"Mississippi Sizzling" Part 3 Late Summer

Part 3

Late Summer

Part 3:1 Jim Garfield Updated on Sarin Attack

Jim Garfield set the timer for three minutes and then attacked a floor-mounted punching bag. He had concocted another imaginary persona who was fighting his way up the kickboxing ladder. The imaginary opponent portrayed by the punching bag was a lightweight named Dimitrius Lahanis.

The real life Lahanis was a champion in the days when there wasn't much money in kickboxing. He retired to teach martial arts in a strip mall. Partly to generate publicity for his dojo, partly out of boredom and partly for finances, Lahanis would come out of retirement three or four times a year to fight a five rounder against a rising talent.

The fortysomething Lahanis was considered a hurdle. If a young fighter could get past the slow but shrewd Lahanis, he would be considered a contender. If he lost, he would be counseled to find another profession. Jim Garfield liked using Dimitrius Lahanis as an imaginary opponent because the strategy needed to defeat Lahanis was a strategy that promoted a productive workout. To defeat an old but skilled fighter one had to be both busy and aggressive while utilizing a 3 to 1 ratio of direct attacks to indirect attacks.

Jim Garfield's character, a nineteen year old featherweight fighting up a weight class, attacked the punching bag with a left roundhouse to the ribs followed by a left roundhouse to the head. This was followed by a feigned sidekick to the body that morphed into a hook kick to the head. Boom! Boom! Ba-Boom!

The fight was not really close and Jim Garfield's character was awarded a unanimous decision. Winded, Jim Garfield sat on the floor and focused on slowing his breathing. He flipped on the wallscreen and shouted “9 screen news.”

The wallscreen divided itself into three rows of three screens. For a few seconds, all nine news channels including The Rescue Channel, were focused on the same story—the crash of a small aircraft in Downtown Memphis. Jim Garfield put the audio on The Rescue Channel and it immediately cut away to a tenement fire in Chicago. He switched to the Truth Network and one word hooked his immediate attention: Memphis.

In seconds, the narrative brought Jim Garfield up to date. A small, private plane had crashed into a parking garage in an area of Memphis largely occupied by government offices. The wreckage contained some sort of toxin that had sent several firefighters to nearby hospitals. The investigators were piecing together the sequence of events.

The debris harbored secrets and puzzles and clues but the airplane registration number displayed of the aft fuselage was perfectly legible. It had been traced back to a ranch about 60 miles west of Houston, owned by a reclusive descendent of a ranching dynasty whose name was Logan Collinsworth. A crime scene lab had descended on the site of the theft and a Collinsworth family lawyer had issued a statement denying any culpability on the part of the Collinsworth family and remarked on his firm's efforts to locate members of the Collinsworth family.

“Jim! She's kicking,” Tiffanie Ankles pronounced as she rushed to Jim Garfield, her peach nightie raised to expose her stomach.

“Not now!” Jim Garfield said sternly.

“Jim,” the beauty shop prodigy muttered in a mix of surprise and rejection.

Jim Garfield slammed a plastic water bottle to the floor and it bounced off the rubberized floor and spilled a proprietary muscle builder from its lip. With mouth agape, the mother in process fled the room and stridently closed the fake wood door behind her. Jim Garfield stretched his leonine frame and assessed the situation. His life, his freedom, his legacy depended on his absorption of every datum spewing from the newsies. But domestic peace trumped those trivial matters. He placed a “Record” command on every channel and raced to find his seasonal mate.

Tiffanie Anckles would be found in the stadium-sized kitchen, a culinary cathedral of Midnight Granite and Vienna Walnut, equipped with high tech gadgets, fancy cookware and utensils unlimited. The galley had maintained its showroom quality, largely through underutilization. Jim Garfield only grilled and smoked meats in the backyard and Tiffanie only used the microwave and the George Foreman grill. When the sun shone through the window on the door, the surfaces would glisten and shine and sparkle.

As Tiffanie dramatically sulked on a swivel chair planted at the counter overlooking the dining room, Jim Garfield stood protected by the massive navel-high island in the middle of the floor. He knew that sharp knives were dispersed throughout the kitchen and he was a cautious man when caution was an option. “I'm sorry, honey. I was upset with the news. Innocent people were killed.”

Tiffanie Anckles narrowed her eyes and aimed a polar glare at Jim Garfield. She paused before talking and when she did, her delivery was a slow whisper. “Since when did that bother you? You watch shootouts and car crashes for entertainment.”

Jim Garfield shuffled on his feet. She was right about that. Tiffanie continued. “You watch the Mondo Network and cage fighting and Arabs cutting off people's hands. You don't give a damn about innocent people.” Jim Garfield blankly stared back. Just let her get it off her chest. “You don't care about our baby. You already got two kids. But this is a big deal for me. Excuse me if I interrupt your plane crash.” With that, Tiffanie Anckles unleashed the tears.

Jim Garfield was on her at once, hugging and kissing and cooing and telling his temp-mate how much he loved her. She would milk it for all she could. “Let's go somewhere today, Honey. Anywhere you want,” he said as he held his face close to Tiffanie's and stared deep into her eyes.

“Jim,” Tiffanie said softly. It's Saturday morning in Houston. You know how traffic is. It would be three hours round trip if we went to Seven-Eleven for a Slurpee.”

Jim Garfield was well aware of the Houston gridlock but he knew that it would take Tiffanie at least an hour of preening before she would be ready to leave the house. That would give him time to assess the situation. Tiffanie made an abrupt counteroffer. “I was thinking maybe we could sit on the couch and do a 'Crime and Justice' marathon,” she purred ever so softly.

“Huh?”

“You said if I got pregnant you would sit on the couch with me and watch whatever I wanted. Remember?”

“Oh yeah. Uh, why don't you shower and I'll fine tune the wallscreen.”

“I don't have to shower if we're just going to sit on the couch.”

Jim Garfield squeezed Tiffanie as his mind scrambled for a solution. It was mandatory that he watch the news. “Tiffanie.” Jim Garfield only called her by her given name when he was serious and she seemed a bit startled.

“What is it?” Tiffanie asked. They were still in a face to face embrace with Tiffanie seated on the swivel chair and Jim pressed next to her.

“Tiff, I don't know how to say this but when women get pregnant, they secrete more hormones. It's important that pregnant women shower regularly.”

“Are you saying I smell!?” Tiffanie asked as she pushed Jim from her grasp.

“Everyone smells, Tiffanie. It's just that pregnant women sometimes develop a pungent odor.”

“You mean I stink?” Tiffanie howled as she sniffed one armpit and then the other.

“It's not that you stink,” Jim Garfield stated with professorial calm. “It's just that you smell strong.”

As Tiffanie raced to the shower Jim Garfield raced to the v-room. He would absorb the news from the vids as he raced through the text sites. Every news story—text, vid and audio—focused on but one detail of the sarin attack. Jason Peters had been killed by what was believed to be exposure to a toxic substance.

More frustrating for Jim Garfield was the fact that each story reverted to Danielle Peters the 18 year old honey-haired, operatically-trained, uber-ingenue who was favored to win the “American Divo Diva” competition even before the expected tsunami of sympathy votes. “Just tell us who was behind this,” Jim Garfield said under his breath, coaching the producers to trudge onward with details. He knew who was behind the attack but he desperately wanted to know if the authorities knew the answer.

“Jimmy, I smell fresh now,” Tiffanie Anckles pronounced as she entered the room.

“Tiff, you know Danielle from 'American Divo Diva?'”

“That little girl who looks like she's twelve years old? Yeah. I like her.”

“Her father was killed in a terrorist attack.”

“Oh no!” Tiffanie squalled and seated herself on the edge of the oversized earth-tone couch and shifted her attention to the wallscreen. Despite his unease at the unfolding news, Jim Garfield would take some comfort in successfully shifting Tiffanie's attention away from “Crime and Justice” to the Memphis terrorist attack. He would grow annoyed when she started sobbing and when she started blubbering he would fight the impulse to scream at her. Jim Garfield was determined that nothing—not even his child vessel's maudlin theatrics for a girl she did not know and would probably never know—would break his concentration.

Tiffanie Anckles' viewing would be interrupted first by a call from her mother and second from her best friend, Bonnie, followed by phone calls by each of her two sisters. Jim Garfield would maintain a two hour vigil that concluded with the update he had been waiting for. ABC News would report that authorities believed the Mexican drug cartels were behind the nerve gas attack on Memphis. Within five minutes every news outlet had echoed the rumor. Jim Garfield breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Ray would call as Jim Garfield heated up a pre-grilled T-bone in the microwave. He knew that Ray could keep secrets so he did not mention Memphis in even a cryptic manner. The two men made workout plans for the upcoming week and Ray agreed to meet with Jim Garfield and David Hunter Duncan whenever a meeting could be arranged. Ray was always flexible.

Minutes after finishing his T-bone Jim received a call from David Hunter Duncan. They abruptly made plans to meet tomorrow evening at the Regal Estates office. At the conclusion of the call Jim Garfield leaned back on the rubber floor and stared at the screen. He had it all figured out. Glen Dale Woods had procured the plane. Fungo provided the nerve gas. David Hunter Duncan and Ray assisted. No spare parts. It had to be that way. It had to be.

Briefly, Jim Garfield wished he had taken up smoking or maybe coffee. He noticed again and again how people could inhale a cigarette or sip a coffee or tea and attain insight. He sometimes drank Pepsi in the morning. But Pepsi did not seem to provide much clarity. He sometimes drank tap water in the morning and his thoughts were not much different on those mornings.

Jim Garfield drank lustily from the plastic Pepsi bottle and stared at the ceiling. He wondered what his lunatic friends would do next. He patiently awaited his anagnorisis but none would be forthcoming.

The Cessna took out a parking garage. Obviously it missed its target! There were several Federal law enforcement offices scattered in various buildings near the point of impact. “Close but no cigar.,” Jim said aloud.

The reference to tobacco coupled made him wish again that he had taken up smoking.

Part 3:2 Olson is Informed That He Has Failed the Mission

Kurt Olson sat at a picnic table shaded by a sprawling catalpa tree finishing his seventh doughnut and sipping his sugary coffee. The picnic table had been slathered in thick green paint just a month ago and the benches and dining surface were already speckled with the gray and white droppings of crows and starlings. It was late August and already the morning Mississippi heat choked Kurt Olson as bugs swarmed around his eyes and chewed on his ankles.

The picnic tables scattered across the grounds accounted for most of the Sawmill Lodge's amenities package. The erratic air conditioner called to Olson but he wanted to finish his baker's dozen before returning to his room. Since arriving at the Sawmill Lodge six weeks ago, Kurt Olson had but one conversation with another lodge guest and it was then that Olson learned that his room smelled of roaches. That was the biting odor that lingered after the sharp pesticide odor faded into the atmosphere.

Kurt Olson had learned from the other guest—a tall, obese man whom Olson estimated to weigh somewhere between 450 and 500 pounds and whom Olson believed might someday resemble Fred Flintstone should he happen to shed sixty per cent of his body mass—that the owner of the Sawmill Lodge had long resisted killing roaches on religious grounds. Mr. Patel had tried to scare off the pests with portable ultrasound devices that plugged into the wall. When these devices proved worthless, he tried to disperse the bugs with firecrackers. When this tactic also underperformed, he burned funny-smelling candles he had purchased from India. The candles smelled vaguely of licorice and kerosene and were responsible for a wave of nausea and regurgitation and emergency room visits involving Sawmill guests.

Eventually, the Patel family had been given an ultimatum by the Oktibbeha County Board of Health: Eliminate the roaches or close shop. Mr. Patel had signed on for a monthly pest control service and they seemed to be making progress. But Mr. Patel felt passionately that the exterminators should remove the bodies of the deceased roaches. The pest control company felt otherwise.

The negotiations were ongoing. Mr. Patel did not want his daughters to soil themselves shoveling dead roaches and he did not want them damaging the family's only vacuum cleaner. Kurt Olson had improvised his own cleanup method with an electric hair dryer, utilizing it much like a leaf blower. At first he found it hard to disperse the fallen blatella in an accurate way. But hours of practice brought a refinement of skill and he was able to fill in some of the jagged cracks in the tile on the bathroom floor.

On the other side of the ledger, the Sampsonian appliance forcibly removed legs and wings and body segments, creating a dust and an aroma Kurt Olson would only later associate with the German cockroach. He had fashioned a cardboard dust pan from a Fry By Night take-out box and was able to flush several loads down the toilet until it backed up and Mr. Patel yelled at him and charged him a dollar to use the family's only plunger.

Kurt Olson was heading into the homestretch of his baker's dozen as sweat poured from his forehead and his torso went from moist to saturated. He reflected on his recent successful mission. Maybe now Leo would respect him. Maybe his stint as an unpaid moonlighter would be ending. Maybe.

Kurt Olson thought about his return home to Virginia. It was now late August and he had spent over six weeks stalking the elusive Boy Scout in a mission that he was supposed to wrap up in four weeks. Six weeks without Virtual Plantation. He had not gone more than two days without Virtual Plantation since it arrived on the market three years ago. Maybe he would purchase a steroid phone to celebrate his success. He could not access his plantation with the phone Leo had given him. He might play Virtual Plantation in his room until he got the green light from Leo to come home. He might play Virtual Plantation while driving back home to Virginia.

Long ago, Kurt Olson realized that the best memories of his life involved Virtual Plantation and he replayed a montage in his head. The first person heroics of a young Colon Powell. The arrival of his 16 year old Janet Jackson. The first time he used the Waldo-Womb on his 16 year old Janet Jackson. The time he matched an elderly slave against a fighting dog, and she won and brought riches to Olsonwood. Master Olson's brilliant trades in the futures market. Olsonwood's successful slave rental service that assisted dozens of small time farmers who could not afford to house manpower on a full time basis.

It wasn't all bliss. His beloved Obadiah met an untimely death when Master Olson overmatched him against a young Joe Louis. His favorite field hand fled during the night. Halle Berry miscarried Master Olson's baby. The worst of times. The best of times. Kurt Olson dreamed of returning to Olsonwood.

And Kurt Olson pledged to spend more time with his son and two daughters. Didn't one of them have a birthday in the Fall? Maybe he would take all of them out for ice cream to celebrate.

Kurt Olson's cell roared like a lion. “Yes sir?” Olson responded in a confident Judy Garland vintage 1939 that Leo had remotely programmed into his cell.

The 1973 G. Gordon Liddy voice was not friendly. “You fucked it up!”

“Excuse me, sir.”

“You fucked up the mission, ass wipe.”

“I'm sorry sir. I thought it was a successful mission. I figured...”

“You figured! That's the fucking problem. Your brain is not meant for figures. Where are you, dumbass?”

“I'm in Mississippi, sir.”

There was a pause before the G. Gordon Liddy voice continued. “First thing, dumbass, do not disclose your location. I can tell from the tracer setting exactly where you are. What I meant was, are you inside? Are you outside? Are you in the car? Are you in your room? Are you on the toilet?”

“I'm outside my room, sir.”

“OK. I want you in your bathroom. Alone. So that no one can look over your shoulder. How soon can you get there?”

“Thirty seconds, sir.” Kurt Olson speed-chewed the final glazed doughnut as he scampered inside his room. He locked the door and sprinted the ten feet to his bathroom. There he sat on the toilet and spoke into his cell. “I'm there sir.”

“Good. I'm going to hang up now. Someone else will contact you. I suggest you pay attention this time.”

“Yes sir.”

Kelly-cum-Liddy was gone. Within seconds his cell rang a default tone and “Private Caller” appeared on the screen. Kurt Olson answered. “OK. Listen and listen tight,” the consciously bold delivery of John Wayne's voice instructed. “Follow this link.”

Kurt Olson pressed the link button and a two minute video appeared on the screen. Tony Taffy was talking to the camera. “Had I not protected my car with a product I invented, I would be in jail right now.” From there the news reporter took over and delivered a concise narrative of a puzzling event. A grainy figure on a bicycle had planted a pound of crystal meth in the trunk of Tony Taffy's Beamer. Immediately thereafter an anonymous caller reported suspicious activity in the lot where the Beamer was parked. Within minutes, a K-9 unit was on the scene.

For whatever reason the police dog zeroed in on the Beamer's trunk. What happened next was glossed over by the video but it did establish that Tony Taffy was able to extricate himself from the situation due to the use of a surveillance system for the car that he was trying to market. The cell went black and Kurt Olson sighed. He had a few seconds to ponder the information when the default ring chirped anew. He answered “Private Caller” immediately.

Kurt Olson was shocked to see avatars that resembled his children speaking to him. A cartoonish version of 11 year old Cindy spoke with her unmistakable voiceprint. The Greg avatar, constructed from his 8 year old son's image, smiled at the camera. Greg had a profound speech impediment and did not talk much. Whoever was stalking his kids could probably not catch Greg talking and capture his voiceprint, Kurt Olson reasoned.

Finally an avatar of 6 year old Tabitha spoke but Kurt Olson was unable to tell if the audio had been reconstructed with her voiceprint. “Daddy, you must complete your mission.” Then the unmistakable voiceprint of Cindy chimed in. “I want you to walk down the aisle with me, Daddy. I want you to hold my children. Please accept your mission, Daddy.”

Kurt Olson grew dizzy and his eyes swelled with moisture. Cindy's avatar continued. “Press 1 if you accept your mission, Daddy.”

Kurt Olson immediately pressed “1” The screen filled up with the face of Eva Marie Taffy. “This is Eva Marie Taffy, Daddy. She is the greatest security threat America has ever faced. Desperate times call for desperate measures. You must terminate this security threat with maximum prejudice before election day. Do you understand your mission, Daddy?” Please press 1 if you need further clarification, Daddy. Please press 8 if you understand your mission.

Kurt Olson searched for the “8” key and deliberately applied his finger to it.

Cindy's avatar continued. “Do you agree to complete your mission, Daddy? Press 1 for no. Press 8 for yes.

Kurt Olson once more pressed 8.

“Thank you Daddy,” the Greg avatar roared with John Wayne's voiceprint.
“Thank you Daddy, ” the Tabitha avatar purred in what Kurt Olson now realized was another girl's voiceprint. The screen went black.

Still seated on the toilet, Kurt Olson buried his head in his arms and gallantly choked back the tears.

Part 3:3 Judy and Bob in Laughlin

Judy Hunnsicker sat nervously in the VIP Lounge of the Games Network Casino. John Joseph was the principal owner of the hotel and resort and casino megaplex and he was not one to waste advertising space on surnames or mystique. The Games Network was the hottest cable/web/satellite network (CWS in broadcast lingo) that had spun off from the highly successful Contest Network two years ago. At about that time, The Contest Network Hotel and Casino morphed into The Games Channel Resort and Executive Club (focus groups determined that “country club” had a middle class stigma attached to it) and a fifteen year expansion plan was launched.

Judy got a glimpse of two well dressed women and an unusually handsome man in a Donatello suit before she was escorted to a private video booth. She had been asked which floor she was visiting and what she wanted to drink. She replied “third floor” to the first question and “club soda” to the second. The booth did not provide perfect anonymity but it did provide a degree of protection from gawkers and busy bodies. It was like any other restaurant booth with partitions that rose to the ceiling and whose glass table top served as a video and internet and phone screen.

The club soda was delivered by a silly-looking robot that seemed to be a cross between Elvis Presley and R2D2. Judy thanked the bot and was rewarded with a gesture resembling a sneer on his domed face. Judy punched a phone icon and a small greenish keyboard lit up the screen. She dialed Bob's room number and grabbed an attached headset that was hanging on the side partition.

The VIP Lounge was one of the Games Channel Resort's boldest innovations. To prevent recording video that might someday be used against a cherished hotel guest in a court of law, the management turned off the security cameras for five minutes every hour on each guest floor. The cameras on Floor 2 and Floor 3 were shut off from 12 PM until 12:05 PM. Floors 4 and 5 were shut off from 12:05 PM until 12:10 PM, all the way up for sixteen floors. The Executive floors, 18 and 19, were each given a ten minute window. The procedure was repeated 24 hours a day.

The staff referred to the VIP Lounge as Hooker Heaven. There were no cameras in the VIP parking lot, the VIP Lounge or the two VIP elevators. Every few minutes the public address would call out a couple of floor numbers. Two elevators would open and perfumed people, mostly women, would saunter out of the car wearing oversized sunglasses and delicately clutching small, stylish handbags. Each car would then fill up with a half dozen or so dressed up women who would then accompany their burly guard/operator to their destination floor.

“I'm in the VIP Lounge, Bob.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Like a call girl.”

Bob chuckled and said something but Judy cut him off. “They're calling my floor.”

Judy rushed the elevator so that the other passengers would have their backs to her. She said hi to the pudgy security guard and he smiled back and quietly said “hi.” Each trip was planned to the second. 2.5 minutes to load and unload the ascending. 2.5 minutes to load and unload the descending. There was a third elevator that was sometimes used when traffic got heavy or when one of the others was being serviced.

The ladies seemed to be playing a game to wait as long as possible before boarding. The door closing was being announced like a NASA launch over the PA system. Ten. Nine. Eight. At five, the doors would start to shut. The lift off would be delayed by a petite redhead who stuck her arm in the automatic doors and caused them to reopen, After a series of moans and grumbles, the smiling coed boarded the elevator and ten seconds later, they had liftoff.

Always, a people watcher, Judy took careful notes of her fellow passengers. There was a tall Nordic blond in a demure tan pantsuit who stood gracefully at the front right corner of the car. She was at least 6 foot one and she seemed to have the goods to be the next supermodel. Why was she working the Games? Could pay possibly be that good.

And Judy noticed the slightly shorter, slightly rounder olive-skinned brunette in her floral print dress that emphasized pink and orange. She stood in the left front corner of the car. The petite redhead stood between them in black leather pants, and a green sequined top. Judy stood in the left rear corner and the guard stood in the right rear corner where the control box had been transplanted. In what would have been the center square of a tic-tac-toe board stood an average height Kenyan woman in an orangish trimmed dress that accentuated what Judy thought might be the perfect figure.

At 32 Judy was the oldest person in the elevator car. She felt matronly and she felt frumpy. Her knee length shorts and white and blue summer blouse were not supposed to appear wifish. But she now looked domestic in a Junior League picnic kind of way. The elevator cars were lined in mirrors and Judy glanced at her image on her left. She had always felt confident with her Nordic-Irish looks. She was 5 foot nine and had an athletic build that was starting to expand. She had shoulder length light brown hair. She was usually the prettiest girl in the room. Today, she did not feel that way.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened much faster than they had closed. The women filed out one at a time instinctively giving the lady in front enough space to be seen as a solitary figure. Judy had seen this “don't step on the other girl's shadow” before and it always amazed her how women instinctively knew this unwritten protocol.

Judy exited last and she was careful not to step too close to the Kenyan girl. As she approached Bob's room she was passed by two blonds and a brunette who strolled past her in single file formation en route to the elevator. None of them made eye contact or said hi. They just smiled their confident smiles and strutted their confident struts. Judy saw Bob open his door and and stand in the doorway. She saw two other middle aged men down the hall do the same thing and it reminded Judy of kids climbing off a school bus to meet their waiting fathers.

Bob whisked Judy into his room and she suddenly grew nervous. She liked Bob. She was intrigued with his stature and experience and charmed by his wit, his manners and even his frugality. But she came here to discuss sexual situations and she had a good idea where that would lead. She had never been with a married man before and she never wanted to commit that sin. But here she was.

The twosome made small talk and Bob suggested dinner from room service. Judy had skipped her usual protein mix breakfast and now at 12:15 PM her stomach was telling her it was time for lunch. She had previously stated to Bob that she would probably go through life without ordering from room service. For one thing, she did not like to eat in places where other people fornicated. For another, she did not want to pay twenty seven dollars for a cheeseburger.

Bob agreed that bedrooms were unappetizing but he reminded Judy of the difficulties of them dining elsewhere.

“We ate at Cheesy's,” Judy reminded him.

“But Cheesy's didn't have 6000 cameras” Bob retorted.

“Are you treating?” Judy inquired.

Bob affirmed that he was and he produced a menu.

“Holy cow! I can't cook this cheap at home” Judy exclaimed.

“It's part of the Joseph philosophy. Never grind the guest. And what's better, there's no tipping.”

Judy ordered a double cheeseburger platter and Bob ordered two grilled cheese sandwiches and mushroom soup. Bob continued to praise the Joseph business philosophy when Judy cut him off.”

“I know we're in a Joseph hotel room but I am not a fan of the Joseph family. They are our enemies, Bob.”

“The old man is a radical but the kids are different.”

“Yeah, they hired a PR firm. That's all that's different about them.”

“John Joseph has contributed a lot of money to the families of fallen officers.”

“PR. That's all that is.”

“And he hires a lot of security details and pays them extremely well. More than they make as police officers.”

“Bribery. That's all that is.”

“John Joseph has done a lot of good for society.”

“He produces 'Wrongly Accused.' Why does he focus on the one per cent we get wrong?”

“He says that's like telling a doctor...”

“It's like telling a doctor not to look at your tumor because the rest of your body is healthy. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.”

“He's created jobs.”
“He wants to legalize drugs. Think of how many doctors and pharmacists will lose their jobs if they adopt those policies.”

“Well that's true.”

“And prison guards and PO's and drug counselors. What are those people supposed to do? Work at McDonald's?”

Bob Henderson had never seen Judy so emotional and he tried to change the subject. “You know Judy, I won this little vacay in a contest. The Games Channel will continue to give away cash prizes but they won't be giving away hotel rooms. This place will only cater to whales. All the rooms will be free so long as you purchase ten thousand dollars in chips every day.”

Bob was interrupted by Room Service. They settled into their lunch on the round corner table. “Kind of crappy view, Bob,” Judy remarked. The window offered a panoramic view of a brick wall forty feet away.

“Contest winners get the lower floors. Nothing but Arabs and Japanese on the top floors.”

“Tell me again how you won this contest.”

Bob did not tell Judy that Stella, his secretary, spent most of her time bypassing IT security and entering the two of them in online contests. He wanted to continue to make Judy think he was a big shot. But the fact was he had no official assignments and it was a secret he and Stella did not blab to anyone. In addition to the one hundred or so contests Stella entered him in, Bob entered dozens more via a contest subscription service that entered him in hundreds more.

“I got second place in an online baseball proposition contest.” He did not tell her that the contest was sponsored with the Joseph-owned Freedom News in conjunction with Games Network.

“I bet I wouldn't understand it,” Judy said sincerely.

“It's simple enough. Every day five to fifteen baseball games are played. You select a proposition such as Yankees record three double plays or the Tigers hit five home runs. There are literally tens of thousands of propositions arranged in a hierarchy of probability. And proposition is awarded to each contestant on a first come, first serve basis. And no two props have the same value so there is never a tie.”

“Huh?”

“Well I predicted back to back triples any team at 921. I got second place because the winner had back to back triples Cubs at 31, 010. If I had gotten first place I would have won five thousand dollars.”

“Instead, you win a trip to enemy camp.”

“That's one way of looking at it. But I am not going to gamble so John Joseph will lose money on me.”

Judy rolled her eyes.

They had not yet completed their lunches when Bob Henderson gazed at the wall clock. “Hey” Bob shouted. They're going to be turning off the camera in seven minutes. Why don't you use the bathroom so you can exit while the cameras are off?” Judy raced to the bathroom. She washed her hands and Bob switched on the wallscreen and tuned in to the in-house hotel channel. “Floor Two. Cameras off in t minus thirty seconds.”

At precisely 1 PM Hotel time, the security cameras shut down. Judy was first on the elevator and she was joined by a delicate Thai woman wearing a simple peasant dress and a woman who appeared to be about forty wearing an old fashioned starched nurse's uniform with starched white nurse's cap. Both women smelled of cleanliness.

Bob and Judy were soon in contact by cell phone. Bob moseyed through the hotel lobby, through the informal Gametime Casino, past the dress up Champions Casino and into the tony shopping mall that featured golf accessories and jewelry and Super Cool Clothing. There was a Super-Cell phone store, a law office that specialized in taxes and immigration, two massage therapists, two nail salons, a food court, an optometry clinic that mostly sold sunglasses, a realtor, a dental clinic, a walk-in medical clinic, five stores that called themselves boutiques and a store at each end of the faux boulevard that might be called convenience stores.

Bob narrated the excursion for Judy, who walked about two hundred feet behind him. Bob pointed out that one of the salesmen at the GameTime golf shop had been a promising star who succumbed to the bottle. He made note of the proprietors' photos posted at the entrance of each shop: The transgendered nail tech who resembled Julia Roberts in”Pretty Woman,' the dentist with unusually thick glasses, the optometrist with unusually large teeth, the realtor who resembled a Sumo wrestler and the candy store clerk whose real name was Candy.

Judy would chuckle at Bob's observations as she monitored him from a safe distance. When he walked into a shop, Judy would walk into a shop directly across the faux boulevard, staying in constant contact the whole time. The mall concluded not far from the tram car portal. Bob boarded a car as Judy sipped a latte at the food court. As his car ascended above the Games Network Complex, bob's tutelage quickened.

Bob's cell allowed him to provide a voice over as the same device captured streaming visuals that transmitted back to Judy and her coffee. He would zoom in on the construction crews erecting the roof on the Tokyo Dome replication. The Tokyo Dome was the fourth baseball stadium to be erected in Laughlin by John Joseph and the Games Channel Resort and Executive Club. Duplicates of Veterans Stadium, Shea Stadium and Tiger Stadium had already been completed and they currently hosted soccer matches.

Judy patiently listened as Bob explained how John Joseph had previously constructed replicas of four baseball stadia at a remote Arizona Indian reservation and surprised even himself with his success. Replicas of Ebbetts Field in Brooklyn, the Polo Grounds in Manhattan, Busch Stadium in St. Louis and Candlestick Park in San Francisco fulfilled the maxim “If you build it, they will come.” The Canadian National team, winter leagues, Spring training games, college baseball games, and college soccer matches filled the shrines. Eventually, Major League Baseball would add an entire A-class league that would play games in front of busloads of tourists.

Bob would zoom off onto the horizon where golfers adorned in Super Cool Clothing hacked away on the six 3-par golf courses. The courses featured Fairway artificial turf and Greenway putting greens, both products manufactured by a company in Korea in which John Joseph held a controlling interest. The courses also featured self-driven robotic golf carts that offered caddy advice in Japanese, English and Arabic. The carts were manufactured by a company in Japan in which John Joseph held a minority interest.

And Judy's interest would blossom and she asked pertinent questions about the Hole-in-One TV show, the soon to be disbanded 3 on 3 basketball league, the house lotteries that originated in Laughlin but now spread throughout Nevada, the nascent putting contest TV/web show, the market-tested 3 point contest TV/web show, The Word War III contest TV/web show, The Vital Knowledge tournaments and other things related to the infamous Joseph family.

Judy loaded herself onto the next tram car and she would enjoy the serenity and the panoramic view in air conditioned comfort. She would take a break from Bob and enjoy the ride over the chit-chit-chit of Japanese tourists who held their cells above their heads to capture the grandeur on video. She would catch up with Bob at Veteran's Stadium as they watched the soccer match from opposite sides of the field and once again chatted on the phone.

The Ichamira Women's Soccer League was one of John Joseph's proudest inventions. The league consisted of 7 conferences of 64 teams, six from North America and one from Asia. The teams competed in grueling 8 to 9 week seasons and there were 4 seasons per year. Each week the 64 teams would play a single elimination tournament, one match per day. Each team consisted of 27 players and 3 managers. The A team would play one day and the B team the next. Should they win all 6 games of their tournament, they would then travel to Laughlin to take on the league champion a few days later.

Every match featured a tournament intensity and every Laughlin match was a championship. The smaller ingenuity was John Joseph's method of financing the league. The greater ingenuity was his political acumen that allowed him to soar over legal hurdles that would have befallen a consumer of inferior legal services.

Each team kicked in a little more than $1 million per weekly tournament. The weekly champion pocketed $15 million and the also-rans raked in roughly $19 million between them. The other $30 million was shipped to Laughlin as challenge money that would be claimed by the ultimate victor. In addition to the $30 million victory, the champions would defend their crown the following day until they lost or until the season ended.

The players and managers only received 4 per cent of a team's winnings. Divided into equal parts that came to about $20,000 for winning a weekly tournament and $40,000 for winning a championship game at Laughlin. 1 per cent went directly to women's charities and 2 to 4 per cent covered fixed costs. Team owners recovered 91 to 93 per cent of their prize money, not including sponsorship funds.

John Joseph originally sponsored most of the teams, all the while garnering publicity for his many corporate affiliations. But not even the Joseph family would be able to kick in over $4 billion, four times a year., all the while shedding 7% of their investment. So he started selling shares of each team on the Internet. An $8 million season dues would be sold in lots of ten for equity totaling about $8.2 million. Each of the lots of ten would be further sold until in lots of ten and this would be repeated until a $9 gift card would offer the recipient a chance to win $30 every time their team won a championship match at Laughlin.

Of course some people would view this practice as violations of gambling laws and still others would perceive Security and Exchange grievances. But the finesse of Finley, Finkleman, Fontana and Jones would guide the Ichimira Automobile Corporation and their beneficiary, Ichimira Women's Soccer League through a series of whirlpools. No attorney general wanted to block the creation of the largest women's professional sporting league and deny charities that fought breast cancer and prevented domestic violence from receiving millions of dollars every year. The league was thriving and the audience was growing.

Today the challengers, Cohen's Organic Foods of Scranton, Pennsylvania held a 1-0 lead over the champions, The Aruba Travel Board. The ladies from the travel board had used their A Team to steal the crown from a weary 3-time champion, Santiago Rum. Now it was up to the Travel Board's B Team to defend their diadem and so far they seemed overmatched.

Bob had offered Judy her choice of champion or challenger and she reflexively chose the former. Now that choice appeared to be a mistake. The Scranton A-Team seemed slightly sharper and Aruba woefully lacked firepower. Judy's consolation was that room service was priced in a friendly manner and Bob would probably order grilled cheese.

Despite the smoldering sun that had now produced 105 degree temperatures, Judy enjoyed herself. She was never given to crowds or spectacles or events and today she discovered a new facet of herself who appreciated these things. She drank Gator Ade and more Gator Ade and she relished the match. She studied the teams, the players, the owners, the fans. Each team had about ten thousand owners and fans seated in their cheering section. Technically, each team had hundreds of thousands of owners if one counted the patrons who received $9 gift cards as stocking stuffers. But each team was given only 4000 seats to each game and they were usually distributed in lots of four to the those owners who purchased at least .1 per cent of team stock.

Both teams had purchased championship versions of their uniforms crafted from Super Cool Clothiers at their Carson City plant and shipped to Laughlin 48 hours after each team won their Conference tournament. She studied the people seated in each owner's section dressed in Super Cool Team Owner attire that had been purchased as a good luck gesture at the start of the season. Now, with their teams fighting for the pinnacle, the owners proudly displayed their logos on long windbreakers, “balloon pants,” thermal socks and wide-brimmed thermal hats that kept them as comfortable as they would be in their air conditioned homes.

Judy had arrived at the Game Channel Resort with a suitcase of clothes but Bob unexpectedly asked her to leave the suitcase in the trunk of her rental car, which was parked in the VIP lot. He was afraid that hotel management might charge him if a second person spent the night in his room. It wasn't that he didn't mind paying the extra fee but he did not want the extra guest to be recorded in hotel records.

Judy asserted that that would be silly of the management to go to such lengths to create and maintain a VIP lounge if they took note of whether or not the patrons had guests in their room. Bob agreed that that made sense but he was still suspicious of hotel management and insisted that he could purchase pajamas and panties for Judy from one of the mall stores.

Judy was not comfortable with a father figure purchasing sleepwear and intimates for her and she had planned to continue the subject with Bob before the sun set. But she studied the owners and saw how they jumped and frolicked in the skin peeling sun and decided on another course of action. At halftime, with her team trailing 2-0, Judy wandered off to the Super Cool Outlet located where a gift shop filled the original Veterans Stadium.

Judy recalled the Super Cool ad that showed the window fan in the shack, the window air conditioner in the bungalow and the central air unit in the mansion. The voice over provided a suave delivery. “Good...Better..Best.” Then the camera showed a pasty middle aged couple in short pants. The man had hairy arms and and shoulders and wore a wife beater t-shirt. The wife wore a bathing suit top that emphasized her flabby belly. They smeared milky sunscreen on their limbs and faces. This was followed by a younger, handsomer couple in bulky first generation thermal clothing. They were followed by the most beautiful man and woman on planet Earth decked out in sleek Super Cool duds smiling blissful smiles as they trekked across the desert. “Good...Better...Best.”

Judy splurged on a fake tweed pantsuit, a windbreaker, thermal leather boots, two bras, two pair of panties and a thermal fake leopard skin pillbox hat. The store matron was the best sales person she had ever met. She had never experienced such a high degree of service before. She was able to shower in a stall that smelled clean. Not antiseptically clean. New, fresh, touch of lemon and rose petal clean. She climbed into her new clothes as her sweaty garb was laundered and dried and later sent to Bob's room. Only now did she feel prepared to spend the night with Bob.

The champions would lose 2-1. Bob would return to his room and Judy would return to the VIP Lounge. At 7:04 PM Pacific time, the couple would reunite in Bob's room to eat dinner and consummate their love.

With Judy picking up the tab Bob ordered a porterhouse steak with baked potato and garden salad. Judy ordered linguini with creamy clam sauce, the house salad, a half case of Gator Ade and a chocolate cheesecake that she promised to split with Bob. Knowing what would follow after dinner, Judy grew fidgety. Bob too seemed a bit on edge. He talked incessantly about work-related matters.

“I'm not supposed to tell you this and remember, this is between us. If I were you I would keep my suitcase packed. We are going to ship every able bodied agent to Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi or Tennessee. A dozen other agencies are assisting us plus state and local police. The National Guard will provide material assistance in five states.”

“For what?”

“The biggest roundup is law enforcement history. We are taking down everyone connected to the Houston biochemical attacks and the Memphis attacks. “

“Is it the Mexicans?”

“Damn straight. The Mexican drug lords are developing biological and chemical weapons. They are still making mistakes but they are getting better. We have to stop them.”

“So all of those Houston Attacks...”

“Mexicans. Every one of them.”

“Even the mail attack?”

“Yep.”

“And the Waller County attack?”

“Same people, different method.”

“And the plane attack in Memphis...”

“The plane attack and the amateur chlorine gas were supervised by Mexican drug lords. We have informants who are singing like Pavarotti. “

“What about the Memphis Mystery Attack?”

“I don't know if we have the specifics on that one just yet. A lot of people got sick all at once from infectious disease. I'm sure we'll learn more about that one after the roundup.”

“All those dozens of sick people and the only death is a high priced defense attorney. There is a God.”

“Were you in doubt about that particular matter?”

Judy just shrugged.

Dinner exceeded all expectations and Judy put the cheesecake in the fridge for later. Judy gathered up the plates and silver and serving dishes and placed them outside Bob's room. She felt a bit like a lady of the night when she told Bob to get comfortable and she retreated to the bathroom to prepare for the feature.

In the bathroom Judy removed her new fake tweed pantsuit and posed with her thermal bra and thermal panties in front of a full length mirror. She liked her peach-colored lingerie but she didn't know if Bob would like them. Her other pair was pinkish. Maybe she should have chosen black.

With a shrug, Judy returned to her business. She folded her pantsuit, she brushed her teeth and combed her hair. She applied a hint of perfume to her neck. She peed and washed her hands afterward.

Bob was sitting on the bed in his pajama bottoms watching the news. His shirt was off and Judy thought his torso looked unusual. His chest was surprisingly hairy and he was oh so skinny. She once more marveled at his bygone era physique. A black and white movie star. A scarecrow in the age of fat men and barbell boys.

The room held two queen sized beds. Regardless of what might transpire beforehand, by mutual agreement they would ultimately sleep in separate beds. Judy placed her folded pantsuit on her bed and then plugged a flash drive into a USB port on the flat screen. Without asking Bob's permission, she blackened the screen.

Judy crawled next to Bob and they kissed ever so gently. They smooched and stroked and fondled one another for perhaps ten minutes. Then Judy jumped up and grabbed the remote control. “I think you'll like my editing, dear.”

Judy pressed the start button and turned her attention to her lover. She slowly removed his pajama bottoms and then she slowly removed his boxers. His best friend was standing at attention and Judy remarked that it looked something like him: tall and thin.

The video rolled. A fortyish woman who had founded a group called Mothers Against Fascism after her son got sent away more or less forever on federal drug charges, talked to the camera. Judy stroked Bob's lucky charms as the woman talked about her shock, her pain, her helplessness. She choked back the tears as she narrated her loss of faith. She felt betrayed by her country, her God and especially her son's lawyer who had drained her of her house, her savings and had maxed out her credit cards.

Judy thought Bob would climax but his breathing slowed and then his hips started moving again. The second segment of the vid was a montage edited from a video put out by a group called PADAP, or Police Against Drugs And Prohibition. Truth is, they were all ex-cops, now living safely in pensionland who had only seen the light after their retirement. Judy had edited out most of the Judas Chatter but here and there, there were voice overs that almost killed the mood.

There were still shots of a suburban white kids who supposably had dreams of someday fighting cancer. Stills of a suburban black kid who would someday do something equally wonderful if the G-Men had not interfered with his life. Stills and home video of a suburban Asian kid who had dreamed of designing speed of light computers. Judy could tell that Bob was excited but he did not want to show his excitement at images of boys.

At last, Judy's favorite. A 19 year old blond girl from Louisiana was being sentenced to a long stretch in federal court. Her eyes were moist but she maintained her composure. Her face was shot from three angles. Microdot cameras had been placed to the front and left, the front and right, and one from the judge's desk. Judy knew for a fact that the Federal judge passing sentence, a Veritas member, had placed the cameras himself.

When she got to the part where the girl realized that she would never have a family, Judy unhanded Bob and placed her left hand over her pleasure button. With her right hand she squeezed her left nipple. The vid looped all three angles of the girl stating earnestly, “Every woman should have a baby. Every woman needs a baby...”

Judy's body froze for a few seconds and then her neck spasmed and her head rocked against the feather pillow. She rested for a moment with eyes closed. She opened her eyes just moments before Bob sprayed her face with his passion.

Judy was in love.

Part 3:4 Jamal's New Office

Jamal Johnson was conducting the grand tour of his new office to an audience of one, his cousin, Junior Johnson. Almost as soon as he started practicing law, Jamal realized that it might appear a bit too Tom Hagenish for a young lawyer with expensive tastes to maintain a clientele of one. What might elevate eyebrows further was that his Don Corleone happened to be his Uncle Tecumseh, a not yet senior administrator at the Harris County Community Supervision Service.

Jamal had opened Neighborhood Legal Services and staffed it with three African Americans recently admitted to the bar, all of whom shouldered colossal student loans. The firm performed enough pro bono work to meet a public relations quota but they mostly handled wills and divorces and disability and immigration. The decision to locate deep in the Third Ward had less to do with the intent to be down with the people than it had to do with Jamal's advanced knowledge of biochemical attacks later effectuated on courthouses located in Harris County.

He had correctly surmised that the courthouse attacks would claim several nearby law firms as collateral damage. Despite the complete disruption of civil and criminal proceedings in Harris County, Jamal's storefront law firm prospered. An abandoned warehouse, quietly owned by Tecumseh Sherman Johnson, Sr., had been converted into a makeshift courthouse and suddenly, Neighborhood Legal Services held the lawyer equivalent of beach front property.

The storefront did not hold a single document involving the Johnson family. He kept those documents in a safe in his basement in an up and coming Houston neighborhood. The family paid him well and they paid him mostly in cash. Meanwhile, three attorneys and two secretaries became six attorneys, two paralegals and three secretaries. It was time for a new office.

Jamal had devoted more time than he had intended to insure that his office projected success with grace. Nothing forced. Nothing contrived. Nothing gauche. No gold plating or Persian rugs that cost more than a sports car, no sable-cushion furniture or anything that shouted nouveau riche. But there was plenty of walnut and cherry and carpet as thick as polar bear hide. And Jamal had hired a behavioral architectural consultant. True to the consultant's recommendations, the employees worked in cramped offices on sausagewood desks.

Jamal's office was plush and spacious and regal. The color combinations hinted at a Houston Cougar athletic motif: trim and shade and splash of scarlet and albino. The B-arc consultant had installed wall mirrors that could be adjusted by angle and lens to increase or decrease the hue of dominance. The lighting offered similar options and the fortress of a desk was equipped with hydraulic lifts that could make the visitor feel like a third grader in the principal's office. And Jamal showed his cousin his high-backed leather chair that could elevate to bar stool heights and conceal one's dangling legs beneath the raised desk so as to not reveal the deception of stature.

It would be in the section of Jamal's office where the matching high-back scarlet leather chairs were arranged at a 147 degree angle, that business would be discussed. The first order of business was confidentiality. For Junior's amusement and peace of mind, Jamal unleashed his deluxe counter-spy bot. The device looked like a lawn more with antennae. It was equipped with wheels but for now it sat in the middle of the floor as it scanned for radio waves, laser bombardment, infrared bombardment, and scanned the room with cameras in search of rival microcameras in what was designed to be a spy-proof room. The bot transmitted its findings to a wallscreen that Jamal could view by glancing away from his cousin and Junior could view by looking past his cousin.

Jamal was relieved to hear Junior laugh about Lafayettia's pregnancy. It was no longer a secret and Junior seemed relaxed about the matter. He told Jamal that his wife developed cravings for jalapeno peppers and he joked that the kid had better not look anything like the Mexican landscaper who had planted some property line shrubs for them.

Chuckles out of the way, the topic turned to Ulysses. “You know that big shot investigator we hired to track down your brother and my cousin? I wondered why he stopped calling me. He just got home from the hospital where he was recuperating from pneumonic anthrax.”

“Oh. That's too bad.”

“Shit. Too bad if he tries billing us for the time he was on his back in the hospital. That shit'll be too bad.”

“I read on Houston Online that people are still getting infected by last year's bio-attacks.”

Junior whistled. “Collateral damage. That's all these people are to the Grande Cartel.”

“The Army and the National Guard were telling everyone that they had the germs isolated and destroyed. But every week there are two or three new anthrax infections.”

“Goddamn Mexicans,” Junior exclaimed.

“Goddamn Mexicans,” Jamal repeated with a smile on his face.

The conversation turned to the elder Tecumseh Sherman Johnson. “You won't believe the progress your uncle is making. The rehab people are amazed at his recovery. They want to call up a team to study him. One of them called it a miracle.”

“You father puts his trust in the Lord. I am certain that his unending faith is behind his recovery.”

“That and a truckload of Smart,” Junior replied coyly.

“Huh?” Jamal blubbered with genuine surprise.

“We were just giving him a little at first. He showed results right away so we stepped up the dose.”

“Junior, that shit is illegal.”

“I buy it from one of my peeps.”

“You score from a con on your case load? That's not just illegal, it is a violation of our own security protocol.”

“That might be. But this really is a miracle drug. My father was mute one day and the next day he called me on the phone to chat. A week later he was reciting his favorite Psalms with only a hesitation here and there.”

“Junior, if they raid your father's house or his office...”

This is my father, Cuz. He made an eighty per cent recovery in two weeks. We upped the dose and he was at ninety five per cent a week later. He backslides here and there but he is almost as good as new. We have tried to keep it quiet because we don't want to draw attention to this miracle.” Junior leaned forward to summarize. “It really is a miracle, Jamal.”

Jamal nodded. “But it is an illegal miracle.”

Junior got excited. “This is my father.”

“I know,” Jamal stated calmly. “They are going to release a legal version of Smart in a few years.”

“We don't have a few years. We thought about flying him to Canada but all those clinics have waiting lists. Luckily, my supplier has provided us with quality product at a reasonable price”

Jamal nodded calmly and tried to show respect before changing subjects. “Look Cousin, I am happy for my Uncle Tecumseh. He is like a second father to me. Hell, he's like a second father to all of us. I love him. But as your attorney and your father's attorney, I have to advise you against this, uh, treatment.”

“And we appreciate the advice, counselor.”

Jamal silently congratulated himself on gracefully closing the subject. “Can we discuss Mississippi, Junior?”

Junior agreed to discuss the upcoming elections but he took a few minutes to first discuss the problem he had securing meth chemists. He had taken the family into the meth business thinking that a chemist was a chemist was a chemist. Now he realized that bathtub cookers had their limitations. They were unable to produce wholesale quantities, their product frequently varied in quality and their production methods sometimes stunted shelf life. Without a reliably long shelf life, a commercial meth empire was not a possibility.

Jamal nodded and listened to Junior's plan of action. He would scour the criminal data bases in search of paroled chemists with formal scientific training, especially laboratory training. “If there's one thing I learned, it's that the only thing you can count on cookers cooking is their brains. We need to find some chemists.” Jamal smiled ever so slightly at Junior's analysis. At last, Jamal had the floor.

“I have to ask, cousin. Is there any progress in Mississippi?”

Junior smiled before answering. “Don't you worry, Counselor. I want this as bad as you do. I never have learned to like Republicans. Our crew is in Mississippi. This morning I read a cryptic comment on a news site that said 'we are tracking the bitch.' It could happen soon.”

Jamal nodded. “Should we have a back-up team?”

Junior hesitated. “I thought about that. We don't have a deep bench in this department.”

Jamal threw out a few suggestions. Disappeared. Disappeared. Disappeared. One drawback of the biological attacks was that Harris County Community Supervision could no longer kept a close on prospective talent. “Could we tap into your Montgomery or Liberty?”

Jamal was inquiring about Junior Johnson's sister, Cimarron, who was a community supervisor in adjacent Montgomery County and his younger sister, Canada, who was a community supervisor in adjacent Liberty County. Junior Johnson slowly shook his head. “Canada just started her job in Liberty. She has to keep a low profile. And Cimarron...” His voice tailed off.

Jamal nodded. Cimmaron was still under a microscope. She had granted her father remote access to her case load and it set off a few alarms. There was an investigation and Cimarron swore that someone had stolen her password and pointed fingers at her co-workers. But for now, the resources of Montgomery County would have to lay fallow.

Junior did not want the meeting to quit on a sour note. Yes, he been brought in to see Jamal's new office but Jamal really wanted to ask him about Mississippi. That was the real agendum. Jamal never disappointed him and he never wanted to disappoint his cousin. And he hated that cracker governor and his family would benefit profoundly if Ontoine became Mississippi's next attorney general. But he just did not have any more hit men in his Rolodex.

“Cousin, let's have a closed door meeting real soon. We'll sit right here in your plush office and we'll put together a back-up team.”

Jamal smiled broadly and Junior was relieved. Jamal ordered iced tea and Junior reflected. Guzman was going to do it! Yes, Guzman was a pro. He could complete the job before Jamal could make space in his schedule. Got to believe in Guzman.

Guzman.

Part 3:5 David Hunter Duncan Makes A Request

Jim Garfield sat on his BMW 1600 parked in his driveway. He was attired in coveralls, riding gloves, riding boots, with radio helmet at the ready. Jim Garfield always kept a clean bike and he bristled at a squashed bug on the headlight that he had somehow overlooked when he put his filly in her stall. The squashed bug left a small spot on the headlight's beam that a less sensitive rider might overlook. He dismounted and scraped off the smashed bug with his red bandana. He shook out the bandana of its contents and returned it to his pocket.

It was 11 PM and David Hunter Duncan had called some five hours earlier to request a face to face meeting. Jim readily agreed. Tiffanie had thrown a tantrum when Jim informed her that he was going for a ride. Had she not been pregnant Jim Garfield might have been more assertive when she started breaking dishes and glasses and furniture. But pregnant Tiffanie was and he simply left the house to prepare for his friend's arrival.

Jim Garfield found himself yearning for Mary Elizabeth Jones. She was one smart lady. She knew that if he had to meet with Ray or Duncan it was to conduct business and not to chase tail. Mary Elizabeth understood that it was not to her advantage to know more than she needed to know. She knew that Jim Garfield was a man of substance and that he mingled with men of substance. Their actions were not frivolous.

But Tiffanie was another story. She thought like a twat. Everything was a poorly-scripted soap opera with her. In her shallow-ass world men only left the house to chase other women. She didn't understand the effort and energy involved in putting food on the table. What a dumb ass! Jim decided that he would continue to pay her mortgage and he would find himself a new abode once the baby arrived. Thereafter, he would never spend more than two consecutive evenings with a stupid woman.

David Hunter Duncan arrived and Jim started the engine and flipped on the helmet radio so they could talk as they rode. The men waved to one another and David Hunter Duncan said “follow me,” gently into his microphone. Jim could tell that something—probably the sorry state of his son's life—was weighing heavy on his mind. There was no play in his ride. No kangaroo take-offs, no swerving, no more than five miles above the limit. Just a boring transport from Point A to Point B.

Point B would be a 7-Eleven about two miles from Jim's house. There the two men would park their bikes at the far end of the lot. They would swagger across the asphalt plain and strut into the store. David Hunter Duncan fixed himself an extra large fountain root beer and he treated his partner to an extra large cherry Slurpee.

The two men leaned on their bikes with their helmets off and spoke in a quiet tone. “I saw Granger today,” David Hunter Duncan stated directly. Stephen Granger was known as one of Houston's top drug lawyers. Jim Garfield nodded. And David Hunter Duncan recounted Delbert Wayne's legal situation. He had handed his father enough money to hire a big shot Memphis lawyer named Donald McGee and David Hunter Duncan took part of the remainder to settle his debt with Jim Garfield. The rest he hid away in case of an emergency.

An emergency did arise. Donald Mcgee was admitted to a Memphis hospital following what was believed to be a biological terrorist attack on the Memphis Federal Courthouse. Hundreds of people, many of whom worked for the US Department of Justice were hospitalized for treatment for infectious disease. There were no known fatalities resulting from infection but the only defense attorney hospitalized would succumb to an allergic reaction to the prescribed antibiotics.

David Hunter Duncan turned most of the remaining funds over to Stephen Granger in a desperate attempt to remount a legal defense. Granger would not go the distance with Delbert Wayne Duncan's case because Memphis was too far away. But he was willing to review the case and make recommendations.

“It was money well spent,” David Hunter Duncan told Jim Garfield. “Every single arrest resulted from a super snitch also known as Confidential Informant Number One. Granger found out his name. It's James Charles Pearce”

Jim Garfield stared intently and sipped his Slurpee. He listened carefully as the story unfolded. “Super Snitch was able to lure every single defendant to a place where cameras could record their transactions. They all walked into the trap. All except Delbert Wayne. No matter what he always changed his plans at the last minute. There are no taped conversations of Delbert Wayne making a drug deal.”

Jim Garfield had sipped about half of his 64 ounce delicacy and now the cold shot through the roof of his mouth and deep into his skull. He pressed his tongue against his palate and took a break from his endeavor. It had been years since he had enjoyed a Slurpee and now he reminded himself to slow down.

“Granger told me that the prosecution will call Pearce to testify against Delbert Wayne. That is, if he doesn't plead out ahead of time. But then he told me point blank and I couldn't believe what he said.” David Hunter Duncan looked around before continuing. “He said if anything happens to Pearce, they wouldn't have a case against Delbert Wayne.”

Jim Garfield narrowed his eyes as he listened. David Hunter Duncan continued. If Pearce had a fatal aneurism—those are Granger's words—then the prosecution would proceed but any reputable attorney could beat the case. His word. Fatal aneurism.”

“So how do we talk Webster into having an aneurism?”

“Wait. There's more. Even though most of Super Snitch's victims were white, the Feds believe they are linked to the Mexican Alliance.”

“So?”

“Meaning if someone put a slug between Pearce's eyes, the Feds would suspect the Alliance.”

Jim Garfield sipped once more on his Slurpee and summarized. “We don't have anyone with that particular skill set. I know we talked about developing that sort of talent should this sort of situation arise. But we haven't done that yet.”

“You still have access to the data bases?”

“They're not up to date but I have most of the State and Federal probation records. Names. Addresses. Phone numbers. Skill sets.”

“Can we make this our top priority?”

Jim Garfield did not answer. His concentration was broken by a limping, sobbing Spanish woman who emerged from the far corner of the building. She bled from her knees and from her open mouth. She limped toward the store entrance and from around the same corner a stocky Apuz Indian raced after her.

The two men observed the commotion and tried to make sense of the events. Suddenly the Apuz closed the gap and pushed the woman hard from behind, causing her face to crash into the asphalt. Jim Garfield reacted immediately, racing towards the turmoil carrying his helmet. Jim Garfield considered bashing the aggressor with his helmet but eliminated that option for fear of damaging his headpiece. As the aggressor wrestled with his weaker but not smaller prey, Jim Garfield adjusted his stride and was able to plant a solid roundhouse kick to the Apuz's head.

His foot would have knocked out most men. It would have snapped some men's necks and scrambled some men's brains. But the right combination of tequila and cocaine and benzodiazepines allowed Rafael Hiaga to absorb the blow with no apparent damage. Hiaga calmly eyed Jim Garfield, and reached under his shirt for a hunting knife as he slowly rose to his feet.

For Jim Garfield, there was the perception of events unfolding slowly. He was familiar with this state and he knew he was in control. He tugged on a six inch fishing line that was attached to a lead river weight where it rested in his front pocket. With a practiced and polished maneuver, he whirled the lead weight into Hiaga's forehead.

Hiaga flinched but continued towards Jim Garfield. He lunged wildly with the hunting knife and Jim Garfield casually sidestepped it. “He's mine,” Jim Garfield said to himself. “He's mine.”

Suddenly there was a faint whistling sound and blood gushed from Hiaga's left eye. Jim Garfield turned to David Hunter Duncan who held extended a .25 automatic with an attached silencer. “Oh shit,” Jim Garfield moaned.

They were in trouble. David Hunter Duncan was a felon in possession of a firearm and he had an illegal silencer as well. Hiaga lay face down on the asphalt, blood streaming from his lifeless corpse. The woman was sobbing but everything else was peaceful. No customers at present and the store clerk did not seem to notice the activity outside his door.

As if he had rehearsed for this moment all of his life, Jim Garfield put his helmet on his head and his gloves on his hand and he yelled at David Hunter Duncan. “Cover our license plates.” He sidestepped the pool of blood and retrieved his lead fishing weight. “Eighty five per cent of security cameras are now transmitted to an offsite location.” This tidbit from a true crime show echoed in his head as he bounded through the door.

“I need your security cam!” Jim Garfield roared at the clerk. Without hesitation, the slouching, pimply young white man escorted Jim Garfield backstage where the security cams fed into a small, portable computer. Could it be? Was this a dead end circuit? Was this one of the 15 per cent that did not transmit offsite? “It's a closed system,” the clerk stated flatly as if reading Jim Garfield's mind.

Jim Garfield ripped apart the connections and snatched the small processor. “I also need a plastic bag,” he politely but firmly informed the clerk. Jim Garfield raced out of the store clutching the computer and the plastic bag. He ordered David Hunter Duncan to empty his root beer and to deposit the straw, lid and container in the plastic bag. Jim Garfield did likewise with his 64 ounce Slurpee. He checked to see that his plate was covered in a bandana and David Hunter Duncan's plate was covered with a white t-shirt. Holding the plastic bag and the computer, Jim Garfield lead the duo out of the parking lot as a lazy blue pickup barged onto the premises.

A few blocks down the road, the two riders turned onto a side street to remove the fabric from the license plates. Jim Garfield handed David Hunter Duncan the computer and said “The creek” over the radio. David Hunter Duncan replied “OK.”

They rode slow and Jim Garfield littered as they traveled. He held the plastic bag in his teeth and scattered a lid here, a straw there, until the bag was empty. In a matter of minutes they were resting on a concrete bridge where a small creek trickled beneath them. They removed their helmets.

“The creek is dry,” David Hunter Duncan yelled into his transmitter.

“Toss it.” Jim Garfield said. “Toss it.”

David Hunter Duncan hesitated but then hurled the small computer like a frisbee into the dry creek bed. Both men would have felt relieved to have heard a splashing noise but the tablet apparently hit dirt and rock. Jim Garfield was still angry at David Hunter Duncan but he knew that his partner would not be able to understand his anger, no matter how well it might be explained to him. Jim Garfield had been in control of the situation. There was no need to shoot the bastard.

Swallowing his pride, Jim Garfield meekly intoned a verisimilitudinously sincere, “Thank you, David.”

David Hunter Duncan smiled and reached out to shake Jim Garfield's hand. “You're welcome, brother,” he said as looked Jim Garfield in the eye and firmly squeezed his palm.

The men returned to their respective homes. Viewing all the broken glass and china, Jim Garfield immediately left a voice mail with the maid, offering triple her usual rate is she could get the house in order before noon. With boots and coveralls still on, Jim Garfield sprawled out on his viewroom couch and turned the lights off.

Jim Garfield replayed the events over and over and over. The sun rose and he still replayed the events. Then a riveting idea interrupted his thoughts. Maybe he should just get rid of David Hunter Duncan. After weighing the pros and cons for a few minutes, Jim Garfield fell asleep.

3:6 Ulysses At Casey Whittington's

Ulysses sat in Casey Whittington's ultra-modern living room flipping through his options on the nine-box wallscreen. It was fun watching TV with Casey because Casey was deaf and did not mind his guest shifting the sound as he saw fit. Besides, Casey's living room was equipped with perpendicular wallscreens and the two men were able to nine-box their personal screens without bothering their viewmates.

Ulysses had never sat in a mummy chair before and he wasn't sure he would ever again be able to sit on a piece of primitive furniture. Everyone had seen the infomercial. The sultry voice-over. “You sit on furniture. You sit in a Wonder Chair.” It had taken the public a long time to accept the concept of furnishings that resembled a mounted body cast.

The acceptance would come not long after John Joseph quietly bought a controlling interest in a struggling mummy maker and through a clever public relations campaign he trickled down the message that he sat only in mummy furniture no matter where he might stay. Fancy dancy hotels that competed for Mr. Joseph's patronage were put on notice that they were required to provide mummy furniture. The marriage of garment and chair would have a glorious honeymoon after all.

Ulysses centered the nine-box on the Chess Network and flanked it with the Games Network and the Contest Network. On the top row he monitored the Equine Network, a basketball game and a track and field competition. The bottom row was devoted to news.

Ulysses was able to temporarily escape his disappointment and what might be despair in a less manic individual. He had accepted that he would not be able to cut any business deals with Casey Whittington. Casey Whittington was not interested in expanding his markets beyond the deaf community. He was already expanding beyond greater Houston, becoming the biggest drug merchant in deaf Texas. But he was not interested in meeting anyone Ulysses could introduce him to. He would conduct himself like a Japanese businessman, never saying yes or no to Ulysses's offers and playing the consummate host every step of the way. It had taken Ulysses a while to accept his fate.

Suddenly, the bottom right hand box caught Ulysses's eye. Eva Marie Taffy was addressing a crowd of supporters gathered at a dirt track on an evening when there was no racing on the card. The satin white assemblage half-filled the bleachers to hear three members of the Eclectic Party speak on a multitude of issues. They had politely sat while the two tyros had yammered on and on and on. But now Eva Marie Taffy had the microphone and the excitement was palpable even in Casey Whittington's living room.

Politics had never interested Ulysses but Eva Marie Taffy was changing that. He had heard her speak before and was impressed with her blending of poetry and theatrics. She spoke of a renaissance, an awakening, a rebirth, a metamorphosis. She held the listener's attention even when the observer had no idea what she was talking about.

Ulysses had given Eva Marie Taffy the full screen and he cranked up the volume. He had not realized that he had been mimicking her hand signs and facial gestures. But it wasn't just Eva Marie Taffy's style that appealed to Ulysses. She had the courage to voice the truth about drug laws. Drug laws were started by racists for the benefit of racists and for the promotion of racism. Of course Tecumseh Sherman Johnson Sr., had launched his career in the criminal justice system and then dragged most of this family into the business. So Ulysses could never openly express his respect for Eva Marie Taffy.

The adaptive doorbell flashed a strobe to signal that a visitor had arrived. A few seconds later Casey Whittington escorted his older brother, Gus into the living room. Ulysses had observed Gus from the shadows for years, but Gus had no idea who Ulysses was. He shot his brother's house guest a demonic glare and withheld a greeting. Ulysses sat quietly and tried to conceal his contempt.

Typical older brother. He was in and out jail all the time for piddly ass crimes. Ulysses could remember him getting sent off on a shoplifting rap that violated his probation. Now, Casey was doing something with his life and here came his older brother to berate him and to beg for money.

Ulysses pretended to watch Taffy but out of the corner of his eye he studied Gus and Casey. Gus was a head taller than his brother and a whole lot balder. They both had bad teeth but Gus's were noticeably sparser. Gus had a droopy neck and his clothes were rumpled and littered with dandruff. He used a splash of after shave to mask his body odor.

To Ulysses, sign language always seemed intense. The two men stood toe to toe and grunted and moaned and waved their hands and arms and shook their torsos. The scene fascinated Ulysses. These men in their thirties were reenacting a rivalry that was set in place when Casey Whittington came home from the maternity ward.

Lauretta Johnson and Tecumseh Sherman Johnson Sr., had taken pains to minimize conflict between their six children. Corporate team building exercises, collective rewards for individual achievement, activities designed to cultivate egalitarianism, that were displaced by exercises designed to reinforce primogeniture, punishments for arguing followed by deliberately ignoring arguments, family hugs and harmony, harmony, harmony.

On the surface the Johnsons had fewer spats than most families and there was certainly an Enlightened Cimarron mentality, a We versus the corrupt world mentality and a belief that the Johnson family was well-suited to lead others. But behind the gentle manners and the team spirit and the steady flow of compliments, hostilities burned hotter than camp fire embers.

Ulysses has always had a precocious religious bent. He was not yet twelve when the Reverend Sampson visited the family and the males retired to drink root beer amongst themselves. In front of his brother and father and the Reverend Sampson Ulysses shared his theological insight. The Tower of Babel was not about language. It was a parable about religion.

The people ruled by Nimrod tried to construct a tower to reach the heavens. It was not a physical structure that angered God. The tower represented soothsaying: Crystal balls, divinations, spiritualism and the like. Yes, a person might be able to crash the gates of God's Kingdom but God treated trespassers harshly. It was then that one universal faith divided into many only to be restored by the blood of Jesus, the universal language of Christianity.

Reverend Sampson did not endorse Ulysses's conjecture but complimented him on his knowledge of Scripture. But Senior was proud of Ulysses and after the Reverend Sampson went home he expressed his admiration. All the while Junior was seething. He knew more Scripture than his little brother and Ulysses tried to steal the show with his banal interpretation. Junior crushed Ulysses's proposition by doing what he did best. He lied.

Junior calmly told his father that Chuck Norris had originally advance Ulysses's idea in “The Octagon” and was roundly criticized when he recycled the theme in his TV show. Their father was flabbergasted. He could not believe that his younger son would plagiarize an idea from pop culture and claim it as his own.

Long after Ulysses voiced his protests and was sent to bed, he marveled at his brother's skill at bearing false witness. Junior knew that his father would never rent “The Octagon” or wade through Chuck Norris's inane TV series to find the truth. Junior said it all so casually, so effortlessly. The dispassionate motions of a faceless man in a dark bunker pressing the red button. That was big brother.

Ulysses never again trusted his brother. He knew that Junior would always have more credibility in their father's eyes. To Ulysses, Junior was a worm who grew into a cobra. He could never be trusted. Never.

Watching Casey hold his own against his bully brother inspired Ulysses. Casey had carved out a niche for himself without any help from his family. And he respected Casey even more for refusing his own efforts to help. Tonight would be the last night Ulysses would spend on Casey's couch. He would thank him for his hospitality and offer his services elsewhere.

Jim Garfield might have rejected Ulysses help but he wasn't the only Scholar who the Johnsons had pulled strings to get on his case load. Maybe it would be wise to bypass Garfield and talk to Ray or David Hunter Duncan. Ulysses turned his attention back to Casey who was handing over pocket money to his dumb ass brother as he walked him to the door.

Ulysses had found himself a new hero.

3:7 Jim Garfield Hires a Contractor

Growing up, Jim Garfield had not been a Musketeer or a Lord of Flatbush and he never had a Shark or Jet experience. He was not a loner, but he was not a joiner either. He thought Boy Scouts were fairies and he disliked all sports except auto racing and fighting and these activities were not offered on the intramural or extra-curricular menu.

Jim Garfield's mother enforced an ironclad rule that he always adhered to. Before he could befriend another boy, he first had to give that child a severe beating to show him who was boss. Jim Garfield enjoyed a wondrous childhood that he often reflected upon nostalgically, though he later realized that he was not a particularly popular kid.

When Jim Garfield was a Freshman at Harris County's Wilford High, the school's football team was enmeshed in a hazing scandal that caught the attention of the local press. Jim Garfield was not interested in football or the subculture that surrounded the game. He did not understand wanting to belong to a group so bad that one would submit one's buttocks to a miniature branding iron forged in the image of the team's stallion mascot.

Against the onslaught of dudgeons and umbrage and embellished outrage a Rice University anthropology professor defended the practice of hazing. In “The Houston Chronicle” he advanced the idea that hazing served a utilitarian function and it was unwise to try to banish these practices. The professor cited studies that showed that fraternities who treated their pledges harshly were the frats most likely to retain members. He commented that esprit de corps only developed with harsh initiations and he listed the Marines, Green Berets and Navy Seals as examples. He also noted that military academies were successful because they incorporated hazing into the curriculum.

The professor's comments made Jim Garfield reflect on his fourteen years on earth. No, he had never been bullied or hazed and he won most fights and he won the rematch to every fight he ever lost. But he had never been a part of something bigger. He never had friends who were his equal. He had followers who were petrified of him and they avoided him whenever possible. Despite his fond memories of childhood he realized that he had spent a lot of time alone, building birdhouses and tearing apart motors of all sorts. He yearned to expand his horizons.

Shortly after the hazing scandal, Jim Garfield rebelled against his mother's rule of friendship. At first, the world seemed to open up to him. He started hanging with older kids, first at the pool hall, then at the mall, then at the skating rink and ultimately at Ralph's Body Shop. But he never seemed to form long term friendships. Motorcycle accidents, car crashes and incarceration seemed to disrupt his social network more so than they might disrupt other social networks.

Jim Garfield planned to join the Marines on his eighteenth birthday and it would be there that he would hope to find camaraderie and acceptance. But an extensive juvenile record for crimes against persons and property would render him ineligible for The Corps. His twin interests of fast cars and larceny would lead him to hang with a group of auto thieves based out of Fat Pat's Auto Body.

It was at Fat Pat's that Jim Garfield would find friendship and betrayal and ultimately bitterness. He enjoyed stealing cars and living the life until his best friend and partner, Chuck Lieberknecht, left town with Jim Garfield''s fiance, a stately brunette he had loved at first glance.

After the betrayal, Jim Garfield would never again steal another car. It was an activity he associated with his partner Chuck and after the perfidy, he lost his passion for the game. Fat Pat could see that Jim was depressed and he offered him a job inside the shop. There, Jim Garfield learned to roll back odometers, and stamp phony VIN tags and ultimately, to forge documents.

It was document forgery where Jim Garfield hit his stride. He had never been particularly artistic or attentive to detail so he surprised himself at how gracefully he could mimic a Montana title, a Nevada registration or an Indiana driver's license. Self-actualization was seemingly right around the corner.

Jim Garfield was 20 years old when his mother died, the only immediate family he had. Fat Pat helped pay for the funeral and the six pall bearers were all employees of his body shop. Jim Garfield's new family helped him say good bye to his old family. At last he felt like he belonged. Fat Pat was the father he never had and Jim Garfield grew tight with two car thieves named Steve Foote and Danny Schmidt. Of the two, Jim Garfield felt closer to Danny Schmidt. They were briefly roommates until they both found hotties to shack up with.

For three years it was bikes and cars and beer and girls. Everyone had plenty of spending money. Fat Pat's boys lead the good life. Then one night Steve Foote shot and killed Danny Schmidt. It was not a dispute over money or drugs or a woman. A half drunk Steve Foote took offense at Danny Schmidt saying he drove like a girl. It was a running gag that had never been very funny and it ate away at Steve Foote. For his ongoing rudeness, Danny Schmidt received a .38 in the heart.

Facing the death penalty, Steve Foote painted the police a gallery of all that went on at Fat Pat's. A dozen people, one being Jim Garfield, were rounded up and eleven of them were sent away. Fat Pat died of a coronary while awaiting trial.

With Tiffanie on the other side of their king-sized bed, Jim Garfield dozed off thinking of David Hunter Duncan as his personal albatross. His desperate situation with his son, his declining mental faculties and his general bad decisions made his business partner a definite liability. Yes, he was a genius in a jailhouse setting. But the outside world had more variables. It was a more a complicated environment even for someone whose mind was not slipping away. David Hunter Duncan's balance sheet registered more trouble than worth. He had to go.

But Jim Garfield arose from his brief slumber with a different attitude. Ray and David Hunter Duncan were the brothers he always wanted and the Scholars had become his family. Jim Garfield thanked the God he never believed in for allowing him to do his stretch at a prison where Ray and David Hunter Duncan were winding down their longer sentences.

Despite his lack of clerical skills, David Hunter Duncan had managed to land a desk job at the prison. There, he was able to peruse the resumes of new convicts. The more proficient, the more serious, the more skilled were ultimately stationed in David Hunter Duncan's cell block.

G-Ward was called The University and the inmates were called Scholars. Being set in East Texas, they got the occasional jewel thief and art thief and a few brainiacs. But mostly they were hard-luckers and up-and-comers who had shown a lot of potential. From this scrap heap David Hunter Duncan assembled a group of dedicated criminals who were willing to share their knowledge in a supportive environment. Jim Garfield was proud to be included.

The Scholars did not dine on lobster and brie but they did have an endless supply of beef jerky and candy bars and sparkling water. They read prison-approved books about military history and contraband books about true crime. The art and science of criminology was the topic de jour seven days a week.

“I can't believe you're a documents guy,” was David Hunter Duncan's original assessment of Jim Garfield. With his meaty biceps and Popeye forearms no one figured Jim Garfield as a gentle forgerer. He would impress his new friend with his already vast knowledge of all things outlaw and David Hunter Duncan would treat him like a younger brother.

“This is a circus, my friend. And there are two kinds of performers. Clowns and acrobats.” An acrobat was someone who performed crime as a livelihood. A clown was someone who killed his wife. The circus metaphor was unending. David Hunter Duncan referred to high fliers and rope walkers and lion tamers and sideshows and kiddie clowns. Jim Garfield later realized that it was during his prison stretch was when his personality gelled. The flux cooled and the bonds hardened. He saw things completely different when he hit the streets and often thanked his fellow Scholars for all that they had taught him.

On the outside, Jim Garfield was fortunate enough to land under the supervision of a hypomanic parole officer named Ulysses Johnson, who immediately helped him launch a new career. He stayed in touch with the Scholars who awaited their own graduations and sent money to their families. He chatted with other graduates online and of course Ray and David Hunter Duncan became permanent fixtures in his life.

Jim Garfield rolled out of bed and pounded his bare feet over tile and wood and linoleum to grab a Pepsi from the kitchen fridge. He did a cursory ten minutes of bag work and then took a quick shower. He grabbed a handful of anonymous cells from his bedroom closet and gently kissed Tiffanie on the forehead. He then hopped into a nondescript sedan and scrummed with Houston traffic for two hours until he reached his Regal Estates office.

At his office, Jim Garfield scoured community supervision records to find the current address of a convict named named Billy Jake Carver. Sure enough, Billy Jake Carver had landed back on the streets of Houston. He lived not far from a utility player who worked for the anonymous organization headed by Ray and David Hunter Duncan and Jim Garfield. In a Clint Eastwood voice, Jim Garfield called Lloyd Boyd.

Lloyd Boyd had never met the people he worked for. He performed a multitude of tasks for the organization but mostly he was a recruiter. Recruiters delivered cell phones to the doorsteps of prospects without being seen and without leaving DNA or fingerprints or other evidence. Today he would answer his phone on the second ring and accept his mission from the Clint Eastwood voice that he would deliver a specific cell phone wrapped in a gift package to the doorstep of Billy Jake Carver, who lived about a mile away from Boyd's house.

Jim Garfield had never ordered a contract killing before. He did not have an intact protocol for the performance of this duty. The business he ran with Ray and David Hunter Duncan did not recruit hotheads or freelancers. They deemed certain parties high risk for getting into trouble and inadvertently exposing the whole system. They might turn snitch if pressured or the police might find something in their house or car that could lead them back to the organization.

The organization did not require a lot of muscle. They did not advertise their policy but if an employee mishandled his balance sheet on a regular basis, they were quietly let go without violence or fanfare. But Jim Garfield had maintained a short list of prospects should he ever need anyone to pull the trigger. Billy Jake Carver came to mind.

Billy Jake Carver was big and white and stupid. He had been sent away for an incident where he threw his girlfriend through a plate glass window and severed her spine. He had gained notoriety throughout the prison for starting conversations with “I'd like to become a professional hitman.”

Most of the cons smirked behind Billy Jake Carver's but David Hunter Duncan laughed right in his face. Carver charged David Hunter Duncan who put him down with a spear hand to the eye. Carver's eye recovered fully but he was immobilized for a short time. It was the only time Jim Garfield witnessed David Hunter Duncan in any sort of scrape.

Jim Garfield used the Harris County data bases to get a current address on Billy Jake Carver. Fortunately, he resided about a mile from an organization utility player named Lloyd Boyd. Using his Clint Eastwood voice synthesizer, he instructed Boyd to anonymously deliver a packaged cell phone to Carver's doorstep. A few hours later, Jim Garfield called Boyd. “Mission Accomplished” was pronounced in a Steven Seagal voice.

Jim Garfield would be met at noon by Ray and David Hunter Duncan and they would scramble to schedule deliveries and harvest their revenue from their myriad bank accounts. As the sun started to set Jim Garfield announced to David Hunter Duncan “I'm going to make a call about that thing we talked about.” As the other two men broke for dinner, Jim Garfield crept through side streets and industrial parks and as he summoned Billy Jake Carver on the newly-delivered phone.

Billy Jake Carver's cell had been preprogrammed with an Archie Bunker synthesizer. He answered after two rings and Jim Garfield used his Dirty Harry synthesizer to ask him him point blank if he still wanted to be a professional hitman. Archie Bunker replied, “Yes.”

Jim Garfield then asked Carver if he could recruit three other reliable crew members and he said “I think so.” Jim Garfield then asked if he would accept a ten per cent down payment of what was not an especially large sum of money and Carver cum Archie replied, “Can you call me back in five minutes. The police are knocking at my door.”

Jim Garfield was glad to hang up. He crept his sedan into a remote parking area of a remote industrial park and collected his thoughts. Carver was still stupid. He was accepting a job from a murder contract from an anonymous voice while the police knocked on his door. He remembered a line from “The Friends of Eddie Coyle” “Life is tough. It's even tougher if you're stupid.” Carver would get caught if he went to Mississippi. No doubt about it. The police might follow the crumbs back to the East Texas prison where they had all done time together. But Carver was never a Scholar and the trail would probably end there.

Jim Garfield reconsidered his options. Yes, it could get messy but what else could be done. He did not have a Rolodex packed with skilled hitmen and he was fearful of what David Hunter Duncan might attempt on his own. He drummed his fingers and scanned the thinned out parking lot. He was outside Sullivan and Associates at a spot where the receptionist probably parked. Whatever Sullivan and Associates did, they did not do very much after the sun went down. There was a Lexus and a Lincoln parked close to the building and only a couple of lights were turned on inside the building.

Jim Garfield had kept the motor running so as to kept the cool air circulating. The temptation to send Billy Jake Carver after his own business associate flashed once more and Jim Garfield quickly banished the thought. He crept out of his parking spot and redialed Carver.

“Hello, ” The Archie Bunker voice answered.

“Are they still there?” the Dirty Harry voice inquired.

“No. They're parked outside. They're calling in permission to search but the dumb asses don't need no warrant cuz I'm on probation.. Let the stupid cocksuckers come in. They won't find shit. I done sold the jack hammer to Eddie for fifteen dollars.”

Jim Garfield breathed slowly and deeply. “If we sent you a GPS, do you think you could get your crew all the way to Mississippi?”

“If it means pulling the trigger, I could find my way to any place in Texas.”

“But you see, Mississippi is outside of Texas.”

“It is?”

“We'll send a GPS.”

“Gotta go. The man's back.”

Jim Garfield shook his head and headed back to the office. If Billy Jake Carver could stay out of jail for a few more days, he would receive weapons and money and a portable GPS on his doorstep. He was about to reach his destiny and Jim Garfield was pleased to assist him in what Maslow would have called self-actualization.


3:8 Leo Kelly At Home In Tennis Den

Leo Kelly sat in the tennis den of his suburban Maryland home with a trainer pistol pointed at the image of John Joseph on the wallscreen. He had arranged his nine stations in the ever more popular nano-box format with John Joseph in the center square. Leo depressed a sensor and a red laser lit up on Joseph's nose, directly between his eyes.

The last funeral Leo had attended was the stately procession of his esteemed pistol instructor and renaissance man extraordinaire, Milton Wilshire. Fresh out of Notre Dame, Leo had never wielded anything more dangerous than a tennis racquet. In pursuit of fulfilling his life's dream and becoming a federal narcotics agent, Leo accepted a position as a small town patrolman in Western Maryland. At the Maryland Police Academy he would find himself under the tutelage of Milton Wilshire.

Mr. Wilshire had been a Rhodes Scholar who studied at Colgate, Oxford, John Hopkins and George Washington and he would teach at American University, The Naval War College and James Madison. Armed with a hefty trust fund, he was able to abandon academia and devote his life to his most enduring passion, the teaching of ballistics. He would be the best teacher Leo would ever know in any discipline. His love and respect for marksmanship was infectious. Leo grew to love the sport almost as much as he loved tennis.

Leo had diligently followed Mr. Wilshire's drills, specifically the focus exercise where he always pointed a pistol at the character's faces on TV. No pistol, no TV. The camera would change angles and the arm would move ever so slightly. Every show was entertaining and Leo excelled at marksmanship.

After Leo climbed aboard DEA, he joined an exclusive DC area gun club where Mr. Wilshire was a senior member. The two men became friendly and Leo would continue to learn from his mentor. Mr. Wilshire was always technoplilic and he introduced Leo to laser pistols as training devices. When wallscreen and nano-boxes—or niners as they were referred to by certain ethnic groups—became popular, Mr. Wilshire introduced Leo to a program called TV-Target. TV-Target allowed the user to fire off nine shots at nine channels. The frames froze and the shooter would be scored on accuracy and quickness.

Earlier today Leo had fired off a nine for nine where he popped Gomer Pyle in the right eye, Gilligan on the right cheekbone, Mr. T in the middle of the forehead, left eyes for two news bims and an actress in a life insurance commercial, a chin shot for a smart ass in a beer commercial, a nose shot for some televangelist and a crown shot for a dog featured on “Pitbull Rescue.” As satisfied as Leo felt, he did not feel the desire to immediately duplicate his results with another nine shot exercise. John Joseph had come onscreen and Leo would place Joseph in what would correspond to the centerpiece on “Hollywood Squares.” He would then only focus his pistol on Joseph. Joseph needed a bullet and Leo fantasized about delivering it.

Leo's concentration was broken by his wife, Katie's entrance into the den. “Did you get my message?” She inquired anxiously.

Looking up from the TV, Leo started to ask his wife on which medium she had left a message when she blurted out, “Lee flunked his drug test. Marijuana and over the counters.” With that, Katie turned and raced to the bathroom.

Middle age had been relatively kind to Katie Kelly except for sudden-onset bowel movements. The doctors had spent months ruling out cancer and Krohn's Disease, as well as a bundle of maladies both life-threatening and not so threatening. The experts scratched their heads and sent her to a food allergist, who had yet to pinpoint any particular irritant. A couple of public embarrassments had lead Katie to resign her position on the Parish Council and to cease volunteer work at Lee's school.

Katie had blamed her much-discussed accident in the Saint John's Headmaster's office for her son's efflorescing drug abuse. The whole school had heard about Kelly's Catastrophe. In her eyes she disgraced her only child, her pride and joy. How could a child not turn to drugs after such humiliation?

Leo assessed the situation differently. Leo had always been a devout Roman Catholic. He had planned to devote his entire life to following the strictures of The Church, but infertility would raise its ugly head. Dr. Faust---yes his name really was Dr. Faust—would ultimately recommend in vitro fertilization. A Faustian bargain was sealed.

The in vitro fertilization was a skeleton in Leo Kelly's closet. While still in the crib, Leo Eugene Kelly, Jr., had established himself as problem child. He was always moody and whiny and cruel and adolescence did not seem to improve his character. Privately, Leo Kelly speculated as to whether in vitro fertilizations just might be the spawns of the devil.

Leo's gloom would be displaced by the fog of despair that would arrive in the form of a cell call from Walter McVey. Even with a Ronald Reagan synthesizer that sometimes sounded cartoonish, the voice sounded stern. “What makes you think Agent Orange will complete his assignment?”

“The operative is, how shall we say it, stupid. He is convinced that the law will deal more harshly with a Federal Agent who steals property than it will deal with a political assassin. He believes that if he completes the job in the right jurisdiction, the locals will erect a monument in his honor.”

“If Agent Orange is so stupid, what makes you think he will be successful.”

“He is selectively stupid. He is good with a pistol and he is ruthless. Very skilled when he focuses his attention. Very skilled.”

“What would you assess the probability that Agent Orange will attempt to complete the mission?”

“Approaching one hundred per cent.”

“And should he make a gallant effort to complete the mission, what are the odds that he will succeed?”

“Between ninety and ninety nine per cent.”

“That is a substantial swing. One in ten versus one in one hundred.”

“I concede, it is imprecise.”

“What are the odds that he will escape capture?”

“None.”

“None?”

“That's right.”

“If that's the case, the employer could be sued...”

“His company terminated him three months ago. Another company continued with his payroll deposits and another company picked up his health insurance. He is oblivious to details.”

“But his name is certainly on reports and documents and his whereabouts had to be monitored if he worked for your company?”

“Two sets of documents for when he showed up for work. If for some reason we wanted to do so, we could also establish that he is a current employee. Or that he left three months ago. We're flexible.”

“Do you have a record of his psychiatric appointments?”

“We made appointments for him and he never showed up. Maybe we forgot to notify him.”

“So the observer will see a caring organization and an uncooperative rogue.”

“Yes. That's how it is. We thought he was a good man but he fell apart when his marriage failed. In our unending concern, we did everything to help him. Perhaps we're guilty of caring too much.”

“One more question. How did we get where we are today?”

Walter McVey was asking about the plan that went haywire. They were supposed to deliver kiddie porn to Tony Taffy's computer. That failed. They were supposed to plant a pound of meth in Tony Taffy's trunk. That failed. There was a Plan C and a Plan D but time slipped through their fingers and now the elections were just a month or so away. They had to resort to The Executive Plan.

And Leo wanted to remind his Enemies List colleague that he only worked with the personnel others had sent him. And he wanted to remind his old friend just how clever Tony Taffy happened to be. But he knew he was looking for something else. “I fucked up,” the Liddy voice intoned, hiding any trace of remorse.

“You certainly did,” The Reagan voice said coldly. “You certainly did.”