

JIMMY THE BARTENDER

Action Packed Espionage Thriller (1/3)

By: Jeff Dejent

This novel published by an arrangement between:

Jeffrey Wayne Dejent

and

Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC

Copyright © 2013

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book 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 recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

JIMMY THE BARTENDER Action Packed Espionage Thriller (1/3) is a complete work of fiction. All the characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The names, incidents, remarks, and opinions expressed by the characters are out of the author's imagination. They must not be construed as real.

JIMMY THE BARTENDER Action Packed Espionage Thriller (1/3) is a work of historically correct fiction. While the characters, scenes, and events in the storyline are entirely the product of the author's imagination there are off stage references to real people and real events. In select instances, public figures from the media have speaking roles as for example, Ed Bradley, Steve Crofts, Andy Rooney and Dan Rather.

These men have no direct involvement in the plot. Yet they serve the narrative well as commentators, leavened into a chapter here and there, to clarify details and sharpen dramatic tension. The author begs forgiveness for this trespass. He reminds if it were not for literary license, there would be no literature.

Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners / holders of various products and services and intellectual properties referred to or mentioned directly in the text. The publication, the use, the mention of these trademark items in this work is: (1) neither authorized (2) nor associated with (3) nor sponsored by the owners / holders of these trademarks.

Nothing in this book is an expression or representation of the views or policies of any agency within the United States Department of Defense. Nothing in this novel is an expression or representation of the views or policies of any government agency in the United States or any government agency of any nation in the world.

JIMMY THE BARTENDER Action Packed Espionage Thriller (1/3) is for mature audiences, age 18 years and up. The narrative includes a number of detailed action adventure and hugging and kissing scenes.

Images-

Photographic images on the cover and in the body of the manuscript are for the sole purpose of illustration. They do not advertise. Each picture falls within the Public Domain category. Our graphic design artist removed military markings from pictures of military vehicles, aircraft, and uniforms with the use of the clone tool in GIMP. In the rare instance when a human face turns towards the camera, our graphic design artist completely obscured his identifying features. For source credits and license information, see the appendices at the back of the book. Icons are from the **Open Clip Art Library** , a public domain source for high quality images.

Printing History-

The novel: JIMMY THE BARTENDER Action Packed Espionage Thriller (1/3) published by an arrangement between Jeffrey Wayne Dejent and Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC Copyright © (USA) 2013

ISBN: 978-1-940028-39-2

All rights reserved. This work is available in the electronic book reader format. As a 6 x 9 inch trade paperback, Jimmy the Bartender would be **245** pages long ( **79,784** words).

No part of JIMMY THE BARTENDER Action Packed Espionage Thriller (1/3) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval technology, without written permission from Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC. Brief passages may, however, be cited for the purpose of critical review. No part of this work may be translated into any other language without written permission from Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC. No part of this work may be marketed in a foreign country without written permission from:

Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC | Terre Haute Indiana 47802-5422

All three volumes of the PEOPLE OF THE SUN trilogy are available bound as a single 7.44 by 9.69 inch trade paperback ( **634** pages, **235,547** words | ISBN: 978-1-940028-32-3).

Dedication-

The author dedicates the PEOPLE OF THE SUN trilogy to the memory of Father Oscar Romero (15 August 1917 - 24 March 1980), Archbishop of the Catholic Church in San Salvador. Father Romero delivered a sermon against repression of the people on the 23rd day of March in the year 1980. He was martyred on the following day.

In Foxe's Book of Martyrs we read:

"Let us draw near to the fire of martyred Lawrence, ( **Father Oscar Romero** ) that our cold hearts may be warmed thereby. The merciless tyrant, understanding him to be not only a minister of the sacraments, but a distributor also of the Church riches, promised to himself a double prey, by the apprehension of one soul.

First, with the rake of avarice to scrape to himself the treasure of poor Christians; then with the fiery fork of tyranny, so to toss and turmoil them, that they should wax weary of their profession. With furious face and cruel countenance, the greedy wolf demanded where this Lawrence had bestowed the substance of the Church."

Father Oscar Romero (1917 \- 1980)

"Then valiant Lawrence, (Father Oscar Romero) stretching out his arms over the poor, said: _"These are the precious treasure of the Church; these are the treasure indeed, in whom the faith of Christ reigneth, in whom Jesus Christ hath His mansion-place. What more precious jewels can Christ have, than those in whom He hath promised to dwell? ... What greater riches can Christ our Master possess, than the poor people in whom He loveth to be seen?"_

"The word was no sooner spoken, but all was done. After many cruel handlings, this meek lamb was laid, I will not say on his fiery bed of iron, but on his soft bed of down. So mightily God wrought with his martyr Lawrence, so miraculously God tempered His element the fire; that it became not a bed of consuming pain, but a pallet of nourishing rest."

Pages: 14 - 15 | www.jesus.org.uk/vault/library/foxes_book_of_martyrs.pdf

PEOPLE OF THE SUN One Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1 A FUNERAL FOR JIMMY THE BARTENDER

Scene 1 How Is It Going On The Cordless Phones?

Scene 2 You Two Ain't On The Guest List

Scene 3 Nick Castelli Demands To Be A Pall Bearer

Scene 4 Boardwalk And Park Place Too Lonny?

Scene 5 Candy And Lonny Look In On Jimmy's Burial

Scene 6 Stanley Craypool Shows What He Can Do

Scene 7 Planting Microphones In A Restaurant Dining Room

Scene 8 The DEA People Make Ready for Jimmy's Wake

Scene 9 Umberto Carranza Says Goodbye To Jimmy The Bartender

Scene 10 Are You Getting Anything Worthwhile Stanley?

Scene 11 Nick Castelli Gets A Word In With The Don

Scene 12 I'm Home Ma!

Scene 13 Candy Has A Record Player In Her Bedroom

CHAPTER 2 ANDY HOWELL'S LEGAL PROBLEMS

Scene 14 Got Some Papers For You Major Howell

Scene 15 Did Knowingly Fashion A False Identification Card

Scene 16 Did then use a Surreptitious Listening Device to Identify the Domicile Housing Persons Merely Suspected of Having Committed the Felonious Acts

Scene 17 As by his Negligent Method of Arrest and with His Own Firearm

Scene 18 Andy Needs A Second Opinion

Scene 19 The Alleged Perpetrator Did Suffer Firearms Injuries

Scene 20 Psychiatric Testimony is Unimpeachable Andrew

Scene 21 Andy Gets The Benefit Of A Second Medical Opinion

Scene 22 With the use of an Incendiary Explosive Device Stolen with Intent and Malice of Forethought From a Small Arms Weapons Locker

CHAPTER 3 A PATHWAY FOR MY PEOPLE

Scene 23 Are You Coming Alberto?

Scene 24 May I Be Of Assistance Don Nayari?

Scene 25 Have You Two Decided?

Scene 26 The Dining Room Table Audition

Scene 27 Angelina Is Free To Choose

Scene 28 Gridlock On The Avenidas Of Bogota

Scene 29 Don Nayari Lays Out His Six Point Plan

Scene 30 Mister Ali Leon Deals With Prison Life

Scene 31 Through The Doors Of The Emergency Room

Scene 32 Ali Leon Master Thief Stumbles Upon An Accomplice

Scene 33 Ali And Cherise Recruit Funds For Their Trip To Los Angeles

Scene 34 Light Of The Morning Don And Dona Nayari Speak To The Catholic Audience

CHAPTER 4 IN THE AFTERMATH OF JIMMY'S FUNERAL

Scene 35 It's Nice That You're Right On Time

Scene 36 The Federal Court Order. Can They Really Do That?

Scene 37 Candy Gotella Pays A Visit To Nick Castelli

Scene 38 Nick Takes Lonny Under His Wing

Scene 39 Candy Gotella Prepares For A Job Interview

Scene 40 Gourmet Dining With Don Jerry All You Gotta Do!

Scene 41 Nick And Lonny Make Use Of Background Music

Scene 42 All They Got Here Is Bicycles And T. V. Sets

Scene 43 A Two by Four Ain't A Burglary Tool

Scene 44 Targioni Barberini Has A Three Car Garage

CHAPTER 5 ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL WITH DON NAYARI

Scene 45 Mapping Out Campaign Strategies

Scene 46 Cherise Di Lorianne Looks In On Her Mom

Scene 47 Steve Crofts Interviews Chuck Burke Of The D.E.A.

Appendix A Image Sources and Photographer Credits

Appendix B Image Permission Statements

CHAPTER ONE: A FUNERAL FOR JIMMY THE BARTENDER

Scene 1 How Is It Going On The Cordless Phones?

Location: Surveillance van near the Noviziato Funeral home, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Charles L. Burke, Chief Special Agent of the Arlington Virginia Station, Drug Enforcement Agency, is in an especially foul mood. Small noxious stimuli are beginning to irritate him. As, for example, the air inside of the surveillance van, which is close and tainted by the smell of a dashboard ashtray overflowing with stale cigarette butts. Even worse, the muscles in his back feel like they are on fire. A condition brought on by the fact he has been sitting on top of an upside down plastic bucket, for a little more than three hours.

Over and above the physical stimuli, a self-perceived goad weighs heavily upon Burke's mind. Chuck Burke is one of those people who are over conscious of each step in their career. Simply put, Burke does not want to be in Philadelphia as a sworn officer in the D.E.A. Not on a temporary duty assignment, as he is right now, most certainly not on a permanent assignment in the near future. As the Washington higher ups have hinted he might be in the not too distant future. For you see - in Burke's mind all locations outside of our nation's capitol, excepting of course New York City, are nothing more than ..... "Podunck"

"More coffee Chief?" Offers Special Agent David Parente to the visiting Chief with a thermos in hand and a genuine and genial tone to his voice.

"Nah." Replies Chief Burke, over brisk. "No telling when we're gonna get a chance to stretch our legs."

Stanley Craypool sits next to the Chief, on his right hand side, off and away from Mister Parente. Mister Craypool is an Electrical Engineer at the Grand Corporation, a 'think tank' in Washington DC. Stanley is on loan to the Drug Enforcement Agency people in Philadelphia through his contacts at the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley Virginia. In spite of his many diplomas, in spite of the fact he is a recent recipient of the R. V. Jones Award. Mister Professor Craypool sits cross-legged and content on the bare metal floor of the van.

While Chief Burke cranes his head and neck to see out the mirrored back door windows of the van without being seen by the people outside. Mister Craypool sits face to face with a set of rough-hewn wooden shelves. Working the dials and switches on a set of six scanner radios out of his personal collection of more than a dozen specialty type radio receivers.

Craypool, in contrast to Burke, exudes an air of adventure rather than irritation. He finds himself excited by an assignment taking him out of the confines of his window less office at the Grand Corporation.

Better still, Stanley is in his element. Mister Craypool is surrounded by men of action who will not get anywhere at all without his help and his advice. Smiling, in an expansive mood and a voice to match, Stanley turns towards the Chief and says.

"I locked out channel nine on Citizen's Band, Mister Burke. Not very likely they would coordinate a funeral on a public distress frequency. ..... Would they?"

Burke ponders, motionless and silent, on the political consequences of either approving or objecting to Craypool's decision. His decision is to look the other way and pretend he did not hear the question. Stanley's hand hovers over his radios while Special Agent David Parente nods and smiles at Stanley from his perch on a canvas campstool up against the rear doors of the van. Just then, a lull occurs in the pedestrian traffic in front of the funeral home. Parente transfers his gaze from the mirrored rear window of the van down to Stanley.

"How is it going on the cordless phones, Stanley? Are you getting anything?"

Stanley's first response to Agent Parente is a frustrated frown. A moment later, he sweeps a pair of black earphones off his head. Next, he pulls a plug from the sound output jack on the radio most near to Chief Burke's knee. Mister Craypool twirls the volume knob on the machine one way and the squelch setting the other. Soon the bare metal walls of the van echo to the sound of a female voice speaking in a dull monotone.

"What is that supposed to be?" Asks Burke, in the sharp voice he reserves for underlings.

Craypool remains cool and calm, he is unperturbed by Burke's hostile banter. The Electrical Engineer smiles up at the man on his left and replies:

"Sounds to me like a teacher's aide or secretary. Reading out page assignments in an algebra book to the mother of a sick kid."

David Parente leans forward on his campstool to pick up on the low fidelity conversation coming across the speaker of one of Stanley's radios. In his haste, he nearly drops a large photo album off his lap.

Mister Parente is just as interested in cordless phone gossip as Stanley Craypool. He knows, from long personal experience, the conversation might turn in a useful direction.

"Are you hearing anything that sounds like a funeral parlor?" Inquires Parente of Craypool.

Stanley shakes his head and bites his lower lip. Then he twists around to his left and makes eye contact with Parente.

Stanley says.

"Just female chatter. The voices keep coming back to the same channels as they make one call after another. But nobody's used the word Noviziato or Baldigiani. Not since we got here."

A worried look spreads across David Parente's dark brown eyes. In a thoughtful voice, he asks.

"What if you ran the handset channels on another one of the radios, Stanley? Wouldn't you get more?"

"I could do that." Replies Stanley in a reluctant voice. "But it would mean giving up scanning the GMRS frequency band. And the guy out there under the awning has a handheld."

Chief Burke's head swivels back and forth, as he follows the conversation between Craypool and Parente. The Chief decides it is time for him to take command of the situation. He twists around on the bottom of his tan plastic bucket, to get a better view of the lighted dials on the front of each one of the scanner radios. Now he is perched to select frequency bands for Stanley to monitor. The Chief raises a hand! The Chief is about to issue an order!

"Owwww!" Cries the Chief, as his face fills with disgust and anger. "What in the hell was that, Craypool?"

Stanley looks up at the Chief. He sees Burke rubbing his left hand on his neck. Then he glances towards the ceiling of the cargo van, where he spies one of his expensive discone antennas rocking back and forth on its shelf mount. Stanley raises his left hand to steady the antenna. Then - in a very polite voice, he explains.

"You banged into a discone antenna Mister Burke."

Burke brings his hand down from his neck and stares at the palm. No fresh blood anywhere, but the superficial nature of his injury is no brake to his ire.

The muscles in Chief Burke's wiry body go tense and stiff. In a barely concealed rage, he growls.

"What in the hell are you talking about? What's a disco something doing in a surveillance van?"

Stanley feels protective towards his antenna farm the way a father feels towards his son's first bicycle. Moreover, he has just about had enough of the bullying manner of the Chief. First off, Stanley sits straight up. With his right hand, he tightens the small carpenter's c clamp, securing his precious antenna against the tallest wooden shelf in the stack.

Next, the Grand Corporation Electrical Engineer inspects the resonators on his expensive discone. An antenna that looks like nothing so much as an umbrella with the cloth fabric stripped away. Once satisfied the Chief's awkward motion caused no permanent damage to the thin metal tubes. Craypool falls back onto his back seat pockets. Then he swivels on his haunches, glares up at the Chief, and says angrily.

"Disco nothing meathead! Discone antenna! Discone. You bend or kink a tube and we lose maybe a whole frequency band!"

Burke is ill prepared for a hostile response from a 'think tank egg head'. He slides towards his right on the bottom of his bucket seat. The Chief ignores Stanley. He confronts David Parente in a bureaucratic horn to horn. In a flat voice, the Chief says.

"Crap hole here is a real discipline problem, Parente. Major. Number one. We don't put up with guys like this in Washington."

David Parente feels reluctant to take his gaze away from the mirrored rear window of the surveillance van. It is crystal clear an incident report might be the outcome of the morning's squabble. In sharp contrast to Chief Burke, Parente likes the company of technology nerds.

Parente bites his lower lip, what to do? Drug Enforcement Agency Agent David Parente turns slowly and leans towards the Chief. His squared off Italian heritage eyebrows knit up in a gesture of concern. Very, very politely he explains.

"Stanley Craypool is on loan to us from the Grand Corporation. His bosses are fishing around for federal grants. Forensic this and forensic that. That's what they told me."

Chuck Burke leans back on his tan plastic pail and sighs. He rubs his neck with the palm of his left hand in a still angry manner. The Chief opens his mouth to speak. He is spoiling for a fight. Just then, Bob Terrano sits bolt upright on the canvas campstool in front of the stool occupied by Parente. Terrano brings his binoculars up off his lap in a single swift motion. He screws the oculars into his eye sockets with a good deal of urgency. Last, he works the focus knob on the bridge between the tubes and exclaims.

"We've got some fresh pedestrian traffic!"

Agent Parente twists his solid frame towards the scene out of his window in the back door of the van. He brings his own pair of binoculars up for a look at the outside world. Parente smiles, his eyes sparkle. It is a good thing something outside the van ended the argument between the Chief Special Agent and the 'Egg Head' Electrical Engineer.

For a few long moments, Parente studies the people who just hove into sight up at the corner of the street. First off, he takes note of a man and a woman with two small children walking between them. Then he sees another man walking hurriedly and all by himself towards the entranceway of the funeral home. This man has his hands thrust deep within the pockets of his overcoat. He wears a fedora hat pulled down to the bridge of his nose.

Parente makes a careful study of the faces on the street. He needs to fix their unfamiliar features in his mind. The D.E.A. Agent lowers his binoculars. He turns his attention to the pages of the thick photo album resting on his knees. After a bit, his shoulders slump and he lets loose with a sigh. To Burke, Craypool, Terrano, and Banez, the swarthy man napping in the driver's seat until Burke got angry with Craypool, he announces.

"Not one single picture. Nothing."

Just as Parente goes back to his binoculars, Chief Burke leans towards the rear of the van. Without a word, he presses his right eye against the ocular at the back of a thirty-five millimeter camera standing at his knees on a tripod.

With his left hand, Burke twirls the tube of the telephoto lens. Soon the 'unknown subjects' on the sidewalk are in sharp focus in his viewfinder.

With his right hand, Chief Burke alternates between squeezing the shutter and working the film advance lever. First, a gentle pressure with his index finger on the shutter button, then a sharp jab at the film advance lever with his thumb.

Once he's satisfied he has enough pictures, Chuck Burke's mind begins to roam. Soon a lustful voice startles the other men in the van. Chuck remarks.

"Look at the front porch on that broad! All the way out through a coat! I thought Philadelphia rolled up the streets at night, Parente!"

Parente and Terrano shake with laughter as the chief gives vent to his ribald fantasies. Both their faces go beet red. Ricky Banez, the driver of the surveillance van turns around to take part in the conversation. Mister Banez brings both hands up on the front bucket seat backs to steady himself. Banez goes wide-eyed at the sight of the amply endowed maiden walking towards the front door of the funeral parlor. He takes his ball cap off, tosses it up onto the dashboard, and lets out with a whistle.

Stanley Craypool gets up on his knees. He glances tentatively out the back windows. What he sees over the heads of Parente and Burke causes him to freeze up like a deer in a set of headlights. In spite of the shooting pains in his knees from the ribs in the floorboard of the surveillance van. Craypool's eyes go wide open at the radiant blond beauty of the woman in the black coat. Stanley brings the knuckles of his right hand up to his mouth. His head moves slowly, almost with reverence, from left to right.

"Oh my God!" whispers Stanley Craypool, electrical engineer on loan from the Grand Corporation to the Philadelphia Bureau of the Drug Enforcement Agency. "Oh my God! Look at those knockers!"

Scene 2 You Two Ain't On The Guest List

Location: Entrance doors of the Noviziato Funeral Home, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Candy Gotella squeezes the collar of her mother's tailored black coat around her throat against the chill winds of a harsh day in the month of April. The breezes whip her softly curled blond hair into disarray. She decides to ignore the damage to her otherwise perfect appearance. Candy Gotella reaches down to take the hands of her children, Adam her seven year old, and Melissa who just turned five. Instead of running her fingers through her hair. Candy looks directly into the soft brown eyes of Adam and Melissa. Her voice brims with maternal concern and pride. She softly says.

"Don't let go of Mommy's hand. Not till we get all the way under the awning on the other side of the street."

Just then, the light turns green. Candy steps down off the curb in her two-inch black patent leather heels. After looking both ways, she starts walking her children across the street. In the middle of the intersection Lonny Makowski, Candy's lanky young boyfriend, wheels around and flicks his cigarette butt towards a storm drain on the curb. Next, Lonny flips up the collar of his black woolen suit coat against the cold. Then he turns back to walk along side of Candy and her children.

Candy brings her little group to a halt once they are safely in the center of the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. First off, she wheels on her black patent leather heels and matching hose to face Lonny. Although she never let's go of her children's hands, her voice curls as if she has both hands on her hips. She turns her head up to glare into Lonnie's eyes.

"Put down your collar Lonny. It looks too punky that way. And don't light up when we get inside. It's against the law."

For a brief moment, Lonny fights the urge to call the love of his life, Candy Gotella, a 'snooty broad'. His chin jerks down slightly and his shoulders swell up and out. Anger rises inside of his chest. Lonny is perilously near to a swear word, when, out of the corner of his eye, he spies a man hustling along down the sidewalk. The 'gentleman', wears a long black coat and a fedora hat pulled down to his eyes. He strides in front of Lonny, then Adam and Melissa, and finally, Candy.

Lonnie's expression goes from puzzled to a wide loopy grin as he slowly recognizes the fleeing man. He brings his arms up halfway and turns his palms up and out. Fingers spread wide apart. In a loud street-smart voice, Lonny shouts.

"Hey Nick! How's it going pal? .... Hey! Nick! Are we strangers or something?"

There is no reply. The tall man hustles off towards the front door of the funeral parlor. Candy and Lonny turn to the left. Their eyes remain glued on the back of the man in the black overcoat who just walked on by without so much as a hello.

Nick Castelli closes the distance to the Mustalaro crime family security guard with long energetic strides. A young man standing with his back to the brass poles of the green and red trimmed awning of the Noviziato funeral home. Nick comes to a swift halt under the watchful eyes of Candy, Lonny, Melissa and Adam. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and starts talking. The black fedora on top of his head bobs up and down in harmony with his remarks.

The guard cocks his head slightly as he follows Nick's words. Then he reaches inside his grey trench coat with his right hand. When his hand reappears it holds a portable radio. The man brings the machine up to his mouth. Then he squeezes down on the radio's 'push to talk button' with his index finger. Candy and Lonny cannot see the young man's lips moving, his face is half hidden behind the purposeful looking device. Adam goes wide-eyed at the sight of a man talking on a real radio. His eyes glaze over as he imagines himself in an adventure story.

Nick remains anxious and alert, he stays perched up on the balls of his feet. The Mustalaro crime family soldier returns the black radio to the recesses of his clothes. He nods at Nick without smiling. Nick nods back. The higher ups inside the funeral parlor have made up their minds!

The man in the black overcoat and fedora, Mister Nicholas Jacob Castelli, strides up to the ornate oak and beveled glass double doors of the Noviziato Funeral Home. With one smooth motion of the door on the right, he quickly disappears inside. As the door closes, the weak light from the sun raises auras on the glass. The sunlight flashes a warning message to the Gotella party back up the street.

The bit of theater is complete. Candy turns to face Lonny. There is a worried expression on her face. In a tentative voice, she observes.

"Nobody called us Lonny. Nobody said anything to ma."

Lonny Makowski looks down into Candy's worried blue eyes. He decides it is the right time to be the man in the family.

"Don't be afraid of dead bodies Candy. They can't hurt you."

Lonnie's next gesture is to turn down the collar of his suit coat. It is a peacekeeping overture towards his lady friend.

Candy's heart twists tight into a knot as the confidence drains out of her body. Should they go and speak to the guard? Should they give up and walk silently back to the car? While Candy ponders, she glances down at Adam. Then she takes the folded hood of his navy blue ski jacket up into both of her hands. Adam returns his mother's gaze with an even look of his own. After the Italian male fashion, he is already well down the path to a severed pair of apron strings. Candy sees her son's jaw line is set, re-assured now she looks down into her son's eyes and says.

"Hold the flowers up so the petals face towards the sky, Adam. Just like Melissa."

Adam nods as his mother holds onto his jacket. He twists his wrist as if to hold out a coffee cup for a refill. This motion brings the bouquet of a dozen 'Lilly's of the Valley' up level with his chin. In a solemn voice, he replies.

"I will mommy. I will."

Candy can see Adam is in control of his emotions so she turns to face Melissa. She puts both hands on her five year old daughter's shoulders. While Candy smoothes the cloth of her daughter's brand new green Easter Sunday coat. She bends at the knees to have a close look into her daughter's lovely brown eyes. Melissa turns her head away from her mother. It is obvious she is frightened. She whispers softly.

"Who are all these men mommy? Do we have to go inside?"

Candy Gotella strokes the wind-blown strands of her daughter's delicate brown hair with her fingertips. The red polish on Candy's carefully manicured nails stands out as punctuation among the soft and innocent curls on her daughter's head. In spite of her efforts at grooming, the beautiful woman loses the struggle against the capricious and chill airs whipping up and down along the sidewalk. Candy smiles at her daughter through the forest of soft white flower petals between their faces. She softly says.

"We can go home if you want, Melissa." Then Candy reassures her daughter with a little squeeze on the arms.

Melissa turns her head away from her mother's watchful gaze. She looks first back up the street towards the spot where Lonny parked her mother's car. Next, she glances up at her mother's boyfriend. Here she finds a wistful smile.

Melissa's five-year-old heart fills with newfound courage. She turns to her brother, Adam. Melissa has enough intuition to see, from Adam's erect and eager posture, her older brother is not afraid of this new and awkward situation. Melissa presses her lips together as she turns back to speak to her mother. Woman to woman, the little five year old answers bravely.

"We better go inside mommy. Grandma will worry if we stay out to late."

Candy leans forward and kisses Melissa softly on the forehead. She whispers to her daughter.

"Mommy is always here Melissa. I'm never going away."

Candy Gotella stands to her feet. Waves of relief wash over her very soul. She takes both of her children by the hand. The family of four march on up the street. Lonny Makowski keeps his arm around Adam's shoulder. Shortly they come to a halt an arms distance from the man standing guard at the entranceway to the Noviziato funeral home.

Candy stops and smiles. The man in front of the brass awning poles takes a half step forwards. His presence, his guarded manner, force Candy and Lonny and the children to move back a step or two on the sidewalk. Candy holds her composure against the slight. She looks directly into the sunken black eyes of the man in the grey trench coat. Adam and Melissa's small hands serve as anchors in an ill wind. She exclaims.

"It's me Dominick. Candy Gotella. Don't you remember me?"

The too slender man in the trench coat transfers his gaze from Candy to Lonny. He scrutinizes the taller and broader man's face for a long moment. Once Dominick is satisfied Lonny is sober, he turns back to stare at Candy.

"There's a private service going on inside, Mrs. Gotella. Very private."

Candy is hurt to the quick by Dominick's cold remark. Her eyes widen. Will this awkward moment erupt into an ugly scene? Candy glances back and forth from her boyfriend to the guard. She sees Lonnie's eyes ablaze. His arm muscles are tense and ready. In a too loud voice, Lonny says harshly.

"That's a lady you're talking to! She's a lady!"

Candy feels helpless. The situation is escalating from embarrassing to dangerous! She puts her hand onto Lonnie's left forearm as a brake against his anger.

Her mouth opens as if to plead. Just then, the carrier frequency breaks through the squelch level on Dominick's hand held radio. An older man's voice, hoarse from cigarettes and the love of whiskey, passes through the layers of the guards clothing and onto center stage in the dispute.

"Piacoli! How's it going out there? ..... Can you hear me? ..... How's it going?"

Dominick Piacoli turns away from Lonny as he fishes inside of his trench coat. He gropes for the radio hanging by a shiny metal clip on the belt to his suit pants. Soon his right hand fills with a brick shaped machine made out of dull black plastic. Mister Piacoli holds the microphone slightly above his weak chin, the stubby little antenna on top sticks up a few inches above his hairline. Dominick presses down on the talk button. A little red diode springs to life.

"Nothing to worry about. The F.B.I. people are still inside the van. Nobody is running around writing down license plate numbers. I got a little excess foot traffic. The situation is about to take care of itself."

Mister Piacoli releases the microphone button with his wary eyes fixed on Lonny Makowski. The red diode turns itself off. The hoarse male voice comes on over the speaker on the hand held.

"Take care of it. You got ten minutes - tops. Until we take off for Valhalla."

Dominick nods at the radio in his hand. Just as if the man on the other unit inside the funeral home was looking at him through a camera lens from behind the speaker in his hand held. Dominick glances back and forth from Lonny to Candy and back again. He presses the 'push to talk' button for the last time.

"I just gotta give a couple with some kids directions. That's all it is."

Dominick drops the radio down to his side. He hopes Candy and Lonny will quietly take their leave. Unfortunately for Dominick, Candy, recognizes the voice on the radio as that of Targioni Barberini. She grows courageous and decides to enter a plea. Quietly, and with look of shame she asks.

"Couldn't you just go inside and ask for us, Dominick?"

Dominick spreads his feet a few inches. He shakes his head from side to side. Mister Piacoli lets the air out of his lungs and says.

"Sally blames the whole thing on your brothers, Candy. He says you better not show your face anywhere's. Not here. And not ever again at Seven Hills."

Candy draws her children close to her sides. She presses their bodies against her trembling frame. Once again, she pleads with the heartless man guarding the door.

"Whose eyes do my two kids have Dominick?"

Dominick shifts his weight back onto his right foot. He looks poised and self confident. Like someone who knows he is on the winning side of an argument. With a patronizing tone in his voice, he says.

"Things are changing now inside the family. Progress is going on. I ain't even Dominick Piacoli no more. Changed my name legally to Derek Peters."

Candy steps back from Dominick, no - now 'Derek Peters', and looks down at his feet. She finds two highly polished wingtip shoes resting just beneath the cuffs of a pair of expertly tailored grey pin stripe suit pants.

Glancing up again she sees Derek sports a razor cut hair do. Suddenly, the truth flashes into her mind! The onetime altar boy is sharing an apartment. Someone is picking out his clothes. Perhaps even tending to an awakening set of highly private needs. Candy decides to make one more effort at talking her way into the funeral. Very politely, she reminds.

"What about my father? Dominick, I mean Derek. ..... What about my father?"

Derek lifts up his left arm. He tugs at the sleeve of his trench coat with his right hand in an elaborate gesture of impatience. A heavy gold watch appears. The watch dwarfs the delicate bones of his wrist. Derek glances down at the face on his watch. He nods and glares at Candy.

"That was a long time ago Candy. You got a paid off house for that one. It's all square."

Candy Gotella lets a little gasp out of her mouth. She shrinks down a size or two under the weight of Derek's cold remark. Candy is speechless. The humiliation in her eyes brings Lonny back into the fray. He puts Adam behind his frame as he steps forward towards Derek. Lonny jerks a finger back and forth angrily under Derek's nose. He barks.

"It could be right here! Right here!"

Derek squares off without hesitation against the taller and stronger man. He unbuttons the buttons of his double-breasted trench coat and then his suit coat. With a relaxed motion, he transfers the radio from his right hand to his left. His reply is cold and dry.

"Along with the name change I got a concealed carry permit. If there wasn't a camera running in that van full of feds back there I'd have put one in you ten minutes ago."

Candy Gotella shivers with fear. She steps towards Lonny while holding onto Melissa's hand. Candy takes Lonnie's hand. She makes a gentle effort to turn his stiff form away from the fight. Miss Gotella glances over her shoulder. She sees Derek's right hand disappear into the depths of his clothing. Eyes moist, nearly crying, she looks up into Lonnie's stubborn glare and whispers.

"It's not worth it Lonny. We better leave."

Lonny Makowski lets the air trapped in his lungs pass out through his flared nostrils in an audible gasp. Under the gentle pressure of Candy's arm, he starts walking backward, distancing himself from Derek. Candy, Lonny, Adam and Melissa shuffle away from the red and green funeral awning under which 'Derek Peters' stands guard. Lonny flexes his arm muscles within the confines of his suit coat after most of the anger drains out of his body. Halfway to the corner, he points back at Derek with a finger. Mister Makowski sights down along his right arm as if it were a rifle. He shouts.

"Later, punk. Later."

Lonny Makowski wheels around on his heels. Candy, Lonny, Adam and Melissa begin the long shameful walk back to her car. Candy gives her daughter and son little squeezes on their shoulders once they are safely across the street. She consoles her children, Adam, Melissa, and Lonny too, by saying.

"It'll all work out kids. These things always do."

It was just the kind of a remark her mother, Esther Gotella, would make in a like situation.

Scene 3 Nick Castelli Demands To Be A Pall Bearer

Location: Noviziato family funeral home interior, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Derek Peters, formerly Dominick Piacoli, watches the forms of Candy Gotella, Lonny Makowski, and Candy's children: Adam and Melissa disappear around the corner of the street. He nods in triumph. Then he turns and makes his way through the oak and beveled glass doors of the Noviziato Funeral Home. He is handling things!

Derek's wingtip shoes fall upon an extremely luxurious and thick dark green carpet as he passes into the lobby. Just to his left, right behind the door, he spies a dignified announcement board. A sheet of window glass covers the board. It is surrounded by a shiny brass frame with a piano hinge on one side.

Giuseppe Baldigiani - Room D.

Says the dignified white letters. Each letter carefully pressed by hand into the folds of a black velvet background on top of the board.

Derek sees Eric Bond right after his eyes adjust to the dark of the foyer. Eric sits at a massive oak table, located some three or four yards deeper into the combination foyer and cloakroom. He wears a navy blue blazer and grey woolen slacks, with a white shirt and a knit tie, the necktie in navy blue. Although it escapes Derek's notice, Eric's' carefully co-coordinated ensemble contrasts sharply with the clothes worn by the older men at the funeral. Who, as if by regulation, dress in exactly the same manner, from one man to the next. Black, grey, or navy suits, made out of wool, and tailored with narrow lapels. Heavily starched white cotton shirts with pointed collars, and narrow, shiny silk ties, sometimes matching and sometimes not matching the color of their suits.

Derek starts his walk towards Eric's table. He feels important, due in no small part to the weight of the radio in his hand. Room D passes by on his left as he closes the distance between himself and Eric. Derek strides past the doorway. The air around him fills with the subdued sounds of mourners going about the duties of mourning. Derek glances into the room. He sees it is filled wall to wall with the friends and relatives of the late, 'Jimmy the Bartender'.

First off, Derek recognizes Livia, Jimmy's freshly widowed wife. Livia is a portly woman of middle age, dressed for the day in black, her face hidden from view behind a black veil. Derek sees Livia's mourning costume set off by a simple gold band on the third finger of her left hand.

Livia stands alone, in front of and near her husband's casket. She is perched to receive well-wishers, and make eye and soul contact with her loving husband for the very last time.

Derek spies Don Salvatore Mustalaro, his wife Sharon, and their four college age children to the left of the coffin. The Mustalaro family sits back a little ways on the rows of folding metal chairs. A dozen or so Priests and Nuns sit and stand in the right hand side of the room. Not surprising, the men and women of the cloth are more near to Livia than to the titular head of the Philadelphia based crime family. For the most part, the Priests hold to their chairs in silence. Some read from the worn bibles resting in their hands or on their laps. Other Priests stare at the ornate grey metal casket. Or, they admire the many elaborate floral displays, surrounding the coffin.

In contrast to the stoical band of Priests, the Sisters of The Order of the Sacred Heart came to Jimmy the Bartender's funeral in a more demonstrative and vocal mood. Their plans are to send Jimmy's soul from purgatory to heaven by the weight and force of their prayers. So they pray. With rosary beads wrapped in and around their fingers, they recite the Hail Mary and Our Father intonations over and over. They bring the substance of nearly two thousand years of a uniform and consistent theology to bear on the task set before them. Raising the soul of Mister Giuseppe Baldigiani, 'Jimmy the Bartender' to his intimates, from purgatory all the way on up into heaven.

Finally, as Derek nears Eric's oak table, he sees the face of Mister Irving Shusterman in profile. Mister Shusterman sits a few rows behind the nuns and priests and in front of a loose collection of school-aged children. The children are Jimmy the Bartender's nieces and nephews. While the children squirm, Irv's wife Deborah sits stiff and erect in her seat. Her head turned in rapt attention towards Jimmy's casket. Deborah seems to be oblivious to the fact the attorney of record for the Mustalaro Construction Company, her husband of eighteen years. Has his right arm resting casually on the back of her folding metal chair.

Derek arrives at Eric's polished oak table. He places his left hand, the one holding the radio, on its shiny surface. Then he turns slightly to his right. Positioning himself, to listen in on the argument in progress between Eric Bond and Nick Castelli.

Mister Castelli stands stiff and respectable on the other side of the table, across from the seated Eric Bond. Derek sees Eric's face is red, not so much from the stress of craning his neck up to meet Mister Castelli's angry gaze. But, due to the fact Eric is on the defensive, and Nick is on the attack.

Mister Castelli stands bent at the waist. The weight of his torso rests on a pair of hairy hands held palms down on the table. Nick has his elbows locked. His head moves to and fro like a wary boxer in the ring. Bobbing up and down, jerking left to right and back again. Nick growls at Eric in a low voice.

"Do you know who I am? ..... Do you know who you're talking to?"

Eric Bond swallows nervously. How does he handle this? What do you do with one of those aging 'God Father' types? The young man turns the clipboard around in his hands. He points at the separate lists of names with the tip of a pen as he reasons the situation out with the older man. In a very polite voice, Eric explains.

"Look here, Mister Castelli. The mourner's list has your name. Nicholas J. Castelli. And over here. The Seven Hills guest list. Nicholas J. Castelli. Now. For the last time. Let me read the pallbearers list to you out-loud. Salvatore Mustalaro. Giovanni Caprese. Umberto Caranza. Irving Shusterman. Larry Finnocchiaro, and, David Mustalaro, Don Sally's oldest son."

Eric Bond puts the clipboard down on the table. He leans back on his folding chair and crosses his arms at chest height. Mister Bond is satisfied Castelli has his due. Eric glares up at the older man. There is a smug expression on his face. Castelli leans forward, his coal black eyes blazing. Just then, a giant of a man presses himself into the space between Eric and Nick. The man is so huge Derek backs away in a reflex motion. He slides his radio off the table and down to his side. The giant places a hairy left hand onto Nick's shoulder.

"Is there a problem?"

The red angry color drains out of Nick's face at the sound of Targioni Barberini's husky voice. Nick stands bolt upright and turns to face the older man. Nick pleads with Barberini while he works the brim of his black fedora with his fingertips.

"The kid here is causing some kind of a mistake, Don Barberini. My name should be on the pall bearer's list."

Targioni Barberini, "Bull's Eye Barberini" to his intimates, shakes his head slowly from side to side. 'Bull's Eye' stares right through Nick Castelli's sharp black eyes to the back of the inside of Nick's skull. Barberini says flatly.

"No mistake. I made up the pallbearer's list like Sally told me."

Nick Castelli's face shows a good deal of worry. He is losing face and position in the Mustalaro crime family in front of a couple of fresh young punks. A whining tone creeps into his voice as he asks.

"Is it just cause I'm a little late? I couldn't get anybody to cover me. Not even just to pour."

Targioni Barberini says nothing in reply. Although his face remains an impassive and fleshy mask, his heart yearns for a large glass of whiskey and a cigarette. Nick Castelli's mind works feverishly. Suddenly a gambit pops into his head. Still in an obsequious voice, he asks.

"What is Shusterman doing on the list? He ain't even one-quarter Italian. I'm a full half blood on my father's side. ..... Ain't I?"

Castelli's fear of the huge older man forces him to lower his eyes towards the floor. On the way down, he sees a portable radio, an exact twin for the one in Derek's hand. This unit sticks out of the handkerchief pocket of Barberini's double-breasted navy blue suit. Next, Nick's gaze comes to rest on a pair of carefully polished black shoes with round toes. Once Nick is full into his pose of obedience, head bowed down in respect and contrition, Barberini begins to speak.

"Shusterman has been doing a lot for the family. Income tax breaks. Pension plans. Stuff like that."

In common with most people, Castelli thinks a lawyer is something you pay for. Like a prostitute or a shoe-shine boy. But Nick knows better than to share his opinions of lawyers with the Don in front of Eric and Derek! Nick looks back up into Barberini's eyes. He waves his right hand in the air.

"I spent five years in the pen in the sixties. With my mouth shut. ..... And what about Brooklyn? Brooklyn was my idea from start to finish. Where would Sally be today without what I did in Brooklyn?"

Barberini blinks, he ponders. What should he do? For a while, his massive head nods up and down. Finally, he pulls his radio out of the handkerchief pocket of his suit coat. Barberini glances at Derek. He shakes the antenna end of the radio at the younger man. Then, with a slight upward jerk of his head, he gives out with an order.

"Get back outside. Let me know what the fed's are doing."

Derek swallows and says nothing. He wheels quickly about and rushes out into the street, coat-tails flying. While the oak and beveled glass doors ease shut on their hydraulic levers. Targioni Barberini turns to confront Nicholas Castelli.

"Find a pair of gloves for yourself over there in the desk."

Barberini makes a sweeping motion with his radio hand towards the space behind his back.

"Go stand in the back of the parlor. After I square things up with Shusterman - I'll give you the high sign. ..."

Nicholas J. Castelli sighs in relief. He walks to the rear of the cloakroom, where he retrieves a pair of grey flannel pallbearer's gloves from the top side drawer. As luck would have it, the gloves are just his size. Nick gives 'college kid' Eric a lengthy and an angry stare on his way into the D room. Eric's face turns beet red. Soon Nick has his back to the floral wallpaper on the south-side wall of the D room parlor.

"Like in the old days." He mutters to himself.

Nick stands behind the seated mourners, face to face with Jimmy's ornate casket. Castelli glances about to see if anyone has noticed his late entry. Nicholas J. Castelli grins. Like always he blends in, he is the- _'Invisible Man'_. Nick grows bold and impish in his anonymity. He brings his black fedora up to his face. Then he whispers to the label sewn into the sweatband as if it were a concealed microphone. Each of his words coated with layers of irritation.

"Yah, Yah, Yah. In the name of the father, the son, and all them other guys. Let's get the show on the road already."

Just then, the oldest priest in the parish closes the lid on the coffin, bearing the remains of one Giuseppe Baldigiani. Known to some as, ....., 'Jimmy the Bartender'.

Scene 4 Boardwalk And Park Place Too, Lonny?

Location: Inside Candy Gotella's Buick Riviera, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Lonny Makowski holds the passengers' side seat forward as Adam and Melissa climb silently into the rear compartment of their mother's new car. The two bewildered children squirm into the plush interior of the rear seat of the Buick as if it were a nest or a refuge. While Lonny returns the seat to its upright position, Candy Gotella smoothes the fabric of her long black cloth coat. Then she lowers her slender frame down onto the leather of the front passenger's bucket seat. Last, Candy crosses her legs at the ankles. The backs of her two-inch black patent leather heels, now rest comfortably on the maroon carpet of the vehicle's floor.

Lonny closes the passenger's side door on his 'lady friend' while she buckles her seat belt. With heavy steps, he walks to the driver's side of the vehicle from around the front. Lonny taps the hood ornament with his fingertips for luck as he strides past the grill. Once inside the car Lonny wraps his fingers around the steering wheel at the top. Next, he runs his right hand on the leather of his bucket seat, and then over the floor mounted chrome shift lever. He turns to face Candy. There is a forced smile on his face.

"Real luxury Babe's. Red leather and a silver metal paint job. Buick Riviera. Real class."

Candy ignores Lonnie's praise while she fusses with her clothing. The coat she wears belongs to her mother. Her shoes are on loan from her younger sister's collection of designer originals. The black dress, however, is hers and hers alone. Candy Gotella undoes the bone buttons on her mother's expensive coat. She makes smoothing motions on the seat of her expensive wool cocktail dress for a few long moments. _"Wear it twice_ _and it dry cleans nice."_ Candy thinks to herself. She is finding refuge in clichés and repetitive motions. It is her way of coping with the reality of her present sad situation.

Lonny knows enough about women to see Candy is in one of her moods. While she straightens her make up in the mirror above her visor. He goes through his elaborate male ritual of lighting up a cigarette.

First off, the lanky man retrieves his cigarette case and lighter from the inside pocket of his suit coat. Both the case and the lighter made of aluminum with a brushed finish. With exaggerated gestures and a rubbing metallic sound, he pulls the cap off the cigarette case. Then he hooks an unfiltered cigarette on the nail of the little finger of his right hand.

Like a gangster in a B movie, Lonny pops the cigarette onto his lower lip. He leaves it dangling precariously in the air under his nose. Next, with a right-handed roundhouse, he lights the business end of the cigarette with the flame of his lighter.

Lonny puts his case and lighter on top of the carpeted hump between the seats and just behind the shift lever. Then he takes long drags on the cigarette, pulling smoke down into the very deepest recesses of his lungs. He wonders what his 'lady friend', Candy has in mind.

Candy is soon satisfied with her appearance in the mirror. She turns her attention to Lonny. As a first step in the negotiations, she puts her purse on the floor just next to her feet. Then she turns her head towards the man in the driver's seat.

"Give me that. Start another one for yourself." Lonny eyes Candy warily. He replies.

"I thought you quit smoking before we started going out."

"I did." Explains Candy, "But sometimes I borrow one from a friend."

Lonny passes his lighted cigarette over to Candy without another word. Then he goes through another instance of the Lonny Makowski version of the male ritual of 'lighting up'. Candy catches sight of Lonnie's eyes in the rear view mirror. She thinks he spends too much time watching movies about gangsters and their molls. Candy shakes her head and smiles.

After a few long puffs on the cigarette, Candy Gotella folds her arms, right over left. Still with the cigarette perched delicately between the tips of the first and second finger of her right hand. Candy looks at Lonny, intending to speak. Candy can see it would be a waste of time to open her mouth. Lonny looks completely self-absorbed. Candy turns her head towards the passenger side window on her right. "At least the kids are quiet." She mutters.

Lonny smokes and ponders. He taps his fingertips absent-mindedly on the top of the leather wrapped steering wheel. After a bit, he thrusts his hands past the wheel on the inside and over the spokes. Next, in a bit of punk theater, he cracks the knuckles of his finger joints. A ragged chorus of popping sounds fills the quiet of the luxury car.

At long last, Lonnie's mouth breaks into a wide and crooked smile. He takes his cigarette into his right hand and turns to face his lady friend. Mister Makowski hooks his right lower leg onto the top of his seat cushion. He speaks in a rising voice.

"I got it Babes! ..... Have you figured it out yet?"

Candy Gotella sighs. She stares out through the privacy glass of her passenger's side window. In a bored voice, she intones.

"What have you got Lonny?"

"What I got Candy!" Says Lonny in a loud and excited voice, "Is I just caught on why Nick Castelli gave me the cold shoulder back there on the sidewalk!"

Candy's body stiffens noticeably at the mention of the sinister Mister Nicholas Jacob Castelli. She turns full to her left to face Lonny. Her heart pounds. Candy's mouth falls open when she sees the gleam in Lonnie's eyes. She pleads and scolds.

"You better stay away from him! ..... "He's a bug!"

Lonny blinks. His mouth falls open. Mister Makowski flexes his shoulder muscles. He says quickly.

"Hey ! There's nothing wrong with Castelli. He was married."

Candy cocks her head to the left as she studies Lonnie's features. Nearly laughing now, she replies.

"I didn't mean that way. I meant firebug. Castelli sets fires so people can collect insurance."

Now it is Lonnie's turn to be patronizing. He shakes his head at his woman friend as if she were a ten year old child. While smiling at the innocence of her remark he says.

"Get back in the batter's box, babes. Why did Castelli walk right past me? Why?"

Candy shakes her head in disgust. The curls of her blond hair spring back and forth with the angry motion. With an exasperated tone in her voice, she queries.

"What's the secret Lonny? Are you going to let the _'little people'_ in on it?"

Lonny Makowski flushes red in response to Candy's taunt. He grips the steering wheel tight in both hands.

"Candy. Babes. Nick Castelli walked right past us because he knows the F.B.I. is watching from that van. Making a movie and taking down license plate numbers. Like in the God Father. See! That's how sharp Nick Castelli is!"

Candy takes short puffs on her cigarette. How is she going to handle this situation? She decides to challenge Lonny. In an effort to measure the depth of her boyfriend's relationship with Nick. Very, very carefully, she comes back with.

"Maybe Castelli didn't even recognize you! Maybe you're dreaming the whole thing. Maybe I should go and have a long talk with your parole officer."

Lonny Makowski shakes his head back and forth. He is bullet-proof. Candy cannot wound his male ego. While Candy's heart pounds with fear, he boasts.

"Nick Castelli is building something for me. Something worth nearly three grand. And he says he's looking for a way to qualify me for a big job in the family. Real big. I know Nick from going to his home, Candy. Not just from hoisting a few at The Spot."

Candy is too frightened to reply. With her lower lip trembling, Candy swivels around in her seat to check on her children. Thankfully, she discovers both her children, Adam and Melissa are fast asleep. Candy turns back to face Lonny. _"Maybe if I tease him a little."_ She thinks to herself. With an impish smile on her face, Candy asks.

"Are you gonna be rich enough to buy me Park Place, Lonny?"

As usual, Lonnie's fantasies hold sway over his sensibilities. Candy's light ridicule goes straight over his head. The man behind the steering wheel nods his head and then frowns in irritation. After a bit, he responds dryly.

"What have they got there, just condos? I could get us into one of those. In a year or two."

Candy smiles at Lonnie's vacant response to her teasing. She blows a smoke ring towards the rear view mirror and says.

"Boardwalk too, Lonny? Can I have Park Place and Boardwalk too?"

Lonny wrinkles his forehead. He can add two and two. At long last, he is on to the fact Candy is pulling his leg. Lonny shrinks down in his seat. He turns away from Candy's mocking smile and looks out the windshield. Slowly, with a trace of resignation in his voice, he defends himself.

"At least I got ambition. Some guys just want to come home and watch the boob tube. I got plans."

Candy Gotella and Lonny Makowski sit still for a while and puff on their cigarettes. Though it is not obvious to either of them, they just worked their way through a healthy domestic spat. Neither side in the argument coming out a clear winner.

Then shortly the hapless couple start blinking their eyes. What is going on outside on the street? Flashes of blue and red light are bouncing off the windows of the cars and stores on the boulevard. Lonny is the first to figure out the how and the why of the flashing lights.

"They must be running Jimmy up to Valhalla. What do you want me to do?" asks Lonny of Candy.

Candy turns her head towards the source of the flashing lights in silence. As she looks out Lonnie's side window, a Philadelphia city police car crawls out into the intersection in front of them. Moments later a second police car follows close behind.

A uniformed traffic control officer climbs out of the second car. This officer wears a yellow rain slicker. He has white gloves on his hands, and a shiny chrome whistle stuck in his mouth. As the couple watch, fascinated, the police cars turn to the left in a single file. Jimmy's hearse follows close behind. After the hearse, two black minivans serving as flower cars. Then, last, a nearly endless caravan of freshly washed and privately owned automobiles. Each car bears a purple sign in the windshield on the driver's side. The signs read, quite simply: **FUNERAL**.

Lonny pulls himself up a little in his seat with his arms on the wheel. The last car in the procession disappears in the boulevard traffic. He works the key in the ignition. The big V - 8 engine under the hood of the Riviera comes smoothly to life. Lonny turns to Candy.

"Valhalla is way up by Warminster. Off of 611. Do you want to go up there?"

Candy shakes her head in frustration. What should they do? First, she puts her cigarette out in the ashtray in the console. Then she turns round to look in on her babies. Her face breaks out into a smile when she sees Adam and Melissa are still fast asleep. Candy turns back to Lonny. In a dutiful tone, she lays out her decision to her boyfriend.

"We better go up to the cemetery. Ma is gonna want to know how far Jimmy is buried away from my dad."

Scene 5 Candy And Lonny Look In On Jimmy's Burial

Location: Outskirts of the Valhalla Cemetery, suburban Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Lonny Makowski rolls Candy's metallic grey Buick Riviera onto 611, and heads north. Just south of the Grove Naval Air Station, he makes a right hand turn onto a county road. After the turn, the long sculptured hood of Candy's brand new luxury car points to the east, in the general direction of Warminster, Pennsylvania. Lonnie's idea is to avoid the boulevard fronting the cemetery, as the boulevard is always traffic congested. Instead of following the mourners, Lonny makes his way down on suburban lanes running parallel to the fence lines on the back and the sides of the cemetery acreage.

Lonny is not long locating the burial plot set aside for Jimmy the Bartender. Even if he had not recognized the cars and the faces of the mourners, it is easy enough for him to identify the awning covering the grave. As the awning is an identical twin for the one at the entranceway of the Noviziato Funeral Home back in the city of Philadelphia.

Lonny brings Candy's car to a halt, with the sound of gravel crunching under expensive tires, on the shoulder of a county road. He parks the Buick Riviera less than an eighth of a mile away from the Baldigiani family burial plot. Candy's car came equipped with privacy glass. So while Candy and Lonny can watch the internment. The mourners cannot see them through the smoke glass of the windows of the car. There is little chance a 'soldier' in the Mustalaro crime family will hustle them away from their self-appointed vigil. Their car blends into the upscale neighborhood flanking the Valhalla Cemetery.

Lonny still feels a little wounded by Candy's stinging remarks in spite of their refreshing drive out into the countryside. The derisive comments she made back at the funeral home hurt like heck. Then, just after he turns the ignition key to the off position. Lonny sees something through the windshield at the gravesite, something causing him to break out into a wide, expansive smile.

"Hey, hey, Babes! Look at that over there! What did I tell you! Huh!"

Candy jumps up. She is startled by Lonnie's exuberance. She glances over at Lonny, and sees a sheepish grin on his face. Candy turns her gaze towards the funeral party.

The young woman sees nothing out of the ordinary, certainly nothing to crow about.

"What's so funny Lonny?" Intones Candy Gotella. "It's just a bunch of people at a funeral."

Lonny nods at Candy. There is an all-knowing expression painted on his face. He points and shouts.

"Who is that on Jimmy's coffin? Right across from Don Salvatore Frederico Mustalaro! Is that Nick Castelli? Or is it the man in the moon? Huh! Huh!"

Lonnie's voice rises as he speaks. Sometimes he points out through the windshield with a stiff right arm and index finger. Sometimes he bangs his fist on the red leather of the dashboard for emphasis. Candy studies the forms of the pallbearers while Lonny vents his spleen. She glances from front to back at the hand picked group of six male pallbearers.

After a bit, Candy Gotella recognizes the hawk like black eyes of Lonnie's mentor, Nick Castelli. Nick's gaze comes to rest for a moment on Candy's Buick. Just after the pallbearers gently lodge Jimmy's coffin on top of its shiny brass graveside stand.

Nick turns his back towards Candy's Riviera. Candy sighs in relief. It is obvious she is grateful Nick is not able to recognize either her or her boyfriend. A difficult feat, as a long distance, a tall iron fence, and a heavily tinted glass windshield, separates the young couple from the man standing at the graveside. Candy shivers. She mutters, "Privacy glass is forever!"

Lonny shakes his head and blinks his eyes. He asks Candy. "What?" Candy replies swiftly, "Nothing Lonny, I didn't say anything."

Candy sighs in relief. It feels good to be invisible. She picks up Lonnie's cigarettes and lighter and lights a cigarette for herself. All the while, she eyes Lonny nervously. After a few short puffs, she crosses her arms over one another, right over left. The young mother struggles to find composure in a tried and true ritual. Very softly, she asks Lonny.

"What do you have going with Castelli?"

Candy's fearful tone makes it difficult for Lonny to rein in his pride. He turns to her, nods and winks. Then, to build suspense, Lonny repeats his over long cigarette lighting ritual. Finally, the 'wanna bee' hoodlum, twists his frame towards his 'lady friend'. He brings his right leg up on the bucket seat. Mister Makowski taps the fingers of his right hand on Candy's seat back.

"It's better you don't know anything. Not anything at all." Lonny winks again.

Candy Gotella looks up into Lonny Makowski's dark brown eyes. She blows a smoke ring while she sighs. Lonny is theatrically handsome, cleft chin, high cheekbones, and thick wavy brown hair. But at the same time he is overly theatrical.

Along with most women in the criminal world, Candy wants her man to do something safe like selling parts off stolen cars. She does not want a bank robber for a husband. Most emphatically, she does not want anyone around who has anything to do with drugs! How does she get the truth out of her boyfriend?

Candy shakes her head back and forth slowly. The truth will have to wait for another day. She decides to tease. A wide smile grows on her face.

"Such a goombah. ..... What a goombah you are, Lonny."

Lonnie's parents spoke Polish at home while he was a little boy. Candy's very Italian remark, fails to register in his mind as a pejorative. Lonny nods again. He feels in control of the situation. The young man behind the wheel turns back in his seat to watch the burial. For all he knows, "Goombah" translates into English as "Hard Guy".

Just today, Lonny feels completely satisfied with himself and his budding political relationship with the Mustalaro crime family. A relationship he imagines will soon come to fruition through the paternal interventions of Nick Castelli. Mister Makowski looks out the windshield. He is unable to meet Candy's gaze. Lonny says.

"I ain't a made guy like Nick, Candy. But I'm gonna learn. I'm gonna learn things. You'll see. "

Candy too, turns her undivided attention to the burial party. First off, she notices the studied arm motions of a Priest wearing a long white shawl. This man sprinkles holy water on the mound of fresh earth piled next to the gravesite. His efforts raise the status of the soil from fertile, all the way on up to consecrated.

Next Candy's eyes light on Livia Baldigiani- Jimmy the Bartender's wife. Livia is dressed all in black. She wears a heavy black shawl over her shoulders to ward off the cold. Livia's hands are folded and her fingers interlaced. She stands with her head bowed towards the front of her husband's polished grey casket. Her attention so rapt, it appears she and her loving husband are completely alone.

Livia's four grown up children stand by their mother but off at a respectful distance. They mingle in a haphazard and familiar manner with the offspring of Sally Mustalaro. Finally, Candy's blue eyes focus on the figure of Sally's wife, Sharon.

Even across the wide distance separating the two women, Candy cannot help but admire Sharon's expensively tailored and well-groomed appearance. Candy and Sharon are a match for one another as beautiful ladies. But Sharon, in contrast to Candy, glows with breeding as well as with beauty. The truth is- Sharon radiates culture and style. Though Candy is fifteen years younger than Sharon. Sharon catches men's eyes just as easily as Candy. A fact of life, not at all lost on either woman.

Candy's heart gives a leap when she sees Don Salvatore Frederico Mustalaro put his right arm around his wife's shoulder. Her eyes fill with tears as Sally gives his wife a tiny little hug. Candy feels hurt, excluded, and all alone in the world. Candy digs into her purse with nervous gestures, searching for a handkerchief. She hopes against hope Lonny is looking the other way.

For a time Candy steadies her nerves by dabbing at her eyes in a harmonic sequence. First right, then left, then right again; repeating. She takes a few deep breaths and puts her cigarette out in the dashboard ashtray. The familiar gestures cause Candy's heart to settle. Her mind returns to equilibrium, ever so slowly, one small step at a time.

This critical moment in Candy's life might have passed on unnoticed. A secret locked deep in her heart and safely hidden from view. Unfortunately, just as it seems Candy is back in control. Sally takes Sharon's left hand in his right hand.

Tears pour from Candy's eyes as Sally and Sharon, man and wife by a proper wedding ceremony, press themselves together shoulder to shoulder. Candy sobs. Her body begins to shake. Suddenly - she hears a loud piercing scream from the back seat! Candy turns full round. She sees tears pouring down Melissa's cheeks, and a guilty look on Adam's face.

"All Right!" Screams Candy. "Who started it this time?"

Adam yells at the top of his lungs. "She hit me with the flowers!"

Then Adam twists his head to reveal a bright red scratch on his cheek to his mother.

Melissa shouts."First he made faces at me, mommy! Then he pinched me - real hard!"

Candy Gotella is beside herself! She slaps her hands together at Adam and Melissa. Both children burst into tears. Candy grabs at the flowers resting on the seat between her son and her daughter. She is enraged far past the point of feeling ashamed. Candy crushes the flower stems in her hand. She smashes the bouquets on the seat. She grinds them into the leather until all the petals fall onto the upholstery and the carpet.

With each blow to the flowers, Adam and Melissa shrink away from their mother. They press themselves deeper and deeper into the corners of the rear passenger compartment. They hold their arms up in frightened gestures of defense and alarm.

Still livid, Candy throws the crushed stems on the floor in front of her children. Then she turns back in her seat to stare out of the passenger's side window. Her anger is spent. Lonny watches Candy's shoulders heave up and down. She weeps, completely out of control. A long while later, Adam and Melissa stop their crying. Sometime after that, Candy turns to look out the windshield in silence.

The funeral is over. Jimmy's coffin is down snug in its last resting place. Cars are starting to drive away from the grave. Candy is too ashamed to look at her reflection in the window, or into Lonnie's eyes. Candy sits bolt upright and says in a monotone.

"I guess we better get going." Lonny nods. What can he say? Finally, he suggests.

"I could go for a pizza. Maybe we should get one on the way back to your mothers."

Candy pulls down on her visor to have a look at herself in the mirror. She winces at the sight of all her makeup smeared over her face. Candy fishes around in her purse. With trembling hands, she pulls out her lipstick and powder. Lipstick at the ready, she makes eye contact with Lonny in the rear view mirror.

"Stop someplace where they have a washroom. The kids need their faces cleaned before we go home."

Lonny Makowski twists the ignition key. He rolls the steering wheel all the way over to the left. Candy Gotella's Buick Riviera heads back to her mother's home in the inner city of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Scene 6 Stanley Craypool Shows What He Can Do

Location: Parking lot and interior of the Seven Hills Restaurant, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

The last car pulls out of the Noviziato Funeral Home parking lot. Ricky Banez fires up the engine in the surveillance van. The van belongs to the Drug Enforcement Agency. No surprise it needs a ring job. There is nothing unusual in the fact heavy blue clouds of smoke belch out of the tail pipe of a D.E.A. vehicle as it pulls away from the curb.

Chief Burke buckles himself down in the seat next to Banez as the van takes off. The Chief keeps both of his hands tight on his frayed and worn out shoulder strap as a standard precaution. Surveillance vans have to be old to blend into the scenery. Surveillance vans often break down without a warning. Mister Banez maneuvers the ponderous and lurching machine down along a number of narrow one-way streets. With deft motions of the wheel, he soon brings the van up behind the funeral traffic.

Ricky Banez makes a soft right hand turn towards the northeast just before the **276** by pass. He steers the windowless van onto **263**. Now the vehicle storms along towards the restaurant mentioned in the last hand held radio communication between Derek Peters, and Don Targioni Barberini.

A mile and a half past the bypass Ricky moves to the left hand lane in the busy traffic along the boulevard. A short while later he turns against the oncoming cars and into the spacious front parking lot of a restaurant. As the van lumbers over the sidewalk and into the lot, the men come upon a sign reading: **SEVEN HILLS** , Fine Dining, Italian Style, and Banquet Rooms Available. Not surprising the restaurant looks just right for family gatherings, wedding parties, and wakes. The building has red brick walls cheerfully complemented by long and spotless plate glass windows. Each window trimmed on both sides with green linen curtains tied back with gold cords.

Ricky Banez brings the team of Drug Enforcement Agency personnel safely to rest with a chorus of squeals from the drum brakes on the rear wheels of the cargo van. With one foot on the brake pedal, and the transmission lever in drive, Banez turns full around to the space behind Burke's seat.

"You want it up in the front, Mister Parente? Or should I go around back?"

Special Agent David Parente is not long in arriving at a decision. He opines.

"I don't think they made us yet. Put it up there. Next to the Mustang."

Ricky transfers his right foot to the gas pedal. With both hands on the wheel, he pilots the aged D.E.A. vehicle into a narrow space between two painted lines. This locates the men to the far side of a white Mustang sporting a red vinyl convertible top. And it provides a decent view out the mirror glass back windows of the surveillance van. The men can easily see the chrome and glass double doors and green curtained plate glass windows of the Seven Hills family restaurant.

Ricky taps the concrete stop with the front wheels of the surveillance van. He puts the shift lever into the park position. While Banez kills the engine, Chuck Burke unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls on the door lever. The Chief says flatly.

"I gotta hit the can." Then he clambers out of the van, and walks swiftly back to the front entrance of the Seven Hills Restaurant.

When the front passenger side door slams shut. Stanley Craypool gets up on his knees on the painted metal floor of the cargo compartment. For a moment or two, he keeps his eyes on Chuck Burke's backside. The Grand Corporation Electrical Engineer peers warily at the older man through the one way mirrored windows in the back doors of the van. When the Chief makes his way through the front double doors of Seven Hills, Stanley lets the air out of his lungs. Craypool is obviously relieved Burke is out of earshot. Stanley shakes his head and mutters.

"You wouldn't think they could pile trash that high. ..... How do you get to be a Chief Special Agent in the Drug Enforcement Agency not knowing construction company radios are on the itinerant band? Did you hear him back there? Yelling at me like Attila the Hun!"

Stanley shakes his head once again. Then he falls back on his haunches. Ricky Banez, meanwhile, glances nervously in his outside rear view mirror. He is on the alert for Burke's return. Stanley pulls a cardboard box up tight against his ankles from out of the gloom on the floor of the van.

He reaches inside, and soon brings a bouquet of artificial flowers and plants held in a shiny grey porcelain vase, out into view. Stanley's left hand cups the bottom of the vase. He looks down into the flowers from directly above. Then he sticks the index finger of his right hand between the plant stems. The Electrical Engineer makes a short, flicking motion.

A triumphant expression grows on Stanley's face. He turns full around to speak to Agent Parente. Mister Craypool passes the vase and flowers up and over to the older man seated on a canvas chair. Electrical Engineer Stanley Warren Craypool says proudly.

"See the little red light Mister Parente? That means it's on."

Special Agent David Parente's face fills with a look of satisfaction and curiosity. He rotates the vase this way and that in the palm of his right hand. Parente admires Stanley's skills with fake flowers and transistors. Then he spreads the flower and plant stems apart with his fingertips. Parente peers inside. He sees a glowing red diode, resting below the mouth of the vase and on top of a rectangular black box. Next, Parente goes in search of a microphone and a microphone wire. Not being able to locate either, he glances down at Stanley. His squared off eyebrows knit up in a frown. Stanley Craypool knows just what to say.

"The microphones are all inside the cat tails. I split the stems and ran the wires up the middle. Pretty good, huh!" Remarks Stanley, eyes beaming, mouth cocked in a wide grin.

Parente smiles back at Stanley Craypool from his perch on his canvas campstool. Next, he holds the vase and bouquet out at arms length. He hefts the device for a second or two, as if it were a football trophy. Parente wonders.

"Not too heavy. But what about the range, Stanley?"

The electrical engineer on loan from the Grand Corporation puts both hands flat on his thighs.

"I wired in extra batteries. Double or triple the life. Maybe double or triple the range."

Stanley nods at Parente like a college professor standing in a room full of bright college students. Then he digs into his box and brings another vase filled with flowers up to the view of the other three men in the van. Stanley flicks the power button under the watchful eyes of Ricky Banez, Bob Terrano, and David Parente. Next, he hands the second unit on up to Parente. Stanley says.

"Check for the diode on this one too."

David Parente takes the shiny grey vase, about the size of half a cigar box, up into his spare hand. Stanley passes a third vase up to the team while Parente gazes down between the stems in wonder.

This time the vase goes into the waiting and eager grasp of Bob Terrano. Soon the cardboard box at Stanley's ankles empties out. And, each of the other three men in the vehicle holds a flower filled vase in both of their hands. Each of the six vases conceals a battery-powered radio transmitter. The men look down into the vases. In each instance they see a glowing red diode at the top of a dull grey plastic box.

Just then, Chief Special Agent Charles L. Burke opens the passenger's side door of the surveillance van and climbs back into his seat. Glancing about, the Chief sees an ear to ear grin on Stanley Craypool. Even more comical, Burke's three colleagues have their hands filled with a half dozen designer vases. Each vase filled with an artistic arrangement of fake flowers. While Burke watches, the men stick their noses deep down into the flowers. Burke shakes his head and lets out with a hearty laugh.

"So that's why we need an egg head from a think tank. Sensitivity training!"

Parente, Terrano, Banez, and Craypool, force a laugh at Chuck Burke's grim humor. The interior of the van grows very quiet. Stanley Craypool pulls a can of flat black spray paint from the wooden shelf nearest the floor. He lifts off the top and shakes the can with a good deal of vigor. Everyone in the van hears the ball inside the can rattling to and fro. With his palm outstretched, Stanley says simply.

"Hand them back to me one at a time."

As each of the half dozen vases make their way back into his grasp, Stanley sprays black paint down inside of the neck of each vase. Burke knows there are radios concealed in the vases. He does not know anything about the power on lamps on the top of each radio chassis. Burke asks,

"What's the paint do?" Stanley replies without looking up.

"Have to have power on lights to make sure each transmitter is transmitting. Gotta paint them black so they don't notice them at the tables."

Burke nods and adds. "We should know when they are gonna show up. But we don't know."

Soon all six vases lay in two even rows on the bottom of the cardboard box. Stanley rises up on his knees. He rubs his hands together in satisfaction. Ricky Banez, meanwhile, peers nervously out the back windows of the van. Then he turns his head to David Parente, to ask for permission to plant the transmitting radio - microphones.

"We better get inside before anybody shows up. O. K. Mister Parente?"

Parente nods at Banez. He is completely confident in Ricky Banez and not just a little curious as to how Stanley Craypool will handle himself inside the restaurant.

"Show time gentlemen." says David Parente, with the smile on his face growing wider and wider still.

Scene 7 Planting Microphones In A Restaurant Dining Room

Location: Magnolia room of the Seven Hills Restaurant, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Ricky Banez holds the chrome and glass doors of the Seven Hills restaurant wide open. Stanley makes his way over the rubber mat at the entrance, with the cardboard box between his hands. Just inside the door, the unlikely looking duo comes to a halt at the cashier's counter. Rick and Stan find themselves face to face with a tall slender man wearing a white shirt and a narrow tie. The tall man has a bored look on his face. He sports a receding hairline. Ricky sees a glass ashtray just behind the wire gum and mint rack on the countertop. A burning cigarette sits wedged tight in one of the slots around its circular top.

Ricky takes his ball cap off with a wide sweeping motion. He smiles up at the tall cashier. With a cheerful tone in his voice, he explains.

"They're for the Baldigiani family. But we don't know what room."

As Ricky speaks, Stanley tilts the box towards the man behind the countertop, bringing the half dozen vases filled with artificial flowers full into the cashier's view. Unfortunately, the friendly overtures made by Rick and Stan have no effect on Phil. The cashier stands his ground stiff and silent, his face is a plaster mask. Who are these punks?

Ricky sees Phil's eyes resting on Stanley. Is it Stanley's too intelligent looking glasses, his bow tie, or the white plastic penholder in his shirt pocket? Ricky cannot say. Yet clearly, to Ricky and Stanley both, the cashier feels something is amiss.

Phil brings a hand up and places it flat on top of the cash register. He is marking out his territory. The cashier's face is just as stiff and cold as when they first stepped up to the register. Ricky's heart beats faster and faster. He swallows hard. Banez pleads with both his tone and his demeanor. Ricky explains Stanley to Phil.

"He's all right. Taking courses down at Drexel. We checked his references real good!"

Ricky Banez bobs his head up and down at Phil, the cashier. Phil remain impassive. Time for plan B!

Ricky reaches under his tan tanker's jacket and from out of his shirt pocket, he pulls out a bill of sale. Mister Banez holds the yellow flimsy flat on the counter top. Then he turns it round for Phil's inspection and signature.

The phony bill of sale was Ricky's idea. But the little piece of stage business was fashioned by Stanley the day before the Baldigiani funeral on his Apple computer, with the help of a desktop software publishing package. Across the top the bill reads: DEE LITE FLOWERS & GIFTS. And underneath the fake company logo an equally bogus address, deep within the Italian neighborhood in Philadelphia. Ricky says brightly.

"Gotta have a signature."

Not surprising, Phil the cashier responds in a positive manner to the counterfeit bill of sale. As soon as his eyes pass over the street address of the make believe store, he takes a pen out of his shirt pocket. The cashier scrawls his initials down in a blank space, using his left hand to steady the paper. With the bill signed, Phil slides the paper back towards Ricky. Then he takes a long draw on his cigarette.

The cashier ignores Stanley Craypool. Phil looks down at Ricky and says dryly.

"On the right hand side in the back. Magnolia room, like always."

Ricky picks up the receipt with no little haste, before the cashier can change his mind. With a quick look at Stanley, Banez wheels around and starts walking to the interior of the Seven Hills restaurant. Stanley follows dutifully just behind Ricky. The cardboard box filled with flowerpots, concealing surveillance radios, is tight in his hands.

Stanley glances nervously over his right shoulder as the two men pass near the main dining room. He peers over the red leather booths against the wall and out through the green curtained plate glass windows. Stanley's anxious eyes search for the Drug Enforcement Agency surveillance van. He is sub-consciously reaching for a boost to his self-confidence. Stanley's heart gives a happy leap! He can see the van on the opposite side of the white Mustang.

Mister Craypool looks here and there in the main dining room. His eyes light upon nearly all the familiar elements of an Italian family restaurant. Stanley sees two dozen odd tables in the main room in the subdued daylight glowing through the plate glass. Most of the tables are round, some are square, and a few are rectangular. Each table is covered with an immaculate white cotton cloth. Each table set with an ornate brass oil lamp with a red glass globe as a centerpiece. Silverware settings resting on folded napkins on each table glint in the light. They add a sense of solidarity to the romantic Mediterranean scene.

Stanley glances up at the ceiling on an impulse. Here his eyes fall upon a decorative touch typical of Italian restaurants the world over. Empty Chianti wine bottles held by the neck in a fisherman's net.

Mister Craypool sees the net is stapled carefully to the black painted ceiling. _"Everything's copasetic."_ He thinks to himself, nodding. Best of all, not even one of the few lunch hour customers gives any sign they notice his scholarly presence. Let alone suspect he is on a mission, and, an important member of a surveillance team.

Ricky and Stanley walk deeper into the building. As they approach the shiny aluminum doors of the kitchen. Banez spies a sign on the wall next to the first banquet hall on his right. The sign reads: MAGNOLIA ROOM. Just then Phil's distant voice brings Stanley and Ricky to an abrupt halt.

"Don't take too long in there! ..... The floor ain't swept yet!"

The two men freeze in their tracks. What should they do? How do they handle this situation? Ricky Banez has the answer. Without looking back towards Phil, he waves his ball cap in the air over his head. Then Ricky leads Stanley into the room reserved for the Giuseppe Baldigiani- 'Jimmy the Bartender' memorial dinner.

The Magnolia Room looks much the same as the main dining area in spite of the lack of ceiling decorations. The room is empty. Stanley slides his cardboard box onto the top of a round table near the center of the room. Then he pushes gently on the brass oil lamp centerpiece. He moves it off towards the edge of the table, making room for his illicit electronic cargo. Stanley bubbles with confidence. He feels as if he just slid into third base. Stanley turns to look directly into Ricky's eyes. He asks.

"Now what do we do, Mister Banez?" Ricky frowns and shakes his head.

"You don't have to call me mister. I'm just a driver. Parente and Terrano are sworn officers. Not me."

Stanley opens his mouth to apologize. Banez hastily turns away and towards the back of the room. He is a lot more interested in the task at hand than trivial issues having to do with pecking orders and professional courtesies. Ricky scratches his swarthy beard with his fingertips for a few moments. Then, while pointing with his right arm for emphasis, he gives out with his analysis of the scene.

"One of them should go on the long table. In the back by the windows, next to the podium, and another one on the small table. Over there in the corner, on the other side of the podium from the long table. The widow and her kids should sit behind the long table. Carranza will take the small table with his wife. He always runs these things."

While Ricky speaks, Stanley pulls a small wire notebook from out behind the white plastic penholder in his shirt pocket. He flips the book open and makes a hasty sketch map of the locations of the various key tables.

Mister Craypool puts the map down on the table and goes for his cardboard box. He takes two of the flower-filled vases out of the box. Ever so carefully, he checks the petals of a tulip blossom in each arrangement for a concealed number. Then, having made two entries on his map, he passes the first vase over to his friend.

"Put this one on the long table wherever you want."

Banez speedily complies with Craypool's request. With the vase on the table, he stops for a moment to pull back the green window curtain and peer outside. The view reveals nothing more to his dark brown eyes than a driveway leading to the rear parking lot.

The surveillance van is on the northeast side of the building, completely hidden from his gaze. Ricky drops the curtain, and wheels about. With quick eager steps, he walks back to the center of the room and smiles up at Stanley. Stanley places another shiny grey vase with flowers and plants into his hands. When Banez returns for a second time, he sees a worried look on Stanley's face.

"How do you figure out where the head guy is going to sit? I have four more vases with microphones. There has to be a dozen tables left." The worried Electrical Engineer sets a puzzle before the Drug Enforcement Agency driver.

Ricky Banez bites his lower lip. Stanley's question is a good question, indeed. Banez turns full around, very slowly, and with the weight of his body back on his heels. He stares intently at the haphazard array of small and large tables. Each covered with a spotless white tablecloth. Each table decorated with an ornate brass oil lamp with a red glass globe as a centerpiece. Banez speaks softly and in a tentative voice.

"If it was me I'd sit the Don towards the back. On a big table so he can listen to people who need to talk to him. His wife will be up with the widow. The kids will sit together, all by themselves."

Stanley's head nods up and down. He pulls another vase from the cardboard box. After he checks the tulip petals for a number, Craypool passes the decoration into Ricky's waiting hands.

"Wherever you think is best. I just have to keep the numbers straight."

Ricky Banez shrugs his shoulders and nods at Stanley in reply. He walks towards the far right hand side of the room with the shiny grey vase cradled in both his hands. Banez puts the vase down on a large round table, easily big enough to seat eight or ten. Then he turns around and explains.

"Either the nuns and priests or the college kids will sit here. But it can't hurt. Just in case, kind of."

In the next few minutes, Ricky locates the three remaining decorations. Two to the far left of the room, one towards the middle. The surveillance van driver walks back up to the electrical engineer. Banez says thoughtfully.

"Over there is my best guess for the Don. Seats six. His people can see anybody coming in the room."

Ricky points with his finger. Stanley makes a final numerical entry on his map. Mister Craypool lets the air out of his lungs. As he sighs, his shoulders slump and the tension melts away from his face. Stanley tucks his spiral notebook into the space behind the white plastic penholder in his shirt pocket. They are done! The Seven Hills Restaurant dining room is wired for sound!

Stanley picks up his now empty box with his right hand. With his left hand, he slides the brass oil lamp back to its rightful place in the center of the round table. Banez digs the bill of his ball cap out from behind his pants belt on his back. There is a look of relief on his face. Banez is grateful they were able to plant all the radios without a single interruption or mishap.

Ricky leads the way out of the restaurant. Stanley trails behind him with the cardboard box dangling from his hand. Ricky catches the eye of Phil the cashier at the cashier's counter. In a bright smiling voice, he exclaims.

"See ya next time." Mister Banez puts his ball cap back on his head. Stanley nods at Phil.

Ricky leads the way out through the front doors of the Seven Hills restaurant and into the sunshine.

Scene 8 The DEA People Make Ready For Jimmy's Wake

Location: Surveillance van interior Seven Hills Restaurant parking lot, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Ricky Banez and Stanley Craypool climb back into the surveillance van. Their eyes fall on Chief Special Agent Charles L. Burke. The Chief sits in the worn bucket seat next to the driver's seat. He is loading a thirty six-exposure roll of thirty-five millimeter color film into the back of a camera. The camera looks especially potent and expensive. It sports a long and heavy telephoto lens. Burke shakes his head while he threads the film leader into the axle of the take up spool. He says, more to Parente and Terrano, than Banez and Craypool.

"They have motorized film cartridges, you know. Hundred exposures just as fast as you can work the shutter release."

David Parente sits two campstools removed from the chief. Although he is deeper into the van and closer to the rear windows, he remains well within earshot of Burke. Like back at the funeral parlor, Parente has a photo album and his binoculars on his lap. Agent Parente nods his head in sympathy with Chuck Burke's remarks. Then he explains.

"The budget might allow for things like that in Washington. Not Philadelphia."

Burke finishes up with the task of loading film into the camera. He has nothing more to say. The camera makes a decisive little snapping sound as Burke closes the lid. The Chief squirms between the front seats. He climbs over Stanley and makes his way back to his appointed position on his plastic bucket seat.

Burke's bucket sits just behind the tripod mount for the camera. The tripod stands immediately behind the mirrored rear windows of the van. Burke groans and grimaces as he lowers his stiff and sore frame onto the bottom of the upside down tan bucket. He calls upon the camera tripod and the bare metal walls of the vehicle to serve as hand holds.

The Chief screws the base of the camera onto the mounting bracket on the tripod. After he removes the lens cap, he points the lens out the window and brings the machine into focus.

Burke peers intently through the ocular while he twirls the body of the lens. Soon the white street address number near the front doors of the red brick restaurant comes into view.

While Burke struggles with issues like depth of field and shutter speed, Stanley readies his collection of scanner radios. Stanley's right hand moves swiftly from left to right across the rough wooden shelves at his eye level. He pushes in on the power buttons on each of the six sophisticated receivers as they fall into his grasp.

Stanley's heart swells with pride as the displays come to life. One by one, each instrument panel on each radio glows pale and luminescent before his eyes. While everyone in the van but Burke watches, Stanley turns the volume knobs full down on each unit. Next, he sets the squelch knobs up about half way.

Stanley starts pressing the buttons on the key pad of his first radio, resting on the top shelf at his left. The general idea is to tune the radio to one of the six frequencies broadcast by one of the six surveillance radios. The surveillance radios hidden inside the flower vases resting on the tables in the Magnolia Room in the Seven Hills restaurant.

The electrical engineer repeats his keypad entries on the second unit in line. His effort lines up the receiving frequency of radio number two with the broadcast frequency of the radio on the small round table. Which is, of course, different from the frequency of the first radio.

Stanley studies the map in his spiral notebook with the notebook resting on his left knee. He smiles, as with any luck at all. Umberto Carranza and his wife will soon share their remarks, no matter how intimate, with the people seated in the van.

Swift and sure, Stanley brings the remaining four scanner radios to their intended operating frequencies. Shortly, the luminescent screens on the face of each unit display a set of six digit numbers. Each one of the numbers has a decimal point in the middle, and three digits on each side.

Stanley pushes his glasses up on his nose in a pensive gesture. He strokes his chin like a maestro. Very, very carefully he compares the Magnolia Room floor map entries in his notebook, against the readouts on his sophisticated machines. Stanley is satisfied everything that should be under his control is under his control. Mister Craypool looks up at the inside roof of the van. He lets out with a long sigh.

While Craypool sighs, Banez yawns, and Burke dangles his right hand lightly on the top of the thirty five millimeter camera. Just then, the motion of a car sliding into the restaurant parking lot from the north catches the Chief's eye. As the distance closes, the Chief can make out a funeral sticker in the windshield. He remarks in a flat voice.

"Brand new Olds Cutlass. Two doors. White with a black interior."

Ricky Banez breaks the silence following Burke's terse observation. Without twisting around in the driver's seat to see for himself, he yawns and then talks to his windshield.

"Should be Umberto Carranza. Short. Fat. Bald. White mustache. His wife has a fur coat."

Burke bends hungrily over to the eyepiece of his camera. He tracks the movement of the man and wife in the Cutlass as they drive through the parking lot. Soon Burke has Carranza in full view at the glass doors of the Seven Hills entranceway. The elderly Italian patriarch holds hands with his wife. At the same time he waves an expensive fedora over his head. Mister Carranza's gesture welcomes the multitude of cars filled with mourners, wheeling into the lot in search of parking spaces. Chief Burke shakes his head as he snaps picture after picture of Mister and Mrs. Carranza. Then he wryly exclaims.

"Central casting is supposed to be out in Hollywood!"

Bob Terrano drops his binoculars down to his lap. He scribbles Carranza's license plate number onto a sheet of paper resting on a clipboard on his knees. Without looking up, he replies to the Chief.

"Carranza had us fooled too, Mister Burke. We thought he was the Don and Sally was just a lawyer for a couple of years."

"What tipped you off?" Asks the Chief, his voice rising as it fills with curiosity.

Terrano is too busy with license plate numbers to reply. David Parente chimes in.

"After Sally hired Shusterman, a friend of ours heard something on a golf course. That's how we can tell Mustalaro and Carranza and Barberini apart."

The mourner's in Jimmy the Bartender's funeral party alight from their vehicles en masse. Chuck Burke's efforts with his surveillance camera rise to a feverish pitch.

"Data overload." says Stanley Craypool to no one in particular. While he watches Burke snapping pictures, Terrano scribbling down license plate numbers, and Parente dividing his attention between his binoculars and the photo album on his lap.

Suddenly, the moment arrives for Chuck Burke to change the film in his camera. While he inserts the fresh roll, he glances up intermittently at Agent Parente. Finally, he says.

"What about all the cars in the back lot, Parente?"

Parente holds steadfast to his work with his binoculars and his photo album. He nods his head. In a resigned voice, he observes.

"They would have a budget for that in Washington too!"

Burke slams the back of his camera shut on a fresh roll of film. Parente brings Burke back into action with the surveillance camera. He gives Burke a blow-by-blow, sports announcer style description of the pedestrian traffic passing through the front doors of the Seven Hills.

"Mustalaro is the guy in the navy blue coat. Grey brown hair. His wife is the one in the long fur coat. Holding hands. Shusterman has a grey raincoat. Smooth looking. Not a trench coat. Barberini is the brown check coat. White hair. Real thin. The huge guy in front. Not the short fat guy."

Burke stays head down on his camera. He takes photographs of the gangsters and their family members, one after another. The interior of the van goes whisper quiet. The silence punctuated at intervals by the click of the shutter release in the thirty-five millimeter camera.

The last members of the funeral party straggle through the front door of the Seven Hills restaurant. Stanley Craypool leans towards his instruments. His matched set of a half dozen scanner radios. The electrical engineer busies himself. He twists the volume knobs on each of the six scanner radios in front of his eyes. In an electromagnetic analogy to the way a symphony orchestra tunes up, one stringed instrument at a time.

Soon the men in the van hear the dull scraping sounds of chrome chair leg tips scraping on linoleum, emanating from the six speakers in the six radios under Stanley's command. There are no more pictures to take. Burke swivels around to have a look down at Stanley.

The Chief puts his hands on his knees. Palms down and elbows out. Lending a _"see here_ _young man"_ air to his posture. The intense, self-absorbed expression on Stanley's intelligent face drives Burke to shake his head. With a sarcastic grin, almost a leer, Burke says to Stanley.

"Don't get your hopes up too high. All they have to do is run a ten-dollar FM radio from one end of the band to the next. The feed-back squeal between your bugs and the radio will give it away, Craypool!"

Stanley Craypool smiles. He twists around to look directly up at the Chief. There is a good deal of aplomb in his voice, as he easily counters Chuck Burke's cynical comments.

"They would have to turn the tuning knob till it broke, Chief. My radios are set outside the commercial FM broadcast range. Way, way, up at the top of the Very High Frequency band."

Burke's face flushes a deep shade of red at Stanley Craypool's retort. Parente, Terrano, and Banez, pretend they did not hear Stanley's intelligent rebuttal. They busy themselves with duties remote from the hostile exchange. Each man struggling to stifle his laughter. For a moment, the Chief ponders on his choice of a scathing remark. How does he put 'Crap Hole' down in his place?

Burke opens his mouth to speak. He is brought up short by a tinkling metallic sound coming from the speaker in the scanner radio most near to his left knee. Stanley nods sagely at the tinkling sound puzzling everyone else in the surveillance team. He looks up, and after glancing about, explains.

"Ting ting ting is usually a fork on an empty water glass. Clunk clunk clunk is when the glass is full."

Everyone in the van nods his head in unison. Bob Terrano laughs and says.

"Tell us something we don't know, Stanley!"

Suddenly the signal strength meter on the second radio from the left pegs all the way up to the top of the decibel scale! A raspy male voice fills the van, it reverberates off the walls. Stanley checks his table map against the frequency reading on the radio's display. His mind fills with the image of a small round table up near the podium. Then he looks up at Agent Parente. In a puzzled voice, he asks.

"Is that the same guy on the hand held inside the funeral home?"

David Parente shakes his head back and forth. With complete confidence, he replies.

"This guy is Umberto Carranza. The voice on the hand held back at Noviziato's was Barberini. Bull's eye Barberini."

"I don't get it." Says Stanley while blinking his eyes. "How do you tell them apart?"

"We have scanner radios too, Mister Craypool." Explains Ricky Banez to the electrical engineer, with a wry grin spread across his face. "Not so good as yours."

Craypool turns hastily to go eye to eye with Banez. A look of admiration grows on his features. He shakes his head and in a 'business as usual' tone says.

"If the voice is Carranza's you got it just right, Banez. He's at the small table next to the podium."

Stanley does not need a set of instructions. The electrical engineer on loan from the Grand Corporation thrusts a plug into the sound output jack on the face of scanner radio number two. Now the unit is connected to tape recorder number one. Stanley smiles at his circle of admirers in the van. Then he presses down firmly on the red record button on the tape machine.

Scene 9 Umberto Carranza Says Goodbye To Jimmy The Bartender

Location: Magnolia room of the Seven Hills Restaurant, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Umberto Carranza stands behind the podium in the Magnolia room of the Seven Hills restaurant. He wipes a silk handkerchief over the top of his head and brow. He feels hot from the ceiling spotlight beaming down on his head. Moreover, he is a little bit dizzy from the sparkling white wine. The audience of a hundred and more people grows hushed as they see Mister Carranza smile at his wife. Then he brings the house microphone up to his lips.

"Jimmy. Jimmy Baldigiani. What can we say that hasn't been said? Devoted husband. Loving father. How many life long friends? How many nieces and nephews? He never missed a birthday party. Jimmy Baldigiani."

Mister Carranza pauses while he sips from the tall wine glass in his left hand.

"So it's the saddest day in my life. But I'm happy too. Because when he left us. He had everything to be happy about. That's why we drink spumante tonight. We celebrate our friend's memory. We don't cry."

Umberto Carranza drops the microphone to his side. He puts his glass down on the white tablecloth of the small round table where his wife Celeste, sits beaming up into his eyes. Carranza walks the short distance to the back corner of the long table next to the podium. The table running parallel to the windows in the red brick wall at the back of the room.

Umberto turns to his left. Mister Carranza makes a sweeping motion with his left hand. His gesture invites Livia Baldigiani to rise to her feet. Jimmy's widowed wife stands behind the table. She brings a framed wedding photograph of her and her husband up off the table and into the view of the audience.

Her tender gesture drives the audience to break out into a round of hearty applause. Umberto wipes his forehead until the noise quiets down. Then he dabs his white mustache with his handkerchief, a precaution against errant droplets of wine.

"The sainted woman of Jimmy's whole life! Livia! Mother to four wonderful children! Grandmother now to nine! A holy marriage! Livia! And now thirteen baptisms! Thirteen! How many more to come? God alone knows the number! God alone knows!"

As Umberto Carranza is keenly aware, Livia Baldigiani never learned to speak a word of English. So rather than asking her to say something he passes on to introductions of her children.

Umberto puts a friendly hand on the corner of the gilded frame holding Jimmy and Livia's wedding photo. Then he gestures at the women sitting on Livia's left hand side.

"Nancy and Theresa everybody! Nancy and Theresa! Nancy the special education teacher! Giving her life to children! The way her mother taught her. And Theresa! All those children and a business too! A gift shop she owns with Mister Shusterman's wife, Deborah. On the mall in Huntington Valley."

Mister Carranza pauses for a moment. He waits patiently for the applause to die down. When the room grows silent and respectful, Umberto puts the microphone in the space between the two grown women. Jimmy the Bartender's daughters rise to their feet. Nancy puts up a hand palm outwards. She is too choked up to speak. Theresa is never at a loss for words. Theresa leans forward and a little in front of her sister, toward the microphone in Umberto's outstretched hand. In a voice choked with tears, she says.

"My mother, my sister, and my brothers thank you all for coming. From the bottom of our hearts. We have to cry tonight. Because nothing can bring back my father. But you should all celebrate. To tell us how much you loved my father. You should all celebrate."

Carranza motions the audience to their feet with both his hands. When the applause dies down, he gestures at Jimmy's two grown sons. Frank and Dino rise as one. Frank stands with his arms held high above his head. Dino clasps his hands together, just below the level of his belt.

Carranza shouts. "Frank! And Dino! Big families like their father! And a tire business in Willingboro! On Burlington Pike!"

Frank waves his hands at his uncle's offer to speak into the microphone. Then he cups his hands and shouts.

"We love everybody here tonight! We love everybody!"

Umberto Carranza tucks his microphone under his arm. He claps his hands. His audience stands up. They cheer and they whistle. All of the priests and some of the nuns raise their wine glasses in a toast. Tears pour down onto Livia's cheeks. Her mouth turns up into a smile.

Scene 10 Are You Getting Anything Worthwhile, Stanley?

Location: Surveillance van interior Seven Hills Restaurant parking lot, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

As soon as Stanley realizes people in the audience are banging chairs on the floor in addition to cheering and whistling and applauding. He turns the volume down on radio number two, in an effort to take the edge off the background noise from the melee.

Stanley glances up at Chuck Burke. The impatient look on the Chief's face tells Stanley it is time to find something worthwhile to record. Burke nods at everyone in the van while going eye to eye with Stanley. The Chief abandoned his hands on knees position a short while back. Now he sits with his arms crossed over his chest in the style of a Fascist dictator. Burke glares down at the younger man. He taunts Stanley from his precarious perch on the upside down plastic bucket.

"All you got so far is a home movie, Mister Craypool. ... Minus the picture."

Not surprising, Stanley feels a little bit anxious. He turns back to his radios and his map. Ricky Banez twists full around in the driver's seat of the van. Banez speaks to Chief Burke. But he is loud enough to include his friend Stanley and agents Parente and Terrano. The swarthy Mister Banez lays out the details of their precarious situation.

"We've got four more chances to get Sally on tape, Chief. But there's no guarantee. Because they got a couple dozen tables in the room."

Stanley bites his lower lip. He turns down the volume on radio number one. The Electrical Engineer can feel the eyes of the other men in the van on the back of his neck. Stanley stares at the map on his knee for a good long while. He searches for inspiration.

On a hunch, Craypool turns up the volume on his third unit. The radio receiving from the transmitter Ricky placed at a table for ten on the right hand side of the Magnolia room. While Stanley looks on, the signal strength meter on the radio runs up and down in a random, somewhat relaxed manner. Stanley's heart pounds in his chest.

For a few minutes, the noise coming across the speaker is exactly that, noise. Then, as the mourners in the Magnolia room quiet down. Stanley imagines he can hear high-pitched voices filled with enthusiasm.

Suddenly everyone in the van gives out with a startle response. They hear a long giggle coming across the speaker of scanner radio, number three.

"Might be high school girls and college girls." Suggests Mister Terrano to the other men in the van. "Sounds like my three."

Confirmation of Terrano's educated guess is not long in coming. Soon the surveillance team catches the unmistakably adolescent phrase.... "Car keys." Mouthed in the voice of a young man. Stanley nods his head and makes an entry in his notebook. He glances up at Banez. There is a compliment on his lips.

"You got the first three right, Mister Banez!" Craypool turns the volume down on radio number three all the way to the peg. It is time to move on.

Ricky placed each of the three remaining surveillance radios at tables for six. The odds are about even. Stanley decides to listen in on the radios in numerical order. Craypool turns up the volume on unit four. Ricky speaks to the other men on the team.

"It's even money now. The last three tables are all the same size."

The signal strength meter on the fourth radio moves in a very sluggish manner. Meaning there is not much more than a few decibels of input to the microphone concealed in one of the cattails of the floral display. Stanley Craypool shakes his head. He can think of nothing to say. After a bit, David Parente shrugs his shoulders. Then he suggests.

"Priests and nuns would sit real quiet."

Stanley looks up at the Chief for instructions. It is the right thing to do. Chuck Burke says directly.

"Keep moving, Craypool. We can always go back to four."

Stanley nods at the Chief. He turns the volume down on radio four. Then he turns the volume up on radio five. On radio number five, the needle on the signal strength meter jerks back and forth with real vigor. Stanley says softly.

"Look at that needle peg! This bunch is living the good life!"

With the volume up on radio five, loud and boisterous voices fill the confines of the van. Male and female intermingled.

Stanley Craypool looks up at Parente and Terrano. "Well?"

First Parente and then Terrano shake their heads. Terrano observes.

"I'm hearing the same male voices for a second and third time. Nobody sounds like Barberini."

Stanley Craypool does not wait for Burke to tell him to move on to the sixth and last radio. As he twirls the volume knob clockwise, the van fills with male voices, male voices alone. Stanley recognizes no one. Seems to him four or five people are involved in at least two separate conversations. Just then, Banez's eyes light up. He exclaims.
"That's Barberini's voice for sure."

"Get it on tape Craypool!" Barks the Chief. "Get it on tape."

Stanley Craypool plugs the sound input cable from the second tape recorder into the sound output jack on the sixth and last scanner radio. Then he very quickly pushes down on the red record button.

Scene 11 Nick Castelli Gets A Word In With The Don

Location: Magnolia Room of the Seven Hills Restaurant, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Just as Stanley starts his tape recorder, the visitor's chair on Don Sally's table clears of a petitioner. Nick Castelli steps forward from out of the waiting crowd. Targioni Barberini looks up at Nick from his seat next to Sally's lawyer, Mister Irving Shusterman. Though a subtle frown rests at the corners of his mouth, Barberini gestures for Nick to take a seat. Mister Castelli puts his coat on the back of the empty chair next to Eric Bond. He takes the chair on Mister Barberini's left hand side. Castelli fingers his hat under the table. Nick says to Barberini.

"I just need to speak to the Don for a few minutes. That's all it is."

Bulls Eye Barberini nods at Nick. Nick Castelli turns to his left. His gaze passes over Irv Shusterman's face with a hasty, predatory motion. His beady black eyes come to rest on Don Salvatore Frederico Mustalaro. Don Mustalaro has his fingertips on the stem of a wine glass half filled with spumante. His manicured fingertips move the vessel around in small circles on the white tablecloth with an absent-minded air.

Nicks face holds a perfectly neutral expression. Castelli leans forward towards the Don just a small ways.

"This is a bad time, Don Mustalaro. I apologize. But before the tragedy Bobby and Phil Gotella came by my place."

Nick Castelli shrugs his shoulders. His head bobs left and right in small obsequious motions. The Don nods at Mister Castelli. Nick has permission to speak.

"They bragged to me about getting both the money and the drugs. They told me things about the father of two of the punks. Not the Mexicans. The rich kids from Columbia."

While Nick pleads with the Don, the other men at the table lean forward and in his direction, Eric Bond, Don Mustalaro, Irv Shusterman the lawyer, and Targioni Barberini.

Castelli knows he is handling things just the right way. Nick swallows on a dry mouth and continues.

"What I know makes me sure I can get to the rich kid's father in Bogotá. Settle the score. And get clean away. Like I did for you in Brooklyn."

Sally Mustalaro nods his head while he studies Nick's eyes, and the way Nick's words form up on his lips. The Don raises the fingertips and palm of his right hand just a few inches off the table. This is his 'Stop Sign' gesture. Nick Castelli snaps to attention in his chair. The Don leans forward on his forearms.

"Brooklyn is a tank of gas from here. You take **276** to **95**. Then you pay a toll to cross the Verrazano Bridge. That gets you from Staten Island to the Bay Ridge Parkway. In Brooklyn, you have to find a parking space. That's the hard part."

Nick Castelli nods in agreement with the Don. He pauses for just a moment. Nick struggles to give the impression he has not rehearsed the things he is about to say. Targioni Barberini starts tapping the corners of his box of cigarettes on the table before him. Nick glances over, he cannot see the label on Barberini's cigarettes. This because the older man's huge hand and its contents lay hidden from view, beneath a grey porcelain vase containing an arrangement of artificial flowers and plants. Nick starts back on his narration.

"Anybody can see the Mexican's are more and more trouble. The last few years I've been planning things. Making some things in my tool shop, too. Like for example. I have a passport in another guy's name. A news reporter down in the city."

Now it is the Don's turn to try to appear casual and disinterested. He takes a sip from his glass of sparkling white wine. Then he throws another stumbling block into Nicks face.

"The laws are all different down there. Street signs in Spanish."

Nick Castelli has been around long enough to realize the Don is testing him. He brings his fedora up to the top of the table. He places the hat next to Eric's empty glass of wine. Nick folds his hands on the table, behind the vase filled with flowers and a hidden microphone. Castelli's lips are just a few inches removed from the microphone concealed in the cat tails while he delivers his petition. In a very, very polite voice he argues.

"Respectfully, Don Mustalaro. People are the same way everywhere. What the cops fell for in Brooklyn. The cops will fall for in Bogotá."

Eric Bond decides to jump into the discussion. His ego smarts from the morning's tug of war with Nick over the issue of who should carry Jimmy's coffin to the grave. Eric wanted very much for Mister Shusterman the attorney to have the honor of standing at Jimmy's left shoulder on the coffin, directly across from the Don. For you see, Eric has plans for a law school career. He is not just an ordinary soldier like 'Derek Peters'.

"What are you talking about - Brooklyn? Mister Castelli."

Asks the young man. Sarcasm drips off his tongue as he pronounces Nick's family name.

Nick glances anxiously at the Don. There is no disapproval in the Don's eyes. Castelli turns towards Barberini. His eyes meet with a nod towards the attorney sitting between Don Mustalaro on his right and Targioni Barberini on his left. Nick leans forward to explain Brooklyn to Mister Shusterman. Nick hopes Eric Bond will feel excluded from the conversation.

"I took Bobby and Phil's old man, Joey Gotella, with me to Remsen Avenue. Mister Shusterman. Near Canarsie. We had some problem people up there. The thing got dragged out. Long enough for squad cars to show up all over the place."

Irving Shusterman's eyes widen as Nick's casual words fall onto his ears. The Attorney at Law laces his fingers together. Then he brings his hands up and taps his thumbnails on his lips for a short while.

Morbid curiosity wins the battle against his better judgment. Irv Shusterman can stand the silence no longer. He says simply.

"Finish the story."

Nick nods at the attorney. He places his hands flat, palms down on the tablecloth.

"In them old days the Romans, that's what they used to call Italian's, had a custom. Called the De Votuey."

Targioni Barberini clears his throat and clarifies. ..... "De Votio, Nick."

"O. K., O. K. . . De Votio. Anyway, when the Romans was losing a battle, one of the guys would strip off his clothes and jump on a horse. Pushing into the other army and hacking away with a sword until he got killed. Kind of like psychology. The other side gets the idea your side ain't afraid to die."

Mister Shusterman has a puzzled look on his face. It is difficult for him to see the linkup between ancient history and the modern day borough of Brooklyn, New York. Distant and cool, the Mustalaro crime family attorney queries.

"How did it work in Brooklyn, Mister Castelli?"

Nicholas J. Castelli grins from ear to ear. He decides to ignore the tiny voice inside his head, urging him to stay nonchalant. Mister Castelli leans over further towards his audience. His mouth comes to rest an inch or two above a cattail in the floral display sitting in the middle of the round table.

"I modernized the whole thing. Mister Shusterman. In Brooklyn I shot Joey Gotella low down in the back. When you do that the guy can't move. Either he stands up stiff or he falls to his knees. The only thing left for him to do is keep shooting at the cops. Then you get away. It's a guaranteed free ride when you take a De Votio along with. Guaranteed free ride."

Irv Shusterman's jaw drops open just a little ways. For once in his life, the wealthy attorney is speechless. Nick turns to Don Salvatore. His voice crows in triumph.

"I need a hundred thousand Don Mustalaro. A hundred and a half... two hundred ... would be better."

Sally Mustalaro's brow knits up in amazement. He shakes his head and counters.

"How much does an airplane ticket cost?"

Nick Castelli sighs. In a polite and intense voice, he lays out his plans.

"I have to take a De Votio with me. That doubles the expenses. I need flash money. For payoffs. Things like that. The guy I'm taking has to think I'm gonna set him and his girl up in Sicily for a year or two."

Sally Mustalaro brings his manicured fingertips together on the stem of his wineglass. He turns to Irv Shusterman, seated at his left.

"Can you find that much money?"

Irv Shusterman shakes his head slowly from right to left. He replies.

"We won't have that kind of cash reserves for maybe a year or two. Jimmy had every penny in those four briefcases. Every penny."

Nick Castelli realizes he is at a dead end from the tone in Shusterman's voice and the look on Don Mustalaro's face. It is pointless to continue with his proposal. Nick takes his coat off the back of the chair on his left. While he rises to his feet, he says.

"Thank you for the time."

Nick bows slightly at the waist, towards the Don, Mister Shusterman, and Targioni Barberini. He completely ignores Eric Bond. Last, Mister Castelli makes his way out of the room. He wends through the crowd of mourners, like a wolf through a pack of sheep.

Scene 12 I'm Home, Ma!

Location: Esther Gotella residence, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Lonny Makowski puts the floor mounted chrome shift lever of Candy's Buick Riviera into reverse. He eases his foot off the brake pedal of Candy's brand new luxury automobile. The Buick Riviera rolls backwards a scant few feet. Lonny rolls the steering wheel all the way over to the extreme left. Then he shifts the transmission to the drive position. Slowly, very slowly, the big car moves forward and to the left. Again, the lanky young man turns the steering wheel, this time all the way over to the right.

Mister Makowski puts the shift lever into reverse. He stops to swear under his breath as a too long ash from his cigarette falls onto the lapel of his black woolen suit coat. At long last, he drives the car full backwards, easing it all the way into the parking space of the tiny garage behind the Gotella family two story brownstone. The cramped garage sited not very far away from Haverford Avenue and 52nd Street.

Lonny climbs out of Candy's car and slams his door shut. He pulls down on the garage door with a sweeping motion of his strong right arm. Squealing noises fill the tiny alley behind the two-story house. Candy and her children, Adam and Melissa, alight from the Buick Riviera. Candy shuts the passenger side door. She bends at the knees to have a look at her children. Candy sees Adam and Melissa have slightly nervous looks in their eyes. Their mouths, however, seem firm and steady.

Candy stands up and puts a hand behind each of her children's heads. She brings Adam and Melissa up close and tight. While looking down into their soft brown eyes, she speaks in a soothing and conciliatory voice.

"The balloons are real nice. Do you kids like the balloons?"

Adam and Melissa smile warily into their mother's eyes. The memory of their most recent scolding is still fresh in their minds. They glance upwards at their two shiny helium filled balloons. Adam's balloon bears the cartoon image of Yosemite Sam, Melissa's balloon, the graceful form of Snow White.

Lonny opens the door to the garage. The party of four starts the trek up the sidewalk running next to the manicured back yard of the Esther Gotella brownstone.

Candy holds tight to her little ones as the distance to the kitchen windows at the back of the house becomes less and less. She keeps an anxious eye on the window in front of the sink. If the curtain pinches back at the bottom, her mother is watching. If the curtain pinches back at the top, on the other hand, her uncle is on the alert.

Candy sees a slight motion of the curtain, more near to the top than the bottom. "It's Uncle Leo." Candy Gotella says softly. Her stomach tightens up in fear. Her hands grow cold on her children's shoulders.

Lonny opens the aluminum screen and wooden kitchen doors, one after the other. Soon Candy feels the warmth of the kitchen air on her face. She steers her anxious little charges through the dining room on the right. Rather than pass through the darkened hallway. Uncle Leo is the first person to come into view.

Esther Gotella's baby brother sits legs up, on a green vinyl reclining chair, located in the southwest corner of the living room. The chair rests between a floor lamp on a wooden pole bearing a plain conical shade, and a tall messy pile of newspapers. Uncle Leo has a newspaper in his hands. The paper conceals most of his plaid shirt from view but reveals his face. Adam and Melissa tip toe past the edge of the dining room table. Uncle Leo looks up at the group with a quizzical stare. He pretends surprise at their arrival. Leo is making believe he has not been peering at them from behind the curtains in the kitchen window just seconds ago.

When Lonny Makowski sees Leo, he forces a thin smile onto his face. He moves up behind the children. Adam and Melissa halt at the sight of Uncle Leo. Lonny greets the rumpled older man with a neighborhood style salutation.

"Leo! How's it going big guy?"

Leo glances up at Lonny. He grants Candy's boyfriend nothing more than a nod and a delicate rattling noise from his newspaper as he lowers the paper down towards his lap.

Candy raises her voice to speak over the noise of an evening game show on the television set. "I'm home, ma."

Candy's mom, Esther Gotella pushes the right wheel of her wheel chair forward and the left wheel back. A warm smile fills her face as she turns towards her daughter and her grandchildren.

Mrs. Gotella holds her arms out open wide. She looks all the more slender in the baggy sleeves of her pale blue quilted house coat. With shining eyes she says.

"Come and give your grandmother a hug. I missed you two."

Adam and Melissa walk directly to either side of their grandmother's wheel chair. Their tiny little footsteps respectful and eager at one and the same time. The children's shiny balloons bob in the air above their heads. Esther plants warm and wet kisses on both of their cheeks.

Adam squirms away from his grandmother's grasp. He is seven years old and just beginning to resist displays of affection from female relatives. Esther lets Adam wriggle loose. She turns to focus her attention on Melissa. Candy's mother hugs the five year old. Esther smiles into her granddaughter's eyes.

Esther smoothes Melissa's hair. She moves it up away from her eyes and behind her delicate ears, with the nicotine stained fingers of her right hand. Just then Esther discovers an angry red welt on the left side of Melissa's face. A fresh wound extending from the angle of the little girl's jaw on up to her ear.

"You hit this little girl?" Esther Gotella barks at her daughter Candy in a cold hard voice.

Candy brings her black patent leather purse up from her side to her waistline in front. She fingers the leather strap with nervous gestures. Then she swallows and tries to meet her mother's angry gaze. Candy forces a matter of fact tone into her voice.

"They went overboard Ma. I didn't hit Melissa. I just had to stop the two of them from fighting."

Esther Gotella takes Melissa by the waist with both hands. She moves her granddaughter to a spot on the rug in front of her wheelchair. As if, the five-year-old girl was an exhibit in a courtroom drama. Esther's brow wrinkles up. Her eyes glare at Candy in anger. Mrs. Gotella looks up from her chair. She scolds her middle daughter.

"Where did you learn to do this? You're father and I spanked you when you miss behaved. No one ever slapped you on the face. Never. Not one time."

Candy looks down at the worn rug on the floor in shame. She has both hands on the strap of her purse as if it were a lifeline. Her face turns an ever-deepening shade of red.

Lonny moves to stand behind Candy. Mister Makowski cocks his arms at the elbows. Lonny glances towards Leo. He sees Esther's brother hiding his face behind his newspaper. Lonny swallows, his Adams apple bobs up and down. He looks down at Candy's mother in her wheelchair.

"The kids were fighting in the back seat, Esther. Candy didn't slap Melissa, Adam did."

Lonny pleads for mercy for his girlfriend Candy. Esther stares at him with a sad expression on her tired and care worn face. She looks for the entire world like the supervisor on a jury. Weighing and measuring in her mind's eye all of the evidence brought forth by the defense. Mrs. Gotella winces when Lonny refers to her by her first name. A reaction Lonny picks up on and tries to counter by adding.

"Sorry. I mean Mrs. Gotella."

Esther Gotella glares up at Lonny from her seat on her wheel chair. Then she rolls her wheelchair right up to the tips of Candy's shoes. Esther grabs both arms on the chair to bring herself to the upright position. She folds her pale blue quilted housecoat closed, right side over left. Last, Esther shakes the nicotine-stained index finger of her right hand under her daughter's nose.

"Candace is a name from the bible! The name of a queen! That's how you were raised!"

Candy turns her head to the side. She looks away from her mother and her uncle Leo and towards the television set. She lets out with a sigh.

"Ma. ... Candy is a modern name. The bible is real long ago. They had names like Rebecca in the old days."

Esther Gotella shakes her nicotine stained index finger under her daughter's nose for a second time. Still angry she shouts.

"It's in the bible little girl! Look it up!"

Lonny Makowski takes a step towards the center of the room, placing him next to Esther's end table. From this vantage point, Lonny can see both the angry mother and the shamed daughter in profile. He pleads with his eyes and posture. He remarks.

"It was Candy's idea to buy Adam and Melissa the balloons, Mrs. Gotella. Keeping them out too late was what we did wrong. She washed their faces real good in the restaurant."

Candy looks down at her mother. First off, her gaze falls on Esther's grey blond hair. Next, on the too prominent veins on the backs of both of her hands, and finally, on a pair of bare legs ending in toenails covered with old, chipped paint. Candy knows her mother will settle for nothing less than an apology. In a very soft voice, she says.

"I'm sorry I kept the kids out too late, Ma. It won't ever happen again. I promise."

More than the words, it is the little girl tone in her daughter's voice, which finally cools Esther's rage. Candy's mom sits back in her chair. She grabs first for the arms of the wheelchair and then for the wheels. Esther rolls her wheelchair back away from the confrontation with Candy. She raises her glance to survey the mood in the room. Staring this way and that she sees Candy looks ashamed, Lonny embarrassed, and Adam and Melissa a little frightened. Leo remains hidden behind the pages of his newspaper, a fence between himself and the real emotions of everyday life.

As the evening hour turns from seven to eight. The game show on the television set goes into dissolve. Soon replaced by a police show that is everybody's favorite in the Esther Gotella household. Rousing theme music comes over the speakers in the television. Leo puts down his paper. He walks through the dining room to the refrigerator in the kitchen. During his absence, Candy takes off her mother's black wool coat and hangs it up in the closet. Then she helps Adam out of his navy ski jacket, and Melissa out of her green Easter Sunday coat. Shiny balloons float to the ceiling as the children shed their garments.

Lonny sits down on the couch, at the end most near to Uncle Leo's reclining chair. Candy smoothes the seat of her brand new black wool cocktail dress. She lowers her shapely form to the space beside Lonny. Last, Candy crosses her legs at the ankles. Adam and Melissa climb on the couch next to their mother, with charming little boy and girl motions.

Esther Gotella watches her grandchildren settle down and grow calm with loving eyes. She wheels her chair around in a bare space on the living room rug, a little in front of the couch. The rolling, sliding motion brings her face to face with the television set. As soon as the people on the couch see Esther settle into her position for the evening. They slide this way and that on the couch to gain an unobstructed view of the television screen.

Leo returns from the kitchen through the dark hallway. He has quart bottles of beer in both hands and another tucked under his arm.

"I guess it's about time for a brew."

Lonny nods. His Adam's apple moves up and down as he swallows on a dry mouth. Lonny holds up his left hand without taking his eyes away from the television. He is at the ready position for a quart of ice-cold brew. Mister Makowski takes a bottle from Leo. He twists the cap off and into his hand. Lonny smiles and drinks with obvious relish. Esther shakes her trembling hands and frowns.

"Just put some in a glass for me. Just a glass full." Leo makes his way back to the kitchen. He shouts. "Do you want anything, Candy?"

Candy uncrosses her legs. She pulls her dress down over her knees in a gesture of modesty. Candy replies loudly, it is a struggle to be heard over the television set.

"Same as Ma, Leo. I just want a glass full too."

Leo returns with the drink orders and a large bag of chips. The group sits eating, drinking and watching TV in silence until the first commercial. Leo turns down the volume using his hand held remote. Esther wheels around in her chair to face Candy. With sparkling eyes, she asks.

"How did Livia look?"

Candy avoids her mother's eyes and sighs. It hurts to be reminded. Finally, she answers.

"Real expensive in all black, ma. Somebody loaned her modern shoes. So she didn't look so old country."

Esther picks up on the the quiet in Candy's voice, but she reads her daughter the wrong way. Esther assumes Candy feels ashamed for scolding Adam and Melissa. Esther has no way of knowing her daughter and her grandchildren were turned away at the doors of the Noviziato funeral home. Esther is mislead by her daughter's silence. Her elderly blue eyes continue to sparkle. In a rising voice, head bobbing up and down, she queries.

"Did you talk to Nancy and Theresa? Theresa owns a gift shop now, you know."

Candy looks away from her mother's eyes. She pretends to be absorbed in the commercial message playing on the television screen. She bites her lower lip and then lies.

"Seven Hills was too crowded, Ma. We just went in to pay our respects."

Leo points his remote control at the set and works the volume button. The theme music for the police show fills the space of the living room. Candy cranes her neck towards the television set. She squirms her way out of the conversation. A girl to girl talk that might very well end up in a humiliating scene if it goes to conclusion.

Esther frowns. She stares at her daughter. Then she wheels back to face the television, rather than continue on with female talk. Esther takes a long sip from the glass of beer on the end table at her right side. She nibbles on potato chips, one after the other, for the rest of the evening.

Scene 13 Candy Has A Record Player In Her Bedroom

Location: Esther Gotella residence, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Once inside of Candy's bedroom, Lonny Makowski closes the door the way a bank president shuts the door on his vault. Lonny is hungry for his woman. He turns the thumb switch lock beneath the doorknob. Next, the young man tears off his suit coat, and tosses it onto the hook on the door. As he wheels around, he pulls off his shoes and drops them to the floor.

Socks peeled, he unhooks his belt and rushes his black wool pants to the floor. Next, Lonny pulls off his undershirt. Lonny goes up to Candy. He pants while he holds his woman close from behind. Candy fusses absentmindedly with her hair. She watches the image of her own beautiful face in the mirror on top of her dresser.

Candy feels Lonnie's rough hands exploring her breasts through the fabric of her black woolen dress. His lips press on her soft neck, first on the right, then on the left. In a bold move, the young man drops his right hand down to the hem of Candy's dress. Next, he works his way upward. He strokes her thighs and touches her through her white panties.

Candy gives out with a little moaning sound. She molds herself against his erect male organ. Lonnie's hand moves upward along Candy's flat stomach. He feels for her left breast, first through her bra, next, cupping her loveliness with the bra pushed rudely off to the side. Candy feels thrilled to the very marrow of her soul. She turns and kisses Lonny full on the lips. Between panting breaths, she says.

"Wait, you'll tear it." Then she holds him at arms length by his tight, bulging biceps.

Lonny stands near their bed like a boxer. Shoulders tense and with hands knotted up into fists. When Candy sees Lonny full from the front she rushes even faster with her black cocktail dress. Soon Lonny and Candy lay on Candy's bed. Lonny is naked. Candy wears black panty hose with white panties and bra. They kiss on the lips for a while as Lonny rubs his hard member against her soft flat stomach. Lonny unhooks her bra and throws it across the room. With feverish motions, he kisses and sucks on her nipples.

Candy reaches down with her hands to pull off her panty hose and panties. Lonny takes her by the wrists. He forces her to hold onto the headboard with her hands. Panting now, eyes glazed, he whispers.

"I get to do that!" Then he swiftly strips off her panty hose and panties.

Candy spreads her legs as Lonny lowers his muscular body onto her soft curvaceous frame. She brings her hand down to the space beneath her navel. Gently guiding his organ into the soft wet place where it belongs.

The young woman trembles in ecstasy while Lonny strokes her with wild abandon. They stop kissing as the power of raw carnal love floods through their bodies. On and on they mold to one another and then relax. Mold and relax. Mold and relax.

Finally, the moment arrives when Lonny can no longer hold back on his climax. Candy feels her man stiffen up tight as a board. She hears his heavy breathing transform to a primal groan. His muscles tense up from his fingertips to his toes. It is over! ..... Well, not really over. .... Rather, their lustful love is quenched, at least for the moment.

Lonny relaxes while lying on top of his woman. When his erection collapses, he rolls over onto his side of the bed. Still with his left hand on her breasts, he kisses Candy on the lips. Next, he forces his tongue inside of her mouth in a playful gesture. Candy giggles. She feels they might just as well be living in a castle owned by her father the king, rather than in her mother's rundown old brownstone on the west side of town.

Candy curls up like a little girl on her left side. She pulls the covers down and over herself and Lonny. While her boyfriend folds his hands behind his head, Candy gazes at his hard chin and high cheekbones. Then she reaches up and kisses him on the corner of his mouth. A few minutes pass. The man and woman lay there, Lonny stares up at the ceiling and Candy stares at Lonny. In the softest of all possible voices, Candy asks.

"Lonny?" Lonny turns his head. He says.

"Yeah babes. Is everything all right or something?" Candy smiles up at her boyfriend.

"Please turn my record player on. Please." Lonny swallows. He wonders if he can stand on his feet. He replies.

"Sure babes. Sure." With that, Lonny pulls the covers back and climbs out of bed.

Candy's record player sits with the lid open on top of her mirrored dresser. Lonny walks the few paces to the machine. He fumbles for the power switch in the darkness.

The machine gives out with a little hum. Lonny and Candy hear the sound of a needle scratching on vinyl. The well-muscled young man turns to walk back to Candy's bed. He stops in his tracks at Candy's next request.

"Lonny!" Lonny shakes his head. "Yeah babe. What else?"

"Please Lonny, please. Lift up the lever so it plays all night. Please!"

Lonny complies with Candy's request. He makes his way back to the bed.

Soon Candy Gotella's bedroom fills with the sounds of an all girl band. The lead singer's voice rising up, just a little bit wistful. As she ponders in soprano not too far removed from the key of F minor.

"Am I only dreaming, ... or is this burning, ... an eternal flame?"

CHAPTER TWO: ANDY HOWELL'S LEGAL PROBLEMS

Scene 14 "Got Some Papers For You, Major Howell."

Location: Action Officer's Station, Building C Suite 202, Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley Virginia

Years ago the higher ups in the Central Intelligence Agency made the decision to locate the Action Officer's Unit to a windowless suite of rooms in the C Building. The general idea, keep them an underclass so they will never think to raise a challenge to the thousands of- ' **L** ong **R** ange **P** lanners' making long range plans in other offices and laboratories in other buildings on the Langley Campus. For this reason alone, and there were more, Action Officers often mumbled the phrase 'bean counters' in reference to other agency employees.

Lacking windows, the men in the Action Officer's unit figure out the time of day in one of two ways. Either they look down at their wristwatches or they stick their noses up and sniff the air. In Suite 202 of the C Building, the smell of fresh coffee is a certain proof it is early in the morning on a weekday.

This particular Monday morning marks the first day back in the office for Major Andrew George Howell, Action Officer, the Central Intelligence Agency, and his wife, Karen Chesley Howell, Cryptographer, the Central Intelligence Agency. For the last two weeks, Andy and Karen have been bicycling around and through the countryside surrounding the metropolitan Washington D.C. area.

Donna Hespara fusses with a collection of the snap shots Andy and Karen took on their bicycling vacation under the watchful eyes of Andy and Karen, Colonel Henry Winston Wingate, Lieutenant Colonel Moses Anderson and Donna's husband, Bill Hespara.

The last color photograph is down on the gleaming walnut surface of the conference table in the center of the room. Donna looks up with a smile. The clock on the wall reads a quarter past nine. The suntans on Andy and Karen testify to the fact her best friends enjoyed a wonderfully relaxing idyll. Donna's lovely brown eyes come to rest on Karen's blue.

"We put up a family bulletin board in the church foyer. Are you willing to part with any of these?"

Donna's remark refers back to church services two weeks prior to today's date. When Andy and Karen took off on their vacation just after the ten AM service at Saint Didacus Catholic Church in Aspen Hills.

Karen nods and smiles at Donna. She holds her coffee cup to show off her suntan against her gold wedding band and engagement ring. Karen Chesley Howell glances first at Andy and then back at Donna. Karen says brightly.

"Andy's first job was to take my rolls of film to the drugstore. He's not done yet!"

Andy shakes his head back and forth. An expression of mock anger clouds his face. Nearly laughing, he exclaims.

"I didn't get married to do heavy lifting! Not my job description!"

Bill and Donna Hespara, Moses Anderson, and Colonel Wingate, break into smiles. They are in complete sympathy with Andy's situation, the small and pleasant duties and obligations of a happy marriage. While the group hovers over the photos on the conference table, the entranceway door to the Action Officer's suite swings wide open.

All eyes turn to a young man dressed in a Wackenhut security officer's uniform shirt and trousers. They see a nametag and set of epaulets on the shoulders of a light blue, short sleeve shirt. The group notes the young man has a large canvas messenger bag on his shoulder, and one hand on the outside doorknob. Unfortunately, his eyes look just the least bit grim. The young man says.

"Got some papers for a Major Andrew George Howell. Have to have a signature."

The young man wrestles his bag off his shoulder. At the same time, he walks gingerly towards the center of mass of the group.

Andy puts his coffee cup down on top of the copy machine lid. He strides to the front of his circle of friends. Major Howell forces himself to look relaxed and composed.

"That would be me."

The young man with the nametag passes a sheaf of legal sized papers into Andy's reluctant grasp. Next, he hands Andy a clipboard with a signature sheet. Andy digs around in his pockets for a pen. Nothing to write with! Andy turns to look at Moses Anderson.

Swift as a beam of light, a gold plated pen moves from Moses inner suit coat pocket to Andy's right hand. Andy sighs. Then he scribbles his full name onto the first empty line on the signature sheet. His heart pounds, his mouth is as dry as the sand on a beach.

Andy hands the clipboard back to the messenger. Then he returns the expensive pen to Moses. What has he got himself into?

Major Howell glances down at the papers. Andy sees a blue cover embossed with the emblem of the Central Intelligence Agency. In the center of the cover, he spies a head and shoulders view of an eagle with its beak cocked. Just this morning the bird seems to be angry at Major Howell. Andy feels as if the eagle is staring right into his eyes.

The fierce bird of prey rests just above a shield medallion. The medallion surrounds a gold embossed star. Sure looks official!

All eyes in the room catch the glint of fluorescent ceiling lights sparkling on the gold of the emblem as Andy turns the cover over to the first page. While Andy reads, the smiles on Bill and Donna's faces turn to worried frowns. They see the messenger back out of the room just as soon as he has Andy's signature. A certain sign of trouble in the immediate future!

The first page of the papers in Andy's hands are nothing more than a copy of the credo William J. Casey, Director of Central Intelligence, drafted more than a decade ago before he died of a brain tumor in 1987. Not surprising, Casey's words found their way onto nearly all the many forms and kinds of stationary unique to the Central Intelligence Agency. Nearly mumbling, Andy reads the last paragraph of Mister Casey's mission statement aloud.

"We get our inspiration and commitment to excellence from the inscription in our foyer: "And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.""

Andy rolls the credo over to the backside of the summons. A hard lump forms up in his throat as his eyes light on the first paragraph. He sighs and turns towards his friends. Andy's shoulders fall into a slump while he glances from one face to the next. For a while, Karen, Moses, Bill, and Donna meet his forlorn gaze with curious looks.

Colonel Henry Winston Wingate, in contrast to the other people in the room, seems preoccupied with the insides of his coffee cup. Nevertheless, Andy passes the sheaf of documents into his commander's reluctant hands. Major Howell explains.

"Chuck Burke is after me again. This time out of the Deputy Director's Office."

Colonel Henry Winston Wingate puts his coffee cup down on Andy's desk as he accepts the papers from Andy. He digs into the handkerchief pocket of his black suit for a pair of half moon bifocals.

Despite the sympathy in his heart, the Colonel's stentorian voice brings only worry and concern into the atmosphere of the large room while he reads, word for word.

" _Now comes the General Counsel of the Central Intelligence Agency in the matter of Major Andrew George Howell. Action Officer. Building C. Room 202. Headquarters, Langley Virginia. To the offices of the Deputy Director of Operations. With the demand that said officer Howell be dishonorably discharged, and forfeit all benefits, pay, and allowances. Under the following charges, violations, and specifications._

1. That Major Andrew George Howell did knowingly fashion a false identification card. Which he did then use to gain an illegal entry into the Communications Center located in the Headquarters Building of the Drug Enforcement Agency in Arlington, Virginia. (Exhibit A / identification card)

a. Whereupon, in said communications center, Major Howell did then commit an act of theft of intellectual property. Retrieving phone numbers and addresses from a database compiled for the sole and exclusive use of the Drug Enforcement Agency and it's various branches and officers. (Exhibit B / hand written notes)

2. That Major Andrew George Howell did then use a surreptitious listening device to identify the domicile housing persons merely suspected of having committed the felonious acts of drug dealing and murder. By name: Ali Leon, citizen of the republic of Mexico and sometime resident of Philadelphia, PA. The late Enrique Sinaloa. Citizen of the republic of Mexico. The late Francesco Simon Nayari. Citizen of the republic of Columbia. Sometime student in a university in Boston, MA. (Exhibit C / scanner radio, receipt as proof of purchase)

3. Then following Major Howell committed an illegal entry into said domicile. Forcing his way onto private property through a third story window with the agency of climbing ropes. (Exhibit D / ropes, harness, climbing hooks and fasteners)

a. And with the use of an incendiary / explosive device. Stolen with intent and malice of forethought. From a small arms weapons locker . Said locker located on the grounds of the Marine Corps base at Quantico, VA. (Exhibit E / grenade spoon handle and trigger mechanism. Fragments of exploded grenade body)

4. That Major Andrew George Howell did then fail in his duty as an Action Officer in the Central Intelligence Agency. As by his negligent method of arrest and with his own firearm:

a. The alleged perpetrator, Mister Ali Leon, did suffer firearms injuries to his right arm and scalp. (Exhibit F/ emergency room medical records)

b. The alleged perpetrator, Mister Enrique Sinaloa, did suffer firearms injuries to his left calf muscle, and right chest. The last mentioned injury causing the death of said victim. (Exhibit G / autopsy protocol)

c. The alleged perpetrator, Mister Francesco Simon Nayari, did suffer firearms injuries to his buttocks, left shoulder blade, and chest. The last mentioned injury causing the death of said victim. (Exhibit H / autopsy protocol)

Given the gravity and number of the offenses committed by the defendant. The fact that he knowingly and with callus disregard for the consequence of his actions. Did violate the founding charter of the Central Intelligence Agency promulgated in 1947. Which specifically forbids Para-police actions on the part of agency members within the geographical confines of the United States of America. In addition, did violate paragraphs four and five of the credo of 1984. Again with intent and malice of forethought. The Office of Chief Counsel demands that the Deputy Director of Operations summarily issue a discharge from service to Major Andrew George Howell. Stating the circumstances to be nothing less than dishonorable.

Ronald Bruce Haynes, J.D., Attorney for the Office of Chief Counsel,

Headquarters, Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, VA

Professor of Criminal and International Law,

Georgetown University, Washington, D. C. . "

Everyone in the room lets out with a sigh. Colonel Wingate folds the summons closed. He places it in the 'in' box on the top of Andy's desk. All eyes follow the document into its resting place. No one is able to look Major Andrew George Howell in the eye. Andy's wife Karen- breaks the silence. Karen is bewildered, she asks.

"What is this all about? Can they really do that?"

Colonel Wingate turns to look Andy straight in the eyes. Over the half moon lenses of his bifocals, with the rich bass timbre of the late Paul Robeson in his voice, he says.

"Burke tried to get Bruce Haynes to drag you in front of the Senate Intelligence Committee. I spent all last week taking meetings. Psychiatric testimony is un-impeachable, Andrew. Un-impeachable."

Scene 15 "Did Knowingly Fashion A False Identification Card"

Location: U. S. District Court, Pennsylvania Avenue and C Street, Washington, D. C.

Moses Anderson walks the few remaining paces to the witness stand. He holds a small plastic laminated card on edge between the thumb and fingers of his right hand. Lieutenant Colonel Anderson comes to a stop. He passes the card over the railing, into the hands of an intelligent looking young man with a nervous expression on his face.

Prudent as always, Moses glances down at the signal strength meter on the tape recorder, resting on a small side table at the front corner of the stand. Moses divides his attention between the witness and the volume gauge of the recorder. He queries.

"Do you recognize the identification card just handed to you? Mister Mesurra."

A minute or two passes while Michael Mesurra dutifully examines both sides of the card in response to Moses Anderson's question. He glances up at Moses. Mesurra meets the African American's eyes for an instant. Then the young law school student stares down at the floor. Michael's Adams apple bobs up and down, just above the knot in his rep stripe tie. He replies.

"Looks like the card the Major showed me, Colonel Anderson."

Moses nods and does his best to smile at Mister Mesurra. He is pleased with the motions of the needle on the signal strength meter of the tape recorder. Although, not completely satisfied by the unsure tone in the voice of the witness. Mister Anderson says.

"Looks like the card Major Howell presented to you? Or _\- is_ \- the card he used to gain entry to the communications center?"

Mister Mesurra starts to wonder about his plans to finish law school and become a practicing attorney. The real thing is proving a lot more nerve racking than mock trials in the classrooms at Georgetown. He clears his throat. Michael struggles to look Moses square in the eye.

"The picture's not so good. Major Howell is kind of average looking. But the signatures on the back. Joe Gomez and Dan Collins. I see those a couple times a week. There's no mistaking the signatures. I remember them distinctly."

Satisfied, Moses turns to look at Major Andrew George Howell. He sees Andy sitting bolt up right behind the polished expanse of the defendant's table. Jaw tight, hands folded on top of a collection of file folders. Andy looks self conscious and uncomfortable in his light tan poplin suit. With an eggshell colored dress shirt sporting a button down collar and a dark brown tie.

Andy gives out with a small sigh. He glances back and forth between Moses and the witness. Moses turns back to face Mister Michael Mesurra. After a quick glance down at a legal sized tablet of yellow paper, Moses asks Mister Mesurra.

"What do you have to say as concerns the Major's demeanor? Did he seem to bully you into giving him access to the computers in the communications center?"

Mister Mesurra responds to the question without a moment's hesitation.

"No Mister Anderson. He was sort of like. ... Persuading me to let him in."

Moses has to work to conceal his pleasure at the direct and honest nature of the young man's demeanor under examination on the stand. He locks his hands together in front of his waist. Lieutenant Colonel Moses Anderson asks the witness.

"Did Major Howell make any threatening remarks? Either to you. Or with reference to Mister Burke?"

Michael Mesurra shakes his head back and forth in the negative. He would like to sit there in silence but then he remembers the situation calls for a verbal response.

"He didn't try to scare me. You know, throw his weight around. But he gave the impression of being in a hurry. Kind of anxious looking."

Moses looks down at his notes once again. He rolls a few pages back to the front of the tablet and says. "Thank you Mister Mesurra."

Michael glances from Moses to the Judge and back again. Is he free to leave? Mister Mesurra grasps the arms of the witness chair in both hands.

"Is there a cross examination? Or am I free to go?"

Moses pushes his gold rimmed glasses back to the point above the bridge of his nose with an index finger. He drops the tablet in his hands to his side, and explains.

"This is an inquiry, Mister Mesurra. Not a trial. There's no need for a cross examination at this time."

Michael Mesurra lets the air out of his lungs and then stands to his feet. The law student makes his way through the gate of the witness stand. Michael stops in mid stride and looks briefly into Andy's eyes. An expression of curiosity spreads over Mister Mesurra's face. He shrugs his shoulders with his hands in his pockets.

Why are they doing this to Major Howell?

Michael walks past the empty visitor's chairs in the courtroom at an ever increasing pace. In a short while, Michael Mesurra is out through the massive oak door connecting to the corridor of the second floor of the Federal Building. Just then, Moses Anderson hits the stop button on his tape recorder.

Scene 16 "Did then use a Surreptitious Listening Device to Identify the Domicile Housing Persons Merely Suspected of Having Committed the Felonious Acts "...

Location: Hearing Chambers, Office of the Deputy Director for Operations, C.I.A. Headquarters, Langley Virginia

It is the day after Michael Mesurra testified in the federal court building on Pennsylvania Avenue and C Street. Mister Ronald Bruce Haynes, Attorney for the Office of Chief Counsel, swivels to his left in his chair. His eyes meet with the eyes of the hearing stenographer. She nods- Mister Haynes knows it is time to begin today's phase of the proceedings-

"In The Matter of Major Andrew George Howell, Action Officer, The Central Intelligence Agency."

Mister Haynes turns back to inspect the row of visitors and witness chairs, lined up in front of the Central Intelligence Agency seal. The seal hanging on the west wall of the hearing chambers, on the opposite side of the room, from where he sits behind the long conference table. Haynes demands the presence and testimony of the first witness in an officious voice.

"Robert Doremire. Mister Robert Doremire, please."

While Mister Haynes speaks, a man dressed in a tan and blue plaid sport coat makes his way from the visitors chairs to the end of the conference table. Before Mister Doremire takes his seat, he places two tape recorders and a file folder down on the table. Both Moses Anderson and Bruce Haynes pull back on their notes and records to make room for the exhibits brought in by the expert witness.

Mister Haynes taps his notes with the tip of a ballpoint pen. He says directly.

"Please state your name, sir. And then explain the nature of your evidence."

Mister Doremire's face breaks into a wide smile. This is the best part of his job, courtroom appearances and giving testimony.

"My name is Robert J. Doremire. I'm a voice recognition analyst at the National Security Agency. I often consult in cases of this kind."

After that terse statement of purpose, Mister Doremire presses the play button on the tape recorder resting on the conference table on his right hand side.

A soft hissing sound emanates from the speaker on the tape recorder for a few seconds. Then an angry male voice with a slight, high born Spanish accent fills the room.

"We got that bitch wife of yours, Howell. What did you do to my kid brother?"

Robert Doremire rewinds the tape. Then he goes eye to eye with the Chief Hearing Officer. Marcus Lee Randle nods at Mister Doremire. There is a perfectly neutral expression on Randle's face. The witness adds.

"The tape I just played was submitted to us identified as a recording from the telephone answering machine of a Major Andrew George Howell. Along with it, we received a second recording. Again identified to us as the property of Major Howell. With the specification that it was recorded off a portable, battery powered machine."

Mister Doremire glances about to see if there are any questions. The audience holds mute. He presses down on the play button on the tape recorder at his left hand. This second device rests more near to Moses Anderson than Attorney Haynes.

"3100 Clifton Street. Apartment 3A."

Says a male voice over the speaker. Everyone in the chambers realizes this second voice is identical in pitch and timbre to the voice recorded on Andy Howell's home answering machine. After a short pause, a female voice responds.

"Thank you for ordering from Bob and Tom's, Mister Nayari."

Bruce Haynes leans forward in his chair. Mister Haynes speaks over the whistling sound of Mister Doremire rewinding the second tape.

"Your analysis, sir. Your interpretation."

Robert Doremire pulls a sheet of paper from a folder. The voice analysis expert holds the paper up to the view of everyone seated at the hearing table. Andy Howell leans forward in his chair. He stares intently at the sheet of paper in Doremire's hands. Major Howell sees a trace recording, looking like nothing so much as the work product of a heart-monitoring machine.

Mister Doremire testifies with the smooth manner of a knowledgeable expert witness. He points here and there on the paper with the tip of a pencil while he explains.

"Voice analysis is a young science. We work pretty much along the lines of the fingerprint people. Looking for similarities."

"Then coming up with a point score. In this case the estimate is ninety-five percent confident, both male voices are the same. The one from the home answering machine, and the second from the battery powered tape recorder."

The expert witness looks carefully at each of the men seated at the table. It is obvious he is eager to take questions. Colonel Wingate pulls his hand away from his chin. In his deep resonant voice, he asks.

"May we hear the first tape again, please?"

Mister Doremire nods at the Colonel from across the table. Then he presses down on the play button of the recorder at his right hand.

"We got that bitch wife of yours, Howell. What did you do to my kid brother?"

Colonel Beauregard Morgan lets the air out of his lungs at the sound of the angry and threatening words. The crusty Colonel wears dress greens for the occasion of Andy Howell's hearing. The space above the left pocket on his coat filled completely with campaign ribbons, awards, and commendations. There is no doubt but that he has been in uniform for a long, long time and seen his share of the action.

Bo Morgan sits in a chair perched between Moses Anderson on his right and Colonel Wingate on his left. Marine Corps Colonel Morgan gives out with a loud ruminating mutter.

"I'd call that probable cause! That's what I'd call a threat like that!"

Colonel Morgan is right on the money, but he is also out of order. Marcus Lee Randle, Assistant to the Deputy Director of Operations, sits bolt upright. Mister Randle taps the tip of his pen on the table as if it were a gavel. He glares at Colonel Morgan from across the table.

Randle moves his head angrily in the direction of the man in the uniform. Colonel Morgan's face goes beet red in response to Randle's hostile stare. Morgan drops his gaze to his campaign hat. The Colonel thinks, " _God damn ambulance chasers! God damn second guessing pencil pushing bean counters!"_

Moses Anderson transfers his attention from Mister Randle, at the opposite side of the table, to Mister Doremire, seated at his immediate right. In an even, level voice, he inquires.

"Mister Doremire, sir. Is it possible to read anger or threats from voice recognition technology?"

Robert Doremire frowns and shakes his head back and forth. He replies.

"No sir, Colonel Anderson. We're not there yet. What you get out of the tones and phrases is what we get. We have yet to come up with an analytical method for measuring state of mind. Not yet, anyway."

As soon as Mister Doremire finishes speaking, Moses Anderson shakes his head at Mister Haynes. Anderson and Haynes sit directly across from one another at the hearing table. Anderson's wordless gesture means, of course, - "No more questions for the witness."

Bruce Haynes nods at Moses Anderson. He turns towards the witness chair on his left.

"Thank you Mister Doremire." Then, with a quick look for approval from Mister Randle, Mister Haynes adds.

"Our next witness is a firearms and explosives expert. Presently on assignment with the Inspector General's office. Down on the third floor. That would be a Mister Vernon H. Karnes."

Scene 17 "As by his Negligent Method of Arrest and with His Own Firearm"

Location: Hearing Chambers, Office of the Deputy Director for Operations, C.I.A. Headquarters, Langley Virginia

Andy Howell's eyes grow wary, maybe just a bit frightened as he follows Mr. Karnes' motions across the broad expanse of the hearing chambers. Karnes begins his journey by rising out of the seat just to the left of Senator Gilbert Blaney. He walks easily through the hinged door separating spectators from witnesses. Then he makes his way to the chair at the head of the conference room table. The chair just vacated by the National Security Agency voice analysis expert, Mister Robert Doremire.

Vernon Karnes pulls on the back of the witness chair at the conference table. Robert Doremire passes out of the chambers through the double oaken doors at the back of the room. Just then, the portly and expertly tailored figure of Doctor Edgar Coolidge, M. D., Chief Psychiatrist for the Central Intelligence Agency, fills the entranceway.

Andy groans at the unexpected appearance of one of his archenemies. Major Howell leans forward and mutters to Colonel Morgan.

"The talking pile of clothes has arrived. They're gonna go all the way back to my childhood."

Colonel Morgan stays stoical. Yet he knows how Andy feels. The Colonel twists around in his seat. He recognizes the man in the grey three-piece suit from the garden party at Senator Newville's home. While the Colonel looks on, Doctor Coolidge takes the visitor's chair between Senator Eustace Newville and Senator Gilbert Blaney. Coolidge nods and smiles at both senators in a familiar manner. As if they were frequent golfing companions. He hands each of the Senators a copy of his business card. Last, the good doctor looks towards Ronald Bruce Haynes and nods. "Let the games begin!" his gestures seem to say.

The doctor's pompous mannerisms goad Andy Howell into a reaction. He leans forward towards the Marine Corps Colonel. Andy opens his mouth to make a sarcastic remark. Just then, Colonel Henry Winston Wingate, sitting between Andy and Colonel Morgan, leans towards Andy's right ear and whispers harshly.

"Major Howell!" Andy shuts his mouth. He slumps back into his chair, on the opposite side of the long table from the witness.

Andy blinks. He turns his attention to the matter at hand. Major Howell looks down the long table. He sees a man in a light green shirt and color co-coordinated tie, sitting upright in the chair at the other end of the table. Mister Vernon H. Karnes sports a fresh crew cut. He has a rich southern drawl, and a cardboard box lying open on his lap.

Mister Haynes taps his pen on the table. He says- "Mister Karnes, your testimony, please."

Mister Karnes nods and smiles. He clears his throat into his fist and starts to speak.

"I have to just estimate, Mister Haynes. You don't always find as many rounds as was fired off."

With that remark, Mister Karnes retrieves a sheet of paper from the box on his lap and starts reading.

"Caliber Nine millimeter. Twenty three bullets recovered. All round nosed and jacketed. Lands and grooves matching the test rounds fired from Major Howell's personal firearm. A Browning Hi Power with a stainless steel finish and a gold plated trigger."

On the words "gold plated trigger", Doctor Coolidge rises to his feet in a thunder storming haste. Nearly shouting he exclaims.

"Gold plated trigger! ... Was the firearm modified in any other way? Pearl handled grips? ... Notches cut into the metal?"

Vernon Karnes swallows hard at the psychiatrist's angry remarks. Karnes has been through any number of hostile cross-examinations. He knows how to respond to the pompous. Vernon realizes Edgar Coolidge is bent on portraying Andy's healthy interest in the shooting sports as some sort of a sick sadomasochistic fetish.

Karnes looks directly into the glowering eyes of the man standing livid at the other side of the hearing chamber. A man so overweight his profile blocks Karnes view of the great seal of the Central Intelligence Agency. Vernon folds his hands stiff and tight on the tabletop.

"No sir. The stainless steel model comes with a gold plated trigger. And adjustable target sights. Major Howell's weapon is standard out of the box. No modifications whatsoever."

All eyes watch with pleasure as the rage leaves the good doctor like hot air from a ruptured balloon. Coolidge lowers himself to his seat. Ronald Bruce Haynes' shoulders slump in sympathy with Doctor Coolidge's loss of position.

The truth of the matter is a good deal darker than it would seem. Coolidge is after Andy Howell because the good doctor wrote a psychological profile on one of the perpetrators, a Mister Broderick Knowles from Minneapolis Minnesota. In the profile, based on interviews and psychological tests, Coolidge took the position Knowles had no potential for violence, none whatsoever.

Coolidge sent a copy of the report to Chief Drug Enforcement Agency Agent Charles L. Burke. Based on that report, Mister Burke went after Knowles with too few men, too lightly armed. The outcome, an afternoon long gun battle in which two of Burke's men were shot and one later died of his injuries. Coolidge wants the whole thing under the rug. He has a desperate need to make Andy Howell the villain in this piece of theater!

Haynes taps loudly on a file folder with the tip of his solid gold pen. Then he nods at Mister Karnes, granting the ballistics expert permission to continue with his testimony.

"Forty five caliber, forty nine rounds recovered. All hollow points. Lands and grooves matching up with two of the four MAC-10's found at the scene. These bullets identical with the ones from Mexico. Where the four nuns was killed. And the one pistol, rounds the same as from up in Philadelphia."

"Do you want the serial number Mister Haynes?"

Asks Mister Karnes in the most polite courtroom voice he can muster. Mister Haynes glances over at Mister Randle. What should he do?

"That won't be necessary, Mister Karnes." Replies Marcus Lee Randle from the other side of the table. Mister Karnes continues.

"Two two three caliber. That's from an M-16 rifle. Not a handgun. Two rounds recovered. Standard military police issue. Matches up with the D. E. A. weapon identified at the scene."

Mister Karnes drops his report to the tabletop and looks up and across the room. There are no hands up in the air, so he continues.

"Thirty eight special. Five rounds recovered. Jacketed round nosed. These was Drug Enforcement Agency issue. Like with the rifle."

Mister Karnes looks up once again. He is ready for questions. Next, he puts his report back in the box on his lap. A moment later, a clear plastic bag dangles from his hand. The ballistics expert shakes the bag up and down.

"Next item. Grenade fragments. What you see here is a spoon handle. Twisted up firing mechanism. And what they call metal shards. Formed up when the device explodes. The firing pin turned up on the grass in front of the building. Next to where the ropes tied to the chimney on the roof was dragging on the ground."

Mister Karnes fingers the firing pin through the plastic of the bag with his left hand. Glancing about, he sees Lieutenant Colonel Moses Anderson has a question.

"Mister Karnes, Sir, Will you tell us please? How powerful a weapon this is?"

"Flash bang grenades aren't supposed to hurt anybody." Replies Vernon Karnes.

"They give off with a real bright light and a loud bang. Makes the target go blind for a few minutes. And he can't hear anything. Not for a while, anyways."

Moses nods at Mister Karnes. Vernon twists to the right to check on the stenographer. He sees the woman's fingers are relaxed and poised. Vernon's next move is a glance at Mister Haynes. He is asking for permission to continue with his narrative. Ronald Bruce Haynes shakes his head up and down. It is obvious he likes testimony based on physical evidence.

Mister Karnes returns the bag and its grenade parts back to his box. He pulls up a white cardboard sign. The sign is frayed and tattered at the edges. Karnes holds the sign high above his head. He reads, and points with his right index finger.

SISTERS OF SAINT CHRISTINA

MOBILE NURSING UNIT

Colonel Wingate leans forward in his chair. There is a sense of urgency in his voice. "The location of the sign, Mister Karnes? Will you please indicate where the sign was discovered?"

"Stuck on the wall of the back bed room, Colonel Wingate. Just above the tent where they was keeping the female hostage."

Mister Karnes looks directly into Colonel Wingate's eyes as he speaks. Everyone in the hearing chambers sees the horrific implications in this last piece of evidence. Vernon hears Moses Anderson in his left ear.

"Mister Karnes. Would you say that the sign was visible through the windows of the apartment?"

As the words sink into Vernon's mind, he lowers the bottom edge of the sign to the tabletop. His brow knits up for a long full minute. He bites his lower lip. Then he answers.

"From the ground, no Sir Colonel Anderson. It wouldn't be. But hanging on the climbing ropes. Sure. You could see it easy through the window. Hanging from the ropes."

Colonel Morgan's face breaks into a wide, paternal grin. He glowers at Marcus Lee Randle while nodding his head up and down.

"That's how I train em! Hot extraction or cold. Use your head on the way in!"

A look of annoyance grows on Bruce Haynes face as Morgan's remark spreads across the room. He swivels hastily towards the stenographer and issues an order.

"Strike that remark, please. As improper."

Mister Vernon Karnes is in a precarious position, is he dismissed? Will he be allowed to continue? In the pregnant silence, Moses Anderson speaks up.

"The sign speaks to probable cause, Mister Karnes. If, like you say, Major Howell could see the sign while he was hanging on the ropes. He had probable cause for a dynamic entry."

Haynes, Randle, and Colonel Wingate blink and stare at Anderson in admiration. The Colonel nods at Moses, encouraging him to carry on. Moses inquires.

"Any other items, Mister Karnes. Did you recover anything else from Major Howell's apartment?"

Vernon swallows and blushes deep red. He digs around in his box for a moment. Another clear plastic bag comes up to view.

"Last item. Four pairs of handcuffs. We got these at the Major's apartment. When we picked up his firearm for ballistics."

"More specifically please." Says Moses, in the most neutral and polite voice he can manage. "Were the handcuffs on a closet shelf? Were they in Major Howell's kit bag?"

Mister Karnes shakes his head.

"No sir Mister Anderson. We got the clothes the Major was wearing to check for bloodstains, knife cuts. Things like that. He had them rolled up in a ball on the floor of the closet. The cuffs was in the pockets."

As Mister Karnes speaks, a smile grows across the face of the stenographer. Along with most of the people in the chambers, she admires Andy Howell's brash nature. Moreover, Colonel Morgan's gruff and frank exterior, brings warm memories to her heart about her father.

Then glancing up, the lady stenographer's eyes light on the hard look in the eyes of Doctor Coolidge. Her happy smile fades away to look of worry and concern.

Scene 18 Andy Needs A Second Opinion

Location: Action Officer's Station, Building C Suite 202, Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley Virginia

Moses Anderson, Andy Howell, and Colonel Henry Winston Wingate, pass through the entrance doors of the Action Officer's Suite in single file. Each man moves with heavy steps. Each man has a worried look in his eyes. The three men look like nothing so much as a high school football team coach with his two best wide receivers. Worried to the bone by the fact they are well behind on points, during the all-critical homecoming game.

Once through the doorway, Moses veers off to the right, and collapses into the seat behind his desk. Not surprising, he finds sanctuary in the neat and highly organized contents of his expensive briefcase, resting on his desktop. Just then, Andy's wife, Karen Chesley Howell, breaks away from Donna and Bill Hespara at the coffee machine. She stands with her hands behind her back and a look of concern on her face. Karen goes face to face with her husband Andy.

"How did it go today, Andy?"

Andy halts in his tracks. Colonel Wingate hurries towards his private office. Andy groans at Karen, Bill and Donna.

"Not too bad. Not bad at all. If you don't count the fact my court appointed shrink is trying to make me look like Billy The Kid."

Moses Anderson closes the lid on his briefcase. Anderson is a Certified Public Accountant. The closest thing to an attorney in the office. He says.

"The physical evidence is adding up in our favor." Moses shrugs his shoulders for emphasis. "It makes Andy looks rational. If you take it one piece at a time. And very carefully."

Karen, Bill, and Donna, sigh in relief at the pointed words in Moses' comment. Karen takes a small step towards her husband. She looks up into his eyes and says.

"Senator Newville stopped by this morning." Andy groans again. Then he quips.

"With a warrant for my I. D. card?"

Colonel Wingate stops short of the door to his private office at the mention of Senator Newville's name. The Colonel wheels full about. Karen adds.

"The senator made an appointment for you at Andrews Air Force Base for tomorrow morning. With the Chief of Psychiatry."

On that remark, Karen brings her hands out from behind her back. Then she passes a business card into her husband's reluctant grasp. Andy brings the card up to reading distance. Next he says.

"John Banks Brooks, M. D., Colonel, United States Air Force."

Andy looks up from the card and around the room. What should he do? Colonel Wingate breaks the silence.

"Newville's not very fond of Doctor Coolidge, Andrew."

The room is whisper quiet. Andy's lips wrinkle up, he sighs and asks.

"What time tomorrow?"

Everyone in the room smiles at Andy. Everyone in the room thinks Andy's best chance against the tyrannical, empire building Coolidge is a second opinion. Now they know Andy sees it too!

Scene 19 "The Alleged Perpetrator " .... "Did Suffer Firearms Injuries."

Location: Hearing Chambers, Office of the Deputy Director for Operations, C.I.A. Headquarters, Langley Virginia

Doctor Jeffrey Baron stifles a yawn with his fist. He is bone tired from lack of sleep. Most of the evening hours of the night before revolved upon a difficult and controversial scene investigation. More specifically, a husband and wife murder - suicide. _"Thank God they locked themselves inside the car in the garage._ " Doctor Baron mutters to himself, " _Or I'd have been up all night, with the fingerprint people._ "

Just then, Ronald Bruce Haynes catches the good doctor's attention. Mister Haynes says.

"Doctor Baron. Will you please explain the autopsy findings to us? As simply as possible. One victim at a time."

Jeffrey Baron, M.D., Forensic Pathologist squeezes his eyes shut. He yawns for a second time. Then he works his jaw from left to right and back again. Finally, Doctor Baron dons his eye glasses and launches in on his testimony. Jeffrey consults the autopsy protocols on the table before him from time to time, to assure accuracy in small detail.

"The first victim, Mister Ali Leon, survived the firefight. I am given to understand he is being held in a federal penitentiary. Awaiting trial here and in Philadelphia. Mister Leon sustained two firearms injuries. No one questions the injury to Leon's right bicep was caused by a bullet from Major Howell's sidearm. But Leon insists Major Howell shot him a second time in the scalp from behind. While the Major denies inflicting the second injury."

"The medical findings?" Marcus Lee Randle queries from the opposite side of the hearing table.

"The emergency room doctor measured all four entrance and exit wounds on Mister Leon's bicep and scalp. The scalp wounds are so large as to favor Major Howell's testimony. It appears Leon was shot in the scalp by one of his associates. They were armed with forty-five caliber machine pistols. A much larger bullet than the nine millimeter identified to Major Howell."

Moses Anderson and Colonel Wingate go eye to eye. It is obvious they are relieved by the findings.

"The second victim, a Mister Ricky Sinaloa, died at the scene. He sustained nine-millimeter bullet wounds to the left calf muscle and the right hand side of his chest. We also found four thirty eight caliber wounds. These delivered closer to the center of mass of the victim. Than the nine millimeter round."

Moses Anderson looks down at the file folders spread on the table. He is too upset to make eye contact with anyone else in the hearing chambers. Bruce Haynes moves forward in his chair. Mister Haynes turns to his left to face the Medical Examiner. He says simply.

"Cause of death, Doctor Baron? Which weapon was the cause of the victim's death?"

Jeffrey Baron bites his lower lip while he deliberates. Then, very slowly, he offers his interpretation of the evidence.

"The nine millimeter wound to the chest would have been fatal. Say, within an hour or less. But the thirty-eight caliber injuries. Two of these went through the left ventricle. That's the main chamber of the heart. The thirty-eight caliber injuries are a more likely cause of death than the nine millimeter strikes."

Doctor Baron glances about the hearing chambers. No one offers a challenge to his diagnosis. He shuffles the third autopsy protocol to the top of the stack. Jeffrey skims through the text for a while. Then he makes eye contact with Marcus Lee Randle, the Chief Hearing Officer.

"The third case also involves injuries from two weapons. Mister Francesco Nayari died at the scene. We found nine-millimeter bullet wounds in three anatomical locations. First, right shoulder from the front. Second, right buttocks from behind. And, third, left shoulder blade from behind."

Bruce Haynes leans forward in his chair. There is a too eager expression across his face. He asks.

"From behind, Doctor Baron? Are you saying he was helpless? Shot in the back?"

Jeffrey Baron picks up on the predatory look on Bruce Haynes face. It is plain as day Haynes is in league with the Agency Psychiatrist, Edgar David Coolidge. Doctor Baron glances down at Andy Howell, seated at the opposite end of the table. The Forensic Pathologist can see the shame and embarrassment, in the Action Officer's eyes.

Baron turns to his immediate right. He explains.

"No Mister Haynes. Not shot in the back or helpless. Mister Nayari's nine-millimeter wounds came from above and behind. Most likely, Mister Nayari was lying on his stomach. Firing a machine pistol up and towards Major Howell. I would assume, from the trajectories of the bullets, Major Howell was standing full erect when he returned fire."

Marcus Lee Randle, sits across from Colonel Wingate. Randle leans forward and turns to his left. From this perch, he makes eye contact with the pathologist over the heads of Louis Malfatti and Bruce Haynes. He queries.

"Were the nine millimeter wounds fatal, Doctor Baron?"

Doctor Baron shakes his head from side to side. In a firm voice he answers.

"No Mister Randle. Not at all. Mister Nayari also sustained two rifle bullet injuries to his heart. Those were the cause of death. Instantaneous, more or less. Given the enormous shock and muzzle energy of the M - 16."

Moses Anderson is back in control of his emotions, grief washed out of his soul. He studies the notes on his pad of legal size paper. The Lieutenant Colonel turns to the witness and asks.

"Were there any signs of capture or bondage? Did you find anything to suggest the victims surrendered before they were killed?"

Doctor Baron nods his head. The forensic pathologist is quite obviously very impressed by the thoughtful nature of Mr. Anderson's question.

"I'm trained to look for things like that, Mister Anderson. What's getting popular now. Especially in South America. Is thumb tying. Often times the victims of an execution have their thumbs tied with wire behind their backs just before they are killed. But not in this case. No signs of wire marks on any of the decedent's thumbs. And no strands of wire on the scene."

"What about the scene?" Asks Colonel Wingate in his booming baritone, while sitting at the far corner of the table. "Can you characterize the struggle for us?"

Jeffrey Baron looks directly into Colonel Wingate's eyes. He sighs and then starts in on a narration.

"I walked the scene with Mister Karnes. After the apartment had been locked and sealed by court order. The forty-five caliber bullet strikes were all over the walls and ceiling. Some even went through the front door at head height. The nine-millimeter strikes fell into tight groups. Aimed fire. Disciplined, and cool."

Colonel Beauregard Morgan's face fills with paternal pride as the pathologist's words spread across the room. He brings his fist down on the table, and then exclaims in a hoarse stage whisper.

"That's my boy Andy! Live fire exercises is what does it!"

Colonel Morgan's remark is just a bit over eager and a bit too casual. Not at all appropriate to the formal atmosphere of a room packed with lawyers, senators, and expert witnesses. An awkward silence fills the hearing chambers for a full minute. Colonel Wingate decides it is time to prod Doctor Baron into a closing statement.

"The conflict, Doctor Baron. Have you anything more to say of the nature of the conflict?"

Jeffrey Baron doffs his glasses. He folds his hands on the top of the table. Baron leans forward towards the Colonel and replies.

"In a hundred words or less, Colonel Wingate. I'd say what happened in the third floor apartment on 3100 Clifton Street in Reston Virginia. Was nothing more or less - than the gunfight at the O. K. Corral."

Scene 20 "Psychiatric Testimony is Unimpeachable, Andrew."

Location: Hearing Chambers, Office of the Deputy Director for Operations, C.I.A. Headquarters, Langley Virginia

Andy Howell stands at attention, hands in his pockets. He looks down at the treetops, through the eighth story window of the hearing chambers in the main administration building at Langley. The little voice inside of him says he should breathe deeply and count to ten.

There is an American flag in a floor stand at Andy's left side. Moses Anderson stands at Andy's right. He is ready to help and advise a fellow Action Officer.

"What did you think of Colonel Brooks, Andy?"

Queries Moses. Moses refers, or course, to the Andrews Air Force Base psychiatrist Senator Eustace Newville asked Andy to see just this morning. Andy says flatly.

"Too early to tell, Moses. He was real neutral."

Andy Howell frowns and looks down at the floor at his feet.

Moses Anderson opens his mouth to speak. But just then Ronald Bruce Haynes, J. D. calls Doctor Coolidge to the hearing table. Doctor Coolidge rises from his seat. He marches like a man on a mission to the empty chair on Bruce Haynes left. Coolidge puts his black leather briefcase down on the table. Then he hands out business cards to the power people in the room, Marcus Lee Randle, Louis Malfatti, and last, Ronald Bruce Haynes.

Having seen to the preliminaries of his appearance, the good doctor hastily takes his seat. Next, Andy and Moses reluctantly take their seats. The officious psychiatrist avoids making eye contact with Colonel's Wingate and Morgan, and Moses Anderson. These men are located, by design, on the other side of the table from the administrative types. A gesture intended to keep them aware of their second-class status in all things pertaining to the United States Federal Government.

Edgar Coolidge swivels in his oaken chair all the way around to his right. He makes eye contact with the stenographer. Then he launches in on his diatribe.

"I'm Edgar David Coolidge, M. D. Chief of Psychiatry for the entire Headquarters Unit of the Central Intelligence Agency. I hold a faculty appointment at Georgetown Medical School. I have admitting privileges at Bolling Air Force Base, St. Elizabeth's, that's the largest psychiatric hospital in the Defense Department, and Fairfax - Reston General. I've been the Chief of Psychiatry here at the agency for the last twelve years."

Coolidge waits for the stenographer to get it all down. Then he nods and turns to face the hearing officers. The Chief of Psychiatry works the locks on his expensive briefcase with a flourish. His hands fill with a stack of file folders. Stage business complete, the psychiatrist nods at Bruce Haynes. Mister Haynes speaks to the expert witness.

"Doctor Coolidge. What we need here today. In this part of the investigation. Is a brief summary of your findings as concerns Major Andrew George Howell."

Doctor Coolidge shakes his head up and down while Haynes speaks to the room. He clears his throat into his fist. The motion reveals a heavy gold wristwatch and expensive cuff links. Then he begins to narrate.

"Major Howell has been under my supervision for nearly five years. He carries the clinical diagnoses of alcoholism, schizotypical personality, and borderline personality disorder."

Ronald Bruce Haynes leans forward in his chair. He struggles against the urge to appear over eager. Mister Haynes inquires.

"Alcoholism, Doctor Coolidge? Alcoholism?"

Doctor Coolidge's jaw juts forward in response to the goad. If Haynes knew about the profile Coolidge wrote up on Broderick 'Buster' Knowles, he might have been less sympathetic with the Psychiatrist. But Haynes, along with everyone in the room, knows nothing about Coolidge's death dealing escapade.

"More specifically binge drinking. Now formally defined by the International Association. As the consumption of five or more drinks in one session."

Colonel Morgan stares at the psychiatrist in disbelief. His brown knits up, he shrugs his shoulders, and grumbles.

"Five drinks in a row? Is that like when a World Series goes into extra innings?"

Morgan's remark carries behind his back to the chairs occupied by Senator's Newville and Blaney. The senators glance at one another, and then quickly turn away. If only Andy Howell could see the wide crooked grins spread across both of their faces!

Ronald Bruce Haynes scowls, but not at Colonel Morgan. Instead, he leans forward and leads Coolidge deeper into the issue at hand.

"And the duration of the problem, Doctor Coolidge?"

The psychiatrist's fleshy face takes on an all-knowing look.

"As might be expected. The subject denies the problem began in his youth. He alleges learned behavior. Brought on by combat experiences in Viet Nam. _They_ all claim that."

Colonel Morgan makes a harrumphing sound with the air in his lungs. With both fists on the table, thumbs up in the air, he argues.

"Who in hell wouldn't be God awful grateful to make it back alive from a patrol?"

While Morgan growls, Colonel Henry Winston Wingate glances at each face around the conference table. Colonel Wingate sees the wisdom in Colonel Morgan's remarks. Still, it is obvious Morgan's confrontational style brings Andy more harm than good. Even the ever brash Andy Howell looks a little sheepish. Colonel Wingate enters the fray.

"Presently, Doctor Coolidge? Is the Major's problem with alcohol under control?"

It is exactly the right thing to say. Coolidge goes relaxed at the question.

"Well ..." replies the Doctor in a grudging voice. "They all claim to be in control. But with Major Howell. I have him in my office first thing Monday mornings. That's what you do with a binge drinker."

Coolidge nods his head. He is quite obviously pleased with himself. Moses Anderson asks.

"Isn't it true that Major Howell races bicycles? Hasn't he found a better outlet for his frustrations?"

Edgar Coolidge ponders for a few seconds on Anderson's remark. Along with most people who are morbidly obese, Coolidge can always come up reasons to be a couch potato. Coolidge purse his lips. He makes a throw away gesture with his right hand.

"Athletes. Athletes as a group are all problem people. You see. Because. If they had insight into the subtleties of human relationships. They wouldn't need athletics."

Although Doctor Coolidge dressed for the occasion in an expensive and well-tailored suit, the roll of fat around his waist has not gone un-noticed by the stenographer. Comparing the doctor's rotund girth, to the slim and athletic build on Andy Howell brings her near to outright laughter. Red faced - she lowers her eyes down to the keys on her stenography machine.

Ronald Bruce Haynes sighs. Then he frowns. Coolidge is floundering. The ambitious hearing officer draws a line through a hand written sentence on the yellow pad of paper before him on the table. Haynes turns to his immediate left.

"Doctor Coolidge. Could we have a few words on the schizophrenia? Is it in - capacitating?"

The good doctor's expression goes by slow degrees from flustered to puzzled. A long minute passes while he leafs through the file folders on the top of his luxurious briefcase. Once he regains his composure, and his sense of control over the proceedings, Coolidge replies.

"In this subject delusions are unlikely. So in that sense - no. However, his threshold for pain is far above normal. Depression. Depression, you see. Causes Major Howell to seek out dangerous situations. Moreover, with no real sense of pain. He walks into the danger. Almost eagerly!"

Colonel Beauregard Morgan lets the air out of his lungs and starts growling. He pays no heed to the warning glare in Wingate's eyes. The gnarly Colonel exclaims.

"Sounds to me like you're turning courage into a four letter word! That's what it sounds like to me!"

Edgar Coolidge nods vigorously as he slides forward in the witness chair. He wraps his plump arms around his brief case, as if it were a life preserver. Coolidge shouts.

"Combat veterans are all well defensed! But it's the schizophrenia and the depression. That's what gets them into it! Then they get medals! And when they get out of combat - they can't function at all."

Bruce Haynes blinks again and again as the words pour out of the psychiatrist. Haynes glances to his right. He sees Malfatti and Randle are just as caught up in Coolidge's one-man show.

Senator Gilbert Blaney rises to his feet in the silence following Doctor Coolidge's outburst. He walks a few paces, until he stands directly behind Colonel Morgan's chair. It is a gesture of solidarity. In a voice that is sort of Texas by way of New England he says.

"Is there a correlation, Professor Coolidge, Sir? If you win a bronze star, do you have more schizophrenia than somebody who just has a purple heart?"

Coolidge's brow knits up while he absorbs the senator's question. The sarcasm in Blaney's voice passes clean over his head. Nervous and agitated, Coolidge falls back on pontification.

"We're not there yet, Senator Blaney. Military psychiatry isn't funded well enough to answer that. I need grants ..., a big staff!"

Coolidge 'the empire builder' makes a wide sweeping gesture with his arms.

Bruce Haynes fights to keep the alarm in his heart from registering on his face. With Coolidge playing the buffoon and Blaney alienated, there is little reason to keep the psychiatrist in the witness chair. Blaney's shoulders square up in anger. Louis Malfatti leans into Haynes right ear. Malfatti whispers. "Tie it in a knot!"

Bruce Haynes nods the nod of a man on his way up in the federal pyramid. He taps the psychiatrist's right elbow with his fingertips. A gesture calculated to bring the good doctor back down to planet earth by slow degrees. It is time to change the compass heading.

"What about Howell's personality disorder?"

Although Doctor Coolidge is still a bit disoriented, Attorney Hayne's words register in his mind. "Where _do they want me_?" He thinks to himself, while lightly shaking his head. Like someone trying to distinguish between an optical illusion and a psychological delusion. Coolidge's eyes plead with Senator Blaney for approval. He says.

"Well, for example. What about the fake identification card? Wouldn't that be typical of a personality disorder?"

Colonel Henry Winston Wingate stands slowly to his feet. He shakes his head from side to side. In his deep bass voice, he observes.

"Counterfeit identification papers are business as usual in the intelligence community. Business as usual."

Ronald Bruce Haynes sighs and then takes in a deep breath. It is clear Coolidge lacks time and experience in the witness box. He simply cannot handle the stress and strain of a hostile cross examination. Haynes lets the air out of his lungs. He says.

"Thank you Doctor Coolidge. Thank you very much."

Haynes gets to his feet. Coolidge slumps back in his chair. Attorney Haynes waits patiently, giving the psychiatrist time to return his files and papers to the dark and hidden recesses of his monogrammed briefcase. As soon as the silent room fills with the snapping sound of the shiny brass catches on the case. Bruce Haynes makes an announcement.

"Tomorrow morning at ten. Colonel Brooks from Andrews Air Force Base. Then a character witness. A Father Arnold. Marine Corps Reservist and Parish Priest. Saint Didacus Church. Up in Aspen Hill, Maryland."

While Haynes officiates, Senator Gilbert Blaney stands with both hands on his hips. He glares at Edgar David Coolidge, M. D. It does appear, in spite of the wisdom of Colonel Wingate, psychiatric testimony can be impeached, at least on rare occasions.

Scene 21 Andy Gets The Benefit Of A Second Medical Opinion

Location: Hearing Chambers, Office of the Deputy Director for Operations, C.I.A. Headquarters, Langley Virginia

John Banks Brooks, M. D., Colonel, United States Air Force, swivels back and forth in the witness chair. He looks relaxed and comfortable. The Air Force Psychiatrist wears a regulation light blue long sleeve shirt set off by a narrow dark blue tie. There are shiny silver eagles on each of the shoulder epaulets on his government-issue shirt. Colonel Brooks smiles from his eyes and his mouth while he speaks.

"Yes. I have had sufficient time to review Major Howell's records. And I talked to Major Howell for the better part of two hours. That would be yesterday morning."

"And your findings, Doctor Brooks?" Queries Colonel Wingate. While standing just off to the side of Ronald Bruce Haynes, JD.

Doctor Brooks nods his head and folds his hands on the table. He explains.

"Air Force Psychiatry has less to do with personality types and clinical labels. We talk more about leadership styles. We've done a lot of research in this area."

John Brooks looks around the room. It is clear he has the undivided attention of all the participants and visitors. Even Andy Howell has his head cocked in his direction. Doctor Brooks continues.

"Two prototypes that come to mind are; General Charles Yeager, and General Curtis Le May. The first man flying single seat fighters during the Second World War. Going on to the duties of a test pilot afterwards. The second, a bomber pilot who got deep into politics and put the Strategic Air Command together, single handedly. By taking meetings, and arguing for his point of view."

Ronald Bruce Haynes makes a throw away gesture with his right hand.

"How is this refutation of Doctor Coolidge's diagnoses?"

Colonel Brooks turns to his right. Eye to eye with Bruce Haynes, he explains.

"Coolidge would rank order Le May in front of Yeager. He favors organizational types. Men with intuition, who spend a lot of time reading situations."

Marcus Lee Randle yawns the yawn of the impatient executive. He takes his fist away from his mouth. Randle looks down the expanse of the table towards his left at Colonel Brooks. He asks.

"Relevancy? Doctor Brooks. How is this relevant to the decision we have to arrive at?"

Doctor Brooks goes a little stiff in the spine. The question makes sense, but the tone in Randle's voice is just a bit patronizing. Brooks counters.

"On the authority of the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, Major Andrew George Howell has the psychological profile of a test pilot. That can't be mental illness. It simply can't be."

Moses Anderson turns to his left towards Colonel Wingate. Can he say something? Anderson picks up on a a slight nod from the Colonel. He turns back to his right. With both eyes on Bruce Haynes, he inquires.

"And the psychiatric supervision, Doctor Brooks? Is there a real need? In your opinion?"

John Banks Brooks lets out with a little sigh. He moves forward in his chair. With both hands palms down on the table he cautions.

"I'm a little concerned about the way Major Howell put things together in the hours before the dynamic entry. The way he talks - well, it's like the walls were closing in on him. He lumps his opponents together as if it were a group thing. Everybody after Andy when they came out of the huddle."

Relaxed expressions spread across the faces of Moses Anderson and Colonel Henry Winston Wingate. Colonel Beauregard Morgan turns around in his chair. He finds wide smiles on Senators Newville and Blaney. Andy Howell? He sits bolt upright and stiff, while waiting for the verdict. Fit for worldwide duty? Not fit for worldwide duty? It is Wingate's turn to speak up. Wingate is the commander of the Action Officers Unit.

"Your recommendations, Doctor Brooks?"

Colonel Brooks makes a little tent with his hands on the top of the table. He taps the tips of his fingers together.

"I'd like to see him. Weekly, for the next six months on Monday mornings. I catch binge drinkers the same way Coolidge does."

Scene 22 "With the use of an Incendiary / Explosive Device. Stolen with Intent and Malice of Forethought. From a Small Arms Weapons Locker.

Location: Hearing Chambers, Office of the Deputy Director for Operations, C.I.A. Headquarters, Langley Virginia

Father Arnold sits down in the witness chair as the double doors of the hearing chambers close behind Colonel Brooks. The Priest wears dress Marine Corps greens. His uniform differs from Colonel Morgan's in two small details. The Priest has fewer ribbons over the left chest pocket, and he sports a clerical tab collar at the neck. The tall and muscular priest puts a well-thumbed bible on the table.

Mister Haynes waits until the room goes quiet. He says, "Will you introduce yourself, please, Father Arnold."

Father Arnold nods at Haynes and then speaks to the room at large.

"I'm a Marine Corps First Lieutenant. Just a reservist. Colonel Morgan lets me drill with his unit. Weekdays, I'm a parish priest at Saint Didacus church up in Aspen Hill."

Moses Anderson runs his ballpoint pen under a line of script on his pad of paper. Anderson looks up and towards his right, he asks.

"Father Arnold, we're especially concerned about your relationship with Major Howell at Quantico."

The priest's face breaks into a broad grin, while Andy Howell's complexion goes beet red. Andy slumps down in his chair. He feels very, very small. Father Arnold sounds like a coach in a college locker room.

"O. K. O. K." Explains the priest. "We were at a close quarter's battle exercise. See? Andy, I mean Major Howell, came storming through the door. Well, I have this come along hold. So I used it on him. What it does is it cuts the blood off in the neck. So Major Howell lost consciousness. And I let him down on the floor. It's just temporary. Nobody gets hurt."

Colonel Wingate clears his throat into his fist. The issue here is whether or no Andy overreacts to physical stress and danger. Just at this moment, it is the biggest issue in Andy's career. The Colonel queries.

"Major Howell's demeanor? Lieutenant Arnold."

Father Arnold nods his head. He looks huge and boyish at one and the same time. He says.

"Major Howell got up from the floor complaining about his shoulder and his elbow."

Colonel Wingate leans forward in his chair. For Andy's sake, he needs testimony in considerable detail. Andy has to come out looking like a reasonable man. One who can take a punch without losing his temper or his sense of humor.

"Any displays of bad temper? Was he swearing?" Asks Colonel Wingate.

The priest shakes his head back and forth.

"No. None whatsoever. He was in a lot of pain, so when the rest of us went back to the weapons shack, he got a ride to the hospital."

Moses Anderson leans forward in his chair. He lets the air out of his lungs. Anderson looks like a man who just slid into third base. Almost there!

"What happened at the weapons shack Father?"

"Everybody turned in their gear." Replies Father Arnold with his hands folded comfortably on the table. "Firearms, ammunition, radios... things like that. Afterwards, I went to the emergency room. Major Howell was all right. So I gave him a ride back to the visiting officer's quarters."

Moses Anderson leans forward with his eyes glued on Ronald Bruce Haynes. This is just the right moment to prove Andy had no 'intent' to steal a flash and bang grenade.

"Father Arnold. Could you have taken Major Howell to the weapons shack? Before returning to the dormitories?"

"Could have. Sure." The Priest responds, "But the shack closed right after we left."

Moses Anderson looks at Mister Haynes again. His eyes go back to the Priest.

"Father Arnold. Did Major Howell say or do anything to lead you to believe he took a flash bang grenade from the weapons shack intending to conceal the weapon and then transport it off the base?"

The Saint Didacus Priest purses his lips and sighs. He shakes his head and says."Major Howell was all banged up. Like I explained. I rendered the man unconscious. Some guys wake up from my choke hold, they can't remember their name."

Everyone on the uniform side of the hearing table gives out with a sigh of relief. Looks of consternation spread among the bean counters, men dressed in suits and ties, seated opposite the men in uniform. Moses Anderson turns towards the lady stenographer.

"Let the record state the weapons room on Quantico was closed for the day while Major Howell was in the Hospital Emergency room."

Colonel Wingate sees it is the right time to close down the hearing. Wingate has both elbows on the table, he leans forward, and looks Father Arnold square in the eyes.

"Overall, Father Arnold. What is your opinion of Major Howell's character? What sort of a man would you say he is?"

Father Arnold bites his lower lip. Then he puts his massive left hand on the top of the bible on the table before him. He simply says.

"I married him." With that, the good priest smiles, nods, and glances about the room.

CHAPTER THREE: A PATHWAY FOR MY PEOPLE

Scene 23 Are You Coming, Alberto?

Location: The Nayari family estate, Bogota Columbia

Angelina Nayari stands in two-inch heels at the foot of the iron spiral staircase leading to the upstairs rooms of the Nayari family estate. She is eye to eye with her social secretary, Andrea. Both women are dressed in black. Angelina wears a double-breasted, light woolen suit, set off by a maroon silk blouse. Andrea, a dress with a pleated skirt, and flats.

Andrea has a clipboard in her left hand. She stands with her back to the door, connecting the living area of the Nayari residence, to a four-car garage through a long breezeway. Very politely, Andrea suggests to Dona Angelina.

"Maybe Mister Nayari didn't hear you."

Angelina nods, but still her face holds a look of cynicism. She sighs and says.

"I'll go and ask."

One by one, breathing heavily all the way, Angelina Nayari climbs the iron spiral steps to the second floor of the home she shares with her husband. Part of the stress and strain in her climb is due to the altitude in Bogota. But in the main, she fears the consequences of disturbing her husband, in his private sanctuary on the second floor.

Angelina turns full around to her right at the top of the steps. She pauses for a moment to catch her breath. Next, she taps on the closed door to her husband's office, with the delicate knuckles of her right hand. A pair of elbow length black silk gloves dangle from her left hand.

"Alberto? May I speak with you? Please?" Angelina pleads through the door.

"Yes, yes!" The man behind the door replies in a voice that is both muffled and impatient. "Come in!"

Angelina opens the door. She walks forward a few paces to a space behind one of the guest chairs standing opposite her husband's desk. Don Alberto Enrique Nayari sits in his black leather high backed chair. Angelina sees papers strewn all over her husband's desk. As if an important business deal of some sort looms in the immediate future.

Angelina sighs. This is not the day to petition her authoritarian husband for a favor. Dona Angelina sees her husband's brow knitted up in irritation. His eyes are cold and distant. Dona Angelina puts a hand down on the back of the rosewood guest chair to steady herself against the chill of her husband's demeanor. She is still out of breath from climbing the stairs. Angelina speaks in a very soft voice. She reminds her husband.

"Today is Tepo's birthday, Alberto. He would have been twenty."

Alberto Nayari looks up into his wife's pale blue eyes. He turns his head away towards the window when he sees her lower lip quivering. For a few moments, he occupies himself, shuffling papers into file folders. Documents not suited to his wife's eyes. Then he raises his head. While he avoids Angelina's gaze, he remarks, over casual.

"Go along with Andrea. Take Anna Maria and Concepcion. If you wish, Angelina."

Angelina's voice trembles. It is a struggle for her to hold back her tears.

"Alberto. Keeping it all inside won't work. It's not healthy."

Don Nayari sits up stiff as the tender words cross the broad expanse of his expensive desk. He brings his hands together at the line of the second button on his charcoal grey poplin suit coat. Fingers interlaced. Thumbs pressed stiffly against one another.

"Mourning is for a love relationship. Your children were never... "

Angelina Nayari feels helpless in her heart. Her arms fall to her sides.

"How could our boys be anything but afraid in your, ....., _your presence_?"

Alberto Nayari nods as the cruel words lash against his soul. He swallows and replies.

"It's no longer a family issue. My people are the victims. Your sons were just the symbols."

Angelina Nayari goes white in the face as her slender fingertips come up to her open mouth. The black silk gloves drop to the floor from her hand. She storms.

"What can you possibly hope to accomplish!"

Alberto Nayari stands to his feet in slow motion. He leans forward over his desk, supporting the weight of his wiry shoulders with the knuckles of his hands wide on the desktop.

Anger or rage! Any expression at all on his face would have brought relief to Angelina's heart! The Don's eyes and mouth are set in stone. He is past anger.

"If they had even sensed martyrdom! If those two wastrels had any purpose at all!"

Tears pour down Angelina's still lovely cheeks. She dabs at her eyes with an expensive maroon silk handkerchief, hastily snatched from the depths of her tailored suit coat pocket. Then she shouts.

"That's what does it! Men glorify it!"

Don Nayari stands stiff and tall. He crosses his arms over his chest. He says flatly.

"I have a speaking engagement for this afternoon. Leave the Mercedes, Angelina."

Angelina's face goes red with shame. Her husband is dismissing her from his chambers like a household servant. _"But not with a curtsy!"_ She thinks in her heart. Angelina paces deeper into her husband's room. She is beside herself with rage.

The former high fashion model marches over to a waist high set of bookshelves, resting against the wall at her husband's right hand. Breathing heavily, Angelina takes a weighty Corinthian style warrior's helmet off the top shelf and up into both of her hands. She steps towards a glass-framed portrait of Roque Dalton hanging on the wall. The revolutionary poet, exiled from his homeland of El Salvador, then executed in 1975 for the crime of- "subversive activities".

"I lost both my sons to daydreams!" Screams Angelina at the top of her lungs.

Angelina Nayari smashes the crown of the helmet against the glass of the picture frame. The words: **POEMAS CLANDESTINAS** go opaque under the myriad of fracture lines in the glass.

Mrs. Nayari turns back to face her husband. The heavy bronze helmet hangs at her waist from limp hands. Her eyes sting from the salt in her tears. She moans when she sees Alberto's face, still stiff and impassive.

"Not one thing has changed!! Nothing, since I came down here!!" She screams again.

Don Nayari remains wide-eyed and stoical. His jaw line set. Angelina stamps her right foot. She comes close to breaking the heel on her delicate, sling back, patent leather shoe.

Angelina turns and smashes the portrait for a second time. The picture swings crazily- to and fro. Then it tumbles to the floor. A muffled crash reverberates through the elegant room.

Mrs. Nayari turns to face her husband. She prays he will show some emotion, anything at all, pity, sorrow, even hatred. This is not to be, her eyes meet with a stoical mask. Enraged now, she throws the weighty helmet at her husband's desk.

Her posture mimics a calendar girl passing a beach ball to another beauty queen at the beach. The helmet crashes onto the rosewood surface of her husband's desk. Then it careens off the corner, coming to rest on the carpeted floor next to a wastepaper basket.

The room grows whisper silent. Her husband's shoulders remain erect and stiff. Angelina falls into a lonely, desolate, slump. She sighs deeply, and dabs at her moist cheeks with her silk handkerchief. Mrs. Nayari walks back to the center of the room.

She comes square with the desk her husband uses much like a castle wall, a perimeter defense, against outsiders. Just now, he stands defended against his beautiful wife. Years ago, this same scene played out against his two errant sons, Francesco and Tepo. While Angelina brings both hands to her hips, Don Nayari wheels to face her rage. She says.

"It's very nearly over, Alberto."

Angelina slinks from the room with her silk handkerchief in hand. One of the maids will have to retrieve her elegant lace gloves from the carpeted floor. Don Nayari remains standing until the door closes and the latch goes secure.

Then he lowers his wiry frame to the luxury of his full leather upholstered executive's chair. Back to the secret papers in his confidential set of file folders. Back to the solace of his plans on paper- for the future of his people, the people of Colombia.

Scene 24 May I Be Of Assistance, Don Nayari?

Location: The Nayari family estate, Bogota Columbia

Angelina's delicate footsteps retreat down the iron steps of the spiral staircase. The sound of the breezeway door closing on itself follows soon after. A muffled squealing noise erupts as one of the garage doors rolls up and open. The high-pitched noise testifies to the departure of a Volvo station wagon, piloted by Mrs. Angelina Nayari.
As the car rolls down the driveway, Andrea sits in the front passenger seat, with her ever-present clipboard on the lap of her black dress. Concepcion rests in the seat behind Andrea. Both of Concepcion's slender hands tight on the shoulder strap of her safety harness. The station wagon bound for a cemetery a few kilometers to the east of Montserrate Park. Angelina's wayward sons, Francesco and Theodore, are at rest.

Concepcion leans out her window to retrieve the family mail from the family mailbox. At the same time, Ana Maria climbs the steps to Don Nayari's private office. Ana Maria prays household noises will mask her advance from the kitchen on up and into the family's private affairs.

At the Don's home office door, she wipes her nervous fingers on the embroidered white apron surrounding her ample, matronly waist. Next, she raises her hand as if to knock. "Dare I intrude?" Ana Maria whispers to herself. She nods yes. Then she taps softly on the door.

"Yes?" Ana Maria hears a calm voice from within the male sanctuary. Emboldened by the politeness in the Don's voice, Ana Maria turns the knob and peeks inside.

"Forgive me, Mister Nayari. Will you need anything?"

Ana Maria opens the door half way. Her cautious motion reveals the back of Mister Nayari's chair, and the uppermost top of his head. He sits facing away from her, gazing at the blank space on the west wall of the room. At the point where the picture of Roque Dalton used to hang in a position of honor, but now lies crashed on the floor. The portrait of a dedicated man, a martyr, smashed to bits by the Don's wife in a fit of blind rage.

Don Nayari's loyal cook takes in the situation at a glance. She shakes her head back and forth. Ana Maria sighs, and queries.

"May I straighten up, Sir?"

Alberto Nayari's chair swivels left and right. It is a signal he wants to be left alone. The Don says.

"I'll be leaving in a few moments, Ana."

Ana Maria sees the shattered glass on the floor. She spies the helmet resting akimbo on the carpet. Her sense of propriety loses out to her maternal instincts. Boldly, she crosses the threshold and into the male sanctuary. Ana Maria takes two brave paces deeper into the room. The cook squeezes at her apron as if it were a baby's blanket. With a pounding heart she says.

"Forgive me, Don Alberto. Forgive me. But when they have blue eyes. They never understand. Like a ..., Cuna - blanco."

The elderly woman's remark is an insightful comparison of Angelina's behavior to the ways of a particular tribe of Indians. The Cuna's live on in a timeless fashion, at home in the jungles of the neighboring nation of Panama. They know nothing of any other culture or any other people. They remain by choice, aloof and remote from the hustle and bustle of the world around them.

The cook leans forward, she brings her weight to the balls of her feet. Should she begin to clean up? Is her master dismissing her? Don Nayari's voice wafts up from the front of his chair.

"I'll be leaving in a few moments, Ana."

"Yes sir." Ana Maria quickly replies. Then she cautiously backs out of the room.

Alberto Enrique Nayari waits patiently until he can no longer hear retreating footsteps. Feeling safe and secure in silence, he swivels his chair back into the control position, behind his Scandinavian style desk. With both elbows flat on the desktop blotter, Don Alberto Enrique Nayari rubs his eyes with his fists.

Scene 25 Have You Two Decided?

Location: Estelle's Restaurant upper east side of Manhattan, New York City

Alberto Enrique Nayari, third year law student at Columbia University, sits in a cane-backed chair at a round table facing the front door of Estelle's restaurant. There is a half-empty glass of red Bordeaux wine at his fingertips. He looks at ease and comfortable in his dark green shirt and black leather vest. The shirt and vest above faded black denim jeans. Set off by a pair of matching black cowboy boots. In the style favored by most Hispanic exchange students in New York City. Alberto wears his thick black hair at shoulder length, parted in the center, tied in a ponytail in the back.

Alberto glances down at his wristwatch. He strives to look nonchalant under the watchful eyes of the waitress-bartender. Restaurants in the upper eighties in Manhattan are often very nearly empty during the lunch hour. The upside to this, you can have the place to yourself at the noon hour. The down side, the lack of trade might lead to inquisitive stares from the wait staff. The law student takes another careful sip of his wine.

Just then, the glass and oak wood door to Estelle's restaurant swings wide. Rays of sunshine beam into the room. Followed by a beautiful young woman with blond hair and blue eyes who strides onto the scene with all the composure of a high fashion model. The blue-eyed blonde wears a white cotton blouse, a red skirt, and matching red pumps. She carries a large canvas bag under her right arm.

"Probably doing runway." The waitress says to herself, nodding.

The girl advances, smiling, towards Alberto's table. The young man from Bogota rises to his feet with no little haste. He bends at the waist thinking he might kiss the young woman on the cheek. Soon he bends back into his space. The preoccupied look on the face of the Anglo-Saxon beauty argues against any gestures of intimacy.

The law student helps the girl to the cane chair on the opposite side of his table. He longs for her embrace. But given the look on her face it seems best to content himself with the sweet fragrance of the perfume in her hair. Alberto takes his seat. His face looks pensive. It is his turn to start the conversation, what should he say?

"Well?"

Angelina sighs. She reaches deep in to her heart for a smile. The high fashion model drops her canvas bag to the floor beside the leg of her chair. While shaking her head in resignation, she queries.

"Do you want the good news first? Or last?"

The young man holds his tongue until the server places two fresh glasses of red wine on the spotless white tablecloth. Alberto and Angelina watch her walk back to the bar with the bowl of his first wine glass dangling in her hand. He replies.

"Let's have the bad news first."

Angelina takes a small sip of wine. Then she starts in on her narrative.

"I might not have a job tomorrow. The magazine has a new photographer. Mister Charles. Mister Charles wants to follow me with his camera. From the fountain to where the perfume jar sits on a pedestal."

Alberto shrugs his shoulders and says flatly.

"You can walk gracefully, Angelina. I have seen you do it!"

The model and aspiring actress shakes her head from side to side. Her smile wrinkles up into a look of complete exasperation. Angelina pauses while the waitress places small plates and a breadbasket down on the table. Under the server's curious ear, Angelina offers up more detail.

"Mister Charles has his camera stuck on the end of a piece of wood, Alberto. He holds the back of the stick against his shoulder while he follows my walk. It's like he's pointing a gun at me!" Angelina sighs, her shoulders go limp.

Alberto puts his wine glass down on the table. It is a struggle for the law student to relate his quiet and scholarly profession to her line of work. Difficult for him to imagine the decorum of the courtroom replaced by whistles and catcalls from a crowd of onlookers. Finally, he reasons.

"So now you see the virtue in having a lawyer for a husband. Home all day with the kids. No more flash bulbs. No more Mister Charles'."

Angelina's face breaks out into a wide smile. The worry falls away from her heart. She can count on Alberto to be by her side! Next, she says.

"The good news, Alberto, is a whole lot better than the bad news."

Alberto smiles and nods, he works a pat of fresh butter onto a warm slice of French bread.

"I can take it, Angelina! Go ahead!"

The bright smile on Angelina's face dims just a bit. She focuses in on her boyfriend. Angelina watches his face carefully for his response to the words forming up in her mind.

"I might be getting a movie, Alberto!" She remarks. In a voice quietly filled with pride.

Alberto's motions with his butter knife come to an abrupt halt. He struggles to conceal his true feelings. Is he about to lose the woman he loves to Hollywood? Alberto cannot meet Angelina's even gaze. He turns his head away, nods, and says flatly.

"That has to be good. Big opportunity, and like that."

The golden hair beauty understands her boyfriend's ambivalent response. She hastens to salvage her boy friend's feelings. She explains.

"It's a comedy, Alberto. They're going to make it here in New York."

The young man sighs in relief. It sounds like he might not have to compete with one of the many blond Vikings out there in Hollywood. Alberto sits perfectly still. His heart aches. Will Angelina be his wife? Will she return with him to Columbia? With his brown serious eyes looking down into her sparkling blue eyes, he says.

"I only have one more year in New York City. Then it's back to Bogota."

As if on a film director's cue. The third year law student and the aspiring actress bite down lightly on their lower lips. They gaze at one another in silence. What are we to do? Just then the server arrives, order pad and pen in hand.

"Have you two decided?" She asks.

Scene 26 The Dining Room Table Audition

Location: Lester Maury's apartment, Central Park New York City

When the elevator door closes behind them, Alberto and Angelina walk to a door marked 10 E. Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, Alberto raps on the door with the knuckles of his fist. A few moments pass. Then the heavy steel door swings wide open. Alberto and Angelina see a middle-aged man in a button down red and green checked shirt. He wears grey cotton trousers with cuffs. And honest and sincere looking round-toed shoes with laces and matching argyle socks.

The older man smiles at his two young and bashful guests. His eyes sparkle behind thick and studious looking glasses. While cocking his head slightly back and forth, he exclaims.

"Angelina! Angelina!" Then he glances up slightly and over at Alberto and adds. "And this must be your law school boyfriend, Alberto. Am I right? Am I right?"

Lester Maury shepards his charges over the threshold without waiting for a response. One thoughtful hand on Alberto's shoulder. After Lester closes the door, he turns towards the center of the room, and says loudly.

"Everybody! Everybody! Angelina is right here on time!"

Angelina looks about the spacious and designer decorated sitting room. She sees Lester Maury's girlfriend and leading woman, Tia Barrows standing on the other side of the rug. Tia smiles at Alberto and Angelina, her eyes sparkle. The popular actress stands tall, slender, and happy, surrounded by four of her adopted children. Miss Barrow's two youngest children hang on to their mother's arms by her fingertips. Tia Barrows crosses the rug and holds her hand out to Angelina. Nearly laughing, she says.

"It's neck and neck, Angelina. I have the acting experience. You're the ingénue."

Angelina feels caught up in the gracious atmosphere of the Lester Maury residence. She was expecting a grim, woman on woman contest with Tia. This is turning out to be a friendly rivalry between sorority sisters. Smiling while returning Tia's warm grasp, she says.

"I love your children already, Tia."

Just then, a huge Nordic type, Mister Maury's " _personal assistant_ ", marches into the parlor from the kitchen.

He places a tray of lemonade-filled glasses down onto the cocktail table. When he turns and stands erect. The muscle bound man spies Alberto. Hard to tell if it is the ponytail or the Castilian features which sets him off. Either way, something drives Eric to close the distance between himself and Alberto in a rush. To the embarrassment of everyone in the room, he inserts his large frame, as if it were a shield, in the space between the dark eyed stranger and his boss.

Alberto Enrique Nayari gazes up into the taller and broader man's eyes. As a long time visitor to the United States, he understands the sudden confrontation is more of a startle response than a gesture of race prejudice. Alberto decides to defuse the situation with a little humor. The law student swallows on a dry mouth. Then Alberto wryly remarks.

"Do not worry, my friend. My machete is in the umbrella stand outside the door."

Lester's 'Personal Assistant' Eric, by name, turns deep red as his faux pas spreads across the room. Angelina and Tia cover their mouths with their fingertips, trying hard not to laugh at Eric's embarrassing situation. Lester Maury walks around Eric as if his personal assistant were a parked car. With Tia Barrows at his side, he glances at both Angelina and Alberto. Lester Maury quips.

"It's the red meat, I think. Eric eats about twice as much steak as anybody I know."

First Tia, then Angelina, and finally, Alberto, laugh aloud at Lester's comedic remark. Eric glances feverishly from one person to the next. Mouth half open and brow knitted up. Once reassured that all is well, no permanent damage, he joins in and laughs at himself.

The glasses of lemonade are soon half empty. Lester Maury leads the way into his spacious dining room. He puts his glass down on the table and turns to face the group. For a few moments, Lester taps his fingertips against his lips, while he arranges his thoughts. Finally, he explains.

"I'm riding in a car with the leading lady. Whichever one of you it turns out to be. We've just met. And I'm finding out that the girl next to me is a gangster's moll. She stays nonchalant. I get scared as we speak."

As if on cue from her boyfriend, Tia Barrows pulls two chairs, side by side, out from the dining room table. Smiling, and with a friendly wave of her hand. She motions Angelina into the chair on her left, and then sits down smoothly by her side.

Lester passes duplicate copies of the scene from his script across the table, into the outstretched arms of both Tia and Angelina. With a reassuring grin, Lester says.

"All you have to do, Angelina. Is sound like a gangster's moll. Tia will give you her delivery as an example. If you can sound like Yonkers or the Bronx. Then we try a screen test. Are you with me on this?"

Angelina looks up into Lester's eyes. She finds a good deal of compassion and enthusiasm. The high fashion model turns to her left. She studies the expression on Alberto's face. As per usual, he is struggling to appear calm and indifferent. Yet something in his dark eyes seems to be saying- 'yes'. Yes to a career for Angelina as an actress! Angelina smiles from the depths of her heart. Then, she turns to concentrate on the task.

"O. K. . ." Angelina remarks. "I 'm all set, Mister Maury."

The comedian nods, first at Eric, and next at Alberto. With his left hand, he makes side-to-side motions in the air above the dining room table. Just as if, he was sitting behind the wheel of an automobile moving along in rush hour traffic. Mister Maury glances down at the dialogue in the script in his right hand. He begins to act.

"I see! I see!" Says Lester Maury in his high-pitched stage voice, "So your boyfriend was holding out. Is that what you said? He was skimming off the top?"

Tia Barrows curls her mouth and her nose up into a sneer. She snarls in Lester's direction. Then she delivers her lines in a near perfect Brooklynese accent.

"Yah. That's what I said, alreadddy. They shot his eyes out. Both of em."

Lester Maury shivers. A method actor's gesture designed to drive his voice to a higher range and layer it with overtones of fear and anxiety.

"So did he die? I, I, I, mean...Waaas he killed?"

Tia nods and sneers again. She adds.

"He had it cumin to him. A punk awll his life. Always wisin off."

Lester Maury stops pretending to be driving a car in rush hour traffic. He puts his script down on the dining room table. Mister Maury glances down at Angelina, he smiles and says.

"That's all we need. If you can be Brooklyn for two lines, we'll try it in the studio."

Angelina looks from Lester to Alberto. She sees Alberto's hands folded over his chest.

Angelina's boyfriend looks like nothing so much as a proud father at his daughter's first piano recital. Wordlessly, Alberto nods his head at the love of his life. Angelina smiles- Alberto wants her to be an actress just as much as she wants to be an actress!

Angelina holds her script up to eye level. She cocks her head towards Lester. The comedian glances between Angelina, the model and Alberto, the law student. Lester goes back to his driving motions. A few seconds pass. He says.

"I see! I see! So your boyfriend was holding out. Is that what you said? He was skimming off the top?"

Angelina bites down on her lower lip, hard. She struggles to bring to mind Tia's near perfect inflections and timing. Where Tia was fluid and natural in her delivery, Angelina stutters. She says stiffly.

"Yesh. That's what I said, already. They shot his eyes out. Bot of dem."

It is crystal-clear to everyone in the room Angelina is a lot closer in voice to Des Moines Iowa than Brooklyn New York. Still, it is only fair to go the whole distance. Lester continues with his lines.

"So did he die? I, I, I, mean... Waaas he killed?"

Angelina swallows and blushes a deep shade of red. Runway modeling is not quite the same as acting. She responds.

"He had it commingk to him. A punk all his life. Always wisingk off."

Once again, Lester Maury stops pretending he is driving a car with his left hand. He drops his script down to his side. Mister Maury glances about the room while he avoids making eye contact with anyone. The hard truth is apparent to everyone in the room. Angelina the high fashion super model cannot do Brooklyn, not in a million years.

Angelina is the first to smile at her predicament. When Tia smiles, Angelina goes from a sheepish grin to a giggle. Tia Barrows joins in the laughter. Soon the two lovely leading ladies fall into one another's arms.

When the laughter dies down Lester hands out his decision to the group.

"Maybe with a year in acting school. Maybe. But we have to start shooting next week."

Angelina sighs and rises to her feet. The dining table audition is at an end.

Eric makes way for the group. He backs out of the doorway connecting the dining room to the front parlor. The two couples walk to the center of the room. Tia leans close to Angelina and whispers.

"Eric's a perfect gentleman." Both girls smile. They shake their heads in mock sadness and regret. Lester puts his hand on the doorknob and turns back towards his guests. He opens his mouth to speak. Tia interjects.

"The party Lester! Don't forget the party."

Lester Maury nods at his girlfriend. He glances at her, standing a little behind and between Alberto and Angelina. Mister Maury raises his hands chest high and wiggles his fingers at the law student and the model. Hand in hand, the young couple come to an abrupt halt. In a voice rising with pleasure, Lester says.

"Saturday night. Please. Both of you be here, around eight. Some Hollywood action - adventure types are stopping by. ... Anybody can do action adventure."

Alberto and Angelina murmur 'thank you' to the well-known comedian. Seconds later, they find themselves out the door and into the plush hallway. After a swift elevator ride down to the lobby, they walk out into the sunshine and noisy traffic of Central Park West Boulevard. Once at the curb, Alberto holds his arm up to hail a cab. With his other arm, he gives Angelina a little squeeze and a hug at the waist.

Scene 27 Angelina Is Free To Choose

Location: Lester Maury's apartment, Central Park New York City

Cocktail parties in Manhattan, tend towards the somber, even when they take place in apartments offering a view across the wide green expanses of Central Park. The issue here is clothing styles. On the east coast, as compared to the west, dark colored clothing sets the standard. Men's suits come in three colors, and three colors only, grey, navy blue, and, black.

For women's eveningwear, the rules are much the same. Cocktail dresses can be either- white, red, blue, green, or black. New Yorker's will sometimes acknowledge shades of pastel exist, of course, with a throw away gesture of the hand. However, they remind such liberties in dress are for the people of Los Angeles, and Miami, alone.

The party in Lester Maury's Central Park West Condominium bumps along at a somber pace. There are Hollywood types in the crowd, lending a splash of color to an otherwise neutral ambiance. But the general tone is- let's get the business done and let's go home!

Lester Maury and Tia Barrows lead Angelina and Alberto through the press of print and cinema people. Tia wears a sleeveless black cocktail dress; Angelina's dress is bone white. Her gown has three quarter length sleeves. An arrangement the two women worked out over the phone on the Friday before the party. Lester Maury wears a dark brown suit set off by saddle shoes. Alberto Nayari is dressed in black, all the way down to his shirt and tie.

Angelina holds firm to Alberto's arm as the two couples move from one circle to the next. This is a scary night for Angelina. It is her debut in the world of the cinema- she needs the affection and the security built into Alberto's firm grasp. Alberto makes a good impression on Lester's guests in spite of his ponytail, black tie and black shirt. Alberto and Angelina find Lester's friends are pleased a Colombian national would seek out the United States for a law school education.

And the women? Well, the women at the party envy Angelina for Alberto's ponytail. Eric is the taller and the broader of the two. Nevertheless, Alberto Enrique Nayari fascinates women by his presence. They perceive the third year law student as thoughtful, earnest, and above all, proud.

Deep into the party, Alberto and Angelina find themselves standing near the open doors leading to the balcony of Lester Maury's apartment. A big time television producer, dressed in a pale blue suit and navy silk shirt, takes Angelina's boyfriend into his studied and professional gaze. When a lull develops in the conversation, he says.

"Not this year. Not next year. But maybe ten years from now. You could be doing cop shows. Brooding, sort of. Intense. A vice cop in New York City... no.... Miami would be better. Yah, Miami."

A bewildered look spreads across the face of Alberto Enrique Nayari. Lester Maury, Tia Barrows, and Angelina the super model, just smile.

At about half past the hour of ten, Lester leads Angelina, Alberto and Tia into a circle of Hollywood studio executives. Not the executives who sign the checks, but those higher up the ladder, the men who make decisions about taste, style, and theme.

Lester introduces everyone all around. Then one of the men from the west coast looks at Angelina and says.

"Right now it's golden girl types. Beach movie blondes. Maybe a remake of the Tarzan series. You know? Muscle bound Nordic swings from tree to tree on a rope. Saves the damsel from the lions and tigers. What do _you_ think, Angelina?"

Alberto lets go of Angelina's hand as the words from Hollywood fill the air. He takes a step backwards and away from the woman he loves. Angelina is free to choose! Angelina struggles to transform the feelings in her heart into words. The circle of guests grows tense and expectant. Tia smiles an encouraging smile at Angelina. Angelina decides.

"I know how lovely Hollywood would be." Says Angelina. "But, well. Alberto has asked me to be his wife. And Colombia is the same way as here. Just as many problems to solve. So I accept. ... My decision is to marry Alberto."

On her last word, Angelina wheels gracefully on her heels. She comes eye to eye with the man she loves. Then she holds out her hand.

Scene 28 Gridlock On The Avenidas Of Bogota

Location: Downtown near the Colpatria building, Bogota Columbia

Don Alberto Enrique Nayari has the radio in his tan Mercedes tuned to a favorite FM station. A major network affiliate, with a great many Cuban vocals and instrumentals in the play list. Just now, his luxury car's stereo speakers surround sound him with a fast-paced salsa rhythm.

Don Nayari is preoccupied with the details of the speech he is about to give. Still, he has enough room in his heart to smile when the percussionist rubs his 'quijada de burros' together. Dried donkey's jawbones, giving out with an eerie and high-pitched tone as the musician rolls them against one another with his hands.

Don Nayari glances down at his heavy gold Rolex as the last few notes of the tune fade away. Comparing the time to the heavy traffic on the avenida, there is no doubt but that he is going to be a little late. Mister Nayari shakes his head in frustration.

The light turns red. The Don brings his car to a halt, with a few moments to spare. Alberto's next thought is to pick up his cell phone. With the thumb of his right hand, just a bit awkward, he taps down on the buttons on the too small key pad. The Don dials a number a good twenty kilometers distant from his present location, on the southwest corner of the colonial district.

Alberto hits the power button on his Blaupunkt radio. The radio powers down, the full leather interior of the luxurious automobile grows whisper silent. The phone rings once as he brings the handset up to his ear. In the middle of the second ring, his party picks up.

"Libertad Brakes, Mufflers, and Tires." Says the cheerful female voice on the other end of the conversation. "How may we help you today?"

Don Nayari swallows and queries. "Mister Metapan, please."

"I'm sorry, sir." The receptionist does not recognize Don Nayari's voice. She explains. "Mister Metapan is with a customer. Is there a message?"

"Yes. This is Mister Nayari calling." With that, the female voice quickly replies.

"Mister Nayari! Mister Metapan said you were coming. Is everything all right, Don Nayari Sir?"

"Yes. Fine. But I'm in my car. At the Colpatria building." Explains Don Nayari.

"What would you like me to say to Mister Metapan, Mister Nayari?"

"Tell him, please. Thirty or forty minutes from now. No longer."

"Yes Mister Nayari. Anything else?"

"No. But thank you for asking. Goodbye."

With the dial tone sound fresh in his ear, Alberto Nayari presses firmly on the send / end key. Glancing down, he sees the power light on his cell phone extinguished. He carefully folds the handset down onto itself. All this while he maneuvers his car in the heavy afternoon traffic with his left hand top center on the leather wrapped steering wheel.

Don Nayari drives around a tall white stone skyscraper. His expensive Mercedes motors along at a snail's pace, but in perfect comfort. At the AEROFLOT sign on the next building over, he makes a left hand turn.

A half block further up, Alberto sees the short stocky form of Gonzalo Rincon, President and Chief of Operations of his own public relations firm: _"Rincon and Associates"._ Mister Rincon wears a navy blue light woolen suit. He stands near a parking meter with his back towards the street. Alberto sees Gonzalo has a sheaf of poster boards under his left arm. And, that he is engaged in an animated conversation, with a young slender gentleman whom Alberto does not recognize.

Mister Nayari brings his Mercedes to a halt in the rush hour traffic. He taps the horn ring on his steering wheel in a light, polite, fashion. Gonzalo Rincon wheels about on his heels at the sound of the musical note from the horn. The look of irritation on his face morphs to a smile as soon as he sees his favorite client- Don Alberto Enrique Nayari. Gonzalo rushes between two parked cars to the front passenger door of Alberto's car. The stranger follows close behind.

"Forgive me, Gonzalo. The traffic was more than I expected."

Remarks Mister Nayari with a sigh, to the man lowering himself onto the front passenger side bucket seat.

Gonzalo takes the seat next to his client. His young friend pluncks himself down in the rear passenger seat behind Gonzalo. The younger man in the back pulls a business card from the breast pocket of his safari style jacket. He passes the card over the seat back into Don Nayari's right hand and says.

"Todd Hunter. Mister Nayari. I do features for the Village Voice. That's in New York City. On the east coast of the United States."

Alberto Enrique Nayari and Gonzalo Rincon exchange knowing glances and smiles. They turn their heads in unison to the rear seat. Both men smile when they see the Australian outback style hat on Todd Hunter's lap. And, the deep-sea divers watch, strapped tightly to his left wrist. Alberto and Gonzalo realize at once and at the same time. Mister Hunter journeyed from the United States to Colombia prepared for the jungle! The man behind the steering wheel makes eye contact with the Village Voice feature reporter in the glass of his rear view mirror. He says dryly.

"I went to law school in Manhattan, Mister Hunter. Columbia University."

"Really?" Says the young man, in an incredulous voice. A look of amazement spread wide across the face of the young man in the back seat.

"That's a real interesting angle!"

"It's better than that!" Adds Gonzalo Rincon with twinkling eyes, "Don Nayari's wife was a supermodel in New York!"

Todd Hunter brings his slender frame to the bolt upright position. He fishes around in his suede leather designer knapsack, for his spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen. When the tools of his trade are on his lap, he mutters.

"And I was worried about my high school Spanish!"

Alberto and Gonzalo let out with hearty laughs. The Mercedes wends its powerful and silent way through a congested intersection. A few blocks pass by in silence. Don Nayari glances over his right shoulder to the back seat. He sees Todd Hunter has his pen in the ready position. Alberto Nayari starts speaking.

"We're headed to a tire and muffler shop near the colonial district. Owned by a man named Metapan. Antonio Metapan. He's a kind of a... well... you would say in the states a John Bircher. Strong minded."

Todd Hunter scribbles feverishly on a blank page in his notebook. Alberto Nayari keeps an eye on the young man's efforts through the agency of his rear view mirror. Finally, Todd's work comes to a halt. The young slender man, with light brown straight hair sits upright once again. Pen clutched in his fingers at the ready position. Don Nayari continues.

"A retired Air Force general may be there. Senor Manuel Artemisa. And a gentleman from Nicaragua. Diego Cienaga."

Gonzalo Rincon turns full around at the mention of Mister Cienaga. Gonzalo's eyes flash as he exclaims.

"Diego Cienaga is a Major in the Sandinistas! He will tell you the C. I. A. has a contract out on him! But it's more like an arrest warrant for dealing drugs in Miami."

"And Father Gaillard." Reminds Alberto Nayari with both hands on the wheel.

"Yes! Yes!" Says Gonzalo Rincon, quite rapidly and while looking at Don Nayari in profile. "Father Tomas Gaillard! In the states, Father Tomas would be one of those anti - abortion radicals."

Gonzalo Rincon watches the Village Voice reporter draw boxes around the names of the cast of characters handed to him by his hosts. Gonzalo turns full forward in his tan leather bucket seat. With his right hand, he reaches out to straighten the sheets of poster board resting on his knees. He says.

"My people are watching all the papers, Don Nayari. El Tiempo, El Espectador, La Republica, and El Siglo. So far, it's just the society pages. Don Nayari and his wife at the ballet. Don Nayari and his actress wife visit the Museo de Oro. Mrs. Alberto Nayari donates her time at the children's ward in the hospital... and like that."

Mister Rincon shakes his head in frustration. He gives out with a long theatrical sigh. Alberto Nayari's face remains impassive during Gonzalo's report. Todd Hunter glances up, pen erect in his right hand. Mister Hunter looks back and forth between the wealthy businessperson and the public relations expert. His mouth opens as if to speak. Then, through the windshield, he sees a green signboard with white letters reading:

LIBERTAD BRAKES, MUFFLERS, AND TIRES

Alberto Nayari hits his left turn indicator. He checks for closing traffic from behind in all three of his rear view mirrors. Just as the Don glides the luxurious Mercedes Benz onto the parking apron of the repair shop, Todd Hunter, Village Voice reporter, flips his spiral notebook shut. With the engine shut down and the transmission lever in the park position, the three men alight from the vehicle.

Scene 29 Don Nayari Lays Out His Six Point Plan

Location: Libertad Brakes, Mufflers, and Tires, Bogota Columbia

Gloria Encanto rolls the top drawer in the filing cabinet to the closed position. She turns gracefully to her left on three inch heels and glances out the glass partition of her workspace. Through the workspace window, she has a view out the window of the two-story cinder block building. She spies an elegant four door Mercedes out on the street. The vehicle rolls swift and silent onto the parking apron of Libertad Brakes, Mufflers, and Tires. Gloria hurries out the door and over to the manager's office. She works the knob and leans across the threshold.

"They are here, Mister Metapan!" Gloria holds still until Antonio Metapan nods in her direction. Then, spike heels clicking on concrete, Gloria rushes over to the service bays, smoothing her tight black skirt while she speeds along.

Miss Encanto comes to a halt in the front left corner of the workroom. The mirror on the candy bar machine shows an attractive young woman in a form fitting white blouse. She is blessed with a wide luscious mouth, deep dark eyes, and beautiful long black hair.

"Everybody!" Exclaims Gloria, over the staccato din of air hammers and the hydraulic hiss of one of the lifts. "Straighten the place up! Mister Nayari is here!"

On Gloria's last words, the six mechanics in Mister Metapan's employ start tossing wrenches, hammers, and screwdrivers, back into open-mouthed toolboxes. The shift manager walks over to a row of switches on the front wall of the shop. Soon two of the four garage doors stands wide open. In teams of three, the workers push two cars out of the shop, and onto the apron fronting on the avenida. The first- a Volkswagen Beetle in need of a battery. The second a 1957 Chevrolet wagon with a burned out starter motor and a cracked windshield, but very little rust on the rocker panels.

The six garage mechanics make their way back inside the shop. The foreman sees his boss, Antonio Metapan and the public relations expert Gonzalo Rincon. These two men walk in his direction shoulder to shoulder, deep in pleasant conversation. In addition, following close behind, nearly a dozen odd men and women, employees, neighbors and visitors to- Libertad Brakes Mufflers and Tires.

The foreman ambles over to a point near to both of his grease pits. He pushes two sets of chest high toolboxes on caster wheels together. Then he rolls these over the concrete, to the center of the work bay. Gonzalo Rincon smiles and nods a 'thank you' at this thoughtful gesture. Now he had an easel for his poster boards. Better still, Don Nayari has a podium, however rough and rude.

Alberto Enrique Nayari takes a position next to the chest high toolboxes. His location places him in the center most point in the repair shop. At the same time Gonzalo Rincon, walks to the other side of the tool chests. Gonzalo pulls a wide long drawer out a few inches. Building a lip or ledge upon which he will able to rest his collection of poster boards.

Todd Hunter walks to Mister Rincon's right hand side. The man from the Village Voice retrieves his pad and pencil from the depths of his designer knapsack. And, a black plastic battery powered tape recorder. Mister Hunter is all set to go!

Antonio Metapan steps up, face to face with Mister Nayari. Mister Metapan smiles at the Don. His personal choice for the senate seat in the Cundinamarca district. He points in the direction of the candy bar machine. Mister Metapan begins the introductions.

"Gloria Encanto, my office manager. You spoke to her on the phone an hour ago. Next to her, Robin Jovellanos. Robin and Gloria are classmates at the National University."

"You can see from her notebook and tape recorder, Robin is also a reporter."

Robin Jovellanos stands just a little bit taller than her best friend, Gloria. She wears a brown leather vest over a light tan blouse, form fitting trousers in brown, and an elegant pair of cowboy boots with reverse walking heels. The boots are the same shade of chocolate as her vest. Robin smiles while she corrects Mister Metapan.

"Journalism internship, Mister Metapan. With El Tiempo. It's my last year in college."

Alberto Nayari returns the smiles of the two young women standing in front of the candy bar machine. He looks a bit severe in his charcoal grey suit, white shirt, and rep stripe tie. Mister Metapan wheels to his right just a few degrees.

"Father Gaillard you know, of course. Next to him Senor Manuel Artemisa. Retired Air Force General, and my next-door neighbor. And, in the paratrooper boots and fatigues, Diego Cienaga. A Nicaraguan Sandinista. Major in the National Guard. The major made the trip from Managua to Bogota just to speak to you. Finally. From the city of Medellin. Senor Misael Valencia. A businessman. And, his young associate, Jair Jaco."

Don Nayari is genuinely pleased at the presence of Father Gaillard and General Artemisa. For these two, he has a warm wide smile. The smile cools to a nod, however, at the mention of Senor Cienaga. Deeper and further, his expression dissolves to a cold stare at the mention of the names of the two men from Medellin, 'Valencia' and 'Jaco'.

Alberto Enrique Nayari clears his throat into his closed hand. In a raised speaking voice, a little bit awkward from stage fright, he says.

"Mister Rincon. Senor Gonzalo Rincon is handling public relations for my campaign. The gentleman in the safari jacket is Todd Hunter. Mister Hunter is a reporter for the Village Voice."

Don Nayari makes a little sweeping motion with his hand. Then he gingerly lowers a sheaf of notepaper to the top of the greasy surface of the tool chest at his right. Finally, he turns to the audience and begins to speak, nervously at first, but then with growing confidence.

"As you all know I am Alberto Enrique Nayari. Candidate for the Senate here in the Cundinamarca district. Generally, I am running with a six-point plan. As you can see."

Alberto turns his head to the right, where his eyes meet with Gonzalo's eyes. Mister Rincon holds the first poster board up to the view of the people crowded round Mister Metapan. Don Nayari nods at Gonzalo. Then he turns back to face his audience.

"LIBERATION THEOLOGY. These words are not original to me. However, I mean them as the Salvadoran's used them in the 1960's. Colombia must have a faith-based society. Our people need religion."

Father Tomas Gaillard smiles. He shakes his head up and down in the manner of a true believer. The reaction from Jair Jaco, on the other hand, is quite the opposite. Jair rises from his perch on the back fender of an old Buick like a snake about to strike. He stands ramrod stiff between his two friends, Bobby Blazado and Hector Silvestre. Jair struts forward in his black engineer's boots and scowls.

"We don't need another Father Bartolome! No praying for us while we die!!"

Bobby and Hector nod their heads in sympathy with their fellow mechanic. They shake their fists in the air. Todd Hunter, Village Voice reporter, leans towards Gonzalo Rincon. The puzzled expression on Todd's face prompts Gonzalo to whisper an explanation.

"Father Bartolome de las Casas. The more he prayed for the Indians of Cuba. The more they died. After Columbus claimed the Caribbean for Spain."

"Second point." Remarks the Don. "A diversified economy. Cocaine and orchids cannot be the only two cash crops. The government must encourage growth in all possible directions."

Everyone in the audience, excepting Jair Jaco and Misael Valencia, smiles. There is a light scattered round of applause. Alberto waits for the applause to die down.

"Next we have the issue of education. Grammar school is not enough. We must have the high school diploma a requirement. This will lower the unemployment rate as well."

Antonio Metapan and General Artemisa frown and shrug their shoulders in unison. Palms out and elbows at his sides, Artemisa queries.

"And the taxes Don Nayari? Who will pay the taxes for the schools?"

Alberto Nayari nods and bites his lower lip. The question does not catch him unprepared. He expected this argument from the conservatives in the audience. Nayari has an answer.

"You bring me to my fourth point, General Artemisa. Manufacturing. Maquiladoras with tin roofs are not enough. We need huge plants. Automobiles. Television sets."

The General remains skeptical. He shakes his head from side to side. Don Alberto waits politely for the General's reply. When General Artemisa looks the other way, Alberto clears his throat and adds yet another plank to his platform.

"And now to point five. Free health care. Hospitals in all the towns. Not just the big cities."

Each of the men in the repair shop shakes his head back and forth. Antonio Metapan speaks for the feelings of the group at large. Mister Metapan says.

"Don Nayari. Where will the money come from? Borrowing from foreign countries is a hole in the ground. When the economy collapses, they will seize all our businesses!"

Alberto Nayari's heart pounds, his throat goes bone dry. He says.

"We tax the drug traffic, Mister Metapan." Don Alberto Enrique Nayari replies. "For the next two decades. Twenty years. We tax everything going to the United States and Europe on the open market. The profits will take Columbia to prosperity."

The few drug dealers in the audience eye Don Nayari warily. Misael Valencia sighs and mutters to Jair Jaco. "How will we qualify for a license?" Next, in a cynical voice, Valencia remarks aloud.

"Forgive me, mister president to be. But drugs are forbidden fruit. If you take away the danger. You take away the appetite!"

Alberto Nayari takes a half step backwards. He waves at Gonzalo to get him to drop his sixth and last poster board. With the board out of sight of his audience, Alberto steps forward and offers up a compromise.

"Perhaps then a plebiscite! After I am elected we put the issue to a vote!"

An awkward silence fills the room. Even the mechanics cast their eyes to the oil and grease stained floor. What can they say? Finally, Antonio Metapan takes a half step forward. He waves his hands in little circles while he speaks to the Don on behalf of most of the people in the audience.

"We were thinking, maybe, ... , strength, ... , uniformity, ... , change the constitution, ... , the president in power for his lifetime. No more this way for a while and then that way for a while."

Don Nayari's face goes blank. Retired General Manuel Artemisa raises his right hand up to his chest. He motions towards Major Cienaga.

"Castro is with Ortega in Managua all this week. They are willing to fly here. Major Cienaga and I can fly you to Managua."

Major Diego Cienaga, of the Nicaraguan Sandinistas, interjects in a loud voice.

"Troops. Weapons. We have everything. The Soviets can supply to your tastes! Don Nayari."

Robin Jovellanos shivers at the thought of meeting Fidel Castro. All the way down to her heart, she believes an encounter with Mister Castro would be nothing less than the thrill of a lifetime.

Robin holds the microphone to her tape recorder out to full arms length. Her eyes sparkle! In an excited voice, nearly enraptured, she says.

"Senor Nayari! Mister Castro walks the streets of Havana at will. The Cuban people love his every word!"

Don Alberto Enrique Nayari looks into Robin's over bright eyes and nods. Then he turns to his public relations expert, Gonzalo Rincon.

"Like a cheerleader from Des Moines." Don Alberto says softly, shaking his head from side to side.

Gonzalo can think of nothing to say in return. He gives out with a little shrug of his shoulders. Don Nayari wheels back to stand square with Antonio Metapan. He turns his hands palms outward and quips.

"Castro walks the streets of Havana. With no need of a bodyguard. This is true. But this is because his opponents. ..... Have all been taken to the dungeons."

Scene 30 Mister Ali Leon Deals With Prison Life

Location: Federal penitentiary near Richmond Virginia

Ali Leon rolls gingerly over and onto his left side. His head still throbs. He feels sore at both the entrance and exit wounds he sustained in the gun battle with the- Norte's. The bullet injury to his right bicep has long since healed. Unfortunately, the scalp wounds are proving troublesome. Somehow, someway, the scalp wounds became infected- due to contamination from extraneous hair particles on his scalp. Morning headaches are a commonplace for Mister Ali Leon. Yet another aggravation and indignity, heaped upon all the trials and tribulations, of his day-to-day life in prison.

Mister Leon cranes his head upward. The youthful Mexican hopes the stretching motion will relieve the pounding in his temples. Instead of relief, however, his eyes light upon his mother's crucifix. This religious artifact sent to him through the mails, by the janitor of the building in the Philadelphia barrio. Where he lived with his mother from late adolescence, until the time his wife disappeared with her boyfriend.

In years past, the solid silver crucifix graced his mother's ample bosom. Now it dangles motionless in the air, suspended by its delicate silver chain from one of the pipes holding the mattress above his head against the wall.

Suddenly the crucifix and the beads start to tremble. The meaning to this is not that Ali is about to receive a vision of his sainted mother from beyond the grave. But rather that the man in the bunk above his is about to rise from his slumber. Ali listens to his cellmate rustle nervously about under his bed covers.

Ali Leon groans. Then he covers a yawn with his fist. The thought of another day working in the prison library brings a wrinkled frown to Ali Leon's mouth.

Very, very carefully, Leon rolls over onto his right side. The motion brings his face to the rough painted cinder block wall, separating his cell from the next cell over. Now he can study the mountain of graffiti scribbled on the wall at his leisure. He is close enough to the canvas so as not to need his eyeglasses.

"This ain't no San Lucas Island."

Reads the words in Mister Leon's favorite line of unsigned blank verse. It is an ironical comment. Making the point federal penitentiaries in the United States have a long way to go to meet the international standards for cuisine and recreation set for them by the prisons in the warm and sunny Caribbean nation of Costa Rica.

Suddenly, the klaxon horn at the barred entranceway to the cellblock erupts in a roar. Ali Leon and his three cellmates toss their wool blankets back while they yawn, stretch, and sigh. Then they stand and dress in regulation prison clothes. Baggy orange shirts and trousers with the word: **PRISONER** , printed in large black letters between the shoulder blades.

Ali is nearly finished with his left shoelace, when the cell door rolls back on its metal wheels. Wordlessly, the four men walk out onto the second floor balcony. The man behind Ali Leon says in a harsh whisper. "Pack a lunch, Leon."

Ali's head turns swiftly round in spite of the pain from his injuries. Wide eyed with alarm he replies. "Huh?" The man behind Ali, his upper bunk cellmate, looks the other way.

The men shuffle down the iron steps. They walk on and along in the direction of the main doors. Mister Leon encounters a huge guard with a clipboard at the entrance and exit way door to the cellblock. The bottom edge of his clipboard pressed into his huge belly. Top edge of the board in his curled hammy fists. The uniformed guard shouts into Ali's right ear without any warning.

"Hey - Leon!! You're going to the hospital for blood tests! Shag it over to the office after you get fed! ... Comprende?"

Ali Leon comes to a shuffling halt. His eyes fall on the can of pepper spray clipped to the guard's wide belt. The small aerosol can hangs right next to a huge ring of keys. Next, Ali glances up and makes eye contact with the leering guard.

"Do you like your work, officer?"

Responds Mister Leon in a wry voice to the man in uniform. Then he turns away from the guard and blends his slender form into the stream of men walking towards the cafeteria. Ali hurries on to the dining room placing one foot in front of the other. From time to time Mister Leon presses a hand against his throbbing head. His hunched shoulders bob and weave in a random pattern as he ambles along.

Scene 31 Through The Doors Of The Emergency Room

Location: Richmond General Medical Center, Richmond Virginia

The Richmond General Medical Center and Hospitals rise well up into the sky on the south side of Patterson Avenue. A few blocks to the east of the University of Richmond, in the bustling city of Richmond, Virginia. The main building was built in the post war boom of the 1950's. The emergency rooms, laboratory, and radiology suites, however, are all recent additions.

Ali Leon and his guard see an open floor plan as the two men walk through the electric eye doors of the emergency room entrance. They come upon a space for triaging patients nearly half as large as a high school basketball court. Straightaway, the guard and his prisoner pace the short distance to the reception desk in the center of the open floor.

The tabletop surface sports a white Formica top, with three telephones, color coded white, black and red. There are two wire in and out baskets, each filled to capacity, and a thick and well thumbed patient's room directory. Mister Leon and his guard raise their eyes up from the office equipment on the countertop. They see a pleasant looking woman with grey hair. She wears eyeglasses and a light blue hospital issue smock. The receptionist sits on a chrome and leather stool, hands folded a top one another.

Ali Leon moves a little closer to the booth than his bodyguard and companion. He feels embarrassed in the gaze of the woman seated behind the desk. He shuffles forward a bit, struggling to conceal the handcuffs around his wrists from the receptionist's otherwise friendly glance. Mister Leon nods at the middle-aged woman without speaking. Then Ali turns to his left. To hand the scene over to his uniformed, pistol toting escort.

The prison guard doffs his saucer hat with his left hand. For dramatic effect, he brings the palm of his right hand up to rest on the top of the butt of his revolver. The pistol held snug in a basket weave leather holster, on a wide belt around his hips.

The weapon is a Colt Python with a vent ribbed, six-inch barrel, in 357 caliber. Each of the six chambers in the fluted cylinder filled with a hot load cartridge, each cartridge with a hollow point bullet resting easily in front of its powder charge.

"Junior here has to have a blood test. DNA something." Says the guard to the receptionist.

The woman inside the booth eyes the guard's pistol warily. "Could _that thing go off?_ " She thinks to herself. Next, she glances down at Ali. Mister Leon looks to her maternal eye like Sneezy, Snow White's favorite dwarf. The contrast between the two men nearly drives the receptionist to laughter. She has to cover the back of her mouth with her hand to keep from losing her composure.

The guard stands poised for a battle, he is oversized, over gunned, and over eager. Next to him stands a harmless looking man in eyeglasses, dressed in an orange prison jump suit. The hapless prisoner appears all the more helpless for a pair of too large handcuffs binding his slender wrists, one to another.

"Paternity testing goes to the laboratory." Explains the middle-aged woman on the chrome and leather stool. Then she makes a downward sweeping motion of her right hand. "You follow the blue line on the floor."

"Crime scene evidence." Counters the guard. Ali Leon nods in agreement.

"Big, big crime." Adds the small man in the orange prison suit with irony in his voice. Then he shakes his head left and right, and pushes his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose with an index finger.

"Self defense all the way." Mister Leon says in a firm voice.

The self-assured and amused look on the receptionist's face goes bewildered. She says.

"You need to talk to one of the emergency room doctors."

With that remark, the guard steps around his prisoner. Then he cranes his neck, first to the right and then to the left. Ali Leon's guard spies a man wearing a lab coat, surgical scrubs, and white shoes, standing deep in the back of the open area emergency room. Both the guard and Ali see the man has a metal patient's chart in his hand, and the black rubber tubes of a stethoscope, protruding upwards from the pocket of his lab coat. The guard puts a large meaty hand on Ali's left shoulder. With a firm tug, he issues out with an order.

"Over there by the curtains. The guy in the white coat."

"I'm coming. I'm coming, already." Responds Leon to his captor. His voice festers with irritation.

A short walk on the clean polished tile floor brings Ali and his guard to a point just in front of the emergency room doctor. Ali and his guard skid to a halt. The man in the white coat has his left hand on the flap edge of a green privacy curtain.

The Physician is in a hurry, obviously on his way into the exam booth. The frown on his face says he has no time to spare. In spite of the look of annoyance on the doctor's face, the guard says.

"Excuse me. Doctor Sir. This guy needs a blood test."

Doctor Bowman drops the edge of the curtain. He opens his hands to the court papers offered to him by the tall husky man in the prison officer's uniform. The Emergency Room Doctor, Emergentologist, more properly, studies the papers for a minute or two.

He glances down at Ali Leon from time to time while he reads off the long list of violent offenses attributed to the meek looking man standing before him. Crimes committed in both Philadelphia and the Fairfax Reston communities of metropolitan Washington, D.C. After a pause for some time to think, Doctor Bowman turns to face the guard.

"First you go to the lab. Time stamp these papers and get a lab slip for DNA. Get the pathologist to sign. Then bring him back here. I draw the bloods."

Ali Leon's head turns back and forth between the two men while the Doctor speaks to the guard. His mind races feverishly, while he organizes his jumbled thoughts and feelings into a workable plan. Before the hurried doctor can pass through the curtain, and on to his patient, Ali says dryly.

"My head is killing me. From where I got shot. I'm gonna get sick if I have to move around."

Mister Leon has entered his plea with the good doctor. Ali's next move is to tilt the top of his head forward and into the view of both men. The doctor looks down onto Ali's scalp. He sees two gauze and tape bandages. Each bandage in the shape of a postage stamp, each perhaps three inches square. More importantly, the doctor's practiced eye picks up on a good deal of swelling along the wound channel. The swelling and inflammation connecting the bullet entry wound to the location of the exit wound.

Doctor Bowman bites his lower lip while he weighs the issues. What should he do? Still uncertain, he turns to the guard and blinks. The guard reads the Doctor's mind. He says flatly.

"Leon's not a flight risk. Say's so on his psych work up."

The emergency room doctor nods his head at the guard. He has a second opinion. The Doctor suggests.

"Cuff him to a gurney. And leave the curtain wide open."

With that remark, Doctor Bowman disappears behind the green privacy curtain. One of a dozen curtains surrounding the dozen exam stations lining the walls of the spacious emergency room.

Ali Leon's mind is racing. His heart pounds. Ali looks up into the guards eyes. Leon blinks several times. He says.

"Gonna be good even to get just one of these cuffs off. Ever tried to get around with handcuffs on, Officer?"

Ali Leon holds his hands up, palms out, towards the guard. He forces a look of pain onto his face. The cuffs give out with a metallic rattling sound, as the chain rubs against the wrist restraints.

Lucky for Mister Leon it is late in the morning and the guard has an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly the guards mind fills with the image of an ice cream vending machine in a basement snack bar.

With a hurried motion, brought on by a craving for sweets, the guard retrieves a handcuff key from a small pouch on his belt. The man uses his left hand to steady the cuff on Ali's left wrist. Then he unlocks the heavy chrome bracelet.

Now Mister Leon reveals his inborn genius for non - violent crime! Ali Leon rubs his left wrist and sighs. While working his fingers open and closed, he suggests.

"I can hook it up for you officer."

Leon walks backwards. He beckons the guard to follow with a meek look in his eyes. His shuffling footsteps take him in the direction of a wheeled gurney cart. Along with every patient transporter in every emergency room in the world, it has a clean white sheet covering the foam mattress on the cart. And it sports heavy chrome rails on both sides.

The guard follows Ali. His face a little distant, half his mind on the situation before him, the other half on his growling stomach. Still for all his hunger, he stands with both hands on his hips, elbows wide out. The guard numbly trails his prisoner, still palming his Colt Python.

Mister Leon sidles up against the side of the cart. Ali gives out with a submissive nod and a meek smile in the direction of his captor. The cuffs make a ratcheting clicking sound, as he fixes the free wrist cuff onto a thumb-sized chrome up right rail on the gurney. Then, with a deft motion of his left hand, he hides the empty space between the upright and the top rail of the cart.

Ali Leon conceals his escape route! Exactly the same way a stage magician makes a quarter disappear between and behind the fingers of one hand!

Ali pulls on the cuff several times. He hopes the sharp clanging sound will fool the guard into thinking he is safely locked and chained to the bulky patient transporter. Ali smiles into the guards eyes. The guard's brow knits up. He thrusts his jaw forward and moves his head quizzically from side to side. Once the guard is satisfied his prisoner is secure- he nods and says.

"Don't go nowhere, Leon."

With that remark, the guard wheels about on rubber-soled shoes, and quickly disappears. He follows the blue line on the floor to the laboratory, out through a second pair of electric eye doors. The double doors at the back of the emergency room complex leading deeper into the maze like buildings of the Richmond General Hospitals. When you factor in a side trip to the snack bar, there is no telling when he will return.

Scene 32 Ali Leon Master Thief, Stumbles Upon An Accomplice

Location: Richmond General Medical Center, Richmond Virginia

Ali Leon pulls free from the gurney as soon as the guard disappears through the double doors at the back of the emergency room. Then he lets out with a long sigh of relief. Free at last! Leon stares in triumph at the locked cuff dangling off his right wrist. Then, rapidly, he slides the curtains of the exam station closed tight. He is alone! Time to make plans!

Ali rubs his hands together with the glee of a jewel thief. Leon eyes his surroundings with a larcenous gleam. First, he goes to the wall cabinets located on either side of the gurney. Glass door cabinets resting just beneath the horizontal chrome panels surrounding the pipes delivering oxygen to each of the exam stations in the pavilion.

Leon rummages about in the drawers on both sides of the gurney cart. He discovers a pile of surgical scrub suits. "Thank you, Virgin Mary!" He exclaims.

In no time at all, Mister Leon is out of his glaring orange prison clothes, and dressed in an eye soothing set of surgical scrubs in light blue. Ali grins from ear to ear when he sees the logo: RICHMOND MEDICAL, stenciled in white ink, in letters roughly a half inch tall, just above the breast pocket on the left hand side of his scrub shirt. It is a perfect disguise!

Very quickly now, Ali presses the dangling left cuff of his restraints onto his right wrist. Just below the right cuff. Still thinking like a stage magician / con man he mutters.

"Wrap a towel around em. And tape em up. It'll look like I got a cast on my arm."

Leon dives back into the drawers, where he encounters a pile of white towels. Next, his eyes light on a roll of wide adhesive tape. The gauze roll rests on the counter top nearly level with his chin. With deft, rapid motions, the bulky rattling manacles soon disappear beneath a towel wrapped around his right forearm. The towel held in place by several strategically applied strips of adhesive tape. Mister Leon holds his creation up to the ceiling light. He smiles and says.

"Now I gotta look like I'm working here! Need a chart, maybe a stethoscope too!"

Ali's head darts this way and that. He breathes heavily, his pulse rate is well up over a hundred. Leon paces back from the foot of the gurney to the head. Then he places one hand on the oxygen spigot protruding from the wall. He grabs hold of the device as if it were an anchor.

He glances about for a second time. Leon sighs. The props he needs to make good his escape, a chart and a stethoscope, are not to be found within the confines of his tiny curtained off space! Mister Leon turns full around. Slowly, very slowly, he pulls back on the edge of the curtain resting against the wall. The privacy curtain separating his exam station from the exam station next to it on the right.

Ali Leon's be speckled eyes go wide as they fall upon the form of a young woman. The woman sits on the middle of the patient's cart in the next exam station. The girl faces him directly. She holds herself in a classical baby doll pose. Ali sees the girl has a big fluffy hairdo and too much make up, especially around the eyes.

On the plus side, he likes it she wears a tight ribbed neck red sweater and a tight black skirt with a short slit. Even better, he admires the way she crosses her legs with her right foot dangling at the ankle. And, he is impressed by the little white silk anklet stockings she wears over her tan panty hose. Tiny feet shod in black patent leather shoes with two-inch heels! It is love at first sight!

"Excuse me miss." Mumbles Ali, while he blushes a deep shade of red. "Trying to find my medical record."

The young woman smiles and takes in a deep, deep breath. She pushes her chewing gum off to one side. Then, in a bright and friendly voice, she asks.

"Are you the doctor?"

"No, no lady." Replies Ali Leon. He already feels comfortable and welcome in the warmth projecting from the woman in the tight red sweater.

"Well, a doctor better show up soon!" Says the bubble gum girl in a huff. "I know my rights!"

A lifetime of living at poverty's edge has tuned Ali's sensitivities to perfect pitch. More than her words, the girl's injured tone speaks volumes to his heart. He pulls the curtain further back and drops his hands to his sides. Mister Leon asks warmly.

"Are they accusing you of doing something you didn't do?"

The girl sighs. She shakes her head slowly from side to side. With her brown heavily painted eyes on his brown eyes behind his thick eyeglasses, she exclaims.

"Boy! I'll say!"

Then she points down to the floor to the backside of a pair of shoes and grey-cuffed trousers. The shoes are visible to Ali and the bubble gum girl under the curtain at the head of her examination station. Angry and agitated, she exclaims in a low voice.

"See those shoes over there?"

Ali Leon nods in response. He keeps his mouth shut. His brow goes pensive.

"Well those shoes belong to a Richmond Virginia vice cop."

Ali takes a small step forward towards the young woman. Now he is half the way into her exam station. He cranes his neck to look at the shoes. Next, he turns back towards the girl.

"I thought I was auditioning for a part!" The young woman's voice goes from angry to low and confidential.

"I went to acting school you know! I can prove I 'm an actress!"

Mister Leon shakes his head up and down in sympathy with the plight of his emergency room neighbor. At ease now in her presence, he queries politely.

"Do you want to go to Los Angeles?"

The young lady brings the back of her left hand up to cover her painted mouth. It is a stage business gesture calculated to make her appear shocked. She replies.

"Los Angeles!! ... I don't even know you! ... I mean ... we haven't even been introduced." Just then the young lady dressed in the tight sweater and skirt set off by lace anklet stockings swallows her gum!

Ali Leon nods up and down all during the girl's soliloquy. A part in a play delivered in mock despair to an audience of one. Light from the fluorescent fixture above the headboard on the wall causes little sparkles to flash and fade on the lenses of his thick and studious looking glasses. "He's _kinda cute._ " The girl posed on the cart smiles and thinks to herself.

"I 'm Ali Leon." Says the man with the towel taped to his right arm and the two small bandages stuck on his scalp.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure." Replies the young girl while she extends her right hand towards her newfound acquaintance. The bubble gum girl holds her elbow straight and fingers spread wide, during the long friendly handshake that follows. Then the girl says.

"My name is Cherise. Cherise Di Lorianne."

Scene 33 Ali And Cherise Recruit Funds For Their Trip To Los Angeles

Location: Richmond General Medical Center, Richmond Virginia

After the formal introduction, Cherise Di Lorianne does not have to be told what to do. First thing, she jumps down from the mattress on top of the gurney. Then Cherise scurries around to the other side of the cart, where she joins Ali in his anxious search through all the drawers and cabinets in her examination booth. The cabinets fixed to the wall on either side of her gurney cart.

After a bit of rummaging about, Cherise comes upon a stack of operating room gowns. She holds one of the yellow paper garments up against her form. Mentally cataloging the long sleeves, the body extending down to her ankles, and the full length slit up the back. Cherise turns towards her newfound friend. She smiles and asks.

"What do you think, Ali?"

Smiling and nodding, Ali replies. "You got a real head on your shoulders, Cherise."

Ali marches around to her side of the cart. He helps Cherise get into the sleeves of the yellow paper gown. As a last touch, he ties the strings in the back of the gown for her into a series of neat little bows. Cherise twirls about like a runway model. Her face displays a wide smile and sparkling eyes.

"You're so _very_ thoughtful!" Cherise exclaims. Cherise's heart begins to pound. For a long moment, she hopes Ali will steal a quick kiss on the cheek. Unfortunately, the bloom of their new and growing romance quickly falls sway to the urgency of their precarious situation. The worried expression on Ali's face brings her soaring heart back down to earth.

Cherise gives Ali's left forearm a little squeeze. Then the young woman hurries back to the shelves and cabinets, where she spies two cardboard cartons. The heavy paper cartons look a lot like tissue dispensers. Except the first contains surgical masks, and the second is filled with operating room caps. The caps vaguely in the style of a French beret, but made of sheer, pale blue paper rather than heavy felt, and with an elastic band at the brim of each cap. Cherise says brightly.

"We both need one of the caps, Ali."

Ali nods wordlessly. It is obvious he and his new lady friend are of the same mind. After the couple don their caps, he adds.

"Put your mask on, Cherise. You can be the patient. I'll be the patient transporter."

Now, fully disguised, Ali holds the green privacy curtain wide, while he and Cherise pass through and back to his exam booth. The curtained off space where Leon tricked the guard into imagining he was securely handcuffed to the rails of the gurney.

With both heads cocked as one, they pause in silence and listen carefully to the ambient. Then they tip toe to the front of the booth. Ali and Cherise glance out through the crack in the curtains with one wary eye. Ali's head nearly coming to rest on top of Cherise's bouffant hair sprayed hair do.

Just then, fate intervenes on their behalf. The victims of a multiple car pile up start working their way through the front doors of the emergency room. First off, Ali and Cherise see a middle-aged man, walking along stiffly while rubbing his neck. Next, their eyes light on two females resting in wheel chairs. These women propelled towards the reception desk by uniformed emergency services technicians.

Finally, the front doors swing wide to accommodate two collapsible stretchers on wheels. Each wheeled stretcher holds an accident victim resting between the rails and under the sheets. A half dozen uniformed traffic police officers march into the emergency theater. The doctors and nurses on duty assemble round the victims. They crane their heads this way and that while they make important decisions about priorities.

"That's Mister Richmond Virginia vice cop." Says Cherise with a frown. Then she points to a man in a suit, standing with his back towards Ali and Cherise. Ali and Cherise smile in relief. They watch the Vice Cop walk away from them and towards the crowd of fresh patients, police officers, and health care professionals.

"I recognize the shoes." Responds Ali in a wry voice to the girl with too much make up.

"We better go!" Whispers Cherise to Ali.

Ali and Cherise slink out into the center of the pavilion. Then they turn, and march towards the doors leading generally deeper into the medical center complex. At the now deserted nursing station, Cherise sits down into a wheel chair. Ali takes the handgrips at the back.

Before they take off, Cherise pulls a medical record, out from a stack of a dozen or so, records piled haphazardly on top of the counter.

As another bit of bogus stage business, she places a bulky sheaf of papers onto her lap. A moment or two later, the young couple are through the electric doors. Soon they find themselves in a large wide spotless corridor, with colored lines painted on the right hand side of the tile floor.

Ali glances to his left, his eyes search about for a bank of elevators at the first intersection. He is instead, quite surprised to see his prison guard. The guard saunters in his direction, while he licks on an ice cream cone with his tongue. Leon sees the guard has a sheaf of court papers and a collection of laboratory slips in his left hand. Ali turns face forward as quickly as he is able. His goal is to avoid making eye contact with the correction's officer. And as a distraction, he pilots Cherise along in the wheel chair.

Mister Leon's charade works! His garb has gone from prison orange to hospital blue. With an operating room cap on his head to conceal his wounds and bandages. The prison guard is completely fooled. He ambles on by, oblivious to Ali's presence!

Ali and Cherise come upon a bank of four elevators on their left hand side at the next intersecting corridor. Ali pauses to wait for oncoming pedestrian traffic. Then he twirls the wheel chair around to bring Cherise's toes up square with a pair of brushed aluminum finished elevator doors.

As if on cue, the doors open before the fugitives with a whooshing mechanical sound. Mister Leon pushes the wheelchair onto the elevator car. He twirls the chair about, and makes a study of the floor directory. A long moment passes, then, with a swift motion, Ali pushes down on a button marked 'twelve'.

Cherise turns around in the empty elevator car. She looks up into Ali's eyes. Worried and a bit confused she asks.

"Why are we going to the operating room, Ali?"

"Didn't you tell me you went to acting school?" Responds Ali, somewhat cryptically.

"Yes ..." Answers Cherise, slowly. "But, ...?"

"You be the patient." Explains Ali for a second time. "We gotta wait in the doctor's lounge. See?"

Cherise swivels full around in her seat on the wheelchair. She looks up into Ali's eyes, in search of clarification. Although her trembling mouth lays hidden behind the surgical mask, her eyes are bright with trepidation. Just then, the elevator doors open wide onto the twelfth floor.

Ali Leon pushes the wheelchair out of the elevator. Then he wheels the chair in the direction of the nursing station. He brings Cherise close to the countertop. The male nurse on duty can see the chart in Cherise's hands without craning his neck.

Ali glances about for cues. From his years of experience as a day time burglar he knows it is best to look practiced, maybe even a little bit bored. His eyes fall on a green chalkboard on the wall at his left. The chalkboard lists the doctors, procedures, and patients for the day. The words cholecystectomy, craniotomy, mastectomy, and colonoscopy, fail to register on his mind. Then, quite by luck, he chances upon a familiar word: Rhinoplasty. Mister Leon sighs in relief. He looks up at the male nurse and says directly.

"This lady is an add on. Another Rhinoplasty for Doctor Kauffman. O. K. if I chalk her up?"

The male nurse on duty looks back and forth from Cherise to Ali. His eyes come to rest first on a bespeckled Hispanic gentleman. Quite plausibly a hospital employee, as he is appropriately dressed in surgical scrubs and a color coordinated operating room cap. It matters not at all Ali has two bandages on his scalp, and a cast or splint on his right arm. The scalp bandages are out of sight. The make believe arm cast is no reason for a patient transporter to be on leave and disqualified from work.

Next, the male nurse's eyes go to the young woman in the wheel chair. Her operating room gown, surgical cap, and the heavy metal chart in her lap make perfect sense. Even if the mask on her face seems a bit much, a little out of place, to his practiced eye. Lots of people have germ phobias!

The male nurse's brow knits up as he ponders on the situation. These two have a plausible air about them. Better still, they look completely harmless. Once the male nurse is satisfied with the details of his inspection, he goes eye to eye with Ali Leon, and says.

"Don't go in the operating room with those street shoes on! You two better wait in the doctor's lounge."

Ali's eyes follow the nurse's hand gesture, to a door on the right hand side of the nursing station. He nods, and in a nonchalant voice asks.

"Do you know how long we have to wait?"

"No." Replies the man dressed in a spotless set of nursing whites. "Doctor Kauffman never gets done on time."

Ali nods and smiles in sympathy with the plight of the harried male nurse. Then, before the nurse can change his mind, he wheels Cherise through a steel plated windowless door.

Ali Leon glances about with a calm practiced air when the door closes behind his frame. He is taking inventory. Just like in a mid-day home burglary. Mister Leon sees a long narrow room, sparsely furnished with two vinyl couches on his right. Then he notes a cocktail table loaded with magazines in the middle of the tiled floor.

At his left, a dozen lockers rest tight up against a windowless wall. The sight of the lockers brings his eyebrows up. He smiles the smile of a warrior who has just wheeled a Trojan horse past the castle gates. Ali and Cherise are completely alone. Better still; the lockers on the wall at his left are free of locks!

"Let's get going!" Remarks Ali to Cherise in a matter of fact voice.

Leon drops his hands from Cherise's wheel chair. Ali walks triumphantly to the first locker in the row. He opens the tan metal door with a brisk motion. Seconds later, he pulls a pair of men's trousers out into view. Ali rifles the pockets and soon pockets a set of car keys. Ali spends more time on the doctor's wallet.

With a good deal of larcenous expertise, he fishes out the larger bills and leaves the singles in place. And the credit cards? Well, he leaves one of the gasoline cards in place and, all of the major credit cards. Simply because he is not able to find a list of personal identification numbers hidden anywhere in the billfold. Not on the back of Doctor Jansen's driver's license, nor on any of his myriad of professional cards.

Cherise sits speechless in her wheelchair. Her heart pounds with amazement at Ali's skilled and practiced manner. The bubble gum girl rises to her feet from the seat of the wheelchair. She hurries to the opposite end of the bank of twelve lockers. While she swings open the first door, Ali's voice falls romantic and soft on her left ear.

"Leave the singles." Says Ali. "Look real good for the personal identification numbers."

Cherise shakes her head in amazement. She mutters. "Where did I ever find this guy?"

Then **,** in an effort to keep Ali from feeling over confident, she says.

"I know how to dump a John's wallet, Ali!"

Ali turns to face Cherise; there is a look of condemnation in his eyes. Cherise jumps backwards with alarm. _"He wants an ingénue!"_ She whispers to herself.

The young lady's mind races as she struggles to compose a remark calculated to restore the innocence of their first encounter. Cherise bites her lower lip. Then she explains.

"From acting school, Ali! I learned stuff like this in drama class."

Ali nods, but not nearly as quickly as Cherise would have liked him to nod. Then he returns to the task at hand without a reply. At the fourth locker over, he hits pay dirt! Leon finds a huge wad of cash on a money clip, and six personal identification numbers on the back of a business card inside the pockets of a pair of grey flannel trousers. Ali fans the cards at Cherise. With an impish smile on his face, he says.

"All platinum!"

Ali and Cherise are locker-to-locker now, and breathing heavily. This is their very first heist since the chance meeting in the emergency room. Leon swings the locker door in front of his face wide open. His mind and his heart fill with a rush of anticipation. Ali first spies a skirt, a blouse, and an expensive woman's purse inside the locker. Then something sparkles in his eye. The bright and cheerful light drives him to give out with a little startle motion of the head.

When his eyes focus on the shiny object, his feverish mind sees a large diamond engagement ring hanging upside down on a coat hook on the back wall of the locker. Ali takes note of the fact the ring is pear shaped, and that it is easily two carats large. Ali palms the ring with a swift motion of his right hand. He tucks it into the shirt pocket on his hospital scrub suit. Then he finishes riffling through the female doctor's purse.

Ali and Cherise close the doors of the last two lockers. Job well done! Mission accomplished! Both feel pleased with their efforts, but nowhere near being able to relax and inventory their booty. Cherise scurries back into the wheel chair with swift motions.

Ali transfers cash, credit cards, and key rings, to the center most position on her lap. With trembling hands, Cherise thrusts the stolen goods underneath her yellow paper operating room gown. And the huge engagement ring? Well, the ring remains in the pocket of Ali's pale blue surgical scrub shirt, completely hidden from Cherise's curious view.

Ali pushes lightly on the door through which the couple first entered the surgeon's lounge. He peeks outside into the waiting area. Leon is relieved to see only an empty chrome chair behind the countertop. Where, shortly before, the young male nurse sat while on duty. Slowly, so as not to appear either guilty or over eager, Ali wheels Cherise, out into the center of the floor of the operating room nursing station.

Ali and Cherise are nearly at the elevator doors when the male nurse returns to his seat with a can of diet soda in his hand. Ali hurriedly reaches for the red down button on the wall. Before his fingertips can press the button, the now seated nurse recognizes Ali and Cherise!

The young man blinks and leans forward in his chair. He raises his hand. In a voice filled with authority the nurse says.

"Hey! You forgot to chalk her up!"

Ali and Cherise sigh in unison. Just then, the elevator bell chimes. Ali turns towards the nurse.

"I'm gonna be right back! She was supposed to get a shot!"

The operating room nurse opens his mouth to protest. But before he can utter a word, Ali rolls the wheel chair onto the floor of the elevator car. In spite of his slight build, Ali swivels Cherise around in a quick second. Then just as quickly, he reaches up and presses down on the red button marked- 'parking'.

Cherise turns full around in the chair as the doors of the elevator close shut and safe. Ali sees her eyes are sparkling. His chest swells with pride as he watches Cherise's lips move behind the operating room mask.

"My hero!" Ali Leon nods, smiles, and blinks. He is beginning to like the city of Richmond, Virginia.

Scene 34 Light Of The Morning, Don And Dona Nayari Speak To The Catholic Audience

Location: Broadcast booth in the Sutatenza radio station, Bogota Columbia

Although the sound booth is owned and operated by the Catholic Archdiocese of Colombia. The broadcast station of radio station Sutatenza is no different from its secular counterparts. The booth sports very thick, sound insulating carpet on the floor from corner to corner. Acoustical tiles glued to the walls, ceiling, and even the inside of the door. Last, there is a plate glass window, head high, separating the broadcast area of the booth from the engineer's control room.

Gonzalo Rincon, Mister Nayari's Public Relations consultant, sits at the head of the table. He dressed for today's radio program in a light grey suit. There is a nervous smile on his face. A cluster of promotional poster boards leans against the legs of his chair. Father Tomas Gaillard sits at his immediate right at the Formica conference table.

The feisty little Priest dressed all in black for the interview. There is a thoughtful expression on his face. His left elbow tucked in the palm of his right hand at the waist. His left hand spread across the jaw line of the left side of his face. Father Gaillard's baby finger worries the edge of his long and luxurious mustache in a gesture of parochial contemplation.

Father Gaillard gives out with a little sigh. His eyes moves back and forth from Gonzalo Rincon, Don Nayari, and his glamorous wife Angelina.

Dona Nayari sits directly across the table from Father Tomas. With Gonzalo on her right, and her husband Alberto at her left. She looks elegant and composed, in a dark green linen suit. She wears a contrasting white silk blouse, and a small but highly detailed gold crucifix, hangs from her neck on a delicate gold chain. Angelina places one manicured hand on top of the other in her lap. Next, she turns her head to the left, to watch her husband in profile.

Alberto Enrique Nayari swallows nervously. His eyes are riveted on the studio clock on the wall above the glass window. "A minute and a half." He mutters. "Ninety seconds to go." Don Nayari leans forward. He places both arms of his navy blue suit down on the table. Alberto wears a matching vest, a heavily starched white shirt, and a navy blue knit silk tie.

Dona Nayari smiles. She sees that while her husband's hair is graying slightly at the temples, it is still full. To her affectionate eye, he looks for all world like a law school professor- scholarly, pensive, and concerned. Just then, the second hand on the studio clock goes full upright. Next the red **'On Air'** light above the clock starts to glow.

As soon as the engineer turns the red light on, Father Virgilio Tarqui leans towards the studio microphone on the table. Fleshy now, in his late fifties, flaps of skin on his cheeks move up and down while he speaks.

"Hello! Hello! Welcome to- 'Light of the Morning'. A thirty-minute program of news and special features. Broadcast each week from the studios of Radio Sutatenza. In central Bogota."

"I am Father Virgilio Tarqui. Your host for Light of the Morning. Today we are pleased and honored to have as our guests a most distinguished couple. Don Alberto Enrique Nayari and his most beautiful wife, Dona Angelina. And with them, Father Tomas Gaillard, Parish priest at Saint Ignatius. With a doctoral degree in sociology. And, Don Nayari's public relations expert - Senor Gonzalo Rincon."

Father Tarqui leans a little bit forward. He nods in a friendly manner at Don Alberto in the chair directly across from his chair. Father Tarqui ends the introduction with a wide, ingratiating smile on his face.

"Don Nayari! The whole of South America knows you are running for the senate seat in the Cundinamarca district! But what are your policies?"

"What have you to say to the Catholic voter? The husband and wife listening to Light of the Morning at this very moment!"

"Yes." Responds Alberto Enrique Nayari, on cue. "Thank you Father Virgilio. Thank you very much sir. I must say that faith is important to my program. We are planning on more schools and more hospitals. Everyone in Colombia with a high school diploma. Hospitals in the smallest of all possible towns.... And the church can help!"

An incredulous look spreads across Father Virgilio's face, as he ruminates on the cost of building new schools and new hospitals. He shakes his head while he queries.

"And the funds, Don Alberto? Can the national debt be any larger than it is now?"

Alberto Enrique Nayari shakes his head back and forth with vigor. In a forceful voice, remarks.

"Of course not! No! But with manufacturing jobs, we will see prosperity. And following that, tax monies, and charitable contributions. In a faith-based society the crime rates will go down. You see! And there will be more money for growth."

Father Virgilio Tarqui swallows and frowns. Voice rising, he says.

"The turgurious, the slums, these grow larger each day, Don Nayari."

Alberto Nayari's head bobs up and down. Just as his mouth opens to speak, Father Tomas Gaillard interjects from the opposite corner of the table.

"The good Don Nayari thinks we should tax the drug trade, Father Virgilio!"

For once in his life as a broadcaster, Father Virgilio Tarqui is speechless! His mouth hangs open while Alberto rushes head long with his narration.

"Taxes on the drugs will pay for everything! Just as the Norte Americanos finance schools on lottery tickets. Once poverty is gone, and the people are back in Church where they belong. We declare drugs illegal! Forever!"

Father Virgilio is one of those people with a strong sense for hierarchies and pecking orders. While Don Nayari speaks, he imagines an infinite number of phones ringing off the hook in the offices of the bishop.

Virgilio pictures any number of small business owners, teachers, doctors, and the like scolding him through the ear of his most very reverend superior, for allowing such radical remarks on a family oriented program. It is not a pleasant thought.

Father Virgilio puts the palms of his hands over his microphone and the microphone on the table before Father Tomas Gaillard. He leans far to his left, he whispers into Father Tomas' ear.

"Family planning, Father Tomas! Change the subject!"

Father Tomas shakes his head with vigor. The same way a swimmer clears water out of the passages in his outer ears. Tomas bobs up and down. He goes eye to eye with Angelina Nayari. Gaillard smiles and says.

"And family life, Dona Nayari? How is it here in Colombia? After the glamour of New York City. "

Angelina Nayari reads the tension in the room correctly. Right or wrong, her husband has touched down on a very sensitive subject. A topic much too controversial for a Catholic radio broadcast network. Angelina bites her lower lip. She leans towards her microphone.

"Alberto and I had two sons, both very fine boys. I came to Bogota a Catholic. Converting from the Presbyterian faith while we were engaged."

"And the maternity tree, Dona Angelina?" Queries Father Virgilio with a sigh of relief.

With short time outs for shopping trips to Paris, Rome, and Los Angeles, Angelina has passed the last two decades and more in Bogota. She is well steeped in Hispanic traditions. The former high fashion model catches the reference with ease.

"Family planning." She remarks in a level voice. "Is not so much a denial of... well, happiness in a marriage. ... Education for women, job opportunities in the professions. These will limit family size. In a natural way."

Angelina glances anxiously at each of the men seated at the table. How is she doing? To her left, her husband Alberto looks chagrined. Across the table, both Father Virgilio and Father Tomas appear to be sighing in concert. They are quite obviously relieved by the distance her remarks place between today's program and her husband's controversial idea of taxing the drug trade.

" _It's time_." Dona Angelina says to herself. " _Time to salvage my husband's wounded pride._ "

"Don Nayari's programs are a pathway for the people of Colombia. When the people understand each of his plans." Explains the high fashion model from New York City. "There _will be_ a willingness to co-operate. My husband _will be_ the next senator for the people of Cundinamarca."

While Angelina Nayari speaks, Gonzalo Rincon sees Alberto Nayari's shoulders rise. He grins as the Don's jaw line returns to its usually stoical position. Gonzalo pulls one of his posters to the top of the table. He holds it up to view, and explains.

"It's a six point program. The Don's pathway for our people."

Mister Rincon points with an index finger at the poster. He reads.

"First, the Theology of Liberation. Second, Economic Diversification. Third, Secondary Education for all. Fourth, Manufacturing Plants. Fifth, Free Health Care and More Hospitals. Sixth, taxes on illegal substances. ... But of course. Just until the poverty is defeated and our people are back in church! Not one minute more!"

Gonzalo Rincon nods and smiles. Like a stockbroker trying to talk a client into switching from mutual funds to gold mine futures. Rincon glances about the recording booth, it seems to him he has made his point. Whether or not the Catholic audience is spiritually prepared for his proposal.

Father Virgilio Tarqui turns his head up towards the clock above the plate glass window. There are just four minutes remaining in the half hour. He breathes out a sigh of relief. " _Music and a station identification bit could take me the whole distance_." He thinks to himself. Then, forgetting his microphone is still hot, he mutters.

"Earthquakes come in sixes! Earthquakes come in sixes!"

Father Virgilio's cynical remark carries the entire broadcast distance of the fifty thousand watt transmitter. His words echo out of any number of kitchen countertop radios. In addition, and much worse, for the hopes and dreams of the Nayari's, Father Tarqui's pessimistic comment falls onto the desk of the Editor in Chief of the most conservative newspaper in Colombia. **EL SIGLO**.

Just this moment, the 'Editor in Chief', Eddy Macuspana, sits working his way through an egg salad sandwich and a copy of Time Magazine. While he listens with one ear to Light of the Morning. A look of irritation spreads across the countenance of the editor. As it slowly dawns clear, a certain would be Senator with a glamorous wife, might soon have the power to threaten 'his plans' for the future of the people of Colombia.

Father Virgilio comes eye to eye with the broadcast engineer through the plate glass window. He pulls his index finger across his throat in the space above his clerical collar. The microphones on the conference tabletop go dead. As the red light above the studio clock dims and goes dark, the good priest sighs in relief. Through the wall speaker behind his head, he hears the light music, more correctly, the non-controversial and bland music, which customarily brings an end to his program.

CHAPTER FOUR: IN THE AFTERMATH OF JIMMY'S FUNERAL

Scene 35 It's Nice That You're Right On Time

Location: Law offices of Shusterman, Daniels, Novak and Shusterman, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Lonny Makowski has no trouble at all wheeling Esther Gotella's wheelchair from the parking lot over to the concrete steps of the single story law offices of Mister Irving Shusterman Jr, JD. Because the sidewalk curb has been relieved to provide access for the handicapped.

The six concrete steps leading up to the front doors and wrought iron railed landing, however, are an entirely different matter. At this barrier, Lonny wisely turns Esther's wheelchair all the way around. He is counting on the size of the large rear wheels of Esther's chair to ease the bumpy passage up and over the steps.

Esther Gotella sits primly in her wheelchair, with her back to the front doors of the Shusterman family law offices. She looks directly up and into the face of her middle daughter, Candy. Esther wears a midnight blue dress. Set off by a wide round collar in white, and with matching shoes and purse. The purse dangles from the right hand hold of her wheelchair, the chair tight in Lonnie's muscular grasp.

The night before, Candy found the time to manicure and paint her mother's fingernails and toenails, a medium shade of pink. The color is really not appropriate to either the hot August climate in Philadelphia or the style dictates of the moment. But Esther Gotella loves the color pink, and so pink it will be. This day,.., and forever.

Esther beams up into her daughter's eyes, blue on blue. She feels happy with her own fresh groomed appearance. Esther is particularly pleased with Candy's look. For this warm summer day, her daughter wears a stylish and long, clinging crochet dress in light tan.

A bit too romantic for a trip to the lawyer's office, especially when you factor in Candy's perfectly luscious figure, and her long and thick curled blond hair. But - you see, Candy set off the seductive dress with white shoes and a white purse. Gestures calculated to bring her naturally sensual appearance back down to earth.

Candy is thus not necessarily willing, but she is at least somewhat reluctantly prepared, for the solemn kinds of things, which transpire in the tasteful and private chambers of a well to do lawyer.

"Hang on, Mrs. Gotella." Counsels Lonny Makowski, while he looks down at the top of his 'lady friend's' mother's head from above and behind. Lonnie's gaze falls upon Esther's grey blond hair, neatly parted in the center, and with a navy blue barrette on either side.

Esther Gotella smiles while she grasps the padded green vinyl handholds above the large spoke wheels of her chair. Then, with Candy at her feet like a lady in waiting, Lonny Makowski muscles his charge up the six concrete steps. Next onto the wide landing in front of the chrome and glass double doors. Doors professionally painted in black with the words:

SHUSTERMAN, DANIELS, NOVAK & SHUSTERMAN

Esther Gotella swivels this way and that while she surveys the scene. She feels at ease and in control on the landing. When her eyes turn from the busy street traffic on Ashbourne Road to Candy's Buick Riviera in the parking lot, her glance meets with an Oldsmobile Cutlass. The car is a coupe, with a white exterior and a black interior.

Esther watches the compact Oldsmobile ease into the parking slot one space over from her daughter's brand new Buick Riviera. Esther cocks her head in a pose of rapt attention. The mystery vehicle slows to a halt. Candy and Lonny look back in the direction of the law offices parking lot, in sympathy with Esther's response.

Just then the doors on the Cutlass open wide. Two Italian senior citizen alight onto the tarmac of the parking lot. The driver is plump and bald. He wears a light tan suit, and a white shirt with wide collars over the lapels of his stretch rayon coat. There is a heavy gold wristwatch on his wrist, and a gold neck chain so thick as to be visible to the naked eye by Esther, Candy, and Lonny.

"Livia!" Shouts Esther, in a voice, raised, friendly, and polite. While Esther speaks, she shakes the fingers of her right hand at just above head height.

The sharp exclamatory remark makes the short matronly woman on the passenger's side of the Cutlass freeze in her tracks. She looks about for a moment. She blinks her eyes in a flutter in tune with her bewilderment.

Finally, Livia's thoughtful black eyes come to a point on Esther's aging blue eyes. A long moment passes while she searches the drained recesses of her memory for a name.

Then she returns Esther's smile and greeting.

"Esther! Esther!" Says the women all dressed in black. Still in mourning over the sudden and unexpected death of her beloved husband, Giuseppe Baldigiani. Mister Baldigiani known in the Philadelphia crime community by the more familiar and more anonymous name of- "Jimmy the Bartender".

Candy recognizes her aunt Livia because her relationship with the Italian National goes all the way back to the days of her childhood. It is just as easy for Lonny Makowski to link up the elderly woman's presence with the family name- 'Baldigiani'. Not so much from her round and wrinkled facial features, as from the ornate black lace shawl she wears around her shoulders, just this morning and at the funeral for her husband, a few months past.

In addition to the shawl, Jimmy the Bartender's wife sports another article of clothing setting her apart from modern, mainstream America. At her husband's funeral, she wore spike-heeled shoes pressed upon her by her daughter Nancy. This morning finds Livia back in a female style boot. She wears heavy shoes with thick and sturdy heels, laces up the front, and five eyelets on a side, de rigueur in the nineteen forties, for proper Italian mothers with four growing children.

"Esther! .... Esther! ... How's my fine lady?" Shouts Mister Umberto Carranza, as he walks from the driver's side door of his white Cutlass, to a point in front of the hood ornament. Umberto wiggles the fingers of his right hand while he speaks. He holds his arm straight upright above his head. As if he had the brim of a straw fedora in his hand. It is a racetrack kind of a hello.

Candy Gotella breaks into a wide smile as Esther, Livia, and Umberto, exchange their old world greetings. The sight of her aunt Livia makes Candy feel she is back in grammar school, during simpler and happier times. Candy raises a hand above her head. With a wave and a bright innocent smile, she says.

"Aunt Livia! Uncle Umberto! ... It's me, Candy!"

The sparkle in Candy's eyes speaks for warm and happy family relations down through the decades. Sadly, her expression soon melts away, replaced by a whimsical frown. In response to Candy's salutation, Livia ignores her 'all grown up' niece. She turns and looks away from Candy and towards the street.

Everyone can see the tears in Livia's eyes. Right or wrong, Livia Baldigiani and Umberto Carranza believe Candy's ambitious brothers, Bobby and Phil, were the cause of her husband's untimely demise. Umberto Carranza salutes Candy in a gruff and distant voice.

"Yah. You too, kid. You too."

Livia and Umberto come to a halt on the sidewalk a good distance short of their onetime family friends under the watchful eyes of Esther Gotella, her daughter Candy, and Lonny Makowski.

There will be no hugs and kisses between the members of the Gotella, the Baldigiani, and the Carranza family this morning. It is clear to the people at the top of the steps the people on the sidewalk have decided to maintain a quarantine distance between themselves and the young lady they so thoroughly despise.

Esther's brow knits up while she ponders on the best way to save face in front of her extended family. The lady in the wheel chair shrugs her shoulders. She decides the best way out is to pretend it never happened. Esther starts in giving orders to Lonny.

"Turn me around, Lonny. Candy! Hold the doors open for Lonny!"

It is just the right thing to say and do. Candy goes for the chrome door handles at the entranceway to the legal offices of the Shusterman family. Lonny wheels Esther's chair clockwise. He turns his back to the patriarchs on the sidewalk. Then, with a swift and decisive motion, he brings the footrests of Esther's wheelchair to the seam between the front doors of the lawyers' offices.

Once through the exterior doors and inside the office foyer, Esther, Candy, and Lonny, breath out with sighs of relief. Unfortunately, relief for them is not in the offing. They have not passed through a gauntlet and on into a safe refuge. As the saying goes, while they are, indeed, out of the frying pan, they are now directly in the fire.

The legal offices of Shusterman, Daniels, Novak, and Shusterman, arranged more or less on an open plan. Glancing about, the three visitors see four private suites, one in each of the corners of the spacious rectangular building. And a legal library with an adjoining room in the back for records, documents, and files. These connect the rear corner suites for Irving Shusterman and his father in the shape of a U. In addition, the central portion of the first floor holds four large secretarial desks, arranged in two rows, of two desks each.

Just now, a pair of elegantly dressed women stand in front of the back row of the long wide desks. The two women are so absorbed in their conversation they do not look up and over, at the arrival of Esther Gotella, her daughter Candace, and Candy's boyfriend, Lonny Makowski.

Esther Gotella is the first to break the silence. She leans forward in her wheelchair. Esther smiles and says.

"Theresa? Deborah? How lovely the two of you look!"

Theresa Baldigiani and Mrs. Irving Shusterman, Jr., wheel on their spike heels towards the entranceway of the legal offices at the mention of their names. Sadly, and somewhat embarrassing for Esther, neither woman walks around the first pair of desks. A clear cut signal they have no interest in shaking hands or sharing a hug and an embrace with the members of the Esther Gotella party of three.

Deborah Shusterman forces a polite but distant smile on her face. She leans back, thighs against the desk at her backside. Mrs. Shusterman's elegant arms are crossed beneath her bosom, underneath a maroon linen cape she wears to set off her light grey dress. Deborah Shusterman has nothing to say to her visitors. Theresa Baldigiani holds the floor by default. Theresa nods in Esther's direction. Then she remarks, cool and distant.

"Esther? And is that Candy with you?"

Esther's head bobs up and down. Though she feels thoroughly embarrassed, she is determined that neither Deborah nor Theresa will dump a pile of their snobbery on either her or her children. Esther turns around in her wheelchair. She pats Lonny on his forearm through his white, long sleeved shirt. Esther glances back and forth between Theresa and Deborah in search of approval, she says.

"This is Lonny Makowski! Candy's boyfriend."

Lonny Makowski is in an awkward position, to be sure. He nervously eyes the four women in the room, carefully searching their faces for clues. First Theresa, then Deborah, next Esther, and finally, Candy. When Lonny sees Candy cannot hold his gaze, the young man swallows hard. Over the desktops separating him from the two well-bred women, like a chain link fence at a zoo, he remarks.

"Real nice to meet you two ladies. Real nice."

Just then, Umberto Carranza and Livia Baldigiani walk through the front doors of the office and join up with the cold circle of reluctant acquaintances. At the sight of her mother Livia, Theresa Baldigiani hurries around the desks, and then into her mother's open arms. The two hug one another for a long moment. Livia speaks in rapid Italian. Her daughter just smiles and cries.

Umberto walks forward and to the right. He steps around Esther's wheelchair and Lonny Makowski in a wide, wide, path. Then he comes to a stop at the first desk in the row of two. Mister Carranza puts his fingertips down on the edge of the desk. Next, the elderly Italian gentleman leans forward to close the distance between himself and Mister Shusterman's wife, Deborah. Carranza says wistfully.

"Thank you Mrs. Shusterman. It's wonderful your husband could help us with this thing. Means a lot to Livia. You know?"

Deborah Shusterman bites lightly on her lower lip as Umberto's torso bobs up and down. She enjoys the prestige of being married to a lawyer. Although she has never been comfortable in the presence of his clients. It seems to her, her husband's clients are always pleading innocence with their words and posture, while their eyes speak out for original sin.

Oh, how Deborah Shusterman wishes she was married to a pediatrician! Mrs. Shusterman glances down at the delicate gold watch on her left wrist. Her light brown eyes meet Umberto's. She says coolly.

"It's nice that you're right on time."

Scene 36 The Federal Court Order Can They Really Do That?

Location: Law offices Shusterman, Daniels, Novak and Shusterman, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Deborah Shusterman turns away from Umberto Carranza's pleading eyes. There is an uneasy smile on her face. She walks, slowly, and with the unhurried grace of a runway model, the fifteen odd steps to the open door of her husband's chambers. At the doorway, Deborah places one elegant hand on the frame of the door at eye level. Next, she leans over the threshold and partway into the fully carpeted office.

"They're all here, Mister Shusterman." Says Deborah to her lawyer husband Irving. Deborah glances between her husband, Eric Bond his legal clerk, and Doreen, the youngest of his three legal secretaries. Eric Bond is soon out of his chair and onto his feet.

"I'll get the fax." Says Eric to his attorney-mentor in a brisk voice. Eric speaks over his right shoulder as he hurries out of the office. Doreen, the secretary, follows wordlessly behind.

"Let them in, Deborah." Says Irving Shusterman to his wife. Then, while slowly rising to his feet, he tosses a freshly sharpened pencil down on the top of his desk.

Deborah Shusterman spins full around on her heels. She moves her head this way and that until she catches Esther's attention. Esther Gotella does not have to be told what to do; the chill 'all business' look in Deborah's eyes speaks volumes. Mrs. Gotella twists around in her wheelchair. Esther looks up into Lonnie's anxious eyes, she says.

"Let's go inside. Mister Shusterman has time for us now."

It is all Lonny has to hear. Mister Makowski is obedient to Candy's mother in both his heart and his mind. He wheels Esther's chair towards the doorway on his left. Candy follows close behind.

Theresa Baldigiani leads her mother by the hand, a short but safe distance behind the Gotella party. Mister Umberto Carranza brings up the rear. His right hand filled with a silk handkerchief held just under his nose. As he ambles along, he wiggles his white mustache and lets out with a sneeze or two. Mister Carranza suffers from pollen and dust allergies. August is always a difficult month for Umberto.

Esther Gotella smiles wide, her eyes go bright and shiny, at the impressive sight of Mister Irving Shusterman, Jr., JD. Candy's mother looks up from the confines of her wheelchair. She sees a heavyset man dressed in an expensive double-breasted suit. The tropical weight wool suit a medium shade of grey. The attorneys' freshly starched white shirt with long pointed collars set off by a blue foulard tie.

Esther imagines, a bit of wishful-thinking- Mister Shusterman wears his expertly tailored clothes for the express purpose of her visit. She feels flattered, and consequently, she is eager to please. Even before Lonny brings her wheelchair to a halt. Esther strains to reach her left hand over her right shoulder.

Candy Gotella's mother struggles against her medical condition to retrieve the navy blue patent leather purse dangling from the handhold of her wheelchair. While Lonny Makowski and Irving Shusterman watch, Esther's deeply veined left hand trembles in space. The first two fingers of her hand stained dark yellow by nicotine. Still with her fingertips inches away from her goal, Lonnie's eyes meet Irving's eyes in a gesture of understanding and sympathy.

The attorney stands behind his desk. He nods slightly at the young man standing behind Esther's wheelchair. Lonny unhooks the purse with a quick and effortless motion. He passes the bag into Esther's waiting and impatient grasp.

Esther fumbles with the latch on her purse. Livia comes up and stands at the left hand side of her chair. Carranza, meanwhile, moves to Livia's left, and a little further forward. Livia and Umberto are as far away from Candy as they can be in the confines of Mister Shusterman's private office. The elderly Mafioso holds his bunched up handkerchief in his right hand. He leans forward slightly towards the attorney's broad oaken desk.

Theresa Baldigiani stands behind Umberto, on her mother's left side. Remote from center stage. Theresa is now best able to translate English to Italian for her mother, and Italian to English for Mister Shusterman. Candy, meanwhile, steps over to her mother's right hand side. The motion brings her voluptuous frame into full view of the attorney of record, for the Salvatore Mustalaro Construction Company.

Mister Irving Shusterman lowers his heavy frame down onto the cushions of his black leather executive's chair, just as Esther slides a legal sized envelope onto the top of his broad desk. The envelope is face up. Everyone in the room can see the green paper tabs of a legal document, sent to Mrs. Gotella by registered mail.

The middle-aged lawyer with a receding hairline pulls papers out from the recesses of the envelope. Esther Gotella exclaims.

"That's what they sent us! Mister Shusterman. Is it real?"

Mister Shusterman unfolds two sheets of paper from Esther's envelope flat on the dark green blotter on top of his desk. He places them next to the papers Theresa Baldigiani brought with her in the company of his wife Deborah, just a half hour previously. The attorney's brow knits up as he compares the documents, one against the other. His balding head moves back and forth slightly, while he scans text, address blocks, signatures, envelope postmarks, and the like.

Finally, Mister Shusterman raises his head up from the documents. He glances back and forth between Livia and Esther. Shusterman carefully explains.

"They're both federal court orders. For exhumations. Mister Giuseppe Baldigiani. And the two Gotella brothers. Robert R. and Phillip W."

On the word, 'exhumations' Theresa Baldigiani leans down to whisper into her mother's left ear. Theresa speaks rapidly, in fluent Italian, and with a fine nervous tremor to her voice. Livia stands eye-to-eye with the attorney seated behind his desk while her daughter translates and explains. The fingers of Livia's right hand go up to her trembling lips as the implications of the court order settle in her mind. Disturbing the dead!

The elderly woman twists at the waist to her left. For a few long moments, she speaks in Italian to her daughter. Rapidly, and with obvious fear and concern in her voice. Theresa comes to her full height in spike heels when her mother finishes speaking. Theresa weighs and measures her words with caution, she asks of Mister Shusterman.

"How do they even do such a thing? Is this at the grave where they do this?"

"No." Responds Mister Shusterman to everyone in the room in a polite and comforting tone. "Not in the cemetery. The bodies go to a hospital. It's like when they do surgery."

Just then, Lonnie's ears perk up and his head cocks. He is reacting to the sound of a fax machine printing out a response to a telephone inquiry. The phone query made by Eric Bond at the request of Mister Shusterman first thing this morning at around nine. Eric Bond rushes back into the office seconds after the grinding, clanking, and paper rubbing sounds come to a halt. He passes by Candy on her right hand side.

Eric places the torn sheet of flimsy facsimile paper onto the center of Mister Shusterman's desk with a flourish.

Then he backs away, to a point an arms distance from both Candy Gotella and the narrow edge of the expensive oak desk. A wide smile of self-satisfaction blooms on Eric's face. The fax machine, after all, was his idea!

Mister Shusterman reads the facsimile message in a slow and deliberate manner. Once the lawyer is satisfied the content of the message is sufficiently neutral, he looks up and speaks to his worried clients.

"The Drug Enforcement Agency has a new Division Head in Philadelphia. Down on Independence Mall. Chief Special Agent Charles L. Burke. Let me read what he has to say."

" _Dear Mister Shusterman,_

This is in regard to your telephone inquiry. I did indeed initiate the orders for exhumations. On the bodies of: Giuseppe Baldigiani, Phillip W. Gotella, and Robert R. Gotella. Known to us as participants in a gun battle with the members of the Ali Leon drug gang. The request went up to our headquarters in Washington for clearance and approval. And from there to the Attorney General's Office for the state of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia district.

Our laboratory scientists have informed me that we must have more samples of blood and hair. Not that the original investigation was inadequate in any way. But later events have brought other suspects to light. In particular, an unnamed gunman, present at the deaths of the Colombians. The two Nayari brothers, Francesco and Theodore. And the Mexican national, Ricky Sinaloa. This unnamed gunman also known to have killed first Theodore Nayari during a shoot out at a mall. And then the other two decedents in an apartment in the Fairfax Reston community. To the southwest of Arlington, Virginia. This second encounter some weeks after the first.

There are issues of international law of which I know nothing. But you may speak with our attorney's if you wish to do so. As for example. The father of the two deceased Nayari boys. Alberto Enrique Nayari. He has been located to the Washington D. C. area in the period between the deaths of his sons.

If I may be of any further service. Please feel free to call.

Cordially,

Charles L. Burke,

Chief Special Agent United States Drug Enforcement Agency

The Federal Building, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania"

Mister Shusterman raises his head up from the facsimile. He goes eye-to-eye with his clients. Shusterman glances about his office. The expression on his face invites polite questions. Umberto Carranza takes a deep rasping breath. Then he steps forward a little ways. Carranza's face is a mask of agitation. Not surprising, as his mind shudders with the frightening thought, " _Do they have something on me?_ "

Carranza puts his fingertips on the very edge of the attorney's massive desk. He is steadying himself against his fears of further and deeper investigations by the police. In a quavering voice, he asks.

"Why are they doing this Mister Shusterman? Jimmy is dead now. Why are they doing this?"

Irving Shusterman's mouth goes half-open. He ponders the delicate task of giving out with an easy to understand response. How do you explain? Eric Bond breaks the silence. Struggling against the urge to appear over eager, Eric rapidly says.

"Mister Burke told me over the phone. They found four briefcases of drugs and four filled with cash in the apartment. Now they need more fingerprints and blood. To see if Bobby or Phil Gotella handled the drugs or the money. Or maybe it was all the lone gunman guy. Burke told me he thinks the C.I.A. has a psycho killer on their hands."

Everyone in the audience goes stiff and erect as Eric speaks the words- **PSYCHO KILLER**. Umberto Carranza wipes volumes of nervous perspiration off his face and his baldhead in the electric silence. Carranza swallows. His Adam's apple bobs up and down. What can he say or do to bring this investigation to a halt?

"They can't have a law like that. A burial is for the church, Mister Shusterman. The police have no business."

All eyes in the office turn to Mister Shusterman. The well-dressed criminal attorney bites his lower lip while he arranges his educated thoughts into commonplace words. Once again, Eric Bond, the ambitious law student, is the first to speak.

"Eminent domain. Mister Carranza. Eminent domain."

Carranza turns. He glances up at Eric. Carranza has a puzzled look on his face. His mouth is wide open. Carranza blinks and wipes his face with his handkerchief. Irving Shusterman breaks Eric's technical remark down to a set of commonplace words.

"It's like when they tear down your house to make room for an expressway. The state does what's best for most of the people."

Candy, Lonny, and Theresa, listen intently to the exchange of words as if it were a classroom lecture. The first generation Italians in the office, Umberto, Livia, and Esther, are not so easy to convince. Their eyes shine with fear. A long moment passes in silence. Then Esther Gotella starts shaking her limp hands back and forth, just above the padded green arm rests of her wheelchair. Esther exclaims.

"It's a curse then. A curse on my boys and Livia's husband! Disturbing the dead!"

Of the six people in the office, only Esther is able to meet Mister Shusterman's level gaze. Everyone else, Theresa, Livia, Candy, Lonny, and Eric, stare down at the floor. Umberto Carranza? Well, first he turns to stare at Candy, his face a mask of superstitious anger and hate. Next he makes a throw away gesture with his right hand. Fingers tensed and pointed. As if his hand was a claw on an iron gargoyle.

Candy's face goes white at Carranza's stabbing motions. She spins away on the heels of her white pumps. She feels dizzy and afraid. Carranza leans in her direction. His face is blood red with rage. It is an evil portent of things to come.

Scene 37 Candy Gotella Pays A Visit To Nick Castelli

Location: The Spot, a bar and grill in Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Nicholas J. Castelli's bar and grill, **THE SPOT** , rests deep in the center of the oldest Italian neighborhood in Philadelphia. The front door stands back and off the sidewalk. One-step up, recessed into the brick facade of a two-story building. The Spot is a popular place in the community, not surprising it occupies the entire first floor of the old brownstone.

Four foot wide by eight foot tall sheets of plate glass take up most of the space of the front wall of the tavern. The huge glass windows could have meant considerable sunlight shining inside of 'The Spot'. But a brightly lit interior in Nick's place was not to be. For you see, as soon as Nick took possession of the tavern he painted the top three feet of the glass in black enamel. And he hung thick dark green curtains on a brass rail along the bottom three feet of the windows. Subtracting a little more for the thick lettered sign painted on the glass, the interior of THE SPOT is a gloomy place, indeed.

Candy Gotella walks through the entrance door to THE SPOT. She leaves the warm and friendly light of the boulevard behind her for the dark, cavernous inside. Candy wears a black crew neck cotton sweater, over a pair of tight faded denim blue jeans, and black cowboy boots. For this, her impromptu meeting with the older man who had once been her father's best friend.

Candy Gotella's appearance is clearly at odds with that of the more typical of Nick's patrons. Most of- 'The Spot's, customers have a look of either pride or desperation on their faces as they cross the threshold. It all depends on whether they are young or old, new to alcohol or experienced.

Candy Gotella does not look like she needs a drink. She looks determined. Her jaw line is set, she leans forward just a little bit, to steady herself against a stiff and contrary wind. As she strides in her cowboy boots into the dark recesses of Nicholas J. Castelli's bar and grill.

Nick Castelli recognizes Candy's face and figure the moment she walks through the front door. Nevertheless, an instant's cunning reflection drives him to feign ignorance of Candy's family name.

" _Dumb broad wants me to think she's fresh merchandise._ " He mutters under his breath, nodding.

Candy takes a stool three seats down from the window. Nick forces a blank expression onto his face. Then he works on the top of the bar with a fresh white cotton towel. Giving Candy time to light up a cigarette, maybe even decide on a drink order.

After an impressive wait, calculated to make Candy feel insignificant, Nick closes the distance between himself and his new customer. Swallowing, struggling to look the least bit bashful, Nick asks.

"Would you like to see a menu, Miss?" With that, Nick bites his lower lip, and leans back a little ways.

Candy Gotella is completely taken in by Nick's most excellent stage play. There is a look of caution and reserve on her face. She puts her black leather shoulder bag on the top of the bar. Then she replies.

"It's me, Nick. I'm Candy Gotella."

Nick holds perfectly still. He lets his eyes go wide and his mouth fall half-open. Still with his hands at his sides, he exclaims.

"Candy!? Candy Gotella! Where have you been, little lady?"

Candy smiles, but not all the way, like a happy little girl at an amusement park on her birthday. But wanly. There is irony, and a full measure of resignation weighing heavily on her heart. For a moment, she looks up into Nick's coal black eyes. Then she breaks away to stare at the row upon row of liquor bottles on the shelves behind the bar. She explains simply.

"I stopped drinking years ago, Nick. After I had Adam."

Nick hears the humility in his victim's voice. His predatory instincts tell him it is time to pretend to be understanding. Mister Castelli nods his head up and down.

"That's the best thing for a lady. Go out for drinks once in a while. That's the best thing."

While Nick speaks, Candy's hand dives into her bag for cigarettes and a lighter. Once through the ritual of lighting up, she blows a large puff of smoke down along the bar. The toxic cloud travels away from Nick, and towards the window. She says.

"I'll have white wine, Nick. On the rocks. And a vodka on the side."

Nick cocks his head towards Candy while she speaks. In an effort to appear both professional and concerned, he replies.

"Be right up. White wine, rocks. Vodka shot."

Mid - afternoons are generally slow at The Spot. Nick is back in front of Candy in just a few short minutes. He places two glasses down on top of a pair of white cocktail napkins on the bar, off a round metal drink tray with a cork bottom. Nick makes a knowing glance at Candy, he remarks.

"I'm keeping the vodka in the freezer now. Give it a try. Before it warms up."

Candy Gotella takes a small sip from the shot glass. Nodding, she says.

"It's good this way. More smooth."

Nick smiles down in approval at Candy. Candy's next move is to go for her wine glass. A long drink of the white wine leaves her looking neutral and unfulfilled. She is still not ready to open up to her father / confessor / bartender.

Mister Castelli has more than fifteen years of pouring beneath his belt. Nick understands, clear as day, Candy has a serious problem. The moment has arrived for him to get 'confidential'. Nick leans forward over the bar with his forearms and palms down on the wood. He starts speaking into Candy's left ear. Nick's voice is soft, pleading, and warm.

"You know, Candy. Your old man and me was everything. It was always Nick and Flo going to see Joey and Esther. Nick and Flo and Joey and Esther going to the ball game. You know what I mean?"

By this time Candy has worked her way through both the white wine and the vodka chaser. Yet still, she remains nervous, tense, wound up. Nick watches her puff anxiously on her second cigarette. He offers.

"How about another round?" Candy turns around. She glances towards the door while Nick cajoles.

It is crystal-clear to Nick Candy is still a little too self-conscious. There is an air about her. Like maybe, she thinks someone followed her to the bar. Or, that someone might be waiting outside in a parked car, pretending to read a newspaper.

"Yeah. Sure." Answers Candy in a voice both terse and tense. Nick nods at his prey. He lumbers up to his full height. Very, very, carefully he moves his stocky torso out of Candy's private psychological space.

Nick returns in a quick minute with a white wine and a shot glass filled with vodka on his tray. He places these down on the bar before his 'lady' customer. Then he walks quickly away, to tend to the needs of the three gentlemen at the opposite end of the bar.

Candy watches Nick. She picks up on the fact each of Nick's customer's sits alone. The first reading a newspaper, the second staring straight ahead, and the third looking up at a baseball game. On a color television set hanging from a rack fixed to a wall painted black.

Nick makes his way back to the edge of Candy's private space. Turning, he sees Candy is finally ready to speak. Nick wipes a towel in his hands for casual effect. He saunters back to his place, at the young lady's left ear. Candy looks straight ahead. She is still unable to meet Nick's level gaze. In a hollow voice, she says.

"You know I got a Riviera now?" Nicholas J. Castelli nods.

"Lonny was telling me about it. Sharp car. Real sharp." Replies the bartender.

"Do you know what happens if you lose a new car? Like if it burns down, or something?"

"I got experience there." Answers Nick swiftly. "Done some adjusting for the insurance companies."

"Well?" Asks Candy, with a quick scared look into Nick's cold black eyes.

Nick sighs and frowns. He had been hoping for something big. His hopes are dashed!

The man behind the bar brings himself up to full height. He eases back just a little ways. " _Maybe she's got something else."_ He thinks. Then he expands on the topic.

"New cars don't work out so good. Soon as you roll them out of the showroom, they lose a couple grand. Maybe more. The companies only pay book value. Not what you signed the note for."

Candy sighs; she bites her lower lip. Then she takes a long puff on her third cigarette.

Mister Castelli deems it prudent to continue with his lecture.

"What you're looking for is a business. Big warehouse is best. You go in before inventory time. Cause the policies are for building and contents too. Understand?"

Candy gives out with a long sigh. Where on earth does she find a big business with an insurance policy made out in her name? She turns her head towards Nick. Candy looks up directly into his eyes. She begins to plead.

"With Bobby and Phil gone. We're just barely making it. I got two more classes and an internship. Before I get my CPA."

Nick raises an eyebrow and purses his lips. He is doing his best to feign surprise and sympathy. In a rising voice, he remarks.

"Accountant! Joey Gotella's baby girl an accountant? He should be here to see you now!"

Candy sighs again. She has enough alcohol in her system to feel safe and snug in Nick's avuncular presence. Miss Gotella whines.

"Lonny can't get anything till he's off parole! I could lose the car!"

Nick nods, he sagely remarks. "First, you need another round."

With that, Nick wheels about, and walks back to the space between the service rails. In a moment, Nick is back at Candy's side, with a glass of white wine rocks and a vodka chaser. Candy Gotella is full under Nick's spell. She takes a long sip of wine. Next, she swallows the vodka in a single gulp. Finally, she meets Castelli's solicitous gaze.

"You ought a go see Cardano." Offers the man behind the bar, to the woman in the tight black sweater.

"What for, Nick?" Queries Candy in an anxious voice.

"For the houses he's running in Vegas. The ranches. He could use an accountant."

Candy mulls over Nick's remark for a long moment. The alcohol in her system has dulled her senses and left her tranquil. She is placid now, no longer anxious. Candy is wide open to suggestions, and new ideas. Candy fishes around in her purse for a large bill. She places the paper currency on a dry spot on the bar. Rising slowly, more than just a little bit under the influence, Candy slings the strap of her bag over her right shoulder.

"See you, Nick." Says Candy, eye to eye with Castelli.

Nick nods. "Same here, little lady."

Candy turns towards the door. Although she feels a little bit woozy now, still she walks along with a new found air of determination. Candy places her left hand onto the heavy brass doorknob at the front door to the tavern. Nick leans full ways over the bar. In a loud voice, he remarks.

"Cardano will have something for you!" Candy nods in reply, without looking back. A moment later, she is out on the sidewalk, standing in fresh air and sunshine.

Nick picks up the bill Candy left on the top of the bar. He studies it for just a moment.

Then he mutters. "Dumb broads. Always screwing up."

Truth be told, Mister Castelli's bitter observation, extends past Candy to include his estranged wife, Flo.

Scene 38 Nick Takes Lonny Under His Wing

Location: The Nick Castelli residence, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Lonny Makowski makes a right hand turn off Frankford Avenue and onto a residential street, near the Northeastern Hospital in Philadelphia. He drives along for a short while, passing neat little bungalow style houses on either side of the road. Lonny spies a familiar single-family bungalow. He pulls Candy's Buick Riviera onto the parking strip for the house. Mister Makowski slows and halts Candy's car with the front bumper inches away from the door to the garage. The garage made out of tan brick just exactly like the home it serves.

Mister Makowski alights and slams the door of Candy's Buick Riviera shut. He strides to the trunk, and works the lock with his keys. Nervous in spite of himself, the young man peers in all directions. With the lid popped up, he leans inside the carpeted compartment, to retrieve a small package with his hands. If a curious neighbor had been watching Lonny, likely he would have remarked. "Looks like a book inside of a folded shopping bag. But why is the guy so nervous?"

With the lid to the trunk closed tight. Lonny wheels about and walks the distance of the length of the back yard to the kitchen door. At the southeast corner of the Nicholas J. Castelli residence. Lonny glances up and at the door. Lonny sees Nick. The older man stands behind the closed aluminum screen. There is a wide triumphant grin on his face.

"You took your time getting here." Observes Nick dryly.

"They're working on the Whitman Bridge." Explains Lonny to Nick. "I came over on the Tacony-Palmyra."

Mister Castelli nods. He holds the screen door open for his pupil. It is four steps up to the kitchen. Once the two men are inside the kitchen, Nick goes into the refrigerator for two sixteen ounce cans of beer. Nick rips off both pull-tabs and hands one of the cans to his apprentice. There is a hungry expression on Lonnie's face. Lonny is halfway through his first long swallow, when Nick asks impatiently.

"Did you get what I told you to get, Lonny?"

Lonny brings the beer can down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He answers.

"It's a Smith and Wesson for sure, Nick. But the guy didn't have a picture. I ain't sure it's an air weight."

Nick Castelli puts his can of beer down on the kitchen table behind his back. He holds a hand outstretched towards Lonny. Without another word, Lonny fills Nick's hand with the book-sized package he so nervously retrieved from the trunk of Candy's car. Nick rips the paper off the package with slow studied motions. Soon a sturdy cardboard box comes into view. Castelli patiently explains.

"Airweight doesn't matter, kid. That's just an aluminum frame. But it's got to be a bodyguard. It has to be. Lightweight or steel, it's the same model."

Lonny Makowski goes wide-eyed. He leans back in nervous anticipation. Nick pulls the lid off a cardboard carton, with the Smith and Wesson logo printed on the outside. A brand new snub nose revolver comes into view. The weapon has a two-inch barrel, and, it is hammerless. Nick's face comes up smiling. Lonny breaths out with a sigh of relief. Mission Accomplished! It's time for some humor. Nick says wryly.

"Did the guy give you green stamps?"

Lonny breaks out into a light laugh. He shakes his head and comes back with.

"I was sweating, man. Could have been a cop."

Nick Castelli nods in sympathy with Lonnie's remark. He walks around the younger man, and retrieves a second round of beers from his refrigerator. Nick hands one of the beers to Lonny, he says.

"Let's go downstairs."

Nick leads the way down a narrow flight of red tiled stairs, and into a finished basement. Lonny sees fluorescent fixtures in the low hanging ceiling. The walls in the basement are painted white, where they are not covered with knotty pine paneling. Red tiles cover the cement floor. A couch and two chairs sit against the exterior wall. There is a wet bar up against the interior wall.

The knotty pine paneled wall separates the entertainment area from the furnace and utilities space. Not surprising, the bar stools catch Lonnie's admiring eye. The chairs at the bar are made out of old oaken barrels, slotted into halves, and then upholstered with red leather. Nick's hand wipes against the light switch on the wall. Lonny gives out with a low and respectful whistle.

"Geez, what a place you got here!"

"Yah." Responds Nick while he turns his head back and forth. Then he nods in self-satisfaction. He explains.

"Flo was always on the go. New this. New that."

Nick leads the way to the bar. He pulls a chair out for himself, and one for Lonny. While Lonny makes himself comfortable, Nick reaches over the bar and twirls the volume knob on his pre-amplifier. Soon Frank Sinatra's rendition of the hit song 'My Way!' fills the basement out of a set of expensive stereo speakers.

Nick smiles at Lonny. He leans even further over and under the bar. Nick's hand gropes blindly inside of a concealed compartment. A secret place, where he hides a small plastic tool kit, about the size of a large shoebox.

Nick and Lonny sit facing one another, nearly knee to knee. Lonny takes a long drink from his second can of beer. He places the can down firmly on the Formica top of the bar, and says.

"I don't get it, Nick. What am I paying three grand for?"

"Let me see the rest of my money." Replies Nick in an even voice. "Then you get an explanation."

Lonny Makowski frowns and sighs. Still, he is soon into his front pants pocket for a thick roll of twenties and fifties. Right before Nick's wary eyes, Lonny counts out twenty five hundred dollars. With the last bill in place on the stack, Lonny puts the bottom of his beer can on top of the paper money. Then he stuffs what is left of his cash reserves back into to his pants pocket.

Nick and Lonny are eye to eye. Castelli opens the toolbox on his lap and reaches inside. Soon a weighty looking blue steel tube comes into view. The metal tube is about fourteen inches long, and nearly an inch and a half wide. Mister Castelli shakes the tube with an idle hand, like someone working a fishing pole. He explains.

"You go somewhere else. The barrel's gotta be threaded. It's a dead give away."

Lonnie's expression remains impassive. Nick adds.

"Work it onto the front of the barrel, Lonny. You'll see what I mean."

Lonny takes the metal tube from Nick's extended hand. He glances at both ends for a moment.

Without any prompting from Nick, it dawns on Lonny the wider opening fits on the end of the gun barrel. Lonny twists the end of the cold steel tube onto the front tip of the barrel of his new snub nose pistol with a deft motion. Both men hear a sharp metallic click. Nick smiles and proudly says.

"I perfected that. It's a BNC style mount. Like they use on expensive walkie talkies."

Lonny Makowski hefts the now mated tube and pistol from one hand to the next and back again. The younger man is quite obviously pleased with the look and feel of the deadly device. Better still, the whole thing is illegal, whether or no he has an arrest record. Lonny looks up at Nick and smiles.

"How does a silencer work, Nick?"

Mister Castelli shakes his head back and forth. He replies. "Sound suppressor, kid **.** Sound suppressor."

Nick goes back into the tool box on his lap. In a moment, he holds two tubes up to view. The first tube is nearly identical to the heavy metal cylinder on the end of Lonnie's Smith and Wesson Body Guard. The second tube is much more narrow, it sports drilled perforations along its entire length. Nick's voice goes lofty as he explains.

"The big tube is the one you see. That's called the sleeve." Nick puts the larger tube in his hand down on the bar.

"The narrow tube is threaded and drilled. The bang comes out of the holes I make. See? At right angles. The baffles make the sound bounce back and forth. Till it cancels out."

Nick retrieves a set of eight large washers from the interior of his toolbox. He puts six of the washers onto the top of the bar. Like a stack of poker chips. Then he threads the remaining two washers over the narrow perforated tube.

"All you need now is end caps. With a BNC mount on the inside cap, the drilled tube with the baffles slides inside the sleeve tube, nice and easy. Then you're in business."

Nick holds the tube and washer arrangement up to Lonnie's view. The younger man sits with his mouth half open. The power, the stealth, the deadly nature of the device has him in a state of rapture. Lonny lets out with a low whistle. Nick frowns and cautions.

"Before you get too hot over the thing. What kind of ammo did you buy?"

Lonny grimaces and sighs. He answers.

"Con's on parole don't go into gun stores. Candy or Leo can get it for me."

Nick shakes his head.

"I didn't ask who buys your groceries. I said what kind of ammo does it eat?!"

Lonny looks chagrined- he blushes and admits. "You told me. But I forgot."

Nick shakes his head from side to side. His lips curl. Then he says.

"Write it down someplace. It has to be wadcuttters. This thing is tuned for so many grains of powder in the shell. And just one kind of bullet. Wadcutters."

Nick Castelli sits in silence, basking in Lonnie's admiring glances and ingratiating smiles. With the weight of the weapon and sound suppressor in his hands, Lonny feels a hunger inside to go out and prove himself. 'Do the deed' with Nick Castelli at his side, then listen in while Nick reports on his coolness and bravery to Targioni Barberini. Who knows? Maybe even all the way up to Don Sally! Lonny sights down the barrel of the sound suppressor tube.

While Lonny sits and idly daydreams, his mind winds back to the meeting in Attorney Shusterman's office, Monday last. His head feels feverish as Eric Bond's remarks flood back into his mind. Mister Makowski fights to stay cool and composed, Lonny says.

"Did you know the F. B. I. is digging up Bobby and Phil next week, Nick?"

The pit of Nick Castelli's stomach goes ice cold at Lonnie's remark. Elaborately casual now, Nick takes a sip from his can of beer. He thinks to himself. " _Why didn't that dumb little broad say something?"_ Next, he says.

"What are they doing that for?"

Lonny replies. "The Mexican's were all killed down in Washington. Something, something, Redstone - Fairfax. The cops down there got the money and the dope."

Nick Castelli feels an electric current running up and down his spine. The thought flashes through his mind Lonny is trying to set him up, on the advice of his parole officer _. "Is_ _the kid wired up and broadcasting?"_

Nick fights against his instincts. He is just barely able to appear casual and uninterested. Nick would like to frisk Lonny. Instead, Nick inquires flatly.

"Is this some kind of a story Leo read in a magazine?"

"Nope." Replies Lonny with a shrug of his shoulders. "That punk Eric Bond got it off a fax machine. In Shusterman's office."

Nick winces a little in spite of himself. His mind still stings from the memory of the way Eric treated him at Jimmy's funeral. Nick decides it is time to lead Lonny away from any thoughts about either the drugs or the money. He remarks.

"You gotta take off, Lonny. I' m covering tonight at my place."

Lonny nods while he studies the pistol and silencer combination in his hands. Nick adds.

"Hide the suppressor one place. And the pistol someplace else. Possession of one of those is a big felony. Big time, big felony."

Lonny glances up at Nick. There is a look of sincere appreciation on his face. In a very respectful tone, he says softly.

"I ain't a made guy like you, Nick. But I ' m gonna learn. You'll see."

Nick nods while he basks in the warmth of the younger man's words. In a voice both low and confidential, he observes.

"It might be just around the corner for you. Just around the corner."

On that note, Lonny Makowski makes his way up the basement steps of Nick's tan brick bungalow and out the kitchen door to Candy's Buick Riviera. He drives south west on Frankford Avenue. His pistol and his silencer, more properly- sound suppressor, hidden away under the spare tire in the trunk of Candy's car.

Scene 39 Candy Gotella Prepares For A Job Interview

Location: Esther Gotella residence, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Two story brownstones on the southwest side of Philadelphia tend to run to three bedrooms and a bath on the second floor. As a general rule one of the upstairs bedrooms is always smaller than the other two to make room for a cramped bathroom. After you factor in a chair on the floor in the center of Candy's tiny bedroom. Candy's younger sister, Mrs. Caroline Novotny, formerly Miss Caroline Gotella, has not much room to maneuver while she styles Candy's hair.

Deciding on a dress for Candy's job interview / dinner date proved to be much less of a problem than styling her hair. The vote went three to none, in favor of a sleeveless and curvy knit dress, with a large open keyhole in the back. The dress is a deep and romantic shade of red. The Gotella girls, Candy, Caroline, and Esther set off the dress with dangling pearl earrings, and a white cameo. The cameo tied around Candy's elegant neck on a wide ribbon, the ribbon just the shade of her dress.

Candy's hairstyle is another matter, indeed! Her mother, Esther, argues most vociferously for a swept up style, with the ends trailing down luxuriantly on the right hand side of Candy's face. Caroline struggled dutifully with this design, from four in the afternoon until five thirty. Yet for all her skill and taste, the result seems lacking. Both to her practiced eye, and her older sister, Candy.

By quarter to six, everyone's patience has worn thin. Esther mutters under her breath in anger. "Kids today!" Then she rolls her wheelchair out of Candy's small room. Esther travels out into the hallway and then into the large front bedroom she used to share with her long deceased husband, Joey.

Candy's mother slams the door to her bedroom. Next, she wheels her chair to the edge of the front windowsill. There she sits, on guard, against the moment of arrival of Candy's date, Don Girolomo Cardano. 'Don Jerry', to his close friends and his business intimates.

Caroline Novotny smiles as she walks in a circle around her older sister's chair. Caroline has a bobby pin in her mouth, and a dozen more holding Candy's thick blond hair up in a crown. Mrs. Novotny pauses at random moments to add light puffs of hair spray to her creation.

"There! It's finished!" Exclaims Caroline to her seated elder sister.

Candy rises to her feet. She walks over to her dresser and looks at herself in the dresser mirror. Esther's shrill voice rings through her closed bedroom door.

"He's here! Get down stairs, Candy! Caroline! Downstairs, you two!"

Candy and Caroline look deep into one another's eyes. Both young ladies are beautiful, each in her own way. This particular late afternoon, the Gotella sisters respond as one to Esther's sharp tone. For you see, a lifetime of Esther's harsh urgent style has left them immune to scolding's. Especially since both women realize full well. Esther's manner is nothing more than an expression of deep maternal concern.

Candy glances down at the delicate woman's chrome watch on her left wrist. She asks her younger sister.

"Are you gonna be here when I get back, Caroline?"

Caroline shakes her head and frowns. With a hand mirror and can of hairspray down at her sides, she replies.

"Gotta be home by eight to watch my kids. Vinnie's ma is going someplace."

Candy's lips turn down in disappointment. Just then, the doorknob on the door to the front master bedroom rattles. A second later, the door flies wide open. Esther's angry voice carries down the corridor, around and into Candy's small room.

"He's double parked! Get down there! Now!" Shouts Mrs. Esther Gotella.

Candy retrieves her purse from the top of her tall-mirrored dresser. In spite of the urgency in her mother's voice, she pauses for a studied glance at herself in the mirror. Once Candy is certain every strand of her hair is in place. She walks out into the hallway with her younger sister Caroline close behind. The two women are halfway down the stairs when they come to a halt at the sound of Esther's voice. Soft now, loving, concerned.

"You can finish college in Las Vegas, Candy. Just be a bookkeeper for Don Cardano for a year or two. O. K.?"

Candy and Caroline turn back and look up to the top of the stairwell. The two girls see their mother's careworn face leaning down in their direction. Esther has her forehead pressed against the wood banister of the railing. Her long frail fingers wrapped tight round the rickety banister on either side of her head.

Candy's face goes soft and wistful, nearly with the look of the penitent Magdalene. As painted in chiaroscuro by Caravaggio during the sixteenth century. Glancing up, she comes eye to eye with her loving mother. Candy replies.

"Yes, Ma. I will."

As soon as Candy says- "I will." the doorbell starts ringing. The two Gotella sisters hurry down the rest of the stairs and are soon into the front hallway. Candy and Caroline see a tall slender man through the glass partition in the front door. He wears a black chauffeur's cap, large dark sunglasses, a grey suit and a narrow necktie. The man carries a pair of Italian style driving gloves in his left hand.

Candy's graceful walk in two-inch heels comes to a halt next to a battered old snow shovel. She shivers at the sight of the strange man in the hat, sunglasses, and gloves. Does she really want this dinner date - job interview? Should she run back upstairs to her bedroom and play with her dolls? Caroline looks at Candy in profile. Caroline sees the worry in her older sister's heart. Caroline gives Candy a soft little kiss on the cheek for luck.

Scene 40 Gourmet Dining With 'Don Jerry', All You Gotta Do!

Location: Le Petit Maison restaurant, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

At a quarter past eight in the evening, the bus boy dutifully removes the appetizer china and silverware from just in front of Candy Gotella and her distinguished escort for the evening, Don Girolomo 'Jerry' Cardano. For Candy, the evening began with a delicious shrimp cocktail and a tulip glass filled with French Champaign. While Don Cardano savored a plate of escargot heavily laced with fresh pressed garlic. Set off wonderfully well with a glass of white Bordeaux.

Under Don Cardano's watchful eye the service waiter places plates filled with medallions of beef, fresh cut broccoli, and baked potatoes, on the spotless white cloth before his welcome guests. The waiter holds up an ornate pepper grinder, easily a foot and a half long. Candy declines the hot spice wordlessly, with a gracefully raised right hand. The Don, on the other hand, nods eagerly at the sight of the oversized grinder. For a long moment, freshly ground pepper rains down onto his medallions of beef.

When the service waiter is a respectful distance away, out of earshot, Don Cardano puts his hand on his plate. He turns towards Candy. The Don nods and remarks.

"They heat the plates here. Did you know that?"

Candy responds to the Don's opening gambit by lowering a fork full of beef down to her plate. Then, ever so gently, she brings her fingertips to the rim of the piece of fine china set before her. A warm sensation flows up in her fingertips. She smiles into the Don's eyes, and brightly exclaims.

"That's real special, Don Cardano! I really appreciate you taking me here."

Girolomo Cardano smiles back at Candy. His head bobs up and down, side to side, and back and forth, all at the very same time. 'Don Jerry' is wealthy enough to have set aside the gestures typical of the immigrant and first generation Italian. But still, the Don cultivates old country manners and mannerisms. It is his way of saying to the world. " _I made it in America. On my own hook."_ And made it, he did!

Jerry Cardano smiles. The relaxed and comfortable look on Candy's face tells him she is ready to listen. He launches his sales pitch.

"You know, Candy. Your brother Bobby was at the house all the time. Just the right kind of young man for my baby girl, Kelly."

Candy's blue eyes go dark at the mention of her dead brother. She dabs at her lips for a while with a spotless white napkin. Then, once she regains control of her emotions, she says.

"Lonny found out the whole thing was Jimmy's fault."

Don Cardano nods while Candy speaks. After Cardano swallows a forkful of beef medallions, he adds.

"Sally's not running things right. Excuse the remark. But you, maybe even Lonny too, you're better off signing with me."

Candy nods, she feels a little nervous and scared. She takes a long drink from the glass of Champaign. The waiter rushes to her side. He refills her glass from the magnum bottle of French Champaign resting in a silver wine cooler on her side of the red leather booth.

Cardano has a shrewd sense for the source of Candy's distress. He decides it's politic to change the subject. Talk about the future to Candy for a while, things like that. The Don starts in again, but on a new tack.

"They got good schools in Vegas. Real good."

It is just the right remark for the crime boss to make to the no longer so young and no longer so innocent ingénue. Candy smiles a daydreaming kind of a smile. Her heart drifts along in the direction of what might just happen - some day, in the future. The Don nods. He feels pleased with the way he is 'handling things'. It is time to get down to business, lay the map down on the table.

"I got six houses out there, Candy. All on a nice street. Each with five bedrooms. Doing great! It's all legal!"

Candy Gotella is completely under the spell of the Don's smooth voice and polished manners. She imagines herself at work in a private office. For a moment, she pictures herself seated at an executive's chair behind an expensive desk- handling accounts, dealing with the income tax people, making decisions about staffing, vacations, bonuses, and the like.

She suggests."I did the books for Sally's construction company for two years, Don Cardano. Before I had Adam. I know how to handle credit card companies. And banks. I did the payroll too."

The Don eyes Candy carefully. She looks ready for the pitch. It is time to set the hook. Smiling, he says.

"So! You know how to start with a company from the ground up. That's what I'm looking for!"

Candy swallows a dainty portion of her steamed broccoli. She brings her fork hand down to the side of her heated plate. Her face radiates a look of determination. She asks.

"Can Lonny and Ma come out there with me?"

Now the Don inches his way into Candy's private space. He leans forward, and boasts.

"Better than that Candy. I can pay tuition for you. How much more school you got left?"

Candy sighs in relief. It is starting to sound like she can save her mother's house! Her eyes go bright with joy and anticipation. She replies.

"Less than a year. Then there's the internship. But they pay you for that."

Cardano pretends to be impressed. Truth is, in his mind, women are nothing more than objects.

"That's nothing at all. What a looker like you is gonna make on the mattresses. Lonny and you are gonna own your own airplane."

Candy's face goes blank at the sound of the word- 'mattress'. After her mind recovers, she blinks several times. Next, she brings the fingertips of her hands up to her lips. After a long pause, she asks. "What?"

The Don puts his right hand palm down in the airspace between himself and his guest. He moves his hand up and down with a bouncing motion, while he reasons with Candy.

"You jump the mattresses in my houses. Maybe even sky dive a little. If you like the John. Soon as you get your CPA. You graduate to accountant."

Candy fights with her emotions. She struggles to keep the tears in her heart from welling out onto her cheeks. Once again, she queries.

"Whaaaaat?!" This time Candy stretches the word out several seconds longer.

Cardano feels impatient. He purses his lips and snarls. "Everybody's a hooker kid! Don't fool yourself!"

Candy puts her napkin down on the table. Then she gets to her feet. Candy feels dizzy but still she glares hot eyed at Don Cardano. Esther Gotella's daughter walks out the revolving front door of Le Petit Maison. Once in the middle of the parking lot, out of sight of the front entrance, she begins to run.

Scene 41 Nick And Lonny Make Use Of Background Music

Location: Rite Price Pharmacy parking lot, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Nicholas J. Castelli loves his Chevrolet Impala. Four doors, light blue paint job, light blue interior, and custom features, too. Like the bullet shaped spotlights, you can work from handles just inside the windshield corners. And the suicide knob strapped to the steering wheel in the three o'clock position. So, why just black wall tires on such a nice car?

Nick has two pat answers for this insightful question. For the straight people among his circle of 'known associates', those who work for a living he remarks: _"Why put money into decorations?"_ For wise guys, people pretending to be wise guys, maybe someone he knows from the joint, Nick will explain: _"Looks like a cop car, don't it? ..... Lotta times you can talk your way out of a B and E arrest. Pretending to be a detective ..., Get it?"_

Nick rolls his Impala onto the RITE PRICE PHARMACY parking lot this particular warm September morning. He is in an expansive mood. In the least, Nick feels accomplished. He owns a home, his own tavern, and the car of his dreams. And too, you never know, something good might happen to him today, or, if not today, then maybe tomorrow.

Mister Castelli spies a rusted out van parked near the front doors of the drugstore. The worn and tattered vehicle sports the logo: **SUPERIOR FLOORS** , painted in twelve-inch letters on both exterior walls. Nick wheels into a parking space next to the van. He turns off the engine in the Impala and alights from his pride and joy.

With his ignition keys in his right hand and his driver's door closed. It takes just a few long strides to bring him to the double glass doors at the entranceway to the drug store. Nick peers inside the pharmacy through the glass in the doors. His face breaks into a wide smile. He taps on the glass with the lucky silver dollar coin he always carries in his pants pocket.

The sharp rapping noise on the plate glass brings Lonny Makowski out into the well-lit foyer of the drug store. Lonny holds his right hand up with the fingers outspread. He dangles a mop handle in his other hand. Through the door glass, Nick hears Lonnie's muffled voice saying. "Five minutes. Five."

Mister Castelli reaches up to touch the brim of his fedora. Then he strolls back to the driver's side seat of his light blue Chevrolet Impala. Five minutes later Lonny Makowski climbs onto the seat next to his seat.

A quizzical expression spreads on Lonnie's face. He says to the man behind the steering wheel. "What's up, Nick?" Mister Castelli responds to Lonnie's question with a question of his own. "Know how to use phone cards, kid?"

A grimace forms up on Lonnie's face. He does not like guessing games. From looking at Nick in profile, Lonny turns away in disgust. He stares straight out the windshield of Nick's car. For a second or two he taps the control handle of the windshield spotlight with his fingertips. Then he sighs and says.

"I ain't got time to cover for you today. If that's what you're looking for. Too tired."

Nick shakes his head from left to right. He says.

"You and me is driving down to Washington. Today. But first I gotta make a call."

Before Lonny can protest, Nick brings the eight-cylinder engine in the Impala to life with a twist of the ignition key. He pulls the car out of the pharmacy parking lot and drives on up the boulevard a few blocks. Then he halts his car next to a public phone. The phone sits out of sight in the far back corner of a gasoline station parking lot.

Nick brings a sheet of paper and a pen out of his shirt pocket right under Lonnie's watchful eye. He unfolds the paper and smoothes it onto the surface of a spiral wire notebook. Then Nick goes to the space above the windshield visor. After a bit of blind searching and fumbling about, he pulls out a twenty-dollar phone card.

With his office supplies at hand, Nick reaches over the front seat back down to the floor in front of the rear seat. When his hand comes back into view there is an electronic device clasped between his fingertips. The machine is about the size of a cigar box, but made out of black plastic, rather than cardboard.

Lonny sees knobs, buttons, dials, and a display screen at one end of the box. While the younger man watches on in silence, Nick places the device down on the center of his dashboard. Next, he plugs the power cable from the machine into his cigar lighter. Nick nods. He turns to face Lonny and says.

"Hit the red button, Lonny. That's the power button."

Lonny complies wordlessly with Nick's request. Soon the dial face on the scanner radio glows a light green color. Lonny sits staring at Nick, an impassive look remains on his face.

The older man says.

"Now push the little grey key on the key pad. The one marked second function."

Lonny peers at the keyboard in response to Nick's request. After a bit, he presses in lightly on a small rectangular button. This effort rewards the two men with the word 'BANK' flashing on and off on the display.

Nick smiles at Lonny. His heart swells with all the pride of a father teaching his son to ride a bicycle. He says warmly.

"Good. Real good. Now hit the key marked four. Wait a second. Then tap the enter key."

Mister Makowski nods at Mister Castelli. Soon the two men find themselves staring in fascination at the display on the face of the scanner radio. They watch, hypnotized, while the computer memory displays an ascending series of six digit numbers. More specifically, frequencies in the ultra high frequency band, at a rate of about five frequencies a second.

A long minute passes. Lonnie's impassive look gives way to a grimace of impatience and disgust. Just then, the carrier frequency in a Philadelphia City Police car breaks through the squelch setting on the scanner.

"Central. This is two seven zero. I have a plate for you to run. Copy?" Says the bored male voice sitting behind the wheel in a squad car parked somewhere in Philadelphia. After a moments delay, a female voice at the dispatch center responds.

"Copy two seven zero. Go ahead with the plate." Nick and Lonny hear a metallic electronic clicking sound punctuate the laconic dialogue. The male voice returns to the speaker.

"Central. Two seven zero. Plate number: B as in boy, R Robert, A Alpha, eight - four - two - three. New York State. Copy?"

Nick reaches up to the scanner radio perched on his dashboard and casually taps a key marked 'HOLD'. Nick turns to Lonny.

"That's gonna be your job when we get going here in a minute. Understand?"

Lonny stares up into Nick Castelli's piercing black eyes. The younger man's mouth hangs half open. He is dumb founded. Where is Nick going with this?

It takes a bit more than a minute for the woman at the dispatch center to process the inquiry from the officer in the patrol car at her computer terminal. Soon her voice is back on the air.

"Central to two seven zero. Your- Boy Robert Alpha , eight - four - two - three. Comes up to a Raymond P. Chapra. No wants no warrants. Copy two seven zero?"

"Copy central. Two seven zero out." Replies the bored male voice in the squad car.

Nick taps the hold key a second time, as soon as he is certain the conversation is finished. The hold circuit releases. Soon frequencies scroll on the screen, one after another. Nick leans over into Lonnie's private space. He says.

"Background music, kid." With that cryptic remark as a point of departure, Nicholas J. Castelli turns to the business at hand.

To start things off, Nick removes the handset from the hook on the public phone standing just outside of his driver's side window. With a smooth practiced motion, he tucks the speaker end of the handset between his left ear and shoulder. Then he pushes his fedora up and back on his head.

Next, reading from the phone card, he dials in an eight hundred number, followed by the account number on the card. Finally, with a glance down at the creased sheet of paper on his knee, he taps in the area code and number of the Drug Enforcement Agency Offices in Arlington, Virginia.

While the phone rings, Nick turns to Lonny. Mister Castelli smiles in triumph. Nick makes the O. K. sign with his thumb and first finger right before the eyes of his unwitting accomplice. When the line picks up, Nick starts in on his con game.

"Yes. Hello. This is Lieutenant Nichols calling. I need to speak to Chief Special Agent Burke, please."

"Mister Burke no longer works in this division sir. He's been transferred."

"Excuse me then." Says Nick Castelli to the female receptionist. "May I speak with his replacement?" The phone goes quiet at Nick's left ear. Then he hears a male voice.

"This is Mister Calador. Can I help you?" Says the male voice, after a pause for a call transfer from the switchboard to a private office phone.

"Mister Calador. This is Jay Nichols calling. From the sixth district city in Philadelphia."

"Yes?" Responds Don Calador, reserved now, and just a little bit wary.

"Mister Calador. I'm having a problem. A lawyer here in Philadelphia named Shusterman. Your people here want an exhumation. Clients of his. Names Baldigiani and Gotella. Shusterman wants the evidence gone over by our lab people. Something, something, cocaine in briefcases, ... , and cash to match."

Chief Special Agent Donald Calador does not like the sound of this call. He knows from personal experience anything Burke comes in contact with ends up a tar baby. Calador's mind races along in a fever. " _Can he get out of it? Hand it off to a District Attorney_?"

Nick Castelli feels the pit of his stomach grow cold and tight. That the guy is stalling is just as bad as if he hung up. Maybe he will hang up! And then what! Just then, the radio perched on top of Nick's dashboard comes to life.

"Central this is two one three. I need a driver's license."

"Copy two one three. Ready your transmission."

"Two one three central. Last name Decker. First Daniel. Middle Thomas. Number: M five zero zero, four three nine, three zero three, eight two six. Copy central?"

Nick breaks into a wide triumphant grin as the traffic police dialogue fills the air. He leans forward to bring the microphone on his pay phone handset as close to the scanner radio speaker as is physically possible. Nick turns to face Lonny. He shakes an index finger at the younger man.

Next, he jerks his finger towards the radio on the dashboard. Lonny blinks his eyes. Then he remembers his job. Lonny leans forward with haste. He quickly taps the 'HOLD' button on the key pad of the radio. In a fraction of a second, the scanner radio locks onto the dispatch frequency.

Calador has been sitting stiff and erect in his executive chair up until this exact moment. Is this character, this Mister Jay Nichols, for real? Is he maybe a reporter for one of those scandal magazines? The traffic police chatter works on Calador like a major tranquilizer. He slumps down in his chair. Nichols comes across to his wary ear as authentic. Calador decides Nichols is a trustworthy detective, speaking to him from his patrol car on one of those new 800 band cell phones. It can't hurt to help him out.

Nick Castelli very nearly reads Don Calador's mind. He decides to plead a little.

"Could you use our medical examiner case numbers, Mister Calador?"

"Not necessary, Mister Nichols. It's on the top of my pile. What do you need?"

"The judge here wants me to run down to Arlington. Bring the cocaine and cash back up here. On whatever papers I got to have."

Don Calador shuffles through the stack of file folders on his desk. He is eager to help a fellow police officer. With the correct set of records in hand, he opens his mouth to speak. Then that nagging feeling returns to his mind. Calador puts his palm over the mouthpiece of his handset. Maybe he should call out to his secretary for advice. Should he really be sharing facts and figures with a perfect stranger?

Providence intervenes once again on Nick's behalf. While Mister Calador waffles back and forth. The computer screen in front of the lady dispatch officer fills with a record retrieved from an enormous database by electronic means. She begins to read.

"Two one three, this is central. Your traffic stop Daniel Thomas Decker. Nil warrants. Nil wants. But he has a personal protection order. On his ex wife."

"Copy central. Two one three. Breathalyzer next. Will advise. Copy central?"

"Copy two one three." Electronic clunking sounds follow the verbal exchange as soon as the lady dispatcher releases her push to talk button. Calador is now completely committed to- "Lieutenant Jay Nichol's - sixth district Philadelphia" telephone request for information. The background music did it! Donald Calador says.

"We don't have possession, Mister Nichols. Jurisdiction is just one of the headaches Burke left me with. The Fairfax County police have both the drugs and the cash. Can I give you a number?"

Nick is just over third base and on his way to home plate!

Two more phone calls, a mention of Calador's name and Burke's name at strategic points in time during the next two conversations. And with a little bit more background music from the scanner radio, thrown in for authenticity, the deed is done! Thirty minutes later, Nick Castelli has a fresh street address penciled in on the bottom of his notes.

Nicholas J. Castelli knows the location of a Fairfax County evidence locker filled with nearly a million dollars in cash!

Paper money belonging to the Salvatore Mustalaro crime family. And, in addition to the cash, an equivalent weight of pure cocaine. A huge mass of poisonous white granular powder made in a Mexican drug laboratory by the likes of, Ali Leon, Ricky Sinaloa, and the Nayari brothers, Frankie and Tepo. A million in cash and a million in drugs, sitting there, ripe for the taking!

Nick Castelli leans outside the driver's side window of his baby blue Chevrolet Impala. He returns the public phone handset to the hook. Back in the car, he reaches up and pushes down on the red power button on the scanner radio. Next, he goes eye to eye with Lonny. Nick brings his right knee to the 'leg up' position on the baby blue upholstery of the front seat of his car. Lonny sits there open-mouthed. The younger man blinks a few times. Then, very, very, respectfully, he remarks.

"Geeeez, Nick. Normal people don't even have ideas like you do!"

While Lonny shakes his head slowly from side to side, Nick explains.

"The background music is what does it, kid."

Scene 42 All They Got Here Is Bicycles And T. V. Sets

Location: Police stolen property locker, Fairfax Virginia

Nick and Lonny make their way out of metropolitan Philadelphia on interstate **95** heading southwest. The city traffic in Baltimore is moderately heavy, but in a little more than an hour they turn onto the Washington, D. C. bypass, **495**. Nick drives over the Potomac River on the far west side of the C. I. A. Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. A few minutes more on the capitol beltway, and they exit west onto Arlington boulevard. Soon the men find themselves on Old Lee Highway, running on down through the center of the town of Fairfax, Virginia.

Nick and Lonny feel out of place and conspicuous in Fairfax. Each man is keenly aware of the fact there is an out of state license plate on the rear bumper of Nick's Impala. Not surprising, the men do their best to appear nonchalant and inconspicuous. Lonny Makowski, for example, pulls the brim of his baseball cap down over his eyes. At one point, while they drive around in search of the stolen properties building. Nick pushes his scanner radio deeper under the front seat than it had been before they started the days escapade. In some states, it is illegal to operate a scanner radio while driving a motor vehicle!

Finally, without coming to the attention of any marked police vehicles. Nick turns onto the street named to them by the officer in Washington who took their third phone call. Nick slows the big Impala to a crawl. Nick and Lonny make a careful study of the address numbers painted on the buildings on either side of the avenue. Lonny reads out numbers under his breath for a while. Then he shakes his head and cynically remarks.

"How do we break into a prison, Nick?" While Lonny speaks, mostly to himself, Nick's head swivels from side to side. Mister Castelli looks for all the world like a bird of prey perched on the top branch of a dead tree. Nick replies.

"Look at the neighborhood, Lonny. Is it like Camden around here? Or Villanova?"

Lonny Makowski gets the point. The people in a middle class community like Fairfax Virginia would not be as security conscious as the people in Camden. Nick and Lonny might have to deal with a dead bolt lock on the door between them and their fortune in cash and drugs. But razor wire and vicious guard dogs are not very likely in the sleepy Fairfax community of metropolitan Washington D.C.

Lonny glances down at the street number scrawled on the bottom of the sheet of paper resting on the car seat between himself and Nick. He observes.

"You're headed the right way, numbers are going up. Should be the next block."

Once past the traffic light at the next intersection, it dawns on Lonny the even numbers are all on his side of the street. He turns towards Nick, and brings his mind to bear on the buildings visible through Nick's half of the windshield. Near the end of the block, Lonny sits up stiff and exclaims.

"Thirty three twenty seven! That's it! That's it!"

Nick nods his head in a matter of fact manner at Lonnie's eager remark. Nick is just as worked up as Lonny, but he forces himself to stay calm. Mister Castelli is careful not to turn his head, or to look overly eager. Nick drives past the building and across the next intersection. He pulls down lightly on the brim of his fedora.

Mister Castelli brings the light blue Impala to a halt between the painted yellow lines of a parallel parking space. The parking space is curbside to an office supply and greeting card store. Nick works the ignition key to the off position. Then he reaches up and fusses with his rear view mirror. He moves the mirror this way and that, until he has the best possible view of the target building. The building numbered 3327.

Nick sees a two-story building, red brick, glass block windows on the first floor, and factory style windows on the second floor, through the glass in his rear view mirror. Nick glances over at Lonny, he explains.

"I gotta see a john in uniform." Lonny nods in comprehension. There are no visible signs or markings on the building's exterior. It is not for certain they have, indeed, fallen upon the Fairfax County stolen properties locker.

Lonny doffs his baseball cap. He places it on top of the papers resting on the bench seat to his left. Then, for a while, he drums on the dashboard with his fingertips. A glance at his watch reveals it is nearly one in the afternoon.

"We're in business kid!" Mutters Nick to Lonny, about a quarter of an hour later. This at the sight of a balding, middle aged man, walking out of the front door of the building at 3327. The man is dressed in a patrol officer's uniform. He carries a coffee thermos in his left hand.

Nick brings the engine of his pale blue Impala back to life. He wheels the car around the block, in search of the alley behind the red brick building. Down the alley, the two men slow to a crawl. They make a careful study of the back wall of the stolen properties locker.

Lonny leans out his window. He peers at the lock on the back door. He is pleased to see the lock is just an everyday, garden-variety, pin tumbler.

Lonny exclaims. "Pin Tumbler Nick! Bobby pins and a screw driver!"

Nick's more experienced eyes go to the basement windows. Here he sees the faint tracings of burglar alarm tape. The once shiny silver tape pressed onto the insides of the double pane opaque glass panels, with chicken wire resting in the space between. Nick knows everything he needs to know. Nick gives Lonny a quick lesson in tradecraft as they drive away from the building.

"The tape on the windows means they don't have motion detectors inside. All we gotta worry about is a pin switch on the door."

Lonny shakes his head in admiration. He wonder at Nick's thoughtful analysis of the situation. He watches on in a respectful silence, as the older man twists his rear view mirror back to the standard driving position.

Scene 43 A Two by Four Ain't A Burglary Tool

Location: Police stolen property locker, Fairfax Virginia

Nick and Lonny make their way back to the alley behind the Fairfax County Police stolen properties and evidence locker building, at about half past three the next morning. Nick parks his Impala with the back bumper a few feet in front of a utilities pole. Then he pulls a flashlight from out of his glove compartment.

After the men climb out of the car, they walk directly to the trunk. Nick retrieves a scissors jack with a pipe handle, and a two by four inch pine plank. The wooden plank roughly eighteen inches long. He passes these items, burglary tools really, into Lonnie's trembling and eager hands.

Nick rummages about in a metal toolbox on the floor of the trunk. He finds a roll of wide shiny grey duct tape. He rips a four-inch strip of the tape from the roll, and sticks it onto the back of his hand. Nick slams the trunk lid shut. Nick and Lonny walk back to the rear door of the police building. Their hearts pound in a rush of adrenaline- all their senses are on high alert.

Nick holds the scissors jack and two by four up at the height of the pin tumbler lock on the metal-sheathed wood back door. Mister Castelli turns to face Lonny, he says.

"Get going with the handle."

Nick presses the base of the jack against the wooden frame of the door. Lonny uses his left hand to help Nick hold the two by four in the space between the platform on the jack and the other side of the doorframe.

Exterior doors are all pretty much the same width. Lonny has not many turns to make with the jack handle, until the framework of the door starts to bow outward. Soon both men hear creaking and groaning noises, as the bolt in the lock slides out and away from its sheath. Music to their larcenous ears!

A short while later, the tip of the bolt comes into view in the space between the door and the doorframe. Nick and Lonny take turns peering into the crack with the help of Nick's flashlight. They see glinting solid brass.

Nick smiles. Perfectly calm and studied he says.

"Take it easy for a minute, Lonny." Lonny is fascinated by Nick's relaxed demeanor. He obeys his master without uttering a single word.

Lonny stands in rapt attention, jack handle dangling at his side. Nick explores the space between the door and frame with his fingertips. As soon as his fingers reach down level with his knees, his face breaks into a smile.

"Here's alarm pin number one, kid." Nick goes back to his examination without waiting for a reply from his apprentice. With his hand up level with his forehead, he remarks. "And here's alarm pin number two."

Nick nods and smiles. He has every reason to be pleased with his handiwork. Lonny stands open mouthed, fascinated by the very presence of his tutor. Working in haste, Nick splits the tape on the back of his hand into two pieces. The purposeful sound of the ripping tape thrills Lonny right to the bone!

Nick reaches into the crack with the tape. He smoothes and presses it into place, the first piece down at his knees, the second, up level with his forehead. The sticky tape secures the alarm pins in the off and ready position, against the moment when he and Lonny will defeat the lock bolt, with the agency of the jack and the two by four.

"O. K., Lonny." Says Nick to his intern, "Let's get inside."

Lonny has his role all figured out. At Nick's remark, Lonny goes back to the delicate task of turning the jack handle. Both men watch as the scissors shaped device inches along.

The men stand poised on the balls of their feet. They make ready to break out in a run at the sound of either a building alarm from within, or, alternatively, the noise of a patrol car siren from without. Soon, the alley door to the properties building swings part way open.

Nick pushes the metal sheathed wood door wide open on its rusted hinges. He leans over the threshold and peers inside the dark shadowy interior of the building. Nick shines his flashlight through the doorway. The gloomy interior makes him feel welcome and comfortable. He turns towards his younger accomplice and says.

"Ease the jack off. I want the door closed behind us while we look around inside."

Lonny complies with Nick's order. A moment later, the two men pass through the doorway and into the Fairfax County stolen properties building.

Lonny drops the jack and the two by four on the floor at the side of the door. After his eyes accommodate to the darkness, Lonny makes a careful survey of the wide-open spaces of the former factory building.

Moon light from the windows and a skylight in the roof give shadowy form to the objects arranged on the floor. Lonny turns this way and that. He sees dozens of bicycles, television sets beyond counting, a stack of video cassette players, small appliances, and the like. He remarks wryly.

"No wonder they lock this place up like a grocery store. There's nothing here!"

Nick bites his lower lip at Lonnie's observation. Along with Lonny he worries they have been mislead by the seemingly helpful officers who took their phone calls yesterday morning. Maybe the police were on to their theatrics with Nick's scanner radio! Maybe they are in a trap! Turning, Nick sees a brick wall and wide doorway, separating the back half of the warehouse from the front. He says.

"Let's take a look up front."

The two men walk single file towards the street side part of the large rectangular building. Nick leads the way, flashlight in hand. Once through the doorway, Nick comes to a halt. His eyes light on a large box like object in the center of the room. Mister Castelli shuffles forward. He circles sideways around a twenty-foot square cage. The security cage built on a framework of two by fours, and covered by a chain link fence. Nick and Lonny look up. The chain link extends from the floor all the way upwards to a point some eight feet high up in the air.

Nick and Lonny prowl around the cage. They explore, probe, and hunt for a weak point. Both men come to a halt at the front door to the cage. Nick aims his flashlight. In the light of the flashlight they see yet another deadbolt lock holding them at bay. Keeping them distant from the contents of the cage. Nick and Lonny peer past the links and into the heap of stuff inside the cage. They stick their fingers in through the weave of the wire chain link.

Nick points his flashlight. The two men see an old wooden desk, with wire baskets and a phone resting on the top. There is a row of shotguns and rifles in a rack behind the desk and to the left. Each weapon has a manila inventory tag tied to its trigger guard. Each gun sits butt down on the concrete floor. The muzzles and front sights of the weapons rest against the chain links of the fence.

The two men turn their heads to the right hand side of the desk. In a cautious voice, Lonny queries. "Do you see what I see?" Nick aims the beam of his flashlight.

"Briefcases?" Nick replies. Then he nods. Lonny counts out-loud.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight."

Nick tugs down on the brim of his fedora. He nods and says. "Could be us, all right."

Lonny turns to face Nick. Nick pulls his fingertips out from the chain links on the fence. He turns to face Lonny. Looking up a little, Lonny says to Nick.

"Gimme a hand hold."

Nick nods once again. He stuffs his flashlight into his front pants pocket. Then he interlaces his fingers, palms up, at his waist. Lonny grabs the chain link fence as high up as he can reach. He puts the tip of his left foot on the top of Nick's hands. Nick pulls back on his shoulders. Going stiff. Lonny vaults up and out of Nick's hands. He scrambles and grunts with the effort of climbing a wire fence wall.

Soon Lonny leans at his waist over the top of the security cage. He pauses for just a moment to catch his breath. Then he throws his right leg over the two by four capping the top of the cage. A few moments later, and he is down on the concrete on the inside of the cage. Breathing heavily, trembling a little, but very, very, pleased with his athletic abilities.

"Don't get your prints on anything." Reminds Nick to Lonny.

"Yah, Nick." Answers Lonny, without turning around.

Mister Makowski stands with his hands on his hips in front of the neat row of eight briefcases. Nick shines his flashlight onto the briefcases. Lonny bites his lower lip. Then, in a flash, Lonny realizes the briefcases are identical, in groups of fours. Grinning now, eyes bright, nearly laughing, he hefts one of the cases onto the top of the old wooden desk in the center of the cage.

Luck is with Nick's protégé this morning! The case is unlocked. Lonny works the latches on the suitcase with shaking fingers. He opens the lid full wide.

"Here's the dope, Nick!" Says Lonny in a charged up voice made husky by a rush of adrenaline.

Mister Castelli sighs and smiles. Nick beams at Lonny through the chain link, like a father watching his son at little league batting practice. Nick decides it is best not to sound too proud.

"Don't take all day in there, kid."

Lonny closes and then fastens the briefcase in one smooth motion. He hurries it to the point opposite to where Nick stands, hands on hips, on the other side of the fence.

"Here comes!" says Lonny to Nick. Without another word, Lonny slides the briefcase up and over the two by four cap, running along the top perimeter of the cage. Nick sees Lonny use the kind of arm and shoulder motion basketball players call upon to sink shots from a half court away from the hoop.

The cocaine filled briefcase wobbles for a moment on the slippery surface of the two by four on the top of the cage. Finally, it falls forward, avalanche style, into Nick's waiting and eager hands.

Nick nearly drops the briefcase to the concrete floor of the stolen properties locker. He was not ready for the weight of a suitcase filled with kilogram packages of pure cocaine. Nick recovers his balance as his mind fills with the thought of the street value of the cocaine. He finds a grip on the handhold of the briefcase. Ever so slowly, he lowers the case to the floor. With the briefcase secure at his side, Nick leans into the chain link fence to speak a few words of advice to Lonny.

"We ain't got time to check all the cases. But make sure one of them has our cash, understand?"

Nick's remark brings Lonny to a halt. The young man is a little uncertain of the point Nick is trying to make. For a moment, the apprentice burglar lurking inside the cage glances back and forth at the two different styles of briefcases. He sees three cases in one style and four cases in another style.

Lonny reaches down into the row of the four remaining look alike cases. He hefts a second case onto the top of the old wooden desk.

Once again, he has only to work the latches on the case. The lid flies wide open! Lonny looks up at Nick through the chain link. There is a manic grin on his face. Lonny exclaims.

"It's gotta be us Nick! All twenties and fifties!"

Nick lets all the air out of his lungs. The older man scratches his chin and says.

"Yah, yah, yah. Let's get the show on the road, already! Hurry it up, Lonny!"

Lonnie's blush of pride and self-satisfaction goes undimmed by Nick's cold-water splash remark. He slams the lid shut on the case with vigor and with boyish enthusiasm. Soon all eight briefcases stand in an irregular circle at Nick's feet. A few moments later, amidst a chorus of grunts and groans, Lonny drops to the floor at his mentor's side.

Nick turns away from Lonny in a hurried motion. No time for a pat on the back! He bends at the knees and lifts two of the cases off the floor by their handles. Mister Castelli rushes towards the back door like a commuter running for his train. Lonny pitches in. Soon the two men have all eight briefcases lined up in a neat little row, right next to the rear door of the police stolen property locker. Mister Castelli stands eye to eye with Lonny just inside the threshold. Nick explains.

"I'm gonna back up the car. Have your hands filled when I pop the trunk, O. K.?"

Lonny stares at Nick with his mouth half open. There is a look of unrestrained hero worship spread across his face. Lonny shakes his head back and forth, he remarks once again.

"Normal people don't even have ideas like you do, Nick."

Lonny tosses all eight cases of drugs and money into the trunk of Nick's Impala while Nick sits behind the wheel. In spite of the urgency of their situation, Lonny holds a clear head. He remembers the scissors jack and the two by four. These are the last two items into the trunk.

A few moments later Nick and Lonny drive out of the alley and onto the boulevard. The sun comes full up in the windshield of the pale blue Impala as Nick wheels his pride and joy across the Potomac River from the Virginia to the Maryland side. Nick's eyes twist up into a tight squint from the bright ball of light burning in his face. He reaches up and pulls down on his sun visor. Lonny is fast asleep, slumped heavily in his seat on the passenger's side of the baby blue Chevrolet Impala.

Scene 44 Targioni Barberini Has A Three-Car Garage

Location: Barberini residence, Elysian Field Estates, Philadelphia Pennsylvania

Nicholas J. Castelli exits the **476** by pass. He drives southeast through Plymouth Meeting and on into Lafayette Hill. On Manor Road, he makes a right hand turn into a brand new subdivision, Elysian Fields Estates. One of the newest and most exclusive suburban areas of the city of Philadelphia. By covenant contract, each home in the community has to be built on a full one-acre plot. Among other restraints and clauses, each single-family domicile has to have at least three bedrooms.

Home construction in the sub-division began just five years previously. As a result, it is a bit too early for full-grown trees. Instead, the spacious yards are dotted with young seedlings, running to five or six feet in height. Most of the delicate saplings have landscaper's foil wrapped around their slender trunks. Tree surgeons staked some of the seedlings into the ground on wire cables.

Mr. and Mrs. Targioni Barberini reside in a three-bedroom mock Tudor style home, with an attached three-car garage. Their home sits on a quiet cul de sac street, named Bayberry Lane by the developers. At the moment of Nick's arrival, two cars sit parked in tandem on the side edge of the driveway leading up and into Targioni 'Bulls Eye' Barberini 's garage. The car most near the garage door is a Ford Crown Victoria. Four doors, black with a red vinyl interior. Not very far behind the Ford, sits a Datsun 510 station wagon. Light tan, with a matching interior.

Nick drives his baby blue Impala onto the concrete apron leading to the Barberini family garage. Mister Castelli brakes to a stop with his hood ornament just a few feet short of the door. There is no one in sight, so Nick taps lightly on his horn ring. Seconds later, the long wide and white painted garage door starts rolling upwards. Nick grabs Lonny by his left shoulder and shakes him awake.

While Nick and Lonny watch through the windshield, three pairs of expensive Italian leather shoes come into view. As the lower edge of the garage door moves higher and higher. The shoes gradually morph into the adult male forms of: Targioni Barberini, Mister Irving Shusterman, J.D., and, Shusterman's over eager legal assistant, Eric Bond.

Mister Targioni Barberini waves a hand at Nick in hello. Mister Castelli moves his foot from the brake to the gas. He pilots his four-door Chevrolet into the darkness of the garage. Nick straddles two of the three parking spaces with the bulk of his Impala. The third slot filled by a familiar looking white Cadillac Eldorado. This car, Mister Shusterman's ride for the day, is personal transportation for Mister Shusterman's elegant wife, Deborah.

Mister Castelli nods and smiles at Targioni Barberini through his windshield. Next, Nick turns his ignition key to the off position. While the engine dies down, Barberini works the switch and lowers the garage door back to the concrete. Just as the garage door closes, Nick opens the trunk to his Impala. Lonny stands groggy at his right hand side.

With two brief cases, one in each of their hands, Nick and Lonny stride to a long carpenter's workbench running the full length of the wall opposite the electric door. The bench is easily four feet wide. It sports separate wood and pipe vices attached to the front edge, on heavy four-inch stove bolts. Above the sturdy bench Nick and Lonny see three sheets of unpainted pegboard screwed into the wall. The pegboard festooned randomly with dozens of shiny metal U shaped hooks. The hooks bearing the weight of tools including, hammers, screwdrivers, wood saws, planes, a carpenter's level, tee square, and the like. Nick feels welcome and at home. Don Barberini's garage is set up a lot like his basement.

Nick walks to the bench. He studies the expressions on the faces of Barberini, Shusterman, and Bond. Barberini looks, as always, stolid and pensive. Nick guesses, rightly so, Barberini sees the return of the gang's money as nothing less than proper compensation for Jimmy the Bartender's death. Barberini would be more concerned with the gang's image in the criminal community at large, rather than the gross amount of monies and drugs realized in Nick's most recent venture. 'Bull's Eye' likes it Nick has evened the score with the up and coming Hispanics, much more so than either Irving Shusterman or Eric Bond.

Mister Irving Shusterman's expression mixes curiosity and satisfaction in equal measure. There is nearly a smile on the wealthy attorney's face. Shusterman stands wondering about the particulars of Nick's latest venture. How do you steal a million odd dollars and a like value of cocaine from a police evidence locker? How do you go about doing it? Irv shakes his head in disbelief while Nick and Lonny toss their first four briefcases onto the workbench. There is no thought in his mind about things like one gang revenging themselves on another gang. His thoughts are on practical matters like cash flow.

Of the three men in the Barberini party, Eric Bond displays the most emotion. Eric's face reveals a mix of suspicion and impatience while he stares at Nick. Moreover, when he turns from Nick to Lonny, Eric's eyes shine with contempt. The first year law student sees himself far above any man of his own age who makes a living using his hands.

Even though Eric's income in Mister Shusterman's employ, is no more than that garnered by Lonny mopping out drugstores for SUPERIOR FLOORS.

Nick slaps Lonny on the back of his left hand while the two of them lean into the trunk of the Impala for the second time. "What did I do?" mutters Lonny to Nick. Lonny twists around to come eye to eye with Nick. Nick remarks curtly.

"Leave one of em."

Lonny takes his hand off one of the two cases within his grasp. He looks at Nick, mouth half-open, head cocked. Lonny blinks. Finally, Nick's intentions are crystal-clear! The young apprentice smiles up at his master.

On the second and last trip to the carpenter's, work bench. Nick turns his head towards Mister Shusterman. Both his shoulder's slumped and strained by his two handed burden of briefcases filled with cocaine. Nicholas J. Castelli nods an insider's nod at the attorney. Nick explains.

"It was just sitting there, Mister Shusterman. All lined up in a row."

Mister Irving Shusterman, J.D., stands perfectly still while he absorbs Nick's remark. With years and years of criminal law behind him, he really does not want to know anything more. The attorney shakes his head and glares at Nick. He mutters. "Don't make me an accessory after the fact."

Eric Bond in sharp contrast to his mentor, Irving Shusterman, simply cannot not rein in his enthusiasm. Nick and Lonny heft the last three briefcases onto the workbench. Eric smiles at their backsides.

Eric shakes his head in amazement at Nick and Lonny. "How did you even find it?"

Lonny turns full around at Eric's words. From the grin on Lonnie's face, it is obvious he is savoring the moment. Lonny says to Eric.

"It's the back ground music what does it, kid. The back ground music."

Eric's face goes blank at Lonnie's obscure, insider's remark. Nick laughs a little, his chest heaves at the joke Lonny makes at Eric's expense. Nick works the latches on one of the briefcases. Nick twists his head towards Eric. He adds.

"College is just for books, Eric. This stuff here is the real world."

Eric looks miffed. He holds to his mark on the concrete floor of the three-car garage. While Eric stands there, glued to the cement floor of the garage. Irv Shusterman moves towards the workbench, with Targioni Barberini close behind. What does a million dollars in cash and an equivalent value of pure cocaine look like? As soon as the lids of the seven briefcases are full open, five pairs of eyes go just as wide.

Irv Shusterman paces anxiously up and back behind Lonny and Nick. He peers into the briefcases with a sideways glance. The Philadelphia attorney sees four cases filled with brick shaped packages of white glowing powder. The powder double wrapped in sheets of sturdy and transparent cellophane. In addition to the deadly drugs, three briefcases just as full, with banded stacks of paper currency. The cash mostly twenty-dollar bill denominations, but here and there, a wad of fifties protrudes from out of the heap.

Finally, Irv strides past Nick and Lonny and right on up to the last open briefcase in the neat row of seven. The attorney pulls a fresh handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his suit coat. Mister Shusterman covers his hand and fingertips in the expensive silk.

Then he picks up a manila tag, the tag about the size of a playing card, tied firm to the briefcase handle on a double length of string. Mister Shusterman holds the tag up to his eyes. The attorney of record for the Mustalaro construction company reads aloud:

"FAIRFAX COUNTY EVIDENCE LOCKER." Then on lines drawn beneath, someone scribbled in a date and time with a ballpoint pen. A "Case number, FC: 257138." Moreover, a designator, "1 / 4". Followed by the initials:" A. H. D.".

Mister Irving Shusterman, JD, twirls the tag for a moment. In the main, he is perfectly pleased with Nick and Lonnie's efforts on behalf of the gang. Past the other men in the garage, Irv ponders on the maze of annoying and time-consuming hearings, which lay before him in the immediate future. Mister Shusterman shakes his head, he frowns, and remarks.

"It's a shame you couldn't get to it sooner. Like before it was tagged and printed."

Nick Castelli and Targioni Barberini nod at the wisdom and prudence behind Mister Shusterman's remark. The attorney is exactly right.

A more timely retrieval would have left the Philadelphia police and prosecuting attorney's with a lot less physical evidence to build a case against the soldiers in the Mustalaro crime family.

Just then, Eric Bond moves up and into the group. For a moment, he swings his head from left to right while he counts the open briefcases on the table.

Four cases filled with drugs, just three cases stuffed with cash! First year Law Student Eric Bond turns to cross-examine Lonny and Nick. Eric throws down a glove while standing a short distance in front of his attorney boss and Don Barberini.

"You guys are a little light? Aren't you?"

All heads turn towards Nick. Nick is ready. Castelli goes eye-to-eye with Irv Shusterman. Nick waves his hands and states.

"Did I just double your money here? Or did I double your money?"

Nick's eyes move from Shusterman to Bond. Mister Castelli sees a predatory gleam in Mister Bond's eyes. Nick knows he can ignore the look on the law student's face. He quickly turns back towards Shusterman. The attorney has a non-committal expression on his face. Barberini? Well, the Don looks puzzled. Something is going on. He cannot figure out Nick's agenda. Nick stands square with Targioni while he explains his plan of action.

"This only half settles the score. The Mexicans gotta be taught a lesson."

Nick's menacing words make Irv Shusterman shudder. The attorney leans back slightly. He pulls himself out of the conversation. The attorney does not want to know anything at all about Nick's plans for revenge. In Shusterman's mind, it is bad enough the cash and cocaine will soon be in the trunk of his wife's Eldorado! Shusterman stuffs his handkerchief back into his suit coat breast pocket. He looks over at Barberini.

Don Targioni Barberini, in contrast to Mister Shusterman, breaks out into a wide smile. His heart fills with pride while Nick speaks of his duties and sacred obligations to the Mustalaro crime family. Nick has made an 'old country' kind of a remark. 'Bull's Eye' Barberini is an 'old country' kind of a man. Barberini nods and says.

"It's the right thing, Nick." Barberini's tone is avuncular, yet still hoarse from chain smoking and whiskey.

Irv Shusterman nods in agreement with the Don's observation. If Don Targioni Barberini is satisfied with Mister Castelli's agenda, Mister Irving Shusterman is satisfied with Mister Castelli's agenda.

Still, Mister Shusterman feels uncomfortable. It is time to change the subject. He wants to be out of the garage before Castelli draws up a set of scale plans. Irv glances down at his stainless steel Rolex wristwatch, his leisurewear and on the golf course timepiece.

Next, he digs into his pants pocket for a set of car keys. Mister Shusterman tosses the keys at Eric Bond. When Eric catches the keys, Mister Shusterman says.

"Get the cash and drugs in the trunk. Sixty Minutes is on tonight."

Nick and Lonny grin from ear to ear. It pleases them to hear Shusterman talking down to that punk kid Eric. The young law student glances at Nick and Lonny. He knows what is on their mind. He also knows he has to obey Mister Shusterman.

Eric moves back and forth from the workbench to the trunk of the white Cadillac Eldorado with the briefcases in his hands. He does his best to avoid making eye contact with Nick and Lonny. Finally, with the third and last briefcase of cash and the fourth briefcase of cocaine, snug on the upholstered floor of the trunk, Eric slams the lid shut.

Eric stands there with a sheepish expression on his face. Eric forgets himself. His gaze comes to rest on Lonny Makowski. Lonny stands with both his arms folded over one another at chest height. The two men are a study in contrasts. Eric has a razor cut hairdo. He wears a freshly starched and well-tailored button down shirt and penny loafers. Lonnie's hair is all messed up and he needs a shave. He is dressed in a sweat stained t-shirt and has six inch working man's boots on his feet. Mister Makowski juts his chin in Eric's direction. Lonny says.

"The background music is what does it, Eric."

Eric blushes a deep deep shade of red. Nick and 'Bulls Eye' break out in roaring peals of laughter. Mister Shusterman smiles while he looks around at other the men in the garage.

CHAPTER FIVE: ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL WITH DON NAYARI

Scene 45 Mapping Out Campaign Strategies

Location: Offices of Gonzalo Rincon & Associates, Bogota Columbia

The white marble facade of the Colpatria skyscraper office building would be visible from the street level interior windows of Gonzalo Rincon's public relations office. Would be, if the view was not blocked by the numerous tall office buildings, on the opposite side of the broad avenida, in this, the downtown section of Bogota, Columbia.

The way things are right now, Mister Rincon, his associates and his employees, have to content themselves with smartly dressed pedestrian traffic to serve as visual punctuation to their daily labors. Next year, maybe, if Don Nayari wins the election for the Cundinamarca senate seat, things might be different. Offices in the same building as today, but ten or fifteen stories higher up in the air, and with a more expansive and scenic view of the vibrant metropolis below.

Don Alberto Enrique Nayari cannot help but admire his wife's attractive appearance, in the reflections from the plate glass windows at the front of Gonzalo Rincon's business office. In particular, he smiles with pride at her smartly tailored linen suit, in a chocolate shade of brown. And the loose curls of beautiful blond hair resting on the collar of her suit coat, her matching shoes and purse, and her flattering dark brown hose.

Truth be told, Dona Angelina responds in the same romantic way to her husband's image in the glass. After all these years she is still attracted to his expensively tailored light wool black suit, his wing tipped leather shoes, hand crafted in England, and his nearly full head of thick and wavy black hair. Never mind the trace of grey at his temples. After more than twenty years of marriage, whatever the struggles in their relationship, both in present times and in the past, Don and Dona Nayari still define romance and style. They always turn heads in their direction.

The Nayari's make their way through the revolving doors and into the lobby of the high rise building, home to Gonzalo Rincon and Associates. A few more paces and they stand at the outer door to Mister Rincon's public relations firm. With one hand, Alberto Nayari holds the glass door to Mister Rincon's offices wide open for his lovely wife Angelina. With his other hand he juggles his cell phone. Once inside the office, the gentle and studied sounds of piped in music replaces the bustling noises from the street.

Alberto and Angelina stride a few paces into the office. They find a pretty young receptionist seated at a desk. In addition to a set of in and out baskets and a Rolodex, her desk sports an expensive radio with powerful speakers. The Don and Dona turn to their left. They are still a little nervous from the rush hour traffic and their struggle to find a parking space. The receptionist looks up and smiles.

"Senor Rincon has been expecting you. Don Nayari. Please."

Says the young woman. Then she waves her hand back towards a collection of four desks at the rear of the suite.

Angelina smoothes her suit coat with light feminine motions of her fingertips at the warm welcoming words from the receptionist. Her husband Alberto nods and says simply.

"Thank you."

Gonzalo Rincon catches sight of his most distinguished clients. He rises from the chair behind his desk. There is a wide and sincere smile on his face. His hand is outstretched. Gonzalo strides rapidly towards the Don and his wife. The two men shake hands. Mister Rincon leads the fashion plate couple back to his desk. Then, Don Alberto makes introductions.

"Mister Todd Hunter. Village Voice reporter in New York City. Miss Robin Jovellanos. Journalism major at the National University. And intern - reporter for El Tiempo. ..... Mister Hunter, Miss Jovellanos, My lovely wife, Angelina."

"Very pleased to meet the both of you." Says Dona Angelina Nayari while shaking hands with both of her admirers. Todd Hunter and Robin Jovellanos nod and smile. They feel honored to be in the presence of the former North American high fashion model. The glamorous blue eyed blonde who made the nation of Colombia her adopted home. For the sake of the man she loves, and her dedication to the cause of social reform.

With the introductions complete, the party of four takes seats on a random arrangement of chrome and leather chairs. The chairs scattered between four desks. The working area of Senor Rincon's fledgling public relations firm.

Gonzalo Rincon glances back and forth between Don Alberto and his wife. Mister Rincon sees the wealthy couple is poised and ready. There is no need for a preliminary round of small talk. Straight away, Gonzalo launches in on a progress report.

"The radio piece on Sutatenza went well. Especially when you consider it was something of a trial run. Father Tarqui tells me the letters and phone calls were mostly favorable."

Alberto and Angelina glance at one another. There are uneasy smiles on both of their faces. In a light, somewhat tentative voice, Angelina asks,

"Mostly favorable?"

At this remark, Senor Rincon looks down and away. His eyes blink while he searches for words with the tip of his tongue behind his teeth. A little bit halting, he waves a hand and says.

"It's point six of the six point program. The idea of taxing drugs. Perfectly sensible, perhaps. Nevertheless, viewed by some as radical."

The room grows quiet. What shall we do? Alberto Nayari leans in the direction of Gonzalo Rincon. He curls his lips and says.

"I'm trying to get my people back into church!" Dona Angelina nods and adds,

"People have to walk away from drugs as a matter of personal principle. Jail solves nothing."

Everyone in Gonzalo's circle nods. Todd Hunter, Village Voice Feature Reporter, is the next to speak.

"You may be moving along too fast. Perhaps you need to start with a catchy phrase. Something like- "Just Say No." Then maybe a media campaign."

Everyone in the group smiles at Todd's remark. Gonzalo reaches behind his back to the top of his desk to retrieve a copy of the conservative newspaper **EL SIGLO**. He holds the front page of the paper up to view. Senor Rincon turns the paper around and reads.

" _Don Nayari is best seen by the voting public as a social engineer, if not a visionary. That drugs could be subject to taxation is a remark to be expected from a man. Who has spent his whole life as a member of the catorce grande."_

Senor Rincon's voice trails away as he finishes the quote from the editorial. While he turns to place the newspaper back onto the top of his cluttered desk, Todd Hunter's voice rises up in curiosity.

"Catorce grande?" Dona Nayari explains the cliché to the young man fresh from New York City.

"Catorce Grande means fourteen wealthiest families, Mister Hunter. In the states you would say - 'social register'. And mean the same thing."

Todd Hunter nods, eye-to-eye with Don Alberto's wife. Then he looks down towards his lap and scribbles some remarks onto his pad of paper. In the silence following, Alberto Nayari sighs. Then he remarks.

"EL SIGLO wrote about my father the same way. Any excuse to criticize. Anything at all."

Robin Jovellanos glances about the room. She sees worried looks on everyone's faces. Robin decides it is time to lighten up the conversation. Quite to the point, she observes.

"Don Ilobasco and his wife are colorless. The more time you two spend in public. The more people will warm to the both of you."

Gonzalo Rincon finds Robin's remark delightful and filled with insight. With an optimistic smile on his face, he adds.

"Quite correct! The Ilobasco's bore the public. While you two are fascinating!"

As Gonzalo's words rise up into the air, an impish smile grows on Todd Hunter's face. With twinkling eyes, he says.

"Is there a metaphor here to the Kennedy's and the Nixon's?"

Everyone in the group is near to laughter. A little bit sheepish now, the billionaire Colombian businessman puts his stoical mask off to the side for just a moment. Alberto Nayari parodies himself. Eye to eye with Angelina, he jokes.

"Yes! But please, no makeup for me during the television debates! One actress in the family is enough!"

Gonzalo Rincon, Robin Jovellanos, Todd Hunter, and Alberto Nayari, laugh lightly. Angelina blushes. Then she covers her lips with her fingertips.

For a long moment, the five friends sit in pleasant company. Soon it occurs to Senor Rincon Don Nayari lives a tightly scheduled life. He takes in just as many business appointments as humanly possible, on each working day of the week.

The public relations expert rises to his feet. He strides to a long bank of filing cabinets on the right hand side of the office. Gonzalo returns to his seat. He passes a sheet of paper into Don Nayari's waiting hands.

The sheet covered with two columns of numbers, dates, and places.

"We have to see how comfortable this is." Says Senor Rincon to Don Nayari in a deferential voice. "I would like to try three public appearances a week. With your approval, of course, Don Nayari."

While Senor Rincon posits, Don Nayari glances down at the long list of speaking engagements, cocktail parties, receptions, meetings, and the like. At the fourth entry on the list, his brow knits up. He looks up into Senor Rincon's eyes, and asks.

"Why Los Panches? It's not even in the Cundinamarca district."

Gonzalo Rincon nods and smiles at the question. The Don has given him an opening. He has a chance to prove the worth of his training and experience in the craft of public relations. Gonzalo leans back a little ways in his upholstered chair. With a smile and a light wave of the hand, he explains.

"No. It's not. But it is close to Panama!"

Senor Rincon savors the moment. There is a gleam in his eye. He enjoys the puzzled looks on the faces of each and every one of his guests. Finally, he says.

"A great many people want union with the republic of Panama. As before 1903. Any identification you and your wife can draw with Panama. Anything at all. Will bring us the swing vote."

Senor Rincon nods his head and folds his arms over his chest. He glances about. Nodding, smiling, and with a raised eyebrow. There is no doubt whatsoever about his mood. The plump Public Relations expert is quite obviously pleased with himself.

Don Alberto, Dona Angelina, Todd Hunter, and Robin Jovellanos, sit perfectly still. There are thoughtful expressions on their faces.

Robin hesitates for a moment, her beautiful mouth halfway open. She takes Senor Rincon's idea just a little bit further. Miss Jovellanos looks directly into Angelina's eyes, brown on blue. Robin suggests.

"Perhaps you and your husband should wear Ruana's." On Robin's remark, Gonzalo turns his head towards Todd Hunter. He finds another blank look on the young man's otherwise earnest face. Gonzalo patiently says to Todd,

"A Ruana is like a blanket or a parka. The college students wear them. Over expensive hiking boots they buy from Eddie Bauer's to look like peasant farmers."

As if on cue, the cell phone in Don Nayari's left hand starts to ring. Alberto brings the sleek black handset up tight against his ear. Don Alberto nods briefly. Then he speaks into the mouthpiece.

"In about twenty minutes. My wife needs the car. Yes. Thank you."

Todd Hunter lets the air out of his lungs while he ponders. The Village Voice Reporter sits there with his left arm across his waist and his right fist along the side of his face. Todd taps his cheekbone with his knuckles. In the pregnant silence following the Don's phone call, he says.

"There just might be enough here for **SIXTY MINUTES**. Just might be."

Everyone in the group exchanges optimistic glances. Todd's remark seems a perfect end to the conversation. His words might not add up to a workable idea. Why on earth would the people of the United States have an interest in the politics of Colombia? Yet they find Todd's comment uplifting.

Alberto Enrique Nayari rises to his feet. He folds his copy of the neatly typed agenda into thirds, and then tucks the sheet into the inside pocket of his suit coat. The Don glances down at his watch. Last, he holds his hand out to his still seated wife, Dona Angelina Nayari.

It is time to leave. There are things Alberto needs to attend to at his downtown office. His wife has to have the car for a shopping trip.

Scene 46 Cherise Di Lorianne Looks In On Her Mom

Location: Running Deer trailer park near Oklahoma City Oklahoma

Outside, standing in the hospital parking lot, Ali Leon and Cherise Di Lorianne decide upon a two door Buick Electra as their personal means of transportation. Mister Leon waits patiently for Miss Di Lorianne to fasten her seat belt and shoulder harness. Then Ali brings the engine of the car to life with one of the sets of car keys, stolen from the lockers in the surgeon's lounge of the Richmond General Hospital. Ali has the presence of mind to leave nothing behind at the scene. Just before they depart, he places the wheelchair and Cherise's operating room gown, masks, and hairnets, into the spacious trunk of their newfound vehicle.

Once on the interstate the two drive towards the southwest, leaving **95** some miles out of Richmond, and picking up on interstate **85**. Continuing on to the west, Ali takes interstate **40** just out of Knoxville, Tennessee. The couple's first intended destination, before Los Angeles, is Oklahoma City. However, once through Fort Smith Arkansas, Ali Leon detours to the northwest, to the city of Tulsa, Oklahoma. In a large apartment complex, Mister Leon steals two sets of license plates. From this point forward, his stolen vehicle appears to belong to one of two unsuspecting residents of the Sooner State.

From Tulsa, the two drive the distance to Oklahoma City on the interconnecting turnpike. Cherise takes temporary control of their situation when they arrive at the outskirts of the city. On her directions, Ali exits the Turner Turnpike east onto N. E. 108th Street. A short distance past N. Midwest Boulevard, Cherise Di Lorianne breaks out into a smile. The aspiring actress waves her hands in the air in her excitement.

"That's it! That's it, Ali! Turn right here!"

Ali rolls the steering wheel on the long wide navy blue Buick all the way over to the right. He brings his car onto the main access road of the Running Deer Trailer Park Estates. A few more twists and turns under Cherise's lively direction, and they are driving down along Cherokee Lane. Ali pulls the Electra off the road at the fourth trailer on the right hand side. He turns the ignition key off with a flourish, and shifts the transmission lever into park. Cherise Di Lorianne is home. Twenty Two Forty Four Cherokee Lane.

The young couple alights from their stolen vehicle. Ali Leon's gaze falls on the box like shape of a two-bedroom mobile home. Peaked roof painted in a light shade of blue, once white paint on the siding, now weathered to a chalky shade of light grey.

Mister Leon sees two large air conditioning units. He hears their rattling and groaning fans and compressors. The first hangs out the dining room window. The second protrudes from the window of the second bedroom. These machines are both dripping water onto the neatly manicured lawn below.

Ali smiles as he watches Cherise skip up the four wooden steps to the entranceway of her mother's trailer. He admires the half dozen plastic pink flamingos standing guard, in a rough circle around the base of the steps. Interesting enough, the two flamingos in the front corners of the display, have wings that whirl like propellers, in the light breeze of this particular late Sunday afternoon.

Cherise opens the aluminum screen door at the top of the steps. Animated now, she raps on the wooden door behind the screen with her knuckles, while waving at Ali to follow her up the steps and inside. Soon the door opens full wide, revealing a middle-aged woman, with hair do and make up and facial features nearly identical to Cherise.

However, while the younger girl on the steps is dressed in jogging shoes, white wool socks, cut off Levi shorts in white, and a cotton tank top in red. The yawning woman with the bloodshot eyes and puffy cheeks, standing just inside the doorway, wears a waitress dress in light brown, dark brown piping at the edges, and a name tag reading: MADGE. Ali makes a mental note of the pink fluffy slippers Cherise's mother wears over her tan panty hose.

The woman in the doorway conceals a second yawn with her fist. The slender matron in the server's uniform scolds her daughter.

"You should a called first!"

Cherise ignores her mother's ire. She puts an arm around Madge's waist. Cherise turns back in Ali's direction. Cherise waves Ali up the four rough wooden steps, she says excitedly.

"Ali! This is my mother, Madge. Mom! This is Ali Leon!"

Ali climbs the steps without a moment's hesitation. Madge warmly shakes his hand. Then she turns quickly on the heels of her pink fluffy slippers, and shuffles back into the darkness of the trailer. A few weary and labored strides finds her at rest on a kitchen table chair. She takes a seat right in front of a lighted cigarette, sitting in an ashtray on the round kitchen table.

Madge fidgets with the hem of her uniform. She puffs on her cigarette. The middle age lady squints as errant wisps of smoke waft against her bloodshot eyes.

Cherise marches to the center of the living - dining space holding her boyfriend Ali by the hand. She hesitates. Would it be better to sit on the couch next to Ali or to take chairs at her mother's kitchen table? Just then, Madge puts her cigarette out in the circular glass ashtray. She looks up at her two young guests, and asks.

"Did you two eat yet?" Ali and Cherise exchange silent glances. Madge says.

"There's a bucket of chicken in the fridge. Does your friend here eat barbecue?"

Cherise pulls Ali the rest of the distance to the round kitchen table. While he takes a seat opposite Madge, Cherise rummages about in the refrigerator. Here she discovers a round cardboard bucket filled with fried chicken. Two bottles of diet soda and, a pint container of potato salad, nearly half-full. These items soon rest on the table before Ali.

Cherise walks to the built in cabinets above the kitchen sink with all the poise and grace of a lady in a television infomercial. She finds white china plates and a pair of pale blue drinking glasses. Moments later, Cherise has a handful of silver ware from the drying rack on the sink arranged into two neat place settings on the kitchen table.

Cherise lowers herself into the empty chair between her boyfriend Ali and her mother Madge. The young lady takes a few hungry bites from a barbecued chicken thigh. Then she buoyantly remarks.

"I finished acting school in Richmond, Ma. That's why we're going to Los Angeles! I'm an actress now, Ma!"

Cherise goes eye-to-eye with her mother. She holds her pose, even after she finishes speaking. Madge can think of nothing to say. She looks up at the clock above the sink. The electric timepiece is a red plastic affair, in the shape of a teakettle. The clock read a half past six. Madge brings her fist up to her mouth. She coughs a female version of a chain smoker's cough. Finally, she glances furtively between Ali and Cherise, and quietly says.

"Did you bring anything?"

Ali Leon's face remains impassive in spite of the implications of the older woman's inquiry. He keeps on working away at the potato salad on his plate with a fork, as if to say he does not hear the question.

Cherise, meanwhile, frowns and sighs. Then she puts the chicken thigh down onto her plate with a decisive motion. Cherise scolds her mother.

"I finished a twelve point program in Richmond, Ma. They have them here too, you know."

Madge glances back and forth between Ali and Cherise. There is no doubt in her mind- it is time to leave the subject of contraband substances behind. Time to move on to something less controversial. After a bit it dawns on Madge Ali is of Hispanic heritage. Madge remarks.

"That Mexican fella, Jose Conseco, plays baseball real good. We get the Oakland games here on cable. You know?"

Ali Leon swallows a chunk of chicken wing meat while he listens politely to Madge's friendly overture. He takes a sip from his glass of diet soda, and then says.

"Jose Conseco is from Cuba. I'm from Mexico."

Madge nods at Ali while she lights up yet another cigarette. After a few nervous puffs, she turns to Cherise and inquires. "What are you two gonna do in Los Angeles?"

Cherise's eyes go wide and bright at her dreams for the future. She replies.

"The whole thing's so exciting, Ma. I'm gonna get an agent. Try out for parts. Ali has a son out there. We're gonna get him back from his ex wife."

Just then, Madge's eyes come to rest on the top of Ali Leon's head. She sees two fresh bandages. Each bandage is a little smaller than a playing card. Each dressing is made out of white gauze under strips of wide adhesive tape. Madge studies the bandages on Ali's head for a long moment. She bites down on her lower lip and nods her head.

Next, Cherise's mother glances out the kitchen window. Here, through the blinds, she sees for the very first time a brand new Buick Electra. The upscale vehicle in which her daughter and companion arrived, less than a half hour earlier. Madge goes eye-to-eye with Cherise, bloodshot brown eyes on brown. Cherise's mom speaks in a quiet voice, filled with suspicion.

"Are they looking for that car out there?"

Cherise blushes deeply in response to her mother's much too personal question. Ali's face goes about as white as is possible for a native of Mexico City. Mister Leon glances back and forth between Madge and her daughter.

Cherise nods at Ali in encouragement, Mister Leon very calmly explains.

"I made an adjustment to the license plates in Tulsa."

Madge understands the full meaning of Ali's terse remark. Still, her expression remains wary. She blows a cloud of smoke into the space between Ali and Cherise. Then, in a guarded voice, she suggests.

"Maybe you ought a park it somewheres else."

Ali Leon shakes his head back and forth. With a forkful of potato salad halfway to his mouth, he adds.

"I always take two sets of plates. Nobody knows their plate number. They just notice if the plate is there or not."

Ali Leon chews on his potato salad surrounded by an air of quiet pride. His eyes beam behind his black framed glasses with their thick lenses. Cherise grins playfully at her mother. Madge's expression goes blank for a moment. Then, she starts blinking. Finally, Cherise speaks up in a little girl's voice, whispering, conspiratorial.

"We got a ton of credit cards, Ma. I can give you a couple hundred. When we leave tomorrow."

Madge puts her cigarette out in the ashtray on the kitchen table. She sits there stiff, mouth pursed tight and closed. Nevertheless, there is a look of relief around her haggard eyes. The woman in the light brown server's uniform glances back up at the clock hanging from a nail above the sink. Madge's voice is dry and thirsty from the want of the contents of a quart bottle of beer. She says.

"SIXTY MINUTES is coming on. Let's scoot on over to the couch."

With that remark, Madge pads to the refrigerator on her pink fluffy slippers. Soon she has a frosty quart bottle of beer in one hand, and her smokes and matches in the other. She shuffles on over to the living room couch. Madge plunks herself down on the cushions.

Cherise's mom picks the remote control up from its resting place on the end table next to the couch. She points the remote away from her like a wand. Although her hand is unsteady, still she manages to turn the television on, and then tune the machine to a network affiliate. Moments later Cherise takes the middle cushion on the couch. Ali Leon sits next to Cherise, at the far end of the couch from Madge.

Scene 47 Steve Crofts Interviews Chuck Burke Of The D.E.A.

Location: Sixty Minutes recording studio, New York City

Mister Steven Crofts sits behind the desk in his office. The spacious office is deep within the recesses of the Columbia Broadcasting System building, in downtown Manhattan. The seasoned **SIXTY MINUTES** reporter holds his hands neatly folded on the top of his green and leather desk blotter. There are gold framed pictures of his wife and his children on the desk at his left.

A small coffee can sits at his right hand. The coffee can holds an eclectic mix of pencils, pens, and a clear plastic twelve-inch ruler. The label on the can is obscure. A first grade student sent the can to Mister Crofts as a present. The first grader wrapped the outside of the metal container with colored yarn.

Mister Crofts is face to face- perhaps eye-to-eye would be the better cliché, with a large studio television camera. The CBS logo painted on both sides of the camera body. A camera operator stands just behind the camera. He looks relaxed and comfortably dressed in a white shirt and tan poplin trousers.

The cameraman's tasteful attire is set off by a lightweight ear speaker and microphone headset. A long black wire connects the headset to a battery-powered radio at the gentleman's waist. For as small as the radio appears, it has enough power to enable the camera operator to communicate with any Sixty Minutes Senior Producer. Any Senior Producer located anywhere at all in the same building.

A younger man hovers next to the camera operator. He looks tense and worried. Like a Junior Producer assigned to something a little bit past his level of experience. The producer holds a clipboard in his left hand. His right hand stands poised over the power switch of an electric teleprompter. The teleprompter looks vaguely like a kind of a flat screen television. It has a tripod underneath for mechanical support.

The relaxed and confident camera operator glances down at his wristwatch. Then shortly, he cocks his head to the right. As if to better listen to a set of instructions passing to him over his earphones. The white shirted cameraman bends forward at the waist. He peers into the viewfinder at the back of the massive camera. With a light, smooth swing to the left, Mister Croft's head, shoulders, and desktop soon come into sharp focus.

Just then, the red camera 'on' light lights up. In response - the junior producer standing to the left of the camera presses the power button on the top of the teleprompter. Mister Crofts blinks at the red light. He smiles warmly and starts reporting.

"Do you remember the high school science teacher you had as a freshman? You know. The guy who made you learn the order of the planets. First Mercury, then Venus, then the Earth and Mars. And so on. Do you recall his lectures on the weather? And that very special day. When he explained water goes down the drain clockwise up here in North America. But counter clockwise below the equator in South America."

"Well. That's the kind of a feature story we have for you tonight. It's a tale of ten murders. Over a million dollars in cocaine and the same amount in United States currency. But the identity of the true heroes and villains is just as vague and uncertain. As the undisputed facts, cocaine is a white powder, and dollar bills are crinkly and green."

"We thought to start off tonight. With the official North American version of the truth to this tale. So earlier this week I paid a visit to the Drug Enforcement Agency headquarters in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. There, in the federal building on Independence Boulevard. I had a talk with a Mister Charles L. Burke. A Chief Special Agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency."

A moment after Mister Crofts finishes his last sentence. The red light on top of the camera goes dark. Steve Crofts pauses for just a second. He glances over towards the teleprompter. When he sees the screen on this device is blank, Mister Crofts breathes a sigh of relief. He has nearly ten minutes of free time. While the men in the remote production center, roll the video tape from Wednesday last.

Mister Crofts leans back in his chair. At the same time a group of four producers stands in a rough circle in a far off room around a twenty-seven inch television screen, built into a wall. The set is part of a collection of like sized monitors and electronic instruments organic to the Sixty Minutes news production team.

Soon the screen comes to life in full color. The four producers see a man sitting at attention behind a large broad desk. The expensive desk located in one of those high up corner office suites. An office offering broad views through massive picture windows, speaking eloquently for power and authority, of the federal government kind.

The man behind the big desk wears a button down long sleeve shirt made of white pinpoint cotton. A fashion statement he adopted during his college years at the University of Maryland.

A red and navy rep stripe tie sets off the heavily starched shirt. The tie held down tight to his shirt by a tie clip. The clip in the shape of a hunting rifle equipped with a telescopic sight.

Charles L. Burke, 'Chuck Burke' to his intimates, is in his element. He sits there, relaxed and with his curled fists and slender forearms resting lightly on his desktop. There is a huge logo of the Drug Enforcement Agency hanging on the wall behind his desk.

Steve Crofts rests in the visitors chair in front of Mister Burke's desk. The reporter has a clipboard on his lap, and a studious expression on his face. Charles L. Burke grins from ear-to-ear while he goes eye-to-eye with the lens of the massive SIXTY MINUTES camera.

"That's actually why I asked to be transferred to Philadelphia." explains Burke to Crofts.

The real reason, of course, for Burke's transfer from Washington to Philadelphia rests with his efforts to 'rip' Andy Howell a dishonorable discharge from the Central Intelligence Agency. Burke was, he still is, the main actor in an underhanded smear campaign against Andy raising hackles all the way up and through the Senate Intelligence Committee. The truth is Mister Burke very nearly crashed and burned the annual budget of the D. E. A. on the desks of United States Senator's Newville and Blaney. As a result of his overzealous tactics.

Mister Burke needs no prompting from Mister Crofts. He continues to boast to his audience. To anyone who will listen. Either Mister Steve Crofts in the seat opposite his desk, or Mister and Mrs. United States of America, watching him through the lens of the Sixty Minutes camera.

"My Special Weapons and Tactics Team had the first successful encounter with the Leon gang of drug dealers at the Seneca Mall. Just to the north of Luckett's, Virginia. My men and I fought it out with the four of them. One of Leon's men died in the hostile exchange of gunfire. Then, some weeks later. Our intelligence people located them to an apartment in the Reston - Fairfax Community. We forced entry. And in the ensuing gun battle, two of Leon's men were fatally injured. Leon, himself wounded. And finally arrested on drug and weapons charges."

Chief Special Agent Charles L. 'Chuck' Burke bobs his head up and down as he finishes his narration. He clenches his fists. Steve Crofts, meanwhile, consults the clipboard on his lap.

After a few seconds of 'Chuck' glaring steel eyed into the camera lens, Mister Crofts inquires.

"Mister Burke. We've heard rumors of several sorts concerning this case. The first having to do with the possibility of a MAFIA connection. Would you care to expand on this for our viewers?"

At the phrase, 'MAFIA connection', Chief Special Agent Burke thrusts his lower jaw towards the camera. This is his 'bravery under fire' pose. Burke starts talking, this time in a lower voice, and with a confidential tone.

"Near as we can determine, Mister Crofts, Leon's crime spree started here in Philadelphia. Four men were killed in a parking lot shoot out. Something to do with a drugs for money exchange, right across the street from an Italian social club. All four of the decedents had arrest records."

"And the MAFIA tie in, Mister Burke?" Steve prompts Chuck.

Chuck Burke knits his brow. He squints for the sake of the camera while he deliberates on his choice of words. After a short but dramatic silence, he says.

"The organized crime task force here in Philadelphia has informed me that one of the decedents. A Mister Giuseppe Baldigiani. Had links to two of the larger crime families on the east coast. The Mustalaro's and the Cardano's."

Steve Crofts voice comes back polite but a little skeptical. He asks.

"What sort of evidence links this Mister Baldigiani to organized crime?"

Chief Special Agent Charles L. Burke taps idly with his right thumb on his regulation federal agency blotter, while he searches for just the right words. His reply to Steve's query is not long in coming.

"You know, Mister Crofts. Intelligence data is just as hard to measure as it is to dig out. Mostly it amounts to tips from informants, things like that. Sometimes it's a wire tap. Little pieces from here and there. You rarely get hard evidence like a fingerprint or a bloodstain. But it adds up when you can see the whole picture."

Chuck Burke breaks away from the camera. His gaze comes to rest on Mister Croft's impassive face. Burke interlaces the fingers of his hands, right thumb coming to rest on top of his left thumb. Then he says.

"Have I answered your question, Mister Crofts?"

With that, Chuck Burke turns quickly back towards the camera lens. He is ready now, to field the- 'hot ones'.

Steve Crofts responds to Chief Burke's theatrics by rolling the first sheet of paper on his clipboard up and over to the backside. After a quick glance at his notes on the second page, he queries.

"And the MAFIA in South America, Chief? The Colombian Drug Cartel Connection?"

Burke is exactly where he wants to be in the dialogue with the SIXTY MINUTES reporter. He lets the air out of his lungs. The Chief is relaxed now, fully confident, in control.

"That's where the evidence gets to names, dates, and places, Mister Crofts. Turns out that two of the decedents in the Leon gang were Colombian nationals. Brothers named Frankie and Tepo Nayari."

Burke pauses to heighten the dramatic effect of his words. The dead air time annoys Mister Crofts. He goads Burke with an interrogative.

"The Nayari family, Mister Burke?"

Chief Special Agent Charles L. Burke nods his head in an all-knowing fashion.

"There's rock solid evidence placing the father of the decedents in the Washington D. C. area. In the weeks between the death of his first son, Theodore. And his eldest son, Francesco. Rock Solid Evidence, Mister Crofts."

Steve Crofts is weary of playing the supporting role to 'Chuck' as the leading man. Yet, he has to ask his next question. Sadly, this interview is propelled by the rhetoric of a man whom the D. E. A. higher ups transferred from Washington to Philadelphia for erratic behavior, among other issues.

"Alberto Enrique Nayari, Chief Burke?"

"Yes, Mister Crofts!" Replies Mister Burke, in a decisive tone and with paramilitary bearing.

The Chief leans forward towards the camera lens.

"Mister Alberto Enrique Nayari. The father of the two decedents. Now at the head of a business empire in Bogota, Colombia. And grandson of Antonio Ramon Pacheco Masicales Nayari. The man who gave birth to the Nayari empire in the 1930's. Trafficking drugs to the States and Europe to the tune of millions and millions of dollars each year."

Mister Steve Crofts realizes in spite of Burkes over bearing manner, he is on to something with broad audience appeal. Steve leans forward towards the Chief with his mouth open part way. Unfortunately, just as he is about to challenge Chuck with a leading question. His producer makes a rapid whirling motion with his index finger, in the air right next to his head.

Steve Crofts frowns and then leans back in his chair. Mister Croft's takes a quick glance at his notes. Then he looks up into Chuck Burke's intense brown eyes. It is time to bring the interview to an end.

"And the Central Intelligence Agency, Chief Burke? Are they in the pipeline between Philadelphia, Washington, and Bogota?"

Chuck Burke's spine goes ramrod stiff at the mention of the C. I. A. He puts his hands palm down on the blotter on top of his desk. He replies.

"There are issues of national security here, Steve. I am not at liberty to comment!"

Mister Steven Crofts, feature reporter for the SIXTY MINUTES television news program, sits back in his chair. Smiling, relaxed. He is satisfied with the interview. While Steve rolls the sheets of his notes back to the front of his clipboard. The Sixty Minutes producer makes a swift motion across his throat with the tip of an index finger.

Good piece of television journalism! True, theatrical guests can be a little bit aggravating. But they are always more entertaining than those who, by nature and habit, are completely bland. " _Was it Morley Safer who explained this fact of life to him? Or Barbara Walters?"_ Steve Crofts bites his lower lip while he ruminates.

In Foxe's Book of Martyrs (epilogue) we read:

"And now to conclude, good Christian readers, this present tractation, not for the lack of matter, but to shorten rather the matter for largeness of the volume. In the meantime the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ work with thee, gentle reader, in all thy studious readings. And when thou hast faith, so employ thyself to read, that by reading thou mayest learn daily to know that which may profit thy soul, may teach thee experience, may arm thee with patience, and instruct thee in all spiritual knowledge more and more, to thy perfect comfort and salvation in Christ Jesus, our Lord, to whom be glory in secula seculorum. Amen."

John Foxe (1516 / 1517 -18 April 1587)

Page: 256 | www.jesus.org.uk/vault/library/foxes_book_of_martyrs.pdf

-The End-

Jeffrey W. Dejent

In association with

Appendix A Image Sources and Photographer Credits

**Marketing Cover /** **Internal Content Cover** / pixabay.com/en/city-569093 / by Life-Of-Pix 15 December 2014

**Dedication Image** Graffiti portrait of Father Oscar Romero (15 August 1917 - 24 March 1980) /commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:El_Salvador_killed_more_than_75.000.jpg

Spanish law on Graffiti art (1996) states: "Works permanently located in parks or on streets, squares or other public thoroughfares may be freely reproduced, distributed and communicated by painting, drawing, photography and audiovisual processes." Article 35.2 of the Royal Legislative Decree 1/1996 of 12 April 1996, amended by Law 5/1998 of 6 March 1998.

**Start Image** pixabay.com/en/cemetery-tombstone-mourning-61202/ Uploaded by Noir 18 October 2012

**Chapter 1** /commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hieronymus_Bosch_056.jpg Hieronymous Bosch (1450-1516) Detail from the painting Christ Carrying the Cross (1515-1516)

**Chapter 2 /** commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:CIA_New_HQ_Entrance.jpg Photograph of the new entrance way to the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency 22 September 2005

**Chapter 3** /en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?

title=File:Tga_bogota_0427-1hgbbatlantis_plaza3.jpg&oldid=483273617 The Atlantis Plaza in Bogota, Columbia, 15 January 2010

**Chapter 4 /** pixabay.com/en/philadelphia-olde-city-market-street-50839/ Photographer rConceptz 7 February 2012

**Chapter 5** /commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ernst_Josephson_003.jpg Oil painting by Ernst Josephson (1851-1906) The Spanish Smiths (1881)

**Dynamic Entry Productions, LLC logo** /pixabay.com/en/clock-time-face-yellow-64265/ Uploaded to Pixabay by geralt on 6 November 2012

Appendix B Image Permission Statements

ONE: Pixabay Creative Commons License

The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of his or her rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission. /pixabay.com

TWO: Flickr Creative Commons License Deed

**You are free: to Share -** to copy, distribute and transmit the work, **to Remix -** to adapt the work, to make commercial use of this work

**Under The Following Conditions: Attribution -** You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work). **Share Alike -** If you alter, transform, or build upon this work, you may distribute the resulting work only under the same or similar license to this one.

**Notice:** For any reuse or distribution, you must make clear to others the license terms of this work. The best way to do this is with a link to this web page.

THREE: Public Domain Pictures

This image is public domain. You may use this image for any purpose, including commercial.

FOUR: Wikimedia

Licensing This is a faithful photographic reproduction of an original two-dimensional work of art. The work of art itself is in the public domain for the following reason: This work is in the public domain in the United States and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less.

The official position taken by the Wikimedia Foundation is that "faithful reproductions of two-dimensional public domain works of art are public domain and that claims to the contrary represent an assault on the very concept of public domain". This photographic reproduction is therefore also considered to be in the public domain.

In similar fashion for the **Yorck Project** : The work of art depicted in this image and the reproduction thereof is in the Public Domain. commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:PD-Art (Yorck_Project)

FIVE: The DHS | FBI

DHS dot Gov is the official website of the Department of Homeland Security. It is a public domain website, so you can link to DHS.gov at no cost and without specific permission.

This image or file is a work of a Federal Bureau of Investigation employee, taken or made during the course of an employee's official duties. As a work of the U. S. federal government, the image is in the public domain.

SIX: United States Air Force

Quote from af.mil: "Information presented on Airforce Link is considered public information and may be distributed or copied. Use of appropriate byline photo image credits is requested."

"Picture prepared by ________ _________ in ______ ____. This image or file is a work of a U.S. Air Force Airman or employee, taken or made during the course of the person's official duties. As a work of the U.S. Federal government, the image or file is in the public domain." www.af.mil/photos/index.asp

To relocate an Air Force image add the file number to the end of this path: www.af.mil/shared/media/photodb/photos/123-456-789-.jpg

SEVEN: Department of Defense

At the Wikimedia website, we find the following: This work is in the **Public Domain** in the United States because it is a work prepared by an officer or employee of the United States Government as part of that persons official duties under the terms of Title 17 Chapter 1 Section 105 of the United States Code.

Further and deeper still the Department of Defense says:

USE OF DOD PERSONNEL AND MATERIEL IN ADVERTISING, MARKETING, OR PROMOTIONAL MATERIAL

Endorsement of a non-Federal entity, event, product, service or enterprise may be neither stated nor implied by DoD or DoD employees in their official capacities, including through use of their images. Additionally, titles, positions or organization names may not be used to suggest official endorsement or preferential treatment of any non-Federal entity, except in limited circumstances outlined in DoD Directive 5500.7 - R. In all cases, Military Service - specific insignia must be removed from advertising, marketing or promotional material.

The use of departmental of defense still and / or motion imagery that includes people who can be personally identified in the image is not authorized, unless the requestor contacts the person(s) and obtains written permission for the use of their identifiable image.

DoD materiel such as aircraft, missiles, ships, and other hardware cannot be used in any company marketing or advertising campaign, if they incorporate distinctive U. S. military markings and/or other features that would connote DoD endorsement of the campaign.

defenseimagery.mil/products/dodimagery/commercialuse.html

