Date: Sun, 25 Aug 2019 23:55:46 -0500
From: Eric Trager <trager2275@gmail.com>
Subject: It Is What It Is - Chapter 65 (Revised)

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Email feedback can be sent to trager2275@gmail.com. © 2015 by Eric
Trager.

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*** I know that this chapter has been a long time in coming. I'd like to
thank all the loyal readers who have stuck with me. I hope that this
chapter will have been worth the wait! :-)

NOTE: This is a revision to Chapter 65 that had been uploaded
previously. There were several material errors in the initial version of
the chapter that was uploaded which are now corrected. I was not pleaed
with that. ET





CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE



The next day, Sean concluded his business with Wilhelm von Hohenzollern at
Burg Hohenzollern. As Ginny warned, Wilhelm was both bombastic and
overbearing.

Sean was his usual unflappable self, making sure to behave toward his host
in a way that to Americans would seem to be almost over-solicitous in
acknowledging the hospitality shown to him which, while certainly
first-class, was nevertheless typically teutonically stifling. In addition,
Sean found the meals with all their heavy sauces to be excruciating. And he
didn't care if he would ever see sauerkraut again in his life.

But he satisfied himself that, at least, he was able to steer the
negotiations to what he was sure would be seen as a successful conclusion
once he got back to Janesville. It had got down to the point where Wilhelm
demanded that the amount be negotiated in Deutsche Marks and was nonplussed
when Sean reminded him that the Deutsche Mark hadn't existed as a currency
since 2002. Sean even volunteered to do the deal in Euros but was dismissed
by Wilhelm with an insulting wave of the hand.

Sean stifled an eyeroll and finally won the argument when he asked at what
exchange rate the dead Deutsche Mark would trade in today's market. He
suggested that if the Wilhelm didn't want dollars and Sean couldn't accept
dealing in a currency that didn't exist, then the deal could be done in
British Gold Sovereigns as a half-way point.

The deal finally arrived at was for 425,000 U.S. Dollars value in British
Gold Sovereigns to be deposited within 14 days at the Deutsche Bundesbank*
in Frankfurt. Sean initially hadn't wanted to pay more than $350,000 but he
ended up far closer to his amount than Wilhelm did to his.


Wilhelm initially wanted several million dollars, but when Sean laughed and
replied that in that case he wouldn't have made the trip had he known there
wasn't to be a serious negotiation things settled down after another
suitably boring and meaningless lecture from Wilhelm.

Finally, Sean, having had enough, laid it on the line.

"Look, Wilhelm, let's cut to the chase here. I didn't come all the way over
here just to listen to all this crap about how things were a hundred years
ago. Neither one of us was alive then, anyway. So, it doesn't matter. And I
honestly couldn't give two shits less. Sorry to put it that way but I
don't. We both know none of this stuff can be quantified so let's just get
on with it and get to a bottom line here. If we can. Anyway, at the nearest
I can figure it and valued as it was at the time," Sean said, knowing that
he was low-balling it, "we're talking about a quarter of a million here..."

"Ja, aber..." [Yes, but...]

"There's no buts here, Wilhelm. We settle it now or never. And I don't see
where we've got a lot to talk about here. I didn't come all this way to
talk about the weather so maybe I should probably head back home. Now, as
much as I don't think it's the end of the world because I don't think much
of the EU, some of my associates seem to think that we need to have some
entry point into Europe in case your EU and the British make a shit show
out of Brexit. Which I'm convinced that you probably will. None of you
people could negotiate your way out of a fucking paper bag and your
governments are leaving it all to third-rate political hacks. It's going to
be a cluster-fuck and in the end the British will get tired of it and just
leave. Now, I know you can't stand the British and that's fine but I also
think it's fair to say that as tedious as you Germans can be, I'd rather
deal with you than the French if we must have a foot in the EU.  I wouldn't
trust the French farther than I can urinate. And I'm sure you can at least
understand THAT..."

"Ach! Die Franzosen!" Wilhelm said, rolling his eyes. "Ja, das stimmt..."
[Ach! The French! Yes, that's true...]

Finally sensing he was getting somewhere, Sean got on with it.

"So, how much did you REALLY think you were gonna get and don't bullshit me
again or I walk."

Wilhelm indicated that he wanted the ridiculous number of seven-hundred-and
seventy-seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-seven dollars. In
addition to promises to assist the Hohenzollerns in their quest to restore
the German monarchy.

"So, that's $777,777," Sean smirked. "Are you sure you don't want 77 cents
on the end of that, too? You know, just to make it even?"

Wilhelm was, as Sean could plainly see, growing incandescent at the much
younger man opposite him not only being a tough negotiator who knew he had
the upper hand, but also at Sean's unvarnished impudence. Wilhelm was not
at all used to that.

"Look, Wilhelm, I'm gonna tell ya how this is gonna go and then we can both
get on with our lives. When I came here, I figured at the most, and I DO
MEAN at the most, I'd be willing to part with is 425,000 U.S. dollars. I
really didn't want to go over 350 but I figured I'd go 425 if I had to do
it just to get it behind me. That's it. Not a penny more. Between men like
you and me that's chicken feed. And we will agree that IF things in your
country come to such a pass that a restoration of the monarchy seems more
likely than not that we'll help you out BEHIND THE SCENES and even then
only once we withdraw any money we hold in interests in your country, which
right now isn't much, in order to reduce our risk of being exposed to
German political issues. That's as far as I'm gonna go.

"That's it. Take it or leave it. And there will be nothing memorializing
this meeting in writing which I am sure you don't want, either."

Wilhelm sat speechless, but also puffed up by Sean's "between men like you
and me" comment. Ginny schooled Sean well on how to butter up Germans.

"Well, I guess we don't have an agreement then," Sean said. "I'll be
leaving now and heading back home in the morning," Sean said rising from
his chair and extending his hand to Wilhelm.

"Warten Sie, bitte. Vielleicht hab' ich falsch eingeschätzt..." [Please
wait. Perhaps I misjudged...]

"So, we have an agreement then?"

"Nicht die Vereinbarung die ich gerne gehabt hätte, aber ja!" [Not the
agreement I would have liked, but yes!] Wilhelm answered resignedly.

"Look, Wilhelm, I'm sorry if I was a bit to-the-point, but I didn't see any
reason for dragging this out any longer. Do you? Besides, I have a husband
and four young kids at home who need my attention. I'm sure you
understand."

"Was überraschend ist, daß Sie deutsch verstehen." [What's surprising
is that you understand German.]

"Nicht schwer," Sean smirked. [Not difficult.] "And besides, I was speaking
English in my Midwestern American accent which you understood, so we're
even."

At that Wilhelm let out a hearty laugh. "Schnapps?" he asked.

"Don't mind if I do," Sean said in a mock W.C. Fields tone. "And if you
have an ashtray that would be nice," he said with another smirk, and a
wink, brandishing a pack of Camel straights.

Wilhelm snapped his fingers, calling a servant, which elicited an internal
eyeroll and chuckle from Sean.

"Es war gut daß wir einen Deal machen können." [It was good that we
could make a deal.]

"That's what I came here for. Now let's not do anything to wreck it because
I want you to understand that I now consider the matter closed and I won't
reopen it. It's a deal between to gentleman."

"Ja! Geschlossen! Wir haben ein Gentlemansvereinbarung!" Fritz answered,
although somewhat condescendingly, raising his glass to Sean. [Yes! Closed!
We have a gentleman's agreement!]

On the way back to Janesville, Sean reduced the meeting to writing for his
own records, glad to have it over. He filed it away in a paper folder and
locked it away in his briefcase. Sean kept nothing in the way of meeting
records on a computer and never communicated electronically regarding them.

He knew there would be many such meetings to come with many such
people. He'd win some and others he'd lose over the years. He knew
that. But for now, at least he was on his way home.



**********



Sean put down his pen. That meeting was twenty-three years ago. He felt he
still had a lot more to say. A lot more that he needed to say. The almost
forty-three years of his life had passed by in some ways so quickly.

And somewhere down inside he felt that what he needed to say the most he
couldn't dare go near.

So, he decided to pick his pen back up and write about other things that
happened in the intervening time.

He did most of his writing in his glass-windowed office in a series of
adjoining buildings downtown that he converted into a museum open to the
public which housed his personal automobile collection. [Sean's car
collection is detailed at the end of the chapter] Over the years he'd made
some significant automotive purchases, all of which were meticulously and
exactingly restored in-house by his staff of mechanics, body men, and
upholsters. All were restored to pristine original condition with the
exception of three of the vehicles which were resto-mods and while the
bodies and interiors were impeccably returned to factory-correct condition,
those three cars rode upon modern chassis, suspension and brake systems,
and with thoroughly updated powertrains, one of which was all-electric.

All the cars were driven to keep them in running form. It was one of Sean's
favorite things to do to come down on a Saturday morning and have local
kids queue up for rides. He didn't charge them a dime. He'd do it for an
hour-and-a-half, or two hours. The ones who didn't get a ride were given
special tickets to go to the head of the line next week. Every year for the
Labor Day Parade, Sean selected a car to drive in the parade taking as
passengers one athlete each selected from Craig and Parker High School. He
also rented out the limousines, although very selectively, for special
functions. It was a source both of great interest and pride to Sean.

Many an evening he'd spent in his office writing. And too many times he'd
made too much of a dent in a 750ml bottle of brandy. More than once Sean
woke up in the morning having no idea what he'd written the night
before. Sometimes he didn't remember getting home.  Sometimes he didn't get
home.

He knew he had a problem, but it wasn't alcohol. He thought to himself that
it wasn't quite as bad now as it had been, but it haunted him
nonetheless. It robbed him of what he remembered life once was. He felt
soulless. Empty.

He poured himself three fingers of brandy, not the first three fingers of
the evening, and once again, began to write. He let his mind wander, but
again couldn't face what he knew he needed to face.

The first thing that came to his mind was his four boys. They hadn't been
boys for many years now he had to admit. The twins were almost 27, T.J. was
25 and Scott 24. They had all been good boys for the most part when they
were growing up.

They were good students in school, all four graduating from Craig High
School with honors. All four had played sports. The twins through their
boyhoods grew like weeds as they had when they were toddlers. Once grown,
they towered over their father, both at 6'5" and all through their high
school careers were the stars of the basketball team, helping to bring home
state championships in their junior and senior years.

Studious to a fault, the twins lead their class academically although at
the end they were just edged out by a fellow student for the Valedictorian
slot. They were quiet boys, known to be a little aloof and eccentric, and
they kept mostly to themselves. While not unfriendly and generally
well-enough liked by their classmates, neither one of them had many
friends, if any at all, and certainly no close friends. There were
basketball teammates and school classmates but that was about it. Neither
did they go in much for typical school social events.

Now, in their late 20's the twins were the spitting image of their father
when he had been a young man, although taller and lankier, and lacking
Sean's supple musculature.

It was harder for Andy and Sean to know how T.J. would turn out since he
was adopted and there wasn't much beyond the thinnest biological parental
information to go on, but as a child he was cheerful and biddable, always
eager to please. There was a difficult time in his early teens, about
thirteen or so, when he was angry at the world having been adopted, telling
his family that he didn't fit in and wished he was somewhere else. When
told that his was an open adoption and he would be free to make
arrangements to meet his birth parents should they be agreeable once he
turned sixteen, that did not seem to placate him. He went through a period
of some months being moody, sulky, and disagreeable. When a friend of his
from school suggested he might need to "see a shrink" he snapped out of it
pretty quickly, rounding on his friend that he "wasn't some kind of a
freak." He apologized to the rest of the family, tears in his eyes, and
told them that he knew he was the luckiest kid around.

T.J. proved to be, if anything, the quickest student out of the four
boys. He rarely brought homework home from school and still pulled down
almost all straight A's. Learning seemed to come effortlessly for him. He
had a photographic memory. He was also the shortest of the four, at an even
six feet, or maybe an inch less. But he had a more robust build than his
brothers and was a starting running back on the football team as well as a
sprinter on the track team in the Spring. Far less geeky than the twins,
and with his sparkling, outgoing personality, T.J. counted many friends and
was every inch the ladies' man.

That left Scott. Scott was a typical youngest child. A bit indulged and one
could fairly say a little bit spoiled. He grew to be a tall young man, at
6'2" almost the same height and build as his father. And like his father
and the twins, Scott exhibited the classic Branson looks: angular face,
bright blue eyes, and blonde hair. He was the most rambunctious of the four
and once or twice got into typical teenage trouble like the time he
staggered home quite drunk from an after-game party as a 16-year-old
Sophomore at Craig and threw up all over the bar at the Alamo. Sean didn't
rub it in when the next day the mess was discovered and Scott, extremely
contritely, spent a couple hours cleaning up after himself although Sean
did run out and came back with a Hurley t-shirt that he made Scott wear for
the rest of the day. While an honors student like his older brothers,
unlike T.J. it required some bit of work on his part, and academically
Scott worked to a standard he called "good enough." He knew what it would
take to make honors, and he did "good enough" to make it, he knew what it
would take to get into college and he did "good enough" to get there. Like
his father, he was a natural athlete and had been the football team's
starting quarterback. Like his father, as a Senior he'd won a Conference
championship (but not State) and like T.J. he had no shortage of girls
wanting to date him. A few of them he dropped when they referred to his
eldest twin brothers as being "weird." To Scott, they were his big brothers
and they could do no wrong. Anyone who had anything against them he wanted
nothing to do with and that was that. He would drop them like a hot
potato. It was almost a replay of the relationship between David and Kevin
Dickson.

And then there were the cousins. John and Kathleen had their children in
rapid succession. Six pregnancies resulting in seven children born over the
course of nine years.

The first were the twins, Victoria Rosemary and John Joseph both now 25,
then came Virginia Kathleen, 24, Christian Andrew, 22, Patrick Sean, 21,
Bradley Richard, 19, and as a surprise a couple years after J.R. had got a
vasectomy there came the last little girl, Margaret Mary, now 16 years old.

Their children filled the old Kennedy home on Saint Lawrence Avenue with
joy and raucous laughter. A quiet home it was not. Taking after their
parents, all the children were highly intelligent and fiercely competitive
in whatever areas they chose to excel.

Looks-wise, their kids were a mixed bag. All the girls took after Kathleen
being fair- complected and with wavy red, or reddish-brown hair. The three
eldest boys took after John, being of slightly less-than-average height at
5'9" and having darker coloring. The youngest son, Bradley, joined his
sisters in exhibiting the Kennedy side's Irish looks although with hazel
eyes and medium brown hair. At 6'3" and 200 pounds, even though only 19
years old, Bradley had inherited the Kennedy height and sturdy build
obviously from his grandfather, the late and unlamented Bill
Kennedy. Unlike Bill Kennedy, Bradley was a cheerful boy and the favorite
of his Grandmother Rose.

Their family size being what it was, J.R. and Kathleen bought and took over
the old Trager home on the Rock River north of town for use as a Summer
home. They could easily afford it because J.R.'s training in Agronomy at
UW-Madison afforded him the knowledge and with time and experience, and
with heavy backing from Sean and the rest of the Consortium, the
opportunity to build the largest golf course construction and maintenance
company in the Midwest whose clients included courses that had hosted such
tournaments as the U.S. Open.  Weekends at the old Trager house could have
been a somewhat less grand replay of the 1930's Kennedy years at
Hyannisport.

Kathleen took some years off to raise her brood to an age where they didn't
need constant mothering anymore, and then she fulfilled her ambition by
acquiring her own college education at University of Wisconsin-Madison. As
time had gone by, it was no longer necessary for students to attend
lectures as, other than laboratory classes, straight lectures could be
streamed to video and saved. So, she completed most of her education from
home only having to appear on campus for some labs, or to sit for
exams. During those times she might be gone for a day or two and then would
stay at a hotel in Madison preferring the old Edgewater Hotel where Brett
and George Dickson had met for lunch that day years ago. When Kathleen was
gone, Rosemary would stay in the apartment over the garage and look after
all the kids. Her grandchildren loved her dearly. They called her
"shwamee."

When learning to talk, Christian couldn't pronounce "grandma." It came out
"shwamee" and the nickname stuck.

Kathleen completed, on time, her PhD in Psychology as well as an MD
allowing her to be a Psychiatrist. She had a private practice affiliated
with Mercy Hospital located downtown in the same building on Main Street
that Joe Wyman had bought years ago and still owned. She occupied both
storefronts. Of her paying clientele, for she did accept charity cases,
there were a few members of Janesville's elite families who desired
discretion. Kathleen had both the name and the social standing to provide
that discretion, never mind that some people in town still looked askance
at her for having married "that adopted Mexican." She didn't care what they
thought and they knew it. Besides, she had the money on her own to have
Sean and Andy's adjoining building to the north of her office modified in
such a way that certain clients who could pay for discretion could enter
through a hidden rear entrance to that building which was in the alley and
that led through an underground passageway to Kathleen's office upstairs
and next door. No place else offered that level of privacy. Kathleen used
the fact that they took advantage of that and paid for it as a part of her
therapy.

"I didn't hide it in High School when I fell in love with Johnny, married
him, and bore him seven kids who I love all, so we need to face issues
whether they're real or not and we need to explore if they're real or not,"
she told more than one of them. "I had a sister with a checkered past of
her own doing, and I watched it all happen so I'm no prude or Rube about
how the real-world works. I get how human beings operate," she would
add. Her clients, no matter what they thought otherwise, loved her for her
down-to-earth reality.

Kathleen was a consummate professional and never divulged client-patient
information to anyone, but by the same token a time or two she did glean
certain business information oblique to her patients' treatment that she
felt she would be amiss for not sharing even if masked somewhat -
more-or-less hinted at - and never mentioning names but going as far as she
could go otherwise over pillow talk with her husband. It was a perk of the
job and she thought "so what?"

After all, J.R. was her husband and his interests were her interests. They
operated as a team.  He was Johnny and she was Kath. Behind their backs
some of the less charitable people in town referred to them as "Victoria
and Albert" recalling the young English Queen who in 1840 deigned to marry
the threadbare German Prince.

John was aware of what other people thought, too, but given his drive and
that old chip on his shoulder, he merely redoubled his efforts to push
ahead and be successful in his own right.  And he was. He was featured on
the cover of Golf Digest magazine for his stunning golf course designs and
the impeccable maintenance and playability of the courses. He won an award
for the Best New Golf Course of the Year in 2027 for a course erected on
the banks of the Rock River on the grounds of the old General Motors plant
when GM decided to close it and build a new plant on the outskirts of
town. It was a championship-level course complete with a four- star hotel
and casino and featuring a winding man-made stream diverted from the main
channel of the Rock River that flowed through the course. When mature, it
promised to be a certain venue for major PGA tournaments.

Joe Wyman had retired a few years before the GM plant relocated to a new
facility on the edge of town. He'd run a successful operation all those
years and was rewarded accordingly by GM upon his retirement for making
profitable what most in the company saw as an outdated, useless white
elephant to be got rid of. Not wanting to spend all his time in Wisconsin
anymore, Joe purchased Ginny's Miami Beach condominium and was spending
probably eight or nine months of the year as a Florida resident.

As Andy had suspected earlier, there indeed had been a romance between Joe
and Mrs.  Cheadle. She married Joe once Scott turned ten years old. Even
now in their twenties, the boys revered their old nanny. She might insist
on being called Gran now, but to them she would always be their beloved
Mrs. Cheadle. If one listened carefully, with all four boys, one could
detect traces of a British accent and word choices here and there. Very few
American young men, for example, used expressions such as "bollocks!" or
"bugger me!" or said "Ta!"  for "good-bye."

Sean reflected on his four very different sons at their present points in
their lives. The Twins always stayed close to themselves from the time they
were born. They had that unbreakable bond. Maybe too much so, Sean had
always thought, but they came into the world under duress, were well enough
behaved children when he was a very young father with the aid of a nanny,
they always did well in school, wanted to please their fathers and never
got into trouble. They were every parent's dream. Except for one thing,
Sean sometimes thought. They never seemed to form real friendships with
other kids whether boys or girls. They operated as one person in two
bodies. It was a battle Sean and Andy chose not to fight.

After college at the Marquette University College of Business
Administration in Milwaukee where they both finished double-majors as
undergrads in Mathematics and Finance, and both obtained MBAs in
International Finance, finishing it all in five years and graduating Summa
Cum Laude, they returned to Janesville talking up residence in the
apartment over the garage at the Alamo.

The twins started a business which they located in a small rented office in
the old Parker Pen building on Court Street where they concentrated on
international currency exchange. They had their own money that had been
gifted to them with which to start the business and after a little while
they came to manage all international currency transactions for both the
Consortium, Saeth Construction, and other customers some of whom wished the
utmost in discretion and about whom they were.

They proved their worth a year prior, years after Sean's meeting with
Wilhelm, by seeing in advance what no one else in the markets saw. They
foresaw the collapse of the Euro by

Germany announcing without warning that their currency was to revert to the
Deutsche Mark.  In the weeks prior to that announcement, the Euro had been
gaining against the British pound and the dollar. The market was saying
that there was still more upside for the Euro, but 48 hours before the
German government made their announcement the twins sold all their Euro
denominated holdings and currency, dumping the money into dollars and
pounds. They were proven right when in order to halt a market panic the
Federal Reserve Bank and the Bank of England had to conduct massive market
interventions in order to avoid a global recession. This caused a sharp run
up in the value of dollars and sterling. Joey and Lennie then sold a large
portion of their British pounds for dollars when they felt that the pound
had exceeded a sustainable exchange rate against the dollar. The profits
they put into gold which had to the surprise of everyone remained steady
through the crisis.

What floored the twins was that they managed to pull it all off without
attracting the attention of the financial press or any governments whether
state, local, or foreign, or really any attention at all. The wisdom of
being in a small, backwater town and conducting operations through multiple
small shell companies located here and there and not always in the United
States was not lost on them. In this instance, neither was their connection
to Burg Hohenzollern, thanks to their father, lost on them. Yes, the
reality was that they had a bit of a tip, but it wasn't ironclad by any
means at all, and in the end they banked on what their instincts told them.

Some time after the great currency upheaval, they received a rather
peculiar inquiry delivered to them in person by an old British gentleman
after an introduction message from Sean. The man's name was Sir Nigel
Pritchard. He introduced himself as a friend of their father and
great-grandmother.

When they met him, they reckoned him to be maybe eighty-five years old, or
so. Spry, but certainly up in his years. He bore a letter for them. The
letter stated that it came from the office of the Lord of Mann.

When the twins inquired of the old man who the Lord of Mann was, he
produced a chart of sorts indicating that the Lord of Mann was none other
than King William V of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern
Ireland, then age 56 and in the thirteenth year of his reign. Unlike his
father's tragically short three-year reign, it appeared that William, tall,
regal, and obviously physically fit, had every prospect for a reasonably
long reign although it would certainly be nowhere near the titanic 70-year
reign of his redoubtable grandmother, Elizabeth II.**

As King, William proved himself to be more in the mold of his grandfather,
Prince Philip, and perhaps also his great-grandfather, George VI, than he
was of his late father, Charles III.  William was a discreet, yet
hard-working King who did not needlessly pester his Ministers.  He was,
however, exacting in his weekly meetings with the Prime Minister of the day
and more than once saltily took a Prime Minister to task for being
unprepared to answer questions on government affairs that he had already
mastered and deemed to be of importance. If he had a question on some
government policy before Parliament, William was known to fire off a letter
to the Prime Minister commanding them to reply in writing and in a timely
fashion as to exactly what the intent of the government was. There had not
been a Sovereign since Victoria who made it their business to be that
thoroughly and intelligently informed as well as, within his constitutional
bounds, actively a participant in the governance of the nation. Like his
grandmother Elizabeth II, William never gave interviews or public comment.

Of the King's letter Joey astutely asked, "Why is this letter from the
King's office in his role as the Lord of Mann?"

Lennie echoed his brother. "Yeah, why is the letter not from the King
himself? It's weird enough getting a letter from a King, but from someone
claiming to be the King but by a different title, and not only that but the
King of England?"

"Sirs," Pritchard began, "As no doubt you will appreciate, I am not at
liberty to say much, but I will say what I can. My recommendation here is
that you read the letter and perhaps get the advice of someone you trust
before you reply. This doesn't mean that I am prohibited from having an
opinion, and if I were asked what my opinion is I would say, off the record
of course, that as a personage whose station requires an expenditure of a
great deal of their own funds to maintain, the Lord of Mann simply may wish
to avail himself of available legal opportunities to raise sufficient
funds, never mind that his station requires that others are the active
managers of his portfolio hence the letter originating from his office and
not from him directly. Sovereigns, at least English Sovereigns, are not
devoid of a requirement for their own income just as we all are. And there
are certain expectations and duties that they must discharge. Therefore,
you will understand the desire for discretion as no doubt you have that
desire yourselves. This may be an opportunity of which you wish to take
advantage, and then again it may not be. The choice is, of course, entirely
yours, Sirs."

"We'll have the letter looked over," Joey responded.

"Yes, and please thank His Majesty for us," Lenny added.

"Very well, gentlemen," Pritchard responded.

Thus began for the twins a fruitful financial relationship with none other
than the House of Windsor, for within a year not only were they transacting
business for the King, but also for his son, George, Prince of Wales who
was just about their same age. After some years the King put out through
channels a feeler to the twins inquiring what their opinion would be to
offers of knighthoods as Members of the Royal Victorian Order. Flattered,
the twins respectfully declined His Majesty's offer in order to maintain
their discretion. They intuited that the King was hoping they would refuse
for precisely the same reason. Their reasoning was that if the King had
wanted to make them members of the order he would have simply done so as
there was no reason for him to ask. They knew well enough from asking their
Gran, they still even now weren't used to calling her that, that this was
how royalty paid a compliment in private.

T.J. had his own success. His scholastic abilities as well as his
grandfather Joe's connections landed him an acceptance to Harvard
University where he, to the surprise of his entire family, earned a
M.S. Degree in Artificial Intelligence. Leveraging his grandfather's,
father's and older brother's - as well as others - connections he
accomplished the seemingly impossible which was to cause the leading
Chinese artificial intelligence company to lose material amounts of money
on their operations to the point where the Consortium bought the Chinese
company and moved it lock, stock and barrel to Janesville. They had little
trouble convincing the Chinese transplants, all of whom had deep background
checks done on them, that instead of conducting industrial espionage on the
Americans they would now be conducting it on the companies that amounted to
branches of the Chinese Communist Party. A gated housing complex was built
for them in walking distance of the business campus. This was the type of
housing that they'd been accustomed to in China, and given that typical
neighborhood small commercial amenities were available within the complex
the new arrivals were greatly pleased as they were with provisions for
indoor parking, a large amount of greenspace which was designed by J.R. and
included a fish pond stocked with decorative fish as well as attractive
exercise facilities and a mile-and-a-half bicycle course.

In an even greater coup, T.J. was able to undercover snag a few former
Communist Party officials and once in Janesville kept them generously paid,
and housed in a separate complex with extra security and working at a
separate campus from the others. T.J. wanted them for the sole purpose of
helping him to know the Chinese system and avoiding corporate espionage
traps. Through channels, all the Chinese people who had come over were
informed that they'd be paid handsomely and afforded the best benefits, but
that their identities would be changed and if there was any funny business
discovered they'd be returned to China. They were well aware of what that
would mean for them. They never made any trouble.

T.J.'s company flourished. So successful was it that the United States
Department of Defense sought him out specifically in order to help develop
defensive and offensive systems for use in the Navy and Air Force. The Navy
work had been so pivotal to the development of a new class of
almost-unmanned aircraft carriers that T.J. was able to get the Navy to
agree to name the lead ship of the class U.S.S. Wisconsin.***

And then there was Scott. Sean hated to admit it but of his four sons,
Scott was his favorite.  He was the most like Sean both physically and
mentally. He was the same height and looked just like Sean did at his
age. He'd played quarterback for the Craig Cougars and won a
championship. He was popular and friendly with everyone although, like his
father, he could be aloof sometimes. He was even-tempered, and like his
father, too, maybe just a little bit cocky. And he had Sean's smirk. He
also shared a good eye for nice clothing and unlike his three brothers, he
was a good cook. If Scott thought Sean was feeling down, he would whip up a
batch of shit on a shingle and sit and talk.

Also, like Sean, Scott hadn't really had an exact handle on a path for his
life when he was in High School. At the end of it he decided, more by
default than anything else, to enter college at UW-Madison and go for a Law
Degree. It interested him as much as anything else did which wasn't
particularly a lot. He was, again like his father, a smooth operator and
knew the difference between telling someone what they wanted to hear versus
what he really thought was the right answer if the situation called for it.

Scott was a quick study and by taking summer school courses he finished Law
School a year early and decided that rather than go into practice right
away, which would have been easy enough for him as he could have had a good
position at A.W. Dickson simply for the asking, he would get his experience
by becoming a Navy JAG Officer. Soon he was to move to Newport, Rhode
Island for his training and once that was done, he would be commissioned as
Lieutenant Scott Wyman, United States Navy.

Sean was proud of all his boys. And in the last year, T.J. and Scott had
both become engaged to be married.

T.J. would marry his high school sweetheart. Her name was Ann Marie
Schumacher. She wasn't from a wealthy family; in fact, her family was what
uncharitable people would have called poor white trash. Her father had
spent some time in jail as a young man on a charge of grand larceny and
after that, although he straightened his life out, he was never able to
earn an income that afforded his family any better than living in a
120-year-old decrepit rented apartment in the 300-block of Ravine Street on
the near west side. It was on the same level of housing as the shotgun
shack Sean, Andy and Ginny set eyes on years ago where Brad had lived
although perhaps worse since it was a duplex that hadn't been nice even
when it was new. Ann Marie's mother was a good woman, but she was
uneducated beyond an altogether minimal high school level. She took no
pride in her appearance, was slovenly with her clothing, and seemed content
to work at jobs paying little better than minimum wage, if that. She was
the type of person who, while sweet and the salt of the Earth, didn't know
any better than to be obliviously content with the scant lot that she had.

Ann Marie didn't let any of that bother her, but she may have been a bit
overawed by T.J.'s obviously exponentially better circumstances. They met
in a math class as Sophomores at Craig. Assigned to work together on a
project, she found T.J. to be smart and capable. T.J.  found her to be all
business when it came to their project and he was a little surprised that
she didn't want to immediately get into his pants and seemed maybe a bit
standoffish. He thought she was cute. She thought he was out of her
league. She was surprised when he asked her out on a date.

T.J. was shocked when he asked her where she wanted to go for dinner that
she readily gave her answer and didn't play dumb about it like most girls
did. She wanted to go to a pizza joint on the south side. He asked and she
answered. When T.J. allowed that he thought the pizza joint was in a
sketchy area and that he could take her for a nice meal at the Country Club
she demurred. The pizza place was fine she said, and besides they had the
best pepperoni pizza in town. T.J. was not going to argue. The truth was
that she didn't have anything nice enough to wear to a place like the
Country Club. She was nervous and above all else wanted to make a good
impression. Her nervousness went unnoticed by T.J. He liked her. That was
the beginning of their relationship.

After they graduated, she followed T.J. to Boston and while she did not
apply to Harvard, she had good enough grades in high school to be accepted
at Boston College, a Jesuit University located nearby in Newton,
Massachusetts. By this time, Ann Marie was well attuned to T.J.'s being
from a fabulously wealthy family but being practical she knew that she
would need a skill of her own in case anything happened and their
relationship somehow didn't work out. To that end, she entered the School
of Nursing and completed an MSN Degree with specialties in surgical nursing
and nursing management. Her clinical practice was completed at
Massachusetts General Hospital where she was well liked by both her peers
and the Doctors.  She finished with more-than-solid credentials. What she
did not know was that there had been a fund set aside which would, whether
she married T.J. or not, pay off her student loans.  Sean liked Ann Marie
and moreover knew her circumstances. She had worked hard to get ahead in
the world on her own and she hadn't asked anyone for a nickel. True, the
gift to Ann Marie would afford the Consortium a welcome tax deduction, but
that wasn't the point. It was merely an added benefit of what Sean saw as
doing the right thing.

Sean saw to it as well that when there were job openings at the GM plant
both of Ann Marie's parents were hired on. It meant about an eight-fold
increase in the family income and the chance to move out of a poorly
maintained, drafty and dirty apartment and into a much newer and
to-them-swanky split-level home in a better neighborhood. It wasn't
anything to set the world on fire what with being in a south side blue
collar neighborhood, but to them it meant everything.

They were so poor at housekeeping and maintenance, Sean thought, that he
sent over specialists to educate them on how to take care of a home. The
last thing he wanted to see them do was to ruin it. He knew they would take
the favor well as unlike the obviously intelligent Ann Marie, Sean judged
her parents to be mentally deficient.

In the end, though, Ann Marie and T.J. did marry. He was the adopted
son. Told he was the chosen one he nevertheless carried a chip on his
shoulder not unlike his Uncle John. Ann Marie was the girl from the wrong
side of the tracks. They loved each other based on mutual attraction, but
they both had their own insecurities. Ann Marie's insecurity was that she
grew up poor and she promised herself that she would never be poor again
wherever her relationship with T.J. went. T.J.'s insecurity was that he had
no blood relation to what he knew was a considerable fortune. In the back
of his mind was that at the end of the day there might well be nothing for
him, and he wouldn't know that for a long time. He couldn't afford to wait
and see. He wanted security.

They talked about the idea of not going back to Janesville after their
schooling. They both loved Boston and in their final years living in a
floor-through apartment in an old Dorchester triple decker in the Savin
Hill Over the Bridge neighborhood they were in heaven. Close by were
handsome, solid, sturdy old Victorian homes that had stood the test of
time, and the bracing sea breeze of Dorchester Bay.

In the end, they did go back to Janesville. At least for a few years until
T.J.'s company grew and flourished, but his heart and Ann Marie's heart
were in Boston, not in the old midwestern river town. Oh, T.J. made sure
his company was well-run, and he kept tight reins on it, spending some
considerable time in Janesville every year having bought a condominium in
one of Sean's downtown developments, of which over the years there were
several. He specified one with four bedrooms should he and Ann Marie ever
need them, and it was along the river and included a boat slip. He was
careful that he and Ann Marie paid, and were seen to pay, themselves for
everything they bought.

Over time, Ann Marie progressed to being one of the senior surgical nurses
at Massachusetts General Hospital which was a prestigious position at
arguably one of the finest hospitals in the world. And she was compensated
appropriately. She found out over the years that Sean had paid for her
college education and she saw to it that she paid back every red cent. Sean
didn't like it, but Ann Marie made him take the money. He promptly invested
the money with the twins in an account with survivorship rights stating
that in the event of his death if Ann Marie survived him it would go back
to her along with any increase.

Then came Scott. If the twins were the first ones, the ones who always held
a special place in the hearts of their parents, and if T.J. was the chosen
son, then Scott was the golden son.  Never put a foot wrong to the rest of
the world did Scott, and his fathers were forbearing with him. Even
Mrs. Cheadle was a bit less strict with him. He was the last boy of her
career and she knew it. From an early age he raced to keep up with his
developmentally more advanced brothers and it showed. Even as a youngster
he was uncommonly precocious and well- mannered. Sean thought that what
others had said about his mother could equally be said of Scott: he knew
with equal ease how to win and how to please.

Now, all grown up, Scott was engaged to be married as well. He would not
marry his high school sweetheart as T.J. would, but a girl he met in
college in Madison. Her name was Allison Kohler. She was an heiress of the
substantial Kohler family of Sheboygan, Wisconsin whose family owned the
entirety of the Kohler Company, world-renowned manufacturers of plumbing
fixtures, small and medium size engines, furniture, electrical generators,
ceramic tile, owners of golf courses and hospitality establishments among
other things and whose family boasted two former Wisconsin Governors. It
was a toss-up which one of the couple would be marrying up, or down. As far
as Wisconsin went, this would be a marriage of royalty, the scion of the
Janesville Jackman-Miller dynasty, with those in the know throwing the
Kennedys in for good measure, marrying the Kohler heiress.

Sean thought on all that his sons had done. He could feel that he had been
a successful father.

The first to bless him with a grandchild, of sorts, were the twins. One
night a year ago while they were still living in the over-the-garage
apartment at the Alamo, the alarm alerted the twins of a possible break in
at the entrance near the side gate to their apartment. That area had always
been the potential weak point in the Alamo security system. It's how
Colleen Kennedy had snuck in and out.

At first, they wondered if they should ignore it, as there had been false
alarms before. But the video indicated there was a person out there. They
decided to cancel the police summons as the video of the person looked like
someone who wasn't looking to do them any harm but someone who might be
hurt themselves or needed help. It wasn't immediately clear to them.

Upon investigating they encountered a grisly sight. It was a young boy,
perhaps 12 or 13 years old they thought. He was shirtless. His pants were
ragged blue jeans that appears so dirty as not to even be blue. They were
black. His torso and back bore fresh, bleeding wounds that they guessed to
be whip marks. The blood covered what appeared to them to be older
scarring. He was barely conscious.

Joey and Lennie were horrified. Joey yelled to Lennie that he should call
911 right away while he tried to see if he could tend to the boy. The boy
was spooked on Joey's approach who, even though on the ground, moved back
and away from Joey like a spider. His mouth moved but all Joey could make
out was "no" and maybe what sounded like "please."

Joey didn't know what to do. He didn't want to scare the kid, but it sure
looks like he was.  Lennie was still on the phone. Just then out of
nowhere, Brad came out of the Alamo. Brad motioned Joey away without saying
anything. He approached the boy, who was still wild-eyed, but so weak that
he couldn't really move anymore beyond making intermittent wild arm
motions. He'd backed himself into the garage door anyway and didn't have
anywhere to go.

Brad bent over, arms loose at his sides, and whispered in the boy's ear
just for a second, or two. Brad seldom spoke longer than that in any
circumstance. The boy seemed to calm down just a little bit.

Then Brad called 911 and added to Lennie's call that the ambulance was to
approach with lights and sirens off. He knew instinctively that those would
frighten the boy and Brad, unsophisticated but clear-headed, knew there was
something deeply wrong here.

As Brad ordered, the ambulance showed up silently. The EMTs without a word
other than for one of them to take Joey and Lennie to the side of the Alamo
out of sight of the boy for some basic information. They got what slim
answers that Joey and Lennie could provide and an offer to review the video
tape, but with the admonishment that watching a video perhaps was not
important at that time. They could show it to the Police who were sure to
follow.

In the meantime, Brad stood in the driveway where the boy was and watched
impassively as the EMTs did their work and took the boy away to the
hospital.

Joey and Lennie told the EMT who had questioned them that they would be
following to the hospital. Told that they could do whatever they wanted to
do but that they would have no guarantee of access to or information about
the boy once at the hospital, Joey and Lennie said that they didn't
care. They knew they could pull strings if they needed to.

Brad's heart went out, but he knew there was nothing he could do to help
the boy at that moment beyond what he did calming him down. The truth was
that Brad thought he recognized the boy. Brad was pretty sure, although not
a hundred percent, that the boy lived a couple blocks away from where Brad
had lived in the Fourth Ward. If that was true then he was worried. Brad
disappeared back into the Alamo after quickly taking a photo of the boy's
face. When asked why he did that Brad just said, "Don't matter. Jus' go t'
th' hospital and do whatcha need t'do. I know what I doin'." Brad went
inside and called the Consortium Attorney, Tim Dickson.

Joey and Lennie followed the ambulance to Mercy Hospital and once there
were able to establish without any problem by means of a text to the Chief
of Police from old George Dickson that they were acting as only very
temporary guardians for the boy until the situation could be stabilized.

Brad knew where Sean was. He was down at the car museum writing. Brad drove
down there and let himself in. He found Sean and made no comment about the
half-empty bottle of E&J brandy and highball glass on the desk.

"What are you doing here, Brad?" Sean asked.

"Never mind. Want you t' look at this pic." Brad then showed Sean the photo
of the boy in the driveway of the Alamo.

"Jesus! That's the Alamo driveway! What happened? I really don't want or
need any publicity here..."

"Won't be none..." Then Brad explained to Sean the whole story of what had
just transpired at the Alamo and that he thought the boy might live near
where he once did.

"OK, lemme make a call here," Sean said.

Sean picked up the phone and placed a call to Charlie Ditmar. Ditmar was
now officially retired, but a handful of accounts he still handled if he
needed to, the Janesville crew being one of them.

"Charlie, Sean Wyman. Good thanks. Brad's here with me. Listen, I got
something here I wantcha to look up. I just sent you a photo of a kid. His
face is a little beat up, but you can make him out. I need to know his
name. I'd say he's 12, 13 years old or so and that'd put him in Middle
School so I'm wondering if you can access the school system's records and
do a little face ID on him. Brad thinks he might know about where the kid
lives, so based on that I'd check Edison Middle first and then Marshall. I
kinda doubt if the area of town where Brad thinks he might live is right
that he'd be at Franklin. I need to know his name and home address. Yeah,
it's an emergency. Wouldn't have called if it wasn't... They're taking him
to the hospital and Joey and Lennie went after him. They're the ones who
found him..."

"Sure thing, Sean. I suppose you'll be wanting this tonight?"

"I would..."

"Fine, lemme get to work here. I'll call ya back when I have something."

"Very good. Thanks, Charlie." Sean then hung up. "Satisfied, Brad?" he
said.

"Don't hafta bite my head off. I gonna go now..."  Brad said
understandingly.

"Sorry, Brad. It's just..."

"Don't hafta `splain. I know..."

Sean privately thanked himself that Brad was so understanding. He poured
himself another three fingers of brandy. As he did, he looked in the
mirror. What he saw did not displease him.  He did not yet have any gray
hair and he still looked good with his long hair, although now more often
than in years gone by pulled back into a ponytail. He noticed a few, though
not many, lines on his face. Mostly from lack of sleep he thought. He noted
that he still wore his clothes well as his membership at the YMCA kept him
trim and although not the 190lbs he was in high school, his 205lbs fit him
well. Sean still cut a fine figure.

About 15 minutes into his writing he was interrupted by his cell phone. He
picked it up and saw that it was Charlie Ditmar.

"Hey, Charlie. Whadya got for me..."

"Welp, I was able to ID the kid. He's a student at Edison Middle. Eighth
grade. Name's Tommy Lascelles. No middle name stated. No exact age but I'd
say he's 13 or 14 most likely. School records list his address as 401 Park
Avenue. Lists a guardian as one Crystal Grath. She's got a record. Drugs
possession and trafficking, bad checks, welfare fraud, a couple of
evictions, disorderly conduct. Kids got no priors but he's got a shit ton
of school absences the last couple of years. Passes his classes but not by
much. School noted last year they were watching him for signs of trouble at
home but nothing further. School's got no birth certificate on file for him
and there's no birth certificate I found on a nation-wide search for anyone
with that name between the ages of 10 and 16. What's the deal with this kid
anyway?"

Sean explained.

"Sounds like you might have another J.R. on your hands here..."

"I've already raised four of them, Charlie. I don't think I'm up for it."

"Alright, well, that's all the info I have."

"Thanks again, Charlie." Sean then hung up and phoned Joey.

"Joey, yeah it's dad. Look, here's the info I got on that kid," Sean then
explained everything he'd jotted down from Charlie Ditmar. "OK, well, you
said they checked the kid into a room?  You don't give them any info on the
kid, OK? Good. Don't. You don't know anything, right?"

Joey hung up and then found his twin.

"I already know what dad told you," Lennie said. "And I know that you're
thinking what I'm thinking so let's go."

Joey and Lennie left the hospital without letting anyone know that they
were leaving. Once in their car, they drove over to 401 Park Avenue, scoped
out the house, and parked half a block away on the side street. They
understood the sight of two 6'5" blonde haired young men on the street in
that neighborhood at that hour of the night might get some attention so
they walked casually around the block the long way to the house.

Approaching the front porch, they smelled an acrid chemical smell and a
faint aroma of ammonia. In the background they heard the noise of what they
thought to be a television and some unintelligible voices, a man and a
woman. They looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and knocked on
the door.

No one came.

Again they knocked. Louder. Lennie called out "Crystal!" in a gruff voice.

Eventually the door opened a crack revealing an emaciated, skanky-looking
woman with bad tits and worse teeth maybe in her early thirties although
worse for the wear. She was obviously high. They noticed the chemical smell
more.

"Who the fuck are you!" Crystal said in a gravelly voice.

"You got son name Tommy?" Joey asked while Lennie stared at her.

"Who wants to know..." she said.

"We do," Lennie said.

"Didn't know he had a twofer tonight..." she said.

"Yeah, we had a twofer with him," Lennie said, pulling the door open and
walking in with Joey behind him.

"Hey! What the fuck are you doing! Get the fuck outta here! The kid ain't
here!"

"Where is he then?" Joey asked.

"How the fuck would I know? Maybe with his last trick!"

"We'll wait." Joey said.

Crystal sat on the sofa. In front of her was a disgustingly dirty, cheap,
broken-down coffee table covered with empty beer cans, a glass pipe, an
ashtray with cigarette butts spilling out of it. The twins noted the many
burn marks on the tabletop as well as on the filthy carpeting. The room
reeked.

Just then an equally skanky-looking man came into the living room. He did
not look unfriendly, but when he half-smiled it was clear that several
teeth were missing and those that were still there didn't appear to be long
for this world. He had long, greasy hair and noticeable body odor. He sat
down next to Crystal, picked up the glass pipe and hit it. Holding his toke
in for a long while he then massively exhaled, looked at the twins and
asked if they wanted to buy hits of meth.

"Nah, we did some already," Joey lied. "we got some weed, though. You mind
if we smoke a bone?" he asked brandishing a joint.

"Whatever," Crystal said serving herself up a long meth hit.

"Do more hits you guys," Joey said. "I like whatcher doin'"

Crystal and the man helped themselves to two more massive hits.

"That homegrown?" Lennie asked.

"Yeah."

"Got anything else? I mean, we might wanna buy..."

"Got smack," Crystal said.

"Do some," Joey commanded.

"Who the fuck are you guys anyway?" the man demanded.

"We're the kid's next tricks. We're a twofer. Twins. We're gonna fuck the
shit out of him."

"Show me the money," Crystal said. "Three fifty."

Joey peeled off three hundred-dollar bills and a fifty and threw them on
the shitty coffee table. He then lit up the joint, took a healthy hit and
passed it to Lennie.

"You guys seem pretty cool," the man said.

"Thanks, man," Lennie said. "Hey, I'm Steve and this is Tony. We're from
Rockford but we heard about this kid. We hear he's got a real sweet ass."

"Dude, sometimes I fuck Crystal here and then I fuck the kid after. Crystal
don't care as long as the kid eats her out while I'm fuckin' him... Kid's a
piece of shit, but he brings in the rent money... He's got a sweet little
boy pussy alright."

"Can't wait to use his hole," Joey said.

"You already paid. Keep him for a whole day if ya want," Crystal
said. "What the fuck do we care `s long as ya bring him back alive..."

Crystal stretched a sturdy piece of rubber around her upper arm and readied
a syringe in anticipation of a nice hit of heroin. The man did the same.

Not two minutes later both of them were in a daze as amped up on meth
they'd now done healthy hits of heroin.

To the twins they looked both crazed and glazed.

Now was the time they thought to each other. Slowly they began speaking in
their special language that they had since they were babies.

Crystal and the man didn't notice at first. When they did they simply
stared, wide-eyed.

Lennie mentally helped them each to have another hit of meth.

Joey kept on speaking.

Lennie nodded slightly when the man readied generous heroin hits for each
of them.

Lennie and Joey kept up their conversation. Then just Joey talked as Lennie
left the room.

One minute...

Two minutes...

Finally, Joey and Lennie left the house.

But not without having the man pick up the phone, put the phone in
Crystal's hand, and having Crystal's fingers dial 911. Once they were
satisfied that the call went through, they took the phone with them and
threw it in the river on their way out of the neighborhood.

Not being able to make any determination of the call because even though
the line was open no one was heard on the other end, the 911 operator
tasked a police cruiser to report to 401 Park Avenue for a welfare
check. When the police got there, they found drug paraphrenia, but
unsurprisingly found no drugs. None except what appeared to be the cooking
stages of some meth. It appeared to be just another abandoned meth house to
the cops...

Until they entered the living room.

There they spied what for all the world were maybe two dead bodies. Dead,
or who knew, maybe just another OD call... It was all so routine...

Immediately summoned were EMT, Police, and automatically the Fire
Department, too. Upon examination, both people were pronounced dead. The
initial ruling was drug ODs but the EMTs noted as well, which was quite
curious, that they had both swallowed their tongues.

The police roped off the house with crime tape and a detective and
criminalist were called in.

The home was thoroughly inspected and dusted for prints. Not found was any
trace of Tommy. What little he had Lennie fit into one Hefty bag and slung
it over his shoulder. The three hundred-dollar bills and the fifty also
weren't there anymore.

Silently, the twins communicated with each other. "Did we do the right
thing?" "Yes, we did."  "Should we feel guilty? Go to confession?" "Not
necessary. We saw evil." "Yes." "Yes."

The twins knew the first thing they needed to do was contact their
Attorney. They placed a call to their dad's old High School friend, Tim
Dickson. Once through on the phone, they were told that Tim had expected
their call and that they were to come straight to Tim's home. Of course,
that would mean that Joey and Lennie would have to run the gauntlet of the
State Police in the house next door that Tim and Brett bought to house them
and to keep the neighborhood looking as normal as it could, so they told
Tim no, that they would meet him at the Alamo.

"You guys are rough, lemme tell ya..." Tim said.

"Thanks, Uncle Tim!" they said in unison.

Tim would go to the Alamo alone. He didn't know what the issue with the two
young men at that hour of the night could be, and it would make no sense to
take Brett with him as Brett couldn't be involved with a story like this.

The reason Tim and Brett bought the house next door to them was that Brett
was in his second year as the Governor of Wisconsin and it made sense to
house the State Police guard there.

Brett's road to the Governor's Office had been both swift and unforeseen.

Prior to the last election, the state of the State of Wisconsin was
parlous. The two previous Governors had each served two terms. The first
was a Republican who had the bad luck that at the very beginning of his
second term there was a healthy recession in the national economy.  The
recession deeply affected Wisconsin's economy, and as a result of sharply
reduced tax receipts the state government had to cut back. The cuts were
done ham-handedly because the Governor was unskillful and the state
legislature was split with the Republicans controlling the Assembly and the
Democrats the Senate. The legislature was more concerned with injuring the
opposing party than they were making wise budget decisions. Each party
outdid the other in agreeing to only the cuts they thought would hurt the
opposing party's supporters the most. With a deadlocked legislature, the
Governor couldn't do anything and had to sit and watch as the state's
economy and finances tanked.

Running for a third term, the Republican Governor, as expected, was
beaten. The Democrats swept the gubernatorial election and both houses of
the state legislature. With all the levers of government power in their
hands, the Democrats restored the former Governor's spending cutbacks and
then some. But the tax revenues weren't coming in and so people who had
money and businesses were punished in an attempt to make up the difference
but responded to a greater degree than was anticipated by leaving Wisconsin
for friendlier places. The result was that the state couldn't sustain its
increased spending while at the same time the state's bonds sunk to the
status of junk bonds.

The situation was untenable.

Brett stewed about it. Their three sons were mostly grown. Even though Tim
wasn't a hundred percent back in Janesville now, he was close enough. Brett
thought that if any one of them might have wanted to grab the sword it
would have been Sean, but Sean was as disinterested in the state government
as he seemed to be in everything else other than seeing to it that the
consortium at least maintained its wealth and income through the economic
downturn. Sean had become something of an enigma to Brett.

Brett resolved, and told Tim that, "Someone who's one of us, a regular
person, has to stand!  These people don't represent anyone! This is a
fucking disaster!"

Tim kiddingly asked, "So, YOU wanna do it?"

"If I have to I will." Brett replied.

"You're serious, aren't you..."

"I am."

"I'll be in your corner, sweetheart. Just like always."

"Fine. When is your retirement again?"

"Six months. You'll be there, right?"

"I'll be there, and the boys will be there."

"Thanks. That... That means a lot. I... I..."

"You'll be glad to be back home full time."

"Yeah. You always know what to say..."

Brett went to see the Chairman of the Wisconsin Democrat Party and did not
get a welcoming reception.

"You think that you wanna be the Governor, huh... That's nice, son, but we
already got our candidate," Brett was told.

"I assume you're talking about the current Governor?"

"That's right."

"He's a fucking disaster. He's not going to win. You might as well FedEx
the election to the Republicans."

"Look, son, I'm only gonna say this once. He's got the office, he's got the
money, he's got the campaign machine, hell, we even got more votes than
there are voters in some places," the man laughed taking a pull on his
cheap cigar. "The fuckin' Republicans haven't got a chance."

"Maybe I'll run in the primary against him."

"What primary.... I looked you up. You might be a registered Democrat voter
but that don't mean shit. You'll get no help from anyone. We'll bury
you. Now, I'm gonna give you a piece of advice here, son, and you better
listen. I've got a pretty good idea what goes on down there in Janesville
and I don't think we'd want, say, the Department of Revenue getting
curious, would we? I'm sure you'll make your usual campaign donation just
like you've done before, but primary the Governor? You better just forget
you ever thought of that. There ain't gonna be any primary, boy."

"I see..." Brett said, emotionless. "Thank you for your time."

Once back in the car, Brett was incensed. But he would not be stopped. He
was smart enough to know that if he was going to get in the race there was
no sense to do it unless he intended to win. And he knew enough to know
that unless a candidate ran as a Democrat or a Republican there was no
chance of winning. Independents don't win elections in state-wide races in
Wisconsin.

A few days later Brett managed to get an appointment with the Chairman of
the Wisconsin Republican Party.

Once the introductions were over, Brett cut to the chase. "I might as well
get right to it. I want to be your candidate for Governor."

"What?" the man said. "I know enough to know that you're a registered
Democrat voter. Is this some kind of a fucking joke?"

"No joke. Look, I've already seen the Democrats. It appears that they have
their candidate. To the best of my knowledge you do not. You can't win with
your last Governor. He's persona non grata in this state. And I don't think
you can win with anyone from the legislature. They're all second-rate,
bald-headed hicks and you know that as well as I do. Now, I think this
Governor can be beaten. His record is indefensible. And, no, I'm not a
Republican, but what do you care? Winning is the name of the game is it
not?"

"How do you intend to win?"

"Look, I run a business in a small town. I'm an Attorney and an MD. So,
actually I run two businesses. I'm a family man. I know what it takes to
attract and keep business. I know the state's been bled white
financially. I know the current Governor can't win. And I've got the money
to finance my own campaign. It won't cost you a cent. Can anyone else say
that? And I know your party hasn't got a lot of money in the bank."

"Um..."

"I didn't think anyone else could say that."

"How much do you think a Governor's race costs?"

"Let me just put it this way: it doesn't matter. I've got the money. The
last Governor's race cost $150 million between the two candidates. That's
$75 million apiece. I can spend the whole 150 if I have to. And that's the
truth."

"Is that so... Look, let's do this. I'd like you to come back sometime next
week and let's do a mock debate with the other person pretending to be the
Democrat. Don't do any practicing, just come in cold."

"Fine. When?"

Brett showed up at the appointed date and time and blew the Republican
Chairman away. His answers were quick, he didn't stutter, and when he
didn't know the answer, he was skillful at turning his opponent's argument
right back on him. Even fresh and green Brett looked polished. He was a
natural. And his handsome looks didn't hurt, either. In the end, the
Republicans had found their candidate.

During the election, Brett campaigned tirelessly. The threat of the state
Department of Revenue turned out to be real, but George Dickson came out of
retirement to quickly stall their proceedings before the news of it could
get out. George would only tell Brett that "the old country lawyer still
has a couple tricks up his sleeve." And so it appeared that he did.

Brett would campaign sometime with all, or some, of his three sons all of
whom were engaging, handsome young men. He dazzled in the debates,
rubbishing the sitting Governor to the point of leaving him huffing and
puffing in the last debate when the Governor sputtered that Brett was "a
child of privilege."

"I see," Brett said. "Let me tell the Governor about my privilege. My dad
worked on the line down at the GM plant from the time he was 18 years
old. My mom was a secretary at the courthouse. We lived in a small home. I
was in High School when my parents bought their first new car. I went to
work at Woodmans grocery store when I was 15 years old. And you wanna know
something? No one watching us gives a damn about any of that. Some
Governors are fiscal, some are spenders, but this Governor... If this
Governor can be the Governor then anyone can be the Governor. His record is
a disaster, it's ridiculous and it's tragic. The Milwaukee Journal –
hardly a conservative newspaper – said in an editorial just the other
day that the proposals my team is making, `would lead most reasonable
people to believe they make sense,' and of the Governor's policies they
said..."

"Your time is up!" the Governor bellowed.


"It's not up, Governor," Brett rejoined. "I still have 31 seconds
left. Apparently the Governor is no better at reading a clock than he is at
managing the state's finances. Of YOUR policies in this campaign, Governor,
the Journal said that you have 'no clue and nothing to offer.' That is what
they said. No clue and nothing to offer. But while you want to waste time
talking about our backgrounds the only thing people want to know is what
we're going to do with the next four years. Right now, the state continues
to sink under your policies, Governor. Policies that injure everyone,
including people like me who were born with no privilege at all."

Brett glared while the Governor stood red-faced and speechless.

Brett campaigned everywhere, even going into the student neighborhoods of
Madison and the inner-city neighborhoods of Milwaukee. He laid out his
platform and asked the people to give him the biggest majority in the
legislature than any Governor ever had in order to get it through. He was
chatty and cheerful when he spoke to people, even when they disagreed, and
he always remembered how his dad told him that when you talk to someone you
look them in the eye, and if a stranger talks to you then you thank them.

It paid off. On election day, Brett carried 70 of Wisconsin's 72 counties
with 65% of the total vote. He was rewarded with large majorities in both
houses of the State legislature. It was the most savage defeat ever
inflicted on a sitting Governor in Wisconsin's history. Before all the
counts were announced, Brett knew that he'd won. He asked the party
chairman to have what are known in Wisconsin as the `WOW' counties -
Waukesha, Ozaukee and Washington – to hold off and report in last. Those
three countries were the ruby-red, middle-class suburban counties ringing
Milwaukee County to the west and north. With the WOW counties still not
reporting, Brett was ahead with 57% of the vote. It was all over. Brett had
even stunningly taken Milwaukee County with 50.4% of the vote there. No one
could recall the last time a Republican candidate for Governor carried
Milwaukee County. He lost only in hard-left Dane County, home of the
capital city Madison, and in Menominee County which had a miniscule number
of voters and had never since it was created a county in 1959 voted less
than 70% Democrat in a gubernatorial election.

Because of the quick and overwhelming verdict of the people, Brett rather
early on in the evening received the concession call from the Governor,
surprising Brett by being somewhat gracious which Brett wasn't
buying. Brett thanked him, wished him well, and ended the call.  The press
was already descending on the Dickson-Dowling home. As Brett was now the
Governor-elect there was a State Police presence, but Brett, Tim and their
three sons came out on the driveway. Brett took the microphone to speak to
the press gathered in the driveway of the old Ginny Miller home which had
been Brett and Tim's home for the last ten years. Herb and Marilyn Dowling
and George and Peggy Dickson watched with pride from the front porch of the
Dickson home across the street. Herb Dowling could be seen wiping his eyes.

"I always said that Brett was a winner, don'tcha know!" Peggy whispered in
George's ear.

"That you did, Peg. That you did..." George said, smiling and shaking his
head.

"A few minutes ago, I received a phone call from the Governor conceding the
election," Brett began. "There is still some final counting going on, but
the polls have closed and the results are decisive. It's more than we had
dared to hope. It looks like we'll have solid majorities in the Assembly
and the Senate, too. On my first day in office each one of the items on the
platform that I outlined during the campaign will be submitted to the
legislature for action. In fact, they are ready to submit. And I will
expect action quickly. I'm asking the current Governor and legislature to
act merely as caretakers until inauguration day so that we won't have to
waste time undoing things of the sort that usually happen when people are
on their way out the door. I'll say again, as I said during the campaign,
that my family will not be moving into the Governor's Mansion. Our home is
here in Janesville and this is where we will stay.  Madison is only an hour
away. Finally, I want to say to every person in Wisconsin, no matter how
you may have voted, I won't let you down. The state's finances and economy
will be the focus of my administration. They have to be. I don't promise
it's going to be roses all the way, at least not in the beginning. No
honest person could promise that. But we all knew the state was in serious
trouble or I wouldn't have won the election, my opponent would have. It's
going to take us probably two years at the minimum to show solid recovery,
and I said that during the campaign, too. We've got nowhere to go but up,
so let's make a start, shall we?"

Brett then took a few questions.

"Governor-elect, you ran as a Republican..."

"You noticed."

"But you're gay. Isn't there a conflict with that?"

"Look, I'm sorry, what is your name and who are you with?"

"Sally Sundt from the Wisconsin State Journal."

"Yes, Sally... Well, this isn't a hundred years ago so I find your question
to be a little bit old fashioned shall we say, but here's the deal: I knew
that someone who's an ordinary person had to run. Someone who has no agenda
other than improvement. Who am I? A Doctor and a Lawyer. Lots of people are
Doctors and Lawyers. I'm not a politician. I don't care about their
parties. Why should I? Do you? I made an attempt to get the Democrat
nomination before I went to the Republicans, but the Democrats told me to
get lost. A person has to run under the banner of one of those parties in
order to win. That's just life. It's how the real world works, and I didn't
get into the race planning to lose. No one worth voting for would do
that. The label on the party isn't what's important. At the end of the day
what's important is if you left the place better off than you found it. If
you did your job. If you don't bullshit, pardon my French. That's the
measure. I took no money from anyone in this campaign. Nobody owns me.  And
I'll tell all of you that I will not take this question again tonight or in
the future. Next?"

Brett took a few more questions, then waved the reporters off telling them
it was late, it was a school night for his boys, and he didn't want to
bother the neighbors. Which he really didn't, but truth be told he could
see his sons and husband getting bored, as he himself was growing bored at
the inanity of the reporters.

He did manage to squeeze in before going that he would be holding no press
conferences, nor would anyone from his team be holding any press
conferences, during the transition period. "I don't believe in that. We
only have one Governor at a time," Brett said. "Once I'm in office we'll
make an announcement of how we'll accommodate the press." Brett had no
intention of having either himself, or his staff be at the beck and call of
news reporters. He didn't trust them. Besides, he knew that he was a newbie
at politics and that he'd have his hands full given what he would inherit
from the outgoing administration.

Two days later, Tim went back to Washington, DC. He would be gone a
week. This would be Tim's last trip to Washington.

When Brett graduated from the University of Wisconsin with his JD and MD it
happened quite by surprise, as Brett was expecting to do his internship at
the UW-Madison Medical Center, that he was offered an internship at the
Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. He took
it.

As Tim was already done with Law School, Tim went with Brett. Tim needed a
job, so he applied and was accepted to the Judge Advocate General's Corps
as an Attorney with the rank of Lieutenant. Some years later Tim would
influence Andy and Sean's son, Scott, to join the JAG Corps. But Tim was
ready to retire now. He'd put in twenty years.

There would be a ceremony, of the type that Tim hated because he knew that
he'd get emotional. The truth was that he'd miss his colleagues, but it was
time to go home. Time to go back to Janesville.

Tim would retire with the rank of Captain. He made a name for himself both
as a prosecution and defense attorney. He argued two cases in front of the
United States Supreme Court where the Justices praised him for his clarity
and brevity notwithstanding that he'd won one case and lost the other.

Tim viewed the law as his father did. His job was to give his client the
best representation that he could. To Tim that was what the ethics that his
practice demanded. Many of his case transcriptions appeared to be compact,
that is until one read the annotations. Tim Dickson was a skilled
practitioner of the law. Every bit as good, if not better, than his father,
grandfather and great-grandfather. But it was time for Tim to go home
now. His husband had what they both agreed was a higher calling and it
would be Tim's turn to be the househusband.

Brett and their three sons flew to Washington for the retirement ceremony
at the Pentagon.  Of course, the annoying ever-present guard of two
Wisconsin State Troopers were present.  Naturally, Brett's boys delighted
in giving them the slip, going out, and doing whatever they wanted to do.

They were three good boys. The eldest was George Herbert, 19 years old. He
was Tim's son by a surrogate mother. They were all sons of surrogate
mothers. George looked like Tim with red hair and brown eyes. The second
son was Andrew Sean, 18. The third was Kevin David, 17.  Andrew Sean was
Brett's son and like his brother George he took after his biological father
in looks being himself tall, slim, blonde and impossibly
good-looking. Kevin David they could not be sure about as the sperm was a
combination of both of theirs. He was blonde and handsome like Brett, but
with a muscular build as a Dickson might have and a personality like his
grandmother Peggy. No one wanted to look into it beyond that.

The audience assembled; Tim came out on the stage in a small Pentagon
auditorium. Flanking him was a Navy Color Guard and his office staff, the
most senior of whom he would promote to take his position and who was the
one to take the microphone.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. We're here today to retire our boss, our
Captain, and our friend and mentor. No one who's been in his office for any
length of time will ever forget Captain Dix. Thank you, Sir! But we know
it's time. You said so yourself last year that it would soon be time for
you to go back to Wisconsin. To go back home. To the Captain's family who I
see here, I'd just like to say on behalf of all of us..."

"Ten-HUT!" the senior Navy guard commander interrupted the officer at the
microphone.  "GEN-eral officer!"

Tim initially looked confused, but then turned and looked over his shoulder
to see the barrel- chested visage of his brother, Lieutenant General David
Dickson, United States Marine Corps, stroll in from the wings in his dress
uniform, three silver stars on each shoulder. General Dickson motioned the
officer at the microphone to make way.

"As you were," David began. "You didn't think you were gonna pull this off
without getting a little crap from me, now, didja little bro?" David boomed
with a smile. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Lieutenant General David
Dickson. I've had the burden my whole life of being Captain Dickson's older
brother. Seriously, they don't come any better than my kid brother. I'm
happy for you, Timmy, and I'm happy for your family. You said you were only
gonna do one tour, but it's twenty years later now and here we all are. I'm
gonna..." and then David's voice broke, "I'm gonna miss you around the
building here. I love ya, man..."

Tim teared up, took the microphone and made a heartfelt goodbye.

Tim flew back to Janesville two days later alone on a United flight as
Brett and the boys had been whisked back home on a private airplane after
dinner on the evening of the retirement ceremony.

At O'Hare airport in Chicago, Sean waited in his car for Tim at the arrival
area. He specially took one of the most prized cars out of his collection
to pick up his old friend and teammate. It was his 1958 Cadillac Fleetwood
Sixty Special. The body was in a cream-colored custom lacquer paint with a
two-tone light- and deep-brown leather-and-fabric interior done to factory
original specifications. The car was a frame-off resto-mod with a modern
chassis, brakes, and suspension. The original powerful-but-crude 365
cubic-inch Cadillac V8 engine was replaced with a state-of-the-art
3.0-liter GM turbodiesel in-line six-cylinder engine and heavy- duty
continuously variable transmission augmented with electric drive motors
that could deliver well over 50 miles per gallon in the massive old land
yacht once out on the open road.  Even at jaded O'Hare Field, people
stopped and gawked at the old car with its unmistakable, confident and
in-your-face 1950's GM styling, acres of chrome, and soaring fender
fins. Across the back of the trunk lid, huge chrome block letters spelled
out 'FLEETWOOD' while on each rear fender 'Sixty Special' appeared in gold
script.

https://ccmarketplace.azureedge.net/cc-temp/listing/83/7468/2047843-1958-cadillac-fleetwood-60-special-factory-tri-power-std.jpg

Once away from O'Hare and barreling down the Northwest Tollway at 80 miles
per hour, Tim turned to Sean. "You been OK, bud?"

"I have."

"Not buying, Wymo."

"Buy."

Tim knew better than to press further.

"Dix, I've done the best I can over the years," Sean began. "You and Brett
were off in Washington. And that's fine, butcha were. J.R. and Kathleen had
like six million kids and J.R.  had to prove himself to himself. Andy
helped, and that was fine, too. But in the end it all fell to me. Which I
guess was OK. What'd ya want me to do?"

"Nothing different, Wymo. I told you all those years ago that you were a
better quarterback than I was, and you're better now. I wasn't as good of a
friend as I should have been over all these years. I um... I hope you can
forgive me..."

"Shut up, Dix," Sean said.


Tim laughed.

A few minutes later Sean said, "I've been OK, Dix. Not great. I've had a
lot of pressure."

"I know, man... It's just that, well, I mean, um..."

"Spit it out, Dix. We've known each other too long. Never mind. Can we talk
about it later?"  Sean said.

"Whenever you want. Like I said, Wymo, we've known each other a long
time..."

"I'm hungry," Sean said out of the blue.

"Well, there's the Oasis coming up..."

"Fuck that, I don't want McDonalds," Sean said. "Maybe wanna stop in
Belvidere and get a bite there? No one will know us..."

"You're obsessed with that aren't you?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

"I guess so now that I think about it."

After a while, Sean took the tollway exit for Belvidere and headed toward
the downtown.  Belvidere was a small town of about 25,000 people whose main
claim to fame was the site of a Chrysler assembly plant. Sean drove around
for a little bit and spied a cozy looking pizza joint as well as two
adjoining open spaces in which to park the big Caddy.

Sean said very little over their meal. Tim mostly talked about how happy he
was to finally be retired. "I stayed a lot longer than I should have,
Wymo. Yeah, I came home every weekend every other time I could and shit,
but still... Brett's had to raise our boys almost all by himself, and then
he goes and gets elected Governor. I don't know where he gets his energy
from. He finished two degrees in the time it took me to finish one. He's
made our house a home. He's been a great father. I... I..."

Sean kept eating his pizza.

Tim was dismayed at his old friend's silence.

"Anyway," Tim continued, "I'd be lost without him as my husband all these
years. I remember our fifth anniversary. I gave him a card. On the inside I
wrote, "Grow old with me. The best is yet to come." I don't think I gave
him my best. But he never complained. I don't know why he didn't put his
foot down ten or fifteen years ago. But he didn't. That's how he is. It's
how he's always been."

"I know, Dix," Sean said. "A couple times a few years back he asked me what
I thought. If he should ask you to quit. I said I didn't know. Anyway, we
talked about it for a while. He said the boys were pretty easy kids, and
that a lot of time he could work from home. He'd send them off to school
and then go down the law office, or to Mercy Hospital and he was always
home just like any other dad would be. I really don't think he minded that
much."

"But still, I feel like I missed most of all those years."

"So just don't miss the rest of them then."

"I can't. I let them all down."

"Cut the shit, Dix. You were there for every birthday, every Christmas,
every game they've played in. Helluva job you did, I'd say. Yeah, you
missed some, but..."

"What about you?" Tim asked, looking up into Sean's eyes. "What've you
missed?"

"You know what I've missed," Sean said testily.

"Yeah, I know. How long's it been now? Ten years?"

"Twelve," Sean answered deadpan.

Tim reached out and grabbed Sean's hand. He didn't let it go. "You got a
guy back at home who's been trying to help you. Who HAS helped you. You
know that."

"But I'm just so..." Sean said, then began shaking his head with a dark
look on his face indicating he wasn't going to go any farther.

"Say no more," Tim said. Then he slid Sean a piece of paper across the
table.

"Read it when you get back to the car museum," Tim said politely.

"How did you know I go there..." Sean gasped.

"I know what I need to know, old bud. But most of all I know you've never
put a foot wrong.  And I know that in the last 20 years you improved our
asset value by 300% which is about seven or eight percent a year whether
times were good, or not so good and with little risk. I pay attention to
what I need to pay attention to. Oh, I was jealous way back when Ginny
passed me up for you. But I know now that it was the right decision."

"What's the paper say?" Sean asked.

"There was an old TV series back around 2018 or so and there's a scene in
it that I want you to watch. Look, I've missed you, old friend. It feels
like It's been a million years. I miss a lot, my husband, my kids, but I
miss you a real lot. And I'm missing you now."

"I... I..." Sean stuttered.

"Just watch the scene, Wymo. You rescued me once, remember?"

"Whadya mean?" Sean asked. Then he remembered. "You don't mean back at the
condo...  That's not what you mean..."

"That and at the cabin up north..."

"We said we'd never speak of that."

"And so, we maybe shouldn't have before, but now I think it's OK," Tim
said. "Just watch the video clip, that's all I ask."

"OK. Can I do it alone?"

"You and alone... What would it ever be but you being alone..." Tim
exhaustedly said.

"Well, I mean..." Sean said, thawing just a tiny bit as Tim's comment hit
home.

"Let's finish up with the food and hit the road," Tim replied, sensing that
he'd gone as far as he could go and that he had plenty of time to get the
lay of the land.

Walking back to the car Sean tossed Tim the keys and told him, "You drive."

"You sure?" Tim asked, grinning ear to ear.

"Fuck yeah, man... I'd just like to sit and think anyway..."

"I'll never drive another car like this again," Tim said.

"You can drive anything in the collection any time you want," Sean said.

Tim wheeled the big Cadillac out onto the Northwest Tollway. "Fuck, this
thing drives like a new car. Wasn't expecting that!"




"This car's 82 years old but under the body IS a brand-new car," Sean
said. "Everything. This is one of three of the ones I got that's a
resto-mod. I had this one done like that so it would have a service life
and be useful like a normal car. This car could cruise all day long at 80
or 90 miles an hour."

"Fuck this is awesome!" Tim said, now in a full giggle as he romped on the
accelerator.

Sean felt a little better. He sat up a little straighter in the seat and,
at least to Tim, looked like he was semi-alive.

Tim made a mental note that he would call Joe Wyman that night.

Tim had a ball piloting the Fleetwood Sixty Special back to
Janesville. Once perfunctorily past the State Police checkpoint in front of
his home, Tim heaved the Fleetwood into the driveway as if he were docking
an aircraft carrier.

"Help me carry my shit in?" Tim asked.

"Sure," Sean said.

Once out of the trunk, Tim and Sean got the luggage into the house. The
first thing that happened was all three of his sons ran up to give him a
hug. George, the eldest son, said, "Want a beer, dad? Oh, and welcome home
for good!"

"Stay for one, Wymo?" Tim said, looking at Sean with a smile.

"Sure," Sean said.

"We missed seeing you lately, too, Uncle Sean," Andrew, the second son,
smiled. Sean looked at Andrew and felt such mixed emotions. Andrew was a
great kid. He was kind and gifted with intelligence. He was his husband's
namesake, and they bore similar personalities. They even bore a slight
likeness to each other in the way they acted. If one didn't know better,
one could almost be forgiven for thinking that Andrew might be Andy, Jr..

"C'mon, Uncle Sean, I'll getcha a beer!" Andrew said.

Sean tagged along.

"Here ya go!" Andrew said, popping the top on a 16-ounce PBR while grabbing
one for himself.

"Thanks, Andrew. Say, so you're a senior this year, hey?"


"Yeah, just a little while left to go and then I'm off."

"Where to?"

"Naval Academy. Dad helped me get in. I wanna be a submariner."

"You'll be a good one, too, Andrew."

"Hey, you want a bong hit, Uncle Sean?"

"Sure, why not. I won't tell the Governor, OK? How's that going for you
anyway?"

"Haha... The press and stuff pretty much leave us alone. Maybe they
wouldn't have if we'd moved to Madison. Nobody at school treats us any
different. George is only home for the weekend and then he's back to
Madison to work in the Governor's Office."

"That's right, he gives the press the finger for your dad," Sean laughed."
I forgot... And Kevin?"

"Ah, Kev's doing good. I think all he ever does is worry about what girl
he's gonna doink next."

Sean laughed at that remark, being reminded himself of what it was like to
be a kid.  Remembering how he and Andy finally got together all those years
ago. He smiled.

"Alright, Buster," Sean said, "I better shove off here so you guys can have
your family time."

"OK, but, hey, don't be a stranger, Uncle Sean..."

"I'll try not to. Say, where's the Governor?"

"Ah, he's still up in Madison. He said not to hold dinner for him."

"Well, you tell him I said hello, will ya, Andrew?"

"I will."

"OK, I'm gonna say goodbye to your dad and then I'll see ya later."

Once back in the Fleetwood, Sean headed downtown to take it back to the
museum and check it in for an after-drive servicing. He went into his
office, picked up his highball glass, rinsed it out in the sink at the wet
bar and poured himself some fingers of brandy.



He sat down to write. Of what, he didn't know. He might write about the
business deals he and Andy did over the years. He might write about trying
to be a dad to four boys. He might write about all his old friends, of whom
he had made note cards briefly detailing where they were in life. He would
think about it.

Tim didn't get much useful out of Joe Wyman that night. Joe and Tim had
always been friendly and continued to be so, but it appeared to Tim that
Joe was as baffled with his son as Tim was.  Joe admitted that he wasn't
back in Janesville enough to observe things on an everyday basis and that
it might be possible that Sean put a good face on things during the times
he was there. He apologized to Tim for not knowing more. He asked Tim to
call him back any time he thought he needed to.

One night about two weeks later, Sean decided to write of Tommy. Little
Tommy Lascelles.  The boy the twins took in.

There wasn't much to say so far. Initially, Sean thought the twins were
crazy for wanting to take on a troubled teenager, but then he remembered
that windy, rainy day so long ago when J.R. was swept into their lives, and
after that it was hard to have a criticism.

The day after Tommy showed up in their driveway, Tim took care of handling
the legal paperwork to make Lennie the boy's guardian. Tim thought it would
look a bit odd having two twin brothers who live together wanting
guardianship of a teenage boy and he advised against it.

"I'm here to talk about this kid you kinda took in," Tim said when he
showed up at the Alamo about a week later to check in, "Tommy la-SELLS."

"It's `lassels' like in `tassels,'" Lennie said.

The twins had been from the start totally honest with Tim about what they
saw and did that night, and everything else having to do with Tommy. They
were savvy enough to know that Tim regarded attorney-client privilege as
sacred. Tim advised them that they hadn't done anything wrong anyway. As he
put it, they took a ride in the car and talked to a couple of people who
later OD'd. He didn't think there was any law against watching stupid
people doing stupid things, and that there wasn't anything more to say
other than that since the boy showed up in their driveway and the security
cameras had captured him being pushed out of a car, Joey, Lennie and Brad
offering first aid, and calling the EMT. The cops weren't going to come
around asking questions about that. There was nothing there for them. Joey
and Lennie's actions were on tape. Tim merely advised them to be as good to
this injured boy as they could be and to follow their instincts.

"That's what we'll do," Joey said. "So far, so good anyway. He's eating
well and maybe is just a little less skittish. And you're right, the cops
haven't come around to ask us any more about it..."

"Yeah, and tell your mom thanks again. We think it was a good idea to take
him out of school for the rest of the year and having your mom as a private
tutor, well, he seems to like her anyway. Next year he can start as a
freshman at Craig if we think he's ready. We understand he's got a lot of
issues and Aunt Kathleen is taking care of him on that end. She's got him
on some kind of med until she can nail down what's probably gonna be best
for him. We know he's taking it like he should. We pretty much just let him
do what he wants. He hasn't asked us for anything. He's pretty quiet. He
likes to sit in the Library in the main house and read or watch TV, or so
we think, but he pretty much stays in there. Brad seems to find time every
day to spend with him. We don't mind. We figure he's gotta learn that there
are adults who aren't going to hurt him."

"But...," Lenny said, "We know how it looks right now. We live in the
apartment that's only got two bedrooms and now we're some kid's
guardians. So, we made an offer on a house yesterday. We haven't told
dad. We don't see him much..."

"No, we don't..." Joey said.

"Well, where's the house?" Tim asked.

"If we tell you then we'll have to kill you!" Lennie laughed. "Actually,
it's three doors down on Garfield."

"I noticed the For-Sale sign in the yard there. That place is huge!" Tim
said.

"It's not as big as this house. Plus no one can get mad at us. We didn't go
far," Lennie continued.

"Yeah, and it's fine. It doesn't need any work. We'll have Great Lakes
install the same security we have here. It's got space we can work from
home if we need to... It makes sense. I just hope we're doing the right
thing with that kid. He had it so bad. We don't even know if he knows how
bad."

The twins and Tim unaware, Tommy had been listening on the other side of
the door. He hurried back to the Library and took out the towel he'd hidden
under the cushions of one of the chairs. The towel he used to wipe his
tears. The towel could barely absorb the river of tears streaming down
Tommy's face. Not that he believed it now, because too many times in the
past some adults had been nice to him only to beat him, or torture him, or
use him, but always to lie to him and return him to his hell, the house of
horrors with his mother and whatever drugged-out guy she would have for a
week or a month.

The twins hadn't tried anything on Tommy. They fed him good food, he had a
comfortable warm bed, clean new clothing, he had his own teacher – her
name was Mrs. Dickson - who was a nice, older lady who made him laugh. He
had another nice lady he got to talk to about his problems with –
Dr. Wyman - and she gave him some pills that made him feel, although a
little lightheaded, much less jumpy. Tommy thought he might be able to
trust these guys.  Maybe. But he couldn't be sure. He hoped so with all his
heart, yet he wasn't naïve. And he wasn't sad that his mom died. To
Tommy she was the constant companion in his dreams when he would wake up in
a cold sweat and jump if he heard a noise in the house. Tommy had never
known his dad, and not being well raised or particularly well-schooled he
didn't have any idea about how to go about finding him even if he wanted
to. He still slept with his clothes on at the Alamo, though, because he
thought someone might take his clothes away from him.  And the house was so
large and grand he knew these people could do with him whatever they wanted
to and get away with it because no one else would see or hear. He knew how
people with money could be. Someone was paying someone else to keep him
maybe. He wasn't sure of anything.

Tommy cried, but he also didn't let his guard down. He told himself he
couldn't afford to. The best thing for him to do would be to lie low, get
to know the house and plan escape routes in case they were needed.

On his way out, Tim asked if he could speak to Tommy for a minute.

"Sure," the twins said.

They found Tommy easily enough in the library.

"Tommy," Joey said, "This is Mr. Dickson. He's your teacher Mrs. Dickson's
son. He's also our attorney. He wants to talk to you for a couple
minutes. This is just between you and him so we'll be in the bar."

"OK..." Tommy said nervously, eyeballing the large, muscular figure of Tim
Dickson.

Once the door shut, Tommy stood up and started to undo his belt.

"What are you doing?" Tim asked, somewhat puzzled.

"I know what you want," Tommy lifelessly said. "Let's just get it over
with."

"Look, kid," Tim said. "Sit back down and buckle your belt. I'm not here to
fuck your ass if that's what you're thinking. I'm here to be your
lawyer. There's some things we don't know about your case yet, but one
thing we do know is that we're going to have to deal with Child Protective
Services. That's fine. I know people over there, and we'll get it handled
the right way. But we still have to be ready. Now, I want to ask you some
questions. Is that OK?"

"You mean... You're not..."


"No, I'm not. Now, shall we get started?"

"I guess..."

"Alright then. I'm gonna take notes on what I think it important. And I'm
going to record our session, too. State your name."

"Tommy Lascelles."

"Is that Thomas?"

"Yes."

"Middle name?"

"I don't know if I have one... Nobody ever said..."

"Interesting. Age?"

"Fo... Um... Fourteen."

"Alright, now I want you to tell me everything you remember that happened
in the time immediately before you ended up in Joey and Lennie's
driveway. Go ahead."

Tommy told a harrowing story about being taken from his home the day before
by a man whose name he didn't know after his mother told him that he had to
go. He related how he would have to bring back the money and hand it to his
mother or he would be beaten and locked in the basement chained to the
sewer pipe for at least a day but often longer with no food or water and no
toilet. He said how the man was initially nice to him, bought him lunch and
dinner and took him to see a movie. But after that, Tommy was taken to a
motel somewhere, he didn't know where and couldn't remember the name.

They spent the next day there, the man smoking meth when he wasn't fucking
the chained-up and gagged Tommy raw or whipping him."

"Whipping?" Tim asked. "Explain."

"With a whip," Tommy answered. "I know what a whip is. It was a whip. I
couldn't get away because I'd pass out and he had me tied up with
chains. He even whipped my balls."

Tim almost threw up.

"I see," Tim said. "Now, I need you to give me your best description of
this guy, height, weight, build, any identifying marks you can think
of. Also, what kind of a car did he have? License plate number if you
managed to get it. I need to know anything and everything."

Tommy couldn't give Tim an outstanding description of the man other than
his hair color and that he had a tattoo of a snake on one of his
forearms. The car he was able to remember a little more about. He
remembered it was rented, or so the man told him because Tommy went to
light up a cigarette and was slapped and told he couldn't smoke in the
car. Tommy also said he remembered that the car was white with a black
interior and had Iowa license plates.

He finished by telling Tim that after two days of being fucked and whipped
he was thrown into the car and then the man drove around for a while and
pushed him out into the driveway at the Alamo where he was found. He said
he was sure that he was going to die.

"Very well, I think that's enough young man," Tim said. "I take it the
Police have interviewed you as well?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going to give a copy of what you told me to the Police just in case
you remembered more now," Tim said. "Your mother is dead, and from what I
gathered that doesn't make a lot of difference to you. I can understand
that. But the man who did this to you is not dead, at least as far as we
know. Therefore, we would like him to face the punishment the law will give
him for what he did. Does that make sense?"

"I guess so. I just... I..."

"I'd give you a hug, Tommy, but I'm your lawyer. You can get your hugs from
Joey and Lennie.  I'm gonna tell you something else, too, Tommy, and I want
you to look at me when I say this.  I've known Joey and Lennie since they
were babies. I played football with their dad in high school. They're
almost like sons to me. Those two guys care about you. They are kind and
gentle men. They will never hurt you. Never. Or use you. Or pimp you. Or
anything else. And I'm telling you that as your lawyer. I know this must be
hard for you, to learn to trust other people. I get that. My heart goes out
to you. But know this: I will never lie to you.  Understand?"

Tommy only looked at Tim, his lower lip quivering uncontrollably. And then
the dam broke. He grabbed his towel, buried his face in it and cried. His
entire body heaved and quaked.

Tim rose, patted Tommy on the shoulder and exited the room. He went to the
bar and told Joey and Lennie to go see to Tommy that minute. "I'll see
myself out, guys. I know my way in and out of here."

Joey and Lennie found Tommy still wracked with spasms in the
library. Although he was 14 years old, he was small and slightly built, so
Lennie scooped him up and let him cry on his shoulder until there was no
more cry left in him while Joey rubbed his back.

Tommy started to feel better. Well, maybe not better, he couldn't explain
it, but he felt almost as if some of his pain was leaving him. He could not
know that among the twins' gifts was an empathic facility. They would never
tell him, either. Silently they agreed that if this boy was going to
recover, then he would have to believe in himself and believe that he did
it on his own.

They would never mention their gift in front of Tommy.

In the meantime, Tim had driven to the Janesville Police headquarters and
asked to see the Detective on duty. He was shown in. He informed the
Detective that he was representing Tommy Lascelles in the open case matter,
and that he wished to furnish the materials he gleaned from the interview
he had with Tommy to the Police. "If you think it could be of some help,
Detective."

"I'd say it couldn't hurt, Counselor. I appreciate it. If we have anything
more we'll contact his guardian, Leonard Wyman."

"I'd like it if you'd add me to the list as I am Mr. Wyman's personal
attorney."

"Consider it done."

On the way home, Tim telephoned Great Lakes Security and talked to their
top investigator. As they had all found out over the years, Charlie Ditmar
had left the company in good hands when he officially retired, although
still retained ownership. Tim relayed the information he had and was told
that Great Lakes would get right on the case. Tim thought that if anyone
could find the guy, those guys could. There was at least some information
to go on, anyway.

Tim did not head directly home after that. He called the house, Kevin
answered, and he asked to speak to "the Governor."

"Hey, Sweetie," Tim said.

"Hey..." Brett answered. "Look, if you're going to be late that's fine. The
boys have had their dinner and I'm gonna be a while on the line with the
Treasurer anyway."

"More money problems?"

"No, actually we're in the black and it looks like it's going to
continue. We're trying to figure out how to announce it in such a way that
people don't expect us to just loosen the purse strings and start raining
down money we can't spare on everything. We have to pay down the debt."


"Just tell it like it is. People will understand. Besides, you said it
would take two years to show results and you were right. It's been just
about two years. We can talk about that later if you want..."

"Timothy, I always ask your advice before I do anything important."

"Yeah, but you don't always take it..."

"That's true. I don't. But that's not why you asked me to marry you all
those years ago."

"No, no it's not. It must have been that first date when we went to the
golf course."

"Wanna go back sometime?"

"More than anything, hun. Anyway, I'm going to see Wymo. I've put this off
long enough."

"I think so, too. You've always loved him, Timothy."

"Yeah, I have. He was the forerunner you know..."

"I know. Don't forget, you're an easy read."

"Wish me luck."

"As much as you need. Now, you wish me luck with the Treasurer."

"Tell him to fuck off. He's only the bookkeeper. You're the boss. You tell
him whatever extra there is goes into the rainy-day fund until you know
this recovery is real. That's what you promised: no more fucking around
with the state's finances. You said you'd need two years to turn it
around. Well, here it is two years later and it's turning around, or so we
might think.  You do what you told the people you would do and then you
tell the people that. That's why they elected you. Let's face it, hun, one
four-year term won't be enough to fix it all. You'll need another term, and
the only way to get it is to be able to show positive yardage and to remind
everyone that at the end of the day you delivered what you said you were
gonna deliver. Our last Governor didn't do that, and neither did the one
before him. Look where it got them. If they try to get you to start playing
Santa Claus don't fall for it."

"I'll make the announcement at my next question time with the
legislature. I'm not going to the press. I haven't done it so far so why
should I start. Besides, I owe the press nothing. That Suzie Sundt outside
our house on election night was beyond the pale and they're all just like
her. I won't answer leading questions, and that's all they wanna do."

And that was true. In Brett's first week as Governor, he announced that
instead of having him or a spokesman – Brett hated the very idea of
someone else talking for him – taking often- snarky questions from the
press in press conferences that he would instead appear once a week for 30
minutes in front of a joint session of the state legislature with the
Speaker of the Assembly presiding and he would take questions from
legislators. It was an American adaptation of the British practice of Prime
Minister's Questions. Two years in it proved to be popular with the people
and had the added benefit that legislators couldn't spout nonsense to the
nearest media person because Brett had his answer ready to hand. Initially
when a few legislators tried that tactic Brett made them look like utter
fools. The lesson was quickly learned: you asked a businesslike question
and Brett responded with a businesslike answer, but if it was tea that you
wanted, Brett served it hot. And to go.

"Boy do I know you don't answer leading questions," Tim said, "and no you
don't owe the press anything. You're elected. They're not. Fuck
'em. They're a buncha twats. They couldn't give a fuck about what they ask
you in any question. They like to hear themselves talk. If anything, they
owe you for fashion tips. You know that you were rated the Best Dressed
Politician in the country this last year..."

"Well, that wasn't exactly hard... I mean in the guy's category..."

"It's not hard if a person looks like you do."

"Just don't get hard talking to Wymo..."

"I promise to try. How's that?"

"It's all anyone could ask. I know you love him. And I know he loves you,
too."

"He was a little caustic the last time we talked."

"Well, we did kind of all leave him in the lurch all those years ago and
after that we were kinda only half-assed friends at the most. I mean, maybe
that's what he thinks. I know that's water under the bridge but imagine how
he felt..."

"I'm not sure that I can."

"Listen, Captain Dickson, just go talk to Wymo. Spend whatever time you
need. If you won't be home tonight just let me know. If it takes longer let
me know. Take him up to the cabin if you think that's what you need to do."

"Alright. Love you, Governor."

"Love you more."

Tim headed downtown and stopped in at the old King's Pub bar, still a
favorite watering hole for Janesville's well-heeled men. He pulled up a
barstool and ordered a double Glenfiddich.

He sipped it and ran through in his mind what he wanted to say to Sean and
what he hoped he would hear.

Once done, he tipped the bartender and went on his way. He had a pretty
good idea he'd fine Sean at the automobile museum.

At the car museum, Tim parked in back on the alley. He knew enough to know
that if Sean was watching his security monitors, which Tim guessed he was,
he'd seen Tim pull up and get out of the car. Tim walked up to the back
door and just for the hell of it put his thumb on the scanning pad located
next to the door.

It worked. Tim heard the lock disengage. He entered the building into what
appeared to be a large repair and workshop area. He heard no one else
stirring around the place so he kept going. He knew there must be an office
someplace.

Eventually Tim found the office. And in the office he found Sean. Sean
looked up, startled.

"Dix? How the fuck? How did you get in here?"

"Thumb," Tim replied, sticking his thumb out. "I figured you'd be watching
your monitors and know I was here so I didn't think I was gonna surprise
you. Sorry about that. Anyway, like I said I tried my thumb and it worked."
Sean looked like shit, Tim thought. His hair was disheveled, and his
clothes were rumpled which on Sean Wyman was never seen. On the desk in
front of him were several journal books, some open, some not and one of
which appeared that Sean had been writing in it, a half-gone bottle of
brandy and a highball glass with maybe a sip or two left in it.

"So, what's up anyway, bud?" Tim asked.

"You didn't come here to find out how my day was," Sean said. "Drink?" he
asked holding the brandy bottle aloft.

"Don't mind if I do," Tim said, picking up an empty glass off a serving
tray to the left of the desk that looked like it hadn't been touched for
years.

"Bong hit?" Tim asked brandishing a mini-bong and lighter.

"Might as well..." Sean said unemotionally and without a smile.

Both men clinked their glasses, downed the brandy and took a healthy bong
hit.

"So, let's cut to the chase, Dix. Why are you here?"

"That's not a very charming greeting, Wymo..." Tim said looking downcast.

"No, it wasn't. I'm sorry," Sean said pouring himself another three
fingers.

Tim held out his glass. Once filled, he reloaded the bong.

"Wymo, I'll tell ya why I'm here. You're why I'm here. I love ya too much,
man. I got something I wanna read for ya."

Tim pulled out a folded piece of note paper and began to read.

"I didn't like to see ye that morning. I felt for ye – to see ye coming
there with your sons on one side and death on the other. No, I didn't like
to see it. I felt sorry for ye. I know so well what your feeling must be
– ye who had been so happy. There is no more pleasure for you, poor
friend, and I feel for ye but what can I do for ye? I could die for
ye."****

Sean was speechless.

Tim asked if Sean had watched the video clip he recommended.

Sean couldn't talk. He could only shake his head no.

Tim took out his iPad. "Here, watch."

Sean started the video. The scene was in a room at Marlborough House in
London. The year was long ago. 1952. A 25-year-old Elizabeth II had just
ascended the English throne upon the death of her father, George
VI. Elizabeth was on a Commonwealth tour and in Kenya at that moment and it
wasn't until some hours later that she was told she was now the Queen.  Her
majestic Grandmother, Queen Mary, elderly, infirm, and with but a year left
to live, imparted sage advice in the form of a letter to the young
Sovereign which was delivered to to her upon her aircraft's arrival in
London and read by her before she disembarked:

"I know how you loved your papa, my son. And I know you will be as
devastated as I am by this loss. But you must put those sentiments to one
side now, for duty calls.

"The grief for your father's death will be felt far and wide. Your people
will need your strength and leadership.

"I have seen three great monarchies brought down through their failure to
separate personal indulgences from duty. You must not allow yourself to
make similar mistakes.

"And while you mourn your father, you must also mourn someone
else. Elizabeth Mountbatten.  For she has now been replaced by another
person, Elizabeth Regina.

"The two Elizabeths will frequently be in conflict with one another. The
fact is, The Crown must win. Must always win."

https://youtu.be/FnBjb5imPLY

Sean looked up again, staring. "What... What should I do?" Sean whispered.

"OK, I made an appointment for us for tomorrow in Milwaukee," Tim
said. "You don't have to keep it. I can always cancel it. I thought it
might not hurt to go see Archbishop Taylor."*****

A long pause ensued. Sean looked perplexed.

He sighed.

"I'll go. I don't know what else to do... I have... I... I
have...nothing..."

Tim went to his friend and took his hand, interlacing Sean's fingers in his
own.

"You have me. You'll always have me." Tim said.

"Will you stay with me tonight? I have private sleeping quarters upstairs."
Sean asked. "Here?"

"I will," Tim said. "And I'll stay for as long as it takes."

The two men went upstairs. Tim stripped off his clothing and stood naked
before his old friend. Sean, still in his boxers and t-shirt hung his
head. Reluctantly, Sean removed the last of his clothing, too. Once in bed,
Tim pulled Sean in and spooned him. Sean heard Tim whisper almost
imperceptivity into his ear, "I love you." Tim then fell fast
asleep. Remarkably so did Sean.

The next day, Tim and Sean set out for Milwaukee. Sean selected the 1975
Buick Gran Sport as their ride that day. He wanted a nice grand tourer
because the trip to Milwaukee from Janesville could be easily made along
scenic country backroads but at the same time even though Sean somehow felt
maybe a little bit lighter that his old friend Tim was there, he felt that
it was only in that moment and he felt drained and therefore didn't want a
car that demanded an excessive amount of driver attention, like perhaps the
high-strung Cosworth Vega or the eccentric Corvair Monza. The Buick with
its stout, low-revving 350 cubic-inch V8, decent handling, bucket seats,
and that Buick ride would be just the ticket.

Once at the Archbishop's residence located behind the ancient Cathedral of
Saint John the Evangelist in downtown Milwaukee, which dated from 1847, Tim
and Sean were shown into the Archbishop's office.

"Good afternoon, my sons," Archbishop Taylor smiled, rising to shake their
hands. "It's been a long time."

"Good afternoon, Your Excellency," Tim smiled back while Sean simply
nodded. "Yes, it has been a long time. I knew way back at Saint John
Vianney that you'd make good someday."

"What can I do for you, my sons?"

"Your Excellency," Tim said, "I'm wondering if you might have time for an
audience with my friend here. If so, I'll disappear and go down to the
Cathedral to pray."

"For you, Timothy and Sean, my time this afternoon is your time. I guess
you might as well go and say your prayers now, Timothy. I'll hear your
confession afterwards, so just consider your prayers a penance paid in
advance. Pray hard," the Archbishop chuckled.

"Yes, Your Excellency."

With that, Tim exited leaving Sean alone with Archbishop Taylor. The
Archbishop bade Sean take a chair in one of the two comfortable leather
wing-back chairs facing his desk.

"Sean, my son, your friend Timothy is a good man. I've known him for his
entire life. I baptized him when he was a baby. I officiated at his wedding
back in the days when we weren't supposed to do that. Timothy is concerned
about you. He'd like to help you, but he doesn't know how to go about it,
or even if you would accept his help. He understands that he wasn't there
for you when you might have needed his friendship the most.  Above all
that, though, he is your friend. He loves you. Perhaps we could talk about
that, but I want to assure you that whatever we talk about is just between
you and me. That's why Timothy isn't here now. You can tell me as much, or
as little as you like, or even nothing at all if that's what you want. But
if you do wish to unburden yourself, I'm here to listen.

"And I'll pray for you."

Sean thought for a moment. He started slowly, and haltingly, but he did
unburden himself as much as he could to the kindly Archbishop. He stopped
many times afraid that he would break down completely.

The Archbishop did not chivvy or cajole Sean to keep going, rather he
waited patiently for the younger man to go on if he wished.

After a long while, when he thought Sean was finished, the Archbishop at
last talked. "My son, if you wish I shall hear your confession now. Not
that you might have much to confess, but it might be helpful."

"I'd like that, Your Excellency," Sean said quietly.

Once done, the Archbishop did not prescribe a penance for Sean. Rather, he
advised that he should open his heart. Not for doing good because, as the
Archbishop said, he knew that Sean had done good in his life, but to open
his heart to life itself.

"I'll follow you out and we'll go to the Cathedral and I'll hear Timothy's
confession now."

"Thank you, Your Excellency."

When Tim's confession was done, they bid goodbye to Archbishop Taylor and
piled back into the car. Tim asked to drive. Puzzled, Sean gave Tim the
keys but asked why.

"We're going up north. Up to the cabin."

"But, I didn't pack..."

"Not necessary. I have a shit ton of clothes and shoes up there and we're
both the same size pretty much."

"I guess... How long we gonna be there?"

"Don't know. A few days, a week, two weeks... A month...."

"WHAT?"

"Don't worry, Kevin and Brad will take care of everything while we're
gone. It's all set."

"You suck!" Sean sulked.

"We'll see if I do once we get there..."

"Does... Does Brett know?"

"He does. It was his idea."

"His idea?"

"Yup. I mean, I thought about it first, but he said it first. Don't worry,
Brett and me, we've been together 25 years. I know what he's thinking, and
he knows what I'm thinking. It's kinda automatic..."

"I guess... I'm not very happy you kidnapping me, though..."

"Shut up. You need this. And you know it."




END CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE




*The Deutsche Bundesbank (German Federal Bank) is the central bank of
Germany. It is the equivalent for Germany of the Federal Reserve Bank of
New York, or the Bank of England.

**Future timelines are of course left to the imagination of the author. No
one wishes to see the demise of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, but she is
only human. We won't see her like again. She gave her life to her country
and represents virtues that hopefully will never go out of style: discreet
authority, loyalty, service, tradition, and things that were built to
last. She did it all as faultlessly as any human being could have. With
respect to the story, in the year 2039 it would be unrealistic to think
Elizabeth would still be on the throne at the age of 113. And it would, the
author wagers most people agree, be unfair to her. I cut Charles' reign
short and went straight to William just to cut to the chase.

***Prior to that, the last U.S. Navy ship to be named for the State of
Wisconsin was the Iowa class battleship U.S.S. Wisconsin (BB-64). She was
the last battleship ever built for the U.S.  Navy, being commissioned in
1944 and finally retired in 1991. The Iowa class Battleships (Iowa, New
Jersey, Missouri and Wisconsin) were the largest, fastest U.S. Battleships
ever built and carried the heaviest armament with a broadside of 9 16-inch
guns. Recall earlier in the story that George Dickson had served aboard
U.S.S. Missouri.

****This is an editing and adaptation of some words supposedly spoke by the
servant John Brown to Queen Victoria.

*****Archbishop Taylor is Father Taylor from earlier chapters. Offered
promotion to be the Bishop of Madison, he declined. He wanted the
Archbishopric of Milwaukee. A plum position of a major Archbishopric which
in the past had led to promotion to a premier Archbishopric such as New
York and a Cardinalate. Taylor had proven his worth to the Vatican over the
years in terms of finance and in the end, Taylor got the job he wanted in
Milwaukee.




SEAN'S CAR COLLECTION:

NOTE: All cars are frame-off restorations rebuilt to factory spec as new,
except where noted.

1927 Chevrolet AA Capitol in navy blue.

1933 Chevrolet Eagle in two-tone black cherry.

1934 Oldsmobile F34 Convertible in maroon.

1936 Cadillac V16 Fleetwood in black lacquer.

1938 Buick Series 90 Limited in deep green-black. Resto-mod with up-to-date
frame, suspension and brakes. Stock drivetrain replaced with GM
battery-electric.

1941 Pontiac Torpedo Fastback Coupe in two-tone maroon and black.

1941 Chevrolet Master Deluxe in two-tone beige and brown.

1946 GM "Old Look" City Bus, Model 5105. In the green/yellow livery and the
badging of the Janesville Bus Company of the time. Classic Detroit Diesel
6V/71 engine

1949 Cadillac Series 2-door 62 Sedanette in dark diamond blue.

1949 Oldsmobile 88 Coupe in red.

1949 Cadillac Series 62 4-door Sedanette in sea green with tan fabric and
leather interior.

1953 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible in white with red leather interior.

1953 Buick Skylark Convertible in red with red leather interior and white
trim.

1953 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight Fiesta Convertible in two-tone deep turquoise
and white.

1955 Chevrolet Bel Air Convertible in rare monotone white with red/white
vinyl interior.

1955 Chevrolet Nomad in two-tone red and tan.

1956 Chevrolet Nomad in two-tone turquoise and white.

1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham in deep brown-black with stainless steel
roof.

1957 Chevrolet Bel Air Sport Coupe w/rare Rochester mechanical fuel
injection. In two-tone red and white.

1957 Chevrolet Suburban in royal blue.

1958 Cadillac Fleetwood Sixty Special in off-white custom lacquer paint
with two-tone brown and deep brown interior. Resto-mod. Modern chassis and
suspension. Powerplant replaced with hybrid GM 3.0-liter turbodiesel
in-line six-cylinder engine/electric motors and heavy-duty CVT
transmission.

1958 Chevrolet Impala Coupe in monotone white with red & white interior.

1959 Cadillac Eldorado Seville in Georgian blue with white leather
interior.

1959 Buick Invicta Coupe in metallic Coppertone.

1959 Chevrolet El Camino in monotone white with red trim.

1961 Chevrolet Corvair Lakewood station wagon in two-tone electric dark
turquoise blue and white with beige vinyl interior.

1961 Chevrolet Impala Super sport "Bubbletop" Coupe in monotone white with
red trim. Rare 409 cubic-inch V8 w/4-speed manual powertrain.

1963 Mercedes Benz 600 in metallic gold with black interior.

1963 Buick Riviera in metallic sea green with white leather interior.

1963 Chevrolet Corvette Split-Window Coupe in red.

1964 Pontiac GTO in navy blue.

1965 Chevrolet Impala Super Sport in white with red interior. 396
cubic-inch V8 w/4-speed manual transmission.

1965 Pontiac Catalina 2+2 in navy blue. 421 cubic-inch V8 w/four speed
manual transmission.

1966 Oldsmobile Toronado in navy blue with navy blue leather interior and
rare disc brake factory retrofit.

1966 Chevrolet Caprice Custom Coupe in white with rare vinyl top delete,
blue body trim and blue vinyl interior.

1967 Pontiac Firebird Sprint Six w/four-speed stick in dark blue with white
vinyl interior.

1967 Camaro Z/28 in royal blue with black interior. Rare Special Production
Order Z/28 & RS option combination.

1968 Chevrolet Corvair Monza Coupe in red with black vinyl interior.

1968 Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser in Firemist red with rare woodgrain side trim
delete and with tan vinyl interior. Ultra-rare Rocket 350 4bbl V8
w/four-speed manual transmission powertrain.

1969 Chevrolet K/5 Blazer in two-tone dark blue and white.

1970 Oldsmobile 442 W-30 in red with black interior.

1971 Buick Riviera in dark Coppertone with medium brown leather and brocade
cloth interior.

1971 Cadillac Fleetwood Sixty Special Brougham in diamond mist black with
black interior.

1975 Buick Gran Sport in medium blue with white interior.

1976 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible in white with red trim and white leather
interior.

1976 Cadillac Calais Coupe w/rare vinyl top delete and sea green Firemist
paint.

1976 Chevrolet Cosworth Vega in black with black interior.

1976 Buick Electra 225 Limited in blue-black with rare vinyl roof delete
and deep red interior.  Resto-mod. Modern chassis, suspension and
brakes. Powerplant replaced with GM 3.0-liter turbodiesel in-line
six-cylinder engine and ten-speed automatic transmission.

1976 Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser w/rare wood paneling delete. In maroon with
buckskin vinyl interior.

1978 Pontiac Trans Am in gold with black interior and black firebird
full-hood decaling.

1980 Mercedes Benz 300TD turbodiesel in canary yellow with tan MB-tex
interior.

1987 Pontiac Fiero GT in black with tan interior.