with her elbow.

"I'd be sixty, genius. Better let me keep writing our papers," Sam snarled back.

"I'm just kidding. Touchy. Very touchy."

"Mr. Noah, are you still with us? Would you like to venture a guess?" Liebman shouted into the dark.

"Because Hitler envisioned two types of Arians," Sam shouted back. "He believed that nature was aristocratic. The highest form or royal class of Arians, were blond. The lower class or the warrior class, were darker, but still had to have green or blue eyes."

"You see what happens when you take classes on the north side of campus?" There was laughter in the dark room. "Mr. Noah, why didn't Hess start by making blonds?"

"Because science is driven by the Military Industrial Complex. Especially in Nazi Germany. Darker Arians would have been more resistant to the elements and diseases like Melanoma. They would have been more durable and more versatile in the battlefield."

Liebman clapped his hands together. "Bravo, Mr. Noah. Bravo! One day we will discuss the chemical reactions that allow human beings, like our Mr. Noah, to take the information he learns in his liberal arts studies up on north campus and tie them into the science we teach here on south campus. But for today we will not digress. We will simply advance the facts. Dr. Hess was indeed working for the Nazi Military Industrial Complex.

"He was not, like many might assume, focused on trying to find ways to kill people with his research—meaning some kind of killer gene. He was trying to make a better killer." Another dramatic pause. Then he added. "The picture you are looking at, one of very few to survive the war, is the result of Dr. Hess' early work. Yes, they look alike. But more importantly, as he learned from his research on identical twins— and please note the word identical, fraternal twins do not necessarily exhibit this trait—they behave alike. They are so connected, meaning they have such similar chemistry as a result of their identical genetics, that they behave in the same way. As children, they often develop their own language that only they can understand. In some cases they are even able to communicate without speaking. They are so in tune to each other's feelings that they are able to act on one another's needs. They can even experience the same dreams. And so Hess' research began. The goal? Bigger, stronger, faster, and smarter soldiers for the Third Reich. Soldiers genetically altered to behave—note the all-important word behave—more aggressively, more violently, and not to have remorse. Remorse is big problem for soldiers. Especially Nazi soldiers who were expected to kill noncombatants by the millions. Hitler wanted an army of fearless sociopaths.

"Perhaps most intriguing, Hess thought he could create soldiers that could simulate the body chemistry of others. Why? Mr. Noah, since you are on a roll today—"

"Because then they could feel, possibly think like their enemies." Sam was more than sure of his answer.

Liebman applauded for a good three seconds. "If you can feel exactly what the person next to you feels, you will at least have the urge to behave as they do. I could give you an entire lecture on mob violence right now..." He looked at his watch, "But time is short. Please read chapter five in your supplemental reader by next Tuesday. In the mean time, I expect you will all be working on your papers. Are there any questions?"

"What happened to Hess after he was brought to this country?" Sam asked.

"Hess spent a good ten years giving what he knew over to our military and scientific communities. Unlike Braun, he was not given a position that allowed him to do ongoing research because his research involved human beings, not rocket parts. Cloning was and still is illegal in the United States."

"Is he alive today?"

"To be perfectly honest, I do not know. Our course utilizes some of his work that was done before and during the war. If he did any work after the war, I doubt we will ever hear about it—at least not in my lifetime. All right, class is dismissed."

CHAPTER 8

Murder Incorporated

It was a Thursday night, the second to last night of the year. Sam had been working the door at the club for four months.

"Let go of me, you fucking asshole!" The white-trash chick screamed at her wiry white-trash boyfriend as he dragged her by the hair from the showroom to the bar.

Three hard slaps across the face.

Sam could hear them at the door. He watched Doug's giant hand grab the guy's throat and force him backwards, over his right leg. With one more half-Nelson move, the white-trash guy was subdued and then hoisted back to his feet with his own arm twisted behind his back. Doug's forearm clamped around his neck.

Doug pushed him forcefully towards the doors. Sam had them open and waiting

"Keep walking," Doug admonished.

"You heard him. Keep moving," the police officers standing outside of the club reiterated.

It was New Year's Eve weekend and the police were staying close in case things got out of hand. Sam knew the younger cop. He had let him in for free a few times, once with a bunch of his friends.

"Leave him alone you motherfuckers!" She screamed at the top of her lungs. Sam couldn't tell if she was running for Doug, the cops, or the boyfriend.

What a fucking crazy bitch. How do they get like this? What age does this happen? Come on, attack me. I'll knock your fucking teeth out.

Frank grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms to the side of her own body. She went completely wild.

"That's it, you're out of here." She kicked furiously at his legs. "Go home and punch it out with your boyfriend."

"Fuck you! You fucking asshole!" Her voice had reached an incredibly shrill pitch.

Sam opened the door, trying not to laugh. "Nice language, Miss. Have a good night."

"Fuck you too, you fucking prick!"

"And don't come back!" Frank suggested, as he shoved her out the door towards the cops.

"You think you can put your hands on me fucker?!" she screamed, wheeling back around on them. "I'll fucking kill you, you fucking bastard!"

The young cop on the passenger's side of the car stepped forward. She was on the public sidewalk and was their problem now.

"Keep walking."

She turned on him. "Fuck you! I'm going back inside. I paid to see the fucking show, you fuckin pig."

The young cop wasn't exactly sure what to do. He glanced back at the club's front door.

"You've been told to get going twice. We're not going to tell you again," the older partner said— interjecting himself into what seemed to be an escalating situation. "Now get going or you'll be coming with us."

Sam, Frank, and Doug watched with interest.

"This is getting good," Frank whispered.

Sam nodded. "My money is on the cops."

Frank shook his head. "Ten bucks on the crazy bitch."

They shook hands just as she lunged for the young police officer closest to her. The girl hit the cop with enough force to send him slamming into the squad car behind him. He was fortunate that she tried to scratch his eyes out rather than go for his gun. Her nails caught his face just as his partner came around and pulled her off.

"You fucking pigs!" she screamed, delivering a kick to the groin of the young cop standing in front of her. Then, she head-butted the cop trying to grab her from behind. Just like that, all three were on the ground wrestling. Finally she got the idea of going for the young cop's gun. She lunged at him again, scratching his face with her right hand and reaching for the gun with her left.

Sam's foot cracked her in the mouth. Everything stopped. She sat up on her knees, kneeling in front of the young cop. She held one hand up to her mouth. The blood poured through her fingers to the sidewalk. A few white teeth shined from the pool of slick red liquid. Sam thought there was something sexy about her bloody lips. She was in shock—her world of screaming, obscenity, and drama violently interrupted by him.

The stunned police officers watched Sam walk back to the door without saying a word.

"No, fuck you." Frank was livid. "She had them. You owe me ten bucks, you cheating bastard."

Sam handed him a ten. "I couldn't watch that for another second."

"Bro, she was off our property," Doug said solemnly.

"I'm not letting one of us get shot because Inspector Clouseau over there can't hold on to his gun." Sam turned back to the cops. "You guys aren't going to put me in your report, are you?" he asked as they cuffed their considerably calmer but bloody assailant.

The older police officer walked up to Sam.

"She was actually going for his gun, wasn't she?"

"That's what it looked like to me," Sam answered confidently.

"Fuckin A she was!" Frank added.

The cop nodded his head. "We owe you one. That could've been ugly."

The younger police officer finished getting her into the back seat of the squad car and began walking towards the rest of the group, only to stop dead in his tracks. They all heard the distinctive sound of glass breaking. She was kicking out the back window of the car.

"Let me out of here you motherfuckers! You fucking pigs! I'm gonna kill you!"

The older cop looked tired. "Thanks again. I'd stay and talk—but I think we better get this nut-job down to the station."

Frank rubbed his chin. "Understandable. Come back later and we'll buy you guys some drinks."

As the squad car drove off, Sam leaned against the wall. "Ten dollars down the drain."

Frank took the ten out of his pocket and handed it back to him. "Keep it. It was worth ten bucks to see you kick her in the face." He turned to Doug. "Agree?"

"No. I don't. Sam should be keeping a low profile."

"Excuse me. But can I talk to you guys for a second?" Sam heard the voice but Doug was blocking his view. Doug turned, revealing a guy in his late thirties—with brown hair and a mustache. He was a good size and wore a brown Hawaiian shirt. He had small mean eyes that seemed incongruent with his smile.

"How are you guys doing?" he asked, as they all stood in front of the door.

"We're all right. What can we do for you?" Doug responded for the group.

"I just wanted to compliment you guys. I come to a show here almost once a week and I couldn't help but notice that you guys are very good at what you do. The thing with the guy and the crazy chick tonight was exceptional."

"We're just doing our job. Bouncing is bouncing," Frank explained—looking curiously at the complimentary patron.

"No, I've seen bouncers do their jobs for years. You guys aren't just bouncers," he pointed at Sam, "especially not him."

Sam didn't have a good feeling about this. "Dude, I'm a history major at UCLA. Frank is a cosmetologist, and Doug is an aspiring bodybuilder. Sorry to disappoint you."

"I'm Joe Trenk. You know who I am?"

They had all heard of him. He was the biggest drug dealer in the San Fernando Valley.

"From the looks on your faces, I'm guessing you do. Why don't you guys come to work for me? I sold a few ounces to one of your co-workers—but someone robbed his house while he was away. Put him out of business. Coincidently, I hear you guys are dealing shit all over the place." Joe's friendly demeanor had suddenly vanished. He became deadly serious. "The Valley is my territory. If you guys want to deal, deal for me. I'll throw in some security work on the side. I can always use some guys who know what they're doing." He was friendly again. "What do you say?"

Doug and Frank deferred to Sam. "Joe, I'm sure you're a great guy. But you've got us all wrong. We're just bouncers."

Joe Trenk was not pleased. He stared Sam down. "So, that's the way you want it to be? I was wrong about you. I thought you had some balls."

"Dude, we're not looking for any trouble. Why don't you just go back in and enjoy the show?" Sam said, sounding as if he was trying his best to be patient.

Joe nodded. "I'll go back in and enjoy the show. But keep dealing in the Valley and see what happens. You guys had your chance." And with that, Joe Trenk turned and walked away.

Frank raised an eyebrow. "That was unpleasant."

Sam shook his head. "Fuck, I was looking forward to an early breakfast."

"Don't let that asshole ruin your appetite. He can't do shit to us," Doug said, not really understanding what had just transpired.

Sam shook his head, annoyed. "It's not my appetite he ruined, it's my schedule. We're gonna have to work late tonight. Frank, don't let that prick out of your sight. When the show's over, I want you two to follow him home. Double coverage. Don't let him make your cars. Once you have an address, come back and meet me at Norm's."

"Where are you going?" Frank asked.

"I have to run to my house and pick up what we're going to need—including a car we can dump. What a fucking drag."

"Bro, you want to kill this guy just for talking some shit?"

"Doug, I don't _want_ to kill him. But he just threatened us. I don't really see a choice." Sam tilted his head and looked at Doug's face closely. "I can tell you've killed someone before. Didn't like it, did you?"

Doug shook his head. "Once—and I didn't like it at all."

"This probably won't help right this second—but it gets easier. Anyway, this can't happen without you. If we're really a family you have to be with us—and not just when we're having fun and making money. Family sticks together, always. We have to be together or guys like Trenk will just have their way with us. So, are we a family? Do you have my back?"

Doug nodded. "I told you we were family the day we met. But killing people...it's just so..."

Sam smiled. "Sudden. It's almost always sudden. Death keeps its own time." Sam turned to Frank. "You have any problems with this?"

"Are you're fucking kidding? Besides you two, I could give a shit about anybody. Never have. I say kill him—just to get rid of the competition."

Sam put his hand on Doug's shoulder. "We're doing this?"

"Bro, even if it's something I don't want to do, if you tell me to do it, I'll do it."

"Good, Joe Trenk is history after tonight."

Frank nodded toward the showroom. "I'll go keep an eye on him."

An hour and a half after the end of the show Doug, Frank and Sam all pulled their cars into the Norm's parking lot. Sam got out of his car and waived the other two toward the restaurant. Frank and Doug joined him at the door.

"We're gonna eat?" Frank asked, thinking it was a strange thing to be doing.

"Yeah. We eat here every night. Tonight can't be any different. It's important we act just like normal, joke around with the waitress, order a ton of food, and eat it all. Got it?"

They both nodded.

"The house is perfect and they drank all night long at the club," Frank said as he opened the door.

"I'm glad they had a good time." Sam winked at their normal waitress.

An hour and a half later, Sam parked the Chevy Nova off to the side of the access road behind Trenk's isolated hillside home.

"This car is depressing. Why the fuck did you steal a Nova?" Frank asked. He pressed up on the sagging headliner. "Do you know that Nova means no go in Spanish?"

Sam was all business. "This one went fine." Sam walked to the back of the car and pulled out three 12-gauge shotguns from the trunk.

"Shotguns? I'm more of a handgun kind of guy," Frank commented.

Sam handed him a 12-gauge. "Ballistics, moron. You can't trace a shotgun blast. It's just one big mess."

"We have clean handguns," Frank suggested.

"I like shotguns. Doug, you got a preference?"

"Not really. But it's hard to miss with a 12-gauge."

"Settled, two to one." Sam pointed at the back of the house. "Let's assume Joe's in the big room in back—the one with the balcony. I'll climb up into the master suite. You two enter from ground level. Frank, you go through the front; Doug, you take the back. And Doug, I want you to cover everything downstairs, including the maid's room. Frank, you come upstairs and take the other rooms. We blast everything and leave. It's gonna be ugly, but don't take any chances. If it's breathing, shoot it. We're not leaving any fucking witnesses."

Sam handed Frank and Doug some extra shells. "Here. Stuff your pockets."

Frank held out his hand for more. "There was a dog barking earlier when we scoped the place out. It sounded big. And hungry."

Sam wasn't worried about the dog so much as the noise it would make. "I'll go over the wall first. Maybe I can find the dog before he finds me. Either way, I'll take care of it. But if they brought him in the house for the night, just blast him. Whatever you do, do not enter the house until you hear shots from the master suite. If he keeps drugs in the house, I doubt he'll have an alarm. But who the fuck knows? We gotta work like we assume the cops are on their way." Sam looked from Frank to Doug, taking a second to reassure himself they were up for what needed to be done. "Alright. Let's do this. Remember: in and out. And if it breathes, shoot it."

Less than a minute later, Sam was over the wall and running for the house with Doug close behind him. The dog wasn't in the yard. Sam slung the 12-gauge over his shoulder as he climbed the rain gutter up to the balcony. Doug got into position at the back door. Sam was careful not to make any noise as he slid his body over the railing and onto the balcony. With his 12-gauge aimed in front of him, Sam stepped into position. Through the French doors, he could see two people in bed. One appeared to be Joe Trenk, thankfully. Sam hadn't been looking forward to a room-to-room gun battle in an unfamiliar house. Through the glass, Joe Trenk appeared to be sleeping like a baby. Sam wondered what type of fool would threaten three guys he knew nothing about.

Sam kicked the doors open and made a quick move into the room. Both Joe and the woman in bed next to him immediately woke up at the sound of the breaking glass and splintering wood.

"What the fuck!" Joe Trenk yelled. It wasn't a question.

The woman let out a loud, shrill scream.

Sam was impressed: Joe had good reflexes. He went right for what Sam presumed to be a gun in his nightstand—but it was too late. Sam started firing. He hit each of them with a round in the torso. Sam would have kept firing but the Doberman was already en route. Growling, a low guttural roar. Sam growled back. An instinctive low guttural roar.

Sam was an expert with a shotgun. But he missed his first shot at the dog, which dodged to the right as if reading Sam's mind. The Doberman seemed to gain extra motivation in the split second that it took it to realize what Sam had just done to his master, gnashing his ominous teeth as he leapt through the air, intent on ripping out Sam's throat. But his second shot didn't miss. The blast hit the dog with such force it propelled the animal's body back into the wall above the headboard, breaking the drywall.

Sam heard several other shots fired. He assumed Joe must have had a family. He loaded three more shells into his gun and walked cautiously to the doorway of the master suite. He took aim, down the unfamiliar hallway—only to have Frank emerge from the room next door.

Frank wheeled around, drawing on Sam. "What the fuck! You almost gave me a heart attack."

Sam lowered his gun. "Sorry. We clear?"

Frank nodded. "Two kids and the guy who drove him home from the club. The guy went for a gun. He didn't make it. Ready to split?"

"More than ready. Let's grab Doug and go out the back."

Sam and Frank went downstairs. Doug was standing over a body in the hallway that led to the garage. He looked distressed. "I had to shoot him in the back. He made a run for the car. I shot him in the back."

Sam curiously prodded the body with the toe of his boot. The dead man was their age. "He's the one who ran. You did what you had to do. We all did what we had to do. It's what they would have done to us. C'mon. We're out of here."

CHAPTER 9

Terminated

Melvin's office was small and comfortable. The pride of a young entrepreneur showed in its décor, some of which had obviously been transplanted from his own home. The first office, and the hope of it not being recognized as such, meant Mom's dining room table was in the conference room. The only thing missing: the big account that makes a company real. He and Steve were waiting for Doug, Frank, and Sam to arrive; they were like family, so there was no need for formalities.

"Look guys, Melvin thought we should sit down and talk about what's going on," Steve said, wasting no time getting down to the business at hand.

Frank didn't blink. "What do you mean, what's going on?"

Every eye in the room was on him. Could he possibly have some shit to shovel? No, not even Frank could deflect this moment.

Indignation could do it. Who was he kidding? He started to laugh. "Fuck you guys."

Melvin spoke up. "I have a license and I have it through a silent partner that you guys don't know, who happens to be a cop. I can't risk losing my license."

"You guys want in with us, make the risk worthwhile?" Perhaps there was a deal to be had. Sam felt he should at least try.

Melvin shook his head. "I could have gone down that road a long time ago, but it's not for me."

"So you're firing us?" Sam asked.

"Melvin and I have discussed it already." Steve was close to them; he had turned a blind eye to a lot of shit. If there was going to be heat it was going to be on him, Melvin had delegated. "If you guys just want to do security, stay. If you've, let's just say, outgrown the job, then this is your last week. Just so you know. Jack brought this up a couple of weeks ago, and we've been covering. He loves the way you do your jobs, but the extra stuff can screw him up also."

Sam always hated the time to leave. If he ever felt lonely, it was when life reminded him that he didn't belong. It was this moment he couldn't get used to.

"I can't speak for Doug and Frank, but this'll be my last week."

Frank didn't need to think about it. "I love you guys. But at the end of the week I'll just be coming here to watch the shows."

"What do you think?" Doug asked Sam.

"You need to stay on for a while. This needs to be a smooth transition. All three of us splitting at once will make people talk."

And not that I would say this to you my brother, but you're not ready to leave. A few more months when the last of your conscience is gone, then it will be time.

Melvin nodded. "I agree it's better if you stay for at least another month. Sam, I hope you're okay with this? You have to understand, you're not being fired. I just can't..."

"Melvin, we've made a shitload of money because of you. You've got nothing to explain."

Melvin reached out and offered Sam his hand. Sam took it and they shook—genuinely respectful of each other.

Later, Sam stood at the door taking tickets for the last time. Like clockwork, Frank walked up to Sam's side. "Everything okay up here?"

"Perfect," Sam answered as Frank reached for the tickets. Sam waited for Frank's reaction.

"Holy shit! Think you took enough?" There it was.

"Oh. Yeah. Last night. Gotta go out with style," Sam smiled. It was childish and he meant what he said to Melvin, but vengeance was called for. Not against Melvin, not against the club, but against the intolerance of a world that didn't want the little guy to get ahead.

"Feels like five hundred fucking tickets," Frank hissed.

"Or ten thousand fucking dollars." Sam's eyes burned into Frank. "Come back in ten minutes. I'll have five hundred more."

"What about the fire marshal?"

"Not our problem after tonight, remember?" Sam noticed an eighteen-year-old blonde waiting to speak to him. Her tight, white spandex pants crawled up her crotch—just enough to make him feel like being polite. "Can I help you?"

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to interrupt. It's just, I forgot my I.D. and they won't let me buy drinks unless I get a stamp from you. That's what they told me at the bar."

"So you and your four friends over there all forgot your ID's?" Sam said gesturing to her four hot young friends all standing nearby, watching to see if their friend could work her flirtatious charm. Was it possible the gatekeeper would let them drink?

She pretended to accidentally rub up against him. Her ass brushed against Frank's thigh. "Come on, help me out."

"Twenty bucks a piece. And a blow job in my car in twenty minutes when I take my break." Sam nodded toward Frank. "And one for him too."

She held out her wrist. "Stamp me. I'll get the money. Can one of my friends suck you off? I have a boyfriend."

"No, it has to be you. I have a ten-inch dick. They don't look like they can handle it." She smiled; he had made her feel superior to her friends. "I don't care if you close your eyes and pretend I'm your boyfriend. It's just dick."

"Are you really this mean?" she asked, pushing her hand against him. Sam knew she was thinking his body was harder than any guy she'd ever felt.

"Get the money," he said, grabbing her arm tightly then rolling the stamp across the underside of her wrist. "Parking lot. Twenty minutes."

She pulled her freshly-stamped hand away from his. "I'll be right back."

Instead of walking away, she leaned forward. Sam could feel her young breasts through her cable-knit. She whispered in his ear sloppily. "I give great head. You just made the best deal of your life."

"We'll see," Sam glanced at Frank.

"You will see," she whispered still closer, her lips actually touching his ear. "Great fifteen-year-old head." She walked away, shaking her ass a little extra.

"I'm going to start selling these tickets," Frank said. "You might want to start letting people in again, now that you've arranged our mid-evening blow jobs." He pointed to the monstrous line of ready to riot club-goers. Sam was still thinking about the girl. "Fifteen." He shook his head proudly.

"You ever think of asking a girl her name before cumming in her face?" Frank kicked the door stand down as he walked out. The line moved forward again.

"Her name?" He was pretty sure Frank heard him. He grabbed a ticket and put it into his jacket pocket, then another. Frank had a point. Any fifteen-year-old who'd give up head and money was worth knowing...

Right then, her hand reached into his pant pocket and deposited the money. Then it grabbed his dick. Gave it a firm squeeze. "Stamp my friends. I'll see you in twenty." She squeezed his dick again. "The name's Lydia, by the way. Not that you care."

Sam held up his hand and stopped the line. "If you give head as good as you say you do, I'll care," he said, pushing her back and not bothering to lower his voice. He stamped her friends, who all smiled, no doubt hoping to see their first ten-inch dick soon.

"Ticket?" he asked the next patron.

"There's no head like young head," the guy standing in front of him said. He had long black hair and he was bobbing his head in agreement. He was too old to have long black hair. Sam wondered why anyone his age would walk around looking so fucking ridiculous.

The young girl next to him handed Sam her ticket, then put her arm around her man. "And he should know."

He winked at Sam and then disappeared with his hot young chick into the crowd at the bar. Fucking burned-out rockers. How they still scored amazed Sam.

"Ticket?"

I'm going to miss this.

Jennifer Knox sat with Doug at the table and waited. She was a tall, whorish-looking valley girl. Curvaceous with big brunette hair and a tan as obviously fake as her capped front teeth. Every lowlife in Norm's wanted her and she found it flattering.

Jennifer had grown up in the Valley, just a few miles from the club. After high school, she moved from Los Angeles to Houston. The recent oil and natural gas boom had made it the place to work if you wanted a decent career as a stripper. Stripping was not in Jennifer's blood. But the simple fact was, her big tits and plentiful ass made her more money than most of the doctors and lawyers she knew. And she knew a lot of them. Maybe her high school career counselor would have suggested some other path if he himself hadn't been so busy convincing her it wasn't cheating on his wife if she just gave him head. Her tenth-grade English teacher, Tim Murphy, wasn't so subtle. He just fucked her every chance he could.

She hadn't planned on such a long visit to L.A. But a friend brought her to the Country Club one night and she fell in love with Sam. She had been joining them for breakfast ever since.

"Doug, what the hell is taking them so long?" Jennifer asked, looking in the direction of the bathroom. "Good thing nobody in this place has to take a dump."

Doug followed her eyes to the bathroom door. "They let in a lot of people tonight. That's what's taking so long."

"Scoundrels. What is it about him, Doug?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, why do we follow him around?"

"Bro is the savior. That's why people follow him."

"The savior?"

"He's special. The forces that keep people like you and me down don't fuck with him. He's his own force. Who doesn't want to be a part of that?"

"So you think he can save us from a fucked up life?" Jennifer asked, not completely serious—and a little concerned that one of Sam's closest friends considered him the savior.

"He did save me from a fucked up life. Look around this restaurant. These people do what the world around them tells them to do. And they get nothing for it. Sam does what he wants and gets everything he wants. I roll with that."

Sam and Frank emerged from the bathroom and walked across the restaurant to their table.

Jennifer stared at Sam's crotch. "Is that a wad of cash in your pocket or are you just happy to see me."

"It's a wad of cash. And I am happy to see you. What do you think of that?"

Jennifer licked her lips. "I think we should fuck."

"You know I have a girlfriend—and I'm not exactly the nicest guy. Why the hell would you want to fuck me? I wouldn't even fuck myself, if I were a chick," Sam answered, with truly no desire to fuck Jennifer.

"Oh honey, you're not only not the nicest guy I've ever met, you're the worst. You were so fucking rude to me the first night I came to the club, I wanted to turn around and go. But my friends gave me the 'He's okay once you get to know him speech.' I couldn't believe it when the show was over and they wanted to go eat with you guys."

Sam's mind wandered to Lydia sucking his dick as Jennifer droned on. How could a fifteen-year-old suck such good cock? Stacy was an amateur in comparison.

Got to convince Lydia to run away from her mom's house. Oh, and the boyfriend. We'll see how long he lasts.

"Here's some blow. Go party with your friends later. Not in the club."

"Really?" Lydia's hand clasped the small brown vile. "What do I have to do for this?"

"Just go have a good time."

"Do you want my number?"

"I want your pussy."

"I give head, not pussy."

"Keep the blow. Keep the pussy. Get out of my fucking car."

"Don't be like that."

"Tell you what, I'll give you my number. You call me when you're old enough to fuck."

"I'll be fifteen next week."

"I thought you said you were fifteen already?" Visions of statutory rape started dancing in Sam's head.

"Fourteen. Almost fifteen. What's a week? Will you take me somewhere nice for my birthday? I've never been to a really good restaurant."

"I'll take you to the nicest place in town, then back to my place."

"I'll get your number before I go. Oh, one more thing."

Sam was annoyed momentarily. "What? My break's over. I've gotta go."

Lydia leaned over, kissed him, and then stared into his eyes. "You have the best dick I've ever seen. I wouldn't even think of closing my eyes."

He put his hand between her legs and rubbed her soft vaginal lips. "Thanks. You better call."

There'll be a fancy restaurant, alcohol, and more blow. Then my bedroom and my dick. Then just dick and blow. Welcome to slavery, my young girl.

Back at Norm's, Jennifer still droned on. "I was like, fuck that. But there I was and you were so damn funny. I couldn't stop laughing. The college thing, the tickets, the fighting, the drugs, the way you love money, you're so out of control."

Head from Lydia two hours earlier—then Jennifer. The world could be so cruel. Sam blinked, hoping she would go away and Lydia would appear.

"I just had to fall in love with the only person who's more fucked up than I am," Jennifer mercifully concluded.

"Well, I guess I'll take that as a compliment. Sorry if I was rude. I usually don't mean to be." Sam was lying.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "I know. So, what are my favorite criminals gonna do now that you don't have real jobs?"

Frank chewed on a piece of toast and nodded toward Sam. "Ask the boss. I dropped out of school and I'm unemployed. So I'd like to know the answer myself."

Sam looked at Frank. "Cry me a fucking river. You have money, you have a pad, you have a hot girlfriend. And if you hadn't accidentally stepped on your chick's kitten, you would even have a cat by now."

The whole table groaned. Sam instantly wished he hadn't said it. He'd just never heard of anyone stepping on their own cat and killing it. Fucking Frank.

"You are a cold motherfucker," Frank fired back. "That was a fucking accident! I still feel terrible about it. Ursula cried for a week. I can't believe you said that, you heartless prick." Frank angrily shoveled hash browns into his mouth. "So, what are we gonna do with our extra time?"

Sam laughed. "We're going into the limousine business. Coke and limousines. Two good businesses to keep us busy."

An exchange of glances around the table. "The limo business? Please, do tell," Frank said, liking the sound of it already.

"We need a way to show some legitimate income. So, we'll operate a limousine company and claim most of our customers pay cash. Basically, I'll just write a bunch of phony invoices to back up the cash we deposit every week. It'll be about three grand a week to start. That won't get anyone's attention. But if we ever get called on it, we can just open the books and prove we're legit."

"What about names and phone numbers?" Doug asked. "They're easy to check out."

"All the phony rides will be airport runs to and from office towers." Sam pointed his fork at Doug and continued, reminiscent of a college professor. "Fake names, curbside pickup, no phone numbers—and no way to disprove what we claim. Remember, I do know a shitload of people with money, so I'll bring in some legitimate business. The legit money will cover our asses. Besides, you can never have too much money."

"So, have you always wanted to own a limousine company?" Frank asked. He knew Sam very rarely just thought things up. Preparation meets opportunity was the Sam Noah way.

"Oh, did I forget to mention that?" Sam smiled. "I've always wanted to own a limousine company."

Jennifer turned to Sam. "You know, it's actually not a bad idea. I need to stop blowing all my money and get involved in something legit. I should give you some money to invest in your business."

"You know I can't say no to money. But I'm not putting out for it," Sam added.

"We'll see about that," she said with a wink.

Sam ignored her. "The next couple of weeks, I'll do some wheeling and dealing. Then I'll start looking for our first limo."

"Works for me." Jennifer was determined to stay involved in both the conversation and the deal. "I'll go back to Houston for a couple of weeks and make some money. Then I'll start sending you money orders."

"Why don't you just bring cash when you come back?" Sam asked.

A sad expression spread over her face. "I hate what I do, so I spend everything I make to make myself feel better. If I don't send the money every day, I'll just spend it."

"How much do you make?" Frank asked, oblivious to her sadness.

"None of your fucking business." She was hardly oblivious to his lack of sensitivity.

It wasn't what she said so much as it was the way she said it that sent Sam to that dark place.

There's that bitchy tone I love. Maybe a baseball bat crushing your fucking skull or plastic bag asphyxiation would be nice. She loves you and wants to give you money and you want to kill her? What a nice person you are, Sam. Now, the urge to throw hot coffee in her face and scald her precious stripper skin. The look of shock on her face replaced by pain, shock and pain, "Why, I don't understand?" she would say. "Because you're a bitch."

But Frank wasn't giving up. "We let you hang out while we're cutting shit up in the next room, and counting our take, and you can't tell us how much you make dancing?"

Jennifer had to concede the point. She sighed "I make two to ten grand a night, depending on whether or not my special customers come in. The more I make, the more I hate what I do, so the more I spend. I've got one guy who pays me two grand just for a plate job."

Sam couldn't imagine why a guy would crawl under a glass table and pay two grand to watch some girl squat down above him and take a shit.

This is the world we live in. The guy probably goes home to his wife and kids when Jennifer is done crapping on his face. You gotta give the customer what they want.

"You need to save your money and get out of the business." It was all Sam could think of to say—but it managed to come out sounding sensitive. Jennifer seemed touched.

"That's why I'm going to start sending you some money. What about you? Ever think of going straight?"

"I like what I do." Sam paused for a moment. "And I'm good at it. What else could a man ask for out of life?"

"That's very evil of you." Jennifer wanted to believe he wasn't serious.

"People lie and steal; cheat and talk behind each other's backs. Women are fucking whores and men are fucking worse than dogs because at least a dog is loyal. If you're rich, people love you to your face and hate you in their heart. But if you're poor, they just hate you because you can't do anything for them. I'm a fucking saint in comparison to the average person."

"I feel the same fucking way," said Frank with no solicitation—a load seemingly lifted from his shoulders.

"You're criminals, but I love you guys." Doug himself was all too familiar with the ways of the world. "And look at the bright side..."

"We have more fucking money today than we had yesterday. How's that for fucking bright?" Frank looked manic.

The next morning, Sam rolled out of bed. The apartment was silent. Stacy had left and he hadn't even heard a sound. He smiled as he looked at the clock. "Wow, you lazy bastard." He thought about the ten thousand dollars he had made just a few hours earlier. "Not that you don't deserve a little rest." The phone began to ring. He laughed. "That's about enough rest I guess."

"Hello." Sam's voice was still raspy from the late night.

"Hey, it's me Lydia. You didn't forget me already did you?"

Sam looked down at his erection. "No. I haven't forgotten you. Aren't you supposed to be in school or something?"

"It's Sunday. I don't have school today."

Sunday—Stacy's at church. Of course it's Sunday, you just worked your last Saturday night.

"I'm sorry. I'm just getting up."

"Don't feel bad; I haven't gone to sleep yet."

"What?"

"Me and my friends did that stuff you gave me last night. I'm not tired, I can't sleep."

"I'm glad you liked it."

"Do you want to hang out? I kind of feel like going to the beach. I feel like partying a little more."

"What about your mom and your boyfriend? Aren't they gonna wonder where you are?""My mom doesn't give a shit where I'm at. And I don't give a shit what my boyfriend thinks. So, if you want to go to the beach..."

"You know what I'm going to do to you if we hang out today?"

"I want it to be somewhere nice, my first time?"

"I'll find something right on the beach."

"Good. Pick me up on the corner of Ventura and Sepulveda. I'm here now."

"I'll leave my house in ten."

"Sam, you're going to bring some more stuff right?"

Sam smiled and imagined the great feeling of her ripping hymen. "Don't worry about it. I'm going to party you out big-time."

CHAPTER 10

Carrington

King Of The World

He was a partner at the most important law firm in Denver. Paul—King of the World. He liked the sound of it. Paul—Master of the Universe. Even better. Only forty-years-old and a mere phone call from Paul could bring a massive settlement. The money, there was so much of it. He liked to spend, his wife liked to spend, but it wasn't possible to spend that much. So many class actions, so much money—and not enough time to spend it all.

Paul looked at his daughter, Dakota. He thought, "Priceless. Money doesn't make Dakotas, only good genes. The good genes it took to get into Yale, the good genes it took to graduate top of my class, the good genes it took to come to a frontier town like Denver and become the Prince of Class Action Suits.

His friends back in New York could laugh all they wanted. He had one hundred and twenty million in the bank and growing. He had his own jet. The Master of the Universe flew to New York for lunch if he wanted. Maybe moving to Denver was a matter of good sense more than it was good genes. No—it was both. There was no reason to sell himself short. Good sense and good genes did the trick on Dakota's mom. It was a great merger—more good genes in the pool; good-looking, smart, great family—she was from a big Denver oil family.

A hundred and twenty million in the bank and he walked his daughter, his beautiful daughter, to school every day. Weather permitting, of course. The white blouse and blue sweater tied around her shoulders were identical to the ones that her mother had worn when she had attended Prescott. Prescott was a family tradition. The blue plaid skirt showed off Dakota's little figure nicely. Did an eight-year-old have a figure? Paul wondered. Just like her mother's, he assured himself. Dakota, with her superior genes, was going to be a knockout, a source of endless pride. He would do anything for this kid. He'd run into a burning house for her mother—but he'd stay there and burn for Dakota.

Paul imagined that other parents talked about the fact that he walked his daughter to school. He was dressed in one of his 25 Saville Row suits. He liked that they talked; he liked the way he looked with his daughter. That's right, the Master of the Universe arrived at the office when he wanted. And he wanted to get there after he walked Dakota, his perfect little girl, to school.

"Daddy, are you and mommy going to get a divorce?"

_What did she just say?_ "I'm sorry sweetheart, I was thinking about something. What was that?"

"Are you and mommy going to get divorced?"

There it was again. Impossible, he thought. "Baby girl, where did you hear the word divorce? Do you even know what it means?"

"Dad, I'm eight," she stated indignantly.

_Good genes, of course she knows what divorce means._ "Why would you think for a moment mommy and I would get a divorce? We love each other very much. And we love you, sweetheart."

"Jason Pimbdale's parents are getting divorced. He says half of all married people get divorced."

Ethan, Jason's dad, had gone to Stanford. Paul knew the family. A good family—good genes—and Ethan was a good athlete. Pual's mind raced. The Master of the Universe had been caught off-guard. Ethan played tennis in college. McEnroe played for Stanford. Ethan married down; it happened every time. He married a beautiful girl from a nothing family. Come to think of it, her parents were divorced. Junior college and divorced parents. How could he explain something like this to Dakota? He wondered.

"Sweetie, there are different types of people in the world. There's the kind that get divorced—and the kind like your mommy and daddy."

"So, you don't sleep with Maria?"

"Who?"

"Our maid. Maria."

"No!" Funny, for years he had been calling her Lupe. "Honey, what are you talking about? Why would you say something like that?"

"Jason's dad was sleeping with their maid. That's why Jason's mommy told him to leave."

I pay twenty thousand dollars a year so some little son of a bitch can tell this shit to my daughter?! Maybe I should save the money and send her to public school. She could meet some nice little niggers and get hooked on drugs.

"Honey, it's okay to feel bad for people like Jason. But remember, he's nothing like you because his parents are nothing like your parents."

Fucking Democrats. The Pimbdales are Democrats. Of course they fuck their maids. Mrs. Pimbdale is probably fucking the gardener right at this very moment. Getting even. One big fucking liberal fiesta over at the Pimbdale's.

Dakota stepped up to the lion on the steps of the stately Prescott school building.

"I love you, daddy." She gave him a hug. Paul felt himself melt.

It had become a struggle just to get her to hold his hand when they walked. "Well, that felt good. You're not still worried about mommy and daddy?"

"No, but the man on the phone said I might not see you again. So I just wanted to tell you I love you. Just in case."

"What man on the phone?" Paul looked at his daughter, "Dakota, baby, what are you talking about?"

"He said not to tell you or..." An exhaust pipe backfired in the street. Paul saw Dakota's mouth moving but couldn't hear her.

Get that fucking car tuned up. I can't hear my daughter. Super unleaded, have you heard of it?

"Honey, what's that on your shirt?" The red was spreading across his daughter's white blouse. "Oh no! Dakota! Dakota!"

"I love you daddy." She died in his arms.

Paul's precious, perfect daughter was dead in his arms. The blood from her blouse was all over his suit. Parents, teachers, and kids, were running for the stately Prescott school building, but his daughter was dead in his arms.

Jim Carrington and Bill Murdoch stared at the little girl on the cold slab of the coroner's table. The coroner rolled Dakota over to the side. And using his gloved thumb and forefinger, he spread the hole between her first and second rib.

"This is the entry wound. She would have raised her arms for it to be here," he said with no emotion. Not even a beautiful little girl fazed him. She was just another piece of meat to examine and write his report on.

Jim wiped his brow. "He waited for her to hug her father goodbye. He wanted to shoot her in her father's arms." Jim paused as he imagined the horrific moment. He wiped his brow again and hoped Murdoch didn't notice that he was sweating profusely. "When she had her arms extended all the way up, around her father's neck, that's when he took the shot."

The coroner peeled back Dakota's chest. "It missed the heart," he said, pointing at her collarbone. "It ricocheted from the rib up to the clavicle and back down. Took out the left lung on the way up, then the right lung, liver, and lower intestine before exiting. This particular type of bullet tumbles. So once it's in the body, it acts like a blender." He lifted her body and pushed her right leg to the side. "The exit wound is here at the bottom of the pelvis." He spread the gaping wound next to her pre-pubescent vaginal opening. Straightening her leg, he ran his hand down the interior of her thigh to a wound just above her ankle. "Same bullet. Just tore the skin, but didn't enter the foot. Wide by less than an inch."

"So the bullet we pulled from the statue isn't a miss?" Murdoch asked, just to make sure. A detail that would probably make no difference, but theirs was a business of details. Gruesome, often pointless details.

"No, it's the bullet that killed her. It went up and in then down and out," Dr. Death said matter-of-factly as he resealed the dead little girl's chest cavity.

The ring of a cell phone seemed out of place in the sterile room. "Sorry. Thought I put it on vibrate," Jim said as he reached under the ill-fitting baby-blue rubber smock. "I'll take it outside."

Jim stood in the painted cinderblock hallway. The information he had just been given was a formality.

Murdoch emerged through the double doors and joined his partner. "I've seen enough," Murdoch's voice became louder as he removed the surgical mask from his face. "What a beautiful little girl. That's hard to look at."

"The call was from the lab. She makes seven victims. We have a ballistics match. Our shooter did a U-turn and headed back west. We have seven dead people." Jim looked down at the white tile floor. "What we really have is shit."

"The father's some type of big-shot attorney. Wants to talk to us. He wants to offer a ten million dollar reward."

"I heard," Jim said, still looking down.

"It can't hurt, Jim. Why don't you announce it at the press conference tonight?"

"Why don't you announce it?" Jim asked Murdoch. "I'm really not a press conference kind of guy. Not right now."

"Look, the director wants the new face of the FBI to handle press conferences. That would be you."

Jim nodded. He didn't think he'd be getting out of it. Murdoch had turned out to be more than just okay. He was an excellent agent and he deserved a successful ending to his career. "Well, let's get it from the father in writing. Maybe for ten million dollars we'll get some civic responsibility. Maybe somebody will have seen something," Jim said, with just the slightest hope.

Frank hit the button on the remote again and again. Channel surfing. It drove everyone crazy, but he loved it. He paused. He hated the news, but he paused anyway. "Hey check this out!" Frank shouted from Sam's living room couch.

"I'm trying to get ready for the barbecue!" Sam shouted back from the kitchen.

"Someone else got shot! They're having a press conference!" His eyes were glued to the screen. "Some cute little girl! You got to see her daddy crying for all the cameras! Look at the fucking suit he's got on!"

"Why are you shouting?"

Frank looked up to see Sam standing right next to him. "I hate when you do that."

"Silent but deadly." Sam grinned.

"Dude, is that a pink kitchen smock you're wearing?"

Sam looked down as if he forgot he had it on. "Oh yeah. Its Stacy's."

"You look like Betty Crocker. That's fucking gay."

But Sam's attention had gone to the television.

"Turn it up, I can't hear," Sam said pointing the basting brush in his hand at the screen.

Jim Carrington stood at the podium on the steps in front of the police station. Bill Murdoch stood grimly behind his partner. Paul, Master of the Universe, sat with several other city officials in a row of folding metal chairs off to the side. He couldn't control the tears and occasionally broke down in sobs. Each sob set off a lightning storm of flashes from the sea of photographers that surrounded the television camera crews. The evening was grey and the air had a severe chill. Both seemed to reflect in Jim's expression and tone.

"At 8:30 yesterday morning, there was a shooting at Prescott Elementary School. The Federal Bureau of Investigation has been asked to assist in the investigation, to determine whether or not the shooting is related to six other shootings in other states. We have concluded that there is a positive ballistics match—making this the seventh shooting. The family of the victim is offering a ten million dollar reward for information leading to the capture of the perpetrator or perpetrators of these crimes. We've asked all media outlets to post the number for the FBI tip line. And we urge anyone who has seen anything of a suspicious nature to call. I'll take questions now." Jim pointed to the first reporter.

Frank turned the volume down. "They don't have shit," Frank said, trying to find a channel that didn't have the press conference on. There weren't any.

"Agent Carrington, please."

"This is a tip line," the operator's voice had the calm professionalism of a librarian, "There are no agents available. But if you leave your..."

"Get him on the phone," the voice commanded. "I'm sure if you try, you can find somebody who knows how to reach him."

The operator had been trained by the FBI to not only consider what was being said, but the tone in which it was said. "Do you have information..."

"If you want to stop the Interstate Snipers, and I mean snipers, plural, get him on the fucking phone—Now."

The voice registered the highest degree of credibility. "Sir, it's four in the morning. I don't know..."

The voice interrupted: "I'm hanging up in thirty seconds."

"No, please! Don't do that. If you could just hold..."

Almost a minute had passed. But the caller had no worry of a trace since he stood at a pay phone.

Two minutes later, Jim's voice was on the line. "This is Agent Carrington." Jim leaned back in the well-worn office chair. He looked across the desk at Murdoch, who had his head buried in a stack of files and was taking notes as he read. Otherwise, the squad room was quiet and empty. Rows of empty desks illuminated by bright overhead fluorescent lights.

"You sound wide awake, Jim. You must be working hard."

"This call is being recorded. You said you have some information..."

"I asked if you've been working hard, you rude country bumpkin. At least have the decency to answer my question. Where's that accent from? Tennessee? Sounds like you spent some time in an Ivy League school. How'd you swing that?"

"I have been working hard, Mr... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name." Jim's eyes widened. This was not the type of call he had expected.

"That's because I didn't give it to you. I thought it might be fun to fuck around with you. You give a nice news conference. I see some potential in you."

Jim decided it was time to take control of the conversation. "Besides wasting my time, do you have something to tell me?"

"Does he let them know he's going to kill them?"

"Why do you ask?" Jim's interest level soared. Was the sniper on the line? Stranger things had happened. He pressed the red button on the caller ID box connected to his phone. It automatically started a trace on the call. The number came up immediately. It was a Los Angeles prefix—and a payphone.

The voice on the phone was more intense. "Because he wants a reaction. Or, he wants them to miss the opportunity to react. Each one had the opportunity, didn't they? One died with a phone still in her hand. Who the fuck was she talking to that early in the morning when the bullet hit her in the head?"

Jim leaned forward and reached for a pen. Murdoch looked up for a moment from what he was doing.

The caller continued. "All women—plus a female child. You know this guy's divorced. Did you check all the divorce records in Portland where this started? An ugly divorce...he lost custody of a son. Either he took the son or he's doing it when the son is with him for visitation, probably visitation road trips. That's why he came back west. He ran out of time. So this kid will have a wacky attendance record at school, some inner city school where they don't give a shit if he shows up or not. A kid with a really bad attendance record due to a messy divorce shouldn't be too hard to find. The gun won't trace, but you know he's military. Bad record there too, I imagine."

Jim wrote the words down quickly. He wasn't taking any chances. If the tape recorder malfunctioned he would have every word.

"They drive, stay in the car, and sleep at rest stops—because dad doesn't have money for lodging. So you can stop wasting your time on credit card records. No way he holds down a job either, so he's getting some type of subsidy. I'd say SSI, for some type of diminished capacity. Ironic, a government check pays for his gas." Jim tried to keep up. The voice surged ahead, certain of himself. Who was this guy? Jim wondered as he took notes like a student in class.

"They shoot from the car. I'd say a hole in the trunk; they leave marks to make you think they're better than they are. Golly, how did they do that? They didn't. I've never met anybody who can shoot better than me and I can't make the shots you guys are reporting. You have any sharp shooters that can duplicate the shots?"

"We don't give out that type of information." Jim instantly regretted his tone of voice. It clearly conceded that the caller's assessment was accurate.

The voice was almost cocky now. "I didn't think so. Should I go on?"

"Please do?" Jim knew this personality. The ego-driven all-knowing cult leader. The bad man who could speak with authority about the evil deeds of others. The really bad ones were a rare breed. Jim sensed he had one on the line now. Really bad and very accurate—and Jim was listening carefully to every word.

"Oh, come on. I'm just a random nut case. You've thought of all this right? You've looked into everything I've mentioned, haven't you?" He didn't wait for Jim's answer. "Of course you didn't. Or little what's-her-name wouldn't be dead. You don't really want to hear more?'

"Is that because you don't have anything more to say?"

"Go find two black men sleeping in a green sedan with a missing trunk lock somewhere between Denver and Portland. The gun's in the car. Case closed."

"Why a green sedan—and why do you think they're black?"

"The car's green because he still thinks he's in the military. They're going on missions. They're black because they can't figure out how to demand ransoms of some kind and not get caught."

"You're racist."

"If you say so. I see them that way in my head. In my dreams. Do you believe in dreams?"

"No, I don't. We don't solve crimes in our sleep."

"Doesn't seem like you solve crimes at all, Jim. What did that little girl look like, cold and dead? Imagine if you had just done something. She might still be alive. In my dream, the last three numbers of the Portland plate were 848. I think there was a V before that. It was hard to tell. They were covered with mud."

Sam hung up the phone and looked at his watch. _Go get them, Jim. I'm sure I'll be seeing you around._

"Who the hell got through to you at four in the morning?" Murdoch asked, looking up from the preliminary coroner's report.

"A real nut." Jim rubbed his temples, feeling incredibly weary. "Spewing theories about the sniper. Or should I say snipers, according to him."

"The downside of offering a reward. The nuts come out." Murdoch looked back down, eyes swimming through more details.

"He didn't want a reward. He said it came to him in a dream." Jim paused, thinking. "But he was smart. Nailed my accent—right down to the state. And he guessed that there was initial contact in each case."

"That's never been given out to the media," Murdoch said, looking back up from his papers. "What else did he say?"

"A father-son team in a green sedan at a rest stop somewhere between Denver and Portland. Portland license plate ends in V848. Oh, and they're black."

"Black serial killers?" Murdoch shook his head. "No wonder we can't find them." Then the thought came from somewhere in the far reaches of his mind. A detail. Murdoch shuffled through some papers. "My notes on the Idaho shooting have a witness that says she saw a green sedan. And a black man but only one person not two."

"According to the mystery voice, the shooter's in the trunk, shooting through a hole or a latch or something."

"What else did he say?"

"Military guy, got divorced, takes his kid on outings to shoot women and little girls. They go back to Portland when visiting time is up."

"That would explain why they didn't keep going east."

"That's what he said."

"If I told you the same story, what would you do?" Murdoch asked, leaning back in his chair.

"I'd run the partial plate. If it were you—and not some crackpot on the phone who saw V848 in a dream. That's what I'd do."

Murdock typed on the computer keyboard. "Can't hurt to try, right?"

"You know what the chances are? Arrogant asshole made it all sound so simple..."

"Look at this." Murdoch said turning the computer screen halfway toward Jim's side of the desk "Not too many black men in Portland with a plate ending in V848."

Jim stared at the screen. "One from the looks of it." He shook his head. This couldn't be happening. Not in the real world. "As long as we've gone this far, let's take a look at Mr. Price." A wave of sarcasm washed over him. "It makes perfect sense. A guy calls, gives us a tip, and John Lee Price is on your computer screen. No need to give us a name—he wouldn't want a reward."

Murdoch accessed the FBI's database for Portland local offenders. "John has a record: spousal battery and a subsequent restraining order. Jim, why don't you log on and check..."

"Family Court Records. I'm on it." Jim's fingers flew over the keyboard. He stared at the screen. "Shit. He has a son. John Jr. He'd be fifteen. John Sr. is divorced from Erica Watkins. She still lives in Portland."

"He was in the military for eight years. Dishonorable discharge," Murdoch interrupted.

"Well, Bill Murdoch. You have twenty years on me. What's going on? A white male voice calling from a Los Angeles number gives us this wonderful information and, I quote, 'I just feel like fucking with you.'"

"He wouldn't give a name? No name, no reward. Not a cop, not a witness." Murdoch pointed at the screen. "Price was a sharpshooter his first two years in."

Jim was still distracted by the clairvoyant mystery caller. "How about a criminal? He sees us getting nowhere. Can't stand watching some hack get the best of us. 'I've never met anybody who can shoot better than me,' he said." Jim's focus returned. "Call John Price and see if he's home."

"I've got a number. But it's four-thirty in the morning. You really think we should be calling now?" Murdoch asked, wondering if their judgment might be impaired having gone thirty-two hours without sleep.

"Okay, let's just say there's a one in a million chance—and someone else gets shot."

Murdoch picked up his handset and dialed. "Twelve rings, thirteen rings, fourteen rings." He put the phone down. "Doesn't mean anything. Could be a sound sleeper."

Jim picked up his phone and started dialing. "Let's see if the ex and John Jr. are home."

"Hello?" the sleepy female voice answered.

"Erica Watkins?"

"Who's calling me at four-thirty in the morning?"

"My name is Jim Carrington. I'm with the FBI."

"I've got work tomorrow. I don't be needing any crank calls. You understand?"

"This isn't a crank call. I know it's late. But it's very important we speak. I could give you an FBI number to call me back on if it would make you feel more comfortable."

The voice became immediately alert. "Is John Jr. alright?"

"He's not home with you now?"

"No, he's at his father's. What's going on?"

"I'm sorry. I don't want to alarm you. But can you do me a favor and stay by the phone? Do not try to call your son or your ex-husband until I call you back."

"Tell me what the hell's going on!" She was becoming extremely agitated.

"Ten minutes; I'm sure it's nothing. Just wait for my call. Try to relax." Jim hung up the phone.

Murdoch already had his phone in his hand. "Portland P.D., this is FBI Agent Bill Murdoch. I need to speak to your watch commander immediately." He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Get a helicopter ready to go. I want to be in it when the locals check the house. If they're not home, we leave straight away. If by some crazy chance they're sleeping in a car, we'll grab them while they're still asleep."

"I'll get someone to put together a map of rest-stops."

Murdoch quickly took his hand off the receiver. "Yeah, this is Bill Murdoch. Yes, the Sniper Task Force. I need you to do a physical check on an address."

"There's the car! Put it down!" Jim shouted through the headphones.

The helicopter had been racing along the interstate for more than an hour at an altitude high enough not to be heard.

"It's a forest!" the pilot shouted back.

"There!" Jim pulled the binoculars away from his face. He pointed at the interstate. "Put it down there. About a half-mile down."

"In the middle of a highway?" The pilot didn't look happy.

"Jim, ground units are on the way," Murdoch said, knowing the young agent wouldn't be convinced to wait.

"You said, 'Take them asleep.' Now you want to wait until a sharpshooter gets loose with a high-power rifle in a dense forest?"

Murdoch pointed. "Too late." Two black males, one with a rifle, dashed from the car. "Put it down and get out of range right now!" Murdoch shouted at the pilot.

The forest was thick and the ground tilted away from the interstate on an incline. Jim knew they weren't far behind John and John Jr. Yet he heard nothing. John and his son were waiting for them. Jim could feel it. He motioned for Murdoch to wait at a tree line that opened into a small meadow. Then he signaled that he was going to drop back and around in a flanking maneuver. It would be a hell of a lot easier to outflank them if he actually knew where they were.

_Get down low, and come around each tree. Should be wide enough._ _It's easy to hear your thoughts out here. Row after row of trees—big, giant, beautiful trees. There, thirty yards over and ten yards down, John Jr. waiting to shoot you. Crouched in the sniper position. Waiting for the stupid cops to walk into the crossfire his dad has taught him about. Finally, a chance to kill a cop. Move up on him carefully. Slow and quiet._

"Drop your weapon and lie face down. On the ground. Slowly." Jim almost whispered, his .357 Magnum less than three feet from John Jr.'s head. The boy hesitated. "Son, I'm not going to ask you again. Drop your weapon."

Suddenly, John Jr. reeled around. In an instant, Jim discharged his .357 Magnum into the side of the boy's head. Jim stared momentarily at the stump—the place where John Jr.'s head had been a few seconds before. A shot rang out. The tree exploded next to him, wood and bark flew in his face. John's father ran toward him, screaming.

Shots rang out from the tree line. John Sr. was in the crossfire now. Bullets ripped through his body and saliva flew from his mouth—long white strands of saliva as he fell face down.

Jim watched as Murdoch emerged from the trees and moved cautiously towards John Sr., his gun still drawn. Jim did the same.

"He's still breathing," Murdoch observed.

Jim kicked the .44 Magnum that the bleeding man had fired at him away from his trembling hand. Murdoch pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Jim kept his gun trained on John Sr. "You have the right to remain silent..." In the end it was always the same.

The Interstate Snipers were done. All because of a phone call in the middle of the night—an anonymous tip. Carrington and Murdoch would be heroes. Instead of relief, all Jim could think about was an anonymous tip from someone that might be far worse than John Price and his son. They had killed seven innocent people. How many had the anonymous caller killed? What type of person could see crimes in his dreams?

CHAPTER 11

The Limousine Business

Jennifer went down to Houston and resumed her stripping career. She hated it. Every night before going to work, she called Sam. Talking to him gave her the strength to rub her G-string clad pussy up against rich old guys' cocks. She never forgot to rub her big tits in their faces. She never said no to anything and the money kept pouring in.

The phone rang. Sam looked at his watch: 2:00 p.m. Jennifer. Like clockwork.

"Hey, it's me."

"Ah, my daily Jennifer call. How's beautiful Houston?" Sam played the game. He had goals.

"I wouldn't know—I'm not there. Can you come pick me up at LAX?"

"What the fuck are you doing in town?" Sam didn't like it when people did things without telling him. It was usually a precursor to something bad happening.

"I had to get out of Houston. I fucking hate it there."

"What about work? You've only sent five grand."

"I've got the rest. Don't worry about it."

"I thought you said you couldn't hold on to money." The muscles in Sam's jaw tightened and his teeth ground together.

You lying, fucking bitch.

"I haven't been spending. I don't know, talking to you... it helps. I don't feel so depressed."

"Glad to be of service."

I've only been talking to you because you've been sending me cash. You snagletooth cunt.

"Is it alright if I stay at your place?" She sounded like she was asking him to the prom.

"Yeah, it's okay. But I can only put you up for a night. I don't want Stacy to think I'm fucking around."

"You mean like you did with that little girl, Lydia?"

"You know what? Fuck you."

Keep talking shit like that to me and see what happens.

Jennifer laughed. "It turns me on when you get angry."

Sam wondered if she would still think it was a turn-on if he drove her up to the Angeles Crest National Forrest and shot her in the head. He imagined her kneeling naked in a muddy crevice, filled with rotting tree leaves.

"Come get me—my quarter's gonna run out. I'm at the curb, American Airlines."

"On my way." Sam hung up the phone.

_I can't believe I just told her she could stay at my place. Fuck!_ His mind drifted to Lydia. He decided to go back to bed and masturbate.

The Santa Monica apartment was nothing fancy. Large and comfortable, it served its purpose. Because it was rent control, it was cheap and Sam was not on the lease. Jerry, the actual tenant, was selling fur coats in Dallas. Sam had agreed to pay the rent and use the place until the day Jerry needed it back. Five hundred and thirty dollars a month for a three-bedroom apartment ten blocks from the beach. Jerry's furnishings were of the crushed velvet and heavy wood variety. But for five hundred and thirty dollars a month, Sam couldn't complain. Jennifer sat at the laminated wood table in one of the four beige chairs.

Sam glanced from the bright yellow tile kitchen to the dining room area ten feet away. Seeing Jennifer sitting there made him miss Stacy. She had been staying over five, sometimes six nights a week. Luckily, she was taking a night off.

"Go make yourself comfortable in the living room. I've gotta study for a test," Sam said as he put the last of the dinner dishes into the dishwasher.

"Do what you have to do. I'm just happy to be here."

Maybe if I study long enough she'll get tired and go to sleep.

Sam leaned back on the couch, reading. Jennifer sat at his feet, perusing a magazine. "It's getting late. Why don't you call it a night and come to bed?" She grabbed his big toe.

"No, you go ahead. I have a lot more to do." He barely looked up from his book.

"I feel bad taking your bed." She sounded disappointed. "I'm not going to bite you or anything."

Sure you won't.

Her attempts to flirt nauseated him. "My bed is your bed. I'll be there as soon as I finish." Bile rising.

She got up and walked toward the bedroom, clearly doubting his sincerity. "Okay. See you in a bit."

"Show me the forty-three grand and you'll see me in a little bit," Sam said to nobody as soon as she'd gone.

Great. Now I'm fucking talking to myself.

The phone rang. Sam looked at the clock. _Who the fuck is calling me at_...

"Did she get on top and break your dick off yet?" Frank's voice was immediately recognizable.

Sam tossed his book to the floor and lowered his voice. "The thought of fucking her even with your dick makes me want to puke."

"Did she bring the money?"

"She gave me some bullshit in the car that it's in her checking account. She's sending it, she's bringing it, its in her checking account. I think she's full of shit—but we'll find out tomorrow."

"You think this is all just to get you to fuck her?" Frank almost sounded jealous.

"Yeah, some sick psycho chick shit like that."

"Why don't you just give her what she wants? It probably won't be that bad, just go down on her first and eat that big sloppy pussy—"

Sam hung up before Frank could finish. He covered his face with both hands and laughed at the stupidity of the situation. "Go to sleep, you fucking idiot," he said out loud.

Sam woke up and looked at the clock on top of the television. It read 8:00 a.m. To the right of it, on the wall, was a horrible-looking Salvador Dali print that cost more than most automobiles. The face in the print was screaming and filled with pain. Sam thought about Jennifer sleeping in the next room. He looked back at the print and smiled. _I know just how you feel, old boy._

Sam rolled off of the couch and walked down the hallway to his bedroom. The door was wide open. He summoned up civility as best he could and entered.

Jennifer was face down on his mattress, drooling on the pillow. Sam poked her in the back. Hard.

"Wake up. We've got stuff to do."

Jennifer rolled over. Opened her eyes. The look on her face said, "Thanks for not fucking me you dickless asshole." But she was quiet and pulled the covers off. She groggily sat up. She was completely naked.

"What happened to you last night?"

Sam put on an innocent face. "No idea. I was studying and the next thing I knew, I was asleep." He couldn't help but notice how big Jennifer's tits were. He looked down at her hairy, black muff. "You should get dressed. We have important shit to do today."

Jennifer stood. "It'll have to wait until this afternoon, I have some errands to run first."

She reached for her clothes. Sam was distracted by the brown spot her ass seemed to have left on his sheets. He hoped it was from whatever type of fake tanning shit she had on. It was a big ass, he thought to himself.

That's a big fucking ass. That better not be real shit on my bed.

Sam leaned against the dresser with the same sick feeling he had when Frank suggested he lick her pussy.

"I don't remember you mentioning that you had errands to run."

"Well—I do. I'm gonna call a cab. I'll talk to you when I'm done."

Sam lay on the couch in his favorite study position. He could hear her heels clomping their way up the stairwell. The sound irritated him. "It's unlocked!" he shouted out in a preemptive attempt to avoid the further annoyance of having to get up.

There was a knock. "I said it's unlocked!"

The door opened and the room was filled with the rustling sound of someone carrying too many shopping bags.

"Are you done studying?" Jennifer sounded less bitchy than she did earlier that morning.

"Yeah, I've had enough." Sam slammed the book shut. He tossed it to the floor and stretched his back.

"Wanna grab something to eat?" She was hopeful.

"I want to go over to the Lincoln dealership and take care of business first." Sam had no more patience left and was still sickened by the stained sheets.

"Don't you think forty-three thousand is a lot for a car? Maybe we should shop around."

_That's what I want to do: spend more time with you, you sheet-staining bitch._ He tried to stay calm and logical.

"I have shopped around. Forty-three thousand is a decent price for a new limo. And even if it turns out to be a little too much, at least we have something to show for our money."

"What's wrong with a used limo?" she asked.

Because used limos have more mileage than your twat.

Sam rubbed his brow. For some reason, it made him feel wise and more patient. "People who rent limos don't like to rent old cars. You're also buying a potential headache."

Jennifer shifted her weight from one foot to the other and put her hands on her hips. "Look, I just don't feel comfortable going forward with this. I want to get my money back."

So there you have it. The real deal. Finally.

"Backing out of a deal isn't cool. But it's your choice, Jennifer." Sam responded politely. "Talk about fucking up a nice plan for the weekend," he added.

"What nice plan for the weekend?" she asked with the hopefulness of a ten-year-old.

"I recruited Patrick to drive us up to my cabin for the weekend. Kind of a limousine maiden voyage."

"Really? I didn't know you had a cabin," she purred back in sex kitten mode. Predictable. "Who's Patrick?"

"Patrick was my best friend growing up. We've known each other since we were six. And I never talk about my cabin. It's a special place. My private getaway."

"You didn't even act like I was alive last night."

"Jen, I was trying to study for my fucking midterm. I figured we had all weekend to celebrate."

He could see her imagining a long walk with him through the woods. _They're all the same. She's going to break._

"I'm sorry I got all bitchy. I just get like that sometimes. Let's go get the car."

"You sure? I thought you just said you weren't comfortable." Sam loved clenching the deal. Easy.

"No, I'm comfortable. I just get weird sometimes. It's cool now."

"Let's pick up the car and head straight to the cabin. I'll tell Patrick to get his ass over here."

"What about your mid-term?"

"Fuck it. I'm too excited to take a test right now anyway. Hey. Whatever you do, don't say anything about splitting with me. I don't want anything to get back to Stacy."

"Who am I going to tell? No one even knows I'm in town."

"Just don't say anything to anyone. Let's go get your cash. I don't want any kind of paper trail on this car."

"Sure, boss." Jennifer tried to sound cute. It came out sounding ridiculous.

Sam pointed at her shopping bags. "Why don't you put all that stuff back in my room and get what you need for the weekend. I'll call Patrick."

Jennifer picked up her bags and shuffled out of the living room down the hall. Sam picked up the phone.

"Hello?" Frank sounded sleepy.

"New plan."

"Let me guess: she broke your dick and you need a ride to the hospital?"

"More along the lines of a mountain retreat. Call Patrick. He'll tell you how to get there."

The limo's soft black leather felt good to Sam. It felt rich. So did he, as he sat in the backseat. Patrick drove the car through traffic like he'd been doing it his whole life. Sam stared at his friend for a moment. Patrick had jet-black hair and olive skin. He had high cheekbones and no hair on his thin but muscular body. It was a strange chemistry to have with another man—but it had always been there. Since they were little kids, Patrick was at his command. Most people followed for money. Some followed for purpose. Patrick followed for some strange chemical attraction they had to one another.

Jennifer stared out the window, seemingly happy with Sam's vision for the future. Sam imagined she was hoping that this would be the first of many such weekends. Hardly a chance of that.

The sun was close to setting as the car began its ascent up the winding mountain road to Sam's private retreat. Sam could tell his silence bothered Jennifer. It made her wonder if he might be feeling guilty about cheating on Stacy. It was exactly what he wanted her to think. He could see in Jennifer's heart that she believed that he belonged with her. He had never said anything but nice things about his own girlfriend. But a woman's vanity allowed them to convince themselves of anything.

Jennifer turned from the window and her view of what had become a never-ending forest. Sam looked almost frozen as he stared out of the tinted glass; lost in thought. From some angles, his face was actually beautiful. Jennifer broke the silence with: "I want to go down on you."

Sam turned to her, moving for the first time in thirty minutes. "Go ahead." He didn't even think about it, just looked back out the window. Jennifer kneeled in front of him and began undoing his belt. Sam occasionally glanced down as she orally copulated him with too much vigor for his taste. Like most girls, Jennifer gave bad head. What could Sam do? They'd be at the cabin soon. He hoped she would prove to be more fun once things became a bit more adventurous.

The sky grew dark. The private dirt road was really more of a deer trail than anything else. The car was guided by a single light on the porch of a wood cabin. They were truly in the middle of nowhere. Jennifer was enjoying herself. Sam had cum in her mouth twice and she was working on him for a third time when he told her that they were there. The cabin was exactly as he had described it, beautiful in its simplicity.

"Wow, you weren't kidding. I've never seen any place like it. Where are we?"

"We really are nowhere. This place doesn't exist," Sam explained, feeling more social, "at least on any map."

"It doesn't exist. What is it... a dream?"

The car pulled to a stop. "Something like that." Sam opened the door and stepped out into the wilderness. The contrast between the interior of the limousine and the untouched forest was striking. Sam felt like getting back into the car and getting out again.

Jennifer and Patrick followed him as he walked towards the porch. Even with the flickering light of the lantern, Frank was hard to make out.

"It's about fucking time," Frank's words crackled through the air.

"What's Frank doing here?" Jennifer tried to control the surprise in her voice. But Sam could still hear it. He grinned in the darkness.

"That's what the fuck I'd like to know," Frank's words crackled through the air again.

Sam looked back over his shoulder. "I thought he might get a kick out of watching us cut your tits off."

"What?" Jennifer blurted with the bewilderment of someone who hears but can't comprehend fast enough.

The sound of Patrick's fist smashing into the back of her skull was quickly followed by the thud of her body on the dirt path. Sam didn't bother to turn around.

Frank was on his feet now. Sam was close enough to make out the look of confusion on his face.

"What the fuck is going on?"

"Good to see you, too. You find the place all right?"

"I repeat: What the fuck is going on?"

"She knows way too much," Sam said, stepping onto the porch.

"She just bought us a limousine for fuck's sake!"

Sam smiled. "I let her suck my dick. We're even."

"Come on—be serious. We're gonna kill Jennifer? She's our friend."

"Frank, she's our friend as long as I fuck her. What do you think the delusional bitch is going to do when I don't leave my girlfriend for her? Or, I don't want to fuck her one day? She's going to pick up the phone, call the cops, and drop an anonymous dime on us. Grow the fuck up. We should have never let her hang around. It's our fault—but she's in the archives."

Patrick already had Jennifer's clothes off and was dragging her, feet first, towards a large pine tree. "Hey can one of you guys go down to the cellar and grab some rope and a skinning knife?" It was the first time he had spoken since arriving at Sam's. They could go most of the day without speaking and still know what the other was thinking. It was part of their strange chemistry.

Sam put his hand on Frank's shoulder. "Do you mind? I've got to take a piss."

"Sure you don't want to just shoot her?" Frank asked hopefully. "For old time's sake?"

"I thought about it. But the whole trying to back out of the limousine deal if I didn't fuck her thing really pissed me off." He left Frank on the porch and made his way to the outhouse behind the cabin.

It was a dark night. A normal person would have been well advised to take some kind of light. As the last of the urine drained from Sam's bladder, he heard Jennifer's screams. He smiled as he rubbed himself for a second. "She sounds really pissed." He laughed.

Patrick had lit another lantern and brought it close to the tree. Jennifer was tied to the pine like a witch to a Salem stake.

"Frank, talk to this crazy motherfucker!" she yelled as Sam approached.

"He talks to me all the time, you fucking cow," Sam answered, feeling amused at the sight of her strapped to the tree.

"You're fucking crazy, Sam. You need help!" One of her eyes was beginning to swell from the fall on her face. Blood trickled from her nostrils.

"I need help? You're the one strapped to the tree with your tits flapping in the wind. Did I tell you about the red ants in this fucking place? They're the size of my cat."

Jennifer was in bargaining mode. "You can keep the limo. I'll go back to Houston and you'll never hear from me again. How about that? Say something, Frank! Sam?"

Frank looked from Sam to Patrick. Then he stared at the knife in Patrick's hand. "What's it like riding in the back of the limo?" he asked Sam.

Sam nodded. "Nice. You feel like royalty."

"Frank!" Jennifer screamed.

He turned to her. "You told me to say something."

"You dumb fuck, this isn't funny! You guys think this is a joke! I have friends in Houston. When I tell them what you did to me, they're going to cut your fucking balls off!"

Patrick stepped forward. His left hand grabbed Jennifer's right tit, pulling it straight out. And with a flash of the knife blade in the lantern lit night, her tit sat in his hand—no longer part of her body.

A silent moment of shock. Then a long five minutes of screaming as Jennifer transfixed on her tit in Patrick's hand.

"You motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker!!!"

Sam wasn't surprised that the gruesome scene didn't make him sick. Jennifer's screaming actually seemed to turn him on.

"You—fucking bastards, you fucking bastards." Her voice trailed off into a whimper.

Patrick dropped her tit at her feet. Without saying another word, he cut off her other breast. Her energy was gone. So, rather than engage in further theatrics, he just dropped the left tit next to the right. He stepped back to admire his work.

Frank laughed. "This is the most fucked up thing ever." Jennifer's moans added to Frank's point.

"In her own words, 'I'll have your balls cut off,'" Sam reminded him.

"It's your handy-work. What do you think?" Frank asked Patrick.

"I think she spent her whole life using that pussy and those tits," he pointed at the heap of flesh at her feet, "to get what she wanted. That's over!" He stepped forward and expertly plunged the knife into her vagina. The scream was deafening.

Frank tuned away and covered his eyes. "Oh fuck! Oh fuck!" He bent over.

"You okay?" Patrick asked, walking over to Frank.

"Oh fuck! No, I'm not okay."

"Want me to slap you or something?" Sam asked, starting to worry.

"Fuck no. Oh fuck!" He yelled, dropping down to one knee.

"Come on, get up. I'm serious. Stop this shit." Sam seriously thought he might need to hit his friend.

"Fuck you. I can't."

"What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"Something is biting the shit out of me." He answered rolling up his pant leg.

Patrick bent over to get a look. "Red ant. It's the blood—they smell it like sharks."

"Mean little fucker!" Frank yelled as he smashed the ferocious insect.

"Check out the mean little fucker's friends," Patrick said, pointing at Jennifer's bloody crotch.

"Oh. That's going to hurt." Frank cringed as he watched thousands of the red insects stream up her legs and into her gaping vaginal wound.

"Come on, I'm hungry," Sam said walking back to the cabin. "We can watch the ants do their thing from the porch."

Frank rolled his pant leg back down and followed. "How long are we going to leave her up there?"

Sam looked back at Jennifer. She was straining against the ropes. Strange sounds were coming from her. The ants had found her mouth and were apparently eating her tongue and vocal chords. "Hungry little bastards. I say we leave her up for the night and bury what's left of her in the morning."

CHAPTER 12

Geek Squad

David Spitzer was just ordinary. He earned good grades in high school and went to City College. He couldn't recall a point in his life that he could say he had a friend other than his younger brother Leonard. Poor Leonard. David often thought of him locked away in that place until he turned eighteen. It wasn't right that they had taken him away. Leonard had troubles—he had hurt someone. But he was a good brother. It was when Leonard went away that David became completely invisible.

A child of a single working mother, once Leonard was gone, a computer was the closest thing David had to a companion. It wasn't that he was unattractive; at five-foot-ten and one hundred and eighty pounds, he had no distinguishing features—good or bad. His thick glasses added some distinction, but they could hardly be considered a feature. He kept his straight, thinning brown hair short so he didn't have to comb it in the morning. He worked from home: a small New York City apartment. So there was no need to be well kempt. He was anyway. His mother had ingrained good personal hygiene into his being the way he wrote code into databases.

So, without fail, David woke up at eight every morning. He showered, shaved, didn't comb his hair, and then got dressed—usually in khakis and his favorite argyle sweater. He ate a bowl of cereal and then sat at his computer for the next three hours, working on whatever program he was assigned to.

Projects could last a month to a year—with the exception of the bank project that had lasted almost two and a half years. At fifty dollars an hour, he made more than enough money to survive—and survive was pretty much all he did. Day after day, he survived the never-ending and meaningless moments that comprised his, and he imagined, most people's existences.

At noon, he walked to the park and bought two hotdogs with everything. The man always asked what he wanted. Every day for five years, he bought two hot dogs with everything. And every day the man asked him what he wanted—as if he had never bought a hotdog from the cart before. At first, he thought this was a matter of professionalism to the heavy-set, middle-aged Armenian food purveyor. There was no way to know what someone might want from day to day—even after five years.

It took three years for David to conclude that the man had just never noticed him. "The usual, Joe?" He had said this to the insurance agent in front of him that day. David had seen Joe before. He came on Wednesdays, maybe for the last six months. Once a week for the last six months and they were already on a first name basis.

An hour later, he was back at the computer until six. He didn't need to look at the clock to know it was six because Domino's delivered every night at six sharp. A small cheese pizza, it was a standing order. Their automated system had detected his pattern and sent him a membership application to the Domino's Club. By having a standing order, he not only saved money but also accumulated valuable prize points. He had eaten so many cheese pizzas he was just a dozen or so away from having enough points for a free trip to Las Vegas, which he planned on taking at the first possible opportunity.

Given the routine and monotony of his banal existence, soft drinks were where he stepped out. Every man had a vice. His came in a can. Pepsi, Coke, Seven Up, Sprite, Barq's and A&W Root Beer—he had them all. Recently, he had been drinking a lot of Cherry Coke and a lot less Orange Crush. Something about the winter months brought this about. After dining on pizza and soda, he would venture out. This was the highlight of his existence. This made life bearable.

At night, he would drive to all the best neighborhoods and watch. From seven until there was no one left he would watch the nice couples having dinner. Sometimes, he would follow them to whatever movie or concert they might be going to. He would watch for hours. And at some point, he would find that magical place where he felt like it was he who was out on a date. When this happened, if he were that fortunate, the loneliness would subside until the next morning.

Las Vegas was like nothing David had ever imagined. Sure, he had seen pictures and movies with Vegas images. But even in his dreams, he could not have imagined such a place. He wished he had eaten two pizzas a day; he would have made it to this adult wonderland in half the time. There were so many couples to follow that his feet hurt after just the first few hours. He particularly liked watching them gamble. When they won money, they were so happy. When they lost, he thought he could almost see them looking around for someone they would rather be with. This was nothing that ever happened over dinner and a movie. Oh, sure there were arguments, he had seen plenty—but nothing like this silent rip in the fabric of a relationship. He watched it happen again and again over a game of chance.

To his own surprise, he found himself playing some blackjack. It was easy to win money if you just counted the cards carefully for a while before playing. The couples he had been watching didn't seem to understand this. They just sat down and started betting. Their money and their relationships tossed on the table—left only to fate.

David noticed the cards had gone bad. He stood and took the five hundred dollars he had just won. The two couples sitting at the table were oblivious to him leaving and the change in the cards. Soon the misery and the rip would come to them.

The noise at the craps table was almost deafening. The oval table was surrounded by cheering people. David walked toward the crowd. The young man with the dice in his hand was imperious. Flanked by three of the most beautiful—no beautiful wasn't the word— _intoxicating._ They were intoxicating women—the three most intoxicating women David had ever seen. Two enormous men, one black, one white, stood behind them watching the gathering crowd. David had to get closer. He had to see. He actually wanted for the first time in his life to embrace his invisibility. If he could just get closer...

Slowly but surely, he drifted through the crowd unnoticed. "Winner six!" the man at the table yelled. Cheers, huge elated cheers. David watched as four towering stacks of black and gold chips were pushed toward the ruler of the table. The imperious young Ruler of Craps had just made (by David's at-a-glance count) thirty-five thousand dollars on a single roll. He had another hundred and ten thousand stacked on the table rack. That's when it happened. The large black man put his hand on his shoulder. His powerful grip delivered an unmistakable message, "Don't take another step." It had finally happened—and in of all places Las Vegas. Finally, he had been noticed.

"Come here!" The Ruler had turned around and said, "Let him go."

The big black hand was now pushing him towards the table.

"Make some room for him," he commanded the girl with the long dark hair. He was at the table now. Everybody was looking at him. His invisibility was completely gone. "Put a bet on the pass line, I'm killing them," the Ruler said.

"Me?"

"You can't spend your whole life watching other people play. Get in the game." The man with the stick pushed four dice to the Ruler, who selected two. "You look like good luck to me. You need me to stake you some money?"

"No, I have money," David said—reaching into his pocket, fumbling with some chips, and then finally putting two hundred dollars worth of chips on the pass line.

"What do you want to drink?" the gorgeous cocktail waitress asked.

"Me?" David asked, not knowing what to say. There didn't seem to be one Orange Crush at the table.

"He'll have a Jack and Coke!" the Ruler interjected—and then threw the dice to the end of the table.

"Six! The point is a six!" The man in the middle of the table shouted setting off a flurry of activity, hands everywhere throwing down money.

"I like Coke," David said to the Ruler, wondering how he knew.

"Well then you're really going to like Jack and Coke. Put two-fifty behind your bet and take the odds. Then put another fifty on six the hard way. I'm going to hit this one quick, I feel it."

David fumbled. But the Ruler waited, like the patient father he had always wished for.

"Thirty-three! Thirty-three! We have hard six the winner!" The man in the middle yelled even louder than the cheers of the jubilant crowd. And just like that David had seventeen hundred dollars in front of him. And just like that the Ruler had fifty thousand dollars being pushed toward him. That's why he was the Ruler. People, his people that stood around the table, threw chips at him. They gave him money like some sort of tax. And he in turn tossed a thousand dollars in chips to the man in the middle of the table who bowed slightly when he said thank you.

And so it went for forty-five more minutes, Jack and Cokes and an endless array of numbers. The money showered the table like manna from heaven. The Ruler bet and rolled—and told him what to do. David had seventeen thousand three hundred and fifty dollars on his rack. The Ruler had won at least nine hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars. Almost a million dollars in less than an hour and it was nothing more to him than something to do over a drink.

"Bring me down on everything!" he told the man in the middle. He nodded toward David, "Him too." Then quietly, he said to David, "Always know when to take your chips off the table. I'm taking all of our odds off our bets." A large pile of chips moved toward the Ruler. He threw the dice for another three minutes to the still never ending cheers. Then a four and a three and the roll was finally over. Yet there was no sadness. The people, his people, clapped as the large men placed close to a million dollars of chips that he had won on trays and covered them.

David stood, not knowing what to do. Was he invisible again?

"You coming?" the Ruler asked.

The Jack and Coke had slowed his already dull auditory skills.

"C'mon, you're in the game now," the Ruler said, starting to walk away with his entourage.

David couldn't speak but followed the King and his court out the front of the hotel and into a waiting limousine.

"Put the chips in the trunk," David heard him say to the large men before getting into the car.

"You like strip clubs?" The Ruler was speaking to him.

"I don't know."

"Have you ever been to one?"

"No."

"You like girls, naked girls?"

"Yes."

"Trust me. You're going to like this place."

The black leather in the back of the limousine was soft and rich. David felt rich. The girls poured drinks and the Ruler started talking with his men about their good fortune at the craps table. David thought it best to be quiet and sip his drink.

"What's your name?" the girl with the dark brown curly hair asked.

"My name..."

"Is none of your business..." The Ruler interrupted. "No names tonight, just fun." He looked at David. "You are whoever you want to be tonight. Your name and where you're from don't exist. You're a roller—and that's all anyone needs to know." Then, pointing at two of the girls, he added, "Maybe our guest wants to do some coke with you two? Where are your manners?"

And then, the two intoxicating girls were cutting up the white powder with a razor blade on a small mirror. They made a row of six identically sized lines. The one with the dark hair pulled a gold straw out of her purse and inhaled through her right nostril.

"Did you see how I did that?" she asked, handing David the mirror.

"Yes."

"Go ahead—you'll like it," she reassured him.

"I've never done drugs."

"Sure you have," the Ruler said then laughed. "You ever take Penicillin?"

"Yeah, when I was sick. But..."

"It made you feel better?"

"Well yeah..."

"So will this. There's really no difference. They're both drugs, they both make you feel better. You're just afraid to do coke because it's illegal."

"I don't want to get into any trouble..."

"Sure you do. I see it in your eyes. But you're not going to get in trouble for doing some coke in the back of a limousine in Las Vegas. There is no law in the back of this limousine. Just you, all the money in your pocket, and two beautiful girls who want you to do some coke with them."

The girl with the dark hair gave him one more reassuring smile and he tilted his head forward and inhaled one of the lines. He paused for a second and inhaled another. It was just as the Ruler said. He felt better than he ever had. He belonged in this world. It had been kept from him by forces that he now realized conspired to nullify his very existence. As this great revelation propagated through his being, the car came to a stop and the door opened. They followed the Ruler into the lavish club where music thundered and naked women were everywhere.

A handsome young man led them to a large booth where the Ruler handed him several hundred-dollar bills and told him to send over their best for everyone.

"Relax," the girl with the dark curly hair told him—as the naked women descended upon their table.

"I'm Amber," the blonde whispered in his ear. Then she expertly straddled his lap.

"I've never done this before."

"Just sit back and relax. I'm pretty sure you're going to like it." And with that, she began rubbing her most private parts against his. It felt so good he couldn't keep a tear from escaping the corner of his eye. Why had this all been kept from him? Why had he not been allowed to feel this way? Why had he been told this was all bad? Twenty-eight years of lies revealed.

"Stop, I can't take it. Something is going to happen."

"What's going to happen baby?" she asked, her hot breath in his ear, her private parts pressing against his—still harder.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. Relax, let it happen." Her forehead came to rest against his. "Just let it go. I'm going to cum with you."

And with that, it happened. Another tear escaped his eye as it did. He had never felt so good in his life. Then came more girls and it happened again and again.

In the car, the Ruler commanded the girl with dark curly hair to, as he put it, "Come here and give me some head." And without hesitation, she did it in front of everybody. David watched. At first he felt strange. But nobody else even seemed to notice, let alone care.

"Take what you want," the Ruler said to him.

"I don't know what I want," David replied, trying to make eye contact and not look down at the girl with the dark hair.

"Yes, you do. You just have to admit it to yourself. Admit it—then act. If you want what other people have, just be strong and take it."

"What if what I want—is for people not to have something?"

The Ruler looked down for a moment at the girl with dark hair before looking back up. "Animals, aren't they?" He paused and ran his hands through her hair. "You're confusing what you need to do with what you want. Know what it is you need to do and do it. When it's time, you'll have what you really want."

"You know what I really want?" David asked.

"You want to be seen. You want to exist. You want to matter," the Ruler answered, as if David's wretched existence could be fixed with the same ease with which he tossed the dice down the table. The girl with the dark, curly, hair began to make a gulping sound.

"I want to be seen. I want people to know I exist," David mumbled—almost to himself.

"They will," the Ruler reassured him as the limo came to a stop in front of the hotel they had originated from.

David stared out from the car at the fountains. "I guess this is it? This is where I get off."

"Have you ever fucked a girl?" the Ruler asked.

And although he had never admitted it, as if there was anyone who cared, he answered truthfully. "No."

"Take her," the Ruler said, nodding at the girl with dark curly hair.

"But I thought..." He looked at her. She looked willing. Would she?

"Don't go to bed alone for once in your life. Not here. Not before you do what you have to do. Know what you've been missing. It'll give you strength," the Ruler said.

The door opened and she stepped out. He wanted to touch the Ruler but he knew better. The large men would never allow it. So without a word, he slid down the seat and stepped out of the car. He looked at the imperious one for the last time.

"Thank you."

The Ruler smiled. "I'll be looking for you."

Manhattan was dating paradise for attractive women in their early twenties. Restaurants, shows, and bars were almost too abundant to count. A girl who knew how to date could live a life of never ending indulgence—all at the expense of eager to impress men.

It was their third date and Veronica had decided that she was going to test the rule. She knew that letting him pick her up and drop her off implied an invitation upstairs. But he was going to have to wait till their fourth or fifth date for something like that. Then, she'd see if there was more to him. He was handsome and nice. It didn't hurt that he was an investment banker on Wall Street. Still, there had to be more. She was twenty-four, out of college, and she needed to start a real life with someone. The last thing she needed was another relationship destined to go nowhere other than their respective bedrooms.

"That was a really nice dinner. I can't believe you were able to get a reservation on such short notice," she said, genuinely impressed. A reservation at Giraffe usually had to be made a month or more in advance.

"Drexler and Anderson has its own table. Michael, my boss, keeps tables at a dozen restaurants. We're required to use them. If we don't spend our entire entertainment budget every month, we can actually be written up."

"You used the firm's table for a date?"

"I ran it by the boss. He's said it was okay. Michael's a forty-year-old multi-billionaire. He kind of gets a kick out of the younger guys getting out and having some fun. At the office, he's all business. But when the day's over, he's totally cool. He says money is like manure. If you don't spread it around, it'll make you stink."

She laughed. "I like that you're so honest about everything."

"I like that you like that I'm so honest about everything. I like a lot of things about you."

"Do you like that I'm the kind of girl that likes to take things slow?"

He smiled. "Are you trying to tell me that you're not going to kiss me good night? Just another one of those pecks on the cheek?"

She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

"I can do better than a peck," she said, pulling back a few inches.

She kissed him again and he began kissing her back. They wouldn't be going upstairs. Not on the third date—but soon. Her heart was starting to tell her that this guy was something special. So many lying, shitty guys just trying to get into her pants. And now, finally a good one. She wanted to invite him up. She wanted to wake up and make them both breakfast. There was something very romantic about making out in the car. High school recaptured. It was fun and exciting.

"Danny!" she said, pushing him back. "He's staring at us!"

"Who is?" he asked, reeling around and looking out his driver's side window. "Excuse us!" he said, waiving the preppy looking stranger away. Then, he moved back towards Veronica and her soft lips that he had been waiting so patiently to kiss.

Her hands pushed him back. "He's still staring."

Danny shook his head, resigned to the fact that at best he was going to salvage a hero's moment out of the night. He needed to make her feel safe without doing anything too violent and scary. A three hundred dollar dinner and he got this for desert. A star linebacker in high school and college, he was hardly afraid of a confrontation with some preppy looking computer geek.

"Can I help you?" he asked rolling down his window.

"Yes, I think you can," the geek answered.

"Well, how can I help you? We were kind of in the middle of something."

"Just die, that's all you have to do," he said, pulling a thirty-eight-caliber pistol from behind his back and calmly firing it into the handsome young man in the driver's seat. The girl began screaming. Her screams seemed to coincide with every bullet. One, two, three bullets—three screams. "You see me now, don't you?" he said to her, bending down and looking through the window. "Now you see me." He raised the gun and she screamed three more times as he shot her to death too.

"Five dead couples in three weeks. All shot with the same .38 at close range. Sound familiar?" Murdoch asked Jim, as he watched him unpack his suitcase into the dresser.

"Yeah, it sounds familiar—but it's not a copycat. A copycat would have waited until summer. Most likely, he or she would have done the killings on the exact same dates. Son of Sam II is no copycat. So forget about combing the city for a guy talking to a German Shepherd."

"Well he's talking to somebody," Murdoch said, leaning back and crossing his legs in the chair next to the television. The room was pretty comfortable for a Holiday Inn.

"He's talking to us Bill. That's who he's talking to. This isn't John Price and his son. This guy wants to get caught. He kills white couples only between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. How much you want to bet this guy is a white male somewhere between the age of twenty-five and thirty?"

"That was our first profile of Price, if you recall, before the anonymous caller."

"We made a mistake. The randomness of the victims—we didn't even consider it."

"He was acting on orders," Murdoch said as he shook his head. "Isn't that what he told the court? 'The innocent must die with the guilty.' It was an order."

"That's how we were supposed to know he was a soldier. They kill the innocent with the guilty. This guy—he's just killing the guilty. Nothing random about it."

"I've read up on all of them. Outside of a little recreational drug use and some promiscuity, they were all nice kids. What do you think they were guilty of?"

"Maybe just that. Being nice white kids between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. Maybe our guy has some type of deformity," Jim said, thinking out loud. He closed the dresser drawer and put his empty rolling bag into the closet.

"I'm impressed that you actually unpack in a hotel room. Twenty years and I've never done that."

"You should give it a try. It makes traveling less stressful."

"Guilty of being normal you say? I don't know about a hunt for a deformed killer. It's a tough sell, Jim."

"I don't want to search for this guy. We know what he's looking for. We're going to give it to him. He's coming to us."

It was an ambitious operation. Ten couples—comprised of FBI agents and local police decoys. Each couple was an almost exact match to the five couples that had been killed. Strategically placed on dates in the ten most likely spots in the city for a killer stalker to find them. All under the watchful eyes and guidance of Jim Carrington, Bill Murdoch, and their sixty man task force. The stakes, as always, were high and so were the expectations. The heroes that had stopped the Interstate Snipers would, without a doubt, now put an end to Son of Sam II.

David sat at The King's Head eating at a table by himself. Almost every five minutes, the news had a story about the Son of Sam II, which is how they had come to refer to him. It made waiting outside of restaurants or bars impossible. But he didn't mind. The young Ruler had said to get in the game; he had drawn him in. He had commanded him. The only real pleasure was being in. He knew that now. The FBI and the police were easy to spot. They were the ones sitting, looking out at the street. Looking for the disenfranchised loser standing outside looking in. Looking for what he had been—before he had evolved.

"Margarita Pizza!" the attractive waitress said, as she put the high-end pie down on the table. The first time he had ordered one of these gourmet, wood, fire pit pizzas, he was appalled. Sixteen dollars it cost, almost twice the price of Domino's and no prize points! They did, however, make up for their lack of size and prize points with their taste. Even the thin little crust, a cracker at a glance, was far tastier than it looked. He imagined the Ruler eating these little pizzas. The Ruler wasn't eating Domino's. He would be proud of how he had evolved.

The nice police officers three tables away—posing as a couple—were keeping a watchful eye out. Mostly outside, but occasionally they glanced around the room. They noticed him. Looked him up and down. How stupid were they? The nice couples sitting on either side of him hadn't so much as blinked in his direction. The police couple was paying attention to him three tables away. He smiled. They were pathetic. But if they had been a real couple, he would have loved to kill them. Whoever was in charge was good. He or she knew how to lay a trap. With the exception of human error, the bait was perfect. The police couple had definitely made him.

"David?" the beautiful brunette asked as she walked up to the table.

He stood and kissed her on the cheek as if they had been dating for years. "You must be Heather," he said, quietly enough for no one else to be able to hear. "Sit down. I hope you don't mind, but I had them bring a pizza to get us started."

"Great idea. I love the Margarita Pizza here."

As they sat together, he reveled in the disappointment that registered on the cops' faces. He wasn't their man after all. Too bad. The disenfranchised loser they were looking for wouldn't have a date with a gorgeous brunette. The girl with dark curly hair in Las Vegas had suggested escorts. "Listen, women are going to cost you money one way or the other. If you're not seeing someone regularly, just hire a girl. There's no reason for you to be alone."

Now, he needed a girl more than ever and he had Heather. They would just be having dinner. He had plans for later. He looked at the nice couple sitting next to him on his right. The girl noticed Heather's handbag and then she noticed him. He wasn't invisible when sitting with Heather. This guy must have something going for him to have a girl like that, the girl was so obviously thinking. David decided he was going to enjoy dinner with Heather. Then he was going to kill the couple sitting next to them.

It was half past midnight when Murdoch walked into the stark-white, converted conference room—now called the Situation Room. Jim had pondered the terminology the day the words were stenciled onto the door. A serial killer was now nothing more than a situation. Jim could tell by the look on his partner's face something had gone terribly wrong.

"We have couples number six and seven. Couple number six shot dead in front of the boyfriend's brownstone on the Upper East Side at 9:30 p.m. Couple number seven—you're not going to believe this—a police officer and her husband on the Upper West Side."

Jim leaned back in his chair and rubbed his jaw. Murdoch continued:

"The female police officer was on the task force. She was a decoy at The King's Head. She and her partner were at The King's Head until ten. She was home by eleven. She and her husband then decided to grab a beer at O'Brian's a block from where they lived. They left O'Brian's at twelve. The locals got a shots fired call ten minutes later. What are the chances?"

"Tell me where couple six was between 8:00 and 9:30 p.m. and I'll tell you the chances. And why are we just finding out about couple six now? Three hours later..."

"New York's finest got the call first. They hate having us here. When they realize the suspect is not at the scene—and they've missed any possible witness—then they let us know."

Jim understood local cop resentment. But it usually just got more people killed. "King's Head is expensive. If couple six ate there, one of them, I'm guessing the boyfriend, paid by credit card. Let's check his cards. If it comes back the way I think it will, our killer was there, picked couple six, made our decoys, killed couple six, and then came back and followed the female officer home." Jim didn't understand why he knew this was exactly what happened. But he knew.

"The decoys are the best of the best. How could this guy possibly make a cop?"

"He has an edge, Bill. Something we don't understand. And it just got a police officer killed."

"You'll have to give a news conference, Jim. The city is going to go crazy tomorrow."

Jim sat on the edge of the firm Holiday Inn mattress in nothing but his boxer shorts. It had been a hell of a day. The news conference was every bit the fiasco Jim had anticipated it would be. Exacerbated by no sleep, his command of the event had been far from ideal. Murdoch reassured him that it had gone well. But the inevitable question was asked, "How can the police keep the public safe, when they can't even take care of themselves?" He hated to do it. He hated to reassure the public when no reassurance should be given. But he had. He had stood in the packed room and said the words:

"As tragic and disconcerting as the events of yesterday are, the police of this city are more than up to the task of protecting the public safety. They are willing to lay down their lives. It would be wrong to forget that. They risk their lives on a daily basis. What we all need to do now is cooperate with each other. The public needs to be aware. The killer is not invisible. He has eluded capture only because he has been able to float around in very public places, unnoticed. I urge the people of this city to call the tip line if they've seen anything unusual..."

Jim's head hit the pillow hard at three in the morning—yet his mind wouldn't let go—the day's events continued to play over and over. If only The King's Head had been equipped with surveillance cameras it would all be on its way to over. But an expensive restaurant in the city couldn't have such things. Patrons often dined with someone other than their spouses. And they couldn't risk being caught on tape.

Jim closed his eyes and thought about what life had come to in the big city. Six million people living together in twelve square miles. They rarely even knew the name of their next-door neighbor, unless they were sleeping with them. Six million people that knew more about the Hollywood star of the moment than they did about their own neighbor. Pretty easy to kill people and get away with it in a place like New York.

The phone rang. Murdoch's room was right next-door to Jim's—but he was too decent to just knock without calling first.

"What's going on Bill—why aren't you asleep?" Jim asked, his eyes still shut.

"The question is, why aren't you asleep, Agent Carrington? The dead cop keeping you awake? Couple six dined in the same restaurant as your cop decoy, didn't they? She was a decoy, wasn't she? You left that out of your reassuring words at the press conference. He's never killed two couples in the same night. One on the East Side and one on the West Side, no way it's by chance. He made her before he killed couple six and came back for more. Stop me when I get something wrong."

"How'd you know where to find me?" Jim sat up and swung his feet off the side of the bed.

"I tried to go to bed early for a change and wound up having one of my dreams. Well, given that you're staying at the Holiday Inn, I guess you could call it a nightmare. By the way, nice work on the sniper. I would have paid good money to see you blow the kid's head off. Bummer that senior got the loony bin instead of the chair. Anyway, you couldn't get them to put you up at the Plaza? I hear ninety percent of their reservations have canceled. I mean with everything going on in that crazy city—"

"Since it's early for you, I'm assuming you're still on the West Coast?" He reached for the notepad and pen on the nightstand.

"No caller ID at the Holiday Inn?"

"You could still claim the ten million dollar reward for the snipers. I documented your anonymous tip. The money is yours for the taking. All you have to do is come forward. There's another million on the table as of tonight for the Son of Sam II."

"I couldn't take the money. It wouldn't be right."

"Is that something you care about, what's right?"

"What's right for me, that's pretty much all I care about. Where did they come up with Son of Sam II? Wouldn't it be hilarious if this guys name turned out to be David also?"

"Are you telling me something?" Jim asked, reaching for the pen and the Holiday Inn scratch pad on the nightstand.

"I'm always telling you something, Agent Carrington. Are you listening?"

"Is his name David?"

"Yeah, I see him as a David. Some kind of computer geek with thick glasses. He's very average and not easy to describe. Not fat not thin not tall not short—you know the type. He wants to be noticed—that's why he's killing. He wants to matter."

"Is he acting on the orders of a German Shepherd named Sam?"

"No, nothing like that. This one's really crazy. Society took something from him. Now he's taking it back, so to speak."

"What did the world take from David?"

"A companion."

"Are you sure? You said he wanted to matter. It's not just about attention?"

"He killed a cop. He made and killed a cop. Couple six was about attention. Couple seven was about revenge."

And there they were again, the voice from somewhere teaching him how to do his job. Psychic dreams, a deep understanding of the criminal mind, and solid reason. Jim sighed as he sat there with the notepad and pen—feeling like a kid cheating on his homework.

"Don't feel bad, Carrington. You'll get the hang of this one day. You have that special instinct, I can see it in your eyes." He continued, "Well, I better let you get to your work."

"Wait, don't hang-up."

"What else can I do for you? Just swallow your pride and ask."

"How do we find this guy?" Jim cringed as he said the words. Every instinct told him he was dealing with the Devil.

A chuckle. The voice couldn't get the words out without laughing first. "You did find him. Or, should I say, he found you. Just put your decoys out there again and tell them not to notice anyone. Tell them to be blind to the plight of the lonely. That's how he made them, you know. A good-looking couple in New York City checking out anything, other than each other; you should have just told them to wear badges. By the way, tell your male decoys to wear argyle sweaters and thick glasses. He'll really want to kill someone that reminds him of himself. Someone who reminds him of himself that has what he doesn't. It will drive him crazy. If you'll pardon the pun?"

The phone went dead.

Jim depressed the button on the receiver, got a dial tone, and rang Murdoch.

"He called."

"Who called?" Murdoch sounded like he had been at the peaceful precipice between consciousness and sleep.

"The anonymous tipper. He had another dream."

"Let me throw some water on my face. I'll be at your door in two minutes...Jim, did he say anything we can use?"

"A computer geek named David with thick glasses who suffered the loss of a loved one at the hands of society," Jim said, disgusted with how easy the words of the voice now rolled off his own tongue.

"Shit—this guy is really something. I'll be right there."

Jim hung up the phone. "He's really something alright. If we only knew what."

The phone rang. "Hey Bill, what'd you forget?"

"One day we should discuss your obsession with getting calls from Bill."

"I take it you left something out?" Jim asked, knowing that the voice would have done so intentionally, just for kicks. Save the best for last.

"Not to sound condescending, but you do realize that big cities like New York and Los Angeles have designated hot spots."

"I don't understand." Jim was disgusted by his own words. What choice did he have? Lives were at stake.

"The A crowd is at a different place every night and it's not random. He's been killing members of the A crowd. Being a farm boy—and working with a bunch of dipshit local cops that think a hot spot has to sell doughnuts—I just got to thinking that you wouldn't pick up the pattern and you'd just keep putting decoys in places that this guy is never going to go to. Just hit the A list spots every night and you'll be back in business on this guy in less than a week. Oh, and Jim, when you figure out what the spots are you'll realize he's landed a couple from everywhere but the Four Seasons."

The phone went dead.

The bar at the Four Seasons was packed. How Tuesday night had become the designated happening night David couldn't imagine. Singles swarmed the long bar area, trolling for their next companion. The phony smiles, the checklist questions, the glances looking for the better deal, and the leading hints. It was the leading hints that he hated the most.

"I would have been here sooner but I got stuck in the ER." _I'm a doctor everybody_. "The Mercedes Dealership said they're going to keep my car for two days." _Yes, I'm rich_. "I just broke up with a guy, I mean he was nice, but it just wasn't going anywhere." _I'm single and desperate._ Endless drones of insincere chatter to one another—made for the ears of the rest of the bar.

Couples on dates and businessmen finishing up their last meetings of the day sat at tables just feet from the bar. Dozens of tables filled with people who mattered. Yet, he sat invisibly at the table and waited—already knowing who at the Four Seasons he was going to kill that night.

Heather looked even more beautiful than she had the week before. Funny, he could barely keep his eyes on her. Five tables from where he sat the couple blathered away. They hadn't even bothered to look at the waitress when they ordered their drinks. He thought about the greasy Armenian at the hot dog stand that had not once in five years bothered to look at his face. What did she see in him? He had an argyle sweater and khaki pants. His glasses were even thicker than his own, yet she couldn't take her eyes off of him. The Ruler had said it was his destiny. It wasn't the clothes, it wasn't the glasses, it wasn't the lack of ability to impress—it was destiny. He had been told this and still it hurt. He wanted to die, he wanted to kill, and he wanted to die and be remembered.

David didn't notice Agents Carrington and Murdoch as he followed the hated couple out of the Four Seasons. They walked out, hand-in-hand. He wanted to shoot them right there on the steps, but there were too many people. The nerve they had to walk hand-in-hand in a terrorized city. Did they not even bother to watch the news?

"Do you want me to come home with you tonight?" Heather asked seductively.

"No, not tonight," he slipped three hundred dollar bills into the palm of her hand, "I'll call you next week. Thanks," he said as he kept walking.

Money in hand, she stood and watched her strange client walk off. She did notice the two men that passed by her without so much as giving her a look. A client that didn't want to have sex and two good-looking guys that didn't even look at her. She resolved herself to getting back into going to the gym.

For no reason, the couple stopped and started making-out. The block was empty, but they were on the sidewalk. No car, no apartment, but the middle of the sidewalk. He had seen other couples like them. They took pleasure in making it worse for people like him. They wanted him to hurt. They fed on it. Tonight was the last time they were going to enjoy his suffering. He pulled the gun from under his jacket.

"Drop it!" The voices shouted.

Then gun shots. The sidewalk. Down on the hard cold sidewalk. He had shot and been shot. Soon, everyone in the country would know the identity of the Son of Sam II.

The young agent he had seen giving the news conference was taking his pulse. He laughed as he lay there, bleeding to death. How had he not noticed him? He had been on television. Blinded by the argyle.

"He's alive!" Jim shouted, knowing that Murdoch would immediately call an ambulance. Even for a cop killer.

"The Ruler was right. He's always right," David gurgled.

"Who's the Ruler?" Jim asked with urgency.

"He gives strength to...I'll be famous now...he said I would be if I did what I had to do...he said..."

"Who said this to you?"

"Tell Leonard, I'll see him one day."

"Who's Leonard? David stay with me! David, come on, stay with me! David, who told you to do what you had to do?"

"You see? You know my name," he said with a smile and died.

The stark white room contained a bed with leather straps and nothing else.

"Give him a shot to calm him down," the doctor said to the nurse, turning away from the hysterical young man in restraints.

"No! No, you don't give me a shot. I want to go to my brother's funeral."

The doctor turned back around. "Leonard, that's not our decision. But I can tell you this. If you don't start behaving and taking your counseling sessions seriously—you'll never be leaving this place."

"It's my fault! I wasn't there! It's my fault! It's my fault..."

"Leonard, the nurse is going to give you a sedative. And I assure you that what happened to your brother David was not your fault. Do you understand? You weren't the one who shot your brother."

Upon these words, Leonard Spitzer fell silent and ceased his struggle against the straps that held him to the bed.

The doctor turned to the nurse. "Well that's certainly better...if he starts up again, give him the shot."

CHAPTER 13

City Paging

Sam stood opposite the pager salesman in the spacious living room of his Santa Monica rent- controlled apartment. He had recently bought two condos in the neighborhood. But not being in the same place too often had become a fact of life. It was safer that way. So, he kept the apartment as an extra place to go, just in case. It struck him as strange how nice the apartment seemed. When he was living in it fulltime, he hadn't really appreciated what he had. His mind conjured up the image of deflowering Stacy in the bedroom. And then there was Frank and himself in the extra bedroom he had converted to an office cutting up their first ounce of coke. He decided to buy the building. Rent control was the worst—but he would always have this place.

"You're pretty young to own your own limousine company," Erez said curiously. They were about the same age. He was shorter than Sam, but had a similar build and piercing blue eyes. Even his hair was the same color brown, a little curlier, but almost identical.

"I have to make a living doing something." Sam was used to the reaction.

Erez nodded. "Seems like you're doing pretty well. What else do you do, when you're not running your business?"

"Whatever I can. What type of name is Erez?"

"Israeli."

"Would never know it by looking at you."

"I was conceived here. I'm a fertility clinic baby. I was born in Israel and moved back to the United States when I was eight-years-old. I've been here most of my life."

"How'd you wind up selling pagers?"

"It's a good business. Everyone's getting them and I needed something to do. A friend of mine was working for the company making decent money; he just kind of turned me on to it. They're still looking for people if you're interested."

"I've never really thought about it. But I do have some extra time on my hands."

"Why don't you give it a try? It's good money."

"Sure. What the hell? You never know what can happen," Sam said with the smile of the pleasantly surprised. Any of his close friends knew that the smile meant much more. Sam Noah was never just pleasantly surprised. Even Erez, who had just met him, seemed to sense this. Sam thought by the look of him they probably had a lot in common.

"I can set up a meeting with the owner of the company for tomorrow. Does that work for you?"

"Sure. Tomorrow is good," Sam said, looking down at the latest business necessity in the palm of his hand.

Sam followed Erez into the dingy little office of City Paging. Norm, the heavy-set owner, was in his early fifties. He leaned against the wall next to his desk. He was talking, more like instructing, a nervous-looking management type. Sam guessed the younger man to be in his early thirties. He reeked of white collar paper pushing. He couldn't look more eager to please the boss. Guys like this poor bastard had a wife at home just waiting to see a paycheck and they didn't dare disappoint.

"You must be the new guy?" Both Norm and his associate extended their hands. Sam shook them. "Mike is our sales manager," Norm continued. "So you'll be working for him. But I like to meet everybody before we hire them."

"Erez says great things about you," Mike added, nervous but sincere.

"That's because he's only known me for a day." Sam's sense of humor was lost on them.

"So you own a limo company and you want to sell pagers?" Norm asked, obviously trying to size him up.

The Jewish thing. Can't just hire a guy and not crawl up his ass and find out everything about him.

"I wouldn't call it a limousine company yet; I'm just getting started. Erez made this sound like I could make some good money, working in my spare time."

"At least he's honest. I like that," Norm said to Mike.

It's just pagers, big guy. Give me a break. I want to make you some money, not marry your daughter. No wonder these guys make so much money.

Sam realized he might be frowning so he switched his gaze to Mike.

Mike is going to have a breakdown—but I don't know why.

"Look, I usually like guys who are focused on one thing. Namely selling pagers for me—but it's not written in stone. Here's the way it works: we get calls here from ads and referrals. Then we divide them up as leads for our guys in the field. Field guys like Erez carry pagers and contracts with them at all times. So when they get a lead, they can make an appointment and close a sale. We pay eighty dollars on every deal and twelve hundred more for every forty sales you do in a month. You won't get rich—but forty sales a month is doable. And it's not bad money. Sound okay?"

Sam nodded his head "I'll make you some money."

"That's what I like to hear." Norm was pleased. "Do you mind if I ask you one more important question?"

"Sure. What do you want to know?" Sam wanted to leave and get down to making money.

Norm sat on his desk and crossed his arms. "Is that your Mercedes convertible in the parking lot? I swear I saw you pull in driving it."

What a fucking Jew, come on ask me how much it cost. It's none of your fucking business what type of car I drive. Give the nosey Jew an answer or you're not getting those pagers.

"Actually, it is. Just got it," Sam answered respectfully.

Norm scratched his chin. "So how does a young guy who's just starting a limo company afford a car like that? May I ask?"

I need to give you an answer, is what I need to do. Something clever, because your sharp Jew mind isn't easily fooled.

"I grew up in the car business. My dad gets these things all the time."

"Your dad gets new Mercedes?" Norm wasn't buying it.

"Well," Sam needed to think fast, "not exactly new. They call them brass hats. When the corporate big shots turn them in every six months or so they sell them to dealers like my dad."

"So you're a dealer on top of everything else that you do?"

"No, just the son of a dealer. But I guess you could say dealing is in my blood," Sam said, beaming with the twist of honesty.

"I can always use a good deal on a car. Can you get your hands on a Cadillac?"

Oh fuck. I just told my prospective Jew boss I could get something wholesale. He'll never leave me alone about the car. I'll get the job for sure. I'll steal a Cadillac and figure out some way to get him the title.

"Yeah. I'll let you know as soon as I come across one. So do I have the job?"

"Yeah, you got the job. But just because you got other things going doesn't mean you shouldn't take it seriously." Norm looked like a coach before the big game.

"Look, if you're worried, just give me the leads that no one else wants."

Norm glanced at Mike and Erez. "Hey, I'll send you down to South Central. I could do lots of business down there if someone would just go."

"I'm your guy," Sam said confidently.

As Erez and Sam walked out of the office, Sam heard Mike say to Norm, "Is he serious? Why would anyone be willing to work South Central? I wouldn't do it for all the money in the world."

Sam didn't hear Norm's response but he walked out with a Zero Halliburton briefcase full of pagers and contracts. He could almost feel the money he was about to make.

As he walked down the stairs to the parking lot, he couldn't help but give the Mercedes a look. It was a strange feeling to admire one's own automobile, but it was beautiful. He wondered what Erez was thinking. He wondered if Erez was happy just selling pagers. He'd find out soon enough.

"You know, this _is_ an amazing car." Erez was looking at the instruments on the dashboard. "I'd kill to have one of these."

Sam shut the trunk, locking his briefcase and pagers up safely. "Would you really kill for one?"

Erez's face contained no emotion. "I have friends back in Israel who are in the army killing for a lot less."

Sam opened the heavy Mercedes door. Erez had potential, no doubt about it. "I have to meet my buddy Frank for lunch right now. Why don't we grab breakfast tomorrow?"

Erez nodded. "I'll call you in the morning."

Art's Deli put so much meat on their sandwiches that the bread was inconsequential. Sam wasn't impressed. He preferred a sandwich with balance. If he wanted a large clump of meat, he would have ordered just that. Frank had no such sentiment. Sam gazed in wonder as Frank bit down on the six-inch high roast beef.

"Do you have to dislocate your jaw to get that fucking thing in your mouth?"

"No, but I think I dislocated my jaw eating Ursula's pussy last night."

"That's a nice way to talk about your girlfriend."

"Hey, we met at the club—not at the fucking Olympics. So save the all-American bullshit. Speaking of which, how is Stacy?"

"She's good. Not real happy with her job—but things are fine with us."

"Why the fuck does she work?" Frank took a monstrous bite of his sandwich. Then, he added with his mouth full, "I mean it's not like you don't have plenty of money."

"It's not about money—not that she has any idea how much I have. With Stacy, it's about independence. I don't get it, but she likes being able to do her own thing. You tell me."

"A bunch of feminist bullshit. Ursula started that crap with me. I told her if she wants to work, go ahead. But I want her to cover her half of the bills if she does."

Sam laughed. "Stacy paying half the bills..."

Frank nodded. "That's what I'm talking about. I put an end to that shit right on the spot. A woman's idea of independence is a man paying for everything while she saves up for the day she wants to split. They want to be able to split whenever they want to. Fuck, if Ursula had her own money, she'd probably be packing right now."

Sam poked at his coleslaw. "You know, twenty years from now, we won't even be having this conversation. It'll all be over between men and women. They'll have no need for us and we'll come to realize that we have no need for them. Except for fucking. And let me tell you, when that happens, it'll be women who are really fucked."

Frank started chewing on a slice of pickle. "Should have never given them the right to vote. That's what started all this shit. Hey, how'd the pager thing go?"

"Not as easy as I thought, but I got the job. And I got the exclusive on South Central. That part went fine."

Frank smiled. "Doug says every brother dealing dope down there is looking for a pager."

Sam took a sip of his Dr. Brown's Cream Soda. "Well, we're going to find out soon enough."

CHAPTER 14

The Supply Chain

Sam shut the front door and dropped his gym bag next to the couch. He was hungry and tired; he took a step toward the kitchen just as the phone rang.

"Hey Sam, what're you doing?" He recognized Karen's voice right away.

"I just got back from the gym. What's up?"

"I've got someone I want you to meet. I think we can all make some money together. You want to do lunch at Prego with Wendy, Massimo and myself?"

"Prego in Beverly Hills?" Sam asked, thinking of all of the drug exchanges he had made in that very restaurant while casually eating a veal chop.

"The Golden Triangle, baby. Where else?" Karen answered, referring to the most expensive shopping district in the world.

Sam hadn't seen Karen or Wendy for a few days. "How could I say no to you, sexy girl? What time?"

Karen was always at her best making social arrangements. "We'll meet you there at one. Don't be late."

"I need to take a quick shower and I'll head right over."

"Great. You're going to love Massimo," she told him, excited.

"Why haven't I met this guy before?" Sam asked, always leery of new people—especially ones that just suddenly appeared.

"He just got out of jail!" She giggled like a schoolgirl.

"What was he in for?" Sam asked. Karen knew some interesting and unsavory people.

"Murder. But it was only manslaughter. He's not like a serial killer or anything. He's really a sweetheart."

"Alright, let me get ready. Killer's not going to flip out and murder anyone during lunch, I hope?"

"Don't bring up the murder thing. He's a little sensitive about it."

"I'll see you there." Sam hung up the phone. "It's not like he's a serial killer or anything. That's funny," he said out loud.

Sam followed the attractive hostess to Karen's favorite table. The hostess was a tall, beautiful brunette; she filled out the white slacks and blue navy blouse she was wearing perfectly. He smiled at Karen and her friend as he walked towards the table. But he found himself distracted by thoughts of wanting to have sex with the hostess.

"Here you are." Her voice startled him.

"I'm sorry, what was your name?" Sam asked.

"Vanessa. You are?" she asked, knowing full well who he was, and a little bit nervous about a customer hitting on her in the middle of the restaurant.

"Sam Noah. Look, I know you're working right now." He pointed at the table. "And I'm guessing they probably want me to sit down and shut up. But would you like to go out sometime?"

Her face went red; she could feel the eyes of Sam's friends on her. They had gone to school together for two years and he had never even come close to noticing her. Now, in the middle of the restaurant, he was asking her out.

"I've seen you swim before. Everyone felt terrible that you got hurt before the Olympics." She felt like an idiot as soon as she said it. The expression on Sam's face was not happiness. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. What I meant was I just really..." Vanessa's voice trailed off.

"Want to say you'll go out with me," Sam completed her sentence.

She smiled. "Yes. That's exactly what I meant to say."

"Give me your number before I leave."

Vanessa instinctively looked back at the podium that she was supposed to be manning. The customers waiting to be seated were twenty deep.

"I'll write it down and give it to you before you go."

Sam sat down in the chair opposite Massimo.

"Hey, Mr. Player." Wendy gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Sam smiled, ignoring her comment. Karen kissed the forefinger on her left hand and stretched her arm across the table. Sam did the same, meeting her half way.

"You made her day," Karen said with a wink.

"Maybe she made mine." Sam winked back.

"If you like dating the help." Karen was in a wickedly good humor.

"Nice to meet you," Sam said, extending his hand to Massimo. He could see the hand he was shaking pull the trigger of a gun. Another young Italian fell to the sidewalk outside of a club somewhere back east.

"Nice to meet you too," Massimo responded in heavily-accented English. An authentic Italian, born and raised in Italy. He was nothing like his American-born counterparts. Massimo wore his light brown hair shaved close to his head. He was a little on the stocky side. Yet he had the style of a model just off the runway in Milan.

Sam ate the veal chop as usual. Karen did the same and Wendy had the Chilean Sea Bass. Massimo had the pasta—a ravioli stuffed with ricotta cheese and mushrooms in a red sauce with diced artichoke hearts.

"I'd like to make a toast to our good friend Massimo, whom I have missed very much. Welcome back," Karen said raising, then chugging her fifth glass of Cristal. "Now, let's get down to business. Mass, tell Sam what you've got in mind."

Massimo leaned forward, less relaxed than he had been. "I don't know how much Karen has told you."

"Not much," Sam answered. "I know you've been tied up and I know you have some business in mind. And we all know what my business is."

Massimo took a breath and leaned back. "I work for one of the biggest movie producers in the world. Let's call him Mr. D. Movies cost a lot of money to make these days. So making some money on the side is something we're always looking to do. I run this part of the business. But as you know, I've been gone. I need to get started again with some good people. Karen was my first call because she knows good people. So here we are."

"So here we are," Sam nodded his agreement. "Just so you know, I'm pretty new to the business. But I'm coming up fast. I've got good people and great product."

"Karen told me this. Believe me, I can move a lot for you."

"Massimo, if we're talking serious weight our business has to be C.O.D. I can't afford to finance your boss."

"That, you will never have to worry about." Massimo looked more relaxed since it was evident Sam was everything Karen said he was. "Mr. D. has plenty of money."

"Does he really get his hair cut everyday in a solid gold barber's chair?" Sam asked, not caring that he was acknowledging he knew who Mr. D. was. He had heard some stories. Some very inspiring stories.

Massimo smiled. "Like I said, money is not a problem for Mr. D. The barber chair is 14-carat."

"Only in Hollywood." Sam shook his head. Growing up, more than one friend had suggested he pursue a career in the entertainment industry. Now, he was a drug dealer. "Tell Karen and Wendy what you want and I'll make it happen."

Massimo took a sip of wine. Then let a moment of silence pass between them. "So, you're a swimmer?" he asked.

"In another life," Sam answered, impressed that Massimo had caught that part of his exchange with Vanessa.

"He was one of the best swimmers in the world," Karen added, with pride in her voice.

"We'll never really know, will we?" Sam had no desire to talk about the past. "C'mon, let's get out of here." He threw down five hundred dollar bills and headed straight for the hostess podium to get Vanessa's number.

Karen called Sam that same night. He turned down the rerun of "Dallas."

"Hey baby, thanks for lunch." Karen sounded excited.

"My pleasure. Your friend is cool."

"He liked you too. In fact, he asked if you could get him fifty of those shirts you talked about."

"Tell him I can get together with him tomorrow. The shirts will be seventy-five; he should be okay with that price."

"I'll relay the message. You want to hang out tonight?"

"I can't—I have a friend coming over."

Karen giggled. "We'll see you tomorrow."

Vanessa's clit filled with blood as Sam sucked on it hard and relentlessly. Her body was even better with her clothes off. No surprise. As he kissed her vaginal lips, he appreciated that they weren't too big. He barely heard her moans; they were background music to the vision he kept replaying in his head of ripping off her clothes. The beautiful vision.

"Wait, stop Sam. Not so fast. I want to get to know you," she had said, trying to push him off.

He said nothing. "Just focus," he told himself, as her pants came undone with a hard tug at her beltline. He pulled her panties down as far as they would go without getting her pants all the way off.

He started licking the top of her clit. "Sam, no, stop, no, no. I can't really."

The pleading went on for five or ten minutes. As she got wetter and wetter, he worked her pants down further, until they were all the way off—and he was able to suck on her pussy unimpeded.

"No, no, no, please stop, stop, no, no, I can't." Every syllable was such a fucking turn on. He wished she had meant it.

The vision stopped and Sam looked up the length of Vanessa's body to see her head twisted to the right and her eyes closed. She was comfortable. And obviously, she was in for some oral sex. Trust had been established. Sam kept a perfectly even rhythm. Vanessa was now pushing her pussy back, hard against his mouth. She was unaware, and even better unsuspecting, that Sam was unbuttoning his own pants. His dick was so hard he almost came just thinking about what he was going to do to her.

"Oh Sam, oh Sam. I'm going to cum."

With a well-practiced forward lunge, he pounced on her—like a tiger on its prey. He rammed his dick into her hot, wet pussy with no guidance from his own hands, which instead he used to pin her down to the couch like vice-grips.

"No!" she screamed like she had just been hit by lightning. Sam loved it because this time she seemed to mean what she was saying.

He clamped his right hand over her mouth and fucked her harder than he could ever remember fucking anyone before. Her eyes were wide with disbelief and he had to think about golf to keep himself from cumming. It would have been easier to just get it over with. But for Vanessa's sake, he wanted to make it last. He wanted her ass to soak in a pool of her own wetness. He wanted her to enjoy being penetrated against her own will. It took almost twenty minutes of brutal pounding until there was no struggle left in her. And just at that moment, and not a moment longer, he brought his arms down—underneath her legs—and forced her knees almost up to her shoulders and gave her what he liked to think of as the turbo-boost part of the fuck. Tears ran down her face, as she gasped one last, "No."

"No," Sam groaned back mockingly with a smile as he shot what felt like a gallon of cum into her.

Then, he got up to go to the bathroom.

When he came back into the room, Vanessa was sitting at the edge of the couch getting dressed almost frantically. He leaned against the doorway, noticing himself getting hard again.

"Where are you going in such a hurry? We have dinner plans."

"That was rape. You raped me." She looked at him hatefully as she wiped the tears from her face.

Without a word, Sam walked up to her, pushed her back on the couch, and straddled her lap. "I think the technical term these days is _date rape_."

"I can't believe what an asshole you are." She moved forward and tried to push him off.

His right hand grabbed her throat, forcing her head back tightly against the pillow. Her face filled with fear as she stared into the eyes of someone she now realized would kill her. His hand was cutting off her air. It was actually happening. She had been raped. Now, the All-American Boy that she had been infatuated with for more than two years was killing her. And just like that, his hand released her throat and he sat looking almost gently into her face.

"Do you want to know why I raped you?"

She couldn't speak.

"I raped you because you seem like such a nice girl." He stroked the side of her face. "You want to know why you're not dead in the trunk of my car on the way to a hole somewhere in the desert?"

She couldn't speak.

"Because I really like you. That's why I didn't do it."

Tears welled up in her eyes. One began to make its way down her face. His hold on her was almost complete.

"I could have made love to you on the second date. But I raped you on the first because when I want something I take it." He ran his right hand through her hair. "I'm sorry, but I'm glad I did it. Just so you know. I'm glad I fucked you. I'd do it again. I'm not like other guys you'll meet who try to steal pussy like fucking con men. You wanted to fuck. I wanted to fuck. I dictated the terms. Tell me from the heart you didn't love it and I'll let you go. Or stay and you belong to me."

Vanessa still couldn't speak. But with every ounce of strength that she had she reached up and grabbed his neck, forced his face into hers and began kissing him wildly with a passion she never imagined she had. She would have rather been dead than not feel him inside of her again.

"You're a fucking animal," she growled in his ear as he ripped off her clothes again.

Five minutes later, he pushed her over onto her stomach, spread her ass, and spit on her tightly puckered (outer) sphincter. He rubbed the head of his penis in a circular motion in a mixture of her cum and his own saliva. And when her hole quivered and relaxed just enough, he forced himself into her—causing her to orgasm on just the third stroke. On the fifth stroke, her whole body trembling, and his cock balls deep, he buried his face in her back just above her powerful shoulder blades and shot what felt like hot rivets up her ass. As he poured himself into her, his arms crushed her body against his and with his last drop of cum he wished time could have just stopped that moment and he could feel that good forever.

Sam had to scramble to come up with the product for Massimo. Frank was able to buy a kilo from their normal supplier, which cleaned him out. Joe, a close friend Sam had met through Karen and Wendy, was able to fly up in a private plane from Orange County with the rest of what he needed.

Around six that night, Sam answered the knock at his door.

"Come on in guys. Make yourselves comfortable." He waved his guests towards the couch in the living room.

Massimo was carrying a suitcase—which made Sam smile, since he normally used less conspicuous items for exchanges. Wendy and Karen sat on the couch. Massimo sat next to Sam on the love seat.

"Do you guys want something to drink?" Sam offered, trying to be a good host.

Massimo shook his head. "I would—but the boss is a little nervous since it's our first deal. I should get back as soon as possible."

Sam shrugged. "Not a problem. I have your stuff ready to go. I'll grab it for you. I take it the money is in the case?"

"Yeah, but we have to talk about the price. Seventy-five is too much. We'll pay fifty a kilo, that's it."

"You _are_ paying fifty a key," Sam said, wondering what the confusion was.

Massimo shook his head. "No, Karen said you wanted seventy-five."

"Yeah, I meant seventy-five for everything. Fifty ounces is a little over a key and a half. So, it's seventy-five for everything, which is fifty a key."

"When I told Karen I wanted fifty shirts, I meant fifty kilos, not fifty ounces," Massimo clarified, looking profoundly confused.

"Are you telling me you have two and a half million bucks in that suitcase?" Sam asked, pointing at it.

"Fifty keys times fifty grand." Massimo nodded in the affirmative.

Sam looked at Karen. _One hell of a miscommunication young lady. It would be comical if so much money weren't involved._

"How was I supposed to know?" she asked, raising her hands.

"Can you get fifty kilos?" Massimo looked concerned.

"I'll need a few days," Sam answered without hesitation. He actually had no idea where he was going to get fifty kilos.

"I better get back," Massimo said, standing up. "I'll see you in three days. Same time, same place. From now on, fifty keys a week. We'll see where it goes from there."

Sam opened the door for his guests. "Sorry about the mix-up."

"It's okay. Next time, we get it right." Massimo gave him a pat on the shoulder.

Next time we get it right.

Sam nodded his agreement. "You bet we will."

He kissed both of the girls goodbye and closed the door.

What the fuck were you thinking? He lives in a thirty million dollar mansion, gets his hair cut every day in a solid gold barber chair, and makes movies that cost fifty million a crack. Of course he wants fifty fucking kilos, you small-time fucking moron.

Sam picked up the phone and dialed Karen's number. The answering machine picked up. "Call me as soon as you get home. We need to talk."

Sam looked around Me and Me Falafel. Prego it wasn't—but there was no time for fancy lunches. He and Karen had business to take care of.

"Fifty keys? Good thing your buddy Massimo is just trying to 'get back in the game.'" Sam took a bite of his falafel. "Fuck, this is good. Why do you have to come to a shit hole like this to get a good falafel? Can't get one of these fuckers at Spago, I'll tell you that. Anyway, what the fuck were you thinking, fifty fucking shirts? Dude wants fifty fucking tires."

"Okay, I screwed up. But can you imagine how much money we'll make when you come through?" Karen looked giddy.

" _If_ I come through, you mean. Even at ten grand profit a kilo, it's five hundred thousand dollars a week. Who the fuck do we know that can supply that kind of weight?"

"You remember Roy, the guy I've been dating?"

Sam had met Roy a couple of times. "You mean the rich Arab kid?"

"He's Lebanese Christian. And you have lots of rich Arab friends, so don't start with me."

"I have lots of rich Arab friends. I just don't fuck any of them."

"Sam, sometimes I think you're living in a different fucking century. And who says I'm fucking Roy?"

"Karen, only great pussy can separate a guy from his money the way you do. One time in Vegas, I had to stick a guy's head in a vice to find out where he had stashed some money he had stolen from some friends of mine. That same guy would have just given you the money. In fact, he did spend most of it on his chick. I had to take her car and her fucking jewelry."

"I don't fuck him that often. He's not even circumcised," Karen blurted out. "You put a guy's head in a vice? That's disgusting."

Sam let the memory come back for a moment. "You know the head makes some crazy cracking noises, especially when the eye sockets break."

"Stop. I'm eating. Look, Roy hangs in the Arab crowd because they all went to the same high school and college. He's not like the rest of them. They're Muslem, he's Christian. You know how that goes. I mean, they're all nice to each other. But trust me, Roy knows if they were all back home, it would be a whole different story."

"I just don't trust Arabs."

And for absolutely no reason, I have an overwhelming desire to kill them, all of them.

"Sam, they're scared shitless of you. I don't think you'll have any problems. Anyway, Roy has this friend Assaf who might be able to get you what you want. He's an Arab. But for five hundred thousand dollars a week, who cares?" Karen sat up straight. "The guy does make my skin crawl. But seriously, he could be the right person."

"Well talk to Roy and ask if he wants to get together and talk about doing some business." Sam knew she was right. For five hundred thousand dollars a week, it didn't matter who his supplier was. As long as it was good shit.

Stacy was in the kitchen making a salad. Sam watched her through the balcony window as he performed his barbequing duties. The butane flames licked at the steaks, searing their outer layer. A minute on each side. Then, he would turn down the flame and let the inner layers roast to a light pink.

Stacy looked so beautiful; a smile naturally crossed Sam's face. Stacy was the only normal thing in his life. He looked down at the steaks. Time to turn down the flame. For no reason, a wave of anxiety washed over his body at the thought that Stacy might find out about the things he did. "C'mon, you fucking pussy," he said, louder than he meant to. The feeling went away.

He watched Stacy reach for the bright yellow phone on the kitchen wall. I wonder who's calling, he thought. She said a couple of words that Sam couldn't make out and then disappeared from view. He didn't have to turn around; he could feel her presence behind him on the balcony.

"Who is it, sweetie?"

"It's Ivan," she said with dread in her voice.

"Tell him I'll be right there." He pulled the steaks off of the grill and put them on the plate.

Of all the fucking times to call.

He watched Stacy relay the message. She was clueless—but Ivan was hard to explain.

He put the steaks on the table and walked into the kitchen. As he picked up the phone from the counter, Stacy mouthed the words, "It's time to eat." He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. "Hey, Dugans. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Samuel, I'd like you to meet me in front of your apartment in twenty minutes. I need a moment with you."

"Twenty minutes," Sam repeated as he hung up the phone.

"I thought you didn't work with Ivan anymore?" Her voice was accusatory. It was a tone no man wanted to hear from a woman, especially when she was about to eat the food he worked hard to pay for. In the dining room of the house he had also worked hard to pay for. But an argument over nothing before dinner was not worth having.

Address her concerns, make her feel important and valued. I have to explain myself to you? Why because you gave me some bullshit about being your first.

"I don't—but we're still friends."

"That was a pretty short conversation," she asked, sounding still more suspicious.

"That's because he wants to talk to me in person. So let's just enjoy dinner before he gets here."

"He's on his way here? Now?"

"Stacy, he just said he wanted to talk to me. Don't make a big deal out of this, all right? Actually, I need to talk to him anyway."

"Your cousin Kenny said he has a bad reputation. I don't think you should have anything to do with someone like Ivan."

"Kenny's an asshole who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He doesn't know a thing about what it takes to make it in this world. When I needed money, where was Kenny? Where was anybody? Ivan gave me a chance. It's easy to bad-mouth someone; you know that. Where would Kenny be without his rich mommy and daddy?"

"You mean your aunt and uncle," she said, obviously taken back by Sam's tone.

"I'm sorry. I love my family. You know I didn't mean it like that. I'm just saying it was wrong for anyone to say anything about Ivan in front of you. I don't get into their business; they should stay out of mine. I don't need to have this conversation with my own girlfriend. A conversation about nothing I might add."

Ivan's black Cadillac Fleetwood was already parked at the curb when Sam walked out of the front of his building.

"Good to see you, Dugans," Sam said, sliding into the passenger's seat.

"Nice to see you too, Samuel." Ivan turned toward Sam, repositioning his considerable girth in an attempt to get more comfortable. I hope everything is well?"

Sam nodded. "Things are good. But I've got Stacy upstairs so we have to keep our visit short—or things won't be good for long."

Ivan smiled; his on-campus recruiter had pursued Sam from the first day of his freshman orientation at UCLA. Sam was a world-class athlete and academically ranked as the number one entering freshman in the United States. His father's wrecking yard had sold used tires to Ivan's father's tire shop. Ivan and his partners knew Sam would be a trustworthy member of the family right from the start.

First, Sam was recruited into the fraternity. Then, he was offered a job at the law firm. As an employee of the firm, Sam's mind proved to be simply perfect in its criminality. This was the beauty and the beast. He was an endless resource for moneymaking, but also far too dangerous to keep around. A criminal like Sam Noah brought attention and after only a year of work at the firm, Ivan and the partners decided Sam should go out on his own. Sam was a lone wolf in the wilderness of society, ultimately untamable—not even by the firm.

Now, just a year later, Sam had joined the ranks of men called bosses. He was the youngest ever. He did it on his own. But he'd always be part of the family.

"Samuel, we have a problem. Steven Gross picked up a package for us today, a package that we need to give to our client in Las Vegas tomorrow morning. After Steven picked it up, he received a page from his sick mother who—apparently was on the verge of expiring. So Steven rushed to her house in Encino like a good son, put her in her car and rushed her to the hospital—where he is now sitting dutifully in the ICU waiting room. The package that we need is sitting in the back seat of his brown BMW." Ivan paused to hand Sam a piece of paper. "The car is parked at this address. Could you go and retrieve the contents from the back seat for us? It would be best if it looked like a break in."

"What's in the package?"

It'd be nice to know what you're getting me into.

"One point five million dollars," Ivan said as if it were nothing more than some herring from Junior's Delicatessen.

Sam was pretty sure he understood. Steve was a fraternity brother—but a far cry from a member of the family. "Steve obviously had no idea what was in the package."

Ivan was still smiling. "And we want to keep it that way. That's why we're not going to bother him while he's waiting for his mother to die." Ivan pulled a white envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Sam. "Twenty thousand dollars should cover gas and wear and tear on the car."

Sam looked at the envelope in his hand, then gave it back. "Don't worry about it. This one's on me."

"That's kind of you."

"I'm going to need a favor from you in the next couple of days."

"What would that be Samuel?" Ivan asked, intrigued by his young protégé.

"I'm going to need to borrow two million in cash from the Las Vegas clients. I'll pay twenty percent."

"That's a lot of money." Ivan's smile disappeared for the first time. "Should I ask what it's for?"

"Nothing you need to know about." Sam studied Ivan's face and wasn't happy that he sensed concern. "Dugans, I made you and your clients over a hundred million dollars last year. I was put out on my own with the promise that you were there if I needed you. Well now, I need you. I'm counting on you for this."

Ivan's smile returned. He loved this kid and his brass balls. "Samuel, everybody appreciates what you've done. And thank you in advance for taking care of this situation for us. You can always count on us. Just give me twelve hours notice on the loan situation and you'll have what you need."

Sam opened the car door. "Thanks, Dugans. I'll stop by your house later."

CHAPTER 15

Welcome To The Middle East

Roy's apartment was nicer than most. Two master bedrooms and a loft. It had muted earth tones, beautiful artwork—yet it paled in comparison to the lavish homes of his rich Arab friends. He had endured a lifetime of inferiority and for no other reason than he had been born in Lebanon instead of Saudi Arabia. Every day this fact took its toll.

As they finished lunch, Roy poured both Sam and himself a shot of Uzo and then suggested they adjourn to the couch. Karen gave Sam a kiss on the cheek. "I have some errands to run. I'll let you guys talk business."

"Thanks for lunch," Sam said, giving her a hug and pat on the ass just out of Roy's view.

She poked him in the stomach like he was the Pillsbury Dough Boy. "You're our favorite lunch, dinner and breakfast guest—so get used to coming over."

Sam smiled.

Roy put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Seriously Sam, I know you and Karen have been friends for a long time. But I think of you like a brother. You're always welcome in this house." Roy gestured to the beige sectional sofa in the living room area. "Come, let's sit and have our Uzo."

The couch was soft and comfortable. Sam thought for a moment about how good Karen's taste was. She liked spending Roy's money. But he was living a good life because of it.

I can fuck your girlfriend anytime I want to, Roy. She tells me terrible shit about you. She cringes when you touch her or want to fuck her with your uncircumcised dick. If she makes enough money on the guy that you introduce me to, she's going to leave you for some hot young guy.

"Sam, if it's okay, I'd like to speak frankly about doing business together," Roy said, sitting to Sam's right on the sectional.

"Please. Feel free," Sam replied.

"Karen told me you're looking for a new supplier, someone that can deliver larger quantities."

"I'm definitely interested in a new supplier. But bigger quantity does me no good if it's not top quality. You've had my stuff—you know how good it is. I need to keep it that way."

Roy nodded. "Your stuff is the best... Sam, I think I can get you the same quality in larger quantity. You know, this isn't my business. But I have a friend I'm sure Karen told you about, Assaf. We know each other from Lebanon; he and his cousin are smuggling a large amount of merchandise into the country in porcelain dolls. Excuse me a second, I'll show you what I'm talking about."

Roy got up and left the room. He came back with a porcelain doll in hand. He gave it to Sam and sat back down. Sam knew nothing about toys—but this seemed like a nice doll as far as dolls went. Cute little porcelain face, red rosy cheeks, and what looked like a miniature Laura Ashley dress. Stacy and her friends wore Laura Ashley on occasion. Good girls wore Laura Ashley.

"Seems like a nice doll," he said looking back up at Roy.

Roy smiled. "They fill the whole thing with coke and ship them here by the container load."

"How do they get the coke out?" Sam asked, looking back down at the doll with concern.

"They break them open," Roy answered pointing at the head. "Right on top."

Something about breaking the dolls set his mind adrift. The violent memory was vivid.

Hey you gang-banger, come here for a second. You think that shit you're writing all over my dad's building looks nice? You think it's your building, you stupid fucking spic? Of course you didn't know it was my dad's building or you would have just written all over the building next-door for me to have to look at.

Keep holding his arms, Patrick. What'd you do with that fucking can of paint? Here we go. Yeah, scream all you want. I think it looks better on your face than the wall. Of course, you can't see—you're blind from the paint. Here, see how it tastes. Oh look, I got some on my shirt. Now I'm really pissed, you little blue-faced spic. I hate people who fuck up things like my father's property. Agony, I know. If you could see, you could see the Striker knife in my hand. They use it in the Navy Seals. Doesn't register? I know, because you think a seal is something that frolics around in the ocean. Let me just cut your throat. There we go, now you have some red to go with the blue paint all over your face, lovely. Gonna just leave you here and see if your homeboys want to write more shit on this building.

"They can't get the coke out without breaking the doll?"

"Are you serious, man?" Roy looked at him curiously.

Sam shrugged. "I feel bad—they're nice dolls. I mean, Stacy would love one of these."

"Look I can get you all the dolls you want for Stacy. In fact, give her that one," Roy said, trying to get the conversation back on track.

"Thanks, Roy." Then, as quickly as the warm Laura Ashley feeling had come, it was gone. "So dolls aside, Assaf can come through with good coke in quantity?"

"These guys where I come from are pretty much considered scum, street peddlers. But smuggling coke is going good for them. They can get you as much as you want."

"Well, let's try them out. Tell Assaf I'll take fifty kilos for starters."

"For starters?" Roy whistled.

"For starters, Roy. I'm not going to risk my life and my freedom for a couple of grand a week."

"Are you available tomorrow?"

"All day," Sam answered.

Roy's balcony overlooked a park-like trail that separated the buildings of the sprawling apartment complex. The morning sun was strong; Assaf and Roy sat in the brown and beige deck chairs with their shirts off. Sam leaned against the rough stucco railing facing them.

"So what type of price do you need to make it snow?" Assaf asked.

"I need to pay twenty-five thousand, tops."

Assaf rocked back in his chair and basked his face in the sun. He had a fat nose, even for an Arab, and dark black curly hair. "That's cheap. Very, very, cheap. What type of quantity are you talking about?"

"I'll start with fifty kilos. If things go well, I'll bump it up to one or two hundred keys a week."

Assaf turned his face towards Roy. "You weren't kidding about this guy. He's a serious cat."

"Serious as a fucking heart-attack." Sam's harsh tone caused Assaf to turn away from Roy and stare at him. "And what I seriously need to know is, can you deliver? Because if you can't, I need to find someone who can."

And don't ever talk about me in the third person, like I'm not here—or I'll cut your fucking head off.

"You give Roy the money tomorrow and I'll deliver. But only to Roy. My cousin is shy and we don't know you. Have we got a deal?"

"Normally I don't put money up front," Sam said, pushing himself away from the wall. "But since Roy's in the middle, I'll do it." He turned to Roy. "You're okay with this?"

"It's okay. At least until you guys get to know each other better."

Sam turned back to Assaf. "I trust Roy. But remember, Roy's a nice guy. I'm not. So nothing better go wrong." Sam watched Assaf shrink back a little in fear.

You better be afraid, you Arab piece of shit.

Roy stood up. "Sam, I'll be personally responsible. You don't have to worry. I've known these guys my whole life. They're hustlers—but they do good business."

"I know I don't look or dress like you guys." Assaf finally rose to his feet. "And I never went to school. But I'm very good at what I do and I plan on doing it for a long time."

"Hey, I'm up for it. I just don't like money being out of my hands before I see what I'm getting. So don't fuck me. It's better if we just stay friends and not do business—if there is any chance that I'm going to get fucked."

"Sam, relax. Everything's gonna be fine," Roy said, looking Sam straight in the eye.

"Everything's gonna be fine," Sam tried to assure himself. Twenty-four hours had passed since Roy had looked him in the eye and said these words. Now, Sam sat in Roy's living room, hitting the buttons on the remote control every few seconds, not finding anything on cable that could make his mind relax. Massimo would be at his apartment with $2.5 million just after sun down. It was a second chance. Sam doubted there would be a third chance if anything went wrong.

This is taking too long. I don't feel good about this. Should be a great day. But instead, this.

"Where the fuck is this guy?" he asked just before hearing Roy's keys jingling at the door.

It's about fucking time. I'm going to be making a million dollars a week soon.

Roy walked in with a smile; he could see the obvious look of relief on Sam's face. Roy wheeled a large brown steamer chest to the front of the coffee table.

"Sorry it took so long."

"Did everything go okay?" Sam asked, staring at the chest. "I was getting worried."

Roy sat on the couch next to him. Sam detected that he was nervous. _Why would you be nervous, Roy? You wouldn't let anything go wrong with my money. You think of me like a brother._

"Sam, I told you everything went okay. It was just Assaf and his cousin, their place is way the hell up in the canyon."

Sam got up and released the latches on each side of the chest. As he opened the top, his nose was filled with the smell of acetone. Assaf and Roy obviously didn't know much about cutting coke. They should have baked it longer under some good heat lamps if they wanted it to rock back up and not reek.

"This is shit," Sam said, closing the chest. "This is one point two five million dollars of cut up shit."

"Sam, you know this isn't my business," Roy kept looking at the chest in an attempt to avoid eye contact. "I just picked up the stuff for you as a favor." His voice trembled slightly on the word favor.

"Where the fuck is my money?" Sam asked as he stood and quickly drew his .45 on Roy. "I like you. But if you don't tell me exactly what happened to my money, I'm going to blow your fucking brains out." He pressed the cold steel muzzle to Roy's forehead. "Right here, right now. Do you understand?"

_Always take control quickly, before the money blows away like the leaves in autumn. Get control. Get the money back_.

At the sight of the gun, Roy urinated in his pants. The beige sectional turned a shade closer to brown. Being on the receiving end of a .45 often had this effect on people.

Don't pull the trigger. Get the money. Get the money you borrowed from the Vegas clients. Pull the trigger. Fuck the money, have some fucking honor and kill the fucking thieving piece of shit. Whore! You fucking money whore!

"It was Assaf's idea. He said we could make some extra money if we cut it a little. He said you wouldn't be able to tell the difference. But it was taking too long to dry, so I told him I had to take it and go—or you would know something was wrong for sure. Sam, I needed to make some money. My family will only send me so much and I've been spending everything on Karen. It's not that bad; I'll take it up north and sell it to all my friends at Menlo. I swear I'll get you your money back."

"You've got two weeks to sell half this shit and bring me back all of my money." Sam pulled his gun from against Roy's head. "I'll get rid of the rest of it and make some kind of profit. Write down Assaf's address right now."

Sam followed Roy to the kitchen.

"What are you gonna do?" His hand was shaking as he wrote the address down on a receipt from a restaurant on Westwood Boulevard named Byblos. Sam recognized the receipt, because just a few nights before he had eaten there with Stacy. Not a care in the world as they had watched the belly dancers and ate stuffed grape leaves.

Now fucked for a million two-fifty. How quickly shit happens. Serves you right for putting the money up front. Naïve, is the word. Sam Noah naïve? Fuck!

"What am I going to do? Are you fucked in the head or something? What the fuck do you think I'm going to do? Let me give you a hint. It starts with me getting my fucking money back. Didn't I tell your buddy not to fuck me? Didn't I say it was better to not do business with me if he was going to try to pull some stupid shit like this?"

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm ashamed of myself." Roy spoke softly as he looked down at the counter.

"You _should_ _be_ ashamed of yourself. Now give me that scumbag's address. And Roy, if you ever tell anyone... do I have to tell you what will happen?"

"No, Sam. I know."

A few minutes later, Sam drove from Roy's apartment straight down Overland to the Seven Eleven at the corner of Overland and Palms. He pulled some quarters from his pocket and walked up to the pay phone.

No record of this call; sorry cops.

"Hello," Frank answered groggily.

"Wake up. I need you to help me with something right now." Sam looked at his watch. _Are you ever fucking awake?_

"I'm up, I'm up." He rolled over to his side. There was something cold and hard against his elbow, a cracking sound—a broken coke mirror in the bed. "Oh fuck! She left the mirror in bed."

"Frank!"

"Do I need to get dressed?" Frank asked, sensing something bad was happening.

"Yeah. Put on your best clothes and meet me at Sunset and Laurel Canyon an hour ago."

"Any chance we can grab lunch first?"

"No!" Sam shouted, slamming down the phone.

"I was just kidding." Frank listened to the sound of the dial tone. "Well, this doesn't sound good at all."

"What, baby?" Ursula asked, sleepily. She turned onto her side and looked at him.

"Nothing," Frank answered, picking pieces of broken mirror out of the mink comforter. "I just have to run out and take care of something." He looked up at the mirror on the ceiling above their bed. She moved her legs just enough for him to see a little pink at the bottom of her ass crack.

"Who does Sam want to kill now?"

He bent over and kissed her ear. "I love you," he whispered and then slipped his finger up her pussy. "When I get back..."

"I'll be here, waiting to fuck the shit out of you." She bit his lip. "Unless you want to fuck right now?"

"It'll be me he kills if I do that."

"Better go," she said, rolling back over.

"Don't make jokes about killing people around Sam. He won't get a kick out of it."

"Can't hear you. I'm asleep."

"Ursula, I'm not kidding."

She opened her eyes, exasperated. "Hey Sam, want a beer? Oh by the way, did you waste anybody today? I love that sweater. Did Stacy get you that for your birthday? Seriously, would you rather shoot someone or..."

"Shut up. You're not funny," Frank said to the girl he loved as he stretched his very sore back.

"I can't shut up because I'm asleep. And you know I totally love Sam—even if he is a vicious killer. Look who I live with. Shouldn't be hard, we have fucking mirrors everywhere."

"I like mirrors," Frank said defensively, looking up at the one above the bed as he buttoned his shirt. The pink spot looked moist and hot. "Especially that one."

"What? Are you still here?" Ursula mumbled, half-asleep.

Sam maneuvered his Mercedes through traffic with purpose. He knew the Canyon well; it was filled with houses that ranged from shacks to mansions. It also served as a thoroughfare from West Hollywood to Studio City or, more generally, from the Westside to the San Fernando Valley. A winding road through a heavily wooded area, it contained dozens of small outlet roads lined with hard to find houses. The anonymity of the area lent itself well to drug culture. In some ways it really was a throw back to the sixties. But while privacy was usually a drug dealer's best friend, it did have its disadvantages.

Sam pulled into the Chevron station and parked. He sat for a few minutes to collect his thoughts and then got out and leaned against his driver's side door. He watched as Frank's rust-colored Opal pulled into the parking space next to his. Sam walked back to the trunk of his car where Frank met him.

"Waiting long? I hauled ass." Frank looked back at the Opal. "Well, as much as this thing can haul ass."

"No, I've only been here for twenty minutes. All side streets from Culver City."

"All freeways from Northridge. You're lucky there wasn't any fucking traffic or you'd have been waiting an hour."

"You dressed up?" Sam asked.

"Fancy enough for you?" Frank pulled his black pea coat open, revealing a chrome-plated .357 Magnum in his belt. "Who are we going to see?"

"Some scumbag Arab and his scumbag cousin who just ripped me off for over a million bucks," Sam answered as he opened his trunk and reached for a machete that had come to be called Bertha by Sam and his friends back in East L.A.

"You keep a fucking machete in your trunk?" Frank looked down in disbelief. "Why would anyone keep a machete in their trunk?"

"I'll give you a hint. It's not to clear heavy brush." He started walking to the passenger's side door of Frank's car. "C'mon, you're driving."

Frank turned off Laurel onto a small wooded lane—more of a private driveway than a street. They weren't too far down the hill from the affluent area of the canyon known as Lookout Mountain.

"Park over there," Sam said as he pointed to the side of the road and some low-hanging tree branches.

"Aw, come on. I just had it washed," Frank groaned.

Sam ignored his complaint. "They're three driveways up, in the last house. We'll walk the tree line from here, then down the side of the house. Plenty of cover."

The tree line down the side of the house was particularly thick. Seclusion is what the landscape architect had been going for. "Hold tight," Sam said, pointing at the trashcans off to the side. "Grab me a plastic bottle." Sam reached into his back pocket, feeling for the Striker.

"This is fucking disgusting," Frank said draining the remnants of Pepsi from the one liter bottle.

"Yeah, I hate the metric system too."

"The random, brainy shit you come out with at the strangest times is not funny." Frank gave the bottle a last shake. "Now, I'm a fucking trash picker. Maybe after we get the money back, we can turn this thing in for two cents?"

"Hand it here and hang on to Bertha for a minute."

Sam cut a wider opening at the top of the bottle with the razor sharp Striker.

"There goes the redemption value," Frank said, pointing his .357 at Sam's handy-work.

"See all these hillsides?" Sam looked around so Frank could get perspective. He folded the Striker and put it back in his pocket, then fit the bottle over the end of his .45. "We're in a canyon without silencers. If I can't use Bertha and we start shooting, it's going to echo like a motherfucker."

"And a plastic bottle does what?" Frank asked, looking at Sam's gun now fitted with a Pepsi bottle.

"It muffles the sound. Most of all it changes the sound to a boooowaaaaa type of noise. Doesn't sound like a gun shot, just a weird noise."

"Then why the fuck aren't you making me one?" Frank asked, looking back at the trashcans.

"Won't work on a .357. A .45 has a subsonic bullet. A .357 has too much velocity."

"Well, better try your best to use this," Frank said, handing the machete back to him. "Or, it's going to sound like the Fourth of fucking July when I'm done in there."

"Just shoot backup. If I can't hack'em, I'll shoot'em. If I miss, do your thing."

As they rounded the back of the house, Sam saw a figure he presumed to be Assaf's cousin sitting peacefully in a lawn chair, listening to a Walkman through a set of high-end headphones. Sam smiled at Frank. Frank smiled back, acknowledging their good fortune.

As Sam unsheathed Bertha, Assaf's cousin rocked back in his chair exactly as Assaf had on Roy's balcony. His eyes were closed as he clasped his hands behind his neck and stretched back enjoying the last sun he was ever going to feel.

You look so content thinking about how you're going to spend all that money you stole from me. Bertha's fat, sharp blade is in the air now. Trust me it's a hell of a blade.

His eyes sprung open just as the cold steel hit his skin. Hot blood splattered against Sam's face. The cousin's head separated from his body and teetered over the back of the chair, like a rag doll.

Sam bent down and looked into his eyes. _Can you see me? Did you get a look—just for a millisecond—at my face? I hope so._

Frank opened the back door slowly, gun at the ready. He pointed quickly to the left. Nothing. Then to the right. Nothing. Sam stood behind him with Bertha in his right hand and his .45 in his left. They both heard the noise in the kitchen, just off to their right. Sam pointed Bertha down the hallway.

"I'll wait here," he whispered.

Frank walked to the end of the hallway and looked around the corner. He looked back and nodded. "Cooking up a fucking storm in here?" he asked, pointing his .357 at Assaf's head.

Assaf immediately ran for the back door, where Sam caught him with a kick to the stomach. He dropped to all fours, no idea what just hit him. Frank kicked him in the ass. Then, Sam kicked him in the face. They kept kicking him until he went limp.

"Think he's dead?" Frank asked, glancing at Sam.

"I hope not." Sam looked down at Assaf, who groaned and spat blood through the hole where his teeth had been. His nose was even fatter than before, since it was now smashed across his face.

Now it's you that's fucked. Look at you lying there. You should see your cousin. You should see what you got him into.

"Stop! I didn't do anything!" Assaf begged, holding up his hand in some type of gesture for mercy.

"You stole my money, you piece of shit! I told you not to fuck me! Didn't I tell you not to fuck me? You think you can give me that cut-up bullshit? You think I'm a fucking idiot? Who's the fucking idiot now, you stupid Arab piece of shit?"

Assaf began to sob, which for some reason made Sam angrier. "Where's my fucking money?" he screamed, no longer feeling like he had any control over his rage.

"I swear, I don't have it" Assaf gasped, extending his shaking hand further.

Sam brought Bertha down with all his strength just above Assaf's right wrist. His hand literally flew across the kitchen. He screamed and grabbed the bloody stump with his other hand.

"There goes your hand! Your thieving fucking hand! How the fuck do you like that!"

"In my closet! First room at the top of the stairs!" Assaf could barely get the words out.

"Go check it out," Sam ordered Frank.

"Alright, I'm on the way." He glanced at Assaf's hand; it had landed in front of the stove.

Cry all you want, it's just us now.

"Got it!" Frank's voice rang out less than a minute later.

Assaf looked up at Sam, an expression of relief on his face.

Are you fucking kidding me? Do you see this? Do you see this big sharp blade? Does it look familiar? No relief for you now.

Sam brought Bertha down just above Assaf's left wrist. His left hand dropped right in front of his face. He started to convulse as he stared at his bleeding stumps.

"Help me, help me," he mumbled.

Sam stood over him as Frank came back into the kitchen carrying two trash bags filled with money. Frank smiled and held the bags up like they were trophies.

"Got the money. Looks like they have about two hundred fucking kilos of the good stuff up there."

"It's all over for you, you thieving motherfucker," Sam said, looking down at Assaf—who cowered and convulsed in the fetal position.

"Please, you got the money," he pleaded. "You can take the coke."

I can? I can take the coke? I was worried that you weren't going to give me permission.

Before Assaf could say another word, Sam brought Bertha down on his skull, splitting it like an egg. Some of his brain matter stuck to the doorway where Frank stood. Sam raised Bertha again and again and again, until he was winded from the effort. Assaf, what had been Assaf, was pulp.

"You know you have a nasty temper, right?" Frank said, looking at the scrambled mess of human remains. "Just when I think you can't possibly top yourself, you lose that fucking temper of yours and do something like this." He began to clap slow and morosely.

Sam had the adrenalin shakes. He was completely covered in blood. "Grab me a couple of towels and give me your shirt. I'll take the towels and the shirt I'm wearing and burn them later."

"You're going to take the shirt off my back?"

"Your shirt or your coat, I don't give a fuck which one. Just get me the towels and give me one of them so we can load up the coke and get the fuck out of here. I can't stand being around this guy even when he's dead."

Atherton Park, like most of Northern California, was green and beautiful. Roy had been right about the wealth. His friends had all inherited amounts of money that were hard to imagine.

Sam followed Mohamed's white turbo Porsche at speeds sometimes exceeding one-hundred-miles-per-hour.

"Is he trying to impress us?" Sam asked Roy.

"Yes," Roy nodded. "Welcome to Menlo, my friend. A bunch of rich kids with nothing better to do than snort coke and drive fast. Look at it this way: we'll be at Kahlid's house in no time. Wait till you see this place."

Sam had been there a week, making sure Roy didn't have trouble collecting the drug debts owed to him by his friends.

"I feel like I'm in high school. You know your friends up here have money, but that's it."

"I know. I've never been able to figure out why they're the ones. Believe me, they don't deserve it." Roy looked out the passenger side window. "Thanks for giving me a second chance, Sam. I appreciate you coming up like this. I'm sure everyone would have paid, but after everything that's happened, it's good that you came."

What choice did I have? I'm a fucking whore. I wanted the money even more than I wanted to kill you.

Sam looked in his rearview mirror. Doug, Frank, and Robbie were still following at a comfortable distance.

"I'm actually glad I came. It's nice up here. I wouldn't want to live here—but it's nice for a visit. And I have to hand it to you; you turned out to be a hell of a drug dealer. Selling twenty-five kilos, by the ounce, at full retail in less than a month is fucking incredible. I didn't know there were so many rich Arabs."

"You'll see. They won't buy from anybody else," Roy was smiling, no doubt at his undeserved good fortune. "They can't risk buying from someone they don't know. It's worth the money for them never to get caught. If their parents ever found out, they'd be back in Saudi the next day. And trust me, none of them wants that," Roy laughed. "Sam, I could make us even more in Europe. I could move at least another twenty-five kilos a month, at twice the price."

"Once we get things running smooth up here, Europe's not out of the question." Sam felt strange talking about dealing on an international level. It seemed he was just selling his first few grams not that long ago. "I'm making a million dollars a week, Roy. Isn't that fucking incredible?" he said, wondering if being around a bunch of filthy rich Arabs was somehow having an effect on him.

At least I work for my money.

"Sam, this is just the beginning for you." Roy's look turned serious. "You're going to be rich the way only a few people in the world are rich. Maybe even richer than Khalid."

Sam laughed. "When his father dies, he's going to become the King of Saudi Arabia and literally own half the oil in the world."

"Maybe you'll be to cocaine what Khalid is to oil."

Sam stared at the back of the Porsche. "Wouldn't that be something?"

Khalid's estate was a single-story, sprawling complex—located behind a tall brick wall and an imposing iron gate. As they pulled up, the gate opened. Sam followed Mohamed's Porsche into the driveway. He reached down and felt his .45, which gave him a feeling of comfort. He made a mental note that the walls were easily scalable if his guys needed to join the party. Sam knew this was a paranoid thought, but it was better to be a little paranoid than a lot dead.

Sam walked up the steps behind Roy and Mohamed to the hand-carved wooden doors. Roy rang the bell. Much to Sam's surprise, a beautiful blonde in a halter-top and skin-tight jeans answered. She quickly gave both Roy and Mohamed a kiss on each cheek.

"You must be Sam," she said, turning to him.

Sam held his hand out. But she grabbed it and pulled him forward, giving him a kiss on each cheek.

"That's the way we do it around here. I'm Sarah, Khalid's girlfriend. I've heard so much about you. I'm glad you're actually here in the flesh."

Sam was stunned by Sarah's beauty—and he had seen a lot of beautiful girls. He tried to stay cool. "To be honest, the boys here hadn't mentioned Khalid had a girlfriend—but I can see why. There are really no words to describe you."

Sarah smiled shyly and nodded toward the door. "C'mon in."

Sam glanced down for a moment at the floor. The Royal Crest was imbedded in gold. "Seriously. You are one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen."

"I like him," she said to Roy, blushing slightly.

"I told you, he's like a brother to me." Roy stepped forward and put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "But believe me, I've never seen him like this before."

Sam glanced back down at the floor. _I have to have a gold floor one day_.

"Is that true?" Sarah asked Sam moving close enough to invade his space.

He nodded. "Definitely."

"Well good, you're on your best behavior," she said, putting her hand on her hip. "It's a good thing, I suppose."

"Where's Khalid?" Mohamed asked, not finding the flirtatious encounter that was unfolding of any interest.

"Khalid's in New York. Didn't you know?"

Mohamed shook his head. "No, I thought he was in town."

"He left three days ago. That's why I invited everybody over. I'm going crazy in this place all by myself. Actually it was Khalid that suggested I have a little party."

"Well, we're glad you did," Roy said.

"When did you say Khalid is coming home?" Sam asked, not bothering to try to act like he wasn't staring.

Sarah laughed. "Not to answer a question with a question. But I'm trying to remember what Roy said your girlfriend's name was. If I recall, he called her the greatest thing since sliced bread. Stacy, isn't it? So how is Stacy anyway?" She asked motioning with her finger for them to follow.

"Stacy who?" Sam answered, transfixed by her ass.

"Behave yourself," she demanded, playfully kicking him in the shin.

Could this house be any bigger? Could your ass be any better? Walk around all fucking night for all I care.

As they entered the richly appointed wood paneled room, they were greeted by several of Roy's friends, all of whom were congregated around the pool table. There were at least two more Mohamed's, another Khalid; this one from Egypt, a Mumbdu and a Fahad.

"Sam, take this shot for me. I'll give you a hundred bucks if you make it," Fat Khalid from Egypt said as he waved Sam over to the table.

It was a tough five ball in the right corner pocket.

Why not? Sarah will be impressed. You never know what compels a girl to make that decision. It's the way you stand. Because your place is so clean. I hear you have a big dick. I have a thing for musicians. I have a thing for magicians. Never heard that one, but somewhere some dumb bitch is turned on by a guy that knows what card she picked. Just make the fucking shot, you never know. Too bad you suck at pool, because the girl with the best ass on the planet is watching.

"Give me a stick, I'll show you girls how it's done."

"I've got a hundred against it. Any takers?" Mohamed with the Porsche said, throwing a Benjamin on the table.

"I'll take that bet," Roy said, tossing down a hundred of his own.

Mohamed looked up at Sarah. "You betting?" he asked.

A bitchy look crossed her face just for a second and then she smiled. There was something between them.

"I'll bet you a thousand dollars he makes it," she announced, her eyes locking in battle with Mohamed's for a moment.

"A thousand it is," Mohamed agreed, more agitated than before.

Sam hit the cue ball hard, looking to go soft on the left side of the five and send it straight to the right pocket. The balls made contact lightly, but hard enough to send the five where it needed to go with authority. It was pure luck.

"Who's the man?" Sam shouted at the Arabs like he knew what he was doing.

"That was amazing!" Roy exclaimed, practically jubilant.

"It was a beautiful thing," Fat Khalid tossed a hundred in Sam's direction. "Bet you couldn't do it again."

Sam smiled. "I don't have to," he said, picking up his hundred.

Mohamed looked back at Sarah. "I'll pay you tomorrow," he said, sounding like less of a prick than usual.

She smiled. "That's all right." She'd won the battle. "Khalid doesn't like me gambling anyway," she said rubbing it in.

"I said I'd pay," Mohamed responded sharply.

"Give the money to Sam," she snapped bitchily. " _He_ made the shot."

"I'll pay you tomorrow," his voice filled with contempt. "If that's okay?"

"That's fine with me," Sam answered.

"Why don't you show Sam the house?" Roy suggested, trying to diffuse the situation.

"Would you like the tour?" she asked.

"Does it cost more than eleven hundred dollars?"

"I'll cut you a deal," she said, motioning him forward.

Sam followed Sarah out of the room. The Arabs went back to betting on pool.

Her tour was educational. He didn't ask—but he could imagine what some of the antiques must have cost.

You haven't done a fucking thing in your life and you have all of this because you have a pussy and some guy who likes to fuck it. And what did he do for all of this? Nothing.

"Earth to Sam." Sarah grabbed his hand. "Bored with me already?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"No, I was just thinking about something," he answered, smiling into her perfect face.

"This is the master suite," she said, still holding his hand and pulling him into the room. "What do you think?"

It was massive. The bed had obviously been custom built. It was at least twice the size of a normal king size bed.

"It's a great room. Is that a sable bedspread? I have to get one of..."

She squeezed his hand tighter and brought her other hand up behind his neck as she kissed him on the lips. Their lips touched for what seemed to be a second and then their tongues met. Sarah's perfect lips, perfect teeth, and perfect tongue were all over his face and in his mouth.

Sam pulled her body close. She let go of his hand and brought her other hand up around his neck as they kissed even more deeply. He pressed one hand into the small of her back and slipped the other down to her ass. She extended herself to her tip-toes and bit his ear as he began kissing her neck. He bent down and kissed her flat stomach as she ran her fingers through his hair. Sam worked his way back up to her halter-top. He was able to slip it off easily over her head. Sarah's breasts were firm and round. When her nipples crossed his lips her breast seemed to explode into his mouth. She let out a groan and stuck her tongue into his ear.

"Make love to me. I want to feel you inside," her soft voice demanded.

Their lips met again and they kissed deeply as he tugged at the button on her pants. When it gave way, a tidal wave of heat rushed through his loins.

This is actually going to happen. I'm going to fuck this billion-dollar piece of ass. Free, no better than free because Mohamed owes me a grand. All those billions Khalid and you don't own this pussy. I do, at least for right now, and I didn't pay shit.

Sarah backed towards the bed as Sam pulled her pants down, first with his hands, then by stepping down on them between her legs so she could step out of them easily. She stopped kissing him for a second and smiled.

"Nice trick." She pulled him to the bed. "C'mon, we don't have much time."

Sam was between her legs; he righted himself to his knees and reached down with both hands to get a grip on her little pink underwear. They exchanged a look of understanding. It was her pussy and she would do whatever the fuck she wanted with it.

Sarah raised her hips just enough for Sam to slide her panties down. He hovered above her for a second, taking a mental picture. Then, he descended towards her—wanting to cum inside of her more than any woman he had ever met.

"I've got you," she said, gripping his cock less than an inch from her pussy.

Stick it in bitch. Don't fucking tease me, stick my fucking dick inside of you.

Then, as if she had been inside of his brain, she firmly pulled him into her inferno of a twat.

_Your pussy is mine. My dick owns it._ He looked down and watched himself fucking her. _Fucking whore._

As Sam began the final long hard strokes that would bring them both to a climax, she grabbed his ass and pulled her legs up for maximum penetration.

"Cum in me baby. I want all your cum."

Sam felt her finger in his ass.

No fucking way—I don't do this. Too late, dirty white-trash bitch has her finger up your ass. She didn't ask, she just stuck it up your ass. Feels pretty fucking good actually.

"Fuck me, baby. Oh that feels so good. Fuck me."

The tip of his cock took air before plunging in one last time, her middle finger completely embedded in his ass. The cum surged out of him in a way he had never experienced. One long stream of ejaculation, no pulsing at the base of his shaft, just what seemed like a never-ending flow of cum into her. Sam had ejaculated. But he was still hard inside of her, her vagina pulsated around his throbbing erection.

"I wish I could stay inside of you forever," he said, holding her tightly.

"I wish you could too."

"Turn over," Sam said, righting himself back on his knees.

"There's no time," she said, smiling—and flattered that he wanted more. She looked at his hard cock and grabbed it in her hand. "You have the most beautiful dick I've ever seen in my life. It's actually perfect."

"C'mon, turn over," he said, pulling on her arm. She arched her back and stuck her ass out.

Just like a fucking animal. Look at you on all fours just like a fucking beast. Are you smiling, because this is the way you really like it?

He spread her ass cheeks and looked at her cunt. It hung heavily, filled with blood, and a mixture of both of their cum. Before he fucked it again, he bent down and started eating it, lapping at it, fingering it, her cum running down his chin—his hands spreading it all over her ass. Then without warning, he stuck his right thumb up her asshole. Her legs trembled as he pulled his face out of her pussy and stuck his dick back into her. Her vagina seemed to grab at his cock as he rammed it into her much harder than he had before. Her asshole did the same to his thumb as he fucked her so hard that her knees lifted a good half an inch off the bed with every thrust. The muscles in her back strained, practically broke out of her skin, as her hands clawed at the sable bedspread, and he came inside of her. She collapsed face first flat into the bed.

Fucked into the mattress bitch. How'd you like that? Does Khalid fuck you like that? Of course not or I wouldn't be here. All that money and he doesn't fuck you to death, he doesn't fuck you like the animal that you are. What a fucking shame.

They got dressed without saying a word to each other.

"Do I look okay?" she asked, finally breaking the silence, just a hint of shame in her voice.

Sam stared at her for a second, admiring how cute she looked and thinking that just a few moments before, he was deep inside this girl. Just a few minutes ago, she was an animal getting fucked—and loving it. She was a girl that most men could only ever fantasize about.

"Yeah, you look fine."

"I mean, can you tell?" she asked, brushing her hair back.

"Yeah, it's obvious. You look like you just got fucked into the mattress," he said, attempting to give her a hug.

"I better not!" she said, pushing him back.

He gave her a reassuring smile. "Even I wouldn't believe it—and that's if I told myself what happened."

The walk back to the billiards room was silent.

"Why me?" Sam asked, just a few feet from the door.

"Why you _what_?" she said slowing her pace.

"Why did you want to fuck me?"

"Why not? Because I can. I don't know. Roy told me a lot about you; you sounded cool." She stopped. Time for the truth. "Because you're a killer. Because I hated Assaf and I wanted to fuck the guy that killed him."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He took a step toward her.

"Relax. I'm the only one he told and you're fucking me, aren't you?" She paused. "Did I mention I'm not on the pill?" she asked as she turned and walked into the billiards room.

"Tom, you made it!" she shrieked, apparently very excited to see him.

Tom was of average height and build, but his fake blond hair and brown mustache made him look strange—even by Hollywood standards.

"Tom, this is Sam. Sam, say hi to Tom." Sarah was all smiles as she made the introduction.

"Nice to meet you," Sam said, extending his hand.

"Nice to meet you too!" Tom sounded outrageously gay. "You're Roy's friend from Los Angeles?"

"That would be me. You're from here?"

"No, I'm from a quaint little shit town an hour and a half south of here," he said rolling his eyes. "But I'm moving to L.A. in a couple of months."

"Do you know where you're going to be staying yet?" Sam asked, having no problem picturing Tom living in L.A.

"I'm moving in with Susan. You must know her if you're friends with Roy?"

"I've met Susan." His expression said the rest.

"If you mean she's a beautiful manipulating bitch," Tom smiled in some perverted fag way that Sam had never seen, "you've got it right. I love Susan."

I'd love her more if the man-hating bitch was on all fours like your friend Sarah was just a few minutes ago.

"I really don't know her that well."

"It's amazing how guys throw themselves at her. I've seen the richest guys in the world grovel," Tom said, sounding even gayer than before.

And it's just this kind of behavior that's fucking everything up for guys that have actually decided to keep their balls. Give me a few hours to work on her cunt and we'll see who's doing the groveling. I think this fag's in love with me.

"Men shouldn't grovel. I don't care how good looking she is."

Tom looked at Sarah, hoping for a bitchy fag pleasing reaction. She smiled—distracted by the fact that she wasn't sure if she could walk now that the effects of the monstrous fucking she had just gotten were starting to set in. Her legs were trembling and her pussy was now leaking, unable to hold all of Sam's cum.

"Men shouldn't grovel," she said, agreeing with Sam much to Tom's dismay. "Susan just hasn't met the right guy."

"The right guy?" he asked, his face now bright red and his voice indignant. "She's a slut; there's no right guy for her."

Sarah's asshole quivered from whatever Sam's thumb had done to it.

"Oh Tom, honey, only a girl can understand this kind of stuff. Trust me, it's not about how many or how many times. Once with the right guy just changes everything."

Tom looked like he was going to throw up. It was too much for him to be told it was necessary to be a girl to understand the real value of dick. Not even the biggest fag could really understand.

Sarah walked them out of the beautiful house she shared with Khalid.

"Thank you for coming, Roy," she said—kissing him on each cheek.

"And Sam, thank you for coming. I'm really glad you came. Promise me you'll cum again sometime, I loved having you." She kissed Sam on each cheek, missing one side just enough to graze his lips.

"When Tom moves down to L.A., I'm going to come down for a visit. We should get together."

"Definitely. I'll show you a good time," Sam said politely.

"I bet you will." She winked.

Sam and Roy turned and started walking to the car.

"I'll get your number from Roy and let you know what's cooking," she shouted out after them.

Sam winced and hoped Roy didn't notice. The thought of another kid out there was enough to make him dizzy.

Roy confides in Sarah and then she wants to fuck me? She hated Assaf, why? Probably should just kill both of them. But she's dating the Crown Prince and could be useful. And he'll be really pissed if something happens to her. Better consider all of this. Roy is looking at you wondering what you're thinking. Just smile. Just give him a reassuring smile and let him keep making you money for now.

You told her about Assaf? Why did you have to go and do that? Didn't I tell you to keep your mouth shut? Look at all the trouble you've caused me. Kill him. No, don't kill him.

"That was a good time," Roy said nodding his own agreement. Sam had never seen him so happy. "I can't believe you made that five ball," Roy said, putting his hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm really glad I came up." Sam said smiling warmly. "It's been a crazy few weeks my brother, a crazy few weeks."

CHAPTER 16

Carrington

Price Fixed

The Federal Psychiatric Facility for the Criminally Insane was its official name. However, the stir caused over abuses at mental health facilities in the early 1970's by the book _One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest_ resulted in the giving of a more benign title, Lakeside. Situated in rural Arkansas, Lakeside was built at the turn of the century to resemble a medieval castle. A dark, cold, and foreboding place—its builders were intent on making one singular and resounding statement. "You don't want to be here." Only the truly insane could tolerate such a horrible place. Only the truly insane who could not possibly be responsible for their actions would allow themselves to be placed in the horrific Lakeside.

The first thing that struck Jim Carrington, as he stopped his car at the massive iron gate, was that there was no lake anywhere in sight. One look at the castle for the insane and the gargoyles that perched on its walls made him realize that nobody inside would have even known the difference. There were no windows, there was no yard—only moss-covered stonewalls. Jim had heard about the terrible facility—but no description could do it justice. Long forgotten by any oversight agency, it stood, as it always had, in the middle of a vast nowhere—populated by men that had committed the most monstrous of crimes. If ever there was a house of horror, this was it.

The guard at the booth looked at Jim with curiosity as he rolled down his window.

"I'm Agent Carrington..."

"Here to see Price," the curious guard said, handing him an old-fashioned brown clipboard. "Just need your signature."

"No I.D.?" Jim asked.

The guard smiled. "Right, you want to show it. I want to see it."

Jim held up his identification then looked down at the clipboard. The last visitor had signed in and out almost nine months earlier. Jim understood now. Nobody in their right mind came to Lakeside if they weren't getting a paycheck. No use for a computer at the guard booth. A clipboard was all they were ever going to need.

The office was large and more comfortable looking than Jim had expected. Dr. Ganglia stood in front of a fireplace the mantle of which was adorned with family pictures. He was a tall thin man of fifty. His hair was combed straight back. He had a long nose and he wore a white lab coat that, at a glance, looked to be splattered with fresh blood.

"Agent Carrington, welcome to Lakeside." The doctor's voice was warm.

"Thank you for having me." Jim couldn't help but try and get a better look at the blood. "I know it was short notice, but I don't get to these parts very often." It was definitely blood.

"I apologize," the doctor said, looking down. "I'm not used to having visitors. I don't know what I was thinking; I should have changed coats." He began to unbutton the one he was wearing. "If I worried about a little blood around here I'd have to change on the hour." He pulled a clean lab coat down from a hook on the back of his office door and began putting it on. "Just before you arrived, inmate 5811 ripped his penis off again. We thought we finally had him medicated to the point of not having to have him in restraints twenty-four hours a day—it's a horrible drain on manpower—but he went right back at it after a couple of hours. I don't know how many times we can sew it back on," he shrugged. "We're trying our best."

"Is John Price medicated?" Jim asked, wondering what type of state he would find him in.

"No. Price is a strange one, completely calm. He rants and raves about the Leader. But he is not violent towards himself."

"Is he violent toward other inmates?"

"How could he be? He's in D block, maximum security. There's no human contact."

"Besides his lack of self-destructive behavior, what makes him so strange?"

The doctor smiled. "Around here, that's enough."

Jim wasn't amused and the expression on his face said as much.

"Price is delusional twenty-four hours a day. But he only communicates with his imaginary Leader at night, when he sleeps."

Jim had seen the drooling, crazed John Price at the time of his arrest. He had also seen the cool collected John Price in the courtroom—as he told the judge that he was acting on orders from the Leader. Ten psychiatrists confirmed that there was no doubt that's what he believed. Price wanted to plead innocent. He believed himself to be perfectly sane. Even Jim had to agree that he wasn't. It was a hard pill to swallow—but the Interstate Sniper was the one in a hundred killers that really didn't have the capacity to tell right from wrong.

The cell, two stories beneath the earth, was ten feet deep by ten feet wide. There was no furniture at all. Only a hole for relief of bodily waste in the back right corner broke the continuity of the room's surfaces. Jim stood in front of the bars and looked at John Price, who stood in front of him in a white jumpsuit and no shoes. A thousand pushups a day had made him appear even more fit, more dangerous than before. The dire sparseness was hard even for Jim to understand. Dr. Ganglia seemed to sense his discomfort.

"You do realize that any object is a potential weapon to these inmates. Just last week, an inmate in minimum security killed another inmate with a toothbrush. Twenty years of maximum security, five years of minimum security, we thought we could trust him with a toothbrush. The first chance he got, he snuck it out from the bathroom to the hallway and stabbed to death the first inmate he saw. For some reason we still haven't ascertained, he felt compelled to stab out inmate #6565's eyes. Anyway, we've let Price have a jumpsuit so far and that's it."

"Thank you for that Doctor Ganglia," Price spoke. "It's cold down here. I'm much more comfortable now."

"Do you know who I am, Mr. Price?" Jim asked.

"How could I forget you, Agent Carrington. You killed my son. You shot and arrested me. You're responsible for all of this."

"If you were acting on orders, then isn't it the person that gave you the orders that is responsible for all of this?"

"He said you would come. You're starting to see the truth aren't you?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"You're responsible, Agent Carrington. It is you who must protect the innocent. If this wasn't your destiny, I wouldn't exist."

"You kill the innocent so people like me can stop you?"

"I kill the innocent so that you can stop me, Agent Carrington. Not people like you, you."

Jim noticed the concerned look on Doctor Ganglia's face. The doctor understood the technique of entering the delusional world of the insane. Price's logic and Jim's understanding were not what he expected. "I don't understand?"

"You are false hope. The world of light is false. Everything that you see is an illusion. The truth is in the force of the darkness beneath the surface. Our souls are bound by illusion. The people must see you so the Leader can complete his work. He must be able to separate the good from the evil. The age of separation is upon us."

"John, how did you say you met the Leader?"

"I didn't. You're the first to ask."

"Was it in one of your dreams?"

"No, I was on the street. I had just been discharged. He offered to buy me a drink. He recognized my soul. He saw my destiny."

"Did he have a name?"

"The Leader has no name. Only vision and strength. In the darkness there are no names. And yet in our world he has many."

"Could you describe how he looks?"

"He is however you see him. We could both look at these bars and see two different things. We don't have the same frame of reference."

"You saw him once and then the dreams started?"

"I always saw him. I met him once. And then came the dreams."

"Can I talk to you privately, Doctor Ganglia?" Jim said, turning to the doctor.

Ganglia knew what was coming. How could a delusional man be so completely rational? The young agent was going to want to know.

"Why don't we go back to my office?" the doctor suggested calmly.

"John, I'm going to come back and talk to you more in a little bit."

"I don't think so, Jim. I've told you all you need to know."

And with no hesitation at all, John Price grabbed his head in his hands and broke his own neck with a violent twisting motion.

CHAPTER 17

Wonderful World

Sam had lost count of how many glasses of Cristal he had prior to the one he put down on the coffee table. It had been several, maybe ten. He rolled the hundred-dollar bill tighter and did a line of his own, pure uncut coke. What a feeling, his mind crackled with delight.

He handed the mirror to one of the Arabs. Roy, who was even higher than Sam, waved his hand around the room. "What do you think of the Presidential Suite at the Mondrian?"

Sam looked around. "Kind of simple for the money—but nice." He looked at the thirty different types of food on the dining room table that two of the Arabs were carousing. "Great room service. I have to give them that. And location, location, location. There's nothing like Sunset."

"Sam's right. They do have great food here." One of the fat Arabs said, taking a bite of a BLT. "We should have them pack a basket to take to Disneyland tomorrow."

"I thought you guys didn't eat pork?" Sam nodded toward the fat Arab with the BLT.

He took another bite. "We don't drink alcohol or do drugs either." There was laughter around the room.

Karen did a line and passed the mirror to Wendy. "Are you staying here tonight?" she asked Sam.

"No, I'm going home." Sam stood up and stretched. "Actually I'm going home right now."

"You're not driving, are you?" Roy asked, concerned. "Maybe you should just stay. I'll call down and get you a room." He gave Sam a look, which combined with just the right head tilt said, "And bill it to the Arabs. I'm not really concerned with you getting home. I'm concerned that we're not getting enough of their undeserved money. We're partners—don't go soft on me."

"I have a room, if you want to crash?" Wendy offered out of the beautiful blue cocaine enhanced sky.

He smiled, wondering why he hadn't slept with her in so long. It seemed like such a lost opportunity. Somehow the drugs and alcohol had made it all clear. They were talking now. "You could sleep with Wendy—and have another good memory. That's all you have in the end. The memory of the girls you've fucked," He looked over at Sarah. What a cold bitch she was being all night.

The test, the game, the insidious cunt, but sleep with Wendy and Sarah would just be a memory too.

"No, I'll have one of my guys drive me home."

"I'll walk you down," Sarah volunteered, slightly thawing the cold shoulder she had been giving him.

Glad you didn't crash in Wendy's room now, aren't you. Sarah actually looks better than she did the last time. That never happens, they always look worse. I'm hard just looking at her and I feel like I'm floating to the elevator.

"Push L for lobby," Sam suggested to her—drunk and high to the point of not remembering if he had even bothered to say goodbye to everybody.

She pulled him by the shirt and her lips were on his. Her tongue slipped into his mouth just for a moment, "I've wanted to do that all night."

Sam kissed her neck. "I've been wanting you to do that all night. But you've been acting, I don't know, kind of..." She smelled too good to not just stand there with his head against hers. He rubbed up against her. "You feel good."

"You're drunk."

"And high. See what happens when you ignore me? I get into trouble." He bit her ear.

"So now it's my fault?" she said to the little boy she was now dealing with. They're all little boys somewhere deep down.

They slammed against the side of the elevator—kissing wildly and ferociously with the careless and reckless abandon of being totally fucked up. The little boy was gone. The animal that had left her quivering was back, kissing her and squeezing her breast in an elevator—a public elevator. He was too fucked up to care.

"Yeah, it's your fault," he said, stopping suddenly—leaving her breathless and confused. He pulled her hand down to his crotch, "All your fault. Look what you've done to me."

The doors opened to a group of four and a bellman.

She pushed him toward the door. "Make a reservation at the Disneyland Hotel before you pick us up tomorrow."

Sam walked out of the Mondrian hard as a rock. He laughed out loud as he motioned for Robbie to get out of the car he was sitting in.

"I'm going to have you drive me home. Doug will follow us and bring you back."

"Fuck, it feels weird to sit in the passenger seat of my own car." Sam needed a second try at the seat belt. "Couldn't find the hole." He laughed at his own joke.

"Boy, look at you! That princess pussy got you all fucked up," Robbie said, pulling the car out of valet.

"Robbie, I do not shit you. I can taste it. I should have fucked her in the elevator just now."

"Oh, she did the fickle bitch thing on you? No wonder you're drunk off your ass."

"And high."

"That's the problem with the white bitches. Games. Black bitches don't be fucking around when it comes to pussy."

"What's up, nigger?" The deep black voice roared through the window into Sam's ear. "Why the fuck don't you learn to drive?"

Sam looked from the red light Robbie had stopped short at to the large white SUV to his right. "Who you calling nigger, nigger?" he said to the driver and the passenger, not sure which one had the nerve to call Robbie a nigger. Not sure which one thought it was okay to say anything to a friend of his. Who would have the audacity to interrupt him when he was drunk and high as a kite on the best cocaine in the world?

"Motherfucker, did you just call me a nigger?"

"You are a nigger, aren't you?" He pointed his left thumb back at Robbie. "Robbie's dad and my dad are friends. We've known each other since before we were born and I really don't like you yelling shit like nigger at him, nigger."

"You know what? I will smoke your cracker ass and your boy, motherfucker!"

"With one of these?" Sam said, pulling his .45 and pointing it at the occupants of the SUV.

"You pull a gun on me motherfucker, you better use it!"

Confidence can be such a bad thing sometimes. A simple apology would have done the trick.

Sam squeezed the trigger four times. "Like that!" he yelled and laughed as he got out of the car.

"Get back in the car, bro!" he heard Doug yelling just as he opened the door to the SUV that was now rolling slowly into the intersection.

"Hey tough guy, how fucking tough are you now?"

"No man, don't," the driver said—holding his bloody stomach and leaning toward his obviously dead passenger.

"Better use it, that's what you said."

"No, man."

"Fuck you!" Sam squeezed the trigger four more times.

"Get back in the car!" Doug yelled and began pulling on his jacket.

"All right, all right."

Sam reclined the car seat and closed his eyes for a couple of minutes. When he opened them, he looked over at Robbie who, to his credit, was driving the speed limit, "Sorry about that."

"It's cool. Shut his big fucking mouth. Motherfucker was talking some shit."

"I just hate people like that. Yo motherfucker tough guy. Fuck you!" Sam looked out his passenger side window and noticed a cute blonde driving a white BMW convertible. He looked at his watch. "Four in the morning, you know what she's been doing." He motioned for her to roll down her window.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"If I had been the one fucking you, I would have let you stay until the morning."

"Who said I wanted to?"

Sam laughed. "Give me your number. Trust me, you'll want to stay."

"We'll see." She smiled.

Sam breathed in one, last, deep breath of the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ air. Humid, dark, and chlorinated—there was something hellish about it. "It's not really a kids ride," Sam said, as they stepped back into the sunlight, "I mean there is some serious raping and pillaging going on in there."

"I feel bad for the pirate being chased by the big fat wench," Roy looked down at the perfectly clean Disneyland pavement and smiled, "You know what she's going to do to him!" Roy's attempt at humor was so out of character that it drew a strange look from Karen."

"I like the cat with the key," one of the Arabs said seriously.

"Symbolic of the power a pussy has over man." The Arabs laughed at Sam's unique insight. "Sure, laugh all you want. I know what I'm talking about. Anyway, I'm going to write a letter of complaint. There should at least be a sign warning parents that their kids are about to see a bunch of boozed up pirates raping women, burning buildings, stealing property, and basically fucking up a perfectly nice little town. No wonder I turned out the way I did."

Karen laughed. "Blame it on Disneyland."

"Fuck yeah! You never see this kind of debauchery at Knott's Berry Farm, although they are anti-Semitic motherfuckers."

"Walt Disney loved Jews," Wendy added sarcastically.

"You've got a point," Sam conceded.

"I want to go to the Country Bear Jamboree." The Arabs looked like Sarah had just sprayed them with mace.

"The Matterhorn," Mohamed said, in a deep emphatic tone. Followed by a chorus of Arabs chiming in their agreement.

"Sam will take me," she said grabbing his arm. "Won't you?" The pause was masterful. Filled with doubt as if the Disneyland Hotel had never been built.

The Arabs all looked at him sympathetically, thinking the exact same thing. Poor bastard is going to have to listen to country music. Behead someone, yes. Make them listen to country music—no.

"Yeah, sure. I'll go listen to the fake singing bears with you." She slapped his butt, for sounding so dreadful. The Arabs all gave him one last sympathetic look.

Sam shrugged. "It could be worse. She could have wanted to go to, _It's a Small World_."

"That's where we're going after the bears," she cheered, yanking on his arm like a child who just spotted Mickey.

Twenty feet in the opposite direction, she giggled. "They hate country music."

"I actually like the bears. Especially the fat one that comes down from the ceiling," Sam admitted. "I wouldn't mind going."

"I'm the best ride you're going to get on all day," she said—pulling him toward the hotel. "And I mean all day."

"Sarah, are you sure you want to marry the prince? I think we'd make a great couple."

She pulled him to a stop. "I'm pregnant with your child."

_Of course you are, that's what happens when you let guys cum inside of you and you don't take the_ _pill._ Sam looked down at the pavement to think for a second and couldn't help but wonder how they kept it all so clean. _Do they power wash the whole place every night? Not even a piece of gum anywhere. The Happiest Place on Earth, maybe. Certainly the cleanest._

They resumed their walk toward the hotel. "So, do you want to get married or something?" Sam asked.

A few long minutes of silence as they walked.

Stacy I have something to tell you. I got some girl named Sarah pregnant and I'm going to marry her. She'll faint. She'll call your parents. Fuck!

Sarah put her arm through his arm. "No, I'll tell Khalid it's his. He'll give me a lot of money to keep my mouth shut when I refuse to have an abortion."

"Of course he will. Now I get it. So why didn't you just get knocked up by him, by accident, so to speak?"

"He always wears a rubber. Besides, I don't want to have a little sand-nigger for a kid."

"Haven't you ever heard of a paternity test? Not to mention that your kid will look...how should I put it...white?"

"You think that his ego would ever let him believe that I could possibly want someone else? Please. And as far as the baby looking white, he takes after his mother. Happens all the time—and he's never seen you." They took a couple of silent steps. "He'll probably just offer me a lot money and tell me to keep the house. That's usually what you guys do. "

"Fuck you. I offered to marry you."

"Yeah, that's pretty weird. You're a strange one, Sam Noah."

"Should I ask why you hated Assaf? As long as we're having this little heart to heart—"

"I tried to get pregnant with my ex-boyfriend but the idiot cokehead was buying from Assaf and was stupid enough to say something to him about my little plan. Loser couldn't support himself, let alone me." She paused. "Assaf tried to blackmail me into fucking him and paying him cash. A lot of cash."

"And?"

"I had an abortion. What do you think?"

"This is some weird shit, Sarah."

"Look, I'm not trying to freak you out. I want to make love with the father of my child. Is that okay with you? I like being with you. I think a lot about the little bit of time we've had together. You know we're a lot alike, you and me?"

"You know we're only ever going to have a few of these good times."

"Sam, the few moments were going to have together will be better than most people's whole lives. When we're old, it'll be afternoons at Disneyland that we'll think about."

"I hope so—because the Dumbo suite was expensive."

"You _are_ Dumbo," she laughed. "You're so Dumbo. C'mon, the Monorail goes right to the hotel."

Sarah jumped into his arms, four steps into the room, and wrapped her legs around his waist. She kissed him deeply like she had the first time. Their bodies felt good together; he didn't want to put her down. So he just stood there—holding her, wrapped around his body.

She pulled her face away from his and looked down at him. "Sam, I'm the only person that Roy told about Assaf, I know that for a fact. But still you should be careful. I did push him hard to bring you over to the house. One day when my child looks like you..."

"Let me worry about Roy. Alright?" He put her down on the bed and began unbuttoning her blouse. He kissed her on the stomach. She ran her hand through his hair.

"I'm going to be a great mother to our baby," she said—bending down and then kissing him again.

Sam pulled her down to her knees. "I know." He looked into her beautiful face.

"Sam, what's wrong?"

He stepped back. "The bedspread. Look at it."

She looked down. Then back at Sam, as she started unbuttoning his pants. "Never mind that mean old Mickey Mouse." She took him into her mouth.

"It's wrong." She wasn't listening. Mickey kept staring. It was hard to imagine, but he was getting blown in front of Mickey Mouse. He laughed. "Oh fuck it."

CHAPTER 18

Beeper Man

"Look Sam, you seem like a nice kid. But if they're giving me to you as a lead, they're wasting your time. I've literally turned down City Paging twelve times. I'm happy with the pagers we have now. I just took the meeting because you're good on the phone and I believe everybody deserves a shot."

Herb's office was a plush two hundred-dollar-a-foot build-out. Rich brown leather furniture. Custom built wood desk and credenza. A zen fountain of some kind and a wet bar with a fine selection of single-malt Scotch.

Sam sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "Herb, how many drivers do you have?" He sounded like a doctor trying to give a proper diagnosis.

"I have thirty drivers. Thirty drivers that already have pagers that I'm happy with."

"Good, I'll bring you thirty new pagers. And I mean new and better pagers tomorrow. And I'll match what you're paying."

Herb leaned forward, resting his elbows on his big wood desk. "Sam, why would I do that? You're not even offering to beat the price."

"I can't beat the price. You're getting a great deal. But do my deal and I'll figure out a way to make it good to you."

"What have you got in mind?" he asked with both exasperation and interest in his voice.

"You're obviously doing well. I'm sure you like to go out and have a good time in style. Am I right?"

Herb smiled. "I do okay. Believe it or not, this middle-aged, divorced father of two was a rock-star in the sixties. I still know how to go out and have a good time."

"I knew you looked familiar. You were the drummer for Crystal Sky."

Herb nodded. "That's me. You know your music."

"Look, I have a limousine business on the side. Do my deal, I'll match the price and give you a thousand dollars worth of limousine service. I'll even kick you back four hundred in cash since your deal will put me into a bonus this month."

"Man, I haven't met a hustler like you in a long time. Your limo, it's nice?"

"Rock-star nice," Sam answered sincerely.

Herb laughed. "Why doesn't that surprise me? Of course it is."

Sam uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "C'mon, let's do this deal."

"Yeah, screw it, bring me the pagers." They were in business now, "Keep your four hundred bucks. I'm going to need a ride to the Universal Amphitheatre at the end of the month. I'm taking my girlfriend to see Tina Turner."

"The pagers will be here tomorrow," Sam said, extending his hand to shake on the deal. _A lost art—the handshake deal. Other than criminals, there aren't too many_ _handshakes that mean shit._ "And I'll drive you to the show myself." Sam looked at his watch. "Oh shit, I've got to get over to Crenshaw."

"Why the hell are you going down there?" Herb asked bewildered.

"For my next appointment. Black people need pagers too."

"For what?" Herb was completely confused.

Sam knocked on Odessa's front door. The woman who opened the door looked to be in her early seventies. She was a sturdy woman—with a white head of hair and a big, white, toothy smile.

Odessa gave Sam a good looking over. "You must be the beeper guy? C'mon in and have a seat."

He stepped into Odessa's living room; her place was small, but clean. As he entered the living room from the front door, a black man in his forties rolled into the living room from the kitchen in a wheelchair.

"How are you doing?" Sam asked.

He gave Sam a curious once over. "Alright. How about you?"

"Not too bad," Sam answered. The fact that it felt like it was a hundred and fifteen in the shade and he was wearing a suit and tie was irrelevant. What customer wanted to hear about that?

It's a little warm, but it's a dry heat. Kind of like an oven.

"Beeper man, what did you say your name was?" she asked, closing the door.

Did she just call me beeper man? Oh, I have to remember that one.

"I'm sorry, my name is Sam. I'm guessing you're Odessa?"

She gave him an approving nod. "I'm Odessa and this here is Leon. But the beeper thing is for my grandson, Kim. He just called to say he is running a little late. So, just have a seat and make yourself comfortable. Would you like some lemonade?"

"It's hot out there, lemonade sounds good," Sam said—trying to remember the last time anyone had offered him something to drink the moment he walked into their home. A handshake deal and now lemonade, the day was on a roll.

"I'll be right back," Odessa said heading for the kitchen. "Leon would you like a glass?" she asked, almost as an afterthought.

"Sure, I'll have some," he shouted out after her.

Leon turned to Sam. "So you sell pagers?" His voice was a deep, raspy, back-room-game-of-craps against-the-wall voice.

"When I can."

"What's the gun for?" he asked, looking down at Sam's closed jacket and slightly bulging beltline.

"Generally I use it to kill people." Sam smiled at Leon's rather keen observation.

Leon grinned from ear to ear. His gold teeth caught the light and made him look dangerous and fun—even in the confines of a wheelchair. "You want to watch some TV?"

"Put on whatever you want. I'm easy," Sam said, trying his best to be a low maintenance guest.

"You like soap operas?" Leon asked, aiming the remote.

"General Hospital, back in the day."

"Shit, that Laura bitch was fine, back in the day," Leon said, flashing more gold. "You got some good fucking taste for a white boy. Nice thick ass on that girl."

"Leon, you better not be using profanity in this house." Odessa was nowhere in sight but her words emanated clearly from the kitchen.

Leon lowered his voice to a whisper. "She could hear flies fucking a mile away. The navy should find something for her to do..."

Odessa returned with a tray—carrying three large glasses of homemade lemonade. She set the tray down on the coffee table in front of them and sat in what Sam imagined to be her favorite chair.

"I don't know where Kim is. I'm sure he'll be here soon."

Sam sipped his lemonade. "If you got more of this in the kitchen, he can take all the time he wants."

"You go ahead and enjoy," she was delighted, "I have plenty."

"It's good Odessa," Leon agreed. Another flash of gold.

"I squeeze my own lemons. But the secret is using fresh bee's honey and a little fresh mint."

"I love fresh mint. My cousins have a mint garden." Sam warmed at the thought of perusing thirty-two different types of mint for just the right Mint Julep.

"Then I know they're from the South because ain't no Yankees that know how to keep a proper mint garden."

"Natchez, they live in Natchez."

"Oh, that's a beautiful old town. Some of our people still live not too far from there."

"Jackson is a long way from Natchez," Leon said, correcting Odessa.

"It is?" She looked back toward Sam. "I don't drive, never have, so sometimes I have a hard time with distances. If I got some knitting to do, I can just sit forever in the back seat and not think a thing about it. Just knit and the next thing you know, you're there."

I'm enjoying this. I'm sitting here drinking lemonade and talking to an old black woman about mint, the South, knitting and whatever the fuck else comes to mind. Got to do this again.

Sam reached into his briefcase as Odessa questioned Leon about the proximity of Vicksburg to Natchez.

"How can it be closer than Jackson if it's in a different state?"

"Odessa, I know that the pager is for your grandson. But since it is going to be in your name, I do need you to sign our service contract. I've already filled it out; you just need to sign where I've put the x's."

Odessa put on a pair of old fashioned horn rimmed glasses and started looking for the x's. She had just finished signing the paperwork when her front door opened and in came her grandson Kim.

Sam had pictured a grandson named Kim to be a frail little excuse for a man. This Kim, however, was the size of a large wall. Just like men named Marion, always tough as nails. Like his grandma, he had a nice face and a warm smile. Sam guessed him to be just a couple of years older than himself.

"Is that your Mercedes out there with the top down?" Kim asked, pointing his thumb back towards the door.

"Actually it is," Sam said, standing up.

Leon looked hurt. "I didn't see a Mercedes," his voice was accusing. Leon's eyes glared, "You admitted to having a gun and didn't tell me you rolled a Benz?"

"You didn't answer the door," Sam said to Leon.

Kim looked Sam up and down. "That's a nice Armani suit you got on."

"Check out his briefcase," Leon added. "It's one of those bullet proof Halliburtons."

Boy, black people have become materialistic. Not necessarily a bad thing I suppose.

Kim nodded his approval. But before he could say anything else, Odessa handed him the paperwork. "I signed the contract for you. But you better let Sam get on his way. The poor child has been sitting here waiting for you."

Kim gave Sam an apologetic look. "Sorry I'm late." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cash for the pager. "Eighty bucks, right?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, it's forty a month, first and last upfront."

Kim handed him the money. "Why don't you let me take you to lunch? I want to get to know you better."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Follow me up to the Farmer's Market; they make some good corned beef sandwiches there."

Sam turned to Odessa and Leon. "It looks like I'm going to lunch. It was very nice meeting you. Oh, and Odessa thanks for the great lemonade."

Odessa was sad to see Sam go. She had worked for plenty of nice white people during her working years and hoped her grandson and Sam would become friends. Sam was a nice white boy. It was hard to find nice, young people anymore.

"You come by anytime you want; I always have a pitcher in the fridge."

"Thanks Odessa, I'm going to take you up on that. If you want, I'll bring you some pictures of me back in Natchez."

"Oh, I'd love that." She put her hand over her heart. "I haven't been back south in thirty years."

"It looks the same. You'll see. I'll bring some pictures by next week. And some mint."

Call the cousins and have them send some mint from the garden. Odessa will love it.

Kim gave Odessa a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, Odessa." He looked down at Leon. "You okay Uncle Leon?"

"I'm fine." Leon smiled, flashing the gold.

They walked out the door. Parked behind Sam's Benz was a white Lincoln stretch limousine.

"Your limousine?" Sam asked.

Kim shook his head. "No, I work for the guy who owns it. I think you two probably have a lot in common. C'mon follow me."

Sam followed Kim up La Brea to Third and then down a few blocks to Fairfax. Third and Fairfax was the home of the world-famous Farmer's Market. The Farmer's Market was a unique tourist attraction because it attracted so many locals. Stalls of food, produce, and gift vendors, surrounded by tables and chairs occupied by locals who liked to dine in its one-of-a-kind atmosphere. The market was a timeless place that offered a glimpse of old Hollywood.

Kim and Sam weaved their way through the stalls. The fantastic smell of so many different kinds of food made Sam hungry for whatever was being sold every ten feet. With expert navigation skills, Kim landed them at the corned beef counter where they bought four sandwiches and headed for a table.

"You must have a good looking girl at home?" Kim said, looking around the large semi-circular seating area.

"Why do you say that?" Sam asked, and then took a bite of his sandwich.

Kim gave a nod over to a table of girls about their same age. "They watched you walk all the way from the entrance, way over there, to this table way over here—and you didn't even notice. So you must have something pretty good going on—or you're gay. And you don't look gay to me."

"I'm gay."

Stunned. A big stunned black man. Kim tried to say something, but he had no words.

"I'm just fucking with you," Sam continued, much to Kim's relief.

"That's not nice," Kim laughed. "That's just mean. I could tell you were mean the moment I laid eyes on you. So what's the story? If they were looking at me like that, I'd be over there right now. And I'm married with two kids."

"I have a good looking girlfriend that I have sex with every night and every morning." Sam took another bite of his sandwich. "Chasing pussy makes you soft. I mean, don't get me wrong. If it falls on my dick, I'm not pulling out. But otherwise, I'm about the money. I could be screwing my girlfriend and get a business call mid-stroke. And believe me, I'll stop and go take care of business. If you got nothing else to do, screw girls. Otherwise, screw girls, they're a waste of time. You know what I mean?"

"You're a criminal, aren't you?" Kim put down his sandwich. "A cold, all-business criminal."

"Would I tell you if I were?"

Kim shook his head. "I wasn't asking, I'm telling you. If you're not a criminal, I'm not black," he held up his forearm and looked at it, "And I'm black."

"What are you, a cop?" Sam asked, leaning back in his chair.

"You were just hanging out with my grandmother and my uncle. Of course I'm not a cop."

"Speaking of your uncle, what happened to Leon? How did he wind up in a chair?"

"He got shot in the back a long time ago. Leon was a serious criminal in his day. Now Odessa takes care of him," Kim answered matter-of-factly. "Stop trying to change the subject, what are you into?"

"I'm pretty much into anything that makes money," Sam said—suspecting that they might be having this conversation when Kim invited him out to lunch. "But my specialty is coke. That's where the grown-up money is at."

And thank you for the leads that no one else wants, Norm. Keep paying me to meet people like Kim.

"I knew it," Kim said, looking very pleased with himself. "When I saw your car in front of Odessa's house, I said to myself—something's up. One look at you sitting there with her and Leon and I thought, man I got to find out what this guy's about." Kim noticed Sam had finished off his second sandwich and took a bite of his own.

"Did I mention that I have a limousine I rent out also?" Sam asked.

Kim looked up from his plate. "What color?"

"Black," Sam answered.

"It figures. You white guys like black cars, niggers like white. Brothers be wanting everybody to notice them when they roll up. Everybody except the guy I work for. He's the black version of you. He's all about the money." Kim took another large bite of his sandwich then wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Are you done?" he asked, pointing at Sam's empty plate. "I've got something in my car I want to show you."

"There's such a nice breeze right here. I could just sit for an hour and enjoy it." He stretched his arms and the market air was all around his body. "If only I could figure out how to make money sitting on my ass in a nice breeze." He brought his arms back down to his side. "C'mon let's roll, I want to stop and get some Salt Water Taffy on the way."

"Taffy? You messing with me again?"

"I wouldn't joke about taffy," Sam said, standing up. "They make it fresh, with that big machine that stretches it while you watch. When I was a kid, my mom would buy it for me whenever we came here. You know, to this day I have no idea what the hell salt water has to do with it. I used to think it had something to do with the ocean. But of course it couldn't..."

Kim shook his head. "You crazy. You know that?" With considerable effort, he lifted his own huge mass from the chair he was sitting in.

"Wait until you try this taffy. Then, tell me I'm crazy."

They sat down in the front seat of the limo.

"Wow, it's fucking broiling in here." Sam went to work—opening up the bag of taffy in his hand. The plastic was thick so he bit down on it with his teeth and tore it open wider than he had originally intended.

Kim started the car and turned the air-conditioning all the way up. Then he reached under the front driver's seat and pulled out a Ziplock bag of what looked to Sam curiously like the coffee-flavored piece of taffy he now had in his own hand.

"Want a piece?" Sam asked, holding out the open bag.

"Thanks," Kim said, grabbing a handful. "Take a look at this." He handed Sam the Ziplock.

Sam looked at the yellowish chalky rock carefully.

"Do you know what that is?"

"No idea. What is it?"

"That's black man's coke."

Sam looked back down at the bag in his hands. "It looks like crap. Who would sniff this shit?"

Kim shook his head. "Niggers don't sniff it, they smoke it. One little rock for ten dollars messes them up."

"No shit?"

"I'm not kidding. When you smoke the shit it goes straight into your system. That bag you have in your hand can make us rich."

Sam looked at the little beige rocks with interest. "Are you saying smoking this has the same effect as free-basing?"

"Same effect without the risk of blowing yourself up. You just drop it into a pipe and put a torch to it. One hit and you're in heaven. This shit is so good, it only takes one high and the customer is hooked. And I mean like a junkie."

"Did you think this up?" The words "rich and hooked" rang in his head.

"No, it's been around the hood a long time—but only a few people know the recipe, so it's hard to find."

The limo's air-conditioning was starting to have some effect. Sam reached forward and adjusted the vents so his face would be the recipient of the cool air.

"You turn powder into this shit?"

"Got to start with pure powder, to cook up a good batch." Kim nodded toward the bag. "I know how to make the shit. But the guy I work for is a master chef."

"Does the guy you work for have a name?"

"His name is Kip."

"I've never heard of him. What do you do for this guy?"

"He's been having a problem with his partner. So lately, I've been mostly doing security. When he needs me to, I still run stuff around."

The money's in sales not service. You gotta deal. I'm about to teach you some serious shit.

"Do you deal on your own?"

"I have a few people. But I don't have the money to buy at the right price."

"I don't get it. You work for a major dealer and you can't get the right price?"

Kim shook his head. "I told you, he's all about the money. If he gives credit, he charges a lot of money for it. And I need credit."

Sam put his left arm up on the seat and turned so that he could face Kim. "What type of prices are you talking about, cash and credit?"

"He wants fifty-thousand a key on credit and twenty-five cash."

"Twenty-five is a hell of a price. We could do some business together at that price. The only problem is, I need pure coke not this rocked-up stuff."

"That's not a problem. When we get it, it comes in bricks of pure coke. Shines like mother of pearl inside."

"The last guy that promised me he could deliver the prices I needed tried to fuck me. He wound up getting fucked up really bad."

The whole city was talking about two drug dealers that had been hacked to pieces up in the hills. It was all over the news. Kim looked at his new friend and wondered. Young white guys that were nice to old people and kids were always up to some kind of bad shit.

"What do you want to start with?" Kim asked.

"I'll start with a hundred kilos at twenty-five thousand dollars each. If everything goes well on our first deal, I'll want two hundred kilos a week at twenty-three. Oh, and one more thing. I'll give you your stuff on credit at thirty thousand so you can whip up all that rock shit you want. What do you call it?"

"Crack."

"Well, I'll help you get your crack business really cracking." Kim smiled. Sam continued. "One thing that's really important to me," Sam turned away from Kim and looked out the passenger's side window. A tour bus had pulled up alongside the limo. An endless line of Japanese tourists streamed out of the bus. "My dad fought in World War II. He won't even sit in a Japanese car. I think he has the only auto parts business in the city that only carries parts for American cars." Sam looked back at Kim. "Sorry. What was I saying?"

"Something that's really important to you?"

"Right. It's really important to me that you don't try to make money on what I'm buying. Make it on the price and credit I'm giving you. Double dipping always fucks things up." A vision of Roy pissing on the couch flashed in his mind.

"I hear you."

"Do you think you can deliver what I need?"

"Oh yeah, we can deliver." Kim paused for a moment. "I could move five or ten keys a week myself at thirty. Just for starters."

Now you're getting it. Be your own boss. I'll help you. You get rich. I get wealthy.

"That's a lot of money, my friend."

"I got kids. I need it."

"I want you to meet me at the Overland Café tomorrow for lunch. I'll give you two point five million dollars for one hundred kilos. I'll bring an extra car. The money will be in the trunk. Do you have an extra car?"

"I can get something from Kip."

"Put the dope in your extra car and bring a driver with you that you can trust with the money. I'm going to do the same. When we sit down to eat we'll give each of our guys the keys to each other's cars. They go do what they have to do while we eat our lunch. When they come back, they swap back cars and we're done." Sam paused. "Kim, I'm going to take a chance on you. Don't let me down."

"I won't." Kim looked right into Sam's fierce eyes, "I'll meet you at the Overland Café at one."

Sam opened the door to get out of the car. "This could work out great, you know."

"I know. Believe me, I know."

CHAPTER 19

Carrington

The Mandate

Jim Carrington had never been in the director's office. It was just as he imagined, large and imposing. It had dark wood paneling and a picture of President Reagan behind the director's oversized desk.

Regional FBI Director Thomas Evans, homegrown in Atlanta, was a big man—in his mid-fifties with a strong jaw and a receding hairline. His large, round, dark brown eyes were sleepy at the corners but contained cold black pupils that revealed the tenacity of a bulldog. He looked exactly like what someone would expect a regional director to look like.

Director Evans sat in a red leather wing chair in the seating area at the rear of the office. Just opposite him, on the couch, was a gentleman Jim did not recognize. He looked to be about the same age as Director Evans. He did not, however, exude the same air of southern charm. Jim guessed him to be a city boy.

"Jim, come on in," Director Evans said and waved him over to where they sat.

They both stood as he approached. "Jim Carrington, this is Dennis Craig."

On cue, Dennis extended his hand. "I've heard a lot of good things about you, Jim." Dennis had a firm handshake. "The Interstate Sniper and Son of Sam II cases were both exceptional work on your part."

"Thank you, sir. We had some good luck in both cases."

"Don't be so modest." Dennis Craig smiled. "Good luck, more often than not, is the result of good work."

"Jim, please have a seat," the director pointed to the chair on his right. "I want you to hear what Dennis has to say."

Dennis Craig leaned back on the couch and crossed his legs. "Jim, I'm working out of the West Los Angeles office. My mandate is to put together a drug enforcement unit. I'm recruiting agents from every region because I want only the best people on my team. I want a unit that has a national perspective and the relationships that go with a national scope. We have a big problem and we think it originates from L.A. The agency has made a decision to start gearing up to deal with it now."

Jim had so many thoughts going through his head; he started with the most obvious. "Sir, I wasn't aware that the FBI had a drug enforcement arm. I thought that was a local or DEA matter."

"Jim, you're right. To date, the FBI has only been involved in drug enforcement to the extent that drugs are involved in a crime that falls into federal jurisdiction. But that's going to change very soon. At the highest levels, there is a real concern that the DEA is not capable of handling the evolving threat on its own. There seems to be a great deal of internal inefficiency."

"You mean corruption?" Jim asked, trying to comprehend the implications of the FBI forming a drug enforcement arm that would, in effect, be in direct competition with the DEA.

Craig leaned forward. "I mean incompetence."

"Incompetence?" Jim gave Dennis Craig a skeptical look.

"Jim," Director Evans' voice had a gravity that erased the possibility of skepticism. "Imagine someone out there starts dealing. He's making a lot of money, but he's not some scumbag—he's smart. Maybe real smart. He sees a bigger picture. He starts organizing a distribution network. He understands finance. He knows this is the key. So, he starts supplying the vision and the capital to put people into the business. At the same time he starts to eliminate his competition. And he knows how to stay under the radar. How does the DEA find this guy?"

"Well, they'd have to profile him for starters." Jim could see the problem. "They don't have profilers."

The director nodded. "They're great at going undercover. But it's useless if you can't identify a target. Drug seizures are up but drug prices are down." The director looked at Dennis Craig for a moment to make sure he was comfortable with the amount of information being imparted. Craig gave a slight nod for the director to continue. "Particularly cocaine. Supply on the street is at an all time high and so is use. There is a change in language on the street. We regularly see words like cartel, credit, samples, and competition in reports from street informants. People with seventh-grade educations are now using the language of business, Jim. They're talking about credit lines out there. And we know one thing for sure. Where there is finance, there is a financier." The director paused for a moment. What he was about to say needed to be understood completely. "We're estimating potential revenues of fifty billion dollars a year if someone could bolt together a national distribution chain."

"I want you on the drug unit, Jim," Dennis Craig said, forcefully. "I need guys like you. I need guys who are absolutely dedicated. I need agents who can't be corrupted. There's going to be a war on drugs, Jim. I need to know if you're in?"

Jim looked at Director Evans. "You're my recommendation," he said without hesitation. "I've worked with Dennis since my field agent days and I know he's going to need the best from all of us. These drug dealers have no conscience. The drugs they sell steal the souls of their users. Think about it. Fifty billion dollars a year and no rules, right here on our own soil. It's a gathering threat to our national security. I want you to do this."

"I'll talk to my wife tonight, but you can count me in."

"Good," Dennis Craig said, as the hint of a smile crossed his face. "We'll relocate you to L.A. at the end of the month."

Director Evans rose to his feet. He towered over Jim. "C'mon, I'll walk you out."

At the door, Director Evans put his large hand on Jim's shoulder. "Murdoch will close out your cases. And Jim, be careful in L.A." The director leaned closer to Jim and lowered his voice. "This drug business is a very dirty business Jim." The director's hand tightened on Jim's shoulder. "You understand?"

Jim nodded and walked out the door. He had just been recruited to do the bidding of very powerful men—maybe the most powerful men. These were men whose names and positions he would never know. They were going to declare a war on drugs, a war on Americans on American soil. It would be done without approval from Congress. It was a very dirty business indeed.

CHAPTER 20

The Drive By

Sam was almost finished with his morning workout at Gold's Gym when Kim walked in.

They hugged. "Ten-thirty in the morning, a little early for you big guy. What's the occasion?"

Kim smiled. "Don't start with me. Look at this face. It takes plenty of beauty sleep to keep this youthful appearance."

"It takes plenty of working out to keep a body like this," Sam said pointing at himself.

Kim laughed. "Not if you get enough sleep."

Sam poked Kim in the stomach. His waistline had certainly expanded since they had first met.

"Maybe a little less sleep and a little earlier in the gym?"

"The nest may be growing, but the girls like it," Kim rubbed his stomach with both hands. "Don't you know in my culture this is a sign of success?"

"Back in the jungle?"

Kim squinted. "Oh, it's still a jungle out there."

"Translation, business is good and you're starting to get soft."

"No, maybe a little fat—but definitely not soft."

"I'm going to finish my workout and get going." Sam lowered his voice. "You free for dinner tonight? I want to talk to you about something."

"I've got some stuff to do until four. Then I'm free."

"Meet me at Carlos n' Charlie's at five. Let's leave everybody at home. This is a Kim, Sam conversation."

"I'll see you there at five. Hey, I got some money for you."

Sam smiled. "Bring it with."

Sam drove down the eastbound side of the Sunset strip, weaving through the thick West Hollywood traffic, hoping to be a little early. He pulled into the parking lot of Carlos n' Charlie's at a quarter to five. The valet took his car and parked it in its usual space in front of the restaurant. He walked through the front door, glad to be eating early before the place was crowded. He looked around. The restaurant had been built to resemble a garden chateau with several different dining areas. There was no one in sight.

"Sam! What are you doing here?" He turned to see Beatrice, the owner. She had an uncanny resemblance to the comedian Joan Rivers and was always excited to see her best customer. "I just got off the phone with Karen. Your whole gang isn't going to be here until seven."

"I'm not eating with the gang tonight; I'm meeting Kim for an early dinner."

Beatrice thought for a moment. "Kim, which one is he? Do I know him?"

Sam nodded. "You'll remember him when you see him. He's a black guy, the size of a house."

Beatrice thought for another second. "From Chicago?"

Sam smiled. "Good memory, but wrong big black guy—that's Doug. Kim is shorter and wider."

It came to her. "Oh, I know who you're talking about. He's got the twin little girls. He's a nice guy and he's got a good appetite like you."

"Speaking of which, I'm starving."

The word starving sent her into a panic. "Go to your table," she commanded swinging into full Jewish mother mode. "I'll bring over some chips and salsa right away. I have some fresh tuna dip for you. I just made it myself."

Beatrice's tuna dip was reason enough to eat at Carlos n' Charlie's at least once a day. Sam's mouth was watering when she brought the chips and dip to the table.

"Sam, I know you're waiting for Kim. But I had them start a steak burrito for you. I don't want you to just fill up on chips and dip if he's running late. Besides, I can have the kitchen make you another one so he doesn't have to eat alone."

"Beatrice, sit down and keep me company until Kim gets here."

"Okay," she said sliding into the booth. "But I can't visit too long. It's a big crowd tonight." She started in with him right away. "Sam, how's Stacy? She hasn't been in with you for a while. You know, I think she's a very nice girl. It's hard to find a nice girl like Stacy these days, Sam."

"Stacy's fine. She's just not a late night person."

"She doesn't mind you staying out?" she asked gravely, putting her hands on top of his.

How can I get to the tuna dip if you hold my hands down flat on the table like this? What is this, some type of Jewish mother torture?

"She doesn't mind me being out. We're together six nights a week. We go to bed at ten. She's asleep by eleven and I get back up and go out by eleven thirty. I usually get home by the time she wakes up in the morning. Everybody is happy."

"What about marriage, Sam? Have you two talked about settling down? It's not like you just met."

"When I was younger, all I ever wanted to do was take over my dad's business and get married. I would have gotten married at nineteen if Stacy had wanted to."

"So, what happened?"

"Life happened."

"Come on Sam, you can tell me. You know I would never say anything to anybody."

"Stacy wants to be free to pursue her dream of traveling the world. She's not ready to marry anybody. Not even me."

"What happened between you and your father? Why didn't you take over his business?"

Sam looked down at the white tablecloth. "After his heart surgery, the doctor told him to retire." Sam looked back up at Beatrice's kind, old face. "I was running the business. Things were fine. He just walked into the office one day and told me to leave. He said I needed to find my own way in the world."

"You must have been very angry. Is that why you..." she nodded and wrinkled her brow. The universal sign for that which is not okay to talk about.

"No. It wasn't anger. It was like something else took over. I didn't have to think about anything anymore. I just knew from that point on what to do. It's funny...my life could have been so different."

"Sam, what type of father..."

"I know he's here. His car's in front." Sam couldn't see Kim but he could hear his voice. "He's such a pig, he's probably eating without me." Kim rounded the corner catching Sam with a chip in mid-air. "I knew it." He looked down at Beatrice. "Did he clean out the kitchen yet?"

"Oh no, we still have plenty of food," she said, taking him absolutely seriously. "You won't go hungry around here."

"Does he look like he's going hungry?" Sam responded, pointing at Kim's stomach.

Beatrice slid out of the booth. "Sit down, hon. I'll get you a menu."

"That's all right. I'll just have what he's having." He gave Sam a sly look. "I know you know what's good."

"I may not know much, but this I know."

Beatrice headed for the kitchen, for some reason worried that Kim might not be eating enough.

Sam was glad to be having a quiet dinner with Kim. At least for a few minutes, dinner would be a break—a short intermission from everything else that was going on. But before they were through, they would need to talk about what was to come next.

"How was your day? Did you get everything done?" Sam slid the chips to Kim's side of the table.

Kim sighed. "Man, I'm busy. The Jamaicans take business serious. They're setting up houses all over town. I'm talking a new one a day. You're going to have bump up my credit line."

"That's not a problem. You're sure they're okay?"

Kim nodded. "They're okay. They just love making money and smoking their ganja. How do you feel about coming out with me one day to a house for a drop off? I think one sighting of you might be a good thing. Let everybody know that "The Man on the Hill" is real. If you know what I mean?"

"I'll make a stop with you."

Kim smiled. "This ought to be good."

"Listen, don't actually tell anybody that I'm 'The Man on the Hill.' Just let them assume it."

"I'm not going to say anything. But trust me, none of these niggers can tell one white guy from another. Even if they could, crack-heads make informants, not witnesses." Kim looked around the quiet restaurant. "I saw Doug's truck around the corner. I take it he's close by?"

"Always."

"You should have more than one guy watching your back."

"I've thought about it. But walking around with an army of guys just attracts too much attention. Besides, I can take care of myself."

"If you see it coming," Kim clarified. "I'm telling you, times are changing. A lot of young guys out there want what we've got—and they're not doing business the right way."

The waiter brought their burritos to the table. They were each a foot long and smothered in green sauce with refried beans and Spanish rice on the side.

Kim looked down at the gargantuan burrito. "Now, I know if I ordered this, it wouldn't look the same."

"They take good care of me here," Sam said, proud of the special treatment.

"You're not kidding." Kim stabbed into the burrito with his fork. "Hey, I've got a white kid I want you to take under your wing. He's a good guy but too crazy for me to handle. He can fly, drive a boat," he lowered his voice, "sell coke, do whatever you need. But he's bouncing off the walls."

"I can always use a good guy. Have him call me. What's his name?"

"Jeff, but I call him Crazy Jeff. I think he'll calm down if he's got someone like you telling him what to do."

"Kim, have you ever heard the saying, 'The best defense is a good offense'?"

Kim savored his burrito for a moment. "Yeah."

"Well, I've been thinking about how things are changing also. I don't believe the answer is keeping a bunch of guys around me or locking myself up in a fortress."

Kim looked up from his plate. "I'm listening."

"I think we should kill everybody who's not in our supply chain." The words hung in the air after Sam said them. He thought they sounded strange—but he meant what he said.

Kim looked at Sam for a few seconds trying to assess how serious he was. "We can't just drive around and start shooting people."

"Sure we can. Crack-heads are only loyal to the first guy that can sell them a rock. Right now, if our guy on the corner goes to take a piss, our customer goes to the guy standing next to him. So fuck that. From now on, I don't want to care where the crack-head goes because no matter where he goes, it's to us."

"I'll shoot someone who is trying to shoot me. But I don't have it in me to just start killing people."

"I know. You don't have to kill anybody. I just need you to line everybody up, street by street. If someone says no, you just have to tell me who and how to find him. Can you do that?"

They didn't speak for a few minutes as they finished their food. Sam wanted Kim to have time to think it through. He could only come to one conclusion.

"This could come back on us?" Kim asked, pushing his plate forward.

"Not a chance." Sam leaned back, uncomfortably full from the foot-long burrito. "The only people who could testify that you asked them to deal for us will either be dealing for us or they'll be dead. You only talk to them once, always with no one around. And you never threaten them. Just make them a friendly offer. If they say no, then you tell me and I'll take care of the rest. Nobody will know where it came from or why."

"You don't think this will bring too much attention? People just driving by and shooting people dead on the street?"

"It'll all come down as gang violence. Let's face it, no one north of the ten freeway gives a fuck if a bunch of gang bangers are killing each other."

"You're sure about this?" Kim took a sip from his water glass. "This is some serious shit."

Sam nodded. "If it turns into chaos out there, it's bad for everybody. And look, if everyone gets in line, nobody gets hurt."

"Did your CIA buddy give this the okay?"

Sam sat silently and stared at him long enough to make it clear that he was better off not knowing.

"It'll come down as gang violence." Sam's voice became an intense whisper. "I just need to know who's one of ours and who's not."

Kim nodded. "I thought so."

"You're going to do this, right?" Sam wiped his mouth and laid his napkin on the table.

Kim nodded.

CHAPTER 21

Specter

Joel Spivey was the adopted child of one of L.A.'s wealthiest and most respected families. Like most free thinkers, he had been both a brilliant and rebellious student. Daily drug use had not dulled his mind. It did, however, make it impossible for him to hold down a position at any respectable law firm. The position of chief legal counsel to a company like Specter could not have been a better fit.

Joel's extremely thin body was almost lost in the large, gray, mohair barrel chair in front of Sam's desk. It was a massive stainless steel and marble piece from the Pace Collection that took five men to move. Joel's thundering voice more than made up for his rail-like physical stature.

"We're here. What do you think?"

Sam looked out the window at the spectacular view. He rotated his Pace Collection executive chair around and looked down the length of his enormous office—through the open double doors and into his private conference room where Andy and Nick counted cash twelve hours a day on a black-leather-wrapped conference table. In the rear corner, there was a gray leather-wrapped bar with a black marble top. He turned back towards Joel and admired the waterfall in the corner of the room. The walls were decorated tastefully with contemporary and modern masterpieces.

"Between you and me, it feels like a dream. A couple of years ago, we were just peons making Ivan rich. Now we have our own floor."

"Do you still think calling the company Specter is a good idea?"

"I think it's a great idea. I just ordered all new letterhead and business cards that look like a piece of broken marble. They're the same color as my desk. Besides, people like the name Specter. They always say it sounds familiar."

Joel's mouth tightened around the corners before he spoke. Sam had noticed Joel did this over the years. It usually meant he was trying to hold back a barrage of profanity. "It sounds familiar to people because you named the company after a crime organization in some fucking James Bond film."

Sam laughed. "I know. Whenever people say that they've heard of my company, I feel like telling them, it's from "Gold Finger", you fucking idiot."

"You're hilarious. If crime doesn't work out, maybe you could do stand-up," Joel pointed out dryly.

"Oh come on, its funny and it works. I mean seriously—we're sitting here in the financial, legal, and entertainment center of Los Angeles, counting two million a day in cash. We're so under the radar up here we don't even need security." Sam held up his hand to head off a Joel attack. "Not that I would ever cut back on security. I'm just saying the whole world thinks I'm an art dealer. I put Specter on the door—it doesn't matter they have no clue. By the way, put a memo out; I want everybody in suits and ties if they're in the office.

"Sam, with all the money you've piled up—" he took his wire-rim glasses off and spoke as he cleaned them with a monogrammed handkerchief. "Have you given any thought to just focusing on your legitimate businesses?"

"Yeah, I'm going to get rid of the limousine company. Cars, artwork, stocks, and real estate are all fine. But no more shit that requires day to day management."

"I meant, have you thought about curtailing the drug business?" Joel said more specifically and putting his wire-rim glasses back on his face.

Sam shook his head slowly. "It's the engine that makes the whole train run. If anything, we need to get bigger."

"You know, with the volume you're doing now, someone somewhere must be wondering who the hell you are," Joel said with absolute certainty.

"You're probably right," Sam said. "You want to go grab a drink somewhere?"

"Sure. Give me ten minutes."

Sam looked out the window. The city was dark and in full swing.

Are you out there? You know who I am, but not really. Well don't worry. Be patient. There's a time for everything.

The garage under the Twin Towers was the largest parking structure west of the Mississippi. Sam stood in the large area reserved for Specter automobiles only, dressed in a black Armani double-breasted suit and black alligator loafers.

"So, why are you looking at limousines?" he asked as Bob went through the car like a pro.

"I like to have a few drinks when I go out," Bob said nonchalantly. "And they're starting to get strict about this drinking and driving bullshit. So, I'm thinking it's time to start having someone else drive when I go out."

"Are you in the car business?"

"Actually, I am. Why do you ask?" Bob responded—surprised by the question.

"Because my father owned a car lot in East L.A. I grew up in the business. You go through a car the way my dad does—and I'm not looking to wholesale my car."

"I'm going to give you a fair price," he said, pushing his dark Versace sunglasses back up on his nose.

"That's good news." Sam gestured with his hand toward the elevators. "Let's go up to my office and see what you think a fair price is."

Bob sat in front of Sam's desk. Sam noticed that they were both wearing the same Ralph Lauren alligator loafers. Bob had chosen to wear his with a single pleat black Hugo Boss slack and a silver-grey Christian Dior shirt—all wrapped up with a Gucci belt. Sam couldn't help but admire Bob's pinky ring, which he guessed to be weighing in at four flawless carats.

"C'mon Sam, thirty grand. I have to buy the car right. I don't want to get hurt if I decide to sell it."

"Bob, thirty grand is nothing, I paid forty-three and trust me, you're not going to find a better made or more well maintained car."

"Sam, thirty grand cash right now." Bob reached into each of his socks and pulled out two huge wads of money, placing each of them on the table. "I'm sure you made more than thirteen grand renting the thing out. And what's thirteen grand to a roller like you?"

"Thirty-five grand. Right now. No bullshit—that's my bottom line, Bob."

"C'mon Sam, it's only five grand."

"You're stealing my fucking car. I'm just doing this deal because I'm a deal junky. You'll be doing me a favor if you split and don't buy the fucking thing."

"You're good," Bob said, shaking his finger at Sam. "You know that? You're good, I'll go thirty-two." He began counting the money out.

Sam watched as the green pieces of paper fell on his desk from Bob's hands.

"Alright. If I let you rip me off on my car, how do I make my money back?" Sam reached into his desk drawer, pulling out a pink slip and bill of sale.

Bob stopped counting and looked at the paperwork. "Why don't you come by my place tomorrow and we'll talk?" He resumed counting, having to backtrack to make sure he hadn't made a mistake.

"Where are you located?"

"I'm right off the 405, in San Fernando. Just look for the Corvette World sign."

Corvette World was sharp and flashy, just like its proprietor. Sam stopped to admire a sixty-four convertible. Red with white trim, it was a beauty.

"Can I help you?" a skeptical voice from behind him inquired.

"I don't know. What do you have in mind?" Sam asked, turning to face an attractive girl with olive color skin and large, natural breasts. Her tight blue skirt was on the short side, which caused him to stare at her thighs.

She smiled and tilted her head to the right, trying futilely to establish eye contact. "Well, since this is a car dealership, may I suggest a car? In fact, since the sign says Corvette World. You might want to think about a Corvette."

Why do spunky girls always have short hair? I like your short hair whatever your name is. If you only knew what I'm imagining dripping down those beautiful thighs of yours.

"How about having lunch with me sometime?"

"How about no?" she said, crossing her arms and looking down at him like an unhappy schoolteacher. "Do you want to waste some more of my time or can I actually do something to help you?"

"Sam, you made it." Bob emerged into view from an office on the opposite side of the showroom. "Come back here—I'll buy you a drink."

"I didn't get your name?" Sam asked as he held out his hand.

"I'm Camela—the general manager," she said, giving his hand a firm shake. "You must be a friend of Bob's?"

"You know, you are really cute." He continued to hold her hand past the appropriate point. "You've got to give me a shot at lunch."

"Call me," she responded—pulling her hand from his with more force than necessary.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Is that a yes?"

"It's a 'call me'," she mimicked.

Bob came up behind Camela and gave her shoulders a squeeze. "I see you two have met."

Sam nodded. "She's a catch, Bob. Where'd you find her?"

Camela's look seemed to be turning to one of disgust as the conversation progressed.

"Camela is my girlfriend's daughter. Basically, we're family."

"And I thought you were just the general manager." Sam shook his head at her lack of disclosure. "You're the boss' girlfriend's daughter."

"Screw you," she said flipping him off.

"You seem like you need to screw somebody," Sam smiled. "It might as well be me."

"Easy kids." Bob interjected. "You're not even married yet."

"I already married one asshole, which was one too many for me."

"I'll spend all of my money on you."

"Wrong girl. I don't give a fuck about money."

"That's too bad, I'm talking millions."

She unfolded her arms and put her hands on her hips. "Well, why didn't you say so? Call me and I might let you buy me lunch."

Bob and Sam turned and walked towards Bob's office. Bob gave Sam a curious look.

"She's kind of spunky," Sam said—not really knowing how to explain their chemistry.

"Tell me about it. She gets it from her mother."

Bob's office was dark and plush; it had a well-stocked wet bar.

"What can I get you, Sam?" Bob asked, motioning for him to sit down on the couch.

"I'll have a Chivas straight up."

Bob nodded his approval. "That's a man's drink."

"My second choice was a Shirley Temple."

Bob poured himself a low-ball. "I'm out of umbrellas."

"Then I'll stick to Chivas. Bob, you've got a nice place here. How can I make some money with you?"

Bob sat down on the couch next to Sam and turned to his right so they were facing each other. "Sam, would I be off base to think you have plenty of cash? From, let's say, the limousine business?"

"I've saved some money."

Bob lowered his voice. "This place is nice—but there is a lot of overhead. Just the rent alone is twenty grand a month. I do some stuff on the side to make some extra money. But I don't have the balls to really do it up big. Now, a guy like you, you could afford to do it right."

Sam was interested. He grew up in the business and he loved cars. His first nice car had been a 1976 Stingray. It was ironic that his father having asked him to leave the family car business had led to all of this.

"What do you have in mind because overhead doesn't interest me?"

"Why don't you finance my inventory? I can buy cars all day long for cash, your cash, and pay you, say, ten percent on every deal. Nothing ever sits on the floor longer than a month. You're looking at a hundred and twenty percent annual return on your money. I'll let you hold the title, bill of sale, and power of attorney on every car. It beats the hell out of the bank. Not that you would want to be putting all that cash in the bank anyway—and you'll have the cars as collateral. What do you think?"

Sam finished his Chivas. He looked around Bob's office. It was a hell of a nice office. The kind of office he would have built if he had taken over his dad's business. He looked at Bob. He was a smooth fucking operator. Bob was as slick as his slick black hair.

Nice to see someone who dresses up for work. Someone who actually respects their fucking work.

"Sounds like a deal. I'll floor your inventory for you."

Bob extended his hand. "It won't make you rich—but you'll make some good money."

"Bob, I'd be happy just to get my eleven grand back."

"That won't be a problem, you'll see."

"Fuck—I hate losing money. I can't believe I sold that car to you so cheap. You know that was the first limousine I ever bought?"

"Don't you have thirty more you're selling?"

"Yeah, but that one has history." He pictured Jennifer giving him head in the back seat for some reason.

Poor fucking Jennifer. Eaten from the inside out by fire ants. And you told her mom that you hadn't seen her. Just another missing person.

"So is there an amount you want me to start with?" Bob asked.

"No. Buy whatever you think you can make money on and still cover my ten points. I'll cover you."

As Sam pulled out of the driveway of Bob's car dealership, he noticed a black sedan. It was the same car he had seen at Gold's Gym two days earlier.

He picked up his cell phone and called Doug. "You see the black sedan down the street?" He looked at the phone in his hand. _The cell phone. What a fucking great invention. How did we ever live without these things?_

"Yeah, I see him. I think he's following you."

"That's what I'm thinking. Get his plates and let's see if we can't find out who he is. After you get his plates, cut him off so he can't follow me onto the freeway."

"What about a drive-by? Why take a chance?"

"Bro, the guy driving the car isn't the problem. The guy paying him is. Let's see if we can trace the car."

"I can shoot him and still get the plates."

"Then whoever is paying the asshole will know that we know. Just keep it cool for now. Yesterday I noticed a white BMW. Let's find out who these guys are. Let things play out for now."

CHAPTER 22

Carrington

The Snitch

Dennis Craig had made it clear that they would spend the majority of their efforts in the first year compiling and analyzing cases and data. In the first three months, it had been all paperwork but a target had emerged—one that could not be passed on. The success of all their future cases would rely on information. They would need a source and one had been clearly identified.

Jim Carrington sat next to his new partner Lewis Morales—a medium sized Mexican-American agent. Lewis had the most average of looks but he blended in well with the large Hispanic community of Los Angeles. Dennis Craig stood behind them as they watched the monitors in the seedy Las Vegas motel room.

Dennis rubbed his chin. "I don't think Vegas will ever be the same for me."

Jim nodded. "Are you sure we want to work with this guy?"

They looked on as the figure, their target, a fat Persian gentleman, orally copulated a transsexual. Soon, the sticky white fluid of another man's semen was running down his chin. Before the appalled agents could offer any further comment, the fat Persian turned the transsexual around and inserted his erection into the transsexual's rectum.

"You've got to be kidding, Dennis?" Jim looked at Lewis, who seemed to be finding their future informant equally distasteful.

Lewis laughed and said. "Hey, I say we let Carl work with him. This was Carl's call."

Jim looked at his watch. "Speaking of Carl, he's due to be knocking on the door in less than two minutes. What's this scumbag thinking?"

Dennis pointed at the screen. The Persian's face was contorting as he was apparently ejaculating. "From the looks of it, he's thinking about finishing."

The transsexual walked toward the bathroom. "Looks like he's having a little trouble," Lewis commented—regarding the girl/man's shaky walk. "My dad constantly asks me about what we do. I always tell him I can't say. But Dennis, you got to let me tell him about this."

Dennis looked down at Agent Morales. They had needed a Hispanic agent. Lewis was in the bottom of his class and still the best he could come up with. He had teamed their best with their worst—hoping to achieve some balance. "Just watch the monitors, Lewis. And be ready to move when I tell you."

The fat Persian was wiping his crotch with the bed sheet when the knock came. He quickly pulled his jeans up and buttoned them. He walked to the door and let in Agent Carl White. Agent White was a large, African-American in his late thirties whom the fat Persian believed to be a Las Vegas-based heroin dealer. They exchanged the usual pleasantries and then Agent White showed the fat Persian the buy money. Three hundred thousand dollars, the amount he was asked to bring for the purchase of three kilos of pure China White heroin. With seemingly no worry, the fat Persian opened the gym bag on the dresser and pulled out a kilo sized package and handed it to Agent White. Agent White then gave the nod, the pre-agreed upon signal.

Dennis smiled. "Alright, this is where we bust down the door. The fat, cock-sucking Persian is a known pussy—but be careful anyway. Lewis, Carl doesn't know about the queer in the bathroom so take that door down straight away. He's probably in the bathtub soaking his sore asshole—but be careful. And Jim, make a note. Next time, wire the bathroom."

Jim nodded. Dennis had a strange way of putting things sometimes. But he was right—they should have wired the bathroom. "Gotcha, Dennis. It won't happen again."

A minute later, Jim opened the door and the three of them came rushing through—guns drawn. Agent White drew on the fat Persian. Lewis broke down the door to the bathroom and pulled the soaking wet transsexual from the tub. Both were cuffed and laid face down on the floor.

Dennis pointed at the transsexual. "Agent Morales, could you please take him next door and keep an eye on him while we sort things out here."

A minute later Dennis, Jim and Carl all stood around the fat Persian.

Dennis Craig was the authority in the room. "Nasser Moussavi, you're under arrest for the attempted sale of three kilos of heroin. And from the looks of it, it's good heroin. I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that this kind of weight is going to get you a life sentence. Life, because you, being the dumb bastard that you are, transported it from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, making it a federal offence. We have the whole thing on tape. From your first meeting with Agent White to this very moment. So now, you have to ask yourself, 'Do I want to spend the rest of my life in jail? Or, do I want to cooperate with the FBI?' Well, this is your big chance. Before the word hits the street that you got popped. Do you want to work for us? I need your answer now."

"I'll do whatever you want."

"Good. That's what I was hoping you'd say. Since you already have a relationship with Agent White, you'll be working with him. We'll have no further contact; he'll be your controller. You do exactly what he tells you to do or we'll pull you in and—you know the rest. Do you understand? Just say yes or no."

"Yes."

Dennis looked at Carl and winked. "It looks like you have yourself a C.I." And with that, Jim followed Dennis out of the room.

CHAPTER 23

Julio

Camela passed Sam the beef and broccoli container and then stretched out on the floor of his condo.

"I like eating picnic style."

"I think I want to eat you picnic style," Sam said, giving her a wink that she ignored.

"Sam, I love Bob. But working for my mom's boyfriend is driving me crazy. I feel like I'm in high school. Whatever I say and whatever I do goes right from Bob to my mother—who then quizzes me for hours because she has nothing better to do."

"At least she cares," Sam said as he put down a piece of cashew-chicken.

"Be serious, Sam." She backhanded him across the arm. "I really don't know what to do."

"I think you should have sex with me."

She gave a sigh and stared up at the ceiling. "My life is already a mess. Having sex with you will just make things worse. Your girlfriend is a doll; you should just stick with her."

Sam put down the beef and broccoli and moved another carton of Chinese out of the way. He pulled Camela towards him.

"You're so fucking cute."

"Seriously, don't do this." She was flustered. Her words lacked real conviction. "You have a great girlfriend and I love being your friend. This will just mess everything up. You're thinking with the wrong head." She patted him on the chest. "Go to the bathroom and jerk off. You'll feel better."

"Why go to the bathroom?" Sam asked, unbuttoning his pants and pulling himself out, fully erect.

"What are you doing?" Camela was crimson red and suddenly short of breath.

"You said I should jerk off. I'm jerking off."

"I can't believe you're doing this."

She stared down at his hand and watched it do its thing.

"Do you like it? Why don't you play with yourself? We'll cum together."

"No, I don't do that."

"You don't masturbate?"

"No I don't. Do you think I'd be this uptight if I did?"

Sam smiled. "I guess not. Relax and watch me."

After five minutes had passed. He got on his knees and straddled her, holding himself just a few inches from her face.

"When I tell you I'm going to cum, open your mouth."

"No way. I could never..." What was the point? She wanted to. Her heart raced, she felt shaky. He made her feel that way.

"Open your mouth," Sam said, moving himself just half an inch from her face.

The words alone gave her an orgasm. Almost in slow motion, she watched as it happened. Then without so much as a groan or a word about what had just transpired, he pulled away and laid down beside her.

"I have an idea. Why don't you just buy and sell cars for me? I'm always looking to grow my collection. You could kind of be its manager. You'd be great at it."

Camela stared up at the ceiling again as she wiped some cum from her face. She had just let a guy with a girlfriend jiz in her mouth. At least he had the decency to offer her a job.

"It's about time you had a good idea. I would love to work on building a private collection. And you're right, I would be great at it."

Sam pulled her back close to him and kissed her neck as he pulled up her dress.

"I'll get an office ready for you in Century City. You know, I have another good idea."

Camela didn't try to move away. It wasn't like they hadn't already crossed the line.

"Sam, we shouldn't do this." He pulled down her panties. "You're not listening."

"Just this one time," he said softly.

She groaned as he entered her.

Look at you. You filthy dirty bitch getting fucked on the floor.

Sam heard the phone ring, but couldn't remember where he had set it down. _Retrace your steps. The dining room—you left it in the dining room._ It was in his hand by the fifth ring. "Hello," he said, slightly out of breath.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Camela sounded more hyper than usual.

Sam hit the volume down button on the remote. "I'm watching T.V. and babysitting Zachary." Zachary perked up and looked at Sam when he heard his name. "I already fed you and walked you. Go back to sleep." A dejected Zachary dropped flat on the floor like a bearskin rug.

Stacy promised Sam that if he got her a dog she would take care of it. "You'll never have to lift a finger." She had assured him. Zachary, whose real name was Zachar Shadow Run Mont Pierre, had earned the title of champion at just eleven months old. He had to be walked, not once, but twice a day. He liked to be fully groomed once a week. He refused to eat dog food, opting instead for a mix of ground sirloin and rice. Sam looked at his pouting, one hundred and fifty pound pooch, and he thought back to the night he realized he had gotten more than he'd bargained for.

Sam had come home early that night. He followed the fantastic aroma to its source, a giant cauldron bubbling away on the kitchen stove. He took the wooden stirring spoon and helped himself to a small sample. He could actually feel two sets of eyes burning into his back. He turned to face Stacy and Zachary and put down the spoon.

"What are you doing?" Stacy asked incredulously.

"It smelled good—I just wanted to try a little," Sam answered, feeling guilty about his lack of manners.

Stacy shook her head revolted by Sam's behavior. "Poor Zachary has been waiting like a good boy for an hour and you just come and help yourself to his dinner? Look how upset he is. You know he's sensitive."

Sam looked down at Zachary. "Sensitive? He's supposed to be a vicious guard dog. You've turned him into a ninny. How was I supposed to know it was his food?"

They both just stared. "Look, I'm sorry. By the way the way, what are you making me for dinner?"

"Reservations," she said angrily, nodding toward the phone.

"So how is the big puppy?" Camela asked, bringing Sam back to the moment.

"He's fine." Everybody loved his dog. "You want to come by and say hello?"

"No. I'm up at Ricky Blare's having dinner. Why don't you come by here? I have someone I want you to meet?"

Leaving Zachary home alone was always risky. One night, Sam came home to find him chewing on a hundred and twenty thousand dollar Henry Moore bronze. The next morning, he called the breeder. "What the hell is wrong with this dog?"

"Chapter five of the Pyrenees Handbook. 'A Bored Pyrenees is a Destructive Pyrenees', I suggest you read the handbook carefully."

"Give me thirty minutes." He hung up the phone and gave Zachary a pat on the head. "I'm just going out for a little while. So don't be going fucking crazy on me, okay?"

Zachary whimpered.

"Oh, come on dog. I'll be back in a couple of hours." Sam walked into the kitchen with Zachary following close behind. "Where are those fucking things?"

Zachary let out a whimper in front of the cabinet closest to the breakfast-nook.

Sam opened the cabinet pleased to find an extra large box of Milk Bones. "You know, you're one smart fucking dog. Of course, for fourteen thousand dollars you should be." He grabbed two of Zachary's favorite snacks. "You know, that's what you cost? 'I thought the ad said fourteen hundred,' that was her excuse." Stacy could spend his money. He held the cardboard looking treats up in front of a very awake and frisky Zachary.

"Two Milk Bones, not one, but two."

Zachary snapped them out of his hand with precision and scampered off.

"Don't eat them both right now," Sam shouted. "Save one for later," his voice trailed off.

Why am I talking to a fucking dog?

At the moment, Ricky Blare's was the place to be. Ricky, as far as Sam knew, was more famous for being a high-end pimp than a restaurateur. But he had been in town for many years and had a major following.

Sam took in the scene at the bar. It was located in the front of the restaurant just off to the right as he walked in. Sam had never seen so many high-priced hookers and vice-cops in the same place. Sam walked by the maitre d' and gave him a nod. Maybe he knew Sam and maybe he didn't; either way he let him pass without so much as saying a word.

Sam saw Camela in a booth against the far wall. She was sitting with a nice looking, well-groomed man in a suit and tie. An Italian suit, Sam guessed. Not Armani, perhaps Canali. Sam liked Canali suits—he owned a few himself. Camela's friend had mostly silver hair with a silver mustache and beard trimmed close to his face. Even with a suit and tie, there was a rock-star quality about the gentleman.

They both smiled as Sam approached the table. Camela's friend slid out from the booth and made just a slight bow in Sam's direction.

"Hello Sam, I'm glad you could make it," he said as he shook Sam's hand. "I'm Julio, come sit. I'm going to order some more champagne."

Sam looked down at the bottle in the bucket in front of their table; it was still half-full. New guest, new bottle. Well groomed, well-mannered Julio was a class act.

"Is your accent Cuban?"

Julio nodded. "I'm from Cuba. That's very good."

Sam sat and gave Camela a kiss on the cheek as Julio waved over the waitress and ordered another bottle of Cristal.

Camela found herself sitting between Julio and Sam. She was as giddy as a schoolgirl.

"So, how do you two know each other?" Sam asked.

Camela giggled. "We met limbo dancing at La Mesia." She gave Sam a look that said she was smitten with Julio's Latin charm. "When I told him who I work for, he said he was dying to meet you."

Given you hardly know the guy and he's dying to meet me, there might be some real dying going on tonight. I like this guy, though. No cop could fake this kind of class.

"Look Sam, I think we can do a lot of business together."

Julio's accent made his pronunciation of Sam's name sound like he was calling him Tan, instead of Sam—and for some inexplicable reason, Sam liked this.

Julio continued, "Tan, I've been out here from Florida for almost a month now looking for someone I can count on. You're a hard gentleman to meet. So when Camela told me she was working for you, I asked her if she could make an introduction. She told me she just handles your cars. I know she's not part of your other business."

Sam held up his hand very conscious of all the cops he had noticed in the bar. "Hold on a minute my friend. What business do you think I'm in?"

Julio smiled as he reached down under the table and pulled up a folded over newspaper to just below tabletop level. He unfolded the paper—revealing what looked to be a kilo of cocaine wrapped in blue fiberglass.

_Tell me he's not really showing me a kilo of cocaine in the middle of the most happening restaurant_ _in town._ Sam looked at the kilo of cocaine in Julio's hands. _Yes, that's exactly what he's doing._

"What the fuck are you doing? Put that away."

Julio bent back a viewing fold, cut into the wrapper. "Tan, don't worry. It's okay. No one's paying attention. Look at this. My stuff is the best."

Sam turned to Camela. "Can you do something before he gets us thrown in jail?"

She turned to Julio. "Julio, I think that Tan would rather do this somewhere more private. Just put it away for now okay."

"C'mon man, you guys have to relax a little." He tossed the kilo onto Camela's lap, without the newspaper. "Put it in your purse. He can look at it later."

As Sam watched Julio toss the kilo onto Camela's lap, he thought of all those hot potato games he had lost as a kid. He could hear that bell ringing.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee. In a lifetime of surreal moments, could this be topped?

Julio tried to help Camela squeeze the kilo into her purse, which was too small and had to be stretched to the limit.

Camela was stretching, Julio was pushing, and Sam was thinking, _I'm actually going to go to jail for the one thing I really had nothing to do with._ He looked up to see the waitress making her way over to their table with a fresh bottle of Cristal. He looked to his left and saw the cops in the bar eyeing the hookers. He was sure they would come running when they heard the waitress scream. He looked back down. Although it was hard to imagine, they had pretty much squeezed the kilo into Camela's little purse.

"Will you be having a glass?" the oblivious waitress asked Sam.

"Yeah, sure. I could use a drink," Sam answered, without hesitation.

Two hours and three bottles of Cristal later, Sam left Ricky Blare's with Camela and her kilo-filled purse in-tow.

The next morning, Julio sat in Sam's office and studied the Polaroids. The good fortune of noticing them not taken for granted.

"These are nice boats, Tan," Julio said looking up from the pictures. "You're not going to buy them?"

Something about Julio made Sam feel like a cliff-side veranda would be more appropriate for their meeting. He had made a few calls back to Miami. They called him the Cuban Gentleman. His reputation was solid.

"No, they're too small for what I need."

"How much can I buy them for?"

"I can get them for you for a hundred grand each"

"I'm going to go back to Florida for a couple days next week. Can I buy them then?"

"Sure." Sam glanced down from Julio's face to the pictures in his hands. "I'll send Jeff back to take care of the arrangements. Just give me a date."

Julio nodded. "I'll let you know for sure tomorrow—but don't let them sell my boats. I want them. This will save me a lot of time."

He put the pictures back down on the desk facing his direction.

"Don't worry about it," Sam reassured him. "I'll take care of it as soon as we're done. I'll have my guy in Florida buy them by the end of the day and then you can just pay me before you head down."

Julio uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "So, how did you like the coke I gave you last night?"

The scene was still fresh in Sam's mind and it caused him to smile.

"Camela you're following me home with that shit. I'm not putting it in my car."

"Nice, have your drunk-off-her-ass assistant drive to your place with a kilo in her purse. I better get something out of this."

"This was your idea. I'll drive slow—just follow me."

At Sam's condo, there were two huge lines of coke on a baby grand piano coffee table made out of black glass. Sam watched as one line beautifully disappeared up Camela's nose. He bent down and snorted the other in one continuous motion. Then, came the explosion. Sam could actually feel his mind, his conscience explode through the gray, gray, world. Everything was as black as the glass of the piano table and white as the leather of the couch he was sitting on.

"Bend over," he said, pushing her back towards himself.

"We swore we weren't—" she protested, on the verge of passing out.

He pushed up her skirt and pulled down her panties. She was hot and wet. Another promise broken. And Camela was groaning to the sound of flesh slapping.

My scrotum against her ass. There's no other sound like it.

"I have to admit, it's some of the best shit I've ever done."

Julio leaned back in his chair and raised his arms victoriously into the air.

"Tan, I want to be your supplier."

"Julio, your shit is good and I like your style. I mean that, style means a lot to me—but is there really enough room for two Cubans in this town?"

Julio's expression left no doubt that he understood exactly what Sam meant.

"Tan, Hector De Ocah is the child of dogs. In Cuba, his family has less class than the shit a donkey takes on the street. He makes money here only because he killed Ruben Ruiz and Montes Gonzales. Montes was his cousin. He killed his own cousin. He's a disloyal, fucking animal. Tan, look at your beautiful office, your beautiful cars." He pointed at Sam. "Look at your beautiful clothes. You come from a good family. You're educated. Hector isn't a problem for me; he is an insult to you. He tells people that you're nothing without him. I am asking to become your supplier. You are the boss. I will get coke for you. I have respect, because we are both gentlemen."

Kip's bitch Hector called him behind his back. Sam had long been looking forward to a meeting with Hector, the black Cuban.

"Well I agree Hector is less than a gentleman. But if I were to do something, I would have to be absolutely sure I had a replacement."

Julio shrugged. "C'mon Tan, of course you checked me out. My reputation in Miami is gold. I gave you a key as a sample to show you I'm serious. I can get you as much as you need, for less money than you're paying now—as long as I don't have problems with Hector."

And Hector the black Cuban would be a problem. He had killed his former boss. He had killed his former partner, his own cousin. And to the best of Sam's knowledge, he had every intention of killing Kip— his current partner and taking over his accounts. Hector, their current supplier, was a problem.

"As much as I need at fifteen grand a kilo?" Sam asked, staring deeply into Julio.

"As much as you need at fifteen grand a kilo Sam. You have my word."

Sam nodded his approval. "I need to talk to a couple of my associates. I'll let you know in a couple of days. Julio, if I give you this business, you understand what will happen if you let us down?"

Julio stood and extended his hand. "My word as a gentleman. I will not let you down."

Sam stood and they shook hands. He knew in his gut that Julio's word was good.

"Enjoy the rest of the day."

"Every day above ground is a good one, Sam"

Sam appreciated the thought. "I'll take care of the boats right now. I'll let you know about everything else soon."

Julio left and Sam picked up the phone. He dialed Crazy Jeff's extension.

"What's up boss?" Jeff sounded his usual exuberant self.

"The two boats you showed me earlier. Call your brother down in Florida and tell him to buy them."

A pause. Silent confusion. Sam could hear Jeff formulating a question in the silence.

"I thought you said they're too small."

"They are—for us. But our new friend Julio just saw the pictures you left on my desk and decided to take them. I told him we'd buy them and hold them until he could go down to Florida next week and take possession."

"How much did you quote him?"

"I quoted him a hundred grand a boat." Some pride crept into his voice.

"I told you we could buy them for sixty. You banged him for a hundred? That's fucking great."

"No, what's great is that for some reason I didn't toss the pictures in the trash after I passed on the deal. We just made eighty grand for no fucking reason at all." Sam rotated his chair a few degrees and stared at the Sam Francis oil painting just to the left of the waterfall. It had so many colors yet the eye could focus on any one of them. The genius of Sam Francis. "Listen, I did tell him you would go down and take care of things. I'm guessing that's okay with you."

"Not a problem boss. Can I fly the Citation?"

Eighty grand minus twenty grand for gassing up the Citation and I'm still ahead sixty. And my new supplier has the boats he needs to be able to deliver my coke at fifteen.

"Yeah, you can take the Citation. One more thing. Call Kim and tell him that I need to see him and Kip at the movies in an hour."

"What movie?" The change of subject threw Jeff off.

"Don't worry about it. Just call Kim. He'll know what I'm talking about." Sam hung up the phone and let his mind drift for a few minutes to how and what he was going to say to Kip. He looked at the Sam Francis and then rotated his chair so he could look at the Sam Francis that hung next to it. The soft trickling of the waterfall brought out something in the paintings.

A million dollars for some oil paint on canvas. And I bought two of them. I like the way they look. Two million dollars because I like looking at them. Can't really put a price on beauty.

Sam ignored the balcony-closed sign and walked up the stairs of the opulent old theatre. The Village was built back in the day when people still dressed to go see a movie. Back when people dressed, period.

So many memories in this place. There you are with mom, hanging out in Westwood watching a movie. Probably nothing she even wanted to see. Seems like a lifetime ago.

Kim looked up at him. "It figures, you didn't buy any popcorn. You probably think you're going to eat all of mine."

Sam reached for the tub in Kim's hand, which Kim tried to move out of Sam's grasp over to Kip's seat. Sam grabbed Kim's ear with his right hand and lunged for the tub with his left only to lose his footing and wind up half lying across Kim's lap. Popcorn spilled onto Kip as he did his best to protect his Coke.

"Would you guys knock this shit off?"

"Gimme the popcorn," Sam demanded—trying not to laugh too hard.

"No way. Get your own," Kim answered stubbornly.

Sam bit Kim's arm just as he was able to pry his hand from his ear.

"Ouch, he bit me."

Kip grabbed the popcorn as they rolled onto the floor in a two-way headlock.

"I'll teach you to bite me. Ouch! He bit me again."

Sam couldn't stop laughing as Kim tried to bite him back but couldn't get a good angle.

Kip shook his head. "I swear. I'm going to get up and walk the fuck out of here if you two don't knock this shit off right now. This is fucking embarrassing. Every fucking time we go to the movies, I have to put up with this shit."

Winded, they both got up off the floor and sat in their seats. A stalemate again. It was always a stalemate, all in good fun.

"Could you please pass the popcorn?" Sam asked Kip, trying to sound serious.

Kip handed it to him past Kim, who was examining the teeth marks on his arm.

"I better not have to get a tetanus shot because of you."

"Because of me?" Sam asked indignantly. "You're the one that needs to learn how to share."

"You called a movie meeting on an hour's notice. I'm assuming we have something important to discuss," Kip asked.

"I've got a replacement for Hector. But it's only good if you start buying from me. I'd be your supplier. How's that for important?"

Kip looked straight ahead at the screen. "This is for real? You're sure about this guy?"

Sam looked over at him. "I've checked him out and I've seen his stuff. It's very good. My gut tells me he's our guy."

Kip was quiet for a few seconds. "I let you step into South Central with financing. I let you take over enforcement. Now, you want me to buy from you. I don't know man, my position is getting weak."

Sam handed Kim the tub of popcorn. "Kip, your position isn't getting weak. It's just changing. I'm not Hector; I'll never go after your accounts. You're making more money than ever since you met me."

"Yeah, but it's a big move." Kip turned away from the screen for the first time and looked at Sam. He was ten years older. He had a family to think about. It showed in his face. "Hector is definitely not going to be okay with this."

"Your partner talks a lot of shit." The lighthearted young Sam was gone now. "He pumped a hundred rounds into your house with your wife and kids home. He wants everything."

"He denies it."

"And I'm the fucking Tooth Fairy. You've trusted me so far; I've never let you down. You can trust me on this. If you couldn't, we wouldn't be here talking right now."

Kip nodded. "I hear you. Believe me, no one would be happier to see Hector gone than me. But if this fucks up..."

"Kip, I promise you—this won't fuck up. This guy shoots up your house and calls me your bitch. Don't let your ego make this decision; let me take care of the motherfucker."

Kip smiled. "He does tell everyone you're my bitch." His voice had a hint of amusement. "If I go along with this, you're going to fuck him up good?"

"We'll see who the bitch is. I can promise you that," Sam said, with no expression.

Kip studied Sam's face. Hate, anger, and those red eyes—those scary fucking red eyes. There was a complete lack of humanity. Sam Noah had absolutely no social conscience.

"Alright, Sam. Do what you gotta do."

Sam walked out of the movie theatre with a one-minute head start on Kip and Kim. The daylight was blinding. His eyes had always been sensitive to light.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the box office, he stopped for a moment and reached for the sunglasses in his coat pocket. The air crackled with the sound of a single gunshot. It came from his right. Because he had stopped unexpectedly the bullet missed his head by less than an inch. It struck a young Japanese girl standing behind him in the ear. She collapsed against the side of the box office like a domino, blood and brains quickly forming a pool under her head.

Sam pulled his .45 and began firing at the three men in the black sedan. His assailants were not prepared for such a quick reaction. His first two shots hit the driver and the shooter in the passenger's side seat. The shooter in the rear passenger's seat had no shot from his position; his only option was to get out of the vehicle. As he opened the door Sam walked towards him firing. Sam's first shot hit him in the hand that held his gun, which dropped to the street. Sam fired again and the bullet struck the shooter in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards against the rear quarter-panel of the car. Sam was just three feet away as he took aim at the shooter's head.

"Who sent you?"

"Fuck you!" he growled, spitting blood.

Sam squeezed the trigger. The bullet from his gun struck the man, who just moments earlier had tried to kill him, a quarter of an inch above the left eye. The force of the (jacketed hollow point) bullet caused the shooter's face to collapse to the left and then his scalp to separate, leaving only two thirds of his skull still in tact. Sam stared at the dead man.

"No, fuck you!"

He heard the skid of tires and looked up his adrenaline pumping again. Doug was right in front of him in a black Corvette.

"Behind you!" he yelled.

Sam spun around to see that a fourth shooter had the drop on him. He knew this shooter. His name was Gabriel Ovalle, one of the top hitters on the West Coast. Sam squeezed the trigger of his .45—knowing that if he missed he was dead. And then there was the sound, the sound of an empty gun.

"Fuck!" Sam smiled and lowered his .45. "That's fucked up."

Gabriel gave Sam a polite smile. "Sorry, Sammy. I always liked you."

"Don't be sorry. I always liked you too."

The shot rang-out and Sam was covered in blood as his one time childhood friend Gabriel collapsed face-first in front of him.

Kip stood behind Gabriel—his gun still smoking in his hand. The police sirens sounded close.

"We got to go. I don't even want to know what this was about."

Sam quickly loaded a new clip into his gun and turned back the opposite direction.

"The white BMW!" he shouted at Kip, hoping he would move out of its path.

Sam stepped into the middle of the street and started firing at the car's front windshield. It exploded in a spray of blood and glass, as the car continued to speed right for them. With twenty feet to go, and Doug running towards Sam, Kim's blue Mercedes raced through the intersection and slammed into the BMW— sending it careening away from Sam, Kip, and Doug. Sam raised his gun to fire on the car again. But Doug had his arm around him and began to pull him back to the Corvette.

"The cops are coming. We have to get out of here!" Sam looked at Kip, who was calmly getting into Kim's badly damaged car.

"Thanks!" he shouted.

Kip nodded and then gave him a rare smile as he shut the door.

Kip looked over at Kim and laughed. "That crazy white motherfucker stood in the middle of the street and started shooting at a car doing sixty, headed right for us. I don't care what anybody says, you got to be white to be stupid enough to do shit like that. Brothers be getting out of the motherfucking way."

"Look at my damn car," Kim demanded. "It took a year to restore this thing. It was perfect. Next time, he can just get run over. Flat as a pancake for all I care. Damn, I love this car. Look at it, would you? I've always had bad luck with cars."

Kip just laughed and shook his head. "What a trip. He stood between me and a fucking car and emptied a clip. Crazy fucking white boy."

"Sure, have a good laugh. I bet you wouldn't be laughing if it was your car."

Kip just laughed harder.

Doug shoved Sam into the passenger's seat, then slid behind the wheel of the car and started driving. From the sounds of the sirens, the cops were just a block away.

"Are you okay?" Doug asked, panicked.

He reached over with his right hand and started patting down Sam's body for wounds. Anything moist and sticky and he would call Doctor Goldberg. The arrangements were already made. Sam had put him on call for just such an emergency.

"I don't feel any holes," Doug said with considerable relief.

"I'm all right." Sam sounded distant. "I tell you what, though. Someone really wants me dead. It cost a lot of money to hire someone like Gabriel. That was a real hit."

"We're so careful." Doug was visibly shaken. "How could they pull that off?"

" _Almost_ pull that off," Sam corrected—as his mind replayed the attempt on his life and the events that had led up to it.

"You drove to the Village doing a hundred and twenty. There was no way they followed you. It had to be a set up."

Sam shook his head. "It wasn't a set up. If it weren't for Kip and Kim, I'd be dead right now. And if they knew about Kip and Kim, we'd all be dead right now. So, if they didn't follow me, it wasn't a set up, and they didn't know who I was meeting with...which means they weren't listening to my conversations. You connect the dots."

Doug pulled up to the stoplight at the corner of Sunset and Veteran. He couldn't hear any sirens. A very good sign.

"No way. You don't think?"

Sam nodded. "We check for bugs and we check for bombs. But we've never checked for tracking devices. They must have only got them on a couple of my cars—that's why the tail's been off and on. Get me home and then have Frank check out the Porsche. Don't bring it back until it's clean and get the rest of the cars checked out right away. From now on, assign somebody to do nothing but secure my cars twenty-four seven. No one ever gets near my cars again."

"The next person that tries is dead." Doug looked at Sam. His eyes said he was completely one of them now. "I'll kill the next person that tries myself." The light changed. He turned right onto Sunset. "What's wrong? You have that look."

"What's wrong is that someone is trying to kill me and I have no fucking idea who or why."

"It doesn't matter. We're going to tighten things up. As long as I'm around, nobody is ever getting close again."

La Mesia was crowded. It was always crowded. Tuesday night, limbo dancing packed the place from wall to wall—making it a challenge to eat in all but the back booth, where Julio and Sam sat for dinner.

"Tan, I hope you have good news for me." Julio poured Sam a glass of 1957 Rothschild.

Sam smelled his wine and took a sip.

"Oh, that's good."

Julio's attention shifted to his glass. He gave his wine a smell and a sip.

"That's beautiful, yes?"

Sam took a full drink and savored the moment.

"Wow, I almost feel guilty. There's not too much of this still around."

"Don't ever feel guilty about enjoying life." Julio put his glass down. "Just be sure to feel thankful. There's no point in making fine wine if one day someone isn't going to open the bottle and enjoy it."

Sam felt warm from the extremely expensive red liquid. At that moment, no one on earth could have believed more than he that the world was created for man's enjoyment.

"I took care of the boats for you and I talked over the other issue with my associates."

"Will I be your supplier?" Julio looked out at the crowd on the dance floor.

"Yes. You'll be my supplier."

"Tan," Julio smiled and turned to face Sam. "Thank you. I will always be your good friend."

"Julio, I'm telling you this because I like you. Be careful. Never forget that you're not from here."

"What do you mean, Tan?"

"New people come to California everyday and that's fine, because it's good for business. But never forget who this place belongs to. You can't see it, but we stick together. That's the way it is. Whatever you do, don't ever forget what I just told you. Forgetting can get you killed."

Julio nodded that he understood. Sam wondered if he did as he watched their waiter maneuvering through the crowd with two arms stacked with food.

An hour later, Frank and Doug stood in front of their table. "We're good to go. He's at his place." Frank said, avoiding all social formalities.

Sam took a last bite of his desert and turned to Julio. "I assume you've had training?"

"I was in the army in Cuba."

"Good, because Hector forgot he was a guest in this city a long time ago. Now, it's time for him to find out what happens when a guest wears out his welcome. By the way, I have some personal issues to settle with Hector. So I might not be so, I guess you could say, gentle."

"No need to apologize." Julio gave Sam a pat on the leg. "Good manners are for the dinner table and the company of women. Not for the Hector De Ochas of the world."

They left the restaurant and climbed into the back seat of the red Bronco Frank was driving. Doug turned around and pointed to the back.

"I think we grabbed everything you wanted."

Sam reached behind the seat and slid the packing blanket to the side. He pulled up an MP-5 sub-machine gun and handed it to Doug. "One MP-5 for you." He reached back again and grabbed another MP-5 and handed it to Doug. "One MP-5 for Frank." Sam reached back a third time and pulled up a .45 with a silencer and handed it to Julio. "This is for you, my friend. Not as nice as mine—but I wouldn't want to be on its receiving end."

Sam reached back one last time and only came up with four extra clips for the MP-5's. He handed them to Doug, looking profoundly disturbed.

"You guys forgot Big Ben?"

"Shit! I knew I forgot something," Doug said, slapping his hand against his forehead.

There was a good long minute of disturbing silence.

"We're just fucking with you," Frank said, handing Big Ben back to Sam. "Don't start fucking crying or anything."

Doug laughed. "Bro, you should have seen the look on your face. It was sad. We got you good."

Sam gave Ben a rub for good luck. "Damn right you got me. You know I don't like when things don't go according to plan."

Julio gave Big Ben a look.

"Tan, what type of knife is that?"

Sam held it up. "This is a Special Forces Randal—with a custom made brass knuckle combo grip and a rear stiletto."

Sam pressed down on the stiletto release with his thumb and a five-inch razor-sharp blade sprung from the bottom of the handle.

Julio's eye went wide. "Like Yames Bond."

"James Bond," Sam said, hitting the button causing the stiletto to retract. "The big blade is good for almost all occasions. But sometimes, you need a little extra help." He held out his left hand. "I know you didn't forget Little Ben—so hand it over."

Doug placed Little Ben in his hand.

Julio looked curious, so he unfolded Little Ben's very sharp blade.

"It's designed to make two and a half inch wide puncture wounds that are painful and debilitating, but not lethal. Unless you hit an artery. But of course, you should know what the fuck you're doing before you stab someone, if your intention is for them to live."

Julio looked lost. "It hurts like hell when you get stabbed with it. But it won't necessarily kill you," Sam clarified.

"That's good," Julio said, nodding his approval.

They weren't too far from the shit-hole apartment building Hector called home. Nobody knew why Hector had never moved out of the first apartment he had rented when he arrived in Los Angeles. Maybe it was as Julio had said, "A classless animal like Hector could live in a fucking barn and not care." What made his living situation even more bizarre was that he parked a million dollars worth of exotic cars on the street in front of where he lived.

"I just talked to Kim before we picked you up," Frank said, as he drove exactly the speed limit.

"What's the story?" Sam asked, imagining nothing had changed given Hector's propensity for routine.

"There are two guys in front of the building sitting on the stairs. There's one guy in back. Hector came in with one of his guys. So, I'm guessing that guy will be in the hallway outside the door to the apartment. There's a chance he could be inside. Kim, Robbie, and Champ will take out the guy in back and then go up the back stairwell to meet us at the apartment. It's up to you how you want to handle the guys in front."

Sam looked at Julio. "We'll drop you off, up the block from the building. You'll walk up the street singing and staggering like you're drunk. In fact, we'll stop at a liquor store and pick you up a bottle of something. You walk up to these two guys singing and staggering around like you're ready to fall over, ask them for a light or something, and then you smoke'em. Give them each two in the head. We'll come up behind you. Doug will help you drag the bodies into the building, before we go up the stairs. Frank if you got a silencer for my gun, I'll take out the guy in the hallway."

"Here you go." Frank pulled a silencer out from the center consul and handed it to him. "Why don't you let me take him out? I want to try out my new Beretta."

"Okay, you take out the guy in the hallway. If you miss, I'll shoot back-up."

"I'm not going to fucking miss!" Frank sounded irritated by the mere suggestion.

Fifteen minutes later, Frank called Kim and told him Julio was walking down the block towards Hector's apartment building, bottle in hand.

Julio was singing a Cuban drinking song; Sam could hear him back in the car and thought he actually had a pretty good voice.

Hector's guys on the stoop weren't concerned with Julio at all when he staggered up to them and asked if they had a smoke. As one reached for the cigarettes in his pocket, Julio pulled out the gun Sam had given him and shot the other in the head. For a peculiar moment, the one who had been willing to give Julio a smoke just sat there with the pack of cigarettes in his hand—not seeming to understand what was happening. Julio pulled the trigger twice, the first bullet ripped away half of the man's throat. The second one exploded into the man's face with such force that his head slammed back against the cement steps—folding in and then squashing like a cantaloupe.

Frank and Sam ran up the stairs past Julio while Doug helped him drag the dead bodies into the building. They bounded up three flights; Sam could see the delight on Frank's face that Hector had posted his right-hand-man at the door. Frank took aim and fired before Sam could even line up his backup shot. It didn't matter. The bullet from Frank's new Beretta found its mark, dead center of his target's temple. Just in front of his ear. Hector's bodyguard went down like a duck in a carnival game.

Sam looked at Frank. "Good fucking shot."

Julio and Doug came up behind them.

"Have you got a shot?" Doug whispered.

Sam looked back at him. "Not anymore. Frank just put one in his head."

"He shot him before we were here for backup? He's supposed to wait."

Frank turned around. "No one told me to wait. I was supposed to shoot him and not miss. Da-da he's dead. And not to break up our little fucking encounter session here, but don't we have some unfinished business?"

Sam stepped into the hallway. Kim saw him and did the same. Both groups proceeded single-file down the hall, towards the door. Everybody kept a gun pointing in their respective directions in case Hector had some kind of additional security that they were unaware of. Kim and Sam gave each other a nod and simultaneously kicked in the door.

It exploded off its hinges—causing Hector, who had been sitting comfortably on his living room couch in his boxers, to make a run for it. Big Ben was in the air by his first step. The knife hit him just below his right shoulder blade. He stopped dead in his tracks and seemed to stand straight up as the muscles in his lower back contracted into a knot from the trauma. Sam wrapped his left arm around Hector's neck and pulled the knife out with his right hand.

"One of you, grab a chair," Sam yelled over the television.

Robbie brought one from the small dining room table and Sam shoved Hector down into it.

"Tape his fucking hands behind his back," Sam snarled.

"Don't ever leave home without this shit," Champ said—holding up a roll of duck tape.

Then, with real expertise, Champ secured Hector's hands.

"You want me to tape his mouth too?"

"No need for that." Sam punched Hector in the mouth with the brass knuckle grip on Big Ben's handle. It obliterated his teeth and the blood began to pour.

Sam turned to Frank. "Grab his head and make him open his mouth."

With a wicked stab wound in his back and blood oozing from his gums and lips, Hector still tried to put up a fight. It was of no use. Frank's arms were like steel and it only took a couple of seconds for him to get Hector's mouth open.

Sam handed Big Ben to Doug and pulled out the smaller knife from his pocket.

"You talk a lot of shit my friend," Sam said, as he slowly unfolded the razor sharp two-inch blade.

Hector's eyes filled with fear and he struggled to free his hands.

"You tell people we can't do business without you." Sam nodded towards Julio. Then, bending down so he could look Hector face to face, he added, "You've been replaced fucker."

Sam grabbed Hector's tongue with his left forefinger and thumb, then plunged Little Ben into the soft tissue with his right hand and started cutting. Hector's body came alive as Sam half cut and half ripped out his tongue.

"What do you have to say now, you fucking pig?" Sam showed Hector his tongue—then discarded it to the floor.

Hector tried to say something. It was a mishmash of sounds—the sounds of the doomed.

Sam stabbed him in the chest. With the first thrust, Sam's adrenaline really began to flow. He loved the feeling, which only became more intense as he stabbed Hector over and over again. Sam thought he had counted about sixty wounds when he finally took a step back and used his forearm to wipe Hector's blood from his face.

Frank let go of Hector, who contorted violently in the chair from the pain of the wounds.

"That, Hector," Sam said, grabbing him by the hair and pulling his head back, "was about business. Now, we have this whole thing about me being a bitch. Bitches get fucked. You ever been fucked my friend?"

Sam released Hector's hair from his hand and looked back at his guys who were taken aback by the ferociousness of the assault.

"Frank, cut Hector loose and throw him over the couch. Let's see if he likes getting fucked."

Robbie and Frank each grabbed an arm and bent Hector over the back of the couch, ass up. Sam ripped Hector's boxers off and turned to Doug.

"Give me Big Ben, would you?"

Doug handed him the knife and he plunged it into Hector's rectum. Even without a tongue, Hector managed to let out a horrible sound.

"Scream all you want, motherfucker! Who's the bitch now?" Sam yelled.

He pulled the knife out with a downward thrust that ripped Hector open so wide that the blade sliced open his scrotum and his testicles fell to the floor.

"Did you like that, bitch? Did you like that, you fucking bitch? C'mon, we're not done yet! You're going to die in the gutter where shit like you belongs!"

Sam grabbed him by the hair and dragged him down the stairs to the middle of the street. He didn't even have to ask; Frank had already retrieved the gas can from the Bronco, which he handed to Sam.

Sam looked down at Hector. "They say this is the worst way to go." Then, slowly he poured the contents of the can up and down Hector's body.

Sam turned to Julio. "Why don't you do the honors?"

Julio pulled a matchbook out of his pocket, which he had taken from La Mesia. He lit a match and tossed it onto Hector.

Nobody could possibly imagine which hurt more: the gasoline on the open wounds or the fire. Once ignited, Hector came back to life. Almost making it to his feet before collapsing and burning to a crisp as they all watched.

"You're my new supplier," Sam's voice was perfectly calm as he spoke to Julio. "Just remember what we talked about over dinner." They stood silently for a few more seconds and watched Hector smolder.

CHAPTER 24

Carrington

The Crime Tree

It had been a long day. Jim looked across the table through the candle light at his beautiful wife. He was thinking how incredibly lucky he was to come home to a wife like Julie. Missy, their baby, was down for the night and Julie always made sure that, as much as it was possible, he left his work at the door. It was no special occasion but the candles were still lit. And the wine, a Merlot from Napa, was already poured.

"How was your day, honey?" Julie put a piece of whitefish on Jim's plate. Then, she spooned some lemon caper sauce over it before passing it to him.

"I'm still playing catch-up. There's an incredible number of cases that I'm trying to tie together—or at least make some kind of sense of. How was your day?"

"More good luck, I'm afraid." She smiled. "The realtor spoke to the lawyer for the landlord and he said we can keep using the furniture. Jim, this move...it's just been nothing like I expected." She looked around the elegant dining room. Under any normal circumstance, it would be the only room of the house they could afford to rent.

Jim nodded. "Talk about bumping into the right person at the market. It's funny. Can you imagine someone back home keeping a house like this just for a tax write off?"

"Well, from what I understand, it's not a person—it's an investment company of some kind."

Jim drank some more of the Merlot. "Can you imagine an investment company back home renting a place like this out for a loss then?"

"There aren't any investment companies back home." She raised her glass and smiled, a toast to their good fortune. It had been their first day in temporary housing and she had gone to the market to stock the fridge. Vanessa had literally run right into her. Her cart had anyway. She was a beautiful young woman with long, brown, curly hair. They hit it off right away. Vanessa had graduated from UCLA and landed a job the next day, renting out luxury homes. Most of her clients were celebrities. But in the case of this one particular house, the owner did not want a celebrity tenant. Money also was apparently of no consequence. Vanessa had been specifically told to find a nice young couple.

"Babe, this fish is fantastic. You've never made this before—"

"I just got the recipe from Vanessa today."

"How is she by the way?"

"She's good. But you know, I think she'd like more from the guy she's so madly in love with."

"Sounds normal to me."

"I'm being serious. I've never seen anyone so in love—but she never goes into detail. She's never even said his name. I wonder if he's married."

"Julie, believe it or not, there are still some people that enjoy their privacy." His forehead crinkled as he lifted his brow. "You should respect that."

"I know. I mean I do. Sometimes..."

Jim's cell phone rang before he could rib his prying wife even more. He looked at his watch. "Well, my first late night phone call in Los Angeles. I'm glad I only had one glass of wine."

"Hey, Jim—sorry to bother you so late." Dennis Craig's voice had already become very familiar.

"Not a problem. What's going on?"

"Something big. Someone just slaughtered Hector De Ocha. I'm with Carl—we're down on Kings Road already. It's one hell of a crime scene."

"I'm on my way. Should I call Lewis?"

"Yeah, give him a call. I want the whole unit here for this."

Jim hit the end button. His wife looked at him. It had been a while since he had been called out to the field and she had started to get used to it.

"I've got to go."

"What happened?"

"Someone just killed the man we suspected of being the largest drug importer on the West Coast."

"That's why Dennis is calling the whole task force?"

Jim nodded, as he stood and holstered his gun.

"Jim, is this new partner of yours up to all of this? I always felt very good about you being with Bill. But now..."

Jim looked down as he zipped up his brown leather jacket. "I won't lie to you, Jules. Lewis is no Bill Murdoch—but he's okay."

Los Angeles was in many ways what Jim Carrington had expected—lots of beautiful people and great weather. Hollywood had turned Los Angeles into a land of make believe. In another city, a drug dealer was a rich guy who didn't seem to have a job. In Hollywood, there were a thousand producers doing lunch that fit the description. It seemed like nobody worked. Just a bunch of good-looking people hanging out and talking about how busy they were.

Jim's office was in the Westside Federal Building on Wilshire. It faced north, overlooking the Veteran's Cemetery—two miles south of UCLA. Often, he found himself looking at the hills that ran from east to west as far as the eye could see. He would wonder to himself. Is he really up there? Is there really a Man on the Hill?

On the wall of his office, he had drawn a tree and started attaching leaves. He called it a Crime Tree. Small crimes became leaves. Medium crimes became branches. One day, there would be a trunk. At the base of the trunk would be the person or persons responsible ultimately for every crime. But for now, he just had leaves, lots of leaves. Seventy percent of which had one thing in common: the Man on the Hill. Seventy percent of all criminal investigations had this in common. Jim looked at the tree for several minutes and thought about how this could even be possible. The same tree was drawn in twenty other offices around the country and the percentage stayed just about the same.

Jim tapped the pen in his hand against the desk. "How do you do it?"

"How do I do what?" Dennis Craig stood in the doorway, smiling.

"Been there for a while, Dennis?"

"Long enough."

"It doesn't make sense. A thousand busts and no name—it's not possible. I was starting to feel good about De Ocha being our guy."

"It's possible, Jim. It's actually the one thing we know. Because if it weren't possible, we'd have a name and we'd be putting a case on this prick. And now, we know Hector De Ocha was the wrong prick."

"You know, we have no witnesses. I've got Lewis back down there working the street. But apparently nobody on King's Road saw four men get shot and Hector get stabbed a hundred and sixty times and lit on fire in the middle of the street."

Dennis shook his head. "I'll tell you one thing, Jim. Whoever this guy is, people are scared shitless of him."

"Or they like him, Dennis."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No. I'm not kidding." Jim let the pen drop from his hand. "Dennis, I think it's time we stopped looking for a name and started trying to find out why we can't find one." Jim pointed at the wall, full of leaves. "Anybody who can do all that and stay below the radar is not a who, he's a what."

Dennis walked into the office and examined the crimes on the wall. He looked at the leaves closer. His eyes focused. "Drugs and murder, murder and drugs, an entire world of murder and drugs." He found the leaf he was looking for and pointed to it. "A cute little high school drop out hangs out at her boyfriend the small-time drug dealer's house while he's at work and winds up with a broken neck. He says nothing is missing, which is bullshit because the local cops find cocaine residue everywhere, but no coke. Starting on this day, drug related crimes begin to triple every month. First in L.A., then across the country." Dennis's finger tapped on the leaf. "This is two years before I was asked to put together a task force. Why so long? I wonder why it took so long." Jim's eyes followed Dennis's finger to the picture of the dead girl below the leaf. Her neck had been broken so badly she looked like a prop. "It would have taken incredible strength to break a neck that badly, Jim. The guy we're looking for is a big, strong fella. We could rule out at least ninety-nine percent of the population. Whatever we're dealing with, it started here. I feel it in my gut."

"I've looked over that case several times. A year after the murder, the boyfriend left a suicide note admitting to it. Said he came home for lunch, found her doing his coke, they got into a fight and he broke her neck. Never found his body."

Dennis smiled. "Well it all worked out nicely, didn't it?"

"It's always bothered me." Jim stared at the picture.

"Let's find out everything we can about the boyfriend." Dennis looked back at the leaf for his name. "How do you like that...?"

"His name was Adam Carrington," Jim said, finishing Dennis's sentence. "It's not exactly an uncommon name."

The phone rang. Jim picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. His former partner Murdoch's voice was quiet, "I think I have that information you wanted."

"Hold on a second." Jim looked toward Dennis. "I need to take this." Dennis gave him a wave and headed for the door. "Where are you calling from? You're not coming up on my caller ID."

"Meet me in New Orleans tomorrow. You know where."

"One more year. Just give us one more year, Bill. We need you. Your country needs you."

Murdock for the life of himself could not believe he had stayed past his retirement date.

_Only a fucking moron sticks around._ _The wife and the house on the lake are waiting and I'm_ _in New Orleans Murder-Capital-USA because Carrington,_ _my ex-partner, not even my fucking partner anymore, got me wrapped up in this shit. It seemed like bullshit, but it's real shit. And now, I'm up to my neck in it._

"Sure Jim. I can see if Intelligence has anyone working the drug business. I doubt it. Domestic, is strictly off limits these days. They're really just a bunch of satellite operators and analysts now. No more what they used to call in my day 'Unsavory Characters' working for intelligence as far as I know. Of course I'll check anyway I have a buddy, Mickey. He's a bookworm, a researcher. He can find out if they have anyone on the ground we should know about."

Mickey The Bookworm put his nose to the archives and came up with Maybus—and now he's dead. Three agents ambushed as they drove into the office. Shot dead in the driveway waiting for the guard to open the gate to the parking garage. CIA agents shot to death in front of their own office. Impossible to even imagine. The killer? A random psycho.

_What are the chances Mickey came across Maybus and wound up dead in the driveway less than twenty-four hours later? None._ _Mickey The Bookworm opened the file on Maybus and was killed for it. He looked into the past and it came alive. It was the good old days again._

Pat O'Brian's, just off Bourbon Street, was packed as always. Hurricanes, the house drink, were a red concoction of rum and some special sugary mix. They were poured into giant glasses and then flowed through straws into drunk and drunker customers. Drinking socially in New Orleans? Not likely. Drinking socially at Pat O's? Never.

Murdock sipped a Jack and Coke until it was time to meet Carrington. He knew there was no chance Jim could understand what was going on. Exposing troops to nuclear blasts in the desert or infecting African Americans with syphilis and treating them with sugar pills was the past. The old ways weren't just gone—they were forgotten.

Ten more minutes and he would walk by Girls Girls Girls just as Jim walked out. They would walk up the street for two blocks. He would have to explain Maybus in two blocks. Even as he sat thinking of the most concise way to describe something unthinkable, he did so knowing that someone somewhere was looking at Mickey's phone records very carefully. Mickey wasn't a field guy. He would have called from the phone at his desk. He didn't say anything other than "We need to talk". But someone somewhere would know Mickey had opened the Maybus file and called the FBI. It would take just a few minutes for them to find out to whom at the FBI he had spoken. The shit was high. If he took it upstairs, he would lose his pension. Unauthorized access to classified intelligence documents. If he didn't, well, Mickey was dead and maybe Maybus had come. Quite possibly the CIA had done the unthinkable.

Jim walked out of Girls Girls Girls a couple of minutes early. Strip clubs were disgusting to him—he had had enough. Sex belonged in the bedroom between a man and his wife. Nothing good ever came from casual sex. The FBI had long lists of young girls that had disappeared, hookers that had been butchered, young girls that had dumped babies in dumpsters—all the result of casual sex.

Jim wondered how many times he or someone like him would have to hunt down the men who preyed on women who lived these lower, base existences. Usually, they knew them. Nobody ever wanted to blame the victim. But if she hadn't been out drunk and looking for casual sex she'd be alive. Most of them would be alive. Girls, Girls, Girls, like marijuana, was a step to greater vice. Nothing even close to good clean fun.

_In a city below sea level and surrounded by water, the people should know better. One levy goes, one little cement wall goes, and so does the city. When the world lost its values, when there had been only one righteous man left in the entire world, there had been a flood._ _First the people ignore the law. Then the law itself becomes corrupt. Then comes the flood, the quake, the fire, the tsunami, the correction, the divine correction._

A drunk man bumped into Jim as he staggered out of Girls, Girls, Girls. The drunk man's shirt was wet with his own cum from a lap dance he had obviously enjoyed. He didn't care. "Sorry, friend," he said and staggered off.

Jim thought he saw Murdoch walking his way. The crowd on the sidewalk was dense, Murdoch came in and out of view.

The black blade of the Striker was close to invisible in the crowd. The killer had used it so many times, it was as natural as pointing a finger. Point the finger and they die, like magic.

A bump in the crowd was all it was. And the rude man in the black coat didn't even say excuse me. He just kept moving through the crowd. Murdoch felt the jolt of their bodies colliding. He felt the sharp pain just above the groin. He was surprised, genuinely surprised, when he looked down. The damage was incredible.

Where was Murdoch? Jim had been tracking his progress. Every few seconds, he was there, then gone, then there again—as the crowd ebbed and flowed.

There were no screams, just a drunk down on the sidewalk. The flow of people adjusted.

Jim walked toward the break in the flow. Murdoch was down.

"Bill, can you hear me?" Jim asked hunched over his prostrate former partner.

"Get out of here. They can't know you were here," Murdoch gasped.

"Who can't know?" Jim could feel the wetness of Murdoch's blood soaking through the knees of his pants. "Bill, who did this to you?"

"Maybus, he's here." Murdoch's hand grabbed Jim's forearm tightly. "He's powerful Jim. I felt it."

"Bill, hold on! You've got to hold on!"

"We made him," Murdoch said, squeezing Jim's forearm still tighter. "We made..."

"Bill, who's Maybus? Who'd we make? Bill! Bill!"

"Help! Police! Help!" the girl was yelling.

Jim rose to his feet. The crowd was gathering. He needed to fade away.

CHAPTER 25

One Thing Leads To Another

Sam walked into Gold's Gym and signed in at the front counter.

The two handsome young bodybuilders looked in his direction as he walked towards them. "Excuse me. This is going to sound like a strange question. But is that your Ferrari out in the parking lot?"

The one he had overheard giving medical advice gave a nod and smiled. He was a competitive sized bodybuilder with blond curly hair and blue eyes. "Yeah, it's mine. Don't tell me, you just backed into it?"

"Is that what happened to your Mondial?"

He gave Sam a curious look.

Sam continued, "I'm Sam Noah. I called on an ad for a red and tan Mondial in the paper this morning. The guy told me it was in the body shop and tried to convince me to take a look at a white 308 that sounds exactly like the one I just parked next to out in the parking lot."

The doctor looked at his friend. "He talked to Kelly. What a small world."

They both extended their hands and introduced themselves, Mike Pethel and Dr. Gary Tuskey.

"So, I take it you're looking to buy a Ferrari?" Gary asked, stating the obvious.

"Yeah, I've wanted one since I was a kid."

"You should check out the 308. It's a lot more car than the Mondial. And the one I'm driving is the nicest one ever built."

"I'm going to let you two talk some business; I've got to try to get some kind of workout in," Mike said, giving Gary a pat on the shoulder. "It was nice meeting you, Sam. I'm sure I'll see you around."

"Definitely. I'll see you around," Sam responded politely.

Gary's full attention was on Sam. "I'm done here, if you want to take it for a drive before you get started with your workout."

Sam guessed Gary to be about twenty-eight; he certainly didn't look like any doctor Sam had ever met before. "I'll take it for a drive. I mean, what are the chances that I would park right next to a car some guy I called in the paper already told me about?"

Gary smiled. "A million to one."

They talked about cars for most of the test drive; Gary's collection added up to around a million dollars by Sam's count.

"Do you mind me asking what type of doctor you are?" Sam said, as they pulled back into the Gold's Gym parking lot.

"I'm an allergist. Why?"

"I know doctors make good money. But you're doing pretty well for your age."

"I got lucky and took over a good practice. The right time, the right place—kind of like you and the car." Gary's answer was polished. He was used to the question. "Speaking of which...Are you interested in the 308? Or, are you going to hold out for a Mondial?"

"Both. I'm going to buy both. I'm going to buy this car and I'm going to buy a Mondial. Any chance you can bring this one to my house tonight?"

"I don't think it's a problem. Let me check with my associate Brian and see if he can follow me over to your place and give me a ride back."

"If he can't do it, I'll give you a ride back myself or have one of my guys give you a lift."

"I'm pretty sure Brian can do it. If not, I'll let you know." He reached into the glove box and took out a pen and a loose piece of paper that looked like a prescription. "Give me your address and phone number. If it's okay, I'd like to take payment by cashier's check."

"Is cash okay?" Sam asked.

Gary smiled. "Even better."

Later that same evening, Gary and Brian brought the car to an apartment building Sam had recently bought in Culver City. Sam invited them up to one of the apartments he kept for himself.

They sat at the dining room table and Sam handed them forty-three thousand dollars in cash. He watched as they counted for a few minutes. It struck him how much they looked alike. Gary and Brian were from the same tribe at some point in history.

"Gary, I've been thinking on this all day. There's no way that a guy your age can be a doctor, own a million dollars worth of cars, and a place in the Marina City Club—"

Brian looked up from his stack of bills. "That's interesting. Because when Gary told me a twenty-year-old art dealer was going to hand us forty-three thousand in cash, I told him that it sounded pretty funny to me."

"We asked around about you." Gary's voice had an element of contained excitement in it. He looked at Brian then back at Sam. "I think one of our friends referred to you as the richest gangster in L.A."

"I feel like I'm playing poker. Maybe we should all just throw down our cards?" Sam offered, having decided to push their conversation forward.

"Steroids and coke," Gary volunteered almost too fast for Sam's comfort. Something about the word poker seemed to bring something out in Gary.

"Mostly coke, a little weed, some guns, gambling, and prostitution," Sam offered for their consideration.

"You do have nice artwork," Brian said looking around the apartment. "It's a good cover."

"It's more my hobby than my business. I seem to have a bizarre decorating fetish. I deck out all my places—even if I don't stay in them very much. I'm my own best customer."

"Maybe we can do some more business together?" Gary put down a last stack of bills.

"I'm pretty happy with the crew I have. But if we did, it would have to be out of state."

"How about Minnesota and Utah?" Brian asked.

Sam was doing business in forty of fifty states and these were two of the ten he didn't have covered. "That could work," he answered.

"Our people out there are still paying fifty thousand a kilo," Gary added.

Sam couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, that could definitely work."

It was a cool, slightly overcast morning at the Santa Monica Airport. Joe taxied his plane to a stop and jumped out. They exchanged smiles. Sam was always happy to see him. It had been a long time since Karen and Wendy had introduced the two of them. Sam thought back for a moment to Joe flying up with every gram of coke he had to fill Massimo's first order—only to find out that fifty ounces was supposed to be fifty kilos. Now Massimo's orders were never less than a hundred and fifty kilos a week.

Sam and Joe were exactly the same age. Born on the same day at the same hospital, as it had turned out. When people saw them together, they often mistook them for brothers.

"Welcome to Los Angeles."

"Thank you. Good to be here," Joe answered back, giving him a two-finger salute.

"You know, if you get any better looking, we might have to give up drug dealing and get into the movie business? I'll write, produce and direct; you'll star. What do you think?"

"I've been training for the iron man. Trust me, I'll only look like this for a few more months," Joe said—slightly self-conscious about his looks. It wasn't uncommon for girls to stop dead in their tracks when they saw him on the street.

"Yeah right, you're always in shape. Man, if I looked like you—you don't even want to know what I'd be doing."

"Sam, you're doing more chicks than anyone I know."

"Not because of the way I look."

"You look great." Joe shook his head. It was hard to imagine that his friend with everything still wanted more. "Besides, it really doesn't matter how you get chicks, as long as you get them."

"How's Orange County treating you?" Sam had put Joe in charge of California's fastest growing county.

"O.C. is treating us both just fine. What have you got?"

"Nothing special." Sam looked down, attempting to conceal his smile.

Joe looked at him sideways. "Yeah, right. Why don't I believe you?"

They rounded the corner to the parking area. There could have been a thousand cars and Joe still would have been able to pick out the Sam Noah ride.

"That's a nice Ferrari." Joe circled the car. "I've never seen a white 308 with a dove gray interior. Who did this for you?"

"It was all done custom at the factory," he answered, sliding into the driver's seat. Sam pointed at the ashtray on the center consul. "Check out the sterling silver Ferrari emblem."

Joe was impressed.

Sam pointed back at the headrest. "Sterling silver on the headrest also."

Sam turned the key in the ignition and the engine came to life with the high-pitched purr of a Ferrari.

"It's a beautiful car. But I hear they're really not that fast."

"Yeah, that's the problem with them. All show and not enough go," he said, pressing his foot down on the accelerator causing the tires to smoke up the asphalt like a top fuel dragster. Their bodies were slammed back in their seats by the g-force.

"What did you do to this thing?" Joe asked shocked by the car's extreme performance.

"It has a Lyle Tanner nitrous injection system. The harder you step on it, the more nitrous it sucks down. We just did zero to sixty in less than four seconds."

"I think the speed limit here at the airport is thirty-five," Joe observed nervously as Sam pushed the car past a hundred and forty.

"What do you think?" he asked downshifting and slowing their pace as they approached the guard gate.

"It pepped up nicely." Joe fiddled around with the CD player. "What's the plan for the day?"

"Stores are open so we should get some shopping in before lunch. After lunch, I say we hit a movie and play some video games."

"Sounds good. Have you talked to Wendy and Karen lately?"

"Yeah, I see Karen all the time. But Wendy's gone off radar. I'm thinking she's found a guy."

"Good!" Joe said with a mixture of happiness and relief.

"You're the love of her life. I'm sure one call and she'll come running." Sam enjoyed teasing Joe about Wendy.

"Don't even start that with me. You know I've never touched her."

"I think you should have. At least once. That girl would step in front of a bus for you."

"You're too fucking much—you know that?"

"Heartbreaker," Sam continued.

"Wendy loves the way I look. It's not exactly a love of the heart. She'll get over it."

Sam nodded. " I'll give you that. But I still wish a girl would step in front of a bus for me. I don't even give a fuck why. I've thought about just pushing one to try and simulate the emotion—but I decided it just wouldn't be the same."

"Sam, you got to stop hanging out with Patrick so much. I think you two are a bad influence on each other."

"I was joking about the bus."

Joe looked at him skeptically. Then, he decided to change the subject. "Before I head back, I should grab ten kilos."

Sam made a right onto the freeway and headed down the 10 East. In less than fifteen minutes, they'd be on Rodeo Drive shopping.

"Open the glove box. There's a set of keys in there for you."

Joe pulled the keys out of the glove box and looked at them closely.

"Versace keychain, nice."

"They're yours. I had Joel rent a two bedroom in Palms under a bullshit foreign corporation. In the master bedroom closet, there's a safe that from now on will always have ten kilos in it. Only you, Joel, and I know about this place. Whenever you need stock, just go and do what you have to do. Leave the money in the safe, call me, and I'll have it restocked. After today, no more hand to hand deals. It's just too risky."

Joe looked back down at the keys in his hand. "You're getting too good at this."

Sam shifted into fifth gear. The Ferrari roared. "You can never be too good."

Sam and Joe ascended the black industrial staircase to the men's department of the Rodeo Drive Armani store. Sam looked down at the blinding white marble. "I love this store."

"With as much as you shop here, I'm sure it loves you too."

"Three times a year," Sam said, reaching the top of the stairs.

"You mean three seasons a year. Which doesn't make sense because there are no seasons in California."

"Bullshit, it's freezing out. That's called winter, my friend."

"Sam, it's sixty-eight degrees outside. That's not freezing. That's warm for winter."

Sam lowered his voice, as two sales associates were approaching. "If you're a fucking penguin."

"Mr. Noah, it's so good to see you!" Mark Petranova was a tall, handsome immigrant from Eastern Europe. He had been working in the men's department for almost a year and was always excited to see the store's best customer.

"Hey, Mark. It's good to see too. You remember my friend, Joe?"

"Of course, from Newport. How are you sir?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

"Did you fly up?"

Joe smiled. It was amazing how much a good salesperson remembered about their customers. "Yeah, I just landed a half an hour ago."

Sam eyed the beauty that stood next to Mark. Even in a conservative Armani pantsuit her body was nothing less than spectacular. "Who's this gorgeous young lady, Mark?"

She smiled at being the focus of such overt attention. Her jet-black hair seemed to shimmer when she stepped forward. Her teeth glistened as white as the marble under their feet. Her eyes were the greenest Sam had ever seen.

"This is Michelle. She just started this week—so she'll be staying close."

"Mark is showing you the ropes?" Sam asked, extending his hand to shake hers. "You're learning from the best." He held her hand for one inappropriate second too long.

Mark turned to Michelle. "I'm hardly the best. The only reason I'm the store's top seller is that I met Mr. Noah on my first day of work here at the store. He bought the entire season. Literally, every piece."

Sam laughed. "I'll never forget the look on your face..."

"I asked him if he wanted anything that he had tried on." Mark shook his head in disbelief as he recalled the moment. "Keep in mind, he tried on everything. He nodded and just said, 'I'll take it'. I asked, 'Take what?' So he gave me this kind of blank look and I turn to Patrick who just said, 'Everything. He'll take everything.' My first day—my first sale."

"So, you kind of owe it all to me," Patrick said, walking up to the group.

"Well, look who's here." Sam gave Patrick a quick hug. "Nice of you to join us."

"I would never miss a chance to shop with you guys."

"Hey, Pat." Joe gave Patrick the same quick hug Sam had.

"Hey, Joe." Patrick took a step back. "You look great. What are you doing? You must be working-out six hours a day or something?"

"I'm getting ready for the Iron Man." Joe looked toward the clothes cutting off any more discussion about the way he looked. "Shopping? We are here to shop."

Mark gestured toward the racks on the wall. "After you, gentleman."

It took more than two hours to try on almost everything and have it marked by the in-house tailor. The store was good enough to keep the lattes and bottled water flowing. After the first hour, Patrick requested three bottles of Cristal which Mark sent Michelle across the street to a restaurant called the Excellcier to retrieve. At Sam's behest, both Mark and Michelle drank along with the store's best customer and two of his closest friends.

"Patrick—come in here and tell me what you think!" Sam called out, in a raised voice from the spacious dressing room.

Patrick walked in and looked him up and down, champagne glass still in hand. "You really wear clothes well. Seriously, everything you put on fits like it was made for you. They hem your pants; take in the waist a little and you're done. It's like you're cut out of a pattern."

Sam looked at Patrick and smiled. "I'm a little buzzed."

"Me too. I didn't eat anything this morning. What do you think of Michelle? Is she fucking hot or what?"

"Hot? I just want to take a bite out of that beautiful skin of hers."

"We should fuck her." Patrick held out his right fist, which Sam banged against his own.

"Michelle! Patrick is useless." Sam yelled toward the door and tried not to laugh. "I still can't decide. Can you come in here please?"

Michelle glanced across the floor at Mark, who was busy showing Joe some hats. She looked at the rolling-rack filled with clothes the three had picked out. The bill had to already exceed at least one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Drinking with customers was strictly forbidden. But when Sam Noah said drink, they drank. Going into a dressing room with a customer was strictly forbidden. But Sam Noah wanted her to come into his dressing room. Saying no didn't seem to be an option. And as long as Patrick was there, they wouldn't exactly be alone.

"So, what do you think? Do you like this on me?"

She looked at the rich brown slacks and then up at the beautiful, creamy-brown silk shirt. Sam Noah and his two friends were easily three of the best looking men she had ever laid eyes on.

"It looks great on you. Everything you guys try on looks great. And I'm not just saying that. I wish I could wear clothes the way you do." She felt a slight uneasiness that Patrick was standing in front of the door. The dressing room was large for one person. Three occupants were definitely in each other's space.

Sam stepped forward towards Michelle. Patrick was behind her so there was nowhere for her to move. "I think you look great in clothes too. I'd love to take you shopping."

She was visibly tense. Her breathing had become uneasy. "I really don't know what to say. I mean, that's really nice of you. I should probably step outside while you change?"

Sam began to unbutton his shirt. "Why? I'm sure you've seen a guy without his clothes on before."

The silk shirt slid from his extraordinary body. He reached out and grasped her jacket by the lapels and began to slide it over her shoulders. She tried to take a step back but found herself pressing against Patrick's equally taunt and muscular body. Sam began to unbutton her blouse. "Whoa—what are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm taking off your top."

His hands were fast. He was already down to the last button. "I can't do this, Mr. Noah. Please stop." Patrick had begun kissing her neck just as she said the word stop. Her blouse was down over her shoulders and she could feel the clasp of her bra come undone. "Please, let me go. I don't want to have to make a scene."

Sam bent forward and started kissing the side of her neck that Patrick wasn't. "Don't make a scene, Michelle," he said softly in her ear. "Haven't you ever been with two guys before?"

Her bra fell from her body. "No. And I have a boyfriend. I can't do this."

Sam sucked her tit into his mouth and she moaned. "Please, you guys—I can't..." Patrick's tongue was licking at her ear.

"Sure, you can." Sam kissed her on the lips. Then he slipped his tongue into her mouth as their bodies pressed together. Patrick dropped to his knees and started kissing the small of her back. Sam's hand undid her belt and the button of her pants; Patrick's hands expertly pulled her pants down over her thighs and to the floor.

"I'm going to get fired."

"I can promise you, that's not going to happen," Sam said, kissing her perfectly smooth skin as he slid down her body to his knees. He sucked her clit into his mouth as Patrick simultaneously plunged his tongue into her asshole.

"Oh, you guys. That's incredible." She rested her hands on top of Sam's head. Her body was no longer her own. And its new owners obviously knew what they were doing. Michelle looked down at the powerful shoulders of the man between her legs. Then, she looked up at the dressing room mirror where she appeared to be being devoured.

She had moved to Los Angeles from Minnesota to pursue acting. Her boyfriend—the only boyfriend she had ever known—had followed her to Los Angeles just a month after her move. He had left everything for her. And now, she was watching herself in the mirror of the dressing room of the Rodeo Drive Armani store being ravaged by two very handsome, very rich, young men. Somehow, they had seen this possibility in her.

Sam's powerful hands wrapped around the back of her thighs and lifted her from the floor as he rose to his feet. His massive cock plunged into her dripping wet pussy. And again, as if they had practiced it a thousand times, Patrick's equally monstrous dick plunged into her ass. She could only watch in the mirror as the two moved in perfect unison. The total violation was more pleasure than Michelle could stand. She began to moan loudly as her body shuddered with orgasm upon orgasm.

The security guard moved toward him immediately as he walked through the door. "Sir, there's no smoking in the store."

Frank pulled back his black-leather coat so his holstered .357 was clearly visible. "Fuck you, you pretentious asshole. I'm with Sam Noah."

The guard looked through the front window at Doug. He nodded that Frank was okay. "Go on up. But there's really no need to talk to me like that."

Frank squinted. "You're right. I'm sorry I called you a pretentious asshole...you fucking dick." He discarded his cigarette to the floor and trudged up the black staircase.

"What are you guys doing?" Frank asked Joe and Mark as they stood in front of the dressing room door drinking champagne and laughing.

Joe held his finger up to his lips. Frank looked at the large white door.

"Oh, fuck yeah! Oh Sam, fuck my little pussy! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh! Oh, you're tearing my ass apart! Ohhhhhh, fuck my ass Patrick."

"No wonder you guys like to shop so much," Frank said, grabbing the champagne glass out of Joe's hand and draining its remaining contents. "How long have they been in there?"

Joe looked at Mark, who shrugged clearly not wanting to get anymore involved. Joe turned back to Frank. "I think about twenty minutes."

"Is there anyone on the planet that these two aren't fucking? Two days ago, he brought a cop over my house and fucked her on the living room sofa."

"A cop?" Joe hadn't heard this story yet.

"Apparently she pulled him over to give him a ticket while he was on his way over to see me."

"What'd she look like?"

"Actually, not too fucking bad. But he would have fucked her no matter what. Just to say he fucked a cop."

"I've always wanted to do a cop," Joe admitted.

"The three of you should just fuck skanks and coke- whores like I do. It would save you a lot of time and money. Speaking of which..." Frank turned to Mark. "Do you have the keys?"

"Yeah but..."

Frank held out his hand. "Just give them to me. I have to talk to him. It can't wait."

Mark fumbled nervously as he handed the keys to the dressing room over to Frank.

"Ohhhh. Ohhhh. Oh fuck, who's he? What's he doing in here?"

"That's Frank, never mind him. I'm close to cumming. How about you Pat?"

"Yeah, almost there. This girl's ass is incredible. It's so fucking tight."

"Yeah, baby you like my ass?"

"Yeah, I love your ass."

Frank looked down at the floor, averting his eyes from the human sandwich pressed up against the wall. "I need to talk to you about something?"

"What is it? You have a great pussy...I take it it's important...That feels so good."

Frank leaned forward and cupped his hand to Sam's ear. "I've got this Colombian kid named Tony...He's perfect...But I have to give him a hundred kilos on the arm in a fucking hour."

"Why?"

Frank leaned forward again. "He just lost his supplier. If you know what I mean?" Sam turned his head away from Michelle toward Frank and Frank nodded. Another competitor had just been eliminated.

"Oh that's so good..." Michelle moaned, no longer concerned about Frank's presence.

"He doesn't have cash?" Sam asked, turning his head back toward the girl he was fucking.

Frank shook his head. "This is fucking ridiculous. You know that, right?"

"Ohhhh, I'm going to die," Michelle moaned.

Frank leaned forward. "He doesn't have the money to buy the quantity we need him too. But if we back him up for a while, he could easily become The Man. He's right out of Central Casting. Once he gets rolling, he'll pay cash. And we can rent him one of the houses...You know, keep an eye on him."

Sam nodded. "Do it."

Frank leaned against the mirror, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a cigarette. "You don't mind if I smoke in here while you two finish fucking the salesgirl? They get bent out of shape if you smoke in the store."

"I thought you had to take care of that thing?"

"The things I need are at your place in Brentwood. I need you to let me in."

"Fuck!"

"I like when you say that," Michelle moaned.

Sam and Patrick both timed their final thrusts perfectly so that all three could cum together. After a long-minute, Sam let go of Michelle's legs and she was able to stand. He turned to face Frank. "So why couldn't you wait?"

"I have an hour to get this done or he'll go somewhere else. I figured if I came in, it would keep things moving along."

"You have a point," Sam conceded. "Hand me my shirt would you?"

A few minutes later, Mark Petranova watched as Sam Noah and his three friends descended down the stairs. He smiled, the final bill had come to $196,000.00 dollars. He looked down at his new sales associate. "You okay?"

"I don't know."

"You can take the rest of the day off if you want."

"I think I will. You know what happened right?"

"Michelle, I have no idea. I wasn't in there with you guys. What I do know is we all do what we have to do. You have no idea how good this could work out for you if you play your cards right."

"Is it worth it, Mark?"

"I'm married. My wife just had our first child. And my commission on today's sale is close to twenty thousand dollars. Of which, I'm going to give you two thousand for helping out. So yeah, it's worth it."

It was evening when they pulled back into the airport. The parking lot was empty and the fog was starting to roll in.

"Be careful up there. I don't really dig you flying at night."

Joe reached forward and grabbed the handles of the two blue Adidas bags that contained five kilos of coke each.

"Don't worry. Day or night, it's all the same."

"Just be careful. It's not the same when you can't see where you're going."

Joe gave him a wink. "Okay, relax. I'll be careful."

"So how do you rate the car? You haven't said a word since this morning."

"It's nice—but it wouldn't have been my first choice. I would have bought the new 500 SEC. Lowered with some nice rims and low profile tires."

"I like the Benz, but you can't compare it to a Ferrari. It's like comparing an apple and an orange."

Joe smiled. "I have a friend down in Newport with a warehouse full of SEC's right now. I'm telling you—they're _the_ car."

"Is he selling them?"

"He's a wholesale dealer. Why don't you come down and drive one?"

"If you got time tomorrow, I'll take a trip."

Joe reached for the door. "I'll set it up for early afternoon. Meet me at the house at twelve and we'll head out from there."

CHAPTER 26

Little Girls For Sale

Patrick's black Porsche glided down Hollywood Boulevard. He was thankful that the light turned red and he was able to reach for an eight-ball-bullet in the driver's side door panel. One toot of pure coke and his mind felt crisp at one in the morning; a sharp vision of giving Sam head played over and over in his imagination. It was a strange obsession given he could have almost any girl he wanted. _L.A. Woman_ blared from the Door's Greatest Hits CD. He looked at the boarded up windows of the storefront to his right. Most of Hollywood had fallen into disrepair. "Mr. Mojo Riser, you got to keep on rising. Mr. Mojo Riser..." The eyes peered from the darkness of the doorway. Patrick stared back; he took another toot, put down the eight-ball and motioned for the small figure to come toward his car. There was hesitation, then the eyes disappeared. The light turned green. Patrick ignored it since there were no cars behind him. The light turned red and the eyes reappeared. He motioned again and this time a small girl, wearing a dirty red dress, stepped from the darkness.

He reached over and opened the passenger's side door. The girl hesitated again. A cold breeze blew her dress up. Patrick felt the blood rush to his loins as she stood there and shivered.

"C'mon, you're going to catch pneumonia out there."

She opened the door wider. The warm luxurious interior of the Porsche registered on her cute little face.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I don't want anything. I think the question is what do you want? Want to not be cold and hungry? Want to have all the nice clothes and toys you could ever imagine? Want me just to give you a ride back to wherever you came from? What do you want?"

"I don't want you to hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you."

She slid into the passenger's seat. "You promise?"

Patrick reached over and pulled the seatbelt across her undeveloped chest. "I promise."

"My mommy told me not to talk to strangers. Strangers hurt little girls."

"Where's your mommy?"

"She had to go somewhere."

"When is she coming back?"

"She's not." A tear ran down her cheek.

"Do you have any family anywhere?" Patrick asked, wiping the tear away.

Another tear. "My mommy told me she had to go. She told me that the angels would take care of me."

"Did your mommy give herself a shot before she left?" Patrick asked.

She nodded her head, confirming that her mommy was just another dead junkie. The children of junkies were always the easiest. Sometimes they would just hand the kid over for a fix. But worst-case scenario—they died and the kid was on the street. The trick was to get them with their cherry still in tact.

"Are you an angel?"

Patrick caressed her face. Her skin was soft—the way only a child's skin could be.

"Yes, I'm an angel. Do you have a name, young lady?"

"My name is Melissa."

"Well Melissa, I'm going to take you home and give you a hot bath now. How does that sound?"

"With bubbles?"

Patrick smiled. "With bubbles."

CHAPTER 27

The CIA

Joe was outside, washing down the quaint, red-brick courtyard entry to his Balboa Island home, when Sam's white Ferrari pulled up to the curb a couple of minutes earlier than Joe had expected. He gave Sam a wave and walked around to the side of the house to turn off the water.

"You're early," he shouted. "Do you want to come in?" he asked as he made his way down the driveway toward the car.

"No, let's cruise." Joe got into the car. "Where to?" Sam asked having no idea where they were headed.

Joe pointed forward. "Straight ahead. Hang a left at the stop sign."

"Tell me more about your car dealer friend?" Sam knew most of the big players.

"His name is Ron Carr. He's been selling cars, boats, and airplanes his whole life. The guy knows his stuff. Right now, he's got some kind of hustle going where he buys U.S. cars up in Canada and makes bank on the difference in the exchange rate."

I grew up in the business and I've never heard of the guy. What are the chances of that?

"Interesting, a car dealer who knows how to play exchange rates. I'd guess he probably knows how to move money."

Joe smiled. "We all have a lot in common."

"Great, I can't even go car shopping and not meet someone in the game. Man, I hate it down here."

Joe covered his face with both hands. Then, he shook his head—trying to rid himself of the effects of such an insult.

"Nobody hates Newport! Tell me you didn't just say that?"

"I said it." Sam grinned, happy to defile a place so culturally void that people thought of Leroy Neeman as the world's greatest artist.

"What about the boats, the water, the nice breeze," he asked, pointing out the window at the endless beauty of Newport Beach.

"All very nice if you're retired or on vacation. But there's no action down here. I'm talking zero; I don't know how you do it." Sam down shifted and came to a stop at a red light. Three young girls in shorts and bikini tops walked in front of the car.

"Hey! Come here for a second!" All three turned around. Sam pointed at the tallest and most attractive of the three. "That's right—you. Come over here."

She walked over to the car, unsure of herself.

"Do I know you?"

"No, but I want to take you out." Sam handed her a pen. "I don't have any paper so just write your number on my arm." He extended his arm out straight. She hesitated. "Go ahead. C'mon, we'll have ice cream or something."

"I'm only doing this because no guy has ever asked me out for ice-cream before." She started writing. "I mean, how bad could you be." She handed back the Mont Blanc. "I really love ice cream. I know this place in Seal Beach called Grandma's. We should go there." Her conversation with herself was going well.

Sam smiled. "We're on. Grandma's it is."

She smiled back. "Good, call me later."

The light turned green just as she made it to the curb. She said something to her friends then turned around and waved. "My name is Kristi!"

Joe shook his head. "How bad could you be?" he laughed. "Ice cream, she thinks you're nice because you like ice cream."

"I can be nice." Sam took notice of Joe's skeptical look. "Seriously, I can be really nice if I want to be." Joe kept staring. "Well fuck you, I'll prove it. I'm going to be so nice to Kristi that I'll bet you ten grand she wants to marry me in three months or less."

"Then what? You're not going to marry her—"

"I could. Hell, maybe I'll even take out a life insurance policy on her then arrange for an accident.

She dies happy and in love—and you owe me ten grand."

Joe pointed to the right. "Turn here. Then make another right and go up the hill. And please don't do anything to Kristi. Buy her some ice cream, fuck her a few times, and tell her you have to leave the country or something."

Sam imagined Kristi naked. "Man, I wanna fuck her."

"Still hate Newport?" Joe asked, knowing Sam was at his weakest.

"You're fucking right I do. If I wasn't fantasizing about Kristi right now, I'd probably fall asleep at the wheel and kill us both." Sam looked over at Joe and winked. "It's not that bad."

Ron Carr's wholesale dealership was located in a nondescript industrial park. The large rollup door on the side of the building was open. Sam could see at least a dozen Mercedes Benz's and another row of Ford trucks.

"Do you think I should pull in?" Sam asked, slowly driving through the outer parking lot.

"Why not," Joe sounded nonchalant. "I don't see a sign saying we shouldn't."

Sam pulled the Ferrari into the warehouse, facing the other cars—which had been parked in two concentric half-circles.

Joe whistled. "Anyone here?"

"Hello, anyone home?" Sam shouted out after him. There was no answer.

Sam looked at Joe. "The hell with buying an SEC. Maybe we should just take one?"

Joe opened the door of one of the cars. "Look at this. Blue with a dove gray interior, kind of like your Ferrari. This is a nice car."

"You're not kidding. This thing is sweet," Sam said, nudging Joe to the side. "Where's Ron?"

Joe shut the door and pointed towards some offices on the far side of the warehouse.

"He's probably back there. I think we can walk in from the door on the far left."

They walked through the door marked "Employees Only". Then, they proceeded down a hallway at the end of which their only option was to make a right. A loud voice emanated from the office two doors up on their left.

"Would that be Ron?" Sam asked Joe.

"Yes, that would be him," Joe answered, sounding very sure.

They stopped at the open door and Joe gave a fake knock to be polite. Ron didn't miss a beat of his conversation as he waved them in and pointed at two chairs in front of his desk.

"Steve, I'm not kidding. I can do another hundred trucks this month if you can just shake them loose." Pause. Then, "Of course I'll make it good to you. Just get me the trucks. Listen, I've got some people here—I have to run. I'll talk to you later." Ron hung up the phone. "You must be Joe's friend, Sam."

"You must be Joe's friend Ron?" Sam instantly liked him. "Nice to meet you."

Ron was a good-looking man in his late thirties. Even seated, Sam could tell he was well over six feet tall. His hair was prematurely gray which made him seem older than he was.

Ron continued, with the confident sound of a good-looking guy on a roll. "Did Joe take you through the warehouse?"

"Yeah, I thought about driving off with the blue SEC," Sam answered.

"It's yours." Ron leaned back in his chair and smiled.

"I'd have to leave my Ferrari."

"That's a problem," Ron feigned concern.

"What can you do?" Sam shrugged. "Life just isn't fair sometimes."

"Joe was telling me it's a beauty. That you had it decked out at the factory."

"Actually, the original owner did that. But they did a great job."

"You mind if I take it for a drive?" Ron asked, standing up.

"No, not at all."

They followed Ron out of his office.

"Where is everybody?" Sam knew that guys like Ron didn't keep people around.

"I normally have a girl up front." He flipped a light switch on, as they entered the hallway. "But she had some kind of bullshit going on with her family. She's got nice legs going for her and that's about it. I'll probably get rid of her next week." Ron opened the door into the warehouse. "Son of a bitch, that really is a factory white 308. I thought Joe might be telling me a story."

"I don't tell stories," Joe said in a distinctly fake defensive tone.

"Not even to Shauna?" Sam asked, unable to resist the opportunity to give him some shit about his obsessively possessive girlfriend.

Joe gave him a look. "I only tell her stories when we hang out. She thinks you're a bad influence."

"Me, a bad influence?" Sam tried to sound incredulous. " _You're_ the bad influence. If it weren't for you, I'd be in L.A. working right now instead of hanging out down here in fucking Leisure World."

"And she doesn't like your constant use of the F word."

"The F word?" Sam pointed at himself.

"Yeah, you say fuck a lot."

"I've never said the word fuck in front of Shauna."

"It doesn't matter—she can tell you say it all the time."

"Fuck you. You're making this shit up."

Ron came to Sam's defense. "Shauna thinks anybody who takes you out of her sight for more than five minutes is a bad influence."

"She thinks you're a bad influence too." Joe knew they were right. His girlfriend was a ball-buster. But her body made it all worthwhile.

"Who says blondes are dumb?" At six-foot-three, Ron had to make a considerable effort to squeeze into the Ferrari.

"Man, it feels weird every time I get into the passenger's seat of my own car," Sam said buckling his seatbelt and thinking back to the night he let Robbie drive.

Won't be having any deadly confrontations over the use of the word nigger down here. No black people in Newport. I wonder how that happened.

Ron revved the engine. The high pitch hum of a Ferrari was nothing like the low rumble of an American muscle car.

"Nitrous?" Ron's keen ear compelled him to ask.

"Of course." Sam had just had the blue tank of laughing gas refilled that morning.

"You know it's terrible for the engine?"

"The price you pay if you want to play." Sam gave Joe the peace sign, as the car rolled toward the open door. "Besides, I can always buy a new engine."

"You might have to, if you burn a lot of this stuff." Ron shifted the car into gear and raced out to the street. Sam could tell by the way he hit the gas that he liked fast cars.

Ron wasted no time taking the car over a hundred-miles-per-hour. He navigated the streets surrounding the industrial park like they were his own personal grand prix course.

"You know how to drive my friend," Sam told him enthusiastically.

Ron kept his eyes on the road. "I've had some practice. Who ever tuned this puppy up knows his shit. This is the best tuned Ferrari I've ever driven—and I've driven a few."

"Take some more turns. The fucking thing corners like you're riding on rails."

Ron obliged, noticing the ever-widening smile on Sam's face.

"Most people would be shitting in their pants right about now." Ron commented.

"Most people are pussies!"

The engine roared as Ron took a sharp turn at over eighty.

"No, they're just afraid to die!"

"That's why they're already dead."

"What?" For the first time Ron almost lost his concentration on the road.

"It doesn't matter. I'm not dying in a fucking car crash; it'll take more than that to get rid of me. Seriously, go as fast as you want; I don't give a shit."

Ron shifted the car into fifth-gear as they approached the hill that led back to the warehouse.

Sam glanced at the speedometer. "One-sixty-five. I didn't think it could do it."

Ron nodded. "Going up hill. Not too bad."

They pulled back into the warehouse and got out of the car. Joe was sitting in the blue Benz, listening to some music.

He turned the radio down. "What did you think?"

"That's a nice car," Ron said, without hesitation.

"I told him this is the car he should be driving." Joe looked around the Benz, still advocating the SEC.

"They're two different animals. An apple and an orange," Ron said echoing Sam's opinion from the night before. "What he should be doing is driving them both."

Sam didn't say anything—but it didn't strike him as such a bad idea.

"Look, why don't you guys take the Benz out and tool around for a while? I need to deal with some business up in Canada for the next couple of hours. I'll catch up with you when you get back."

"I'll drive," Sam motioned with his thumb for Joe to vacate the drive's seat.

"Be my guest." Joe slid out of the driver's seat and began walking around to the other side of the car. "You're the only person I know that can afford to buy a car a week."

"Oh, there you go with the guilt." Sam's voice echoed around the warehouse. "You want one?"

"No," Joe sat in the passenger's seat. "I'm fine."

"Seriously, it's on me." Sam lowered his voice to a normal level, once inside the car. "I'll buy two. Just don't pick the same color." He shut the door. No car door shut like a Mercedes. It made just the slightest muffled sound of interlocking latches.

"Stop it. I can buy my own car."

"Shut the fuck up. I said I'd buy you a fucking car. That's it. End of discussion."

"You just said fuck twice."

"That fucking girlfriend of yours." Sam pulled the car out of the warehouse. "Fuck, this car is smooth."

"And quiet." Joe set the radio to his favorite station. "You can't even tell it's running."

"I think its love at first drive. By the way, where do you feel like cruising to?"

"South Coast Plaza has a million stores and loads of hot little girls running around."

"Well don't just sit there—give me some directions." Sam smiled. "Shopping and girls in the same place. The shopping mall, one of the great inventions of the twentieth century."

Late in the afternoon, they pulled back into the warehouse. Ron was pointing at the trucks—giving a young Mexican some instructions. It looked like he was having him re-park the trucks in an arch around the Mercedes. Sam parked the SEC in the same spot that it had been in before.

"You ladies have a nice day at the mall?" Ron asked, chuckling as they unloaded several shopping bags.

Sam shrugged. "Hey, I like to shop. I'm in touch with my feminine side."

"Of course you are," Ron agreed, rolling his eyes.

"He was driving." Joe was holding three bags of his own. "I just went along for the ride."

"You disingenuous bastard." Sam pointed at the bags. "I had to practically drag you out of the place."

Ron shook his head. "Back in my day, I would have been down at the beach cruising."

"Back in your day, dinosaurs still roamed the coastline," Sam said, stuffing a shopping bag into the rear compartment of the Ferrari. "And there are more chicks at the mall these days than at the beach anyway."

"It was the time of free love." Ron smiled—remembering.

"Love isn't free anymore." Joe handed Sam his bags.

"Love is bullshit." Sam pushed down on a bag, trying to make room for the three Joe had just handed him. The nitrous tank that took up half of the already small storage compartment wasn't making things easy.

Ron and Joe looked at each other and smiled.

"I'm serious. It's a concept, a myth, an invention of the human mind. A hundred years ago a woman had less value than a fucking horse. They're good for fucking, having kids, cooking, taking care of the house, and that's it. Try plowing a field with one of them. You'll wish you had a horse."

"Joe told me you had a girlfriend. You don't love her?"

"I love having a girlfriend." Sam carefully shut the rear compartment of the Ferrari. "There's a big difference."

Ron looked from Joe to Sam. They looked so much alike there was something unnatural about it. "Sam, if you have some time tomorrow, I'd like to take you to lunch."

Sam needed only to stare into the darkness to see. Ron, or whatever his real name was, came from deep in the darkness.

"Yeah, why not? It will give us a chance to work out a deal on the Benz." He glanced at Joe. "Actually, two Benz's."

Ron watched the white Ferrari pull out of the driveway. Then, he pushed the red button that caused the large metal door to roll shut behind them. He walked back to his office, opened his desk drawer, and pulled out his satellite phone.

"The Assistant Director's office please."

"Code?" The operator was always dry and to the point.

The phone would have been identified immediately. His voice would have been run through voice recognition software—but there was always the code.

"Code 10012002"

"Transferring."

A few seconds later, he heard:

"Grimaldi speaking." He always sounded busy and annoyed to be bothered.

"George, I have our guy."

"Really, anyone on the list?"

"Sam Noah."

"The kid who put together the money swapping scam for Pearlstein in Vegas?" Grimaldi asked, wanting to make sure.

"He's in the drug business now, George. He's way past just messing with money."

"You know when treasury shut that crap down, we made it clear to those kikes we wanted that kid cut loose and back in school. Now he's dealing. I'd like to know how that happened?"

"Can't say. I've developed a pretty good relationship with one of his best friends—but he hasn't said anything."

"You know Ron, he's the youngest person ever to make the Threat List. Highest SAT in the country, highest Presidential Fitness Score in the country; never happened before." Grimaldi's voice had a strange sense of pride. "The kid looks up to that Jabba the Hut kike lawyer of Pearlstein's. Ivan the Terrible they call him. Bad influence meets the right stuff Ron. You need to be very careful."

"Any reason we didn't recruit him before they did?" Ron knew Grimaldi well enough to know he knew more about Sam Noah than he was letting on.

"The law. He was a minor when he entered UCLA."

Ron scribbled the word minor on the note pad on his desk. "Well, he's all grown up now." Grimaldi would have never lost an asset to a private interest over a technicality. Ron scribbled the word bullshit next to minor.

"You're sure he's dealing?"

"Yeah, he's dealing big-time. And getting bigger every day I would guess."

"Well, he got the seed capital from somewhere."

"If I recall," Ron strained to remember, "his file said something about a scam during the Olympics?"

Grimaldi gave a very rare laugh. "The Feds think he was dealing in stolen Olympic pins, but they could never figure out where he stole the pins from. We're almost positive he laundered the pin money into high-end artwork. The drug money came from somewhere else."

"His buddy Joe told me they buy a lot of artwork together. Apparently he has pretty good taste."

"The drug money had to come from Vegas." Grimaldi paused. "I'll make a note of it, but it seems to have worked out in our best interest. We'll give the kikes a pass on this one. If he's our guy, let's kick it down the road."

"How about the accounts? Are they on the table? We need something that's very tempting."

"Very expensive. But I'm okay to put it in play and see what happens."

"Done."

"Ron, be careful. We've never worked with anyone quite like Sam Noah before."

"I've seen him up close and personal. You're not kidding."

"Needless to say, this stays off the books." Grimaldi's voice vanished.

The phone went dead.

"Got to go. My lunch meeting just walked in," Ron said as he stood up. "Don't even bother to sit down. C'mon, I'm driving."

He drove to Marie Calendar's—a corporate chain of home-style restaurants particularly popular for their mass-produced pies. It was the usual mix of businessmen having lunch and housewives having their girls' day out.

"This is so O.C.," Sam said—looking around trying to absorb the vibe.

"What can I get you handsome fellas today?" The not so attractive but very nice waitress asked.

Ron handed her his menu, which she took back with a sense of authority.

"The prime rib special," answered Ron.

"Make that two," Sam said, closing his menu and handing it over.

"Anything to drink?" she asked sweetly, but all business.

They both shook their heads.

"Just water," Sam said, as an afterthought.

"Make that two," Ron added.

"Well I'll bring you some iced tea just in case." She turned and walked away.

Sam waited until she was out of earshot. "I think the people down here are nicer than in L.A."

"They're not as self-absorbed," Ron said, with the benefit of having lived all over the world.

"I'm self-absorbed—but I think I'm friendly."

"When you feel like it. Which is the definition of being self-absorbed," Ron responded astutely.

"You have a point. Wow, that really sucks."

"Don't feel bad, I'm the most self-absorbed person I know. It doesn't matter why you're friendly to the person on the receiving end. It's all the same to them."

"So, do you think the waitress was just nice to us because she thinks we'll give her a better tip?"

"If we were up in L.A. But since we're down in Orange County, I think she was just being nice because she's nice. Does this really interest you?"

"I'm fascinated by people's intentions. Crazy, isn't it?"

"I see. Well let's not bullshit around then, Sam. I know you're a drug dealer. And I know that you're going to give me the obligatory denial."

"I'm not a drug dealer," Sam said—denying Ron's assertion.

Ron nodded. "Like I said, I know you're a drug dealer and you have to deny it. But I want you to hear me out. Actually, let me do the right thing and tell you that you shouldn't be dealing drugs. You're a smart young guy and you could do any number of other things and be successful—in fact more successful. There's more money in legitimate business than in crime."

You obviously have no idea how much I'm making. Show me the legitimate business and I'll do it. While you're at it, find me the bank that will give an eighteen year old an unsecured line of credit to start that business. That's what I thought. Sure, I'll work my way up from the bottom, while other people take credit for what I do.

"Ron, I appreciate your concern. Really. I do. But why do you think I'm a drug dealer?"

"Well, let's see now—" Ron sounded light-hearted as he continued. "You're twenty years old and you drive a Ferrari, which is just one of your twenty or thirty cars. You're wearing a twenty-eight thousand dollar Piaget watch and fifteen hundred dollar alligator loafers. You live in a two million dollar pad on Wilshire. It's not hard to guess what you do for a living. As stupid as you think the cops are, it's just a numbers game. There's a chain of crimes every day that can be linked to you. Every gram of coke that hits the street through your pipeline is its own felony. That means every day there are thousands—if not tens of thousands—of felonies that can be traced back to you. Even a pig with its nose stuffed with shit can find an acorn every now and then. The cops only have to be right once and you're going down."

Sam knew from the moment he first saw him that Ron had some kind of involvement with the government.

"So, are you a cop?"

"Me a cop?" Ron seemed genuinely amused by the question. "You should give up dealing and do standup comedy."

_Why the fuck does everyone keep telling me to do standup?_ _And look at that Prime Rib. Not bad for a chain restaurant. Maybe I will give the pie a try._

"If I'm a cop, you're Mother Teresa." Ron lowered his voice as the waitress took her final steps towards the table. "Anyway, I'm not a cop. What I am is interested in doing business—big business."

"Here you go, boys," she said—placing each of their plates in front of them. "Can I get you anything else?"

Ron held up his hand. "We're fine."

There was silence as each took several bites of their respective slabs of meat.

Sam mixed some sour cream and chives into his baked potato. "This is surprisingly good. I would have never thought..."

Ron wiped his mouth with his napkin. "You have to go with the special. Everything else is so-so."

"I'm not admitting to anything, Ron. But I'd feel better if I knew what your involvement with the government is. And Ron, I like you—so don't try to bullshit me. I can smell a lie, literally."

"Take a look at this and tell me what you smell?" Ron said, handing him the envelope he had brought into the restaurant with him. "As for my involvement with the government, I'm a private contractor for the CIA. I don't always like working for them—but their checks never bounce, if you know what I mean?"

Sam opened the envelope and removed the file it contained. It was a twenty-page CIA document that listed numbered bank accounts and their corresponding balances. Sam flipped through, page-by-page, trying to keep a running tally of the cumulative balance in his head. It seemed to amount to a little over two hundred billion dollars.

The housewives at the table next to them were making such a racket—trying to divvy up the bill—

that Ron reached back and grabbed it out of the lady's hand that was sitting behind him.

"Let me get this one for you girls."

The women were in shock. But being women they were inclined to accept his offer.

"We can't—we don't even know you," the cheery blonde with a bob-cut almost shrieked.

"Really, it's my pleasure. You ladies have a nice day," Ron said, reassuringly.

Sam slipped the file back into the envelope.

Ron leaned forward. "I hate people who split up their fucking bills." His voice was low, like he was giving Sam some serious insider information. "I'd rather just pay the fucking thing than listen to the cheap cunts."

The girls got up from their table and one by one began thanking Ron profusely.

"So what do you guys do? You look like you're having a very important meeting?" the blonde with the bob-cut asked.

"He's trying to sell me a car," Sam answered—thinking that bob-cut might be needing a break from her boring, Orange County housewife life.

"Really? What type of car?"

"A Mercedes," Sam said, offering her the bait.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out one of his cards, and handed it to her.

"Specter," she said, reading aloud. "I think I've heard of your company. Real-estate or something?"

"We're diversified. The next time you're up in L.A., stop by the office and I'll show you around." Sam tried to sound as innocent as possible so as to not put her on the spot in front of her friends. He could imagine what they'd be saying out in the parking lot. "I think he was interested in you."

"Well I don't get up to L.A. that often," she looked back down at the card and the impressive address, "But when I do, I'd love a tour. My husband goes up on business sometimes. Maybe we could both come by?"

"It's an open offer," Sam said, knowing that the line about her husband was for the benefit of her friends. He'd fuck her right on his desk. Girls seemed to like the way the cold marble felt against their asses.

"Bye. I'll talk to you soon." She put her hand on Ron's shoulder. "And thanks again for lunch."

Ron paused for a few seconds as the girls walked away. "What was that?"

"I'm going to fuck her in the ass," Sam said, looking past Ron at bob-cut as she made her way to the door.

"I think she might let you."

"This is interesting," Sam said, giving the envelope a wave.

Ron nodded. "It's a lot of money—and it could all be ours."

"So the CIA is keeping a pile of money in off-shore accounts. How do you see it falling into our hands? And why are they keeping so much money off-shore?"

"I'm the one who set up the accounts. And you hit it right on the head. It's all about why they have the money."

"I'm listening."

"The CIA keeps money off-shore to run its covert operations. The reason there's so much money right now is that they're about to finance a war in Central America. It's going to be a very expensive venture. The money currently in the accounts was accumulated over the years mostly through the sale of heroin from South East Asia and off the books arms deals. To keep the coffers full, the CIA is going to have to branch out into larger cash flow businesses. That's where you come in."

"What do you mean, that's where I come in?"

"You're a coke dealer. I want you to deal coke for the CIA. Plain and simple. They don't have to be your exclusive supplier, but I have a niche in mind. I can set it up so that you'll be dealing with a couple of Mossad guys. You've heard of the Mossad?"

"The Israeli version of the CIA."

"They're helping out with the project in Central America. That's step one."

"What else? It sounds too easy." Sam sensed that there were several layers.

"It's not ether based so it will sell better if it's rocked up into crack and sold in urban areas. I'm assuming you have no problem with dealing in these neighborhoods."

"That's the niche?"

"It's a huge market. And a few more Buckwheats doing drugs is hardly going to hurt our national interest."

"Why's the shit not ether based?"

"Ether's made here and exported. That means it's traceable to a U.S. source; there's no future in that. Nobody wants to be accused of aiding-and-abetting cocaine production. In fact, in another year or so, there'll be no future for ether exports period. Some politician genius figured if the quality of coke isn't as good, sales would slow down."

"They can't really be that stupid?"

"Sure they can. In fact, they are."

"Where do they get these fucking guys from?"

"They get most of them from Harvard and Yale. Anyway, what do you think about a nice little crack epidemic?"

"You're sure the CIA wants to be in the crack business?"

Ron still sounded light hearted. "Fighting communism, fascism, terrorism, and all the other ism's costs money. Or, should I say, guns cost money. And if the money doesn't come from Congress, it has to come from somewhere."

Sam stared coldly at Ron. "What's in it for me? I'm already dealing in the marketplace and I'm happy with my supplier. And I still don't understand how we get our hands on the money."

"Listen Sam, because this is such a nasty business, there's no get out of jail free card. But you'll be kept informed of all law enforcement actions being taken against you. Needless to say, any weapons you might want or need are yours. And anything you want to know about anybody will be at your fingertips. Someone splits with your money; I'll tell you where they're at in twenty-four hours or less. Think of it as having eyes in the back of your head. We'll be your radar—and you'll sell a lot of CIA shit. As far as the money goes, I set up the accounts. But I need you to become our primary dealer so I can justify being responsible for making deposits into them. To do that, I'll need an access code... "

Sam finished his sentence. "The same access code that's required to withdraw money. I love it. But when you use the access code to make the withdrawals, they'll know it's you who stole the money. And trust me, for that kind of money, they'll find us and kill us. Period, end of story. A life on the run from the CIA is a non-starter."

"I have a friend way up."

"It doesn't matter. If there's heat, he'll throw us over. Unless he gets even dirtier than we do."

"How do we grab the money and get away with it?" Ron asked, leaning back in his chair—just like the guys from IBM two tables away.

"Off the top of my head, I would have to ask myself how I could steal the money and get away with it—without them knowing it had been stolen. The bank accounts and the money in them are illegal; there can't be too many lists like the one you showed me. If something happened to the other lists, the CIA wouldn't have a fucking idea where their accounts were at or how much was in them. If we could make that happen, we could sweep the accounts. They would never know what hit them. You find out where the backup lists are at, so we can take them out, and we're in business."

"There should only be one or two other lists at the most. They'd be secured in very hard targets."

"Find out where they're at. I'll take care of the rest." Sam glanced around the restaurant for a second. "Ron, make sure it's your friend way up that gives us the targets. He'll have his own agenda. He'll be dirtier than us."

"Are you a go with turning up the volume and buying from the Israelis?"

"To do the volume you're talking about, it'll get rough out there."

"What do you think the damage in a city like L.A. is going to be?"

"I'd say we're going to wind up knocking off maybe two or three hundred people a year, in the first couple of years."

"Gang violence is a terrible thing," Ron responded unfazed. "You'll need to set up a couple of busts a year for the cameras just to make it look good."

"Not a problem. I'm already very involved in the entertainment business."

"I don't even want to know what that means." Ron threw a hundred down on the table. "Let's get out of here."

Sam took one last sip of his water. "How'd you get wrapped up in all of this? You don't strike me as particularly patriotic."

"I'm not. My specialties are transportation and banking. I took a smuggling bust when I was your age and wound up having to make a deal to stay out of jail. Lucky for me, I had a useful skill set to trade."

"Just out of curiosity—do the FBI and DEA keep slush funds?" Sam asked, not even trying to hide what he had in mind.

Ron nodded. "Nothing like the CIA. But they've got to be keeping fifty to a hundred million in cash on hand somewhere. They need it to do buys. They're buying from some guys for a year or more before taking them down. That costs plenty of money. But it's all cash—no bank accounts to sweep. Why, are you thinking of robbing them?"

"Why not? If we're going to hit the CIA, we might as well hit the FBI too."

Sam's ambition brought a smile to Ron's face. "The hard part is finding out where they keep the cash."

"Yeah, I'll have to work on that." Sam stood up. "How much for the SEC?"

Ron stepped away from the table. "Forty-eight. That's my cost."

"Done deal. I'll take the blue one I drove yesterday and send a burgundy one over to Joe's house. It's on me."

"I'll send Joe's over as soon as I get back to the office. And I'll bring yours to you tomorrow. I have to be up in L.A. anyway."

"How did it go?" Grimaldi asked. The thought of Sam Noah dealing drugs for the CIA had kept him awake all night.

"We're in business, George." Ron couldn't help but feel haughty as he said these words.

"Really?" Grimaldi said, hitting the button beneath his desk that automatically closed the door to his office.

"I pitched him on dealing and hitting the operating accounts. He liked them both."

"What's our end?"

"Information, weapons. George, he knew I worked for the government. I think he figured it right away. When I showed him the account lists and suggested taking the money, it took him all of thirty seconds to suggest we find the other lists and destroy them."

"So, we wouldn't know where our own money is at. I wonder how many people he'd be willing to kill in the process?" The phone was silent for a moment. "Make sure he has good info, Ron. The Feds are going to go after him. You can count on that—and I don't want them fucking things up."

"Are you sure about keeping this off the books?"

"Absolutely. Sam Noah is our asset and nobody, I repeat, nobody else's. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

The phone went dead. Ron scribbled on the notepad, two hundred billion dollars. He looked at the word bullshit. He scribbled "our asset". Then he underlined the word 'our'. "Whose asset, George? If he's off the books, who are we talking about?"

Grimaldi dialed the Executive Extension.

"Mr. Vice President, it's George Grimaldi."

"How are you doing, George? Something you forgot at the morning briefing?"

"No, nothing like that. But I'd like to get together for a drink later, if you have the time? We're about to take a big step on one of our long-term strategies. I know you like to keep up to speed on these things."

"Come by around seven. I have some good Cubans." The Vice President paused. Fucking liberals had made it almost impossible to run a country. "You know George, you remind me of myself when I ran the agency. One day, the pendulum will swing back and we'll be counting on you. Hell, if things keep going the way they are, we may have to give it a push."

"I was thinking the same thing, sir. I'll see you at seven."

The Executive Offices were quiet by seven. The President was an older man who enjoyed short workdays and long dinners with the First Lady. He was a good President, certainly a popular President, but he made no secret of the fact that his greatest strength was providing direction and then getting out of the way to let his capable people do what they needed to do.

The Vice President was from a long line of great Americans. His father had been a war hero and a senator. He himself was a war hero. He was the former Director of the CIA, the current Vice President, and, barring some unforeseen circumstance, the next President. Like his father, he was a man of considerable wealth. Like his father, he was a man who understood destiny and man's own role in the fulfillment of destiny.

George Grimaldi sat in the Vice President's study waiting comfortably for his boss and mentor. The study was a warm, comfortable room with rich wood paneling and beautiful antiques that dated back to the Lincoln Presidency. Grimaldi was admiring the Tiffany lamp that sat on the end table just to his right when he heard the footsteps coming down the short hallway.

"George!" The Vice President's voice rang with a slight Texas twang as he walked through the door from his office to the study.

Grimaldi stood. "Mr. Vice President."

"Sit down George, this isn't a cabinet meeting." He walked to the humidor that sat on the otherwise well-stocked bookshelves, opened the lid and pulled out two Cohibas. "You know, if we didn't need the Florida vote, I'd work something out with Castro." He handed Grimaldi one of the cigars and pointed to the sterling silver cutter that lay on the coffee table next to the large crystal ashtray. "The old man knows how to make cigars. You have to give him that."

Grimaldi smiled as he cut through the end of the fine leaves that had been cured at least three times before being rolled. "Well, he'll die and we'll be back in business with Cuba one day soon."

The flame ignited out of the Vice President's sterling silver Dupont lighter. He held it steady in front of Grimaldi who lit up carefully—rotating his cigar as he inhaled. "The old man isn't dying anytime soon. The bastard will probably outlive us all. You know, they take medicine and science seriously over there. Can't make a car—but if it involves keeping Castro alive, it's a national mission." He chuckled. "Speaking of national missions George, what's going on?" The Vice President sat in the armchair to Grimaldi's right. He looked even more important in the glow of the Tiffany lamp. "What's going on that my Assistant Director needs to see me privately?"

"Well sir, to be absolutely candid, I've given the go ahead to one of our private contractors in California to engage in dealings with Sam Noah. You remember the name?"

"I remember all of the names. What exactly is he being engaged to do?"

"We need to raise money for our efforts in Central America. His business interests here can be very useful to our effort."

"Are we talking narcotics, George?"

"Yes, Mr. Vice President."

"He's still very young."

"Yes, but he's more than capable, sir."

"You know George, all this started long before your time. The world was such a dark place then. We thought no course of action too extreme. As I sit here now, I have my doubts. Unleashing a Sam Noah on the world—I've seen first hand what his predecessors were capable of."

"Sir, there's going to be a man like Sam Noah no matter what our hand in it is. It's better if we're in control. If anything, that's what we can take from the last time. We should have taken control early on."

The Vice President took a long drag of his cigar and let the smoke out slowly from his mouth. "Can we really control something like this, George? That's my worry. Can we really fight fire with fire without getting burned?"

"Sir, you've told me many times that we must not let destiny be a river left to define its own path. The water will flow. But we can decide how and when it gets to where it's going."

A smile crossed the Vice President's face. A smile that made it clear he was not completely convinced. "How can I argue with my own logic? That's how good you've gotten, George. You make people have to argue against themselves. If you lose control of Mr. Noah, things will be considerably worse than if we had let things take their own natural course. If you stay in control and keep him on the right path—our path—this will prove to be a great thing that we've done. George, make sure that we've done the right thing."

"I will, sir." Grimaldi paused to choose his next words carefully. "Sir, is this something the President will be advised of?"

"No, George. The President prefers to not be advised of such things."

CHAPTER 28

The Drive-By

Tasha Washington was out for a walk with her daughter, just two blocks from her mother's house, when the shooting occurred.

Sam sat in the den of his new, ten thousand square-foot Wilshire Boulevard penthouse with Frank, Doug, and Robbie. They drank their beers and watched the news. All three local networks were showing the dying pregnant woman bleeding to death on the sidewalk as the paramedics worked desperately to save her life. Sam turned off the big screen. All eyes were on Robbie.

"I never even saw the dumb bitch. Motherfucker ducked behind a Suburban and we lit it the fuck up. When the metal hits the air, shit gets crazy."

Sam gave Doug a nod. "What's your take?"

"Bro, it's unfortunate. But if the news crews weren't already down there covering the Grammy Awards, nobody would have shown. And it's only because they got her still on the sidewalk that gets it on the air. We've hit hundreds of people right in that same neighborhood and there's never been one single crew."

The phone rang. "Noah residence," Sam said into the phone.

"Nice work! Did you tip off the news crews?"

"Of course we did," Sam answered sarcastically. "Did you like the part where she turns blue and miscarries into the gutter?"

"I'm running late for dinner," Patrick apologized. "Tell Stacy I'm sorry."

"Not to worry. She's running a little behind also. I'd say you've got another thirty minutes."

"I'll be there in twenty."

Frank stood up and pulled a pool cue from its polished, stainless steel wall rack. "Doesn't anybody want to know my take on the whole fucking thing?" he asked, chalking the cue.

Sam looked at Doug, who shrugged, then to Robbie—who shook his head. "No, I think we could all do without your expert analysis," Sam said, speaking for the group.

"Well, I'm glad you asked. The way I see it is like this. Every time a stray bullet takes someone out, it was just his or her time to go. I mean, what are the chances? It's like getting hit by lightning. Bad, random shit happens sometimes. That's why this story will be off the air in a New York second. If there were some nut out there killing pregnant women and leaving playing cards or something, it would be the story of the year. But an accident is just the news of the day. She might as well have been hit by a bus. Throw in the fact that she's black and they won't even cover the funeral."

Frank walked to the other side of the polished stainless steel pool table and tapped his cue stick lightly against its side. A silent challenge that meant money was on the table, a hundred dollars for each tap.

"C'mon, let's get a game of eight ball in," Sam said, standing at the fifth tap. He pulled down a cue stick and walked to the table. Sam's game had improved considerably over the last year, the benefit of buying his own pool table.

"Good, I could use some extra money." Frank began racking the balls.

"To pay me what you're going to owe me after I run the table." Sam chalked his cue.

"In your fucking dreams." Frank chalked his hands.

"Just to show you how fair I am, you can break." Sam waved his hand toward the felt.

"So what about all the shit on the news?" Robbie asked, curious as to whether or not he was off the hook.

Sam looked up from the table and said, "I hate to actually agree with Frank—but he's right. It's a bolt of lightning story. The people in the hood here or anywhere else aren't going to rise up and do anything. And the people who don't live in the hood don't give a shit."

Frank broke. "Look at that break; you might as well sit down. Oh wait, get me some money first, let's say..."

"You call that bullshit a fucking break?" Robbie laughed. "I'll bet you a grand the boss kicks your ass. My bitch breaks better than that." Robbie pointed at the table. "In fact, my little daughter breaks better than that."

"Funny, very funny, we'll see if you're laughing when I take your fucking money." Frank looked at his watch and continued, "In, let's say, about five minutes."

"Anybody want another beer?" Doug asked, as he walked to the bar.

Sam hadn't wanted the first one. "I'll take a Scotch straight up, as long as you're bartending."

"I'm good," Robbie said, holding up the bottle in his hand.

"Good," Frank said, waving him off and looking for his next shot.

Doug reached into the compartment of the bar that had been built only for the purpose of quickly frosting beer mugs. "Bro, this place is amazing."

"Amazing?" Robbie nodded toward the floor to ceiling aquarium that divided the den from Sam's study. "Motherfucker's got sharks swimming around in his walls. Sharks, that's some Hollywood gangster shit."

Doug looked at the sharks as they continued their never-ending pattern of swimming from end to end of the aquarium. "Bro, why do you think nobody in the hood cares about what's going on?"

Frank gave up on his next shot momentarily and leaned on his cue. Robbie took a sip of his beer and settled back in the big, black, leather chair.

"Because they're lazy. They don't want to work. Mom doesn't give a shit if her kid deals because he brings home the bacon. You ever see these people cry at funerals? You'd think the Pope had died. If they cried like that when they found out their little boy was in a gang or dealing drugs, there would be a lot less funerals. They don't cry when they find out what their kid's up to because they're the beneficiaries. I take that back, they're the fucking accomplices. So when one of them gets it by accident, Frank's proverbial bolt of lightning, they know they really had it coming."

Frank bent back down, took his shot and missed.

"Oh fuck, that was close."

"This ain't horseshoes motherfucker." Robbie rubbed his hands together. "I can feel the money coming to me."

Sam sent the one ball to the side pocket with authority. "Frank," Sam pointed his cue at the table. "Did you see how it looks when it's done correctly?"

Frank caught Stacy standing in the doorway out of the corner of his eye just in time to stop himself from letting the expletives fly. "Hi Stacy," Frank said, tipping everybody off that they had company.

"Hey guys, dinner is ready." She looked at Sam. "Is Patrick coming?"

"Yeah, he called to say he was running late. He should be here any minute."

She stood in the doorway with an apron partially covering the Channel suit Sam had recently bought her. A pampered girl who could cook and clean—and be in charge of a bunch of very bad boys.

"C'mon, let's go before it gets cold."

"I was just going to finish whipping Frank's ass here."

Her right eyebrow rose disapprovingly. "I know that's what you were planning on doing."

Sam put his cue down. "Come on guys, let's wash-up." He turned to Robbie. "I'll win our money after dinner."

Sam looked out of the floor-to-ceiling, glass windows of his bedroom. The sun was just beginning to rise. Stacy was already in the bathroom and Zachary was sound asleep at the foot of the bed. The phone rang, Zachary snored; it was a strange chorus to be awoken to.

"Sam?" He had been expecting the call. He was surprised that it had taken until the morning.

"Yeah, what's up Ron?"

"Let's meet for lunch." Ron's voice was emotionless.

"Does Carlos n' Charlie's work for you?" Sam asked.

"Fine. I'll see you there at twelve."

The lunch crowd sat in the front room. Sam walked by the crowd to his table in the back room usually open only for dinner.

"They told me this was your usual spot," Ron said, sounding more pleasant than he had on the phone.

"I like it." Sam slid in next to him. "What's going on? I didn't like the way you sounded on the phone this morning."

Ron dipped a chip into the tuna dip. "Everybody is very happy with how things are going. But yesterday, right here in your own backyard, your guys took out an expecting mother and her very cute two year old daughter."

Sam nodded. "They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Robbie told me he never even saw them. I warned you this was unpleasant business."

Ron bit down on the chip in his hand and then took a sip of water. "Do you think that dead women and children bother the people we work for? I didn't call you here to bitch. I called you here to tell you that you need to clean this mess up."

"What mess? They're dead. I'm sorry. That's it."

"Wrong. They're dead. You're sorry. And the husband is a Compton police officer, who's telling the media that things like this are the result of some kind of government conspiracy to sell drugs in the hood."

"It is a government conspiracy to sell drugs in the hood," Sam said, trying not to laugh.

"Look, he's a cop. People, at least his people, might listen. This isn't a joke. He's got to go." Ron examined Sam's face, hoping to see that he was taking the situation seriously.

Sam looked out the window for a minute. Through the trees in the lower parking lot, he could see most of the Westside. L.A. wasn't a beautiful city—but it was a great city. A place where anybody could be anything they wanted to be. The air was filled with dreams. All you had to do was breathe.

"Look, it's no big deal. Give me a file on the guy and it'll be taken care of by tomorrow."

Ron shook his head. "The file is in my car. I'll give it to you when we leave. This guy needs to go today."

"I hate doing things in a rush. Shit always happens."

"Sorry, sport. A hell of a lot more can go wrong if this guy keeps yapping."

Sam motioned their waiter over to the table. "Let's order—I'm hungry." The waiter took their order and headed diligently for the kitchen. He had only one table to take care of. Nothing ever went wrong when serving Sam's table. The waiter would wait in the kitchen as their food was prepared. And as soon as the chef was done, he would bring it out.

"We're going to need to discredit this guy." Sam's voice was quiet and thoughtful. "It has to look like it was his fault the wife and kid got whacked."

"I agree," Ron looked directly into Sam's cold eyes. "But nothing too elaborate. This seriously can't wait."

"It's done." Sam felt a strange sense of duty. "Don't worry about it anymore."

Ron nodded. "Not to change the subject, but how do you like the new boat?"

The night air was chilly and damp as Sam walked down the ramp to his thirty-eight-foot Scarab. The boat had three inboard Chrysler four-hundred-motors—with out-drives and headers. Its five hundred gallon fuel tank allowed it to cruise at seventy-miles-per-hour in a four-foot wake while hauling two thousand pounds of cargo for more than a thousand miles. Sam had the boat painted red, white, and blue. Then, christened it Stars and Stripes.

Frank and Doug were up top. Sam assumed Robbie was with the human cargo, down below. As he boarded, he noticed that Frank and Doug looked unusually tense.

"Everything go alright?" he asked, wiping the salty moisture from his hands onto his sweatshirt.

Doug nodded, but said nothing—not wanting to be the bearer of bad news.

Frank cleared his throat. "Well there was one complication."

"Guys, I'm not in the mood to fuck around. Is Robbie down below with the fucking cop or not?"

Frank nodded and followed Sam into the cabin. Robbie was relaxing on the couch, drinking a beer. The cop was hog- tied with handcuffs and shackles—face down on the floor. The complication was lying next to him.

Sam turned to Frank, slowly and deliberately. "Why the fuck is there a little kid on my boat?"

"The kid was with him," Robbie interrupted before Frank could respond. "Couldn't grab him and leave the kid. The kid got a good look at us. Nothing we could do."

Sam looked back from Robbie to Frank. He shrugged. "Doug and I were less than thrilled, but Robbie's right. What the fuck could we do?"

Sam looked back down at the cop and the kid. "Frank you're driving; have Doug keep lookout."

The boat's powerful engines came to life with a deep roar and the boat began to make its way to the open water.

"Robbie, sit Steve and the kid upright and take the tape off their mouths. No one's going to hear them out here."

Sam rummaged through the galley and found some pistachios; the sea air made him hungry. He sat back down on one of the two couches (that doubled as bunks) and started cracking some nuts. Robbie sat next to him, not saying a word, as Sam stared at their passengers.

Steve was an intelligent looking man with an athletic build. Sam guessed him to be in his late twenties. Blood had run down from a gash in his head, just above the hairline. It had begun to dry on the left side of his face. He looked at Sam with contempt. Sam didn't blame him.

"Steve, I realize that this is an unpleasant circumstance under which to meet. But let's just try to make the best of it, shall we? First, why don't you introduce me to your handsome little buddy here?"

Steve tilted his head so he could see Sam more clearly—out of the eye that didn't have blood in it. "This is my son, Jessie."

Sam shook his head. "The entire intelligence apparatus of the United States—with all its resources—managed to omit the fact that you had another kid. And believe me, I gave your file a good read. Fucking geniuses."

"You said the F word," scared little Jessie managed to say.

Sam looked at the bewildered child. "Sorry about that. Did my friends frighten you?" Jessie nodded yes and his eyes welled up with tears. "I'm sorry about that also. They look a lot meaner than they are."

"They hit my dad and made him bleed."

"Yeah, that wasn't very nice. I'll tell them not to do it again."

Sam looked back at Steve. "I am really sorry about this."

"Then let us go. At least, let my boy go. We haven't done anything to you."

"Steve, you stood in front of a news crew and told a reporter that drug dealers operated with impunity in South Central because the government was in the drug business. I know you were upset, but what were you thinking? You're a cop. You have credibility. Now, we need to fix this situation. You don't have any proof to support your allegation, do you?"

"It's right in front of me."

"Don't be a smart ass." Robbie stood up and moved forward to hit him.

Sam held up his hand. "Not in front of the kid."

Steve gave a slight nod to indicate that he appreciated the consideration.

"Look, here's what I need you to do." Sam did his best to sound like it was both of them that were in a terrible jam. "I need you to write a letter to your partner—telling him that you were dealing and got in over your head. It got your old lady killed and you and Jessie had no choice but to split. You write the letter and I'll see to it that Jessie grows up in a nice boarding school somewhere in South America. Needless to say, he won't witness your departure. He'll grow up thinking that you're alive and on the run. If you don't do exactly what I just said, Jessie's going to get his first—and last—swimming lesson."

Steve nodded and Robbie freed his right hand so he could pen the letter. When he was done, Sam looked it over. "Good, this should do the trick. Cuff him back up. It'll be a little while until we get to the really deep water."

They all sat in silence as the boat made its way. Robbie helped Sam finish the pistachios.

"So, are you one of them?" Steve asked interrupting the silence.

"One of who, Steve?" Sam leaned back against a pillow and brought his feet up on the bunk. "One of who?"

"CIA, NSA, some other kind of government contractor? One of them?"

"No, I'm not one of them." Sam glanced at Robbie and smiled. "They think I'm one of them, but I'm something completely different. I do happen to have an arrangement with some guys on your side of the fence—which ironically enough landed you in this unfortunate situation. But it's really a relationship of convenience."

Steve glanced around at the boat's posh interior. "Seems like it's working out okay for you."

"I'd rather be me than you, if that's what you mean. Unfortunately, the job is murder sometimes."

Robbie laughed. "That's cold. How can you be making jokes at a time like this?"

Steve smiled. "It's okay. I'm sure the day will come when you know what it's like to be in my shoes."

Robbie pointed at Steve's feet. "Those would be the cement ones?" He laughed. "I'm sorry, I'm just fucking with you nigger. I hate cops—but I still feel bad for your sorry ass. Sam, what do you think? Are we going to wind up like this guy one day?"

"We all have to die one day. But when we go, it won't be because we got sold out by our own kind."

The engines fell silent. Robbie rose from the couch and helped Steve to his feet. Jessie began to hyperventilate.

"Son, I have to catch another boat." Steve was trying his best to calm his son. "You're going to stay with these gentlemen. Mind what they say. I love you."

Jessie started to sob. Robbie pushed Steve forward, before any further words could be said. The cool night air hit Sam's face as they emerged from the cabin and gave him a second wind. Doug secured a diver's belt around Steve's waist and sat him on the railing, with his back to the water.

"You're going to take care of Jessie?" Steve asked, seeking reassurance in his final moments.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, the kid will have everything we can give him. Just lean back and we're done."

"No, shoot me! Don't do me like that!" he pleaded against being drowned.

"Lean back, fucker!" Sam kicked him in the chest. Steve fell back and disappeared into the water. "See, that wasn't so hard—you pig motherfucker."

Frank bent over the keel and stared into the deep. "What do you think is going through his head right now?"

Robbie looked over the side of the boat. "I better get used to seafood..."

"I'll tell you what's going through his head—salt-water. Gallons and gallons of salt-water." Sam turned to Robbie. "Bring me the kid."

"I thought you were bullshitting him—but I wasn't sure."

"The kid's got to go."

"If we're tossing the kid, why didn't you just shoot the cop?" asked Frank.

"Why make a mess of the boat." Sam looked toward the cabin. "Now bring me the fucking kid."

Robbie returned a minute later, carrying Jessie. He had put tape back over his mouth; Jessie's eyes were wild. Robbie handed him to Sam.

"Sorry about this, little man. Daddy should have kept his mouth shut."

Sam looked at the little human being, the life he held in his hands. Then, he tossed him out like chum. A splash and that was it.

CHAPTER 29

Carrington

A Strange Source

Dennis Craig sat in the bleachers, watching the game. The aluminum bench was hardly comfortable. But as he looked around at the other parents—and then at his son Chris warming up in the batting circle—he was sure he would enjoy the memory of the uncomfortable seat. Other parents spent their days making a living. He spent his days making sure that they were safe to do so. Long, endless days of making sure that his son and the other children on the field in front of him wouldn't fall prey to the men that would steal their souls if they could. Dennis looked out at the field and enjoyed having a break from the life and death struggle of trying to protect a way of life.

The sight of Jim Carrington walking toward his seat was not something he had contemplated happening.

"Hey, Dennis. You mind if I join you?"

"Of course not. I didn't realize you were a little league fan—"

"Maybe one day. Julie's been dropping hints that Missy might be needing a brother."

"Everything okay at the office?" Dennis asked as he looked at his watch. "I've only been gone an hour."

"I wanted to talk to you outside of the office. No notes, no schedule. You know what I mean?"

"Does this have something to do with Bill Murdoch's murder? I can imagine how difficult it's been for you. He was one of the best."

"I was there, Dennis."

"You were _where_?"

"I was in New Orleans. I was meeting Bill. He was murdered three hundred feet from where I was standing."

"I'll forgo asking why the hell you were in New Orleans without my knowing and just ask why were you meeting with Bill?"

"I had a theory about The Man on the Hill situation. Bill used one of his contacts. He had some information for me and was killed before we could speak."

"Did he reach outside? Did he go outside of the FBI for this information?"

"Yes."

Dennis Craig looked out at the diamond. His son Chris was on second base. He had missed seeing his turn at bat. "Well, it's a safe bet that Bill turned over the wrong rock. Whatever he found out, someone really doesn't want us to know."

"I had a few seconds with him."

"He said something?" asked Dennis.

"Yes. He said, 'Maybus.' He said _Maybus_ was responsible and he was here. The problem is, I have no idea what he was talking about. And I don't think it's a good idea to go asking around. I think you're the only person I can trust, Dennis."

"Jim, listen to me carefully. Trust your instincts; don't use official channels on this."

"Do you have any idea what he was talking about?"

Dennis nodded. "I've heard the term, the name. It's an acronym."

"For what?"

"An evil being. Something like that—it's from the new age movement of the last century. I think the name itself dates back to the beginning of history. Hebrew translated into Greek—and then ultimately into Old German."

"Should I ask how you know all this?"

"My grandmother was from Europe. She was one of those strange old women into all kinds of weird, spiritual crap. When we were kids, she'd warn us that Maybus was coming back."

"She's not still alive, is she?"

"No. She died years ago. But her best friend Olga was still alive and kicking last time I heard. Olga made Grams look normal. If she's still alive, she's a hundred years old easy. And if she's still talking, she'll tell you everything you need to know."

"You're okay with me checking this out?"

"An FBI agent was stabbed and left to die in the street like a dog. The last thing he said to his former partner was Maybus." Dennis lowered his voice. It filled with both vengeance and purpose. "You do whatever you have to, to find out what the hell he was talking about. Just keep it way below radar. Missy needs a little brother. Don't forget that when you're out there."

"Thanks, Dennis I won't. Where do I find Olga?"

"I'll have an address for you by the end of the day."

Jim stood. "I'll let you enjoy the rest of the game."

"You're going back to the office?"

"No. I tracked down the owner of the security company that Adam Carrington—the suspicious suicide killer—worked for. His friends and family were useless, other than they all agree he was dealing. I'm hoping there was something at work. The guy he used to work for is in San Diego these days."

"San Diego?"

Jim smiled. "Yeah, after the fire that burned down his office and all of his records, he relocated."

Dennis nodded. "A fire, of course."

Jim turned and walked back down the steps. If Dennis Craig weren't trustworthy, Missy wouldn't be getting that little brother.

Jim Carrington had seen a lot of things in his travels for the FBI. But few compared to the view from the Chart House. The waves broke over the rocks and rolled to the shore with a peaceful steadiness that could hypnotize anyone into thinking the ocean was a place where nothing bad could ever happen. Melvin Stemples had suggested they meet there for lunch and he was easy to spot at the window table. He was the only African-American male in the restaurant. In fact, he was the only African-American male Jim had seen in La Jolla. Jim couldn't help but wonder what the connection was. Of all the places for a black man to move to, La Jolla didn't exactly come to mind.

"Welcome to the real Southern California, Agent Carrington," Melvin said, beginning to stand.

Jim motioned for Melvin to sit back down. "Please—call me Jim." Jim sat in the comfortable chair, on the opposite side of the table. Melvin struck Jim as athletic and intelligent at first glance. He had the confidence of a man who was making a good, honest living. "I hope you don't mind if I call you Melvin. I just came down here to see if I couldn't get some answers that might help us wrap up some loose ends on an old case. Nothing so official that we need to use formalities."

"Melvin is fine. If you want, you can call me Mel. A lot of my friends just call me Mel. So, should I ask you what loose ends and what old case you're referring to?"

"I'm sorry, I thought I told you when I called." Melvin's blank stare assured him that he hadn't. Melvin had nothing to hide—or he was very good at pretending he didn't. Jim smiled. "Adam Carrington, he worked for you. His girlfriend was murdered. A year later, he killed himself and left a note—admitting to breaking her neck."

"I thought that might be what you were talking about. It was a very hard time for me. I hadn't been in business that long. I grew up in South Central, so I'd seen plenty of violence over the years. But to have someone that worked for me lose a girlfriend and then the whole suicide....it was rough."

"Initially, the police cleared him because he had an alibi."

"Yeah, he was at work that day. Apparently, he went home for lunch."

"The police could never confirm that he did or did not leave the property. You have any thoughts about that?"

"Most of the time there's nobody around, other than the person watching the stage—especially near lunchtime. Because there's equipment, the club likes to have someone there for insurance purposes. But truth be told, nothing ever gets loaded in until later in the afternoon. I'm sorry, I'm just thinking out loud. Adam was the only guy on, so there would be no real way to ever know if he left or not. In the end, if he said he did—he did."

"What was he like right after his girlfriend died?"

"He was a mess. I gave him a couple of weeks off to get it together."

"Think he was faking it?"

"Not a chance. He really was a mess. I guess, given the suicide and the note, he was devastated by what he had done. A true crime of passion."

"What can you tell me about his co-workers? The police don't seem to have any notes?"

"At the time of his death, Adam wasn't working for me. He had quit the month before, so I really can't say. I mean, he didn't have any co-workers at the time for them to talk to."

"Yeah, that was at the time of his death. I'm talking about when the girlfriend died. The police didn't talk to his co-workers. To be blunt, I think that was pretty lax. I would like to go back and talk to the people Adam worked with."

"Nobody who worked for me back then, except for Steve, made the move down to San Diego. And I haven't been in touch with any of them since."

"Any chance Adam had problems with the people he worked with?"

"I don't really remember who he worked with. I do know for a fact we've never had any trouble among our employees. Kind of like cops, security work is like a brotherhood. Adam was a likeable guy. He never had any beefs with anyone that I know of."

"Could I get a list from you of your employees at the time."

"I wish I could. But I lost all of my records in a fire years ago."

"You don't remember any names?"

"Some first names, maybe. But to be honest, I wouldn't feel comfortable just rambling off names. If I were to give you the wrong information, there could be some liability in that for me."

"What about Steve?"

"I can't speak for Steve. But as his employer, I would advise him against giving out any information that we couldn't back up with records. Can you imagine what would happen if we gave you the name of an employee and we got the date of employment wrong? The FBI shows up at some guy's work to ask him about a co-worker—who turns out not to have been a co-worker. The guy gets fired because his employer just hears the FBI was asking around. And I get sued."

"You could get copies of bank and tax records?"

"And do what with them? I can't give out tax information—it's illegal. The IRS won't give it to you without a court order and you're the FBI. Can you imagine what they would do to me?" Melvin leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. He lowered his voice to make sure his next words were taken seriously. "With all due respect Agent Carrington, I feel terrible about what happened to both Adam and his girlfriend. But don't ever ask me to do something that would jeopardize my own position. I have a good business and a family. I'm not risking either for any reason."

"Melvin, I apologize. I certainly didn't mean to suggest that you should put yourself in a compromising position. It's just that—I'm not comfortable with a murder that gets solved by a suicide note written by a person who then doesn't turn up dead. I'm really uncomfortable that I don't know who he worked with and now his employer can't tell me. You strike me as a straight shooter. So when you tell me that you wouldn't do anything that would risk your business or your family, I have to take you at your word."

Melvin leaned back in his chair. "Would you like to order Jim? I'm kind of hungry."

Jim shook his head and stood up. "I have to get back to L.A. Thanks for the offer. And thanks for the help. I wish you the best of luck."

"Best of luck to you also." Melvin smiled.

Jim hesitated to walk away for a moment. "Melvin, I know you know what obstruction of justice is. If you're still in contact with any of your former employees, then this is the time to tell me. I really hope you know that."

Melvin shook his head. "I wish I could help you."

Jim pulled a card out and laid it down on the table. "If you think of something—"

Melvin watched Jim Carrington walk out the door. Then, he turned around to see what was so funny at the table behind him. The familiar laugh of Frank stealing food off of Steve's plate. Four surf and turfs for two people and it still wasn't enough. Business was good in San Diego. Major accounts just came by word of mouth somehow. Frank had found them the perfect office for next to nothing, no questions asked. Steve kept in contact with some of the former employees; Melvin had been told after the fire that it would be a good idea if he didn't.

Jim got out of his car and waited as Dennis walked across the well-lit parking lot of the Federal Building. Certain things would no longer be discussed in offices or cars. Jim's showing up at the baseball diamond had made it clear.

"How was San Diego?"

"La Jolla might be the nicest place on earth."

"It's certainly the most expensive." Dennis smiled. "Even a hundred years ago, it was expensive."

"Well I was very impressed, to say the least."

"Were you impressed by the former boss?"

"Oh, yeah. This guy made it out of the ghetto. And yet, you'd swear he was born in La Jolla. Someone took him under their wing."

"Did he give anything up?"

Jim nodded. "Nothing—and everything. He's straight, he's got a family, and he made it clear that he wouldn't do anything that would put either in jeopardy."

"Meaning that helping us would put him in danger?"

Jim smiled. "Oh yeah. No question about it. But when he said it, he wasn't trying to get it across. He's bright, but it was clearly a slip. He's loyal to whomever he's protecting—and not out of fear. It's something much more than that."

"You lost me. You said jeopardy?"

"What I'm saying is—that's only part of it. There's a fear factor—but loyalty doesn't come from fear. It comes from strong belief. Real loyalty comes from believing. I want to take a good look at the company's former employees."

"You think there's something there?"

"You can never be sure. This guy not being forthcoming doesn't mean he's hiding some big secret. It just means he's hiding something. Hell, maybe the fire was insurance fraud and that's where he got the money to move to La Jolla."

"But in your gut, you don't believe that?"

"No. But we have to consider every possible angle."

"You think he's protecting a former employee? Maybe more than one?"

"There's a lot of possibilities. We need a court order to get this guy's payroll records."

Dennis looked down at the asphalt. "We'll never get a court order to look at the tax information of a legitimate business that's not implicated in anything criminal. The murder case was closed by the local police—and we have no jurisdiction there. Forget about a court order."

"What are you saying, Dennis?"

"I'm saying that I'll get you the information. But it won't be by a court order."

"You're kidding, right? There's no way I could let you do that—"

"Jim, I know it probably hasn't crossed your mind. But where do you think Bill Murdoch got the information that he wanted to give to you? It wasn't a court order. I can tell you that much. You've already received information from an illegal source. Hearing the word Maybus was a federal crime. Bill had no idea what type of shit he was getting into. Now you're involved and you've got me involved. We're both in the same shit Murdoch stepped into. If we want to stop this drug business—if we want to find this Man on the Hill—" He paused and then continued. "Look, Jim—if we want to find out what the hell Bill Murdoch was killed for, and by whom, then it won't be by playing by the rules. The people we're trying to put away don't play by the rules."

"Dennis, when you asked me to join the task force, you said you wanted the task force to be incorruptible. Now, we're going to become criminals to catch criminals?"

"Jim, I didn't want things to be this way, believe me. Incorruptible for us now has to mean that we do what we have to do for the greater good. We don't break the law for personal gain. That's the difference between us and them."

"Breaking the law is still a crime." Jim looked Dennis Craig, his superior, right in the eye. "Anybody who breaks the law is a criminal; it doesn't matter why."

"The tax records are going to just be sitting on your passenger seat one day. You do what you think you have to." Dennis Craig pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "This is Olga's address. Apparently, she won't go to a retirement home. So, at a hundred and two, she's still living in the same house I remember as a kid. Trust me when I tell you this—you're in for a treat."

The drive up the coast was truly spectacular. The weather was much cooler than the drive south had been the day before—but the scenery was a marvel. Beaches that backed up to mountains—the flat shorelines of the East Coast were no comparison. The California coastline, like the Grand Canyon, was one of the great natural wonders of the world. And there, as a spectator to the natural beauty, was San Luis Obispo—a small beach town that could only be described as lost in time.

Jim parked the red Trans-Am in front of the little Craftsman beach shack and got out. From the house next door, the distinct voice of Jim Morrison emanated from a Hi Fi. "Riders on the Storm" was still a number-one single because it was still 1968 in San Luis Obispo: nothing had changed.

Jim crossed the small porch to the screen door. His eyes strained to try to make out the clutter on the other side.

"Hello! Is anyone home?"

The plump little figure seemed to appear from nowhere and then waddled towards the door.

"I'm coming! I'm coming." She peered through the screen. "Well, look at you! Come in." She turned and began walking away.

Jim opened the screen door and took a step inside. His eyes moved slowly around the room—trying to take it all in.

"Excuse the mess. Things just pile up over the years."

Every inch of the room was covered with things, very strange things. Small animals taxidermy- preserved to perfection, all with horrible, angry expressions. There were hundreds, if not possibly thousands of bottles with colored fluids—colors that Jim couldn't name. Books and notes were scribbled in languages that weren't recognizable. Jim did a double take, identifying what he thought to be a real cast-iron cauldron. The house was nothing but pathways that cut through paraphernalia piles of the occult. In less than a minute, he found himself in Olga's bedroom. He could only stand and watch as she crawled back into what he presumed to be her bed.

"Come here—closer, so I can see you."

Jim stepped to the side of the bed. He stared down at her round, wrinkled face. She smiled, revealing that she had no teeth. Her eyes were bright and on fire with some type of purpose that Jim could not imagine.

"I've been expecting you, Jimmy. I was surprised to hear you were coming from Dennis. Dennis the Menace, we used to call him—the stupid little fucker!" She paused and stared at Jim, a smile no longer on her face. "Oh, don't be shocked that a sweet little old lady like me knows the word fucker. I knew Stalin. He was a mean, crazy, fucker. Dennis's grandmother was a friend of mine. I'm sure he told you. She knew the truth. The kids—they wouldn't listen. Nobody would listen to old women with accents. Now, look what's happening. You're here talking to a little old lady with an accent."

"Olga, my name is Jim Carrington. I work with Dennis Craig, I know you know all that, but I have to tell you." He paused to make sure she understood. "When you say, 'Now look what's happening.' What exactly do you mean?"

"You're the weak one, aren't you my dear boy? You're a good boy, but you're weak."

"I...guess so."

"Maybus has come. Dennis didn't say so. But I could hear the fear in his stupid voice. Now I can see the fear in your face. You two have so much in common. You and Maybus."

"Olga, who or what is Maybus?"

"Oh, my darling—Maybus is a great leader. You are his servant. We all are." She smiled. "History is always connected to the future. Time must move forward: there's no stopping it. There is no outsmarting it. In the end, what has to happen will happen. Maybus will come to power again and there will be darkness for a long time before there is light again."

"Olga, who brings the darkness? Does Maybus bring the darkness?"

Her old, shriveled hand extended and reached out to touch his face. "Sweet boy, we bring the darkness. He brings it out of us."

"Does Maybus have another name?"

Her smile was from ear to ear. "You're funny. You're so funny. I'm so glad you came to see me."

"How about it, Olga? Does Maybus have another name? One that I might be able to recognize."

"Of course he does—but I can't tell you. Not because I don't want to—but because I don't know. The Doctrine doesn't say, so it's not part of destiny. It's from the random."

"What's the Doctrine, Olga?"

"The Doctrine is the truth. You don't know the truth? It's from the time of Atlantis." She stared into his eyes, searching his soul and then began to giggle like a child. "They've kept it from you. I wonder why they would do that? Oh." She covered her toothless mouth with her hand. Her lips curled around her gums and her eyes suddenly welled with tears. "They're trying to use him. They're trying to interfere with destiny." A tear streamed out of the corner of her eye—and then another fell. "The darkness will be much worse now. So many people are going to die." She grabbed his hand. "So many people."

"Olga, it's okay. Don't upset yourself. I'm not going to let people die."

"I've seen it before: they killed millions. Do you understand—millions of people? Do you know what it looks like? The mountains of corpses with their hollow lifeless eyes...a dead little girl still holding a flower. You can't stop this. You'll try, sweet boy. But he's too smart and too strong."

"Olga, how do I find Maybus?"

"Start at the beginning." Her hand tightened around his. "The fools who are trying to use destiny for their own devices. You'll find him through them. I'm tired now."

"I'll let you rest."

"Oh, sweet boy?"

"Yes, Olga?"

"If he doesn't kill you, then they've changed destiny and the darkness will be worse than the plague. They should have told you. I'm sorry, sweet boy. Go now."

"Olga, before I go, can you tell me how he comes to power?"

"Slowly and with a large vision—too large for others to understand." She closed her eyes and began to snore immediately.

Jim walked out of the house and, acting on an impulse that he couldn't understand, sat down on the porch step rather than going straight to his car. The sea breeze blew across his face hard enough to make him squint and it felt incredibly good.

She's a crazy, old woman. She's seen terrible things that give her nightmares. She believes in a book written by the inhabitants of Atlantis, apparently. Could this really be possible?

CHAPTER 30

A Settlement

Sam stood looking out of the window on the southeast side of his office. It was a crisp clear day—he could see Beverly Hills, the Hollywood Hills, and even as far as the tall buildings of downtown Los Angeles. He thought about East L.A., the place where he had grown up. It was just past Downtown, a violent and poor place for the most part. Now, he lived and worked in a world of glass towers. It seemed as though his feet almost never touched the earth anymore—maybe just getting in and out of his car, before going back up an elevator. Sam wondered just how many crimes were going on under his gaze, right at that moment, for which he might be responsible. He thought it would be interesting to actually watch one take place from his high vantage point.

Brian entered Sam's office and sat down quietly in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. For some reason, he always chose the one closer to the door than the window.

"Looking out over your kingdom?"

"I think I belong to it more than it belongs to me," Sam said, after a moment of reflection.

"A lot of things happen down there because of you."

"They happen because people want them to happen, not because of me. I'm just a middleman."

"You ever think about quitting?"

Sam gave the city one last, good look. "I think everybody considers quitting sometimes. But I can't imagine what living a normal life would be like. Get married, have some kids, and go to the office? Maybe try to get away early a couple of days a week to walk around a golf course and hit a ball into a hole? I don't think so." Sam sat down behind his desk. Then he asked, "Where's Gary?"

Brian moved around, trying to get more comfortable in his chair. "I didn't tell him we were meeting. I kind of wanted to talk to you alone today—if that's all right?"

"Yeah, it's fine." Brian had caught him off guard. He hadn't noticed any discord between the two. "What's going on, Brian?"

"Look, I have to tell you right up front that I'm not trying to sell Gary out. He's been good to me. But at this point, I trust your judgment more than his. He didn't want me to tell you about a problem we're having. If I don't, I think we'll be dead by the end of the week."

"Well, that certainly doesn't sound appealing." Sam's face registered more concern than his words conveyed. "Maybe it's a good idea if you start at the beginning?"

"Before we met you, we were buying our coke from a guy named Nasser." Brian paused and took a nervous breath. "Have you heard of him?"

"I've heard of him—he's a fat, little, Persian scumbag. Heroin, coke and gay porn. He's got a deal with the Feds—with Carl White to be exact. He's definitely somebody to stay away from."

"Did you know he was an informant for the Shaw, back in Iran?"

"Yeah, that's what got him into this country. I'm sure the rat prick sent plenty of his fellow students to the Shaw's torture chambers."

Brian nodded. "Well, we were getting our coke from him and making good money. Then, Gary hooks up with this car broker named Kelly who convinces him that he should take the coke money and put it into exotic cars. Basically, we were using Nasser's money to finance our car business. Kelly spends a million dollars on cars. We're on the hook to Nasser for the money, and then Kelly splits with the cars—except for the 308 that you bought."

"Not good, but fixable if you just pay Nasser the money," Sam said, relieved by the simplicity of the resolution.

Brian looked down at the floor. "It gets worse. When Kelly disappeared with the cars, we went to Nasser and took another four keys on credit and told him we were going to make a deal in Hawaii. Before we left for Hawaii, we gave the four kilos to this guy Benny as a payment to kill Nasser."

"You mean Benny from Gold's Gym?"

Brian nodded. "Yeah—you know who I'm talking about. When we got back from Hawaii, Nasser was waiting for us at the airport—still very much alive. He told us that when we left for Hawaii, Benny called him and told him that he had just been paid four kilos to kill him. Then, he told Nasser that he would rather deal coke for him than do the hit."

Sam shook his head. "What a mess."

Brian gave him a thumbs up. "It still gets worse. We deny the whole thing to Nasser, who I'm sure at least halfway doesn't believe us—especially since we don't have his money. I call Benny and ask him what the fuck happened and he tells me to fuck off. I tell him that we want our money for the four keys. So, he says to meet him in the parking lot of Builders' Emporium over on Sepulveda. I show up there last night for our meeting and a Trans-Am pulls up behind me and blocks my car in. Two guys jump out: it's George and Mark, Benny's partners. They have jackets draped over their arms and Uzi's underneath. I could see them in my side view mirrors. I was as good as dead. I'm sitting there thinking—just let me live to see Benny again. Right then, a black and white turns into the parking lot—I'm talking from nowhere. George and Mark do a one-eighty back to their car and now I'm just sitting there thinking that three more seconds and I would have been dead." Brian laughed nervously. "It was the first time in my life I was happy to see a cop. I know it's our mess, but if you don't kill these guys, they're going to kill us for sure."

Benny, George, and Mark were all high-profile guys usually involved in extortion and murder. Recently, George and Mark had killed a well-known movie producer in a murder-for-hire deal; there was heat all over them. Nasser was in bed with the FBI. It was a bad story. Sam almost wished he hadn't heard it—but ignorance would not have been bliss.

"Hey, I know it's a mess. But Sam, I don't know what to do."

Sam leaned forward. "The problem I'm having with the whole thing is that you burned Nasser for money. Then, rather than pay him, you tried to kill him. Worse yet, you even stole the money from him that you paid the killer with. I mean, you're my guys. But you're just fucking wrong on this. I don't blame him for wanting to kill you. I mean, you burned him for a million dollars and then tried to kill him. If it were me, you'd already be dead."

Brian slumped down in his chair. "Look, Gary was pretty much the decision maker. I just trusted him and went along with his plan. What do we do?"

"I want you to call Nassser and arrange a meeting between the three of us at the Sports Club L.A. Tell him tomorrow morning, for breakfast. I'll take care of this; nobody is killing anyone, for now."

"What about Benny? He tried to have me killed last night. Can't you just send Stan or somebody over there to blow his head off?"

Sam had seen Benny around the gym for years. He doubted that they had ever even said hello to each other. If he had wanted to, he could have gotten rid of Benny and all the other small time guys for that matter. But then, what would the cops have to do? Sam liked the idea of the cops and the Feds staying busy with the Bennies of the world. Of course, no matter how much Sam liked having Benny around, he did just try to kill Brian who was bringing in a million dollars a week. Sam reached for the phone.

"Stan, can you come down to my office?"

Stan walked in two minutes later. The atmosphere took on still greater somberness. Stan was slightly larger than Sam. His hair was a shade darker, his skin several shades lighter due only to his aversion to the sun. Stan was a creature of the night, bigger and stronger than Sam, but not as smart.

"Have a seat," Sam said, pointing at the chair next to Brian. "We may have a _situation_ to deal with."

He sat down without saying a word. He didn't have to. His job had nothing to do with words.

"I want you to tell Stan everything you know about Benny—where he lives, his schedule, what types of cars he drives, who he lives with. Tell us everything you know."

Brian was methodical. He knew Benny very well. He even knew where the safe in his apartment was. He was confident his girlfriend would open it if they threatened her baby.

"I don't think we should make a play for the money," Stan said morosely. "Two shotgun blasts to this guy's head and out. If the girl's there, two blasts for her also. Forget about the money."

Sam looked from Stan to Brian. "What's Kelly the car broker's last name?"

"Kalo. His last name is Kalo."

"Why don't you go hang out in your office? I need to talk to Stan privately. And call this Nasser piece of shit straight away."

A deflated and worried Brian got up from his chair and walked out.

Sam sat in silence for a few minutes. Then said thoughtfully, "Don't do anything to this guy Benny. I've got a bad feeling about this whole thing."

"Why all the info then?"

"I might change my mind. It never hurts to know. And it made Brian a little more relaxed. I don't need him freaking out on us right now."

"We'll blast him right through the door. It's not even a security building. We could take care of it tonight, if you want."

"I hear what you're saying—but stay away from the guy. That's what my gut tells me. I'll deal with their other problems tomorrow. This whole business between Benny and them is bullshit. They deserved to get ripped off. I'll make sure Nasser tells Benny to cool it when we settle all this tomorrow."

"What if this guy Nasser won't let things go?"

"He will. I can be pretty persuasive."

"If he refuses, what do you want to do?" Stan asked and smiled. "You know, I'll rip out his fucking heart if you want me to."

"That won't be necessary. But just in case, wait outside of the club tomorrow. If I run my fingers through my hair when I walk out the front door to the valet, then everything is okay. If I don't, kill him while he's waiting for his car. Try and time it so Brian and I are already pulling out of the driveway. I don't want to be filling out some kind of police report for the cops. No horror required, just shoot him."

Stan stood up. The Armani suit did little to hide his menace. "I'll see you in the morning, Sammy."

"Thanks, Stan."

"No problem. We're family."

"I mean thanks for everything. I appreciate that you're always there for me."

Stan stopped at the door. "Hey Sammy, should I bring the gang" he asked as an afterthought.

A smile crossed Sam's face. "No, absolutely not." He paused. "You can bring them with you when I find this thieving fucking Kelly—the car broker chap."

Sam and Brian were already seated at a table when Nasser walked up to them apprehensively. Sam motioned to the chair in front of him. "Sit down, I think we need to talk." Nasser hesitated. "You'd already be dead by now if I was planning on killing you," Sam said coldly.

Nasser sat. "So, you're Sam. I've heard good things about you. Why are you involved with two scumbags like Gary and Brian?"

"They owe you a million dollars?" Sam asked, ignoring the question. "That's basically the problem right?"

"They owe me one million eighty thousand dollars—and they tried to have me killed. That's the problem."

"The only thing you know for sure is that they owe you the money. Benny could have been bullshitting you so you would dump them and just do business with him—which is actually what happened." Sam said this, knowing that Nasser would be inclined to believe the best when it came to two good-looking guys like Gary and Brian.

"Benny could be full of shit..." He liked the idea. "But then, where's my money?"

"They used your money to finance their car business," Sam answered bluntly.

Nasser's expression said he already knew this. "Well, their friend Kelly took off with the cars. So, how do I get my money back?"

"If you shake hands and call it a truce I'll have the money delivered to you by lunchtime."

"You're going to bail them out?" Nasser was completely unable to conceal his delight.

"They're with me now, so their problems are my problems. But I'm telling you if anything happens to them, I'll hold you responsible. That includes this bullshit with Benny."

"If I get my money, I have no problem." He smiled. He knew something they didn't. "Benny won't cause any more trouble. Fifty Feds and a S.W.A.T. team kicked down his door thirty minutes ago and took him away. They had him under around-the-clock surveillance for the last two months. My Fed friend tells me he's in real trouble."

For a second, Sam pictured Stan walking up to Benny's door and gunning him down in front of the Feds. _What a fucking disaster that would have been. Always listen to your gut. I knew these fuckers were bad news._

"Eat lunch at the Hamburger Hamlet in Westwood and I'll have someone drop off a gym bag with the money. Then you'll be square." Sam stood up to go.

"Why don't you bring the money yourself and I'll buy you lunch?" Nasser asked, thinking there was more money to be made with Sam.

"I can't. But thanks for the invite."

Sam and Brian left Nasser to enjoy the rest of his morning.

"Thanks." Brian let out a sigh of relief as they walked out the front doors. "I know you don't need to have headaches like this. I'll make sure we make you your money back."

"That won't be necessary; I'm just going to keep the cars."

"You got the cars already?"

"I have a friend who is very good at finding people. Especially people who have to rent warehouses to stash cars. FYI—they usually try to stay close to the airport." Sam ran his fingers through his hair as they pulled his car to the curb. "But yes, to answer your question, I have the cars."

CHAPTER 31

The Night Before

Frank and Doug entered Kelly's office at the front of the warehouse, unannounced. He was at his desk, with his back to the door, working hard. He was working like someone who needed to finish what they were doing and leave town.

"The cold metal you feel against the back of your head is my .357 Magnum," Frank informed Kelly quietly. "My boss has acquired the car collection you stole from your former clients. He wants the pink slips and the keys to the cars, as well as the keys to the warehouse right now. If you do as I say, the limousine outside will take you directly to the airport where you will catch a flight to anywhere but here. If we find out you're back in Los Angeles for any reason, you're dead. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"Yes. I understand. All the paperwork's in the safe; it's open."

"Check it out," Frank said to Doug—not taking his eyes off Kelly.

Doug bent down and rifled through the safe. Frank stared at the back of Kelly's head.

"It's all here." He began reading the titles. "Ferrari Boxer, Ferrari Daytona Spider, and a Porsche 959."

"That would be what we're looking for," Frank agreed. "Well Kelly, I'm not going to tie you up or anything. But I am going to keep this gun at the back of your head until you're on your way. So let's get up slowly and walk right out the front door."

The driver of the limousine was a monstrously sized man. His hair was cut in a Mohawk and two cold steel blue eyes punctuated his face. A large blond man and an almost feminine creature waited with Stan in the back of the car.

Frank gave Kelly a push. "Get in, fuck face. They're not going to hurt you. We just want to make sure you make it to the airport."

Stan motioned to Kelly. "C'mon now, we don't want to be late."

Kelly got in and Frank shut the door behind him.

Doug shook his head. "Man, if you tried to describe them, nobody would believe you."

"They're the fucking Adams Family on acid," Frank observed less politely.

When the limousine pulled onto the freeway going the opposite direction of the airport, Kelly turned to Stan. "You're not taking me to the airport, are you?"

"No, we're not going to the airport. Not right this second anyway," Stan answered, shaking his head slightly.

"Where are you taking me?" Kelly asked—complete panic staved off only by the calmness of his host.

Stan put his hand on Kelly's thigh and gave it a pat. "Dinner. We're taking you somewhere nice. Now, let's just be quiet and enjoy the ride. I love driving at night."

An hour and a half later, the limousine pulled onto the private road that led to Stan's desert villa at the base of Mount San Jacinto. The house had been built on the side of a cliff so that it backed up against the Big Horn Game Reserve and overlooked the entire Cachella Valley. Nothing could ever be built in front of or behind Stan's property, giving him the complete privacy he needed. To protect the Big Horn, he was allowed by law to trap mountain lions if they wandered onto his property. Stan and the cats had an affinity for each other. Nobody knew exactly how many he kept at the house, but they wandered the confines of his property freely.

The car stopped in front of the steps that led up to the house's veranda and its occupants got out.

Kelly looked at Stan apprehensively. "Where are we? What are we doing here?"

Stan and his friends exchanged smiles.

"We're at my villa," he said reassuringly. "C'mon out of the car—it's beautiful here. I'm not going to hurt you. In fact, you're just in time for dinner."

Stan headed for the front steps. Kelly had to agree it was a beautiful place. The three other freaks that had yet to utter a word followed Stan, leaving Kelly by himself. He thought about making a run for it. But he was in the middle of the desert and it was a cold night out. He reassured himself if they wanted to hurt him they had already had plenty of opportunity. They didn't need to take him out to a beautiful desert villa to do him harm. Kelly got out of the car and shut the door behind him.

Without the light from the car, he was momentarily engulfed by the darkness of the desert. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he could see several sets of eyes around him. There was a low rumbling vibration that his ears could sense more than they could actually hear. He had only taken a couple steps towards the house when he felt an incredibly sharp pain in his right leg just below the knee. At first, it felt like he had been stabbed. But that sensation instantly gave way to the blunt pain of his tibia being crushed. The rumble became a deafening chorus of roars as he fell to the ground. He looked up to the veranda. His host stood behind the smallest and most feminine of his three men, with his arms draped over his shoulder and around his body—as if they were lovers admiring a full moon or a setting sun. The other two stood to his side. They all watched intently.

The pain in Kelly's leg was being replicated on what felt like every square inch of his body, piercing, puncturing, and blunt, crushing pain. Then it came, the horrifying realization that he was being torn apart by wild animals, some kind of giant cats. He screamed. But the night consumed his cries, just as completely as it had the light of day. He looked to the veranda. His host never broke eye contact, while still tenderly kissing his unholy date on the side of the neck. There was a hot breath on Kelly's face. Then came the sharp pain and the crushing. There was one, last muffled scream into the mouth of the beast. Kelly could feel his face being ripped off and eaten, just for a moment.

The cats playfully tried to nuzzle each other away from dinner—all of them except for the largest known as Sheeba. The big cat walked up to the veranda, with the remnants of Kelly's face still hanging from its jowls, and stood next to its master. Stan reached down and patted Sheeba on the head. "That's a good kitty."

CHAPTER 32

Hit Again

Sam sat at his desk, looking over a brokerage statement from Ross Dean. Ron Carr had been giving him inside information on some publicly traded stocks; his returns were averaging more than three hundred percent annually. The market was a hotbed of crime. Sam stared at the numbers.

Making money for not doing shit. Just need to know when to buy and when to sell.

"Hey, do you have plans for lunch?" Joel's voice rang loudly through the phone.

Lunch with Joel was always a three-hour affair "No. When do you want to head out?" Sam answered, figuring that he had the time.

Sam could hear Joel exhale the smoke from the cigarette that he wasn't supposed to be smoking in the office.

"I'll come get you in five minutes."

They hung up and Sam shook his head. He didn't even have to ask where they were going; Joel would only eat sushi for lunch. He was thin as a rail. But he could consume more food and alcohol than most men four times his size. The only thing larger than his appetite for food and libation was his appetite for weed and cocaine. Every night, he would come home, sit in his favorite chair, pull out his special tray, and whip up just the right combination of weed to smoke and coke to snort. He was a master of being stoned and high at the same time. Joel was brilliant.

Sam looked up from his desk to see Specter's chief counsel in the doorway. He had an impatient expression on his face and his unruly hair resembled Albert Einstein's.

"Are you ready to go?" Sam asked.

Joel's expression didn't change. "No. I just thought I would stand here until hell freezes over."

Sam stood up. "Yeah, I'm hungry too. Let's hit it."

Joel's personality was prickly and required some getting used to. But it took an unusual individual to be counsel to a company like Specter.

Just as Sam and Joel stepped into the elevator, the doors slammed behind them and the alarm went off. There was a sudden jerk. The elevator immediately began its decent—picking up speed so rapidly Sam thought it was a pretty safe bet that they were in something close to a freefall. He started pressing the buttons in an attempt to stop the car on one of the floors. None would stay lit.

Sam turned to Joel whose expression hadn't changed at all. "Should I pull the emergency stop button?"

"It's probably a little late for that," he answered in his usual calm, monotone manner.

Sam stepped back so they were shoulder to shoulder against the rear wall. The elevator car was moving so fast that it was floating in its shaft. They could hear it scraping the walls as it strayed from its normal path of decent.

Sam looked at Joel. "Do you think this is it?"

He gave a slight nod. "It might be. Better say your prayers."

Sam shook his head in disgust. "You'd think the fucking alarm would have gone off _before_ we got in. Not after the fucking doors slammed shut."

Joel was stoic. "If we live, I'll sue the building."

"Who the fuck plunges to their death down an elevator shaft these days?" Sam asked, totally miffed.

"Apparently us," Joel answered, matter-of-factly.

"I'm thinking this is going to hurt."

Joel tilted his head. "For about a second."

There was a powerful jolt that made both their legs buckle. Then came a loud screech and a rapid deceleration. They braced themselves against the rear wall as the emergency brakes at the bottom of the shaft attempted to grasp the sides of the car. Finally, there was one last jolt that sent them to the floor and the car came to a stop at the bottom level of the parking structure. When the doors finally opened, employees of the building's management company, and a security team, were already there waiting tensely.

Sam and Joel got up from the floor, each trying to shake off the haze of rapid deceleration trauma. Sam looked at Joel. "I think we just fell thirty stories down an elevator shaft."

Joel looked out at the crowd staring at them. He turned back to Sam. "No shit, genius. What level did you park on?"

The sushi bar was empty with the exception of Sam and Joel.

"Are you sure you want to push the Italians out of the music business?" Joel asked, an hour and a half into lunch.

Disc Connection, Sam's chain of music stores, was having no problem competing against older, more well-established companies. A never-ending flow of stolen compact discs from stores all over the country had given Disc Connection a unique advantage.

"They're degenerate gamblers. When they start losing at the track, they'll rip us off. It's not my top priority. But when I get the right connection, I want all of our stealing to be done by Latinos. They have a good work ethic and they don't play the ponies."

"I'm not talking about the crew. I'm talking about the guys in New York they're paying ten percent of their money to. I don't know if you've seen the numbers lately, but your music business has become a serious cash cow. One day, they're going to want to be more involved, not less."

"Well, I'm not ready to make any moves right now anyway," Sam replied as he picked up a piece of spicy tuna roll and dipped it in soy sauce. "But you're right, we should keep the situation on radar."

"You're too calm. What's up?"

Sam bit down and chewed the tuna roll. He didn't say anything, which said it all.

"You can't be serious?" Joel was at his most perceptive when he was drunk.

"There are going to be big changes back east."

"Tell me you're not involved."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not involved. I just heard there's going to be some changes at the top. I like the Italians, but they can't stop killing each other. After this, they'll start snitching. I don't want to do any more business with them."

Joel downed a glass of sake. "On another note, I took care of those nominations. It cost you ten thousand each."

"They took cash?"

"No, even better. We bought tables at their upcoming fundraisers. We actually paid these guys off legally and got a tax write off at the same time."

Sam nodded. "Politicians are a breed all their own."

"Can I ask why we're spending money to put people into West Point and Annapolis and all these other colleges?"

"Listen, not everybody is cut out for what we do on the street. But it doesn't mean that they can't help us one day. The biggest business in the world is government. We don't want to dance around the system forever."

"Are you thinking about a merger one day?" Joel asked and tilted his head down, looking at Sam over the top of his glasses."

Sam smiled. "Can you imagine what we could do?"

"Sounds like a headache. You don't really think you can take over the country, do you?"

"Sure I do."

"Great." Joel drained the last drops out of his fifth bottle of sake into the small white glass. "You want to come over to my place and get stoned?"

"I wish I could—but I'm meeting Frank in an hour up at Ocean Park for a jog."

Joel got up from his chair. "Be careful, fresh air and exercise will kill you. I'm going to relieve myself. Order me another sake—I'm just getting warmed up."

Located on top of a section of cliffs that overlooked Santa Monica Beach, Ocean Park was a runner's paradise. The park and its scenic views stretched for almost two miles, starting at the northern most point of Ocean Avenue and ending in the southern part—at the famous Santa Monica Pier.

Sam parked his car and got out. Frank was already stretching. Dressed in black shoes, black shorts, and a black T-shirt, he looked more like the Grim Reaper than a jogger. Sam walked over to where Frank was and began his own warm-up-routine.

Frank looked up. "Running a little late today? No pun intended."

Sam bent to his side. "Lunch with Joel."

"Everything go okay with that Persian fucker, Nasser?"

Sam bent in the other direction. "Yeah, everybody's happy. You ready to get going."

Frank looked around. "I'm not strapped, are you?"

"No. I left my piece in the car. I hate running with an ankle holster. It irritates the shit out of my skin."

"It irritates your skin? Do you know what a pussy that makes you sound like?"

Sam kneeled forward, stretching his left calf. "Oh, I'm a pussy because I take care of my skin? You'll be wishing you had in a few years."

Frank rested his hands on his hips and scowled. "At the moment, I'm more concerned about getting gunned down with only my dick in my hand than I am about the long-term effects of the sun. Now, stop fucking with me—is Doug close by?"

Sam pointed to a silver Cadillac parked at the curb, just up the street. "Doug and Robbie will follow us up and back, you fucking stress case."

Frank squinted in the direction of the Cadillac. "Son of a bitch, I'm getting blind in my old age." He gave Doug a wave. "You know, for a giant black man, he's really gotten good at just blending in. Why don't you let him have the joy of running with you? I'll stay in the fucking car."

Sam didn't bother to answer. "C'mon you lazy bastard, let's go."

Frank, despite his bitching, was keeping a good pace a few minutes later. He looked over at Sam. "There was a rumor going around the office today that the car dealer kid we handed off to Count Fucking Dracula didn't make it to the airport."

Sam nodded. "Apparently, there was a miscommunication."

Frank's eyebrow went up. "A miscommunication would have been something like he took him to the wrong airport. Not he took him home and fed him to his fucking mountain lions or tigers or whatever the fuck he lets roam around his fucking house. I know you guys are family, but don't you think he's a little out there—even for us?"

Sam would have laughed if he weren't breathing so hard. "Don't believe everything you hear. And I think it's nice he rescues wild animals. Sigfreid and Roy have a bunch of big cats and nobody thinks it's weird."

Frank slowed down. "Hold on a second, I need a smoke." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Then, with a cigarette in his mouth, he attempted to jog and light up. "This fucking wind," he cursed as he tried to light it again.

Sam stopped. "Who jogs and smokes at the same time?"

Frank got his cigarette lit and they started running again. "I do. Listen, you're not really comparing the serial killer we got working down the hallway from us to the two faggot magicians in Las Vegas, are you?"

This actually made Sam laugh, which turned into choking as he caught a deep breath of Frank's second-hand smoke.

"Man, that's a nasty habit. Look, Stan's okay and he sells a lot of coke. Believe me, every now and then, when you have a really nasty piece of business to take care of, it's good to have a guy like him around. Besides, who's going to fire him?" Sam looked Frank up and down.

He shook his head. "No! Fuck no! No fucking way. Leave me the fuck out of it. I was just filling you in on some office gossip. Forget I brought it up." He pointed down to the pier. "You mind if we go a little further today. I want to cross over the highway and run down to the pier."

"Sounds good to me." Sam looked toward the pier. "What's gotten into you today?"

He tossed his cigarette. "I feel like grabbing a beer before we run back. Unless you just want to hang out at the pub and hitch a ride back with Doug and Robbie?"

"Can't do it. I promised Stacy I'd be home tonight...Motherfucker!" He grabbed Frank, with almost super-human strength and jumped over the railing. Sam landed on Frank heavily as they hit the dirt and began their slide down the cliff to the Pacific Coast Highway. The three gunmen Sam had spotted just in time didn't hesitate to jump over the rail in pursuit. One even tried to stay on his feet, getting off three rounds before he was forced to slide.

Sam hit the sidewalk hard. Frank's foot smacked him on the side of the face as he came rolling to a stop in front of him. Sam looked up to see Doug and Robbie hurdling over the fence, after their pursuers.

Frank looked at Sam. "Time to sprint!"

"Across the highway!" Sam shouted.

They ran full-speed for the fast moving traffic. A white, Dodge, van missed Sam and Frank by inches. But it hit the first gunman that tried to follow them dead on. The impact propelled him twenty feet forward—onto the asphalt—before the vehicle smashed into him again while skidding to a stop.

The second gunman took aim from the sidewalk at Sam and Frank as they weaved through traffic. He never saw Doug pull the trigger of the gun that fired the bullet that spun him around, causing the gunman to lose his balance. He fell into the first lane of the highway, where a dark green Buick was not able to stop before its right front tire rolled over his head.

Sam and Frank made it to the sidewalk and jumped the side-gate of the multimillion-dollar beachfront mansion in front of them. Sam could see the last of the gunmen faring well across the slowing traffic right before he jumped from the fence.

Sam landed on his feet beside Frank. "Take it slow." Sam started picking some burs out of his shirt. "I don't want to freak out whoever lives in this house."

"There's a guy trying to kill us!" Frank looked back at the gate for a second, as they walked calmly along the side of the house.

"Don't worry about him."

"Don't worry? We're unarmed!"

Sam laughed. "Trust me."

As the third gunman jumped for the gate, he was caught in mid-air and flung several feet down the sidewalk. He scrambled quickly to his feet. But the giant with the Mohawk moved with unbelievable speed. He grabbed the gunman and threw him with incredible force against the garage-door of the beautiful beachfront mansion. The world was spinning for the hired killer now. Still, he was able to hold onto his gun. As he took aim at the giant, he became aware of yet another presence, something dark and terrible. The man seemed to move in slow motion. But the gunman knew this not to be the case. His arm had been seized before he could react at all. With a violent jerk and a kick that launched him again back into the air and onto the sidewalk, he looked up to see the horrible man.

Stan smiled and dropped the arm he had torn from the body of the gunman to the ground. "Do you think that a worthless piece of shit like you can hurt one of us?" He moved toward the man whose blood was pouring from the avulsion caused by the loss of his limb. "Do you think that you can kill Sam Noah?" Stan's hand grasped the gunman's trachea and ripped it from his throat. He dropped the lifeless body back to the ground. "You can't. No one can stop us."

Robbie turned to Doug. "Did you see that? He ripped his motherfucking arm right out of its socket!"

Doug watched as Stan and Sergio got into the black sedan driven by Joshua. "We better get back to the car. The boss will want us to pick him up a little ways from here."

Robbie looked back over his shoulder as they walked away. "He ripped his motherfucking arm off."

Sam stopped and looked at the naked bodies as they lay peacefully around the pool. Totally unaware of the carnage just outside on the sidewalk in front of their house.

Frank smiled. "We should really keep walking."

"Do you know who that is?" Sam said, nodding toward the beautiful brunette.

"She looks familiar." Frank squinted trying to get a better look. "She's a movie star."

Sam winked. "We have to talk to them."

"And the three dead guys..."

"I really can't wait to get my hands on the cocksucker that hired them. It's pretty fucking undignified to be sliding down cliffs and running through streets at this stage of life...Look at that body."

"It's kind of exciting."

"I know. I'm getting hard just standing here."

Frank felt for his cigarettes. "Not her, the whole chase thing. It's kind of exciting."

Sam turned to him. "You're really fucking crazy. You know that?"

"So, how did you know the guy wouldn't make it to the fence?"

"I told Stan to start watching my back or have one of his guys hang around when I'm out and about. I saw them as we were crossing the street. I told you he's good to have around."

"I dropped my fucking cigarettes."

"I have some inside if you'd like. Or maybe you would prefer to stay out here in the bushes and peep at the girls."

Sam turned toward the familiar voice. "Massimo? What the fuck are you doing here?"

"This is my house. I live here. I'm guessing by all the dead people out in the street..."

"Yeah, if the cops come by asking questions—you didn't see anything."

"Of course. Come on, I'll introduce you to my friends. They like to fuck."

Sam and Frank exchanged glances. "I'll need to borrow your phone," Sam said, looking back at the girls. "My guys will be worried about me."

"No problem, Sam."

CHAPTER 33

Old Friends

The unmistakably loud noise of a nightclub blared through the phone, into Sam's ear.

"Hello, who's calling?"

"It's Tom, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, just barely. What's going on?" Sam asked Tom the fag, who was now dealing drugs for him and living happily with Susan.

"I'm at Carlos n' Charlie's."

"I can tell. It's really hard to hear you," Sam tried to explain, feeling annoyed by the stupidity of someone calling him from inside a club.

"Come join us. I'm drinking a bottle of Cristal with an old friend of yours who wants to see you."

"Who is it?"

"I'm not telling you. It's a surprise. Trust me, you have to come."

Sam looked over at Stacy, who was on the floor with Zachary's head in her lap. He was enjoying his evening's brushing.

"Tom, this better be worthwhile."

"It is," he said, sounding gayer and smugger than usual.

"Alright, I'll see you up there in twenty minutes."

Sam walked across the room, kneeled down, and gave Stacy a kiss on the cheek.

"We were kind of hoping you could stay home with us tonight," she said, still concentrating her efforts on Zachary.

"Tom says I have to come."

Stacy stopped brushing Zachary to turn and face Sam. She wanted to make sure her disappointment was duly noted. Sam kissed her on the lips and then again, with their mouths open. The urge to stay home was growing.

Then there was a loud whimper. Nothing remotely similar to a bark or a growl—but real distraught emotional pain. Absolutely and perfectly faked for the purpose, the completely selfish purpose, of attention.

"A fourteen-thousand dollar guard dog, ruined," Sam said, shaking his head. All hopes gone of Zachary ever striking terror in the heart of anyone. Unless they were afraid of being licked to death. "You've ruined him. He's about as ferocious as the Easter Bunny."

Stacy tried to—but she couldn't keep a straight face. "If he thought there was danger, I'm sure he'd spring into action." She patted his stomach and he rolled onto his back with all four legs up in the air, "Right boy?"

"Stace, he hasn't even barked in two years."

"He doesn't want to bother the neighbors." Zachary pawed at her hand with the brush in it, hoping to get her to continue.

"You've turned a hundred and fifty pound Pyrenees Mountain dog into a lap cat. I'm sorry, but it's just wrong." Zachary tilted his head back, revealing his wolf-sized incisors. Sam gave her a wink. "Maybe I'll wake you up when I come home."

She winked back. "Maybe I'll let you wake me up when you come home."

Sam made his way back to the black wrought iron railing that separated the VIP section from the rest of the club. Tom was sitting at his table with two well-dressed, young, Latin gentlemen. One was taller and had a rounder face than the other. He was clean-shaven with jet-black hair combed straight back, East L.A. gangster-style, definitely Mexican-American. The shorter one had a mustache and goatee. His hair had some wave to it and it looked to be colored to look slightly grey. He was from South America somewhere. Sam couldn't place it. Not in a dark nightclub. Both had an air of danger. The tall one was calculating, the shorter one wild. Both struck Sam as very dangerous.

Sam put his hand in his jacket and gripped his gun as he walked up to the table. Tom and his two guests rose to their feet.

"What's up, homes? You're not going to shoot me after all these years?" the taller one asked, looking down at Sam's hand.

"I don't think he recognizes you," the shorter friend said, holding out his glass of champagne.

"I've never seen either of you before and now you're sitting at my table having a reunion party."

"Take the glass and forget about the gun," the shorter one insisted. "Your old friend wants to make a toast."

"Let's hear what you have to say. It better be good," Sam said, beginning to think the taller of the two might just look a little bit familiar.

"To the good old days at the lot," the taller one toasted.

Tom, already drunk, downed his champagne like a shot. "That's the weirdest toast I've ever heard." He sounded so gay, Sam thought he might just spontaneously combust.

"J.B.—from my dad's car lot? What the fuck are you doing here?" Sam asked, completely bewildered.

J.B. smiled. "It took you long enough. You move out of the neighborhood and forget your old friends?"

"I haven't seen you since we were eight years old." Sam stared at his childhood friend for a moment. "Fuck, you look good. How's your family?"

"You look good too, homes. My dad's slowing down a little, but he's still getting around. Everybody else is doing fine." J.B. put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Sam, this is Hernan Ramirez—from Colombia."

Hernan reached out and shook Sam's hand. "Man, I've heard a lot of good shit about you. I'm glad we finally have a chance to meet. Let's drink some champagne, play with some girls, and maybe tomorrow we can have dinner and talk some business?"

Tom dutifully poured Sam a glass of Cristal and handed it to him.

"I'll drink to that," Sam said, raising his glass. Then drank his champagne wondering how a member of the world's most powerful drug cartel had come to be standing right in front of him.

As Sam crawled back into bed, he was careful not to wake Stacy. His oversized T-shirt that she liked to borrow had ridden up around her waist. He positioned himself above her. She looked so sweet when she was asleep. Almost childish he thought, as he stared at her beautiful face. Her eyes parted just slightly as he penetrated her. Her hands reached around his back and she kissed him on the side of his head.

"You're late," she whispered.

"I'm sorry." He pushed himself deep inside of her. "Does that feel good?"

"Yeah," she squeezed him tightly. "You feel really good."

Less than twenty-four hours later, Sam followed J.B. and Hernan through the back entrance of the Old World Restaurant on Sunset. The entire restaurant was constructed of dark, heavy wood. The back of the booths extended all the way to the ceiling. And each booth had a green curtain that could be closed for privacy, very unusual for a Hollywood eatery. J.B. said a few words to the manager in Spanish. Moments later, they were sitting at the restaurant's most secluded booth.

"I told him to bring three specials and some Coronas," J.B. said, closing the curtain.

"So, I take it you didn't just meet Tom by accident at Carlos n' Charlie's," Sam asked, as soon as the waitress had finished bringing their food to the table.

"Is he gay or what?" J.B. smiled, knowing the answer to his own question.

"He says that he's not." Sam felt ridiculous having reiterated Tom's denial.

"We walked into the club; he saw Hernan's jacket and went crazy. We had no idea who he was."

Hernan held up his hand. "Slow down. Just because I have nice taste in clothes doesn't mean I'm gay or anything." He pointed at Sam. "Although if I were, you'd be looking pretty good to me right now." His voice lacked the appropriate amount of sarcasm.

"You're not my type," Sam paused, just long enough for Hernan to give him a look of feigned hurt. "I like young boys. Or little girls who look like young boys."

Hernan clapped his hands together and laughed. "Oh shit—we better watch our asses around this guy."

"Maybe I should leave you two alone," J.B. said, leaning away from Hernan.

Hernan slapped J.B.'s shoulder. "We're just kidding around." Then, without warning, he reached over and pinched J.B. on the nipple and twisted.

"Fuckin A, man." J.B. turned sideways trying to protect himself from another squeeze. "You need to go home and get some from your wife."

"Chinga, I got some right before you picked me up."

J.B. gave Sam a nod. "We didn't come to Carlos n' Charlie's by accident. I asked around Simons Street and your people told me where I could find you."

"Who'd you talk to?"

"Little Dave."

"You've got cojones."

"Tell me about it. Just saying your name down there can get someone killed. He called your dad's place and your dad told him I was cool."

"Why didn't you just go talk to my dad?"

"Are you crazy? Talk to Norm? What would I tell him when he asks me what I'm doing? He'd have both of us polishing cars right now for two dollars an hour. Talk to your dad? I'd rather take my chances with Little Dave."

"You've got a point. My dad would have taken one look at you two and put you to work for sure. Hell, I still go down and unload a truck every now and then."

J.B. continued, "So we came up to Carlos n' Charlie's to find you and we run into this gay guy Tom who loves Hernan's jacket. We talk to him for a little bit. Hernan loves to talk about his clothes. And then Hernan asks him if he knows who you are and he says, 'Do I know who he is? I'm sitting at his table.' Then, he invites us to join him and you know the rest."

Sam looked at Hernan. He didn't have to say anything.

Hernan reached up and rubbed his mustache and goatee. "You know who I am. I'm pretty sure you know who my partners are?"

"Everyone in the business knows who you guys are," Sam assured him.

"Do you know how we work?"

"I have no idea," Sam answered.

"Okay, I'm going to teach you some things. It goes like this. Pablo handles production. That means everything—growing, processing, and packing. Carlos handles transportation. I handle sales in the U.S. and Canada and my brother handles sales outside of North America. Obando takes care of the money. That doesn't mean he collects the money from my buyers; I do that. He collects the money from me, washes it, and makes it go where it needs to go. If someone doesn't pay, J.B. takes care of it. We don't mess around. Someone doesn't pay, bang, bang. No talking. No second chances, end of story.

"You understand how it works? We're all equal partners. There's no going around one to get a better deal. If you deal with me there is no one higher. Anyone who tells you differently is lying. A lot of people know Pablo's name, so they drop it all over the place. Trust me, they're full of shit. Even if they showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the jungle with a billion in cash, he would send them to me. My side of the fence is as green as the grass gets." Hernan scooped up some rice with his fork and chewed. Food was far from Sam's mind.

Hernan leaned back and tilted his head to the side "We've all heard rumors about you. Not by name, but stories about a guy from East L.A., a smart gringo who speaks our language. The stories say the gringo does business with myates and Cubans. They say that he is ruthless and the people who work for him are completely loyal. We've heard this person is selling coke in almost every state—and that he has several boats and planes. We hear outside of East L.A. the gringo is called The Man on the Hill. I tell J.B. to find us this gringo, this Man on the Hill—I need to talk with him. Now, I have to be honest. I'm thinking if every cop in the United States can't find this crazy fucker, what are our chances? Then J.B. says, 'I know who he is.'"

Sam remembered the last time he had seen J.B.

"Do you know what Montebello means?" eight-year-old Sam asked, as he swept up trash for the third time that day from the hot black asphalt.

"It's where you live," J.B. answered.

"I know that. But do you know what it means?"

"No," J.B. said, shaking his head.

"Do you know why you don't know what it means?" Sam asked.

"No."

"It's Italian. Montebello sounds like Spanish—but it's Italian. It means beautiful hills. One day I'm going to build a big house up in the hills. I'm going to be The Man on the Hill."

Sam stared at J.B. for a few seconds, impressed. "How'd you remember that?"

"It's just not the kind of thing you forget." He tapped his finger on the side of his head. "Italian for beautiful hills. When Hernan told me about a gringo from East L.A. they call The Man on the Hill I figured—what are the chances?"

"You know I don't literally live on a hill?"

Hernan put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "But you never forgot who you were." He pointed at J.B. "You told him who you were. All he did was remember."

Sam looked over at J.B. "Fuck, I was a troublemaker."

"So was I." J.B. smiled.

"Good—because we're going to make some more trouble." Hernan rubbed his hands together. "Sam, I need to know who you are buying from now?"

"I have two different sources."

"I'm talking about the good shit."

"The high grade ether base, I've been buying from the Cubans. The petroleum base shit, I've been buying from the Israelis."

"What Cubans? I need to know. We can't ever have any secrets between us."

"Julio Lopez. Do you know him?"

Hernan brushed his mustache and goatee with his fingertips. It was a habit. "Julio is one of the nicest guys in the business. You know, we gave him his start back in Florida. You don't know where he got his own boats from, do you?"

"He got them from me."

"No lie?" Hernan nodded. It was such a small world. "Does he still wake up every morning at six?"

"No. He's ready to walk out the door at six. Not a hair out of place."

Hernan laughed as he turned to J.B. "You think we know how to party? This guy has been going out every night for twenty years. He never sleeps more than three hours a night and the next morning, at six sharp, he's ready to take a walk and have breakfast. I don't know how he does it."

"I'll tell you how he does it," Sam was starting to enjoy Hernan, "I asked him once. He told me that we only have so many hours of life to live—so why waste them sleeping? He wills himself to be awake. Before he goes to sleep, he thinks about waking up."

Hernan turned to J.B. "You need to make sure Julio gets that sleep he needs. Put it at the top of your list." Hernan noticed the look of surprise on Sam's face. "I like him too. But when he finds out you're dealing directly with us, no matter how nice a guy he is, he's going to be competition—and we don't need that. You and J.B. are blood. J.B. and I are blood. That means you and me are blood. Julio, he's just a Cuban drug dealer. I can't take a chance that he might do something to hurt your business—because that would hurt my business. Julio should have stayed in Florida."

Sam took a drink of his water. He thought of Julio as a friend. But Hernan was right; J.B.'s father had bought his first car from Sam's father. J.B. and Sam had met that day. Their friendship was a long one. Then, the thought of friendship vanished.

The cartel makes coke. This is the very top. You'll be to coke what Prince Khalid is to oil. Prophetic.

Hernan continued, "Sam, we're going to change everything. Florida is the past; California is the future. Why use boats and planes when we can use trucks? With your friends back in power soon in Nicaragua, it's a straight shot." Hernan stared into Sam's eyes. "You think we don't know what's going on down there? You think we don't know what's going on in the hoods? Maybe only J.B. knew who you were, but we all know what you're doing. That Calle crack shit you're dumping for the Israelis only has one use. I'm pretty smart for a guy who never went to school, ha?"

Sam nodded. Hernan was crazy—but as smart as they come.

"So what do you need me to do?" Sam asked.

Hernan turned to J.B. "What do we need him to do? He's so humble, I love this guy." He turned back to Sam. "You're it. You're our guy. We need you to sell more coke than you've ever dreamed of. Forget about apartments, you're going to need warehouses—lots of warehouses. We're going to ship all kinds of cheap crap up here in trucks. And underneath the floorboards of every truck bed, we're going to put the coke. We can fit two thousand kilos per container. They'll check the shit in the container, but they won't check the container itself.

"Two thousand key shipments to every warehouse as often as needed. We'll set a wholesale market price of fifteen thousand for triple grade "A" shit. That's thirty million per shipment, which we'll split with you fifty-fifty. If you want to give a few discounts, just okay it with me first—so it doesn't look like you're short on the money. You cover the costs of the warehouses out of your end. That's it, that's the deal, that's what we need you to do. Do you think you can handle it?"

Sam looked at J.B. and Hernan on the other side of the table. "If I can't make this happen, it can't be done."

Hernan's eyes were on fire. "How much do you think you can move at that price?"

"I could do three hundred million a week in the top ten markets and another three hundred million a week everywhere else. There's just one problem." Hernan and J.B. looked concerned. "I don't have the money to cover that type of inventory. We could easily have a three-week float out there. That's a billion eight out."

"You think one-eight is a problem? Don't be scaring me like that, Loco." Hernan paused and took a drink of his Corona. "When J.B.'s dad needed a car, did your dad give him credit?"

Sam's mind was having trouble making the leap that Hernan's words were suggesting.

"Do you think J.B. didn't tell me everything? Did your dad give a poor wetback with no credit, credit?"

"Yes. He gave him credit."

"But you think we won't give you credit?"

"I think it's a lot of money."

Hernan shook his head. "Credit's not about money, it's about trust. Who could we trust more than you? One point eight, three point six, it doesn't matter. As much as you want is as much as you'll get. No limit."

The numbers drifted through Sam's mind. Specter would be more profitable than the top five Fortune 500 companies combined.

"You're okay, right?" asked Hernan. "I know it's a lot. But don't freak out on me."

"Don't worry—nothing freaks me out." Sam had actually never felt calmer.

Hernan clapped his hands together. "Good. Because when we're done with dinner, I've got your first ten thousand kilos ready to go. I bet you've never seen ten thousand keys in one place before. I don't want you to faint or anything."

"I promise, I won't faint."

"It's happened before. A guy is used to seeing five, ten, kilos, maybe a hundred at the most. But you show him ten thousand, boom, he can't take it."

"I'm a big boy, I promise."

"Good, no fainting or J.B. will have to give you mouth to mouth. You know he'd like that?"

"I'm not giving anyone mouth to mouth; you're the one who likes to squeeze guys' tits." J.B. responded adamantly. Then, hoisted his Corona—draining even the suds from the bottom of the bottle.

"Just your tits!" Hernan almost shouted as he reached over, catching J.B. off guard.

J.B. squealed, "Fuck, knock that shit off. Man, my wife is going to think something's going on."

"I'm sorry—I had to do it. Where's the waitress? She's next." Hernan composed himself. "Okay no more fucking around you two."

J.B. and Sam exchanged glances. Sam was trying to imagine just how wild Hernan could get when he really let loose.

Hernan continued in his business as usual tone. "This first load was a trial run for us. It went pretty smooth, except for Mexico. We could use some help from you there. I can work out T.J. and the border—but Mexico City is a problem."

Sam had someone in mind that could make transportation through Mexico City happen easily. It would take some doing. But there was definitely one person that could make it happen with no problem at all.

"I've got some ideas; I'll work on it. Listen, there's something I think we should do right away, starting with our next shipment."

"What are you thinking?" Hernan asked.

"I'm thinking we should create a brand."

Hernan turned to J.B. "A brand, homeboy's going Madison Avenue on us." He turned back to Sam. "I've got to hear this."

"I think our packaging should always be a white fiberglass casting material. Never blue, brown, or any other color—always white. And we should put our stamp on every key. A beautiful woman, like you would see on an antique gold piece." Sam pulled a gold Mont Blanc pen out of his pocket and started sketching on a napkin. He handed the napkin across the table to Hernan. "We're about to flood the market, so let's make sure people don't just want coke. Let's make sure they want our coke. They should be asking for it by name. Oh—and one more thing. I have a reliable source that says getting ether is going to be next to impossible, so you need to tell Pablo to stock up. I can set up a phony company to make some huge buys. Once we're stocked up with a ten-year supply, we'll bury the company without a trace. When the word gets out that there is only one ether-base brand, our shit will sell like crazy!"

Hernan nodded. "That's beautiful. A brand of coke, like Ralph Lauren, Nike, Pepsi, or Coke." He laughed. "A beautiful woman; we'll call our shit La Reina Blanca. Soon everybody will want La Reina." Hernan leaned forward and grabbed Sam's forearm. "You just stay home and think this shit up?"

"I get my best ideas in the shower." Sam looked down at the table. "They come to me."

"So you're in the shower jerking off and the idea came to you to create a brand of coke?" Hernan snapped his fingers. "Just like that?"

"I was sitting on the beach and it came to me," Sam snapped his fingers. "Just like that."

Hernan reached into his pocket and pulled out two, loose hundred-dollar bills. He placed them flat on the table. Then, he picked up the saltshaker and placed it on top of them.

"C'mon, let's get out of here; we've got a lot of work to do. The coke's in a warehouse near City Terrace, your old stomping ground. I want to drive down and show you where it's at and give you keys to the place. I'm also going to give you the combination to the safe so you can just leave money for me there. It's better if we're not together very often. You take the coke, put it on the street, and leave the money in the safe. Twice a year, we'll reconcile the cash, coke, and receivables. Three people in the world will know what's in the warehouses and that's us."

"What about the truck drivers?" Sam asked. "They'll know and I don't want to be sitting in a fucking warehouse if one gets pinched and dimes us out."

"Their families all work for Pablo. If they open their mouths, they know I'll personally kill their wives, their parents, their kids—I'll kill their fucking aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters. I'll fucking kill everybody! They won't say a fucking word. Believe me." Hernan swished some Corona around in his mouth.

"I'll need some of your drivers around the clock. I'll pay them good money. I'll also set up a bail fund for them so my lawyers can get them out fast if they get busted. Once they're out, they jump bail and go back to the jungle. No one talks."

"They won't talk—but the bail thing is a good idea," Hernan agreed.

"So, do you two want to sit here all night? Or maybe we should take a trip to City Terrace?" Sam asked, as he slid out from the booth.

"Hey Loco, have you ever heard of Tony the Colombian?" Hernan asked casually, as he stood."

"Yeah, he's moving some weight. Not bad shit from what I understand."

"He's competition?" Hernan inquired further.

"Yeah, not big competition."

Hernan looked at Sam suspiciously. "Why's he still alive?"

"Because I wanted him to get big enough to mean something. You know that big house he rents up in the hills?"

"Yeah, I've heard about it."

"In a couple of days, there will be two thousand kilos in the garage."

"How do you know that?"

"One of my companies owns his house. It's our security system. We can watch him take a shit if we want to."

"That's fucking crazy. You're going to take him down for the coke?"

"No, nothing like that. I'm selling him the coke."

They stepped out the back door to the parking lot. "So, what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to make a phone call."

Sam walked through the quiet lobby and used his key to call the elevator. He looked at his watch—it was three in the morning. Stacy slept peacefully on her side of the mattress, Zachary the dog was curled up on his blanket at the foot of the bed. As he always did, Sam stared out at the city while he undressed. The streetlights seemed to have an unusually orange glow. There was definitely tension in the night air.

The dream commenced with intensity almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. It was difficult to breathe because the air was so thin twelve thousand feet above sea level in the Andes Mountains. The conch horns sounded from far off cliff sides. Water roared through thousands of man-made channels under foot. The sound was deafening.

Sam stood on the outside of the ring of fire that burned in the center of the great round plaza. He stared into the middle at the great obelisk that stood, by his guess, nearly forty-feet-tall. The worshipers danced in circles completely naked except for the masks that covered their faces. They wore horrible reptilian masks, representative of the Anaconda that inhabited the Amazon basin far below.

The cow was reluctant to enter. But they beat it with sticks on its legs and hindquarters slowly and methodically driving it toward the great stone. Suddenly, it stopped having become aware that the people that had been its caregivers from birth were now prepared to end its existence. There it stood—paralyzed by the betrayal. The animal's eyes searched the sea of masks for a face that could offer mercy. But only found the dreaded faces of serpents. Finally, it looked through the fire at Sam, who could only stand and look on. He was meant to be nothing more than a bystander.

The priest was the largest of the worshipers. He wore a white robe and the mask of an alligator. He moved forward and put a rope around the cow's neck. With ease he pulled the animal to the obelisk and his followers quickly tied it to the great stone. From underneath his robe he drew a whip made of many lashes. Each lash had a lead ball at its end, too many for Sam to count.

With the first extension of his arm, the lead balls dug into the cows hide and ripped a section from the rest of its flesh. Stroke after stroke fell upon the cow. With each new blow it let out a muted groan. In what seemed like hours the hide was slowly beaten off of the once pampered animal for no reason that it could either contemplate or understand. The priest's white robe was saturated with red blood when he let the whip drop from his hand. Sam thought he could see a moment of relief in the cow's eyes. But there was no relief to be had.

The sound of the horns and the rushing water stopped. The worshipers followed the priest to the tiers of steps that encompassed the plaza and the cow stood there tied to the obelisk with no skin. He stared at Sam as his breaths became heavy and his once great body began to tremble uncontrollably. Blood began to pour from his nostrils and mouth. Then, with one final groan, he collapsed lifelessly—suspended to the stone. Sam desperately looked around the ring of fire as it burned out and realized that he was the only one there.

It had been a late night followed by a restless sleep. Yet Sam felt compelled to join Stacy and Zachary for their morning walk. The streets behind the towering Wilshire Blvd. high-rise that they lived in were lined with quaint homes that, in any other city, with the exception of Manhattan, would have cost eighty percent less.

He could hear Joel cursing the leases already. "You want to rent a hundred warehouses! Have you completely lost your mind? I told you, we're doing all the business we need to do. This is just fucking great. Do you realize I have to set up a separate company for every single lease? Do you have any idea how much work that is? Where are my fucking cigarettes?"

"Joel, one more thing. I'd prefer that you use aged U.S. corporations as the operating entities. Make sure they've been around for a while."

"So you want me to buy a hundred existing companies and then set up a hundred offshore holding entities."

"Set up the offshore entities first so you can use them to acquire the U.S. entities, one by one."

Joel finds his cigarettes. "Are we done?" Lighting up aggravates him more. "Because I have like a thousand hours of work to do."

Sam and Stacy followed Zachary on his favorite route. Sam felt like laughing at what he knew was going to be a crazy morning. Occasionally, Stacy would give the giant beast a tug. But given his size advantage, Zachary just ignored her and went on about his business.

"Sam, look over there." She stopped dead in her tracks and pointed across the street. Sam almost tripped over the dog leash in her hand. "That's Julio's house. What do you think is going on?"

Sam's chest felt heavy and the cool morning air seemed to be traveling up his spine. On a normal morning, they would have let Zachary off his leash to go play with Julio's two Huskies. Julio would already be in a beautiful suit, finished with breakfast, and just home from his morning walk.

There were police everywhere and they had yellow police tape out to the sidewalk in front of the house.

Stacy grabbed Sam's arm. "What do you think happened?"

"I don't know. We haven't talked in a few days."

They walked by, on the opposite side of the street. The sidewalk was filled with Julio's neighbors. Parked along the side of the house was the coroner's wagon. Stacy squeezed Sam's arm tightly as they watched two bodies being removed from the house. Sam was sure one was Julio's.

"Let's go. You have to get to work and I have breakfast with Joel," Sam said, giving her sweater a light pull.

"Sam, he's your friend. You two spend a lot of time together. What if you had been with him?"

"I wasn't. So don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it? That's all you're going to say?"

"There's really nothing else to say. It looks like something bad happened. And that's what bad things do, they happen. I have you and Zachary to worry about and that's enough for me."

"When we get home, you should call his family," Stacy added softly.

Sam nodded. "I have his sister's number. I'll call her. Is it okay if we don't talk for a few minutes?"

"Okay," Stacy agreed, having become used to his lack of emotion over the years. "I just feel really bad right now. I liked Julio."

"So did I." But Sam's mind was already somewhere else.

Stacy wondered how Sam was able to be so warm and loving toward her and Zachary and yet so totally lacking of emotion toward everything and everyone else. Except when he lost his temper. She had only seen him angry one time. It was something a person only needed to see once.

"Did you just threaten me, you motherfucker?! Do you know who you're fucking with, you fucking piece of shit? You're fucking dead! Do you hear me, you fucking, lowlife scumbag? You're fucking dead!" he screamed into the phone receiver, then ripped the phone from its chord and threw it so hard across the room that it broke a hole in the living room wall. "Fuck! Dead! Dead! Dead!" he screamed again and slammed his right fist through the wall closest to him. Then, he looked up and saw her.

She remembered how she had just stood there, paralyzed with fear. The screaming, more than the words, had done it. So much anger and hatred drooled from each word. No one who heard them could doubt that he meant what he had said. She had asked him:

"What's wrong, Sam? I'm really scared right now."

"How long have you been standing there?" His voice was almost back to its normal pitch.

"Just before you threw the phone. I need to understand what's going on."

His voice was soft. "No, you don't Stacy. You just need to understand that I have a life outside of my life with you. And it's nothing you ever need to know about."

"I'm not stupid, Sam. I don't think I like what's going on."

"Well you certainly like our lifestyle. I don't hear you complaining about the way we live; speaking of which, we have a reservation at Spago in 30 minutes."

"I think we need to talk," she said, not so sure of herself.

"Do you want to cancel and go into the kitchen and make dinner like a normal person?" he asked.

"I haven't been to the market. There's nothing in the fridge to cook."

"That's what I thought. Don't ever talk to me about this again." He turned his back to her and walked toward the bedroom. "Oh—call down for my car, one of the Ferraris. I need to wash my face."

Now, with half a block to go, Zachary lunged at Sam's legs—attempting to wrap his paws around them. Sam was too fast, pivoting around and straddling the big white dog like a horse. Zachary instinctively reared back his massive head. Sam bent down and gave him a kiss on his long snout. "How's my boy?" He reached around his chest and gave him a squeeze like a Teddy Bear. Zachary's tail wagged. If dogs could smile, he did. "Who loves you?" Sam kissed him on the head. "Who loves you, big dog?" he asked, rubbing Zachary's chest.

Stacy's eyes filled with tears. They were all so beautiful together. They had so many good memories. Why think about anything else?

Sam enjoyed the silence the rest of the walk home. J.B. hadn't wasted any time; Hernan wanted Julio dead and now he was. "Put him at the top of your list." That was all it took and Julio was gone. Sam felt a sense of loss for a moment. Then came the other feelings, hard, cynical feelings.

Julio knew the game he was playing. He was a drug dealer, a killer, a fucker of women. Don't play if you can't pay my friend.

Stacy turned the key that released the elevator to their floor and then pressed the button marked PH. "You promise you'll call his sister as soon as we walk in?" Stacy asked.

"Yeah, I'll call straight away."

CHAPTER 34

Carrington

A Big Bust

"Carrington speaking," Jim said, looking up from his desk in the office that housed the FBI's drug task force.

"How's the new job treating you?"

"Making progress everyday." Jim looked at the caller I.D. box. "No more pay phones?"

"Technological innovation. 1986 is the age of the roaming cell phone."

"I don't do press conferences anymore so I'm surprised to hear your voice. Are you still on the West Coast? I'd like to meet you."

"The drug task force? Serial killers were so much more fun. People really get into the hunt and capture of a killer."

"Drugs kill plenty of people, too."

"If you say so. I hear this Man on the Hill fellow is killing a lot of people."

Dennis Craig walked through the door and Jim pointed to the seat in front of his desk. "What do you know about the Man on the Hill?"

"I know he lives on a hill."

"I have my doubts about that."

"It does seem too simple. But sometimes the truth is what it is. And sometimes it isn't. I just can't understand how you guys have managed to not find a Colombian guy in his early twenties—with no visible means of income, living in a fucking mansion in the Hollywood Hills! Did you get that, Jim?"

Jim took notes as Dennis Craig looked on, bewildered and unable to understand what was going on.

"The Hollywood Hills? I don't suppose you could be more specific?"

"Are you kidding? You need more? Fuck Jim, you're lucky I like you. You really have no idea how lucky you are. If you stand at the corner of Sunset and Sweetzer and look north, as the crow flies, you'll catch the man you're looking for. By the way, could you imagine how many cars must be going in and out of this guy's house? I mean, parking is a bitch up there. I'll be looking for you on the news." There was a click and the call was over.

Jim hung up the phone and shook his head.

"What the hell was that?" Dennis Craig asked, sensing something big had just happened.

"You remember the anonymous tips that broke open..."

"You're kidding me?" Dennis interrupted.

Jim nodded. "Same guy. Decided to help us out with the Man on the Hill. Misses seeing me on TV."

"Who's the Man on the Hill? Did he say? Did he say where he is?"

"It doesn't work like that. We have to follow his clues." Jim stood and reached in his desk drawer for his keys. "C'mon, ride with me I'll explain on the way."

"Why do you seem so somber? I would think you'd be bouncing off the walls."

"Dennis, we both know if it's too good to be true, it's too good to be true. We better get going. He called now because he wants us to go now. We don't want to miss whatever he wants us to see."

Jim stood on the corner of Sunset and Sweetzer and looked north—toward the massive homes that hung so unnaturally on the hillside. "I sure wouldn't want to live in one of those."

"Thanks." Dennis ended his phone call and turned toward Jim. "Two blocks up and one block over. Five times as many parking tickets as any other street."

Jim smiled. "Well, now we know the block."

"I'll get a surveillance detail together. It won't be hard to find out where all of the parking violators are going."

"That's not why he told us about the parking. He told us about the parking because he wants us to get the names of all the dealers the Man on the Hill is selling to. We'll be busy for a year just taking down his network. The house will be much easier to find than that."

Dennis stared at Jim. "It's pretty scary how well you've gotten this down. I don't know if I should be impressed..."

"Dennis, what time is it?"

"A quarter past six. Why?"

"Do you see that?"

Dennis followed Jim's eyes to the UPS truck heading down Sunset and signaling right. "I see it."

"UPS doesn't deliver after five. We better get back in the car and see where he's going. And Dennis, call for backup. I have the feeling we're going to need it."

"I'm already dialing."

Jim tried to make the u-turn on Sunset as inconspicuously as possible. A large, brown, fake UPS truck wasn't hard to follow. The slow moving truck made its way up the hill and veered left at the fork in the road. Two more blocks and it came to a stop at the gate of the white mansion Jim had been looking directly at from the spot where he had been told to stand on Sunset.

The gate opened and the truck pulled in front of the multiple-car garage, to the right of the house. Jim and Dennis observed as half a dozen Latino men tried to figure out how to back the truck into the garage. One by one they seemed to come to the conclusion that it couldn't be done. They stood around for a few moments and then the tall figure appeared from the house. He was a Latin male in his early twenties, dressed in a white linen shirt and white linen pants with black leather sandals. He had long black hair pulled neatly back in a ponytail.

"Well, Central Casting would have a hard time coming up with someone more Man on the Hill looking than that." Dennis Craig observed, itching to get over the wall.

Jim smiled. "This is unbelievable." The tall Colombian shook his head and then yelled at the driver of the truck. "You don't think he would have the balls to unload out in the open? We wouldn't even need a warrant."

No sooner had Jim finished his thought than the Latinos were scrambling onto the back of the truck to unload packages that were clearly kilos of cocaine to a trained law enforcement eye.

"As soon as Carl and Lewis get here, we're going over that wall." Dennis pulled his gun from its holster.

"They'll argue that we didn't have probable cause. We can't produce our informant." Jim stared at the brown cigar box sized packages being unloaded. "They'll argue that those packages could be anything."

Dennis shook his head. "Let's run the UPS truck's plates right now. They'll come up as not UPS. There's our probable cause. Forget about the informant."

"Dennis, we're here watching a crime. We're here because of an informant."

"Not anymore Jim. We're here because you thought it was odd that a UPS truck was driving into a residential neighborhood after business hours. I ran the plates and they didn't match. Call for the S.W.A.T. team while I run the plates. We're going to need more than our own guys to take this place down." Dennis' eyes met Jim's disapproving look. "Jim, you know I have all the respect in the world for you and I consider you a friend. But right now, I'm your boss and I'm telling you to make that damn call. So do it. This is completely on me."

"It's on all of us, Dennis. It's a test. Our informant wants to know how far we'll go."

"For the Man on the Hill, the answer is all the way. Now make the call."

Jim found the LAPD and L.A. County Sheriffs to be impressive. Both departments had their share of scandals. But when it came to Special Weapons and Tactics, they were the best in the business. The men that comprised both teams were not the college boys of the FBI, but rather Special Forces veterans that had opted out of the armed forces. Jim caught himself staring a couple of times at an officer named Troy Buetelle. Well over six foot tall and two hundred and twenty pounds, he appeared to be a law enforcement machine. His blond hair was cut into a flat top: his eyes were cold, blue steel. Jim decided to stay close behind. Not because he was afraid—fear wasn't a factor. Letting the people who were trained the best to do what needed to be done was what mattered.

The rest was surreal. The S.W.A.T. battering ram truck took down the gate and the best of the best went through the gate and over the walls, swarming the compound with overwhelming force while regular sheriff and police officers secured the perimeter. Two helicopters appeared from almost thin air to monitor and provide sharpshooters from above.

Then came the roar of gunfire. The Man on the Hill and his gang were not going to just put their hands up and go to jail for the rest of their lives. From the house, at least a dozen heavily armed Colombians appeared. More appeared from the second and third story balconies. Jim crouched behind Troy Buetelle and Dennis Craig crouched behind him, as the S.W.A.T. team—under the cover of the battering ram truck—slowly, and under heavy gunfire, made its way toward the house.

"Where's The Man, Dennis? I don't see him!"

"He bolted for the house! He's not going anywhere!"

The men that had been unloading the truck were dead or dying in the driveway and garage. Two more were dead on the front landing. Troy Buetelle motioned for Jim and Dennis to lie down, up against the low cement wall created by the landing in front of the house's front door. He motioned to four more S.W.A.T. team members to come forward from behind the battering ram truck. The steps up to the house's front door made it necessary to use a hand battering ram. This was always much more dangerous than the small tank that had been equipped to knock down whole walls if need be.

"Shit! Dennis, he's not in there!"

"What are you talking about? I saw him make a break for the house!"

"There's an escape tunnel or something. Shit!

A barrage of gunfire came from the house, pinning the S.W.A.T. team entry unit down below the same wall as Jim and Dennis.

"Why do you think that?"

"I don't think it. I know it. Anonymous caller said, 'as the crow flies.' The crow flies toward where I was standing. Get it? As the crow flies away is what he meant. He said, 'stand on the corner and you'll catch the man you're looking for.'"

The men in the house were reloading. The S.W.A.T. team took the opportunity to let loose a barrage of its own. Jim rose to his hands and knees.

"I'm going down to Sunset. If I'm wrong, you'll be here to I.D. him in the house."

"You're not running across this property out in the open. That's not happening, Jim."

"Dennis, I took one order from you already today. That one was on you. This one's on me."

The S.W.A.T. team was letting go of a second barrage of fire. Jim took the opportunity to raise himself into a sprinter's starting position. And then, he began his run for the front gate.

Buetelle fired a three round burst through the bay window at a target lying flat in a sniper's position on the stairway landing. He ducked back down and turned to Dennis as he ejected an empty clip and reloaded. "What the fuck is he doing?"

"What he was hired to do, Troy."

"Got some real balls for a college boy." He raised his gun and took aim through the window again. "Real balls; I wouldn't make that run."

Dennis kept his head down, shell casings rained from Bueltelle's weapon onto the well-manicured lawn. "Neither would I."

Jim heard the S.W.A.T. team guns go silent thirty feet from the gate. The fire from the house was immediate. And as surreal as the minutes before had been, he was now caught in a hail of bullets. One caught his ear lightly as it just missed his head. The blood and the burning were instantaneous. Remarkably enough, the gate was only a few feet in front of him. Both Carl and Lewis—along with several other police officers and sheriffs—had stepped up to lend some cover fire.

Past the gate and safe from gunfire from the house, he kept running. He heard Lewis shout out after him but there was no time to respond. He had to get back to the corner where he should have been standing all along while the S.W.A.T. team was flushing out the Man on the Hill. A part of the test failed. Ego, he had let his ego cloud his decision making. He couldn't begin to imagine how the informant knew what he knew. Not just about crime, but about human character. A minute later, the traffic jam in front of him on Sunset was a welcome site. There would be no escape by car—at least not easily.

Jim ran across the street, weaving between the front and back bumpers of the stopped cars until he reached the spot on the corner. He looked up and stared at the spectacle that was now taking place on the side of the hill. It was no wonder traffic had come to a dead stop. A war was taking place right in the middle of West Hollywood. Jim forced his eyes down from the cliff to the street below. A train car had been turned into a restaurant. Its customers, rather than fleeing, had stepped out to the parking lot and sidewalk to get a better vantage of the firefight above. In other cities, people ran from trouble. In L.A., they ran to it like it was live theatre. The infamous serial killer Richard Ramirez had been spotted on the street and was almost beaten to death by a mob of Angelinos before the police were able to come to his rescue.

Perhaps, nothing was stranger than Los Angeles natives. They were so laid-back that nothing seemed to faze them. They could continue eating lunch right through an earthquake like it wasn't happening. Jim's eyes fixed momentarily on a group that sat at an umbrella table in front of the bright yellow train car. They continued to eat and talk, oblivious to the cars, the crowd, and the gunfire that was taking place a hundred yards above them. Why would they notice the tall Colombian dressed in white climbing out from under the train car turned restaurant? They were natives and they were eating.

Jim ran across the street, once again weaving through the parking lot of cars. The tall Colombian dressed in white was calmly making his way through the crowd. He seemed intent on walking down Sunset. Jim imagined he would do so until he got to a hotel, where he could catch a cab. Or maybe, he had a car parked on a side street south of the boulevard just in case. Whichever, Jim was closing ground quickly. By the time the tall Colombian turned into the driveway of the Mondrian Hotel, he was just three feet behind him.

"Hey Tony!" the doorman seemed to know the tall Colombian well. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Can you call me a cab?"

"Sure thing, Tony."

Jim pulled his .357 and put it to the back of Tony the Colombian's head. "He won't be needing one. Everybody take three steps back. Tony, put your hands behind your head and interlock your fingers—you're under arrest."

"What's going on here?" The larger of the two hotel security guards, dressed in dark blue suits, asked as they approached apprehensively.

"I'm Agent Carrington, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm placing this man under arrest. If you could please keep this area clear, I'd appreciate it. I'm also going to need to borrow your office until we can get transportation here. I'll show you my I.D. in a second, okay?"

Jim carefully and skillfully cuffed Tony the Colombian using only his left hand. Then, he pulled out his identification. "We're going to follow you two to the security office now."

Frank tossed his cigarette to the sidewalk and dialed Sam's cell phone number. "I know you guys caught most of this on the monitors in the office. But your boy Jim got his man right in front of the Mondrian. He's pretty smooth actually."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that," Sam said—happy to hear the news. "This should keep them busy for a bit. We're all headed for some prime rib at Lawrey's. You hungry?"

"Fucking starving. I'll see you guys there. Hey, one more thing."

"What?"

"My cell phone reception up here sucks right now. I'd make that call and burn the fucking house down before it gets any worse. It may take a couple of tries to get the fireworks to trigger."

"Only three cops down so far."

"Sam, my boss and dear friend, this is not the time to completely lose your fucking mind. You guys aren't watching a movie up there. This is reality."

"Could be the future of entertainment." Sam laughed. "We'll burn it down in a few minutes. Let's see if we can get some cops to actually go inside of the place first. It'll be a luau."

Jim wasn't surprised that Tony had nothing to say, other than that he wanted his lawyer. The Man on the Hill wouldn't be getting a deal from the government anyway, so it was of little consequence. It took the S.W.A.T. team almost three hours to take the house, which ultimately caught fire—killing its Colombian defenders and four S.W.A.T. team members, including Troy Buetelle. A teargas canister was thought to be responsible. The arson investigator would provide a definitive answer soon enough. Three police officers had died of gunshot wounds—four had been burned to death in the fire. Seven men had given their lives in the line of service. The cocaine, however, remained safe in the garage—not burning before the fire department was able to douse the house and put out the flames.

The booking and preliminary report kept Jim at his desk until six the following morning. A paramedic with the fire department had been good enough to bandage his ear. But his next stop would have to be the hospital for some stitches.

The early morning sun stung his eyes as he walked across the parking lot of the Federal Building to his car. As he inserted the key into the ignition, he noticed the file lying flat up against the back of the passenger's seat next to him. He picked it up and opened it. It was wrong, he knew it—but he did it anyway. He squinted, his eyes were tired, but the paperwork was easy to read. The tax records of every individual who had worked for Melvin Stemple's security company since it had first been incorporated were there in his hands. He'd get some rest and then he would find out everything there was to know about the people in the file.

CHAPTER 35

Mexico City

Sam first noticed Riley as she danced with Susan on the dance floor at Carlos n' Charlie's. Like Susan, she was tall and blonde—with high cheekbones. The two stunningly beautiful girls were impossible not to notice as they took turns grinding on each other and occasionally kissed, with their mouths open. When they were through with their exhibition, they returned to the couches in the middle of the VIP section. Riley was something special. Not blessed with Susan's absolute perfection, she more than made up for it with her dirty, white-trash sexuality.

Sam kept his eye on Riley. She was a hooker working Venice Beach at the time she came onto the scene. But before long, she was working for Lexy—the Beverly Hills Madam. Riley moved into the Marina City Club; the business was treating her well. She had a great place, the best clothes, expensive jewelry, and a black on black Corvette convertible.

Riley had come a long way. But her fortunes took a turn for the better when the illegitimate child of one of the country's great retail billionaires offered her a unique opportunity. Having inherited half of his father's vast fortune, but not the business itself, Ted Grant decided he would spend his time, energy, and vast wealth on turning all-American young girls into whores, literally. He wanted college girls, who otherwise would have never given him the time of day, to get down on their knees and orally copulate him for money. The more wholesome the girl, the better. His offer to Riley was simple: Recruit girls and get paid twenty thousand dollars a month, plus expenses.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Riley prowled the city, befriending unsuspecting girls who couldn't help but be drawn to her looks and her lifestyle. At some point, they all asked how she could afford such a great lifestyle and not work. "Would you go down on a man for money? I'm talking a lot of money," Riley would ask them. If they said yes or asked how much, they became whores. Given the opportunity, not one girl had ever declined.

Tom and Susan had invited Sam over to see their new place in West Hollywood, an old Spanish-style north of Sunset. He climbed the steps trying to remember why he had agreed to come over. He was hardly the house warming type. But there he was, knocking on the door.

"Tell me you don't love the hard wood floors?" Tom's fag voice rang out, like the Liberty Bell in its glory days as he opened the door and waved Sam in.

"They're fabulous," Sam replied, sounding gayer than he felt comfortable with.

"It really is the only word to describe them," Tom lowered his voice as he shut the door. "You didn't hear it from me—but Susan has a crush on you. I bet her a hundred bucks that she couldn't get you to cheat on Stacy. So, if you blow it, you owe me a hundred."

"What are you guys doing up there?" Susan shouted up from the sunken living room.

Sam walked down a couple of steps into the room and sat down on the sectional couch between Susan and Riley.

"Sam, you know Riley?" Susan asked, pulling her legs up on the couch.

"Of course he does," Tom jumped in. "We were all at Vertigo last Saturday."

Sam looked from Tom to Susan to Riley. "I've seen you around so much I feel like I know you. But officially, it's nice to meet you."

Riley extended her hand. "Likewise. I also kind of feel like I know you already. Susan tells me you're a sex-maniac or something?"

"Sex _addict_. I'm a sex addict. It's actually a clinical condition—but I'm glad the whole fucking world thinks it's funny. "

"Riley's a sex addict also; you two might make a good couple," Susan suggested, enjoying herself. "Show him what you can do with the candy cane, Riley."

Sam looked down at the oversized candy cane lying on the coffee table in front of them. "You've got to be kidding me? That thing has to be two inches a-round and a foot long."

Riley's beautiful face looked shy and innocent for a moment.

"What do you want to drink?" Tom asked, not as interested as Sam was in Riley's potential deep throat exhibition.

"Scotch," Sam answered, still looking at Riley's face. Her eyes met his. "Please don't be bashful on my account."

She picked up the candy cane and contemplated.

Sam was fascinated that every girl seemed to be born with the ability to project innocence and vulnerability, even a cold-fucking-hearted whore.

I'm sure that look triggers most men's protective instinct. Then you manipulate away don't you? Cunts, I feel like cutting your faces off. I hate the fucking lie.

"Would you suck that thing down already? It's not like you don't enjoy having big hard things in your mouth," Tom said, handing Sam his drink.

"I don't usually do this for people I've just met."

"I'll buy you lunch tomorrow if you do," Sam offered and sipped his drink.

She poked him in the chest with the foot long candy cane. "We're going to the Ivy, so bring your wallet." Without another word, the candy cane disappeared into her mouth and down her throat.

No gag reflex. Good for the dick, bad for the ego. I wonder how many miles of cock you've had in that mouth?

Tom clapped. "Yeah! Now, let's do some lines and listen to music."

"I have to give it to you—that's pretty, fucking incredible," Sam said, pulling a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and handing it to Tom.

The mirror went around the table continuously for the next hour. Phil Collins played on the mediocre stereo system. Sam consoled himself with the fact that Tom hadn't thrown on some fag music. With every line, Sam felt like fucking more. He imagined what it would be like to have sex with Riley and Susan at the same time. He imagined Riley and Susan fucking each other.

"So, what's it like Sam?" Riley asked.

He hadn't been paying attention. "What's what like?" He rolled the hundred-dollar bill tighter and sniffed a white line. Something about the act itself was so good. High as a kite and you still wanted to have that mirror in hand.

"What's it like having so much money? What's it like just being able to have whatever you want, whenever you want? What's it like."

"You two should make-out," Sam suggested.

"Are you avoiding my question?"

"No. I would never do that. Go over to Susan and make-out and I'll answer your question."

Riley got up and straddled Sam's lap. She motioned for Susan to come closer. "Come here; let's give your boyfriend a front row seat." Susan moved forward and Riley pushed Sam back against the couch. Their lips parted and their tongues met. Their rhythm was distinctly woman on woman. It was graceful and it had a gentle flow. Sam admired its beauty and hated the autonomy.

Their faces parted and their lips glistened. Riley still straddled Sam. She unbuttoned her white blouse and Susan began sucking her right tit less than two feet away from Sam's face.

"So, what's it like?" she asked again, looking down at him—her eyes still smoldering from her encounter with Susan.

"It's like that."

She pushed herself off of him, her hand carelessly feeling his crotch as she rose to her feet.

"You're a fucking trip, you know that?" She stood above him, wishing they were somewhere they could fuck.

Susan stood up next to Riley. "C'mon, I want to show you my room." She grabbed his hand and pulled him off the couch.

Sam looked down at Tom, who rubbed his fingers together and mouthed the words "Don't do it." Sam turned toward Riley.

"You're a big boy," she offered in the form of advice.

He followed Susan down the hallway to her room. She immediately shut the door and pushed him up against the wall. He felt her lips all over his face. The same lips that had just been pressed against Riley's mouth were now kissing him. Her tongue was in his mouth: her hand grabbed and rubbed his throbbing cock.

She pulled back and looked at him. "Remember when you asked me what I did to guys that made them act so crazy? You're about to find out." She pulled at the buttons on his shirt.

"Not right now," he said, reaching up and grabbing her hand. "Not with Tom and Riley hanging out in the next room."

She grabbed his crotch and squeezed. "Don't worry about them. I want you, it feels like you want me too."

Her mouth collided against his as she forced her tongue back into his mouth. She bit his lower lip hard then stopped suddenly and grabbed his face in her hands.

"Consider this a compromise." Her breath was hot on his face as she said these words. "We're still going to have some unfinished business."

She fell to her knees and ripped his pants open.

Sam ran his hands through her soft blonde hair. She looked up at him, happy to have his big cock in her hand.

"You're about to get the best blow job you've ever had in your life."

Oh Susan, if I had a dollar for every girl who has said that to me.

She pushed his cock up and kissed the bottom of his shaft like she was licking a clit. It felt incredible. He would have been happy if she just kept doing what she was doing but then she swallowed him and began sucking him—moving her head back and forth in a constant twisting motion. It truly was like no blowjob he had ever had.

His back to the wall, he could only stand there and watch as she consumed him. When she wanted him to cum, she rubbed the bottom of his shaft with her right thumb then pressed on a spot that made him ejaculate on cue. She swallowed most of what came out of him—but let the last of the thick white fluid drip back out of her mouth down his cock—and then licked it back off.

Susan pressed the side of her face against his abdomen and held on to him for a few minutes. Sam ran his fingers up and down the side of her face, caressing her soft skin—wondering how he could feel absolutely nothing except slightly uncomfortable.

"I really want you to spend the night," she said, softly.

"I wish I could, but not tonight." He tried to sound sincere.

Now please let the fuck go of me so I can go to the bathroom and take a piss.

The sun was bright and yet its rays brought no warmth to the skin. Sam and Riley sat on the red brick patio of the Ivy at the table closest to the vine-covered, white picket fence. The Ivy was always one of the places to be seen.

"I'm assuming you know what I do for a living?" Sam asked.

"You deal drugs," Riley wasn't the type of girl who lowered her voice for the sake of discretion. "I'm sure you know what I do, so I'm hardly judgmental."

"Would you be surprised if I told you I have several other business interests?"

"Sam, there are some wild stories about you out there. Honestly, I just try to mind my own business." She paused. It was difficult to concentrate. His stare was penetrating, his eyes maniacal—it made her wet. "From what I've heard, there's nothing about you that would surprise me."

"I have a significant interest in an escort business, much larger than what Lexy is doing. I'd like you to consider helping us recruit." He admired her tits for a moment. "It's quite a bit more specialized."

"I don't mind helping if I could make some extra money. I'm sure you know I'm really not a madam. I just have one client."

"We have plenty of clients. I need girls, made to order. Our clients tell us what they want and we go out and find it for them."

"I meet new girls every day. What could I make?"

"Ten percent of whatever we're getting for them. In perpetuity." Riley stared absently at Sam, the stare of the cognitively disengaged. "For as long as we're getting paid for them," Sam explained, reinterpreting his own words for her. Her eyes lit up. "I'm going to put you in touch with Patrick. He'll get you going on this."

"Who's Patrick?"

"The good looking kid with the dark hair I hang out with. If it involves pussy, I let him take care of it."

Riley had seen them out together. "Does he take care of anything else for you, Sam?" she asked, wanting to make the point that gossip was so much more interesting than books.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, but never mind. If you don't want to talk..."

"Its just sex. You know, you're the first person ever to ask."

The smug look disappeared from her face. "It's pretty obvious. I mean it's pretty obvious to someone like me. The fact that you don't give a shit is pretty cool."

"Do you have any other questions about my deviant behavior? Patrick sucking my dick is just the tip of the iceberg," Sam smiled, "I've done so much worse."

Leaning forward, she put one hand between her legs and rubbed her clit. "Actions are more interesting to me than words."

Her hard nipples pressed firmly against her sheer white silk halter-top. The thought of sucking Riley's tits crossed Sam's mind. The night before they had been in Susan's mouth. He couldn't get the image out of his head; Riley's purple nipples in Susan's mouth.

Fucking whore turns me on. Look down at the table. Break eye contact with those tits.

Sam noticed the plates, larger than other restaurants.

Maybe that's why they charge so much more here. Fuck she looks good in those white pants she's wearing. Better than Stacy would.

"There's one more thing I'd like to talk to you about," Sam said, still looking down at the white plate, which made him appear to be thoughtful.

"What's that?" she asked, cutting her last crab cake in half and taking a bite.

"I need you to secure a relationship for me."

"How would I do that?" Her voice had a reasonable mix of apprehension and curiosity in it.

"I would have to point out a good looking, young, multimillionaire to you one night while we're out. Then, you would have to seduce him into becoming your boyfriend. Once he's in love with you, I need you two—as a couple—to start hanging out with my girlfriend and me. I need him to trust me completely—and I need the Feds who watch him to think that our relationship is just social. When the time is right, I'm going to ask you to have him make an introduction to one of his connections in Mexico. If he tells his connection to help me out, you've done a good job and I'll pay you a million dollars cash."

Riley looked around the restaurant before speaking. Her voice was quiet for the first time. "You'll pay me a million dollars cash for becoming the girlfriend of a rich young guy you need a favor from, as long as he does you this favor?"

"That's it. I need you to work this guy and put it in his head that I'm the greatest thing since penicillin. You do this for me and you won't be hanging out worrying about what's going to happen if Ted decides he no longer needs your services."

She tried to hide the discomfort his words had just caused. Her greatest fear had been tossed onto the table like a soiled napkin. Looks didn't last. She knew it and so did Sam.

The moment just sat there. "What's wrong, Riley? Or should I call you Rilen. You think I don't know that you're the daughter of trailer-trash, your dad's in jail, your brother's in jail, and your mom's on welfare. You think I can't imagine what it must have been like lying on your back down in Venice Beach? A bunch of drunk, beer-breath tricks on top of you busting a nut in you. Busting a nut in your ass for an extra twenty. It must have been fucking terrible. If you do this for me, you'll never be back there. And believe me, as bad as the first time around is, the second time is much worse."

Sam looked around the lovely patio.

Real conversation you phony fuckers, a whore being broken down. Keep looking over and trying to figure out who we are.

Then, he glared back at Riley—making it clear that what he knew about her was for the sole purpose of elevating her reality or lowering it back to a permanent state of street whore or worse. The choice was hers.

Her eyes should have become moist and vulnerable—but they didn't. Cold and knowing, she was a lowlife whore and it was a simple choice.

"You want to know the worst part, Sam?"

"Yeah, tell me."

I'll be your friend. A friend so bad that you can tell me anything, because I've done worse.

"I actually had some good times down in Venice. That's the worst part. I actually liked it. I hate myself for that." She brushed her bangs from her face. "I'll try to land this guy for you. But how do you know he's going to be into me?" She smiled as he checked her out.

"No heterosexual man could turn you down," he reassured her. "We have a deal?"

"We have a deal," she answered.

"Good. I'm going to want you to move out of the City Club and into my building. I have a nice place on the seventh floor for you. It makes your place in the City Club look like a dump."

"Why do you want me to move?"

"Because your new boyfriend will trust the relationship more if we're neighbors. Anybody can be a friend in this fucking town. We need to be neighbors. It also gives us easy access to each other without anyone being able to observe us...if you know what I mean?"

Riley raised her glass. "You think of everything."

"Welcome to the neighborhood," Sam said, raising his glass to hers.

Riley finished the last of her Merlot. "You want to go back to your place and fuck?"

"Sure, why not." Sam put his empty glass down on the table. "For an extra twenty can I bust one in your ass?"

Riley smiled. "Keep your twenty—this one's on me."

CHAPTER 36

Mexico

"Meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes." J.B.'s voice was quiet. "Tell your guys not to follow us."

Sam forced himself to open his eyes. "Fifteen minutes?"

He looked out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The sun wasn't up, Stacy wasn't up—Zachary the Pyrenees Mountain Dog wasn't even up.

"Fuck."

"Fifteen minutes; it's important," J.B. repeated.

Sam hung up the phone and rolled out of bed. He looked out the window again. Zachary the guard dog snored away, not a care in the world. He looked like a puppy when he slept. Stacy looked like an angel, a sleeping angel. Out the window, the city looked peaceful.

Too early for bad shit to be happening, J.B.'s downstairs, so only bad shit can be happening. While everyone's asleep, we'll be up to some bad shit.

Sam walked into the closet and began getting dressed. Five hundred suits, one thousand shirts, seventy-five pairs of shoes and twenty-five watches. A smile came to his face. He liked being able to dress well.

Sam stood in the lobby and waited. The provocative young woman stood on the other side of the glass door, off to the far side of the driveway. He let his eyes wander to the girl as the valet brought her car to a stop and she got in. Her skirt was short and her legs long. Sam's mind filled with images of her in various sexual acts. She was a valuable piece of ass.

J.B. pulled into the building's valet in a jacked-up, black Toyota truck. The tires were big enough to cause Sam to have to make a more serious effort than he felt comfortable with just to climb into the cab.

"This is inconspicuous?"

"We'll switch cars in San Diego." J.B. lit a joint.

"We're going to San Diego?" J.B. offered him a hit. Sam waved it off. "It's five in the morning. How can you smoke?"

"Never too early for some good weed. We're going to Mexico. But we're going to stop in San Diego and pick up Hernan."

Agitated and tired, Sam tried to shake off the cobwebs. "What's going on?" He yawned. "Excuse me. Why are we going to Mexico?"

J.B. shifted into fourth as they got onto the 405 South. "The guy who runs T.J. wants to meet you. They want to be sure you've got Mexico City covered. Hernan says this guy really wants to talk with you."

Riley had delivered Fernando, the son of the former police chief of Mexico City. They were all the best of friends. Fernando had delivered his attorney Leo, who delivered safe passage through Mexico for a reasonable fee. With T.J. set, they were good to go. Just a couple of childhood friends driving to Mexico to put the finishing touches on the world's largest drug deal.

"Mexico City is taken care of, right?" J.B. asked again.

"Yeah, we're good to go. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow." Sam laughed at his own cleverness.

J.B. looked at him. "Are you feeling okay?"

Sam leaned his head against the window. "I've got a fever—I'm burning up." He took a deep breath; his whole body hurt. "I feel like shit." He put his hand to his forehead. He was sweating. "Maybe if you give me a hug, I'll feel better."

J.B. put a CD in. Los Lobos filled the air.

"Why don't you crash out for a while? It'll help."

Sam nodded. "Good idea. I think I'm delirious."

He shut his eyes and enjoyed the fantastically anonymous moment. It felt good. He drifted off into the world of dreams.

A strange dream it was. There was no blood, no violence, and no man with a white coat. Just little Melissa—a child Patrick had stolen from the streets of Hollywood. In the past, they had always sold the little girls Patrick collected—but not Melissa. What had been a strange hobby had turned into a profitable business at a time when they had no need for more profit. Sultans and Japanese industrialists would pay a million or more for the young virgins. Melissa was so beautiful she would have brought much more.

"C'mon, get in," Patrick said, over the purr of his black Porsche.

"I was going to the gym."

"Don't worry about the gym today. We're going to the cabin."

"Did some business come up?"

They rarely went to the cabin to relax anymore. The cabin had become a place where they made people wish they were dead, sometimes for days, before they killed them.

"I'm kind of in the mood for some business." Sam tried to imagine what type of human refuse might be needing his personal attention.

"This isn't business." Patrick gave him a playful wink. "Talk about something else until we get there. This is a surprise."

There was a period of blackness and then the dream, the good memory, continued:

The woods were cold and forbidding in the winter months. The sky appeared to be moments away from opening up and blanketing the trees and the earth beneath them with white snow. Sam noticed something different the moment he entered the cabin. There was something pleasant in the air, a vibration and a smell. He looked at Patrick.

"There's someone here?"

"Follow me."

Sam followed Patrick down to the basement, to what had been a room of horrible pain and suffering for so many deserving people. Patrick opened the door and there she sat, having tea with her dolls; a little girl with jet-black hair and smoldering green eyes.

She looked up. Her lips were thick and red. Her dimples deepened when she smiled. "Are you my master?"

Sam was silent as Patrick walked over to the child and her tea party. "I told you I would bring him to you. Remember what I taught you?"

A serious, almost provocative look fell across her face. She got up from the small table, walked over to Sam and bowed down on all fours, flat on the floor. "I'm your servant. I live to please you."

Sam looked down at the beautiful little creature at his feet. Then, he looked back up at Patrick. "What is this?"

Patrick had a look of incredible pride. "She's your birthday present." He glanced down at Melissa and nodded his head. "I've been training her for months. She's different than the others. I couldn't sell her."

Sam squatted down. "Could you get up please?"

Melissa rose to face him. "Do you like me?" She unbuttoned her dress and let it fall to the floor.

Her prepubescent body was as beautiful as her face. He stared into her eyes. "Why would you do this, Pat? What were you thinking?"

"If you want good weed, you have to grow it. If you want good coke, you have to make it. If you want a good woman, you have to raise one. Look at..."

"I've been waiting for you to make me a woman," Melissa interrupted. She moved forward and kissed Sam on the lips—not breaking her deep stare into his eyes. Her lips parted from his slowly. "I'm your other world. I'd like to go wait for you in your bed, if it's okay?" Then, without warning, she wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed tightly. "You can love me," she whispered in his ear, before letting go and stepping back.

"Go to my room. I'll be there in a few minutes." Sam watched the naked little girl walk out of the torture chamber turned playhouse. Then, he looked back at Patrick. "I actually don't know what to say to you."

"I know it's a little out of the ordinary. But you gotta hear this. I gave her a picture of you a couple of months ago. She's stared at it every night since and cries until she falls asleep because you're not here. Her entire existence it to please you."

"So, you think we can just keep her here?"

Patrick nodded. "I know we can. Her mom's a dead junkie and her father...her mom told her she didn't have one. She never even went to school. She doesn't exist."

Sam walked into his bedroom. Melissa was on the bed, her back slightly arched as she ran her fingertips lightly across her abdomen. The candlelight appeared to flicker with the rhythm of her hand.

"I'm lonely for you," she said, looking straight up at the ceiling. "Here, in my stomach." She turned her head to the side and watched herself rub her own abdomen. "When I think about you, I feel butterflies here and I tremble."

Sam walked to the side of the bed and began taking off his clothes. Melissa watched intently, still rubbing her beautiful skin.

"I want to kiss you all over." She opened her arms and spread her legs. "But I want you to come to me first."

Sam hovered over the little girl with the smoldering eyes. He looked down at her: she was so young. Her lips moved, but no words came out. They didn't have to. She was saying "come to me" over and over again. Sam let the weight of his body fall on her and in the next moment he felt the incredible pleasure of tearing open her hymen.

Nice scenery, I feel almost normal again. No fucking idea where I'm at; J.B.'s still smoking a joint.

"An hour and a half of sleep on the road and I'm almost as good as new," Sam said, coming back to life. "Go figure. Did I snore?"

"Like a buzz saw." J.B. tilted his head, looking for the roach clip that had slid to the back of the ashtray.

Sam rubbed his brow. "Where are we? Are we almost there?"

"Won't be long now. Relax and enjoy the ride."

30 minutes later, J.B. pulled off into a nondescript residential neighborhood. He parked on a side street lined with a mixture of one and two story track houses. Soon after, a brown Suburban pulled up next to the jacked-up Toyota truck. Hernan gave them a wave from the passenger's seat. They jumped out of the truck and into the Suburban. Once again, they were on the move.

A Hispanic woman, in her forties with jet-black hair, was behind the wheel. Sam imagined she had been an attractive woman at one time. Nature, and a life of crime, had taken her looks and left a hard shell. Not a man. Not a woman—but a ruthless creature that lived in both worlds.

"Sam—the man with the plan!" Hernan shouted, crazy as ever. "What's up, Loco? J.B. taking good care of you?" he asked, not giving Sam time to answer. "Welcome to San Diego." Sanity crept into his voice for a moment. "Say hi to Martha."

"Hi Martha, it's nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too," she said, looking over her shoulder. "You're more handsome than I expected," she commented with no emotion in heavily accented English.

"Hernan's been telling you I'm short and fat?" Sam's insight into her words brought a look of guilt to Hernan's face.

"And bald," she added, smiling for the first time.

"He's jealous," Sam quipped, knowing that he was never exactly what people expected. "But try not to feel too bad Hernan. Not everybody can look like this."

Martha got onto the freeway and headed north.

"I thought we we're going to T.J.?" Sam asked, looking at J.B. for some type of explanation.

"Aren't you guys hungry?" Hernan asked, turning around and draping his left arm over the back of the seat.

"Starving! Hungry was an hour ago," Sam said, with the emphasis on, "an hour ago."

"I was up an hour before him—so hungry was two hours ago for me," J. B. recalculated. "With all the weed I smoked on the way down here, call it three hours ago."

"Good. We're going to La Jolla for breakfast. Sam, do you like the La Valencia?" Hernan asked.

Sam stared at the billboard of a smiling young boy petting a killer whale. He wondered if the giant mammal was as happy as the child.

"Yeah, the La Valencia is great. Did you know William Randolph Hearst used to hang out there with his mistress, Marion Davies? She was a big-time movie star back in the day."

"William Randolph who?" Hernan asked, with no clue of what Sam was talking about.

"Hearst, _William Randolph Hearst_ ," Sam repeated to no avail. "The turn of the century newspaper billionaire. Hearst Castle, Patti Hearst, the Synavaneese Liberation Army, Syn Q aka Donald Defreeze, the Hibernia bank robbery. Anything ring a bell?"

"Oh, the rich bitch that robbed the bank. She stayed at the La Valencia?" Hernan asked, impressed by the news.

"No—her grandfather did, with his mistress," Sam said, wishing he hadn't brought up such a fine piece of trivia in the first place. "Anyway, I love the place. If you want, we could skip T.J. and just check in there."

"No way Loco, we've got a lot to do. And tonight is the last night of the cockfights. We're not missing them; I'm going to win some money." Hernan rubbed his hands together in greedy anticipation.

"Son of a bitch, I forgot about John," Sam exclaimed loudly, clapping his hands together—disgusted with himself.

"Who?" Hernan was puzzled by Sam's sudden digression.

"A friend of mine is flying in from Vegas to see me this afternoon. I'm supposed to pick him up at the airport. Shit, this is bad."

"How do you know this guy?" Hernan asked—amused, curious, concerned—possibly all three. Sam wasn't sure.

"Funny enough, we were summer school roommates at Bishops right here in La Jolla. It's on Prospect, just down from the hotel."

"This is a very good school you went to," Martha said, in her heavily accented English. Sam had no idea why she knew this.

"Yeah it's a great school. Too bad I spent all my time playing tennis and hanging out at the beach instead of going to class." He refrained from adding, "And banging every blonde I could talk into going down to the cliffs at night."

Hot young, rich WASP pussy, the best in the world—oh to be fifteen again. My dick is hard just thinking about it. Three pregnant little WASPs in one summer. One abortion, two off to boarding school in Switzerland. And of course, you get kicked out and go back to school in East L.A.—a disgrace to the family name. "What family name, Dad?" It doesn't matter anymore.

Hernan's voice tore through Sam's thought like his erections had so many of those little WASP pussies.

"J.B., send two guys to pick Johnny boy up at the airport and bring him down for a few days to hang out with us. Any friend of Loco's is okay with me." Hernan turned and said to Sam, "He's okay, right?"

Sam thought back to the best days of his life. "Yeah, he's okay. But he's not in the business—so we have to keep it totally cool around him."

"He won't know shit. Trust me, we'll pull this off. John's going to have the time of his life," Hernan said, sounding too sure of himself for Sam's liking.

Are you fucking crazy? You haven't seen John in years and now...

"I'll baby-sit him if you guys have to take care of business," J.B. offered.

Hernan slapped Sam on the knee. "It's a plan. J.B. have Bambino and your cousin bring him down to Fiestas Americana in T.J., but don't tell them anything else. And tell them to keep their mouths shut on the way down. I just want them to pick him up at the airport and snatch his ass down here. Oh, and have them make a sign like they're limo drivers. You know one of those little cardboard ones. Loco, what's your buddy's last name?"

"Di Flora. Two words—capital D and capital F."

J.B. nodded. "Don't worry about Johnny D. He'll be in good hands."

They pulled up to the pink, Spanish-style hotel. The valet relieved them of the Suburban and they entered the bougainvillea-covered patio, which was set up for brunch. Martha grilled Sam in broken English with questions about himself. When she couldn't find the right words, she asked Hernan to translate. Martha wanted to hear stories, stories that couldn't be made up. Stories that could be checked out, by her friends—that were bought and paid for in the government of Mexico.

Sam spoke fondly of the day he had first met J.B.

"White walls used to have this protective blue coating on them. So when my dad's guys used to try and clean them off, we would hop in the tires and play. I think we were like four years old when we met," Sam concluded, reflecting on the good old days.

J.B. laughed. "My dad has a picture of us rolling around in those things. You were a fat little kid."

Martha smiled. They weren't lying. She would check. But she could tell a lie and they were childhood friends. No question about it. Bad little boys that grew up to be very bad men. She spoke softly in Spanish to Hernan.

Hernan pointed at Sam. "Martha needs to know for sure that we're okay up to T.J. She doesn't want to get involved in any kind of problem with Mexico City over transportation. She wants to know how you dealt with Mexico City."

Sam turned to Martha; she was expecting a long story. "Fuentes," said Sam. "Fuentes," he said again. No need to say anything else.

She leaned back in her seat. "Impossible. In prison—he's in prison. Devil's Island; nobody sees him."

"His son isn't," Sam answered, then sipped his mimosa.

Her head bobbed up and down slightly as she tried to understand. "The son...he doesn't want to talk to anyone. We try."

"He's living with one of Sam's whores. A puta," Hernan interjected. "They've all become very close. You understand? Comprendo?" Hernan rubbed his hands together. "Loco is sneaky. Fernando Fuentes lives the life Loco wants him to. He controls him with the pussy."

Martha smiled at Sam. "Good, muy inteligente." She raised her champagne glass as a salute. Then without drinking any, she put it back down on the table. "You will stay," Martha said to Hernan loud enough for J.B. and Sam to hear. "And when it's time, I'll take you to meet Simone."

On one side of the arbitrary line, there was a life of opportunity. On the other side of the line, young children ran from the shacks they called home towards people's cars—begging for money. The squalor they lived in was only made possible by man's own greed and stupidity. Sam gazed out the window of the Suburban at the human refuse.

No one gives a shit about you, unless they have to see you—or worse yet, smell you. What a fucking disgrace, poor stupid Mexicans. Learn English, read books, build yourselves your own country. It's just a make believe fucking line.

Martha drove past the slums to the clean and modern Hotel Fiestas Americana, a palace by T.J. standards; a Holiday Inn in reality. It didn't matter to Sam. The bed was comfortable and he needed another nap. His cold felt like it was just a couple more hours of good sleep away from being gone.

Three hours later, there was a knock at the door. Sam rolled out of bed, groggy, but feeling better. "John! How are you doing?" he asked, standing in the doorway completely naked.

John gave Sam a nod. And even though he was only of average height and build, it was obvious that his Italian temper had him pumped up about something.

"It's good, thanks guys," Sam said, to the two large Latinos, giving them a wave and closing the door.

"C'mon in." He put his arm around John's shoulders. John's normally fair complexion had given way to a shade of red. "Why do you look so pissed?"

John sat down on the built-in dresser. "You had me kidnapped and brought to Mexico and you're thinking I'm going to be, what, overjoyed?"

"I didn't have you kidnapped. I had you picked up at L.A.X. and brought down to Mexico in a nice car by two guys who work for a friend of mine."

"Do you actually believe what you're saying? They picked me up at the airport, told me to get into the car, and that was it. I asked where you were and they said nothing. I asked where they were taking me—and again nothing. You know what they did take the time to tell me? They told me to stop asking so many questions. They both had guns—what the fuck is that about?"

"Look, I'm really sorry the guys weren't so friendly. The whole thing was last minute. And the gun thing is just to make sure nothing happened to you on this side of the border. You know, you can't be too careful these days. I didn't want anyone kidnapping you for real. I was just looking out for you."

"Yeah, bullshit. I have to be at work tomorrow. I came in to hang out with you for a night and now I'm in Mexico."

"John, let's just have some fun. I'll get you back to where you have to go. If I have to, I'll have my plane fly down, pick you up, and take you back to Vegas."

"I know you. You better not get me fired. Caesars doesn't go for excuses when it comes to no- shows."

"C'mon, give me a hug; we're going to have some fun tonight," Sam demanded, spreading his arms.

"I know you mean well," John said, now in a tight embrace, "but we're not sixteen anymore." His words trailed off as Sam lifted him off of his feet, forcing the last of the air out of his lungs. Finally, he exclaimed, "Now let go of me—I can't breathe."

"It's not like we're senior citizens either," Sam said, putting John back down and faking a right hook to the body—causing him to flinch. "Why don't you freshen up and relax a little. We have an hour until we have to meet the gang for dinner."

"What gang?"

"For me to know and you to find out," Sam answered, as he got back into bed.

"Oh no. The last time you said that to me..."

"I got you laid. Missy Hogins. Fucked her myself the night before; great pussy, curly blonde hair. You know you were only the second guy she'd ever been with. Me one, you two. What was the name of her friend I fucked that night?"

"Julie. I fucked Missy and you fucked Julie the night you got us kicked out of Bishops."

"It was worth it. Tell me I'm wrong and I'll stay conscious. Otherwise, I'll talk to you in an hour."

Martha enjoyed the stories of John and Sam's childhood adventures in La Jolla over dinner. To Sam's pleasant surprise, Hernan was on his shockingly best behavior. By the end of dinner, John was one of the gang.

"More coffee?" Martha asked. There were no takers at the table. "Good. Then we go. You three," she pointed at J.B. John and Sam, "drive in the brown Suburban." She turned to Hernan, who sat next to her. "You come in the black Suburban with me."

"Where are we going?" John asked Sam quietly, as they walked to the vehicles that awaited them at the valet pick-up in front of the hotel.

"The cockfights."

John looked at Sam. "Cockfights?"

"Yeah, it's the last night of the season; it's a really big deal down here. F.Y.I., Martha's brother is one of the top trainers—so try not to look too bored."

"I have to work tomorrow; I can't stay out late."

"Don't worry about it," Sam said, agitated enough to prevent a response.

The arena was a formidable structure constructed of steel and cement. The smell of death was pervasive as they walked down the steep steps to their front row seats.

"El Gringo," Sam heard a few hushed voices say to each other as they descended and then sat. A brutal fight was already in progress.

The green rooster delivered a kick with the razor blade attached to its foot to the red rooster's neck. The blood from the red rooster's severed throat splattered across John and Sam. Martha and Hernan smiled warmly as if their friends had just encountered incredibly good beginner's luck. Martha handed Sam two handkerchiefs and nodded her approval.

"I'm glad I wore black," Sam said, dabbing blood from the lapel of his double-breasted Armani suit.

"We're at the cockfights," John pointed out, as he wiped rooster blood from his face. "Much better than getting laid and kicked out of the best prep-school in the country."

Hernan was intent on betting opposite of Martha's choice on every fight. If Martha bet red, he bet green. If Martha bet green, he bet red. After ten vicious fights to the death, Martha had yet to lose.

"Green is a loser, bet red," Sam suggested to Hernan, the fired-up, crazy Colombian.

"Green is going to kick his ass! I'll bet you a grand!"

Martha had just bet red. "I'll take your fucking money," Sam said calmly to Hernan. Martha gave him a smile. A minute later the red bird delivered a series of kicks to the green bird's chest that left it a lifeless heap at the edge of the ring.

Fight after fight, they bet on life and death. Fight after fight, Hernan lost.

"I've got to go to the bathroom," Hernan said, his voice filled with disgust at having lost ten bets in a row to Sam—for a total of twenty thousand dollars. As Hernan reached the end of the aisle, a troop of mariachis poured out of the tunnel entrance at the top of the steps.

"What the hell?" Sam said aloud.

"No, idea," John answered, looking up in disbelief.

"Juan Gabriel!" The voice shouted over the P.A. system. "Juan Gabriel! Juan Gabriel!" The crowd erupted into a volcano of cheers. The peasants seated in the top rows appeared ready to jump to their deaths, so overwhelmed were they by joy. "Juan Gabriel!"

"Who the fuck is... Juan Gabriel!" Sam purposely said "Juan Gabriel!" loudly, mimicking the voice coming through the P.A. system. His "Juan Gabriel!" then started a chorus of Mexicans screaming "Juan Gabriel!"

J.B. leaned toward Sam and John. "He's the Bruce Springsteen of Mexico. It's the last night—they always do something big." He waited for John to look back to the brightly costumed superstar in all his shimmering glory. "Martha," he whispered into Sam's ear.

"Why?" Sam whispered back.

J.B. smiled and shrugged.

"You know I could have been a doctor or a lawyer?" Sam whispered again.

"That would have been exciting." J.B. grinned. "You would have killed yourself."

The ring was cleared of dead birds and Juan Gabriel made his way down the stairs where he took center stage and put on a four hour show that Sam was sure would have made Bruce Springsteen proud. John looked at his watch—the idea of getting some sleep was fading. Juan gave them a nice wink as he galloped around the ring, in a side stepping manner. Finally and mercifully, he concluded his show.

"Why does he keep looking at us?" John asked, disturbed by the wink.

"Maybe because we stand out like two white guys at a cockfight in T.J.," Sam answered, more disconcerted by the wink than he was willing to let on.

"Tell me we're leaving?" John begged.

Almost before Juan disappeared, the roosters were back and eager to tear each other apart.

Sam shrugged. "If I say I'm sorry, will it make things better?"

"No!" John laughed. "This isn't the kind of thing words make better."

"Well it's not like you get to see the Bruce Springsteen of Mexico every day," Sam said sarcastically, trying to put a positive spin on their misfortune. "And he did give you a nice wink. I think he likes you."

"He was winking at you, El Gringo. Maybe you two can hook up later?" John suggested—imitating Juan's gay wink perfectly.

Sam looked across the ring. Two rows up, the girl in the short skirt sat with her friends. She looked even better than she had in the morning. He could tell that his stare made her uncomfortable.

"I'll take a pass on hooking up with Juan. I've got other plans for later."

At three in the morning, they announced the last fight. John looked at his watch in disbelief.

"Double or nothing!" a desperate Hernan screamed at Sam.

"Oh come on, you're already down twenty grand—give it up. I don't want any more of your money."

"No way, I'm getting my money back." He was emphatic. "Double or nothing!"

"Chinga pendejo, dinero, dinero, dinero," Sam said, as they each handed J.B. twenty thousand dollars to hold.

Martha laughed at Sam's outburst. It had never occurred to her that he spoke Spanish.

Sam bet green per Martha's advice. Hernan bet red and the fight was on.

The two roosters circled and measured each other at first. Then, they lunged as they passed one another—deadly blades swiping mid-air with blinding speed. They kicked and blocked, slashed and stabbed. They had each wounded the other. The ring was filled with their blood. But the end would only come when one was dead.

The referee called a break. The trainers came into the ring and blew air down their respective bird's throats. Lack of oxygen had caused them both to tire. Painful wounds had made it hard for them to move.

"Die! Kill him! Die! Die! Die!" Hernan kept screaming.

At the one-hour-mark, the birds could no longer move. They just sat in the middle of the ring and tried to peck each other to death.

"Die already! Die! Die, you fucker!" Hernan screamed.

Red bird, Hernan's beloved red bird, could no longer hold its head up. Green bird, sensing opportunity, smashed its beak down with all the strength it had left to the base of the red bird's skull. There, they lay in the middle of the ring. Red bird—dead and lifeless. Almost dead green bird's beak stuck in the back of its head.

"Fuuuuuck!" Hernan screamed.

The crowd went crazy. Hernan buried his face in his hands. John looked at Sam, stunned by the violence he has just witnessed.

"We're out of here!" Sam said, slapping his hands down on his thighs.

J.B. nodded his agreement.

They boarded the Suburbans and drove directly to the nightclub O. John didn't bother to object. What would have been the use? He had fallen down a hole into a strange perverted world. A world of killer chickens that fought to the beat of mariachi music, played by a fat little gay man who pranced in circles to the thrill and adulation of a crowd of banditos, killers, and drug lords.

The whole group sat down in a reserved booth with a bottle of Cristal at four-thirty in the morning.

"You know, I'm really sorry about all of this," Sam said, pouring John a glass.

John guzzled his champagne and shook his head. "No, you're not. If you were really sorry, I'd be on my way back to Vegas right now."

"It could be worse, John. Just look at the poor, little, shoeless bastards outside." Sam would have continued—but the girl in the short skirt was accompanied by no less than a dozen beautiful girls of all origins, all on their way toward the booth.

Drinking, dancing, pulsating music, a white line and then another—Gabriela was biting and whispering in his ear, "I know a spot."

She led him by the hand to a dark hallway. She wore no panties under her short, red skirt. Her back was to the wall and his dick was inside her hot, very moist, twat. Hernan and Luciana were next to him. J.B. and Tatiana were next to Hernan. And John was to his right. Gabriela's sister Vicki's legs were wrapped around John's waist as he fucked away. There was a chorus of moans, low guttural moans. It was The Great Wall of Fucking.

"Oh, Sam," Gabriela said, as her pussy juices ran down the front of his legs. "Just another night in Bangkok..." the music was deafening. "I'm in T.J.," Sam shouted back at the music. Then, after making out with Gabriella wildly for a few more minutes he let his mouth slide back to her ear. He breathed heavily as he fucked her hard against the wall. "You're doing great, my girl. Stay close. Make sure you tip them."

"Are you sure?" she asked quietly, then moaned.

"Yeah, I'm sure. I need them to know I was down here. Nothing else," Sam whispered.

"I love you, Sam." Then she said in the softest whisper, "Be careful."

"Be careful? I'm the one who put you through college."

"Fuck me baby. You're the boss!"

"Just another night in Bangkok..." drowned him out as he came in Gabriella his very own DEA agent. "But I'm in T.J. and I'm really fucking drunk," he said loudly for everybody else's benefit.

John's ass slammed forward—thrusting his cock deep inside of Vicki one last time. He nutted in her as her eyes met her sister's. John looked to the side and saw Sam's smile in the dark. It was just like old times.

The restaurant Martha took them to for breakfast was crowded.

"What are all these people doing here?" Sam asked.

"It's seven in the morning," John answered, looking at his watch. "Normal people wake up at about this time and have breakfast."

"Would you like me better if I were normal?" Sam asked Gabriela, leaning over and kissing her on the neck—his hand feeling her still-hot crotch. Her high cheekbones were dotted with some light freckles he hadn't noticed before. Her younger cousin Jeannine had the same freckles. It was strange that a telephone number on the bathroom wall at Norm's had led to so much good fortune.

"I like you like this," she said. Her eyes and lips were still on fire from the lust of cocaine and public fucking. She loved fucking over the government for her man.

"What about you, Vicki?" He pointed at John. "Normal, si or no?"

"Like this, just like this," she said, leaning against her new man.

Sam closed the blackout curtains and fell into his bed.

"I'm not going to make it back for work today, am I?" John asked Sam, already knowing the answer.

"No. You should probably call in sick before you fall asleep."

"Sam, you need to get me back tomorrow. Is that possible?"

"Yeah, I'll try. Go to sleep. We have to get up and get ready for the bull fights—in five hours."

John groaned. "Tell me your boyfriend Juan Gabriel isn't playing another one of his four-hour sets?"

"Come on—you know he's the Bruce Springsteen of Mexico." Sam laughed.

"I don't even like the Bruce Springsteen of America," John said, woefully unimpressed.

The hours passed, in what felt to Sam, like minutes, And it was time to be awake again.

"A beautiful day for a bullfight." Sam's eyes stung from lack of sleep as he opened them and rolled to his side. He stood and parted the curtains—embracing the pain that shot through his cranium.

"Wow, that's really fucking bright."

John rolled over, covering his head with a pillow. "No, it's way too early for a bullfight."

The truck was on the wrong side of the winding road to Ensenada—coming right at them.

"Oh shit," Sam said, helpless to do anything but brace for impact.

Could die right here in Mexico, no ID, just a dead gringo with forty grand in his pockets.

Their driver swerved. "Pendeho!" he yelled.

"Nice. That was really special," John commented stoically; then closed his eyes. "That's enough scenery for me, wake me up when we get there. Wherever there is."

"You never really know what's just around the next bend, do you? " Sam contemplated, out loud.

He gazed out, over the cliffs that they had just come so close to driving off of a few seconds before.

What a stupid fucking way to die.

It was cliffs and beaches the rest of the way there. No cars or trucks, just cliffs and beaches. Sam noticed a mansion in the middle of nowhere.

"Look at that. I wonder who lives there?"

"Juan Gabriel lives there, Senor," the driver said, uttering his first words since swerving to miss the truck.

Sam took in the dark blue mansion with bright gold trim. "I can picture that." A few minutes later, he could see the arena towering over the beach in the distance.

The bullring was a large, outdoor stadium with no luxurious amenities. Their seats were exactly halfway up, a perfect view to a kill.

Sam sat in between two of Martha's friends. On his right was the police chief of Tijuana. He was a short, slight of build man in his late forties with black, wavy hair and a thick, black mustache. He had a large presence and an infectious smile. To his left was Luis, a good-looking thirty-something doctor with straight, sandy brown hair. A graduate of USC Medical School, he was Martha's husband's personal physician.

Sam shifted his body to one side, trying to get comfortable in the hard stadium seat. "Is Martha's husband in such bad health that he needs a full-time personal physician?" Sam asked Luis.

"No—but it's common where he lives," Luis answered.

The police chief smiled in anticipation of Sam's next question.

"Martha hasn't introduced us to her husband yet. I take it he doesn't live in Tijuana?"

"Martha's husband lives in La Mesa," Luis answered.

"Sounds nice. Is it far from here?"

Both the chief and the doctor looked at him strangely. "It's nice if you like living in prison," the chief clarified.

Sam grimaced. "At least you don't have to deal with in-laws."

"Are you married?" the chief asked, smiling the smile of men who are capable of doing anything and still smiling.

"I'm crazy but not stupid," Sam responded, hoping to put the conversation back on track.

The chief leaned to his right and said something to Martha, who smiled and nodded. He turned back to Sam. "You're not what I expected."

"Let me guess, Martha told you I was short and fat?"

Martha nodded yes without looking in their direction.

"We never believed that. But you like to talk," the chief commented to Martha.

Martha nodded again, this time with some exaggeration.

"I like to talk about what I want people to know." Sam's expression was serious and he looked into the chief's eyes to make sure he understood the meaning of his words.

"I thought you would be a quiet man."

"Mystery is the crutch of the weak. The Lord created the world with words. Words cause action. I prefer to be the cause of action than the action itself."

"You're very smart. Not just street smart, you're educated."

"An Alumni Scholar," John said, for Sam's ears more than the chief's.

"You guys are good friends, yes?" the chief asked—John's concern not lost on him.

"Best of friends," Sam nodded.

"Sam, do you like to read?"

" I love to read."

"I love to read too. We should discuss literature sometime?" The chief had summed up many men in his life—Sam Noah was now one of them.

"I'd enjoy that. But I have to warn you, I read a lot of trash."

The chief smiled. "I do too." His face momentarily registered the concentration of a man working his way down a mental checklist. "I hear you were once a great athlete. How come you stopped playing sports?"

"Honestly, one day I just lost interest. I usually blame it on injuries. But the truth is, I woke up one day and didn't care any longer." Sam paused and thought back to the day. "It was so important and then it wasn't. I realized it was all a waste of time. I realized it was just a diversion—a false sense of importance—

and a way to keep me busy with doing nothing. If I could do this nothingness better than everybody else, I could get a gold-medal that wasn't even made of real gold. You should see all the fake, gold plastic statues I have."

"Professional athletes make a lot of money." The chief wanted Sam to expound.

"The tools of the trade. A few successful individuals that inspire billions to aspire to the glory of nothingness. When it dawns on them, when they realize they don't have what it takes, they become fans. They fill stadiums like this and waste their lives. Worse yet, they sit at home and do it. I couldn't be a part of that."

"Then what inspires you?" asked the chief, trying to get to the core of what made Sam Noah the dangerous opportunity that the CIA had bet their war in Central America on.

"The power of ideas inspire me, nothing else. If you hold a gun to a man's head, he'll do what you tell him to—but only until the gun's gone. If you put an idea in the same man's head, he'll do what you want until his last breath." Sam smiled, slightly embarrassed. "Not that I have a reputation for sparing the gun. But I don't lie to myself; I know where real power lies."

The chief gave Sam a pat on the shoulder, as he stood up. "You are a very interesting young man." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to Sam. "If you ever have trouble in Tijuana, show this card. If you need anything, call me. I'm sorry but I have to go see some people." He paused as if something had just come to mind. "Oh, Sam.... Martha told me you were from East L.A. But where exactly were you born? I'm just curious."

"Beverly Hospital—and I'm guessing you already knew that," Sam answered, knowing that they were just being thorough with respect to his identity.

"Just making sure," the chief said, as he turned and walked toward the stairs.

"He really likes you." Luis' tone of voice was meant to impress the importance of this on Sam.

"How can you tell?"

"He never talks to anyone like that."

"Like what?"

"Personally. I didn't even know he read."

"Well, I'm glad he likes me." Sam looked down at the card in his hand. "He's a good man."

"You see good in strange places, Sam."

"I see bad in stranger places, Luis."

The crowd roared as the picador plunged another miniature spear into the bull's back. It was the sixth to hit its mark and it finally lowered the bull's head enough for the matador to come into the arena.

The matador lured the bull within an inch of his own flesh over and over and over again—the trademark of a good matador. Red is all the bull could see, there and then not. Charge after charge, the bull's head was lower with each one. The beast's massive and powerful shoulder blades widened just enough.

Then, the long silver blade flashed in the sunlight. The bull was too tired to look up. The blade plunged through the small opening. There was pain, cold steel in the heart, and death.

The crowd rose to its feet, cheering the thud of a dead beast, with the matador's sword buried in its back.

Sam stood, but did not cheer. "To the hilt," he pointed out to John. "The entire sword, all the way to the handle. That's where the expression comes from, you know?"

"Why aren't you cheering?"

"I'd rather see a dead Matador."

"Me too. Any chance we'll get out of here soon?" John asked in earnest.

"Juan Gabriel!!" The familiar roar of the crowd filled their ears.

"No, I think we're going to be here for a while," Sam said, shaking his head.

Hernan pulled Sam aside before getting into the car. "We're going to call it an early night. Tomorrow, we have to meet with Simone. I'll have J.B. make arrangements to take John back. He had a good time, didn't he?"

"Absolutely—he loved hanging out with us," Sam answered, lying.

"I told you it would work out," Hernan patted Sam on the shoulder. "He doesn't have a clue, trust me," he said in a low, conspiratorial voice.

"Sam, ride with me!" Luis shouted, waving Sam over to his Suburban. "We'll stop by my office on the way back to the hotel. It's good for you to know where it's at."

"The shit I do..." he tried to complain to an escaping Hernan.

"I'll see you back at the hotel," Hernan said, sliding into the front of the Suburban Sam had hoped to be riding in.

"Thank you," Sam said, as he turned and walked toward Luis.

"My office isn't far from the hotel," Luis reassured him as he opened the door for his prized passenger. "Remind me when we're at the office to give you some HGH samples. We can get all you want and put it on the trucks before they cross the border. There's a lot of money in it."

"Human Growth Hormone?" Sam's mind went right to Gary and Brian. "I've got a couple of guys that could move it by the gallon."

John laid on the bed and contemplated life without a job. "One more month and I would have been the front desk manager. Up until twenty-four hours ago, I was on the path to upper management, possibly even general manager one day."

"J.B. is going to have a couple of guys take you back tomorrow," Sam said, shutting the curtains. "If you have any trouble getting a flight, just tell them and they'll have one of my planes fly you out of Santa Monica to Vegas."

"We're not going to squeeze in a donkey show?" John asked, staring at the ceiling—his voice rich with disdain.

"I was joking about that."

"No, you weren't."

"Well I was kind of joking about that."

"Sam, what the hell has happened to you? Where are your morals? Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know who these people are? They're drug dealers and you're a drug dealer, obviously a big drug dealer."

"Are you done?"

"Go ahead."

"My friends and I just wanted you to have a good time. I'm sorry I exposed you to my business."

"Business? Is that what you call it? You're not the person I used to know Sam."

"I'm not the person you used to know? What about you? Since your mom died, you've died...shut down. Why can't you just let yourself have some fun? I know you're inside there somewhere. Fuck, it's not like you don't smoke weed and do coke. What's the big fucking deal if I sell it?"

John took a deep breath. "Maybe we both need to think about things. I'll have plenty of time after I get fired tomorrow."

"I'll make a call. Trust me—you won't get fired. In fact, I'll have them give you that promotion to front desk manager you've been waiting for."

"Do I want to know how you'll manage that?" John asked.

"I'm an important shareholder. Let's leave it at that."

"Sam, I don't even know if I want a friend like you. I mean, why bust my ass when my buddy Sam Noah can just make a call."

"John, I'm your friend and that's that. Since you're stuck with me, don't start with the judging shit; we all have our own path. And remember this; if your friend Sam Noah doesn't help you, no matter how hard you bust your ass, there's someone out there who wants what you want and they have a friend like me. He'll make that call for them and you'll be fucked. So be smart."

"I know...it's happened...more than once," John paused. The conversation had changed since they were kids, rooming together at Bishops. The friendship hadn't "Sam, be careful, okay? This is a crazy life you're living."

"Good-night, John," Sam said, pulling the covers up. "I mean—Mr. Front Desk Manager."

"Thanks, I do deserve it." He continued to stare at the ceiling.

"I know," Sam said, closing his eyes.

The ride to the meeting was long and quiet. All the pleasantries had been exchanged. All the questions had been answered.

"We're here," Martha announced—breaking the silence. The sign on the gate read La Mesa.

"I thought we were meeting with Simone?" asked Sam. Both J.B. and Hernan were equally confused.

"Simone is my husband. He's a prisoner. Come now and we'll settle our business."

Sam had never dreamt of walking into an infamous third world prison voluntarily. He hoped Gabriella had done exactly what he had instructed her to do, nothing more, nothing less. They followed Martha through the non-existent check-in procedure. Once inside the second set of gates, Luis walked up and greeted them—accompanied by two men armed with sub-machine guns. Luis shook hands with everybody.

"Sam, you made it to La Mesa. So, what do you think?"

Sam looked at the men with the sub-machine guns. "Not like any of the prisons I've heard about."

"They're bodyguards; they work for Simone," Luis said, like a tour guide.

"You're allowed to have your own armed bodyguards here?" Sam asked.

"Of course, you can have whatever you want in La Mesa—guards, girls, a maid, cook, even your own doctor. Come on, I'll take you to Simone's house."

"He has his own house, in prison?" Sam asked, astonished and impressed by the complete corruption of justice.

"Yes, with its own disco in the basement," Luis answered, politely.

More guards stood at the open door of the largest home in what had, at one time, been a prison yard.

Simone was a well-kept, medium-sized man in his late forties. His jet-black hair was combed back similar to J.B.'s. But unlike anyone else Sam had ever met, he sported a scar from one side of his neck to the other. At one time, his throat had been slit from ear to ear and he had survived.

Simone greeted his guests warmly. Then, welcomed them into his comfortably furnished living room. "Please sit down."

Hernan and Simone sat opposite each other in matching wing chairs while J.B. and Sam sat on the sofa between them. Martha and Luis disappeared into the back of the house. Sam was hoping they had gone to the kitchen to have the cook whip up some lunch.

"Martha tells me you and your friends have an ambitious plan, one you'd like our help with," Simone said to Hernan and then nodded inclusively toward J.B. and Sam.

"We've got the whole thing set up, from Colombia to Tijuana. We just need to know our trucks won't be hijacked in T.J. or have trouble getting over the border." Hernan rubbed his mustache and goatee and then continued, "We need to know they won't be looked at too closely at the border. I need you to make this happen."

"Of course there will be compensation?" Simone asked, forcing a slight smile to make the point he wanted to be made happy.

"We'll pay you one-hundred-thousand dollars per truck," Hernan said, thoughtfully. He and Sam had discussed the price—but he managed to make it sound unrehearsed.

"You can do a little better than that, no?" Simone asked, his fake smile transforming into a genuine grin.

Hernan shook his head. "No, one-hundred-grand per truck is it. We have a lot of people to pay and everybody is getting the same thing. That's the deal. We're all expecting you to come on board and make a lot of money."

Simone turned to Sam. "You have everything set up on your side? I don't want trucks backed up here; they have to go straight through, on schedule."

Joel had finalized leases in every state. Sam's people were in place and they were ready. "I'm good to go on my side; there won't be any traffic jams."

Martha brought in a tray of sandwiches and put them on the coffee table. Then, she disappeared back to where she had come from.

"Please, help yourselves," Simone said, motioning genially toward the platter. "I want to do this. But I have my concerns."

"What concerns you?" Hernan asked.

"Him." He pointed at Sam. "He concerns me very much. The FBI wants his ass and once we start, they're going to want his ass even more."

"He's hard to find," Hernan said, reassuringly. "They don't even know his name. They've been looking for a Man on the Hill."

"Which we just gave them. They're happy for now," J.B. added.

"So I've heard." He turned to Sam. "You think that's enough?" Simone asked Sam.

"It's enough for right now."

Simone scratched at the scar on his neck. "You work for the CIA."

"I have a friend that works with the CIA—not for the CIA. It's not a secret." Sam glanced toward Hernan. "My partners knew this before we met."

"The man responsible for the death of my mother and father...my two little sisters...he worked for the CIA." Simone continued to scratch at his scar. "He left me with this. I'm sure he'd be surprised that I lived. He was a doctor. You think he would have known how to cut a throat."

"It's hard to control destiny, Simone. Men will always try—but the best laid plans..."

"My father was a scientist," Simone continued, cutting him off. His voice was slightly elevated. "He made a good living. After his murder, no relative would have me. They were scared. I shouldn't blame them, but I do. I won't bore you with what it was like growing up in an orphanage in Mexico. But do you know why they killed my father? Do you know why they killed my family?"

"Because your father was adverse to their interest," Sam answered and looked at Simone solemnly. "That's why most people get killed."

"Now, I'm being asked to trust a man who works for the same people. And I ask myself how small a world is this? Do you understand my question? Do you understand my dilemma? You're one of them. You're responsible for the death of my family."

"I can't change the past, Simone. And I can't change what I am. But as I was saying, men who try to control destiny are usually the victims of their own ambitions."

"So you think these men will suffer the consequences of what they've done?"

"Yes. I think their plans will be their demise."

"And why should I trust you?"

"Because our interests are the same. And I can't see that changing." Sam looked around the room. "I'd like to know why you live in a prison?"

Simone smiled. "Mexican law does not acknowledge that a man in prison can be responsible for a crime outside of prison. So whatever happens out there, I cannot be charged. I am immune from prosecution for criminal activity. Do you understand?"

"You live in prison so you can't be sent to prison? Very interesting."

"Drop your schedules off at Luis' medical office every week—he'll bring them to me. Give the money to Martha at the house in San Diego. Sam, I hope you're right about these men. For both our sakes."

Sam smiled. "Let Martha be my witness for you. When the time comes."

Early that evening, the brown Suburban pulled alongside J.B.'s black Toyota monster truck.

"You sure you don't want to come up to L.A. with us?" Sam asked, as Hernan walked him around to the rear of the Suburban.

"I have to take one for the team," Hernan said and nodded toward Martha.

"Sorry to hear that," Sam replied, deadpan.

"I don't mind. It has some mileage—but it still runs. I'll catch you next week. I should get you your first five truckloads on Monday. You need any help?"

"No. I've got it covered," Sam answered and opened the door to the truck hoisting himself up to the passenger seat. "Monday." He slammed the door shut.

CHAPTER 37

A War Ends, A War Begins

Ron Carr's white Mercedes stretch limousine pulled into the valet driveway of Sam's Wilshire high-rise. The driver opened the door and Sam slid in.

"Hey, what's up, Sport?" Ron greeted him, sounding unusually relaxed.

Ron was the only person Sam let call him something like Sport. "It's been very busy but steady as she goes." It occurred to Sam that he had never come upon Ron while he wasn't on the phone. "How about you, how are you doing? You seem calm."

"I'm taking the day off. I thought you might want to catch a movie and a bite to eat—we need to talk about some things."

"Sounds good to me; I could use a break."

Ron told the driver to head into the Westwood Village. Then, he put up the partition.

"We can talk in here—I just had it swept. Have you been sweeping your places?"

Sam nodded. "Every day, sometimes twice a day; nobody is getting me on tape."

Sam's excessive caution never failed to impress.

"The Commies are through in Central America. There's going to be some fall-out about the whole arms thing but the President's boys are going to take the fall for it. The guys are real patriots, if you know what I mean. What can never come out is your whole urban business with the Israelis. Sending guns to freedom fighters is one thing. But how we paid for them is another. You need to clean things up so they can never come back to bite us in the ass."

"Except for the problem we had with the cop, there's nothing—unless you're worried about the Israelis?"

"No, they're absolute pros. The cop is long gone, right?"

Sam nodded. "He's part of the food chain."

"That's disgusting," Ron said, grimacing.

"Stick to meat and poultry if it bothers you."

Ron turned his head to the side with this distasteful thought. "I like fish."

"Then stick to the fresh water variety."

"There are some things I wish I didn't know."

"Ron, now that I'm done financing a revolution for the boys in Washington, I'd like to ship La Reina out to the hoods. We've built a good business and I'm not about to just leave it. Besides, if I just pull out every little fucker, in every city in this country, will be fighting for what I leave behind. It'll be a war out there. That much violence could bring the kind of attention we don't like. None of us wants people digging around and tossing out more fucking conspiracy theories. I want to stay in business and keep the violence to a manageable level."

"Nobody wants a free-for-all out there. But drugs are going to become a political issue. Pretty soon, there's going to be a war on drugs. Communism is finished. The Cold War is over—and you know we always have to be fighting something. If you and your guys, and that includes the boys in Colombia, don't decide on an exit strategy, you're going to find yourselves at war with the United States."

Like a volcano that needs virgins, the government of the most powerful empire in the history of mankind will require feeding. And you know what happens to the people who don't feed it.

"There's going to be a war on drugs, no stopping it." Sam looked out the window. Another high-rise was going up on Wilshire. "We just need to think past it. We dump the Israelis and switch everything over to La Reina. We keep giving the CIA their cut. They keep giving us our information." Sam turned back, toward his associate. "They always need money, Ron."

"Even with the CIA still in, the DEA and the FBI will be major pains in the ass. How do you plan on handling them?"

"We keep them busy in the U.S. by feeding them plenty of bullshit busts. When the time is right down south, we'll give them the Colombians."

"The Colombians? You guys are like family."

"They're becoming celebrities. They're not going to last.

"You have a backup?"

"It's already in the works."

"I hear you were down in Argentina recently?"

"Their banking system is going to crash—they're really going to need dollars."

"Good farmers, good soil..." Ron paused. "But without the Colombians, how long can you keep the Feds chasing their tails. You can buy a couple of years. But then what?"

"Well that depends on the CIA—or should I say on your buddy Grimaldi?"

"I don't understand," Ron answered, starting to ponder whether the CIA still had control of Sam Noah.

"Let Grimaldi know I want to go after the money. I gave them what they wanted. It's time."

"You're nothing if not tenacious."

"Everybody has something going for them." Sam smiled as he thought of the sea beating a rock into sand.

"You know, even though stealing the money was my idea, we're pretty fucking rich. We could just call it a day."

"Right—and maybe we should take up knitting."

Ron laughed. "You're right. What was I thinking?"

"You wouldn't have told me about the money if Grimaldi hadn't given you his blessing. It's part of a bigger picture," Sam said, back on point.

"It was a carrot, Sam. I'm telling you that as your friend."

"It was a carrot to you. Not to Grimaldi. You can trust me on that. Our relationship is what he always planned on it being. Tell him I want to keep things going and I want the location of those lists. I'm going to blow the fucking things up. No more Colombians, no more lists, and the Feds off my ass. He'll have something in mind."

CHAPTER 38

Poppy Fields Forever

The mountains were home to Mullah Muqtada Omar. The Russians who had driven him to a life in caves and tents were gone. But the aristocrat infidels were still in control of much of the country. They had fought the Soviets, well-funded and well-trained by the Great Satan, the United States. With the Communists gone, the Great Satan had no interest in helping the forces of Allah. There was still much work to be done. Perhaps it was time to make an arrangement with the one they called the Destroyer of Souls. He was, after all, a son of the Great Satan. Who could know the enemy better than the enemy himself?

"I understand. Just the fact that you are willing to help is a blessing from Allah," Muqtada the one-eyed, one-legged Mullah said, raising his face toward heaven when saying Allah's name.

Muqtada was forty-three-years-old yet, he looked to be in his sixties. His long beard was almost completely gray and although he had a sturdy build, the wooden peg that served him as a prosthetic leg caused his movements to be deceptively feeble.

Sam nodded. "Whatever I tell you to do, you must follow my instructions to the letter."

"Our cause is a matter of life and death to us." Muqtada's face burned with the fire of zealotry.

"If I thought otherwise, I wouldn't be here." Sam motioned toward the tent flap that served as a door. "Do you mind if we step outside and we speak alone?"

Muqtada was well aware of his guest's murderous ways. It was murder and drugs that had brought him to Afghanistan.

"I'm never left alone," Muqtada said, making no effort to move.

"We'll go outside and speak alone and our mutual enemies will die." Sam stood and waited for his host to do the same.

Muqtada studied his visitor. He would make him a tool of Allah. He would serve their destiny.

"Come," he said, rising to his feet. "There is a place to watch the sun go down. We can talk there."

Sam followed his host out of the spacious tent to a large rock protrusion. There, they sat in the hills of Afghanistan—a forbidding yet beautiful country.

"Now that the Russians are gone, we have come to understand who the true enemy is," Muqtada said to the winds that blew gently over the cliffs more than he did to Sam Noah.

"I doubt that very much." Sam gazed at the sun's last rays.

"Your country would destroy our way of life. The infection of secular humanism throughout the world is your own government's stated purpose."

"Muqtada, I'm not a man of causes or beliefs. Frankly, I do not judge between your way and the ways of the United States. I am only here to further my interest and the interest of my own people."

"You sell poison to your own people. How can we trust a man like you? What are our assurances?"

"The only thing I can assure you of is that you cannot trust me," Sam said, looking toward Muqtada for the first time since sitting. "I will supply weapons for as long as you can supply me poppies. If you do anything that is adverse to my interest, I will have only one matter to consider—your replacement."

"At least you—unlike your government—speak the truth. You know they came, they organized us, they told us they believed in our Jihad. They..."

"Well I don't believe in your Jihad. I don't care about them and I don't care about you," Sam said, cutting him off. "You will give me the exclusive right to buy poppies and I will supply you with the money and weapons to control your land. You will destroy the fields that do not sell to me. Islam will be safe here, safe under your control. And I will have my poppies."

"We will not take money from an infidel," Muqtada said, shaking his head. "You can have the poppies. But the money must not come from your hands. There would be no blessing in that."

"Then I will arrange it so the money will come from your own."

"Our own cower to the United States, I'm ashamed to say. They fear the paper tiger."

"I will set up charities that the Royal Family of Saud will fund."

"You can do that?" Muqtada asked, always amazed at the ways of Allah.

"Yes, I can. You will continue your Holy War and I will have my poppies." Sam stood. "So what is your answer, yes or no?"

"My answer is yes. Tomorrow you will go in peace and do Allah's will." Muqtada turned to face his guest but he was already gone. As quickly as he had appeared in his tent in the day, he was gone in the night. "The Great Satan is very strong." Muqtada bowed and began his evening prayers. He prayed for the death of all infidels.

Sam silently mounted his horse, a sure-footed Appaloosa—the same as he had become accustomed to in the hills of Malibu and Santa Barbara. A dusty and annoyed Frank flanked his right while an anxious Ron rode to his left. Their guide Elan led the way expertly through the rugged terrain—away from Muqtada Omar's camp.

"Of all the whacky, fucking shit—this is the craziest yet!" Frank exclaimed, before Sam even had a chance to speak. "I'm on a fucking horse at night in Afghanistan. Argentina, Afghanistan, isn't there some fucking normal place we can get our shit from? I haven't had a shower in five fucking days."

"Growing and processing drugs in normal places is against the law, dumbshit," Sam said, under his breath. "And just for your own edification, there are millions of people that would actually appreciate getting to go to all the cool places you get to travel to with me."

"You should take them instead of me next time. This fucking horse is killing my ass."

Sam turned to Ron. "You think what I have to deal with is easy?"

"We all have our crosses to bear. How did it go with Omar?"

"They're in—but what a fucken nut. Even I feel bad giving these lunatics guns. If they didn't have poppies, I'd figure out a way to nuke them."

"That bad?"

"Ron, you had to see this guy's eyes. Well actually eye—apparently a Soviet bomb got pretty close. Anyway, he's a nut and his followers are mindless. When we're done with these guys, there's going to be a hell of a mess to clean up. If you know what I mean?"

"Sam, I'm not kidding. My ass can't take another day of this fucking horse. Satellite phone for the fucking helicopter, would you?"

"Sorry, Big F. We have another stop to make. Whoa!" Sam pulled up on his horse's reins, not wanting to run into Elan's horse, which had stopped without warning to defecate. He turned back to Ron. "You have everything set, right?"

Ron nodded. "Oh, yeah, I have our guy. Next stop, Pakistan."

"You're fucking kidding? We're riding all the way back to Pakistan? I think you like this outdoors shit. Maybe we should stop and fuck a goat or something on the way?"

"Sheep."

"What?"

"You fuck sheep, not goats. Sheep are the closest thing to women, not goats." Sam paused to consider what he had just said. "Not that I have personal knowledge, of course."

"Who the fuck cares? I just want to be home fucking my girlfriend," Frank whined.

"Well at least you have a good one to go home and fuck."

"What are you going to do about her?" Frank asked, seriously.

Ron nodded. "I say kill her—she's causing a lot of trouble. A nice, convenient accident."

"I'll try to straighten her out first. If I can't make my point, then we'll get rid of her."

They were quiet as they navigated their horses down an unusually steep slope. The concentration required of both man and beast was exhausting. At the bottom of yet another hill, Sam took a deep breath.

"So, you really think this Musharaff is our guy?" he asked Ron.

"Yeah. With a little help from us, he'll be running the show in a few years."

"And he's okay with our plans for Muqtada Omar?"

"He's a business man, Sam. As long as we get him paid, he'll do whatever we need him to do."

CHAPTER 39

A Good Friend's Girlfriend

It was just after twelve noon when Sam knocked on the door. The Newport sea breeze was at its gentle best. The air had a calm about it that didn't deserve to be disturbed.

"Joe's not here," Shauna said hesitantly, the door slightly open—revealing that she was dressed in a black leotard and a white T-shirt. Her long blonde hair and amazing body fit perfectly into life in Newport.

"I know," Sam said, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, visibly shaken by his intrusion into her home while Joe wasn't even in the same state.

"Everything's fine. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by. You want to grab lunch?"

Shauna relaxed slightly and he seized the moment to hit her on the side of the face. The blunt force from the palm of his hand was enough to send her sprawling to the floor.

"Are you _sure_ you want Joe to retire?"

Stunned and not understanding what was happening, she tried to get up on all fours. She wanted to be back on her feet. But Sam's foot hit her ass with enough force to send her sprawling again.

"You sure you don't want him hanging around with me?" he asked, grabbing her by her long hair and dragging her into the kitchen.

"Leave me alone!" she finally screamed at the top of her lungs.

"Sure, I'll leave you alone." He kicked her hard enough in the stomach to make her gasps for air the only sound she could make. "Nice looking chicken salad. Why don't you have some?"

He poured the contents of the bag over her head, then the plastic bag. Her gasps became frantic as he held the bag tightly around her throat and ripped her leotard and shirt from her body. Then, with the bag collapsing into her mouth with every attempted breath, he forced himself on her. There was no struggle to prevent his penetration. On some level he had always known she wanted his dick. Now she was getting it. He hadn't intended to kill her, but it was always like this. Once he got going, he just really didn't care.

Rip the bag off the dumb cunt's head. Think about Joe—he loves the dumb bitch. You can't leave her dead on the kitchen floor.

Sam reached down and grabbed the plastic from her face and pulled. Her eyes were wide, terrorized, as he pulled it from her—ending her suffocation.

"Turn over or I will fucking kill you. Do what I say."

She couldn't respond fast enough. He spread her cheeks and forced himself into her quivering asshole. He could feel tissue ripping and he spared her no mercy fucking her ass savagely for more than twenty minutes before cumming. From the feel of it, his friend Joe hadn't been into such pleasures.

"So what do you think of our little visit so far?" he asked, standing back up as she lay trembling on the kitchen floor.

"Get out," she said, softly.

"That's what I'm talking about." He began urinating on her.

"Stop. Please stop," she whimpered.

"Please is a good word." He finished emptying his bladder. "If you ever say anything again to Joe that would make him think about quitting, I will do things to you that you can't even imagine. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"And I prefer that we keep this little conversation just between us. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"You've got a great pussy. Joe's a lucky man. And that ass—wow" He continued to stand over her.

"Please—go."

"Yeah, I should leave. When Joe gets back in town, tell him you want to have Stacy and me over for dinner. Tell him that you've changed your mind about things and you appreciate this great life he's given you. You'll do that for me, won't you? You stupid fucking bitch."

"Yes."

"Shauna, as good as your pussy is, I really hope I never have to come see you again. Joe's like a brother to me. Enjoy the rest of your day. I'll see you for dinner next week."

CHAPTER 40

Loose End Served Up Cold

They pulled Roy off the plane as soon as it landed at Los Angeles International Airport and went through his luggage. "You have one phone call," they told him.

"Sam—they found the Valium; I'm in jail. What do I do?"

Sam looked at the clock. Two in the morning. What a shock.

"Don't say anything to anybody. Joel will come down to see you first thing in the morning."

"What if they won't let me post bail?" he asked, his voice trembling with fear.

"Listen my brother, we have plenty of friends in the system. Nobody is going to bother you. Try to get some sleep; you'll be out before you know it. Let me go so I can call Joel and get you sprung."

"Thanks, man."

"Not a problem. Hey where are you?"

"They just brought me to County."

"All right, I'll take care of it."

"What's going on, Sam?" a sleepy Stacy asked, rolling over to face him.

"Nothing—go back to sleep," he told her as he dialed Robbie's number.

"Roy's locked up in County. You know what to do."

"I got it handled," Robbie said, having answered wide-awake on the first ring. "You fell asleep, didn't you?"

"Fuck you." Sam hung up and dialed Joel.

"Who the fuck is calling me at two in the morning? Come on, say a name moron," Joel answered, stoned out of his mind.

"It's me. The moron that pays you all that money."

"Oh, what's up?"

"Roy just got pinched at the airport with a few thousand Valiums."

"What is he, stupid?" Joel asked, transitioning from stoned to irritated seamlessly. "Tell me you didn't know about this."

"Yeah, like I need to make a few grand hawking pills. I don't think so. Just go down and bail him out in the morning. Oh, and Joel, you better call his older brother Johnny and tell him to hop on a plane. He's a pretty tough customer; he's going to want to be here for Roy."

Sam went back to sleep guessing his next conversation with Joel would be sometime around ten in the morning.

"I have Joel on the phone," the receptionist's voice said through the intercom.

"Good. I want to talk to him." There was a momentary pause. Sam was never quite sure how long to wait. "Hey Joel, you get everything straightened out?" Sam asked, mustering all of his innocence.

"No," Joel said, in his most exasperated voice.

Sam could picture him standing at a County Jail pay phone, his face beet red and his hair standing straight up.

"What's wrong?"

"Roy hung himself in his cell last night."

"Is he dead?" Sam asked, trying to sound upset.

"Dead? He was hanging for hours before anybody did anything. Of course he's dead!"

"I told him we'd get him out today. I can't believe he did this. Have you called his brother?"

"No, I wanted to talk to Roy first. I thought he might not want his family to know what was going on. You know what I mean?"

"You better call him now. Tell Johnny I'll pick him up at the airport. Just give me a time."

Roy's death had been quickly and easily ruled a suicide. The body was released to his next of kin, who had the unpleasant task of making the travel arrangements for his brother's body and himself to go back to Lebanon.

The restaurant was quiet and somber. Sam thought it to be the perfect choice for this type of dinner.

"Sam, who's responsible for this?" Johnny asked, vengeance already on his mind before his brother was even in the ground.

"Johnny, it was suicide. Who knows how something like this happens?"

"Sam, I've never condoned it. But Roy has flown with Valium in his suitcase every time he's ever traveled. Not as much as they say he had this time, but he's never been searched. They knew—someone told them. The person that made that call might as well have just put a gun to my brother's head. That's who's responsible."

"Johnny, I don't like to say what I don't know for sure. But the only people who knew, besides Karen and myself, were his friends up north."

Johnny nodded. "That's what Karen said. That's why Roy had so many pills this time—they were for them. Sam, I don't want to get you involved in this. But would you give me the names and addresses of Roy's friends up north."

Sam hesitated. "There's four. I can't be sure which one it was."

Johnny shook his head. "It doesn't matter—give me all four. Muslims stick together; they all knew. Sam, I'm going to need one more favor."

Sam could see the hatred building inside of Johnny. Muslims and Christians had been going at it back in Lebanon since the Crusades.

"Sure, Johnny—anything."

"I'm going to need a gun. I hate to ask you—but this is not my country. I have no one else to ask."

"Johnny, are you sure you want to do this?"

"I have to do this. They killed my brother."

"I'll get you what you need," Sam said, reluctantly. "But once you've done what you have to do, get on your plane and go. I don't want to know anything."

I'll just have to be content knowing that everybody that can link me to Sarah, the Royal Family, and all those charities, except for Tom. will be dead. Except for Tom—who can also link me to Hernan. Good old Tom the fag with an increasingly bad drug habit. How long before he has an overdose? Not too long.

Johnny reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "Thank you, good friend. I know Roy thought of you as a brother."

Really? Did he tell you about the time he and Assaf tried to rip me off for a million two-fifty? I told Robbie to have the guys remind him about that when he was swinging from the bed sheet.

"I know, Johnny. I thought of him the same way."

Sarah sounded terrible. Her voice was almost indistinguishable, even to Sam—the father of her child.

"Sam, have you heard?"

"About what?"

"Roy was arrested—and he hung himself in jail."

"Yeah, I heard."

Her voice broke as she spoke. "Samir, Mumbdu, Mohamed, and Fahad were all shot to death at Samir's house yesterday. Sam, they're all dead. The police think they were all involved with some kind of smuggling ring that Roy was running. They think Roy's brother had something to do with what happened."

"No one but Roy knows what really happened."

No one but Roy knows the Valium was my idea. And he's not talking, Sarah. He's not talking about anything ever again.

"Sam, they were my friends."

"You have a baby to raise. It's better that they're not around—the whole bunch of them."

She started sobbing.

Only a woman can get the Crown Prince to make her one of his wives, bear him an illegitimate son, and all but ask for her friends to be murdered—and still manage to cry. Is there any circumstance in which a woman can't find some sense of self-tragedy and loss?

"Sarah, get a grip on yourself, would you. If you want to play, you have to pay sometimes. Speaking of which, I hate to bring it up to you right now, but I need a favor. Give Khalid some kind of excuse—you have to come down to L.A."

"Sam, tell me it's not something terrible."

"No, nothing like that. There are some charities I need you to raise money for."

There was a sigh of relief. "That's no problem. I like doing charity work."

"Good, be here tomorrow."

CHAPTER 41

Busted

Sam had decided to spend the morning looking over stock charts and 10 K reports. Boring, but necessary.

Doug knocked on the open door. "Hey boss, you got a minute? It's important."

"Yeah, come on in. I'm just trying to get some orders together for tomorrow."

"You buying heavy?" Doug asked, as he sat down.

"Slowly but surely. If I get some good information it's hard to resist. Up or down."

"You can make money if you know a stock is going down?"

"Oh, yeah," Sam answered. "Just as much as if it goes up. It's really just a giant, rigged casino. If you know which way to bet, you can make a lot of money either way. Right now, I'm betting up. That's the bet for the next ten years." Doug seemed distracted. He usually enjoyed learning new things. "So, what the fuck is going on? I'm sitting here talking about stocks and your head is somewhere else. What's up?"

"I just got a call from Brian. He and Gary just got arrested in Texas with ten keys."

"Texas—what are they doing in Texas?"

"I don't know. But it's bad news. Texas is not a good place to get busted."

"I should just let them sit and rot and make an example of them. This is what happens when people start breaking the fucking rules."

Doug shook his head. "Bro, don't let them sit. They fucked up—but you gotta back them up."

The thought of Brian placing a direct call from jail to the office made Sam sick. He could have called any two-bit Texas lawyer and had him make the call.

Doug was looking for Sam to give the word. The troops always wanted to know that the cavalry would come and save the day no matter how badly they fucked up.

"Who's around that I can send down there?" Sam asked.

"Jeff's in his office," Doug said, sounding relieved that two of his favorite associates weren't going to incur the boss' wrath.

"Send Jeff in." Kim had been right about Jeff's versatility. Sam had found several uses for Crazy Jeff. "If Brian calls back, just tell him to sit tight. Tell him Jeff 's coming down to straighten things out. And tell him to stop fucking calling here."

Three minutes later, Jeff came bounding into Sam's office. He was a modern day cowboy—a giant kid in an adult's body—a good-looking guy who, for some reason Sam could never figure out, had covered himself from head to toe with tattoos.

"So I hear Brian and Gary got nabbed in Texas," he said, taking a few feet of air before landing in Sam's gray mohair Pace Collection chair closest to the window. "That sucks. You want me to go down and get them out?"

"That chair cost eight thousand dollars."

Jeff stood back up like he had springs in his legs. He reached into his right front pocket, pulled out a stack of hundred dollar bills and put them down on the desk.

"That ought to cover it," he said, crashing back down with a thud.

"That's not the point. Anyway, I'm pretty pissed. They had no business being in Texas—it's not their territory."

"Does Big Al know they got pinched?"

"No and we're going to keep it that way. I can't have you guys poaching each other's business. Al would flip the fuck out if he knew they tried to do a deal down there. These guys cause me a lot of grief."

"C'mon boss, they're good guys. I'll take care of this."

"I don't like the idea of you walking into a prison; it's a lot of exposure."

Jeff stiffened. "You know me, I don't give a fuck. I'll walk in there—I don't care."

"All right. Go down, get them a lawyer, and bail their asses out of jail."

Jeff leaned forward. "They're going to ask me if I think they're safe."

"I'm not going to do anything to them, no bullshit. But you can tell them whoever thought this up, and my guess is that it was Gary, is out. By the way, don't take one of our planes down there—fly commercial. Let's try and keep this as low profile as possible."

"You don't mind if I fly first class, do you?" Jeff asked, happy as ever. His eyes shined with the idea of banging a stewardess from Texas.

"No, I don't mind. Enjoy the flight. And thanks for taking care of this. I'll throw you some extra cash for the help."

"Sam, I know this kind of stuff pisses you off," Jeff said, getting up to leave. "But relax. Seriously, I don't mind taking care of it."

Two weeks and five hundred thousand dollars later, Brian sat in front of Sam's desk. A testimony to the Lone Star State's very tough on drugs judicial system.

"Gary's not a fucking doctor?" Sam asked, incredulously. "I give you two your own drug empire and you decide to sell ten fucking lousy keys in Texas? And Gary is impersonating a fucking doctor? Maybe I should have let Nasser kill you guys; the world might be a safer place."

The embarrassment caused Brian to grin uncomfortably. "I'm kinda of thinking the same thing right now."

"How did he become a doctor without becoming a doctor?"

"Do you really want to know?" Brian asked, obviously trying not to aggravate Sam further.

"Oh yeah, I have to hear this," Sam said, pissed that he had to get them out of a drug charge in Texas. But Gary getting arrested the moment he set foot in California for impersonating a doctor was the icing on the cake.

"He went to nursing school. The doctor he worked for died and he just took over. Apparently, the medical board is not notified right away when a member dies. The old guy had no family, so Gary had him buried and just took his place. It's a lot easier to deal steroids when you can write a prescription. Allergists prescribe a lot of steroids. I tried to tell you I thought Gary wasn't making good decisions."

"The doctor just died?"

"To the best of my knowledge, he just died. I mean I didn't kill him."

"Brian, do you know what it's going to cost to make sure they don't dig the old fucker up and do an autopsy?"

"I'm guessing another half a million ought to do it," Brian answered, staring down at the floor.

"How did you wind up in Texas?"

"Gary called me and told me to pick him up; he said he needed me to watch his back. When he said go to the airport, I had no idea we were going to Texas. Once we were at the airport, I just went. It was Gary's buddy in Texas the cops were setting up and he's keeping his mouth shut about us. The cops think we're the kid's bodyguards. But we were in the same car with the drugs, so we might be screwed."

I just went along with it— the root of most bad decisions. Germans cheered Hitler. They might be the best at just going along with things. Brian has blond hair and blue eyes—maybe it wasn't his fault? It's in his blood. Fuck—a million dollars down the drain.

"Here's the deal, I'll get you two out of this mess in Texas. Your lawyer assures me he can make the bodyguard thing stick. Off-duty cops do a lot of bodyguard work, so no one wants to set a precedent of charging bodyguards with crimes committed by their clients. That is, of course, as long as they aren't involved or have firsthand knowledge. They can't prove you knew there were drugs in the car, can they?"

"No. The coke was in a gym bag. Gary wiped down the keys before putting them in the bag. We always wipe down our stuff."

"Good. You'll walk on this. Now Gary and the whole fake doctor thing is his own problem. I like Gary. But as far as business goes, he's on his own. You can tell him I've saved his ass twice and that was two times more than I bargained for."

"So we're cool?" Brian asked, anxiously.

"Brian, everybody likes you, including me. But no more trouble."

"Is Gary cool?"

"Tell Gary to do his time for impersonating a doctor, if he has to. And tell him to keep his fucking mouth shut about everything else. I can get to someone in jail, just as easy as on the street. And then, there's his family he should consider. Anyway, just tell him to keep his mouth shut and he won't have any problems."

"Do you think I should pay him a percentage of what I sell still?"

"Yeah, pay him until he gets out. Knowing Gary, he'll need the money. And you better come up with a quick five hundred K if there is any issue about digging up the dead doctor."

Brian nodded. "Let's just play it safe. I'll get you the money in a couple of days. Pay whoever you have to. I think it's probably best if we let the dead rest in peace."

CHAPTER 42

Carrington

Things Better Not To Know

Jim Carrington carefully fed the file, one page at a time, into the shredder. There would be no chance that the illegally obtained information Dennis had handed him would ever come back to haunt their lives.

The Man on the Hill was being held in custody at the Terminal Island Federal Penitentiary and the FBI drug task force was busy dismantling his distribution system. An anonymous tip had once again brought a terrible criminal to justice. Still, more drugs than ever were available on the street. La Reina, it was called. And it was the purest cocaine ever manufactured and smuggled into the United States. The Man on the Hill was sitting in prison and nothing had changed—La Reina was everywhere. Jim never let this thought out of his mind.

Dennis had covered for him while he continued the investigation that most thought of as closed. The Man on the Hill, The Boss, The Master, The Leader, and Maybus all had one thing in common: an idea that manipulated others into doing their bidding. Olga had said, "He has many names."

"You ready?" Dennis Craig asked from the doorway.

Jim fed the last piece of paper into the shredder. It was Sam Noah's 1099 tax form. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's take a walk."

The lawn in front of the Federal Building was green year-round. If it weren't for Wilshire Boulevard, it would have flowed seamlessly into the Veterans' Cemetery. Jim looked across the busiest section of surface-street in the world—at the countless rows of white crosses. So many of the men from the greatest generation had come to rest there. Most weren't even twenty years of age. But it was still a time when manhood was not just a chronological consideration.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Dennis looked out at all the crosses. "The value of life has changed a lot since then."

"They were willing to die for something," Jim said thoughtfully. "I'm not too sure who would storm the beach these days."

"Give them a reason and some leadership and you'll find plenty." Dennis gave a nod toward the crosses. "Back in their day people killed each other over an insult. It's a good thing we don't let people kill each other over an insult anymore."

"They killed each other over a sense of _honor._ It wasn't just about an insult."

"They were fools, Jim. Life is way too valuable to end over words, over beliefs. Life should only end by God's will, not man's."

"Is that why you joined the FBI, Dennis? To make sure that man wasn't taking God's will into his own hands."

Dennis nodded. "Same reason that you're not a lawyer making a base of five hundred thousand dollars a year. We keep people from hurting one another. That's real honor."

Jim looked up at the dark clouds that were rolling in from the Pacific Ocean. "I read the file. I put every single person under a microscope. I violated the privacy of my fellow American citizens—the people I'm sworn to protect, Dennis."

"Did you find what you thought you would find?"

"Yes and no. If it's him, he's so good it's hard to imagine that he could really exist."

"Really?"

"A UCLA student with perfect grades gets a job as a bouncer. Saves up his money and starts a limousine company. He hires a couple of his former co-workers. The company does well. It diversifies into securities, real estate, artwork, luxury transportation, and now businesses, literally around the globe. The guy has the same girlfriend from college and gives a lot of money to charity, including politicians. He comes from a good family. Hard working father, homemaker mother, and some very wealthy relatives and friends."

"And you think this is our guy because...."

"It's too perfect, Dennis. Everything he does turns to gold and that only happens in fairytales. He's everywhere that everything happens. He's been seen with the Fuentes kid and he spends time in T.J."

"The Fuentes kid had nothing to do with his father's business. He's just a rich kid. And lots of young guys party in T.J."

"I told you—he's perfect."

"What else bothers you about this guy?"

"What are the chances that a guy who knows the Fuentes kid also worked as a bouncer with Adam, our murderer-suicide bouncer? Why would a UCLA student be working as a bouncer in the first place? His family had enough money to put him through school. The Julio Lopez murder, he has a residence three blocks away. Melvin Stemple's security company moved to San Diego; our guy went to summer school in La Jolla. And get this. He grew up in Montebello. You know what Montebello means?"

Dennis shook his head and smiled. "No idea."

"It's Italian for beautiful hills."

"You're shitting me?"

"No, I'm not shitting you. Absolutely nothing compelling—but the preponderance of coincidence tells me he's our guy." Jim smiled. "Besides, he's just way too rich for his age. It's a well-crafted story, but it's fiction."

"What's this wonder boy's name?"

"Sam Noah."

Dennis looked away from Jim and back at the rows of crosses. "Sam, as in the prophet Samuel."

"And Noah, the man who decided who survived the end of the world," Jim finished sharing Dennis's insight. "It's his real name, I checked. Pretty strange, don't you think?"

"I don't like it. I don't like it at all. Whatever you need to get close to this guy is at your disposal. Starting right now."

Jim felt the first drop of rain hit his brow, then the second. "We better get back inside. It looks like a big storm."

CHAPTER 43

Contact

"Hey, Sam. What are you doing here?" Nasser asked, spotting him in the lobby.

"I live here," Sam answered, slowing down just enough to feel the fool force of Zachary pulling on the leash.

"Me too, I just moved in. Listen, I have something I want to talk to you about. Do you mind if I walk with you?"

"I was kind of looking forward to some quiet time."

You fucking snitch scumbag.

"I'll just walk a couple of blocks with you."

Listen to this fucking guy talk. I should just kill him. Keep talking, while I daydream about carving my initials into your face.

"I really got this place for my wife Barbara. We lived here a few years ago and she liked it—but I prefer the Valley."

"You have a wife?" Sam asked, regretting his words as soon as he spoke them.

"Yeah, we've been married five years. Wait, here's a picture." He pulled out a picture of an attractive blonde.

It's amazing what money will do. This potato sack with arms and legs has a good-looking wife. What a fucked up world. I should kill her too.

"You look surprised. She's pretty, huh?" Nasser asked, gloating over his good fortune.

"Yeah, she's an attractive woman. I thought you liked boys?"

Nasser grinned. "I like chicks with dicks. Some of them are so beautiful you should try one. I could set it up."

"Thanks, but no thanks; I'll take a pass on that."

"I have some pictures upstairs, I'll show you."

"Great," Sam answered flatly while Zachary urinated on a tree.

"I'm serious, you're going to be surprised how good they look."

"Nasser, I know you work for the Feds. I know you worked for the Shaw. And you know I'm not interested in your sexual deviances. I saved your ass and got you back a million dollars of your money. So cut the shit, why are we talking?"

"I have a lot of people who owe me money. I need someone like you to collect it."

Sam shook his head. "I don't do that."

Nasser pushed his glasses up on his nose. He had a fat round face and when he smiled his front teeth were noticeably crooked. "I have sixty million in bad receivables; I'll give you a list of names and half the money you collect. They all have the money. All you have to do is grab them and hold them until they have someone bring it to you. Once you get the money, you kill them. I don't want them coming back to me. There are a couple of them I'd like you to hurt before you kill them. What do you think; it's a quick thirty million?"

"I think it's nice of you to think of me, but it's not what I do."

"The Feds are watching you—you're on their list."

"Nasser, the Feds can watch me until they grow old. I'm an art dealer who likes fancy cars. I helped out two friends from the gym because they were dealing drugs for you and your FBI agent buddy Carl and got in over their heads."

Nasser laughed. "So you know about Carl? You know he got me out of a heroin jam in Vegas? Just a couple of weeks ago, he tipped me off that the locals were going to raid my apartment in the Valley."

"And I thought you moved here for Barbara."

"Sam, you know if I wanted to talk to them about you I could?"

"I wouldn't recommend that. If it got back to me, I'd be...upset."

Nasser looked down at the sidewalk. "Sam, I want to be friends. I don't want to hurt you and I don't want you to hurt me. You know how the game is played. I give them what they want and they give me what I want. It has nothing to do with me. But I'm telling you, they know your name. It's not from me. They showed me a list of names. Yours is on it. I saw it but I didn't say anything."

I gave them the name you scumbag. I decide what they know and don't know.

"Nasser, I'm not going to kidnap, ransom, and kill your deadbeats. But if you tell me what put me on that list and who's investigating, I'll be open to a future proposal."

"I'll find out," Nasser said, incredibly pleased with himself. "I've got something else I need your help with. But let me get this information for you and then we'll talk."

"Okay, if we're done, I'd like to enjoy the rest of my walk," Sam paused, "And Nasser, if you're fucking around with me, you'll wish the Ayatollahs had caught up with you instead." For the first time, the grin disappeared off of Nasser's face and Sam knew what he was dealing with.

Sam walked Zachary another twenty feet to Frank's car. He was sitting in the driver's seat looking interested.

"What was that?"

"Trouble," Sam said, giving Zachary a pat on the head.

Frank eyed Zachary to make sure he didn't get any ideas about pissing on his car.

"Should I watch him?"

"Yeah. Starting right now, I want him covered twenty-four-seven. He just moved into my building—I want his place wired and his phones tapped. He's a Fed snitch, so make sure they don't pick up surveillance. They won't be looking for it. But they'll know it if they see it. Also, make sure you get pictures. Half his meetings will be with guys working undercover. I want to know who they are and where they live, all of them. Better get going."

A day later, Sam sat opposite Nasser at the Hamburger Hamlet in Westwood.

"You're on the list as a person of interest. They have pictures of you with Fernando Fuentes."

I practically had to pose so that they could get that one.

"Also, they have a report from a DEA agent in T.J. that you visited a prison called La Mesa."

Good work Gabriella and great pussy. You're my girl.

They don't know who you saw there. But any associate of Fernando's walking into a Mexican prison is going to be flagged. That's all they have."

That's all they have—but it should be enough.

Nasser pulled a twenty from his pocket and handed it to Sam. "This is what I need your help with; I've printed a hundred million worth of them—but the paper's not very good."

Sam looked at the bill for a few seconds. "Neither is the printing. The plate is okay but the ink is sloppy."

Nasser nodded. "I'm pissed. I paid good money for the plates and my guy gives me this shit. I have a hundred million dollars, actually more, that I don't know how to get rid of."

Sam rubbed the paper between his fingers. It was terrible.

"The problem is you were penny wise and dollar foolish. You should have spent the money and bleached one-dollar bills and reprinted them as twenties. It's a lot slower, but you would have made your money."

Nasser looked even more disgusted. "You know how to do that?"

"Yeah, I've done some printing—but just for fun. Truth be told, the government and I actually have a mutual interest in protecting the money supply these days. Fake bills can cause a lot of trouble for my friends and me. Even piece-of-shit twenties like this mean we have to count and scan every bill, instead of just weighing them. They also cause the Feds to change the design of our currency more often, which causes us a whole other pain in the ass."

Nasser picked the twenty back up. "I'm having bad luck lately. Look, I gave you some good information and you made out good on the cars, so help me out with this. I'll give you everything including the plates for a hundred grand."

He'll put the fucking things out on the street anyway. A hundred grand for the plates and the twenties is a bargain. The Secret Service is really going to want those plates. All of man's plans rely on a continuous chain of opportunity.

"I'll get rid of them for you. But in the future, just stick to drugs."

"I'm putting a lot of money into porn," Nasser said, completely ignoring Sam's advice. "Maybe we could partner up?"

"It's not my cup of tea," Sam said, lying. "Speaking of which, I could use a cup of tea. Flag down our waitress if you see her."

Later the same week, Sam picked up the money and the plates. Not a chance Nasser would say something to Carl White—his great FBI protector. Carl would help him sell drugs, kidnap and kill people, but he would never be okay with fucking around with the money supply. Not even Carl would go for that.

"Joe, come over here and check this out," Sam said, pointing out the den window to the street eighteen stories below.

"I see a bunch of cars on the street."

"See the red BMW?"

"Yeah, looks like one of yours."

"I've been letting Tom drive it. This kid Depak used to buy from this kid Greg, who used to buy from me. Anyway, Greg tells me the little weasel has stopped buying because he's got a hook-up of his own that can bring in two kilos a week from T.J." Sam paused, as a white Corvette pulled behind the red BMW. An indistinguishable, dark-skinned figure got out of the Corvette and walked toward the BMW. "That's Depak, the aforementioned little weasel. After Greg told me the story. I told him to take the kid out to lunch—where they would inadvertently meet Tom. I figured if Tom let it be known that he was dealing, the kid would try to sell him some of the new T.J. shit. So, here we go."

"So, you set it up that Tom, whom you supply, would buy from a kid that you used to supply through Greg but went out on his own?"

"Yeah. Mostly because he didn't need credit anymore. Made enough money to become a small time importer."

"So what's in this for you?"

"I'm sorry—I left out the most important part. Tom is going to buy the kid's T.J. coke with the bad twenties I gave him. When the deal is done and the kid realizes he's broke again he'll have to go back to Greg for credit. I think I'm going to rewrap the shit we're about to steal from him and have Greg give it to him on credit, just out of principle."

The dark-skinned figure got out of the BMW and walked back toward the Corvette.

"What principle?"

"The one that I'm not going to knowingly let another person start bringing their own shit into my city."

"Two keys a week? It's nothing."

The BMW pulled away from the curb into the street. The deed was done.

"Is Shauna giving you shit again? I thought you would enjoy this little spectacle. I could have just killed him, you know?"

Joe shook his head. "Maybe I'm just getting mellow in my old age. And no, by the way, Shauna has been a different person since we had that big blow out before I went to Arizona. It's almost freaky. I knew she'd come around. I might still decide to call it quits one day. I just don't want her telling me when."

"Well, I'm glad you got her straightened out. I've always liked her. Come on, I'll buy you dinner."

"I hope this isn't your plan for getting rid of all those bad twenties?"

"All what bad twenties? They're almost all gone. Parking lots, small business owners, nightclubs; I'm clocking seventy cents on the dollar. I was only hoping for fifty."

"Tell me you're not going to print more?"

"I'm not going to print more. I hear the Secret Service is losing their fucking minds over this. I'm going to quit while I'm ahead."

CHAPTER 44

Boring

They were halfway through with their first bucket of balls when Sam arrived at the driving range in a bulletproof black on black Mercedes 500 SEL—with Doug and Frank.

"Loco, I like that car!" Hernan shouted just as J.B. swung at the ball—causing him to drive the ball only twenty yards.

Hernan was in good spirits considering all the trouble his part of the organization was having.

"That's a nice swing J.B.," Sam said, sarcastically squinting even with dark sunglasses on.

"He's worse when you get him out on the course," J.B. responded with disgust as other golfers looked down, trying to see who had just hit a ball twenty yards. "Except when he's trying to get a good swing in. Then, he's quiet as a mouse."

Hernan extended a cold Corona. "Have a beer, Loco." He nodded toward the car. "The guys want to come over and hit a few?"

"No they're fine." Sam took a swig of his least favorite alcoholic beverage. "I don't like what I'm reading every day in the fucking papers and seeing every night on the news. We need to have a serious talk man."

"Sam, don't worry so much. I've got everything under control."

"Carlos is in custody. Obando's dead. What the fuck is your idea of under control?" Sam asked, knowing his friend had no idea of what was happening.

"Someone snitched them out. Carlos was kidnapped in the middle of the night from his own house, put on a private plane and handed to the Feds. When I find out who did it, they're dead. And Obando—he got sloppy. They caught him in the street in front of his girlfriend's pad. It had to be those Calle Cartel fuckers. I already took care of her and, just in case, I also took care of his wife and his brother-in-law. When I go back down, I'm going to take care of the whole Calle Cartel. I have big plans for them. My brother is taking care of transportation now and I'm going to work out our money deals myself from now on. I'm telling you, I'm on top of our shit."

"Hernan, Pablo isn't going to be able to hold out forever. And then, that will just leave you. There are three people in the entire world that actually know what we do and how we do it." Sam pointed around in a circle. "And they're standing right here. If they capture you, they'll be one step away from tying J.B. and me in under the RICO Act.

"I know they're going to try to put a case on me—they have my name. But if they put us together, it could unravel everything. I've thought about this a lot and there is only one way for us to stay safe. You have to retire."

"Retire?" he looked at J.B. and then back at Sam. "Have you guys already talked about this?" he asked suspiciously of his two best friends.

"It's not like that," Sam said.

But I promised the CIA that Carlos, Obando, and Pablo would be offered up to the Feds. So you're through. High profile and high all the time, you've got to go. I hope easily for old-time's sake.

"Cynthia is pregnant," Hernan said, looking down at the ground.

"Congratulations. See, things work out for the best. You're going to be a daddy; you'll be able to spend more time with your family."

This should be an easy decision for you now my friend.

Hernan shook his head. "I don't have enough cash; I need to keep working. I was partying too much. When Obando went down, most of my money went with him. And these government seizures have been killing me. I lost thirty-two million in cash just in the Simi Valley bust alone."

"Yeah, I kind of figured you were fucking up. So I bought you a house in Oregon, not too far from Portland. I had Andy drop ten million there. It's in a green footlocker in the basement. I also had him put you down for a drop of a million a month for as long as we stay in business. Think of it like a pension. But no fucking around, you can't deal or the payments stop." Sam patted him on the shoulder. "It's a nice house with a couple of acres of land; you guys are going to be happy there."

Hernan looked at J.B. "What do you think?"

"A million a month? Take it! We've had our fun. If they catch you, you're doing life and they'll come looking for us. You got a nice house, a nice family, and plenty of money. It's not so bad."

"What am I going to do all day?"

"You can open a store to keep yourself busy—buy a boat or get a dog. Loco is right about this. Think about how happy Cynthia will be. I'll back you up no matter what. But if I were you, I'd make the move. At least lay low for a couple of years."

"Why do you always surprise me with this shit?" Hernan asked, faking like he wanted to box with Sam.

Sam threw a left jab. "Because I like messing with you—and don't forget I can still kick your ass." He stopped boxing and stood still to make his next point. "Seriously, this is the move. I can't risk you going down."

Hernan smiled. "How big did you say this house is?"

"I didn't. But since you asked it's thirty-five hundred square feet, single story. Not too big, but big enough."

"Your kitchen is bigger than my whole fucking house," Hernan complained. It was the hollow complaint of a man with no options. A man that was lucky a world that usually showed no mercy was cutting him a deal.

"Actually, if it makes you feel better, my kitchen is only two thousand square feet. But it doesn't matter, you need to blend in. And your new house has plenty of room for three people. It certainly has more room than a fucking prison cell."

Hernan rubbed his stomach. "I need to eat. Let's get out of here. Where exactly is my new house?"

"A small town just outside of Portland called Boring," Sam answered.

Hernan stopped and looked at Sam. "You're sticking me in a place called Boring?"

Sam nodded. "I think a Boring life is going to be good for you for a while. You guys up for some King Taco? I'm buying."

"Send her up," Sam said into the house phone.

A couple of minutes later, Susan was at the door in a long black coat.

"You're a surprise, come in."

"Are you home alone?" she asked, shaking out her beautiful blonde hair.

"No, Greg came over for dinner and drank too much. So we put him in the guest bedroom. Stacy was past her bedtime so she's crashed out in mine. I was thinking of meeting up with Kim and Nabil at Wall Street. You want to come with?"

Susan let her overcoat slide off her body to the floor. She stood there stark naked in the doorway of his penthouse. His penthouse—where his girlfriend was sleeping in the next room.

"Now you're going to see what I do that makes guys go crazy," she said, reaching up with her right hand, grabbing him behind the neck and pulling their faces together.

She was kissing him. Her left hand was expertly undoing his pants. He was just floating, floating along. As she backed herself to the door, his pants fell away. She unbuttoned his shirt and the heat of her body washed over his as he lifted her up, onto himself.

"Fuck me baby. Fuck me good. That's the way. Make me feel good." She bit his lip then kissed him wildly as he penetrated her against the front door of his penthouse.

Not floating now. Just fucking this stupid bitch against the door. She loves it, big fucking deal, they all do. Your girlfriend is in the next room. No explaining this. I suppose that's what makes this even remotely worth doing. Susan has a great pussy. She's loving this dick. She's cumming. So am I. Yeah, that feels really good. My girlfriend is in the next room sleeping like a baby and I'm nutting in Susan against the front door.

Susan slid herself off of Sam and led him by the hand to the extra large chaise lounge portion of the couch in the den.

"Lay down. I want to sixty-nine you," she said, pushing him toward the couch. She hovered above him, face to face for a moment.

"Shouldn't we have done this first?" he asked.

"That wouldn't be very nasty," she whispered and then tongued his ear.

She worked her way down slowly.

This skin tastes good. I want to lick her head to toe. These tits are great. Where are you going? I was digging on those tits. This stomach is fucking great. Flat, soft, and tan. I want to take a fucking bite out of it. Oh, she's eating your cock now. Yeah, fuck yeah. Look at this fucking animal spreading eagle over your face. Come here pussy. You are one fucking wet dripping pussy. I don't care. You're eating my cock, I'll eat this thing to death. Interlocking simultaneous pussy and cock eating. Suck that clit, suck that fucking clit and look she's cumming again all over your face. She's sucking and sucking your cock and you're cumming while your face is buried in a hot wet pussy. I feel like laughing. No, don't do that. You'll wake up your girlfriend. What a sight this would be.

Susan lifted herself off and laid back down next to Sam, on her side. She ran her fingers across his chest and down to his stomach. He brought his arm around her waist. Hard again, the only thing he could think of was getting back inside of her.

Susan smiled. "You are a nymphomaniac, aren't you?"

He swallowed her tit and positioned himself for penetration.

"No, we can't."

"Why not?"

"If you're inside of me again, I might start getting attached. Besides, I need to talk to you about something."

"What?"

"Riley asked me if I wanted to get together with Ted. I could use the money—but I'm not a prostitute. I'm not white-trash like Riley is: I come from a good family. I mean I know I'm wild, but I don't know I just don't think I can do it. What do you think I should do, be honest?"

"I think you should do it—but not for a twenty-five hundred dollar blow job. Get him to fall in love with you. Get him to marry you and have a couple of kids. After that, you're set for life. You can divorce him and you'll never need another man again."

"If I do this, I don't want Riley to keep sending him girls. How do I make that stop?"

"Convince Ted now that he's trying to make a name for himself in the entertainment business that he needs to get more involved with charities and less involved with hookers. Convince him that it's time to grow up and be respectable. He'll feel some loyalty to Riley so you'll need to talk him into giving her a large severance payment."

"The bitch has a rich boyfriend thanks to you—and twenty grand a month from Ted. But instead of offering me some money so I can pay my bills, she tells me I can be one of her hookers. She's supposed to be one of my best friends. If I do this, I wind up with the money and she can go back to turning tricks."

Sam brushed her hair back from her face.

"Susan, do what I'm telling you. Just make sure Tom talks Riley into giving me the money that Ted gives her. Have him convince her to ask me to invest it in one of my companies and I'll make sure she loses it. You'll be happy and very rich. Ted will have a clear conscience. And Riley will be broke. All's well that ends well."

"You left out that you get a bunch of money for doing nothing," she said, scratching her nails across his chest. "And Riley is stuck hooking for you. Are we really this bad?"

"My girlfriend is in the next room," he said, rolling over and bringing his body on top of hers. "And I'm about to fuck you in the ass."

She laughed. "That's pretty bad."

CHAPTER 45

The Carjack

The convoy proceeded through morning traffic on its delivery route to Kim's accounts. South Central was always dangerous.

Sam followed the Astro Van up Crenshaw—where the procession came to a stop at a red light.

A young black man ran up to the driver's side window of Kim's white Mercedes 500 SEC with a gun drawn and ordered him out of the car.

Where did he come from? This doesn't happen in Beverly Hills.

Kim obliged. The kid took aim anyway. Kim ducked forward as the kid shot. The .38-caliber bullet ricocheted off the base of his cranium. Kim fell to his knees. The kid jumped into the Mercedes and accelerated just as the light turned green.

"Get the shit out of here!" Sam yelled at the driver of the black Suburban filled with coke as he ran from his car toward Kim.

Robert started to get out of the Astro Van.

"No, I got him. Get that piece of shit!" Sam shouted.

Robert stared at his bleeding friend. The black Suburban made a u-turn.

"Kill that fucker!" Sam shouted again.

Robert blinked. "Okay, okay—I'm going!"

Kim was on his knees, bleeding from the back of his head. He had just been driving his white Mercedes and now he was bleeding on the sidewalk.

"Can you walk?" Sam asked, pulling him to his feet.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good, you're riding with me."

"Where's my car?" Kim was confused, in shock, not understanding why he was no longer in his car.

"Put your hand on the back of your head," Sam said, dragging him back to his own car. "You have to keep pressure on it." He began pushing him into the backseat. "Fuck—you must way three hundred pounds."

"He shot me. I'm shot," Kim said, reality flowing in.

"No shit. Hold tight—I'm going to get a towel out of my trunk."

Sam pulled a towel and a fully automatic Ingram Mac Ten from his trunk and slid into the front seat.

"Hold this to your head," he said, tossing Kim a bright green hand-towel. "You need to slow down that bleeding."

"Where are you guys?" Sam shouted into the cell phone.

"Still on Crenshaw," Robert answered, his voice excited by what was transpiring.

Gunshots rang out over the phone...crack...crack...crack. They were loud, really loud.

"You hit'em?" Sam asked, racing up the wrong side of Crenshaw—trying not to hit another car head on.

"Oh, yeah," Robert answered, with the satisfied tone of a pursuer that knew this one wouldn't be getting away.

Sam could see Kim's car being followed by the Astro Van.

"He's making a right on Venice." Robert swerved onto Venice behind Kim's car.

"I see you," Sam said, cutting across five lanes of traffic.

Champ and Damon emptied three clips each from the back of the van into Kim's car while Robert drove.

"Pull behind him. I'm coming up on the driver's side," Sam said, before throwing the phone down on the passenger's seat.

The Mac Ten was in his hand. It was almost time to do his thing, just a few more seconds. The kid looked at him. The fucking punk who had just jacked Kim's car and shot him looked at him as he aimed the Mac through his passenger's side window.

"Hey—look at this motherfucker!" Sam said, squeezing the trigger.

Kim's car swerved to the right, down an alley. Sam followed, the Astro Van on his bumper. It was a dead-end alley. The shot carjacker never hit the breaks. No break lights at all—just a full speed crash into a brick wall.

Sam put another clip into the Mac Ten and jumped out of his car. Robert, Champ, and Damon followed him.

The carjacker, not more than eighteen-years-old, was covered in blood and glass—and still alive. Sam raised his gun to the face of the young man who had just shot his friend Kim and squeezed the trigger, releasing thirty-two rounds right into his head. There was nothing left when the chamber clicked empty. The jacker's head was a pulverized stump between two shoulders. And there was one less carjacker on the streets.

Robert, Champ, and Damon emptied their clips into the kid's body, liquefying what was left of him in Kim's front seat.

I'm sure you could have been President one day. Maybe discovered the cure for Cancer. Did you even know who your daddy was?

"Is Kim okay?" Robert asked.

"Yeah, I think so. It's a good thing he ducked; it looks like it ricocheted along the base of his skull. I'm going to take him to the hospital right now. Let's get out of here."

"How are you doing back there?" Sam asked, getting calmly back into his car.

"I'm shot in the head. How do you think I'm doing?"

"Well if it makes you feel better, I can tell you that you're doing a lot better than the guy who shot you."

"How's my car?"

"It's about the same as the guy that shot you."

"Damn, you messed up my car?"

"It was unavoidable. Listen, I'm going to take you to the ER at Kaiser La Cienega and make a quick get away. Just tell them I was some Good Samaritan that witnessed you getting carjacked, picked you up and took you to the hospital. I'll call your mom and tell her what happened."

Kim groaned as Sam swerved through traffic. There was always more traffic than the day before in L.A. Every year the population grew as if the entire city of Chicago had moved to town.

There's no more space. There's no mass transit. Why do you keep coming?

"Hey, if I don't make it—thanks for everything. You really are the best friend I've ever had."

"You're going to live. So don't start with all the warm, fuzzy shit, okay."

"How do you know I'm going to live? You're not a doctor. This could be it. Can't you just express some emotion?"

"I was pretty fucking emotional when I shot the guy who shot you. What about that?"

"Anger's a good start. But people need to know that you care."

"Kim, please just shut up and bleed; this has been traumatic enough already."

"So, you admit that the situation is traumatic. That's good."

"I said dramatic."

"No you didn't. You said traumatic. It might have been a Freudian slip."

"Freudian slip? You're making me crazy. Could you please just shut the fuck up? Freudian slip—I'm the one who actually went to college."

"Don't get pretentious on me. I'm street smart."

Sam ran every red light as he raced to the hospital. He took the final turn into the driveway at around forty and came to a screeching stop right in front of the ER. He jumped out of his car and opened up the back door.

"All right, this is where I dump your big ass out on the curb," he said, grabbing Kim from under his shoulders. "Would you look at the fucking mess you made? Never mind, just lie flat. Come by the store in Westwood tomorrow and I'll buy you lunch," Sam said, walking away as the hospital staff started taking an interest in the giant black man bleeding from the head on the sidewalk.

"Sounds like a great plan, if I live."

"You better fucking live—you owe me money," Sam said looking down at his Armani suit now covered in blood. And then at the Mac Ten carelessly left on the passenger's seat.

That's fucking great Sam. Well officer I can explain...

The following day, Kim came by Disc Connection, Sam's compact disc store in Westwood. His head was wrapped in a turban-like bandage.

"You look pretty good—for just having been shot in the head."

"Thanks."

"How do you feel?"

"Not so great. My balance is off. The doctor said it might be a while before it comes back."

"You hungry, sock head?"

Kim winced. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts. And yes, I'm starving. Where do you want to eat?"

"If you can handle the walk, let's go around the corner to Alice's."

"I can make it—but you might have to keep me steady. Let me put my arm around you."

"Just don't tip over on me; I think I hurt my back dragging your ass in and out of my car yesterday. You must be clocking in at over three hundred."

"Why are you so mean?" Kim asked, putting his arm around Sam's shoulder.

"Mean would be leaving your big ass in the gutter."

Kim smiled. "You wouldn't do that. Oh, my head hurts."

Sam ate the chicken sandwich, which he dipped into the honey mustard sauce from the steamed artichoke.

"So, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. But can you imagine I almost bought it in a carjacking?"

Sam smiled. "Talk about the wrong car to jack. Can you imagine what he was thinking when the bullets started flying?"

Kim bit down on a french-fry. "The cops came to the hospital and told me they recovered my car—

or should I say, what's left of my car. They think that the guy that stole it was the target of a gang hit. They have no idea what happened."

"The cops have no idea what happened? What a surprise. Listen, why don't you take some time off while your head heals. I've got a nice place in Hawaii that you can use."

Kim patted his bandage. "That sounds good, I could use a vacation."

"You ever hear of Kona Gold?" Sam asked, light heartedly.

"Of course I have."

"My place is up on the cliff overlooking the black sand beach, stocked with all the Kona

Gold you can smoke. There's a nice waterfall a few hundred feet away where you can take your daily bath. Trust me, your head will feel better in no time."

Kim managed a smile. "Oh, that hurts. Why don't you come keep me company?"

"You know what, that doesn't sound like such a bad idea."

A fraction of an inch and my friend would have been gone.

"I'll have Jeff gas up the plane. We'll leave in the morning."

CHAPTER 46

Accidents Happen

Kristen had Sam pinned down on his couch. She kissed him with the incredible energy of a fourteen-year-old. He pushed her up and started sucking her perky but not fully developed breasts.

She smells so good. And her skin, so tight, she's almost busting out of it. There's no pussy like young pussy. I can't believe her mother asked me if I'd keep an eye on her so she could go out with her friends. Single mother—plus wild daughter—equals great neighbors. "Sure Kristen can hang out at my place anytime." Was all I had to say and her mother was grateful.

The phone rang, an unwelcome interruption. It was, however, the middle of the day and business was in full swing.

"Do you mind if I come by your place? I need to talk to you for a few minutes."

"I was kind of in the middle of something. But if it's important, come on over."

"I'm on my way. I promise I'll be out of there in a half hour or less. It's important."

Sam hung up the phone and pulled Kristen's miniskirt down. She sat on top of him and rubbed her moist private parts against his stomach.

"Is someone coming over?"

"Yeah, in a little bit. But he won't be here for long."

"Will you do that thing you did to me yesterday before he gets here?"

Sam didn't bother to answer. Rather he pulled her forward so that she was straddling his face, and began.

Thirty minutes later, Sam opened the door. Jeff came bounding in and Zachary attacked. For some reason, he had taken a particular liking to Jeff and never failed to jump him, his own canine way of showing affection.

"Jeff, this is my friend Kristen," Sam said, grabbing Zachary by the collar just as he drove Jeff to the floor. "Zachary! Bad boy!"

No stopping him, it's fucking playtime. The smell of fourteen-year-old snatch has driven him wild.

"Kristen, this is my friend Jeff." Zachary turned and pounced on Sam, his own master. Jeff was back up on his feet, trying to help.

"Open the door to my bedroom. Run!" Zachary chased Jeff through the living room, down the hall, and into the bedroom. Jeff hid behind the door then slipped back around to the other side before closing it. Finally, Zachary was trapped.

"That fucking dog." Sam shook his head but couldn't keep from smiling. "When he gets worked up, he's out of fucking control. Sorry about that." Jeff followed Sam back down the hall to the living room.

"It's okay—Zachary's cool." Jeff examined the carpet burn on his forearm. "It's amazing how strong he is."

They returned to the living room to find Kristen with her feet up on the couch. Sam was only the second man she had been with. Not so subtly, she had told him several times that she was okay with him being the last. It was all he could do to keep her from telling her friends. The excitement was almost too much for her.

None of her friends were cruising around in a Ferrari. None of them were having orgasms. It was two minutes and off with a guy their own age. It was two hours and dinner at the Palm with Sam. He gave her anything she wanted—but most of all, he was cool. And somehow, he had convinced her to stop smoking. The expression on her face made it clear that she wished they were alone.

"Nice to meet you. I'm sorry to interrupt," Jeff said, looking at her. Then he looked at her again, having noticed how young she was.

"It's okay—we were just hanging out." She looked at Sam, giving him the distinct vibe that her pussy was up for more than just licking.

"We're going to step into the office and discuss some business. Give me a half-hour and then we'll grab dinner and a movie."

She bit her lip the way young girls do.

Jeff opened the bag he was carrying and pulled out several bundles of cash and put them on Sam's desk.

"What's this for?" Sam asked.

"We have a friend who has a little emergency."

"So what's the money for?"

Sam could tell Jeff was hoping he wouldn't be pissed about something.

"I sold them my boat."

"You mean you sold them my boat?" He stared at the money. "You sold my boat?"

Jeff was still standing. "Well I sold your boat that I drive. And if we're being technical, I sold your truck that I used to tow the boat also. But I brought you the money, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—which is fifty thousand more than you paid for the boat and the truck. You have plenty of other boats."

"Jeff, first things first. Sit down and start at the beginning. Who's in trouble? What kind of trouble are they in? What does it have to do with selling my boat?"

"Sam, Kristen is gorgeous. How old is she? She looks like she's fourteen."

"She _is_ fourteen."

Jeff laughed. "Look, I know you're the boss—but fourteen will get you twenty. It's always something you don't expect. They got Capone on tax evasion."

"Since we digress, let me put it this way. If they're old enough to have a kid, then they're old enough to fuck. It's what they were made for. My grandmother got married when she was twelve."

Jeff shrugged. "But it was different back then."

"Oh, please. It's not like I'm even her first. She's teaching me shit. The only difference between me and the seventeen year old loser she's been fucking is that I can afford to support her and a kid if she gets knocked up."

"You have a point. I just don't want to come visit you in the slammer."

"Jeff, can we get back to the boat?"

"I sold it to Dave. He's going to go down on this drug and attempted murder charge."

"He shot the guy five times in the head and the guy lived?" Sam asked, still wondering how it could be possible.

Jeff nodded. "He dumped him off the side of a remote mountain road. Shot him five times in the head. Then, the guy climbed up the side of the ditch and back to the road, just in time for the one fucking truck a day that drives by to find him and take him to the hospital. And he lived."

"So, why does he need my boat? If he wants to split, put him on one of the planes and get him the fuck out of here. I have Champ and Damon ready to go on Detroit. I just wanted to let Dave get in as many deals as he could before he had to split. You know he's been good for three hundred keys a week the last two months.

"If we get him out of the country, he'll still be wanted."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I like the sound of this."

"We're going to kill Dave Hollywood style. I'm going to send him out in the boat with plenty of trustworthy witnesses and have them sink. Everyone is going to have a life jacket on except for Dave, who can't swim. They can't prosecute a dead guy. A dead guy that can still handle Detroit for us."

"They'll be suspicious when they don't find a body."

"Yeah—but they'll still have to declare him dead. Four or five witnesses who say he drowned and a sunken two hundred thousand dollar boat. No way, they won't close the case."

"I want you to do this in Long Beach. I know just the right spot, where you can hit a rock in the breakwater and the current could easily pull a body out to sea. If you do it there, they'll buy it."

"Sam, should I ask why you know just the right spot?"

Sam's mind drifted back to what seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Fuck you, Blake," eight-year-old Sam said to the most popular boy at Leeway Sailing Club.

Blake and his sister lived on the bay. Locals. Rich, good-looking beach kid locals. Blake's sandy blond hair and brown skin accessorized the type of body that, even at Blake's young age, Sam could tell would never be fat.

They fought in the sand. And though he was two years older, Blake was no match. He was no match for the little kid that he and his friends made fun of every day. No match for a little kid that was so strong and so fast.

"Say Uncle! Say you give up!" Sam squeezed Blake's neck harder and forced his beat red face into the sand.

"I give up! Uncle!"

Sam let go, sprung to his feet, and then backed away toward the safety of the water. Blake, red in the face and choked into the sand in front of all his friends, and his beautiful sister stood—thirsty for blood and revenge.

"Get him!" he yelled—and the water came alive as Sam and his pursuers plunged into the bay.

One by one, they gave up chase as Sam swam down the peninsula and out to the jetty. Everyone except Blake gave up trying to out swim the little kid who swam ten miles a day—by himself—in the cold ocean water. Sam grasped the second to last rock of the breakwater. The rip tide was strong, the water had white caps, and the crabs pinched his body. They hurt. He pulled himself up on the rock and waited for Blake to do the same.

Blake tried hard—but the tide was too strong. Just a foot away. He was so tired, Sam thought Blake looked beautiful as he struggled. He sat on the rock and watched.

"Help! Help me!"

The sun was going down—it was getting cold. Sam stared into Blake's eyes as he disappeared into the water. There was one less soul on earth.

"Sorry, Blake. I wanted to be your friend," Sam said to the ocean before he climbed down the rocks to the sand. "I bet your perfect family is going to be really sad tomorrow." The wind blew hard and the sand stung his skin as he walked down the beach and looked out at the body of water that had just consumed the boy who had wanted to hurt him.

"I just know the right spot; let's leave it at that."

"Sam, do you mind if I replace the Scarab with a Cigarette? There are a couple of beauties that got seized down in Florida that we could buy cheap."

"Buy both of them and keep your eyes open for more. We're going to be expanding the fleet."

"Are you okay?" Jeff asked. "You seem a little distant."

"Yeah I was just thinking about Kristen. You better get going."

Three days later, Dave, drowned, on Sam's red, white, and blue Scarab when it sank after hitting a rock in the waters off of Long Beach.

CHAPTER 47

Better Coke

Young and handsome, Enrique Durazo walked up the steep mountain trail—both sides of which were lined with coca plants as far as the eye could see.

"Are the plants growing the way we had hoped for?" he asked the master grower, Raul Montero.

Raul had just celebrated his fiftieth birthday. His face had many deep creases—seemingly one for every year. A lifetime of working in the intense sun had made his wiry body strong and his face old before its time. He had been growing coca for forty of his fifty years, mostly in Colombia—but never had he seen anything like the plantations of Argentina.

"The new plants are better than Peru or Colombia. Senor Noah is going to be very happy with the new La Reina. It will be the most powerful cocaine ever produced."

Enrique shook his head. Sam Noah had brought modern science to the coca plant. It grew twice as fast as a normal plant and gave twice the yield. The new plant was impervious to insects and temperature changes and it could be processed without ether.

Enrique had always wondered why cocaine was so frowned upon by the anti-drug types. It was less physically addictive than caffeine or cigarettes and not as likely to cause a car accident or destroy the liver as alcohol. Of course, this was old cocaine—not the fields of La Reina they would soon be harvesting.

"When will you talk to Senor Noah next?" Montero asked.

"Tomorrow. We can start delivering next month?"

"Yes, not a problem."

"I'll tell him."

"What will happen to Senor Escobar and Senor Ramirez? They were always good to my family and myself. Will Senor Noah protect them?"

"You know, we met as boys playing tennis in La Jolla?"

"Yes, I know."

"When things became bad here, he sent the money that saved our land and our house." Enrique bent down and picked up a handful of dirt from the land that had been in his family for more than a hundred years. He let it sift through his fingers.

"He loves ice cream. We would play tennis all day and then go to an ice cream store they call, in America, 31 Flavors." He laughed. "I don't think they really had thirty-one flavors."

Montero laughed. He only knew the mountains. He had never had ice cream.

"We would take the ice cream down to the cliffs above the ocean—Sam, John, and myself. Those were good times. Sam Noah is a good friend and loyal to his friends—and he destroys his enemies. Even the ones that try to pose as friends. If Ramirez is a friend, then he is safe."

"But what about Escobar?"

"Escobar, the grower? I don't think they have ever met. We are the growers now."

"I see," Montero said, nodding his head—sorry for his old employer, once the most powerful man in Colombia. "I would like to try this ice cream you talk about."

Enrique put his hand on Raul Montero's shoulder as he surveyed just one of so many fields. A billion dollars a year his family would make from this one alone.

"You will have your ice cream my friend. As much as you want."

CHAPTER 48

The Beginning of Revenge

They walked into the rear warehouse area, the trappings of Sam's youth. He always felt comfortable in the strangest places. Jerry, a large, burly man old enough to be Sam's father, was sitting behind a messy old desk. His man Chuck was standing near the door.

Chuck—maybe ten years his boss' junior—gave Sam a handshake and a hug. He felt for his .45. "You know you're not supposed to come back here strapped?"

Chuck looked Andy up and down. "You strapped?"

"No," Andy said, patting himself.

"If you have to worry about me, you have serious problems," Sam said, not taking Chuck's admonishment as seriously as Chuck would have liked him to.

Sam had grown up two blocks from Jerry—the product of an old Baltimore mob family and the largest marijuana smuggler in the United States. Andy had literally grown up right next-door. They both had played with his kids. Sam had briefly dated his daughter.

Chuck grabbed Sam by his arm and neck and squeezed. "Damn, you've gotten big. Just don't get too big for your britches. Respect your elders."

Sam pulled out his Colt .45 Gold Cup and handed it over.

"This is a serious gun," Chuck said, looking at it closely. "I've never seen a vented .45 before."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, it's been vented and worked. The venting releases the gasses from behind the bullet out the sides of the barrel—so it kicks straight back instead of up. It's way more accurate like this."

"Chuck, give him back his gun." Jerry sounded grumpy as he looked up from some papers. "You two, come in and sit down."

"You're the only one he lets get away with this shit," Chuck said, handing back the .45 to Sam.

Andy and Sam sat down in front of the desk.

"You guys behaving yourselves?" Jerry asked, like they were still kids.

They both nodded but volunteered no further information.

He looked at Andy. "How are the kids?"

"They're getting big fast. I can't believe it."

Jerry looked at Sam. "How about you. When are you going to get married and have some kids?"

"I like kids. But my life isn't exactly conducive to having a family."

"I want to talk to you about that," Jerry said, pointing his finger at him. "Next week, make some time for lunch—you need to start keeping a lower profile. Look at you, an Armani suit, crocodile loafers, and a Piaget watch on City Terrace. You park one of your Ferraris in front of my place?"

"Of course he did," Chuck confirmed, looking at several monitors mounted over his desk by the door.

"Where I live, I blend right in."

Jerry shook his head. "That's what you think. Anyway, this isn't the time to discuss it. Next week, we're having lunch. You need to stop all this crazy shit and settle down. If you want flashy stuff, keep it outside of the country."

Sounds like my father. What good is money if you can't have a few nice things?

"Listen, I told Andy to have you swing by because I need a favor."

"What's up?" Sam asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"I need you to get rid of a hundred kilos of coke for me."

"Since when do you guys deal in coke?"

Jerry smiled. "We don't—that's why we need your help. I know a hundred kilos is nothing to you, but it would be appreciated. I'd like to get ten grand a key."

"You just wound up with a hundred keys?"

Jerry was trying to decide if he wanted to explain the situation to him. Not a good sign, Sam thought.

"A new guy in town came to us and offered me a hundred keys on the arm for ten grand each, so I took them."

"How do you plan on making any money on this? You're selling them for what you paid?"

"We didn't pay. I had Chuck give him some cement boots and drop him off the back of my boat. It's a million clear for me."

"You killed a guy to rip him off for a million bucks?"

You're making thirty million plus a week just on me. Why would you kill someone to steal a lousy million?

Jerry slammed his fist down on the desk. "I don't have to explain myself to you!" Jerry yelled. "That's the problem with you fucking kids today. Do you know that?" He pointed at Sam angrily. "I'm asking you. Do you know what your problem is?"

Sam shook his head. "No—but I'm guessing you're going to tell me."

"You're fucking right, I'm going to tell you. You kids today—with all your fancy shit—don't remember how much a million dollars is. How much do you think your life is worth? There are fifty hypes on this block right now I could pay a hundred and fifty bucks to put a bullet in your head. They'll do it just so they can buy a fix. Your life is worth a hundred and fifty bucks up here. You think some fucking scumbag coke dealer who shows up on my doorstep, you think his life is worth more than yours? You think he's worth a million bucks to me? You need to get back in touch with reality Mr. Fancy Shoes. Now, I'm asking you to do me a favor."

"I'll get rid of them for you," Sam answered respectfully. Honor demanded that he not say no.

Jerry gave Sam a nod of approval. "Good, that's what I wanted to hear. Now, get out of here. I'll buy you both steaks over at Steven's next week. In fact, let's just say on Wednesday."

"You know, he thinks of you two like his own kids?" Chuck said, as they got to Sam's car.

"Chuck, Jerry has way too much money to be dropping some poor bastard off his boat for a million dollars. He can yell at me all he wants."

Chuck smiled. "Sam, how many people have you killed? You have more money than everybody put together."

"Chuck, killing someone who steals your money is different than killing someone because you want to steal their money. You don't see the difference?"

"I've met a lot of bosses in my day. You're all cheap about something."

"I don't like to pay to park," Sam said, opening his car door. "But I've never killed a parking attendant."

CHAPTER 49

Counterfeit Encounter

"Can I come up and talk to you right now?" Nasser's voice was panicked.

"Is it important?" Sam hated the idea of letting him into his place.

"Yes. I need to talk to you right now," Nasser insisted.

"Okay, come up."

Nasser was at the door in less than two minutes.

"Have a seat." Sam pointed him to the couch.

Nasser put his hand to his stomach. "I feel like throwing up."

Sam sat in one of the white, leather swivel chairs opposite Nasser on the couch. Zachary made his way over for petting.

"What type of mess did you get yourself into this time?"

"You know who Scott Ashton is?" he asked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and then wiping his brow.

"Yeah, he owns the Red T-Bird on Beverly with the kid whose parents own World Cafe. Nice place—but I hear they're not making it, or not getting along, or something."

"Scott owed me a hundred grand. So, I gave him a hundred and fifty grand in funny twenties to buy ten kilos from his partner Rene. He was supposed to give him the money, get the coke and split."

Sam interrupted, "How did he plan on ripping off his own partner and getting away with it? Once Rene got a good look at the money, he would have come after you guys for sure."

Nasser lowered his head. "I paid Brian's friend Rod to shoot Rene, once Scott left the money and took the coke."

"Rod, from Gold's Gym, who got busted last week passing your bad twenties at a department store?"

Nasser nodded. "Yeah, the real muscular kid."

"Rod's not a hitter."

"I know—but he said he could handle this."

"So what's the problem, other than you were supposed to have handed all the bad twenties over to me—and you murdered a nice kid for a hundred grand? Does your FBI agent friend Carl know about all this?"

"If he did, he couldn't help because of the money." Nasser looked like he was going to faint. "After Rod shot Rene, he was supposed to take the money, the funny money, but he panicked and split without grabbing it. If that money gets traced to me, so does the murder. Tell me you don't have any left. Because if you do, you should burn it."

"It's gone—but now it's part of a murder investigation. Was it worth it?"

Nasser put his head in his hands. "No, it wasn't worth it. That bastard Rene gave us bad coke."

"Let me get this straight. You guys were ripping him off with fake money—but he was ripping you off with fake coke? And now, I've put a hundred million in twenties out on the street that are linked to a murder investigation? Tell me why I shouldn't kill you immediately?"

Nasser turned white. "Look, I came to you right away and told you. I'll make it up to you. You know I'm a good chemist. If you ever need to do any processing, I can do it for you for free."

I bet you will.

"You owe me."

Sam sat at the green picnic bench table under the tin awning of Cronis' Burgers. Less than a block away, his father made an honest living selling used cars and auto parts.

"Hey, can you come by the warehouse and pick up those cases of soda?" Jerry asked, his gruff voice fading in and out on Sam's cell phone.

"I'm going to have Andy come by. Have Chuck help him load up."

Jerry wasn't a patient man. "About how long before he gets here?"

"We're in East L.A. eating lunch; give him an hour."

"Okay, we're waiting. So tell him not to screw around."

Sam dug back in to his food.

"Jerry?" Andy asked.

Sam nodded. "He wants us to pick up those keys. I told him you'd be there in an hour. Normally I wouldn't send you. But since it's Jerry, I'm sure it's all right. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, I don't mind at all. He just wants me to come by the warehouse?"

"Yeah. He said he'd have Chuck help you load up. Once you load the stuff, bring it to Commerce. I want to keep this stuff completely separate from La Reina. Let's take a look at what we have before we give it to anyone. Oh, one more thing. Before you take that shit anywhere, sweep it for tracking devices."

"You don't think Jerry would ever set us up?"

"No, I'm not worried about Jerry. I'm worried that Jerry doesn't know anything about the coke business and we have a hundred kilos in the mix whose origin we don't know shit about. Just make sure they're clean. I don't want any unexpected visitors."

Two hours later, they sat in a vacant warehouse.

"Look at this shit," Sam said, with disdain.

"Smells like they washed it in gasoline." Andy gave it a close look. "Can you imagine selling this shit to someone? The guy might have deserved getting tossed."

Sam pulled the Striker killing knife from his pocket. With a flick of his thumb, the blade appeared and he cut a one-inch square flap through the sticky brown tape, outer layer of the kilo in his hand. He cut a small bump out of the white slab and gave the coke a sniff.

"It's not bad coke. It just needs a good acetone bath."

"I can help you if you want. But I have a lot of money to count, back at the office. Your call."

"No, go back to the office and do what you have to. I've got a plan. I'll handle this."

"What do you mean you have a plan?" Andy had known Sam since second grade. A plan was always a serious matter.

"I mean, I have a plan. Don't worry about it. Just take care of my money."

Sam met Nasser at Junior's Deli on the corner of Westwood Boulevard and Pico.

"Happy you didn't get rid of me now?" Nasser asked, grinning ear to ear.

I could fix that crooked front tooth for you with a pair of pliers. It'll just hurt for a minute.

"The jury is still out. Let's see how this goes."

"So what's wrong with the stuff anyway?"

"It just needs to be rewashed. I'd do it myself—but I have a date tonight."

Nasser squinted as he tried to read the menu. "You're going to need plenty of acetone and heat lamps."

"We have them," Sam answered.

"Well, tell me where to meet you and I'll make you up some good stuff."

Sam took out his pen and wrote the address down on a napkin.

"Malibu?" Nasser asked, looking down at the napkin. "Why don't we just do this at your place on Wilshire?"

"My house in Malibu is up on the cliff. No neighbors and a strong sea breeze. I don't want anybody to smell the shit cooking."

"I'll meet you there at eight." Satisfied, Nasser put the napkin in his pocket.

It was eight-thirty when Nasser called; he was half an hour late, a sure sign that something was wrong.

"Hey, I'm sorry I'm late. I had a fight with Barbara." His voice sounded strange.

"Don't worry about it. I'll talk to you later—I've got to go pick up my friend."

"What about the work you asked me to do?" He sounded worried, very worried.

"I've decided not to do it. Forget about it." Sam hung up the phone.

That's called withdrawal from a conspiracy. Better throw that tape away.

The phone rang again. Sam waited until the third ring.

"Barbara left me here at the corner of PCH and Sunset. Can you at least pick me up and give me a ride back to my place?"

"Where are you exactly?"

"I'm in the phone booth at the Chevron station, right on the corner."

"Alright—I'll give you a lift on my way back into town."

Sam grabbed his wallet and keys and headed out. Traffic was light on PCH. It took just a couple of minutes to get to the gas station.

He pulled into the driveway. There was no Nasser—not in the phone booth, not anywhere. He made a quick u-turn to leave. It needed to look good. A car slammed into him head on. Another car slammed into him from the back. There were guns everywhere as FBI agents and a S.W.A.T. team screamed at him to put his hands up where they could see them.

Look at that. Even the gas station attendant is a Fed.

They seemed apprehensive about approaching the car and yelled for Sam to get out.

Nasser told you I'm always armed, didn't he? I bet he'd love it if you panicked and shot me. Look, I'm raising my hands.

As soon as he unbuckled his seatbelt and began to open the door, they swarmed the car.

I'm lying face down on the cement now with sixty fucking guys feeling me up. This is a little embarrassing. I hope I don't run into anyone I know. Can't shoot me now, fellas. Sorry, Nasser.

"It looks clean." He heard the agent searching the worthless Toyota Celica say.

He sounds really disappointed.

"He's clean also," one of the sixty agents searching him said, compounding the let-down.

They pulled him to his feet and walked to the S.W.A.T. van parked in the back of the market next door. He recognized Dennis Craig from his pictures.

"We're on our way to your house next. Is there anything there that could endanger the lives of our agents?" Dennis asked.

"Such as?" Sam replied.

"Listen to me, you punk. When I ask you a question, you answer it. If there are dangerous chemicals that could be ignited when we kick down your door, or that place is booby trapped and someone gets hurt or killed, you'll get the death penalty. Do you understand?"

"Look, I think you've made a big mistake," Sam said, thinking it was going to be a long, unpleasant evening.

"Answer my question."

"I don't think my house is any more dangerous than any other house. But I'm not taking responsibility for the safety of anybody."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean if one of your guys gets hurt, don't blame me."

"How could one of my men possibly get hurt, if the place isn't booby trapped?"

"Someone could trip and fall down the stairs."

Dennis had heard enough. "Jim, take Mr. Smart-Ass up to the house in your car. We'll see how smart he is when he gets forty years for possession of a hundred kilos."

"We'll see."

Two agents shoved Sam into the back seat of their car.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you for a long time; you know you're in a lot of trouble?"

"Mr. Carrington, I presume," Sam said to Jim cordially.

"How do you know my name?" Jim asked, struck by how familiar Sam Noah's voice sounded to him.

"Oh, is that your name? I was just guessing. What are the chances?" He watched as Jim's new partner got into the passenger seat. "This would be your new partner, Lewis?"

Lewis looked at Jim. "How does he know my name?"

Jim looked back at Sam. "We were just discussing that. How do you know our names?"

"Guys these cuffs are really tight. I'm in too much pain to talk. Can we just go up to the house and get this over with?"

"He probably heard someone say our names outside," Lewis surmised—clearly not the smarter of the two. "Let's get up to the house and have some fun."

As Jim drove, Lewis faced Sam and went through his wallet. He slipped a couple of hundred dollar bills into his right hand and then put them into his pocket.

"You shouldn't carry around so much cash. I bet you have a nice place. Think you're going to miss it when we lock you up in a little cell?"

Sam looked out the window as they turned into his driveway. "Hey, Jim. When they assigned you this guy, tell the truth. Did you find yourself cursing affirmative action?" Sam looked back at Lewis. "You know that's what everybody thinks when they look at you. You're not an FBI agent, you're a quota."

"I'll be sure to remember that when I tear your house apart," Lewis said, not enjoying their repartee.

"Knock yourself out. It's insured."

The car came to a stop at the stairs that led down the cliff to his front door.

Jim gave Sam a nod. "Sit tight, we'll be back."

Sam looked back out the window again. "Don't worry about me; I'll just be here relaxing."

Sam gazed at the ocean. The moonlight on the water was always beautiful. Just a few miles south, boats from his Argentine fishing fleet were unloading fifty thousand kilos onto his new fleet of speed-boats while all of the resources of the FBI drug unit were searching his place looking for a hundred. He laughed out loud.

It took almost an hour for Jim to come back to the car and sit down.

"How's it going down there?" Sam asked, happy to have some company.

Jim nodded, "Just fine. Are you getting bored?"

"Well if you guys hadn't showed up, I did have a date tonight. Any chance I could still make it?"

Jim smiled. "No, I don't think so. You don't seem very worried, Sam."

"Like I told your boss, there's been a big mistake."

"Why are you doing all of this? You come from a good family, went to a good school. What makes you tick?"

"Bad dreams," Sam answered.

"Really?"

"You guys having a nice chat?" Lewis inquired, returning to the passenger seat in time to interrupt their conversation.

"We _were_ ," Sam said—shifting his attention back to Lewis.

"That's a nice place you have there. I'd have to work something like two hundred years to afford it. Maybe you could give me some financial advice? Unless of course, you paid for it with drug money."

Sam looked at Jim. "All right, one more round of good cop, bad cop." He stared out the window. His boats looked like little black dots on the water. "Lewis you don't seem as confident as you did an hour ago. Is everything going okay?"

Lewis glared at him. "Where's your social conscience? You may have all of this. But I can sleep at night."

"What do you dream about, Lewis? All of the things I have and you don't? You're a spick parasite that lives off of taxpayer dollars. I'd have more respect for you if you were bussing tables like your dad used to."

"You think it's okay to deal drugs?"

"The pharmaceutical companies do it. It's a free country—why not? Can I go yet?"

Lewis stood back up. "No, this looks like it's going to take awhile."

Sam turned back to Jim. "You have to work with him everyday? I know you can't rag on your own partner, but what a fucking drag. I feel bad for you."

Jim's expression was easy to read. He wondered how Sam had so easily picked up on his low opinion of Lewis. He wondered how he could tell that Lewis was a self-hating Mexican. Their interaction was brief—and he was reading them like a children's book.

"I've wanted to talk to you for a long time—but it seems like you already know that."

"A lot of people want to talk to me, Jim."

"They think you're just another drug dealer."

"Well I'm offended now. I guess I should just spill my guts to satisfy my bruised ego. Dude, this isn't a fucking television show. How do you solve all those big crimes? I've caught a few of your press conferences, you know. By the way, I'm not a drug dealer."

"Is this all just a game to you?"

"Life's a game, Jim. But it's not a game to be taken lightly."

"How does it end?"

Sam looked out at the ocean. Fifty thousand kilos were safely on their way to shore.

"Life ends in death."

"I meant the game."

"The game never ends."

The sun was just on the rise as Jim and Lewis got into the car.

"No drugs, no guns, no cash—are you trying to make this hard for us?" Lewis asked.

Sam smiled. "Make what hard for you?"

Jim started the car. "We're going to take you to the West L.A. lock-up for a few hours and then we'll take you downtown for an arraignment."

"Wake me up when we get there," Sam said, putting his head back and closing his eyes. "I'm beat."

They checked Sam into the West Los Angeles Jail where he used his one phone call to call Ivan.

A very tired Lewis and Jim picked Sam up from the West L.A. Jail; they put him into their car and headed for the Federal Court Building.

"What's wrong, guys? Didn't you go home and get some rest?"

Lewis shook his head. "No, we were out trying to seize the rest of your shit."

"Really? How did it go?"

"You know how it went." Jim was visibly irritated. "Your place on Wilshire is now inhabited by a nice Persian family."

Sam laughed. "You didn't kick in the door and bust up their pita bread operation, did you? What am I thinking? Of course you did—it takes a few weeks for a new title to show on the tax records."

Jim continued. "Your cars have all gone missing."

"Well, you did get the Celica," he laughed, "but the bad news is that it isn't mine. Don't you guys get to drive around in the cars you seize? You know Lewis, even you might have gotten some pussy in one of my Ferraris."

"Shut up, I've had enough of you," Lewis said, giving him the finger.

"I don't suppose I'll have a chance to clean up before court. I feel a little under-dressed."

"I'm sure the judge will understand. Plus, you look much younger in jeans and a T-shirt." The car came to a red light. Jim looked at Sam in the back seat. It had been hard to get surveillance pictures of him but they had taken a few. "Come to think of it, I've never seen you dressed so casually. Not even a watch."

Sam looked down at himself. "I call it my innocent college kid look."

They checked Sam into the Federal Court System. His criminal counsel, John Nash, was already waiting for him.

John didn't look it—but he was a good twenty years older than Sam. Curly brown hair, full beard and mustache—with a powerful build: he looked more the criminal than his young clean-cut client. John and his wife were good friends of Sam and Stacy's: the need for his services was uncomfortable but necessary.

"Are you okay?" John's voice was unsteady. "Ivan called and talked to my office. It's a lucky thing I checked in before I left; I'm supposed to be on my way up to the cabin. I wasn't going to come back until the day after Thanksgiving. I don't even have a phone there. You would have been totally screwed."

"Get on your plane and go. It's an arraignment; Ivan can handle it."

"Look, I can stick around. But I have to tell you from what I hear, they don't even know what to charge you with. The State has already told the Feds that they have no charges they can bring against you."

"I told you to go. I'll post bail and we'll straighten all this out when you get back."

John was reluctant but finally agreed to go.

Ivan met Sam in the courtroom—accompanied by an associate with expertise in criminal law. No doubt more for show than anything else. Ivan's morals were suspect. His grasp of the law was not.

Ivan cut a striking presence in the courtroom, at six-foot-four and close to three hundred and fifty pounds. He wore his trademark bowtie and aided his gait with a handsome walking stick. Sam was glad to have a friend around in his time of need. And if nothing else, watching Ivan in court was a spectacle worth getting arrested for. He was both brilliant and articulate—most lawyers were neither.

Sam sat between Ivan and his associate at the defendant's table in the large and imposing courtroom. Dark wood panel and marble, Sam had always imagined that the halls of justice would be something like this. The rule of law required impressive buildings and institutions.

"Samuel, they didn't let you shave?" Ivan asked, always in good humor.

"Missed my morning massage also. They really don't treat criminals well around this place. I mean, other than the ones that have passed the bar."

Ivan nodded. "Don't be jealous, they don't treat us that well around here either. You haven't had any trouble with dropping the soap in the shower, I hope."

"Of course I have; it's the only way to get laid in this place."

Ivan laughed, drawing some stares from others in the courtroom. "Anyway, it's nice to see you. I wish it were under better circumstances, though you seem to be in good spirits."

Sam winked. "Do what you can to get me out of here."

Ivan winked back. "I'll give it, as they say, a good bash. Their case against you is really a large mound of excrement."

The magistrate entered the courtroom and they rose to their feet. He was comfortably plump, with curly brown hair, and he was definitely Jewish. Sam thought he looked like a nice enough guy. The clerk called his case first—so Sam would find out soon enough if he was or wasn't.

"So, what do you have, counselor?" the magistrate asked Ivan.

Ivan stood. "We have no reason to be here is what we have." He pointed to Jim and Lewis. "The FBI arrested my client last night after being duped by their own paid informant into believing that my client was not only a drug dealer, but in the possession of a large quantity of cocaine. I might add that their informant has a long criminal history. Some of the highlights of which include convictions for dealing heroin, cocaine, and child pornography. My client has never been convicted of a crime of any type. They searched my client and found no drugs. They searched his car and found no drugs. They searched his home and found no drugs. In fact, not only did they not find any drugs, they found no weapons, or large sum of cash, or anything else you might expect to find when you arrest a drug dealer. Your Honor, there are no audiotapes or videotapes; there's not even a Polaroid to support the government's claim. I move that you dismiss the charges against my client. They are completely baseless."

"You guys really landed a big fish this time, didn't you?" the magistrate said, looking back at Jim and Lewis in the spectator seats.

There were some chuckles in the courtroom as the magistrate turned his attention to the Assistant U.S. Attorney, who was so attractive that even Sam couldn't bring himself to dislike her.

"What say you, counselor? Do we have any reason to detain the Godfather here any longer?"

She turned to the table behind her, grabbed a stack of files and placed them on the U.S. Attorney's table in front of her. The stack stood a good two and a half feet high.

"We have a lot of reasons to detain Mr. Noah," she said, gesturing to the stack like a game show hostess. "Not the least of which is, he is very much the Godfather."

Sam looked at Ivan and then back toward the Assistant U.S. Attorney. "Damn, could she be any hotter?"

Ivan stared down at him. "She'd be perfect for you, if she weren't trying to put you in jail."

Sam nodded. "Beautiful women are always trouble. At least she's smart."

Ivan smiled. "For your sake, let's hope she's not too smart."

Their whispering distracted her, which caused the magistrate to look their way.

"Is everything okay gentlemen?" he asked, not sounding too happy.

"Yes, your Honor. We were just conferring with respect to the Assistant U.S. Attorney's stack," he paused for a split second and continued, "of papers over there on the table."

She glared. "This stack of paper is just part of a two year investigation into Mr. Noah. Today, he may look like he just rolled out of a fraternity house at UCLA. But in actuality, he rolls out of a two million dollar penthouse on Wilshire Boulevard or his eight million dollar cliffside mansion in Malibu. We have DMV records showing that he owns twenty-seven luxury automobiles."

Ivan looked down at him.

"Not anymore," Sam whispered.

Ivan nodded and smiled.

"And although he seems to be an expert at shielding his assets, he has not been bashful about depositing one hundred and fifty-three million dollars in various bank and trading accounts in his own name—and that is just what we know of here in the U.S.

Ivan looked down at him.

"All legit money," Sam whispered.

Ivan nodded and smiled again.

The Assistant U.S. Attorney continued. "He also maintains a full-time cook, housekeeper, chauffer, and bodyguard. And as you can see, he can afford the best legal counsel. Your Honor, Mr. Noah is only twenty-three years old. How do you think he got so far, so fast? Yes, we have indeed caught ourselves a big fish—a very slippery big fish, but a big fish nonetheless."

She paused for a moment. "Your Honor, I would like to add that Mr. Noah is on a short list of men suspected of being the head of a crime organization, with deep roots in East Los Angeles, the home of his childhood. This organization is particularly well-known for the use of violence. And Mr. Noah is known on the streets where he comes from as the most violent of all his associates. Although charges were not brought, he has been arrested several times—including twice in the same week, earlier this month.

Ivan stood back up. "Your Honor, the fact that my client has been successful at an early age in several legitimate businesses, which includes a chain of compact disk stores, hardly makes him a menace to society. The arrests the Assistant U.S. Attorney has referred to were made under the pretense that his compact disk store was playing its music too loud. This, for the record, was the first arrest of its type under the California Penal Code. The reality is that West LAPD conducted an illegal search for the FBI and came up with the same results that the FBI has now come up with on their own—nothing.

"Your Honor, my client was an Alumni Scholar at UCLA and a world-class swimmer. He grew up working after school for his family's well-respected business in East L.A. The fact that he didn't let other kids steal his lunch money hardly makes him a thug. A good student, a good athlete, and a good businessman who has succeeded on his own, at a very young age—that's who we're talking about here.

"The government has declared a war on drugs and it is arresting everybody who fits a certain profile. The RICO Act was never meant to be used for this purpose. My client fits their profile. But they have offered nothing that could be called evidence that he is involved in some type of crime organization or that he was involved in any type of conspiracy to distribute a controlled substance. He has done nothing wrong—and they have no evidence to the contrary. Again, I request that these charges be thrown out."

Ivan sat back down in his chair and the magistrate looked at Sam for several moments.

"Please rise, Mr. Noah."

Sam stood in between his two very well-dressed and skilled attorneys. He felt small next to Ivan. It was a strange feeling.

"Well, I was wrong about you. You certainly aren't what you appear to be. It defies all logic that you could be so successful at such a young age, no matter how legitimate a story you've crafted. But given the lack of evidence against you, I have no doubt that you and your excellent attorneys will prevail when you get your day in court." He looked at the Assistant U.S. Attorney. "You have no case, unless he hasn't paid his taxes. I suggest you go back to the grindstone and get a case together." He looked back at Sam. "I'm going to do you a favor today young man. I'm going to let the charges against you stand—and I'm going to hold you without bail as a "menace to society". This will probably be the only serious prison time you'll see and it's my hope that it teaches you a lesson. I want you to sit for a while and think about things. Maybe by the time this is all over, you will have learned something."

CHAPTER 50

Terminal Island

There were several tiers of the jail unit at Terminal Island. And like all newcomers, Sam was initially assigned to tier one, otherwise known as the freeway. The War on Drugs had increased the prison population so greatly that they had run out of cell space and now resorted to just lining up cots and bunk beds like cars on a freeway opposite the cells on the west side of the tier.

As he descended down the stairs to tier one, they locked the doors behind him on every level before opening the next. It was a slow descent into the belly of the beast. The air was cold and damp and Sam noticed that several of the windows were broken. They were forty feet high opposite tier three; nobody was climbing up and out so there was no need for repair.

No wonder it's so fucking cold in here, so much for Club Fed. Thanksgiving is going to suck this year.

"Sam Noah? Holy shit, it's true," Tony the Colombian said, being the first to spot him. "I heard you were coming in—but I didn't believe it."

"The man himself," Shotgun interrupted. "I'm at your service."

Shotgun was big and black, just a tad smaller than his cousin Kim. He walked up and grabbed Sam's toilet gear out of his hands.

"Look at you. Don't tell me they made you a trustee," Sam said, giving Shotgun's shaved head a rub.

Shotgun smiled proudly. "Damn right they did." He pointed at Tony. "Gotta keep guys like him in line."

Tony laughed. "You mean hustle guys like me for money—"

Sam shook his head. "Some things never change."

"C'mon, I'll set you up on the freeway. It sucks, but I'll get you the first available cell."

"Son of a bitch, there goes the neighborhood." The voice came from the tier two catwalk.

Sam looked up. "Richard Bittlestein, it's about time they locked your ass up. Are you in charge of the Jews around this place?"

"You know it, babe."

He had lost weight and grown a short beard and mustache since Sam had seen him last.

"You look good."

"I'm still fat." He patted his stomach. "But I've lost fifty pounds since I've been here. Another fifty and I'll be in good shape. Hey, Elliot Sassoon from San Paulo is here with his partner Pauli. Why don't you eat dinner with us tonight?"

"Sounds good. I need to talk to you about something."

"I'm at your service," he said, giving a half bow. "Shotgun, you need to get him a cell."

Shotgun finished fluffing Sam's pillow and put it on his cot, before looking up at Bittlestein. "Man I know that—I got the Boss Man covered."

Sam gave Bittlestein a wave and turned to Shotgun. "I'm not doing the 'Boss Man' thing in here. Think of me as being on vacation. I need to keep it peaceful and quiet. You got it?"

He nodded. "I got it, peace and quiet. You up to some shit. You let me know what you need."

Sam sat on his cot. "Right now I need some rest. Shotgun, Tony, it's really good to see you guys— I'll catch up with two later."

Sam laid down; his head hit the pillow hard. It had been a hectic twenty-four hours. He felt like he could sleep for a week.

"Chowtime, people! Chowtime!" The drill sergeant-type voice announced through the public address system. "It's time for some of that good old USDA chow!"

Sam made a real effort to open his eyes. He'd been asleep for two hours and felt like he could use a hundred more.

Jail unit one, tier one, went to chow last. When the tier door opened, tier one inmates had to walk out of the building, turn right, walk through a large blacktop covered recreation yard and turn right again into the mess hall. Just beyond the mess hall, there was another gate that separated the blacktop from a track with a soccer field in the middle. Sam thought this area looked to be right on the water—a nice view if you didn't mind the barbed wire fence and the guard tower.

Sam entered the mess hall last, getting a good, long look at the yard.

"Sam Noah doesn't wait in any fucking lines," Bittlestein said, appearing from out of nowhere and grabbing him from his inconspicuous spot in the rear.

Sam shrugged. "I don't mind."

Bittlestein shook his head. "I do. You're a brand, my friend—don't forget that. How people see you is how people see all of us." He walked Sam to the front of the line and pointed to the guy at the far right of the food counter. "Hey Jose, come here."

Jose didn't look all that happy to see Richard but made his way over.

"What's up?"

Bittlestein pointed skyward. "This guy, he's way up there. All the way up there, so take care of him. Put him on the kosher list—and no line."

Jose gave Sam a nod. "I've got an extra kosher meal I can give you right now if you want it."

"That's fine, thanks."

Jose went back in the kitchen and returned with a meal on a tray that looked better than what everybody else was getting. He handed it over the counter to Sam. Bittlestein motioned for Sam to follow him to the table. Along the way, he pointed out the salad bar and gave Sam the lay of the land as to who sat where.

The Jew table was the best in the house. Not just because it had the best view of the mess hall—but because it was in section four, the last section to have to vacate at the end of meals. Terminal Island gave inmates twenty minutes to eat, so the more meal time the better—especially for the Jews who were well-known for turning their meals into something more resembling a board meeting.

Sam had no doubt that prison hadn't slowed Richard Bittlestein down one bit. The government shipped the Cuban Jew gangster from Florida to Terminal Island in some hope of curtailing his criminal activity. In actuality, they managed to expand his horizons to the West Coast. To a man like Bittlestein, Terminal Island was nothing more than a social club. It was a place where he could get a break from drugs and whores and really focus on losing weight and making money.

As Sam arrived at the table, Elliot and his partner Pauli stood to greet him. "Sam, it's good to see you," Elliot said, the better English speaker of the two.

Sam put his hand on Elliot's shoulder. "Good to see you too, my friend. I wish we were on the beach in Rio—but good to see you anyway."

"Hopefully, none of us will be here for long. I heard they held you without bail."

"Yeah, the Assistant U.S. Attorney was good," Sam said, sitting down. "And, I might add, very attractive. I'm glad she was the last woman I saw before coming to prison."

Elliot smiled. "You always have such a good way of looking at things."

Elliot's lumber company in Brazil manufactured hollow two by fours for Sam that he had stuffed with cocaine and imported to the United States. Sam also deposited heavily into a bank in San Paulo owned by Elliot's family.

"So what do you think?" Bittlestein asked. "We have the kosher food brought in special. We had to pull some strings for this."

Sam swallowed the brisket he was chewing on. "Pretty damn good. Not my mom's cooking, but better than I expected."

Bittlestein intertwined his fingers and squeezed his hands together. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

Sam leaned forward and put his elbow on the table. He looked down so no camera could possibly get him on tape. His lips would not be read: his conversations would stay private.

"Where do the VIP's eat?" Sam asked.

Bittlestein leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. He rested his head on his left hand blocking any possible camera angle. "VIP's eat in their rooms like the guys in protective custody."

"Do they ever mix with the jail population?" Sam asked, hoping very much that they did.

Bittlestein nodded. "We get an hour a day in the yard. The track you saw—just beyond the fence on the way into the mess hall—is what they use for the entire population, except for the guys in lock down. You couldn't see it. But at the far end of the track to the right is the weight room; VIP's are housed right above it. They usually let them hang out in the yard as much as they want, so it's possible that we're in the same place as they are up to an hour a day."

"Good to know. I take it you know everybody in this place?"

"C'mon, who you talking to?" Bittlestein said, holding his hands out to the side.

Elliot and Pauli laughed. Richard Bittlestein was a character, the kind of guy who could sell you a hundred kilos—and help you find a nice wife.

"I'm going to need you to point someone out to me. I'll owe you one."

Richard gulped down the rest of his orange drink. "Not a problem."

The next morning, right after breakfast, Sam was escorted to the warden's office. The warden was an administrative looking gentleman, in his early fifties. His silver, wire-rim glasses were vintage 1965—a perfect match to the office décor.

"How are you doing, Mr. Noah? Are you getting settled in okay?" he asked, motioning for Sam to sit down in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"Yes, thank you."

"I understand it must be difficult for someone from your circumstance to be here. It's not exactly the Ritz-Carlton. But if there is anything I can do to make your stay here more pleasant, I hope you'll feel comfortable coming to me."

Sam gave him a reassuring smile. "Thank you, Warden. But I'm sure I'll be fine. This place isn't so bad. You should have seen the fraternity house I lived in my freshman year at UCLA."

He shuffled some papers on his desk. "I have. If I recall, you guys were written up for twenty-six health code violations."

Sam looked at him inquisitively.

"We're fraternity brothers—but please don't share that with your fellow inmates." The warden elaborated. "Listen Sam, you seem to have a great attitude and I'll keep an eye out for you because of our unusual circumstance. I spoke to your attorney this morning—he was plenty worried about you."

"He's worried all right; I told him I'd give the first attorney to get me out of here a million dollars. He's worried John will come back and beat him to the punch."

The warden chuckled. "My mom told me I should go to law school. I'm ten years older than Ivan, but we've met at several national conventions. I almost ran against him for national president. He's actually checking in to see you now; I just wanted to catch you first." He stood and extended his hand—and they shook the secret handshake of the fraternal brotherhood. "Sam, there's a lot of things that go on here, things I'm hoping that you'll avoid."

The guard opened the door for Sam. He paused at the doorway and turned back to the warden.

"I'll try to stay out of trouble, Warden."

Ivan was already sitting, taking up his half of the table in the cramped lawyer's room.

"Dugans, what are you doing in the neighborhood?" Sam asked, invoking Ivan's childhood nickname.

Ivan smiled like a happy jack o' lantern. "Samuel, I like the brown jumpsuit."

"They sell them in the gift shop if you want one." he said, running his hand the length of the outfit. "They have an orange that would be fabulous on you."

Ivan nodded. "I doubt they carry my size. Now sit down and talk to me."

Sam sat on his side of the government-issue, small, metal table.

Ivan slid a cookie tin from behind his briefcase. "Compliments of your associate, Jeff. He said the food here isn't quite up to your standard. So he thought this would make you feel better."

"They didn't give you any trouble with this?" Sam asked, pleased with Jeff's efficiency.

"No, I was worried about that too. But you're allowed care packages as long as the items are sealed air-tight. Jeff seems to have this down to an art. Shocking."

"He's been to prison twice—don't be too shocked."

"I jest," Ivan said, looking uncomfortable in the small, metal chair. "Have you talked to the warden yet?"

"I just came from his office; he's a fraternity brother of ours."

Ivan smiled. "We've been around a long time; we have lots of brothers out there. Jimmy is a good ten years older than I am but we've met several times; he's a nice guy. I told him to look after you. I also promised him you were going to keep a low profile in here. That means no picking on the other prisoners Samuel; you have to play nice while you're here. Speaking of which, how are you getting along so far?"

"I haven't killed anyone yet, if that's what you mean—"

Ivan tilted his head and gave Sam a disapproving look.

Sam continued. "Actually, I have a lot of friends in here. It's kind of nice to see some of them and I'm not missing my phone ringing two hundred times a day. All in all, minus the bathroom shortage, this is a good experience for me. I think I might finally have time to read a book. How's the case against yours truly shaping up?"

Ivan crossed his arms and leaned back as best he could. "It's fecal. Or in laymen's terms, it's crap—but worrisome nonetheless. Their case is based on your lifestyle which, given your means, is extremely modest. But relative to someone sitting on a jury, it's extravagant. Nasser is a scumbag. But his account of things makes sense when your lifestyle is taken into account. Juries like to send rich, young, white males to jail, especially when they're under the spell of your girlfriend Denise Michelle—the enchanting Assistant U.S. District Attorney."

Sam laughed. "Hey, go easy on her—she's just doing her job. I jacked off to her twice this morning. I can't get her out of my head. What a fucking babe."

"Well Samuel, I'm glad to hear your being in prison hasn't detoured you from masturbating. But Denise plans on making sure that's all you're going to be doing for the next forty years. Nasser is also a problem; I don't know why you ever got involved with him. Anyway, we're trying to reach John to tell him what's going on. But apparently, his cabin has no phone—so we may have to send someone to Oregon to speak with him, face to face."

Sam picked up his cookie tin. "Look, I appreciate everything. Tell John what's going on, but also tell him I'm okay in here until after Thanksgiving. I don't want to ruin his vacation. How are my parents and Stacy doing?"

Ivan broke eye contact with Sam. "They're not doing well with this. That little spick FBI agent Lewis called your parents' house a couple of times. He warned them that they better not be trying to hide your assets or they'll wind up in jail also. I spoke to Dennis Craig about it and he assured me they'd reel the overzealous prick in. I made it clear to him that if they didn't, we'd be suing for harassment. Luckily, my mother is good at comforting your mom."

Ivan's mother ran his law office with an iron fist. And yet during Sam's employ there, she found a very large soft spot for him. "Tell her thanks and forward my regards to everybody else. Tell my parents I'm sorry Lewis bothered them. He shouldn't have gone over the line and involved them in this. I need to get going or I'm going to miss my first trip to the yard—and we wouldn't want that."

Sam worked out with weights then hit the heavy bag with Nasser in mind. He had never hit anything harder.

"Hey, come take a walk with us!" Bittlestein yelled, interrupting Sam's punching-induced trance.

Shotgun gave Sam a pat on the ass. "You hit like a fucking truck, motherfucker. You better go to the infirmary and have them look at those hands."

Sam smiled. "They're okay. A little blood never hurt anybody. I'm going to take a walk with Bittlestein. I'll talk to you back at the tier. Thanks for holding the bag."

A couple of inmates who had been watching Sam work out looked at Shotgun.

Shotgun handed the larger of the two a pair of bag gloves. "Imagine what the motherfucker could do to someone's face."

"That boy got problems," the inmate said, putting the gloves on. "He don't belong in the general population."

Shotgun got into position to hold the bag. "Just stay away from him."

The inmate squared off. "Ain't nobody around here wanna fuck with that shit."

"Nice day for a stroll boys," Sam said, joining Bittlestein, Elliot and Pauli as they rounded the bend.

Bittlestein smiled. "You do a hell of a workout."

"It felt good to get some exercise," he said, unzipping his jumpsuit and tying it off around the waist so his body could get some much needed sunlight. "Man, it's nice out."

"California definitely has great weather," Bittlestein agreed. "Sam, are you still buying a lot of artwork?"

"Yeah, well not at this very moment, but yeah. In fact, when I get out, I'm going to open a gallery. Wholesale's been good to me—but I like the idea of having my own gallery."

Bittlestein nodded his agreement. "You can make your own market that way, smart. A prestige gallery makes the artist."

"Crazy when you think about it. Could be the greatest piece of art in the world. And without someone endorsing it, it's worth nothing."

"I'd like to do some deals with you when I get out. This art thing you're doing is highbrow. I really like it." Bittlestein paused to make his next point. "Better than diamonds?"

Sam smiled. "Much. Even the stupidest customs agent knows what a diamond looks like. I can put an eight and a half by eleven Van Gogh in the back of a legal pad and walk through any airport in the world. That's five to forty million undeclared dollars. Anytime, anywhere."

"It says Van Gogh at the bottom?"

"If they find it, which they never have. They would still never believe that they were looking at a real Van Gogh. I once walked through customs with a thirty-two by thirty-six Picasso rolled up in my hand. I actually unrolled it just for fun and showed it to a hot stewardess walking through the gate at the same time as I was. I told her I was a painter and it was an homage to Picasso."

"She believed you?"

"Of course she did. What she wouldn't have believed is that it was a real Picasso. Nobody walks around with one rolled up in their hand. Without the frame and the gallery or the museum, it's not a Picasso. Even if it's signed in the lower right hand corner _Picasso_. It's a crazy world Bittlestein. People don't believe the truth."

The sun was at their backs, as was the guard tower, when they rounded the turn closest to the gate. There was the park bench with its lone occupant.

Bittlestein looked down. "That's your guy. He sits in the same spot every day and smokes cigars."

They continued to walk around the track, exchanging ideas, strategies, and techniques. A thirty-minute crime seminar overlooking the beautiful Pacific until they were interrupted by the whaling horn summoning them to line up for return to their cellblock. As they walked across the blacktop, Sam noticed a solo weed with a small orange flower blossoming from its tip.

"Would you look at that, Bittlestein? All this asphalt can't even hold back one little weed. You know that little thing unattended could take over this whole place, given the time. Give it long enough and you wouldn't even recognize this place."

"Funny what you notice in here isn't it?" he commented, putting his hand on Sam's shoulder. "I've got a good book for you to read, if you're interested?"

"Yeah, I was just thinking it would be nice to read a good book. Fiction, hopefully."

"I've got just what the doctor ordered. I'll swing it by later. Did Shotgun get you a cell yet?"

"Yeah, I'm right across from where my cot was at. I'm moving in when we get back.

One day on the freeway was all of the over-crowded prison experience that anybody needed to get a good taste of prison life. Two hundred and fifty men—murderers, drug dealers, and thieves—all side-by-side, packed in like sardines and sharing one bathroom. A cell was a major improvement.

Dennis, Sam's new cellmate, had movie star good looks and a degree in chemistry, which he used to make methamphetamine. He used just enough of his own stuff to get sloppy and catch his third case. It was a good case and he was looking at a ten-year minimum.

"There you go, boss," Shotgun said, as he finished making up Sam's upper bunk. "Got anything that needs ironing?"

Sam handed him his extra jump suit. "There you go. You got anything for Shotgun?" he asked Dennis. "It's on me."

Dennis looked over the top of the paper he was reading. "No, I'm okay. Thanks for the offer."

Sam turned to Shotgun. "Hey, I need a can opener." he said softly. "I've got some cookies for teatime that I need to crack open."

"Not a problem, boss. Give me an hour and I'll have one for you."

As Shotgun left, Bittlestein arrived and tossed Sam a book.

"The Prince of Tides?" he read the title aloud. "It sounds gay. You got to be fucking kidding me?"

"Don't let the title fool you." Bittlestein advised, seriously. "It's a feel-good book."

"I'm in prison. I don't want a feel-good book. I want something with some fucking."

"There's fucking in that book. I promise," Bittlestein assured him. Then, he leaned against the bars. "I've got the guys whipping up some Cuban coffee upstairs; want me to send some down?"

"No, I'm going to relax and see if you're right about this book. But you can do me another favor. I need to call a friend. So tell the guys in the phone line I'm on the phone first after dinner. It'll just take a minute. But I'm not kidding around, I've got to make this call."

"Consider it done." Bittlestein tipped an imaginary hat as if it were on his head. "I'll coordinate with Shotgun."

"Thanks, Bittlestein—you're a good man."

CHAPTER 51

The Prosecution

Denise Michelle was only twenty-eight years old and had already established a reputation for herself as the best young prosecutor in the U.S. Attorney's office. Now, she had the kind of case that whole careers were made on—and she had no intention of letting the opportunity escape her.

Sam Noah was an extremely dangerous drug dealer. She was confident that she could convince a jury of that. But she needed more. If she could prove that he was the head of a crime organization, he would spend a good part of the rest of his life in prison. Every door in the Justice Department would open for her.

Her father had started his career as a prosecutor before founding the firm from which he was almost ready to retire. She had resigned herself to the fact that her father had always wanted a son—a son that would have taken over the firm. Would a son have had what it was going to take to put Sam Noah away? It comforted her to think not.

Her case did have its fair share of problems. Nasser was the worst type of witness. He was the government's biggest weakness. There wasn't a jury in the world that wouldn't be repulsed by him. Noah, on the other hand, was locked up safe and sound in jail and time was on her side. Her case would only get better. It was inevitable that with the boss in jail, the rest of the Sam Noah gang would start making plenty of mistakes. She would keep the pressure on and there would be more witnesses.

Denise thought about having faced Noah in court. He really hadn't looked like what she expected. Of course, she had seen pictures of him and she knew that he was handsome. But in person, he seemed almost shy. He was the kind of kid that got into trouble, but you liked anyway. In pictures, he looked menacing and arrogant. This was not the case in person.

Carrington had warned her that he was charming. At the time, she had thought Carrington's description was strange. Charming? He was a killer. But after seeing him in court, she had to admit that there was something about him. If she didn't know so much about Sam Noah, she wouldn't believe he was The real Man on the Hill—not a chance. She envied Carrington—he actually got one-on-one time with Noah.

As she turned down the street to the large condominium complex she called home, it crossed her mind that a jury was going to like Noah. She was going to have to be at her best if she had any hope of convincing a jury that he was perhaps the most dangerous criminal in the world. She pictured Noah looking kind of cute in his Levis and T-shirt. "What if I met him in a bar? Would I go home with him?" She asked herself.

"I'm really going to have some convincing to do," she said, out loud.

The reality of prosecuting Sam Noah came back to her full force as she looked at the black and white parked in the driveway of her building. Denise had never been concerned about her safety before. Carrington assured her that she needed to be now.

She stopped in the driveway next to the squad car and rolled down her window. "Hey guys. Is everything okay?"

The officer sitting in the driver's seat nodded. "Nothing going on out here. But we'll be here every night until this is all over."

They looked bored out of their minds. She imagined it was probably the worst duty anybody could possibly pull. Nobody in the history of her department had ever come after an Assistant U.S. Attorney. "Sam Noah doesn't care about history," Carrington had said, adamantly.

Why be brave? She had thought to herself. Now, it seemed silly. Noah hadn't even made a threat. LAPD's finest were sitting in her driveway instead of helping someone who really needed help. All because of an overzealous FBI agent who had actually managed to scare her just a little bit.

She gave the officers a smile that signaled she understood how bored they were. "I might take my dog for a walk later."

The officer gave her a smile back that said he appreciated the fact she understood their plight. "Just give us a nod and one of us will come along."

She waved goodbye. "I'll let you know. Thanks guys—I really appreciate you being here."

"Don't worry about it. It's part of the job."

Denise pulled into the garage and parked her car. The coast seemed clear. Then, at that moment she decided she wasn't going to do this. Of course the coast was clear. She grabbed her briefcase and headed for the elevator. For the first time, she began to think about how hungry she was. She had some pasta she could boil up. That was about it, the pantry was pretty bare. Work had really been overwhelming lately. Now that Noah was locked up, she was going to take a day off and do some things for herself—like going to the market.

Denise got to her front door and put her briefcase down. She began to fumble around in her purse, trying to find her house keys. They usually found their way to the bottom, just under the gun that she carried for self-protection. As she rummaged, it struck her that Ben—her German Shepard—wasn't barking. The next moments were a blur. The door opened, there was a slam against her back, and she went sprawling onto her own entryway floor. Her purse fell from her hands. She looked up in a daze and saw the largest man she had ever seen in her life. He had a Mohawk and glared at her with cold, blue eyes. A smaller man stood behind the larger one and with a flick of the wrist he shut the door, which she now realized he had opened just in time for the giant to send her flying through.

The two men looked towards the living room. Almost by a force beyond her control, she followed their eyes to the man who sat casually in the chair at the end of her coffee table.

His voice was calm and soothing. "Denise, it's so nice to finally have the pleasure of meeting you. Come, sit beside me here on the couch. I'm sure it's far more comfortable than the floor."

"Who are you and what do you want?" Her eyes drifted to her purse and the .38 revolver inside.

"My name is Stan. My two associates are known as Sergio and Joshua. In case you're wondering, we work for Sam Noah. From what I understand, you two have recently met. Won't you come here and join me? If I were here to hurt you, don't you think that you would already be hurt?"

Denise could only think of getting to her purse.

"Is not having your bag distracting you?" He pulled a gun from a shoulder holster under his jacket and pointed it at her. "Do you have one of these in there?"

Her head wasn't clear. She didn't understand what was happening. He had her at gunpoint—there was no hope.

"Please, come sit down." He put his gun down on the coffee table. "If you really feel the need for a gun, you can have mine. It's probably much nicer than the one you've been issued anyway."

Denise rose slowly to her feet and walked unsteadily to the couch. She felt an overwhelming need to urinate. The one Stan had referred to as Sergio stood by the door, while the one he called Joshua followed her.

"See what a good girl you are," Stan said, gesturing with his hand toward the couch. "Come, sit here by me so we can talk."

Denise sat in the middle of the couch. The haze was lifting but it was still unreal. They were in her apartment. They used names, maybe even real names. They certainly used Sam Noah's name. Would he really do something this outrageous? There would be no leniency. Not that she planned on giving any before this—but now, never.

"What do you want?" she asked in a quivering voice.

"I told you I want to talk—but not until you come sit next to me."

It bewildered her that he made no attempt to move his gun. He was inviting her to sit closer to it than he was. It was some type of game. Joshua reached forward and touched her hair.

"Don't touch me," she demanded, back in charge.

"He's going to be touching you quite a bit more if you don't slide over," Stan assured her.

The moment of confidence left as quickly as it had come. The big one had already hit her. Now, she had just been threatened, clearly threatened, with further harm. In her worst dreams, she had never imagined such creepy people. Stan smiled at her as if he had just taught a pet a new trick.

"See, that wasn't so hard." He glanced down at the gun in front of her. "It's real and it's loaded. I do have to warn you, though, that if you pick it up and shoot me, Joshua and Sergio will be very upset with you." He picked it up and held it out to her. "Take it. I want us to be able to trust each other."

Denise leaned back. "Get it away from me, you freak. I want you to get out of my house."

"Freak?" His voice was no longer polite. "Listen to me, you filthy cunt. You are only alive right now because my boss seems to have taken a liking to you. I, on the other hand, don't really care for women. So, we're going to talk. If I think we have an understanding, I'll leave this little shit hole you call home and maybe you'll be alive. Do you understand me, you stupid fucking bitch?"

Joshua, on cue, grabbed her by the hair and snapped her head back.

"You are not in charge here, cunt. When I ask you a question, you fucking answer me. Got it?"

"I understand," she answered, realizing that she needed to play along. She needed to humor whatever plan they thought they were going to get away with.

"Say you're sorry," Stan commanded.

Denise felt as though Joshua was just a few pounds of pressure away from breaking her neck.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

Joshua released her and she looked at Stan, who once again was smiling pleasantly. He handed her a stack of eight by ten photographs.

"I don't get it. Who is this?" she asked, staring at a woman who looked remarkably like herself.

Stan nodded. "She looks a lot like you, doesn't she? I didn't have much time—but I did the best I could. Sam didn't want anything to happen to you—so I took the liberty of finding a substitute. I wanted it to be somebody that you could identify with—to put the rest of our conversation in context. What I did to her is exactly what I'm going to do to you if you don't go into your office tomorrow and resign. Take a look at the next picture."

Denise thought she might vomit. The girl had been severely beaten; there were bruises all over her body. There was also a large dog that looked to her like a Mastiff. She was speechless.

Stan pointed at the picture. "It took three different girls to train him to do that. Look at the next picture."

She did as she was told and her eyes began to tear. "Oh no, why would you do this? Why would anyone do this?"

Stan leaned forward. "I did it because I wanted to see what would happen if I took a blowtorch and put it to a woman's breast."

Denise dropped the pictures and vomited on her own lap. "You're going to go to jail for this." She could barely get out the words. "No matter what you do to me, you're going to go to jail."

Stan picked the stack of pictures up. "You didn't finish looking at my presentation," he said, showing her the next photo.

Denise turned her head away from the grotesque image that he was holding in front of her face.

"What do you want from me?"

"Don't want to see anymore, counselor? I think you'll find the next one really interesting."

She couldn't believe what she was seeing. It was her mother and father. They were walking. They were out for their evening walk—and these men had photographed them.

"Stay away from them! You stay away from them!"

Stan showed her another picture. "When I'm done with you, I'll be starting on her first thing. Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, I'll start with your little sister first. Lisa, what a cute girl she is. Of course she won't be so cute when I'm done with her."

"But I can't just quit!"

"You are going to quit and you're going to do it tomorrow. Then you're going to keep your fucking mouth shut and get on a plane and fly to France where you are going to stay and start a new life. I'll see to it that money isn't a problem. By the way, have you talked to Lisa in the last couple of days?"

Denise looked back at the picture. It wasn't Penn State: it wasn't anywhere she recognized.

"You have my sister?"

"I blowtorched a girl who did nothing wrong, other than the fact that, she looked like you. Do you think for a moment that I had a second thought about your sister missing the end of her semester? She's perfectly fine, for now. But this thing between us is a serious matter. I'm hoping that I've made my point. When you're safe in France and Sam is out of jail, I'll give her back in one piece. I promise. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes," Denise answered without hesitation. In just a few short minutes, her whole life had changed. People who broke the law, people she put in prison—they weren't evil. She understood now. Evil men didn't go to prison. Sam Noah was not going to stay in jail. The only question that remained was whether she and her family would live or die. She understood the way he looked at her now. It was there in her mind all along. He wanted to fuck her. That's the only reason she was alive. She had what it took to put him in prison and rather than just kill her, he spared her for some primal urge. Another girl had lost her life in her place. Evil didn't care.

"And you understand the consequences if you break our deal?" Stan, who had taken a blowtorch to a woman, asked.

"Yes." The pictures had made everything crystal clear.

Then, without a word or warning of any kind, Joshua grabbed her by the back of the neck and threw her forward, over the table. Stan's hand came down on her back and clamped her down against the table with incredible force. Joshua ripped off her vomit-covered skirt and panties. Then, he forced her legs apart. He spread her cheeks. She was wide open, completely vulnerable. She tried, but she couldn't hold back the urine, at first a trickle and then all of it as she lost complete control of her bladder. Stan pulled her head up. His face was just inches from hers as he stared into her eyes.

"Please don't, please don't hurt me," she begged him. She just wanted to live now. Fuck her job, fuck Sam Noah—she just wanted to live. She was young, attractive, and smart. They didn't care—they were going to violate her and kill her because they could. She could see it in Stan's eyes. He wanted to rip her apart with all of his being: he wanted to kill her.

Stan caressed her face. "This is the good part, darling. It's just a warm-up for the part that hurts." Then, without a word, they both stood. Joshua walked around to the front of the coffee table and stood next to Stan. They both stared at Denise as she cried. They started to laugh; they laughed at the nothingness she really was to them. They laughed at the two, bored, useless cops in front of her building. They laughed at the illusion of authority and at the entire situation.

Stan shook his head. "You know, I can kind of see what the boss sees in you. Listen, we're going to leave now. I left your plane ticket on your bed next to what's left of your dog. What a racket he was making. Personally, I like cats.

CHAPTER 52

A Nice Get Away

"Mr. Nasser, your limousine is here to take you to the airport," Allen—the worker at the front desk of the Wilshire Boulevard high-rise—informed him over the house phone.

"I'll be right down."

Setting Sam Noah up for the Feds had been stressful. Nasser decided a trip to Las Vegas was well deserved. Although it was beyond his job description, Nasser had Allen make his travel arrangements. He was a fellow Persian and Nasser felt that a little extra work was in order for the tip the Home Owner's Association forced him to give each month.

Nasser gave Allen a wave as he passed the desk. Allen thought of his brother and all of the rest of his friends that Nasser had sent to the Shaw's torture chambers back in Iran. They had never had a chance to meet in the old country. But Allen was eternally grateful to Allah that he had the chance of befriending Nasser the infidel now, in the United States.

The great Mullah Muqtada Omar himself had made Allen his go between with Sam Noah, The Destroyer of Souls. He was to do whatever Mr. Noah told him to do. The job at the front desk was out of the ordinary. However, it was one with such great advantage. From what he had been told about Mr. Noah, Nasser was far better off in his care than the simple death that Allen could offer as revenge for his brother.

The chauffer opened the rear door. Nasser jumped in and the door shut quickly behind him. He was shocked to find himself facing Frank and Robbie. But the shock was gone in the split second it took for Robbie to hit him between the eyes with a blackjack. Blood burst from his forehead—it was nothing life threatening. "Absolutely nothing life threatening," the boss had told them.

Frank turned to Robbie as Nasser's limp body slumped over and onto the floor. "Good swing in cramped quarters."

"Thanks, you can tape the shit-bag up."

Frank reached for the extra large roll of silver duck tape. "Man, talk about the one guy on earth I wouldn't want to be." The tape made a terrible screeching noise as he bound Nasser's hands and feet.

"How's the passenger doing?" J.B. asked, sliding into the driver's seat.

Frank was still kneeling over him. "Looking forward to his stay in Vegas, no doubt. Better call Luis and tell the Doc that Robbie cracked him on the head pretty good."

The limo pulled out of the driveway like so many others. This time, however, the driver left the passenger's bag at the curb. There was no reason to over-pack for the trip he was about to take.

CHAPTER 53

Carrington

Bad Case

Jim Carrington, Lewis Morales, Carl White, Dennis Craig and the newly assigned Assistant U.S. Attorney Gary Lansburg sat around the conference table at the FBI's office in the Westside Federal Building. Gary was new to the job and particularly disgusted to hear the details.

"Our only witness is gone? Just like that? Why wasn't he protected?"

Carl shifted in his chair. "He would be hard to protect. We've given him a lot of room. We couldn't stay too close. Noah must have known that."

"What does that mean, a lot of room?" Gary asked, tossing his pen down on the table.

Jim didn't like Gary. At first glance, he was an arrogant Ivy League kid who didn't really care about anything other than his own future. Jim could tell by his ridiculously expensive suit that his rich, Jewish parents were subsidizing his adventure in civic duty. "A little low paying work for the government can lead to a lot of big retainers down the line," his father must have told him. Probably nothing more than a resume builder, but he deserves an answer, Jim thought.

"Gary, what Carl is saying is that we allowed Nasser to conduct business as usual, in exchange for setting up other dealers for us. So, if we had agents with him around the clock, they would actually have been a party to his dealings."

Gary rubbed his forehead, in hope of staving off the headache he was sure would soon be coming.

"So, you think it was more ethical to let him keep dealing? Did anyone consider option two, where we don't let him keep dealing and we protect him from the animal I have locked up in Terminal Island? A conspiracy case without a witness, a tape, a photograph—there's a good chance I won't even be able to get a grand jury to indict the son-of-a-bitch."

"You could get a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich," Carl said, not happy at all to hear the news Gary was sharing.

"I'd have a better chance against the sandwich."

Carl had the most at stake. "Gary, I've lost a witness and an informant. If he's still alive, and Noah is able to get out of custody and press him for information, it could be a very uncomfortable situation."

Gary turned to Jim. "Please translate."

"What Carl is saying is that the information flow between Nasser and this office has been two-way. The information he has been privilege to is detrimental and embarrassing with respect to our operations. He has been given access to files on individuals we have targeted. He knows how we do what we do—and he knows what we know about our targets"

"You've made him privilege to confidential files and aided and abetted him in an ongoing criminal enterprise?" Gary asked, a shade lighter in color than he had just been.

"It has been the policy of the task force to do everything necessary to protect its informants. It's a gray area," Jim clarified, not appreciating having become the defender of a policy that he had never truly supported in the first place.

Gary shook his head. "Gray area? Is our friend in Terminal Island the only one that understands how over the line you are? He knew you couldn't protect this guy—and he knew you would show him his file to get a bust. Your idiot informant probably bragged to him about how much information you trusted him with." Gary paused to rub his forehead. His head was hurting now. The case was a fucking loser. Denise thought she had a great case with Nasser, the fucking scumbag informant. "Any chance we can retrieve Nasser before Noah gets out?"

Carl shifted his weight and tried to get comfortable.

"Why would we want to? I say we write Nasser off and find another way to deal with Noah. I mean, who says Nasser was abducted? He missed a plane to Vegas. Maybe he decided to split the country? What we need to do is focus all of our resources on keeping Noah in jail."

Jim looked at Carl. "The guy at the front desk said he got into a limousine an hour before he was scheduled to be on a flight to Vegas. C'mon, he was going to the airport and he never made it. It's a kidnapping," Jim said, not onboard. "The limo driver left his bag in the driveway. They wanted us to know they have him."

Carl wasn't moved and nobody else in the room was talking.

"Jim, it's no good for us to open up an investigation on this," Carl said, calmly knowing the rest of the room was on his side. "If we treat this as an abduction, we'll have to explain why we didn't protect him—and that's not going to happen outside of this room. Nasser will unfortunately have to fend for himself. What we need to do is try to think ahead of our boy. If he does get information out of Nasser, what will he do with it? You've been building the profile on this guy. What's our downside?"

Jim was trying to clear the thought from his mind that they were about to ignore the abduction of a government witness.

"It's a game to him—but I'm not talking about some crazy way of entertaining himself. I mean—he has a purpose. It's not about money. The money is a means to an end. Its power, it elevates him. It's how he expresses himself. He feels superior to us. In his mind, we're the criminals."

Lewis tapped his finger on the table. "That's why he called me a parasite?"

Jim nodded his head. "He thinks drugs should be legal. He thinks people should be able to choose their vices. He thinks we're all just part of a big scam."

Gary's headache had now arrived full force. "So, we're dealing with an anti-establishment nutcase who plans on remaking the world into a narco-paradise. What's his next move?"

Jim hated Gary's Ivy League arrogance. In a couple of years, today's nutcases would become his clients when he inevitably left the U.S. Attorney's office to become a high-priced defense attorney at Shapiro and something.

Jim was trying to imagine what Sam Noah would do next.

"He'll keep selling drugs—you can count on that. He sure wasn't very upset about being arrested. I've thought about that a lot. It was as if he knew he was being set up. More than that, it was as if he wanted to go to prison. If he gets out, he'll have made us all look foolish. But there's something else, I just don't know what it is yet. But just screwing around with us would be too simple. Nobody wants to go to prison just to prove they can get out."

"Well why the hell would he want to be in prison?" Gary asked, seemingly interested for the first time.

"Other than he can't be considered a suspect in Nasser's abduction—which we're not ruling an abduction—there's no way to know. Now that we put him there, we'll just have to wait to find out."

"I'm not a big fan of waiting," Dennis Craig said, speaking for the first time. "I think we're all in agreement that this guy is dangerous. I don't care what we have to do, but he stays in jail. If Gary doesn't have enough to indict this punk, I want you guys to get him what he needs—and I don't care how you do it. I don't want to try and out-think this crazy prick. I want to cut him off from the world before he causes any more trouble. Jim, how does that sound?"

"Dennis, I'm afraid it's what he'll be expecting us to do."

Dennis Craig turned to Gary. "We're not going to disengage here. We'll get you what you need. I need to know that you'll do what has to be done to bury this guy. I mean whatever has to be done, Gary. You understand?"

Gary nodded. "Dennis, get me some witnesses and I'll bury Sam Noah."

CHAPTER 54

The End of The Dream

"Hey, boss I've got that special order," Shotgun said, walking into Sam's cell and leaning against his bunk.

"Thanks, Shotgun."

As he stepped back from the bunk, Sam could see the can opener lying flat on his mattress.

"Can I have the cookies, when you're done?"

"Yeah, it's the least I can do."

It took a few minutes to get the top open. Sam couldn't help but smile as he looked at the contents of his special delivery. Jeff was good.

The loud speakers blared, "Chowtime people, chowtime! It's time for some of that good old USDA chow." Sam got in line with everybody else and made his way to the mess hall. As Bittlestein had arranged, once inside, he skipped the food line and went directly to the counter.

After dinner, he walked directly to the first of four pay phones inconveniently located on the east side of tier one. Shotgun held off a long line of brothers waiting to talk to one or more of their many bitches.

The brothers be loving to talk to the bitches. Endlessly standing on the phone grumbling away.

"Hello," the voice on the other end of the line said.

"Come by tomorrow at eleven." Sam hung up and gave Shotgun a pat on the shoulder. "Thanks, bro."

"That was short and sweet," Shotgun said, waiving a thin black man in his mid-twenties toward the phone.

"They listen to everything you say; it's better to talk to people in person. Speaking of which, find Bittlestein and tell him to stop by. I need to talk to him."

The next morning.

"Chowtime, people! Chowtime!" the loud speaker blared. "Time for some of that good old USDA chow!"

After breakfast, they were walked to the yard—at ten sharp, on schedule. Everything that happened in Terminal Island happened right on schedule. Day after day, week after week, year after year, there was a schedule to be kept. A well-kept schedule translated to order. Prison was a place of order, an institution of the highest order.

The sun and the breeze were balmy. Sam couldn't imagine a more beautiful day as he walked around the track with Bittlestein, Elliot, and Pauli.

He gazed past the barbed wire at the ocean he had spent so much time swimming in as a kid.

You could always swim for it if you had to. You could always swim for it.

The boats cruised by on their way out to the open water. Beautiful women in bathing suits stretched out on the back of motor yachts—one after the other. Sam's boat came into sight at ten fifty-nine. The sun and the guard tower were at his back as he walked on the track just inches from the fence and mere feet from the water.

"Just like we talked about last night," he said to Bittlestein on his left. "You guys fall back five steps and block the view from the rear."

As they neared the park bench at the end of the track, Sam reached for the linoleum knife Jeff had packed into his Knott's Berry Farm cookie tin before having it sealed. All food items had to be delivered in airtight packages. Sam walked up to the older gentleman smoking the cigar, the bench's perennial lone occupant.

"Emil Regalio?"

The old-timer looked up through thick glasses, startled to hear his name. He searched Sam's face for recognition, not noticing the knife that was in his hand.

"Maybus? It's you. Yes, you are well."

"Better than you, Doctor Hess."

Sam plunged the sharp point of the knife's curved blade into the soft spot at the base of Emil Regalio's throat and pulled down with all of his strength—cutting him open to the groin. Regalio's guts leapt from his body. Sam turned and quickly threw the knife over the fence and into the channel. As it splashed into the water, he saw Patrick, Stan, Joe, Erez, Frank, and Martha on the back of his boat. He was pretty sure he could make out smiles on all of their faces.

The bell rang and a throng of inmates headed for the gate. Sam gave Emil Regalio a last look and spat on him, as Regalio gurgled—trying to call for help.

Sam fell back into step with Bittlstein, Elliot, and Pauli as they rounded the turn closest to the bench and headed back to the jail unit.

Emil's back was to the track; he had always enjoyed his privacy as he watched the boats sail by. The guards would think he had dozed off. When they cleared the last group of prisoners from the yard, they would go to wake him. They would curse, they would count, they would search, and they would do paperwork. Or, just maybe, they wouldn't care. One thing was for sure. Emil Regalio wasn't going to walk out of Terminal Island and live out his golden years. They were over.

On day twenty-two, the guard assigned to tier one appeared at the bars of Sam's cell.

"Mr. Noah, I'll need you to accompany me to the phone. Your attorney John Nash would like you to call him."

Sam called John collect. Criminal attorneys knew to always accept collect calls.

"John, it's Sam. Welcome back."

"Do you need a ride?" John asked.

"Don't even joke about that," Sam said, feeling excited just at the suggestion.

"I'm not joking. Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Nasser disappeared. They couldn't get the grand jury to indict you. You're a free man."

There was so much that could have gone wrong and hadn't. Sam was going to walk out of the belly of the beast. Invincible. Might there be such a thing? He wondered.

"Yeah, I could use a ride if you don't mind."

"Well hold tight buddy boy, I'm on my way. I'll call the administrative office before I head out and make sure they're on the ball."

"Thanks, John." Sam hung up the phone.

"Get your stuff; I'll take you to processing," the guard said, obviously having already been informed.

"Why didn't you say something?" Sam asked.

"Rules. You're supposed to be informed by your attorney."

Sam changed back into his street clothes in a small room with a metal table in the middle. He gathered that there was no proper changing area. He was surprised at how good the sensation of his jeans felt against his skin. He made a mental note to remember the sensation. When he felt himself taking life for granted, he would recall the simple pleasure of the way they felt. His personal items were returned to him in a plastic bag—which he was asked to sign for—and then the guard walked him down a long hallway to an unmarked metal door.

"Good luck with everything Mr. Noah. I hope this is all behind you now."

"I hope so too," Sam said, walking out of the metal door that quite unceremoniously slammed behind him.

Outside of the Terminal Island gate, there was a circular driveway in the middle of which there was a patch of green grass, a bench, and a pay phone. The view of the water was unobstructed by barbed wire. Sam walked to the bench and sat down thinking the view worth enjoying while he waited for John.

"How does it feel to be free?" Jim Carrington asked.

Leaning against the back of a red Trans-Am, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, he looked like anything but an FBI agent.

Sam smiled; Carrington was a surprise. "Freedom feels good, thank you. Just hanging out? You're a long way from West L.A."

"I thought we could talk."

Jim walked to the bench and sat down.

"No partner, no S.W.A.T. team; you're traveling light these days?"

"This is an unofficial visit," Jim said, looking out over the water.

"Jim, you're a good guy. What are you doing working for the FBI? Go be a lawyer."

"What's next for you, Sam?" Jim asked, still looking out at the water.

"I'm going to open an art gallery."

"Sounds pretty tame. Won't you get bored?"

"I take life as it comes."

"Sam, we're not just going to let this all go."

The breeze was getting cool.

"That's unfortunate. Between you and me, I don't really care for the people you work with."

Jim looked down at the grass. "What if I could get them to go for an immunity deal? You give up your people, retire, and we call it quits?"

"Why would I do that? I'm a free man."

"When the U.S. Attorney files a new case, will you entertain a deal?"

"Jim, I told you—I take life as it comes."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Are you The Man on The Hill?"

"There is no such thing. It's an urban myth."

"You mean there is no such thing as a hill?"

Sam smiled. "I have to give it to you Jim—you're one smart, farm boy. You're a pain in the ass—but smart. It's no wonder you're the Feds' golden boy."

"I've had some help. I really don't deserve all the credit I've been given. You know that, right? Between us."

"Really? I think you're just being modest. It's not like someone just calls you and tells you what's going on."

"How do you know what you know?"

"The devil. Satan speaks to me." Sam laughed. "You should see the look on your face. For a second, I think I had you going."

"How do you know the things you know, Sam?"

"I can't tell you. You know that."

"Sam, I don't believe in dreams. I do believe that someone like you could put ideas in people's heads. Get them to do things, bad things. I just don't know why."

"You don't know where, when, how, and why. If you did, you would know what I know."

"Sam, have you ever considered the possibility that you're delusional? That you need help?"

"Have you ever considered that I'm not?"

"You hurt people, Sam. I'm worried you're going to hurt a lot more people."

"I hurt people that have it coming. The problem is, we all have it coming."

"Did Emil Regalio have it coming?"

"Who?"

"You know, the old doctor in for insurance fraud that someone gutted in the yard. The reason you wanted to go to jail."

"Oh, that guy. From what I hear, he _really_ had it coming."

"For insurance fraud?"

"Fraud...being something that you're not. So many bad things happen at the hands of frauds."

John's silver Porsche Turbo pulled into the driveway.

"That's my ride—I have to go. But I've enjoyed the company. We should do lunch some time."

Jim smiled. "You never know. Should I ask what type of gallery you're opening?"

"Impressionist art, of course. Reality seen through a different light. You should try it sometime."

The smile disappeared from Jim's face as Sam got into John's car.

"Johnny boy, I hope you're hungry for dinner—because I'm buying," Sam said, beaming with delight at the prospect of eating something other than USDA chow.

John smiled. "Wherever you want to go."

John put the Porsche into gear and gave Carrington a nod as he pulled around the driveway. The government's witness had disappeared and so had their case.

CHAPTER 55

Torture

It was a cold December in Las Vegas—and the temperature in the warehouse was not much warmer than it was outside. As he walked down the stairs to the warehouse's basement with Frank at his side, he couldn't speak. Frank opened the reinforced metal door. Robbie, J.B., Patrick, and Doctor Luis all stood and took turns giving him hugs.

"I missed you guys. Man, it's good to see all of you," Sam said, words finally coming to him.

"We've missed you, too," Frank said, closing the door and locking it. "I mean, what would life be like if they had kept you locked up?"

Sam turned to Nasser—who was hanging from his arms like a boxer's heavy bag at the far end of the room.

"Maybe you'd like to answer that question? Can you imagine what it would have been like for me to be locked up for the next forty years? I bet you tried to imagine, knowing how much you like to send people to prison and all. Kind of funny how it all worked out, isn't it? I mean, me being free—and you being here. What a kick in the ass."

Nasser's bladder gave way and urine arched from his shriveled penis.

"Feel like doing a workout?" Frank asked, handing Sam a pair of bag gloves.

"Just a few minutes," Sam said, stretching his neck from side to side. "I don't want to wear out the equipment."

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," Nasser blurted out.

Sam nodded. "Yes you will—but we'll have plenty of time for that. I've even hired you your own personal physician to make sure you don't just up and die on me."

Sam slammed his fist into Nasser's torso. One of his ribs cracked loudly and he screamed. Then Sam hit Nasser with a flurry of blows—enjoying Nasser's every groan. With his last right he broke Nasser's front teeth.

"Well that ought to do it for today," he said, taking a step back. "Luis, when he comes around, give him dinner. It doesn't look like he's eaten in a week. He must be starving."

"What's he going to eat?" Robbie asked, unable to keep himself from grinning at the site of a now seriously damaged Nasser.

Sam looked at Luis. "Start with his left leg below the knee. That ought to fill him up for awhile."

Robbie grimaced. "You're going to feed him to himself?"

Patrick laughed. "This is going to be great. We should get it on film."

"They say that rats will eat anything," Sam said, looking into Nasser's eyes. "I just want to see it for myself."

Robbie shook his head. "Can't I just kill him? Fucker's a snitch. Let me stab him in the heart?"

"No, he deserves better than that. C'mon, let's get to Caesars and see what Johnny D. is having served up for us. Luis, you know where to go when you're done with your patient—"

"I'll catch up with you in a couple of hours," Luis said, preparing a shot of some kind for Nasser.

"See you tomorrow," Sam said, giving Nasser a wave as he left the room. "Enjoy your dinner, you fucking asshole."

"How long are you going to keep this guy?" Frank asked, as they walked up the stairs.

"As long as Luis can keep him alive—or until he runs out of body parts. I want him to really suffer."

They ate a banquet that would have impressed Caesar, himself. John had spared no trouble or expense.

"I'd like to make a toast," Sam said, raising his glass. Frank, Doug, Robbie, Kim, Joe, Erez, Brian, Hernan, J.B. Martha, Patrick, Jeff, and Joel all sat around the table—glasses in hand.

"The world did not give anyone at this table a normal path to follow. We were all left to find our own way. And in the darkness of life, we found each other. We deal in truth. There is no hypocrisy in our world. Thank you all for being part of the freedom that is all of our lives. To good times, to business, and to all of you—cheers!"

"Cheers!"

"Speaking of business," Sam continued. "As you all know, the death of Hernan's former partner Pablo—while I was in custody—has caused some concerns. But it is my pleasure to announce that as of tomorrow, we will start shipping La Reina Two." Sam pointed at a covered silver tray and Patrick lifted the lid. "Simply the best cocaine ever produced."

The table stared at the glistening mother of pearl brick of pure cocaine on the silver platter.

"Pass it around. You guys have to give this a try." Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of short, eighteen-carat gold straws. He selected one for himself and handed the rest to Frank, who was sitting on his right. "They have your names engraved on them so make sure you take the right one."

One by one they tried La Reina Two. The table was quiet for a moment. Smiles, then laughs as the effects of the amazingly powerful drug began to take hold.

"Motherfucker, that's incredible!" Frank said, breaking the silence.

"I was against staying in the business," Joel said as he did a second line, "but if this is on tap, I'm staying on until I drop dead."

"Niggers be cooking this up. It's a shame. I almost don't want to sell it," Kim said, smiling.

"Oh, you're going to sell it all right." Sam threw his napkin at him.

"You got to let me come out of retirement," Hernan pleaded.

"No!" the whole table said in unison.

"Well fuck you guys then. But seriously Loco, I'm proud of you. I hate to admit it—but this is the best shit ever."

Frank downed his Scotch. "Not to rain on the parade. But even though our buddy Nasser is enjoying our hospitality, his fucking pig boss over at FBI headquarters is already looking for a replacement."

Hernan looked across the table at Frank. "No way—he's a Fed. Even at this table, nobody is crazy enough to hit a Fed."

Frank looked around for support but got none. He looked back at Sam. "So that's it? The crooked cop walks?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Hernan said no one at this table is crazy enough to hit a Fed. I promise you, Stan was very excited to hear about Carl and his family. You know how he loves to play with kids—"

"Man, you know that's going to be one hell of a party." Hernan gave Frank a wink.

"I think I'm sorry I brought it up," Frank said—a distasteful look spreading across his face. "Pass the coke would you?"

CHAPTER 56

Carrington

On The Trail

Beverly Hospital was best known for its groundbreaking fertility clinic. This was surprising for a small-town hospital. Most cutting-edge research was done at the large, teaching hospitals. The sixties, however, had brought the best doctors in the world to Beverly through the Federal Government Scientific Exchange Program. No small town could pass up such an opportunity.

Jim pulled his Trans Am into the parking lot fronted by an impressive waterfall. Beverly Hospital, at a glance, did not seem to be suffering the financial troubles that were decimating the California health care system. Dr. Anaridian, the hospital's long-standing and highly respected chief of staff, had agreed to see him—but only after the disclaimer that he would not be discussing any patient history without a court order.

Jim took his seat in front of the doctor's desk. Properly cluttered, there was no doubt that Leon Anaridian was a busy man. Jim guessed him to be a man in his late sixties. He was stout with the waistline of a man whose wife of forty years was from the old country. Tennis three times a week wasn't enough to keep the weight from creeping up. But Dr. Anaridian was still at the top of his game. His calm, commanding presence left no doubt of that.

"So, Agent Carrington," the doctor said, removing his thick reading glasses, "what brings the FBI to sleepy, little Beverly Hospital?"

"A patient that was born here actually." Jim held up his hand. "No need to protest—I will not be asking you any questions about Sam Noah." The doctor's expression made it clear that he knew the name. "I know that he was born here—it was simple enough to look up his birth certificate. The person I'd like to ask you about is a former employee of the hospital. A Dr. Emil Regalio. Does the name ring a bell?"

Anaridian nodded his head. "It more than rings a bell. He was the founder of the hospital's fertility program. Emil Regalio was a brilliant doctor."

"Did you know he wound up spending the last ten years of his life in federal prison?"

"Yes, I was saddened when I learned of it. He hadn't worked at Beverly for many years when he came upon these troubles. I can't imagine how a man of his stature could wind up in such a situation."

"So you had no contact with him after he left?"

"I ran into him at a few conferences, but no real contact—certainly not in the last fifteen years."

"How did Emil Regalio wind up at Beverly Hospital? Of all places to start a fertility clinic..."

"The hospital was selected to participate in a government exchange program. Regalio was brought in from Argentina. He was considered the best in the world. I always thought they went with a small hospital because the big hospitals had their own programs."

"Doctor, did you know the program was sponsored by the Department of Defense?"

"Of course, everybody did."

"That didn't trouble you?"

"No. You're too young to really understand—but there was a Cold War. The potential for having to repopulate a world destroyed by nuclear war was very real back then."

"Did you ever meet anyone above Dr. Regallio? Do you know who was in charge of the exchange program?"

"Agent Carrington, the DOD doesn't share that type of information with anybody. Even the FBI, obviously."

Jim's eyes drifted to all of the framed certificates on the wall above the doctor's couch.

The doctor added. "You know, a man did come to see Dr. Regallio once. He was a young, American doctor. He struck me as someone very much in charge. But that's just an impression, an impression from a long time ago."

"Do you remember his name?"

"We weren't introduced. But I think I recall overhearing Dr. Regallio refer to him as Dr. Fredrick. I can tell you one thing for sure. He was from the South. He definitely had a southern accent."

"Who did the hospital send to Argentina?"

"Nobody—as far as I know. But I can tell you my predecessor wasn't about to complain."

"Doesn't it seem strange that the hospital was part of an exchange program and yet, there was no exchange?"

Anaridian laughed. "When you put it that way, I suppose so. I think it goes against human nature to question things like that when you are the recipient of such great talent and a sizeable amount of money."

"I looked into Regallio's work in Argentina. He had a clinic there—but I couldn't find any record of where he went to school. Did he mention it to you?"

Anaridian seemed to think deeply for a moment. "I'm not surprised that you couldn't find school records from before World War II in a place like Argentina. But if I recall correctly, he told me that he was educated in Europe. He was fluent in several languages."

"Doctor, when I pulled Sam Noah's birth certificate, there was no doctor of record. I know you can't give me any specific information. But is that something that would be consistent with a patient of the fertility clinic?"

Anaridian was quiet. Jim decided to try again.

"Doctor, do patients born as a result of the fertility clinic usually have a doctor of record listed on their birth certificates?"

"Patients of the fertility clinic—when it was operated under the government program—would have had several doctors. I can't imagine that there would be one of record. But as you know, I wasn't the chief of staff at the time."

"Were any doctors on this team not part of the exchange program? Did Beverly have any involvement in the clinic?"

"Not in the early years. When Dr. Regallio left, the program was turned over to Beverly and the hospital was given a twenty year grant."

Jim stood. "A twenty year grant? It's not human nature to question something like that."

The doctor smiled. "Exactly. Who would question something like that?"

"Thank you, Doctor. You've been very helpful."

"Would you have?" the doctor asked Jim as he reached the door.

"Would I have what?" Jim asked, turning back to face Anaridian.

"Would you have asked questions?"

Jim looked at the concerned doctor for a moment. No question he was a good man. "I would have asked questions. Before I let someone come into my hospital and start creating life I would have asked a lot of questions."

Frank sat just outside of the emergency room entrance of Beverly Hospital. He figured it was time to call.

"Sam, he's been in there a long time. And we definitely have a situation here."

"How bad does it look?"

"Bad—life and death bad."

"Really?"

"Would I shit you? Do you want me to intervene?"

"Fuck, this guy is a pain in the ass. You better do your thing."

Jim's mind was lost in thought as he slid into the Trans Am. He never thought to look behind the high-back racing seats. There was suddenly a flash in the rearview mirror and a wire was around his throat. Only his grip on the sharp chord separated him from certain death. He needed to reach for his gun—but his left hand alone wouldn't hold back the wire. If he reached for the gun, he would die for sure. If he didn't, it was just a matter of time. One mistake—one momentary lapse of alertness—and he was in a life and death struggle. He could feel his attacker's knee through the seat, attempting to exert still more force. Jim's own hands were crushing his throat. Air came in shallow gasps. And then there was thunder. Where had it come from? Glass and blood and, most importantly, air. The wire was gone.

Jim couldn't get out of the car fast enough. He fell against the car next to his. The lack of oxygen had been disorienting. He saw a large man with long hair—long hair with a blue streak—get into a black Cadillac driven by a wiry young African American. The man with the long hair wore a black coat. It wasn't cold enough to be wearing a coat. They were gone quickly—no chance of getting a license plate. Jim rubbed his throat. His hands were bleeding from the wire. He stood up straight and took a step toward his car. The man in the back seat was Leonard Spitzer—the brother of David Spitzer—the Son of Sam II. Jim recognized him from his picture. A man who just happened to be walking by with a gun had shot Leonard in the temple.

Hospital security was on its way and the local cops would be there any minute.

What a mess. The brother of Son of Sam II was released from a mental hospital and nobody thought to inform the FBI.

Jim thought about what his explanation for being at the hospital in the first place would be. One thing was for certain—there would be no mention of Emil Regallio or Dr. Fredrick. Jim wondered if Dr. Fredrick was still alive. Was he really just making sure the world could be repopulated?

CHAPTER 57

Gallery

"Marty, I'm not kidding. There's an extra two million dollars in the checking account." Sam glanced around the gallery. There were several paintings in the two million dollar price range. "Call the bank and check to see if a wire came in."

"Were you expecting one?" Marty asked.

Triangle Galleries—a wholly owned subsidiary of Specter International—had needed its own chief counsel. Sam himself had handpicked Marty out of his graduating class at UCLA. Even thinner than Joel— with slicked back black hair and wire-rim spectacles—he looked like he could be Joel's younger brother. Marty, however, had nowhere near Joel's appetite for booze and drugs. Rather, he had just the right temperament to work with the millionaire and billionaire clients Triangle Galleries had already attracted in just its first two months of operation.

"No, I'm not expecting one. If I were, I wouldn't be wondering why the fuck we have two million extra dollars in our checking account. What I'm thinking is that some crazy Jap sent us a wire and didn't bother to fax over a purchase order first."

"I'll check it out."

I'm making a million a day, selling paintings. Some fucking oil on canvas! Maybe Joel's right. This might be better than coke. Sit on my ass surrounded by masterpieces in the middle of Beverly Hills and fuck my beautiful assistant Monica. I've got to hire a few more assistants like her. Look at those fucking legs. Look at that ass. Up high, just the way I like it.

The phone interrupted Sam's thoughts.

"Hello," he said, answering his private line.

"Trouble," Ron's voice sounded reasonably serious.

"Do I want to know?"

"Tomorrow, a warrant is going to be issued for your arrest."

"What's the charge?" Sam asked, recalling his last conversation with Carrington.

"Conspiracy to distribute a controlled substance. They've somehow, miraculously, come up with two new witnesses. You might want to get your bail in order."

"Thanks. I'll do that as soon as we hang up. Why don't you pick me up here in an hour. We'll need to bump up our schedule this week."

Sam hung up the phone on Ron and dialed his attorney, John Nash.

"Hey Sam, what's going on?" John's voice sounded tired.

"They've filed a conspiracy case against me; they're going to execute an arrest warrant tomorrow."

There was silence for a few seconds.

"Shit, I was worried this would happen," John said, now dreading taking his wife out for a romantic dinner. The money was great—but the job was incredibly stressful. Sam would be all business. He had no fear or worries. He left that to the people who worked for him. He would expect nothing less than his freedom.

"Call Gary in the morning and let him know I'm out of town. Tell him I plan on surrendering myself Monday morning. Carrington suggested an immunity deal."

"Where are you going to be, in case I need to reach you?"

"Vegas—I need to take care of something."

Ron's car came to a stop in the parking space next to where J.B. stood, smoking a joint. Sam opened the passenger's side door and rolled out with the stiffness that comes from driving straight from Los Angeles to Las Vegas.

J.B. extended the joint and Sam took a hit.

"You remember Ron?" A puff of smoke escaped with each word.

J.B. nodded. "This isn't a pretty sight."

Ron smiled. He prided himself that no amount of human suffering fazed him. "Thanks for the warning—but I've seen a guy die from hemorrhagic fever. That's ugly."

"Isn't that where their skin melts off?" Sam asked, taking another hit.

"Everything pretty much melts by the very end."

"How the fuck did he get it?" Sam had always been fascinated by the potential of germ warfare. "Did you have something to do with it?"

"No. I didn't have anything to do with it. It was one of our own boys working out of London. He was overseeing a gun run in Africa. He picked it up there. I got the job of bringing his family from the States to London for a last visit. The wife had to watch him melt from behind glass. Nothing we could do but watch and make sure he was properly incinerated. He was a good guy. Left behind a wife and three kids."

"Well this is along the same line. You'll see."

The warehouse was freezing as always. Luis had insisted that it was crucial to keeping Nasser conscious and suffering.

What was left of Nasser was hanging from a rope that had been tied to his wrists, which had been bound behind his back.

"Nice touch," Sam said, admiring J.B.'s innovation.

The pressure from hanging with his arms behind his back had dislocated Nasser's shoulders and elbows. Ron appeared to become ill at the sight.

"How much you want to bet he wishes he had hemorrhagic fever?" Sam asked.

"Why don't you just give him a bullet?" Ron leaned against the wall, trying to inconspicuously brace himself.

"No way—he's still got a long way to go," Sam said, walking up to Nasser and giving him an upper cut to the groin.

Nasser made a deep groan of a noise. A noise similar to the death sound a Redwood tree makes before it falls and begins to rot.

"Don't you, old boy? You've got a long way to go. You know, I think your right eye is popping out of its socket a bit. You should have Luis take a look at that for you. Who knows, it could be a nice appetizer."

Tears streamed from his good eye and he lost control of his bowels. His loose crap made a wet splashing sound on the cold cement floor.

Sam shook his head in disgust. "You know, you brought this on yourself. But I tell you what. Since I have company today—and I'm in a good mood—I'll cut you some slack. Would you like J.B. to cut you down so you can rest on your table, maybe give you some Demurral?"

"Please, please stop. I'm sorry," he mumbled then crapped some more.

"Of course you're sorry. People are always sorry right about now. Hey look, one thing before you get to the relaxing part of your day. The FBI and DEA are holding onto stacks of cash to do buys with. They get the money from seizures and from charging guys like you a percentage of your sales. I need to know where they're keeping the money. I know you weren't carting it into the Federal Building. Where were you dropping the money—and how many guys do they have protecting it?"

Nasser hesitated. Sam jammed his thumb into Nasser's bad eye. Nasser screamed. Sam pulled his thumb out slowly. There was nothing but a cellulous glob where Nasser's eye had been. Nasser continued to scream. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes and still there were loud, screeching, pain-filled screams.

"A shot will make you feel better," Sam said calmly as Nasser took a breath and screamed again.

"Just give me an address and you get the shot."

"Sepulveda... 1535... it's a fake insurance office." He screamed the words in three distinct stanzas.

"How many guys?" Sam asked, shaking some of Nasser's eye matter from his hand. "Don't you fucking lie to me—or what's happened to you so far will seem like a day in fucking paradise." Sam punched him hard in his testicles. "C'mon, you fucking piece of shit!"

Nasser whimpered. The stumps where his legs had been trembled uncontrollably.

Sam thought about shoving something up his ass.

"I never saw more than two other agents," he finally gasped in one long breath.

"Good. See, that wasn't so hard," Sam said, walking over to the sink on the far wall. "Thanks for all your help. J.B. will cut you down and give you that shot now."

Sam took his time as he washed his hands. The hot water made his entire body feel good. He turned back to face Nasser. "Not because you deserve a minute of relief. But because, unlike you, I'm a man of my word."

Ron was looking longingly at the door.

"You ready to go?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, I've seen enough."

"J.B., when you're done here, meet us back at the hotel. We'll go out and have some fun."

"Sounds good to me; this guy stinks." J.B. waived his hand past his nose.

"Yeah, tell me about it. Better stick something up his ass so he stops shitting all over the place."

Nasser's good eye followed Sam's over to the wall—where a police baton leaned.

Sam looked back at him. "I bet that's going to feel good."

Sam and Ron walked back through the warehouse to the car. "Better let me drive," Sam suggested. Ron handed him the keys without saying a word.

"You holding up all right?" Sam asked, buckling his seatbelt.

"Wow, did it smell down there!"

"Shit always smells." Sam laughed. "Actually he didn't smell that much better before this all started."

"Are you ready for our next meeting?" Ron asked, the color coming back to his face.

"I didn't come all the way here to just find out half of what we need to know." Sam put the black on black Mercedes 500 SEL into drive. "I've been looking forward to our next meeting for a long, long time.

George Grimaldi was sitting on the couch in the living room of the Caesars Palace Presidential Suite. At forty-six years old, he was in perfect shape; his hairline was holding up and he was thought of by the people he worked with as the agency's go-to-guy. Shrewd and ruthless, he had every intention of leading the agency back to the prestige operation that it had been when he himself had been recruited to join.

The TV was tuned to a golf-tournament—but his mind was already on the business at hand when he heard Ron open the door.

"After you," Ron said, holding the door open for Sam.

Sam stepped into the marble-laden foyer. Grimaldi rose to his feet. His movement was rigid and exact. He was wearing an expensive Italian suit—dark gray, single-breasted. He looked more like the general manager of the casino than a government employee. He was shorter and more tightly wound than Sam had expected.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Noah," he said, as they walked across the room.

"It's good to meet you too, Mr. Director," Sam responded as they shook hands.

"I'm the Assistant Director." Grimaldi smiled just slightly.

"Well—hopefully not for long. Your boss Benedict is a clown."

"Sam, why don't you tell us how you really feel?" Ron was well aware of Sam's dislike for Grimaldi's boss.

"I say kill him. I'll do it. It wouldn't be that hard."

"Sam, make yourself comfortable." Grimaldi motioned for him to sit. "There's a better way to get rid of Benedict. It'll take longer. But in the end, it will benefit us both considerably more. Can I get you something to drink?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

He turned to Ron. "I'm good," Ron said, holding up his hand.

Grimaldi sat down. He pulled his left pant leg up just slightly so he could easily rest his knee on the couch as he turned to face Sam.

"I want to start off by expressing my appreciation for the work you've done for us. The crack business is a dirty business and you've done a great job with it. I'm sorry you're experiencing some legal repercussions. If I can be of help, I'm sure you'll tell me."

"I'll let you know—but I think I have it covered."

"I also must apologize for the Ragalio situation."

Sam nodded. "I had to take care of that myself. It's a good thing Benedict had him arrested. Maybe with a little luck, the Feds would have figured out who he really was and then we'd all be completely fucked, especially me."

"In all fairness to Benedict, Regalio and the program he worked for were canceled before he became Director of the agency. Regalio got himself thrown into prison."

"He should have been canceled with the program. Benedict knew he was out there—he should have gotten rid of him."

"I don't disagree. But that's water under the bridge now. Regallio isn't going to be making any deathbed statements; he's the past. Sam, Ron's made it clear that you would like to move forward."

"I'm ready to go. I just need to know where the other lists are kept."

"You understand this will cost thousands—maybe tens of thousands of lives?"

"George, there's six billion people in the world. A few thousand less won't hurt anything."

Grimaldi nodded. "These won't be inner city blacks. Not this time."

"I believe in equal opportunity, George." Sam laughed. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to make light of this. It doesn't matter to me. I have no problem doing what needs to be done. It is, after all, what I'm born to do."

"Sam, there's only two lists besides Ron's." Grimaldi turned to Ron. "I'm sure your list will be tragically destroyed somehow."

"A fiery car accident that I barely escape with my life from ought to do it," Ron said, putting his right arm over the back of the couch.

Grimaldi turned to Sam again. "The lists you need to destroy are in our covert operations offices in New York and Washington." He pulled three pictures from his coat pocket and handed them to Sam. "There can be no doubt that what you are about to agree to do is a terrorist attack. You'll need to destroy all three of these targets to accomplish both of our objectives. It will have to be during daylight hours for maximum loss of life. The terrorist group that you will employ or create must be based in Afghanistan.

"If you make this happen, as I am confident that you will, you may take the two hundred billion dollars in the covert funding accounts as payment. I will also see to it that two-thirds of all of law enforcement activities will be redirected away from your drug business to my war on terror."

"What's in this for you?" Sam asked.

"That's really none of your business, Sam."

"The hell it isn't. These lists could be moved. You want me to take down these buildings? I want to—need to know why."

Grimaldi stared at Sam giving no indication as to whether he would answer or not. "I'm the agency's go-to-guy on terrorism—but it's not a national priority. Only the largest attack ever on U.S. soil can change that. The destruction of these three buildings will guarantee that I become the agency's new Director. It will also give the President the political capital he'll need to invade and control Afghanistan. Only an attack of this magnitude will rally the will of the American people."

"I know what I'm doing in Afghanistan. What's your interest?" Sam asked, knowing that as they spoke, Muqtada Omar's forces—thanks to his help—were now in control of half the country.

Grimaldi paused for a moment. The world of his young associate was, by his standard, so simple in comparison to his own.

"The building of a trans-Afghanistan oil pipeline. The Russians are sitting on the largest oil reserve in the world. It's absolutely crucial to our national interest that we control their ability to bring their oil to market. Buildings and lives can be replaced. Control of the world's oil supply cannot."

"I want an exclusive on Afghan poppy production. If I give you Afghanistan, I'm not going to screw myself out of my own supply. You can have your pipeline and your promotion, I want the poppy fields."

Grimaldi looked at Ron.

"It's a win-win situation—except for Muqtada Omar and his Arab friends," Ron said with a shrug.

"Are we on the same page with respect to Muqtada and the Arabs?" Grimaldi asked Sam.

"I have all the money I could ever need. It's not going to do me much good if these fucking lunatics get their hands on a nuke and melt Washington. I'll get them to sign their own death certificate for you."

Grimaldi relaxed slightly. "Sam, it's not _if_ they get their hands on a nuke, it's _when_. With the fall of the Soviet Union, trying to keep nukes out of the hands of terrorists is impossible, at least the way we're running things right now. Islamic fundamentalism unchecked will be the end of the world, as we know it. I know this is all just business to you. But you have served—and will continue to serve—a just cause."

"It's going to take some time to make this happen. Could be ten years or so. But when it does, I promise you that the bad guys will be zealots working from bases in Afghanistan."

Grimaldi was satisfied. Noah was already involved heavily in Afghanistan. He'd have no problem convincing his fanatical associates there to attack the U.S.

"I imagine you have it in for Gary Lansburg?" Grimaldi asked, almost as an afterthought.

"I'm going to kill him personally, if that's what you mean. An Assistant U.S. Attorney that just makes up..."

"You should hold off on Gary for a while," Grimaldi interrupted.

"With all due respect George..."

"Did you know his father and his sister both work in one of the buildings you're going to take down? I would think you would want him around for the tragedy? I would."

"Are they a close-knit family?"

"From what I understand, they're very close," Grimaldi said, grinning as he said the words.

"You have a point. I'll reconsider."

"I thought you might. Is there anything else, Sam?"

"I need identification on some finger prints—and I need them lifted and transferred. It has to be done absolutely right."

"What type of surface are we talking about?" Grimaldi asked.

"Leather. I need to take them off of cowhide to be exact."

"Sam, if there is one thing we know how to do, it's work with fingerprints. I assume this is a personal matter?"

Sam nodded. "Very personal."

"Consider it done."

"George, when you're in charge, I hope you won't forget who your friends are."

Grimaldi's eyes were cold and truthful. "Sam Noah never breaks his word. George Grimaldi never forgets his friends." He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an envelope and handed it to Sam. "The tragic death of Jim Carrington's former partner Murdoch prevented Carrington from finding this man. He oversaw the program Emil Regalio worked for."

"How do you know we're issuing a warrant?" Assistant U.S. Attorney Gary Lansburg was livid.

"Gary, it doesn't matter. I'm just giving you a courtesy call, so we can arrange surrender. Sam's out of town at the moment—so we'd like to do it Monday morning."

"This is bullshit; he's telling us when he's going to surrender? He can surrender right now if he wants this to go easy."

John was enjoying himself. "Like I said Gary, he's out of town. So let's not turn this into a pissing match. We'll come in first thing Monday morning. Try and have a nice weekend, okay? And tell the dogs to not go kicking in any doors."

Gary's head was pounding. "I'll see you guys Monday—but I'm not calling off the dogs. If we find him first, we're taking him down. My ass, he's out of town."

John wanted to laugh. "Well, you guys knock yourselves out. I'll catch you on Monday." John hung up the phone. "Our taxpayer dollars at work," he said out loud.

The two-story Maximus suite was like no other in Las Vegas; three Jacuzzi suite bedrooms on the upper-floor, a baby grand piano just off of the dining room downstairs, and a Jacuzzi at the far end of the living room that overlooked the entire Las Vegas strip.

Sam sat in the living room Jacuzzi, staring out at the lights of the city. Half a dozen bees' wax candles burned while he smoked a Cohiba cigar. Except for the bubbling water, it was quiet. He wasn't in the mood for music. He stood and moved around the Jacuzzi. He had often fucked ten girls at a time in the large tub, overlooking the strip. Usually a mix of hookers, strippers, and tourists just out for a wild night in Vegas. Some of the married women didn't even bother to take off their rings: they were usually the wildest. All of them made out with each other and sucked on each other's breasts while he penetrated them, one after the other, in the world-famous tub in the world-famous suite. For a moment, he tried to put a number on it. Had there been a thousand yet? He imagined so.

On this particular night, he looked forward to just being with one woman. A decision he did not regret as he turned to see Stacy approaching. She simply wore a white robe. No leather, no silk, no lace, no straps—just a white, crushed velour robe which slid off of her naked body as she reached the edge of the tub.

She stepped slowly down the steps into his arms—always the angel, always there for him. They kissed as he waded back into the water. He looked up into her face as he held her in his arms. The strip and the soaring ceilings of their suite were a strange backdrop for an angel.

"I love you, Sam," she said, looking down into his eyes. "Can you say it? Can you tell me that you love me?"

"I love you, Stacy. I wish I could be the guy you deserve."

"Then you wouldn't be you, Sam Noah."

"My life is so complicated."

"Your life is bigger than life, Sam."

"Bigger than life," he repeated—rotating slowly around in a three hundred and sixty degree circle. Her face, the soaring ceilings, the strip—it was all around him. "I am bigger than life," he said, lowering her onto his erection as he had so many times before.

"You are bigger than life. Don't ever forget that Sam," she groaned as she said his name. "You feel so big tonight."

CHAPTER 58

Hearing

The magistrate brought the courtroom to order. This time, Sam found himself in the courtroom of Magistrate Doug Ryan, a no-nonsense gentile in his late forties. Ryan, while not known for his intellectual prowess, was well known for his love of brief, factual presentations and for his fairness.

"Not guilty—and we're prepared to post bail," John said, standing with Sam at his side.

Ryan glared at them for a moment and then looked down from the bench to the Assistant U.S. Attorney Gary Lansburg, who stood on cue.

"Your Honor, we ask that Mr. Noah be denied bail. He is the head of a major criminal enterprise and a menace to society."

John shook his head. "Your Honor, with all due respect, my client surrendered himself. He had to fly back to town to do so—and he did so as soon as he possibly could to clear his name. He owns a successful art gallery in Beverly Hills, where he works ten hours a day; it leaves him no time to run this imaginary enterprise that the government is referring to. I would also like to add that he lives at home with his parents, where he helps take care of his seriously ill father. He's hardly a danger to anyone. As far as being a flight risk, he'll gladly turn in his passport. Please give us a reasonable bail."

The magistrate's glare turned to Gary. "What's going on here? Are we talking about the same guy?"

"Your Honor, this is a very different story than when he was arrested three months ago." He pointed at the tall stack of files on his table. "There is a lot more to Mr. Noah than meets the eye."

"Your Honor, this is a bail hearing—not a trial. The Assistant U.S. Attorney can bring documents in by the truckload. But if they're not relevant to the question of bail, it only serves his desire for theatrics. The U.S. Attorney's investigation and charges are a matter for a jury to consider; they are not relevant when considering bail. The assertion that my client is a menace to society needs to be substantiated, not just asserted."

"Does the U.S. Attorney have something new to tell me? I mean specifically with respect to Mr. Noah's bail? I just want to hear about matters that are relevant to bail; please save your case for trial."

Gary looked down at the table. "It is incomprehensible that a drug dealer from East L.A. has turned into a Beverly Hills art dealer in three months. He is out there selling drugs and he needs to be taken off the street."

The magistrate looked at Sam. "What say you? Are you an art dealer or a drug dealer? Clear this up for me, I'm interested."

Sam stood up with a manila folder in hand. "Your Honor, I am an art dealer. I've made copies of my Articles of Incorporation and of my business licenses, as well as my most recent lease on Beverly Drive. I've also included my last month's transaction—complete with pictures of the corresponding works and their provenances. You'll see that I've sold a Degas, a Manet, and two Renoirs. I have earned twelve million dollars on these transactions alone. I don't need to sell drugs—I do fine just selling paintings."

The magistrate motioned for Sam to come forward. "Let me take a look at your paperwork."

Sam walked up and handed him the folder. Then, he returned to his chair beside John. The magistrate examined the documents carefully.

He looked up from the folder. "Will the Assistant U.S. Attorney please approach the bench?"

Gary walked up to the sidebar and Magistrate Ryan handed the folder down to him.

"You just stood here and told me he wasn't an art dealer. Can you dispute these documents? I'm looking for a yes or no answer."

Gary looked at the documents, closed the folder, and handed it back to the magistrate. " I'm not in a position to dispute those documents. It just goes against all reason..."

"I've heard enough," Magistrate Ryan said, cutting Gary off. "Bail is set at fifty thousand dollars."

Gary walked directly back to the defendant's table where John and Sam stood.

"Two o'clock tomorrow at the Westside FBI office," he said to John, ignoring Sam completely.

"We'll see you there," John answered, pleasantly.

Gary turned and walked away without saying another word.

Sam looked at John. "I wonder what's bothering him."

John shrugged. "It's called losing. You up for some sushi?" John asked and smiled. "I know a great place just down the street in Little Tokyo."

The Westside Federal Building, at the corner of Wilshire and Veteran, was an unimposing building given its vast size. Surrounded by large, well-kept lawns, it stood more like a tree in a park than the hammer of justice. Sam had often thought of ways to kill its occupants. No bombs necessary. The ventilation system was located in a non-secured part of the building. Anthrax in the ventilation system would do in the servants of the state. A few minutes and the deadly spores would be deep in their lungs. All those dead FBI agents—but what good would that serve, there would just be more in their place? It only paid to kill the bad ones, Sam had concluded every time.

"Shall we?" Sam asked.

"After you," John said, opening the door.

"Be cool with these guys—and let them do the talking," John said, for the second time in five minutes as they waited for the elevator. "If we do a deal, I want you to give them as little as possible. If they don't offer straight probation or better, we're out of here."

"Not to worry, I have something they want. We'll make a deal."

The reception area was spacious and nondescript. From the black vinyl couch, Sam watched and listened as the FBI receptionist took calls for the agents and administrators using their real names.

The door next to the reception counter opened and Jim Carrington appeared.

"Right this way, gentlemen. They're all waiting for you in the conference room." He looked back at Sam as they walked to the end of the hall. "Congratulations on your new gallery, Sam. I hear it's doing very well."

"Who gave you the good news?" Sam asked.

"Your friend Gary. He was very impressed." Jim stopped in front of the last door on the left. "We have arrived."

Sam followed John into the room. Jim closed the door behind them. Everybody stood and Gary made the introductions. "John, I'd like to introduce you to Dennis Craig, Carl White, Lewis Morales, and Jim Carrington. Sam I think you've met everybody but Agent White."

"Yeah, but I've heard a lot about him. It's nice to finally meet you, Carl."

Gary sat at the head of the table. "Have a seat, guys." He pointed to two chairs on his right.

Sam and John obliged: Sam noticed their conference room had a nice view of the Veterans' Cemetery.

"So, what's going on?" John asked. "How can we work this out?"

Gary put his hands on the table. "That's what we'd like to hear from you. I have two witnesses who will both corroborate that Sam was the leader of a conspiracy to distribute a hundred kilos of cocaine. Not a lot of weight—but enough to get him forty years of federal time under the new guidelines."

"You offered two guys get out of jail free cards. One is a thief and one apparently has a drug problem. Neither has ever had a direct dealing with my client."

"One was a guest in Sam's house in Malibu; the other bought one of his Ferraris, with stolen gold Maple Leaves. They both had direct dealings with Sam—even if it wasn't on this particular deal. And they're both telling us what we need to hear to make this stick. They're also both in protective custody, so they won't be taking off like Nasser did. I have two corroborating witnesses that claim to have direct knowledge of the conspiracy, even if they weren't a party to it. I have what I need."

Sam reached into his pocket, pulled out a twenty, and let it drop to the table.

"Over a hundred million of these have been circulated. The plates have never been recovered—and they are central to a murder investigation. I'll give you the plates and the name of the man who orchestrated the murder. He's the same person that gave me the plates. Conceivably, a billion dollars more could be printed and hit the streets if the plates are left out there. Recovering the plates that printed that twenty—I'm sure is a matter of national security."

Gary picked up the twenty and passed it around the table. Dennis Craig got up and walked to the phone in the corner of the room.

"Put me through to the Secret Service's Central District Office," he said to the FBI operator.

It only took Dennis Craig a couple of minutes to describe the bill to his counterpart. He hung up the phone and sat back down.

"They're on their way; I suggest we discuss our deal before they arrive. This is still an FBI case."

Gary looked at John. "What do you want?"

"I want the charges dropped against my client and I want him given blanket immunity for his past crimes, all of them. Otherwise, we go to court and I tear your witnesses to shreds on the stand."

"No way, he's not just walking. He has no excuse for doing the things he's done. There has to be some kind of punishment." He looked at Sam. "You are the proverbial bad apple, a morally bankrupt opportunist who was too lazy to do the hard work that the rest of us have had to do. You wanted to get rich quick and be a big shot; you used your education to become a cult leader of people who would do anything to make money. You are the worst type of tear in the social fabric. And, at the very least, you need to carry a label of shame. I want a guilty plea on the cocaine charge and I'll reluctantly recommend a departure from the guidelines to five years probation and a five hundred thousand dollar fine."

John looked at Sam. "I'd rather you not be a convicted felon. But it does avoid any risk whatsoever of jail time."

"Which is sickening," Gary added. "Because everybody at this table knows you should be locked up."

Sam nodded, "We'll see you in court. Call the Secret Service back and give them the bad news."

The silence in the room was deafening. Gary's young career was at stake, more accurately would be over if he didn't get the plates. They were on the table, the Secret Service was on the way, and all he had to do was let Sam Noah walk. All he had to do was not think about why his predecessor, Denise Michelle, had suddenly quit a brilliant career. Want to sell billions and billions of dollars worth of drugs? Want to kill people? How about a little kidnapping? Go ahead. What have you got to trade? It's the barter system.

Dennis Craig turned to Gary. "Should I make the call?"

Gary stared at Noah for a moment. What a fucking punk. Take him to court, and maybe lose—career over. Get the plates and be a winner. Get a better case. Maybe get a free trip back to Washington.

"Carrington will supervise your interaction with the Secret Service. If you don't comply in every way, the charges stand."

"And if I comply, they're gone?"

"Gone. But you know what Sam, I'm not worried. You'll be back and I'm going to make a deal with my boss that I get your next case. Life is long. You'll be thinking about that the next time around."

CHAPTER 59

Carrington

Certified Dead

Jim looked at Dr. Robert Fredrick's death certificate and handed it back to Dennis Craig. "This is nonsense. He was from the South, born and raised in Mississippi. If he were dying of cancer, he would have gone back home to die." Jim leaned his head back against the headrest of Dennis Craig's Lincoln Town Car. "He would have gone home or he would have gone to a top research facility for treatment."

"New Mexico is a perfectly nice place to die." Dennis smiled, adding to the sarcastic intent of his words.

"A death certificate was all you could find on him?"

"Just like your boy Noah. His story is perfect. Until it's not."

"What are you thinking?"

"He was buried—not cremated," Dennis said, very satisfied with himself.

"Dennis, we're not digging this guy up. He's a decorated officer buried in a military cemetery."

"I've got two shovels in the trunk and I've already called the wife to let her know I'll be on the road for a couple of days. Jim, if you're right, the only way to make sure is to dig. We grab what we need and we're halfway to getting a DNA match. If it's not him, we need to know."

"AlL right, let's go." Jim contemplated the phony death certificate. "You realize our careers are over if we get caught?"

"Desert Lawn is in the middle of nowhere. We're not getting caught. We take what we need and put the rest back. Nobody will ever know. And if something happens, I'll take the blame and say I told you that I had the paperwork to exhume him."

Jim smiled. "If this guy isn't really dead, then I have some serious questions for him."

The drive seemed endless and it revealed to Jim that there was still plenty of room left in the United States. Jim imagined one day it wouldn't be the case. The population of the world had doubled in the last century; another few centuries and there would be no more room left, unless something happened. The thought gave him a chill. Things could happen, they had in the past; the plague had killed off a third of the world's population in less than two years.

The mountains of New Mexico were eerily red as Dennis pulled the car onto the access road that ran along the backside of Desert Lawn Cemetery. It was, as he had described, in the middle of nowhere. Filled to capacity long ago, attendants only came once a week to maintain the lawn and make sure that the grave markers were secure and not crumbling from the effects of time.

Jim followed Dennis to the grave of Dr. Robert Fredrick. He was impressed with Dennis Craig's preparation. He had no problem finding the headstone, even as the sun set and the light rapidly gave way to darkness.

"You're one hell of a scout. You might have missed your true calling."

"Don't be too impressed. I found a schematic of this place in the Federal Hall of Records. The DOD keeps meticulous track of who's buried where." Dennis plunged his shovel into the soft earth. "Let's try to pull up the grass like sod. Cut around your side."

Jim plunged his shovel into the earth. "I don't know how good an idea it was to look up that schematic."

"I didn't check it out—so there's no record for anyone to follow up on."

Jim plunged his shovel into the earth four more times, cutting a reasonably straight line. "You had to check into the hall. That means your I.D. went into the computer."

"C'mon, let's pull up this grass and then we'll see what we have down here. And it doesn't matter if I'm in the computer. There's no way to know what I was looking at without physically pulling the clerk's log."

"Well, someone could do that."

"Yeah, if I was under surveillance. But last I checked, that's what we do."

The hole was six feet deep when they hit the cement lid of the doctor's coffin. Dennis handed Jim a crowbar, the same as he held in his own hand. "Let's slide this thing straight back and get our sample."

The cement lid was heavy and it took a considerable effort to get it to break loose. But no matter how strenuous, the determined FBI agents weren't going to be denied. With the cement lid slid back, Jim used his crowbar to open the upper portion of the casket.

"Well, look at that," Dennis said, just slightly surprised.

Jim shined the flashlight into the empty coffin. "They didn't even bother to find a John Doe."

"Pretty arrogant."

Jim looked at Dennis. "Pretty confident is more like it. They weren't ever going to give anyone permission to take a look—and we sure as the hell can't say we were here."

"Well, we'll see how confident they are when you turn up Doctor Fredrick. How deep do you think they have him buried? No pun intended."

"They have him buried deep. But like I said before Dennis, people go home to die. He won't be in the town he grew up in—but he'll be somewhere close. I bet there was some small town that needed a doctor. People don't just stop doing what they know how to do."

"Let's close this up and get out of here." Dennis wiped his brow.

Jim put the flashlight down and picked the crowbar back up. "I hope you're right about nobody ever checking the clerk's log."

"Even if someone did, it's not against any rules to open up an empty grave."

"That's not exactly what I'm worried about." Jim looked at Dennis as he bent down to close the casket lid. "What do you think it was that Bill wanted to tell me?"

Dennis smiled. "I'm glad you brought that up while we're standing in a grave."

"And not a soul in the world knows where we're at," Jim added.

Stan, Joshua, and Sergio watched the two agents disappear into the ground with no consideration for the presumed dead. The damp grass felt good against Stan's hands. He smiled at the thought that there were some human remains in every blade. He pulled one of the long, green shafts from its roots and began to chew on it.

"Let's kill them," Joshua exclaimed as he rested his head against Stan's shoulder. "Please, let me kill them? When we're done with them, we can just put them back in the grave. It's the right thing to do."

"We're supposed to watch them. Sam didn't say anything about killing," Stan answered and gave his disappointed soul mate a kiss on the side of the head."

"This is fucking stupid! They want to hurt us. We could bury them alive right now and nobody would ever know. They're horrible creatures, Stan. The world is better off without them, all of them. We should kill them all."

"We should do what we're told," Stan answered and looked at the open grave. "It's not that I don't want to kill them—but Sam says that they serve our purpose." He laughed quietly to himself. "All of them. He says that they all serve our purpose."

"I can't imagine how. A few million for servants is all we need. That's what I think."

"That's what you think?" Stan looked at Joshua with a hint of scorn. "You presume to know more than Samuel?"

"No." Joshua's voice was filled with resignation. "No one does, but maybe you should call him and tell him how easy it would be to get rid of these insects right now?"

Stan nodded. "Well, a phone call never hurt. C'mon, let's take a walk. I don't want to take any chances that they hear us." Stan looked down at the monstrous Sergio. "Nothing happens to them until we get back. Got it?"

Sergio gave a nod.

Sam sipped the Rothschild's private reserve from a Bacarat crystal glass. The thirty-year-old bottle had been procured at an auction for slightly less than four thousand dollars. Ron sat to his right on the rich, brown leather couch and swirled the red liquid around in his glass. It moved with body and purpose. The fireplace blazed in the study of Sam Noah's Santa Barbara mansion.

"Grimaldi called me an hour ago. An FBI agent named Dennis Craig, I'm sure you're familiar with him, walked into the Hall of Records and pulled a schematic for a military cemetery in New Mexico."

Sam laughed. "Tell Grimaldi he's slowing down in his old age. That was two days ago. Craig and Carrington are hot on the trail."

"Are you going to do something about it?"

"Maybe."

"I get the feeling if you don't, Grimaldi will. He seems pretty interested in this Carrington fellow."

"I think not. You ever wonder why Grimaldi never got rid of Hess, Fredrick, and now Carrington? I know why he never came after me. I'm an asset. But if he had really wanted Carrington dead, why wait until now?"

"Well, because now he's getting too close."

"Ron, someone above Grimaldi wants these guys kept alive. Grimaldi can't kill them, that's why he needs me to. For some reason lost on both of us, his hands are tied. I'd really like to know why."

CHAPTER 60

The Prophet

Briarmist had been built by General Turner—a young, rising star in the Confederate Army. A classic, white colonial, it stood proudly in the middle of fifty acres of fine land just on the outskirts of Natchez, the cultural center of the South. In the mornings, a strange, foggy mist often covered the briar, which grew on the property. So unusual was the mist, the property became known for it throughout the entire state of Mississippi. While dinner parties were all the rage in Antebellum Natchez, the Turners had to make themselves accustomed to hosting early morning breakfast. Any good family could host dinner. But breakfast on the red brick patio of Briarmist—before the fog lifted—was the most coveted of invitations.

Dr. Robert Fredrick was the first non-Turner to own the great home. It had fallen into some disrepair as the fortunes of the twentieth century Turners had not been anywhere near the glory of their nineteenth century ancestors. It was ironic that the decline of a great family was responsible for his living in what had been their home. He was a man whose life's work had been the creation of a new and better man, a man that would evolve rather than devolve over generations. It had been his life's work and it had been hijacked. The evangelical fools had hijacked his creation and turned it loose on the world. If they had just given him time, he would have finished what had become known as Seventh Man.

The mist was thicker than usual. Fredrick decided to eat in the kitchen of the domestic slave's quarters. Of course, there were no more slaves. But as part of his restoration of Briarmist, he had restored both the domestic and field slave quarters to something resembling a quaint bed and breakfast. The domestic slaves' quarters were a separate, two-story building in the rear of Briarmist—located just behind the kitchen of the main house. Its lower level had windows that, on its north side, overlooked the red brick patio and the east wing of the house. On the south side, the slave kitchen had a spectacular view of Briarmist's rolling grounds and the mist.

The doctor gave Gretchen the housekeeper every Sunday off. She never left for church without leaving him a hot breakfast on a covered tray—waiting only for his decision as to where to eat. He carried the tray with some caution toward a wooden table in the middle of the room. There would be no breakfast if the tray didn't make it safely to the table. The fireplace was lit; Gretchen thought of everything. Most people in the South still had dark help; he, however, preferred the professionalism of the Europeans. They understood and embraced class. Being called help didn't embarrass them. They understood that there was nothing wrong with the natural order.

Scrambled eggs, sausage, biscuits and grits adorned the Victorian china plate.

"Looks good," said the unfamiliar voice.

The doctor nodded. "Yes, if I had known I was going to be having company, I would have had Gretchen prepare two trays." The doctor sounded remarkably unfazed by his unexpected visitor. "Would you like some of mine?"

"No, you enjoy it."

"Well no point in you hiding over there in the corner while I eat. Why don't you join me? Gretchen won't be back until late this evening. Certainly, there's no rush to kill me?"

Sam walked to the table, .45 in hand, and sat opposite the good doctor.

"When I heard about Hess being cut open in prison, I figured I'd be seeing you sooner or later. You know, we took great care to turn him into Emil Regalio. When he was captured at the end of the war, we sent him to Argentina for two years. We had him open a clinic and practice there. We were not so cautious with most of the Nazis we brought to this country; a high school student could find them, most likely. But we were very careful with Hess. How did you manage to come across his identity?"

"I've never forgotten a face since the day I was born. It's a very strange trait. Don't you think?" A look of pride flashed in Dr. Fredrick's eyes. Sam fought the almost overwhelming desire to pull the trigger of his gun and forced himself to continue. "Regallio and yourself have been in several of my dreams. One day, I was sitting in class at UCLA, and up on the screen came a picture of Regallio, except when the picture was taken, his name was Hess. At that point, I knew. My memory of the man in the white coat was from the hospital where I was born. And now, I am here."

Dr. Fredrick could only stare at Sam for a few moments. "A picture—in class—at UCLA..." he laughed. "Can you imagine all the great minds that didn't contemplate that happening when we resolved to make your memory photographic." He laughed again and shook his head. It was always the small things that led the best-laid plans astray.

"When the program was officially terminated, I made a decision to let him live. I hoped that we might continue our work one day. He should have left the country." Fredrick shook his head. "Insurance fraud. What a disgrace it was, for one of the greatest scientists in the world to become a two-bit thief. In retrospect, I should have had him eliminated. But I did have my hopes."

"When the program was terminated, why wasn't I killed? Why wasn't Patrick killed? Why weren't all of the... What do you call us?"

"You have different names. You were your own program—as were Patrick and Stan. You weren't canceled because your program wasn't canceled."

"I don't understand?"

"I would have thought Grimaldi would have explained everything before he sent you to kill me?"

"He said the program had been canceled."

"The program that produced you and your inner circle of followers was completed. The world will know seven types of man. You are the leader of the sixth type of man. It was the seventh type of man that we were not allowed to complete."

"The leader of Seventh Man would have been my demise?"

"Yes."

"Why would they not create..."

"They don't believe that the savior can be a product of man." He looked up, as if he could see heaven. "They believe that the leader of Seventh Man—the "s" sound of the ancient Hebrew word Maybus—comes from heaven."

"I am the..."

"You are the letter bet, the "b" sound, a letter that contains something else. You know the letter?"

"Yes."

"Of course you do; we made you well. The dot in the middle is the only thing that distinguishes it from the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet. You are hard because you contain something unseen and it is what allows you to see. It allows you to see the darkness. You destroy from within the house, from within the heart, from within the mind. You turn man's own evil against him. You are not a savior but, rather, a purifier. Your time will bring great trouble to man. Your time will not just be a war that destroys life. It will destroy souls."

"Why me?"

"The Doctrine." Fredrick laughed. "The Doctrine—don't look so bewildered young Samuel. Surely, you feel it. You of all people can feel it."

Sam nodded his head. "It's written?"

"From before the deluge. The Doctrine allows its keepers to do what's necessary to keep history moving forward. 'A woman who has gone barren and yet desires a son late in life married to the tribe of Levy'. Should I go on?"

"No."

"You know, we started work on the leader of Seventh Man. We had only gotten as far as his behavior. You would like him. There is no darkness in his heart. He's no match for you, though. He doesn't have your physical strength or your vision—but his heart is pure."

"I believe I've met him. Why was he allowed to live?"

"The Vice President was the head of the CIA then. He let this man live because his faith was not absolute. He let me live for the same reason. In case you became too strong. In case they lost control. If the leader of Seventh Man did not come, I was to finish my work. Grimaldi obviously has his own ideas. Unlike the Vice President, he must be a man of great faith." The doctor took a bite of his breakfast and stared at Sam.

"Well, we both know that George Grimaldi is not a man of faith." Sam smiled. "We both know that, don't we?"

The doctor put down his fork and took a sip of his juice. "Then he must be a man of great ambition. I mean, if there is no answer to you and you're his asset, he will become a very powerful man."

"And what are your ambitions, Doctor?"

"To advise you. Nothing more."

"And what would you tell me to do right now?"

"Do what Grimaldi wants. Kill Jim Carrington, destroy the beginning of Seventh Man; otherwise, he will always hunt you. Kill him and his daughter. Even without my help, his offspring will evolve. Then kill Grimaldi. You will come to power and I'll be at your side. I know the Doctrine and I'll teach it to you."

"Maybe I already know the Doctrine." Sam thought of the old woman lying in her bed. Carrington had led them right to her. "Maybe you're not its only keeper? Did you ever think of that, Doctor?"

"And if this were the case, the great lie would be...?" the doctor asked.

"That there can be darkness without light."

"Yes. Go on."

"That men are created equally."

"Very good. And what have you derived from this?"

"There must be false hope. It's where my power comes from."

"Who taught you these things?" Dr. Robert Fredrick—a keeper of the Doctrine and a creator of man—was surprised for the first time in his life. "Did you see this on your own?"

"Finish your breakfast," Sam said, pointing his .45 at the plate in front of Fredrick.

"I've had enough."

Sam raised the .45 Gold Cup another twelve inches and shot the doctor, his prophet, in the face. There was no more time.

The door opened slowly. Sam had to smile as he watched the single hand holding the gun cautiously enter the room. The best FBI training could not give someone this type of heart. He quietly stepped from behind the door and pointed his .45 at the brave FBI agent's head."

"Very, very, slowly—lower the gun to your side. Let it drop from your hand and don't make any other kind of movement. Do it, Jim. I don't want to have to shoot you."

"I don't see that you have a choice."

"Jim, put the fucking gun down. We're going to do this my way."

"Do what your way, Sam?"

"If you put down the gun, I will let you drive me to the FBI office in Jackson where I will surrender on the condition that I will be immediately flown to Los Angeles, released on bail, and tried in the Central District. No cuffs, no guns, and the FBI jet. So if you put down the gun, you can start making the calls."

"And if..."

"No ifs, ands, or buts—just make it happen. I know you can make it happen. Gary wants me back."

Jim lowered his gun and let it drop to the floor.

"Now bend down slow and easy and lose the backup gun in the ankle holster," Sam said, kicking Jim's .357 across the floor.

Jim did as instructed and stood back up.

"Now sit down and get on the phone."

Jim pulled the cell phone from his belt as he sat at the opposite end of the table where Dr. Fredrick had fallen off his chair, dead by gunshot. "Why am I still here, Sam?"

"Jim, you're still here. That's the only thing that's going to matter to your wife and kid when you go home tomorrow."

And as long as you're here there won't be another.

CHAPTER 61

Another Day In Court

Sam lay in the bed he had slept in for most of his childhood. The room had a peaked ceiling—which made it feel larger than it really was. So did the mirrored closet doors just a few feet past the foot of the bed. The morning sun flowed through the peaked upper glass and bounced perfectly off the mirror into his face.

Semi-conscious, he looked around the room—thinking about how it had changed and how his life had changed since he had called this room home. Where had Stacy gone? He wondered, just as she came through the door—tears running down her face, newspaper in hand.

"What's wrong, baby?"

"Sam you're on the front page," she said, handing him the paper.

He looked at the headline "Entrepreneur Extraordinaire May Depart from Fast Lane as He Faces Life in Prison For Murder."

He pulled Stacy into bed and wiped away her tears. It was the downside of having someone who cared, the downside of having someone who cared about being tied to the misfortune of another.

"Look, it's not that bad."

"It's bad Sam. Everybody is going to see this," she said, slightly calmer.

Funny enough, Sam didn't really care. A small part of him liked the attention. He was about to have a sentencing hearing for the murder of Dr. Robert Fredrick and he felt perfectly calm.

"Do you still love me, even with my new-found fame?"

"Of course I do. I just can't believe this is really happening."

The aroma of eggs and toast was in the air. "Is that breakfast I smell cooking?" Sam asked, changing the subject.

"Your mom is making poached eggs," Stacy answered, almost back to normal.

"Good, they're easy on the stomach." Sam had been hoping that it was poached eggs he smelled.

"That's what your mom said."

Sam felt bad that his mother had to see him going through such trouble. His father had died a little less than a year earlier—so this was especially difficult. The thought of losing a husband and a son in the same year was a terrible burden to bear, even for a strong woman.

As Sam came down the stairs, he could see his mom putting the eggs onto the toast. It was a strange thought to have. But he thought of all the people in the world who didn't have the good fortune of having a hot breakfast every morning.

"I love you," he said, giving his old mother a hug.

She gave him a hard squeeze back. She was a strong little thing.

"I love you too. Now eat, before it gets cold."

Sam sat and waited for his mother and Stacy to join him.

"Do you think that article will hurt you?" Mrs. Noah asked.

"No, not in court anyway. They wanted to make me look bad—and they did. But who knows how it will all wind up? What seems bad isn't always bad—and what seems good isn't always good. Most of the time, you just have to wait until the end to see how things will turn out."

"Are you sure I shouldn't go to court with you and Stacy?" Mrs. Noah asked dutifully.

"I'm sure. This is my mess; I'll deal with it."

"I don't think I could handle it." Mrs. Noah's words were filled with stress.

"All the more reason for you not to go," Sam said, irritated that even his own mother seemed to make it sound like she was the one looking at life in prison. "Everything will be okay. Just stay home and say a prayer for me."

"I think your cell phone is ringing," Stacy said, clearly annoyed that someone would be calling at such a difficult time.

Sam ate the last bite of toast, which he had so perfectly mashed the poached egg onto.

"Excuse me, I'm expecting a call. Thanks, Mom that was great." He got up and walked into the den with his cell phone.

"I see you finally got your picture in the paper," J.B.'s familiar voice pointed out in jest.

"The fucking pricks took it out of my high school annual."

"You had hair back then."

"Thanks for noticing. You got the plan down?" Sam asked, just to make sure.

"Don't worry. Just finish this court bullshit."

"I'll call you as soon as I'm done with court. Be careful."

The bailiff called the courtroom to order. His words seemed lost in the giant room. The great hall of justice ate the words of mere mortals. The mahogany walls grabbed them, made them struggle for their freedom, and when they finally broke free from the rich, expensive wood they only had enough energy left to make a muted sound. The muted sound of justice was alive in the great room, to those who were listening.

All of the relevant FBI agents were seated in the row of seats behind the U.S. Attorney's table. Gary sat there—miserably contemplating the chances that Sam Noah would once again walk away. He had looked forward to a jury trial. A glorious jury trial where he would have shown the California Central District Court a display of his Ivy League intellectual prowess.

Noah somehow had the good sense to waive his right to a jury trial and his mouthpiece John Nash had pointed out plenty of holes in the government's case. The kind of holes a jury would never have been able to understand—but the wise Judge Yamguchi certainly did. "He knew better than to fuck with me in front of a jury," Gary had told the rest of the U.S. Attorney's Office. And then in the middle of the trial, for no apparent reason, Noah had asked to change his plea to guilty. Another Sam Noah tactic of some kind. Gary had wondered privately if there was a way to get word out on the street that the U.S. Attorney would have no interest in bringing charges against anyone thought to be responsible for the murder of Sam Noah. He was sure Carl White had already thought of it. He didn't want to turn around. But he imagined if he did, he'd be able to see it in their eyes. They must all have had the same thought at some point.

Sam sat to John Nash's left at the defendant's table. Only Stacy and Ron Carr sat in the row behind.

The rest of the courtroom was filled with reporters, not the least of whom was the hack from the _L.A. Times_ who had written the piece that had moved Stacy to tears earlier that morning.

The judge wasted no time as soon as he took the bench.

"I see a lot of faces in the courtroom this morning. I only want the relevant parties present. Bailiff, please clear the courtroom and lock the door. I will be conducting a personal interview of every person who remains in the room. So if anybody who doesn't belong here has the idea of trying to stay, don't. I'll have you arrested for contempt. If you are not a directly related party, or a relevant member of law enforcement, leave now."

The place was buzzing with unhappy and baffled reporters who were not used to being thrown out of a courtroom.

"That's better," the judge said, looking down at the few remaining faces. "I know who everybody is. I think we can skip going one by one and start the proceeding."

Gary stood. "Your Honor, there is a gentlemen in the room sitting next to Mr. Noah's girlfriend. I'd like to know who he is and what his relationship or relevance to the proceeding is?"

The judge paused and gave Gary a long look. "I think I said I knew who everybody in the room was. Mr. Nash, are you prepared to argue your motion for a departure from the mandatory sentencing guidelines?"

John stood. "Yes, your Honor. I am."

"Mr. Lansburg, is the government ready?"

Gary stood. "Yes, your Honor."

John began. "We are here today to determine an appropriate sentence for the crime of first degree murder. A crime, which my client Sam Noah has pled guilty to." John paused then continued. "The justice system of today dictates that we simply open up a book and look up a sentence. This, however would not be justice. Your Honor, the reason for a sentencing hearing, at its core, is no different than the reason for a trial. This hearing is part of the search for the truth."

"Objection!" Gary sprang to his feet. "This is a hearing, not a trial. He's not going to plead guilty and then bring in mitigating evidence."

"Overruled. He has a right to do so. The court does not have to allow new evidence to be admitted after sentencing, but prior to sentencing, it is his right."

John continued. "Your Honor my client shot and killed Dr. Fredrick because the doctor ran the Department of Defense-sponsored fertility clinic that purposely damaged Mr. Noah's DNA. Although I have not and will not see it, the CIA has given you a classified report substantiating this. The mental aguish of discovering what happened and then finding out that the man responsible was still alive was too much. At that point, Mr. Noah's predisposition for violence, ironically caused by the very man he killed, was triggered. Dr. Fredrick made the instrument of his own death. It is he who is ultimately responsible. What is owed to Mr. Noah now, is not a life in prison but a new chance at life. There is a clinic in Switzerland that specializes in the type of gene-therapy that could help Mr. Noah. He should be given probation, and allowed to seek treatment."

"Mr. Lansburg, what is the government's position."

"The U.S Attorney's position is that the court should strictly adhere to the mandatory sentencing guidelines. Mr. Noah has pled guilty to the premeditated murder of Dr. Robert Fredrick and he should spend the rest of his life in prison. If he is indeed predisposed to violent behavior, it is the U.S. Attorney's further recommendation that he be incarcerated in a facility where he can be kept in isolation. Whatever Mr. Noah's biology may have dictated, ultimately it was his mind that made the decision to act. And that is what he must be held accountable for today. His actions."

"Mr. Noah, would you like to say anything on your own behalf to the court?"

"Yes. Thank you, your Honor." Sam stood. "When sentencing me, I can only ask the court to look deep into the morality of the charge. Deep into the morality of the death of a man who faked his own death fifteen years ago just to go on living." Now Sam reached for the emotion, emotion he did not have, but had to find to say the next words exactly right. "I ask the court to give me the chance that Dr. Fredrick did not. I ask the court to please give me a chance to live the life I could have if it hadn't been for Dr. Fredrick."

Sam sat. The emotion in the words had even unsettled Gary. Gary sensed that the judge had been moved.

"Your Honor." Gary was on his feet. "The U.S. Attorney's office, despite its, best efforts, was not able to obtain the CIA document you have been allowed to read. But the assertions of Mr. Nash and his client are preposterous. There is no proof that his life would have been any different had he not been born through this unidentified scientific process."

Judge Yamaguchi stared down at Gary for a moment. "So the U.S Attorney doesn't see a problem with the government tampering around with someone's DNA?"

"The U.S. Attorney doesn't see prenatal care as an excuse for murder."

The judge motioned for Gary to sit.

"Mr. Noah, please stand."

Sam rose. This time, John stood as well.

"I sentence you to five years probation."

"What! You have to be kidding me?" Gary blurted out.

All eyes turned to Gary—who had risen to his feet. The throne Yamaguchi sat on seemed to stretch even closer to the sky.

"Did you say something?" the great judge asked with disdain.

Had the young East Coast, Harvard-educated Jew questioned him? Sam Noah, the most dangerous criminal in the world, knew better than to misbehave in his courtroom. But the young Ivy League prick was questioning him. He had planned on some serious conditions of probation. Now, the hell with it. He'd let Noah walk out with nothing. The rule of law was more important than any one criminal. Mr. Harvard, the arrogance, the audacity of questioning a ruling, questioning a sentence in open court. And his lips were still moving.

"I'm sorry, Your Honor. I'm just not aware of any grounds or argument for a departure from the guidelines. Especially something of this magnitude."

"Well let me clear it up for you then. You see, Mr. Lansburg, all of the games that get played outside that door don't get played in this room. The court looks at the black and white of the law and then assesses responsibility. This is the very definition of justice. There is no justice without the proper assessment and assignment of responsibility. Outside of the courtroom, justice is not enforced equitably."

The judge allowed his wise old eyes to roll from face to face. "So, it is the responsibility of the court to find the truth and justice in a matter... Stop the record please. Law enforcement will not be allowed to create criminals and then attempt to bring them to justice when things go wrong. Not in my court—and I hope not in any other court...Start the record please. Mr. Noah you will be contacted by a probation officer within the next seven days. Court is adjourned." The Honorable Judge Yamaguchi gave the Ivy League prick a parting glance that said if you say one more word or even think about an appeal you will never win another case in Federal Court.

Then, it dawned on Gary. He had won. Sam Noah was a convicted murderer. He was free to walk the streets—but he was still a convicted murderer.

The parking lot for the Federal Court Building was a long block away and Sam's decision to drive himself to court seemed foolish now. Reporters were everywhere—trying to talk to anybody who could tell them what had happened behind the locked doors. Sam was flanked by John, Stacy, Ron, and surrounded by twelve bodyguards all dressed in black suits and black shirts—all of whom would say nothing. A long silent block and then a nod to John that said, "I'll see you this weekend at the house for dinner." And a nod to Ron that said, "I'll talk to you in a couple of hours when I'm done screwing Stacy."

The bodyguards opened the car doors for Stacy and Sam, shut them, and then proceeded to physically move the members of the press out of the way so Sam could drive from the parking lot. Sam caught a good look at Carrington in the crowd.

Look at poor Carrington standing there not able to grasp why he's alive. Why you didn't pull the trigger. Carrington, you must have asked yourself this ten thousand times. One day maybe your parents will tell you the truth. A mother who couldn't get pregnant and the nice small-town doctor that guaranteed a first-born son. And now the world has a Seventh Man that is no match for me.

Chris knocked on Sam's window. "Do you want us to follow you?" Chris was in charge of Sam's security to and from the courthouse.

"No, just don't let any of these hacks follow me." Sam closed the window as quickly as he had opened it. Then he dialed J.B.'s number and removed the phone from its cradle.

"Hold on a second—this will be music to your ears," J.B. said, then a moment of silence. Finally: "No! Please don't!" Two loud gunshots, then J.B.'s calm voice was back on the phone. "We're just finishing up with that insurance claim over on Sepulveda. Frank, Doug, and Robbie are loading up the van right now. The claim turned out to be even bigger than you thought."

"That's good news. How many employees did they have at the office?"

"There turned out to be three of them. They've collected their last premium. Catch you tonight?"

"Yeah, I'm looking forward to going over the paperwork."

Sam pulled out of the parking lot and made a right. Olympic all the way home was the call: there was no chance of beating traffic on the freeway.

Downtown L.A. was a city in transition. It had, at one time, once been the hub of everything that was Los Angeles. People had lived, worked, and shopped Downtown. But with the advent of the suburb, L.A. had become the country's best example of urban sprawl. Downtown had become relegated to blocks and blocks of skyscrapers and government buildings with a residential population of less than five thousand.

As Sam drove down deserted Grand Avenue, he couldn't help but think that it wasn't so grand any longer.

His mind filled the streets with people and possibilities. There was so much potential in every forgotten block.

"How are you doing?" Stacy asked, reaching over and squeezing his hand.

"Better. What would you think of just hopping on a plane and going to Hawaii for a week?"

Stacy smiled. "I think that I don't care where we go. As long as we can be together without all this craziness."

Sam stopped at the red light behind two other cars at the intersection of Grand and Eighth. Two more blocks to Olympic.

"When we get home, I'll call my mom and tell her how everything went while you pack. Tomorrow, we'll be having breakfast on the beach."

Sam leaned over the center consul of his Porsche 928 S4 to give Stacy a kiss on the lips. Five bullets slammed into his front windshield, one after the other. He stared out the shattered Lexon for what seemed to be a long time—but in reality was less than a couple of seconds. One lone gunman stood in front of the Porsche.

"Sam put the car in reverse," he heard Stacy say somewhere off in the distance of another world. Her words were calm but had a sense of urgency. She was a spectator now. How unfortunate.

Sam reached into the glove box and pulled out his .45 Gold Cup. He felt something pulling at his arm. It was her.

"What are you doing? Sam, let's go," she said louder, but still far away.

Sam pulled his arm away from her and opened the door.

"Put your head down until the shooting stops."

"Sam, no!" The door slammed, he hadn't heard her.

The fucking Doberman flying through the air...

"Joe Trenk, what an unpleasant surprise. I'm guessing this is your encore to the fuck-ups in Westwood and Ocean Park."

"Some things you just have to do yourself," he said, using a speed loader to reload his .357 Magnum in no apparent rush. "If you want them done right."

"I'm not exactly impressed so far."

"I should have known a pussy like you would have a bulletproof car."

"Joe, there's a difference between being a pussy and being smart."

"Yeah I know. A pussy climbs through somebody's window in the middle of the night and shoots them in their sleep."

Sam gripped his gun a little tighter. "A dumb motherfucker walks up and tells someone they're going to work for him or else."

"A dumb motherfucker leaves court without his bodyguards, Sam."

So many FBI agents had been following him around since the Fredrick murder that bodyguards had been relegated to crowd control.

The inner circle was busy, one mistake, not the bodyguards, that fucking Doberman Pincher. If you had just shot Joe Trenk one more time. Regrets, only a fool has none.

"I take it, since the FBI is not tailing me today, that Carl White's been helping you out? Fake death certificate, new identity, that kind of thing?"

"Even a piece of shit like Carl has a use, Sam."

"Yeah, I'm sure he feels the same way about you."

"I couldn't go to the funeral of my own family."

"That's too bad. The whole thing was very sad. I took it in from my car with a pair of binoculars. That's one hot sister-in-law you have."

"You killed my family!"

"You killed your family, Joe. I didn't even know who you were before you walked into my life. Anyway, that's all water under the bridge now. Time to settle this."

Sam felt the heat of the first bullet slam into the left side of his chest. He felt the second bullet graze the left side of his face—blood poured from his eyebrow. The third bullet hit just to the right of his stomach; a lightning bolt of pain traveled down his right leg. And then, as it always had, the Gold Cup found its mark. Joe Trenk's head exploded. It was the last thing Sam saw before the black pavement rushed towards his face. He could do nothing to stop the surging pavement. Then came the jolt of his nose breaking and a pool of blood, his own blood.

_What a strange sensation, first hot and then cold. Close to the earth, the pavement feels good. Finally, close to earth._ _A smile. I'm smiling—that's strange. Eyes closing. Judgment day after all._

CHAPTER 62

Carl White

The money was gone and there were three dead agents. It played over and over in his head. Nobody was looking to end the career of the senior most African-American in the Bureau—what a fucking embarrassment it all was. Jim, "Golden Boy" Carrington gets all the fucking credit. Carl, "The Nigger" who gets things done—gets investigated. He slammed his fist down against the dashboard of his car. "Fuck!"

"It's just a job," he told himself. The wife and four children are what really matter. Moral clarity was a scarce commodity in the world—but not with respect to his wife and kids. Carl thought about his baby boy. It was funny that his firstborn son had come along at the most difficult time of his life. It made having him that much more special. Truly every cloud had a silver lining and his son had been his for the last month.

Carl smiled as he pulled into the driveway. The house was dark. His wife Janet had been threatening to take the kids to his mother's place for a night so they could have a romantic evening alone. It was looking like the time had come. Carl was looking forward to the next few hours. He parked the car in the driveway and walked to the front door. He wasn't surprised that it was open, or that candles had been lit and placed along the floor creating a romantic trail to the kitchen. Smooth jazz emanated from the living room at just the right volume. It was a nice touch. Janet knew how to get him in the mood.

He entered the kitchen. But Janet wasn't there—the table wasn't set and dinner was burning in the oven. She must have fallen asleep upstairs, he thought. Poor thing, home with four kids all day, every day— who could blame her. Carl opened the oven to take out what was left of dinner. Was it what he saw or was it what he smelled? His sanity fractured. "No! No! No! Not my boy! Not my baby boy!"

Heavy metal blared from the rumpus room. He didn't remember taking any steps, yet he was there. His eyes tried to focus in the dim light on the naked bodies of his wife and three daughters as they swung from the ceiling like a mobile. It couldn't be real. The limbs were all broken and twisted in the wrong directions. Instinctively, he reached upwards. His family—what had happened? The jolt of piano wire around his neck caused his arms to recoil. His hands grasped at the wire now at his throat. Carl was a big man, six-foot-three and two hundred and twenty pounds. Yet his attacker lifted him off his feet like he was nothing more than a rag-doll. Carl's head had been clouded by shock; the strength of his attacker pierced through the fog. His training took over and he reached for his gun.

Second and third assailants moved quickly towards him through the macabre mobile of his dead family. One, an enormous man with a Mohawk and eyes that glowed icy blue in the dark—the other, a feminine man with smooth, white skin and extremely red lips. They grabbed each of his arms and twisted them forward. Each arm snapped loudly. The pain drowned out the music. The assailants stepped back. The strangler released him. His feet hit the floor. Front kicks to each of his knees. His legs imploded forwards and his body fell backwards.

Oddly enough, he was struck by their efficiency as they dragged him to the center of the room by his now useless legs. He looked straight up into the dead eyes of his loved ones. Their faces were frozen in expressions of pain. Their deaths had not come easy. The strangler straddled Carl's torso, unzipped his pants, and began to urinate on his face. The urine burned his eyes and the room became a blur. Then, the strangler fell to his knees, leaned over Carl, and wrapped his powerful hands around his neck.

"I could break your neck like a twig," he said calmly. "But I'm going to choke you slowly. I want you to fight for every breath. I want you to think about how I killed your family. How I defiled them. All of them, each one in front of the others. I even defiled your son before I broiled him in the oven. He screamed like a lobster, that one. Carl gasped; he wanted to die, but it was a reflex to breathe. And his killer knew just how much air to let pass to keep him alive for a few seconds longer.

He whispered in Carl's ear, "If you hadn't tried to take Sam Noah away from me, I would never had had the opportunity to meet your family, before I sent you to hell. You know that's where you're going to, don't you? You fucking nigger!"

His hands tightened around Carl's neck, crushing his windpipe. Carl's chest expanded and contracted rapidly—trying to find air. There were bright lights, the face of his attacker, the smell of urine, the faces of his dead family, and an intense wave of heat, then blackness.

Stan knew he was dead. He came with Carl White's last heartbeat. He always came right at that exact moment. Why couldn't he let go? Why wasn't he satisfied? If only he could just kill him again. He felt Joshua's hand on his shoulder.

"C'mon, it's over."

Stan willed his hands to let go and stood up again.

"Do you have the murder weapon?" he asked.

Joshua's gloved hand extended the heavy mallet Stan had used to break the bones of Carl White's family.

"Drop it. I want it to look like it got left behind after the struggle." He looked around the room. "I wish we could stay."

"They'll be coming soon, Stan. We should go."

Stan looked at Joshua. He couldn't imagine a more perfect creature.

"Of course. It's time to go."

CHAPTER 63

Lewis Morales

Jim knocked on the door. He thought for a moment about ringing the doorbell—but he hated doorbells. The Avon Lady rang doorbells. FBI agents knocked, usually quite loudly. The door opened and Lewis welcomed Jim and his wife Julie warmly into his home.

Lewis gave Julie a kiss on the cheek. "Lisa's in the kitchen, if you want to say happy birthday."

"I'm off," Julie said, more than happy to leave the boys to bond. Besides, she and Jim both liked Lewis' wife Lisa considerably more than they did Lewis. She nodded her head in Jim's direction. "Only one drink for him before dinner, okay."

Lewis looked at Jim. "At least you get one."

Course after course of Mexican food flowed from the kitchen to the table in the hands of Lisa and Julie until every square inch of the table was covered. It was a welcome sight. Living in Los Angeles had opened both Jim's mind and his pallet to the spicy taste of Mexican cuisine.

Lewis was managing to be less obnoxious than usual; birthdays always seemed to bring out the best in husbands. Jim leaned back in his chair—he didn't think he could eat another bite. Lisa had warned him to save room for birthday cake and he was worried he wasn't going to be able to make a good showing. It was a rare moment of contentment—possibly a turning point that would let Jim and Lewis move on and forget about the whole Sam Noah business.

"FBI, open the door!" The all too familiar words rang out surreally.

"Talk about a bad time for a practical joke," Lewis said to the table, calmly, smugly, but rattled. His eyes shone with the fear of the dog being chased by the cat. "Not right now guys, it's Lisa's birthday!" he shouted out.

There was a loud crash and then another familiar sound—the sound of feet rushing to make a bust. Lewis stood. Guns were everywhere, FBI agents with guns.

"What the fuck!" Lewis said, stunned.

"Put your hands up where we can see them."

"What the fuck is going on?" he demanded, louder.

"Lewis Morales, you are under arrest. Turn around, put your hands behind your head and interlock your fingers. Do it!"

"Guys what's this all about?" Jim asked calmly, keeping his hands in plain sight.

An agent began to read Lewis his rights while another one placed handcuffs on his wrists.

Lewis was shaking. Lisa started to cry. Jim felt very uncomfortable that the men he had been working with for the past four years were pointing guns at him. Worse yet, they were pointing guns at his wife—the mother of his child.

"Guys, I'm asking you again. What the hell is going on?"

"What's going on Jim is the arrest of your partner, Agent Morales," Dennis Craig's voice rang out as he emerged from the kitchen—holding up a search warrant. He pointed to a spot in the living room fifteen feet beyond the dining room where they sat. "Move the couch and open up the floor. Let's see what we've got."

Three agents with axes hacked at the wooden planks.

"This is bullshit," Lewis said, twisting his head to the side to get a look at Jim.

"Dennis, I'd really like to know what's going on?"

"Agent Morales is being arrested for the murders of Agent White and his family. He is also being arrested for possession with intent to distribute one hundred kilos of cocaine. Come here and take a look."

Jim stood and looked awkwardly for a moment at Lewis, cuffed with his back to the table, and Lisa, staring down at her plate—tears rolling down her cheeks. Jim found himself transfixed by the coke—the hundred kilos, that had been concealed beneath the floorboards. Lewis had been in charge of the search of Sam Noah's house, which had turned up nothing. Had he found the coke and gone back for it later?

"He's your partner—so you couldn't be in the loop."

"I...don't understand Dennis?"

"Agent Morales is the reason there was no seizure in the Sam Noah case. He found the drugs while conducting his search and rather than turn them in, he went back to the crime scene and relocated them here to his sub-floor. The CIA, in the process of monitoring the actions of Sam Noah, happened to catch Lewis' activities. There was plenty of red tape involved. But they've turned the file over to us. Apparently, Agent White was involved as well."

"This is absolute bullshit, Dennis! I've never seen that coke before—and I certainly did not and would not hurt Carl or his family. You _know_ me."

Three more agents entered the room from the kitchen.

"It's missing and it looks like a match," said the agent Jim only knew as Yablonski.

"What's missing?" Lewis asked, disbelief giving way to the grasp of the gravity of his situation.

"The murder weapon found at Carl's home was a steel mallet." Dennis paused. "The one you are apparently missing. Your prints are on it—so save the stories."

"If someone stole one of my tools, it only makes sense that my prints would be on it."

"Are we also going to find your prints on this coke, Lewis?"

"Of course you're not going to find my prints on the coke—because I didn't put it there. I've never seen it before."

Dennis nodded his head. "We'll see."

"You'll see, all right. This is unbelievable." He turned to Lisa. "I'm so sorry about this. I swear I don't know what's going on."

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

He thought back to the night he arrested Sam Noah and took the wallet out of his pocket. After he helped himself to some of the money, he put the wallet into a plastic bag that would have been given back to Noah upon his release from Terminal Island. The prints—his prints—on the wallet would have been pristine. He felt sick to his stomach. Noah had his prints, every single one of them.

"I need you to get me an attorney. That's what I need you to do, Lisa." He turned to Jim. "It's a set- up. It's Noah. You have to see that."

Dennis shook his head. "It's not a set-up, Lewis. You had some kind of discord with Carl—maybe over how to get rid of the dope once Nasser went missing? You could help yourself right now, if you want to talk."

"I want a lawyer, Dennis. I've got nothing more to say."

CHAPTER 64

Carrington

9-11-1991

Jim Carrington arrived on the crime scene in Las Vegas with Dennis Craig—less than two hours after having received the call from Detective Metrano. They showed their credentials to the local police as they entered the large, empty warehouse. A local cop pointed them toward a staircase. "Just follow the stench," he suggested.

As they walked down the stairs, Jim could make out the smell of burnt, rotting flesh. He inhaled one last deep breath as he walked through the door.

At the end of the room was the corpse hanging from a meat hook like a side of beef in a slaughterhouse. All of its limbs had been amputated and cauterized, with the exception of the genitals—which had been amputated and stuffed into its mouth. Judging from the pool of blood, it had been these final wounds—from which the dead man had been allowed to bleed out. Or perhaps he had died from suffocation, as he choked on his own genitalia.

Dennis looked at Jim. "Well, now we know exactly what happened to Nasser."

Jim looked down at the concrete floor. "We should have tried to find him."

"It's no great loss." Dennis stared at what was left of Nasser. "We'll call this a drug deal gone bad and send it to the inactive file."

"I'm Metrano," the stocky detective with curly brown hair announced. He liked his New York asshole accent and hadn't allowed it to fade. "I believe I spoke to one of you earlier."

"I'm Agent Carrington," Jim said—extending his hand. Metrano shook hands briskly, seemingly repulsed by human contact. "This is Dennis Craig, the Western Regional Director of the Drug Task Force."

"This must be some kind of revenge killing," Metrano surmised more accurately than he could ever imagine. "I take it you know the identity of the victim?"

Jim nodded. "He was an informant."

"He stopped working for us some time ago," Dennis added. "He must have gotten tangled up in a bad deal."

Metrano looked at them skeptically. "Yeah, it must have been a deal gone wrong. You want the case? Because I sure the hell don't."

"We'll take it off your hands," Dennis said—without hesitation.

A female detective walked up and handed Metrano a manila envelope in a plastic evidence bag.

"No prints. In fact, we haven't found a print anywhere," she said to the group of them, hoping someone might have an explanation of some kind.

"You won't find any prints," Jim assured her.

Metano handed him the bag. "Your mail."

Jim opened the bag—and then the envelope inside. He slid out the one page it contained and looked at it.

911

"What is it?" Dennis asked, unable to read the expression on Jim's face.

Jim handed the paper to Dennis.

"Nine one one. I think it's a little late for that." Dennis looked at Nasser. "Way too late."

"It's today's date, Dennis. He doesn't mean call nine one one. He means there's going to be terrible death on today's date."

"When?" asked, Dennis.

Metrano and the female detective looked at Jim curiously.

"When it serves his purpose, Dennis. It could be today. It could be years from now. But it will happen on 911."

CHAPTER 65

On The Mend

Sam sat with a blanket pulled over his lap—on the balcony of the Three Kings Hotel in Basil, Switzerland. His body was still on the mend and he seemed to get chills whenever he sat outside. At least he was walking again. The bullet that had shattered his lower fifth lumbar had left him paralyzed for more than a month. It took a second surgery after the bullet had been removed to repair the damage to the disk. The doctors had told him that it was a miracle that he was even alive, much less walking.

He stared out at the buoy that bobbed up and down in the middle of the Rhine River. It marked the exact spot where Switzerland, France, and Germany converged. Not far from the spot where he sat, the three kings had met and divided up the territory that was to become their respective countries. Now, it was the dawn of globalization. And he wondered how much longer there would even be such a thing as a country.

He thought for a moment of the terrible things he had done and of the awful deeds yet to come.

Little Melissa handed Ron, Patrick, and Sam each a glass of Scotch and then sat down on Sam's lap—giving him an affectionate kiss on the cheek. "I love you," she whispered in his ear.

"What does the river have to say for itself today?" Ron asked.

Sam smiled. "It says that money and power flow like the water within its banks."

"Grimaldi says hello, by the way. I told him you're back in action and feeling better every day."

"The next time you talk to him. Tell him thanks again for releasing that report to Yamaguchi."

"I will. I'm sorry that it took until halfway through your trial."

"Better late than never." Sam sipped his drink and turned to Patrick. "Have you talked to everyone today?"

"Yeah, everything is fine back home. Joel's been bitching about all of those student visas for the Arab kids you asked him to take care of. What else is new? And Frank wants to come visit for the weekend. He won't admit it, but I think he misses you."

Sam smiled. "Tell him to come. I could use some aggravation. All this peace and quiet is driving me crazy."

"The doctor said you have to rest," Melissa said looking at him very seriously. She had refused to leave his side at all since the shooting. Patrick had arranged for her identity to become that of Sam's daughter.

"It's a figure of speech, sweetheart," Sam said to the child. Then, he turned to Patrick, who like Ron, had become accustomed to the ever-present little girl. "How about down south? Is everything okay down there?"

"Enrique says that things couldn't be better." Patrick paused. Little Melissa had pulled out a Striker knife and begun flicking the blade open with her thumb; someone with great skill had clearly taught her. Patrick continued, "What about Stacy? How did you handle that?"

Sam couldn't keep his eyes from shifting to the beautiful soft skin of Melissa's cheeks. With some effort he looked away to the water. "I sent her a letter explaining everything." He thought momentarily about the brief words he had written to the girl with whom he had spent five years of his life:

Dear Stacy,

As you know by now, I have not put you on my visitor's list at the hospital. I have also made certain that Doug, Robbie, and the rest of my security team know that this is not an oversight. For your own understanding, this is not because I fear being seen when I am not well. Rather, it is because I do not wish to see you again.

Does this come as a shock to you? I venture to say not. We have had so many great years together. And now, like the end of a good book, it's time to turn the last page and move on with our lives. Your life should focus on your career, a good man, and a family. Do not fall into the trap again of falling in love with a man that follows the road less traveled. This is surely not the path for you. I, on the other-hand, know no other way. There is no box that my life can any longer fit into. The power of ideas and seeing them through to their fruition is my sole reason for existence now.

You should hear this from me first. I have a daughter named Melissa who has come to live with me. She is my constant companion and most likely will be my comfort in old age. Like so many things in my life, I kept this from you. Not out of cruelty or deception, but out of kindness and respect. I did not see any benefit to bringing truth to the lie that we both knowingly lived. Not as long as it served both of our purposes, anyway.

For the practical matters, which I am sure you are now concerned by—I have instructed Joel to sign over the title of the beach house in Santa Monica to you. I have also instructed him to purchase you the automobile of your choice. As for our great dog Zachary, he would be heartbroken without you. Please, pick him up from my mother's home. I understand he finally barked. If there is anything else that you may need, let Joel know and he will take care of it.

I wish you the best always.

Sam

"So you won't be sending Stan to see her?" Patrick asked.

Sam shook his head. "What for? She's never known anything about the business. Let her be."

Patrick examined Sam's face for fatigue and detected none. Every day they sat with him on the patio, but this was the most he had been willing to speak since their arrival in the small Swiss town. "What do you think of sending Doug home to see his new baby?"

Sam shrugged. "I asked him to go. He wouldn't. Maybe with Frank coming you can convince him to take a few days off. I've told him a million times the whole Trenk business was my fault not his...anyway you talk to him...see what you can do."

"Hernan would like to..."

"Absolutely not," Sam said cutting Patrick off—causing him to smile. "Tell him I'll come visit him when I'm feeling better." Sam laughed. "J.B. swears Hernan's behaving, right?"

"He swears," Patrick confirmed.

Ron's cell phone rang. Causing all eyes to shift to him.

"Hey Steve...Good...That's all I need to know...Thanks Steve, I'll tell him." He looked at Sam and smiled.

"Is the bank deal done?" asked Sam.

Ron nodded. "We own our first Class A Bank."

Sam raised his glass. "I'll drink to that."

Ron smiled. "I'll drink to that. And to the two hundred billion dollars in deposits we should be taking in one day. How are things coming along on that, by the way?"

Allen had been told to leave Los Angeles by Sam Noah himself. His new home was to be New York City. It was a great and important city. Many would say the financial capital of the world. He stared at the giant towers. They were nothing less than modern marvels. He couldn't help but smile as he raised his camera and began taking pictures. He had been instructed to take pictures from every angle. Then, he was to have them developed and personally deliver them to Mullah Muqtada Omar. Allen laughed out loud. It was hard to imagine that a genius such as Sam Noah would think that the great Mullah Muqtada Omar would have any interest in anything so mundane. Why would a servant of Allah care about a pair of Twin Towers?"

"They're coming along." Sam stared out at the buoy for a few more seconds. "I've picked a date. The next time you talk to Grimaldi, tell him September 11, 2001"

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stan Lerner is an award winning-author whose diverse credits include the novels "Stan Lerner's Criminal", "Blast", "In Development," and the children's book "Stanley The Elephant." Stan Lerner is also the creator of the Las Vegas music spectacle "Night Tribe" and the writer, director, producer of the hit motion picture "Meet The Family." Mr. Lerner was born in Montebello CA and has lived in downtown Los Angeles for the last fifteen years.

For more information about Stan Lerner please visit his author profile at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stan

ALSO BY STAN LERNER

"IN DEVELOPMENT"

"In Development" is a hilarious account of a day in the life of Stan Peters—Hollywood's most powerful and scummiest producer.

The day begins like any other day—a superlative, five-star breakfast at The Peninsula Hotel. However, the shocking news that there has been a change at the very top of the studio means that the perfect world of Stan and his closest associates could come to a sudden end—especially with a movie like "Two Jews and a Blonde Psycho" in development. The subsequent call from Brad, the new studio boss, confirms their greatest fear—their movie is in danger of being put in turn-around. A day of sex, manipulation, lying, betrayal, blackmail, and murder ensues -- otherwise known in Hollywood as a happy ending.

To find our more about "In Development" please visit http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/7633

OTHER TITLES BY STAN LERNER

677

