Rating: R for language and drug use.
Disclaimer: The characters of John and Marla Lawless and Jodie Keene belong to South Pacific pictures. The use of those characters in this story is not intended as copyright infringement. The other characters in this story are my own creation and copyrighted by me.
Note: In researching this story I came upon the New Zealand concept of Eketahuna, a very small town with very few amenities very far away from the rest of the world. I figured there were times in everyone's life when they need to get away sometimes even as far away as Eketahuna for reasons as diverse as the characters in this story. The distance is different for everyone.
With a hard thrust of the flat-bladed scraper, Arnold Cowan plunged deeply into the 10-kilogram mass of dough, separating it from its plastic container and pulling it onto the workbench. It was a necessary step in the bread baking process that he had done many times, yet it still infused him with a sense of power. His hands against millions of unicellular fungi busy gobbling up sugar and making carbon dioxide and alcohol. Tiny bubbles. Sexual and asexual reproduction. Jerking off and fucking. See he was listening that day in biology class, or what passed as biology at the Auckland School of Culinary Arts.
There were machines now that did this. Christ, there were machines now that pumped air directly into the dough and blew it up like a balloon. Right in the baking pan. Cut the rising time down to almost nothing. The big commercial bakeries used those machines, and that is exactly what their bread tasted like nothing. If he was going to make bread, he was going to do it the right way, with good yeast, flour, and his own two hands.
Baking had been the essence of Cowan's life since he was in his teens. His store, which bore the name of the family, Abercrombie, who had owned it for fifty years before selling to him, was the kind of place where mothers stopped by after walking their children to school to buy a loaf of bread and indulge in a sweet roll. The kind of place that you went to for that fancy cake for a wedding, graduation or other family celebration. Sure a lot of his business now was commercial bread and rolls for restaurants and caterers, but making the best possible bread each day was part of what he was . . . or wanted himself to be.
He sprinkled a half-k of flour over the flattened dough, used the blade to cut off pieces for individual loaves, and placed each one on the scale. Each needed to be exactly 500 grams, but after his first two or three cuts, he rarely had to add or subtract slivers of dough. It was an acquired skill at which he was particularly adept. He gave each of the blobs a twist in the middle and placed them on baking sheets. The sheets were stacked on racks and rolled into the proofing room. The morning shift if you could really call 2 AM morning would bake them off for the first loaves the next day. There was a sense of tomorrow in that shaping of the loaves. He liked that, because some days he didn't think he would make it until the next tomorrow.
Cutting the dough was hard work so even someone in his shape would work up a sweat. Usually he had a stack of clean white T-shirts in the corner, but he had forgotten to restock this week. This meant that he would have to walk through the bakery to his office without a shirt. Not that he minded. It was just if the bloody Food Standards inspectors decided to pull a fast check, he'd be written up for a violation. Christ, he had to be on his best for those bastards after one of his bakers had been caught rooting a salesrep in the storage room. Right on a 100-K bag of flour. Lucky they didn't close the place down then and there.
He paused at the loo, washed his hands, pulled off his baker's smock, and studied the face reflected in the mirror. Now in his early thirties, he still had a boyish charm. Sun-streaked blond hair, now from some nelly beautician and not from the sun, clear blue eyes, and a body that signified his victory over bread and pastries in a battle fought daily in the local gym. His looks had served as the gateway into his life of glamour, excitement . . . and danger.
"'Cuse me Ellie, I'm half-naked," he said as he walked into the business office.
"What half?" The woman who had been helping him out the last few weeks with his books looked up and smiled. "Damn, I was hoping it was the other half."
"How's it going? Found my missing millions yet?"
"In your dreams. I'm never going to figure out these books. I'm used to complicated books. I'm used to businesses with two, even three sets of books. However, you don't have books. You have lists of purchases mostly with no dates. Sales receipts, some look like you carried them in your pocket for weeks and ran them through the washer. Checks that have been through the bank account two or three times, picking up service charges as they go. And you have cash, lots and lots of cash."
"And your job is to sort it out. Figure out where the money goes after it arrives in big bunches, figure out why I'm not as freaking rich as I know I should be."
"I'm an accountant, not a magician."
She watched as he pulled on an undersized T-shirt, opened the door of the safe, pulled out a few bills, and tucked them into his jeans pocket.
"But my best guess, Arnie, is THAT is why you're not rich. You grab a little to go spend on your . . . whatever or whomever it is today, and tomorrow you grab a little more. I have no idea how you ever pay your taxes. Did your last accountant conger some number out of the ether or what?"
"He believed me. Not like you. Not like the freaking Inland Revenue."
"Belief is not a word in the accountant's vocabulary."
"Come on Ellie, I'll buy you lunch. We can go someplace fun . . ."
She looked down at the sweatpants she was wearing. "Do I look dressed for someplace fun?"
"Ellie, babe, anyplace I go is fun. Come with me."
She ran her fingers through her hair, pulled the headband forward and combed it back, and hit the save button on the computer.
"Guess, figuring this out can wait another day, or another century," she said.
Johnny Wilson pulled his cab next to the Yellow Ford Explorer in the car park and looked out on the point. He was fairly certain, even from this distance that it was Arn Cowan sitting on the bench eating lunch from a brown paper sack. He was surprised that Arn was not alone. Johnny walked slowly down the path trying to check out the woman who was sitting beside Arn.
If she weren't with Cowan, she was not the kind of woman he would notice or remember. He put her at about forty, a little too young to be Arn's mother, but perhaps she was an older sister? Way too young to be one of the women he escorted to social events. Casually dressed with long straight brown hair and little makeup she looked more like a suburban housewife than a friend of Arn Cowan. They were engaged in an animated conversation, while eating meat pies and sharing a beer.
"Arnie Cowan, mate, haven't seen you for a while. Been working too hard, I gather," Johnny said as he joined them.
"You know, have to work hard if you want to make the dough," he laughed. Baker's joke, Johnny had heard it about 500 times in the past year.
The woman looked Johnny up from one end to the other, knowing just where to focus her eyes. She didn't look like one of Arn's fancy society friends, but judging from where her eyes focused, she wasn't one of his lesbian friends either. She did have a friendly smile.
"Ellie, this is a mate of mine, Johnny Wilson. Johnny, this is Eleanor Parker. Ellie, Johnny and I need to yack . . . in private. Do you suppose you could move your bum down to the end of the point and finish your take-a-way. Here, take a stubby." He put another beer in the sack with her food and sent her on her way.
"Who is she? And why the bloody hell is she here with you today?" Johnny asked when she was out of earshot.
"Eleanor Parker, she works for me. Trying to figure out my books."
"Bloody genius, she'd have to be, eh?"
"Pretty good, and that's the problem. She realizes there is more there than meets the eye."
"Which brings me to my second question."
"Actually, Johnny, I forgot this was meet-up day. I was going to take her someplace nice for a late dinner, but she refused to go anywhere nice dressed in a tracksuit. Like it would matter if she were with me. We just came out here because she liked the food from the pie cart in the park."
"She actually likes meat pies?"
"Look at her, she likes most anything with fat and carbohydrates."
"She crazy?"
"Well, sort of, she's my attorney's sister."
"She's Jimmy Weinstein's sister?"
"Bloody hell, no, my business attorney, Robert Blackwell. Know him, Johnny?"
"Can't say I've had the privilege."
"Probably never will, he doesn't go for our kind of life."
"Home in the suburbs, kids, shrimp on the barby?"
Arn nodded his head. "Aren't you at all interested in what I have to tell you?"
"Not until I'm sure about this woman. How you going to explain me to her."
"Same way I do when I yack at Holman in private. I kick her out of the office and make her go help the cake icer. I tell her that he's got a crush on one of my drivers, and I'm trying to work it out to hook them up. If she thinks that pig Holman is gay, imagine what she will think about you Johnny." He swatted the big man on his soft-denim clad bum. "When you going to let me give you a test drive?"
"When a big wind blows up from the south and freezes hell, that's when Arnie. Now tell me what Holman has in mind for the next month."
"Same as this month, and last, making money, making lots of money."
As the two men ceased with pleasantries and moved on to the news of the week, Arn thought about how he had been reporting to the man who he knew was really Detective Constable John Lawless for over a year. He still remembered the night they had met in FANNY's, one the girl-clubs where Harold Holman liked to drag him. Holman kept trying to tell him that the right girl and the right lap dance would make a straight man out of him. It hadn't happened. Then he met Johnny and knew, as far as he was concerned, that as long as men like this existed in the world, there was nothing that would ever interest him in women.
When Arn first saw Johnny, he likely would have stared a hole right through the big man's jeans to his underpants. While avoiding obvious eye contact, he was looking for a smile that would tell him that this bloke shared his thoughts about a fun evening. Perhaps, the two of them would soon be tumbling around in the back of a car or some dark alley or in a soft feather bed with down duvets and candlelight. Arn looked too long and too hard and finally realized that he was making the bloke very edgy.
Arn had excused himself and walked toward the dunny. He was surprised to be followed and guided outside. He had been right. Arn was reaching for his fly when Wilson grabbed his wrist and pulled it away, a disgusted expression on his face. Then a meltingly delicious smile overtook his face.
"Sorry mate, don't you remember me? I met you about two years ago. Down on South Island. The Opera Trust Ball. You sat at my table with some preciously rich older woman who had paid good money not to go to the event alone. I was there with my wife Marla Lawless."
"But Marla Lawless's husband was a cop." It tumbled out before Arn had a chance to bite it back in. He had been thinking so much about this bloke's shoulders, chest, bum and crotch that he hadn't bothered with his face. He wasn't sure with the long hair, droopy moustache and scruffy looks that he would have placed him.
"So I am, but your friends out there don't have to know, do they?"
"What?"
"I'm undercover. And if you know what's good for you, you won't tell anyone. One word to your friends and you'll find yourself hauled in for drugs and prostitution. I know how you keep that bakery of yours full of customers, and it's not just biscuits and good bread."
What Wilson didn't know was that Arnold had been looking for a contact in the police. It had been exciting for a while being a front for one of the biggest drug dealers in the city, laundering his money, catering his parties, and entertaining his friends. He was addicted to excitement. The kind of excitement that comes from knowing that one false move and you could end up swimming in the harbor. Now he wanted more. Playing for both teams was a new source of fun, and maybe money.
"It's understood. Now pull your shirt out of your pants."
Wilson looked at him questioningly.
"Pull it out, and tuck it back in, sort of. When you get back in, adjust it. And don't hit me when I thank you in front of Holman. It's just my thing. 'Stand?"
"Damn straight, but please, don't lick your lips."
Cowan hadn't had much of a yarn, which might have been why he had forgotten their meeting. Things had been bog-standard. Most of the movement the last few weeks had been in party drugs, and not in large quantities. Cowan had heard of nothing major coming in or going out. The drug scene in Auckland, or at least the part Arn watched over was pretty damn quiet. Too quiet, perhaps. This either meant that someone was on to the police activity or that something big was about to happen and everyone was acting as if they were blind and deaf. John was never sure how much Cowan actually told him and how many of Holman's secrets he kept to himself. It had worked though up until now.
Still Johnny Wilson was going to kick John Lawless for volunteering to take Ellie Parker home, off the meter. She couldn't have lived any further out, just before the burbs turn to bush, and the chances of getting a fare returning to the city were practically naught.
When they pulled onto the main highway his fare gave a shudder. He could read that. It was the move Yanks gave when they were sure you had just entered traffic the wrong way.
"No, this is New Zealand, remember?" He smiled at her and the rearview mirror.
"Sorry, I should. It's just that I have been living in the US for over fifteen years. Got married, moved there, actually became a citizen there. Only been back here a couple of months, so much has changed I feel like a stranger."
"Way we drive hasn't."
"I know, it's still crazy. And on the wrong side of the road. That's why I take taxi's and trams."
"To what do you owe that good fortune of working for Arnold Cowan?"
"My baby brother. He's Cowan's lawyer. Seems like his client is in a bit of trouble with the Inland Revenue. Volunteered me to straighten his office up a bit so they can hire a real accountant. Not sure it's going to work, but I've been trying for a couple of weeks."
"Interesting job for a person with no work papers, I presume."
"Shush. Just doing it for my brother. Thought it would be easy. Turns out it's not at all what I expected."
"And that is . . ."
"Cowan's private business."
John had been thinking she was going to reveal something to him, perhaps he had pushed too hard. Finally, as she continued to talk, he realized that she was just nervous and filling up the silence. It was a long ride and if she had enough time, maybe she would say something interesting.
She told of a professional life, a failed marriage, coming back to New Zealand for a short visit and extending it because she didn't want to go home. The job with Cowan got her out of the house and gave her something to do every day. Mostly she got paid in bread and lunches, which was right by her but probably not with immigration. John listened, and evaluated whether she might know anything worth pursuing, and how he might go about finding out.
"What you been doing for fun?" he decided to press it. That was the nature of his job as an undercover cop. If he found someone who might know something, he needed to see what was there. Who knew what an accountant might have seen and unwittingly pass along to the police?
"You know, family stuff. I have a niece and two nephews. They keep me hopping with the normal Aunt Ellie activities. Some nights I go out with Arnold to the seedy nightclubs or high priced restaurants. High point on anyone's social agenda. But then there are days like today when I wear the wrong clothes and instead of a gourmet lunch with three bottles of wine, I get a meat pie and a beer. "
"I was wondering," he tried quickly to get in while she was taking a breath.
"What?" she seemed disturbed that he was interrupting her.
"Wondering if you'd stop talking long enough so that I could ask you out."
The look on her face said it all. It was the last thing Eleanor Parker had expected.
"On a date. Me! I'm a little old."
"Last I knew there wasn't an upper age limit for such activities, just a lower one. I thought you might want to do something not involving your brother's kids or Arn Cowan. How about Thursday night? Sorry but weekends are my prime driving time."
"One night's the same an another for me. Thursday would be fine."
"I'll clean up, too. I promise."
As he drove back to the city alone, John Lawless wondered why he had clothed his next meeting with Arnold's bookkeeper in the trappings of a date. Eleanor probably would have told him things for another meat pie or ride home. Still there was something about the woman who talked way too much that interested him. He could take a woman like Ellie places where he couldn't go in his normal undercover role, and it would be refreshing to clean up his image a bit, too.
"Enjoyed it, eh?" Wilson asked as he put his arm around Ellie's shoulder and steered her toward his car.
At least he had cleaned up for the date. He'd driven his own old sedan, not the cab, brushed out and pulled back his long hair, and worn a wonderfully soft hand-knit sweater of natural wool and a soft leather jacket. He'd taken her to a small out-of-the way restaurant for Thai food. He walked quickly with his head down, as if he didn't want to be seen. With her? Not that a cab driver would see anyone he knew at a production of Gian Carlo Menotti's THE MEDIUM at a small arts college.
"Very interesting. Good show. Short enough for a Thursday," she replied. He laughed and grabbed her shoulder a little tighter, pulling her into him.
"Sorry, I forgot going to the opera is not a normal night out in the states. Should have gone to a movie, we could have sat in the fingerstalls and . . ." Now she really was laughing.
"Honestly, I didn't think I would like it, but I did. How do you not like an opera when the male lead is that of a mute? I expected him to burst into song when she shot him. You know opera singers. I always thought that if I were entombed the last thing I would do with my dying breath is sing an aria."
"You have no soul. What about the poor woman? She had spent all her life earning her living as a medium and a fake. When she finally makes contact she goes insane. Or did you just look at it as CHANNELING BABY set to music?"
"What?"
"Sorry, good movie. Have to see it sometime."
"Actually, I did identify with her. My job is sort of like that. I spend all my time trying to get a reading on someone's business. I had this job in the states; worked for a man for six years. He was always after me, hide the income, hide the income. He didn't want to pay taxes, he didn't want to share with his partners . . . hide the income. So what do you know? He decides to retire and move to Florida and now he wants to sell his business. No one is willing to pay what he wants for it. They see the customers moving through and the product going out, but there is no profit on the books. He assures them that there was more income, just successfully hidden, but they're not going to believe him. Got to know what you want revealed and what should stay hidden."
"Damn straight. And what does Arnold Cowan want hidden and revealed?"
"To you, Johnny Wilson, absolutely nothing. That's why he hired me. Actually, I'm not sure what he wants for me to do with his books, except make my brother get off his back."
He opened the car door and helped her with her seatbelt.
Ellie found it interesting how Johnny's conversations always seemed to get back to talking about Arn. She was beginning to wonder about this man. Thinking back it had been a fun night.
"Hey, where's the chirpy bird?" Wilson asked after they had traveled a few kilometers in silence.
"What?"
"You always have stories. Keeps me entertained while I am driving."
"And you always have questions. Usually about my boss."
"Sorry, just trying to keep it moving. Probably the only common ground we had."
"Now we have opera and Thai food."
"OK. But don't go wet blanket on me. You can tell or ask me anything."
"I was thinking. Back when we were talking about expectations. What does a man like Johnny Wilson expect to get out of being a cab driver?"
"Easy money, good drugs, hot babes the necessities of life."
"Really. So that's what you've always wanted. There's a song I like from the U.S. about a taxi driver. Picks up this woman, turns out it was an old lover. She's now married to some rich guy and he's driving cab. She wanted to be an actress and he wanted to be a pilot. Ends up saying that they both got what they wanted. She's acting happy and he flying in his taxi taking fares and getting stoned."
"I know that song. Bloody hell, it does sound like me, doesn't it?"
"You wanted to be a pilot."
"No, I wanted to play for the All-Blacks."
Despite his reassurances that he liked her stories, she had tried to allow for some silence not to scare him off. He retaliated by singing to fill the void mostly songs she hadn't heard from country to opera.
He walked her to the door of her brother's house, hugged her tightly and kissed her on the top of the head. She looking up into his large brown eyes, searching for the truth. Was the evening a total mistake? She was shocked when he took her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips. Gentle, sweet and soft, belying his tough guy image. It had been a long time. She cursed herself for living with her family and not being able to invite him inside. With a guy like him, she might become an easy woman.
"Later," he whispered as she pulled away.
She wondered what exactly later would be, allowing herself to dream that it might possibly translate into "again."
In the four weeks she had been working for him, Eleanor Parker had yet to tell Arnold Cowan what he wanted to hear, that his books were balanced, he was making money and that everything was going to be alright. Despite the flow of customers into his shop, the commercial orders, and the projected seasonal increase in business, she still assured him that he was about a week behind on the income that would cover the checks she had to write each day. Only a friendly banker, who had allowed him to float the checks, kept it from all crashing down. He needed money, a big influx of money, from somewhere.
The money was coming. That he knew. He just couldn't tell her. He had just a couple of months more to wait. Right now the money he had drained off his business was sitting in a barn on a sheep farm on South Island looking to anyone who wandered through like bales of hay. Except the grass wasn't alfalfa or timothy, it was high-grade marijuana. All that had to be done was to get it into Holman's distribution pipeline and his bakery would be back in the black. He swore that after this he was not going live on the money he borrowed from his business. He'd build the bakery back up. Get more commercial accounts. He could live more frugally. Like back when he lived in the rented flat over a restaurant. He had done it once. He would do it again.
It was only grass. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to share with Johnny Wilson. The cops should be grateful that it wasn't spiked with PCP, crack cocaine, or some other nasty new drug. Hell, Wilson smoked grass all the time as part of his cover. The truth was that he thought Wilson liked drugs a little too much. Short of shooting smack or smoking crack, Arn had never heard him say no to anything. Even coke. Sometimes he wondered what was cover, and what was personal preference. If only Wilson's preferences, whether personal or necessary for the cover, extended to sex with him.
He admired Parker for her perseverance, staring at the computer screen, looking for something that he wished might be there but wasn't and not giving up. She seemed to find comfort in the numbers. Poor woman dumped by her rich American husband, coming back to bludge off her rellies, no mates, no work visa and thus no chance of finding a real job, sorry, babe. She did seem to smile a little more recently and wear a little nicer clothes. Still, it seemed she took more joy from her work than anything else in her life. He was the beneficiary, or should have been; if what she had to work with wasn't so bleak.
Yet he realized that before the drugs were sold he would have to terminate Eleanor Parker. It was going to be impossible to explain to someone trained in accounting the sudden influx of cash into the business even if it did coincide with Chrissy. It seemed ironic that the exact turn-around she was trying to find was going to have to happen after she was gone. When he became successful again, he could tell her that it was the foundation she had laid for him, and hope that she believed him. If he told her anything at all.
Arn was cutting the dough when the phone rang. He never took his mobile with him when he went to work on the floor, and it rang all the time. Usually Ellie let it ring; it wasn't part of her job or her business. If someone wanted to talk to Arn bad enough they would call back. Her job was to manage his books, not his social life.
"Abercrombie's Bakery," she answered as if she were the office receptionist, then realized she had answered his personal mobile.
"Ellie, that you? Johnny Wilson."
She almost dropped the phone. It had been two weeks since their "if-you-could-call-it-that" date.
"You're the one I wanted to talk to anyway. Must be an omen. It's a beautiful day, way too beautiful to spend inside. How about you and me taking a tiki tour up the coast and having a little dinner?"
"Sounds wonderful, but . . ." her voice trailed off. She tried to find a "but" but none would conveniently come to mind.
"Footy game? Piano recital? Or just working late?"
"None of the above. I was thinking . . . I'm thinking . . . Christ, Johnny . . . I don't hear from you for two weeks and suddenly you want to go off right now. Is this a cot date?" A slight chuckle.
"Cot date?"
"Sorry, showing my age. That is what we called it at university. Think they call it booty call now at least in the USA."
"Oh." he paused for a second of silence. "Never entered my mind. As I said, it's just a bit of spring fever."
"Damn, I was hoping you were looking to give your ferret a run." She laughed and hoped he didn't take her seriously.
"Evil woman. Well, call your sister-in-law and tell her you'll be home late."
"How late?"
"How late do you want to be?"
She didn't answer that. Maybe she had led him on a little too far.
"Pick you up in about half-an-hour. Hope the cab is OK."
"Works. I can tell Arn I called in for a cab ride home and damned if I didn't get you." There was something that led her to believe that her boss would not be happy to know that she was going out with one of his friends. Arn had always let on that most of his mates were not to be trusted. Still there was something about Johnny Wilson that allowed her to relax and go with him for a ride and dinner. She just didn't want her boss to know.
By sitting in the front seat with him she had indicated that she considered herself a date, or at least a mate, but definitely not a fare. Still Lawless had questions for which he needed to have answers. The rest of the afternoon and evening could be arranged according to the answers he got.
"How well do you know Arn?" John probably had asked Eleanor that question before and forgotten the answer. Then it didn't matter. Today it did.
"He's my boss."
"Well, I know you didn't find the job listed in the newspaper. Got it through your brother, his attorney, you told me, but the question I'm asking is . . ."
"I'm his friend, too. I've gone out with him a few nights. Not to the really tough clubs, just some of the drag shows and such. Arn's a lot of fun. Young enough, almost, to be my son, if I'd been screwing around in school. A little vain, but has good reason. Unfortunately, he's as gay they come. Offends my sense of femininity, for someone so hot not to even want to bother."
"He sort of bothers me, too. In a different way."
"I'm sure. You should hear what he says about you."
"I know what he says about me, says it TO my face, too. So the two of you talk about me?"
"He does, I don't. He has no idea we went on a . . . to dinner and opera, unless you told him."
"I didn't."
"Good."
"He'd reckon the night was based on more than my interest in finding someone who understands Menotti."
"That could be taken a couple of ways, but for a cab driver, you seem real interested in the bakery business. I'm not going to talk about it. Not with you or anyone else. Even with my brother, who is his lawyer."
"Good girl, but it isn't his bakery business I'm interested in."
He paused and waited for her to fill the silence. She didn't. He wanted to hear more, but to get that he was going to have to press. "You know what he does when he's not at the bakery, besides working out and fuc . . . having sex . . . with pretty boys."
"If I did, why would I tell you?" Her eyes met his and seemed to be comforted in the look he gave her back. Despite her penchant for talking, Eleanor Parker knew when silence behooved her.
"So what else are we going to talk about as we drive up the coast?" he asked her.
"I don't know you're probably the first man I've been around in twenty years where I couldn't use baseball as a fall back."
"How late did you tell your family you were going to be?" It was time to change the subject and go at it from a different angle.
"Why?"
"Well, I'm trying to decide between two restaurants. One's about an hour further north and connected with an inn. Figured if you could stay out all night, we'd go there."
"And you told me this wasn't a cot date." Her voice seemed to doubt what she was saying.
"We can do separate rooms, separate beds, whatever you feel comfortable with. The city is not where I want to be tonight. I just would like to be able to eat too much, drink too much, and not have to worry about the drive back, especially back to the wop-wops where your brother lives."
"I've never run off like this before . . . or should I say for a great number of years. I can't live out of my purse, even overnight. Or let's say, if I did, you wouldn't want to be too close to me come morning."
"We'll stop and pick up some things if you need them. Hopefully there's not something you need that you can't buy."
She shook her head.
Wilson was on his mobile, leaning against the boot of the car, when she came out of the store where she had purchased a toothbrush, some face cream, a large T-shirt and a pair of panties. That should do it. His face looked a bit worried. She thought she had a better reason to appear concerned. Still, it was exciting. She threw the paper bag in the back seat and opened her door.
"Do you need to call your family and tell them you're not coming home?" he asked, handing her the phone. "Before we take off for Eketahuna."
"No, already did that. Told them I was spending the night with a friend . . . a girl friend. Don't know if my sister-in-law believed me, because I don't think she thinks I have any friends girl or otherwise. Told her it was a shower for one of the gals at the bakery. Maybe she believed me."
"And who made me promise that this wasn't going to be a booty call?" When he smiled his entire face lit up. She had been fascinated by Johnny Wilson from the first time she had seen him. He wasn't her type, but then it had been such a long time since she had dated, that she wasn't exactly sure what her type was. She had gone from college boys to the older man she had dated for four years and eventually married. None of them were anything like Johnny Wilson. She wasn't sure what drew her to him, but something did.
"I only asked."
"El, I got to ring one more mate. Why don't you run and get some wine, some beer, whatever you want to drink," he said tossing a roll of bills at her.
"In other words you want some privacy."
"Yes."
"Calling your wife? Your girl friend?" she teased, and hoped he would realize she was teasing.
"Maybe."
Ellie wondered if he was teasing back or trying to tell her something.
Except for the inn, the town was so small and out of the way, it COULD have been Eketahuna. Urban sprawl would get there eventually, but for now, it was a wonderful place to get away. Still she couldn't help but think that even with the likes of Johnny Wilson she would have felt more comfortable in a nicer dress. She found it a little odd that, even dressed the way he was and driving a cab, he was greeted cheerfully and given a great deal of respect by the management of the inn. It was as if he went there often, which didn't make a lot of sense, unless like Arn, he sometimes got paid for it.
The inn was a holdover from colonial times, restored to modern comforts and privacy, but full of charm. It was not like the places she overnighted on a student budget. More like a place her friends from Chicago would find on some Internet listing of B & B's and fly halfway around the world to check out. They shared a dinner of wild greens, morel mushrooms, grilled fish and asparagus, two bottles of white wine, and strawberries with clotted cream from a table overlooking the ocean with the requisite touching of hands. Not at all like dinner with the Blackwells, or even with Arnold Cowan. They talked about the States mostly, the places she had been and the things she had done.
Check-in had been discretely handled for one room with one bed. Everything had been arranged while they were at dinner. The inn staff had chilled a split of champagne and lit candles in the room. The duvet on the large, antique-style bed had been turned back invitingly. She wondered if she was being treated to the Johnny Wilson special.
"When I bought this, honestly, I thought I would be sleeping alone," she said. She pulled a brightly colored T-shirt that she had purchased to use as a nightgown out of the paper bag.
"Is that what you wanted? I'm sorry if I misunderstood. I can see if they have . . ."
She shook her head. "It's just that this place deserves a long lace nightgown with ribbons."
She wanted to tell him she was frightened. She wanted to tell him that the yarn she had told him about her husband leaving her for a younger woman was just that. Her husband, fifteen years her senior, had died after a long illness. She had returned to New Zealand to mourn, and to get away from the memories. But back home again, the role of the lonely widowed Yank was more than she could handle, so she changed the story. It had worked with Arnie and his superficial friends, but this was different. She hadn't figured she'd be placed in this situation so soon and certainly not with him.
He stood beside her, put his arm around her and led her to the window. They silently looked over the ocean for a few minutes, as if he was trying to find words. She had no idea what he wanted to say, and in her present state didn't really care. All she knew was that in a few minutes they would be in bed, together, doing something she had not done in a long time. Considering the women he probably dated, she was a little anxious . . . a lot anxious.
"Bloody hell." Arnold Cowan slammed his mobile down so hard that he broke off the mouthpiece. He'd better go to a payphone for the next call anyway. He wondered if he should trust the person on the other end of the phone. Some guy who said he was a mate of Johnny Wilson and who was calling to tell him there might be a problem with his sheep. So much for fucking undercover code. If something was coming down, he was going to have to act fast.
Part of him, the lazy stupid part, told him that it would be looking for a needle in a haystack or in this case, hay in a haystack. The baled marijuana had been evenly spaced in the stack completely surrounded by real hay. Even if he had a good man on the South Island, there was no way he would have time to go through the thousands of bales in the barn and determine which ones needed to be hidden from the police that he had just learned would be arriving in a few hours. Perhaps he should just ride it out. Maybe a well-placed bribe to the locals would be enough.
The paranoiac, smarter part of him knew that, if he were caught with drugs now, everyone in his circle of friends would have to become involved. Those parts of his life that he had kept in separate compartments would be mixed together. He didn't want Ellie and her brother involved. It would be too difficult to explain, even if he was able to hide it successfully. Why had he ever agreed to let Ellie work for him? Why hadn't he let her go when it appeared she suspected what was going on?
His first call from the payphone was to her house. He was shocked when her sister-in-law told him that she was gone, perhaps overnight, for a shower for one of her co-workers. He knew of no one at the bakery getting married or having a baby, and certainly no one who would have included Eleanor in party plans. Christ, hadn't she called Johnny Wilson to get a ride home. What if Wilson had taken her somewhere, pumping her for information? He wouldn't put it past Wilson. Where would he take her? What would he do to get information from her? He couldn't think about what she and Wilson might be doing right now not Ellie. He left her a message not to come into work for a few days and hoped she would get it.
Unfortunately, once he had called Ellie, he had to go back and deal with the marijuana. He could picture the local law enforcement going through those bales, ripping them apart, and trying to find the ones with the grass inside. It would take hours. Maybe they would stop at one, or two . . . how many did they think he had? He wasn't even sure. If it were only his, not Holman's. It didn't matter now. It was in his barn. He had to do something.
He fished through his pockets for enough change to cover the long distance charges and made the call. He had to spell the whole fucking thing out. His caretaker, Sam Waiohenga, was not to be trusted with details. He was old as the hills and stupid as the rocks. A little gasoline, about the amount you would need to run a riding lawnmower, a couple of liters, spilled on the ground. A cigarette. Run like hell. Call the fire department. Perhaps they would beat the police there, and hopefully they wouldn't breathe too deeply.
Perhaps her silence had given her away, for which she would be eternally thankful. She was fumbling to find the place to start with her story of apology, when he placed his index finger to his lips and smiled softly. Only for a second, because it seemed like his lips were immediately on hers, kissing her with the appetite they had shared at dinner.
She knew he thought that she never shut up. She knew she had told him too much, but not as much as he seemed to want to hear. Now they had moved to the part of the evening where words became unnecessary. What happened next would be done in silence.
The nightgown, like the T-shirt, would have proved unnecessary. She lay naked in the moonlight coming in the window while he slowly explored her body with his hands and mouth. Johnny seemed even larger and more muscular without his clothing. There were already condoms in the nightstand. She had almost told him that he didn't have to worry about her getting pregnant, then realized that . . . it had been a long time since she had had sex with anyone other than her husband. Times had changed. She realized it was for her protection.
Johnny was sleeping softly when Ellie left the bed. The sex was not what she had anticipated. As tender and gentle as he had acted earlier, he had taken her hard. There was something in the pace of his strokes and the intensity of his orgasm that frightened her. As if another body had taken over. As if his mind had gone somewhere else. Somewhere mean and violent like the world in which she suspected he lived. Not like her world in America. Not like her brother's world in the suburbs. His world was that of a cabdriver. He saw it all. The world of Johnny Wilson and Arnold Cowan a world that she was fooling herself by trying to enter. A world from which she should flee quickly if she knew what was good for her.
She rested her head on the ledge where the shower stall transitioned from ceramic tile to glass block and let the water beat down on her back. Just as nothing would have prepared her for what had just happened, she was convinced that nothing was going to make it go away. Not hot water or cold water. She had tried both. She had trusted the man who brought her here, to this romantic place; she had just not been comfortable with his idea of romance. Perhaps it wasn't that, perhaps the world, or at least his world, had changed from that which she had remembered.
Now he was sleeping quietly on the antique bed with lace trim on the sheets and pillowcases. She wanted to sit in the candlelight and run her hands through his unkempt curly hair, trace her fingers down his unshaved cheeks and across his full lips. Johnny Wilson had successfully transformed himself back into the man she had trusted to take her to Eketahuna; the first man she had slept with since her husband had died. She wanted to be with THAT man again. She had come from half a globe away and entered a space she could not begin to contemplate. It was foreign and frightening, but in a way still she liked it, because he was there. If she could just get HIM to stay.
She wrapped a towel around her wet hair, rubbed in the face cream she had purchased earlier, blew out the candles, and returned to his bed. Perhaps she would awaken in the spare bedroom of her brother's house and find it had all been a good bad dream.
At 2 AM Arnold Cowan's bread was coming alive, but he sat at the kitchen table in his flat and contemplated being dead over the half-empty bottle of over-proof vodka, the vial of barbiturates and the handgun that sat in front of him. His mobile had been turned off and the phone unplugged. He hoped he knew what had happened, and didn't really want to know the details. So what if he was in debt to Harold Holman for the rest of his life, it was better than going to prison. It could be worked out. What's a couple of hundred thousand . . . Christ, how could he have been that stupid? It would have been so easy just to make bread and escort old ladies to parties. One of them could have died and left him some money, it could have worked out. He poured another drink and decided to stash the gun before he got any drunker and got any more stupid ideas. It was going to work out. It had to work out.
He returned to the table and for a brief second wondered if what he really needed was to find some young boy and spend the night fucking his brains out. That was his usual source of release when things got bad. Tonight, however, he feared that was almost as stupid of an idea as those that might have crossed his mind if he hadn't hidden the gun. He put his head down on the table and tried to sleep.
"Rattle your dags, mate, we're gonna take a hike."
In his mostly-asleep, mostly-pissed state he recognized the voice of one of Holman's men. A big ox of a man with a shaved head who made Johnny Wilson look short and underfed. At least he was dressed, so complying with the man's requests meant only moving his legs. He knew where he was going, to a car, to an airport, to a plane, to his farm, to see about a fire.
Holman was at the airport, with another man in a suit that Arn did not know. First name Tobin, or was that a last name? He wasn't sure and didn't ask. The man looked meaner than Holman or any of his known minions. Even in a suit, it was evident that he was not one of the good guys.
"No worries, Arnie," Holman said with his unctuous voice. "I got a ring from one of my mates. Of course I have my own blokes down there. He said that he heard there was a fire on your place. Confined to the main barn. Said that Sam Waiohenga, your caretaker, rang it in. Scared shitless. Whole damn place in flames. Smoking a cigarette while he was filling up the lawnmower. How stupid can a man be?"
Arn knew that he wasn't talking about Sam.
"That's Sam. If his brains were barbed wire he couldn't fence a dunny," Arn replied somewhat casually.
"The question is, whether Mr. Waiohenga got the special bales out of the barn before he set the fire. Would have been bloody convenient for him or maybe you, too."
"What? I can guarantee that Sam had no idea what was in MY barn. Just taking a smoke while he filled the mower."
"Shut up, Arnie boy, we know about the cops. Know they were coming tomorrow morning. I bet you anything that you knew it, too. Someone, one of your many friends, tipped you off. All it took was a ring to good old Sam."
"Not that way. Sure I made the call, but I had to protect us. I was willing to let it burn. I'll make it up."
"If it burned, you're fine we'll find a way for you to make it up to us. If it burned. We've got to make sure it burned."
"How are you going to do that?"
"We're not, you are. You're going to talk to Sam Waiohenga and make sure that he didn't take anything out of the barn before he had his cigarette."
It seemed to be the old Johnny Wilson who awakened her quietly that morning with a kiss on the forehead, a breakfast tray with a fresh daffodil, probably picked from the front yard, currant scones and a cup of steaming coffee. Still, overnight did not wear gracefully on Johnny Wilson. She also noticed that while she ate her breakfast, he was pacing the room and smoking a joint, something he had never done before in her presence. He looked even more like a rapist, a drug pusher . . . or, damn how could she have been so stupid . . . an undercover narc.
"Little early for that isn't it?" she asked. "And we have a long drive back."
"Thinking about spending another day. You, me, the bed. It was good, Ellie. Why hurry back?"
"Because I have a family, a job, and I don't do things like this. This is so not me. So totally not me."
"If that wasn't you last night, who was it? I'll invite her back for another go at it."
"It's been a while."
"All the reason to make this WHILE a little bit longer."
"I should call back. Check out what is happening. My sister-in-law might be calling missing person's as we speak."
"Call her then. But stay with me another day, or two."
"What about your family? Your job? That taxi's got a company name on the side, so my guess is you can't really take it off for a holiday any time you damn well feel like it. Someone's got to be looking for you, too."
"They'll find me, if they need me. I just think it's better . . ."
"Better what? Tell me, let me know if what I'm thinking is anywhere close to the truth. Humor me. You took me out of the city, because . . ."
"Arnold Cowan may be in trouble."
"Arnie's always in trouble. He's spending money a week before it comes in. He's got a number of wonky friends who sell drugs. He's probably helping them. He's gay in the age of AIDS. He milks old ladies for their savings. What other kinds of trouble can he be in? Inland Revenue? Food Standards? The gas company? Tell me? It's got to be pretty bad if you have to smoke one of those before you tell me."
He stubbed the joint out and then looked at her in a somewhat confused manner. "Sorry, should have asked if you wanted a hit. I just sort of figured."
"You were right. Haven't done that in a real long time either. Certainly don't need it now. What I need now is the truth."
"You know Arn has a farm down on South Island."
She nodded her head. She had heard a few comments about the farm but always figured it belonged to his parents.
"He had drugs there. Just marijuana." He fingered the joint in the ashtray. "But a whole lot of marijuana. Let's say that the police got wind of it and had scheduled a raid. Let's say someone found out about the raid, and tipped Arnie off. Either he did nothing and the police are tearing his barn apart bale by bale, or he did something with what was in the barn and his friends are looking for it. Either way, Ellie, there is no way you have to be back for work today or for any time in the near future. My suggestion is, until someone reminds you, you forget you ever worked for Arnold Cowan."
"Guess you can fire that joint up, I do think I need a hit."
She hoped she didn't come across as a deer in headlights. She took a deep hit and coughed. It had been a long time. She took another.
"Only problem with grass is it makes me randy as hell," she smiled. At least now last night was making a little more sense.
"No worries."
She carefully made the telephone call during the time she knew her sister-in-law would be playing tennis and left the message that she had gone out of town for a few days. She told her that she was spending some time with an old college friend who she had happened to meet at the shower she had attended and who had invited her north to enjoy some early spring weather. She didn't find it particularly believable, and wondered if her sister-in-law would. She was fairly confident that her brother would not, but by this time she didn't care. She promised to call later, when they got to the beach.
Johnny Wilson had taken care of the effects of the joint with skill and deliberation, without the frightening personality change from the night before. Now he was ready to take off on another adventure. They stopped along the way and loaded up her virtually unused charge card with the necessities of the next week: clothes, food, booze and condoms. She was surprised when the promised beach house actually appeared, not as nice as the inn, but also not as intimidating. They talked a lot, she told him everything. He told her very little. She was content to run on the beach in her T-shirt and sleep in less not that much of the time spent in bed was actually spent sleeping. She felt like a university student on holiday.
When she finally called her family, three days after arriving, her brother answered the phone.
"Eleanor, where the hell have you been?"
"I'm on the beach, like I said, with a friend."
"Well, you should have called. It's not like you not to call."
"I guess I was trying to find out what I'm really like. Sorry."
"I have to tell you something. I hope you're sitting down, because it's bad news. Your boss, my client, Arnold Cowan, is in jail. He was arrested down on South Island . . ." she was barely listening.
"For murder?" she repeated the words aloud so Johnny would not be forced to read her face. She noticed his head jerk when she said the words.
"He killed the caretaker of his farm. A guy named Sam Waiohenga. Seemed there was a fire and I guess he thought Sam was responsible. Don't think he's telling me the truth, but from what he told me he just panicked and somehow Sam was set on fire. Tried to take him to the hospital, but he died from the burns. I think you'd better get back. I understand the police are looking to talk to you. Something about drugs and dealing."
She hung up the phone without saying goodbye, not wanting to hear anything more.
Between the sobs, it was hard to find the necessary nouns and verbs to retell Wilson the story her brother had so succinctly related to her. She didn't believe it. She believed a lot of things about Arnold Cowan, but his being capable of murder was not one of them.
"Well it looks as if our holiday is over. Ellie, do you have your passport?" Johnny asked.
"Yes, in my purse, why?"
"Because I think it would be best if we went directly to the airport and got you a flight out, to anywhere, and then back to the states. That's your home now. You don't want to be here."
"I didn't do anything wrong! I'm not a fugitive. I'm an accountant, for Christ's sake."
"Working without a permit might be serious enough, but I'm not really worried about immigration. The police maybe, they will want to talk to you, but that can be handled. I'm worried about Arn's friends, his wonky friends. The one's who might think that you knew something or told someone."
"Like a cop? Like an undercover cop? It's not as if I might know an undercover cop? It's not like I just skipped town and spent a few days bonking an undercover cop."
"I'm sorry, Ellie. I knew it was coming down that night. I had a feeling it was going to are rough and I had to get you out of town. I was afraid you'd be with Cowan when it happened. I don't think you would have wanted to be there when either the police or his friends came after him."
"So you came up with this idea of a romantic getaway. How sweet. How . . ." she tried to stifle the anger and the tears.
"I'm sorry. I didn't plan it. My original plan was dinner, tell you about the trouble and let you make the decision. Then the more I thought about it, I thought it would be better if you stayed away over night. I also considered taking you directly to the airport, but if I was wrong and nothing happened, you would have a really difficult time explaining it to your family. And it would have blown my cover. Yes, I am a cop. Detective Constable John Lawless, on loan to the Auckland police."
"So where did the romantic part come from, John Lawless?"
"You kept teasing me, Ellie. I told you we could have separate rooms. Told you from the beginning. It's just . . . I thought if I said no . . . you'd think it was something personal, about you."
"So you're telling me it was all an act."
"No, just that first night. Not a very good actor, am I?"
"I did notice, but why?"
"It's not something I usually do. Sex with a woman like . . ."
"You're gay?"
"No . . ."
"The only way this could get worse is if you told me you were married."
"You could be in jail on South Island, or you could be dead."
"Too right. I'll go. I should have gone a month ago, which is when my visa ran out. I'm illegal now even if I'm not working."
Seven years later.
"Who died?"
John Lawless knew his partner, Jodie Keene, was not used to seeing him dressed in a suit, white shirt and tie. Although he was sitting on the couch drinking a beer, she would be sure that he only dressed that way for funerals, and not just any funeral. It would have had to have been a client, or a relative, or maybe a friend from the police force, not one of his street mates.
"Mate from a while back. Carked it in prison of AIDS. Got to look respectable."
"You clean up nicely, Lawless. But maybe the tie is overkill."
"The tie is necessary, believe me. Someone else I knew might be there."
"Somebody, like a female somebody?"
"Right. Someone I did very wrong. Someone I used, badly."
"You want to tell me about it?"
"Not sure I can without sounding really evil. Part of my life undercover I'm not real proud of. She worked for the guy who just carked it. He was involved with drugs, and I thought she knew more than she did, or ever let on, so I kept pushing. Let her think I was interested in her . . . you know . . . as a woman.
"Then things turned and I thought I needed to protect her. Took her out of town just to get her away from the action. Should have been harmless but it ended up as a four-day shag-fest. Christ Jodie, she was a widow less than five months, I was still married and we were cavorting like teenagers. She was as happy as I've ever seen a woman. Then I sent her away. Out of the country. God, I must have hurt her."
"Never heard from her again."
"Damn straight . . . I don't know why, but I have this feeling she'll turn up for the funeral. He meant a lot to her."
"Don't make a fool of yourself. You've cleaned up your life. I'm sure hers has changed, too. It'll be cool."
"Women are like that, right?"
"Yep, we forgive and forget."
"I don't know, Jodie, maybe I don't deserve forgiveness."
She put her hand on his shoulder, "It'll be fine. I'm sure."
Lawless had never been sure how old Eleanor actually was, but the years had caught up with her. Even though she was dressed in expensive clothes, she did not look like a woman he would have ever dated. She was standing by the closed coffin, holding tightly on the hand of a man at least fifteen years her senior, and fighting back tears when she saw him across the room. A small girl with dark curly hair stood at her side, and for a second he harbored thoughts that couldn't possibly be true. He flashed a smile, inappropriately, and wondered what he would get back in return.
She walked slowly toward him, without the traditional Ellie smile; but still, she was coming to talk to him anyway, husband and child in tow.
"Honey, this is an old friend from back when I lived here, when I worked for Arnold. Johnny . . ."
"John Lawless, private investigator." John extended his hand in greeting. "I helped her out with her visa and work permit problems."
"This is my husband, Paul. Paul Winters and . . ." she looked down at the child by her side, "my step-granddaughter, Katherine. We're going on to Australia after we leave here. She wants to hold a koala."
He wondered if Paul was working through his mind why someone would need a private investigator to work out visa problems. He didn't look too smart, just rich.
Katherine was tugging at her hand, demanding a drink or a cookie. Attention probably. He was thankful when she sent Paul with her to get it and walked with him to the designated smoking area outside the funeral home.
"I don't smoke any more," he said.
"We need to talk."
"That was what I was thinking, too, but I figured it was your call."
"I talked to Arnie, you know. I flew over about a year ago, when he'd known for a couple of years that he had AIDS and only told me. My brother had sent me the papers and I knew where he was incarcerated. Took a chance and wrote to him. Told him about getting my life back on track. He wrote back. I think he lived vicariously through me. You know how he liked the lifestyles of the rich and almost famous. Thought it would help him cope with being in prison. I felt so sorry for him, and then when he learned he had AIDS. Finally I felt I had to come over, Johnny, to see him one more time."
"He told me the whole story, not the one they told in the paper. I could never understand how he could have hurt a poor gentle soul like Sam. Seemed Harold Holman and a couple of his goons were with him. They were convinced Arn had gotten the pot out and Sam had stashed it somewhere. Thought if they scared him enough, he would talk. Made Arn go and buy the rubbing alcohol."
"Always wondered when I read about that . . . rubbing alcohol doesn't burn. It's 90% water, drop a match in it and it goes out," Lawless commented.
"Right, but Sam didn't know that. They made Arn pour the alcohol over Sam in the back seat of the car and hold a lighter to him. He didn't tell them anything, because he didn't know anything."
"He told me they finally decided that he didn't know anything and were just going to dump him on the side of the road. Arn was sure he was going to be all right, but one of the goons opened the door real quickly and the lighter was still lit. Rubbing alcohol does evaporate, and the fumes ignited. The air around him was on fire. He was wearing this jacket, nylon tricot with a foam lining. Old jacket, since before the fireproofing laws. Went up like a torch, with Sam in it. Arnie tried to save him. Rolled him on the ground to get the fire out. Burned his own hands doing it. Then he made them drive Sam to a hospital. It was just too late. Never told that story to the police because he knew even if it was deemed it accidental he'd have to tell who else was involved. And they would have killed him. Preferred being alive in prison. 'Til he got sick."
John waited for her to take a breath. She didn't.
"He told me all this when I visited him. When he knew he was going to die. No meds for him, he wanted it over. He said he wanted it over that night of the raid, but he was chicken. Then he looked up at me with those big blue eyes of his and you won't believe what he asked me."
"What did he ask you? I didn't know him that well."
"Just well enough to come to his funeral, right? After not seeing him for seven years."
Silence.
"He asked me where I was that night it all went down, why I was gone, and why I never came back. Why my brother, his lawyer had no idea where I had gone, until I showed up back in Chicago."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him the truth. I told him that I was with Johnny Wilson. I told him how you had taken me out of town and gotten me out of the country. Actually about the same thing I told my brother, who I had to tell to relieve the shock when he learned that the police no longer wanted to question me, except my brother didn't get your name. My brother never did put the pieces together, but Arn understood. He said to tell you thanks, for him, but he had one more question."
A pause.
"He asked me, I swear to god, he looked right at me and asked me if I . . . pardon my French . . . fucked you. What was I going to do lie to him? Deny telling him about some of the most exciting days of my life? He was dying. So I told him all the intimate details. Then he started laughing. I knew it hurt for him to laugh, but he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't believe that I Ellie the accountant had gotten something he'd always wanted and never had. He wanted you, Johnny."
"I guess we both were lucky that he never got what he wanted." He reached out and touched her hand for just a second. "There's one thing in my life that was even luckier. I got to spend those days on the beach with you. The only thing I regret is my having to be the one to help get you away."
"I'm sure my family is looking for me, better get back inside. Hope things are going well with the new job, Johnny."
"No worries."
McJude
March 16, 2003
Writers note: This story is a tribute to Kevin Smith and Harry Chapin whose works had a great influence on my writing and my life. It is also a tribute to another friend, not as famous, who shared the fate of dying way too young. I wish to thank my friend Becky for watching the movies, finding the errors and helping me make the paragraphs sing.