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-five

(Sunday, October 9th, Monday, October 10th)

It is only seven in the evening, and I am exhausted but think that it would be a good idea to go for a walk just with Raphie. We have hardly had a moment to ourselves since I shot Mildred.

I still can’t shake the idea that I probably did her a favor.

As far back as I can remember, she had been a thoroughly miserable individual, which I think that most people actually do become when they have spent a selfish and self-centered life. Her major goal had always been to get the best for herself.

My chores as a child consisted of doing her housework, which I could never do to her standards. She would ground me for a couple of days, if she found dust on the mantelpiece and complain that she’d just have to do it herself but never did.

Dad, on the other hand, never complained. Even if I were grounded, he’d take me for a walk down to Allen’s Dairy for an ice cream.

Once, on a Saturday when I was grounded in perpetuum, he told her that he’d see to it that I wouldn’t go anywhere. He demonstratively packed up fishing tackle for two. Mildred knew how much I hate fishing, so was happy that I was going to be just as miserable as she was. When Dad parked the car not far from where we now live, it was clear that he was taking me to the Nelson Gallery of Art.

When Mildred attended church, which she started doing again when I began going to Greendale Baptist for the sole purpose of being with Mack, she would dress up in clothes she'd bought on Petticoat Lane downtown to make others take notice, or so she’d hoped. Not being the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, she’d thought that I’d ‘seen the light’ rather than tasted cock.

She would sit in the front row, actually reserved for those who were going to dedicate, re-dedicate or re-re-dedicate their lives to Christ, in order to make sure everyone would see how religious she was, even if it was all show. She’d wave with her arms in the air and yell “Amen” the loudest. Even I, who never shies away from a performance, found her embarrassing. It was hideous the way she would clutch at her bosom and yell: “Yes, Jesus!” or “Lord, have mercy!” or “Hear us, lord!”.

Now, she has no other option than to rest in peace.

Dad, Raphie and Bob helped Marty down to his bed. I thought that I’d just get in the way, so I’m straightening up and am going to enjoy what would have been Dad’s joint.

It took a while and a strong cup of herbal tea to get Marty’s wheezing under control. Emotional upsets in connection with his experiences in Vietnam seem to trigger these reactions.

Oddly, the stress involved with protecting us and his having shot Busby doesn’t seem to faze him. It’s only when Vietnam comes up, or, of course, he’s standing next to Mortimer, Dad’s stuffed bat.

Memories of his wartime experience are capable of stressing him almost to the point of delirium. It’s a pity that Don turned out to be such a shit. Maybe we should invite him back, and Dad can pray the rosary with him to make amends, and then he can see what he can do for Marty.

I hear Joey and Raphie on the stairs. Dad is talking, but I can’t hear what he is saying. And he stops when they reach the top of the stairs.

“Everything settled down?” I inquire, while taking a toke on what would have been Dad’s joint.

“Ya owe me, Lad.” He jokes while looking directly at the rollup. “Sittin’ there as big as ya please, tokin’ on me J.” Of course, he holds out his hand. “Just how much more news can ya take, this evening?”

Raph is giving me an unsmiling gaze. He obviously knows.

“The upside is,” Joey exhales. “that ya already know the half of it.”

“C’mon Dad.” I reach out my hand for the joint, and he surrenders it of his own volition. “Must be some news if you’re giving away your dope.”

He unbuttons the pocket of his flannel shirt and pulls out what looks like a folded photograph. But it’s a print of a negative; it’s an old Photostat. “Seein’ that you and Raph’re basically on yer own, you’ll be needin’ this. It’s yer birth certificate.” I’m holding out my left hand, but he’s still holding onto it. “Last evenin’ at the truth round, Bob got the first half of it.” He hands me the Photostat and watches me read it.

“And the second half is that Mildred wasn’t my mother?” Of a sudden I have to pee. Running to the bathroom, I hear Raph and Dad following me.

“Are you okay?” Raphie is standing next to me as I pull out my cock and piss a loud, heartfelt stream into the water in the bowl.

“It’s the same as with a young puppy.” I laugh from the pit of my gut. “When I get too happy, I have to piss.” I shake and flush. “So, I didn’t kill my mother, after all.”

“’Um.” Joey says softly. “Your real mother, Caroline Mahoney, died in childbirth. She was an au-pair from Ireland, Mildred had hired.”

“I see.” They are obviously waiting for me to react with some emotion other than joy. “That can happen.” Dad looks at Raph and shrugs. “What?”

Raphaël seems stunned. “Aren’t you interested in who your mother was?”

“Not particularly.” I suppose that honesty can be shocking. “After having thought that Mildred was my mother for so many years, I refuse to buy into the emotional concept of ever having needed one."

I look at the horror in their faces. "Geneviève is all the mother I’ve ever wanted, and she’s still alive. You guys look as if you’re at a funeral. Loosen up.

“I’m delighted that I am not related to Busby and crew. They are strangers. And I hope never to see any of them again. Who are those people, anyway? Where did they come from?”

By this time, Joey’s at the fridge getting beer. “D’yus care for one?” We nod and mumble that we would; he returns to the table with the bottles. “Let me start out with how I met Mildred.”

I gesture adamantly in agreement. “Yeah, that is really one connection I could never figure out.”

“She was the sister of Mortimer.” He looks at our astonished faces. “No, not the bat in the garage.” He chuckles cautiously. “Actually, I never called it that. You gave the bat his name, Dan, after hearin’ me talk to Mortimer. I guess ya thought I was talkin’ to the bat.”

His weak laugh signals a slight reluctance to continue, but he does. “Mortimer was me lover. She found out just about the time she got impregnated by this hot-shot property developer, who belonged to the elite of Kansas City society, of course by marriage. And, of course, yer man had no intention of leaving his well-bred, well-connected and filthy-rich wife, fer wee Mildred, who was now in the family way and beginning to show.”

“So, you volunteered to marry her?” Raphaël adores Joey, so his question is just a little naïve.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that I volunteered, Son.” He laughs, takes a swig of his beer, smirks and starts to roll another joint. “It was more of an ultimatum, ya see. Either I marry her, or she turns her brother and me in.”

“And do Busby, Margret and Sally have the same father?” I find this much more interesting.

“They do. Yer wee fecker had no reason to stop shaggin’ Mildred. She was married to a foreigner, who could ill afford to either get a divorce or expose them. Besides he was more than generous with child-support payments.”

“And where is Mortimer now? Do you still talk to him?” Raphaël takes hold of Joey’s hand that is giving him a joint.

“Naught, Son.” Joey lights the round of Js, he’d rolled. “It’s like the lyrics to one of your mother’s more brilliant renditions: ‘But life separates those who love, quite softly, without making a sound, and the sea wipes away the footprints of departed lovers from upon the sand.’

“I was after buyin’ the place on Quincy, when Mortimer hanged himself in the garage. Mildred was the malcontent in our life, and she threatened to expose him as bein’ Bertie Woofter and have me deported.” He recognizes total incomprehension in our faces. “What?”

Raphie is quicker to ask: “Who’s Bertie Woofter?”

Joey throws his head back and chokes on smoke, which makes his laughter coarser than possibly intended. “It’s not who, but what, Son. The British word for queer, aside from queer, is poofter. And the Cockneys, who use a rhymin’ slang, change dirty poofter to Bertie Woofter.”

I think that this is going to be my new name for it. I like it. Fuck gay. From now on it’s going to be queer and Bertie Woofter.

“Anyway, the poor wee bastard, Mortimer, couldn’t take anymore of her haranguin’, so he topped himself in the garage. Mildred's the one who found him a hangin’ from the cross beams. He'd thankfully been removed before I got home from work.” He takes a deep toke on the joint. “She didn’t even bother to phone me on the job.”

I try not to succumb to the sadness. “And I always thought that she was afraid of the bat.”

Joey ignores me and addresses Raphaël. “So, when life would get me down, I’d be talkin’ to him in the garage. That’s likely where Dan got the idea, that I called the bat Mortimer.”

Raphie’s eyes are moist, and he glances over to the buffet, where the urn with his father’s ashes sits. “And then you lost Maurice. And now, Marty seems to be getting worse.”

I move around the table to take him into a hug from behind. “You’re the one we should all be concerned about, Dad.” He smells like he should. He smells of my dad. “You had to raise somebody else’s kids. You had to put up with all that bickering, mental abuse and neglect. And now Marty.”

He lets me hug him tightly over the chair. “Would ya mind goin’ and havin’ a chat with him?”

“He wants to talk to me?” I look at the top of his head at close range. “Or is it you, who wants me to have a chat with him?”

Raph clears his throat. “No, Marty asked Dad to see if you’d come down.”

There’s nothing to say. I recognize the duty I have to my real family. Reluctantly, I release Dad, give Raph a peck on the cheek, and go downstairs.

***

His room is lighted only by his dim, yellow nightlight when I knock. His “C’min” is barely audible from the doorway.

I enter cautiously and sit on the bed. “Dad told me you wanted to talk.”

His voice is weak, so I lean closer. “You don’t believe in god, huh?”

“That’s right.” I confirm hesitantly.

“What gives you the will to live? He’s beyond trying to hide his helplessness.

Taking the hand, lying by his side. “In the order of appearance in my life: Dad, Raph, you and Bob.”

Mixing in only a hint of self-pity he moans: “You hardly know me and Bob."

I squeeze his hand. “I had this discussion with Bob earlier today. ‘Would you take a bullet for me?’”

Marty turns his hand and inserts his fingers between mine. “That’s what bodyguards do, Dan. Don’t try to get off topic, here. What I want to know is: how do you get comfort, when you know that you won’t be goin’ to Heaven?”

“Just think of it; I won’t go to Hell, either.” And I try to relay that I’m not being flippant. ”But I get enormous comfort from the fact that I’m not lying to myself.” I kiss his hand. This is hard for me. After all, I’m telling this to someone, who is dying. “No one has ever found any evidence that a god exists. Nor an afterlife. No one, nothing, Marty. Faith is just another word for gullibility.”

Marty takes a deep breath with considerably less effort than just a while earlier.

I yawn. “Your parents told you the story about Santa, didn’t they?”

He chuckles, and the wheezing increases slightly, then loosens up. “You like that there Santa Claus story, don’t you.”

“I do.” I have to lay my head down; I’m exhausted. “Mainly, because I can still remember how much disappointment and betrayal I felt, when I found out that it's not true."

His voice sounds weaker. “And when did you find out about god?”

“You know, that’s funny. For me, they were the same.” Fatigue causes me to slur my words. “Nobody bothered to tell me that Santa and god weren’t one and the same. They kept confusing me with all the talk of the trinity, which I thought was Jesus, Santa and their father. And by the time Mildred tried to explain the difference to me, I’d stopped believing anything she told me. No one has ever been able...”

***

And the next thing, that I become aware of, is weak light slithering through the sheer curtains at the window. Marty’s alarm clock says that it’s shortly after six. I assume that it is six in the morning, since we could hardly have slept for twenty-some-odd hours. However, it is hard to tell at this time of year.

All odds point to the fact that it’s more than likely Monday morning, and I have to get ready for school. Now, that’s an odd thought, since so much has happened in the past week. I try to release myself from Marty’s grip, which wakes him. Bodyguards and war-ravaged soldiers are, from what I’ve seen, very light sleepers.

“Where’r you goin’?” His voice and breaths are as clear as a bell. No wheezing.

“Upstairs. Jennette is coming to take us to school.” I stretch and turn to see his outstretched arms.

“C’mere, Dan, and tell me more about why you don’t believe in god.” Marty isn’t smiling lasciviously, so I take him at his word, and lie back down. “Do Joey and Raph share your beliefs?”

“I don’t believe. That’s just it;” I’m thinking this through as I speak. I’ve never really said this part aloud before. “I don’t believe that god doesn’t exist. I just don’t believe. Does that make any sense?”

“Sort of.” He rolls onto his side to face me. “But that doesn’t answer my question about your dad and boyfriend.”

“I don’t think that they’ve decided one way or the other.” I prop myself up on my elbows. “But that’s alright. It’s okay not to know something.”

“And when did you know about your sexual preferences?” He’s posing a neutral question, so I think that he’s made the connection.

“It was all about the same time.” I’m shaking my head in agreement. “I correlated the two in my mind not so long afterwards. I was lying in the hammock on the front porch...”

Marty laughs, knowingly. “’S good to hear that city boys lay ‘round a thinkin’ in a hammock, too.”

“I was relaxing and just listening to the traffic on 23rd, when it came to me. People thinking that queers are perverts stems from their religious narrow-mindedness. So, if I don’t subscribe to their belief system, then I don’t have to adhere to their family values, which is just another word for sex control. Then, all of a sudden, I really felt comfortable with myself. Just as I am, like the hymn says.”

Marty laughs without the slightest wheeze. Could be because of the weather, but it could be caused by a decision he’s made. “Yeah, I always liked the part about I come, and then they repeat it.” This time he does chuckle somewhat lustfully.

“Yeah, and the part: and that thou bidst me come to thee, is why Mack Junior killed himself. He actually thought that Jesus was beckoning him home."

“That’s so sad, that my little brothers had to go through a nightmare like that.” My slightly surprised look makes him attempt to ruffle my very short hair. “You’re the only little brothers I’ve got.” His smile dims. “But, you’re right; religion causes a lot of grief. Just look at what Bob was talking about in Vietnam.”

“Christianity is a death cult. It wages war. It wouldn’t exist, if they hadn’t have killed their own god,” I appreciate Marty’s look of worried thought. “and then they fucking eat his flesh and drink his blood and call it the ‘Lord’s Supper’. Shit, Marty, any sane person calls it cannibalism."

Bob opens the door and comes to the foot of the bed. “Okay, break it up in here. Have you been talking the whole night long? You’re going to make a really good first impression at school, Dan.”

“Yeah.” I roll off the bed and stand up. My head spins a little. “Gotta get a shower and some breakfast. Have you seen Dad and Raph?”

“Naw, just got up myself.” Bob stretches, which opens the front of his bathrobe, then he smiles and winks.

I make it up the stairs two at a time and feel just a slight tinge of conscience, since it is the first night after becoming real lovers that I didn’t sleep at least in the same bed as Raph. But the surprise is on me. No Raphaël and no Joey. Not in the bedroom, not in the bathroom. I go to the phone and look on the list that Joey had made and taped to the counter. I dial Joey’s number.

“It’s yer nickel.” Joey always sounds wide awake.

“Good morning, Dad.” Somehow, I can’t seem to match his degree of alertness.

“And a good mornin’ to ya, Lad. What can I do for ya?” Obviously, Raphie isn’t there, or he would have put him on.

“Uh,” My stomach is starting to play premonition meter. “have you seen Raphie?”

“Can’t say that I have. When did ya get back upstairs?” The concern in his voice starts my stomach churning.

“Just now, and he’s not here.” It is serious worry, I’m experiencing. I look at the table, no note. “And I don’t see any message.”

“I’ll be right there.” He hangs up, and I scour the apartment. Nothing. In less time than it takes to look around again, Joey comes up the stairs at a dead run. “You can relax, Dan.” Dad is a little out of breath but grinning. “Yer Raphaël is all right.”

“Where is he?” My voice is tense. I know my worry won’t subside until I can quite literally put my hands on him.

“Here I am, mon amant.” He appears directly behind Joey and in front of Jennette.

“Where were you?” My voice is still tense, and the question sounds much more inquisitorial than intended.

He comes over to me and sets down a brown-paper sack on the table and pulls me into a long, loving kiss. “I was helping Jennette bring up some groceries from her car.”

“Groceries?” Major relief comes out in the form of a surprised laugh.

“Apparently, everyone thinks that we could starve, if they don’t keep us stocked up.” Raph takes the sack to the counter next to the refrigerator and opens the door. “There’s so much in here, it’s going to be difficult to fit it all in.”

Jennette approaches Raphie from behind and places a hand lightly on his shoulder. “C’mon, let me do that. You and Dan go ahead and get ready for school.” Joey starts handing her the things out of the sack to put into the fridge. Raph takes me by the hand and leads me into our bedroom. I close the door softly.

His undressing me is slow and deliberate, much more like caressing than simply removing my clothes. I return the favor, one item at a time. He removes my undergarments and I his.

His smooth, fragrant skin causes me to excite; his hormonal response mirrors mine. Our heartbeats are as synchronized as our lives. Again, he brushes my hand and guides me softly to the shower.

Since the stall is made of solid tiled walls, and doesn’t have a door, glass or otherwise, to worry about, there is enough room to get just that little bit more rambunctious. He turns on the shower and tries something, we’d heard Joey and Marty talking about doing.

Our warm urine against one another’s belly mixes with the hot water swirling down the drain in the tiled floor. I stick my finger into his stream and tentatively place it on the tip of my tongue. Raphie follows suit. Then I take hold of his cock and aim it at my mouth.

Of the small spurt, he is still able to press through his erect penis, I can tell that the taste is somewhat like bitter apple cider. Surprisingly, it’s not at all unpleasant.

He grabs hold of my head with both hands. Swabbing out the inside of my mouth with his tongue. Before I can swallow, he tries to get a sample. My own cock has turned to solid stone, not allowing any urine more to flow. So, I let him taste his own.

He purrs and spins me against the wall. With the way he uses body-weight to gain leverage, it is obvious, that he is an experienced wrestler. He drops onto his heals and spreads my cheeks wide. His growl vibrates through his tongue and into my hole. His three days of fuzzy-fluffy beard growth sweetly polishes the inside of both cheeks.

By the time he stands to lubricate me with his abundant fluids, my head is spinning and my legs are giving way. He clamps his arms under my pits and hands behind my head in an erotic, standing full nelson. I push back to let his pole enter my ass.

Raphie keeps me in an illegal, at least in high school wrestling, but stabilizing grappling hold as he performs his illegal, at least here and now, but pleasurable sodomization of my backside.

The water is starting to cool; I reach up to shut it off. He changes to a slight deviation of a half nelson and grabs my cock with his left hand. He pumps; I push.

Raph’s telltale growl swells in proportionate intensity to the hardness of his cock. We explode. And collapse onto the tile floor.

Fortunately, the water heater is quick to restore the needed temperature. Soaping and rinsing are anticlimactic necessities.

We towel off, listening to Joey singing from the kitchen. Danny Boy. This is a signal, he either has a bad conscience or is feeling neglected. We’ll find out which, as soon as we get dressed. If he’s just feeling maudlin, he sings The Fields of Athenry.

“Is he singing that for you?” Raphie hugs me with a slight tear in the corner of his eyes.

“Not really.” I laugh and wipe the tear from his beautiful face. “Either he’s done something to piss me off, or he’s feeling left out and needs cuddles.”

He smiles, sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “Let’s hope it's the latter.”

We open the door to find Jennette setting the table for breakfast and Dad standing at the stove, finishing off Danny Boy and doing, according to the smells drifting across the room, what he calls a ‘fry-up’. I go to open one of the three narrow windows behind the couch.

For a full Irish breakfast, one essential ingredient is chronically lacking in the US. They call it black pudding, which is, from what I gather, closely related to the German Blutwurst and is seriously banned from entering this country by the Department of Agriculture. So, today, as on all other days, we’ll have to settle for a ‘fry-up’.

This, on a regular basis, makes me ponder the veracity of his claims that, in the British Iles, they eat fried bacon, eggs, potatoes, sausage links, okay the Americans do, too, but then supposedly fried mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans and, in Ireland, thick slices of blood sausage are added to the breakfast list.

I find it just short of a miracle that anyone would be able to function at all afterwards or that they would have any desire to eat lunch. Richard Ashton, however, does confirm the story. I don’t know whether the account is accurate, or if he claims it to be true just because he’s enamored with Joey.

Jennette is apparently enjoying Dad's crooning. "I had no idea that your family is so musical. Your father was telling me about how he, Geneviève and Raphie’s father used to perform."

“Yeah, and I’m sure it wasn’t Danny Boy they performed.” Raph snorts, and I give Dad my ‘what’s-going-on?‘ look.

He replies with a look of total innocence, which is a dead give-away that he’s been up to something. I could ask him in French what it is, but that would exclude Jennette from the conversation. I'll get him alone, later.

Just as I’m wondering why Jennette is setting six places for breakfast, Bob and Marty appear at the top of the stairs. Both smell freshly showered and are dressed in clean clothes, but both look exhausted: Bob probably from worry about Marty and Marty from lack of sleep. Bob comes over to me and asks about Wanda. Jennette pricks up her ears.

“We’ll have to ask Jennette to get in touch with Wanda and Vicky.” I state, harvesting daggers from both Bob and Jennette, who is certainly wondering what Bob, supposedly heterosexual Bob, wants from her cousin’s girlfriend. So, I head the problems off at the pass, so to speak. “I told Bob about Wanda posing as my fiancée, and he wants to meet her.”

Jennette retorts, “I see.” still smelling a rat.

Breakfast is going quietly if not subdued, at least as far as Jennette is concerned, likely due to Bob’s inquiry about Wanda.

Then Bob’s next inquiry starts us all thinking. “If you graduate now from high school, you won’t be able to enroll at Junior College until spring semester, and you’ll turn eighteen before then.”

I think I know where he’s going with this, but I want the specifics. “Do you mean that they’ll deny me a student deferment?”

“Could be.” Bob drinks a large gulp of tepid coffee. “You’ll probably be in the same draft board jurisdiction that I’m in. And they are total bastards.”

“At present,” Jennette blots the corners of her mouth with the paper napkin. "the Universal Military Training and Service Act of 1951 requires the guys to register within 30 days of turning 18. The youngest that they can draft them, however, is 18 and a half. But, my contacts in Washington are talking about a revision, sometime next year, which will lower the minimum age to 18."

“What about if they leave the country and return on a student’s visa?” Joey is definitely planning something.

Jennette shakes her head. “That wouldn’t alter the reality that both Dan and Raphaël are within the jurisdiction of the Universal Military Training and Service Act and have to register for the draft.”

“They can draft foreigners?” Marty's incredulity makes his voice crack.

“Can and do.” Jennette tries to speak around the bite of toast in her mouth.

“So, it’s going to be necessary to stay enrolled at Westport, until we can go to JC.” Raphaël sounds slightly reluctant to accept this.

“Like the principal, Mr. Bruneau, offered: you audit courses at JC, so you can place out of the rinky-dink basic courses at the beginning of the spring semester, but still take the finals at the end of the fall semester at Westport.

“Where’s the problem with that?” Jennette has obviously forgotten how much importance teenagers place on status. A college student is exceedingly cooler than a high-school kid. But if she doesn’t remember, I’m certainly not going to be the one to clue her in.

But Joey, on the other hand, is very clued in. “Okay, Lads, a compromise.”

He rubs his hands together. I remember that the window is still open; it is getting chilly. I get up to close it, and Joey waits until I get back to the table.

“Yus’ave already got yer own apartment. That is far and beyond any possible rating on the coolness chart. And if yus can lay this wee problem to rest, I’ll throw in unlimited use of me car.”

I’m not too sure about this deal. “Is this going to be a control mechanism like Busby had? Almost every time I was counting on using the Impala, he would suspend my privileges.”

“Aw, would ya ever feck off, Dan. I’ve never done ya dirt like that.” Joey looks hurt, and rightfully so. I feel like a total shit.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” I get up to hug him from behind his chair and kiss the top of his head. “You’re right; I’m way out of line, here. We’d really appreciate the use of your car.” Raphaël is nodding his agreement; Bob, Marty and Jennette exchange surprised glances. Guess they’ve never seen a teenager apologize before.

“Actually, I’m giving it to yus, but keeping it in my name, because the insurance rates would be lower. Anyway, if yus have to skip country, I can sell it easier, if it’s still registered to me.”

“I’ll buy it.” Bob’s bid is quicker than Marty’s. Marty looks as if he could start pouting. “What? Ah, c’mon, Marty, you already got an Austin.”

Jennette looks at her watch. “Okay, guys, it’s time to go. Which one of you" She looks at Marty and Bob. “are coming with us?”

“Both of us are.” Marty says without wheezing.

Bob agrees. “We have two people to cover, therefore, we need both of us. I’ll be protecting Dan, and Marty will blanket Raphaël.”

“Do we need to know anything?” I wonder how this is going to be different from the other days.

Marty takes the lead. “We are going to be doing what we call close protection. Up until now, we have been loosely covering you, since the destinations have been areas, you are well acquainted with or where no one would have been able to place you.”

“Yeah, like my own bedroom, where I took out Mildred and Bottemly.” I laugh and Jennette seems a little shocked, since I don’t think she knows the whole story.

“That was definitely an unusual situation, Dan.” Marty chuckles. “But in the future, leave the gun slinging to Bob and me. Please."

“Okay, was just trying to help my big brother.” I pat Marty’s hand on the table.

Bob takes up the thread. “Today, we are going to be approaching and entering an unfamiliar building, where someone is anticipating your arrival. They could have given a malicious third party a lead. So, we’ll need your active support with protective surveillance.”

“Which means?” I get up to help Joey clear the breakfast table.

“I’ll get this, Dan. Sit and pay attention.” I do exactly what Dad tells me without comment. Bob, Marty and Jennette once again exchange glances.

“Which means that, since I’m right-handed, Dan you will walk on my left. And Raph will walk on Marty’s right because he’s a lefty, which I’m sure you’ve noticed.” Jennette giggles and Marty turns beet red. “They went bowling, Jennette.”

She slowly recovers from her hilarity. “And where do I walk in the formation?”

“We’ll use you as the decoy.” Bob explains patiently when she looks puzzled. “You’ll walk in the middle, as if you are the one being guarded. And while we are walking, Raph and Dan will watch the rooftops on their respective sides. Marty and I will scan traffic and parked cars. Jennette, you watch out for suspicious pedestrians, glancing occasionally to our rear, say every fifty yards.”

“Aw, sure, yer coverin’ them well. But don’t ya think that yer overdoin’ it just a tad?” Joey adds over his shoulder while washing dishes.

“Let’s get one thing clear. And this goes for everybody, you too, Joey, so listen up.” Marty’s tone is in-command military. “You only die once. Good security can never be overdone. And we have to work and function as a team, or we can fucking well stay home.”

Bob then takes over in exactly the same tone. “Busby Bourke is a very affluent lawyer, whose mother Dan has just killed. Marty shot him at close range when Busby was violating a restraining order, Jennette had the Circuit Court issue. He has sufficient cash, lack of scruples, disregard for the law, a damned good motive and undoubtedly the necessary contacts to hire one or more killers. We are all at risk. Am I making myself absolutely clear?”

You sure as Hell can’t argue with that. And everyone nods and mumbles that she or he has understood.

“Okay,” Marty takes it from Bob. “When Jennette is not with us, Joey you will be the decoy. Or if you and Jennette are along, both of you will walk in the center.” Joey puts down the dishcloth and pays closer attention at the counter.

“And exactly like in the Civil Defense drills, what do you do when Bob or I say 'flash!'?"

Raph, Jennette and I respond in unison: “Duck and cover!”

Then Bob says: “Flash! Do it!”

“What in the name of…?” Joey’s jaw drops when the three of us throw ourselves onto the floor in a fetal position and cover our heads.

“Would someone mind tellin’ me, what the Fuck the lot o’ yus’re up to?” Joey doesn’t know how this Civil Defense drill functions, which scared the living shit out of every school kid in America during the McCarthy era.

Of course, they taught us to ‘duck and cover’ under wooden desks, which always reminded me of the story of the Three Little Pigs. When I brought it to the attention of Miss Waldon, that hiding under wooden furniture in the event of a nuclear blast would have the same protective effect as did the houses of straw and sticks against the huffing and puffing of the Big Bad Wolf, she apparently couldn’t appreciate my analogy and ordered me to stop being silly.

After all, it was an edict of the Government, demanding us to comply. And when I read George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four and Animal Farm only a couple of years later, it took no stretch of the imagination to see why we were hiding from the Bomb under kindling. It’s just now dawning on me why Joey gave me Nineteen Eighty-Four, Animal Farm and Homage to Catalonia for my eleventh birthday.

“That’s what you get, Joey, for not having provided your family with a television.” Bob’s sarcasm has its desired effect. “You never learned to solve inapplicable social problems as presented on Leave It to Beaver and Father Knows Best and, most important of all, you never learned how to cover your ass with ‘duck and cover’.”

“What, are ya feckin’ nuts? They ain’t coverin’ their arses, they’re stickin’ em straight up in the air.” Joey then says something under his breath in Gaelic and shakes his head.

“And that's exactly the point I wanted to make.” Bob becomes serious. “Marty will show you the proper way to ‘duck and cover’. First, you have to remain on your feet to be able to move.” Marty squats onto his heels next to Bob and shields his face and head with his arms. “At the same time, the bodyguard draws his weapon and shields the protectee like this.” Bob kneels on his right knee, pulling Marty into next to his body with his left hand. His right hand holds the weapon, and he is free to fire. “Now, we’ll demonstrate how to do it with a left-handed bodyguard.”

Bob now ‘ducks and covers’ and Marty is the bodyguard. Dad and Jennette are told that the decoy does the same and hides between the other four. The commands are: ‘Duck left; duck right; duck ahead, and duck back.’ We practice, and it goes remarkably well.

Jennette phones the administrative office at Westport to tell them that we’ll be about fifteen minutes late.

Bob smiles at Joey. “Think you might reconsider getting a television set?”

“Yeah, when you reconsider actually becomin’ white. There’s more to it than just a name, ya know.”

Bob lets out an explosive laugh and grabs Joey in a bear hug. “You are one cynical Leprachaun.”