A Shadow That Passes Away

By Larry M. Rosen

In New York City, database developers Haley and Willi foil an attempt to blow up the Manhattan Bridge. Home again, in Centreville, Virginia, a snobbish waiter brings out Willi's darker side, so Haley insists she see a psychiatrist. Then, outside events intrude. A serial killer is murdering pedophiles. A second killer is eliminating famous people who escaped justice, leaving behind a cryptic note-To the determined protector of my just reward. A third killer is murdering parents and daughters, then leaving bizarre notes citing songs about Bill. A hostile takeover of their employer is underway, using The Stroller, an assassin, to ensure the sale. Nora Kelly, an evangelical friend presumed dead in the Sudan, returns, mysteriously saved by Raven H2O, a security contractor known for its ruthlessness. When friends are killed, the twosome are drawn into the tangled web of serial murders, and Haley must deal with the distinct possibility Willi may be one of the killers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257584864

Book preview

ALSO BY LARRY M. ROSEN

HALEY AND WILLI NOVELS

Cultural Landscapes

Seal, Trumpet, And Vial

OTHER NOVELS

Women Don’t Like Me

_______________________________________________________

A Shadow That Passes Away

A Haley and Willi Novel

By

LARRY M. ROSEN

_______________________________________________________

Copyright © 2010 by Larry M. Rosen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This Book Is

PUBLISHED BY LULU

(www.lulu.com)

First Edition: January 2010

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, companies, other organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN 978-0-557-25350-0

Printed in the United States of America

The author and publisher do not have any control over and do not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to acknowledge friends and colleagues whose names I modified and used for several characters—Tom Coker, my first mentor at work and in life, who was best man at my wedding and made me a lifelong Dallas Cowboys fan; Ed Urquhart, my neighbor and friend, with whom I bandy about conservative philosophy; Bill Brimberry, a dedicated civil servant, and also one of the good guys; Lenda Dincer, a woman of enormous charm; Larry Klapper, who taught me the fundamentals of relational databases, and always insisted pivot tables are the appropriate solution to any of life’s problems; Germana Miner, who, on occasion, playfully noted Eli Manning’s shortcomings at QB, often waxed poetically about the beauty of Italy, and always stressed the importance of dancing to one’s own tune; Cindy Flint, who, no matter how many times I tell her, refuses to believe she is a superior human being; Stephen Pisarski, whom I’ve known and dearly loved since he was six; Nora Mayers, a woman of many interests and skills—Sherlockian; Frank Sinatra, Gene Kelly, and Beatles guru; certified interior designer; and certified physical trainer—but always first and foremost a born again Christian; and especially Michelle Kordell—wife of Steven, mother of Mari and Jon, dietary law giver for Pele, military logistics maven, PM extraordinaire, compleat conservative, and, of course, the most dangerous woman on the planet.

A special thanks to my daughter, Samantha, who provided review and comment on draft versions. And, as she did for my first three novels, Sam provided invaluable critiques and suggestions about the dust cover and book layout.

DEDICATION

To those in the intelligence, law enforcement, and first responder communities—your disappointments are trumpeted with a peculiar enthusiasm by outsiders; your successes and sacrifices are recalled in whispers among a knowing few, by some memorial, perhaps tarnished by the influence of those who seldom serve, or by a sacred set of nameless stars upon a wall.

To the memory of my beloved Border Collie, Dallas, my friend and constant companion for the past 15 years. You’ll always remain in my thoughts and heart. Now go, and join Isis, Mattie, and Colors, by an idyllic lake, where you will be happy, frisky, and young.

And, as always, for the two women who moved me to write—Nora Mayers and Michelle Ingrid Williams II.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The fictional characters Kerr Lanham, Jeffrey Scripture, Orville Sampson, Mike Feeney, Ethan Duke, and Mitch Victor are solely the author’s creation. Although some of their personal traits and history are loosely based on, respectively, Ken Lay of Enron, Geoffrey Bible of Phillip Morris Tobacco, the Buffalo Bills’ O.J. Simpson, Republican Congressman Mark Foley of Florida, Erik Prince of Blackwater, and the Philadelphia Eagles’ Michael Vick, these characters are all pure fiction. In some instances, their words are portions of direct quotes attributed to their real life counterparts by various Internet sources. In other instances, some of their words are the author’s paraphrases of reported quotes. In most instances, the words spoken by these characters are entirely the author’s invention.

Every one that heareth these sayings of mine,

and doeth them not,

shall be likened unto a foolish man,

which built his house upon the sand:

And the rain descended, and the floods came,

and the winds blew, and beat upon that house;

and it fell: and great was the fall of it.

Saint Matthew, 7.27

Our time is a very shadow that passeth away.

Wisdom of Solomon, 2.5

Take nothing at face value. Assume all persons—unknown and known—are treacherous and deadly. Be prepared for violence to erupt at any moment.

Mantra of Haley and Willi

PROLOGUE

KERR L ANHAM WAS FEELING A good deal of anxiety, unusual for him, since his sociopathic tendencies rarely made him either introspective or fearful of consequences. The 60 something year old son of a poor preacher, Lanham had become fabulously wealthy as Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer of Vapco, originally a Kentucky-based natural gas company that had morphed into an enormous holding company whose corporate headquarters, courtesy of a Lanham-led management coup, had ended up in Houston, Texas.

The new Vapco soon established itself in electricity and gas transmission and distribution, as well as the development, construction, and operation of power plants and pipelines. It’s real veneer of success, however, was based on promoting power and communications bandwidth commodities as tradable financial instruments, including such arcane items as weather derivatives, used as part of a management strategy to reduce risk associated with adverse or unexpected weather conditions. At its peak, Vapco was praised by Wall Street and labor for its long-term pensions, worker benefits, and effective management.

The sand castle known as Vapco began to crumble when it was discovered that much of its recorded assets and profits were inflated, fraudulent, or nonexistent. Vapco, under Lanham’s rule, had placed debts and losses into offshore entities that were not reflected in the company's financial statements. They had also used other dubious financial transactions between Vapco and related companies formed specifically to take unprofitable ventures off Vapco’s books.

Kerr Lanham was subsequently indicted on numerous charges, including bank fraud, making false statements to banks and auditors, securities fraud, conspiracy, wire fraud, money laundering, and insider trading. He pleaded not guilty, claiming he was misled by other Vapco executives. Lanham, found guilty on several counts, was facing life imprisonment and over $90 million in SEC and civil actions.

So it was no wonder Lanham was feeling a good deal of anxiety, even though the appeals process would ensure he remained a free man for years—a free and wealthy man. And he was enjoying the fruit of that wealth right now, vacationing in Aspen, Colorado.

Lanham suddenly became angry. How dare they convict him of financial practices that were commonplace in many Fortune 500 companies. Inflating financial statements using creative accounting was a sound business practice. It pushed up stock prices, rewarded executives with large bonuses, and created an esprit de corps fueled by success. Besides, Lanham thought, he’d have turned Vapco around with some new scheme, if the damn government had stayed out of his business. Then all those thirty thousand a year gripers at Vapco, the ones bitching they’d lost their life savings, would once more be hailing him as their savior.

Lanham smiled, then. What did he have to worry about, really. He still had his ace in the hole—Junior. Junior would pardon him, if it came to that. Not out of loyalty, though. You could never count on loyalty from a politician, even though Junior’s family was famous for it. He just knew too much about the frat boy not to be pardoned—the women, the booze, even the drugs. And, of course, the money. Always the money. He’d poured quite a bit of it into Junior’s campaign, and that didn’t count the money he’d contributed to bail Junior out of all those failed business ventures. Damn, the boy just had no business sense. And lazy. The boy slept all the time. No wonder he screwed up everything he touched. Still, he liked the kid. Good sense of humor. Great at a cocktail party. Not too shabby in a foursome, either. And the nicknames. Nicknames for everybody. And his was Kerry Boy. Lanham had hated that moniker at first, but it had grown on him. And the informality gave him an added sense of importance. The President of the United States called him Kerry Boy.

Lanham suddenly felt bored. His wife was shopping, and about now would be reducing the inventories of half of Aspen’s shops. Well, let her, he thought. She’d been feeling the stress of his trial and conviction, too. Shopping would relax her. But what could he do to relax. A drink, he decided. Just one. In the bar.

He put on a new pair of jeans and a blue denim shirt, leaving the top button open. This was Aspen, after all. You could be informal here. He left his room, walked outside, made his way to a building that housed an upscale bar, then went inside. The lighting was dim, and only a few patrons were scattered around. Good. Nobody would bother him, especially reporters.

He found a small table in a corner. A waitress appeared immediately. He ordered an Irish coffee. He could nurse it slowly, and kill some time. The waitress returned with the brew, which was topped off with a heavy dollop of whipped cream. He used a long spoon to savor some of the topping, and was about to take his first swig of the hot liquor.

"Mister Lanham, forgive me for intruding on your privacy," a woman’s voice said.

Lanham looked up, and saw an elderly woman standing next to his table.

"I’m a long time admirer of Vapco and you, sir. And I think it’s disgraceful the way they’re railroading you for what others did."

"Nice of you to say," Lanham replied, showing her the benevolent smile that had charmed most of Houston for years.

"I’d be honored if you’d give me your autograph."

"My pleasure."

The woman, whom Lanham saw was markedly stooped, reached into her purse and produced a ballpoint pen.

"A napkin would be fine," the woman said, reaching over to grab one. As she did, she dropped the pen at Lanham’s feet.

"Let me get that," Lanham said, bending over to retrieve the instrument. He didn’t see the woman deftly pour a colorless liquid into his Irish coffee.

"What should I write?" Lanham inquired.

"To the determined protector of my just reward."

Lanham, momentarily confused by her request, stared at the woman, then dutifully wrote the words on the napkin, neatly signing his name below.

"Odd phrase," Lanham said.

"It has significant meaning to me," the woman said, picking up the napkin.

Lanham noticed she was wearing gloves. He was about to ask her about the meaning, when she abruptly turned and walked out of the bar, far more agile then she’d earlier appeared.

"You’re welcome," Lanham said, then turned his attention back to the Irish coffee.

The next morning, a maid found Kerr Lanham dead in his bed. The Mesa County Coroner’s autopsy revealed Lanham had died of a heart attack. The Coroner omitted the fact that his team found a napkin with Lanham’s handwriting on it, which had apparently been slipped under the door to Lanham’s room.

• • • • •

Johnny Bench was unhappy, although his melancholy had not yet begun its inexorable metamorphosis into murderous frenzy. That would come in a few hours, when he revealed himself to the world as he began The Expunction. Patience, he said, over and over in his head. Johnny Bench did not believe patience to be a virtue, but it often was a useful stratagem.

Johnny Bench, of course, was not the man’s name. He had chosen it simply because it fit so well, although it had nothing to do with the virtuoso catcher enshrined in Major League Baseball’s Hall Of Fame.

Virtuoso. That laudation would soon be bestowed on him, as the world witnessed his artistry. And some would witness it first hand, up close and personal. The Bills. So haughty in their perceived security. So self important as they dared to demean him, their master. Yes, master. They would learn soon enough who is lord and who is serf.

‘My boy, Bill, he’ll be tall and as tough as a tree. Will Bill.’ Lines from the Soliloquy in Carousel. ‘But what if he is a girl?’ Another line.

"All the better," Johnny Bench said.

• • • • •

Herm Gatskey desperately needed to find another young boy, but an inner voice told him to be careful, to hold back. So he would have to make do with second best, which was why he was walking the aisles at night at the Blockbuster’s in the Colonnade, an outdoor shopping center in Centreville, Virginia, which also featured a BB&T bank, an Outback Steak House, the China Express restaurant, a Shell gas station, and a KFC. Herm was pretending to read the back cover of a Clint Eastwood Dirty Harry DVD, believing this would make him appear manly to any observer. Surreptitiously, he imagined, he’d sneak a peek at the butts of pre-teen boys, who had wandered away from their parents to look over DVDs for sale rather than rental.

"Daddy, that man’s staring at me," a nine year old boy, with enormous, dewy eyes, said. The boy was wearing a very tight pair of designer jeans.

"What man?" his father replied, suspiciously looking around the store.

Suddenly frightened, Herm put the DVD back on the shelf, then quickly walked out of the store, heading to his car in the Blockbuster’s parking lot at the side of the building. As he turned the corner, Herm almost trampled an elderly woman he’d earlier seen browsing in the store. The old woman—who was stooped over badly and using a cane to hobble about— seemed frail.

"I’m sorry," Herm said, then started to walk away.

"I think I twisted my ankle," the old woman croaked. "Would you escort me? I’m parked over there." She pointed to a vehicle next to a large brown dumpster at the far end of the lot.

"Okay," Herm said.

"You don’t have to help me walk. Just catch me if my ankle gives out and I start to fall. At my age, if I fall, I’ll break my hip. And if I break my hip, I’ll never leave the hospital."

Herm followed her as she hobbled over to the driver’s side of her vehicle.

"I want to tip you," the old woman said, reaching into her purse.

"That’s not necess … ,"Herm managed to get out, before he felt a terrible pain in his abdomen. He sat down on the ground, holding his bleeding stomach, already numb from shock. Looking up, he saw the old woman standing over him.

"You’ve been molesting young boys for years, Herm, the woman said, her voice suddenly different. And the courts just keep turning you loose to molest more young boys."

"It’s my right, Herm, sobbing, managed to say. I need those boys. I have a right to them."

"The last boy you needed committed suicide after you’d finished with him, so he couldn’t testify in court and you walked. Did you know he was an only child? Did you know his mother has tried to commit suicide twice? Now I realize you’re sick, Herm, and you should be in an institution. But whacko judges keep setting you free, and you keep destroying lives. So, I have a solution."

"What?" Herm blubbered.

"I get rid of you," the woman said.

Herm looked up at the old woman, watching as her expression changed. First she smiled at him, then her features became devoid of any feeling. Herm noticed her bend over him, saw a very long knife with a wavy blade in her hand, then saw a flash of metal and felt a searing pain in his throat.

Fortunately for his killer, Herm was a small man, weighing no more than 130 pounds. Even so, the faux old woman struggled, as she dragged his corpse behind the dumpster. Standing upright, she walked back to her vehicle, got in, started it, and drove away.

• • • • •

Matilda Jameson was a happy five year old. And why not. Her father, Dan, doted on her, the way dads do when they’ve fallen hopelessly in love with their daughters. Her mother, Phyllis, likewise placed Matsa, as both parents called her, at the center of their universe.

"Matsa, when you get home from Montessori tonight, Dan said, we’re having your favorite dish for dinner—octopus."

"You’re teasing," Matilda replied, beaming at her dad.

"No, no. I mean it. Octopus served with cactus and squid juice."

Matilda pointed a finger at him. You’re teasing. I can always tell. You have that little smile on your face.

"You see right through me, don’t you," Dan said, leaning over and kissing the honey blonde, blue-eyed girl.

"I can’t see right through you, daddy. I don’t have X-ray vision. Only Superman can see right through you."

Dan started laughing.

"What’s so funny?" Matilda asked, also starting to laugh.

"You always make me laugh, in a good way."

"I love you, daddy."

"I love you, too, Matsa."

"What are we really eating tonight?"

"I’m gonna bring home Chinese."

"Yes, Matilda squealed. Don’t forget soup. I want wonton soup. Egg rolls and fried rice, too."

"You got it. Uh, if they don’t have pork fried rice, I’ll get rice with squid."

"You’re still teasing," Matilda squealed, again pointing her finger at him.

"We better get going," Dan said.

"Daddy, how come you and mommy work in different places and mommy has to go to work before you?"

"Mommy works for the government, and they start their day very early. I work for a consulting firm, and we start later."

"I still don’t know what you do, daddy."

"I often wonder myself, kiddo. Come on. Let’s get your coat on and get you to pre-school."

The two of them walked through the kitchen into the mudroom, then down two steps to the garage, where Dan pressed a button that opened one of the three doors in the enormous side loading garage. Dan opened the front passenger door of his Lexus, Matilda climbed in, then Dan carefully closed it.

"Hello, Bill," a male voice said, startling Dan, who turned to see who was speaking to him.

Dan saw a flash of metal, felt a terrible pain in his temple, then collapsed to the concrete floor. Johnny Bench stood over the unconscious man, lifted the tire iron above his head, then brought it down again, crushing Dan’s skull.

Matilda, who had been silently watching, remained seated in the front seat of Dan’s Lexus. Already in shock, Matilda’s young mind failed to grasp the significance of the ice pick in the stranger’s right hand after he opened the car door with his left.

When he was finished, Johnny Bench left a typewritten note where the police were sure to find it. The note said:

My boy, Bill, I will see that he’s named after me. I will.

Not from a heavenly carousel. Gordon MacRae. No namesakes.

The Expunction begins.

Johnny Bench

• • • • •

"Evil is a deliberate act, causing great harm or pain," The Stroller mused, walking at two in the morning along a deserted street near Buzzard’s Point in the District Of Columbia, not too far from U.S. Coast Guard Headquarters. It was January, the temperature barely above freezing, and a modest rain danced lightly on both his waterproofed black parka and the New York Yankees cap pulled down over his forehead. The smell of the nearby Anacostia and Potomac Rivers, though not quite the scent of the sea, coupled with the light mist, falsely conjured up distant memories. For a moment, The Stroller felt carefree, an unaccustomed sensation.

"Gimme some money," a voice said, coming from behind and to the right of him.

The Stroller, who had earlier noticed the stalker, turned around and looked at the young black man, noting a do rag, a three quarter coat that had seen better times, cords, and very expensive yellow running shoes.

"Why? The Stroller calmly inquired, ignoring the already opened switchblade in the youth’s right hand. Judging from your shoes, you seem to be doing alright, although that coat sullies the meaning of the word threadbare."

"What you talkin’ ‘bout, mother fucker?"

"You’d understand, if you’d been paying closer attention to Bill Cosby."

"Gimme some money, the youth repeated, and your coat and that cap, too."

"Now you’ve gone and done it. I’d have been happy to part with some loose change, but my Yankees cap has sentimental value. So, for being greedy, you get nothing."

The youth started to slash at The Stroller, then felt a sharp pain in his chest, cried out, fell over backwards, and stared sightlessly at the raindrops falling on him. The Stroller put the Sig-Sauer SP 2022, fitted with a detachable silencer, away. It held fifteen 9 mm rounds, so reloading was unnecessary.

"I doubt ridding the nation’s Capital of you was an evil act, though it clearly caused you great harm and pain. Well, language does have its vagaries."

The Stroller walked another few blocks, then approached a double parked, black limousine. A chauffeur immediately opened the rear door.

"Did you have a nice walk?" the chauffeur asked, as The Stroller got in the limo.

"Restful, yet exhilarating."

The Stroller adjusted the seat belt so it was comfortably snug, then turned toward the man seated at the other end of the limousine’s rear seat.

"Thank you for indulging my eccentricities, The Stroller said. I often require a late night walk before I tackle a new business opportunity. It sharpens my mind."

"Do I have your full attention now?" the man asked.

"You do," The Stroller replied, inwardly bristling at what the other man believed to be an executive tone.

"There’s a business I wish to acquire."

"I’m not a mergers and acquisitions consultant."

"I know, but I’m told you have a flair for hostile takeovers."

"How hostile?" The Stroller asked.

"The whatever it takes kind."

"I hold an honorary doctorate in that field."

"Tell me the best way to brief you," the man said.

"Give me the firm’s name and its number one executive."

"It’s a wholly owned consulting firm, called TGC Associates, located in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. Those Beltway bandits love acronyms."

"Is TGC the initials of number one?"

"Yes."

"Does number one still actively control operations?"

"Yes. His name is Thomas Grayson Coken, a former U.S. Navy captain."

"Have you approached him yet?"

"No. I wanted you on board before I began initiating, ah, negotiations."

"And you believe you’ll need my services at some point?"

"Almost a certainty."

"Why?" The Stroller asked.

"Coken is a strong, self-made man. He won’t be pressured. He’s also a straight arrow. No affairs, no illegal business deals, no income tax evasion. So I can’t threaten to expose him if he refuses to sell. There’s nothing to expose."

"And you’re sure you can’t buy him off by offering a huge sum well above market value?"

"TGC is a big part of his life, although he’s talked about retirement. He and his wife have even looked at upstate New York property."

"So why won’t money move him out? Does he have kids in the area or in the firm?"

"Pretty close. He has a surrogate family. Two employees of the firm. Database developers."

"Why not give them lucrative offers to go elsewhere?"

"They’re loyal to Coken."

"Suppose they were pressured."

"Might not be easy to do. Did you happen to follow the terrorist massacre at Willow Springs Elementary School a while ago? It was national headline news for days."

"I remember the massacre. Parents, teachers, and kids murdered. As I recall, all the terrorists were killed."

"They were—by the two database developers."

The Stroller began to laugh, then caught himself. Sorry. I just can’t imagine two computer nerds whacking a bunch of heavily armed terrorists.

"Neither can I. Maybe they got lucky, or maybe they’re not entirely what they seem."

"So you brought me in to reason with them, if they’re indeed not what they seem."

"Or remove them. Also, I’d like you to reason with Coken and anyone else in the firm who proves to be, ah, recalcitrant."

"A good tactician always does his homework before entering the field of battle. So let me look into these two lethal database geeks and see what I can find out. What are their names?"

"Her name’s Willi Mayers. His is Charles Haley."

"Same name as the football player," The Stroller noted. "Haley played for the Dallas Cowboys and the San Francisco 49ers. He had a terrific career with both teams."

"So."

"I hate the Cowboys and the 49ers. I’m a rabid Denver Broncos fan, and we lost two Super Bowls to those teams."

"Will that be your motivation?"

"Of course not. Your checkbook is my motivation. Still, a bit of silly incentive can be amusing."

"What else can I tell you?"

"Why do you wish to acquire TGC?"

"You don’t need to know that," the man snapped.

"Probably not, The Stroller acknowledged, again inwardly annoyed at the man’s imperiousness. Still, future events may require me to know that."

"If you decide you need to know, and provide a reasonable justification, I’ll fill you in. Deal?"

"Deal," The Stroller said, thinking how much he already disliked this corporate raider.

•1•

NEW YORK, NEW DALLAS

THE AMTRAK REGIONAL SERVICE 160 train left the New Carrolton, Maryland station at 5:37 am on Saturday morning, bound for Penn Station in New York, where its estimated time of arrival was 8:45 am. It was awfully early in the morning to be traveling, but Willi wanted enough time to accomplish her Big Apple agenda without rushing.

Willi had flown home from Kalispell, Montana, where she’d spent a week visiting her mother and sister. I’d picked her up at Dulles at 6:00 pm on Friday, we’d eaten Chinese takeout at home and thrown some of her things in the washer, then she’d gotten antsy and gone out to see if there was a movie to rent at the Blockbuster’s in the Colonnade. There hadn’t been, so she’d stopped at a nearby Dairy Queen, had a large chocolate dipped cone, drank a large chocolate shake, then come home, where we spent the time attending to more basic pursuits.

Earlier, Willi had demanded—during a brief airport telephone conversation as she was changing flights in Billings—that we visit New York to sample what she called comfort food. Glad to have her home again, I’d agreed, asking my neighbor, Ed, to look after Isis, our mixed pointer-terrier.

Surprisingly, the train was crowded, but we’d been fortunate to find two seats together near the middle of a car. As was our custom, Willi had insisted on the window seat.

I’m astonished you haven’t demanded we visit the dining car, to satisfy what you deem a restrained appetite and I call snarfing, I said.

Shush, Haley. You are woefully ill-equipped to understand, let alone satisfy, any of my myriad appetites. As for responding to your bewilderment, I wish to save gastronomical space for the anticipated face stuffing that awaits me during this foray into Steinbrenner territory. We will begin our sojourn in Manhattan at 72nd Street, where I will sample the local bistros, do a bit of window and actual shopping, sample the local bistros, take a walk through Riverside Park, sample the local bistros, then pass Go and proceed to our ultimate destination—Coney Island.

We didn’t have to travel to New York to gorge ourselves. The Washington, D.C. Metropolitan Area has many fine restaurants, including a bunch of those all-you-can-eat buffets you favor.

The birthplace of the dubious doublet of Federal procurement—the sole source contract and the cost overrun—does not afford me the delicacies available from the home of Tin Pan Alley.

Meaning?

"The giant soft pretzel, pizza that doesn’t sully the sobriquet New York style, genuine Nathan’s hot dogs served with superior crinkle cut fries accompanied by the scent of the Atlantic, and readily available curbside soft ice cream cones, courtesy of strategically located Mister Softee trucks."

There are no Mister Softee trucks on the streets in winter, I said. But on another note, it’s great to have you home again. I missed you, Kalispell.

Me, too, Haley.

We didn’t have much time to catch up yesterday, what with doing your laundry and your Blockbuster’s foray. Is Petey okay now?

She is. She just needed to talk through dad’s death and infidelity with me. Once we did, she was ready to move on.

Good. I really like your sister.

So, what’s been going on at TGC and in Centreville, while I’ve been busy dispensing mental health bromides in Kalispell?

At TGC, nothing. Andrea called to tell me the Depot Maintenance Cost System contract was signed, so our suspension is up and we’ll start in a few days.

Good. I’d really like to lose myself in a project after what we’ve been through recently. Uh, anything more on MS-13, Karbala, or Ray and Sue Phillips?

Karbala’s disappeared, and Jim Hayden’s been unable to find even a trace of him. MS-13 hasn’t sent anyone to kill us yet.

So far so good. Was Ray Phillips caught, or did he kidnap another evangelical Christian woman?

Ray’s dead, I said. So is Sue.

Oh, she said, her expression unchanged by the news. I suppose that’s good. How?

Somebody took out two Fairfax County policemen, grabbed Sue, tortured her, then slit her throat. Presumably, she gave whomever did it the name and address of Ray’s intended victim. My guess is that person was waiting for Ray at the victim’s home. Ray was shot, then tortured, then shot again.

Were the policemen killed?

No. They were injected with a drug that knocked them out. They’re fine now. It took them a while, though, to admit it was an elderly woman who’d injected them. They were rather embarrassed.

So the Phillips siblings are history, Willi said. A perfect ending to a tragic and deadly chain of events.

You’re probably right, I agreed. But we need to stay alert. MS-13 may have a contract out on us, which means we might be attacked by anyone from a professional to a bunch of teenagers wielding machetes. Karbala said he wouldn’t attempt any reprisals, and I’m inclined to take him at his word. Still, he’s largely an unknown quantity. So make sure your Walther’s always readily available. I’ll do the same. Since we’re only staying for the day and traveling light, I didn’t bring the Colt Python or my Bowie knife. But I did bring a throwing knife, and I packed extra cartridge clips for our PPK’s in the over-the-shoulder carry-all. So put a clip in your pocket when you get a chance. I’ve already put one in mine.

We spent the next few hours of the ride exchanging small talk, occasionally gazing at the rapidly passing urban and rural scenery, and reading The Washington Post. The time passed quickly, and, when I looked out the window again, I noticed we were arriving at the New Jersey Penn Station, the last stop before crossing the Hudson River into New York.

Your feeding frenzy can commence in about fifteen minutes, plus the added time it takes for the Red Line Number 2 train to get us to the 72nd Street Station. Have any starting point in mind?

I do, Haley. I … I do. There’s a hot dog place near the subway station. Gray’s Papaya. Geri Minor mentioned it to me once. She said their franks are as good as any in the City.

And you remembered that tidbit.

Geri is a masterful cook. So, when she recommended the bistro, I placed it in permanent memory.

So you’ll start the tour wolfing down hot dogs at Gray’s Papaya, then end by gorging on Nathan’s hot dogs.

That is a fair and balanced approach, Haley, giving equal time to Manhattan and the peculiar location of your birth—Brooklyn.

The train came to a stop, disgorged several passengers, then a handful of new people boarded. In a few minutes we were moving again, as the train rattled over a trestle-like bridge that would take us into Manhattan.

• • • • •

We were walking along Broadway, near 72nd Street, immediately after Willi had visited Gray’s Papaya and treated herself to a double order of their special—each special consisted of two hot dogs and a drink. As we crossed 72nd Street, Willi let out a yes when she spied a soft pretzel stand at the corner.

I’ll have a pretzel lightly doused with salt, Willi said, expecting me to act accordingly.

I stopped at the stand, then placed my order. The vendor quickly produced a salted pretzel, which I dutifully handed to Willi.

Haley, there is less salt on this pretzel than I’d find in a box of Domino’s sugar.

"You said, lightly salted," I protested.

"I said, lightly doused. Doused means drenched, saturated, or soaked. Does this pretzel’s wanting crystalline density remotely satisfy my clear specs?"

I have been remiss as a translator of your impeccably precise English.

You are forgiven, Haley. After all, your personal lexis is so negligible, you have never uttered a word that sent any listener scurrying to find a dictionary.

For the next few hours, we walked around Broadway, stopping at two jewelry stores, three shoe boutiques, Filene’s Basement, and some other shops.

Later, we toured Riverside Park, walking down to the boat docks. The sun was overhead, unobstructed by clouds, and there was little wind coming off the Hudson River. So we opened our parkas, and let the sun warm us.

As we took the uphill path leading to stairs that would take us back to City streets, I heard an angry voice coming from an adjacent grassy area.

Motherfucker, I stepped in your dog’s shit, a burly guy snarled. So I’m gonna stick your fucking face in it.

I was cleaning up after her, mister, a young kid, barely out of his teens, said, showing the guy a pooper scooper he was carrying. The kid’s other hand was holding a retractable leash connected to what looked like a black Border Collie puppy.

The guy grabbed the kid by his neck and started to bend his neck down. The puppy growled at him.

I think I’ll fuck up your dog first, the guy said, letting go of the kid and readying a kick at the puppy.

I’d rather you didn’t do that, I said, feeling Him stir.

The guy stopped his kick, then looked at me, sizing me up. His instant assessment was I was no threat, so he started to kick the puppy again. I did a fast shuffle towards him, side kicking him at the side of his knee, not hard enough to seriously damage anything. The guy went down, clasping his knee, then started to get up. Willi shoved her Walther PPK in his mouth, breaking a few teeth. The guy fell back and stared at us, shaken and livid at the same time.

Thanks, the young dog owner said.

Why don’t you walk with us, I said, to make sure that jerk doesn’t follow you.

You broke my fucking teeth, the guy said, as we walked away.

Willi turned and pointed the PPK at him. The guy covered his face and turned away, but didn’t say anything again. When we reached the street level, I saw that he’d started walking down into the park. I watched as he disappeared from view.

I think it’s okay now, I said, bending over and petting the little fur ball.

You like her, I can tell, the kid said. Wanna keep her?

You’d give her up? Willi asked.

Not to the pound. Never to the pound. I got her there, but since then I’ve been trying to find her a good home. I’m just not home as much as I thought I’d be. It’s not fair to her. She’s a Border Collie, three months old, super smart. But she’s got a lot of energy, and she gets into trouble if she’s left alone too much.

We’re from out of town, the Washington D.C. area, just visiting for the day, I said. We came up on Amtrak, and they absolutely won’t allow dogs to ride, unless they’re companion animals. Otherwise, I’d be tempted.

She’s a sweetheart, he said. Hey, where in the D.C. area do you live? My roommate’s driving to Manassas on Wednesday. You live anywhere near there?

Right next door, in Centreville, Willi said. My childhood dog was a Border Collie. I’d love her.

Consider it a done deal, I said. When your roommate delivers the dog, I’ll give him a hundred dollars. That’ll pay for his gas and tolls, the leash, any food you’ve got, and food and water bowls. Fair enough?

Unbelievable, the kid said. It’s a deal.

We gave him our address, phone number, and directions to our home.

Oh, two other things, I said. What’s your name and what’s her name?

I’m Stephen. Stephen Sapir. The dog’s name is Dallas. I’m a Cowboys fan, so I named her that.

That’s a deal breaker, Willi said, pretending to glare at me. But I could see there was no way she was giving up the dog.

We said goodbye to Stephen, then began walking back to the subway.

You felt it was necessary to pull out the PPK, I said, then knock out several of the guy’s teeth.

He was a low life and an animal, and he would have hurt Stephen and the puppy.

I had the situation under control. And I held back on the sidekick to his knee, so as not to inflict any serious damage.

My choice, your choice.

Okay, I said, not wanting to ruin the day.

Phase One is now complete, she said, brightening immediately. Let’s advance to Phase Two. Nathan’s, comin’ at yuh.

•2•

MANHATTAN BRIDGE IS FALLING DOWN

WE PULLED INTO THE Stillwell Avenue station, walked down a large number of stairs, and arrived at the heart of Coney Island, immediately across the street from Nathan’s. Since it was winter and a moderate wind off the Atlantic was adding to the Chill Factor, we zipped up our parkas. There were quite a few people walking about, but nothing like the crowds that frequented Coney Island during the summer, particularly on weekends.

In Spring and Summer, you’d have to wait on a line at Nathan’s for at least a good half hour or so, I noted. "That would have made you rather irritable and, had someone dared cut in, brought out the other Willi."

She averted her eyes, then, but I wasn’t sure her expression registered embarrassment or anger.

I’m sorry, I said. That sort of popped out.

You’re still concerned I’m addicted to violence.

I shouldn’t have said that.

Why not, if that’s what you think.

Just an unconscious carryover from recent events. Again, I’m sorry.

She continued to look down as we crossed Stillwell Avenue, so I decided to lighten things up.

It’s been about two hours since you’ve had anything in your perfectly formed mouth. So I suggest we eat at Nathan’s right away, then take a mini tour from the Boardwalk. Of course, nothing prevents us from making a second Nathan’s stop on the way back.

The lines were short at Nathan’s, so we got on one with only two couples ahead of us. Almost immediately, a vagrant appeared and asked us for money. We both said no. The man, who was filthy and clearly in need of a large swig of Listerine, refused to take no for an answer. He maneuvered himself so close to Willi, even the ACLU would have considered it a violation of her personal space. She said no again, but he persisted. Willi dug the heel of her shoe into the area below his left knee, then tromped down along the shin into his ankle. The vagrant screamed, staggered back two steps, then limped away. Several of those in line applauded. The rest of the people kept their none of our business New York poker face firmly in place.

Are you going to tell me that was excessively violent? Willi asked.

I am but a mere electoral observer, I said, governed only by the instructions afforded me by James Earl Carter. I may watch, but moral assessment remains solely in the hands of Jimmy The Gent.

So that was acceptable.

"It was. I’ll wire Rudy Giuliani when we get home. Please come back. New York is backsliding."

• • • • •

A half hour later, we were walking along the famed Coney Island Boardwalk. The planks had large holes in them, and in places the heavily weathered wood appeared ready to collapse beneath our feet. Obviously an illusion—perhaps to get us in a New York State of mind— the planks supported us wherever we trod.

We walked by the Ferris Wheel, with its swinging cars, although it wasn’t operating. We passed the dormant Cyclone, once the epitome of a thrill ride, now merely a working memorial to an older era, when wooden roller coasters elicited screams from riders.

We headed in the opposite direction, past the location of the Half Moon Hotel, where Abe Kid Twist Reles, of Murder, Inc., was pushed to his death in 1941. The hotel later housed the Metropolitan Jewish Geriatric Center, then was demolished in favor of a newer building.

We saw the open-frame steel structure of the landmark Parachute Jump, now a defunct amusement ride. It had been brought over in 1939 from the New York World’s