Winter

Winter:

Khalid Christopher did not yet know that he would replay the events of this warm winter evening every day for the rest of his life. Now his attention was focused on Rabi Dog, a fellow gang member who would be delivering a briefcase containing tens of thousands of dollars. Rabi Dog would be parking in a blind spot and he would shuffle the twenty or so feet to the side door where the zone cams had been set to fifteen-minute blackout.

Both Khalid and Rabi Dog were members of the Philanthropic Alliance, an assembly of street gangs and non-profit organizations formed in Los Angeles a decade earlier. Khalid had belonged to an upstart gang called the Organizers before they were absorbed into the Alliance. Like other gangs before them, the Organizers took their name from their high school mascot. Charles Ramad High School originally called themselves the Warriors but in a bow to political correctness, they were rechristened the Organizers and the martial black and gold was replaced with pink and white and lavender. The cheery chromatics would give the Organizers a lot of breathing room on a crowded color spectrum where mortal battles would sometimes wage in efforts to monopolize the primary colors.

Had the Organizers been listed on an exchange, they would have been categorized as a growth stock. Khalid's star rose in tandem with the Organizers and for two years he held the lucrative and respected position of external banker. Khalid recently joined eighty-nine of his gang brothers in transferring to Mississippi following that state's commitment to the non-prosecution of all victimless crimes.

The house Khalid had purchased for his banking duties and residence was nothing like he had imagined. It had originally been a two room shack a century ago but it had been expanded and then modified at least a dozen times, not including the new roofs or the addition of plumbing and electricity. It was a creeping white gerrymander with a slinky foundation that always sank deeper into the Mississippi sludge. Still, Khalid considered his house a bargain. With seven rooms and two acres, it would cost less than a vacant lot in Khalid's hometown.

Earlier in the day Khalid looked in on his girlfriend, Kathy Kane as she sat in a small appendix of a room whose floor space had been consumed by a loveseat and a 55-inch television mounted on a rhinestone-encrusted fake wood stand. She had been watching a crime show where the crooks enjoyed an invader-proof security system. Every square millimeter of house and yard was under surveillance. Khalid was envious.

Yes, such a fortress might be commonplace in the hills of Beverly or the palms of Florida but middle-class people did not usually indulge in such luxuries and if a gangster asked his Yellow Page alarm company to install such a system, he would paint a target on his own back. It was imperative that Khalid build his own security system.

Khalid had spent hours and then days and then more days installing his customized video fortress. He had mounted pricey cameras on rain-rotten wood and ran cable under rugs and over doorways and through powdery drywall. The system spotted intruders but it also required a dead zone where Organizer crew chiefs could deposit briefcases and satchels and depart without their faces or license plates ever being recorded.

"Breaker One-Nine. Breaker One-Nine. This is NASCAR Number Five" It was Rabi Dog cooing a solid cracker imitation on the CB radio Khalid kept on a faux leopard skin table in the foyer. In codespeak Rabi Dog was five minutes away and if he received an immediate response from Khalid, he would soon be turning into the banker's driveway.

"Back at you, NASCAR Five. This is Daytona 43. Reach me on the mobile." Khalid's good old boy character was every bit as credible as Rabi Dog's.

"Roger." No further verbiage was necessary. Khalid turned off the lights in the foyer and waited for Rabi Dog to knock on the storm door. He arrived sooner than expected and delivered seven deliberate knocks.

Khalid studied his colleague through a peephole in the large wooden door. Rabi Dog was thirty-five years old. He stood 5 foot, 7 inches, and his build was slim. He had a slight overbite and octoroon skin. His short cropped hair revealed his West African heritage.

Khalid loosened bolts and latches and chains and Rabi Dog stepped inside with an economy of motion. With even more efficiency, he handed Khalid a black vinyl briefcase. "Eighty-seven five," he said softly and matter of factly. Then he was gone.

Khalid was surprised by Rabi Dog's newfound professionalism. For the first time, he was not chummy. No questions about bulletproof glass or working cameras. No requests to use the toilet and no small talk. Just complete the transaction in a blind spot and auf wiedersehen.

Khalid locked the heavy wooden door and secured the bolts and chains. He lifted the briefcase and bounced the two steps into what was originally going to be the billiard room until it was decided that the floors were too sloped. He ducked his head and entered the Z-shaped hallway lined with framed pictures of dead rappers and emerged at the tiny TV room where Kathy Kane was now watching a "Crime and Justice" rerun.

Whatever pressure might arise from Khalid's job—collecting and safeguarding large sums of money for his organization and transferring the loot to secret internal bankers—it did allow for Khalid to keep banker's hours. He would spend a few hours a day performing his official duties and he would then spend the rest of his time with Kathy Kane.

With briefcase in hand, Khalid slid his ostentatiously ordinary frame next to Kathy Kane where she was rolled up on the tiger-striped loveseat. "Do you like what I did?" she purred, pointing to a foot long palm tree she had stenciled on the wall using lime green spray paint.

Khalid studied her creation. He should have been angry. The room's four walls were painted in Organizer gang colors.--a horizontal line of lavender, a horizontal line of white, a horizontal line of pink, another horizontal line of white, repeated three times—and no one was allowed to paint over gang colors. You could hang up a picture or a poster but someone could get killed painting over Organizer colors.

But this was, after all, Kathy Kane. Not the first woman to touch Khalid's heart but the first woman he loved who loved him back. Khalid had plenty of women in his twenty-six years. Every time he fell hard for a woman, she brushed him off and vice versa. Then came Kathy Kane.

Kathy Kane was a twenty-year-old mocha-skinned beauty. She had excelled in soccer and gymnastics as a child but then her breasts grew and grew and her proportions made routine motion difficult. She had considered reduction surgery but her older sister, Karma, underwent the procedure and she never stopped complaining about the pain she endured.

Khalid slowly placed his arm around his sweetheart's shoulder and gently pulled her close to him. They kissed tenderly and Khalid pulled back. "We'll talk about the palm tree tomorrow." He again pressed his lips to meet hers.

Suddenly his Rottweilers barked furiously in the yard and Khalid broke the embrace and paused to listen. There was a blinding flash and a noise that bit him deep inside. Khalid would later learn that the TV room had been hit by a percussion grenade.

The impact forced Khalid into a state where he was aware of what was going on but helpless to move or act. Kathy Kane, on the other hand, was confused but eruptive. They were being raided. Khalid was certain of that much.

From his spot closer to the TV room's entrance, Khalid processed the horrific thud of a portable battering ram being applied to the door that Rabi Dog had exited just minutes ago. He saw Kathy Kane flopping around in her panda pajamas and he wanted to calm her. But he sat frozen as she bounced around the room.

Two figures with lights on their heads barged into the tiny room pointing serious weapons with laser pointers. Kathy Kane lunged at the invaders and Khalid assessed the chaos. Khalid felt a surge of strength and arose from the floor, positioning himself between his lover and the intruders.

The jolt was unmistakable. Khalid had been tased. He was conscious in his paralysis and was grateful that he had not taken lead. Five years ago, Khalid had taken four rounds for the Organizers. One to the left hip, one to the left forearm and two to the torso. The agony was ruthless. Khalid had heard people on TV as well as in real life downplay the pain of gunshot wounds. Khalid's situation was different. He screamed for God to end his life but his prayers went unanswered. Now, he lay in relative comfort compared to that haunting memory.

With Khalid immobilized the raiders turned their attention to Kathy Kane. The taller figure hit her hard over the head, producing a wound that would require seven stitches to close, a severe concussion and complications for a long time to come. Kathy Kane was subdued but aware. When the shorter figure stuck his gun barrel to Khalid's head and threatened to pull the trigger, she complied with their demand. She told them about the two hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars that were stashed in the top load freezer. Satisfied with their payday, the thieves left behind a larger stash in a hollow wall and overlooked the briefcase Rabi dog had delivered just minutes earlier.

Khalid was unsure how long he lay on the floor. He would remember lifting a softly-sobbing Kathy Kane and he would remember slipping on the blood as he carried her to her Barbie Doll Coupe. He would not remember driving her to the hospital but he would remember the difficulty he had telling the hospital staff what had happened. Mostly he would remember the thought that lingered with him whenever he recalled the ordeal. Rabi Dog had something to do with this. Rabi Dog had betrayed him.

Khalid pledged a silent vow of justice.

It was a small featureless conference room. No clocks. No phones. No windows. No pens. No papers. Just three senior men sitting around an oblong table.

Walter McVey, age 61, retiree from the DEA and unofficially representing the Department of Justice, sat on one of the long sides. Thomas Weldon, age 63, retired from the IRS, sat across from McVey. At the head of the table sat Robert James Smith, age 62, a secretive man who spent most of his life coordinating the work of intelligence agencies.

McVey and Weldon, looked to Smith to start the meeting. They stared at a man with no distinguishing characteristics. He stood five foot nine and was of medium build. He had been blessed with nondescript WASP genes and his chin had been surgically modified to resemble a composite European. His once bushy eyebrows had been trimmed. His nose and lips had been tailored with just the right amount of brown pigment. His suit and tie and glasses served as camouflage amongst Beltway bureaucrats. A mole on his left cheek had been surgically removed thirty-five years ago. Had Mr. Smith decided to rob a suburban DC convenience store, the authorities would have rounded up dozens of subjects who looked just like him.

Walter McVey posed a question for Mr. Smith. "How did it ever get this far?" He was referring to the Joseph Family. There were safeguards in place to slap down upstarts and boat rockers. America had developed her own class system and the lines of demarcation were to be honored. Outsiders would be challenged should they obtain excessive wealth or if they expressed unapproved political ambition. Under no circumstances were they to challenge the fourth estate. Never.

The Josephs had become the wealthiest family in America. They had grown their own news media and now they were dabbling with politics. There were supposed to be speed bumps in place. Walter McVey wanted answers.

Mr. Smith leaned back slightly in his black vinyl swivel chair and responded in a monotone. "Do you ever watch baseball?"

"No sir." Walter McVey replied earnestly.

"See, that's the problem. All of life's lessons can be learned on the diamond. It's one thing to throw God out of the classroom, but when America loses interest in baseball, the country is doomed."

Thomas Weldon spoke up. "Let me guess. You had lunch with Ty Cobb just the other day and the Georgia Peach said that night games were just a fad."

Walter McVey bristled at Weldon's jab. Few people intimidated Walter McVey but the Legendary Mr. Smith would be one of those few. If Weldon was comfortable enough to jape with Mr. Smith, then there must be some sort of prior relationship, which meant that he, Walter McVey would be the odd man out.

"You see this happen from time to time," Mr. Smith continued. "It happens to the best teams. You have an easy pop fly. You have three guys standing under it. Two outfielders and an infielder or two infielders and an outfielder. Forty million in talent and the ball hits the ground." He looked directly at Thomas Weldon and then to Walter McVey. "The ball hits the ground."

There was a silence and Mr. Smith continued. Without benefit of flash card or notes, he summarized John Joseph's life. "This is a fascinating life. I am going to skip over the mother and father and their families for now. And let's skip on his brother and sister for that matter.

"John Joseph was born almost forty years ago to a commercially successful filmmaker and his industrial scion wife. Had he never shown an aptitude for making money, John Joseph probably would have received a ten figure trust fund at some point in his life. He was not born on third base. This kid had circled the bases a couple of times before his mother squirted him out.

"John Joseph sprung onto the world stage at age six when he was cast in one of his father's low budget, high-yield post-apocalyptic movies. He might have been cute but John Joseph was no actor. In eight movies he uttered exactly one line, ironically enough, 'the world is ours.'" Mr. Smith delivered the line in the same tinny monotone the child actor had used, confirming that he had studied his subject in depth. "His performances would consist of minimalist facial expressions that won the hearts of viewers worldwide.

"Rumors circulated that John Joseph was mentally retarded, that he had a severe speech impediment and that he was autistic. But he did show an aptitude for numbers and with the help of a small army of personal tutors, John Joseph was able to complete a math degree at age 12.

"The Joseph Family bought a house near the Cal Poly campus and it was there that their older son earned a Ph.D. in mathematics at age 14. They then bought a house in Cambridge so John Joseph could study engineering at MIT. While studying at MIT, John Joseph started speculating in currencies and soon became a wizard at prognostication. Despite high marks in school, John Joseph dropped out at age 16 to devote full time to his newfound passion.

"John Joseph was recruited by a large Connecticut trading firm to perform his magic. There, he made millionaires billionaires and billionaires decabillionaires. His father was reluctant to let his son manage the family's wealth but he relented and before long the fortune added a couple of zeroes to its tally.

"When we finally got around to squelching the currency racket, a new cast of uber-wealthy had been created. We brought most of them into the flock but the Joseph Family remains belligerent."

Walter McVey reflected on Mr. Smith's narrative and reminded himself how much he hated the Joseph Family. The McVeys had once been one of America's wealthiest families. But their sons went into the military or public service and their sons charted a similar course and in a couple of generations they were upper middle-class people. They didn't continually push to expand their empire like the Joseph Family. Maybe if John Joseph served a few years in drug enforcement, maybe he would see things normally.

Mr. Smith continued. "With the forex golden goose slaughtered, a twenty-four-year-old John Joseph publicly announced that he would launch a career in venture capitalism." Walter McVey bristled at the recital. He hated the water torture of this punk's endless success. At least Smith skipped over the harness racing achievements. Please, please don't go into detail on the moonbot story. Please.

And Mr. Smith read off a litany of success stories. "Please skip the moonbot story," Walter McVey said to himself. If he heard one more account of John Joseph duplicating the Apollo 11 with talking robots, he would pray for deafness.

Mr. Smith glossed over the hackneyed Neilbot story but he did spend a lot of time on Joseph powersats, Joseph Transport, Joseph Personnel, his anti-glamor portfolio, his competition-for-competition-sake portfolio, his invasion of the entertainment industry and his ultimate migration into news. More detail than Walter McVey cared to hear about the silver spoon jackass.

But just as the credits were starting to roll, Mr. Smith surprised his audience by expressing his admiration for the Joseph Family. They provided jobs for workers and prosperity for investors. John Joseph had set a goal to increase American scientists and engineers by a factor of ten. Mr. Smith even supported John Joseph siring sixty some odd children by sixty some odd women because Mr. Smith was "sad to see stupid people do all the breeding."

Mr. Smith saved his strongest compliments for John Joseph's contributions to the game of baseball, especially the even-handed manner in which he treated performance enhancing drugs. Walter McVey's ears opened and he sat up straight in his vinyl black chair. It was imperative that private entities follow the lead of bureaucratic guidance, especially in respect to drug consumption. People needed rules. They needed guidance. They needed help in matters large and small. If Mr. Smith did not support what the Josephs had arrogantly dismissed as "the bureaucratic agenda," maybe Weldon and McVey would have to find a different ally.

"In conclusion," Mr. Smith rumbled with dramatic flair, "John Joseph is one of the most daring and accomplished people the world has ever produced."

There was a long silence. Walter McVey diverted his eyes from Smith and stared across the table at Thomas Weldon, who returned his look. Weldon also seemed confused by Mr. Smith's praise. They had come to bury Joseph, hadn't they? Walter McVey observed a face that more resembled a wounded sidewinder than a stoic accountant.

Thomas Weldon turned his head to Mr. Smith and broke the silence. "I didn't know you had a hardon for this guy."

Walter McVey flinched. To speak so crudely to the legendary Mr. Smith suggested a more than a prior acquaintance, it revealed a closeness that would make Walter McVey the third wheel on a two wheel bicycle. And he listened sharply as Mr. Smith continued the hagiography. Another silence followed the conclusion.

"So, are you in or out?" Thomas Weldon asked in an even tone.

"Are you kidding?" Mr. Smith asked incredulously. "This is what I do. I spent my entire life to get to enjoy this opportunity. This will be my magnum opus. John Joseph is the great white whale and I am Captain Ahab!"

"Call me Ishmael!" the two men shouted in unison. Laughter ensued, followed by handshakes and compliments. A team had formed and Walter McVey felt an echo of his first open-mouth kiss. Game on!

Mindy Watkins' diminutive frame was hyperbolated by the expanse of the limousine's cab. She tried to sit tall but in doing so her feet did not reach the floor. As the Tennessee countryside of trailer parks and scrubby wetlands and dry swamps rushed by, she reminded herself to address the seating options before she entertained more clients.

Mindy Watkins was CEO of the Watson Group, a privately-owned conglomerate specializing in the procurement of government contracts. The Watson Group was founded by Ms. Watkins' father a few years before her birth. Lamar Watson had inherited a large fortune and had turned it into a small fortune. He had managed to hold onto the homestead and to put food on the table and to send his daughters to pricey schools. The company staggered and stumbled and gasped and wheezed until finally they established themselves in the lucrative private prison business, fifteen years ago. Mindy was grateful that her father and mother had tasted success before they went to their graves six months apart.

With the introduction of The Unit, a titanic facility that held prisoners from six counties in Western Tennessee, Amerijail had successfully applied the technology of Bundled And Fortified Fiber Optics to the corrections industry. Mindy Watkins calmly explained the advantages of BAFFO to her three Israeli clients in her affected Vanderbilt drawl. “BAFFO is not quite as strong as traditional building materials so we have yet to build anything taller than seven stories.”

The lady and gentleman who sat across from her nodded as did their leader, Michael Kntscv, who sat next to her. Mindy Watkins had expected to meet some Amish-looking blokes at the airport. To her surprise, her three clients could pass for members of the Austrian ski team. They were all in their thirties and had taut, tan bodies. Sarah Perlmutter was a golden-eyed brunette bombshell decked out in a Russian blue pantsuit. Mr. Kntscv was starting to show a few gray hairs but otherwise looked youthful.

Saul Naveev could pass for Mr. Kntscv's younger, handsomer brother. He wore a well cut dark blue suit similar to the one his boss wore. Mindy Watkins had to divert her eyes from the stud bagel who sat directly across from her. He looked so inviting framed with the spotless rear window that showcased a brisk Tennessee morning. She studied the car's plush interior. Lots of space, lots of cushion, lots of cup holders, lots of quiet, bundled in a smooth charcoal gray. The limo company was owned by a client of Carlisle Watkins, Mindy's husband, and he always treated his customers right.

“BAFFO has greatly reduced the cost of incarceration as well as providing the means and methods of gentle behavioral modification...” Mindy Watkins was keenly aware that she had her guests' attention. They ever so subtly pivoted their torsos in her direction. Mindy Watkins breathed fully and took a microsecond to observe the Tennessee countryside flying by at 95 miles per hour. She continued her memorized pitch.

“We really are on a brink of a brave new era. Give us a bank robber and we'll give you an architect. Give us a predator and we'll give you a puppy dog. Give us a terrorist and we'll give you a philanthropist.

She paused to sip her bottled water and glanced sideways to see how closely Mr. Naveev tracked her motions. She licked her lips deliberately and placed the bottle back in its cup holder. She continued. “Why we could take every prisoner in Israel and convert them all to Judaism.” Her three guests recoiled.

Thinking fast, Mindy Watkins continued. “Or we could make them all Christian. That way you wouldn't have to worry about suicide bombers invading your temple.” The guests chuckled and Mindy Watkins felt good about the presentation so far.

The Israelis once more thanked Mindy Watkins for entertaining them on her Sabbath and she reminded her guests of the Christian obligation to support Israel. And before the limo was parked she was able to remind them that both Memphis and Nashville had a lot of decent Jewish people and that the cast and writers and producers of her favorite TV show, “Crime and Justice” except for the women and the token minorities, happened to be Jewish.

Upon arrival at the VIP parking area, the gentlemen were met by two male coaches and one female coach. They would escort the passengers to visitor areas where they would strip, shower and don visitor coveralls. Mindy Watkins decided to use the prep time to conduct a pop inspection.

With her flaming red hair that flowed over her shoulders adorned in a verdant winter dress and matching shoes, Mindy Watkins did not need to display her executive badge that was clamped to her lapel. All staff knew the petite redhead who liked to wear green.

Anticipating the dignitaries' visit, the head coach on duty had arrived in the parking lot to meet the lady who was called “The Flame” behind her back. “The flame burns softly,” meant that Mindy Watkins was on the premises and was in a relatively good mood. “the flame has been extinguished,” meant that she had left for the evening. The mood of a small city was shaped by the absence or presence of the Flame.

“Want to watch 'Crime and Justice' in your office, Ms. Watkins?” the burly, wrinkled white man inquired.

Mindy Watkins politely reminded Coach Daniels that the visitors would be ready in about twenty minutes and she would not have time to watch an episode of her favorite TV show. With that, the duo proceeded to the Nutrition Dispatch Area.

With five staggered time zones the NDA was always busy. Five hours of breakfast followed by five hours of lunch followed by five hours of dinner. The food was actually prepared—cooked and packaged and sealed--in an adjoining building and was transported through tunnels either by conveyor or by hand carts pushed by inmate workers.

The NDA was in essence a giant loading dock where packaged meals awaited their final destination. The Watson Group had high hopes for its space suit and food service technology. They had pioneered character-driven strength suits that correction coaches wore when interacting with inmates. They had perfected rabbit-resembling space suits for use in food handling establishments that gave customers perfect hygienic protection from food service personnel. The innovation was now continued in the NDA with the clear top space suit.

The Unit's food distribution was dependent on inmate labor. Flight risk was a disqualifier. Most inmates did not possess the skill or the hustle to work the NDA. Those who made the cut were required to wear a space suit that was clear from the shoulders up so that Unit coaches could identify inmates' faces. Both the inmate and space suit were tagged with tracking chips and if an inmate attempted to walk off the premises, or if the inmate attempted an unauthorized removal of his space suit, the suit would instantly turn into a body cast.

It was brutally hot in the NDA. The accounting department had figured out that it was much cheaper to control the temperature inside the space suits than to control the heat of a spacious room. Mindy Watkins gestured to Coach Daniels to follow her to the hallway.

She stood close by her subordinate in the hallway and for a reason unknown even to her, she turned and started walking down the hall, towards the confessional. “Ms. Watkins, your guests are probably ready for you,” Coach Daniels called out skittishly.

Her heels click-clacked on the composite floor. “Ms. Watkins, you don't want to go in the confessional,” the coach called out nervously.

Mindy Watkins stopped instantly. She turned and sauntered back to the large man. She stood close enough so that her ample breasts grazed the coach's ample stomach. “Why don't I want to go to the confessional?” she inquired with a juvenile affect.

The large-pawed man made non-verbal guttural noises. Finally, he uttered, “Someone got sick in there. No one's cleaned it up just yet.”

Mindy Watkins seemed to grow as big as her subordinate. “Doctor Wu has not been in since Thursday. Do you mean to tell me...” and she failed to complete the sentence.

Mindy Watkins' tiny legs pounded the unyielding floor with a staccato beat. She followed the hall about fifty feet and turned left at the intersection. She pounded out a dozen more steps and then stopped abruptly to position her name tag that swung from her neck.

The CEO name tag served as an electronic master key throughout The Unit. Mindy Watkins stuck the card in the slot and awaited a small beep and the green “Approve” light. Clutching the stainless steel handle, she swung the door open with heroic flair.

“Get the fuck out of here!” the gravely male voice roared.

Mindy Watkins flipped on the light switch and the term deer in the headlight popped into her head. Frozen in the control room was Assistant Coach Tremont and a man she knew but could not immediately place. What? Assistant Federal Prosecutor Norman Nelson was seated next to the assistant coach wearing a white dress shirt and black pants.

Mindy Watkins broke the breathless silence. “Is this an unauthorized confession?” she asked in a calm, motherly tone.

After a pause Assistant Coach Tremont spoke up. “Yes Ms. Watkins.”

Mindy Watkins paused and scanned the frightened boys in front of her. “And who is this on the table?”

Strapped to a device in the middle of an empty room was an inmate from The Unit. The two men had observed the inmate from a darkened control room behind a one way glass. “His name is Delbert Wayne Duncan,” Norman Nelson replied in a rodentine voice.

Mindy Watkins turned to face Coach Daniels who had slinked in behind her. “Head Coach Daniels!”

she chirped.

“Yes Mam?” he replied meekly.

“First order. Get this trespasser off the premises,” pointing a red fingernail at the Assistant Federal Prosecutor. “Second order. Get the inmate back to his pod. Third order. Complete your shift and report to my office at seven thirty AM tomorrow. Do you read?”

“Yes Mam.”

“Oh and one more thing. Don't talk to Assistant Coach Tremont. I don't want you two corroborating. That is a direct order. No email. No text. No phone calls. Nada. Do you understand, Coach Daniels?”

“Yes Mam.” The large man choked back his tears.

“And you, Assistant Coach Tremont. I had hopes for you.” The assistant coach was now standing at attention, which made his Bell Curve stomach protrude even more than usual. “First order. You will complete your shift.”

“Yes Mam!” he shouted.

“Second order. You will refrain from communicating with Coach Daniels, that sleazy ass prosecutor and the inmate in question. Do you understand?”

“Yes Mam,” he bleated.

“Third order. Report to my office at eight AM tomorrow. Can you fit me into your schedule, Mister Big Shot?”

“Yes Mam.”

With that, Mindy Watkins witnessed the removal of Norman Nelson. He was escorted to his car by two stoic coaches and his vehicle received a two car escort to the front gate. She watched as his white Cadillac sailed over the horizon. Certain that the tumor had been safely extracted, Mindy Watkins turned her spirit and focus back to her Israeli guests.

Khalid Christopher had been quarantined. No Organizer was allowed to contact him and he had to respect the terms of exile. They would be sending a team to debrief him. Until then, his only contacts were the encrypted messages that scrolled across his phone.

He had lost his banker job. No doubt about that. The one strike rule was still in effect. One raid, one robbery, one shortage and you were gone. After a thorough debriefing you might be allowed to live and you might even still be an Organizer but you would never again work as a banker. That door was closed.

The previous evening played in Khalid's mind. Protocol mandated that he report the robbery to his supervisor before transporting Kathy Kane to the hospital. But there was so much blood! Maybe it was the fish oil capsules and maybe it was the aspirin that caused her to bleed so fast. But bleed she did and Khalid wasted no time in rushing her to the nearest emergency room.

To her credit, Kathy remained perfectly silent en route to the hospital as Khalid explained the robbery to a mysterious mechanical voice in an undisclosed location. The ER was an ordeal. The staff suspected Khalid of splitting his lover's head open. They stood by their home invasion story but they reported a different address. Khalid was able to depart before the police could corner him.

At home Khalid got to work immediately. He had driven Kathy's Barbie Doll Coupe to the hospital and he returned it to his driveway. He loaded up his SUV with six hundred thirty three thousand dollars he had removed from five hiding places and packed an overnight bag and mailing supplies. He swallowed a couple of Kathy's prescription stimulants and a prescription pain pill to buffer the oncoming tension.

Khalid scanned his SUV for beacons. No detectable signals. The technology was always changing. A man could not be one hundred per cent sure that he was not being followed.

The sun was rising as Khalid left the house. He meandered for twenty miles, doubling back and checking his rear view mirror every few seconds. At The Rebel Motel just north of Oxford, Khalid rented a room.

The diminutive Indian proprietor snarled at Khalid and reminded him that check out time was just a few hours away. Khalid had donned a pair of reading glasses in an effort to look genteel. He agreed to pay for two nights lodging and inquired about a ministerial discount.

“No discount!” the proprietor screamed in a shrill voice, pounding his fist on the table.

“Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your savior?” Khalid inquired, sliding into the role of earnest man of the cloth.

“No Jesus! Go! Go now!” He pointed towards Khalid's room as he slammed the key on the counter.

Khalid offered his thanks and settled into his room. The smell of amateur bug spray was overpowering but Khalid reminded himself of the importance of the task at hand. He got busy.

For six hours he packaged cash, twenty thousand dollars per parcel, with religious materials used as wadding. The envelopes were preprinted with a California return address. With the envelopes sealed Khalid sent a signal over his phone. For the next hour, thirty one different phone numbers texted thirty one different addresses scattered across the Untied States. He was also given further instructions to hold the remaining thirteen thousand dollars.

Khalid meticulously copied each location to a pad of paper and then addressed each envelope accordingly. Kathy's stimulants worked miracles. Despite his sleep deprivation and the stress associated with the robbery and subsequent fallout, he was able to concentrate on his work without feeling tired or hungry. He quenched his thirst with Mountain Dews from a vending machine planted outside his door. Despite the circumstances he felt joyful.

Khalid took a brief shower and shortly after noon he departed in his SUV with thirty one packages to mail. Per the encrypted protocol, he was directed to mail six packages at four different Post Offices and seven packages at a fifth location. There were unforeseen traffic jams and each Post Office had a long line to receive service. Khalid hustled and hurried and completed his task just minutes before closing time.

Khalid had been forced to curb his bladder for five hours and ducked into a Capricorns to relieve himself. Upon completion of the first task, he decided to sample the cuisine. It was a decision he would not regret.

Capricorns was Amerijail's second venture into casual dining. Amerijail had developed character-driven strength suits to help with the day to day of inmate husbandry. When the restaurant industry was hampered by several outbreaks of communicable disease spread by food handling professionals, Amerijail found a new function for its strength suits.

Amerijail's character suits did not impede manual dexterity. An employee in a pink bunny suit could flip and bag burgers as well as count money and make change while offering the customer protection from diseases he may or may not harbor.

Amerijail had decided to go with genetically modified goat meat because it had yet to be accepted by the public and therefore could be purchased for small dollars. GMO goat offered hope to a starving world but the anti-GMO people rejected it outright. When it was revealed that the market goats had been modified with genes from animals deemed inedible by two major religions, demand for the wondermeat plummeted.

Had the Capricorn marketing team been afforded the opportunity to do things differently, they probably would not have used Jesus in their logo or their decor and they would not have assigned the general manager a Jesus strength suit. The decor featured a take off of the Last Supper where the apostles had been replaced by Elvis Presley, Mao Tse Tung, Richard Nixon and nine other famous people born under the sign of the goat. Instead of bread and wine, the apostles feasted on items from the Capricorns menu with the Capricorns logo serving as a backdrop.

In the parking lot Khalid had strolled past stinky anti-GMO Luddites and clean cut Christians who carried placards and called him names. Once inside, he had been greeted by a Benjamin Franklin strength suit who informed him that he was the general manager and that Jesus suits had been retired.

Khalid's transaction would be performed by a Joan of Arc at the counter.

Khalid noticed that he was the only customer in the store so he took his time to study the menu displayed on a wall behind the counter. He settled on a Martin Luther King sandwich, an order of January fries and an extra-large Mountain Dew. At first bite, he reflected on the nature of the stimulants he had consumed that morning. They mask hunger but once a person starts eating, his body reminds him that he is overdue for nourishment. A couple of bites and the best dinner Khalid Christopher had eaten in Mississippi was gone.

Khalid ordered another MLK sandwich and this time he sampled the December Fries. The second round disappeared as soon as the first. Khalid considered a third MLK but decided instead on a Jumbo Chocolate Goat Shake. For a brief respite, he was able to leave his worries behind.

Khalid sent an encrypted message on his phone, updating the entity at the other end that he had completed his mailing assignment. Upon returning to his room at 7 PM, he mixed himself a sleep-inducing combination of pills to counter the stimulants that still made his heart pound. He sat on the bed and played with the remote until he could find a channel that was showing “Crime and Justice.” He then called Kathy Kane in her hospital room.

Khalid could hear “Crime and Justice: Hate Crimes” being played in the background of her room. “What channel you got girl? We can watch in sync.”

“They wouldn't let me sleep. They kept me awake all night. Then they ran tests all day. Then, they try to say you hit me. I want out of here, Khali. I want out of here...”

Khalid Christopher dozed off.

Charles Tremont was struck with another wave of nausea as he awaited his turn to see Mindy Watkins. The waiting was austere but cluttered and the hodge podge of photos seemed to have an anti feng shui effect on his stomach. For all of its trumpeting of bundled fiber optics, the charcoal gray walls did not have video capability. The decorations were crammed on each wall asymmetrically with certificates and photographs encased in shatterproof plexiglass. Mindy Watkins shaking hands with politicians, her father shaking hands with politicians of yesteryear, news clippings about Amerijail and the Watson Group and clippings from “Private Prison” and “Correction Times.”

Charles Tremont sat in a charcoal gray vinyl chair flanked by two seven foot strength suits, Corporal Viper and Sergeant Cobra. The character-driven strength suit was one of Amerijail's proudest innovations. The device provided the ioccupant four times their normal strength. They could project electrical current and in the case of the charcoal gray vipers, they could make hissing noises and shrill whistles.

The strength suits also provided the corrections officer a level of anonymity. Typically, an officer would wear a suit for two hours, it would undergo a quick sanitization and then another officer would don the character. Even now, Charles Tremont was unaware which of his subordinates were housed in either the Corporal or Sergeant suit.

The suits did not allow the inhabitant to sit easily or comfortably. Thus, the two serpents stood on either side of Charles Tremont. The thirty seven year old corections professional had started losing his hair a few years back and he did not like people standing over his balding scalp, but he dare not suggest the ophidians move. He clenched his ghostly white hands in his lap and stared down at the charcoal gray carpet as he said a series of silent prayers. Suddenly, Corporal Viper took two long strides towards the office door. Assistant Coach Tremont knew he received a radio signal inside his suit.

When the snakes stood at attention their arms melded into the sides of their bodies to give a pronounced serpentine appearance. It still startled Charles Tremont whenever a viper or cobra extended an arm to perform a task. In this case the corporal extended his right arm and gently pushed open the boss's door.

Head Coach Daniels did a funeral walk past Charles Tremont with Corporal Viper right behind him. To the seated observer, Head Coach Daniels resembled a zombie with tears. “What had she done to make this former Marine cry like a girl?” Charles Tremont asked himself. He would have some idea very shortly.

Sergeant Cobra placed a rubber hand on his shoulder and Charles Tremont flinched. With his other hand the suit pointed to Mindy Watkins' open door. Charles Tremont rose and shuffled a condemned walk into the jaws of the beast. The door gently closed behind him.

Charles Tremont scanned the office walls before making contact. It had been three months since he had entered this cloister of power and he noticed that the walls had grown more condensed with photographs and certificates and awards. He was unaware that Mindy Watkins had been transferring wall cargo from her home office to make room for her burgeoning collection of “Crime and Justice” memorabilia.

In the windowless office, illuminated by broad spectrum overhead lighting, against a backdrop of photos mounted in charcoal gray frames, affixed to charcoal gray walls and framed by a charcoal gray ceiling and charcoal gray carpet, Mindy Watkins' hair never looked so red. So too, her eyes and dress and shoes and earrings and hair band never looked greener. With a ruby truss draped over her left breast and her right truss swept over her shoulder, Mindy Watkins looked unusually seductive.

She motioned to a single small wooden chair that lined the wall to his left. The tiny chair! Yes, he had heard about it. Sit a few inches off the ground as the giant towers over you and you will feel vulnerable. Not the iron maiden but still an acclaimed method of persuasion.

“How bad can it be?” Charles Tremont asked himself. He seated himself on the sturdy-seated chair and his legs stretched across the industrial grade carpet. Mindy Watkins hit a switch and the carpeted floor descended under his feet while his chair remained at ground level. Charles Tremont briefly reflected on the engineering challenges a descending carpeted floor presented. The area must have been cut away by itself but there were no visible seams in the carpet.

His conjecturing would be interrupted by his hostess, who wheeled a charcoal gray swivel chair into position so that she faced her subordinate at a one hundred and twenty degree angle. She elevated her chair and proceeded to bombard Charles Tremont with questions.

Who initiated contact with Norman Nelson? Were there other unauthorized uses of the confessional? Were there financial arrangements with Norman Nelson? Charles Tremont arched his neck and answered her questions truthfully.

Dozens of questions followed. Peering up her flared nostrils, Charles Tremont now saw his employer as less a seductress and more a predatory Christmas tree. He wasn't sure at what point the chair trick worked its magic but Charles Tremont flashed back to a time when he was a small boy and had been frightened by a circus clown. Mindy Watkins now had that same smile painted on her treacherous face. His heart thumped and he felt cold. He wanted to go home.

In the course of the inquisition Charles Tremont revealed that there had been two prior attempts to extract a confession from Delbert Wayne Duncan but each time he and Head Coach Daniels had trouble operating the equipment. They thought they had it figured out on the third and final effort when they were caught red-handed in its unauthorized usage.

Charles Tremont revealed that he was Norman Nelson's contact. He had become involved with Democratic politics and it was at a fundraiser where he met the Assistant Federal Prosecutor. They schmoozed and exchanged contact information. Nelson made an offer, Head Coach Daniels climbed aboard and the plan was set in motion.

Mindy Watkins bristled when she was told how much Norman Nelson had offered to compensate the two men. “Worse than being sold out, is being sold out for a stack of bus tokens.” Charles Tremont tried to sink into the unforgiving chair. Mindy Watkins pivoted her seat so that she was parallel to her victim. She called his attention to a wide screen that rested on a platform near the opposing wall. Where had that thing come from? Out of the wall? Out of the floor? Out of the ceiling?

The screen illuminated and a mugshot of Charles Tremont filled the panel. “Do you know this man, Coach Tremont?”

“Yes Mam. That is my face but I have never had a single legal issue, Mam.”

A slide show ensued. Charles Tremont's face had been morphed onto the body of an inmate in orange coveralls. The inmate was triple bunked with two other inmates in a 7x7x7 cell. He peered at the camera from the top bed, his head just inches from the ceiling.

Similar photos followed. The inmate pictures were not taken on The Unit. No, these cons were doing hard time. Real hard. And Charles Tremont's face was in every picture. Suddenly, the inquisitor switched gears.

“I would hate to see your beautiful daughters go through their formative years without a strong male presence in their home.” She then displayed a series of male photos that had been garnered from a dating site. “Do you think this charming gentleman would make Ginny a good husband,” she asked with mock sincerity.

“Please Ms. Watkins.”

“You know, I have nothing but respect for Ginny. I would hate to send her husband away till he's old and gray without finding a suitable replacement.” A rotund black man appeared on the screen.

“Miss Watkins, I have committed no crime.”

At this statement, Mindy Watkins pivoted her chair back to the one hundred twenty degree angle. She moved in for the coup de grace. “How stupid are you, coach Tremont?” she asked in a stage whisper.

“You have seen the methods of persuasion in action. Five minutes with Doctor Wu and your daughters will reveal their long history of sexual abuse at the hands of their creepy father.”

“Ms. Watkins...” His voice cracked.

“And we will put them in contact with a therapist who will make them believe whatever we tell them to believe.” She paused and her voice was now barely a whisper. “It's hard to refute pictures. What if we find your stash of dirty photos of you and your babies? We show your daughters those and their repressed memories flow like molten lava.”

“But there are no pictures, Mam.”

Mindy Watkins smiled and leaned forward, inches from her rag doll's face. Her breath was minty fresh. “And there was no mug shot twenty four hours ago.”

Charles Tremont left the room in tears. He had lost his coaching status and like Head Coach Daniels, he would start over as a third shift utility. Tears of defeat.

But there were also tears of relief. If he kept his nose clean and practiced perfect obedience and perfect loyalty to Ms. Watkins, she would not fabricate evidence against him. He would not go to prison. He would still have his wife and two daughters.

Tears of relief.

Walter McVey parked his silverish Buick in the far corner of the office building parking lot. Through sleet and drizzle and rain he splashed across the football field of cars with his broad, black umbrella wide open. Arriving at the seldom-used side entrance, he rang the doorbell.

The response was immediate. “Yes?”

“Room seven,” Walter McVey coughed into the microphone.

Instantly a dark-skinned Caucasian, just back from Florida, how do you like my tan, middle aged security guard appeared and opened the door for him. Walter McVey silently walked past the burly man and descended a flight of carpeted stairs. He shuffled a few feet to the first door on his right and rang another doorbell.

“Yes.”

“I have arrived at last,” Walter McVey recited in a monotone.

The door opened halfway and Walter McVey entered the empty room. A poker-faced middle aged guard

made brief eye contact and then directed his sight at the floor. He pressed a series of buttons located above the door handle. Silently, the gray haired muscle man turned his attention to Walter McVey.

Walter handed the serious man with rubber gloves his raincoat, his belt, his wallet, his handkerchief and his keys. He then seated himself on a stern black metal chair that happened to be the only piece of furniture in the receiving area. He removed his rubber shoe covers, his Wingtips and his wet socks. The attentive guard arranged these items in a systematic manner and then handed Walter McVey a pair of hospital socks.

Walter placed the socks on his feet and the alert guard escorted him twenty feet to the room's other door. He pressed a series of numbers and the door opened halfway. The guard gestured for Walter to enter the room.

Walter was disappointed to see Mr. Smith and Mr. Weldon already seated in the stark, windowless room. He had arrived twenty minutes early in hopes of being the first arrival. He wanted to show spirit and he wanted to beat Weldon to the scene so that he might be able to schmooze with the legendary Mr. Smith. He took his seat and the door closed behind him.

Following protocol to its ultimate, the three men maintained silence when the door was open. Only when it was closed and secured did they speak. Before saying hello to Walter, Mr. smith concluded the preceding conversation. “Anytime someone says Illuminati singular, they don't know what they are talking about.”

Oh great. Not only was he the last arrival, he had also missed out on the secrets of the Illuminati. Maybe the legendary Mr. Smith would bring him up to date on the shadowy organization or rather, organizations plural, that he had read about his entire life.

No such luck. Mr. Smith segued into, “Good to see you” and immediately started talking about John Joseph. For the past week Walter had spent every waking hour reading the Joseph dossier. The topic nauseated him. Joseph won this. He won that. He mated with a fashion model. He mated with another fashion model. It had been easier to read about Colombian drug lords who murdered toddlers and tortured enemies with power tools. Joseph was worse, far worse, in Walter McVey's eyes. Walter McVey hated John Joseph as he had never before hated anyone.

Thomas Weldon's expression never changed as Mr. Smith prattled on about John Joseph's many achievements and the details of his opulent life. The names of girlfriends, bodyguards, personal chefs, personal pilots, his lawyers, his advisers, his mentors, blah blah blah. All recited without a single note. How much did Weldon know? Walter might not ever be able to keep up with the legendary Mr. Smith but he had to know as much as Weldon. Make Weldon wear the dunce cap.

Suddenly Mr. Smith stated that he had talked enough and asked Mr. Weldon to speak on bureaucratic resources that were at their disposal.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” the affable grandfather said, obviously expecting to be called upon. And Weldon explained that most bureaucratic and Justice Department resources were out of reach unless the White House was secured. He further explained that John Joseph, despite his founding a third political party, had close ties to President Walker and he would probably work behind the scenes to get Walker re-elected. “The Joseph Family has a few friends and a lot of enemies in the Republican Party and nothing but enemies in the Democratic Party. It is believed that the Eclectic Party will run Governor Bloom for president and this choice will drain votes from the Democratic candidate.

“In summary,” Weldon stated in a monotone, “We have to think beyond bureaucratic options.”

“Four years is a long time to wait. We have to act now. We will start with the women.” Mr. Smith pronounced in a slightly theatrical tone. “A misconception about John Joseph. He does not sleep with super models. He sleeps with rejects.”

Mr. Smith paused and then explained. “Years ago, a Boston area cult recruited heavily from the colleges. Knowing that organic chemistry was a washout course, a qualifier or disqualifier for med school, this religious group learned the schedule of organic chemistry finals at Harvard, MIT, BU, BC, Tufts and so on.

“They planted their people outside the buildings where tests were administered. These were sharpies who could read body language like a poker champion. Students usually had a good idea how well they tested. The predators had their eyes open for a slinking, slouching twenty year old whose lifetime dream of becoming a doctor had just been demolished. This was a highly successful cult.

“A young John Joseph had heard of this tactic and applied it to womanizing. He hired private detectives to infiltrate the top modeling agencies. He learned who faced rejection by whom and when. He learned who was running short of cash. He learned who was planning to return to Wisconsin and who was prescribed antidepressants.

“By the way, this was exposed in a tell all by a private eye shortly before his death from pancreatic cancer. It's on our optional reading list.”

“Yes, I read it, “ Thomas Weldon chimed in.

Walter McVey steamed. This Weldon guy is an apple polisher. He made a mental note to learn a little bit about Weldon's background.

“Good.” Mr. Smith bleated in a patronizing tone. “And do you remember the story of Sarah McGill?” Weldon did remember the story and he retold it in such a way as to make Walter McVey put his competitive nature aside for a few minutes. Sarah McGill was born Madeline McGillicuddy in Kansas City, Kansas. She turned eighteen, shortened her surname to McGill and dropped the alliteration.

“Do you remember Onyx?” Thomas Weldon inquired.

Both men answered in the affirmative. Onyx was a soft-featured Alsatian model with unusually dark eyes. Black hair, black eyes, light mocha skin, tall and elegant. She moved with grace and poise and she could hypnotize a camera with those black velvet eyes.

Sarah McGill had a similar look but she was no Onyx. She reminded the viewer of the famous lady and unfortunately that invited comparison. She was not quite as tall, her hair was not quite as rich and her eyes were not quite as dark. She looked like Onyx's less attractive kid sister.

Sarah McGill paid a few bills playing an Onyx lookalike at trade shows and conventions. But there would be no modeling riches for a knockoff Onyx or an Onyx Lite. Despair set in and Sarah McGill tried to end her life with a bottle of sleeping pills.

John Joseph was alerted to her suicide attempt and two weeks later, they were dating. Two months later, Sarah McGill was pregnant. A lot of women would like to get close to John Joseph's fortune but this was a guy who publicly self-dialogued, who liked to smell everything he touched and who was philosophically opposed to deodorant. “The John Joseph the public now knows is a bit more polished,” Weldon explained. “But he had a few warts in his younger days.”

So Sarah McGill accepted his financial arrangement. She would live in a middle class home and receive a middle class wage as a full time homemaker. The child would receive tutoring and John Joseph would orchestrate and finance the kid's education. Sarah McGill would be encouraged to find a new husband and there would be financial incentives to keep the family intact. If other children were born to Sarah and her husband, they too would receive tutoring and a pricey education.

“What scares me, “ Thomas Weldon explained as his voice grew excited, “is how accepting the public has been of this arrangement.”

“In fairness, I can see advantages to this system,” Mr. Smith countered. “Sarah married a muscle-bound fitness instructor, they had two more kids and live happily ever after.”

“Yes but!” Thomas Weldon exclaimed, slamming his fists on the table. “A young Mr. Joseph entertained a different call girl every night and then had a revelation that was not exactly Augustinian. He wanted to profit from his sexual activity. He will invest a few million in each of his sixty four superkids and he wants a return on his investment.” He was almost shouting. “I see the riches of the entire world being poured into a giant funnel and soaking a greedy Joseph Family.

Walter McVey noted the red face and the protruding jugular vein on Mr. Weldon. Mr. Smith spoke in his usual calm tone. “I am glad to see that you have an emotional stake in this matter.”

“Damn right I do!” Thomas Weldon exclaimed.

Mr. Smith smiled ever so slightly. “Very well.” The quiet room grew quieter. “this will be a multi-phased attack. We will keep one eye on the elections and we'll listen to the weatherman. In the meantime, we will work on Joseph's women. We will recruit a lawyer for every one of his sixty four mommas. We will Lou Blue him.”

Lou Blue was a professional basketball player who had been sued for child support in six different states. Each judge had awarded the mother in question twenty five per cent of Lou Blue's wages. He was obligated to pay one hundred and fifty per cent of his income and he was repeatedly jailed for non-payment of child support.

As Mr. Smith detailed Phase One of Operation Rasputin, Walter McVey felt a pang of disappointment. He remembered an old 'National Lampoon' cover where an elderly Batman leaned on his walker and screamed, “I'll sue you Joker. I'll sue you.” The legendary Mr. Smith could remotely commandeer John Joseph's private jet and crash it into the ocean. That was what Walter had hoped for. John Joseph and his merry sinners on a shuttle to Hell. Instead, the legendary Mr. Smith is orchestrating a program of mass litigation.

Walter McVey drifted back to junior high and then high school and then Notre Dame and then his early days at the DEA. At each juncture he had wanted to hang with the cool kids. Each time, his prayer was answered. Each time he was disappointed. Now listening to the legendary Mr. Smith drone on about legal strategies, he felt let down once more. Maybe the legendary Mr. Smith would not live up to his hype.

Litigation strategy! What a joke! John Joseph had more lawyers than Harlem had junkies and he had as many judges as lawyers. Walter McVey would listen to what the legend had to say but maybe, just maybe, he would just have to take matters into his own hands. “Patience is a vice, “ Walter's father reminded him long ago.

Walter McVey listened and nodded but part of his mind was drifting away. There had to be a faster way to solve this problem. There just had to be.

Steven Gouger sat at his kitchen table perpendicular to fellow DEA agent Ronnie Delveccio as his perky wife, Lauretta Gouger refilled the coffees and removed their sherbet dishes. “They told me I would make a good narc because I am average height and weight and I don't have any visible moles or birthmarks” Ronnie Delveccio explained. “But I haven't been asked to go undercover yet.”

“That's how Roy got recruited. Went into Narcotics right out of the Academy. Some administrator looked at his file like he was flipping through baseball cards. Average height and weight with no distinguishing characteristics. He made a few pops and moved right up the food chain.” Steven Gouger explained in his slow Mississippi drawl.

“Do you know how many guys kill their careers because they have a visible tattoo? Word gets out you got a Semper Fi on your right forearm and before long no one will sell you reefer,” Ronnie Delveccio added with his Massachusetts mouthful of marbles way of talking that amused Steven Gouger. Yes, Delveccio might look nondescript but unless he shook off the Novocaine accent he would never do undercover work in Mississippi.

“Look, I might not look as average as you and Roger but at least I can talk to the natives. Ever think of learning to speak American?” Steven Gouger asked seriously.

“As much as it pains me, I am trying to blend in.” Ronnie Delveccio stated. He then launched into an impeccable imitation of a country music artist turned talent show host.

“First of all,” Lauretta Gouger remarked, “That boy is from Oklahoma, not Mississippi.”

“And second,” Steven Gouger chimed in, “His accent is fake.”

“He grew up in the oil suburbs of Tulsa.” Lauretta added indignantly. “He only does country music because he failed at every other kind of music.”

“So is Oklahoma close to Mississippi?” Ronnie Delveccio asked sincerely.

“Country music died with country culture,” Steve Gouger elucidated.

“Even people who live in the hills have satellite dishes and their kids ride skateboards. There ain't no share croppers and coal miners in country music.” Lauretta summarized.

“Of course none of this explains why I never been asked to go undercover,” Steven Gouger reminded his company.

“Could be because you're going bald.” Ronnie Delveccio stated earnestly.

“What's that got to do with anything?”Steven Gouger asked defensively.

“You look like a narc.” Ronnie Delveccio declared.

“I am a narc.”

“I know. But you don't have to look like one.”

Steven Gouger knew what he looked like. He was short and muscular and yes, he was balding. His father looked like a basset hound and his grandfather looked like a basset hound and at age thirty five, he had started to look like the older men in his family. He sometimes thought he looked mismatched with his lithe, perky, cedar-hair wife. Though she was only eight years younger than him, Lauretta looked younger than her age and people sometimes thought that Steven was her father.

Lauretta Gouger called the men's attention to the 32 inch screen mounted above the kitchen table. The Gougers were not able to yet afford a new house with bundled fiber optic wallscreens but Steven had managed to wire a TV in every room so that no scene of “Crime and Justice” would ever be missed as one wandered through the house. “This is the episode on the menu,” Lauretta squealed with girlish delight.

Lauretta owned one cookbook, “The Crime and Justice Cookbook Volume I.” The runaway bestseller contained entrees that related to renowned shows. The episode “Dark Meat” told the story of a wealthy white hedge fund manager who raped and murdered the daughter of his Somalian servant and tried to make it look like an honor killing. “Dark Meat Casserole” was named after this installment and tonight Lauretta Gouger was serving this dish.

Everyone commented on the synchronicity and attention was focused on the riveting story. Ronnie Delveccio broke the captive silence to comment on the performance of a veteran actor in a minor role. “I had an instructor who said a good narc was like a good character actor. They don't hog the limelight. They are almost offstage. People see the character actor but they ignore them. They are focused on the stars.”

The signature “Crime and Justice” sound effect that closed many scenes notified the assembled that a car was moving up the winding driveway. “I hope that's Roy,” Steven Gouger said as he rested his hand close to his holstered nine millimeter. The SUV did indeed belong to Roger Roy and he made an unsubtle entrance. His megaphone mouth and heavy boots were as a damaged tuba to what might have been a merry string quartet.

“How ya doin, Senorita?” he barked at Lauretta Gouger with his Central Mississippi drawl.

Mrs. Gouger answered politely but she was interrupted. “I see a cat! I see a cat!” He yelled pointing at the seventeen pound gray feline named Harry.

“Two minutes.” He extended his hand in a V-pattern. “Two minutes. That's all I got before I start sneezing.”

Mrs. Gouger had been alerted to Roger Roy's cat allergy but she was unsure of its severity. She had planned to use the deck as a contingency plan. The boys would just have to dine at 55 Fahrenheit.

As the bouncy Mrs. Gouger set dinnerware on the deck table and placed simmering dark meat chicken casserole on the counter, Roger Roy continued his philippic. “The only thing cats are good for is target practice. Why don't you have kids? I might not be allergic to them.”

All three glared at Roger Roy but it did not slow his verbiage. He ranted against cats and against birth control in general and Caucasian birth control in particular. The ever-graceful Lauretta Gouger excused herself, kissed her husband good-bye and scampered to her rusty SUV that was parked in her broad driveway. Minutes later she would arrive at her Monday night Bible study.

The three men sat in the dry winter air and tasted the chicken casserole. Stephen Gouger interrupted the ever-communicative Roger Roy. “Trooper Roy,” he said gently. “Please do not mention children to my wife or me. We have been trying for five years to start a family and my wife has been seriously depressed and I don't feel so good myself.”

Roger Roy chewed his food twice and then unleashed a volley of personal questions. Agent Delveccio cut him off. “Trooper Roy, my wife and I have been trying to conceive for over three years. It's not something we talk about. I hope you can keep a secret.”

Roger Roy started to reply but then hesitated to consider if he had misspoken. His tone lowered a bit. “You boys can call me Roger. We're on a first name basis here. And if I can't keep a secret, we're all screwed.”

The brief silence was broken by Ronnie Delveccio. “You do extracurriculars to feed your kids, including your youthful indiscretion. We do etracurriculars to pay for fertility treatments. Just as expensive as a house full of kids.”

Roger Roy asked a few questions about cost and insurance options and he expressed amazement at the answers. The men had second helpings and Lauretta was complimented in absentia. “I am sorry for your misfortunes,” Roger Roy stated. “But I glad that you are motivated performers.”

“Does our motive really matter?” Steven Gouger asked evenly.

“Of course it does!” Roger Roy shouted. “I know you'll be with me as long as you can. This ain't beer money. This is life money.” Gouger nodded. Delveccio shrugged.

The silence was brief. “Gentlemen, let's not conclude our business meeting without discussing business,” Roger Roy continued. “I have some good news and some bad news.”

“Give us the bad news!” Steven Gouger demanded.

“It ain't that bad. Our window of opportunity is closing. That's all. I'll come back to that.”

Roger Roy reviewed their recent success story that made each man richer by seventy two thousand and change. He then stated that his scouts had located other geese to slaughter but the window was closing. “You boys know about the eye in the sky?”

“In Mississippi?” Delveccio inquired anxiously.

“Ole Miss has hit the big time,” Roger Roy explained.” We have our low flying surveillance drones but it was just places like New York and DC and Quantico that had one hundred per cent surveillance from twenty thousand feet. Mississippi was backwater country. No need to spy on them crackers.

“Then we get this chocolate governor handing out pardons to every pimp and drug dealer and promising to do this shit for the next four years. All of a sudden our beloved state is swamped with dopers and chemists and pain clinics and anxiety docs. So we call in the Feds for help. Not only do we get Feds on foot, we are going to get Feds in the sky too.”

A flurry of questions followed. What was the target area of surveillance? When was the launch date?Would the eye in the sky have infrared capabilities so that they could track movement at night? How would rain affect the spy cams? What about clouds? Could they be taken out by a drone destroyer? Roger Roy could not answer his comrades' questions.

“Why are we worried about the eye?” Steven Gouger asked. “Our vics are not going to call the cops.”

“Maybe not,” Roger Roy said calmly. “But one of the neighbors might call the cops. And you know as well as me the best laid plans of mice and men get all fucked up. The old man is going to lock the gate but we can fish in his pond in the meantime. That's the good news.”

With that Roger Roy jumped out of his chair and sprinted to his SUV. He sprinted back to his seat and handed each of his partners a dossier. “Study the list gentleman. Do a street level and a drive-by before our next dinner date. I got to run.”

Before departing, Roger Roy apologized deeply for his insensitive remarks and said that he hoped that they each had families of their own someday. For a moment, Roger Roy seemed like a different person. Then he turned suddenly and dashed to his SUV and raced down the driveway, tore through the cul-de -sac and drove deep into the Mississippi night.

Steven Gouger and Ronnie Delveccio stared at the vanishing taillights and then looked at each other. “Where the hell did you find this guy?” Delveccio inquired.

“High school, motherfucker. High school.”

Mindy Watkins sat at the head of the ornate mahoganey dinner table opposite her husband, Carlisle Watkins. The gangly Carlisle in his white on white suit reminded some observers of a younger, taller, clean-shaven Colonel Sanders. He required a lot of elbow room and a lot of front clearance when eating. For that reason the five diners seated on the sides of the * table clustered near Mindy.

To Mindy Watkins' right was her only child, fifteen year old Jason, who sat at Carlisle's 40 yard line. Next to him, much closer to Mindy, sat Mindy's identical twin, Missy Watson. To Mindy's left sat Missy and Carlisle's three daughters. Fourteen year old Sarah sat directly opposite Jason. Twelve year old Elizabeth sat in the middle and nine year old Mary sat closest to Mindy.

At age seven Mindy and Missy Watson pledged to marry the same man. They never once dated the same boy and the pact seemed destined for the attic of childhood dreams. Then, at age nineteen, Mindy Watkins met the bookish but ambitous Carlisle Watkins. Carlisle was willing to honor the agreement and two years later Mindy Watson became Mindy Watkins. Right after the honeymoon Missy Watson retired from a reckless life and helped her sister start a family.

The arrangement worked well over the years. Mindy worked long hours at a business her father founded and Carlisle worked even longer hours as a political consultant. Carlisle had purchased a duplex in * Mississippi shortly after the honeymoon. He and Mindy lived in one apartment and Missy lived next door. Carlisle alternated beds every other night.

Missy was always the homemaker, the nanny, the scheduler, the disciplinarian, the diaper changer. Six months after Jason was born, it was decided that the baby would move in with Missy. She liked waking up in the middle of the night to feed her prince and this move allowed for Carlisle and Mindy to face their workdays well rested.

Ten years earlier the family moved onto the one hundred twelve acre Watson homestead on Lake Wily. A pregnant Missy Watson would claim the big house for herself and the kids. Mindy wouldstake out the smaller carriage house, most of which would be devoted to her office and her ever-expanding collection of "Crime and Justice" memorabilia.

Carlisle would convert a stand alone shed into an office equipped with a small refrigerator, a microwave and a cot. Sometimes he would tap on his keyboard till the sun came up and he would then crash on the cot for a couple of hours before heading out to his Memphis office. He would spend at least one night a week at Mindy's but mostly he slept in Missy's king size bed.

From her perch at the end of the table, Mindy could view all three of the high-mounted video screens. Each screen was being fed one of Mindy's favorite "Crime and Justice: Animal Patrol" episodes. It was the classic where the white Christian quarterback who preached on the merits of chastity is caught promoting underground dog fights.

Missy used to provide Scriptural lessons during dinner she and Mindy decided that "Crime and Justice" provided a richer moral foundation. The kids loved "Crime and Justice" and they ate in focused silence and practiced exquisite table manners for fear aof banishment to the kitchen where they would be forced to dine in electronic solitude.

Elizabeth, the dainty Mennonite servant girl cleared the dinner dishes one half hour into the forty two minute program. The pork roast with mashed potatoes and candied carrots and cheesy lima beans gave way to chocolate cake ala mode with real whipped cream served just as the credits started to roll. Carlisie broke the silence. "Did you have a chance to discuss Norman Nelson today?" he inquired across the table.

"Indeed I did, and we have an appointment scheduled," Mindy Watkins crowed.

"Can we discuss your meeting after dinner?"

'I would be delighted."

Mindy and Carlisle then sat in silence as each child summarized their day's events. Then Missy commented on the ugly man who repaired the washing machine, her involvement in PTA and the gossip from The Mimosa Club. Finally, Missy reviewed the homework assignments that each child would work on over the next two hours.

Each diner carried their dessert dishes to the sink where Elizabeth washed them in the sink and placed them in the dishwasher. Carlisle and Mindy would seat themselves in the den where Elizabeth would serve Carlisle a mug of frothy java and where she would serve Mindy a cup of mint tea.

While Mndy Watson was enrolled as a Freshman at Vanderbilt, Missy went to beauty school. Before dropping out after two semesters, she found herself in love with a young man named Lester Lyle. Lester was a fan of the band, LAD, which happened to be an acronym for Lysergic Acid Diethymide.

Missy became an entusiastic LAD Head and relished the instant identity the label provided. Soon, all of her time was devoted to her boyfriend, her favorite band, fellow fans and the consumption of psychedelics. She took on a neo-hippy style of dress and used the word "like" in most sentences.

It seemed lke Lester Lyle made good money at his sawmill job. He worked with a young guy named Bob Sims who was also a LAD fan. Bob and his girlfriend Mona Mayseemed to ahve an endless supply of magic mushrooms and the foursome would frequently consume them when they didn't have time for a full-blown LSD experience.

LAD played Memphis nine months after Missy met Lester. They wee set to attend the show with Bob and Mona May and another couple. They would ingest what they would later unanimously agree was muc too much LSD and somehow they ended up at a Jimmy Buffet concert.

The mistake was not immediately noticed. To Missy, it seemed like an unusually long opening act but LSD had a way of distorting time. There was confusion when lights came on and the crowd was herded to the exits by beefy police officers.What happened to LAD?

For Missy Watson, the wayward evening concluded a bohemian chapter. Bob Sims and Mona May re-established their relationship with Jesus and Missy never again saw the other couple. Lester enlistd in the Army where he specialized in defusing land mines. Missy would give up LSD to devote more time to rum and tequila and she became obsessed with all things parrot head related.

Forever after, Missy Watson decorated in blues and greens and yellows and reds and purples and violets and pinks. There were blue skies and blue waters and ruby sunsets. There were tropical flowers and neon fish and parrots. Lots of spendorific parrots.

For years, Carlisle and Mindy trusted the taste of their expressive loved one. They spent too much time on their careers to concern themsleves with interior decorating and they appreciated Missy taking the lead on this matter. In recent years they supported her effforts to incorporate "Crime and Justice" memorabilia into the decor.

Mindy Watkins sat in a high-backed flaming purple and canary yellow lotus print comfy chair perpendicular to the Toucan print loveseat draped in a pink rose quilt with neon zebra fish pillows. A large bay window was framed in ruby-corn costus stencils truncated the expanse of pale bleeding kidney flower wallpaper that was barely visible for all of the bookshelves, framed pictures and sundry decorations. The hardwood floor was covered in a vast rug composed of a dada assemblage of palm trees, flame lillies, vibrant tongue flowers and heavenly blue morning glories.

On one wall, shelves of books were interspersed with sprays of plastic tropical flowers. The opposing wall was covered by an oil painting Missy had custom-made for Carlisle's birthday four years ago. It featured a flattering version of Carlisle sitting at a station house conference table along with his four favorite "Crime and Justice" detectives. The artist had tailored his work to fit the length of the wall and Missy had personalized it with a pink lotus frame. A floor light shone its diffused beam onto the canvas.

"Nelson paid off two of my coaches," Mindy Watkins announced. "And you would not believe what he offered them."

Carlisle's eyebrows shot to the ceiling when the paltry sum was revealed. "Darling, if they sell you out so cheaply that a hobo could buy their loyalty, they represent an ongoing threat to your welfare."

Mindy agreed with her husband but stated her reasons for keeping the men employed. The Unit had a lot of secrets and the best way to keep them secret was to minimize staff turnover. Her unofficial policy was to never terminate without prosecution because a conviction would diminish a whistleblower's crdibility. She explained that both men had lost their coaching status and had been moved to the dreaded third shift. They also had the fear of imprisonment confirmed for them.

"I can't believe that Nelson would do that to you after you gave him a couple of freebies," Carlisle stated with genuine amazement.

In an effort to insure the continuation of incarceration contracts with six Tennessee counties, Mindy Watkins assisted the local prosecutors with difficult cases. She always felt compassion for law enforcement personnel who knew of guilty suspects but did not have evidence to support their knowledge. That is where Doctor Wu worked his magic.

Dr. Wu was an honored researcher Mindy Watkins had met twenty years ago at Vanderbilt. He had refined the work of disparate pioneers in the field of veracic hallucination and non-corporal persuasion. The most effective tool in Dr. Wu's workshop was a device called the confessional.

The confessional was a soft helmet that microwaved messages deep inside the wearer's brain. Usually Dr. Wu used the multi-focus-group-tested-voice-of-God to plea for and later to command the subject confess to the crimes for which he had been accused. This worked about eighty per cent of the time and when the confessional failed, more elaborate measures solved the problem. To date, Dr. Wu was undefeated.

Mindy Watkins made Dr. Wu's talents available for prosecutors whose inmates were housed at The Unit. Two cases were free. Gratis. On the house. Any additional cases and well, Dr. Wu is a higly paid professional and his time is very short and...

Federal prisoners awaiting trial in Memphis were also housed at The Unit. To show good will, Mindy Watkins offered the Assistant Federal Prosecutor the services of Dr. Wu for two cases of his choosing. Norman Nelson chose John Nathan and Eric Hanover.

John Nathan was a young lawyer, a rising star in the Joseph-financed National Civil Liberties Union who happened to be caught with dozens of files of child pornography on his computer and cell phone. Mr. Nathan was initially adamant that he had never even seen child pornography but his tune would soon change. The Joseph Family sent some powerful lawyers to keep his bail in the stratosphere and was able to assure that he would await trial at The Unit. There, Dr. Wu would work his persuasion skills to keep the wheels of justice rolling.

It took Dr. Wu but one hour to succeed. With the multi-focus-group-tested-voice-of-God embedded deep in his head, Mr. Nathan obeyed the commands. He waived his right to counsel and confessed to each and every charge. Off camera, Dr. Wu got him to admit to killing the Kennedys and kidnapping the Lindbergh baby. Justice was served.

Eric Hanover would be more difficult. He was a thirty four year old wunderkind at a Joseph-financed think tank who also faced child pornography charges. He too stubbornly maintained his innocence, but his resolve would be no match for Dr. Wu.

As with Mr. Nathan, the abominable images had been placed on Mr. Hanover's devices by a secret organization that sometimes called itself The Enemies List. Using shape shifter software they were able to successfully implant evidence onto the devices of public enemies thought they could avoid prosecution just because they had not broken any laws.

Most of the Enemies List plantees were doomed from the get-go. But Mr. Nathan and Mr. Hanover had better legal counsel. Their legal teams were ready to show forensically that their clients had never knowingly acquired child pornography. They were ready, willing and able to fight and to blow the lid off shape shifter implants once and for all.

Mr. Hanover initiallyrefused to sit in the confessional and demanded to call his superstar lawyer. The Unit personnel had previously taped Mr. Hanover's conversation with his contact lawyer and they made a voice print that would later be used to talk to Mr. Hanover. When he punched in his attorney's number, his call was diverted to an office in The Unit.

With a slight lisp, a Memphis drawl, an idiosyncratic way of saying "pornography" that doubly accented the second syllable, the faux lawyer advised his client to participate in The Unit's rituals. Yes, they were setting themselves up for a titanic lawsuit. Don't worry. Mind control doesn't work anyway. "You will own Amerijail, my friend."

Determined to collect the fattest settlement in the history of litigation, Eric Hanover allowed himself to be hauled off to the confessional. He resisted his opponent's efforts until he faced what would be to date, Dr. Wu's magnum opus.

A half dozen sessions and no progress. Dr. Wu was undeterred. He visitied Mr. Hanover's MyFace page. There, he extracted a video of nine year old Sherri Hanover's birthday party. The perfect stock footage!

It took Dr. Wu a couple of hours to construct a video of Sherri Hanover being consumed by napalm. "I love you, Daddy"...cute cute cute...Whoosh! The skin boils, the eyes explode, the hair crackles as it burns. Gasps and screams of "No Daddy! Daddy! Daddy please!" Agonizing screams.

It took Dr. Wu another couple of hours to format the video in microwave-embed mode and it took him just forty seven minutes to extract a confession. It started with a hypnotic session followed by the gentle instructions from the multi-focus-group-tested-voice-of-God. "It is your pride that keeps you from confessing, Eric. It is your pride that leads your daughter down the path of sin. A path that leads to Hell!" Whoosh! His only child incinerated as her girly voice begs for mercy.

Over and over and over. Then a command voice was embedded deep in Mr. Hanover's skull. "Pray to God." And Eric Hanover called out to God. At this moment, a heated blanket was placed over the blindfolded subject.

The multi-focus-group-tested-voice-of-God was calm and reassuring. Only Eric could save his daughter from eternal napalm. "Do hat is right, Eric. Confess."

Eric Hanover would never again speak to his lawyers. He confessed to procuring child pornography and even to distributing child pornography,even though that allegation had never been made. It would be a good year for Norman Nelson's career.

"I thought Mr. Nelson was of strong lineage," Carlisle commented while holding his oversized "Crime and Justice" mug in his hands.

Mindy Watkins shrugged. "They let anyone sit on the bar these days."

"But I thought the Nelsons were horse people."

Mindy Watkins sipped on her slightly sedating herbal tea from her six ounce cup that bor the image of Frida Miranda *, her favorite "Crime and Justice" character. Yes, the Nelsons had bought their way into the tight-knit community of Tennessee Walking Horses. "That does not mean what it used to mean, Carl. It's just not the same."

"We can't let this punk get away with this," Carlisle stated matter of factly.

"We're back in high school. If we give the bully our lunch money..." She did not complete the sentence.

Carlisle nodded. "Word will get around."

There was a relaxing silence. Mindy Watkins shifted her gaze to her husband's hazel eyes. Carlisle was once more reassuring. "Don't you worry, Rufus. We'll take care of those Nelsons. Norman Nelson will buy a ruby bigger than his goiter. Don't you worry."

Mindy Watkins smiled.

Khalid Christopher sat in the faux leopard office chair planted in front of the Internet screen. Seventy eight hours ago his house had been invaded by three masked gunmen who tasered him and pistol-whipped his woman and left with $227,000. A few hours ago he learned the identity of one of his attackers. Soon he might learn the name of one more.

Thirty seven hours ago Khalid Christopher had picked up Kathy Kane from the hospital. Actually he met his lover at a nearby doughnut shop. The hospital staff were certain that Kathy Kane was a victim of domestic violence and they grew even more suspicious when she refused to tell the police how her head got split open.

It had been a brutal treatment for Kathy Kane. Due to her head injury, the team disallowed sleep for what would be a long, miserable night. They scheduled diagnostics in the morning and slumber was given the green light on evening number two.

But she was awakened by a screaming roommate and Kathy Kane was wheeled to a hallway pending another placement. She was not sure if it was the chaos, the noise, the fluorescent lighting or the pervasive odor of feces but something caused her to vomit on herself and it would be six hours before a grouchy attendant gave her a desultory sponge bath.

It would be mid-morning until Kathy Kane was given a new room and then she talked with a rested Khalid on her phone and they plotted her exit strategy. She did not know what had happened to the blood-soaked short shorts and sequined t-shirt she had arrived in. In a high exposure patient gown and hospital socks and a scalp that yelled a dozen sutures, Kathy Kane calmly walked out the front entrance unhindered and unnoticed by staff or security.

Khalid treated his dearest love to a large chocolate shake from Caffey's Coffee and Donut shop and she finished it on the way home. He provided her with a powerful sedative and put her to bed. Khalid then consumed a couple of Kathy's prescription stimulants and a battery of cognition enhancers. With the house to himself, he started his sleuthing.

Khalid's house was equipped with infrared and theta ray capability. Despite the invaders' masks, the system was able to detect facial imprints on two of the three attackers. He would soon learn their identities.

Using a Camouflage operating system, an IP foiler and a triple proxy protocol, Khalid submitted the images to an Estonian data base using funds from a disposable debit card. With phase one out of the way, Khalid settled back to reflect on the turbulent events. He was certain Rabi Dog had betrayed him. He replayed his associate's mannerisms and affect in his head over and over and over.

He did not recognize it at the time but Rabi Dog had comported himself differently. In effect, he was acting. Every motion had been a little bit scripted. Why had he not seen it at the time?

Khalid's thinking was interrupted by a phone call from a number he did not recognize. “What was the Army Navy score?” the Tupak emulator inquired.

“Navy 21. Army 15,” Khalid replied with a voice emulator that would make him sound like Morgan Freeman.

The conversation was short. Following protocol, The Organizers would be sending someone from Los Angeles to debrief him. Then the Tupak voice surprised him by announcing that Khalid's half brother, Ahmed Christopher would conduct the formality and Khalid would be given instructions as to when and where to meet him. LOOK AHEAD. Are they half-brothers or full brothers?

Khalid said all the right things and the call was concluded. Immediately his heart went into turbo mode. He doubted that the Organizers were really sending his half brother. It was a ploy, a setup. The Organizers were coaxing him into an ambush. Khalid tried hard to breathe deeply and slowly. Maybe, just maybe, if he could identify the robbers and implicate Rabi Dog, he could talk his way out of an appointment with the mortician.

Khalid impulsively loaded up a computer chess game and played at a medium skill level. Chess was not exactly a mental escape because all the while he was pushing pawns, he never stopped thinking about the robbery and Rabi Dog and the Organizers and his half-brother and Kathy Kane. But he fritzed the pieces around and won one game playing white. He lost the next game playing black. The third game was interrupted by a chime that informed him that he had received an email from Estonia.

The Estonian data base had matched one of the faces to a high school graduation photo, a newspaper wedding announcement, and a police academy graduation photo. In each photo, the subject was named Roger Roy.

Khalid wasted no time in researching Roger Roy. Since he had a police background, Mr. Roy might not show up in most American data bases. So Khalid accessed a Venezuelan repository that included American military and law enforcement personnel.

Upon payment received, the data poured in on Roger Roy. The birds sang, the sun got warm and floated overhead. Kathy Kane would awaken and urinate and Khalid sent her back to bed with an even larger sedative. Khalid would throw a frozen pizza in the oven and after lunch he would force himself into a shallow two hour nap. Upon rising, he consumed more stimulants and continued to research Roger Roy.

Graduation from a suburban Jackson, Mississippi high school eighteen years ago. Joined the Army out of high school and served in the Military Police. Married at nineteen to a woman who would give him four children and would stay with him after his paternity suit at age thirty two. Graduated from Mississippi State Police Academy at age twenty three. Immediately went to work in Narcotics Control.

Addresses. Real estate purchases. Loans. Makes and models of cars and boats and motorcycles. A second paternity suit that was successfully contested. A defendant in a lawsuit. A plaintiff in a lawsuit. A defendant in yet another lawsuit. Registered Republican. Khalid studied the details.

The sun would set and Khalid would eat taquitos and mini tacos and salt and pepper chips. Kathy Kane would get up and urinate and return to bed. Then, at hour thirty seven of the investigation, a chime notified him of a second Estonian email. The second face was identified as Steven Gouger.

As the birds sang outside, Khalid Christopher swallowed a powerful sedative and crawled into bed next to his love. When he awoke, he would find out more about Steven Gouger than he knew about his own family.

Assistant Federal Prosecutor Norman Nelson stood in front of Mindy Watkins' desk in the middle of the room. His graying hair was meticulously combed. His gray suit and gray tie and double starched, extra white shirt were without wrinkle. “I'm not sitting in your chair, Ms. Watkins. I do my best work standing up.”

Mindy Watkins studied the short, stout man in front of her. No crossed arms. No visible twitching. No hands in pockets. No shuffling from foot to foot. He was a black belt in three martial arts disciplines and he looked the part of a serious man.

“And those Vipers of yours who escorted me in, they don't scare me, Mam. I used to keep snakes when I was a boy. Fascinating creatures.”

Mindy Watkins was determined not to speak. Negotiations would soon commence and she did not want to sacrifice the preliminaries. The long silence was broken by the Assistant Federal Prosecutor. “Ms. Watkins, I recognize the disadvantage in initializing the dialog but I will concede such advantage to you at this time.”

Mindy Watkins smiled. “Are you going to ask me to cut to the chase?”

“Yes, I read that book too. Whoever delivers that line usually fares poorly in the ultimate outcome.”

“Ultimate outcome? As opposed to what other kind of outcome?”

“You did catch me in a redundancy, Ms. Watkins. Yes you did.”

Mindy Watkins leaned back ever so slightly in her swivel chair and her tone softened by a degree. “Tell me, what is so important about Delbert Wayne Duncan?”

Norman Nelson breathed deeply and answered her question with a question. “Ms. Watkins, have you ever heard of Perfect Justice?”

Mindy Watkins paused before answering. “I have heard of it but if you could give me a refresher course, I would be ever so grateful.”

“Yes Mam. The US Department of Justice only wins ninety six per cent of the cases it prosecutes. That constitutes a four per cent rate off imperfection. Our goal is to reach a one hundred per cent rate of conviction. Perfect justice.”

“And you don't think you can convict Delbert Wayne Duncan?”

“It's an uphill battle, Mam. Usually case like this, we delay, delay delay until a few years pass and they are stuck in jail and his lawyer has run through his retainer. That's when we offer them time served plus a few years.”

“We will be glad to house Mr. Duncan for as long as Uncle Sam is picking up the tab.”

“That's just it, Ms. Watkins. The perp's father happens to be a lottery winner. He's on his second lawyer and she wants to bring it to trial. We have a strong case against the dirt bag in question, Ms Watkins but...”

He paused and reminded himself of his status. When President Walker was inaugurated three years ago, his attorney general purged the Justice Department of most of its Democrats. Norman Nelson knew how to play the system well enough to keep his job but he sometimes regretted doing so. His superiors were cold, demanding and hostile and his career would be stuck in neutral until a Democrat could storm the White House. He took a breath and channeled his inner Datsun salesman.

“I hope to someday run the Civil Forfeiture Division. That's where the money is. That's the blue ribbon. The gold medal. The pot of gold at the end of this nerve-racking rainbow. If I land that job, Ms. Watkins, I'll give you the first Rolls Royce Phantom I can grab.” He paused before yanking the hook. “But I won't be in the running if I can't deliver perfect justice.”

Mindy Watkins broke eye contact. She looked up at the ceiling and stretched her arms over her head as she stopped short of yawning. She rested her cheek on her left palm and barely opened her mouth when she inquired, “So in twelve years, when you get your promotion, you'll see to it that I get a rusty old Ford?”

“It will be closer to five years, Ms. Watkins and I did not promise you a rusty....” Mindy Watkins raised her hand to signal stop.

“Apparently, you overestimate my wealth, Attorney Nelson. I cannot pay Dr. Wu's well-deserved fees in dubious hopes of reimbursement when I'm old and gray.” She pressed a button and a six foot mobile screen planted to Mindy Watkins' left was illuminated. “These are the terms, Attorney Nelson. This sum will be paid to my husband's political consulting firm.”

Norman Nelson flinched when the number was displayed. His mouth opened and he squinted as he turned his attention to his hostess. “You seem to overestimate my wealth, Ms. Watkins. That sum is twice my gross annual salary.”

“We broke it down like this. Your brother, the state senator, will not seek re-election at the state level. He will seek a US Congressional Seat and will retain Watkins and Associates for his campaign.”

“Excuse me! One does not simply run for Congress. Not if he is in it to win. You talk to the party hierarchy first...”

“My husband will be notifying the pertinent interests this morning. It's your job to inform your brother of the change in plans at the conclusion of this meeting.”

“That's a tough district for a Democrat to win, Ms. Watkins. That's redneck country.”

“My husband plugged the difficulty factor into the equation. It's better for your brother to lose a race in his thirties than to lose in his middle years. And these six offices currently held by Republicans for which your wife is eligible and the corresponding consulting fees...”

“My wife? My wife is not a politician!”

“She was tenth grade class secretary, Attorney Nelson. My husband does his research. And your mother will be seeking a state senate seat from her perch in Rutherford County.”

“My mother has never worked outside the home!”

“Yes but your father is too sick to run for office.”

“Yes and my mother is his primary care provider.”

“Your sister is eligible for several positions in Chattanooga.”

“My sister has spent half her life in psychiatric hospitals.”

“The mental health community is in need of home grown representation. And we have isolated a dozen offices your mother-in-law can seek way down in Mississippi.

“Ms. Watkins, my mother-in-law has a severe stuttering condition.” His voice had gone from a shout to a whisper.

“We recommend that you find at least three substitutes for each candidate should your first choice...”

“Slow down Ms. Watkins. We don't have that kind of cash laying around.”

“Watkins and Associates can assist you in your fund raising efforts on a percentage basis. However, we do expect your friends and relatives and associates to kick in their fair share.”

“Ms. Watkins, you can't just command people to seek public office.”

Mindy Watkins ceased talking and stared softly and silently into Norman Nelson's frightened eyes. A voice inside her prompted her to stop the sales pitch. The ball was now in Nelson's court. She was confident that he would return service.

Steven Gouger stood over his butch-cut female teammate, Cheryl Grimes, who subdued a female suspect, Ann Leigh Lee, on the dog-dirt-encrusted carpet of Mrs. Lee's living room. Mrs. Lee was a meth head as well as a dealer and Steven Gouger would once more reflect on the unpredictable nature of speed freaks. The raid was conducted at dawn and neither Mr. Lee nor Mrs. Lee were sleeping. They were both multi-tasking a dozen separate chores---duties involving cooking and plumbing and baking and fiberglass insulation and caulking and canning and painting and small engine repair and a myriad of other jobs none of which related to cleaning in any way, shape or form—accompanied by the gentle rhythms of “Crime and Justice “ dialog blasting on all six television sets and the wafting bouquet of dog feces, dog urine, wet dog fur, cooked cabbage and chocolate chip cookies.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Steven Gouger felt himself grow queasy. His buddy, Ronnie Delveccio, had been assigned to doggie detail. It was his job to eliminate every canine weapon in the drug dealer's fortress. Six weeks ago, the Lee's tan pit bull gave birth to seven pups. So in addition to the mother and the oversized brindle sire, Ronnie Delveccio was now responsible for securing the safety of his fellow Drug Enforcement Agents from the additional weaponry. Steven Gouger worried about the emotional toll the assignment might take on his warm-hearted friend.

Steven Gouger had only known Ronnie a few months and in that time they became best friends. Years ago Steven Gouger had adopted three cats from someone he had helped send to prison. He would add another perp cat and one of the originals would die of a rare feline illness. He let it be known that he would provide temporary shelter for any cat whose owner was incarcerated. His wife, Lauretta, was tolerant of her husband's mission but warned him that things would change when the kids arrived.

But the stork would bypass the Gouger house and Steven and Lauretta would struggle with the vicious despair of infertility. Their marriage was a montage of doctors and specialists and consultants and more doctors and specialists and consultants, supplemented changes in diet and exercise, internet searches, re-commitment to Christ, more internet searches, a commitment to a more serious study of Scripture, dietary supplements and more recently, an indulgence in psychics and soothsayers.

Around the office, Steven Gouger was called the Catman. Most people assumed that he and his wife had decided against starting a real family and they would make stupid comments about their preference for cats over kids. Steven Gouger recalled a hot shot agent who had been involved in a high speed chase. “I can't die. I have a family,” he stated in each retelling of the story.

That comment irked Steven because he saw the hot shot as a chronic drunk and all around loser. His kids would have been better off with a cardboard cutout of a father. But in most people's minds, his life had more value than Steven or Lauretta's. And Steven would recall Dingy Diane, the office manager who constantly complained about the high cost of feeding and clothing her family. “I think you and your wife made the right decision to have cats instead of kids.”

And Steven Gouger would remember the water cooler conversation after a nine year old girl had been abducted and murdered and her body had been found. One of the older women had told an attractive, childless twenty five year old year old agent named Alexia Anson, “You don't know what it's like to lose a child.” Neither did the old broad know what that experience was like. Her three kids were alive and healthy but somehow she had feelings that people like Alexia and Steven could never understand.

The damn fools! Steven and Lauretta had lost a dozen times over. No flowers and pity for Steven and Lauretta. No Hallmark moments and warm hugs. Go back to your iceberg, cat people. You are not quite as human as the rest of us.

Then Ronnie Delveccio transferred to Mississippi from Massachusetts. Uh-oh, we have another cat lover. Ronnie Delveccio and his wife, Jackie were childless with three cats. On the night they met, the two men went out for a beer and became instant buds. Ronnie and Jackie had been trying for over three years to start a family. They had ridden the roller coaster of hope only to be left empty. Both men commented on their eery similarities and how strange it seemed for them to get acquainted.

Thereafter the Catboys rode an inside joke. No matter what they might have been discussing, when another coworker joined their company, one of them would change the subject to felis domesticus. Steven would proclaim, “Did you know that a cat's sense of hearing is so sensitive that...” and Ronnie Delveccio would whip out wallet photos of shelter cats currently up for adoption.

The wives hit it off as well as the men and special bonds were formed. Now, standing in filth and chaos, Steven Gouger worried about his sensitive friend. Mrs. Lee's cries added to the pandemonium. “Don't hurt my babies.” Gurgle. Sob. Gurgle. “My babies.”

Oh gee. Ronnie Delveccio feels bad enough. The last thing he needs is to hear this loser cry about her dead dogs. Steven Gouger depressed the “Mute Input” button on his helmet as he stooped to whisper into Cheryl Grimes' ear. “I'm going to point the helmet cam over there,” as he pointed down a narrow hallway.

Cheryl Grimes nodded but the perpetrator went right on screaming and swearing. Steven Gouger felt his rage bubbling up inside and resisted the impulse to kick both women in their hollow heads. “Stupid fucking cunts,” he muttered under his breath.

Steven Gouger briefly reflected on the failed social experiment of women in the workplace. Put a but of strange men together and give them a task and it is as if someone is choreographing the raising of the barn or the building of the deck. Everything just falls into place. Every man finds his right job and he does it.

Put a woman in the mix and everything goes haywire. Women are always the whistleblowers. The spies. The snitches. The drama queens. The litigants.

Tell a man to silence a prisoner. You turn your head for a second and the prisoner shuts his mouth. Tell that to a woman and you just get more screaming. They might as well see who can scream louder.

Steven Gouger observed the prisoner. She lay belly down on the tattered and stained brown carpet, her head turned to her left, her long brown hair twisted in every direction. Agent Grimes was sprawled sideways across her back. Pop! The bullet to the face caused a pup's body to spasm in a last run that propelled him past a half dozen invaders and terminated with a collapse just inches away from Ann Leigh Lee's face.

Steven Gouger briefly considered something Roger Roy has said about Agent-In-Charge, Rex Stewart. It was widely rumored that Stewart also did extra-curriculars. Roger Roy told him privately that Stewart had placed Ronnie on doggie patrol to spur his transfer out of the Memphis office. Few people can stay on that assignment long term. Stewart wanted to pack the Memphis office with only his trusted personnel.

Steven Gouger did not like to admit that Roy was right about anything but he conceded that he probably was on target this time. Ronnie was hired in before Special-Agent-In-Charge Levinson suddenly left on medical leave. Had Stewart been running the show, he would have gotten one his cowboys in the office instead of a Yankee from Massachusetts. Now Ronnie was stuck on doggie patrol until he could no longer stomach the slaughter. What then? Agent Gouger, welcome to the counter-canine unit. No!

A burly agent named Steve Sanders whisked past Steven Gouger and turned off the living room TV with its oversized, water-damaged humazoo speakers that filled the house with muddy noise. For a small second, it was quiet. Then...Pop!

Steven Gouger jumped slightly and then slowly shook his helmeted head. He and Ronnie had a lot of thinking ahead of them.

Walter McVey arrived forty minutes early. He asked one of the guards if anyone else had arrived but just shot him an angry glare and continued the admission process. As Walter entered the conference room, Mr. Smith was in the midst of explaining UFO's to Weldon.

“You see, the US tried hard to establish, first to the Russians and then to the Chinese, that we had a special relationship with the aliens and they were sharing their technology with us. We had to make it look like we had collaborations with not just the Grays but the Nordics and Zetas as well. Selling that myth is what tore down the Berlin Wall and paved the Silk Road to Peking.”

Wow! Mr. Smith was connecting the UFO dots. Walter McVey had dreamed of finding the answers all of his life and now...

Mr. Smith said hello and immediately turned the topic to John Joseph. “Gentlemen, we have a lot to cover. Let's review. One, if the Democrats get their act together, we might have a more sympathetic ear in the White House. But...

“We have to assume President Walker will be re-elected. A few words about the incumbent. He ran as a radical reformer. Gonna crush the bureaucratic state. Gonna send the lobbyists packing. He changed his tune a little bit once he got settled. K Street loves this guy. He plays good cop to the Democrats' bad cop. 'Gimme your cash and I'll keep the Commies at bay.' Not much reform but a lot of restraint.”

Thomas Weldon discerned a pause and jumped in. “Let me ask an obvious question. Can't we affect change through the a-hmmm,” he stage-coughed. “The electoral process.”

Mr. Smith sighed. “It's a lot harder than it used to be, thanks to the Joseph media.”

“Why can't we just send some jihadists to waste these suckers?' Walter McVey asked himself. He camouflaged his lack of enthusiasm for the glacial offensive the legendary Mr. Smith was promoting. “I hate to say it, “ Walter McVey interjected, “but that was a brilliant move on their part.”

He was referring to the million dollar bounty the Joseph-founded National Wire Service offered five years ago for people who turned in voting fraudsters. Total rewards were capped at one billion dollars. A feeding frenzy ensued and the National Wire Service generated thousands of news stories on the reported fraud.

The wire service did not shell out more than a few million dollars which was small potatoes considering the bounty generated thousands of news articles. There was the fine print stating that the information provided had to result in a felonious conviction for a reward to be collected. Neither state nor federal prosecutors wanted to assist the whistleblowers and there were lots and lots of plea bargains. Still, the promotion did decrease voter turnout in Democratic hotspots and a long shot Republican, Governor Walker, was elected president a year and a half after the bounty was offered.

“Which is why,” Mr. Smith summarized, “We have to assume Walker will be re-elected. Our first objective is to force the Josephs to abandon their media enterprises. We get them to bleed red ink and they will jettison their least profitable holdings first.”

Walter McVey fidgeted as he sat through another recital of Joseph success, this version emphasizing how they transitioned from entertainment to news and still kept their show biz viable. The National Daily Paper. The National Sunday Paper. The National Saturday Paper. The National Spanish Paper. “Mondo Investor.” The joint venture with FBS to form a twenty four hour cable news channel. The falling out with FBS. The launching of a second news network. The buy out of FBS's holdings in what had been a losing proposition up to that point. Niche magazines. The liquidation of niche magazines and the absorption of personnel into other news formats. The purchase of small market newspapers where the National Wire Service had been skipped over by larger papers. The hostile takeover of the cable provider that happened to be the parent company of a major television network....

Walter McVey studied the small creases in Mr. Smith's forehead. He briefly shifted his gaze to Weldon. Were those liver spots or faded freckles on his forehead?

“Despite the family's massive wealth, they are highly leveraged...minority shareholders in strategic information resources...the wire service is a bubble stock that has never shown a profit...news media have hit saturation...”

Walter McVey sat up in his chair when the topic turned to John Joseph's baby mamas. Each mama would be contacted in person by a sales team. Each mama would be assigned her own lawyer.

“Mr. McVey, you have a daughter who practices law in Maryland. Would she be interested in representing the Annapolis mama?”

“I can't speak for her sir, but...” Walter McVey did the math in his head as he spoke. If John Joseph died and his fortune was divided by his sixty four offspring, and the offspring's lawyer received one third.. “...my daughter has devoted her life to pursuing justice for the downtrodden.”

This was a bombshell. Walter McVey had recently jogged with his good friend and cohort, Leo Kelly. It was a cold, moist day and the bare trees of the Maryland State Park did not offer much of a windbreak. Still coming off an injured left foot, Walter knew he would have a hard time keeping up with the slightly younger and always perkier, Kelly.

Walter got right to the point. Initial meetings with Smith and Weldon were disappointing. They just did not share Walter and Leo's sense of urgency. Smith wanted to use a drip drip drip series of tactics to destroy the Joseph Family. Public relations. Litigation. Elections. Bureaucracy. Taxation. Anti-trust measures. Leo cut him off with, “There is a quicker way.”

Generally, Leo Kelly was more cautious than Walter, perhaps because he was still employed at DEA. He usually saw more obstacles and sharp corners than Walter and McVey always appreciated his friend's circumspection. Now Leo was suggesting that he had a team of contract jihadi assassins who were just waiting their turn to kill an infidel.

“Remember Monsignor Krause?” Leo asked between breaths.

“Of course I remember Monsignor Krause. He was my spiritual mentor,.” Walter replied.

The late Monsignor Krause had served as chaplain for Washington based Federal Law Enforcement Officers and later served Washington area DEA exclusively. He often reminded his congregation that the taking of human life was completely justified during times of war and the president had declared a war on drugs. God's children were under siege and it was the responsibility of virtuous men to do something about it.

“I now control a few sleeper cells. Mohamed and Mohamed think they are working for Mecca Central but they work for me. I give the command and they will gladly earn their seventy two virgins.”

“Even someone as high profile as Joseph?”

“I think they get bonus virgins for bringing him down.”

They jogged a quarter mile in silence and Walter was pleased to be able to keep up with the younger man. Leo spoke up. “Monsignor Krause said explicitly that collateral damage was a part of war.”

“Joseph is not collateral damage. He wants to make all drugs legal. He is the devil incarnate.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Leo smile.

“Think it over,” Leo summarized. “Jihad is not an institution to be entered into lightly.”

“I will consider our options,” Walter replied.

With that Leo Kelly stepped up the pace almost to a sprint and left the older man behind.

Walter fake listening to his partners yammer on about long-term planning. He had walked in today frustrated with five year plans, seven year plans, ongoing plans...Keynes said that in the long-term we would all be dead. Maybe these brilliant guys had never read John Maynard.

He was thinking he would feign interest and later give Leo Kelly a call to green light jihad against John Jospeh. Patience is a vice, that's what Walter's father used to say. Then Smith hinted that maybe, just maybe, Walter's daughter, Mary, might receive a windfall.

Mary did have four daughters who attended private schools and they would soon be going to college and surely law school or grad school and they might want fancy weddings and... the creaky but potent voice of Monsignor Krause rumbled unexpectedly. “You must do what is right.”

Yes, I must do what is right. If it was all about money I would have chosen another career path. I will do what is right.

Walter continued his fake listening.

Most of the past two days, Khalid Christopher prepared for his death. He was certain the Organizers were sending someone from Los Angeles to exterminate him. He knew he would have to make restitution for the lost cash but he only had two thirds of that sum hidden in a dozen checking accounts, safe deposit boxes and storage lockers.

Khalid Christopher had given Kathy Kane twenty thousand dollars in case he would not be able to provide for her after meeting with the Organizers. He ordered a one time maid service to clean the entire house and he paid them in cash. For two days Kathy Kay lay on the leopard skin couch and watched “Crime and Justice” on the big screen as her man rubbed her feet and read from The Bible buried in his power phone.

Over pizza and KayPow Chicken and more pizza, Khalid Christopher read from the Gospels, starting with Luke. He jumped around. Jesus's parables never mad sense to Khalid. He tried a little stichomancy. “Will the Organizers kill me tomorrow?”

PSA 63:1

O God, thou art my God, early will I seek thee. My soul thirstieth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee, a dry and thirsty land, here no water is.

Khalid dozed off and awoke at the start of one of his favorite “Crime and Justice” episodes in which white stock brokers slayed innocent minorities with machetes. The police brass were certain the killings were the trademark of a Haitian street gang but the clever detectives knew better. If this was to be Khalid Christopher's last night on Earth, why not spend it watching his favorite show with his true love?

They consorted amorously in the king-sized safari bed. Khalid Christopher slept peacefully and arose at 7 AM. He stumbled through the Z-shaped hallway to the cramped room that had been designated an office but now served as a compact warehouse for Kathy Kane's wardrobe. Oblong plastic laundry baskets of every marketable color held neatly folded girl clothes. The baskets were stacked about six feet high and arranged in a grid pattern that suggested urban blocks of skyscrapers. Khalid Christopher bravely navigated the terrain and upon reaching a Staples desk, he removed an envelope and paper from the bottom drawer, careful not to disturb the paisley and florid blouses arranged neatly on the desktop.

Khalid Christopher sat at the concrete kitchen table and composed a note to his Juliet. He reaffirmed his love and reminded her that she was the best this life had given him. He thanked her and then matter of factly told her that if he did not return by 5 PM, he was probably dead. “As long as I am alive, I will come back to you.”

Khalid Christopher sealed the envelope and wrote, “Open only if I'm not home by 5 PM” where an address would usually be written. He silently placed it on the nightstand where Kathy Kane would see it. He then slipped on his only pair of moccasins and shuffled back to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

He studied the wood grains in the cabinet doors, the tiny bubbles in the painted ceiling, the discolored linoleum. If this was his last day on Earth, he wanted to observe as much as he could. Khalid Christopher was at peace with his fate. He did not want to make trouble for Kathy Kane or for Ahmed. If it was time to say good night...

Khalid Christopher's cell bellowed the "Crime and Justice" trademark Klung Klung and displayed “Blocked Number.” “Hello.”

“It's me. We're a couple of hours ahead of schedule. Can we rendezvous in twenty minutes?'

The sleepy voice was unmistakably Ahmed's. “I'll leave right now,” Khalid responded. The call concluded and Khalid brushed his teeth, sprayed the porcelain and ran out the side door.

The Organizers avoided airlines and airports whenever possible. They had invested heavily in a fleet of RV's that were officially owned and operated by middle aged Caucasians. Ahmed Christopher had been chauffeured from Los Angeles to a dirt road outside of Fresno, where he climbed into a Winnebago.

The drivers were 57 year old Joe Bobb and his 47 year old wife, Joann Bobb. They reminded Ahmed of a post-meth version of Mr. and Mrs. Jack Spratt: A jockey-sized man with more tattoos than teeth and a tall woman, round with thinning, bottle blond hair. Fueled by black coffee, Reese's Cups, M&M's, pharmaceutical sleep-delay lozenges, truck stop uppers and Organizer primo crank, they drove from Fresno to Grenada, Mississippi in under twenty eight hours.

Ahmed spent most of his trip lounging on a sponge bed watching old episodes of "Crime and Justice." He napped and talked on his phone and ate chicken curry salad sandwiches and ham and cheese sandwiches and large chip Fritos. The plan was for Ahmed to be deposited in a camera-free zone of a cemetery not far from Khalid's house. There, Khalid would retrieve him and the Bobbs would drive to a designated mooring to rest up for the flip flop.

Khalid had the white Civic ten minutes away from the cemetery when the Klung Klung signaled a call from Ahmed. “Change of plans. We can't get into the boneyard.” Ahmed and the Bobbs were unaware that the cemetery crew chief had been picked up on an outstanding warrant for failure to pay child support and the second in command had lost his key. The wrought iron gates would remain chained until further notice. “We're going to meet at the truck stop. Fuck the cameras.”

The truck stop! Cameras! The Organizers would not be giving him a skull cap. They would let him live. Khalid Christopher would live another day!

Khalid pulled into the Wild Goose Truck Stop behind a tan Winnebago with California plates and followed it to an isolated corner of the parking lot. As soon as the RV stopped, Ahmed jumped out of the side door.

Ahmed was slightly taller, slightly darker and slightly better looking than his half-brother. He was dressed in a conservative navy blue suit with a white shirt and a pink and lavender tie. He carried a briefcase and gripped the straps of a solid black duffel bag.

Ahmed stooped to look into the Civic and seeing that Khalid was behind the wheel, he asked him to pop the trunk. He stepped behind the Civic, threw the bags in the pit and slammed the lid shut. There was a long embrace across the front seat and Khalid felt good for the first time since the robbery.

Ahmed was four years old when his half-brother, Khalid was born. Two years earlier, Cedric Christopher's high school sweetheart, Shareena Jackson, was killed in a traffic accident a furlong from her Bakersfield home. Cedric took his toddler son back to Inglewood and soon Ahmed Jackson was calling Rickethia Christopher, “Momma.”

A week after the infant Khalid returned from the hospital, Cedric Christopher, a delivery truck driver by trade, was shot by a drive-by shooter in what was believed to be a case of mistaken identity. Rickethia Christopher would never assume the role of black Superwoman. She would not work six full time jobs nor would she scrub toilets and floors of the rich and famous while protecting her children from the lure of the streets as she administered fearful discipline. No, she would collect a disability check for her agoraphobia and she would spend her days cooking and cleaning and reading romance novels.

Ahmed Christopher started running errands for the Organizers when he was twelve. Years later he would tell a concubine that he joined the Organizers because he had no sense of style. Kids would wear a certain brand of shoe and he would beg his mother to buy him a pair and by the time he got his kicks they would be out of style.

It was the same way with music and gadgets and movies. Had he been allowed to join the military, Ahmed the child would have done so. He liked the idea of wearing uniforms and he liked orderliness in general. In Ahmed's eyes, the Organizers were the next best thing.

Upon leaving the parking lot, Ahmed's tone changed. He reminded his little brother that he was fortunate to secure the position of external banker. He reminded him that he would be reassigned and that he would have to make restitution. “Given the size of the payback, you might be asked to work it off on the fast track. You know what that means.”

Khalid hated the kid brother treatment. “Yes, I know what that means.” He might be asked to pull the trigger. The brothers agreed that it was unlikely that someone with detailed knowledge of the club's banking system would be placed in a high risk venture, but that remained to be seen.

Ahmed paid no attention to the passing countryside—the tall pines, the hardy cedars, the “Jesus Saves” billboards, the sprawled suburbs and rundown trailers and red tail hawks on telephone poles—as he interrogated his brother. Initially relieved that the Organizers had not sent a hit man, Khalid now considered that to be a less agonizing fate. “Look,” Ahmed explained, “You a banker and money turns up missing, you guilty. The burden of proof is on you to prove you innocent. You understand that?”

And Khalid Christopher stated that he did understand and that he so wanted to profess his innocence and to explain that he had identified two of the three robbers and one was a State Trooper and one was a DEA agent but Ahmed would not let him talk.

Back at the house the atmosphere did not soften when Khalid introduced his brother to Kathy Kane. Ahmed did not hug her or kiss her or shake her hand. Instead, he asked Khalid, “Do she cook?” And at every response from Khalid or Kathy, Ahmed made the point of acting as if she was not there.

“Can she grill cheese? I want four sandwiches with a slice of tomato on two and dill pickles on the other two. Tell her to use butter, not margarine. What kind of cheese she buy?”

Khalid reminded his brother that Kathy Kane had received sutures in her head as a result of the robbery.

“Well, if you really cared about her, you would have protected her,” Ahmed said slowly and deliberately as he stared deep into Khalid's eyes. Khalid resisted the impulse to slap him in the mouth.

Kathy Kane prepared both men grilled cheese sandwiches as the older brother continued his conversational dominance. Ahmed played the reluctant lawyer, reminding his guilty client that only his wisdom stood between them and a pack of wolves. He would have to convince the predators that Khalid was guilty of negligence, not treachery. “If we had some means of proving this was not an inside job...”

“I can identify two of the three robbers,” Khalid Christopher blurted out.

“Huh?”

“I can identify two of them. One is a State Trooper and the other is DEA.”

Ahmed fell silent and Khalid could feel the slack in the noose. Ahmed instantly softened his mien and for the rest of his visit he let his little brother do most of the talking.

Steven Gouger followed the white-robed med assistant to the tiny room and tried to ignore the blaring fragrance of isopropyl alcohol. He watched the silent pawn spread a sheet of medical paper across the aqua-colored vinyl cushions. Steven Gouger focused on the gray bun that jerked like a fish bobber as she robotically set the stage. She pivoted and turned the doorknob with her gloved hand and exited the room, slamming the door ever so slightly.

Steven Gouger locked the door and settled settled himself on the starchy white paper. He opened one of the many crisp issues of “Playboy” to the centerfold and placed it on the couch next to him. He liked looking at Hef's girls—who didn't? However he found the dainty lookalikes a little too distant to be employed in a utilitarian manner.

To help him complete his mission, Steven Gouger removed an inactive mobile device from his pocket. The phone capabilities of the machine had never been activated. Steven Gouger used this secret vault to view slide shows of Lauretta's younger sister, Julie, Lauretta's good friend Sherry Cummings, a neighbor's daughter who was a cheerleader at Ole Miss and Lauretta's nineteen year old cousin, Riva.

Steven Gouger would also remove his daily cell phone that contained slides of his wife in various stages of undress. He knew he would later be quizzed on where his eyesight was focused prior to the completion of his duty. He wanted to be able to tell his spouse without hesitation that he was unable to take his eyes off of her in her black negligee stroking her Teddy Bear ever so suggestively. He knew he would make his wife blush and smile.

Steven Gouger briefly reflected on the nature of women. Yes, they were smarter than men but they could never understand men. Then again, why would they want to? With his jeans around his ankles, Steven Gouger started the slide show. Had anyone ever jerked off to an image of his wife? Was it even possible?

The tiny screen overflowed with images of his 22 year old sister-in-law that Steven Gouger had lifted off her MyFace page. Julie had been a lifeguard in high school and college and she posted dozens of photos of herself in an array of swimwear. Her tan, wet skin. Her sleek bod. The dirty blond Julie. The fade to brunette Julie. The blond highlight Julie. The bottle blond Julie.

Close but no fiesta. Steven Gouger switched to Sherry Cummings. What exactly made this woman so erotic? The low cut blouse helped but it was her inner confidence that exuded sex through every pore...seconds later it was Wendy Johnson, the cheerleader and seconds later...Riva also had dozens of photos on her MyFace page. She too had been a cheerleader. She too, owned several bathing suits but it would be her graduation photo that would allow Steven Gouger to roll the credits. That heavenly face. So smooth. So gentle. So creamy.

Steven Gouger rested briefly, pulled up his jeans and placed both cells into his pants pocket. He carefully applied hand sanitizer ever so cautious not to disturb the contents of the plastic cup. He glanced at himself in the mirror and walked the cup down the synthetic hardwood hallway where it would be received by an impassive Vietnamese man in a lab coat who would quietly thank Steven Gouger without making eye contact.

On his way home from Music City Steven Gouger darted his old truck in and around and through slower traffic. It was mostly interstate between Vanderbilt and the homestead. The landscape was dreary brown and there were hints of fog here and there.

At 90 miles per hour he reflected once more on the unending nightmare. Initially Lauretta was subject to early stage miscarriages. She was told she might have had a few more miscarriages without even knowing it. Doctors and copays and time and treatment seemed to solve the problem. But Lauretta would not get pregnant.

Along the way, Steven's sperm count had dropped from slightly low to significantly low. And he would find himself in the office of a urologist who would grip his scrotum tightly as he glared at his patient. Dr. Antaramian was new to Mississippi Urology Associates and thus his name did not appear on MUA's website or any of their literature. Had he seen the name Antaramian, Steven Gouger would have sought treatment elsewhere.

Just two weeks prior, the DEA had shut down a pain clinic run by another Dr. Antaramian. The urologist's older brother had been shuffled off to jail and his assets, including his house and vacation cottage, were seized. The clinic had not excessively written pain scripts but the local office had fallen behind schedule in the prescription abuse department and someone had to take the fall. Besides, Steve Antaramian had been rude to DEA staff.

Peter Antaramian knew that Steven Gouger was a DEA agent and though he did not mention his brother's ruination, he did not hide his contempt. He was rough. He was gruff. He was rude. Steven Gouger still held the opinion that the younger Doctor Antaramian intentionally misdiagnosed his problem. He remained convinced that he had concealed the presence of a varicele. So humiliated by one office visit that Steven Gouger waited a full year to undergo a second opinion. The new doctor was gentler and kinder and took the requisite steps for corrective action.

A degrading surgery was performed and Steven Gouger's sperm count would elevate but not as high as he had hoped. Now Steven and Lauretta took turns driving back and forth to Nashville in hopes of conceiving through artificial insemination. Lauretta had insisted that they sue the urology practice for misdiagnosing the varicele but Steven would have none of it. No amount of money could make him relive his humiliation. Telling his story to a lawyer and then another lawyer and depositions and more depostions and then what?

Steven knew of people who had faked injury and ultimately became crippled. Walking with a cane was no longer optional. And if they played the role of victims of infertility...

Steven's memories would be interrupted by the blue lights of a Tennessee State Trooper in his rear view mirror. His heart raced as he fumbled for his Mississippi State Police badge. He would wait patiently for the trooper to aproach and then wave his courtesy in a manner equivalent to a secret handshake.

Had the snarling trooper not been cooperative, he would have produced his DEA credentials. Both Tennessee and Mississippi issued phony creds to Federales so as to not blow their cover. True to form, the Faberge-reeking pug backed down but not before issuing a slight admonishment.

“Ninety seven? I will extend professional courtesy but you are pushing your luck, sir.”

Steven Gouger promised to slow down and thanked the grimaced officer. It would take him about four hours to get home and it was dark when he pulled into his driveway. In the old days he and Lauretta would have gone to the bedroom and he would remark how the second time always felt better. No more. Infertility was now the elephant in the room and their intimacy was limited to reproductive efforts. They would not want to bother just a few hours after ejaculation.

Tonight the Gougers would sit on the couch and watch “Crime and Justice” reruns until bedtime. They would both remark that even if their dreams were ultimately broken, there was always “Crime and Justice” and for that alone, life was worth living.

Walter McVey arrived one hour early to find Mr. Smith lecturing Thomas Weldon. “You can argue forensics all day long and it doesn't get you anywhere. But no one with a brain stem believes an armed organized crime figure just happened to wander into the bowels of the Dallas City Jail unnoticed. Play a few rounds of Six Degrees of Jack Ruby and you have solved Rubik's Cube.”

The JFK Assassination always interested Walter McVey but not enough to devote his life to it. Now and then the subject would enter the conversation and never had Walter heard anyone in law enforcement who believed The Warren Report. Jump in and you will get a jaw-dropping revelation and then another revelation and then another.

Then the clues start contradicting themselves. The FBI releases a tape of a mobster making a jailhouse confession. Then a mob lawyer says no no no, it wasn't that mobster, it was my deceased client who pulled the strings. The KGB declassifies documents that point to Washington insiders and then there is a death bed confession that takes us off in another direction and the CIA declassifies files that implicate some lesser known figure. LBJ's alleged mistress. Oswald's alleged mistress. Eye popping grand jury testimony that somehow got buried...and of course, Mr. Smith can connect the dots for us.

Mr. Smith got down to business right away. “I have been briefed on the Joseph Family game plan for Mississippi. They are committed to making Eva Marie Taffy look good and making their little utopia work. They will reward the good people of Mississippi but they won't satiate them all at once. The honey will drip slowly from heaven.”

Mr. Smith spoke authoritatively in great detail without the aid of notes or reminders. The Joseph Family would launch new for-profit ventures in Mississippi and they would gradually transfer their TV and video productions to the Magnolia State. They are considering moving their corporate offices of various companies to Rebel Land, spreading them out for maximum political advantage.

The citizens of Taffyville, as Mr. Smith liked to refer to them, would move to the front of the line for Joseph's philanthropy. Among the ventures will be a new med school that will only recruit engineers and will focus entirely on spinal repair. A second medical school will devote its attention to artificial sight.

Walter McVey reminded himself to divert his eyes. Yes, you are supposed to look at the speaker but you should never stare at anyone for too long. He glanced at a couple of age spots on Weldon's forehead. Were they there last time? He refocused on Smith's android-perfect hairline.

“John Joseph will soon announce the groundbreaking for what will be the world's largest shopping mall off of I-20 despite Mississippi's hearty sales tax. That is confidence.

“But the best is yet to come. John Joseph intends to build nine baseball stadia along I-55 or possibly Highway 61. These will be replicas of destroyed baseball shrines much like he did at Laughlin and on that Indian reservation. I'm going to retire to Mississippi.”

Walter McVey was once more taken aback by Mr. Smith's appreciation of all things Joseph. But as quick as he praised the Josephs, Mr. Smith started listing plans to wash away their sand castles.

“Mr. McVey, with all the drug dealers who have moved to Mississippi, can't we get a gang war started down there?” Smith asked abruptly.

“Sir, we never have to worry about starting gang wars. They seem to start themselves.”

“And if they don't, um, self-generate?”

“Well sir, we could light a fire if we had to.”

“And can we make sure Joseph's football team gets hit with scandal this season?”

“We're on it, sir. We located Doctor Steroid and we are certain that several of his players are Mississippi Christmas Elves.”

“And can we identify the dopers in the Taffy Administration?”

“Well sir, we know her son has a nose for crank. We had an agent named Kurt Olson who went deep cover to infiltrate Taffy's inner circle. He blew his cover to save Taffy's life. That woman was surrounded by criminals everywhere she went.”

“Yes, I remember that heroic Agent Olson. You are fortunate to have men of such caliber,” Smith stated boldly.

“Yeah but he should have waited till those drug dealers killed the she devil before he blew his cover,” Weldon said enthusiastically.

Smith turned his attention to Weldon and peppered him with a series of questions about Joseph Family taxes. “Not much we can do as long as Walker is in office,” seemed to be the reply.

Walter McVey reflected on his early morning jog with Leo Kelly. He had set up the meeting to green light the faux jihad assassination of John Joseph. But he awoke with a different perspective.

The night before he and Millie sat at their walnut kitchen table reviewing their finances. Millie baked some Pillsbury chocolate chip cookies substituting mayonnaise for eggs and a mixture of butter and bacon fat for vegetable oil. Like Walter, Millie came from money and they never concerned themselves with details. Now with their senior years upon them, filthy lucre had worked itself into every conversation.

Private schools, prep schools, sports camps, private lessons, tutors, five bachelor degrees from Notre Dame, law school for one, grad school for two, inflation, an under-performing financial adviser, new furniture, a new furnace, elective surgery for Millie, more elective surgery for Millie, jewelry for Millie, more jewelry for Millie, a couple of collectable guns for Walter, another boat and a couple of frivolous expenditures and suddenly the golden years weren't looking so shiny.

Now Millie had decided to undergo a series of dental procedures that were not available a decade ago. Miraculous but expensive, the out of pocket treatments would exceed Walter's new-car-priced dental work and would possibly exceed the US median income. After undergoing his own tooth job, Walter was not about to ask Millie to just get dentures. But the cost! Even if they sold their beloved cottage on Deep Creek Lake, they would still have to pinch pennies.

Walter awoke with the key. Sending John Joseph to his grave might not be the best course of action. If his daughter, Mary, represented one of the baby mamas and each mama was awarded one billion dollars and each attorney was awarded one third...Maybe Mary would purchase the Deep Creek cottage and keep it in the family. Millie would get her wonder teeth and everyone would be better off.

Walter and Leo had changed their site from a Maryland State Park to a Washington bike and jogging trail due to a recent snowstorm. The trail at the state park would be buried under snow and ice until springtime but DC trails were always plowed in a timely manner. Both men were hesitant to talk openly anywhere in the District. They knew of concealed listening devices hidden throughout the city. It wasn't just the US who buried live mics. All the major players on Embassy Row tested their remote listening skills throughout the city.

Leo Kelly was a serious man. He was not given to small talk except perhaps to discuss Notre Dame football. His closest friends knew he did not socialize for the sake of companionship. Walter McVey knew this and when he scheduled their jog it was to discuss the termination of John Joseph.

But slumber had worked its magic and Walter rose from bed with a different perspective. He did not know how Leo would react to his change of mind but he thought it best to show his cards right away. Walter broke a sweat long before Leo did and he started to pant as he told his story..

Unexpected expenditures...huff huff...financial adviser...huff huff...Mr. Smith...huff huff...his daughter Mary...wheezy gasp...In the early morning light they would see four well dressed men in their late twenties and early thirties passing around a joint before going to work. They would pass by a middle age heroin whore who stared back with empty eyes. Both men observed a pair of red tail hawks perched in an old oak tree not ten feet from the asphalt path.

To his pleasant surprise Leo Kelly voiced no objections. He briefly looked at the taller man who ran parallel to him and calmly said, “I understand. If you change your mind, let me know.” He then took off in a sprint and left his partner behind.

Walter struggled to keep pace but his legs just would not do the job. He would think about Leo Kelly and their conversation long after he passed from view. He would be started by a tall Nordic blond with cold blue eyes running in his direction. She was dressed in dark green short shorts and a dark green skimpy t-shirt.

The nimble beauty stared deeply into Walter McVey's eyes. She held his stare from a long fly distance and locked it in until she sprinted past him. Walter stopped briefly and stared at the passing beauty until she rounded a curve and was out of sight.

Walter resumed his jog thinking about the mysterious confident woman he had just viewed. His trance ended when he saw Leo Kelly racing in his direction. Suddenly Leo turned and resumed his pace in the opposite direction and a few seconds later his partner was leaving him behind on the home stretch.

Mr. Smith continued to detail the riches that were coming to Taffyland. “Buy their souls while you're at it,” Walter said to himself. Oh how he looked forward to reading John Joseph's obituary. “Joseph Slain By Mad Dog Jihadists” But for now, Walter would have to settle for suing his nemesis for back child support proportional to his income. The obit would have to wait.

Delbert Wayne Duncan did not know that he was circling in a holding pattern, awaiting the outcome of negotiations concerning his being subjected to Dr. Wu's advanced interrogation techniques. The inmate was mesmerized by the wallscreen in his cell that showed a nine year old Delbert Wayne Duncan celebrating his birthday with a large family he had seemingly forgotten.

“Prison is the last great venue for advertising,” Lamar Watson liked to tell his adoring daughter. Of course there were obstacles to bringing Madison Avenue to The Big House. Bundled And Fortified Fiber Optics revolutionized the delivery process. Jailbirds would be able to watch a treasure trove of commercials that streamed through ultra-low energy interfaces as culinary odors were piped through the vents.

With their messaging refined if not perfected, the problem for Mindy Watkins and Amerijail turned to recruiting sponsors. Not surprisingly, vendors were not enthusiastic about marketing their products to a population on a trajectory that did not forecast a high volume of consumer decisions. The ever-resourceful Amerijail responded by developing their own product lines. Precious Memories, a wholly owned subsidiary of Amerijail, utilized a packaging firm that dumped their generic cereals into house brand boxes. To date, Swan Song Foods had packaged six cereals and three toaster pastries for Precious Memories. Precious Memories was also negotiating with other packagers to market dinner products that had been developed at Amerijail's Western Tennessee Unit.

The face of a nine year old Delbert Wayne Duncan had been lifted from the Internet and set onto a nine year old body using a process called Morph-Vid originally developed by Joseph Productions. James Joseph once oversaw a production company called “the virtual network” because of the volume of content they produced for cable stations and networks. The cash-soaked Josephs sometimes swapped their crisp new shows for the rights to old, unmarketable movies. What would conglomerates want with moth-eaten fodder that were not even considered classics?

Morph-Vid to the rescue. An old cheesy Western serial was colorized and given a hip hop soundtrack and the faces of contemporary actors were sewn into the new product. The old thirteen part “Tumbleweed” series retold with black heroes and Caucasian villains were a direct to video sensation. “Tumbleweed Remix” sounded the tsunami alarm for an epoch of small screen and theatrical releases produced for a fraction of the cost of a conventionally made movie.

Morph-Vid would find its way into other venues. Pornography had traditionally held the attention of a largely male audience but women who were shown hardcore vids with their own faces grafted on the heads of female actresses became loyal, if not fanatical customers. Their enthusiasm spiked even higher when voice emulators substituted their own voices for the actress's. Men who did not enjoy traditional porn frequently paid top dollar to watch a better-bod version of themselves perform with a beautiful partner.

Advertising was the next uncharted frontier. Consumers might open their wallets to watch a version of themselves in a porn vid or even an old Tarzan flick but who wanted to morph into a commercial? Amerijail test marketed the future on its inmates.

Delbert Wayne Duncan sat on the cot of his cell slowly chewing on a Precious Memories blueberry toaster pastry. He seemed to have forgotten that when he was nine he won a croquet tournament that saved the whole town from eviciton and his Uncle Wilbur and Aunt Sarah rewarded him with Precious Memories Corn Flakes. He seemed to have forgotten that when he was nine, he saved a baby from a flooding river and the townspeople rewarded him with a parade and a serving of Precious Memories Fudge Crispies Cereal. He seemed to have forgotten that when he was nine, he rescued a family from a burning house and Uncle Dave and Aunt Ruby rewarded him with an assortment of Precious Memories toaster pastries.

Now as Delbert leaned against the wall that abutted his vinyl cot, he closed his eyes to focus his attention on the rapturous flavor of his Precious Memories Strawberry toaster pastry. Life was good.

Khalid gave Ahmed Christopher a prescription stimulant in Khalid's makeshift office as Kathy Kane stayed in bed and watched “Crime and Justice” reruns. Ahmed questioned his younger brother's status in the household. Why didn't Kathy Kane cook all the time? She had a head injury. Why was his office full of her clothes? They were still organizing and she had a lot of long flowing dresses and ankle-length coats and they didn't make old houses with walk-in closets so she had to hang her good clothes on portable racks and those racks were temporarily stored in Khalid's office...

Ahmed was impressed with Khalid's detective work. The higher-ups were certain the robbery was an inside job and Rabi Dog was a prime suspect. The Organizers had planned to expand beyond California and the Cotton Belt looked like the best place to set up shop. Hungry people, lots of Americans of African descent, low budget law enforcement....A happy hunting ground.

Rabi Dog led a front team that planted the Organizer flag about two years before Taffy was elected governor. The Organizers had beaten the prospectors to the gold rush and Rabi Dog ran a good crew. They moved a lot of meth and he kept things quiet.

There was one period about a year ago when Rabi Dog did not check in for a couple of days. One of his phone transponders suggested that he was incarcerated and his cell was being held as evidence. A second transponder was stationary at a point north of Jackson in what might have been the home of Mississippi State Narcotics Agent Roger Roy.

Rabi Dog emerged after five days with a shaky story about food poisoning and getting hospitalized and his phones got separated from his person. Ahmed now admitted that the Organizers should have checked out Rabi Dog's story. No one goes incommunicado for five days, not even the Neighborhood Leader of The Southern United States.

Of course Rabi Dog was sending a lot of crank money back to LA so the incident was forgotten. It made sense that a cash-strapped narc might keep Rabi Dog in his back pocket and make his legal problems disappear, but that would only be figured out in retrospect.

They spent hours and hours going over the robbery. Could it have involved another Organizer? Possibly. Could it have been an outsider? Unlikely. Was one of the raiders a Mississippi Narcotics Agent named Roger Roy? Yes, absolutely. And DEA Agent Steven Gouger? Positive. The third man? Undetermined.

And they reviewed Khalid's fate. He had enough money squirreled away in dozens of bank accounts to almost make restitution. Almost. And he would have to pay a fine and start work as a utility. He would be given the chance to rebuild his career but never again in the banking sector.

The worst part of the deal was that the Organizers would be relieving Kathy of her fox, mink, seal and wolf coats, her jewelry and her Baby Doll Coupe would be replaced with an old Honda Civic. Khalid would be partially reimbursed for the expropriation but a member in disgrace could not own or display luxuries. Organizer rules.

For Khalid, most stimulants suppressed his appetite. Ahmed on the other hand ate compulsively. He cleaned out the freezer, placing a meat lover's pizza and a pepperoni pizza in the oven. He ate most of the pizzas by himself and then finished off a box of Neapolitan ice cream, eating right from the box.

“I'm sorry we're a little short on supplies. We haven't had a chance to get to the store. I can pick up a few things...” Ahmed cut off his younger brother in mid-sentence. He removed his phone and paced the length of the zigzag house as he calmly gave orders to someone on the other end. A couple of hours later two young Organizers were loading a thousand dollars of groceries into Khalid's refrigerator and freezer and pantry.

There were fresh shrimp and frozen taquitos, frozen eggplant Parmesan, frozen tacos, frozen tortellini, boxes of Mac-N-Cheese, frozen fish sticks, frozen shrimp tempura, frozen fried chicken, frozen Memphis Wings, frozen Biloxi Wings, frozen french fries and tater tots, shelf pudding, refrigerated pudding, frozen pudding pops, fudgesicles, three kinds of ketchup, two kinds of mustard, mayonnaise, Thousand Island dressing, Blue Cheese dressing, Ranch dressing, French Onion dip, Doritos, Fritos, pretzels, Pringles, potato chips, toaster waffles, Pop Tarts, pastries, six cases of Pepsi as well as a wide assortment of snack food.

Khalid studied the two fledglings who stomped across his sagging floors. The local Organizers periodically switched uniforms to throw off observers. This week they were adorned in the Forest Green and White athletic wear associated with Mississippi Valley State University.

The smaller guy wore green sweat pants with the MVSU logo where the left pocket would go if the pants had pockets. He wore a white t-shirt with “Valley” written across the front. He wore a forest green MVSU windbreaker and a red Delta Devils cap that was tipped at a Flavor Flav proprietary angle. He was a slight man of seventeen who had earned the nickname “Jockey” for his stature. He was disarmingly polite but he sometimes flashed a mischievous adolescent grin that advertised a giant gold tooth.

The Mutt to Jockey's Jeff was a dark-skinned nineteen year old named Marcus. Khalid estimated his height to be about six foot seven and his weight to be at least three hundred pounds. He wore a different combination of MVSU athletic wear featuring a green Delta Devils hat with a strip of duct tape that covered up the word “Devil.” Khalid felt sympathy for the obese greenhorn who breathed heavily and sweat copiously as he carried in the groceries. Ahmed arose from the kitchen table and settled up with the cubs, giving each a two hundred dollar tip that brought a smile to their faces and expressions of gratitude.

With a steady stream of finger food Ahmed discussed Khalid's case until deep in the night. Kathy Kane only got out of bed to toilet and shower, feasting on the steady stream of sustenance her lover brought to her bedside. The men would cap the evening with a hearty dose of GHB and they would arise from a deep sleep four hours later.

Khalid already missed the banker's life. The steady stream of coded phone messages, CB chat and cryptic Internet posts. All gone. Now there was stillness and silence and his woman had grown moody. Why not stay in bed?

Ahmed took a long shower and changed into a classic yellow Laker t-shirt and sweatsuit. He wore the number 13 with “Chamberlain” emblazoned on the back. He ate toaster waffles with caramel syrup, hash browns, Jimmy Dean links and Jimmy Dean patties at the cluttered kitchen table.

Ahmed painfully reminded his brother of the itinerary. An Organizer would arrive with a lady and he would chauffeur Ahmed and the lady to a nearby motel. Khalid would then take Kathy Kane to lunch and gently but firmly explain to her that most of her possessions would be gone when they returned.

The same two Organizers arrived with a petite blond girl. Khalid was aware that each state had a different age of consent but this edition of Jody Foster would be a felony in California.

She called herself Brooke and Khalid marveled at her poise. The floors did not squeak when she glided across them. With his breakfast plate still in front of Ahmed, she slid up next to him and gently placed her arms around his neck. She whispered questions to him, controlling the conversation from the onset. Minutes later, Jockey was transporting them to the Walled Wharf Motel and Sauna.

Marcus posted at the house awaiting the arrival of the movers. He watched the big screen in the TV room as Khalid hustled Kathy to get ready. He would drive her to Bunny Burgers in his SUV, they would order lunch and on the way home Khalid would tell his sweetheart that they would be returning to an empty house. That was the plan.

It was a long ride to Bunny Burgers' second store that had celebrated its grand opening just last week. Kathy would sulk the entire trip but she would cheer up when they reached their destination. She laughed at the table top art that featured rabbits dressed like Sherlock Holmes and Cleopatra and Steven Hawking.

Kathy enjoyed her Cottontail Beef Burger with Hare Fries and she also took a bite out of Khalid's Double Easter Burger. She liked the pink salt and pink milkshakes and she ordered a second pink shake for the ride home. Both Khalid and Kathy marveled that they were the only diners.

“When we get home all your stuff will be gone,” Khalid blurted out of the blue. He had been rehearsing his lines and could not come up with a suitable introduction. Not surprisingly, Kathy reacted with anger.

Khalid had selected Kathy's favorite R&B performers as a soundtrack for the bad news. He kept the SUV at the speed limit peering at the passenger seat out of the corner of his eye. Her voice grew loud and Khalid was afraid his sweetheart might attack him as he drove.

Kathy Kane did not wait for the SUV to stop. She jumped out of the slow moving vehicle and dashed for the rusty Civic that had replaced her beloved Coupe. She threw her arms in the air and stomped her way inside.

Khalid parked his SUV and sprinted inside. It wasn't so bad. They still had two cars and furniture and a small TV and a month's supply of food. Of course, the big screens and the jewelry and the seal coat and the fox coat and the ermine and wolf and chinchilla...The organizers had taken all of them. They left behind a pile of pricey shoes and a couple of dozen handbags, probably not recognizing their street value.

Khalid would have felt better had his love thrown a tantrum. Instead, Kathy curled up on her bed and sobbed. Khalid crawled next to her and whispered in her ear.“Honey, I don't need any luxuries. I got you.” She flinched as he touched her back. “We got each other. That's all that mattes. Right honey?”

Kathy Kane did not answer.

It would be at a fancy Mississippi River casino where Christine Roy would get acquainted with the Gougers and the Delveccios. The three couples would gamble and drink and dine in luxury. Unbeknownst to the ladies, the gentlemen would be filtering some of their ill gotten gains into the light of day.

Ronnie Delveccio and his pudgy cherub of a wife, Jackie, picked up Steven and Lauretta in Jackie's king size SUV. Ronnie completed the leg to the Roy residence at an average speed of 72 miles per hour, counting the time spent at two stop signs and a red light. The passengers would shower compliments on the tall raven-haired beauty who happened to be Roger Roy's wife and mother to four of his children. Steven had met her a couple of times before and did not eye her as closely as Ronnie did.

In many ways Christine balanced, if not contrasted her husband's presentation. She had dark hair and pale skin. Roger had white-blond hair and an always ruddy complexion. He had died his hair a generic brown in his undercover days, but now that he was a boss he let it return to its God-given color. He had coarse manners and Christine's were refined. He was loud and she spoke softly. His was a cracker accent and hers was southern aristocrat. In a long, royal scarlet skirt and black and scarlet top she stood apart from her pastel companions. Her black riding boots did not exactly complement her darker than coal Mary Hartman pigtails, but they certainly captured one's attention in a not offensive way.

The party of six poured back a pitcher of margaritas. Roger yelled at his kids and spoke softly to his mother-in-law who would be staying overnight at the Roy house. Then the revelers were off to the Abbyshire Resort and Casino.

The Abby, as it was referred to even before its opening, celebrated the Edwardian Era. Britain at her proudest. Pomp and frills and oversized paintings of fox hunts and croquet matches. Lots of faux antiques and portraits of stately geezers. The bedrooms were ultra-modern with king-size beds and jacuzzis that could provide saline or glycerin or proprietary-comfort bubble baths.

The guests would check into their rooms, toilet and muster on the floor of the Lords and Ladies of Linen Casino Parlor. The ladies would split from their husbands and wander as a trio deep into the jungle of flashy-splashy slot machines. The men would stay huddled at a kiosk of progressive slots. All three had tried to explain to their wives the advantages of progressive jackpots and all three had failed in their edification. Never mind that one could actually find a casino game that puts the odds in the player's favor. The girls would rather search for machines that engaged their attention with graphics and catchy ring tones.

As soon as the ladies wandered off, the gentlemen increased the stakes. Their first choice in progressive machines, a sixteen feed that paid homage to Kikuchi Motorcycle Company by displaying a model crotch rocket and cranked acceleration noises through each machine's speakers, seemed to be monopolized by a team of prog chasers.

The trio would settle for a nine feed kiosk that was on the cusp of break even. Prior to arrival they had consulted the Joseph-affiliated Mondo Investor website in search of positive return machines. One feed was in positive territory and two almost there. Rather than trying to sell cusps and positives to the wives, the boys emphasized the quaint charms and luxuries of Abbyshire with its TV series tie-in, a series the ladies all enjoyed.

They played a cramped row of Virtual Janitor machines, a tie-in with the surprise blockbuster developed by Joseph Games. With the deez and doze grumblings of bald-headed Frank in the foreground the astute gamblers took full advantage of their wives absence to discuss matters of discretion.

Steven Gouger worked the middle box, leisurely feeding the max bet via his new Abbyshire card that was wedged into the provided slot. Ronnie Delveccio also fed the max and he slid to his right to whisper to his friend, “We failed,.” referring to his and Jackie's in vitro efforts.

“So did we,” Steven Gouger said flatly. “Let's have some fun tonight.” Then he added, “Roger's having some problems with his friend. I'll bring you up to date.” Ronnie Delveccio collected a thousand dollars from each of his comrades to cover the upcoming celebration of his fake win and he left for the blackjack tables.

Of the three wives, only Jackie handled household finances. Steven and Roger could hide their cash here and there and pay monthly bills from their stashes. Ronnie did not pay household bills so he falsely won money to clear things with his wife. For all of her common sense Jackie was naive on things related to gambling.

Ronnie found his way to the Kilmer Blackjack Den where he seated on an imaginative piece of furniture that combined the best features of an executive chair with the better aspects of British saddlery. There he would exchange fifteen thousand dollars in cash for table chips. He would guzzle margaritas and play wildly until he hit either the ten thousand or twenty thousand dollar mark or until his wife caught up with him. He would tell Jackie that he started with a thousand dollars and a few hours later the chips had bred faster than Brooklyn hamsters. He would tell his cohorts that he could count cards even when he was sloshed and that is what always threw the pit bosses off his trail.

Back at the progs Roger Roy discussed his problem and Steven grew concerned. His confidential informant blew into Mississippi a little over a year ago with “GANGSTER” written all over him. Roger and his buds tripped him up and Roger was able to use his influence to classify him as a “covert informant.” Off the books, so to speak.

The snitch knew what he had to do which was to lead Roger to criminals with cash. Of course the CI was reluctant to give up his fellow gang members so he outed a few drug dealers his people had sold to. Still a dangerous proposition and one that his own people would certainly view disapprovingly.

The prior jobs were small and the CI contented himself with a finder's fee. He knew the job he set up on Khalid Christopher was large and he wanted a cut. “How much?” Steven asked. Roger mouthed the figure.

“Ain't gonna happen!” Steven roared.

Roger nodded then added. In a whisper, “It's worse than that.” He paused and once more pressed the “Maximum Play” button and turned back to his colleague. “He was supposed to get the hell out of Dodge. His people aren't stupid. They are going to figure out who set up their Bozo and then they will come after my guy.”

Steven's machine registered three push brooms. Not the progressive jackpot three plungers would have yielded but it put him up a few thousand dollars. “What's your plan?' he coolly asked Roger.

“When I met this guy he was clean. Tox screens confirm that. But I been around a while and I know cokehead confidence when I see it. He figures he's got as much dirt on me as I do on him. Maybe he's right. But I don't have a whole gang of California Negroes breathing down my back like he will. Not yet I don't.”

“Things could get messy if his people come after him,” Steven whsipered above the janitorial sound effects of scrubbing brushes and flushing toilets.

Roger's machine hit three push brooms and placed him in the Up column. “I thought about it, believe me. There could be a public dispute and he gets nabbed. What's he got to lose? That's when he writes his tell all.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Steven asked as his machine lit up three cleanser drums, assuring that the evening would be prosperous even if he missed the three plungers.

“Actually there is,” Roger purred and held the silence to enhance the drama. He grumbled about a streak of machine spins and then spoke deliberately. “My man says he has a golden goose. But he wants to play on the team. Four way split.”

Steven let loose a long, slow, deliberate groan accompanied by the “Piece of Cake” declaration from Frank The Janitor. “The deal was....”

“I know what the deal was,” Roger cut in. “This guy is already in. He doesn't need to know your identity. We'll do one more gig and then he'll leave town.”

“And if he decides to stick around?” Steven asked in a soft voice.

Roger Roy took his fingers off the machine and turned directly to Steven. With a cold stare that reminded his colleague why he was a feared and fearsome presence, he deliberately stated, “Then I will solve the problem all by myself.”

Steven nodded. “It has to be unanimous and I'm not much of a salesman.”

Roger returned his focus to his machine. They would both come out a few thousand ahead and they would legitimatize a few thousand more. The ladies would check in from time to time. Jackie and Lauretta would each lose a few hundred and Christine would gloat about the forty two dollars she was taking home.

When Jackie caught up with her husband he had twelve and a half thousand dollars in chips on the table. He left the dealer a generous tip with the stipulation that he back up his story that he started with just a thousand dollars in chips. Jackie would not question his success. She would throw herself into her husband's arms and kiss him deeply. “Dinner's on me!” Ronnie announced triumphantly.

The genuinely British concierge arranged for a party of six in the Kipling Suite. The ladies had packed their evening gowns and shoes as had Steven and Ronnie. True to form, Roger Roy ignored his wife's instructions and forgot his suit. This would cause a brief shouting match in the Argyle Room with Ronnie acting as peace maker.

Somehow sensing Roger's forgetfulness on matters not related to work and also anticipating spilled cocktails, Ronnie packed a second suit. Like the one he would be wearing, it was a traditional cut coat with a starched white shirt and tepid tie.

In Ronnie and Jackie's room Roger Roy tried on his duds. Perfect fit! The waist. The hem. The sleeves. The men were skeletal twins except for their feet. Ronnie wore size ten and a half and Roger wore twelves. No way. No how.

Once more, Mr. Bristle, the stuffy but affable concierge solved the problem instantly. He had a pair of size twelve black Wingtips sent to Roger and Christine's room and the delivery man placed the shoes on Roger's feet using an ivory shoehorn that featured a handle of bas-relief honoring the finer equine specimens of the Edwardian Era. Roger paid handsomely for his room service kicks and still found something in his wallet for the shoe guy and Mr. Bristle.

In their classic, toned-down suits the gentlemen could have been cast as extras in almost any decade. Christine would steal the show with a florid design that accentuated her stature. Her Southern grace would have an opportunity to shine and it would light up the room.

Lauretta attempted to look less perky and less girlish with a dreamsicle orange and white gown that made her look extra perky and extra girlish. She too, would display a subtle Southern grace challenged at times by abundant libations.

Jackie chose a plum gown that suggested the word “prom.” “It's a beautiful shade of plump,” a perky and inebriated Lauretta Gouger pronounced ever so innocently. Jackie's Malden manners would reveal themselves throughout the evening and the pretty plum gown would serve as a catch basin for food and drink and one wayward sneeze.

It would be a night to remember conceptually if not in detail. At the Kipling Suite a chess piece of a waiter served the party appetizers none of them had ever heard of. They would drink cold beer and frothy margaritas and guzzle fine wine during dinner. They would all order variations of beefsteak, potato and salad. They would sip and then chug a brilliant liqueur. Finally, they would be treated to a Brandy Broadside dessert. Twelve variations on sugar and butter and pastry and cream with the common denominator of Snidingham Exquisite Brandy soaked into every morsel. They tipped exorbitantly.

Mr. and Mrs. Roy would be golf-carted back to their room via the VIP elevator. The Gougers would be next. The Delveccios, the unofficial host and hostess would find themselves in their room as the sun rose over Mississippi.

Ronnie Delveccio would sleep face down on the carpet. Roger Roy vomited repeatedly and begged his wife not to tell anyone. Steven Gouger would lie in bed with his wife cuddling him. “If I die right now, I will be a happy man,” Steven declared.

“You can't die,” his tired wife said softly. “You're all I got.” She kissed him and they both fell asleep.

Like a lot of Southerners, Mindy Watkins was sensitive to cold weather. With the temperature in the mid-thirties, high winds and light rain, Mindy critically evaluated the heating unit of the People Car Sedan and she concluded that it kept the driver's seat warm and toasty.

This was Mindy Watkins first electric car and it still felt funny to drive. She readily admitted that she had been taken in by the half hour infomercials where John Joseph himself touted the advantages of the People Car.

“Most Americans fail to reach financial independence because they spend too much money on automobiles...not just the purchase price but the maintenance as well...would you consider comfortably driving a car that might outlive you? A car that you might pass on to your children? And they might pass it along to their children?...Not planned obsolescence. Planned permanence.”

Inspired by the Volkswagen Beetle, the People Car maintained the same style every year. The plan was to correct minor flaws every five years while maintaining the same exterior. The People Car came in six colors with three interior styles. No sunroofs, moon-roofs, T-tops or rag-tops. No special editions.

For a multitude of reasons the People Car was the cheapest ride to purchase and the most economical to maintain. The design costs were minimal considering there was only one design, year in, year out. Except for the audio system, there were no microchips inside the car. It was manufactured in Alabama in conjunction with the Kikuchi Auto Company, a small Japanese bus, truck and motorcycle establishment.

Electric cars generally had lower maintenance costs. The heat involved in internal combustion caused the heartiest metals to warp and change shape over time. The dependence upon electronic regulators for everything from emission control to cabin temperature jacked the price of new cars and made repairs difficult and pricey. A crank-handled door could be repaired for under a hundred dollars whereas it cost three to ten times as much to repair a push button window.

The Joseph Motor Company planned to expand into tour buses, school buses and trucks. They had a two door People Car and a minivan that didn't look like a minivan on the drawing board. For now, they hyped the People Car, a model that became a blockbuster in its sixth year.

Meanwhile, the high end electrics sold well but the retrofitted combustible electrics underperformed and now undersold. The dinosaur dealers were married to the “One Gas Tank” model. One power source that took a painfully long time to recharge.

The People Car offered a large battery and five smaller batteries. The smaller batteries could be swapped out in minutes. Joseph Motor Company was currently offering recharge franchises at one hundred mile intervals along US Interstates as well as along Canadian highways. As the ad said, the age of People was here and Mindy Watkins now drove a People Car.

As Mindy Watkins pulled in front of Greener Pastures gated community, a guard holding an umbrella greeted her. “Good afternoon, Ms. Watkins,” the tall middle age man said in a deeper than average voice.

“Hello Deputy Cummings,” Mindy Watkins replied daintily.

She let the engine run and the giraffean man opened the driver door and shielded the VIP with a gray umbrella. Deputy Cummings offered Mindy Watkins his arm and he escorted her into the cramped guard house. He then returned to park the People Car in the designated parking area.

Greener Pastures Forensic Housing was Amerijail's first venture into secured living. It was a gated and secured twelve house community with a common area, a horseshoe that culminated in a cul de sac. Despite the exorbitant rents Greener Pastures charged government agencies to house witnesses and refugees, it was still a bargain because the renting agencies did not have to provide their own security.

Break even was somewhere between forty and fifty per cent occupancy and Greener Pastures currently rented ten of twelve units. One of the two vacant houses was rented to Amerijail's research and development superstar, Doctor Steven Wu and his two Chinese houseboys to offset what Mindy Watkins acknowledged was undercompensation for his enormous talent.

At ten acres, Greener Pastures could still add a few houses should the need arise. No one used the tennis court or ball diamond or picnic tables. That could be two more units. Greener Pastures was a gold mine and Mindy Watkins dreamed of spreading the model throughout the American South.

At an idling speed the Octaroon deputy with the gray Hitler mustache named Clint Hill gave Mindy Watkins a tour of the compound. They drove past the home Department of Justice rented for James Charles Pearce and his family. From the backseat of the SUV, Mindy Watkins peppered her chauffeur with questions.

Officer Howard reported that the Pearces were quiet people. The kids were being schooled online and rarely left the house. They had not attended church ever since their patriarch was shot during a service. Mr. Pearce had been in and out of the hospital. He almost lost his life a few times but he's been home for a few days now.

The CIA-sponsored Amal family also kept to themselves. The occupants sponsored by the US Marshals had been moved to parts unknown. That woman sponsored by the FBI liked to drink white wine and she too was quiet and kept to herself.

Parked in front of Dr. Wu's extended ranch house, Mindy Watkins asked her driver his opinion of electric cars. She would be surprised at his detailed answer. If he had money to burn, Officer Howard might buy a “movie star electric.” But on his budget, the only reasonable choice was the People Car.

“People Car people are people people,” Officer Howard explained. A cult had been formed around people Car customization. A guy from California had removed the back seat and put in extra batteries. He could go fifteen hundred miles without recharging. “Try doing that with a gas burner,” he cued his passenger.

He continued. “Hippies like em. Rednecks like em. Brothers like em. Wrenchheads like em. People who hate cars like em.” Officer Howard explained how Joseph Motor sponsored People Drags and bands played over their silent engines and he emphasized the diversity of humanity who turned out. Joseph Motor Company offered hefty cash prizes for speed records and sponsored intercollegiate competition. “The People Car is a pallet for mechanical artists,” Officer Howard summarized, lifting his description directly from ad copy.

Deputy Howard then pointed out the flaws of the competition. Skimping on steel to compensate for weak engines, electric fires, fatal shocks, sudden mysterious mechanical failure, high recharge times....Mindy Watkins had to cut him off. She dialed Dr. Wu from his driveway.

“OK. I'll send Rue to meet you,” Dr. Wu said softly.

A young and delicate Chinese man in a blue flowered kimono pranced out the front door and approached the SUV. Officer Howard opened her door and held the umbrella for Mindy Watkins. The dainty Chinese man bowed and said, “Wehrcome Miss Watkin.” Officer Howard walked them to the front door, protecting his wards with an umbrella. He returned to the SUV and putted back to the guard house.

Mindy Watkins entered the four bedroom dixie ranch leased for a dollar a month to Dr. Wu. She paused in the parlor to remove her shoes. The blue kimono host gently took her hand and guided her over thick, springy carpet. Mindy was taken by the strong incense, the muted lighting and the artificial fog. It resembled movie set fog where the actors are obscured except for their shoulders and necks and faces.

A second young Chinaman in a pink flowered kimono appeared out of the haze and raised his right hand above his head like he was expecting a high five. Mindy offered her free hand, her left, and submitted to the leadership of Dr. Wu's girlboys. Had she not signed their paperwork and had she not known that Lou was from Singapore and Ron was from Hong Kong, she would have guessed that the two young men were twins. “Dr. Wu is known for his exacting taste,” Carlisle had commented on his worldwide talent search.

“What you dwlink?' Lou asked ever so politely.

“Just water,” she answered and instantly the blue-kimono man returned with a tray that held a bottle of Perrier, and a glass of ice adorned with a lemon. With a hand flourish above his head, he instructed Ron to lead their guest and he followed behind them as they waltzed through the fog. They stopped outside a bathroom and the pink-flowered escort floated out of the fog to hand Mindy an Ole Miss sweat suit. He gently commanded her to enter the bathroom and to remove her pantyhose and to don the sweats.

Mindy closed the door behind her. There was no fog in the bathroom. It was neat. Meticulous like a hotel bathroom that had just been touched up. Fluffy pink hand towels, pink pump soap in a pink-flowered dispenser. She removed her pantyhose and draped them over the shower curtain. She sat on the toilet and urinated. She flushed, washed and climbed into the Ole Miss sweat pants.

In the foggy hallway Ron gently took her left hand and gently guided her ten feet to a darkened room and closed the door behind them. Lou waltzed Mindy into a fluffy chaise lounge. He poured her Perrier and handed Mindy the glass.

With the urgency of an Indy car pit crew Ron washed Mindy's feet with a heated wash cloth. “This for you, Miss Watkins,” Lou purred as he placed a heated mask ever so gingerly on her face and a heated bonnet on her crown. Headphones were placed over the bonnet and they fit snugly over Mindy's ears.

At first the headgear was a distraction. Even more so as the tonal symphony commenced. Soon the focus was back on her feet. No such thing as a bad foot rub. A lobster could do a fine job if he concentrated, Mindy reasoned. But Ron was clearly schooled in one or those arcane Oriental practices that Westerners never learned.

Mindy Watkins did not know or care what sort of Eastern esoterica was being applied to her heels. She knew that he pressed on the ball of her right foot and she felt intense pain simultaneous to the release of all pain and suffering. Something was leaving her grasp.

Ron shifted his attention to her right heel. He rubbed superficially and then applied pressure. Mindy Watkins found herself in a floaty, dreamy, foggy place. She felt like a fish in warm water but there was no water. She saw the contented face of her father and she felt even warmer. She spotted her mother floating above her as aloof now as she had been on Earth.

Mindy felt a coziness in her chest when she saw the family dog she had grown up with. “Am I dead?” she asked herself. As soon as she posed the question she saw her twin sister and Carlisle. Then she saw her son and her daughter-nieces floating ever so comfortably. Then there was dark, restful bliss.

When she reviewed the evening Mindy Watkins would not recall finding her way to the dinner table. She remembered sitting across from Dr. Wu at the opposite ends of a long table. She remembered the fog that filled the perimeter of the room but did not encroach on the dining room.. She remembered Dr Wu's two houseboys drifting in and out with tasty victuals prepared in the kitchen.

Dr. Wu informed his employer that Lou was an aspiring chef in the Corsican tradition. Mindy Watkins would not be able to elaborate on the soup and salad and choice entrees except to say how great they were. She would, however, have a box of pastries to take home to her family.

Mindy Watkins had meant to review a half dozen points of business with Dr. Wu but she fell short of that goal. Mostly she stared at his kind face and bald head and wondered why some ethnic groups could wear baldness well and others could not. In a state of high satisfaction Mindy Watkins listened once more to Dr. Wu lament his unappreciated talents.

The FBI had Dr. Wu on referral but when areligious zealot barricaded himself in his cabin with hostages, the good doctor wanted to plant religious commands in the zealot's head. The FBI chose instead to burn his cabin down. The CIA wanted to stick to their bloodless torture techniques that were not half as effective as the Doctor's. Naval Intelligence, the Army, the Air Force: they would listen to Dr. Wu and toss him a bone and then ignore him. It was demoralizing.

Mindy Watkins informed her genius in residence that she procured a contract for an inmate named Delbert Wayne Duncan whose confession would help the careers of a lot of good people and spare the taxpayers the burden of a prolonged trial. Dr. Wu nodded and switched the topic to the artificial Samadhi machine she had experienced earlier. “Is it mahlketable, Miss Watkins?” he asked sincerely.

Mindy Watkins said she would look into the consumer demand and shortly thereafter she would be driving her People Car back to Lake Wily. Yes, in the person of Dr. Wu, she had a latter day Edison on her hands. Just had to find a way to bring his skills to market. For now, he was accepting lodging and a small wage but if Greener Pastures filled the last two vacancies Dr. Wu and his boyfriends would have to move on.

With the last remnant of Pseudo-Samadhi drifting from her head, Mindy Watkins stared at the highway in front of her and pondered the words of her departed father. “The hardest thing in business is to turn a cash steer into a cash cow.” She never knew what that meant but it seemed to make sense now,

Walter McVey arrived at the earliest agreed-upon time, one hour ahead of his scheduled meeting. The same dull-faced security guard who walked him through the process at his first meeting was back again. He dutifully performed the routine and escorted Walter to the conference room.

Walter entered the barren room to find Mr. Smith lecturing Thomas Weldon. “These exercises will make you believe in the uncontained mind,” he explained to his pupil. “I guarantee you will believe in the soul after you experience this.”

“What are you guys talking about?' Walter McVey asked cheerfully. Mr. Smith immediately cut to business. “Mr. McVey, we have our first setback.” In a mortician tone he described the team's failed efforts to get any of John Joseph's baby mamas to come aboard. “They won't even talk to us," he said flatly. "They won't even hear our offer."

They moved on to other topics and Walter McVey felt his heart sink. The plan was to have a baby mama sue Joseph for a bigger piece of the pie. It would go public and then another would follow suit. And then another. Now Smith says the front people couldn't persuade one of the harlots. Not one!

Can they find another pitchman to sell the deal to the baby mamas? And if they can't find a closer, can't they do it the old-fashioned way? 64 baby mamas! Not one of them uses illicit drugs? That would defy the law of averages on an astronomical scale. None of them have brothers or sisters on probation? None of them have bone chips in the closet? None of them?

Now Weldon was yammering on about the futility of corporate audits if Walker gets reelected. Why not just wave the white flag now? That Joseph was a lucky bastard. Walter had canceled plans to eliminate him once and for all when Smith suggested he might be able to channel some of Joseph's cash Walter's way. If Smith can't deliver then he might as well call Leo Kelly one more time. He could make John Joseph literally go down in flames. Game over!

"Can you deliver a drug scandal to the Mississippi Christmas Elves?" Smith inquired.

“No problem at all," Walter McVey answered without hesitation. And started to add, "and I can plant evidence on the baby mamas too," but something told him to hold his tongue.

"I would have asked you to give us a baseball scandal too, but Joseph's team is a long way from a winning season and..."

Walter McVey focused his attention of the age spots on Thomas Weldon's forehead. Had he sprouted new ones? He might be worthless as an operative but that sucker could get a blue ribbon for his harvest of liver spots. Everyone's got a hidden talent if you look hard enough.

There would be other opportunities at self-enrichment. For now, Walter thought about John Joseph's private jet plowing into a mountain. Pilot error. He thought about the pundits and the news-people and what they would say. The ensuing confusion! The end of the Joseph Empire.

Leo Kelly could make it happen. Walter fantasized calling Leo one more time. He would be treated to that seldom-seen Leo Kelly smile. They would celebrate afterward at Deep Creek Lake...

“Ting-a-ling, motherfucker, ting-a-ling” Thomas Weldon said aloud. Walter recognized the Redd Foxx punchline. He had no idea how long he had tuned out the other two men. They were chuckling now like schoolboys. What were they referencing?

Whatever cryptic remark was hidden in the punchline they were not sharing with Walter. Screw them. Everyone is private with these guys. Smith and Weldon. Weldon and Smith. Three's a crowd. Maybe these guys would like to be alone.

These guys are all blather. Leo Kelly was a man of action. Who needed these superstars? Walter briefly closed his eyes and visualized John Joseph's jet fall from the sky and burst into a giant fireball. From nowhere, Leo Kelly's precise enunciation narrated the event. “Ting-a-ling, motherfucker, ting-a-ling.”

Walter smiled.