WINTER PARK DEAD

By: Peter Dosdokian

Winter Park Dead By: Peter Dosdokian

2011

It was never my intention to hurt anyone. I was not raised to embrace violence as a way of self-expression, nor to settle disagreements with a clenched fist. I was taught to honor life in all its peculiar forms; to respect the other guys view. Great or small, all living things were to be given the benefit of the doubt. And killing any creature, especially another human being, was an absolute last resorta sad and regrettable necessity done only to save ones life or the life of someone dear. My parents were dark-dirt farmers from Pennsylvania; two hearty, loving souls who believed in Jesus and the gentle path of forgiveness. It was never my intention to hurt anyone. August Dunn, Licensed Private Investigator Winter Park, Florida

A Thorny Patch

The Briar Patch sits at the north end of Park Avenue in Winter Park Florida. Not a fancy eatery really; just wooden floors with breakfast and lunch served up daily. One of those odd little places where college students mix with stock brokers and retired old money passes salt and pepper to nouveau car kings at the table next to theirs. Patrons of the Patch are a loyal hodge-podge of locals, with the occasional stray tourist stopping by. Most of the regulars come for the conversation, not the food. Some come to watch, some come to be watched. About every tenth customer through the front door is a scare crow blond with blizzard white teeth, Pilates abs, and a long list of personal demands. If youre looking for me or good friend, Lawrence J. Hawktree, youll find us there every morning. Rain or shine, we sit down over breakfast and try to pin a tail on the day ahead. The Patch is a good place to sort it all out. Its quiet and just one street over from our office. Also, their coffee doesnt suck. My name is August Dunn, and Ive been a private investigator here in Winter Park for just about twelve years. That would be about eleven years longer than most folks thought Id last. This particular Winter Park day was a Saturday in the final week of August. It was eighty degrees already, and the sun had only been up for an hour. Across the street, a handful of Tai-Chi players glided quietly through their form. As always, I watched with a mixture of wonder and grudging respect. Not long ago, Id seen the groups eighty year old master effortlessly launch a player twice his size backwards through the air; the surprised student flying parallel to the ground for a dozen or so feet before gravity finally reached up and called him home. Even from a distance, Id come to appreciate what most folks dont seem to notice. There is power in this quiet martial art. Not obvious, posturing power, but its there all the same. Quiet and waiting, it is also sudden and decisive. Disturb the sleeping dragon and gravity might call you home as well. A petite waitress with chopped black hair and an oversized apron was hovering over our table. She plunked down two plates of eggs, toast and bacon. She asked if there would
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be anything else. I was about to suggest a refill on the coffee, but I never got the chance. The young womans eyes suddenly widened as they locked on to a wiry, agitated male less than ten feet away. His face was bright red and contorted with anger. He was waving his arms wildly and screaming something about whores and justice. Then, grabbing the small woman by one of her pale boney wrists, he pulled her roughly to his side. She let out a pitiful small animal noise, but did not struggle. A flash of personal disappointment flooded over me. How could I have missed such an obvious threat? How long had he been there watching, waiting? Three minutes? Ten? It didnt really matter now. I had missed something important and dangerous and Id have to deal with it. So much for situational awareness! A raspy male voice was now screaming full volume at close range. What now, bitch? What now? While a part of my brain continued to belittle and scold me for my lapse in security, a more primitive part had already brought me to my feet. My right hand had folded into a hard tight fist, as my heart rate spiked. My next move would surely have been devastating and decisive, if a set of large lean knuckles had not caught me full force across the bridge of my nose. Instantly, both eyes filled with water and every sound around me drifted far off in the direction of the Space Coast. Instinctively, both of my arms flew up to block the follow-up punches I was sure were on their way. Amazingly, none arrived. Blind now to all around me, I struggled to gather information. My ears tried to learn what my eyes couldnt tell me. Chaotic sounds of scuffling feet and high pitched screams were followed by a muffled thump, some breaking glass, and an abrupt silence. As I struggled to clear my eyes and brain, I could hear Hawks calm baritone cutting through the haze. Who is this guy? he asked. A thin female voice replied in a shaky staccato. Thats DamonDamon Darnell. Hes sposed to stay away from me. Restraining ordersposed to stay away. Two hours later, give or take, the police and the EMTs had come and gone. Young Mr. Damon had gone with them. Everyone on the terrace had made a statement to law enforcement; and Hawk and I had promised to be available for future questions should any arise. Both of my eyes were now back online, and I was once again oriented to time and place. Though my appetite had disappeared, Hawks had amazingly somehow improved.

Having finished off both breakfast plates, he was now leaning back in his chair looking extremely pleased with himself. Hell of a morning. he said. Then, between sips of dark black coffee, he caught me up on what Id missed while in my punched-up stupor. Seems our rude guest was an ex-boyfriend, who could not bear the thought of waitress, Tristina, living her life without him. Over a number of months he had become a very tiresome thorn. Recently, he had been informed by a local county judge that he could no longer have any contact with our little waitress. Up until today, he had honored His Honors request. When ex-boyfriend, Damon, had first arrived and grabbed for the girl, Hawk had caught sight of a full size Beretta PX4 tucked Mexican carry into a pair of baggy black pants. Holding the girl with his left hand, Damon had reached for the pistol with his right; his plan being to snuff out her life before an audience of passive breakfast patrons. But Hawk, not exactly the passive observer type, got there first. A thick, oversized mitt latched on to the stalkers wrist. An abrupt twisting motion was followed by the crisp sound of cracking bone, and a high pitched shriek of pain. It should have ended there. A wiser man would have known it was time to stop. A wiser man would have retired from the field of battle to attend to his broken wrist and shattered pride. Instead, Damon Darnell let go of his petite prize and reached for a jagged knife on a nearby table. He almost got there...almost. Still gripping the intruders broken wrist, Hawk torqued his own waist to the left, as one of his 13-EE Carolina work boots swept to the right. Both of Damons feet flew out from under him. And that, as they say, was that. Just two quick Hawktree moves and the fight was over. Grasping for support, Damon slammed to the floor in a disheveled, barely conscious heap. A checkered table cloth followed him down, along with an order of pears Gorgonzola, a popular Briar Patch favorite. Hawk then calmly bent down and removed the Beretta from the attackers waistband. It carried an extended ten round magazine of .45 ACP, and one in the pipe for good luck. Hawk dropped the magazine, ejected the chambered round, and locked the slide back. Then, almost gently, he placed the evidence in the middle of our table and waited for Winter Parks finest to arrive. When they did pull up five minutes later, he was quietly working on his breakfast, which had not yet grown cold. Later that morning, emergency room X-rays at Winter Park Hospital would reveal that a disillusioned young man of twenty-five had received a radial head fracture of the right forearm, an avulsion fracture of the pelvis, and a dislocated ankle. To paraphrase funny man Mel Brooks, sometimes Love Stinks.

The Millman Tale Our office is in a converted second floor efficiency apartment owned by one of the larger car magnates in all of Florida. Carl Millman has been selling cars in Central Florida for four decades. He started off in an abandoned gas station selling tired old auction heaps, way down on the nastier side of Orange Blossom Trail. Within fifteen years hed parlayed his scruffy lot of clunkers into the most successful dealership of new and used cars in the tri county area. His ads, Carl the Car Man", were everywhere. Some say he succeeded because of his natural salesmanship. Some say it was good timing. Still others hint that his meteoric rise was due to his ability to turn dirty dollars into clean cash for some unsavory types out of Miami. Whatever the truth, I never asked for clarification during the two full years I worked for him. To be honest, I like the guy. Private by nature, he is a widower, his wife having died of cancer the same year she gave birth to their daughter. Millman is a hard worker who expects unquestioned loyalty, and in return can be very generous. A few years back, his life had been shattered when his only daughter, like so many young women her age, had suddenly disappeared, vanishing into the ether as though she had never existed. After six months of cookie cutter police updates, and an endless number of dead ends, this very distraught father had sought me out. He had arrived disheveled, discouraged and desperate for answers, for any news good or bad that would help him understand what had happened to the smart and beautiful daughter he loved so much and who he had raised alone. He explained that he had sought help from every possible quarter, including his daughters college. And while everyone had been gracious and empathetic, no leads or helpful information had ever come of it. The police, while appearing earnest in their efforts, had also found nothing. And when a year had passed and no juicy clues had fallen into their lap, they had simply lost interest in the case all together. They even began to suggest that perhaps Brianna Millman had succumbed to the demanding pressures of medical school and had looked for a way out. One Winter Park LEO named Hanlin was heard to say It wouldnt be the first time a rich kid ran away from hard work. The truth was the Winter Park police department just didnt have the funds or the man power to keep the investigation going. So, once the initial publicity had faded, and the news crews had moved on to the next breaking story, the case had been quietly reclassified as inactive-unsolved. All relevant information and physical evidence, not on computer, was sealed in a small, cube shaped cardboard box and placed in the storeroom back near the holiday decorations. Quietly,

the Winter Park police department signed off and then moved on to more promising police work. Millman had gotten my name from Lieutenant Stan Murkowski, a long time veteran of the force whod left the cold weather of Buffalo, New York years before, to start his life over in the steamy heat of the Sunshine State. Stan had taken a cut in rank and pay for the promise of perpetual sunshine. To this day, hell tell anyone who will listen, Best decision I ever made. Stan Murkowski is a man of few subtleties, and for some reason, we seem to hit it off ok. I like his old school view of right and wrong. He appreciates the fact that I PI mostly by the rules and am not afraid to get my shoes muddy when the rain comes down. Also, I never call him by his Christian nameStanislaw.

Brianna Brianna was Millmans only child. She had gone missing just six weeks after graduating with honors from Florida States School of Medicine. Briannas father had become fixated on finding her whatever it might take. So, by the time he found his way to my door, he was one very determined man. His request for help was both pitiful and eloquent. He asked, then pleadedthen offered money. He cried. He shouted. He apologized. In the end, I took the case, not because I thought there was any real chance of finding his daughter. I took it because I couldnt bring myself to say no, not to someone in so much genuine misery. I agreed to sign on for six months. In the end, it took twenty-two months, three broken ribs, and five separate trips to the Caribbean, before I could definitively explain to a grieving father what had happened to his sweet girl. But finally, at the end of my last long road trip, I was able to tell Briannas grieving father, with certainty, the details of his daughters disappearance. The story was a sad, and unfortunately, an increasingly familiar one these days. After graduating, Brianna had flown, sailed and partied her way across the Caribbean, settling finally on St. Lucia as her favorite final destination. She had lied to her father, claiming to be on a walking tour of Europe with a friend. Instead, she had paid a casual college acquaintance $125 to mail a series of pre-written postcards shed purchase on e-bay. This he faithfully did as he made his annual trek across Belgium, France, and Germany.

Once in St. Lucia, Brianna had gone looking for party hot spots where books, exams and parental expectations could be left behind. She was determined to have some fun, some exotic, dangerous good times that could last her a lifetime; some sweet, dark secrets she could call her own. What her plans could not anticipate were two privileged and savage young men who felt they somehow had the right to do whatever they wanted to whomever they chose. Briannas search for her delicious dirty secret followed a wellworn trajectory; alcohol, drugs, and easy sex. At some point, her navely conceived good time crossed over into abuse, torture, and finally, death. To my amazement, I also discovered that the decomposing remains of Brianna Millman had been found three weeks after her death. Unfortunately, no identification was found on her person. So, like others before her, she had been unceremoniously buried in a paupers grave by local authorities. In the end, Millman got his answers. My legwork and his bottomless pockets prevailed. A bribe here, a payoff there, and the young womans remains were exhumed, her bones and teeth forensically examined. The coroners report would declare a perfect dental match to those of the young Dr. Brianna Millman, MD. Her father took the news hard. Even though he had feared and suspected what the outcome would be, the blunt finality of his loss was overwhelming. As time passed, he repeated words like closure and moving on. But, those who knew him well could see at once he was no longer the same man. The intrepid public figure was now gone. In his place, a sad recluse had appeared, living out his days in a great brick edifice on the peaceful shores of Lake Osceola. Briannas remains were returned to Winter Park and she was buried in a private ceremony at the small cemetery north of the public golf course. Of all those in attendance that day, I was the only one there who was not family. In the five years that have passed since those simple services, Briannas father still insists that I live and work rent free in one of his many properties in the heart of Winter Park. On those rare occasions when I do run into him on the street, he just nods and smiles. Stay safe, August. he says. Take care.

* A Glock for Courage The trigger on a Glock pistol breaks right around 5.5 lbs. Angel Melendez had already squeezed the trigger of his G22 half way home. His index finger had reached that point
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in the pull at which the three internal pistol safeties have been released and just a few modest pounds of pressure will send forth a .40 caliber S&W round at 984 feet per second. The big bore muzzle was now pressed against the temple of an aging ATM customer. Seventy four year old Carlos Morales had lived in Orlando for nearly two decades. He had originally moved to Hidden Gardens, a mobile home park off of Orange Blossom Trail, to help his aging mother in her final years. He had been fortunate enough to find a job as a night watchman at a retail warehouse in west Orlando. After his mother died, he had continued to live in the ancient aluminum home she had left him. Though forced to give up his warehouse job, due to his age and his worsening arthritis, Mr. Morales was still able to get by. In fact, between his modest social security check and a small stipend he received for light maintenance work at his church, he had somehow managed to set aside an emergency fund of $7,334. This he kept entirely in his checking account. As Carlos struggled to remember his pin number and punch it in, an image from his childhood briefly danced before him. He was standing beside his mother near an ancient village wall. He was holding her hand and looking up at her youthful chiseled features as the morning sun rose overhead. The distinct smell of peppers and chocolate clung to her clothing. And then, as she turned to smile$300.00 in crisp twenty dollar bills glided from the automated teller into its gleaming metal tray. Excitement overcame criminal Melendez as a fresh surge of adrenalin pulsed through his veins and the muscles of his right hand contracted slightly. Not much, perhaps an eighth of an inch. But enough to cause his trigger finger to flinch backward, enough to send a 180 gram hollow point on its way and to instantly end the gentle life of Carlos Morales in an explosion of blood and brain matter. Son of a bitch! Melendez screamed as he scooped up the money and ran for his car. He was upset because it had suddenly occurred to him that he had not paid attention to the unique 4 digits Carlos Morales had punched into the money machine. Now, even though he had the old mans debit card in hand, there would be no more withdrawals on this night. No easy cash with which to party. Fuck this shit he shouted to the dashboard of his stolen Honda Accord. Then cranking up the pounding thump rattle of raunchy rap, he punched the accelerator hard, burning rubber for a hundred feet down Aloma Avenue. He would remain despondent for the rest of the evening.

Angry Eyes Naomi Morales was sitting at the bottom of the wooden stairway that leads up to our office. She was wearing a loose fitting cotton dress drawn tightly across two ample breasts. A surplus military pouch was strapped diagonally across her body. As Hawk and I approached, her head tilted slightly to one side. She studied us carefully; a science project to be written up later. Rising gracefully to her feet, she took a firm, athletic step in our direction. She extended her hand in the fashion of an incumbent politician, and smiled broadly. My name is Morales, Naomi Morales, and Ive come to hire your services I shook her hand and smiled my best crooked smile. What no small talk? Two coal black eyes moved from me to Hawk and back to me again. They betrayed a head strong spirit and a current absence of humor. I started over Good morning, Ms. Morales. Ive come to hire your services, she repeated. Clearly, this woman was not cast from the same mold that had produced the Tristinas of the world. She had come from sturdier stalk, deeper sufferingprouder traditions. No wooden nickels accepted here. I regrouped. Nice to meet you, Ms. Morales. How bout we start with some introductions? Im August Dunn and this is my colleague, Mr. Lawrence J. Hawktree. Hawk nodded in Naomis direction. She nodded back. How about we go up to the office? I suggested Hear you out there. She took a long, measured breath, pushed back a strand of jet black hair, and turned toward the stairway. Hawk took the opportunity to give me one of his patented This is trouble looks. I followed Naomi up the staircase and Hawk us both. At the top of the stairs, I placed my body between our guest and the alloy dead bolt on the door. I punched in the four digit code. There was a whirring buzz as the bolt retreated. Before stepping inside, I glanced over at the top hinge. A thin toothpick was still wedged where Id placed it the night
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before, untouched and unbroken. No surprises waiting inside; a good way to start the day. Folks sometimes make fun of my precautions; they use the word paranoid. Maybe theyre right. On the other hand, Ive been alive long enough to know that the line between paranoia and prudent caution is a thin one. Find yourself on the wrong side of it by a single step and you just might find yourself real hurt or real dead. To summarize, I dont like unhappy surprises. A few minutes later, the three of us we were seated around a square mahogany table, compliments of Mr. Millmans well worn, furnished digs. Our feisty guest was seated with her back to the large picture window that overlooks one point five acres of manicured lawn and lakeside cypress. May I have a glass of water? she asked folding her hands in her lap. Yes, maam. I said. Its out of the tap, but its tap with cubes. And I wasted another smile on our guest. A minute later, she was gulping down a rattling glass of icy H2O. Thank you, Mr. Dunn. I returned to my chair and sat down across from her once again. You know, you can call me August. Most folks dojust not Augie or Gus. Greedily finishing off the water, she paused briefly. Well, for now, Mr. Dunn, I think Ill just call you she hesitated Mr. Dunn. And, you can call me Ms. Morales. I glanced over at Hawk. He was silently looking out the window, studying the horizon with the interest of a NASA weatherman just before launch. I pressed on. O.K., Ms. Morales. So, now that weve got the whole name thing nailed down, suppose you tell us what brings you here today and what we can do for you? Our freshly cooled client clunked her empty glass down on the table; straightened the folds of her skirt and brushed away some imaginary lint. Its simple she said, smiling for the first time, I want to hire you to kill a man. There was a momentary silence as a buzz saw cut through my brain. You want us to

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kill a man, she said calmly. But, dont worry. I can pay. I have money. I can pay you $7000, but no more. Thats all I have. But, its all in cash, and its all in small bills. She looked very pleased with her presentation, and leaned back in her chair. I tried to catch Hawks eyes again, but he was now studying an ancient water stain on the mahogany table. I sensed thered be some wry commentary coming my way in the near future. I returned my focus to our would-be client. It took me two stuttered false starts before I finally found the words I wanted her to hear. Ms. Morales, listen up. Listen up very carefully. Because, trust me, this parts really important. I leaned forward in my chair. Maybe youre kidding about all this. And maybe youre not. Maybe you want someone dead or maybe someone sent you here to set us up. I dont know. And honest to God, I dont care. Just having this conversation is something the courts like to call conspiracy. So, I hope you really get this part. Mr. Hawktree and I are investigators. Got it? Investigators! I repeated. We are not, Ms. Morales, terminators. Looking almost disinterested in what I had just said, she shrugged her shoulders and smiled knowingly. You want more money, dont you, Mr. Dunn.

First Born Daughter Naomi was the only daughter of Cesar Morales and Beth Lieberman. She had grown up with three older brothers and a white cat named Diablo. Her mother and father had met at a union organizing rally near one of the fern farms north of Deland, Florida. By the time her parents met, Carlos had already spent ten years of his life on such farms, cultivating and caring for another mans plants. He had done so for minimum wage. Before marrying Beth and starting a family, he had somehow managed to return each year to Mexico to celebrate his mothers birthday. No small feat for a man living illegally in the United States, with no means of transportation. Every spare penny that he could scrape together had been sent via Western Union to struggling family members back home. Such is the power of familial love. Beth, on the other hand, had earned a bachelors degree in political science from an ivy covered college somewhere in Vermont. She had spent two years in the Peace Corps

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working in a small village in Central America. Her Spanish was good; her love of the culture strong. Naomis life had been a hard and unforgiving one from the start. She had been born prematurely, and was, for the first few weeks, not expected to survive. Her mother named her after a favorite, head strong aunt from New York City. Though frail at first, Naomi soon grew stronger and tougher as she ran alongside her older brothers through the sweet smelling orange groves of Volusia County. She and her family shared a forty by ten foot trailer back behind a dozen foliage hot houses. A broken and rusting 1953 Ford tractor filled up much of their front yard; its once shiny grey enamel paint having long since turned to powder beneath the unforgiving Central Florida sun. For nine years, she rode a county school bus the twelve miles into Deland. She was smart and gifted, but this was never recognized or encouraged by her teachers. So, in the middle of her sophomore year, discouraged and unhappy, she announced to her mother that she would be staying home to help with such family chores as cooking and the washing of clothes. She reasoned that this would then free up her mother to pursue her passion for unionizing the thousands of workers who struggled daily to scratch out a living in the employer friendly right to work state of Florida. But, the idea of her daughter dropping out of school in a world that only seemed to reward the educated, did not set well with Beth Lieberman-Morales. Not in the least. Over the next two years, she and her daughter would argue loud and often over the subject. It was not until Naomi found herself standing on the stage at DeLand High School, her diploma in hand, that she realized her mother had decisively won the argument. Looking across the auditorium she could see her family looking on from several rows back. All were quietly seated, except for her mother, who was standing up, applauding loudly. Naomi did not argue with her mother again. Soon afterward, her mother once again took up the cause of the migrant laborer. As in the past, she gave it her all. Every moment of her precious spare time was spent organizing the thousands of poor migrant workers struggling throughout the state. She travelled widely, ignoring fatigue and the hostility of those who opposed her. On one such organizing trip, just north of DeLeon Springs, the worst had come to pass. Carlos and Beth, coming home in their borrowed, rusting truck, were killed in a head on collision. Carlos had died at the scene, Beth while being airlifted to a trauma center in Orlando. It had happened just two miles from their home and their children. When the sheriff first arrived on scene, he found the radio from the twisted wreckage still blasting out festive Latina sounds from a local Hispanic station. Almost home, Beth and Carlos Morales had turned up the music to celebrate their blessings, and the joy of their life
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together. The vibrant music had filled up the starry black sky overhead. And in their final conscious moments, they had been together, wrapped in the sweet ether of orange blossoms and Latina rhythms. The cause of the accident was attributed to break failure; so ordinary; so incredibly sad. Later, that same morning, four lives changed forever when a Volusia County deputy sheriff arrived at the Morales home. Always the first one up, Naomi had answered the door. *

Bulldogs Its not the money. I all but shouted. What else could it be? she demanded. You do work for money, right? Everyones entitled to make a living. I mean, thats how it works, you know. You do something for me and I pay you. Its simple, really. Im just saying that seven thousand dollars is all Ive got. I shook my head to clear it. Am I nuts? Or, are you? I just told you we dont kill people for money around here. Well then, why do you kill them? I was about to repeat what I thought I had already made clear. But, Ms. Morales jumped to her feet. Wheres your bathroom? I pointed across the room to what appeared to be a small closet. She made brief eye contact as she passed me. Seven thousand dollars for moving one finger half an inch. How hard could it be? And she crossed the room, closing the bathroom door with a resounding thump. I looked over at Hawk for some moral support. Trouble he said. Told you. Yes, you did I agreed. Five minutes went by, then ten. No running water. No flushing. No Naomi. I crossed the room and knocked politely. Ms. Morales? No reply. Ms. Morales, you ok in there? Nothing. I opened the door a crack and called her name again. When nothing came back, I pushed the door wider. It jammed against something heavy. I squeezed my head and one shoulder through the opening. She was lying in a disheveled heap beneath the
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sink. It took a few minutes, but Hawk and I managed to pry her out of the bathroom and carry her over to the sofa. We elevated her feet using two ancient orange cushions. She was breathing evenly and her pulse seemed to be within normal range. We determined to give her a few minutes to come back around before calling 911. In the meantime, and against all host-like protocol, I searched the surplus pouch still strapped across her body. It contained very little of the usual female paraphernalia. It did include a new Lynx bus pass; a Sun Bank envelope containing seven thousand dollars; and an ancient Charter Arms Bulldog, loaded full up in .44 magnum. As she started to come back around, her eyes fluttered, then widened, as she tried to regain her bearings. What? she blurted. Whats the"? Take it easy I reassured. Youre ok. You fainted in the bathroom over there. I pointed. We carried you over here; elevated your feet. Youre ok Well, I could use some food, she declared, as she sat upright swinging both feet onto the floor. I threw my arms up and surrendered. There would be no predicting what this woman would do. Alright I said food it is then, and I headed toward our ancient kitchenette and its collection of homely green appliances. In less than a minute I had rounded up an assortment of August Dunn personal favorites: Colby cheese, sweet pickles, liverwurst, Italian hard crust bread, and an ice cold ODouls to wash it all down. She grabbed greedily at the food, devouring it all without saying a word. I offered her a chilled snickers bar for desert. She declined. When did you eat last? I wondered out loud. She ignored the question as she swigged down the last mouthful of faux beer. The confusion had officially left her face. It had been replaced with a determined glare; reserved, I surmised, for those times when she felt uncertain about her next move. When in doubt, take the offensive. Well? she demanded, Are you going to take the job or not? You mean the kill a man for cash job? Thats exactly what I mean

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Then, I guess Id just have to say no. Make that hell no. Naomi was not amused. A fierce energy appeared in her eyes. For a moment, I regretted having never purchased long term medical insurance. Then, like storm clouds parting, her expression changed; eyes softened, lips trembled. A lonesome tear rolled down one cheek. And instead of delivering deliverance, she stood up; wobbly at first, then calmly steered her five foot three frame toward the front door. With both hands folded in front of her she looked up demurely in my direction. Im sorry, Mr. Dunn. You probably think Im the daughter of the devil, himself. I know it looks that way to you, but, believe me, what Ive asked you to do is the only way justice will ever be served. The man that I want dead is a stone cold killer who takes whatever he wants and slaughters whoever gets in the way. My grandfather got in his. And he died alone in front of an ATM, in a puddle of his own precious blood. She hesitated then straightened her back. Her eyes focused on mine with a fierce determination. Trust me she said, I will not let that stand. Her description stirred a fading memory back to life. It had been a thirty second news blurb on local WESH-TV. Was it a week ago? Two weeks? An older Hispanic man had been shot dead just inside Winter Park city limits. ATM cameras had caught a fleeting glimpse of the suspect as he stepped over his victims body to grab cash from the machine. Thankfully, the TV station that aired the story had omitted that part of the surveillance video showing the close-up lethal shot. Still, it could not have been an easy thing to watch for Naomi Morales; the death of a beloved family member as late night entertainment. The mayor of Winter Park had made several grand statements before the media, railing about the undesirable, outside elements sullying the pristine image of his town. He promised swift justice for the perpetrator. I kept the memory to myself and refocused on our guest. Look, Ms. Morales, Im sorry. It sounds as though youve lost someone who meant a lot to you... Means a lot to me she corrected. Even so I said, I cant do what you want done here. I cant help you kill someone, no matter who that someone is. Not for vengeance. Not for money. Its not what I do. Its not what we do here. I was going to add that I knew she had been through a lot, and that grief takes time, etc., but I never got the chance to counsel and reassure.

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All softness vanished from her face as her jaws tightened into an uncompromising angularity. You know, I had a feeling youd be worthless when I first saw you. Big surprise I was right. She turned her back to me and moved toward the door. Ignoring my own self-preservation instincts, I heard myself saying, Your tears sure do come and go in a hurry. Were done here, she announced over her shoulder. Wait! Wait for what? she barked. There is no Wait I dug into a jeans pocket and crossed the room. I held out a fist in her direction. She looked confused. I nodded at my closed hand. These belong to you. She rolled her eyes, and held out her hand. A cluster of .44 magnum rounds rattled into her palm. Fell out of your gun. I said. She studied her palm, then me. Theres only four here. I sent one final smile in her direction. Yeah, I know. Kept one to remember you by. Just sentimental, I guess. Patting the surplus pouch to be sure her revolver was still on board; she placed the bullets in the pocket of her cotton dress. She smiled sweetly in my direction and tilted her head innocently to one side. Fuck you, Dunn. As she swept down the stairs two at a time, I called after her. What happened to the Mr.? Hawk and I watched her from the picture window, as she steamed toward the wrought iron gate with long fierce strides. I couldnt help notice how effortlessly she moved, and how the light cotton dress she wore could not conceal the voluptuous curves beneath it. Arriving at the front gate, she stopped suddenly and swung her body full around to look back. It felt as though she were looking directly at me, reading my thoughts, daring me to think them. She adjusted the cotton dress slightly, before disappearing through the gate. Son of a bitch I said unexpectedly and out loud.

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What? asked Hawk without looking up. That, my friend, is one whole-lot-of-woman. Hawk looked over at me for the first time, his expression being one of amused curiosity. Easy old man, he said, Shes too young and too angry for your old ticker. Dont worry about it, nurse I barked. No need. She wont be back. Maybe so said Hawk. All the samethat whole-lotta-woman is still trouble. You keep saying that. I said. He gave me that same look that exasperated parents give their innocent offspring. Her walk he said. Her words. Her anger. And how about the fact that she runs hot and cold while carrying a loaded weapon on her person. For the love of God, manthe woman is trouble. All that I heard from Hawks words of warning was Blah, blah, blahhotblah, blah, blah woman. Think shell be back? I asked still staring at the distant gate. You didnt hear one thing I just said, did you? I heard the part where you said she runs hot. Hopeless he mumbled something to himself. Then he added Sure. Shell be back. The two of you hit it off so well, why wouldnt she stop back for a visit! OK I said. I get it. Shes gone and she wont be back. But, if she doesnt come back, whats her next move? Well, to tell you the truth, I think your little angry rose is going to go after this guy herself. I snapped out of my trance and turned to stare in his direction. You think so? You think shed do that? I do. said Hawk with a calm unnerving certainty.

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Days and then Years A few months back, turning sixty had caught me by surprise. Id floated through forty and fifty year birthdays with very little concern or any noticeable movement in the force. But on the day I awoke as a sixty year old, I was blindsided by a Tsunami of old memories and the growing awareness that this earth-show does not go on forever. On that day, I did what I had not done in thirteen years. I bought two twelve packs of ice cold beer, ambled down to Lake Osceolas shoreline, and drank until I could no longer hear the sounds of distant lovers, dead parents, and a long ago war. I awoke the next morning in the prone position, one bare foot soaking in tepid lake water, and the taste of guilt and self-indulgence on my tongue. Hearing the rustle of gravel from the main path, I remember pulling myself up onto one elbow. As a long dark shadow fell over me, and the bright morning sun thankfully disappeared. Squinting through one eye, I recognized a familiar pair of brown Carolina work boots a few feet away. Coffee there, Ace? Thanks. I mumbled as he handed down a large cup of the black Briar Patch brew. Happy Birthday, plus one, said Hawk summing it all up. Thanks mom. I replied, in between sips. A week had passed since The Briar Patch incident. All had remained calm since. No new attackers on the terrace overlooking the park. No new visits or surprises from the unpredictable Ms. Morales. Life was good. And all that was keeping it from bumping all the way up to the great zone category was the total absence of a paying client. Hawk and I are not all that particular; even though we draw the line at paid assassinations. Right now, we just needed a paying job; a single desperate somebody to walk up our stairs and knock on our door. Preferably, that somebody would have a solvable problem and a pocket full of cash or negotiable bonds. Hopefully, whatever new employment did come our way, it would not involve two Winter Park P.I.s getting their asses shot off. Also it would not include any more long term sleepovers down at the 33rd street jail. Hawk wasnt in yet. It was Friday, his official day to disappear. For five years and six months he had mysteriously vanished every Friday til noon. And after all that time, I still had no idea where he went or what he did when he got there. Being the naturally curious type, I had tried to figure it out; had actually followed him once. Thats when I
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learned that if Lawrence J. Hawktree doesnt want to be followed, you might as well stay home. I had kept him in sight for ten plus miles out of town to the sprawling Flea World complex, grandly billed as Americas Largest Flea Market. Then, somewhere among its endless stalls, somewhere between the biker leather goods and the Chinese made Spanish guitars, I lost him. One blink too many and he was gone. If it hadnt been for a grilled cheeseburger, an ice cold soda and a two pound bag of jellybeans, the trip would have been a total bust. So, here I was, sitting at the dark table again looking out over Millmans beautiful estate. Make that one of his beautiful estates. The black coffee in my cup had gone cold, and I was feeling unusually weary. The cypress trees along the lake were swaying in a predictably warm morning breeze. A deep sigh rolled out of me unannounced. I was trying to remember just how Id come to be sitting here at this table, sixty years old with day old coffee in my cup. A rush of scattered memories paraded through my brain. Six decades on the planet, I announced to the ether. Six decades come and gone, and what have I got to show for it? One bad war. One good woman. One loyal friend. I was, it seemed, forever destined to dwell among single digit accomplishments. I thought about long ago lovers and opportunities missed. I remembered worthless lives saved and shinning lives snuffed. I cringed with regret at misguided drunken choices, and apologized one more time to those Id injured or shamed. What the hell am I doing here? I demanded to know. Chasing down cheaters and hustlers? Risking life and limb for chump change and a pat on the ass? Maybe this job is no longer really for me. Maybe its finally time to shut it down. Pass it on to generation X, or Y, or whatever the hell the latest batch of know-it-alls is called. I wouldnt have to look long far for a replacement, of that I was sure. Their numbers were growing; a tide of confident and untested heroes; an endless parade of thin and hungry risk takers, all clamoring for their day in the sun. The truth was, I didnt blame them. Id done the same thing, back before I discovered that mortality was more than an abstract concept. Back when I thought it all goes on forever, and that youth was a personal accomplishment I had somehow made happen. Images hurried forward to reassure me, bring me back around. Some were bright, some faded. Some were true or almost true; and some were outright lies I had yet to correct. But the stories were all there, ready to explain my path; to convince me that the journey had all been worthwhile. There were ten thousand short stories; and ten million words to explain why Im here and why that might matter. Hell, I knew them all by heart. They just didnt seem all that convincing or comforting on this morning. I took another sip of cold coffee, then put the cup down and pushed it away. Time for some positive
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thoughts, I told myself. Time to refocus before the day officially begins. I went deep sea fishing inside my brain searching for something positive or encouraging. Well, I thought, Ive lived through more than most, and Im still breathing, still going up and down the office stairs on my own. I still remember where my car is parked and that the zipper goes to the front when I pull on my pants each morning. I do still enjoy a cold beer in front of a black and white Bogart flick; and then of course there is the sweet smell and feel of a woman in my bed. My positive thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the uninvited image of Naomi Morales. She was lying in my bed, cotton dress removed, dark skin moist and warm. She was whispering something playful; something important I needed to know. I leaned forward to hear her words. I could almost make them out. Fuck you, Mister Dunn, she said with a smile bright and defiant. I laughed out loud at the treachery of my own imagination. Whats so funny? a voice asked from the doorway behind me. I spun around. It was Hawk. Inside joke, you had to be there. Had to be there he repeated beneath his breath. Then, crossing the room, he lowered his 64 frame onto the worlds ugliest yellow plaid sofa. True to form, he said what he always says when he sits there. You need to get a new sofa, man. I replied what I always reply. Its on the list. The phone rang. I walked to the counter that divides ugly sofas from ugly appliances and answered it. It was cop friend, Sgt. Stan Murkowski. His voice boomed through the line in true Murk fashion. Hey, Dunn, you asshole. Its me. We need to talk. Two reasons. Half an hour. Barneys. He hung up just as I was about to say hello.

*
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The Murk Approach Stan Murkowski was born in Cheektawoga, New York, a tight knit polish suburb on the east side of Buffalo. The town was a post war town full of working class stiffs, zero lot line houses, and manicured postage stamp lawns. Crime was low and church attendance within the Catholic parish was high. Depending on which street you turned down you could reach the University of Buffalo or the Buffalo International airport in about ten minutes. Amazing polish food was everywhere. At Easter, local market place vendors shaped large slabs of butter into the likeness of lambs. Polish sausage subs competed with spicy Italian subs, sometimes within the same shop. Subs and cold beer, pizza and cold beer, chicken wings and cold beerbeef on weck and cold beer. These were the goodtime foods that Stan Murkowski grew up with, in Cheektowaga, New York. I asked him once, why hed left such a tasty place behind. He had just laughed and said. Beats the fuck outta me. Probably came for the key lime pie. Stan is noted for three things directness, honesty, and directness. He pulls no punches and takes no prisoners. He knows who he is and doesnt care who knows it. He considers himself a good man, and he is. Hawk and I caught up with him at Barneys, an upscale coffee shop a few blocks from the police station. Stan was already there, half way through an exotic Java brew and a box of high priced butter cookies. He was dressed civilian on this day, the blues still hanging starched and pressed back in his station house locker. Jesus, he said looking up, you brought the big guy. I said hello. Hawk nodded. We pulled our chairs up to the table. Stan, like Hawk, was big and powerful. The difference was that Stan was built like an overweight lineman, and Hawk more like a fast and powerful linebacker. The end result was the same if either one of them caught up with you. But, if you were trying to escape one of them in a foot race, you should pray out loud that that someone be Stan and not Hawk. As different as they were in build and temperament, each maintained a grudging respect for the other. This was a good thing. The waitress brought by three cups of some very bold coffee which Stan had taken the liberty of ordering before we arrived. The brew was made from an earthy, dark bean pretentiously named after a non-existent village in Indonesia. I started the conversation. So, why the reunion?
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Murkowski took a careful sip from his steaming cup before setting it down carefully. You know, Dunn, I swear to God, whenever theres anything in Winter Park thats broken, out of place, or about to go sideways, you and Mr. Hawk here seem to be a fart and a half from the scene. Why is that? I mean, Central Floridas full up with boys and girls whove gotten their shiny P.I. badges pinned on. They never seem to be nearby. How do you boys manage it? Well first of all I said, those badges arent all that shiny, which believe me was a real disappointment when they first came in the mail. I looked at him thoughtfully. But, seriously, Id say the reason were often nearby is because of our amazing detecting skills, and our intense dedication client. I took a sip of my Bold Shandala Delight, and smiled. Right, he said, and took a sip of his own coffee before leaning closer in. Listen up. Ive got no time to sit around and bullshit. And thats straight. Right now, Ive got our good Captain Peterson and a shitload of city council types breathing down my neck. Sounds romantic Cut the shit, Dunn. Heres the thing. You and Hawk were both up at the Patch two weeks ago when that crazy bastard tried to shoot up the place. That we were, officer. He grimaced, but pressed on. You also happen to be acquainted with one, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a coffee stained notepad, Naomi Morales. Hawk looked up briefly from the front page of the Orlando Sentinel hed been perusing. I ignored the look. This is all true, no? Yeah, Stan, this is all true. So, why do you care about either one of these characters? And why are Hawk and I here at all, for God sake? Fair question. Ill answer. I care about these characters because one tried to shoot up my main street and kill the waitress where I eat Sunday brunch. By the way, two hours ago a misguided judge released the son-of-a-bitch on his own recognizance, Im guessin hes going try to do it all over again.
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And just how would he do that, Stan? Run her down with his push walker? O.K., O.K., hes hurt and broken up. Ill give you that. But, these entitled types dont give up easy. Theyre used to getting what they want. Hes got friends. Hes got money. And based on what I know about this guy, he will find a way to make it happen. As for the other wacko of interest, shes sitting in my jail as we chat. Apparently, little Ms. Pissed-off-Mexacali-girl offered one of my off duty officers a fist full of cash to kill a man. Wow! I said, feigning surprise, You really are having yourself a week. On the other hand, youre finally earning that huge paycheck they send you twice a month. Stan ignored me. The thing is this. Our Mr. Darnell, Damon Darnell, turns out to be more than just your everyday jilted asshole. Seems he is the jilted asshole son of Comstock Darnell Let me guess I interrupted. That would be Comstock Darnell as in Darnells Alcohol Discount Outlets, aka D.A.D.O s among Rollins College freshman? You got it said Stan. Comstock Darnell, the funded big papa who has enough clout and enough cash to buy Bin Laden out of hell. So, Stan, where exactly do we come in here? Stan smiled in another direction. Let me put it this way. Were a small department. Weve got limited funds and not much manpower. My times going to be mostly spent dealing with this kids law firm and the local asshole news media. I drummed my fingers on the table and shook my head You do want us for something, right? Yeah Just listen. Right now, our little waitress is tucked away somewhere privy only to me. Even ex-numb nuts boyfriend wouldnt know where to look. But, shes still pretty much out there on her own. And one male cousin with a ball bat just may not be enough to keep her safe. Right now, I cant make a case to provide department protection, not when the judge just put Damon legally back on the street. Hell, it wouldnt matter anyway. I couldnt afford to provide full time protection even if the Captain signed off. All the same, Im worried about this kid. I want to make sure she stays safe, at least til it all goes to trial and this guy is locked up long term. And thats when I started thinking You started thinking Hey, why dont I get my old friend August and his good pal Hawk to babysit this kid?
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Well, yeah... something like that. And, of course, this job would come with some generous reimbursement, Im sure. I just told you. The departments strapped. And, this is my problem how? Fifty bucks a day, and expenses... Stan blurted out. Fifty whole bucks? Fifty apiece and expenses Are you out of your public servant mind? We dont take anything on for less than five a day, expenses, and a bonus on completion. Murkowski shook his head side to side slowly. Look, I wouldnt ask you boys to do this, but Im worried about this little girl. Shes about my daughters age. Its too close to home you know. And yeah shes fairly secure right now. And, I know she knows to call us if theres trouble. But, still, shes scared out of her head. Look, Dunn, I just need someone to check in with her. You know, random visits, make sure everything stays status quo. And I can go seventy-five each. But, thats it. When I glanced over at Hawk, he simply shrugged his shoulders. I was quiet for a few seconds while I considered Stans less than generous offer. Three thoughts arrived together. One We had no other job, no juicy patrons on the hook. TwoThe young woman in question was lacking all manner of self-preservation. Threewell, three was the ringer. Stan He looked at me like a hopeful puppy, a two hundred and sixty pound puppy. OK, well do it He smiled. IF If what? The smile faded. I tapped the table with my knuckles.

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If you release Naomi Morales into our custody. Youre custody? You boys do know youre not cops, right. Yeah, but we could think that slow if we had to. Listen, Stan, my guess here is that the off duty officer our Ms. Morales approached was most likely that outstanding officer of yours, Skip Hanlin. Im guessing he was hanging out off duty somewhere down on the The Trail, somewhere near the trailer park where Morales is staying. In fact, didnt Hanlin get caught up in a vice raid down in that area a few months back? Hawk, was that Officer Skip Hanlin that Orlando Vice detained last year? Yeah. Hanlin last year, Hawk confirmed. Wow! I said. Seems like only yesterday. Stan was staring into his cup of bold cup Indonesian brew. Yeah I continued. No big surprise there. Officer Hanlin never disappoints. Thats never going to change. So, think about it. Be honest. Do you really want this guy, a cop that spends every penny of his paycheck on hookers and happy juice, to go up against Ms. DeLeon Springs, our hardworking peasant girl? .Unless, of course, your department has found the man that killed her grandfather. I paused long enough for Stan to make eye contact. Stan, I continued, Youre about to hand the Orlando Sentinel a three column morality play, man. And guess whos about to play the lead asshole? Murkowski snorted once, as though hed suddenly been stuck with a dull pen knife. Yeah, not a great option, he said. But what am I supposed to do? Hanlin brought her in last night. Its a done deal. So, youre saying he brought her in, charged her, and finished up all the paperwork last night? Finished it all up, there in the station, liquor on his breath, finished all thirty forms there at the station? Come on. This guys too lazy to scratch his own itchy ass. Stans wheels were turning now. Hed had to cover for Hanlin more than once. Put up with department heat that didnt belong to him. He had no respect for Hanlin as a cop or a man. Still, he hesitated. The blue bonds are strong. I stared him down. Yeah. Yeah. For now, were just holding her. Shes not charged yet, pending witness statements.
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And her paperwork? I inquired nicely. Started, not finished. It wont be done til Hanlin gets back to it after his shift tonight. Well, there you go I said with a big happy face. Problem solved. You talk to your boy. He stops the paperwork wagon. Naomi Morales goes window shopping on the avenue. And Hawk and I are free to go on our lucrative way to look after your waitress. Murkowski squinted at me as though he were ice fishing again up on the Great Lakes, and I was the slimy squirmy thing at the end of his line. Youre a Goddamn pain in the ass. You know that, Dunn? And youre a cheap bastard with scruples. Guess were stuck with it. We good, now? Standing up slowly, as though he were about to address the Kiwanis membership after dinner, Stan looked down at us and grunted his reply. Yeah, were good.

A Distant Drum I could hear a distant pounding, like a djembe being drummed inside a giant cave. Or was it a hammer driving nails into a tin roof? My brain struggled with the problem for a few minutes before finally announcing it was neither. My eyes opened while I searched for my bearings. I am in my bed I finally concluded. The noise is coming from the front door Pulling on a pair of ratty worn blues jeans, I patted the right front pocket to be sure my Walther PPS was still inside. I added a t-shirt and made my way across the room. I shoved one eye against the peep hole. Jesus Lord. I said out loud. Here we go. I swung the door half way open, enough to look down into the dark angry eyes of Naomi Morales. You stupid, arrogant son-of-a-bitch!, she shouted as she pushed passed me into the room. Good morning, dear. I replied. Sleep well?
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Who do you think you are? Huh? What makes you think I need you to get me out of jail? Did I ask for help? Did you hear me ask for your help? Im not helpless, you know. Im not a child. Im a woman who can take care of herself. You got that? Youre a woman and you dont need help, I paraphrased. Thats right. I dont need help. She was pacing now, but her words were beginning to slow. I was contrite. Hey. If I did something wrong, I apologize. Truly. It just kind of happened. You were just an add on; you know, a last minute extra I negotiated. Nothing personal. I just couldnt see you spending your next five birthdays over in the Broward Correctional Institution for women. Not that Pembroke Pines isnt perfectly lovely certain times of the year. Screw you, Mr. almost-a-cop! I dont need saving by you or anybody else. I can handle myself. Well, Ill give you that, I said. I wouldnt bet against you in a one on one. But, dear girl, that is not how prison works. And to be honest with you, your personality would grate a bit on your fellow female inmates. Your charm would probably be worth at least a broken arm and a few fractured ribs your first week. She gave out a forced sigh, and calmly picked up a brass paper weight in the shape of an owl. Then in a side arm throw that would have made Ozzie Smith envious she flung it across the room and into the worlds ugliest refrigerator door. She looked back over her shoulder to see if Id had enough. Never one to share a true feeling, I smiled. Nice throw, but I believe tie goes to the runner She shook her head and threw herself in a heap onto what had been my bed a few minutes earlier. You sleep on this, a couch that makes into a bed? She punched it a few times to test it. It feels like plywood. Well I know its not up to your DeLeon Spring standards, but our carved mahoganys in storage right now. Seriously, do you and Frankenstein ever at least break even in this business?

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Absolutely, we often break even in this business. She seemed to be losing interest in the fight. Then, as quickly as shed thrown herself down, she was back on her feet. You got any eggs or bacon or ham in this place? Sure something like that I nodded toward the dented refrigerator. Pans? I pointed to a cupboard over a badly stained stove. She nodded and strode toward the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later we were sitting at the table, eating eggs on toast with ham and orange juice on the side. Our plates were sitting atop two yellow place mats that I could not recall ever having seen before. Neither of us spoke, until mostly plate was showing. I wouldnt like prison, she said. I took a chance. Apology accepted She looked at me square on for the first time. She tilted her head, then leaned back in her chair. I cant let my grandfathers death just slip by. I wont. If you had known him, youd understand why. He was a good man; a kind man. He would never hurt a soul. He spent his life working like a dog, day in and day out. In the cracks between daylight and darkness, when other men would be off drinking or cheating on their wives, my grandfather was at church trying to help the newcomers, the truly desperate and needy. Her expression softened, and her eyes grew moist. If you had known grampi.. That was as far as she got. She looked out the window at the far off cypress. There was an extended pause. Then, still looking toward the lake she said, I need your help, Dunn. To do what is right. And if we cant kill the bastard that killed my grandfather, then we need to bring him down some other way. What exactly you got in mind? You ever catch a clever rat? Id have to say not really
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Well I have. Plenty of them. They live among the orange trees. But you cant just catch them the way youd catch a rabbit or a squirrel. You have to be smarter than that, at least as smart as they are. And you have to be patient and clever and ruthless. You build your trap. Place it just so. Then you wait for them to come to you. And then, maybe, if youre lucky, youll catch yourself a rat. And whats this rat trap look like? Well know it when its time to know it. So, youre saying that you want me to hirer on as your official rat catcher, Ms. Morales? Yes, Mr. Dunn. Im saying that. You want me to find this guy, and then set him up for a serious fall. Yes. I paused long enough to consider what that might mean. Anger, guns and bullets came to mind. O.K, I said. Well do it. How much? Lets say one-fifty a day. All expenses. Two thousand bonus when the rats in the cage. I can live with that, at least for a few weeks. By then, Ill be out of funds, and Ill have to deal with Mr. Rat some other way. I knew from the way she said it, she would not stop until her rodent problem had been solved. And if that meant emptying her five round Bulldog into one very black rodent heart, so be it. I picked up my orange juice glass and proposed a toast. Heres to justice I said. and those who care enough to want it, she added. The crystalline clink of glass on glass sealed our deal. Naomi smiled a perfect smile and leaned in my direction. Thank you, she said. Dear Jesus I prayed silently. Your handy work is wondrous, and I need some guidance here.

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Higher Education Angel Melendez was shooting pool in a bar out near the University. He liked it there. Lots of juicy UCF sophomores with cash from home and an attraction to bad boys. He played it large. Crooked hat, excess gold, a glimpse of Glock when he leaned in the direction of the cue ball. The girls called him Angel to his face, and fuzzy behind his back, his moustache being a fuzzy trace of hair shading a pouting upper lip. It was midafternoon on a school day. Two underweight UCF girls with enhanced breastwork were sitting in the booth nearest the pool table. Angel smiled in their direction and winked as his shot kissed a nine ball into a corner pocket guarded closely by the eight. It was a shot hed never made before. And that, ladies, is how its done! he announced. Throwing his stick across the pool table, he scooped up a stack of tens and twenties that had been riding on the game. He strutted to their booth and sat down uninvited. You can call me Angel. And ladies, Angels got the power. Know what I mean? Angel has definitely got the power! Brittany Daniels, of Naples, Florida was duly impressed. Shed finally met a guy who had no aspiration to be a lawyer, doctor, or financial wizard. Here was a man of the streets, a passionate survivor who knew things, did things that were spontaneous and even dangerous. She couldnt wait to tell her sorority sisters about her macho diamond in the rough. Hi, Im Brittany. This is Cristyna. But, we call her Crystal. Crystal? Yeah, it just seems more like who she is as a person, you know. I mean, it doesnt mean anything like shes fragile like crystal or that she does crystal, or like that. Its just that thats what we call her. You know? Crystal. Sure. Sure. Why not? Nice to meet both you fine ladies. So, how bout we get some juice over here? What you ladies drinkin? Before they could answer he had flagged down an eighteen year old waitress in satin hot pants, and ordered shots and beers all around.
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Crystal spoke up for the first time. I dont drink alcohol, she said, just wine. She hoped she hadnt hurt his feelings. Well then, today is the day you lose your virgini-tay! Today you drink the real stuff. When the waitress arrived with their drinks, Melendez slowly looked her up and down as though his entre had just arrived. In a grand gesture, he over payed her with two wrinkled twenties from his winnings. Keep the change, sweet bitch. You and that fine ass of yours, you deserve it. He carefully watched her walk away, then turned back to further impress his nave new friends. Two hours and four rounds had passed. Angel had now reached that point of inebriation when secrets are spilled with bravado and with a total lack of concern for future consequences. He was proud of his accomplishments, and felt he should share them with the world. So, I just shot the little bastard right above the ear, and took the cash. Bam! One to the head. Done and done. You shot him? You killed him? Just like that!! Dania was amazed and thrilled. She went from happy to impressed. Nobody I know would do that, she confided. None of them would do that. They dont have the balls! She laughed out loud at the words she heard herself using. They got no balls, Angel. And she threw back another shot. Hey, its simple out there. Its fuckin simple. I mean, they want you to believe all this shit about gettin caught, doin time. But, man, it aint none of it true. Its all a lotta bullshit lies. Look at the statistics man. Its science. Pure fuckin science. And, statistics say you dont get caught. Seriously, ninety seven percent dont get caught. All you gotta do, ladies is do like me. You gotta be bold, man. You gotta get down on it and you gotta do the crime. Whatever it takes. You just gotta say, hey, pig, fuck you. And you too lawyer. And also judge, and by the way, fuck you He paused to laugh at his own observations, then continued. Then you just gotta do whatever the fuck it is you gotta do. You see now, what I mean? You get it? Brittany was having trouble staying focused. The whiskey had hit her hard, all at once. Crystal hadnt made it that far. She was currently in the ladies room throwing up across her designer open toe sandals. She would later discard them, as she would never be able to put them on without feeling nauseous and repulsed. Angel was about to regale his new acquaintance with some even bloodier war stories, when his cousin, Jesus, walked through the door.
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Hey, Jesus! My cousin! Its Jesus! Come here, man. Sit down, my man. He nodded in the direction of his drinking buddy. Got another one just as hot comin back here in a minute. Youll see. Youll like her. Big tits. No ass. But, big fuckin tits! Jesus leaned closer to his cousins ear. Listen up, man. We gotta talk. You understand? We got business. We got some fresh business to talk. What business, man? No. No. No business. Its time to party, bro. And he reached out and pulled up the corner of Danias blouse, revealing a heavily padded bra cupped around a parent financed implants. Jesus began again. This time kneeling on one knee and turning his cousins face to his. Angel, I love you, man. But we gotta talk. Twenty minutes later, the two girls had left the parking lot with Brittany driving. Angel had insisted they take his ride, the stolen tricked out Honda. Brittany couldnt wait to see the looks on her sisters faces. She and Crystal had made it almost back to the Delta house before her passenger threw up again. Startled, Brittany swerved sharply to the left before overcompensated to the right. She, her friend, and the Honda first splashed then partially sank into a shallow retention pond. Airbags deployed and campus cops responded. Brittany was charged with DUI and suspended for a full semester. Crystals punishment was the hangover she nursed that night and the visit she had from her parents two days later. Both intoxicated teenagers were miraculously unhurt. The following day, they received a visit from Sgt. Stan Murkowski of the Winter Park police department. He explained that his visit and questions were part of an ongoing murder investigation. The girls answered his questions as well as their hangovers would permit. Both gained some brief notoriety and a grudging respect from their peers. After all, how many liberal arts majors also mix it up with gangstas and bad boys? Once Jesus had gotten his cousins attention, he explained with excitement that an opportunity had fallen into their laps. Seems there was this rich kid, son of some wealthy booze baron, who was willing to pay $8K to the first lucky son-of-a-bitch to put a bullet through his girlfriends head. Angel was groggy, but was used to functioning with ETOH onboard. He received the business update calmly. It took a few minutes for him to sort through it all. He finally responded with a reasonable question. So, why doesnt this rich asshole off the bitch himself?

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I heard he got himself messed up bad when he tried it the first time. I didnt meet this guy, but I heard hes so smashed up, hes walkin around like a fuckin senior citizen. He cant do the shit right now. But, he is out of jail and very hot to have it done. Eight thousand? Thats the deal, coz. Eight thousand, paid within a day at a dead drop. Nobody meets. Thats the beauty. Once the jobs done, we send him a text. He verifies and the next day texts back the drop spot. We pick up the cash. Nobody meets. Thats it. Done and done. How do we know hell come through? Cause I talked to Xavier. You know Xavier. Works the hospital down in Winter Park pushes broom gathers personal intel. Now, that guys got a sweet thing goin. And all he does is sell information. You know. Whos sick. Whos got money. Who lives alone. Shit like that. Yeah, yeah Xavier. I know him, man. Hes good. And you say he knows this guys good for the 8K? Good as gold, my man. Good as fuckin gold. And the best part Yeah? Xavier knows where this girls hold up. Oh yeah. His aunt is a housekeeper at one of the big estates. She saw this cop bring the girl over there. I got the address and the whole fuckin layout No shit? No shit.

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Spirit of the Bayonet Angel killed the engine of the black Escalade he and Jesus had boosted thirty minutes earlier. The thumping sounds of pain rap gave way to silence. From where they were parked, they could just make out a dimly lit stone walkway leading to a small two story structure near an aging wooden dock. The buildings first story had once held a custom crafted wooden inboard, and an assorted collection of water skis, fishing tackle, and inner tubes. It now held a state of the art high performance speed boat that the owner had ridden in once, before purchasing it two years earlier. The second floor was a time capsule apartment, in which lamps, pictures, tables and knick knacks had been abandoned by twenty-three different residents over eight decades. The result was a rustic, hodge-podge of Winter Park boathouse history. Tristina Brennan was sitting in an overstuffed 1940s armchair playing a fantasy game version of a popular vampire flick. Her latest hand held electronic wonder clicked, buzzed, and chirped as she moved a beautiful pale princess out of the path of attacking wolves. She was getting better at the game, as she had already garnered 1000 bonus blood-bite points she could use to help her princess escape future imminent dangers. Tristinas cousin, Van Richey, was ensconced in a seriously tired ottoman, as he watched his favorite movie, Signs, one more time. He admired any movie by M. Night Shyamalan, but this one in particular spoke to him. Van was a natural athlete, comfortable and capable in every sport he tried. But, baseball was his best sport, his calling. He had stood out all through high school, and had been recruited by a small college outside of Atlanta, to captain their team to a championship. This he had accomplished while in his second and third years there. Before entering his final year in college, he had been spotted by a scout for the Atlanta Braves and had been recruited into their minor league program to determine if he was indeed worthy of The Show. From the beginning, he had demonstrated promise with his exceptional speed and fielding skills. These had been further complimented by a natural swing, and the ability to hit the ball to any field he chose. Baseballs disappeared democratically over left, center, and right field walls. After only one year of team play, his future looked promising. Now, with just one week remaining before training camp opened, he found himself babysitting his little cousin. Apparently, she was being stalked by some asshole jerk who wouldnt take no for an answer. He had grudgingly agreed to help Tristina, despite how boring he knew it would be. Family is family his mother had told him. She needs your help. So, rather than spend his final off season week on the beach at Cocoa, he was here with his skinny cousin, locked down in some ancient armpit apartment, guarding her against what he was sure was goddamn nothing.

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Tristina had just safely guided her princess through the tunnel of torture and was about to escort her passed the wall of blood and flesh, when there was a faint noise outside the locked door of the apartment. She looked up from her game and listened in the direction of the noise. Van had heard it as well, and had gotten slowly to his feet. His eyes caught his cousins for a fleeting second. He put a finger to his lips to signal silence. Van tossed the remote onto the sofa and reached for the thirty six inch Louisville slugger that was leaning against a nearby end table. He grasped the bat in his left hand and made his way in the direction of the door. He once again motioned for his cousin to be quiet. She rose to her feet in slow motion and watched as her cousin carefully pulled back a dusty flower patterned curtain. He looked out and strained to see through the dark, filmy window. For a moment, all was still. Tristina drew in a slow breath and held it in tightly. Suddenly, Vans eyes grew very large as his mouth opened and he attempted to shout a warning. The sound did not leave his throat. A single round of 9mm ball ammo punched through the small dirty window in front of his face, before piercing the orbital cavity of Vans left eye. It then ricocheted internally from bone to cartilage before finally coming to a bloody rest in a sinus area behind a nasal passage. Van fell to the floor as dead weight. He was unconscious, but still breathing. As his body hit the floor, the door to the apartment splintered open and Angel Melendez stepped through its shattered frame. Stepping over Vans limp body, he reached greedily for his prize. Ola, little bitch. You and me are goin for a walk. Then, as his hand wrapped around Tristinas wrist, something primal and angry rose up in her. A combination of fear and rage took over her body. With a swift sideways motion of her arm, she brought the electronic game, still in her hand, full force against his temple. Totally surprised, Angel stumbled backward, dazed and confused by the unexpected pain that followed. Then, as his confusion cleared, his pain morphed into rage. With a backhand blow to her face, Tristina was sent sprawling across the room. An antique ceramic wash basin shattered into a dozen pieces beneath her as she crashed to the hardwood floor. She began to scream wildly as tears and blood filled up her eyes and flowed down her face. Desperately, she felt her way along the floor, naively searching for a place of refuge. I got a message from your boyfriend, bitch Angel screamed down at her. And, he brought a heel down full force on the back of her left hand. Tristina screamed in agony before curling up into a protective pre-natal ball. Angel looked down with noticeable pride at his handy work. Its not your fault, bitch. You didnt know the man youre dealing with. You didnt know it was Angel. Youre just too stupid to know that. So, now you get hurt. Drawing back his right leg, he delivered a final punishing kick that fractured two ribs, one of them piercing and collapsing a lung. Tristina could endure no more. Her head rolled to one side, as she passed into unconsciousness.
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Dont leave me so soon, bitch, Angel shouted. Stupid bitch! Then turning back in the direction of the front door he called out to his cousin. Jesus, bring your ass in here. Time to take this bitch for a swim in the lake. Angel laughed and waited for his cousins reply. There was none. Jesus, you lazy bastard! Come and help me drown this scrawny bitch. But Jesus could not answer. His body was limp and broken at the feet of Lawrence J. Hawktree, the hilt of the Ka-Bar knife he had brandished now protruding upward from his lower chest into to a punctured, un-beating heart. Angels instincts were sharp. He did not call out a third time. Instead, he moved quickly across the room, away from the door. Forcing open a rusty hinged window, he squeezed out onto a narrow balcony overhanging the water. Then pushing off with all the power of two stocky legs, he soared out over the water, landing nearly twelve feet from shore. Within several minutes, he had somehow made his way through the pitch black water to a small fishing boat docked nearby. He literally swam into there in the dark. His luck was holding. The boat belonged to Clarence Nesroy Palmer, an 85 year old retiree who had spent most of his life on the water. His modest craft was equipped with an old 1976 Johnson motor that was maintained like no other on the lake. This included a clean spark plug properly gapped, the correct ratio of oil to gas, and a fuel stabilizer to ensure that the engine was not trying to run on both gas and water. The battery had been charged just hours before, as Clarence wanted no disappointments at 5:00AM, when he planned to cast off for his daily ritual of fishing, drifting and remembering his past. Quietly rolling up onto the boat, Angel carefully primed the engine and cast off the line. Using a paddle found beneath a padded cushion, he pushed the boat as far away from the dock as possible. Then bracing one foot against the boat frame, he pulled the starter mightily. The engine coughed once, then turned over obediently. Its new captain smiled broadly in the dark before pushing the throttle hard forward. Then, pointing the boat in the direction of some distant lights, Angel and his latest acquisition, lurched forward full speed. Within twenty minutes, he had made it to the opposite shore, hotwired an unlocked Land Rover, and driven off in the direction of his own version of a safe house, out near Curry Ford Road and SR 408. For two days, he stayed put. Watching the news, he learned that his cousin was dead, killed by a private investigator who was refusing to be interviewed or photographed. Angel struggled to accept that his cousin gone. It had all been so sudden, so permanent. A brief memory of he and Angel as children flashed through his mind. They were in a park at a family gathering. He and Jesus were kicking a soccer ball in and out of some brightly painted picnic tables. A fresh wave of anger swept over him. Who would do this? Who would dare do this to any relation of the deadly and dangerous Angel? Did they not know that a terrible vengeance would now rain down upon them? Did they not
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know that they had signed their own death warrants? How surprised they all would be when he, Angel, finally caught up with them. How frightened and desperate he would make them before he finally killed them. As the hours went by, Angel planned and fantasized his revenge. He made a short list on the back of a Taco Bell take-out menu of those who would now have to die. The list included the bitch he and Jesus had contracted to kill; her cousin who had somehow survived a shot to the head; and the coward who had dared to stab his cousin, the cousin of Angel Melendez. That would do for starters. Anyone else who chose to get in his way would be snuffed out like the small insects they surely were. He shook his head in approval of his daring plan. He smiled then rolled over on the bed to refocus on the local news blasting out from across the room. Occasionally, he glanced over to admire himself in a floor length mirror on the back of a closet door. If you fuck with Angel, he said to his own image, You Are Fucked. Pointing his Beretta M9A1 at his own image, he squeezed off a live round. The mirror splintered into the shape of a deformed spider. The suppressor he had screwed to the barrel, kept the noise from his neighbors. Taking a long swig from a bottle of cheap warm beer, he pointed the handgun at the talking head of a local news anchor. Im coming for all of you bitches. No mercy this time. Jesus, my cousin, I swear on your grave, I will kill them all. They will die slowly. Angel is coming, dear cousin! Yes. Angel! The plan that Hawk and I had worked out was a simple one. We would make random visits to the location where Stan had arranged for Tristina and her cousin to stay. We would also call them every few hours to verify all was well. If it was, then Tristina was to use the word awesome in her conversation. Not a stretch for her. If she and Van were in trouble, she would use the phrase get real. On the night of the attack, we had received an awesome response just an hour before it all went own. But instead of waiting two more hours to check in, we moved things up an hour, and drove over for a random house call. As we turned on to the street where Tristina was staying, we could see a Cadillac Escalade parked half a block from the boathouse. Hawk checked the roster of neighborhood vehicles wed put together. It was not on the list. Driving slowly past this ponderous land bound freighter, we could see it was empty. I stopped the car and Hawk stepped out and touched the hood. It was still hot. Driving down beyond the boathouse, we killed our lights, then doubled back on foot. There was no moon on this night, just stars and a few path lights to guide us. About fifty feet from the boathouse, the distinctive crack of a gunshot was followed by the thud and crackle of a door frame being kicked in. Hawk, being Hawk, bolted ahead of me toward the sounds. Lamplight flooded down from the open doorway above. It backlit a
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thin male figure and revealed the dozen wooden steps leading up to him. Hawk ascended the stairs, with the speed and grace of a powerful cat. He reached the second floor landing, just as a startled Jesus turned and brandished a twelve inch combat knife. He lunged forward, thrusting it toward Hawks exposed middle. Instantly, a lifetime of deeply embedded combat skills surfaced. Hawk parried the thrust, gained control of the knife and turned it back on his attacker. As the knife entered his opponents lower chest cavity, Hawks left knee abruptly drove upward, thrusting the knife deeper into vital organs. An old airborne fighting tactic had arrived with deadly effect. Jesus expelled his final breath with a muffled grunt. Hawk lowered him slowly to the wooden deck, before peering cautiously inside the apartment. I could hear Angel calling for his cousin, then Hawk shouting Round back! Round back!. Stumbling back down three stairs, I scrambled around the corner of the boathouse, again in perfect darkness. Keeping one hand on the first floor wall for guidance, I reached the waters edge behind the building. My Glock 23 was now in hand. A slightly protruding extractor confirming to the touch that a 40 caliber round was firmly chambered and ready. From overhead, came the sudden metallic screech of an ancient window being forced open. Raising my weapon, I angled for a better view. Both eyes opened wide, peering intently over one yellow and two green dot night sights. Suddenly, a blurred figure launched itself into the night sky above me. A momentary silence was followed by a loud splash somewhere in the black lake beside me. I strained to reacquire the blurred target that had passed overhead; to see something, anything. But, the opportunity had passed. The jumper was gone, swallowed up in the perfect darkness. A few minutes later, an outboard motor roared to life less than a hundred feet to my right. By the time Sgt. Murkowski and his boys arrived, our would-be assassin was long gone. We later learned he had commandeered a boat before hot wiring an SUV across the lake. I reminded myself that cornered prey should not be underestimated; they have a nasty habit of proving inventive and deadly. I then filed this important information in that part of the brain labeled Stay Alive Facts.

The Unsafe Safe House The stately mansion in which Carl Millman lived was originally built in 1923, when stately mansions were carefully constructed from South American woods, and Italian marble. Several of its large windows had been imported from a desperate post-war
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Germany. This included a towering stained glass depiction of Christs walk to Calvary that peered down majestically on a hand carved staircase. The number of rooms on the second floor was either eight or ten, depending on what you defined as a closet. There was one room that Carl Millman preferred above all others, his daughters. It sat quietly and untouched at the top of the stairs. It had not been altered in any way since she had left so long ago for her freshman year at Florida State. Pictures of high school outings, girlfriends, and rock stars remained precisely where his daughter had placed them as a teenager. An ornately framed picture of his daughter, his wife, and of himself, sat atop a petite cream colored French bureau. The perpetually happy family of three looked out from a water ride gondola at Busch Gardens. Dazzling points of sunlight danced off transparent sprays of water that engulfed them. An eight year old Brianna sat sandwiched between mother and father, as all three mugged for the camera. On those many nights when he could not sleep, Briannas father would find his way to this room. He would sit in one of the imported high back chairs near his daughters canopied bed. And he would lovingly study that single picture of the three of them. He would try to remember the sights and the sounds of that day. What was said, who took the picture, where they stopped for dinner on their drive back from Tampa. Lately, his recollection of that days events seemed to be growing more and more distant. And so, he grasped more tightly to the memories that remained, fearful they would evaporate like an afternoon rain on Florida asphalt. Carl Millman was now a man without a family or a meaningful mission in life. Selling cars and trucks by the thousands had lost its appeal. Most of the day to day business at his many dealerships was now handled by a handpicked staff of up and coming wiz kids. And whether or not he ever showed up at his office, the financial rewards of his massive motor empire continued to roll in. Like the tides outside his Ormond Beach condo, everyday brought new waves of wealth, along with a deepening sense of despair. Recently, he had purchased a shiny new Beretta PPK in stainless, the same small gun with which James Bond had fought off endless evil doers around the world. More and more he was thinking that perhaps he would use this instrument of justice as an instrument of transformation. He would use it to transform his suffering corporal self into a contented spiritual being. There was no one left, he told himself, who would really care all that much one way or another. On this particular night, he nodded off to sleep still seated in the uncomfortable high back chair that faced his daughters picture shrine. Three hours of erratic sleep and anxious dreaming was followed by an uncomfortable awakening, and a severe Charlie horse in one leg. After hobbling around the room for a few minutes to relieve the aching leg cramp, he took a steaming shower in one of the oversized guest bathrooms nearby.
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A simple breakfast of eggs on toast followed. He prepared it himself, and as always, did so with the radio tuned to local news and classic country. He listened with some interest to the sketchy reports of the local shoot out that had taken place just two nights before in a Winter Park boathouse apartment. Police continue to investigate, but no arrests have yet been made. He cringed at the address given, as it belonged to an old acquaintance, Randall Drake, a well-known pool contractor in the area. Apparently, both residents of the apartment were still recovering at Orlando Regional Hospital. As a George Strait favorite began to play, Millman made a mental note to have his home security system checked out again. These were changing times. You couldnt be too careful. Who would have thought twenty years ago that anyone would be so brazen as to attack people in their own home, especially within the tranquil, some would say idyllic, city limits of Winter Park, Florida. When the doorbell rang, and the first seven notes of Amazing Grace rolled gently through the house from a series of complicated pipe organ tubes, Millman simply flipped to the next page of the Orlando Sentinel sports section and continued reading. When it rang a second time he put down his paper and stared out over Lake Osceola indignantly. On the third ring, he slid back his custom wrought iron chair and made his way slowly through open French doors to the front of the house. His labored walk was not unlike that of the suffering figure in the stained glass window overhead. With the morning news still fresh in his mind, he felt for the heavy little Beretta tucked in a pocket of his silk bathrobe. Reassured, he cautiously peered through one of the narrow sidelights. The ponderous presence of Winter Park police officer Stan Murkowski shifted impatiently from foot to foot outside his door. Now what? he said aloud. It was not until he had swung the door open wide, that he noticed the bandaged and anemic looking young female sitting uncomfortably in a wheelchair behind him. Morning, Carl, Murkowski said. Need your help. Tristina had suffered a collapsed lung, two broken ribs, a fractured radius, a hairline fracture of the jaw, two black eyes, and assorted bruises, scrapes and cuts. She had been treated as a trauma alert upon arrival at the hospital, with work ups done on all important organs and systems. The doctors had told her that she was lucky, as the small bleed inside her head would most likely resolve itself over time. So, 24 hours after having a lung re-inflated, and ribs tightly wrapped, and against the medical advice of her physicians, Tristina called Sgt. Stan Murkowski and pleaded with him to come to her rescue. Despite reassurances of her safety from hospital staff, and having been listed under an alias, Tristina correctly surmised that there would be another attempt on her life. I dont want to die in here, she told Murkowski. Please find me someplace safe.

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An hour later, the soft hearted Murkowski arrived in his Winter Park police cruiser and drove her, and her three-point walker, to the Millman estate. The formidable front gates were always left unlocked on Wednesdays, as that was the weekday that the small army of Mexican laborers would arrive to trim and feed plants, grass, and trees. Maintaining the grounds of a four acre estate was no small task. Millman sometimes wondered what this motley crew of dedicated workman thought as they beautified this twelve million dollar estate for little more than minimum wage. He comforted himself with the knowledge that he was considered a beneficent employer among his own dealership workers. Still, he doubted that these gritty, hardworking young men would ever experience such benevolence. In weaker moments, he wondered if there was anyone who had ever looked out for their best interests.

Politics and Prophets I was sitting on a ponderous imported rock from Maine, peering out over peaceful Lake Osceola. Over my shoulder a second Millman estate unfolded. Like the first, it was neatly manicured and carefully maintained. A visitors first impression of the grounds was usually one of conservative wealth and hidden power. As these visitors passed through the intricate wrought iron main gate, they were faced with the choice of three paved pathways. The widest of the three led directly to the main residence, a stately European edifice that would have looked more at home in Prague or Vienna. It had been leased for the last twenty years by the Swiss consulate out of Miami. Usually empty during the summer months, a fulltime staff of emotionally distant Swiss caretakers maintained its immaculate interior. This stately house was primarily used as a winter get-away for Swiss diplomats visiting the United States. And judging from the dress and demeanor of the long legged women who accompanied these diplomats, a lot of chocolate was changing hands. Overall, it was the mansion, like Winter Park itself, was an ideal setting for trysts away from home. Orlandos international airport was just thirty minutes down the road, and the anonymity of prominent political figures was virtually guaranteed, given the non-existent interest among the locals in all things beyond its city limits. The other two pathways lead either to my office/residence or to the hidden lakeside garden in which I now sat. All manner of foliage and exotic sub-tropical plants adorn and
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conceal this private slice of heaven overlooking the lake. More and more, I find myself here at the end of a winding pathway, sitting in this quiet place, remembering a this and trying to forget a that. In recent years, I have come to appreciate silence as the perfect gift. More and more I experience common conversations around me as nothing more than noisy, neurotic, high decibel chatter, my tolerance for arrogance and stupidity have lately worn thin. Increasingly, at the first sound of such expressions as bottom line, at the end of the day, dysfunctional, trapped energy, higher power, or self-actualization, I can be found moving briskly in the direction of the nearest exit. Not that these words and phrases are bothersome in and of themselves. Its more that they are usually being uttered by someone who was born with a financial foot up on 99.5% of the worlds population. Born into relative security, with food, clothing, and shelter in abundance, they mistake the good fortune of their own birth for personal accomplishment. True, there are exceptions. All the same, I just keep meeting the same pompous gurus, who decide that a weekend retreat at a hotel in Aspen means they are now somehow qualified to dispense enlightenment to the misguided masses. So, when city council member, Darin Stellar, had called up to say he wanted to meet with me about recent events in Winter Park, I was not exactly thrilled. Darin had been born forty five years earlier of a wealthy plastic surgeon who lived just off Old New England Avenue, in one of the larger mansions in the city. Choosing not to follow in his fathers footsteps, Darrin had spent the first thirty years of his life spending his fathers hard earned money, being expelled from institutions of higher learning, and generally exhibiting all of the time tested traits of a well-funded jerk. In his early thirties, following a string of relationships, all of which ended badly, and often in court, Darin met Fiona Street. Though he did not know it, and would never learn of it, Fiona had stealthily arranged for them to meet. From the beginning, she had devised a long-term success plan for them both. To this day, Darin believes he approached her, and will often talk about their fateful meeting at a black tie fund raiser for the Arnold Palmer Hospital. His fated partner, Ms. Street, was the no nonsense daughter of a Christian Science mother and a successful atheist real estate dad. She was raised to believe that a person needs to be independent, self-sufficient and well healed. Her goals were focused, her energy level high, her ambitions limitless. Like a shark, she never stopped moving. Picture a tuning fork in a power suit and you get the idea. She accepted no excuses and considered mercy to be a foolish weakness practiced by the losing side. From her carefully manicured toes to her blonde butch locks, she was pure Winter Park female.

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With determination and pure will power she had shaped Mr. Darrin Stellar from a spoiled, whining failure, into a successful purveyor of the possible. Taking bits and pieces from such disciplines as acupuncture, healing touch, past life regression, crystal therapy, higher power discourse, Christian healing, speaking in tongues, Rolfing, meditation, guided imagery, and the seven savvy steps to real estate success, Fiona had helped her husband fashion a fresh new discipline they called Newveda-Ascensionetics. The beauty of the program being that it could be successfully learned in a single three day event at an upscale retreat just north of the Ocala National Forest. For a nominal entrance to self fee of $4500, each attendee was guaranteed life changing awareness that would translate into a new and joyful day to day experience of the world. This was due in part to the cleansing power of unlimited real estate wealth which they were assured would inevitably flow their way. Should graduates of the program wish to climb further up the ladder of self-awareness and personal success, they could sign up online for the perfection tune-up program that was broadcast live via the internet every week from the 8000 square foot Winter Park home of Darin and Fiona Stellar. Within two short years of the programs start, they had taken in 1.3 million dollars. In the three years that followed, that figure had grown exponentially. And with the publication of their book, Take Back Your Universe, their wealth had grown in excess of twenty million dollars. It was at this pinnacle of success that Fiona informed her husband they would be selling their recently franchised spiritual empire to a managing conglomerate out of Chicago. The sale price would be in excess of 23 million dollars, with future publication rights to their book to be negotiated at a later date. Darrin was also informed that he would be running for a seat on the Winter Park City Council. It would be a warm up he was told, for his new state level political career. Wisely, Darrin did not argue or state the obvious fact that he had no training, experience or interest in politics. A year later he was an elected member of the city council, having spent 1.3 million Stellar dollars to advertise his name and face through every available venue in Central Florida. His battle cry Darrin to be Different, had won the day. Fiona assured him that within three years he would be the Mayor, and within seven an elected member of the Florida legislature. Darrin knew better than to doubt his focused and determined partner. He simply learned to smile and shake hands with greater skill.

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A Stellar Experience The big Indian guy up at your office said youd be here, said councilman Stellar smiling broadly. A large pink hand appeared in front of my face, originating from somewhere up around his shoulder. His grip was excessively firm, as though he had just closed a large corporate contract. Even before releasing my hand, he looked out over the wide lake. Man, you can see some nice real estate from here. He pointed off into the distance. That white one there, near the red dock, its up for sale. And that brick one on the end there, the one with the shitty green dock, that one belongs to a Turk importer from Miami. White teeth flashed then disappeared. You dont want to know how he got his money. Yeah, well, right now, Im not in the market for a mansion. But, Ill let you know if that changes. For now, Id just like to know what business I might have with the Winter Park City Council. Oh, absolutely. You bet. Of course He sat down carefully on a flat rock facing mine. It seems we have a problem. We do? I asked, looking earnest. Well, unfortunately, August, we do. May I call you August? And he moved on without waiting for a reply. We have a big problem. As you know, Winter Park is not just any community. Its special, unique. And Im not just talking about the wealth that our community commands. Im talking about the quality of the people who live here. Do you know what Im saying? The quality people. Exactly! Thats it. Have you ever seen our city limit signs? Well hell, of course you have. You live here. What can I say? Im a quality person. Ignoring the comment, he plowed forward. Those signs say Drive with Extraordinary Care. You see, thats it in a nutshell, extraordinary, thats what the people who live here are. Extraordinary! They are doctors, lawyers, real estate people, professorsI mean good solid, educated people. I interrupted with an overtone of rude. Ill take it. Wrap it up. Just let me know what the hell it is youre doing here.

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The councilman bit his lip and shook his head knowingly. He leaned forward as though confiding an important secret. Weve got image problems, he said, and then went silent. Image problems? Exactly. Ever since that old Hispanic was shot on the edge of town, all of us on the council have had to worry about the kind of impression something like that gives about our beautiful city. Weve had to manage things, adjust thingsmove things in a better direction. And with no arrests madewell, lets just say weve been on needles and pins and like that. Look, at the end of the day, the bottom line is this kind of publicity has got to stop. An image flashed across my mind. It was a replay of beautiful Naomi Morales standing in my office, weeping for her dead grandfather. The old Hispanic have a name?, I asked. A name? Yeah. Did he have a name? Well hell yes he had a name. But, whats that got to do with anything? I mean, shit, pardon my French, who cares if some dried up little Mexican got shot up in the middle of his drug deal? He made his own bed, right? Right? You know what I mean. Yes, councilman, I believe I do. Good. The point is, the City of Winter Park is like a movie star. I mean, its great and amazing all by itself. But you have to keep an eye on its image. OtherwiseBam! Youre just another small ass town with stagnant real estate pricesno more big box office. See what I mean? Yes, I do. Good. Great! Because, the thing is, just when we were getting over the dead Mexican thingBam!... a brawl at the Briar Patch in broad daylight! Then, when weve managed to reframe that, theres a knife fight over at the Randolf estate. His eyes narrowed and he looked genuinely worried. And heres the thing The thing?

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Yes. The thing is we cant keep having these kinds of things happen in Winter Park. Thats not who we are. That might be Orlando, or Casselberry, or Pine Hills, for Gods sake. But thats NOT Winter Park. So, I guess youre saying that all the violence that is not Winter Park, even though it has happened here in Winter Park, does not actually belong to Winter Park. Exactly. Now youve got it. The kind of low life behavior weve seen in the past few weeks, belongs somewhere else. Not here. From the corner of my eye, I caught the blurred image of a white crane gliding low over the lake. I turned and watched it sweep gracefully past, the councilmans words fading briefly into a distant buzz. The birds reflection on the still water was sharp and deep in its detail. The large bird landed with awkward grace a hundred yards away. I turned back toward Stellar just as he concluded. otherwise, Im afraid our outstanding community is doomed. Fuckin, pardon my French, doomed. So, why share all this with me? I asked with genuine curiosity. Well, thats the thing. When the last two acts of violence took place, well, you were there. You and your Indian friend were in the middle of it. I know this because I spoke with Sgt. Murkowski. He assures me that it was a coincidence, nothing more, but... But? ButWellI mean Stellar! I was suddenly out of patience and poise. What the hell do want here? Stellar straightened his posture and took a sharp breath threw his nostrils. Well, to be perfectly blunt. Ive come here, on behalf of the council members, to tell youto ask youto move this whole production somewhere else. Production? Im talking about this girl Tristina, the waitress. Were asking that you take her out of Winter Park. Take her somewhere else, anywhere really, as long as its outside of our city limits. And that would help you and the council, would it?

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Oh, absolutely! Otherwise, this girls going to get shot here, in Winter Park. And, I dont have to tell you what that means. Bad publicity?, I smiled. Exactly!, and his voice grew confidential again. So, what were proposing, strictly off the record Oh, absolutely! What were proposing is that the city reimburse you to move this girl somewhere else, until all of this is sorted out. You mean until shes dead? Well, however it sorts itself out, as long as it gets sorted out somewhere else. Wow. Interesting offer. But, you know councilman, something like that doesnt come cheap. It would take some cash. Well, that wont be a problem. No? Not really. We still have some funds left over from our Jazz for Kids concert in the park last month. And, if we dont spend it soon, its just going to disappear... How much of the kids money are we talking here? Oh, I should think eight to ten thousand, more if you need it. More? If you need it. I see. Wow. Thats juicy. So, youll do it? Take the waitress somewhere else? Help our city out? Keep our image strong? I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands and tried to clear my head. I rose slowly to my feet, feeling suddenly weary with humanity. No, councilman Stellar, I said, I will not do that.

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The large car lot sales smile faded from his face. He looked confused. You wont? But, why not? I dont understand. I know you dont. And thats the problem. Even if I explained it to you, laid it out for you. Even if I told you why your proposal is sad, and selfish and, yeah, evil. I just dont think youd get it. So, Im going to save my breath for hot soup, councilman. Im just going to say, no thanks. Not today. I turned my back him and started up the path toward my office Stellar jumped to his feet and called after me, his voice a notch higher in pitch. Youll regret it later, Dunn. You will. Think about it. Think it through. Call me when you change your mind. I involuntarily waved my right hand in the air, dismissing his ignorance without stopping or looking back. Have an extraordinary day, I said.

The Length of Lines Hawk was stretched out on the ugly plaid sofa, his two large Carolina work boots hanging over one end. He was reading a small paperback by Joe Hyams. This is good, he said as I came through the front door. Do you know about erasing someone elses lines? Erasing lines? Yeah. He says here that everyones skills and abilities and so forth add up to a line that is just so long. Ok. Well, sometimes people dont feel very good about their own line, because its shorter than they want it to be. So, everyones line is different. Well, yeah, mostly. But the point is, people try to make their own lines appear longer than they really are by erasing other peoples lines, shortening the other guys line.

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Alright. But, Hyams says, if you shorten the other guys line by criticizing him, or demeaning him, even if you succeed in shortening the other guys line, it still doesnt make your own line any longer. Kind of like politicians. Yeah, like that. So, to get your line longer you need to... I finished his thought work on your own skills and abilities. Pretty much, Hawk agreed. This was the most Id heard him talk in some time. It was a whole weeks ration of verbs and nouns used up in less than a minute. He continued. So, if you want to be a better martial artist, or guitar player, or whatever, youve got to practice those skills in order to grow your line. Sounds right, I said. Hawk nodded and returned to his book without another word. He did not speak again for two hours. Checking my voicemail, I found two messages from the night before. One was the call from councilman Stellar telling me he had some urgent business to discuss and that he would be over this morning to meet with me. I deleted him with prejudice. The second was from Naomi Morales. She was hoping to meet me for lunch to discuss progress on finding the killer of her grandfather. The sound of her voice sent an unexpected jolt of primal interest through me. I could see her again clearly. She was standing defiantly at the front gate, her thin cotton dress backlit by a bright morning sun. Two strong and shapely legs spread shoulder width apart. What was it about this woman that wouldnt let me be? Was it her youth? Her firm and tempting body that moved with such sure footed grace? Or was it the perfumed aroma of orange blossoms and perspiration that floated with her as she entered a room? Perhaps the attraction was less primal, I told myself. Maybe it was just her head strong temperament; or her passion for justice. Maybe it was her willingness to take on the bad guys regardless of the odds? I pondered my dilemma for a few minutes more, lost in the land of what if. Then, as always, my reverie was rudely interrupted by that little mean voice inside us all; the one that calls us back from dreams and joyful speculation. The one that demands we stare into the cold hard facts as they are. I caught sight of
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myself in a tinted full length mirror across the room. And there they were the cold, not quite so hard, facts. A sixty year old man returned my stare. He was six foot one, one hundred and ninety pounds. Fit for sixty, but no Olympian here. The inventory included a graying top and a hint of extra gut below. There was a red brown tan on Caucasian skin, a scar above the left eye, and a hitch in one knee from an angry long ago knife. This dog-eared hero smiled politely at me, then shrugged and looked away. Youre still the stupid man you always were, the mean voice said. You never got it right with women when you were a young buck. Good luck now that youre a junk heap version of that former self. And by the way, you dont speak Spanish, or understand the culture I walked to the picture window and looked toward the lake. The cypress trees all stood fixed and still along its quiet shores. They looked strangely flat and artificial, oddly out of place on this morning. Dont be stupid, Dunn, I said quietly to the picture window. Dont be stupid. Time, is one line you cannot grow or erase. It moves along at its own speed. With or without our mortal approval, it flows along in one direction. I continued my lecture. Alas and alack, detective Dunn! Your mortal choices are fixed and limited. You can shout and flail about. You can not go gently into that night good luck with that Or, you can choose to float along with it, ride its gentle current as far as it will take you. The first choice, I believe, involves much fear, regret, and angst. The second, I hope, leads to a calm and peaceful place of quiet appreciation. I will try, I told myself, to just be grateful for my ticket on the boat. I will learn to simply appreciate the amazing sights along the shoreline; like stately Cypress trees, and one beautiful feisty Latina woman beneath them.

The Art of Be Prepared We need to get our ass in gear today, I told Hawk. We need to find this guy that killed the elder Morales. Time to earn our money. Sounds like you want to impress someone. Let me guess. Miss kick-your-ass action girl? I think I like it better when you dont talk I said moving toward the door. So where we headed?

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First, were going to breakfast at The Patch. Were going to fill up on protein and hot coffee. And then were going to figure out where were headed. So, this is a car day? Yes, sir. I do believe it is. Transportation is usually not an issue in Winter Park. Restaurants, shops, police station, train station, and library are all within walking distance from our office. But, on those snoop and sniff days that take us outside the city limits, we have two vehicles to choose from. The two choices are born of two very different worlds. Hawks drive is a two year old F-250 crew cab pick-up. Its just a house boat with turn signals and a V8 6.4 L Diesel to move it down the road. To make it even less agile, Hawk had recently traded a favorite sniper rifle, in order to have the whole truck up-armored. A welder friend of his was given a British L115A3 outfitted with a 25 X magnification day scope. Hawk explained in passing that the British Army had paid nearly $40,000 US, to buy this same rifle a few years back, for use in Afghanistan. He gave no additional details, except to say It holds the record. Just why a peaceful welder might need to reach out and touch someone with a .338 Lapua Magnum round at 2000 meters, I could not say. But, because of the welders eagerness to own such a killing tool, Hawks transportation had been transformed from a slow moving house boat to a lumbering battle ship. Doors, trunk and hood were lined with a combination of rolled homogenous armor and some mysterious synthetic fiber laminate that the welder would not discuss. Never mind where it comes from, its lighter than steel and it works. If I had more, Id use it all around. This stuffs 40% lighter than RHA. At least, you wont need hinge change-outs for the doors. All windows had also been altered. They could now withstand repeated rounds from such notable nasty combat rifles as the M14 and the AK47. As a bonus, his welder buddy had fashioned an angular scoop of solid steel to protect the radiator and other vital engine parts from the front. It was shaped in such a way as to not only deflect incoming projectiles but to funnel air down through the radiator. Welded into the frame, this massive chunk of unattractive metal, could also serve as a battering ram should such a contingency arise. It was cleverly camouflaged as a standard winch. The final cherry on this behemoth birthday cake is a large combination lockbox that sits in the rear of the cab, where a comfortable factory seat had once been installed. Two feet deep, and the width of the cab, this formidable weapons cave is always fullup with Hawktree must haves. There are three scoped long guns of various calibers and accuracy, to include a Barrett 107CQ in 50 BMG just in case you need to kill an engine
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block at a thousand yards. Theres a half dozen holstered handguns, some concealable, some intended to intimidate close-up. Bickering Euro cousins Glock and Sig are both represented, and of course, several venerable 1911s in .45 sit comfortably atop this heap of assembled firepower. Hawk is particularly choice of a full size Kimber Royal II, with its frame steel construction and polished blue flats. It is a well-worn tool that feels good in the hand and consistently propels the serious .45 ACP round accurately down range. One of the Sig combat models includes a suppressor, which had required that Hawk complete an ATF form 400, and send along a large handful of cash to the government. It was at least six months before he could legally screw the suppressor in place. As he did he had mumbled something about being legally screwed. In the end, this particular Sig, with its dark earth color, and its extended suppressor, was quite an eye catcher when glimpsed by the bad boys. It just plain looks bad. Finally, Hawk had included in his worse-case scenario kit, a collection of items that are complimentary to the overall theme. These included a couple medium size surplus A.L.I.C.E. packs, in which were stuffed everything from energy power bars and first aids kits to compasses and K-Bar combat knives. Let it never be said that Lawrence J. Hawktree arrives unprepared to any fight. I had even seen what Im pretty sure were a couple of surplus Israeli M15 gas masks somewhere within this giant stash of preparedness. Since the truck had been transformed into the prickly ponderous dinosaur it now was, I had continued to give Hawk a tough time. Every ride we took in it, I couldnt help but point out that perhaps he had gone just a bit over the top. I suggested that just maybe IEDs would not be a huge concern for us here in Central Florida among the happy Disney characters. I also pointed out that we were roughly six men shy of the number needed to actually operate all of the weapons he had in stock. His response was always the same. He would glance over at me with disappointment, shrug, then calmly observe You never know. OrHey, you dont need it til you need it. My vehicle, while lacking in protection from incoming RPGs, was a classic little 72 sedan from Mercedes Benz. It had once belonged to a Winter Park accountant named Pierson. He had hired me ten years earlier to safely transport him from his estate in Winter Park proper to Port Everglades on the coast. Seems he had made some enemies of a few very ugly clients; something about siphoned funds and an offshore account. I had delivered him, as promised, to the bustling manmade port tucked between Hollywood and Ft. Lauderdale. If it had not been for a number of shots fired from an Uzi, and for a speeding Cadillac El Dorado veering into a drainage ditch, it would have been just another pleasant drive to the ocean. Before boarding his rented fast boat, a grateful
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Mr. Pierson had handed me the pink slip and keys to his beige 280SE. Its yours, Dunn. Enjoy. I wont be back. The old Mercedes had been a sweet classic even then; Pierson having spent a good chunk of his ill-gotten lucre to restore it from the frame up. Since taking possession, I had tried to keep it maintained. Not that easy to do on a PIs lack of income. Still, my 40 year old classic continued to breath strong. And, except for the white smoke that billows from its bowels when shifting to the lower gears, it remains a work of functional art. I call the old girl Duchess. And, she still can make me smile, cruising at dusk, her orange running lights glowing like two cats eyes in search of midnight prey. On this day, The Duchess was our vehicle of choice. After eating breakfast and mapping out our day, we steered her over to the police station and met with Sgt. Murkowski. Though not entirely delighted to see us, he did fill in some very big gaps. This included the name of our lethal little bad boy. Stan had been busy. After talking with some students from UCF, and lifting prints from the boathouse and three separate stolen cars, he had concluded that the assailant at the boathouse and the Morales killer were one and the same. As a bonus, he had dredged up particulars on one Angel Melendez that included friends, movements, and favorite haunts. I wouldnt give this all up, Murkowski said, except, this time tomorrow, most of itll be front page crap anyway. Seems someone down at The Sentinel has a chatty little friend here in our department. I havent figured out who that is yet, but when I dowell God help his ass. So, to tell you the truth, Im over it. Id rather you boys got a shot at the facts first. Shit, at least you asked.

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Bad Wiring

Darrin Stellar had no pets growing up. Not that his parents were cruel or uncaring. They simply decided when he was about eight years old that he could not be trusted with living things. A small menagerie of pets and neighborhood animals had disappeared from the time their son was able to walk to the lake. His mother had once caught him holding a hamster underwater. When his bewildered mother asked him what he was doing, Darrin replied that he was cleaning his insides. She had managed to save the small creature from drowning, before lecturing her son on the danger to pets in doing such a thing. She also included a firm and reasoned diatribe about the precious value of all living things. Initially, she believed her sons behavior to simply be misguided curiosity. So, she did not share the incident with Darrins father. However, as other family pets, as well as several neighborhood animals, vanished or were discovered not breathing, both parents became alarmed. Darrin was flown twice a month to Miami, where he met with a highly admired child psychologist. He was diagnosed with conduct disorder and parents were provided with behavioral interventions that were intended to modify and reshape their sons actions going forward. Darrin caught on to the game early, he learned to give his parents and his doctor what it was they were after. He learned that if he were charming and compliant, adults stopped watching him so closely. He learned that even adults will believe what you tell them, as long as youre smiling when you say it. He learned that people almost always believe what you tell them, at least at first. So, as time went on and Darrin moved from early childhood to adolescence, he became more cunning and effective at getting the things he wanted and getting away with those things he knew adults would object to. At school, he cheated on tests, and stole from the lockers of friends and strangers alike. He was promiscuous in his interactions with the opposite sex, finding ever new ways to look up skirts, or touch private areas of surprised and unsuspecting girls in the hallway. He carried a deck of playing cards in his backpack that showed naked couples having sex. And at the bottom of his backpack, beneath his Sony Walkman, and inside a sealed thermos, he carried several Polaroid photos of dead pets. Darrin did poorly in school, having to repeat grades six and ten. He displayed no interest in learning and was impulsive and easily distracted. His parents succeeded, mostly through personal connections, and substantial endowments, to ensure a place in college for their son. But, Darrin had little interest in the academic. He simply saw his college years, at multiple colleges, as an opportunity to manipulate and take advantage of an ever changing crop of suckers. He used drugs and alcohol recklessly and usually had two or
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three females he dated with convincing sincerity. It was not unusual for him to leave the dorm room of one girl at 2:00AM, walk a flight down to another girls room, and spend the rest of the night. Conscience, guilt and remorse, were simply not words in Darrins vocabulary. He understood the concepts intellectually, but assumed that no one actually felt such things, but, rather like him, only pretended to. There was no such thing in his world as friends and acquaintances. There were only accomplices and victims. Darrin Stellar lived his life in this secretly chaotic and cruel way for years. He had eventually found an accomplice in Fiona, someone as cold and calculating as he was; someone who also did not feel the pain of others, or care about such matters. But, even Fiona would have been surprised to glimpse the dark depths of her husbands heart. She believed that he was a malleable clump of clay, useful in carrying out her long term schemes, but timid and restrained in his own sense of self. Darrin encouraged her to believe this, content in the knowledge, that his own plan would eventually not include her.

Protection On our way to the Millman estate, I steered The Duchess north on Park Avenue, up past Central Park and the high-end shops that come and go like midnight mushrooms. It was early enough that traffic was still light. Familiar landmarks slipped by; St Margaret Mary Catholic church, the ponderous Morse Museum with its large Tiffany collections, Brandywines sidewalk deli-restaurant, and a manicured public golf course trimmed in rose bushes and endless floral accents . A half mile beyond the University Club, I steered the beige lady east onto Palmer Avenue. Soon modest million dollar ranch homes from the 1960s gave way to a mix of new and refurbished lakeside estates. Crossing over the small canal that connected two of Winter Parks seventeen lakes, we turned into the estate of Carl Millman, car salesman extraordinaire. The towering iron gates to its expansive driveway now stood locked and latched, a large black Hummer sitting crossways against it on the other side. Behind the Hummer, a strak looking mercenary type glared menacingly over the hood of the vehicle, a small automatic weapon discreetly concealed beneath a Shabak style bodyguard shirt. Cranking down my driver side window, I leaned out of the Duchess with the best friendly smile I could manage. Im here to see Mr. Millman. Im August Dunn, a friend of his.
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The brooding figure looked skeptical. And whos the big guy? I pointed toward Hawk with a thumb. This is Lawrence J. Hawktree, also a friend of Mr. Millman. The guards eyes grew wider and he tilted his head to one side. Hawktree? He stepped around to the front of the vehicle and moved closer. Squinting at the windshield of the Mercedes, he shook his head and smiled. His tense features softened. Son of a bitch, he said, and moved closer to the gate. Then speaking into a microphone attached to a shirt collar, he simply said, We got friendlies, stand down. From a half dozen locations around the estate, readied weapons were once again placed on safe and lowered. A half dozen battle tempered warriors faded further into the neatly pruned shrubs and bushes. I know this guy, Hawk announced. Good man Strang. Game Strang. Game? His name is Game? It is. And is Game here alone? Doubt it, Hawk said swinging his door wide. A few minutes later, the two of us had been buzzed through the gate on foot. Mercenary Strang and Private Investigator Hawktree greeted each other with bumped fists, and a few shoulder punches, and that was that. If you didnt know Hawk very well, you could have missed the importance of that brief reunion. A slight smile almost made it onto his face. For Hawk, this was practically an emotional outburst. Apparently, he and his mercenary friend, had served together on an extended assignment somewhere outside the U.S. As always, the juicy details were not given. From the few sparse words exchanged between them, I gathered they had been involved in guarding the family compound of a deposed African leader. Someone named Mumgali? And judging from the references made about the episode, it had been a bloody affair, with a number of casualties on both sides. We hurt them worse than they hurt us, Strang said flatly. Got Mumgalis ass all the way to Paris. Family too, Hawk added.

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A few minutes later we were standing in the tiled foyer of the main house. Another man-in-black was waiting there to greet us. After calling on the intercom for Millman, he fixed us in an undisguised glare of suspicion. Unlike Hawks friend at the front gate, this protector was not the touchy feely type. He was more of a put-your-head-on-a stick-for- fun kind of guy. A full size FN combat pistol rode on one hip, as a Remington 870 swung menacingly from his torso on a three point sling. He looked as though he had never smiled, not even as a newborn. After five uncomfortable minutes, the elevator could be heard off to our left as it descended from the second floor. Touching down with a gentle thump, its massive inlaid doors gracefully parted. A pale bandaged woman in an ancient wicker wheelchair was pushed forward by a very happy looking Carl Millman. Good to see you both, he said smiling. Tristina and I were just talking about you two, werent we, kiddo? He looked with affection in her direction. Yes, we were said Tristina. We were wondering how everything was going. You know, with the investigation and all. Before Hawk or I could reply, Millman suggested we move out onto the terrace. Its just such a perfect day. Id hate to miss a second of it. And he pushed Tristina carefully in the direction of open terrace doors along the far side of the house. Hawk and I exchanged confused glances as we followed after. The stone faced body guard trailed shuffled after us, silent and foreboding. There, said Millman, setting the brake on the wheelchair. Now you have a perfect view of our perfect day. Thank you, she said. I do so love nature in the morning. For the next half hour Hawk and I listened to Millman talk about how he wanted to take care of Tristina to keep her safe, and how she was welcome to stay until she was well again, or as long as she chose. He talked about the many rooms he had there in the house, and that she was welcome to stay in anyone she chose. Tristina, for her part, seemed to be very much at home, having quickly settled into a life of unlimited personal attention. She seemed to be thriving, despite her numerous painful injuries. She smiled often and talked in broad generalities about life and fate and something she called the great mystery of life. Hawk and I looked on in the same way you might should an alien space craft land at your feet. We stared with surprise, and confusion, as we tried to understand what it was
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we were seeing. I went with the pat and psychological explanation: heartsick father of dead daughter finds second chance to protect daughter-like woman from danger. Real or imagined, it seemed to fit. And Millman, to be sure she was protected, had pulled out all the stops. The seven man special ops team that was now bunked in 24/7 did not come cheap. My guess was the tab was somewhere around three to five thousand a day; this did not include the live-in home health nurse who appeared hourly to record Tristinas vitals. As the nurse arrived on her rounds, Hawk and I took our leave. Millman did not notice, as he hovered around the wheelchair making small suggestions. Tristina, who was concentrating on the blood pressure cuff around one arm, glanced up briefly and smiled. Do, come again, she said grandly. Before backing out of the estate driveway, I called Murkowski on his private cell. What? a gruff voice demanded at the other end. Its August. Yeah? You can keep the citys cash. What? The waitress doesnt need us, Stan. How so? Think Snow White and The Magnificent Seven

Another Mans Home Since the death of her grandfather, Naomi Morales had chosen to live in the tiny mobile home in which he had spent so many years. It was an ancient rounded box that had first rolled off an assembly line sometime back in the early 1950s. Its tires had first gone flat, then rotted away years ago. Eventually, they had been removed altogether. But, the airplane rivets that crisscrossed its aluminum shell still held strong. Originally, the thirtytwo by eight foot Crestliner had been wrapped in gleaming, unpainted aluminum. It had reminded its first owners, Howard and Alma Duffy of Marion Center, Pennsylvania, of a
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World War II bomber, absent wings and propellers. For reasons known only to them, they had loving named their metal home, Lorelei. And in a moment of fleeting eccentricity, having coated the trailer in a layer of Sherwin-Williams forest green, Howard had painted a small figure of a dancing duck outside the trailers front door. Upon first seeing the artwork, Alma had threatened to remove it with steel wool and a putty knife. But, Howard had quietly persisted. And, eventually, even his wife had come to accept the artwork as adding a certain humorous charm to their tiny, non-flying fortress. After ten years in their home, Howard and Alma moved on to a modest one floor ranch in the suburbs of Pittsburgh. But, even without their charming spirits, their beloved Crestliner continued to provide a cozy shelter for whomever claimed it as their home. Over the years it had provided shelter and warmth to five separate families, as well as an aged and infirmed Latina and her son. As a girl, Naomi had visited her grandfather and great grandmother often at the trailer; usually when tensions were running high between her and her mother. They had always been kind and receptive to her short visits. How Naomi longed to see them again, to be that age again for a single summer day. How sweet it would be to step through the Crestliner door and into their arms just once more; to slowly inhale the intoxicating aroma of gorditas, Chipotle, pepper and chocolate that had filled up their home. She longed for so much; to sit beside her grandfather in church; to ride with him over the country roads, the windows of his Nova rolled down and radio playing loudly. To laugh at his silly jokes, and watch him dance with his eyes closed as some ancient record, known only to him, played sweetly. This is Danzon, he would say, as he swayed back and forth. But those days were gone, vanished forever, except, of course, within her heart. Sometimes, the best parts of her life had disappeared in slow motion. At other times, they had been wrenched from her arms violently and without warning. Now, when opening the door of her grandfathers trailer, she did so with sadness and a solemn acceptance of all that had died with him. The old aromas that had once greeted her were now gone. The sweet smells from the past had been replaced with the pungent odors of Ben Gay, Old Spice, and Marlboros. The hand painted duck near the door that had once engaged her imagination in her childhood, was now a faded smudge of yellow and orange.

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Taking Stalk At some point in its long life, one of its several owners had enclosed the space beneath the trailer using corrugated aluminum panels. An odd collection of items now filled up that space. Tools, crates, walkers, and even a water-stained piata were stored there out of sight. Naomi could remember being fascinated by the odd collection of objects that her grandfather pulled from beneath his little metal home. She had come to think of that space as a mysterious and magic cave; a giant magicians hat from which anything might appear. She remembered fondly how her grandfather had crawled into the space on one of her visits, and had emerged with a gift for her. It was a traditional three stone hat worn by the peasant farmers of Mexico. Placing it lovingly on her twelve year old head he had advised her solemnly that the hat was never worn by the women of Mexico. It was strictly a mans hat. Then with a devilish twinkle in his eyes he had added but I am giving it to you, because I think that it will one day fit you well. I do not believe you will be just any woman. Already, you are not just any child. Naomi had gloried in his remarks and in his confidence in her. She had determined then that she would never let her grandfather down. She would always be worthy of the three stone hat. One of the first things she had done upon moving into her dead grandfathers home was to explore the mysteries beneath it. For one whole day she had wrestled crates from their dark hiding place; pried open ancient wooden crates, and unwrapped carefully packed pieces of her families past. The number and variety of items surprised even her. There were faded pictures in porcelain frames, whimsical carved animals made from the close grained wood called Granadillo. There was a sword of unknown age and origin, and a lace trimmed wedding gown with thousands of precise, tightly spaced stitches. A handwritten note pinned to one of its yellowing sleeves identified its original wearer as Maria Guerrera Tapia, Naomis great grandmother. There was even a fancy charro saddle, its dark leather trimmed in fine silver inlay. The more she explored the magic cave, the more intrigued and confused Naomi became. She tried to reconcile the life of poverty she and her family had lived with the storehouse of cultural treasures stored beneath her grandfathers tired little trailer. As she puzzled over the many items, something that her grandfather had once said suddenly came back to her. Wealth and poverty come and go, Naomi. One should not cling too tightly to either. Of all the wonders that Naomi had uncovered, none had surprised her more than a heavy black handgun that had been fixed with a trigger lock and stored in a small tub of thick brown grease. She wondered just how her grandfather had come into possession
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of such a weapon. It seemed so out of character for this quiet, polite man to own a gun at all. On the other hand, she reasoned, it was clearly not something he had carried with him or intended to use anytime soon. Perhaps, she thought, it had belonged to someone else and had simply been stored by her grandfather for them. After two days, she succeeded in locating the hidden key to its trigger lock. It had been taped to the underside of a chrome legged kitchen chair, the original label for the chair carefully glued back over it. In cleaning away the stubborn coating of grease that clung to the guns barrel and cylinder, Naomi discovered a well preserved 1973 Charter Arms Bulldog in .44 caliber. She was instantly fascinated. Since the death of her grandfather she had begun to feel vulnerable, just as she had after the death of her parents. She had also been struggling with the question of her grandfathers killer. Should she seek him out? And what if she were to find him, what then? How would she defend herself? Or, if it came down to it, administer final justice? Naomis sleep became increasingly fitful, filled with strange dreams of women in lace and armed posses on horseback. When she awoke, even before she had had breakfast, she started up her grandfathers ancient green Chevy Nova and pointed it in the direction of Riegs Gun Shop down on Orange Blossom Trail. When it opened at 10:00 AM, she went inside and promptly purchased a 20 count box of hollow points. Fully aware that she was unlicensed to carry a firearm, and was therefore breaking the laws of the State of Florida, Naomi loaded up the handgun and placed it in her surplus army pouch just the same. She turned on the radio and tuned in AM 810 and its Latin rhythms, before pointing the Nova in the direction of a private investigators office over in Winter Park. Hawktree and Dunn, the yellow page had read, Fully licensed. Fully committed. We get it done. Lately, Naomi Morales had not been herself. Over the years, she had always been able to keep on going, to forge ahead despite the sadness and misfortunes that had befallen her. She had always managed to find a way to stay strong, to keep pushing on. If something or someone pushed back, she simply doubled her efforts and pushed back still harder. Her determination had served her well, as she usually got whatever it was she was after. But recently, beginning with the death of her beloved grandfather, she had felt less like pressing on, and more like crying non-stop. But, crying was something she had not done for years. After the tearful funeral for her parents, she had promised herself, and them, that no more tears would fall from her. In a flash of adolescent awareness, she had sworn a silent oath that she would never cry, never display weakness. Any vulnerability, she was sure, would bring the world down on her and all those she loved. So for almost twenty years, she had remained strong. She had made the hard choices. She had worked the menial jobs. She had cared for her brothers until
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they could care for themselves. Her youth had been spent defending family and causes and the good name of Morales. Now, two weeks away from her thirty-fifth birthday, and with the father of her beloved father gone, she was finding it harder each day to pull her strength and energy together and to go on as she always had. She had begun to ask herself questions that she had never asked before. She wondered just where it was she was going, and where and who she would be in ten years. She wondered about children of her own and what that might mean. Or what it might mean to never have children. She wondered about love, and whether or not there would ever be anyone for her alone. She counted up the handful of lovers who had passed through her life. Most had been pressed from the same cookie cutter; intense, physical young men, who had stayed with her until they discovered that they could not bend her to their will or to their vision of what a woman is supposed to be. Most of these relationships had ended early and badly. And now, on top of it all, there was this ridiculously ancient private eye who thought he was somehow humorous or interesting to her. She smiled at how awkward and misguided he was in his obvious attraction to her. Hes like a hundred years old she said to herself. And he knows nothing about me or my people, or what it means to live as we live. If he thinks I could ever see anything in him, he is out of his ancient Anglo head. But as she conjured up an image of August Dunn for the purpose of ridicule, she was surprised to see who appeared. The image was not of a decrepit old man, but of a lean, tanned male, with graying hair, green eyes, and a devilish lop-sided smile. It was an image of the man who had sat across from her over breakfast one morning. It was the man who smiled easily, and encouraged her to be hopeful. A pleasant wave of unexpected warmth swept over her. Distant, but familiar, the wave included feelings of calm and gentle possibility. She tried to shake these feelings. She did not want them. They would only get in the way of what it was she needed to do. She tried to imagine August Dunn saying or doing one of the many rude, irritating, or stupid things he had said or done since they first met. But, to her dismay, the feelings remained. Her heart informed her of that which her mind would not. She was beginning to warm to this man, this arrogant old detective. Despite her own instructions to herself, she could not ignore this confusing attraction. Sighing deeply, she shook her head. No, she said. This is just too stupid. Looking up, she added Dear heavenly father, help me please. Let it be anyone; anyone, dear Lord, but August Dunn.

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Pineapples and Lily Pads Just before the Duchess crossed under State Road 408, I steered her east off of Semoran Boulevard. I was relieved to do so. Semoran is a rude four lane highway that originates at the Orlando International Airport and plows north through endless tracts of cloying retail flotsam all the way to Apopka, thirty miles upstream. It was a relief to turn once again onto kinder residential side streets. Good officer Murkowski had provided us with the last known residence of our menacing Mr. Melendez. It sat quietly in a working class neighborhood known as Azalea Park, on a treeless side street named Randia Drive. As I guided the Mercedes passed its measured rectangular lots, Hawk clicked off the addresses on the odd numbered side. Progress was slow. Most of the homes displayed no number and were set back a hundred feet or so from the curb. Single story cement block ranches dominated the neighborhood. Once the retirement dream-cottages of older couples from northern states, they were now the well-worn rentals and starter homes for a struggling generation of Latino working class families. Narrow car ports, consisting of metal supports of six inch pipe, and flat tar roofs, clung to the side of most homes. Many had been enclosed over the years, as families struggled to provide livable space for their growing families. Suddenly, Hawk thumped the dashboard and nodded to his right. He had found the house we needed. Instead of stopping, I goosed the Duchess lightly and made a rambling loop to a street several blocks away. Then stopping in the shade of a solitary Water Oak , I reached under the drivers seat for a 2 X 3 magnetic sign stored there. It read Vector Real Estate Appraisals and Sales. The little sign had proved useful more than once over the years. Rolling down my window, I gently attached it to the outside of my door. There you go, Mr. Hawktree. Now, were no longer strangers nosing around an empty house. Were appraiser and client assessing a vacant property. Then, pulling back onto the street, I navigated a series of right turns, until we were once again in front of the neglected 3/1 cement block known to have once sheltered lovable Mr. Melendez. There was little to recommend the place. It looked dead; devoid of bush, tree, shrub, or life. A patchy brown lawn led back to its cracked and peeling beige walls. A small window near the front door had been busted out; a faded plaid curtain now drooping from it limply .The place all but screamed dead-end, waste of time. Still, I had learned over the years that first impressions are not always to be trusted. Trying to be discreet, I lifted my G23 from its Fobus holster fastened inside my belt, racked the slide to chamber a round, and re-holstered. Another lesson learned the hard way; do what you
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can do to prepare for action before action is needed. You may not have the luxury of the time, or the presence of mind needed when everything suddenly goes sideways. Hawk ignored the 1911 riding in its holster just beneath his armpit. He had no need to chamber a round. Like many aficionados of the venerable 1911, cocked and locked was one of his primary directives. Stepping from the car, I looked over at the house more carefully. Oh, now this would just not be acceptable in Winter Park, I said. Darrin Stellar would be hyperventilating into a paper bag right about now. Before moving toward the house, I grabbed a polymer clipboard from the floor of the backseat. Sorting through a fistful of picture IDs, I settled on one that identified me as James Rockford, licensed real estate appraiser. Clipping it to my shirt pocket, I put on my best big smile and guided my oversized client, up the two strips of cracked concrete that was the driveway. Trotting nervously ahead of Hawk, I talked loudly, non-stop over one shoulder. Yes sir, Mr. Simpson, I anticipate this little gem will go on the market in another few days. It was built back in 53. But, dont let that fool you, no, sir. She was built solid and built to last. Reinforced concrete block construction. She has three bedrooms, one bath, and an attached utility workspace. In fact, that could be a great space for a workshop or hobby room. How many square feet? Hawk asked with a straight face. I did not hesitate. There are 1556 square feet of very livable space. And, in the winter theres cross ventilation through its original jalousie windows. Now thats a quaint little touch, real vintage stuff. And in the summer, there are three window air conditioning units to keep your bedrooms cool and comfortable. Yes, but what about storage space? Hawk asked smiling broadly. Storage space? I boomed. Bastard, I whispered. Well, yes. There is storage space in both the utility room and the crawl space overhead. Access is through a pull down accordion stair system in the hallway. Oh, thank goodness said Hawk politely. We made our way around the side, through an unlocked gate, and an ugly metal hurricane fence. The backyard was in worse shape than the front. Discarded boxes and assorted trash were strewn about in every direction. A large rotting dog kennel was shoved up against the back of the house, its inhabitant long since gone. A grotesque looking bowl, crusted in mummified dog food, sat near a rusting chain and a large eye
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hook protruding from the ground. I made an effort not to imagine the poor animal that had been tied up there in the withering heat of a Florida sun. The image came through just the same. I made a mental note to add this troubling picture to the growing list of grievances against one Angel Melendez. There were no shades or curtains in any of the back windows. So, after wiping off the grime of countless years, Hawk and I peered through two smudgy portholes to the interior of the house. There was little to be seen. No furniture. No pictures. No clothing. No life. What did stand out were the large spray painted messages that had been scrawled across the interior walls. Originality was apparently not important to the artist who created them. They included such classics as Fuck You, Kill All Cops, and my favorite, Bad To The Bone. We tried the door. It was bolted fast. So, did you bring a pass key?, I asked Hawk. Got it right here., he said. Then turning his back to the kitchen door, he mule kicked it open on the first try. Its an art isnt it? I observed. Both of us casually pulled our weapons before easing through the door. As ever, Hawk pushed forward first, his 1911 pressed out in front. Dueling smells of black mold, urine, and chlorine bleach rolled over us as we moved forward. The heated air was thick and oppressive. Very little oxygen seemed available to the lungs. Pressing on, we moved through the kitchen and approached the doorway to the living room. Weapons were pulled in close as we worked ourselves into careful angles of least exposure. Then in short , quick movements, Hawk peered into the next room before moving forward, as I covered. What was once a living area full up with furniture, artwork, and Sunday dinners, was now an empty space accented with dried piles of dog dung and a single cardboard box marked U-Haul. Moving on, we repeated our practiced doorway ballet from room to room. All rooms were found to be absent of threats, surprises, or life of any kind. For all our efforts, we had scored a very big fat zero. Before retracing our steps to the back door, I tapped Hawks shoulder once and pointed to the crawl space entrance in the hallway ceiling overhead. Give me a knee he said, with little enthusiasm in his voice. Holstering my Glock, I pressed my back against the nearest wall and slid partially down it. I cupped my hands over my left knee as Hawk pushed off with one of his giant boots. Studying the plywood panel to the attic carefully, he finally declared were good. Apparently, he had found a finely woven spider web fashioned over the panel as well as
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the surrounding ceiling. No ones been up there in a longtime, he said. Dead bugs, cocoons, he added. Just to be sure, he lifted up the ceiling board far enough to shine a light in and look around. Nada he said flatly. A few minutes later, we were standing in the backyard looking over a sloping lot of sand and weeds overlooking a stagnant irrigation canal. The narrow waterway ran behind all the homes on the street and had been utilized for years as a source of grey water for the irrigation pumps that lined it. The above ground pump that had once drawn water from it for this property, now sat silent and rusting beneath a torn green tarp. I feel a letter to the homeowners association coming on I said. Hawk grunted, as he studied and circled the pump slowly. It was one of those things he did that tends to make me nervous. It usually means that he has found something that concerns him, something that doesnt look right. What do ya got? I asked, seeing nothing at all to warrant such a careful inspection. Wire, he said at last. Wire? There, he said pointing just below the pump. I saw nothing. Where? I asked. Hawk lowered himself to one knee. Here, he said, carefully brushing some sand and gravel to one side. Sure enough, an almost invisible wire ran along the ground for three to four feet before disappearing into the disgusting depths of the canal. What the hell is it? I asked. Hawk didnt reply. Instead, he knelt down closer to the ground and studied the hair thin wire close up. His concentration was that of a brain surgeon studying an x-ray before making his first cut. Lightly touching the wire, he traced it carefully down to the water. Then lying down on his side, he slowly placed his hand, then his arm into the thick black soup. His moves were measured, deliberate. His eyes focus on the cloudless sky

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overhead as he tried to decipher by touch what it was that lay at the other end of the wire. Trip wire, he calmly announced. Trip wire? I parroted, and took two involuntary steps backward. Moving his hand further down the wire, he suddenly stopped with a grunt of recognition. What? I asked. He did not reply. Instead, he reached back with his free hand and retrieved a Leatherman tool from its sheath on his hip. Then, rolling onto his stomach, he pushed his second arm and the tool into the soupy goo. Minutes past. He was in no hurry. The sun overhead and the heated stench from the canal began to take their toll. Sweat rolled down my temples, dropping onto the parched sand around my feet. I began to feel the slightest bit nauseous. Amazingly, Hawk did not seem to be sweating at all. It was as though he had entered some sort of suspended animation. He simply did not move, speak, or sweat. But, beneath the surface of the water, his hands were busily at work. They had now discovered two things. The first was a waterproof bag, attached to a secure iron stake. The second was a US Army M67 fragmentation grenade, also attached to the stake. The trap was simple and deadly. Pull the bag away from the stake and you also pull the pin from the grenade. Shit. Hawk observed in the middle of his project. What?, I asked again. M67, he reported. Fragmentation...Thats Comp B15 meter wound radius. I took two more steps to the rear. Hawk didnt look up, but suggested almost casually If I were you, Id move behind the house. Sounds kind of chicken-shit dont you think? That may be so. He said. But, if this toy goes bang, Id like to get some help from a body thats not bleeding. Trying to retreat while maintaining some dignity as well, I strolled, but did not bolt, around the corner of the house. Once there, I began to just wonder what the 9-1-1
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response time might be in the Azalea Park area. I reached in my pocket and pulled out my cell. You good? Hawk called out. Im good, I shouted back. More minutes past. First five. Then ten. Then ten more. My mouth was dry and I was losing patience. Just as curiosity won out and I was about to stick my head around the corner and ask for an update, there was the low sound of Hawks voice. Fuck, he said, in a matter of fact tone. Almost instantly, there was a deep throated splash followed by a deafening explosion. A plume of water and debris blasted skyward. Metal shards and shrapnel knifed into the back wall and windows of the Melendez safe house. Losing my balance, I fell backward in an awkward heap; not from the blast wave, but from a surprised reflex reaction. Water, sticks, sand and muck rained down across the house and lot. Scrambling to my feet and I ran toward Hawk. Visions of blood and gore filled my brain, as I arrived at his side. He was lying where I had left him, his head tucked flat against the sand. He was not moving nor making any sound. I looked for blood. I called his name. There was no response. I grabbed his shoulder in an effort to roll his giant frame over. An oversized mitt grabbed my wrist. Easy there, Buddy. I bruise easy. I dropped down in a heap beside him. My breathing and heartbeat still cranked to max. Youre okay then? I managed to ask . Im good he shouted. Just lost some hearing ... Temporary. ..Its an anvil and stirrup thing. I pointed toward the street. We gotta go...Right now! I shouted. I doubted that the good residents of Randia Drive would overlook an exploding grenade in their neighborhood. Hawk starred at me blankly. I pointed toward the canal, then pantomimed my best explosion followed by the rotating light on a squad car. He got the message. Reaching roughly into the water, he pulled out a heavy surplus drysack, then jumped to his feet. We both walked steadily in the direction of The Duchess. Hawk placed the sack in the trunk, as I turned over the engine. Twenty seconds later we were turning the corner at the end of the street. Glancing in my rearview, I could see the first green and white from
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the Sheriffs Office swing wildly onto Randia. He must have been on a nearby call when the word went out from dispatch. He was running silent stealth for some reason, no siren, and no lights. By the time he screeched to a stop in front of the concrete ranch, Hawk and I were turning north on to Goldenrod Road. A short time later we reached Aloma Avenue, where we turned west, in the direction of Winter Park. I rolled my window down and retrieved my appraiser sign. I pulled the I.D. from my shirt and tossed it over my shoulder to the back seat. Man, the real estate markets getting tougher ever year, I said. Hawk didnt respond. He was far away, processing what had just happened. Most likely, he was considering ways in which he might have addressed the situation differently. It was a typical Hawk thinga thorough debriefing and analysis of a recent mission, all done entirely in his own head. I pulled The Duchess into the garage beneath our office. Hawk climbed out and retrieved the still dripping mystery bag from the trunk. Closing the folding wooden doors behind us, we ambled as casually as we could up to our office. Hawk placed the dripping bag on the ugly tile floor in the kitchen. For a few minutes, we just stared down at it as though it were a strange sea monster washed ashore. Finally, Hawk pulled a KaBar from his boot and sliced off the tightly knotted drawstrings and tape that wrapped the opening. Then reaching down, I grabbed the bag securely and hefted it end over end. The contents spilled out in all directions; ten smaller packages in all, tightly wrapped in waterproof plastic. One by one, Hawk sliced them open. Each bag revealed the same thing; neatly sorted and carefully bound stacks of new U.S. currency. An equal number of 20, 50, and 100 dollar bills carefully counted out for each packet. After our initial dumfounded silence, a hurried count of the first packet showed it to contain just over eighty thousand dollars. Reaching down, I picked up three bills, one of each denomination and held them up to the light. I turned them over slowly, studying them for any sign of counterfeit. Then placing them back on the floor, I looked at Hawk without expression. Real deal, I announced. Both of us then fixed our gaze on the large pile of cash strewn across the floor. An extended silence followed, as we tried to comprehend what it was we had just stumbled into, and just what the hell we were supposed to do now.

*
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An Apple Far From The Tree Angel Melendez was not abused as a boy. He was not raised in poverty, nor did he suffer from a traumatic brain injury. He was in fact, a child born into relative comfort and wealth. His parents were third and fourth generation Latino/Americans who had managed to achieve the traditional American dream. His father, Jorge, was a trial lawyer, who had built his familys wealth through hard work and savvy investments. He had also found the time to provide pro-bono advice to those members of the Latino community who were struggling to defend their rights or realize basic justice for their families. He was a proud man of dignity and determination. He was also a loving man, who showed his family through actions and words, that he cared for them above all else. At age 32 he had passed up an opportunity for a lucrative and politically connected position on the governors Tallahassee team. When asked by local press why he had turned down the lucrative move, he had simply replied, My family and my friends are here in Winter Park. A man needs both if he is to be a man. Angels mother, Aurelia, was an amazing person in her own right. Raised by a single mom in a small section 8 apartment complex, she had made her way through the University of Florida by means of scholarships, loans, and waitressing at a Gainesville Dennys. As an undergraduate she majored in political science, with a minor in languages, French being her favorite. Her Graduate degree was a Masters of Arts in political science international relations. She graduated ahead of most of her classmates, having achieved both degrees through an accelerated program. She was hired directly out of college by the Florida Commission for International Tourism. She met and married Jorge Melendez three years later. Always well respected, she demonstrated a natural flair for understanding complex issues and for bringing diverse parties together to resolve them. She gave birth to two children, a girl and a boy. The girl she named Azura, meaning blue skies, its origins from the French. Her son was named Angel, after a favorite uncle who had helped her mother and her family after the untimely death of her young father. Azura had followed in many of her mothers footsteps. She was precocious and interested in the world around her. She garnered honors in high school and attended her mothers alma mater, graduating Cum Laude with a Masters Degree in French. She met her husband, Jean-Claude, in her final year in school, while studying abroad at the Universite de Rennes. She now lived in Paris, two blocks off the Champs-Elysee. She was

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employed by the U.S. Embassy, and made regular trips home to Winter Park to show off her two children and her doting husband. Her mother and father, in turn, had made several trips to Paris to acquaint themselves with their daughters world, and to spend precious time with their grandchildren. Yet, as well as their life together had unfolded, they had also shared a heartbreak they had been forced to endure, their only son, Angel. As a child, he had demonstrated a number of endearing and promising qualities. His parents had looked on with a mix of pride and amusement as he went about charming other children, and often adults, out of those things he wanted. He demonstrated determination and a strong will to obtain whatever struck his fancy. Even at four and five years old he would not quit until he had accomplished what he set out to do. But, as time went on, these charming and determined attributes became more and more manipulative and aggressive. Disagreements with classmates and teachers evolved into open rebellion. Singular selfexpression turned self-centered and uncompromising. Behind his back, concerned relatives whispered. One of his aunts was heard to say Tiene un vicio al andar , He walks in a strange way. And, though his parents continued to love him, and to do what they could to civilize him with manners and common courtesy, Angel would have none of it. By the time he was fifteen, he had been involved in a number of scrapes with the law; petty theft, marijuana possession, loitering. And by seventeen, his offenses had become more serious. He had been arrested twice, once for assault, and once for malicious mischief. Only his parents influence and the capable legal counsel they hired had kept him from jail. But even, after miraculously receiving only probation, their son did not change his behaviors or alter his perception of the world. At the end of his junior year, he abruptly dropped out of high school and the lives of his family. Leaving his comfortable Winter Park home behind, he chose to live among his street friends and acquaintances. He strutted shoulder to shoulder with the bad boys from the tough side of town and the wrong side of the law. He experimented with alcohol and a number of hard drugs, before finally settling on crack-cocaine as his buzz of choice. To ensure its constant supply, he bought a stolen handgun from his dealer and began to bring in cash through a string of burglaries, gas station robberies, and strong arm assaults. More recently, he had come up with the idea of kidnapping the elderly and forcing them to go to their ATMs to withdraw cash balances from checking and savings accounts. From time to time Angels family heard rumors of his whereabouts. They heard that he had recently become close with his cousin Jesus, who had grown up under much more challenging circumstances. Chucho as they had called him as a boy, had also found his
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way to crime. A shy kid, his journey had begun more as a means of impressing the girls around him, than an interest in living outside the law. But, over time one thing had led to another, until he now found himself so deeply enmeshed in the dirty underside of Orlando, he could not find a way out. He owed money, and favors; and he knew names and places that could put others away for years. He understood with perfect clarity that should he choose to leave behind his lifestyle now, his life would end violently and abruptly. Chucho, therefore, chose to stay, to play out his part as long as it lasted. And in the end, he had still died violently and abruptly, just two blocks away from the elegant Winter Park home in which he had grown up. As time went on, and he continued to avoid capture, Angel became more and more convinced that he was somehow immune from justice. Slowly, through isolated thinking and the influence of his preferred drug of choice, he came to see himself as strong, invincible, a man destined for greatness. Once he had killed his first victim, it all seemed to make sense and to come together for him. Shooting an un-cooperative 7-11 clerk close up, he had been amazed and pleased to discover how easy it had been and how little concern it had caused him. That killing had been done when he was agitated and high, but lately he had come to appreciate the sensations and thrills to be had when brutalizing victims with nothing on board. He reveled in the rush of adrenalin and personal power that flowed through his veins as his victims begged and bargained for their lives. He enjoyed the feeling afterward of looking down to them slumped and lifeless at his feet. The thrill and the pleasure of it, was real. So much so that he often wondered what it was that kept others from killing for kicks. He finally determined that it was nothing more than weakness that held others back. And this confirmed his belief that he was innately superior to all those around him. He, Angel, took what whatever he wanted from life. He did so with courage and bravado, others whined and prayed and hesitated like frightened sheep. Once, while surfing through cable channels he had heard the phrase I am death. The expression had caught his imagination, stuck with him. Now, as he pulled the trigger, or shoved in the blade, he would whisper to his dying victims I am Angel. I am death.

* Another Happy Reunion Hawk lives in a 1998 Airstream Bambi about five miles north of Apopka. At 19 feet , its not exactly the residence you would imagine a guy his size would choose. His frame is a large one; the airstream frame is not. The result is that Hawk doesnt step into his
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home so much as he puts it on, like a sturdy aluminum suit with tires. As with so many of his choices, the reasoning behind Hawks choice of this mobile shelter is not immediately obvious. But, dig deep enough and eventually you will find a reason he has chosen any X over any Y. In this case, the X chosen is that this 19 foot travel trailer had four things going for it. First, the upkeep and expenses on an airstream are just about zero. This appeals to a man who does not know from week to week what, if anything, his paycheck will be. Second, its a low profile home. Park it back off a secondary road, away from town and prying eyes, and few people know youre even in the neighborhood. In this case, the off road property belongs to a foliage grower who likes the idea of some friendly muscle nearby, when trespassers stop by to steal his plants or shoot up his hot houses for target practice. Third, Hawk likes to be able to position his residence with the most advantageous view of the surrounding terrain. Where he chooses to park his aluminum beauty has little to do with the most attractive natural vista, and everything to do with most effective field of fire. Finally, on those occasions when Hawk mysteriously disappears for weeks or months, he simply hooks up his airstream to his massive SUV land boat, and vanishes down the nearest secondary road. A man of routine, Hawk rolls out of the rack at 5:30 AM. This gives him time to complete his ablutions, drink his first cup of strong coffee, and make the fifty minute drive down SR 436 to Winter Park. He arrives at the Briar Patch at 6:50 AM and parks on Garfield, a side street directly across from the restaurant. We spend about an hour over breakfast sorting out the day behind us, and planning out the one ahead. Then, assuming no crazed girlfriend stalkers show up, Hawk drives us over to the office, where he parks the black battleship out on Old New England. We walk through the iron gate and onto the estate. By 8:10 were in our office, ready for the day to lazily unfold. Passing through the main gate on this morning, we could see two reasons why the day was going to unfold differently on this day. Standing with his back pressed up against our stucco wall, Stan Murkowski was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He was wearing dress blues, with brass and shoes spit shined and polished. He had somehow managed to find a shrinking sliver of shade into which he had squeezed most of his frame. Even so, beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and he looked agitated and unhappy. Off to his right, and almost at the top of the stairs, Naomi Morales sat quietly in a white blouse and cotton skirt. She was reading a small paperback with focused intensity, making every effort not to notice Sgt. Murkowski a short distance away. She had not yet forgotten or forgiven a night spent in lock-up down at the good lieutenants station.

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Hawk, I said as we approached our unhappy visitors, remind me again why we do what we do. Because, were good guys doing good things? I glanced over at him with a hint of disdain. O.K. he said. Then how about momentum? Momentum? Yeah. Its what weve done, so its what we do. Well now that Ill buy. I stopped in front of Murkowski and studied him with amused approval. Well, good morning officer, dont we look all strak and shiny, this morning? Fuck off, Dunn. I have to go to an awards brunch this morning. Awards brunch? Fuck off, Dunn. Are you to be the awardee or the awardor? Fuck I will Stan. In fact, I am fucking off as we speak. But just out of curiosity, who exactly is being honored on this fresh fine Winter Park day? Stan looked truly irritated. He was clearly not in the mood. He mumbled the name of this years honoree under his breath. Im sorry, Stan I missed that. Who? Stellar. Stan said reluctantly. Stellar? Darrin Stellar? The same. No shit. And what is Mr. Stellar being honored for this morning? Stan looked out from under his untrimmed eyebrows. I knew that I had pressed things very close to the limit.
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Hes this years Mr. Winter Park White Knight, ok? Hes being honored for all his efforts to maintain Winter Parks image as a safe and special place to live. Wow, I said. Safe and special. O.K., fine. Youve made your point. Stellars not your first pick. Stan, I have to be honest here. Your Mr. White Knight Stellar is an asshole of monumental proportion. And, if hes seriously being honored in a public way, wellId hide my wallet, the kids, and old folks...in that order. Stan tilted his head to one side and stared at me as though hed just discovered a turd floating in the mayors pool. Youre a negative guy, you know that, Dunn? So Ive been told So, how bout we talk about why Im here? Hawk and I are all ears. But how about we listen inside some cool air? What about her Stan asked, nodding toward Naomi at the top of the stairs. Well, I honestly dont know. Lets find out. I headed up the stairs, followed by an unhappy Stan Murkowski and a silent L. J. Hawktree. Naomi closed her book as she stood up. She looked down at us with undisguised suspicion. What does he want? she demanded. Dont know, Darlin. Havent asked him yet. Well, its not going be anything good. You can bet on that. She announced. I brushed passed her toward the door. For a moment, the heady essence d Naomi teased my olfactories. It was that illusive blend of perspiration, cotton, and orange blossoms that made me want to act goofy and carve our initials in the nearest Oak tree. I did my best to ignore it. How about we all just go inside and peacefully sort it all out. I had some additional words of wisdom to pass on, but stopped talking abruptly and re-directed all of my attention on the door to the office. The thin tooth pick I had carefully seated the night before, was snapped in half and just barely hanging from the top hinge.

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Visitor. I said over my shoulder. With one arm, I carefully guided Naomi behind me. With the other, I drew my Glock from its holster. Hawks eyes narrowed as he pushed forward until standing beside me at the door. Both of our weapons were now in hand. Naomi looked confused. Stan looked irritated. What is it? he demanded. Someones been inside. Maybe still there. Stand down he said, ambling up the stairs. You boys are not gonna shoot anybody in my town today. And you are not going to ruin my day. Ive got a fucking brunch to be at in two hours. So, stand the fuck down. With that, he drew his 9mm Sig and leaned closer in toward the door. With his left hand he took his cell phone from a holster on his hip. He hit speed dial three and spoke abruptly to the dispatcher at the other end. Need back-up now. Possible burglary in progress. One of Millmans estatesthe one on Old New England. And NO sirens, damn it. Hawk and I made brief eye contact, before reluctantly taking two steps down from the landing. Naomi stood looking puzzled and irritated, one step below ours. Murkowski didnt wait for his back-up to arrive. He tested the door knob. It turned freely. He spun around in our direction. You sure someone went in? Im sure. Wheres your key? he asked stretching his oversized hand toward me. I tossed it to him. All of you move down another step, he said. We complied. Stan pushed the key into the lock and turned it. The deadbolt responded crisply. Taking two deep measured breaths, he pushed the door open slowly, and stood off to one side. He pulled a thin polished metal plate from his back pocket. It was about the size of a playing card. Moving it slowly into the open doorway, he peered at the slightly
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distorted reflections of the room inside. Carefully, he turned it in every direction. No unhappy surprises could be seen. He placed the metal mirror back into his pocket. Just before stepping into the room he nudged back the slide of his Sig just far enough to confirm a round was seated comfortably in the pipe. Then, with careful precision, Stan moved into the room. Half extending his arms, he toured the single room space, treating each nook and cranny with extreme caution. Finding nothing in the main living space, he turned his attention to the bathroom. With the same methodical movements he cleared that room as well. Then, stepping back through the front door, he reholstered. Gentlemen, were clear. Hawk and I re-holstered and Naomi mumbled something under her breath. The three of us filed into the office. I made a bee line for the small ancient safe in the kitchen corner. Normally camouflaged beneath a checkered tablecloth and an artificial flower in a two dollar vase, it now stood open and naked to the world. The table cloth was lying beside it in a heap. A few scattered receipts and mementos were all that remained of its contents. Jesus, said Murkowski, I hope you boys didnt have any cash in there. No, I said looking down at the empty safe and then over at Hawk, We dont normally see a lot of cash around here. I sorted through the papers on the floor with the toe of my shoe. The only thing missing is my sense of privacy.

When Swapping Stories Stan insisted we all clear out of the office while his aging crime lab lady, Beatrice, dusted for prints. He also had premier cop screw-up, Hanlin, comb the grounds for anything left behind by the intruder. In the meantime, the four of us walked back out to the street and climbed into Hawks air conditioned boat. Stan and Naomi looked a bit uncomfortable, the two of them grudgingly sharing the SUVs backseat. My guess is their discomfort would have spiked
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even higher had they known they were sitting on a genuine Lawrence J. Hawktree weapons cache. I amused myself with the thought. Then, turning sideways in my front passenger seat, I broke the awkward silence. So why did the two of you come over today? Stan spoke first. Dont know about princess trigger finger here, but I came to trade some newsmine for yours, on Melendez. Alright, Stan... And since youve got the dress blues on, how bout you go first? Stan glanced at Naomi and frowned. He looked back at me and frowned some more. No can do. Not with her sitting here taking notes. Naomi snapped her head in his direction. An ice cold smile appeared. I wouldnt worry about it, Dunn. I doubt that Winter Parks super cop here has shit to share anyway. Youve got a mouth on you. Ill give you that Murkowski observed calmly. The thing is, I dont want anything I say here to come back and bite me in the ass. You and Hawk I trust. Her, I dont. I hear you I said. Naomi shot me some ice. But, if youre going to trust Hawk and me, then youve got to trust our judgment too. And our judgment tells us that Miss Morales has no new plans to hire any hit men or go hunting on her own. Isnt that right, Miss Morales? Naomi bit the corner of her lip and stared out her window. She mumbled something inaudible. Sorry. I didnt catch that, I said. She took in a deep breath and held it briefly before releasing it slowly. I said, Youre right. No hirers. No hunting. Stan looked unconvinced. Hey, Stanshes ok. I said. Shes got it tied down. Not to worry. Yeah, right, he snarled. Your job and pension are not on the line here. Come on Stan. Give it a rest. Youre never going to retire anyway. You know that. Youre going to go out in a blaze of gunfire and glory defending Winter Park matrons and their freshly squeezed o.j. Come on, lets just do the talk thing.

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Stan grimaced and shook his head side to side. Alright. But I swear to God, if I so much as hear a rumor that a mysterious Latina avenger is on the loose, Im comin down hard. You, Sir, are a good and worthy officer of the law, I said grandly. Yeah. Whatever. So, heres it is. Forensics You mean Beatrice? I asked. Stan didnt smile, just continued. forensics pulled prints at three crime sights. The ATM where the old manI mean, Mr. Morales was shot; the garage apartment where you guys tangled with young Jesus Melendez; and that rundown ranch I shoved your way over in Azalea Park. No surprises there. At all three sights we came up with prints for our over-achiever, Angel Melendez. So, what about this Jesus? He a brother of Angels? Cousin. But, they were like brothers. Family says they were close. Shared the same attraction to firearms and easy money. The cousin seems to have been the more likeable of the two. Hed only shoot you if he had to. Angel, on the other Hand, seems to enjoy pulling the trigger, likes the whole bad boy power trip. Hell shoot you in the head just to see which way youll fall. Naomi turned toward the window again and looked out. Her face showed no emotion, just a fixed and distant sort of determination. Stan continued. So, forensics confirmed what we were pretty sure we knew already. We have one very vicious psychopath on our hands. That means he doesnt play by the rules, and he doesnt lose sleep over bodies or families at funerals. Sick puppy I said. Yeah, he is that. We also tied his prints to two other unrelated murders from six months back. One was a 7-11 clerk out near Mouse Country on International Drive; and the other was an eighty year old retiree over near Goldenrod. Goldenrod? Thats out near Azalea Park? Bingo. Hawk spoke up for the first time. So how many this guy kill?

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Well thats just it, Mr. Hawk. No one knows for sure. We have three confirmed victims. But this kids been out on the streets now for about five years. So, who knows. Four? Five? Twenty-five? I cant say. Nobody can. But I will tell you one thing. This young turk is one brutal son-of-a-bitch. I watched the tapes from the 7-11 killing. There was no way he had to shoot that clerk. He just did it. And on the way out of the store, the son-of-sbitch looks up at the camera and bows from the hip. Its like he was auditioning for an old Al Pacino movie. So, if you run across this guy Already did I said. Right, well, if you run across him again, just be locked and loaded. This is one wicked, crazy bastard. Stan looked at me. I thought he was going to say Im done, youre turn. Instead, he continued. Theres one other thing, and this stays right here in this big black toaster. He looked at each of us in turn, until all three of us had nodded in agreement. We found a shitload of prints over at the Azalea house. Thats not unusual. Angel has lots of street friends. Most of the prints were from the usual batch of petty thieves and big time losers. But there was one surprise, and its a big one. Stan paused to build suspense. Stan I said. share the news, wouldya, at least before your memory goes He grunted once before delivering his big news. We lifted a print off the toilet. Its funny, even folks who are trying not to leave prints will forget themselves when they pull that flush handle. Guess they figure no one would dust for prints there or Stan, I said, Who? Youre going to like it. Stan, for Gods sake. Well now, I think youve met the man. I have. In fact, Im gonna see him later this morning. I glared. Stellar Stan said with a devilish smile... Darrin Stellar.

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He waited for my reaction. There was none, at least none to be seen. I was now down by the lake having a conversation with a smarmy councilman. I played back our conversation, tried to recall all that had he said and how he had said it. So, what the hell was our enlightened real estate guru doing in a street thugs safe house? Whos this Stellar? Naomi demanded. Youre sure about this, Stan? I asked. Whos this Stellar? Naomi repeated. I looked her way. Hes a self-centered son-of-a-bitch I met one time. I looked back at Stan. You sure the prints are his? Oh, Im sure said Stan, looking very pleased with himself. Checked them out myself twice. But that makes no sense, none at all. Stellars got cash rollin out his ass. He doesnt need drug money. No way. No how. Hey, Im just the messenger. So, what does this Stellar know about my grandfather? Naomi demanded. Dont know. I said, glancing her way. I turned back to Stan. You confronted Stellar yet? Well, hell no. Why would I do that? If I bring him in now for questioning, hell clam up and call in the worlds highest priced lawyer. Ill never get to the bottom of it. Hell walk and Ill lose my job. Besides, the mayor wouldnt appreciate my slapping handcuffs on Winter Parks very first White Knight recipient. You really do have financial security issues dont you? I asked with false concern. Fuck you, said Stan before continuing. So, instead of bringing him in, were watching everything he does. Got a court approved bug for the local mansion and one for the condo down in West Palm. Got a 24/7 tail. Even got a Lo-Jack buried on board both BMWs. Giving the man some rope, are we?

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Damn straight, lots of it. With any luck, hell tie the knot and slip it round his own neck. Stan, you really are a hopeful guy, arent you? He smiled. Oh yeahgotta stay positive. Stans report was finished. He said nothing more. Naomi said nothing. I said nothing. The 20 second silence that followed felt like twenty minutes. Stan caved first. Your turn. He said, looking in my direction. Right. Well, Officer Stan, I think you and your boys have dug up way more than we have. Really? Stan did not look convinced. Yep, fraid so. We checked out that Azalea Park house. Even went inside. Door unlocked was it? Absolutely. It worried us too. Someone leaving a door open for just anybody to stroll through. And what exactly did you boys find when you went through this unlocked door? Well, we looked very hard and very carefully, but I can truthfully tell you, we did not find a thing in that house. We did find it disgusting though, if that means anything. It doesnt said Stan. And, that was that Stan gave us a crafty smile. You boys didnt happen to hear an explosion while you were over there in Azalea Park, now did you? Hawk looked out over the hood of his SUV and cracked his knuckles quietly. I smiled back at Stan. Officer, I cannot tell a lie. We did hear an explosion. In fact, we kind of set it off Stan raised one eyebrow. Kind of set it off? Thats right. Seems our Mr. Melendez rigged up a pretty nasty little home security system, used a trip wire and an M67 grenade. Busy hands at homea crude but

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effective alternative to ADT. Cost per month is low too. Lucky for us, Hawk got to it before it went boom. Tossed it into the canal behind the house. So why the booby trap...I mean if there was nothing in the house to protect? I tried to look very puzzled. Who knows, Stan? Maybe at one time he had guns, or drugs, or who knows what in there. He probably left in a hurry and the booby trap never came down. Hell, knowing what we know about Melendez, he could have left it there just in case the neighborhood kids stopped by to trick or treat. Stan tilted his head to one side and stared back at me. I could see he was not convinced he was hearing the truth. Thats your story? Thats your progress report? Scouts honor, chief I said with a happy smile. He shook his head and looked as though he were smelling something foul. You know, after all these years of doing what I do, my bullshit meter has become very highly developed. And right now, the needle is all the way over in the red. I looked hurt. Stan, youre breakin my heart here. You know Hawk and I wouldnt keep a secret from you. What would be the point? Youd nail us every time. Bullshit. said Stan. Now the needles stuck all the way to the right. And heres the thing. Im just stupid enough to trust you boys. Just dumb enough to think you wont let me down. But, right now my gut and my BS meter tell me you both know more than youre saying. So, Im just going to go forward in the happy belief that you have a good and noble reason for not sharing right now. But, just remember, Ive got my neck stuck out on this one. So, act accordingly. Then, opening his door, he stepped onto the street. Before walking away, he leaned back through. Dont let me down, guys.

One on One Naomi had remained silent throughout most of the conversation, but her mind was racing just the same. Though she had listened with interest to all that Murkowski had had to say, it had raised more questions than it had answered. She remained uncertain
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how it all might affect her cause. She felt neither comforted nor reassured that any of it would lead anywhere. Frustration was biting at her heels. Not just the frustration of knowing her grandfathers killer was still walking the streets as a free man, but a whole new frustration driven by unfamiliar feelings and unanswered questions. It was no longer just about the curse of Angel Melendez, it was also about the dilemma of August Dunn. On her drive into Winter Park she had told herself she was making the trip to get an update; to see how her money was being spent; to better understand where the investigation was headed. The truth was, she was looking for answers beyond those she had about her grandfathers killer. She was now looking for answers that could explain some awkward feelings she had not felt before; awkward feelings that had arrived unannounced and uninvited. Though she had not welcomed these feelings, had in fact discouraged them, they had arrived just the same. Being the direct person she was, she had determined to come to Winter Park and get to the bottom of it. She wanted to know, had to know, two things. One: Who is August Dunn? Two: What exactly was this feeling that arrived whenever she was around him. I need to talk to you she said looking at me. Alone she added looking at Hawk. Hawk got the sledge hammer hint. Ill check on Beatrice. See if shes done. And he disappeared from the vehicle. The air conditioning had dropped the temperature in the truck to somewhere around absolute zero. I reached over and cranked the controls up to a friendlier Fahrenheit comfort zone. Well I said, I dont really have much to add to what I told Stan. Really, were still pushing. Well keep on pushing. But, right now, my report isnothing more to report. Naomi looked at me with a strange intensity and hint of confusion on her face. At first, I thought Id done something very wrong and was now going to pay for it dearly. Still, I couldnt be sure. I had not yet got a fix on just who this woman was or what it was she wanted from me. I waited for some clarification. You want to sleep with me, dont you? she said in a matter of fact tone. There was a crashing sound inside my head. What?! I blurted out. You want to sleep with me. Youve been thinking about it since day one, the first time I came to your office.

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I struggled to regain equilibrium. I was not raised to have such discussions. I led off with humor. Speaking of sex, your conversation could use a little more foreplay. Whats the matter, Dunn? You afraid to have this conversation? Cant say. Mixed feelings, I guess. And just what is that supposed to mean? Its supposed to mean I have mixed feelings. And whats that? Another way of saying you dont want to sleep with me. Or do you deny youve ever thought about it? Hey. Wheres the bailiff, your Honor? I havent been sworn in yet. You see she said. You see what you do. You make everything into a joke. Everythings a joke for you. Every statement is a straight line waiting for your punch line. But you dont fool me. No? No. In the end youre just a shallow, passionless man who uses his wit to avoid the tougher issues. Tougher issues? to avoid the tougher issues in life, the real questions that need answers. Such as? Such as Why are we here? Where are we going? What does it all mean? Questions like that. The basic questions of life. But, youre just like every other man Ive ever met. These questions never occur to you, and you never seek them out either. All you think about are your own fantasies and foolishness. All you care about, all any of you care about is getting your own needs met, taking your pleasures as though they were your right. She was building up a head of steam. Its men like youThere is suffering in this world and men like youMen like you She was stalling out from her own anger. Yeah I get it. You dont like the man I am In fact it sounds like you dont like men period. I guess thats because we mostly dont fit some image youve stuck together in your head about what the perfect man looks and sounds like. My guess is this imaginary
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male of yours is a cross between Albert Schweitzer and Arnold Schwarzenegger; a muscle bound ass kicker with a heart of gold. You know, the kind of guy who breaks arms and legs one minute and then delivers puppies to orphans the next. Talk about fantasies. Where the hell has your head been all these years that you havent figured out that manhood doesnt fit one mold? Stop lumping us all together, wouldya! I mean, some men fight. Some write poetry. If youre lucky, youll find one who can do both. But dont expect that man to be in touch his feelings or your needs 24/7. Not anymore than he should expect you to turn off your feelings, or fight your way through emotional pain without tears. I suddenly was aware that I was on the verge of raving. I concluded my diatribe with an eloquent What the fuck, lady! Still flushed with anger, she took a deep breath and leaned in my direction. I dont get you. I really dont. Youre old. Youre sarcastic. Youre distant. I get angry when Im around you. You make jokes at the wrong time. Not to mention, you dont have the slightest understanding of my people, or appreciation of my heritage. Feel free to stop the commentary any time now I said. I kind of get it, ok? But she continued, as though seeing clearly for the first time herself, as bad as I feel when Im with you, I do feel worse when Im not. Wow! I said You are new at this, arent you. Seriously, what is that? she asked What is that feeling? I dont know I said. You tell me. Naomi looked out her window in the direction of the office. To be honest, it feels a lot like when I was a little girl and I was with my brothers and my parents in our trailer. Even when it was raining or storming outside, I still felt safe and warm there with them. I knew that they loved me and that everything would be alright. I miss that. She stopped talking, but continued to look out her window. Well, I said in a milder tone, Ive always thought that safe and warm are highly underrated Naomi smiled a careful smile. Her voice and demeanor softened. She reached out tentatively and touched my arm. The silence that followed was not awkward. It was, instead, sweetly pleasant and warm a quiet, full-up moment of hope and possibility. To my surprise, the message that arrived in my heart was one I did not wish to run from. Reaching out as gently as I could, I brushed a wisp of beautiful black hair from her eyes. A stray tear or two meandered toward her lips.
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I dont understand any of this she said. Well, at the risk of falling back on humortheres no written exam, and I tend to grade on the curve. She smiled, then added with mock disapproval Youre not who youre supposed to be. Yeah, Ive had that feeling for a long time. So, what would you say, August Dunn, if I were to tell you that I am unexpectedlyattracted to you? I considered my answer with care before replying. I would say I absolutely have! Absolutely have what? she asked with genuine curiosity. have thought about sleeping with you from day one. Pretending to be shocked, she shook her head and raised her eyebrows. Shame on you, old man she said. Yes I replied, Im very disappointed in me as well. She laughed brightly. Then placing a dark, beautifully shaped hand on my cheek, she leaned forward and kissed me softly on the lips. This could be a real disaster she said. Or not I added.

* Damons Best Thinking Damon Darnell was still a mess. His smaller scrapes and bruises were starting to heal, but the more serious injuries he had received at the Briar Patch two weeks earlier meant he was still limited in what he could do on his own. Most of his time was spent in his room, ignoring the in-home rehab exercises his physician had recommended or in downloading online pornography. He left his parents home only once to meet with the law firm of Caper, Price and Sturgeon, one of the pricier law firms in town. They had

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advised him that a court hearing was now on the Orange County docket and would take place in just ten days. Damons parents lived in a three story estate home in Windsong Reserve. They had paid just under nine million for it and for the many amenities that came with it. One such amenity was the small servants room off the kitchen, near the back of the house. Damon had commandeered this room on his first day home from the hospital. Had he chosen to, he could have easily reached his own room via the elevator near the stairs. But early on, he determined that maneuvering his walker through its narrow doors was just too demanding. So, with his fathers approval, he had relocated himself, his games, his pornography, and his new Desert Eagle .50 caliber handgun to the modest servants room, just off the foyer. Maria Chavez, the rooms occupant for the past five years, simply moved her personal possessions out to the guest room over the garage. She did not protest or comment on this decision, but quietly complied. At age 62, and not eligible for social security, she was not about to risk unemployment or sudden homelessness. Instead, she waited patiently, above the familys matching Land Rovers, and hoped that she would be returning to her own room before the holidays. To this end, she said a daily prayer that Damons wounds would heal quickly and that, as so often had happened in the past, his legal problems would be overcome in court by a team of savvy lawyers. In the meantime, as Damon settled in to his new surrounds, he summoned her more and more to address his string of constant needs. Day or night, 24/7, she could expect her name to suddenly crackle in over the two way radio he insisted she carry. Maria, ice water! Maria, grilled cheese! Maria, scratch my back. Damon had spent most of his life alternating between low grade depression and anger. Ever since the unexpected events at the Briar Patch, the depression had remained constant, progressing from dark to black. He had stopped taking the Zoloft that his family physician had prescribed for him. He had stopped going to the homes of his two closest friends over on Genius Drive. And, he no longer grabbed a quick lunch of burritos and Dos Equis at Tijuana Flats up on Aloma Boulevard. He was eating very little and waking often during the night. Anger and resentment began to build once again. Thoughts of violent revenge pushed all other concerns from his mind. More than at any time in his young life, he was determined that something had to be done to set right the extreme injustices he had suffered. But how, when, and where remained the constant unanswered questions. And every violent plan and strategy he came up with abruptly ended with one unanswered questionWhere is Tristina now? Had it not been for a chance phone call from a former high school pal, Damons life might have gone in an entirely different direction.

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Scott Brailey was an old high school acquaintance who heard about Damons injuries through the grapevine. He decided on a whim to call and wish his old pal a speedy recovery, and to reminisce about the many parties they had attended, where young women and pricey drugs had been passed around freely. Scott brought Damon up to date on their former cocaine provider, Chalky, who had recently run afoul of the Orange County Drug Task Force. They had caught up with the 20 year old on the school grounds of the Winter Park High School. He was now awaiting arraignment down at the 33rd Street jail. In the course of the conversation, Scott had also remarked that he had been surprised to see that bitch Tristina again. Damon instantly went silent, now hanging on Scotts every word for the first time. Yeah, man. She was inside some big ass black Hummer. Looked like a bodyguard type with her. They were driving through the gates of that car dudes place over on Palmer. You know Millman, Carl The Car Man. The rest of Scotts conversation fell on deaf ears; as Damons thoughts became fixed and focused on the possibility of sudden and violent revenge. Later that day, he had Maria drive him past the Millman estate slowly. Scott had been right. A security guard was posted at the gate, his hulk of a Hummer parked across it on the other side. Damon knew at once that if he were ever going to reach his target in the main house, he would have to be creative and devise a totally unexpected plan. Back in his room, he lay awake for hours on Marias narrow mattress, struggling mightily for inspiration. From time to time, he would reach for the two way radio on the bedside stand, and bellow for assistance. Maria, Dos Equis. Six beers and three hours later, he was still tossing and turning restlessly. Persistent memories of Tristina ran through his mind. He seemed powerless to stop them. He remembered how they had met two years earlier at the restaurant. How she had seen him pull up in his new BMW, and had been impressed. He remembered how she had smiled and flirted with him as he ate his breakfast there. How she spent extra time at his table making playful conversation, so obviously wanting to know him better. He remembered the first time they had had sex, in the driveway of his home in his BMW. He remembered how good the first few months had been, and how excited she had been to announce that she was pregnant. That was when the trouble had started. She wanted to be married and have the baby. He wanted her to have an abortion, and return things to the way they had been. There had been arguments, outbursts, and more than once he had had to slap some sense into her. In the end, she had gone through with the abortion, all details having been handled discreetly by his father. Damon flinched as a sudden painful shock of pain radiated out from his hip in all
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directions. Reaching toward the night stand, he dispensed for himself a liberal serving of Percocet and Motrin, washing them down with a long swig of warm, flat beer. Damon hated Percocet. They had no punch. No immediate relief. Why couldnt they just leave him on the good stuff they used back in the hospital? Twenty minutes later he was drifting in and out of foggy sleep. At exactly 5:01AM, Damon stirred, then sat bolt upright in bed. He was wide awake, his eyes alert, his mind focused. Even the latest electric shock of pain caused by his sudden movement could not distract him from the epiphany sweeping over him. Just where the inspiration had come from, he could not say. All that he knew for sure was that his anguish and Tristinas life would soon be over.

Breaking News It was a Friday, Hawks day to disappear from the planet for six hours. I had gotten to the Briar Patch later than usual, and had just made it back to the office. The ugly yellow wall phone in the kitchen was ringing as I came through the door. I had grown strangely fond of the old phone. Many folks had long ago given up their land lines, relying on their cell phones for all communication. I felt smugly superior knowing that the first time a hurricane arrived, like good old Charlie back in 2004, my ugly phone and the value of a land line would once again be appreciated. I answered the phone using my official P.I. voice. Hawktree and Dunn Investigations, Dunn speaking. There was a brief silence at the other end. Then Hawks baritone rolled through the lines. Damn!, he said. You sound like the real deal. You guys any good I refused to take the bait, and cast a line myself. So, what the hell are you calling here for on a Friday morning? Shouldnt you be at a Soldier of Fortune brunch, or something? Hawk ignored me back. You need to turn on the local news. I do? You do.
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The emaciated female who was reporting the story from the Star Action News studio was struggling to catch her breath as she tried to relate all that was happening. Her community college degree in communication and her one year apprenticeship, had not adequately prepared her for such moments. She struggled on; eyes wide. A tragic situation has just unfolded here in Winter Park, here in this respected neighborhood well known for its upscalefullness. Just within this past hour, police and fire and paramedics have responded in response to a situation they could not have foreseen as arriving. It is a situation that is, Im sure, without president in this quiet, very quiet, Winter Park neighborhood. And now, to bring you all of it live as it has happened, we are taking you once again to our Star Action camera and to the police spokesperson, Sgt. Stanley Murkowski of the Winter Park police, now in progress. Hey, its Stanley! I said to the phone. Yeah. said Hawk. On my way. And the line went dead. I sat down on the edge of the plaid sofa and watched the old RCA floor model XL100, which had somehow survived the digital revolution. When all of North America had finally switched over to a digital signal, Hawk and I had looked forward to an upgrade from our benefactor. To our amazement, Millman had sent over a guy named Chuck to install a converter box. We had somehow become the unofficial keepers of ancient technologies. Stan was mid-sentence when the sound cut in. which concludes a very sad and dangerous situation for the good people of Winter Park. The suspect, as I said before, was just recently released on bond, for an incident in which he was charged with aggravated assault. That incident took place less than a mile from here at a restaurant on Park Avenue. What happened here this morning? a reporter shouted from the crowd in front of Stans makeshift podium. Is Mr. Millman ok? Was he hurt? Other reporters jumped in. Who does the plane belong to? Who was flying the plane when it crashed? A dozen other questions were shouted at the podium. Stan looked as though his blood pressure was headed for a new personal high. But, instead of showing anger or ferocity, he simply smiled for the cameras and held up both hands.
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Please, now folks. Let me just give you the information weve been able to piece together in the last 90 minutes since the first calls came in. Please. And he smiled like a big friendly bear. Damn, Stan I said to the XL100, I didnt think you had it in you. The reporters quieted down, still jostling for position. Stan continued. The call was placed by a neighbor of Mr. Millman, and that would be Mrs. Angela Blanchard-Pasternak. She stated that, while in her garden, she had witnessed a small plane crash onto Mr. Millmans property. While still completing her 91-1 call, she then reported hearing what she thought might be gunshots coming from the area of the crash. At that point, a number of additional 9-1-1 calls began to flow in. At least 7 other calls were recorded. The Winter Park police response was as follows. Officers and rescue personnel were dispatched immediately. All units were on scene within approximately five minutes. However, before paramedics could enter the Millman estate and assess the situation medically, the area first had to be secured. Our S.W.A.T. team, led by Lieutenant Aaron Pierson, then geared up and moved onto the estate grounds. How long did it take them to gear up? a reporter demanded. Stan ignored the question and methodically plowed forward. The entire compound was cleared and secured over the next 20 minutes. In the course of securing the area, one fatality was found and identified. That fatality is a Mr. Damon Darnell, a 25 year old resident of Windsong Reserve here in Winter Park. He is the son of Comstock Darnell, the owner of Darnells Alcohol Discount Outlets. Mr. Darnell and his wife were notified of his sons death just moments ago. How did Darnell die? asked a channel 9 reporter. The victim was found to have suffered numerous traumatic injuries, resulting from the severe impact that occurred when a, Stan looked down at his notes, 1966 Dehavilland DHC-2T aircraft struck an approximately four foot high stone wall on the property behind the house. So he died on impact? a disembodied voice shouted. Stan frowned, but continued. The exact cause of Mr. Darnells death is now part of our ongoing investigation. I can tell you that in addition to having suffered numerous impact
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injuries, Mr. Darnell also received a number of gunshot wounds, primarily to the upper torso. There was a moment of stunned silence followed by a stampede-circus atmosphere. Every reporter began to scream out their questions, totally disregarding all ground rules and decorum. Who shot him? How many bullet holes? Shot in the head or the back? Why didnt the plane explode? Murkowski once again demanded order, and eventually got it. The remainder of the press conference went along in pretty much the same manner... methodical reporting by Stan, interrupted sporadically by outbursts of rude questioning. Forty-two minutes later Stan concluded his first public information statement on the incident. He promised that more updates would follow. He also advised the media and the community that Mr. Millman, and his guest Tristina Radkowski, were both safe and well. A single passing reference was made to the elite protective unit that had been hired by Millman. They were referred to as several private security persons employed by Mr. Millman. Finally, the pilot of the old plane was identified as an aging Vietnam scout plane driver named Gary Gagliardi. Somehow Gary had survived the crash with nothing more than a broken arm, some bruised ribs, and a twisted ankle. It was not the first time he had walked away from a plane crash unscathed. But that was his story, and a long ago story at that.

Catching Up The dead bolt on the front door turned and Hawk stepped through. He glanced over at the TV which was now replaying Stans press conference. Young buck; bad plan, he said. Before he could close the door behind him, a familiar voice called out.
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Hold up there, cowboy! Hawk pulled the door wider as Stan brushed passed him. You two catch my celebrity moment. Oh yeah, I said. The blue of your uniform really brought out the bullshit in your story. Stan looked hurt. Bullshit? I laid it all out, exactly as we found it. Really? What about Millmans mercenary team that you described as several security personnel? Stan did the half smile thing before explaining. Yeah, well, Millman asked that we play that part down. He doesnt want to be considered crazy or scared or some such shit like that here in the community where he sells so many cars. And so? And so I figured what the hell. Heres a solid citizen, a very influential solid citizen, asking for a small favor. Whats it going to matter in the long run? Who cares if there were two rent-a-cops on premises or seven professional mercenaries? The storys the same. The kid was the perp. Hes dead. End of story. I studied Stan carefully. He was one of a handful of men I respected and would trust with my life. But, the one thing he was not was a cop who easily gave into civilian requests to alter the facts. I didnt say a word, just stared back at him. His Catholic upbringing kicked in. He was feeling guilty. Look, you know this guy lost his daughter a few years back. You found her body. Well, I worked that case from here. I never saw a man so torn up over anything. I felt bad for the guy then, and I still feel bad for him. His daughter was only a few years older than mine is now when she disappeared. I can relate, ok? Thats all. I can guess what that would do to a father. So, yeah, I cut him a break. He did me a favor when he took in this Tristina. He didnt have to do that. But, he did, in an effort to keep another young woman from being hurt or killed. I admire that, respect it. And to be honest, Im tired of the bad guys catching all the breaks. Besides, the news media is all over this. Theyll figure out in short order that the magnificent seven out there at the Millmans estate did not acquire their skills at a boy scout pistol range. Stan plunked his frame down hard at the other end of the sofa, and put his feet up on old antiqued foot locker that had been converted into a coffee table sometime in the sixties. You got a cold beer?
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Officer Murkowski, Im shocked. You are on duty, sir. True he said. But, you only serve that faux shit anyway. You dont want the faux shit? Is it cold? Oh yeah! Ill take it. I got up to retrieve the beer, and Hawk sat down at the table near the window. What happened out there? he asked. I handed Stan the cold ODouls. He took a long pull that nearly emptied the bottle. Hot as hell. he said, then looked over at Hawk. Well, for starters, this asshole Damon kid comes up with the brilliant idea that hes going to kill his girlfriend by flying a plane full of Avgas into the Millman house. Im not 100 per cent on this, but Im guessing he already knew about the ring of security around the Millman place, and this was his idea of a solution. Stan looked in my direction. Just pain brilliant, right? Well I said, guess once he learned that Tristina was hold-up at Millmans place, he wasnt going to stop until she was dead. Seems to me he came pretty close to making that happen. Stan paused before finishing off the rest of the beer. Actually, he said This tastes pretty good! So, whered the plane come from? I asked. Came from the Executive Airport down off Colonial. Damon had his housekeeper drive him down there and drop him off. Then he shows up with a handgun the size of a Shaq high top, and strong arms the first pilot he comes to. That would be a Mr. Anthony Gagliardi who was washing down his newly restored Dehavilland Beaver. Stan paused and looked up to the ancient popcorn ceiling, as he recalled a pleasant memory. Nice guy. Sweet plane! he said. Then, just as quickly, he returned to earth. So, then Damon sticks this Desert Eagle in Gagliardis ear and gives him a choice Fly or Die he says Fly or die. Gagliardi, being a man of some wisdom, chooses door number one. Ten minutes
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later, the planes fueled up, and rolling down the runway and into the friendly blue skies above Orlando. Didnt you say during your official five minutes of fame that the plane was made back in the 60s? That I did. So, how the hells it still flying? Well, I guess its kind of like you, Dunnold and tired, but still able to clear the tower. Stan laughed at his own cleverness. Plus, he added, the original radial engine was replaced a few years back withhe looked up at the ceiling again to improve his recalla PT6 turbopropwhatever the hell that means!. Hawk spoke up. Means the engine burns kerosene, not aviation gasoline. Means it runs on the least explosive of all the liquid fuels. Stan chuckled and shook his head. So, youre saying that Damon, without knowing it, managed to pick the one plane on the tarmac that was the least likely to go boom. Yes, said Hawk . Thats what Im saying. Son of a bitch! Stan laughed, Looks like Gagliardi caught a break and our Mr. Darnell made one last bad choice. Looks like. Hawk agreed. That plane topped off fuselage and wing holds maybe 140 gallons of fuel. So, Damon thought he could just get this guy to fly his plane and the two of them into Millmans mansion? I asked. Oh yeah, that was definitely the plan said Stan, holding up his empty ODouls bottle. You wouldnt have another one of these around would you? A few seconds later I presented Stan with a second frosty bottle. He took a short swig this time, before continuing his story. Im guessing this kid was high on something for him to think up such a half-ass plan. You knowto believe it could actually work. And, heres how it went wrong. As he and Gagliardi approach Millmans estate flying in over Lake Osceola, Damon shoves the Desert Eagle against Gagliardis head one more time and demands he drop the plane

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down to tree top level. Gagliardi complies. Almost immediately, one of Strangs men guarding the dock sees this maneuver and radios to the rest of the team. Even before the plane reaches the estate, Millman and Tristina have been hustled into the safe room. Safe room? I commented. Nice touch, Carl! Stan reported the rest of the story with noisy gusto, adding chunks of color here and there. Apparently, as the plane approached the Millman dock, just fifty feet above the water, Damon shouted for the pilot to steer them into the main house. Gagliardi knew he had to risk doing something extreme or die on impact. Having flown a couple hundred scout plane missions in Vietnam, he was no stranger to making tough calls quickly. Reaching down with one hand, he cinched his safety harness as tight as it would go; he toggled off the fuel and power and steered for a short stone wall a hundred feet short of the house. Drugged and focused on what lay ahead, Damon took no notice. The hand full of Percocets he had swallowed back at the airport had kicked in with a thump. Sitting in the hard military style seat beside Gagliardi, he began to view the unfolding events as an exciting ride at Disney. He wondered, with detachment, just what the crashing climax would feel like. Just before the plane reached the wall, Gagliardi dropped altitude abruptly. A few short seconds later, both large floats beneath the plane stabbed into the sturdy New England style wall full force. The crafts momentum carried it tail over end, driving the propeller hard into the manicured lawn. Glass shattered and struts snapped as twisted metal torqued against metal. The tail of the plane rotated over the nose before slicing a garden lovers bench into two tombstone looking slabs of granite. Then, like a graceless broken Condor, the inverted plane thumped to a lifeless stop just 50 feet short of the mansions terrace doors. Amazingly, the wings of the plane remained intact. Though leaking fuel, they did not rupture or ignite. Gagliardi was hanging upside down and unconscious from his safety harness. Damon, having bounced violently around the cockpit, now found himself laying half in and half out of it. His body was broken and bleeding from multiple new injuries. Initially, he too had lost consciousness on impact. But he had resurfaced quickly, just in time to see Strangs men cautiously approaching the wreckage, weapons at the ready. A random pattern of green laser dots lit up Damons chest and head. A reasonable man would have known the fight was over, would not have made death his choice. Damon was no longer a reasonable man. True to his self-induced trance, and with his mind muddled and numbed by pain medication, he reached for the Desert Eagle that had somehow come to rest just a few feet away. Lifting himself up on one elbow, he managed a short,
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mumbled soliloquy. Tristina loves me, he said, then attempted to squeeze off the seven rounds of .50 caliber in the direction of the Millman mansion. He managed one shot, before Strangs men opened up in unison. Sixteen head and chest rounds tore through his body at high velocity. Damon Darnell died instantly, a misguided young man; his body full of bullets, pain meds, and confused beliefs. His bizarre E- ticket dream ride was over.

Dreams For Sleep Im usually pretty good at wrestling Morpheus to the ground. I like to sleep and Im good at it, at least most of the time. But, this night was different. Maybe it was the sudden death of a troubled rich kid. Someone who had every break and benefit, save the blessing of being civilized by two loving parents. Maybe it was Naomis voice and the seductive vision of her that kept returning to my minds eye. Whatever the cause, my sleep was troubled and fleeting. Morpheus would invite me in, only to chase me away with disturbing dreams and visions. It is evening and I am standing on one of the loading docks in Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam. The dark rolling mountains across the way are almost black against a fireball sunset. I look to my left and I see a small dirty village pulsing with life. Teenage prostitutes and children with missing limbs rattle up and down its dusty main drag. Soldiers in slant pocket jungle fatigues stroll in and around the open market place booths. A Beatles song from the Revolver album is pounding out over a cheap sound system. A young boy of perhaps nine years is competing for attention as he strums on a broken mandolin and sings out a fractured version of Never on a Sunday. An older boy implores a passing GI to come see his sister who is Number one bang-bang. I am suddenly aware of a bright white light floating beside me. I recognize its source and turn to face a young and vigorous Jesus. I am not at all surprised to see him there and proceed to speak to him calmly, I cant do this. Its not right. And youre right to feel that way he replies with equal calm. Now come with me. Weve got a job to do. He extends his hand in my direction. Two F-4 Phantoms streak by overhead, their afterburners shaking the ground on which I stand. They climb to altitude and disappear over the mountains. I look back at Jesus. He
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is shading his eyes as he watches the jets disappear. Now, those boys mean business! he says with enthusiasm. I notice that there are two bandoliers of 7.62 Nato ammo strung across his chest. He is also wearing a green beret in the style of Che Guverra. The soft folds of his pure white robe move gently in the sultry breeze. I didnt think you did this sort of thing. I say cautiously. Usually, I dont he replies. But these are special times. And sometimes you have to change the rules if you want to save them. I look relieved. Now, that makes sense I said. It really does. So, what should I do now? Just do what you can. he said. Then picking up a long heavy rifle he turns to walk away. Wait I call after him. He turns back in my direction. Yes, my son? How come you carry an M-14 instead of an M-16? Tighter groups at greater distance he reassures me. Then, once again he floats up and away slowly. Youre not a sniper, are you? I call after him. But he is already gone. Then, looking back toward the village, I notice that the streets are now empty, market stalls abandoned. Small flickering lights glow from within clustered shacks that have been fashioned from flattened beer cans. The smell of burned pork and cooking rice fill the air. They mix with other strong odorsstale beer, cheap perfume, Marijuana, and urine. I unbutton a fatigue pocket and pull out a dog-eared color photo. I stare down at the image of a beautiful young woman in a fringe bikini. She smiles back at me and then briefly comes to life. Please come home now she says. I feel grateful for her words. Im trying I tell her. Then, carefully, I return the photo to my pocket. I reach down and pick up my rifle. Across the bay I can see two small dots hovering against the sun. They are helicopters, Hugheys. Funnel shaped cones of light extend down from their bellies to the mountain

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below as 50 caliber tracers carve a narrow path of destruction through the mountain foliage. Interdiction a small voice says from nearby. I look down and it is one of the young boys from the village. He is missing the lower part of one leg. He is leaning on a short homemade cane, fashioned from sticks and twine. Interdiction he repeats. Interdiction? I parrot. Yes. Interdictionto delay, disrupt, or destroy enemy forces or supplies en route to the battle area. The boy smiles againand I forgive you, he says. A wave of anger, sorrow, and remorse sweep over me. I remove the 20 round magazine from my rifle, and gently hand him the weapon. It is taller than he is, but he accepts it gratefully. Then leaning on the M-14, he carefully hands me his crude cane. Youre going to need this, you know he says matter-of-factly. There is a sudden flash of light from across the bay followed by a hot rush of gases and a windstorm of debris. I am blown backwards onto the sand. I am stunned and confused, but struggle to my feet. I look out over the bay. It is bubbling, steam rising. The mountains are gone. The boy is gone. The cane he gave me is broken and burning. I look once more in the direction of the village. I am relieved to see it is still standing. Lights glow softly from its many small structures. Tears of gratitude fill my eyes. Looking up, I once again see Jesus floating high overhead. Interdiction matters, Augie. He says with certainty. I think about his words before I reply with obvious indignation. Dont call me Augie, I insist. You dont know me that well. Jesus smiles down at me, not unlike the smile just delivered by the boy. One more thing, he adds. What? Hard rules can be hell. What?
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Pudding is good, but sometimes we need a steak. I shake my head and laugh out loud. Oh well, thanks for that. I meancould you please be vaguer! I shout with dripping irony. But Jesus is neither hurt nor dissuaded by my words. He tilts his head to one side as though considering a problem. Then speaking in single syllable words he says very slowly. I just told you what you need to know. I will add thisnow and then, we have no choice. And there the dream ends. Suddenly, I am wide awake, staring up at the large wooden fan that lazily rotates above the ugly sofa. That was a shitty dream I say out loud, hoping to slough off its power. But feelings of fear, sorrow, anxiety and foreboding still fill me up. They seem excessive, but do not leave easily. An hour passes before I can return to my restless sleep.

Now and Then Naomi awoke with a start. She was certain she had heard a noise, but could not yet decipher whether it had come from a faded dream or from the real world outside her grandfathers trailer. Throwing back the single sheet that covered her body she sat upright; naked and alert in the small darkened room. She listened intensely for the slightest unfamiliar sound. Unlike many, who awake slowly and with effort, Naomi had always awakened with her full powers up and running, all five senses sharp and ready. Waiting in the dark now, she could make out the distant sound of sirens coming from the direction of Orange Blossom Trail. Nothing unusual there. She could also hear the hollow rattle of bamboo wind chimes coming from the porch of Charlie Wu, her aging neighbor. Tempted to drop back into sleep, something cautioned her to wait and listen a bit longer. Then, barely audible, she imagined she could hear something moving across the decaying wooden porch her grandfather had built so many years ago. Stealing herself, she swung both feet onto the floor. Then reaching into the nightstand she grasped the large black revolver she had placed there, and shifted her weight forward onto her feet.
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Quietly, she pulled on the oversized Cyndi Lauper t-shirt she had found at a yard sale. Moving carefully in the direction of the front door, she recalled with fearful clarity how flimsy its modest flip lock actually was. Almost to the door, she hesitated, stopping to draw in several slow, deep breaths. Again, she heard some muffled movement coming from the porch. Looking down at the thin metal latch shaped like an old car handle, she imagined she could see it move, ever so slowly, up and down. For the first time, she remembered her cell phone sitting on the bedside table, quietly charging up its batteries. Why had she not dialed 9-1-1? Why had she not picked up the phone and brought it with her. A desolate feeling of isolation swept over her. She was alone, adrift without a lifeline. Again, the latch moved. And this time she knew, with a sickening certainty, it was not her imagination. As the door latch twitched and shook with a sudden violent energy, her worst fears swept over her! Someone was on the other side of the trailer door, testing the lock! Someone was trying to get in! Naomis heart rate accelerated, as her mouth went dry. Blood pulsed and pounded through her veins. Her head began to buzz with the distant hum of angry bees. But, fear did not win, and Naomi Morales did not waiver. Instead, a fierce determination, born of anger and outrage, swept over her. She had spent her life, it seemed, being the passive victim of the hurtful and the uninvited. And for the first time, she was sure beyond all doubt, that she was ready to say No more! Her eyes narrowed into two determined slits, as she lifted the heavy handgun resting in her right hand and pointed it at the center of the door. Pulling back the aging curved hammer, she heard it click into a cocked position. Then cupping the gun tightly in both hands, she pushed it forward until both of her elbows locked. Then, just as she had been instructed on her visit to the gun shop, she dropped her right leg back behind her left, feet shoulder width apart. Clenching her jaw, she waited, adrenalin surging wildly through her body. Charlie Wu was 83, and his hearing very poor. But, even he had heard the sound of two loud gunshots from the trailer next door. Reaching for the ancient green phone stapled to his wall, he quickly dialed 9-1-1 to report what he had heard. Then cautiously moving to the front window of his trailer, he peeked through its dusty ornate curtains to describe to the operator the scene outside. The porch light to the Morales trailer was dark, which was unusual. Even so, he could make out what he believed to be a lifeless body lying in a crumpled mass across his neighbors porch. He froze in place and silently looked on, as the 9-1-1 operator raised her voice to demand more details. But, Charlie could say no more. His brain had unexpectedly disconnected from his tongue. His thoughts now refused to transform into words. He could only stare out his small window, transfixed by what he saw. Within a few short minutes, the sound of police and
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rescue sirens could be heard careening off of Orange Blossom Trail as they made their way toward the trailer park. Not wanting to get involved, Mr. Wu gently turned off his porch lights before returning to his window to watch. Initially, Orlando police had arrived in three squad cars, weapons drawn. They had made their way with some caution to the body on the porch and to the occupant inside the trailer. A short time later, all of the lights in the trailer had gone on, as police and EMTs swarmed the scene. Mr. Wu, who had at first surmised with certainty that the body on the porch was a no longer of the living, was now surprised to see rescue personnel frantically applying first aid and CPR to it. Ten minutes later, the body had been placed on a gurney and rolled on to a waiting county ambulance. Charlie watched in wonder as lifeless limbs began to move and twitch in the blinding emergency lights that were everywhere. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the noisy, flashing ambulance disappeared through the trailer park entrance, its broken human cargo strapped securely in place. Refocusing his attention, he could now see uniformed and casually dressed police officers come and go from the trailer. He was still watching when Naomi Morales was carefully placed in the back of a police car and driven away. It was nearly daylight before Charlie could get back to sleep. He was still dazed by the fact that the one event that he had dreaded would happen for fifteen years, had finally come to pass. In all those years dread and anticipation, Charlie had not left his trailer. Certain that to step outside the safety of his metal home would most certainly result in violence, pain, and death he had remained locked inside it. For thirteen of those years, his daughter Patricia had brought him his food, clothing, newspapers, and insulin. And, since her abrupt departure with a pawn shop owner named Dwight, Charlie had been forced to rely on the kindness of neighbors, and the Meals on Wheels program for all his needs. Now, having actually witnessed the fearful event that he had for so long dreaded, something was inexplicably shifting inside him. The debilitating spell of fear cast long ago, now began to melt away from his troubled heart. For the first in recent memory, a surge of hope and possibility began to surface. The very next morning, immediately following his breakfast of pureed rice and carrots, Charlie amazed his neighbors by walking out of his trailer and down to the 7-11 store two blocks away. He bought a pack of Tiparillo cigars, a large Snickers bar, a half-dozen spicy chicken wings, and a large can of Full Throttle soda. So encouraged was he by the success of this outing that, two weeks later, he sold his trailer for three thousand dollars cash, and took a Greyhound bus to California. His sister, Mai, was confused and delighted when she opened her front door early one morning to find her hermit older brother standing there before her tired and small and smiling. He carried a ragged overnight bag in one hand, and a worn leather satchel containing his insulin, meter, and needles in the other.
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Charlie would live out the rest of his days among family members and new friends. He would watch the world pass from a comfortable lawn chair and would rest in dappled sunshine, as a warm Santa Ana breeze blew soft across his face.

Coffee Donuts Friends When I answered the ugly yellow phone, I was expecting it to be a wrong number. It was, after all, still 5:30 in the morning. Surprised to hear Naomis voice, a warm surge of good feelings rolled through me. The feeling was quickly replaced with concern as I heard the stress and agitation in her voice. August...something happenedsomething bad. My stomach tightened. You alright, Naomi? August, I shot someone. He broke through my front door. Came toward me. I had to He had a metal bar or something. I shot him. He just smashed his way in. I shook the morning cobwebs from my head and I tried to focus. You shot him? Yes. I shot him. The police came. They talked to me. Im here at the Orlando Police station. They say I can go. They told me to stay in town I tried to speak in a calm and reasonable tone. Are you ok? Are you hurt? No, Im fine. Just shook up. It was all strange and scary andI couldnt hear much of anything for a few hoursthe gun went off in the trailer. And noIm fine now. Good, Naomi. Thats good. Now listen, Im coming down to get youok. I could take a cab. I know. But, Id rather you didnt. Just wait there, and Ill be over in about twenty minutes.
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There was a silence at the other end of the line. You there? I asked. August? Yeah? Can you make it fifteen? On the drive over, I called Hawk and filled him in. In sixty at the office he said, in abbreviated Hawk-speak. An hour later, the three of us were sitting around the big table, dipping Dunkin Donuts into large cups of black coffee. Hawk and I listened as Naomi went over the details of her terrifying night. She said that she wanted to tell the story in broad daylight...wanted to talk it through, make sense of it. Leaning slightly forward in her chair, she began her story. She described how she had been awakened by a noise, had gotten her grandfathers gun, and had shot the intruder who had pried open her front door with a crow bar. I heard him on the other side of the door. I yelled out that Id called the police and that I had a gun. But, thisderanged nuton the other side of the door just laughed. And then he shouts backYou dont have a gun, and I dont think you called anybody. And then he starts banging on the door with the crow bar, and prying at the door lock with it. Naomi paused to regain some composure. She continued. After maybe a minute of prying and banging and cussing, he busts the lock and the door flies wide open. Thats when he came insideafter me. I yelled for him to stop. Ill shoot , I said. But, he didnt stop. I mean it was crazy. He laughed! Why would he laugh? Why didnt he just leave? I told him I had a gun. Why didnt he just leave? Naomi got up from the table, her coffee cup cradled in both hands. Walking to the picture window, she looked out over the lake. There was an extended silence. What did the police say? I asked softly. They said hed probably live and that I was lucky to be alive. They said they recognized him, called him a crackhead . I dont know. I guess hes been in jail more than once, hurt people. They said hes been a suspect in two murders, but has been never

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convicted. I guess they have enough to charge him now, make it stick this time. They seemed pretty happy he was off the streets. Did they talk about motive? They said it was most likely attempted robbery, since this guy does a lot of drugs and always needs cash. Naomi pressed her forehead against the window, clouding it over with a deep sigh. Whats going on, August? Whats happening? First, my grandfatherand now this. Whats wrong with these men? Where are they coming from? Everywhere said Hawk, answering her rhetorical question. Boy warriors and theyre coming from everywhere he added. Naomi looked over at him, but said nothing. Boy warriors Hawk repeated. Their bodies are grown. Their thinking is not. Never been civilizednever been taught right from wrong. Never seen real men in their lives, just sad imitations. They confuse anger and power with manhood. Not knowing quite how to respond, Naomi nodded thoughtfully, then turned back to look out over the lake again. So, wheres does it all end then? she said to no one in particular. Hawk shrugged his shoulders. That he said is in the hands of moms and dads and God above. Naomi looked at Hawk, as though seeing him for the first time. Hawk looked back and the room was suddenly silent. Anyone need another donut? I asked. Hawk and Naomi both looked in my direction with consternation. I smiled back at the frowns. Sorry, boys and girls. Just trying to remember something sweet.

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Murk in the Morning Naomi slept on the sofa. Hawk and I unfolded a couple of dusty army cots that had been stored in the garage downstairs. It was nearly daylight before Naomi finally drifted off. Hawk was asleep within ten minutes of going horizontal. My sleep setting was somewhere in-between. It was nearly noon, before all three of us came back around. Hawk, being the first one to rise and shine, made a fresh pot of coffee and a large scramble of eggs in an old iron pan. And, by the time Naomi and I were on our feet and moving, Hawk had added toast and orange juice to the menu. First he speaks and now he cooks! Naomi said in a teasing tone. A faint smile threatened to appear on Hawks face. He turned back toward the stove, lest someone notice his human side. Sitting down, we all made nice, but mostly eating in silence. I was in the middle of passing Naomi a packet of stolen Briar Patch strawberry preserves, when the unmistakable thumping sound of Stan Murkowski could be heard storming up the office stairs. I beat the good lieutenant to the door by a few seconds, opening it just as his fist was forming to knock. Stan was red in the face and out of breath. Come on in, Stan I said. You might as well die in some cool air. Rattling past me, he waived his hand in greeting and made his way to Naomis make shift bed that had not yet morphed back into its plaid sofa self. Plunking down in a breathless heap, he pointed toward his mouth to communicate the need for something wet. Hawk brought him a tall glass of tap water over ice cubes. Stan drank it down without stopping. Thanks he finally gasped. Then handing the glass back to Hawk, he nodded in the direction of the kitchen to indicate a second glass would be appreciated. A few minutes later the second glass had been emptied and he was starting to come back around. Glancing around the apartment, Stans observation skills began to kick in. Looking first at the cots, and then down at the open sofa, he pressed his empty glass of ice cubes to his forehead.
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Now this is cozy he said. Did I miss a slumber party? Naomi frowned, but didnt look up from her toast. Stan, you do know what happened last night, right? I mean, you do know that Naomi put a hole in a bad guy? he said finishing my sentence. Oh yeah. I know exactly what happened last night. I read it in the paper. I saw it on the morning news. And, I just finished thirty minute chat with Patterson, over at Orlando PD. In fact, thats why Im here. Come to sort through this thing. What do you mean sort through? I asked. I mean sort through as in something stinks. Somethings not right. And, Im here to try and sort out just where the smell is coming from. Stan stood up for the first time and strolled to the picture window that seems to attract everyone. He kept the frosty glass of ice pressed against his face. I wanted to hear the details of what happened from the person it happened to. Naomi put down the small piece of toast she had been pretending to eat, and pushed her chair back from the table. I already gave my statement to the police she said. Yeah said Stan, I know. Read the copy they faxed me. So, why do you need to have me repeat it? , Naomi asked with more than a little irritation in her voice. Stan shrugged and shook the ice cubes in his glass. Look he said making eye contact with Naomi, I know you had a tough night. I dont doubt it. But I got this feeling, this nagging nasty feeling that what happened to you was not the random drug driven robbery OPD is going with. What do you mean? Naomi demanded. What I mean isI think this guy you shot Naomi cringed. This guy continued Stan, is more than a violent crackhead. Hes a violent, mean sonof-a-bitch whos been out on the streets for a long damn time. If he was just out for drug money, he could have rolled some tourist looking to score some tail down on OBT. Thats a whole hell of a lot simpler than breaking into an occupied dwelling with someone inside shouting theyve called the police.
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Naomi looked troubled. So, if it wasnt a robbery, what then? That said Stan, I do not know. But, on first glance, Id say either youve got something this guy wants, or you know something he doesnt like you knowing. Any possibility you might know what that something is? Naomi clicked back into defensive mode. No. I dont. she said flatly. What about you two? Anything youd like to share? Get off your chest? He looked first at Hawk and then me. I smiled and shrugged, while Hawk continued to study an imaginary spot on the carpet. Stan shook his head and set his glass of ice cubes down on the table. Youre a hard bunch of folks to help, you know that? But, OK. Have it your way. Just dont think I dont know youre holding something back. In fact, based on past experience, Id have to say thats one of the things you boys do best. But, heyits your collective ass, not mine. Still, if I had to fill out your report cards today under the category, plays well with others Im afraid Id have to check off Needs Improvement for the both of you. Stan, I said with an earnest expression, Im shocked and hurt. Truly, shocked and hurt that you feel that way. Stan did not look amused. Seriously, I added, if we had something to share on this one, youd hear it first. This is all very personal right now. I looked over at Naomi. Someone went aftertried to kill her. So, we will not be holding back anything; not if theres a chance its going to make her safer. Stan pursed his lips as though he were about to kiss his grandmother. Alright, guys. Ill take it for what it is, for now. You know where to find me if things change. Im not done with this. Not done at all. Ive asked OPD to lean harder on this son-of-a-bitch. Well see. Ill let you know. He looked at each at of us, one at a time. But, if you find out anything, dont run off all locked and loaded. Got it? This is a police matter. You call me. You talk to me. Ill show up. Well get it done. Yes? From your mouth to our ears I said. Stan shook his head as he moved toward the door.

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Why do I even come here? he muttered. I dont know, Stan. Im guessing its either Hawks conversation or my profound respect for the law? Stan opened the office door and stepped through it. As always he said Thanks for fuckin nothing.

* Out of the Blue Its pretty common knowledge that law enforcement does not trust coincidence when searching for the truth. They tend to go quite skeptical whenever it shows up in their fact based investigations. But, as with every commonly accepted rule, exceptions crop up at the oddest times. Such was the case when Carl Millman opened up a package post marked St. Lucia. The package had arrived on the very day that his daughter Brianna had graduated from medical school. The return address was marked Constable St. Lucia Official Business. The contents of the package had arrived with a brief cover letter.

Dear Mr. Millman, Recently, our local government offices were relocated to a newer facility. In the process of preparing for such a move, police evidence lockers were examined for possible extraneous items, those no longer required for active investigations. One such item that was identified in our review is the enclosed camera believed, by this office, to have been the property of your daughter, Brianna. Please note that the cameras film has been developed and a total of thirteen pictures created and enclosed, along with all negatives. It was only by developing this aging film that our office was able to finally determine who the owner of the camera might be. Fortunately, one of the officers who participated in the original investigation of your daughters death recognized her image from the photographs. Please accept our sincere apologies for the delay in returning to you these items that belonged to your daughter. They were apparently mislabeled and misplaced some years ago, along with other unrelated artifacts. We will, of course, investigate further the cause of this oversight to determine what changes we can institute to ensure such an unfortunate oversight does not occur in the future.
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With deepest condolences and utmost respect, I remain your faithful public servant. Phillip Antoine Administrative Adjutant Criminal Investigation Department Gros Islet Police Department Royal Saint Lucia Police Force Gros Islet, St. Lucia * Tacos and Time Bombs It was nearly one in the afternoon, and the Central Florida sun was baking all before it, reminding tourist and resident alike that it, not they, was the Big Kahuna in town. Shimmering waves of hot air rose from concrete and asphalt, as office workers lumbered from air conditioned cubicles into the lung stabbing heat of Orlandos streets. Sitting in the middle of the noisy lunchtime crowd at Tiajuana Flats, I washed down the remains of a large beef burrito with an oversized diet coke and lime. Ice rattled in my plastic cup as I set it back down on the table. Lunchtime at The Flats was always a study in human nature. Rollins students, office workers, new moms with babies in their laps, construction workers, and plain clothes Winter Park cops, all showed up at the same time for spicy hot food and ice cold drinks under air. I had learned the value of arriving thirty minutes early and had once again managed to avoid the small tsunami of avid Mexican food fans now arriving. Looking out over a makeshift wall of Dos Equis beer cases, I could see that todays line was even larger than usual. It stretched from the three cash registers all the way back to the door. Smugly, I congratulated myself on my cleverness and on arriving before this latest wave of salsa worshipers had crashed ashore. Then, picking up the paper and plastic remains of my meal, I walked to the large red trash container near the door and shoved all of it, like a good resident of Winter Park, through its hinged trash gate. Another successful sojourn south of the border I said to myself. If Hawk had not been off on his weekly mystery mission, he too could have enjoyed chicken, beef, and cheese in one of its thirty-seven configurations. Too bad, big guy I said aloud. You missed it again. As I pushed open the restaurant door to leave, my cell went off. I fished it out of my jeans pocket and stared down at its screen. Carl Millmans name was flashing across it in bold square letters. I pushed the August is in button. Carl! I said . Nice surprise. Whats up? But, it was not Carl who replied. Instead, the agitated high pitched voice of Tristina Radkowski squawked out at me.

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August? August? Are you there? Yeah, Im hereTristina? Yes. Its me and Im scared. August, you gotta' come over. You gotta' help medo something. Its Carl, I mean Mr. Millman. Hes gone crazy. He just left here. I dont know where he is now. But, I thinkI think hes going to hurt someone? I tried my best to spool her back in to terra firma. Tristina, listen to me. If youre standing up, I want you to sit down. I want you to take some slow breaths, ok? But Tristina would have none of it. Instead, she began screaming into the phone. Come now! Please! Come now. Where is Millman now? I asked. Do you know where he is now? Thats just it. Thats what Im telling you. Hes gonegone somewherewith a gun. He was shouting and slamming doors. He just left. Got in his car and left. I dont understand. Im scared. Hes acting crazy. Her voice was shaking. Tristina? No reply. Tristina, listen to me. Are you listening? There was a hesitation. I could hear her gasping and crying in short agitated bursts. Yes. She said finallyIm listening. Goodvery good. Now, listen. This is what I want you to do, exactlyok? A temporary silence followed, then Yesok. Alright. I want you to lock every door. Got that? Lock every door. Then I want you to buzz the front gate open. OK? Buzz the gate, she repeated back. Thats right, Tristina. Lock every door. Buzz the front gate open. Then I want you to take your cell phone and go into the safe room. You got that? Lock the door behind you and just wait until I get there. Can you do that? Yes she said. Safe room. My cell phone. Lock the door.
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Good. Thats exactly right. But are you coming? Yes, I said, trying to be patient, Im coming. Ill be there in five minutes. When I get there, Ill hit the car horn three times. Ill do that twice. That will mean Im there and its safe for you to come out of the room. Any questions? I was already moving toward my car, keys in hand. No she said, her voice sounding only slightly calmer. No questions. and she ended the call abruptly. Dont hang up! I said to the annoying dial tone that replaced her voice. Dont hang up. Pulling onto Lakeside drive from the west corner of the parking lot, I turned right onto Lakeside Drive and sped in the direction of the Millman estate. The light was red at the intersection I needed, but no one was coming. Tapping the brakes lightly I wheeled my aging Mercedes onto Palmer Drive, and goosed it hard as I shot passed the stately homes that lined it. I was travelling well above its posted limit of 25 MPH. Luckily, few living things were moving about, the sun having robbed them of their interest in crossing sizzling streets at midday. The gates to the Millman estate were wide open. Tristina had listened after all. I drove The Duchess through too fast, bottoming out her aging muffler before sliding to a stop in front of the main portico. Stepping from the Mercedes, I retrieved my G23 tucked strong side beneath my shirt. Pulling the slide back I let it slam home to chamber one of thirteen .40 caliber rounds waiting faithfully in the wings. Reminding myself to maintain situational awareness, I looked to all sides. Seeing no signs of life or imminent danger, I leaned back into the car and pressed the metal horn ring three times, waited five seconds, then repeated. Then, pointing the Glock down and away, I started toward the set of enormous double doors at the front of the house. Just as I reached the bricked portion of the circular driveway, one of the doors suddenly flew open. A chattering and squealing Tristina half ran, half hobbled toward me, her cane, arms and legs flailing in all directions. She threw herself against my chest with a thump and locked her arms around my neck in some sort of terrified death grip. Thank God, youre here she shouted, her eyes full up with tears. Told you I would be, I said with my best reassuring smile. Im here. Youre safe. Its all good. Its all good, she parroted back strangely. Prying her arms from around my neck, I led her back inside, away from the stifling heat and prying eyes.
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A few minutes later, we were quietly seated in a large first floor room that overlooked the garden and the lake. Through the terrace doors I could make out a raw, unsightly scar that cut through some formerly pristine Empire sod. The scar pointed ominously in our direction. Damon Darnells high-jacked plane had plowed a very deep furrow to within fifty feet of the house, before finally coming to a stop. A festive yellow crime scene ribbon still surrounded it. I did not bring the topic up. Tristina was calmer now, calm enough to mix herself a chilled Mojito and hand me a tall glass of unsweetened ice tea. Something cool. She said with a self-conscious smile. I took a long drink from the tall glass. So, what the hell happened here? I asked as I came up for air. I dont know, she said sipping her Mojito lovingly. He just snapped. Well now, that definitely does not sound like the Carl Millman I know. Hes not someone who just snaps. Well, he did this time she said with conviction. Im telling you. He snapped good. Alright then. Ill take your word. He snapped.' So, tell me about it. Tristina settled back in her overstuffed floral print chair, looking very much like the lady of the manner. Well, she began, Today started out like most of our days. We met for breakfast out on the terrace. We talked. Things were normal. He said he was going to go visit one of his dealerships up in Apopka later today. I told him that I was hoping to do some shopping. He gave me the keys to my new Thunderbird, and he gave me one of his credit cards to use on Park Avenue. Carl says he knows all the merchants there, and theyve been told to honor the card. Tristina suddenly stopped talking and looked in the direction of Park Avenue. It was the wistful look of regret. I havent gone shopping yet! she said, looking somewhat shocked at the oversight. What about Millman? I asked, in an effort to call her back. When did he start to act strange? Well, Tristina said thoughtfully, I guess it was just after the mail came and he went upstairs to his study. I heard him close the door and then he didnt come out for a while. When he did come out, it was like he had turned into someone else. He was like a mad man. He kept shouting about something being right in front of him all the time. He
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threw an old statue across the room into that mirror over there. She pointed in the direction of a large ornate frame that had once held an antique mirror from Florence, Italy. Beneath it, a bust of Julius Caesar now lie amidst shards of broken glass, the Emperors priceless continence transformed into worthless chunks of fractured marble. Setting my drink down on a gold lemay coaster, I stood-up and eyed the winding staircase leading to the second floor. Id like to see the study I said. Tristina bounced up sprightly, drink in hand, cane in hand. Sure she said. Ill show you. I moved toward the staircase. No. she said. The staircase is pass That means nobody does it anymore. Besides, stairs make me hurt. Well take the elevator, I think, instead. A short time later the inlaid rosewood elevator doors parted and Tristina and I were staring down a tall, dark hallway, bordered on both sides by faded medieval tapestries. Where the hell did he even find this stuff I said out loud. Oh my, Tristina said, Carl has been absolutely everywhere! I glanced over at the former Briar Patch waitress, her Mojito rattling gently inside a recently manicured hand. In a matter of a few short weeks she had managed to take on the airs and appearance of a wealthy local matron. I frowned in her direction in private disapproval, then refocused on the business at hand. What did it matter anyway? For now, Carl had a stand-in daughter to pamper, and Tristina had a sugar daddy that could provide her with all of those goodies she had longed for while serving tuna on rye to the spoiled and wealthy of Winter Park. Tristina showed me to Millmans study. It was a darkly paneled square room with built in book shelves; leather bound collections, and a seven foot walk-in fireplace. The walls were lined with custom matted photos of ancestors, baseball legends, and dealership grand openings. Two large medieval swords hung in crossed fashion beneath a green and yellow tapestry of a fiercely snarling lion. There were two high back leather chairs placed strategically before an enormous mahogany desk, which was itself framed from behind by a large leaded window overlooking the garden, the grounds, and lake Osceola. The whole study appeared to have been designed and decorated by someone who had seen one too many black and white movies involving landed gentry and displaced nobility. As I looked around the room, I wondered if Millman had ever found anymore happiness in his castle than what he had enjoyed when his entrepreneurial journey first began. He had always seemed so much more relaxed and at ease when sitting on the ugly yellow sofa in our office, the same sofa that he and his wife had picked out together so many years before. Perusing the room, I could see nothing that looked at all unusual. Nothing in the leather trimmed trash can. No pithy half scribbled notes, or hastily jotted phone numbers.
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Instead, the room slowly revealed itself to be one in which Carl Millman spent little time. The desk and fixtures, the books, the floor lamps, all were covered in a fine layer of dust. I doubted that anyone had been in the room for weeks. Well, this is a lovely tomb I said to Tristina; but, I doubt Carls been in here today. Tristina looked confused. She took a long swig of her Mojito, then shook her head. I was sure this where he always went to read his mail. He always comes up to this floor, every morning. You ever actually see him come in here? No, but then I dont usually come up here, except to go to my room down the hall. Its all too dark and gloomy. So, youre not sure if he ever comes in here. Not really. I walked back into the large dark hallway, Tristina and her Mojito rattling along behind. What other rooms are up here? I asked, a hint of impatience in my voice. Well, Tristina said thoughtfully, My rooms that way. She pointed down the hall. And Carls room is that way. She pointed in the opposite direction. And most of the other rooms are just well, in-between and unused...I guess. Id like to see them I said. Tristina took a deep breath. Yes she said grandly. Lets do. Then, striding down the hallway, she stopped before a large imposing door. Ive never been in here she said flatly. And, handing me her drink, she turned its crystal cut door knob using both hands, and pushed open the dark slab of lumber to which it was attached. Cheerful she said, isnt it? Peering into the poorly lit cave before us, she fumbled for a light switch. Locating an aging bronze lever, she rotated it to the on position. As she did, a crystal chandelier burst to life, its stark unforgiving glare shinning down on every corner of the room. Revealed were dirty white plaster walls, exotic parquet floors, and random clumps of paint stained drop cloths. Overhead, massive supporting beams of roughhewn wood pointed in the direction of the furthest wall and its thickly curtained windows that arched from floor to ceiling. Everywhere, large chunks of boudoir furniture squatted like Sumo wrestlers, hunched and ready to lunge. Looks like a storage unit for J Paul Getty. I said.
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Tristina stared back at me blankly. I dont know him she said. But, this isnt his stuff. Right. I said. You wouldnt know him. Hes not from around here. Taking back her Mojito, Tristina swept out of the room and into the hallway. As I closed the massive door behind us, a thin sliver of light caught my eye. It was coming from down the hall, seeping out from a room where another massive door had been left ajar. Whats down there? I asked. Oh, wellthats where sheI meanthats her room. Her? You knowhis daughter. The one that got killed. I moved on down the hallway and stopped before the light source. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see that Tristina had not moved. Whats the matter? I asked. No. she said sternly, I dont go in there. Why not? He talks to her in there. He says he hears her voice in there. Im not going in there. Instead of trying to reason with her, I simply shrugged and swung the door open wide. Peering inside, I could see at once that this room starkly different from any we had visited. The sun shone down through translucent lace curtains, its light bathing the room in a pale yellow glow. Brightly colored walls were covered in posters, flags and colored photographs. Even though it had been unoccupied for years, the room still radiated life, still proclaimed a message of life and possibility. Stepping deeper into the room, I could see a single chair centered before a dressing table, and an oversized portrait of Millmans daughter. Smiling back from that long ago moment, Brianna Millman peered out, alive and vital; her young, effortless beauty accented by defiant green eyes and a playful smile. It was an image of youthful bravado; a statement of timeless hope that demanded your undivided attention. I looked around the room carefully. I needed something; a hint, a clue, a direction in which to go. I needed something. But, after a careful search of all drawers and closets, and after looking under the four poster bed and behind the gossamer lace curtains, I turned toward the door.
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Well I said, sometimes the answers no. So this is where he goes to all the time I heard Tristina say. Looking over my shoulder I watched as she tentatively entered the room. This ones different she said her voice now softer. Moving slowly around the room, she began to exam everything in it with great care. It occurred to me that I was now watching a contemporary of Brianna Millman, both raised on the same music, rock stars, and fashion. Stopping before Briannas lacey overstuffed four-poster bed, Tristina appeared transfixed, mesmerized by the large collection of dolls and stuffed animals that covered Briannas bed. One in particular had caught her eye. It was a stuffed Sesame Street likeness of Elmo. Tristina could not resist. Setting her Mojito on the nightstand, she reached out to embrace his soft blue countenance. Picking him up, she swung his whimsical blue arms around her neck and began to dance and limping in a sweeping arch around the room. Pure joy had overtaken her. I remember you, she said to Elmo, as she swung him overhead. As the strange dancing couple breezed passed by me, I glanced to the bed beyond. Where Elmo had sat, a crumpled photograph could now be seen. As Elmo had been lifted from among the other stuffed creatures, this angrily discarded photo had rolled free from where it had been thrown by Carl Millman in a fit of rage. As Tristina and Elmo danced, I carefully picked up the photo and walked to the window for more light. Carefully unfolding it, I turned the images in it toward the window. I stared down at its wrinkled images. I strained for a message, a gift from the gods. Then, in one of those rare lightning strike moments, I suddenly understood what had triggered Carl Millmans rage. A numbing flood of awareness swept over me, as a single captured image from years before told me what I had been unable to discover in all my determined trips to the Caribbean. In that moment, I finally knew, with absolute certainty, who it was who had killed Briana Millman. Stunned, I continued to stare down at the undeniable, raw truth that stared back from a photograph of celebration and rebellion. In its center, a beautiful and vibrant Brianna Millman sits provocatively beneath a beach umbrella, drink in hand. She is surrounded by sunshine, palm trees, and sweaty young men. All are swilling tall exotic drinks as excess and debauchery ooze from drunken postures and toothy pampered smiles. This image by itself must have been hurtful for Briannas father to see. But then, there was the rest of the picture, the background image, out of focus and far away. There was the figure lurking in that background; the one off to one side, out of focus, and nearly out of frame. There, wearing the flowered shirt and the fixed intoxicated smile. There, within the deeper shadows of that sunny day, lurked the unmistakable continence, the stark image of a young and evil Darrin Stellar. Son of a bitch! I blurted out.
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Tristina stopped dancing and pulled Elmo close to her body. What? she demanded. She looked frightened again. Son of a bitch! I repeated. What? Tristina demanded. Its Stellar! I shouted in her direction, my eyes still locked on the photo. Stellar did it. Stellar killed Brianna! I dont understand said Tristina. Who is that? What do mean? Then, just as quickly as I had left the planet, my feet touched back down. My ability to think and reason and act was once again online. Tristina, listen to me. I know who killed Millmans daughter. And, Jesus, Millman knows it too. Thats why he left here the way he did. Thats why he took the gun. Tristina said nothing. She just stood in the middle of the room holding Elmo, looking dazed and confused. I ran for the stairs, heading for The Duchess full steam. What about me? Tristina shouted. I called back over my shoulder with my very best advice. Close the gate. Lock the doors. Grab your phone. Take Elmo and your Mojito to the safe room. How long? Stay put. Ill call. Right she said. Gate. Phone. Mojito. Safe room Looking first in the direction of the elevator, she turned and walked briskly toward the staircase. Fuck pass! she said to Elmo, then danced her way down to the first floor.

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* Millmans Mission Carl Millman left his estate in a blind rage. Jumping into his fully loaded Jaguar, he pointed it in the direction of Darrin Stellars home, a half mile away on the far side of the Winter Park chain of lakes. His heart was pounding, blood rushing to his brain. He heard no sound, except the voice of his dead daughter. He saw nothing except the limp, dead body of Darrin Stellar lying lifeless at his feet. His mouth went dry, as he pounded the steering wheel with the barrel of his revolver. Fucking dead! he screamed, as all four wheels of his vehicle left the asphalt briefly to plow across a recently planted floral median. Fucking dead! he repeated steering the car back onto the street. But, when he slammed to a stop before the overstated Stellar mansion, he found only a single Asian servant waiting there, a terrified Filipino named Rolando Andrada, who had illegally entered the United States six months earlier. Staring down the barrel of Carl Millmans revolver, he freely volunteered all that he knew. His employer was not at home, and had not mentioned when he was going. Standing in the open doorway of his employers mansion, Rolando fearfully repeated the mantra he hoped would save his lifeHe is not here, Sir. He is not here. There was unchecked terror in eyes as he watched with total focus the revolver swing from side to side as Millman chopped the air with it, as he asked each question. Please, Sir, Rolando repeated for perhaps the twentieth time, Mr. Stellar is not here. Carl Millman was not about to take any wooden nickels on this day. Brushing roughly past the terrified servant, he crashed and stomped his way from room to room, the revolver extended one hand before him. Ten minutes later he was at last convinced he had been told the truth. Darrin Stellar was, in fact, not in the house. Making a hurried retreat in the direction of the front door and his vehicle, Millman exited the house, but not before hurling a brass book-end through the vintage cut glass window above the main entrance. Then pouncing into his still idling vehicle there in the shaded portico, he slammed his Jaguar into gear, punched the accelerator, and rocketed toward the city street. Had he looked in his rearview mirror at that moment, he might have seen a terrified and shaking Rolando Andrada, emerging from a manicured thicket of Southern Jasmine. Running back into the Stellar home, Andrada did not stop to dial up the police, but instead hastily stuffed his modest belongings into a worn Tourister suitcase. Then, without hesitating to consider what lay ahead, he walked 1.5 miles to the Winter Park train station and boarded the first northbound Amtrak to arrive. Ten hours later, he had made his way to Jacksonville, where he had found a small garage apartment rental overlooking the interstate. He never returned to Central Florida, but often told the story of the crazy man who had tried to kill him in the home of his employer. In the years to follow, the number of assailants would rise to three, and Andrada would relate having been shot and wounded. Time, it seems, is not a friend of truth.
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Millman was once again careening recklessly through the residential streets of Winter Park. Still clutching his five shot revolver in his sweaty right hand, he struggled to keep the Jaguar on the road. As he approached that portion of Palmer Drive that dead ends onto North Park Avenue, he was faced with sudden, limited choices. He could screech to an emergency stop and honor the intersection sign there, or he could plow straight through into Mr. Christian Dalworths imported wrought iron fence and ornate statuary. Millman did not hesitate. He simply invented a third choice. Riding the brakes hard, he yanked the stylish wooden steering wheel left abruptly. The result was a reduction in velocity for the front end of the car, while the ass end of the Jag still wanted to run. Like a house cat cornering on a waxed wooden floor, the back end tried to pass the front. The car went into a long sideways slide, before aligning itself with the new direction of the rest of the car. Miraculously, Millman sped on in the direction of the town hall, where he knew councilman Stellar maintained his office. Fixed on the road ahead and a vision of Darrin Stellar lying in a puddle of his own blood, Millman paid no attention to the ponderous and familiar brick mansions flashing by on both sides of North Park Avenue. Two minutes later he blasted into the parking lot behind the low profile two story that served as both police station and City Hall. Aware that he would have to negotiate a lobby filled with city employees, he shoved his handgun behind his pants belt and made a conscious effort to blend. As he approached the stairs leading to the second floor and the council chamber, he was recognized by Gladys Pradwater, whose first accounting job had been at a Millman dealership just north of Kissimmee. Surprised to see her old boss, she greeted him warmly. Why, Mr. Millman. My goodness, but its good to see you. How are you, Sir? You probably dont remember me. Its Gladys, Gladys Pradwater. Accounting department, your Kissimmee location She waited expectantly for a reply. For a moment, Millman could only stare back at her, as though taking in his first alien sighting. His eyes blinked nervously open and close, as he tried to come back from the deep trance to which he had involuntarily succumbed. Whyyesof course, he stuttered, Gladys It is you, isnt it?... Well, now, Im flattered. You do remember me. Its been a long while, andshe hesitated. I was so sad to hear of all the tragedy youve gone through. I sent you a card of sympathy, but I dont know, if you ever even got that. I just want to say again, in person, I am so sorry that God has sent you such suffering. I hope you can take some comfort in knowing, that he sacrifices no lamb, however small or frail, without divine plan and purpose. I hope you can take some comfort in that, Mr. Millman. Millman shook his head slowly, side to side, before speaking in careful, measured tones. Im here to see Darrin Stellar, he said.

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Gladys smiled broadly and shook her head knowingly. It makes sense that the two of you would be acquainted. Youre both so good at making things happen, succeeding and all. Just imagine, the coincidence that I have worked for you both. Hes my boss now, you know. Well, one of them. I work for the City of Winter Park, in the accounting department. Im assistant supervisor now. Can you imagine, Ive worked for you both. Millman took in a slow deep breath. And which office is his again? he asked politely. Well now, that would be room 211 upstairs, the one with the shiny plaque on the door. Millman nodded and turned away. He moved in the direction of the stairs, picking up speed as he moved. Placing one hand against the protruding revolver grip beneath his shirt, he started up the stairs, his eyes fixed and distant as he moved up them. Stop! Gladys shouted. Stop right now! Millman hesitated, as a dark frown rolled across his face. Looking down toward his former employee, he stared down without expression. Gladys was looking up, a clever look of insider knowledge on her face. Mr. Millman, you just stop running up those stairs before you have yourself a heart attack. Theres just no sense to it, you know. Mr. Stellar isnt in that old office now. He hardly ever comes in. Mostly he communicates by text or conference call. Millman heard the words, but didnt move. Instead, he remained standing in place, looking down without expression, as though preparing to unleash a thoughtful sermon. A full minute passed, before his disappointment subsided enough that he could respond. WellGladys, do you know where he might be? Gladys responded with an affirmative head shake. Yes, Sir. I surely do. Millman leaned forward and listened carefully. Councilman Stellar, she confided, is off having a late lunch with his special ladyShe laughed. I hope you know Im talking bout his wife, she said smiling sweetly. And where would that be? he asked mechanically. Oh my, Im sure I dont know. This is the time of day when he shuts off his phones, and he and his sweetheart spend time together.
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So, you dont know where he is and you cant call him. Is that tight. Thats absolutely right. Why hed no more tell me where they go for their special lunchtimes, than hed harm a Junebug. The strength went out of Millmans legs. The adrenal that had gotten him this far had also consumed his bodies reserves of sucrose. He sat down with a thump on the step beneath him. A weak, lightheaded sensation swept over him, as he looked back down the stairs he had just negotiated. For some reason, an old black and white documentary came to him, the story of bombardiers and B-17 missions over Germany. He remembered an aging veteran recalling for the cameras how he had always carried several candy bars in his leather jacket. Following the adrenaline rush of dropping bombs with deadly flack exploding around him, then fighting off lethal ME 109 attacks on the journey back to home base, the airmen would nearly collapse from the adrenalines effects on their bodies. The chocolate bars they carried would restore them to some level of normal functioning. I need a candy bar! Millman stated loudly to the lobby. A candy bar? My goodness, said Gladys, Are you alright? I need a candy bar! Millman repeated, his voice a bit weaker. Rushing to the vending machine in the corner of the lobby, Gladys quickly retrieved two Snickers and a small bag of plain M&Ms. These she rushed up the steps to her old boss. Its diabetes, isnt it she inquired. My aunt had diabetes and she would often go down in a heap. My goodness, I had to rush and get her a glass of orange juice every time you looked around. But then, she didnt take good care of herself. She didnt take her insulin on time; ate jellybeans when no one was looking. Can you imagine? What did she think would happen? Are you alright? Do I need to call the paramedics or something? She looked genuinely concerned. Most of the buildings other employees simply walked around them on there on the stairs, consciously trying to avoid involvement in a disquieting situation. Millman devoured both Snickers and shoved the bag of M&Ms in the pocket of his shirt. His focus and strength returning very quickly. His thought process cleared as well, until was once again, he was online. No, he said, quietly. Im fine. I could drive you home, you know; if you need someone to No, he repeated. "Im doing much better. Really. Im ok. Thank you though.
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Fifteen minutes later, Carl Millman pulled into the Winter Park Cemetery where his daughter was interred among the narrow shadows of tall pines. He sat in his car for perhaps an hour, reflecting on his life; his wife; his daughter. Feelings of joy, sorrow, regret, and love all danced their dance before his minds eye. Twice he raised the small revolver to his temple and twice he lowered it. Somewhere in the midst of his confused remembrances, he heard the distant sound of a little girl. She was laughing and talking and moving toward him. The pink ribbon in her hair stirred softly as an unexpected breeze swayed the pine trees overhead. Millman placed the revolver on the seat beside him, and stepped carefully from the car. He walked slowly and deliberately to the grave sites of his wife and his daughter. Kneeling own between them he began to speak to them in a low and even tone. I love you both you know. More than life, I love you both. and Im he hesitatedjust so alone here. He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell them all that was in his heart..that he cherished every moment of every day they had spent together. That they should not worry now. That he would not harm himself, or even the man who had taken his dear daughter from him. He had so much to say, so much to share. He had waited for long to speak too long. And now he knew, without reservation, the time had come for him to say out loud, what he never could. He was ready. He was more than willing. And yet, to his surprise, the words simply would not come. Instead, his eyes filled up with waves of salty tears and his stomach contracted into an anguished knot. The sorrow that had filled him up for so long now poured out in deep, gasping sobs. His bitter tears and fathomless sorrow expressed themselves in this way for some time. Then, succumbing at last to total exhaustion, he collapsed in slow motion against the white marble headstone that stood between the other two. The carved letters simply read
Carl Potter Millman
Loving Husband and Father Born - November 29, 1941 Died -

* Hanlins Hospitality I steered The Duchess into the City Hall parking lot, hoping to find good officer Murkowski back in his small office near the Xerox on the first floor. Instead, I found a locked office, with sleazy officer Kenneth Hanlin, sitting uncomfortably on a wooden bench outside the door. He had, I would learn later, been abruptly summoned from the

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field to answer questions related to his acquaintance with and his knowledge of one Angel Melendez. Catching my stare, his lip assumed a truculent curl. What the hell you doin here? he demanded. Come to watch modern law enforcement at its best I replied. He was, as usual, not amused. Dont piss me off, Dunn. Ill run your ass in. And the charge would be? How about impersonating an officer of the law? This amused him, and he laughed dryly while placing the thumbs of both hands behind his shiny patent leather gun belt. Always a treat to talk to you, Hanlina real treat. I just dont have time to dick around right now. I need Murkowski. What for? For none of your goddamn business! My bullshit tank was full. Now, thats not friendly. And youre not smart or friendly, but, heythats what were workin with. Fuck you? Things were moving down an unhappy highway. I paused long enough to take a deep breath and change the tone of my voice. Look, HanlinOfficer Hanlinthis important. Not just to me. There are people right now in Winter Park who are going to get hurt, or d, if I dont find Carl Millman soon. To do that, I need Murkowski. I need his resources and his instincts. I need I stopped, then simply addedI need to talk to Stan. I need to talk to your boss.? My reasonable tone seemed to throw him off his game. Well, how the hell should I know where he is? Im not his friggin mother. He was supposed to be here an hour ago. Why dont you just call him? Just go somewhereget out of here and go call him? I did call him I said. No answer.
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So, thenjust wait for him here like everybody else. Hell be back when hes back. You just gotta wait like everybody else No time I said. What. You too important to wait? Too tired of bullshit I said staring back at the man coldly. Even as I did, that aprt of brain that weighs actions and consequences was already wondering just what the mandatory jail time might be for assaulting an officer of the law. You know Carl Millman at all? I finally asked calmly. Yeah I know himeverybody around here knows him hes that rich ass car millionaire with the dead wife and daughter. Nice I said. Youre still battin a thousand, you know that. A thousand? He genuinely had no clue what I was taking about. Look, I just need Stan to call me when he gets in. Hes got my cell number. Can you just tell him to call me? Hanlin looked suspicious and superior all rolled into one. And what am I supposed to tell him when he asks why? I hesitated, not wanting to share anything with a man so clearly absent compassion or the faintest interest in his fellow man. I took another careful breath before reluctantly sharing what I knew. Tell him that Millman knows who killed his daughter. Tell him the mans gone off armed and angry, and I cant find him. Tell him he needs to call me as soon as he canthat I need his help. Hanlins expression changed instantly. Out of character, he blanched and looked away. Shit! he said, looking surprised and confused. Shit His expression had instantly become distant and pensive. Youll tell him then? Youll tell him to call me? I asked. Staring off into the eternal present, Hanlin replied in a low distracted voice. Yeah Ill tell him. Ill tell him to call when he comes in. Good I said, studying his abrupt change in demeanor. Thats good. And I turned on my heel to exit.

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Ill tell him! Hanlin called after me. Then, as though his legs had turned to rubber, he plunked his body back down on the hard hallway bench outside his bosss door. It was after 6:00 PM when Hawk returned my call. Got your message. Whats up? I explained as quickly as I could how Millman had discovered the man he believed had killed his daughter. I related my afternoon and how I had spent it searching for Millmanthree dealerships, two banks, City Hall, and a string of favorite Millman hauntsall to no end. I also related my conversation with Hanlin and explained that Murkowski had somehow fallen off the grid. Hawk listened carefully, agreeing that we needed to locate Millman before he hurt someone or got hurt himself. We knew was out there, somewhere in Winter Park, running on anger, adrenaline, and a burning desire for revenge. Add in the loaded handgun, and chances were better than even that the devil was going to dance his favorite polka. I can be there in thirty Hawk said. Good. Im sitting on the stage across from The Patch. I could hear gun shots in the back ground of Hawks call. Where the hell are you? You got a gang war goin on there? Shoot Straight. He replied without elaboration. Youre at the range? Gotta stay sharp said Hawk. Skills are perishable. His words were followed by an irritating dial tone. Perishable skills I said, repocketing my phone. * Bedside Manners The nurse on the intensive care unit led Sgt. Murkowski and Naomi Morales to the bedside of Tommy Squinter Burnside. Tommy was a 39 year old, crack addicted homeless soul. He was also the would be assassin who had tried to end Naomis life. Multiple live sustaining tubes were now plugged into his body as an overhead monitor displayed the unsteady rhythm of his struggling heart. His skin gave off an ashen hue, as he drew in life-giving oxygen from the plastic mask covering his face. Responding to the gentle touch of his nurse on his bare shoulder, his eyes opened ever so slowly. Struggling to focus, he nodded as though recognizing the two figures standing over him.
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Mr. BurnsideTommy, Im Sgt. Stanley Murkowski, of the Winter Park Police Department. Tommy nodded again, with enormous effort. I was contacted Stan continued, by Chaplain Albright here at the hospital. He states that you want to talk to me about what happened at the trailer park off of OBT the night you were shot. Naomi, who was listening from the foot of the bed, shifted her weight slightly. Tommy nodded in the affirmative and gestured with a weak turn of his head for Murkowski to move closer. Stan moved to the bed, bent down and placed an ear within a few inches of Tommy Burns face. I did it. Tommy said. I did it. I tried to kill her. And he refocused his eyes in the direction of Naomi. Why? asked Murkowski. Why did you try to kill her? Twenty grams he said. Twenty grams pure. Stan looked back over his shoulder. Naomis stare was sad and fixed as she looked down at the dying man in the bed before her. You did it for drugs? For drugs repeated Tommy, in a barely audible whisper. coke. The nurse hovering on the other side of the bed, began to fidget as she watched the monitors spike suddenly to higher numbers. Well have to quit now. she said. He cant do this. Im sorry. Stan was used to getting his way. He was used to insisting, threatening, bullying when necessary to get what it was he neededto find the facts and rescue justice. But this time, he seemed to soften, surprising even himself. Something about the nurses authentic concern and Tommys pitiful presence cause him to stop his questions. Disappointed, he slowly straightened his frame back to its full height. This would be a setback. He needed more information, more details. He needed to catch a break. Even though the shooting had taken place outside his jurisdiction, he had still taken place on his watch. Being Stan, he was hoping to get something he could pass on to the Orange County Sheriffs Office and the Orlando PD. Taking Naomi gently by her elbow, he prepared to leave the ICU bay. He and Naomi had taken only a few steps when the room was suddenly filled with an eerie tortured moan behind them. Wait said the nurse. He wants to tell you something. Murkowski looked back at the man in the bed. His sunken eyes had gown wide and round and very determined. Gesturing only with the claw-like fingers of one hand, he
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entreated them to move closer. Pulling his shoulders back slightly, Stan drew in a new breath, then returned bedside, as Naomi followed reluctantly. What is it, Tommy? he asked with careful annunciation. You can tell me. Hanlin said a raspy, uneven voice. Hanlin. Murkowski frowned. Hanlin? What about him? Hanlin set it up. Hanlins plan. Kill the girl Hanlins plan. Tommys eyes closed, as beads of perspiration appeared across his forehead and upper lip, each spoken word requiring extreme physical effort. Murkowski hesitated, as his brain scrambled to process this new and troubling information. A mug shot of officer Hanlin popped into his head. It was the image of a self-indulgent slacker, a lethargic enforcer of the law, a blow-hard bully requiring constant cajoling and supervision in order to function at even a mediocre level of performance. Even so, Murkowski now struggled to accept that this below average LEO could also be someone who would betray his oath and badge; would coldly conspire to kill an innocent. Calling himself back from his disturbing reverie, Murkowski returned his gaze to Tommys tortured visage. Leaning closer in, he stated the obvious Tommythe patients eyelids opened again. youre saying that Hanlin hired you. But, how do I know what youre telling me is true? I want to believe you. I do. But how do I know youre not out to get Hanlinsettle old scores? Tommys pained expression turned to one of resolved frustration. He shook his head with deliberate care. Taped himtaped him good. Thinks Im stupid. Taped his call. Locked up. Locked up here hospital. It was Murkowskis eyes that now opened wide. He looked back over his shoulder at Naomi, before refocusing on Tommy. You have a tape of Hanlinof officer Hanlin asking youhiring you... to kill this woman? He pointed at Naomi. Tommy nodded and smiled the faintest of satisfied smiles. Not stupid. He said. Tapes are here. And he nodded in the direction of his RN caregiver. Murkowski followed Tommys eyes over to the nurse, who fidgeted again, ever so slightly.

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Anticipating the question that was about to be asked, she announced matter-of-factly Ill call protective service. They can bring his possessions up to the room from the secure locker. Then leaning over Tommys bed, she asked loudly. Mr. Burnside, do I have your permission to bring your belongings here to the roombedside? Can I give them to this police officer? Tommy nodded in the affirmative, looking suddenly very calm, relieved. He closed his eyes, having triumphed over severe pain and overwhelming fatigue. Tommys nurse lifted the small portable computer she held in one hand, quickly documenting to Tommys chart that he had given his permission, before witnesses, to have specific possessions turned over to law enforcement. Murkowski paused, as he took in the events now unfolding before him. An odd feeling began to fill him up. He could not be sure. But, it began to feel very much like some long ago feelings of sorrow and regret. There was no reason, he reminded himself, why this dying man before him, should cause him any distress what so ever. The man had, by his own admission, done evil things. He had stolen the property of others; sold drugs; attempted to take a human life, and perhaps worst of all, had squandered the gift of life for quick highs and sleazy, fleeting thrills. His life had, in the past, been a series of poor choices and unrepentant bad behavior. Murkowski told himself to stand tough, as he had done for so long. For years, he had seen violence, anger, and revenge up close. He had been part of it, had lived ithad tasted it in sweaty, troubled dreams. Even so, he had always been able to stow it away, to keep it from himself, to compartmentalize the suffering he had witnessed from his day to day living, his family. But now, lately, the ugly and brutal memories were no longer content to remain neatly stacked and stored away. They were growing restless and demanding. More and more, they clamored for a voice, for expression, for a sympathetic ear to hear and understand their pain. For nearly thirty years, the fear, the sorrow, the regret he had experienced as an officer of the law, had been kept from his family, his friends and, whenever possible, from himself. But now, especially in the early sleepless hours of morning, he found himself reliving distant events that stretched back to his days as a rookie cop in gritty, bluecollar Buffalo. The faces of the dead and dying included bad guys, good friends, and innocent bystanders. He wondered about them all. He pondered whether tortured outcomes can ever be avoided, and whether early death is an enemy to be feared, or an angel to be welcomed and embraced. Sgt. Stan Murkowski was now two men. He was a dedicated family man, good father and husband; and he was also a cop who did his best to do his best. Being both men, he found himself more and more, fretting for the living while doting on the dead. And this haunting dichotomy of the soul was beginning to take its toll. Lately, he wondered if he were still capable of feeling emotions, any emotions, beyond fear and anger. He wondered if the good-natured, playful man his wife had married thirty years earlier had
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gone away forever, buried, piece by piece, in the graves of all who had died on his watch. Secretly, he feared that it was so. Quietly, he prayed that it was not. He prayed in the dead of night when he could not sleep. He prayed in his church every Sunday. He prayed with earnest intent that somewhere the old Stan Murkowski was still alive and still capable of all of the emotions God had given him. He hoped this for himself, but mostly for his wife and for all those who had stood beside him through the years. He needed to be that long ago man, even if only from time to time. He needed to know there was still a noble human part of him, a slice of Stan Murkowski that remained capable of compassion, love, and kindness. He was ready for a change. Perhaps, it was these concerns, these personal demons that caused him now to clearly see the man before him. Perhaps it was his own suffering that allowed him to reflect for a moment on where such a man might have come from, and why his life was about to end so tragically. An unfamiliar wave of sorrow gripped Murkowski for the first time in a very long while. Reaching out slowly, he squeezed the dying mans hand, as their eyes exchanged an understanding that included empathy and forgiveness. Thank you. Said Stan. Youve helped to set things right. Tommy Squinter Burnside did three last things before he died. He smiled with genuine kindness at Naomi Morales. He mouthed the words Im sorry. And he squeezed tightly on Stan Murkowskis hand until all strength had left his own. A deep silence filled up the room, as all who were present acknowledged with quiet respect the death they had just witnessed. Tommys young nurse was the first to break the silence. He told me that his father had been a soldier in Viet Nam, and that his mother was never the same after he died there. Murkowski turned away and placed a hand across his face, lest two women see his watery eyes. Yeah, wellsometimes life sucks he said clearing his throat. Sometimes it sucks big time! Naomi bit the corner of her lip, as she turned and walked silently from the room. There was a low motorized whir as the automatic glass doors slid tightly closed behind her. Reluctantly, she looked back a last time into the brightly lit room at the man who had died there, the man she had killed. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply; aware that another sad and troubling memory would now be with her always.

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The Naomi Ether Twenty minutes had passed since my call to Hawk. While I waited, my phone rang and Sgt. Murkowski scrolled across its screen. Stan informed me that he had gotten Hanlins call and had left the hospital with Naomi in tow. He was calling to catch me up on two things. First, the man who had tried to kill Naomi had just died. I was surprised to hear a trace of sorrow in Stans voice. I didnt ask. Second, he was bringing Naomi by, as she had no transportation and did not want to return right away to her grandfathers trailer. I think she could benefit from some lively old man chatter he said in typical stir it up Stan frankness. Im in the Park across from the Patch, I said. He hung up abruptly. I stared down at the phone. I swear to God there is not a courteous person left in North America! Ten minutes later, Murkowski and Naomi pulled up. Stan parked his unmarked patrol car next to one of the floral islands that line Park Avenue. As the two of them walked in my direction, I thought I detected an air of melancholy hanging over both of them. Standing up slowly from an uncomfortable cement step, I took several steps in their direction. I was about to say something clever, or at least make the attempt. I never got the chance. As Naomi neared me, her pace suddenly quickened. To my amazement, she ran toward me, slamming herself against me, wrapping me in her arms in some sort of Kodiak death grip. I need to be near you she whispered. The seductive scent of orange blossoms and female pheromones swept over me.
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He died she said, bringing me back to earth. He diedand, it was all so sad. The way he diedthe way he looked at meI didntI wasnt Naomis voice trembled as she tried to express how his death had touched her. How it had brought back long ago memories and fresh waves of pain from the deaths of her beloved parents and grandfather. She started over. August, Im the one who shot himHeI cant tell you how much Again, her words faded into silence. She did not try a third time to communicate her pain, but buried her face in the nape of my neck, weeping for the first time since childhood. It had been a longtime to hold in so much. And, it had been a long time, a lifetime for me, since a womans warm tears had graced my shoulder. My own history and upbringing would suggest I should have been upset, or felt uncomfortable by such an outpouring of emotion. I should have wanted the moment to end quickly. But, to my surprise, Naomis tears were not disquieting to me. They were not an inconvenience, nor an upsetting event from which I wanted to escape. Her tears and grief were something that I found myself wanting to share, to be a part of. And, so I did not pull away, nor did I try to jolly her out of her pain with a joke or a clever one liner. Instead, I was suddenly filled with genuine compassion, empathy and wonder at having been chosen by this grieving woman as the person with whom she would share her deepest sorrow. As her body shook and her warm, female frame pressed against me, I was overcome by a confusing and delicious wave of sorrow, gratitude, affection and, yes, lust. A voice in my head began to preach. It was a voice I had not heard for years, decades, really. Its message was short and to the point. Attention, Mr. August Dunn. Do not let this woman go. Do not do what youve always done. Tell her how you feel. Tell her now. For once, just let the chips fall. One whole minute passed. I said nothing. Naomi cleared her throat and pulled a crumpled Kleenex from the pocket of her jeans. Dabbing at her eyes, she took in a deep breath, before pulling herself up to her full height. Sorry she said. Just tired, I guess. Not much sleep lately. Thanks for the shoulder. The words You are beyond amazing circled round and round my brain. They were joined by the phrases My God, youre beautiful and I want to touch you, explore your bodyin the daylightin the moonlightin candle lightor with the sun high overhead. I am filled up and grown drunk on the sight and sound and smell of you. But, none of these phrases made it to my mouth. Instead, I smiled my bullshit smile and heard myself saymi hombro es el hombro. Naomi tilted her head to one side and studied me carefully, then shook her head slowly. You are my favorite strange Caucasian she said with a half-smile. Well, Ms. Morales I said wryly, I believe Im going to call that a compliment.
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Good she said. It is. Murkowski looked away, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Jeez he said, rolling his eyes in feigned disgust.

* Hill Sitter Lawrence J. Hawktrees Airstream trailer sat near the top of a rolling hill, three miles outside of Plymouth Florida. From the west facing window of his modest home he could see a spindly stand of strip pines and the rounded crest of the hill behind it. Though he had spent long hours carefully clearing away all underbrush, the danger of fire among the trees remained high. In the end Mother Nature had trumped all of his hard work by simply dropping millions of soft needles and resin soaked cones from the branches overhead. These needles and cones first fell, then settled, then compacted themselves into a near perfect flammable carpet. As with most every decision he had ever made as an adult, Hawks choice of trailer and where he would place it was based primarily on tactical considerations. From the eastern facing window, he looked down over an open, sloping field that provided an unobstructed 270: view. The barren landscape below meant that anyone approaching his home from this direction would be denied concealing cover. Any vehicle approaching would have to negotiate an narrow, unpaved dirt lane that had been intentionally constructed to zigzag its way up the side of the hill. This in turn meant that the vehicle would not only have to slow down to negotiate the cutback curves, it also meant the vehicle would then have to present its broadest profile to anyone sighting in from above. Now, if you were a friendly, not to worry. It was just a pleasant meander up a hill with a view. You would probably not be aware that your ascent was being monitored through a Leupold rifle scope attached to a finely tuned Springfield M1A. To drive off the dirt lane was a mistake, as well. To take a vehicle off road, with the intention of a straight run up the hill, would be to make a very serious and unhappy mistake. First, the driver would discover a deep layer of soft Florida sand lying just beneath the sparse growing wild grass covering the hill. Second, they would encounter strategically placed StopNets capable of wrapping themselves around a vehicles wheels and locking up axles within twenty feet of first contact. If they somehow avoided the randomly scattered nets, and continued on uninvited, then a second weapon from the Hawktree arsenal would be unleashed. A shower of armor piercing M2 rounds from a Barrett M107 Light Fifty would explode into the vehicles engine block. Suddenly, all passengers would find themselves occupants of a two ton paper weight, the antimateriel rounds having done their job. Finally, should the bad guys foolishly choose to return fire, a single high velocity round traveling at over 3000 feet per second would explode the center mass of each offender, and they would die instantly. All in all, if you
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wanted to chat with Lawrence J. Hawktree in his modest hilltop home, you would do best to call ahead. Now, most would consider such preparations to be the excessive and extreme actions of a paranoid personality. But, then most would not have experienced the violence, brutality, and sheer terror of a black ops warrior. If they had, then such hillside preparations would be seen, not as paranoia, but as prudent preparation. After twenty intense years of door-busting grab-n-goes, political killings, and slimy creature hunts in caves far away, Hawk knew all too well that he had made his way on to more than one dead man list. He knew of at least two foreign governments that had penned torture/terminate next to his name. Long ago, he had decided not to let such knowledge keep him from his life. Not unlike a twelve step practitioner, he had come to accept what he could not change. Instead of fretting or rending his clothing in despair, he chose instead to direct his energies to the art of careful preparation. He chose the best place he could find from which to defend himself. He maintained his weapons to perfection, and constantly improved his skills with them. He prepared his mind to accept armed combat, and even death, at any moment in his ordinary day to day. He acquainted himself with surrounding terrain and reminded himself of personal and physical limitations to be worked on. He maintained situational awareness at all times. Beyond all that, there was nothing to be done, except perhaps recite one of the prayers he had learned in Sunday school back on the res in South Dakota. Hawk had learned early on that life is resilient and tenacious, and that it is also fragile and fleeting. For all of these reasons, he chose to quietly appreciate every day he had been given; to eat, sleep and breath as well as he could. And if, at the end of any given day, he was still capable of doing all three, he would know it had been another good one. He did his best to anticipate any number of very bad scenarios, and he had prepared all that he could. Whether or not the threats for which he prepared would ever arrive was beyond his ability to know. But while he waited, he was determined to go about his day to day, mindful of his blessings, and grateful for the wonder of it all. As important as the job of staying alive most certainly was, there was an equally important task Hawk had set for himself some years earlier. It was one that he had vowed to accomplish at all costs, one at which he simply would not permit himself to fail. Out of love and not fear, he had determined that he would build a small, livable home in which his aging mother could live out her remaining years in dignity. For years he had sent her money after each of his missions. He had called her every Sunday, when he knew she would be back from church. From time to time he would call one of his two sisters who lived nearby. He inquired after his mothers health and any needs she might have. His sisters were courteous, if distant, in suggesting that, more than anything, his mother would appreciate a visit from her only son. Hawk would simply say Maybe later
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this year knowing he had no plan to return to the place that held so many painful memories and disappointments. So, instead of returning home to see his mother, he made plans to bring her to him. He would provide her with a safe and dignified place in which to live out the remainder of her life, a place where he could go to see her and to express, if only in deeds, how grateful he was for all he knew he owed her. His plans for such a home for his mother had begun two decades earlier, when he was still a young Army ranger. Every month he would deposit ten percent of his wages in a savings account. He paid in religiously, until his resignation twelve years later. And when he worked freelance, pulling in big money for extreme missions, he never stopped setting aside funds for his mothers future. Maybe, it was because she had raised him and his two sisters selflessly after his fathers death. Maybe it was because she demonstrated strength, compassion, love, and patience to all who knew her. Or, maybe it was because her hands were those of an artisan who had never found the time to create anything beyond large round loaves of baking bread. Whatever the many reasons were, Hawk was determined that the long planned home for his mother, a wood and glass A-frame, would be completed while she was still able to enjoy. He would, he vowed, build her a safe home, with a scenic view, and with enough space that family members could visit her, or as time progressed, stay with her and see to her needs. Seven years ago, he had purchased five acres of former orange grove, complete with a sink hole lake, and a stand of Cypress trees. The frosts of the eighties had devastated most of the orange groves north of Osceola County. It was one parcel of such land that Hawk had purchased. The land was five miles down the main road from his own property, and within a short drive to the ancient cold water source known as Kelly Springs. For the past five years, Hawk had faithfully worked on this project every Friday morning. And where there had once been only a sad patch of Florida scrub, a medium sized A-frame now pointed toward the sky. Entirely glass across its front, the structure looked down over a small lake and a dozen Cypress trees along its shoreline. Hawk sometimes rested from his carpentry chores choosing to sit on the front terrace. If he arrived early enough he could watch the morning sun rise up over a small forest full of chattering birds. Increasingly he felt pleased with his creation, knowing he was perhaps only a few months from finishing off interior floor and walls. He was beginning to grow impatient, wanting to let his mother know that her home had been completed. His mother and he had talked off and on about it for years. She had struggled with the possibility that she would have to leave her culture, her ways, and her friends behind. She had spent many sleepless nights in troubled prayer, asking for an answer. And, in the end, perhaps through Gods grace, she calmly accepted her sons offer. She agreed to do what he was asking of her, to move to the house he had built for her. In return, she had asked for his word that, after a period of six months, were she to be unhappy there in her beautiful new home, he would allow her to return to the home she had known for so long. In her heart, she knew her son wanted only the best for her, and that
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he was a man of his word. So when he listened to her terms and nodded his acceptance, she knew without a doubt, he would honor her wishes. He always had. He had also always made good on any commitment to which he pledged himself. She remembered how, as a young boy, he had learned of his fathers death in the barracks of the U.S. Marines in Beirut. How he had vowed to kill every bad man there is. He had also vowed not to serve in the Marine Corps, an institution he felt had somehow let his father down. These and many other vows and promises had fallen from her sons lips. But, she could think of none that had ever been ignored or left uncompleted. She also knew that her son had not been happy with many aspects of his youth. He had also been discouraged with the limited choices available on the reservationfirst for his father, and then for him.

* Sideways Again Over the years, Ive noticed a number of peculiarities in this life. For example, children grow up to be their parents, regardless of their efforts not to. Arrogant statements made while judging others, almost always come back to haunt. Id never do that! I can hear me saying as a young man. Ouch! But, more than any other peculiar life happening, the one that has caught my attention the most, is the unexpected ways in which our routine day to day can suddenly go very much sideways. Hawks call came in a full twenty minutes past the time he said hed arrive. This, all by itself, told me that the earth had somehow tipped from its axis, or that skinny blonds would soon start up charities to feed the homeless. Whatever was behind it, something of a celestial nature was out of whack. Pressing talk on my phone, a touch of impatience came through in my voice. Where are you? Hey he replied, ignoring my question, I just saw Millmans car pull out of the cemetery. The cemetery? I repeated back. The light at last went on. Son of a bitch, the cemetery. I should of caught that. Im on his ass nowa block behind him. Where is he? Wheres he headed? He was on Palmer. He just turned on to Alabama.
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Son of a bitch! I said again. Hes on his way to Stellars house. You want me to stop him? I took a full five seconds to consider our choices. No. I said. Let him go. Let him go? Hawk asked. Yeah. Let him go. Stellar and his wife are hardly ever home. Theres an even chance hell find an empty house. And if he doesnt? It was my turn to ignore the question. Hawk, listen up. Theres been enough blood spilledtoo much. This time, how about if you and I stand down, outside the splatter zone. Lets just do it by the book. Hell, I like Millman. I like the man a lot. But this timeI looked over at Murkowskithis time, lets let Stan handle it. Youre call said Hawk. Ill stay on his ass until he gets here. Oh, and And? I asked. and Millman just turned into the Stellar estate. The phone went dead. Handle what? Murkowski demanded. I smiled in Stans direction, then began to quickly pass on details of the day and of Hawks latest intel. I had only gotten a few minutes into the story before I was drowned out by ear piercing sirens going off at the firehouse around the corner on Canton. Now what? asked Murkowski looking drained and discouraged. Before anyone could speculate, his cell phone chirped. Rolling his eyes, he answered the call. He only listened. But, as he did, all color drained from his face. Without a word, he slammed the phone back into his pocket, turned abruptly, and bolted with surprising grace in the direction of his car. Stan I shouted after him. What is it?
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My house he screamed over his shoulder. On fire! A few seconds later, all three hundred plus horsepower inside Stans modified Dodge Avenger churned burning rubber onto peaceful Park Avenue. As his lower pitched cop siren kicked on, Stan disappeared from sight, speeding in the direction of his home. Naomi looked at me and I looked back. What just happened? she asked. I think I said thoughtfully, things have now officially gone sideways. So, what do we do? she asked with genuine interest. Well, Im not sure we do anything. What Im going to do is call Mr. Hawk and let him know we will be switching to plan B. Which is? she asked. Which is that we drop back and punt. August! she said sternly, Im serious. What are we going to do? I couldnt help notice shed used the we word again. Well, Hawk and I are going to go onto the Stellar estate. Make sure that Millman and everybody else is safe and well. Then, were going to wait until Stan or other law enforcement arrives. But, Millman has a gun! Well, I have a gun I said, intending to be funny. She was not amused. I started over. Naomi, not to worry, really. Millmans a friend of mine. Hes not going to hurt me, or Hawk for that matter. He just needs to hear some reason from somebody he knows, somebody he trusts. Dont worry. Well talk him back down to planet earth. Fine she said, walking in the direction of my old Mercedes. Lets do it. For a split second, I considered mounting a strong protest, of demanding she stay behind until I could sound an all clear from the Stellar estate. Then, just as quickly, I
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considered the odds of actually changing the mind of Naomi Morales once it had been made up. OK I said. But, you will wait in the car once we get there. Naomi had already fastened her seat belt. She shrugged her shoulders. Hurry up she said. Were almost out of daylight. When we arrived on Via Tuscany, Hawks looming black SUV was sitting a half block down from the stellar estate. He was just emerging from the backseat where he had gone on a shopping through his weapons vault. Glancing at him, I thought I caught the silhouette of a second full size handgun, between tee shirt and unbuttoned bodyguard jacket. Probably an FN, I noted to myseIf. The man does love his .45s. You good? he asked, looking genuinely concerned. I patted the bulge beneath my shirt, just forward of my hip. Im good. Gastons onboard. What? Another Glock in .40? He looked disapproving. Im good I repeated. And youre just a caliber snob. Hawk chose to miss the humor. Im good, too Naomi chimed in, patting the rucksack slung across her body. I now passed on Hawks disapproving stare to her. You do know youre carrying a concealed weapon without a permit, right?. I applied. It just hasnt got here yet. Tell that to the judge. Its a felony, Naomia friggin felony Oh my she said, feigning horror. You said friggin. I furrowed my brow, while trying with great effort not to smile. Suit yourself, Suzie, I said with a shrug. A few minutes later, the three of us had hashed out how best to proceed. After much noise and heat , from Ms. Morales, it was agreed that Hawk and I would take the lead down to the main house and she Naomi would hang back just outside the gate.
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Reluctantly, she agreed to be an early warning system, a trip wire to warn us of any unexpected visitors coming onto the property behind us. Since our cell numbers were already sitting on her speed dial, she only needed to tap one digit to give us a heads-up in a hurry. Hawk and I placed our phones on vibrate before moving off in the direction of the estate. One side of the main gate was open and hanging wide. We approached it with caution, anticipating guards, dogs, or both. So, when no nasty life forms appeared, we pushed quickly through it. Then, moving up the custom brick driveway, we crossed under an ivy covered portico before climbing two wide steps leading to the front door. Like the gate, the exotic imported purple wood entrance stood ajar. A large ceramic pot lay beside it in two large chunks, black dirt and foliage spilling from it across the red tiled porch. Its an open door I whispered to Hawk. I hate open doors. I added. Having gone through more than a few of them over the years, I had rarely found one that was kind , good, pleasant, or safe on the other side. An open door, to me, simply meant someone was either in too much of a hurry to close it, or they were no longer able. Hawk shrugged and, as usual, was the first one through the door. His 1911 was drawn and pushed out in front him as he swept the interior over his front sight. Gripping my own weapon tightly in both hands, I followed carefully behind him, muzzle pointed down and away. After only a few steps into the foyer, Hawk held up a hand. I stopped abruptly, fearing the worst. He nodded in the direction of the two story staircase that circled counter clockwise up to the second floor. I looked up the stairway, thinking Hawk had seen someone coming down. When no life forms appeared, I expanded my field of vision to include the wide landing below it. Ordinarily, a body lying lifeless there, would have startled me. Instead, it curiously engaged me, as my brain struggled to understand what it was I was seeing. My first impression was that I was looking down on a life size doll; one that had been thrown from the overhanging balcony above. I really wanted to believe that we had only come across a mannequin, a large and lifeless mannequin from a store front window. Such an explanation explained everything, everything except the part where the life size doll looked exactly like Fiona Stellar. What the hell! I said involuntarily. Hawk glared in my direction and held two fingers up to request stealthier behavior on my part. I nodded back my understanding. Hawk approached the body and knelt closer to it. Fall didnt kill her he said. Gunshot to the back of the head.
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I swallowed hard as my mouth went dry. Scanning the large foyer and its three interior doorways, I turned slowly in a complete 360 degree circle. Millman? I asked. You think Millman? Not sure Hawk said. He carry a big ass caliber? Dont think so. Just the PPK. As we talked, the slightest taste of fear arrived on my tongue, as I continued to scan the room, the stairs, and the open door behind us. But, as I did, I could not help notice the growing metallic taste of rust rising in my mouth. It was a familiar, frightening taste; the one that always arrives with any threat of sudden death. I tried to focus and ignore the taste. Stay alert I scolded myself. Do not end up with a softball size hole in your aging anatomy. Where now?, I whispered, certain that Hawk would point up the stairs. Instead, he stood back up to his full height. We clear the first floor he said, as though stating the obvious. First floor it is I said feeling only slightly relieved. Together we slowly began to work our way through the house, Hawk angling carefully around corners, as I provided protective back-up from a few steps behind and off to one side. We took our time. We did not speak. No need to. Each of us knew what needed to be done and how to do it. The minutes went by. Finally, having negotiated a sitting room, a formal dining room, a pantry and a kitchen, we found ourselves looking through a ceiling-to-floor glass door that framed an expansive backyard and a lake beyond. Hawk held up his hand again. I stopped again. He pointed with his Kimber in the direction of a large pool deck half way to the lake. I strained to see what he was seeing. With the light fading, I could just make out three men. One seated, two standing. The two men standing were laughing, each with a bottle in their hand. Who are they? I whispered over Hawks shoulder. Even in his forties, Hawk still had the best eyesight of anyone Id ever known. He squinted ever so slightly. Stellar. Hanlin. Millman he said matter-of-factly. Millmans in the chair he added. * The Jesus DreamMaybe
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So, now what? I whispered somewhat louder. Check your weapon he said. Then follow me. Taking Hawks advice, my trigger finger lightly touched the side of the pistol near the back of the extractor. To my relief, I felt a slightly raised contour that told me one of sixteen hollow point rounds had been chambered and was now quietly awaiting further instructions. I took three deep, slow breaths. Lead on I said, as calmly as I could. A split second later we were out the door, Hawk in the lead, weapon extended. He walked briskly in the direction of the three men, as I positioned myself to his right, and strained to keep up. Before we had gotten within thirty yards, the two men standing picked us up on their radar. As if by magic, each produced a handgun, both of which were promptly pointed in our direction. Officer Hanlin pointed his Sig service revolver directly at me, as Darrin Stellar shoved a mammoth Desert Eagle to the head of a flustered Carl Millman. Stellars other hand held Millmans PPK, which he pointed directly at Hawk. Well. Well said Stellar, If it isnt yin and yang, Winter Parks super crime crew. You gentlemen come to free your friend? The perpetual smile that was his trademark somehow still shone brightly, even in dim light. Hawk said nothing, but continued to press forward until he had brought us within fifteen feet of our host. Then stopping, he uttered four words. Millman comes with us. Stellar threw his head back and laughed as though he had heard something extraordinarily funny. You two are unbelievably stupid he said. Do you know that? That the two of you...he nodded in our directionare unbelievably stupid! Hawk said nothing, so neither did I. Stellar resumed. You come into my houseto threaten me and my guest? Stupid! You kill my wife inside our home. Stupid! You take my gun and pull the trigger to end her life in front of an eye witness, a law enforcement officer? Hanlin nodded and smiled, as though he were the one making up the story. Just plain stupid! he said. The moment had officially turned bazaar, as four guns pointed in four directions. With Stellars gun still pressed against Millmans neck, a tense symmetry settled in over the moment; a standoff of wills. Hawk did not flinch, nor did he take his eyes from the eyes
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of his primary target. Stellar smiled back, somehow confident that he was in control of events about to unfold. For the first time, I glanced over at Millman. He was sitting in a wrought iron pool chair, his arms and legs tied tightly to it. The corner of a small towel had been shoved into his mouth. His face was bruised and bleeding, one eye swollen completely shut, as blood seeped from his nose. He was making rapid sucking noise through his mouth, in an effort to draw in enough oxygen to stay conscious. Stellar noticed my concern. Yeah he said Did you know that little monkey man here came all the way to my house to tell me Im a bad person He snorted once in our direction. Apparently its wrong to kill brand new doctors...especially when theyre on vacation. Heywho knew? On the other hand, she was a superior bitch. What? I heard myself say. Stellar frowned and looked my way. Oh yeah. Hell yeah. In fact, you should have known her when she and superior monkey father here lived right here on this lake. You should have known her when she paraded her tits up and down this street like she owned us all. But, you know...in the endshe really wasnt all that; just another tight ass tease that never puts out. No matterthats all history. Shes dead nowright, Papa? He slammed the back of Millmans head with the gun muzzle. So thats what happened, asshole? She wouldnt give you the time of day. So, you follow her down to the islands and kill her? Is that it, psycho-man? Stellar smiled and shook his head. Not really he said with a condescending smile. Its better than that. Its the universe, man. The universe decided to get into my shit. Seriously, it just up and took over; let me know it was time to make my move, even things up. Shit, I didnt follow her lame ass down there, or anywhere else. I didnt have to. She came to mecame to my island. She showed up in my Kingdom, uninvited. And when she got there, she saw merecognized me. Decided to get nosey, ask questions. She figured things out. Stupid bitch couldnt keep it to herself. Thought she was still up here in Winter Park, under daddys golden wings. And you knowthat just wouldnt do. I mean, hows a man supposed to make a living? Youve gotta protect your interests, man. And I sure as shit couldnt have little miss tight ass running back to daddy, telling him all about the big bad drug Lord that used to live next door. No, that would be bad for business. So, what was I supposed to do? Turns out, per the universe, it was just a good time to make Brittany Millman dead. He leaned down in the fathers direction. It was a disappointment, really. I meanshe didnt linger very long at all.

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Carl Millman stopped struggling, as a muffled sound of despair rolled from somewhere deep within him. And you know Stellar added, I sure would hate to see anything happen to Brittanys grieving dad. So, maybe we can figure something out here. Millman slumped forward in his chair as he slipped into unconsciousness. Stellar raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. But, I guess we better hurry, if were going to make a deal. Monkey dad here doesnt look so good. There was a pounding in my ears that was starting to drowned out all surrounding sounds. It was anger unexpressed that was morphing into physical symptoms. I knew what I wanted to do, and I knew Hawk was thinking the same thing. One shot. Squeeze off just one soft shot and turn Darrin Stellars standard three pound adult brain into a slurpy spray of grey matter. The only problem with that particular emotional solution was that a cocked .50 caliber handgun was still pressed against Carl Millmans head. Even a reflex twitch from a dying mans finger would be enough to ensure his sudden, ugly death. I was standing slightly left and behind Hawk. Hanlin was squared off and facing me, maybe twelve feet away. His service Sig was pointing directly at my heart. Knowing that he was wearing a standard issue protective vest beneath his shirt, my G23 was carefully trained on the middle of his face. Youre fucked he said. Trying to appear composed, I replied. Now, how would you know anything about that, Officer Hanlin? He mumbled something incomprehensible, then raising his free hand. Youre very close to dead, you know that, asshole No. Not really I said. And actually, youre the only asshole in the area. Though I couldnt see it in the poor light, I guessed that Hanlins face had churned up red, as it always did when anyone challenged him. Easy! ordered Stellar. Hes just trying to aggravate you. Get you off balance. Find an opening. So, just stay calm. Remember, you and me are going to be out of here in less than ten minutes. Really? I said.
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And what about local law enforcement? You know. The honest ones who are on their way right about now? You really are stupid. You know that Yeah, and I thought we already covered that ground, Mr. Drug Lord. Fact is he continued, Nobodys coming. In the first place, I know every move Winter Parks finest are going to make before they do. I know if theyre going to sleep on duty or take a dump. Wow I said, Thats good intel! Stellar ignored me and rattled on. Mr. Hanlin here is my eyes and ears. Hes done a fine job of keeping me informed. And today he went above and beyond. He found a way to keeping your stupid Neanderthal friend, Murkowski, running in circles. In fact, right about now, Im guessing hes trying to pull his unlucky family members from their burning house. Stellar stopped his dialogue long enough to snort and smile before continuing. Murkowskis one more Winter Park loser whos never been smart enough to figure it out. Whats to figure out I said. Youre a psychopath and your lackey here isnt smart enough to find his own dick in daylight. You know, Dunn. You can waste as much breath as you want. Were not going to take the bait. Were not going to hand over the clear advantage we presently enjoy. Which is? Just this. Your friend Millman here is dead, by your choice, should you so much as blink, fart, or clear your throat. As Stellar talked, I tried to focus, to clear the fear from my brain and identify any options that would shake things up, shift things our way. I knew the clock was running out. Stellar droned on. In fact, let me tell you exactly whats going to happen here. He raised his eyes briefly in the direction of the sky. First, a small float plane is going to fly out of that sky and land on that lake. Then, Officer Hanlin and I are going to drag the Car King of Central Florida over to that motor boat tied to that dock. We are going to steer out to our plane, put your friend and ourselves on it. And we are going to fly away to a very sweet place of my choosing. In the meantime, he said, feigning sincerity, you and Mr. Hawktree here are going to sit down on this beautiful and comfortable lawn, and watch us fly peacefully away. Should you do anything else at alland I mean anything, I will personally shove Mr. Carl Millman from our little plane from a height of ten to twelve thousand feet.
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Wow I said, still trying, You really do have a head on your shoulders. Too bad its always up your ass. Stellar shrugged his shoulders. By the way he said, a special thanks goes out to our young crazy dead stalker friend. I mean, I really liked the float plane thing. Except got the whole crash and die ending. Too bad, really. He was a good customer. While Stellar had been holding forth congratulating himself, the sun had been disappearing deeper and deeper into Lake Osceola. Suddenly, as the final slice of light faded from view, the five of us were left standing in near darkness. Only the terrace lights from the house provided any illumination. Fine detail had been replaced by hazy shapes and general outlines. A quiet settled over everyone. It was broken by Hawk clearing his throat and simply saying Jesus. Instinctively, Stellar and Hanlin focused on Hawk and his now darkened silhouette; they listening carefully for more words to follow. But there were no new words; only silence as the seconds ticked away. Ten seconds to be precise. That was the number of seconds that Hawk and I had long ago determined we would silently count off, precisely wait, before simultaneously taking action. Our plan consisted of just two possibilities. Contingency #1One of us says Jesus, and we both silently count to three before taking action. Contingency #2 One of us says Christ, and we count to ten before moving. In either case each of us would take one wide side step in opposite directions. And, as we moved, we were to place front sights on our adversarys center mass, and double tap once, before moving in close. Additional shots would continue, until no threat remained. Hawks simple mantra would be our guide. Dont stop shooting til they stop dead. I knew, as always, that Hawk had not made this choice lightly. I accepted that he had only started the clock ticking, after he had analyzed the situation, and determined that extreme action was now the best option still open to us. He had listened to Darrin Stellars continuous rant. He had seen what he had done to his own wife. He understood exactly the kind of man he was dealing with. He had seen this kind of man before. Not an ideologue. Not a misunderstood soul. Not a victim of circumstance. He recognized him for what he wasa monstera violent mix of greed and crazy that responded to nothing less than brute, lethal force. Correctly, Hawk surmised that Darrin Stellar had no intention of allowing Carl Millman to live, even if he and his twisted lackey were permitted to fly away unchallenged. He knew, for better or worse, it all had to play out herenow. You got something to say, Tonto? Stellar inquired. Go on. Speak up. Go ahead. I sense you have something to say. Knock yourself out.

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I had reached the number 7 in our deliberate count, and now pulled the trigger of my Glock to the halfway mark. I felt a slight resistance to my pull. I took in a deep silent breath as I counted out the final numbers in my head. A large and peculiar lump formed in my throat, as my mouth turned to sawdust. Then, as though the sun had come out again at midday, the entire backyard of the estate flared bright, awash in freakishly bright light. Every pool tile and blade of grass was now clearly visible in high-def color. Two things happened next. Hawk exclaimed Mother Mary! my signal to stand down. And, Angel Melendez appeared from an opening in one of the towering hedges. He was smiling broadly, as he dragged a struggling Naomi Morales along with him. She was bleeding from her nose and from a long gash just below her hairline. As Melendez pulled her along with his right arm, he pointed a combat Beretta at her breasts. You be nice now he said looking in my direction. You be nice now, or maybe Ill just shoot off your girlfriends tits. Suddenly the balance of power had gone completely sideways. A few seconds earlier, I had been prepared to leap into the lions jaws. Now, all I could think of was how to keep Naomi from being hurt. This is where you two assholes drop your guns and sit on the ground. Said Angel. Theyre not guns replied Hawk. Theyre pistols. This told me that Hawk had still not given up on the contingencies. Angel looked agitated and angry. Dont piss on me, man! You understand? Dont piss on me! And he drew Naomi closer to him and cocked the hammer of the PX4. Now, either you assholes throw your guns to me and sit on the ground, or I will shoot off a chi chi for each of you. To further terrorize, he released his grip on Naomi long enough to grab the front of her blouse and rip it open wide. Naomi staggered to stay on her feet and struggled to know what was happening. Still dazed from being pistol whipped, she looked more confused than frightened. I clenched my teeth in an effort to hold in both fear and rage. Hawk I said quietly, almost apologetically. Im throwing mine down. Its Naomi. Im throwing mine down. Then, loosening my grip on the Glock, I raised it up slowly by the slide. Here it is I shouted in the direction of Morales, and threw it to within five feet of him. What else you got on you? Just the knife I said in a dejected tone. I pulled a Flash II from the inside of my right pocket, and threw it in the same direction.
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Pull up your pants. I want to see your socks. I dont carry an ankle gun. Show me! he shouted. I pulled up the cuffs of my jeans. O.K. he said. Now the waist. I pulled up my shirt and tee shirt before turning around 360 degrees. Morales seemed satisfied. Now down on the ground. Sit! I slowly lowered myself to a sitting position on the grass. Morales smiled and then refocused his gaze onto Hawk. Your turn, big man. I could see the wheels in Hawks head turning. He was analyzing the situation, calculating the odds of successfully fighting back. He was trying to rationally decide, what his first, second, and third moves would be; and who would die first. The whole scene was now surreal. The overhead lights bathed everything beneath them with the candle power equivalent of a battlefield flare. I glanced at Naomi. She was shaking her head slowly as though to clear it of cobwebs. With growing awareness of her situation, she stared down at the sand colored pistol pressed against her bare breast. Looking back at Hawk, I steeled myself for what I was sure was about to happen. I determined that I would scramble for my Glock the instant that Hawk pulled the trigger on the Kimber. Again, I tried to take in some extra oxygen. My legs now felt weak, shaking from too much adrenalin and too little action. I hoped they would at least carry me to my weapon. Hawk remained silent and stoic. Five seconds Angel announced. Suddenly, the rusty metal taste returned to my mouth, as blood trickled from my lower lip. I had tensed so much, I had bitten into it. I waited helplessly for whatever would happen next.
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Hawk turned his head almost imperceptibly in my direction. Mother Mary he said. Then, for the first time, he looked into Naomis bleeding face. One Kimber he said, and carefully threw placed the 1911 on the ground. FN he said and pulled a full size FN pistol from a waist band holster. This he dropped to the ground. From his ankle holster, a single stack Glock 36 appeared; and from the leather sheath behind his hip, a Ka-Bar fighting knife. One by one, all of his weapons landed before the angry, violent man holding Naomi in his bruising grip. Jesus, man. Youre like a Bass Pro outlet said Angel. And a superior grin filled his face. But, youre learning, big man. Youre learning who youre dealing with here. Hawk said nothing as he lowered himself to the ground next to me. His expression had changed not at all. His demeanor was strangely calm and distant, even for Hawk. He seemed dignified in his surrender, unaffected by what had had to be done. Well, its about fucking time you got here said Stellar. Yeah echoed Hanlin, Its about time. Stellar and Hanlin both lowered their guns and watched as Melendez dragged and pushed Naomi toward them. As he passed within ten feet of where Hawk and I sat, he suddenly shoved her hard in our direction. She landed in a tumbled heap across Hawks shoulder and my lap. Her face was pointed upward, blood still seeping from her wounds. She appeared to still be confused. But, her lips were moving slowly, as she tried to tell me something. Grampis gone she said out loud. Grampis gone. Yes I know, Naomi. I know. Your grampis gone. I suddenly worried that her head injury might be worse than it appeared. Not knowing what else to do, I took off my shirt and placed it over her exposed front. I found the cuff of one of its sleeves and dabbed gently at her wounds. She looked up at me, smiled a faint, wry smile, and to my amazement winked. In that moment, I knew she had just told me she was alert and oriented and playing possum. Grampis gone. She said again. I began to have second thoughts. She nodded in the direction of the courier pouch that still hung across her body. Thats when it hit me. She was not telling me her Grampi was gone, she was telling me that Grampis gun was still in her pouch.
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Stellar and his pal were now quite full of themselves, strutting and posturing for each other. While they exchanged their high fives, I slowly slipped my right hand into the pouch until I found the aging firearm. Pulling it free of the pouch, I nestled it under my left armpit, still gripping it tightly. Shirt I whispered, and without asking for further instructions, Naomi carefully placed the shirt I had just given her across my shoulder and over the gun. I crossed my left arm over my right, as though I were feeling cold or defenseless. Hawk had, of course, missed nothing. And, as he listened to our low conversation he was quietly removing a large rectangular buckle from his wide leather belt. Gripping it tightly in his left hand he pulled with even force until a razor sharp double edge blade revealed itself. All one piece, the blade and grip measured 4 tip to heel. This he placed behind the watch band on the underside of his left wrist. Then looking in our direction he whispered a terse Hawktree pep talk. Everyone look pitiful. Well know when. No halfway. Naomi, still lying in my lap, readjusted her clothing, until she was once again covered. I could feel her heart pounding. It was steady, not wild, and I saw her looking around the surrounding ground for something. What? I whispered. This she said freeing an egg sized river rock from the garden path nearby. Then without changing position or expression, she stealthily tucked it into the waistband of her jeans. Stellar was now talking on a two way radio that had magically appeared. He said something inaudible over it and took off in a hurried walk toward the dock. Just as he arrived at waters edge, the distinctive drone of a De Havilland Beaver could be heard moving in over the lake. Stellar pulled out a flash light with a red cover and moved it back and forth in broad arcs above his head. The plane banked to one side, and rolled in for a night time landing. Whoever was flying it brought it in with hardly a splash. Within a minute or less, it had slowed to a stop within a hundred yards of the dock. Basking in half-moon light, it sat there gently rocking to and fro. Stellar now disappeared into the custom built boathouse at the end of the dock. A few minutes later, he emerged dragging two oversized duffel bags along behind him. A second trip to the boathouse produced two more. Each bag he pulled, pushed and rolled with great effort. Finally reaching midpoint on the dock, he wrestled and cussed the ponderous bags onto a shiny new twenty foot runabout. What the hells he got? I asked in a raspy whisper. Someone elses stuff said Hawk, making a rare attempt at humor.
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As I looked over toward Hanlin and Melendez, I thought I caught a small movement from Millman. I imagined I saw a foot stir slightly. As I tried to focus in, the two nasty boys both looked in our direction at the same time. They seemed to be debating an important question. In the end, whatever the topic, Melendez appeared to have been the winner. Hanlin looked dejected and whipped. He followed passively as Melendez strode in our direction, arriving with a smarmy smile from ear to ear. Well, my friends, it is time for us to leave now. And that means that it is time for all of you to stay here. Hanlin shifted nervously from foot to foot. Now, Officer Hanlinhe thinks we should just leave you here and take the car-man with us for insurance. He thinks none of you would call the police if we did that. They wouldnt call said Hanlin looking down at the three of us. I know they wouldnt. Well said Melendez you could be right. I dont know. Who can know such things for sure? Human nature is unpredictable at best. But what I do know for sure, Officer Hanlin, is that I am not going to trust your instincts on this one. Just way too much to lose Then raising the Beretta even with Hanlins neck, he pulled the trigger once. There was a violent explosion of blood and tissue as Hanlins body belched out a deep guttural noise before collapsing in a lifeless heap. Melendez watched without expression until even the involuntary spasms had stopped. Then, feigning sadness, he observed. Oh my, they do say the good die young. But, how about guys like this? One more good man thats gone bad. How sad. Of course, you know, he did have a choice. I mean, he could have been a better cop. He could have just said NO. Pleased with his own cleverness, he smiled contentedly before taking in a very long, slow breath. Then, stepping over Hanlins corpse, he approached us once again. Looking down with disdain, his smile morphed into a purely evil smirk. I turned my head and looked at Naomi. I wanted my last vision on earth to be of her proud and beautiful face. Then, unexpectedly, Stellars voice interrupted the moment. It was irritated, impatient. Melendez turned his head to listen. Come on! Move it! Stellar yelled. Its time! Angel acknowledged the message with a wave of the Beretta. Then turning back in our direction, he began to share a clever phrase he had practiced in front of the mirror many times. It was to be done in a rap style. It went Ya made ja bedNow Angel leadall in ya head gonna make ya dead But, his performance never took take place. Instead, as Angel pivoted in our direction, a heavy round river rock struck him full force along his left temple. Dazed, he stumbled backward, trying to regain his bearings.
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Disoriented, he fired off the Beretta twice. The first round grazed Hawks left arm. The second round went wildly left, striking a large wind chime near the house. As Angel instinctively stumbled back and away from his attackers, he struggled to regain his senses. Shaking his head, he squeezed his eyes tightly then opened them in an effort to clear his vision, acquire his targets. Instead, the last thing Angel Melendez saw was the blurry image of a towering figure. Instantly, an excruciating pain shot through his arm, the wrist tendons of his right hand having been severed by a razor sharp blade. Even before the Beretta had dropped to the ground a return blade stroke cut across the side of Angels exposed neck. Falling to his knees, he fell dead beside the man he had killed only moments before. Back on my feet, I glanced quickly to see if Naomi and Hawk were alright. Seeing no severe injuries, I scurried toward my G23 and retrieved it. Then, turning in the direction of the lake, I walked, with what Naomi later called brisk determination, toward the dock and Darrin Stellar. As I approached, I could hear the boats two large Johnson outboards turn over. My first thought was, Im going to lose him after all. Unfortunately for Stellar, in his hurry to get away, he had neglected to cast off his bow line. The result was unexpected for both of us. Apparently, things can suddenly go sideways, even for well-practiced bad guys. As he shoved the accelerator forward, the anvil shaped cleat to which the bow line was attached, wrenched violently from the dock. The sudden release of bow line tension sent the heavy metal cleat looping wildly in the direction of the boat. Striking a motor housing, it ricocheted into one of the churning propellers where it was quickly transformed into a coiled and twisted nylon mass. The portside props stopped abruptly, as the starboard props churned on. The remaining motor now pushed the boat in a tight, but expanding, circle. Darrin Stellar held on fast with one hand, fully expecting to ride out the worst. As he passed within fifty feet of the dock, he raised his Desert Eagle in his free hand and squeezed off two shots. I dove to the deck, as both rounds hissed past my head punching two large donut holes in the boathouse behind me. Well, fuck me I said, getting to my feet. Stellars boat had looped temporarily in the direction of the float plane. As it reached its outer most arc, I shouted to Stellar at the top of my lungs. Cut the power! Drop the gun! I repeated the phrases three times. I will never know if Stellar heard my voice above the roar of the boats engine; or if he simply believed he could somehow still make it all work. Who knows? Maybe he was convinced it was his moment to take back his universe. Whatever his thinking, as the boat circled back a second time in my direction, he started to raise his weapon once again. This time, I was not inclined to wait for him to pull the trigger. As the boat neared, he lifted and extended his arm. I could now clearly make out his large frame against the dock lights shining from across the lake. I gently squeezed up the slack in the
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Glock trigger until I felt resistance. As I did, some uninvited thoughts raced pell-mell through my head You are not to take a life. You are to honor life in all its peculiar forms. Great or small, all living things are to be given the benefit of the doubt. Killing any creature, especially another human being, is an absolute last resort Just as quickly, I flashed on Naomis bloody face and Hawks bleeding arm. I caught a glimpse of Stan Murkowski hurrying off to his family and their burning home. I remembered Naomis grandfather and a drug addicted soul recruited to kill an innocent stranger. I saw Fiona Stellar lifeless and bleeding, in her own home. So many thoughts arrived so quickly, I couldnt sort them out. There simply was no time. A wave of intense anger swept over me, followed by a cold disinterest in keeping Darrin Stellar alive. Placing front sight on target, my finger provided the last few pounds of pressure required to release the G23 striker. My faithful Glock responded, lighting up the darkness every time an exploding round went boom. After the first shot and flash, sighting down range was no longer possible. My night vision was gone. Peering through shrinking pupils, I continued to fire in the direction of the noisy boat, and the large dark silhouette clinging to it. I had started firing with fifteen rounds in the magazine, and one in the pipe. Mechanically, I did what I had trained to do, been taught to do by master Hawk. My index finger relaxed after each shot, just enough to allow the trigger to reset. The result was a continuous flow of evenly spaced shots down range. I did not stop firing until the slide of my G23 locked back and Darin Stellars lifeless body rolled over the starboard side of the boat. The coroners report would later state that Darrin Stellar had been struck by seven of the sixteen rounds fired, two of them striking vital organs. In the end, Darrin Stellar, had not taken back his universe at all, but had simply rejoined it. And like every mortal soul who had ever preceded him, he returned to it as a handful of dusty elements of no intrinsic worth. As I stood there on the dock, dazed and disbelieving, raw adrenalin pulsed strong through my veins. Looking out over the water, I could hear a faint voice calling my name, speaking to me from somewhere far away. I recognized it at once. It was my own timid voice of common sense and reason. Boat it said quietly. Power boat still moving it said a bit louder. The light, as they say, at last went on. Without stopping to do the math, I knew at once the circling boat was returning and about to impact the dock precisely where I stood. Even before my brain could call out instructions to my limbs, I was in motion. I pivoted 90 degrees on my heels and began to run pell mell in the direction of the Stellar Mansion and my battered friends. Im told it was a very good effort on my part, quite a strong showing really. In fact, I understand I almost made it off the dock. The unmanned boat struck a thick piling behind me at just over 20 knots.
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This, by itself, would not have been a problem, had it not been for the two large duffle bags onboard that were packed full up with cans of high octane Mo-gas. Local Fox news reported that the resulting fireball had been seen by a passing planeload of Brazilian tourists three miles overhead. The resulting shock wave expanded outward, picking me up like a cheap date, and launching me in the direction of the main house. Thirty feet later, I re-entered the atmosphere, slamming down head first before cart wheeling across a manicured St. Augustine lawn. Three ribs snapped on impact, as a right elbow fractured, and a hairline crack spread down the length of my left femur. When I opened my eyes some minutes later, I was looking up into the beautiful coal black eyes of Naomi Morales. She was cradling me in her arms, her lips repeating calming words I could not hear. The pain was excruciating. But not so bad that I could overlook the sweet earthy smell of her body or the grateful smile there on her lips. Breathing gingerly, I tried to sit up. The effort caused me to pass out for a second time. When my eyes opened again, I was lying on a stretcher in a rescue helicopter, and Naomi was lying next to me on a stretcher of her own. Peering through the Plexiglas door, I surmised that the twin helicopter revving up on our starboard side most likely contained Hawk and Millman. As our Bell 412 lifted off the ground and banked in the direction of downtown Orlando, I glanced down through a side panel window. The boathouse below was still burning wildly, and the small float plane that had mysteriously appeared on the lake not twenty minutes earlier, had disappeared. Most likely it was now far away on a fixed heading for Key West. My sightseeing was suddenly interrupted by the light touch of a warm hand on my good arm. Turning my head, I was once again looking into Naomis dark, inviting eyes. Her lips were moving as she struggled to tell me something important. I strained to hear her words, to understand. But, try as I might, I could hear nothing above the fierce drone of the Pratt & Whitney twin pac as it methodically churned the rotors overhead. Smiling at Naomi, I attempted a shrug. Closing my eyes once more, I said out loud AliveAlive beside Naomi.

* Home Again. Home Again Six weeks doesnt sound like a longtime. But when youre staying in someone elses home, living inside their reality, it can seem much longer. After the brutal events at the Stellar mansion, and once each of had received appropriate medical care, Hawk, Naomi, and I had been invited by Carl Millman to rest and recover in the luxurious digs of his estate. I owe you all he had said. I owe you and I wont forget it. He had then proceeded to provide each of us with a room of our own on the second floor of the main house. Stay as long as you want he said. Youd be doing me a favor. Im trying to reconnect with people more these days. His generous hospitality had worked out
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well for me, as I knew I would be hobbling around on crutches for some time. A fractured femur with a metal rod inserted into the bone marrow canal, can take three to six months to heal up properly. I made myself comfortable, extremely grateful for the elevator that took me down to meals and up to bed. Naomi had chosen the bedroom adjoining mine. Dont think this means theres some sort of open door policy she informed me on our first night in the house. On the other hand she said smiling, It isnt locked. During the weeks that followed, a comfortable ritual evolved. After dinner, Naomi would retire to her room where she would read and watch a movie or two on one of the large laptops Millman had provided for each of us. She might also jot down ideas and suggestions on how Hawk and I could better improve our non-existent business model. She was not shy in pointing out our lack of business savvy. A check book and a shoe box full of receipts do not equal a business plan she told us. In the final hour before bed, she would softly knock on the door that joined our room, then quietly slip through it. Most evenings she would wore a light silk robe, also a Millman gift, over a well-worn tee. Her favorite tee images being Madonna, Che Guevara, and for some mysterious reason, a professional wrestler named Koffin. The time we spent together each evening was something I came to look forward to more and more. We traded stories from our pasts, the good and the bad and the goofy. I learned that she had been engaged just out of high school. He was a stupid twenty year old redneck with hundred year old beliefs she said. I should have hated him. I should have crossed the street the first time I saw him coming. But, I didnt. I imagined I could see a softer, caring side of him that he had somehow overlooked. What happened? I asked her. Oh, he left Said he couldnt do the Catholic thing. So, where is he now? If I had to guess, Id say hes probably living somewhere outside of Umatilla, still sucking down beers on Saturday night and sleeping in on Sundays. By now, hell have six kids and a little wiry, exhausted wife. No job. No plans. No future. You know, happy as a clam. I was surprised, and a little relieved, to learn that even Naomi Morales, the queen of self-preservation, was not immune to hormone tainted choices, and love-struck reasoning. I, in turn, coughed up bits of my boy-girl history. I explained that I had not been raised to be a confident ladies man, but rather to be a fearful, questioning whiner, who thought I was somehow entitled to a free kingdom and a princess of my very own. I regaled her with accounts of my clumsy exploits with women, and with the tragic death of the one woman who had ever mattered. So, when I lost her ten years ago, I pulled in the women welcome mat and Ive managed to keep the door locked ever since.
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As the weeks passed, Naomi arrived earlier in my room and left later. We talked about anything and everything. Sometimes she fell asleep there. At first, she nodded off in the high back chair near my bed. Then, quite unexpectedly she started to sleep beside me, above the covers. It was not until week number five that I awoke to find her sleeping beside me beneath those covers, her Che Guevara tee folded neatly on the high back chair nearby. Our love making was initially tentative and cautious, the physical limitations of my injuries lending a bit of awkward humor to our intimacy. Each morning I would awake to find that Naomi had disappeared along with Che. It was a warm and loving time for both us. We each took great comfort in knowing the other was only one unlocked door away. While Naomi and I had taken Millman up on his offer of extended shelter, Hawk had managed to stay in such a palatial setting just one night. He had only stayed that long in order to be courteous to his host. By the second day, he had packed-up and returned to his modest mobile home at the top of a Mt. Plymouth hill. Overall, our stay at the posh Millman estate had proven to be a healing experience. Now, as I struggled up the steps to my proletariat office, I was reminded that I was in fact a man of very limited meansan unconventional worker bee that would have to return to his job soon, if the essentials of life were to be paid for. Naomi was supporting me under my arm nearest the stairway railing. Hawk was on my other side, one step down, a giant beefy hand locked into my armpit. I had recently transitioned from crutches to cane, but was still being very careful not to overdo the weight and pressure on the healing leg. Further down the steps, carrying my cane and my worn overnight bag, came Murkowski. Jesus he said, what do you got in here? The truth? I asked over my shoulder. Yeah Always refreshing he said. There are five sets of underwear, a Mossberg 8 shot 12 gauge, a Kel-tec Sub 2000 and all appropriate related ammunition. Jesus Murkowski repeated again. I thought you were among friends over there! I was I said. But, mother Hawk here left me a few of his toys the day he went back on up to Mt. Plymouth. You boys ever think about another line of work? Murkowski asked. You knowaccountingnursinglibrary science? No, Murk I said. I think well just stick with awesome defenders of justice.
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Youre such a tub of bullsh Murk I interrupted Please, theres a lady present. Murkowski frowned and smiled at the same time. Well, in my book chimed in Millman from the top of the stairs, you guys are the best and thats not going to change. Then, punching in the code to our office, he swung open the door and stepped inside. A few seconds later he re-emerged. Its stale in there, he announced. Its hot and stale. I turned down the air. My small office-apartment was never intended to accommodate more than two or three bodies at one time. And while this probably would have appealed to Carl Millman and his wife, when they had first moved in thirty years earlier, the five adults now gathered within its modest walls were feeling just a bit claustrophobic. An hour later, Naomi and I were sitting at the big table looking across at Carl Millman and the lake beyond. Hawk was stretched across the ugly yellow sofa with his feet dangling over one end as he slowly flipped the pages of a worn copy of The Upanishads. A few feet away, in the kitchenette, the door to the worlds first refrigerator was open wide, Lieutenant Murkowski rummaging through its shelves for a second bottle of ODouls and an aging chunk of cheddar cheese. So, anyway said Millman. Thats pretty much it. Tristina left this morning. Shes going up to stay with her cousin, help him out for a while. I guess his baseball career is pretty much over. Its hard enough to see a 100 mph fast ball with two good eyes, let alone. His voice trailed off for a few seconds, before starting up again. I felt kind of bad for the two of them. I mean, shes not a bad kid. No worse than most that age. Shes mainly just gullible, thats all. I felt kind of bad for her. SoI told her that once she finishes helping her cousin out, shes welcome to come on back for a while. I told her, she could stay in one of the rooms upstairs or the guest house if she wants more privacy. But, I made it clear the free digs are free as long as shes chasing some education. I dont care what you decide to learn or study I told her. You just have to learn something that gets you a job that doesnt involve adding up tips at the end of a shift. I decided to tease him a bit. My God, Carl I said. Youre turning into a regular Winter Park social worker. Looks like it he shot back. First, I deed this stunning edifice to you and Hawktree, and now this. She got an interest in it? I asked in an effort to redirect the topic away from me.
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Interested in what? In school Tristina. Is she interested in higher education? Well said Millman thoughtfully, I think she just might be. She likes the good life, I know that. Shes smart, just a little flighty. Maybe she can start off with a few semesters over at Valencia Community. You know, reacquaint herself with the written word. Theres open enrollment over therebring her up to speed. Hey, who knows? If shes willing to do the workprove herselfI might just be persuaded to finance a few years over at Rollins. Millman stopped abruptly. He looked over at Naomi, as though he had to explain. Actually, it would be good to have some life back in the house, you know...after all this time have someone to worry about, other than me. Naomi smiled and nodded her understanding. There was a short silence, broken by a shout from Murkowski as he suddenly discovered more cheese behind an ancient jar of mayonnaise. Alright! he shouted. Thats what Im talkin about! Then scooping up the bar of dark cheese in one hand, he grabbed an ODouls in the other, before plunking his spoils on the counter top dividing appliances from living area. He looked toward us with a sheepish grin. Missed breakfast this morning he said. I had to meet with the insurance guy. Walk him through the damage. Told us he wouldnt show up til eight. Son of a bitch if he didnt show up at seven. Anyway, Im starved Stan I said Its only 10 AM. Wouldnt you rather have a cup of coffee? Toast maybe? I had coffee on the way over he said, as though stating the obvious. Now, I need something cold He held up the frosty bottle of faux beer. And some protein And up came the hand with the cheese. It was classic Murkowski. The same man of the people philosopher who regularly espoused the three pillars of Murk wisdom Love it. Eat it. Or, shoot it. Theres nothing else to be done. Our stocky philosopher went on to explain that the insurance adjuster had not stayed very long. Most of the fire damage in the house had been done to the attached garage, with some slight smoke damage to the kitchen. The adjuster had promised a check within the week to cover clean-up and rebuild costs. Murkowski was delighted that it was all chugging along so smoothly. He had always criticized insurers and the way they had conducted their businesses in Florida, especially after the 2004 year from Hurricane Hell. Now, he was just relieved to know they were going to come through for him and his family. More than anything, Stan had been overwhelmed with gratitude that none of his family members had been hurt in the fire started by inept arsonist, Kyle Hanlin. Fortunately, in true Hanlin fashion, he had screwed up that assignment, as he had all others. The gasoline soaked rags he had ignited in the familys garage, burned hot; but they also set
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off the home alert system that Murkowski had installed. By the time Hanlin had run down the driveway and jumped into his squad car, Winter Park fire fighters and EMTs were already geared up and on their way. In the end, damage to the home was minimal, and no loved ones harmed. To express his gratefulness in some meaningful way, Stan had once again returned to church, vowing that every Sunday morning he and his family would take the time to celebrate life and the blessings they enjoyed in the city he protected and loved. Sitting with his family, one pew bend the mayor, he would respond along with the other practitioners in a voice loud and strong. He was surprised to find that this modest weekly ritual had brought him comfort and a sense of place and time. He now felt more complete, more content than he had for many years. Stans greatest gift had always been his ability to know when he had it good. Say said Stan, in between mouthfuls of beer and cheese, you boys know anything about some missing drug money? I glanced over at Hawk. He stopped reading his book and stared out over its pages. Nobodys sure on this. Our sources of information are what you might call dubious. But, still, a couple things point to the possibility that Mr. Melendez may have kept a sizable stash of cash over in that safe house you boys visited a few months back. I suddenly put on my choir boy face of angelic innocence, and Hawk returned to reading his book. Really? I said with a tone of earnest interest in my voice. There was money over there and we missed it? Stan smiled in my direction. Well, there was money over there How can you be so sure? I asked. Well, Melendez and Stellar both left records behind. Stellars were on computer, nice and neat and organizedgive CPA a hard-on. On the other hand, Melendez was cruder. His records were in a ratty ass black note book. But, both score cards seem to point to one thing. To one thing? I asked. Yeah said Stan, About eight hundred thousand dollars, give or take, was last left with Melendez. It was his payout for eliminating some dealer competition up in Lake County. Well, Stan. How are you ever going to figure out where it went. I mean, who knows how many dirty little fingers were in that pie? My guess is, someone snatched it when
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they heard Melendez bit it, or else Melendez went through it buying women, booze and expensive ammunition. I smiled to sell the theories. Stan took a final swig of his beer then placed the empty bottle carefully on the counter in front of him. You know he said there was a witness over at the house that day, the day you boys set off the grenade among the lily pads. Hawk peeked back over his book in my direction. And this witness, who shall go nameless, says they saw you, and Mr. Hawktree here, haul ass from the house to the Mercedes. We were in a hurry I agreed. Nothing like an explosion to get you moving. And continued Stan, this nameless witness also says one of you was carrying some sort of bag or container as you left the area. Really? I said Well, I wonder if that could have been our lunch? Your lunch? Yeah, exactly. Hawk and I often pack a lunch when were out in the field. Saves time and money, you know. Stan didnt smile. He picked up the empty bottle and the plastic wrapper that had once held a quarter pound of cheese. He dropped them abruptly into the trash can at the end of the counter, then straightened himself to his full height and took a deep breath. I like you boys. I really do. Youre clumsy, rude, violent, and mostly in my way. Still, for some reason... He left the sentence unfinished and walked across the room to the front door. Pulling it open, he turned back in our direction. But, if I get even a whiff of a new Mercedes or a sudden trip to the South of France, I will be back with my big boots on. You got it? Yes, officer Murkowski I said consider it got. A few minutes after Stans departure, Millman, and then Hawk, took their leave as well. Maybe my age was showing, or my testosterone levels had suddenly dropped, but I thanked them both with a hand shake and a genuine feeling of warmth that I had not felt in a very long time. Youre welcome said Millman. Tomorrow said Hawk.
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And then they were gone. Naomi stood up and crossed the room to the kitchen. She made two cups of P&G tea and brought them back to the table. I picked up one of the steaming cups and took a careful sip You are definitely the most beautiful servant girl who has ever attended me I said with an expression of feigned arrogance. Naomi played along. Well, you keep talking like that, detective man, and I will definitely break your one good leg. Message received I said. Then, strangely, for several minutes all was quiet. Peering into the eternal present of my tea cup, I reflected on our first unhappy meeting. I watched as recent snippets of our time together floated by. They were bright moments full of distinctive sounds and sights. They were 3D movie trailers, pulsating with the promise of more to come. You sappy son-of-a-bitch I said to myself. Dont do it. Dont trust it. Hurt lies ahead. But, try as I might, I could not now imagine life without this woman. And the truth was, I didnt want to try. I was tired, weary of an endless parade of ordinary days and lonely nights. So, with total disregard for any future pain and sorrow, I talked back to my own suspicious brain. Then let the hurt begin I chided. But, I am not missing out on one single moment of this late arriving miracle...however temporaryhowever painful it may one day be. Then, looking up, into two dark, loving eyes, I simply asked Are you ok with where you arewhere we are? Gingerly placing her tea cup on the big round table, Naomi leaned closer to me. Then, placing both of her beautiful hands on mine she simply said. You think too much, Mr. Dunn. I know I replied. Old habitshard to stop She smiled a crafty smile Well amazingly, you ancient man, I have a proven solution for that. Her smile widened, as she refocused her eyes on the ugly yellow sofa over my shoulder. Thats not a very comfortable couch I observed scientifically. Trust me said Naomi with devilish delight Youre not going to care if its a bed of rusty nails.
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* Snail Mail Three letters arrived in the month that followed. Naomi Morales received a letter from the State of Florida advising her that she was now officially permitted to carry a concealed firearm. Lawrence J Hawktree received a letter from his mother, explaining, with regret, that she had decided to remain on the reservation with her daughters, and to live out her remaining years near the friends and neighbors she had known since childhood. Tristinas cousin, Van Richey, received, with no small amount of amazement, a notarized document from the law firm of Briggs, Stacey and Kaufman, confirming that he was now the new franchise owner of a class AA baseball affiliate out of Birmingham, Alabama. An anonymous bidder had quietly purchased the franchise in his name, paying approximately eight hundred thousand dollars in one lump sum.

* It was a thickly humid evening in Winter Park, Florida. A mauve sunset materialized as Naomi and I looked on from the narrow balcony of our office apartment. The lake at the edge of the estate was now placid, its Cypress sentries motionless. All was still, peaceful, calm. Heres the thing, I said without being asked. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. Sometimes, things change so fast, its hard to know which one just happened. But, the important thing is to just keep on going. And as long as you do that, as long as you keep your hand in, and you dont just sit down and die, amazing things can happen. Amazing and good things can happenI pausedlike your being here with me now.

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Naomi studied my face, her expression slowly changing to one of understanding. Youre still thinking too much, Mr. Dunnway too much. I thought we already talked about that. And also she added, her voice softening to a whisper I love you too, you strange and ancient dinosaur.

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