This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

 

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

 

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

 

Twenty-eight

(Monday, October 10th, Tuesday, October 11th)

Before we sit down to the birthday meal, Bob has retrieved his saxophone from the closet of his old bedroom. Leroy’s bass is tuned and ready next to the piano. I am looking forward to burnt ends with plenty of Mr. Bryant’s molasses sauce, slaw and beans, when the ultimate surprise of the evening is placed upon us by Bob’s mother.

She looks down the table directly at me. “Daniel, would you like to say grace.” Now, here is the dilemma: do I play ‘silly buggers’, as Dad would put it, and tell her that I’m an atheist and have no intention of doing any such thing, or do I take this opportunity to be an ever-welcomed guest and buy into hypocrisy?

Joey and Geneviève, who are seated directly across from Raph and me, look as if lightening has just struck. Bob looks as if he could puke before he’s even eaten a bite. Jordan has his mouth covered with a hand, hiding his grin. Jennette looks somewhat taken aback. Sam has his eyebrows raised. And Marty looks just plain scared. But my man, Raph, seated next to me, always my promoter, whispers: "Yeah, c’mon, Dan."

I stand up. “I would be honored, Mrs. White.” I clear my throat. “Sam, would you accompany me?”

As in Gospel?” He grins and without waiting for me to confirm, he moves to the piano.

Oh, lord!” I start out in bass; Sam plays the chords. “Oh, sweet Jesus!” The chords continue. “Hear us lord!” Mrs. White claps her hands. “For it is written…” More chords from Sam. “Even if your enemy is hungry, you feed him.” Sam picks up the hint and plays the first bars of Even Me.

Hear us lord!” Louise White hums in her mature soprano to the tune.

And if your enemy is thirsty, what do you do?” Sam repeats the first bars of Even Me. “You give him something to drink.” Sam goes back to the chords, waiting for my cue. “And do not be overcome with evil.” More chords in rapid succession. “But overcome evil by yourself.” I start clapping the rhythm; Sam picks up the tune. “Yes, lord, even me.”

The Whites, Marty and Raph are on their feet clapping to the hymn. The rest of them follow suit, at first, a bit hesitantly, after all Geneviève and Joey were both raised Roman Catholic, and they first have to get the starch out. Jennette doesn’t quite know what to do, but she proves to be good at faking it. But here it goes and I sing the lead. I switch to baritone, as Sam mellows out:

Lord, I hear of showers of blessing,
Thou art scattering full and free;

Showers the thirsty land refreshing;

Let some d
rops now fall on me;
Even me, even me,

Let some drops now fall on me.

Sam sets the groove and we go full Gospel.

Pass me not, o god, my father,
Sinful though my heart may be;

Thou mightst leave me, but the rather;

Let Thy mercy light on me;

Even me
, even me,
Let Thy mercy light on me.”

Sam gives us a tremolo, telling us that the food is getting cold.

A-a-a-amen.” Louise and I sing.

Thank you, Daniel.” Louise fans herself with her napkin. “That was... a very pleasant surprise."

Sam comes back to the table, sweating and grinning. He looks at Bob. “You are so right.”

Jennette asks: “Right about what?” Sam puts her off until later.

Bob turns to me. “You are no longer Daniel Aaron Bourke. You are, from this day forward, Daniel Albino Bourke.” He raises his gin and peppermint tea as a toast, which I return. Then he starts passing the food.

Joey gives me a pleasantly joyful but puzzled look as he takes a slab of ribs. Geneviève looks dumbstruck and forgets to take any ribs, so she waits for the burnt ends. Leroy is very much enjoying his highball and winks at me. And my Raph squeezes my knee under the tablecloth and leans his head closer to mine. « Je savais que tu would think up something. But that was spectacular. »

« J'ai été inspiré par Sinclair Lewis. » I whisper.

« Comment cela ? » He looks puzzled and skeptical.

« La première partie of the prayer was from Elmer Gantry. » I put on the most innocent face, I can muster.

Raph sputters, struggling and losing the battle not to laugh. Marty looks a little confused until he sorts out the French pronunciation of Elmer Gantry, then his face turns to stone, obviously a trick he learned in the army. Joey is staring at his plate, unable to move. Jordan is too young to know who Elmer Gantry is, and looks appropriately befuddled. Luckily, Geneviève is engaged in small talk with Jennette about the house and didn’t hear it. And nobody else understood it, nor were they paying attention enough to ask for a translation. What can I say? I passed for Christian.

The dinner progresses with chitchat and small talk; in a word uneventful. That is until we retire to the sitting room. Leroy, Sam and Bob hold a jam session while Louise, Raph and I clear the table.

In the kitchen, Louise corners me. “Where did you learn Gospel?”

I’m Joey’s son.” What I consider to be a sufficient answer doesn’t fly.

He does jazz, not gospel.” She is insistent, and I refuse to tell her that I used to visit a Southern Baptist church. That would be like admitting that I'm a member of the Ku Klux Klan.

I’m interested in music. And modern soul music is heavily influenced by Gospel. People like--”

Bob interrupts me. “--You’re needed in the front room.” He rushes back.

Excuse me.” I smile and am relieved to be able to leave. The woman reminds me of Mildred in the extreme. I can’t say that I like her.

When I walk into the room, Raphie is wagering a bet with Bob. “Five dollars says we can. Even better than Sam Cooke.”

A cappella? I don’t think so.” Now, I know where this is going. What Bob, Sam and Leroy don't know is that Raph and I use A Change is Gonna Come as an audition piece for professional theater. We sing it a cappella because usually white audition pianists can’t get it right. He sings lead tenor and I do baritone to bass accompaniment. “Okay, Raph, five dollars, you’re on.”

Also what they don’t know is that Raphaël has perfect pitch, which he may have inherited from his mother. So, he gives me A 440, just like a tuning fork; I harmonize, and we get ready to watch jaws drop. They always do.

I was born by the river,
in a little tent,

oh and just like the river,

I've been running ever since,

It's been a long, a long time comin'

But I know a change’s gonna come,

Oh, yes it will.”

By the end of the first stanza, jaws have dropped. By the end of the last stanza, there are almost tears.

Shit.” Sam states in defeat. He lets his shaking head hang, and it becomes obvious where he got his nickname.

Damn.” Bob harvests a disapproving look from his dad. “I’ve never been happier to lose five dollars.”

Joey is beaming. Geneviève is the one close to tears. “I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

C’mon, Vievie, let’s do a trio of Les Feuilles Mortes.” I dare her.

She shakes her head, being slightly dismissive. “Do you even know the words?”

Raph signals ‘one, two, three’ and we start, speaking the lyrics in baritone to tenor harmony.

« O, je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes
Des jours heureux où nous étions amis
 »

It doesn’t take her long to join in:

« En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle
Et le soleil plus brûlant qu'aujourd'hui.
 »

Here’s where Leroy picks up on the strings, just keeping time:

« Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle
Tu vois, je n'ai pas oublié
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle
Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi. »

Joey replaces Sam on the piano, and he starts the melody. We start to groove when Bob comes in with his sax.

« Et le vent du nord les emportent
Dans la nuit froide de l'oubli
Tu vois, je n'ai pas oublié
La chanson que tu me chantais... »

We pause for Bob and Joey to play off each other, before we change to our singing key. And liftoff. And it keeps going. And going, until Bob’s mother has to remind us, that she has to work later this morning.

Out in the street, we are trying to keep it down, but there are whistles to be heard for us to be quiet. We load up the cars, notably Bob is taking his sax with him, which his mother sees as his last good-bye. Jennette is riding with Geneviève and Jordan back to Overland Park, so Bob is driving her car home. No telling where Sam is headed. He said something about wanting to see a guy who works at the Tent and is getting off work about now.

Marty is feeling good but in need of attention and asks Joey, if he would spend the night. “Sure, if ya can get Bob to leave his saxophone alone.”

His mother didn’t seem very happy to let him take it with him.” Marty observes, placing his hand on Joey’s thigh.

His ma didn’t seem too terribly happy about anythin’.” Joey retorts, moving Marty’s hand up to his groin.

I decide to add my observations. “Is it just me, or does she remind anyone else of Mildred?” Since I’m cuddled up against Raph, Joey can’t find me in the rear-view mirror and turns his head for a split second.

Raph chuckles. “Yeah, she did. Particularly with her attitude about interracial partnerships.”

Didn’t hear her make any comments. Did yus hear anythin’?” Joey wants to know, looking at Raphaël in the mirror.

She got Maman cornered in the kitchen and said that Sammy and Jennette were most certainly going to Hell for violating god’s natural law.” Raph laughs naughtily. “Wonder what she’d think of us.”

D’ya mean us as in you, Geneviève and Jordan or us as in the Bertie Woofter clan?” Joey’s legitimate question causes a round of snorts and snickers.

Both.” I can tell that Raphie is thinking as he goes, since he is stroking my belly on one single spot. “I think the ability to accept one thing, which is out of the ordinary, opens a person up to accepting a whole range of things. Like Bob. He’s straight but invites a house-full of queers to his father’s birthday party.”

I put my hand on his, so that he doesn’t rub my stomach sore. “Yeah, and he thinks that you and your family are, and I quote, 'drop-dead gorgeous'."

Did he actually say that?” Raph speaks softly, and I have to sit up to be able to watch him blush.

He did.” Comes Joey’s voice from the driver’s seat. “When Dan said that the only race that was not in your mix was Chinese.” Dad and Marty chuckle.

You said that?” Raph seems bemused but taken aback.

Yeah, and I agree wholeheartedly with Bob.” I put my hand in his. “That’s what makes you so irresistibly attractive.” Aside from the fact that it is true, I want to see him turn his deep rosewood-burgundy shade, speaking of gorgeous.

Turning onto Troost just as it's getting light, Joey breaks the embarrassed silence. “What do yus have planned today? So, we can get Marty’s and Bob’s schedule set up.“ I wonder when he started organizing their schedule. “And do yus wanna do Dan’s… uh… therapeutic reenactment now?”

Raph yawns. “No, not tonight. I’ll have to sleep until I wake up. And, after we get up, Dan and I would like some quiet time to do things like laundry, go over things with a dust cloth--”

Joey interrupts Raph, by being a smart ass. “--yus got a dust cloth, do yus? Only one feckin’ towel, but a bleedin' dust rag.” I think that we are all too tired for this type of humor, so he continues. “About what time do yus want to go get some new linen?”

What’s good for you, Marty? Early afternoon?” I want to get this discussion over, as soon as possible.

Marty proves to be absolutely no help. “Oh, I dunno, anytime.”

Again Raph takes control. “Let’s say at two.”

Fine with me.” Marty concedes. “Where are you thinking of going?”

Are you really interested in linen shopping, Marty?” I don’t see our dad’s overly butch boyfriend rummaging about amongst the curtains.

Inasmuch as it poses a protection problem, yes.” And sometimes I forget that he’s our bodyguard.

Where d’ya suggest?” Dad sounds earnest.

It’s hard to spot a threat downtown.” He shifts in his seat to be able to look at us in the back. “Tomorrow’s visit at your consulate, is going to be difficult. So, let’s try for something nearer to home and out in the open.”

I have some business to take care of on the Plaza. What do ya think about Emery, Bird’s on 47th and Broadway?” Joey suggests, and I would imagine, that the business he has to take care of has something to do with our portraits.

Perfect. Emery, Bird’s is located on the north side of 47th, which makes getting the guys out of the car and into the store easier.” You can almost see the mental plan, Marty is constructing. “There’s sheltered parking across the street, which makes it the best we can do.”

About the time Dad stops at the traffic lights at the corner of Linwood Boulevard, I fall asleep in Raph’s arms. I regain consciousness, when Raph tells me that we’re home. Dad has stopped in the middle of the street and has the engine idling. Apparently, he is going to put it up in his drive.

See ya in a couple a minutes, a mhuirnín.” Joey waits patiently for Raph and me to unfold out of the backseat, stretch and close the doors before pulling away. Marty seems to be wide awake, but Raph and I are like zombies. He walks us up the drive between the two mansions and around the cop car and his Cambridge. As soon as Raph inserts his key into the lock and finds that the door is unlocked, we are all three immediately awake.

« Je l'ai fermée à clef ; j'en suis sûr. » He whispers and withdraws his key quietly from the bolt lock. I’m also certain that he’d locked the door and nod to Marty to verify what he just said. I remember watching him do it. And just at this moment, Bob comes round the corner; Marty signals him to be quiet. Bob immediately gets the picture and draws his handgun.

Marty leads the way up the stairs, his gun pointed at the ceiling and his back to the full interior wall. Bob is on the other side, with his back to the half wall. As instructed per hand signals, Raph and I are waiting on the patio. From the top of the stairs, we hear Bob: “Okay, Goldilocks, face down on the floor.” There are unidentifiable quick footsteps walking through our home. “On the floor, I said. Now!”

Then, we hear Marty: “Tripwire!” followed by the sound of Bob and Marty throwing themselves on the floor. Then, nothing.

Bob's voice is the first to be heard again. "Oh, shit. Don't touch anything else, Marty. I'm calling the cops.

I look down the drive. Dad is meandering across the street, oblivious to anything wrong. I get his attention with my whistle, which isn't anywhere near the quality of his, and motion for him to hurry; he breaks into a trot.

Raph and I fill him in on what we’ve heard, so far. Joey takes the lead. "Bob, Marty?"

Marty runs down the stairs. “Everything alright at your place?”

Joey nods. “What did yus find, here?”

One young but dead cop, Bartholomew Breitinger, and a tripwire, which turned out to be a dud. Bob called the police.”

Who d’ya think coulda done it?” Joey looks pensive and then answers his own question. “’T’s gotta be a setup, dud’nit? Give ya odds, that yer wee fecker, Busby, has somethin’ to do with it. Better get hold of Jennette."

She probably won’t be home, yet.” I surmise and the rest nod agreement.

They’re on their way. Do you know Sergeant Rafferty?” Bob wants to know, looking at Marty.

Yeah, claims he’s the father of Gerry Rafferty.” Bob's face expresses incomprehension. Marty's intonation becomes stilted. "PFC Rafferty, who found the tripwire in Nam?”

Bob nods. “Okay, whoever he is, he’s on his way with the forensics team.”

Is the bag of dope still on the counter?” Before I can finish the sentence, Bob is running up the stairs and is back down before anybody else knows he’s gone. I take the bag from him and push it under the patio fence. “It’s on your neighbor’s property, where they can’t search. We’ll get it later.”

He looks at me as if I could be a police plant. “You are way too smart, for your own good, Albee.”

Raph overhears this. “Cool. Albee. Of course, Edward might sue for plagiarism.” He smirks.

Joey has his mischievous grin on display. “Now, don't yus be givin' me poor Albino here a hard time. But ya could become a writer with the double-barreled name, Albee-Bourke."

I grin at Joey, “Aw, feck the lot a yus.” who smiles and shakes his head at my imitation. I kiss him on the top of his forehead in passing, pull my pack of Cavaliers out of the front jeans pocket, fish the Zippo out of the watch pocket and light a well-deserved cigarette. Then it dawns on me, that I’m smoking far less tobacco since I’m doing it openly and not hiding it from Mildred.

Raph comes over to me with a worried look. “Do you have Jennette’s phone number?”

Yeah.” I park the cigarette in the left corner of my mouth and have to close the eye above it. I hand him her card from my wallet and quickly remove the cigarette from between my lips, flicking the ash off.

This is only her office number.” He looks distressed. “We can’t go upstairs and Marty gave me their keys, so we can call her from downstairs.”

I turn the card over, where she’d jotted her number at home. “We’re all set.”

When we approach Bob and Marty’s apartment door, it’s standing ajar. Raph and I back off and alert Marty and Bob.

Bob and Marty come around the corner, again with their weapons drawn and at the ready. They enter and search methodically; they find nothing. Bob reappears. “Joey, go over to your place and call Jennette. Our phone line has been cut. And here’s the number of Special Agent Milligan. Make sure to tell him that Sergeants White and Bennett need his help.”

Dad goes off at a trot, and I light another cigarette, getting disapproving looks from Raph and Bob. Marty comes out shaking his head. “This sure stinks of a set-up. The question is: who’s pullin’ the strings.”

You’re not buying Joey’s idea about Busby?” Raphie’s question is more of a statement. Busby probably wouldn’t have a motive to have one of Leon’s relatives killed.

Nope.” Marty shakes his head pensively. “We’re dealing with at least three teams here. First, we have us. Then, there’s Busby’s team, who would have a motive to get back at us but wouldn’t have any reason to kill a Breitinger, which indicates that we have the unknown third team, who did this.”

Unless this was Mormon blood atonement for breaking one of their covenants, and he had to kill himself.” My lack of sleep is beginning to make me paranoid, not that finding a dead guy in our home wouldn’t.

Looks like we’re stuck with sharing a towel.” Raph leans his arm casually over my left shoulder and purrs.

Marty lets out a breath that was not quite a wheeze but almost and pulls a face. “You guys share a towel? Didn’t you pay attention in health class in grade school?”

Raph pulls his arm off my shoulder. “We’ve got company.”

Sergeant Rafferty leads the convoy up the driveway between the two mansions. The lace curtains are twitching on the second floor of the house to the north. Hope they’re getting enough to see.

Rafferty has a determined look that is virtually impossible to interpret. He doesn't look as if he’s on business, more like he is trying to cover something up. Then I remember that Marty was the one who retrieved his son's body, the day he got sprayed with Agent Orange in Vietnam.

Police Sergeant Rafferty walks up to Bob and takes his hand. “I have wanted to shake your hand since Gerry sent me his first report from the front.” His ardor seems fake, but who am I to judge the emotional makeup of a man, who is likely still mourning the loss of a child.

You’re Private Rafferty’s father?” Bob’s face turns to stone, much like Marty’s did earlier this evening at the birthday party.

‘”That’s right Brown Bear. Do you mind if I call you Brown Bear?” For my part, the Police Sergeant just triggered that degree of embarrassment, which Mildred would cause me in church, when she would sit in the front row, where she didn’t belong. Rafferty is just a tad too intense to be sincere.

You can call me anything you like, as long as it doesn’t start with an ‘n’.” Bob chuckled an octave lower than Rafferty speaking voice but sobered, when he also noticed a flash of infuriation run across the Police Sergeant’s face.

Well, well, Sergeant Bennett, this is starting to become a habit." Rafferty shakes Marty's hand.

I didn’t do the shooting, this time. I just found him.” Marty’s jesting is cut short by a none-too-happy policeman, who was probably at the end of his nightshift.

Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?” Rafferty motions to his team to follow him up the stairs to our apartment.

Bob follows Rafferty up the stairs. “How long have you been on the force, Sergeant?”

Long enough. I’ll be up for retirement on May 17th.” He seems more relieved than proud. “God willin’, and the creek don’t rise.”

Bob looks out the windows behind the couch, where the dead cop is sitting. To my surprise, there is no blood. And I mean, no blood, not a drop. Noticing this puts me almost into a state of euphoria. When Bob turns from the window to the rest of us, he has a sardonic grin. “Looks like the creek is starting to rise, after all.”

From the looks the group is giving Bob, we are all puzzled, and I even start to question Bob’s mental state, as he pulls his weapon and points it at Sergeant Rafferty and the three men from forensics. “If I were you I wouldn’t plan all too much for today.”

Marty, standing in the shadows behind the half-high wall skirting the stairs, also has his weapon drawn and aimed at the other members of the would-be police team. “You’re not too good with your stories, Mr. Centimano.”

Bob’s eyes turn to slits. “And since you own and operate the liquor store at 19th and Vine, and sell booze and drugs to little kids in the neighborhood, and I have a good memory,” Bob stops to steady his weapon’s hand by grabbing it with his other. “and because I grew up in that neighborhood and was one of those kids you poisoned--”

--Bob, Marty?” calls a low baritone voice from downstairs.

Upstairs, Randolph.” Bob shouts, without taking his bead off Centimano, alias Sergeant Rafferty.

A tall, sexy man, the kind wet dreams are made of, whom I assume is Special Agent Milligan arrives at the top of the stairs, accompanied by Dad. Milligan stops to take in the scene and bursts out laughing in a tone, that sooths raw nerves, like letting soft velvet float across your soul.

Oh, for Christ's sake,” He laughs again; a laugh I could listen to for eternity. “If it’s not Cokey Joey, the wannabe mobster,” Dad flinches at the fact that the police impersonator shares his first name. “and from the looks of it a wannabe policeman, ta boot. Been listening to police band again, huh?” This time, Milligan’s laughter is joined by Marty’s and Bob’s.

And Bob adds, “What I wanna know is how much you have to pay to whom to be able to take homicide calls.”

I wanna call my lawyer.” Centimano whines.

That you can do, and you also have the right to remain silent…” continues Agent Milligan’s comforting voice, I would love to cuddle up with. “And this is Special Agent Walworth, who is going to accompany you downtown.”

I feel the welcome arm of my man glide around my neck, as we watch Joey Centimano being led out of our home; I lean my head onto Raph’s shoulder. At this point of the morning, I couldn’t care less what anyone, including our gentle FBI agent, thinks about Raph and me sharing tenderness and warmth.

People, who are most likely laboratory technicians from the Kansas City Field Office, are swarming, placing numbered tabs, taking pictures. Somewhere in the background we hear Bob's deep voice. "You are fucking shitting me."

I lift my head off Raph’s shoulder to look up; we hear Dad guffawing and saying to Milligan: “As a matter of fact, I do. At least on paper, I'm the wee fucker's old man." They could only be talking about Busby; I replace my head onto Raphie’s broad shoulder.

The technicians are using tweezers to place minute particles of apparently anything they can find into crisp cellophane bags. And then a large, rubberized, canvas bag appears to transport the earthly remains of Bartholomew Breitinger.

And there is a valid restraining order, keeping said ’wee fucker’ away from Dan and Raph.” Jennette arrives in a flurry of professionalism. “I’m the family attorney, Jennette Volker.” She extends a friendly hand to Special Agent Milligan who isn’t sure how to respond but takes it meekly.

Dad takes Jennette by the arm and moves her off to behind the breakfast bar, out of the way of the bustle. To judge by her raised-eyebrow facial expression and nods, he is bringing her up to date. But having said that, it is impossible to know for sure, since I can’t hear them above the clatter and muffled chatter of the other activity.

I do hear Bob, however, tell one of the forensics team, possibly the medical examiner, to check carefully under Breitinger's tongue. "There might be an injection site." The team member nods knowingly, jots a note and attaches it with a safety pin to Breitinger’s shirt before zipping up the body bag.

Good that you’re on our side, Bob.” Milligan states without any particular expression. “Would hate to think of the havoc your black-ops training could wreak, if you weren't.” He stops to make some notes on his clipboard. “Do you ever hear from your old squad, other than Marty?"

Nah.” Bob shakes his head and laughs. “Other than Centimano’s attempt to impersonate Gerry Rafferty’s father, that is.” They both chuckle. “I’d like to know where he got the information he does have, and who his contacts are inside the police force."

We’ll be investigating both aspects, of course.” Randolph looks up from his clipboard. “But there are so many corrupt cops on the Kansas City, Missouri police force, it could be any of hundreds. If they’re not hooked up to the Italian Mafia, it’s the Irish mob, or the Black mob, or any other two-bit gang with a need to prove themselves.”

Any such thing as the Mormon mob?” Bob’s intonation is partly jest and partly dead earnest, as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

Aw, shit, yeah.” Randolph Milligan smiles, as if Bob has just mentioned one of his favorite topics. “Out in Independence, if you aren’t RLDS, they won’t even let you be elected dog catcher. Why, thinkin’ of convertin’? As far as I know, they don’t accept Negro members.”

So I hear. It’s the mark of Cain, of which I am very proud. And Joey over there,” He tilts his head in Dad’s direction. “calls them ‘feckin’ horse thieves’. But this does bring up something interesting.”

Which is?” Randolph is chuckling but giving Bob his undivided attention.

Our happy cadaver, Bartholomew Breitinger, whom your guys just carted away in the body bag, is some relation to Leon Breitinger, Busby Bourke’s brother-in-law. And Leon Breitinger is apparently some big wig amongst the reorganized Mormons.”

And Busby Bourke is Joe Centimano’s lawyer.” This thought puts a worried expression on Randy Milligan’s ruggedly handsome face.

There is also the unanswered question of whether Bartholomew Breitinger was really on the police force, or whether he was an imposter, too.” Bob is clearly thinking as he goes. “Oh, and by the way, can you get someone to remove that patrol car from my driveway?”

Milligan bends over somewhat to look out the windows behind the couch, giving me full view of his nice butt, and goes into convulsive laughter. “Didn’t any of you have a look at that patrol car?”

What?” Bob goes to the windows to look out and starts giggling. “Yeah, you have a point, there. The KCPD doesn’t drive too many Ramblers. Convincing paint job, though.”

Can I use your phone?” Randy winks as he asks me the totally redundant question, as if anyone ever refuses to let an FBI agent make a telephone call. Particularly this hunk of an FBI agent. “I need to get that car impounded.”

Go ahead. It’s on the breakfast bar.” I would walk him to the phone, but my cock is hardening, and I feel faint.

« S’il avait un accent russe, you’d be creaming yourself. » Raphaël knows my erotic feelings for Russians and doesn’t seem even remotely bothered. It was one of my first erotic secrets, that I told him back in seventh grade, after our teacher, Mr. Hugs, gave us our yearly talk on the Sino-Soviet threat. What can I say, other than ‘know thy enemy'?

« Crois-tu qu’he's Russian ? » I’m tired, breathless and horny, all three of which are obvious.

« Je dirais probablement part Comanche. Their prominent, high cheekbones and very kissable lips give them an almost Slavic look. Although to judge by his name, I’d say the other part could be Anglo-Irish. » Raph snickers.

Although I join him in snickering, this is where I become aware that there must also be physical differences among the American Indian nations, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to admit to my Osage-Choctaw-Cajun Métis other half, that I can’t tell them apart. But, as I have managed in the past, I’ll keep my mouth shut, pay attention, and I’ll learn.

« Crois-tu that if he is part Comanche, he has almost straight pubic hairs, like yours ? » Neither Raphaël nor I notice that Randy has long finished his telephone call and is standing directly behind us. I look over Raph's shoulder and smile at him, feeling confident that we haven't divulged anything.

There is, Daniel, one sure way of finding out. Ask me." The soothing voice does have a quieting effect on my 'if-there-were-a-hole-the-size-of-a-dime, I'd-crawl-through-it' reaction. And, the room isn't spinning nearly as much as it should be.

Since the proverbial chat is out of the bag, here goes.” I take a deep breath. “Raph here thinks that you might be part Comanche, which would mean that your pubic hair would probably be almost straight. But, on the other hand, if you are Russian, it wouldn't be.” And then as an afterthought. “Uh, where did you learn French?”

Let me answer the easy one, first.” His whisper is just as soothing as his voice at full volume. “I went to the Defense Language School, together with Marty. That’s where I learned French and that I prefer guys.” His voice dropped from a whisper to just barely audible. “And I have no idea about my heritage. A couple, who were out walking their dog, found me in a park in Denver, Colorado, wrapped in newspaper. That’s all I know.”

And?” Raphaël doesn’t let go, once he’s set his mind to something.

And what?” Randy whispers back.

Do you have straight pubic hair?” His whisper gets a little impatient.

You’ll have to see for yourself.” At this he walks over to where Joey, Jennette, Marty and Bob are discussing further moves. “Where do you want the boys to stay for the next couple of days?"

I’ll be shackin’ up with Marty, so they can stay at my place, across the street.” Joey doesn’t seem to be aware of the security issue.

That would leave them without a guard.” Randolph is smooth, very smooth. “Since I’m getting off my night shift,” He looks at his watch. “just about now, and I have tomorrow off as a buffer before I start my early shift on Thursday, I could stay with them, putting less pressure on Bob.”

I could do with a good amount of sleep.” Bob yawns, while Marty grins and Joey nods.

Speaking of which,” Jennette loads papers into her thin briefcase and takes her car keys from Bob. “I’m off. If you need anything, I’ll be at my office around noon.” And before any of our weary minds register that she’s gone, the door closes downstairs.

Joey hands me the key to the carriage house. “There are clean sheets and pillows in the hot press next to the bath."

Hot press?” Randy is confused, as any normal American would be.

Raphie chortles. “A linen closet, where the water heater is located.” Then he addresses Joey and Marty. “Whatdya say, we postpone our linen shopping until about five?

Or we can do it tomorrow, after I get my passport. We could go to the consulate and then drive directly to the Plaza, when we would all be more rested and better able to deal with things.”

Passport? Consulate?” Randy sounds confused and somewhat irritated.

The British Consulate, downtown. Where we have to go to get Dan’s passport.” Dad’s answer is brusque, then he smiles and apologizes. “Sorry, Randolph, you probably didn’t know that Raphaël, Daniel and I are British.”

No, I didn’t.” Randy is visibly nervous. “And I’m afraid that I won’t be able to see you, other than on official business. Sorry.”

What do you mean?” Raphaël is clueless and confused, which equally applies to the rest of us.

As an employee of the FBI, I am not allowed to maintain private contact to foreign nationals.” Randolph’s sexy deep voice sounds more than just a little regretful. “That is, of course, unless I report the nature of the contact, which would initiate background investigations, something I believe all of us would rather avoid."

Ah yes, the land o’ the free and the home of the feckin’ brave.” Joey’s sarcasm is not only the result of his lack of sleep. “So, can the Lads sleep here?”

"It would be best to wait until the reports are back." Randolph doesn't know what to say. His heart is telling him one thing and his allegiance to his country and employer demands another. “I hate to let you down, Bob. Hell, they don’t sound like foreigners. Well, except for Joey. But I had no idea, when I made the offer to help you out.”

Not to mention the proposition you made Raphie and me.’ zipped through my mind, but I managed to keep my mouth closed, as opposed to Joey.

Yer government’s probably right, Special Agent Milligan, we’d all probably be better off keepin’ to our own kind.” Joey’s voice is dripping with cynicism and his jaw set in anger. “But havin’ said that, thinkin’ in terms of us and them is what starts wars, with your country bein’ the feckin’ all-time best at it.”

Randolph looks scalded, appearing rejected to an extent that probably only an orphan can feel. He nods that he has understood and says softly to Bob and Marty: “I’ll be in touch, as soon as I hear anything.”

Marty pats his shoulder. “C’mon, Randy, I'll see you out.”

No need.” was the last thing we heard, aside from the door closing behind him.