The Money Game

a novel by

Michael A. Smith

THE MONEY GAME

Copyright © 2014 Michael A. Smith

All Rights Reserved

eISBN: 978-0-9861735-2-3

Published originally as Marginal
People

This
is a work of fiction.  All of the characters and events portrayed in this
novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.  No parts of this
book may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without prior
permission from the author.

Dedicated to my
Dad and Mom,

John and Jean

EPIGRAPHS

For
the love of money is the root of all evil;

and
while some have coveted after it,

they
have erred from the faith

and
pierced themselves with sorrows.

St.
Paul, Disciple

∞
∞  ∞

The
disposition to admire and worship,

the
rich and the powerful,

and
to despise, or, at least, to neglect

persons
of poor and mean condition,

is
the great and most universal cause of

the
corruption of our moral sentiments.

Adam
Smith, Economist

∞
∞  ∞

Everybody’s gotta have money.

Need it to live and make dreams come true.

Getting money is like any of life’s games.

You need skill, daring, a plan, and luck.

You may have to bend the law some.

With money, everything in life is better.

All colors blend into the green.

You ain’t got money, you got jack shit.

Skinny
Walker, Gambler

by Michael A.
Smith

NOVELS

Legacy of the Lake, Avon

Secrets, St. Martin’s Press

Jeremiah Terrorist Prophet, Forge

New America, Forge

The Inheritors, Forge

Lightning’s Child, CreateSpace

∞  ∞
∞

ESSAYS

Naked America, CreateSpace

∞  ∞
∞

WEBSITES

www.goodnovels.org

www.futurechange.info

Table of Contents

1/The Cast
Gathers

2/Spin The
Wheel

3/End Of The
Line

4/Gotta Have
Money

5/A Dime A Dozen

6/Have-Nots
And Wannabes

7/Selling An Insurance Policy

8/Shirley’s Getting Married

9/Marshon’s
Many Gambits

10/Ace Goes
Home Again

11/The Circles Of Life

12/Passing
The Torch

13/An Island
Dream/Scheme

14/Stalking
The Victim

15/Dad, Me
And Richey

16/Crazy Is
As Crazy Does

17/Doing
God’s Work

18/A
Contagion Of Disaster

19/It’s Weird
Out There

20/Exploring
All Options

21/Buffers
All The Way

22/The Ordeal
Begins

23/Death And
Desperation

24/Turning
The Tables

25/Aim,
Squeeze, Pray

26/Performance Of A Lifetime

27/Leaving
Kansas City

28/The Odds
Of Being Lucky

1/The Cast Gathers

Shortly before midnight, Carmen Salazar sat at the bar in The
Stadium talking with Kandie Givens, while her boyfriend, Richey Stanton,
sat directly across the horseshoe-shaped bar, paying off those who had won the
private lottery he ran at work.  They occasionally glanced up at each
other, smiled and nodded.  The tavern was located in a strip mall about
five miles from Biederman’s Food Products, a canning factory where Richey was
the second-shift warehouse supervisor.  Biederman’s employees filled the
place from half past eleven until the bar’s two a.m. closing time.

“I’ll
never understand how Sam could kick us out of the trailer, and then not even
come and see us off when we left town,” Kandie said, once again reciting
without rancor the facts of her life’s most traumatic moment.

“I
don’t either,” Carmen replied, sincerely, even though Kandie had told her this
story a dozen times, or more.  Carmen listened attentively because she
wanted to be a sympathetic and helpful friend, if possible.  Clearly, what
had happened to Kandie in the small Missouri town where she was born and raised
left her traumatized, and propelled her into a self-imposed exile.

“I
mean, it was mostly about money and Sam not wanting to take responsibility for
being the father of my three kids,” Kandie said.

“Relationships
are usually about money, commitment and responsibility,” Carmen said, and then
shook her head wearily and apologized: “I don’t mean to sound like Ann
Landers.”

Kandie
didn’t appear to understand the analogy.  “The thing is, Sam and I’d been
going together since I was fifteen and a sophomore in high school,” she
continued.  “I had Cindy when I was a senior, Lloyd the next year, and
Melody by the time I was twenty-one.  God, was he fucking the shit out of
me, huh?”

It
wasn’t difficult for Carmen to imagine the difficulties Kandie faced being an
unwed mother in an isolated, rural area where her dad played the role of town
drunk.

“After
I moved into Sam’s trailer, I figured we’d get married.  God knows I asked
him about it enough times.  He always said we would as soon as he saved up
enough money.  I never understood why we had to wait.  I mean, we was
already living together.  How much does a marriage license cost?”

“For
some men, their entire soul, apparently.”

“Exactly,
Carmen.  Exactly.  ’Course, when Sam lost his job as a mechanic at
the Chevy garage, everything began to fall apart.  He started seeing
Evelyn Slag on the side and then told me he’d fallen in love with her.
Love, my ass.  Evelyn’s old man owned a lumber mill and he put Sam on
there as a manager.  Christ, Evelyn’s old man was pimping for her!”

“You
tell Sam that?”

“Sure
did!”

Carmen
sipped her margarita.  “What happened?”  Carmen didn’t want to be
cynical or manipulative by encouraging Kandie to go on, but this was the best
part of the oft-told story.

“I
was standing in the yard outside the trailer this Spring with the two big kids
clinging to my legs and me holding Melody.  Sam was standing at the top of
the steps near the front door, smoking a cigarette all cool like, when I said,
‘Why do you wanna kick your own kids outta their home, Sam?’

“He
says, ‘Evelyn’s moving in tomorrow.  We can’t all live here.’  And, I
said, ‘Sam, you know what she’s got I ain’t got?  An old man who’s rich,
that’s what.  I’ll tell you something she ain’t got, Sam.
Tits!  She’s as flat chested as Melody.’  You shoulda been there,
Carmen.  Sam turned red and I thought he’d blow a gasket.”

They
laughed and both nodded affirmatively as John the bartender asked if they
wanted another round.  Kandie always talked loudly, so perhaps this was
John’s way of trying to quiet her down.  The regulars sitting around the
bar snickered, looked at each other and shook their heads.  They had heard
the story before and knew how it ended.  Kandie and her kids moved to the
city and initially lived with her aunt.  After Kandie got a waitressing
job and saved a little money, her aunt and uncle helped her move into a
two-bedroom unit in Carmen’s apartment complex.  The two women became friends
a few months ago when Kandie asked Carmen’s eleven-year-old daughter, Marisa,
if she babysat.  Marisa said she’d have to check with her mother.

Perhaps
Kandie told and retold her life-shaping story in the hope that the ending would
somehow change.  She’d wanted to stay with Sam in that mobile home and try
to be a good wife and mother.  Her high school teachers, her mother and
the Baptist minister had urged her to be the best person she could be, and
that’s how Kandie defined the ideal lifestyle.  She’d made Cs in high
school.  It wasn’t like she was going to be an astronaut or the first
woman president.  Her chief assets were good body features: silky,
naturally curly auburn hair, long legs and ample breasts that she flaunted
proudly.  Most people would have considered her beautiful except for
several subtle facial flaws, including small, beady eyes, and baby-sized teeth
with too many gaps between them.

Kandie
thought her assets were sufficient to get any guy she wanted, and she chose
Sam.  He was handsome and the quarterback of their high school football
team.  She’d thought he would be a good provider.  In return, she let
him use her whenever he wanted, however he wanted.  It had never occurred
to her that in the end he’d choose a job over living with her.  Life teaches
hard lessons.

“I
don’t mean to always be crying on your shoulder about men,” Kandie said.
“You got your own problems, huh, Carmen?  Your husband left you with a
kid, too.  ’Course, you’re smarter than me and you got a college degree
and a real good job.  Look at you, the Latin beauty!  Beautiful black
hair.  Your skin is, well, flawed.”

“I
hope you meant flawless?”

Kandie
laughed and grabbed Carmen’s arm.  “I get a lot of words mixed up!
Yeah, flawless.  You got a great ass, too, Carmen.  Can I say
that?”

“You
did.  Thanks.”

“And,
Richey is pretty loyal, right?  I mean, you can trust him?”

“Absolutely.”

“Best
of all, your mother lives close to you.”  Kandie again put her hand on
Carmen’s arm.  “God, I’m glad she agreed to watch my kids tonight, along
with Marisa.  I don’t know how your mom does it, watching all four of
them.  You sure I don’t have to pay her, Carmen?  Maybe I should,
huh?  Especially since she’s keeping them overnight!”

“Don’t
worry about it,” Carmen said.  She planned to do something special for her
mother, anyway, such as take her to dinner, or buy her a piece of the silver
and turquoise jewelry she liked so much.  Her mother would say no reward
was necessary; that looking after a gaggle of kids revived memories of her own motherhood
and rejuvenated her.  Still, her mom deserved some reward for looking
after four kids overnight in her own home, especially Lloyd, Kandie’s
rambunctious four-year-old, who would be a handful for a professional jailer.

As
she got older, Carmen cherished her relationship with her mother.  Her dad
had died suddenly three years ago.  Carmen missed him, like she’d missed
him all her life.  They’d never really had a relationship largely because
he spent most of his life romancing a bottle –– like Kandie’s dad.  Carmen
took another sip from her second margarita of the evening, careful not to take
in too much alcohol and cause a headache.

Even
though Kandie usually said whatever popped into her mind, she and Carmen
actually were in the same boat.  Single women with kids sitting in a
sports/meat-market bar near midnight on a Wednesday.  Carmen had attended
a work-related dinner meeting that lasted until ten, and she didn’t have to go
into work until noon tomorrow.  Otherwise, she’d be home in bed.  At
least, Carmen knew who she’d go home with, although she had no idea where her
relationship with Richey was headed.

“It’s
really boring in here tonight,” Kandie said.  “None of the men look
promising, if you know what I mean.  I don’t see any prince on a white
horse.  It’ll be the shits if I wind up going back to my apartment alone,
with nothing to do but make love to my vibrator.”

In
fact, they were the only two women sitting at the bar that dominated the main
room of The Stadium.  Earlier, there had been a few others.
Most of the other patrons were
twenty-something white guys eyeballing the half-dozen television sets mounted
on the walls or behind the bar.  No matter where they sat — at the bar or
the tables that outlined the perimeter of the room — the drinkers could watch a
sporting event taking place somewhere in the world, courtesy of satellite
television.  Last year’s Super Bowl game replayed on the largest TV
screen.

As a result, the conversation that permeated the bar
took place on several levels.  Sports announcers dominated one wavelength
with their play-by-play commentary, while on another level the spectators added
generalized comments, which often included some variation of the F-word.  Fuckin-A!
was a frequent exclamation for an awesome development, often followed by “fuck
that!” when the tide turned.  There were group conversations in which
bar patrons tried to outshout each other.  Another conversational level
included commercial transactions between patron and bartenders.  A few
people like Carmen and Kandie talked directly to each other, on a lower
frequency.  Some talented customers had the ability to tune into all
wavelengths.

There was a sitting area and multi-purpose tiled floor
at the back of the room.  Patrons sometimes danced to music played by an old-fashioned
jukebox.  Saturday nights, there was a singer or singers.  Tuesdays
and Thursday nights, karaoke singers came out of the woodwork at ten p.m. to
entertain and/or appall everyone.

Two pool tables, three video game machines, and several
four-person table and chair sets filled an adjoining room connected to the main
room by a wide, arched doorway.

The Stadium served food, mainly sandwiches, so according to state
law, there was no smoking, but many patrons paid no attention to this
statute.  A smoky haze filled both rooms.

The only reason Carmen was at the bar tonight or any
night was because Richey hung out here, not only after work, but on the
weekends, too.  Carmen didn’t understand.  It wasn’t her kind of
low-key drinking establishment, which preferably would have been located in a
trendy restaurant catering to a high-end clientele who sipped white wine and
talked in well-modulated voices.

“Maybe
I should latch onto an older guy like Richey.  Someone who’s already sowed
his wild oats.  I mean, how old is he, anyway, Carmen?”

Carmen
laughed.  “He’s forty-three, divorced and has a twenty-two-year-old kid.”

“God,
no!  His kid is about my age?”

“I’m
ten years older than you, Kandie.  Nothing really changes just because you
hit thirty.  You’re still the same person and most everything works the
way it always has.  Even with forty-three-year-old guys.”

“I’m
sorry, Carmen.  I didn’t mean to insult you or Richey.”

“You
didn’t.”

About
then, Richey joined them, having concluded his lottery payoffs for the evening.

“We
were talking about you, Richey,” Kandie said, teasingly.  “Carmen says
you’re just as good as any young guy.”

“Kandie!”
Carmen said, although not exactly surprised at this breach of confidence.
It was part of Kandie’s nature.

Richey
took it all in good stride, however, and replied, “There’s an Irish proverb
that says, ‘Twenty years a child, twenty years running wild, twenty years a
mature man and, after that, praying.’  I guess you know where that puts
me, Kandie.”

Carmen
clapped in delight and laughed, as Kandie looked blank and confused before
asking, “What’s that mean?”

“It
means I’m in my prime, Kandie,” Richey said, motioning to John for another
drink.  Carmen worried about Richey’s drinking, although she had never
confronted him about it — at least, not yet.  Richey seemed to be always
slightly high, but never sloppily drunk.  Her concern stemmed from the
fact that her father had died from the effects of alcoholism.  The
comparisons raised all kinds of confusing psychological questions about her
relationship with Richey.

“All
right, you two, give forth with some numbers,” Richey said, animatedly.
“Ten of ʼem.  The hundred-thousand-dollar Keno game awaits our
participation.”

“The
numbers we gave you the last time didn’t work out, Richey,” Kandie said.

“Ah,
hope, what would life be, stripped of thy encouraging smile,” Richey answered.

“Who
said that?”  Carmen asked, enchanted as always with Richey’s grasp of
literature.  He indeed had a presence about him that was carefully
cultivated despite his many occupational failures.  He dieted incessantly
to stay relatively thin except for the modest potbelly that Carmen found to be
more amusing than offensive.  His hair was carefully combed and always in
place.  He had an engaging smile and a way with words that could be
captivating.  He was an aging, aspiring actor who took care of himself and
still cultivated hope.

“I
think it’s a line from a play performed somewhere in my misty past,” Richey
answered.  He drained his vodka martini and reached for a pencil and Keno
form.  “Numbers, I repeat!  Ten of  ʼem.”

“Okay,
Richey, how ’bout my kids’ birthdays?”  Kandie asked.

“Perfect.
I haven’t done birthdays for, ah, a day or two, and then, it wasn’t your
kids.  I’ve done Marisa’s before, but what the hell.  Month and day,
four kids, that’s eight.  Need two more.  How about each of your
birthdays?  That’ll make ten.  Here, Carmen, mark ʼem down.”

She
did as he asked while Kandie rattled off her contribution.  Richey handed
the Keno form and a dollar bill to John, who ran it through the machine and
shortly returned with their ticket.  As the first game unfolded on the TV
screen above the bar, they and the other hopeful barflies watched as a computer
somewhere picked the twenty numbered balls that an animated baseball bat bunted
into four equal rows.  The appearance of each number generally elicited a
chorus of either “Ah, fuck!, or Fuckin-A!

Richey
was more garrulous.  “And we got the twelve right off the bat,” he said,
as if announcing the start of a horse race.  “We don’t have those two
numbers.  Yes, sir, there’s the twenty-three, but we gotta hurry.
Only sixteen numbers left.  No, no, and further disappointment.
Nineteen, on the outside.  Nein, nope, nix.  Got the fifteen.
No, no and no.  And, finally, hope is once more dashed, which seems to be
a major theme in my life.”

“I
told you, Richey,” Kandie said, clapping her hands with delight.  “You
really think anyone ever got all ten numbers and won a hundred thousand
dollars?”

“Hope
also springs eternal, Kandie.”  He kissed Carmen on the lips and said,
“How else we gonna get out of tornado alley?”

Carmen
grabbed her purse from the bar and slid off the stool.  “I know how we’re
going to get out of here.  By car, shortly after I return from the
bathroom.”

As
she walked toward the back, Ace Semanski, who had Robert Long in tow, joined
Richey and Kandie.

“Hey,
boss, you win Keno?”

“Naw,”
Richey said, looking away.  He didn’t want to encourage Ace to hang
around.  The tall, scary-looking man, who formed his long, black hair into
a ponytail, had come to work at Biederman’s a week ago.  Because of his
upper body strength, Richey had put him to work loading boxes of canned goods
into railroad cars.

“Who’s
your friend, boss?” Ace asked, boldly scanning Kandie’s assets.

Richey
didn’t have a choice.  “Kandie, Ace Semanski.  Ace, Kandie Givens.”

“I’m
a friend of Carmen Salazar.  Richey’s Carmen.”

Long,
who everyone at work called Country, interrupted, speaking as if in pain: “Ace,
I’m broke.  Can you buy me a beer?”

Ace
pulled a wad of bills from his pocket, removed a rubber band and peeled off a
twenty-dollar bill, which he handed to Country.

“Gosh,
almighty, Ace!  Twenty dollars!”

“That
should hold you until closing, Country,” Ace said, and the mentally challenged
giant lumbered off toward the video game machines.

“You
friends with him?”  Richey asked, in a puzzled voice.

“Every
idiot needs a keeper and friend.  A teacher.”

Carmen
reappeared and stood next to Richey, who sighed again and said, “Carmen, meet
Ace Semanski.  He’s new at Biederman’s.”

“Nice
to meet you, Carmen,” Ace said, giving her the once over, too, which caused a
look of discomfort to appear on Carmen’s face.

“You
new in town, Ace?” Carmen asked.

“Yeah.”

“Where
are you from?” Carmen persisted.

“Chicago,
since I was a kid.  Moved to Detroit after high school.”

“I
hope you like it here, Ace,” Kandie said, flirting outrageously.  She’d
leaned back and put her elbows on the bar to jut out her chest.  Her erect
nipples showed clearly through the white cotton blouse.

“Well,
things are looking up.  Would you like to dance, Kandie?”

“Absolutely,”
she said, grabbing Ace’s arm and dragging him toward the dance floor, currently
unused.

“Somehow,
I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Carmen said, watching them go.

“She’s
over twenty-one.”

“Barely.
And she has a history of bad judgment regarding men, as she has told me in
great detail, repeatedly.”

Richey
shrugged.  “Not our problem.”

“You’re
right,” Carmen said.  “So, how was your work shift?”

Richey
gave her a look of tolerant amazement.

“Your
work isn’t done this evening,” Carmen said, stepping closer to him, so that
their upper bodies touched. The look of amazement that appeared on Richey’s
face initially startled Carmen, until she realized he was looking over her
shoulder at the entrance.

“Oh,
my God!” Richey said, and brushed past Carmen.  She turned to view a
well-dressed, handsome African-American couple standing just inside the
doorway, looking distinctly uncomfortable as all heads in the bar turn to look
at them, as if they’d just stepped from the pages of Ebony.  The
unease reflected on the couples’ faces turned to smiles as they saw Richey
rushing toward them.  Then, the three of them took turns embracing each
other with genuine affection, all the time uttering their delight and
amazement.  Richey soon guided his friends back to Carmen’s position.

“Marshon,
Gail, this is my friend, Carmen Salazar.  Carmen, meet Marshon Johnson and
Gail Thomas.  We go back years!”

“And
we don’t see enough of each other anymore,” Gail said.

Richey
guided Marshon and the two women to a vacant table near a window.  He
placed his and Carmen’s drink on the table and asked, “Marshon, you still
drinking Johnny Black.”

“That
would be fine, Richey.”

“Gail,
let me remember.  Rum and coke?”

“You
have a great memory, Richey!” Gail said.

Richey
placed the orders with John and then took his seat at the table.

“How
did the three of you meet?” Carmen asked.

In
a hyperactive voice, Richey provided the explanation.  “It was at the
tryouts for a production of Showboat, to take place at Starlight
Theater.  What, six, seven years ago?  Gail and I were there for
artistic reasons, although we hadn’t know each other previously.  Marshon,
he just showed up to continue chasing after Gail!”

Marshon
grinned and wagged a finger.  “Not totally true, Carmen.  I have some
minor acting ability, which everyone knows who has listened to my speech at
weekend charity events.”

Richey
bellowed with laughter and expressed emphatic agreement.  “That’s true, I
can’t deny that!  You’re the greatest on that soapbox.”  Even Gail
chuckled, although uncomfortably.

“Suffice
it to say, Carmen, that we became fast friends during the Showboat
production,” Marshon said.  “Richey even worked at my charity operation
for a while until he decided to pursue a career in canning.”

Although
Marshon made the remark in a humorous manner, it imposed a momentary damper on
the conversation.

Gail
smoothed over the awkward moment by saying, “Richey really is one of the best
actors around, as you probably know, Carmen.”

“I
do know.”

About
that time, Ace and Kandie appeared in the aisle between the table and bar.

“Everything
okay, boss?  This guy bothering you?” Ace asked, his dark eyes glaring at
Marshon.

Richey
immediately stood and directed an equally menacing look at Ace.  “They are
friends of mine, Ace, and this is private conversation, if you don’t mind.”

Ace
smiled, spread his hands and arms apologetically, and stepped back.

Kandie
interjected.  “Carmen, Ace is gonna take me home.  We’re gonna stay
and dance until closing.  Right, Ace?”

“Absolutely.”

Richey
sat back down as Ace and Kandie walked away, although Ace looked over his
shoulder, a puzzled but calculating look on his face.

“It
just occurred to me that Gail and I are the only people of color here in The
Stadium,” Marshon said, drolly.

“I’m
sorry, Marshon, Gail.  Most of these guys are harmless.  There’s
always a shithead in any bar.”

“True,”
Marshon replied.

Carmen
attempted to shift the direction of the conversation.  “You said you work
at a charity, Marshon.  What do you do, Gail?”

With
a twinkle in her eye, the tall, beautiful woman said, “Well, when my acting
career failed to take off, I took a position with a financial services
firm.  I have a degree in accounting.  What about you, Carmen?”

“I
work at an advertising firm.”

“Carmen
is a very talented artist,” Richey interjected.  “You should see her
portfolio.”

Using
Gail’s logic, Carmen replied, “And, when that didn’t work out, I fell back on
my degree in business administration, so I could get a job and support myself
and my daughter.”

“Hey,
let’s get out of here,” Richey said, suddenly.  “I could use something to
eat.  There’s that great all-night diner on The Plaza, remember
guys?  We used to go there in the old days.”

“We’ll
take a rain check, Richey, Carmen,” Marshon said.  “We actually just came
from a late dinner out south.  When we were driving back downtown, I
remembered that you hung out here, Richey, which is why we stopped.”

“I’m
so happy you did,” Richey interrupted.

“I
need to ask a favor, Richey,” Marshon said, standing.  “Can we talk
privately for a minute?  Would you ladies excuse us.”

Richey
followed Marshon, who walked toward the front entrance until he found a
semi-private spot in the aisle.  “I need a rover this weekend at The
Wheel, Richey.  When Gail and I were driving home, I got a call that
one of my guys was in a bad accident.  I thought of you.  You’re the
best casino floor manager I ever had.  It would just be Friday and
Saturday night.  I’ll pay you double.”

“Hey,
no problem, man.  I’ll take Friday night off and be there — if you keep
your promise about the rain check on dinner, and also agree that the four of us
will start getting together more frequently.  I didn’t say or do anything
to offend you, right?  Other than quit working for you!”

“No,
man, we’re good, you and I, for all time.  I don’t have any bone to pick
or any excuse for us drifting apart, other than I’m stretched too thin across
my many business interests.”

“I
understand, Marshon.”

“Look,
we’ll talk soon and we’ll get together with our ladies.  But, now, we got
to go.  See you Friday night at the VFW over on Fifteenth Street.”

The
four of them left The Stadium together.  Richey and Carmen watched
Marshon and Gail get into their car and drive off.

“Wow,
they are the best-looking couple I think I’ve ever seen,” Carmen said.
“You guys seem like good friends.  How come you never mentioned them
before?”

Richey
shook his head.  “We just drifted apart, but we’re going to see a lot of
each other from now on.”

In
fact, those who survived would remember vividly this day when their respective
paths intersected in a sleazy bar on the southwest edge of the city.
Thereafter, these seven lives were intertwined and fate would bring them
together again within only a few weeks.  That future meeting would change
everything, for everyone.

∞  ∞
∞

As they danced, Kandie
pressed her breasts against Ace’s body, and he moved his leg so she could feel
his tumescent penis.  They were communicating on a physical level, and
both were speaking the same language.  They were twenty-somethings, and
both unattached.  Kandie had been seeing a construction worker, Hank
Hendricks, on a regular basis, although she didn’t consider that relationship
promising.  In fact, Hank has abused her on several occasions, in many
different ways.

Ace had never had a steady girlfriend, although he’d had
more women than he could count.  Most had submitted willingly, but he had
forced himself on more than a few who teased him and then didn’t put out.
Ace didn’t tolerate that.  Truth was, many of the women he’d raped after
they said no didn’t make a formal complaint.  Most raped women dread the
process of calling the police, pressing charges, undergoing a rape examination
and then a humiliating public trial, where their character was certain to be
assassinated.  The defendant’s lawyer would call into question the rape victim’s
judgment and lifestyle.  Finally, the news media would report every detail
to the broader world.

Besides, many of the women Ace forcibly raped,
especially if he knew them beforehand, usually wanted to understand why, and
Ace offered several compelling explanations.  He was a sex addict and
couldn’t control himself.  He was currently in counseling.  What he
really needed was understanding and comfort.  He might even cry during
this recitation.  Certainly, he always begged for forgiveness.
Depending on the woman, he might offer compensation: promise of a vacation
together, a shopping spree with his credit card, chauffeur service.
Cash.  Babysitting, if they had kids.  Amazingly, it often worked.

“I work as a waitress at a restaurant over on Delancey,”
Kandie said.  “You like working at Biederman’s, Ace?”

“I don’t like working anywhere.”

“Me, either.”

“I think we got lots in common, Kandie.”

“I got three kids,” Kandie said.  “You might as
well know now.  Some guys don’t like women with kids.”

“I love kids,” Ace said, probably because he knew it was
what Kandie wanted to hear, as did all single mothers.  The world was full
of single mothers.  For Ace, it was like hunting in a stocked animal
preserve.

“That’s wonderful,” Kandie replied, barely controlling
her relief and enthusiasm.

Ace steered Kandie to a table along the wall.
“Tell me some more about yourself, Kandie.”  Ace was genuinely interested
in cultivating any relationship that might benefit him in the future.  He
could imagine several uses for Kandie, beginning tonight.  He had the
clear impression he wouldn’t have to force himself upon Kandie.

“I moved up here about six months ago from a hick town
in southeast Missouri.  I got an aunt and uncle who live here.”

“It’s hard to meet people when you’re new in town,” Ace
said.  He’d stopped off here on his way to California after doing three
years of a five-year sentence for stealing construction site equipment.
His imprisonment in Michigan hadn’t been wasted time, though.  It was like
going to graduate school in crime.  Next time, he’d have a better plan,
one with safeguards and buffers.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Two regular Buds!”  Ace yelled at the bartender.

“So you come to a place like this and hope the right
person comes through the door,” Ace said, lighting a Camel.  “It’s a toss
of the dice.”

“Yeah, it really is.”

“Everyone’s here looking for Ms. Right or Mr.
Right.”  He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs.  “Or, Miss
Tonight.”

“Yeah,” she said, tipping her bottle too quickly,
causing beer to drip into her cleavage.  Ace reached over with a long
finger, wiped off a drop and put his finger in his mouth.  Kandie
involuntarily sucked in her breath.

“It gives you an understanding of the personal ads in
the newspaper,” Ace continued.  “You know, M searching for W and vice
versa.”

Kandie looked horrified and Ace laughed over the fact
he’d stumbled onto one of her secrets.  “Didja notice how everyone who
places one of those ads is attractive or handsome, physically fit, no drugs or
diseases.  Lots of money.  They like long walks, dining out,
dancing.”  Ace paused.  “They’re also romantic, trustworthy, and
loyal.”  He dragged out the pronunciation of “loy-al” as if it were a
silly word.  “Makes you wonder why all these perfect people are single,
huh?”

“Yeah,” Kandie said, finally, giggling nervously.

“Makes you wonder why they just don’t tell the truth,
doesn’t it, Kandie?”

She struggled to formulate an appropriate
response.  “I know what you mean, Ace.  It’s really hard to figure
men … people … out.  You know, the kind of person they really are inside.”

He interrupted.  “What’s your real dream, Kandie?”

“Well, I don’t know, Ace, you see, it’s really hard to
say.”

“Just say it.”

“I’d like . . .”

“Someone to love you,” he said suddenly.  “You and
your kids, Kandie.  A man to provide for you.  A man you’d do
anything for.  A relationship that will stand the test of time.
Right?”

She sat back in her chair, a stunned look on her
face.  “How’d you know that, Ace?”

“My mother was a divorcee,” he said,
matter-of-factly.  “She had me and my twin sisters, Lori and Loni.
All Mom ever wanted was someone who would buy the whole package.”  He
looked stunned.  “You know, you look a lot like my Mom.”

“Did
someone?  Ever buy the whole package?”

“Nope.
Someone like that rarely comes into your life, Kandie.  You know what I
mean?”  Ace leaned forward to signal that he was about to impart a
confidence.  Kandie leaned in, too.  “The problem with my mother was
that she was a careful, hesitant person.  That can be good and bad,
Kandie.  There were a few guys who might have done right by her.
But, she hesitated too long.  Always looking for perfection, I
guess.  No one’s perfect, Kandie.  If my mother wanted a man to take
care of her and us three kids, she had to seize the moment.  She had to be
trusting.  Take a chance.  And, mainly, give such a man anything he
asks for.  Anything.  You understand, Kandie?”

Kandie’s
heart raced and her breathing accelerated, causing her breasts to rise and
fall.  She grabbed Ace’s hand, stood and pulled him to his feet.
“Carmen’s mother is taking care of my kids overnight.  You want to see my
apartment, Ace?”

“I
think it’s the start of something beautiful, Kandie.”

She
never saw it coming, right up to the point at which Ace offered to show Kandie
how to use a handgun for her personal protection.

2/Spin
The Wheel

Marshon Johnson positioned his barstool so he could spot
the cop when he came through the side door.  He didn’t have to wait
long.  At seven, an hour before The Wheel was set to spin, the
Lieutenant walked through the door.  Befitting his mission today,
Lieutenant Isley wore street clothes.  In this setting, the symbols of his
gang’s power — blue uniform, rank insignia, badge and gun — didn’t make good
business sense.  Nevertheless, the cop couldn’t resist doing the “cop
walk,” which involved a swagger and a scowl, nodding while at the same time
looking left and right, as if to let potential perps know that the law was in
their midst.

Marshon
waved at the Lieutenant and yelled, “Over here, Jamelle!”

Jamelle
Isley, second-in-command of the Central Patrol Division at Limon and
Trafficant, swaggered over to the bar and fist-bumped Marshon.

“Whatcha
drinkin’, my man?”  Marshon asked, slapping the cop playfully on the back,
as he acted out one of the many roles required by his job and lifestyle.

“Johnny
Black, just like you, Marshon.”

Marshon
motioned to the bartender.

“You’ve
used the VFW before, haven’t you?” Isley asked, looking around.  This
chapter of the Veterans of Foreign Wars was located twenty blocks east and
south of city central.  Its membership was mostly African-American.

“Yeah,
it’s perfect for The Wheel.  Location, location, location, and
plenty of space.”

Over
the years, Marshon had explored the option of setting up The Wheel in
the affluent suburbs to the west and south, mainly because the take would be
larger.  However, the existing political and police powers wanted this
particular vice segregated, even in these alleged color-blind times.  The Wheel was a welcomed and revered
institution within a thirty-square block African-American enclave located on
the city’s East Side.  No city or county elected
official who represented any part of the East Side could long survive in office
if he or she advocated eliminating The Wheel.  In the suburbs, on the
other hand, officialdom viewed his operation as a camel’s nose under the tent
of public virtues.

“Y’all’ll
get a big crowd in here tonight, Marshon.  Whadaya think?  Two, three
hundred?”

Marshon
suppressed a smile at the bagman’s transparent effort to get a handle on the handle,
meaning the money The Wheel would take in this weekend.  Only
Marshon knew the real numbers; everyone else guessed and some were closer to
the truth than others.  The police brass downtown wanted to know his net
income so they could calculate an acceptable weekly pay-off amount.  Isley
just wanted to make certain he was getting a big enough bite.

Based
on Marshon’s experience, at least nine hundred individuals would walk through
the front door of the VFW over the two-night run on Friday and Saturday, but
only about two-thirds of the attendees would gamble.  Others would come to
eat, drink, have fun, and be seen.

Isley
sipped his Scotch and then turned to lean both elbows on the bar, so he could
observe the early crowd coming in for dinner.  “My daddy used to tell me
stories about how Skinny Walker created The Wheel back in the day.
Boy, if he could only see it now.”

“Yes,
indeed, it has evolved into a first-rate charitable gambling operation,”
Marshon replied, keeping a straight face.

Isley
chuckled, lighting up a Marlboro.  “Marshon, you could sell shit in a
toilet.  That charity cover is crap and you know it.”

“That’s
not what my lawyer says,” Marshon replied.  Actually, Mort Saperstein had
the same opinion as Lt. Isley, although he explained it in lawyerly
language.  The law is always complicated and it evolves, Mort had said, in
the same voice cops use when reading Miranda rights to a suspect.  The law
is manmade and, hence, always open to interpretation and review, which is why
courts exist.  However, the state doesn’t adjudicate all legal issues,
especially if the defense has ardent supporters.  The Wheel might
or might not be a charitable gambling organization meeting the qualifications
and requirements of state law, but its various supporters so far had prevented
the issue from going to court.  That was one reason Marshon paid a $5,000
per month retainer to Saperstein.  It also explained why he made campaign
contributions to a growing list of politicians, and supported a number of
influential organizations.  In fact, Marshon had recently concluded that
the cost of doing business was starting to kill his business.  For that
reason, he was thinking about making a change, soon.  Marshon just needed
a push.

“We’ll
get a diverse crowd in here this weekend,” Marshon said.  He had some
negotiating points to make, too.  “You’d be surprised at how many players
we get from City Hall, Tremont Plaza, and Essex County.  White folks who expect
to feel safe at The Wheel.”

Isley
blew smoke at the ceiling.  “Yeah, you run a popular game, Marshon, that’s
a fact.  So long as you control the fights and keep the noise down so it
don’t attract too much attention, everyone at Division will be happy.
’Course, things could change, Marshon.  You hear of this guy Benjamin
Dewhurst, who’s running for mayor?”

Marshon
nodded, and frowned.

“They
say he’s a hard-ass black man who wants to get tough on crime.  Clean up
the inner city so white-owned businesses won’t be afraid to move in.”
Isley shook his head and scowled.  “I ain’t decided whether I’m going to
vote for him or not.”

Having
grown tired of the conversation that had only one purpose, anyway, Marshon took
an envelope out of his inner jacket pocket and handed it to Isley.  A city
council member who had the ear of the present mayor who nominated the current
Chief of Police had suggested the eighteen-hundred-dollar contribution to the
police athletic league.  Although it was about four percent of anticipated
gross for the evening, Marshon didn’t like having to tip the cops that much —
especially since they constituted only one component of those with their hand
out.  The others included local, state and federal elected officials and
heads of departments and agencies created by these officials.

With
one meaty hand, Isley took the envelope and stuffed it into his pants
pocket.  He motioned to the bartender for a free refill to go.  “I’m
off tomorrow night, Marshon.  Maybe the old lady and me’ll stop by.”

As
the cop swaggered toward the front door, Marshon smiled broadly for the first
time.  However they divided his “contribution,” the share that went to
Isley was likely to come home, since the cop had a reputation as being a
long-odds shooter on the craps table.

Marshon
stood and took in the scene.  By four o’clock, his four-man moving crew
had moved all of the gambling tables out of storage into the hall.  Jemmy
Shoemaker, the head of security, stood by the metal detector located inside the
front door, watching the early crowd filter in.  Alonzo Mayberry, the
other key member of Marshon’s staff, was at the back of the building near the
kitchen, telling the staff from Jake’s Original Barbecue where to set
the large aluminum foil pans full of steaming hot ribs.  Marshon owned
thirty percent of that eating establishment.  The dining area was full and
those waiting either stood in line or sat at the tables in front of the bar,
waiting for their reservation number to be called over the loudspeaker system.

The
VFW hall was Marshon’s favorite site for his nomadic business.  The
rectangular structure was about 200 feet long and half that wide.  Once,
it had been a warehouse.  Ordinarily, veterans and their guests entered
the front door into the assembly area that took up the northwest quadrant of
the building.  Folding chairs could be set up on the hardwood floor so
that seated members and guests faced an elevated dais where their officers and
guest speakers could hold forth on some subject of importance to
veterans.  Or — and most VFW members preferred this use — the chairs could
be folded and stored on movable carts, and the hardwood became a dance
floor.  The dais became a platform for a DJ or the percussion section of a
jazz band.  Tonight, gaming tables occupied the entire floor.

Marshon
sat at the bar directly across from the assembly area.  A carpeted seating
area in front of the bar accommodated eight tables, each with four
chairs.  The back half of the VFW hall consisted of a kitchen and
restrooms on one side, and a dining area on the other.  In between, stairs
lead to a half-basement, which opened into a parking lot behind the
building.  There was a side door leading out of the dining area.

Marshon
left the bar and walked to the middle of the gaming area.  He motioned for
Jemmy to join him.

“We’re
getting a good dinner crowd, boss,” Jemmy said, wiping sweat off his brow with
a large orange handkerchief.

“Give
me a quick rundown on everything,” Marshon said.  Although Marshon was
six-three, he had to look up at Jemmy, who was six-ten and weighed
three-hundred-and-fifty pounds, nearly all of it solid muscle.  The
massive enforcer’s shaved head and the large, gold Christian cross dangling
from his left earlobe made him look even more ominous.  They’d first met
at a youth reformatory in Missouri and had been fast friends ever since.

“As
you can see, we got nine of our tables on the hardwood, leading up to the
seating area in front of the bar,” Jemmy said.

The
gaming tables — three blackjack, three different types of poker, a craps table,
a roulette wheel, and a “wheel of fortune” — were arranged in rows of three.

“We
got about fifty slots here and there, mainly along the walls,” Jemmy said,
pointing around the room.  “We’re using their folding chairs.”

As
businessmen typically do, Marshon ran various calculations in his head.
If all the tables were full, they’d accommodate about sixty players, with maybe
twenty looking on, or waiting for a seat.  If players occupied all the
slots, there’d be one hundred gamblers in action at any given moment.
Maybe another fifty people would be in the bar area and the dining room.
By the time they closed at two a.m., the crowd would turn over several times
and change in character.  Those who lost their money or had enough to eat
and drink would leave and be replaced by a late-night group, which would be a
younger, tougher and rowdier crowd.  Winners never wanted to leave, which
meant many of them eventually turned into losers.  As Marshon knew,
gambling wasn’t really about luck, but rather about mathematics, and the house
had an advantage in every game.  It wasn’t as large as everyone thought,
though.

“You
gotta keep some muscle out back,” Marshon said.  “The parking lot will
attract troublemakers.”

“Yeah,
I’ll put two guys out there beginning about nine p.m., after we’ve screened everybody
in here.  That’ll leave one of my guys inside on each door and two more
roaming around, plus me and Widja.”

“Everybody
comes through the front door and the metal detector,” Marshon said, as he
always did before each session.  “No exceptions.  No hand stamps or
passes.  They go out and come back in, they go through the metal
detector.  Give ʼem a pat-down if they even look suspicious.”

All
six members of Jemmy’s security crew were experienced bouncers, off-duty cops
or military veterans who didn’t tolerate any trouble or sass, and all the
players knew it.  Seven years ago when Marshon took over management of The
Wheel, it catered exclusively to hard-core gamblers and neighborhood
toughs.  Many were armed, fights were a regular occurrence, and the police
were inevitably called to restore order.  Marshon ended that chaos,
expanded his customer base, and made more money, which was his only goal.

Marshon
turned to face Jemmy.  He smiled and nodded.  “Hey, it’s a great
place to spin The Wheel.”

“Absolutely.
Too bad we can’t make this permanent.”

Marshon
shook his head.  “The minute we leave all the equipment in one place, our
image changes and our problems escalate.  Then, we’re a permanent illegal
casino.  Now, we’re just a spontaneous, charitable gathering.”

“You’re
the brains, Marshon.”

They
set up The Wheel nearly every weekend, in church basements, theaters,
skating rinks, car dealerships, assembly plants, abandoned buildings, even a
nursing home rec room once.  The only recent turndown came from a city
firehouse.  The chief there was reluctant to pass on Marshon’s promised
contribution to their Christmas fund, but city regulations clearly prohibited
use of the facilities for entertainment purposes.

Marshon
again ran math formulas in his head.  The vast majority of the 600
gamblers he expected to attend The Wheel over the weekend would be
recreational gamblers, although there would be some pros in attendance.
They amateurs would spend on average about $300 each.  Many people,
including some cops and politicians, assumed that The Wheel made nearly
all its money on gambling, but that wasn’t true.  Of the $180,000 that
would be in play over the weekend, the house advantage would probably average
out to eight percent, yielding a take of about $14,000.  Marshon’s
administrative fee was eighty percent; the remaining $2,800 was the charitable
share for the VFW.

Additionally,
all attendees paid a $20 per head “charitable contribution” at the front door,
with the proceeds going to support the VFW — minus Marshon’s administrative fee
of 60 percent.  That gave the veterans a nice windfall of $7,200.
Marshon had negotiated the same 60-40 split with the VFW on food and
drinks.  He had a year-round contract with a liquor distributor, and he
personally owned 30 percent of Jake’s Original Barbecue, which would
provide much of the food consumed over the weekend.  Because of the
substantial mark-up on food and drinks amounting to 50 percent, Marshon
expected to make another $15,000 from these sales.

The
bottom line: the VFW would take in more than $17,000 over the weekend, which
would make it the top revenue-generating event of their entire year.
Marshon would gross about $40,000, although he had a few tricks that could
shove that amount nearer $45,000.

Not
all weekends were as good as Marshon expected this one to be.  Still, with
50 sessions per year, The Wheel annually grossed close to $2 million;
unfortunately, gross wasn’t net.  Marshon’s efforts to make his operation
respectable, and reduce the violence that once characterized it, had cost more
than he’d anticipated.  Now, there were many hands in his pockets, while
others attacked the charitable scheme justification on several fronts.
Still, while it lasted, it was a profitable venture for a kid from the mean
streets.

Marshon
put two fingers into his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle.  In
response, all the dealers setting up at their tables halted their activity and
formed a circle around him and Jemmy.  Before the circle was complete, a
little man squeezed through and stood beside Marshon.  At five-eight,
Alonzo Mayberry, known to everyone as Widja, was a jack-of-all trades, doing
anything Marshon or Jemmy needed done.

All
the dealers and floor managers, called rovers, wore black, including sturdy
black shoes with thick crepe soles.  By contrast, Marshon and his two
lieutenants constituted a colorful trio.  Marshon wore a powder blue
sports coat, lighter blue button-down collared shirt and tie, and black
pants.  Jemmy sported a leather two-piece maroon outfit with a zippered
top that had a decorative design of white diamonds in a red background, but no
lapels or collar.  Widja wore a caftan of rich earth colors and matching
skullcap.  All three were strapped.  Marshon had a snub-nosed
thirty-eight in an ankle holster.

“Okay,
we’ll open the tables in about a half-hour,” Marshon said to the assembled
group.  “Same rules as always.  Be alert.  Let’s nick all
trouble in the bud.  Use the same hand signals: one for a cheater, two for
a possible fight or dealer abuse, and three for a break.  Jemmy and his
men, plus Widja, will solve any player problems.  Let the rovers take care
of any financial issues.  Rovers, use your walkie-talkies, especially the
buzzer button, if you need help from Jemmy and his men.”

Jemmy
spoke up, “We know the main troublemakers, and we’ll be keeping an eye on
them.”

“You
got any problems at the tables with any piece of equipment, or need anything
done, you get my attention,” Widja said.

“Okay,
if you don’t have any questions, finish up getting your tables ready,” Marshon
said.  When no one responded, he said, “Richey, a minute, please.”

As
promised during their meeting earlier in the week at The Stadium,
Marshon’s friend had shown up to fill in for one of the two floor managers,
called “rovers.”  At one time, Richey Stanton had been head rover.
These floor managers circulated among the gaming tables, settling any disputes
over odds, payoffs and pot splits.  Richey also carried a card reader for
those players who wanted additional cash and were willing to charge it to their
credit card.  Only Marshon and the two rovers had access to the cash boxes
located at each gaming table.  All gamblers bought chips from the
dealers.

Marshon
desperately wanted Richey back on the job, because there was no one he trusted
more, with the exception of Jemmy.  Richey’s ex-wife, Shirley, had forced
him several years ago to leave the job, but she now lived in Chicago.
Marshon was prepared to make Richey an exceptional offer if he’d come back — a
15 percent salary bump and a half-percent year-end share of net profits.

Richey,
another dealer and one of the security guards were the only three white guys
working for Marshon this night.

Marshon
handed Richey a sheet of paper.  “No credit for this list of
deadbeats.  We got a new craps table croupier, that skinny kid over there
with the orange streak through his hair.  Elon.  Watch him.  He
may be leaving part of lost bets to his friends.  If you catch him cold, I
want his ass gone with fanfare.”

“I
understand.”  Richey looked up at the ceiling.  “Does this place have
its own security, Marshon, or did you put up those cameras.”

“No,
that equipment belongs to the VFW.  Someone tries to rob this place about
once a month, although I don’t know why, because the vets have a small arsenal
in the basement.  Also, Richey, we need to up the house advantage as much
as possible this evening.”

“I’ll
do my best, but as you know, odds is odds.”

The
house had a big natural advantage on most games.  It was nearly 20 percent
on slots and The Wheel of Fortune, depending on the amount of the bet.
The house had a 5.5 percent advantage on such games as double-zero roulette and
Caribbean Stud Poker.  However, there was only a one to two percent
average advantage on blackjack and craps, both popular games.  In other
poker games, the players played against each other.  Marshon had
instructed dealers at this table to push “charitable donations,” especially
from winners, but not to refer to this money as dealer tips or the house rake,
since that was clearly illegal.

Still,
there were other ways to increase the house percentage.

Marshon
pointed to the bar.  “See the black guy in the green shirt?  You need
him, just ask for the Fireman on your walkie-talkie.”

The
Fireman cooled off any player who got hot at any of the tables.  He might
take a seat beside the winner and distract him with conversation, spill a drink
of him, or palm some of his chips.  He might even start a fight.
Marshon had a playbook of such techniques.  For example, he might instruct
the bartender to load up the drinks of winners.  Among the servers were a
few women known to practice the world’s oldest profession as another sideline,
if the price was right.  They could be prompted to whisper something
distracting into the ear of a player on a roll.  The basement area of the
VFW was perfect for short-term liaisons.

“I
could offer some specials,” Richey said.  “Of course, that cuts both
ways.  We can also lose twice the bet.”

“Let’s
hold off on that until about mid-way through,” Marshon said, “when I get a
sense of how it’s going.”

“Okay,
boss.”

“Hey,
Richey, let’s get together soon and talk some more, okay?  I want to run a
few ideas by you.”

“Any
time.  What you got in mind?”

“For
one thing, let’s talk again about that private lottery you run at the
warehouse.”

“You
looking to add it to this action?”

“Not
necessarily.  It could be a stand-alone operation.  The Wheel
costs too much to operate, and it’s too dangerous.  I may lease it to
someone else.”

“Come
by anytime.  You know where to find me.”

Marshon
walked over to a desk placed against the wall to the side of the front
entrance.  A young woman wearing a U.S. Air Force uniform sat on a chair
behind the desk.  This VFW member collected the $20 per head charitable
contribution fee, payable in cash or by credit card.

Marshon
stood near the desk, so that after the attendees entered the building, walked
through the metal detector, and paid their fee, he could greet them.  He
performed this P.R. gesture every evening before the gaming tables opened.
It was important to know all his customers and listen to comments, praise and
criticism with the same look of concern.  He always made a fuss over the
ladies, young and old alike, who were flattered by the attention from a
handsome, well-groomed and well-dressed African-American man with impeccable
manners.  Without exception, the women mentioned Marshon’s teeth, which
were perfectly formed and aligned, and whiter than Jesus’s robes, as one
septuagenarian put it.

It
also gave Marshon an early look at any troublemakers.  Like the police, he
profiled and was openly racist.  Any young black man was suspicious,
especially if he wore his pants below his hipbones, sported expensive footwear,
talked as if he was rapping, and displayed an attitude.  Marshon had
cultivated an older clientele that didn’t cause much trouble, and could be
counted upon for political support.  He made it known that drug use at The
Wheel was absolutely prohibited.  This was a family affair.
Around midnight, the parking lot out back would be another story.  You
could smell the weed two blocks away, but Marshon would be blind to that
infringement.  He was out to please everyone, if possible.

Marshon
took up his position just as Ruby, a well-known local resident, stepped up to
pay her fee.  She was a stout middle-aged woman appropriately dressed in a
red suit with lace on the lapels.  She wore a broad-brimmed hat.
Marshon took her hand and said, “Ruby, if you were to go to the Kentucky Derby
wearing that hat, you’d outshine everyone there and get on national television,
I declare.”

Ruby
grabbed his neck to pull his head lower and give him a kiss on the cheek, while
she inquired if he knew she now was a grandmother for the eighth time.

Next,
Marshon singled out an elderly gentleman and handed him a coupon from Jake’s
Original Barbecue.  “Tyrone, this here coupon is good at Jake’s any
day this month.”

A
young black woman with short, blond-dyed hair followed Tyrone.  She wore a
very short skirt with a metallic sheen, black silk blouse with balloon sleeves,
wide silver belt, and four-inch silver high heels.  She sashayed up to
Marshon and said, “What you got for me to eat, Marshon?”

Before
he could answer, she strutted away, swinging her substantial behind in an
exaggerated fashion that elicited cheers and wolf whistles from several in the
crowd near the bar.  Marshon wagged his wrist and hand as if it were on
fire.

“You
shouldn’t be encouraging that young woman, dressed so shamefully like that,” a
small old lady wearing a worn coat covering a simple black dress told
Marshon.  She reached out and took his hand in her trembling hand.
Marshon looked down at Naomi, rumored to be in her nineties, and an avid player
of The Wheel of Fortune.  “Ain’t you still going with that nice young
educated woman whose father is a judge?”

“Yes,
ma’am,” Marshon replied.

“Well,
then, enough said.”

Marshon
continued to work the crowd for a few more minutes and then walked to the
center of the gambling tables.  At the stroke of eight, Jemmy appeared
with a wood box that originally held machine parts.  Jemmy and Widja had
spray-painted the word SOAP on one side, and BOX on the other.

Marshon
mounted his pedestal and a collective groan swept the crowd.  He smiled
back.  It was time for his standup routine.  He looked out over the
crowd, which appeared as a convention of exotic parrots given the multi-colored
attire worn by both men and women.  The hall was packed and the buzz of
conversations had reached a significant decibel level.

Shouts
erupted from the crowd waiting to get to the gaming tables, including: “Go
away, Marshon.”  “Fuck off, Marshon!”  “We heard this shit
before.”  “Shut up and deal!”

Marshon
smiled and used the microphone to drown out his good-natured detractors.
“I know you want to hear the same old speech again!  Know why, because
it’s the truth and you don’t always hear the truth here in this city or
neighborhood, even in church on Sunday!”

That
got the intended laugh and quieted down the crowd somewhat.  Marshon
hurried on while he had their attention.  “The Wheel is an East
Side institution.  It belongs to us.”

“How
come you takin’ all the fuckin’ money then, Marshon?”

Marshon
located his heckler and responded, “I wish, Solomon.  Y’all know what I
do, which is make sure we can do what we want in our own neighborhood, in our
city.  And, be safe doing it.  Don’t need people from downtown or
over in the state capital tellin’ us what we can and can’t do.”
Boos.  “This is a charity gambling game to benefit the VFW.  You made
your donation at the door and it will help support this wonderful institution
that honors those men and women who have served and protected us.  If you
win at the tables, you decide if you want to donate additional funds to the
VFW.  It’s tax deductible.”  That comment drew various derisive
remarks.  “I’m announcing a few personal donations tonight, including $200
to our local Make a Wish Foundation, $500 to the VFW college scholarship fund,
and $800 to Kingston Elementary for new musical instruments.  In our
community, music is our soul.”  He got a round of genuine applause from
all in attendance.  “We ain’t hypocrites here at The Wheel, like
some people and politicians we could mention.  You know the ones, who
decided so-called legal gambling can only occur on riverboats that ain’t even
boats!”  Loud laughter.  “Or, that only the Indians can host gambling
games!”  Expressions of disgust and cursing.  “Besides, look at
us!  We’re gonna have us a rockin’ good time here tonight with our own
music, the best ribs in the whole city, and the best bar on the East
Side.”  Loud cheers and whistles.  “Later on, after y’all done
eating, we’ll clear out some space in the dining room for dancing.  Also,
behold your neighbor in his or her finery.  What you gonna see out on
those riverboat casinos?  Farmers in jeans and plaid shirts wearing straw
hats, drinking Coors and talkin’ all that Republican bullshit?”  Laughter,
boos, cheers and repeated calls for the gambling to begin.

“Just
one final thing.  Don’t you let any troublemakers bring the law down on
us, so that this is the last evening we can do this.”  Contemplative
silence followed that plea.

Marshon,
ever the politician, knew when to step down from his soapbox, having made his
points, subtle and not so subtle.

After
that, it was hard to hear in the VFW hall, what with the din of talking,
shouting, cursing, the bells and chirps emitted by slot machines, and the sound
of ceiling exhaust fans sucking out the cigarette smoke.  Over the
loudspeakers, the Pointer Sisters shouted, “I’m so excited and I just can’t
hide it … “

Marshon
retreated to a corner of the bar, sipped Scotch, watched and waited, and
secretly hoped for the evening to end soon, safely and profitably.

∞  ∞
∞

About an hour into the evening, Jemmy tapped
Richey on the shoulder as he stood in the middle of the gaming tables, where he
had a panoramic view of the ongoing action.  “Hey, Richey, some tall white
dude wants in.  I didn’t like the look of him and was askin’ questions
when he mentioned your name.  Says he works for you?”

Richey
jockeyed for a better look and then frowned at the sight of Ace Semanski.
He walked over and asked Ace, “What are you doing here?”

“Heard
about the game from some guys at The Stadium.  You didn’t tell me
your friend, Marshon Johnson, runs gambling on the East Side.”

“It’s
a charitable operation.”

“Hey,
I play roulette, so I came on over and make a donation.  But, they don’t
seem to like the color of my skin here at the door.”

Richey
debated his decision, but finally said, reluctantly, to Jemmy, “He’s okay, I
know him.”

Ace
put his belt, car keys, some coins and various other items into a round metal
container.  Before walking through the metal detector, Ace began taking
off his boots, telling the security guard:  “There’s this decorative steel
ring on each boot.  Always sets off the metal detector at the airport.”

After
he walked through the metal detector, which remained silent, Ace reclaimed his
belongings and put back on his boots.  He wore jeans, a long-sleeved denim
shirt and a padded, sleeveless blue vest.

“Good
luck,” Richey said, and went back about his business.

Ace
walked across the room and ordered a beer at the bar.  He took the bottle
and walked onto the gaming floor, where he sought out the roulette wheel.
He threw a $20 bill on the roulette table and asked for five-dollar
chips.  He put one each on the 32, the middle twelve numbers, odd, and
red.  The ball came to rest on black eight and he shrugged stoically and
walked away.  He hadn’t accumulated much of a cash roll working the last
few weeks for less than eight bucks an hour.  His life was like a roulette
wheel ball, in fact.  It whirled around for a while, got off track, hit
more than a few bumps, and landed in some new space.  He’d  been
released from prison in Michigan six weeks ago and landed at Biederman’s, only
because he’d ran out of gas and money on the interstate just north of the
city.  A 7-Eleven clerk told him the canning factory was hiring.  He
had been headed to California, in clear violation of his parole agreement not
to leave the state of Michigan.

Ace
circulated among the tables, stopping now and then to watch the action.
The boisterous crowd was over eighty percent black and middle-aged.  Ace
grew up in the African American neighborhood of Hyde Park in Chicago and didn’t
particularly like blacks, although he understood them.  He thought of them
as racists, opportunists, hustlers and show-offs.

At
one craps table, a white roller wearing a dark blue suit sipped his drink and
casually sent the dice tumbling onto the green felt with a practiced flick of
the wrist.  At an adjacent table, a black shooter in a yellow suit
grinned, danced in place, all the time talking a mile-a-minute, insulting his
fellow players and The Wheel, until he finally delivered the dice onto
the table with a full-arm baseball windup he mitigated at the point of
delivery.

Near
the front entrance, a group of three individuals preparing to walk through the
metal detector caught Ace’s attention.  One was a fat girl in a red dress
trimmed in white.  She had an artificial leg.  She activated the
alarm and then began to complain loudly to the security guards.  “I ain’t
taking this leg off and hop around while you two assholes wand it!  I’ll
fall on my ass and break something, and then I’m gonna sue you and that
motherfucker Marshon Johnson.  You want to wand my leg, you do it while
I’m wearing it.”  She pulled up her dress to reveal red panties and
overhanging fat rolls.  People standing nearby seemed to view the
situation either humorously, sympathetically, or with disgust.  The
security guard quickly swept the wand over her leg and told her to move
on.  Two young black males behind her walked through the metal detector
without incident.

Ace
went back to the bar for another beer.  He then found a place from which
to observe the entire room, which was relatively easy since he was
six-five.  He leaned against one side of a faux marble column located
between the kitchen and dining area, and watched the ebb and flow of the
crowd.  In the prison yard, he’d developed the valuable survival tool of
being able to see and evaluate individual movement within a crowd.  Some
people couldn’t see the trees for the forest.  Sometimes, in the midst of
a large group of men who were playing baseball or chess, lifting weights, or arm-wrestling,
there’d be three or four guys moving with a purpose.  Taking up positions
for a hit.  Ace had developed a keen, second sight for such movement.

Near
the women’s restroom in the back, Ace again saw the fat girl in the red dress,
talking to one of the guys who’d followed her through the metal detector.
He was dressed in all black.  She pushed herself against him, but it
wasn’t flirtatious or sexual.  To Ace, it looked like an exchange.
Maybe drugs.  Then, the one-legged girl moved away quickly, walking her
awkward, unnatural gait as she passed by Ace and headed toward the front
entrance.  Sure enough, there was the bookend boy also dressed in
black.  She made a similar handoff to him.

Ace
didn’t know what the girl in red had passed to her two homeboys, but he knew
that security at The Wheel was flawed, especially since they lacked an
x-ray machine.  There were knife holsters in both of his boots and both
contained expensive, well-balanced throwing knives.  It occurred to him
that the girl’s artificial leg might have enough room to conceal a weapon or
two.

At
this point, Ace had a decision to make.  He could seek cover; or, he could
consider this developing action an opportunity.  Always the opportunist,
Ace quickly made up his mind.  He bent over and removed both knives from
his boots.  Overall, they were each about eight inches long, with the
blades slightly longer than the handle.  They were wider that ordinary
knives of this size.  Ace moved through the crowd until he was about
halfway between the two boys, who had taken up positions at each end of the
gaming area.

Later,
Marshon and his lieutenants would speculate about their intent.  Clearly,
they had planned a robbery, but it was a flawed plan.  Gamblers purchased
chips at the gaming tables or at a central exchange.  The cashiers
immediately placed all cash into locked boxes.  Maybe the two robbers
planned to take cash and other valuables from the players; maybe they planned
to steal the gambling chips.  Most likely, they were just flying by the
seat of their pants.

At
any rate, they both pulled their nine-millimeter guns at about the same time
and each fired a shot into the ceiling.  The plan probably was for them to
tell everyone to freeze, maybe shoot one of the security guards for effect, and
keep everyone covered while the fat girl in the red dress made the rounds with
a donation box.

However,
it never developed to that point because simultaneously with the gunshots, Ace
threw one of the knives.  He’d perfected a release movement somewhat
similar to a baseball pitcher throwing a knuckleball.  The knife didn’t
turn end-over-end as it traveled about twenty-five feet.  The blade lodged
in the throat of the gunman near the front door.  While he dropped his gun
and clawed at the blade, Ace immediately pivoted and threw the other knife at
the other gunman about the same time Jemmy shot him three times.

The
action occurred in less than ten seconds.  As soon as they heard the
gunshots, most of the players and others in the hall ducked, hit the floor or
sought cover.  Those close to Ace had instinctively recoiled.  Now,
everyone stood and began to talk and shout until it became impossible to hear
any individual voice.

Ace
walked toward the gunman lying on the floor near the dining area, bent over and
pulled his knife from the dying man’s chest.  Ace wiped the bloody blade
on gunman’s shirt.  As he stood up, Jemmy put the barrel of his gun to the
side of Ace’s neck, while a woman inched closer and touched Ace’s arm, as if he
were a Martian.  She said, “I ain’t never seen anyone throw a knife like
that in my whole life!”

Jemmy
said, “What the fuck are you doin’?”

“Saving
your ass.”

Jemmy
was speechless as Ace walked toward the other downed gunman to retrieve his
other knife.  A small crowd followed him, voicing a cacophony of
questions.

Jemmy
also followed and demanded that Ace hand over the knives.  Ace debated his
decision briefly, but then did so, carefully, saying, “They’re sharp and
they’re expensive, and I want ʾem back.”

About
that time, Marshon appeared, his face flushed and etched with fear.  “What
the fuck happened?” he asked, looking at Jemmy and then at Ace.

“They
got the guns from the one-legged girl in the red dress,” Ace replied,
calmly.  “I just did your job for you.”

Two
of the security guards stood on each side of Marshon and looked menacingly at
Ace.  About half the crowd was drifting back to the gambling tables, slot
machines and the bar.  The other half headed for the two exits, presumably
wanting to go home before the cops arrived.

“Who
the hell are you?”  Marshon demanded.

“Ace
Semanski.  I work for Richey Stanton at Biederman’s.  We met
Wednesday night at The Stadium.  Don’t you remember?”

Marshon
squinted.  “Oh, yeah.”

“I
just did you a big favor,” Ace said, “so I don’t appreciate you giving me a
hard time, Marshon.  Not only would those guys have robbed you, but there
probably would have been a shoot-out.  People woulda been wounded and
killed.  The cops called.”

Several
players within hearing distance replied in the affirmative and bobbed their
head for emphasis.

“Where’d
you get these knives?” Jemmy asked.

“From
my boots.  You might wanna rethink your security operation.  It ain’t
for shit!”

Widja
pushed through the crowd, pulling along the girl in the red dress.  “This
here’s Bellamay.  I know her.  She brought in the guns.”

“I
don’t know what you’re talking’ about!” she yelled indignantly.

With
genuine interest, Ace said, “How’d you get both guns in the leg?”

She
quit cussing and gave him a look of utter amazement.

In
a defensive tone, Jemmy said to Marshon, “I kilt the one motherfucker back
there.”

Ace
snickered.  “My knife went right through his heart.  He was dead
before you wasted three bullets on him.”

Marshon
took charge.  “Jemmy, get your guys back on security.  There’s no one
on the doors!  Anybody can walk in.  Take control!  Widja, have
someone take Bellamay to the basement.  We’ll talk to her later.
Check those two guys and see if they’re dead or alive.  Ace, you come with
me.”

Marshon
walked to the dais, picked up the portable microphone and said to the crowd,
“Everybody, be quiet and listen to me!  It was an attempted robbery!
We’ve dealt with it.  It happens, you know!  You accept that when you
come here!  It’s safe now, if you want to go back to your games.  We
don’t owe these boys anything other than a decent burial!  There are no
snitches on the East Side!  That’s as big a crime as robbery!  You
remember that.  There’s free drinks for the next hour.  In addition,
we’re gonna have some specials at the tables.  The house will match your
bet at roulette and The Wheel of Fortune.  At the craps table, the house
will match your bet on any combination of the number eight.”

That
comment caused the crowd to begin another lively and loud debate.  The
flow at the doors reversed as players began to filter back into the hall,
partly because the rumor mill was now operating at maximum efficiency, even
outside the VFW hall.  The crowd was three deep at the bar.

Widja
reappeared and said, “Those boys are both dead, Marshon.  We’ve already
moved their bodies into the basement.  What you want me to do with
ʼem?”

Ace
said, matter-of-factly, “My suggestion is to drop ʼem in a deep hole, a
lake, or run ʼem through a wood chipper.  I saw that in a movie
once.”

That
remark rendered everyone speechless, including Marshon, Jemmy and Widja.
They all gave Ace a look that was a mixture of amazement and curiosity, as if
they wondered if he was serious about the wood chipper.

Near
the front entrance, a woman with a mop and bucket was cleaning the hardwood
floor.  In the dining room area, another woman ran an electric carpet
cleaner back and forth over the spot where the other gunman fell.

About
then, Richey stepped through the crowd.

Marshon
took his friend to one side.  “Tell me again about this guy, Richey.”

“He
came to work at Biederman’s about a week ago.  That’s all I know about
him.  I did vouch for him when security told me he wanted in.”

Marshon
whirled on Ace and asked, in an accusatory tone, “How’d you know this was going
down?  You hadda know!”

Ace
shook his head at Marshon’s stupidity.  “Oh, you think I was involved,
which is why I killed those two would-be robbers?  You don’t look that
stupid, Marshon.  I happened to see the exchange between the fat girl and
these two.  It was obvious.  Your security shudda seen it, but they
was all too busy runnin’ their mouths and checking out the local tail.
So, yeah, I made a decision to get involved and take them down.
Why?  Well, they coulda shot me, too, you see.  They damn sure would
have shot anybody who tried to stop them, right?  All you people standing
here trying to blame this on me could be dead!  Now, I’ve had enough of
this shit!  I want my knives back and one of those free drinks you promised,
Marshon.  Otherwise, I’ll call the cops myself!”

Ace
walked toward the bar and everyone cleared a path for him and a space at the
bar.

Marshon
looked clearly irritated at being talked down to, but he nevertheless followed
Ace to the bar, where Ace asked the bartender for a Budweiser.  “Regular,
none of that light shit.”

Marshon
crowded in beside him.  “You’re right, Ace.  You pulled our bacon
outta the fire.  I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything.  I’ve just
never seen anything like it in my life and I thought I’d seen in all.  I
owe you.  What can I do for you?  You want a job at The Wheel,
you got one.  You’d make one helluva security consultant, man!”

Ace
smiled broadly.  “I’ll think about that, Marshon.  Right now, free
drinks are good enough.”

“You
sure?”  Marshon asked.

Ace
reconsidered.  “Can you spot me a couple hundred so I can lose it back to
you on the roulette wheel?  You already cleaned me out once, but I’m still
hopeful.”

Marshon
pulled a wad of bills from his pants pocket and peeled off five one-hundred dollar
bills.  “Small enough payment, man.  You think of anything else, let
me know.  I mean it.  I take care of those who take care of me.”

Ace
took his Budweiser bottle and started toward the tables, which were full again,
as if the gamblers had just taken a short break.  The music also had
cranked back up.

Ace
stopped, turned and said to Marshon, “I’ll figure out something and get back to
you another day, Marshon.  I figure you got a full plate right now.
Just remember to have Jemmy give me back my knives when I leave.”

Richey
walked to where Marshon stood at the bar, and said, “No wonder you’re thinking
about making a change.”

“No
shit.  And now I got to worry about Ace Semanski.”

“I’ll
dig into his background on Monday.  You worried about blackmail?”

“I’m
worried about everything.  You know I’m superstitious, right?  I
believe bad luck begets bad luck.”

“That
ain’t true mathematically, Marshon, and if it happens that way, it’s a
coincidence.”

Richey
went back to his duties and Widja reappeared with the same question for Marshon
that he had asked before.  “You wanna call the cops?”

Marshon
mentally ran scenarios and calculations before coming to a conclusion.
“No, call that funeral home director who stops by now and then.  Coleman
McCarthy.  Have him pick up the bodies.  Then get with what’s her
name — Bellamay — and find out the names of the robbers, and who their kin
are.  We’ll be talking to them later.”

“You
got it, Marshon.”

Everything
seemed under control, but Marshon, gambling czar of the city’s East Side,
indeed was superstitious.  No matter the gaming mathematics that he and
Richey knew so well, Marshon believed that bad luck ran in threes.  As it
turned out, he was right; worse things loomed on the horizon.

3/End Of The Line

Monday afternoon, Richey Stanton arrived at his “regular”
job as second shift warehouse manager for Biederman’s Food Products, a canning
factory located in an industrial park on the outskirts of the southwest
suburbs.

Richey
had a designated parking place near the ramshackle wood building.  Hourly
employees parked their vehicles in a large lot.  Most were pickup trucks,
some of which had tires as high as the roof of Richey’s Honda Civic.

The
powers-that-be had been threatening to close the factory during the entire three
years Richey had worked there.  The two-story building was considered a
fire hazard and had been so cited numerous times by the Fire Marshall.
The payment of fines coupled with minor repairs allowed the company to continue
production.  Furthermore, Biederman’s assembly line machinery was broken
down and worn out, much like its employees.

Richey
entered the building through a side door on the main floor, divided between the
canning operation and the warehouse.  Administrative offices occupied the
second floor of the seventy-five-year-old building.  There was no
passenger elevator.  As he walked through the mixing, cooking and canning
areas, Richey nodded at a few people he knew.  It was impossible to talk
above the noise of metal clanging on metal as the cans made their way along the
chain-driven assembly line.  He grimaced as a heavyset, bearded worker
ignored rulings posted on the wall and dipped a hairy, tattooed forearm into a
vat of grape juice, pulled out a thermometer and noted the temperature.
The building had the smell of over-cooked vegetables.  Richey never ate or
drank any of Biederman’s products.

When
they had been part of Campbell’s Soup Company a decade ago, Biederman’s made a
comprehensive line of canned foods and drinks.  Just before Richey signed
on, a group of local entrepreneurs bought the plant and decided to make a
limited line of soups and juices, as well as pork and beans, and market their
products regionally to grocery stores.  Their unadvertised canned goods
bore a generic label, and the wholesale price became the industry minimum in
parts of the Midwest.  Biederman’s was marginally profitable, but the tax
benefits, especially regarding depreciation, made it a good investment for the
short term.

Because
they were a marginal operation, persistent rumors of a shutdown made it
difficult to hire competent employees who planned to stay longer than a week or
month.  Biederman’s paid minimum wage for workers asked to do dangerous
work on the assembly line and heavy lifting in the warehouse.  The
majority of employees worked less than 40 hours a week so that they didn’t
qualify for benefits available to full-time employees, including health
insurance.  As a result, management compensated for the constant employee
turnover by allowing a temporary employment agency to have an office on the
premises.  The agency placement officers skimmed employee applications,
ignoring previous firings, warnings of mental instability and/or prison
sentences.  In effect, as Richey often said, wryly, Biederman’s hired
anybody whose pulse and I.Q. both averaged out to about 70.

In
fact, that’s the reason they hired Ace Semanski, despite his having a prison
record and being in violation of his parole terms, which required him to stay
in Michigan for a period of two years.  However, Ace never bothered to
report those details, and no one checked.  In addition, he transposed two
of his Social Security numbers, figuring he’d draw several weekly checks before
that became an issue.  Initially, he planned to be gone after that.

As
he walked into the warehouse, Richey glanced to his right where part of his
crew had gathered to gossip before the whistle blew, signaling the start of
work.  A conveyor belt emerged through an opening in the wall and funneled
labeled cans into a machine that belched black smoke as it packed and sealed
twenty-four cans to a cardboard carton.  As a result, the air in the
warehouse had a sooty feel and smelled like hot glue.  Some employees
liked to stand next to the machine and inhale the fumes, after which they were
high and even less effective during their shift.  Workers from the day
shift transferred the sealed boxes to wood pallets.  Forklift operators
moved the pallets to staging areas in the warehouse, and second-shift employees
loaded the boxes onto trucks or railroad cars shoved down a spur line.

Richey’s
corner office had large windows on two sides so he could monitor activity in
the warehouse and on the docks.  As he sat behind his desk and reviewed
the work roster, Richey sipped from a plastic bottle of tonic water laced with
vodka.  As usual, he was short-handed in the warehouse and many of those
present were undependable slackers.  His finger ran across the name of Ace
Semanski.  About that time, the knife thrower appeared in the open doorway.

Richey
looked warily at the powerfully built man with the long black hair pulled back
into a tight ponytail.  A bad case of teenager acne had pockmarked his
face.  Ace’s skin had a faint yellowish tint as if he hadn’t been in the
sunlight for years.  When he stripped off his shirt to work inside a
boxcar, even his hardened fellow workers looked in awe at his upper body, which
was all muscle, large blood veins and prison tattoos.  There were several
wicked-looking scars on his back and ribs.  Ace’s hands and knuckles were
extra-large, and it hurt to think about how it would feel to be hit by one of
his fists.

“What
can I do for you, Ace?”

“Just
wondering where you wanted me this evening, boss.”

Richey
motioned him to step into his office.  “Close the door.”

“You
want to talk about Friday night?”

“Yeah.
What are your thoughts?”

Ace
laughed.  “Thoughts?  I killed those two guys, lost all my money and
Marshon’s money at roulette, had a couple of beers and left.  What’s to
think about?”

Richey’s
mouth dropped open, as he obviously was taken aback by Ace’s devil-may-care
attitude regarding manslaughter, justified or not.

“Does
Marshon want something from me?  You said he was your friend.  Did he
ask you to talk to me?”

“We’re
good friends,” Richey responded, emphatically.  “I’ve worked for
him at The Wheel full-time for nearly four years, and part-time now and
then since, like over the weekend.”

“Great
sideline, I’d guess?  He must have some real juice to keep the cops at
bay, huh?”

“Yeah,
and something like what happened Friday night could shut him down permanently —
if it gets out.”

Ace
laughed and cracked the knuckles on his right hand.  “Hey, man, don’t
worry about me.  I don’t snitch to the cops.  Besides, they’d charge
me with something, since I didn’t report what happened.”

“Good,
that’s all I wanted to hear.  What’s your background, Ace?  You got
relatives here, or are you just passing through?”

“I
worked construction most my life.  I can operate some heavy machinery —
forklift, backhoe, grader.  I may stay here awhile, but I’ll likely move
on sooner rather than later.  Depends upon my opportunities, you know.”

Richey
smiled weakly, since it wasn’t what he had wanted to hear.  “Okay,
then.  Do me a favor.  Don’t talk about what happened at The Wheel.
If you need anything, see me first.  Marshon’s busy right now taking care
of things, but he won’t forget you.  Understand?”

“That’s
great, Richey.  It’s good to make friends after being in town for only a
few weeks.”

Richey
opened the door, walked outside his office and stood in front of a bulletin
board.  He took a clipboard from a hook.  “I can put you on a
forklift tonight, Ace.”

“That’s
good duty.  Thanks, Richey.”

“Don’t
thank me yet,” Richey replied.  “I changed forklift operators every night
last week because no one can do the job correctly.”  He handed the
clipboard and attached paperwork to Ace.  “The printout is organized by
product and production week, covering the last month.  Each product, like
grape juice, has its own two-letter code.  Grape Juice is GJ.  The
other codes are printed here.  They appear on each box, telling you its
contents.  The two-letter code is followed by four numbers.  The
first two denote the month — zero nine is September, for example — and the last
two, the day of the month.  Products are organized in the warehouse under
signs.  See ʼem up on the far wall,” Richey said, pointing.

Ace
squinted.  “Yeah, grape juice, chicken soup, pork and beans, and so on.”

“There’re
thirty-two cartons on a pallet.  The
printout for the evening will tell you how a product is going to ship, whether
by truck or rail, and the spot on the dock where you put the pallet.
Understand?”

“Yeah,
boss.”

“Start
with the oldest pallets in terms of production date and move ʼem.
Then, check and initial the box on the printout, indicating you moved that
product canned on that date to the proper loading spot.”

“Doesn’t
sound too hard.”

“You’d
be surprised.”

Ace
walked off and Richey turned to the other workers that had begun to gather
outside his office and check their posted assignments.  One of them
stepped forward and gave Richey a look of utter confusion, even panic.

“Whadaya
want me to do, Richey?” asked James Robert Long, known to everyone as
Country.  Richey recalled that he was Ace’s new buddy.

“Maggot
patrol, as usual, Country.”

Cans
left beyond their shipping date, as well as those improperly sealed, regularly
exploded inside the cartons, especially during the summer months when the
warehouse felt like a greenhouse.  As a result, Richey had created the
“maggot patrol.”  Two workers roamed the warehouse, checking boxes stacked
on pallets waiting to be shipped.  Boxes with large stains on them
indicated a can had exploded.  The workers pulled out that box, put it on
a handcart and wheeled it over to a central table, where they opened the box
and disposed of the exploded can or cans.  They put the maggots in a metal
can, doused them with lighter fluid and set them on fire.  The workers
then assembled twenty-four good cans of that particular product, put them into
a new box, sealed it, and put the box back on the pallet.  It was not a
task prized by the warehouse workers.

“Okay,
Richey, but I just don’t understand why we gotta take the white worms out of
the boxes?”

“We
have to replace the exploded cans because the buyer paid for twenty-four good
cans,” Richey patiently told Country.  “And, they don’t want maggots
crawling around their store, getting into other food products.”

“Where
do maggots come from?”  Country asked Richey.

“Whadaya
mean?”  Richey asked, looking up at the simpleton, who was about six-eight
and two-sixty.  He wore a dirty green John Deere cap, the same jeans, and
plaid, long-sleeved shirt he’d worn all week.  He reeked of body odor.

“How
do the little white worms get in the boxes?”

“They’re
larvae that hatch from fly eggs.”

Country
looked monumentally perplexed.  “What are larvae?”

Richey
said, slowly, “White worms.  Just get on with it, Country!”

Richey
went back to his office to complete some paperwork and have several more
“tonics.”  He kept a bottle of Absolut locked in the bottom drawer of a
file cabinet.  Periodically, he poured out about a third of a twelve-ounce
bottle of tonic water and refilled it with vodka.  He kept his vodka/tonic
water bottle on ice in a small chest that also contained a sandwich and an
apple.  Lately, he didn’t bother to eat much and had been steadily losing
weight.

Until
about six o’clock, Richey circulated among his staff, solving problems, such as
opening a jammed boxcar door, arbitrating arguments among workers, and
escorting one employee to the medical office after a box of cans fell on his
foot.  Of course, the worker wore tennis shoes rather than steel-toed
boots, as required by his employment contract.

At
six-thirty, the whistle blew again, signaling a half-hour unpaid lunch
break.  During that thirty-minute period, Richey ran a gambling operation
out of his office called “The Private Lottery,” although most players simply
referred to it as The Richey.

Bettors, which included about fifty employees at any
given time, purchased one or more two-digit numbers from 00 to 99, usually for
$2.50 each.  Richey
had the numbers printed in black on red poker chips.  Players drew chips out of
a fish bowl.  The 50 cents was Richey’s
administration fee, and the remainder became the betting pool.  It was
admittedly small potatoes representing the general financial plight of
Biederman's employees.  The winning number matched the first two digits of
the state lottery’s “Pick Four” drawing, held six days a week at eleven p.m.
The usual $200 Richey pot had four prizes: $100, $50, and two $25-dollar
winners.  The single-ticket odds of twenty-five-to-one to win back your
bet at least tenfold made The Richey one of the best bets in town for
the money.  All
players had favorite numbers, of course, and Richey tried to devise a system to
accommodate them, but it was an administrative hassle and led to endless
resentment and arguments.  At least once a month, Richey held a “high-stakes”
game in which tickets cost five bucks.

It
made Richey a minimum of $250 a week under the table, which had helped finance
his son Ethan’s college education.  That, and the money he made working
some weekends at The Wheel.  Unfortunately, Richey’s only kid
thought his old man was simply a loser.

Davron,
one of the canning line cooks, pimp-rolled into Richey’s office and threw his
money and numbers onto the desk, as if it were a requirement of his job.
“The onliest one who wins at this game is you, Richey.”

“That’s
right,” said his buddy, Fax, whose speech seemed limited to punctuating
Davron’s remarks.

“Now,
The Wheel, that there’s a real game, and I picked me up some real change
there on Saturday night.”

Richey
knew that was a typical gambler’s lie and he directed a withering look at
Davron, who got the message and looked away.  The first and only rule of The
Wheel was that no one talked about The Wheel, else Marshon would be
around to talk to them.

“So
if you fuckin’ niggers don’t like this game, quit playin’,” Ace said, pushing
his way into the small office.  Everyone gave way to the tall man with the
scary-looking physique and eyes.

Davron
didn’t want to appear intimidated.  “Suck my dick, redneck,” he said to
Ace.

Ace
sneered.  “I’m from the South Side of Chicago, asshole.  A protégé of
Sensei Snake Simmons.  We stomp loud-mouth niggers like you for fun.”

“Okay, okay,” Richey said, using his stage voice and
the authority of his position to head off a fight.  “Let’s cut out the
love talk.  We don’t use racial epithets here, including Nigger and
Redneck.  No fighting.  It’s all in the employment contract you
signed and obviously didn’t read.  Do it again and you’re fired.
Now, all of you who want to play the lottery, put your money in the cigar box
so I can see it.  If you got change coming, take it out of the bowl.  Pull your
chip or chips out of the fish bowl and get back to work.”

Richey paid winners after work at The
Stadium, or the beginning of the next shift.  He didn’t think management would do
anything other than slap his hands if they found out about the lottery.
It would be amazing if they didn’t know about it already, although Beems, the
second shift manager, hadn’t come around once during lunch break for the entire
last year.  Richey figured Beems had just turned his head to the obvious.
Besides, every shift at the plant had a betting pool going on for the World
Series, Super Bowl, NCAA Final Four, and a variety of other sporting
events.  The front office brass even got into that action, so how could
they be hypocritical about The Richey?

About
nine-thirty, Richey noticed a man walking toward his office from the area of
the loading docks.  He wore pressed jeans, a Navy pea coat and matching
stocking hat.  Something in his confident, graceful walk told Richey the
man didn’t work in the warehouse.  Richey began to smile as he finally
recognized the intruder.

When
Marshon Johnson walked into his office, Richey said, with mock seriousness,
“We’re not hiring your kind today.”

“You
mean someone with intelligence and ambition?”

The
handsome black man and the middle-aged white manager with the chiseled facial
features and well-coiffed hair hugged each other with genuine affection, as if
they hadn’t spent the weekend spinning The Wheel.

“What
are you doing here?” Richey asked, sitting down.

“Had
a hankering for a bowl of hot soup,” Marshon said, flopping into the chair in
front of Richey’s desk.

“We
got a ham and pea soup guaranteed not to contain more than ten percent mouse
turds.  I suggest a vodka tonic instead,” Richey said, taking a bottle
from his ice chest and tossing it to Marshon, who caught it with one hand.

“Richey,
tell me again why the fuck you are still working here?  How long’s it been
now?”

“About
three years,” Richey answered.  “I’ve put down roots, kinda like the
potatoes rotting in the back of the warehouse.  Either that, or it has
something to do the third law of thermodynamics.”

Marshon
interrupted to provide the punch line:  “The tendency of a body at rest to
remain at rest … until moved by an outside force.  Well, that force may be
at work, especially after Friday night.”

Richey
rose and shut the door.  “Anything new?”

“We
identified the two robbers, located their families, did some jawboning, paid
some hush money, and those boys will be buried tomorrow.”

“You
can do that without the police or anyone finding out?”

“If
you know the right funeral director.  As for official paperwork, that’s
always for sale, Richey.  I can get you a new birth certificate indicating
you’re twenty-one years old and African American, if you like.”

“Next
time I go for an audition, I’ll remember that.”

Marshon
shifted in his chair and frowned.  “The problem is: about three hundred
people or more saw this whole thing go down.  Keeping a lid on that will
be difficult, to say the least.  They could charge me with being an
accessory, although that would be a stretch.  I was taking a piss at the
time and didn’t even see the knife-throwing exhibition.  I’ll probably
have to pay the two grieving mommas a monthly stipend for several years.
If the media gets wind of what happened, it could be déjà vu all over again,
like it was four years ago.”

At
that time, the largest citywide newspaper, the Star, ran an expose
regarding The Wheel.  The news lead was that a local entrepreneur
was attempting to restructure The Wheel as a charitable gambling
organization in conformity with state laws.  The article quoted several
state officials who ridiculed that idea.  The reporter sensationalized the
dark underbelly of The Wheel as a breeding ground for excessive
drinking, illegal gambling, drug use, and fights.  Several players had
been knifed and/or shot under various circumstances.  One had died only a
month before the article ran.  Jemmy and his cadre of bouncers had put
several players in the hospital.  Moreover, there had been nearly a dozen
robberies.  A policeman called to an attempted robbery had been shot and
wounded.

“After
the Star ran its expose, the politicians and city hall bureaucrats rose
up on their hind legs and began to howl,” Marshon said, snorting in
disgust.  “Half of them was on my payroll.  All of them called and
told me how they was just talking to the microphones and really was on my
side.  Still, I had to shut down for a couple of month, as you’ll
recall.  I lost at least a hundred grand before I was able to smooth the
waters.  Worse of all, I nearly lost Gail.  And, you had to knuckle
under to Shirley and quit.”

Richey
nodded sadly, but didn’t respond.

“It
was nice to reminisce a week ago about how you and I and Gail met,” Marshon
said, chuckling.

It
happened more than six years ago during a production of Showboat, staged
at the outdoor Starlight Theater located in Canyon Park.  Richey had won
the lead role as Steve Baker, and a gorgeous black woman, Abigail Thomas, then
a university student, was chosen to play Julie LaVerne.  Marshon had
previously spotted Gail in Tremont Plaza, was captivated, and began following
her.  Richey called it stalking, although Marshon insisted he was only
trying to broaden his circle of friends.  He followed Gail to a rehearsal
and cajoled the director into giving him a non-speaking part as a
dockworker.  When someone dropped out of the chorus, Marshon
volunteered.  It turned out that he had a surprisingly good baritone
voice.

“You
remember how you and I and Gail used to lie in the grass during breaks in the Showboat
rehearsals?” Richey asked.

“I
often think about that golden summer,” Marshon said, pensively.  “Gail
would regale us with stories about college, and you would sing show
tunes.  You really were a ham, Richey!”

Richey
laughed loudly.  “Me!  You tried everything to impress Gail,
including pointing out all the star constellations.  I admit that was
impressive, especially since I can never even see ʼem, let alone name
them.”

Marshon
chuckled.  “It was my Uncle Clyde’s hobby.  Many a night I sat on the
front porch when I was a kid and he pointed out the constellations in the clear
night sky, and named them.”

Richey
had been an aspiring actor since college.  It wasn’t a hobby, but rather
an obsession.  He’d married Shirley right after graduation and they had
Ethan shortly thereafter.  For the next decade, Richey worked a variety of
jobs to support his family, mainly in sales and retail, but he never really
committed to any occupation.  In fact, he had to quit a job at an office
supplies store to take the lead role in Showboat, when his manager
wouldn’t let him off early to attend rehearsals.

After
the musical ended, Richey eagerly accepted Marshon’s offer to work at The
Wheel, first as a blackjack dealer and later as a rover.  He’d been
happy in that role and Marshon soon promoted him to head rover.  Then, the
Star newspaper ran the expose on The Wheel.

Shirley
had been appalled and afraid.  She insisted that Richey quit his
job.  He did, but was equally adamant that she support his effort to
launch an acting career in Hollywood.  Quid pro quo.  Their son Ethan
had started college, so perhaps it wasn’t an auspicious time to make such a
decision.  However, Richey had some money set aside, so he moved to L.A.,
auditioned for roles and moonlighted as a blackjack dealer in an L.A.
casino.  Shirley returned to work as a middle school teacher.  They
kept their marriage going long distance.  The money issue worked out, but
the career didn’t, even though Richey got a few minor movie parts, as well as
roles in several commercials.  Eventually, he returned home, defeated and
disheartened.

Shirley
still insisted he take a “regular” job; hence, he wound up at Biederman’s,
mainly because their health insurance package for managers included dental.
Both Shirley and Ethan needed expensive dental work at the time.  The
salary was a modest $34,000.  Ironically, two years after he came to work
at Biederman’s, Shirley left and moved to Chicago.  Only then did Richey
begin to work for Marshon again, filling in some weekends.

“After
you came back from L.A., you should have come to work for me again, full-time,”
Marshon said.

“I
know, but Shirley wouldn’t allow it and I was trying to save my marriage.”

“The
offer still stands.  Hell, you can run my apartment business if you
want.  I’ll double or triple your salary.”

Richey
stood and became very animated.  He did a few dance steps, causing Marshon
to laugh and begin clapping time.  “I could organize the girls into a
stage show, like the Folies Bergère,” Richey said.  “We could
advertise!  Draw in a helluva crowd.  Get a review in the Star!
Shirley would have loved that.”

“That
would be the kind of additional publicity I don’t need right now,” Marshon
replied.  “I understood your problem with Shirley, brother, because I have
a similar problem.  After the Star ran that article, Gail dumped
me, too, as you’ll recall.  Her old man, the Judge, lobbied against me
constantly.  To be honest, few women will accept what I do for a living,
especially the apartment business.”

“As
I recall, when you and Gail first started dating, you convinced her you were in
the real estate business,” Richey said.

Marshon
feigned hurt feelings.  “I was and am, sorta.  Anyway, it took me
another year to rebuild The Wheel with a new image, and to regain Gail’s
trust and affection.”

“Did
you have a premonition about Friday night?”  Richey asked.  “Before
we even opened the tables, you told me you were thinking about making a change
and wanted to talk with me about my lottery.”

Marshon
nodded.  “Not a premonition, really, although I’m wondering now if the
whole episode couldn’t be seen in the tea leaves, or Tarot cards.  It’s
just that the Friday night potential always exists when The Wheel is in
operation.  You know that.  And, the bribes I’m paying are increasing
at a faster rate than profits.  It seems a good time to move on.  You
gotta be thinking about doing something new, too, Richey.  I mean,
Shirley’s been gone now for a year, man.”

Richey
tossed an empty plastic tonic water bottle into the trashcan and took another
out of the ice chest.  “Yeah, you’re right.  Biederman’s is the
bottom of the barrel.  On the other hand, all jobs suck.  Most people
hate what they do for a paycheck.  I guess I’m here because I don’t have
to work hard.  I’m flying under the radar.  My lottery and part-time
work at The Wheel keeps me in pin money.  I get to close down the
bars in the early morning hours and sleep in late.”

Marshon
understood the real situation.  His friend was still grieving dual
failures — his marriage and his acting career.

“Skinny
Walker came to see me when I was in the reformatory at age fifteen, sentenced
to three years for stealing a car,” Marshon said.  “He recited his
philosophy that day, which was that life was only about making money.
Regular jobs are for chumps.  There is no equality of race or income,
politics is a farce, and legality is a relative term.  Skinny was a
philosopher for the ages.”

Richey
knew that the legendary Skinny Walker had taken Marshon under his wing when
Marshon was still a teenager, although Richey wasn’t exactly certain why.
He surmised that Skinny and Marshon’s dad had been close friends.  There
may even have been some three-way relationship involving the two men and
Marshon’s mother.

“When
he turned The Wheel over to me when I was twenty-five, he said it
wouldn’t survive another five years, especially competing against the
riverboats and online gambling.  He was right, of course, although older
folks don’t live in the virtual world.  They still like to get out in the
real world on the weekends.  Skinny told me to diversify, and I
have.  But, I need a new direction now, which is why I thought of you and
your lottery.  When you were working as a blackjack dealer in L.A.,
Richey, did you ever get in on one of those private poker games for whales?”

Richey
nodded.  “I filled in a couple of times for dealers who had some type of
emergency.  One game I remember was at a private home in Bel Air.
Mainly movie producers, although Ben Affleck and Leonardo DiCaprio were
there.  It was a Texas Hold ʼEm poker game with a
quarter-million-dollar buy-in.  Eight guys, two million dollars in play.”

“I
read on a Website about a woman who hosted and organized such games,” Marshon
said.  “She didn’t charge admission or take a rake, because that’s
apparently illegal where she was operating.  But, she was making four to
five million a year in tips.  Tips!  And, I’m busting my nuts every
weekend, taking a chance of winding up in jail for years — or, worse yet, dead
— all for maybe a million-five in profit.”

Richey
knew something was in the wind.  Marshon had never before revealed such
financial details.  “You’re thinking about starting up a private game for
whales?”  Richey asked, astounded.  “This is the Midwest, man.
There ain’t any fish like that here.  Besides, you have to earn their
trust to start with.  All rich folk and celebs are gun-shy about
publicity.”

“I
understand all that.  But, if I could get such a list and start to move in
those circles, would you be interested in coming with me?”

Richey
laughed.  “And leave all this?  Why me?”

Marshon
shook his head as if the answer was obvious.  “You got experience in all
forms of gambling, Richey.  No one knows odds better than you do.
You’re a great actor.  You can charm the pants off the players.
You’re an experienced dealer.  And, you’re white.  I know we
got a black president and times have changed, blah blah, but there’s still a
ton of racists out there.  You could be my beard with those guys.”

“You
put it all together, Marshon, and I’m in.”

“What
about the new woman in your life, Carmen?  Will she be a problem?”

“Probably.
But since she’s beautiful, smart and successful, she won’t stay with me,
anyway.”

“Well,
as you probably know, Gail will be a problem for me, too.  I doubt she’d
relocate.  Anyway, why don’t the four of us get together soon?  Maybe
the women will hit it off and that could be a positive.  We’d get a read
on how they might react.”

“Sounds
good, but I’ll bet you a thousand they say no, and I’ll give you odds of five-to-one.”

“I
ain’t taking that bet.”  Marshon sat forward in his chair.  “Okay, to
the other problem of the moment, and the other reason I stopped by.  What
about this Ace Semanski character?  Is he still here?”

“Yep.”

“He
say anything about Friday night?”

“Said
not to worry, that he was on board.  I believe him, because I sense he’s
had some run-ins with the cops before.”

“I
got rid of Friday night’s surveillance tapes, although it was the end of the
evening before I thought about it.  But the way Ace took down those two
guys, that was unique, Richey.  People who saw it will talk about it the
rest of their lives.  Even I can’t get over it.  Semanski kills two
men with throwing knives and it doesn’t even faze him.  He talked back to
Jemmy!  Nobody in their right mind does that.  Then, he tells me to
put their bodies through a wood chipper!  All he wants is free beer and a
few hundred bucks to blow on roulette.”

Richey
agreed.  “He’s scary and dangerous.  Probably unpredictable, too.”

“Like
I said, no matter how much we try to put the fear of God into them, people on
the East Side will gossip about Friday night.  Word will get out.  It
won’t be hard for the cops to find Ace.  Many people heard that he works
here, for you.  My fear is that if someone from the County Attorney’s
office puts the screws to him, he’ll confess to the killings as an act of
self-defense.  Then, they’ll drop the charges against him in return for
him testifying against me for not reporting the killings and for disposing of
the bodies.  Small fish for a big fish.  Shit, they could indict half
my crew, including you.”

“I
looked at Ace’s employment record, at least as he revealed it to Biederman’s,”
Richey said.  “He claims to have been a construction worker in Michigan
for the past three years.  Why would he move down here and take this job?”

“He’s
a rolling stone, or he’s got warrants, which is even worse in a way.  It
makes him vulnerable to law enforcement.”

“So,
make Ace a deal he can’t refuse.”

“My
thinking is to offer him five grand and suggest strongly that he move on.
He doesn’t, Jemmy will come by and talk to him.”

Richey
went in search of Ace and brought him back to his office.  The three men
looked decidedly uncomfortable in the small space, with the door shut.
Marshon stood and handed an envelope to Ace.  “Here’s five grand.”

“Who
else you want me to kill,” Ace said, and grinned.

“I
think it would be best for both you and me if you moved on, Ace,” Marshon
said.  “I can’t control the rumors.  Hundreds of people saw you and
saw what happened.  They know your name, and that you work here.  You
can expect the police to come calling.  You got friends and family in the
area?”

“Got
no family anywhere to speak of.”

“There
you go.  That makes it easy.”

Ace
took out the cash, thumbed through the bills, folded them and put them into a
front pocket of his jeans.  He dropped the envelope on Richey’s
desk.  “Thanks, Marshon.”

“You
bet, Ace.  Let me know if you need any help moving out of town.”

After
Ace left, Marshon looked at Richey.  “Keep an eye on him and let me know
when he leaves — or doesn’t leave.”

“Don’t
worry about it,” Richey said.  “You’ll never see him again.”

Given
the result of his life decisions to date, Richey’s judgment was suspect to
begin with, but his assessment regarding Ace Semanski would prove to be way off
the mark.

4/Gotta
Have Money

After talking with Richey and
hopefully striking a deal with Ace, Marshon drove across town toward his
apartment.  Maybe he had put out the fire.  It wasn’t the first time
a couple of hoods had tried to rob The Wheel.  When he first took
over from Skinny Walker, it was a regular occurrence, in fact.  Then, the
law of the frontier prevailed.  Most of the gamblers were packing and they
often became instant lawmen, shooting it out with anyone who threated their
stash or the game in which they hoped to earn a stash.

Because those occurrences brought the police, Marshon
revamped his security operation.  Principally, he put in the metal
detector, ordered additional pat-downs, instituted hand stamps, and didn't let
players leave and re-enter at will.  Over the past two years, no robbers
had actually gotten inside The Wheel until Friday night.  There had
been a couple of attempted robberies outside, one of which resulted in the
death of a player.  In that case, Jemmy Shoemaker tracked down the
robber/shooter and turned him over to the police.  That pleased everyone —
the police, players and the East Side community.

The current situation could undermine all of Marshon’s
accomplishments.  His community support was primarily among older
residents.  The Wheel was not necessarily a symbol of East Side
pride and independence among younger residents.  If they gambled, they did
so online, or at the state-sponsored casinos.  Many wanted to win a seat
in a game on the World Poker Tour.  Some within the community openly said The
Wheel was an embarrassment that reinforced many stereotypes about the
African-American community.  The political climate was changing,
too.  There was a new breed of black politicians who talked like
Republicans, with emphasis upon the need to bring traditional businesses and
jobs to the East Side.  Mostly white-owned businesses offering
minimum-wage jobs, but “job creators” didn’t care about that.  Like
Marshon, they were only interested in profit.

Now, two men were dead and soon to be buried — and
Marshon hoped the circumstances of their deaths would go away, too.
However, he calculated that someone or some group would use this situation as a
lever to dislodge him.  The first rule of poker was to know when to hold
ʼem and know when to fold ʼem.  It was always the difference
between winning and losing.

It was a propitious time for Marshon to turn away from
the past toward the future — a future he had planned for meticulously.
What he did now would determine whether he wound up dead, in prison or enjoyed
life on an idyllic Caribbean island.  As Marshon drove through
neighborhoods where he “ran” as a youth, he thought about the past, mainly to
remember and review the lessons he should have learned.

Marshon had only a shadowy remembrance of his father,
also a gambler, who left town on a trip to Chicago and never came back.
To this day, Marshon didn’t know exactly what happened to him, although his
Uncle Clyde hinted that his father had been killed in a robbery.  Marshon
did not know whether his father was the robber, or the victim.  His
devastated mother became a heroin addict and prostitute and died when he was
eleven, leaving him to be raised by his Grandmother, who he called Nanna, and his
Uncle Clyde, who once had been a railroad porter, although in later years he
worked as night auditor for a seedy East Side motel.

Marshon had dropped out of high school at fifteen and
asked Skinny Walker for a job.  Weighing about a buck forty, Skinny was
nevertheless a big man on the East Side of town.  He’d invented The
Wheel, which he started in the back of an old work van that traveled around
the community.  At first, he scheduled regular stops in alleys, parking
lots, and abandoned houses, before setting up shop in his own home.

As a boy, Marshon had heard Skinny tell the story many
times about his first craps “table” — a rectangular piece of felt with
chalked-in squares, lettering and numbers.  He laid it on the van floor so
the players could crowd around the open sliding door while Skinny worked the
felt inside.  On the East Side, you could reopen the debate at any given
time by asking why Skinny called his evolved operation “The Wheel,” when
it started as a portable craps table.  Some argued you couldn’t call the
operation Craps, because everyone would drop the “s.”  Similarly, Poker
might be confused with a house of ill repute.  Most begrudgingly accepted
the conclusion that a roulette wheel was most symbolic of gambling, although
real gamblers viewed that game with contempt.  It was pure luck, no skill
involved.  Now, the name symbolized the question Marshon always had in the
back of his mind: when should he stop spinning The Wheel, figuratively?

Marshon started working at The Wheel as a
clean-up boy.  Skinny and Marshon’s dad had been close friends.
Despite his new job, Marshon thought he needed more money so he and several
friends stole a set of wheels one evening, planning to joyride for a few hours
and then sell the car on the streets.  They got less than ten blocks
before a cop pulled them over.  No license tag.  It had been his
first harsh lesson in the consequences of unplanned crime.

The judge sentenced him to the state reformatory until
he turned eighteen.  Skinny came to see him on the first available
visiting day.  They’d sat in the corner of a visiting room along with all
the other relatives who’d come to visit their wayward kin.  Most were
black.

“I know a guard here,” Skinny said.  “A
captain.  I called him at his home last night and talked about you.”

“Why?”

“Asked him to look after you in here, boy.  You’re
pretty.  Someone’s gonna be wantin’ to stick their dick in you.”

“I can take care of myself,” he’d said bravely, although
quaking inside.

“Yeah, you’re doin’ a helluva job so far, Marshon.”
Skinny had a pencil-thin mustache to match his physique.  “This
experience will be a turnin’ point for you, Marshon,” Skinny had
continued.  “Either you’ll go on to be a street hood and graduate to state
and federal pens, and eventually the graveyard, or you’ll try somethin’
different.”

“What you do is illegal, Skinny,” he’d shot back,
defiantly.  “The cops could bust you any day.”

Skinny nodded, carefully placing an unfiltered Pall Mall
between his lips.  Eventually, he succumbed to lung cancer.  “True,
but I probably got enough money to buy my way out of any prison time.
Money corrupts everything, Marshon, including the law.  Or, you could say
money allows you to use the law to your advantage.  Don’t get me wrong,
son, I’m a crook.  Yes, indeedy.  I’d just as soon you finished high
school and got a law degree or went to work in the stock market.  Now,
those are legal ways to steal a fortune.

“But, no, you be a cool dude, so you went out onto the
streets like all those niggers who want to hustle and deal.”  Skinny
snorted contemptuously.  “Small time shit leadin’ nowhere.  I may be
a gambler, Marshon, but I got a nice bank account and if someone had taken the
time to sit down with me when I was your age, I’da had a whole different
life.  So, you either listen up or I got better places to be.  I’m
only here ’cause me and your dad was tight and I still owe him, wherever he
is.”  Skinny raised his eyes toward the ceiling.

Marshon never discovered the nature of the debt, but he
had the good sense that afternoon to keep his mouth shut.

“Some niggers got a big chip on their shoulders like it
was their birthright.  They’s always bitchin’ about racism and how the
white man is holdin’ ʼem back.  They get mean and don’t give a shit
about anyone ’cept themselves.  Fuck over their friends and family, do
somethin’ stupid, and die face down on the street.

“Let me tell you two important things, Marshon.
People really are the same under the skin like Martin Luther King said.
It’s nothin’ more than pigment.  Every race has got an equal share of smart
guys and dumb guys, good guys and bad guys.  A white guy and a black guy
throw the dice, snake eyes comes up an equal amount of times for each
guy.  That’s a fact.”

At the time, Marshon couldn’t make heads or tails out of
Skinny’s philosophy.

“Second thing is, Martin Luther King’s wrong about
equality.  Little black and white kids might play together, but they’ll
damn sure go their own way once they grow up.  That’s also a fact, despite
all the changes we seen in this country.  So don’t spend no time worryin’
about equality and gettin’ white folks to like you and treat you fair.
With a few exceptions, it ain’t gonna happen.”

Marshon had understood that even back then.

“Yeah, a black man starts several rungs down the ladder
and he has to work harder to prove himself,” Skinny had continued.  “Some
doors are forever closed to you.  Don’t worry about that, either.
Forget all the anger, forget all the integration bullshit, and don’t worry
about equality and justice.  Those is just abstractions.
Distractions.  Life in the U.S. of A. is only about one thing –– making
money.  That’s the only game in town.  Anybody who makes big money
bends the rules, Marshon.  Breaks the hell out of ʼem on many
occasions.  And, it’s allowed everywhere, no matter the business.  That’s
a fact.

“Now, lots of people are gonna tell you money is the
root of all evil, especially those psalm-singin’ niggers you find in church
every Sunday.  Life for them is all about being God-fearin’ and helpin’
other folks.

“Fuck that shit.  We can’t ever know if the
life-after-death dream is true or not, until we experience it personally.
So, concentrate on the here and now and take care of number one.  You can
do that and be a good man.  In fact, you don’t do that, you won’t be a happy
man.  Don’t neglect your education and I ain’t talkin’ just about
school.  Your Uncle Clyde is one of the best-educated men around and he’s
night auditor at a fleabag motel.  Get yourself a laptop, get on the
Internet and start learnin’.  Knowledge is power.  I’m talkin’ about
findin’ ways to get money and have money make you money.  That’s how the
people who actually run this country do it.  They damn sure don’t do no
manual labor.  That’s a fact.”

Marshon could still remember Skinny as he lit up another
Pall Mall.  “You got enough money, Marshon, you’ll automatically win
people’s respect and admiration.  Getting big money is always a challenge
— an excitin’ and rewardin’ game.  All colors blend into green, my
boy.  In fact, with enough money everything’s better.  Life is
better, love is better, your family is happier, you is happier.  Hell,
death is even better if you die rich, Marshon.  You can do somethin’ with
your money to help others, or get even with your enemies.  You don’t have
money, you don’t have jack shit.  The money game is the only game in town
worth playin’, Marshon.  That’s a fact.”

Having given his philosophy lecture, Skinny pocketed his
Pall Malls, stood, and prepared to leave the youth prison.

“When you get out of here, Marshon, you come back ’round
to The Wheel.  I still ain’t gonna pay you no more than minimum
wage.  If you’re smart, The Wheel I set spinnin’ can take you
places you never dreamed of.  If you’re smart.  And, if you plan for
the future.  Good, practical plans, no pipe dreams.”  Skinny tapped
the side of his head.  “Always be thinkin’ six steps ahead.  Life is
a chess game, too.  You ain’t payin’ attention, somebody’ll fuck your
queen and kill the king.”

When Skinny decided to step aside nearly a decade later,
he tapped Marshon to succeed him.  Marshon, who was twenty-five then,
outmaneuvered several competitors.  He’d made The Wheel bigger and
better, and diversified as well.  On paper, he was a
multi-millionaire.  He’d provided start-up funds to become a silent
partner in a restaurant, beauty shop, car repair garage, video rental store,
and a janitorial service run by Widja.  A couple of white entrepreneurs
from the suburbs were courting him to come in with them on a Subway franchise
and a microbrewery.

All in all, it was a nice portfolio, except in most
cases his share of profits wasn’t legally guaranteed by contracts.
Marshon was a silent, invisible partner in most of his businesses.  Those
deals had been made on the basis of a handshake.  His share of the profits
depended on the goodwill — and fear — that existed between him and his
partners.  Marshon made certain all of them met Jemmy Shoemaker.

By way of compensation, Marshon didn’t pay taxes on most
of that income.  Unfortunately, at the very time he should be planning to
move on before his house of cards tumbled or the IRS drew a bead on him,
Marshon was relatively cash-poor as a result of too many investments, too many
business expenses, and having poured too much money into his secret island
home.

∞
∞  ∞

It was after ten
o’clock and dark by the time Marshon parked in front of the apartment building
he owned and lived in.  He didn’t worry that the local hoods would tamper
with or try to steal the BMW 435i coupe.  They knew they’d have to deal
with Jemmy Shoemaker then.

Nevertheless, before getting out of the car, Marshon
looked around, scouting the terrain for enemies just the way his ancestors in
Africa probably had done when they were walking through head-high savanna
grass.  You never knew when a “snake” might rear up its ugly head and
squirt some venom your way.  The apartment building took up the middle
two-thirds of the block, flanked by an old house and a corner convenience
store, where iron bar covered every window.  Across the street were three
old houses, circa 1940s, occupied by elderly individuals who seldom came
outside.

Five years ago, the structurally sound three-story brick
building was a steal at $575,000, even though it was a mess inside.
Initially, Marshon considered running The Wheel exclusively inside the
building, as Skinny had done in the middle years.  His Nanna and Uncle
Clyde officially purchased the building, putting twenty percent down out of
their own savings account, into which Marshon made regular but not overly large
deposits.  They’d paid the mortgage in full earlier this year.
Marshon spent nearly $200,000 on interior renovations to the twelve
apartments.  On the third floor, he had a wall knocked down to make two
apartments into one, where he lived.

As always is the case with real estate, the location
recommended the investment, since the apartment building was located halfway
between the  J. T. Warren Convention Center complex, just south of the old
downtown area, and Tremont Plaza, about forty-five blocks south.  The
Convention Center and the Plaza both had upscale retail stores, restaurants,
bars, theaters, nightclubs and hotels.

Marshon had become a pimp quite by accident.  About
the time the renovations were finished, several working girls offered to be
renters.  They wanted him to become their “manager.”  Boudra, their
spokesperson, presented an intriguing budget.  Marshon struggled with the
decision for weeks before agreeing to their offer.  For psychological
reasons, he really couldn’t turn it down.  When he was eight years old, he
went to live with his Nanna and Uncle Clyde because his mother had entered “the
life.”  She then became a shadowy figure in the family; someone they
talked about infrequently and reluctantly.  When his mother was sober and in
the right mood, she’d show up and shower him with gifts and affection.
Then, she’d disappear for months on end.  Marshon resented her, loved her,
and hated her.  The day someone found her body in a vacant lot, he just
shrugged when told the news.  Later, in his room, he cried for
hours.  Even now, he thought about her at least once a week; thought about
what should have been.

Maybe it was misguided and pathetic, but Marshon
couldn’t turn down that opportunity to help those like his mother.  There
had to be some way to make it a safe business for those who were going to work
in the world’s oldest profession anyway.  In addition, his reward for such
good intentions turned out to be a source of revenue that, over time, nearly
equaled his net profits from The Wheel.  Plus, the “apartment
business” wasn’t as visible as gambling.  It was safer, even sedate, by
comparison.  He never referred to it as The Whorehouse, but rather
the “apartment business.”

When the women began working out of their apartments,
Marshon gained total control of the business, which was impossible when most of
the women hung out on street corners and in bars.  Boudra had always done
business through her own Website.  What she lacked was protection.

Jemmy Shoemaker had the first apartment inside the front
door, which a visitor could only unlock by entering a code on a keypad.
Otherwise, Jemmy buzzed them in.  He changed the code weekly.  An
elaborate video surveillance system allowed Jemmy to size up the
customers.  He wasn’t shy about grilling a John who aroused his
suspicions.  The $8,000 per month salary Marshon paid Jemmy actually came
out of the building revenue, not the profits of The Wheel.

Rowdiness and fights in the building were rare.  In
fact, a stately atmosphere prevailed and that, in turn, became a positive
marketing tool.  John’s second greatest need is security.  The third
is comfort.  Having a permanent apartment allowed the women to provide
attractive amenities to regular Johns, including their favorite brand of alcohol
and a closet where regulars could keep a change of clothes and other personal
items.  One regular came every Sunday afternoon for a quickie, followed by
three hours of watching televised sporting events.  Most of the Johns were
white and all but two of the hookers were black.  It was temporary
integration dictated by economics.  Skinny’s philosophy held water once
again.

The hookers drummed up most of their own business,
although they and Marshon agreed upon a pricing schedule.  In return for
allowing the hookers to operate out of his building, provide them security
services, and make various necessary pay-offs to law enforcement, local and
state officials, Marshon took 30 percent of their gross income.  A local
cadre of cabbies, hotel desk clerks and bartenders discreetly directed business
to the building, while attempting to heed Marshon’s warning not to send any
“trash” his way.  After evaluating the customers (both before and after
they conducted their business) Jemmy would go around and pay referral fees,
which generally ranged from five to twenty bucks.

Marshon established several inviolate rules.  He
immediately evicted any of the working girls if they sold drugs in the
building, took in boarders or friends, even for a night, or attracted a
low-class of customers who caused trouble and brought the police.  Out
that night; no excuses accepted or second chances given.  In four years,
he’d only kicked out two renters.

From the beginning, Marshon screened apartment
applicants.  They had to have experience and intelligence, as well as be
healthy, relatively attractive women.  Even more important, he looked for
common sense and business savvy.

He treated the “working women” with ultimate respect,
insisting on a business arrangement, not a master-slave relationship.
Marshon even carried the working women in the apartments as ghost employees at
several of his legitimate businesses, so he could provide them with health
insurance.  He required them to submit to regular medical checkups.
He lobbied constantly for the use of condoms.  He never personally availed
himself of their services, because they would remind him of the mother he
barely knew.

Needless to say, his employees were loyal to a fault,
which was good business.  Because of the trust that resulted, Marshon
often did business with the women who got out of the “life.”  Shavani the
Spiritualist was one example.  The former hooker turned psychic ran a
profitable business in a storefront over on Troost.  She found out things
about her clients that Marshon had used for profit and political advantage on
more than one occasion.  They occasionally went to dinner together.

The cops and government officials he bribed begrudgingly
allowed his operation to exist because it indirectly cut down street crime and
reduced the visual presence of this inevitable, but unsavory, business.
That, too, was good for business.  In fact, many police were serviced
regularly in his building, although nearly all of them demanded “freebies,”
which galled Marshon to no end, although it coincided with Skinny’s perceptive
philosophy of life.  Hypocrisy and the bending of the law were pervasive
and one best not let that be too upsetting.  Swim with the current.

Marshon currently rented the apartments for $1,000 a
month, each.  However, he never saw any of that money, since his Nanna and
Uncle Clyde technically owned the building.  The rent income went into an
investment account managed indirectly by Marshon’s lawyer, Mort Saperstein.

Marshon entered a five-digit number code on the security
keypad and the front door to the apartment building buzzed open.  He
knocked on Jemmy’s door and waited to be let in.

“What’s up?”  Marshon asked, collapsing on the
sofa.

“You mean about tonight or Friday night?”

“Both.”

“I made two copies of the VFW surveillance disk.
The original is in your apartment, one’s under a floorboard at my mom’s place,
where I used to stash my porn, and Widja’s got one.  I talked to a bunch
of people in the community and asked them to help spread the word that this
situation didn’t happen.  But, somebody’s gonna talk, you know.”

“Probably.  We’ll just have to deal with whatever
comes up.”

“What about this Ace guy?”

“Richey and I just talked to him.  I gave him five
grand to get out of town.  I think he’ll go, soon.  If not, you can
pay him a visit and help him pack.”

“If someone talks, I’ll put the fear of God into
them.”  Jemmy stirred wearily from his chair and stood.  Today,
instead of the colorful maroon suit, he wore jeans and a black sweatshirt that
he’d had specially imprinted with red lettering that read: DON’T FUCK WITH
ME.  His rock-solid physique resulted from a taxpayer-financed prison
weight-lifting program that extended several years beyond their reformatory
days.  Tattoos covered his spectacular muscles, although the ink was hard
to read on the black skin.

“So, anything important go on in the building over the
weekend?”

“I’m tryin’ to catch up, man.  Talked to some of
the hookers today.  It’s business as usual as far as I can tell.”

Jemmy walked toward one of the two bedrooms, and Marshon
rose and followed.  A video monitoring system occupied one entire
wall.  Each of eight monitors projected a live feed from video cameras
hidden in each of the building’s “working apartments.”  Another monitor
displayed a split image from one camera monitoring the building entrance and
another providing a panoramic view of the street.  An L-shaped desk
occupied one corner of the room and contained video editing equipment, a laptop
computer, stand-alone monitor, a combination printer/fax/scanner/copier, and
stacks and stacks of DVDs.

Jemmy, often with the advice of one or more of the
hookers, would review the raw footage and decide what to copy and keep.  Some
copies were made to CDs, others to a thumb drive.  Recently, Marshon hired a
computer consultant to evaluate their operation.  The consultant initially
laughed at their “old school” system, and advocated several equipment and
software upgrades that “will make your lives easier.”  He also advocated
uploading video clips to a Website where they could be viewed by anyone who
received an e-mail link from Marshon.  Jemmy had objected, saying he
didn’t want to “learn any new computer shit.” Even Marshon was hesitant,
thinking how easy it would be for someone with skill to take over that Website,
although hackers could just as easily break into the building’s wifi.  The
cops employed computer nerds, too.  All his operations had many
vulnerabilities.

“Lotsa action over the weekend?”  Marshon asked.

“I just fast-forwarded through the surveillance camera covering
the entrance,” Jemmy said.  “Looks like about forty-eight customers,
including two new ones Boudra picked up through her Website.”

“White guys, those two?”

“Yeah.”

Marshon shook his head.  “There’s somethin’ they
like about her.”

Jemmy sighed.  “Man, this is disgusting shit to
watch night after night.”

“Yeah, but pickin’ up garbage off the street is also
disgusting.  This pays a helluva lot better, plus it won’t break your
back.”  Still, Marshon heard the sour note and the weariness in Jemmy’s
voice.  Each of the eight working girls had a remote taped to the bottom
of a nightstand so they could activate the videocam in their apartments during
their liaisons, and shut them off during down periods.  Each working
apartment also had an alarm button wired into a warning bell located in Jemmy’s
apartment.

Unless The Wheel was in motion, it meant that
Jemmy watched live sex shows from about nine p.m. until three a.m.  Widja
filled in upon occasion.  Jemmy’s brother Darieon, worked the
weekends.  Each day about noon, Marshon picked up a master disk containing
all the “action” by new customers, or any scenes in which regulars imparted
some information that the women or Jemmy considered to have economic
potential.  The “information business” included stock tips, insider
information, political gossip, likely divorces, and pending sales.

The building generated another unforeseen lucrative
sideline: blackmail, or as Marshon preferred to call it: the insurance
business.  This profit center started innocently enough about two
years ago.  One of the regular Johns who was inordinately proud of his
equipment and performance brought a movie camera to one of his sessions to make
a video for his buddies.  He jokingly told Marshon he might sell copies,
thereby planting the seed of the idea that such recordings might have value to
some people.  Depending on the individual and circumstances, Marshon
decided there were several categories of Johns he’d shake down: the very rich,
sanctimonious business and community leaders, troublemakers, anyone who made
complaints to the police, those who quit coming around, and those who cancelled
their credit card charge.  He didn’t always demand money either;
sometimes, a favor sufficed.

“Look, Jemmy, you been working too hard.  You
deserve a bonus.  How about five grand?  I’ll drop it off tomorrow
morning.  Take a week off.  Go to Vegas.  I’ll find someone to
fill in.”

Jemmy gave him a stunned look.  “What, so I can
gamble and visit legal whorehouses out in the desert!”

Marshon acknowledged his foolish suggestion.
“Okay, go fishing in the Ozarks.  Skiing in Colorado.  Dress up and
attend comic com.  Whatever turns you on.  Just get the fuck out of
here and recharge!”

There was no elevator so Marshon took the stairs to the
third level and his apartment.  Boudra’s apartment was across the
hallway.  The other apartment on the third floor was vacant.  Marshon
used it for out-of-town guests, or rented it out daily or weekly for a variety
of purposes: private poker games, business meetings, or as a rendezvous nest
for lovers wanting to conceal their relationship.  The working girls
occupied the other eight units in the building.

When Marshon arrived on the third floor, he saw Boudra
standing at the end of the hallway near the front window, smoking a cigarette.
She had opened the window a couple of inches, so the cold outside air sucked
out the smoke.  Boudra never smoked in her apartment.

“Hey,” Marshon said.

“Marshon,” she replied, modestly adjusting her blue robe
to cover her breasts.  She was tall and sleek-looking.  Her muscles
were well toned and her skin a burnished black.  Boudra’s hair was
close-cut in a flattop style that complemented her angular face.

He walked to his apartment door near the front of the
building.  “Everything okay with you?”

“Yeah.  You?”

“No problems.  Hey, I’ll get with you
tomorrow.  Heard you got a couple of new customers?”

“Yeah.  One of them won’t be coming back.”

“He a problem?”

Boudra pulled a glass ashtray from a pocket on her robe,
and ground out her cigarette in it.  “He’s an asshole.”

“Ain’t they all?”

“Some are more tolerable than others.”

Marshon hesitated and then said, “You got any plans
beyond the life?  As I recall, you studied business in college.”

Boudra considered the question.  “Economics
major.  Almost got through my junior year before the money ran out.
Originally, I wanted to open a restaurant, but I’ve rethought that idea.
The profit margins are too slim.”

“My accountant just made the same comment about a
microbrewery I had considered as an investment,” Marshon said.

“Investment plus revenue minus expenses equals profit,”
Boudra replied.  “Economics one-o-one.”

Marshon walked closer and said.  “What about this
business?  This building.”

Boudra looked startled and alarmed.  “You goin’
somewhere?”

“Eventually.”  Skinny Walker told him long ago to
always have a back door.  Not only was Marshon thinking about spinning off
The Wheel, but also about getting out of the apartment business, which
was odious by nature.  Both were recognized brands in the city,
however.  He could sell them; or, perhaps even better, lease them as a
package to an investor or investors who would agree to pay Marshon a monthly
dividend.  Then, he could begin a new life in a new country with a new
deal.  Everything might yet work out nicely.

Boudra’s facial expression indicated her interest.
“We could talk about it,” she said.  “I got some ideas.”

“How about tomorrow morning?  Ten?”

Inside his apartment, Marshon flopped into an easy chair
and leafed through the mail, tossing most of it onto a coffee table.

He opened a letter from Phillip Dahlgren, his other
lawyer located in Nassau, the Bahamas, although he had branch offices on
several islands in the Lesser Antilles.  Marshon read a statement of
monthly expenses for maintaining his island home located in the British Virgin
Islands.  Most were direct deductions from his offshore account in a bank
located in Road Town, Tortola.  These deductions included a whopping
$9,489.74 per month mortgage payment on a twenty-year home mortgage.  Dahlgren
took care of the other expenses for running the house — including utilities,
housekeeper and a gardener — and billed Marshon separately.

No paper trail led directly to Marshon because the deed
to the island home was in the name of Marcus Jones, an elaborate second
identity Marshon had established several years ago.  Dahlgren knew him
only as Marcus Jones.  Lawyer-client privilege further protected
Marshon/Marcus.  The big problem was getting the cash to the Road Town
bank.  It was money illegally gained and Marshon couldn’t very well
deposit it in a local bank and electronically transfer the money.

With the help of Dahlgren, Marshon solved the problem
with several creative solutions.  It was easy to charter a private
airplane leaving from a remote airport located fifty miles outside the
city.  There, a passenger’s carry-on was not checked or x-rayed.  He
usually flew to Miami, or some other airport on the Florida coast, where he
transferred the money to Dahlgren’s private jet or his yacht.  The lawyer
might or might not be present.  Then, it was out of Marshon’s hands,
although he paid a hefty twenty percent fee for this laundry service.

The living room of Marshon’s apartment resembled a
library reading room except for an entertainment center containing a Smart TV
and sound system.  Bookshelves lined a part of one wall from floor to
ceiling.  There were books on many subjects, but mainly business
practices, investment, and banking.  He’d taken to heart Skinny’s advice
of many years ago.  Although he had a smart phone, laptop, Kindle and an
iPad, Marshon liked the old ways, especially the smell of books.

He walked into the kitchen and plucked an apple out of a
fruit basket.  In the bedroom, he quickly stripped down to his underwear
and threw his clothes onto a chair and the floor.  Then, he slipped into
bed, pulled the warm duvet over him and immediately fell asleep, as if he
didn’t have a care in the world.

In fact, sleep is a respite to revive our energies so we
can face the challenges of tomorrow that we can’t imagine, or are not prepared
to confront.

5/A Dime A Dozen

“I think you’ve got the part already,” Carmen
said, shaking her head in amazement as they stood beside her car in the parking
lot of the Eastport Library, an old limestone building located north of Tremont
Plaza.  “You look just like him, or at least the way I envision him.”

“We’ll
see, we’ll see,” Richey said gruffly, shuffling off in an old man’s gait toward
the basement entrance to the old building.  A sudden cold spell on this
Saturday afternoon in mid-October threatened to send the city into a deep
freeze.

“You should read for a part,” he said, talking over his
shoulder.

Richey had asked Carmen to drive him to the library,
telling her he needed to prepare mentally for the one p.m. audition without
being distracted by the requirements of the road.  Both of them understood
the subtext of his request, which was that Richey wanted Carmen to witness his
acting passion first hand.  They both sensed the experience could shape
their future relationship, although only time would reveal whether it would
have a lasting positive or negative effect.

“Not that my own enthusiasm for acting has been at a
high level lately,” Richey continued.  “This is my first audition in
nearly a year.”

Richey couldn’t pass up an opportunity to play the part
of Willy Loman in a local theater production of Arthur Miller’s play, Death
of a Salesman.  Carmen hadn’t seen Richey this animated in the year
she’d known him.

“I can play up to Willy’s age and I am the father of a
grown child, so I understand what the play’s all about.”  He stopped
halfway down the stairs and turned toward Carmen.  “You know how his wife
Linda describes Willy in the play?”

“No.”

“She says he never made a lot of money or got his name
in the paper.  He’s not a great man or even the finest character who ever
lived.  ‘But he’s a human being,’ she said, ‘and a terrible thing is
happening to him.’”

He didn’t have to elaborate.  Although Carmen
didn’t remember that line, she had paged through the play and understood the terrible
thing.  Willy had pontificated all his life about the necessity of
being self-assured, well liked, successful, and remembered — worshipped even —
by his family and peers.  Yet, Willy was none of these things and had
accomplished none of his goals.  His narcissistic life was a lie.  In
the end, salesmanship as he practiced it produced shattered relationships and
an empty life.

The play revealed Willy to be unrealistic,
self-righteousness and duplicitous, as demonstrated by his extramarital affair
accidentally discovered by his son, Biff.  Those character flaws drove a
wedge between Willy and his wife, Willy and his sons.  Willy and the
world.  These unresolved conflicts may have driven Willy to suicide,
although it remains an open question whether his fatal car accident was
intentional or not.  In the end, Willy didn’t know who he was.  No
one cared either, except his family, and even they didn’t understand.  Not
really.  Carmen feared Richey felt the same about his life, and she hoped
the play didn’t turn out to be an omen.  She did sense that their
relationship had entered a critical phase.

The audition was in the basement, which smelled of age
and dust.  Once, there had been a small theater here, but without
permanent seating.  A hundred folding chairs were stacked on two rolling
racks pushed against one wall.  Now, the basement was used primarily as a
meeting place for Alcoholics Anonymous.  The city planned to demolish the
library next year.

They approached a table where a young woman sat.
Richey handed her an acting résumé, along with his photograph.

“What part will you be reading, Mr. Stanton?” she asked,
smiling.

Carmen watched Richey adopt his
Dustin-Hoffman-look-of-annoyance.  “Who do you think?  Willy,
dammit!”

“We have a script,” the receptionist said slowly and
carefully, so as not to offend him again.  Her glasses had slipped and she
used her index finger to move them further up the bridge of her nose.
“You realize it’s a revised version?”

Richey/Willy looked at her and said snippily, “Yes, I
have it all committed to memory, although for the life of me I can’t understand
why anyone would rewrite such a classic.  Modern-day idiom, my ass!
You still need permission from Miller’s estate, you know?”

“Someone’s taking care of that,” she said.

Richey/Willy looked skeptical as he turned away.

Carmen laughed appreciably at his improvised act as they
walked to a row of chairs where both sat.

“Don’t see anyone I know,” he said, glancing furtively
around the room at his fellow actors.  “On the other hand, I’ve been gone
from the scene so long most of the competition probably died!”

“I doubt that,” Carmen said.

“Marshon lives about fifteen blocks north of here,”
Richey said.  “I called him and Gail and told them about the play.
Don’t know whether they’ll try out or not.  If they did, both would get
parts.”  He sounded as confident as Willy Loman.

Carmen stood.  “I’m going to walk around, talk to
some people, and see if I really want to try out.”  In truth, she wanted
to leave Richey alone with his thoughts and preparations.

“Okay.”

Fifteen minutes later, she heard them call his name and
Carmen sat near the back of the room on one of the folding chairs.  Richey
walked up on stage and stood in a spot illuminated by overhead lights.  He
looked alone and forlorn.  An old radiator provided heat for the basement,
but it was located against the back wall, making the stage rather chilly.
Willy rubbed his hands and blew on them.

“We have a camera set up to record the reading,” the
boyish director told Richey, “so we can review it later.”

Richey/Willy took his mark and looked around the room,
commanding silence by his mere presence.  Naturally a medium-sized man,
today Richey somehow seemed smaller.  Heavy oil plastered down his hair
and made it appear darker.  He’d parted it in the middle.  Richey
wore a wrinkled, lightweight gray summer suit and an awful, gaudy yellow
tie.  He'd purposefully turned up the end of one wing of his starched
white shirt collar, presumably to signify slovenliness.  Loose white socks
gathered above the tops of oversized, black wing-tip shoes.  Wire-rimmed
glasses drew attention to his pallid complexion attained with makeup.
Richey could be a chameleon under certain circumstances, which is a great gift
for any actor.

In a squeaky voice, Richey said, “I’m going to read
excerpts from Willy Loman’s part that reflect the theme of the play and the
reasons for Willy’s failure as a husband, father, and man.  In the first
act, Willy is recalling a conversation with his boys, Hap and Biff, when they
were young.  Willy compares his sons to the studious neighbor boy,
Bernard.”

Carmen watched, fascinated, as Richey got into character
by cocking his head and listening intently, as if high-frequency instructions
were incoming from above.  Several other observers also looked around,
trying to hear what Richey/Willy heard — which, of course, was impossible.

Suddenly, Willy had an infectious smile on his face and
the audience brightened with him, as if a light from the stage had washed over
them.  Moving first left, and then right, Willy gave enthusiastic advice
to his sons: “It doesn’t make any difference if Bernard gets the best grades in
school because that doesn’t mean anything in the business world, you
understand?  The man who people admire gets ahead.  Be liked and
you’ll always make a good living.  Take me, for instance.  I’ve never
waited in line to see a buyer.  They just announce my name—‘Willy Loman is
here’—and I breeze right into the big man’s office.”

Richey paused and looked at the floor for several
seconds.  “My next reading is from Act Two.  Willy is in a Boston
hotel room with a woman and Biff comes to tell his dad he’s flunked math and
won’t graduate high school, and won’t get a football scholarship to college.
Biff is devastated to find his father in the midst of an affair.”

Richey again got into character and suddenly appeared
cantankerous and embarrassed at the same time.  He waved his arms about
wildly.  “Let’s get going, Biff.  Get my suits out of the closet and
put them in the suitcase.  What?  What!  For God’s sake, don’t
make a big deal out of it.  She’s just another buyer staying in the
hotel.  Stopped by to talk shop.”  Willy/Richey suddenly looked as if
the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.  “Don’t cry,
Biff.  You’ll understand about these things when you grow up.  You
mustn’t blow something like this out of proportion.”

Willy seemed worn out, and beaten down by life.
Carmen used a Kleenex to dab at unexpected tears.  Richey told her he had
memorized the performances of Lee J. Cobb and Dustin Hoffman when they
portrayed Willy, on stage and in the movies.  Richey had borrowed from
both of them, particularly Cobb’s facial expressions and Hoffman’s body
movements.

In his own voice, Richey said, “I’ll finish with Willy’s
imaginary conversation with his brother, Ben, in which Willy talks about his
funeral and reminisces about his boys, especially Biff.”

Richey/Willy took on the demeanor of a man fading away,
almost a specter.  “Oh, Ben, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could relive
all the great times?  I remember one winter, the boys riding in a sleigh,
their cheeks all red with color.  One success after another.  Nothing
but good news.  The road ahead looked so bright.  I’d come home and
he’d always carry my bag into the house.  And, polish and polish that red
Chevy until it sparkled!  Why wasn’t it ever enough, Ben?  Why’d he
hate me?”

Richey/Willy stood silently for about thirty seconds and
somehow made it seem as if the light was fading from his eyes, and life’s
energy draining out of his body.  Was he in character, thinking about
Willy’s life and his relationship with Biff, or was Richey thinking about
himself and his son, Ethan.  The play was a classic because it spoke to
every member of the audience.  It crystallized a universal story about a
human being trying to maneuver his way through life and end it feeling loved,
respected and successful in his/her chosen field of endeavor.  But, in the
case of Willy and so many others, there’s nothing at the end of life except
disappointment, weariness, and a long list of unanswered questions.

Then, Richey walked away as Willy.  Walked right by
the camera operator, the youthful director, the receptionist, other actors and
observers, up the short flight of stairs, and out of the library into the gray
cold of the day, where one’s breath hung visibly in the air for a few moments.

No one said a word, nor moved, until Carmen suddenly
rushed after him, bursting out into the parking lot.

Richey had taken off his stage-prop glasses and his eyes
brimmed with tears as Carmen came to stand near him.  It looked as if she
wanted to take him into her arms, but was afraid to embrace a strange
man.  “Wow,” she said, and meant it.  “I never knew.”

“Was it good, did you think?” he asked, in imitation of
Lee J.  Cobb’s raspy, demanding voice.

“Good?  It was great!  Fantastic,
magnificent.  Anybody else who came to try out for Willy’s part has to be
dying in there right now.  I saw a guy drop his script on the floor and
hold his head.”

He nodded like Dustin Hoffman; that nod that kept going
like his head was a ball on the end of a rubber band.  “I don’t know about
this so-called modern dialogue.  Did it sound natural?  I hope the
story doesn’t get lost.”

“It sounded fine, Richey.  The story is
timeless.  Universal.”

“What about you?”  Richey/Willy/Lee J. Cobb
demanded, jutting his jaw.  “Maybe you could try out for the part of one
of the girls at Frank’s Chop House.  Whadaya say, Carmen?”

She brushed an errant strand of hair from her face.
“Not today, Richey.  Maybe next Saturday.  There’ll be another
audition then.”

“Yeah, yeah, next Saturday.  Next Saturday,”
Richey/Willy/Dustin said, waiting around in a small circle.  Carmen could
see that he couldn’t or didn’t want to get out of character.  Didn’t want
to leave.

As she drove south toward the suburbs, he slumped
against the door, a sad look on his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I was just thinking about the play.  About the
relationship between Biff and Willy.  Toward the end of act two, Biff says
that the truth was a stranger in their house.  Willy blew him so full of
hot air that he couldn’t function in the real world.  He says to Willy,
‘Pop, I’m a dime a dozen, and so are you!’  That must be the way Ethan
feels about me.”

“I doubt that.”

“Maybe not.  He'll probably be successful in the
banking business there in Chicago.  Maybe all my hot air blew him in the
other direction.  The right direction.  Maybe I should be proud.”

∞
∞  ∞

She tried to talk him
into celebrating somewhere else, but Richey insisted on going to The Stadium.
Carmen tried not to let that choice detract from her enthusiasm for his
success.  Their success.

Inside, the majority of televisions were tuned to the
interstate college football rivalry pitting the Tigers against the
ʼCats.  It was one of the big games of the college football season
and drew a slightly younger crowd than usual.  The majority of these rabid
fans were not students.  Maybe they knew a student enrolled at one of the
two campuses; or, most likely, they were fans simply because the teams were
from their home state.  That was possible today, since the state
line ran north and south right through the center of the metropolitan
area.  Finally, it was an excuse to get drunk and loud, as if they needed
one.  No one talked; everyone shouted.

Even though she’d been in the bar numerous times since
meeting Richey, Carmen felt distinctly uneasy there.  First, she really
didn’t like bars for deep psychological reasons that involved her alcoholic
father.  Second, she felt out of place because she usually was the only
Hispanic in The Stadium.  Oftentimes, including this afternoon, she
was overdressed in a black pantsuit, which made her stick out among the jeans
and sweatshirt crowd.

They found two empty seats at the far end of the bar,
where a pole obstructed the view of the various monitors.

When their drinks arrived, Carmen held up her glass and
said, “Here’s to you, Richey.  I know you’ll get the part of Willy.”

He clinked his glass against hers, and said, “Thanks,
Carmen.  I hope so but you never know.”

“They couldn’t possibly give it to someone else.”

“Really?  Why not?  Life isn’t fair,
remember?  Every day of the world people get cheated out of what’s
rightfully theirs, or what they should have a right to expect.”

“You’re not a dime a dozen, Richey.  No one who saw
your performance today could believe that.”

“I’m not trying to be a wet blanket, Carmen.  I was
happy with my audition, but it was a bittersweet feeling.  It’s a good
part in a great play that’ll be performed by a mediocre acting troupe in front
of audiences that will number in the hundreds.  The lead performers will
get about five hundred bucks apiece, if they’re SAG members.  And, if
there’s a profit.  The producers probably will be lucky to break
even.  They are only doing this for credits.  To showcase their
talent.  Hopefully, leapfrog to the front of the class.”

There would be six rehearsals at the library beginning
the last week of October.  Performances were scheduled for the first two
weekends in November, on Friday and Saturday nights, and Sunday
afternoon.  Those performances would take place in Cranston Hall, a
theater on the third floor of The Shops, a mall and hotel complex
located downtown near the J.T. Warren Convention Center.  There would be a
dress rehearsal the Wednesday night before opening night on Friday.

“Your performance ranks right up there with the best,
Richey,” Carmen persisted stubbornly, not wanting to let him rain on their
celebratory parade.

Richey held up his empty glass to get the bartender’s
attention.  Many of the other patrons stared suspiciously at the character
Richey had created, perhaps wondering if it was really him.  One guy
sitting on the other side of the bar shouted, “Richey, you look all fucked
up!  You got cancer or something?”

“Yes, the doctor says I got two weeks to live!  The
funeral expenses will be a bitch.  I think you guys should buy my drinks
until I die.”

“Go ahead and fuckin’ die, then!” the critic said,
generating laughter and a chorus of Fuckin’-As from those sitting near
him.  One guy gave Richey the finger.

Richey ignored his inebriated brethren and continued
with his analysis of life’s unfair nature.  “I never understood why we
teach young kids in public school all those myths they have to unlearn almost
immediately after they turn eighteen and enter the work force,” he said,
accepting a martini from the bartender, who said it was on the house.

“What do you mean?”  Carmen asked.

“We tell school kids they can have what they want and
achieve all their dreams if they are good and work hard.  What a bunch of
bullshit!  It’s nothing other than propaganda.  Who do they think are
gonna work all the shit jobs? You actually have a better chance of making it to
the top and getting rich if you suck up, are unscrupulous, or a flagrant
crook.  Willy Loman knew that, but like everyone else he denied it,
choosing instead to believe the ideal until he couldn’t believe it anymore.”

“How’s it feel to be the world’s premiere cynic,” Carmen
said lightly, sipping her margarita.

“Good.  It feels good to know the truth and tell
it.  It shall set you free, I’m told.  That and damn good
vodka.  Stoly or Absolut, preferably, although that certainly isn’t the
bar stock here.”

“You’re funny, Richey.  Maybe you can do some standup
comedy on karaoke nights.”

“Like Fantine in Les Miserables, I could sing:
‘Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.’”  Anyway, I’m trying to put my
bitter, angry days behind me, Carmen, so maybe it would be appropriate to turn
my experiences into a comedy routine.  My time in Hollywood certainly was
a joke.”

“Maybe you didn’t give it enough time,” Carmen
replied.  “And, I agree with you.  A lot of it is luck, or who you
know.”

“Or, who you blow.  I didn’t suck any dick when I
was out there, or bend over and grab my ankles.  Maybe that was the
problem.  I’ve certainly thought a lot about it since I came back.”

“And, your conclusions?”

“I was one of those school kids who got
brainwashed.  Unfortunately, I accepted the idea that the business of
America is business.  That everyone should get a job.  A regular job like
my father and all his friends had.  Acting really isn’t a job
job.  It’s entertainment, a service the audience pays for, if they’ve got
the money to spare, and appreciate the art form.  It’s not one of life’s
essentials.”

“Life would be pretty boring without it.  What do
you call what’s going on in this place?”

“Depravity?  The point is, I always felt a bit
ashamed of being an actor.  Felt that way almost against my will.  I
can’t tell you how many people, including my pops, said to me, ‘Richey, you’re
smart enough to be a doctor or a lawyer, so why don’t you go to school and do
that instead of this acting thing.’  Actors, they’re all faggots or
liberals, anyway.”

“You didn’t listen to all those contrary voices,
obviously.”

“Maybe subconsciously.  Maybe that’s why I didn’t
give Hollywood enough time.  Only a year.  All actors struggle, some
for their entire professional life.  There are character actors who die
after decades in the business and no one even knew their real names.  But,
those actors accepted all the liabilities of their profession: the scorn,
frustration, low pay, and the defeats.  Why?  Because they were
dedicated to their profession.  They weren’t ashamed and they were working.
People like that are real actors, not part-time self-doubters like me.
They accept the fact that they aren’t going to get paid a weekly or monthly
salary.  Not consistently, anyway.  They don’t expect health
insurance and a retirement fund.  They may even forgo marriage and a
family, or marry another actor.  They are committed to weathering long
periods of time when they have no income and no place to sleep except friends’
apartments.  Frankly, I never really had that level of commitment.”

“You had a wife and a son to think about.”

“Yes, that’s true,” he said, downing the martini in one
long gulp.

Silence reigned for several minutes.  The
boisterous atmosphere of the bar on a college football Saturday was a welcome
respite.

“How come you didn’t rage at the world when you
discovered you couldn’t paint for a living, Carmen?”

“Because I’m not good enough to make a living as an
artist.”

He looked at her and drew his head back in a gesture of
shock.  “That's not true!  I’ve seen your stuff.  You’re good,
period.  The marketplace makes a thousand miscalculations per hour about
what’s valuable and what isn’t.  I’ve been in many art galleries and heard
people rant and rave over the genius of some work of art while I’m thinking
that any third-grader could have done just as well.  Usually, they only
like it because they read somewhere that some critic said they should, for some
fatuous reason.  Actually, I don’t believe art should be judged in the
marketplace by critics and rich people.”

“How would you judge it?”

“It shouldn’t be judged, other than maybe by other
artists.  Art should be executed and/or performed, period.  Artists
should be organized and control every aspect of their work products.
Financial investors trying to make a profit from art should be banned.
Unfortunately, it’s easier to herd cats than to effectively organize creative
artists.”

“Your audition today will be judged,” she said, not
wanting to point out that he’d already judged himself a failure as an
actor.  Yet, he continued to audition.

“Yes, I will be judged by several sniveling young
playwrights and producers trying to get into the business of entertainment.
To them, art is just a vehicle.  You’re making my point, you know,
Carmen.”

She remained silent, not wanting to argue further with
him.

But Richey wouldn’t let it go.  “You remember how
we met?”

“Of course.”  It was during a summer art fair in
Tremont Plaza, where Carmen had rented a booth to exhibit her oil paintings and
bronze sculptures.  Richey had been very enthusiastic about her work and
he bought several pieces.  At the time, Carmen initially figured he’d made
the investment just so she’d feel obligated to go out with him.  He wasn’t
the first customer who had tried that gambit.  However, he had convinced
her that he cared about her work.  Really cared, and understood the
passion of it.  It’s not possible to fake such enthusiasm.  At that
point, she became interested in him, although she had begun to fear that she
was making a classic girlfriend mistake, by trying to mother Richey, or reform
him.  She knew now that neither approach would work.

“How do you know you wouldn’t get better, maybe even
great, if you spent as much time on your own work as you do coming up with the
art work for some magazine print ad designed to sell dog food.”

“I didn’t think you listened when I told you about my
accounts,” Carmen said, laughing.  The ad agency where she worked had
landed a new account with a company that manufactured pet food and supplies.

“In the nineteenth century, many French painters considered
painting their life’s work and people respected them for it.”

“Yes, and many of them starved, including Van
Gogh.  He and Gauguin lived like gypsies.  They were homeless,
sometimes.  Neither one of them had a ten-year-old daughter.  If they
did, they didn't care what happened to her.  I’m neither that insensitive,
nor self-centered.  Or, as you say, I’m not that committed.”

“So, in fact, you’re just like me.  You didn’t want
to feel the pain and humiliation of pursuing your passion to its deadly end,
regardless of the price.”

Carmen held out her glass again, hoping to put an end to
this conversation.  “I’ll drink to that.”

He toasted her good-naturedly and sat silently for the
longest time while looking directly into her eyes, his head nodding.  Each
of them understood that the other understood, which partly explained their
mutual attraction.  They really were soul mates, even with the differences
in age, ethnic background, culture and lifestyle.

“So, I shall not be as famous as Tom Cruise and you will
not be Van Gogh.”

“Not if the frustration of it all means committing
suicide.”

He again held forth his glass.  “Here’s to Vincent
and Willy, God rest their tortured souls.  We, on the other hand, will be
content together here on this stage called The Stadium, where we play
the roles of marginal people.  And do it quite well, I might add.”

“I shouldn’t ask, Richey, but who are marginal people?”

“We are.  Mainstream people are at home in their
four-bedroom colonial with their two-point-three kids, a shaggy dog, an
imported car in the garage, a time-share at some vacation spot, a silently
growing 401K plan, and a job with a six-figure potential — if things go right,
or if one is willing to do whatever it takes to make them go right.”

“That sure ain’t a description of us,” Carmen said,
sipping her drink.

“Nope, we’ve been marginalized because the economy
rejected our skills and our chosen lifestyle.  Our passion.
Capitalism is much more dangerous to our freedom than the Commies ever were,
Carmen.”

“And what do mainstream people do on Saturday afternoon,
Richey?”

“Oh, as I recall, they watch TV and spend a lot of time
cultivating their indoor flower pots and their image.  They’re cardboard
cutout figures living a lifestyle that Madison Avenue sold to them.  They are
the modern-day version of Willy Loman.  They are deep into materialism and
the religion that says if you accumulate a lot of stuff — especially the stuff
that is advertised to make you thin, beautiful, attractive to the opposite sex,
virile and widely admired — you have achieved the apex of life.  The sine
qua non.  Nirvana.  When these people go to live theater, they don’t
care what’s playing, they just want to be seen.  Show off their new
expensive clothes and jewelry.  Sit near the stage.  When they buy
art, they want a copy numbered less than fifty by some famous artist.  So
that their friends will admire them for having enough money to splurge on
art.  And, if they go to a movie, they want sex, violence and explosions!”

He’d made her laugh loudly.  “Richey, you should
really write this material down and do a one-man show!  Become a
modern-day Mark Twain.”

“And perform it for like-minded souls?  Who would
that be?  These shit-head marginal people here in the bar?  They only
have money for booze and drugs, a little gambling.  Their attention span
is fifteen seconds, which is why they all twitter.”

“There may be more people than you think who are doing
what they have to rather than what they want to.”  Carmen forced herself
to smile, because occasionally she wanted to trade places with those mainstream
people.  Richey’s self-analysis had nailed her, too.  She was an
artist not fully committed to art.  Was she a fake, like Willy
Loman?  Or, an enabler, like Willy’s wife?

“The mainstream life isn’t all that attractive,
Carmen.”  Richey swung his glass through a 180-degree arc.  “It
doesn’t get any better than this right here.  Cheap booze,
fast-but-nutritional food, and a window on every perversity and abnormality
known to humankind.  A picture of life in its truest, rawest form.
None of these people are happy or satisfied or trustworthy, and they don’t
claim to be.  There are few pretentions and no requirements to be
here.  I feel right at home.”

In a way, Richey was semi-serious.  For better or
worse, he liked it here in this dimly-lit, loud place smelling of cigarette
smoke, stale beer, cooking oil, chalk dust, perfume, and human sweat.  Few
of The Stadium’s customers were pretending to be anything other than
professional or amateur drunks.  It was part of Richey’s self-inflicted
punishment for a life gone awry.  He also worked a job he hated, which
demeaned him.  Could he be saved, or was the downward spiral too near the
bottom?

“We have only one hope,” Richey said.

“What?”

“To win the Keno ten-spot game.  I’ve given up on
everything else.  Of course, that’s only a hundred grand.”

“Not enough to make it into the mainstream?”

“No, but it would fund a nice hiatus.”

“What if we somehow got our hands on a couple of million
dollars, Richey?  What would we be then?”

“Free, Carmen.  Free.”

“Yeah,” she said, looking at her watch and noting it was
nearly four p.m.  Richey would be here the rest of the evening.  Willy
Loman perched on a barstool.  She’d leave in a few minutes and pick
Marisa up, and take her and two of her friends to dinner at Pizza Hut.
She’d be a mainstream person until about eight-thirty, watching television with
her daughter and mother before returning to The Stadium.  Richey
would have spent his day bending his elbow, telling stories, and occasionally
getting some exercise by walking around the pool table.  He wouldn’t
bother to take off his costume.

Maybe they’d dance this evening to their favorite
jukebox tunes.  Carmen felt like getting drunk tonight.  Then they’d
go to his place and make love.  She’d get home about two a.m. and tiptoe
into her apartment, where her mother the babysitter would be asleep on the
sofa, and her daughter safe in her own bed.  It was a diminished variation
of the American dream, but one she accepted for the time being.
Carmen was not as bitter as Richey about her lot in life, which is not to say
she didn’t want to change it.

“Don’t
feel badly, Carmen,” Richey said, as she got up to leave.  “There’re some
advantages to operating on the margin.”

“What?”

“You’ve
got an objective view of the whole thing.  The audience always knows more
about how things are really going than the actors on stage do.”

Carmen kissed him on the cheek.  “See you
later.”

Fearful
he'd see the tears spilling down her cheeks, Carmen didn't look back as she
walked toward the door.  Richey might have given up on himself and life,
but she wasn’t going to give up on him, not after seeing him the way he was at
the audition.  Carmen didn’t think of herself as a mainstream person
either, although she sometimes admired their comfort and security.  But
for many of them, that came at a price, which was to compromise their
ideals.  She just didn’t see herself and other artists as marginal
people.  Rather, they were on the edge of the world, better able to see the
stars and beyond.  Richey had to quit grieving over not being what he
hated, and embrace what he was.  Carmen Salazar was a determined
person.  If there was a way for them to follow their dreams and be happy
in the effort, she would find that path.  And, she did, but it was too
late.

6/Have-Nots
And Wannabes

Just before noon on Sunday,
Ace parked his old, rust-eaten Toyota Sentra in a parking space behind The
Stadium, which occupied the last two retail spaces in a strip mall.
Down a steep hill south of the bar was a vacant big box store originally
occupied by Staples.  Several local RV and truck dealerships, along with a
marine sales and service company, had rented the large parking lot to display
their products — at wholesale prices, or so a big banner proclaimed.

“I wanna go down there and see them RVs,” Country said,
wiggling all his fingers, as he tended to do when excited.

“You wanna buy an RV?” Ace asked.

“I would if I had the money.”

Ace shrugged and began to walk down the hill.
Walking through the exhibit might prove educational.  After Marshon gave
him five thousand dollars last Monday night and asked him to leave town, Ace
was initially inclined to comply.  But, he enjoyed screwing Kandie, plus
he continued to assemble a cast of characters for his planned real-life
production.  Besides his new girlfriend, the actors included his good
buddy, Country, an idiot who could be programmed to do whatever Ace needed him
to do.  In addition, there was Richey, the wishy-washy warehouse boss/gambler/actor/drunk,
and his sexy Hispanic girlfriend, Carmen Salazar.  They all fit nicely
into a plot he’d concocted during sleepless nights in prison.  That
scenario required “buffers,” and these people would fill those roles nicely,
whether they wanted to or not.  Ace decided to stay a while longer, and
try to transform the plan into reality.  Besides, it would make Marshon
nervous and the ghetto chief might increase Ace’s “separation pay.”

“Boy, I’d sure like to have one of them fifth-wheelers,
Ace!”

“Really?” Ace asked, startled that Country had any
upscale dreams.

“Yeah, I like to camp out in the woods, Ace, so I can
hunt and fish, like I used to do with Pappy.  ʼCourse, we just slept
on the ground, in a sleeping bag.”

“You ever had a camper or a boat?”

“Nope.  I can’t afford that stuff, Ace,” Country
said, a sad and wounded look on his face, as if he’d been denied a birthright.

Ace lit a Camel from the pack nestled in the breast
pocket of his flannel shirt.  “Well, let’s stroll through and take a
look-see.”

According to the banner tethered to two high-flying
balloons, Sea-to-Shining Sea Recreational Vehicles, Inc. sponsored the
exhibit.  Other businesses represented included several companies selling
boats and marine supplies, as well as local Ford, Chevrolet, and Dodge
dealerships that had their tow trucks on display.  Saturday’s cold snap
had given way to a sunny autumn day, although it was still jacket weather.

“Damn, they want five bucks to get in here, Ace.
I’m broke.”

“What did you do with the Biederman’s paycheck you got
Friday?”  Ace asked, looking up at Country.

A confused look came over Country’s face until he
remembered and said, “Richey cashed it for me and only charged me a
dollar.  I don’t like to deal with banks, Ace.  After I chipped in my
share of the rent and utilities to those guys I room with, there wasn’t much
left.  I spent a lot Saturday night at The Stadium, and maybe left
the rest in my bedroom, Ace.  Sorry.”

Ace dropped a ten into a bottle guarded by a gray-haired
old woman with a permanent smile plastered on her face.  To Ace, it was
one more clue that Richey had his fingers into a lot of small stuff — all of a
questionable legal nature, but not enough to attract attention from Biederman’s
management, or the cops.  That, and his association with The Wheel,
indicated that Richey didn’t mind breaking the rules in pursuit of money.

“Look, Ace, look, Ace!”  Country said, barely able
to contain himself at the sight of a glistening blue boat.  “A bass boat,
a bass boat!  Look at them seats.  I bet they turn all the way
around.  And that thing there, you know what that is, Ace?”

“Nope.”

“It’s a fish finder, Ace.  I seen one before.
It looks in the water and shows a picture of where the fish are.”

“How’s it do that?”  Ace asked, looking at the
boat’s $15,000-plus price tag.

“I don’t know, Ace, but it works.  You can see
pictures of the fish and get an idea about how big they are.”

Ace walked down an aisle between various camping
vehicles –– pop-up tent trailers, travel trailers, fifth-wheelers, and motor
homes.  All were open for inspection, so Ace climbed into a fifth-wheeler
made by Sunny Brook.  Stairs to his right led to a master bedroom that
extended over the bed of the tow vehicle.  One wall of the bedroom slid
out sideways on tracks to make more room.  The master bath was larger than
the one in the basement apartment he rented from a widow who lived in an old
house not far from Biederman’s.  She let Ace drive her Toyota, in exchange
for yard work.

Another slide-out wall increased the floor space in the
camper’s living and dining area.  Bunk beds in the back bedroom made the
floor plan ideal for the typical family of four, a sales poster
proclaimed.  Ace found a price list on the kitchen counter, read it, and
whistled.

“You know how much this is?” he asked Country.

The slack-jawed country boy shook his head.  “How
much, Ace?”

“Fifty-seven five, on sale.”  Seeing the confused
look on the dummy’s face, Ace elaborated, “That’s over fifty-seven thousand
dollars, Country.”

“Oh.”

Ace took a deep drag on his cigarette, sucking in the
smoke and the smell of new plastic.  “How long would it take you to make
that much working at Biederman’s at seven-fifty an hour?”

Country frowned.  “Let’s see.  After taxes and
all that other stuff they take out, I get two hundred and twenty-five dollars
and forty cents a week.”  He smiled, apparently proud that he could
remember those precise numbers.

“Let’s see, Country.  About eight hundred a month,
ten grand a year, you could buy this rig in about six years.  If you quit
eating and spending money on rent.  And, drinking beer and playing video
games.”

Country frowned as he worked over that concept in his
head.  “I can’t do that, Ace.”

“’Course, then, even if you bought this fifth wheel,
what would you pull it with?”

Like a kid in a toy store, Country said,
gleefully.  “I know, I know, Ace!  C’mon outside an’ I’ll show you.”

Ace followed and Country led him to a three-quarter ton
Ford diesel 3500 series pickup with a sticker sales price of over
$44,000.  Ace watched in amazement as Country circled the pickup, reeling
off statistics about axle ratios, tire sizes, and towing capacity.  The
same idiot didn’t understand where maggots come from and couldn’t keep track of
his money.

“You’d need to save up another four years for the truck,
Country, and then about two years for the boat.  Let’s see, if you didn’t
spend a dime for about twelve years and saved every dollar you made, you could
buy all this stuff.”

Country looked sad and kicked in despair at the parking
lot concrete with his boot toe.  He whined, “But I got to spend my paycheck,
Ace.  Most weeks, I can’t even get by ’til the next Friday.”

Ace lit another cigarette and glared at a couple who
waved their hands in an attempt to disperse the smoke.  Ace grabbed
Country’s arm and steered him off to the side.  Ace stood on the side of a
hill so he could be face-to-face with the moron.  Class was about to
begin.

“It takes a lotta money to get what you want in life,
doesn’t it, Country?”

“Yeah, Ace, it does.”

“Some people got money and some don’t.  Those that
don’t got it, but want it, gotta take it from those who got it.
Otherwise, where you gonna get it?  Working won’t get it, right?”

“I don’t think so, Ace,” Country said, anxiously, as if
he feared a test.

“Another one of Ace’s laws, Country.  There’s only
so much shit in the world and it ain’t equally divided.  If it was, that
would be Godless communism and we’d all fuckin’ hate that, right?”

“Damn right,” Country said, tugging at the bill of the
John Deere cap covering his unruly, dirty brown, curly hair.  He wore the
same gaudy plaid long-sleeve shirt, padded vest and jeans he’d had on all
week.  He never tucked in the tails of the shirt.  Overall, Country
was a mess, but Ace concluded that, at six-eight and more than 250 pounds,
Country might be a formidable weapon under the right circumstances, and with
the right guidance.

“Since we can’t have communism, people like us gotta
take from the people who can easily afford this shit, otherwise we won’t get
any of this stuff, meaning we can’t take part in the American dream,” Ace
said.  He enjoyed confusing Country with ersatz logic, the primary means
by which he planned to control the simpleton.  “The American dream,
understand?  We’re entitled to the pursuit of happiness.  It’s in the
Declaration of Independence.  You can’t be happy without money and what it
buys, right?”

“That’s right, Ace,” Country replied, frowning intently.

Ace had come to understand the dummy’s coping
mechanisms.  Country apparently had learned long ago that to ask questions
every time he didn’t understand something was to court ridicule from
everyone.  So, he usually agreed with everything anyone else said.
Oftentimes, he acted as if he was thinking about the proper answer.

“The world ain’t organized as it should be,
Country.  You ever hear of survival of the fittest?”

“No, I only went to sixth grade in school, Ace.”

“Well, that’s the way it was for tens of thousands of
years until recently, when we became super civilized.  It used to be that
the strong took what they wanted.  Weaklings got sloppy seconds.
Now, the weaklings run everything.  We work and they steal from us using
computers, fees, legal contracts and made-up money.  You think any Wall
Street banker could beat me up in a fight?”

“I don’t think so, Ace.  You’re the toughest guy I
ever met.”

“I’d kick their ass and make them suck my dick.
That’s the way it was once and it’s gonna be that way, again, if my plans work
out.  You gonna be with me, Country?”

“You betcha, Ace.  I’m gonna do whatever you want
because you’re my best buddy ever.  Most people don’t pay no attention to
me.  They make fun of me.”

“I’m glad to be your buddy, Country, and I’m gonna get
you one of those campers and a truck … and a boat.”

Country looked astounded.  “How you gonna do that,
Ace?”

“I got a plan to get some money.”  Ace steered
Country in the direction of The Stadium.  “You understand about
assembly lines, like the one where we work.  Biederman’s makes canned soup
and juices.  They could make as many as they wanted, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so, Ace.”

“The factories that make these campers could turn out as
many as they want, too.”

“I don’t know why not, Ace,” Country said, taking off
his cap and scratching his head.

“But, if everyone had a camper, it wouldn’t be special,”
Ace continued.  “Then, no one would want a camper and the factory would
shut down and throw everybody out of work.”

Country shifted a pinch of snuff from one side of his
mouth to the other, as if it were a gesture of understanding.  The frown
and blank look on his face indicated he didn’t understand anything for certain.

“You see, the whole economy is built on the idea that
there always will be haves and have-nots, and wannabes,” Ace continued,
refining the economics lesson.  “Some people get more than they need and
other people gotta want what they don’t have, otherwise the system don’t
work.  The system only works if people desperately want something and are
willing do anything to get it.  It’s the impulse behind ambition and
competition.”  Ace stared at the dummy until Country looked away.  “What
kind of person are you, Country?”

The man-child took off his cap again in an act of utter
confusion.  “Whadaya mean, Ace?”

“You a have, a wannabe or a have-not?”

Country laughed his goofy laugh, which sounded partly
like hiccupping.  “I’m a have-not and a wannabe, Ace.”

“Me, too,” Ace chortled, immensely satisfied with his
teaching effort.  He slapped Country affectionately on his back.
“Now that we got that settled, let’s go in The Stadium and get a beer
and a burger.”

“You buyin’, Ace?”

“For my best buddy, damn right.”

As it turned out, Ace Semanski and Skinny Walker had a
similar philosophy of life, which greatly influenced their friends and enemies
alike, some to the good and some to their utter destruction.

∞
∞  ∞

Inside, Ace
ordered two beers and told the bartender to run a tab for both
him and Country.  When John looked dubious, Ace handed him a prepaid debit
card he’d purchased with part of Marshon’s bribe.  “Credit my account for
a hundred dollars,” Ace said.  While he waited on the bartender, Ace
looked around until he saw Richey sitting alone at the far end of the bar.

Ace handed Country a twenty-dollar bill.  “Why
don’t you get some change from the machine and play video games in the other
room.  Get yourself a burger and fries and put it on our tab.  Charge
your beers, too.”

“Golly, Ace, thanks!”

Ace walked over and sat beside Richey.  “Hey, boss,
what’s happenin’?”

“Not much, Ace,” Richey said, looking up from the Keno
card on which he’d been marking numbers.

“You winning?”

“An occasional free trip to the bathroom is all.”

“What are the odds on the Keno hundred-thousand-dollar
game?”

“Several million-to-one, I suppose.”

“Ain’t hardly worth the effort, then.”

“Unless you win, then it’s one-to-one.”  Richey
laid his completed Keno card on the front of the bar so John would see
it.  The bar was busy with the Sunday lunch crowd; by mid-afternoon, pro
football fanatics would predominate.  “Keno is something to do.”

Ace swigged from his Bud.  “Yeah, everybody’s gotta
have something to do — or somebody to do.  If the object is to win big
money, though, gambling probably ain’t gonna work.  It’s like sitting here
waiting to get struck by lightning.  Am I wrong?”

“No, can’t say that you are, Ace.  Say, while you’re
here, let’s talk a bit about the conversation you and I and Marshon had about
the business at The Wheel.”

“You mean those two guys I took care of, saving
Marshon’s whole operation.  Maybe even his life.  Your life.”

Richey reluctantly nodded his agreement.  “And you
agreed to leave town after Marshon financed your trip.  That was last
Monday night, nearly a week ago.”

“Wow, I didn’t know you guys were in such a hurry.
Like I told you at the time, I’ll probably leave, soon.  I’m a rolling
stone.  But, for the time being, I’m enjoying fucking the shit out of
Kandie Givens every night and twice on Saturday and Sunday.  There’s no
hurry, is there?  I ain’t gonna snitch!  What would I get out of
admitting to what I done!”  He leaned over and whispered.  “Twenty to
life?”

“Obviously, what Marshon fears is that you’d give him up
to save yourself.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ on him, or you, Richey.”
Then, Ace looked startled, as if an idea had just popped into his head.
“I don’t even know what happened to the bodies.  What did happen to those
guys, Richey?”

Richey didn’t even turn his head to look at Ace, but
concentrated on sipping his martini.

“You guys are worried about nothing, Richey.  I’m
solid.  Nobody who was at The Wheel is gonna say anything, right?
You remember what Marshon told the crowd about snitching?  But,
Marshon and his sidekick,  the big guy, Jemmy, they should think twice
about strong-arming me, or threatening me.  That would backfire in a big
way, if you know what I mean.”

Richey shrugged and dropped the topic, although he
planned to report the conversation to Marshon.  Even Richey cringed at the
idea of a collision between Ace and Jemmy.  One of them would wind up
dead, and Richey feared it could be Jemmy, as unlikely as that might seem to
those who spun The Wheel.

That gave Ace his opening to shift the discussion to
another topic that could be central to his plan to get rich.  His fellow
workers at Biederman’s had told Ace about Richey’s acting ambition.  “Hey,
Richey, someone told me you tried out for some big part in a play,” Ace
said.  “I didn’t know you were an actor.”  Actors followed a script,
and Ace had a role for Richey.

“Some of the local theater critics have raised the same
question.  Yeah, I do some acting on the side.  It’s a hobby I enjoy.”
What else could he call an activity that didn’t make him any
money?  Society judged the value of any human activity according to how
much income it generated.  If you worked at something that didn’t pay, you
were either a hobbyist or a plain fool.  A burden to society.

“I’m a movie buff, myself,” Ace said.  “No ambition
to be an actor, because I don’t have any talent, but I find movies very
interesting.  They provide entertainment and escapism, of course, but they
also seem to reflect what people are thinking and feeling, don’t they?”

Richey turned sideways in this seat, seemingly
transformed from a zombie barfly to a sociological lecturer.  “You’re
right, Ace.  At the time the Iraq and Afghanistan wars wound down, there
were several movies about them.  They all had the same theme, which is the
futility of war in general and the disillusionment all soldiers go through,
both during and after combat.  Sometimes, they survive the war but lose
their lives to drugs, booze, depression and divorce.  Most people our age
aren’t aware of it, but there was the same phenomenon after the Vietnam
War.  After every war, in fact.”  Richey drained his martini.
“Also, in recent years, we’ve had a rash of anti-Wall Street movies, after they
screwed investors and the public in real life and nearly caused an economic
depression about ten years ago.  Same thing happened in the early
eighties, when the economy was on the skids.  The first Wall Street
movie with Michael Douglas and Charlie Sheen came out in nineteen eighty-seven.”

Ace looked impressed.  “So, are the movies
reflecting the majority public opinion that wars and Wall Street are evil, or
are the moviemakers trying to influence public opinion?  Many
conservatives say Hollywood is full of unpatriotic liberals with an agenda.
Right?”

Richey seemed truly amazed.  “I never took you for
a philosopher, Ace!”

“You mean, because I work at Biederman’s — like you.”

“Touché.  That’s a whole ʼnother therapy
session.”

Ace waved at John.  “I’m buying this round,
Richey.”

“Thanks.  I never turn down free drinks.
Okay, Ace, what’s your favorite movie genre?”

Ace looked down, chuckled softly and didn’t speak for
maybe half a minute.  Maybe Richey thought Ace was searching his memory;
or, maybe it was that Ace just couldn’t believe how easy it was to co-opt
Richey.  He’d expected Kandie and Country to be walkovers, and he already
had roles for them.  He had a vague idea about how to use Richey, and
after this conversation he’d know if it was possible.

“I like suspense stories, thrillers, crime movies, some
sci-fi,” Ace continued.  “I guess my favorite movie is Butch Cassidy
and the Sundance Kid.  Saw it again for about the tenth time on the
American Movie Classics channel.  What about you, Richey?”

“Actually, I like anything that’s well done.
Historical stuff like Lincoln or Twelve Years a Slave.
Anything by the Coen Brothers, Scorsese, Ridley Scott, Tarantino.
Musicals like Les Miserables.  Some of my favorites are old movies,
too, like From Here to Eternity.  One of my favorite movies is Elmer
Gantry.  Burt Lancaster simply was the best.  Same with any movie
starring Meryl Streep.  Out of Africa had it all.  A great
cast.  Stunning scenery.  Historical significance.  Wonderful
music by Mozart.  The characters were all seeking adventure and
love.  And they found it, and then lost it.”  Richey shrugged.
“Maybe I like it so much because it’s a lot like my life, minus the significance
and adventure.”

They drank is silence.  Ace didn’t say anything, as
if he was waiting to see which way Richey would take the conversation.

Richey couldn’t resist holding forth on a favorite
subject.  He’d never encountered anyone in The Stadium who could
converse even halfway intelligently on the subject.  “You know, there’s
always been a movie genre about the big score, like Butch Cassidy and the
Sundance Kid,” Richey said, taking a Camel from the pack Ace had tossed
onto the bar between them.  He couldn’t resist movie talk, regardless of
how much he distrusted Ace.  “Redford and Newman were in The Sting,
too.  Another Robin Hood-type movie in which they steal from the rich and
give to themselves.  The audience gets caught up in the romance of it all.
For about ninety minutes, they forget about the law and ethics.  The bad
guys become heroes and the audience identifies with them, forgives them, and
secretly wants to be like them.”

“Sounds ʼbout right,” Ace said.

“Take The Thomas Crown Affair.  There was an
early version with Steve McQueen and a remake with Pierce Brosnan.
Whether the male lead was orchestrating a bank robbery or stealing a Monet from
a museum, the theft was only the backdrop to romance.  In the original, he
finally gets the girl; in the remake, he loses her in the end.  Either
way, he was a crook who became an audience hero.  Same with Heat, a movie in which
both Robert De Niro and Al Pacino give great performances.  The audience
feels pretty sympathetic toward the burglary crew.  Loyal friends, family
guys, loving guys.  In fact, the bank robber and the cop turn out to be
the same type of personality.  They’re on opposite sides of the law, but
they understand each other.  They are the yin and yang of law enforcement.
You can’t have cops without crooks.  De Niro’s character dies with Pacino
holding his hand.  After he shot him, even.”

“People who watch movies don’t seem to mind seeing banks
get ripped off,” Ace ventured.  “Or any big company that’s screwing people
over on a daily basis.  Or even a rich guy, especially if he made his
money some way other than working for it.”

Richey handed a Keno ticket to John to check.
“Molière once said of an aristocrat, ‘He must have killed a lot of people to
have gotten so rich.’  Same’s true of anybody who’s rich, in fact.
Yesterday and today.”

For a moment, Ace couldn’t hide his delight at the
direction of the conversation.  It had exceeded expectations, which seldom
happens in life.  He was assembling his own Hole in The Wall gang.

“The
movie that makes the point of this genre the best, I think, is Thunderbolt
and Lightfoot,” Richey continued, as if he were lecturing the entire bar
clientele.  The volume of his voice rose with his enthusiasm for the
topic, as well as the amount of vodka he ingested.  Several people at the
bar turned to look at him.  “Clint Eastwood plays Thunderbolt, the tough
guy, and Jeff Bridges is his flaky sidekick.  Clint and his old gang rob
the same bank a second time.  There’s a falling out among the thieves and
Eastwood and Bridges are on their own.  They accidentally find the loot
from the first robbery.  Years ago, they'd hid it behind the blackboard in
a schoolhouse that was later moved from its original site.  As they’re
driving away with the money, Lightfoot, who’s dying from a head injury, says to
Thunderbolt, ‘I don’t think of us as criminals, you know.  I think we
accomplished something … a good job.  I feel proud of myself, man.  I
feel like a hero.’  Then, he dies.”

Ace
had set the scene masterfully and he now began to weave the web that would
eventually ensnare Richey and others — not that Ace knew exactly how it would
unfold at the time.  Now, he was just fishing.  “I read about a real life big score in the
newspaper recently that would make a great movie.  Took place out in L.
A.  Two guys, who the cops think probably were construction workers, got
into the big underground storm drains out there and tunneled beneath a
bank.  They used a water-cooled concrete saw to cut a hole in the floor of
the vault.  They did all this work at night and used ATVs to haul in their
equipment and haul out the dirt, which they dumped into open drainage ditches.”

“So the runoff water washed away the evidence of what
they were doing.”

“Exactly.  Of course, when they finally broke through
the vault floor, an alarm went off.”

“A motion alarm or the kind that measures air pressure.”

Now, it was Ace’s turn to look surprised at Richey’s
knowledge about alarm systems.  “When the cops showed up, they didn’t see
anybody inside the bank.  Besides, the vault door was on a time
lock.  They couldn’t imagine the robbers already were inside.  They
thought it was an alarm glitch.”

“Classic misdirection.  How much did they
get?  Did they get away?”

John the bartender automatically refilled Richey’s glass
when it was empty, which didn’t escape Ace’s notice.  “Twenty million,
according to the newspaper.  I never heard nothin’ about them getting
caught.”

Richey nodded slowly.  “Very smart, very
smart.  Money kept in the vault isn’t marked or doesn’t have dye packets
or transmitters hidden in it.  They only do that for cash in the teller’s
second drawer — or at least, that’s what I read.  The bank knows the
serial numbers of the stolen money, or course, meaning the guys who stole it
can’t spend it.  But, if they were smart enough to steal that money,
hopefully they’ll be smart enough to figure out the next step.”

“Which is?”  Ace asked, with genuine
interest.  He leaned toward Richey, so he wouldn’t miss the revelation.

“Put it into a Swiss bank account, or some account
off-shore in the Caribbean.  The bank never has to circulate the money, at
least not for years.  Like gold, the cash becomes an asset on which the
bank can issue credit and loans, and generate additional income through fees
and interest.  It’s a credit economy, anyway, not a monetary
economy.  Hell, twenty million at five percent makes a million a year in
interest.  That, plus an unlimited credit card based on the principal,
should allow the crooks to lead a pretty luxurious life if they don’t get
greedy and do something foolish.”

Ace
stood up.  He’d accomplished everything he could hope for today.
“Interesting conversation, Richey.  Let’s do it again, seriously.
But, right now, I gotta go pick up Kandie after her shift ends at the restaurant.”

“Is
this thing recreational for her, too, or is she serious?”

“All
I know is that she’s got a great body and she’s the most enthusiastic fuck I’ve
had in the last three years.  I’m surprised Carmen hasn’t heard the
screams over in her apartment.  But, maybe Carmen is equally vocal when
she’s being ridden, huh?  You’re a lucky man, Richey.”

Much
later, in the midst of chaos and fear, Richey would remember this conversation
as the moment Ace first revealed even vaguely the role Carmen would play in his
script.

7/Selling An Insurance Policy

Marshon responded
to the knocking on his apartment door, opened it and Boudra walked
in.  She handed him a flash drive and took a seat on his sofa facing the
television.

“Coffee?”  Marshon asked.

“No, I’m good,” Boudra said.  Marshon stuck the
thumb drive into a USB port on the side of the television.  He grabbed the
remote and retrieved his coffee cup from the kitchen bar.  He sat beside
Boudra, turned on the television, accessed the drive, opened the video library,
and clicked a video with the latest calendar date.

“This was the action over the weekend?” he asked.

“Yeah, I put the summary together myself.  Six in
all.”

Marshon didn’t believe in the assembly line approach,
preferring dependable repeat customers willing to pay premium prices.
“Repeats?”

“Four, plus two more new ones from my Website.”

Most working women preferred to troll for customers in
hotels and bars, whereas Boudra relied mainly on contacts made through her
Website, which was expertly and subtly constructed.  She advertised
herself as an escort available for dinner, the theater, conventions, and
private parties.  The site included several photos of Boudra wearing the
latest in fashion clothing, including stunning evening dresses.  She was
as beautiful as most runway models, and probably more intelligent.  She
screened callers and required a credit card down payment, which allowed her to
weed out undesirables and those who called her cell phone number on a lark.
She had an account with a people search engine and paid extra for the
in-depth background report on credit card holders, which included criminal
convictions and any court-issued restraining orders.  As a result, she
seldom solicited in bars and never on public streets.  She always gave
Marshon a copy of the monthly bill from her credit card company, so he knew she
wasn’t holding out on him.

Marshon pressed play on the remote and Boudra’s
round bed filled the TV screen.  A white dude was on top, missionary
style.  Boudra had wrapped her long legs around his body and crossed her
ankles in the middle of his back.  Marshon snorted.  White men
fuckin’ black women was an age-old story that accounted in large part for the
variations of color among modern-day African-Americans.  He had no
sympathy for any of them, past or present.  “This one of the new ones?”

“Yeah.”

The camera was hidden inside a wooden curio and plant
stand about three feet from the end of the bed.  Fake ivy hid the
lens.  Marshon and the women had developed a plan for them to position
themselves for the best camera angles, and then press play on a wireless remote
attached to the side of their bed.  Marshon’s many talents included movie
director.  So much talent, so little time.

“What are you smiling about, Marshon?”  Boudra
asked.

“Nothing,” he said, turning up the sound so he could
hear Boudra tell the white guy, “Take it easy, honey, that big thing o’ yours
is tearin’ me up inside.”

“That’s good theater, Boudra!”

She arched her eyebrows and shook her head wearily.

Boudra had John positioned so that his head was in the
crook of her shoulder, looking directly into the camera — unknowingly of
course.  John suddenly grimaced and then his mouth formed into an “O”,
just before he let out a primitive sound and ejaculated.

After catching his breath, John backed out and stood, so
that the camera shot was through Boudra’s V-shaped legs as John pulled a condom
off his dick.  He then walked to his left off camera, causing Boudra to
sit up on the edge of the bed.  In doing so, she kept one leg on the bed,
bent at the knee.  Marshon looked at her naked image on screen and then
looked out the corner of his eyes at her sitting on his sofa, looking casual in
jeans and a yellow cashmere sweater.  When he looked back at the
television, Boudra had turned her head to look directly into the camera, almost
as if she were looking at Marshon watching her, days removed.  Marshon
squirmed uncomfortably.

Suddenly, John came back into camera range, popped
something into his mouth and took a drink from a glass that might have been
half-filled with bourbon.  He said to Boudra, “I just took a Viagra.
I want you to suck me hard again and then I’ll do your back door.”

The Boudra on screen said, “I can do the first, but not
the latter, as I told you before.  But, I have a friend who does
anal.  Let me call her and we’ll walk down a flight of stairs.  I’ll
introduce you.  There’ll be a small extra charge, but it will be worth
it.”

John swung his hand, slapping Boudra’s face hard,
knocking her sideways on the bed.  But she rebounded with amazing agility
and speed, and suddenly stood beside startled John.  There was a clicking
sound and Boudra had the cutting edge of a switchblade resting on John’s
johnson.  “I said no, and I said I have a friend,” she told him, politely
but firmly.

John looked angry but wisely decided to back off.
He proceeded to dress, although he took his time putting on boxer shorts,
over-the-calf black socks, charcoal gray slacks, dress shirt with thin vertical
stripes, a blue blazer, and wing-tip shoes.  He folded his tie carefully
and placed it in a side jacket pocket.  Then, he looked with contempt at
Boudra who had put on her robe but still held the knife.

“You’re just a whore, how was I to know,” John said,
snottily.

Boudra replied, calmly, “No foul, no harm.  You
want me to call my friend?”

“Perhaps another time,” John said, haughtily, as if he’d
suffered a great insult and injustice.  “I’m not in the mood now.
And, I doubt that I will be doing business with you again, my dear.”

“I know you won’t.”

“I’m sure we’ll meet again, someplace where I have the
advantage.”

Boudra called Jemmy on the intercom to tell him a
customer was on his way out of the building.  Then, she opened the
apartment door for John, but stood clear of him as he walked into the hallway.

Marshon put the DVD player on pause and said, “He use a
credit card?”

Boudra pulled a receipt from her pocket and handed it to
Marshon.  He urged the women in the building to push their customers to
use a credit card.  Each of them had a credit card machine in their
apartment that registered the charge on a laptop Jemmy kept in his
office.  He’d made an exception with Boudra.  He looked at the
receipt, which charged $1,500.

If John would only pay in cash, that was acceptable
provided the transaction was recorded by the hidden videocam.  Either way,
there was no question about revenues and no chance of a dispute between Marshon
and the women.  These procedures guaranteed trust both ways.

After an eye-opening discussion in his apartment one
evening, the women and Marshon agreed to a basic price sheet.  A hundred
bucks for President Clinton’s favorite nonsexual act, $300 for conventional sex
lasting less than fifteen minutes, and a $1,000 minimum for extended periods of
time, certain amenities, and various perversions and specialty acts.
However, they agreed that the experienced hookers had latitude, mainly to
increase the prices significantly if there was any indication that John would
pay more.  They could quote attractive weekly and monthly rates so long as
John initially paid for these services up front.

Eight working girls lived in
the building.  Marshon always kept one apartment open on the third floor
for special guests.  On
any given night, six girls usually were on duty, the other two having taken a
day off.  Although some did better than others did, they each averaged
$1,800 a night, twenty-four nights a month.  Accounting for about six
weeks’ vacation per year, the working women collectively grossed nearly $3
million annually.  Marshon’s royalty was thirty percent, or nearly $1 million
gross, not counting the $8,000 a month the eight women paid in apartment rent,
but that went into a retirement account for his Nanna and Uncle Clyde.
But, net isn’t gross.

The women each netted nearly $350,000 a year working
in the building.  Some freelanced during days off and vacation time, and
substantially added to that amount.  Out of his share, Marshon paid for the building utilities
and maintenance.  A recent conversion of the entire building to central
air cost nearly $80,000.  Marshon also provided security and made payoffs
to the police and health department and all other relevant city, county and
state officials who had the authority to intervene in their business.
Still, he cleared over half-million each year, which made it a worthwhile
business.  That didn’t count a high six-figure income from the sale of
“insurance policies.”  Overall,
the “apartment business” was the equal of The Wheel, from an income
point of view.  It was a toss-up as to which was potentially the most
dangerous.

Marshon nevertheless conceded that Jemmy was
right.  It was a disgusting, embarrassing sideline and he seldom talked
about it to anyone.  Of course, it wasn’t a secret.  Once, a dice
player at The Wheel referred to him as a pimp.  Minutes later, that
gambler lay on the floor, his face bloody and swollen.  Jemmy Shoemaker
stood over him.  They banned the mouthy gambler from The Wheel for
three months.  Although no one openly applied the pimp label to him again,
Marshon's reaction said volumes.

Since the beginning of time, all societies had viewed
sexual activity as essentially animalistic.  If unregulated and
unrestrained, it would lead to constant conflict and chaos, as men fought over
women and rape raged out of control.  Sex was necessary for reproduction
of the species.  For purposes of control, however, it was condoned only
within the bounds of marriage.  Marriage became an important aspect of
maintaining social order.  One man and one woman bound together until
death do them part.  Like all manmade and God-given laws and social
conventions, these efforts to control the sexual impulse have been only
partially successful.  The crimes of rape and the social stigma of
adultery are as old as mankind.  Prostitution is alleged to be the world’s
oldest profession, although that’s debatable.

Its profit potential wasn’t open to debate,
though.  Whenever Marshon felt disgusted and ashamed, he remembered that
he would feel the same emotions if he were working for Richey, picking maggots
out of a carton of soup cans.  Besides, he soon planned to bring to a
close this aspect of his life.

“You get any information on this guy who slapped you?”

Boudra handed him the report from the company that
performed the background search.  Marshon had been so impressed with
Boudra’s methodology that he occasionally used the same approach.

He had other ways to identify his customers.  If
John insisted on paying cash, the women activated the camera.  In case the
transaction wasn’t caught on camera, the woman would ask John to please wash
his dick in the bathroom before they got started, which always helped put the
customer at ease about the fear of disease.  While he was in the bathroom,
she would quickly go through his wallet looking for a name and address,
preferably a driver’s license.  Marshon insisted they all keep a pad and
pencil in a drawer of the nightstand so they could write down the information.

Of course, a suspicious and careful John would take his
billfold with him into the bathroom.  In that case, the working women on
Marshon’s payroll would ask to see some identification, like a driver’s
license, to make sure John wasn’t a vice cop.  In this event, Marshon told
them to remember John's last name and the street he lived on.  Don’t try
to memorize the house number, he’d told them.  That’s too hard.  The
women also pumped their customers for essential information, such as where he
worked, what kind of car he drove.  If John didn’t give the information up
the first time, he always did later when he became more comfortable.

As a backup, Marshon had surveillance cameras mounted
outside on the building and a nearby light pole.  The video often caught
the license tag numbers of cars parked on the street.  Cabbies who dropped
off customers knew Marshon would pay an extra ten to twenty bucks for any
relevant information.  Very seldom did he and Jemmy fail to get something
on a John that could be used to track him down later.

There were several reasons Marshon wanted to know
everything he could about his customers.  It helped him weed out cops,
friends of cops and known police informers, as well as competitors, especially
jealous street pimps.  If the building customers included elected
officials or high-ranking government employees, or their friends and family, it
was a form of insurance for Marshon to possess this information.  Finally,
Marshon sold an insurance policy to building customers if they caused trouble,
attacked the women, or cancelled their credit card charge before payment was
made.  It was a method of keeping order and meting out punishment when
warranted.

Marshon looked at the address Boudra had on her
troublemaker.  One hundred and eighty-seventh street in Sherwood Forest, a
suburb.  An area catering to the nouveau riche.

“His name is Charles Krebs and he owns one of the
largest insurance agencies in the city,” Boudra said.  “Arrogant bastard.”

“So I could tell.  I didn’t know you had a
switchblade.”

“It has ended trouble before it could start on more than
one occasion.”

Marshon may have thought about lecturing Boudra on the
use of private force and pointed out that Jemmy took care of troublemakers, but
she wasn’t the type that took to lectures.  Besides, he knew there were
some situations in which John could disable a woman before she could get to the
panic button.  John could do enough physical damage to end her career.

“You remember the conversation we had a few days ago in
the hallway?”

“Yeah, you mentioned the future of the business in this
building.”

“First, this is a confidential conversation, between you
and me.  I don’t want to hear it repeated by anyone else.  If I do,
we won’t do any business in the future.”

Boudra nodded.  “I like all the rules stated up
front, so there’s never any misunderstanding.  Along that line, let me
address a couple of issues that always come up when I talk business to people
who know what I do for a living.”

“I know what you do for a living.”

“You know the act and you know the business end, but you
don’t know much about me,” Boudra said, in a tone indicating her statement
wasn’t open to debate.

“Okay.”

“I’m a whore.  You’ve certainly watched me fuck
enough.  But, that’s just movement.  Most men still have some
questions.  These are the answers.  No, I don’t find it degrading and
disgusting.  It’s a natural function.  I just do it more often than
other women.  It doesn’t stretch me out down there or make me jaded about
men.  I’m not a drug addict, nor do I have low self-esteem, although I
sometimes get bored and depressed.  I’m not a nymphomaniac.  My
father and/or uncles did not rape me as a child.  I had a fairly normal
childhood, did well in school and went to college intent upon eventually
getting an MBA.  I have a tested I.Q. of 125.  Yes, I occasionally
come during sex, but I would never fall for a customer, mainly because they are
all liars and cheats by virtue of the fact that they fuck me for money.  I
look upon sex as a learned occupational skill I use to generate income.
And, it’s been very profitable.  I’ll net close to half a million this
year, counting my income from a whale or two here and there who wants to hire
me for a week, or travel with him to some exotic location.”

“I don’t take a cut on free-lance action out of the
building,” Marshon confirmed.

“Where else could I make that kind of money, Marshon?
I’m twenty-five and I’ve been doing this for three years since I dropped out of
college.  Another year, year-and-a-half, I plan to get out of the life and
complete my studies or open a business.  This is temporary.  It’s all
about the money, right?”

“Most things are,” Marshon replied, thinking again about
Skinny Walker’s philosophy.

“Anything else you want to know about me?”

“You ever had to use that switchblade?”

“Nope, the threat has always been enough, but I imagine
the day will come, in which case it could backfire on me and I’ll get cut up.
That’s one reason I’m always on the lookout for an exit plan.”

Marshon nodded vigorously, indicating he fully
understood her life plan, which was not unlike his.  “Thanks for the
honesty, Boudra, and the insights.  You should also know that I’m not in
this business because my lifelong ambition was to be a pimp.  I actually
bought and renovated this building originally thinking I might move The
Wheel in here.  Might not be a bad idea the way things are going, but
I still plan to be moving on soon.  The building will continue to operate
as is, but I’ll need someone to run it.”

“What about Jemmy?”

“Great guy, lifelong friend.  If he wants it, he
gets first choice, but he is a bit disillusioned about this business.”

“I’d hope so.”

“And he ain’t exactly a great businessman.  He
doesn’t believe in negotiation.  The main challenge to whoever runs this
building is to neutralize those people who threaten to shut it down for one
reason or the other.  Most of these people and their rationale are as
hypocritical as our clientele is.  Truth is, they’re all blackmailers,
regardless of their justification.  People who take bribes and use their
public office for individual advantage ain’t any better than gamblers and
whores, in my opinion.”

“Well, that makes both of us feel better, doesn’t it,
Marshon?”  Boudra said, sarcastically.  “What are payoffs on this
operation running you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Six figures.”  He didn’t want to be specific at
this time.

Boudra nodded, but said, “On the other hand, that’s
manageable if you’re taking in nearly a million from your thirty percent share
for the work we do on our back — or sometimes our stomach and knees.”

Her bluntness and knowledge caused Marshon to
smile.  Nevertheless, he made an obligatory effort to justify his cut, and
put an end to any rebellious thoughts.  “Like I said, gross ain’t net.  If
you all were on the street, many of you — maybe not you, Boudra — would be
splitting fifty-fifty with a pimp, who might regularly beat you up, and string
you out with drugs.  He wouldn’t provide much protection against the
police and violent customers.  You wouldn’t have the safety and comfort of
this building, or health care, or financial advice and business opportunities.
Don’t forget that I regularly cut all of you in on any extracurricular income,
like we might generate from Charles Krebs.  I don’t have to do that, you
know.  Anyone don’t like the whole deal here, the front door’s open.”

“Can’t argue with any of that, Marshon.  At least
we understand each other a bit better.  I can do the job of managing this
place,” Boudra said, “and continue to pay your royalty, although that would be
open to negotiation if you’re not actually here.  Your thirty percent share
would be too high, then.  On the other hand, I can also find a way to work
with Jemmy so he’s happy.”

“That would be a solution that might please
everyone.  Plus, you’ll need him, both for security and some of the
payoffs.  Whether you like it or not, he can deal better with some of
these people.”

Boudra shrugged her agreement, and then added: “I might
run things differently.”

“How?” Marshon asked, truly interested.

“Put on skits that might range throughout the building,
going from apartment to apartment according to a script.  A progressive
stage play about sexual perversion.  For example, John might come into one
apartment just as the man of the house is leaving.  John is disguised as a
plumber.  He winds up inspecting the wife’s plumbing.  Then, he moves
to another apartment where the teenage daughter also needs his attention.
Mom interrupts them and is outraged, but it turns into a threesome.  I got
some other ideas of a similar nature.  You get the idea.  A
progressive stage play.”

Marshon chuckled, thinking of Richey’s idea about
instituting a Folies
Bergère-type performance in the
apartment.  If Richey didn’t go with him, Marshon might appoint Boudra and
Richey as the apartment choreographers, and Jemmy as muscle.

“John would develop a sense of camaraderie with the hookers,
and maybe other male customers, too.  A couple of them could pretend to be
burglars and rapists, you know.”

“I’m certain something like that would be very popular.”

“We could sell season tickets for, say, fifty grand per
person for twelve performances a year.  To start.  Each performance
could last an entire weekend.  We could accommodate a dozen guys each
weekend, on top of the regular action.”

Marshon looked stunned and
could only shake his head, not as a negative gesture but to indicate he was dumbfounded.
She might pull it off.  There were surely fifty well-heeled sex addicts in
the city.  Marshon
did the numbers in his head.  It could bring in an additional $2.5
million.  The women
would literally work themselves to the bone!

Marshon stood and walked to the kitchen bar, where he
poured himself another cup of coffee.  It was too early for him to make a
commitment, but Boudra’s presentation actually convinced him that she could
best run the apartment business.  “I enjoyed the conversation, Boudra.
Let’s talk again.  I’m in the early stages of all these
considerations.  First, I gotta deal with some problems at The Wheel.
Then, I’ll get back to you with a business proposition, okay?”

She stood and said, “Whenever you’re ready,
Marshon.”

“Oh, one more thing.  I’ll deal with Charles Krebs,
and there will be a dividend for you, as usual.”

∞
∞  ∞

Two days later, Marshon drove slowly through
suburban Sherwood Forest, peering out the driver’s side window at the house
numbers.  Locating his target, he turned left onto a driveway leading into
a three-car garage.  He stepped out of the BMW and closed the door,
pleased with the solid sound it made, indicating superior workmanship.
When he’d been deciding about the color of the car, Jemmy and Widja said it
should be black, as a symbol of racial pride, but he thought it more
appropriate that the car be the color of the folks who had paid for it by
buying his insurance policies.

On
a picture-perfect late autumn day, Marshon’s brown, pinstriped suit matched the
seasonal colors and the solemnity of the occasion.  He was about to sell
an insurance policy to the wife of a man who owned the largest insurance agency
in the city, and who had slapped and threatened Boudra.  Who almost got
his dick cut off.  The John with the imperial attitude who wore wing tips
and carefully folded his tie.  Charles Krebs, whoremonger, woman-beater,
arrogant hypocrite and potential troublemaker who needed to be taught a lesson
and neutralized before he did some real damage.

He
surveyed the three-story brick-and-stucco house from the front walk, noting its
impressive roofline featuring a half-dozen different peaks.  He calculated approximately
twenty rooms.
Nevertheless,
Marshon considered it just another big box located in an all-white ghetto for
the nouveau riche.  It had no character at all, as far as he was
concerned, especially in comparison to his home on Scrub Island.

He
pressed the doorbell, initiating a Gershwin tune that played until a Hispanic
housekeeper wearing a simple print dress opened the door.

“I’m
here to see Mrs. Krebs,” Marshon said.  “She’s expecting me.”

The
housekeeper looked dubious, as if undecided about what to do with this big
black man outside the missus’ door.  Mrs. Krebs appeared at her maid’s
side but showed no similar signs of fear.  In fact, Marshon noticed that
her chin defiantly jutted upward at the sight of him.

“You
are the Mr. Touissant who called?”  Mrs. Krebs asked snobbishly.

“Yes,”
Marshon answered.  His alias has a pleasing island sound to it, hinting at
a family lineage extending back to France.

“Do
come in,” Mrs. Krebs said.  Although Mrs. Krebs was originally from Iowa,
she had adopted an English accent with its clipped, distinct pronunciation of
words.  It fitted her family’s high social standing, and there certainly
was no crime to it.

“Thank
you greatly for your hospitality,” Marshon said, countering with his best
Jamaican dialect.  He had to project some type of demeanor.  He could
be all businesslike, which would scare many white people, or he could be light
and chatty in an attempt to put his newest client at ease before he lowered the
boom.  “My business will only take a moment.”

The
foyer and area behind the staircase appeared to be half as large as Marshon’s
apartment.  He followed Mrs. Krebs up three steps to a landing.  The
short, heavyset woman had the proud carriage of someone who had a compensating
quality — money.  In a dining room to his right, an elegant round table
contained a service for five.  An expensive-looking porcelain urn sat in a
bay window.

In
the living room, Mrs. Krebs sat on one of two facing sofas separated by a
glass-topped coffee table.  A large, multi-paned window provided a
comprehensive view of a patio, outdoor kitchen, and swimming pool.  All of
it added to Marshon’s calculations.

“Very
impressive house,” Marshon said.

“Thank
you,” Mrs. Krebs responded.  “Now, if we can get down to business, Mr.
Touissant.”  Suspicion clouded her face.  “You’ll pardon me, but you
don’t look like one of my husband’s business associates.”

“No,
I suppose not,” Marshon replied.  Rather than sit directly across from
her, Marshon took a seat in one of the fashionable chairs located near the
window.  “What is your given name, Mrs. Krebs?”

She
inhaled deeply, as if reluctant to share such an intimacy with a
stranger.  “My name is Virginia.”

“Well,
Virginia, Charles and I are not exactly associates, but I also am in the
insurance business, as I told you on the phone.  A recent event, or series
of events, actually, prompts this business.”

“On
the phone, I believe you called it a potential crisis for my family?”

“Yes,
it is, and you need additional insurance, Virginia.  A special policy for
a special situation.”

“Oh,
I seriously doubt that,” she said condescendingly, and then laughed to
underscore the outrageous nature of his suggestion.

“The
idea of insurance, Virginia, as you know, is to sell people protection against
unforeseen tragedies that would render them financially vulnerable in any
number of ways.  Different policies serve different purposes.”  He’d
learned long ago that social elitists and racists were prepared to ignore him
for being black, but forced beyond their will to listen to him because of his
intelligence and command of the English language.  He could switch from
ghetto slang to an island dialect and back to proper English at will.

“Mr.
Touissant, can we please get to the point of your visit.  Surely you’re
not going to attempt to sell me an insurance policy.  I can’t imagine you
have anything that unique.”  She talked to him as if he were an ignorant
houseboy.  “After all, my husband owns the largest agencies in the city.”

“I’m
aware of that, Virginia.”  Using her first name made them equals and
equals were more likely to become co-conspirators.  “Yes, let’s get down
to business.  Do you have a telly in here?” he asked, poking fun at her
fake British accent.

“A
television in the living room, goodness no!  It’s in the family room.”

Marshon
held out both arms as an admission of his faux pas.  “How stupid of
me.”  He took a flash drive from a jacket pocket and said, “Assuming you
have a smart TV or a computer, I’ll just pop this flash drive in so you can
view a short video and you'll understand why you need the policy I’m selling
today.  Shall we?”

Walking
behind her and feeling cocky, Marshon mimicked her mincing steps.  She
wore an off-white suit.  The cardigan jacket trimmed with soutache and
pearl beads minimized the spare tire encircling her waistline.  Even so,
he would have dressed her in darker colors.

As
they walked toward the rear of the house, Marshon saw the Hispanic housekeeper
working in the kitchen.  She eyed him nervously and he deliberately
attempted to freak her out by smiling evilly and causing his eyes to
bulge.  Behaving outrageously helped Marshon deal with his own
stress.  After all, Virginia Krebs could turn the table on him in an instance,
by picking up the phone and calling the police.  He’d adroitly explain his
visit, but someone downtown might come to a different conclusion.  The
contents of the flash drive would certainly identify him as a blackmailer,
although he would attempt to destroy it before the police arrived.  For
that reason, he carried a cigarette lighter, although he never smoked.

The
family room also had windows overlooking the patio and pool, clearly the focal
point of this house design.  An L-shaped sofa with rolled arms sat on a
hand-painted sisal rug.  The outside wall featured a chimney-free gas
fireplace with a round window where the mantel should have been.  A Sony
big screen television occupied a portion of one wall.

“This
is a lovely room,” Marshon said, in an effeminate voice accompanied by
appropriate hand gestures.

Virginia
said, irritably, “Mr. Touissant, if you don’t mind, I have luncheon guests
arriving shortly.”

Marshon
turned on the TV, inserted the drive and used the remote to locate the video
file.  Before activating it, he looked back toward the door.  “The
maid isn’t likely to pop in, is she?”

“Of
course not!  She’s been taught to observe our family’s privacy unless
called upon.”

“Just
like slavery,” he muttered, putting the video into play.  He’d
pre-selected the action to show Charles Krebs pumping away on top of Boudra
last weekend.

“Oh,
my God!”  Mrs. Krebs cried out, inching closer to the edge of the sofa, as
if compelled against her will to better see the action.

As
soon as Charles finished and then stood, Marshon paused the action to capture a
still shot of naked, half-erect Charles as viewed through Boudra’s legs, as she
lay on the bed on her back.  It was a money shot.  As if that wasn’t
enough, Charles was shown slapping Boudra, after she denied his request for
anal sex.  Jemmy had edited out the scene in which Boudra threatened to
cut off Charles’s weenie with her switchblade.

Mrs.
Krebs regained her composure.  “Shut this filthy trash off!  I’ve
seen enough!”

Marshon
said, with conviction, “You really should watch the rest of this, Virginia, but
perhaps later, when I’m gone.  I can transfer the file to your TV.”

“Let
me understand this.  You’re a pimp, this is one of your girls, and you’ve
filmed my husband with a hidden camera!  Is that right?”

“Ahhh
.  .  .  yeah!”

She
began to leave the room.  “When Charles finds out about this, he’ll call
the police!  In fact, I may call them if you don’t leave this instant!”

“Damn!”
Marshon said, sitting on the sofa.  “That’s just what he said!  You
two kinda look alike and it’s obvious you think alike.”

She
stopped and whirled around.  “You showed this .  .  .  this
pornography to Charles?”

“Yesterday.
Sent him an e-mail with a video attachment.  Didn't he tell you?”  It
was a bold lie, of course, but a bluff that Marshon hoped would pay off in a
big way.  If necessary, he would send the video to Charles, but
Marshon calculated that Virginia would be an easier sell.

“You're
trying to blackmail us!”

Marshon’s
head slumped backward dramatically.  “Jesus, yes, it’s not that difficult
to understand, Ginny.  I got this video of Charles dipping his little
white noodle in that inky hole and I’m willing to sell it to you for two
hundred thousand dollars.”  He’d arrived thinking seventy-five before he
got a good look at the house.

“That’s
outrageous!”

Marshon
wagged his finger at her.  “No, no, no, that’s the going rate
today, Virginia!”

She
inched back toward him.  “You told me my husband said he would call the
police.  Why did you come to see me?”

Now,
he became a serious counselor, offering both psychological and financial
advice.  “Sit down, Virginia, and I’ll tell you the whole gruesome story —
quickly, so you won’t be late for your luncheon.  Charles viewed the video
and said, when I called, quote, ‘Fuck you, nigger.  I don’t give a damn
who sees this!  I’m not givin’ you a fuckin’ penny and if you bother me
again, I’ll call the cops and charge you with extortion!’”  Although he’d
made up the whole encounter, Marshon managed to look truly hurt.  “He has
a very filthy mouth, Virginia.”

Even
if Virginia confronted Charles, who denied talking to Marshon, he couldn’t deny
the video.  His wife wouldn’t believe anything he said.

“You
should be charged with extortion,” she replied grimly, although she sat
reluctantly at the other end of the sofa.

“No,
I don’t think so, Virginia,” Marshon said, suddenly looking grim as he bore
down.  “You see, I’m not the guilty party here.  Charles is.
Maybe you didn’t hear or understand what he said to me.  He said he didn’t
care who saw the video.  Therefore, I assumed that included you,
which is why I brought it here for your viewing pleasure.  You see, he
really can’t call the police ’cause those who visit prostitutes also are
breaking the law.  If I’m a criminal, so is Charles.  It’s what they
call a symbiotic relationship, I believe.  In addition, he beat up on
Boudra, the poor working girl in the video.  I’ve saved back that
footage.  It’s prima facie evidence of assault.  It will play very
well in front of a jury, when we seek damages in the millions of dollars.
The local TV news will eat it up.  Your husband’s business will collapse
and you’ll have to move out of this beautiful house.”

Marshon
watched Virginia weigh his words.  Suddenly, she seemed crestfallen, beat
down.  He knew he’d won, although he didn’t feel victorious.
Instead, he felt as if he’d won ugly.  It generated an inner sigh.

Nevertheless,
with practiced impeccable timing, Marshon delivered the coup de grâce.
“Maybe Charles meant the neighbors, too, Virginia, when he said he didn’t
care who saw the video.  That could include the people in the regional
office and national headquarters of the insurance company he works for.
Your friends and family.  You got kids, Virginia?”

“Yes,”
she acknowledged, suddenly alert.  “We have two children in high school.”

“Tsk,
tsk.  I guess I could post the video on YouTube and notify the student
body by e-mail.”  He grimaced, as if that was unimaginable even to
him.  “Or, we can settle this all now in a way that benefits both of us.”

“You
want me to give you the money,” she said quietly.

“Yes,
I do, Virginia.  Here’s what I suggest you do with this video once you
purchase it.  Give it to your lawyer and take this house and everything
else Charles has.  Find yourself a new husband and stepfather for your
kids.  Someone who’ll keep his dick in his pants and not bring home any
dangerous viruses that might infect you and your children.  That’s what
I’d do, Virginia.”

“How
do I know you won’t be back asking me for more money next month?”

Marshon
sighed.  “You have my word, Virginia.  This is a one-time deal, for
many reasons.  If I were to continue to extort you, you’d obviously go to
the cops.  They’d harass me, maybe bust me.  I don’t need that
grief.  Two hundred thousand is a good number for both of us.  Your
lawyer won’t have to do much work, so he can’t present you with a big
bill.  You’ll get your divorce and a settlement in the millions, I’d
guess.  Then, it’s over and done with.  What would my leverage be
after that?”  Actually, Marshon could think of many ways to continue
tapping this source of income, but that would be cruel and then he’d be just
like Charles Krebs.  This was truly a one-time sale.

Mrs.
Krebs rose and left the room, her high heels clicking on the wood floor in a
determined way.  Marshon relaxed, leaned back on the sofa and closed his
eyes.  He felt confident, not only because he’d done this many times
before but also because he was selling a good policy.  Those who make a
better product or sell a better service can beat a path to most any door.
It was solely about the money, as Skinny had said.  Why else would anyone
be a pimp in America?  Or an insurance agent, for that matter?

Soon,
Marshon heard her coming back and he opened his eyes to see that Virginia had a
checkbook in hand.  She sat and asked, "Who should I make this out
to?"

“Jake’s
Original Barbecue," he said, thinking to launder the money through one
of the businesses in which he was a silent partner.  They’d be buying new
kitchen equipment, or at least that’s how it would appear on next year’s tax
return, which would be another true work of fiction.

Having
regained her composure, Mrs. Krebs held the check out to him and said
defiantly, “Someday you’ll get killed doing this, you know!”

Marshon’s
cocky smile and attitude disappeared as he frowned, stood and snatched the
check from her hand.  He didn’t really believe that anyone could predict
the future, but future events would cause Marshon to review this conversation,
over and over again.

8/Shirley’s Getting Married

Someone slipped onto the barstool beside him and
Richey looked at his new seatmate to discover that it was Shirley, his ex-wife!

He
levitated to a standing position.  “Shirley, my God!  Has something
happened!  Is Ethan okay!”

She
put her hand on his arm and said, “Sit down, Richey.  Everything’s
fine.  Ethan is well.  He was just promoted at the bank after being
there only four months.  I flew in from Chicago last night to get some
things out of storage and to talk to you.”

His
heart rate slowed as he sat and said, “Well, you obviously knew where to find
me.  Some things never change, huh?”  He forced a laugh.

She
smiled and then said, seriously, “Some things do, though, Richey, so let me get
right to it.”  She drew in a deep breath of courage.  “I’m getting
married on December eighteenth.”

His
heart again shifted into high gear.  Richey drained the Bloody Mary and
set the glass into the gutter so the barkeep could see it was empty.  “And
that’s what you came to tell me?”

She
took a deep breath.  “I felt I owed it to you.  It didn’t seem right
telling you on the phone, by e-mail or regular mail.  We had nineteen
years together.”

“What’s
the old joke: ‘and the first one was good’.”

“Can
I get you something, lady?” bartender John asked, as he set a fresh drink in
front of Richey.

“Coke,
please.”  Shirley stood and took off her trench coat, which she draped
over the back of her chair.

It
was shortly after ten in the morning and The Stadium had just
opened.  Besides the two of them, there were only a half-dozen other
customers.  The bar was quiet, stale smelling and sad, as if the structure
itself, along with the furniture and light fixtures, had a hangover.  It
wasn’t the ambiance that originally convinced Richey to make it his favorite
watering hole, but rather its location.  The Stadium was in a
direct line between Biederman’s and his home; furthermore, it was possible to
get from the bar to his house on several back streets, significantly reducing
the possibility that the cops would stop him for drunk driving.

Shirley
sat again and gave Richey her full attention.  “No, most of the years were
good, Richey.  You always treated me well.  We tried hard and
accomplished a lot.  We just drifted apart.  Especially after you
went to California.  That year was very tough and you were different when
you came back.”

“How?”

Shirley
chose her words carefully, but she spoke with authority, and no inflection
indicating the slightest doubt: “You were defeated and angry.  Angry at
the world and most of the people in it, including me, it seemed.”

For
a moment, it looked like he might put up an argument, to salvage some pride and
bolster his fragile ego.  No one person in a relationship wants to take
all the blame for its failure.  Instead, Richey slowly bobbed his head in
agreement.  There had been enough arguments in the past, and another one
today didn’t seem appropriate, given the situation.  What difference did
it make now about who was right?  Besides, sometimes the truth simply
hurts.  Richey even managed a weak smile.  “Yeah, it was a decision I
made with the best of intentions, but which turned out to be a mistake.
The timing was terrible.  I go to Hollywood when I’m nearly thirty-nine,
instead of nineteen, spend a little more than a year pounding on a thousand
doors and what do I have to show for it?  A few commercials, a couple of
stand-in roles and — don’t forget — a bit part in a B movie.  I was on
screen for all of ten seconds and got to deliver that poignant line that surely
will be included among classic movie scenes, ‘Three of ʼem are coming up
the back stairs!’”

“It’s
a hard business,” Shirley said, sadly.  “It’s not fair.  You knew
that when you went out there.  It seems to me that Hollywood is only
peripherally about art.  Like everything else nowadays, it seems to be
mainly about the exercise of power and making money.  It’s a business.”

“You’re
right about that.  And I should have known it, without having to become a
cliché.”  He didn’t say what he’d often thought, which was that he should
not have gotten married, nor had children.  Being a creative artist of any
kind is often synonymous with starving.  No use putting others through the
same thing so they come to pity you — or worse, hate you.  “One of my big
mistakes was thinking I could act and still earn a middle-class income so we
could live in the suburbs like a normal family.”

“You
did the best you could.  I’ve always admired your dedication and
commitment, Richey.  I wish I had it.  Most people don’t.
You’re a talented actor.  Everyone who has seen you on stage acknowledges
that.”

“Yeah,”
he’d interrupted cynically.  “I’m committed.  I’ll appear in any
production within driving distance –– provided the performances are on the
weekend, ’cause that’s the only time I can get away from my real job
that pays the bills.  Even if my real job is disgusting and demeaning.”

Shirley
shrugged, indicating she hadn’t come to rehash old arguments or make
suggestions about his career.

“You
look really great, as usual,” Richey said, striving for a high note.
Shirley was an average-sized woman, but her distinguishing feature was
perpetual neatness.  Every hair seemed in place, her makeup evenly
applied, blended and complementary.  She wore a gray skirt with a large
pleat running down the front.  Black boots hid her legs.  The long
sleeve flower print blouse seemed to be her only stylish statement.  She
weighed now what she’d weighed when they were married.

Shirley
reached across and smoothed back his hair.  “You look tired, Richey.”

“Yeah,
I know.  Lotta stuff going on in my life right now.”

“And,
I just added to it.  I’m sorry.”

He
flicked a wrist to dismiss her concern.  “It’s one thing or the other,
right?”

“In
retrospect, I shouldn’t have insisted that you quit working at The Wheel,”
Shirley said.  “It wasn’t so much that I was ethically offended by the
operation, although I was, in a way.  I was more fearful something would
happen to you.”

Her
comment prompted Richey to think about last Friday night’s events.  “Well,
you weren’t wrong about that.  The Wheel can be a dangerous
place.  Even Marshon is thinking about moving on.”

“It
was certainly good money.  If I hadn’t pushed you to quit, maybe you
wouldn’t have gone to Hollywood.  Would that have been a good thing, or a
bad thing, Richey?”

“Going
out there would have been a brilliant move had I been successful,” he
answered.  “I certainly picked the wrong time to go,” Richey said, sadly,
“with Ethan in his first year of college.”

“We
made it work financially,” Shirley said, although she had greatly resented the
financial strain at the time.  She’d returned to teaching middle school
several years earlier, when Ethan entered high school.  However, the
salary was low and she really didn’t like the job.  As Richey had become
disillusioned with Hollywood, Shirley had become disillusioned with teaching,
which now seemed to be solely about test scores and discipline.  Student
academic achievement and student self-discipline had both declined
precipitously.

In
Hollywood, Richey had made a halfway decent living as a blackjack dealer in a
LA casino, but it barely stretched far enough to support two households and a
kid in college.  Had he persisted, they would be drowning in debt today.

“As
you know, I tried to explain it all to Ethan, both before I went to Hollywood
and after I came back.  I even visited him at college.”  The
recollection caused a look of despair to appear on Richey’s face.  “He
really didn’t want to hear any of my ideas about the difficulties of being an
artist in a business-oriented society.  Told me he just didn’t care.
Didn’t ever want to talk about it.  Our relationship was never the same
after that.”

“He’s
more mature now, Richey.  I think he understands.  You should talk to
him again.  I should have been more supportive and positive about your
career when he was younger and living with us.  I apologize for that.”

Richey
looked at his ex-wife with suspicion and confusion.  Was she here to
proclaim the end, or hint that they might revive their marriage on a more
congenial level?  He had never been exactly certain about how to read
women and determine what they really wanted, or what they were really trying to
say.  Men were blunt; women were subtle.  He was from Mars, she was
from Venus.

“Maybe
Ethan should give me more credit than he is inclined to do,” Richey said, cynically.
“I’ve served as an example of how to fail in life, and he seems to have
learned his lessons well.”  In his mind, he recalled a scene from Death
of a Salesman.

When
Ethan graduated from the University of Missouri earlier in the spring with a
degree in economics, he moved to Chicago and stayed temporarily with his
mother.  Shirley had moved there a year earlier, taking a teaching job in
Elmhurst, a western suburb of the city.  Within only a few weeks, Ethan
got a job with a bank, as a management trainee.

“I
don’t know, Richey.  That could be true, in a way, but he became a banker
quite by accident.  They offered him a job when he didn’t have one.”

“That’s
how I got on at Biederman’s,” Richey said, laughing.  “If there are
actually people who plan their life and life develops according to plan, I’ve
never met them.”

“Me,
either.  And, I regret you going to work at Biederman’s.  You should
have held out for something else.  That job didn’t exactly bolster your
ego, and I understand that now.”

At
the time, Richey recalled, she had been happy about Biederman's benefits
package for managers, which included dental insurance, which wasn’t included in
Shirley’s school insurance package.  His wife and son, who were ashamed of
him for working in an illegal casino, said nothing about accepting the $1,000 a
month that Richey’s private, probably illegal lottery channeled into Ethan’s
education.  In addition, both rushed to get needed dental work done.
However, today obviously wasn’t the time to open old wounds.

“Can
I ask you a question, Richey?  Did you take the job at Biederman’s just
because we needed the income and the insurance package, or was there another
reason?”

He
decided to be blunt.  “You were still angry at me for being irresponsible
enough to launch an acting career at an inopportune time, and working evenings
meant we couldn’t argue when you got off work at five p.m.”  He decided
not to say that the job also was attractive because it was meaningless.
He didn’t have to care whether he did well, got promoted, or fired.  He
could sit in an office and drink all evening long, run his lottery, daydream,
and then stop in at The Stadium and drink until closing time.
Taking the job at Biederman’s Food Products was really a sign that his and
Shirley’s marriage was over, and that Richey’s acting dream was, in fact, a
pipe dream.  In the acting world and the real world, he was a dime a
dozen.

Shirley
put her hand on his arm.  “I’m here to make amends, too, Richey.  I’m
sorry about all the things I did that made our marriage fall apart.”

Richey
reached over and took Shirley’s hand, and linked his finger through hers.
They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment.  It’s not clear if the
same fleeting thought crossed each of their minds, having to do with the possibility
of goodbye sex, but it might have since both hastily withdrew their hand.

“Hey,
I’m the alcoholic.  I should get to make amends first.  I apologize
for everything I ever did that was wrong, which apparently included nearly
everything I ever did.  Okay?”

She
smiled brightly.  “Okay!  Let’s be done with the blame game.”

Booze
had eroded many of his memories, but Richey remembered one conversation he and
Shirley had when he came back from Hollywood.  He’d bemoaned being forced
to work a job he hated, while being denied the right to pursue his dream.

She
had said something like, “Richey, you don’t have to win an Emmy or an Oscar to
be a success, or to be happy.  That comes from within, knowing you’ve done
your best.  Otherwise, you give control of your life and happiness to
outside forces you can’t control.  Besides, you’ve already won the
greatest prize in life.  You have a wife and a son who love you.”
He’d felt as shitty then as he did now in recalling that indelible
conversation.  He had really lost everything.  He was still
lost.  And, he was to blame.

Shirley
had grown independent and more self-confident while he was gone, playing at the
acting game in Tinsel Town.  She learned that she could make it in the
world on her own.  Even though she wasn’t enthralled with teaching middle
school, her profession became the means by which she could move to Chicago and
start her life anew.  Ethan graduated college and moved in with his
mother, and then promptly moved out.  Now, Shirley didn’t want to be
alone.

“Do
you love him?  What’s he do?”

“He’s
a school teacher, too.  I like him a lot.  We’re comfortable
together.  It’s not as if he’s the love of my life who I’ve always waited
for.  I’m too old for that.  I just need someone.  So do
you.  Do you have anyone?”

He
hesitated.  “I am seeing someone.”

“Good.
What does she do?”

He
smiled ironically.  “She’s a talented artist who works for an ad agency
that sells dog food.”

They
both laughed and each decided not to explore than irony.

“I
gotta go, Richey.”

“I
guess you won’t invite me to the wedding.”

“You
wouldn’t come anyway, would you?”

He
smiled broadly and lapsed into a teasing mood.  “I might show up, like
Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate,
standing in the balcony of the church, screaming and beating on the glass to
stop the ceremony.”

She laughed, stood and took her trench coat from the
back of the barstool.  “I have no doubt it would be a grand performance
that would upstage the wedding.”

“On a serious note, what can I do, Shirley, to help
you?  I’ve got some money.  I’m still in the house.  Half the
equity is yours.  I can sell it.”

“Not until you’re ready.  I don’t need the money.”

“And Ethan?”

“He’s doing well on the job and dating a beautiful young
woman who’s halfway through medical school.”

“Good, I’m happy.”

“Call him, Richey,” Shirley said, as she walked toward
the exit.

Richey called after her.  “He was the good part.”

She stopped, turned and said, “Yes, he was.  The
good part of both of us.  Don’t ever forget that.  We’ll always be
together, through him.  Love you, Richey.”  She blew him a kiss and
was gone, out of his life once again.  Maybe Ethan’s marriage and the
possibility of grandkids would bring them together again farther down life’s
road.  Richey hoped so.

Richey stayed right on the same barstool through the
noon hour and the start of his shift at Biederman’s.  He called his boss,
Beems, and told them he’d suddenly come down with the flu.  Then, he
called Carmen and left a message on her voice mail, saying he had the flu and
planned to quarantine himself for a couple of days.

About five o’clock that Thursday, he left the bar and
walked two doors down to a liquor store, where he stocked up on vodka,
vermouth, quinine water and Bloody Mary mix.  For the next few days, he
sat in his house, drank continuously, and thought about his miserable,
ineffective life.  All telephone calls went to the answering service,
which he didn’t bother to check until Monday morning.

At some point, Richey began to write on a yellow legal
pad about all the “good times” he could remember, as if that would validate his
and Shirley’s marriage.  1.  The wedding, everyone happy.
2.  The honeymoon, no complaints!  3.  Ethan being born.  A
great day!  4.  Grandma holding her first great grandson.
5.  Ethan having a blood test with he was five or six days old — our first
family trauma.

The list turned out to be a horrible idea that got worse
as he got drunk and couldn’t remember details from a week ago, let alone past
years.  He couldn’t make it to his original goal of a hundred entries.
At some point, he’d skipped from thirty-three to the final entry: 100.
Divorced, two decades of precious life shot to hell, wife remarried, end of
family, saddest day of my life.

He’d never expected Shirley to remain celibate — he
hadn’t.  In truth, after she moved to Chicago he really hadn’t thought
much about her love life, her feelings, or her needs.  That had been part
of the problem.  He was self-centered and self-absorbed, like most actors
who didn’t want to live in the real world filled with drudgery, fear,
disappointment and uncertainty.  On the stage or the television or
movie set, uncertainty doesn’t exist, because life on the stage or screen is scripted.
Everyone knows how it will turn out.  There are no decisions for actors to
make, at least none that affect the already known outcome.  There is no
reason to worry about the consequences of one’s decisions or actions, because
they are pre-determined.

When the show was over, it was over.  One washed
his hands of it and moved on.  That unreal life existed now only on a
computer disk.  It if was judged to be good, one might review it now and
then for comfort and laughs, and an ego boost.  If it was bad, well, to
hell with it!

If one were able to make a living living that way
— in an unreal, scripted world — that was heaven, especially for those who
really hated living in the real world, with all its realities.  In that
world, every aspect of one’s life could be influenced by outside,
unanticipated, unimagined forces beyond one’s control.  Failure lurked
around every corner.  Some mistakes were never forgiven, even if they were
innocent and unintentional.  Guilt and regret were as prevalent as
Richey’s morning headache.  He hated the real world and had never felt at
home in it.

∞
∞  ∞

Monday afternoon,
Richey went back to work.  First, he stopped at a liquor store and
bought a fifth of Smirnoff and a six-pack of eight-ounce plastic bottles of
quinine water.  Sitting in his car in the parking lot with the door open,
Richey poured about one-third of the content of each plastic bottle onto the
ground.  He refilled each bottle with vodka.  He put all six bottles
on ice inside a small chest that included a baloney and cheese sandwich he
bought next door at a convenience store.

At a quarter of three, Biederman’s parking lot rapidly
filled with vehicles — primarily pickup trucks — as the second shift arrived
for work.  Richey got out of his car and walked toward the plant
entrance.  Reality was about to set in.

Inside, he passed by a security guard known as Pops who
waved at him wordlessly.  Richey walked up the stairs to Beems’ office,
and waited until the second-shift plant manager finished talking to one of the
assembly line supervisors.

“Feelin’ better?”  Beems asked, as Richey stood in
the doorway.

“Yeah, it was just a sore throat and fever.”

“Well, I hope you’re over it,” Beems said, in a brusque
manner.  “I had Calvin Raines fill in for you.  He did a good
job.  Kept the warehouse humming.”

“That’s good,” Richey said.  As if the warehouse
ordinarily was chaotic.  “I’ll be sure to tell Calvin you thought he did a
good job.”

“Already told him,” Beems noted sourly.

Halfway to his office, the whistle blew, signifying the
beginning of the second shift.  Richey opened the door to find Calvin
sitting in his chair.  “Jesus, I’m gone a few days and there’s a changing
of the guard.”

Looking embarrassed, Calvin got up quickly.  “I
didn’t know you were coming in tonight, Richey.”  Raines, an
African-American in his late twenties, had a community college degree in
business administration, and management was grooming him to become daytime
manager of the warehouse.

“I didn’t quit, Calvin,” Richey replied,
irritably.  “I was just sick.  By the way, I stopped and talked to
Beems.  He said you did a good job keepin’ the place hummin’.”

“Shit!  This place ain’t never hummed.”

“You’re tellin’ me.  So what’s goin’ on tonight?”

Calvin looked at a list on a clipboard.  “We’re
shorthanded as usual.  I called the temp guy upstairs and asked him if he
could get us three more boxcar loaders.  I moved one of the more
experienced temp guys to one of the forklifts.  Here, it’s all
there.  You can take over.”  He handed the clipboard to Richey.

Richey handed it back.  “Naw, you get all the work
details set, Calvin, and fill me in at lunch.”

At 6:30 p. m., Richey opened the door and watched as the
usual employees walked into his office, and put their envelopes containing
betting slips for The Richey into the box on his desk.

Suddenly, Richey saw Beems striding purposefully across
the warehouse floor followed closely by Stanley Kryck, a Biederman’s vice
president who exclusively worked the day shift.  Kryck wore a dark-colored
business suit, which made him seem larger and more important than anyone else
in the warehouse.

“Can I help you?”  Richey inquired, a knot forming
in his stomach.

Beems stepped through the doorway and said, “We have
reports that you’re running an illegal lottery during working hours, Stanton,
and that you spend most of your shift drinking alcohol.  If proven true,
either one of these charges would be cause for dismissal.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Richey spewed,
thinking he could bluff his way out of this.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I
got a warehouse to run.”

“I don’t think so,” Kryck interjected, walking around
Beems.  He picked up the box from Richey’s desk and said, “I believe this
is evidence of illegal gambling.”  Then, Beems opened the ice chest and
took out one of the quinine bottles.  He unscrewed the cap and sniffed at
the contents before announcing, “It’s gin or vodka, I think.  I’ll send it
to a lab for analysis and then we’ll know for sure.”

“No!”  Richey yelled, trying unsuccessfully to yank
the bottle out of Kryck’s hands.

“It’s within company policy for us to confiscate this
bottle,” Kryck explained, “especially if we suspect it may contain prohibited
ingredients.  Also, I’m going to ask you to provide us with a urine
sample.”

Richey looked around the room and out into the warehouse
where a crowd had gathered in front of his office.  Davron and Fax had
pushed to the front where they gestured, laughed and generally
celebrated.  Calvin shook his head with genuine regret.  Ace stood
off to one side, his face a dark cloud.  Suddenly, Richey
understood.  The two blacks had set him up out of revenge.  They
perceived him as a friend of Ace, their nemesis.  Ace had taken to sitting
beside him at The Stadium and following him around.  Word had
gotten out.  Maybe Davron and Fax also thought they’d be helping Calvin
move up.  Management couldn’t ignore any complaints from minority workers,
especially if they even implied racism in treatment and promotions.

“Yeah, I’ll give you a urine sample,” Richey said,
suddenly emboldened, by either the booze or general outrage over the fact his
life had once again come to a degrading moment.  He unzipped his pants,
took his pride in hand, and began to urinate on everything in the office that
he could reach.  “Sometimes a man’s reach should exceed his normal range,”
he yelled manically.

Pandemonium broke out as the crowd started yelling and
laughing.  Both Beems and Kryck attempted to restrain him, causing his pee
stream to spray both of them before Richey could shut it off.

∞
∞  ∞

Richey went to The
Stadium and had several drinks while trying to think of what to do.
He didn’t want to be in the bar when the Biederman’s crowd came in at the end
of the second shift.  He could already imagine the jokes.  They’d
probably give him a new nickname.  Something like “Hose” Stanton, or Yurin
Sampleski, a Russian long distance champion.

He got up to leave just as Ace came through the
door.  “What are you doing here?”  Richey asked.

“I took off early.  Just slipped away.  I
don’t think anyone noticed.  The place is still in an uproar.  I may
not go back.”  Ace motioned to John and said, “Budweiser.”  In fact,
it was the ideal time for Ace to set his plan in motion.  He’d auditioned
and chosen the cast.  He even had some production money, complements of
Marshon Johnson.  A principal actor was desperate.  The timing was
perfect.  He wasn’t certain exactly how to use Richey, but this
conversation would illuminate that decision.

Richey sat back down on the stool.  “I suggest you
take Marshon up on his offer and hit the road.  There’s nothing here,
anyway.  You can see that.”

Ace took a newspaper clipping from his shirt pocket and
laid it on the bar in front of Richey.  “Here’s a sure thing,” he
said.  “The big score we talked about.  Taking from the rich and
giving to the deserving poor.  She’s the one.  The timing is about
right, wouldn’t you say?”

Richey skimmed the Tribune article about a
prominent local couple, James and Cathy Kennedy.  The suburban weekly
specialized in such fluff pieces, hoping the rich and influential people whose
ego they polished would spring for a display ad.  A photograph of the
Kennedys accompanied the text.  He was president and chairman of the board
of directors for First United Bank, the largest banking chain in the
state.  In fact, Richey had his checking account at the corporate headquarters
branch on Melrose Avenue.  Mrs. Kennedy had just purchased Belton Jewelers
in Sweetwater Mall.

The effusive article focused on a party the Kennedys
held at their mansion recently for patrons of the symphony.

Richey slid the clipping back down the bar.  “So?”

“So how’d these people get so rich, managing the money
other people make who actually work?”

“Beats the shit out of me,” Richey said, holding up his
empty glass to get John’s attention.

“I think we should come up with a plan to shift some of
their money from them to us.”

“Are you drunk?  What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Butch and Sundance.  Thunderbolt
and Lightfoot.  The two robbers in the storm drain under the bank in
California.  Crooks admired by everyone — you and I and the public.
Crooks who take from the rich and give to the poor — themselves.  The
Kennedys like to support the arts.  How much are you going to get paid to
play Willy Loman, Richey?”

He shrugged.  “Depends on the ticket sales.
Maybe nothing.”

“So, take a donation from the Kennedys.”

Richey couldn’t help but laugh uproariously, temporarily
getting everyone’s attention.  “These last couple of days couldn’t get
more bizarre!  Now we’re talking about you becoming a real-life Robin
Hood.  You’re crazy!  Everyone at Biederman’s is crazy!  The
whole world is fuckin’ crazy!  I’m damned sure crazy!  My ex-wife is
getting married.  Next thing you know, John will tell me they ran out of
vodka!”

“I admit not everyone is up to the task,” Ace said,
lowering his voice.  “You gotta have a great plan and not many people can
come up with that.  If you do and you’re convinced the plan will work,
you’re almost obligated to go ahead with it.”

Richey gave his stoolmate a look of utter
amazement.  He had to admit it was a good script line and he wouldn’t mind
delivering it in a movie, although certainly not in the real, unscripted
life.  He drained his new drink in one gulp and got up again.  “I’ll
leave you to your planning, Ace.  I gotta get the fuck outta here.”

Ace called after him.  “We’ll talk again,
Richey.  I know I can convince you, one way or the other.”

The events of the last few days had pushed Richey to the
edge, but he felt he could avoid the abyss, and find a new path leading to a
place where he could be happy and content.  Besides, things couldn’t
possibly get worse.  As it turned out, Richey was wrong, and Ace was
right.

9/Marshon’s
Many Gambits

Abigail Thomas lived on the tenth floor of a
condominium building overlooking Tremont Plaza, an area of shops, restaurants,
movie theaters, hotels, nightclubs, and a nationally renowned museum.  It
was more than forty blocks south of the old city center.  Many buildings
on the Plaza were constructed in a Spanish architectural style reminiscent of
the American Southwest.  A pedestrian mall ran down the middle of the
complex.  On one end of the mall was a small park with a large fountain
containing a Greco-Roman statuary of a bareback female rider mounted on a
magnificent horse.  Tremont Plaza was the social and economic hub of the wealthy
southwest suburbs and the new high-tech businesses located there.  Also,
it was a tourist attraction, especially during warm weather.

The
residential area to the south and west of the Plaza included many stately
mansions that traditionally had been the homes of the multigenerational rich,
although the nouveau riche had integrated the area in recent
decades.  Gail had grown up in this wealthy enclave, and her parents — her
father, a respected judge, and her mother, a psychologist — still lived there.

Marshon
drove his BMW to a gate leading to underground parking for the West Building,
rolled down his window and punched a four-digit code into the keypad attached
to a post.  When the gate opened, he drove down the ramp to the basement
level and searched for one of the two numbered parking spaces assigned to
Gail’s condo.  He also needed an access code to open the elevator to take
him to the twelfth floor.

Marshon
always went to Gail’s condo for overnight stays.  They’d never stayed
together at his apartment, largely because he’d lied to Gail and said that
Jemmy Shoemaker was his roommate.  On the very few occasions when Gail
insisted on visiting his apartment, Marshon made certain Jemmy was there and
that the hookers were on lockdown.  He had twin beds in the single bedroom
to embellish the lie.  Gail had never questioned him about the building,
leaving Marshon to conclude that it was such a delicate subject that even
Gail’s father had not brought it up in the judge’s crusade to convince his
daughter to dump her no-good boyfriend.

Perhaps
the farce was unnecessary because they had never talked about moving in
together.  Maybe both secretly knew such a move would necessitate a level
of honesty they had so far not achieved, or attempted.

After
he let himself into the condo unit 1215 with a key card, Gail said, “God, you
scared me!”  She sat at the kitchen table, reading from a pile of papers
and entering data into a laptop.

“Don’t
be afraid.  It would take an army division to get at you in here.”
Twenty-five blocks north and east of the Plaza where Marshon lived, personal
security was often a factor of how fast one could run.

Gail
smiled, rose and walked into his arms.  He felt, smelled, and kissed his
chocolate delight, amazed as always by her breath-taking beauty, enhanced this
evening by white short shorts and a blue and red Jayhawks’s shirt cut off just
below her bouncy, unfettered breasts.

“What
are you up to?” he asked.

“I
was trying to balance my checkbook,” Gail replied, “which would not be a
difficult process if I could find all my debit and credit card receipts.
I bought a new digital scanner for such receipts.  Now, if I could just
find all of them.”

“Pretty
sloppy.  Remind me not to do any business with Pickering and Associates,”
he joked, referring to her employer, a local accounting/consulting firm.

“I’m
not certain they’d take on your accounts, Marshon,” she said mockingly, as she
went into the living room and sat on a sofa.

Marshon
had always been careful in discussions with Gail about his various business
ventures.  It wasn’t as if he could be open and honest about them.
Just how would an accountant report Virginia Krebs’s purchase of an insurance
policy?  And, her payment of $200,000 to Jake’s Original Barbecue.

Marshon
remembered recent conversations with Richey Stanton when Richey recalled the
circumstances under which Marshon and Gail first met, nearly seven years
ago.  They were walking opposite directions on the opposite sides of the
street in Tremont Plaza.  He’d honed in on her and immediately crossed the
street and hurried to catch up with her.  He then unleashed a very
unoriginal line, “Didn’t I see you at the Sting concert in the spring?”

Gail
had looked at him with amusement and said, “No.”

Marshon
hadn’t let up.  “I’m sure I saw you, because I wouldn’t confuse the
world’s most beautiful woman with any other women.  What’s your name?”

He
had successfully negotiated the fine line between casual conversation and
sexual harassment.  She had agreed to have coffee with him at an outdoor
café.  The information he wheedled out of her included the fact that she
had auditioned for a local production of Showboat and won a major
part.  She was thinking about switching her major at the university from
business administration to theater.  He found out when the next rehearsal
was, showed up, and begged the director for any part, including
stagehand.  Then and now, their relationship was still in rehearsal.

“Monday
evening, I talked again to Richey,” Marshon said.  “We were reminiscing
about Showboat.”

“We
had some great times together that summer.  Apparently, he’s still acting
locally.  He left me a phone message about tryouts for Death of a
Salesman.  I wasn’t really interested.  Maybe another musical,
though.”

Marshon
flopped onto the sofa beside Gail.  “Yeah, he called me, too.  We
really need to get together with him and his new squeeze.”

“Definitely.”

“Talking
about a squeeze,” he said, taking her into his arms, reaching around and
squeezing one of her butt cheeks.

“We
must be telepathic,” Gail said.  “I was thinking the same thing a half
hour ago.”

“As
you can see, I got the message.”

They shed part of their clothes on the sofa and
the rest on the floor leading to Gail’s bedroom and bed.  An hour later,
after each had taken a shower, they returned to the kitchen and sat at the
breakfast bar, devouring cold Chinese food and drinking Tsingtao beer.

“Feeling better?” she asked, teasingly.

“Totally relaxed.”

“Good.”

Marshon also considered it a good time to introduce his
other agenda, fueled in part by the killings at The Wheel and his
insurance policy sale to Virginia Krebs.  Her parting warning still sent
chills up his spine, and Marshon wasn’t the type to be spooked easily.
While he wasn’t an overly superstitious person, he also didn’t ignore signs,
which he defined as the consequences of intended and unintended events.

“A couple of guys approached me about investing in a
microbrewery out south,” he said, trying to start the conversation in a
roundabout way, and temporarily mask his real intent.  “I gave them a
preliminary commitment, saying I’d look into it.  You got any thoughts?”

“How much they want?”

“A hundred and fifty thou for a fifteen percent
interest.”

“Wow!  That means they are valuing the business at
over a million before opening?”

Marshon frowned as he mentally did the math.  “When
you put it that way, it doesn’t sound like such a good deal.”

“The bar and restaurant business is very volatile.
They gonna serve food?”

“I think so.  Typical bar food, they said.
But, they’re making a big deal out of their unique formula for hand-crafted
beer.”

She held up the bottle of Tsingtao.  “Better than
this?”

He laughed.  “I see your point.”

“Give me the particulars of the deal, including these
two guys’ names.  I look into it for you.  You got that kind of money?”

Talking about his income was tantamount to walking into
an area known for having quicksand or land mines.

“I’d have to scrape for the money,” he answered
finally.  “I’m actually spread a bit thin now, but you know I promised you
several years ago that I’d shift my business interests to more … acceptable
activities.”

“And, this is part of that process?”

“Absolutely,” he said.  “You know about my
investments in Widja’s janitorial service and Jake’s Original Barbecue,
both of which are doing very well, by the way.  In addition, I’ve put some
money into a beauty shop, auto repair garage and a video store.  I’m also
considering buying into a Subway franchise.”

“Those are very profitable.  Sounds like you’re
building a nice portfolio.”

Marshon dropped the bomb.  “I’ve decided to turn
operation of The Wheel over to Jemmy and Widja, although I haven’t
talked to them about it yet.”

Her smile lit up the room, and he grinned automatically,
although he was in fact alarmed.  He was only abandoning The Wheel
for practical considerations, plus his desire to move into other illegal
opportunities that appeared to be more profitable but less dangerous.
Truth was, he preferred working outside the law.  It was more exciting,
more profitable, and less hypocritical.

“Are you going to concentrate your efforts on your other
businesses?”

He screwed up his facial muscles in a gesture of
equivocation.  “In part, but those are just investments, not my life’s
work.”

“What is you life’s work?” she asked, suddenly serious.

He decided to make the plunge.  “You know I bought
a condo on St. Thomas, in the Virgin Islands.”

“You mentioned it once before.  Don’t you mainly
rent it out?”

“Yeah.  I got interested in that whole area of the
Lesser Antilles five or six years ago when I attended a wedding for friends,
who got married at a resort in the British Virgin Islands.”

“I don’t know the geography there very well,” Gail
admitted.

“The Greater Antilles run west to east, starting in the
Gulf of Mexico with the big islands of Jamaica and Cuba.  Then, they
extend into the Caribbean Sea with Haiti and the Dominican Republic, and Puerto
Rico.  The Lesser Antilles swing southward toward Venezuela, beginning
with the Virgin Islands on down to Trinidad.  Hundreds of islands, of all
sizes.  Some independent nations, some dependencies.  Anyway, I fell
in love with the Virgin Islands.  Palm trees, white sandy beaches,
blue-green water, and endless, lazy summer days.”

“And you a big city boy,” she replied, teasing.

“Exactly.  The point it, I don’t get there
much.  There are always renters, although that pays the mortgage.”

“I hope that’s why you haven’t taken me to your vacation
heaven,” Gail said, pouting good-naturedly.

Actually, Marshon was lying to Gail as he once again
probed her willingness to accept his lifestyle, present and future.  It
probably wouldn’t work, but it certainly wouldn’t work if he told her the
truth.  He’d actually purchased a $3 million home on Scrub Island, located
about twenty miles northeast of Tortola, British Virgin Islands.  Five
years ago, Marshon had attended the wedding of his friends, SamL and ShaNa, who
were married at the Long Bay Resort on Tortola.  Marshon stayed for
several days after the wedding and explored business opportunities in Road
Town, the capital city.

Like the Cayman Islands, the British Virgin Islands are
an overseas territory of the United Kingdom.  In both cases, the twin
economic pillars of these commonwealth territories are tourism and financial
services.  The British bristle when American authorities refer to the
banks in Georgetown and Road Town as “tax havens.”

In fact, the laws governing these financial centers are
very complicated, which is why Marshon, after opening a bank account in Road
Town, asked for a referral to a local attorney.  That’s how he met Philip
Dahlgren, who was actually a third-generation citizen of the independent nation
of The Bahamas.  His main office was in Nassau, but he had branch offices
on several islands in the Lesser Antilles.  He not only headed up a large
legal practice, but owned subsidiary businesses in insurance and real
estate.  Marshon thought he’d met a kindred soul after delicately
explaining to Dahlgren his charitable gambling business and his desire to make
regular cash deposits into his new bank account.  For legal reasons,
Marshon didn’t want to wire the money or carry it on a commercial airliner.

Dahlgren merely asked about the amount of cash.
Marshon explained that it would be about a quarter million, maybe three times
per year.  The Nassau lawyer then explained that he did quite a bit of
business in Miami.  He and other trusted colleagues usually arrived and
departed via either private yacht or jet.  If Marshon could get his cash
to Miami, Dahlgren would take it from there — for a twenty percent fee.
Never once was the phrase “money laundering” used.

It was Dahlgren who contacted him eighteen months ago
about the home on Scrub Islands, which apparently had sold previously for $5
million to an entrepreneur from Colombia, South America.  Some event
forced the drug dealer to make an abrupt departure and he was willing to sell
the house for the bargain basement price of $3 million — if the cash was
available immediately.  If Marshon could come up with a down payment of
$1.5 million, Dahlgren would carry the remaining mortgage as a personal
loan.  Impulsively, Marshon jumped at the opportunity, which left him
cash-starved for six months.  It also indebted him to Dahlgren.

Now, he wanted Gail to live there on that storybook
island with him, but only if he got a firm commitment first.  Otherwise,
he needed to keep the location of his home secret, in case he had to make a
fast exit from the city and his current lifestyle.

“Would you have any interest in moving permanently to
the Caribbean?”

Gail was stunned.  “Are you kidding?  What can
you do there besides lie on the beach?”

“Sailing, diving, sitting at a swimming pool bar.
The essentials of life!  Seriously, there’s a vibrant economy in the
islands.  Millions of people live there.  They have the same needs
you and I have.  In fact, there are probably more banks and insurance
companies there per capita than anywhere else in the world.  I imagine
there’s a huge need for qualified accountants.  I know a lawyer whose
business interests are varied.  I’m sure he could help.”

“I would never have thought about it in a million years,
Marshon!  How come we never talked about this before?”

“We’re talking about it now.”  He paused, searching
for the right explanation.  “Like I said, I was in the Virgin Islands for
a wedding.  Took a ferryboat excursion.  I was watching a sunset and
suddenly had the feeling of being on the world.  Not in an
apartment, a building, or a car.  We spend most of our lives inside some
type of structure.  One-third sleeping, one-third working.  Then,
there’s shopping, business meetings.  Always inside, working away like
robot ants.”

“I remember you talking about sitting on the porch with
your Uncle Clyde when you were a small boy, looking at the stars.  Is that
where this grand impulse comes from?”

“Maybe.  I hadn’t thought about it that way.
But I did when I was on that ferry, on a big ocean, on a small rock in the
universe, which was in the process of turning away from the fiery sun.  It
got me to thinking about what I was doing during my brief time here on earth.”

Gail’s face fell, as she suddenly realized the
seriousness of their discussion.  “And, you’ve decided to move there?

“Why not?  Life is a beach, on an island, in an
ocean, on a rock in a limitless universe.”

“It’s highly adventuresome.  Romantic.”  She
seemed to search for more other descriptive words, but came up empty.

Reading her expression and relying on his gut feeling,
Marshon thought he knew her answer to his question.  His stomach felt
queasy.  Nevertheless, he faked a smile and said, “Just think it
over.  We’ll talk again.”

Gail looked immensely relieved to abandon the
subject.  “Along the line of surprises, how would you like to get together
with my folks on Saturday night?  There’s a fund-raiser dinner at the
convention center Hyatt.  They called me about it right before you
arrived.  Said they had two spare tickets.”

Marshon looked skeptical.  “And they were hoping
you’d invited someone respectable?”

She smiled slyly.  “They didn’t say I couldn’t ask
you.  Why don’t you look at this as a sign, Marshon?”

∞
∞  ∞

Saturday night,
Marshon drove into the circular driveway in front of the
downtown Hyatt, got out of the car and handed the keys to a valet.  He
entered the spacious lobby and bounded up the stairs to the mezzanine
level.  Although there were many people milling about, Marshon easily
spotted Gail on the far side near the conference rooms.  She stood out in
a crowd, even at a distance, especially since had poured herself into the blue
evening gown, as promised.  Most women have a good feature or two, but
Gail had it all.  The well-defined facial features, dazzling smile,
flawless complexion, shimmering curly hair, and a “drop-dead” figure.
Equally important to him were the intangibles: intelligence, commitment,
understanding and, yes, even honesty, a quality to which Marshon could only
aspire.  In his life, being truthful seldom if ever yielded any profit,
whereas being vague and duplicitous always seemed to have value.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Marshon,” she said, in a
breathless Marilyn Monroe voice.  The way she sometimes said his name
still excited him.  No one else could communicate that level of sensuality
simply by saying a name.  Marshon.

“Hey, baby, no problem.  I said I’d come and I’m
here.  Where’re your folks?”

Gail pointed to a middle-aged couple standing twenty
feet away on the edge of a crowd gathered in front of a meeting room –– her
father, Cecil, a respected judge in the 19th judicial circuit, and
her mother, Florence, a psychologist with a private therapy practice.
Daddy was a nominal Democrat who generally expounded conservative viewpoints
that Marshon tried to ignore.  On the other hand, Florence was always
delightful.

“Can
we get something to drink first, so I have the necessary courage to talk to
your dad?” he asked, as he pretended to be shaking with fear.

Gail
laughed and he slipped one arm around her waist to draw her closer.  He
inhaled, drawing in her various smells, all of which turned him on.  He
couldn’t wait for the evening to end.

“There’s free champagne right over there,” Gail asked,
pointing at a nearby table loaded with hors d’oeuvres and glasses of sparkling
wine.  “In fact, everything’s free this evening.  Tickets cost
two-fifty a head, but Daddy paid for them.”

He knew she was being subtly seductive and he didn’t mind
playing the game while they had time.  “I’d pay two-fifty for the right
head,” he whispered.

She put a hand on her hip in a gesture of mock
outrage.  “You be a nice boy and don’t talk street trash like that with
Mom and Dad.”

“I’ll have to remember not to slip and call Cecil dad,”
Marshon said, remembering how they’d laughed about that once.

“I wouldn’t do that tonight.  Maybe some other
time.”

Marshon whispered, “What about later?  Any other
freebies on the horizon?”

Gail pretended to ponder his question.  “Later I
might want a double-dip pistachio cone at Baskin Robbins.  That’s probably
about two-fifty and tax,” she said, artfully.

They each got a glass of champagne and approached her
parents.

“Florence, Cecil, how are you,” Marshon said.  He
purposefully tried to sound white and conservative.  How-R-You.

“What a beautiful tux, Marshon,” Gail’s mother said.

Marshon wore a royal blue tuxedo with a black shawl
collar and matching paisley vest, so that he and Gail would stand out in the
sea of black.

“Thank you, Flo.  Love your dress.”

“The color is eggplant, in case you were wondering.”

Marshon liked Gail’s mother, the source of the
daughter’s beauty, and felt at ease around her.

“Cecil, good to see you.”

Marshon, Gail, and Florence towered over the judge: a
wiry, balding man whose mouth turned down in a perpetual expression of
disapproval.  His wrinkled forehead signaled deep cynicism, perhaps caused
by listening to all the criminals who had appeared in front of his bench.
Marshon desperately wanted to avoid ever being in that penitent position.

“I’m looking forward to hearing what Mr. Dewhurst has to
say,” the judge said, biting off his words.  “He can still lose my vote.”

The dinner and after-dinner presentation were a
fund-raiser for Benjamin Dewhurst, a local, highly successful African-American
attorney who had been city attorney, a councilman, and now planned to step up
to the big job.  Mayor.

“I don’t care what he says,” Gail announced
truthfully.  “I’m just here to enjoy the company.”

“Let’s go to the lady’s room, Gail,” her mother said,
taking her daughter’s arm.

Marshon’s antennae immediately went up.

“This gives me an opportunity to talk to you, Marshon.”

“Sure, Cecil, just let me grab another champagne from
the waiter other there,” Marshon said, needing a few moments to collect his
thoughts.  Up until now, Cecil had been content to glare at him on the few
occasions they’d been thrown together, including an office picnic at Gail's
firm.  Never had they spoken privately.  Flo appeared to be part of
this conspiracy.

“What’s up?”  Marshon asked, rejoining the judge at
a secluded end of an adjoining hallway.  He handed him a glass of bubbly.

“Marshon, I don’t have time to beat around the
bush.  My daughter apparently loves you and that causes her mother and I
some distress.”

Marshon could pretend to be hurt, but he didn’t see any
percentage in that approach.  So, he said, flippantly, “What, you don’t
like me, Cecil?”

“Not particularly.  You’re a crook, Marshon, and
before you object, and try to bullshit me, think about it for a moment.
I’m a judge.  I know every other member of the judiciary in the city, from
traffic court judges to appellate court judges.  I know nearly all of the
prosecutors and public defenders in a half-dozen different jurisdictions.
Many criminal lawyers defend the accused in my courtroom.  Half the cops
in the city have been in my courtroom testifying, at one time or another.
My staff knows the staff members of everyone involved in the law enforcement
and judicial system.  So, when I tell you I know all about your
activities, Marshon, you can be certain I know all about all your activities.”

Marshon knew that wasn’t even remotely true, but he
simply nodded his agreement.  He did discreetly look around, to make sure
no one else was listening to their conversation or paying particular attention
to them.

“Now, in case you think I’m wearing a wire, Marshon, and
trying to trap you into some admission, forget it.  In fact, what I’m
gonna tell you could cost me my job, and maybe even land me in jail.”  The
judge then looked around carefully.  “Nothing more’s sacrosanct in the
judicial system than grand jury proceedings, when they are debating an
indictment.  You understand?”

“Yes.”  The hairs were literally standing on the
back of Marshon’s neck.  He took another hit of champagne, noticing that
his hand was shaking slightly.  This was a serious discussion.

“A couple of young men apparently got killed at The
Wheel two weeks ago, as I’m sure you know.  From what I understand,
they were not exactly upstanding citizens.  I believe they were in the
process of attempting an armed robbery when they were shot and killed.
Someone’s come forward and claims to have a videotape.  Being a
cynic myself, I’d wonder if this isn’t someone wanting to make a move on you.”

Of course, Marshon knew that only one of the robbers had
been shot, but that probably wasn’t the fatal wound.  The person leaking
this information hadn’t actually been there; and, certainly hadn’t viewed the
video.  They were repeating what they had heard, or what someone
told them to say.  There was no mention of Ace and his knives.  That
was encouraging news to Marshon, because it meant he could easily discredit the
witness.  “Why are you telling me all this, Cecil, at such risk to yourself,
especially since you don’t like me?”

“Oh, it’s occurred to me to simply stand by and watch a
brick wall fall on you, Marshon.  That might solve everything, as far as
I’m concerned personally.  However, my wife gave me another
perspective.  You see, as a judge, I tend to take a simplistic view of law
and order.  People break the law, they pay the penalty.  On the other
hand, my wife’s profession requires her to understand a patient, even one who
is morally repugnant.  Only then can she effectively counsel them.”

“Are you saying that Flo has been analyzing me from
afar,” Marshon said, trying to inject some levity into the deadly serious
conversation.

“You could call it that, or you could call it
profiling.  At any rate, she thinks you’re a smart man, and that you might
already have an inkling that the brick wall is crumbling.  That you may be
putting together an escape plan — that might include Gail.”

“Wow.”  Marshon was impressed, not only with Flo,
who clearly was an exceptionally gifted analyst, with accurate insights, but
also with Cecil.  The judge might dislike Marshon, but his warning to him
indicated the judge deeply loved his daughter; enough so that he’d put his own
career in jeopardy to prevent her from getting swept up, even indirectly, in
the gathering storm.  Marshon respected that.

“First, thanks, Cecil.  Second, I didn’t kill
anyone and that videotape will prove it, unless it’s been doctored.
Third, I love Gail, and no way would I ever put her into danger.  That
includes any action that would cause anyone in the legal system to think she
conspired with me to commit a crime, or that she even knows about it, which she
doesn’t, to the best of my knowledge.  I would never ever do anything like
that.  You’re right to consider me a poor match for your daughter.

“But I’m not uncaring or evil.  Believe me, I’m
trying to turn things around.  I do have a plan and it is in motion.
This conversation will actually cause me to disengage at an even more rapid
pace.  I won’t involve Gail at this time, in any way.”

They both became aware of the two approaching women —
the beautiful women who looked alike, and who looked happy to see them talking.

“You ladies ready?”  Cecil asked.  “I think
they are about to start in there.”

The fund-raiser for the mayoral candidate took place in
the grand ballroom, which could be sectioned into three smaller meeting rooms
on other occasions.  The ballroom seated 540 people.
Floor-to-ceiling glass windows allowed the participants to see part of the old
downtown area to the east.  At night, the skyscrapers twinkle with lights,
and looked like giant Christmas trees.

The J.T. Warren Convention Center complex — designed
originally to invigorate a deteriorating inner city economy — included the
40-story Hyatt connected by an elevated, enclosed walkway called The Link
that connected the entire complex.  It ran from the mezzanine level of the
Hyatt across the street to an office building.  The Link then wound
over another street to connect to The Shops, a three-story mall.  A
hallway on the east end of the mall led to another hotel, the Westin.  On
the mezzanine level of the Westin, The Link resumed and crossed two more
streets to provide access to the convention center — a 35,000-seat arena that
could be adapted for sporting events, various types of entertainment, and
conventions.

Cecil, of course, had a table near the windows.  As
the four of them walked through the room toward their table, all were aware of
the stares that followed them.  Many people in this racially mixed crowd knew
who they were: an influential judge, his successful wife, beautiful daughter,
and the criminal kingpin of the East Side.  If you had looked closely, you
would have seen many a conversation shaded with a hand, to keep the words
private.

“Full house,” Gail said as they sat at a table for
eight.  The two other couples already seated were friends of Cecil and
Flo.

After the toastmaster rose and made preliminary remarks,
Marshon went into automatic mode, answering questions and responding without
putting any thought into the effort.  He was lost in more important
musings generated by his discussion with Cecil.

The informer could be a competitor, someone wanting to
take his place.  Marshon had once been in that position.  Although
Skinny had designated Marshon as his successor, and given him the means to
ascend to leadership at The Wheel, there were still competitors biding
their time.  When Skinny moved aside, they unleashed their attack.
Tyrice Banks had been Skinny’s right-hand man for years and he desperately
wanted to run The Wheel.  Unfortunately, Tyrice had outstanding
warrants from the time he had lived in St.  Louis, where he was wanted as
a material witness in a shooting.  Marshon found out and leaked the
information to the cops.  Another aspirant had been sleeping with the wife
of an influential city councilman.  Marshon hid a camera in their favorite
hotel room and made certain the husband saw the tape.  That contender fled
the city.

Now, someone might be ready to spring a trap on him.
If there was a tape, it would only prove he was there that night.
It would clearly identify Ace Semanski as the killer, although it would also
show Jemmy Shoemaker firing shots into one of the robbers.  Marshon could
plead ignorance as to the disposal of the bodies, but whoever was behind this
would anticipate that.  They’d approach the robbers’ mothers and try to
turn them.  In any event, the grand jury could indict him on any number of
charges:  running an illegal gambling operation, trying to conceal two
homicides, bribery, illegal disposal of human remains, and forgery of death
certificates.  It could add up to years in prison.

Marshon turned his attention back to the
fund-raiser.  More than 500 people had turned out to hear a black
candidate for mayor convince them he could win, and that they best invest in
him on the front end of the campaign if they wanted avenues of access once he
assumed office.  Two hundred and fifty dollars for the opportunity to
drink cheap sparkling wine and partake of a limited menu of assembly-line food
brought in $125,000.  The Dewhurst campaign probably split sixty-forty
with the hotel.  Not a bad night’s take.

Marshon sneered inwardly at the hypocrisy of it
all.  He was openly a criminal, although he never bragged about paying
bribes, or made public the amounts and a list of those who accepted the payoffs
— at least, he hadn’t yet.  The hypocrites gathered in this room had
invented a completely new language to mask their real actions and intent.
They alleged to be upstanding, law-abiding citizens — businessmen and job
creators who made it possible for the lower economic classes to
survive.  Making a campaign donation was different that extending a
bribe.  The donors were simply guaranteeing access to a publicly
elected official and his staff, which was a businessman’s right, protected by
the First Amendment.  So said the U.S. Supreme Court, in a recent
ruling.  All these donors exercising their constitutional rights just
wanted a first look at the bid requirements for all the contracts government
agencies would extend to the private sector for the construction of new public
buildings and roads.  It wasn’t insider information or preferential
treatment; it was just good business practice.  It all made Marshon
want to puke.

The food came fast and was little better than fast
food.  “What is this?”  Marshon asked Gail, as he poked his fork at a
slab of white fish that was cold and had an odor.

“Campaign food,” Gail said, sticking exclusively to her
salad.  “I’ll rustle us up some real grub when we get back to my place.”

The wannabe mayor addressed the audience and mouthed the
usual political claptrap about the wonders of the unfettered marketplace, the
wisdom of an unobtrusive yet sensitive government, and the social obligations
of those called to leadership.  Reflecting the tenor of the times, even
this black man painted a portrait of a future Utopia where industrious,
self-sufficient individuals competing in an equal opportunity society pulled
themselves up by their bootstraps, and helped guarantee “a better life for
everyone.”  So long as everyone knew and accepted their place in life.

After dinner and the speeches, Marshon got in line to
meet Benjamin Dewhurst.

“Great speech, mayor,” Marshon said, obsequiously.

“Thanks for your early vote of confidence, sir,”
Dewhurst said, as Marshon appraised him.  A black black, physically fit,
with wavy, not nappy, hair.  Dewhurst dressed snappily and appeared to be
all business.

“I’m Marshon Johnson.”  He watched as one of
Dewhurst’s lieutenants immediately whispered in his boss’s ear.

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of you, Mr. Johnson.”

“All good things, I trust.”

“Well, I’ve heard you have a lot of business interests
on the East Side.”

“Yes, I do,” Marshon responded, continuing the verbal
dance.  “It’s in my interest to have a friend in the mayor’s office, and
my political friends can always count on my considerable support.”

“I appreciate that but I should explain something to
you, Mr. Johnson.  In my opinion, the nation is in transition in many
areas, including politics.  You see, the Democratic Party is trying to
shed various unfortunate stereotypes, such as the charge that we favor high
taxes, big government, the welfare state, and that we’re soft on crime.”

“Hell, those stereotypes are why I always vote Democrat,”
Marshon said, deciding to ham it up because he could sense the direction of
this conversation.  Nevertheless, he deeply resented being lectured to in
front of others waiting in line to similarly fawn over the candidate.
Especially Gail, who had her arm linked through his, with an artificial smile
pasted on her face.

“I plan to make education and job creation my top
priorities,” Dewhurst continued, elevating his voice for the benefit of the
other suitors waiting to grasp his hand.  “I want to clean up crime-infested
areas on the East Side.  In fact, I plan to be the new broom that sweeps
clean.  I want to restore pride to African-American neighborhoods where
now there is only poverty, despair, and cynicism.”

Marshon felt his eyes narrow.  He leaned closer and
spoke softly.  “It ain’t anywhere near that bad, Dewhurst.  You
should get out among real black folk now and then.  Stop by The Wheel
some weekend night.  We’re always raising money for some good community
cause.”

The wannabe mayor stubbornly stood his ground.  “I
hope you’ll understand why I can’t in good conscience accept any campaign
donation from you, Mr. Johnson.  In fact, I’ll have my campaign treasurer
write you a check refunding the cost of your ticket to this event.”

“Never mind.  It was a freebie.”

“Well, the day of the free ride is over if I’m elected
mayor,” Dewhurst said, his voice once again rising.  He looked immensely
pleased with the political points he’d made.

Marshon wagged his finger under Dewhurst’s nose.
“Now that’s not a given, sir, is it?  I’ll guarantee you that your
Republican opponent will have ample financial support to make his case to the
electorate.  Who knows, maybe he’ll like some of those old Democrat
values.”

By the time Marshon, Gail and her parents left the
ballroom and walked out onto the mezzanine level to say their goodbyes, Marshon
had calmed down, but his mind was churning.  Tonight, he’d been made aware
of a silent but lethal external legal threat.  Additionally, the mayoral
candidate had threatened him indirectly.  More signs he couldn’t ignore.

“Excuse us just a moment, ladies,” Marshon said, taking
Judge Thomas’s arm and steering him away about ten feet so they could talk
privately.

Looking back at the women, Marshon smiled broadly before
turning to face the judge: “Here’s something for you to contribute to the
courthouse grapevine, Judge.  Everyone grasping for some excuse to put me
in jail should reconsider, because I have real evidence — nothing imagined or
open to conjecture — that will take down a whole legion of cops, government
bureaucrats, politicians, and, yes, a judge or two.  Over the last couple
of years, especially, I’ve employed some people with sophisticated skills in
surveillance to document the bribes I paid to all those people.  You’d be
surprised to see the illustrious parade of men who visit the other residents
who live in my apartment building.  But, you know all about that, don’t
you, Cecil?  I can and will launch a scorched earth counteroffensive that
will burn the testicles off quite a few people hanging out in the
courthouse.  Some of them are likely here tonight, in fact.”

The judge looked serious and sad, “I’m not one of those
who thinks you are dumb or careless, Marshon.  Quite the contrary.”

Marshon turned and again smiled broadly at his lover and
her mother.  “You know what really galls me are all the hypocrites at this
fund-raiser.  They just call their bribes political donations.”

“The Supreme Court just expanded the amount of money
individuals, corporations and political action committees can give to political
candidates,” Judge Thomas said, in a neutral voice.

“Then, it’s you who should be ashamed of your
profession, and the company you keep.”

Marshon walked back toward Gail and Flo and the judge
followed, frowning and looking down at the floor.  They said their
goodbyes and each couple went their way.

“You and daddy seem thick tonight,” Gail said.
“What’s that all about?”

“Politics.  Don’t ask, it’s all boring and
ultimately it means absolutely nothing.  Now, remember when we were talking
earlier about real grub and freebies?”

However, his conversation with the judge did mean
something.  It was another sign along the roadside warning of trouble
ahead.  Although Marshon had paid close attention to other signs, he
hadn’t realized just how close the trouble was.  In fact, there was about
to be a monumental pile-up on the road out of town.

10/Ace
Goes Home Again

Tuesday morning,
Richey came into The Stadium shortly after the door
opened at 10 a. m.  He intended to be there until closing time at 2 a. m.,
although he might go home for a nap at mid-afternoon.  Richey knew he was
drinking excessively and that his downward spiral had picked up following
Shirley’s visit and his firing at Biederman’s.  He wished he could tell
people he had everything under control and was about to embark upon a new
direction in life, but even he knew it was a lie.  He was totally adrift.

Richey usually sat on a barstool in the back of the
room, the last seat next to the flip-up horizontal door that bartenders and
servers used to come and go from behind the bar.  It gave him a clear view
of the front door, so he knew who entered or left the bar, as if that
mattered.  Additionally, this seat was only steps from the bathroom.
Finally, his preferred perch seat allowed him to see all three monitors
displaying Keno screens.

Ace also spent a lot of time in The Stadium,
since he had also quit working at Biederman’s the day after they fired
Richey.  Country and Kandie often filled out the foursome.  At much
as possible, Richey tried to avoid all three of them.

About mid-afternoon, however, Ace and Kandie walked
toward the restrooms and offered a nonchalant “hi” to Richey as they passed
by.  Richey turned to see Ace pick up the janitor’s sign and hang it on
the men’s room door.  It read: Cleaning in Progress.  Kandie
giggled at Ace’s handiwork and cast a defiant look at Richey, as if she wanted
to say: “Don’t you wish you had the guts to do this with Carmen?” or “Bet you
wish it was you coming in here with me.”

Richey ordered another Bloody Mary as Ace and Kandie
crowded into the men’s room.

Before closing the door, Ace looked at Richey and said,
“Tell the guys to hold it for fifteen minutes, Richey.”

Inside, Ace undid his belt and dropped his jeans and
underwear to the floor.  Kandie did the same but folded her jeans and
underwear and placed them on the toilet lid.  She unbuttoned her blouse
and unhooked her bra, so that the support cups fell to her side.

Kandie sank to her knees, took Ace in hand and began to
stroke him.  “I can’t believe how big you are, Ace, but I’m getting used
to it.”

“You like a big cock, right, Kandie?”

“I do now,” she said, taking him into her mouth.

After he became rock-hard, Ace placed both hands in
Kandie’s armpits and easily lifted her up and placed her on his dick.  She
was wet and slid on easily.  He could actually hold her weight with one
massive hand that nearly covered both of her buttocks.  For additional
support, he pressed her against the wall beside the urinal.  He grabbed
one of Kandie’s pendulous breasts with his other hand and began to thrust,
slowly but with increasing speed.

Ace timed himself to keep pace with Kandie’s heart rate,
which he calculated was now well over one hundred.  The pupils of her eyes
were barely visible, as they had rolled partly beneath her eyelids.  She
began to moan, louder and louder.  When her body began to tremble and her
heart was racing so fast he could barely keep up, Kandie started to scream,
first in short bursts and then one loud continuous primal cry as she achieved
her orgasm.

Ace came too, but he didn’t stop thrusting.  He’d
learned long ago that women generally expected the man to ejaculate before they
reached the shudder stage.  They were surprised, very pleased and,
finally, a bit afraid when he continued to pound away, even with substantial
amounts of semen dripping out of them onto the bed or floor.  He would
keep up the pace until he felt the stiffness return — and that always excited
him.  Then, he pursued the next goal with vigor, which was to bring on a
second or third climax and a second ejaculation — no matter how long it
took.  On his part, it was about lust, domination and, ultimately,
power.

About half the women he’d raped over the years decided
not to report him after he made them come — and, after he’d apologized, but at
the same time admitted (promised) that he fucked that way all the time.
Couldn’t control himself.  And, they could expect the same performance
every time.  He’d appreciate their help in dealing with his problem.
He often puckered up and shed tears to seal the deal.  It was fascinating
and exciting to watch the women weigh their options and make a decision that
clearly was not in their best interest.  Ace concluded that rape was an
enjoyable, rewarding sport.

Kandie was now in the quiet whimpering stage, as she
assured him again that “nobody ever made love to me like that, Ace.
Nobody.  I didn’t even know it was possible.”

As Kandie got dressed, Ace pissed on the deodorant block
in the urinal and then washed his penis and testicles in the sink.  He
dried off with a paper towel and put back on his underwear and jeans.

“Let’s go get a beer,” he said.

When they came out, Richey looked at them and then at
John the bartender, who looked disgusted as he shook his head, but said
nothing.  Others at the bar laughed and pointed; one barfly stood and
clapped appreciatively.  Several others shouted the bar’s slogan: Fuckin’
A, man!

Ace grinned and said, loudly, “Where’s the
janitor!  There’s a big puddle of goo on the floor in there that needs
cleaning up!”

The look on Kandie’s face was a mixture of embarrassment
and pride.  She linked her arm through Ace’s arm and walked beside him,
her chest jutted out.

As they walked by, Ace leaned in and whispered to
Richey: “They’re all alike.  Fuck ʼem real hard and real often and
tell ʼem what they want to hear and they’ll do anything you ask.
Anything.”

Richey didn’t laugh or clap, or even look amused.
He looked worried.

Ace and Kandie went back into the game room, where
Country played one of the two pinball machines.  Two other patrons were
playing eight ball and a drinker sat alone at one of the three tables.
Ace and Kandie sat at another vacant table and he waved at a waitress and said,
“Two Buds over here.  Not light.”

“God, that was great, Ace!”  Kandie said,
breathlessly.  “And, it’s so exciting and dangerous!”

Ace leaned in and said, confidentially, “Next time,
we’ll go over to the mall and do it in the elevator.  The one with the
glass walls.”

Kandie laughed, but then covered her mouth with her hand
and looked stunned and worried.  She leaned forward.  “Are you
serious, Ace?”

“Sure, that’s why they got a stop button in the
elevator.”

Kandie continued to be amazed.  “But what if
someone called security?”

“Most people want to watch.  They don’t want their
entertainment ended before the climax.  Besides, we don’t drop our
clothes.  You just wear a dress and no underwear.  When I push your
ass against the glass, the audience will see what they want.  If the
security guys come, we were just kissing.  That ain’t against the
law.  The elevator broke.  That ain’t our responsibility.”

She whispered.  “Someone will take a video with
their cell phone.”

“Great, because then we’ll get to be on Porn Hub.”
He spoke confidentially to her.  “Trust me, people generally won’t help
the cops.  If they do, the worse that could happen is that they charge us
with public indecency and we claim it was spontaneous love.  Believe me,
it’s not that hard to get the cops to back down.”  He wanted her to
believe that.

Suddenly, a loud voice from behind them declared: “Well,
well, if it isn’t the bitch, Kandie Givens!”

Ace turned to look at a man standing in the middle of
the arched doorway leading to the game room.

“Hank, what do you what?”  Kandie asked.
“What are you doing here?”

Hank replied, “I’m working my ass off out south in the
cold, putting siding on a house, when I send Melvin up here for a six-pack and
some sandwiches.  He calls back and tells me he sees you go into the
bathroom to fuck some faggot with a ponytail.”

“You know this asshole, Kandie?”  Ace asked,
smiling.  Nevertheless, he seriously assessed the capabilities of the
intruder: a medium-sized guy with long stringy hair, dirty brown coat,
oil-encrusted jeans and boots covered with dried clay.  A construction
worker.

“You better shut your mouth, motherfucker,” Hank
snarled.

“This is Hank Hendricks, Ace,” Kandie said,
helplessly.  “I dated him before I met you.  He don’t own me, but he
thinks he does.”  She shouted at Hank.  “I told you to leave me alone
and quit calling my house!”

Ace stood and walked to the doorway where he towered
over Hank.  He smiled, seeing the fear on the construction worker’s
face.  “Why don’t you just get your beer and sandwiches, Hank, and be on
your way.”

Kandie shrieked, causing Ace to jerk his head to the
right, but not in time to avoid the beer bottle crashing onto his right
shoulder.  The beer-drinker sitting alone had announced his
presence.  Ace silently cursed his stupidity.  There was a second
one, just like at The Wheel.

“Way to go, Melvin!  How you like them apples,
buddy?”  Hank asked, moving in for the kill.  He threw a right, which
Ace easily sidestepped, countering with a left upper cut that caught Hank
perfectly under the jaw.  He went limp and dropped to the floor like a rag
doll.

Ace wheeled around and grinned when he saw Country with
his hands around Melvin’s neck.  The big dummy had grabbed the
bottle-wielding attacker from behind and literally hoisted him off the
floor.  Melvin had grabbed Country’s wrists and was trying desperately to
pull them apart.  However, Country’s hands were like a vice.  Ace,
who was naturally left-handed, swung again, his massive fist landing directly
on the bushwhacker’s nose.  Blood and snot flew everywhere.  Country
dropped the semi-conscious Melvin to the floor and began to kick him in the
ribs.

“Take that you sonofabitch, for hittin’ my best buddy,
Ace, with a beer bottle!”  Country yelled.

About that time, bartender John appeared and said,
without a lot of emotion, “No fighting in here or I’ll call the cops.”

Ace shook his head.  “Fight’s over.  They
started it.”  He looked around the small crowd of witnesses until he saw
Richey standing in the back.  “Tell ʼem, Richey.”  Richey owed
him and Ace didn’t care if he’d seen the action or not.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Richey said to John.  “These
two started it.  Everyone saw that.”

“Melvin hit Ace with a beer bottle!”  Kandie said
in a high-pitched voice, as if that was the final judgment to settle the whole
dispute.

John bent over to look at Hank and Melvin, as both of
them struggled to regain their senses.  “Maybe I should call the cops or
get an ambulance for these guys,” John said.

“I don’t think you want the cops in on this,” Ace
replied.  “They ain’t hurt that bad but my collarbone feels broken.
If there’s a police report, I’ll definitely file a lawsuit against the
bar.  You want that?”

That convinced the bartender.  He and Richey helped
Hank and then Melvin to their feet.  “You guys get out of here,” John said
to them.  “And don’t come back.”

Ace didn’t want the cops involved, since they likely
would run his record and find out about the parole violation.  He was
supposed to be in Michigan.  “We’re leaving, too,” he told John.
“Let’s go, Kandie.  You too, Country.”

Outside, Ace watched Hank and Melvin get into a red
Firebird and leave.  He handed his car keys to Country.  “Go get my
car and drive it up to that drug store at the end of the shopping
center.”  He took Kandie’s arm and steered her in that direction.

“How bad are you hurt?” she asked, trembling.

“Budweiser makes a solid bottle.  If you hadn’t
yelled and I hadn’t turned, he would have cracked my skull.”

“Oh, God, is your collarbone really broken?”

Ace ran the fingers of his left hand over the
bone.  “Feels like it.”

“Oh, no!”

Ace laughed.  “Don’t worry, it ain’t the first
time.”

Inside Eckerd’s, Ace bought a roll of white sports
tape.  Outside near a Coke machine, Kandie helped him take off his
shirt.  Kandie followed Ace’s instructions and applied eight strips of
tape over the broken collarbone beginning just above the shoulder blade, across
the clavicle, and ending at the top of his pectorals.  With his mouth wide
open in amazement, Country stood by and watched, as if it were brain
surgery.  By the time she finished, Kandie’s blouse was wet with sweat,
even though the temperature was in the mid-sixties outside.  However,
Ace’s skin was so dry the tape stuck immediately.

“That’s good,” Ace said, squinting out the corner of one
eye at the tape job.  “It’s better than a sling or one of those padded
figure-eight supports.  I’ve broken both my collarbones before.
Second time for this side.”

“How’d you do that, Ace?”  Country asked.

“Once in a street fight in my old neighborhood in
Chicago.  When I was in the Navy, I got drunk and fell outta a top
bunk.”  He laughed easily.

“You’re gonna be so sore,” Kandie said, grimacing
sympathetically.

“I’ll survive.  What about you and asshole Hank?”

“I’m sorry about all this, Ace.  I’m trying to get
him to let me alone.  He just won’t.”

“Did you fuck him?”

She looked confused and speechless.

“Before you met me, of course.”

“Yeah, it was before I met you.  It was only two or
three times.  I didn’t like him.  He’s dirty, and he stuck his dick
up my ass even when I told him not to.  He slapped me around, too.”

“Yeah, I get it.  I don’t think he’ll be back for
more, unless he’s really stupid.”  Ace drew her close to him with his good
arm, bent and kissed her.  He was immediately aroused and pressed himself
against her.

“Oh, my God,” Kandie said, stepping back and looking
down.

Ace steered her hand so she could feel the oncoming
tumescence.  “It’s the adrenaline.  Let’s get in the back seat of the
Sentra.  Country will drive us to your place.  You can give me head
on the way, okay, Kandie?”

“Oh, sure, Ace, if you want!  I owe you for getting
rid of Hank.  I ain’t going to work this evening.  I’ll call in sick,
so I can take good care of you, Ace.”

“I know you will, Kandie.  You’re the best.
You know, I got a plan to get some big money.  When that happens, I’m
gonna take care of you, Kandie, and your kids.”

“I’d do anything to make that come true, Ace.”

“I know you will, Kandie.”

In the car, while Kandie labored at her task and Country
drove, Ace did relax.  He was even happy.  All three of the characters
he’d been cultivating had performed according to the script: they stuck up for
him, defended him and did as they were told.  A bit more grooming and
they’d be ready for the main event.

∞
∞  ∞

They parked in front of
Kandie’s apartment building.  Ace and Country waited beside the car while
she hustled across the street to another building, where another mom had
babysat Kandie's kids for the afternoon.  The complex included a dozen or
so two-story brick buildings, each containing eight apartments.  A sign
near the management office advertised one-to-three bedroom units, an exercise
room, Jacuzzi, steam room, playground, two swimming pools, tennis courts and a
sand volleyball court.  During the summer months, the maintenance crew
kept the grass green and trimmed as close as a Marine boot’s hair.

Kandie told Ace that her three-bedroom apartment rented
for over $900 a month.  She chafed at having to take a handout from her
aunt and uncle to afford this lifestyle, but she wanted her kids to be
safe.  All this information greatly pleased Ace, because he knew that it
made Kandie hungry for money and financial freedom.

“Richey’s girlfriend Carmen lives in this complex,
right?”  Ace asked, when Kandie returned.

“Yeah, it’s the far building, but she works days and
Marisa is in the sixth grade.  Her grandmother usually picks her up at
school.”

Inside the apartment, Kandie put one-year-old Melody in
a playpen while Country carried in six large sacks of groceries they had
stopped and purchased after Kandie finished her blow job.  Ace hadn’t made
the request for sexual reasons, but rather to make certain Kandie would do
whatever he asked, even when the request seemed odd and untimely.

The groceries included steaks, baking potatoes and a
twelve-pack of Budweiser.  Kandie shooed the men out of the small kitchen
as she and the oldest girl, six-year-old Cindy, began dinner preparations.

In the living room, Ace sat on a sofa and laid a pack of
Camels on the coffee table.  Country turned on the television and was
immensely pleased to find a channel showing re-runs of Gunsmoke.

As if alerted by her radar, Kandie rushed into the
living room with an ashtray and two coasters.  “Anything else?” she
asked.  “Give me about ten minutes and I’ll make a vegetable tray with a
dip.  I’ve got some canned oysters.  You like oysters, Ace?”

“Yeah, they keep me virile.”

Kandie laughed too loudly and returned to the kitchen.

Four-year-old Lloyd stood silently in front of the
coffee table.  Ace returned the stare for several seconds before he reached
out with his left hand and lightly slapped the little boy on the cheek.

Lloyd’s eyes opened wide with excitement as he put his
hand to his cheek.  “You hit me!” he said gleefully, and charged Ace with
his tiny arms whirling like a windmill.  Ace put his hand on Lloyd’s
forehead and pushed, causing the youngster to tumble backward onto the floor.

Kandie came around the corner with the promised tray of
snack food.  “Lloyd, goddammit, leave Ace alone!  Smack him if he
bothers you, Ace.”

Ace laughed.  “He’s fine.  Just fix
dinner.  I’ll watch him.”  He could see Kandie heave a great sigh of
relief.

“You knocked me on my butt!”  Lloyd said,
emphasizing the word “butt,” which someone had obviously admonished him not to
use.

Country interrupted, “Not so loud, guys!  I cain’t
hear the television!”

“C’mere,” Ace said to Lloyd.  “Let me show you how
to fight.  You right-handed or left-handed?”

“What?”  Lloyd asked.

Ace took a coin from his pocket and flipped it onto the
floor.  Lloyd picked it up with his left hand and stepped back, signaling
he wasn’t about to relinquish the dime.

“A southpaw, like me,” Ace said.  “That’s
good.  C’mere.”  He reached out and pulled Lloyd toward him while
using his boot to shove the coffee table forward and create some space in front
of the sofa.  “Hold your arms like this.  Hit with the right
hand.  No, like this.  Hit once, hit twice.  Stick, stick with
the right, then uppercut with the left.  Now kick.  No, not that leg,
this leg.  Do it again.  One, two, three, kick.  That’s a
boy!  Now back up again.”  Ace tapped Lloyd’s right fist.  “Hit
twice with this fist, then the other one.  Then kick with this leg.
No, wait, wait!  There’s more.  Hit one, two with this fist, once
with the other; then kick with this leg, then swing with this fist.  Now
do it.”

Lloyd tried to master the routine without success as Ace
fended off his blows and voiced words of encouragement.  Soon, Lloyd tired
of the game and sat beside Ace on the sofa.  Ace put his arm around the
boy.  “You learn that routine and you won’t have to take shit off
anybody.”

Lloyd’s eyes sparkled.  “Momma, he said shit!
Shit!”

Kandie stepped into the living room, again taking in the
scene.  “Ace, what are you tellin’ him?”

She was happy, not angry, he knew.  Happy because a
man, a real man, sat on the sofa treating her son like his son.

“You sure he ain’t gettin’ on your nerves?” she asked
again, anxiously.

“No way,” Ace said, looking at Cindy peeking around her
mother and then Melody cooing to herself in the playpen.  He stood and
walked into the kitchen and leaned against a counter while Kandie turned the
steaks in two different skillets.

“I understand.  I was one of three small kids left
alone in a ratty apartment with my mother when my father went on permanent
vacation.  We lived in Pittsburgh then, although I don’t remember it
much.  After my dad split, my mom moved to Chicago — Hyde Park — with this
jerk who was going to law school.  She was a beauty.”  Like Kandie,
but a lot smarter, for all the good it did her.

It hit him and he pulled out his billfold, ignoring
Lloyd’s ongoing prattle.  Ace took out a tattered photo of himself, the
twins, and his mother when she was young –– in her late twenties.  She
and Kandie looked enough alike to be sisters.  Both were buxom women with
long legs that seemed joined right to the waist.  They had the same
luxurious hair and slightly upturned nose.  Only their facial features
were noticeably different.  His mother had had a higher forehead, bigger
eyes and better teeth.

“Is your mother still alive?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, Ace.  What about your brothers and
sisters?”

“Twin sisters, remember.  Lori and Loni.
Lori’s a pediatrician, Loni’s a lawyer.  They still live in the Chicago
area.”

“Oh, my God!  They must be really smart, Ace.
Do you keep in contact?”

“Now and then,” he replied, lying.  Actually, they
wanted nothing to do with the black sheep of the family.

“That’s good,” Kandie said, as the microwave
dinged.  “The potatoes are done.  C’mon, everybody.  Grab a
seat.  Cindy, help me get everything on the table.  Lloyd, get
Country!”

After dinner, Lloyd easily persuaded Country to watch
cartoons on television.  Kandie put Melanie to bed.  Cindy sat at a
small desk in the corner of the living room, coloring in a book.  Kandie
refreshed Ace’s cup of coffee and sat opposite him at the kitchen table.
She glowed with happiness.

“It’s so nice for all of us to be here,” she said, with
great emotion.

“Even our big retarded kid,” Ace said, glancing at
Country.

“Yeah.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

“Hurts a little, but I’ll be fine.  Get me a couple
of aspirins.”

Kandie jumped up.  “I got cake and ice cream.
Okay?”

Country and Lloyd answered simultaneously in the
affirmative.

Ace took the aspirins but skipped dessert.  While
Kandie did the dishes, Ace went into the living room, sat on the sofa, leaned
back and fell into a troubled half-sleep.  The photograph he’d shown
Kandie generated a mind movie of his nightmarish youth in Chicago, and some of
the events that shaped his life and personality.

His mother, June, initially seemed a good catch to the
would-be lawyer attending the prestigious University of Chicago.  June was
beautiful, loyal and supportive.  After she worked as a secretary to put
him through two years of law school, the wannabe lawyer found someone else to
use.  A woman who already was a practicing attorney.

June and her three kids were left alone in a Hyde Park
brownstone broken up into four apartments.  They were one of only a few
white families in a low-income, African-American neighborhood.

“Why don’t we move somewhere else?” he’d asked his
mother at the time.

“This is a wonderful old neighborhood with so much
history and a lovely mix of people of all races,” she’d replied.  “It can
be revived and restored and we can be part of that process, Leslie.  You
can be happy here.”

A true liberal, June believed this philosophy and at
first invited everyone and anyone to their apartment.  When he was six or
seven, Ace remembered bouncing on a neighbor’s knee.  As soon as his
mother left to go to the grocery store, the nigger forced Ace to suck his dick,
threatening to rape and kill his sisters if he told anyone.  Word got
around and it wasn’t the last time the neighborhood men took sexual advantage
of him.  After that, Ace lived in fear and terror, whether asleep or
awake.  He wondered why him and not his sisters, but decided that they
had decided no one would believe him.  Additionally, they got to exact
revenge on a white male, a representative of their main historic oppressors.

His mother had been terribly naïve in thinking that a
white Jew kid named Leslie Semanski would be received with open arms on the
streets of south Chicago.

It got worse when June took a black man, Harold Smith,
into her bed.  Harold claimed to be a community activist and
pretended to be a poet, although Ace could never understand his rhymes, which
was why he later came to hate rap music.  It wasn’t English, Ace told
everyone, but just nigger-talk, pure and simple.  They trashed the
neighborhood where they lived, and they trashed the language, too.

Ace became a child of the street and soon concluded that
Harold Smith had simply sniffed out white pussy.  It gave him status in
the community to be sleeping with a white woman and he bragged about it to
every black male above the age of ten.

The black kids soon threw Harold’s descriptions in Ace’s
face.  “Ha’old say yo’ momma jest lay dere lak a big ol’ white fish when
he be fuckin’ her wid his big nigger dick.  Dat de trufe, Leslie?”
They said his name like it was a girl’s name.  “Ha’old say yo’ momma don’t
swaller no cum, Leslie.  Spits it in de sheets.  Ha’old say he don’t
know why, ’cause his cum be white.  Leslie, how come yo’ white momma don’t
swaller de white cum of a black man?”

The taunts stung his soul.  Initially, Ace panicked
and didn’t know what to say or do.  He ran, he hid, he cried.
Finally mustering some courage, he began talking back.  The mother of one
of the black kids who regularly tortured him was a prostitute.  Everybody
knew that.  So Ace said, spitefully, “Jesse, yo’ momma’s a ’ho.
Ever’body fuck her.”  Ace spoke like everyone else on the street at the
time, trying to fit in.

The screaming, irate black boys swarmed over him and
pushed him into an alley, yelling all the time that a white boy couldn’t talk
that way about a black boy’s momma.  Of course, Ace had heard talk about
someone getting the “shit beat out of him,” but he never knew what it truly
meant until that day in the alley.  They beat him until he lost control of
his bowels, and then they made fun of him because he’d shit his pants.

It was the first of many beatings.  Some included
sexual assaults of various types.  Ace couldn’t go outside without hearing
how Ha’old was fuckin’ his momma and how he was a scared little white boy who
shit his pants, sucked dick and took it up the ass.  Harold knew what was
happening but all he did was grin and say, “Leslie, be a man.  Don’t get
your momma involved in this.”

In middle school, some white kids took Ace aside and
told him he didn’t have to take shit from niggers.  They said niggers were
the worst racists in the world wherever they were in a majority.  There’s
protection in numbers, they told him.  If he’d join their gang, the Hyde
Park Polar Bears, they’d protect him.  And they did, so long as he stayed
in the group.  They taught him how to steal and how to defend
himself.  Ace developed an aptitude for the martial arts, especially as he
grew older, taller and stronger.

At age thirteen, Ace began riding a crosstown bus to Oak
Lawn, where he enrolled in a martial arts class taught by Snake Simmons, a
rabid racist.  “Remember that the black man is a natural slave,” Snake had
said.  “He’s strong but he’s dumb.  In slave days, a half dozen white
masters would rule hundreds of black slaves.  Slaves seldom tried to run
away.  The dog has fangs and claws and is faster than a man, yet we keep
them as pets.  Remember that control happens first in the mind.  You
have to get it across to niggers and dogs.”  Ace was receptive to this
message, given his unfathomable hatred of “them.”

Ace became a dedicated student and soon rose to the top
of his class, aided by a rapid spurt of growth.  He also developed a skill
in using knives, including throwing knives.  He practiced incessantly in
the alley behind the dojo.  Well-balanced throwing knives had the same
killing capacity as guns, but cost far less and generally weren’t illegal to
carry.  They made no noise.

That was the point at which Ace actually earned his
nickname from Snake Simmons, who got his moniker because he always struck first.
The Ace of Spades was the highest card in the deck and trumped all
others.  It also was known as the death card.

When he was fifteen, four black youths his age backed
him into another alley, demanding money.  They threatened to kick the shit
out of him and make him suck their dicks.

Drawing upon Snake’s philosophy and training, Ace had
said, “Maybe you will, since there’s four of you, but that won’t be
enough.”  His confident, cool demeanor alone had caused them to hesitate,
and he knew he was about to take control.

One of the blacks had said, “Whatcha talkin’ ’bout,
white boy?”

“It won’t be enough for you to kick the shit outta
me.  ’Cause if that’s all you do, I’m gonna hunt and kill all of you, no
matter how long it takes.  Your families, too.  I know where you
live.  I’ll wait until your mother or grandfather is alone on the
streets.  Then, I’ll gut them.”  He pulled out a knife.  “So
you’d better kill me now while you got the chance.”

Escalation, that’s the key concept, Snake had told
Ace.  Escalate the consequences of the fight to an unacceptable level for
your opponent, or opponents.  With notable exceptions, most adversaries
don’t want to escalate the conflict to a lethal level.  The black boys
backed down under his threat and his stare.  They understood that Ace
meant to carry out his threat, although they covered their retreat with
braggadocio.

Later, Ace isolated each one and beat him badly; badly
enough to make each of them shit their pants.  He didn’t stop
there, though.  He trained them to suck dick and take it up the ass.
It earned Ace a reputation and he learned how much better it was to dish it out
than give it up.  He became addicted to the fear and terror he inspired.

He even stalked his mother’s first boyfriend, Harold,
after the ghetto poet became bored with using him and his mother.  One
night, Ace broke into Harold’s apartment, beat him silly, revived him, and then
castrated him.  He’d shoved Harold’s private parts down his throat until
the black man choked to death on his own instruments of torture.  Harold
went into a garbage dumpster and disappeared from the earth.  It had been
incredibly satisfying to Ace, who also learned the virtue of patience in
exacting revenge.

Years later, in a psychobabble session with a prison
counselor, Ace had tried to explain his tendency toward violence, as well as
his racist attitudes.  The psychologist seemed amazed and alarmed, which
Ace found equally incomprehensible.  How could he be anything else other
than what he was, given his experiences from a young age?  How could he
deny the validity of the attitudes and actions that had allowed him to survive,
and feel better about himself?  No one had ever convinced Ace to think and
act otherwise.

Despite
all her rhetoric about the beauty of integration, June Semanski eventually came
to her senses and stayed hidden away in her apartment with her “things” and her
unrealistic dreams.  She drew welfare and Ace supplemented the family
income by stealing and fencing the goods.  His mother regularly castigated
him for his criminal activity, although she always took the money, especially
if he gave it to his sisters first.

Ace protected his family until his sisters enrolled at
Northwestern University, where they received academic scholarships.  After
careful planning, Ace pulled off a “big score” one night by taking down a South
Side drug lieutenant and making off with a stash of nearly fifty grand.
That very night he had moved his family to an apartment he’d already rented in
Skokie.  He literally had to force his mother to go, but his sisters
understood, once he explained everything to them.  If they stayed, they
would be killed.  He gave his sisters $35,000 and hit the road.  He
never saw any member of his family again.  For a while, his sisters wrote
to him until he quit sending them a forwarding address.

He called every year or two to hear the latest
news.  His mother lived with her professionally successful daughters until
she died –– alone, without a man.  At the time, Ace was in prison in
Michigan.  His mother was the only person he’d ever really loved and she’d
rejected him for what he’d become because of her decisions.  He’d had a
love/hate relationship with women ever since.

Kandie jogged him awake and the nightmare ended.
“The kids are in bed, Ace.  I sent Country home.  You’re staying here
with me tonight.”

He smiled and didn’t object.  He was home, again,
if only in his imagination.  For a fleeting moment, he regretted the fact
that he’d eventually have to throw Kandie and her family away, just like he’d
been a throwaway kid.  An object people used but didn’t love.  Love
had died in Chicago a long time ago, and the dead never come back to life.

11/The Circles Of Life

Shortly after the sun rose Wednesday morning,
Carmen quietly moved her easel and five-by-eight foot canvas onto the apartment
patio, leaving the sliding door slightly ajar so she could hear Marisa when she
awoke.  Carmen hoped that the early morning solitude and exceptional light
would inspire her, even though it was cold, with the temperature in the
fifties.  At least, the paint wouldn’t run or freeze.  She wore a
warm, green velvet jogging suit, and had pulled the hood over her head.
She also wore cotton gloves with the finger tips cut out up to the first
knuckle.  A portable heater sat in the corner, plugged into the patio
electrical outlet.

She’d been mulling over in her mind for months an idea
about a painting that captured the essence of the universe and life, and
inspired thoughts about the future.  It would contain elements of symbolism,
impressionism and realism all at the same time.  An oil and canvas tour
de force.  Although the idea was egotistical and ambiguously
ambitious, Carmen had always believed art should be soaring in its purpose,
otherwise what was the purpose?  She planned to organize the painting as
nine circular panels in three rows.  Each panel would portray significant
evolutionary events, proceeding from left to right and top level to bottom
level, as if one were reading the lines on a printed page.  They would all
barely touch, creating four rhombus shapes in the middle of the paintings and
two triangular areas on each of the four sides of the painting, plus four
triangular shapes in each corner.  These spaces would contain small,
transitional renderings of the elements that led to or created evolutionary
change.  She had no idea about the details.  They would have to be
inspired; otherwise, it would amount to nothing but a canvas covered with
paint.

Carmen didn’t feel optimistic about her chances of
success, but everything, even inspiration, had to have a beginning.

Inside the first sphere in the upper left hand corner,
she began painting her vision of the Big Bang that created the universe.
Next would be the formation of planets.  Where these first two panels
touched and created the top triangular space, she planned to paint a fusion of
elements that formed amino acids, the primary elements of life.  The other
triangular space at the top might include representations of sperm, eggs, and
DNA punching their way into the third sphere.  Perhaps the next to the
last circular panel on the bottom row would feature development of a new
species melding carbon and silicone-based life forms.  A cyborg,
maybe.  The last panel would represent innovative means of space
exploration.  In the bottom right corner space, Carmen planned to steal a
technique from a seventeenth-century master and portray the moon as a mirror
reflecting another dimension of the multiverse.

Her thinking ran way ahead of the actual work, so Carmen
decided to simply begin and see what happened.  Then, the painting would
either flow and take on a life of its own, or it wouldn’t, in which case she’d
recycle the canvas and paint something else over the top of a universe that had
failed to unfold as she envisioned it.  Perhaps God had the same problem
in the beginning?

Two hours later, about the time her arms and hands began
to ache and her fingers started to cramp, Marisa startled her by saying,
“What’s that?”

Carmen
looked at her daughter standing inside the apartment behind the sliding
door.  She’d left it cracked for the sole purpose of hearing Marisa when
she awakened to get ready for school.  Carmen opened the door.  “I
don’t know for sure.  Take a look.  Tell me what you think.”

“I
don’t have any thoughts right now.  It’s too early.”

Marisa had slept in athletic shorts and a tank top with
a blue bow on each shoulder strap.  It fit tight enough to outline her
budding breasts.  Her long, dark curly hair framed an angelic face.
Carmen came into the apartment and reached out to touch a real work of art.

“I should paint you again,” Carmen said, wrapping her
arms around her daughter.

“No, don’t.  We already have enough pictures of
me.  Everyone knows what I look like.”

“You don’t think I could improve on a photograph?”

“Probably.  I’d like blue eyes, if you don’t mind.”

“I could do that.”

Marisa pointed at the canvas.  “What will you call
it?”

Carmen frowned.  “Maybe The Big Bang.
Tomorrow.  Smorgasbord.  How about Life Goes Round and Round?”

“I like your realism better, especially the one of the
street in Paris.  Tell me again when you were there?”

Carmen responded while moving her canvas and painting
supplies inside.  “Years ago in my student life, which I loved,
incidentally.  Being a lifelong student would have suited me just fine.”

“How come you don’t just paint a bunch of pictures and
sell them at art fairs, like the one they have every summer in the Plaza?”

There’s a song about that, Carmen recalled.  In the
story told by the singer, he planned to travel and perform while his girlfriend
sold her paintings on the sidewalk.  “It’s an idea," she conceded,
thinking she might talk to Richey about it.  Maybe they would decide such
a lifestyle was possible, and begin planning to live it together.

“Who’s taking me to school today, you or Grandma?”
Marisa asked.

“Grandma.  I’m going in late this morning because I
have to meet a client for dinner.  Grandma will pick you up after school,
too.  I should be over at her house to get you by eight.  Okay?”

“Okay, Mom, but you work too much.”

“It’s not my idea, believe me.  Go get ready for
school.  I’m going to take a shower.  Grandma will be by in about a
half-hour.”

Carmen took off the jogging suit and threw it on her
bed.  When the knock came on the door, Carmen thought it likely was her
mother.  She put on a purple robe and walked to the front door.  She
looked through the peephole and saw Richey.

“Everything okay?” she asked, opening the door.
She hadn’t seen him since last Wednesday, a week ago.  He’d called on
Thursday to say he had the flu.  She’d called him at his home several
times after that, but the answering service picked up.

“I heard there was a free breakfast here,” he said.

“If you make it yourself.  Mom’s coming soon to
take Marisa to school.  I was just getting ready to get into the
shower.  I got a half-hour then before I need to get going.”

“Can I get in with you?  I have some dirty
thoughts.”  He was enticed by the lightweight robe that clung to Carmen’s
curves.  Her black hair hung loose and framed a perfectly formed face and
flawless complexion.  Richey was surprised that a younger man hadn’t
snapped her up long ago.  He’d been lucky with women.  Shirley was
good-looking and smart, too.  Richey didn’t want to blow his second, and
perhaps last chance, at love, even though he usually had a hard time defining
it.

About this time, Marisa came out of her bedroom, wearing
an ankle-length red and gold dress.

“Richey, what are you doing here?”

“I came for breakfast.”

“Grandma and I go through Mickey Dee’s on the way to
school.  You wanna come with us?”

“I’m too old to be teachable.  I’ll just make some
coffee while your mom takes a shower.”

“Mom was up early.  You know why Richey?”

“No.”

“She heard tapping on her bedroom window about five
o’clock this morning.”

“Really?”

Carmen explained, “I was afraid to open the blinds and
find myself staring at some maniac.  While I stood there trembling, Marisa
did it.  She wasn’t afraid at all.”

“And?”

“It was the sprinkler system,” Carmen explained.
“It comes on apparently about five a. m. and waters the grass, although the
grass is turning brown and dying.  I don’t know why they still have the
sprinkler system on in October.  Anyway, for some reason, it hit my window
today.”

“And you say it sounded like someone tapping?”

“Yeah.  The pattern is from left to right.  It
goes tap, tap, tap and moves on.  About thirty seconds later, it swings
the other way.  Tap, tap, tap.  Spooky when you don’t know what it
is, Richey.  Now that I know, it’s funny.  Marisa called me a
ʽfraidy cat.’”

Richey approached the eleven-year-old and wrapped her in
a bear hug, partly because he hadn’t held and hugged Ethan enough.  Marisa
smelled nearly new, not yet used up by the world and beginning to smell
stale.  “So your momma is a big baby and you’re the brave one in this
house?”

“She wanted to call the cops,” Marisa said, spoofing her
mother.

“Oh, I did not!”  Carmen replied, laughing
affably.  “But I did stay up and paint, so maybe it really was a subtle
message: tap, tap, tap: ‘get to work.’”

“I went back to sleep,” Marisa said, matter-of-factly.

“Did you call anybody?”  Richey asked.

“I’ll call the office later today.  They’ll fix
it.”

“It’s probably just the alignment of the sprinkler
head,” Richey guessed.

“I’m getting into the shower, guys.”

Richey went about fixing coffee and Marisa joined him in
the kitchen.  “So, what’s going on in school nowadays, kid?”

“Oh, you know, Richey.  Math, English, art, that
kinda stuff.”

“Study hard, Marisa and go to college and make something
of yourself, or you’ll have to work at Biederman’s the rest of your life.”

“Oh, Richey, you’re so funny.”

He recalled the urine sample he’d given Beems and Kryck
and decided that was funny.  Now.

Grandma came about the time the coffee began to
percolate.  She and Richey exchanged awkward pleasantries without her
asking or him offering to explain why he was in her daughter’s apartment this
early in the morning.  Richey was satisfied to allow Mom to think
sexually explicit thoughts.  Then, suddenly, Marisa bolted out of the
bedroom door with her coat halfway on and a bulky backpack slung over one
shoulder.

Carmen came out of the bedroom, again wearing the
robe.  She used a towel to dry her hair.  “Mom, Marisa wants to go
through McDonald’s, okay.”

Grandma said, “That’s fine, but I already had
breakfast.  C’mon, Marisa, or we’ll be late.”

“Bye, Mom, bye, Richey.”

After Marisa and her grandmother left, Carmen went back
into her bedroom.  Richey poured a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen
bar until Carmen reappeared, cinching up a belt on a black dress.  She ran
her fingers through her shiny, cascading black curls, which was apparently all
they needed to fall in place.

“Are you over the flu?” she asked.  “Did you see a
doctor?”  Carmen gave him a hug while he sat.  “I missed you.”

Richey sighed deeply and jumped in.  “I got fired
at Biederman’s Monday night.”

Carmen poured coffee into a mug and maintained a studied
silence before she said, “It’s probably for the best.  It was a nowhere
job.  You got something else in mind?”

“Maybe.  I talked to Marshon about some
things.”  He paused and took a deep breath.  “Shirley is getting
married in a few weeks.  That has nothing to do with my getting fired or
finding work, but I thought I’d mention it.”

“You talked to her?”

“Yeah, she came down from Chicago to tell me the news,
and get some of her stuff out of the house.”

“When was that?”

“Last Thursday.”

Carmen didn’t ask if there was any relationship between
Shirley’s visit and the flu that laid Richey low over the weekend.  “Well,
at least she didn’t phone in the news.  You guys have a good talk?”

He bobbed his head.  “Yeah, it was nice and
civil.  Very civil, in fact.”  He fought back the sudden threat of
tears.  He could have told Carmen that he’d accepted the blame for the
failure of their marriage, although Shirley had said blame wasn’t important
now.  That they both would remember the good times — the good part that
was Ethan.  That he knew in theory why their relationship had fallen
apart, although that knowledge came retrospectively.  He should have done
something to stop his marriage from unwinding, but he hadn’t.  Richey
didn’t say anything, in fact, because it might sound to Carmen as if he wished
his marriage to Shirley were still intact.  That if he’d been a better
human being and a husband, they would never have met; that this conversation
could then have occurred only in another dimension, such as one Carmen might
paint.

“Even though the marriage is over, it was a difficult
conversation, because of all the history Shirley and I have together,” Richey
admitted.

“I understand,” Carmen said.  “I met my first husband, Miguel,
in college at a Hispanic cultural fair.  Not that I’m culturally centered
south of the border.  The Salazars are third-generation
Mexican-Americans.  I can’t speak Spanish worth a damn.  Anyway,
Miguel and I got married a couple of years later and had Marisa right
away.  It lasted five years.  Did I tell you about all this?”

“In
bits and pieces.  Did Miquel cheat on you?”

Carmen
shrugged.  “He found someone else.  I don’t know whether that’s
cheating or his good fortune.  They’ve been married almost five years now
and have two daughters.”

“He
live around here?  Does he see Marisa very often?”

“He
and his new wife moved to Phoenix, but Marisa sees him two or three times a year,
including a couple of weeks in the summer.  He’s good to her.”
Carmen paused.  In her attempt to see into the past, she looked at the
walls and ceiling, as if a clearer vision would appear there.  Then, she
looked directly at Richey.  It was mutual confession day.  Maybe it
would strengthen their relationship; maybe not.

“I
think of Miguel now and then, especially
after looking at Marisa sometimes,” Carmen continued.  “It’s probably
something I shouldn’t tell my current boyfriend, if I had an ordinary
boyfriend.  But I think you’ll understand, Richey.  I don’t think of
Miguel with longing, or hope that he and I will get back together again.
It’s just my history.  Mine and Marisa’s.  If you don’t remember your
history, you can’t learn, right?  You continue to make the same
mistakes.  I also can’t hate Miguel, or even put him out of my mind,
because then I’d have to hate part of Marisa.  Like you can’t hate Shirley
because of Ethan.  So, we remember what was good in our past relationships,
chalk the mistakes up to life, and remember that it wasn’t entirely our fault
that things didn’t work out.  We’re part of them and they are part of
us.  We should remember them well.  And, we should get on with our
present lives.  You’re in my life, Richey, until you decide not to be.”

Richey hugged her and the tears flowed onto her
shoulder.  “Jesus, I can’t believe how beautiful and smart you are,
Carmen.  Don’t leave me yet.  I’m trying to get it together.”

“You will, Richey.  We’ll come up with
something.  We’re veterans of life.  We know what works and what
doesn’t.  Let’s think about it for the next few days and talk it out this
weekend.  We can come up with a plan, if we want to.”

Richey saw Carmen to her car and watched her drive
away.  He’d spent the wee hours of the morning at Denny’s drinking coffee
and thinking.  He was hung over and needed a Bloody Mary.  The
Stadium didn’t open for another couple of hours.

Then, he thought about the sprinkler system attack on
Carmen’s bedroom window.  He walked over to that side of the apartment
building and located the sprinkler head near the sidewalk.  It was one of
those that jerked through a 180-degree arc, flipped back to the beginning and
then started over.  He squatted and examined it, but didn’t see anything
that seemed broken.  On top of the head was a gold-colored, Phillips-head
screw.  Richey concluded that tightening the screw probably reduced the
range of the spray.

He walked around Carmen’s building looking for a control
box.  He found it on the next building.  A combination lock secured
the metal box.  Richey walked back to his car, opened the trunk and looked
around.  Then, he took out a bolt cutter, a pair of pliers and a Philips
head screwdriver.  Back at the box, he used the bolt cutter to remove the
lock.  He opened the lid and looked at the insides.  He turned the
clock ahead to about five a. m., and heard the water lines buried beneath the
grass begin to gurgle.  Like Carmen, he didn’t understand why they were
watering in October, although the apartment complex grass was greener than
anywhere else in the city.  Maybe it was part of their rental strategy —
green grass right up to the first snowfall.

He returned the bolt cutter and pliers to the trunk
about the time the sprinklers began to work.  He walked over to the errant
sprinkler and watched as it once again peppered Carmen’s window.  He bent
over the sprinkler head and turned the screw about a half turn clockwise.
The water stream retreated a few feet; another adjustment and it fell just short
of the building wall.  Richey derived an inordinate sense of achievement
from this small victory, which, unlike anything else in his life in recent
days, went just as planned.

He
got into his car, started the engine and turned on the heater.  He
listened to the water-sprinkling system as if it were background music,
occasionally supplemented by human voices, slamming car doors, and engines
starting.  A siren wailed in the distance.  The city was awake and on
the move.  Somehow, those sounds comforted him temporarily.

Richey slipped into a state of half-sleep, weary not
only from the traumatic events of the last few days but just bone-tired of
life’s never-ending succession of hassles and events he never anticipated and
usually could never control, even in a minor way.  He’d spent his entire
life reacting.  There was nothing worse, really, than failing at one’s
choice of work, especially because Richey felt so passionate about it.
Additionally, he blamed himself.  If he had it to do over, Richey would
work his entire adult life at some workplace like Biederman’s, and never
complain.  Never even look up from the task at hand and be distracted by a
broader vision.  It was better to be a clog in a machine than it was to
stand alone and fail.  Of course, Richey didn’t really believe that; it
was just one of the many conflicting conversations he carried on inside his
head.

Although Richey was sick and tired, and tired of living,
he didn’t really want to die, and be dead dead, with no sense of
consciousness — of being.  If one had no sense of awareness, there
couldn’t be any feelings of longing, regret, hope or fear.  The aware,
thinking, feeling being had to have a housing; otherwise there was no means of
moving, speaking, hearing, feeling, and touching.  Without corporeality,
all one’s thoughts and emotions would just float free and attach themselves to
molecules of various gases, or fall into the grass and dirt.  One’s
persona would be fragmented and scattered among the elements.

It would be far nicer to retire, not in the conventional
sense of going to Florida or Arizona, but retire periodically.  If only
his mind’s contents could be transferred to a CD that could be inserted into a
computerized cyborg housing whenever he wanted to “live” — and placed on a
shelf when he yearned for peace and quiet.  Only his mind mattered
anyway.  The rest was just skin, tissue, water, muscle, and bone.  It
aged and ceased to work correctly, creating all kinds of problems.  He
could do without it.

The metronomic sound made by the rotating sprinkler
heads lulled Richey into a dream world of the future occupied by
indestructible, imperturbable robots that housed human souls for a fixed time —
an hour, a day, a week, a year?  What would it cost?  What price
would the soul have to pay?  Could the CD program be edited so that one’s
history and experiences, even attributes, would be only happy and good?
What would that cost?  The money game might not end with the end of
this life.  Richey certainly wanted to be better than he was, and he’d
just as soon bypass this time in his life.  Right now, they could put his
CD mind soul in a case.

Suddenly, Richey jerked fully awake.  He had to do
something other than daydream and fantasize.  He couldn’t simply wait for
Carmen to come up with a plan.  He needed to be a man and take control of
his life.  He dialed a number on his cell phone and smiled when there was
an answer.

“Marshon?  Yeah, I know it’s early.  Can we
get together and talk?  I’m ready.”

This time, Richey didn’t plan to wait for life to come
to him and present a wonderful opportunity.  He and Marshon would create
their own future.  It almost worked except for one false move Richey made
while standing behind a bar.

12/Passing
The Torch

On Tuesday morning following
the irritating Saturday night fund-raiser for mayoral candidate Dewhurst,
Marshon, Jemmy and Widja got together in Marshon’s third-floor apartment for a
strategy session.  Widja brought a box of Dunkin’ Donuts.  Marshon
had brewed coffee.

When he first moved into the building, Marshon hired
workers to knock down the wall separating two apartments on the third
floor.  What had been the living room and kitchen of one apartment now was
a new, larger kitchen and dining room.  Marshon had one bedroom converted
to a billiards room dominated by a large snooker table, but with enough room
for a dartboard, a small portable bar and two bar stools.  Walking around
the snooker table in search of the best shot was Marshon’s favorite way to
unwind after a long day.

What had been the second apartment was now an expanded
living room and bedroom, with a bathroom and hallway between the blended
apartments.  There were two twin beds in the bedroom to illustrate the
fiction that Jemmy was Marshon’s roommate, in case Gail came by or proposed to
stay overnight.

Workers had put down a new mahogany floor in the living
room.  Furnishings included a credenza placed in front of the window
overlooking the street.  A long sofa with a recliner in one end faced a
60-inch Samsung smart television hung on the interior wall.  To the left
of the television were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.  The walls were
painted lavender.

Widja and Jemmy sat on the sofa and playfully fought
over the donuts in the box sitting on a coffee table.  Marshon sat in a
rocker recliner located across from the sofa.

“So, you meet the wannabe mayor Saturday night?”
Jemmy asked, winning the battle for the lone apple fritter.  His big body
took up about two-thirds of the sofa.

“Yeah, he described himself as the new broom that sweeps
clean,” Marshon responded.  “Gonna rid the East Side of trash like
me.  Didn’t even want my donation, at least not in public.”

Widja, who wore coveralls with the name Royal Janitorial
Service imprinted on the back, said, “I specialize in dirt and I’ll be looking
for something on that motherfucker from here on out.  He’s gotta have some
bad habits.”

“Hey, you remember that election where we tore down all
the campaign signs of the guy who was running against our man?”  Jemmy
asked.  “We can do that and more against Dewhurst.  Maybe some high
tech shit, huh?  Like a YouTube video of him sucking dick.  We could
morph his head onto some faggot’s body.”

“We’ll get to all that when the time is right, if we
need to,” Marshon said.  “But it ain’t getting snubbed by Dewhurst that
worries me as much as a rumor I heard Saturday night about a grand jury
investigating those two robbers getting killed at The Wheel.”

Jemmy, who was about to take a bite of the apple
fritter, said, “You fuckin’ serious?”

“Serious as Ebola.  My source is impeccable,
believe me.  They got a report from somebody who either was there, or
heard about what happened.  It’s possible the County Attorney may have a
copy of the surveillance video.”

“Can’t be,” Jemmy said, in disbelief.  “I took that
DVD out of the machine myself.  It’s some multi-track recorder that
captures the video stream from all three cameras.”

“How soon after the killings?”

Jemmy calculated.  “I dunno.  Forty-five
minutes, maybe.  Whenever you told me to get it.”

“Someone from the VFW help you?”

“Yeah, he knew about the machinery.”

They looked at each other and nodded.

“Hey, Marshon, just say the word and I’ll have a talk
with him.  If he made a copy, I’ll find out and bust his nuts.”
Jemmy smashed one massive fist into the other.  He wore a green hoodie
with Green Bay Packers printed across the front in gold.

“It wasn’t any of our people, boss,” Widja said.
“Just think back to that night.  We was all standing with you for a long
time after the robbers went down.  Talking to that motherfucker Ace, and
trying to figure out how to get rid of the bodies.  And, what to do with
Bellamay.  We was a tight little circle, if you recall, for quite a
while.  I remember nearly all the dealers being there.”

“I know that, Widja.  I got my copy of the DVD out
of my safe and took a look at it yesterday.  Copied part of it to a flash
drive.”  Marshon shook his head.  “I still can’t believe how fast it
all happened.  But, in the time we was trying to figure out what to do,
someone — probably someone with the VFW — saw an opportunity to make a little
cash and copied the disk.  But that don’t explain why they didn’t try to
sell it to me first.  That’s what I’d expect.  Why would they take it
to the Country Attorney instead?”

“I’ll find out what happened, Marshon,” Jemmy said,
baring his teeth.

“Okay, but if you find this guy, don’t bust him up right
away.  I want to talk to him first and understand his motive.  It
could be that he just doesn’t fuckin’ like me, or The Wheel.  On
the other hand, he might have a relative or friend under investigation, or up
for sentencing.  He could be using the tape to help them.  On the
other hand, he could be fronting for someone else working behind the scenes.”

“What do you mean?”  Widja asked.

Marshon stood and walked into the kitchen to warm up his
coffee cup.  Then, he stood between the two rooms and rocked from his
heels to the balls of his feet.  “I’m been thinking lately about how I
took over The Wheel when Skinny stepped down.  It was a fight, if
you remember.”

“Yeah, there were a lotta pretenders to the throne,”
Widja said.

“Well, what goes around comes around.  Maybe
someone wants to get rid of me and take over.  This would be their golden
opportunity.”

In an impressive display for a man of his bulk, Jemmy
levitated to his feet in one motion.  He again slammed his right fist into
the palm of his other hand, creating an awful sound.  “I’m gonna fuck with
some people and find out what’s goin’ on!”

Marshon held out an arm and hand in a cautionary
gesture.  “Right now, get a coffee refill and let’s talk about the
future.”

After they all sat again, Widja asked, “You said
someone’s also testifying to the grand jury?”  Widja asked.
“Who?  The guy with the tape or the guy he gave it to?”

“That I don’t know, Widja.  Grand jury proceedings
are secret and the transcript is sealed.”

“We could set up surveillance of the courthouse if we
knew when the grand jury was in session,” Widja said.  “Don’t even use
people, use a camera.  You got all that expensive equipment here.”

“Everyone on the East Side knows the rules,” Jemmy
said.  “You gave your speech after the boys was shot, Marshon.  No
snitching.  I say you put some money behind those words and pay off anyone
who tells us who is running their mouth.  Then, I’ll deal with him!”

“All good ideas,” Marshon said.  “Get
started.  Just so you know, I put out the word that we got videos,
too.  Big shots gambling at The Wheel and not always there with
their wives.  God knows, we got half the brass at the police force with
their pants down around their angles, getting their pipes cleaned.  I’ll
plant that rumor in several more ears.  They may reconsider the grand jury
investigation when it becomes apparent that the resulting shit storm will
splatter everyone.  It could just be an election year trial balloon.
When they have time to think it over, they’ll move onto other things.”

“Fuckin’ A!”  Widja exclaimed, a big smile on his
face as he fished through the donut box.  “The best defense is an offense,
right?  Those motherfuckers, whoever they are, will start runnin’ when
they see us comin’!”

Jemmy bobbed his giant-sized, bald head and said,
“Marshon, you a fuckin’ genius!  You told me to make a highlight reel of
the whores in action, and I did.  We got those motherfuckers by the nuts!”

“Make some more copies of that disk.  Leave two
with me.  I’ll put one in my safe here in the apartment.  Maybe mail
the other one to the County Attorney.  Each of you take a copy and put it
in a safe place, where no one else can find it.  It can be our nuclear
weapon.”

“We gonna solve this problem,” Widja said.  “Those
dicks down at city hall just can’t learn not to fuck with smart niggers who got
moxie and moves.”

“Hey, let’s not hurt ourselves patting our own backs,”
Marshon cautioned.  “The opposition probably has a few more surprises in
their bag of tricks.  You can bet the County Attorney’s staff and
investigators are leaning on everyone, hard.  They get the right leverage
on the right person and that person is more afraid of prison than they are of
us.”

“That’s a fuckin’ mistake,” Jemmy said, with
conviction.  “We can reach inside prisons, and I’ll be puttin’ that word
out, too.”

Marshon sat forward and put his forearms on his
knees.  “And, I gotta another move, too, which at least will be ‘check,’
if not checkmate.  I’m gonna step down as head of The Wheel.”

The slightly build janitor and the giant enforcer both
looked stunned.  Widja stopped chewing on a French cruller.  It
became so silent in the room that they became aware of traffic noises on the
street.

“Why?”  Jemmy asked.  “Like you said, we
can outmaneuver these fuckers!”

“Because it’s time,” Marshon said.  “It’s not like
this shit storm got me scared and running.  We’ve survived worse things in
the past.  It’s a combination of everything.  First, I’m tired of it
all after seven years.  The Wheel is a lightning rod.  Y’all
know that.  It’s one thing or the other, and always will be.
Besides, the expenses are increasing faster than the profits.  The bigger
and better we get, the more hands are out.  Our clientele are older folks
and they’re dying off.  Most young folks don’t like our action.  They
gamble on-line or in those WPT events they hold all over the country.
Then, there’s this fantasy sports thing.  Real big fuckin’ money!
The laws are bound to change and allow online gambling, if for no other reason
than it could become a big source of revenue for states and the federal
government.”

Marshon paused and took a deep breath.  “Besides,
I’m exploring other opportunities, some of which I think are potentially more profitable.
So, what I’m saying is that you two guys got first shot at taking over The
Wheel, if you want.  ʼCause we’ve been friends a long time, and
that counts for something with me.  I would never have lasted this long
without you two.  I can give you both the same leg up that Skinny gave me,
which includes the equipment, the lists of our regulars and a list of those
motherfuckers we bribe every week.  Plus, you got that video we just
talked about.  That doesn’t mean you won’t get a fight from someone.”

Marshon sat back and sipped his coffee.  Jemmy
frowned and fiddled pensively with his Christian cross left earring.
Widja chomped on the cruller, but was first to speak.  “I’m kinda
interested, Marshon, but I want to keep on with the janitorial business,
too.  It has revealed a whole ʼnother revenue stream I didn’t even
know existed.”

“Yeah?”  Marshon asked, curiously, since he was now
by admission open to other business opportunities.

“Out in Corporate Woods, I recently got a cleaning
contract for an entire building.  Twelve floors, ten different
businesses.  An insurance company, a brokerage firm, some start-up tech
group.  I’m beginning to realize the value of information lying around the
office, on people’s desks, in the trash, sometimes right there on the computer
screen they forgot to shut down.  Reports, e-mails, handwritten notes,
flash drives I could copy.  You know those little yellow post-its?
People write their passwords on them and stick them on the bottom of their
computer screen, so they don’t forget ʼem!

“Let me give you one example.  One night, I looked
through a report lying on a guy’s desk and read that he recommended that a
client take a long futures position on pork bellies, because of some hog
disease the federal Department of Agriculture was planning to announce in a few
days.  I didn’t even know what a futures contract was, let alone long
versus short.  I read up on it and followed developments.  When the
feds announced the hog disease and that they was gonna kill tens of thousands
of sick pigs, the price of pork shot through the roof.  If I had bought
some of those future contracts for the coming months, I coulda made a
fortune.  This broker was selling insider information, wherever he got
it.”

Marshon laughed softly and then explained: “I remember
Skinny telling me when I was a kid in prison that if I wanted to rob people, I
best become a lawyer or a stock market manipulator.  Then, the crime would
be legal, or at least wouldn’t be prosecuted.”

“Ain’t it the goddamned truth,” Widja said.
“Anyway, I can only do The Wheel in partnership with Jemmy.”

Marshon looked at his muscular friend, who seemed
reluctant.  “Jemmy?”

“I’m not sure I’m smart enough, Marshon.  I sure as
hell don’t have your P.R. talents.  I couldn’t give that soapbox speech
every time we spin.”

“Fuck that!”  Widja said.  “We’ll just run a
video of Marshon preaching the gospel!”

They all laughed at the image.

“Tell us about the finances, Marshon,” Widja said.
“And the deal.  You ain’t just handing over The Wheel free of
charge, are you?”

Marshon stood and walked to the credenza.  He
picked up three folders and handed one each to Widja and Jemmy.  He
refilled everyone’s coffee cup before sitting and opening his folder.
“When you come right down to it, The Wheel is as much a social
organization as it is a floating casino.  It’s not only takes bribe money
for it to run smoothly, but like Jemmy said, there’s the constant glad-handing
with the customer base.  And, as you both know, security is paramount.

“As for the finances, The Wheel will gross up to $40,000
each weekend from three sources: the admission fee, gambling, and food and
drinks.  It’s nearly $2 million a year.  You’re gonna net maybe a
million three, or four.”

“No fuckin’ way!  You got that many
expenses?”  Widja asked.

“Way.  Look at the salaries for you two guys, two rovers, six security guards,
and four movers.  Dealers and servers have to rely on tips, although I
occasionally throw some money their way as a bonus.”

Widja’s
mouth dropped open.  “Three hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars a
year in salaries!”

“You
two are taking nearly $100,000 of that.  I pay the rovers two K per month
and $15 an hour to the movers and guards.  I guarantee those ten guys
sixteen hours per week.”

“Jemmy
gets eight grand a month!”

“That
includes my duties here in this building, asshole!”

“And
I put thirty grand into launching your janitorial business, which I hear is
doing very well.”

“Hey,
I ain’t complaining, guys.  I just never woulda guessed.”

“Add
in equipment storage and repair, plus generous year-end bonuses, unexpected
things, and total operating expenses come to more than four hundred grand a
year,” Marshon said.  “But, as you will note by looking at the other major
expense column, I’m paying out about $250,000 a year in bribes.”

Marshon
watched as his two lieutenants perused the balance sheet.  Both then
looked at him with open-mouthed astonishment.

“Yeah.
Last Friday, I gave Lieutenant Fuckin’ Isley eighteen hundred dollars.
This weekly payoff to the cops amounts to about $100,000 a year.  You can
see the amount of campaign contributions I’m making to eleven other
elected and appointed officials, including the Chief of Police, County Sheriff,
Mayor, County Attorney, five state legislators and two Congressmen.  It’s
the price of doing business as a charitable gambling operation, gentleman.”

“How
long is that cover gonna fly?”  Widja asked.

Marshon
shrugged.  “Don’t know.  There’s a lotta action out there operating
on the razor’s edge.  Daily fantasy sports action is nearly a
billion-dollar-a-year industry, but it operates on a legal loophole that
considers it a skill activity rather than betting.  That’s bullshit, of
course.  There’re politicians who want to tighten up these laws, but I’d
bet on them getting looser.”

Widja
produced a pen and scribbled on his balance sheet.  “So, The Wheel
takes in about $2 million gross and pays out at least $650,000, leaving a net
of about one point three million?”

Marshon
nodded.  “The Wheel can make the two of you over a half-million
each per year.  You got something else to do that will make you that kind
of money?”

“Fuck
no!”

Most
of Marshon’s profits for the first two years of operation under his command
went into paying a dividend to Skinny Walker, buying new equipment and building
up the business.  In addition, he’d spent lavishly on clothes, cars,
dining out, vacations, et cetera before adopting a more professional business
approach.

“I
paid Skinny twenty-five hundred bucks a month until he died,” Marshon
said.

“What
kinda dividend are we gonna hafta pay you, Marshon?”  Widja asked.

“A
hundred thousand dollars up front for the equipment,” Marshon said.
“That’s probably its replacement value.  And, four grand a month any month
you’re in operation.  That’ll be about 10 percent of your gross.”

Jemmy
got up and walked to Marshon’s chair, where he loomed over his friend like a
mountain.  He grasped Marshon’s hand and said, “It’s a great deal,
Marshon.  You are my friend for life, brother.  You ask it, and I’ll
do it.”

“Go
get another donut, my friend, because I ain’t done.”

“This
gonna be like your soapbox speech, Marshon,” Widja said, eliciting laughs all
around.

“Two
things, both of which are recommendations.  You heard the legend about how
Skinny started The Wheel.  He marked up a piece of felt like a
craps table and laid it on the floor of his van.  Worked alleys and
parking lots on the East Side.  Later, he moved it into his house and then
he bought a bigger house.  He moved out into places like the VFW right
before I took over.  I upgraded the equipment by buying used stock from
the riverboat casinos, came up with the charitable gambling gimmick, and turned
each gambling session into a social event.  Half the people who now come
to The Wheel don’t gamble much.  They eat, drink, dance and maybe
pull a slot handle a few times.  But they provide cover, if you know what
I mean.”

“Shit,
Marshon, ain’t nobody gonna try to shut down The Wheel after you made it
into what it is,” Widja said.

Marshon
held up his folder.  “Yeah, but take another look at this.  The
expenses are killing me, and they’ll kill you.  Besides, let me ask you
two a question.  I don’t mean to insult you, but are you guys up to all
the P.R. and hand-jobs you’re gonna have to give to all these government
leeches?”

“Fuck
no!”  Jemmy answered, immediately.  “The only dick I handle is my
own.”

“You
gotta do what you gotta do,” Widja said, shrugging.  “What’s the
alternative?”

“Go
small.  Go back to a version of Skinny’s original model.  Buy a
building like this where both of you live.  In the other apartments, put a
gaming table in every room, and run The Wheel like it was a friendly
neighborhood game.  You two rely on customer tips for your income and you
don’t invite anyone back to your private games if they ain’t tipping enough.”

His
friends stared back, speechless.

“Think
about it,” Marshon said.  “Also, you wouldn’t have to report your tip
income for tax purposes, not when you derived it from an illegal
activity.  You only report income from your legitimate jobs.  Jemmy,
you’re a security guard and maintenance guy.  Widja is a janitor.”

Both
men frowned, consumed with calculation of their futures.

“Whichever
way you two decide to go, let me launder your money in an off-shore bank for
twenty percent.  I might even let my royalty go then.”  He planned to
let them figure out that the laundry fee could be four-to-five times greater
per year than a monthly royalty.  Friendship had its limits.

“Is
that what you do now?”  Widja asked.  “Stash your money off-shore?”

“Yes,
and over the years I have developed the know-how and connections to do it for
you, too.  Otherwise, you got a problem.  If you put your money in a
bank account, or invest it in the stock market, or some type of annuity, you’ll
have to provide your Social Security numbers and tax I.D.  All of this
information will be reported to the IRS.  Then, you got even more
problems.  Besides, everybody locally will know what you’re doing, anyway,
even if you allege that you’re a nonprofit just breaking even.  You hold
the money in your apartment or house and people will be constantly robbing
you.  Let me be your accountant, and I’ll get you the best available
interest rate and no one will know where the money is.  You’ll build up a
nice nest egg over time.  We may do some other business together.”

“You
gonna stay and run the apartment business?”  Jemmy asked.

Marshon
hesitated.  Right up to this point, he hadn’t made a decision.  “No,
I’m not gonna stay in the area or manage the prostitution business.  The
building is paid for and my Nanna and Uncle Clyde hold the deed.  The $1,000 per month rent for each
apartment goes directly into their joint bank account.  It’s their
retirement income.  That whole arrangement is set up and monitored by my
lawyer, Mort Saperstein.  He’ll sue anybody who fucks with that arrangement
and that person or persons will be my enemy for life.”

Both Jemmy and Widja bobbed their heads aggressively,
like chastised schoolboys.

Marshon’s grandmother and her brother lived together and
although they were in their seventies, both seemed in good health.  Their
mother died at age ninety-eight.  Marshon felt he owed them his life, and
he planned to take care of them for the rest of their lives.

“Look, I ain’t gonna lie to you, the whores are bringing
in big money,” Marshon said, although he wouldn’t tell them the gross was over
$3 million, or that he took 30 percent of that.  “I just think the two of
you will have your hands full with The Wheel.  I know I did.
I couldn’t have run both operations at the same time in the beginning.”

“So, what about the whores?” Widja asked, frowning.

“I think I’m gonna let Boudra run it, because I think
she can increase the business.  And, I need this piece of action myself
until I get established somewhere else.”

Jemmy jumped to Marshon’s defense.  “I don’t mind getting
out of the hooker business, boss, as you know.  And, Widja, you’ll have
enough on your plate what with The Wheel and your janitor stuff.”

“I haven’t talked terms with Boudra,” Marshon said,
“because I wanted to talk to your guys first.  When I get together with
her, I’ll work you guys into the deal, if you want.  Boudra can’t do
security, and there may be some payoffs, like with the cops, that you could
best handle, Jemmy.  Widja, you can take care of the building
itself.  Maintenance, upkeep, that kind of thing.  What if I could
get each of you an additional $100,000?”

Jemmy responded immediately.  “I like it, Marshon,
especially if Boudra takes over the video operation.  You know, watching
the nightly action and seeing if there’s anything profitable in it.”

“I’ll make sure she takes care of that,” Marshon said.

“I’m down with the whole deal,” Widja replied.

Marshon had already decided not to deal in Jemmy and
Widja on his other investments.  He was bringing in about $6,000 a month
as his share of those profits.  Marshon had decided to let Richey manage
those investments for a percentage, if Richey decided not to go with him.

“You two will have to decide if you want to continue
shaking down some of the Johns, when the opportunity is right,” Marshon said.
“My advice is to go easy on that action until you’re comfortable with
everything else.  And, clear it with Boudra.  I won’t take any
percentage from those deals, but if you do it, be generous with the ladies who
provide the tips.”

“What kinda money you making there?” Widja asked.

Marshon shrugged.  “Maybe a half-million a year.”

Widja stood also and began to sway to imagined
music.  “It’s all good, man.  We all done okay and we’ll continue to
do okay.  Shit, half the kids I went to high school with is dead or in
jail!”

“Where you gonna go, Marshon?”  Jemmy asked.

“Maybe the Bahamas.  I haven’t made up my
mind.”  Marshon hadn’t told his two closest friends about his island home
and they’d never heard of his alter ego, Marcus Jones.  He wasn’t certain
he’d ever tell them, especially Widja.

Jemmy again walked over to Marshon and pulled him from
the recliner.  He wrapped Marshon in a bear hug.  “I’ll fuckin’ miss
you, man!”

“Hey, I ain’t leavin’ the earth!” Marshon said.
“We’ll get together from time to time.”

After Jemmy and Widja left, Marshon sat, drank more
coffee and reviewed his moves.  He believed he’d made the right
decision.  He was getting out on top.  While he’d been running his
various businesses for seven years, it was only in the last three years he’d
gotten everything operating at maximum efficiency.  As a result, he’d
managed to launder and deposit about $5.3 million into his offshore banking
account in Road Town, British Virgin Islands.  He had over $300,000 cash
on hand.  The apartment building was paid for.  His main liability
was a $1.5 million home mortgage, maintenance, and monthly legal
expenses.

Best of all, he’d just guaranteed himself a nice monthly
income of $4,000 from The Wheel, and at least the same net amount from
his various local business investments.  While he hadn’t concluded his
deal with Boudra, he planned to ask for 10 to 15 percent of the building’s net,
which could easily amount of a half-million a year, if she actually expanded
the business as she planned.  He’d also make Boudra the same offer to
launder her cash, which could be a very lucrative deal.  And, he and
Richey hadn’t even fleshed out their deal yet regarding their private gambling
schemes.  Marshon thought there was a possibility he might yet become a
billionaire.

There’s nothing more characteristics of humans
than planning for the future, and nothing more predictable than the fact that
such plans often prove idealistic and unattainable.  To Marshon, the
future seemed sunny and warm, much like the usual weather in the Virgin
Islands.  However, as everyone knows — or should know — a storm can blow
in without much warning.

13/An Island Dream/Scheme

Marshon met Richey the next
day at a restaurant and bar named The Lamplighter, located on the second
floor of The Shops.  He walked into the restaurant and looked
around until he spotted Richey sitting at a booth in the rear.  As the
name of the establishment implied, replicas of nineteenth-century, oil-fueled
lamps provided lightning throughout the restaurants, although the source of
power was electrical.  Some of the fake lamps were stationary, on
simulated posts, although most were suspended over the tables by chains
attached to the ceiling.  The subtle, subdued lightning gave drinkers and
diners a feeling of privacy and intimacy, making it a favorite gathering place
for lovers and business executives.  Today, at eleven o’clock, it was
beginning to fill up with the lunchtime crowd.

“I was glad to hear from you this morning,” Marshon
said, sliding into the vacant seat.  “There have been more developments
regarding the girl in the red dress.”  It was code for the recent killings
at The Wheel.

Richey sipped on a Bloody Mary, so Marshon ordered
coffee from a waiter and waited until the server was out of hearing
range.  “Apparently, the County Attorney has convened a grand jury to look
into the matter.  Someone came forward.  That person or persons may
have a copy of the video.  There wouldn’t be any reason for Ace Semanski
to do that, would there?”

Richey leaned forwarded and whispered: “Jesus, I can’t
think of any.  Several hundred witnesses saw him do it, plus the whole
action is on videotape.  What could he gain by focusing attention on the
situation?  Besides, he didn’t go downstairs to the VFW office.  I’m
certain of that.”

Marshon shook his head.  “You’re right.”

“On the other hand, he’s certainly scary, dangerous and
wily, all at the same time.”

“Did he leave, or is he still around?”

Richey sipped from his drink.  “He’s still around
after two-and-a-half weeks.  He quit at Biederman’s and initially told me
he’d be moving on, but then he got involved in a hot romance.  Says he’s
busy banging his new girlfriend and spending your five grand.  If it’s any
consolidation, I still think he’ll leave, but not before you hear from
him.  He’ll tap you one more time and then be on his way.”

“Tell him he’s got another week, and then I’ll send
Jemmy around to talk to him.”

“So what are you doing about this investigation?”

Marshon looked around through the yellowish lightning,
as if searching for the blinking red LED of a camera.  “I put out the word
that my sinking ship will drown a lot of rats.  The crisis may blow over,
but in any case, I decided to liquidate everything and move on.”

Richey was stunned.  “No shit!  You’re going
to … give up The Wheel?”

“Jemmy and Widja will take it over and I’ll retain a
long-term interest.  We made the deal yesterday.  I’m turning the
apartment management over to one of the women, Boudra, although I plan to make
certain that Jemmy and Widja are somehow involved in that action.”

Richey knew about the prostitutes and some of Marshon’s
other financial investments, including Widja’s janitorial service and Jake’s
Original Barbecue.  “Are you going to stay in the city?”

Marshon shook his head.  “I always knew this day
would come and I never planned to stay.  I got too much history
here.  It would somehow come back to bite me, and I’d always be looking
over my shoulder.  I got an escape plan, so I can start over with a new
home, a nice nest egg and an income.”

Richey signaled the waiter for a BM refill.  “You
really are my hero, Marshon.  You actually know when to fold
ʼem!  I knew if I stuck around the gambling scene long enough, I’d
meet that one wise man!”

They both laughed.

“Ain’t it the truth!” Marshon said.  “I can’t tell
you how many guys I’ve seen hit their birthday roulette numbers three times in
a row and be absolutely convinced they can go on doing it all night long!”

“Inevitably, they wind up at the bar asking for credit
so they can buy a drink!”

The waiter brought Richey’s drink and asked if they
wanted to order lunch.  Marshon immediately nodded and asked about the
soup of the day.  He settled on cream of broccoli, and a club
sandwich.  Richey ordered an appetizer combination, including fried calamari.

After the waiter left, Marshon visibly relaxed, as if
the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.  He’d spent
seven years plotting, fighting, arguing, negotiating, threatening, cajoling,
bribing — all the while looking over his shoulder in case someone was there
with a gun, a knife, or handcuffs.  Now that the exit plan had been set in
motion, he could reminisce with a good friend.  They might have seemed to
some observers as improbable companions, given the many differences in their
appearance and backgrounds.  However, true friendship is so rare that fate
is not choosy about how a pair appears on the surface.

“Skinny
brought me into The Wheel when I was fifteen, as a favor to my
dad.  He took care of me, groomed me, treated me as if I was his
son.  He didn’t have any kids, you know.  Shared his philosophy with
me.  When he got sick and I was about twenty-five, he turned everything
over to me.”

Richey
said, with admiration, “You made The Wheel bigger, better and more
profitable.”

“Yeah,
now I got options, as they say.”

Richey
grinned and decided to have some fun with his friend.  “You own part of a
bunch of local businesses, Marshon.  You could run them full-time, join
the Chamber of Commerce, and buy a house out south of Tremont Plaza.
Become respectable.”

Marshon
responded with equal cynicism.  “Hey, great idea.  Gail’s father, the
Judge, would probably start inviting me over to barbecue.  Next.”

Tongue-in-cheek,
Richey made another offer: “Run for the state legislature, or Congress, in an
East Side district.  You’d win in a landslide.”

“I’ve
dealt with political people.  Most of them are two-faced, narcissistic and
addicted to power.  They love to talk and not do anything.  Not my
glass of scotch.”

“Yeah,
but you’d get rich, what with the freebies from lobbyists and insider market
tips.”

“Plus
bribes from crooks like me.”

“Well,
I guess law enforcement is out.  How about medical school?  You’d be
out practicing in ten years or so.”

“Can’t
see myself wading around in operating room blood and guts, or sticking my
finger in patient orifices all day long.  I admire some of these people,
but I can’t do it.”

“I
assume you don’t want to work any of the jobs here in the mall?”

Marshon
shook his head and laughed.  “You mean the walking dead who fill all the
jobs in the new service economy.  Store clerks, salespeople hawking cell
phone covers and gold chains.  Waiters, hotel maids, janitors, maintenance
guys.  And, the ubiquitous, foreign-speaking computer tech service rep.
All these people barely make a living and they have no future whatsoever.
Plus, they know it.”

“Well,
then, become upper management.  You know, the jobs where folks make
millions, even billions, and don’t do any physical work.”  Richey nodded
seriously.  “You gotta lot of experience, Marshon.”

“Yeah,
maybe.  Skinny told me once that I should go to law school, or get into
the financial services.  He said I could then break the law legally and
get rich.”

“He
wasn’t wrong,” Richey said.  “Look back to 2007, when the bankers gave
home mortgages to anyone who was breathing and walking, knowing that the
majority of the new homeowners couldn’t keep their heads above water and make
the payments.  Then, the Wall Street crowd stepped in, bundled those
fragile mortgages and sold them as securities.  The SEC guys were
sleeping, or didn’t care.  The bankers and financiers got rich before that
scheme collapsed, which sent the entire economy into a tailspin.”

“And,
none of the bankers and financiers went to jail.”

“Exactly.
This week, the rich are jerking around the stock market again, sending it to
peaks and valleys so they make big profits on the backs of working folks who
have their meager retirement income invested in the market.  Skinny was a
philosopher for the ages.”

The
waiter delivered their lunch, and they began to eat.  After a few minutes,
Marshon dabbed at his lips with a napkin and resumed the conversation.  “I
just don’t like all those folks in the top income brackets.  The CEOs,
managers, bankers, investors, stockbrokers, insurance robots.  They think
alike, dress alike, talk alike.  Group think.  Skinny may be right
that money buys you security and freedom, but those folks seem to think they
are defined by what they own.”

“Maybe
they are.”

“Besides,
I can’t stand the hypocritical ethics of the rich.  I saw that on display
last Saturday night at a political fund-raiser.  Those folks claim to be
job creators, and allege that all the rest of the workforce is dependent upon
them, but they’d rob their grandmothers if they thought the payday would be big
enough.  With them, it’s all about profit and power.  That’s their
lifestyle.  Me, I work so I can enjoy the fine things in life — or, at
least that’s the plan that brought me to this point.”

“You
should know by now you can’t talk about working in this economy and ethics at
the same time,” Richey said, bitterly.

“I
understand the irony of my attitude.  The Country Club set really looks
down their noses at me, a gambler and a pimp, or at least that’s how it looks
to them.  But, hell, my stretching the limits of the state’s law on
charitable gambling is grade school stuff compared to the all the schemes
hatched by the rich, and the politicians.  And, I ain’t no pimp!”
Marshon shook his head in disgust.  “I don’t solicit, at least not directly,
nor do I sample the wares.  I just provide protection and health care, and
occasionally serve as an avenging angel, which is a role that I actually savor
sometimes.  It doesn’t hurt that it’s another profitable sideline.  I
never gave the ethics of it all a second thought.”

“I
been trying to find a job all my life that I could stand, but so far no luck,”
Richey said, now forced to elaborate seriously in a conversation that began as
a joke.  “Oh, I admire some professions and the people who work in them.
All the scientists working in laboratories trying to find a cure for cancer,
AIDS, Alzheimer’s, and Ebola.”  Resuming his role as comedian, Richey
added, “Then, there are those people trying to decipher the genetic code so we
can live to be two hundred years old and regrow a liver destroyed by vodka.”

“If
they ever make those discoveries, rich folks will then step in and make a
profit,” Marshon said.  “You’ll get a new liver only if you can pay for
it, Richey!  They’ll set up a payment plan while you work at Biederman’s
until you’re a hundred and five!”

Richey
signaled the waiter for another drink.  “I admire teachers, cops, firemen,
farmers.  But, Christ, the farmers who feed us always seem to be on the
verge of bankruptcy!  Cops are always working a second job in security.”

“A
lot of really important jobs barely pay a living wage,” Marshon added, “like
the folks that pick up our garbage, treat our water so it’s safe to drink, and
process our sewage.”

“What
about those who serve in our armed forces while their wives and kids live off
food stamps?”

Marshon
shook his head.  “But, we’re forgetting an important part of Skinny’s
philosophy.  There will always be poverty, inequality, racism, injustice,
violence and war in the world, he said.  It’s human nature.  Don’t
get sidetracked worrying about it or bitching about it.  There’s nothing
you can really do about it until the majority of people overturn the system.”

Richey’s
face lit up.  “You remember the movie, Network?  One
character, Howard Beale, is a talk show host who apparently goes crazy and
tells his audience to get up from their chairs, go to the window, open it and
say, ‘I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!’”

“That’s
not going to happen soon.  Not while the majority of people believe they
will somehow come out on top and be rich.  The human race is totally
fucked up.”

Richey
sang softly.  “Everybody wants to rule the world.  Lyrics from
Tears for Fears.”

Marshon
shrugged.  “For the moment, I’m happy working in the diversionary economy,
I just want a new, better-paying, safer gig in an exotic environment.”

“The
diversionary economy?”

“Yeah.
Gambling, prostitution, porn, booze, drugs, bars and nightclubs.  The
Roman Empire invented the concept two thousand years ago.  How do you keep
the people in the capital city happy while they are working shit jobs?
You divert their attention with the circus, carnival rides, drunken orgies and
gladiator fights.  Feeding the Christians to the lions.  We’ve just
perfected and expanded the options.”

Richey
smiled and nodded.  “There are some bizarre after-hours diversions out
there, like fight clubs, sex clubs.  Do you know, they have a hos and pimp
ball in Las Vegas?”

“Yeah,
but I ain’t gonna go.  The point is, someone gets rich off these diversions,
and I want to continue to be one of them.  I just want a new deal in a new
place.”

“Well,
the entertainment business is certainly a diversion from reality, except I
ain’t making any money in the acting business, which maybe is why everyone
calls it my obsession rather than my job.  By the way, I’m gonna play Willy Loman a week from Friday
night in a modernized version of Death of a Salesman.  Tickets are
$28 apiece, but the producers are skeptical that any money will be left over to
pay the actors, including me.”

Marshon leaned forward.  “Hey, man, that is a
great, great role!  I got your phone message about the audition.
Gail and I will be there, count on it.  You are absolutely perfect for
Willy Loman.  It’ll be the highlight performance of your career,
Richey.”  Marshon had read Arthur Miller’s brilliant play and there were
too many parallels between Richey’s life and that of Willy Loman.  He
didn’t want their conversation to drift into those areas.

“Thanks, Marshon.  I am looking forward to it.”

Marshon really did admire Richey.  Richey had a
real passion for acting.  It was his life’s work.  Marshon’s life had
been like a real life drama, but he had no enduring passion for
it.  It was primarily a means to an end.  A game he played.
He’d tried to play it to the best of his ability, but it was still only a
role.  The first act was nearly over, in fact.  Marshon wondered if
he would ever feel as passionate about his work, as Richey felt about the
theater.  However, he understood the problem: most actors never knew if
there was another role on the horizon, let alone a good role.  They were
always on the edge of an abyss leading to failure, depression, drug abuse and
suicide.  Marshon would never willingly travel such a road, although he
wouldn’t say that to Richey, because the actor was his friend.  Moreover,
Marshon wasn’t certain how he’d wind up.  Maybe his lifestyle was only a
blueprint for failure and death.

“Look,
we just agreed that most of the jobs in this economy would make us
constipated.  Not so with your acting career, Richey.  Literature and
the theater are valuable in a way that doesn’t allow anyone to put a price tag
on the work.  When all the politicians and businessmen are dead and gone,
the next generations will remember Arthur Miller and his play, because it makes
them think about their lives and what’s really valuable.  It’s why we keep
Shakespeare and the theater alive.  In part, we learn about life through
drama — the theater, television, the movies.  Life’s lessons can’t always
be taught at home, in a church or classroom.  Let me give you an
example.  Brokeback Mountain changed my attitude about gay guys.”

“I
understand, but I still have to make a living.”

Marshon
leaned forward again.  “So reverse the usual order of things.  Don’t
audition, beg, and wait for the producers with money to come to you.  Get
your own money and produce your own ideas.”

“How?”
Richey looked truly confused.

“That’s
what we’re here to talk about, so let’s get down to business and quit all this
foolish talk.”

The
waiter appeared to pick up their plates and replenish their drinks.

“So,
what are you going to do now, Marshon?”

“I’m
gonna do exactly what we talked about at Biederman’s after that Friday
night.  Upscale gambling.  I want you to be part of that process,
Richey.”

“Well,
I am kinda at loose ends right now.  I
finally left Biederman’s after Shirley showed up a week ago and told me she was
getting married again.”  Richey delivered the statement in a hurried voice
tinged with both regret and bitterness.  He was too embarrassed to tell
Marshon the story about the events surrounding his firing, including the manner
in which he provided a urine sample.

“Well, congrats on losing the loser job.  I’m sorry
about Shirley.  It’s a loss, any way you look at it.”

“Thanks, I thought you’d understand.”

Marshon leaned in toward Richey.  “We’ll adapt your
lottery to a new clientele of high rollers and tell them the two-digit numbers
cost ten thousand bucks each.  One hundred players, a million dollar
pot.  We set up a gaming club, with a membership fee and annual
dues.  Each month, we hold the lottery is a swanky hotel, with lots of
amenities.  If we structure it right, we could double what I now make
without all the violence and risks.”

Richey looked skeptical, but offered a positive
contribution, nevertheless.  “It would be a more manageable to find twenty
guys who’d put up $50,000 each for ten numbers.  Whatever the amount, the
problem is finding these people.  Remember, we live in the Midwest.”

Their waiter arrived with a dessert menu.  Marshon
ordered apple pie a la mode.  Richey ordered a martini.

“I don’t plan on staying here, Richey.  I was in
the British Virgin Islands several years ago to attend a friend’s wedding and
fell in love with the place.  It’s idyllic, romantic, and
unrealistic.  My moving there may turn out to be a fool’s errand but,
hell, we’re not really in total charge of our lives, anyway.”

“I sure as hell haven’t been.”

Marshon looked around again, to gauge the privacy of
their conversation.  “Nearly two years ago, I bought a home in the British
Virgin Islands.  I’m keeping the exact location a secret.  I don’t
want anyone following me there, unless I invite them.”

Richey understood the qualification.  “What about
Gail?”

Marshon shook his head in a gesture of confusion.
“I don’t know.  I asked her to think about it and I guess that’s where we
are.  I’m not hopeful, though.  Gail and I reprise the plot of West
Side Story.”

“Or, Romeo and Juliet.”

“We are from different worlds, for sure.”

“Plus, women think differently,” Richey said.

Marshon nodded.  “Because they’ve been used and
abused throughout history, they want their men to be protective, careful and
reliable, as in make a decent living, obey the law, be sexually exclusive and
help raise the kids.”

“Been there, done that,” Richey replied.  “My
problem is similar.  I may be in the same situation again with my new
partner, Carmen Salazar.  You met her at The Stadium.”

“The divorcee with an eleven-year-old daughter,” Marshon
recalled.

“She’s about to turn twelve.  Together, they are a
better second chance than I’d ever hoped to get.”

Marshon became animated.  “Bring them!  Come
with me, Richey, and we’ll get rich.  Then, you can produce a movie from a
script you write.  As Skinny said, you got enough money, you can do
anything you want.  If we’re successful, our women will be happy, or at
least accepting.  Keep in mind that I won Gail back even after she found
out about The Wheel.”

Richey could only bob his head in hopeful agreement.

“It’s true that there’s a lot of poverty in the
Caribbean islands.  But, there’s fabulous wealth there, too.  It’s a
playground for the rich.  And, the islands are a roadway between North and
South America.  It’s my experience that rich folk, most of whom are white,
of course, always have expensive habits.  A lot of them like to gamble,
and they can afford to lose.  If they do lose, they don’t pull out a gun,
shoot the dealer and rob the house!”

Richey laughed.  “We’ve been in that situation a
few times at The Wheel!”

“I know a lawyer in Nassau who’s got a lot of things
going in the islands.  I know for a fact that not all of them are above
board.  He launders my money, for example.  He’ll know those rich
people and their habits, and then I’ll know them.”

“But, he’ll want a referral fee, I assume.  That
would cut into the profits.”

“We can get around that eventually.  Maybe, in the
beginning, we simply propose your private lottery as a fun diversion in the
middle of a high-stakes poker game.  Something we do during the eleven o’clock
break.”

“Brilliant!” Richey exclaimed.  “We get some whales
in a poker game, like the one I told you about in LA, where I filled in for the
dealer.  Minimum $250,000 per player investment.  Ten guys, blinds
building up to ten and twenty thousand dollars.”

“Two-point-five million in play,” Marshon said.
“In addition to our club membership fee and dues, we could make a nice income
off of tips.”

“You’re right, Marshon.  Winners are very
generous!”

“We take a break halfway through the session and introduce
the lottery.  Suggest, for example, that each player put up five grand and
each of them draw ten numbers from a fish bowl.”

“It makes a nice $50,000 pot.  At ten-to-one
odds.  If the lottery was won by one of the guys losing at poker up to
that point, he’d be ecstatic!  He’d be a talking billboard to spread the
word.”

“The lottery would create its own legend,” Marshon
said.  “It starts out as a side show, but we build it up as it gains in
popularity, and people come to understand the great odds.”

“And understand that it’s a game no one can rig — that
is, unless they think state lottery drawings are rigged.”

“I know it will catch on, Richey, and eventually be
self-sustaining.  Hardly any effort involved.”

“Well, there’s the hard work of putting all those numbers
in the fish bowl,” Richey said, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.

“We work out all the problems,” Marshon said.
“That’s my area of expertise.”

The waiter served Marshon his dessert and set a martini
in front of Richey.

Richey appreciated Marshon’s usual can-do attitude,
which, of course, would be the difference between success and failure.  It
was why Marshon could do with the private lottery what Richey hadn’t been able
to do.  Marshon wouldn’t allow himself to fail.

“Why do you need me?”

“First, you’re my friend and I don’t want to get lonely
in the islands.  You know everything there is to know about
gambling.  Besides, you seem to be at loose ends right now.”

“True.”

“And, like I told you before, I’m black and you’re
white.”

Richey played the role of the shocked partner.  “I
never noticed until right now!  In fact, you are always better dressed
than I am!”

“As Skinny told me a long time ago, racism will always
be part of the world, no matter how much progress it seems that we’re making as
a society.  Hell, we have a half-black president and a goodly percentage
of folks hate him just for that — and most of the haters are rich, white
people.  Like I told you before, you can play the massah with them and I
be your obedient, dumb black servant.  Together, we’ll fleece them.”

Richey could only nod and nod, like Dustin Hoffman,
although he wasn’t entirely convinced that Marshon’s plans would actually come
true.

“Wait ‘til you see my island home, Richey.  You will
be impressed.  So will the rich folks, once they see it.  In fact,
once we’re part of the rich insider crowd, it will open up other money-making
opportunities.”

“Such as?”

“Insider business deals, for one thing, which is another
reason it would be great to have Gail there,” Marshon said, and grew silent for
several moments.

Richey extended the idea, in a hopeful tone.  “Rich
folks like to collect art.  Carmen would be a helluva guide for them.”

“Absolutely!  She and her daughter are
welcome.  I have plenty of room.  They will love it there.”

It sounded great to Richey, but he wasn’t certain how
Carmen would react.

“So, are you interested, Richey?”

“Absolutely.  If everything doesn’t work out, I’ll
sit beside your pool and drink martinis all day.”

“Well, it is a fabulous pool.”

“You know, when I was in Hollywood for that year, I
didn’t drink much,” Richey confessed.  “I couldn’t, since I had to work
evenings in the casino, sometimes even the graveyard shift, and then audition
during the day.  And, then re-juggle everything if I got an acting job, or
a commercial.  There weren’t enough hours to drink.  I just wanted
you to know that.”

“I understand.  It’s how you survive in purgatory,
Richey.  I’m offering to take you to Heaven, or someplace damned close to
it.”

“My only hesitation is … “

“Figuring out what to do about Carmen,” Marshon
said.  “I understand.”

When Richey told Carmen about leaving Biederman’s, she
said they’d sit down and come up with a plan.  He knew it wasn’t likely
that her plan would include following him to the Caribbean, although Richey
planned to make that counter offer.  He’d try to convince Carmen that it
would be a wonderful place for her to paint, and for Marisa to grow up.
Richey just wasn’t sure he could do it.

“You said you thought Gail would say no.  Then,
you’ll just drop her?”

Marshon sat back and shrugged.  Men talk about sex
and sexual conquest; they usually don’t talk about love and relationships,
unless they are exceptional men.

“I don’t know exactly what love is, Richey.  It
starts out as sexual attraction.  God knows, I’ve always been attracted to
Gail in that way.  Then, you get comfortable, especially after your
partner decides to stay with you even after they hear you snore and fart.”

Richey joined it.  “And accept the fact that you
pee in the shower.”

“Exactly.  Hopefully, both of you get to a stage
where you also like each other, after sex is over.”

“Ah, life’s most enjoyable four minutes.”

“Gail’s smart, God knows.  She’s ethical and
loyal.  Hard-working and trustworthy.”

“The whole package.”

Marshon wagged a cautionary finger.  “Unless she
can’t accept my lifestyle.  I think that’s the critical point at which
relationships flourish or flounder, Richey.  Everything else may be
perfect, except when your woman says, ‘you can’t do what you’ve been doing, or
want to do.  You have to work a job and live a lifestyle that’s acceptable
to society, and to me.’  To me, that’s not love.  That’s manipulation
and control.  That’s when love ends.”

As usual, Richey had a line from a movie to provide an
exclamation point to Marshon’s conclusion.  “In that classic movie, Love
Story, one of the characters — I don’t remember who, probably the one
played by Ali McGraw — says that love is ‘never having to say you’re sorry’.”

“Tell you what, Richey.  After your Saturday night
performance, the four of us will get together for dinner, just like we
planned.  You, me, Gail and Carmen.  We’ll introduce our plan to the
women, in a vague, roundabout way, and see how they react.  What do you
say?”

“Okay.”

Marshon slid out of the booth and stood.  He pulled
an envelope out of an inner jacket pocket and laid it on the table.  “You
get the bill for lunch, Richey.  This will help out.  Give another
five to Ace and tell him to be gone soon, otherwise Jemmy will pay him a visit.
The rest should tide you over until I call in a couple of weeks and tell you
where we’re gonna kick off our new operation.  Don’t let this opportunity
go by, my friend.”

Richey sipped from the martini as he watched Marshon
walk out the door.  He picked up the envelope and thumbed through the
bills inside.  It looked to be about fifteen thousand dollars.  The
remaining question was: would Carmen come with him, or would she propose an
alternative?  Might it be something equally attractive?  What if he
had to choose?  Richey, an expert on odds making, thought the situation
looked like win-win, but that’s been the downfall of many a gambler.

For his part, Marshon had had an exceptional day: he’d
spun off The Wheel and the prostitution business, and guaranteed himself
a very nice semi-retirement income.  Then, he recruited a good friend and
partner to help implement a newer and better money-making scheme in an exotic
Caribbean Island setting.  It appeared that everyone would profit
substantially — Marshon, Jemmy, Widja, and Richey.  But fate is
fickle.  In a little more than a week, two would be dead and two would be
the objects of a nationwide manhunt.

14/Stalking
The Victim

Ace and his new best
buddy, Country, went on the first of several scouting trips that eventually
would generate a crisis in the life of everyone they knew.  First, they
visited Sweetwater Mall, which was about a quarter-mile south of The Stadium.
They parked on the west side and entered through JC Penney, where Ace bought a
three-pack of briefs.  They walked down the main concourse until Ace
stopped and sat on a bench across from Belton Jewelers.

“What we doin’ here, Ace?”

“Takin’ a break, buddy boy.”

“Can we eat upstairs in the food court, Ace?  It’s
after eleven.”

“Run up there and get what you want.  You got the
cell phone I gave you?  I’ll call you when I’m ready to go.  You come
running then, understand?”

“Yeah, Ace.  I never had a cell phone before.
I didn’t know how to get one.  The people who sold them asked too many
questions and they got a book you have to read to make ʼem work.”

Ace had purchased four pre-paid burner phones at a
Walmart, and gave one to Country.  He showed the idiot the button to push
to answer the ringing phone, and the number one speed dial button to push and
hold if he wanted to call Ace.  Those were the only instructions Country
needed.  Ace also planned to give a phone to Kandie, and keep the others
until needed.  It was all part of his elaborate plan developed in prison.

The
jewelry store opened onto the mall’s main walkway, as well as a perpendicular
hallway leading outside to the north parking lot.  Only one potential
customer wandered through the store as Ace settled into his vigil.  Two
female employees busied themselves with various duties: one fiddled with jewelry
arrangements in a glass display case, while the other used glass cleaner to
remove finger smudges from the top of the cases.  A male employee kept a
close eye on the customer.

Ace had shown a newspaper clipping to Richey the night
Richey was fired.  The article was about local socialite Cathy Kennedy,
who threw lavish parties and spent her banker husband’s money to buy a jewelry
store.  A trinket to toy with.

Ace wasn’t just sitting across from Belton’s hoping that
Cathy Kennedy might show up to review the books or give the employees a pep
talk.  He knew she’d be here today just before noon.  About a week
ago, Ace sat in the same spot, trying to figure out how to determine Cathy’s
schedule.

An opportunity arose when one of Belton’s employees, a
middle-aged woman named Maggie Iscaria, went on a coffee run to Starbucks down
at the other end of the mall.  Ace followed and got in line behind
her.  He put a hand on Maggie’s shoulder, and said, “Hey, you work at
Belton’s, don’t you?  I bought a watch there several weeks ago.
Heard the store was just sold.  How’s that working out?”

He knew it was going to work out well for him when
Maggie didn’t object when he kept his hand on her shoulder.  It was his
experience that a woman who didn’t mind you touching her arm or shoulder
probably would let you touch her in other places.  They sat and talked
that day, although Ace didn’t say much.  He listened attentively and
encouraged Maggie to tell him as much about herself as time permitted, which
turned out to be quite a bit.  She was new at Belton’s, having previously
worked as a secretary.  She lost that job during a cutback, and needed to
work because she was a single mother of two kids.  Ace insisted on knowing
their names and ages.  In Ace’s experience, it was relatively easy to get
close to a divorcee with kids.  Such women had only one major interest and
they all shared a common concern.

Two more meetings in the mall with Maggie, and a dinner
at Olive Garden, led to a marathon fucking session, after which Maggie admitted
she hadn’t had two consecutive toe-curling orgasms since she’d been in her
twenties.  After that, Ace owned her and Maggie told him everything she
knew about Cathy Kennedy, including her schedule for visiting the store.
Cathy always came about noon on Friday to check the books.  According to
Maggie, Cathy loved to regale her staff with stories of her lifestyle, perhaps
so they could at least enjoy being rich vicariously.  Ace learned that
Cathy always met with a group of women Saturday morning in Tremont Plaza for
brunch, followed by a shopping trip, or perhaps a visit to the museum or some
traveling exhibit.  Her husband worked at the bank on Saturday mornings
and they met about two o’clock at the Country Club for a snack and
tennis.  Most Saturday nights they had a party at the house.

Ace was jarred from his thoughts when he saw her
walking toward him.  He recognized Cathy Kennedy from the newspaper photo
of her and her banker husband.  Cathy had a distinctive puffed-up hairdo
dyed a shimmering platinum color.  She wore an orangish suit with a double
row of black buttons on the coat.  She appeared younger than she did in
the black-and-white newspaper photo.  Probably in her late thirties or
early forties, Ace guessed.  Cathy looked well-tended, befitting a
banker’s wife.  She was the banker’s second wife, according to
Maggie.  Ace figured second wives married for money, having learned that
nothing depreciates as fast as love.  Cathy Kennedy walked with authority
and looked right through Ace as if he wasn’t there.

As she turned into Belton’s, Ace admired her nicely
rotating derriere, which looked firm but yet had a nice bounce to it.  She
didn’t know it now, but Ace planned to see that butt in the bare, sometime in
the near future.  He didn’t plan to ask her permission to squeeze it,
either.

Ace was startled from his reverie by Kandie’s voice, as
she said, “Ace, what are you doing here?”

He stood and turned sideways to face his girlfriend of
the moment.  “Picked up some underwear in JC Penney.  Country’s
upstairs in the food court.  What are you doing here?”

Kandie pointed to a nearby shop.  “I’m with Carmen
Salazar.  She’s over there in Hallmark, see?  Carmen took a long
lunch hour and invited me along to help her shop for birthday party gifts for
Marisa.  She’s turning twelve on Sunday.”

Carmen soon joined them and Ace played the role of
delighted friend.  “Congratulation on Marisa turning twelve.  Nearly
a teenager.  Are you ready for those years, Carmen!”

“Not at all.”

“Carmen’s also looking for a gift for Richey.  He
got a part in a play.  What is it, Carmen?”

“He’s going to play Willy Loman in Arthur Miller’s play,
Death of a Salesman.”

“Really,” Ace said.  “Where at?  Kandie and I
will come.”

“Yeah, Carmen, where is the play?”  Kandie asked.

Carmen reluctantly provided the information.
“It’ll be performed in Cranston Hall, on the third floor of The Shops
downtown.”

Ace feigned disappointment.  “Richey didn’t give me
the details, although I’d heard he won a big part.  When’s opening night?”

“A week from today, in fact,” Carmen said.

“What did you get for Richey?”  Kandie asked.
“For his opening night gift.”

“Nothing yet.  I’m thinking about a gold bracelet,”
Carmen answered.

“You should have it engraved,” Ace said.  “It might
say, ‘The performance of a lifetime.’”

Carmen was temporarily speechless.  “Actually,
that’s a great idea.”

Kandie was all over Ace.  “You’re so smart and so
good!”

“Look over in Belton’s,” Ace said.  “I’m sure they
got something good.  Ask for Maggie Iscaria.”  Later, Kandie would
ask how he knew her, and Ace would be vague, but hint at a possible sexual
attraction.  It would make Kandie even more desperate and loyal.

About that time, Cathy Kennedy walked out of Belton’s
and Ace said, “Ladies, I gotta run.  Got an appointment about a job.
See you later, Kandie.  You get off work at eleven, right?  I’ll pick
you up?”

As Ace walked away, Kandie grabbed Carmen’s arm, and
exclaimed, “Oh, my God!  A job.  Maybe he’ll stay.  He gave
notice on his apartment.  He’s staying somewhere with Country.  I was
afraid he’d leave town.  I asked him to move in with me.”

“What did he say?”

“Said he’d think about it.”

“Are you sure, Kandie?”

“Absolutely.  He treats me and the kids real
nice.  He’s teaching Lloyd how to box.  You know what kind of
patience that takes?  Sam treated me and his kids like shit.  That
guy, Hank, who I dated when I first moved up here, he liked to knock me around
now and then.  Thought I liked it!  Ace sure settled his hash,
huh!  And, there’s one thing more.”  Kandie looked around to make certain
no one in the crowd milling about them was eavesdropping.  “You remember
how we used to sit in The Stadium and talk about the prince on a white
horse?  Well, let me tell you, Ace is hung like a horse.  Now, I’m
not trying to be crude, Carmen, but I don’t mind being rode hard and put away
wet, as Ace puts it.  It’s just one more thing about him to love.
Why don’t you like him, Carmen?”

“I didn’t say I disliked him,” Carmen replied
defensively.  “He looks rough and … dangerous.”

Kandie slipped her arm through Carmen’s as they walked
toward Belton’s.  “Ace had a rough upbringing in Chicago, I think.
He had to fight to survive.  He’s got a lotta scars.  He just got
used to looking tough and mean so people would leave him alone.  But, he’s
not like that really.  When you get to know him better, Carmen, then
you’ll understand the real Ace.”

Meanwhile, Ace called Country on the burner phone and
told him to hightail it to the car.  If he wasn’t there in a few minutes,
Ace would leave him behind.

Outside the mall building, in the parking lot, Ace fell
in behind Cathy Kennedy, staying about ten feet back.  She walked with
authority, too.  He followed her until he heard the chirp of an electronic
key.  The lights flashed on a gray 500-series Mercedes coupe.  Cathy
turned down that aisle.

Ace double-timed it toward his beat-up Sentra, which he
had backed into a space near 95th Street, so he’d have a comprehensive view of
the parking lot on the northwest side of the mall.  He opened the driver’s
side door and stepped up onto the doorframe to elevate himself above the car’s
roof.  He saw the Mercedes driving toward a mall exit leading onto
southbound Longnecker Road.  About that time, Country showed up on the
run, carrying and licking an ice cream cone.

Ace caught up to the Mercedes at the second traffic
light.  Her car had one of the new license tags with a picture of the
state bird superimposed over three subtle colors — white, blue and yellow —
presumably to complicate the work of counterfeiters.  Ace wrote down the
license tag number in a small spiral notebook.

“Why you doin’ that, Ace?”

“We need to keep track of this lady, Country.  I
might let you fuck her later on.”

“What’s she look like, Ace?”

“What difference does that make?  She has a hole
between her legs!”

Another mile south and Mrs. Kennedy exited to the east
on the Beltway.  Ace guessed her destination.  She was going to the
headquarters of the First United Bank on Melrose Avenue.

“Where we goin’, Ace?”

“For a ride.  Sit back, shut up, and take a nap.”

“I ain’t tired, Ace.  When are we going to The
Stadium?  I like to play the video games there, especially the one
where I get to ride a motorcycle.”

“In about a half-hour, forty-five minutes, okay?”

“’Cept, I ain’t got no money, Ace, now that you told me
to quit my job at Biederman’s.”

“What else did I tell you?”

“You said we’d have plenty of money, next week.”

“Exactly.”

“But today ain’t next week, Ace.”

He gave the dummy a frightening stare, which caused
Country to look down and fiddle with his fingers.

When the Mercedes turned left into the bank’s parking
lot, Ace turned right into the parking lot of an Embassy Suites hotel across
the street from the bank.  Twenty minutes later, at approximately
one-thirty, the Kennedys emerged arm in arm.  Ace looked at them through a
pair of binoculars.  The perfect couple: the silver-haired lion of finance
and his trophy wife.

“Here, take a look, Country.  Think she looks like
a good fuck?”  Ace asked, writing notes in the notepad.  “You think
they’re going for a late lunch or home for a quickie?”

“I don’t know, Ace.”

They followed the Kennedys for about a mile until the
Mercedes turned into the parking lot of Kudos, a trendy restaurant.

“Predictable,” Ace said, blowing out his breath.
“A dry martini, even drier conversation and very expensive, unappetizing
food.  Me, I prefer a nooner that has flesh slapping flesh, with lots of
screaming and moaning, followed by the sudden gush of body fluids!  At
least a half cup of cum, right Country!”  He pounded his fist on the
dashboard.  “Right!”

“Damn right, Ace, damn right!” Country exclaimed,
drooling like an overheated dog.

Ace turned onto the Grumman Parkway and drove north,
exiting just before Tremont Plaza and turning onto Fifty-Seventh Street.

“I wanna see their house.  See how the other half
lives.”

“Who, Ace?”

“The people we were following.”

“Who was we following, Ace?”

“Mickey and Minnie Mouse!”

The “house” and lot took up an entire block.  The
early twentieth century brick three-story with a wraparound veranda sat on a
hill several hundred feet from the street.  A knee-high brick wall
supported an iron fence that surrounded three sides of the property.  A
carriage house converted to guest quarters sat behind the main residence.

Ace drove by the front of the estate on a street that
led into a country club and golf course.  Following two right turns, they
drove down a street running along the back of the estate.  An eight-foot
high solid brick wall blocked their view, as well as that of the homeowners on
the other side of the street.

As Ace drove by the front of the house again, he
suddenly became enraged, hammering the steering wheel with the heel of his
hand.  “These fuckin’ people!  Who do they think they are!
Goddamned fuckin’ banker!  He doesn’t do any work.  He just handles
the money for people who do, except he makes sure he gets a big taste.
Parasites, that’s all the fuck they are!  Leeches.  Suck the blood
outta hard-working people so they can buy anything they want.  A Mercedes
and a Lexus.  Big fuckin’ house behind locked gates.  Probably worth
several million.  What you wanna bet they got servants, Country?
Probably a gardener, too.  A Rolls Royce in that garage.  That
cocksucker Kennedy probably keeps a mistress in that little house out back,
saying she’s a maid.  His wife probably doesn’t even give a shit!
These fuckin’ people, they deserve whatever bad thing happens to them.
And real bad things are gonna happen, real goddamn soon!”

Country
remained quiet during and after the scary outburst and didn’t ask any questions
for a change.  He continued his effort to tie his fingers into knots.

Ace
headed back south and, within a few blocks, he reverted to being Dr.
Jekyll.  “Oh, well, they got, we don’t.  You still a wannabe,
Country?”

Like
a trained dog, Country remembered the response that would get him a
treat.  “I’m a have-not and a wannabe, Ace.”

Ace
dug into a pocket and handed Country a fifty-dollar bill.  “Beer and video
games are on me today, Country.”

∞
∞  ∞

Richey sat on his
customary barstool in The Stadium, thinking about his conversation with
Marshon two days ago.  If Marshon said he could take The Private Lottery
to the big time, you could bet on it.  Even odds.  Marshon was a
doer; he should have the Nike swash tattooed on his forehead.  So why was
it a problem?  Richey hadn’t exactly been joking when he told Marshon that
he stayed at Biederman’s because of the Third Law of Thermodynamics.  One
part of that law of nature said that a body at rest tended to remain at rest —
unless acted upon by an external force.  Richey had gotten used to being a
failure; maybe, in some perverted sense, he enjoyed his martyrdom.  He’d
become comfortable with it, and it didn’t take a large expenditure of energy to
remain in that state.  However, Beems and Kryck had dislodged him from his
roosting place.

Then, there was the other problem: Carmen certainly
wouldn’t be enthusiastic about his new venture, even if he promised to make her
an art agent.  As he did with most situations likely to develop in the
future, Richey rehearsed how the conversation likely would go.  “Carmen,
I’ve decided to join Marshon in a new, slightly illegal gambling adventure that
will require me to move to the Caribbean.  That’s not a problem, is
it?  I mean, you can jerk Marisa out of school.  She’ll enjoy her new
friends in Tortola, or Dominica or Barbados, or wherever, don’t you
think?  And, if we get in with some rich folks, you can help them buy objets
d’art!”

Richey didn’t feel like making that decision today, so
he decided to “relax,” doing what he enjoyed — drinking and playing Keno.
He’d exercised a great deal of self-control today and didn’t start until
twelve-thirty, and then began with Bloody Marys.  Vegetable juice, a celery
stick, three olives and an ounce or so of vodka that was nothing more than
fermented potatoes actually seemed like a healthy drink.  Of course, he
really wasn’t fooling anyone, including himself.  He knew his life would
end badly, sooner or later.  He’d bet on the former.  He’d wind up
with a failed liver; or, more likely, he’d get into some trouble with the cops
while under the influence, and a judge would place him in a “diversion”
program.  Since he was destined to fail at that, he might wind up in jail.
It was testimony to Richey’s fragile emotional condition that such thoughts
only led him to order another drink.  A martini.

He put thoughts of future actions out of his mind to
concentrate on seeing a future winning ten-spot Keno game as a
cartoonish baseball bat bunted the winning numbers into view.  He didn’t
really believe in his ability to foresee the future, but he didn’t totally
disbelieve it, either.  All things were possible in life, as life
regularly demonstrated.  Some people won lottery games, in fact.
Maybe they did it by visualizing the numbers that would be drawn.
If he didn’t win the big hundred thousand dollar prize, Richey soon would be
forced to live off unemployment compensation.  When that ran out, he’d
probably wind up working for a temporary employment service that would send him
somewhere like Biederman’s, where he’d undoubtedly be put on maggot
patrol.  If they’d even hire him, given his record of being fired for
drunkenness, gambling and urinating on his previous bosses.

Richey experienced mixed emotions as Ace walked through
the door, followed by Country, who made a beeline for the video machines.

“Here we are again,” Ace said, occupying the stool
beside Richey.  He signaled the bartender for a Budweiser.  “This is
the unemployment bureau, right?”

Richey didn’t appreciate the joke.  “You left
Biederman’s by choice.”

“I ain’t gonna work for a nigger.”

“Calvin’s a good man.  He didn’t have anything to
do with my firing.”  Richey was almost certain of that.  On the other
hand, Davron and Fax probably did.

“Maybe, maybe not, but I don’t work for ʼem
anyway.”

Richey’s friendship with Marshon obligated him to ask
the question, which he posed softly, so no one could overhear it: “You didn’t
tell anybody about the incident at The Wheel?”  The killings
had happened exactly three weeks ago.

Ace accepted his Bud from John and gave Richey a look of
incomprehension.  He leaned over and whispered:  “We had this
conversation before, Richey.  You mean, did I brag about killing those two
robbers?  After leaving the scene and failing to report it to the
police?  Are you fuckin’ nuts!”

Richey looked away in embarrassment.  “Somebody
came forward and told the details to the police, or prosecutors.  There’s
an ongoing grand jury investigation.”

“And you and Marshon can’t figure out who’s behind it?”
Ace asked, with sarcasm dripping from every word.  “Clearly, someone wants
to bring down Marshon and take over The Wheel.  If I was him, or if
you’re advising him, I’d suggest you look at those closest to him, who could
take over that operation and run it.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Richey admitted, hoping
that wasn’t the case.  It would be unimaginable that Jemmy and Widja were
plotting to knife Marshon in the back, especially now that he’s offered the
operation to them.

“But thanks for the warning.  If I hadn’t come in
here, did you plan to tell me, Richey?  If the prosecutors know what went
down, then they’re already looking for me.  Probably want to make me a
deal in turn for rolling over on Marshon.”

“That’s what he’s afraid of.”

“If I could afford a good lawyer, I could plead
justifiable homicide.  I killed those boys so they wouldn’t kill me, and
the other people.”

“That’s true.”

“And my walking away was not technically a crime.
I just left.  I don’t run The Wheel.”  Ace nodded
positively.  “I could probably pull it off, don’t you think, Richey?
Now, Marshon, he certainly is guilty of some type of conspiracy here.  I
don’t know what he did with the bodies, but disposing of them is a crime, I suppose.
The grand jury will look into Marshon’s other activities and pretty soon
they’ll have a laundry list that adds up to a decade or more in prison.”

“You know a lot about the law, Ace.”

“Law and Order is one of my favorite TV programs,
Richey.  However, you seem to be overlooking an essential point.  I’m
the one who should be fearful of Marshon, and you.  I’m new in town.
I don’t have any juice.  I hope you guys are not trying to pin the murders
on me, just because I done ʼem!”

“How come you didn’t leave, after taking Marshon’s five
thousand?”

Ace looked at Richey as if he were daft.  “Like I
told you, I’ve been busy fuckin’ Kandie and another woman.  That doesn’t
mean I ain’t gonna leave, especially now, after you’ve told me about this grand
jury investigation.”  Ace sipped from his bottle of Bud to impose a few
seconds of pregnant silence.  Then, he said, “I’ve made up my mind.
I’ll be leaving exactly one week from today.  Already moved out of my
apartment.  You tell Marshon, okay?”

“I will.”  Richey already had taken $10,000 out of
the envelope Marshon gave him at the restaurant, leaving the remaining
$5,000.  He handed that envelope to Ace.  “Here, this will help you
make the move, compliments of Marshon.  He’s been real generous with you,
Ace, but there won’t be any more money.  Don’t hang around this time,
otherwise Jemmy Shoemaker will pay you a visit.”

Ace opened the envelope under the bar and thumbed
through the bills.  He looked at Richey and smiled.  “That won’t be
necessary, Richey.  My plans are firm.  Thanks.”

Richey was still suspicious of Ace’s motives and
plans.  “You were rambling on about some banker and his wife the night I
got fired.  You got something going on there?”

“You mean the newspaper article?”

“Yeah.”

Ace looked disgusted.  “We was talking about the
big score in movies, remember?  How there’s all these movies about heroes
like Butch and Sundance ripping off banks and the Union Pacific Railroad while
the audience claps and whistles.”

Richey nodded reluctantly.

“But even Butch and Sundance get theirs in the end,
apparently shot up by the Mexican army.  I figure the moviemakers gotta
come up with an ending where the heroes get their comeuppance, otherwise it
might inspire the audience to criminal activity.”

“Probably true,” Richey conceded.

“Although you told me about one version of The Thomas
Crown Affair where our hero gets away with robbery and gets the girl.
And, in your favorite flick in this genre, Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, I
guess Clint Eastwood’s character gets away with the money, although Lightfoot
dies.  Is that right?”

“Yeah, but what’s this got to do with … ah, what’s their
name?”

“Cathy and James Kennedy.  Nothing.  They’re
just real life characters who illustrate your point that rich people
must have killed a lot of other people to get so much money.”

Richey looked amazed.  “I said that?”

“Yeah, quoting some guy named Moliere.  French
philosopher, you said.  Do you remember anything you say in here?”

“Apparently not,” Richey said, shaking his head.

“Anyway, you being an actor — congratulations, by the
way, on getting the role of Willy Loman — I thought maybe you could come up
with a stage or movie version of some Robin Hood-type story where the good guys
get away after robbing rich people.  Like the Kennedys.  I was just
using them as an example.  It was bar talk to pass the time of day,
Richey.”

“Who told you about Willy Loman?”

“Carmen told Kandie, who told me.  I was gonna
come, but that don’t seem like a good idea now.  Anyway, you write movie
and stage scripts, too?”

“I’ve had some ideas I’ve jotted down over the years,
but none of them had to do with crime movies.”

“More intellectual stuff, huh?  Problem is, those
types of movies usually don’t make a lot of money, or make the actors famous.”

“True.”  Richey waved and got John’s attention.
“Martini here.”

“I didn’t have any particular reason to pick on Cathy
Kennedy and her banker husband, other than they have so goddamned much money
that they can’t figure out what to do with it — according to the newspaper
article.  They’re kinda symbols about what’s wrong with the whole society,
don'tja think?”

Truthfully, Richey didn’t think it was fair that bankers
like Kennedy had so much more money than he had.  How had society decided
that bankers should be rich while as an actor he got to play Willy Loman
basically for free if the theater run didn’t turn a profit?  The $28
tickets to Death of a Salesman would barely generate enough income to
cover the rental of the theater and costumes, and maybe fund an opening night
party.

Of course, Richey wanted to be rich.  Everyone
does; it’s the real American dream — to win the money game.  He wanted
that big house, those cars, and the country club membership.  People
fawning over him because he had coin in his pocket.  Maybe the Kennedys
had a Van Gogh to flaunt; artwork created by that destitute, insane
genius.  The degenerative order of artistry appeared to be genius,
poverty, insanity, and suicide.  As compensation, some became famous after
they were dead.  God’s wry sense of humor.

“I used a computer at the library to Google movie
genres, looking for some plot in which the good guys kidnapped some rich guy’s
wife and held her for ransom.  Didn’t find much.  Fargo was
the top choice, but I saw that movie and really didn’t get it.”

“It’s a Coen brother’s flick.  No one gets it,
which is why they are cult heroes.  That movie is a black comedy with
social commentary overtones.”

“If you say so, Richey.  There was a movie, Ransom,
with Gary Sinise and Mel Gibson that’s interesting.  The guy who’s paying
the ransom turns the table on the kidnapper, who in turn turns the tables on
the good guy and nearly gets away with the money, except the kidnapped kid
recognizes him and pees on the floor.  Was that some kind of
symbolism?  Like you pissing on the top dogs at Biederman’s?”

Richey ignored the smart-ass remark.  “Audiences
like lots of startling plot turns.  It’s called suspension of belief, aka
entertainment.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t figure anything out, which I
guess means I won’t be selling any scripts to Hollywood for several
million.”  Ace was a student of conversational ebb and flow.  Now
seemed a good time for him to concentrate on drinking beer and look around the
bar as if they had exhausted that topic.  Except, Ace thought he knew Richey
well enough to know that the wannabe actor couldn’t help mull over a plot
device, and then expound, especially when he was in his cups.  The other
barflies expected him to philosophize occasionally, about anybody and
everything.

“Well, you’re right about a couple of things,” Richey
said, validating Ace’s assumptions.  “Movie audiences like seeing rich
folks lose some of their money, but moviemakers walk a fine line.  They
can’t give the public any good ideas about pulling off robberies and
kidnappings because some people are impressionable enough, and impulsive
enough, to try to implement a real life version of the film.  It’s
happened.  John Hinkley shot President Reagan to impress Jodie Foster,
after he saw her in Taxi Driver.  Like he was De Niro.”

“Man, you really know films, Richey,” Ace said,
encouragingly.

“The other reality is that the police are now
professionals, more like the military.  They got intelligence divisions
and technology experts on staff.  They have so much sophisticated
surveillance equipment that it’s not feasible anymore to rob a bank.”

“It even looks like they may cooperate with the spooks
who are listening in on our phone calls,” Ace said.

Richey nodded.  “You’re not being paranoid anymore
if you think someone is listening.”

“Maybe that’s the way the cops found out about what
happened at The Wheel.  Someone had a warrant for a bug on someone
for something else, and that person just happened to mention the robbery and
what went down.”

Richey looked both started and interested.  He
yelled at John, “Get me a club sandwich!”

“And a cheeseburger with fries,” Ace chipped in.

“I remember you telling me that new computer technology
makes it easy for the cops and the banks to find stolen money,” Ace said.

Richey nodded.  “Stealing money may be old-fashioned.
Going out of style.  High-tech crooks today have to be innovative.
They break into computer systems and steal new technology and information they
can sell later to the Chinese or Russians.  Or, they break into a bank’s
computer system and debit a million accounts for a buck apiece.  In the
movie, Heat, Robert De Niro and his crew knock over an armored car, not
for the money, but bearer bonds, which they sell back to a money launderer
after he gets paid off by the insurance company.”

Ace shook his head in amazement at Richey’s
knowledge.  “Remember the guys I told you about, who is real life got into
the LA storm sewer system and then tunneled under a bank?  Used a
water-cooled saw to cut a hole in the vault floor and then made off with the money.”

“I remember.”

“You said if they put the money in a Swiss bank, it
became the bank’s collateral for making loans.  The crooks could live off
the interest and never put the money into circulation.”

“Absolutely true.  It’s a credit economy, not a
monetary economy.  The monetary value of everything in the world vastly
exceeds the actual amount of money in circulation, by a thousand-to-one, or
maybe more.”  Richey learned that from Marshon, who never even went to
college.

Richey was smart and entertaining, but the conversation
wasn’t yielding anything that appeared to be of use to Ace, who looked
frustrated.

Then, Richey surprised Ace.  “You want a great
script, write up that LA sewer system bank robbery you told me about, and give
it a new twist.  The best movie ideas come from real life.”

“What do you mean?”

“The robbers tunneled beneath the bank and used a
concrete saw to get inside the vault, right?  The alarms go off, but the
cops can’t imagine what’s happening.  They think it’s an electronics
problem.  A false alarm.  If you want to write a script about a
successful kidnapping/ransom plot, you got to come up with a similar twist: the
kidnappers somehow pick up the ransom right under the cops’ noses, without the
cops realizing what has happened until it’s too late.”

They ate their sandwiches in silence as Ace thought
furiously.  “How could that happen?”

Richey finished half the club sandwich, sipped from his
martini and sat back, as if searching for the proper ending to his
lecture.  “So here’s an idea, borrowing from reality.  Your
kidnappers take a page from your LA bank robbers and tell the person paying the
ransom to put money in a trash can.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The trash can has a hole in the bottom of it and is
sitting over a manhole cover leading into the storm sewer system.  Like
the one your LA bank robbers used to get beneath the bank.”

Richey’s idea jolted Ace like a lightning bolt.
The kidnappers take the money out through the storm sewer while the cops
wait for someone to show up and take the ransom out of the trash can.  By
the time the cops look in the trash can, the money is long gone!  Just
like the LA cops waited for the bank employees to open the vault, and then
discovered that the robbery had already occurred and the robbers were on their
way to Switzerland.

Another image popped into Ace’s mind.  Kandie lived
about a mile south of Sweetwater Mall.  Last Sunday, they’d put Cindy in
her stroller and walked to the mall.  Kandie wanted to wear out the two
bigger kids so they would go to bed early.  Just as they approached the
southwest corner of the mall, Ace saw a large concrete pipe opening into a
paved ditch.  The opening was about six-feet in diameter, covered with an
iron gate.  The mall and the concrete parking lots that encircled it
occupied a half square mile.  When a big rain came down and dumped several
inches on all that concrete, it amounted to a lot of water, all flowing into an
underground storm sewer system.

At the time, it was just a curiosity.  Now, it was
the final puzzle piece completing Ace’s plan.

“Hey, Richey, gotta go get a new battery for my
car.”  He stood and dropped a twenty beside his plate, which held a
half-eaten cheeseburger.  He leaned over to whisper in Richey’s ear.
“Thanks for the warning about the grand jury.  Thank Marshon for the money
and tell him he doesn’t have to worry about me.  I think I’ll get on the
road to Chicago and visit some old friends.”  He held out his hand, which
Richey took.  “So, if I don’t see you again, I enjoyed meeting you and our
talks about the big score.”  He winked at Richey.  “You never know,
maybe we’ll see your idea on the big screen someday, or read about it in the
newspapers.”

Ace’s big plan would lead the news in only a few days,
but in a way that neither he nor Richey could imagine on this day.

15/Dad,
Me And Richey

Carmen sat alone in her
apartment, savoring the Saturday morning silence.  She drank coffee and
stared out the patio doors trying to see into the future.  Marisa was at a
playdate at one of her friend’s house, having stayed overnight, along with two
other kids from school.  Carmen had agreed to pick her daughter up at 2
p.m.  During this time alone to reflect, she hoped to flesh out a plan
that would allow her and Richey to move forward into the future together in a
way that was satisfying and fulfilling to both of them.  Richey’s early
morning visit earlier in the week had convinced Carmen they were at a turning
point.  In addition, Carmen continued to think about her conversation with
Marisa that same morning.

Also, Carmen’s relationship with her father came to
mind, because it had so many parallels to her relationship with Richey.
She had taken a psychology minor in college in large part because of the
father/daughter relationship.  She wanted to figure it out.  Carmen
learned that many people lived in the past, dwelling on hurts and
disappointments, and thinking erroneously that by constantly mulling them over,
one could somehow change them.  A therapist she’d seen for six months even
quoted Omar Khayyam to illustrate the point: the moving finger of time has
written the events of the past, and nothing “shall lure it back to cancel half
a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.”

Carmen understood the practicality of that advice.
One only lived in the present moment.  The now.  She couldn’t live in
the past or the future, since that wasn’t physically possible.
Nevertheless, she hoped to learn by reflection and not repeat past errors in
the present and near future.

In some ways, Carmen’s dad and Richey were alike.
Perhaps Carmen felt that if she could determine what she should have done to
have had a more successful connection to her father, maybe she could figure out
how to achieve the same success with Richey.

In
her resurrected memory, her dad always sat in a chair on the patio of their
home, weather permitting.  Otherwise, he camped out in the small living
room pretending to watch television.  In either case, he kept within easy
reach a small cooler filled with beer on ice.  A tequila bottle and shot
glass sat on a side table.  Periodically, he made a trip to the
bathroom.  That was his ritual for most of her life at home.

Carmen recalled their most memorable conversation that
took place in the spring of the year she graduated from high school.
Maybe the impending freedom of adulthood had emboldened her, not that she
feared physical violence from her father.  Although his temper flared now
and then, he wasn’t a violent man.  In fact, he was generally
philosophical and beaten, having given up on everything and everyone a long
time ago.

“Don’t you get tired of doing nothing with your life?”
she’d said, finding him alone on the patio.  A chain-link fence enclosed
much of their property.  A line of lilac bushes at the back of the lot
made the whole backyard smell sweet at that time of year.  It was a good
place to sit in the worse of circumstances.  Everyone else in the family —
her mother and her three brothers — had abandoned their husband and father to
alcoholism years ago and walked around him as if he were a piece of
furniture.  He wore his usual uniform: jeans, boots, Western belt with a
wide buckle, white shirt with fake pearl snap buttons, and a Stetson with a
multi-colored hatband.  His wife made certain his clothes were clean and
pressed.  He was a very neatly dressed drunk.

“What else should I be doing?” he’d asked.

“Read, talk with your family and friends, and go to
church with your wife.  Even watch television.”

“There’s nothing on television worth watching and I
don’t believe in God no more, but I am talking to you.”

He could be frustrating like that when Carmen tried to
bait him into an argument she planned to win; had to win, if she was right and
he was wrong.  “So you actually prefer to get drunk and stare off into the
distance?”

“Yeah.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t be doing it, right?”

His situation had worsened throughout her high school
years.  Her father worked sometimes in his brother-in-law’s janitorial
service that also employed her mother and all three of her older
brothers.  From listening to her mother, Carmen learned that her uncle
Carlos, a very kind person, subsidized their family budget by carrying her
father on the payroll even though he did little work.  Anywhere else, they
would have fired him.

“So what do you think about when you’re staring at the
bushes?” she’d asked indignantly.  Carmen remembered the backyard grass,
which grew in uneven clumps amid the unfertile, clay soil.

“Lots of things.  Probably the same kind of things
you think about.”

Boys, clothes, cars and college?  Carmen
didn’t believe they had anything in common.

“If it wasn’t for Mother and Uncle Carlos, we’d be out
in the street.”

He’d frowned, and seemed poised to lash out at her, but
the anger faded to acceptance as he began to nod.  “That’s true.
They are both good people.”

“Mother’s much too good for you,” she’d said boldly and
with conviction.

He had turned and looked at her and the look on his face
conveyed an attitude, albeit it a tired one.  It was as if he wanted to
ask: Is all of this really necessary?  Instead, he had said: “That
also is true.  There were better days for us, and we accomplished more
than you might think.  We’re comfortable here and your mother and I raised
a good family.  Look at you.  Beautiful and smart.  You’re going
to college, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, her indignation somewhat dampened by
his response.  “But that’s something I accomplished without any help from
you.”

“That’s the way it should be, Carmen.  There’s only
so much a parent can do for a child.  If you don’t learn to motivate
yourself and take care of yourself, life will not be kind to you.”

“You could try to be part of my life,” she’d said,
almost pleading.  “You don’t even know me.”

He had nodded sadly.  “Not everyone has a lot to
give, Carmen.  No one really understands themselves, let alone another
person.  Me, I’m not smart or exceptional.  Not many people are, you
know, although almost everyone is ambitious.  I figured I was so ordinary
that to be ambitious was foolhardy.  That doesn’t mean I’m inhuman or that
I don’t care.”

That’s why she wanted to talk to him, because she felt
he was a smart person hiding in a bottle.  He had something to
offer.  At age eighteen, Carmen needed all the help and understanding she
could get.  “Didn’t you ever want to be somebody?  To do something?”

He’d looked at her in amazement.  “I am
somebody.  I do things.”

“You drink yourself into a stupor every evening.”

“That, too.  You want a beer?  You can sit if
you like.”

She’d defiantly taken the beer, which her mother would
never have allowed her to drink in the house or on the patio.  She’d stood
at a distance and sipped from the bottle, afraid to drink boldly or deeply for
fear she’d contract his disease.  She could still remember her first
enticing smell of the hops, though.

“Just a few people now and then do something that really
makes a difference to all of humanity,” he’d said.  “The rest of us do
what we can to live safely, have enough to eat, and a good place to live.
That’s not possible everywhere in the world.  Not in the parts of Mexico
where our people come from originally.  Down there, they think I’m a
success, living here in luxury.  You see, everything depends on your
viewpoint and the goals you set.  Many people are frustrated and run
around making a lot of noise but they’re just passing through, too.  I
wish I could have been a scientist or an astronaut, but I don’t think I had the
smarts.  Not everything in life can be had just by wishing for it, Carmen,
or thinking it’s owed to you.  Some situations you just have to accept.”

“You could have tried harder.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right.  At some point, I
decided not to.  I’m pretty content now.”

“You’re drinking and smoking yourself to death.”

“Well, we’re all dying, aren’t we?”

She’d cried out in frustration and threw the beer bottle
into the grass, being careful not to hit the patio cement and shatter it to
bits.  As she stalked toward the patio door, he had called after her, “I’m
sorry, Carmen.  I’m truly sorry.”

She’d come back to that thirteen-year-old conversation
many times in her life, and it haunted her.  She didn’t always understand
or necessarily believe in all the complex cause-and-effect conclusions about
family and its effects on children.  Maybe some of them were too subtle
and too complex to understand.  One of her professors maintained that all
families were dysfunctional, to some degree.  That didn’t mean they
couldn’t fulfill their function.

Eventually, Carmen had concluded that maybe her dad was
right, to a degree.  Maybe the way you saw other people wasn’t the way
they really were.  Maybe everyone had a separate identity for every person
they interacted with.  Carmen knew that many other people saw her
differently than she saw herself, maybe because she portrayed herself
differently to them.  At work, they thought she was dependable, competent
and self-confident, because it was in her financial interest to make them think
of her that way.  She had to keep her job and draw a paycheck.  Her
neighbors thought she was always happy and carefree, because that’s the way she
acted around them.  Her mother thought Carmen was a good mother — a good,
single mother.  Richey thought she was sexy and an artist.  Carmen
was amazed that she could fool most of the people most of the time, because
many times she didn’t feel she was successful in any of those roles.  It
provided an insight into Richey’s feeling of failure as an actor.

At one time, Carmen had concluded that she married a
macho man like her first husband, Miquel, to compensate for her weak
father.  Contradictorily, had she tried to control Miquel the way her
mother always controlled her father?  Someone always had made a decision
for her father about the clothes he wore, what he ate, where he went, even when
he should go to work.  If he laid off work for two days in a row, her mother
would berate him until he wearily got up and went along to clean office
buildings.  Almost as if that was the price he had to pay to shut her
up.  Even then, he took a flask with him, according to her mother, who
perhaps revealed too much to her daughter.

Had her frustration with the lack of a relationship with
her father made Carmen confrontational, even slightly hysterical, in her early
relationships with men?  Miquel had certainly accused her of being
manipulative and controlling.  Worse of all, was she indirectly trying to
save Richey as a means of saving her now-dead father?  Were they even
alike?  The one who had no dreams and the one who had nothing but dreams.

Carmen’s recollections revealed no insights into her
upcoming conversation with Richey.  Therefore, she sighed, and went about
her business.

∞
∞  ∞

As expected on a
Saturday, Carmen found Richey perched on his usual bar stool watching the Keno
numbers appear magically on the TV screen.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, alarmed and
suspicious.  “Something wrong?  I didn’t expect to see you until this
evening.  I thought we were going to dinner?”

“Yeah, we’re still on for that.  I just wanted to
talk to you.”

“A lot of people have been dropping by to offer
suggestions about what I should do when I grow up and am on my own.”

He waved a completed Keno card at John the bartender and
then dropped it at the head of the bar.  “If I win this game, I won’t need
to heed any of those suggestions.”

“Well, until the winning numbers are revealed, let me
make my pitch about funding an alternative lifestyle,” Carmen said, as she sat
on a bar stool and opened the menu.  She pretended to read it intently, as
if she didn’t already have all the lunch items memorized.  She put the
menu down and ordered coffee from John.  She needed to keep her wits about
her.

Carmen had a package to sell and she wanted to make a
persuasive pitch.  She’d dressed for the part in an ankle-length dark blue
dress featuring a cream-colored floral pattern running down the left
side.  In the mirror, the dress seemed to show off her figure in a very
flattering fashion.  Yesterday, she’d gone to a beauty salon to have her
hair and nails done professionally, and listen to several new makeup tips she’d
tried this morning.

She turned slightly sideways so her knees touched his
thigh.  At the same time, she placed one hand on his arm.  She leaned
forward slightly, to give Richey a hint of her perfume.  “You got any
money?” she asked.

Richey, dressed in his usual weekend uniform of black
slacks and blue sweater over a white dress shirt, replied: “Yeah, why?
You broke?  How much do you need?”

“I’ve got about sixty-seven thousand dollars in the
bank,” Carmen announced.  “This is approximately equal to the Keno grand
prize after taxes.”

Richey looked stupefied.  “Jesus!  Where’d you
get that much money, Carmen?”

She moved her hand up to his shoulder.  “When my
dad died, mom gave me twenty-five thousand dollars of his life insurance
money.  It was as much as my three brothers got together, ’cause I’m a
girl, I guess.  Apparently, Mom thought I’d have a hard time in
life.  She was right, in a way.  Also, I got a modest cash settlement
from Miquel in the divorce, since he admitted to adulterous behavior.
Finally, I’ve gotten good advice from an investment broker over the past few
years.”

“That’s great.”

“How much you got in the bank?”

Richey turned back to his
drink, as if embarrassed.  “Less
than fifteen thousand,” he said, not wanting to mention that Marshon had
recently given him two-thirds of that.

She thought of his modest tri-level house in a neighborhood
not far from the bar.  “Is the house in your name or yours and Shirley’s?”

He again turned his head and upper body toward
her.  “It was a simple divorce, not acrimonious.  When I sell it, I
owe her half the profit.”

“How much equity do you figure you got?”

He calculated.  “Twenty thousand net to me,
maybe.  What’s this all about?”

Carmen took a deep breath.  “So we could cash in
all of our chips, sell both our cars and come up with a pot of nearly a hundred
thousand dollars.  You can win the prize Richey just by saying yes.”
She rubbed his inner thigh, signaling that the prize included much, much
more.  Whatever she needed to do today to convince him, she planned to do
with enthusiasm.

John served Carmen her coffee while Richey stared at her
as if she were an alien.  He laughed uneasily.  “And, then what?”

Carmen took a deep breath.  “They had an RV exhibit
down the hill in the parking lot a few weeks ago.  I stopped in to look
around.  It gave me an idea and I’ve been searching RV ads ever
since.  We could buy a used eight-cylinder truck and a nice-sized camper,
maybe something only a couple of years old, for around fifty thousand.
Or, we could put down twenty thousand on a new Class A motorhome.
Payments would run about six hundred a month.  We use the rest of our
money to travel around the country.  Spring in the Mid-Atlantic States,
summer and fall in the northeast, winter in Florida, Corpus Christi, or
southern California.”  She knew it might sound ridiculous.

“Kinda like the song lyrics by Dave Loggins:  You
can sell your paintings on the sidewalk, while I perform in the local cafe.

“Actually, that’s similar to my plan.”

“You and me and Marisa?”

“Certainly.  She and I are a package deal.  In
fact, she’s the inspiration in part for this idea.  She thinks I should
paint instead of drawing ads picturing happy dogs eating dog food.”

“As I recall our conversation after my audition for Death
of a Salesman, I suggested the same thing and you pooh-poohed the idea.”

Carmen smiled tolerantly.  “Let’s not get into a
conversation in which we recall all the contradictory things we’ve said to each
other.  I’m a human being and I have the option of changing my mind — or
listening to my daughter’s advice.  I decided that I wanted her to follow
her dreams.  If I want that, then I should be a model for that lifestyle.”

“What if you, we, fail?”

Carmen nodded grimly.  “I'm more afraid of what
will happen if I continue to deny my artistic passion and fail to work and
improve my talent.  How then could I ever expect my daughter to be
independent as an adult, and follow her heart?”

A distracting noise occurred at the entrance as four
young men came in and noisily shouted their drink orders while hanging winter
coats on a clothes tree.  They argued about the best place to sit, where
they could view several college football games at the same time.

Richey resumed the debate.  “This is very
disturbing.  It’s almost as if you’ve been listening to my rantings and
ravings about how one should not deny the artistic life, even if one can’t make
a living at it.”  He laughed.  “I had no idea you were taking me
seriously!”

“That will teach you to be careful about what you say,
in case you convince someone like me that you’re right.”

“I never considered that possibility.  However,
back to reality, traveling around like that, Marisa couldn’t go to school.”

“All the better, maybe.  I’ve thought a lot about
that, too.  The new lifestyle alone would be an education for her.
I’d have to spend more time with Marisa instead of relying on other people to
educate my daughter and influence her values.  She’d be out from under all
the negative peer pressures that affect teenagers.  I’ll have my
laptop.  We can subscribe to a satellite service and get cable TV and
Internet access.  On the Web, we can find all the educational tools we’d
need to teach her everything she needs to know and more.  She won’t fall
behind; she’ll learn more.  However, she’s not the issue.  We are.”

The skeptical look on Richey’s face indicated he was
searching for objections, which didn’t deter Carmen.  She hadn’t expected
him to endorse her proposal immediately.  She braced her shoulders to jut
out her chest and slightly spread her legs, remembering to use every means of
persuasion at her disposal.

“We’d take our budget on the road with us,” he
said.  “Same amount every month for food and clothes.  How much are
daily camping fees for a rig like that?”

“An average of forty dollars a night,” she replied,
“depending on what type of campground we stay it.  If we stayed somewhere
by the week, or as much as a month, we might find a very reasonable rate.”

He shrugged.  “It still would take three or four
thousand a month to live.  In a year or less, we’d be broke.”  He
laughed.  “Hell, my liquor bill alone would sink us.”

“I don’t figure on you sitting on your ass in a bar all
day.  We’ve got skills that can make us money.”  She struggled to
remain calm, but also hurried to make her points before he could marshal more
objections.  “I’ll do freelance art work for ad agencies.  I’ll paint
and do some craft work, maybe jewelry design.  I’ll sell my stuff in
campgrounds and at local art fairs.  You’d be surprised how many of them
are going on across the country at any given time.”

“And what would I do?  Audition for local theater?”

“How are the rehearsals going for Death of a Salesman?”

He frowned warily.  “Okay.  We got three more
rehearsals before opening night, including a dress rehearsal Wednesday night.”

“I’ll bet you’re great as Willy.  You’re a good,
veteran actor.  Put that talent to use in our travels.  Think about
it.  You could come up with a one-man act.  Do Will Rogers, Mark
Twain, or reprise some of the roles from great movie performances.”

“Such as?”

“Your favorites that you talked about.  Brando in On
the Waterfront, Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Great Life, Humphrey Bogart
in The Caine Mutiny.  How about Burt Lancaster as Elmer
Gantry.”  She was buoyed by the sudden look of interest on his face.
“You could perform locally in clubs, community centers, schools, fraternal and
professional organizations, at conventions, in hospitals and nursing
homes.  We could even rent the recreation hall in campgrounds and charge
admission to the campers.  I can help with advertising and
promotion.  I’ve got experience, you know.”  She’d started to run out
of steam and wanted a commitment from him, or even the courtesy of a
rejection.  “It wouldn’t be easy.  It would be a lot of hard work,
but you’d be working every day at your craft, and so would I.  We’d be in
charge of our lives, not someone else.  It would be a great example for
Marisa.  Even if the lifestyle doesn’t last forever, wouldn’t it be a
great year or two?  Think of the places we could go; the things we would
see.  The things we could do.  We don’t have any guarantees of life
beyond today anyway, Richey.  We’ve got to grab what we can — now.”

The
skepticism faded from Richey’s face and was replaced by a look of surprise,
astonishment and interest.  “It’s a helluva idea, Carmen.  I just
don’t know.  I wouldn’t have thought of anything like it in a thousand
years.”

She
took a deep breath and expressed her final thought.  “Here’s the bottom
line, Richey.  This lifestyle here in The Stadium is
self-destructive.”  It’s just like her Dad sitting on the patio, lost in
an alcoholic fog, thinking and doing nothing of any value, to anyone.
“Sure, my idea is risky.  So’s life.”

Carmen
hadn’t been able to persuade her father to do something different with his
life, and history might repeat itself today.

Richey
sighed.  “Carmen, look in the mirror above the liquor bottles.  I’ve
never seen you look more radiant and beautiful.  You’re in the prime of
your life.  I’m a decade older than you and I’m used up.”

She
snorted contemptuously.  “I don’t agree.  You’re not exactly a
doddering old man.  You’ve never had a partner to team with who understood
your dream, let alone one who proposed a way for you to achieve it.  Not
at the Hollywood level, but in a practical way we can accomplish together
without the need for any luck, a big break, or a blessing from some Hollywood
studio or big-shot producer.  You just do it.  Build a reputation
from the ground up.  Spread the word through social media.”  She
picked up a blank Keno card and tore it in half.  “I’m offering you the
real prize, Richey.  Take it or forget it forever.”  She sucked in
her breath and waited.

“Jesus,
you are one pushy broad,” he said, good-naturedly.

“I
know, but do you love me?”

He
didn’t hesitate long.  “Yes, of course I do.”

“Then
let’s do it,” she said, passionately.

“Okay.”

His
unexpected agreement stunned Carmen so much she nearly fell off the
barstool.  She recovered quickly, wrapped her arms around him and
experienced the greatest feeling of joy in her life.  Feelings of love and
great expectations replaced her many doubts, all of which evaporated.
Total exhilaration.  She wasn’t saving Richey in some sick replay of her
fatherless childhood.  She was making it possible for both of them to
achieve their potential, and find true happiness, and love.  She’d found
her prince in a very unlikely place.  She would save him and herself in
the process.

When
Carmen broke off the embrace and sat back on the barstool, Richey said, “Hey,
while you’re here, we got an invitation for dinner Saturday night, after the
performance.  From Marshon and Gail.  You remember, we agreed to get
together with them that time they were here in the bar.  I’d like to keep
the date.”

“Absolutely!
I loved their company.”

Richey
felt a little guilty for being somewhat duplicitous with Carmen.  He’d
just agreed to her plan, but he also wanted her to hear Marshon’s proposal.
He thought maybe she would prefer that approach, which seemed to possess
more financial stability over time.  Marshon was rich to begin with.
He’d be successful at something, and he would take care of Richey and Carmen,
and Marisa.

Carmen
looked at her watch.  “Gotta run and pick up Marisa at two.  Come to
my apartment for dinner.  I’m gonna make burritos and refried beans.
After Marisa goes to bed, we’ll talk some more, and then do something else.”

After
Carmen left, John the bartender sat a fresh drink in front of Richey.  He
leaned his elbows on his side of the bar and looked at Richey.  “I saw you
in Showboat, I guess it was six, seven years ago, now.”

“It
seems like decades, since we’re in a time warp here.”

“My
daughter was the little girl in the play.”

“I
remember.”

“That’s
how you got here.  I liked your performance and invited you to stop by The
Stadium.  I may have offered half-priced drinks to the talented
actor.”

“Your
investment paid off, John.  You sucked me in with a bait-and-switch
routine.  I’ve probably dropped fifty grand in here since those free
drinks.”

John
straightened up and pulled glasses out of the soapy water in a sink behind the
bar.  He set them out on a rubber drain mat to dry.  “A lot of young
women come in here, but very few like Carmen.  It’s time for you to move
on, Richey.”

Richey
held up his glass for a toast.  “John, you are a classic, wise
bartender.  And, you can eavesdrop at a hundred yards.  It’s a true
talent.  I will definitely consider your advice.”

Indeed,
Richey had a difficult choice to make.  For years, he’d waited for someone
or some event to dislodge him from his rut — from his inertia.  Now, he
had been presented with two radically different lifestyle choices — Marshon’s
Proposal and Carmen’s Offer.  What would it be?  Both were extremely
attractive to him, and he wanted them both.  He’d given both Marshon and
Carmen the impression that he would be their partner!  He wanted Marshon’s
friendship and the adventure and excitement of a lifestyle lived on the edge,
in luxury, in an exotic location.  He might become rich himself, and could
thumb his nose at all of society’s hypocritical laws and rules at the same
time.  On the other hand, he greatly desired Carmen’s company and
love.  He wanted to work with her in an atmosphere of shared artistic
passion.  He would have a second chance to be a good husband and father.

Carmen
had blitzkrieged him to the extent that it didn’t seem an appropriate time to
tell her about Marshon’s Proposal, wherein they both would have a chance to be
actor and artist.  In fact, Richey had taken the coward’s way out, and
decided to let Marshon run with the ball.  He worried that Carmen, like
Shirley before her, would see Marshon’s proposal as semi-illegal and that it
might eventually put her and her daughter in mortal danger.  She might
dismiss it out of hand.  Then, he would have to make a choice.
Perhaps it should have been obvious to him, but it wasn’t.

Like
Carmen’s dad, Richey had another drink and stared into space beyond the
sporting wars raging on television.  Maybe something would happen to make
one or the other choice obvious and inevitable.  What Richey never
considered was that the “something” would eliminate both options.

16/Crazy Is As Crazy Does

Marshon felt
confident.  It has been just over three weeks since the
killings at The Wheel.  Neither the cops nor anyone from the
Country Attorney’s office had come by to talk to him.  Either law
enforcement did not have sufficient evidence to move on him or they had pulled
back their horns for a reason.  Maybe it had something to do with
Marshon’s chat with the Chief Investigator of the County Attorney’s
office.  The investigator used to be a cop, and Marshon had known him for
years.  They’d met at a downtown hotel bar just before the dinner
hour.  Using a mini laptop, Marshon had shown the investigator selections
from the demo video showing selected big shots from throughout the area having
a good time at The Wheel, or being serviced by the professional ladies
who lived in Marshon’s apartment building.

Marshon didn’t leave a copy of the video with the
investigator, but said instead that he would make every effort “to prevent this
video from ever falling into the hands of the media,” or any of the relatives
or friends of the actors shown.

That chess move may have frozen the opposition in place
just long enough for Marshon to get out of town, having transferred his local
business interests to trusted friends.  Later on, the County Attorney
might decide to press his case against Jemmy and Widja, but Marshon had already
talked about that with his friends.  He’d told them such challenges came
with the territory, and that their strategy should be to blame it on him, as
the decision-maker at the time.  If they wanted to indict Marshon Johnson,
they’d have to find him.  In less than a week, Marshon intended to pull
off the greatest disappearing act of all time.

As Marshon sat in his apartment, he went over an
enumerated list of things to do before he left for the British Virgin
Islands.  Number one was to make another appeal to Gail and convince her
to go with him.  Two was to get a firm commitment from Richey.  Both
would either happen Saturday night when the four of them got together for dinner,
or not.  Three, he needed to round up cash he had stashed with a trusted
relative.  Four, he needed to talk to his business partners locally.
Five, he needed to say goodbye to several close friends.  Lastly, he
needed to spend some quality time with his Nanna and Uncle Clyde, and figure
out a safe way for them to visit him in the islands.

Marshon answered a knock on his apartment door and
opened it to see Jemmy looming over him.

“Got a minute?” Jemmy asked.

“Sure,” Marshon said, walking to the liquor
cabinet.  “You want a brandy?”

“Yeah, you might want one, too,” Jemmy said, ominously.

Marshon
put their drinks on coasters on the coffee table, while Jemmy stuck a flash
drive into the TV’s USB port.  He grabbed the remote and came to sit on
the sofa beside Marshon.  He turned on the TV, picked up the goblet and
took a healthy belt of Courvoisier.  He activated the video, which brought
to the screen the most recent action in Boudra’s apartment.

“It
starts out innocent enough,” Jemmy said, as Marshon watched Boudra on her hands
and knees warming up a customer.

“Have
we seen this guy before?” Marshon asked, frowning.

“He’s
new to us as of Saturday night, but he didn’t make any secret of his name from
the get-go.  Michael Williams.  I Googled him.”  Jemmy took a
folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Marshon, who
unfolded the paper and read it.

“Yeah,
that’s what I thought.  Saw him on TV news a few months back.  He’s
the architect for that new World War One Museum they’re going to build up by
the memorial.  A hundred and twenty million dollar project.
Williams’s firm gets about ten percent of that for the architectural
design.  Upstanding, well-heeled citizen, this whoremonger.”

“Yeah,
he certainly is a unique piece of work,” Jemmy said, fast-forwarding the
disk.  “Check this out.”

Williams
now was on top of Boudra pounding away when he grabbed her throat with both
hands and began to strangle her.  Boudra initially reacted by pummeling
his back with her fists, but that only seemed to encourage Williams.  She
tried unsuccessfully to roll him over.  Jemmy and Marshon heard her gasp
for air.  Finally, Boudra called upon her considerable experience and
slipped both hands and forearms inside of Williams’s arms, so she could explode
her forearms outward.  She busted his grip and then rolled Williams enough
so that she could get up on one hip.  Boudra then kneed Williams in the
genitals, causing the architect to scream out in considerable pain and fall off
the bed onto the floor.

Boudra
then pressed her call button and Jemmy burst through her door less than two
minutes later.  By that time, Boudra had her switchblade open and stood
threateningly over the fallen Williams.  Jemmy wrested the knife from her
hands and folded the blade back into the handle.

Jemmy
put the video on pause.  “So, I grab the motherfucker and slam him against
the wall and ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing.  And, you know
what he said to me?”

“What?”

“He
said he was just trying to make her come like she never had come before.”

Marshon
shook his head in disgust.  One fantasy of all whoremongers seemed to be
that they’d be the super, unparalleled fuck of a prostitute’s life.  That
she would then want to give up her profession and be his sex slave.

“Then,
he mentions erotic asphyxiation,” Jemmy said, “like it was part of the package
he’d paid for.  I had no idea what he was talking about at the time.”

“Depriving one sexual partner of oxygen to
increase the intensity of their orgasm,” Marshon explained.  “I doubt
seriously that Boudra asked him to do it.”

“No, she was screaming that the motherfucker
strangled her and planned to kill her.  While I was bracing Williams, she
came up with another knife and threatened to cut off Williams’s family
jewels.  Williams was already throwing up because she busted his nuts
good.  Anyway, I booted his ass out, but kept his billfold.  He had
about eight hundred in cash on him.  I gave him a fifty for cab fare and
told him to get lost and not come back.”

Jemmy stood, reached into a back pocket and
produced Williams’s billfold.

“Is Boudra okay?”

“That bitch is hard as nails, man.  She
acted like it was a typical Saturday night and called another customer and told
him to come early.”

“I assume Williams was drunk.”

“As a skunk.  Maybe high, too.”

“He probably wanted to brag that he made a
whore come like a stream engine at full throttle,” Marshon said.  “Or, he
may have killed Boudra just for the fun on it.”  That thought made Marshon
frown and get angry.  “You got other copies of this video?”

“You betcha.”

“Copy
the whole episode to my mini-laptop,” Marshon said, standing.  “I’ll go on over
and talk to Boudra.  She in?”

“Yeah, this is her Monday off.”

“And I’ll pay a visit to Mr. Williams and do
some business with him.  I need more traveling money, anyway.”

After Jemmy left, Marshon went across the
hallway and knocked on Boudra’s door.  She answered and asked him
in.  He stepped inside and shut the door, but didn’t take a seat.

“Jemmy just showed me the video of this
Williams freak.”

“If Jemmy hadn’t stopped me, Williams’s
testicles would be floating in formaldehyde in a fruit jar sitting on my coffee
table.”

Marshon arched his eyebrows in a gesture of
disapproval.  “That’s one of the reasons why Jemmy is here, Boudra.
With your approach, we’d have had police and fire department vehicles and maybe
news trucks out front.”

Boudra wore an oversized gray sweatshirt and
matching sweatpants.  She hugged herself as if chilled.  She looked
at the floor.  “You’re right, of course, Marshon.  I guess I have a
few more things to learn before I ask to manage the building.”

“Take it as constructive criticism.  I can
be objective because I wasn’t in your position.  You undoubtedly saved
your own life.  Helluva nice maneuver to break the chokehold, by the way.”

“Thanks.  I learned it in a martial arts
class.”

“I’ll take care of this motherfucker Williams,
so he don’t do anything like this again to you or anybody else.  There’ll
be some compensation in it for you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is for me.  Anyway, about the
management thing.  I did a handshake deal with Jemmy and Widja about
running The Wheel.”

“You’re really gonna move on?” she asked, in
disbelief.

“Yeah.  I told Widja and Jemmy that you’d
be managing the apartment business, but that you’d work some type of
contractual deal with each of them.  Jemmy to provide security and do some
of the payoffs, especially those involving the police.  Widja can do
maintenance and janitorial work in and outside the building.  That way,
you don’t have outside people wandering around, getting all kinds of
ideas.  Try and give both Jemmy and Widja at least a hundred grand a
year.”

“I can live with that.”

“The rents still go into an account managed by
my lawyer, Mort Saperstein.  I’ll need a monthly royalty, stipend, dividend,
whatever you want to call it.  It’s my building.  I worked hard to
establish good relationships with the authorities.  They know not to fuck
with us.  That’s worth a lot.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen percent of your net.  You
calculate it.  I’ll trust you.  I’ll give you a list of the bribes
I’m paying now.  Eventually, you’ll have to take over that part of the
operation.”

“You want the fifteen percent in
perpetuity?  At some point, it would be cheaper for me to buy another
building.”

She had a point, especially if she
significantly increased the building income with her new ideas.  Marshon
decided not to argue.  “Let’s say two years and then we renegotiate.
If it turns out that you launder your cash with me, for a percentage, I could
even give up the royalty.  We might partner on some other deals.  You
were the one who suggested you’d probably get out of this business eventually —
which you should, by the way.”

It didn’t take Boudra long to make up her
mind.  “You got a deal.  When are you leaving?”

He shrugged.  “I’ll let you know.
We’ll get together again.”

∞
∞  ∞

Tuesday night
about eight o’clock, Marshon parked his BMW in front of a building at
Corporate Center, a 300-acre campus consisting of eight multi-story glass and
steel buildings located about a mile south of the Beltway.  The bucolic
setting consisted of well-manicured lawns, flower gardens, statuary, and
walking/biking paths winding through several acres of old oak trees.  At
the first of November, however, the grass was the color of straw and littered
with falling leaves.  The perennial seeds and bulbs would hibernate until
Spring.

Corporate Center was the economic engine for the
affluent south and southwest suburbs.  The headquarters staff of a large
national trucking company occupied one entire building.  A two-sided sign
proclaiming the name of a well-known insurance company attached to the roof of
another tower.  Other buildings housed employees of an engineering firm, a
company that provided students transportation for several local school districts,
a public relations and marketing firm, several law firms, and doctors’
offices.  Widja had a cleaning contract for several companies located in
the complex.

Marshon entered Building 1223, a 15-story pylon that had
a concave design making the top and bottom floors wider than those in the
middle section.  Black faux marble covered portions of the exterior.
Light-reflecting windows made it impossible for people on the outside to see in
during daylight hours.  That may have been by design.  At night, the
building had an ominous appearance, as if it were a monument dropped from the
sky that had embedded itself in the earth.  Marshon pulled tight the
lapels on his cashmere overcoat.

A security booth in the middle of the lobby provided the
uniformed guard a commanding view of front and back entrances.  The old,
hunched back guard with a bulbous nose checked a list on a clipboard to confirm
André Touissant’s appointment with Michael Williams.  Dressed
conservatively in an expensive pinstriped navy blue suit, Marshon wanted to be
remembered as just another businessman, if remembered at all.

The rent-a-cop told him to take the elevator to the
third floor office suite of Williams, Grant and Slocum.  The firm’s office
occupied the entire third floor.  They also rented space on the fourth and
fifth floors.

Marshon had pondered his approach.  He planned to
set a high price on the video capturing Michael Williams’s brutal attempt to
strangle Boudra.  Given the publicity that had accompanied his firms’ new
contract to build the museum, Williams had the money and incentive to make the
payoff that would insure the video was never posted on YouTube.  A
generous donation from Williams would further insure a comfortable transition
from Marshon’s current lifestyle to his life in the Caribbean.  While his
deals with Jemmy and Widja theoretically would provide him with a six-figure
income from laundering their cash, he knew those deals could go south and
evaporate overnight if his partners were busted or killed.  The same with
his and Boudra’s arrangement.  On the other hand, the Williams donation
would be money in hand.  Besides, the murderous bastard deserved economic
sanctions.

It bothered Marshon that Williams hadn’t attempted to
hide his identity.  Either the architect had been in a drunken stupor or
he was one of those men who loved living dangerously — who either thought they
were bulletproof or that they were too important to abide by any laws or social
conventions.

Williams answered the office suite doorbell.  Marshon
immediately recognized him from the video.  Fully clothed, the architect
looked almost respectable, except for the black-and-blue bruise on the side of
his face, which he sustained either falling out of Boudra’s bed, or when Jemmy
slammed him against the wall.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Williams,” Marshon said,
extending his hand, which remained suspended in the air as Williams abruptly
turned and walked away — or rather limped away, trying to protect his swollen
testicles.  Marshon followed Williams through the reception area past an
empty desk for the receptionist who worked the phones and seated visitors
during office hours.  Several comfortable chairs were arranged along two
adjoining walls decorated with plaques, awards, and photographs of the firm’s
partners and staff.

Marshon followed Williams past restrooms and a
conference room featuring a highly polished mahogany table.  Williams
turned left down another hallway leading past a copy center and mailroom.
They entered a cavernous room segmented into nearly two dozen partitioned work
cubicles.  Permanent offices with doors, walls and exterior glass occupied
the perimeter of the room.

Marshon hurried to follow Williams diagonally through
the dimly lit labyrinth of cubicles until they reached another conference room
and library in the rear of the suite.  Williams turned on the lights, took
a seat at an expensive oval-shaped walnut table and nodded curtly, indicating
the meeting could begin.

“You said on the phone you had some video of me in
action Saturday night,” Williams said, “with, ah, what’s her name –– Boudra?”
He sneered, having given her name a French-sounding pronunciation:
“Boo-dra.”

“Yes,” Marshon replied simply, choosing to let the video
create the image he needed for the subsequent “insurance policy”
negotiation.  He took the mini laptop from his coat pocket, turned it on,
activated the video and set the device in front of Williams.  Unlike his
meeting with Virginia Krebs in her suburban home, when he’d been in a light
mood at the beginning, Marshon felt chilled tonight, especially as he
remembered Ginny’s prediction.  Additionally, in the hallway, he saw the
temperature on a wall thermostat: 66 degrees.  It was cold in the office
and a stale smell filled the air.

Although being alone in the far reaches of a deserted
office suite excited primal fears, the snub-nosed thirty-eight in the holster
attached to his belt at the base of his spine gave Marshon a measure of
comfort.  He’d never had occasion to use the weapon in any similar negotiations
and Williams seemed an unlikely type to cause trouble, especially now that he
appeared sober and hobbled with injuries inflicted by Boudra.

As the video played, Williams’s demeanor changed
drastically.  No longer businesslike and cold as ice, Williams became
animated.  He laughed loudly, sighed, sometimes covered his eyes, flung
his arms skyward, mumbled incoherently, and genuinely seemed to enjoy his
performance, including the bashing he took at the end from both Boudra and
Jemmy.  Marshon grew increasingly nervous.  Williams’s eyes were
wide, vacant, and crazy looking.  He appeared even thinner in person that
in the video filmed only a few days ago.  In fact, his cheeks were sunken
and his skin pale.  Clumps of Williams’s hair had fallen out.

When the video reached the end and stopped, Marshon
never moved nor said a word, while Williams became silent and pensive.
The architect frowned, formed the fingers of both hands into the shape of a
pyramid, and stared through it.  The silence became louder and louder.

“You want to sell me this video,” Williams said,
finally.

“I think you’d be proud to own it.”

“Indeed, I would.  It’s sad that I wasn’t allowed
to complete my little plan, don’t you think?  Then, either Boudra would
have achieved the ultimate orgasm, or I would have.  Tell me, Marshon,
from your considerable experience as a pimp, if you strangle a whore to death,
does her vagina clamp down on your dick at the moment she expires?  Would
I have had the ejaculation of a lifetime?”

“A million dollars for the video,” Marshon said, without
emotion.  “You can do a wire transfer.”  He’d already made
arrangements with lawyer Dahlgren to have the funds transferred directly into
Marcus Jones’s Road Town bank account.  A temporary account number had
been issued for this transfer only.  Even if Williams gave the account
number to the FBI, they still would need a warrant to find the cash.  In
the British Virgin Islands, judges seldom issued such warrants, because those
who appointed them didn’t want foreign governments, or their agencies, meddling
with the colony’s most lucrative source of income.  Besides, Marshon
didn’t think Williams would complain about paying the blackmail.

Williams laughed softly.  “And how much next
month?”

“It’s a one-time fee.  You never pay again.”

“What guarantee do I have of that?”

They all asked the same question.  “If I come back
for seconds, you’ll go to the cops and that’s very bad for my business.
I’ve learned that it doesn’t pay to be greedy.”

Williams laughed insanely and seemed suddenly
energized.  He jumped to his feet and declared, “I could easily afford
that amount, as you probably know.  You look like a smart guy, whatever
your real name.  You know about the firm’s new contract?”

“I’m certain the memorial museum will become globally
renowned, and generate substantial additional business for your firm.”

“My partners would gladly pay your blackmail.  You
really should have talked to them.  That was your first mistake.”

Marshon suddenly had a bad feeling, but he couldn’t show
his fear.  A frightened, tentative salesman never closed a deal.
“Look, it’s just a business deal, Mr. Williams.  Like you said, you can
afford it.  Hell, your accountants will undoubtedly find some way to
charge it to your new museum project!”

Williams stroked his chin, feeling his beard stubble and
frowning, as if still trying to make up his mind.  “I just don’t wanna
pay,” he cried, jutting out his chin as he unbuttoned his suit coat.

“That’s too bad,” Marshon said, making a smooth
transition to the next level of his sales pitch.  “I’ll have to send
copies of the video to your partners, your staff, your neighbors, and your
minister.  Your wife.  She may pay an even higher price for the video
because it could be the leverage she needs to get a piece of this.”
Marshon motioned with one arm and hand to take in the firm and its obvious
assets.  He signed and delivered the coup de grâce.  “At that
point, I might even to post the video on YouTube, and notify members of
Congress of its existence.”

Williams responded with a snicker that intensified to a
crescendo of howling.  He stopped abruptly and the coldness in his eyes
and the pallor of his skin caused a shiver to run down Marshon’s spine.
He felt the hairs on his arm stand up.

“I like to live dangerously,” Williams admitted, “as you
can tell from the video.  I plan to experience everything.
Quickly.  Saturday night I got stinky drunk, did cocaine and fucked a
black whore!  A tall, leggy black whore with big tits!  After she
sucked my cock!  I can cross all those things off my bucket list.
You see, I have an aggressive brain cancer and I’m not long for this earth, Mr.
Touissant.  My wife and partners are about to get everything,
anyway.  Once I’m rotting away in the grave, I could give a fuck less what
all the living people think of me.”  An impertinent, twisted expression
took over Williams’s face.  “Tonight is another unique opportunity for
me.  There’s something else I’ve never done.”

“What’s that?”  Marshon asked, shifting nervously
in his seat.

Williams moved amazingly quickly to the doorway, causing
Marshon to stand.

“Tonight, my office will be a hunting preserve!
After I kill you, Mr. Touissant, I think I’ll mount your head out in the foyer,
where everyone can see it when they come to work in the morning!”
Williams laughed insanely as he flicked off the light switch and disappeared
into the darkness.

Marshon drew the Smith and Wesson Bodyguard thirty-eight
from its holster and moved rapidly to the front wall.  With his belly
pressed against the wall, he inched toward the door with his gun hand pointing
in that direction.  Before he got there, the hall lights also went off and
Marshon found himself disoriented in the darkness.  Waiting until his eyes
gradually adjusted to the dark, Marshon quickly poked his head through the
doorway, glancing both ways.  To his left, he saw a faint reddish light.

Marshon had to develop a plan of escape, quickly.
If he stayed in the conference room, Williams eventually would have to come to
him.  One option, therefore, was to stay put and hope to overpower or
outgun Williams.  But, what if Williams already had called the security
guard downstairs?  Told him the nigger’d gone crazy and had a
gun!  Then, Marshon would have to deal with the police, maybe a SWAT
team.  He decided to move out of the room and not let himself be cornered.

Marshon exploded from the conference room across the
hallway where he pressed his back against the wall.  He held the gun in
front of him with both hands so he could swing it left or right.  He
walked sideways to his right so he could look around the corner and determine
the source of the eerie red light.

It illuminated an exit door about twenty feet
away.  Three desks not surrounded by partitions occupied this rectangular
area, which also featured several file cabinets, copiers and printers and two
drawing tables.  Marshon scooted around the corner and squatted beside a
desk, trying to remember the layout of the office.

Then he panicked again, thinking that Williams could be
crouched on the other side of the desk, or in the hallway behind him.
Marshon stood, extended his gun hand and looked cautiously over the desk.
Williams wasn’t there, so Marshon quickly took that position.  Now he had
the desk between him and the hallway outside the conference room where they’d
watched the video.

He stood again, hesitated a moment and scurried toward
the exit door.  He grabbed the horizontal door bar with his free hand and
pushed.  Locked!  An irrational thought popped into his mind: that’s
a violation of the fire code!  How in the hell could these office workers
escape if there was a real fire in the office?

Marshon moved to a steel file cabinet and squatted
beside it.  Suddenly the red light above the door went out!  Marshon
involuntarily uttered a small cry, like a frightened, hunted animal.  He
yelled, “Okay, Williams, I don’t want to play this game!  Keep the laptop
and video.  It’s yours — for free!  Now turn on a light and let me
out of here, man!”

There was a flash of white light off to his left and
Marshon heard the impact of the bullet as it ripped into the file cabinet above
his head.  Without any cerebral command, his body catapulted straight
ahead toward an opening leading into the maze of cubicles.  Beyond that to
the right were the other hallway, reception area, front door, and
freedom.  His brain caught up with his muscles and told him that there was
no noise associated with the gunfire.  Williams had a gun equipped with a
silencer!  He’d probably been in the room directly across from the
conference room.  The circuit breaker had to be there.  That’s how
Williams had turned off the red light above the door.  He’d flipped
another breaker switch!  Marshon considered that Williams most likely had
now also moved into the cubicle area, planning to cut off Marshon’s avenue of
escape.

Fear got the best of Marshon and he turned into a
cubicle, kneeling just inside the opening.  He waited, although it was
foolish for him to feel safe behind walls made of pressed wood.

Marshon saw movement off to his left in a pathway
between the cubicles and the wall of the conference room where they’d watched
the video.  He instinctively fired twice in that direction and ran to his
right.  He quickly turned a corner, stopped, and pressed his back against
the wall.  He looked toward the back of the suite and experienced hope for
the first time.  It seemed to him that he was between Williams and the
front door.

Marshon worried that Williams might have locked the
entrance door electronically, so that a code had to be entered for it to
open.  Could the security guard have heard the shots three floors
below?  What if the security guard had summoned reinforcement!

Marshon cursed silently and entertained a jumble of
thoughts.  No matter what happened now, the laptop would incriminate
him.  The cops knew Boudra and knew that she lived in the building owned
by his grandmother and uncle.  His grand plan was in danger of
backfiring.  Soon, the County Attorney would have additional evidence to
add to the laundry list that he was in the process of presenting to the grand
jury.  Marshon undoubtedly would face charges that might land him in jail
for as much as twenty-five years.  All because he’d been greedy.  The
night Judge Thomas told him about the grand jury, Marshon should have driven or
flown to Miami, to catch attorney Dahlgren’s boat to Nassau and freedom.

He heard the splat of the silencer again and saw the
pinpoint explosion of fire from the barrel of Williams’s gun!  While he’d
been equivocating, Williams had maneuvered into a shooting position.

“Bang, bang, nigger!” Williams shouted and began
giggling madly.

Marshon fired again in Williams’s direction, turned, and
began running toward the reception area.  Suddenly, he felt a searing pain
in his back, causing him to trip and fall to the floor.  The gun flew out
of his hand.  He rolled immediately to his right through an open door into
a room.  He rose to one knee, closed the door, and felt the doorknob for a
lock.  There wasn’t one!  His gun was somewhere in the hallway!

Marshon twisted his left arm around to feel the wound on
the lower left side of his back.  Warm, sticky blood oozed through his
suit coat and stained his hand.  Where was his overcoat!  He couldn’t
remember.  He wasn’t in a lot of pain, probably because of all the
adrenaline pumping through his body.

Knuckles wrapped loudly against the door.
Williams, his voice laced with hysteria, said, “Knock, knock!  Any niggers
inside!”

Holding the door shut with one hand and knee, Marshon
felt along the top of an adjacent desk until he grasped a letter opener.
He immediately sat behind the door and then lay back on the floor.  He
bent his knees and positioned his feet about fifteen inches from the door.

The door splintered in two places as Williams fired
shots through the upper half.  A few seconds later, the door opened
slowly.  The faint light filtering into the office suite through the
darkened external windows outlined Williams’s head and shoulders as he leaned
forward to peek into the copy room.  At that moment, Marshon thrust both legs
forward, causing the door to crash against Williams’s head.

Immediately, Marshon jumped to his feet with the letter
opener in his hand.  He jerked open the door and saw Williams kneeling in
the hallway, holding his head and moaning.  Williams suddenly looked up,
saw Marshon standing there, and reached for his handgun lying on the
floor.  Marshon attacked, and knocked Williams over.  He fell on top
of Williams and began to thrust the letter opener into the architect’s chest,
not once, but three or four times until the crazy, sick bastard ceased to move.

Marshon rolled onto his back, trying to get his
breath.  It felt as if a hot poker had been stuck in his back.  He
fought a wave of nausea that nearly caused him to faint.  He got up and
staggered toward the reception area.  He rounded the corner and saw the
women’s restroom.  He opened the door and dumbly flipped on the light
switch, which of course yielded no light.  He ran water in the sink and
washed his face.  Then, he felt along the wall until he found the towel
rack and a towel.

Marshon no longer considered the possibility of the
guard being in the suite.  He would have made his presence known by
now.  Marshon walked back to where Williams lay and stepped over his
body.  Now Marshon felt at home in the dark, and almost safe.  In a
storage room directly across from the conference room where they’d viewed the
video, Marshon found the circuit breaker box on a wall and began flipping
switches until the hall lights came on.  He went into the conference room,
flipped on the light switch, found his overcoat and put the laptop in a side
pocket.

Back near the copy center, he looked at Williams’s body
and the letter opener stuck in his chest.  The dead man’s eyes stared
vacantly at the ceiling.  Williams’s prayers had been answered; he hadn’t
died of brain cancer.  Marshon picked up his gun and put it in its
holster.

In the bathroom, Marshon turned on the lights but hardly
recognized the dazed face and slack mouth staring back at him from the
mirror.  He threw his overcoat over the door.  Blood covered the
front of his shirt, and he initially thought he’d been shot in the chest,
before realizing that it was Williams’s blood.

Marshon gingerly slipped off his suit coat and shirt,
turned around and looked over his shoulder into the mirror.  There was an
ugly hole in the lower left side of his back surrounded by concentric circles
of black, red, and pink.  He closed his eyes to fight off an attack of
lightheadedness.  He grabbed the sink for support.  He looked into
the mirror again and saw an exit hole on his side!  With great difficulty,
he felt around both areas, wincing in pain as he felt the sharp point of a
shattered rib.  There was remarkably little blood, but that could be a
sign of internal bleeding.  Nevertheless, Marshon had a growing feeling of
optimism.  He might yet get out of this mess alive.

Marshon ran cold water in the sink, soaked a large towel
in it, and wrapped it around his waist to cover the wounds.  He suddenly
felt better.  Deciding on a plan, he used his cell phone to call Widja.

“I had some problems selling insurance,” Marshon said
into the phone.  “You need to get out here to Corporate Center and help me
out.  You’ll see my BMW parked out front.  There’s a major cleaning
job on the third floor of Building 1223.  The offices of Williams, Grant
and Slocum.”  He shook his head trying to jar lose any other ideas and/or
needs.  “Oh, bring me a clean white dress shirt and a tie.”  He
didn’t say anything about the dead body, fearing even Widja would abandon him
then.

Marshon again felt faint and went to sit on a leather
sofa in the reception area and wait for Widja.  He leaned back and may
have fallen asleep for a half hour, until he was jarred awake by the office
doorbell.  Marshon jumped to his feet, igniting a fire in his back.
He moved close to the door, where he stood quietly and listened.

“It’s me, Widja,” a voice said.  Relieved, Marshon
opened the door.

“Any problems getting by the guard?”  Marshon
asked, as Widja held the door open for two co-workers who pushed and pulled a
cleaning cart into the waiting room.  A sturdy canvas trash bag occupied
most of the interior space of the three-by-five foot cart.  A narrow
compartment on one end held several long-handle cleaning tools, such as brooms
and mops.  There were shelves and hooks around the cart’s exterior to hold
solvents, soaps, cleansers, rags, and other tools of the janitorial trade.

“Gave him the name of a firm on the tenth floor.
Told him the regular crew couldn’t make it,” Widja said.  “He was gonna
call and check us out, but I bluffed him out of it by saying we’d leave and go
to the next job if he kept us waiting.”

“Where’s your truck?”

“Right out front.”

“You mean the guard can see it?”

“Yeah, man, you think it would have been less suspicious
to park the van around the corner and show up on foot with the cart?”

“You’re probably right.”  Widja and his crew were
janitors.  They cleaned offices in nearby buildings; maybe even this
building for all Marshon knew.  Still, they were a memorable trio, easily
described to the police.  Widja was short and wiry, whereas his
sister-in-law, Angela Dumont was tall and heavyset, with red hair.  The
other member of the crew, Leon, had vitiligo on his face and hands.

“What the fuck happened to you, man?”  Widja asked,
looking at his half-naked boss, friend and partner.

“The crazy fucker who runs this firm shot me during a
shakedown,” Marshon said.  “You should all put on latex gloves.”

Angela pointed at the towel around Marshon’s
waist.  “Let me take a look,” she said.  He took off the towel and
tossed it and his blood-soaked shirt into the canvas bag.

“Jesus, baby, that don’t look good,” Angela said.
“I got some tape and gauze.  I can put on a temporary bandage.  You
need to see a doctor.”

While she worked on him, Marshon took the wrapping off a
new white shirt and put the plastic, pins, and paper into the canvas bag.

“Okay, come with me,” he said, after Angela finished
applying a bandage and helped him on with his new shirt and suit coat.
“We got business to do and then we gotta get the fuck outta here!”  He
took them to where Williams’s body lay.

Leon knelt and examined the dead man.  “You stab
this muthafucker?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me anybody was dead here, man!” Widja
exclaimed, accusingly.

“Can you get the body out of here?”  Marshon asked,
again feeling faint.

Widja pulled the cleaning cart close and said, “I think
so.  Give me a hand, Leon.”

Marshon watched them put Williams inside the canvas bag
butt first so his knees touched his chest.  This head didn’t quite fit
until Widja shoved it down violently, which caused several bones to break and
crunch loudly.  Leon emptied several trashcans on top of Williams until
paper, cups and fast food wrappers covered the body of the dead architect.

“Check his gun,” Marshon said, handing it over.  “I
think he fired five times.”

Widja picked up the gun, flicked open the chamber,
nodded and said, “Yeah, he did.  At least, we got the brass.”  He put
the gun into a coat pocket.

Angela knelt to examine the carpet.  “You’re lucky
this carpet is dark brown,” she said.  “I can make these bloodstains hard
to see.  Now, if it was beige or white, baby ….”  She chuckled to
make her point.

“What about this door?”  Marshon asked, as Leon
fingered the bullet holes.

Widja again pondered the problem.  “Could just take
it off the hinges.”

Marshon brightened.  “There’s a storage room in the
back!”

Widja nodded.  “We’ll hide it there.  The
people who work here might not think nothin’ ’bout it at first.”

“I just wanna buy a little time, that’s all,” Marshon
said, gritting his teeth against the mounting pain.  They probably would
eventually figure out that some violent event occurred in the office suite,
especially after Williams disappeared.  However, Marshon figured it would
take them some time to get from A to Z and by then, hopefully, he would be long
gone.

“Don’t you think it’s best to get the body out of here?”
he asked Widja, seeking a second opinion.

“I’m assuming this guy visited your building?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then, finding his body in an alley downtown fits
that pattern.  It’ll throw them off a while, at least long enough for you
to get gone.”

“That’ll work.  We’ll get rid of all evidence that
he visited Boudra, and find out where else he was in the downtown area that
evening.”

Widja snorted.  “Hell, you was leavin’ anyway,
right!”

Marshon took them on a tour of the office, explaining
everything that happened.

“We’ll wipe the place for your fingerprints,” Widja
said.  “I got some spackling with me, so we can cover the bullet holes in
the drywall.  The white door, too.  We’ll vacuum for the lead.
Look inside that file cabinet for that bullet.  Put a calendar over
that hole.  That’s about all we can do, Marshon.”

“You need to get to a doctor,” Angela repeated.

“Help me with this tie,” Marshon asked Angela, as Widja
and Leon took the copy room door off its hinges.  After knotting his tie,
Angela used a cloth rag and a cleaning solution on his coat until the
bloodstains blended naturally into the dark blue material.  She then
helped him put on the overcoat.

“I’m leaving,” Marshon said, as Widja and Leon returned
from the storage room.  “Widja, call me later at Jake’s.  Don’t call
my cell phone.”

“Don’t worry,” Widja said, in a worried voice.
“We’ll clean this place up like a bunch of nigger janitors.  The security
guard may think we got done awful soon, but I can put him off.  Say we got
an emergency call.  Need some more supplies.  Will be right
back.  Whatever.”

Marshon nodded grimly.  The plan and alibi sounded
weak, but he couldn’t think of anything else at the moment.

Marshon got off the elevator in the lobby and strolled
briskly and businesslike to the guard station, where he picked up a pen and
signed Andre Touissant out.  He hoped the guard didn’t notice his hand
shaking.

“Mr. Williams comin’ down soon?” the guard asked.

“Shortly, I think,” Marshon said.  “He’s on the
telephone right now.”

Marshon had been upstairs for only about ninety minutes,
although it seemed like hours.  He walked out of the building past Widja’s
white van with the company name painted in blue on the side — Royal Janitorial
Service.  If they pulled this off, it would be a brazen accomplishment
indeed.

Marshon got into his BMW but didn’t immediately start
the engine.  He fantasized about how it would work out.  They’d dump
the diseased whoremonger’s body in an alley in a seedy area — maybe plant some
drugs on him.  The medical examiner would find the tumor and everything
would make sense. The security guard could implicate him and Widja, but maybe
they could bribe him — or threaten him into silence.  Marshon didn’t want
to think of any other alternatives.

The problem with such spur-of-the moment plans is that
they seldom work out.  Bad luck does go on a run, and events unfold so
unexpectedly and rapidly that planning becomes impossible.  Reaction and
spur-of-the-moment decisions rule.  The outcomes are unpredictable.
It’s called life.

17/Doing
God’s Work

The same night that
Marshon killed Michael Williams, Ace showed up at Kandie’s apartment about six
o’clock, shortly after she got home from her waitressing shift, and had picked
her kids up at a neighbor’s apartment.

They stood in the kitchen as Kandie hurried to put
together dinner, which was to be hot dogs, macaroni and cheese, and canned
corn.  She efficiently accomplished her task in about twenty minutes and
had the kids seated at the kitchen table, positioned so they could see the
television.  She and Act stood off to the side.

Ace had enjoyed his time with Kandie, but it was nearly
over.  She was a decent screw.  Every now and then, Ace took on a
steady girlfriend for a few weeks or months, just for the sheer convenience of
not having to hunt for pussy every night.  And, not having to make up lies
to satisfy insecure, needy women.  But, there was no way he would ever
settle down, get married, and work a boring, degrading job like the one he had
at Biederman’s, just for the benefits of the marital bed.  He didn’t want
to be with the same women for a lifetime, anyway, especially as she got older.
Youth and variety were the spice of life, and he was about to move on.
However, he wasn’t done using Kandie.

“I want to talk to you, Kandie.”

Her eyes widened and Kandie appeared fearful, as if she
heard that phrase before and knew that bad things usually followed.
“About what, Ace?”

Ace reached into his pocket and pulled out a large wad
of bills, consisting of about eight of the ten thousand given to him by
Marshon, on two separate occasions.  He began to peel off bills.
“You were telling me a couple of days ago that your washing machine is on the
fritz, that the kids need new clothes, and that you couldn’t afford to take
them to Six Flags.  Here’s fifteen hundred dollars to help with those
expenses.”

Kandie was stunned, impressed and grateful.  It
wouldn’t have surprised Ace had she offered to suck his dick as a gesture of
gratitude.  “Wow, Ace!”

“Yeah, wow.”

“Where’d you get the money, Ace?  I mean, you ain’t
working.”

“I ain’t working at Biederman’s, but I’m working some
deals, Kandie.”

“What kind of deals?”

He adopted a severe, disappointed look.  “That
ain’t none of your business, Kandie.  I don’t explain what I do.  I
thought you understood that?”

“Sure, Ace.  I didn’t mean nothin’.  Just
making conversation.”

Ace reached into a pocket of his leather jacket.
He took out one of the burner phones and placed it on the kitchen
counter.  “Here’s a prepaid cell phone, Kandie.  Keep it with you all
the time from now on.  Don’t use it to call anyone except me.  I put
my new number in the contact list.  I’m numeral uno on the speed
dial.  Don’t call me on your other, regular cell phone, understand?”

“Sure, Ace, whatever you say.  Is there some
reason?”

“Yeah, it has to do with one of my deals I’m trying to
keep secret from competitors, who I don’t want to steal my ideas.  That’s
all you need to know, Kandie.  Don’t give my new number to anyone else and
don’t let anyone use your new cell phone.  Okay?”

“Sure.”

Ace took her into his arms.  “I’m really trusting
you about this, Kandie.  If my plans work out, we’ll have a lot of
money.  A lot.  I just want to know that I can count on you to help
out when I need you.  I won’t have time to answer questions.”

Kandie looked up at him and said, breathlessly, “I’ll do
anything you want, Ace.  Anything.”

“Good, ʼcause you know the problem with a lot of
women, Kandie, is that they want to reform their man.  Tell him what he
can wear, think, eat and do.  I ain’t one of those guys, Kandie.  You
want one of those guys, they are a dime a dozen.”

“You’re one in a million, Ace,” she said, with
conviction.

“On the other hand, I can’t tell you what to do,
either,” Ace said, a sad look on his face.  “I can only ask you to do
something.  You can say no, which is your right.  But just
understand, Kandie, in that case, we’re definitely done.”  He took a step
back, and swiped one palm over the over.  Then, held both palms upward,
indicating he’d sweep their relationship away that fast.  Cleanly and
quickly.

“What do you want me to do, Ace?  I’ll do
anything so long as it don’t hurt my kids.”

“I would never ask that.”

“Okay, what do you want?”

“I don’t have all the details right now, Kandie.  I
just wanted to know if you were willing.  It’s not dangerous at all.
When I get things worked out, I’ll give you a call on that new cell phone.”

The doorbell to the apartment rang, and Ace said, “That
will be Country.  I invited him over for dinner.  Okay?”

“Sure, Ace.  I’ll put three more hot dogs in the
microwave.”

Ace let Country in, which prompted Lloyd to get up from
the dinner table and circle the two men, practicing his kickboxing routine
until Kandie came and swatted him on the butt and told him to sit back
down.  She then served Country’s dinner, which he beheld and said, with
relish, “This looks really good, Kandie!”

Ace sat at the table with the two older kids and
Country.  He leaned over and sniffed the air around Country.  “When’s
the last time you took a shower?”

Country looked perplexed.  “I dunno.”

Kandie opened the refrigerator, took out two bottles of
Corona in one hand, removed the caps with a bottle opener and handed one to
each man.

Country
provided the dinner entertainment.  The big oaf ate like a dog, opening
his mouth so wide to chew food they could see all his teeth, even the
molars.  Ace thought the idiot’s jaw might come unhinged.  After
exactly four crushing blows with those oversized yellow teeth, Country
swallowed.

Ace told Kandie, “His eating reminds me of the saying:
‘through the lips and over the gums, watch out stomach, here it comes!’”

After every swallow, the redneck tilted his beer bottle
and let the yellow, bubbly stuff fill his mouth until his cheeks bulged like a
chipmunk transporting nuts.  Then, as if a drain plug opened, the beer
rushed down his gullet.  Country belched and began the next cycle of
eating and drinking.

“I went to Biederman’s today to pick up my check and get
stuff outta my locker,” Country said, as a piece of hot dog fell out of his
mouth, causing Lloyd to lapse into uncontrolled laughter.

“And?” Ace prompted.

“Them two niggers, Davron and Fax, they was makin’ fun
of me and sayin’ I was your lapdog, Ace.  I told ʼem to suck my
dick.”

“Good for you, Country.”

Country’s eyes brightened and he leaned forward in
anticipation.  “Tell me again how they got those names, Ace?”

“That's easy to explain, Country.  You see, black
women fuck hundreds of guys.  They never know who their kid’s daddy is, so
they just name ʼem after the last two that dumped a load in
ʼem.  In this case, Dave and Ron.  Davron.”

“Oh, Ace,” Kandie tittered, although clearly
embarrassed.  She glanced at the two kids, a sick look on her face.

“Tell me about Fax!”  Country implored, his mouth
hanging open.

“Well, I figure his daddy faxed his cum to his momma
when she had the telephone shoved up her cunt.  It’s called nigger phone
sex.”

Country guffawed.  “Goddamned niggers!”

Ace watched Kandie squirm over his racist remarks,
although he knew she wouldn’t dare correct him.  “Hey, Country, let's
watch our language.”  Ace pointed at Lloyd, who appeared spellbound.
“Whadaya say, Bud?”

Lloyd’s eyes lit up.  “Watch me fight, Ace.”
The four-year-old stood and once again tried unsuccessfully to perform the kick
box routine Ace had showed him.

“Keep it up, tiger, and you’ll learn,” Ace said, patting
the boy on the head.

Later, after Carmen put Melody to bed and sent the two
older kids to their room to play, Ace suggested a game of gin rummy.  He’d
gotten fond of this pastime while both in the Navy and in prison.  He
patiently explained the game to Country, who nodded as if he understood.

“Just pick up a card and lay another one down,” Ace
said, exasperated.  “Try to find cards that look alike.  We’re really
playing each other, Kandie.”

Suddenly, car lights dimmed and brightened in rapid
succession, causing Ace to walk over and twist shut the vertical blinds
covering the patio doors.

“It’s probably just some high school kids messing around
in the parking lot,” Kandie said hastily.

Then a car horn sounded incessantly.

“What the fuck,” Ace said irritably, getting up
again.  “There ain’t no parking lot on this side of the building,
Kandie.  Just a street angling off the other way.  They’d have to
drive the car up on the lawn to shine the lights in here.”

“Just ignore it, Ace,” Kandie pleaded, reaching out an
arm to stop him.  “It’s probably just some drunk.  Don’t get
involved.  We don’t want the police out here.”

“Drunk or not, he keeps it up much longer and I’m gonna
go out and tell the sonofabitch to take his act somewhere else.”

Ace got three beers from the refrigerator and set them
on the table.  They resumed playing cards until the front door of the
apartment burst open, and Hank and Melvin walked in.  He recognized them
from the dust up at The Stadium.  His broken collarbone was still
an irritant.

“Since you wouldn’t come outside, we decided to come
in,” Hank said, holding up a key for everyone to see.

Ace saw the gun Hank had in his other hand and the
baseball bat Melvin carried.  “You two fuckers just don’t know how to
fight fair, do you,” he said, jerking Country to his feet and shoving him
several feet away so as to divide Hank and Melvin’s attention.

“Hank, what are you doing here?”  Kandie
demanded.  “You start any trouble and the police will come!”  She
walked to the hallway and locked the bedroom door where the two older kids slept.
Reversing the lock had been the only effective way to keep Lloyd in his room at
night.

“You’re gonna need an ambulance before the police,” Hank
said, causing Melvin to snicker.

Ace could tell both of them had been drinking to get
their courage up.  He smiled at Melvin, who still wore a strip of tape
across his broken nose.  In a perverse sense, Ace relished the energy and
anticipation the situation had created.

Hank waved the gun at Ace and Country.  “Both of
you lie face down on the floor.”

“No, please, Hank!”  Kandie cried.  “Let them
go and I’ll do anything you want.”

“What do you think, Melvin?”  Hank asked his
partner.  “You want to double dip Kandie after we take care of these two
pussies?”

While they discussed their sexual fantasies, Ace boldly put
his right boot on the chair, so he could easily reach one of the throwing
knives.  If Hank thought that was a suspicious motion, he didn’t react
quickly enough, because Ace extracted the knife and with the same motion
whipped it underhanded at a tremendous speed.  It didn’t even turn over as
the four-inch blade buried itself into Hank’s chest, at about the top of his
rib cage.  Hank dropped the gun, stepped backward, and stared stupidly at
the knife, as if a comet from outer space had just hit him.

Melvin froze initially, but then took two steps forward
and started to swing the bat at Ace, but Country charged him and grabbed the
bat in mid-air as if it were a toothpick.  Country flung the bat to the
floor and then grabbed Melvin by the neck with both hands, just as he’d done in
the bar.  He lifted Melvin off the floor, carried him three steps forward
and slammed his head against the front door.  The impact even made Ace
wince, although he recovered quickly and said, “Good job, Country!”

Country released his grip and Melvin fell to the
floor.  Ace repositioned himself and delivered a powerful kick to Melvin’s
face, knocking him unconscious.  The steel-toed boot knocked out two front
teeth, and split Melvin’s lip, which bleed profusely.  “That’s for the
broken collarbone, asshole!”

“Golly!” Country said, amazed at the rapid action that
took no more than fifteen seconds.

Kandie held her face and cried, but not loudly,
presumably so as not to disturb the kids.  But it was too late as Lloyd
banged on the locked door and shouted, “What’s goin’ on, Momma!”

She shouted.  “Nothing!  We got more company,
Lloyd.  Go to sleep!”

Hank had staggered backwards and collapsed onto a sofa,
where he continued to stare in amazement at the bloodstain spreading across the
front of his gray shirt.  His mouth formed words that never came
out.  Finally, his eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped
sideways.  Ace bent over him and pulled his knife from Hank’s stomach, and
then wiped the blade on Hank’s shirt to remove the blood.

“Jesus, Ace, I think you killed Hank,” Kandie said,
without much emotion.

Ace put two fingers to the side of Hank’s neck.
“Nah, he just passed out.”  Ace knelt and similarly checked Melvin, who
also was unconscious but had a rapid heartbeat.

“What are we going to do?”  Kandie said, hugging
herself and hopping up and down in fear.

“We’ll take them to the hospital,” Ace said, putting the
throwing knife back in the boot holster.  He fished in Hank’s pocket to
find his car keys.  He picked up Hank’s gun and jammed it behind his
pants’ belt.

“That’s a good idea, Ace,” Kandie said.  “Isn’t
it?  I mean, they had a gun and a baseball bat.  No one can blame you
for defending us, can they?”

“Nope,” Ace said calmly.  “I’ll take care of
everything.  Don’t worry, Kandie.  You just keep quiet about all
this.  Don’t call anyone.  Understand?  I’ve had some trouble
with the police before.  They might try to frame me for this.”

“Really, Ace?”

He walked over and stood in front of her.
“Yeah.  They’re sure to ask about you and Hank and your relationship, and
how he used a key to get into your apartment.  They might call it a
lover’s triangle or something like that.  Say it started that day Hank and
Melvin attacked us in The Stadium.  They might even think you set
Hank up by inviting him over tonight so he’d start a fight and I’d kill
him.  Even if the police only took you in for questioning, they’d probably
call Children and Family Services to take your kids.  We don’t want that,
baby, do we?”

Kandie put her hands to her face.  “Oh, no,
Ace!  No.”

Lloyd continued to pound on the door and demand to be
let out.  Cindy, on the other hand, didn’t say a word.

“I’ll make sure everything works out fine,” Ace
said.  “We’ll talk tomorrow, Kandie.  Until then, you keep all this
to yourself, okay?”

“Okay, Ace.  Be careful.”

“What kind of car does Hank drive?”

“A red Firebird, remember.”

Ace parted the patio door blinds and looked out at the
car parked on the street.  “Wrap a towel around Hank so he doesn’t bleed
on anything,” he said.  “I'll be right back.”

He went out the north exit and jogged across the lawn to
the Firebird.  Using the remote key, he opened the trunk to look at the
contents.  He saw a pair of leather gloves, which he put on.  He
grabbed a large toolbox and closed the trunk lid.  He opened the front
door and slid the toolbox onto the floor behind the driver’s seat.  He got
in, started the car, and drove around to the south entrance.  He backed
the car into an area painted with white hash marks.  Beyond that, a
sidewalk led to the apartment hallway.  He kept the motor running and
popped the trunk lid.  Standing beside the car, Ace looked around the
apartment complex, but didn’t see anyone.

Inside the apartment, Ace kissed Kandie, whose cheek
felt like ice.  “We're gonna go now, sweetheart.  Stay inside.
I’ll call you later on your new cell phone.  Don’t call anyone, not even
Carmen.”

“Oh, Ace, I'm so scared.”

He told Country, “Get Melvin up.  Put his arm over
your shoulder like he’s drunk and you’re helping him to the car.”  Ace
demonstrated with Hank.  “Get the door, Kandie, and check the hallway.”

She peered into the hallway and said, “It's clear.”

With Ace leading the way, they carried and dragged the
two semiconscious men toward the Firebird’s open trunk.  Ace threw Hank in
first and Country did the same with Melvin.

Holding the trunk lid so it was nearly closed, Ace
looked around but still didn’t see anyone.  That didn’t mean someone in an
adjoining building wasn’t peeking through the blinds.  He also knew that
most people didn’t like to get involved in potential trouble.

“What’re we gonna do now, Ace?”

Ace had already decided.  “Get in.  You’re
gonna drive the Firebird.”

“Where we going, Ace?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.”

After Country got into the car, Ace lifted the trunk
lid, his eyes darting left and right.  A light illuminated the trunk and
its contents.  Ace again had a knife in hand.  He pulled the towel
from around Hank’s upper body and held it in his right hand as a splatter
shield.  Ace stabbed Melvin in the throat, thrusting at an angle so the
blood would shoot out to the side.  The arcing, blackish-red stream
initially soaked the front of Hank’s flannel shirt, and then became a trickle.

Ace reached across Melvin and slapped Hank’s face
several more times until he revived.  Hank stared incomprehensibly at Ace,
who said, “Your little game didn’t turn out to be any fun at all, did it,
motherfucker?”  He slit Hank’s throat across the Adam’s apple.  The
tissue was a pristine pinkish color just before the rush of blood.

Ace used the towel to wipe blood from his knife and
gloves.  He took off the gloves and put them in a back pocket.  Then,
Ace slammed the trunk lid, looked around, and put the knife in its boot
holster.  He walked to the driver’s side of the Pontiac and said to
Country, “Give me the keys to your pickup.  I’ll follow you.”

“We goin’ to the hospital, Ace?”

“Naw, I just checked and those guys aren’t hurt that
bad.  They’ll be up and walkin’ pretty soon.”

“Really, Ace?”

“Yeah.  Don’t you fish around here?”

“Yeah,” Country replied, stupefied.

“Any deep lakes or quarries nearby?”

Country thought for a few minutes.  “There’s a big
lake in Canyon Park.  They stock it with bass, Ace.  ’Cept, you gotta
throw back any fish that’s under ten inches.”  Country held out both hands
to demonstrate.

“How far is that?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“Okay, that’s where we’re goin’.”

“What we gonna do with those guys in the trunk, Ace?”

Ace explained patiently.  “We're gonna run their
car into the lake and make them walk back to town, Country.”

Country began his hiccup-type chuckling.  “That’s a
good one, Ace.”

“Drive carefully, Country.  You don’t want the cops
picking you up tonight.”

Ace
jogged back to Kandie’s apartment and knocked on the door.  She opened it
and said, fearfully, “Yeah?”

“Country’s
on the way to the hospital.  I’m gonna follow in his pickup.  I’ll
get my car later.  I want you to clean up any blood you can find on the
sofa, the door or the floor.  Use Clorox.  Okay?”

“Sure,
Ace, anything you say.”

∞
∞  ∞

Ace followed the Firebird
as it left the apartment complex, turned south on a state highway and then onto
the beltway that circled the city.  Within ten minutes, Country turned off
the beltway onto a blacktopped county road.  After traveling about eight
miles west, the Firebird turned north into Canyon Park.  A sign at the
entrance warned that the park closed promptly at 11 p.m.  It was
nine-thirty.

They drove both vehicles over the dam of the lake that
Ace calculated to be nearly a mile long and a quarter-mile wide.
Immediately after he crossed the dam, Country turned the Firebird into a
parking space within twenty feet of the lake.  A solitary street light
illuminated the area.

Ace parked the pickup beside the Firebird and rolled
down the passenger’s side window.  “Too much light here,” he said to
Country.  “And the ground is too level.  Is there some place dark
where we can get close to the lake?  That’s like on a hill?”

The act of thinking brought a pained look to Country's
face.  “There’s a baseball field where they only turn the lights on during
a game, I think.”

They drove to another parking lot that separated the
baseball field from the east end of the lake.  They parked both vehicles
in front of a metal guardrail separating the graveled parking area from the
field.  Ace got out of the pickup and surveyed the scene.  He stepped
over the guardrail and walked to a high bank about five feet above the
water.  Country got out of the Firebird to join him.

“How deep is it here?”  Ace asked.

“It drops off pretty quick, Ace.  I fished off the
bottom here once.  It’s probably about fifteen feet, I guess.”

Ace inspected the steel guardrail closely.  Bolts
and nuts attached eight-foot sections of the railing to four-inch square wood
posts.  He didn’t like having to mess with it but this area was the only
accessible dark spot on the lake.  Best of all, the land sloped toward the
lake.

Ace took the toolbox from the backseat of the
Firebird.  He rummaged through it until he found a Crescent wrench.
He handed it to Country and said, “Use this to remove those bolts on the
guardrail, and then take out the section right in front of the Firebird.”

While Country went about his task, Ace kept a watch in
case the park rangers decided to do an early drive-through before closing.

“I’m done, Ace.”

Ace again put on the gloves, opened the driver’s side
door of the Firebird, reached in and turned the ignition key.  The car
started to life for one final time.  Ace picked up the section of
guardrail and placed one end of it on the accelerator.  He reached into
the car and slipped the gear selection lever into drive.  Then, he pressed
hard on the accelerator with the steel beam and ran alongside the car as it
picked up speed.  He let go of the guardrail at the last minutes.  It
fell to the ground as the Firebird went over the embankment and into the
water.  At first, it seemed the car had not landed far enough out in the
lake.  However, the Firebird inched forward and downward slowly.  It
disappeared in less than a minute.

“But Hank and Melvin are still in the trunk,” Country
protested.  “They’ll drown!”

“Think so,” Ace said scornfully, as he picked up the
section of guardrail and put it back in place, held only by two bolts.  He
didn’t bother to tighten the nuts.  Then, Ace took off the bloody gloves
and walked toward the pickup.  “You drive,” he said to Country.
“We’ll go to Rhonda’s trailer and stay there again this evening.”

Country remained sullen, and pouted as he drove back
toward the city.

“Look, they was fuckin’ with us,” Ace said.  “If
they coulda, they’d’ve shot us or busted our brains open with that bat,
right?  We’d be dead now.  Would you feel better then?”

“You should’ve told me what we was doin’, Ace.”

“Why?  So you could chickenshit out?  Tell me
I couldn’t do it.”

Country sulked.  “No.”

Ace rolled down the window and threw the gloves into the
ditch alongside the road.  “Look, when you was a kid, you probably had a
bunch of cats and dogs on that farm where you grew up in Dogpatch, right.
When a new litter arrived, did you keep all of ʼem?”

Country's eyes brightened with the memory.  “No, if
we couldn’t sell ʼem, Daddy would put ʼem in a sack and drop ʼem
in the lake!”

Ace laughed.  “There you go.  We just did the
same thing, Country.  There’s a helluva lot more people in the world than
there are cats.  There really ain’t any difference.  Some animals is
good, right?  And, some is mean.  We just got rid of two mean and
useless human beings.”

Country turned his head and flashed a half-witted
smile.  “If you say so, Ace.”

To Ace, there really was no difference at all.

But doubts still plagued the moron.  “It ain’t right to kill
people, Ace.”

“Says
who?”

As
if reciting, Country said, “My Mom and Dad said it was against God’s law.
Thou shalt not kill.”

“And
what the fuck’s God gonna do about it?”

“You’ll
go to hell, Ace.”

“What
happens to you there, dummy?”

“You
burn for all eternity.”

“How
long’s that?” Ace asked, relinquishing the interrogation.

Country
squinted, searching for the answer.  “I don’t know, Ace.  A long time,
I guess.”

“If
there is a God, Country, he’s as psychotic as I am.  He does a million
times more damage in a minute than you or I could do in a lifetime.”

“You
sure, Ace?”

“Positive.
God kills people all the time, by the hundreds, thousands and millions.
Men, women and children.  He does it with cancer, accidents, fire, murder,
earthquakes and wars.  Religious wars.  He must spend most of his
time trying to figure how to torture and kill his creations.  Once, he got
pissed and drowned everyone except Noah and his animals.  All because they
wouldn’t do what he told them.  I’m not sure there is a God, Country,
except the one people invented so they wouldn’t go crazy with the fear of
dying.  Life is mainly about dying, Country.  It’s what we’re aiming
for from the day we’re born.  So there ain’t no use being afraid of it,
right?”

“I
guess so, Ace.”

Ace
smiled broadly.  “Everybody dies, so if you kill ʼem a few years
early, it don’t mean anything.  Not if you’re dead for eternity, right,
Country?”

“If
you say so, Ace.”

Ace
continued his religious instruction, although he had to contradict a previous
statement.  “You know what I think, Country.  I think God wanted Hank
and Melvin dead so he could fry their asses in hell.  And, he used me and
you to get the job done.”

Country
mouth dropped open, and he looked truly amazed and perplexed.

“Never
thought of it that way, did you, Country?”

“No.
You think God’s using us to do his work, Ace?  Momma said he does that
sometimes.”

“Absolutely.
He spoke to me earlier today, in fact.  Told me to kill Melvin and Hank so
I could save Kandie and her three children.  We did God’s work tonight,
Country.”

Country
smiled, set up straighter in the driver’s seat, and looked proud.

“It’s
in the good book, Country.  That shalt not disobey the Lord thy God, nor
those who God appoints to do his work.  Didn’t you learn that in church,
Country?”

“I
think so, Ace,” Country said, looking as if he actually believed such
instruction had been given to him.

“Well,
then, do as God and I tell you, okay?”

“But
what if the cops find out you killed Hank and Melvin.”

“They
ain’t gonna, unless you tell someone.  How else would they find out?”

“I
ain’t gonna say nothin’, Ace.”  Country used his free hand to zip his
lips.

“And
what if they did find out?  They’d give us a trial and maybe execute us a
decade later.  We’d just be helped on our way to eternity a bit
early.  No big deal, Country.”  Ace didn’t reveal that the only
fingerprints in the car other than Hank’s and Melvin’s belonged to Country.

“I
don’t want ʼem to stick that needle in my arm, Ace.”

“If
you’ve done everything you want to do in life, it wouldn’t make any difference,
Country.  The only sin is not doing what you want just because someone
says you can’t or you don’t have enough money.  ’Cause once you die, you
don’t get to come back and do things you missed out on the first time.
Forget all that life after death crap.”

“What
ain’t you got to do yet, Ace?”

They
were now back into the suburbs and headed south.  Ace felt free and
relaxed.  He cracked the window a few inches and lit up a Camel to aid his
recollection.  “A few things, Country.  I’ve had the best food and
drink and fucked many good-lookin’ women, whether they wanted to or not.
But, I ain’t traveled all over the world trying out different food and
different pussy.  I’d like to fuck a Jap, and a cunt from India.  I
ain’t never owned a Jaguar or a mansion with a swimming pool.  A
yacht.  Stuff like that.  You know why?”

“No.”

“Same
reason you ain’t got a new pickup, a motorhome, and a fishin’ boat.”

“’Cause
I ain’t got the money?”

“Bingo!
If we had the money, we could do all those things and then die happy.
Right, Country?”

Ace
watched the idiot’s defective brain work its calculations.  “That’s right,
Ace.  I could buy all that stuff if I had the money.  I wouldn’t be a
wannabe no more.”

“You
know what the bonus is, Country?  Getting the money that allows you to do
what you want is the only real challenge in life.  The best game in
town.  Money won or taken from someone who doesn’t deserve it is a hundred
times sweeter than money earned in some drudge job like Biederman’s.
Living on the edge and flirting with death is the only narcotic I need.
In fact, Country, if you live that way, death is the ultimate prize.  If
you live life your way and do what you want and get what you want, there’s no
reason to fear death.  Is there?”

Country
smiled broadly, showing yellow teeth that he never brushed.  “If you say
so, Ace.”

“Indeed,
I do, Country.  Indeed, I do.  I am God’s messenger.  You do
what I say, Country, and you will soon have everything you want.”

“Okay,
Ace,” Country said, smiling.  He apparently had forgotten all about Hank
and Melvin, just as he’d mourned only briefly the fate of the kittens his daddy
dropped into the lake.

In
the days to come, Country did exactly as Ace instructed, but he didn’t get what
he wanted.  He got what he feared, and possibly deserved.

18/A
Contagion Of Disaster

After he killed Michael Williams and left the
building, Marshon didn’t leave Corporate Woods right away.  Instead, he
sat in his BMW and watched the front door of the building.  He had to know
that Widja and his crew got away safely.  It would affect his plans.
While he waited, Marshon made a phone call.

He needed medical attention for the gunshot wound,
although he couldn’t just show up at any hospital emergency room.  They
would be required by law to call the police and file a report.  He punched
speed dial number two on his cell phone, and Jemmy Shoemaker answered on the
second ring.

“I got trouble, brother.  Need to see The Knife, or
someone like him if he ain’t available.  Can you make the arrangements for
me?”

“What happened?” Jemmy asked.

Marshon worried about a tap on his phone.  “The
insurance sale fell through.  I’ll tell you the details later.”

“Okay.”

“A couple of other precautions — just in case, you
understand.  Get into the wall safe in my apartment, brother.  The
combination is my birthday.  All eight digits.  The only thing that’s
in the safe is a zipper pouch, about eight by four.  Put the pouch and a
change of clothes in that small overnight bag of mine.  Throw in my
toothbrush, too.”

Marshon then waited for the call back, knowing he could
be bleeding internally, cutting down the odds of a successful recovery.
If something went wrong in the next hour or so, the police could broadcast his
name and picture, and then everyone might back away from helping him, even if
he doubled their fee.

Marshon took deep, relaxing breaths to implement a form
of yoga he learned years ago.  If he could control his emotions, he could
control his pain and make rational decisions.  Never let emotions dictate
thought or action.

In about twenty-five minutes, Angela and Leon come out
the front door, smiling and pushing the cart leisurely ahead of them toward the
van.  Widja then appeared in the doorway along with the elderly guard, who
towered over Widja.  They appeared to be having an amicable
conversation.  Widja was doing his best shuckin’-and-jivin’ routine.

Then, the security guard pointed at the cleaning cart
and all three janitors stiffened.  Leon tried to move to the side, so they
had the old man flanked.  But the guard put a hand on his gun and waved
Leon back.  Angela slowly opened the van’s sliding door and then
unobtrusively walked around to the driver’s side door.  Thin as a shadow,
Widja held up both hands in an expression of defeat as if to say, Go on and
look inside the damn cart if you want, old man.  It was Widja’s last
bluff.  Marshon wasn’t overly worried since Williams’s body had been covered
with paper and other trash.

Then, the unimaginable happened.  The security
guard produced a telescoping probe and began moving around the trash.
About the time he jumped back as if snakebit, Widja and Leon rushed through the
open side door into the van as Angela sped away.  The security guard tried
to draw his gun but dropped in on the sidewalk.  Then he put a cell phone
to his ear.  Marshon shook his head, started the BMW and drove toward the
parking lot exit leading to 119th Street.

He soon got a call from Jemmy and drove north on Grumman
Parkway to Memorial East Hospital, which was only about five blocks east of his
apartment building.  He parked in the physicians’ parking lot and again
called Jemmy.

When his first lieutenant answered, Marshon asked,
“Where you at?”

“Standing outside the emergency room entrance.”

Marshon got out of the car and walked toward Jemmy, who
stood outside the double automatic doors near an evergreen bush that shielded
him from the wind.  He rubbed his hands together and blew on them to ward
off the cold.

“Anybody come looking for me at the apartment building
before you left?”  Marshon asked.

“No, man,” Jemmy replied, his breath turning to fog in
the cold night air.  “What happened?”

“Turns out Williams was just as crazy tonight as he was
with Boudra.  I was on his bucket list, as in kill a nigger and mount his
head in the reception area.  He shot me in the back, but I stabbed him to
death.”

Jemmy shook his head in a gesture of confusion.
“What didn’t you use your gun?”

“I can’t get into the details, now, man,” Marshon said,
wearily.  “So, The Knife agreed to see me?”

“Yeah, he’s expecting you.”  Jemmy handed over a
small valise.  “The pouch, your clothes and toothbrush are in the
bag.  What else can I do?”

Marshon looked up at the night sky, obviously struggling
to think.  “Call Boudra and tell her there’s the possibility of a police
raid.  The women should get all the video recording equipment out of their
apartments and take it down to the hallway just inside the front entrance.
Call your brother, Darieon, or whoever’s available that you can trust, and tell
them to get over to the building, pick up that equipment, the laptops, all the
disks, and put them into one of the storage units where we keep our gambling
equipment.  Be sure and get my other laptop out of my apartment.
It’s laying on the coffee table.”

“I can get Darieon to do all that,” Jemmy said.

Perhaps Marshon was being overly cautious, or maybe he
was just being prudent.  Time would tell.  As a professional gambler,
Marshon always calculated odds, including the likelihood of ordinary and
extraordinary events.  The old security guard would have to be senile not
to have gotten Widja’s company name and number off the truck.  The snoopy
bastard probably jotted that information down when Widja and his crew first
showed up.  If he weren’t snoopy and/or a racist, he’d never have asked to
look inside the canvas trash bag.  The cops might not immediately
recognize Marshon from the building surveillance video.  Once they had
Widja’s name, they’d make a connection to him.  Among Widja’s
acquaintances most likely to have killed Williams, Marshon stood head and
shoulders above everyone else.

Marshon calculated that the odds were two-to-one that
the police would show up at his apartment building within forty-eight
hours.  Ten-to-one that they would have a search warrant at the time,
although the search would be fruitless, in terms of connecting him to
Williams.  He probably had three days to get safely out of town.  He
only had one-chance-in-three of getting away scot-free.

Marshon already was concocting a statement of innocence
if the police picked him up.  He would deny everything.  Immediately
ask for Saperstein.  Tell the lawyer to tell the cops that Marshon visited
Williams to hire him to design a new bar or restaurant.  Someone must have
killed the architect after he left.  That would explain any fingerprints
in Williams’s office suite that Widja and his crew didn’t wipe out.

If they discovered his wound, that story wouldn’t hold
up, though.  He could claim to have been accidentally shot.  But, if
the police found traces of his blood and DNA in the architect’s office, that
would be another complicating factor.  If, in their investigation, the
police discovered that Williams had visited Marshon’s whorehouse, that would be
yet another dent in his alibi.  They might find the bullets he fired, but
they’d never find the gun, although he couldn’t lose it right now.  What
if the cops got Boudra or any of the other women under the hot lights in the
police interrogation room?  What if Widja, Angela, and Leon rolled over on
him to save themselves?  All these thoughts bounced around in Marshon’s
head.  It might be best if he just went with a slight variation of the
truth.  He confronted Williams about beating on Boudra, admittedly in
hopes of compensation, and then the diseased maniac went off on him.
Would an autopsy reveal a brain tumor, or was that just a story?  Marshon
recalculated his odds of getting away at ten-to-one against.

Ending his calculations with a philosophical acceptance
of the likely outcome, Marshon told Jemmy, “If everything goes south, I’ll say
you accidentally shot me when you were cleaning your gun while I visited in
your apartment.”

“And I lost the gun?”

“It happened right before I went to see Williams in his
office in Corporate Woods.”

“You got shot and took a business meeting before seeing
a doctor?” Jemmy asked, skeptically.

“It’s always hard to get a doctor appointment right
away.”  Marshon shook his head and laughed at the ridiculous alibi.
“It’s the only thing I can think of right now that would explain my blood in
Williams’s office.”

“I’ve heard worse alibis — I think.”

“Okay, I’m gonna go see The Knife now.”

“While you’re inside, I’ll take care of everything we
talked about.”

“See you later, man.”

Marshon walked into the emergency room and approached
the reception desk.  He told the nurse there he needed to speak to
Dr.  Maxwell Cunningham — a black surgical resident known in the
African-American community as Max the Knife.  He augmented his meager
income by working off the books treating stab and gunshot wounds, drug
overdoses, sexual diseases, and any other injury or malady a patient wanted to
keep private, especially as far as the police were concerned.  The Knife
usually did his repair work in the dark recesses of the hospital or in the back
room of a chiropractic clinic where he had an arrangement with a brother who
realigned spines.

Marshon sat in the waiting room along with a woman
holding a wailing child, a young man with a bloodied and obviously broken nose,
and a street person who appeared dirty, drunk and diseased.  A security
guard standing across the room made Marshon especially nervous.

Dr. Cunningham soon appeared, considered the patients
and then walked over to Marshon and said, “I’m Dr.  Cunningham.  You
asked for me?”

Marshon stood and whispered in the doctor’s ear, “Yeah,
I need some special treatment.  My friend called you.  I’m Marshon
Johnson.”

The Knife gave him the once-over and then led the way
down several hallways to a supply room.  He used a key to open the
door.  “We’ll have complete privacy in here,” the doctor said, leading the
way to the back of the room where twin beds were arranged in an L-shape.
“Interns and residents sleep in here sometimes.”

The Knife, a thin man with delicate features, helped
Marshon take off his overcoat, suit coat and shirt.  Marshon tried to
control his shivering by attempting to calculate the doctor’s extralegal
income.  How many unreported gunshot and knife wounds occurred each
week?  Did the doc do other surgical procedures off the books, such as
appendectomies and abortions?  Did he harvest kidneys from donors selling
their organs in the black market?  Marshon wondered how much he could make
as a broker, if he set up an underground medical clinic and put the word on the
street.

“It looks like the bullet hit a rib and exited out the
side,” the Knife said, “but we won’t know for certain until I see some X-rays.”

“There can’t be any paperwork on this.”

“That’s possible, if the pay is right.  My
colleague in X-ray will want to know his cut.”

“Give me an estimate, including maximum insurance
coverage that makes certain no one, and I mean no one, hears about this.”

“The X-rays will tell us whether you’ll need surgery.
Without surgery, five thousand.  With surgery, at least twenty grand,
’cause then, you see, we need a surgical suite, anesthesiologist, nurse, et
cetera.”

Ever the businessman unwilling to buy a pig in a poke,
Marshon said, “I have the money with me and I’ll pay you when you have a final
diagnosis.”

The Knife wheeled Marshon to the X-ray department where
a technician took several X-rays.  While he and The Knife examined them
and deliberated, Marshon lay on a table used to take overhead X-rays.  Eventually,
The Knife appeared and said, “You were lucky.  There’s no internal
bleeding or damage to organs or major blood vessels, at least none we can see
at this time without an MRI.  The bullet apparently hit at an angle and
exited.  Fractured and splintered one of your ribs.  Some doctors
might open you up to clean out the splinters, maybe put some screws and a plate
in that rib.  But given your circumstances and the inherent risks of
surgery, I say we clean and suture the wound, bandage it, get you started on
antibiotics, and let your body repair the damage.”

“What if something goes wrong?”

“We’ll know that within a few days.  Then we do an
MRI and operate.”

Right there in the X-ray department, the Knife deadened
the area around the wounds, sewed it shut, and applied a bandage around
Marshon’s torso.  The doctor gave him a box containing pill samples, a
prescription for more, and said, “Get started on these antibiotics and take to
your bed.  I can come by, check the wound and redress it, if you give me a
location.  You need to be down for a couple of days and close by.
There also are some pain pills in the box.”

While The Knife busied himself putting away various
items, Marshon opened the zippered pouch, which contained $75,000, Marcus
Jones’s I.D., including a U.S. Passport, and an eight-gigabyte flash drive
containing all his important computer documents.  There was also a second
USB flash drive that contained highlights of action at The Wheel and the
apartment over the last three years.  Marshon had shown some of the video
to the County Attorney’s lead investigator, in hopes of heading off the grand
jury investigation.  Now, the County Attorney might amend the charges to
include the murder of Michael Williams.

Marshon gave The Knife $5,000 and said he’d get back to
him with his location for the post-operative checkup.

Outside in the parking lot, Marshon looked around until
he saw Jemmy leaning against his black Cadillac.

Marshon walked over to his friend and said, “The good
news is that there’s no serious damage.  I can recover on my own.  I
just got to find a place to lay low for maybe two, three nights until
everything looks okay.  I’ll probably need that time to make arrangements,
anyway.”

“It’ll have to be a safe place, nowhere the cops would
automatically look.”

“I know.  I don’t think they can make an iron clad
case against me for days, maybe weeks, especially if I get Saperstein
involved.  Even if they were to arrest me, I’d make bail and skip
then.”  Marshon thought about that possibility and concluded that he might
lose the apartment building, if he had to put it up as collateral for a high
bail.  Even if the bail was $1 million, he could raise the 10 percent down
payment somehow.  Maybe sell his business investments to his partners.

“Darieon is taking care of the apartment and getting the
equipment to storage,” Jemmy said.  “I called all the hookers and they
agreed to lay off business for a few days.  You’ll love this: Boudra says
some of them are talking about taking a cruise in the Caribbean and planning
their future strategy.  I’m sure they’d try to do some business on the
high seas.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Marshon, who smiled and then
started to laugh, except he quit immediately, since it caused his wound to
ache.

“What now?”

“I gotta find Widja and take care of him and the
others,” Marshon said.  “A security guard caught them trying to remove
Williams’s body.”

“They gonna hafta go on the lam,” Jemmy said,
emphatically.

“Absolutely.  They can’t stay here.”

“Shit.  Guess Widja and I ain’t gonna partner on
nothin’.”

“That’s right.  It’s all yours now, but we’ll talk
about that later.”

Jemmy handed over a prepaid phone.  “Gimme your
smart phone, Marshon.  Use this burner to call me and Widja.  We’ll
switch again tomorrow after you get settled.  You got a place in mind
where you can recuperate?”

“I got an idea about hiding in plain sight.  You’re
really in charge of everything now, Jemmy.”

“I’ll take care of it, boss,” Jemmy said, reaching for
the door handle to his car.  Marshon put out a restraining hand.  He
thought furiously, fighting through the pain.  If he forgot something
important now, it could be fatal.  “I’ll need another fake driver’s
license, with a matching credit card.  You know Maleeka Mankin, who runs
that print shop over on Mason Avenue?”

“Yeah, we done some business with him.”

Marshon counted out twenty-five hundred dollars from the
cash in the zippered pouch.  “Tell him it’s a rush job.  The best
he’s got.  Something good for a week.  If he needs a photo of me,
tell him to copy the one off my Facebook page, but alter it to make me look
older, with gray hair.”

Maleeka’s print business was a dying service, but not so
the illegal operation he ran on the side.  Many people on the East Side
knew that Maleeka would buy the driver’s license and credit cards of people who
died, especially if it was a nonviolent death.  Maleeka had a
laser-etching machine that would etch out the existing photo on a driver’s
license.  Then, he would superimpose another photo, leaving intact all the
other information on the card, including the hologram designed to prevent
forgeries.  Those who sold these cards to Maleeka delayed reporting to the
credit card company that their relative or friend had died, and that his or her
I.D. and credit cards had disappeared or perhaps been stolen.  In the
meantime, the person who bought the I.D. and credit cards had time to use them
before they became hot.

It was a great business for everyone involved: grieving
friends and relatives earned a few hundred dollars to help with funeral and
burial expenses; Maleeka made money selling the forgeries; those who bought the
cards were rewarded with clothes, expensive electronic equipment or ATM
withdrawals.  Best of all, friends and family of the deceased were not
responsible for the debts, since they’d dutifully reported the theft or
disappearance of the I.D. and credit cards as soon as they became aware that
they were gone.

Marshon was juggling many balls and he didn’t want to
drop one.  He needed to get out of town without being recognized and
arrested.  He couldn’t afford to have the police learn about Marcus Jones
and confiscate that I.D., since that would eventually lead to his island home
and his offshore bank account.  If he lost the house and his money, then
the last seven years had been for nothing other than a sparsely furnished
six-by-eight foot jail cell without a window.  Marshon couldn’t leave the
Marcus Jones’s identity in his apartment safe, although he hated carrying it
around, but there didn’t seem to be another option.  He might have to toss
it out the car window in an emergency.

Marshon figured the BMW wouldn’t be hot until daybreak,
so he drove over to Jake’s Original Barbecue, arriving shortly after
midnight.  He sat in a booth near the rear exit and the pay phone that might
be the last one in the city.  He asked the waitress for a double Johnny
Walker Black on the rocks and gave her a fifty.  “Keep an eye on the
street, Shaquira.  Let me know if you see the heat coming.”  He owned
part of the place and they would protect him.  There was a trapdoor behind
a washing machine in the back that opened into a small crawl space beneath the
building.

Marshon washed down the painkillers with the Scotch and
waited.  He heard the weather report on a radio playing in the
kitchen.  The weatherman predicted rain possibly turning to sleet for this
first weekend in November.  The pay phone rang and Marshon flinched at the
sound, which made his wound ache something terrible.

He got up gingerly and answered the phone, “Yeah?”

“Widja.”

“Where you at?  We need to talk right away.”

“Autumn Valley Park.  Be there in fifteen
minutes.  Park on Memphis Avenue near the picnic shelter closest to the
lake.”

As Marshon drove to the park, he thought about his
grandmother’s saying that bad luck ran in threes.  He’d got shot, the old
guard blew the cover-up.  What next?

He sat at a table in a far corner of the pavilion so he
could see the road in both directions.  He had the thirty-eight in hand,
hidden from view.  It was very cold.  When Marshon shivered, his
wound hurt.

Within a few minutes of their appointed time, Widja
walked over a steep hill to the south of the shelter.  He’d obviously been
waiting in the dark, and watching.  Paranoia was as thick and pervasive
tonight as the clouds in the sky that obscured the moonlight.  It had
begun to rain lightly.

“Now what?”  Widja asked, sitting across from
Marshon.

“We gotta figure the cops’ll put it all together
sometime tomorrow.”

“We’re all fucked,” Widja replied angrily.  “I
fucked myself.  I never should have done this in the first place.  It
was dumb.  Dumb!  I figured I owed you, Marshon, especially since
you’ve always done for me.  First, my business and now you turning The
Wheel over to me and Jemmy.  That’s all shit now, and jail is a real
possibility.”

Marshon understood.  Recriminations were the first
order of a defeated team, even among teammates.  Widja, Angela, and Leon
were totally compromised, just like him.  They all had two choices: turn
themselves in or go on the lam, and the latter choice cost money.  If
Marshon didn’t help Widja and the others, they’d have to give him up.  It
was the code of the street.

Marshon took all the remainder of the cash from the
pouch and counted out fifty thousand, which he laid on the table.  “I had
Jemmy get all of my cash out of the safe in my apartment.  Seventy-five
thousand.  I gave five to The Knife and had to give up twenty-five hundred
for another service.  Here’s fifty for you guys.  I’ll need the
rest.  It’s the best I can do on short notice, Widja.”

Widja shook his head in disbelief.  “You doin’ a
million-a-year business, Marshon, and this is all the cash you got on hand?”

“Swear to God, man, I ain’t fuckin’ you over.  Call
Jemmy if you don’t believe me.  Besides, you saw my account sheets a few
days ago.  I told you, I put most of my money in an offshore bank.
Plus, I made too many local investments too fast lately.  I’ve been
strapped for cash for some time now.  Why you think I was shaking down
that bastard Williams?”

“I’ll have to leave my wife and kids behind,” Widja
said.  “They’ll need money.  I might not ever be able to come
back.  There’ll always be a fuckin’ warrant hanging over my head.
I’ll have to buy some new I.D. for all three of us, which’ll cost
plenty.”  Widja held up the money like it was nothing.  “This’ll
hardly do me, Marshon.  I can’t guarantee what Leon and Angela will do.”

There it was, out in the open, and both of them
understood.  Marshon calculated the odds as three-to-one that one of the
three janitors would turn state’s evidence in exchange for immunity.
Besides, Widja was right.  Less than twenty thousand apiece wouldn’t
last long if the three of them relocated to New York, Miami, L.A., or
Detroit.  Marshon might have been better off keeping all of the money, but
although he was a crook, he also was a faithful friend.

Marshon sighed.  “Look, I got about
two-hundred-and-fifty grand in a safe deposit box that my cousin Jolanda is
keeping for just such an emergency.  As soon as I think it’s safe,
tomorrow or the next day, I’ll get that money.  Give me a few days to
recuperate from this gunshot wound, until I find out whether or not I need
surgery.  I need to get out of town myself.  I will get back to you
soon, Widja, and do everything I can to help you.  Tell you what.
Two weeks from today, I’ll put an ad in the Star personals that will
say: If you lost my number, it’s such and so, and I’ll sign it Marcus.
The phone number will be a prepaid burner.  It’ll be good for that one
call between you and me.  By that time, I hope to have access to the rest
of my money.  I promise I’ll make things right with you, Widja, as well as
with Angela and Leon.  I’m gonna be doing business somewhere, man, and
hopefully making even bigger money.  Don’t think of this as the garden spot
of the world.”

Widja thought it over, sighed and said, “Don’t worry
about me, brother.  Nothin’ was guaranteed.  I’m out of here and I’ll
probably be able to persuade Angela and Leon to go along.  No way that the
cops will give us a pass, and even a year or two inside is too much for
me.”  He picked up the cash.  “Maybe we’ll start up a whorehouse
somewhere.”

That comment stung.  As Marshon watched Widja walk
away into the darkness, he turned his attention to thinking about a safe place
to sleep and recuperate.  Individual and institutional bookies who post
odds on various human events and games are generally objective, which is not
usually the case with players and fans.  They oftentimes let their
prejudices and emotions — including hope beyond reason — override the objective
facts of the situation.  The events of the next week would test not only
Marshon’s odds-making ability, but determine whether he was fundamentally a
lucky or unlucky man.

19/It’s
Weird Out There

Wednesday
afternoon, Richey arrived at The Stadium about four p. m. and
ordered a draft beer, which caused the bartender, John, to frown.  Before
he could ask the obvious question, Richey answered, “Got a dress rehearsal for Death
of a Salesman at seven p. m.  I want to arrive relatively sober, so
serve me three beers between now and five-thirty and then order me a
hamburger.”  They’d had six rehearsals beginning the last week of
October.  At the last rehearsal, the boy director told the cast they were
nearly ready and would iron out any problems during the Wednesday dress
rehearsal at the Cranston Theater.  Then, a day off to catch their breath
and reflect.  The play opened Friday night.

Richey had with him an RV magazine he’d purchased
several days ago at a bookstore in the mall.  He sipped his beer and paged
through the magazine, trying to get a feel for the nomadic lifestyle proposed
by Carmen.  It didn’t take long for him to conclude that there weren’t any
articles that would help him choose between Marshon’s Proposal and Carmen’s
Offer.  The magazine was primarily about all the accouterments of the RV
life that one could buy to make one’s travels easier and more enjoyable.

Richey sighed and sat back.  The decision shouldn’t
be that hard.  The fact that it was suggested a deep inner conflict.
Obviously, he should go with Carmen.  Her plan took him off the bar stool
and propelled him into a lifestyle where he could practice his chosen
profession — or, attempt to, anyway.  Heretofore, he had waited for the
opportunities to appear in some miraculous or serendipitous way.  Waited
for his talent to be recognized.  Few things happen that way in real life,
so he had wallowed in his sorrows and nourished his excuses.

Carmen had called his bluff.  Now, he could write
his own script, and produce his own performance, be they snippets from
Shakespeare’s plays, memorable songs from popular Broadway plays, or his
modern-day version of Mark Twain’s pithy social observations.  Or, he
could perform famous movie scenes by celebrated actors — Marlon Brandon as the Godfather,
James Dean portraying teenage angst in Rebel Without a Cause, or Burt
Lancaster delivering a brimstone and hellfire speech from Elmer Gantry.
He’d advertise his performance by nailing handbills to telephone poles.
Perform in picnic shelters, at nursing homes, maybe a local fire station.
No average member of the public would pay an entrance fee to see such a
performance, of course, so he’d have to rely on donations.  If you
liked my performance, there’s a tip jar over there.  Richey didn’t
like the whole scene as he envisioned it.  It could generate humiliation
and depression.  He doubted it would raise any real money, but it did
amount to taking control of his life.

Richey paged through the RV magazine again, searching
for the advertisements regarding campground fees.  There was a wide
range.  Lots with a view of the mountains or the ocean cost as much as a
nightly stay at a Hilton.  Other campgrounds advertised monthly fees of
between four and five hundred dollars.  If he got thirty or forty bucks in
tips every performance, he could pay the rent.  Richey yearned mightily
for a double martini.

Did he really want to live his dream as a working actor,
especially when it might not work?  When success might be defined as
simply making the rent?  Or, did he actually prefer to sit here in this
dark and dingy bar, getting high with all the other marginal people.
Suddenly, Richey viewed Carmen’s plan with great suspicion.  In reality,
it might simply be an intervention, forcing him to confront his true inner self.
Maybe Carmen and Shirley had concocted the whole thing.  A one-two
punch.  Shirley came into The Stadium to remind him of the wreckage
wrought by his lifestyle; Carmen followed with a proposal to put his shattered
life back together.  If he failed, they’d get together and say,
“Aha!”  And lots of other negative things.

Richey motioned to John.  “Another beer.”

John looked at his watch.  “It’s been ten minutes.”

“You a timekeeper or a bartender?”

Richey got back in touch with his sanity, at least
momentarily.  Carmen had never met Shirley.  He was fairly certain of
that.  Carmen loved him.  She not only made physical love to him, she
proved her love by simply propping him up.  She was always there.
She came to The Stadium, even though it was obvious to everyone who knew
her, or even the barflies who saw her for the first time, that women who looked
like her didn’t ordinarily hang out here.  It was a juke joint, not a
place where classy women dressed up to the nines sipped white wine.  In
addition, if someone talked to Carmen for a few minutes and realized her level
of intelligence, they would immediately ask themselves what she was doing here
— or why she was talking to them.  Richey imagined that some of his
stoolmates might have considered that she was a cop, waiting for them to make
an inappropriate proposal, so she could slam their heads against the bar and
cuff them.

No, she loved him, even though he wasn’t worthy of
her.  What was wrong with her, anyway?  He loved Marisa, too.
Fatherly love, or potential stepfatherly love, of course.  He had a chance
to reprise the father role he’d screwed up with Ethan.  Every actor
learned from every performance.  But wasn’t that the problem?  Did he
love Carmen, or was he acting as if he loved her?  What was the difference,
anyway?

Richey
took his Droid smartphone from his pocket and did an Internet search for the
meaning of love.  Not surprising, there were several, depending on the
type of love.  Love was a collection of feelings, which might differ
according to whom or what was the recipient of one’s affection.  There was
love as lust, familial love, brotherly love, compassion, love of God, love of
chocolate ice cream.  Richey sighed and put the Droid on the bar, knowing
it would soon go to sleep by itself.  It was perfectly at home in The
Stadium.

Richey loved to conjure future scenarios, although they
usually didn’t come true, much in the same way that the winning Keno numbers he
envisioned were never actually drawn, at least not as he selected them for any
given game.  Carmen’s plan was loaded with potential time bombs.
They would be cooped up day and night in a recreational vehicle, probably about
thirty-four-by-eight feet.  They’d get on each other’s nerves.  What
would be the sleeping arrangement?  Marisa would probably sleep on a
foldout sofa, only feet away from the bedroom with its thin walls.

Driving the monster vehicle would be intimidating, let
alone backing it up and maneuvering into tight camping spaces.  It was a
mobile home, a cross between a car and a house.  Double trouble.  The
number of systems that could break down and need repair seemed endless:
transmission, radiators, brakes, mufflers, tires, the gas-electric
refrigerator, roof air conditioners, generator, toilet, stove, the mechanisms
that expanded the walls, et cetera.

What would happen when they ran out of money?  He’d
be right back working at the equivalent of Biederman’s, running his private
lottery on the side, and sitting in The Stadium or someplace like
it.  What was the use of leaving in the first place?

He held up the empty beer glass.  “Refill this with
a Blood Mary.”

John looked at the cook standing across from the bar
near the kitchen, and said, “Pay me.”  The cook walked over and handed
John a five-dollar bill.

Even half drunk, Richey figured he could get through a
dress rehearsal for a part in a play he’d performed several times.  He
might even be better.

He dredged his memory for details of the conversation
he’d had with Marshon in the Lamplighter restaurant and bar located in The Shops.
When they were done talking that day, he’d felt exhilarated.  Marshon
could help him take his private lottery, The Richey, to the next
level.  They’d be Sundance and Butch.  He’d be Butch with all the
ideas, and Marshon would be Sundance, providing backbone and protection.
It made Richey think of Ace.  Maybe the three of them were alike in some
way that he really didn’t want to consider.

With Marshon’s plan, he didn’t have to worry about
failure, because Marshon didn’t tolerate failure.  He always turned lemons
into lemonade.  Richey would get the chance to hobnob with rich people,
which was an actor’s paradise, since rich people always acted as if they were
better than they possibly could be.  That was one of the prerogatives of
being rich.  He could out-act them, which would be a way of making fun of
them.  He and Marshon would then take their money, and the rich people
would give it up gladly and probably say, “Thank you for the good time.”
They’d certainly admire their chutzpah.  It would be high adventure with
delicious danger always lurking in the background.  And, Richey would
always have a drink in hand.  Marshon wouldn’t care, so long as Richey did
his job.

The dilemma of this awful decision caused Richey to
begin to panic, so he ordered a double martini to calm himself down.  The
panic resulted in large part because of the sudden realization that Marshon’s
plan filled him with excitement, whereas Carmen’s plan filled him with
dread.  It was sickeningly true and he hated himself for it, but he didn’t
know how he could deny the truth.  He really wasn’t a reformer dedicated
to Equality and Justice.  In a corrupt economic system and a society of
cultural kitsch, he really didn’t give a shit whether it was changed or
not.  Like Skinny and Marshon, he simply wanted to figure an angle that
would allow him to get more than his fair share.  The rest of humanity
could drown in its collective ineptitude and hypocrisy for all he cared.
Things were the way they were because of people like him.  Honesty hurt
like hell, which is why most people avoided it.  In his heart or hearts,
Richey had already made his choice, even though he’d lied to Carmen and
endorsed her proposal.  Richey held onto the slim hope that he could
persuade Carmen to accompanying him and Marshon to the islands and live the
exciting and dangerous life.  Odds: ten to one against.

When Richey tipped up his glass to drain all the vodka
that clung to the ice cubes, his eye caught one of the television cameras above
the bar.  It was the five o’clock local news broadcast.  In the upper
right hand corner of the screen, over the left shoulder of the blonde announcer
was an inset photograph of someone who looked like Marshon Johnson.  Then,
the photo enlarged to briefly fill the screen and Richey had no doubt that it
was his friend.

The announcer sitting behind a desk told the viewing
audience, “The Essex County Sheriff’s Department is looking for this man,
identified as Marshon Johnson, a well-known East Side entrepreneur, in
connection with a homicide that occurred Tuesday evening.  Michael
Williams, a partner in the prominent engineering/architectural firm of
Williams, Grant and Slocum, was found dead, stuffed inside a cleaning
cart.  A security guard stopped several janitors who were attempting to
remove the body from an office building in Corporate Center.”

Marshon’s photo dissolved as the TV screen displayed
three more photos, side-by-side.  “Police have issued warrants for the
arrest of these three janitors identified as Alonzo Mayberry, also known by the
street name, Widja; his sister-in-law, Angela Dumont; and, Leon Mason.  If
you’ve seen any of these individuals, police say you should not approach them
as they are assumed to be armed and dangerous.  Instead, call the crime
line number on your screen.  The Williams’s family has already announced a
fifty thousand dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and
conviction of the murderer or murderers of Michael Williams.”

The announcer concluded this news item by adding,
“Although details are sketchy at this time, Johnson apparently visited
Williams’s office the night of the murder, but signed the security register
with the alias of André Touissant.  Johnson’s true identify came to light
after the security guard on duty identified him from photographs of known
associates of Alonzo Mayberry.  The guard said Johnson had an evening
appointment with Michael Williams.  Police say Johnson is a person of
interest wanted only for questioning at this time.  Michael Williams and
his firm were selected to design the museum to be built adjacent to the World
War One memorial near the downtown area.”

Richey motioned to John and then asked him, “Have you
been watching television throughout the day?  Is this the first time
they’ve ran that report about this Williams guy getting killed?”

“I don’t pay the television at lot of attention,” John
replied, “but I think I first saw this news report about noon today.  It
only caught my attention because I remembered that you sometimes work at The
Wheel.  Your friend is in trouble.”

Richey couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched the
television news.  It had been about a week since Richey and Marshon had
talked about their plans to launch a renewed and more vibrant private lottery,
perhaps in Marshon’s new home in the Caribbean.  Richey knew that might
not now be in the cards.

Richey jumped, as someone touch his shoulder and jarred
him from his reverie.  It was Kandie.

“Have you seen Ace lately?” she asked, slipping onto the
bar stool beside him.

“No, not since, let’s see, last Friday, I think it
was.”  He’d given Ace five thousand from Marshon and told him to leave, or
deal with Jemmy Shoemaker.

“He was at my house last night, but I can’t get ahold of
him today.  He ain’t answering his phone.”  Not his regular phone or
the burner phone he’d given Kandie.

“It’s been one day,” Richey said, sarcastically.
“Can’t you bear being apart that long?”

Kandie seemed near tears.  “He moved out of his
apartment at the middle of the month.”

“Where’s he been staying?”

“With me, sometimes.  Mostly with Country.”

“You know where Country lives?”

She looked at him and choked back tears.  “No.”

Richey shrugged.  “I’m sure everything is
okay.”  He saw that Kandie was hurting and resisted saying anything
insensitive about Ace, such as “good riddance to bad rubbish.”  Ace had
finally hit the road, having used up Kandie while at the same time being
$10,000 richer.

“I just can’t imagine he’d leave town without saying
goodbye to me and the kids.”  Kandie’s face reflected true sorrow and
devastation, just as it had when Sam, the father of her children, had kicked
her and them out of his mobile home in southern Missouri.  “Ace really
liked the kids, Richey, even Lloyd.”

“I’m sure he did.  Your kids are great,
Kandie.  Really.”  Richey motioned to John.  “Beer over here for
Kandie.”

“I mean, everything was going great, Richey.  At
least I thought so.  There was just that one thing …” Her voice trailed
off.

Alarm bells went off in Richey’s head.  Did the one
thing have to do with the killings at The Wheel?  “What?  I
can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything, Kandie!”

“You know the trouble we had here with Hank and Melvin
that time, when they attacked Ace?”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t lead Hank on, you know, not after I met
Ace.  In fact, I was trying to get away from Hank even before then.
He used to beat on me.”  She sipped from her beer and continued
reluctantly, “He raped me a couple of times.”

“What!  Did you call the police?”

She shook her head.  “I didn’t know what to
say.  I mean, I agreed in the beginning to date him.  I invited him
to my home.  I even gave him a key.”  She put her hand on Richey’s
arm.  “That was before, you know, he started doing things to me.
Then, he wouldn’t give me back the key.”

“I’m confused.  What are you trying to tell me,
Kandie?  Did Hank and Ace get into it again?”

She searched his face, as if trying to decide what to
tell him.  “Yeah, Hank showed up at my apartment last night and he had a
gun.  Melvin had a baseball bat.  Ace and Country beat them up
again.”

“Then what?”

“Ace and Country took them to the hospital.  I
ain’t seen or heard from Ace since then.  What should I do, Richey?

Before Richey could provide an answer, someone else
tapped him on the shoulder.  “You Richey Stanton?”

Richey turned to look at the two men in suits.  The
young bull-necked one introduced himself, “I’m Detective Craig Sizemore, Essex
County Sheriff’s Department.  This is my partner, Detective Cavett.”

Cavett asked Kandie: “And, are you Kandie Givens?”

“Yes,” she replied, he voice quaking.

“The bartender pointed you two out,” Sizemore
said.  He looked around.  “Do you mind if we sit at the table over
here and ask you a few questions.”

“What’s this about?”  Richey asked, slipping off
the barstool.

“Just step over here, sir,” Sizemore said, firmly.

As the four of them walked to the table, all eyes in the
bar followed them, although many individuals looked out of the side of their
eyes, or over the tops of menus they’d picked up for the first time ever.
Cops were in the bar and that always meant trouble for someone.  The fear
was that the cops would discover other infractions they didn’t know about
before they walked into The Stadium.  Just to be safe, a few
patrons quietly slipped out the back door.  Bartender John turned down the
music and the television volume.

After the four of them sat, Kandie asked, in a cracking
voice, “What do you want?”

“We’re investigating the deaths of Hank Hendricks and
Melvin Lucas,” Sizemore replied.

Kandie promptly fainted but Sizemore grabbed her before
she could fall out of her chair.  Cavett went to the bar and got a towel
and ice from John.  He returned to the table and held it against Kandie’s
right temple.  Richey sat motionless until Kandie revived.  Then, she
appeared about to vomit, and Cavett helped her to the door to the women’s
restroom.  Every customer in the bar watched them.  Their combined
whispers sounded like a low volume buzz.

“Rangers out at Canyon Park found Hendricks and Lucas in
the trunk of Hendricks’s car,” Sizemore said, “after it was pulled from the
bottom of the lake this morning.  A guy fishing on the south shore Tuesday
night saw two guys drive the car into the lake.”

“What do you think happened?”  Richey asked, not
about to offer any opinion himself.

“The medical examiner issued a preliminary assessment at
the scene.  Said it looks like they were badly beaten, put in the trunk,
and then stabbed and cut to death,” the cop said, checking his facts in a slim
notebook.  “The witness saw the two suspects get into a dark-colored pickup,
but he didn’t get a good look at it, or a tag number.”

Richey was starting to understand the reason for
Kandie’s fainting spell.  “Why did you want to talk to me?” he asked.

“Your name turned up in our investigation.  Lucas’s
wife said he’d been in a fight in The Stadium several weeks back.
No complaint was filed, so we came down here to talk to the bartender.  He
told us what had happened.  That Hendricks and Lucas got into a fight with
Ace Semanski.  That you and Ms. Givens were two of the people who saw the
fight.”

Richey looked out the corner of his eyes at John the
snitch.

“You know this Ace Semanski?”

“Yeah, he and I used to work at Biederman’s.  I got
fired recently.  He quit shortly after that, I think.  We’re not
really friends, other than hanging out in here.  I saw him last Friday.”

“But you’re friends with Ms. Givens?”

“She and my girlfriend live in the same apartment
complex.  They’re friends.”

Sizemore got out his notebook.  “What’s your
girlfriend’s name and address?”

Now Richey knew how John must have felt.  There was
no profit in lying.  He gave the detective Carmen’s name and address.

“How long have you known Semanski?”

“Not long.  He only moved here about a month ago.”

“Did you know he was in state prison in Michigan?”

Richey had guessed as much, but he tried to appear
surprised.  “What for?”

“Grand theft.  Served nearly three years.
He’s got a long rap sheet, especially for assault.  Several women have
charged him with rape in Illinois and Michigan, but he somehow always beat that
charge.”

Richey needed to cover himself.  “I can tell you
for a fact that he didn’t report any of those things on his employment
application.  You can check with Biederman’s.”

“So what went on here between Hendricks, Lucas, and
Semanski?”  Cavett asked.

“There was a fight,” Richey said.  “I didn’t see it
start because I was at the bar and they were in the pool room.
Apparently, Hendricks considered Kandie his private stock.  He and his
buddy, Lucas, jumped Semanski and broke his collarbone, although he still
knocked both of them silly — with the help of his buddy, Robert Long.
John the bartender was going to call the cops, but apparently no one wanted
that.”

Kandie returned to the table and she looked somewhat
composed, although pale and quivering.

“You knew Hendricks and Lucas, Ms. Givens?”

“Yes, I used to date Hank.”

“And I gather you then started dating Ace Semanski.
Hank objected and they got into a fight here, is that right, Ms. Givens?”

Kandie looked at Richey.  “Yes.”

“And did they fight again?”

“Not that I know of,” Kandie said, her lower lip
trembling noticeably.

“As I was telling your friend here while you were in the
bathroom, Lucas and Hendricks were found dead in the trunk of Hendricks’s car,
after it was pulled from a local lake this morning,” Sizemore said.

Again, Kandie seemed about to faint, but instead laid
her head on the table, while Cavett again applied the ice pack to the back of
her neck.  The detectives waited patiently, during which time they eyed
Richey, perhaps searching for telltale facial and eye movements, or expressions
that might indicate he was lying or holding something back.  Richey
returned a steady gaze and tried not to blink or indicate in any way that
Kandie had just grossly lied to them about the fight between Ace and Hendricks
and Lucas the night the latter two were killed.  Richey could easily
imagine how it happened.  Ace and his knives.

“Do either one of you know where we can find Ace
Semanski?”  Cavett asked, after Kandie had raised her head.  The
combined effects of a perpetual sneer and the widow’s peak gave Cavett a
slightly diabolical appearance.

Both Richey and Kandie shook their heads.

“When was the last time either of you saw
Semanski?”  Sizemore asked.

“He was at my place Sunday for dinner,” Kandie
said.  “I haven’t seen him since them.”

“Anyone with him?”

“Robert Long,” Kandie answered.  “Everyone calls
him Country.”

“And you, Mr. Stanton?”

“Like I told you, last Friday.  In fact, he came by
and shook my hand.  Said he was leaving town.  I don’t think he’s
been in here since then, but you should ask John.”  Richey perversely
enjoyed lobbing the ball back to the barkeep.

“And where were the two of you Tuesday night?”
Cavett asked.

Kandie said, “I worked during the day and was home alone
that evening with my three kids.”

“I was at a rehearsal Tuesday night at the Eastport
Library until about eleven.  I’m playing Willy Loman in Death of a
Salesman.  It’s opening Friday night at the downtown mall.”
Richey handed a business card to Sizemore.  “This guy is the
director.  You can reach him at that number.”

Sizemore slid his notebook in front of Kandie.
“Write down Semanski’s address and phone number, if you will.  Also,
Robert Long’s address.”

“I don’t know where Country lives,” Kandie said, while
writing.  “And, Ace gave notice at his apartment a couple of weeks
ago.  But, this is the address where he used to live.”

“Check with Biederman’s,” Richey offered.  “Country
used to work there, too.”

Sizemore pocketed his notebook, stood and said, “That’s
for your cooperation.”  He placed a business card in front of each of
them.  “If you remember anything else, or see Semanski, give me a call.”

After they went out the door, Richey leaned across the
table and whispered, “You lied to them!”

“Did Ace really tell you he was leaving town?” Kandie
demanded, equally indignant.

Suddenly, it occurred to Richey that he didn’t want
Kandie to confide in him.  He didn’t want to know the details of the fight
last night and how badly Hank and Melvin were injured.  Or, how they got
from going to the hospital to the bottom of a lake.  He bolted from the
table and headed to his car in the parking lot.

∞
∞  ∞

Richey didn’t
perform well during the dress rehearsal of Death of a
Salesman, but not because he was half-drunk.  He was fully sober, but
a multilevel, confusing discourse filled his mind.  What should he do
about Marshon and his problems?  He wanted to contact him, but that might
not be a good idea.  The cops might be listening in on Marshon’s cell
phone calls.  Richey would then be linked to two suspected killers.
What if the police arrested Ace and he brought up the killings at The Wheel
so he could make a deal?  What if Widja and his friends also turned on
Marshon?  Was Marshon’s Proposal to Richey now off the table, or would
Marshon somehow escape to his secret Caribbean home?  Would he contact
Richey later?  What should Richey do now about Carmen’s Offer?  Such
selfish considerations make him feel guilty.

As a result, Richey got the words he was rehearsing in
his mind for future conversations with Marshon, Jemmy, Carmen and the cops
mixed up with Willy Loman’s lines.  He mangled the script so badly, the
boy director nearly had a stroke, and inquired whether Richey was sick and/or
incapacitated.  Did he want the understudy to step in at the last
minute?

Richey finally said to the director, “Look, I had some
very bad news this afternoon about a couple of close friends who got
killed.”  Three killings actually, all on the same night.  His best
friend was a suspect in one of the deaths, and he knew two of the three dead
men.  What were the odds of that?

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!” the director exclaimed.

“I’ll be okay Friday night,” Richey said, walking
away.  He wasn’t even certain why he made up this excuse, or what purpose
the half-truth served.  He just didn’t want to give up his role in the
play, too.  He couldn’t stand to lose everything, all at once.

As they walked down the hallway toward the parking
garage, Carmen, who had watched the rehearsal from the back of the hall, asked
the same question: “Is something wrong?”

He stopped walking and faced her.  “Yes, the cops
are looking for Ace Semanski.  They think he may have killed Melvin Lucas
and Hank Hendricks.  The police found their bodies this morning in Hank’s
car, after they pulled it from the bottom of the lake at Canyon Park.
Kandie admitted to me this afternoon that Ace and Country fought with them at
her apartment Tuesday night, but that Ace was taking Hank and Melvin to the
hospital.  However, she lied to two detectives who questioned us in The
Stadium and told them she’d been home alone — and hadn’t seen Ace since
Sunday.”

Carmen’s hand flew to her mouth and her fingers
trembled.  “Oh, my God, I always felt like he was extremely dangerous!”

Richey couldn’t tell her how dangerous, as he recalled
the knife-throwing exhibition at The Wheel.

They continued while walking toward the parking garage
attached to The Shops.

“Why did the detectives question you?”

“Because I saw the first fight between the four of them,
in The Stadium, a couple of weeks ago.”

“I remember Kandie telling me about that.  No
wonder you’re shook up.”

“I gave them your name and address, too, because they
wanted to know how I knew Kandie.  I said I met her through you.”

“That’s true.”

“I’m telling you all this because those two cops,
Sizemore and Cavett, probably will question you.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide, but I won’t alibi Kandie for
last night, if that’s what she’s expecting.  Why didn’t you tell the cops
she was lying?”

He stopped walking and again faced her.  “I was
stunned.  I guess I didn’t want to get her and her kids in trouble.
Maybe I should call the cops.  The one detective, Sizemore, gave me a
card.  Oh, and by the way, Ace was in prison recently for burglary and
theft.  He’s also a suspected rapist.”

They pushed through double doors leading into the
parking garage, walked up a half level, and found Richey’s car.  After
they got inside, Richey didn’t start the car immediately.  He tried to
think through the consequences of several different actions.  Telling the
detectives about Kandie’s lie wouldn’t do anything to help them apprehend Ace.
Or, would it?  They’d watch Kandie and might catch Ace if he came to see
her again.

If they arrested Ace, didn’t that bring the feared
scenario into reality?  He would attempt to deal down his prison sentence
by implicating Marshon in the killings at The Wheel.  Marshon already
was in hiding or on the run.  Nothing Ace could tell the cops would put
them any closer to arresting Marshon.  But Ace could tell the cops that
Richey was an accomplice — that he was Marshon’s bagman.

“Let’s get through this weekend and hope they find Ace,
and we don’t have to harm Kandie and her kids,” Richey said.  “They
probably have someone watching her now, anyway.  If she knows where Ace
is, she’ll lead them to him.”

“And, then she will lose her kids.”

“Like you told me the first night she met Ace, she’s an
adult and gets to make her own mistakes.”

“Unfortunately, her kids may have to pay for them.”

Richey drove out onto Main Street.  He debated
whether to tell her about Marshon’s problems.  Carmen hadn’t mentioned
seeing the newscast, but she probably would see it before the weekend was
over.  Richey didn’t know what to tell her about the killings at The
Wheel that tied him and Marshon and Ace together.  It almost made the
three-way relationship sound like a conspiracy, which is what Marshon had always
feared would be people’s reaction.  Plus, at some point, he had to tell
her about Marshon’s Proposal.  Just not now.  Maybe after the play
was over Friday night, everything would become clearer.

As they drove south on the Interstate, Richey saw a road
sign for a convenience store and gasoline station.  He’d stopped there
often, and then took several side streets to The Stadium.  He
remembered the long, rectangular building located behind the gasoline
station.  Suddenly, impulsively, he took the exit and drove to that
store.  He turned down a cul-de-sac and parked his car in a space near the
front of the building, identified by a sign as Toliver’s Gun Shop and
Shooting Range.

“Why are you stopping here?”  Carmen asked, as
Richey put the car in park, opened the door and got out.  Carmen opened
her door, stepped out and repeated the question.

“I just decided to look at their guns.  Maybe buy
one for protection.  You might consider it, too.”

“You mean, because of the thing with Ace?”

“That, and things in general.  We’ve been talking
about camping out in the woods, remember?  There are all types of wild
animals out there, four-legged and two-legged.”

“I’ve always been afraid of guns, Richey.  Besides,
I could never shoot anyone.”

“You ever shoot a handgun?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Well, then your fear is not based on experience.
As for shooting someone, what if he was assaulting Marisa?”

“Don’t even say something like that!”  Carmen
protested, but followed him into the store nevertheless.

“I just want to look around,” Richey told her when they
were inside.  “We won’t be long, I promise.  Pretend you’re me when I
accompany you on a shopping expedition.”

The retail portion occupied the front one-third of the
building.  On both sides of the room, glass-enclosed cases displayed
handguns.  In the far right corner of the shop, a hallway led to the range
in the back.  From afar, the gunfire on the range sounded like corn
popping at a frenzied pace.

Toliver’s was doing a thriving business between the
lookers and those heading for the range.  The shooters had their handguns
in holsters or small cases, although several men carried various types of
sheaths presumably holding shotguns or rifles.

Richey stopped in front of a display case for large
forty-four and forty-five caliber guns, as well as three-fifty-seven
magnums.  “Dirty Harry guns,” he said, striving for a light note.
“When we’re on the road, I could reprise Clint Eastwood’s role in Dirty
Harry, and say, ‘Make my day!’  Shoot a blank into the ceiling.
How do you think they’d like that in nursing homes around the country,
Carmen?  Would they give me a larger tip?”

Carmen shook her head and forced a wan smile.

“Can I help you folks,” a clerk inquired.

“We don’t know much about handguns,” Richey
admitted.  “Aren’t thirty-eights the standard?”  He looked to the
clerk for confirmation.

“It’s a popular caliber.  You looking for a
revolver, or an automatic?  Single-action, double-action?”

Richey shrugged helplessly.

“Let me make a suggestion,” the clerk said.  “Try a
couple of different guns on the range.  That’ll help you make your
decision.”

“You let people do that?”  Carmen asked, truly
astounded.  “Shoot your guns?”

“Sure.  No problem.  Car dealers let you drive
their cars, right?  We copy your driver’s license and a credit card first,
though.  And there’s a range fee and a charge for ammunition and targets,
all of which I’ll waive if you make a purchase.”

“You got any recommendations?”  Richey asked.

The clerk looked them over and said, “Yeah, we got a
couple of specials going on two guns that might fit you.  A Smith &
Wesson, five-shot thirty-eight revolver for the lady.  A popular defensive
gun for women.  Weighs fifteen ounces.  And, for you, my friend, a
nine-millimeter Sig Sauer, a popular brand with law enforcement.”  The
clerk put the guns on the counter, along with two boxes of ammunition, and two
targets.  One target was the classic bull’s-eye design, while the other
was in the shape of a man, with various numerical values assigned to different
parts of his body.

“By the way, my name is Wayne Renfro,” the clerk
said.  “You’ll each need clear plastic protective goggles and ear
plugs.  Those are free.”

“Let’s give it a try, Carmen,” Richey pleaded.
“What’s it gonna hurt?  It might be fun.”

Later, Carmen would wonder why she decided to shoot
targets that night with Richey.  Was it because she didn’t want to make a
scene, and embarrass him?  Maybe Richey’s story about Ace had scared
her.  Obviously, there were rapists out and about.  What would she do
if one targeted her and Marisa?  What could she do?  Or, had it
simply been fate preparing her for what was to come.

Once inside the range, both Carmen and Richey realized
the value of the ear protection as a dozen or more shooters took aim on hapless
targets with an overwhelming arsenal of handguns, rifles and shotguns.
The noise was both deafening and frightening.  The smell of gunpowder
permeated the whole range, and smoke had accumulated at the ceiling level,
where it hung like a blue acid cloud.  Carmen’s hands shook so badly that
Richey put the guns on the ledge in their cubicle, took her into his arms and
gave her a reassuring hug.

Richey used a wheel and pulley apparatus to reel in a
metal clip that attached to the targets.  He wheeled the bull’s-eye target
out to a distance of about 40 feet.  He helped Carmen load the
thirty-eight as they communicated by miming and reading lips.  He told her
to go ahead but she shook her head.  Richey loaded his gun, which held 13
bullets, including one in the chamber.  He stepped up to the shooting
line, grasped the Sig Sauer with both hands as he’d seen actors do in the
movies, and squeezed the trigger.  The spent shell ejected through a side
port, and bounced off the wall onto the floor.  Richey looked at Carmen,
smiled, and gave a thumbs-up sign.

He emptied the nine-millimeter at the bull’s-eye and
reeled it in so they could inspect the results.  Both looked astonished to
discover that all the hits were within the circle of numbers, although no
bull’s-eye.

Richey picked up the Smith & Wesson and handed it to
Carmen.  She sighed, stepped forward, held the gun as he had and
aimed.  She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.  The recoil
wasn’t as violent as she had expected.  Carmen opened her eyes and fired
four more times, each time a little faster and with more confidence.

She only hit the target three times and had no idea
where the other two bullets went.  The back wall looked to be some kind of
absorbent material.  She hoped she hadn’t shot anyone else’s
targets.  Both of them took comfort from a sign inside their cubicle
indicating the sidewalls were lead-lined, apparently in case there were other
wild-shooting novices on the range.

They re-loaded the two guns, changed targets, and fired
at the paper man until they ran out of ammunition.  They hit him in every
part of his body, which surely would have dissuaded him from any nefarious
purpose.  A cloud of blue gun smoke had formed above their cubicle.
They looked at each other and shrugged — a gesture indicating it hadn’t been a
bad experience, and they had gained a measure of confidence about using
handguns.

“How’d it go?”  Renfro asked, as they came back
into the retail portion of the building.

“Unbelievable,” Carmen said, shaking her head and
laughing nervously.  She also seemed a little excited.

“Good,” Richey countered.  “Except the thirty-eight
seemed to generate a lot of smoke.”

“Yeah,” Carmen agreed, coughing.

“That’s primarily because of the reloads,” Renfro
said.  “You don’t get much smoke with regular ammunition.”

Richey looked at Carmen.  “So what do you think?”

“I don’t know.  It was more fun that I thought it
would be.”

“Target shooting is getting to be a more and more
popular sport,” Renfro said, trying for the sale.

“I liked the nine-millimeter,” Richey said, with conviction.

“Like I told you in the beginning, there’s special
pricing on these two guns through the weekend.  That revolver ordinarily
is about five hundred, and the Sig Sauer, over eleven hundred.  I can
reduce those prices by 20 percent each, plus another five percent off for a
combination sale.  It would come out to less than thirteen hundred with
tax, plus I’ll throw in a box of ammunition free for each gun.”

Richey said, suddenly, “Done!  And, we’ll need a
couple of cases for the guns and whatever equipment is necessary to clean them
and keep them in shape.”

Richey eventually charged $1,485.24 to his credit card,
which Carmen declared to be a lot of money.  Maybe she thought of this
purchase in comparison to what the same amount of money would buy in camping
paraphernalia.

“These guns can give us some piece of mind,” Richey
said, “and maybe we’ll have fun to boot.”

“Listen to your friend, lady,” Renfro said, bobbing his
head knowingly.  “I’m an off-duty cop.  Things are getting weird out
there.”

Carmen read a counter sign indicating that federal law
required a three-day waiting period to allow a background check of gun
purchasers.  “What’s this for?” she asked.

“It’s to make certain you don’t have criminal records or
are mentally incompetent,” the cop explained.

“Carmen’s okay.  For me, one out of two ain’t bad,”
Richey joked.  He added, seriously, “I really wanted to take the guns with
us now.”

Renfro’s eyes darted about the shop as he spoke softly,
“I could postdate this application, although that wouldn’t exactly be according
to the letter of the law.”

“We don’t want to get you into trouble,” Richey said,
but smiled and nodded.

“The bad guys don’t pay any attention to the law,”
Renfro said.  “You two look like upstanding citizens wanting to protect
yourself from those folks.”

“You got that right.”  Richey had a momentary image
of Ace throwing his knives, and knew that a gun wasn’t an absolute guarantee of
protection in all circumstances.

Renfro completed the sales documents, put all the items
into a large bag and handed it to Richey.  “Keep these out of sight for
the next three days.  Then come on back and I’ll give you free time on the
range.”

“Thanks, Wayne,” Richey said, flashing his most winning
smile.

Outside in the parking lot, Carmen asked, “So, this is
our new hobby?”

Richey
laughed.  “Why not?  Let’s come next Wednesday night.  Did you
see the sign indicating that’s ladies’ night?  You don’t have to pay the
range fee.  Besides, like I said, you never know when this experience may
come in handy, Carmen.”

That
proved to be the understatement of their lives.

20/Exploring
All Options

It was nearly 4 a.m.
Wednesday morning before Marshon got to bed after being shot by Michael
Williams.  After Max the Knife treated his gunshot wound and Marshon had paid
off Widja, he carefully considered the safest place to recuperate for a few
days.  He chose the Hyatt at the Convention Center, the same hotel where
Marshon, Gail and her parents had attended the fundraiser for mayoral hopeful,
Benjamin Dewhurst.

Marshon knew Rinaldo Morgan, head of security for the
Hyatt.  In fact, Marshon had tipped Morgan off about that job when it came
open two years ago.  Morgan had been a sergeant in the Marine Corps, and
commanded a Military Police company.  They weren’t fast friends, but
they’d known and respected each other for years.  Morgan had channeled
quite a bit of business to both the apartment and The Wheel, and Marshon
had rewarded him accordingly.  Now, the shoe was on the other foot.
Marshon called Morgan and told him he needed a room, off the books.  He’d
picked the Hyatt for several other reasons, too.  He could hide there in
plain sight with many people around, mostly from out of town.  The complex
consisting of The Shops, the two attached hotels, the parking garages, The
Link, and nearby convention center gave Marshon multiple means of escape,
if necessary.

Marshon didn’t tell Morgan about his wound at
first.  He didn’t offer any excuse for lying low.  He just gave the
hotel security chief $2,500 and told him he’d need the room for two, maybe
three nights at the most, but didn’t want anybody to know he was there.

About noon, someone knocked on the hotel room
door.  Marshon put on a bathrobe, checked the peephole, and let Morgan
in.  The head of hotel security carried a tray of room service food.

“Thought you might be hungry,” Morgan said, setting the
tray on a table.

“Thanks.”  Despite the antibiotics and painkillers,
Marshon felt worse, as The Knife had predicted.  If surgery became
necessary, all undoubtedly would be lost.

Morgan picked up the TV remote and turned the set
on.  He punched in the number of the local news channel.  “You might
want to see a report they started running an hour ago, about a local architect
named Michael Williams who was killed last night out at Corporate Woods.
It first caught my attention because they showed photos of Widja and his
crew.  Apparently, they tried to smuggle Williams’s body out of the
building.  Then, they showed your photo and said you were a person of
interest.”

The cat was out of the bag, quickly.  “That’s why
I’m here, Rinaldo.”

Morgan turned down the volume on the TV as Marshon sat
at the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee.  He kept one eye on the
TV, waiting for them to recycle the news of the day.  “It was a business
disagreement between me and Williams, and the crazy motherfucker shot me.
He has a brain tumor and killing a nigger was on his bucket list.”
Marshon had to make ever attempt to garner sympathy.  “I had to kill him
or he was gonna shoot me again.”

“Again?”

Marshon stood, opened the robe and turned sideways, so
Morgan could see the bandage.

“That must hurt like hell.  You seen a doctor?”

“Yeah, and that’s why I need a safe place to recuperate
for a spell.”  Marshon knew another business negotiation was about to
ensue.  He had to be sharp.

“I guess Widja and his crew fucked up the clean-up?”

“I wouldn’t say fucked up.  It was more bad
luck.  They ran into a security guard who was overly suspicious.
Probably thought that black janitors were stealing from the offices they
cleaned.  He insisted on inspecting their trash cart.”

Morgan sat in the other chair across from Marshon.
Morgan was a stocky, powerfully built African-American who had served twenty
years in the Corps.  As a result, he projected a “let’s get things done”
attitude.  “First, you’re safe here, Marshon.  I wouldn’t have this
job except for you.  There are over a thousand rooms in this hotel.
Some weeknights, a third of them are empty.  The maids, janitors and most
of the security staff are brothers and sisters.  Ain’t no one gonna punch
nine-one-one on you, man, although you might expect the cops and the media to
turn up the heat.”

“I do expect it, and if the money I gave you ain’t
enough for you to take this chance, just tell me what you need.  I’ll try
and get it, although I’m cut off from my cash right now.”

“You got some outs, Marshon?”

“Absolutely!  In fact, I was preparing to move on
anyway, which is what the meeting with Williams was about, in part.”

“What’s gonna happen to The Wheel?”

There it was, out in the open.  Morgan might want
more money, but he was much more interested in a new business investment
arrangement.

“It’s an institution on the East Side, man.  It’ll
survive without me.”

“I imagine so, but someone’s gotta run it.”

“That’s true, and someone will step forward.”

“Like you did when Skinny died.  ʼCourse, you
had his endorsement and help.”

Marshon saw an opportunity to insure Morgan’s support
for the next day or so, even if he had to lie.  “And my endorsement would
be important, because I got equipment stored that’s worth maybe a couple
hundred thousand, replacement value.  In addition, a list of employees I
can trust.  Hell, I’ve even got the names, addresses, phone numbers and
e-mail of high rollers, so I can put the word out about when and where The
Wheel is about to spin.  But the crucial list contains the names of
all those cops and city, county and state elected officials and bureaucrats who
got to be kept greased, and what their current price is.”

“That’s valuable information.”

Marshon wagged a finger of correction.  “No,
Rinaldo, that’s invaluable information.  Without it, The Wheel
don’t spin.”  He knew what he had to say next, to guarantee his
safety.  “But you’re right.  I need a new manager.  I’d be
willing to make a deal as long as I retain a percentage of the action for
several years.  Just like Skinny did when he picked me.  You
interested?”

“What about Jemmy Shoemaker?  I figure he’d be your
number one pick.”

Marshon believed firmly that there were few, if any,
absolute truths in life.  Even if one thought he was telling the truth, it
might turn out later to have been a half-truth.  “Jemmy’s a lifelong
friend and he’s got a lot of experience with The Wheel.  I’ve
talked about him taking over.  Things have changed now that Widja is out
of the picture.  Jemmy may be happier managing my apartment
building.  I’ll try to broker a deal between you two guys, unless you’re
totally against that, Rinaldo.  You don’t want to start a war, if it can
be avoided.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell interested, Marshon, and I got
my own security detail, which has dealt with about everything.  On the
other hand, I ain’t gonna fuck with Jemmy Shoemaker, so I’m willing to listen
to any offer.  Let’s talk.”

“Great, but now’s not the right time, Rinaldo.  I
got to talk to my lawyer first before I can talk finances with you.
However, I need to sleep in today.  Give me that time and I’m certain we
can work something out.  Whoever has an interest in The Wheel gets
rich.”  Marshon hoped that possibility would keep Morgan on the hook just
long enough.  Also, Marshon figured Morgan would never sell him out until
he had all the invaluable information necessary to run The Wheel
effectively.

“What else can I do for you right now, Marshon?”

“I need a disguise.  Could you find me some silver
dye for my hair and beard?  Some old clothes like some old retired guy
might wear.  A fedora.  Maybe a cane.”

“There’s a drug store over in The Shops where we
can get the dye and cane.  We got a whole room full of clothes that
customers left behind.  I’ll find something.  I’ll have one of the
maids bring everything by.”

“One more favor, Rinaldo.”  Marshon handed Morgan a
piece of paper with Mort Saperstein’s name and phone number on it.  “Send
my lawyer a text from a neutral cell phone saying MJ will meet him tomorrow
about noon at the usual place.  Ask for a confirmation.  Call me on
the house phone when he responds.”

The maid showed up about one o’clock with the dye, the
cane and clothing.  She even had a pair of dark glasses.  Marshon
immediately dyed his hair and beard stubble gray.  While his hair dried,
he examined the clothing, which consisted of shoes, pants, shirt, sweater and
overcoat.  The gray pants were shiny with wear and repeated washings.
Marshon put them on to discover they also were several inches too large in the
waist.  However, when he cinched up his belt, the bunched waistline gave
him the slovenly old man look he wanted to create.  The solid blue shirt
was nearly threadbare, and also was too large.  There were several visible
snags in the material of the yellow sweater, which also sported the remains of
a stubborn stain.  The shoes were size thirteen and the leather uppers
stiff and cracked with age.  Similarly, the tweed overcoat had seen better
days.

Marshon laid the overcoat on the bed and used a sharp
breakfast knife to loosen the inner lining enough so that he could slip his
Marcus Jones identification inside, along with the two flash drives, both of
which had a sixteen-gigabyte capacity.  He couldn’t take a chance and
leave these items in the hotel room, even in the safe.  That
identification was a key to his new life in the islands.  The computer
files were equally important.  He could use them to deal, if the cops
picked him up.  Marshon sewed the lining shut with a sewing kit the hotel
provided for guests.  Marshon wished he had the new identification Jemmy
was in the process of getting, but he couldn’t wait for that.

The room phone rang and Morgan announced a positive
response from Saperstein.

Marshon hung up his new wardrobe and used the burner
phone to call Jemmy.  Jemmy had gotten rid of the BMW.  The cops had
shown up at the apartment building and Jemmy told them Marshon was traveling
out of state.  Maleeka Mankin said the fake I.D. would be ready tomorrow
noon.  Marshon told Jemmy to bring it to the hotel tomorrow about two
o’clock.

When the call ended, Marshon again went back to bed and
slept until six a.m. Thursday morning.  When he got out of bed, he felt
for the first time that he would survive the gunshot wound.

About eleven a.m., Marshon put on his disguise and stood
before the bathroom mirror, assessing the finished product.  The clothes
and the dye job on his hair and beard looked to be a good disguise.
Marshon thought about taking the thirty-eight, but decided against it.  He
put the gun in the room safe.  He opened up the mini-laptop and took out
the hard drive, which he put into his pocket.  He threw the laptop case
into the trash.  Then, Marshon put on the dark glasses and the
fedora.  He picked up the cane and left the room.

Marshon made his way to the elevators, walking stooped
over, as if his joints were old and creaky.  He even got his gait in
rhythm with the cane.  He thought the whole image made him look old and
sick, which was how he felt, anyway.  The overcoat was about the right
size, but it smelled of the previous owner’s body odor.  He adjusted the
hat lower on his forehead.  If anyone stopped him, he’d claim to be on his
way to a doctor’s office in the medical building across from the Hyatt.
He’d act confused and claim to have lost his billfold.

Since Marshon didn’t think the safe in his room was
safe, he carried the zippered pouch in an overcoat pocket.  It contained
about $15,000 cash.  He had no idea how he’d explain that.

Out front, Marshon got into a cab and told the driver to
take him to a downtown eatery, where Mort Saperstein usually ate lunch.
Marshon waited across the street until he saw the old lawyer enter the
deli.  Saperstein walked a lot like Marshon’s character.  Marshon
waited about ten minutes to make sure no suspicious-looking suits showed up and
patrolled the sidewalk in front of the deli, or across the street.  While
he waited, he took out the laptop hard drive and crushed it with his heel, after
which he threw it into a storm sewer drain.  Marshon reminded himself to
ask Jemmy if he’d done the same with the hard drive from Marshon’s other
laptop, which Jemmy was supposed to remove from the apartment.

Inside, Saperstein sat alone at a booth at the
back.  Marshon walked over and sat down.  Saperstein eyed him keenly
and said, “Glad you could meet me for lunch.”

The frail, wizened old Jew wore an ugly brown plaid suit
that hung on his bony frame.  Marshon was willing to take this chance
because Saperstein had a mind like a steel trap and could outwit most cops and
prosecutors.

“As your lawyer, and an officer of the court, I must
advise you to present yourself to the police and answer their questions
concerning any involvement you may have had in connection with the death of
Michael Williams,” Saperstein said, for the record.  He didn’t actually
say Marshon’s name, in case someone was listening.

“Duly noted.”  Marshon had paid Saperstein a
$5,000-a-month retainer for several years.  He began his defense in a low
voice, so that old lawyer had to lean forward to hear.  “It was
self-defense and I got a gunshot wound in my back to prove it.”

“That would be helpful.”

“He said he had a brain tumor and wasn’t long for this
world.”

“If the autopsy substantiates that, it would be another
point in your favor.”

“He tried to strangle a prostitute last Saturday night
and I have video proof.”

Saperstein took a bite of his deli sandwich, chewed and
thought.  “That could be a plus in pre-trial discussions, but the judge
might rule it inadmissible in a jury trial.  If I were involved in the
defense, I might not even want it admitted into evidence during a trial.
The prosecution could use it to prove extortion, which would be a step in the
direction of convincing the jury that Williams was legitimately defending
himself.  Extortion resulting in death is a Class A felony, punishable by
up to life in prison.”

“There’s no proof of extortion, since no money changed
hands.”

“Probably irrelevant, since it’s the intent that’s important.
The prosecution might bring in other witnesses to establish such a pattern and
suggest that was the purpose of your visit.  Of course, I would object
vigorously to all such insinuations that extortion was intended.”

Marshon pictured Virginia Krebs on the witness
stand.  “So what are all the alternatives?”

Saperstein chewed on the answer for a few moments.
“Take your chances in court.  You could allege you were simply confronting
Williams for his assault upon your renter, and that it led to a fight in which
he shot you.  You killed Williams in self-defense.  Or, I might
arrange a plea.”

“What would I plead to?”

“I’d try for a Class A Misdemeanor, punishable by a
significant fine, probation, community service.  Or, we might deal for
involuntary manslaughter, Class D, same type of punishment, with perhaps some
minimal jail time.  A year, more or less.”

“You think they’d go for that?”

Saperstein sipped from his coffee.  “Anything else
they are trying to pin on you?”

Marshon knew Saperstein knew about the killings at The
Wheel.  The legal grapevine.  “There’s a grand jury looking into
two robbers who were killed at The Wheel by a player.  I wasn’t
involved at all.  There’s surveillance video and hundreds of witnesses to
prove that.”

“But you didn’t report the homicides to the police?”

“No one did.  I helped the families with burial
costs.”

Saperstein sighed.  “Technically, it doesn’t seem
to rise to the level of aiding and abetting, and I don’t think it meets the
legal definition of conspiracy.  It’s a misdemeanor.  I don’t think
the prosecutor would couple these two cases.  They’ll stick with the
Williams incident, for now.  It’s their strongest case.”

“What if my renter, Boudra, testified about how Williams
assaulted her?”

Saperstein nodded.  “I think I could somehow open
the door to that, which would cause many people to pause and reconsider.
The County Attorney, Williams’s family, city officials.  They wouldn’t
want that dirty laundry displayed in public.  The feds might even back out
of the museum deal.”

“And if I have other video of many city officials,
including some staffers in the County Attorney’s office, visiting women who
live in my apartment building, would that be useful?”

Saperstein chuckled.  “You mean, to openly
blackmail the city, court, and its officials!  I’d lose my license if I
were a party to such tactics.”  The old lawyer paused.  “Although I’d
never be involved in such efforts, that information might arise, somehow, and
become a factor in pre-trial negotiations.”

“So, you’re hopeful?” Marshon asked.  “You foresee
a positive outcome?”

“Generally, but you are a thorn in the side or law
enforcement and the judicial system, Marshon.  You flaunt the law on so
many levels.  They may decide on all-out war.  If I stymie them on
the Williams case, they might switch tactics and maintain that you have formed
a criminal enterprise, and prosecute you under the RICO Act or some similar
state statute.”

“Okay, back to the plea.  What if I agreed to pay a
big fine, say $100,000, sever my ties with The Wheel, and move out of my
apartment building?  Move out of town?  What then?”  These were
all things Marshon planned to do, anyway.

Saperstein nodded.  “If you pleaded to reckless
endangerment regarding the Williams case, paid a significant fine, and did some
community service, I might be able to sell that.  But, for the record and
as a matter of fact, I can’t guarantee anything, other than that I always
defend all my clients vigorously, and to the best of my ability.”

Saperstein used his napkin to dab at his lips, signaling
he had finished eating and offering legal advice.  He slid out of the
booth, stood and took his coat and hat from a clothes tree.  He put them
on and said, “Let me know what you decide.”

Although it was mainly a pick-up-and-carry eatery, the
deli had a roving waiter.  He approached Marshon and asked, “Can I get you
something, sir?”

“Yeah.  Coffee and a bacon, egg and cheese
croissant,” Marshon said.  He had to get some food into his stomach to
absorb the antibiotics.  He hadn’t eaten anything off the breakfast tray
delivered to his hotel room.

While he waited, Marshon considered Saperstein’s
advice.  The possible punishments weren’t as bad as he feared.
Still, there would be plenty of landmines in either negotiating a plea
agreement or during a trial, which surely would drag out for months, maybe a
year or more.  Community service would keep him in town for another year
or more.  He’d be in limbo, and the opposition would have plenty of time
to build various other cases against him.  What if they froze his assets
and he couldn’t make bail!

If they caught Widja and really went after Jemmy, or
even Gail, any one of them might give the cops some leads, if only
inadvertently.  No one knew the exact whereabouts of his Caribbean bank
account and home, but he’d told Gail just enough that she could, under the
right pressure, point them in the right direction.  Richey was the only
one who knew his island home was in the British Virgin Islands.  In time,
good and thorough investigators might turn up the identity of Marcus Jones, and
then all truly would be lost.  That information would lead to his offshore
bank account and his multi-million-dollar island home.

So what if he burned a dozen officials by releasing
videos of them gambling and sexing?  Might the governor or a federal
prosecutor bring in a new special prosecution team that was squeaky clean, and
dedicated to go after him with a vengeance?  Not caring about the
collateral damage they caused.

What if he pleaded innocent, went to court, and won?
Might they prosecutors file new charges on another issue?  That he
conducted an illegally gambling operation?  Conspired with Ace
Semanski?  Extorted whoremongers?  Ran a house of prostitution.
He should have asked Saperstein about all those possibilities.

Worst of all, what if he went to court, lost, and was
sentenced to a lengthy term in prison?  What were the odds?  Marshon
struggled mentally, but only concluded that any possibility was too scary a bet
for him.

Marshon was confident no one currently knew about Marcus
Jones or his offshore bank account and real estate holdings.  Jones had
been a real person about Marshon’s age and size.  In fact, they looked a
lot alike.  When someone murdered Marcus nearly four years ago, Marshon astutely
bought the dead man’s birth certificate and Social Security card from Marcus’s
father, a ne’er-do-well gambler gunned down himself a few months later.

Marshon had bribed a clerk in the city’s Bureau of Vital
Statistics to make certain Marcus’s death was not reported to various
state and federal agencies, including the Social Security Administration.
That, plus a copy of Marcus’s original birth certificate, cost $2,500 at the
time.

He’d initially changed Marcus Jones’s legal address to a
postal box downtown, but later switched it back to Marcus’s home address, where
he’d lived with his parents until his death.  After visiting with Marcus’s
mother, Marshon concluded that she didn’t know her late husband had sold her
dead son’s identity.  He offered to pay her $500 a month if she allowed
him to receive mail at her home addressed to her dead son.  Marcus’s
mother didn’t ask a single question.

Over time, Marshon had rehabilitated the dead man’s bad
credit rating.  Marcus Jones now had a local bank account, new driver’s
license, new credit cards, and a valid United States passport — all of which
Marshon now carried precariously in the lining of his borrowed coat.
Marcus paid his bills on time every month, always via deductions from a local
bank account balance.  Marshon even acquired a real estate license in
Marcus’s name, so that he appeared gainfully self-employed.  Within a few
weeks, depending upon events, he’d revise Marcus’s various I.D. to reflect his
new address on Scrub Island.  Then, Marcus Jones would sell the island
home to a new buyer created by Nassau lawyer Phillip Dahlgren.

If they picked him up on the street now, he’d have to
run, to generate time to ditch the Marcus Jones identification.  Get rid
of the entire coat.  The odds of that possibility caused Marshon to become
nauseous.

Back at the Hyatt, Marshon stopped in one of the shops
on the mezzanine level and purchased a package containing three five-gigabyte
flash drives.  He also purchased a small pack of stationery, and two
prepaid cell phones.  He then went to the hotel business center to use a
computer.  Marcus Jones also had a G-mail account.  He sent an e-mail
to Dahlgren, saying, “I plan on being in Miami Sunday or Monday to conduct
important business.  If your boat or airplane could be in Florida, I could
use a ride.  Let me know.”

Marshon tore loose enough threads to retrieve the flash
drives hidden inside the lining of his overcoat.  Using both of the
computer’s USB ports, he copied several documents to the flash drives he’d just
purchased, although he varied the contents.  One was for Rinaldo Morgan,
one for Jemmy Shoemaker, and one to be held in reserve.

Although these actions indicated Marshon had rejected
Saperstein’s advice, Marshon would have denied that.  He was just being
cautious, developing all options on parallel paths until he decided which one
to follow.

There was just one more connection Marshon wanted to
make — with Gail.  It could put both of them in danger, since they were a
well-known couple.  A thousand people had seen them together at the recent
fund-raiser for mayoral candidate Dewhurst.

On a piece of the stationery he had purchased, Marshon
wrote this note: Gail, if you want to see me, come about eight o’clock
Friday night.  I’ll be in the bar near the dining room where you and I and
your parents recently had dinner.  Come alone or don’t come at all.
Don’t bring your cell phone, or call me on it.  M.  He folded the
note and put it in an envelope.  He wrote Gail’s name and the address of
the accounting firm where she worked and took the letter to the concierge desk.

“Can you get a messenger service to deliver this?
I’d like it delivered yet today if possible.”

“Certainly,” the woman said.

“What’s the charge?”

“We can bill it to your room.”

“I’d rather pay in cash.”

She paged through a notebook.  “That would be fifty
dollars, deliverable within the hour.”

Maybe it wasn’t smart for Marshon to contact Gail, or
give her a day’s notice regarding his location.  After she saw the TV
news, it could be the last straw for her.  She might even call the
cops.  Maybe he’d change his mind tomorrow before they met.

Marshon went back in his hotel room and collapsed onto
the bed.  He again turned on the local all-news television channel.
Within fifteen minutes, they re-issued the news report Rinaldo Morgan had told
him about.  Michael Williams, well-known local businessman, had been
stabbed to death in his office.  The reporter portrayed the dead Williams
as a saint — prominent architect, past member of the county zoning board,
church deacon, and husband and father.  They obviously didn’t know that
Williams also was a whoremonger and a diseased lunatic who considered it
sporting fun to hunt a nigger in a dark office arranged like a maze.

The police were looking for the three named janitors who
pictures were shown.  Captain David Fisher, Essex County Sheriff,
reiterated that Marshon Johnson was a person of interest wanted only for
questioning.

Marshon knew their tricks.  They wanted him to come
in voluntarily, making their job easier.  At that point, he probably would
never get out of the station house, except to be arraigned before a judge and
transferred to another jail.

The knocking on his hotel door again caused Marshon’s
heart rate to elevate.  He looked through the spy hole and saw Jemmy.

“You sure you weren’t followed?” Marshon asked, opening
the door.

“This whole complex is like a maze, Marshon, with all
the underground parking lots and tunnels and The Link.  I’m sure I
didn’t have a tail, but if I did, I lost ʼem.  I parked over in the
mall parking garage.  So, what’s the latest?”

“I paid off Widja, and I guess they’re gone.  You
haven’t heard anything?”

Jemmy shook his head.

“I just saw the TV news reports.  You seen it?”

Jemmy nodded.

“I could only give Widja fifty grand, but I promised him
more.  Told him we’d keep in contact through the newspaper personal
ads.  I hope they can hold out long enough.”

“The hookers shut down for a whole evening,” Jemmy said,
in disgust.  “Told me today they had to get back to make a livin’.”

Marshon smiled.  “I figured as much.  I
couldn’t exactly see them on a cruise ship together.  At least, it’s
generating income for us.  Now, about The Wheel.  Rinaldo Morgan
knows about my problems, of course.  He wants to manage The Wheel.
I had to lead him on, Jemmy.  He’s got me by the nuts, right now.
You can still outmaneuver him with the information I can give you.”

Jemmy sat at the table.  “I been thinking about
everything since you and me and Widja had that conversation when you said you
was gonna leave and we could take over.  Well, Widja ain’t gonna be around
now.  I decided I don’t wanna run The Wheel, Marshon.”

Marshon arranged two pillows on the bed, so he could lie
down but yet be propped up and talk to Jemmy.  “Why?”

“Several reasons.  I been with you since you took
over The Wheel, Marshon.  I’ve had my run.  Like you said when
we talked, The Wheel is yesterday’s news to some extent.  It’s a
magnet for problems and it requires too much grease.”

“That’s all true.  It also nets nearly a
million-and-a-half each year.”

Jemmy smiled.  “Yeah, there’s that, but I’m me,
Marshon, and you is you.  I loved being your lieutenant and playing my
role, but I don’t think I can be a show dog like you.”

“Show dog!  So you see me sitting in a corner
licking my balls.”

They had a good laugh over that image.

“I can’t do you, Marshon, and, truthfully, I ain’t all
that ambitious.  But you said a couple of other things that appeal to
me.  I’m thinking that I’ll keep my apartment in the building and do the
security there, if I can work a deal with Boudra.”

“I already talked to her about giving you a hundred
grand for security and some payoffs.  Now that things have changed, I’ll
ask her to double that, if you take care of maintenance, too.”

“One other thing: I want your old apartment,
Marshon.  In fact, I’d like to have Boudra move into my apartment, so I
could have the entire top floor of the building to myself.  I could host
private card game for whales in the other two apartments, like you
suggested.  Get paid with tips.”

“What’s this shit about you always telling me you’re a
dumb ass!” Marshon said, with enthusiasm.  “This is a brilliant move,
man.  You’re gonna make out like a bandit!  You and I ain’t done
working together.”

Marshon carefully got out of bed, walked over and kissed
Jemmy’s bald head.  “Okay, I’ll make a deal with Rinaldo Morgan tomorrow
regarding The Wheel.  I’ll ask him for $250,000 for the equipment
and my various lists — and offer to let him do half of it on a payment
schedule.  I’m gonna let you collect the payments and keep the
money.  I’ll offer to launder Morgan’s profits from The Wheel.
I’ll do the same thing for you, for free.”

“I’ll take care of everything, Marshon.”

“Stay with me here in the hotel this evening,
Jemmy.  We’ll order in dinner.  There’s a pull-out sofa.  It’ll
be safer, and you can run me out to Mackeyville tomorrow morning.  I got
some cash in a bank out there and I’ll make it worth your while.  Besides,
I don’t feel like driving.”

“No problem, Marshon.  I’m just as soon stay away
from the apartment, in case the cops come back.  Oh, I almost
forgot.”  Jemmy reached into a pocket and brought forth two plastic cards
— one a driver’s license and the other a Visa card.  “Maleeka did this
work and it looks very good.  Your new name is Caleb McDear.  Also,
Max the Knife says he can check you out tomorrow morning.  I told him I’d
pick him up at the hospital.”

“I got a better idea,” Marshon said, standing and going
back to his bed.  “Call The Knife and tell him you’ll meet him in the
lobby downstairs at nine tomorrow morning.  If he doesn’t have a tail,
bring him to the room.”

Jemmy wrote a telephone number on a piece of Marshon’s
stationery.  “This is the number of my new burner phone.  You still
got the phone I gave you at the hospital?”

“Yeah, and I ain’t called nobody on it ʼcept
you.”  Marshon now had three burner phones.

Jemmy took some cash out of his pocket and laid it on
the table.  “I got fifteen grand for the BMW at the chop shop.”

“Jesus Christ, talk about crimes!  That car was
less than a year old and cost over nearly seventy grand brand new!”

Jemmy shrugged.  “I wasn’t in a great bargaining
position.”

Marshon nodded.  “You keep five, give me the
rest.”  After making a few more payments, Marshon figured to have about
twenty-five thousand in cash.  While that probably was enough to get him
to Miami, Marshon knew there was no such thing as having too much money while
being in the wind.  It certainly wasn’t enough for Nassau lawyer Dahlgren
to risk his boat, business and life.  Marshon had to consider every
possibility, including Dahlgren turning him in and seizing his island home and
bank account.  Marshon knew where to find another two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars, which he would need.  Although Marshon wouldn’t admit it
even to himself, he’d already made a decision about whether or not to turn
himself over to the law.

∞
∞  ∞

Friday morning,
Max the Knife examined Marshon in his hotel room at the Hyatt and
announced that Marshon’s wound seemed to be healing nicely, so long as he
didn’t over-exert himself.  Marshon paid the resident physician another
$2,500 and Jemmy issued a veiled threat about Max keeping quiet.  Then,
Marshon used his new I.D. to order a rental car from Hertz, which delivered it
to the front of the hotel by ten-thirty.  Marshon then drove into the
Hyatt parking garage and met Jemmy on the third level.  Marshon moved into
the passenger’s seat and Jemmy drove toward Mackeyville, a suburb on the far
east side of the metropolitan area.

On the ride out to Mackeyville, he and Jemmy didn’t talk
much after Marshon gave him directions to his cousin Jolanda’s house.
Jolanda controlled Marshon’s last substantial stash of cash, which he wanted
not only because it was his, but also in case some other unexpected event came
up and he got caught short.

“You carrying?”  Marshon asked.

“No, in case we get stopped.”

Similarly, Marshon again left his gun in the hotel room
safe, not wanting to get shot again by anyone for any reason.  Nor did he
want the police to confiscate the gun that fired bullets inside Michael
Williams’s office suite.

Jemmy parked outside Jolanda’s house, and they both
walked up and knocked on the front door.  Marshon could hear movement
inside and whispering voices.  After about a minute, Jolanda opened the
door, along with her husband Donyell.

They didn’t invite them inside, but instead came out
onto the porch.  The sun was approaching mid-sky, but there was a cool
breeze blowing.  Marshon sensed this was an ominous sign as he pulled up
the collar on his stinky overcoat.

“Hey, Marshon, what’s happenin’, baby?”  Jolanda
asked.  “Almost didn’t recognize you with the disguise and all.
Heard the TV news about your problems.”

“I thought we might go over to the bank and you could
get most of my money out of the safe deposit box,” Marshon said, decided not to
beat around the bush with small talk.  “I want you to keep twenty thousand
for all your help.”

“Right now, baby?”  His cousin wore tight black
slacks and a black sweater, neither of which hid double fat rolls circling her
waist.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Marshon said, forcing a
smile.

Donyell laughed.  “Twenty thousand is fuck-you
money, Marshon!”

For the first time, Marshon noticed the gun stuck into
Donyell’s waistband.  He was a big bruiser with a nose so flat it couldn’t
be broken anymore.  Marshon looked at Jemmy, who looked equally grim, and
studied his shoe tops.

“Those fuckin’ whores o’ yours spend that much every
month on penicillin shots!”  Donyell added.

Marshon watched Jolanda rock with silent laugher at her
man’s outrageous sense of humor.  “How much do you want?” Marshon asked, a
sick feeling in his stomach.

“How much we want?”  Donyell parroted.  He
bobbed his head as if calculating.  “Let’s see.  How’s ’bout two
hundred and fifty grand.”

The knot of fear in Marshon’s stomach made him
temporarily forget about the pain of the gunshot wound.

“There ain’t no money right at this moment, Marshon,”
Jolanda admitted, finally, looking legitimately sorry.  She had her arms
crossed against the cold and stomped from one foot to the other.  “I took
it all out of the safe deposit box.”

Marshon shook his head in amazement.  And to think
he’d given her authorization to use the box in case something happened to
him.  Jolanda was family.  His dead uncle Cletus’s child!

“We needed it for the house and the car,” Jolanda
explained.  “And, then, there were some medical bills.  My daughter,
Krystol, got bad asthma.”

“You run The Wheel, Marshon,” Donyell said,
sneering.  “Everybody knows that’s a gold mine.  You don’t need that
money, not like we do.”

Jolanda grimaced as she looked at Marshon.  She
seemed genuinely sorry for stealing from him.  “I was hoping we could put
some of it back, Marshon, you know, in time.  I didn’t think you’d ever
need it.”

“And don’t be thinkin’ you can squeeze it outta us,”
Donyell threatened.  “’Cause all we gotta do is make a phone call.”

Marshon turned palms up and shrugged.  “What’s done
is done.  But, about that phone call, Donyell, you might want to
reconsider.  If I get arrested, I’m damn sure gonna tell the cops about
the money you been hidin’ for me.  You’re right, it’s illegal gambling
money.  Hidin’ it is a felony.  If you claim I gave it to you, then
the state and feds are gonna want their tax money, which would be about
$80,000.  Y’all be goin’ to prison, too.”

Jolanda glared at her husband.  “Ain’t nobody in
this house makin’ no phone calls, Marshon!”

Jemmy pushed back the hood on his parka and stepped
closer to Donyell.  “And if you was to make that call, motherfucker, you
won’t live another twenty-four hours and this house will get accidentally
burned to the ground.  Everybody in your family’ll be dead before tomorrow
morning.  That’ll happen even if you was to shoot both of us here on this
front porch.  Maybe it’s different out here in the ʼburbs, but folks
on the East Side don’t allow snitches to live, especially if they do bad to
someone they love, like Marshon here.  Maybe you remember my brother,
Darieon?”

Marshon thought Jemmy’s threat was pure bravado, but
Donyell didn’t say a word.  As they turned and walked back toward the car,
Marshon expected at any time to feel the bullets enter his back.  He’d
been fucked by his own blood and couldn’t really could do anything about
it.  He certainly couldn’t afford to raise a fuss.  At least he knew
the bad luck Nanna had warned him about likely was over.  The threes
are filled in.  Williams shot him, Widja lost the body to a security
guard, and Jolanda and Donyell stole his biggest stash of running money!

What next?

When they arrived back near the Convention Center
complex, Jemmy got out of the car several blocks from the Hyatt.  Marshon
drove to the hotel and turned the rental over to a valet, who agreed to return
it to the nearby Hertz facility for a $50 tip.

Inside, Rinaldo Morgan intercepted Marshon before he
could get to the elevators.

“Can we have that talk now, Marshon?”

“Absolutely, Rinaldo.  Let’s go to your office.”

Once they were inside that first floor office, Marshon
took out one of the five-gigabyte flash drives from a pocket and handed it to
the hotel security chief.  “When we talked about The Wheel
yesterday, I mentioned lists of invaluable information, including players,
locations, equipment, people who need to be bribed.  It’s all on that
flash drive.”

“You talked to Jemmy?”

“He doesn’t want to run The Wheel.  He’ll be
taking care of some other business interests of mine.”

“I’m surprised.”

Marshon sat down, to rest his aching back.
“Jemmy’s a very smart man.  He knows his limitations, and you should know
yours, too, Rinaldo.  Don’t fuck with Jemmy or his business interests, or
I will take it very personally.  If he wants to run a private card game
out of his apartment, that’s his business, and it ain’t gonna take any money
away from your action.  Because those big stash players don’t come to The
Wheel.  Also, Jemmy controls the equipment for The Wheel, which
includes eleven gaming tables.  The cost of the equipment is
$250,000.  I’ll take a hundred grand now and you and Jemmy can work out a
payment schedule for the rest.  That’s a helluva good deal, by the
way.  If you don’t want the equipment, Rinaldo, I’ll sell it to someone
else.”

“I want it and it’s an acceptable price.  I’ll send
someone by with the money tomorrow.  For your information, Marshon, ain’t
nobody stupid enough to fuck with Jemmy Shoemaker.”

“Now, I thought about also asking for a monthly dividend
from you, Rinaldo, just like the one I paid to Skinny for several years.
I think that would be legit, but I ain’t gonna do it.  Instead, I’m gonna
offer to clean your money for a 15 percent fee.  I’ll put your money into
an offshore bank account that only you can access with your own private
password.  Every now and then, I may suggest some other investments for
you.  The best final free advice I can give you, Rinaldo, is to begin
putting together your exit plan tomorrow, ʼcause you’ll eventually need it.”

“How can I contact you, Marshon?”

“Through Jemmy, at first.  Then, we’ll work
something out.”

Rinaldo stood and held out his hand.  Marshon shook
it, but held on, to issue one final warning.  “You been good to me so far,
Rinaldo, and this is a straight-up deal.  We might even do some other
profitable business down the line, so do your best to make sure I don’t get
arrested before I can get out of town.  Then, Jemmy will step in and
you’ll be involved in a war you’ll lose, especially after Jemmy puts out the
word that you rolled on me.”

Morgan looked hurt at even a vague suggestion he might
turn Marshon in.

“Because if I wind up in a jail cell, all that
information on that flash drive goes to law enforcement as I attempt to deal
down my sentence.  And your name is now among those names.”

“I understand perfectly, Marshon.  You need
anything to get out of town, I’ll do it if it’s at all possible.”  He
handed Marshon a business card.  “Call me on my cell phone at any time.”
The next time Marshon called, what he needed most desperately was a key
to the stairwell doors in a parking garage.

∞
∞  ∞

Shortly before
eight o’clock that night, Marshon left his room, wearing his disguise,
including the overcoat.  He put the dark glasses into his shirt
pocket.  On a sudden whim, he opened the wall safe and took out the
thirty-eight, which he put into another coat pocket.  The smelly coat
contained his future.

He regretted still being in the city, since the news
media, obviously prompted by law enforcement, continued to broadcast the report
that Marshon Johnson was wanted for questioning in the death of Michael
Williams.

In a way, that was encouraging.  They could never
prove he killed Williams, only that he had been in his office complex the night
someone killed the architect.  There were four suspects, and three of them
were on the run.

However, it wasn’t a feeling of invincibility that kept
Marshon around, but rather his need to recuperate physically, as well as take
care of business.  Being on the run didn’t necessarily make him
safer.  However, Gail was Marshon’s last piece of local business.
Given Max the Knife’s recent diagnosis and the events of the day, Marshon
planned to leave the city Saturday morning.

He did take care in meeting Gail.  He sat on a
padded bench on the mezzanine level, where he could see the hotel entrance, as
well as the entrance from The Link.  Those were the only two ways
Gail could enter the hotel.  She came from The Link, which Marshon
found encouraging.  It was the best route for anyone wanting to determine
if they were being followed.  The tail had no hallway to duck into.
Still, Marshon stayed put and watched Gail walk completely around the
mezzanine.  In fact, she walked right by him as he continued to watch the
two entrances to see who came in after her.  Those who did looked fairly
innocuous; either that, or they were very good at their job.

After about ten minutes, Gail simply stood at the
railing and waited.  Marshon got up and walked around to her position and
boldly sidled up to her.

“Don’t look shocked.  It’s me, Marshon, but tonight
I’m Caleb McDear, your uncle from Chicago.”

Gail looked shocked, but remained silent.

“Let’s walk over to that bar, Spectators, and see
if we can find a table in the back to have a drink,” Marshon said, taking her
arm and putting it through his left arm, as if she were supporting and guiding
her frail uncle who walked with a cane.

Inside the bar, Marshon changed his mind and selected a
table near the door, where he had a good view of the mezzanine, including the
stairs and escalator to and from the lobby.  On this Friday night, there
were only a few businessmen at the bar, talking shop in low, hushed
tones.  The television set behind the bar was tuned to a channel where
several experts analyzed stock market trends.  The Dow had topped eighteen
thousand during the day, and that seemed to both scare and encourage investors.

Gail said, “I would never have recognized you.”

“Good, although it is possible to smell me coming.”

Marshon ordered a brandy from the waiter, and Gail asked
for a glass of Chardonnay.

“You saw the newscasts?”

“Yes.”

“Did your dad call?”

“Yes.”

“I assume he told you not to see me?”

“Yes.”

“It was good advice, but I’m happy you ignored it.”

“What happened?”

“I’m gonna keep it short, Gail.  You know most of
it.  I’ve run the East Side Wheel for about seven years.  Inherited
the role from a friend of my father’s.  He probably knew my mother,
too.  I did it for the money, period.  Two robbers got killed there
recently, although I wasn’t involved.  I’ll still get the blame because
I’m the guy in charge.  I also let a half-dozen prostitutes like my mother
live in my apartment building and pay me for protection.  I don’t frequent
them, nor do I judge them.  They want to get out of the life, I finance
their business ventures, if they got one.  I blackmail some of their
customers, if they deserve it.  One of them was Williams, who tried to
strangle one of the women.  When I confronted him, he decided to kill me,
and shot me in the back.  In defense, I stabbed him to death.”

Her hand flew to her mouth.  “Are you going to be
okay?”

“Yes, I’ve seen a doctor, twice.  It’s a serious
wound, but it seems to be healing okay.  However, I’ve run out my string
here.  I’ve got to leave.  I can’t go to jail, not even for a few
years.”  He didn’t know what else to say.  “I just didn’t want to
leave without saying goodbye, and telling you the truth.”

“The police could be following me, you know.  I
tried to be careful, but they could be better than me.”

“I know.”  He was pleased she’d even kept the
appointment.  It meant a great deal, although he would have second
thoughts if it meant jail.  Love can be a dangerous thing.

“Where will you go?  Your place in the Caribbean?”

“Yes, that was the plan before this mess.  I’ll
leave tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“Shortly before noon, I think.”

“Are you staying here, in the hotel?”

He hesitated, instinctively not liking all the
questions.  “Yes.”

“I wish I could come.”

“We talked about starting a new life in the Caribbean,
remember?  You had doubts then, and now there’s all this.  There
could be legal consequences for consorting with a wanted criminal.  I’m
sure your dad explained all that to you.”

She nodded.

“I’m truly sorry, Gail.  I am what I am.  I
think you’ve always known that.  If not, then you fooled yourself as much
as I fooled you.”

She nodded again.  “Love indeed is blind.”

“And grand.  I’ll keep in touch, in case you ever
change your mind.  Things won’t always be this grim.”

Gail leaned across the table and kissed him.  She
then stared into his eyes for several moments.  The look on her face was
one of contentment, which startled Marshon.  Then, she stood.

“Is there any safe way for me to contact you tomorrow?”

His fondest wish had been granted.  He handed her
one of the two prepaid phones he’d purchased yesterday.  “My number is in
the only one in the contact list.  It should be good for a couple of days,
but don’t keep the phone beyond that.  And, for God’s sake, don’t let
anyone get hold of it!”

Then, she was gone and Marshon finished his
brandy.  He called Hertz again and asked if they could have a car out
front of the Hyatt at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.  He’d drop it Saturday
afternoon at their facility nearest to Lambert Field, in St. Louis.

Marshon left the bar and walked to the railing, where he
could see into the lobby.  He immediately saw the two uniformed cops
flanking two other guys wearing overcoats and hats, who were talking to the
desk clerk.  Marshon looked up at the balconies of rooms opening onto the
atrium.  He frowned at the sight of two men standing on their balconies,
on the same floor as his room.  They weren’t talking, but rather looking
around intently.  Marshon felt sick.  Surely Gail hadn’t set him up!

Marshon quickly made a decision and began walking around
the mezzanine to the elevator bank on the other side.  He got in and went
to the third floor, where he could get into the top level of the parking
garage.  In the garage, he entered the stairwell and gingerly walked down
three floors and exited through a door onto Main Street.  As soon as he
stepped onto the sidewalk, a cab exited from the hotel circular driveway and
came his way.  Marshon walked to the curb and waved.  The cab pulled
over.  Marshon heaved a sigh of relief.

Inside the cab, Marshon hesitated briefly before
announcing his destination.  It had to be somewhere the police wouldn’t
think to look right away.  It had to be someone he trusted
implicitly.  Only one name came to mind.

21/Buffers
All The Way

The rocking motion woke Ace
up.  For a moment, he imagined himself in his bunk below deck on a navy
destroyer plowing its way through ocean waves.  Except this movement
resulted from activity in the adjoining bedroom of the mobile home.
Country and his girlfriend, Rhonda, apparently were making love — an activity
appropriately accompanied by loud grunts and squealing noises.

He sat on the edge of the bed, lit a cigarette, and
rubbed his sore shoulder.  Then, Ace pulled on a pair of jeans and went to
the kitchen, taking a cold Budweiser from the refrigerator.  In the
cluttered living room, he sat on a tattered sofa.  It was cold in the
trailer because the furnace was on the fritz.  It was the first Friday in
November — D-day.  If everything went according to plan, he would be rich
by noon tomorrow — or, he would be in jail, or dead.  Ace was confidently
optimistic about the possibility of the first outcome and stoic regarding the
alternative endings.  Like he’d told Country after they’d killed Hank and
Melvin, everyone was dying, day-by-day.  Daring and wise people chose the
time and circumstances of their final breath.

Country lumbered down the hallway wearing nothing but
boxer shorts.  He vigorously scratched one butt cheek while his jaws
worked over imaginary food.

“ʼMornin’, Ace,” Country said, as he took a quart
of orange juice from the refrigerator and drank from it in huge gulps.  He
yelled toward the back of the trailer, “Rhonda, you bring those breakfast
sandwiches from Mickey Dees?”

“On top of the microwave,” she yelled back and then came
shuffling down the hallway.  She wore light gray sweat pants and a pea
green tank top that gapped open on the sides to provide a view of her breasts
and underarm hair.  She was short, squat and had Mongoloid features.
Her reddish-yellow hair seemed to have been electrified.

“Hi, Ace,” she said, and smiled broadly.  He could
never tell if she was looking directly at him or not, since her eyeballs
weren’t coordinated.

“We got an Egg McMuffin with sausage and two of them
bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches, plus potato thingies,” Country said, looking
through the sack Rhonda had brought home at 7 a. m. after completing her
overnight shift at McDonalds, where she worked as a janitor.  Following a
little morning delight, breakfast was served.

“You want a sandwich?”  Country asked Ace.

He took a swig of Budweiser and shook his head.
When he was wired, he never ate.  He watched as Rhonda took one of the
sandwiches and walked back down the hallway, presumably to eat and then
sleep.  At least they were trainable.

Ace had stayed in the trailer for nearly a week now,
even before the Tuesday night fight at Kandie’s apartment, after which he and
Country had disposed of Hank and Melvin.  He doubted anyone would think to
look for him or Country in this location.  Rhonda’s singlewide sat behind
her senile uncle’s rickety old farmhouse located at the end of a gravel road in
the boonies.  Ace had picked up the Toyota Sentra from the parking lot
near Kandie’s apartment building, and returned the car to his former landlord’s
home, parking it on the street.  The last two days, Ace and Country drove
Country’s pickup, as they got ready for D-Day.

Country sat at the table opposite Ace.  With his
mouth full, he nodded toward the back bedroom where Rhonda slept.  “Now
there’s a good woman.”

Ace didn’t disagree.  “She’s a peach.  Serves
you morning pussy followed by a gourmet breakfast.  What else could a man
ask for?”

Country nodded his emphatic agreement.

“Let’s have a little talk, Country,” Ace said, thinking
this was a good moment since the dummy had his mouth full and couldn’t ask
questions.

Country nodded to indicate he was listening.

“We’re a team, Country, you know that, don’t you?”

Country swallowed so he could say, “You’re my best buddy
ever, Ace.”

“We’ve done things together that could get us some jail
time, Country.  I don’t want to be in jail ever again.”

Country became so animated he actually put down the
breakfast sandwich.  “I was in the county jail down home twice, Ace.
Once for ten months.  The sheriff caught me knocking the heads off parking
meters, so’s I could get at the change.”

“I didn’t know they had parking meters in Dogpatch.”

“Jail down home ain’t all that bad, Ace.  I knowed
everybody, including Myrtle Jones, who does the cookin’ for people in
jail.  Best I ever ate for free for nearly a year.”  Country sat back
and smiled, as if his being jailed was a coup he executed against the county.

Ace took a swig of cold beer.  “You go to jail up
here in the big city, asshole, and the jailhouse niggers’ll have you for
lunch.”

Country deliberated on that thought for several
moments.  “Yeah, I believe you, Ace.  We ain’t got many niggers down
home.  And if they get ʼem in jail, the deputies take turns beatin’
the hell outta ʼem.”  Country’s eyes became as wide as his
smile.  “One time down home …”

“Stow it!”  Ace interrupted.  “What I was
gettin’ at is that I got to be able to trust you.  Know that you won’t
spill your guts to anyone — the cops, Rhonda, or anybody else.”

Country drew an imaginary zipper across his lips as he
resumed eating his sandwich.  “Won’t tell nothin’ to nobody, Ace.”

“Good.  And you gotta do exactly as I say.”

“Whadaya want me to do, Ace?”

Ace took a deep drag on a Camel.  “We need some
money, right?”

Country looked dejected.  “Yeah, Ace, I’m ’bout
broke now that we quit Biederman’s.”

“That’s a job for beaners, niggers, and other
losers.  Minimum wage.  It’s depressing to even walk through that
place and wonder how those people stand it.  It was a place to make pocket
change until the right opportunity came along.  Which it has.  Like I
told you before, I got a plan that’ll make us a million dollars.
Tomorrow.”

“Wowee, Ace!  A million dollars!”  A
bewildered look came over Country’s face.  “Where we gonna get that much
money, Ace?”

“Someone from a bank is gonna deliver it to us.
Your job is to pick up the money.”

“I can do that, Ace,” Country said, his mouth open wide
and eyes bulging in anticipation.  “Where do I go?”

“I’ll show you today.  The main thing is for you to
do exactly as I say, Country.  I don’t have time to argue with you or
explain everything, okay?  I want you to pretend you’re a soldier — a
private.  And I’m a general.  I tell you to do something and you say,
‘Yes, sir,’ and fuckin’ hop right to it.  Understand?”

Country stood at attention in his underwear, saluted,
and, with his mouth partly full, said, “Yes, sir, General Ace!”  Sitting
down, he added, in a dejected tone, “I never was in the army, Ace.  They
wouldn’t take me.  I flunked their test, I think.”

“Maybe they didn’t think you’d do what you were told,”
Ace replied.

Country looked hurt.  “Well, I woulda.”

Ace stared at the dummy, blew smoke in his face, and
flicked ashes on the table.  “If I told you to shoot someone, would you do
it?”

Country screwed up his face in an expression that
simulated thought.  “I guess so, Ace.”

Ace shook his head, rose, and got another breakfast beer
out of the refrigerator.  “That’s why they wouldn’t take you into the
army, Country.  I ordered you to do something and you guessed you
might.  It sounded to me like you wasn’t sure.”

“I don’t really wanna shoot nobody, Ace.”

“When I was in the navy, if an officer told me to drop
to my knees and give him a blowjob, I got down and sucked his dick, even though
I didn’t want to.  You understand what I’m saying?”

Country screwed up his face.  “I don’t think I’d
like to suck some guy’s dick, Ace.”

Ace slammed the beer bottle down on the table, sat, and
shoved his face close to Country’s.  He didn’t speak until the dummy
finally said, with emphasis: “But I’m gonna do what you tell me, General Ace.”

“Good and no fuckin’ questions, whether you like my
orders or not.  Understood!”

With a hangdog look, Country said, “Yeah, Ace.”  He
stuffed the last potato hash brown into his mouth.

“How much money’d you make last year working at
Biederman’s and those other places you told me about?”

Country chewed and swallowed, saying proudly, “Almost
ten thousand dollars.  Rhonda didn’t even make that much.”

Ace got up from the table and walked into his temporary
bedroom, reached under the mattress and pulled out what was left of the $10,000
Marshon had given him.  Ace considered it a good sign, or certainly good
luck, that he even had the money, given the television newscasts that began
airing Wednesday noon.  Marshon was on the run.  Luckily, before his
world fell apart, the nigger prince had sent Richey to make the second payoff
to Ace.  On the other hand, Ace would keep his word and leave town
tomorrow, about noon, if all went well.

That wasn’t the only newscast that caught Ace’s
attention, however.  There was another one yesterday, reporting that
Sheriff’s deputies had pulled a car from the lake in Canyon Park Wednesday
morning, and discovered the bodies of two men in the trunk.

Ace spent a sleepless night trying to calculate all the
possibilities.  Even though the four men he’d killed were not linked
together and were in fact separate incidents and cases, he knew how the cops
operated.  They loved linkages.  Marshon, Richey, Ace, Country and
Kandie were linked together because of these killings, even though he didn’t
know much about Marshon’s various business dealings.  Marshon couldn’t
know anything about Hank and Melvin, unless Richey told him.  However, the
cops would continue to ask questions, and they’d eventually find the weak links
— Kandie and Richey, who would spill their guts.  By then, it would be too
late.

Ace wasn’t one for regrets.  He’d just as soon not
have killed Hank and Melvin Tuesday night, but that couldn’t be avoided.
It was them or him.  The only thing he regretted was that they’d found the
car so soon.  Obviously, someone nearby had seen everything, but probably
had been too far away to identify them positively — although that didn’t make
any difference, since he was suspect number one, anyway.  The positives
were that both Kandie and Country accepted his actions and remained good
soldiers.  He was certain they’d perform equally well tomorrow, right up
to the time he didn’t need either one of them anymore.

Ace returned to the kitchen table and dropped the money
in front of Country.

“Gollee!  I never saw so much money, Ace!”

“It’s about ten thousand dollars, the amount of money it
takes you a year to make.  I picked this up in the past few weeks, without
much effort at all.  If you do exactly what I tell you today and tomorrow,
I’ll give you ten times that amount of money, Country.”

For once, Country was silent as he tried unsuccessfully
to perform the multiplication in his head, or envision that amount of money.

“That’s a hundred thousand dollars.  Ten years’
worth of work, but you’ll get it all tomorrow, if you do what I tell you.
You can buy an RV and boat and pay cash for ʼem.  Would you like
that?”

“You bet, Ace.”

“You do what I say, and you can buy everything
tomorrow.”

“I think that RV places closes at noon on Saturday,
Ace.  Will I have my money by then?”

“Absolutely.  You still got the cell phone I gave
you?”

“Yeah.”

“Call me with it.”

“But you’re right here, Ace.”  When Ace gave him a
menacing look, Country pressed the number one button for two seconds and Ace’s
cell phone rang in the bedroom.  “You gonna go get the phone, Ace?”

Ace grabbed the cell phone from Country and punched the off
button.  “Ain’t technology amazing.  Now, get dressed, Country.
We got work to do.”

Ten minutes later, they left the mobile home and walked
toward the old barn.  Ace carried a medium-sized suitcase equipped with a
combination lock.  The paint had long ago worn off the barn, and the wood
now was gray and shrunken by the weather, so that there were gaps between the
boards.  An ancient tractor and various other rusting farm implements sat
inside.  Morning frost covered everything.  Country’s red Ford Ranger
sat between the two open doorways.  Neither sliding door on opposite sides
of the barn worked.  The Ford had new tags as of late Wednesday
night.  He and Country had driven back roads to several adjoining small
towns until they found a truck the same color and model year.  It had been
parked at a rural bar, which made switching the tags easy.  The switch
might go unnoticed for days, weeks or months.  Most people didn’t even
know their tag number.  It would only become an issue if the cops stopped
either truck.  Any cop who stopped Ace would wind up with a knife between
his ribs.

A four-by-eight foot wood box rested in the bed of
Country’s pickup.  In a scavenging trip yesterday afternoon, they’d stolen
it from the driveway of a rural Methodist church.  The church had etched
its name into the lid.  Painted on the front and side was the legend: Donate
your used clothing and shoes to the needy.  With one alternation, it
fit perfectly into Ace’s plan.  After they got the box back to the bar, he
and Country turned it on its side.  Ace used an electric keyhole saw to
remove a three-foot circular section of the floor.  Then, they placed the
donation box back into the bed of the truck.  Ace tossed a flattened
cardboard box inside, so it would cover the hole, in case someone actually
donated some clothing before the box served its intended purpose.

After Ace put his suitcase in back, Country drove the
pickup toward the city and Sweetwater Mall.  Ace reviewed a drawing of the
parking lot and surrounding area he’d constructed after other scouting trips.

Ace pointed to the shotgun resting in its rack attached
to the pickup’s rear window.  “We run into any trouble today, I’ll handle
it.  If I tell you to get this shotgun and help me out, you do it.
Hear, Country?”

“Yes, sir, General Ace!”

The last time he had been at the mall was to check out
Belton Jewelers, follow Cathy Kennedy to a luncheon meeting with her husband,
and then scout the area around their house near the country club.

It was during a rambling bar discussion with Richey
about kidnapping/ransom movies and drop spots that Ace had an epiphany
regarding Sweetwater Mall.  The two-story mall and the parking lots
surrounding it comprised a half-mile square, or nearly seven million square
feet.  There were multi-lane streets on two sides of the mall; the other
two sides abutted housing subdivisions to the east and south.

The land sloped from northeast to southwest and
naturally drained rainwater in that direction, which perhaps was the reason it
had been chosen as a building site; otherwise, a mall this size would flood
even during a minor rainstorm.

The solution was an elaborate underground drainage
system installed before construction of the massive mall building began.
Each rainwater catch basin was actually a large square concrete unit, about
four-by-six-by-ten feet.  There were four pre-formed holes in the unit:
two on opposite sides, into which could be fitted 24-inch or 36-inch diameter
drainpipes.  The rectangular-shaped water collection opening at ground
level was approximately 10-by-20 inches, and often included vertical iron bars
to keep out large animals and debris.  On the top of the unit was a
“manhole” that allowed workers to descend into the unit, usually via a metal
ladder embedded into the concrete, and clean rubbish from the bottom.  An
iron lid topped the manhole.

Workers lowered the catch basins into an excavated
hole.  Drainpipes were lowered into a series of interconnected
trenches.  The pipes were connected to the catch basins and the trenches
filled with dirt.  Workers then paved the parking lot.  With each
catch basin, only the top portion, including the water collection opening and
manhole cover, remained above ground.

There were nearly three dozen rainwater catch basins at
the mall.  Their placement, the curbing and the engineered slope of the
land effectively drained the water into two large six-foot diameter pipes that
came together at a ninety-degree angle in the far southwest corner, where they
emptied into a large open ditch, which had a concrete bottom and sides.
That ditch and others like it were part of a metropolitan drainage system that
eventually channeled rainwater out to several streams and rivers.

Ace’s conversation with Richey had recalled a memory of
the time he, Kandie and her kids walked on the sidewalk in the area where the
largest drainage pipe opened into the ditch.  It became the final piece of
his plan to become rich.

Ace had Country park the pickup on the west side of the
mall, near Longnecker Road, between two restaurants.  Ace had decided it
was the perfect place to place the stolen clothes donation box.  The large
north-south diameter drainage pipe was buried far beneath the sidewalk.
There were a half-dozen catch basins opening into it.  One was right
between the two restaurants, to the right of a flight of concrete stairs
leading up from the parking lot to the sidewalk.  Pedestrians could get to
the mall from the sidewalk, or take the crosswalk to the other side of
Longnecker Road.

Ace and Country took the church collection box out of
the pickup bed and set it directly over the manhole cover.  They worked
quickly and no one paid them any attention.  Country held open the lid
while Ace crawled inside and used a crowbar to remove the iron manhole cover,
which he slid to one end of the box.  Then, he placed the flat cardboard
box over the manhole and covered it with donated clothing that had been in the
box when they stole it.

When he was done, Ace crawled out of the box.  He
then took a three-foot long piece of red ribbon from his pocket, knelt and tied
it to one of the iron bars on the grate covering the opening into which
rainwater flowed.  He made sure it hung down into the drainpipe.

Ace grabbed a tool belt from the pickup bed and said,
“Let’s go.”  Country followed him up the stairs to the sidewalk.  Ace
walked south, counting his steps.

“Where we goin’, Ace?”  Country asked.

“Shut up, Private, unless I ask you to talk.”

After ninety-eight steps, they arrived at the southwest
edge of the mall parking lot.  Here, the large diameter drainage pipe
emptied into the paved ditch.  Bushes had been planted alongside the
sidewalk, partly for aesthetic purposes.  In addition, the bushes
discouraged anyone from climbing down into the ditch.

“Follow me and keep your mouth shut,” Ace said, as he
squeezed through the bushes and scrambled down the concrete embankment.
Then, he walked to the entrance to the drainage system.  If anyone had
stopped them, Ace planned to tell them they were city workers.  If that
didn’t work, he had three different types of knives with him.

A six-foot high iron gate prevented anyone from entering
the drainpipe.  The vertical and horizontal bars were spaced about twelve
inches apart — big enough to let the rushing water through but small enough to
keep people and large animals out.  Ace examined the hasp and padlock that
secured the gate to the concrete wall.  The U-shaped staple and metal base
bolted to the concrete wall was rusted and loose.

Using a claw hammer, Ace pried the base from the wall,
opened the gate, and began walking up an incline toward the mall.  They
were right below the sidewalk.  They both had to stoop slightly, so as not
to bump their heads on the top of the tunnel.

“What we need is a dog, Ace,” Country announced.

Ace shined the flashlight in his partner’s anxious
face.  “Why?”

“To scare off any critters.”

Ace counted his steps as he walked back north.
They walked by two other openings, each allowing a shaft of light that briefly
illuminated the large drainpipe.  There was no water in the large
collection pipe, although sediment and leaves covered the floor.  By the
time he counted to eighty-five, Ace’s light illuminated the red ribbon ahead,
and he said, “Hot damn!”

The ribbon dangled from the bars covering the opening
into the underground pipe.

“Hold the flashlight,” Ace said.  He got down on
one knee and squeezed into the shaft below the manhole.  He lifted up the
cardboard box and clothing enough to stick his head into the collection box.

Ace backed out and told Country, “Now, you look inside
the box.”  He handed Country the flashlight.

Country did as he was told and exclaimed, “Gollee!”

“Okay, make sure the cardboard and the clothes cover the
hole.”

When Country had completed his task, Ace moved him near
the opening into the drainpipe, where the red ribbon was tied.  “Look
through the bars and you can see your pickup, right?”

Country stooped and pushed his face against the bars
before saying, “Yeah.”

Ace took a piece of orange chalk out of his tool bag and
wrote on the wall, “Country’s Hole.”

Ace laughed.  “Can you read that, asshole?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, now listen carefully.  Tomorrow, when I tell
you, you drive your pickup over to the mall.  I’m gonna show you where to
park.”

“You mean park where I’m parked now, Ace?”

“No, no,” Ace said, shaking his head.  “You’re
going to park on a street south of the mall.  We’ll go there in a few
minutes.  You walk over to this pipe, come inside like we just did.
Bring a flashlight.  Walk up to this point here where I’ve written your
name on the wall.”  Ace untied the red ribbon and put it in his
pocket.  He didn’t want anyone to see it and get curious.  “You wait
right here until someone drops a bag into the box.  You’ll hear it.
Be quiet, and don’t stand near the grate, so someone could see you.  Don’t
say anything.  Don’t talk at all.  When the guy walks away and you’re
sure he’s gone, you get into the shaft, shove the cardboard aside, grab the bag
and pull it through the hole.  It’s gonna be the same suitcase that’s now
in the back of the pickup.”

Country looked skeptical.  “Really?”

“Yes.  It will be full of money.  It’ll weigh
about forty or fifty pounds, but you’re easily strong enough to handle that,
right?”

“I think so, Ace.”

“If you don’t understand anything, call me on your phone
by pressing one.  If you have any problem getting a signal, hold the phone
near the grate.  Whisper, don’t talk loudly.  Understand?”

“I think so, Ace.”

“Let’s  pretend now that you got the bag full
of money and you walk back to the opening.”

They did and Ace rigged the lock so the gate would stay
shut.  He walked up the side of the ditch embankment opposite the
sidewalk.  Another thick stand of bushes along the south edge of the mall
allowed them to walk to a dead-end street without anyone seeing them from the
mall parking lot.  Twenty feet from the dead end, another street ran
south.  With Country following, they walked on the sidewalk down this
street to another intersection.  To the right, the street ended once again
at a barricade between the end of the street and the drainage ditch.

“You park here,” Ace said, pointing at the spot.
He knelt and used the chalk to draw a large X on the pavement.
“Then walk back to the pipe.  You open that gate and walk up the
pipe to the place where I wrote your name on the wall.  Wait for the guy
to drop the bag of money into the collection box.  Get the bag, come back
to the pickup and call me on your new cell phone.”

Country had listened intently.  Suddenly, he
snapped to attention, delivered a military salute and said, “Yes, sir, General
Ace.”

“Good, now let’s walk back and get your pickup.
We’ll drive back down to this spot.  We’ll park, walk over to the gate,
and go over it all again.”

“Okay, Ace.”

“We’re not going to stay with Rhonda tonight.
We’re gonna rent a hotel room, drink a lot of beer, order in pizza and watch a
movie.  Okay?  Now, you repeat exactly what you’re going to do
tomorrow when you drive down here to pick up the money.”

It took Country a half-dozen tries to repeat his
schedule to Ace’s satisfaction.  However, Ace planned to grill him several
more times through the end of the day, and perhaps even get Country to write
down his tasks tomorrow, and carry that piece of paper with him, in case he
forgot anything.

About three o’clock, Ace had Country rent the room, show
his driver’s license and pay in cash.  Actually, Country was buffer
number two.  It was an old, cheap, v-shaped motel complex dating from
the last century and frequented by truckers, hookers, the homeless, teenagers
and guys like them.  It was just off 110th Street.  They
rented two rooms with a connecting door.  One room was the last room on
one wing of the motel complex, meaning that it did not adjoin another
room.  The occupant of that last room could make as much noise as he or
she wanted without attracting any attention.

Ace and Country walked across a street to a Seven-Eleven
where they stocked up on beer and enough snack food to satisfy Country for
several days.  Before he left the motel again, Ace got the dummy situated
in front of a television and found a channel playing back-to-back reruns of Gunsmoke,
one of Country’s favorite shows.

∞
∞  ∞

At five o’clock, Ace
walked about a half mile to a Holiday Inn, pulling the wheeled suitcase that
featured a combination lock.  The hotel was located on the other side of
the Interstate from the ratty motel where he and Country were staying.
While walking, he called Kandie on her burner phone.  Kandie blitzed him
with many questions and comments until he was finally able to slow her down and
have her start over.  She told him two sheriff’s detectives had questioned
her and Richey at The Stadium about Hank and Melvin’s death.  Did
he know they were found dead in Hank’s car that was pulled from the bottom of a
lake?

Ace was mainly concerned that someone was tailing
Kandie.  He told her to drive over to Sweetwater mall and walk around in
the mall to see if she could pick up a tail.  He told her to reverse
walking abruptly, to see if anyone stopped, or turned their head, or turned
away.  He told her to buy a hooded sweatshirt at JC Penney, go into a
restroom and put it on.  Then leave the west entrance of the mall and walk
to Longnecker Road.  There was a southbound bus stop there.  She
should take the bus to 110th Street and get off.  Ask the
driver how to catch a bus along 110th until she got near the Holiday
Inn.  Get off there, go to the hotel bar, and wait.

About an hour later, Kandie got off the bus.  Ace
watched from the other side of the street, where he sat on a mass transit bench
for passengers waiting to go the opposite direction on the street.  He
didn’t see anyone who appeared to be following Kandie.  No cars pulled
into the Holiday Inn parking lot after she went inside.  He waited another
ten minutes and concluded that it was safe.

If the cops were on her tail and confronted them inside
the hotel bar, Ace wouldn't surrender.  Either he’d kill them, or they’d
kill him.  Although Ace had thought about abandoning Kandie at this point,
he had a critical role for her to play.  Buffer number three.
It was still worth the chance.

Kandie sat at the bar, waiting.  When she saw Ace
walk into the room, Kandie jumped and ran toward him, throwing herself into his
arms, certain he’d catch her.

“Oh, my God, I thought you’d left town!”

He steered her over to a booth removed from the few
patrons in the bar.  The waitress brought Kandie’s drink from where she’d
left it on the bar.  Ace ordered a beer.

“Where’ve you been staying?” she asked breathlessly,
sliding into the booth.  She cast a curious glance at the suitcase.

“A safe place.  You don’t want to know where.
That way, you don’t have to lie to the cops.”

“On Wednesday, I told those two detectives I hadn’t seen
you since last Sunday and didn’t know anything about Hank and Melvin.
Richey backed me up, saying he hadn’t seen you since the Friday before.”

Ace smiled and chuckled.  It was as if he owned a
pack of trained dogs that did tricks for treats.  He was supremely
confident that tomorrow also would go as planned.

“What went wrong, Ace?”

“Hank and Melvin were hurt worse than I thought,” he
replied, calmly.  “They died and I decided to get rid of the bodies.
I ran their car into a lake.”

With frustration and confusion in her voice, Kandie
asked, “Why didn’t you just explain what happened to the police?  None of
it was your fault!”

“I didn’t think they would believe me.  I didn’t
tell you before, but I was in prison for theft.”

With a wave of the hand, Kandie dismissed that
consideration as unimportant.  “But what happened in my apartment wasn’t your
fault!”

Ace sighed, as if the weight of the world was on his
shoulders.  “Yes, we have moral justification for what happened, Kandie,
no doubt.  They were gonna kill me, rape you.  But, we couldn't spend
the next two or three years defending ourselves in court.  We don’t have
money for a good lawyer.  The state has a whole team of lawyers.
They get paid for convictions.  We’d probably lose in court, Kandie.
If they charged us with something, they could hold us in jail on some high bail
amount for a year before our trial.  Even if the court eventually found
both of us innocent, you’d lose your kids in the process, Kandie.  I was
just thinking of you.”

“What can we do, Ace?”

He smiled and nodded.  He had the answer to their
problems.  “Maybe you forgot, Kandie, but that night before all the
trouble, we were talking about our future together.  I told you I was working
a deal.  I gave you the cell phone then, remember?”

She hesitated and then smiled.  “You said we’d have
plenty of money if things went right.  You had something you wanted me to
do, right?”

“Exactly, and nothing has changed.  The deal is
going down Saturday morning.  Tomorrow.”

Her excitement was palpable.  “What is it, Ace?”

Ace looked around in exaggerated fashion, to indicate he
didn’t want anyone to hear the forthcoming secret.  He leaned across the
table, and whispered, “Richey dug up some dirt on a big shot at Biederman’s
who’s using the trucks and railroad cars to bring in drugs.  That’s the
real reason they fired him.  Now, Richey has demanded a payoff if they
want him to keep quiet.”

“That sounds dangerous, Ace,” Kandie said fearfully.

“I know.  I know.  I told Richey that.
The thing is, he’s goin’ through with this deal anyway.  The guy from
Biederman’s already has agreed to the payoff.  Richey wants to make sure
he doesn’t try anything funny, like put a tracking device in the money
bag.  That’s why Richey approached me to help him.  That’s why he
didn’t rat us out about Hank and Melvin.”

“Does Carmen know about this?”

“No, of course not, and you can’t say anything to
her.  To anybody.  You’ve got enough problems.  I had second
thoughts about involving you, but I can’t do everything.  I know this
whole business is a bit shady, Kandie, but it’s the only opportunity we have to
get enough money to blow this town.  We can go somewhere else, buy a house
and start over.  We can get jobs and settle down into a normal life.
You, me and the kids.”

Kandie’s hands shook so badly she clasped them
together.  “What can I do, Ace, to make that come true.  I’ll do
anything.  Anything!”

Ace continued to fabricate his story.  “Richey
wants to stay in the background on this exchange of money.  He’s afraid
they might try to harm him.  These are dangerous people.  He asked me
to come up with a plan.  In return, he will pay me three hundred thousand
dollars.  It’s about fifteen percent of the payoff.”

“Oh, my God!”

“We can buy a helluva nice house with that kind of
money.”

Kandie repeated her offer with even more fervor.
“What do you want me to do?”

“Well, I got to worrying that this guy making the payoff
might just pretend to have the money, when he really has some cut up newspapers
in a sports bag.  Thinking he can stiff us.  So I want you to check
the money, Kandie.  I’d do it myself, but the cops could put my picture on
television at any moment.”

“How would I do that?  What would I be looking
for?”

“You know that warehouse furniture store on west
Ninety-Fifth Street, just after you cross over the interstate?  There’s an
IHOP in the same complex.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna tell the guy from Biederman’s to park outside
the IHOP Saturday morning.  You be there about nine-thirty and I’ll call
you on the cell phone I gave you and tell you exactly when this guy is going to
show up.  Figure about ten or eleven, though.  He’ll be driving a
silver Lexus.”

“Okay.  Then what?”

“When you see him arrive, you go out and tell him you’re
supposed to check the money.  Don’t tell him your name, or my name, but
you can mention Richey.  Then, he’ll know we’re helping Richey out.
The money will be in a large athletic-type bag.  Just dump in all out on
the backseat.  It’ll be in bunches about an inch or so thick, with a band
around each bunch.  There should be between twenty and forty of
these.”

“Wait, Ace,” Kandie said, digging around in her purse
and coming up with a pen.  She grabbed a napkin and started writing on
it.  “Go on.”

Ace repressed his laughter and continued, “In fact,
there should be nothing at all hidden in the money.  If you find anything,
you call me.”  He picked up the suitcase and sat in on the seat, between
himself and the wall.  He opened it and took out a pen.

“What’s this?”

“A counterfeit detector pen I bought at Staples.
Use the pen to mark one bill in each batch of cash.  Pick a bill in the
middle of each batch.  If the mark turns a yellowish color, the money is
real.  If it turns brown or black, it’s counterfeit.”

“And if I find any fake money, I call you!”

He beamed, like a proud parent.  “Exactly.
Now, take a look at this.  He handed her a nine-inch metal detector wand
he’d bought at Walmart, for one hundred and thirty dollars.

“What is it?”

“A metal detector.  It’s powered by a nine-volt
battery.  Just flip on the switch and use it to go over each batch of cash
— top and bottom.  If there’s anything metal in there, like an electronic
transmitter, or a tracking device, the detector will beep.”

“And I call you!”

“And, I’ll have a little talk with the guy driving the
car.  After you check each batch of money, put it into this
suitcase.  When you’re done, spin each dial of the lock to any other
number.  The combination is four, three, two, one.  Easy to
remember.  But don’t give it to the guy driving the car.  Okay?”

“Got it, Ace.  Then what?”

“Leave the bag in the car, and I’ll tell the driver
where to take it.”

“I could just bring you the bag.”

Ace grimaced and shook his head.  “That might put
you in danger.”  Actually, he had once considered using Kandie to deliver
the cash.  But, Ace believed fervently that banker Kennedy would call the
cops.  Probably the FBI, too.  They would be watching and waiting,
just like Ace.  He needed one more layer of protection, that being the
ransom drop designed to freeze the cops in place, while Country delivered the
money.  Even then, Ace could still alter the plan if he thought Country
was being followed.  He would have the leverage to make banker
Kennedy redo the whole ransom drop over and over, until Ace was satisfied.

“You got any other questions, Kandie?”

Kandie looked deep in thought, but finally said, “No, I
understand everything.”  Of course, she didn’t, and hadn’t asked many
obvious questions, just as Ace had figured.

“After we take our share of the money, we’ll pick up
your kids and get on the road.  Okay?”

“Sure, Ace.”  She reached across the table and took
his hand.  “Let’s spend the evening together.  Maybe here at the
hotel?  I can get someone to look after the kids.”

“Like Carmen?”

“No, she’ll be at that play Richey’s in.  It opens
tonight at eight.  You remember, we talked about that in the mall, just
outside Belton’s Jewelry?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t forget that, could I?”

“We can get a room here at the Holiday Inn, Ace.”

Ace shook his head.  “They always want a credit
card or some I.D. when you check in and we shouldn’t take that chance,
Kandie.  They are sure to have a surveillance camera near the front
desk.  Just think about Saturday night, when we got all that money.
We’ll stay in a fancy hotel and do something special then, okay?”

Standing outside in the shadows, Ace watched Kandie walk
back to 110th Street and the bus stop, pulling the suitcase behind
her.  He pulled a stocking hat low on his forehead and turned up his collar.
He began walking back to the motel.  He checked his watch and saw that it
was about seven.  He planned to check on Country and then take a cab
downtown to The Shops.  He’d arrived there about the time Richey
began his performance as Willy Loman in the play, Death of a Salesman.
After the play ended, Ace would begin his performance.

22/The
Ordeal Begins

On opening night Friday, Richey stood backstage
on one side, peeking through the curtain as the audience filtered into Cranston
Hall and took their seats to watch a modernized version of Death of a
Salesman.  He could have been in one of the dressing rooms, sweating
it out with the other actors, but over the years he found this perspective to
be more interesting and inspiring.  He knew that any serious theater
presentation, like Arthur Miller’s masterpiece, was not really about the
actors.  It was primarily about the playwright’s message, and its impact
and influence upon the audience watching there in the dark.  Tonight, that
message was: A successful life consists of successful relationships, not
successful business deals.  The actors certainly could enhance that
message and make it more memorable.  However, real success was measured in
terms of how the message affected the audience and what they did to make it
have meaning in their lives once they left the theater.  The producers
would measure success in terms of the box office receipts, but businessmen
never understand the real nature of art, or its purpose.

Standing
there in the wings prompted Richey to ponder again his lifelong desire — his
obsession, as some called it — to have an acting career.  Not that he’d
ever really had one, if the definition of a career included steady work, income
and positive recognition.  It would never be a good career choice for any
young person starting out in life.  The work was unpredictable and the pay
generally poor, meaning that having a normal life was impossible, if
normal meant acquiring the traditional symbols of success —a house in the
suburbs, new car, the latest in fashionable clothing, jewelry, and exotic
vacations.  Career satisfaction in the performing arts was a roller
coaster ride of highs and lows, at best.  Truthfully, entertainment was
not among the necessities of life; it was a temporary escape mechanism from the
drudgeries of leading the normal life — work, marriage, relationships, raising
children, paying the bills.  Perhaps that’s why most entertainment
increasingly was pure fluff.  Most people wanted to escape, not be
confronted by all the problems life presented; or worse, be compelled to think
about things.  The theater was a luxury for them; a place to relax and
laugh.  If there was a message, they wanted it to be reassuring.
This viewpoint considered actors as messengers and role-players.  Nonessential,
marginal people.

Even
actors might view their craft as a form of self-indulgence.  Only now and
then did the purposes of the actors and the audience converge in those few
productions that significantly influenced individual choices, or social values.
Even those influences were not always positive, as illustrated by the values
Ace and those like him took away from some popular movies.

In
the modern era of cable television and the Internet, live theater in fact was a
dying institution, supported by audiences that included a disproportionate
percentage of older people, who grew up in families that regularly attended
staged plays, in an era before there were hundreds of television channels, the
Internet and cellular phones.

While
Richey stood there peeking through the curtain, he also thought about Carmen’s
Offer, which was a variation of the traveling acting troupe that thrived during
a bygone era.  In the modern version, they’d travel the highways and
byways in an RV: the actor, the painter and the girl coming of age.
Living the artistic life.  In juxtaposition was Marshon’s Proposal
that the sole goal of human activity was to make money anyway possible, which
likely would make many of life’s dreams and desires possible.  That proposal
applied no moral measurement to the activity or the desires.  If one
enjoyed it, one did it.  Which approach — idealism or practical hedonism —
was most likely to allow Richey the opportunity to lead his life as he chose?

As
Marshon had told Richey on more than once occasion, he could continue to
audition for acting parts, which was a way of begging for the opportunity to
fulfill one’s desire to be an actor.  Those with access to production
money decided which actors to hire, and there was no recourse from their judgment.
Alternatively, one made money any way possible, with preference to the easiest
and most lucrative way.  Then, one bought a production company and
produced one’s own play or movie.  Since the entertainment field overall
was characterized by cultural kitsch, the odds of success were high, given the
low quality of the competition and the low expectation of the theater-going,
movie-watching public.

Emotionally,
Richey had vacillated from one option to the other over the past week.  He
wanted to be an in-control individualist like Marshon, who had the confidence
to do whatever it takes to achieve one’s goals.  However, Richey was
afraid of the consequences, which could include being killed or jailed.
Marshon was in that very position right now.  In fact, it was highly
unlikely that the proposal was still even on the table, although Richey hoped,
for many reasons, that Marshon would once again beat the odds and emerge a
winner.  And, that they would be in contact again.

Carmen’s
offer was equally exciting and inspiring, in a different way.  She, too,
proposed that he take his destiny in hand: simply proclaim himself to be an
actor, a one-man show.  Just do it.  If he did it, it was an
artistic success, whether or not it was profitable.  In that scenario, Richey
would be playwright, producer, publicist and actor.  Ticket taker and
cashier.  It was a daunting proposition and he thought his chances of
succeeding were slim at best.  They might scrape by for a while and
wouldn’t that be a satisfying interlude?  Because, wasn’t it really about
the effort?  The excitement, the moment, the now?  Or, as he feared
every night when he fought to escape through sleep, was it the failure that he
actually coveted?  Was he possibly addicted to failure?  It was so
much easier to bemoan the unfair nature of the entertainment industry, and
luxuriate in righteous indignation — with the aid of vodka — than to actually
do what one was capable of doing to reverse the situation.

Richey
told some people — sometimes told himself — that he was afraid of both success
and failure.  But that might not be true.  Sitting on a barstool,
getting high and engaging in cheap talk was failure, and Richey didn’t seem
much afraid of that.  In fact, he seemed to embrace it, sometimes with
enthusiasm.

The
hubbub around him had increased in intensity, as the stage crew adjusted the
scenery and props.  Richey looked at his watch.  It was a quarter of
eight and he needed to get his makeup done.  The theater was about
two-thirds full, which exceeded everyone’s expectations.  The patrons were
talking loudly and getting restless.  It was almost showtime.  He'd
have to put off his personal decision until later.

As
it turned out, his performance was flawless, unlike the dress rehearsal, when
Richey was discombobulated by the news about Marshon and Ace.  Inspired by
the message, and for once supremely confident of his ability, Richey rose above
the chaos around him.  As Willy Loman, Richey wowed the audience with a
spectacular, spellbinding performance rewarded with three heartfelt, standing
ovations at the curtain call.

The
entire cast and about a third of the audience adjourned to a reception area
located on the ground floor opposite the Westin Hotel lobby.  It was about
a five-minute walk from the theater.  A large rock wall, waterfall, pool
and in-door flower garden framed the semi-circular reception area.  There
was a bar, buffet and seating for about forty, although most stood and milled
about in this area and the adjoining hallway.  The Arts Council sponsored the
reception, and used the occasion to sell tickets for future performances and
woo donations from potential patrons.  The chief selling point was that
their names would appear in the program handed out to the audience.  It
would be physical proof of their economic success and beneficence.

Still
in costume, Richey made a dramatic entrance with Carmen, who was resplendent in
a two-piece red suit trimmed in black.  He basked in the glory of another
ovation from his fellow actors, theater patrons, media critics, and selected
guests.  They shook his hand, patted him on the back and whispered praise.

“No one ever played Willy Loman better,” one admirer
said.

“No one will ever want to play him after this
because they won’t be able to hit your mark, Richey.”

“You were great, really great.”

“Fabulous, Richey.  Just fabulous, sweetheart!”

He turned to Carmen, and said, “What do you think,
lovely lady?”

“What they said.  And, you’ll be just as great
doing a one-man act on the road.”

He smiled and nodded.  “You don’t give up, do you,
Carmen?  I hope you’re right.  I’m enthused, but apprehensive.”

“What
have you got to lose?”

“Well, since you put it that way….”

“You are going to do it?” she asked, pressing herself
against him as added incentive.

“Yes, I’ve decided.”  What else could he say at the
moment?  Besides, he could change his mind later, should Marshon escape
his current trouble.  In any event, either his friend or his lover was
bound to be disappointed — unless he could persuade Carmen to become a beachcomber
in the Leeward Islands.

On the other hand, Carmen could hardly contain her
joy.  Richey really had given a great opening night performance, and
validated all the faith she had in him.  The reviews were bound to be
positive and increase attendance at the next performance.  Things were
looking good, very good.  They’d been standing in the receiving line for
ten minutes and Richey didn’t even have a drink in his hand.  He was high
on success.

Carmen’s cell phone rang in her purse and she stepped
away to take the call.  She listened as a man identified himself as being
with the Overland Park Fire Department.  There was a fire in her apartment
building and he was calling residents to notify them.

“Is the fire in my apartment?”  Carmen asked,
having a hard time hearing the caller, whose voice sounded muffled.

“I’m not sure how far it’s spread, but there’s damage to
most of the units.  You might want to get out here and see what you can
save, if you have valuables that mean something to you.”

Carmen had a firebox containing various important legal
documents and warranties.  There were many photo albums, and a small cedar
box full of letters that she prized.  She told Richey the news and he said
he’d go with her, but Carmen insisted he stay.  “Let me find out what’s going
on and I’ll try to be back in an hour.  You stay and enjoy yourself.
The fire may not even have damaged our apartment.  If so, I’ll need to
make arrangements for us to stay somewhere else tonight.”

“Go, go, then!  I’ll be here.  Call me on my
cell phone if you need any help.  And, you and Marisa can always stay at
my place, for as long as you like.”

She
tried not to be resentful, but Carmen wished this hadn’t happened.  She
wanted to stay here with Richey and enjoy the party, have something to eat, and
go to the hotel room they’d already reserved at the Westin.  Thankfully,
Marisa was at her grandmother’s house.

Carmen
had argued forcefully to persuade Marisa to attend the Saturday night
performance, instead of opening night.  She had finally prevailed with the
argument that Richey would have opening-night jitters and needed to get one
performance under his belt so he could relax.  If Marisa were present, it
would just increase the pressure on him.  Truthfully, Carmen had not
wanted to share the moment, even with her daughter.  She felt immensely
guilty about the deception.

Carmen rode the escalator to the third floor of The
Shops, passing by Barney’s, a well-known restaurant and bar where they’d
planned to eat a late dinner.  The patrons inside seemed to be having a
rousing good time.  She continued on, walking in the direction of the
theater.  Before she got that far, however, Carmen turned right toward an
exit leading to the parking garage and her car.

Just as she reached her Mazda and was fumbling in her
purse for the car keys, a hand grabbed her throat from behind.  She tried
to scream but no sound came out.  She swung her elbows at whoever stood
behind her, but the very strong man pushed her to the concrete floor beside the
car and pinned her arms to the pavement with his knees.  Then everything
faded to black.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, Carmen revived suddenly,
terrifyingly, as the memory of her abduction came back.  Her throat ached
and seemed swollen inside as she gasped desperately for air.  She tried to
put her hands to her face, but they were tied behind her back.  The
seatbelt was across her body and locked in place, so she couldn’t move.

“Feeling better?” a voice beside her asked.

“You!” she said, seeing Ace behind the wheel of her
car.  They were driving on the street, although she didn’t recognize the
area.

“How’d you like the play?” he asked.  “I couldn’t
make it, but you can fill me in.”

“What do you want, Ace?  Stop the car!”

“You’re not in any position to make demands,
Carmen.  I suggest you listen, okay?”

“What do you want?” she asked again, this time in an
imploring voice.  She looked out the window, deciding that they were
headed south on the Parkway, which eventually came within about two miles of
her apartment complex.

“Richey and I are going to do some business tomorrow,
but he might be reluctant.  You’re going to change his mind.”  Richey
was buffer number one.  Carmen was lever number one.

“It was you on the phone!”

He grinned and chuckled.  “I do a good fire chief
imitation.”

“I won’t do anything for you!” she said bravely, her
voice cracking.

“Oh, yes, you will.  You’ll do exactly as I say, in
fact.”

Ace dialed a number on her cell phone and put it to her
mouth and ear.

When Richey answered, Carmen shouted, “Richey, Ace has
kidnapped me!  Help me, Richey!  Help me!”

Ace took back the phone and spoke into the receiver,
“That’s right, Richey.  I’ll get back to you later, and let you know what
I want you to do tomorrow.  Call the cops and I’ll drop Carmen in a lake
after I give her the fuck of a lifetime.  This time, they won’t find the
body.”

He clicked off the phone and put it in his shirt pocket.

“Let me at least call my mother and daughter.  If I
don’t show up later to pick up my daughter, my mother will call the police.”

“Let her.  They’ll just think you and Richey are
shacked up in a hotel, fucking.  In fact, you may get some dick before the
night is over, Carmen.”

Carmen started to scream, thinking she could attract the
attention of other motorists, but Ace reached over, grabbed her throat and
squeezed until she felt faint again.

“Shut the fuck up!  You say another word before we
get where we’re going, Carmen, and I’ll choke you unconscious.”

Carmen looked down at the door armrest.  She could
see that the door was locked.  There was no way she could flick the lock
lever and open the door with her hands tied behind her, and her seatbelt
snapped in place.  Carmen thought about anything sharp that she might
reach, and that brought to mind a pair of scissors in her purse, which lay on
the floorboard.  Suddenly, she remembered her new gun inside the soft case
under the passenger’s seat!  She had put it there because it wouldn’t fit
under the driver’s side seat, because of the power seat mechanism.  She
and Richey had planned to go back to the shooting range next Wednesday.
Tears rolled down her cheek.  There was no way she could get to the gun,
either.  She was helpless and Ace would do with her as he wanted.  He
was a killer, a thief, and a rapist!

∞
∞  ∞

When Carmen
screamed into the phone that Ace had kidnapped her, Richey
experienced chest pains.  They continued as he raced through the Westin
hotel lobby and then out front, where he gave a valet the ticket for his car
parked underground.  He had arrived several hours ahead of Carmen, who
drove her car after dropping off Marisa.

As he drove south, Richey’s mind filled with unwanted
thoughts and images of Carmen being raped, tortured, and killed; her body
weighted down and dumped ignominiously in a lake.  Then, he breathed
deeply and tried to clear his head.

A jumble of thoughts filled Richey’s mind, especially
regarding Ace’s motives and plans.  Was it simply a rape fantasy?
Had Ace become obsessed with Carmen?  Or, did Ace fear that Richey would cooperate
with the police in their investigation of the murders of Hank and Melvin?
That didn’t make sense, because Ace surely had talked to Kandie by now, and
knew that Richey had covered for Ace, in a way.  Richey didn’t tell the
detectives that Kandie had told him about the fight in her apartment Tuesday
night.  At the time, he thought he was indirectly protecting Marshon.

Richey also considered that maybe it had something to do
with the killings at The Wheel.  But, what?  Richey was only
one among hundreds of witnesses who saw Ace kill the two robbers.
Shutting Richey up wouldn’t accomplish anything, unless Ace wanted to send a
message to others who might testify against him.  Using Richey as the
go-between, Marshon had given Ace a total of ten thousand dollars to finance
his relocation.  Maybe Ace just wanted more money, and Carmen was the
leverage.  But, Ace had to know about Marshon’s current predicament.
Richey had no idea how to even contact Marshon.

Suddenly, Richey recalled that Ace wanted him to do
something tomorrow.  Richey searched his memory regarding the bar
conversations he'd had with Ace.  Ace liked movies in which the heroes
were those who robbed the rich.  Suddenly, Richey remembered the newspaper
clipping about Cathy Kennedy and her husband.  Richey couldn’t recall his
name.  Had Ace said at the time, “She’s the one”; or, had Richey just
imagined that?  What had Ace meant?  Later, Ace said the Kennedys
were just examples of economic inequality.

Once again, Richey was at a loss for an explanation,
which caused him to come back to his worse, first fear: Ace simply wanted to
rape Carmen.  He’d become sexually fixated with her, his latest rape
victim.  But, then, why had Ace promised to get back to him later?
To brag?  Torture him!  Let him listen on the phone.  Did Ace
hate him that much, for some unfathomable reason?

Richey thought about going to the nearest police station
to report Carmen’s abduction, but he feared the consequences.  He had no
proof.  Ace had used Carmen’s phone to call him.  The police wouldn’t
and couldn’t do anything, at least not right away.  They had to wait a day
or two.  Someone might recognize Richey as a rover at The Wheel.
The cops would be much more interested in the five homicides that seemed to
connect Richey, Marshon, Ace, Carmen and Kandie.  If Richey walked into a
police station, he’d be there for hours — precious hours during which they
would interrogate him and do nothing to find Carmen.

Richey thought about the 9-mm Sig Sauer in the glove
box.  Perhaps he had purchased the gun because of an unconscious
premonition.  He needed to be a man and do whatever was necessary to save
Carmen, even if that included killing Ace.

His first thought was that Ace might be at Kandie’s
apartment, although that seemed unlikely.  According to Kandie, she hadn’t
seen Ace since Tuesday night when he’d killed Hank and Melvin.  The police
might even have Kandie’s apartment under surveillance.  A horrible
alternative caused Richey to turn down a side street.  He stopped the car
and looked through his cell phone contact list.  He called Carmen’s
mother.

She answered and confirmed that Marisa was there.
Richey tried to concoct a nonthreatening story, and said Carmen had gone to the
apartment to investigate a gas leak.  Her mother should call him if Carmen
showed up at her place in the company of a tall man with a ponytail.
Don’t let Marisa leave under any circumstances!  When Carmen’s mother
predictably sounded alarmed and began to ask questions, Richey abruptly ended
the call.

He drove as quickly as he could, although mindful not to
exceed the speed limit drastically so that the cops stopped him.  Fifteen
minutes later, he arrived at Carmen’s apartment complex, but parked one
building away.  There was no evidence of a fire, nor any sign of
firefighters and their vehicles.  Richey took the Sig Sauer out of the
glove box and checked to make sure the clip was filled with bullets.  He
injected a bullet into the chamber.  It was beginning to rain, as
predicted.  Later, the rain was supposed to turn to sleet.  One
forecast even called for the first snow of the season.

Holding the gun at the ready, he let himself into
Carmen’s apartment with a key and snapped on the lights, which gave him a view
of the kitchen, living and dining rooms.  He cautiously made his way to
the hallway leading to the bedrooms, reminding himself as he flipped on the
hall light to be certain before he fired the gun.  He didn’t want to kill
Carmen accidentally.

He walked over to Kandie’s building and around to the
sliding doors that opened onto a small patio.  The drapes were open, but
the apartment was dark.  He tried the sliding door, which wasn’t
locked.  He stepped inside and stood silently for a minute until his eyes
adjusted to the extreme darkness.  Then, he slipped on a light switch and
moved about the apartment, but no one was home there, either.  Where in
the hell were Kandie and her kids late on a Friday night?  He knew she had
an aunt and uncle who lived nearby, but he didn’t know where, and he couldn’t
remember their last name.

Back at his car, Richey called the number of his old
office phone at Biederman’s.  He heaved a sigh of relief when Calvin
Raines, his replacement as warehouse manager, answered the phone.

“Calvin, it’s Richey.”

“How’re things going, Richey?”

“So, so.  Listen, Calvin, I need a favor.
Does Robert Long still work there?  They call him Country”

“Yeah, the idiot.  No, he apparently quit, or at
least he quit coming to work, which is no big loss, since I spent half his
shift explaining what he should do.”

“Could you check the employment roster on the computer
and give me his address and phone number, as well as the license plate number
for his truck.”

“What’s going on, Richey?”

“His dad died and they called me.  I don’t know
why, but I guess Country gave my phone number to his folks.  I’ll try and
find Country, unless you or someone there wants to do it?”  In actuality,
Richey remembered Kandie saying that Ace had been staying with Country,

Within minutes, Calvin gave him the information, and Richey
sped north about thirty blocks to 76th Street and Country’s
address.  It turned out to be the only dilapidated house in a residential
area of old but generally well-maintained ranch houses.  Cars filled the
driveway and lined the street in front of the house.  From two blocks
away, he could hear the loud music.

Shortly after midnight, Richey knocked on the door with
one hand while keeping the other on the butt of the Sig Sauer stuck behind his
waistband and covered by Willy Loman’s suit coat.  Richey was still
sweating and didn’t need an overcoat.

A longhaired guy wearing granny glasses and a gray
jogging suit answered the door.  Tattoos covered one side of his neck and
face.  He held a beer bottle and swayed from side to side, either from too
much booze or in beat to the obnoxious heavy metal sound.  “What the fuck
do you want?” he demanded.  “I already heard from the other neighbors that
the music is too loud.  Tough shit!”

“I’m looking for Country Long,” Richey shouted.

“He ain’t here no more.”

“Did he move?”

“A month ago,” the man with the tattoos said, starting
to turn away.

Richey grabbed his arm.  “Sorry, but this is
important.”  Richey took out his billfold, cursing himself for not having
stopped at an ATM.  He had about $70 and held out the money.  “Do you
know where Country is right now?”

The tattooed guy shoved Richey down the steps into the
yard, yelling, “Don’t be grabbin’ me, motherfucker!”

Enraged that this bastard was wasting his and Carmen’s
precious time, Richey dropped the money, pulled out the gun and pointed it at
the man's chest.

“You got ten seconds to tell me where Country is or I’m
gonna fuckin’ kill you!”  Richey choked back the vomit rising in his
throat, doubting he could carry through on the threat.

The roommate nonchalantly took a swig of beer and didn’t
seem to be affected by the threat of imminent death.  “He moved out.
I think he moved in with his girlfriend, the retard who works at McDonald’s.”

“What’s her name?  Where’s she live?”

The guy squatted and picked up the cash.  “Her
name’s Rhonda.  She lives in the sticks southwest of town.”

“Where?  What’s her last name?”

He stood, cash in one hand, the beer bottle in the
other.  “Don’t know her last name, man.  All I know is she lives in a
trailer.”

Richey stopped at a QuikTrip on 75th street
and took $300 out of an ATM.  He also got the yellow pages from the clerk
and looked for mobile home parks anywhere in the southwestern part of the
city.  The only listing was for Green Acres on Wilson Road.

Racing southwest on the interstate, it took Richey a
half-hour to get there.  He began to negotiate a labyrinth of streets
within the mobile home park.  Calvin had given him a complete description
of Country’s pickup, including the year, make, model, color, and license tag number.
He flew over the speed bumps and saw dozens of red pickups but none with the
right tag number.  In frustration, he stopped in front of a trailer with a
sign that read: Manager.  It was raining harder, now.  Richey
pulled an umbrella from the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat.

He knocked on the door for several minutes before an old
man answered, still buttoning his shirt.

“Sorry to bother you at this hour,” Richey apologized,
“but it’s an emergency.  I’m looking for Robert Long, who’s called
Country.  His father has died and his friends say he might be staying here
with a girlfriend named Rhonda.  Can you help me?”

The old man had his false teeth out and gummed his
reply, “Don’t recall the name, mister, but we got three hundred and fifty-three
sites here.  What’s she look like?”

“I don’t know, but Country is big.  ’Bout
six-eight, two sixty.  Long, curly brown hair.  Drives a pickup.”

“Nearly everybody who lives here drives a pickup.”

“It’s a red, 2008 Ford Ranger.  I know the tag
number.  You got records you can look through, right?”  Richey held
out a hundred dollars.  “I’ll pay you for your time.”

The
old man looked at the money, arched his bushy eyebrows, and invited Richey
inside.  From the back of the trailer, a woman’s voice called out
fearfully, “Who is it, Walter?”

The old man went to the rear of the trailer and talked
quietly to his wife.  He returned with a ledger, sat at the kitchen table
and opened the book.

“This list of residents is alphabetical by last name,”
Walter said, his thick index finger traveling down the lines on each
page.  Richey noticed he’d put in his teeth.

“Makes it harder to find first names.  We got a
Rachel here.  Ronnie, but that’s a man.  Let’s see.  Don’t see a
Rhonda.  But, then, the rental could be in somebody else’s name.
Parents, husband.  Boyfriend, like you said.  We take down tag
numbers for their vehicles.  You can check ʼem out, if you
want.”  He slid the ledger in front of Richey, who carefully checked all
first names and vehicle tag numbers to no avail.

“Are there other trailer courts nearby?”  Richey
asked, laying another twenty on the table as an incentive.

“There’s one down the interstate about twenty miles in
Culver City.  Of course, there’re many mobile homes out in rural
areas.  Ones that were there before the zoning laws changed.  They
got grandfathered in.”

Richey’s heart sank.  He left and drove around
aimlessly, searching fruitlessly for a mobile home with Country’s pickup
sitting out front.  Finally, he looked at the car’s digital clock — nearly
3 a.m.  Heartsick, Richey decided to go home.  He had a feeling Ace
would soon be in contact.

∞
∞  ∞

Richey buzzed open the garage
door to his house and drove inside.  He entered through the laundry room
and took the stairs up to the kitchen.  A nightlight illuminated a bottle
of Smirnoff sitting on the counter top.  He filled a glass with about four
inches of the clear liquid and added two ice cubes from the refrigerator door
dispenser.  His hands shook as he drained the glass, which he promptly
refilled.

When he walked into the living room to sit down and
think, he saw a man sitting in a chair in the dark.  Richey dropped the
glass and reached for his gun.

“It’s me, Richey!”  Marshon switched on a lamp and
Richey lowered his gun.

“I used a credit card on your door lock,” Marshon
explained.  “You really need a deadbolt, man.”

“What’re you doin’ here, Marshon?”

“Hiding out.  Didn’t mean to scare you.  I
fell asleep in the chair and woke up when I heard the ice machine.
Christ, I didn’t know you packed heat?”

“You dyed your hair and beard.”

“You, too.”

Richey picked up the glass, which had hit the carpet and
didn’t break.  “I was Willy Loman tonight.”

“Oh, yeah, Death of a Salesman.  Honestly, I
forgot.  How’d that go?”

“Not bad.  You want a drink, Marshon?”

“Got any scotch, or brandy?”

“I think I got some brandy.”

“That’ll do the trick.”

Richey brought back the drinks and sat down.  “I
saw your picture on TV and heard the news about Williams.”

Marshon shrugged.  “A business deal gone bad.
He shot me and I killed him in self-defense with a letter opener.”

“Jesus!”  Richey said.  “They didn’t mention
that on the news.”  After firing guns on the shooting range, Richey winced
at the thought of being shot.

“Look, you want a justification for my actions, I gotta
canned speech I’ve been giving everyone lately,” Marshon said.  “Gail’s
heard several versions of it.”

“Save it,” Richey said.  “I’m the guy who agreed to
be your partner in an illegal gambling operation, remember?”  Richey
didn’t tell Marshon he’d decided instead to accept Carmen’s Offer — or, at
least, that’s what he had told her in the bar and the theater receiving line,
in what seemed a lifetime ago.

Marshon slowly blew out his breath.  “I’ve been
recuperating at the convention center Hyatt, where the staff was hiding
me.  I needed to take care of some business before leaving town.  The
doctor looked at me yesterday and said the wound seems to be healing
okay.  I saw Gail last night and planned to rent a car this morning and
drive to St. Louis.  Then, I got freaked out.”

“What happened?”

“I was on the mezzanine level after she left and saw
some uniformed cops — maybe some detectives —and thought they might be looking
for me.  I bolted and caught a cab over here.  Your house was the
safest place I could think of.”

“How long you been here?”

“Since about ten.  I called Jemmy on a safe phone
and he remembered a guy who shoots craps at The Wheel.  Elroy
Franklin.  His brother-in-law is a police dispatcher.  Jemmy made
some calls and found out the cops were at the Hyatt helping the ATF arrest
somebody for illegal gun sales.  It wasn’t even about me.”

Richey watched Marshon open a zippered pouch, extract a
banded stack of cash and place it on the table.  “Here’s five thousand for
your trouble, Richey.  When it’s light, maybe you can drive me to a car
rental agency, and I’ll get on my way.”

“Keep the money.  I’ll help you anyway I can, but I
got my own problems, Marshon.”  In a tumble of words, Richey explained
what had happened, including his frantic search for Carmen.

When he finished, Marshon said, “Semanski, the knife
thrower.  He’s one dangerous sonofabitch.  Obviously, he didn’t leave
town after you gave him the last five grand.”

“He apparently killed a couple of guys Tuesday
night.  The result of a lovers’ triangle.  Two detectives questioned
me about him.  Of course, I never said anything about Ace, The Wheel,
or you.  I have no idea why he kidnapped Carmen.”

“It doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Marshon agreed.
“Your best bet is to go to the cops, Richey.”

Richey reiterated his fears.  “I got no proof and
it would open a can of worms.”

“It could.  The prosecutors and cops may have a
video of the killings at The Wheel, and they may know what Ace looks
like.  But, they obviously don’t know where to find him.”

“Neither do I.  But, I can’t take a chance and
involve the cops, Marshon.  If I did, they’d figure out who Ace is and
link him to you.  And, me to you.  Carmen would get lost in the mix.”

“You got to figure out what Ace is up to, Richey.”

“I hate to admit it now, but I used to barshit with him
about Robin Hood-type movies.  He talked to me one time about kidnappings
and how they always fall apart when the kidnapper tries to pick up the
ransom.  I’m beginning to think he never talked about anything without having
an ulterior motive.  It’s like he has a plan of some sort.  There’s a
possibility he’s going to kidnap a local rich woman named Cathy Kennedy and
demand a ransom from her banker husband.  It’s the only thing I can think
of.  Why he kidnapped Carmen, though, is beyond me.  Ace just said he
had something for me to do tomorrow or, actually, today.”

Marshon took a drink and shifted his weight in the
chair, which caused him to grimace.  “If you’re right, it may be that he
plans to use you somehow in the kidnapping.”

“You mean, like have me kidnap the Kennedy woman!”

“Or, pick up the ransom.”

Richey paced the room for several minutes.  “That’s
it.  In the movie, Ransom, the mastermind played by Gary Sinise
sends one of his lieutenants to pick up the first ransom and the cops kill
him.  Ace told me about seeing that movie.”  Richey suddenly felt
sick to his stomach and rushed into the bathroom where he retched into the
sink.  Back in the kitchen, he fixed himself another drink.

He returned to the living room and sat across from
Marshon, who said, “I still think your best move is to tell everything to the
police, Richey.  If the cops stake out the Kennedy house, they’ll arrest
Ace as soon as he shows up.  They’re not going to wait until he tries to
kidnaps her.  Not some rich, white lady who lives near the country club.”

Richey was still unconvinced.  “Ace is a
psychopath.  Cold as death.  He’d deny any intent to kidnap
Kennedy.  As for Carmen, he could also deny kidnapping her, and say he
doesn’t know where she is.  She could be tied and gagged, lying at the
bottom of an old well.  Prison time wouldn’t scare Ace.  He’d claim
self-defense in the murder of Kandie's ex-boyfriend and the other guy.
Kandie would probably back him up.  He would definitely try to deal on you
and the killings at The Wheel.  Again, he could claim self-defense
and I’d have to alibi him for the second time.  No, I’m not going to the
police, Marshon!”

Marshon shrugged his acceptance of Richey’s
decision.  After all, he had rejected advice from Mort Saperstein that now
seemed eminently reasonable.

“But if we intercept him at the Kennedy’s house, he’ll
tell us where Carmen is, especially when I start shooting him in the arms and
legs,” Richey said, with passion.

Marshon scoffed.  “There’s one big problem, Richey.
I can’t take this guy down, not in my condition.  Maybe not in my best
day.  And, Richey, I’m sorry to say that neither can you.  For your
plan to work, you’d have to first subdue him without shooting him and killing
him.  Can you do that?”

Richey rubbed his forehead as if to stimulate creative
thinking.  Then, his eyes lit up with an idea.  “Who can take Ace
down?  Jemmy can!”

Marshon frowned.  “I don’t know, Richey.
Jemmy’s got a lot on his plate right now.  The police could be tailing
him, too, thinking he’ll lead them to me.”

Richey looked to be in agony, as he tried to formulate a
persuasive argument.  Marshon was on the run.  So was Widja.  The
Wheel probably wouldn’t spin for some time.  He figured that Marshon
might be short on money, or couldn’t get to it right now.  “Look, Marshon,
Carmen and I were just talking about pooling our assets, before all this stuff
happened.  We got nearly a hundred grand between us.  It’s yours if
you and Jemmy will help me.  It would take me a few days to get it
together, but you know I’m good for it.  Jemmy knows me.  He knows
I’m trustworthy.  You can stay here in my house for as long as you
want.  I’ll help you get out of town any way I can.  Please, Marshon,
please!  We can still save Carmen and then get on the road, the two of
us.  Maybe the four of us.”  At some level, Richey knew it was a
shameless appeal, but he’d worry about that contradiction later.

Marshon looked doubtful, even shook his head, but he
finally said, “I’ll put it to Jemmy.  If he wants the deal, it’s up to
him.”  Marshon couldn’t deny hope to his friend.  He wondered if this
turn of events could enhance his chance of escaping the city without being
caught, although at the time Marshon couldn’t think of any advantage it
offered.

From this point forward, events unfolded rapidly, like a
city park chess game with a ten-second clock.  The opening moves were
daring, pawns were sacrificed, the momentum shifted, strategies changed, and,
as always, miscalculation and bad judgment played a big role.  The final
flurry of exchanges were desperate and left the game board littered with the
fallen.

23/Death
And Desperation

Ace awakened,
rolled onto his side and looked at the fluorescent clock hands, indicating it
was ten minutes to six a. m. Saturday morning.  Carmen lay spread eagle on
the single bed beside him, with her wrists and ankles secured with ropes to the
four legs of the bed.  Her position had caused her red skirt to bunch up
toward the top of her legs.  Before he went to sleep last night, Ace had
tied a handkerchief around her head and across her mouth, in case she decided
to scream, for all the good that would do, since they were in the end
unit.  Ace had thrown a blanket across her upper body, since the
old-fashioned radiator didn’t sufficiently heat the room.

When they arrived at the hotel after 11 p.m., Carmen
expected Ace to rape her, especially since he felt her up while tying her to
the bed.  He’d pulled her pantyhose down far enough to penetrate her and
then lick his finger, saying that she tasted all yummy.

Country also had been standing beside her bed, asking
Ace every few minutes, “Are we gonna fuck her, Ace.  Are we?  Are
we?”

Actually, Ace’s actions were calculated.  He had
been terrified much of his childhood, beginning when the neighbors began to
molest him, and the neighborhood blacks beat the shit out of him nearly every
day, either on the way to school or after school.  When he was terrified,
he couldn’t think straight.  He couldn’t develop a plan to extricate himself
from the terrifying situation.  He learned that frightened people became
docile people who did what they were told.  In prison, he’d read that
experts called it the Stockholm Syndrome.  That’s how he wanted Carmen to
feel.

Ace planned to let Richey talk to Carmen this
morning.  He had to, otherwise Richey might not help carry out Ace’s
plan.  Ace wasn’t quite certain how Richey would react if Carmen told him
she’d been beaten up and raped.  Richey might be terrified on behalf of
Carmen and do whatever Ace demanded.  Several considerations caused him to
hesitate, however.  According to Kandie, she’d told Richey about the
Tuesday night fight between Ace and Hank and Melvin.  The cops told Richey
those two individuals were dead, so Richey knew that Ace probably had killed
them.  However, Richey didn’t offer his opinion to the cops, or tell them
that Kandie was lying.  Richey might be protecting Marshon,
indirectly.  He might also just not want to get involved.  His life’s
tendency was to go along and do as instructed, even if he whined about
everything.  If Ace raped Carmen, Richey could decide to give up, get
drunk and go to the cops.  The cops would immediately pick up Kandie, who
then wouldn’t be available to perform her job.  After all these considerations,
Ace decided he would threaten and terrify Carmen, but not actually harm her.

Ace got out of bed, went to the bathroom and then came
back to stand beside Carmen’s bed.  He removed the gag.  “No
screaming, Carmen, or I’ll hurt you and put the gag back in.  Understand?
I gotta get ready and leave.  When I get back, I’ll let you talk to
Richey.  Then everyone will understand his or her job.  Do it right,
and you might get out of this alive, Carmen, none the worse for the wear.
Understand?”

“Please don’t hurt me,” Carmen said.  “I have to go
to the bathroom.  And, I’m freezing.”

Ace undid the ropes tied to the bed, and watched as she
pulled down her skirt and sat on the edge of the bed, massaging her wrists.

Ace walked to the open door leading to the adjoining
room, while keeping a close eye on Carmen.  He figured she was calculating
her chances of running to the door leading outside and getting the chain lock
off before Ace intercepted her.  There wasn’t much of a chance, but he
liked teasing her with the possibility, as well as seeing just how desperate
Carmen was.

“Country, get your ass up!  Now!”

Ace waited until Country lumbered into the room, wearing
dirty boxer shorts and scratching his private parts.  He had a visible
erection.

“Why we up so early, Ace?  We goin’ out for
breakfast?  I’m really hungry.”

“You got beer, potato chips and donuts.  You ain’t
going nowhere.  Right now, I want you to do what I tell you.”

Ace gave Country a questioning look, as if to prompt him
to respond in a certain way.  It took the dummy a few seconds to remember,
but he snapped to attention, saluted and said, “Yes, sir, General Ace.”

Ace walked over to Carmen, grabbed a rope still tied
around one wrist and pulled her toward the bathroom.  She began to
whimper.  Ace shoved her through the door and said, “There’s the
stool.  Do your thing.”  Ace turned to Country.  “I’m gonna take
a shower while she pisses and shits.  You make sure she doesn’t try to
run, okay?  She doesn’t leave the bathroom.”

“Okay, Ace.”

Before he pulled the shower curtain closed, Ace looked
at Carmen and then at Country.  “She’s got a nice ass, don’t you think so,
Country?  Would you like to fuck her?”

Country’s eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open.
“Can I, Ace?  Can I?”

Ace looked at Carmen as if he were debating.  “Not
right now, Country, but later today we’ll both have a go at her.”  When
Carmen looked at him fearfully, he said, “You have no idea what it’s like to be
fucked by me, Carmen.  It’s going to be a helluva experience you’ll never,
ever forget.”  He stroked his penis for emphasis.

The shower relaxed Ace and made him feel clean and ready
for whatever the day had to offer.  He knew it would be exciting,
challenging and that he would win in the end.  He could feel it in his
bones.

Ace got out of the shower.  While still naked, he
escorted Carmen back to the bed and again tied both of her wrists to the bed
frame.  Again, he rubbed his penis on her cheek before covering her with a
blanket.

Ace walked to a clothes rack located behind the exterior
door.  He grabbed clean underwear and socks from the top shelf and began
to put on a security guard’s uniform he purchased at a local uniform
store.  The “uniform” consisted of black shoes, gray pants and shirt with
shoulder straps to hold slip-on epaulets spelling out SECURITY in gold
letters.  He had a matching SECURITY cap.  For ninety-nine cents, he
bought a gold, black-trimmed Sergeant chevron and sewed it onto the left
shoulder area of the shirt.  Before putting on the shirt, he slipped on
the figure-eight shaped knife holster, which held two throwing knives he could
access by reaching over his right shoulder.  He pinned a gold shield on
his right shirt pocket.  It cost twenty-six bucks and featured an American
flag surrounded by the words “Security Officer.”  A universal gun holder
and belt cost forty dollars.  It held Hank Hendricks’s nine-millimeter
Glock.  The wide black belt had a leather pocket to hold handcuffs, which
Ace bought for thirty dollars.  This kidnapping was going down for a
modest clothing investment of about three hundred bucks.

Ace opened the door leading outside so he could check
the weather.  The television forecast was for rain, turning to sleet and
possibly snow by late afternoon.  Ace also had purchased a blue raincoat
with the word SECURITY attached to the back, but he didn’t want to wear it
unless he had to, since it would cover the various symbols of his authority.

Ace drove Carmen’s Mazda to a nearby auto dealership and
parked it near the service entrance.  Owners leaving their cars the night before
filled out a service request, sealed that form and their keys inside an
envelope, and pushed it through a slot into a box inside the service
office.  While pretending to fill out a service request, Ace used barbecue
tongs he’d bent with pliers to extract an envelope from the overstuffed
box.  He located the parking space noted on it and drove away in a new
Nissan Rogue.

Perhaps this extra precaution wasn’t necessary, but Ace
considered that Richey could have panicked and told the cops about Carmen, in
which case they’d be looking for her car.  For the same reason, he’d
tossed Carmen’s cell phone out the car window last night after she talked to
Richey.  No use missing a small detail that could upset the apple cart,
although he knew other things could go wrong.  He had to be flexible in
any case.

Ace counted on Richey to equivocate and not involve the
cops.  The failed actor was a hand wringer.  He overthought
everything, and then became overwhelmed by all the possibilities.  Richey
always took the path of least resistance — which usually involved sitting at a
bar for the entire evening, drinking martinis.

Truthfully, Richey indeed faced several daunting
dilemmas.  He, Ace and Marshon were linked by an intricate web that would
be hard to explain to the cops.  Even if the worst scenario happened and
the police arrested Ace, he planned to spin so many half-truths that it was
unlikely he spend much time behind bars.  He’d say he was actually working
security that night at The Wheel, and killed the two robbers in
self-defense.  Marshon prevented him from reporting the deaths to the
police.  Jemmy threatened him.  Ace would claim not to know what they
did with the bodies, and could pass a lie detector test.  The cops and
prosecutors would salivate over using his testimony to bring down Marshon’s
criminal empire and all the disreputable police, bureaucrats and politicians
he’d bribed to allow it to operate.

As for Hank and Melvin, Ace could claim that it was
Kandie and Country who killed them, while he was out picking up beer.  He
only helped dispose of the bodies.  As for Carmen, she’d followed him out
to the motel.  When he rejected her, she became vicious and accused him of
rape.  Could she prove he’d raped her?  Again, he’d take a lie
detector test.  Would she?  It would be he said, she said.  The
more he thought about it, the more Ace was convinced that he shouldn’t rape
Carmen before the job was done, although he would continue to threaten
rape.  He might let Country rape her.  Then, he could say it was the
idiot who kidnapped Carmen and brought her to the motel.

When it was all said and done, Ace concluded that he
probably could negotiate his jail time to somewhere between three and five, or
five and seven at the worst, what with the parole violation.  He could do
that standing on his head.  Prison wasn’t a horrible alternative to the
likes of Ace.  He’d victimize the inmates, just as he’d done before.
He’d rob them and use their money to buy booze and drugs smuggled in by the
guards.  He’d select one of the inmates to be his bitch, preferably a
flabby, young black guy.  It was called situational homosexuality.
There might even be a female guard or two he could seduce.  It was all
worth the risk, especially if he was successful, in which case he’d be two million
dollars richer later in the day.

Ace
arrived at the Kennedy mansion about seven-forty and drove completely around
the estate, as he’d done once before.  He carefully examined all the cars
on the street, looking for stakeout cops.  Everything looked normal.
Lights were on in the main house, but not in the carriage house.

Ace parked on the street and waited.  Maggie
Iscaria, the Belton employee Ace had seduced, told him James Kennedy went to
work every Saturday morning, while Cathy had brunch with friends.  She and
her husband then met at the country club for a snack and tennis, weather
permitting.  Otherwise, they might play racquetball.  Ace hoped that
was the case this Saturday since it could be difficult for him to subdue both
of them without injuring or killing someone — and that would complicate
things.  Besides, Ace planned for Richey to conduct negotiations with the
banker, just to confuse and complicate the issue should anything go
wrong.  However, if banker Kenney was sleeping in on this rainy day, or
decided not to go to work, Ace was prepared to improvise.

In that case, he’d call Cathy Kennedy on a burner phone
and tell her he was with Sweetwater Mall Security and that they had video
evidence of a Belton’s employees stealing jewelry from the store.  He’d
mention Maggie’s name.  He’d tell Cathy to come to his mall offices and
he’d show her the video.  Then, when she left home in her car, he’d follow
and call again, saying they had just learned that Maggie planned to sell the
stolen jewelry to a fence.  They were going to meet in a local park.
He’d name the park and offer to meet Cathy there, so they could catch Maggie in
the act.  He had no doubt Cathy Kennedy would comply.  Once she was
in the park, he’d snatch her.

As Ace sat in the car running these scenarios in his
mind, he saw a late model black Cadillac drive by and turn right at the
corner.  Within a few minutes, it came by again.  Ace glanced quickly
to his right and saw the profile of a black man.  He recognized him as Jemmy
Shoemaker, the giant head of security at The Wheel!  The Cadillac
continued to the end of the block and parallel parked.

Ace quickly jumped to the conclusion that Richey had
called on his friend Marshon Johnson for help instead of calling the
cops.  Marshon, who has his own troubles with the law, according to the
television news, did this favor in return for … what?  A place to
hide?  Richey’s help in getting out of town?  Why was Marshon hanging
around, anyway?  Then, an outrageous but plausible thought occurred to Ace:
they might have decided to let him go ahead with the kidnapping and try to
seize the ransom money!  That would explain Marshon’s interest.  If
so, Ace was about to throw a monkey wrench into their plans.

He got out of the Rogue and quietly closed the door.
There was dry thunder in the western sky, but it hadn’t started to rain
yet.  He put on dark sunglasses and pulled the security cap low on his
forehead.  He’d shoved his ponytail under the hatband.  He pulled one
of the knives from its scabbard and held it with his left hand, which he kept
close to his hip and leg, so it couldn’t be easily seen.  Ace had a sudden
adrenaline rush.  He walked down the sidewalk, keeping his head down and
using the trees near the street for cover in case the nigger checked his side
mirrors.  When he was abreast of the Cadillac, Ace moved quickly to the
driver’s door, but stood upright and didn’t bend over so that Shoemaker could
see his face.  He stood slightly sideways, hiding his left hand.  Ace
rapped on the window glass with his right knuckles.

As the window lowered, Ace said, “I was on my way to
work and saw you sitting here.  Can I help you with something?  You
broke down, sir?”  As he’d hoped, Shoemaker stuck his head farther out the
window, craning his neck to look up at the security guard.  In a lightning
quick motion, Ace thrust the blade into the left side of Shoemaker’s throat,
slicing right through his carotid artery.  Ace jumped backward to avoid an
arcing spray of blood.

Shoemaker looked horrified.  His hands reflexively
reached for his throat, clawing.  He tried to shout, but no sound came out
of his throat.  Ace reached through the open window and pushed Shoemaker
onto his side.  He leaned in and stabbed Shoemaker several more times in
the chest, stomach and side.  He went through Jemmy’s pockets and found a
cell phone.  He wiped the bloody blade on the dead man’s shirt, and put it
back in its holster.  He rolled up the window and shut the car door.

Ace
looked around and saw no one, although a neighbor could be looking out the
window — just as a fisherman apparently had been watching when he drove Hank
Hendricks’s car into the lake.  Such were the risks of crime.  While
walking back to the Rogue, Ace decided to speed things up.  He drove to
the back of the Kennedy estate and parked on the sidewalk within inches of the
brick wall.  Tall Rose of Sharon bushes on the opposite side of the street
blocked the neighbor’s view from that direction.

Ace climbed on top of the car, eyeing a huge oak tree
whose branches extended over the wall.  A two-inch thick concrete slab
topped the seven-foot high brick wall.  Embedded in the concrete every ten
feet or so were silver boxes that relayed an electronic security beam.
Ace put his right foot on the edge of the slab and propelled himself upward and
outward, grasping the tree limb with both hands.

Ace wrapped his legs around the limb and worked his way
over the beam and the wall.  He then dropped to the ground, crouched and
ran toward the house and the three-car, attached garage.  The garage doors
opened onto a winding driveway leading from the mansion on top of the hill down
through a dip in the expansive front yard, and up again to the gate opening
onto the street.  Ace hid in the bushes at one side of the garage.
He looked at his watch.  It was 8:33 a.m.

Just as he prepared to open the side door leading into
the garage by jimmying it with a knife blade, the screw-driven garage door
opener began to crank up one of the doors.  Ace peeked around the corner
of the garage to watch as the silver Lexus headed out and down toward the
street.  Then the garage door began to close.  Ace immediately moved
to the front of the garage, dropped to the pavement and rolled under the door
when it was about three feet from the ground.

He got to his feet and saw that there were still two
cars in the garage:  the Mercedes coupe that Cathy drove and an antique
roadster.  He smelled engine exhaust gases.

Ace walked to the door leading into the house.  He
tried the door handle but found it locked.  He knocked on the door and
waited.

A maid answered Ace’s knock by opening the door.
He grabbed her arm and jerked her into the garage, clamping a hand over her
mouth before she could scream.  He whispered in her ear, “Anyone else
inside the house except Mrs. Kennedy?”

She shook her head.  He could feel her entire body
tremble.

“Tell her to come here,” he said, holding the blade in
front of her face.  “Say anything else and I’ll cut your throat.”

“Mrs. Kennedy, would you please come into the garage?”
the maid asked, her voice cracking.

Ace snapped the maid’s neck and she fell to the floor
like a broken doll.  He listened to the clicking sound of approaching high
heels.  As soon as Cathy Kennedy opened the door, Ace grabbed her by the
throat and pulled her into the garage.

He nodded at the maid on the garage floor.  “Do
what I say or you’ll wind up like that.”

He loosened his grip and she asked, hoarsely, “What do
you want?”

“We’re going for a drive.  Let’s go into the house
and get your purse and car keys.”

“I’ll give you all the money I have.  Jewelry,
too.  Take the car.  Just don’t hurt me.”

He shoved her ahead of him inside the house.  She
was about forty, he guessed; tall and leggy with substantial breasts and thin
hips.  She had on a cream-colored two-piece suit, pearl necklace and
matching earrings, as well as several rings and an expensive-looking,
diamond-studded bracelet.

“Where’d your husband go just now?”

“To work,” she said, her hands shaking violently.

Ace walked her down the hallway to a juncture where he
could see into a living room on one side and a dining room on the other.
They were large, well-lit rooms expensively furnished.  Ace ground his
teeth and snarled.  He was becoming enraged, just as he had the day he and
Country first drove by the Kennedy estate.

“Where were you going so early?” he asked.

“I planned to meet friends in the Plaza for brunch and
then go shopping.  They’ll be alarmed if I don’t show up.  They may
call the police.”

“Really,” he said, laughing.  “Let’s go.”

She took her purse from a hallway table and they
returned to the garage.  Ace gagged her with a handkerchief and cuffed her
hands behind her back.  He opened the truck of the Mercedes, picked her up
and put her inside.  He squeezed her breast with one hand and put the other
hand up her skirt.  He tore a hole in her pantyhose at the crotch
level.  He licked her face as he penetrated her with a finger.  “You
make any noise, Cathy, and you’ll be real sorry.  Keep quiet and
cooperate, and nothing will happen to you that you can’t recover from.”

Ace sat behind the steering wheel of the Mercedes and
checked out all the dashboard gadgets.  An electronic transmitter attached
to the sunshield.  He pressed the “garage” button and the door began to
open again.  He backed out the car, closed the garage door, and drove down
the hill, appreciating the excellent German workmanship.  He pressed the
“gate” button and the driveway gate swung open, inviting him to the street.

Ace drove carefully, not wanting the cops to stop him
for a traffic offense.  However, the drive to the motel proved uneventful,
so much so that Ace made an improvised call on Jemmy Shoemaker’s cell
phone.  Called the metropolitan police division, in fact, and was switched
around several times before talking to Detective Victor Marconi.

“I be a friend of Jemmy Shoemaker,” Ace said, lapsing
into his Chicago South Side street dialect.  “Guess you know him?
Friend of Marshon Johnson.”

“Yeah?”

“Jemmy was my friend until that muthafucker Marshon
Johnson kilt him dis mornin’.”

“You know where Marshon Johnson is?”

“He and this white dude, Richey Stanton, kidnapped a
woman by the name of Cathy Kennedy from her house south of Tremont Plaza, near
the country club.  Jemmy and me was da lookouts, but they tried to cut us
out of the action, you understan’?  I got away.  You’ll find Jemmy’s
dead body in his Caddy parked near the Dadeworth Country Club.  Marshon
and Stanton, they was driving a red Nissan Rogue.”

“Who is this?”

“Like I said, a friend of Jemmy’s.”  Ace
disconnected and called Richey’s cell phone, a number he’d purloined at The
Stadium, when Richey left his smart phone laying on the bar when he went to
the restroom.  That’s how he acquired Carmen’s phone number, also.

The wannabe actor grabbed the phone on the first
ring.  “Listen up, Richey.  I got Cathy Kennedy now, too.”

“I want to talk with Carmen,” Richey said.

“She’s not with me right now, buddy, but you will talk
to her in about a half hour.  You should also know I just called the
police and told them you and Marshon Johnson kidnapped Cathy Kennedy.  I
figure Marshon’s with you, right?  You two sent Jemmy Shoemaker to take me
out, but that little plan backfired.”

“What do you mean?”

Ace smiled at the terror he detected in Richey’s phone
voice.  “I mean I fuckin’ killed The Black Hulk and the cops are on their
way right now to Kennedy’s house and your place.  You best get on the
road, motherfucker!  I also suggest you get a different car, but hold onto
your cell phone for another hour and I’ll let you talk to Carmen.  You do
as I say and I’ll return her unfucked.”

Ace then tossed Jemmy Shoemaker’s cell phone out the
window.

∞
∞  ∞

As soon as Ace left
the motel room, Carmen began thinking of a way to get free now that only
Country guarded her.  She needed to get to her purse hanging over the back of a
chair.  When they’d arrived at the motel last night, Ace got out the
driver’s side and walked around to the back of the car.  She’d quickly
kicked off her high heels, turned her body sideways, angled her foot, and
nudged the blue gun case out from under the seat, so that it lay beside her
purse.

Instinctively,
she didn’t say anything to Ace when he opened the door and pulled her
out.  Once inside the room, Ace told Country to get her purse and shoes
out of the car.  When Country came back inside, Carmen couldn’t believe
her eyes.  He’d stuck the gun case inside her oversized handbag, so only
the tip of the case showed.  Maybe because of its light blue color, and
triangular shape, they thought it was a makeup case.

Carmen now watched as Country used a hacksaw on the
barrel of a shotgun, stopping periodically to stuff miniature donuts into his
mouth.

“I wish I didn’t hafta do this,” Country whined.
“This twelve gauge belonged to my Grandpappy, and he’d skin me alive if he knew
I did this to his favorite shotgun.  It’s an Ithaca.”  He’d
pronounced the manufacturer’s name as if it were three words.  “But, Ace
said I hadda.”

“Country, can you give me my handbag hanging there on
the chair.  It’s my ladies time of the month and I need to get some
tampons.  Please.”

Country stopped sawing and mulled over her
request.  “No, ma’am.  Ace told me not to untie you again for any
reason.  I always obey orders, you know.  Just like I was in the
army.”

“I could insert the tampons right here on the bed,”
Carmen countered.  “Don’t you want to watch, Country.  Have you ever
seen a woman put in a tampon?  I’m sure it would be very exciting for
you.”

Country scratched his head.  “No, Rhonda has a
ladies’ time of the month, too, but she don’t let me watch.  Besides,
blood makes me sick.”

Carmen switched tactics.  “Look, untie me and I’ll
get some nice-smelling perfume from my bag so I’ll smell real good when you
fuck me.  Okay, Country?  You said you wanted to fuck me, didn’t
you?”

“Ace said we’d fuck you later, Carmen, when he gets
back.”

“I can’t wait,” she said, trying to sound thrilled and
not sarcastic.

“Ace says all women really want it, Carmen, even when
they say no.”

“Do you believe everything he says?”

Country looked startled.  “Yeah, why?”

“Can’t you think for yourself?  You’re not his
slave, you know.”

“Only niggers are slaves.  Ace said so.  I’m his
best buddy and he’s gonna get me a bunch of money so I can buy a camper and a
boat.  Maybe even a cabin down home.  We’re gonna be rich later on
today.”

“I’ve been good to you, haven’t I, Country?  All
the times we’ve been together at The Stadium.”

“I guess so,” he replied, suspiciously.

“In fact, I’ve always had a thing for you,
Country.  You’re so big and strong.”  She nodded at him.  “I bet
you got a big dick, don’t you.”

He performed his hiccupping laugh.  “Yeah, I
do.  That’s what my girlfriend Rhonda says.”

“Well, let’s see it,” Carmen said, swallowing
hard.  Carmen knew her ploy could completely backfire, and result in her
being raped.  But, she couldn’t think of any other way to get free.

“I dunno.  Ace might not like that.”

“He told you not to fuck me while he was gone?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, but he didn’t say anything about a blow job,
right?  That wouldn’t be disobeying his orders.  I’m really want you,
Country.”  She tried to smile, but it came off sickly.

Country stood, clearly excited.  He laid the
shotgun and saw on Ace’s bed.  “You’re right, Carmen.  Ace didn’t say
you couldn’t suck my dick.”

“Untie my hands, Country, and I’ll give you the best
head you ever had.  When’s the last time someone sucked your dick,
Country?”

He rubbed his chin in contemplation.  “Well, I
don’t remember, Carmen.  Most women don’t like to do that to me unless I
make ʼem, like Ace said I could do.”

“Well, I’ll do it gladly, Country.  Just untie my
hands and let me go to the bathroom first.”

Country struggled with the decision.  “Nope.
Ace said I shouldn’t untie your hands, and he said I couldn’t fuck you.
But he didn’t say nothin’ about me stickin’ my dick in your mouth while you was
tied up, did he, Carmen?  You want to give me a blow job, I’ll let you.”

She watched in horror as he took off his jeans and
undershorts and began stimulating himself.  Then he walked close to her
and tried to insert it into her mouth.  She clenched her teeth
tightly shut and jerked her head from side to side, which infuriated him.

“You said you’d suck my dick, Carmen!”

“Only if you untie me first!”

He began banging her head against the wall in an effort
to force open her mouth.  She hoped the noise would cause people in the
next room to call the front desk, or the cops.  Then, Carmen realized she
was in the last room; no one could hear the noise!

Country gave up his effort to force himself into her and
masturbated until he ejaculated into her hair.  Carmen kept her head down,
crying softly.  She’d failed and now he wasn’t interested in sex.
Like a good soldier, Country wouldn’t untie her for any reason.

Nevertheless, over the next hour, she tried other
approaches, including asking him to call Richey and Marisa, and tell them she
was okay.  She asked if she could speak to his girlfriend, Rhonda, but he
refused.  He did finish sawing off the shotgun barrel, so only about four
inches remained.

“The courts will find you guilty of killing Hank
Hendricks and Melvin Lucas,” she said, desperately.  “They’ll execute
you.”

“Ace said that don’t make no difference.”

Carmen even threatened to tell his Grandpappy later that
he’d mutilated the Ithaca.  Nothing worked.  Meanwhile, her handbag
with the gun in it hung on the back of a chair.

∞
∞  ∞

At the motel, Ace
backed the Mercedes into a space directly in front of the door to his
room.  Three doors down, a man hefted a suitcase into the trunk of an old
Chevrolet Caprice, a big car with a big trunk.  The door to the man’s room
was open.  No one else was around.  Again, Ace improvised to take
advantage of this serendipitous situation.

“Yo’, mister, let me ask you somethin’!”  Ace said,
walking briskly toward the man, keeping his knife hand behind his back.
No one else was outside.

“How can I help you?” the man in the suit said.

“I’m security for the motel.  You see anyone
suspicious last night?  We had reports of several car burglaries.”

“I didn’t see or hear anyone.”

“You already checked out?”

“Yeah, why?”

Ace knifed him under the ribs and shoved him into the
large trunk.  He took out the suitcase and set it on the sidewalk.
The guy was still moving, so Ace stabbed him in the heart twice and pushed him
as deep into the trunk as possible.  Then, he put the man’s suitcase back
into his room and shut the door.  When the maids found it, they’d take it
to the office, thinking the guest simply had forgotten it.

Ace took the car keys from the trunk lock and slammed
the lid shut.  He started the Caprice and backed it into a space next to
the Mercedes, so that the trunk was directly in front of the door to the room
where Country had slept last night.

He knocked on the motel room door and Country opened it.

“Come with me,” Ace said, shutting the motel door.
He went into his end room, took a blanket from the bed, opened his door and
stepped outside.  Ace looked around before opening the trunk of the
Mercedes.  He picked up a purse, turned and tossed it to Country.
Then Ace leaned into the trunk and wrapped the blanket around Cathy Kennedy,
forcing her knees up to her chest, so he could bring all four ends of the blanket
together.  Grasping the four ends with one hand, he stood up and looked
around.  Seeing no one, he jerked his bundle out of the trunk.  Two
quick steps and he was inside the motel room.  He dumped Cathy Kennedy
onto the floor.

“Go outside and shut the trunk lid on that Mercedes,
Country.”

He checked his watch.  Just after ten o’clock and
his work was mainly done!

“Goddamn,” Country said, coming back into the room while
scratching his head.  “Who’s this woman, Ace?”

“Little Bo Peep,” Ace replied.  “Carmen give you
any problems?”

Country looked at his shoes.  “I didn’t untie her,
Ace, and I didn’t fuck her.”

“Good.”

Ace grabbed Cathy Kennedy’s arm and jerked her to her
feet.  Ace removed the gag from Cathy’s mouth.  The two women became
aware of each other.  Carmen looked questioningly at Cathy, as if trying
to figure out who she was, and why Ace had kidnapped her.  Cathy looked
terrified and incapable of calculation.

Ace shoved Cathy onto his bed, where she landed on her
side.

“You wanted to fuck someone,” Ace said to Country.
“Go ahead, fuck Mrs. Cathy Kennedy, banker’s wife and owner of a jewelry
store.  Fuck her hard!”

Country
frowned, lowered his head and began fumbling with his fingers.  “Ah, I
don’t want to, Ace.  Not with everyone watching.”

“Why not?”  Ace said.  “Fuck her!  Beat
her up, too, if you want.”  Ace wanted Cathy Kennedy to be totally
terrified when she talked to her banker husband, who likely considered himself
a captain of industry.

“I don’t want to, Ace.”

Ace walked over to Carmen, bent and looked at her
closely, and then began to chuckle.  He took off his trousers and
undershorts until he stood naked before Carmen.  She stared at his
erection and immediately wet herself, fearing that her ordeal was about to
enter another phase.

Ace then uncuffed Cathy and flipped her over so she lay
on her stomach.  Ace unbuttoned and unzipped her skirt, pulled it off and
threw it on the floor.  He pulled and ripped off her pantyhose.  All
the while, Cathy begged him to stop.  Then he grabbed her upper thighs,
spread her legs and entered her from the back.

Carmen turned her head away so as not to look, but
couldn’t shut out the sounds of Ace raping the woman while Country brayed and
shouted encouragement.  All the time, Ace talked to the Kennedy woman, who
cried, begged, moaned, and gasped for air at the same time.  “This is just
a taste of what your life is going to be like from now on, bitch, if you and
your husband don’t do as I say.  You thought you were above all this,
didn’t you, Mrs. Banker Wife Kennedy?  Thought your money would protect
you.  Well, it won’t.  Not from me!  If you don’t persuade your
husband to give me two million dollars, this is going to happen to you a
lot.  If he fucks up and doesn’t pay, I’m going to sell you and Carmen over
there to some guys who make porno movies, including snuff videos.  They’ll
pay plenty for some fresh meat.  When they’re done with you, you’ll look
like raw hamburger!  They’ll put your body in a trash compactor.”

Ace finished with a roar.  He stood, turned
approached Carmen, his erect penis still jerking spasmodically and emitting
semen.  He grabbed her hair and turned her head to face him, so he could
press his genitals against her face.  “You’re next, Carmen, if Richey
doesn’t do as I say.”

As Ace turned away, Carmen knew he had once again spared
her for no reason she could fathom.  Ace rummaged through Kennedy’s purse
until he found her smart phone.  He grabbed Cathy by the arm and pulled
her to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.  Ace put one leg on the
bed behind Cathy, so his genitals were near her cheek.  Ace used the
iPhone to take their picture, making sure to include only the bottom half of
his body.  He checked the result and handed the phone to Cathy.
“Send this photo to your husband’s cell phone.  Then call him.  Tell
him he can buy you back for two million dollars.”

Carmen watched as Cathy did as she was told.  Then,
she talked into the cell phone in a subdued, surprisingly calm voice, “James,
someone kidnapped me from home.  He wants a two million dollar ransom,
James.”

“In large bills, in a Nike sports bag,” Ace prompted, as
he once again put on his security guard uniform.

“In large bills, in a Nike sports bag,” Cathy
repeated.  “He’s serious, James.  He’ll kill both of us if you don’t
do what he says.  Carmen is tied up and can’t help me.  He already
killed Maria in our garage at home.  He raped me.  He made me send
the picture.”

“Tell him someone will call soon with instructions,” Ace
said.  Cathy repeated his words and Ace jerked the phone from her hand.

Ace dialed another number and said, “Richey, tell me
where you’re at and maybe I’ll let you talk to Carmen.”  He paused to
listen.  “That’s good.  But, after you talk to Carmen, get rid of
your cell phone.  After my call to the cops, they’ll be looking for
you.  I figure Marshon’s got a burner.  Give me that number
now.  We’ll talk on his phone after this.”

Ace wrote down a number in his small notebook.  He
handed Cathy Kennedy’s iPhone to Carmen.

“Richey,” she said into the phone.  “Yes, I’m all
right, but Ace has kidnapped a woman named Cathy Kennedy.  She’s right
here, Richey.  He’s … brutalized her!”  As Ace reached out his hand
for the phone, Carmen shouted, “We’re in a motel out south, I think!”

Ace grabbed the phone and slapped her face hard.
“That’s right, Richey, but we’re just leaving.  I’ll get back to you later
with instructions.  Do a good job and I’ll give you back Carmen, unfucked,
along with a nice cash reward.  Then, you and Marshon can get on the
road.  Trust me, Richey, this can still all end well for you, if you just
do as I say.”

Then, Ace leaped off the floor and did a pirouette in
the air.  He landed and did it repeatedly, like a ballet dancer, or Zulu
warrior.  He laughed and shouted, “It’s working, it’s working, it’s
working!  Someone will have to make a fuckin’ movie out of this!”

At that moment, it appeared that Ace truly believed he
was invincible and that his plan was foolproof.  He was only a couple of
hours away from total victory.  Suddenly, he quit his dance and looked
around the room.  He said, very businesslike, “Okay, troops, let’s get
moving!  Country, get your stuff, mainly the shotgun.  Don’t leave
anything behind.”  Ace threw car keys to Country.  “You’ll be driving
the Chevy outside your door.  Take their purses and throw them in the
backseat.  We might need their I.D., and credit cards.  Put the
shotgun on the back floorboard, right behind the driver’s seat, so you can
reach it.”

While Country went about his tasks, Ace untied Carmen
from the bed.  He discarded three of the ropes and used the other to bind
her wrists in front of her body.  He grabbed Cathy Kennedy by the collar
of her suit coat and jerked her to her feet.

“Put your skirt back on!” he ordered.  When she was
done, he cuffed her hands again in front of her body.

Country came back into the room and Ace said, “Watch
these two.”  He then gathered up the clothes he’d worn yesterday and put
them into a black plastic trash bag.  He left Cathy Kennedy’s cell phone
on the bed.  They’d find the car soon, anyway.  He didn’t care if
they knew she’d been in the motel room.

Ace then ripped up a pillowcase to create two
gags.  After putting them on Cathy and Carmen, he got behind the two women
and maneuvered them toward the exit door in Country’s room.

“Open the door, Country.  Step out and look
around.  See anybody?”

“Nope, Ace, ain’t nobody out here, but it’s starting to
rain hard.”

“Good, that will drive everyone inside.  Open the
trunk of the Caprice.”

After Country opened the trunk lid, Ace violently shoved
the two women toward the trunk, pushing, lifting and kneeing them until both
were wedged inside the trunk.  Ace slammed the lid.

He walked back into the room, looked around, and grabbed
the plastic bag, planning to throw it away later.  He stepped out and
closed the motel room door.  He and Country stood under the overhang to
avoid the rain.  “Okay, you follow me in the Chevy while I drive your
truck.  We’re just going to the Holiday Inn on the other side of the
interstate.  You park beside me in the parking lot.  We’ll wait there
for a call from Kandie, and then you’ll drive your pickup down to the mall to
pick up the money.  Just like we rehearsed yesterday.  Remember?”

“Yeah, Ace.”

“You got your cell phone?”

Country patted his shirt pocket.

“You call me when you got the money and you’re in your
pickup.  I’ll tell you where I’m at and you can drive over to meet
me.  Understand?”

“Yes, sir, General Ace!”

A similar situation may have prompted Robert Burns to
write his famous poem about the best-laid plans of mice and men.  They
never unfold as exactly planned, otherwise it would be a perfect world — or an
imperfect world shaped by individuals like Ace Semanski.  But, at this
point in time, everything seemed to be going Ace’s way.  He’d made a
tactical decision not to rape Carmen, so Richey would perform as instructed —
even though Ace considered Richey to be a wishy-washy character.  On the
other hand, he’d brutalized Cathy Kennedy, without even knowing her husband’s
temperament.  He just assumed James Kennedy would do exactly as he was
told, to prevent any more harm to his wife.  Perhaps Ace was simply
blinded by his hatred of all individuals who comprised the rich upper class —
hated them because they excluded him.  Whatever the reason, it was a
decision he would soon come to regret.

24/Turning
The Tables

The first call from Ace to Richey came shortly
after nine a.m. while he and Marshon were still at the house, waiting to hear
from Jemmy Shoemaker, who had agreed — eagerly, in fact — to intercept Ace,
disrupt his plan and force him to reveal the whereabouts of Carmen.  Jemmy
told Richey not to worry about paying him.  When Richey learned how Ace
had turned that plan to his advantage, he didn’t say much other than to ask to
talk to Carmen.  When he took the phone from his ear, Richey’s face had
turned a sickly white.

“What’s
the matter?”  Marshon asked.

“Ace
said he’s already got Mrs. Kennedy.  He won’t let me talk to Carmen now,
but he knows you’re with me.”

“That’s
not possible!”

“He
said he killed Jemmy.  Said he called the cops and told them that you and
I kidnapped Cathy Kennedy and killed Jemmy.”

“None
of this makes any sense, Richey!”

“It
might to the cops!  They’ll at least check it out, which means they’ll
eventually be knocking on my front door.”  Richey began rushing around the
house, trying to think of what he needed to take with him.  Marshon
followed and they carried on a conversation interspersed with private thoughts
that each expressed aloud, perhaps unconsciously.

“Shit,
there’s nothing here I really need,” Richey said, suddenly coming to a stop in
the bathroom.

“He
can’t have killed Jemmy!”

“How’d
he know about him being there at the Kennedy’s house, then?”

Marshon
just shook his head.

It
was Richey’s turn to look astounded.  “Why would he call the police?
If he kidnapped Carmen to force me to do something, why shine a spotlight on
me?”

Marshon
suddenly looked horrified.  “When Ace called, what phone number appeared
on your cell phone?”

Richey
checked the call log and showed the number to Marshon who exclaimed, “Oh, my
God!”  No other explanation was necessary.  Ace had Jemmy’s phone!

While
Richey worried about Carmen, so did Marshon grieve Jemmy’s death, although he
didn’t entirely believe the version Ace had told Richey.  Ace could have
stolen Jemmy’s phone.  He was simply trying to panic them.
Nevertheless, the burner phone Marshon had used to communicate with Jemmy was
now compromised, so he took out the battery and threw the case in a
trashcan.  He’d dispose of the battery outside, later on.  He still
had one of the phones he’d purchased at the Hyatt.  On a more calculating
level, Marshon decided that now was the time for him to get on the road.
He just needed a ride from Richey.

Richey
was on the same page.  “We got to get out of here, Marshon, and get rid of
my car.  In fact, I’m going to leave all of my I.D. here in the
house.  I’ll keep my cell phone only until Ace calls again.”

“You’re
right.  Let’s go.  Don’t forget your gun.”

Marshon
refocused on the problem at hand, which was to get out of the city without
being arrested.  He thought aloud, so Richey could agree or
disagree.  “Ace is sowing chaos for a purpose, Richey.  He’s still
got something in mind for you, but he wants you on the run, unsettled, so you
literally don’t have time to think.  Me, I’m just another bargaining chip
in case he gets caught.  By calling in a fake tip to the police, he’s
confusing them, too.  Now, it’s you said, he said, I said, she said.
The cops typically will settle all the confusion by accusing all of us of being
involved in the kidnapping.”

“What
now, Marshon?”

“Let’s
take your car to the nearest car rental place.  I got a clean identity and
we can rent a new ride.”  Suddenly, he seemed to remember something.
“You got any suitcases?”

“Yeah,
why?”

“Because
we hope to be traveling out of the city, at least I do.  We might need
them, at least for cover when checking into a hotel.  New clothes.
We’ll need to abandon these disguises, which may already be compromised.”

“I’m
not going anywhere until Carmen is safe,” Richey declared.

“I
know, I’m just trying to think ahead.”  Marshon didn’t say anything, but
he was also thinking about the ransom.  That’s what the kidnapping was all
about.  According to Richey, he and Ace had talked about various ways to
pick up the ransom.  In an ideal situation envisioned by Marshon, they
killed Ace, freed the women and skipped town with the money.  It would
partly compensate Marshon for all his recent bad luck, and the money it had
cost him, plus it could insure his safe escape.  He’d have a big carrot to
offer Dahlgren.

Richey
got the suitcases out of a closet.  One had four wheels on the bottom,
plus a pull handle.  The other fit inside the bigger case, but it only had
two wheels and a retracting pull handle.  Richey put them into the trunk
of his car.

On
the way to the rental agency, the burner phone Marshon had bought at the Hyatt
rang.  He looked at the numerical display in utter amazement, before
answering, “Gail?”  He paused, listened and then said, “What!  Oh, my
God, it’s true then!  No, Jesus, no!”

Richey
nearly ran off the road reacting to, and trying to read, the emotions reflected
in Marshon’s voice and facial expressions.  As Richey turned down a side
street one block from the car rental agency, Marshon said into the phone, “I
gotta go, Gail.  I’ll call you back later today.  If the police come
by your work or apartment, get rid of your burner phone.  Dump it in the
trash chute.  Wipe off your fingerprints first.”

Richey
parked his Honda Civic on the street and said, “What’s going on?”

Marshon took a deep breath, as if to replenish his
depleted oxygen supply.  “Gail saw an early morning television news report
about a man dead in a car that was parked on the street in an affluent
residential area between the Plaza and the Country Club.  The newsies
picked up on it from police radio traffic.  A cameraman got a long-range
shot of a black Cadillac with personalized license tags: JEMMY.  The
report quotes the police as saying it’s a possible kidnapping in progress.”

“How did Ace find out about Jemmy?”  Richey asked,
in amazement.

Marshon shook his head.  “Any possibility he bugged
your house?  Ace didn’t give you any electronic equipment, did he?”

Richey could only shake his head negatively.

“Otherwise, he just stumbled upon Jemmy and killed him
and saw an opportunity to create another false trail.  Every minute he
buys for himself increases the possibility he will pull off this whole ransom
thing, now that he has Cathy Kennedy.”

Huddled under an umbrella Richey kept in his car, they
walked in the rain to an Enterprise car rental facility.  Marshon rented a
dark blue Buick Regal, using the I.D. Jemmy had purchased from the forger,
Maleeka Mankin.  Marshon was still Caleb McDear.  They drove around
the block to the side street where Richey’s car was parked, and transferred the
suitcases.  Marshon wiped his fingerprints from inside Richey’s car.
He only briefly considered the excuse Richey might offer for parking his car on
the street.

Then, they drove several blocks away before Marshon
suggested they go through a McDonald’s drive-through.  “I need to get
something on my stomach before I take my antibiotics,” he explained.
“When’s the last time you ate?  We need to be sharp today, Richey.
Order something.  Coffee.”

While they waited in the pickup line, Richey looked at
Marshon and then checked his own appearance in the vanity mirror attached to
the sun visor.  “If they broadcast our driver’s license photos, no one may
recognize us, with these disguises.”

Marshon sniffed.  “Jesus, I been wearing these
clothes since Thursday.”

Richey continued: “You got fake I.D. and I don’t have
any I.D. on me.  I can give a good performance as an old man with
Alzheimer’s who can’t remember his name or address.  You can say you saw
me wandering on the street and are trying to figure out where I live.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.  The roulette
ball is gonna have to fall into every right number from here on out,
Richey.  You know the odds of that.”

Richey received the second call from Ace and said, “Yes,
we’re on the road in another car.”  Richey looked at Marshon.  “Ace
says we need to get rid of my phone.  The police will be tracing it.
He wants your number.”

Marshon frowned, but then highlighted his phone number
and showed it to Richey, who read the number to Ace.

Richey said, “Carmen, are you okay?  What is Ace up
to?  Where are you?”

Richey listened for several seconds, but then the call
ended.  He looked at Marshon with anguish on his face, about the same time
the clerk handed Marshon their order.  Marshon handed the bag to Richey
and pulled over into a parking space.

“Ace has brutalized Cathy Kennedy.  Carmen’s
words.  She said they are in a motel out south.  Then Ace took the
phone and said they were leaving.  That he’d get back to me with
instructions.  If you and I do a good job, there’ll be a cash reward, and
I’ll get Carmen back — unfucked.”

Marshon slammed the heel of his hand against the
steering wheel and said, “I don’t want to get caught here, but I’m sticking
around long enough to kill that motherfucker!  What number did Ace call
from?”

Richey checked the call log, but he didn’t recognize the
number.  “I’ll gamble it was Cathy Kennedy’s phone.”

Marshon appeared deep in thought.  “After Cathy
Kennedy calls her husband, Ace will dump her phone.  So far, Ace hasn’t
used any phone that can trace back to him.  The next time he contacts us
on my burner phone, I bet he uses a burner phone.  This guy is way smarter
than I originally thought he was.”

“Yeah.  He may have played both of us from the
beginning.”

The rain had turned to sleet and Richey looked out the
windshield of the car and said, “Every hour you stay here increases the odds
they will find you, Marshon.  It’s a great day to put distance between you
and the city.”

Marshon nodded but said, “I’ve waited this long.
Another few hours won’t make any difference.”  They both knew that
everything would be over in another few hours, perhaps including their lives.

They sat in the car while Marshon took two bites of a bacon,
egg and cheese biscuit and then washed down his antibiotics with hot
coffee.  “Let’s go over this again.  Ace kidnaps Carmen and holds her
over night before he kidnaps the Kennedy woman, presumably so he can involve
you.”

“His best chance of snatching Carmen was to catch her in
the parking lot at The Shops,” Richey said.  “He had this planned
done to the hour.”

“Then, he sees Jemmy parked near the Kennedy house and
kills him, calls the cops and blames the kidnapping and killing on us, just to
confuse things.  Now, he’s on the road with both women.  It’s
probably a car he stole.”

“The remaining question is what he wants from me,”
Richey said, finally taking a bit of the fried potato.  “You said he might
want me to pick up the ransom, but he’s got an idiot sidekick, Country Long,
who’s perfectly suited to do that.  No, he wants me to do the negotiations
with James Kennedy.  Kennedy will surely involve the cops or the FBI, and
they’ll have my voice on tape.”

Marshon nodded.  “Which they’ll analyze with voice
recognition software.  That will confirm the rumor Ace planted with the
cops that all three of us are involved in the kidnapping.  Jesus!”
All of a sudden, the negotiated prison sentences that Mort Saperstein had
suggested were fully acceptable to Marshon.  Unfortunately, they probably
weren’t on the table anymore.

Richey said, “When Ace is done using me and gets his
money, he’ll have no use for Carmen or Cathy Kennedy, no matter what he
says.  He’s probably got them in the trunk of a car.  I think I know
exactly what he has in mind.”

Richey vomited into the McDonald’s sack, although there
wasn’t much in his stomach.  He hadn’t eaten for nearly twenty-four
hours.  He never ate before a performance.  He and Carmen had planned
a feast at Barney’s following the opening night party.  His vomit smelled
primarily like vodka, with an added strong aroma of ammonia.

Marshon took the sack and said, “Give me your cell
phone.”  He put the cell phone in the sack, along with the battery from
the burner phone Jemmy first gave him at the hospital.  He got out of the
car and put the sack into a trash receptacle.  He still had one of the two
burner phones he’d bought at the Hyatt, but now Ace had that number.
Marshon couldn’t think of any reason for Ace to give that number to the police,
so long as Richey used it in the ransom negotiations.

Back in the car, Marshon asked, “Where do you think Ace
will have Kennedy drop the money.”  Marshon had to think ahead.  They
were caught up in this maelstrom against their will, but maybe he could turn it
to their advantage.  He wanted to help Richey rescue Carmen, and he wanted
to avenge Jemmy Shoemaker.  If he could accomplish all this and divert all
or part of the ransom to his own use, everything could still work out.  It
might be cold to some people, but to Marshon it was simple contingency
planning.  Life was constant conflict and challenge.  How one
reacted, and how well one reacted, always meant the difference between failure
and success, survival and death.  Once again, as always, it was about
money, the common denominator of all human activity.

“I told you Ace talked about ransom drops and how the
police always have that spot staked out,” Richey said.

“Did he mention a place?  A type of place?”

Richey shook his head as if to clear away the
cobwebs.  “I’m trying to remember.  Ace was fascinated with a real
life crime in LA.  Not a kidnapping, but a bank robbery.  A couple of
construction workers got into the storm sewer system and tunneled beneath a
bank.  Cut a hole in the floor and took the money out through the
underground drainage system.  I think I told him a great movie plot would
be one in which the ransom was dropped into a trash can sitting over a manhole
cover leading into an underground drainage system.”

Marshon looked chagrined and Richey dropped his chin
onto his chest.  They both realized he might have given Ace the nugget of
an idea that completed his kidnapping plan.

“So, you think that is Ace’s plan?”

“Maybe.”

“Where’s the drop?”

“I don’t know.  Somewhere in the area with big
diameter drainage pipes that Country could get into.  It could be
anywhere.  A mall, business park, hospital complex.  Anywhere with a
lot of buildings and land.”

Marshon’s cell phone rang and Richey picked it up and
punched the talk button.  “Hello?”

“Call James Kennedy at this phone number,” Ace said,
reading off the number.  “He knows I want the money in big bills in a Nike
Sports bag.  Two million.  When he comes out of the bank over on
Melrose Avenue, just north of the bypass, you make sure he’s got that bag,
Richey.  Don’t let him take forever getting the money together.  You
and Marshon have Kennedy jump through some hoops so you can tell if he’s got a
tail.  Send him to that warehouse furniture store off Ninety-fifth, west
of the interstate.  Tell him to park near the IHOP.  Someone will
check the money there, using a counterfeit pen detector, and a metal detector.”

“Who?”

“That’s none of your business, Richey.  Just make
sure Kennedy understands what the consequences will be if there’s anything in
with the money, like exploding dye packets or tracking devices.  In that
case, I’ll have a messenger service deliver to him one of his wife’s silicone
tits.  Then, we’ll start over.  Tell him the next time I fuck her,
I’ll be using a knife, and she won’t be any good to him after that.”

Before Richey could respond, the phone went dead.

“What’s he want now?”

“He wants us to get Kennedy on the road with the
money.  The bank’s over on Melrose Avenue.  Let’s drive over there
and park somewhere we can see the bank.  Kennedy’s supposed to come out of
the bank carrying a sports bag, then drive to a warehouse on the other side of
I-35, where someone will check the money.”

“You know who?”

Richey mulled over the possibilities.  “It has to
be Kandie Givens, Ace’s girlfriend.  Ace doesn’t want the police to snatch
him up, so he’ll be watching from a distance.  Country isn’t smart enough
to do the job.  If Ace had Carmen check the money, she’d just run.”

They drove over near the bank, and parked on the other
side of the four-lane street, near a Walgreens drug store.

Richey dialed Kennedy's number and a man answered
curtly, “Who’s this?”

“Are you James Kennedy?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not the kidnapper, but I’m being forced by the
kidnapper to deliver his messages,” Richey said.

“What kind of people are you?  My wife’s been
terrorized, and raped!  You people killed our maid.  If I give you
two million dollars, you’ll kill her anyway!”

The original meaning of habeas corpus, Richey
thought.  No body, no crime.  “We’ve got no choice,” Richey
argued, subtly indicating they were in this together.  He had to make an
ally of James Kennedy.  “If you don't come up with the money, Mr. Kennedy,
your wife is certainly dead, right?  With the money, you have a
negotiating tool.  You’ve got to leave the cops out of this.”  Richey
paused, waiting for a denial from Kennedy that didn’t come.  If he were
the banker, he’d have an FBI agent standing on each side, listening to their
conversation.

“Okay, okay,” Kennedy said impatiently.  “Where do
I deliver the money?”

Richey answered with a question.  “What make and
model of car are you driving?”

“The silver Lexus parked outside.”

Richey was thinking as far ahead as possible.  “Are
you talking on a cell phone now?”

“Yes.”

“Take it with you, but also have another cell phone
available.  Your wife can’t know the other number.”

“Okay.”

“When you’re in your car with the money, I’ll call you
and give you directions.  Understand?”

“I’ll need an hour,” Kennedy said.

“I can’t stop you from stalling, Mr. Kennedy, but I
gotta tell you your wife might suffer as a result.  The kidnapper’s
already warned me that if there’s anything in that sports bag except money,
he’s gonna cut off a part of your wife’s anatomy.  Somebody’s gonna check
the money with a counterfeit pen detector and a metal detector.  Take this
man very seriously, Mr. Kennedy.  He’s a killer.  I know of at least
five men he’s killed in the last month!  He’s got nothing to lose.”

Richey broke off the connection, too distressed to talk
further with Kennedy.

Marshon looked at Richey, but didn’t say a word.
He got out of the car, pulled the collar of his overcoat tight around the neck
and walked toward Walgreens.  Ten minutes later, he returned, carrying a
plastic bag.  In the car, he placed two bottles of water in the front seat
cup holders.  He put several candy bars into the console caddy.
Then, he tore the plastic packaging off a black case, opened it and took out a
pair of binoculars.  He also had purchased two more burner phones, and two
prepaid AT&T calling cards, each credited with 100 minutes.

“Not the best binoculars, but good enough so we can see
what’s going on and stay at a distance,” Marshon said.  He started the
car, not only for the benefit of the heater, but to turn on the windshield
wipers to clear off the icy slush.  “Also, we gotta change phones at the
first opportunity.  Many people think the cops can only trace a phone when
its being used, but I know for a fact there’s an app that allows you to locate
a phone number.  I’m not sure how exact that location is, but I’m betting
the FBI may have something much more sophisticated.”

“This weather could change Ace’s plan,” Marshon said,
“if it floods the storm sewer drainpipe he was planning to use.”

“I’ve been thinking about what’s likely to happen,”
Richey said.

“Yeah?”

“Kandie checks the money and doesn’t find any exploding
dye packs or listening devices.  Maybe switches the money to another
bag.  She calls Ace and gives him the okay.  He tells Kandie to give
her burner phone to Kennedy.  He directs Kennedy to the drop site and
tells him not to get off the line.  We can’t communicate with Kennedy
anymore, and that’s the last we hear from Ace.”

Neither one of them wanted to say what likely would then
happen to Ace’s two hostages.  He’d have no more use for them.

Marshon unwrapped the two burner phones he’d purchased
in Walgreens.  He typed the number of each phone into the contact list of
the other.  He handed one to Richey.  “We use these two phones only
to communicate with each other.  Also, here’s a long distance calling
card.”

After they’d been parked at Walgreens for about
twenty-five minutes, Marshon saw a dark-colored sedan pull into the bank’s
parking lot.  The man who got out of the car carried an athletic bag,
although Marshon couldn’t read the lettering on the side, even with the aid of
the binoculars.  The rain was coming down to hard.  The man in the
business suit carried an umbrella, but walked casually into the bank, as if he
was in no hurry.

“It could just be a customer, or it could be the FBI,”
Marshon said.  “I wonder if Ace considered that they might sew an
electronic tracking device into the seams on the bag, so no one could easily
find it.”

“Jesus, I wouldn’t have thought of that,” Richey
admitted.

“Well, we got to think of something else Ace hasn’t
thought of.  He’s obviously come up with a very detailed plan.  In
addition, he’s shown that he can be very creative in dealing with unexpected
developments, such as me and Jemmy appearing on the scene.  He actually turned
both situations to his advantage.  But, there’s a hole in every
plan.  We got only a few minutes to find it.”  Marshon looked at
Richey.  “Eat one of those candy bars, Richey.  You’re gonna need the
energy.  You can’t be running on empty.”

Richey took Marshon’s advice and reluctantly began
tearing the wrapping off a Baby Ruth.

Twenty minutes later, Kennedy came out of the bank
carrying an umbrella that shielded an athletic bag similar to the one the
customer brought into the bank.  Marshon immediately started up the car
and drove toward the street.

“Where are we going?”

“Since we know where we’re going, we’ll follow from the
front.  Get on the phone with Kennedy.”

Richey called Kennedy.  “You got the money?”

“Yes,” the banker answered, sounding short of breath.

“Real money, no funny money?  Like I told you, Mr.
Kennedy, someone’s gonna inspect the bag before you deliver it to the drop
site.”

Kennedy didn’t hesitate.  “I heard you the first
time.  I want to talk to my wife before I’ll deliver this money anywhere.”

The banker sounded determined.  Richey understood,
but there wasn’t much he could do except be honest.  “I already talked to
the kidnapper about that.  It’s not possible.  I’m not with him or
your wife.  I don’t even know where they are.”

“Then my wife could already be dead,” Kennedy declared
crisply.  Richey detected a different sound to the banker’s voice — a
newfound determination.  A steely resolve had replaced the panic of
forty-five minutes ago.

“Follow my directions,” Richey said, “and keep this
phone line open at all times.  Never disconnect.  Ignore your call
waiting.  You disconnect from me or put me on hold, you’re on your
own.  I won’t be able to help you save your wife.  You have to
believe that’s my only goal, Mr. Kennedy.  Please.”

Richey then directed Kennedy toward the
checkpoint.  He muted the phone and said to Marshon, “Ace wants me to see
if Kennedy’s got a tail.  I thought we’d turn him off onto several side
streets along the way and bring him back in front of us so we can see if anyone’s
following.”

Marshon shook his head.  “Bad idea.  If he’s
got a tail, he’s got a tail.  We try to find out, we just expose
ourselves.  Believe me, the cops and the FBI are better at this game than
we are.  There’s a chopper up in the air somewhere, right now.”

Before they crossed I-35, Marshon pulled into a Denny’s
parking lot where they had an overview of the whole area.  Ironically, Ace
also watched as he sat in the Chevrolet Caprice parked near the Holiday Inn
located on the other side of the street.

“Listen carefully, Mr. Kennedy,” Richey said into the
phone, after releasing the mute button.  “I’m gonna try to save your
wife’s life.  The person who will check the ransom money will be a young,
attractive woman.  Early twenties, auburn hair.  Her name is Kandie
Givens.  The kidnapper is Ace Semanski.  He’s wanted for several
murders and parole violation.  Recently, he killed two men, put them in
the trunk of their car and ran it in a lake.  You may have heard about it
on the news.  If you don’t believe me, call this detective, Craig
Sizemore, on your cell phone.”  Richey read the detective’s phone number
from the card he’d been carrying with him for days.

“Why are you telling me this?”  Kennedy asked.

“Because Semanski has kidnapped my girlfriend, Carmen
Salazar, who’s a friend of Kandie Givens.  He’s forcing me to do these
negotiations, otherwise he’ll kill Carmen.  Also, this way, it’s my voice
you or the FBI have been recording.”

There was a telling silence on the line.

“So, Mr. Kennedy, you tell all this to Kandie
Givens.  Tell her you know she’s checking the money for Ace Semanski, and
that he’s kidnapped both your wife and Carmen Salazar.  That the money is
a ransom.  See what you think of her reaction.  I doubt she knows
what’s really going on.  She’ll have a phone with her.  Tell her to
tell all that to Ace.  When she does, Ace will demand to talk to
you.  If you let him, Ace Semanski will frighten you into doing anything
he wants.  When he has your money, he’ll kill Cathy and Carmen.
However, if you refuse to talk to him and call me on your other cell phone, we
can get in control of this situation and turn the tables on Ace.  Trust
me, Mr. Kennedy.  Please, in God’s name!”  Richey ended the call.

Marshon held out his hand for a fist bump with Richey
and said, “Great fuckin’ speech, man.  I think you found the weak point in
Ace’s plan.  He’s pulling everyone’s strings, but he can’t hide if
everyone knows he’s the puppet master!”

“We’ll know if it works in a few minutes,” Richey
responded.

As the Lexus pulled into the parking lot near the
furniture warehouse and IHOP, Richey used the binoculars to watch the scene
unfold.  Kandie stood under an umbrella, holding a suitcase handle with
her other hand.  She bent at the waist so she could see through the rolled
down passenger window and talk to Kennedy.  The conversation in the rain
and sleet took about thirty seconds.  Richey and Marshon heard some of it
over the open car phone line.  Kennedy did as Richey had suggested.
Then, Kandie dialed a number on her cell phone.  She talked for a few
moments and attempted to hand the phone to Kennedy.  Instead, Kennedy
rolled up the window and drove away, causing Kandie to jump back and look
around in confusion.

As Marshon pulled out to follow the Lexus, Richey
answered an incoming call on Marshon’s phone from a number he didn’t
recognize.  It was James Kennedy, who said, “Okay, I’m dealing with you
now, whoever you are.”

“What made you decide?”  Richey asked.

“A hunch,” Kennedy answered.  “My wife told me the
man holding her was going to, quote, ‘kill both of us.’  My wife also
said, ‘Carmen is tied up and can’t help me.’”

“Now you understand why I’m involved,” Richey said.

“Then you’d better not fuck this up, buddy, for the sake
of my wife and your girlfriend.”

Marshon interrupted.  “Tell him to drive to the
downtown convention center and park somewhere on the street.  We’ll get
back to him.”

Richey did as instructed and then saw that Ace was
trying to call.  “It’s Semanski,” he told Marshon.

“Give me the phone,” Marshon said.  He punched the
talk button.  “Semanski, what can we do for you?”

“Think you’re pretty smart, huh, nigger!”

Marshon thought quickly about how to handle this
conversation, based on his previous discussions with Ace, brief as they had
been.  “It wasn’t hard to outsmart you, now was it, Ace?  You never
even got to the grand finale, where Kennedy drops his bag of money in a
dumpster sitting over an open manhole leading into the underground storm sewer
system.  Your idiot partner then brings out the money and gives it to
you.  Then, you kill him, run your car with the women in the trunk into a
lake and head for the sunset, leaving poor Kandie Givens trying to figure out
what the fuck happened.”

Ace laughed.  “Sounds good to me, but not all is
lost, Marshon.  I’m gonna make out okay.  I can hang around and take
another run at the banker.  Or, I got most of your ten thousand left and I
can sell these two bitches.  Put an ad on an Internet porn site.  I
figure to get as much as five grand for the two of them from some guys who want
to have a little fun and make a snuff video.  It’s not bad pay for a
little effort.  Plus, I got to fuck Cathy Kennedy.”

Intending to sound callous, Marshon laughed and replied,
boldly, “I ain’t got a bitch in this game, Ace, so you do what you want.
It’s what I would expect from a bush league player like you.  Thinking
fifteen thousand dollars is some kind of big haul.  How pathetic!  I
lose that much money through the cracks every weekend.  You’re not very
good at planning anyway, as we’ve just seen.”

Ace let loose a tirade of curse words and racist
threats, just as Marshon intended.  He wanted to make Ace as mad as he had
been when he heard about Jemmy’s death.  A mad man acted
irrationally.

“We now control Kennedy and he’s gonna give the ransom
to us,” Marshon said, continuing to poke the bear.  “We’ll send you a
postcard from Cancun, Ace, as soon as we find out which prison you’re in.”

“So maybe you want to buy the women?” the calm Ace asked
suddenly.

Marshon smiled; he played it just right.  “If
they’re not damaged, maybe.  How much?”

“Half.”

“At the downtown convention center, there’s a parking
garage across from The Shops, just beyond the outdoor skating
rink.  It’s between two office buildings.  Park on the third level
above ground, toward the south end.  I’ll call you after we get the money
from Kennedy.  We’ll make the exchange there.”  A plan was taking
shape in Marshon’s mind.

Marshon ended the call.  Neither said a word as
Marshon drove north on Interstate 35 toward the downtown area.
Presumably, Kennedy was somewhere ahead of them and Ace was somewhere behind
them.  Three cars carrying seven people to their destiny.

Marshon called Rinaldo Morgan, the head of security
who’d helped him hide out in at the Hyatt for two nights.  Morgan also was
now the new executive officer of The Wheel.

“You hear about Jemmy?” he asked.

“Yeah, it came up on my smartphone news app.  One
of the local radio stations is speculating about a kidnapping.  What’s
going on, Marshon?”

“Jemmy was there to head off a guy,” Marshon replied,
“and this guy is now creating a smokescreen, trying to link me to his
action.  I’m not involved in any kidnapping, Rinaldo, I’m just trying to
get the fuck outta town.  The last time we talked, you said you’d help me
if I asked.  I’m asking and I’ll sweeten the pot.  If I get out of
town in the next few hours without getting arrested, I’ll call you and give you
the location of the gaming tables.  You won’t have to pay me the $250,000
we agreed upon.  You help me get away and I’ll still launder all your
profits from running The Wheel.”

“What do you need, Marshon?”

“Lock all the stairwell doors in the south end of the
parking garage behind the ice skating rink, from the first basement floor up
through the fourth floor.  Meet me there in fifteen minutes, on the fourth
level near the Criterion Building.  Give me a key for all those doors, and
then you disappear.  The doors only need to be locked for about a half
hour.  Chances are you will be able to lock them and unlock them before
anyone complains.  Besides, nearly everybody takes the elevator, anyway.”

“Anything else, Marshon?”

“I need another identity.  Driver’s license and
credit card, if possible.  Older guy.  Needs to be good only for a
few days.”  He thought furiously.  Their disguises should be good,
but … “A couple of parkas with hoods, if you can, for the snow.  Two new
cell phones, in the package.  That’s it.”

“I can do the key, the phones and coats, but it’s a
tight time line for the I.D.  I’ll do my best.”

Richey half-listened to the conversation between Marshon
and Morgan as he tried to imagine Carmen’s situation.  Where was she
now?  Was she in a panic?  Raped and beaten.  Had she given up
hope?  If they survived, could they ever pick up the pieces and have a
whole life, again?  Travel the highways and byways of America, doing their
thing?  Tears rolled down Richey’s cheeks as Marshon drove them to their
destiny.  He hated himself for deceiving Carmen.

Marshon rolled down the car window and threw out the
Hyatt cell phone he’d been using.  From now on, he’d use the Walgreens
cell phone.  Gail couldn’t contact him, but he could call her — and he had
Ace’s number.  Marshon exited off I-35 and drove south on Main
Street.  The sleet had turned to snow and it was beginning to accumulate
on the street.  As Marshon drove past the Hyatt and through the
intersection, Richey looked off to his right at the mall.  On the third
floor was the theater where he’d portrayed Willy Loman in Death of a
Salesman, as well as the parking garage where Ace had kidnapped
Carmen.  On his left was a statue, placed on a small strip of grass
between an office building and the street.  It was Shiva, the Hindu God of
Destruction and Regeneration.  In retrospect, it was an omen, although
neither Richey nor Marshon knew who would be destroyed, and who would be saved
to continue pursuing their dream.

Marshon turned left into the parking garage across from The
Shops.  It had four levels above ground and three below.  The
parking garage was sandwiched between two office buildings.  The building
directly across from the Hyatt provided office space for a wide variety of
health care professionals — doctors, dentists, home-care nurses, physical
therapists, optometrists — as well as an imaging facility.  The second
floor of that building opened onto The Link.  On the south side of
the parking garage was The Criterion Building, which provided office space for
an eclectic array of businesses.  The terrain between the two buildings
rose steeply toward the Criterion Building, so that the fourth level of the
parking garage opened into the lobby of the Criterion Building.

Marshon took a ticket from the machine at the entrance,
drove up to the fourth level and parked near the south stairwell.  He
turned off the ignition and they waited in silence.  Ten minutes later,
Rinaldo Morgan came out of the stairwell and looked around.  Marshon got
out of the car and walked over to the security guard.  Richey watched
through the windshield as the two men spoke.

“The stairwell doors are all locked, down to the first
level below ground,” Morgan said, handing a key to Marshon.  “This key
opens the double-keyed locks on all the doors.”  The security chief opened
the stairwell door, and pointed at the floor.  “Two coats, two packaged
phones.”

“Great,” Marshon replied.  He pointed to the glass
bubbles attached to the ceiling.  “It would help if the surveillance video
in the garage gets erased during the time I’m here doing business.”

“I’ve already turned the system off.”

About that time, the stairwell door opened, startling
both of them.  A security guard handed two pieces of plastic to his boss
and said,  “A credit card and driver’s license from an old guy who died in
his room last night.  Heart attack.”

Rinaldo passed the cards to Marshon, who said, “Thanks,
Rinaldo.  If I get out of this alive, I’ll keep my part of the deal.
You have my word.”

“Good luck, Marshon.”

Marshon walked back to the car and slipped behind the
driver’s wheel.  He looked at the plastic before handing them to Richey.
The driver’s license and credit card were both in the name of Alistair Murphy,
who looked to be a man about Richey’s age or maybe older.  Murphy even
parted his hair in the middle like Richey’s version of Willy Loman.

“The I.D. should be good through the end of the day,
maybe more,” Marshon explained.  “If we get separated, use it if you have
to.  I’m headed to Miami.  Use the phone card if you need to call my
lawyer, Phillip Dahlgren, in Nassau.  You can find his number online.”

“Okay.”

Marshon tore open the packaging and extracted the two
new cell phones.  He typed the number of each one into the contact list of
the other.  He handed one to Richey.  “Use this only to call
me.  Use your Walgreens cell to call Kennedy, and then throw it
away.  I’ll keep my Walgreens phone for one or two more calls.  Let’s
do it.  You get the suitcases out of the trunk and follow me.”

Richey rolled the large suitcase over to the
stairwell.  Marshon took the smaller suitcase out of the bigger one,
unzipped both and left them lying open on the floor next to the coats.
Then, they both left the stairwell and Marshon locked the door from the
outside.

“It’s showtime, Richey.  Call James Kennedy.
Direct him to the Criterion Building.  Tell him to turn into the circular
drive and pull up to the building entrance.”

“What about Ace?”

“He should be on the third level by now, like I told
him.  Once we get the ransom money, I’ll call Ace, go down one floor and
deal with him.”

Richey attempted to call Kennedy, but wasn’t getting a
tower connection.  They walked left toward the parking lot entrance to the
first floor of the Criterion Building.  As they entered the lobby, Richey
got a connection and gave instructions to Kennedy.

Marshon’s heart raced as he saw a security desk and a
security guard near the revolving doors leading to the circular drive.
Marshon remembered his experience with the old security guard at Corporate
Woods, who discovered Michael Williams’s body in a trash cart.  Was it to
be déjà vu all over again?

Marshon chatted up the guard about the worsening weather
while Richey sat on a padded bench located near the entrance.  It seemed
forever before the silver Lexus pulled up out front.  Richey walked out
and talked through the passenger window with Kennedy.  Then, he opened the
back door and took out the sports bag.  Marshon saw Richey struggle with
the weight.

Marshon held his breath as Richey re-entered the
building.  If the guard intervened, Marshon figured to pull the
thirty-eight from his overcoat pocket and force the guard into the garage,
where he could tie him up.  His whole plan could unravel.  However,
the guard was distracted by someone asking a question.  Richey handed his
cell phone to Marshon and headed toward the garage.  Marshon dialed Ace’s
number.

“We’ll be on the third floor with the money in a few
minutes,” he said, and immediately disconnected.

After they entered the stairwell, Marshon opened the
sports bag and dumped all the banded cash onto the floor.  He froze for a
moment, paralyzed at the sight of so much money!  From his business of
counting cash after an evening’s session of The Wheel, Marshon knew the
dimensions well.  All U. S. currency, regardless of the denomination,
measures about two-and-a-half by six inches.  At one gram per bill, one
million dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills weighed about twenty-two
pounds.  The ransom looked to be about forty banded bunches of $50,000
each.  Each bunch was about two inches thick.

Marshon knelt on the concrete floor and began thumbing
through each batch — sometimes banging them against the concrete floor — before
throwing it into a suitcase.  He altered his throws, to divide the ransom
in half.  Richey joined in and they were soon done.  It wasn’t as
thorough as Ace’s original plan, but maybe the threat of that plan had
persuaded Kennedy to deliver a clean ransom.  They’d soon know.  They
zipped each suitcase shut, stood and looked at each other.  Marshon
dropped the Walgreens phone they’d just used to call Kennedy and Ace onto the
floor.  He crushed it with the heel of his shoe.

Marshon  said, “Put on one of the
coats.  Put your gun in the front pocket.”  Marshon
demonstrated.  “Now, take the bigger suitcase and we’ll go down a
level.  I’ll unlock the door and we’ll try to make a deal with Ace.
I’ll offer him one of the suitcases in exchange for the women.  I’ll roll
it toward him.  We use the rest of the money to get away.”  Marshon
stuffed his smelly overcoat with the Marcus Jones I.D. hidden in the lining
into the smaller suitcase.  He had a cell phone in each front pocket.

Richey looked to be in shock as they walked down the
stairs.

“I’ll concentrate on Ace.  The other guy is your
responsibility, Richey.  Use your gun and kill him if you have to.”

“They’ll use the women as shields,” Richey said.

Marshon shrugged.  “I can’t predict how it will go,
Richey.  Just seize the opportunity when it presents itself.”

Richey took deep breaths and his facial features
hardened.  “I’m ready, Marshon.  Do you really think we can pull this
off?  And that everyone will be okay?”

“Everyone ain’t gonna be okay, Richey, but we are going
to put an end to Ace Semanski and his grand plan.”

Not much had been going Marshon’s way for some
time.  But, he had survived his run of bad luck and was due for a win —
with critical help from an unlikely ally.

25/Aim,
Squeeze, Pray

Sitting in the
passenger’s seat of the Caprice parked at the front of the Hampton Inn, Ace had
a perfect vantage point to look through binoculars and observe the conversation
taking place about eight hundred yards away between Kandie and James Kennedy.
He waited in great anticipation for her to call and tell him the money
was clean.  Then, he planned to dispatch both Kennedy and Country to
Sweetwater Mall, where the banker would put the ransom into the clothes donation
box.  Country would approach through the large drainage pipe, pull the bag
through the manhole, and take it to his pickup.  He’d tell the dummy to
wade through knee-deep water, if necessary.  Ace would then order Country
back to Rhonda’s mobile home.  Ace would follow to make certain no one
followed Country.  He’d also tell Kandie to meet him there.  If
everything went as planned, Ace would then tie up a few loose ends.
Rhonda’s grandfather owned ten acres, much of it grassland and woods,
where three or four burial sites would be difficult to find.

Except that Kandie suddenly dropped her umbrella and
held both arms out to the side in a gesture of exasperation and
confusion.  Meanwhile, the Lexus sped off, leaving Kandie standing in the
rain and sleet.

“What the fuck!”  Ace exclaimed.

“Somethin’ wrong, Ace?” Country asked.

Ace continued to watch Kandie, who finally punched a
button on her cell phone, causing his burner phone to emit a doorbell sound.

“What happened, Kandie?”

“He
wouldn’t let me see the money.  He knew my name, and he knew your
name.  He knew about Hank and Melvin and the detective who asked me
questions at The Stadium.  Then, he just drove off.  What
should I do?”

“Get in your car and stay there,” Ace said.  He
ended the call and dialed Kennedy’s phone, but his call went to voice
mail.  Ace called Marshon’s phone and Marshon answered.  They had a
mutually insulting conversation that included Ace going berserk for nearly a
minute.  But, finally, they struck a deal.  Marshon and Richey had turned
Kennedy, who now would give them the ransom.  Marshon would give Ace half
in exchange for the women.

After the call ended, Ace sat silently, stunned.
For the next thirty seconds, he visualized the script in his mind, as events
unfolded logically from one planned scene to another.  He’d considered
every angle during nearly two years in prison, or so he thought.
Nevertheless, in reality, it had fallen apart quickly.  The actors flubbed
their lines and the director was befuddled.  Marshon’s role in the
kidnapping was a wild card Ace had never anticipated.  Ace admitted to
himself that he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Richey, in
cooperation with his nigger master, could disrupt the plan simply by persuading
Kennedy to ignore the kidnapper who had raped his wife to insure his
cooperation!  Ace had brutalized the wrong woman, allowing Richey to
calmly, unemotionally construct a counter offensive.  They simply outed
him!  It never occurred to him that Kennedy would ignore his wife’s rape —
even put her life in danger — and throw his lot in with Richey.  The
banker had more grit than Ace had imagined.  Either that, or he cared more
about his money than he cared about his wife.  Ace could understand that,
and now knew it was a major miscalculation in his melodrama.  He’d been so
involved in the mechanics of the plan, he ignored the human elements.

Ace suddenly laughed, softly at first, and then loudly,
causing Country to catch the giggles also.

“What we gonna do now, Ace?  Do I still drive down
to Sweetwater Mall and get the money?”

“No, the plan has changed, Country.  We’ll leave
your pickup here and get it later.  We’re going to a parking garage
downtown and get our money there.”

Ace drove the Chevy to the hotel exit, and turned left
to a stoplight on Ninety-Fifth Street.  While the hotel parking lot was a
great observation location, sitting on elevated ground as it did, getting to
northbound I-35 to follow the Lexus meant taking a right turn and driving
several blocks to make a legal U-turn to come back to the on-ramp.
Instead, Ace followed the green arrow and turned left, taking the bridge across
the interstate toward the furniture warehouse and Kandie’s parked car.

“Can we drive through Taco Bell and get some tacos,
Ace?”

“Not right now,” Ace said, his head hot with the effort
of recalibration.  Then, his face brightened and he visibly relaxed.
He had the women in the trunk.  Sure, Kennedy still had the money and he
was controlled by Richey and Marshon.  Marshon had already agreed to give
him half the ransom, but Ace would take it all.  They couldn’t call the
cops, not if they were planning on taking half of the ransom.  First,
Ace had to take care of Kandie, who now knew too much.

Ace parked three spaces away, jumped from the driver’s
seat and quickly ran through the rain to Kandie’s car and got into the front
passenger’s seat.

“Oh, Ace, I’m sorry!” she said.  “There was nothing
I could do.  What happened?  How’d he know all about us?  How’d
he know about Hank and Melvin!”

“Richey told him, I’m sure.  Listen, it’s just a
temporary setback.  You did what you could.  No problems.”

She suddenly became aware of his disguise.  “Why
are you dressed like a security guard, Ace?”

“It’s too complicated to explain right now,
Kandie.  We gotta hurry here.”  Wearing black leather gloves, as he
had most of the day, Ace took Hank’s gun from the holster.  “This is
Hank’s gun which I took from him that night.  I want you to take it.
For protection.”

“I’m afraid of guns, Ace.”  Indeed, Kandie’s whole
body seemed to quiver with fear.  She audibly sucked in each breath as if
oxygen was in short supply in the atmosphere.  “Why would anyone want to
hurt me?  I ain’t done nothin’.”

“The world is full of bad people, baby.”  He
injected a shell into the barrel of the Glock.  Then, he reached over and
took Kandie’s right arm by the wrist.  “I’ll show you how to use it.
To load it and unload it and even fire it if you need to.  Grab the
handle.  That’s right.  Point it up at the ceiling.  Put your
finger lightly on the trigger.  Lightly, just to get the feel.  See?”
Ace’s large hand covered her hand and he put his forefinger on top of her
trigger finger.  She turned her head to look directly into his eyes.
Ace pushed the barrel of the gun under her chin and pressed down on her finger.

The bullet exploded through the top of her head,
splattering the ceiling with bone, brains and blood.  As her head jerked
backward, Ace open his hand and the gun fell.  It hit her right leg and
bounced onto the floor.  It landed near the accelerator pedal.

Ace looked at the scene and said, “Perfect.”  He
wiped some of her blood from his face.  Kandie's head had lodged between
the headrest and the doorframe.  He looked closely at her face.  Her
eyes were open and she looked horrified, surprised and confused all at the same
time.  He had a brief twang of conscience.  It was like killing his
mother again, although his mother actually had died in her bed, with her
attentive daughters present, while Ace languished in a jail cell in Michigan.
He’d abused or killed his mother’s surrogates on several occasions and it was
always fulfilling.  Kandie’s kids would undoubtedly wind up back in the
Missouri hills being raised by their grandparents.  Lloyd would have to
learn to fend for himself, like Ace did.  Maybe the kids would turn out
for the better.  Kandie had been a terrible mother and role model.

In fact, Ace didn’t think he was doing badly, despite
the setback.  He still had a chance to become a millionaire before the day
was over.  As an old gambler in prison told him, the only thing better
than playing and winning was playing.  Now, he didn’t have to worry about
Kandie telling the police anything.  He didn’t need the gun.  He had
better weapons.

As Ace got back into the Chevy, Country asked, “I heard
a gunshot, Ace!  What happened?”

“Kandie committed suicide,” Ace said, gunning the car
toward the street and the interstate on-ramp.

“Why’d she do that, Ace?”

“Some people just get tired of living, Country.
They ain’t tough enough to do what’s gotta be done.  You tough enough,
Country?  ’Cause if you ain’t planning on using that shotgun when you need
to, someone will shoot you down in the parking garage.”

“I’m gonna do what you tell me, Ace,” Country said, for
once impressed enough with the gravity of the situation to forget about fast
food.

Ace once again assessed all developments to date, since
he arrived in town.  He couldn’t rehearse his interrogation speech too
often, if the cops got hold of him.  Yeah, he’d killed the two robbers at The
Wheel, but he'd claim that was self-defense.  As for Hank and Melvin,
yeah, he was a suspect, but nearly all the witnesses were dead and the last one
sitting across from him soon would be.  Actually, Country’s fingerprints,
not Ace's, were inside the Firebird.  Although it might be a stretch,
Kandie’s suicide with Hank’s gun might be considered her final atonement for
helping Country kill him and Melvin.  Ace could deny any knowledge of the
killings; at the worse, he would plead to disposing of the bodies after Country
killed the two men.

However tenuously, he had connected a thread from
Marshon through Jemmy Shoemaker to the kidnapping of Cathy Kennedy.
Richey had harbored Marshon and conducted the ransom negotiations.  If
everything went wrong, the most consistent and accomplished liar still had a
chance of escaping the harshest consequences.  Ace was prepared to spend
seventy-two continuous hours trapped in a small room with a revolving squad of
detectives trying to break him down.  They’d give him coffee, maybe sandwiches,
and always be respectful of his many legal rights.

However, Ace preferred the most positive outcome, which
was that he acquired the ransom money and killed Richey and Marshon in the
process, and then successfully escaped.  He might even let the women go,
in that scenario.  Cops like to wrap things up.  They might be
satisfied to declare a victory at the point, saying they had rescued the women
and up to four of the kidnappers were dead.  Although one remaining
kidnapper apparently had the ransom money, he undoubtedly had fled their
jurisdiction.  Someone else’s problem.

In retrospect, Ace acknowledged that he shouldn’t have
dumped his load of DNA into Cathy Kenney’s vaginal cavity, but she and her
husband might be inclined to not even mention that.  She had a reputation
and social position to maintain.  If worse came to worse, Ace could allege
that Cathy was in on the whole kidnapping plot.  She and Ace were lovers
planning to take the ransom and flee to Costa Rica.  They’d been
introduced by a Belton employee, Maggie Iscaria.  Most people found it
hard to disbelieve every aspect of a really big lie.  Hitler understood
that perfectly.  It was relatively easy to establish reasonable doubt.

Ace drove downtown and exited onto Main Street about a
mile or two from the parking garage across from The Shops.  He saw
a do-it-yourself car wash off to the right and immediately turned in there and
parked in an empty stall.  It was perfect.  Directly behind the car,
about twenty feet away, was the back of a building.  In front of the stall
was a metal fence iced over from the freezing rain.

Ace reached into the back seat and grabbed the sawed off
shotgun.  He crammed the barrel between his seat and the console.

He said to Country, “Let’s get out.”

“We gonna wash the car, Ace?”

“No.”  Ace walked to the front of the stall and
fished around in a trash container until he found a newspaper.  He
returned to the driver’s side and opened the car door.  He arranged the
newspaper around the stock of the shotgun so no one could see it through the
front windows.

Then, he opened the back door on his side.  “Open
your back door, Country.  See the child lock?  The silver switch like
this one.”  Ace pointed to his open door.  “Push it.  That’s
right.  Now, leave the door open.  Come around to the trunk.”

Ace walked to the back of the Caprice.  He’d
already flipped the inside latch and the lid had popped open a few
inches.  “Okay, I’m gonna open this trunk and you pick up the woman
nearest the back and put her behind the driver’s seat.  Be fast!
Nobody can see us.  Understand?”

“Yes, sir, Ace!”

“Then, I’ll bring out the second woman and stick her in
the back seat, too.  Then, we slam the doors.  You drive then.
Okay?”

It took less than ten seconds for the exchange to
transpire.  For once, the dummy did an exceptional job without asking
questions.

Ace considered the other body in the trunk.
Probably a salesman.  When they found him and his abandoned car in the
downtown parking garage, it might look like a robbery.  Of course,
Country’s fingerprints and the fingerprints of the women would be found in the
car, but that would only be one more confusing issue in a day of complex
events.  The cops might even conclude that the salesman was initially in
on the kidnapping.  Ace knew it wasn’t a perfect plan, but no evolving
plan of battle is perfect.  Otherwise, it would be a perfect world.

“You drive, Country,” Ace said, getting into the
passenger’s seat and turning sideways to look into the backseat.  The
Kennedy woman was behind the driver’s seat and seemed shell-shocked, so he
addressed his remarks to the remarkably bright-eyed and attentive Carmen
Salazar.

∞
∞  ∞

After Ace threw Carmen and
Cathy Kennedy into the trunk of the car at the hotel, the women had drastically
different reactions.  As a result of her abduction, the murder of her
maid, and a brutal rape, Cathy had slipped into a catatonic state.  She
was aware of her surroundings and people moving, and of being moved, but the
context wasn’t clear.

Carmen also panicked when the trunk lid closed.
She experienced claustrophobia and screamed into her gag, although only a
slight sound was audible.  Carmen began to hyperventilate and tried
desperately to control her breathing and her heart rate.  About the time
she was able to regain some control, she began aware of the other body in the
trunk.  The panic returned.  She hadn’t seen him as she flew into the
trunk.  Carmen wound up wedged between Cathy and the man.  There
wasn’t enough room to change her position.  Was he another captive?
Another accomplice?  She initially feared he’d assault her, but the man
never moved and she came to the conclusion that he was unconscious or
dead.  It made no sense to her at the time, but then all logic had
abandoned her nearly twenty-four hours ago.

Carmen became acutely aware of many smells in the
confines of the trunk: semen, urine from her wetting herself, blood and
shit.  It was freezing in the trunk and she could hear the sound of water
and ice thrown up from the pavement against the bottom of the moving car.

Carmen again struggled for control.  She closed her
eyes, even though it was pitch black in the trunk.  It somehow lessened
the feeling of claustrophobia, and also allowed her to stay within her head and
conduct a pep talk.  If she fainted or became irrational like Cathy, she
couldn’t help herself.  If she didn’t help herself, who would?
Carmen knew Richey was searching for her, but he might not find them.  She
had to rely upon herself.

Carmen finally was able to breathe in a regular fashion
and opened her eyes, hoping they’d adjust to the darkness and that she could
see something.  She began feeling around as much as possible for a sharp
object to cut the rope binding her arms — or serve as a weapon.

Days, months and even years later, when she relived this
day, Carmen would always wonder why Ace had secured their hands in front of
them; hers with rope, Cathy’s with handcuffs.  There was about four inches
of rope between Carmen’s wrists.  Had they tied their hands behind them,
everything would have turned out differently.  She’d likely be dead.
Later, Carmen developed several theories, all of which were disturbing, since
all of them had to do with rape.  With her hands tied in front, she could
still support herself on her hands and knees while they abused her from the
rear.  She could still grab hold of Ace’s penis when he demanded oral
sex.  They could tie her hands to a rafter, or the headboard of a bed, and
then use her day and night.

But, Carmen could also reach her gag and remove
it.  She did the same for Cathy, who lay on her side, with one leg over
Carmen’s leg.

“I’m Carmen Salazar,” she said, aware of how ridiculous
introductions might seem at this moment.  “He kidnapped me, too.”

“Why?”

“Money, I guess.”

“Who’s the man in here with us?”

“I don’t know.  He’s either unconscious or
dead.  Maybe the car is his.”

“I smell blood,” Cathy replied.

“I know.”

About the time Carmen concluded that Cathy might have
been faking her catatonic state, Cathy vomited.  Carmen tried to jerk back
her head since they were lying nearly face to face, but there wasn’t
room.  The feel and smell of the vomit on her cheek and neck almost
induced her to do the same.  Once again, she retreated into her head.

The mind has its own adaptation techniques, developed
over tens of thousands of years.  Such techniques arose to help humans
deal with unimaginable horrors: staring down the barrel of a gun, digging their
own grave, standing in a line leading to the crematorium, watching an animal
eat one’s child.  And, perhaps, even worse things.

Carmen thought of her painting, which she would call The
Circles of Life.  It seemed appropriate.  The planets were
circular, as were their orbits, although the big bang trajectory seemed
linear.  However, was it a straight line within a round universe?  If
the universe was infinite and didn’t end, wouldn’t it be shapeless?  Or,
as some physicists postulated, was it a multiverse of circular universes
touching each other?  Like big bubbles.  Like her painting.

Carmen thought like that for some time until the
ridiculousness of it started to creep into her mind.  Then, she heard a
familiar sound.  It was the sound she'd heard at the gun range the day she
and Richey had shot targets and bought their handguns.  What she would
give now for that gun, the next time Ace opened the trunk lid.

Then the car was again on the road, traveling at high
speed.

“You got anything sharp on you,” she whispered to Cathy.

“No.”

“What about your belt?”

“I’m not wearing a belt.”

Then, Carmen had another idea.  Her high heel
shoes.  She could use the heel as a weapon, thrusting it into Ace’s
eye.  Then, she might be able to run.  If so, no one would catch
her.  She’d run faster than Usain Bolt!

The only problem was that she couldn’t reach her
shoe.  There was no more room on the floor of the trunk, and only a few
inches of space above them.  And, Carmen couldn’t bend her knee far enough
to grab a shoe.

“Can you pull up your knees and feet?” she asked
Cathy.  “Somehow reach your shoe?”

“I’ll try,” she said.

Cathy could only get move her right knee so high and it
wasn’t enough for either her or Carmen to reach her shoe.

Then, the car stopped and Carmen got ready to punch and
bite, but Ace manhandled her so easily that within seconds she was in the
backseat of the car.  She was mightily relieved, even optimistic.
She was still alive and had one more chance.

∞
∞  ∞

“We ain’t got a lot of
time, Carmen, so listen carefully because I’m only going to say this only
once.”  Ace pulled a knife from his boot holster, got on his knees in the
passenger’s seat, and leaned over the seat.  He waved the knife in front
of the women with his left hand.  “Either one of you yells, I cut
you.  You continue to yell, I’ll kill you.  Keep your mouths shut and
we’ll give you back to Richey and your husband in only a few minutes.
Trade you for cash.  Understand?  Nothing will go wrong unless you
make it go wrong.  Now, clean up a bit.  You both look like shit.
Do something about your mascara.  Country put your purses on the
back floor.  Use a comb.  Put on some powder or eyeliner.
Whatever.  Carmen, you do Cathy’s face and hair and then yours.
Hurry!”

Ace figured that if they looked really used and abused,
Richey and Marshon might become enraged and start shooting.  If the
kidnapped women looked halfway presentable, the two men might relax for a
moment, which would be all the time Ace would need to kill them both with his
throwing knives.  At least, that’s how Ace thought.

“Where we goin’ now, Ace?”  Country asked.

“Into
a parking lot across from the mall ahead.  I’ll tell you when to turn.”

Ace
had only a few minutes to think about the upcoming exchange.  It had to be
a typical parking garage.  Many cars.  Large, round concrete pillars
that would provide cover.  A stairwell somewhere, probably near the front
of the garage, maybe in the middle.  Marshon probably would set up a
crossfire.  Ace didn’t have a gun, nor did he feel he needed one.  He
had four throwing knives: two in the holster between his shoulder blades, and
one in each boot holster.  He was deadly accurate up to forty feet.
His enemies might be reluctant to shoot an unarmed man.  He only
needed to buy the time to get into position; it should be only about five
seconds.  Ace was supremely confident he’d prevail.

Carmen looked at the backseat floor and was stupefied to
see the two purses.  Why?  So they could use her cash and credit
cards later?  The baby blue gun case was visible in her purse.  As
instructed, she bent over, picked up Cathy’s purse, and put it on her fellow
victim’s lap.  It was the easiest angle for Ace to see into the backseat,
since he’d sat back down.  Carmen sat directly behind Ace.  She
leaned over and pulled out the blue case, but left it on the floor.  She
covered it with her foot.  Carmen put her purse onto the seat between her
and Cathy.

Cathy Kennedy again seemed emotionally
incapacitated.  She had begun to whisper to herself and performed a ritual
with her fingers as if she were trying to tie them into knots.  Ace had
shredded her camisole during the rape and ripped most of the buttons off her
jacket.  Carmen tried to overlap the lapels and tuck the jacket behind her
waistband.  She had no reason to do that, other than Ace’s orders, and a
sense of propriety.

Carmen took a compact out of Cathy’s purse, opened it and
used the powder applicator on her companion’s face, mainly to cover the
eye-makeup smudges caused by tears.  She handed Cathy a lip-gloss tube and
said, for Ace’s benefit, “Here, Cathy, put on the gloss using your compact
mirror.”  She asked herself: Why does he care how we look?

Ace turned his head to look as Cathy did as instructed,
while Carmen ran a brush through her hair.

“Turn here,” Ace told Country.  Then, he turned and
looked at the two women.  Carmen was busy putting on lipstick.  He
said, “Country’s going to roll down the window now and take a ticket from the
machine.  You two may think this is a good time to scream and wave at the
lady in the booth.  If either of you do that, I’ll slash your throat
before the sound can even get out of your mouths.  I got nothing to lose
now.  Keep that in mind.”

He kept his left arm holding the knife dangling over the
seat as they approached the machine.  Carmen could see a woman in a
glass-enclosed booth about eight feet away.  She had her back to them as
she collected payment from a driver exiting the garage.  Carmen agreed
with Ace that now wasn’t the time.  She wasn’t quite ready.

After Country took a ticket from the machine, and the
gate opened, Ace squared away in his seat and directed Country toward an up ramp.
During that time, Carmen undid the bottom two buttons of her suit coat, reached
down and quickly picked up the gun case.  She opened the zipper, cringing
at its slight buzzing sound, took out the gun and put it behind the waistband
of her skirt, terrified all the time that Ace would turn around, or that
Country would look in the rear view mirror and see what she had done.  She
rebuttoned her jacket with trembling fingers, and used the toe of her shoe to
push the empty case beneath the front passenger’s seat.  Cathy Kennedy
stared straight ahead, apparently having seen nothing, or having wisely chosen
not to say anything, or ask a question.

As they drove up to the third level, Carmen struggled
desperately to relive the gun range experience, so she could examine every
minute detail of that event.  She envisioned the gun manufactured by Smith
and Wesson.  Blue matte finish.  One-inch barrel.  Thirty-eight
caliber ammunition.  Five shots, not six like many guns.  No safety to
worry about.  She replayed the salesman’s pitch when she and Richey had
bought the gun.  Double action.  That meant she just had to pull the
trigger and the hammer would automatically cock and slam into the shell,
causing it to explode and fire the bullet.  No need to cock the hammer separately.
Just pull out the gun, aim, and fire.

She wouldn’t have “ears” on, so the noise would be
startling.  She had to remember not to let that distract her, or cause her
aim to be off.  There would be a sharp report.  A brief flash
erupting from the gun barrel.  Carmen remembered the powder cloud, but
that was after firing fifty rounds.  She should be prepared only for the
flash and the noise.  She remembered that the gun didn’t jerk as much as
she’d expected.  She recalled salesman Renfro’s instructions: just aim,
squeeze the trigger, and keep squeezing it in a fluid motion.  Pull all
the way through nice and steady until all the bullets are gone.  Don’t
jerk your arm and hand.  Be steady.  Aim for the largest target
mass.  She’d hit inside a paper target at about forty feet.  It would
be much, much closer today –– if she got a chance to fire.

Carmen focused her eyes directly on the back of Ace’s
head, and considered drawing the gun now and firing.

Suddenly, Ace turned in his seat and looked directly at
her.  “You’re going to see Richey soon, Carmen.  You can watch me
kill him.  Maybe I’ll cut off a certain body part as a souvenir for
you.  I’ve done that before.  You can keep it in a jar — a tiny
jar.  Then you and I are going to have some fun later on.  You’ll
discover what it means to get brutalized by me.”

Carmen let out her breath and swallowed hard, hoping
fear wouldn’t immobilize her.

Country parked the car as directed.  Ace took the
newspaper off the shotgun and handed it to Country.  “You get out, open
the back door and pull out the Kennedy women.  Stand behind her.  Do
as I say.  When I tell them to put down their guns, you don’t do it.
Understand?  Then get ready to shoot and we’ll be rich.  You shoot
Richey, understand.”

Even the dummy understood the gravity of the situation,
as he had a grim look on his face.  “Yes, sir, Ace.”

Ace then opened the back door on his side and pulled out
Carmen.

“Over here!” someone said and Carmen recognized Richey’s
voice.  She turned toward the sound and saw two men wearing parkas
standing about twenty feet away near a stairwell door.  Richey stared
directly at her.  Marshon had his hand on a suitcase that moved on
rollers.  Carmen recognized him from the one time they’d met, plus his
photograph on television.

Richey shouted at her, “Carmen, I love you!”  She
knew it was true beyond any doubt.

Ace positioned Carmen in front of him, holding the
collar of her suit coat with his right hand.  He told Country, “Move over
there.”  He pointed to a spot to his left, about ten feet away.
Carmen could see that both Richey and Marshon had guns, and they were aiming
them in their direction.

“I don’t have a gun,” Ace said, “so why don’t you guys
put your guns away.  Is that the money in the suitcases, Marshon?”

“Yes.”

“Then, this is simple.  As you can see, the women
are in good shape.  Looking good!  Let’s make the exchange and get
out of here.”

About that time, Cathy Kennedy collapsed, causing
Country to lower his shotgun and look at the fallen woman.

“I don’t trust you, Ace,” Marshon said.  “Where are
your knives?”

“I’m unarmed, as you can see.”  All the time, he
inched forward, getting closer.

“This suitcase has half the money in it,” Marshon
said.  “I’m gonna roll it toward you and you let the women go, okay?”

While they were talking, Carmen undid her suit coast
button.  Even with her wrists bound by rope, she got her right hand on the
gun handle.

“Sounds good to me,” Ace said, and he let go of
Carmen.  He yelled, “Shoot, Country, shoot!”

Carmen pivoted on her left foot just as Ace prepared to
throw a knife that magically appeared in his left hand.  Although Ace was
fast, Carmen was faster.  She fired rapidly, three times.  He turned
his head toward her, looking surprised … and afraid.  She saw a blood
stain on the side of his security guard shirt.  He grabbed at his side,
and turned toward her.  His knees buckled and he dropped to the
floor.  They locked eyes.  Carmen aimed the gun at his forehead and
fired twice more from a range of about eighteen inches.  Bull’s-eye!
She kept pulling the trigger but there was only a clicking sound, one after the
other.

The shotgun exploded off to her right and Carmen winced
in anticipation of steel pellets ripping painfully into her body.  She
turned and saw Richey shooting at Country, the barrel of his Sig Sauer jerking
slightly with each of about eight shots that she could count.  Country
collapsed in a heap on the parking lot floor.  Cathy Kennedy lay on the
concrete floor, screaming loudly.

Then, police cars seemingly materialized out of nowhere,
lights whirling and sirens screaming at eardrum breaking levels.
Policemen shouted at Richey and Marshon to drop their guns!

“No, no!”  Carmen screamed, running toward the
police.  They yelled at her, too, and pointed their guns at her.  She
dropped her gun and turned toward the stairwell.  She saw Marshon roll the
suitcase inside at the same time he grabbed Richey’s coat and pulled him
through the open door.  Two bullets ripped into the steel door and one
plowed into the concrete block wall of the stairwell, causing bits of concrete
to spray out like shrapnel.

Three policemen ran toward the stairwell door.
They tried to pull open the door, but couldn’t.  Carmen felt as if her
feet were embedded in the floor.  She lost control of her body and dropped
to the floor; once again, darkness overtook her.

Carmen revived to find an EMT attending to her.  It
took her a few seconds to remember what had happened and then she immediately
stood, although the EMT cautioned her about fainting again if she got up too
quickly.

Carmen looked around until she saw a cop with two bars
on his shirt collar.  She approached him and said, “What happened to
Richey and the other guy in the stairwell?  They didn’t kidnap us.
They were trying to rescue us!”

A man in a suit stepped forward.  “I’m Captain
Kemp.  We had reports that Richey Stanton and Marshon Johnson were
involved in the kidnapping.  We know they collected the ransom from James
Kennedy.”

“Yes, to rescue his wife and me from Ace Semanski!
I killed him.”  She turned and pointed toward his body.  For a
moment, Carmen couldn’t stop looking at him.  She realized he would never
hurt anyone else again, ever.  “There’s my gun on the pavement,” she said,
pointing.

“We need to talk,” Kemp said.

Carmen grew belligerent.  “Are you stupid, or
what!  Don’t you know what happened here!  Ace Semanski and that dumb
ass Country Long kidnapped me and made Richey pick up the ransom — so it would
look like he was involved.  They killed some man and stole his car.
His body is in the trunk.”  Carmen looked around and saw James and Cathy
Kennedy standing off to the side.  Cathy had a blanket around her shoulder
and another EMT attended to her.  “Ace … brutalized her.”

“Yes, Ms. …?”

“Salazar.  Carmen Salazar!”

“We are somewhat confused and obviously you can help us
understand,” Kemp said.  “So, whenever you’re able, we’d like you to come
with us to a police station and give a statement.”

“No, I won’t!  Not until you tell me what happened
to Richey and Marshon!  Did you kill them, for God’s sake!”

“We have no idea what happened to them, Ms.
Salazar.  Right now, they are fugitives, wanted for questioning in a
kidnapping and several murders.”

The vicissitudes of Carmen Salazar’s life over the last
twenty-four hours had been exceptional.  But, she had survived the
nightmare and apparently so had Richey.  She was hopeful.  Yet, for
Carmen, the worst was yet to come, near the site where they had celebrated one
of Richey’s greatest performances.

26/Performance Of A Lifetime

As soon as Ace and Country
were shot to death in the parking garage, Marshon rolled the big suitcase into
the stairwell while sticking the thirty-eight behind his belt.  He held
open the door and raised his other hand to pacify the cops, who were angrily
and loudly issuing various commands.  “Grab your suitcase!” Marshon said,
as he grabbed Richey’s collar and pulled him into the stairwell.

As bullets tore into the stairwell door and outside
wall, Marshon turned the key and locked the door.

Marshon grabbed the smaller suitcase containing his
overcoat and started down the stairs.  He yelled over his shoulder, “Make
a choice, Richey!”

The weight of the suitcase hurt his ribs and back so
much that when Marshon reached the first landing, he kicked the bag down the
stairs to the second level.  He shrugged off the parka and let it drop to
the floor.

Richey followed and talked, as much to himself as
Marshon.  “The cops think we had something to do with the kidnapping,
otherwise why would they shoot at us!  Jesus, how did they miss!  I
think I killed Country.  They surely got me on video taking the ransom
from Kennedy.”

“And, you aided and abetted me,” Marshon said, as they
reached the ground floor level of the parking garage.  He looked through
the glass portion of the door.  “I can see a cop car at the entrance to
the garage.  They’ll have keys to these doors any minute now.”

He kicked his suitcase down to the first underground
level and unlocked the door.  Marshon looked around before stepping
halfway into the garage.  “Gotta go, Richey.  Ditch the parka.
They seen it!”

Richey did as he was told and followed.  “Okay, I
made up my mind.  I ain’t going to spend any time in jail.”

“And you got a million bucks in that suitcase.  As
far as I’m concerned, you earned it, several times over.”

“Where are you going?”  Richey asked, as Marshon
strode purposefully to the right, pulling the smaller suitcase.

“Like I said, to the Caribbean.  Remember Dahlgren
in Nassau.  There’s an entrance on this level into the medical office
building across from the Hyatt.  I’m headed there and then I’ll
decide.”  He stopped and looked at Richey.  “We should split
up.  It isn’t going to do you any good to be caught with me.  I think
you can still talk your way out of jail time.  Tell ʼem you didn’t
know who was shooting at you.  Get rid of the gun.”

“Where should I go?”

Marshon pointed.  “Take the tunnel under the street
to the mall.  Then, you got several options.  You can get up to The
Link.  Or, get a room at the Westin with your fake I.D.  Or, walk
over to the convention center.  Catch a cab.  Hide out downtown in
some fleabag hotel.  Just avoid the cops.  Do whatever your gut tells
you.  You got a clean phone.  We’ll talk later!”

They fist-bumped and went their separate ways.

“Good luck!”  Marshon shouted, actually believing
they’d meet again.  They had a new gambling operation to run.

Marshon immediately noticed a van parked near the
basement entrance to the medical arts office building.  It had the name of
a nursing home painted on the side.  An attendant wearing green scrubs
operated a lift transferring patients from inside the van to wheelchairs parked
on the pavement.  He followed the attendant pushing a wheelchair into the
elevator.  It stopped on the ground floor of the building and two women got
on.  Marshon looked past the first floor security station and saw a
uniformed cop standing on the sidewalk outside the entrance.  It was
snowing hard outside.  He stayed on the elevator and got out on the second
floor after the attendant exited.

Marshon hung back and watched the attendant wheel his
patient into an office down the hallway.  Within two or three minutes, the
attendant came back into the hallway, pushing an empty wheelchair.
Marshon seized the opportunity.

“What’s up, brother?”  Marshon flashed his biggest
smile.  “What happened to the guy in the wheelchair?”

“Left him in the doctor’s waiting room,” the orderly
said, jerking his head in the direction of one of the offices.

Marshon grabbed the orderly’s arm.  “You work for
the nursing home?  Crestview?”

The orderly looked irritated, as the elevator doors
closed.  “Yeah, man.  What do you want?”

“So there are more patients waiting down of the bus for
you to bring ʼem up here to the doctor’s office?”

“Yeah.”

“I think we can do some business, brother.”

“Business?”

“Yeah.  If I was to sit in the wheelchair, you
could push me out onto The Link, and then across to the Hyatt.
Take only a few minutes.  I’d make it worth your while.”

The orderly narrowed his eyes.  “I seen all the
cops when the driver turned into the garage.  Heard the sirens.  They
looking for you?”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but I got some warrants
outstanding, if you know what I mean.  Small-time shit.  I just don’t
want them checking my I.D. today.”

The attendant shook his head.  “Naw, I ain’t
getting involved.”

Marshon bent over, unzipped the suitcase, reached inside
and extracted a wrapped bundle of cash.  He held it up for the orderly to
see.  “Would you change your mind for fifty thousand dollars?”

The orderly looked at him in disbelief.  “You’re
fuckin’ kiddin’!”

Now, Marshon was irritated.  “You got three seconds
to make up your mind.”

“Sit down,” the orderly said, and Marshon did, as he
handed over the cash.  The orderly hefted the suitcase onto a rear
platform attached to the wheelchair.  He put a gray shawl over Marshon’s
shoulders.

“Anybody stops us, I’m a patient at the nursing home,”
Marshon said.  “You know me.  Caleb McDear.  I got I.D.
You’re taking me to the Hyatt to meet up with some relatives of mine who are
staying there.  Don’t get greedy or decide to be a hero, my friend,
ʼcause I got a gun.  Just gladly take what you got, which is a
helluva lot more than you arrived here with, right?”

The orderly pushed the wheelchair and Marshon down the
hallway to the double doors, which whished open as soon as they broke the
electronic beam.  The orderly turned right on The Link, and headed
over to the Hyatt.  Marshon looked ahead and could see a policeman
standing in front of the electronic doors leading into the Hyatt.  Marshon
put his chin onto his chest, as if he was asleep.

As they approached the cop, the orderly said, “What’s
going on, sir?”

“Kidnapping.  You see anyone suspicious?”

“Naw, I got a bus load of people from the nursing
home.  Parked on the first basement level of the garage.  I talked to
the cops down there.  This here patient’s meeting relatives in the Hyatt.”

The cop gave them a quick once-over and stepped
aside.  The orderly wheeled Marshon onto the mezzanine level of the hotel
and then toward the balcony overlooking the atrium.  Marshon stood,
grabbed his suitcase and said, “Enjoy the cash, brother.”

He began walking around to his right, toward the
escalators, reminding himself not to walk fast, or run.  As he rounded one
end of the railing, with only fifty feet to go before he got to the down
escalator, he looked down to the lobby and saw several police officers.
One was near the exit leading to the parking garage; the other two seemed to be
scanning the crowd.  Marshon veered over toward the wall, planning to
follow the same route he had on Friday night, after leaving Gail.

About that time, Gail stepped off the escalator coming
up from the lobby.  They looked into each other’s eyes and their mouths
dropped.  Marshon put a finger to his lips.

She came closer and said, “I remember the yellow
sweater.”

“Why are you here?”

She shrugged helplessly.  “I tried to call a couple
of times, but you didn’t answer.”

“I had to get rid of that phone,” he answered, without
elaboration.

“That’s what I guessed, so I also threw away the phone
you gave me.  I decided to come back to the hotel and see if you were
still here.”

It occurred to Marshon at the time that he was on a very
lucky streak and he wasn’t about to blow it.  “There’s a robbery or
something going on here,” he said, hating that he had to lie to her once.
“It’s making me very nervous.  I stayed longer than I planned to get my
wound looked at again.  Can you help me, Gail?  Will you help me?”

She looked slightly offended.  “Would I be here if
I was going to turn you in?  What can I do?”

“Where’s your car?”

“In the garage.”

“Let’s get out of here.  You pull the suitcase.”
He got on the other side of Gail and put her other arm through his, so it
looked like she was helping an old man.  He played the role to the hilt,
bending over slightly at the waist and shuffling.  They walked to the
elevator bank and went down to the lobby level.  Twenty steps to the right
and they exited into the parking garage.  Gail had parked her Honda Accord
against the far wall.  Marshon felt the greatest relief of his life, as if
someone had lifted the weight of the world from his shoulders.  But, he
knew significant challenges awaited them.

“Where to?” Gail asked, when they were in the car.
“The airport is shut down, with the snowstorm.  It’s moving through toward
Chicago, according to the weather report.”

“How about St. Louis?”

She looked surprised.  “It’s clear there, I
think.  You want me to drive you to St. Louis?”

He didn’t speak, but just looked at her with the most
desperate expression he could muster.  She started the car and exited
through the pay lane onto Main Street, and drove carefully on the slick street
toward the interstate on-ramp leading northeast to Des Moines and east to
St.  Louis.  On I-70, about forty-five miles east of the metropolitan
area, the snow quit as they passed out of the main path of the storm moving
northeast.

It was then Marshon began to chuckle, then laugh and
then howl with laughter over this fortuitous turn of events.  Gail smiled
and then began to laugh herself, although not so outrageously.  Marshon
laughed so hard he began to cough and couldn’t speak for nearly a minute.
He could only think about his exceptional, wonderful-beyond-calculations,
once-in-a-lifetime gambler’s luck that Richey would appreciate.  It was
like rolling a hard eight three times in a row.  Marshon just hoped that
Richey had encountered the same type of serendipity.

∞
∞  ∞

As Marshon had advised, Richey ditched the parka in the garage.  He walked
through the underground tunnel and up the stairs to a hallway that, on the
left, led to the first floor of The Shops.  If he walked up one
flight of stairs, he would be on The Link leading to the office building
across the street and then to the Hyatt.  If he walked straight ahead,
he’d come to the Westin at the end of the hallway.  There, an escalator
led up to the western segment of The Link leading across another street
to the J.T. Warren Convention Center.

Richey ruled out the Hyatt, knowing Marshon had stayed
there two nights and might again seek help from the hotel security chief,
Rinaldo Morgan.  Richey looked to his left and saw two policemen standing
near the escalators in The Shops.  That made his decision and he
walked straight ahead toward the Westin, where he had originally planned to
stay after Friday night’s opening, which now seemed a lifetime ago.
Except he saw two security guards walking toward him from the direction of the
hotel, so he abruptly turned into a men’s room.  He shoved the suitcase
into a stall, crowded in and stood.  He just needed to catch his breath
and bolster his resolve.  Even though it was cold outside, the underarm
areas of his shirt were soaked with sweat.  He used toilet paper to dab
the sweat from his face.

He could still turn himself in.  He had wanted to
stay in the garage, hold Carmen, kiss her, and reprise his role as Lancelot,
who he played years ago when Camelot had been staged at the outdoor
theater in Canyon Park.  He wanted to sing to his Guinevere: “Oh no, not
in springtime, summer, winter, or fall.  No, never could I leave you at
all!”  However, he had to leave, because the cops were shooting at
him!  Jesus!  Again, he wondered how they had missed.  Or, were
those just warning shots?

Everything had happened at lightning speed.  Carmen
had her gun!  Where had it been up to that point in time.  He
couldn’t imagine.  Obviously, it was the first time she could get to
it.  He couldn’t believe her luck — their luck.  He smiled.  It
was more than luck.  It was preordained; that’s why he’d had the impulse
to go to Toliver’s that night and buy the guns.  Carmen had guts,
too!  She blown the life right out of that sonofabitch, Ace Semanski, at
the same time he’d fired the Sig Sauer multiple times in Country’s direction,
whose attention was on the Cathy Kennedy as she fell to the ground.  The
shotgun went off only after Richey shot Country the first time.  The
pellets shattered the side window of a parked car.  God bless the firing
range experience!  It had saved both of them.

Richey considered turning himself in and rehearsed his
explanation to the police, who probably thought he was in on the kidnapping.
In a way, he was.  He’d been the ransom negotiator.  He’d picked up
the ransom.  He had half of it with him.  Hard telling what Kandie
had told the cops.  How could he explain that Ace told him about Cathy
Kennedy weeks ago?  Richey had ignored him.  How could he explain he
and Ace had talked about how kidnappers could pick up ransom money without
being caught?  But, who could know that now that Ace was dead?  Could
he be prosecuted for killing Country, assuming the dummy was dead.  There
was no way he could explain why he helped hide Marshon or let him get away with
half the ransom money.  On the other hand, he wasn’t now with
Marshon.  And, Marshon was certain to get away.  He led that kind of
charmed life.

The grand jury investigation was bound to implement him
in the killings at The Wheel.  He was one of the floor
managers.  He’d witnessed that event and kept quiet.  But so did
hundreds of other people.  He knew Ace had fought with Hank in Kandie’s
apartment, but he didn’t tell the cops when they questioned him.  He’d sat
mute while Kandie told her lies.  It was a tangled web and he would
undoubtedly go to jail for something.  They would have their pick of
charges.  Standing there in the toilet stall, Richey decided to see how far
away he could get.  He’d prefer some more time to think.  If they
stopped him, they stopped him.  He’d put on a helluva act.

Richey took a tin of gray paste from a suit coat pocket,
along with a makeup pencil, and a compact.  He reinforced the aging,
defeated Willy Loman look as best as possible, put back on his prop granny
glasses and ran a comb through his hair.  He considered that the disguise
could have been compromised.  Surveillance cameras in the garage might
have caught his image.  Had Marshon thought of that?  Or, would they
instead broadcast his driver’s license photo and not even consider that he’d
never changed from his Friday night Willy Loman costume.  He looked at
Alistair Murphy’s driver’s license photo.  It was close enough.  He
could pass for Murphy if the cops stopped him.  If he got an opportunity,
Richey planned to go into a store and buy new clothes, perhaps a jacket with a
hood.

Then, Richey thought about the nine millimeter stuck
behind his belt.  He pulled it out and checked the clip.  He still
had four or five bullets, although he couldn’t image using the gun again.
The police would have his brass, with his fingerprints on them.  Still, he
wasn’t about to throw the gun away.  He put it in an unused side pocket of
the suitcase.  He flushed the toilet and maneuvered the bulky suitcase
around the inward opening door.  He washed his hands and left the rest
room.

Back in the hallway, Richey again walked toward the
Westin, but saw a cop standing at the base of the escalator leading up to The
Link.  There was no reason to think he couldn’t walk right by him, but
Richey’s fears once again got the best of him.  He looked around and
impulsively pushed through a door on his left, pushing the suitcase ahead of
him.

“Can I help you?” a receptionist asked, startling Richey.

“Quite … a mess .  .  .  out there,” he
said, haltingly, as he stepped up to her desk, adopting a spastic gait.
The speech and the walk were an actor’s improvisation to a scene that wasn’t in
the  script.

“Somebody’s in a lot of trouble,” she agreed.  An
armed security guard stood to the right of the door.  He was in a
bank.  A goddamned bank!  Colonial National Bank, according to
a sign.

Richey thought furiously and then spoke tentatively:
“I’d … like … to rent … a … safe … deposit … box, … please.”

The receptionist directed him to a waiting area around
the corner.  He jerked spasmodically in that direction and sat beside a
large artificial plant that shielded him from view.  The police wouldn’t
be looking for him here!  They also wouldn’t be looking for a man with a
degenerative disease.  He prepared himself to give the most important
performance of his career.

A customer service representative soon appeared — a
nice-looking woman about fifty in an expensive-looking gray suit.  “Hello,
I’m Gretchen Raintree.”

“Pleased … to … meet … you.”  Richey pushed the
wheeled suitcase ahead of himself as he followed Ms. Raintree.  He created
his role as he went — head held slightly at an angle, his free arm bouncing up
and down, and his hand formed into a claw.  He walked as if one leg was
shorter than the other one.

The bank representative reached her desk and motioned
for him to take a seat.  “Do you know what all the commotion’s about
outside?” she asked.

“No,” Richey said.  “I’m … sorry … to speak … so
slowly, … Ms. Raintree.  I … have … Huntington’s … Disease ….  Some …
people … think … I’m … retarded.”  He smiled widely, one part of his mouth
drawn downward.  He didn’t know that much about this physical disorder and
he hoped she didn’t either.

Ms. Raintree avoided looking directly at him as she
began to explain about box sizes and rental agreements.  He’d get a 10
percent discount if he had a checking account or were to rent a box
today.  Special offer.

Richey couldn’t resist an elaborate lie.  It would
lengthen the performance and the time he could stay in the bank.  The
longer he was here, the less likely the cops would find him.  They’d
conclude that he’d moved on, and they would expand the search area and move
away from the convention center complex.  Therefore, Richey slowly weaved
an elaborate and fictional tale about his family — a wife, three grown
children, five grandchildren, all at home in Nebraska.  He was here to
visit his sister who was in failing health.  He’d been appalled to discover
that she kept valuables in her apartment, including jewelry, stock
certificates, and cash.  Hence, the suitcase and the need to transfer some
items to a safe deposit box.

Ms. Raintree listened patiently and then said, “You can
rent a box in both names — yours and your sister’s.  Of course, one of you
would have to have an account here with the bank.”

Richey thought furiously.  “What …  is … the …
minimum deposit … to open … a … checking account … in … both … of our names?”

“One hundred dollars would be fine.”

“Wonderful.”  He gave her part of the money he’d
withdrawn Friday night from an ATM, along with Alistair Murphy’s driver’s
license.  Mr. Raintree copied the information and handed it back without
bothering to compare the photo to his face, which wouldn’t have been easy,
anyway, given the tremors rippling over Richey’s features.

“And your sister’s full name and address?”

It couldn’t be her real name.  Everything would
have to fit.  “Carmen Salazar … Murphy.  Richey recited Carmen’s
address, in case the bank sent out a confirmation.  He didn’t know whether
he was being smart or extremely foolish.  The plan was only a sprout in
his mind.

Richey selected the largest safe deposit box — 15 inches
wide, 20 inches long, and 10 inches deep — renting for a hundred and sixty-five
dollars a year.  It would easily hold a million dollars in
one-hundred-dollar bills.  He justified the decision on the basis that
temporarily hiding the money gave him a valuable negotiating tool should the
cops pick him up.

“I assume you’ll also want your sister to have access to
the box, Mr. Murphy?”  Ms. Raintree asked, while counting the cash payment
he’d given her.

“Yes,” he replied, startled and interested in the
suggestion.

“We provide two keys to the box.  Here’s an
authorization card for your sister to fill out and mail back.  She’ll have
to come in some time with her key and identification.”

Ms. Raintree handed him the card, a blank envelope, and
one addressed to the bank, postage prepaid.  “When either one of you comes
to access the box, you’ll have to show identification that includes your
signature, such as a driver’s license,” the bank lady explained.  “And, of
course, you’ll need a key.”

She took three keys from her desk and led him further
back into the bank to an elevator that took them downstairs to the vault.
An armed guard smiled at them and deferentially touched the brim of his
hat.  Richey felt incredibly safe in the bowels of the bank, wishing that
he could stay here for several more hours.  Days!

The guard unlocked an imposing barred gate and they
walked through the open vault door.  Richey and Ms. Raintree stepped into
the room that seemed like a burial vault for very small people.  It had a
musty smell of permanence to it befitting the contents of the boxes that undoubtedly
contained stock and bond certificates, gold, jewelry, and rare coins.  Cash.

Ms. Raintree located his box and told him how to access
it.  “When you or your sister comes in to access your box, I or another
bank representative will accompany either one of you to the vault.  The
bank’s key and your key are required to remove the box from the wall.”
She placed her key in the lock and turned it, motioning for him to do the
same.  She talked slowly and precisely to Richey, as if he was not only a
cripple, but mentally defective.  He congratulated himself on his
performance and shakily inserted his key into the lock.  The
performance of a lifetime.  Even if his photo appeared in the
newspaper tomorrow, Ms. Raintree might not make the connection.

“I or someone else always will place the box on a shelf
inside one of these three cubicles,” she said, pulling out the box.  She
walked to an open door leading into a closet-size room.  “We ask that
customers try to limit their stay to no more than ten minutes.  However,
if you require more time, just notify us at the time of your visit and other
arrangements will be made.”

“Yes, I … understand.”

“When you’re finished, just place your box in its slot
and shove it all the way back.  It locks automatically.  If you need
assistance, ring the buzzer to the right of the door and the guard will help
you and let you out.”

“Great.”  Apparently, it was not unusual for a bank
customer to bring a suitcase into the vault area.

She laid two keys beside the safe deposit box and
extended her hand.  “Welcome to Colonial National, Mr. Murphy.”

After she left, Richey stepped inside the cubicle and
closed the door.  He began transferring the money from the bag to the
metal box, again fanning each bundle to reveal any foreign objects, such as a
tiny tracking device.  He kept out one batch, fifty thousand dollars, and
put it in an inside coat pocket.  He’d always wanted to win Keno.  He
was rich, rich, rich, Richey!  Any thought of giving himself up was
rapidly fading as it appeared he was about to get away.  Even if he went
to prison for a few years, only he would know the location of the money.
Just like Clint Eastwood playing Thunderbolt in the movie.

He put the Sig Sauer inside his belt at the middle of
his back.  He put both keys, the authorization card and return envelope
into the blank envelope.  He certainly didn’t want the key in his
possession if they arrested him.  Taking a pen and paper from the counter,
Richey addressed the envelope to Carmen Salazar Murphy at her apartment.
He wrote a short note telling her about the safe deposit box and the reason for
her new last name.  She’d figure out the details quickly enough if
anything happened to him.  He also copied Murphy’s home address, driver’s
license and credit card numbers and information.  “The money is yours,
Carmen, to do with as you like should anything happen to me.”

His real I.D. was in his house and he'd dumped his
regular cell phone hours ago.  He had another cell phone provided by
Marshon.  Richey considered putting Alistair Murphy’s I.D. in the letter
to Carmen, or putting it in the box, since he didn’t want to be caught with
them in his possession.  It could lead the police right back to the money,
although not necessarily so.  Ms. Raintree might not watch or read the news;
many people didn’t.  On the other hand, the I.D. might also be
indispensable in his getaway.  He’d need it to rent a hotel room or a car
tonight.

He made a decision and pocketed Murphy’s I.D., sealed
the letter and put it into his pocket.  He returned the box to its slot in
the wall and shoved it in until he heard the lock click.  Then he buzzed
the guard.

Richey took the elevator up to the main floor and walked
laboriously back to his customer service representative’s desk.

“Yes, Mr. Murphy?”

“Excuse me, … could you … mail … this … for me?”

Ms. Raintree took the letter and smiled
sympathetically.  “Certainly Mr. Murphy.  I’ll see that it gets
mailed yet today.”

“Thank you … very much.”

Richey left the bank and looked down the hallway toward
the lobby of the Westin, and smiled broadly.  No cops in sight.  He
lurched down the hallway in that direction, but then diverted again into the
same restroom where he’d collected himself earlier.  A man stood in front
of one of the urinals.  Richey put the empty suitcase against the far wall
and stepped up to a vacant urinal.  He waited until the other urinator
finished, and then flushed, washed his hands, and left.

Out in the hallway, his Huntington’s Disease has been
miraculous cured, although he shuffled like an old man toward the Westin lobby
and escalator leading up to The Link.  The cop was gone.  The
escalator was less than fifty feet away from the area where the reception had
been held last night after the play.  That seemed eons ago.

Richey looked to his right and saw a hotel bar, Rumors.
He’d had drinks there once before, months ago when he’d been shopping in the
mall.  Richey needed a martini, for certain.  Besides, in his mind,
there was no hurry now.  He’d been in the bank for nearly forty-five
minutes.  They’d expect him to be far away by now — especially if they
hadn’t caught Marshon.  The bar would have a television.  He could
find out what had happened to his friend, as well as the state of the
manhunt.  Richey turned into the bar and found a table in a corner, where
he could still see the television behind the bar.

He ordered a double martini and a mixed plate of
appetizers.  He was suddenly hungry and couldn’t remember when he’d last
eaten a meal.  He was into his third drink when the news anchor got around
to the kidnapping and ransom.  Reporters had interviewed a detective
sergeant, one of the Kennedy’s neighbors and a vice president at First United
Bank.  Richey listened in amazement to the jumbled story that was part
fact and part fiction.  According to the report, a “gang” of men, possibly
as many as four, had kidnapped a local woman, yet to be identified.  Her
husband delivered a ransom to the parking garage across from The Shops.
In the ensuing shootout with the police, two kidnappers were killed and the others
escaped.  The newscast reinforced Richey’s worst fears and validated his
decision not to turn himself in just yet.

Then, suddenly, the news flash showed photos of him and
Marshon.  One photo of Richey was from his driver’s license.  More
alarming, they showed a photograph taken last night at the cast party.  He
remembered it as a group shot, but they’d blown it up, and cropped his
image.  Richey Stanton, in full costume as Willy Loman.  Richey
suddenly felt incredibly conspicuous.  He dropped on the table the four
remaining twenties from his Friday night ATM withdrawal, stood, lowered his
head and left the bar as inconspicuously as possible.

He’d taken only about six steps when he heard someone
call out, loudly, “Willy Loman!  Richey Stanton!”  Richey turned
toward the voice and immediately recognized the Johnson County Sheriff’s
Detective, Craig Sizemore, who’d interviewed him and Kandie at The Stadium.
He’d given the cop’s name to James Kennedy as a reference for Richey’s story
about being forced into the ransom negotiations.  Was that the reason
Sizemore was in the mall?  Kennedy had called him?

The bullnecked detective had assumed a shooter’s stance
and had his gun pointed at Richey, who whirled and rushed back into the
bar.  The red-haired waitress who’d served him was in the processing of
picking up the money he’d left on the table.  He pulled out the Sig Sauer,
grabbed the waitress and pulled her in front of him.  He backed toward the
bar so he could see both entrances.  Customers saw the gun and began to
shout and scatter, clearing him a path.

Sizemore appeared in the doorway to his left.
“Richey, let’s talk.  Don’t do anything foolish, not at this point, for
God’s sake.”  He holstered his gun.  Richey glanced to his right and
saw the other detective, Sizemore’s partner, the one with the Devil’s peak
hairdo.  Dick Cavett still had his gun pointed at Richey and he looked
determined.  In fact, he yelled, angrily, “Put down the gun, Stanton!”

That caused panic in the bar as customers began to
flee.  Most ran; someone knocked over a bar chair.

“Don’t hurt me, please!” the redhead said, startling
Richey.  It was as if he suddenly became aware that his shield was
human.  Young, twenties, pretty.  He had his arm around her
waist.  Her well-rounded buttocks pressed against him.  Her hair
smelled like violets.  Then, the image hit him like a blow.  He was
Ace and she was Carmen.  The shame propelled him to action.

Richey maneuvered behind the bar.  A bartender was
crouched near the floor.

“What’s your name?” he asked the redhead.

“Beth.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you, Beth.  You can go.”

She hesitated as if it were a trick, but then walked to
his right.  Then, she ran out the far door, passing by Cavett.

Richey put the barrel of the gun under his chin and looked
down at the bartender.

“Pour me a glass of Absolut,” Richey told him, “and add
some ice.  A splash of vermouth.  Then leave.”

Cavett again issued an order, but Sizemore told his
partner, irritably, “Back off!”

The bartender did as told and leaned as far forward as
possible to put the glass near Richey.  The bartender’s hand trembled
noticeably.

Sizemore walked slowly to the front of the bar, directly
opposite Richey, who looked to his left and right.  The bar had cleared
out.  Spectators and a few more cops filled the hallway outside.  The
cops all seemed to be talking into handheld radios.  The civilians aimed
cell phones at him, snapping photos and taking video.

Sizemore sat at the bar as Richey took a drink of vodka,
while keeping the barrel pressed against the bottom of his jaw.  It felt
hard, cold, and indifferent.

“You don’t want to shoot yourself, or shoot me, Richey.
Hell, you felt bad about the waitress.  I could see that in your
face.”  Sizemore looked over both shoulders.  “And you don’t want to
start a gun battle here.  Innocent people will be killed.  That might
include you, Richey.  I think you’re innocent of a lot of things.”

“You apparently haven’t seen the television news
reports,” Richey responded.

Sizemore laughed.  “Those guys fuck everything
up!  And, we lie to them, anyway.”

“What are you doing here?”  Richey asked, with
genuine curiosity.  “How did you know I was here?  It was important
for Richey to know if they knew about the bank.

Sizemore shook his head.  “We were just lucky to spot
you, Cavett and I.  Simple dumb luck.  We’re not even officially
assigned to the case.  In fact, I’m not sure who is in charge.”  He
laughed genuinely.  “This is the biggest police circle jerk I’ve ever
seen.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a half-dozen police jurisdictions involved, at
least.  Semanski and his partner were killed over in the parking garage,
which is in the city.  Metro Central police division, Kansas City,
Missouri.  Cathy Kennedy was kidnapped from her house down by Tremont
Plaza, which is in the jurisdiction of the Shawnee Mission police
department.  James Kennedy called the FBI to his bank office in Overland
Park.  Kandie Givens was killed within the city limits of Lenexa.
Both of those places are in Johnson County, Kansas.  Because the crime
spilled across two states, it’s also now a multi-state FBI investigation.”

Richey felt sick.  “Who killed Kandie?  Why?”

“It looks like suicide, but I have my doubts.
There’s a dead guy in the trunk of the car Semanski and his partner were
driving.  They’re still trying to figure out who he is.  So, you see,
Richey, this situation is FUBAR.  I think you’re the only one who can
straighten it out.  And, maybe save yourself in the process.  I
hadn’t been privy to the police interviews conducted with Mrs. Kennedy and your
girlfriend, Carmen Salazar, but rumor is they both identify you and Marshon
Johnson as the heroes.”

“They catch Marshon?”

Sizemore just shook his head.  “Not yet, or it
would have been broadcast across every police jurisdiction.”

Richey took another drink, eying Cavett and the growing
number of policemen outside the bar.  Richey saw at least two who wore
helmets, were dressed in combat black, and wielded military-style rifles.

“Cavett and I are only down here because we issued the
first alert about Semanski for his role in the murder of Hendricks and
Lucas.  We were also called to the scene where they found Kandie Givens,
since we could identify her.  Kennedy also used my name when talking to
the FBI.  An agent there on the scene ordered us down here, thinking maybe
we could identify others involved in the kidnapping.”

Richey shook his head dejectedly.  “And, you
did.  My luck doesn’t really ever change,” he said, mainly to himself.

“C’mon, Richey, talk to me.  You’re not going to
shoot it out with us, for God’s sake.  That would be suicide.  Why
kill yourself, anyway?  You can beat this whole thing and maybe become a
hero.  We don’t have a lot of time.  When the SWAT commander shows
up, he’ll make me leave and bring this situation to a crisis point.”

Richey smiled.  “No one knows shit, do they?
Ace was successful in muddying the waters and leaving clues that point to
everyone.  Just the way he planned.”

“Yeah, but he just didn’t figure on Carmen,” Sizemore
said.  “Now, I’ve only seen photos of her and heard the rumors about what
she did in the parking garage, but, God, Richey, you wouldn’t shoot yourself
and abandon a woman like that!  She sounds like one-in-a-million to
me.  Beauty, brains and more savvy and guts than half the cops I know!”

Richey couldn’t help but laugh and feel a sense of pride
at the same time.  “And you want to know what she’d doing with a has-been
like me.”

Sizemore shook his head in a gesture of
disagreement.  “You probably never saw this morning’s Star, which
ran a review of your performance last night as Willy Loman in Death of a
Salesman.  The reviewer said you were as good as Cobb or Hoffman, and
maybe better.  That you were the treasure of regional
theater in the entire Midwest.”

“Are you shitting me?”  Richey said, taking the
barrel away from his jaw, so it pointed at the ceiling.

“No.”  Sizemore looked around the bar.  “I
don’t see a newspaper.  But, I can pull the article up on my smart phone …
if you give me the gun.”

Richey lowered his hand and forearm, so the gun hung
from his hand, below the level of the bar, which caused Cavett and the other
cops to scramble for different vantage points as the loudly reissued various
warnings and commands.

“Look, here’s how I figure it, Richey.  Semanski
kidnaps Carmen so he can get you to negotiate with Kennedy.  He plans to
have Kandie check the ransom money, but you throw a monkey wrench into that
somehow.  You team up with Marshon Johnson, for whatever reason.
Then, you have Kennedy deliver the ransom to the parking garage, where Semanski
and Long are killed, and the women freed.  Unfortunately, the cops on the
scene don’t know this and they start shooting at everyone with a gun.  You
give me your gun and come with me right now, and we’ll talk to one of those TV
crews that are camped out in front of this hotel.  You can set the record
straight.”

“And you’ll be the cop hero!”

“Absolutely, Richey.  I ain’t gonna shit you.
If I crack this case, I’ll run for sheriff next year and win in a
landslide!  After that, I may be governor!”  Sizemore’s genuine laugh
caused Richey to chortle, too, which gave him the time he needed to use his
left hand to get Alistair Murphy’s driver's license and credit card from his
pocket.  He dropped both into a trashcan under the bar.

Then, Richey took out the new cell phone Marshon got
from Rinaldo Morgan.  With his left thumb, he pressed the one button and
waited until Marshon answered.  He said, “I’m caught.  Dump your
phone.”  Richey ended the call and placed the phone on the bar.

Sizemore smiled.  “You’re a good friend, Richey.”

Richey asked one more question.  “Won’t they try to
link me to Marshon Johnson and say he and I and Jemmy Shoemaker were actually
involved in this kidnapping from the beginning?”

Sizemore shrugged.  “I don’t know about the
relationship between you two guys.  Yeah, Johnson’s wanted on a murder
warrant and I’ve heard rumors about a grand jury investigation concerning his
East Side gambling operation.  Do either of those things have anything to
do with this case?”

“Not really.  Kinda.  Marshon and I have been
friends for a long time.  I’ve worked for him off and on for years.
I just asked for his help in rescuing Carmen.  Jemmy Shoemaker was
supposed to head off the kidnapping, but Ace killed him.”

“There you go.  Sell that story.  Cooperate
with them in finding Johnson.  He’s obviously got the ransom money, since
you don’t have it, right?”

“I don’t have anything.”  Then, thinking ahead,
Richey amended his remarks.  “Except for some money Marshon gave me.”

“Okay, Richey, hand me the gun and let’s start our round
of press interviews.”

Even years after the event, there was disagreement about
what happened next, despite the fact that several bystanders used their cell
phones to videotape the action.  This much, everyone agreed upon: Richey
had the gun pointed at the floor, but then raised his arm to the level of the
counter and extended the gun toward Sizemore, barrel first.  Sizemore
always maintained and always believed that Richey was handing over the
gun.  It was turned sideways and Richey didn’t have his finger on the
trigger.  He saw the real intent in Richey’s face.

Either Richey wasn’t knowledgeable about police
procedures, or he wasn’t thinking straight at the moment.  Sure, maybe the
other cops had shouted for him to grab the barrel and hand over the gun butt
first, as they maintained later during the investigation.  It was standard
protocol.  Apparently, Richey never heard them.  He was listening
intently to Sizemore part of the time; plus, as usual, his alter ego was conducting
a conversation inside his head.  Richey couldn’t listen to everyone at the
same time.

When Richey appeared to point the gun barrel at
Sizemore, Cavett and the other cops unleashed a barrage of gunshots that killed
Richey, wounded Sizemore in the left arm and shattered the bar glass and
several dozen bottles of  liquor and wine.

There were many smart phone videos taken that evening
and analysis of them was never conclusive on the issue of whether Richey was
handing over the gun, barrel first, or whether he intended to shoot his way out
of the situation.

Richey didn’t die behind the bar.  He took his last
breath in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.  He didn’t see any
bright light or a welcoming group gathered in the distance, but his synaptic neurons
were still firing, although not at their normal wattage.  The light of
life grew dim.

Richey had always lived in his head, even as a
kid.  Many times in his life, the dreams — those that occurred during the
day as well as the night — were much more vivid than real life experiences; and
often more enjoyable and memorable.  It’s why he’d always wanted to be an
actor.  He’d played many roles, some real and many imagined.  A few,
he’d performed very well.

His final, fading dream resembled a photographic
slideshow.  Maybe that’s what those who’ve had a near-death experience
describe as “their life flashing in front of them.”

It began with an misty image of Carmen, as if she was
there, but not there.  She reached out to him and he tried to take her
hand, but couldn’t.

Then, Richey was very young and his father was throwing
him in the air in a swimming pool.  He stood by a creek and watched
tadpoles.  His mother held his hand as he lay in bed with the
chickenpox.  He played basketball on a dirt court, sat in a theater during
his senior year in high school with his arm around a classmate, posed in his
Army uniform, stood at the altar with Shirley, held Ethan for the first time,
and first beheld Carmen painting on a canvas.

The slide show speeded up until it was so fast that the
individual pictures were indistinguishable and appeared only as a streaking
trail of light absorbed by a shiny computer disk that spun around and around
from the impact of the images, the information, the memories.  Suddenly,
the disk stopped spinning and oriented itself as if viewed from the side.
The thin, almost imperceptible disk moved slowly toward a thin, dark,
horizontal opening, entered and disappeared into the void.  The curtain
came down on this part of Richey’s life.

27/Leaving
Kansas City

After they drove out of the
snow storm and picked up speed on Interstate 70 heading toward St. Louis, Gail
began to bombard Marshon with questions, reluctantly at first but then with
increasing boldness.  She had to know; there were important
decisions yet to be made, and she needed to know everything.

“Does all that hullaballoo back there at the convention
center have anything to do with Jemmy’s death?  I heard cops in the hotel
lobby talking about a kidnapping and a shootout.”

“Yes.”  He sighed, trying to think of a way to make
this a short and safe conversation.  The last thing he wanted was for Gail
to get mad and dump him on the interstate — or call the cops.  “There’s
this guy, Ace Semanski, who worked at Biederman’s when Richey was there.
You may remember him from that time we sat with Richey and Carmen in that
shitty bar out south.  He gave us the evil eye.”

“I remember.”

“Ace came to The Wheel one Friday night and
created a crisis.”

“Does that have something to do with the grand jury
investigation?”

“How do you know about that?”

“My dad told me on Wednesday.”

“Ace used throwing knives to kill two guys who
apparently were going to rob us.  I didn’t have anything to do with
it.  I was in the john.  Actually, the whole thing is on surveillance
video, which apparently someone gave to the grand jury.  If you don’t
believe me, ask your dad.  We talked about it at the fund-raiser for
Dewhurst.”

Gail’s mouth dropped open, signaling her surprise at his
answer to her question.  She didn’t know her dad and Marshon had talked
about this subject.

“Ace was bad news.  Prison and all that.
Apparently, he concocted a kidnapping/ransom plot.  First, he kidnapped
Carmen Salazar, Richey’s girlfriend, to force Richey to do the ransom
negotiations.  Ace wanted to cast suspicion on Richey.  Ace also
kidnapped Cathy Kennedy, a banker’s wife.  Richey figured out who the
kidnapping victim was by remembering a newspaper photograph and article that
Ace showed him about James and Cathy Kennedy.  Friday evening after you
left the Hyatt, I got paranoid about some police activity in the lobby, and
went to hide out at Richey’s house.  Richey asked me to help and I
involved Jemmy, who was going to intercept Ace before he could kidnap the
Kennedy woman.”

“Oh, my God, Ace killed Jemmy!”

“Yes, but then Richey and I persuaded James Kennedy to
drop the money in a parking lot at the convention center instead of where Ace
wanted him to make the payoff, which we figured was a trap.  Kennedy
obviously involved the FBI or police and they were waiting in the parking
lot.  There was a shootout and Ace and his partner were killed.  And,
no, again, I didn’t kill anyone!”

“And the women?”

“Freed, unharmed, or at least they looked okay from the
brief glimpse I got of them.”

“You were there?”

“With Richey.  He shot and killed some guy named
Country Long, who was helping Ace.  Carmen got hold of a gun and killed
Ace.  I didn’t stick around after that to explain my presence to the cops,
especially after they started shooting at us.”

“Oh, my God!  Wouldn’t you be better off to turn
yourself in?  Get a good lawyer?”

“I have a good lawyer!  Mort Saperstein.  Had
dealings with him for years.  I talked to him last Wednesday, and he is
negotiating for me right now.”  His explanation to Gail was about ninety
percent true.  He wasn’t about to bring up the ransom money.  “Until
they come to some agreement I can accept, I intend to lie low.  I got some
clothes and other belongings in the suitcase, and I’m going to get out of town
for a couple of weeks.”  Marshon hated lying to Gail, but he wasn’t
certain she’d help him if she knew he had the cash.  She’d undoubtedly
insist he return it.  In her mind, keeping the money meant he was, in
fact, part of the kidnapping.  Marshon wasn’t certain he could effectively
argue the opposite point of view.

They rode in silence for several minutes, each with
their own thoughts.  Gail wanted to believe Marshon and he wanted her to
believe his version of events — at least for today.  After she read the
newspapers tomorrow, she could conclude that he lied to her, or didn’t tell the
whole truth.  In truth, he didn’t know everything.  Besides, Marshon
didn’t believe in the whole truth.  There was a degree of doubt in
everything that humans knew, or thought they knew.  The truth oftentimes
depended on your viewpoint.

“How’s the gunshot wound?”

Marshon looked startled, as if she’d reminded him of
some minor incident he’d forgotten.  It had been nearly four days since
Williams shot him and Max the Knife patched him up.  They stitches could
have torn loose, especially when he was maneuvering the suitcase down the
stairs of the parking garage.

“I’m sure it’s okay.  I got enough antibiotics for
two more days.”

“You need to see another doctor.”

“As soon as possible.”  Marshon was immensely
relieved that the issue of the ransom money appeared to have been dropped from
the discussion agenda.

“You still going to the Caribbean?”

He pondered his answer.  “Before all this happened,
I told you that was my plan.  To move there and change my lifestyle.
Like I told you, I bought a condo on St. Thomas.  I’m going to stay there
while Saperstein works out a deal.  I’m not fleeing to a country that
doesn’t have an extradition policy with the United States.  St.
Thomas is in the American Virgin Islands!”

He tried to sound just slightly indignant, and Gail
seemed somewhat chastised.  Obviously, he didn’t trust her completely,
since he lied once again about the location of the house.  At that point,
Marshon just wanted to get away cleanly.

“You remember when I told you at the Hyatt I wanted to
come with you.”

“And, I agreed with your dad that it’s a bad idea at
this time.  You could get entangled just like I am.  Cops are natural
conspiracy theorists.  They’ll conclude you were in on everything from the
beginning.  Believe me.  Worse of all, they would implicate your dad,
because he warned me about the grand jury at the Dewhurst reception.”

Gail’s mouth dropped open and she momentarily looked
away from the road directly at Marshon.  “Oh, my God!”

“Yeah.”

“You’re right.  If I were to come with you now,
they’d be looking for both of us the rest of our lives.”

It was at that moment Marshon knew that it was highly
unlikely they would ever be together.  He was a murder/kidnapping suspect
and the statute of limitations would never close on those charges, even though
he was mainly innocent.  There was evidence — hundreds of eyewitnesses and
a supporting videotape — that would clear him of being directly involved in the
killings at The Wheel, but could he trust the prosecutors to reveal all
the evidence to the grand jury?  Carmen Salazar and Cathy Kennedy should
testify on his behalf, but what if the prosecutors argued that he, Marshon,
operated behind the scenes, in cahoots with Semanski?  They could advance
the theory that Marshon protected Ace by covering up the killings at The
Wheel, and then forced Ace to kidnap Cathy Kennedy.  The prosecutors
would argue that Jemmy was there to make sure Ace did his job, which was
exactly what Ace told the cops!  If anyone scoffed at that theory, they’d
simply say, “Where’s the ransom money?  Marshon Johnson has it, of
course.”  Richey had the other half.  It would look bad.

About that time, one of Marshon’s cell phones rang,
causing his heart to race.  He looked at the calling number; it was
Richey.  Marshon answered and listened to the chilling five words: “I’m
caught.  Dump your phone.”  The call ended but Marshon kept his
cell phone to his ear, until he finally said, solely for Gail’s benefit,
“Thanks, man, talk to you later.”

“Who was that.”

“You don’t want to know, Gail.”

Marshon considered that the cops also had the smashed
Walgreens cell phone he’d left in the stairwell.  Technicians might be
able to extract the number of its twin.  He opened the glove box and
searched through it until he found a corkscrew.  He looked questioningly
at Gail, who arched her eyebrows and shrugged.  Marshon took the battery
out of both cell phones and used the corkscrew to destroy the batteries.
Then, he rolled down the window and threw them into the ditch.

“I gather the police may have the numbers of those
phones?”

“Possibly.”  A few minutes later, he opened the
window and threw out both of the cell phone casings.

Marshon didn’t mind living the rest of his life in the
shadows.  He would adapt, with a new identity; and, perhaps another new
one after that.  He’d have his fingerprints sanded off.  He’d never
given an official DNA sample.  Whatever would happen would happen,
although his odds of being caught would decrease with every passing day, week,
month and year.  He could turn his back on his old life, even his Nanna
and Uncle Clyde, if that was necessary.  Gail might bravely commit to the
same lifestyle in the beginning, but in time it would wear her down.
Their love would fade and perhaps even mutate into resentment and hatred.

“We can’t talk for the next few months, Gail, until
things sort themselves out.  It’s for your protection, too.  You, and
your dad.”

For the next two hours, they talked about past good
times and managed quite a few laughs.  For a while, it was as if the
events of the past five days hadn’t taken place, and that they were lovers
facing a bright and happy future.  In life, illusion often precedes
disillusionment.

When they stopped in a rest area off the interstate,
Marshon waited for an appropriate time when no other traveler — or Gail —
appeared to be watching, and tossed his thirty-eight into a retention
pond.  It was evidence of his having made a decision not to shoot it out
with the cops — or give them an excuse to execute him.

As they neared Lambert Field on the city’s west side,
Marshon saw advertisements posted alongside Interstate 70 for various hotels.

“There’s a Marriott at the next exit.  Drop me
there.”

“I could stay the night with you,” Gail said, as they
pulled up to the hotel entrance.  “I wouldn’t have to use my real name.”

Marshon’s eyes roamed over Gail’s gorgeous body, but he
hesitated only seconds.  The calculating aspect of a lifelong street
hustler soon overcame his erotic fantasies.  He’d have to use the Marcus
Jones identity to check in, because the fake identity he used to rent the car
was undoubtedly compromised.  The police were bound to have found the
rental Buick in the parking garage, and the Caleb McDear alias was blown.

There were other considerations.  He was still in
disguise as an old man.  His clothes, which probably were not clean to
start with, now gave off a distinct body odor that even made Marshon
frown.  Others were bound to notice.  Gail always attracted attention
no matter how she dressed.  The disparity would make them even more
conspicuous.  There would be security cameras creating a video record,
which otherwise would be discarded — unless someone, or some couple, stood out
for some reason and caught the attention of someone who might look at the
video.  Finally, he might have been caught on some surveillance camera in
his present disguise.  For all he knew, the police could have given that
image to the news media, and they might have broadcast it.

“It’s not a good idea, Gail.  There’s a good chance
we’d be recognized or remembered.  You could get into a lot of
trouble.  Let me get out of this mess first and then I’ll contact you, and
we’ll arrange to get together, somewhere.  The break will allow you time
to think things over.  And you need to do that.”

After Gail drove off, Marshon took a cab from the
Marriott to a Holiday Inn Express.  He checked in using the Marcus Jones
I.D., which he removed from his overcoat lining.  Marshon slept soundly
that night, but he was up early in the morning, anxious to enter the second
stage of his escape.  He almost immediately ruled out airplane flight
because he’d have to put the suitcase full of cash through an x-ray
machine.  He wasn’t certain of the law, but he seemed to recall that a
U.S. citizen taking more than $10,000 out of the country had to fill out a form
filled with questions.  He couldn’t do that.

He initially considered taking the train, or possibly a
bus, to Florida.  That meant making a half dozen or more connections that
would require him to expose himself in depots and terminals rife with
surveillance cameras, security officers and cops.  Maybe the kidnapping
and all the dead bodies it generated would make the national news.  In the
end, Marshon rented a car and decided to drive.  It was 1200 miles to
Miami and he could drive it in 17 hours, straight through if he wanted, in
which case no one would see him up close.  He made arrangements over his
room phone, again exposing the Marcus Jones identity.  As a result of his
agreeing to buy a membership in an exclusive company program, Hertz promised to
have a Buick Regal with a GPS system out front of the hotel in an hour.

Using the phone in his room, Marshon next made an
international credit card phone call to Phillip Dahlgren, his lawyer in
Nassau.  Dahlgren had brokered the sale of the house on Scrub Island, when
Marshon purchased it from a South American drug dealer.  Dahlgren had
arranged the financing and handled the monthly mortgage payment.  The
lawyer charged a standard twenty percent for all these services.  Mainly
as a good will gesture, Marshon had additionally invested about $100,000 with
Dahlgren when the lawyer bought into a shopping center development on St.
Maarten.  In short, he had been a good customer for the Nassau lawyer’s
various services.  Still, this was a dicey situation and Marshon needed to
know where the lawyer stood.  Marshon’s former friends were not
necessarily his future friends.

“You got my e-mail?”  Marshon asked, when Dahlgren
came on the line.

“Yes.  Are you still coming to Florida?”

“Yes, but I’ve run into a bit of trouble here, because
of my association with a friend.  You may have heard about it?”
Marshon needed to know.

“I subscribe to a news service that alerts me when
various names are mentioned in the media.”

“What do you hear?”

There was a brief silence, but then the lawyer replied,
calmly, “About Marcus Jones?  Absolutely nothing.”

“I’ll be in the Miami area Monday, probably late
afternoon, earlier evening,” Marshon/Marcus said.  “I want to get over to
your office in Nassau, but I’m undecided as to the best travel arrangements.”

“Your e-mail mentioned my yacht.”

“Islands in the Dream.”

“Hemingway would have understood.  Anyway, as you
may recall, we met once at my friend’s house, Nelson Richards, who lives on Key
Biscayne.  He and I are business associates.  Nelson is an
influential person.  With one phone call, he can take care of any travel
requirements issued by the U. S. Coast Guard or Customs and Immigration.
I can do the same when you dock at my home in Nassau.”

“All right, Phillip, I’ll stop by Nelson’s house.
Will he be expecting me?”

“I’ll make certain that he is.  Unfortunately, I
cannot be present.  However, I’ll see you Tuesday at my house in Nassau.”

Marshon ended the call and indulged his paranoia.
He didn’t like it that Dahlgren wouldn’t be in Florida, although that wasn’t
unusual.  Marshon contemplated several blocking chess moves, but couldn’t
make any decisions at the moment.

Marshon scrolled through the regional television news channels,
but couldn’t find any mention of Saturday’s events.  He checked his wound,
which had a disturbing bluish-black coloring to the surrounding skin, but red
and yellow plus white pus were the colors of infection.  He took a shower,
shielding the incision from the direct water spray.  Then, he dried off
and redressed the wound, additionally applying a topical antibiotic cream he’d
purchased in the hotel shop.

Using a new razor, he shaved his beard and hair, which
was not an easy job, especially using his right hand on the left side of his
head.  The stretching aggravated his wound.  He got rid of all the
gray hair and now looked more like the younger Marcus Jones, all bald and
hairless.

He put on his “bum” clothes, minus the yellow sweater,
which he put into the suitcase, exchanging it for the overcoat.  He picked
up the hotel receipt someone had shoved under his door in the middle of the
night, dropped his card key on the desk, and left the room.  Downstairs in
the business center, he used one of the computers to do a search on news about
a kidnapping in the Kansas City area.  The Star ran a page one
story that jumped inside and took up about one-third of page eight.

Marshon audibly sucked in his breath at the sight of the
photographic lineup — him wearing a tuxedo (taken at the Dewhurst fund-raising
event), Richey Stanton, Ace Semanski, and Jemmy Shoemaker.  A separate
photograph taken in the garage showed James Kennedy cradling his wife, Cathy,
and two police officers standing beside Carmen Salazar.  The credit for
the on-scene photos was given to a suburban resident who had been parking his
car when the shootout began, and took the photos with his cell phone.

The “news report” talked about the police breaking up a
kidnapping/ransom scheme and killing two of the kidnappers in the garage — Ace
Semanski and Robert Young.

Jemmy Shoemaker was stabbed to death at the scene of the
kidnapping and a police source was quoted as saying, “We’re not certain at this
point in time as to Mr. Shoemaker’s role in this crime.”  The police shot
and killed Richey Stanton in a bar within the Westin Hotel when he threatened a
sheriff’s deputy with a gun.  Again, the police were not certain as to his
role in the crime.  Marshon Johnson was a person of interest and wanted
for questioning, not only for the kidnapping, but also the death of Michael
Williams, a prominent local architect.  A police spokesman was quoted as
saying they were not certain if or how the two crimes were connected.

As he read the report, tears began to roll down
Marshon’s cheeks.  His hands trembled so much that he grasped them
together for control, although it also resembled a prayerful pose.  After
a few moments, he continued reading from the computer screen, his eyes coming
to rest on a paragraph quoting James Kennedy as saying he paid a two million
dollar ransom.  Police would not comment on how much of the money was
recovered, but did make a point of mentioning that $50,000 in cash was found on
the body of Richey Stanton.  Marshon knew it was not unusual for the cops
to hold back information about the status of the ransom.  They always
liked to have a secret or two in reserve, so they could use it as leverage
later on.  In this case, they really didn’t know who had the money.
And, neither did Marshon know what had happened to Richey’s share.  He
considered the possibility that Rinaldo Morgan intercepted Richey and took the
money!

Marshon sat back and muttered, “Oh, my God,” loudly
enough that a fellow business traveler asked if he was okay.

Marshon nodded and left the business center pulling one
of Richey Stanton’s wheeled suitcases containing a million dollars in
cash.  At the entrance to the hotel, he gave a bellhop ten dollars to put
the suitcase in the trunk of the Buick.  In his fearful state of mind, he
imagined that the bellhop would immediately call the FBI.

He drove back onto I-70 and headed east.  The
interstate highway system would take him on a planned route through Nashville,
Atlanta, Jacksonville and Miami.  Twenty minutes later, Marshon spotted a
shopping center that would serve several of his needs.  The stores were
not within one multi-level building, but rather many buildings arranged around
a pedestrian mall and adjacent outdoor parking lots.  Most buildings
housed four to six retail stores.

He parked in front of a drug store, so he could see the
car while inside, where he purchased new bandages, and various toiletries, plus
another prepaid cell phone.

Two doors down at a sporting goods store, Marshon
purchased a comfortable jogging suit, New Balance walking shoes, some stylish
shades, several pairs of socks and two packages of underwear that would last
him a week.  After having paid for the items, with the receipt in hand, he
asked if he could change clothes in one of their dressing rooms.

He changed quickly and stuffed all his old clothes into
one of the store shopping bags.  Outside, he got into his car and began
driving around until he found a clothing store, two doors away from a shop
selling office equipment.  On the sidewalk, Marshon shoved the bag
containing his old clothes into another trash receptacle.

He went into the men’s clothing store and bought a
black, pinstriped suit, two dress shirts, tie and expensive calfskin
shoes.  He also bought two pairs of dress pants, two casual shirts, a
sweater, leather coat, billfold and a wheeled garment bag that easily contained
all his new purchases.  Marcus Jones used a credit card to pay for his
purchases.  The clerk was so thankful to make a sale totaling nearly
$2,000 that he packed the bag, rolled it out to the Buick and put the bag in
the trunk.

At the office equipment store, Marshon bought a Toshiba
laptop with 16 GB of RAM, and a terabyte of hard drive storage capacity.
He also purchased a wheeled briefcase that measured 18 x 14 x 8 inches and
would not only hold his new electronic equipment, but the cash as well.  Both
the garment bag and the briefcase had four wheels each, and he would be able to
easily roll both of them at the same time without putting any strain on his
wound.

Finally, Marshon was on his way.  A couple of hours
later, after turning south on Interstate 57, he pulled into a rest area and
parked at the far end toward the exit.  He backed into a parking space,
got out of the car, opened the trunk and transferred the money from Richey’s
old gray cloth suitcase into the new briefcase.  It also had a compartment
for the laptop and smaller pockets that held his passport, and the two flash
drives.  He wiped his fingerprints from the suitcase, checked it for any
identification, and sat it behind some bushes.

Near the dinner hour, Marshon pulled into a Hampton Inn
outside of Atlanta.  He went to bed earlier as usual, suffering not only
from the after effects of a gunshot wound, but the trauma of the events that
had taken place in Kansas City.  Widja was on the run, Jemmy and Richey
were dead, and his love affair with Gail Thomas was flickering out.  The
prosecutors and police had a long list of charges they could file against him,
including illegal gambling, accessory after the fact to several felony charges,
plus bribery, failure to report a crime, blackmail, manslaughter, kidnapping
and God-knows-what else.  He’d had to give up The Wheel without any
financial remuneration, although he couldn’t have escaped without the help of Rinaldo
Morgan.  That had inestimable value.  Moreover, he might yet do
business with Rinaldo.  He didn’t plan to contact him for several months,
though.

The situation with Boudra and the apartment building
business was equally fluid.  Would the County Attorney attempt to seize
the building, alleging that the ownership by Marshon’s grandmother and uncle
was simply a sham.  Could Mort Saperstein prevent such a seizure?
Was there any way Marshon could exert some influence, perhaps through Darieon
Shoemaker, Jemmy’s brother?  He’d have to contact Boudra somehow, if he
wanted the income from the building.  He didn’t know whether he should or
would keep the promise he made to Widja.  But, those were problems for
another day.

On the positive side, Marshon had approximately one
million dollars in a briefcase on wheels.  However, the hurdle ahead
seemed as high as a mountain.  Could he get himself and his money out of
the country without falling victim to greedy intermediaries, principally
Phillip Dahlgren?  He didn’t have any specific reason to fear his business
partner; just a gut feeling.

During the next day’s drive, Marshon had lots of time to
think about everything that could go wrong in the Miami area.  One
scenario in particular concerned him.  No matter his disclaimer, Dahlgren
knew Marcus Jones was Marshon Johnson, and probably knew all about him and the
events that transpired in Kansas City.  He worried that Dahlgren’s yacht
crew would pick up Marcus Jones on Key Biscayne and then dump his body into the
Atlantic Ocean, somewhere between Miami and Nassau!  Dahlgren would then
have his money and probably the house, too, since he had brokered the
sale.  More crimes were committed in fine print than Marshon had ever
perpetrated.  Why would Dahlgren do this?  Because Marshon/Marcus was
too hot.  In addition, it was a multi-million-dollar deal.  Maybe
Dahlgren owed law enforcement, and serving up Marshon would pay that
debt.  There could be even more reasons.

Marshon thought of several plans to prevent this from
happening.  One option was to put most of the million dollars into a
storage facility in the Miami area.  Then, if there was a plan afoot to
rob him, he could strike a bargain.

However, Marshon eventually settled on another
solution.  At a Denny’s shortly after noon on Monday, he used the
restaurant’s Wi-Fi to create a Microsoft Word document on his new laptop,
detailing all the events in his life that began when Ace killed the two robbers
at The Wheel.  He even revealed the Marcus Jones identity and the
location of the house on Scrub Island, as well as his bank account in Road
Town, and his relationship with Phillip Dahlgren.

He then accessed Marcus Jones’s Outlook account and
created an e-mail timed to be sent a week from today to Mort Saperstein.
It said, “Mort, if you receive this e-mail, it means I am dead.  The
attached document explains everything.  Please seek justice on my
behalf.”  He signed it, Marshon Johnson.  Then, he composed a second
e-mail addressed to both Saperstein and Phillip Dahlgren, which said, “Phillip,
Mort, If anything happens to me over the next week, Mort will received an
e-mail providing extensive details about recent events and all my financial
relationships over the past seven years.”  He signed it, M, and sent it
immediately.  The two lawyers would figure it out.  The e-mail
probably would compel them to investigate each other.  It would put
Dahlgren on notice.  Marshon would be safe.

About 6 p.m., Marshon arrived in Miami and returned the
Buick to a Hertz facility near Miami International Airport.  He called a
cab to pick up him and take him to an address on Key Biscayne.  The cab
dropped Marcus Jones at Nelson Richard’s house on Harbor Drive on Biscayne
Island and Marcus pressed the buzzer on the gate keypad.  Soon, a muscular
blond came running to let him in.

“I’m Olaf, second mate on the Dream,” he said,
shortening the boat’s name.  “Mr. Dahlgren said to take good care of you,
Mr. Jones.  Mr. Richards is waiting on the patio.”

Marcus followed the sailor through a living room onto a
large patio partly covered by a sunshade attached to the exterior wall of the
house, although the sun had already set.  Comfortable wicker furniture was
located between the entrance to the house and the pool.  There was a bar
at one end of the patio.  A walkway led out to the dock, where the sailors
had moored Islands in the Dream.  A cool breeze wafted across the
patio, although the outside temperature was in the low sixties, which seemed
warm compared to the weather Marcus has just escaped.

Richards greeted Marcus warmly and introduced him to the
other young Swedish sailor, Gus, the first mate.  From their previous
meetings, Marshon/Marcus remembered Richards as a classic raconteur who
undoubtedly was gay.  He and the two young sailors seemed to be having a
rousing good time.  Richards steered Marcus to the bar and pointed out a
snack tray.

“Get a drink, Marcus, and come listen to the stories
these two sailors have to tell,” Richards said, walking back to his chair
located near a space heater, its coils a brilliant orange.  “They are
nomads, in effect, isn’t that right, boys?”

The two sailors nodded and affirmed the title in their
lyrical English.  “Yaw.  We roam the warm waters of the earth, having
a gud time.”

“This, Marcus, apparently consists of sailing, drinking,
eating, fucking and sleeping in late!”  Richards said.  “I’m rich,
and I seldom have that much fun!”

“You forgot the diving and lying on the beach,” Gus
said, smiling broadly.

Marshon chuckled and sat in a soft upholstered chair,
where he sipped an expensive brandy.  He inhaled the sea air and felt his
body relax just a bit from all the trauma of the past days, and all the tension
that invaded his life beginning with Ace Semanski expertly killing two robbers.

By midnight, they decided to be on their way.
Richards’s house and boat dock were located on a large cove that accommodated
perhaps fifty homes.  In turn, the cove outlet allowed passage into
Biscayne Bay across from the city of Miami.

Gus and Olaf showed Marshon to his quarters below deck,
which consisted of his own bedroom with a solid door and deadbolt lock.
They hung his clothes bag in the closet and wheeled his laptop case to a
position near the built-in desk.

According to the two sailors, the world-class Feadship
had a ten-thousand-mile cruising range, and the latest in electronic
gadgetry.  Marshon agreed that the Terence Disdale interior was exquisite.

“What’s this thing cost?” Marcus asked, after he came
back up on deck, wearing a waterproof blue jacket he’d found hanging from a hook
on his door.

The two sailors looked at each other, and Gus said,
“About ten million U.S., I’d guess.”

Marshon watched the fading city lights, as the wind
picked up and snapped the sails.  He feared seeing a Coast Guard cutter
bearing down on them, with an officer yelling through a loudspeaker for them to
pull over and give up Marshon Johnson before the Dream reached
international waters.  He also had a vision of Richey wading into the surf
near the shoreline, imploring Marshon to wait.  In this nightmarish
vision, his friend was still alive.

There was a new feeling, also.  Suddenly, he was
standing on the deck of a boat, ploughing through the waters of earth — rising
and falling, creating a spray of water that soaked the deck and everyone on
it.  He was on the earth, not huddled inside a house or building,
or riding in a gasoline-powered box from one location to another.  On the
vast ocean, Marshon thought big and expansively.  All was possible, even
if it was a bit terrifying.

The
combination of the wind supplemented by a twin-screw, diesel-powered
Caterpillar engine quickly propelled them to a cruising speed of 30
knots.  After a half hour, Marshon calculated that he had actually
survived the events in Kansas City and escaped.  After the crazed architect
Williams shot him in the dark office suite, and Marshon killed him, he still
had calculated his odds of getting away scot free as only one in three.
Those odds had skyrocketed when he was trying to get out of the convention
center, after the exchange of money and the shootout in the garage.  He
had beaten the odds.  However, it wasn’t over yet.

It
turned out to be incredibly easy to get out of the United States to a foreign
country.  Dahlgren, of course, also lived in a mansion located in a cove
near the southeast end of Paradise Island, across from Nassau, The
Bahamas.  Near dawn, the two seamen expertly maneuvered the yacht into the
basin and tied it up at the dock.  The layout was very similar to
Richards’s property on Key Biscayne.  Beyond the dock were a manicured
lawn, garden, swimming pool, expansive patio and two-story house protected by a
wall and iron gate at the head of the driveway.

Marshon
slept on the yacht until shortly before nine a.m., at which time a servant
promptly knocked on his door and announced that breakfast would be served in
the house at precisely nine-thirty.

Marshon
dressed in his new suit.  He carried the rolling laptop case up on deck
and Olaf put it on the dock.  Marshon took over and pulled it behind him.

The
breakfast room overlooked the gardens.  Dahlgren
appeared every bit the British lawyer, probably in his late forties, or
fifties.  Tall, his hair black and wavy, he wore a blue blazer, gray
trousers, starched white shirt and patterned blue and red tie.  He even
had an aristocratic gap between his front teeth, along with a well-maintained
pencil thin mustache.

“Marcus, I trust your passage was uneventful and
enjoyable,” he said.  “I got the e-mail you sent to me and Mr.
Saperstein.  I understand your caution.  Understand it very well.”

“I was hoping you would.”

“You’ll be going on to your house on Scrub Island?”

“Yes.”

“I have a private jet that can fly you into the Reef
Island airport.  You can get a water taxi from there.”

Marcus/Marshon glanced around the breakfast room and
what he could see of the rest of the house, calculating that this was old
money.  He’d met Dahlgren several times before, once in Road Town, and
several times thereafter in the Miami area.

Seeming to read his mind, Dahlgren said, “My grandfather
moved here from London, where he was a barrister, and my father and I have
followed in his footsteps, although the nature of the family legal practice has
changed considerably over the generations.  The Bahamas were originally a
British overseas colony, although we proclaimed independence in 1973.  We
have commonwealth status, of course.  The British Virgin Islands are still
an overseas colony of the United Kingdom, as are the Cayman Islands, Anguilla
and Montserrat.  I have offices and interests in all those places.
Road Town, where you have a bank account, has in recent years come to rival
George Town, Grand Cayman, as an international center for offshore
banking.  The British Prime Minister and Members of Parliament are very
sensitive about any insinuation — usually made by the American media — that
these financial centers are tax havens or depository for illegal funds.”
Dahlgren grinned and chuckled, as he sat at the breakfast table and gestured
for Marcus to also take a seat.

Surely, Dahlgren had a purpose to his conversation, and
Marcus decided to broach a sensitive subject.  “That’s all good to
know.  As I told you, I still have business interests in the United States
and will continue to transfer cash from the mainland United States to my account
in Road Town.”

“It will be business as usual between us then,”
Dahlgren said.

Marcus took a deep breath.  “In fact, I have with
me today in my case here approximately one million dollars in cash.  All
in one hundred dollar bills.  It’s entirely possible the serial numbers
have been recorded and that use of this cash in the marketplace might draw
attention.”

Dahlgren nodded in such a manner that seemed to signal
not only his understanding, but sympathy.  “That’s really not a
problem.  My usual fee of twenty percent applies.  The remaining
eight hundred thousand dollars will be wired into your Road Town bank account,
clean as a whistle as they say.”  The third generation British expatriate
flashed a wide gap-toothed grin over his little joke.

“Great.”  Marcus Jones would then have a bank
account totaling more than $6 million.  It was a comfortable cushion to
begin a new life.  As soon as the ransom money cleared, Marcus would visit
his Road Town bank and make certain that Dahlgren didn’t have any way to access
that account.  If Marcus had any doubts, he’d change banks.  At some
point, he might have to change his alias.

While buttering his toast, Dahlgren said, “Ordinarily,
if I do not have to involve a third party, as I will in this case, my money
processing fee can be as low as, say twelve-and-a-half percent.  This is a
special rate for customers with whom I have a close business relationship.”

Marcus/Marshon visibly relaxed, drinking his orange
juice.  All his fears that lawyer Dahlgren might turn him into the authorities
were diminished, if not entirely dispelled.  Still, Marcus felt that he
was in the presence of a kindred soul, who understood that the process of
making money within the current economic system was a neutral one by
nature.  Talk of legality and illegality were simply semantic discussions.

Dahlgren shifted his weight in his chair as an indicator
of additional concerns.  “Other than managing your American enterprises
from a distance, and enjoying your wonderful home, what do you plan to do in
the islands, Marcus?”

He sensed an invitation, which was perhaps why Dahlgren
had just reduced his money-handling fee; maybe it was the real reason he hadn’t
ripped Marcus off.  “I definitely have some ideas and plans, but I’m open
to any opportunity.”

Dahlgren drank from his coffee cup, his little finger
extended aristocratically.  “The islands of the Greater and Lesser
Antilles are endlessly fascinating.  Their natural beauty can take away
your breath.  One always has the feeling of being part of an exotic
adventure.  The economic dichotomy of the islands is manifested in its
extremes of income and wealth.  The vast majority of the population
descended from African slaves live in poverty, while transplants such as you
and I are much more comfortable.  There is no interstate highway system
here.  Getting around is a bit more challenging, and usually done on the
water or in the air.  There’s the complicating factor of unpredictable
weather, especially during hurricane season in the summer months and early autumn.

“Also, in the Lesser Antilles alone, there are eight
sovereign states and at least sixteen colonies or dependencies, mainly those of
the UK, France and the Netherlands.  The sheer magnitude of competing and
oftentimes conflicting laws and regulations is a challenge to any law firm,
including mine.  On a daily basis, we are asked many times by many
different clients about the legality or efficiency of moving raw materials and
supplies into and out of the islands, which form a natural bridge between South
and North America.  Many times, we issue a preliminary legal opinion, and
suggest that our clients move ahead with their activities until we can further
research the situation or bring it before the appropriate government agency or
even a court.”

Marcus knew there had to be a purpose to this discourse
about the relationship between commerce, the law and government.  “How
might I figure into this process, Phillip?” he asked, helping himself to a bowl
of scrambled eggs.

Dahlgren rose and walked over to the patio door to look
out at his yacht.  “Upon many, many occasions I have need for a certain
type of individual.  I believe in America one might refer to such a person
as an advance man, a ramrod, or a fixer.  An agent who can get out front
and get things done, and do it with daring and aplomb, while I and my legal
staff work out other solutions in the background.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“Several, in fact,” Dahlgren replied, returning to the
table.  “Most islands restrict, prohibit, or require a license for any importer
or resident to bring into their jurisdiction certain medications, fruits,
animals, firearms.  Pharmaceuticals.  If an importer is able to make
an immediate deal for a quantity of any such items at an incredibly attractive
market price, he naturally wants to make the sale as quickly as possible,
deliver the goods, and get onto the next deal.  As that businessman’s
lawyer, I might consent to his decision to go ahead and bring his goods
temporarily into the islands while I work out the legal problems — so long, of
course, as my client understands there may not always be a legal
solution.  In such a hypothetical instance, I would ask my agent to work
with this businessman in the interim.”

Clearly, Dahlgren had done his research on Marcus Jones
if he thought his client, who now had made the decision to relocate to the
islands, would understand this obtuse explanation.

“In summary, I have need for a business associate who
can not only deal effectively with men and women from all socio-economic
classes, and many different nationalities, but get things done quickly,
efficiently — and with great imagination,” Dahlgren said.  “Frankly,
Marcus, you strike me as such a person.  Are you interested?  The
compensation would be quite attractive.”

Marshon/Marcus understood that Dahlgren was talking in
part about smuggling and drug running.  He hoped it had nothing to do with
arms dealing and the slave trade.  It could all be incredibly lucrative,
but more dangerous than the businesses he’d just left — and The Wheel
and his “apartment business” had turned out to be deadly dangerous
indeed.  Marcus had never dealt with an even more dangerous breed, such as
the Mafia, Russian mobsters, or South American cartel types.  And, he
didn’t want to start now.  He had planned a more genteel lifestyle in the
islands, perhaps involving high-stakes gambling, as he and Richey had talked
about.  Now wasn’t the time to offend Dahlgren, however, not before the
lawyer had cleaned the ransom money, and Marcus had time to acclimate and build
up his defenses.

“I’m always interested in money-making opportunities,
Phillip, but I’m desperately in need of some vacation time to unwind and
recuperate.”

“Of course.  Whenever you’re ready, we’ll sit down
and talk in detail.”

Marcus/Marshon smiled broadly and nodded his
agreement.  He had one more leg on his journey home.  When he was
fresh and fit, he’d figure out a way to deal with Dahlgren, make some money and
preserve his independence.  Marshon believed he was up to the challenge,
since he had already survived the fires of hell.

28/The
Odds Of Being Lucky

Carmen sat in her apartment staring out the
sliding glass doors and beyond the patio, trying to reconstruct that horrible
day in the parking garage at the convention center complex.  At the time,
she had been so traumatized that she couldn’t think straight, and even now
weeks later she wasn’t certain about exactly what had happened.  She felt
immensely guilty that every second of that horrible evening and the following
day wasn’t burned into her memory in greater, lasting detail.

As
hard as she tried, there were only bright flashes of memory unconnected to each
other by time.  It was a slide show, not a movie.  She remembered
graphically being choked in the parking garage of The Shops until she
blacked out.  She’d thought she was dying and could only ask, Why?
Why?  She remembered being indignant at the time because she didn’t know
the answer.  It seemed so unfair.

She
retained many strobe-enhanced photos of Ace: waking up to him driving her car,
him tying her to a bed in preparation for what she assumed would be a brutal
rape, his rape of Cathy Kenney, his obscene dance, the evil smile on his face
just before he rushed them into the car trunk containing a dead man, and his
final threats in the parking garage.

Carmen
had little memory of her time in the trunk, as if her mind went into pause
mode.  When Ace opened the trunk, Carmen remembered gasping for air, as if
she’d held her breath the entire time.

The
biggest and brightest photo in the memory slide show — the one surrounded by
extra intensive lightning — was her purse and the blue gun bag visible inside,
lying on the backseat floor of the car.  She brought forth the image many
times, not to celebrate or gloat about how she was able to use it eventually to
free everyone from evil by killing the devil, but just to wonder how
serendipitous events happen.  Are they simply fortuitous accidents, or
possibly foreordained?  The difference was very important to her, because
she sensed it had wider applications to everything that happened in life.
However, no answer was forthcoming.

The
slide show resumed in the garage when she saw Richey and Marshon standing near
the stairwell, wearing parkas.  She laughed again in confusion.  They
were worried about getting wet outside!  That was true optimism.
Carmen had never expected to get out of the garage alive.

Ace
had pushed her out to the side.  Up to that point, everything that
happened was muted.  The gunshots added sound and motion.  From that
point forward, she remembered more details.  She had been exhilarated
after shooting and killing Ace, but that feeling turned to panic when the
police began to shoot at Richey and Marshon!

Thereafter,
utter confusion reigned.  She dropped the gun as ordered, but a uniformed
cop grabbed her arm and jerked her around, as if she were guilty of
something.  Then, a man in a suit had intervened.  In the background,
James Kennedy shouted and screamed, seemingly madder than hell at
everyone.  Two detectives in suits stood on each side of her and peppered
her with questions.  They became exasperated by her confusion as she tried
to listen to both of them.  “Who are you!” one demanded and she just
stared blankly at him, not sure how to answer.

A
scuffle broke out between Kennedy and the police as he demanded an ambulance
for his wife, while the police were equally adamant that everyone stay at the
scene until they understood exactly what had happened — who the players were
and what roles they had played.

Carmen
finally just sank to the floor.  Someone yelled that she’d fainted, but
she just went into pause mode once again.  It was her only form of
escape.  Later, she wondered if it had always been in her personal
repertoire.

An
EMT materialized to take her blood pressure.  He gave her a bottle of
water.  Kennedy’s lawyer arrived about the same time as a man everyone
deferred to and addressed as captain.  He eventually sat on his haunches
and talked to her in a very soft voice while another man took notes on a pad,
which seemed startlingly old-fashioned to Carmen.  Couldn’t they afford an
iPad?  Kennedy and his lawyer demanded to be present, but a uniformed
officer initially barred them.  The captain simply waved his hand and
allowed them to listen to the interrogation, if that was the proper word.
Carmen tried to reconstruct the events.

When
she got to the point where Ace brought Cathy Kennedy into the motel room, she
looked at James Kennedy, who breathlessly awaited her account.  Carmen
suddenly remembered the proper phrase, the one she’d used on the phone to
Richey to convey the horror of that point:  “Ace brutalized her.”
When a detective asked, “What do you mean?” the captain looked at his colleague
as if he were a total idiot.

They
weren’t satisfied with many of her answers.  She didn’t know Jemmy
Shoemaker; had never heard his name.  Yes, Richey and Marshon Johnson were
friends.  They’d met at a production of Showboat.  Richey
worked for him sometimes.  She’d met Marshon once, but didn’t know much
about his business activities or personal life.  He had a girlfriend named
Gail, whose last name maybe was Thomas.  Did Richey, Marshon, and Ace know
each other?  She wasn’t sure if Marshon knew Ace.  She had no idea if
Marshon had hired Ace to kill two other men.  No, Richey hadn’t told her anything
about that.  Sure, she knew Kandie Givens and, yes, Kandie was Ace’s
girlfriend.  Yes, Richey, Ace and Robert Long all worked at Biederman’s,
but they were not friends.  Yes, she knew about Hank Hendricks and his
friend, Melvin Lucas, although she didn’t know them personally.  Kandie
told her that Hank had sexually abused her, and slapped her around.  Yes,
she’d heard on the news that Hank and his friend had been murdered.  She
had no idea if they were involved in the kidnapping.  She didn’t tell them
that Richey suspected that Ace killed Hank and Melvin.

Why’d
she have the gun and why hadn’t she used it before?  Carmen found it such
an amazing and stupid question that she stood and said she was done answering
questions.  More than an hour had passed.  She wanted to go home and
see her daughter.  When the captain objected, Kennedy’s lawyer asked
Carmen if she wanted legal representation.  Before Carmen could answer,
the captain abruptly changed his mind and said Carmen could go, but that they’d
resume the interview at some other time.

About
that time, police radios began to crackle and the captain’s cell phone
rang.  Two uniformed police officers raced across the parking garage.

They
escorted her out of the garage and across the street to the mall, then down a
hallway toward the Westin hotel.  All they would tell Carmen was that they
had apprehended one of the “kidnappers.”  She was very confused since both
Ace and Country were dead.  Who were they talking about?

The
hallway outside Rumors was crowded with hundreds of gawking
spectators.  A small army of uniformed cops stood shoulder-to-shoulder to
keep everyone at bay.  Other cops were arguing vociferously with a
cameraman and reporter from KMBC.

The
phalanx of cops created an opening for her, the captain and the two
policemen.  As they entered the bar, two EMTs wheeled out a wounded man
whose white shirt was soaked in blood.  Two cops questioned a red-haired
young woman who seemed traumatized.  Another one of the ubiquitous men in
suits waved the captain toward the end of the bar.  There, he whispered in
his ear.

The
captain maneuvered her ahead of him down the narrow aisle behind the bar.
“Can you identify this man?”

Her
knees began to buckle and she grabbed the bar and said, “Richey … Willy!”
She began to kneel beside him, but someone grabbed her, and pulled her
away.  Carmen reached out her hand and Richey seemed to respond, but two
men came between them.  They loaded Richey onto a gurney, pushed by
Carmen, and raced toward a hotel exit.  Once again, Carmen sank to the
floor and sought unconsciousness.  She woke up later in a hospital
emergency room.

∞
∞  ∞

Days and weeks passed.  Carmen went back
to work and Marisa went back to school.  They stopped talking about
Richey.  Carmen spent less time staring out the patio doors trying to
figure it all out.  There were plenty of others who were just getting
started, however.  A reporter for the Star received a book deal to
reprise his detailed reporting, and reveal the inside story about what
really had happened.

Carmen
didn’t expect to escape the news media’s finger of blame.  James Kennedy’s
lawyer, who now also represented her, held a news conference and threatened to
sue the Star and the city if the journalists and politicians even hinted
that Carmen was anything other than a victim — and a hero.  The newspaper
responded with an editorial that vaguely apologized if any of their reporters
had erred in reporting the facts in a case everyone agreed was extremely
confusing.  Mayoral candidate Benjamin Dewhurst criticized the incumbent
mayor for botching the police investigation of the kidnapping, and promised to
sweep house if he were elected.

Actually,
Cathy Kennedy suffered the most from the gossip about what had happened to her
in captivity.  Just what did “brutalization” mean?  It turned out to
be a bad word, because it implied even darker things to some people.
Carmen refused to comment beyond her initial statement to police, and she never
understood exactly what people wanted to know.  If she had reported the
exact details of the rape, as if she were a radio announcer covering a baseball
game, how would that have increased the public’s understanding?  They
still wouldn’t know the fear and pain either woman felt, or imagine the
nightmares that plagued both of them.  It wouldn’t yield any understanding
of the kind of monster that Ace Semanski represented.

One
of the few telephone messages that Carmen returned was from Gail Thomas, who
she’d met once at The Stadium.  She and Richey, and Marshon and
Gail, planned to have dinner together, the second night of the play.
Maybe Gail knew part of the story that even Carmen didn’t know.

They
agreed to meet shortly before Christmas on the lawn in front of the stage at
the Starlight Theater in Canyon Park.  It was an unusually bright, sunny
day.  A half-mile away was the lake into which Ace had driven Hank
Hendricks’s car with Hank and Melvin Lucas in the trunk.

Carmen held a bronze urn with both hands.  A
lanyard around her neck held her smart phone, which played several of Richey’s
favorite songs.  This was Richey Stanton’s funeral, per his last will and
testament.  Carmen had put it off for over a month.

She
had been surprised when Richey’s lawyer called and said Carmen was mentioned in
Richey's will.  He’d left the house, car, and all of his material
possessions equally to his ex-wife, Shirley, and their son, Ethan, to divide as
they saw fit.  He’d left ten thousand dollars to Carmen, which she figured
was about all the cash he had at the end of his life.

Richey
asked that his remains be cremated and that Carmen Salazar dispose of the
ashes.  When Carmen questioned the lawyer, she had been stunned –– even
spooked –– to learn that Richey changed his will only a few days after he’d
been fired from Biederman’s.  Richey wrote that she should spread his
ashes in “an appropriate place,” read the Desiderata, and play several
of his favorite tunes.  All were love songs by such recording artists as
Linda Ronstadt and James Ingram, Bette Midler, and Rod Stewart.  Carmen
liked best the old lyric sung by The Stylistics: “You, you make me feel
brand new … .” It seemed to sum up the way Richey had made her feel, especially
toward the end when she thought they were about to begin a new and exciting
life together.

Blinking back tears, Carmen reached into the urn, took
out a handful of ashes and held them up to the sky.  The wind whirled them
away only a short distance before the fine dust covered a clump of crisp,
brownish-yellow leaves.  It seemed so anticlimactic.

“You are a child of the universe,” Carmen said, taking
some literary license, “no less than the trees and the stars you had a right to
be here, and live your life as you chose.”

In the background, Barbra Streisand sang about “ …
misty, water-colored memories of the way we were.”

“I hope this is what he wanted,” Carmen said
hesitantly.  “This seems like an appropriate place.  One way or
another, it will always be here.”

“I think so,” Gail answered confidently.  “Richey
acted in several plays here, including Showboat and Camelot.
It’s a good choice, Carmen.”

Carmen felt better.  After all, Gail had known him
longer than she had.  “He used movie analogies a lot to explain his
feelings and thoughts about life,” Carmen said.  “This reminds me of
scenes from Stealing Home, when Mark Harmon doesn’t know what to do with
Jody Foster’s ashes.  Finally, he decides to throw them off a pier in
Atlantic City.  I think it had something to do with a performing horse and
freedom.”  She looked at Gail.  “I really didn’t have any such
inspiration.  I’m not even sure I knew everything about him.”

“I don’t think we can ever know someone else totally,”
Gail said, “especially the men we love.”  She looked as sad as Carmen did.

Richey
was dead; nothing but ashes on the wind.  It seemed to Carmen that there
should be more to be said, more to learn — more meaning.  “I don’t know
what the lesson is,” she said to Gail.  “What to tell my daughter.
I’m not certain I should say anything to her.  Would I say, ‘There are
unpredictable things is life that can just sweep you up against your will, and
sometimes there’s nothing you can do about it.’”

“I
know.  It’s hard to admit we don’t — can’t — always control our
lives.  Maybe we’re never really in control, we just convince ourselves
that we are, even if we don’t believe it.  On the other hand, maybe there
are exceptions.  Marshon always seemed in control.  On the few
occasions when unforeseen events overwhelmed him, he maneuvered himself into a
position of control.  There’s more than a little bit of luck involved,
too.”

“Yes,
there’s bad luck out there, and good luck,” Carmen responded.  “I wonder
if some people are a magnet for certain kinds of luck.  It seems that way,
to me.”

The two, young beautiful women wearing long coats to
protect against the cold walked back to the concession stand, which was closed
for the season.  They sat on a bench slightly sheltered from the wind.

“You should have seen him as Willy Loman in Death of
a Salesman,” Carmen said.  She didn’t have to add that the nightmare
began that opening night.  It didn’t make any sense, but she’d wondered
several times how the understudy did during the remaining performances.
Carmen had read and re-read the reviews raving about Richey’s
performance.  Why didn’t the media mention that?  It was what Richey’s
life really was about.

“We’d planned to see the play Saturday night, and then
have dinner with you and Richey,” Gail said, “but that was before the Williams
thing, after which Marshon went into hiding.  I spent all my time trying
to decide whether to run away with Marshon.  He was planning to leave
before the trouble began.  St. Thomas, he said.  I’m sorry Richey and
I grew apart over the years.  Once, he and I and Marshon were like the
Three Musketeers.”  Gail laughed genuinely at the memory.

“What was it about them, that made them friends?”

Gail laughed.  “We were an unlikely trio, for sure,
and they were an unlikely pair!  We first met in what we all came to refer
to as the summer of Showboat.  We all got roles in the show and
began to hang around with each other, for different reasons.  Marshon was
trying to get into my pants and I was trying to learn acting skills from
Richey.  Richey, I don’t know for certain what he got out of it, other
than he just seemed to like us.  Enjoyed mentoring us about the joys of
acting.  Regaling us with his encyclopedic memory for movies.  He
could always recall a scene that reflected real life.”

“Richey genuinely liked most people,” Carmen said.
“He didn’t discriminate against people because of their station in life.
Not when he felt like he was always on the bottom.”

“Our friendship developed over time.  We’d go out
for drinks after rehearsals.  Richey invited us to his home.  At
first, even Shirley was an enthusiastic member of our circle, although she
cooled on Marshon after she found out what he did for a living.  Can’t
exactly blame her for that, since I had the same reaction.  Even so,
Richey went to work for Marshon at The Wheel.  Why did they remain
friends for so long?  I’m not sure.  Some people are just naturally
attracted to each other, even if they come from different backgrounds,
cultures, races.  The two of them seemed to talk the same talk, think the
same thoughts.  It may have been that they were both on the outside,
looking in.  Their noses pressed against the glass of life.”

Carmen looked stunned, remembering a conversation she’d
had with Richey after he first auditioned for Death of a Salesman.
“They were marginal people,” Carmen said.

Gail smiled and then nodded, as if she hadn’t ever
thought of their relationship that way.  “Yeah, I guess.  Marshon was
a pragmatist.  He found a way to make money, lots of money, but at some
level — and this is just my pseudo-psychological opinion derived from too many
conversations with my mother — Marshon regretted not having a more acceptable
purpose in life.  But, although he was conflicted about his lifestyle, he
loved it, too.  It was exciting, challenging and rewarding.  A game
he played, although it didn’t define his life.  It was a means to an end —
an ideal lifestyle in the Caribbean, I guess.  Marshon admired Richey for
his commitment, even if he didn’t make any money as an actor.  On the
other hand, Richey admired Marshon because Marshon had the guts, the
intelligence and leadership ability to get what he wanted, no matter what stood
in the way.  Richey could never get around his roadblocks, some of which I
think were a result of his personality.  He waited for life to come to
him.  Maybe, when Richey and Marshon were together, they were whole — both
practical and committed.  Pragmatic and idealistic at the same time.
I dunno.  I could be wrong about everything.  I just know that for
part of one golden summer, Marshon and I and Richey lived in a fantasy world of
the theater — a make-believe world — and had the time of our lives.  I’ve
never been happier, and I wish it had never ended.  I hope you have some
memories of Richey like that, Carmen.”

She did, thinking of how they’d been at the art fair the
day they first met.  Then, there was the day he auditioned for the part of
Willy Loman.  The day he agreed to go on the road with her and
Marisa.  His brilliant performance in Death of a Salesman.
The memories she missed were the ones they hadn’t had time to make.  She’d
imagined so many of them.

“Do they bother you all the time?”  Gail
asked.  “The news media bloodsuckers.”

“Yeah, but I don’t talk to them.”

“You should write the book.”

“I can’t imagine doing that, since I lived it.
Words couldn’t capture the horror, the insanity of it all.  And some
things no one will ever know, like what really happened to Kandie Givens, and
why?”

Gail pulled up the collar of her coat to ward off the
wind.  “For some reason, they think I know where the ransom money
is.  One reporter even asked if I would be taking the money to Marshon.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Gail laughed.  “Obviously not.  On the advice
of my father, I told the cops and prosecutors that Marshon had talked about a
condo he bought on St. Thomas.  However, that apparently is not true,
since the police investigated.  He doesn’t own a condo there.  Or, if
he does, it’s in a different name that no one knows about.  I still don’t
know why he lied to me.  Did he anticipate having to throw the police off
his trail?  Was he testing me?  Did he not trust me?  I don’t
have the answers.”  She looked at her fingernails, painted a brilliant
purple decorated with silver flecks.  “But, I think he has the money, just
between you and me.  He lied to me about that, too, maybe because he
didn’t trust me.  I try to understand.  He was running to save his
life.”

“Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”

Gail looked at the gunmetal sky and shrugged.
“I’ve learned never to say never, but I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“You shouldn’t cage a wild animal that runs free,” Gail
answered.  “I would always be his cage.  I love him too much to do
that to him.  I don’t fully understand him and what motivates him, but
I’ll always love him.  I don’t think that’s a contradiction.  Love
doesn’t die, but it can move to the background, especially when it’s best for
both lovers.”

Gail stood and held out her hand.  “Don’t be a
stranger, Carmen.  We’re kind of related, you know.”

∞
∞  ∞

Two days later, Carmen
did something else she had put off.  She went to Colonial National Bank in
The Shops at the convention center to open the safe deposit box
there.  She’d received in the mail a letter addressed to Carmen Salazar
Murphy.  She somehow knew it was from Richey.  She opened the letter
to find a note from him, an authorization card to access a safe deposit box,
and two keys.  The note included identification numbers copied from one
Alistair Murphy’s driver’s license and Visa card.  Getting correspondence
from a dead person was eerie.  In light of what had happened, the message
was especially unsettling: The money is yours, Carmen, to do with as you
like should anything happen to me.

Well, something certainly happened to Richey.
Carmen had waited, assuming the police would eventually figure it out.
She'd never read anything about it in the newspaper.  She considered that
it might be a trap they were waiting to spring on anyone who showed up to claim
the money.

It wasn’t hard to find out about Murphy.  Reading
back issues of the Star, Carmen discovered a small story indicating that
he’d died of a heart attack in the Hyatt while attending a convention.
She went online to his hometown newspaper in Nebraska and printed out his
obituary, so she’d know the names of his survivors –– if asked.

She’d signed the authorization card and sent it back to
the bank.  Being an accomplished graphic artist, it wasn’t hard for Carmen
to forge a driver’s license in the name of Carmen S. Murphy.  Even though
it had been several weeks since her photograph appeared in the newspaper, she
affected a disguise for the driver’s license photo.  She cut her hair
short and dyed it blond.  She wore a black pantsuit, bulky dark gray
overcoat, matching gray/black cadet hat, and tinted glasses.

So disguised, Carmen walked brazenly into Colonial
National.  She told a receptionist that she wanted access to her safe
deposit box and was directed to the desk of Gretchen Raintree.  A gaily
decorated Christmas tree sat beside Raintree’s desk.  Carmen presented her
new fake driver’s license and held her breath while Ms. Raintree compared it to
her signature on the authorization card.  She gave Carmen a cursory look
and smiled.  No one looked exactly like his or her driver’s license photo,
anyway.

It seemed certification enough that she was a Murphy
with a driver’s license, the signatures matched, and she had a key.  There
were no comments or condolences because Ms. Raintree apparently didn’t remember
Murphy or know that he was dead.  Had she known and mentioned it, it would
have been an alarm signal to Carmen, who would then have found an excuse to
leave the bank.

Murphy died of natural causes.  Because his death
wasn’t suspicious, maybe the police didn’t investigate, or didn’t investigate
thoroughly, what with everything else going on.  No one among all the
experts had made the connection between his death, missing I.D., and the ransom
money.  Obviously, Richey had had Murphy’s I.D., and Carmen could only
speculate where and how he got those cards.  The Star reporter
speculated that Marshon had stayed at the Hyatt during the time the police were
searching for him regarding the death of Michael Williams.  Murphy’s wife
apparently didn’t notice that her dead husband’s driver’s license and credit
card were missing; or, if she did, she didn’t bring it to anyone’s
attention.  Perhaps they were never used, other than for
identification.  Carmen had no idea what had happened to Murphy’s driver’s
license and Visa card.  It was one of many mysteries surrounding the whole
case.

Carmen carried the safe deposit box to one of the
cubicles hardly bigger than a phone booth.  Although she suspected what
was in the box, she could only stare dumbly at the money.  She had to see
it to believe it.  Then, she put the box back into its place in the vault
wall.  She wasn’t about to walk out with the money and encounter police
captain Kemp in the hallway.

She left the bank and went up to the food court on the
second floor, where she ordered a cappuccino.  She sat and pondered a
question: Who did the money really belong to?

James Kennedy, of course, assuming it was part of his
personal fortune.  If the bank lent it to him, it might be insured by the
federal government.  Was it possible a rich man like Kennedy even had
insurance against kidnapping and extortion?

Could a case be made that the money actually belonged to
Richey and Marshon?  James Kennedy had willingly paid money to save his
wife’s life.  That contract was kept.  It fact, Richey and Marshon
might also have saved the life of James Kennedy.  If the banker had
delivered the ransom directly to Ace, Ace could have killed him.  Richey
and Marshon certainly had helped rid society of Ace and Country, who
undoubtedly would have committed future crimes at a great cost to their victims
and society.  They would have stolen, raped, and killed again until they
were finally caught and jailed, after which taxpayers would have paid their
room and board for decades.  Richey and Marshon had done society a great
favor, and they were owed a debt.

Carmen was one of Richey’s heirs, the keeper of his
remains.  She had a claim to the money.  Richey wanted her to have
it.  The cops didn’t have to kill Richey, no matter how they justified
their action.  The money could be considered just compensation for his
unjust and unnecessary death.

However, Carmen didn’t go back to the bank, and get the money.
Instead, the next day, with her hair still dyed blond and cut short, she met
James Kennedy and their lawyer, David Early, in the lawyer’s office, and told
them the story about the safe deposit box.

“Why did you go to the bank, if you knew the money was
there?” the lawyer asked.  “And why did you wear a disguise.  The
police will want to know.”

“You weren’t listening carefully,” Carmen replied,
thinking that was a lawyer’s main job.  “I said I suspected the
money was there, as the note implied, but for all I knew, there could have been
a map or key in the safe deposit box.  I wasn’t one hundred percent
certain.”

“It may look suspicious to the police,” Early said,
stubbornly.

“Actually, I thought about keeping the money,” she
answered, honestly.

“I can’t very well tell them that.”

“Why not?  Thinking about it isn’t a crime.”

Kennedy smiled.  “What made you decide not
to keep the money, Carmen?”

Carmen shuddered.  “It wasn’t worth the lives it
took, or the lives it ruined.  Not even close.  It also would have
ruined my life and that of my daughter.  We would have always been looking
over our shoulders.  Besides, in the end, I decided it wasn’t my money to
keep.  It belongs to you, or your bank, or whomever.”

Kennedy looked at her kindly, and with understanding.
“You’re right, Carmen.  It was about much more than the money.  It
was about the people caught up in this evil … event.  Cathy is currently
is a rehab facility, more for the mental scars than the physical damage.”

“I’ll go see her, if you think it would help?”

Early couldn’t let go of lawyerly concerns.  “You
say it appears about half the ransom is there?” the lawyer asked.

“Yes, and when the cops asked if I carried out the other
half, they can check the video.”

The lawyer raised his eyebrows skeptically.  “And
they will wonder why you disguised your appearance.”

“Because the media follows me constantly, and I’m
entitled to privacy.”

The lawyer shook his head.  “Do you know where the
rest of the money is?”

“Not a clue, although I assume Marshon Johnson has
it.  And, no, I don’t know where he is.  No one does.”

Early looked less than satisfied.  “Okay, I’ll spin
it so you don’t get charged.”

Kennedy stood and offered his hand.  “Thanks again
for saving my wife’s life, Carmen.  You know, the bank has offered a
$50,000 reward for return of the money.  I can get you half of the reward,
since you recovered half the ransom.  I read that you’re an artist.
That you are thinking about traveling and painting?”

Carmen laughed.  “My mother doesn’t mind telling the
media everything they don’t need to know.  Those were plans Richey and I
had, but I’ve put them on hold.  I have a soon-to-be teenage daughter who
probably needs the stability of a permanent home.  If I can make a
suggestion, though, you might consider creating a college scholarship fund with
the reward money.  You choose the school.  The scholarship would fund
the study of acting and theater by deserving and talented students.  That
would be a great honor to Richey Stanton.  He and Marshon Johnson are the
ones who really saved your wife’s life that day, Mr. Kennedy.  Without
their efforts, your wife and I would never have made it to the garage and I
wouldn’t have found my gun.”

Kennedy nodded without speaking, and choked back tears.

Carmen started to leave the room, but stopped.  “If
it’s any consolation, right before I blew Ace Semanski’s brains out, his face
was full of fear — the same look of terror he caused others to feel, including
me and Cathy.  Goodbye, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Early.”

Although Carmen had abandoned the idea of hitting the
road full-time, she planned to use Richey’s monetary bequest to fund a vacation
to Paris for her and Marisa next summer.  They’d see the sights, include
the Louvre, but at some point Carmen would set up her easel on a street, or in
one of the parks, and paint.  She thought it would make a lasting
impression on Marisa, and perhaps imbue her with the idea that artistic
endeavor was real, valuable, rewarding, and possible.

That weekend, Carmen resumed her work on the unfinished
canvas she had decided to name The Circles of Life.  She made that
decision while in the trunk of a car.  Carmen planned to finish the
painting soon.  One of the last circles would be a blending of Richey and
Marshon’s faces, altered slightly and presented as a portrait of
Everyman.  Things black and white, but mostly gray.

∞
∞  ∞

Phillip Dahlgren’s
private Learjet descended in preparation for landing.  It
flew east along the south shore of Tortola, British Virgin Island, on a
brilliant autumn day a week before Christmas, although it was forever summer in
the Lesser Antilles.  The passengers included Marcus Jones, an English
couple named Robert and Emily Willson, and a young lawyer, Andrew Smyth, who
worked for Phillip Dahlgren.

Marcus/Marshon looked out the window at Road Bay and
Road Town, the capital city of the British Virgin Islands, and grinned
widely.  He’d almost made it home.  Many sailing vessels were at
anchor in the horseshoe-shaped bay.  Two large cruise ships also were
berthed at the long city dock.  Marcus thought the bay looked as if it had
once been the island’s volcanic mouth.  When the volcano ceased erupting
thousands of years ago, it looked as if the island had tilted to the south, at
which time seawater then partly filled the opening, extinguishing the flames
down below.  Buildings and houses were tiered around the bay, as the land
rose sharply to the island crest.  The terrain resembled a series of humps
separated by deep ravines.

The jet banked sharply left in preparation to land on Beef
Island, located east of Tortola.  The Queen Elizabeth Bridge connected the
two islands.  Off to the right, Marcus could see Virgin Gorda in the
distance.  It also was one of the larger islands among the sixty that
comprised BVI, although even Tortola, the largest, was only twelve-by-three
miles.  On the north side of Beef Island, more yachts and sailboats were
anchored in Trellis Bay.  Sailing, diving and white sandy beaches drew
most visitors to BVI.  The other attractions included a nearly constant temperature
of eight-four degrees Fahrenheit, plus little crime, which was rampant in other
parts of the Caribbean.

Marcus exchanged phone numbers with the Willsons, who
were headed to the Long Bay Beach Club on Tortola.  Marshon had been there
years ago for the wedding of SamL and ShaNa.  Robert said they lived in
London, where he worked for a brokerage house.  Marcus explained that he
was in the import-export business and had a home on Scrub Island.  They
mutually agreed to get together sometime over the next two weeks, if possible.

Marcus arranged to take a Dolphin Water Taxi to Scrub
Island.  The taxi resembled a cartoon of a boat, with a big smile painted
across the bow.  There was room for two up front, although Marcus was the
only passenger.  The “captain” stood and steered in an enclosed cabin
about the size of an old-fashioned telephone booth.  During the trip,
Marcus felt himself once again to be on the world, as he had first felt that
sensation when leaving Miami on Dahlgren’s yacht.

It took about twenty minutes to get to the Scrub Island
Marina, located on the west end of an island that was under two miles long and
barely a half-mile wide at its widest point.  It was known mainly for the
upscale resort near the marina and the secluded white sandy beaches on the
north shore.  Tourists came to sail, dive in the clear greenish-blue
waters, or simply lie on the beach.  There was an ambitious building
project to erect condominiums and villas for those who wanted a permanent
vacation home on the island.

Using the new smartphone provided by lawyer Dahlgren,
Marcus had called the house from Nassau.  As a result, the gardener Isaac
was waiting for him at the marina.  In addition to Isaac, Marcus employed
Tallu, a full-time housekeeper.  He planned to add a cook and probably a
security guard/jack-of-all-trades who would be his eyes and ears on the island
and in the area.

Isaac drove the four-wheel drive Jeep west of the marina
and followed the road across what Marcus referred to as the island chokepoint,
a narrow strip of land nearly at sea level that connected the island’s two
major humps.  Most of the development was on the west end near the
marina.  To the east, there were fewer than a dozen houses, although
nearly that many were under construction.  Marcus would soon be one of the
old-timers.

He and Isaac chatted about nothing in particular while
Marcus became attuned to the unique sounds of the island, especially the exotic
bird calls.  The trade winds blew across the island, generally from
northeast to southwest, bringing with them a salty smell.  Soon, Isaac
turned left and drove up a steep, winding blacktopped road toward the house —
his house; the one into which he poured a $1.5 million dollar down
payment.  Marcus’s first item of business in the islands would be to pay
off the mortgage, so he could never lose his home.

Marcus grinned widely and once again shook his head in
disbelief.  The two-story house with stucco exterior walls and distinctive
red roof tiles sat at the end of a circular drive near the edge of a
cliff.  The two wings of the U-shaped, 17-room house ran parallel to the
east-west line of the cliff.  On the veranda nearest the cliff, he could
experience both spectacular sunrises and sunsets.  If the house had been
located somewhere on the coast of California, perhaps near Malibu, its selling
price would have been a multiple of the $3 million that Marcus/Marshon paid.

Marcus followed Isaac up the front walk where the
housekeeper waited just outside the massive wood, front door.

“Welcome
home, Mr. Jones,” she said.

“Thank you, Tallu.  It’s good to be here.”  It
was only the sixth time he’d visited since buying the estate.

While Isaac took his clothes bag and laptop case up to
his bedroom, Marcus walked out onto the expansive veranda and took in the view,
including the cantilevered pool, the ocean, islands in the distance, and the
stairway that wound down the equivalent of three stories to a secluded cove and
beach below.  It was the stuff of fairy tales for a boy who had grown to
manhood in a city ghetto.

However, Marcus/Marshon recalled a story Richey once
told him about a Roman emperor returning from a great conquest.  The
emperor had a soothsayer walk beside him during a triumphant parade and whisper
a cautionary note in his ear: All glory is fleeting.  He wanted to
remember that.  Kidnapping was a federal crime if the victim was
transported across state lines, as Cathy Kennedy had been in the Kansas City
metropolitan area.  She had been kidnapped in Missouri, held in a hotel in
Kansas, and then transported back into Missouri.  The FBI would always be
on the lookout for Marshon Johnson, insisting that he was a co-conspirator —
and that he had half the ransom money.  That version was half-true.

Marcus had taken to heart the lesson of the drug dealer
who’d built and owned this beautiful house before him.  He must have loved
it, but some crisis, probably with the law, or perhaps a financial problem, had
forced him to leave abruptly and sell his house for half of what he’d paid for
it.  To prevent a similar fate, Marcus was mentally developing a
contingent plan, which was his forte.  He had experience.

Time would reveal Lawyer Dahlgren’s true character and
the nature of his business.  Maybe it would turn out to be the perfect
partnership, but Marcus had a feeling that Dahlgren’s clients included those
involved in drugs, arms and sex trafficking.  Marcus didn’t want to have
anything to do with those businesses.  Whether they could reach an
accommodation remained to be seen.

Marshon still wanted to fleece rich gamblers, but he
also now wanted a passion to indulge.  He wanted to do something with the
remainder of his life that had meaning.  That’s what he’d learned in the
hell fires of Kansas City.  It also was Richey’s legacy.  Marcus had
yet to figure out the mission, and the means.

When he announced that intent, would Dahlgren be
understanding and accommodating, or would he rather blackmail Marshon/Marcus,
by threatening to reveal his identity and location to American law enforcement
agencies?  To Dahlgren, he might forever be viewed as an instrument, a
ramrod.  Marcus had to be ready for the latter possibility with a plan of
action.  Since that plan could never include abandoning his new home and
going underground, as had the drug dealer, then it must include every possible
option necessary to neutralize Dahlgren.  He needed to begin compiling a
dossier and learn everything he could about his lawyer, including Dahlgren’s
personality characteristics, flaws and quirks.  His friends and enemies.
His vulnerabilities.  Hopefully, Marcus could outmaneuver Dahlgren, and
neutralize him so they could coexist peacefully.

While this was his dream home, Marcus also was trapped
on a tiny island.  He needed a waterman on his payroll; someone with a
boat who knew every island, cay, and beach within a hundred-mile radius.
Someone who could pick him up on the beach below the house and get him to
safety in less than an hour.  He also needed an airplane, even a prop job,
that he could keep on Beef Island.  He had to learn to fly if he was going
to live in the islands.

Shortly after Christmas, Marcus grew restless and
decided to throw a party — a house warming.  He’d become a regular in the
two restaurants and the bar located in the Scrub Island resort, which had about
50 hotel rooms and a dozen or more rental villas of varying sizes.  He’d
befriended the resort manager, Wesley Pennington, and invited him to lunch at
the house.  As a result, the manager, a single, thirties-something guy,
was happy to introduce him to many of the locals.  Marcus, who had never
met a stranger, quickly established a circle of new acquaintances.  He
needed friends he could trust with his life, as he had trusted his life to
Jemmy, Widja and Richey.

Marcus also asked Wes to invite some of the resort guests
to the party, preferably the generational rich and successful businesspersons.
Marshon also recalled the Willsons and rang them up.  Robert asked
if they might invite a German couple they’d met on the island, and Marcus said
he’d be delighted.  Additionally, he invited the Scrub Island marina
manager, who claimed to know every sailor in the American and British Virgin
Islands.  Marcus also asked him to bring some of his friends.  All in
all, it promised to be a diverse gathering of about twenty individuals.

Initially, Marcus had Tallu show his guests to the
veranda, where he directed them to the bar and a table loaded with hors
d’ouvres.  He pointed out the cabanas and said each included men’s and
women’s swimsuits in various styles and sizes.  There were many
comfortable, padded deck chairs arranged around the pool.

After everyone had arrived, Marcus conducted a brief
tour of his home, beginning in the living room, through the dining room and
past the kitchen.  The connecting hallway opened into a sitting room and a
library.  The parallel ground floor wing had three guest bedrooms.

The interior courtyard contained a terraced garden
planted with brightly colored Caribbean flowers and trees — including
bougainvillea, palm trees, dwarf coconut trees, giant crotons, and other
flowers and plants whose names and characteristics Marcus had yet to
learn.  Two sidewalks crossed the courtyard.

Marcus and his guests walked up a circular, wrought iron
staircase to the second level.  The upstairs interior wing was a duplicate
of the one below it, with three more guest bedrooms.  The connecting
hallway contained two rooms: a music room, and a billiards room.

The wing above the living and dining rooms included a
large master bedroom, with a balcony extending over about half of the
veranda.  Also on the cliff side were an exercise room and breakfast area.

Back on the terrace, his guests each voiced their
amazement at his new home.  Several had brought gifts, including a silver
coffee service, an oil painting by a local artist, and an antique sextant from
the marina manager.  Marcus was genuinely surprised and pleased.

His guests settled in with their drinks and food; a few
made use of the pool.  Marcus congratulated Tallu on the bountiful buffet
table loaded with breads, meats, cheeses, and plenty of fruit, including
mangoes, pineapples, plantains, and ugli.  Tallu had brought it two women
from Tortola to help serve.  Later, they would grill steak and chicken.

There was a brief moment when Marcus/Marshon imagined
another scene, in which Richey sat by the pool, drinking martinis and talking
about movies, while Carmen painted and Marisa exchanged text messages with new
friends.  In that mental dream, Gail walked up and slipped her arm around
his waist, and pressed herself again him, as she’d done so many times
before.  She breathed his name and told him that the family finances and
investments were triple-A, and that they didn’t have to work, nor worry about
anything.  Ever.  Their life existed in a fabulous house, on an island,
in an ocean, on a rock orbiting around the sun.  All was well in the
universe.

It should have worked out that way.  In the end,
Marshon had decided that Skinny Walker’s philosophy of life was only partly
right.  Getting money guaranteed independence and safety, sometimes.
But, as Richey might say, that’s just scenery.  It was the message of the
play that was important, and the people on stage who brought it to life and
made it real.  The message had to be uplifting.  Life had to have a
purpose beyond the material, but, at the moment, Marshon didn’t know what that
was.  The scene of what should have been faded to the reality of the
moment.

“I hear there’s a festival this month on Montserrat and
a regatta on St. Vincent,” said Consuela, a neighbor who lived nearby.
“Will you be going, Marcus?”

“I would, if I had a boat.”

“You can come with my party on my boat,” she offered.

“Good.  Perhaps you can give me sailing lessons.”

Consuela, a hot Latin number whose elderly Brazilian
husband traveled frequently on business trips, had been coming on to him since
he met her several days ago in the resort bar.  Marcus naturally was wary
of offending her obviously rich and powerful husband.

“Marcus, where do you come from in the
states?”  Wes, the resort manager, asked.

“Chicago,” he said.

“And I hear you are in the import-export business,” one
of the resort guests asked.  Marcus couldn’t remember his name.

“Yes.”

“I believe Marcus is affiliated with Phillip Dahlgren of
Nassau,” Willson said, and Marcus acknowledged this statement with a brief nod
of his head.

“I saw Dahlgren’s yacht over on Beef Island,” the marina
manager said.  “It’s spectacular.  Have you sailed on it, Marcus?”

“Yes, recently, from Miami, with Gus and Olaf.  As
you say, it’s one of a kind.  When Phillip told me the price, I’m certain
my jaw dropped a bit.”

“Remember your new friends if you stumble across
something interesting in your new business ventures,” Willson said.

“I will, Robert, I certainly will.”

While Marcus searched for an enduring purpose for his
life, he still wanted to play the money game.  It wasn’t just that
an abundance of money usually increased one’s odds of enjoying safety, comfort
and independence.  The game itself was challenging and, ultimately,
addictive.  It required intelligence, innovation and bravery.  It
provided excitement, power, and freedom from mediocrity.  Sometimes,
playing equaled pure enjoyment.  Right or wrong, the money game defined
life in his time, and Marcus was a player.  Now was the time to begin a
new game.

“Any gamblers here?”  Marcus asked suddenly.

“I love a good game of poker,” Willson said
enthusiastically.  “Maybe some of the other chaps are interested.”

“Yeah, I’m interested,” Wesley said.  The German
also nodded, as did the marina manager.  They gathered around Marcus as he
stood near the bar.

“Before we get a poker game going, let me tell you about
an intriguing new game being played in the states,” Marcus said.  “Some
call it The Private Lottery or simply The Richey.”  He’d
allow its mystery to spawn its own mythology.  Maybe it would become a
descriptive noun for the new gamblers.  Richeys.  It could
become a verb for their activity: They richeyed their way to a pot of gold.

“How does it work?”

“Very simply.  Every player buys at least one
two-digit number between zero-zero and ninety-nine,” Marcus said, “and the
winning number is the first two-digits in the pick four game of any state
lottery drawn that evening.”

“How interesting.  Simple, and it certainly
couldn’t be rigged.”

“You’re assuming the state lottery isn’t rigged.”

“How much per number?” the man with the German accent
asked.

“That varies, of course, depending on the number of
players and the price per ticket.”  Marshon decided on a gambit.
“I’ve heard of one game involving twenty players who paid ten thousand dollars
for each two-digit number.”

“A million-dollar pot!”

“A fifty thousand dollar investment per player.”

“Of course, that’s bit much for us,” Marcus said,
good-naturedly.

Consuela joined the men, which gave Marcus a chance to reprise
the game as his guests thought about it.  Then, he helped out the
decision-making process, “Just for the fun of it, let’s say we get ten people
here at the party to each ante up a hundred dollars.  It’ll be a thousand
dollar pot.”

“I don’t have that much cash on me,” the marina manager
said.

Marcus waved off that consideration.  “I’ll stake
anyone who’s short.  We’ll settle up later.  Maybe you’ll win!”

“How do we decide who gets what numbers?”  Consuela
asked.

“I’ll get Tallu and the help to write down all one
hundred numbers, each on a small piece of paper,” Marshon said.  “We’ll
put all the numbers in a bowl and each of us will draw out 10 slips of
paper.  We’ll draw high card to determine the order of the draw.
What do you say, folks!”

“I’m game,” the German said, confidently.  “My wife
and I will both play.  That will make the odds in our favor
five-to-one.  I like that.”

Marcus/Marshon waved a warning finger in front of his
guests and said, in a booming voice, accompanied by his best Jamaican laugh, “I
must warn you all!  I have been very lucky lately.  Very lucky,
indeed!”

Luck is a synonym for fate, which some people believe to
be predetermined, in part.  Clearly, there are a multitude of influences that
determine whether one is healthy or sick, lives a short or long life, and lives
either comfortably, or in poverty.  Such circumstances can shape one’s
personality, and attitude about life itself.  Skinny Walker believed that, with
enough money, he could make his own luck.  If you can afford the best of health
care, you are less likely to succumb to illness and an early death.  Most
people can get money only by working in the economy; otherwise, no one would
perform the many, many jobs that are dangerous, degrading, boring and/or
seemingly useless.  A few individuals step outside the traditional workplace
and attempt to make money in the easiest and fastest way, which is not always
the legal way.  It’s human nature to bend the rules, and legality may be a
relative term within the economic marketplace, anyway.  But, all individual
efforts are still susceptible to fate, or luck.  In fact, some people are
lucky, and some aren’t.  People make good and bad choices — some more
consistently than others.  Luck, good and bad, can be oddly transient, or
cyclical.  It’s difficult to calculate the odds of being lucky, because so
many variables come into play, and so many events seem unpredictable, including
earthquakes, war, random murder, and a host of
accidents.  Nevertheless, health care professionals, actuaries,
insurance companies, bookies and gamblers still quote odds on the likelihood of
almost anything happening.  They will take your money, in the form of a wager,
or premium, or service fee.  You can effectively bet on how long you will live,
whether you will get cancer, whether your team will win, the numbers that will
be drawn in the state lottery, who will become president, and the possibility
that a cruise ship will sink within the next thirty days.

One could argue that the events that took place in
Kansas City did not affect enough people to be a statistically valid
sample.  Marshon and Carmen were clearly lucky, although Carmen didn’t
necessarily feel fortunate immediately afterward.  Boudra and Rinaldo
Morgan certainly appear to have been lucky.  Future events might reveal Gail to
have lucked out, too.  Richey, Jemmy, Kandie, Widja, James and Cathy
Kennedy, and Ace and Country Long, were clearly unlucky.  Some deserved their
fate, while others clearly didn’t.  Even Michael Williams was unlucky, for
that matter.  On that basis, Marcus arbitrarily calculated the odds of
being lucky as about one chance in five, which he imagined would also be true
for his new life in the islands.  He planned to make every effort
necessary to beat the odds, and continue to be the lucky one.

THE END