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

Thirty-one

(Wednesday October 12th)

Since Bob doesn't like to sit in the front in our car, we put Raphaël in the passenger seat on the left-hand side and Bob in the back. Our drive down Main Street to the corner with the Nichols Fountain, where the Plaza actually starts is uneventful and emotionless. Brush Creek Boulevard and Van Brunt Extension are no problem. I’m not terribly sure how the rest of the jaunt will be.

When I turn off Van Brunt up 29th Street in direction of Greendale Baptist Church, Raph gives me a worried look.

“Where are we now?” Bob would like to know.

“That’s the Baptist Church I used to attend…”

“You went to a fucking Southern Baptist Church?” Bob sounds slightly aggressive, not knowing the whole story.

“He went there, so he could meet up with our buddy, Mack.” Raph starts to giggle but can control it. “That's where he and Mack got caught by the pastor's daughter sixty-nining under a pew on the balcony during a revival meeting.”

Bob’s laughter is shaking the car. “Now, that’s the Dan I know.”

“And that’s where they wouldn’t let Vicky, Dan and me in for Mack’s funeral. Something about their not approving of ‘queers, cocksuckers and coons’.” Raph’s laughter is contagious, so that I almost have to pull off the road.

As we drive up and down Topping, an unplanned street, which lays on the terrain the way nature put it there, and which has a strong similarity to a rollercoaster, I’m not sure how I’ll react to our spot at Blue Valley Park.

As we approach, Raph takes it upon himself to play guide. “Over there by the lake, is where Dan lost his cherry to Mack, where I smoked my first joint and where Dan told me that he’s queer.”

“Mack was your lover, Dan?” Bob is trying to piece everything together.

“Yeah, the one who fucked himself with a .38." I state matter-of-factly.

“And whose funeral they wouldn’t let you attend.” Bob laughs again. “And who was it, who called you a coon, Raph?”

“Mack Senior.” Raph purrs.

“And what did you do?” Bob is attributing way too much violent potential to my gentle Raphaël.

“Nothing.” Raph giggles. “But Dan, here, laid his ass out cold.”

“What did you do, Albee?” Bob pats my shoulder.

“A light tap to his left jugular pressure point in his neck and a quick kick to just above his right inside ankle bone, and down he went. Right into the arms of the minister.” I snort, suppressing a snicker. “But we did get the Hell out of there, when the escort cop started radioing for help."

“Shit. Where did you learn that?” Bob sobers. “That’s not the kinda stuff you learn in high-school wrestling.”

“At the Judo Academy over on Main.” Raphaël explains, reassuming his role as guide.

“That’s the place run by that Japanese Chiropractor?” Bob wonders. “Not far from our house?”

“That’s the one.” Raph confirms. Now, as we turn off Van Brunt onto 20th Street. Raph explains how I took out the captain of the Northeast High School’s wrestling team in front of East's library door for referring to him as something he shouldn’t have.

We turn left onto Quincy. When we cross 22nd Street, Bob wants to know what happened to 21st Street.

“Doesn’t exist.” I quip.

“It most certainly does.” Bob thinks I’m pulling his leg. “It’s right across from Lincoln High. That's where the Fur Burger lived.”

Raph comes to the rescue, when he stops laughing. “It ends over where I used to live. Somehow it got lost on this side of Mount Saint Mary's cemetery.”

As we approach the top of the Quincy hill at 23rd, I see that Mr. O’Connor has replaced the window on the landing and has the storm windows up everywhere. A 'For Rent' sign is attached to one of the pillars on his old front porch. He's obviously not afraid of ghosts.

“See the middle window, half way up, Bob.” Raph is pointing across my nose.

“Yeah.” Bob is almost prone on the back seat looking up.

“That’s the window through which Mack Senior’s body took to the air.” Raph sighs. “And the window here at the front. That’s the room Dan and I used every time I slept over. And that’s the room where Mildred and Bottemly caught us having an orgy with her husband and Marty.” Raph gurgles laughter.

“However, the first time I slept here, Mildred made us use khaki sheets and I was supposed to use a khaki-colored towel, because she thought my skin color would fade onto her linens.”

“And it that why you shot her, Albee?” Bob teases.

I put the car into gear and signal for a right onto 23rd. “One of the many reasons I had.” I laugh, honk and wave at Mr. O’Connor in the back yard but don’t stop. At Brighton I signal for a left and then turn right onto 24th.

“That’s Saint Monkey’s” Raph points to St. Michael’s Church. “And that’s the drugstore where Dan bought the enema bag.”

“The what?” Bob asks, apparently not having understood. “What’s that?”

“It’s a hot-water bottle you fill with warm water and glycerin.” Raph’s description is detailed. “Then you stick the nozzle of the hose up your--”

“--stop right there!” Bob has had enough information to get the idea. “Didn’t know you could get that kind of kinky shit on the East Side of Kansas City.”

We drive along 24th with my trying not to get the car’s tires stuck in the old streetcar tracks until we get to Ashland Elementary and Raph’s eyes light up. “This is where Dan saved my ass from a bunch of thugs, when we were in the second grade.”

Then approaching 24th and Jackson, I slow and stop across from the fire hydrant, because of the traffic sign requiring me to do so. Raph speaks without looking. "This is where Papa died."

“Shit.” is Bob’s comment. “Fucking white-trash cops.”

We make the jog in 24th and approach the corner of Norton. When Raph sees his old house, he brightens up, again. “See the front dormer window?”

“Yeah, I know; that was your room.” Bob laughs. “I helped you clear it out.”

“That’s right.” Raphaël agrees. “And it’s also where Dan popped my cherry."

“When was that exactly?” Bob wants to know, not revealing to Raphie that that was also where I licked his pussy.

“A week ago today.” Raph seems uncertain. “Or is it tomorrow, or was it yesterday? Shit, Bob, I don’t remember.”

“Nor is it important." I add bringing the car up to speed, driving down the on-ramp of I-70 traveling toward downtown and the exit at 13th and Harrison. “It’s not important when it happened; it’s important that it did happen and that it will happen again.”

“How do you think we’re doing for time, Dan?” Bob would like to know.

“It’s eleven-fifteen and we should be at 12th and Oak in about twenty-five minutes." I estimate since I know this stretch of road intimately from all the driving to and from the theatre. “Where’s the secure parking?”

“Directly behind the courthouse. Entrance is on Locust, a block before Oak, between 12th and 13th.” Bob says in his efficient manner of giving instructions. Then a bit more lighthearted: “Jennette must have pulled some serious strings. We’re in the judges’ parking. The attendant has your license number.”

“Jennette is definitely a good person to know.” I am perfectly aware that it sounds a bit trite, but it does come from the heart.

“I think her family’s real name speaks for itself.” Bob leaves it at that. “Are you nervous?”

“No. I’m excited in a good way.” I give it a thought. “It’s like opening night, when I know that everything is as good as it will ever get.” I give it some more thought. “But tell me, is Jennette related to William Volker?”

Bob gives me a sly, conspiratorial smile. “You’ll have to ask her about that.”

***

When we arrive at the courthouse, the attendant, dressed in a brown county-employees’ uniform, comes out of his glass and aluminum, flat-roofed hut and walks behind the car to check the license-plate number; he returns to his booth and lifts the barrier. We’re in.

We park next to Jennette’s car, where she’s talking to Dad and Martin. She looks at her watch and gives us the thumbs-up. We get out and secure the car, and Jennette walks up to Raphaël. “You got them here on time, exactly on the dot.”

Raph looks confused until he realizes that she thinks he drove. “I do my best.” He lets it slide without correction.

“Okay, Gentlemen, follow me.” We enter the courthouse through the back door. Jennette explains who she is, and that Judge Jenkins is expecting us.

The lobby has arched ceilings, reminiscent of pictures I’ve seen of Bavarian beer halls. The elevator doors are brass and the walls surrounding them are stone-clad. When we enter the elevator, Jennette smiles at Dad. “But I still want you to file for the name change again by deed poll, just in case we run into any complications.” Her voice is low.

“Do you anticipate any?” He whispers.

“You just never know.” The doors open; she exits.

The judge is a kind man, who warmly invites us into his office and rushes around to find several folding chairs, so we can all sit. He informally opens the conversation by explaining that any person may adopt any name they wish, just by declaring it to be so. However, for some official documents a court order could be necessary, and that he is not sure the British Government will recognize the change for Dad and me.

“I've phone Her Majesty’s Consul, Sir Richard Ashton, in this matter,” Dad lets this bombshell roll off his tongue as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Raph and I, however exchange glances, expressing extreme amazement. “and he seems to think that it will be recognized by the Home Secretary. However, Dr. Volker, advises us to proceed by deed poll pursuant to English common law, as well."

Wow, I’m impressed that we know aristocracy and that Dad knows the word 'pursuant’. And apparently I’m not the only one impressed by things.

Judge Jenkins smiles agreeably. “When I read your petitions, Jennette, I had to admit that I seldom see anything as complete and as water-tight as these. Particularly in the case of Mr. Bennett.”

Then Judge Jenkins addresses Marty directly. “Mr. Bennett, I have, of course read Dr. Volker’s petitions, and I would like you to know that, as a patriotic American, I am ashamed of what my country has done to you. If no one else ever will, let me thank you for your outstanding service to this country, and may you have a better life in your adopted homeland.

“So,” The judge smiles again. “let me be the first to address you as Mr. Mongrain-Bourke.” Then he looks at Jennette, still smiling and he adds a wink. “All petitions granted as submitted.” He hands her some papers and we leave. Ten minutes, max.

We’re standing in front of the elevator doors, again, when I ask Jennette about her relationship to William S. Volker.

Her laugh is loud enough to upset the guards down the hall. “Let me tell you about that at dinner, this evening.” The doors open; she enters.

The adoption proceedings are behind closed doors with only Marty, Dad and Jennette inside. And it takes even less time than did our name changes. I guess this judge didn’t apologize for his country. Although, by the looks of things, it went without a hitch.

“Are we now officially brothers?” I needn’t ask, but I think I should.

Marty’s face is still blushing about something. “Yeah. But it almost didn’t happen.” He laughs.

“What went wrong?” is the logical inquiry, but Raph beats me too it.

Jennette’s snickers. “When Chuck, uh, the judge addressed him as Mr. Mongrain-Bourke, he thought he was talking to Joseph."

I laugh but I haven’t even given my own name any thought, either. Wow, only slowly is it sinking in; the four of us all have the same name. Raph and I have the same name as Marty and Seph. I think Jennette is right, we are just short of flying off the planet.

“It’s not quite half-past twelve.” Jennette states, making everybody else look at his respective watch. That is, except for Dad, who isn’t wearing one. “The consulate opens at three. How about lunch. My treat.” Her expression turns devilish. "What do you say, Joseph, are you up for a fight?"

“Let’s hear it, first.” Dad gives her his Irish look.

“Want to see if they’ll let me into the Men’s Grill at Macy’s?” She gives off an impish snicker.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Raphaël expresses incredulity.

“As the name says, it’s for men only. Ladies are seated in the Tea Room.” Her jaw is clenched. This is obviously a civil-rights issue for her.

“Hold on. Is the food worth it?” My question is accompanied by my stomach’s growling. “Have any of you ever been there?”

Apparently not, since no one answers. I continue. “Let’s go to the Forum Cafeteria and leave this fight for another day, when we’re not so hungry. Anyway, do any of you really believe that some skinny waiter is going to refuse to seat five muscle-bound guys and their dyke lawyer?”

“Got a point there.” Jennette concedes. “But promise me, that we’ll try it soon?”

“You got it.” I promise and intend to keep it. The rest of the crew nods in agreement. By this time, we’ve attracted the attention of one of the guards, who is moving in our direction.

“Would you folks please move on?” Is his whispered question.

“Fuck you!” is Jennette’s not whispered response. “I’m conferring with clients.”

“Sorry, Ma’am.” The armed guard apologizes as he, himself, moves on.

***

Lunch at the Forum isn’t the greatest food in town, but it is good quality, and you get what you pay for. Their Chow Mein with the crispy noodles is my favorite, and Raph always gets their lamb stew. And so it was today.

Conversation revolves around Jennette’s fearlessness. After all, that armed guard, a member of the Jackson County Sheriff's Office, more than likely doesn’t get told to go fuck himself on a daily basis. Didn’t see a wedding ring, so I think it’s safe to assume that. Everyone is duly impressed, and that’s probably the reason Jennette said it.

Slowly, I’m coming to the realization that intestinal fortitude actually becomes ridiculous at some point. Going through life in attack mode, be it your professional or your private life, is futile in the long term. It doesn’t make life worth living; it just wears you out. And between the two of them, Jennette and the sheriff’s deputy, I think the deputy handled the situation the best.

It’s like if someone calls me a faggot; my two major options would to be to bust their chops or laugh at them. Last week, I would have chosen the former; now, it would definitely be the latter. I’m amazed at how fundamental things can and do change in the narrow space of one week.

My best friend has become my lover, my brother, and for all intents and purposes my husband, since we now have the same surname, all within the space of one week. I think I’ll see if Raph wants to get wedding bands.

“What do you think, Dan.” Seph asks in a jovial tone.

“Sorry, Dad.” I try to snap out of my daydreaming, but I’m not really sure I want to. “I was lost in space. I didn’t get what you’re talking about.”

“Whether we should have a catering service deliver dinner this evening, or go out to a restaurant. We’re celebrating tonight.” Raph saves the day.

‘”Uh, catering service and eat at your place.” I decide, since they’re asking. “I love your carriage house. It’s so, uh, homey.”

“All right. Settled.” Seph pockets the card Jennette just gave him. “Can they deliver at short notice?” he asks her.

“That’s their specialty.” She seems thrilled about Dad using the caterers she suggested. “They deliver, set the table, serve, and then come back to clean everything up. And. they’re clan.”

“They’re what?” Bob’s deep voice intonates a mix of disbelief and aggression.

“Clan, family.” She lowers her voice. “Queers.”

“That’s better.” Bob takes a swig of iced tea to settle his nerves, still glaring at her, but relieved that she is not talking about the KKK. “Thought they’d be showing up in bed sheets.”

I snicker at the visual image, and look at my watch. “If we’re going to make it by three, we’d better be going."

***

As we did from the garage at the Municipal Auditorium to the Forum Cafeteria on Main Street, we walk in formation over to the consulate. And as he did the last time, Richard is waiting patiently in the lobby of the office building.

“Hullo." Richard sort of waves at the group. "This way, please." He opens the elevator with a key. He grins at Raph and me. "This was out of order the last time you were here."

“Why didn’t you tell us that you have a knighthood?” Raph lets the cat out of the bag.

Richard scolds us with clicks of his tongue. “The ink’s not dry on the document, and it won’t be official until Christmas. Uh, who told you?” We look at Dad. “I might have guessed.”

Richard goes behind the counter to get things organized. “All right. We’ll try to get all the bureaucracy out of the way, first. Raph and Dan, here are your passports.” He holds up two navy-blue booklets. “You’ll have to sign them in my presence. And Daniel, we’ll have to have your new name entered.” He stops to think. “However, in view of the rather delicate relationship between you and Raphaël, I would suggest that we leave it as is and have your new name put in your new passport, which will be issued in London.”

“Any reason in particular?” I ask.

“For your own safety.” Richard clears his throat. “If border officials see a name change, they may start to ask questions, that you wouldn’t want to answer.” He then says teasingly. “Besides, it saves me a lot of paperwork. Anyway, here you go.”

He hands us the booklets. They are navy blue with the gold lion and unicorn seal in the middle of the cover. Above the seal it says: ‘British Passport’ and under the seal, it reads: ‘United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’. Above the lettering: ‘British Passport’ on mine there is a window with rounded edges on each end that has a handwritten insert in it that says: ‘Mr. D. A. Bourke’. On Raph’s, it says: ‘Mr. Y.-R. Mongrain-Bourke". At the bottom, below where it says: ‘United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’ there is another window, identical to the one at the top, which has our passport numbers in it.

“Please, sign where it says: ‘Signature’.” He watches us. “Brilliant, now, you’re ready to go.”

We take our passports over to the corner and compare them. Raph is in a daze. “I’ve never seen a passport before.” He takes mine to inspect. “I think I might faint.” I pull him over to the large chairs and set him down. He looks through the pages and stops at page five. “Have you seen this?”

I take my own passport back and compare his page five. It’s a visa to re-enter the United States for a dependent child. “Wow. We can get back in, if we leave.” I laugh.

Dad overhears me and comes over. “Our permanent residence is in Brighton. Therefore, the United States is considering both of you as foreigners, since your first issued passport is the one of your other nationality and your country of residence is outside the US. The visa is valid until you are 21, at which time you’ll have to choose which citizenship you’ll keep.”

“Joseph,” Richard is calling him. “can you come here please.”

Dad goes over to witness the ceremony. Richard instructs Marty just to raise his right hand since “Yves-Raphaël tried to use our guest book, instead of the Bible.” The group turns to grin at Raph. Predictably, he blushes. “All right, then, repeat after me.

”I, Martin George Mortimer Maurice Mongrain-Bourke, do solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that, on becoming a citizen of the United Kingdom and Colonies, I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, Her Heirs and Successors according to law.”

“Isn’t there any: ‘so help me god’?” Martin asks.

“Not necessary,” Richard quips. “He trusts us.” Now, that causes great guffaws among those present. “That’s why we don’t have to put ‘in god we trust’ on our currency.” Another round of laughter.

“Now, we get to your passport pictures and application.” He pulls out the papers. “They have to be countersigned by two people, who have known you for at least five years."

“Okay. That would be Bob and Joseph.” Raph and I exchange confused glances. Then a light goes on.

Richard seems worried. “Afraid, Joseph can’t. He’s your father. A couple of hours ago he could have signed, but not now.”

“I’ll do it.” Jennette volunteers. “I’ve known Martin directly and indirectly for over five years.”

Heads swivel, and Marty looks shocked but sounds incensed. "Did you work for the Army Security Agency?"

“No.” Jennette is adamant. “Does the name, Captain Jerome Marx, mean anything to you?”

“Yeah.” Marty only still looks shocked; his voice has soothed. “He was the JAG officer, who kept me out of Leavenworth.”

“He’s my brother.” Jennette says quietly. “And he used me in an advisory capacity to work the angles to keep you from being court-marshaled under Article 125." She turns to Richard. "Does that count?"

“Most certainly.” He gives Jennette the passport application and pictures to sign. Richard hands the pen to Bob and points to the space. “Right here, please.”

“So, Martin,” Richard puts his application into an envelope. “here’s the difficult part. Since you have passed the age of majority you are required to renounce your American citizenship within ninety days in front of an American Consular officer, outside of the United States, before you will be able to collect your British passport.

“You would do this preferably in England,” He continues. “since that is now your country of residence and preferably at the American Embassy in London, since it's basically just on the other side of Buckingham Palace from Petty France, where you’ll collect your passport.”

“I can show him where to go.” Joseph spouts knowingly.

Richard chuckles. “No, Joseph, the American Embassy has moved since the revolution.”

Now, that gets roars of laughter. Richard waits patiently, looking somewhat like Jack Benny, for the ballyhoo to settle. “God, you people really do think you’re the centre of the universe.” He clucks his tongue. “I was referring to the Irish revolution, which is the important one here, because that was when Joseph applied at the American Embassy for immigration.” How just one statement of fact can make a whole group of people feel as if they’d all just shat in the punchbowl. “It’s now on Grosvenor Square, opened just a few years back in 1960, I believe.”

“You’re right.” Joseph shakes his head. “The one I knew was at Grosvenor Gardens, near Victoria Station.” The rest of us are quiet as mice. “That would have been much more convenient coming up from Brighton.”

“So, young Martin,” Richard’s voice becomes less official. "do you have a valid American passport?"

“Yes, it’s valid for another 14 months.” Marty is slowly shifting his weight from one leg to the other, which he does, when he has a question, he’s afraid to ask.

“Although it is technically now invalid, since you have already taken the oath of allegiance to the Queen,” Richard puts his hand on Marty’s arm to quiet him. “no one will stop you from using it to leave this country, which is only a formality, a cursory check at the airport.” Richard pulls out another envelope and extracts a paperbound booklet.

“Here’s why I had to meet Joseph on the Plaza to bring me your old picture yesterday. This is a laissez-passer, valid for ninety days, with which you can enter Britain. Or you can use your American passport, which I wouldn’t advise, since it could be stamped, giving the Yanks more information than they need, when you have to surrender it at the embassy. You seem to have a question, Martin.”

Marty’s voice is low, but I can still understand him. “Do you have any idea what a mhuirnín means?”

“Ah, Laddie,” Richard looks as if he’s about to cuddle Marty. “does Joseph call you that?” Richard has to wipe his eyes, suddenly. “That’s what my grandfather used to call me.” He wipes his eyes, again. “Sorry Martin.” He sniffs. “There’s, uh, really no English translation for it. The closest you can get would be ‘sweetheart’ or ‘precious love.”

“Both apply.” Seph says curtly. “Don’t forget to sign your laissez-passer, Son.”

“Joseph Alexander,” Richard scolds. “níl féidir a leithéid de faobhar! Is breá an fear agat.”

“Ná bí ag caint, ag cac francach Uladh!” Seph shoots back.

“Wow, what was that?” Bob seems more than impressed.

My bet is that none of them have ever heard anything like it. But by the way they're grinning, they think it sounds neat, if not downright cool. Then I remember the one sentence Dad taught me in Irish as a kid. So, I add my two pence, as it were: “Níl sé dea-bhéasach, nuair nach féidir le daoine eile a thuiscint.” which means that it isn’t nice to talk, when others don’t understand your language.

My Raph looks as if I’d just produced a hat from which I’ll eventually pull the proverbial rabbit. Marty just looks stressed, but is grinning. Bob is still wondering what language we're using. And the ever efficient Jennette is sorting out carbon copies of the name-changes and adoption documents for Richard's files.

“How much of what we just said, did you really understand, Daniel?” Richard's face goes into full bloom, even though he’s trying to play it down. Even the scalp under his full grey hair is glowing red, making his hair turn sort of pink. So, it must be very off color.

I’ve got ‘em. Now, here comes my full-blown bluff, just a wild guess, knowing how both like calling each other names. “Something about Seph being a prick.” Their respective jaws drop. Fucking bingo! “Uh, Bob, it’s Munster or Ulster Irish or sometimes they pretend it to be Scottish Gàidhlig, depending upon which one of the two you’re asking.”

“Quite right.” Richard is struggling to regain composure. “Uh, Joseph, did you change anything other than Bourke to Mongrain-Bourke?”

“No.” Dad says, still glaring at me.

“Joseph Alexander Mongrain-Bourke does have a nice ring to it." Richard looks over the top of his glasses. "Did my secretary spell your name correctly on the deed poll application?"

Seph looks at it closely. “That’s right.”

“Then it’s ‘Joseph Alexandre’, is it?” Richard pronounces it with a standard British school accent, making it sound like Margret Rutherford imitating Brigitte Bardot. “With the French spelling, is it?” Richard is rechecking all the documents.

“That’s right.” Seph’s voice loses volume. “My mother was a first-generation French MacDonald.”

I know that the woman, who once owned the table cloth, was born a MacDonald. But it obviously means much more to Richard than it does to me.

“You are named after Etienne-Jacques-Joseph-Alexandre MacDonald, Duc de Tarente?”

Dad nods but shushes Richard.

Richard is now speaking through gritted teeth in a whisper. “And you’re carrying on about my bloody knighthood, while you’re related to Napoleon’s fecking’ maréchal d'Empire, not to mention the Pairie de France and then Duc et pair under the Bourbon restoration?

“You’re probably somewhere in line for the bleedin’ Frog throne. No wonder you speak French, like you do. And now, you’ve got a double-barreled name. What’r’ya like, Joseph?”

“Keep it down.” Dad seems more embarrassed than angry, but is still giving me an odd look now and again. “And how do you know so much about the bleedin’ MacDonalds?”

“I’m a fucking Scot by descent, you twit. We all know that it was Flora MacDonald who helped get Bonnie Prince Charlie over to France.”

“Let’s talk about this another time, shall we?” Seph looks around at everyone eavesdropping. “My nerves are in tatters.”

“We shall indeed talk about this later, Jacques.” Richard laughs self-indulgently and turns to Jennette, as he pulls out some paper and hands her a pen.

“Uh, Dr. Volker, may I invite you to be a consultant to Her Majesty’s Government?” Richard still has a stern gaze on Dad. “We could use some legal brilliance of your calibre. Your retainer would be £ 500 per month.”

“Which would be how much in US dollars?” She is still sorting papers and is not looking at Richard.

“At the average current rate of exchange,” Richard is jotting on a piece of scratch paper. “hmm, somewhere in the vicinity of $ 1,250 per month, give or take.”

That gets Jennette’s undivided attention. “It would be an honor to represent Her Majesty’s Government.” Then she reads through the contract, he’d handed her, and says under her breath: “Shit, for this, I’ll even live here at the office.”

“No need for that. But we would appreciate your getting a separate phone line installed for us.” Richard’s voice is more of a stage whisper

“That goes without saying.” Jennette signs the contract.

“So,” Richard gets our attention. “do you have any more questions before we have to close shop for the day?”

“Yeah.” I raise my hand and then retract it, when I remember that we’re not in school. “What’s this little slip of paper pasted into the back of our passports?”

“That’s your foreign exchange record. You are allowed to take £ 50 Sterling out of Britain every year. We have currency restrictions, you know?” Richard seems to interpret my frown correctly. “Oh, you didn’t know. But you may pay with cheque or credit card, when you’re outside the country.” When my frown doesn’t subside, he continues. “Or, do as all our other compatriots do, keep your money in our lovely, mountainous piggy bank, Switzerland. I can also recommend their chocolate.”

***

Walking in formation on our way back to the underground garage at the Municipal Auditorium, I feel mentally drained but full of nervous energy. Raphaël is scanning the buildings as is our job but keeps glancing at his new passport, which has the same smell of adventure as does a new Penguin book. He has a death grip on it and refuses, as Dad, Jennette and Bob have all suggested, to put it into his inside jacket pocket. Marty, Bob and Jennette are working silently, scanning the pedestrians and cars.

As we approach the entrance to the underground bunker-like building on 13th Street, Jennette has her head turned. “Black Lincoln approaching slowly from Wyandotte; could be a drive-by.”

Marty and Bob casually draw their handguns. The car speeds up a little and passes us. A man with a beer can in his right hand, gawking at us out of the passenger window, ducks and tells the driver to hurry up when Marty aims his weapon.

“Hey, Pal,” Bob’s deep voice is soothing, as he grins at Marty. “that sure as shittin’ always does the trick, doesn’t it?”

“Can’t say that I’m going to miss any of this crap.” Marty runs his free hand across Seph’s buzz cut. “C’mon, let’s get in off the street.”