For such,

Being made beautiful overmuch,

Consider beauty a sufficient end,

Lose natural kindness and maybe

The heart revealing intimacy

That chooses right and never finds a friend.

It’s certain that fine women eat

A crazy salad with their meat.

In courtesy I’d have her chiefly learned;

Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned.

And many a poor man that has roved,

Loved and thought himself beloved,

From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

If there’s no hatred in a mind

Assault and battery of the wind

Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

An intellectual hatred is the worst,

So let her think opinions are accursed.

Have I not seen the loveliest woman born

Out of the mouth of Plenty’s horn,

Because of her opinionated mind

Barter that horn and every good

By quiet natures understood

For an old bellows angry wind.

All hatred driven hence,

The soul recovers radical innocence

And learns at last that it is self-delighting,

Self-appeasing, Self-affrighting,

And that its own sweet will is Heaven’s will.

That is no country for old men. The young

In one another’s arms, birds in the trees

--These dying generations-- at their song,

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies

Caught in that sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unaging intellect.

from "A prayer, my daughter"

Yeats.

That morning, Pyotr Illiovitch Kracniov received his first assignment from Mr. Levienne, his Russian Mafia contact in Palm Beach, Florida. There was cause for alarm. The billet was a contract kill. Admittedly, he should have expected this sort of thing, and truthfully, he had, but not so soon after arriving in the country. Maybe a smaller job should have come first. He had only been here a week.

He shifted around, his massive two hundred and sixty-five pound bulk, restive; not really fitting into the bucket seat of the black Mercedes sedan. Robust, with a huge torso, he had the solid build of a 70’s Dolphins nose-tackle. Bunching uncomfortably at the armpits, his thick biceps strained the material of the cheap brown suit he wore. He had purchased it the first day with his meager remaining funds under the advice of his new mentor, Mr. Levienne. The man had told him to get one, that he would not deal with a non-professional. "You must look the part of a businessman," he had said. That had been two weeks ago, when Kracniov was still at his home in Moskva, arranging his journey.

He snapped the newspaper he held back on itself, checking the date. December 14, 1982.

"Chort Vozmee," he cursed, in his native tongue. It meant ‘The devil take me’. He was sure this had already happened. Musing, he thought; even winter is hot here, like Hell would be.

Used to the freezing temperatures of Moskva, he was unready for the weather. Sweat rolled from his bald pate into his thick brows. It had collected there from hours of waiting, and finally plopped onto the page. He brushed the stain from the article about a successful new Broadway show called ‘Cats’ that he had been perusing. The big Russian drew out his favorite handkerchief, inspecting it briefly. It was a beautiful silken tissue, red and carefully monogrammed in gold thread in the high Russian script his loving mother found so charming. Again he marveled at the obvious deprivations his mother must have gone through, just to give him this extravagant gift. His head gave a ponderous shake. She could have purchased a new dress for what this must have cost. It was useful, he admitted, wiping his forehead, especially in this heat. Privately, he thanked her once again.

He glanced up, through the smoked glass of the Mercedes. The muted scree-awk of the circling seagulls penetrated the soundproofing of the European sedan. Their beaks clacked, disapproving, seeming to ask, "Why are you here?" He exhaled loudly and popped the paper again, then folded it onto his lap. He was only pretending to read anyway. Thoughts of what he was about to do raced through his mind.

"Quit fidgeting," commanded the wiry little ferret of a man sitting back-bowed, next to Kracniov. "Your big ass is shaking the car."

Pyotr Kracniov said nothing. He just sniffed the salt air.

He knew his place. He was just the triggerman on this contract. Mr. Levienne had made that clear this morning when they met on the bench at the Lake Worth pier. The same gulls seemed to pass judgment on them both.

"This first job is a test, Pyotr, to see what you are made of," Levienne had said, softly, watching the horizon. Barely a trace of his Russian heritage remained in his intonations; merely an odd crispness to the consonants. Kracniov admired his grasp of the language. With ease the rich old man spoke through the nose and with his tongue on the roof of his mouth, as if he were from the American Midwest. Kracniov did not think he would ever speak that well. His new boss went on, gently rocking his cane before his thin royal face, "Levi will do the talking. He is not Russki, but I trust him. I want to find out from where that durock is skimming my profits and if he still has it lying around somewhere. You will wait until Levi extracts the information from him and then pay him for his ‘loyalty.'"

Confused, Kracniov looked in askance, "Pay him?"

"Put a bullet in his brain. I am through paying from my own pocket to cover the shortages. That is wrong."

Kracniov agreed, nodding his great hairless head.

"A Post Office box has been set up under this name," the Russian crime lord handed him a manila envelope. "It will allow you contact with your loved ones overseas. Also, in there you will find new identification to use in this country."

"You have been very kind," Kracniov’s inflections, fresh from the motherland, were thick compared to Levienne’s. With need forcing his hand, he vowed. "Tovarish Levienne, I will not fail you."

They both stood, Kracniov looming over the old man, and Levienne leaning heavily on his cane. The crimelord grasped the big man’s forearm, wishing him luck, and shuffled off down the boardwalk. Understanding that their meeting was over, Kracniov hailed a cab and went back to his hotel.

Now, sitting in the sedan, he wondered if he would be able to kill in cold blood.

He had killed before. Recently, too, but that had been in self-defense. Well... not exactly. Afghanistan had been like hell, too. Even hotter than this tropical paradise. With danger lurking at the top of every dune and rock canyon, he had barely survived. It was kill or be killed. He wondered if that was true self-defense.

He had almost killed a Militzionaire while escaping across the border, as well. The grief the country was sharing at the death of the Great Comrade, Breshnev, had blinded all but that one unfortunate dutiful policeman. Kracniov had gotten off the rusty old train to relieve himself in the snow at the small stop in Viipuri, just past Leningrad (the station was merely a wooden platform, with one pale light flickering in the snowy gloom and no facilities). He was very close to crossing into Finland. In fact, it had been Finland, before Russia ‘acquired’ it at the end of WW2. The train had already passed the obsolete concrete demarcation pole. As the customs Militzionaire, still red and puffing with the labor of his trek down the hill from the clapboard shack gas station, went through his papers and questioned him near the big iron wheels of the train, Kracniov took a big rock in his thick hands and smashed the man’s skull. The unlucky soldier fell to the snow, blood running from the flap of skin hanging over his left eye like some demented eye patch. The man had still been breathing, when the train pulled away. Kracniov thought he could see the man’s crystallized breath, rising in ragged vapors.

Even now, he wondered if it had been worth it. True, he would be in a Siberian prison camp, had he not committed that atrocity. Inches from death and freezing on a chain gang; useless to his frail little Alex, who was dying back in Moskva, was not the way to accomplish his purpose.

His capacity to do what must be done had shocked him, but with Alex’s mother gone, and his dear grandmama so close to death, he was the only one the boy could depend on to pull him through. Kracniov had vowed he would do what had to be done. He must; for Alex.

That was why he was here. The seagulls could condemn him all they wanted. It would do them no good.

Opposite the parking lot in which they waited, a lofty condominium towered gloriously, looking to Kracniov like an unconscionably exorbitant place to live. It’s towering mirrored front was punctuated with alabaster balconies, staggered like the steps of a spiral staircase. At it’s pinnacle, in fifteen feet high letters, the marquee read ‘Soloman Reef Towers.’ For a nice touch, almost to complete the architect's vision, the salmon-colored marble drive at the monolith's base shimmered magically in the hot Florida sun. The condo, located along Ocean Drive on sunny Singer Island, thrust its way skyward from a manicured copse of date palms and sea grapes, overlooking the intercoastal on this side, with the wide Atlantic Ocean at its posterior. To the Russian, the pale sand of the beach looked as if it could be white gold. Up the face of the building, a crystalline passenger elevator rose the twenty stories, ferrying it’s passengers up to their pricy suites. Comparatively, the flat gray military style tenements that he had been born to, squatting on their stark efficient avenues, with litter in the dimly lit halls and the smell of boiling potatoes heavy in the air, were pathetically destitute. Mocking the aesthetic and financial poverty of his life, wealth and beauty lay all about him here in the extravagant West.

"Bingo," squealed Levi, wrenching him from his reverie.

The mark’s Cadillac pulled smoothly into the lot of the apartment building, as a shark might cruise a school of baitfish. It swung under the canopy at the front door. A valet hustled out to open the car door as a nondescript male exited the vehicle, handing off the keys. He could have been anyone in Palm Beach, with a white Polo shirt and mid-thigh tan shorts, docksiders and sunglasses. As the valet drove the car around the building to the underground garage, the man swept the lot, with an eye seemingly practiced in surveillance. His eyes rested briefly on the black sedan, and then continued their sweep. To Levi, this was a sure sign of guilt and he mentioned it.

Kracniov tried in vain to make himself smaller in the seat, and then, ashamed, he remembered that the windows were darkly tinted. He hoped Levi had not noticed his little displays of insecurity. A triggerman had to have it all together.

The mark finished his curious inspection, apparently satisfied. He turned toward the door and then stopped, reaching into his pocket. He brought out something tiny, holding it up, looking at it. He suddenly twisted his mouth in a grimace. Kracniov could not make out the object at this distance. The man at once jammed it onto the third finger of his left hand and started again toward the building.

Levi snickered, "Oh...his wedding ring. Cheating Levienne... cheating his wife."

The bell captain held the door open, palming a bill offered for his services, and the man disappeared inside. Kracniov was beginning to get a feel of the type of man with whom he would be dealing. Also, of the men like Levi, with whom he was working. These were unfaithful men, men with no honor.

Levi leaned across and popped the glove box open, startling Kracniov with the sudden motion.

"Take that out and put it in on under your coat," the ferret man said, "a gift from Mr. Levienne."

Nestled inside lay a vicious looking hand gun; complete with a nylon torso harness fitted with buckles and quick release snaps. A long rectangular barrel, girded by two thick grooved and vented metal plates along which the carrier bolt slid back and forth, comprised the bulk of the weapon. A large clip stood forward of the trigger guard. The upper receiver was designed to cock back over the wrist, while a large round sight balanced the front. Gleaming black and with an extended rubber grip mounted slightly aft of the middle, it was intimidation incarnate. Kracniov inclined his head, eyebrows up; obviously impressed. He took it into his hands, feeling the awkward weight. It was heavy, maybe two and a half kilos.

"It’s a Schmiesser," continued Levi, assuming that the immigrant Russian wouldn’t know, "imported from Germany; modified, fully automatic. Mr. Levienne used to carry it ‘til he shot up his own car by accident. Interesting piece of hardware he picked for you." He pulled his own handgun from under his jacket and held it aloft. "I prefer the 9 mil. More reliable. Plus, its likely you can pick up extra ammunition off any casualties, should you find yourself in a serious confrontation and running low." He reholstered his weapon. "Be careful with that one," he warned. "The trigger catch has been filed to improve reaction time, so its best just to keep your finger out unless you’re ready to shoot." His eyes suddenly narrowed, as if he just thought of an important detail. He swiveled his head around to look closely at the big Russian. "You stay in front of me, got it?"

"Got it."

Kracniov opened the door.

"Hold it. What the fuck are you doin’? Don’t do nothin’ unless I say so." When excited, Levi’s speech contained the slightest trace of an Italian accent. Under his breath, he muttered, "I hope Levienne knew what he was doin’, pickin’ this clown." He shook his head. "We wait ‘til midnight or so, and then go in. Fewer ears will hear that way."

* * * *

The winter in Moscow is unforgiving to the unprepared and ill-prepared. Bitter cold can kill with the randomness of a mugging. Not far from Red Square on Leninskaya Avenue an old woman, hunched against the sub-zero temperatures in layers of ragged mismatched sweaters and jackets, skirted the frozen sludge thrown into the doorways by the road-clearing half-track plows. Her destination, a squat gray edifice, loomed before her in the swirling flakes. After pausing for a debilitating bout of coughing, she feebly pushed the door aside and headed into the dark interior. The strong odor of hospital floor cleaner and formaldehyde set upon her, an offensive reminder of her own few days left. Ugly, dirty patients in tissue thin, open-backed robes pathetically reached for her as she limped past. The old woman had no time for these creatures. She was pressed. She hobbled up the littered stairs to the second floor where the hopeless boarders were kept. Where her own grandchild lay. At the same time Pyotr Kracniov, her son, sat in the black Mercedes in Florida, she arrived, breathless, in his son’s room.

She crossed the distance between the rickety bed and the doorway, as if it were her last mile. The child opened his gummed eyes and smiled weakly at his grandmama. Many of his baby teeth had fallen out, leaving gaps in his thin smile.

"Four years to live is too short, Babushka," matter-of-factly stated Alexander Pyotrovich Kracniov, in a cherubic voice. Wrapped in scratchy linen blankets, with bedsores hurting his backside, he lay in the "untreatable" ward of the ineffectual Cancer Institute in Moscow. His shaggy blonde curls had fallen out weeks ago. It really makes him look like his father, the old woman reflected.

She thought back to that fateful day when they received the news.

"Without proper treatment, the boy will die," the doctor had said. "Our waiting list for the marrow he desperately needs is simply too long. If he were in the West," the doctor said wistfully, "he might have had a chance...but of course , we are not." As the weary physician shuffled away, never knowing quite how to console those that needed it, he finished the thought everyone shared, "It does not look good."

The wrinkled old woman sat down next to the boy’s cot, the quiver in her chin belying the warm smile she returned for him. He barely weighed in at twelve kilograms. She prayed secretly for her son to finish his business abroad so he could get the boy out of this God-forsaken country and to the US. None here knew what business he was involved in there, but Pyotr had said it would pay more than enough, so no one asked. The old woman assumed it was probably desperate business: illegal business. In any case, a bribe in the right hands would enable the boy to go, and the state of the art research with which they had to work would afford him a better chance. So far, the doctors in Moscow had been unsuccessful in battling the tumors which racked the boy's body with so much pain. It was time to give him to the doctors in the West.

"Such talk is foolish, boy," She reprimanded. He was right, of course, four years was not enough. She began stroking his head with her spotted, rheumy fingers. The child closed his eyes as she sang softly to him, a comforting lullaby passed down the ages. Her voice was surprisingly sweet and had a resonance unexpected from such a bent body. She gazed on him as she sang, reminded of her own beloved Pyotr when he was small and frail. Troublesome, that boy had been. She grinned, showing gaps of her own. And fiercely loyal, as well. She remembered when Pyotr had taken the blame when that naughty little friend of his had broken a storefront window at the Goom, and been spanked for it by the night manager. He had run home to her then, with red wet eyes, and had not said a word. She only found out when she went in for new wheel for the barrow the next day. Even though he had lied, she had admired him for that. So brave, so tough.

The old woman hoped Pyotr Kracniov’s son Alex would be as tough.

Suddenly, as she was remembering days past, the boy's breath caught, bringing her back. It rattled in his lungs, and then stilled. Horrors, child. The panic rose in her as she jumped to her feet to get the nurse. Suddenly, he hitched and breathed again, his air coming labored and rasping, but coming all the same. She sank back to the hard chair and sobbed quietly, pins and needles poking at her, relieved but shaken.. "Hurry, Pyotr," she murmured, "your boy has little time left."

Humming, she lightly stroked his head again and rested her cheek in the crook of her arm near Alex’s face, so she could look at him; so she could remember him in this peaceful state. He was as handsome as his father. Smiling, weary from the exhaustion of worry, she closed her eyes and slept.

This time, her vigilance ended, she did not notice when little Alexander Pyotrovich Kracniov, son of Pyotr Illiovitch Kracniov, stopped breathing for the last time.

* * * *

Midnight came and went, and still Levi did not give the word.

The burning sun, had long ago dropped below the horizon, and yet the sticky heat did not abate. For sure, the temperature dropped slightly but Kracniov, not yet acclimated, still sweated in the unbreathing fabric of his suit. He removed his jacket, revealing great sweat circles under his arms, and tossed it into the back seat. The nylon harness of the Schmiesser was confining. At least, by now, the soft leather of the car seat had nearly conformed to his large frame so that was not bothering him anymore. That was small comfort considering everything on his mind.

They had sat in silence for the last six hours. Kracniov had had plenty of time to ruminate. Ten thousand US dollars Mr. Levienne had agreed to pay him for this job. It was more than enough to get little Alex over here. Of course, to bribe the local Politek director, he would have to go back to Russia. Possibly back to prison, if they found out he had left the country. He had, in fact, once been arrested for black marketeering tourist items outside of Intourist in Moskva, so he knew what prison was like. There, he had made his Mafia contacts. Although the Russian prison had nearly killed him, it would be a small price to pay for Alex’s life. Even if he never saw his son again, it was a price he would pay a thousand times, if he had to.

He was worrying for nothing, he knew. No one would find out he was here. The Mafia was good at that sort of thing. They smuggled people in and out of Russia every day. It had just been a fluke that the Militzionaire had spotted a flaw in his papers. He had not found one himself, though he was no expert, so could it be the policeman had just been testing him? He shook his head ruefully. What had he done? No, Kracniov hastily convinced himself, there had to have been something the Mafia had overlooked when putting his papers in order. He would believe that. It was easier than knowing he might have killed an innocent man.

Levi glanced at his watch. Traffic had slowed to being nearly non-existent on the small two-lane road bisecting the island. Neither of them had seen a car for over an hour. Even the bell captain had left for the night. Now, the only person they had to deal with was the night watchman, who would be seated behind his desk.

"It’s time, Kracniov. You ready?" The big Russian nodded.

Levi opened the door of the Mercedes, the little chime tinkling, and got out, stretching. Kracniov retrieved his jacket and assuring himself that the Schmiesser was tucked securely into the nylon webbed holster, followed Levi around to the trunk of the car. Opening it, the little man grabbed a roll of duct tape and slipped his thin wrist into the hole in the middle of the cylinder. Next, from a hidden compartment in the floor of the trunk, he retrieved a small black leather case and slipped it into his jacket, slamming the lid closed.

With Levi leading the way, they approached the building. Kracniov could feel the structure looming over him, a bit like the pendulum in Edgar Allen Poe’s story. Then the door was in front of them. The little man produced a small object like a credit card and swept it over the scanner by the door.

"Courtesy of Mr. Levienne," he grunted.

The door gave a muted hum and then a click. Levi pulled the heavy glass door open, straining with the great weight, and stepped inside. At once, the cool air conditioned wind blasted the Russian in the face, mercifully drying it.

Kracniov swallowed. The noise of it was loud in his ears. He wondered briefly if Levi could hear it. Every nerve in his body danced in a nervy, anticipating way.

They approached the big black marble desk of the night watchman. Kracniov, his senses alive, could see the tiny gold metal flakes embedded in its surface; could hear the scratch of the pen in the mans hand. His heart thundered powerfully in his chest. He was sure the guard would see it quivering the lapel of his jacket. The machine pistol in its holster screamed for attention. Despite the cool air, sweat burst out on his forehead, again. Cursing softly, he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his head.

The guard did not even look up, engrossed in the Post’s crossword, as Levi and Kracniov passed by. A bank of closed circuit video screens cast a pale blue glow on the man’s bony features.

Finally, with a courteous ping, the elevator arrived. The doors sighed opened, ever so slowly. Stepping inside, the doors closed even more slowly, it seemed to Kracniov, than they had opened. When they came together, he let his breath out in a big puff.

Levi shook his head in disgust.

"With this card, we belong here," explained Levi under his breath, brandishing it before the big Russians nose. "You are wound up tighter than a frogs ass, boy. You better fuckin’ get hold of yourself, or I’ll let Mr. Levienne know that I’ll never work with you again. If I let him know that, then you’ll never work for Mr. Levienne again." He reached out and punched the number twenty on the console.

* * * *

In shock, the old woman stepped through the big wooden doors of the Cancer Institute, Moskva, out into the icy grip of sub-zero temperatures. She did not notice the cold. A dark sludge of plowed snow, which normally annoyed her for the way it grimed her shoes, lined the streets outside. She did not notice. Down to the corner post stand, she walked on painful, unsteady varicose legs, and did not notice her aches. Digging in her purse, she purchased an envelope and the necessary postage. When the man running the stand smiled kindly at her, she did not notice that, either. From her dilapidated hand bag, she pulled a scrap of paper with a hastily scrawled address written on it, transferring it to the envelope. She balled the scrap of paper in her fist and dropped it in a refuse can. Using the top of the mailbox as a makeshift desk, her spotted hands shaking and with tears in her eyes, Grandmother Kracniov penned her final note to dear Pyotr.

It was a simple note; only two lines to express her grief.

Do not come back. There is no one left for you here, now. Make what

you will of yourself out there. The child has gone to heaven.

Your greatest admirer in life,

Your greatest admirer in death,

Eliza M. Kracniov.

* * * *

The elevator carried Kracniov and Levi up the side of the Soloman Reef Towers building, with every passed floor nearer to their goal. For the big Russian, this was his first trip in a glass lift and he found the height a little disconcerting. Looking down, he could see the Mercedes, tiny at this height, waiting for them in the lot below. The sprawling lights of the city of West Palm Beach spread out to the south, while the sparse lights of Juno twinkled to the north. To avoid the effects of vertigo, and to keep Levi from noting his anxiety, he turned his back on the spectacular view.

At last, they reached the twentieth floor. Levi and Kracniov stepped out into the small anteroom. According to Mr. Levienne, there would just be one apartment on this floor. The mark’s.

He was right. Aside from the stairwell, there was only one egress from the hall.

White marble tile led to the entry, a set of plain white double doors with just a single polished doorknob breaking the surface. Kracniov looked in wonder at the crystal chandelier and lion statuettes decorating the hall and knew that such opulence would have fed his family for several years. The excess was phenomenal. Imagine, if he held that kind of power. He would think on it later.

Beside the doors and above a tall elegant vase of flowers, a scanner, like the one at the ground entrance, was set into the wall. Levi pulled a pair of calfskin leather gloves from his coat pocket and stretched them over his delicate hands. Next, the 9 mm he had shown in the car appeared in his left hand, while his right held the pass card near the scanner. He appeared to be waiting for something.

After a short pause, Kracniov, guessing that the delay was for him, reached into his jacket and took out his own weapon. The weight of it felt reassuring somehow, like petting a favorite animal. He sucked in his breath and nodded at the little man. It was time to earn his money.

Levi swept the card over the scanner and motioned for the big man to go first. Kracniov was about to protest, then realized Levi wanted to stay out of the path of the Schmiesser. The thought made him grin, and surprised at his own sudden bravado, the Russian pushed in the door and went silently inside.

* * * *

Jerome Pharos was reaching the pinnacle moment of a fourteen year old’s life. Sherry Midden, one half of the two most beautiful twins in school, had just smiled shyly at him across the cafeteria.

"The eighth grade at Howell Watkins Junior High will be very good for me," he remarked to the tall lanky blonde kid standing next to him. The school board had decided to celebrate the upcoming Christmas hiatus, which would start tomorrow, with a school dance and Jerome was celebrating with it. He bobbed his head and drummed on his thigh to the rhythm of ‘Jessie’s Girl,' the number one hit rocked out by Rick Springfield. "Ohhh..., I wish I had...Jessie’s girl..." The music blared from a set of giant speakers perched up on the small stage at the front of the large room. The cafeteria, across which he had just been smiled at, was now cleared of the lunch tables and chairs that usually occupied its spacious floor. In their stead were hundreds of balloons, streamers of various colors, and a lot of space between the row of boys on one wall and the girls standing at the other.

Sherry smiled in his direction again, blinking her lids, then looked away to stare at the mirrored globe hanging from the ceiling.

Man, thought Jerome, trying to be coy, huh babe?

Sherry and Shelly Midden were the hottest twins in the school. They would have been hot all on their own, he thought, but for God to give us two of them, ... oh, what a blessing.

In attitude, Sherry was as different as her sister Shelly, as they were the same in appearance. They both had long rose-colored hair, not straight and not curly, but somewhere pleasantly in between, as pure as a waterfall trickling in the sun. They both wore the same style name-brand clothes from Sak’s Fifth Avenue. And, from spying on the girls run team in PE, he had noticed they both had voluptuous thighs and calves. He loved the way the small of their backs dipped in, just before curving out into delicious cupcake buttocks swaying under their skirts.

The sameness ended there, though, reflected Jerome. While Shelly would scream at pep rallies, yelling and cheering the team, Sherry preferred to sit on the side, quiet and demure, checking her homework. Shelly wore her mini’s a little shorter than Sherry did. And, while Sherry would smile, Shelly would laugh out loud, drawing looks from the passing boys. She was also said to be a lot more fun (wink, wink).

But Shelly wasn’t here, thought Jerome, so Sherry would do nicely.

He smiled back.

Jerome was handsome, and dark from hours spent at the beach surfing, but he was small, even for his age. According to his old man, his hair, black and straight, was ‘too damn long’. Tonight, though, he knew it was just right.

To match his pale blue eyes, he had a blue pull-over shirt with a thick white stripe, horizontal across his chest and wore brown suede work shoes. The corduroy pants he wore were tight, and he had spent the majority of the evening before the dance making sure his butt looked just right in them. It would suck, he thought, if the girls don’t notice my butt.

"How?" said the gangly blonde kid. He was razor thin. He appeared to be all elbows and knees.

"What?" said Jerome, wondering if he’d said that last bit out loud.

"How?" the boy repeated, scratching at a newly formed pimple developing on his chin. "You said, ‘The eighth grade at Howell Watkins Junior High will be very good for me.’ And I said ‘How?’."

"Wow. Good memory," said Jerome, suddenly wishing he hadn’t said anything. What a geek, he thought, now that he really looked at the kid. What an obvious wanna-be bad-boy image. Shaggy blonde hair, so blonde that it was white. A red and black flannel shirt, hanging out? Baggy ‘Holes-in-the-Knees’ jeans and Converse sneakers?!!! Ohhh boy. Jerome decided to ignore him. Maybe he’ll just go away, he thought. Not even that ugly chick, Margaret, ‘the red-headed step child’ over there will say a word to me, thinkin’ I’m with this punk kid.

The blonde boy appeared to inspect his shoes. He kicked at a piece of ancient gum lodged in the linoleum floor. He gazed away for a while, and then turned back.

"You’re in my history class, right."

"Yeah, kid. I guess I am." Was that Sherry looking over here again?

"My name is Jason. Jason Macquereau," the kid said and stuck out a damp hand.

Jerome ignored him.

"This place could be a lot more fun, ya think?" ‘blondie’ asked.

Jerome said nothing. STOP

The kid just stood there for a moment. It was obvious to Jerome that the gears were going. He could imagine what the boy was thinking. This is Jerome Pharos! Anybody that was friends with the ‘Jer-o-meister’ almost automatically got a girl. It was Junior High law. The cool rich kids got the girls, sooo ... their friends, through association, got the girls, too. Every body knew that. It was what gave the broke, not so cool kids hope. Jerome shook his head.

He was about to walk away, when the blonde kid grabbed onto his arm. He held up something quickly in front of the dark haired boys face, and then put it away again.

"What was that?" Jerome asked.

"You get high?"

Jerome looked blank. He wasn’t sure he heard right.

"Want to smoke a joint?"

"Ummm..." Jerome never had. But it wasn’t like it was a big deal. He just hadn’t yet, that’s all. His dad would be pissed, though. He smiled at that. He could imagine his father coming into his room later that night, demanding that he count quickly from ten to one, or maybe even reciting the alphabet backwards. He laughed.

What the hell, everyone was doing it. He had heard Sherry Midden did. That clinched it. "Y-Yeah, kid, maybe I will. But, can I ask a couple of girls over there," he indicated the gaggle on the opposite wall, "to come with us?"

The blond kid grinned and said, "I thought you’d never ask."

* * * *

The entryway of the mark’s home was a dark pitch. As he waited for his eyes to adjust, Kracniov could hear the viscous blood pounding in his arteries. Adrenaline surged through him as he reapplied his sweaty grip on the butt of the Schmiesser. The sickly sweet smell of potpourri wafted into his nostrils. When he felt ready, they made their way silently into the darkened apartment.

A short hallway led into the dwelling. Immediately inside the door, to the left, the entrance to the laundry room stood, door open. The rattle of shirt buttons on aluminum came from the quietly humming dryer. Straight ahead, squinting into the gloom, Kracniov could make out dim shapes of the furniture of the living room, silhouetted in moonglow. The soft light shone through the wispy drapes at the balcony’s glass doors. By this dim shimmer he could see the wall on his shooting hand, the right one, continued all the way to the back of the place, with an opening two meters down and another almost at the end, while the left wall, at the end of the short hallway, stopped and opened out into a spacious living room. He took another step. The soft click of his leather soled shoes sounded frighteningly loud in his ears.

Without warning, he saw movement to his right. Jerking the machine pistol in that direction, he very nearly pulled the trigger. Durok, he chastised himself. His heart tried to leap out and he gulped it back. It was only a mirror. Levi shook his head and rolled his eyes. Kracniov grinned back at him weakly and shrugged.

As he noiselessly shut the door, Levi motioned to the Russian to move farther down the hallway. A few steps in, at the first opening on the right, Kracniov peered around the wall. The medium sized room appeared to have no occupants. Moonlit shadows showed this to be a combination dining room and sitting room. An elegant dining table, with carved wooden chairs dominated the room. A crystal chandelier hung over it, sparkling beautiful prisms of moon light onto two Picasso prints and across the ceiling. In a corner, a large aquarium filled with multicolored tropicals gurgled quietly, shedding the soft glow of its fluorescent bulb. Further into the area, two high backed reading chairs complete with matching ottomans and a settee cozied up to an ornate hearth. The material covering these pieces of furniture was extravagant. A paisley covered blood-red crushed velvet. He nearly whistled out loud.

The fireplace appeared to have no chimney. How odd, thought Kracniov, I really think this idiot has a fake fireplace for decoration. If such a thing were done in Russia, it would be ridiculed. Still..., it looked nice. Maybe the aesthetic value of the piece was what he was going for. If I were this rich, he mused, I would probably surround myself with such gratuitous things.

He shook his head. The endorphins in his blood were causing his mind to wander. "Concentrate," through clenched teeth he whispered to himself.

The entrance to the kitchen was in the left wall. Another door, covered by a poster, was in the back wall. He made a mental note of it, then turned back toward the main room of the apartment. If he guessed right, the master bedroom would be beyond there.

Another step forward brought him to the end of the wall. Somewhere in the house, a clock could be heard, ticking like a heartbeat. More sweat rolled into his eye, stinging it. He nervously wiped his forehead again with his handkerchief.

If he thought the dining room was extravagant, the mark’s living room was excessive. White snowy shag carpeted the entire room, blanketing a sunken floor. The furniture threw long shadows across it, with the light shining through a set of glass French double doors, leading to the balcony. Luxurious fawn leather couches, stuffed to the bursting point, faced the interior of the room, positioned so the sitter could view the spectacular display in front of them.

The big Russian, through his teeth, sucked in his breath. An enormous entertainment unit covered one whole wall, with the largest television Kracniov had ever seen in it, and rows of expensive hard cover books to both sides. But the main attraction, below the books, a glass showcase revealed an amazing eclectic assortment of crystal dolls, horses, buildings, trees; everything. It was as if a small village of crystal beings lived in the oak cabinets, frozen in time; doing forever what tasks they had been doing when captured. Like the chandelier in the other room, the light seemed to gather in the depths of the shapes and then throw itself into the room in a scintillating display. The case was worthy of a museum. A czar’s ransom had been spent here. He was stricken still.

He felt a sharp jab in his lower back. Looking back, he could see the impatient scowl on Levi’s face. Obviously, the ferret man had no appreciation for art.

"We can sight see later," he hissed, close to Kracniov’s ear. "Right now, we have a job to do." Amazingly enough, he jerked his head forward, as if to headbutt the Russian even though they both knew, if it had connected, it would have been a grave mistake on Levi’s part.

Instead he continued softly, as if realizing his mistake, "Get on with it. The bedroom is through there." He indicated another dark hallway at the far end of the room.

As Kracniov approached, faint snoring rhythmically sawed the silence. A lighter tempo’ed sighing accented each pause. Good, he thought, they were both asleep.

This hallway was short. Only two meters or so in depth. A small bathroom, with the door half-open lay off to one side, while the bedroom door at the end of the hallway was slightly ajar. Kracniov crept up and peered through, one eye to the opening.

A large canopy bed was the center piece, with diaphanous coverings draping from the cross beams. A large bay window with willowy curtains shed a soft illumination across the figures intertwined in the sheets. The woman, pretty even in sleep, had her arm across the man’s bare chest. They breathed in unison.

Kracniov gave the door an experimental nudge. It moved soundlessly on its hinges. He nodded to himself. His hands felt clammy. He adjusted his grip on the Schmiesser, looking back to Levi for assurance. The little man nodded back at him. From the little black case in his jacket, he produced a pen knife and cut a line into the duct tape on his wrist. He removed the piece, about five inches long and handed it to Kracniov. He indicated Kracniov, then pointed around his mouth in a circular motion. He then pointed at the girl. Next, he touched his own chest and pointed at the man. Kracniov inclined his head once, to show he understood.

Levi peered into the big Russians eyes, looking for something. He must have seen it.

Let’s do it, he mouthed.

Kracniov heard his own pulse. Looking down at his sweat soaked shirt, he could actually see his heart knocking in his chest. It was time to earn the money that would save his son’s life.

Quickly, noiselessly, they entered the room. Kracniov moved to the woman’s side of the bed, Levi to the man’s. Before he could look at her face and feel pity, Kracniov roughly pushed the piece of tape over the woman’s mouth.

Her eyes shot open in panic. She abruptly sat up, rigid. He saw her try to scream, but no sound emerged. Then she saw Levi, standing over her man, and fear immobilized her, like a bird frozen on a wire.

Levi slammed the butt of his weapon on the temple of the sleeping man. A thin spray of blood squirted across her breasts and she stared at it, horrified. Irrationally, she tried to wipe it off instead of trying to run.

Kracniov, both fascinated and horrified, just watched her, unable to move.

Levi saw the Russian freeze. Recognizing the situation, he back handed the woman, hard.

With a gasp, her head rocked around, and Kracniov saw her eyes roll back. In slow motion, like an exaggerated animated character, her back straightened and she toppled over, leaning toward him. Still paralyzed in shock, he was unable to react in time to catch her as she crumpled, unmoving, onto the floor.

"Unprofessional idiot," Levi snarled at the Russian.

Kracniov stared at the thin pool of crimson gathering around the woman’s head, soaking her lustrous brown hair and the beautiful white carpet, looking for all the world like a red stain on his very soul.

* * * *

Jason Macquereau waited near the side entrance, outside the cafeteria of Howell Watkins Junior High School, while Jerome Pharos worked his magic. Exactly what that magic would be, Jason didn’t know yet, but he would soon find out. God, I hope he brings two girls, the blond boy silently hoped. He glanced around at his surroundings. Not very romantic, he thought.

The back of the cafeteria was, in a word, grimy. It was sort of a small alcove built into the middle of the school, cutting into its side like an oozing abscess. Jason lifted his shoe and felt the gummy tack of the congealed muck left behind by various rotting foods. In the dingy shadows, the dumpster the cafeteria ladies used to dump the wisely uneaten remains of school lunches was about fifteen feet away. A dark oily fluid, glistening thickly in the moon light, ran from it’s rusted bottom, under the wax cardboard lettuce boxes, straight past the door where Jason was waiting and into the sewer grate near the sidewalk. Nearby, a chainlink cage stood against the wall, housing, aside from a number of rats Jason was sure, a pile of huge stainless metal pots and pans that were used to boil and froth the soupy fare they served. The smell of it all was overpowering, but at least they could smoke the joint in private.

He patted the hip pocket of his jeans. Surprise, then momentary panic, crept across his face, as he searched all his pockets. Breathing a sigh of relief, he found the weed in his shirt pocket. He withdrew it and held it up, running it under his nose and savoring the potent green smell.

"This," he whispered aloud, "is gonna be my ticket to notoriety in the eighth grade."

Believing it, somehow made it seem true.

Slipping the joint back into his pocket, he began to justify it to himself. His brother smoked the stuff all the time, he reasoned, and he always had girls around. It didn’t occur to Jason that the explanation for this might be that Jimmy was three years older and had a car.

He looked at his watch. Almost one AM. The dance ended at midnight.

Shit, where were they?

Maybe they won’t show, he thought. Maybe Jerome was just trying to get rid of me.

He wasn’t exactly especially liked. Since he was quiet, withdrawn even, most of the kids reacted to him as if he were invisible. At least, the ‘in’ kids did. He had his own circle though, mostly geeks and nerds. Members of the chess club; the science lab; the band; they all thought he was with ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was. Compared to most of them he was, but Jason was ready for a change.

Being an intellectual wasn’t getting him what he wanted.

Lately, what he wanted wore skirts. Women. They were always on his mind. He liked the smell of them; the sound of their voices; the way their breasts bobbed when they laughed too hard. He found their lips appealing when they smiled, talked, ate a banana. He particularly liked the fuzz line at the top of their thighs, where they stopped the razor when shaving their long legs.

"A fine girlfriend is all I ask for, God," he paused and looked up, dreaming. "If you’re really there, you’ll grant me this one thing."

"What one thing?" a teasing girlish voice asked from the dark behind him.

Jason spun around, startled. Sherry Midden stepped out of the shadows, her pretty face tilted, her eyes wide in question. In the moon light, the white in them appeared luminescent Behind her stood Jerome, holding the door and grinning like a well fed cat.

Jason blushed furiously.

"You could warn a guy, before sneaking up on him," he stammered. "You nearly made me jump out of my skin."

"Surprise can be a girls best friend," she purred. "‘Sides, this way you feel more alive, right?"

Jason said nothing. He just looked at her and gulped, swallowing her charm.

"What were you talking to yourself about," she insisted.

Jason stared into her eyes, lost in their depth. The kindness in them was evident, but they also carried a mischievous twinkle. Abruptly, he became conscious of the prolonged eye contact. He looked away and pretended to inspect the chain link cage. His mind raced. Wait a minute, he thought. Before he had left for the dance, his brother, Jimmy, had told him a few tricks of the trade as they stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

"Go on the offense to stabilize the ground." The older boy advised, as he slicked goo in his hair. "If they say something that throws you, and believe me, they will, just jump aside and pretend there’s a roach on the ground." He demonstrated by hopping to the side. "They’ll squeal and grab your arm for male support. Just be sure you tense up your bicep," he lifted his arm and flexed his skinny muscles, "cause if they grab somethin’ flabby, it’s all over." For effect, he punched his younger brother sharply in the tricep.

Jason rubbed his arm, remembering.

Sherry was scrutinizing him, mentally feeling him out. She wouldn’t let him go so easy. He sensed an impromptu stirring in his boxers.

OK. Change the subject. Make her nervous.

"Rats have got me goosey, is all."

He smiled to himself as he saw her fearful glance at the cage. Just like my bro’ told me. She stepped away from the possible lair, coincidentally in his direction. The top of her shiny hair was just below his eyeline. He could make out the soft fragrance of sunflowers under the smell of the dumpster. Then she looked up at Jason again, her lips in an exaggerated pout.

It worked! He firmed his arm in anticipation of the grab.

The touch he felt was not at all the one he expected.

Jerome ahem’ed and stepped between them, putting his hand on Jason’s chest and pushing him firmly back a step.

"This," he said deliberately, as another girl came through the now empty doorway, "is Muriel. Say hello to the young lady, Jason."

Incensed, Jason was about to push back when he thought better of it. Jimmy had also said, "Don’t get mad. It turns them off." Well, he thought, he was right about the other things. He’s probably right about this.

Jason turned to the newcomer. She was pretty, he thought, in a subdued kind of way. Dark hair. Sweet smile showing straight white teeth. She bent over and shoved a ratty old magazine, folded over, in the crack of the door, letting it close against it.

Immediately Jason recognized that she wouldn’t do for him. She wore a tight Van Halen T-shirt, stretched across her chest, and wide-legged black jeans. She was too much into her ‘stoner’ stereotype for his tastes. Not that he really had developed tastes yet, it was just that she was ‘rough’ around the edges. Nice ass though.

"Nice to meet you, Muriel," said Jason, unaware that his disappointment showed clearly on his face. He really didn’t want to appear rude. Awkwardly, he shoved out his hand to shake.

"Don’t do me no favors," she retorted, shoving past him to stand with her arms crossed and her hip out, next to Sherry.

Jerome spun slowly around to face the girls, rolling his eyes to the side, tilting his head.

"That went well," he whispered to Jason. Jason was about to say something back, when Muriel blurted out at Jerome, "You said something about some weed?"

"Uhh..., yeah," Jason answered for him, thankful to change the subject. He pulled it out and held it up. "My brother Jimmy gave it to me."

"How nice of him," lilted Sherry. She looked him in the eyes for a long second.

Jason, looking hard at the joint, blushed and smiled.

"Oh brother," Jerome said, impatiently. To Muriel he asked, "You got a light?"

"‘Course," she said sweetly, blinking her eyes at him. She reached into her baggy jeans and pulled out a Bic, handing it over.

"Do the honors," said Jason to Jerome, handing him the joint.

With a deep breath, taking the joint in one hand and the lighter in the other, Jerome lit his and Jason’s first ever of a long succession of many, many marijuana cigarettes.

* * * *

In the living room of the mark’s apartment, Kracniov finished wrapping the last piece of duct tape around the bare ankles of the unconscious woman. In order to see better, he clicked on the small reading lamp which stood on one end table. The dim orange cast gave the room an eerie, interrogation room feel. His and Levi’s features were now uplit, Halloween-like.

His eyes moved up her lithe naked form, pausing at the tuft of sandy brown pubic hair, and then continued to the flat muscular lines of her suntanned stomach. He noticed the faint spidery tracings of faded stretch marks, the badge of motherhood. Continuing up, past her compact breasts, again another white line of scars directly under them at the base of the hemispheres, to her lightly freckled face. Her lips had a smear of crimson on them and her cheek was already beginning to purple where Levi had hit her.

He heard grunts as his partner lifted the man’s legs to get the tape strips under them. Levi finished and dropped them to the floor.

The Russian straightened, looming over Levi, and was aroused. He shifted the crotch of his pants and turned away to better conceal his stretching zipper. He took a few steps away, staring at the intricate crown molding topping the high walls, the enormous painting on the wall of a beautiful red lighthouse on a sandy coast, anything to avoid eye contact with his fellow cabalist.

He realized it was not the nakedness of the woman. It was not even the provocative open legged position in which she lay. He was not a rapist. He had no interest in her that way. Because of this self awareness, the shame he felt ran much, much deeper.

The violent scene played again and again in his mind. With his fists against his forehead, he saw it in exquisite detail. Since he had been looking at the woman, he had not seen Levi strike the man. For him, only an itemized account of the woman’s distress played.

He was aware of the spray of blood, settling in a light film across the chest of the mark’s woman. Her jaw muscles bunching in her silent scream. In the vision, he saw the remarkable lengths of her lashes as her lids opened wider than he had thought possible, her eyes almost ejecting from the sockets. He could see the thick black hair on the corner of Levi’s hand as it jarred her powdered cheek. The loud, almost musical, pop, pop, popping of the vertebrae in her neck as her head spun around, the eyes rolled back. And finally, the image in his mind ratcheted to slow motion as she toppled off the bed, arms behind her, and crumpled in a pile on the carpet, a red blotch growing near her mouth.

It seared his mind. Stimulated him.

And he had liked it.

He found himself wanting the sights of the man’s injury. But they were lost because he had not paid attention.

Nooo, his mouth contorted, soundless.

What deep, heathenistic places have I opened inside myself, he wailed silently. He paced blindly in circles, and then crashed into the wall, knocking over a small rack of magazines. He opened his eyes. Levi was looking oddly at him.

"You’re fucked" he said.

Kracniov, feeling damned, crossed the room toward him. He moved quickly, despite his size.

Levi looked scared for an instant, the color draining from his face, then recovered himself. "Get hold of yourself, man. You’re freakin’."

Kracniov stopped, looking desperately around. He lifted his great arms and then flung them down. His breathing raked in and out. He made an effort to slow it.

"OK, be cool..., be cool...," Levi chanted.

The big Russian forcefully calmed his ragged breaths, his chest heaving slower and slower, until finally he appeared to be back to normal.

"Jesus..., man, you almost flipped out." The wiry little man came up to him and put his hand on Kracniov’s meaty shoulder. "Look," he said, "we still got work to do. You got it together?"

The big man nodded.

"You sure?"

"Da. Ya veren." the Russian growled assent.

"Good..., good..., now listen...Search the place. Turn everything inside and out." He kicked the mark’s legs. "This bastards got money around here, I can smell it."

They split up, with Kracniov, only slightly calmer and still wild eyed, heading to other parts of the apartment. He left Levi to search the living room.

* * * *

Jerome Pharos didn’t get it. His head swam in little circles and tiny flashbulbs kept going off in front of his eyes. The pot was really hitting him. He studied the back of his hand, intently.

Sherry Midden must have been playing with his mind before in the cafeteria. Those smiles had been for him, hadn’t they? Yes. He was sure of it. Then why was she so focused on this new kid. What was his name? He felt dizzy and couldn’t remember. Jason something? Looking at them, he couldn’t help scowling. They were stoned, laughing hysterically at some boring witticism of Jason’s.

"Your brother said that?" Sherry gasped. She had her fingers lightly resting on Jason’s forearm. "Yup," he confessed, grinning a little too widely, "and he was right, too." His arms were folded across his narrow chest and he was staring at the floor through bloodshot eyes, scuffing his toe on the sticky ground. His long, curly mop fell forward and he swept it behind his ears with both hands, holding the pony tail in one fist behind his head.

"No way, that’s B.S.," she said, spelling it out.

"Hey, it worked. You were just about to grab my arm, ‘til ... ," he left off there and looked at Jerome.

"Bee Ess, Bee Ess...," she sang at him, teasing.

"Honest," He said, suddenly serious. "I wouldn’t lie to you, Sherry."

"Sure you would. You’re a man."

"You mean, a boy," said Jerome, irritated.

Jason frowned at him. He turned back to Sherry.

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Ask my mother," she said cryptically. She turned to Muriel, "Am I right?"

Muriel shrugged and took a pull at the last remaining embers of the roach. She was about to drop it when Jerome stopped her.

"Lemme see it." He said. This isn’t going very well. If I want Sherry, he thought, I’m gonna hafta do something fast. The raven haired girl passed it over to him, expertly pressing off with her thumb as he fumbled with it. She rubbed her fingers on the back of her jeans.

"Watch this," he said. He put the roach to his lips and inhaled sharply. The ember glowed brightly and a little wisp escaped. Just when it started to burn the tips of his thumb and forefinger and Jerome thought he could hold it no longer, he sucked the roach in with a little pop and swallowed, just like he’d seen his old man do. Yikes, that’s hot, he thought.

"No evidence." he said, holding his hands out, palms up.

"Neat," chimed in Muriel, stretching the front of her Van Halen T-shirt with both hands, elbows locked. Jerome didn’t like the way she kept staring at him, all blurry eyed. A sudden breeze fluttered into the alcove, swirling bits of paper in little spirals. Jerome could hear the school flag snapping in the wind.

He also didn’t like what Sherry did next.

Her autumn colored hair halo’ed around her head from the wind. She linked her arm through Jason’s already crossed ones and said happily, "Hey, guys, lets go check out some of the classrooms. I kinda wanna see what they’re like at night." She looked up at Jason and fluttered her eyelids at him.

"Got somethin’ in your eye," he asked.

"No, stupid," she said, exasperated.

He looked hurt. She laughed and pulled him by the arm. They all went back through the cafeteria door.

Once inside, Jerome saw that the cafeteria was deserted. The stacked chairs and tables loomed in the shadows, with the streamers and balloons casting animal specters across the floor. They crossed the room to the hallway doors leading into the school, Jason and Sherry first, running hand in hand, with Jerome and Muriel following slowly behind.

Jerome heard the newly formed couple laughing and giggling as they ran through the empty halls. They disappeared around a corner. He stood there for a moment with Muriel looking at him. He studied her for a moment out of the corner of his eye. Oh well, he mused, not too bad. She’ll do in a pinch.

They heard Sherry shriek and giggle in the distance, her voice fading and echoing

"C’mon," he said, taking Muriels hand and pulling her in the opposite direction. "Lets go have our own party, huh?"

She twirled the ends of her black hair and stuck them between her pressed lips. "Why not," she said.

* * * *

Sgt. Henry Perkins pulled his shiny police cruiser up to the stop light at the corner of Northlake Blvd. and McArthur Dr. The nose of the powerful car dipped as the car came to a sudden jerky stop.

"Watch it," exclaimed his partner, Corporal Blake, holding the styrofoam cup of steaming vanilla Cappuccino up and away from his lap. The dark creamy foam dripped from his chin. He brushed at his sharply creased black trousers and only succeeded in spreading the hot liquid across his thighs.

"Dammit. I just bought this uniform."

"Sorry." Sgt. Perkins’ grin glowed in the green L. E. D. read-out of the dash radio. He scratched the back of his neck with a fingernail at the thick wrinkle. His wiry hair, graying at the temples, was crew-cut in the military style common to the old timers on the force.

"I was going to wear this one to your retirement ceremony next week, but now I’m not even going."

"You know what this is," Perkins asked, holding his thumb and index finger up and rubbing them together.

At the same time, they both said, "The world’s smallest violin playing a sad song for you." Corporal Blake snorted through his long nose and set the cup in the blue plastic holder hanging from the sill of his window. He dabbed at his legs with a towellette that he took out of a brown paper bag by his feet.

"Where’d you get that," asked Sgt. Perkins

"What, the Cappuccino?"

"No, that big fuckin’ nose. Of course, the ... What’d you call it?"

"Cappuccino, you fuckin’ prehistoric mother effer," Blake shook his head. "You old bastards never try anything new."

"What’s a Cappuccino, smart ass?"

"It’s I-talian coffee. This one’s flavored Vanilla, I think." He put his nose over the rim and sniffed. "Yeah. Definitely Vanilla. The wife got a machine from her aunt as a wedding present, last week. Big complicated brass thing. Pipes and hoses all over it. Had a thick instruction book. Makes real good Java, though." The younger cop picked the cup out of the holder and took a ginger sip, smacking his lips.

"Want some," Blake asked holding the cup out.

"Just good old coffee for the likes-o-me," the veteran sergeant said, raising his own cup. "None of that fancy crap."

The stoplight, swaying gently in the breeze, switched from red to green. Perkins shifted his foot to the gas, goosing it a little. Holding his cup carefully, Corporal Blake growled at Perkins’ grin. The large car turned smoothly onto the lane. They both watched the exercise field of Watkins Junior High slip by on the right at a mild twenty-five miles per hour.

"Congrats, by the way. She’ll make a fine wife. Plus...," he added, nodding his brick-shaped head, "them ‘Talians can cook."

"Don’t I know it."

They were coming up on the school, now. The car radio squawked and then was silent. Skipping across the hood, the black shadow of the flag pole reached all the way across the road. Corporal Blake looked at the whipping flags. American on top, with the familiar state colors underneath and the schools under that. The school’s flag had the head of a Seminole Indian on it. Blake thought the nostrils were too big.

"Don’t it look like the Seminole on the bottom flag has been picking his nose too much?"

Sergeant Perkins snorted.

Blake smiled. "I used to go there, y’know. ‘Bout ten years ago. They used to have the coolest school dances. We all used to get together and..."

"Hey, what’s that?"

"What," asked Blake, scanning the school yard.

Sergeant Perkins spun the steering wheel roughly, making a U-turn. The wheels dropped off the road, jouncing them. Blake swore, as more hot coffee burned his lap.

"Aww..., Fuck an ‘A’"

"Didn’t mean it that time," gruffed the old sergeant. "Somebody’s ’round back."

"Should I call for back up?"

Perkins stopped the cruiser right by the cafeteria loading dock. "Fuck it, Newbie. We can handle it."

* * * *

"I won’t hurt you," Sherry Midden said, plaintively. She pouted and pressed a stick of cherry gloss over her soft lips as he looked at her. Stripes of horizontal moonlight, shining through the window blinds, rose and fell across her shirt, outlining her small breasts as they moved with her breathing. He moaned. God, she is pretty, he thought.

Jason Macquereau wanted her. He didn’t know what for, but he knew that. His brother never told him the rest of the story. He backed up a little, half-leaning, half-sitting on the desk of Mr. Sloan’s eighth grade Social Studies class. A jar of pencils fell over behind him clattering to the floor.

She came at him again, slowly this time, and pushed herself against him. A thrill ran electrically through him as he felt her firm cleavage squash against his chest. He moaned again. He could smell sunflowers a second time. It was coming from her hair. He ran his hands through it, the silky fibers catching slightly in the webs of his fingers.

"Why Jason, you’re trembling." She cupped her tiny fingers under his chin, lifting his face. Delicately, she kissed him, barely touching her lips to his. It felt like a tiny butterfly brushing it’s wings on his mouth. He put his arms awkwardly around her, pulled them back, and then finally rested them, palms sweating, on her waist. He could feel her hip bones under a moving layer of muscle.

"What’s this, hmmm," she lay the center of her pelvis against his belly and rubbed down the front of his jeans. He opened his mouth to speak but only a little squeak came out. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"I thought your sister was the wild one."

"Mm mmm," she murmured, now rubbing up.

"Oh god," he moaned. An unfamiliar pressure burned below his belly. All on it’s own his hip pressed forward against her. The sensation was alien.

"You’re a virgin, aren’t you?" she breathed into his ear.

He nodded, shaking.

"Don’t you like me," she cried softly. Back down she rubbed.

"Yes..., Yes...," he blurted, a little too loudly. I love you, his mind shouted.

He rallied himself. All right, he thought, don’t just stand there like an idiot. Do something.

Jason Macquereau pressed his mouth hard onto Sherry’s. His body grew suddenly very warm. He pushed hard into her.

"Oh...," It was her turn to moan.

The pressure in his groin suddenly burst and he cried out. Sherry backed away a step, looking worriedly at him. He felt a great heat in his pants. And wetness.

He came suddenly, spasming and bent over, his mouth forming an ‘O’. He looked up at Sherry in horror. She gaped at the bulge in his pants. They both saw the dark stain spreading there.

Shame burned his face hotter than the sun.

Suddenly, a deep commanding voice shouted at them from the doorway.

"Hey, you God Damn kids. Come out of there."

Her hands covering her mouth, Sherry turned her back on Jason.

* * * *

On his way through the mark’s sitting room, to the door he had passed up earlier, Pyotr Illiovitch Kracniov paused to collect himself. He had behaved like a fool. Certainly, Levi would relay an unfavorable report to Levienne. Oh well, as long as the old Russian paid him, he could not care less. Levi was a camel’s prick and as soon as this job was completed, Kracniov would collect his money and head back to his frail little Alex, never to see either Levi or Levienne as long as he lived.

The door in the far wall of the sitting room bore a curious poster. Three yellow triangles, the points facing center on a large black circle, suggested an unlikely message. Kracniov had seen this symbol before, during his conscript tour in Afghanistan. The special weapons unit had unloaded a crate of missiles bearing this same decal. They were loading them under the wing of one of the military’s largest attack helos, a Hind Mark One. The aircraft mounted with this ordinance had left a devastating swath of destruction behind them. Kracniov discovered that Headquarters had handed down the command for the shock troops patrolling the area to wear chemical/biological suits. It had been an extremely effective way to clear the canyon with no friendly loss of life.

It seemed improbable any munitions would be in this apartment. He translated the message in blocked black letters under the symbol.

BIOLOGIC TESTING FACILITY

BEYOND THIS POINT.

DO NOT ENTER!

The big Russian could hear Levi ripping apart the furniture in the living room. As the ferret-man said..., better get on with it, he thought. Drawing the Schmiesser, he took a deep breath and held it, turning the knob. With a gentle push the door swung open. Kracniov burst out with a guffaw loud enough to startle himself.

Levi ran into the room, his Glock drawn and ready. He bounced on the balls of his feet, facing first one direction, then another. Kracniov could only gape at the smaller man, a helpless chortling deep in his chest. It felt good to laugh like that. For the moment, the only explanation he was capable of offering was to point at the poster and then at the room beyond as his wild mirth took him.

Levi gave him a queer look.

"It...It’s a child’s sleeping...quarters." the Russian choked.

Holstering the 9mm, the little man spat at Kracniov’s shoes. Kracniov stopped laughing.

"You’re a fucking crack-head, aren’t you?" Levi glared menacingly and shook his head. "Lose it like that again and I’ll shoot you my own damn self."

Levi left Kracniov to stare at his back as he went off to continue his search in some other part of the house. Kracniov pointed the Schmiesser at the back of Levi’s head.

"Pow," he mouthed.

He holstered the gun and turned to search the room. A dirty yellow night light threw murky shadows across the room. Posters depicting various evil scenes covered most surfaces of the walls. He read one of them. ‘Iron Maiden,’ written in blood dripping letters, was the caption. It showed a hideous skeleton, flesh hanging from the bones, writhing in a straight jacket and chained to the walls at three different points. He shook his head. The devil himself influences American children, he thought.

He continued his inspection. Clothes were thrown haphazardly, draped on everything. The work desk in the corner, the bureau, the night stand. The bed was nearly invisible under the mounds. The smell of sweat socks permeated the air, along with something else. Something rotting. Following the scent, with a nervous look at the sign on the door, Kracniov kicked a jumble of particularly filthy T-shirts and discovered the source of the smell. A flat white box tumbled out as the pile fell over, spilling its contents onto the rug. Half a pizza, covered in tiny white writhing maggots. He nearly gagged as the clothing insulating him from the emetic odor no longer provided that much needed service. He quickly covered the mess with another pile of T-shirts from the dresser.

Hand over his mouth, he continued his inspection of the room. He found nothing else of interest. Just the typical trappings of a teenage boy.

He was about to leave the room when a collection of figurines on the dresser caught his eye. He must have uncovered them, when he threw the pile of clothes onto the half-eaten pizza. In various poses, the brightly colored figures, finely crafted from either molded plastic or rubber. Locked in battle, they were amazing. Little Alex would love these, he thought.

Obviously the hero of the collection, a well-muscled individual in a red and blue costume faced off against larger opponent. Kracniov squinted at the antagonist. By God, this one looks just like me, he mused. This figurine was bulky in comparison to the rest. It had wide shoulders, with heavily muscled arms, thick tree-trunk legs and a large round bald head. The little man wore what could have been either a white laboratory trenchcoat or some other jacket. The face was fixed in a demented rage, while his fists were raised overhead, ready to bash the Hero. Fascinated, Kracniov picked the figurine up, inspecting the bottom. ‘Kingpin’ it read. The big Russian smiled and nodded to himself. He liked the sound of that. He gathered the figurines and dropped them into his pocket.

"For Alex," he whispered.

He turned and left the room.

The sitting room I will leave for last, he thought. He went straight across the room, eyeing the chandelier hovering over the dining table. The beautiful crystals looked as if they had been cut from the same wondrous glass as the limpid figures in the living room. He secretly hoped Levi would not harm those paragon statuettes.

He approached the arched entry set in the far wall of the sitting room.

In the dark, he could see there was no door. Dimly, through the opening he could make out the function of this room. The kitchen. He entered, noting another balcony door, glowing with the light of the moon behind vertical blinds. Rows of cabinets lined the walls of the huge kitchen. He was astounded at the variety of foods displayed on the shelves. Displayed openly. Then he realized, a man of such vast wealth as this would have no need to hide any food. He began to doubt if anyone in America did. Capitalism did seem to have its advantages, he thought. He patted the figurines in his pocket and smiled sourly.

He searched the rest of the cabinets, more impressed by what he saw each time he opened one, but still didn’t find what they might be looking for.

He stepped to the glass sliding door and pulled the cord operating the blinds, sliding them open. This part of the balcony was built separate from the rest of the terrace, unattached. Kracniov wondered if its use might solely be for putting plants on to catch the morning rays. More extravagance. He pressed his face against the glass, cupping his hands. A meter in depth and one and a half in breadth, it was large enough for one person to stand on and maybe have a cup of coffee. It had a wrought iron railing and through it, Kracniov could see the balcony below this one. It was small, like the one on this floor. Momentarily confused, Kracniov realized the small, separate balconies were like the steps on a staircase, with the large balconies opposite each other on consecutive floors. This, combined with the gentle curve of the building’s oceanside wall, gave the building it’s spiraling posture, when viewed from the ground. Clever, he thought.

He looked outward. The view was spectacular. The moon rippled, duplicating itself on the ocean. Lights of the huge ocean going ships twinkled far out to sea.

He looked farther out, past the ships, past the moon, to the northwest. To where he knew his family was. It was a long time ago, it seemed, that he had admitted his boy into the cancer institute on that freezing winter day. In truth, it had only been two weeks. He suddenly wanted to breathe the same air his family was breathing, to stand under the same sky. An attitude of displacement began to overwhelm him. He opened the door and stepped out on the small balcony.

A metallic creak sounded from underneath the concrete slab as he felt the small balcony shift slightly and dip under his feet. He bounced on the balls of his feet, testing the stability of the platform. The salt encrusted lag bolts stretched a tiny fraction, he saw, as the small balcony settled and then was still. Patting his large stomach and rubbing the sides, he said to the night air, "American construction. Can’t hold healthy Russian bulk, eh?"

He went to the edge of the railing and took a deep breath, looking at the night sky. It gave him no comfort. The stars were all in the wrong place.

He looked down. His eyes widened, realizing at that moment just how high twenty stories was. Momentary vertigo beat its black wings around his head. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the iron.

That, he thought, is a long way down.

Gradually, the moment passed and he could look down without to much discomfort.

Unable to resist the urge, he watched as his spittle twisted, it’s long tail swinging behind, until it reached about the twentieth floor, where it suddenly broke apart in a fine mist.

He shrugged and looked over at the balcony three meters below and to the left of him. Small like this one, but with ferns planted in wire baskets set on it, Kracniov saw that it led to the kitchen of the apartment under this one. The lights were off. He glanced at his watch. 1030 hours Moscovian time. He did some quick figuring. That would be 0230 local. Yes, he reasoned, they would all be asleep at this hour. He wished he was.

He went back inside and found Levi coming out of the laundry room, shaking his head. The Russian told Levi about the balcony moving under his feet.

"I’m sure it ain’t built to hold no three hundred pound ape, thats for sure," Levi said scratching his head. "The bolts are probably corroded." He shrugged, "Find anything?"

"Nyet," answered Kracniov.

"Well..., forget it," he growled. "I’m gonna wake the bastard up and find it the old fashioned way..., I’m gonna pound it out of him."

* * * *

Corporal Blake squinted against the headlights of another police cruiser as it nosed into the lot at Howell Watkins Junior High. He could see officer Lindsay’s little round face dimly through the darkened windows.

Good, he thought, at least dispatch had sense enough to send a woman.

He brought his wrist up in front of his eyes in an exaggerated motion and pushed his fingernail against the tiny button on the side of his watch. The dial lit up. 2:30 AM.

Under his breath, he said, "‘Bout fuckin’ time."

Then louder, "Same sex escort’s here, Sarge," he said into his shoulder mike. Sergeant Perkins nodded through the back window of their own cruiser.

While Blake baby-sat the females back by the trunk, waiting for the other car to haul them home, the veteran sergeant interrogated the boys, handcuffed in the back seat. He had put the cuffs on too tight and the boys were squirming.

Blake grinned and looked at the two girls. He noticed the pretty redhead kept looking worriedly at the back of the white-haired boy's head, while the dark headed girl managed to just look bored. Something familiar about her, he thought. The young cop was sure he’d seen her before. It’ll come to me, he thought, shrugging. He turned back to the approaching police car.

Officer Lindsay got out and advanced on the parked car like a Napoleon with hips. She glared reproachfully at the girls.

"Gimme the SITREP, Noah," she said preemptively.

Corporal Blake frowned at her. It irritated him that she was so informal. No, he thought. It wasn’t even that she informal, so much as disrespectful. He sighed.

"Would it kill you to call me ‘Corporal.' I do out rank you, y’know."

She smiled sweetly, "Sure, Noah."

He was about to say something else, but gave up. He would never change her. With an irritated sigh, he opened his pad and tore off a sheet of paper.

"These are the girls’ names and addresses," he handed it off. "Sarge says to just take ‘em home."

"All right, ladies, load ‘em up," Lindsay commanded. As an afterthought she added, "And don’t put your feet up on the seat, I just had ‘em cleaned." To Blake, she asked, "What’re you gonna do with them?" She nodded at their car.

"Aw, we’ll just take them home, I s’pose. The white haired boy, first."

"Nice ‘doo."

"Ain’t it, though?" Blake said, shaking his head. "Kids. Anyway, Sarge wants to have a long talk with the other kids father." He looked closely at Lindsay, "Ever hear the name Pharos?"

"Something to do with boating marijuana up from the Bahamas?"

"I think so. Sarge is gonna give him the ‘Bad Influence’ speech." As he said it he raised both hands to above shoulder height, and curled and extended the first two fingers on each hand twice.

"Were they smoking pot?"

He nodded. "Smelled it on them a bit. Not much, though. Sarge says forget about it."

"10-4." She smiled at him mischievously, "See ya, Noah."

She blew him a kiss and turned on her heel. He appreciatively watched her hips swivel in the tight black pants of her uniform. She followed the girls to the car.

* * * *

"Dude," said Jason.

It was one of those words that may have several meanings, depending on intonation. This one sounded like dread.

"My dad is gonna kill me," he whispered.

"No shit," responded Jerome, flatly. He was sulking in the far corner of the back seat.

"You mad at me for going off with Sherry?"

Jerome said nothing.

"Hey man, she dragged me. OK? ... OK? Look, she won’t ever speak to me again, anyway," Jason said, sadly.

Jerome looked over at him.

Jason took a deep breath, "Dude," he said again with a slightly different sound to it, "I fucking jizzed all over myself." He looked down at his pants. They were still wet. Jerome snickered.

"Shut up, back there," Sergeant Perkins yelled through the cage wall.

Jerome said mockingly, "Yessir, sir." He would have saluted if his hands had been free. Then quietly to Jason, he admitted, "She was hot."

"Yeah," the blond boy whispered ruefully. "Too damn hot."

"Tsss," said Jerome, mimicking the sound of steam. They giggled in the back seat.

"I said, SHUT UP," again from the front seat.

The two boys grinned at each other, silently. The car turned a corner and the grin faded from Jason’s face.

"Shit, this is my street."

They pulled up to a respectable looking little home on Lighthouse Drive. The cruiser’s breaks squeaked as it came to a stop in front of the house. The cop in the front seat turned on the overheads, bathing the yard in flashing blue and red.

"Oh, great," groaned Jason.

"At least he didn’t turn on the siren," joked the dark haired boy.

"Yeah, really!"

The sergeant opened the driver’s door and got out, pulling his flashlight and shining it in the back window. He opened the door and waved the light, motioning for Jason to exit the vehicle.

As he was wriggling out, Jerome stopped him. "Good luck, man."

Jason looked at him, sitting on his hands, "Thanks. You, too." They grinned at each other again for a moment. "Fuck it. Here goes nothing."

Jerome thought Jason looked very small next to the big cop as they approached the house.

Smiling and shaking his head, he said to himself, "Maybe, he’s not such a geek, after all."

* * * *

On the top floor of Soloman Reef Towers, Levi repeatedly smashed the man, hard in the face. His own face was twisted, cruel, with every blow inflicted more savage. He wore a brutal set of brass knuckles taken from his infamous black leather case.

The man’s head lolled to the side. Blood dripped in large clots from his swollen lips and eyes. The gash on his temple had started to run again. Kracniov could see he was in bad shape. Maybe two more hits, and there would be no need for the Russian to do his job. Levi would have done it for him.

He wondered fleetingly if he would still be paid, then immediately was ashamed.

The ferret man said slowly, distinctly, stressing each syllable, "Where-is-the-fuck-ing-mon-ey?"

No response. Just more blood. Kracniov was not sure the man could respond.

He and his wife were now propped against the bloodstained sofa, sanguinary bits of gore splattered the pillows.

His private anguish howled inside the big Russian. He cast about for a way out. How could he be party to this atrocity, he asked himself.

Oh my boy, he moaned.

Think, he commanded himself. OK, the mark is as bad as Levi, right? The drugs he sells corrupt the minds of all that take it. He could rationalize it this way, could he not?

Of course not. He realized he really did not give a shit about some gutter whore pumping her veins, or some crack head, in straights of his own devising. These people made their own choices. As well as the casual user, like teenagers, and married couples. He doubted if these were reasons enough to kill this man. Or even stand idly by while Levi did it.

But his boy needed him to be strong. To do what must be done. Even if it cost his soul.

He forced his eyes open. To take in the gruesome scene.

The woman was paralyzed with fear, naked. She was a rabbit, about to be clawed to shreds in a tiger’s paw. She could not even turn her head away as Levi beat her husband’s face into paste.

She winced behind the duct tape gag at the meaty sound as Levi hit him one more time. A frightened whimper escaped her. Levi’s eyes darted evily to her. She flinched.

"What if I work on her," Levi asked the man, low and dangerously. Malevolence dripped like venom from his voice. This man is evil, thought Kracniov. It’s why even though he does not trust him, Levienne keeps him around.

If Levi touches her, I will kill him myself.

Levi came in close, his saliva peppering the mark.

"What do you think of that?" he said. The mark struggled to remain conscious. His eye, the one that could still function, feebly opened. Hatred filled the bloody iris.

"It’s the Russian way...," Levi turned gleefully to look at Kracniov, "Isn’t it?"

Kracniov mentally projected at him. Don’t you dare!

The ferret man hopped maniacally over the mark’s prostrated legs, and came at the woman. Her husband struggled weakly, moaning his protest.

Don’t you dare!!!

She cowered, sobbing.

Kracniov had to act. Maybe he could rationalize the beating of the man. Maybe, if it meant his boy would live, he might even be able to murder him. The machinations devised by Levienne could earn the necessary funds to make it possible.

But he could not..., would not allow Levi to harm the woman. He would never be able to look Alex in the eyes again if he did. She was not to blame. He doubted if the woman even knew about the men the mark trafficked with.

"Enough," thundered Kracniov, drawing the Schmiesser. He aimed it directly at Levi’s vulgar face.

Levi blanched, rapidly backpedaling from the intimidating weapon. Kracniov easily kept pace, the muzzle evenly leveled at his new enemy. The confusion and fear Kracniov saw there gave him immense satisfaction. He knew this would probably get him killed. Levienne had an army of killers, just as motivated as Levi. But what Levi was doing, this was iniquitous.

"What the fuck are you doing?" screeched Levi, like a woman. The brass knuckles hampered his grip as he frantically tried to draw his weapon. His voice was hysterical.

The ferret man ran out of room. His back slammed into the wall and tumbled over the same rack of magazines that had, earlier, tripped up Kracniov. He landed in a heap, his breath huffing out as the 9 mil flew from his grasp, landing at the Russian’s feet.

"You will not do this. You will not harm the woman," the enormous Russian commanded. His voice, normally soft, could roar when he wanted it to. His army days had seen to that.

"You’re fuckin’ crazy. Levienne will have you hunted down and killed like a dog. Don’t shoot, for God’s sake." Levi was sniveling now, his hands covered the back of his head, his face in the carpet. The tables had turned and he was not coping well. Then, of their own accord, his hands and fingers twitched. They performed an odd effleurage across his body as he curled into a fetal pose. Kracniov closed in on him, his finger tightening on the hair trigger of the mighty Schmiesser.

* * * *

Who knows if it was fortunate Fate that intervened at that moment for Levi. It is doubtful considering what befell him next. But in that moment, everything happened at once. It would change the destinies of several people, not the least of which was our poor Mr. Levi. Kracniov’s future was probably consigned the moment he accepted work from Mr. Levienne. Levi had no future, just a minute delay in his punishment. The life of the mark and the woman who loved him were forfeited by his own career choices. But, for the men about to enter the scene, and for two certain teenage boys, this was a pivotous moment. In any case, all of their lives would be suddenly, irrevocably, transformed

* * * *

The police cruiser carrying Sergeant Perkins, Corporal Blake and their detainee, Jerome Pharos navigated the expansive Singer Island bridge and crossed onto Singer Island proper. Its occupants were sober, quiet. Perkins was lost in thought concerning the upcoming encounter with the boy's father. A known drug trafficker, but reputed to have stopped his deliveries, this man would get the full brunt of what Sergeant Perkins thought about fathers that influence their children to use drugs. Corporal Blake was dreaming of his new wife, and of the honey-moon they had just spent in the Smokey Mountains, curled up in the bottom of two sleeping bags zippered together. Jerome knew he was going to get it when they arrived at his home..

The cruiser made the turn to heading north along the unlit two-lane route bisecting the island. The resort condominiums loomed upward, into the night sky, rhythmically intercepting out the pale moon. At last they reached the building his parents lived in. The cruiser turned into the lot, sliding under the canopy in front of the doors.

Sergeant Perkins threw the lever into Park. He let out a heavy sigh. The moment of truth had arrived.

The two officers exited the car, with Perkins opening the back door for Jerome.

"This is it, boy," the older cop said. "Your dad is about to get a three A.M. wake-up call."

Blake snickered.

Jerome looked the old sergeant in the eye, "Well, gentlemen, I can take it from here. If you’ll just remove these cuffs, I’ll be on my way."

Perkins grabbed him roughly by the armpit, pulling him toward the door, "I don’t think so," he growled. The passkey scanner blinked at them in red.

Corporal Blake rapped on the glass with his nightstick, startling the sleepy guard and waving him over. Instead of rising, the guard pushed a button under his desk. The door gave the obligatory hum and click. Blake pulled it open.

As the trio approached the desk, the guard nodded to the policemen, affecting an attitude of equality. Almost as if he believed the occupation of security guard had equal standing with being a police officer.

"Evenin’, boys," the guard said, conspiratorially, nodding at Jerome. "Nabbed one of the bad guys, huh?"

Blake, annoyed at the familiarity the guard was using, cleared his throat. He looked at the guard's nametag.

"Look, Ralph...," he began.

Perkins stepped forward, "Which place is the Pharos’ residence?"

The guard checked his roster, nonplused at Blake’s hostility, "Top floor, Sergeant. Penthouse."

Blake let out a slow whistle. "Rich kid, are you?" Jerome, wise beyond his years, gave no answer.

Now it was Perkins’ turn to be annoyed. He gave his partner a sour look. He turned back to the guard, "Ralph, we have to escort young Mr. Pharos here to his home and have a word with his folks. You mind if we just go on up?"

"Not at t’all, Sergeant," he answered smartly. Every time he said ‘sergeant’ he clipped the word short, in military fashion, straightening his back. He seemed anxious to please the higher ranking man. "You need any backup?" he asked sarcastically, frowning again at Jerome. "I got my piece right here." He patted the old revolver on his hip. Jerome found it hard to appreciate the guards humor.

"Smart ass," he said, under his breath.

"I’m sure that won’t be necessary," Perkins replied, pulling the boy’s arm. The three of them walked around the desk and headed for the elevator. Blake pressed the call button. They waited in silence.

When the car arrived, all too quickly for Jerome, they stepped in.

Perkins pressed the button marked twenty.

* * * *

Kracniov’s mind raced, his rage one step ahead of his self-mastery, his actions beyond his control. Inexorably, his trigger finger tightened. There would be no stopping now.

As Levi cowered on the rug, Kracniov was dimly aware of a hot, dull pop behind his right eye. His fury flooded through his restraint. It dropped through his throat like a blob of lava and enjoined, instantly, the muscles of his right shoulder. Scalding tendrils flicked across his swelling bicep. Heat rippled across his meaty forearm and at last, burst out into the digits. The finger squeezed.

Suddenly, a hardy rap-rap-rap pounded the front door, unmistakably the commanding knock of authority. The kind of knock that interrupts. The kind that immediately rouses you from slumber at three A.M., wondering who’s been hurt or killed. Or if you will be carted, unceremoniously, off to jail.

Kracniov started, rounding, open-mouthed on the room. His unbalanced mind failed to retract the canon given his index finger. Failed completely and utterly, as the powerful weapon jack-hammered in his palm, spraying an arc of bullets.

The huge Russian could only watch in horror as the shells impacted in a slow motion line.

Levi shrieked, "Jesus Christ," but the sound was lost in the roar of the Schmeisser.

A devastating thunderstorm of searing metal poured from the gun, atomizing the crystal statuettes in the cases, shattering the television. The reading lamp was struck. It popped, sparking and went out, plunging the room again into the moonlit twilight. Repeated impacts buckled the drywall behind it all. And finally, before he could stop the raping lead, it punctured the couch and the two figures huddled at its base.

` A small puff of flame ignited in the stuffing of the leather cushions.

Kracniov let go of the trigger. He stared at the now ravaged carcasses on the floor in front of him.

The woman shuddered and then lay still. She had three huge holes in her chest. One in each naked breast and one directly between them. Vital fluid dripped from the wounds in a slow dark pulse, her heart already stopped.

The man had tried to protect her. He had leaned forward to shield her body, but the uncompromising power of the weapon merely ripped through him, vaporizing the top of his skull. The man died instantly, not knowing his effort had been futile. His body slumped forward across his wife’s legs, the exposed brain matter oozing onto her thighs.

Kracniov’s mind shut off. Only the most fundamental impulses kept his life functions operating. He staggered backward, into the hall.

His awareness fled. Across the ocean. Across the steppes of Russia. To the passionless exterior of the building of the Cancer Institute, where his boy, Alex, lay. He knew in the most basic sense, in the way a father will know, he would never see his boy again.

* * * *

"Holy Christ!" ejaculated Corporal Blake, outside Jerome’s apartment. "What the fuck was that?"

Sergeant Perkins muttered something under his breath. He drew his service revolver, pushing the kid toward the elevator. "Get back on that thing and go down to the front desk. Call the police and report ‘Shots Fired’. You got that?"

"But...," began Jerome.

Perkins cut him off, "Do it, God Dammit!" He shoved the kid hard through the open doors of the elevator. Jerome lost his footing and came down hard on his tailbone. His teeth clicked together, and he tasted hot salt. The elevator door closed in his face.

Blake drew his weapon also. Like Levi, he preferred the more modern feel of a 9 millimeter. He checked the clip.

Perkins nodded at Blake. The young corporal indicated readiness.

The old sergeant reared back, his leg up, and kicked the doors, where the seam rose up the middle, with everything he had. Wood splintered and the right side caved and fell in. He charged in.

Perkins could dimly make out the enormous figure of a man. He was the largest human being the sergeant had ever seen. Uh-oh, he had time to think. "Freeze, mother-fucker!!!"

The giant slowly turned toward the door.

"I..., I..., did not mean...," The man stuttered in a low foreign sounding rumble.

Perkins could not see the man’s face as he turned, but he did see the machine gun in his hand. It was coming up, level with his heart. He fired his revolver at the big son-of-a-bitch’s face.

* * * *

The bullet shattered the wall plaster, inches from Kracniov’s face. Rubble and powder showered him. He ducked instinctively.

In a rush, his faculties swept in and he was aware of his surroundings. He saw the American officer rushing at him, his revolver pointed wildly. He dove back into the living room, intending to get behind the now burning couch, protected from gunfire until he could explain.

At that moment, Levi grabbed his 9 millimeter from the carpet and fired at the space Kracniov had occupied the instant before. Unfortunately for Sergeant Perkins, he now occupied that same space, as he bum-rushed around the corner, and caught the blast squarely in the chest, knocking him back into the hall. He fell hard, with exquisite pain exploding below his neck.

His chest felt suddenly wet. Looking down, he could see the entrance wound just above the collar of the protective vest he wore. Bubbles were forming in the blood. He couldn’t breath. He tried to lift his revolver, but his dying limbs would not respond. The gun dropped from his unwilling grasp and fell to the carpet.

Levi scrabbled forward like a crab on the carpet. He waved the muzzle of the 9 mil wildly, peering through the gloom. Thick smoke from the burning couch filled the room, throwing bizarre, unnerving shadows. For a moment he tried futilely to whisk away the fog with his free hand. Damn, the ferret man mused, for a such a big son of a bitch, he sure can move.

He tried squinting and dimly made out the rounded edge of the top of the sofa, just in time to see Kracniov pop his dome skull up to look. Their eyes met briefly.

Levi yelled at the top of his lungs, "You fuckin’ traitor!!!" He fired at the big man, but the bullet lodged harmlessly in the wall, inches above his head. Kracniov ducked, disappearing from view. The ferret man howled in outrage and fired again and again, blind in his frenzy.

* * * *

Jerome Pharos felt the elevator descending. The motion rose a thin bile in his throat.

That bastard, Sergeant Perkins, had some nerve.

What the hell was that noise, he wondered. Was that gun fire? Was his mom OK? Was dad?

Suddenly, he was scared. He looked out over the light of the city, twinkling through the glass wall of the elevator. It sure sounded like shots being fired. But it was too fast, like a machine gun from that TV show, ‘The A-Team.’

And what had the sergeant said? He had said, ‘Call the police. Tell them ‘Shots Fired’.’ So they had been gun shots. That meant his folks were in trouble. He punched the lobby button rapidly, trying to hurry his descent. Finally, the elevator arrived at the ground floor and the doors slid open.

He ran out screaming, "Call the police. Shots Fired. Call the police, Dammit!"

* * * *

Out in the hall, Corporal Blake saw his beloved Sergeant take the round in the throat. He saw him crash to the floor, his legs above his head. Fear clenched him in the bowels. Fear for the sergeants life and fear for his own. He forced his feet to move down the hallway. Suddenly, gun fire thundered repeatedly ahead of him, freezing him in place. The young corporal knew its source. It could be nothing but a 9 millimeter, the same weapon he used, pounding successively in the confined space of the living room.

Thick smoke poured into the hall, variegated in the flashing gun shots and flickering blaze. Just the screen he needed. He rushed forward and grabbed Perkins under the arms. He heard the old officer moan. Thank God, he thought, at least he is still alive. He pulled the dead weight to the entrance of the apartment and went back inside.

Whoever it was that had been firing like a madman suddenly ceased. The silence was louder than the shots had been. Blake heard the unmistakable sound of another clip slamming home. Two more shots rang out.

He inched his way down the hall, hugging the inside wall. Just as he was about to peer around the corner, he heard a thin, hoarse voice scream from the living room, "Come out you friggin’ commie bastard!"

A rapid peek around the corner showed a small man, crouching and staring into the concealing gloom, apparently looking for someone. Blake lined the man’s right leg along his gunsights and pulled the trigger. The room disappeared behind the muzzle flash as the young corporal retreated behind the wall. He heard the man scream in agony.

Kracniov, prostrated behind the couch, knew he better get out of there soon, before his enemy found the sense to simply walk up to the couch and finish him. He glanced desperately around. The only exits were the French doors to the balcony and the archway into the kitchen. There was nowhere to go out on the balcony, he thought, but if he could make it to the kitchen he could double back and make it out the front door.

That was it. He tucked the Schmeisser securely into its harness.

Then he heard Levi take the bullet. He heard the officer command him to throw down his weapon. The ferret man screamed and fired two shots. While he was distracted, Kracniov made up his mind. It was now or never.

He hauled himself up, push-up style, and gathered his legs underneath him. The muscles in his thighs bulged, threatening to burst the seams of his cheap brown slacks. Energy surged through him and he pounced, launching himself at the arch way.

He made it three whole strides through the smoke, before his shin crashed into the steps of the living room’s sunken floor. Pain seared like fire up his leg, as he felt something wrench in his knee. Pinwheeling his arms, he pitched forward onto his chest. His momentum carried him, kicking wildly, through the archway, and he crashed heavily into the glass sliding doors of the kitchen terrace. The fragile doors shattered, raining great shards of glass down onto the helpless Russian. One dagger-like sliver spiked into the wood flooring of the kitchen, and stuck there, quivering, barely an inch from Kracniov’s nose.

Through the shard, in a ghostly convoluted image, he saw a miniature Levi, pointing his 9 millimeter at him.

He saw the officer at the corner of the hallway and living room fire at the ferret man, squeezing the trigger as fast as his finger would.

He saw Levi’s face disappear in a spray of crimson, rags of flesh and bone blossoming from the impact. A gory rose opening under a hallowed moon. He shuddered.

The diminutive policeman in the glass turned his attention next to Kracniov. The Russian could see in the crazed eyes of the officer, the time for explanations or excuses had long past. He cast his eyes around the small balcony. There was nowhere to go.

The Russian looked back at the police man. He was advancing, his pistol pointing directly at Kracniov, through the shard of glass.

No escape.

Except..., he glanced down.

He leapt to his feet, grasping the hand rail. Blake’s pistol swung up to follow the motions of the huge man.

Kracniov vaulted the iron rail, throwing himself with every bit of strength his considerable frame could muster at the tiny kitchen balcony on the floor below. He landed heavily, twisting his ankle, and felt the slab underneath him buckle with the impact of 265 pounds of muscle. The salt encrusted lag bolts screamed in their mooring, then snapped, one at a time, from the wall. He let the force of the fall carry him through the glass of the sliders on this level, slashing himself viciously, and he crashed to the floor in the kitchen of the apartment below the mark’s. He rolled to his feet, yelping as he came down on his injured ankle. Gritting his teeth, he turned to run.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the figure of the policeman fly through the air and crash onto the platform. The weakened balcony had never been designed with this sort of punishment in mind. It shattered and dipped, spilling the luckless officer gracelessly off the edge. Only the wrought iron railing kept him from tumbling nineteen floors to his death. It caught him like a net, but then it too, began to rip from its moorings, one leg at a time.

The officer cried out, looking down in terror.

Kracniov hesitated. He stepped back to the precarious edge of the newly formed cliff. The officer was hanging by the fingers of his right hand, the pistol he had fired ruthlessly at Levi was nowhere in sight. The Russian presumed it had fallen to the ground.

"Help me," the officer pleaded up at him.

He could not just leave the man. He had to help him, somehow. The big Russian looked around. But how? He laid onto his stomach and reached out to the man.

Damn, it was no good, a meter too short.

Blake tried to heave himself up to grasp the hand held out to him, but another iron rung broke free, threatening to spill him to the ground far below. He swung there in the light breeze while the face on the moon mocked his plight.

Kracniov’s mind raced. Another man would be added to the growing list of needless deaths at his hands if he didn’t think of something fast. He got to his feet and considered the man’s probable descent. Directly below him was another balcony, two floors down.

The Russian looked at it doubtfully. It seemed the size of an American postage stamp. And this one was crowded with an assortment of house plants. Still, he might make it...

Blake was just hanging there, doing his damnedest not to move. He couldn’t even look down. The knuckles of his right hand were white, grasping the torn railing. His arm throbbed as if it had come out of the socket. He knew he couldn’t hold on much longer.

What would his wife say? Would she curse him? Would she condemn him for being an idiot, for following this bastard out on the proverbial ledge? Or would she curl up in a ball, crying and cursing herself for getting mixed up with a cop?

He tried to bring his other arm up to grab the rail, but the last remaining bolt holding the railing started to slip ever so slightly out of the concrete slab. He looked up. That big mother-fucker was just standing there. Do something, his mind shouted. Then he thought that something might very well be shooting him.

God, my arm is killing me, he moaned.

Suddenly the big bastard moved. He looked directly into Blake’s pale blue eyes.

"Below you, there is a ... a way to live," Kracniov’s broken English was failing him. He did not know the words. His accent heavy, he commanded the officer, "Look below you."

Blake looked. He saw the tiny balcony about twenty-five feet down. Did the big man mean for him to drop down onto that!? Crazy bastard. Blake looked up incredulously and then back down.

He studied the drop. He probably would miss it. It was too far. He was out too far.

He would have to swing toward the building to land right, but he was sure the bolt would let go if he moved even an inch. He screamed inwardly.

Corporal Blake looked back up at the big man, who nodded his encouragement. "You can make it." Blake doubted it.

Fuck it, he thought, I can’t hang here all night. His arm would give any second anyway.

Blake gathered his breath and held it. He calculated the distance, braced for the impact, and let go.

Kracniov saw the officer mentally preparing himself. He thought the man especially brave. He doubted if he had the courage to do what this man had to do.

Suddenly the man let go. For a moment, Kracniov thought the man was actually going to make it. The drop was almost perfect.

Almost.

The man struck the balcony right on top of its own railing. He pitched back, away from the building instead of toward it. He teetered there for an instant nearly righting himself, his arms waving frantically, and then tipped off the ledge. Kracniov met the man’s eyes briefly as he tumbled over. Pale eyes that he would never forget.

The man spun slowly through the night air. He never made a sound.

Except the sound of flesh hitting concrete.

Incredibly, those pale eyes forgave him.

* * * *

Jerome Pharos and Ralph, the security guard, watched the indicator above the elevator doors in the lobby slowly arrow towards one. They both looked to the bank of monitors to see the interior of the car. The monitor was black. The guard put the phone down, clumsily dropping it into the receiver.

"Holy shit," he murmured. He reached over and unsnapped the button holding his revolver, drawing it out. The gun shook in his hand.

Jerome said, low and frightened, "Oh my God." His gut dropped in his bowels like a lead weight.

They had heard the shoot-out upstairs. It went on entirely too long for the cops to have gotten the better of the assailants. Too many shots had been fired.

This might be the cops in the elevator, then again, it might not be.

"C’mon, kid," Ralph said and pulled Jerome by the arm. "Lets get out the back, so’s we can have a look see. We can tell if it be friend or foe through the back door," the guard lifted his hat and scratched his head, "‘Sides, if’n it is the bad guys, they’ll likely go out the front door to the parkin’ lot.

They ran through the lobby, Jerome with the grace of youth, while Ralph lumbered like a man who spent most of his time sitting with his feet propped up. The back door wasn’t far though and in seconds they were at it, with Jerome leading the way. He burst through the door without waiting for the guard, out onto the stone walk leading to the beach. He slipped in something wet, something sticky

Jerome stared down in horror. A rivulet of dark liquid, similar to the fluid running out of the dumpster in back of the school cafeteria, ran off the hard-packed sand onto the concrete. In the moonlight, it looked like flowing chocolate, but the boy knew what it was.

It was blood.

His eyes followed the viscous trail up the walk and out onto the sand. A dark lump on top of a dune, ten feet off the concrete path, was the source of the flow. Jerome peered into the dark. He saw the tangled limbs clothed in blue. A pale shaft of moonlight glimmered on the sand next to the body, reflected from the gold badge on the dead man’s chest. He saw the dark hair and understood. It was the body of one of the policemen that had dragged him here.

* * * *

Pyotr Illiovitch Kracniov huddled in the elevator as it descended, the glowing button indicating the ground floor. His cheap brown suit was shredded and he bled from a number of slashing wounds covering his body. At his feet, a ruined security camera, bashed a moment before by the big man’s great fist, lay in pieces. He crouched there, shaking; his ashen face a contorted mask of hellish inner torture. Tears streamed freely down his face and he was babbling incoherently in Russian.

He reached in his pocket for the handkerchief his mother had so lovingly crafted for him. It wasn’t there. He tried his other pockets. The silk kerchief was nowhere to be found. He sobbed brokenly, once, and wiped his face on the ragged sleeve of his jacket, smearing the dark red stains down his cheeks.

At last the elevator reached the lobby. The doors slid open and he peered out. No one was there.

He flew from the elevator, sprinting, and passed the unguarded marble monolith that served as the security desk. Thankfully, the guard was not at his post.

He threw his shoulder, full speed, into the front doors. The doors gave slightly, but the steel lock held and the big Russian bounced off, falling to one knee. He forced himself to his feet, unsteady, slowly shaking his head and backed a few paces away. With a roar, he launched himself at the doors with his head down. This time the lock sprung and the doors flew open, the left one bursting violently as it reached the metal stop. Kracniov fell, again, amid the broken glass and slid on his hands and knees.

He rose and sprinted off into the night. Faint sirens could be heard in the distance.

* * * *

"What the hell is it?" asked Ralph, peering at the mashed body.

"It was Corporal Blake," mumbled Jerome, shocked. The man’s arms and legs looked all wrong, like they had too many joints. Suddenly, he turned and retched in the sand. His stomach heaved and knotted until there was nothing left to expel. Then the dry heaves followed. He hunched against the nausea, spasming, until finally, it passed.

The security guard tried to comfort the boy, rubbing his back until he was through.

"There, there, son. You let it all out," he crooned. Then he gave a low whistle, "This just ain’t your night."

Jerome stood there, leaning against the guard. He felt weak and he was sweating. A gentle wind sprang up, chilling him, and he shivered.

He looked up. He could see the damaged balcony on the floor below his parents apartment.

"My God...," muttered Jerome, tremulously, "my parents!" He started for the back door.

Ralph reached out, "Now hold on there..."

Jerome shrugged him off and ran into the hotel. The sound of splintering glass reached his ears and he hesitated. Maybe the killers were still in the lobby. He tiptoed in and looked around.

The front doors were smashed. They looked as if a truck had driven into them, not from the outside , but from the inside. Dimly, Jerome made out the largest man he had ever seen getting to his feet, just outside the devastated entrance. Before the dark haired boy could get a good look, the huge man ran off into the night.

Jerome didn’t have time to follow. He had to know what had happened to his mother and father.

Terrified at what he would find, he stepped once again into the elevator. He heard the approaching sirens and hoped they would get the man responsible for such carnage.

* * * *

Sergeant Perkins was in bad shape and he knew it. With every second, his life blood flowed out of the hole in his neck. The entire front of his uniform was slick with it. He could feel the sluggish thump of his heart as it slowed its ragged rhythm.

The bullet had done serious damage to his insides. His spinal cord had been severed, he was sure. Everything below the neck had gone cold, like so much refrigerated meat. He tried, unsuccessfully, to move his legs; his arms. There was no response. Even his fingers and toes were inert. He looked up into the chandelier and concentrated, trying to stay alive. The lights were beautiful, angelic even. Then, they too began to dim.

In a ghostly parade, the events of the veteran officers life began to file across his failing vision.

Little Molly’s first birthday came at the front of the flood of memories. Her cherubic face hovering over a frosted cake was lit by a single number ‘one’ candle with her tiny ruby lips pursed in a perfect bow. His long dead wife, Cynthia, was at the girl’s elbow, whispering encouragement into the little girls ear. Wonder struck children lined both sides of the dining room table, anticipating the flames demise.

A single tear formed at the corner of the sergeant’s eye.

Next came the heated argument he and his wife shared the night Molly, by now at the time wizened age of eight, had demanded clothes for Christmas instead of her usual batch of toys. Cynthia played the girl’s advocate, stating that little girls do grow up, and that lip gloss even at her age was not ‘tramp.’

A small smile broke across Perkins’ face, intercepting the tear that fell from his crinkled eye, and then diminished.

His heart ached suddenly, not from his wound, but for his departed life partner.

Next came the academy, and all his long time friends on the force. Smiley, and Jack, previous partners who were now retired, had been with him on the day of graduation. They had all been so proud. They got so drunk afterwards that all of them had passed out in the all night diner over on Broadway. With a renewed grin, the fading sergeant recalled how when they awoke, Smiley had been pick pocketed by a homeless man. They let him keep the money.

He remembered when Blake had completed academy training, green and snot-nosed. The young lad had turned into a fine officer. They had worked well over the past few years. And, he had married a fine young woman. Now, she was a widow.

In his mind’s eye he and his wife made passionate love, one more time, as his world faded to black.

* * * *

The elevator opened onto a grisly scene. Sergeant Perkins lay motionless on his back in the foyer, The front of his uniform entirely covered in dark sanguine fluid. Jerome turned his head as more waves of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He suddenly wished he hadn’t been so mean to the old sergeant.

Averting his gaze, he slipped through the open doors of the apartment and made his way inside. An acrid pall hung in the air, flickering in yellow and amber hues. Something up ahead was burning.

White chalk dust lay in the front hall, spotting the oriental throw rug his mother used to line the floor of the entrance. Obviously from an errant bullet, a large gash violated the right hand wall near the end of the hallway.

Dread crept up into Jerome’s constricted throat. He tried to swallow. The smoke burned his eyes and he coughed.

He came to the end of the hallway and peeked around. Heat blasted him in the face, drying his eyes. The couch was an inferno. Charred leather ashes wisped into the air like small demonic wraiths dancing gleefully around the ceiling. Evil faces railed at him out of the superheated drafts carrying the smoke. The wall and curtains behind the sofa were black, already glowing with coals in parts and beginning to flame up.

The massive cases that held the television and hi-fi unit were riddled with bullet holes. The TV itself was just a jagged gaping hole with cabinet around it. Every glass figurine that his dad and mom had so lovingly collected was destroyed.

Then he saw them. Or what was left of them. Horrified, his eyes drank in the scene.

He clenched his fists and jaw.

They were burning. Charred flesh barely covered the upper half of his mothers skeleton. The gaping skull stared back with boiling sockets. Her hair was shriveled, gone from her beautiful head. The lower half of her naked body was blackened and swollen down to the gentle swell of her abdomen. Her legs were bare and her toes pointed toward each other.

His father was worse. The top of his head was completely gone, its contents steeped and smoking. He too, was naked. They had died beaten and embarrassed, their dignity stolen.

Jerome tried to go to them. Holding each of their legs, he tried to pull them from the flames. They were too heavy. His young fingers were weak and his grasp slipped

He threw his arms up in front of him. The heat was intense. He felt blisters rising on his face. He was driven back, scorched and trembling. The caring people responsible for him, who had loved and held him when he needed it, were beyond his help. He could do nothing.

A small keening, soundless at first and then building, rose in his throat, like a banshee in torment. But, there were no tears. The heat had burned them away.

Overcome, Jerome Pharos simply sat down in the middle of the floor. He stared into the flames, disconnected, as they spread briskly to the carpet. For his own safety, he was unconcerned. Nothing mattered anymore. His mother’s empty sockets stared back at him. No, they weren’t empty; where there was a lovely shade of blue, now raged harsh orange.

He lay back as the savage lament wracked his thin body. The flames would reunite him with his parents. His grief would burn him worse than those caressing flickers.

* * * *

Ten miles south of Singer Island, on the island of Palm Beach, legendary homes line an eminent stretch of road earmarked with the name ‘Ocean Blvd.’ It is a strip of the Florida coastline set aside for the elite caste of a modern era. Mara Del Lago and the Kennedy Estate can be counted among the residences here. Rock legend, Rod Stewart, and the communications tycoon, Bud Paxton are among its citizenry. Famed Worth Avenue is just blocks away, while the towering office buildings of Phillips Point and the Esperante building oversee daily activities with an imperial air.

Joining this pearl-lined island to the mainland are three bridges, known simply to the Palm Beachers as the North, Middle and South Bridges. Racing at breakneck speed along Middle Bridge, called by everyone else as the Okeechobee Boulevard bridge, a brand new, fire engine red 1998 Corvette changed lanes. The humming street lamps zipped by, forming an almost solid line of argent across the summit of the span as the car splashed through the puddles of light. The ‘Vette downshifted and hurtled past the larger, slower moving Mercedes Benz sedan that blocked its pace. One headlamp appeared to be inoperative, while the other rattled loosely in the housing, throwing the beam randomly across the road. The T-tops were stowed and raucous music blared from the open pigeonhole. The tune was Dragula, grated out by the popular throaty voice of Rob Zombie, and the dark haired man driving beat his hands on the wheel and bobbed his head along with the strain, his face a mask of anxiety.

At the end of the bridge the wide rear tires on the sports car locked briefly, tearing shellrock from the road and slightly kicking out the rear of the car. The driver released the emergency break at the crucial moment and sent the ‘Vette into a perfect four wheel drift off the main road and onto a darkened back avenue. The right front wheel skimmed within inches of the apex of the curb as the man expertly performed the maneuver. This route would take him adjacent to the rear of the mansions, along the less traveled back alleys that serviced the portentous estates.

Behind one particular castle-like home, the Corvette slowed, and with smoke rolling from its massive tires and brakes, came to a stop in the lit circle under the only lamp post on the block. Vapor rose from the hot engine, spurting from the seams of the hood as the powerful engine rumbled into silence. The White Zombie CD song abruptly cut off with the last note hanging in the night air.

The driver sat there for a moment, as if locked in some inner contest. He opened the door, then slammed it shut again. Staring up at the expansive dwelling, the man pounded his fist into the steering wheel and then was still. An enormous sigh broke from his lips, ending in a sputter as it blew itself out. He reached for the door handle but hesitated again. The man leaned his head back on the headrest and stared up at the moon, his longish straight black hair spreading across the leather. The eyes bore the pain of the many tragedies this soul had lived through.

Sixteen years had past since the awful night his parents were murdered, but the from mutilations he’d seen he would never be free.

The face of the boy he had been was leaner, harder. The dark brows were locked together in a perpetual scowl and a wrinkle was starting to develop across the bridge of his nose. The pink line of a scar ran along one side of his jaw line, a souvenir he had earned in a bar fight. The scar jumped and writhed when the jaw muscles bunched. But he was still recognizable. He was still Jerome Pharos, just a little older, just a little wiser. Also unlike the boy, he was a whole lot meaner.

Pharos reached for the door handle, again. He climbed out, slamming the door, and stood next to the Corvette. He eyed his damaged pride and joy.

The car was new, barely ten days off the lot. It still had the paper tag which permitted another three weeks before it would be retired. He had picked his favorite color, the red so deep it could have been coated in oxygenated blood.

He shook his head in disgust. The ‘Vette was in bad shape. Several bullet holes marred the fiberglass hood and the windshield. A speckled line of impacts chipped the drivers side, down the door and up at the tail, luckily missing the rubber tires. The left head light was stuck permanently in the upright, while the other didn’t work at all. Jerome was sure the engine compartment had suffered damage as well. He loved the car, but its welfare was the least of his worries.

He glanced back up at the house. He was at the rear of the property. The front, he knew faced the beach and the Atlantic.

The estate had two entrances on this side. A fenced service entrance fifty yards away, shielded by ten feet high boganvilla and alamanda vine hedges, and a double swinging gate of iron, anchored to each side by stone colonnades. Adorning each side of the gate, a swirling scripted letter ‘K’, centered in brass circlets and plated gold, identified the master of the place. Blue clematis flowers ran along the top arch overhanging the entrance.

Pharos looked through the gate, surveying the grounds of the mansion proper. It had a sprawling manicured lawn, bought at a premium on the island, not to mention the fact that it was in this prosperous quarter. The gravel drive wound through the lawn, circling a large fountain near the back of the house. Hyacinth and hydrangea decorated the pool along with white lilies, while at its center, the statue of a heavily muscled man held a large flat bowl filled with fruit. Water sprinkled from the bowl in a fan, feeding the natatorium with a soothing gurgle.

To the left of the circle drive, a long low structure served as the garage, with four wide garage doors providing access to the owners many expensive cars. The far door was open and Jerome could see the gleaming tail end of a black Bentley Continental nestled neatly inside.

His eyes finally reached the house. A few lights were on, shining through the barred windows. The glow spilled over the flower boxes gilding the windows and formed circles of light on the grass below.

The crenelated roof line accented the moonlit sky, contrasting the dark walls with the lighter night sky. A few scattered shimmering clouds drifted swiftly overhead, their shadows whipping over the lawn and casting an eerie feel over the place.

Jerome shivered.

He opened the door of the ‘Vette and fell limply back into the grip of the bucket seats. Briefly he recounted the events of the evening to himself. Not only had he managed to lose two of the bosses henchmen, he had lost the twenty kilos of coke and the hundred gee’s. There was fuckin’ Hell to pay for this one. It didn’t matter if it was his fault or not. It mattered not one whit’s ass if he couldn’t help what happened. He had been in charge. He knew what fan the shit was going to hit.

Now, he had to figure out just how to tell The Man.

He could explain that they’d been ambushed. That the site was all fucked up. Still his fault, he picked the site.

He could say it was a double-cross. No, he had picked the contact, too. He had arranged the meeting. He had said he knew the guy.

What a mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time, ole Jer’, he thought.

How was he going to break the news of his failure to the Kingpin without getting himself killed? He couldn’t, he decided. He was a dead man by morning.

Jerome Pharos shrugged with a ‘What-the-Hell’ attitude and punched the button on the transmitter clipped to the sunvisor. He started the Corvette and pulled through the swinging gates, crunching up the drive, thinking, Hell, I can’t live forever, either.

The gate clanged shut behind him.