Family Affairs: The Aftermath

[Veritas]

Author's Note: This is a small sequel to Family Affairs. It picks up where the story left off. I normally don't do sequels, but I needed to take care of some unfinished business.
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Before the sun even rose on Saturday morning, the Piccucci Affair, as the press dubbed it, was worldwide news. It had all the elements of a great melodrama: murder, greed, the mob, and a well-known celebrity mixed up in it. Journalists milked it for all it was worth, and the public was eating it up. Print and electronic media practically competed with each other to produce the most eyecatching headline:

MURDER AT THE LUXOR!!

THE PICCUCCI AFFAIR: A TALE OF MONEY, MURDER AND THE MOB

GUARDIAN ANGEL: FAMOUS ILLUSIONIST CRISS ANGEL FENDS OFF KILLER

WIDOW OF MOBSTER FOUND DEAD AT THE LUXOR

WOMAN BLACKMAILS MOTHER-IN-LAW, KILLS HUSBAND FOR INHERITANCE

PICCUCCI ESTATE SPLIT FOUR WAYS BETWEEN SURVIVING CHILDREN, CARETAKER

MAGICIAN TACKLES PICCUCCI MURDERER, SAVES THREE


Criss' part in the affair was maginified by a factor of ten, making him the hero of the story, while Casey's role was greatly diminished, reducing her to damsel-in-distress status. Springs was all but forgotten, save for some background information he gave to the press after Pamela's arrest. Alicia Rose was not mentioned by name, nor was her history, and her face was strategically blurred in the video surveillance tape to protect her identity. As far as the public was concerned, she was just an innocent bystander who got caught in the crossfire. Detective Jim Meridian could not be reached for comment, the press stated.





Criss Angel spent the better part of Sunday in his suite at the Luxor, with only his cat, Hammie, for company. It was a relief to be alone in the peace and quiet of his room, away from the demands of the reporters and the blinding flash of the cameras. Now he sat on his bed, a glass of juice in his hand, his beloved cat curled up at the foot, dozing. The media had been hounding him all day yesterday for yet another statement regarding the so-called Piccucci Affair and his so-called heroism in it. He couldn't even go to the gym for a workout without a bevy of cameramen following him; the security crew had to herd the whole lot of them out of the hotel with a terse "No interviews!".

He shouldn't have gotten involved, he thought. He should have let Springs and Casey go alone to the security office to identify the body. He should have let Casey go back inside the hotel herself and look for Springs while he returned to the production office. He should have divorced himself completely from the whole sordid mess--it had been none of his business in the first place. He had never even heard of the Piccucci family or the Guys of Glitter Gulch before this whole thing started...well, when did it start? Oh, yeah, that fake bomb in the cleaning cart. But that was targeted at Casey, not him.

Not that he was unsympathetic toward her plight; he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. It was just that he should have backed off when he had the chance. But no, against his better judgement he had to accompany Casey on her search for her employer. Geez, all she had to do was head to the hotel lounge and find him at the bar--he didn't have to go with her at all. Instead, he accompanied her to the service corridor where Springs was walking in front of Pamela and that girl she held hostage, Alicia (he never learned her last name, by the way), and as a result became a hostage himself.

Instinct had taken over when he found himself staring down the barrel of a thirty-eight: thorugh some latent sense of paternal instinct he had shielded Alicia with his own body, then his martial arts training had kicked in the minute he saw Pamela drop her guard when that cop showed up--one swift leap and she was down on the floor. It had been a risky move, going against someone who was armed and ready to shoot; he could have been killed himself, and for what?

Criss reflected on that last query. For what? To save a life, that was what. There was an old man who could barely shuffle from one end of the hallway to the other, a terrified woman who had been the primary target, and a hysterical child several hundred miles from home. What chance did any of them have in fending off that crazy (bleep) leveling a gun in their faces? She could have shot all three of them before that cop came in. Or maybe not; he wasn't sure. All he knew was that if he hadn't been there in the first place, if he had just gone on to the production office instead of accompanying Casey to the security office to identify that woman's body, let alone help her find Springs, he wouldn't be mixed up in the whole damn mess.

But what about Casey? And Alicia? And Springs? Would they have survived? Would the cop who showed up still have been able to save them if he hadn't been there to tackle her? Would there have been another murder in the hotel if he hadn't been there? What would have really happened if he hadn't involved himself with Casey and the Piccuccis?

His mind boggled over what could have been if Fate had decreed otherwise. Finally he gave up--it was no good ruminating over past mistakes. What was done was done, no sense crying over spilled milk and all that BS. He would just have to ride it out until it blew over. He knew that scandals rose up like weeds, flourished for a time, milked by the media until dry, then faded away until new ones cropped up, the old ones all but forgotten. Well, one good thing came out of it, he thought in retrospect: four innocent people were still alive, and the killer was now behind bars.

But there was the trial, he suddenly remembered. Would he be called to testify? The security tapes should be evidence enough to convict her, and he was positive that the police had her records on file. Hell, she practically confessed in that hallway--she should just plead guilty and avoid a trial altogether. That would be nice, but living in the real world often conflicted with one's wishes and desires for perfection. Anyway, it would probably be a year or two before Pamela Piccucci had her day in court. Maybe that would give her time to reflect on her evil ways and repent of her crimes.

Criss laughed ruefully at the thought of a penitent Pamela pleading guilty to two counts of murder and assault with intent to murder. Yeah, he thought, like that was going to happen! Granted, she would be spared the death penalty if she did, but then she'd be facing life behind bars, practically a fate worse than death for a woman who was accustomed to a life of wealth and privilege. No, he knew she was too proud to admit guilt to anything. And pride, he had learned in his youth, goeth before a fall, and Pamela Piccucci had fallen pretty damn hard. Criss could only hope he wouldn't be called to testify at the trial, if there would be one. But he doubted it. He doubted it very much.




Jim Meridian sat behind his desk, savoring the blissful feeling of another case closed. Not just any case, but the most high-profile double murder case in Las Vegas--to date, he amended. Wife blows up two-timing hubby in his car, then strangles former mother-in-law to claim former mobster's estate, sends death threats to caretaker--to the general public, it may have been a horrific crime of major proportions, but for Meridian it was just another day at the office.

His final report on the Piccucci case lay on his desk, printed out with accompanying photos and autopsy sketches, bound in a folder and good to go. Meridian pinched his eyes with his fingers; his head ached from all of the typing and form filling. Maybe he needed glasses? He made a mental note to get his eyes checked; the department insurance would cover it, no problem. God, I hate growing old, he said to himself.

He was also sleepy from having been up half the night seeing Alicia Rose off at the airport around two AM that Saturday morning. A small Cessna passenger plane, a mere puddle-jumper compared to the jumbo jets that usually landed there, agreed to take the recalcitrant runaway adolescent back to--oh, God did he forget the name of that town already? He really was getting old!--back to Iowa and her mother. He could imagine Mom Rose would be pretty damn upset when she got there. Poor kid probably won't be able to sit down for a week after this, he thought with a chuckle. Oh, well, it was totally out of his hands now. The important thing was that she was back where she belonged, safe and sound.

Meridian's mind replayed the scene in the service corridor: He had just arrived and demanded that Pamela drop her weapon. She had hesitated for just a heartbeat, then that Criss Angel guy had to play the big hero and tackle her, risking getting shot himself. While he was somewhat grateful for the assist and admired his sense of timing, he still thought the brash magician an idiot for taking a chance like that. But then, that guy took risks for a living, didn't he? Well, there was taking risks on stage and taking risks in real life; the former was more controlled with safety features in place should something go wrong. Real life wasn't like that--you survived only by chance and sheer dumb luck, even if you did take precautions.

After Pamela was safely in police custody, Meridian had taken Criss, Casey and Alicia back into the security office for a quick debriefing (Springs had left the scene, mumbling something about getting a drink. Meridian had decided to catch up with the old man later). He had questioned Criss first, Alicia and Casey being to traumatized to speak. He found the famous illusionist very co-operative, even friendly.

"Hell of a risk you took there, Angel," he had said. "One wrong move and you'd have been shot."

Criss had shrugged. "I saw my chance, and I took it," he had replied. "You distracted her long enough for me to make my move. It's like the magician's art of misdirection--I make you look over here, when you should be looking over here." He had demonstrated this point by holding up one of his medallions in his left hand, then holding up Meridian's pen in his right.

Meridian had been suitably impressed, recalling his police acadamy training back in the day: look for an opening, a moment when the perp is distracted, then make your move. This guy had it down in spades, he had thought, though for a different reason.

Criss had also replayed what Pamela had said in the corridor, if not word for word, then pretty close to it. Yes, it had been she who had delivered the phony bomb, blew up her husband (how, he didn't know), and murdered Tina LaRue. Pamela had also mentioned something about her former mother-in-law blackmailing her. Meridian recalled Pamela coming into his office with the letter she had received that morning; the lab established from the latent fingerprints that Tina had indeed sent it. No one was innocent except Casey Worth, he thought ruefully. And Casey herself had confirmed what Criss had told him.

So did Alicia once she had calmed down. Meridian had upbraided her for slipping out of the office like she did, though she had protested that she was hungry and really needed something to eat and she was going to come back, really she was. She had identified Pamela as Tina's killer in a videocam lineup, then sent to the youth shelter when he was through questioning her, only to find her at that shindig on the Luxor Hotel parking garage the next day. What the hell was it called again? Somethingpalooza? Whatever. At any rate he had bought her back to the shelter, then personally drove her to the airport where her plane was waiting to take her home around two AM, putting her in the custody of the pilot to make damn sure she got where she was supposed to be. Alicia had boarded the plane with the same heavy look convicts wore when climbing into a prison van, except convicts usually didn't say they were sorry for all the trouble they caused and hug the arresting officer goodbye.

He had caught up with Springs after the debriefings in the security office. Sure enough, there he was at the bar, nursing a Manhattan. Springs had offered him a drink, but he refused, saying he was on duty. Meridian didn't ask any questions but listened as the garrulous old man went on and on about how Tina LaRue had been poison from the day he had met her over thirty years ago, and how Pamela had done the world a favor for bumping her off, and how Pamela had taken a page out of Shorty Hyneman's book by pouring gasoline in the radiator of Junior's car ("How else could she have done it?" he had said. "She didn't know nothin' about explosives!"), and what happened at the reading of Mick's will, and the whole bomb hoax, and whatever came into the old man's mind. Meridian managed to glean whatever useful information he could from Springs' ramblings, then had left the bar debating whether he should be subpoened to testify. The lawyer questioning him would have a helluva time getting the old coot to stay on track, he had reflected.

Meridian had returned to his office and spent the rest of the night typing up the report. All nighters were nothing new to him--there were times when he practically lived in his office. But as time passed, age and the stress of his job began taking its toll on his system. He began to develop headaches from staring at the computer screen, and bags, wrinkles and crow's feet were creasing his face. He couldn't recall the last time he went on vacation. Maybe he should...?

He pulled out the sofa bed and flopped down on it. If he drove home in his exhausted state, he'd be a statistic for sure. It had been a long, trying day, and he felt he earned a few Zs. The Piccucci case was officially closed, cut and dry. All that remained was the trial, and who knew when that would take place?

[Veritas]

The little Cessna plane landed on the tarmac with a bump, jolting the pilot and sole passenger inside, then glided to a halt. Alicia cautiously looked out the window for any sign of her mother, and was half-relieved when she saw none. The pilot helped her out of the plane and retrieved her little brown suitcase for her as well. Alicia crossed the tarmac and walked to the terminal with leaden feet. Deep down she knew that it was not going to be a very happy family reunion when she encountered her mother.

Maybe she wasn't there yet. She hoped against hope. Even the smallest delay would buy her some time to plan her defense, or at least plea bargain her way out of too severe a punishment. It was a longshot, but it was all she had going in her favor. But what if Mom was there already? Would she fly into a rage the minute she saw her, screaming like a banshee with fists flying? Or would she save that when they got home? It was death either way, she thought.

And even if she did survive her mother's wrath, what then? What would life be like after the whole ordeal was over? In Vegas she had dreamed of living with her beloved Criss Angel forever and ever in total bliss. Instead, she had been sent back to Marvinville in disgrace with only an autographed Loyalapalooza program to show for it. Now her future was a void, a black hole where all her past hopes and dreams were swallowed up, never to be seen again. She wished the plane had crashed en route to Marvinville--death was preferable to the lifetime of emptiness she faced.

Alicia hesitated at the foyer of the terminal of the airfield, a metal Quonset hut shaped structure that was half passenger terminal, half hangar for small aircraft, named after some long forgotten local World War One flying ace who had been shot down by the Germans. She took a deep breath, braced herself for a parental hurricane, and stepped through the doors. She did not dare look up for fear of what or who she would see, but wished the floor would gape and the earth would swallow her up.

"Hey, Ma!" came a childish and all too familiar voice that made Alicia cringe. "There she is, right over there!"

Alicia's spirits sank into oblivion. It was bad enough to meet her mother there at the terminal, but for her kid brother to accompany her was another twist of the knife. She knew that Kyle would keep rubbing her face in it practically for the rest of her life. Indeed, she hadn't been in Marvinville five minutes when the little brat launched into his "you're gonna get it" taunts.

"You're in big trouble now, Alicia!" Kyle sneered. "You are so gonna get it when you get home! Mom says you're gonna be grounded for life after this!" He began dancing around his miserable sibling. "Alicia's getting grounded! Alicia's getting grounded!" he singsonged. "Alicia's getting groun--"

Alicia silenced him with a slap across the face. "Will you just shut up, you little turd?" she exploded.

Kyle shrieked from the stinging blow. "Maaaaauuuuuummmm!" he wailed. "Alicia hit me!"

The presence of Nancy Rose loomed over her children. "All right, that's enough!" she commanded. "Both of you!" She turned to her outraged son. "Now, Kyle, it's not nice to gloat over what other people did wrong," she admonished him. "You should be thankful that she's alive and well and back home safe and sound."

From the dark look on Kyle's face, Alicia could tell that he totally disagreed on that point. Nancy turned to her daughter. "Now, Alicia," she began, "I want to make one thing perfectly clear--no matter what you did wrong, we all still love you. Understand?"

For the merest moment, Alicia was taken aback by this statement. She had expected a perfect storm of parental retribution when she arrived. She had to admit her mother's restraint was admirable. Maybe if she played her cards right, Mom would temper justice with mercy.

"Now, we're all going to go home," her mother continued calmly, "and we'll discuss it further after dinner." She turned to Kyle again. "And not a peep out of you. Understand?"

Kyle just glowered at his mother and sister. Yeah, he'd be quiet as a mouse on the way home, all right. He'd wait, biding his time, then when the coast was clear--look out! He'd go after his delinquent sister with both barrels blazing. It was like that old Klingon proverb he had heard on an episode of Star Trek: Revenge is a dish best served cold.




Normally, Richard Close didn't conduct any legal business on Saturday, but after the bloodshed resulting from the Piccucci Affair, he wanted to wrap things up as quickly as possible. Once he had fufilled his duty as executor of Mick Piccucci's will, he'd wash his hands of the entire clan, or what was left of it, and the sooner the better. Tina LaRue was dead; Michael, Jr., was dead; Pamela Piccucci was facing hard time for both murders and so was disqualified from all claim to the estate; the probate court had ruled with the wisdom of Solomon that the estate would be liquidated and divided among the only surviving daughter, the two grandsons, and Casey Worth.

Now came the liquidation part. All of Mick's property holdings were to be sold. As good luck would have it, some realtor in Vegas had already found a potential buyer for the house, a Mr. Saul Marten, also known as M. Soul, a rising young rapper with a bad stutter who had turned his speech impediment into a million dollar asset. The prospect of owning a mansion that had once belonged to a former gangster had appealed to him. The antique furniture, he insisted, had to go; he preferred more "modern" stuff. Not a problem, the realtor had told him. It was all going to be put up for auction, anyway.

As were the cars, all six of them: The Rolls Royce, the Bugatti, the Spyder, the Jaguar, the Aston Martin, and the Mercedes-Benz. Close wondered if he could get hold of Jay Leno to see if he was interested in any of them; the comedic master of ceremonies was renowned for his enormous car collection. If not, well, they could all be auctioned off. He just hoped there were no bodies in the trunks. Close hoped they'd fetch a good price in spite of the notoriety attached to them. Or maybe because of it--scandal made for good publicity, especially in Sin City. Owning a classic car or a house or anything else that had belonged to a Fifties-era mobster was alluing to say the least. It was like owning a piece of history, albeit a dark chapter of it.

Close studied the inventory listed in the will. He'd have to make a few phone calls Monday morning, make some arrangements, locate titles of ownership and other documents. It would be a long, tedious task, but to be free of the Piccucci crime family, it would all be worth it. It would be at least a month before Casey and the surviving Piccuccis would get their money. He just hoped none of them got too greedy like their dad and granddad's ex-wife and start going at each other's throats. But he had nothing to worry about, really. From their conduct at the probate hearing, not one of the four acted as if he or she cared how much they got. They all wanted it to end as badly as Close did.

And Close didn't blame them one bit.

[Veritas]

Sharon Worth lay on the motel bed, propped up with both pillows, reading a paperback novel. The room was blissfully silent; here, she could read, watch whatever program she wanted on TV, or just nap in peace without having to hear some overenthusiastic sports announcer getting hysterical over a goal, or her husband demanding she tend to his needs, whether it was for food, beer, or help to the bathroom, or her lazy son begging her for a "little loanski". She could go to the bathroom without keeling over from the stench of flatus or having to wipe away the droplets of urine on the toilet seat. She could leave her purse on the desk without fear of waking up to an empty billfold the next day. She could eat nicer meals than canned soup or frozen dinners and not have to clean up afterward. She could live like a decent person, a real person, instead of a drudge. For the first time in her life, Sharon was free.

She set down her book and wondered how long it would take for Casey to get her inheritance. A week? A month? Two months? The probate judge ruled that Casey would receive a quarter of the estate, about one million six hundred thousand something. Well, it wasn't nine million, but it was better than nothing--a lot better, enough to start a new life. At least Casey got something out of the deal, and it didn't seem right to cheat the Piccucci kids out of their grandpa's will, so everything worked out just fine. If they put it in a savings account, at a good rate they could live off the interest without touching the principle. Maybe one of those IRA's or money market accounts they advertised on television would work even better.

The motel she had checked into was a modest affair, reasonably priced at fifty-nine dollars a night for a single, simply furnished but clean and comfortable. Sharon planned to stay there for the weekend until Casey could talk Mr. Springer into letting her stay at his house (Casey could use some help, she thought, what with that big house to take care of), or see if she could find an apartment of her own. Failing either, she could see if she could move in with her sister, Paige, who lived up north in Ely. One thing was for certain: she was not going back to her old life of servitude in her husband's house. She belonged to herself now, and she liked it. No, scratch that--she loved it! Inheritance or no inheritance, she was going to live her own life.





While Sharon Worth was relishing her newfound freedom, her husband, Phil, was sitting in his wheelchair in the living room in front of the television set, still in shock over his wife leaving him two days ago. Benny was out for the evening at some topless bar, leaving him alone with his thoughts. How could she do this to me? he kept asking himself. How could she just abandon me like this? I'm a paraplegic, for chrissakes! I depend on her to take care of me. Just when I needed her most, she up and left me! Why me, Lord? Why does this always happen to me?

As Phil brooded over this latest misfortune, his shock morphed into anger. Self-centered (bleep)! Thinking about her own selfish needs! College classes? She don't need college classes! Hell, I didn't go to college, and I landed a damn good job at the stockyards! And Casey don't need 'em, either--she's just gonna quit when she gets married, anyway, so why throw good money away on a college education? Besides, she's making good money caring for those rich old farts--why bother with training? She's got enough experience already.

Rich old farts? Phil pondered this sudden thought. What about that nine million bucks she inherited? If she was decent enough she'd share it with her family. Is she going to keep the whole bundle for herself? Nah, she ain't like that--she ain't like her mother, that selfish (bleep)! She wouldn't let her old dad go without. She'd been our bread and butter for years; she ain't gonna quit now.

Wouldn't she?

Maybe Casey had been living among her wealthy clients for so long that she had developed a taste of the good life. Maybe she thought that she was too good to be living in this small brown and brick ranch house with a crippled father. Maybe that was why she never told him about the inheritance. Maybe she was like her mother after all. The estate included the mansion the old man had lived in (and died in, by the way, but that was neither here nor there). She'd jump at the chance to live there instead of moving back home--anyone with half a brain would.

Ungrateful little (bleep)! Living it up in that big assed mansion while I'm rotting away here in this dump! Why should she get all the breaks? Why can't I get a break? I've suffered enough in life--I deserve my share of the pie, too!

A grim resolve gripped Phil Worth as his bitterness reached its peak. I'm gonna get some of those millions! he vowed. I'm gonna get my share of that money one way or another! That, or I'll sue both Casey and Sharon for support! Either way, I'm getting what's mine! That'll teach them not to hold out on me! Greedy, selfish (bleeps)!

[RACHEL02189]

This is what happens when you take someone for granted

[Veritas]

Well, this book's done now. Just about everybody I wrote about is gone--Mick, Blusey, Shorty, Tina LaRue, Bugsy, Lansky, the Rat Pack, Mick, Jr.--everyone I knew from the old days have gone on to the great hereafter. Now, it's just me and my memories. Like the man said, the dance is over, but the melody lingers on. There's only me left to tell the story, and I told it to you right here. Everything in this book is as true as I'm sitting here, no crap. Take it or leave it

Springs set down his pen, sighing with satisfaction. It was finished--done and done. Now he just needed to get it typed up and sent to a publisher. He picked up his address book, found the number he needed, and dialed. A pause while the phone on the other end rang, then a female's voice answered. "Hello?"

"Hey, sweetheart, how ya doin'?" Springs greeted her jovially.

"I'm fine, Mr. Springs, thank you," Heather Piccucci replied. "You have your manuscript ready?"

Springs held up the sheaf of papers on his writing desk. "Right here, sweetheart. Think you can decipher my chicken scratch and make it look like a book?"

"I worked in a pharmacy, Mr. Springer," Heather replied. "I can decipher anything."

Springs laughed. "Then you should have no problem with mine," he said. "By the way, how you holdin' up? I mean, with your mother...you know..."

"In all honesty, Mr. Springer, I feel no more grief for her than you do," Heather admitted. "I was just in the way, that's all. Mother would scream at me, belittle me, and order me about--when she wasn't ignoring me altogether. My only advantage to her was for claiming the inheritance because Mick was my dad. I can't tell you how I felt when the police told me she was dead; the day she died was the day my life began. I got a good job, my own place now, and when I get that inheritance, I'm going to put it away in an interest bearing account. I'm free, Mr. Springer, I belong to myself now, and I'm happy, happier than I've ever been in my life."

Springs couldn't help but smile. "That's good, sweetheart. That's real good. So, when you comin' over to pick up the book?"

"Would tomorrow afternoon be all right?" Heather suggested. "Say, noonish?"

"Works for me," Springs agreed. "Cassie will be here to give it to you."

"I thought her name was Casey."

"Whatever. She'll be here at any rate."

"All right, Mr. Springer, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Fine. 'Bye."

Springs hung up. He began to bundle the finished manuscript with the photographs he chose to include in the book. He didn't want to lose a single one of those pictures, not a single one. They weren't just snapshots, they were history; they told his story better than what he wrote--a picture's worth a thousand words, like the man said. Springs was the only one left of The Guys, and he felt he owed it to his fallen comrades in arms to tell their story, and to set the record straight. The photos would do just that. When his book came out, The Guys of Glitter Gulch would be as familiar as Bugsy Siegel or Lucky Luciano or Meyer Lansky.





Nancy Rose pulled into the nearest parking space next to the large modern brick structure that was St. Benedict's Catholic Church. Alicia sat next to her in the small sedan, puzzled at this unexpected stop. "Uh, Mom? Why are we stopping at the church?" she asked innocently.

Her mother said nothing, but turned off the engine and shifted into park. "Out," she ordered. "Both of you."

Her two children exited the sedan quietly and obediently, but still puzzled as to why they were there in the first place. Nancy escorted them inside the church, heading straight to the priest's office where Father Michael was waiting. Alicia felt her stomach tie itself in a knot, just like it did when she was bought in for questioning in Vegas. Whatever Father Mike had to say to her, she knew it would not be pleasant. But why was Kyle coming along as well? she wondered. Probably because Mom didn't want to leave him alone in the car, more than likely--a wise precaution, knowing Kyle.

There was a wooden settee next to the door of the priest's office. "Sit there," Nancy commanded her son and daughter. "Don't move until I get back. And not a word out of either of you."

They sat on the settee, looking up at their mother in silent bemusement. Nancy knocked on the office door. Alicia heard a faint "come in" from inside, then watched as her mother entered the office, closing the glass-paneled door behind her. The office foyer was oppressively quiet, save for the muffled voices coming from behind the glass door. Alicia could only guess what they were talking about. From her past experience growing up Catholic, she reasoned why she was here.

Kyle's boredom from sitting so long triggered his instinct for mischief. He turned to his sister and fired the opening salvo. "You're really gonna get it now, Alicia," he whispered threateningly. "You know what Father Mike does to kids who get in trouble?"

Alicia remained calm. "You should know, Kyle," she retorted just as quietly. "It's not like you haven't been here before. You've been sent here so many times, they should have a sign on this bench: reserved for Kyle Rose."

Kyle fired another round. "Yeah, but you skipped school for a whole week," he reminded her. "That's major big-time trouble."

"It wasn't a whole week," Alicia said, still remaining calm. "Just four days."

"That's still a whole week," Kyle argued.

Alicia knew that Kyle was trying to drag her into a fruitless "is-not-is-too" debate. Refusing to take the bait, she simply shrugged. "Whatever," she deadpanned.

"I bet you get grounded for a whole year!" Kyle went on. "I bet Father Mike makes you say a million rosaries as penance! I bet you have to stay after school every day for ever and ever! I bet they won't even let you graduate! I bet you get paddled on your butt until you can't sit down--"

"He can't do that," Alicia said. "That's illegal."

"So's running away and skipping school," Kyle argued. "I bet you end up in Juvie!"

Alicia smiled. "That'd be nice," she retorted lightly. "I'd be away from you, anyway."

Kyle grew frustrated. Alicia's calm demeanor irritated him. He struggled to come up with an even more dire fate awaiting his sister, something that would cause her to crack, or at least make her raise her voice at him and so get in even more trouble with Mom. Suddenly, the office door opened, startling them both. Father Mike stuck his head out of the frame. "Alicia, could you step in here for a moment?" he asked.

Alicia took a deep breath and stood up. This was it, she thought, whatever it was. As she stepped into the office, her mother stepped out, leaving her alone to face her fate with Father Mike. "I'll be right outside," she said. "In case you need me."

I'm not going to break, Alicia vowed. I'm going to defend myself like never before. Father Mike can't hurt me--at least not physically.

Father offered her a leather cushioned chair in front of his desk. Instead of sitting behind his desk, however, he took the other chair beside it. Alicia was wary of this unexpected move. Father smiled reassuringly and sat back, one leg casually thrown over his knee. "So, Alicia," he began almost jovially, "I heard you had quite an adventure this week. Care to tell me about it?"

Alicia kept up her guard. "Tell you? Or confess to you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Mother bought me here straight from the airport after I ran away to Vegas," Alicia said. "She figures if I came here, I'd be all weepy and sorry for my sins or whatever, and you'd give me some sort of pennance to do, and I'd go back to being a good little Catholic girl doing everything I'm told. She did it all the time whenever we got in trouble--drag us here to confession, then punish us in some way when we got back home."

Father shifted in his seat. "Well, could you just fill me in on why you ran away like that? You're mother was very worried about you these few days--in fact, she'd come here and pray for your safe return. Tell me, why did you run off like that?"

Alicia sighed and told the priest about her boredom, her frustrations, her brother's incessant taunting; her love for Criss Angel, her overwhelming desire to go to Loyalapalooza; her plan to get there, even to the point of selling some of her brother's old video games and conning her father out of sixty-five dollars using the Youth Retreat as a ruse ( "I have the money order right here," she insisted. "I can mail it back to him if you want."). She also told him about witnessing the murder of Tina LaRue in the hotel restroom, stressing the point that she had fully co-operated with the police during the investigation. She told him about her being taken hostage by Pamela Piccucci who had murdered Tina, and how Criss saved her life by shielding her with his own body. "He's really a great guy, Father," she insisted. "You'd like him if you met him."

"Well, I'm sure I would," Father conceded. "It was very brave of him to do that. But, Alicia," he continued, leaning a bit closer to her, "let me ask you something, and I want you to think about it very carefully: Do you honestly believe that all you had suffered in Las Vegas--the worry you caused your family, the loss of esteem in the eyes of your peers, the danger in which you put yourself while you were there--was it all really worth it just to see some magician? No, don't answer yet, I want you to go home and take some time to think about it."

"I don't have to think about it, Father," Alicia said, her head held high and staring at the priest straight in the eye. "You asked me if what I did, and what I saw, and what I went through was worth seeing Criss Angel. Well, I have to say in all honesty--yes, it was! Oh, sure, I'm sorry for stealing the money for it, and I'm sorry for causing Mother so much worry, but put yourself in my place for a minute. I'm stuck in this little one-horse town, confined in a tiny space--school, home, school, home, church once a week, then back to school, home, school, home, school, home. My brother, Kyle, is an insufferable brat--just look at his behavioral record! Mom's living in a time warp--she thinks it's still the Nineteen Fifties! And the school is so out of touch with the real world; it's afraid to move forward, get with the times. All you're doing is preparing us for the religious life instead of real life. There's a whole world out there, Father, and I want to experience it! I know the real world can get ugly at times--I've seen the headlines--but it has so much to offer, too. I love Criss Angel because he was my key to opening up a world of possibilities to me. Do you know what he wrote to me when he gave me his autograph? He wrote, 'Don't run away from your problems--conquor them!' Now that's pretty good advice, don't you think?"

"In itself, yes," Father replied. "But, Alicia, you don't understand--"

"No, Father, you don't understand," Alicia interrupted. "I've changed in these past few days. I've taken risks I would never have even considered. I've seen the world as it is, not as the church says it is--or should be. I saw evil, but I also saw good. I experienced terror and lived to tell about it. I saw reality, Father--real reality, not the reality you present in those old films you show at assembly. You could order me to say a million rosaries as a penance for stealing and lying and running away, but it wouldn't make any difference. I've changed. I'm not the little girl you used to know anymore."

"You're experiences may have changed you, Alicia," Father Mike said seriously, "but they do not justify your actions. Did you ever stop and think about the consequences of what you have done? Did you ever stop to think about how running away all the way to Las Vegas would hurt your family? Did you consider how this would affect your future? Did you ever stop to think?"

Alicia remained silent. Father Mike sat back. "I didn't think so," he said. "You're still a selfish, impusive child, you know that? You have no consideration for other people's feelings. Maybe you don't feel sorry now, but I can only hope and pray that when you think about what you've done, you'll do something to make amends."

"I already promised to give Dad back the money, didn't I?" Alicia argued.

"It's not just the money," Father said. "It's the fact that you betrayed the trust of those who love you. It's the fact that you acted upon your own selfish impulses without even thinking about the consequences. Now, I want you to go home and think about what I said. Hopefully, you'll have come to your senses by Mass tomorrow. You may go now, but send in Kyle on your way out."

Alicia rose and turned away. She couldn't help but feel a bit proud of herself for standing up for herself, and not breaking down in tears before Father Mike's browbeating. Even in her disgrace, she felt a sense of victory.

[RACHEL02189]

God am I thankful I never went to catholic school

[Veritas]

A week had passed since the infamous Piccucci Affair ended with the probate hearing dividing up the estate. M. Soul, the stuttering rapper, had purchased Mick Piccucci's home for around two and a half million dollars. The antique furniture, the paintings, and Mick's other personal possessions were packed and carted away to Sotheby's in Beverly Hills, California, while the six automobiles were transported to a secure warehouse somewhere in Las Vegas, all to be auctioned and the money distributed to Springs and the four Piccucci heirs, after taxes.

Mick's liquid assests--stocks, bonds, securities, and other funds--were assessed by the IRS. It turned out that Mick had secreted a lot of his ill-gotten gains in offshore tax shelters, European gold bullion, and of course the usual Swiss bank account, bringing the total of his estate to over ten million dollars gross. A thorough examination of the former gangster's tax records revealed that he had exploited every loophole in the book to keep his money from falling into Federal hands--Rob Bluseman had done his job well, it seemed. Still, it did not stop the Feds from claiming what was rightfully and legally theirs; over a quarter of the estate was garnished for property, federal, state, local and inheritance taxes. Mick Piccucci had tried to cheat the system and had lost.

All of this didn't bother Casey Worth in the least. Secure in her new job as live-in caregiver, she went about her duties as if she had never even been mentioned in the will. She fixed Mr. Springer's meals, monitored his medications, ran his errands, tidied up the house, and bought him the daily paper every morning turned to the crossword puzzle. Springs' new stomach was working out just fine, so long as he cut back on the Manhattans he loved so much. He even enjoyed that longed-for Porterhouse steak after the last follow-up visit to the doctor. "If I'm gonna live this long," he had said, "I'm gonna enjoy it to the hilt."

Springs had consented to allow Casey's mother, Sharon, to live in the mansion for a while "so long as she don't mooch offa me," he had insisted. Casey promised that her mother was no mooch, but was more than willing to help with the housework--a five bedroom mansion was too much for one person to maintain, she had pointed out. Springs had merely nodded and went back to his crossword puzzle. Sharon arrived on Monday morning; by Monday afternoon she was hard at work cleaning the master bathroom which had been reeking of the old man's past bodily functions. The new fuel tank may have been in perfect working order, but the exhaust system left much to be desired.

Her mother's assistance allowed Casey a little extra time each evening to attend certification classes at a local community college. Mr. Springer didn't have a computer, so she couldn't take online courses, but her experience helped her a great deal in her studies. With the money she had saved from not supporting her father and brother, she could afford to pay her own tuition. When the inheritance came through, she would help her mother find a place of her own while putting aside some cash for her own housing situation should Mr. Springer pass away. A mansion was nice, but it was too big for a blue-collar girl like Casey--she would have been happy living in a broom closet so long as she didn't have to share it with anyone.

Sharon, for her part, was happy as a clam. Even though she was the unofficial maid-of-all-work at the Springer residence, she felt like she was finally living like decent people. She had quit her job at the liquor store (to the total indifference of the owner), and had settled in her new routine like a duck to water. Aside from the formality of filing for divorce, she hadn't given Phil a second thought since she had been living here. What few twinges of maternal affection for her son she had felt soon faded when she vividly recalled his laziness, his slovenly ways, his pilfering of her purse. He was a good-for-nothing, and so she wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Instead, she focused on her daughter, Casey, beaming with pride as she studied for her certificate. Maybe, after Casey got the inheritance, she herself could take some college courses, just like she had always wanted. After nearly fifty years, Sharon felt as though she was just beginning to live.

"Things look swell, things look great," she sang as she scrubbed the toilet in the master bathroom. "Gonna have the whole world on a plate. Everything is coming up roses!"




Benny Worth stared at his father in disbelief. "You wanna sue Casey?"

"Damn straight, I do!" Phil snapped. "She's been holding out on us with that inheritance she got from that old man. When they read the will, she never said a word to anyone about it execpt your mother. She cheated us, Ben--she cheated her own dad and brother! Damn if I'm gonna let her get away with it!"

"How much are we gonna sue her for?" Benny asked.

"If I had my own way, I'd get the whole bundle," Phil answered. "But we can sue her for support, at least. She ain't got no right to keep all that dough for herself while her poor crippled dad is sitting in this (bleeping) wheelchair barely making it on disability. It's just plain immoral."

"Ain't lawyers kinda expensive?" Benny asked a bit tenatively.

"Once we get our share, we'll pay him later," Phil replied. "They got legal assistance for people who can't afford it. There's a fancy Latin name for it, but anyway, we'll get one who'll work for free, or at least when we win the suit."

"You really think we'll win?"

"Of course we will! If I know Casey, she'll want to avoid a lawsuit altogether. We might even settle this out of court and avoid having to get a lawyer in the first place. If she's smart as her mother thinks she is, she'll do the smart thing and pony up the dough without having to drag it into court."

Benny's television-dulled mind pondered this. "Funny," he said. "The dad suing the daughter for support. It's usually the other way around, ain't it?"

"Yeah, whatever," Phil mumbled. "Now go get the phone book, we gotta find a lawyer and file that suit. The sooner we take care of this, the sooner we'll be rollin' in dough."




It was Sunday, Greek Orthodox Easter Sunday. Due to his performance schedule, Criss could not attend the midnight vigil at Holy Trinity Church, but he dutifully attended the eleven-thirty liturgy service come daytime. He had promised his mother he would attend Mass in keeping with his Paschal duty. Dimitra Sarantakos was living in New York, but he still sensed her presence in Las Vegas; he knew she would be calling him to ask if he had gone to church that morning, and he wouldn't think of lying to her. Besides, Dimitra had fought tooth and nail trying to save Holy Trinity from the wrecking ball; it had become the family's place of worship when everyone was in Vegas. Besides, he had promised to give her regards to Father Stefan.

Conservatively dressed in a black suit sans bling, he had entered the huge Byzantine church virutually unnoticed by the rest of the congregation-- rather refreshing for someone who couldn't turn around without someone flashing a camera in his face or demanding an autograph. When the liturgy was over, he blended in with the crowd of congregants as they shuffled out of the huge doors. Father Stefan stood in his accustomed spot in the vestibule, shaking hands with everyone who passed him by. Criss patiently waited his turn, then stepped up to the priest.

"Christos Anesti, Father," Criss greeted him respectfully.

"Alyekos Anesti, Christopher," Father Stefan returned in kind. "I'm glad you came today."

"My mother sends her regards," Criss said.

"Thank you, and I send her mine. I look forward to her next visit."

"I do, too, Father. Ka'lo Pascha'."

"Ka'lo Pascha', Christopher."

Criss trotted down the steps of the church and toward the parking lot. It was easy to spot his ride among the dozens of cars parked; his was the only jet-black Viper in the lot. And who should be standing there, perched casually on the hood with a smirk on his face, but his old friend, Sully Erna from Godsmack. Criss was startled, then surprised, then annoyed that Sully should treat his car like a park bench or something. "Get your ass offa my car, Sully," he ordered.

"Hey, is that any way to talk in church?" Sully admonished him, leaping off the hood.

"I'm not in church anymore," Criss reminded him. "What're you doing here, anyway?"

"Weeeellll," Sully drawled, "I saw on the calendar that it was Greek Easter Sunday, and with you being Greek and all, I figured you'd be here, so I came over. Turned out I was right."

"Okay, you were right," Criss retorted, "so, what do you want?"

"Hey, dude, I just wanted to say Happy Easter and all that," Sully replied. "So, do you get another Easter basket since you celebrate two Easters? That's a lot of chocolate Easter bunnies."

"No, I don't get two Easter baskets," Criss replied irritably. "And we didn't celebrate two Easters either--just this one. We just had a big lamb dinner with the family, that's all."

"Bummer," Sully said pityingly. "No chocolate Easter bunnies."

"I survived. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get home if you don't mind. I'm starving and I need some lunch."

"You know, you're awful cranky when you're hungry. I should have bought you a chocolate Easter bunny."

"Enough of the chocolate Easter bunnies already!" Criss exploded. "What is with you and chocolate Easter bunnies all of a sudden?"

"Hey, it's what I grew up with," Sully replied. "But before you go, there's something I wanna give you."

"It'd better not be a chocolate Easter bunny."

"It's not a chocolate Easter bunny," Sully said as he fished out a piece of paper out of his pocket. "It's a car auction coming up this Thursday. Interested?"

"What kind of car auction?" Criss asked.

"Some dead mobster's got a bunch of cars they're trying to sell off," Sully explained, handing Criss the paper. "Sports cars, the kind you like."

Criss read the paper Sully had given him. It was a printout of an Internet ad for an auction being held in the Aladdin hotel on Thursday around noon. The cars offered had belonged to Michael Piccucci, deceased. They were classic cars from the Fifties and Sixties, practically in mint condition--a great temptation, but after his experience with the Piccucci family feud over the estate, Criss was hesitant. He wasn't sure if he wanted to have any reminder of that sordid affair.

He folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. "Thanks," he said, "I'll think about it."

"Think fast," Sully told him. "Jay Leno might just beat you to them all."

Criss smiled. Sully trotted away. "Happy Greek Easter!" he called out.

"Yeah, Ka'lo Pascha', Sully!" Criss called out after him.

He watched as Sully got on his motorcycle and drove off. Criss wanted to give him the finger, but he was still in the church parking lot, and that would have created a bad impression. Instead, he got into his Viper and drove back to the Luxor. Sully Erna was a good guy, he reflected, but he could be a pain in the ass sometimes. Nice of him to tell him about the auction, though.

The auction. Did he really want to go there? As much as Criss loved cars, the faster the better, he wasn't sure if he wanted one from Mick Piccucci. Not because he had been a gangster, but because of his unwitting--and unwilling--involvement in the notorious Piccucci affair. Many still hailed him a hero for tackling Pamela in the service corridor, but that was more reflex than courage. He wanted nothing more to do with that family of psychos who would kill for money.

But, still, what kind of cars did Mick have, anyway? Well, it wouldn't hurt to look, he figured as he drove down the Strip. He'd check out what was going under the hammer, and if there was nothing that interested him, then fine, he'd leave it at that. If there was, then he'd place a bid or two, then take it to Count's Custom Cars and pimp it out if he got it. If he was outbid, well, he wasn't going to lose any sleep over it. He had enough cars and motorcycles to open his own dealership. He doubted if there was anything there he didn't already have. Still, Sully had made a special trip to tell him about it, so he could at least check into it. Criss wondered if Sully knew about the Piccucci Affair and his getting mixed up in it. Probably did, but at least he had the courtesy not to bring it up.

Criss drove up to the Luxor, handed the valet the keys to the Viper, got out of the car, went into the hotel, up to his suite and into his bedroom. He stripped off his Sunday best, tossed his clothes onto a chair, then flopped down on his bed, naked except for his briefs. All he wanted to do on this Easter Sunday was catch up on his sleep, putting Sully, the Piccuccis, and sports cars out of his mind. Tomorrow would bring its own stresses; this was his day of rest, and he was going to take full advantage of it.

[Veritas]

After the visit to Father Mike on Saturday, Nancy Rose spelled out the conditions for her daughter's punishment: two months' confinement (of course); pay back the hundred dollars she had stolen from the credenza (done); give her father back the money order with a letter of apology (done); no television, phone, visiting, or computer privileges for the duration (groan, but at least she could use the library computer); do all the chores assigned without complaint (fine, but she wasn't going to do Kyle's chores for him, she had said. Her mother assured her she would not).

"And one more thing," Nancy said. "You are to renounce this Criss Angel person completely. You are to throw away anything even remotely connected to him. If I find anything, even a picture of him, in your room or anywhere else in this house, it will be taken out and burned. Do you understand?"

Alicia was stunned. It was bad enough to have her social life put on hold, but for her to give up her only reason for living was unbearable. She had to take a stand, no matter what the consequences.

"You can't make me give up Criss," she protested. "I love him! He saved my life, remember?"

"If you hadn't run away like you did, he wouldn't have had to save your life," Nancy argued. "He's been a bad influence on you. He's turned you against your family and your faith. Because of him, you went from being a sweet girl to a thief and a runaway, not to mention a liar. This infatuation you have almost cost you your life. Well, I'm going to nip this in the bud before this obsession destroys you."

"But you don't know him!" Alicia cried. "If you got to know him better, you'd like him! If you had heard what he told me in the interrogation room after the detective got through questionong me, you'd find out you and him are on the same page!"

"And what did he tell you?" her mother demanded.

"He said I should conquor my problems instead of running away," Alicia said. "He said that Kyle's been acting out the way he is because he's angry about Dad leaving us. He said I hurt you for running away, and that he loved me like he loves all of his fans. He was there for me, Mother. He listened to me. Not like Dad, who just brushed me off. Or you--you think you understand me, but you don't. It's like we live in two different worlds--yours is all sunshiny perfect, and mine is, well, more grounded in reality. Going to Las Vegas may not have been the smartest move I made, but I'm glad I went--even if it didn't turn out the way I expected. You can torch every single Criss Angel picture in the world, but you can't erase my love for him. You can't change what's in my heart, though you may think you can. You can ground me for life, but it won't change what happened. I love Criss, and there's nothing you can do about it."

She had said all this in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, staring directly into her mother's face. Nancy could only stare back, stunned by this outburst from her thirteen-year-old daughter. She was forced to admit that the damage had been done, and nothing could change the past. But she was determined to change her daughter's future--whether she liked it or not.

"Maybe there's nothing I can do about it," she said, "but there is something you can do about it."

A chill went down Alicia's spine. She did not like the tone of her mother's voice when she said that. She knew it boded ill for her: how, she didn't know.

"I want you to sit down and write this man a letter," Nancy ordered, "and tell him you never want to see him again."

Alicia was aghast. "I can't do that!" she cried.

"You can, and you will," Nancy told her firmly, taking Alicia by the arm and dragging her to the dining room table. "Now, sit over there!"

Alicia sat down, scared stiff. Nancy rummaged through the credenza for a pen, a sheet of paper, and an envelope, then bought the materials to the table and slapped them down. "Now, write down everything I tell you," she ordered.

Alicia reluctantly picked up the pen and held it over the paper. "Dear Mr. Angel," Nancy dictated.

Dear Criss, Alicia wrote.

"I have seen the error of my ways," Nancy continued.

I miss you very much.

"And I never want to see you, nor hear about you, for the rest of my life."

I want to see you again, and be with you for the rest of my life.

"My family and my faith are more important to me than your silly magic tricks."

You are more important to me than life itself.

"I am throwing away all of your pictures and any other reference to you."

I still treasure your pictures and any other reference to you.

"I've grown up now, and I see what a silly child I have been for being obsessed with you."

I've grown up now, but my mother thinks I am a silly child for being obsessed with you.

"You are an evil influence on young people."

You are a positive influence on young people.

"Please do not contact me, or my mother will call the police and have you arrested."

Please contact me as soon as possible.

"Sincerely, Alicia Rose."

With all my love, Alicia Rose.

"Now, you mail that letter to that man right now," Nancy ordered her. "Then go to your room and stay there."

Alicia folded the letter and inserted it into the envelope, then sealed it as securely as she could. She quietly retired to the safety of her bedroom, carrying her suitcase. She smiled to herself. Yes, she would mail that letter (once she found the address to the Luxor Hotel, of course), expressing her true feelings for Criss. She had to see him again, anyway; she was the primary witness to the murder of Tina LaRue, and she had to appear in court, and Criss had to be there, too. No matter what her mother said, Alicia would see Criss Angel again.





School was over for the day, but Alicia remained in the library, serving the first day of her two-week detention for truancy. As well as doing make up work, she was assigned to write a five hundred word essay on "The Sin of Disobedience" by Father Michael. Either that, or she would get kicked out of her Confirmation class, and that would disappoint her mother even more. For once, Alicia had swallowed her pride and accepted her sentence without protest.

Father Mike had been wrong about one thing: she didn't lose the esteem of her peers because of her actions. Indeed, they hardly noticed; the few who were curious about her whereabouts had been satisfied by a simple "I've been out sick.". And I was sick, too, Alicia thought. Sick of this whole boring existance. No mention had been made of the Piccucci Affair whatsoever. Life was the same routine of school, home, school, home, school, home--except it was more of the same, having been grounded for two months by her mother.

The letter had been posted that very morning. Alicia had posted it herself, for fear that her mother would rip it open and see what she had really written. She doubted that Criss would read it any time soon; God only knew how much mail he received on a daily basis at the hotel. Besides, she didn't know his suite number. Still, it would have been sweet if he had.

Alicia sighed and got down to doing her makeup work. She still could not access the Loyal Community website on the school computer, but she was allowed to go to the public library so long as she was home by a certain time--and not one minute later, either. She resigned herself to two weeks of drudgery so that she didn't have to repeat the ninth grade. Still, she gloated over her cleverness about the letter--a small victory, to be sure, but a victory all the same. No matter what anyone said, be it her mother or Father Mike, she would not let them break her.






CLARK COUNTY AUTO AUCTION

ITEMS UP FOR BID:

1938 Rolls Royce
1958 Bugatti
1955 Spyder convertable
1958 Jaguar convertable
1960 Aston Martin
1960 Mercedes-Benz
****************************************
Damn! Criss thought as he read over the list of Mick's collection of classic cars. These things are vintage! A nineteen-thirty-eight Rolls? That's gotta be worth a cool mil in itself, especially if it's in mint condition.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer said over the loudspeakers. "Welcome to the Clark County Auto Auction. We have six classic automobiles up for bid today. Let's begin with our first item: A restored nineteen-thirty-eight Rolls Royce, four door, V-eight engine, genuine leather seats, and original chrome. Opening bid, one hundred thousand."

Criss decided to sit this one out. He had a Rolls Royce of his own, more up-to-date than the grandfatherly model on the auction floor in front of him. Still, it was pretty impressive looking. He bided his time until the next car would be rolled out on the floor. In the meantime, he checked out his fellow bidders. No sign of Jay Leno--a bit of a surprise, since the famous comedian and late night host was known for his love of classic automobiles. Maybe he had one already, Criss thought.

He scanned the audience seated around himself. The auction house was sparsely attended; more than three quarters of the seats were empty. Maybe the economy had hit the classic car market as hard as everywhere else, he figured.

The gavel came down like a pistol shot. "Sold! For four hundred thousand dollars!" the auctioneer called out.

There was a smattering of applause, then the Rolls was driven off the floor. Criss wondered who bought it; he should have paid more attention to the auction than casing out the competition. He focused on the next item up for bid: a silvery-grey nineteen-fifty-eight Bugatti, straight from Italy. Niiiiiiice! Criss thought.

"We open the bidding at fifty thousand dollars," the auctioneer called out.

"One hundred thousand!" Criss shouted.

"One hundred thousand," the auctioneer repeated. "Do I hear one-seventy-five?"

"One-seventy-five!" came a strangely familiar voice. Criss spun around and saw none other than his friend/rival/fellow car freak The Amazing Jonathan sitting three rows behind him. AJ smiled smugly, almost challengingly, at him. For a moment, Criss was outraged. You son of a (bleep)! What the hell are you doing here?

"One-seventy-five going once," said the auctioneer.

"One-ninety!" Criss shouted.

"One-ninety. Do I hear two hundred?"

"Two hundred!" AJ shouted.

You (bleeper)! "Two fifty!" Criss screamed.

"Two hundred fifty."

Before either Criss or AJ could make another bid, a third voice spoke up. "Three hundred."

Three hundred thousand dollars! AJ was silent. Criss threw caution to the wind and cried out "Three fifty! And that's my final offer!"

"We have three-fifty," the auctioneer announced. "Three fifty going once..."

Come on, you (bleeper), Criss mentally challenged his rival. I dare you to outbid me! I double-dog dare you!

"Four hundred!" came the mysterious third voice.

"Four hundred, going once, going twice...sold! For four hundred thousand dollars!"

Criss sank back, defeated. Well, at least he was willing to beat AJ, anyway. In truth, it had been a draw, with neither side winning. I may have lost the battle, Criss thought, but I can still win the war.

The Bugatti rolled off the floor. "Our next item up for bid is a nineteen-fifty-five Spyder convertable," the auctioneer announced.

The cream-colored sports car entered like a model on the runway. Criss' heart went out for that racy little two-door convertable; he just had to have it, no matter what it cost. Screw you, AJ! This baby is mine! he vowed.

"We open the bidding at fifty-thousand dollars."

"One hundred thousand!" Criss called out.

AJ was not to be outdone. "Two hundred thousand!"

You want a bidding war, AJ? "Two-seventy-five!"

"Three hundred!" AJ countered.

"Three-fifty!"

"Four hundred!"

"Four-fifty!"

"Four fifty, going once, going twice...sold! For four hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Yes! Criss pumped air in triumph. Score one for the home team! He looked smugly at AJ behind him, gloating over his victory. AJ glared at his rival, vowing revenge.

The coveted Spyder rolled off the floor to make room for the next car. "Our next item up for bid is a nineteen-fifty-eight Jaguar converatable. We open the bidding at fifty thousand."

AJ fired the opening round. "One hundred thousand."

"One-fifty," Criss called out.

"Two hundred," came the third voice which had outbid them on the Rolls.

"Two-fifty," came another voice from the audience.

"Three hundred," AJ called out.

"Three hundred, going once..."

Criss hesitated. He had already spent four hundred fifty on the Spyder. Should he go for broke and get the Jag?

"...going twice..."

"Three fif--!" Criss called out.

But he called out too late. The hammer came down. "Sold! For three hundred thousand dollars!"

Criss swore under his breath. Damn! He had waited too long! "Okay, AJ, you won this round," he muttered.

"Our next item up for bid is a nineteen-sixty Aston Martin."

An elegantly sporty vehicle the color of French vanilla ice cream rolled onto the bidding floor. An Aston Martin! Criss thought. That's James Bond's car! I so gotta get this one!

"We open the bidding at fifty thousand dollars."

"Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars," came the voice of the mysterious bidder.

There were gasps of surprise all around. Even Criss was stunned, too stunned to even offer a higher bid. Before he could recover his senses the hammer had come down hard. "Sold! For three hundred and fifty dollars!"

Son of a (bleep)! He would gladly have traded the Spyder for the Aston Martin, but it was too late--it was rolling off the floor, lost to him forever. All that was left was the Benz. In his disconsolate state, Criss let it slip away to his rival, AJ, for just two hundred thousand. It was over. But at least he had the Spyder. There was that.

Criss met AJ at the purchasing office later that afternoon to fill out the title forms for his new aquisition. AJ spotted him immediatly and broke into a smirk hiding behind a big smile. "Hey, Criss, howzitgoin'?"

(Bleep) you, AJ. "Hey, John." Criss replied, aloof.

"Congrats on getting the Spyder," AJ went on. "You know, that was James Dean's car--the one he got killed in?"

"Thanks for the history lesson, AJ." Criss deadpanned.

"No prob."

The forms were handed over by the clerk. Neither man spoke while they filled out the necessary information to claim ownership of their new vehicles, then wrote out the checks to pay for them. Criss had finished filling out his form for the Spyder, arranging for delivery to the Luxor, and handed it to the clerk. AJ was still writing, having purchased two cars. Criss left quickly so he wouldn't be tempted to say something he'd regret later. He trotted down the hallway, eager to get out of the building.

"Excuse me?"

Criss turned around and saw a man in a decent dark suit, dark-haired, about thirtysomething. "Could you tell me where the purchasing office is?" he asked.

Criss pointed the other way. "Down that way."

"Thank you."

Criss turned and left. Who was that guy? he wondered. Well, obviously, he was the one who purchased the Aston Martin and the Bugatti, and maybe the Rolls, too, but he still didn't know his name. He had to be rich, of course, but he couldn't recall the face. Ah, screw it! he thought. I'm going home.

On his way home, his anger faded away. I got one of Mick Piccucci's cars, he reflected. I bought the car of a mobster! He also recalled that the sale of the cars would go to Casey Worth and the other heirs as part of the probate deal. Well, Casey's gonna be set for life, he thought, smiling to himself. Thanks to me--and AJ. Oh, and that other guy, whoever he is. I wonder how Casey's doing, anyway? Ah, I'm sure she's okay. At any rate, I'm out four hundred fifty grand, and all because I wanted to put a bug up AJ's ass. God! I can be such an (bleep)hole!

[RACHEL02189]

Play nice Christopher LOL

[Veritas]

Barricade Books, Inc.
10075 E. Washington Ave.
Wilmington, WV.

Dear Mr. Springer:

We have reviewed your manuscript for The Guys of Glitter Gulch, and we are pleased to offer to publish your work. Yours is the first detailed account of the notorious Piccucci Affair, as well as an insightful look into the world of post-war Las Vegas.

Please contact our offices as soon as possible to negotiate a contract. You can telephone us at 1-800-555-4321, ext 112. You can also email me at cbarron@barricadebooks.com.

Again, congratulations, and best wishes for future success.

Sincerely,

Carl Barron, Editor.

Springs broke into the biggest smile since he won the trifecta at Belmont back in fifty-three. "Hey, Cassie!" he shouted. "Hey! Guess what? I'm an author!"

Casey and Sharon entered the study together. "What's going on, Mr. Springer?" Casey asked.

Springs held up the letter. "Here, read this," he said proudly. "They're gonna print my book!"

Sharon took the letter and read it. "That's wonderful, Mr. Springer," she said, smiling. "Congratulations!"

Springs leaned back, satisifed. "Yeah, how about that," he mused. "Me, an author." Suddenly, he sat up. "Hey, we should go out and celebrate! Dinner on me, the three of us--how about it, Cassie?"

"It's Casey, Mr. Springer," she reminded him. "And it sounds like fun."

"It'd be good to go out to somewhere nice for a change," Sharon agreed.

Springs nodded. "Great, then it's settled. I know a good place where they have the best damn prime rib in Vegas--right at the Luxor Hotel! Damn good Manhattans, too. What the hell is it called? Uh, Mangino's?"

"Mangiano's" Casey said.

"Yeah, that's the place! Hey, Cassie, you get on the horn and make reservations for three."

"It's Casey, Mr. Springer."

"Whatever, just make the damn reservations!" Springs said. "Me, I gotta get myself a shower and a shave." He turned to Sharon. "Get yourself dolled, sweetheart! You and me are steppin' out tonight! You and Cassie, that is."

"It's Casey, not Cassie, Mr. Springer," Sharon reminded him.

"Whatever."

Sharon could only shake her head in exasperation. Casey called to make reservations for three at Mangiano's at the Luxor over the phone. The operator put her on hold, forcing her to listen to recorded messages detailing the shows and other events the Luxor Hotel and Resort had to offer, interrupted by the standard voicemail message: "We're sorry for the inconvenience. Please continue to hold, and someone will be with you momentarily. Thank you."

After the third cycle of mechanical apologies, creepy music began to play over the receiver. "Come experience the surreal world of BELIEVE, starring famous illusionist Criss Angel, performing with Cirque de Soleil, in a fantastic meld of fantasy and magic! Now showing at the Luxor Hotel. For showtimes, press one. To purchase tickets, press two. For--"

"Magiano's, may I help you?" a woman's voice interrupted.

Casey was startled at first, then composed herself. "Yes, I'd like to make a reservation for three around six PM tonight, if that's possible."

"One moment, please." A minute of silence followed, then the woman confirmed the reservation: party of three, six PM. Casey thanked her and hung up. She couldn't help but wonder if she would see Criss again. True, he was busy with his show, but one never knew...

The front doorbell chimes shook her out of her thoughts. She heard her mother answer the door, so she rose to go to her room to get ready for Springs' dinner engagement, not giving it a second thought. She decided to wear her favorite lavender dress, the one with the bolero jacket that she seldom wore due to her work schedule, past and present. Happily, she opened the closet and took out the dress, along with her faded black dress shoes, scuffed but still presentable, and her little black evening purse she had bought for a friend's wedding six years ago. A quick shower, fix her hair, and she'd be good to go. It felt good to dress up for a change, she thought. In her joy, she did not notice her mother standing in the doorway, clutching some legal looking forms, her face ashen.

"Casey?" Sharon spoke as if from a distance.

Casey did not look up, but continued preparing for dinner. "Yeah, Mom, what do you need?" she replied absently.

"Casey?" her mother repeated in a tremorous voice.

This time, Casey did look up. "Mom? Is something wrong?"

Sharon swayed like a reed in a breeze. "We got this summons," she said, still reeling from the shock. "Your father is suing us."

Casey's jaw dropped. "Suing us?" she echoed in disbelief. "What for?"

"For the estate money," Sharon replied. "He wants nine million dollars."

The blissful feeling Casey felt was gone, anger taking its place. "He can't do that!" she stormed. "I don't have nine million dollars! None of us do! Hell, I haven't even received my share of the estate yet, and now he's suing us?"

"I'm afraid so," Sharon said.

Casey sank down on the bed. "What am I going to do, Mom?" she wailed. "Ever since Mr. Piccucci died and made me his heir, I've had nothing but trouble ever since! I got death threats, bomb threats, I almost got shot, and now my own father is suing me! Dear God, what am I going to do?"

Sharon sat down beside her daughter. "We're going to get dressed and go out to dinner with Mr. Springer, that's what we're going to do," she said firmly. "And don't worry about a thing--I'll handle your father."

Casey sighed. "Thanks, Mom." she said, trying to smile. "You're the greatest."

Sharon hugged her daughter by the shoulders. "Don't get too upset about this, hon," she said. "Everything's gonna work out just fine." She turned to face Casey directly. "But don't breathe a word of this to Mr. Springer," she ordered. "At least, not for now. He just landed a book deal, and we don't want to rain on his parade, now, do we?"

Casey shook her head. "I promise, Mom," she said. "I don't want to ruin Mr. Springer's celebration."

Sharon kissed Casey's forehead. "Now, you get ready," she said. "We don't want to be late."

Casey nodded. As soon as her mother left the bedroom, she went into the bathroom to shower. She was glad that Mr. Springer got his book published, but after the buzzkill of the summons her father had sent, she didn't feel much like celebrating anything.

[RACHEL02189]

Way to kill the mood dad

[Veritas]

Alicia stood with the rest of her confirmation class before the entire congregation, dressed in a fluffy white dress with a pale blue satin sash, more fitting for a seven-year-old in her opinion. Father Michael was winding up the ceremomy with the usual speech of renewal and commitment and walking in the path of righteousness. Alicia was just relieved that it was finally over and done with. She had to swallow her pride to go through with this, even going so far as making a formal confession to Father Mike regarding her Las Vegas episode and finishing that mile-long essay he had assigned (not that she meant any word she wrote). Now I know what Galileo went through, she thought.

She had spoken to no one about running away, nor even mentioned her witnessing the murder of Tina LaRue. She simply slogged through her two-week detention, catching up on her schoolwork, doing her chores at home, but at the same time sneaking in a few precious episodes of Criss Angel: MindFreak, thanks to the miracle of TiVo. For the past month, Alicia was silent about everything in her life.

Her brother, Kyle, however, had loose lips.

With malice aforethought, Kyle had all but shouted from the rooftops about his sister's escapade in Las Vegas, her stealing the money from the cabinet in the living room (at least he never found out about the missing video games Alicia had sold), and how she had witnessed a murder, often exaggerating the truth to impress his audience furthur. Alicia found herself in an awkward position, having to either confirm or deny any claim to whatever her little brother said.

To their credit, her classmates disregarded the ten-year-old hellion, knowing his reputation as far worse than his sister's. Indeed, Alicia's experience didn't harm her image but somewhat enhanced it: she had taken a risk none of them would ever dream of. In their opinion, it hadn't been an act of disobedience but a bid for freedom from the repressive atmosphere of St. Benedict's Acadamy, and they couldn't help but envy her. Beisdes, she said she gave the money back, didn't she? After a week, the whole thing blew over, just as she told Father Mike it would. She still wanted to strangle Kyle, though.

The rescessional music played, the cue for the newly confirmed to return to their seats. After the Mass would be the party in the church basement, the reception, it was called. There would be the usual sheet cake with the sugary shortening frosting, the usual 7-Up and Hawaiian Punch with lime sherbet in the big stainless steel basin, and the usual accolades from friends and relatives. Alicia wished her father was there to share in this milestone, but he was busy in LA. Maybe he sent her a card? She doubted it; after what she pulled back in April, he probably didn't want to even speak to her again.

"The Mass is ended," Father Mike announced. "Go in peace."

"Thanks be to God," the congregation responded in unison.

Father, the sacristan, and the altar boys receded to the vestibule. Alicia and her family got up and followed the crowd to the basement for the party. Thank God that's over with, Alicia thought. Now maybe I can get on with my life.

But first, there was the formality of the so-called "reception". Kyle tucked into the cake and punch while Alicia worked the crowd. There were more pictures taken, more hugs, more handshakes; pastel-shaded envelopes containing Hallmark cards and cash gifts were presented to the confirmed, received with forced smiles hiding avarice. One was thrust into Alicia's hand by her mother. She looked at it curiously. The envelope was blank; there was no sign of who the giver was. "Who's this from?" she asked.

"Well, open it and see," her mother told her.

Alicia sighed and pulled up the flap of the lavender envelope. It was a typical confirmation card, with a glittery cross on it and On Your Confirmation printed in calligraphic script. She opened the card. There was the usual sentiment bestowing God's blessings upon the recipient, with a crisp, new twenty dollar bill tucked inside, but what really surprised her was who it was from. The signature simply read Love, Dad.

Alicia could only stare at the scrawl under the message. "Well?" her mother said.

"It's from Dad," Alicia said quietly. "He sent me a card and some money."

"Well, that should be no big surprise," her mother said. "You think he'd forget?"

"No," Alicia replied. "I thought he'd still be mad at me about the money order."

Nancy Rose put a comforting arm around her daughter's shoulder. "Well, you know, people can be more forgiving than others," she said sagely. "Besides, he's still your father, and he loves you very much, no matter how many mistakes you've made."

If he loves me as much as you say he does, Alicia thought bitterly, then why did he leave us? Why doesn't he come back home so we can be a family again? All he sends is money; he doesn't even write to say how he is or ask how we are! He cares more about his new wife and stepdaughter than his own kids! It's like we hardly exist anymore!

The card was tucked into Nancy's purse along with the others. Alicia made a mental note to hide her gift money in her underwear drawer, just as she had with her Las Vegas savings. After the reception, Alicia took her cards and money upstairs to her room. She shut the door firmly so Kyle wouldn't see her stash her cash in the drawer. She tossed the cards on her bed and secreted her money under the drawer liner, then covered it with her underthings. A quick peek up in her closet to make sure her Criss Angel treasure box was still untouched (it was), and then she changed from her dress into more casual attire.

She looked at her cards on the bed. Mom would no doubt require that she send thank-you notes to them all. Okay, fine, she would. She sorted through each card to determine the giver's identity: Grandma and Grandpa Holmes; Uncle Leo and Aunt Helen; Mom, of course; Grandma Rose in Waterford. When she came to the card from her father, she paused. The others had written personal messages in their cards, but Dad had just scrawled Love, Dad in his. Yeah, like he would care if he got a thank-you letter from me, she thought.

Alicia thought back to her money order scam. Dad had simply sent the money order, without even filling out the Pay To line. No letter, no nothing, just the money order. When she sent it back to him upon her mother's orders, there was no recrimiantion, no admonshment--he hardly even acknowledged receiving it back. Didn't he care? she wondered. Didn't he care at all?

Suddenly, all of her resentment over her father's abandonment of her came roiling up to the surface like boiling pasta. She ripped the card to pieces, then took them into the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet. "Thanks, Dad," she muttered bitterly. "Thanks for nothing!"





Pamela Piccucci was alone.

Not just alone in the sense that she desired privacy, but completely abandoned by all whom she knew--her family, her friends, everyone. When she tried to contact her sons in California, her voicemail messages went unanswered, and the few connections she did succeed in making were quickly cut off. She was cold-shouldered by the same society who had accepted her because of her husband's wealth. Her standing reservation at the day spa was cancelled. Even the cleaning lady who came in twice a week had quit. No one wanted to associate with someone who killed for money.

After her arrest, her bail had been set at nearly one million dollars, a considerable sum, even with the help of a bail bondsman. She had to cash in her late husband's 401K to pay it. Now, with the house in near foreclosure, the debts mounting up with every passing day, and not a dime of Mick's money to cover them, Pamela was facing her greatest fear--poverty. The thought of having to give up her accustomed way of life--the shopping for the latest fashions, the salons, the fine restaraunts, the late-model cars, the roomy mansion in which she had lived for years, and above all the prestige that came with wealth--was a fate worse than death. What chilled her to the marrow was that if worse came to worst, she would have to actually find employment, to go out and work for a living like common, ordinary people. The mere thought of giving up her affluent lifestyle for a nine-to-five routine was more than she could bear.

Pamela covered her eyes with her hands and began to weep silently. How could life be so cruel to her? Yes, she had killed her husband, but he had been cheating on her for years; as far as she was concerened, it had been justifiable homicide. Same with Tina LaRue, that gold-digging blackmailer who made the lives of the Piccucci family miserable since Mick had married her. Pamela had done the world a favor for getting rid of that mad-dog (bleep). She would have gotten away with it if that little brat hadn't been hiding in the stall and saw the whole thing. Now, it was all over, and she had nothing left.

Pamela rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, scratching the tender flesh with her wedding ring. She grimaced at first, then, suddenly, looked down at the diamond on her finger. It was twenty-four karat gold with a ten-karat diamond setting. She pulled it off and examined it. How much could she get for it? Five hundred? A thousand? Maybe more? And what about all her other jewelry? Five thousand? Ten thousand? Whatever it was worth, it would be enough to start a new life somewhere. It would be a sacrifice, but it would be worth it.

She jumped out of the overstuffed chair and dashed to her bedroom. The light oak jewelry cabinet she had received from Mike for their first Christmas together stood in a corner next to the vanity. Furiously, she pulled out drawer after drawer of necklaces, earrings, bracelets, rings, pins, brooches and pendants, dumping them all on the bed. She had at least five thousand dollars' worth of gold lying there, maybe more depending on the market. If only there was something else...

Pamela dashed into her late husband's bedroom and found his small jewelry box containing gold cufflinks, tie pins, and a few rings which he never wore. She added them to the pile on her bed. It wasn't much, but it would be enough for now, enough to make an escape. To hell with Vegas, to hell with the million-dollar bond, to hell with everyone! Pamela Piccucci was blowing this popsicle stand and heading for--where? Hawai'i? Florida? Mexico? Where could she go on just five grand?

One thing at a time, girl, she said to herself. Get the money first, then run. Who knows? You just might get lucky and land another rich husband who would treat you right! And then you won't be alone anymore!

[RACHEL02189]

Oh no

[Veritas]

Beep...Beep...Beep...

Criss watched as the delivery truck backed slowly into his personal garage, a huge warehouse containing rows upon rows of gleaming automobiles and motorcycles, nearly fifty in all, not counting the ones on display at the Luxor Hotel. This was his private collection, not as huge as Jay Leno's but still pretty impressive. His latest aquisition, the '55 Spyder he had purchased at the Piccucci estate auction, had just arrived, ready to join the rest of his toys in the oversized garage.

Normally, Criss would be as excited as a kid on Christmas morning when he bought a new car or motorcycle, but this time the usual euphoria just wasn't there. Instead, he had been regretting his purchase ever since he had left the auction, especially the amount he had spent on it--four thousand five hundred dollars, more than a four bedroom house in suburban Las Vegas. It was a pretty cool car, a rare classic from the Fifties, but as the creamy roadster rolled out of the truck and onto the warehouse floor, it suddenly turned into a white elephant, a useless extravagance bought simply out of spite against a rival. He recalled AJ's words in the purchasing office: That's the car James Dean died in. Criss had dismissed AJ's remark out of hand, but now they came back to haunt him. Did AJ tell him that to be pedantic, or out of spite?

Or, maybe, to warn him?

Criss shook the creepy thoughts out of his head. No way was he going to let that (bleep)hole get the better of him! Boldly, almost defiantly, he signed the delivery receipts, took the keys from the deliveryman, hopped into the Spyder and jammed the key into the ignition. The vintage auto started up as smoothly and as quickly as the day it was manufactured. Criss drove it down the length of the warehouse, then deftly turned it into the space he had reserved for it. There was nothing wrong with it, he thought. The car was fine. It handled well, and the ride was smooth. There was nothing to worry about. He was just going through a case of buyer's remorse, nothing more.

He got out of the Spyder and walked away. (Bleep) AJ! he said to himself. James Dean died half a century ago because he was going at top speed on a country road. It was his own fault he got his ass killed. Just because I own a car similar to his doesn't mean I'm going to suffer the same fate. If I die, I die, and that's that. I'm not gonna let AJ get to me; I'm not even going to think about it anymore. What's past is past. I got my own life to live.

An idea popped into his head. You know, I just might use that car in a demonstration. Yeah! Something really spectacular, better than the Lambo demonstration! I don't know what I'm going to do, but it's gonna be a big (bleeping) surprise! And when I do, it's gonna put a bug so far up AJ's ass he's gonna feel it for the rest of his life!

He looked back at the creamy Spyder cooling its engine in its designated spot. Yeah, he thought, it just might be worth it after all.







Detective Jim Meridian sorted through his office mail: court appearances in one pile, department business in another, time sheets and mileage reimbursements in another, miscellaneous in the trash basket. He stuffed the third pile into a file folder in his desk without opening them--he knew what he wrote, so why bother? The second pile was mostly formalities, with the occasional memo of department meetings and minor policy changes. Then he went through the first pile one summons at a time so he could schedule them into his planner:

State v. Bellemy. Court date, May the eleventh at ten AM. Armed robbery ending in the death of the owner of a convenience store. The store security tapes caught the whole thing, so it was pretty much an open-and-shut case. Bellemy would do well to plead guilty and avoid the death penalty, Meridian thought.

State v. Elwell. Court date, May thirty-first at eleven AM. Domestic dispute. Holly Elwell had pleaded self-defense in killing her boyfriend, claiming he had abused her during her two-and-a-half year relationship. She had cracked him over the skull with a beer bottle when he allegedly threatened her with a carving knife back in October. Given the victim's past history of violence, she could get off with ten years for manslaughter with possibility of parole.

State v. Olmstead and Paulie. Court date, June tenth, ten AM. The two defendants had been members of the notorious Aryan Church of America, the white supremacist group who had terrorized Las Vegas last year. Michael Olmstead and Timothy Paulie had beaten Carlo Pavan in the parking garage of the Luxor because the latter had spotted them posting flyers for their rally in Sunset Park. Pavan died of his injuries two days later. The ACA was history, but there would be no closure for the Pavan family until these two were convicted. They were prime candidates for Death Row.

State v. Piccucci. Court date, December seventeenth, ten AM. Meridian felt a sour taste in his mouth. He had hoped for at least a full year before Pamela Piccucci would go on trial, but it seemed the wheels of justice turned faster than he thought. It wasn't the murders themselves he found distateful, it was the motive behind them. Pamela had murdered her cheating husband gangland style, blowing him up in his car, then strangled her blackmailing mother-in-law in a hotel bathroom. Not only that, she had threatened the innocent Casey Worth with two death threats and a fake bomb. Then she held not only Casey and the only eyewitness hostage, but also Casey's new employer, Daniel "Springs" Springer, and the Luxor's hottest attraction, illusionist Criss Angel. The involvement of the latter alone had hyped the whole affair way out of proportion. If Angel got called in as a witness, the whole trial was going to turn into a media circus. Meridian found the name of the presiding judge: Hendershot. He knew Judge Hendershot was old school when it came to presiding over trials, whatever the case. Knowing him, it would be a closed session with no media or visitors to preserve the integrity of the court.

Meridian marked down the case in his planner. He had done his part; all the evidence was sealed up and filed away, ready to be presented before the court. For now, the lawyers would battle it out, plea bargaining themselves hoarse, filing injunctions, demanding this piece of evidence be kept or that piece to be thrown out. Then the jury would be selected, and then the whole sordid affair would be presented before the formidable Judge Hendershot. Even with solid evidence against Pamela Piccucci, no results were certain. She could get off on a technicality, she could sway the jury with the wounded widow routine, or the jury could vote her innocent in spite of what evidence presented to them.

Or she could just not show up at all. Meridian had a few cases where the defendant was a no-show, resulting in a fugitive charge and thousands of tax dollars wasted in finding the culprit. The only difference was that Pamela had the means to escape, just like Andrew Luster, the Max Factor heir accused of an appalling eighty-seven cases of sexual assault. He was living in Mexico when he got nailed by the famous bounty hunter, Duane "Dog" Chapman. He hoped it wouldn't come to that in Pamela's case, but he had learned from long, hard experience that when dealing with criminals, anything was possible. Hope for the best and prepare for the worst--that was his motto.

After a total of twentysome years on the force, however, it seemed to Jim Meridian that he was always doing the latter more than the former. Working in Homicide did not exactly give one a sunny view of life. Cmplacency was death, either his own or or someone else's: he had to be on his toes every waking minute, or else a culprit would either escape and kill another innocent victim or come after him. Pamela Piccucci might not be gunning for him, but one never truly knew the mind of a killer. All he could do was take it one day at a time until the trial. Meanwhile, he had other things on his to-do list, like reduce his caseload and appear in court next week. No rest for the weary, he thought, just so there would be no rest for the wicked.

[Veritas]

The Worth family sat in the hallway next to Courtroom A at the Clark County courthouse Thursday morning. Casey and her mother, Sharon, sat on one side of the doorway, Benny and father Phil on the other. Neither side spoke, nor even looked at each other across the four and a half foot gap between them. Their lawsuit would be heard at nine AM, only fifteen minutes away, yet it seemed an eternity in the dignified silence of the courthouse.

Casey fought off the urge to call Mr. Springer to check if he was all right. When she had requested Thursday morning off for the hearing, he nonchalantly gave his consent, telling her that he'd be just fine with the New York Times crossword puzzle to occupy him. Now that his memoirs were going to press, time hung heavily on the old man's hands. Casey could only hope that he didn't fill his empty hours with alcohol. She didn't want to seem overprotective of Mr. Springer, but she didn't want to neglect him, either. He was her employer, and she had a responsibility toward him.

Sharon, meanwhile, had her own worries. She had filed for divorce right after she left her husband, citing irreconcilable differences and neglect. Being the only one with any sort of income, however, she could be forced to pay support to her disabled ex-spouse due to Nevada's communal property laws--meaning what was hers was also her husband's. But Phil was suing both her and her daughter, Casey, for nine million dollars--nine million they didn't have, nor ever would. The estate had not been thoroughly liquidated, and Casey had not yet received a dime of her share.

It was Casey's money--why should Phil get any of it? Sharon asked herself. He didn't do anything to deserve it. All he did was sit in his wheelchair and watch TV for over ten years. He might not have been able to walk, but he still had two good arms, and the Americans with Disabilites Act would have insured that he found suitable employment somewhere. But no, he spent an entire decade wallowing in self-pity, drowning his sorrows in beer and cable television. He had stopped being a husband and became more of an overgrown infant from the day he came home from the hospital. Sharon cursed herself for not leaving him a long time ago.

Phil Worth sat in his wheelchair on the other side of the doorway, cursing the female half of his family for holding out on him. Selfish (bleeps), he thought, leaving him to rot in that hellhole of a house while they were living it up in some mobster's mansion! Oh, God, how he was gonna rake their asses over the coals in that courtroom! He was gonna take them for all they had, and no jury in the world was gonna stop him! He deserved that nine million more than they did! Hell, he was in a wheelchair, for chrissakes! How could a wife abandon her crippled husband when he needed her most? Well, she wasn't going to get away with it, nosirreebob! He was gonna get his piece of the pie no matter what it took! A piece, nothing--he was going for the whole pie, and with ice cream on top! Hold out on him, will they? Abandon him, will they? Well, payback's a (bleep), sweetheart, and it's gonna cost you!

Benny sat beside his father in one of the uncomfortable plastic and chrome chairs, fidgeting. They'd been away from home for almost an hour now, the longest he'd been without TV or some other form of entertainment, and he was bored. He wished they'd hurry up and get this thing over with already--his favorite episode of Gilligan's Island was on at noon, and they didn't have TiVo or DVR on their system. "How much longer?" he groaned.

Phil looked at his watch. "About ten more minutes," he replied.

Benny silently cursed the dragging hands of time. They should at least put up a TV or something if they were going to wait for so long, he thought. He was about to get up and go to the drinking fountain at the end of the hall when the doors of Courtroom A opened suddenly. The bailiff set out a small sign reading QUIET COURT IN SESSION in plastic letters set in faded black velour, then motioned the family to come in. Casey and Sharon waited while Benny wheeled his father into the courtroom, then followed behind. No one said a word as they entered. The bailiff silently closed the doors behind them.

Phil was positioned behind one of the tables set aside for the plaintiffs, while Sharon and Casey sat opposite on the defendant's side. The two attorneys representing the parties were already present, ready to present their cases to the judge. Phil stole a glance at his ex-wife, hoping to detect a sign of weakness on her part that he could exploit. No good; she was like an oil painting.

"All rise."

Everyone except the wheelchair-bound Phil Worth stood when the judge entered the courtroom and ascended to the bench. The Honorable David M. Shedd commanded them to be seated, then looked at the docket before him. "The case of Philip Worth vs. Sharon and Casey Worth," he read aloud. "Are both parties present?"

"We are, Your Honor," the lawyers said.

Judge Shedd read the case docket again, his brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "It says here that the plaintiff, Mr. Worth, is suing his wife and daughter for nine million dollars," he said, bemused. "Is that true, Counselor?"

"Yes, Your Honor, it is," the counsel for the plaintiff replied. "The defendant, Casey Worth, inherited nine million dollars from her late employer, Mr. Michael Piccucci, Sr., over two months ago. He was never informed of the inheritance, nor was even considered for a share of it. My client is claiming damages for neglect and abuse."

Sharon and Casey were flabbergasted. "Abuse!?" Sharon cried. "I never abused him in my life!"

The judge tapped the gavel. "Order, please," he insisted firmly.

Sharon turned to her attorney. "He's lying!" she hissed. "I didn't do anything to hurt him, and he knows it!"

Her lawyer held up his hands to calm her down. "Okay, okay, just simmer down," he whispered to her. He rose to face the judge. "Your Honor," he began, "let me state for the record that my client does not have nine million dollars. In the case regarding the estate of Michael Piccucci, Sr., it was ruled in probate court that the entire estate was to be liquidated and divided between my client, Casey Worth, and the three surviving members of the Piccucci family. Minus taxes, my client inherited only one million six hundred thousand dollars."

"Has your client received the amount stated?" Judge Shedd asked.

The lawyer turned to Casey, who shook her head no. "No, she hasn't, Your Honor."

Judge Shedd turned to the plaintiff's side. "Mr. Worth, were you aware of this?" he asked.

"I wasn't aware of a goddam thing, Your Honor!" Phil snapped. "They kept me totally in the dark about this whole goddam mess! They wanted to keep all that money for themselves while I'm sitting here in this wheelchair, rotting away in that stinking hellhole of a house! Meanwhile, the two of them are living it up high on the hog in some old gangster's mansion! They don't give a diddly-damn about me, oh, no! I've been suffering for ten years, Your Honor! Don't I deserve a break?"

"Oh, cry me a river, Phil," Sharon muttered to herself. "You could fertilize a forty-acre cornfield with what you're spreading around!"

"Does the defendant have anything to say?" the judge asked.

Sharon rose and faced the judge with all the confidence she could muster. "Yes, Your Honor, I do. For the past ten years, my daughter, Casey, had been the breadwinner in the family, giving up her own dreams of nursing school to go to work to support the family. I tried to help out as best I could with what jobs I could find, but it was always Casey who bought home the bacon. Phil, however, did absolutely nothing but sit in front of the TV, watching game after game after game, drinking I don't know how many bottles of beer, and feeling sorry for himself. It was Casey who paid the bills; she was the one responsible for putting food on the table and keeping the lights on. She sacrificed her whole future just so we could have a roof over our heads. Does that sound like neglect to you, Your Honor? And Benny over there was the same way as his father, vegging out in front of the TV, not even making an effort to find a job."

She pointed at her son. "Look at him, Your Honor!" she cried. "Thirty-two years old and sponging off his parents--no job, no prospects, nothing! He just goes out to topless bars and gets drunk with his friends, or sits at home with his worthless excuse of a father, watching TV! If he had had the gumption to get up and get a job, bring in a little extra income, none of us would be here today!"

Benny stared at his mother, surprised that such an accusation could be leveled at him. "And now," Sharon went on, "Casey's got a little bit of money coming in,and they have the gall to demand we give it to them! Well, I say if they want any money, let them go out and earn it, because they aren't getting a dime out of me--or Casey!"

Sharon sat down, exhausted from her rant. The judge pondered her words, then turned to Casey. "Casey? Do you have anything to say in your defense? After all, it's your inheritance that's at stake here."

Casey stood up hesitantly. "Well, Your Honor," she began. "I don't know what to say, except everything my mother said is true. I've been supporting my family for ten years now, and quite frankly, I'm tired of it. I'd like to take my inheritance and go to nursing school, get a place of my own, and get on with my life, but after ten years of caring for my family, well..."

"Go on," the judge prompted.

Casey stood there, trembling. "Ever since I got that inheritance, my life has been hell on earth!" she said, her voice breaking. "I got death threats, bomb threats; I was almost shot by Mrs. Piccucci, and now my family's being torn apart. Yes, I'd like to see Benny get a job. Yes, I'd like to see Dad do something with his life besides sitting around watching TV. But I still feel some sort of love and devotion for them, and I still want to insure that they're taken care of. Yes, I've been living in a mansion, but it's not my mansion; I just work there for Mr. Springer. I don't have nine million dollars--I don't even have one million. It hurts me that my own father would want to sue me for money I don't have. Every penny I earned went to the family; I barely had enough for my own personal needs. But I felt it was worth it, because it was for the family. But now that I got this inheritance, everyone's gotten so greedy and selfish, I feel like taking all that money and donating it to charity! I wish I never was even mentioned in Mr. Piccucci's will!"

She looked up at the judge with pleading eyes. "Can't we work out some sort of deal that will make everyone happy?" she beseeched him.

Judge Shedd sat back in his black leather chair and thought it over. He drew a deep sigh and raised his gavel. "This court is recessed for fifteen minutes," he said, ending the session with a bang of the gavel on its pedestal.

Casey turned to the lawyer sitting beside her. "Why did the judge call a recess so soon?" she asked.

The lawyer smiled a little. "Don't spread this around, but Judge Shedd has a bit of a prostate problem. Poor guy's gotta take a lot of bathroom breaks. He spends more time in the men's room than his own chambers."

"Isn't he taking anything for it?" Casey asked.

"I don't know for sure," the lawyer replied. "He should see a doctor, but he's too dedicated to serving justice to take any time off. Don't worry, he'll be back soon."

Exactly fifteen minutes later, Judge Shedd reconviened court. "Now, to continue where we left off," he said, as if nothing untoward happened. "The counsel for the plaintiff may call the first witness."

"The court calls Philip Worth to the stand."

Phil was wheeled to the front of the courtroom and positioned in front of the witness stand, no room to be had for his wheelchair. He took the oath, stated his name for the record, and answered all the questions put forth to him by his attorney. He had been disabled in an accident at work, he said, and had been confined to a wheelchair for ten years, collecting disability insurance. No, he had made no effort to find work--what could a paraplegic do, anyway? He had been a manual laborer all of his adult life; no one was going to hire a cripple. Yes, Casey had been the family's bread and butter for a while, and no, his son Benny had no luck finding a job because the economy was in the crapper, not because he was lazy. Benny had taken care of him while his wife and daughter were working--or supposed to be working--and that counted for something, didn't it? Benny was the only member of his family who had stayed loyal while "those two over there" were living high on the hog in some gangster's mansion. Then Casey got nine million dollars from her former employer, but the selfish little (bleep) wanted to keep it all to herself! And after all he did for her! Totally ungrateful! Didn't he deserve a break after all he suffered? Didn't he derserve anything at all?

The counsel for the defense cross-examined Phil, but ended up getting the same story. Whenever the defense asked a particularly troubling question that might have tripped him up, he went into pity-party mode, bewailing the wounds from the slings and arrows that his flesh had been heir to for the past decade. Frustrated, the defense withdrew, and Phil was dismissed. Sharon noticed the smug look on her ex-husband's face when he was wheeled away from the stand.

Sharon was next. She had barely sat down in the witness stand when she attacked Phil's testamony with both barrels blazing. Phil had promised her she would be taken care of, that they would make it somehow, and she'd live like a queen when he got his big break. In the end, it had been she who raised the children, paid the bills, took care of the house, and tended to her husband's needs, and for what? A crippled husband and a good-for-nothing son who vegged out in front of the television while she and her daughter struggled to make ends meet. No big break, no living like a queen (unless it was a welfare queen), just endless toil to feed and care for Phil and Benny. Their whole relationship had been one-sided, she said. She had done her duty as a wife, and then some, but had nothing to show for it but bags, wrinkles and crow's feet. Neither of them deserved a dime of whatever inheritance Casey was coming into. It's her money, she insisted. She should use it to make a life for herself, not support two lazy good-for-nothings like Phil and Benny.

The counsel for the plaintiff tried to appeal to her sympathies, pleading on behalf of the disabled man she had once called husband. How could she leave him in this state? Who would tend to his needs now? Couldn't she arrange some sort of support for him, make his life a little easier? Being a caretaker was stressful, granted, but to abandon him now would be cruelty.

Sharon, however, was totally unmoved. He didn't know what it was like living with that man, she said. Gripe, whine and complain, that was all he did. Nothing she did pleased him, no matter how she tried. She was through, and that was that. Phil and Benny were two of a kind--they could work something out between them. If Benny got off his ass and found even a halfway decent job, there would be no need for support payments on her part, or Casey's. The nerve of them suing their daughter after all she did for them: sacrificing her education and her future happiness to support those two ungrateful wretches! Well, from now on, they were on their own! With that declaration of independence, Sharon was dismissed.

Benny was next, but examining the dull-witted couch potato proved to be an exercise in futility. He didn't have a job because he couldn't find one, he said. The economy's in the crapper, just like Dad said. Besides, he was too busy taking care of Dad while Mom and Casey were out working or whatever. When asked if he tried to find work, Benny shrugged and claimed he had looked around here and there but with no success.

Suddenly he got defensive, claiming that Casey should share her inheritance with her family, move out of the little house they called home and into that big mansion so they could be set for life. If she had any sense at all, she would do that. She had no right to keep all that cash for herself! She should stop being so selfish and give up the money right now!

Benny was quickly dismissed. Now, it was Casey's turn up on the stand. "Don't let them intimidate you," her mother hissed in her daughter's ear. "Stand your ground. You have a right to that money more than they do."

Casey went up to the stand, took the oath and nervously sat down. She pretty much reiterated what she had said in the beginning: that her inheritance had proven a curse, that it was tearing her family apart, and she had even faced death itself over it. She wanted to start a life for herself, but more, she wanted to make sure her family was provided for. Benny should get a job, she insisted, and contrary to what her father said, there were jobs available to the disabled--he just had to look in the ads. Once she had pointed out and ad to him from the Purple Heart foundation, hiring people with disabilities to do phone work at home setting up appointments for furniture pick-up. It sounded ideal for him, but he never followed through, preferring instead to wallow in self-pity in front of the TV. In the end, Casey had resigned herself to being the sole source of income, her dreams of a better life fading like a desert sunset.

"Isn't there any way this could be resolved with no hurt feelings on either side?" she had pleaded to the judge. "Anything at all? I just want this to end right now. I don't want to completely surrender, because that would mean giving up my dreams of going to nursing school. I want a life of my own, and so does my mother. I don't blame her for leaving Dad like she did--I'd have done the same thing! We're both tired of doing all the work while they laze around the TV. But he's still my dad and, well, you know..."

Judge Shedd looked at the attorney for the defense. "Would the counsel for the defense please repeat the terms of the inheritance?" he requested.

"Yes, Your Honor." The defense stood. "The estate of Michael Piccucci, Sr., was ordered to be liquidated and divided between Ms. Worth and the three surviving members of the family. Each member would receive one million, six hundred thousand dollars, after taxes."

Judge Shedd turned to the plaintiff's side. "Mr. Worth," he said, "I am appalled that you would value money over family. If you had been a bit more supportive, even in your current state of disability, I am sure that your daughter would not have hesitated to share her inheritance with you. Instead, you made a grab for the entire amount of the estate when she only received a portion of it, proving your avarice."

He turned to Benny. "Benjamin, you have been nothing but a millstone around your family's neck. As the eldest son, you had a duty to provide for your family by seeking employment and shouldering the responsibility of their welfare. Instead, you did nothing, nothing at all. You became a parasite, feeding off your sister Casey's income. And you claim that she is being selfish? You are judging her by your own example, Benjamin. You should be ashamed, a man of your age still living like a dependent child!"

The judge then turned to the side of the defendants. "Mrs. Worth, the court understands your frustration with your husband and son. As the counsel for the plaintiffs said, being a caregiver is stressful. But even you have fallen prey to greed, shutting out your ex-husband and son for money, even if it's for your daughter. The court regrets your decision to divorce your husband, but that is your choice.

"As for Casey, who had been shouldering a burden beyond her years, she's the only one here who has not a shred of avarice in her body. She has proven once again that inherited wealth is a curse, no matter who the beneficiary is. The Piccucci Affair has resulted in two murders and so much terror for Ms. Worth; it's no wonder she finds no joy in her windfall. She's the only one here with any compassion, any sense of love and devotion to any of you. She wanted what's best for all concerned. Therefore, it is the decision of this court that the defendants pay the sum of two thousand dollars, total, to the plaintiffs, after thirty days."

Phil was aghast. "Two thousand bucks?" he echoed, outraged at getting stiffed. "Is that all?"

The judge ignored the outburst. "Furthurmore, the plaintiffs shall be given thirty days to find employment. As the defendants said, there are jobs to be found even for the unskilled and disabled. The county labor and employment office is open to you to either find work or training for work. If, at the end of the thirty days, neither of the plaintiffs have found any sort of gainful employment, nor training for same, they will forfeit the award given and will be required to attend job skills classes. Your couch potato days are over, Mr. Worth. You and your son are going to make a life for yourselves whether you like it or not, just as your wife and daughter will." A bang of the gavel. "Case is dismissed."

Sharon rose, muttering irritably. "Two thousand dollars! I wouldn't give them two cents! They're not worth it."

Casey laid a hand on her mother's shoulder. "Don't worry, Mom. I only have to pay it if they find work before the end of the month. Besides, what's two grand compared to one and a half million and change? Anyway, it'll tide them over until they get their first paychecks."

"If they get paychecks," Sharon amended.

"They have to," Casey reminded her. "If they don't, they have to attend job skills classes. Think of the money as the carrot on the end of a stick to get them motivated."

"I'd like to just take the stick and beat them both with it."

"Mom!"

"I would!"

Casey sighed. "Look, it's over, okay? Let's just go home and forget about it for a while. Besides, I have to check on Mr. Springer."

"Don't worry too much about Mr. Springer," her mother said. "He's probably been nursing a Manhattan or three since we've been gone."

[RACHEL02189]

Call it insentive to get a job

[Veritas]

Seven thousand five hundred dollars. It wasn't much, but it was just enough to start a new life somewhere. After selling her jewelry, cashing in the kids' savings bonds given to them by a well-meaning maiden aunt, emptying the savings account, and hocking whatever items of value she could find in the house (including the antique willow-pattern tea set her great-grandmother had given to her as a wedding present that had been collecting dust in the display cabinet), Pamela Piccucci had amassed this small fortune by the end of the day. Well, it would have to tide her over until she could find some lonely millionaire who desired her company, maybe even marry her if she played her cards right.

The only problem was where was she going to find this well-heeled Mr. Right. Mexico was out of the question. She couldn't speak Spanish to save her life, and besides, the last time she was there with Mike she got horribly ill with what they called Montezuma's Revenge. Canada was too far north and too cold for her tastes, though the skiing wasn't too bad. Europe would be ideal--there were dozens if not hundreds of successful entrepeneurs and even a few titled noblemen who would no doubt be happy to share the wealth with her, but it would be too expensive to live there by herself. The American dollar wasn't what it used to be now that the euro was the standard currency. No, she'd have to stick to this side of the pond for now.

But what about Hawai'i? She had gone on her honeymoon there with Mike and had fallen in love with the Aloha State the minute she had stepped off the plane. It was pricey, but she was bound to run into someone who would take her in, either on the beach or in one of the bars. She couldn't take her car, of course, but she could sell it for cash and arrange for a rental. That would stretch her meager seven thousand dollar budget a bit furthur.

A rental? Pamela stopped short. If she tried to rent a car, she would have to show her driver's license, and being accused of double murder, it would leave a trail for the police to follow. No, if she was going to start a new life, she needed a new identity. At first, she though about reverting to her maiden name, Danvers, but that would be too obvious. Besides, her bathrobe and some of her accessories had her monogram on them: PJP, Pamela Jean Piccucci. Her new name needed to begin with the same letter. Pamela Jean...Pamela Jean...Petersen! Yes! That was it. From now on, she would be Pamela Jean Petersen. But how to get her new name on her driver's license? Easy, just go down to the DMV, tell the clerk she was getting married and wanted to change the name on her driver's license, and they'd do the rest. With luck, the automaton behind the counter would be too busy to notice her. It was an acceptable risk.

Pamela began to pack her summer wardrobe into two large Vuitton suitcases and the matching carry-on bag. For the first time in a month, she felt free as a bird. By tomorrow, this bird would be winging its way to the Hawai'ian Islands. Good-bye, Sin City, hello Honolulu! Pamela Jean Piccucci was dead and gone. She was now Pamela Jean Petersen, private citizen and potential wife or mistress to some lucky man with money, and she was going to live it up island style! And no one was going to stop her now!






Alicia writhed with boredom as she sat in her seat during Final Assembly. It was the last day of school, and she was as anxious to get out of the stifling auditorium as her classmates. But first there was the tedious routine of awards, honorable mentions, and farewell speeches from Father Mike and the staff. She had been there only an hour, but already she could feel her bottom growing numb under the pressure of her own weight. Hurry up so we can get out of here already! she mentally begged Father Mike.

The list of awards seemed as ridiculous as it was endless: Best Attendance, Good Citizenship, Most Improved (at what Alicia didn't know); the top ten in the Gold, Silver and Bronze Honor Rolls; the Altar Society Award for service to the Church; and of course, the coveted Student of the Year. None of which Alicia won, not that she cared. She didn't even bother to applaud those who did win. It was all just a lot of BS in her opinion. She just wanted to get out and enjoy the three month reprieve from school for the summer.

Alicia cheered herself with the happy thought that summer bought an new season of MindFreak. At least, she hoped there would be a new season; Criss had his live shows and his major production of Believe. Would he be able to squeeze in a few new episodes of his TV show? She hoped and prayed he would. She also hoped that it would be shown on Wednesday nights--that was when her mother worked late, and she could slip into the basement and watch it there, wearing the headphones so Kyle wouldn't hear her and tattle on her. Mom was still antagonistic against Criss Angel, blaming him for her daughter's "radical" change in behavior and forbidding her to have anything to do with him. Good thing Mom never read what she really wrote in that forced dictation letter. If she had, well...she preferred not to think about that.

The award ceremony ended, and Father Mike mounted the podium for his customary end-of-term speech. Keep it short, okay, Father? Alicia begged. We all want to get out of here while we're still young!

Father Mike's speech was the longest fifteen minutes of Alicia's life. Her butt ached for relief, and her legs begged to be stretched, but she did not dare move--Sister Angelique was standing guard by the near wall, ready to pounce on the first student who showed any sign of mischief, or at least impatience. Everyone was required to sit up straight, have both feet on the floor (no crossing of legs were allowed), and with hands in their laps like perfect little ladies and gentlemen. To remain in such an unnatural position for ninety minutes was agony. Alicia kept squeezing her fingertips to release a trickle of the frustration building up inside her.

"And so let us walk in the path of righteousness as we conclude this term," Father intoned. "Go in peace, and have a good Christian summer."

Finally! The student body rose from their seats, relieved at last to be free from their bondage. They were all expected to file out in an orderly fashion, but this was their moment of liberty; they bolted out the doors en masse despite the demands of the nuns to exit quietly and in single file. Alicia filled her lungs with fresh spring air, glad to be out of that stifiling auditorium. It was over! She was finally free to do as she liked. Her sentence for running away to Vegas had been served, and so long as she kept her love for Criss Angel a secret, she could keep on living as she had before. It was a pity she couldn't express her Loyalty, but under the circumstances, it couldn't be helped.

If only there was someone with whom she could share her feelings without fear of condemnation or ridicule. Oh sure, she had her online friends, but it wasn't the same as having a flesh-and-blood friend. Where in all of Melvinville could she find another Loyal?

She wished she could go back to Loyalpalooza. She wished she had had more time to get to know her fellow Loyals there, get some addresses and phone numbers, make some new friends. Instead, Detective Meridian had hauled her away and put her on that little plane back home, back to her life of tedium and boredom and isolation. There had to be someone she could talk to in this burg.

"Hey."

Alicia was startled. She turned around to see a girl about her age with jet-black hair cut in a page-boy style pinned back with berettes. Berettes!Geez, that was so Fifties! What time portal did she step through, anyway? She looked harmless enough, so Alicia said "Hey," back.

"I heard of you," the strange girl said. "Some kid was going on about you running away to Las Vegas."

Some kid? "That had to be my brother, Kyle," Alicia said. "He's a big blabbermouth. Don't believe anything he says--he's a brat."

"So did you run away to Vegas or not?" the stranger persisted.

Alicia shrugged. "So what if I did?" she retorted.

The stranger sighed wistfully. "I wish I could have gone with you," she sighed.

Alicia's aloofness turned to curiosity. "Why?"

"Well," the girl hesitated. "That was the weekend of...Loyalpalooza...and I really wanted to go."

Alicia's heart leapt. "You mean you're a Loyal, too?" she asked excitedly.

Now it was the girl's turn to brighten. "You mean you...?"

Alicia eagerly related her adventure in Las Vegas and its disappointing denouement. The girl was awed. "Wow! You were so lucky--in more ways than one," she gasped. "You think you'll ever see Criss again?"

"Well," Alicia replied, pondering the question, "there is the murder trial, you know. Since I'm the only eyewitness, I have to be there, and since Criss was there, I'm sure he'll be there, too."

The black-haired girl nodded. "I wish I could come with you," she said. "But my family is so hardassed they won't even let me mention Criss Angel in the house. They think he's the Anti-Christ. That's why they send me here--to learn 'Christian values' and be all wholesome and pure and all that crap. It's like I have to live a double life."

"I know how you feel," Alicia said sympathetically. "When I got home from Vegas, my mom made me write a letter to Criss, saying I didn't ever want to see him again. Of course, I wrote down the opposite of what she wanted me to say."

"That was smart of you," said the girl. "Oh, by the way, my name is Mary Ann. Not the coolest name--I hate it, but living in an old-school Catholic family like mine, what choice did I have?"

"I'm Alicia." She held out her hand to Mary Ann, who shook it briefly. "So how come I haven't seen you in school?"

"Oh, I've been around," Mary Ann said. "Altar Society, Youth Group, stuff that my folks insist will make me a better person; it takes up all my time. I used to go online to the fanboards in the school library, but they filtered that out."

"What's your domain name?" Alicia asked.

"AngelMine."

"Mine's RoseRed13."

"Oh, wow, I read your poems! They're pretty good."

"Thanks."

"Wanna come over to my house this weekend?" Mary Ann offered. "Dad's working all day Saturday, and Mom'll be running errands, so it'll be safe for a few hours at least."

"Where do you live?"

"Corner of Main and Elm," Mary Ann told her. "Big white house with blue trim, Mary statue in the front yard."

Alicia smiled broadly. "Okay, it's a date!"

"Just one thing, though."

"What?"

"I like to be called MA," Mary Ann said. "I hate being called Mary Ann--it's so Gilligan's Island, you know?"

Alicia laughed. "Okay, MA it is," she agreed. "Anything for a fellow Loyal."

MA laughed. "Thanks. See you Saturday!"

Alicia waved good-bye to her newfound friend and skipped happily to the school bus for the last time that term. Thank You, God! she prayed. Thank You for sending me MA. Now I won't be so lonely anymore. I hope we become the best of friends forever! It's not every day you meet a fellow Loyal just like that! I'm so glad You hooked me up with her! You aren't so bad after all!

[RACHEL02189]

so far so good

[Veritas]

Casey was running the dust mop over the marble-tiled foyer when she saw the mail slide through the slot in the front door and flop onto the floor. She set aside the mop and retrieved the letters, then idly sorted through them one at a time. Phone bill, bank statement, another bill, something from the city of Las Vegas--oh, wait, there was something with her name on it. The return address read Bruin, Close, LLC. Oh, Lord, please don't let it be another lawsuit! she prayed.

She opened the envelope with trepedition and removed the contents. Instead of a summons, it was a cashier's check for one million six hundred and sixty-five dollars, along with a receipt signed by Richard Close, Esq. It took a good while for Casey to come to her senses and remember that this check was her share of the Piccucci estate. Still, to receive such an amout seemed so unreal to her. Never in her entire life did she have so much money! It was a windfall people only dream about, or come across only in the movies. But this was real life, and she was actually holding a million-dollar check payable to her. Reeling from the initial shock, she took the check and hid it in the drawer of the nightstand in her bedroom. She would cash it tomorrow when she took Mr. Springer to the Luxor Casino for the afternoon. Casey couldn't help but smile at the thought of taking such a big check to the bank and depositing it in her account. I can't wait to see the expression on the face of the bank teller when she sees this check! she thought, suppressing a giggle. She's totally gonna freak out!

She shut the drawer of the nightstand and returned to her housekeeping. She wondered what she was going to do with all that money. She would not squander it, oh, no. She had lived too long on a meager budget to go on any spending sprees; who knew what would happen in the future? The economy could take another nosedive, or Mr. Springer would die and she'd be left without a job, or her mother could get sick with cancer, or any other catastrophe could occur. Best to save it for a rainy day, as her grandma put it.

Still, she would like to have a place of her own instead of residing with her employer. Once she got her certification, she could switch to day hours, coming home every evening to a new apartment, or a condo, or even a small house. It would be wonderful to have a place that she could call hers, one she could decorate in her own tastes, one that would stay clean after she cleaned it and not revert to a pigsty the minute she turned her back like her old home. She could watch TV whenever she liked, and watch whatever she liked (her father usually dominated the family set, watching football, baseball, basketball, or whatever "ball" was in season. She was ten years old before she discovered there were other programs on television besides sports). She could even invite people over if she wanted. Maybe even have a party--not those beer-swilling get-togethers her father used to have, but a Martha Stewart-style affair, with color-co-ordinated napkins and tablecloths, and hors d'ovures on tiered trays. It would be sunny and bright and dressy, just like in the magazines.

Casey finished dusting the floor and went to fetch the vacuum cleaner. The Springer house had a central vacuum, so it was just a matter of hooking up the hose to the wall outlet and running the sweeper attachment over the carpeting. Casey thought about getting a central vacuum system for her dream home--no dusty bags to remove, no tripping over the cord, no dad yelling for her to turn off that damn vacuum so he could watch the game...

Her father. Casey suddenly remembered the court ruling that she had to pay her father two thousand dollars at the end of the month. She also rememebered her mother's dismay over the judge's ruling. But, hey, it was only two thousand out of a million and six hundred. Besides, they would only get the money if they found a job before then. If not, then they forfeited the award. That was the deal--no job, no two thousand. That would be incentive enough for anyone, right?

Right?

Casey began having doubts. Would either of them even find work? The job market was going through a drought, granted, but they still printed want-ads in the paper, so someone was still hiring, right? But would they even try? Dad was still disabled, and Benny was just plain lazy--neither had any ambition to do anything. And even if by some miracle they did secure gainful employment, how long would they keep it? A month? Two months? Just long enough to collect the money and them relapse into their slovenly ways?

But no. The judge ruled that if they didn't find work by the deadline, they would be forced into job training. But what would happen if they failed to comply? Would they have to go to jail? She hoped not, for their sakes. Besides, she didn't feel like posting their bail.

Maybe she could help them, she thought as she ran the vacuum over the living room carpet. She could ask around, check the job postings on the Internet, look over the want-ads. Forget asking Mr. Springer for help--those two would take over the house without doing a lick of work. No, they'd have to find someplace else. Maybe the hotels could use some help. Benny, at least, could do some maintenance and heavy lifting (though, truth be told, the heaviest thing he ever lifted was a forty-ounce bottle of beer).

When I go to the Luxor tomorrow, Casey decided, I'm going to go to Human Resources and see what I can find for Benny. If he knows what's good for him, he'll take me up on it.




Where am I? Criss thought as he walked through the filthy, wet streets of a city he had never been to before, nor had any idea how he got there, or why he was there in the first place. Around him, crumbling tenement buildings rose menacingly like prison walls, blocking out the sunlight, creating a more sinister atmosphere. All he knew was that he had to find his car so he could get out of there, wherever he was. But every corner he turned led to another dead end, every alley and byway he followed led nowhere. He was like a rat in a maze, searching for an exit.

The car. Where the hell did I park my car? Criss ran blindly through one street after another, searching for his car. Everywhere he looked he saw more filth and more misery--men in ragged, dirty clothes with cardboard signs around their necks reading Will Work For Food; children of the ragged, dirty-clothed men crying from the pain of their empty bellies; more desperate types competing with the stray dogs and cats in scavenging the trash dumpsters for scraps. One of these wretched souls, a huge man in soiled work clothes came up to him.

"You Criss Angel?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes," Criss replied simply.

The big man hawked back and spat upon Criss. "Mother(bleeper)! Spending four hundred thousand on a fancy sports! You can go to Hell!"

With those words, the ground opened up beneath Criss' feet and swallowed him whole. He felt himself falling, falling into darkness...





Criss woke up with a start in his black-walled dressing room backstage. "Oh, God!" he panted. "Oh, God!"

He looked around the dressing room, with the eerie image-shifting paintings and the other creepy decor. Comforted that he was back in more familiar surroundings, he lay back on the black-sheeted Murphy bed, drawing deep breaths to calm his heartbeat. The images of his dream had not yet faded from memory. Some guy had spat on him because he spent four hundred thousand dollars on a sports car. Was it the Spyder? It had to be. Criss had regretted buying the Spyder since the day he bought it at that auction; he had done it out of spite, of foolish pride to show up his rival. Was there something more to it than that?

Criss analyzed his dream. A poor neighborhood, with poor people in it: a slum, poverty. People digging in the dumpsters for food: the homeless, the unemployed. A man angry for his spending four hundred thousand dollars on a sports car: unemployed, angry, envious of his good fortune. The man tells him to go to Hell, and the ground swallows him up: what did that represent? Did the man actually send him to Hell? Only God could do that, he thought. Was the man God?

He recalled the crying children in his dream: helplessness, hopelessness, hunger. Criss always had a soft spot for children; he could not bear to see them suffer for any reason. Many of his charities dealt specifically with sick and dying children, still others for the disadvantaged. The children in his dream were crying for food, for help--the help only he could give.

Criss began to put the pieces of the puzzle together as best he could: a vision of poverty with hungry men and children; one curses him for spending four hundred thousand dollars on the Spyder; he falls into Hell. As he pondered this puzzle, the slow shock of revelation crept over him. Was that money he spent on the Spyder meant for other things? Was it supposed to go to charity? Was the purchase of the Spyder an even bigger mistake than he thought? Was God trying to tell him something?

The more he thought of it, the more he realized the answers to those questions was unequivocally "yes". And the more the truth sank in, the more ashamed he felt. I blew four hundred grand on a sports car when there's so much need! The economy's down the crapper and I'm spending enough money to feed a Third World nation on a car I really don't want! God! I'm a bigger (bleep)hole than I thought! Well, no use crying over spilled milk--I'm stuck with the damn thing!

Or was he?

Criss sat up bolt upright. Maybe he wasn't as stuck as he thought. He bought it at an auction; he could sell it at an auction! Yeah! Sell the damn thing and donate the money to homeless relief. The milk he spilled buying the Spyder was just a cupful compared to the gallons that could be purchased from its sale and given to the poor, hungry children he saw in his dream. He resolved to contact the first available auction house first thing in the morning, arrange for the Spyder's sale, and let some other poor (bleeper) take it off his hands. Then the cash would be sent to whatever organization deals with homeless relief in the area; he'd have to contact the county services for that. At any rate, no one would accuse Criss Angel of having a Marie Antoinette let-them-eat-cake attitude toward the poor, especially where children were concerned.

Feeling better about himself over his newfound mission, he got up and began to prepare for the evening's performance. Buying the Spyder had been a mistake, but Criss was a man who not only learned from his mistakes but benefited from them. If the Spyder fetched a good price, God willing, others would benefit from his mistake as well.

[RACHEL02189]

One way to make a wrong a right

[Veritas]

Phil Worth sighed heavily as his latest contact hung up on him. He set down the receiver of the old-model black telephone and rubbed his stubbly face. The plywood dividers that made up his booth shielded him from his more successful co-workers like giant horse blinders. He was hungry, thirsty and frustrated. Two weeks as a telemarketer for Heartage Heating and Cooling and he had yet to make an appointment for furnace cleaning. It was Tuesday, and if he didn't make a sale by Friday, he was out on his ear.

When he first landed the job, he counted himself lucky considering the circumstances. He had no computer skills, no sales experience, nothing of real value to offer in the current job market save that he was a warm body and knew how to use a telephone. The manager of Heartage gave him a script to follow and set him in one of the booths, actually a long table divided into sections with raw plywood. The whole office seemed jerry-rigged with its cheap paneled walls, its threabare carpet and its flimsy furniture. Phil's wheelchair was probably the only good chair in the entire office.

As time went on, however, Phil's frustration grew. In itself the cleaning package Heartage offered was a pretty good deal: Eighty-nine-nintey-five for cleaning and vacuuming the ductwork, cleaning and oiling the furnace itself, even servicing the AC system if they had central air, which nearly everyone had in a desert city like Las Vegas. However, everyone he called were either not interested in their services or simply not talking to Phil. Day in and day out, it was the same--he'd call a number, launch into the prepared introduction given to him, only to be cut off in midsentence. He didn't blame them; he recalled his own irritation at being interrupted by some telemarketer during dinner or game time on TV. But he had a job to do, especially if he wanted that two grand the court awarded him and Benny.

If only that judge had awarded them more money. True, Casey only got a small portion of the nine million dollars, the rest going to those three rich brats who already had more money than he ever made in a lifetime, but still they could have arranged for monthly support payments so he wouldn't have to humiliate himself every day in this hole-in-the-wall of an office. But no, that sorry excuse of a judge awarded only two lousy grand, and only two lousy grand, period. And that only if he got a job within thirty days. No job, no award. So there he was, sitting by the telephone, dialing number after number in a fruitless attempt to land a client for this fly-by-night furnace company, every hang-up chipping away at what was left of his self-esteem.

He picked up the receiver and dialed the next number on the list. He waited for an answer. "Hello?" came the voice on the other line.

Phil launched into his spiel. "Good afternoon, Mr. Pierpont, this is Phil from Heartage Heating and Cooling. How are you today?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Mr. Pierpont replied skeptically. "What's this all about?"

"Well, we just want to know--when was the last time you had your furnace cleaned?"

"Listen, if this is a telemarketing scam, I'm not interested!" Mr. Pierpont snapped. "I don't know how you got my number, but I'm on the Do-Not-Call list! Now, quit bothering me and go to Hell!"

An angry click ended the conversation. Phil drew another deep sigh. It was going to be a long week. He could only hope that Benny was having more luck.





Benny, in fact, was having a ball.

The very next day after losing the lawsuit, he had sought to forget his troubles at the Book Nook, a shabby, sleazy dive of an adult bookstore in the seamier part of Las Vegas that still offered free video clips in the tiny viewing booth in the back for a dollar a peep. The owner, Gifford "Barney" Barnard, a rotund, jovial type with wisps of platinum blond hair, had been a friend of Benny's since he first stepped into the establishment on his eighteenth birthday after ditching school for the occasion. From that day on, Benny had been a loyal customer, purchasing packs of porno mags with what little money came his way, either through begging or pilfering from his mother or sister.

That particular day, Benny came in with a hangdog expression on his face and poured out his troubles into Barney's sympathetic ear. He and Dad got screwed in the trial, he had told him. Now he had to find a job or they wouldn't get the two thousand bucks. Ever the faithful friend, Barney came to Benny's rescue--why not work here at the store? he offered. He could use a good day manager. All he had to do was check ID, ring up the sales, rent out the DVDs, and clean up the video booth now and then. Barney would take care of the more serious business details, like inventory, ordering merchandise, and keeping the books. "Just don't dip into the till like the last guy I hired," Barney insisted.

Benny's mood lit up like the Vegas Strip after midnight. At last, he had found his calling! Now, he sat behind the counter, viewing DVD after luscious DVD of slim, naked girls barely out of their teens frolicking on the tiny TV screen, interrupted by the very occasional customer furtivly searching for erotic thrills. A quick check of ID, and they were free to browse. There was an overhead security camera, and all the merchandise had electronic sensors on them, so if anyone tried to shoplift, it would send an alarm, and Benny would nail them, or try to anyway--he wasn't the most physically fit specimen of humanity after twenty years of being a couch potato. But the counter was right by the door, so he could collar any potiential thief with just a reach of his arm. So far, no one had tried to steal so much as a nipple ring.

It was Tuesday, probably the slowest business day of the week, but it made no difference to Benny. He was thoroughly enjoying the downtime watching hundreds of DVDs portraying every known sexual fetish, perversion, and body type known to humanity, and then some. Indeed, he discovered a few areas of eroticism he didn't even know existed! What a great job! he thought. You learn something new every day! If I'd have known Barney needed help, I'd have applied years ago!

The DVD ended. Benny removed it and popped in another one entitled One Night in a Girls' School, promising lots of short plaid skirts barely covering curvy little derrierres. During the mandatory adult content disclaimer required of all x-rated visual material, he gave the shop a cursory lookaround to see if anything was amiss. No customers had shown up all day, but it made it seem as if Benny was doing his job. When the opening sequence flashed onto the screen, he settled back and waited for the show to begin, happy in the knowledge that he was actually getting paid to watch porno movies. Do what you love, love what you do, someone had once said, and Benny was doing both.




"Flight 347 for Honolulu now boarding at gate 14B."

Pamela Piccucci, now Pamela Petersen, tossed aside her magazine, picked up her carry-on bag, and walked toward the double doors leading to her plane. The flight attendant checked her boarding pass and allowed her entry without demur. As Pamela strolled casually down the corridor, she could not help but marvel at her current streak of good luck. So far, no one had even recognized her, let alone tried to alert the authorities.

Changing her name at the DMV had been almost too easy. There had been a moment of tension when she presented her license, fearing she would be found out, but just as she had surmised, the harried clerk behind the counter did not question her request but made the name change swiftly and mechanically. Once that was out of the way, she went to the nearest travel agency and bought a bargain-rate one way ticket for Honolulu. It meant traveling coach instead of first class, but freedom was worth the inconvenience, she thought. She also feared that if she went first-class, she would be discovered. Besides, she had to budget herself until she found Mr. Right.

She also sold the car for another seven thousand dollars cash. The salesman who took it off her hands had questioned her about the two different surnames on the license and the title. Pamela fought the panic building up inside her and explained as calmly as she could that she was getting married, moving overseas, and had just changed her name on her license but had forgotten to change it on the title, and she was so sorry for the inconvenience. Fortunatly, the insurance had her previous name on it, along with the VIN and license numbers on it. Convinced she was not a car thief, the salesman made the transaction, congratulating her on her upcoming "marriage". Pamela kept a calm, unhurried demeanor throughout, alleviating any suspicions the salesman might have had. With fourteen thousand dollars converted into a prepaid charge card for security's sake, she was now ready to make her escape.

Pamela threaded her way down the narrow aisle of the plane, found her seat, and squeezed into it. She was not a very tall woman, but she could barely fold herself into the two square feet of space the airline allotted for each passenger. She was glad she bought an aisle seat instead of a window; at least the walkway allowed some legroom.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," came a jovial voice over the intercom, "this is your pilot speaking. We will be taking off in the next ten minutes for Honolulu. Please turn off all cellphones and other electronic devices until after takeoff. In the meantime, our attendant will instruct you about safety procedures in case of an emergency."

Pamela ignored the flight attendant's mime show to the soundtrack of the pilot's voice. She had been on enough flights to know the drill already: where the oxygen masks were, where the lifevests were kept, yada, yada, yada. Let's just get going already! she thought irritably. I'd like to get there sometime this century!

The minutes wore on. Pamela wished she had bought a book or something. She didn't bother with the inflight magazine; it was probably two months out of date at least. She could only lean back in her seat and listen to the high-pitched drone of the jet engines. Her seatmate, a dull, nondescript man in jeans and a t-shirt with some sports team on the front stared out the window with a blank expression on his face, not even bothering to make any sort of contact with the fashionably dressed woman beside him. For that, Pamela was grateful. The fewer people she met during her escape, the better.

Right on schedule, the plane began to taxi down the runway, guided by the ground crew, into takeoff position. A few minutes delay while the pilot waited for clearance, then the plane began to race down the tarmac at a frightening speed. It lifted up, up, up into the blue desert sky, Hawai'i bound. Pamela sighed with relief. The worst was over. All her troubles were behind her now, swallowed up in a swirling mass of jet exhaust. In just a few hours, she would be in Honolulu, starting a new life for herself, and, with luck, with a wealthy new husband or lover.





Back at the Springer residence, Casey was clearing away the lunch dishes while her mother, Sharon, tended the flower garden in back of the house. Casey remembered how much her mother loved gardening; she had tried to make the tiny front yard look presentable with whatever blooms she could get on sale, only to watch them wither and die in the desert heat. Once she tried to turn their wasteland of a backyard into a vegetable garden when Casey was seven, but her brother, Benny, then twelve, had taken his second-hand BMX bike and turned all of Sharon's efforts into a Baja racecourse, spraying dirt, mud and seeds in his wake. Her father had tried to make a joke out of it, saying boys would be boys and maybe she could grow succotash out of it, but Casey still recalled the crestfallen look on her mother's face as she surveyed the damage. She could not remember if Benny was punished for it or not, but from that moment on Sharon had given up gardening, turning to magazines with articles about greenery as a substitue.

But now, with acres of land to spare, Sharon spent her off-hours weeding, pruning and dressing the roses, azaeleas, and other flowers and plants around the house. It made her happy, and that made Casey happy, too. Forget business school, Mom, she said mentally. You should become a landscaper. You have the knack for it.

The kitchen phone rang. Casey reached over and answered it before it completed the first ring. "Springer residence," she said politely.

"Hey, Casey, this is Benny."

Casey stiffened. There was only one reason her brother would call her--to beg for another loan. She knew his modus operandi: make a bit of chitchat, tell his tale of financial woe, then cut to the chase with his hand out. Well, this time she wasn't giving in. "If you want money, Benny," she said, "you're gonna have to get off your lame ass and find a job. I'm not your bank anymore."

"That's what I wanted to tell you," Benny said. "I have a job now, working at the Book Nook."

Benny has a job!? Casey was dumbfounded. This was news indeed! She opened the kitchen window and stuck her head out. "Hey, Mom, guess what?" she shouted. "Benny got a job!"

Sharon dropped her pruning shears and trotted to the back door, hardly believing what she had just heard. The phone had a very long cord attached to the receiver, so she didn't have to go into the house with muddy shoes to talk. She simply took the phone from Casey's hand and spoke from the deck. "Benny? This is Mom," she said.

"Oh, hi, Ma," Benny said casually.

"Casey said you got a job," Sharon said, still not believing it. "Where are you working?"

"At the Book Nook in North Las Vegas," Benny replied. "I'm the day manager."

"You making good money there?"

"It's just part time, Ma, but I'm doing okay."

"How's your father doing?" Sharon asked. "Is he working, too?"

"Well, he had a telemarketer job for a while, but they fired him."

"Why'd they fire him?"

"He wasn't making any sales, so they let him go. It was a (bleep)poor job, anyway."

"Well, tell him to keep looking."

"Okay, Ma."

"Listen, I got to get back to work here," Sharon said. "You keep up the good work at the bookstore, okay? Don't slouch off or do anything to get yourself fired, you hear?"

"I'm fine, Ma, really. Barney's a good guy to work for. I've known him for years; he's a good friend of mine."

"Well, that's good. Talk to you later."

Sharon handed Casey the phone back and returned to her gardening. "Hello, Benny?" Casey said. "So what's this place you're working at again?"

"The Book Nook," Benny repeated. "It's in North Las Vegas."

Casey was puzzled. She knew Benny wasn't the literary type--why would he be working in a bookstore of all places? "So, what do you do there, anyway?" she asked.

"I'm the day manager, that's all," Benny replied. "I just keep an eye on the place and ring up sales, that sort of thing."

"Oh, okay," Casey said, shrugging. "Hey, maybe I'll stop by and pick up a paperback sometime. Do they offer employee discounts there?"

"Uhhhhh, I don't think you'd want to come to this store, Case," Benny drawled hestitantly.

Casey was puzzled. "Why not? It's a bookstore, isn't it?"

"Weeelll, yeah, but it's not the kind of bookstore you'd like to go into--it's an adult bookstore."

" 'Adult'?"

"Yeah, as in, you know..."

"Porno?"

"Yeah."

"You're working in a porno shop?!" Casey exclaimed. "Benny! How could you?"

"Hey, you wanted me to get a job, so I got a job," Benny argued. "I'm working, ain't I? Besides, Barney here's a good friend of mine, so he hired me on to be a day manager. I'm working, I'm making money like you wanted me to, so what's the problem?"

Casey sighed at the conumdrum her brother presented to her. He had a job, which was good, but he was peddling smut, which was, well, not so good. But years of struggle and privation had taught her to make the best of a bad situation, so she had no choice but to accept what was. "Well, I suppose in this economy, you have to take what comes along, I guess," she rationalized. "A job's a job. I just hope you stick with it, that's all."

"Hey, I love it, man!" Benny cheered. "I get to watch all the DVDs I want! It's the best job in the world!"

Yeah, I bet it is! Casey thought nastily. It's just right up your alley, isn't it?

"So, I guess you'll be paying me that two thousand after all, won't you?" Benny gloated, twisting the knife a little.

"It's not just you, Benny," Casey reminded him. "Dad gets a share, too."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Look, I got to get back to work here," Casey said anxiously. "Congratulations on the new job. Talk to you later."

She hung up before Benny could say good-bye. So Benny was working in a porno shop, she reflected. Not the most respectable job in the world, but at least it got him out of the house. Not only did he land a job, but he actually enjoyed it, something she had never known him to do. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that it was probably the only job her shiftless brother was suited for. Count your blessings where you find them, her mother had taught her. Against all odds, her underachieving sibling was working--that was a miracle in itself. Even if it involved selling dirty magazines.





"Sold for three hundred and seventy five thousand dollars!"

Criss Angel sighed with relief. There, the Spyder was sold. True, it had been sold at a fifty thousand five hundred dollar loss, but it had been sold nonetheless. The Spyder was sold, and every dime of the proceeds would go to homeless relief. The burden of guilt had been lifted. All he had to do now was to go to the purchasing office, sign the transfer papers, and arrange for the donation--anonymously, of course. He didn't want to draw attention to his generosity so much as to his extravagant purchase. He just wanted to put the whole thing behind him and get on with his life.

Criss made his way to the purchasing office, carrying the paperwork for the Spyder. A familiar figure stood by the counter, filling out the forms. Criss tried to remember who he was, but for the life of him couldn't recall where he had seen him before. Oh, well, with his fame he met people every day--what was one more face in the crowd? He handed over the documents to the clerk, signed the transfer, took the check and turned to leave, promptly dismissing all thoughts of the stranger and the Spyder from his mind.

"You didn't keep that car for very long," the stranger said casually behind Criss' back, "did you?"

Criss whirled around to face the stranger. "What's it to you?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," the stranger said. "It's just that I'd like to know if there's anything wrong with it before I take it home, that's all."

Something clicked in Criss' brain. "You bought the Spyder?"

"That's right," the stranger confirmed. "Along with Mick Piccucci's Aston Martin and the other cars, or at least the ones I wasn't outbid upon."

Criss leaned against the wall. "Wait a minute," he said. "You were at the first auction, right? You asked me for directions to the office here."

"So nice to be remembered," the stranger said. "And now we meet again."

"Yeah, now we meet again," Criss repeated, still bemused. "So, what is it about Mick Piccucci's cars that appeal to you?"

"Oh, it's not the owner," the stranger said, "it's the vintage." He began to wax poetic. "I love classic automobiles! The newer ones today just don't have the same quality--they prefer technology over craftsmanship! Back then, automobiles were not just means of transportation, they were works of art! The curve of the body, the gleam of the chrome on the grille! You had purchased a rare masterpiece, Mr...Angel, is it? I have no idea why you would all of a sudden give it up!"

"I gave it up because I bought it just to (bleep) off a friend of mine," Criss explained. "Him and me were in a bidding war for it, and I won. After I paid all that money for it, I realized what a mistake it was to buy it in the first place."

"Buyer's remorse," the stranger said drily.

"No, it went deeper than that," Criss argued. "The economy's down the tubes, with people losing their homes and their jobs, and I'm blowing six figures on a car I didn't even want! Well, now it's yours, and you'll be happy to know that your money's going to homeless relief! The car's fine, it works perfectly." Criss turned to leave. "Drive it in good health."

"I fully intend to, Mr. Angel," the stranger said, smiling. "And now I find I can write off the cost as a charitable deduction, thanks to you."

"Fine, whatever," Criss mumbled as he strode out of the office. He was glad to be out of there, away from that nutcase who bought all but two of the Piccucci cars. God, how much did he blow altogether? he wondered. Three hundred and seventy-five grand for the Spyder, then six figures for the other three? That guy must be loaded! What was he, a CEO? The ruler of some oil-rich country? Or did he do something more illegal, like drug dealing?

Ah, forget it! That guy was history as far as Criss was concerned. He got his car, and Criss got his money, and soon those missions, civic associations and other organizations dedicated to homeless relief he had found on the Web would get the funds they sorely needed. Let that (bleep)hole squander his millions on the classic cars he so passionatly adored, he said to himself. There were children who needed food and shelter, men and women who needed job training and housing assistance. Three hundred and seventy five grand was just a drop in the bucket, but it was probably more than they received from the federal government. If it saved just one child's life, he figured it was worth every penny. A shame he had to waste it on a sports car in the first place. Well, live and learn. If you didn't make mistakes, his dad once told him, you weren't doing anything. And Criss had done a lot in his life, and it was time to move on.

[Veritas]

Alicia and her new friend, Mary Ann, or MA as she preferred to be called, flipped through the former's secret collection of Criss Angel photos while lying on the concrete floor of the old tool shed not too far from MA's house. It had been MA's favorite hideout where she could escape the unbearably strict discipline of family and church and be free to express herself in her drawings and watercolors. Her parents knew of her artistic talent and encouraged it, but only as a hobby; they restricted her subject matter to landscapes, fruit-and-flower still lifes, and religious themes. MA, of course, wanted to explore her creativity, to broaden her horizons by studying other works besides the Sistine Chapel and DaVinci's Last Supper.

MA had found this shed when she was seven years old, she told Alicia. The twelve-foot square cinderblock structure was the last remaining part of someone's farm, abandoned years ago when the area was given over to suburban development. For some reason, this part of the area was spared the wrecking ball and left to crumble for almost twenty years. MA discovered it barely a week after her family moved there from Ames due to her father's new job. Already tiring of the pressure to be a good little Catholic girl, MA had wandered off in search of new playmates and came across the shed. Thinking it was someone's house at the time, she went over to the splintering wood door and knocked. When there was no answer, she pulled opened the door (the eye of the hook-and-eye latch had pulled off, leaving the rusted padlock still in place) and went inside to investigate. It was empty, caked floor to ceiling in dust and cobwebs. MA had always wanted a playhouse, so she had decided right then and there to make this shed her own.

She had used her mother's broom and pink feather duster to tidy up the place, and had created makeshift shelves and furniture from milk crates and cardboard boxes. There, she could paint and draw, read the Harry Potter books condemned by her parents, and daydream. In time, however, she didn't play as much as seek refuge from the oppressive atmosphere she called home, especially when she discovered Criss Angel three years ago. She told no one of her secret hiding place until she met Alicia two months ago. After hearing Kyle's salacious gossip about his sister's impromptu trip to Las Vegas, heavily salted with disparaging remarks about her idol's sexual preference, MA decided to seek out Alicia's friendship. Unfortunatly, getting together with her proved difficult; they shared no classes together, nor even sat next to each other in the cafeteria, nor even during Assemblies. Only during the last day of school did MA happen to spot her in the schoolyard. The rest, as they say, was history.

Alicia, for her part, found a soulmate in MA. She, too, had parents who were living in the idealized past, though hers were still together. Her drawings and watercolors were surprisingly good for someone so young. Alicia wanted to offer to buy one of her pencil drawings of a semi-nude Criss, but thought twice about it--if her mother or, worse, her brother found it, it would be in ashes. At least here she could keep her treasured box here in the secret shed, away from prying eyes. It bothered Alicia that she and MA could not be free in expressing themselves the way they wanted, but on the other hand bucking the status quo was a thrill; slipping off and indulging in furtive pleasures brought a rush of excitement to the thirteen-year-old schoolgirls. It was as if they were living double lives, secretly loyal to the MindFreak while hiding behind a facade of conformity. Under the circumstances, it was the way they felt they had to live in order to retain their sanity and their sense of self.

When they weren't in the shed, they made trips to the library (with parental permission, of course), just to log onto the Loyal Community website, spending the alloted sixty minutes perusing the forums and posting their own messages to their fellow Loyals, pouring their hearts out about their lonliness and isolation in semi-rural Iowa. Neither Alicia's mother nor MA's parents objected to the girls' friendship; they were schoolmates from St. Benedict's, and therefore above suspicion. Indeed, Nancy Rose hoped that Mary Ann would provide a better role model that that horrid Criss Angel person in her wayward daughter's life. After all, Mary Ann was involved in the Altar Society and other wholesome activities in school.

Mercifully, no mention of Alicia's Las Vegas adventure was even hinted to MA's parents, or else they would question her reputation and subsequently forbid any furthur contact with the Roses. Alicia was worried that Kyle would somehow contact her friend's family, spill the beans, and terminate a beautiful friendship. Kyle wasn't adverse to using blackmail if it meant getting what he wanted, no matter how damaging the consequences. In the end, she had no choice but to cross that bridge when she came to it--although she wished she could somehow throw Kyle over the railing when she did.

Now, on that hot July afternoon, MA and Alicia lay on some carpet sample squares salvaged from a nearby dumpster and glued to a length of non-skid rubber shelf liner from the nearest dollar store. There was no padding underneath, but a few tiny throw pillows offered some comfort. They were reading Criss' book, MindFreak, languishing over every word their idol wrote and gazing over the photos in the middle.

"Did you take this with you on your trip to Vegas?" MA asked.

Alicia nodded. "I took the whole box with me, in fact."

"Didn't you get it autographed?"

"I wanted to," Alicia said glumly, "but then I got mixed up with that murder case, and the police sent me back home. All I got was a program from Loyalapalooza that he signed." She showed MA the crumpled program sheet with Criss' autograph scrawled on it.

MA looked at the program with a tinge of envy. "Well, hey, at least you got something!" she said. "I never even got a chance to go, let alone get him to sign anything!" She gave the program back to Alicia. "Are you gonna go back there? I mean, you know..."

"For the trial?"

"Yeah."

"I have to go for that," Alicia replied. "I'm the only eyewitness. Problem is, Mom has to go with me, and I know she's not gonna let him even get near me." She sighed, turning over on her back. "What is it about parents that they're such buzzkills? Everything you like, they hate. And everything they want you to like, it sucks! Why can't they leave us alone and do our thing? We're not hurting anybody!"

"It's because they're afraid, Alicia," MA replied sagely.

"Afraid?"

"Yeah. They're afraid of us growing up and overthrowing their value system. They're afraid that we'll reject everything they think is good and proper and go tripping down the primrose path to perdition. That's why they send us to St. Benedict's--to drill the Church's dogma into us and shield us from the real world with it's radical secular humanistic ways of thinking. They want unquestioning obedience to the Pope and the Church, and God forbid any of us should deviate from the norm. In other words, they want to force us into the same mold they themselves were forced into when they were kids, and create us in their own image and likeness. They don't want us to become individuals with our own thoughts and ideas, they want us to be robots, doing what we've been programmed to do no matter how much the world has changed. You know in the Bible, it says 'the truth shall set you free'? Well, I saw the truth a long time ago, and I decided to set myself free, even if it's only holing up in this old shed. But someday, we'll be totally free, doing whatever we want when we want. We just can't let them get to us until then."

Alicia was taken aback at such a speech from her friend. "Whoa, that's deep!" she gasped.

She sat up and faced MA. "From now on," she said with the same determination she used when she boarded the bus to Las Vegas, "you and I are gonna be free to do what we want--no matter what! No matter how long it takes us, we're gonna follow our dreams, just like Criss Angel! No matter what happens, we're not gonna let them break us!" She extended her hand. "Agreed?"

MA shook Alicia's hand in return. "Agreed!" she said confidently.

After their pact was sealed, they looked at each other bemusedly. "What do we do now?" MA asked.

Alicia thought about it. "Wanna go get some ice cream?" she suggested. "If I ask my mom, maybe she'll give us some money."

MA shrugged. "Sounds good," she said. "But I have to be back home by five in time for dinner."

They carefully packed away their treasured photos, drawings, and Alicia's book, then left the shed, securing the broken latch behind them, and headed for Alicia's house.

[RACHEL02189]

Who doesn't have parents like that somewhere

[Veritas]

The broiling hot Nevada summer faded when October arrived, bringing cooler nights and temperate winds. Criss Angel barely noticed the changing of the seasons, busy as he was with his live show and television series. In fact, if he had stepped outside the Luxor, he would not have even noticed; there were no fall colors on the trees, no tang of fall in the air, no frost on the windows of his cars, nothing like autumn back in his hometown in Long Island, New York. The only reminders were the shops preparing for Hallowe'en festivities with garish decorations in their windows, and advertisements for parties in the clubs and bars.

To sell more tickets for Believe, the management offered a special twenty percent discount on admission for Hallowe'en night. It would cut into profits, but with the sluggish economy anything was worth a try. Hallowe'en was one of Las Vegas's premiere party nights--the streets would be jammed with revelers in costume and makeup. Criss' brand of surrealism was tailormade for such a night, so fingers were crossed that October thirty-first would make up for the past several months' below-par box office take.

During one of his rare moments to himself, Criss kicked back with a copy of the Las Vegas Sun to catch up on world events. Showbusiness tended to isolate celebrities to some degree, so Criss made it a point to either read the paper or watch the news once a day to keep connected with the real world. It was too easy to insulate himself in his luxury suite and rock star lifestyle, ignoring the problems ordinary people faced in the troubled economy nowadays; that dream he had last summer had been a wake-up call for him to face reality and do something about it.

The money he raised from the sale of the Spyder had been handled with all the secrecy of a covert government operation. His accountant made out the checks under strict orders to keep all the donations anonymous, using bank checks with no reference to Criss Angel or MindFreak Productions upon them. He wasn't ashamed of giving to the homeless, not at all--he just didn't want to make his philanthropy a big deal. Besides, if word got out that he was aiding the homeless, thousands more would be crashing his office, begging for handouts. The quieter this was handled, the better for all concerned.

Criss set aside the world news section with a sigh. Nothing had changed; there was still war, poverty, and suffering everywhere. Same with the state and local news. The paltry three hundred and seventy-five grand had done little to alleviate the problems he read about. Better than nothing, he conceded. He picked up the entertainment section, hoping it would cheer him up. Who knew? Maybe he'd come across a positive review of Believe in the Arts column.

What he saw astonished, puzzled and enraged him at the same time. There, in the Names and Faces column, was a photo of the guy who had purchased the Spyder at the auction last summer, along with an article bragging about his latest purchases and describing his latest fling in Hawai'i.

Criss read through the article. The man, Nigel Sweeps, was Canada's most notoious billionaire, owning one of the biggest technological industries in North America. It was his company which produced the parts for the Canadarm, the mile-long hook-crane satellite launched into space back in the Nineties. Nigel was a brilliant, savvy, and ruthless businessman, second only to Sir Alan Sugar of Britain when it came to giving someone the axe or buying up a business. He was also a notorious womanizer and a profigate spendthrift, shelling out six or even seven figures for expensive sports cars, prime real estate and even a private yacht the size of a battleship.

It wasn't the freewheeling spending that got to Criss--he'd been guilty of that himself at times. It was the statement Sweeps made about the Spyder, bragging of how he had purchased it from Criss Angel for a "mere" three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars at "some auction" in Las Vegas. What was particularly galling was that he had blabbed to the press about the money going to homeless relief, so the purchase of his new car could be deducted as a charitable contribution, thanks to "my friend, Criss Angel".

Criss threw down the paper in disgust. He wanted to spit. I should have kept my mouth shut around that guy! he reproached himself. How the hell was I to know he was some big billionaire from Canada? I wanted to keep it quiet, but no, that (bleeper) had to go and broadcast it to the world! Well, it's too late now. God, I'm such an (bleep)hole!



Springs lined up his shot on the green, set his ball on the tee, positioned himself, raised his club and swung it in a perfect arc, striking the ball at just the right spot to send it flying to the fifth hole. The tiny ball, a mere speck in the distance, bounced twice off the smooth, velvetey green and rolled to a halt mere inches from the hole. Springs smiled. It wasn't a hole in one, but it was close. It had been almost ten years since Springs swung a golf club, but he still had it. It was like riding a bicycle--once you learned, you never forgot.

Springs climbed into his golf cart and rode to the green. He liked the new carts the course provided; they were Cadillacs compared to the jalopies he used to drive when he went golfing with The Guys, right down to the cupholders for drinks. Why the hell no one thought of that when they first came out, he'd never know. Now if there was a device to shave a few points from his score, that would be sweet!

It was good to get out and golf again. The Baja Golf Course had been one of his favorites back in the day. He and The Guys would spend many an afternoon shooting holes and boozing it up in the grill room. Mick, God rest him, came here often just to get away from Tina and her constant nagging. Poor guy, Springs thought, getting involved with that little blond pack of poison. What the hell did he see in her in the first place?

Well, now he was in a better place, Springs consoled himself as he drove the cart to the hole. Pity he couldn't say the same for Tina, he amended with a smirk. Still, he would have welcomed Mick's company at that moment. He would have welcomed anyone's company, as a matter of fact. The only problem with being the last surviving member of The Guys of Glitter Gulch was that it was pretty damn lonely. All of his friends and aquaintances of his generation were either dead, dying or so senile they didn't know what day it was. He wasn't what he used to be, granted, but he still had his health in some areas; he was on his second stomach, and his nicotine-scarred lungs were functioning at half-capacity, but Danny Springer still had all of his marbles.

If only he knew how to use a computer. Back in the day, computers were room-sized behemoths reserved for the military and the govenment, and only college-educated eggheads knew how to use them. Nowadays, everyone and their Uncle Harry had one in their homes. Hell, even preschoolers were using the damn things! But they came too late for someone of Springs' generation. Still, he had heard of email and chat-rooms and blogging (whatever the hell that was), and saw these ads for Internet dating services on the tube. He remembered computer dating services back in the Sixties and Seventies, but he had dismissed it as so much BS. No machine could ever replace the human heart when it came to love, he had thought at the time. But now couples could communicate more or less directly on their laptops or whatever the same way they would spend hours on the phone. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Springs said to himself.

He stopped the cart and got out. He chose his putter from his bag in the back and walked over to the ball. A slight tap with just the right force sent the ball rolling neatly into the hole. Springs was satisfied. If only he had someone to share it with, though. Golfing by yourself wasn't much fun; he needed to be in a foursome, or at least a pair. The more he dwelled on his solitude, the more the modern wonder of the Internet seemed more appealing. Maybe he could give it a shot, he thought. Get a book or take a class. Time hung so heavily on his hands now that he had finished his memoirs. But could a man his age learn something so complex as computers? Like the man said, you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Or could you?

Well, it was worth a shot, anyway, he thought. Maybe it wasn't as hard as he thought; if kids could use them, why not an old man like himself? Who knew? Maybe he's get himself a pen pal or whatever they called them these days. And there were Websites with every subject under the sun; maybe he could start a Website of his own, dedicated to The Guys of Glitter Gulch. With all these CSI shows on the tube, and series like The Sopranos, it'd pique someone's interest. And if he decided it wasn't for him, then the hell with it, it wasn't any skin off his nose. Yeah, why the hell not?

Springs put his putter away and drove to the next hole, making a mental note to look into computer training. He began to feel better about himself, but computers could wait, he decided. Never start anything you can't finish, his old man had taught him, God rest his soul. He'd finish his game, then check out the computer thing after a quick visit to the bar and much-needed Manhattan.






Casey was free for the afternoon with Mr. Springer gone to the golf course. Her mother, Sharon, had left as well to check out business courses at some local community college. It was a balmy day in Vegas, so she decided to do a little sightseeing. She had lived in the municipality all her life, but with school and later work, she never got to really enjoy what The Entertainment Capital of the World had to offer. Today was as good a day as any, so she hopped on the bus and headed for The Strip for an afternoon of fun in the sun.

She treated herself to a strawberry ice-cream cone and strolled down Fremont Street, craning her neck to watch the digitally-produced images roll across the arched dome over her head. Distracted, she failed to see where she was going, and she collided into something, sending strawberry ice-cream into her face and up her nostrils. Startled at first, then embarrassed, she tried to clean herself as best she could with the tiny paper napkin which came with her cone. She was even more embarrassed when she looked up and discovered the something was in fact someone, and that someone was none other than Criss Angel himself.

Casey was as flustered as the day she first saw him in a towel in his suite on her first week on the job as hotel housekeeper. "Oh, my God!" she sputtered through a layer of pink mush. "I'm so sorry! I didn't see you there!" She tried to wipe off the ice-cream from his shirt but failed miserably. "Are you all right? I didn't mean to--"

Criss laughed in his own embarrassment, not angry in the least. In the shock of the impact, he didn't recognize Casey at first. "Hey, it's okay, really," he said, pulling out his bandana to wipe off the ice-cream from his shirt. "It was an accident. I didn't see you, either." He gave her the bandana. "Here," he said.

Casey took the bandana and wiped her blushing face with it. Once the pink coating had been removed, Criss suddenly recognized her. "Casey?" he said, "that you?"

Casey nodded. "I-I was just seeing the sights, you know, and, well..." She held up the crushed, melting cone growing sticky in her hand. "I'm really sorry. I should have been looking where I was going." She looked at Criss' soiled shirt. "I'd be glad to pay for the cleaning for your shirt." she offered.

"What? This old thing?" Criss said, tugging at his grey t-shirt. "No problem!" And with one quick yank he removed his shirt, leaving him stripped to the waist save for his massive collection of pendants. Casey flushed an even deeper red when she saw him half-naked in public. The squeals and cheers from a group of girls nearby didn't ease her discomfort, either. One of the girls, barely out of her teens, fetched some paper napkins soaked in water from a local vendor for Criss to clean himself up with, all but ignoring Casey. Criss accepted the soggy napkins with thanks and wiped himself down. This inocuous act seemed to tittilate the girls even more for some reason infathomable to Casey. After a brief autograph/photo session, Criss and Casey walked along Fremont street, talking casually.

"So, how ya been?" Criss asked.

"Good," Casey replied. "You?"

"Good. So, what are you doing here on Fremont Street?"

"Oh, just taking in the local color," Casey replied airily. "You?"

"I'm doing a shoot for the series," Criss explained. "I'm just taking a break right now." He stopped short. "By the way," he said, recalling something, "did you ever get that inheritance?"

Casey nodded. "Yeah, but Dad tried to sue me for it."

Criss was appalled. "Your dad tried to sue you?"

"Yeah," Casey replied somberly. "But the judge ruled that he and my brother, Benny, would only get two thousand dollars--and then only if they found jobs in thirty days."

"Did they find any jobs?"

"Well, Dad had a telemarketing job for a while, but he lost it," Casey explained. "Benny, on the other hand, finally found his life's calling in some 'adult' book store called the Book Nook. Ever hear of it?"

"No, not really," Criss replied. "I'm not into that (bleep)."

"Me neither, but Benny loves it. He thinks it's the greatest job in the world, but he just spends all day watching the DVDs they got there. I don't know what kind of 'work' he does, but I'm not going there to find out."

Criss shrugged. "Hey, if it makes him happy..."

Casey shrugged in return.

"Well, I got to get back to shooting," Criss said. "Nice running into you again."

Casey could not help but laugh. "I ran into you, remember?"

Criss grinned comically. "So you did."

They shook hands amiably. Casey felt something pressed into her palm as she grasped Criss' hand. She opened it and found a five dollar bill. "Get yourself another ice-cream cone," he said, smiling.

Casey could only stare after him in bewilderment as Criss slung his ice-cream soiled shirt over his bare shoulder and strode back to where his camera crew was waiting. You know, she said to herself, for a famous celebrity, he's a pretty nice guy! Anyone else would have bitten my head off for getting ice-cream all over his clothes, but he just blew it off! Of all the famous people I could have embarrassed myself in front of, I'm glad it was him!

[RACHEL02189]

Every loyal's fanasty seeing Criss with his shirt off (wiping drool off my face)

[Veritas]

A hunter-green Ford Taurus pulled up to the curb in front of the large quasi-mansion in the tonier part of Las Vegas. The driver, Tony King, a middle-aged man with silvery-gray wisps of hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, got out of the car and strode up to the front door. He wore a badge on a square of black leather slung around his neck, the emblem of his office as process server. Today, he would be serving notice to one Pamela Piccucci to appear in court on November the twelfth, to be arranged for her trial for murder.

Tony had a feeling in his gut that she had flown the coop already, but he had a job to do. If she had fled, then it was his duty to report her as a fugitive. He knew from long experience that bail-jumpers were guilty of the crimes they had committed; if they were innocent, they would stay and fight it out in court. Running away was a sure sign of guilt. Of course, there were exceptions to the rule, but he had yet to bet his next month's rent on it.

He stepped up to the door and pounded on it. No answer. He hammered again--still no answer. He rang the doorbell, but still got no reponse. A quick glance through the living room windows showed no signs of life. Tony was not about to jump to conclusions. It was not unusual for the person to be unavailable to recieve a summons on the first try; the defendant could simply be out shopping or something and would be back later. He'd just have to come back later. If she wasn't back by this evening, then he'd try again tomorrow. If she was still gone, then he'd have to report her missing.

Before he left the house, he once again pounded on the front door, in case someone might not have heard him the last time. Still, no response. Tony peered through the side window next to the front door. No movement, but he did see a pile of papers on the floor. He cupped his hands around his face to block out the glare of the sun and looked closer. He could make out some envelopes and circulars lying on the tiled floor of the foyer; by his calculation, it looked like several days' worth of mail, all unopened. That told him all he needed to know.

Tony King, process server for Clark County, pulled out his cell phone and called his supervisor to report that Pamela Piccucci had violated her bond and was now a fugitive, her whereabouts unknown.





Detective Jim Meridian was finishing up the report about his latest case. The victim, female, age forty-eight, a math professor at the local community college, had been reported missing by her family for six months. She had left to go "on sabbatical" for some reason, but two weeks after she was due to resume her teaching post, she had mysteriously disappeared. He family had been contacted by the college, but they had no knowledge of her whereabouts; they hadn't received so much as a phone call or an email in all that time. Her home phone had been disconnected, as well as her Internet service. Frantic, the family had called the police to investigate.

It had only taken one day to find the missing professor--in her own home, buried under massive piles of old furniture, clothes, and other debris. The stench was so unbearable, the CSI team had to wear filter masks to breathe. It turned out that the victim had a history of mental illness and had barricaded herself in her own home. Unfortunatly, the pile of junk had collapsed upon her; unable to call for help, she had suffered a slow, lingering death, and her body had decomposed for months afterward. The remains were removed, the house was locked up and later condemned as a public health hazard, and the case was closed. It was sad, but at least there was no foul play involved, a relief for the overworked homicide detective.

The report, the shortest he had ever written, was good to go. He clicked Send with the same sense of personal triumph he always felt when he wrapped up a case, then leaned back to unwind. That blissful moment ended aburptly with the ringing of the telephone. Jim sighed--no rest for the weary, he thought. He picked up the receiver: "Meridian, here," he said.

"Jim, it's Griffith," said the gruff voice of the homicide chief. "We got some bad news."

Is it ever good news, Griff? Jim said to himself. "What is it?" he droned.

Griff got to the point. "Pamela Piccucci jumped bail."

Oh, Geez! "Jumped bail?" Meridian echoed. "When?"

"From what I heard, some time ago," Griff replied. "I need you to go to the Piccucci home and see if you can find anything that'll tell us when she left and where she went."

"I'm on it," Jim said dutifully. Goddamit all to hell! he cursed inwardly. He thought he was through with the Piccucci case, but it had flared up again like a bad case of acne on a thirteen-year-old. They should never have released that (bleep) on bail! he reflected bitterly. They should have kept her under lock and key until the trial, but no, they had to post bond for her. They knew she was rich enough to pay it herself, but she was a psycho, for chrissakes! She killed her husband and Tina LaRue within a week of each other! And then she went gunning for Mick's caregiver, what's-her-name--Casey, yeah. If that wasn't proof enough, what the hell was?

Meridian got into his car and drove to the Piccucci house. Luckily he still remembered the address, so he didn't need to call dispatch for directions. As he drove, his mind kept interrogating him with questions and suppositions: It was pretty obvious why Pamela jumped bail, but where did she go? California? That's where her sons were, so that was a possibility. Or she could have gone somewhere else--Mexico, maybe, or the East Coast--just to escape prosecution. She could be anywhere, but where?

She couldn't be after the estate again; that had been settled months ago by the probate court, and the heirs got their money--done and done, case closed. She couldn't file an appeal; it was too late for that; besides, if she so much as showed her face in a lawyer's office, she'd be nailed like a two-by-four. There would be no sense going after Casey or the other heirs for the money now.

But what about revenge? Pamela would be (bleeped) off enough to try for some serious payback after getting screwed out of her father-in-law's money; hell hath no fury and all that crap. Should he warn Casey that Pamela was on the loose? If she had just left, then it would be a good idea if he did, though he felt she was reasonably safe at Springs' house.

Meridian pushed aside all thoughts and focused on the here and now as he pulled up to the Piccucci residence. Two cruisers were parked by the curbside, their red and blue lights flashing a warning for all citizens to keep clear of the area. Four officers stood by the front door, a three-foot battering ram at the ready. Meridian approached them. "Any response from inside?" he asked.

"None," said one of the officers.

Meridian gave the signal to use the battering ram. Each officer picked up a handle on either side of the device, walked up to the stoop, and with one good swing the front door burst open.

"POLICE!" Meridian yelled.

Not even an echo answered him. The officers spread out to search the house. Meridian looked down on the foyer floor, covered with unopened mail. He stooped down to gather up the envelopes and stacked them on a nearby table. With luck, they would tell him how long Pamela had been gone by the date of the postmarks. It would mean some tedious sorting, but it would be worth it. He picked up the first envelope, postdated a week ago, so he set that aside for October. Then he picked up the next envelope, then the next, then the next, sorting month by month as far back as April.

April. Pamela had been arrested in late March, then had her bond posted about a week later. She must have skipped town the minute she was free, he reasoned, which meant she had been gone for six months. Meridian groaned inwardly. She must be living in Mexico by now, he thought.

He stared glumly at the piles of letters he had so painstakingly sorted out. Then he noticed that most of them were credit card statements, the perfect paper trail to follow. He sifted through the stacks and found bank statements among them as well--another plus in his search. He bundled the letters and carried them to his car. On his way out, he found one of the officers in the foyer, looking frustrated.

"Any luck?" Meridian asked.

"Zip," the officer said. "No one's been here for quite some time, it seems. I have no idea where the hell she went."

Meridian held up the bundle of letters. "I think I do," he said confidently.





Pamela stretched her arms and legs underneath the satiny sheets of the huge bed she lay upon. It was ten-thirty AM Pacific Time. The tropcal sun streamed through the tall windows of the master bedroom, promising another gorgeous day in Paradise. Adjacent to the bed, a polished chrome cart covered with snow-white linen bore silver-domed dishes, her breakfast straight from the kitchen. Her Versace gown lay on the chaise lounge where she had tossed it last night after she had come home with Nigel from the Aloha Club. Pamela rose and headed for the marble-tiled bathroom for a quick shower before breakfast.

When she had first arrived in Honolulu, she had no friends, no propects, no connections, and nowhere to stay. All the good hotels were either already booked up or too expensive to stay for very long. In desperation, she found a cheap but reasonably clean motel for one hundred and forty dollars a week; it became her home for the next four and a half weeks despite the thin walls, cramped bathroom and lack of swimming pool. The only benefit was the daily maid service, if it could be called that--the pimply-faced teenager who served as housekeeper gave the room what Pamela's grandmother used to call a lick and a promise, changing the sheets on the bed, flicking a nylon duster over the furniture and giving the bathroom a few quick swipes with a wet rag. Fortunatly, her health club membership extended all the way to Honolulu, so she sought refuge there every morning, if only for the free pool and better shower facilities.

Her evenings were spent hunting down Mr. Rich and Right. Dressed to kill in her designer gowns, she practically scoured Honolulu's night life to seek out the wealthy man of her dreams, oozing charm and telling little white lies about herself to attract the men she wanted. After four and a half weeks of bar hopping, club crusing and party crashing, she saw Nigel Sweeps at a hotel-sponsored luau for some charity event. Curious, she had asked a waitress who was the dashing man in the white dinner jacket standing next to the bar.

"Oh, that's Nigel Sweeps," the waitress had replied. "He's some billionaire from Canada--works for the space industry or something."

A billionaire from Canada? Pamela had cased out her prey from a discreet distance. Not too old: fiftyish, maybe. Full head of salt-and-pepper hair. Great body--must have his own gym. No women on his arm. A closer look revealed no wedding band, either. Carefree bachelor or divorced? God, I hope he's not gay! she prayed.

Pamela had sidled up to him casually and waited for him to make the first move; it didn't do to seem overanxious, or else she'd scare him off. To her delight, he offered her a drink, and she had accepted with a gracious smile. She told him she was a widow whose husband left her a small fortune, immediatly gaining the sympathy vote. By the end of the evening, she had gone home with him. Now, six weeks later, she was his live-in mistress. Good-bye cheap motel, hello mansion!

She emerged from the bathroom and settled herself in the padded armchair behind the cart. After a light breakfast of fruit salad and a croissant, she was ready to head out to the tennis court on the north side of the estate. Her instructor, a platinum-blond professional with rippling muscles, would be there, and she didn't want to keep him waiting. Oh, yes, this was the life for her!





Springs tapped away on the keyboard of the new computer he had bought. He was no typist, so he had to resort to the two-finger method. Well, that was how Damon Runyon typed his books, so he figured it was good enough for him.

It was amazing how easy it was to use one of these things. There was an instruction program designed for oldsters just like him, and learning how to log on, log off, click, cut, paste, reply and delete had been a snap. With Heather Piccucci's help, God bless that little sweetheart, he had set up a website dedicated to The Guys of Glitter Gulch, plugging his book and keeping the golden era of Las Vegas alive at the same time. He tried online crossword puzzles, but gave it up--nothing could beat the real thing in his opinion. Besides, if he stayed on too long, his hand began to hurt from using the mouse too much; he limited his computer time to half an hour at most.

The website proved to be a smash, due to the popularity of crime shows on TV. To his surprise and delight, the response forum revealed descendents of those long-departed friends and aquaintances about whom he had written: the granddaughter of a dancer who flirted with Bugsy Siegel; Shorty Hyneman's daughter, Nina, who thanked Springs for memorializing her father in such a positive light and who invited him to visit her in North Dakota; a former croupier who recalled Mick Piccucci betting five grand at his backjack table back in the early Sixties; the son of a former casino manager who still recalled his father's bitter diatribes against The Guys underhanded extortion tactics ("You should have interviewed me!" he had insisted. "Then you could have gotten both sides of the story!"); an elderly woman in an Arizona nursing home who had worked as a cigarrette girl, who recounted her employment at the original Flamingo and could still recall every detail of the day of Bugsy's murder. It was almost like a family reunion for the aging mobster.

Springs rubbed his hand. It was getting sore, so it was time to knock off. He closed the website and found himself on the homepage with all the news spread out before him. He would have simply shut down when a familiar face caught his eye. It was a two-inch square picture of some guy named Nigel Sweeps who was some billionaire from Canada who was currently in Hawai'i. That in itself didn't concern him. What did was the woman standing beside Nigel, her face partially hidden from view but still recognizable.

Springs clicked onto the story. The photo was enlarged by another two inches, giving him better detail. As he studied the woman's half-face, it slowly entered his aged brain that she was Pamela Piccucci, Junior's wife--or, rather, widow, since she bumped him off like that. What the hell was she doing in Hawai'i? he wondered.

He was the first to admit his eighty-six year old brain wasn't as sharp as it used to be, but even someone with Alzheimer's could have reasoned it out: Pamela was out on bail for murder, and she was on the lam to avoid prosecution. Now she was shacking up with some rich Canucky, living the high life before the ink was dry on Junior's death certificate! She's just as bad as Tina! he thought.

Springs sat there, unsure of what to do. His mobster instinct told him not to squeal, knowing from personal experience what happened to those who did. But she had murdered the son of his best friend and former business associate, and that called for revenge. Back in the day, he would have ordered a hit on her for that, but times had changed. He wasn't in the rackets anymore; he couldn't contract a killing, and all the people whom he feared would whack him for squealing were already dead. And Springs had been a law-abiding citizen since his retirement from the rackets over thirty years ago, so he had a duty to inform the authorities about Pamela's whereabouts.

Springs searched his Roldex for the name of that gumshoe who investigated Junior's murder. His name began with an M, he recalled. Ah! There it was--Meridian! He picked up the phone and dialed the number. To his chagrin, he got Meridian's voicemail. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message at the tone, the electronic voice politely instructed him.

Damn recording! Springs fretted. Don't they use real secretaries anymore? "Meridian, this is Springs," he said. "I got the scoop about Pamela Piccucci. She's in Hawai'i, of all places, living with some fat-cat billionaire from Canada. I think she jumped bail on ya. Saw it on the computer. Gimme a call when you get in, okay? Number's 555-9786, got that? I'll see you later. 'Bye."

Springs hung up. Well, he did his part; now the ball was in Meridian's court. He rose from his chair and walked over to the bar. Forget the Manhattan, he needed a brandy.

[RACHEL02189]

one rule from running from the law. NEVER GET YOURSELF PHOTOGRAPHED!

[Veritas]

Jim Meridian drove back to his office with the bundle of mail he confiscated from the Piccucci home. It would mean a lot of weeding and sorting when he got there, but they were his best lead so far. Financial statements left a paper trail of information regarding where and when a purchase was made using a given credit card; all a detective had to do was scan the record on the statement and follow the dates and places it was used. It beat driving around the city, questioning whoever met Pamela before she disappeared, taking up too much of his valuable time from his other cases. Pamela Piccucci was the kind of woman who never went anywhere without a stack of plastic in her purse; finding her should be easy with the bills she left behind.

Meridian pulled up to the station and parked his car in the first spot he could find (it was late afternoon, and parking was at a premium after eleven AM) then climbed out of the car, clutching the bundle of bills and statements. Once in his office, he set down the mail, prepared a pot of coffee in his small coffeemaker by his desk, and settled down to what promised to be a long night of sifting and sorting.

The flashing dot on his telephone called his attention to a message waiting on his voicemail. Almost grateful for the distraction, he punched the Message button and waited.

"You have...one...new message," the robotic female voice he had christened Francine spoke over the tiny speaker. "New message."

"Meridian, this is Springs," the recording played. "I got the scoop about Pamela Piccucci. She's in Hawai'i, of all places, living with some fat-cat billionaire from Canada. I think she jumped bail on ya. I saw it on the computer. Gimme a call when you get in, okay? Number's 555-9768--got that? I'll see you later. 'Bye."

Meridian smiled broadly for the first time that day, if not that week. He dialed Springs' number and waited for him to pick up. One ring. Two rings. "Springer residence," he heard a female voice speak.

"Hello, Casey?" he said. "Detective Meridian here."

"Casey's not here right now," the female voice said apologetically. "This is her mother, Sharon."

"Oh, sorry" Meridian mumbled. "Anyway, I need to speak to Springs--uh, Mr. Springer, please."

"One moment, please," the female voice said.

A pause, then a clicking sound. "It's your nickel," he heard Springs rasp over the line.

Meridian couldn't help but be amused at Springs' greeting. "Springs? It's Detective Meridian."

"Oh," Springs grunted. "How's it goin', gumshoe?"

"Fine, thanks," Meridian replied. "Better, now that I got your message. So how'd you find out about Pamela being in Hawai'i?"

"Well, I started taking a few lessons on how to use those computers everybody and their Uncle Harry has nowadays," Springs began, "and before you can say Bill Gates, I'm clacking away, doin' this and that. Anyway, I come across this news article showing this picture of this Canucky billionaire, and right there in the background, I see this woman's face that looks familiar to me, and then it hits me--that's Junior's wife, Pamela! From the looks of it, I'd say she's been getting pretty cozy with this guy."

"You sure it was Pamela?"

"Damn straight it was!" Springs insisted. "I'd seen her face enough times at those family gatherings The Guys used to have to know what she looks like. I'd know it was her even if she was wearing one of those rubber Groucho Marx noses!"

"You remember the news source you saw the picture in?"

"It was right on the screen, just as you're ready to boot up or log on or whatever the hell you call it," Springs replied.

"You remember the billionaire's name?"

"Ah, it was some Englandy-sounding name--Niles, or something like that. All I know is that he's from Canada and he's richer than Midas, and Pamela's hooked up with him."

Meridian nodded. "Okay, Springs," he said. "I think I can take it from here."

"Good."

"And Springs?"

"Yeah?

"I owe you a double Manhattan for this."

Springs chuckled. The two men said good-bye and hung up. Meridian called Warrants to inform them of Pamela Piccucci's escape to Hawai'i, and to take all necessary action to bring her back before her trial date. He then stuffed the envelopes into a large interoffice bin for the guys in Evidence to sort through. Pamela Piccucci was their headache now, he thought with a sense of relief. His beat was homicide, not hunting bail jumpers.




Alicia's court subpoena came in the mail two days before Hallowe'en. It was Thursday, and she and Kyle had disembarked from the school bus at the end of the day, as usual. Kyle had dashed home for his daily videogame fix while Alicia trodded behind, her housekey at the ready should Kyle decide to lock her out as a prank. Kyle never bothered to check the mailbox (except when he anticipated birthday cards with money in them from Grandma or other relatives), so mail retrieval was chiefly Alicia's responsibility. She pulled open the little door and took out a stack of letters from inside, flipping through them as she walked up to the house. It was then she discovered the summons.

The official-looking document from the Clark County District Court intimidated her at first, but upon opening it she discovered she was called as a witness in the case of State of Nevada v. Piccucci on December seventeenth. Alicia was both thrilled and frightened: the former because it was two days before Criss Angel's birthday, the latter because she'd never been to court before, not even during her parents' divorce proceedings. Of course, she had to show it to her mother--it was way too important to ignore. But she chose to keep Criss' birthday a secret from her, just in case.

Should she show it to MA? Well, they were BFFs, and not to share such a significant piece of information would be a crass betrayal of their friendship, but it was a court summons, not a party invitation. Besides, she wasn't one hundred percent sure if Criss was going to be at the trial. He has to be, because he was there when Pamela threatened me with that gun and he saved my life! she reasoned. He heard everything she said about the murders, so that makes him a witness, too.

So, if Criss was going to be at the trial, she needed to do something, and fast. The trial was six weeks away, and she had to plan something special for his birthday. Something that she could smuggle past the watchful eyes of her mother, who still bore a grudge against "that Criss Angel person", despite having shielded her daughter from the point of a gun. A simple card wouldn't do, Alicia thought. It had to be something so special, so unique, that whenever he saw it he would think of her fondly, and treasure it forever.

Well, MA has some artistic talent, she recalled. Maybe she could help me out. I bet she'd come up with something really awesome if she tried. I'll even help pay for any art supplies if she needs it. Yeah! Between the two of us, we can give Criss a birthday present he'll never forget!




Criss sat in his office, taking care of his daily correspondence either by phone, letter, or email, when his assistant, Jennifer, came in and handed him an envelope. He was about to toss it in his Read Later pile when Jennifer stopped him.

"I think you'd better read it,"she told him seriously.

Criss looked at the envelope and realized she was right. It was from the Clark County District Court. Oh, Lord, he groaned inwardly, I hope it's not a jury summons!

He tore open the envelope and read the letter inside. It wasn't a jury summons; that was the good news. The bad news was that he was being subpoenaed as a witness in the case of State of Nevada v. Piccucci. Worse, the trial was scheduled to be held on December seventeenth, just before the weekend of his birthday--a buzzkill if there ever was one. Of all the things to come back and haunt him, this ranked up in the top ten. Hell, he didn't even want to get involved in that whole mess in the first place, but, being a sucker for a pretty face, he had agreed to follow Casey Worth on a search for her employer, only to end up a near hostage by some greedy (bleep) who would have shot him, Casey, the old man, and that other girl who had run away from home to go to Loyalapalooza. Thank God that police officer showed up when he did, or else Criss Angel would have been history.

He read the summons again. He had tried to wash his hands of the whole sordid affair for almost six months, refusing to give any statements to the press about it, but there was no getting out of this, he conceded. He just hoped that it would be over and done with before Friday--he didn't want to get involved in an epic OJ Simpson-style ordeal that would drag on forever.

Criss handed the subpoena back to Jennifer. "Take care of this, willya?" he said.

"Bad news?" Jennifer inquired.

"Nah, nothing serious, if that's what you mean," Criss replied. "Just a murder trial, that's all."

[RACHEL02189]

I think Criss probably wishes it was for jury duty :)

[Veritas]

"Good morning, Mr. Springer," Casey said cheerfully as she brought breakfast into the dining room.

"Mornin'," Springs returned, looking up from the morning's copy of the New York Times. Though he had lived in Las Vegas, Nevada, for most of his adult life, Springs still preferred the Times over the Las Vegas Sun. Local papers were fine after a fashion, but nothing beat the Gray Lady for news; besides, the Times had better crossword puzzles in his opinion.

Casey set the breakfast tray in front of the old man. "Are you going golfing again today, Mr. Springer?" she asked.

Springs shook his head. "Nah, I'm goin' to the Luxor for a while, do some gamblin', have a drink or two."

The mention of the Luxor triggered Casey's memory. "Oh, Mr. Springer?"

"Hm?"

"I got a summons from the District Court yesterday," Casey said hesitantly. "They're calling me in for a witness in Mrs. Piccucci's trial in December. The seventeenth, I think it is."

Springs looked up at her. "Piccucci trial, is it?"

"Yes, sir. You remember, don't you?"

"Like I remember Pearl Harbor," Springs growled. "Well, I got news for you, Cassie."

"It's Casey, sir."

"Whatever. Anyway, I got a tip from the computer that Pamela Piccucci skipped bail, and she's been living in Hawai'i with some rich guy from Canada."

Casey was shocked. "She escaped?!"

"It's seems so, yeah."

"Well, don't you think we should report this to the police?"

"Already did, sweetheart," Springs assured her as he dug into his fried eggs, "already did. That gumshoe, Meridian, is tailing her right now."

"Lord, I hope so," Casey muttered. "I hope so."

She left the dining room and returned to the kitchen, shaken by this sudden turn of events. Her mother, Sharon, stood by the sink, rinsing dishes to be put into the dishwasher. Casey swallowed hard. "Mom?"

"Yeah, hon, what is it?"

"You know that summons I got about Mrs. Piccucci's trial?"

Sharon loaded a stack of plates into the dishwasher. "You get time off for it?" she asked.

"It's not that," Casey mumbled. "I don't know if there's even going to be a trial."

Sharon looked up. "What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"Mr. Springer told me that she jumped bail and escaped to Hawai'i."

Sharon set down the plates. "She ran off?"

Casey nodded. "Mr. Springer says Detective Meridian is going after her, but it's over a thousand miles to Hawai'i, and that's out of his jurisdiction or something like that. How's he going to go after her?"

Sharon smiled reassuringly. "Now don't you worry about that, hon," she said. "Detective Meridian is a very smart man--he'll figure something out. Now, help me clean up this kitchen so we can drive Mr. Springer to the Luxor. And don't worry, everything's going to turn out just fine."




If Detective Jim Meridian had heard what Sharon told her daughter that morning, he would have disagreed. Since he had been on the Piccucci case from day one, the chief had assigned him the responsibility of bringing Pamela Piccucci back. The credit card statements Evidence had examined turned out to be a dead end--she had not used her cards since April, and the majority were overdue notices. Her bank account had been emptied the day after she had been released on bail, meaning she had been gone for six months. Meridian had called the DMV to get her driver's license and the VIN number of her car to see if he could get any information that way. It turned out that she had changed her name on her driver's license to Petersen, and the car had been sold to some small independent dealer for seven grand in cash.

That was all Meridian needed for now. Thanks to Springs, he knew where she was. Thanks to the DMV, he knew her alias. Now, all he needed was the means to get her back to Nevada--and to prison where she belonged.

He downloaded the number to the Honolulu Police Department and called them, hoping the chief wouldn't go into conniptions for making a thousand-mile long-distance call.

"Police Department," spoke a deep voice with a trace of island native. "Sergeant Maole speaking."

"Sergeant, this is Detective Jim Meridian of the Las Vegas Municipal Police Department," Meridian said. "We have a fugitive wanted for double murder, and we got a tip that she's in Honolulu."

Sergeant Maole didn't seem surprised when he heard this. Hawai'i was over a thousand miles from the mainland, making it the destination of choice for many fugitives from the law, especially if they were well off enough to afford it. "What's the fugitive's name?" he asked routinely.

"Pamela Piccucci, alias Pamela Petersen," Meridian answered. "She's with some rich Canadian. I got her record on file here. You want me to fax it to you?"

"That'd be a good idea," Sergeant Maole said. He gave Meridian the fax number for the Honolulu Police Department Criminal Investigation division and instructed him to put "Confidential" on the cover sheet. "If you have a photo of her, we'd appreciate it," he added.

Meridian nodded. "Fine," he said, scribbling down the number. "Thanks for your help, Sergeant."

"Not a problem."

The two officers said goodbye and hung up. Meridian gathered up Pamela's file with her mug shot and headed for the fax machine down the hall. The damn thing better be working! he said to himself. I don't have all day for this.

Meridian arrived at the hole in the wall of an office where the copier and the fax machine were kept. He filled out the cover sheet according to Sergeant Maole's instructions and ran the files through the machine. Then came a frustrating two minutes' delay while he waited for the confirmation. Finally, the sheet slid out of the slot and landed in the paper tray. Meridian snatched it up; to his relief, his fax had gone through without any trouble. "Ball's in your court, Maole," he said. "Good luck."




Springs sat at the blackjack table, watching the dealer shuffle the cards. He had just laid a hundred-dollar bet for starters; with luck, he could double it. A lovely waitress from the bar bought him a Manhattan, setting it on a paper coaster in front of him. For Springs, it was just like old times.

"I come for the Manhattans," Springs said aloud as he raised his glass to eye level, "but I stay for the cards."

He took a swig and examined the cards before him, a five and a ten. All he needed was a six to make twenty-one. "Hit me," he ordered the dealer.

Another card was laid on the table. A four. "Hit me," Springs repeated.

A two turned up. "Twenty-one," he said, smiling in triumph.

The dealer pushed a stack of chips toward the former gangster. Springs was about to make another bet when he saw a familiar face over at another table. Oh, yeah, that magician--what was his name?--Something Angel. Damn, he was so lousy with names! He couldn't even get his caregiver's name straight, for chrissakes! Oh, well, at least he got the last name right.

Springs picked up his chips and his drink, and crossed over to the table where Something Angel was working. Poor guy, he thought, his magic act must be going down the crapper if he's gotta moonlight as a blackjack dealer. Things are tough all over, I guess.

He watched as Angel deftly worked the cards, shuffling them, tossing them in the air and deftly catching them, fanning them out in front of the two good-looking dames seated at the table. "Now watch," he heard him say.

To the women's amazement, two cards appeared face up from the deck spread out before them. "Are these your cards?" he asked.

The women nodded, completely astonshed. Angel swept up the cards and put them away. Springs stepped up to the table. He couldn't help but notice that the blackjack table had Angel's picture on it, with the caption CRISS ANGEL MINDFREAK emblazoned across it. Springs set his chips down. "So, you deal blackjack, too?" he asked.

Criss smiled, recognizing the former mobster. "Springs!" he cheered. "How's it been?"

"Good," Springs nodded. "So, what's this setup? Your magic act not goin' over, so you gotta deal blackjack?"

Criss shook his head. "No, the magic's fine," he replied, laughing. "This is my own table, where I perform my card demonstrations." He leaned over conspiritorially. "Actually, they don't let me gamble here," he half-whispered. "They're afraid I'll cheat them out of their money. I just come her to do magic."

Springs smiled at that. A guy with his talent would have had his kneecaps shattered with a baseball bat back in the old days, he thought. No casino liked losing money then, no more than they did now, and pit bosses were as notorious as pit bulldogs when it came to card cheats.

He set his chips on the table. "Okay," he said. "Impress me."

Criss spread out the deck of cards. "Pick a card," he said.

Springs chose the Queen of Hearts. "Now, I want you to sign it," Criss instructed, handing him a pen, "then give it back to me."

Springs scrawled his name on the card and returned it to Criss. Criss shuffled the card back into the deck, then fanned them out on the table. "Think you can find your card?" he asked Springs.

"You're the Houdini here, not me," Springs said.

Criss refanned the cards. Right there was the Queen of Hearts. "Not bad," Springs said. "You're pretty good, you know that?"

"Thanks," Criss said, smiling at the understatement. "By the way, how's Casey?"

"Casey? Oh, she's good, real good. Got her ma working with her at my house. She said she got a summons to appear in court for the trial."

"The Piccucci trial?"

"Yeah, that one. You goin'?"

"I have to," Criss replied. "I got a summons, too."

"Well, it seems everyone involved got one," Springs said, "but there might not be a trial if they don't find her."

Criss became concerned. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean Pamela skipped out of town and ended up in Hawai'i,' Springs explained. "Shacked up with some rich Canadian guy in Honolulu. Saw her mug on the news on the computer. Recognized her dead on."

Pamela? Skipping out on bail? In Hawai'i? Criss pondered this. "Thanks for the info, Springs," he said.

"Not a problem," Springs said. "So, you gonna deal or what?"

"Sorry, Springs," Criss said, gathering up his cards, "this table's closed."

He dashed away from the table and headed for his office. Once there, he picked up his phone and shuffled though the Rolodex for the number of Da Kine Bail Bonds in Hawai'i. Once he located it, he called the only person he knew who could find Pamela Piccucci.

"Hello, Dog?" he said. "This is Criss Angel."

A pause while Duane "Dog" Chapman heartily greeted him. "Yeah, good to hear from you, too. Say, listen, this is an official call. I want you to be on the lookout for a Pamela Piccucci..."




Sergeant Maole wasted no time in alerting his forces about Pamela Piccucci, alias Pamela Petersen, at large somewhere in Honolulu. The mug shot was enlarged and copies were distributed to all all patrolling officers, particularly in the weathier parts of the capital. She may be in disguise, he told them, wearing a wig or something. If they happened to pull her over for a routine traffic stop, they were to arrest her immediatly or detain her until backup arrived. It wasn't clear if she was armed, but everyone was to assume she was, just in case. She was a double murderer, he told them; God only knew what she was capable of.

The phone on Maole's desk rang. He picked it up in the middle of the first ring. "Sergeant Maole here," he droned.

"Sergeant? This is Duane Chapman."

Maole was a bit surprised over who was calling. He knew the famous "Dog", the bounty hunter from his television program as all of Hawai'i did, but never had he received a personal phone call from him. "How can I help you, Mr. Chapman?" he asked.

"First of all, you can drop the 'mister'," Chapman said. "It's just 'Dog', okay? And second of all, there's a fugitive in Honolulu by the name of Pamela Piccucci, aka Petersen. She's jumped bail, and she's wanted for two counts of first-degree murder. Unfortunatly, I don't have a description of her--"

"Save your breath, Dog," Maole interrupted. "I got a call from a Detective Jim Meridian in Las Vegas. He faxed over all the info about Pamela not too long ago. By the way, how did you hear of it, anyway?"

"I got a tip from a friend of mine," Dog replied. "Criss Angel. He heard it from someone who was mixed up in that whole estate mess, a Mr. Springer, aka Springs--used to be a former gangster from way back. It's a long story, but I know Criss wouldn't lie to me."

"Well, I'm sure of that, Dog," Maole said.

There was a brief pause while the sergeant pondered his next move. He knew Dog wasn't on the Big Island, but a fugitive could move easily from one island to the next. With a double murderer on the loose, even a female, he would need all the help he could get to apprehend her. And very few people had a track record of capturing fugitives as Duane "Dog" Chapman.

"Tell you what," Maole said finally. "I'm going to fax the file I got on Pamela Piccucci to you. If she's in your neighborhood, bring her in. I can't say if she's armed or not, but don't take any chances with her, okay?"

"Got it," Dog agreed. "And thanks, Sergeant."

"And thank you, Dog."

The conversation ended. All Duane Chapman could do now was to wait for the fax from Honolulu to come in. Once he had her file, Pamela Piccucci's little ass was his. He made a mental note to send Criss Angel a thank-you note or something for the four-one-one on her he had given him. Tips from friends and ordinary citizens made his job a lot easier.





Meanwhile, back in Las Vegas, Springs was still in the Luxor, discreetly counting his winnings for the afternoon. He had to be very careful not to flash the cash in public; he knew from long experience that pickpockets and muggers lurked around every corner to relieve unsuspecting gamblers of their money. Security was more sophisticated these days, granted, but that was no excuse for carelessness. Besides, at his advanced age, Springs made for an easier target than others--elderly people were more vulnerable, therefore more likely to be robbed. Keep in the open areas, and watch your back, he told himself, and you'll do just fine.

Springs had enjoyed an unprecedented streak of good luck in the casino; he had seven hundred dollars more than when he first started. He had celebrated with another Manhattan, but he still felt empty inside. What he needed was some company, preferably the female kind. No funny business--he was way past that--just companionship, someone to talk to. He looked around the casino, eyeing the attractive women walking around the joint. Springs heaved a deep sigh. They were all so young and beautiful, he thought. Probably already had boyfriends, if they weren't married already. Who'd want to hang around with an old fart like him?

Springs shuffled out of the casino and into the atrium. Maybe I'll have better luck in the lounge, he thought. That's where I met my last two wives, in a bar. Not the same bar, of course, but in a bar. Well, let's see if third time's the charm.

The lounge was practically deserted in the midafternoon hour. Only a few people sat in their own little corners, nursing their drinks and trying to forget about life for a while. Springs was about to head for the nearest barstool when he spotted a head of long black hair sitting in a booth all alone. He decided to risk a slap in the face from whomever she was and make contact with her. He strode over to the table and turned on the charm. The long black hair stayed in place, not noticing his approach.

"Hey, there," he purred. "Like a little company?"

The head turned. It was an elderly woman's face, a bit withered but not unattractive. She looked up at him warily. He didn't seem threatening to her, so she said, "No, I don't mind," in a strangely accented voice.

Springs sat down across the table and made himself comfortable. "So, this your first visit to Las Vegas?" he asked casually.

"No, not really," the woman replied. "I am here visiting my son, Christopher." She pronounced it "Christaphaa". Springs wondered where she was from, originally.

He feigned regret. "Oh, where are my manners?" he mockingly lamented. "Allow me to introduce myself--Daniel Springer. Everyone calls me Springs."

The woman giggled at the comical nickname. "I am Dimitra," she said. "Dimitra Sarantakos."

"Hoo! That's quite a handle there," Springs commented. "Sounds Greek."

"Is Greek," Dimitra told him. "I was born there. I came here to America with my family when I was about thirteen. My husband was born Greek, too."

A red flag went up in Springs' mind. "Your husband anywhere around here?" he asked casually but cautiously.

Dimitra sadly shook her head. "No," she replied. "John passed away eleven years ago."

The red flag lowered. "Sorry to hear that."

Springs shifted in his seat. "So, what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" he asked jovially.

Dimitra chuckled at that stale old line. "Oh, I'm just waiting for my son, Christaphaa, to meet me for lunch. He's so busy with his shows, I hardly get to see him anymore."

"What's he do, anyway?"

Dimitra found a card listing the shows and other events the Luxor Hotel and Resort offered. Among the list of performances was an ad for Believe with a picutre of Criss Angel upon it. "That is my Christaphaa," she said with not a little maternal pride.

Springs studied the picture. That's her son? he wondered in amazement. Hell, I just got through talkin' to him in the casino! Ha! Ain't life a crock? "Oh, yeah!" he said. "I met him before."

"That does not surprise me one bit," Dimitra said drily.

"Hey, lady, you don't know the half of it!" Springs retorted, and he went on to explain Criss' unwitting involvement in the Piccucci Affair, his heroic act in bringing down Pamela Piccucci, and his recent encounter in the casino earlier that afternoon. Dimitra began mentally connecting what her famous son had told her to Springs' story and realized she was talking to a former mobster. Sitting with someone who had Mafia ties was a bit unsettling, but on the other hand, he seemed nice enough, he knew her son Christopher, and he looked lonely; she reminded herself that she shouldn't judge a book by its cover.

Son Christopher arrived, his massive collection of jewled pendants jingling as he strode in. "Hey, Ma, how ya doin'?" he said, bending over to give her a kiss. Upon rising, he noticed Springs. "Springs?" he said, startled to see him seated next to his mother, "what're you doin' here?"

"Oh, nothin'," Springs replied airily, "just enjoying a bit of company with the lovely lady here, that's all."

Dimitra blushed. Criss grew wary. Is this guy hitting on my mom? he wondered. "So, you ready for lunch?" he asked his mother, offering his arm to her not so much out of courtesy than to pull her away from Springs.

Dimitra took it and rose. "Do you mind if Mr. Springer here joins us?" she asked. "He's a friend of yours, or so he tells me."

Criss hadn't planned on making this lunch date a threesome, but he agreed, if only to act as a sort of chaperone, and to scope out Springs' motive concerning his mother. He guessed that Springs had to be in his eighties, almost a decade older than Dimitra, so he was relatively harmless as far as anything physical was concerned, but Criss could not help feeling an undercurrent of...what? Distrust? Fear? Danger?

Or, maybe, jealousy?

No, that was ridiculous! he thought. He had no reason to be jealous of Springs. Dimitra was his mother, for chrissakes, not his girlfriend! It wasn't like they were in love or anything--they just met barely a few minutes ago. A lonely old man strikes up a conversation with a woman sitting all by herself in a bar--perfectly natural, he reasoned. Why the hell should he feel so possessive all of a sudden?

Because he didn't want any harm to come to her, Criss admitted to himself. Because Springs had been a former mobster, and who knew what he was capable of? And because he was still loyal to the memory of his father, God rest his soul. The thought of his mother remarrying, especially at her age, would have seemed like a betrayal.

Criss looked at Springs and his mother Dimitra strolling next to each other, chatting about this and that. No kissing, no handholding, no sweet nothings whispered into each other's ears, just casual conversation between two elderly people. He began to regret his suspicions. Maybe he was spinning his wheels over nothing, he thought. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. His mother had been a widow for eleven years now. She deserved to have friends her own age, whether male or female. If she wanted to have a relationship with another man, well, who was he to stop her? He couldn't live her life for her. Besides, she was smart enough to know what she wanted. She was stronger than people took for granted.

As for Springs, well, he was okay, despite his criminal past. Casey Worth insisted that Mr. Springer was really a nice man, really he was, that he was "retired" from "the rackets" and had been a law-abiding citizen for years. Besides, he was too old and feeble to physically harm Dimitra in any way; you could tell by the way he shuffled as he walked, and didn't he have a stomach transplant a year ago? And he couldn't be after her for her money, Criss reasoned, because he had plenty of that already. Maybe he was just a lonely old man who sought out the company of a lonely old woman who just happened to be his mother. Maybe he should just stop worrying and stay out of it.

Still, Criss couldn't help but feel uneasy about the budding relationship between his mother and the former gangster, but he couldn't simply order her to stop seeing him. All he could do was adopt a wait-and-see attitude. If everything worked out to everyone's satisfaction, fine, no problem, he could deal with it. So long as his mother was happy, he had nothing to worry about.

But if you hurt Mom in any way, Criss mentally threatened Springs, so help me, God, I'll go Tony Soprano on your sorry ass! Me, and my brothers, and my cousins, too! You mess with Mom, you mess with our whole family! So, you'd better treat her right, Springs, or else!

[RACHEL02189]

I had a feeling Dog would be involved

[Veritas]

Since the weather turned cold and wet with the approaching winter, Alicia and MA had to close up the shed where they had spent the entire summer and retreat to their own homes. They smuggled in photos and other articles related to Criss Angel in their schoolbooks, using the premise of having study sessions to avoid parental interference. It was relatively safe at MA's house, where they were in now, her older siblings having left the nest for either college or marriage, but at Alicia's there was the ever-present threat of discovery in the form of her brother, Kyle. More than once they caught him with his ear pressed against the door of his sister's bedroom, or listening in on their phone conversations (they made sure no reference to Criss was made over the wire, just in case he was). Only when he was safely preoccupied with his videogames could they converse freely. It was frustrating, but Alicia was not going to sacrifice her love for Criss Angel because of her bratty little brother's pranks. The less he knew, the better it was for the general peace in the household.

MA held up the eight-by-ten watercolor portrait of Criss Angel for her friend, Alicia, to see. "So, what do you think?" she asked. "You like it?"

Alicia gazed upon the semi-nude image of her idol, his face shyly turned away, his legs concealing most of his body. "Oh, God, I love it!" she squealed. "If I could, I'd keep it for myself! How long did it take you to do this, anyway?"

"About a week, off and on," MA answered. "I had to do it in secret so my parents wouldn't find out. I finished it yesterday when they went out somewhere."

"Oh, he's going to love this!" Alicia gushed. "I just know he is!" She handed the painting back to MA.

"I got a frame for it, too," MA said. "It's not fancy, but it won't distract from the picture."

She went to her dresser and pulled out a shopping bag from the top drawer. In the bag was a simple plastic document frame, its edging painted to look like gold plate. It was just the right size, give or take an inch, eight-and-a-half by eleven. "I can make a matte for the edges," MA told Alicia. "That way, it'll look more professional. And sandwich it between a couple of pieces of cardboard if you're going to wrap it up--that'll make it easier."

Alicia nodded in agreement. With the special birthday card she had scoured all over Marvinville to find, this picture would be the best present Criss would ever receive--assuming she would be able to contact him without her mother knowing about it. She wouldn't be able to go to the Luxor Hotel; in fact, she didn't even know where she would be staying during the trial, if they would be staying at all. The only place she would have any chance of seeing Criss would be the courtroom itself, and even then she wasn't sure if he'd be there at all. Well, it was a risk she would have to take. One way or another, she was going to give Criss his birthday present whether her mother liked it or not. For now, it was only a matter of time until the seventeenth of December, the day of the trial.

"Keep it here until just before I leave," Alicia instructed MA. "I don't want anyone to get hold of this. If Mom finds it, she'll burn it; if Kyle finds it, God knows what that little monster will do. Meantime, I have to find a way to get it to Criss."

MA looked at her friend and fellow Loyal with envy-tinged eyes. "God, I wish I could go with you," she sighed.

Alicia sighed in return. "I wish you could go with me, too," she said, "instead of my mother." She practically spat out the word mother as if it was an eptithet.

MA laid a hand on Alicia's shoulder. "Hang in there, kiddo," she said, "just hang in there. Who knows? Maybe if your mother meets him at the trial, gets to know him, she won't be so hard on him."

Alicia smiled a little at such an optimistic senario, but deep down, she doubted it would happen. Hope may spring eternal, as the poets said, but she knew from experience that it also died just as quickly.







Two thousand miles away in Hawai'i, more serious business was taking place at Da Kine Bail Bonds. Duane "Dog" Chapman had rounded up his crew, consisting of his wife, Beth, his sons, Duane Lee and Leland, and his daughter "Baby" Lyssa. Chapman stood before the whiteboard with a marker in his hand to take down whatever information needed to capture the latest fugitive.

"Okay," Chapman said, "today we're hunting one Pamela Piccucci, alias Pamela Petersen. We got a call from our bro', Criss Angel, and a fax from the Honolulu Police Department." He scrawled the names on the whiteboard like a schoolteacher while his family/crewmembers listened attentively. "She's five-seven, brown hair; slender, about one-twenty; hazel eyes. No marks, no tattoos. She's wanted for two counts of murder--one was her husband, the other was her ex-mother-in-law, plus two counts of attempted murder. She was out on bond in Las Vegas, but fled to Hawai'i right after she got out in late March, early April. We got a tip that she's living with some Canadian billionaire--"

"Nigel Sweeps?" "Baby" Lyssa spoke up.

Chapman looked at his daughter, surprised. "How do you know who it is?" he asked.

"Well, he's the only Canadian billionaire I know of," she replied. "Besides, I read somewhere he bought a car from Criss Angel--the name just stuck in my mind, that's all."

Chapman smiled. "Damn if the Good Lord didn't bless you with a good memory," he said, scribbling Nigel's name on the whiteboard. "Okay, we're going to try to contact this guy and see if Pamela's with him."

"So we're going all the way to Honolulu?" Leland asked.

"Yeah, that's right," Chapman said, "we're going all the way to Honolulu. I know it's a long way, but we got a double murderer on the loose, and it's our duty to bring her down."

"When are we leaving?" Beth asked.

"We're leaving like yesterday!" Chapman snapped. "Everyone get your gear and let's get moving!"

Team Chapman mobilized without furthur comment: pepper spray, handcuffs, badges, cell phone/walkie-talkies, and all necessary documents were assembled. Before moving out, the family gathered in a prayer circle, as was their custom before going out on a hunt.

"Lord, bless us and watch over us as we make our way to Honolulu," Chapman prayed. "Help us to find Pamela Piccucci, and deliver her safely back to Las Vegas. Thank You for Criss Angel for tipping us off about her. Protect us, oh, Lord. In Jesus' Name, amen."

The circle broke, and within a heartbeat Dog and his pack were rolling toward Honolulu, Chapman and his wife in one SUV, Duane Lee, Leland and "Baby" Lyssa in the other. It would have been more fuel efficient for all to travel in one, but when it came to hunting fugitives, not even the best bounty hunter in the world could be in two places at once.

Beth studied the police photo of Pamela Piccucci. "Piccucci, Piccucci," she kept repeating. "Where did I hear that name before? It rings a bell somehow."

"Well, she killed her husband, and then she killed her mother-in-law," her husband said. "Does that help?"

"Who's got the files?" Beth asked.

Chapman swore under his breath. "Ask Leland," he said, still focused on the road.

Beth called up Leland in the SUV behind them. "Leland?" she said. "You got the file on Pamela?"

"Just a minute," Leland said. He turned to his half-sister. "Lyssa? You got the file?"

"Baby" Lyssa handed Leland the file. "I got it right here, Beth," he said over the cellphone.

"Okay, fill me in on the details if you can."

"It says Pamela blew up her husband in his Maserati," Leland began, "then strangled her mother-in-law in a restroom at the Luxor Hotel. She also planted a phony bomb in a housecleaning cart to threaten a Casey Worth into giving up Mick Piccucci's inheritance."

Beth snapped her fingers in recognition. "That was it!" she exclaimed. "Okay, thanks, Leland," she said hurriedly, then flipped off her cell phone.

"What was it?" Dog asked.

"The Piccucci Affair," Beth replied. "It was in the news. Some former mobster disinherited his whole family and left his entire fortune to his nurse. Pamela Piccucci was Mick Piccucci's daughter-in-law; she killed them for the old man's money, but she ended up getting arrested instead. It was a huge scandal."

Dog shook his shaggy blond head. "Inherited wealth is a curse," he mused sadly. "Greed--no wonder it's one of the seven deadly sins."

"Preaching to the choir, Big Daddy," Beth said.




Lunch with Springs turned out to be a very interesting experience for Criss, to say the least. The former mobster regaled Dimitra and him with stories from the Golden Era of Las Vegas, when the Rat Pack were one of the biggest draws in entertainment and the casinos still held the allure of danger from their ownership by organized crime bosses. Mercifully, Springs left out the more graphic details of how The Guys "took care of business", mostly involving the use of violence, out of respect for Dimitra's feelings.

"Casey told me you have a book coming out," Criss said casually, trying to change the subject.

"Yep," Springs said, "sometime next year. I put everything I could find in it--pictures, old letters, you name it." He chuckled a bit. "Young guy like you might laugh at some of the old-timey things I wrote down there, but I feel it's my duty to tell the real story about The Guys, y'know? I want people to know what times were really like back then, not what they see in the movies. A flick like Casino, y'know, it's got a few grains of truth in it, but they don't know the half of it. They got the organization of it right--the pit bosses, the dealers, the enforcers, but to lose it all over a dame? That's a lot of effing crap." He turned politely to Dimitra. "Pardon my French," he said apologetically.

"I should like to read it sometime," Dimitra said.

Springs smiled magnamimously. "Tell ya what," he said, "I'll send you a free copy, care of your son here, just because you're a sweet lady."

Dimitra blushed like a schoolgirl. Criss was unsure what to make of this generous offer. Play it cool, dude, he told himself, don't make a big deal about it. "That's really nice of you, Springs," he said.

Springs waved away the compliment. "Hey, nothin' to it," he said dismissively. "It's not that I need the money--I got plenty of that."

The check arrived. Criss was about to pick it up, but Springs beat him to it. "I'll cover this," he said.

Criss was taken aback. He had planned this lunch as a private affair with his mother, and now Springs here was usurping him. Dimitra, however, smiled graciously. She was really beginning to like this guy, Criss thought worriedly. What was next, he wondered, dinner and a show?

Springs paid the check, leaving a very generous tip. "Love to stay and chat some more," he said, looking at his gold-plated Rolex watch, "but I gotta be heading back home or Cassie's gonna be callin' the morgue to see if I'm there."

It was an old joke Criss had heard before, but it made Dimitra giggle. "Will you be back here again?" she asked.

Springs thought it over. "Maybe Monday afternoon," he replied. "The weekend's my golf days." He gallantly picked up Dimitra's frail hand. "It's been a pleasure meeting you," he said with almost courtly manners. He then turned to Criss. "Nice seeing you again, Angel," he said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Take care now--you and your mother, here."

Criss could only watch as Springs shuffled to the valet kiosk to pick up his Mercedes. His mother simply beamed with a newfound happiness. "Such a nice man, that Mr. Springer," she said glowingly. "And he knows so much about Las Vegas! I would so much like to see him again!"

Alarm bells went off in the back of Criss' mind, but he kept silent. So far, Springs hadn't done anything wrong, but he still couldn't shake off the nagging feeling of foreboding if this budding relationship between his mother and the former gangster went any furthur.

"Mom," Criss said, struggling to keep his feelings in check, "you...you really like this guy...don't you?"

"Of course I do," Dimitra replied. "He's a friend of yours, isn't he?"

"Well, yeah, in a sense he is," Criss hedged, "but we only met just a couple of times before through his caregiver, Casey."

"Casey? I thought it was Cassie."

"No, it's Casey," Criss corrected her. "Anyway, I really don't know all that much about him except he used to be a mobster with The Guys of Glitter Gulch." He turned to face his mother squarely in the eye. "And, Mom, I heard he had been an enforcer. You know what an enforcer does in the mob?"

"Well, no, not really," Dimitra replied, not liking where this was going.

"He's the guy who killed anyone who either got in the way of the mob, or didn't pay up," Criss told her bluntly. "He was the guy who shook down the casinos for 'protection' money."

"He doesn't do anything like that anymore, does he?" Dimitra asked, growing concerned.

"Well, no, not any more," Criss replied, "but the point is--"

Dimitra sighed. "The point is you're trying to 'protect' me from him, is that it, Christopher?" she demanded. "You think he's going to hurt me somehow because he used to be a criminal."

"Well..." Criss had to admit she had a point. He was trying to protect her, but why, really? Was it Springs' criminal past, or the thought that he would someday (God forbid) become his new stepfather? He and his brothers had provided for her care and comfort, worried over every medical anomaly from a case of the flu to her heart surgery a few years ago, and had protected her from harm ever since their father died eleven years ago. For her to have a new man in her life--and theirs--seemed like an intrusion into the close-knit family circle, especially when that man had a criminal background.

"I know he's not a saint," Dimitra argued, "but you must remember, that was all in the past. He's too old to hurt me, or anyone else for that matter. I simply think he's a very nice man. I don't have too many friends here in Las Vegas, and the few I have in New York are growing fewer and fewer these days--it's getting so I am reading the obituary columns practically every day to see if anyone I know had passed away recently. You like to have friends that are the same age as you are, don't you?"

"Well, yeah," Criss conceded, "but don't you have the church here?"

"Yes, I do," Dimitra replied. "But that does not mean I can expand my circle of friends outside of it. Mr. Springer is really a very nice, very friendly man, Christopher. He would do nothing to harm me in any way. You should learn to trust him more."

Criss sighed in defeat. "Okay, Mom," he said resignedly. "If you want to be friends with Springs, it's okay by me. Just...you know..."

"Be careful?" Dimitra smiled in exasperation. "Christopher, I'm old enough to take care of myself. And besides, it's not like I'm falling in love with him. I'm too old for that--and so is he. We're both past the age of passion, you would say."

That's a relief, Criss thought.

"Now, stop treating me like a child and let's go see your brothers," Dimitra insisted. "Between the three of you, it's a wonder I have any freedom at all!"

Criss followed his mother obediently to the production office, the turmoil of emotions still churning inside his soul. On the one hand, his mother was right: she did have a right to choose her own friends among her age group, and Springs was "past the age of passion" as she put it. The old fart was eighty if he was a day, and no amount of Viagra was going to get his motor running. On the other hand, he still felt uneasy about this new man in his mother's life. He and Springs started out as mere aquaintances thrown together in a time of crisis, but now he seemed to resent this intrusion into the tightly woven bond that was between him and his mother. It was like he was trying to take over somehow. It was ridiculous, but he couldn't help it.

I'm gonna sound out JD and Costa about this, he decided, see what they think. We gotta resolve this one way or another. I don't want to hurt Mom, but more so, I don't want Mom to get hurt.

[RACHEL02189]

Aww Criss let your mother live her life. It's not like they're going down to one of the chapels on the strip

[Veritas]

After nearly a day of driving to the Big Island, Chapman and his family/team arrived in the capital city of Honolulu. The first stop was the main precinct of the HPD to gather more information available concerning Pamela Piccucci. Sergeant Maole welcomed Dog and Beth warmly and escorted them into a private office where they could confer undisturbed. More than a few heads turned as the famous Dog and company walked down the main corridor of the precinct; indeed, the shaggy-maned, powerfully built Chapman and the deep-bosomed figure of his life's partner, Beth, trotting beside him on stilleto heels were noticably out of place among the light-blue shirted police officers.

Maole offered the Chapmans a seat in the office with all the cordialilty of a host entertaining guests. He offered coffee, but they politely refused. Dog wanted to get down to business. "Any new developments?" he asked bluntly.

"None since you called," Maole replied. "All we do know is that she's been seen with some billionaire from Canada--who, we don't know."

"We think it's Nigel Sweeps," Dog said. "Can you get anything on him? Where he lives, where he's staying, things like that."

"Nigel Sweeps, Nigel Sweeps," Maole repeated under his breath. "Lemme look into it."

Maole picked up the phone on the table and dialed for Records. "Powers? Maole. We need some information about a Nigel Sweeps. Okay." He lowered the receiver. "He's gonna check."

Through the miracle of the Internet, all pertinant information about Nigel Sweeps was made available in only a few minutes' time, and Powers was back on the phone with Maole. "You got it? Good. Hold on a minute, willya?" Maole searched for a notepad and a pen and found none. He made desperate gestures to Dog for something to write on. Beth, taking the cue, fished out her own notebook and a pen from her handbag. Maole nodded his thanks, and said over the phone, "Okay, go ahead."

Dog and Beth watched keenly as Maole scribbled the information given to him by Powers. He handed the notebook back to the Chapmans, thanking Powers for his help. "There you go," he said, "that's where he lives. He's got a home here in Honolulu--spends his winters here." He held up a trifolded form. "You're gonna need this, too," he told them. "It's the arrest warrant for Pamela."

"Got it," Dog grunted. He and Beth rose. "Thanks, Bra', you've been a great help to us."

"And thank you, Dog," Maole returned. "You've been a great help to us, too."




Finding the winter home of Nigel Sweeps was easy enough, but for the Chapmans, gaining entrance into it was like trying to get an audience with the Pope. Security was tighter than the White House: Sweeps' private security detail patrolled the grounds day and night; every inch of the estate was under video surveillance, right down to the heat pump behind the mansion. Worst and most humiliating of all, every visitor who didn't have an appointment with Mr. Sweeps was brusquely turned away by his "social secretary", a polite title for bodyguard in Dog's opinion. Even with the power of law enforcement symbolized by the badge he wore around his neck, he failed to gain entry through the front gate.

Frustrated but undeterred, Dog bared his fangs and shouted through the intercom by the main entry, demanding to be let inside or he would bust down the goddam fence if he had to. The response was immediate, but not what Chapman had expected--three private security cruisers charged up to the gate like a pack of hungry wolves. Chapman stood his ground, completely unintimidated.

"This is security!" a grim-faced uniformed guard barked through a loudspeaker from his cruiser. "Leave these premises at once or you will be placed under arrest for trespassing!"

"And this is Dog Chapman!" Dog barked back. "I have an arrest warrant for Pamela Piccucci, aka Petersen! We demand you let us in or we'll have you arrested for obstructing justice and being an accessory to a crime!"

To prove his point, Dog held out the warrant through the decorative iron gate. The grim-faced officer stepped forward and examined the document carefully. Convinced it was genuine, he motioned his men to back away, then opened the gates for Dog and his crew. Dog muttered his thanks, returned to his SUV, and drove through, Duane Lee following close behind.

The driveway was longer than the street where he lived, it seemed to Chapman. Finally, the huge, luxurious mansion that served as Sweeps' winter residence came into view. Duane Lee gave a long, low whistle. "God! Look at the size of that place!" he marvelled. "It's bigger than our whole block!"

"It's bigger than our whole city!" Leland joined in. "How're we gonna find one person in that (bleeping) castle?"

"We'll find her," Duane Lee said confidently. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," Leland said, "I'm just wondering, that's all."

The two SUVs cruised up the curving driveway leading to the main entrance, an almost cave-like stucture big enough for them to drive through. Normally, Dog would have ordered Duane Lee and Leland to go around to the back and surround the house, but with the size of this place, it would be impossible to get even one SUV around it. Besides, there was no driveway leading back there; the whole perimeter of the house was surrounded by well-maintained greenery. Dog had little choice but to try the direct approach: he strode up to the large doors and hammered his fist on them. "Open up!" he ordered loudly. "We have a warrant!"

No answer. Dog pounded again, growing more irritable. Still no answer. Dog grew impatient. "Try the doorbell!" Beth shouted from behind.

Okay, fine, I'll try the (bleeping) doorbell, Dog said to himself. He jabbed the illuminated button in the filigreed frame with a calloused finger. Dainty, tuneful chimes resonated through the house. Soon he heard footsteps pattering across tile, then the huge door swung open. A petite woman in a maid's uniform stood there, her dark eyes wide with horror at the sight of the big blonde giant before her. "May I help you?" she asked timidly.

Dog's mood softened at the sight of this tiny woman. "We're here to see Pamela," he said calmly, almost courteously. "Pamela...Petersen."

"Miss Petersen is in the pool right now," the timid maid told him. "Whom may I ask wishes to see her?"

"Uh, Mr. Duane Chapman," he said as formally as he could. "And tell her it's urgent."

"One moment, please." The maid vanished into the abyss of the mansion. Duane turned to his two sons and his daughter. "Okay, she's by the pool," he told them. "Circle around the grounds and cut her off if she tries to escape." He turned to his wife. "Beth, you stay close with me."

Beth stepped close to her husband, pepper spray at the ready. The Chapmans were not in the habit of using firearms, preferring to bring their quarry back alive and unharmed, but they were not above using force if necessary. They waited impatiently but respectfully at the front door for either Pamela or the maid to arrive. After a long minute's delay, the latter returned, more intimidated than ever.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, trembling, "but Miss Petersen does not wish to see you right now. If you wish, I could have the social secretary arrange an appointment--"

Dog had no wish to arrange an appointment with the social secretary or anyone else for that matter. He had a job to do, and by all that was holy, he was going to do it! He forced his way into the house, nearly bowling over the poor servant. "Where's the pool?" he demanded.

"Sir, please--" the maid pleaded, fearing more for her own life than that of Miss Petersen.

"I have a warrant for Pamela's arrest," Dog barked at her, flashing the document signed by the HPD. "Now, show me where she is."

The frighened maid scurried to the indoor pool area like a mouse, with Dog and Beth on her heels. The large, glass-enclosed atrium practically dripped with luxury: glass-tiled walls, natural stone flooring surrounding the Olympic-sized pool, elegant furniture surrounding the perimeter, a hot tub big enough for twelve people, and a full bar in one corner. On one of the cushioned lounges lay Pamela Piccucci/Petersen in one of the skimpiest bikinis Beth had ever seen--indeed, she didn't even know Pamela was wearing anything at first glance. Pamela, for her part, looked annoyed at the scruffly dressed bounty hunter and his squat, full-busted spouse. "I told you I didn't want to be disturbed!" she snapped at the maid.

"Pamela Piccucci?" Dog said officiously.

"It's Pamela Petersen, you cretin!" she said sharply.

"Not from what I got here," Dog retorted. "We have a warrant for your arrest."

Pamela was aghast. "Arrest!"

"For two counts of first-degree murder, and four counts of assault with intent to kill," Dog went on.

"Look, mister!" Pamela argued, bolting upright from the lounge. "I don't know who you are, but you got the wrong person! I am completely innocent of these outrageous charges!"

Beth stepped forward with the file. "Here's a little poolside reading for you," she sneered, showing her the mugshot and police record courtesy of the LVMPD. "You wanna come quietly, or do we have to mace you?"

Pamela looked at the file. Something in her eyes hinted to Dog that she knew the game was up, but she remained obstinate. "That's not me," she insisted. "It may look like me, but I assure you, it's not. This is a case of mistaken identity--"

"Save your breath, honey," Dog said, fed up with Pamela's blathering. "We got a tip from someone you know that you were here in Honolulu with Nigel. He saw your picture on the Web."

"Who?" Pamela demanded. "I want to know who's accusing me! I have that right, you know!"

"You'll find out who it is," Dog said with mock reassurance, "as soon as we get you back to Las Vegas."

"I'm not going anywhere, and that's final!" Pamela stormed.

She made to leave, but Beth was quick with the pepper spray; one squeeze of the trigger was enough to bring Pamela down to her knees, howling and crying in agony as the mace burned the delicate tissues of her eyes. Beth wrenched Pamela's arms behind her back and slapped the cuffs on her. The maid, who had been cowering in a corner during the whole encounter, rushed to her aid, but was stopped by the beefy arm of Dog the Bounty Hunter.

"Go get her some clothes to put on," he ordered her. "She's got a long trip ahead of her."




Back in Las Vegas, Meridian had just returned from a very quick lunch break. Again, his phone flashed a message for him. Reflexively, he punched Play, dreading what fresh hell awaited him this time.

You have...one...new message," Francine the voicemail operator said. "New message."

"Detective Meridian? This is Sergeant Maole from the Honolulu Police Department. We have good news for you--Pamela Piccucci has been taken into custody just this afternoon. She'll be transported back to Las Vegas first thing in the morning; we'll meet you at MacCaran Airport around eleven-thirty your time."

Finally! Meridian heaved the biggest sigh of relief he could make. Maole, you made my lifetime!

"And you'll be interested to know," Maole went on, "that it was our own Dog the Bounty Hunter who bought her in."

Meridian smiled at that. Dog the Bounty Hunter. Yeah, he saw clips of his show now and then on the tube. Personally, he didn't care for the scruffy skip tracer, thinking he was just a publicity hound preaching the doctrine of crime-doesn't-pay while boosting his ego nailing bail jumpers. Still, he was grateful for the effort. He didn't care if Superman had bought her in--Pamela Piccucci was back in custody, and that was all that mattered.

[Veritas]

JD looked up from his desk in the rear of the production office as his youngest brother Criss walked in. He knew that he had taken their mother out to lunch that afternoon, but the grim expression he wore puzzled him. "Hey, Criss," he said, "what's up? How'd the lunch date with Mom go? "

Criss turned to face him. "Well, it seems that Mom made a new 'friend' today," he explained, "and he ended up joining us for lunch."

"A 'new friend'?" JD echoed bemusedly.

Criss nodded. JD leaned closer. "So, who is this 'new friend' of Mom's?" he asked. "Anyone we know?"

"His name is Daniel Springer," Criss told him, "aka Springs, former member of The Guys of Glitter Gulch, one of the most notorious gangs in the Golden Era of Las Vegas."

If JD was bemused before, he was really puzzled now. "You mean that old mobster you almost got killed with you told me about?"

Criss nodded. "Mm-hm. And he really made an impression on Mom, I can tell you that. He spent the whole lunch hour talking about 'the good old days' back in the Forties and Fifties, about Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky and the Rat Pack, about the old casinos and hotels that used to be here, and how everything's changed, blah, blah, blah. He even promised Mom a free copy of his book coming out next year. And if that wasn't enough, he picked up the tab for lunch--for a date I arrranged!"

"And what did Mom make of him afterward?"

"Oh, she's really taken with him," Criss replied. "She told me she couldn't wait to see him again."

"And what's your take on all this?"

Criss sighed. "That's just it," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know what to think. On one hand, Mom's got a right to see who she wants, but on the other hand, I can't help but feel Springs is out for more than just companionship."

JD smiled incredulously. "You think Springs is making the moves on Mom?" He shook with repressed laughter. "Come on, Criss! That old fart getting romantically involved with a woman Mom's age? Get real!"

"Hey, he's still a man," Criss pointed out. "And I can tell he's still got...feelings, y'know."

"He's gotta be...what?...eighty-five? Eighty-six, maybe? He's kinda past his prime, so I wouldn't worry about it."

"You'd think different if you saw the way he was looking at her."

"That's about all he can do at his age."

"Look, I just don't want Mom to get hurt, okay?"

JD rose from his seat and walked over to his brother. "What you don't want," he said sagely, "is for Mom to remarry. That's what you're afraid of, isn't it--another man to take Dad's place? In a way, you're jealous of Springs because you see him as an intruder in your life. You say you don't want Mom to get hurt when in reality you don't want you to get hurt." He laid a firm, almost paternal hand on Criss' shoulder. "If you really love Mom all that much, Criss, then do her, Springs, and yourself a favor--don't stand in the way of their happiness."

"But Springs--" Criss began.

JD silenced him with an upraised hand. "I know, I know, Springs used to be a gangster. Used to be--that doesn't mean he is now. Give the guy the benefit of the doubt, willya? Cut him some slack. He just a lonely old man who made friends with Mom, and that's all there is to it. If it gets any more...serious...well, then, we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. Mom was brave enough to let you go do your own thing, even if it almost got you killed at times--why can't you let her go and be friends with Springs?"

"Because I just can't bring myself to trust him!" Criss blurted out.

"Why not?"

"Because..." Criss hesitated. Why not? "Because I just...can't, that's all. I just can't."

JD gave Criss' shoulders an affectionate squeeze. "How long have Springs and Mom known each other?" he asked.

"They just met today."

"Well, then, you should give them time to work it out between themselves," JD advised. "It's too early in the game to decide what the outcome's gonna be. It's not like they're rushing headlong into a relationship like a couple of lovesick teenagers. Give them time, Criss, and you'll see that your fears are totally groundless."

"I hope your right, JD," Criss muttered glumly.

"I know I'm right," JD insisted. "I'm your older brother, remember?"

Criss shot JD a baleful look. JD playfully patted him on the back. "Now, c'mon, we got work to do."

[Veritas]

" 'Night, Barney!" Benny Worth called out as he left the Book Nook for the evening. It had been a pretty good day, and not just for watching DVDs either: he actually rang up a total of five sales today, a record for such an out-of-the-way shop as this one. He felt he had really earned his money today, and he felt like celebrating. And the best place to celebrate was at Menage, a small strip club, or rather "gentlemen's club" as they were so euphemistically known these days, just a few blocks from where he lived. He'd head home, grab a bite to eat, take a quick shower, change and head for the club. He'd seen enough skin on screen--now he wanted it shown live on stage.

Benny drove the rickety old van down the main street, cursing the vehicle's poor performance. Damn this piece of (bleep)! he cursed inwardly. You'd think with all that money Casey inherited, she'd buy us a new van! Selfish little (bleep)!

The rusty van clattered as Benny turned into the driveway. The brakes emitted a loud squeal of protest over its worn shoes as he stopped just before the flagstone walk. Benny waited while the engine stopped rattling and clattering after he turned off the ignition, then got out of the van, mentalling damning his sister Casey for hoarding her newly-aquired wealth while he and Dad were just squeaking by. Damn court should have made her pay us support! But no, we just got a lousy two grand and told to go to work while she and Mom are living it up in that old (bleeper's) mansion! I am so going to have words with them both!

Benny pushed open the front door and went into the house. In the living room, the never-ending stream of televised sports commentary flowed from the set. His father, Phil, slumped in his wheelchair, his eyes closed. This was not unusual, as Phil often had a habit of falling asleep in front of the TV; his mother, when she still lived here, used to wheel him to the bedroom and put him to bed when he did that. Upon closer inspection, however, it seemed Dad's skin was a bit paler than usual, and he wasn't snoring, either.

"Dad?"

He stepped closer to his father and nudged him. "Dad?" he repeated, "are you okay?"

No response. Benny shook him on the shoulder, trying to wake him up. Phil did not respond but slumped forward even lower like a sack of potatoes. Benny tried to detect some sign of life by feeling his father's chest for a heartbeat but found none. The slow shock of realization rose up in his mind like floodwater, and he dashed to the phone to dial nine-one-one.





Springs inspected himself in the three-way mirror, and was more than pleased with what he saw. His cream-colored tailored suit fit him like a glove, and unlike many of his contemporaries, he still had all of his own hair, though there was a good deal of frost on the roof, as they say. Even at eighty-six, he still cut a dashing figure, even if he did say so himself. "Lookin' good, Springs!" he muttered. "Lookin' good!"

He picked up his tan fedora and placed it on his head. Humming a swinging tune from the Big Band era, he made his way down the stairs, ready for a night on the town with his new lady friend, Dimitra Angel (he couldn't pronounce her real name for the life of him, and since he was Angel's mother, he just blended the two together; it was easier that way). Tonight, he'd take her to one of the classier joints in Vegas: Andamo's, where the jazz was mellow and the prime rib was superb. It was good to have company again, especially the female variety, and he had met her the old fashioned way, face to face. Who needed a computer when you had a good bar to go to?

Sharon noticed the stylishly dressed Springs as he came down the stairs. "Well!" she exclaimed, impressed at his appearance, "you're certainly dressed up for the evening! What's the occasion?"

"Taking a lady friend out tonight, m'dear," Springs announced proudly. "Don't wait up for me, we'll be home by eleven."

Sharon smiled as Springs sauntered out the door to his waiting Mercedes. A lady friend? she mused. Wonder who she is.

As much as Sharon wanted to know, she knew it didn't do to pry into her employer's personal life. Prudence dictated she mind her own business, at least for now; perhaps in time she would meet this mystery lady. For now, she kept her curiosity to herself for the sake of keeping the peace--and her job. Meanwhile, she decided to take in a movie in the media room. Casey was at an evening class at nursing school, and now that Mr. Springer was out for the evening, she had the whole house to herself.

Sharon went into the kitchen to fix herself a snack for the movie: carrot sticks, celery and apple slices. She'd been eating a lot of fruit and vegetables lately, and her shrinking waistline showed the results. Her newfound vegetarianism came about not so much as a desire to lose weight as the memory of the saturated fatty foods she used to serve to her husband and son who used to turn up their noses at anything that even hinted of good nutrition. Apples were only good for pies served with vanilla ice cream as far as her menfolk were concerned, and beans were eaten only when they were swimming in rust-colored sauce with chunks of fatty pork bacon floating in it.

As soon as she had moved in with Mr. Springer, however, all that changed; her first meal at the mansion had been a chef salad with a marvelous raspberry vingarette dressing. She hadn't touched beef or pork ever since, preferring chicken breast (grilled, not fried), or fish (she had tasted Alaska smoked salmon for the first time here and had fallen in love with it), but it was mostly salads she ate these days, saving soup for the colder days.

She carried her plate to the media room with a bottle of spring water and prepared to settle down to a nice romantic comedy when the phone rang. Annoyed at this interruption, she set down her plate and went to answer it. "Hello?" she said, concealing he irritation.

"Hello, Ma?"

It was her son, Benny, which annoyed her furthur because he never called unless he wanted money. "Yes, Benny, what is it?" she sighed heavily, knowing full well what it was he wanted.

"Ma, I got somethin' to tell you," Benny said. "Dad's dead."

Sharon was stunned. This was something she didn't expect. "When did it happen?" she asked, fully concerned.

"I came home about five-thirty," Benny began, "and I saw Dad sitting in his wheelchair, dead. I called nine-one-one, and they took him to the morgue."

Sharon stood there, unsure of what to do. Should she go over to the house? Should she allow Benny to come over to the mansion? Mr. Springer had the car, so she didn't have any means of transportation to do the former, but she had even deeper misgivings over the latter. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Hell, I dunno," Benny replied, bewildered as his mother. "Where's Casey?"

"She's at nursing school." A burst of maternal instinct came over her. "You okay over there?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm good," Benny said. "I was just gonna go out to Menage, that's all."

"Look, I don't have a car or anything, so it'll have to wait until morning, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, Ma," Benny mumbled distractedly. "Fine, whatever. See ya tomorrow."

" 'Bye, hon." Sharon hung up.

Phil was dead, she reflected. It was a shock, but not a surprise; Phil had let himself go for the past ten years, stuffing his face with fatty, salty snacks and washing it down with can after can of beer while sitting in front of the television set for hours if not days on end. She guessed it had been a heart attack, bought on by clogging of the arteries from too much junk food.

She felt no overwhelming grief for her ex-husband. In fact, she felt nothing at all. It was as if she had learned about the death of an aquaintance: it was tragic, yes, but it did not affect her deeply. Whatever feelings of affection she had for Phil had faded in the course of the past decade or so. As she saw it, Phil's passing meant one less burden for her to bear in life.

Later, when Casey came home from class, she would inform her of her father's passing. Tomorrow, she would meet with Benny and make the funeral arrangements; at least with the inheritance money they didn't have to worry about the expense. Right now, there was nothing she could do about it except settle back and lose herself in the plot of a good chick-flick. As far as she was concerned, Phil had died ten years ago when he withdrew from the world after his accident; only this afternoon did he complete his passing from this life.

[Veritas]

The matinee of Believe had just finished. Criss took his bows with the cast and left for his dressing room for a quick nap before the evening performance.

Like his suite, the dressing room was his own sanctum sanctorum, fitted out for his own comfort and decorated in his own taste: black walls and furnishings gave the room a Gothic look, with eerie artwork adding to the effect. A wall panel hid a black-sheeted Murphy bed for him to rest upon between shows, and this particular feature was the one Criss looked forward to using right now. He pulled down the bed from its alcove and lay down upon it, drawing a deep breath to counteract the adrenalin rush from the afternoon performance as he tried to relax.

His repose was rudely interrupted by a knock on the door. Who the hell could that be? he grumbled inwardly. I told them no visitors when I'm in my dressing room!

Criss wrenched himself up from bed and stormed to the door, ready to give the intruder a piece of his mind for disturbing him while in his private refuge. In his anger he yanked open the door and exploded. "I said I didn't wahhh--".

His outburst cooled to room temperature at the sight of his mother standing there. Even more surprising was seeing her dressed up in evening clothes. For a minute, Criss was speechless. Dimitra, however, stood there, nonplussed. "You didn't want what, dear?" she asked calmly.

Flushed with embarrassment, Criss muttered some sort of greeting and allowed Dimitra inside. "I-I'm sorry, Ma," he said, "it's just that I have a rule that no one's allowed in here when I'm trying to rest up for a show. Of course, that doesn't mean you," he added hastily. "You're more than welcome here."

"Well, thank you, Christopher," Dimitra replied with a tinge of motherly sarcasm, "that is very gracious of you."

Mother and son sat down on the side of the Murphy bed. "So, you look very nice this evening," Criss said, still flustered over this surprise visit and his rather rude response. "Um, what's the occasion?"

"Mr. Springer and I are going out to dinner this evening," Dimitra replied pleasantly.

Criss' instincts went on red alert. "You are?" he said dumbly.

"Yes, we are," Dimitra replied. "You don't have any objections about it, do you?"

"Oh, no, no," Criss babbled hastily. "No, not at all. Hey, I'm okay with it. What you do on your own time is your business."

Dimitra eyed her youngest son skeptically. "From what your brother told me, you're not 'okay' with it."

Criss felt his bowels gel inside his gut. "You don't seem to like Mr. Springer, do you, Christopher?" Dimitra pressed.

If there was one thing the world-famous illusionist Criss Angel could not escape from, it was his mother's scrutiny. "I never said I didn't like him, Mom," he protested. "I just, well..."

"You what, Christopher?"

Criss could only sit there, tongue-tied. His mother looked at him sternly as only a mother could. "First of all, Mr. Springer and I are friends, just friends, nothing more. I know of his past, but that is just it, the past--it's over and done with. Whatever jealousy you have against him--and you are jealous, Christopher Nicholas, don't deny it--whatever it is you have against him is completely unfounded."

"Jealous?" Criss forced an airy laugh. "Me? C'mon, you're my mom, not my girlfriend. Why should I be jealous?"

"Because you think Mr. Springer is taking your father's place, that's why. You and your brothers have become so overprotective of me ever since your father died that you've begun to smother me. I meet a gentleman who offers to treat me to dinner at a nice restaraunt, and you see him as a threat! I had hoped you would have reacted more maturely than that, Christopher."

Criss took his mother in his arms. "Mom, you know I want you to be happy," he said tenderly. "I just don't want you to get hurt, that's all."

"What kind of 'hurt' do you think Mr. Springer will inflict on me?" Dimitra asked. "Do you think he's a serial killer who will kill me? Do you think he'll rape me? What kind of 'hurt' are you talking about?"

Criss looked at his mother somberly. "The kind of hurt I went through with..."

"JoAnn?"

He nodded. "I just don't want him to use you and then throw you away like some cheap bimbo," he said. "Back in the day, mobsters like Springs had wall-to-wall girls just so long as he kept the money flowing. They all did. Okay, I admit having Springs as a stepfather makes me want to lose my lunch. Neither is he a serial killer/rapist or whatever. It's just that it's always been you-mess-with-Mom-you-mess-with-my-whole-family, that sort of thing. We've always been tight, you know, and Springs comes along and..."

"Intrudes?"

"Well, yeah, in a way," Criss hedged.

Dimitra took a deep breath and held her son's face in her hands. "Christopher, no one can take the place of your father, God rest his soul. He will always be the love of my life, even though he is gone. Nothing can change that, not even Mr. Springer. And second of all, he might have been a playboy back in his mobster days, but people change as they grow older. He's not a mobster anymore. Whatever he's done in the past is in the past. Today, he's just a lonely old man whose friends have all passed away. Myself, I'm a lonely old widow whose friends are also passing away. Your fans treat me like their own mother, and the staff here treat me like a queen, but I would like to be treated simply like a lady, like a person, by someone my own age. You understand that, don't you, Christopher?"

Criss bowed his head in sorrow, if not in shame. "I'm sorry if your relationship with JoAnn fell through," Dimitra went on, "but that does not mean I will suffer the same fate as you when I am with Mr. Springer. And if it does, well, it wasn't meant to be. I found the strength to move on after your father died, I can find the strength to move on if Mr. Springer breaks off our friendship."

She planted a kiss on Criss' forehead. "Now, I have to meet Mr. Springer in the atrium," she said. "That is, if I have your blessing."

Criss smiled sadly but bravely. "I'm sorry I've been such a jerk, Ma," he said. "You and Springs go out and have a good time, okay?"

"Good." Dimitra rose and smoothed out her skirt. "You get some rest--you have an evening performance in a few hours; I don't like it when you go without sleep, you know. It makes you irritable."

"Yes, Mommy," Criss said meekly.

Dimitra gave Criss' shoulder a sharp tap for his impertinance and left the dressing room. Criss lay back on the Murphy bed, his arm flung over his eyes. God, forgive me for being such a jealous dipwad, he prayed. Watch over my mom--and Springs--tonight. Don't let anything happen to either of them. Bring Mom home safe and sound, that's all I ask. Just bring her home safe and sound. And keep an eye on Springs, too. I mean, he's eighty-some years old and he had a stomach transplant not too long ago. Okay, I admit, I'm still worried about this whole relationship deal, but just make sure Mom has a good time tonight, all right? If she comes home happy, then I'll be happy, too.

He turned over on his side. But if she comes home crying, so help me, God, I'm gonna kill that guy and make it look like an accident!




"Flight 503 arriving from Honolulu at Gate 14A"

Jim Meridian rose from the bench. That was the plane he had been waiting for. Right on schedule, too, a rarity if there ever was one. I'll bet she wished for a few hours' delay, he smirked to himself. Not that it would have made any difference.

The giant passenger jet taxied to the terminal slowly and carefully. As soon as the plane came to a halt the gate crew swung into action, hooking up the accordian-fold tunnel, into which the passengers would pass through when they disembarked, with practiced ease. The double doors of Gate 14A opened, releasing a stream of humanity into the terminal. Some were returning from Hawai'i, sunburnt and weary from the long flight home, dragging carryon cases full of souveniers and vacation photos. Others were just beginning their holidays, most of them raring for a chance to hit it lucky in the casinos. One jovial passenger, a middle-aged man with a pony-keg gut, emerged singing "Viva Las Vegas!" at the top of his lungs, to the embarrassment of his family. I'll bet he'll be singing a different tune when he leaves here, Meridian thought. Singing the empty-wallet blues, just like all those other poor suckers.

Meridian waited patiently while the passengers passed by him on their way to the baggage claim. None of them paid any attention to the dark-suited detective standing in the waiting area; as far as they were all concerned, he was just another face in the crowd, quickly forgotten as soon as they brushed by him. Neither did they matter to Meridian, except one in particular who was now being escorted (if such a refined term could be used for being frog-marched by two uniformed police officers) down the corridor. Meridian couldn't help but smile a little as he watched the orange jumpsuit-clad prisoner, shackled hand and foot in leather-belted restraints, emerge from the depths of the corridor. He approached one of the officers. "Meridian, LVMPD." he said, flashing his badge.

The officer nodded in acknowledgment. The prisoner glowered at the detective, as if blaming him for the whole ordeal. Meridian smiled back, gloating a little.

"Welcome home, Pamela," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "Did you enjoy your trip to Hawai'i?"

"(Bleep) you, Meridian," Pamela snarled.

Pamela was led away to a waiting police van outside. More than a few heads turned at the sight of the brown-haired woman in prison orange being hauled away in chains down the main thoroughfare, the two officers sandwiching her on either side nearly dwarfing her as they dragged her along. Whispers of "drug dealer" or "prostitute" stung her ears. For the once proud Pamela Piccucci, who had been living the life she felt she deserved for only half a year as Nigel Sweeps' mistress, this was the ultimate degradation. Humiliated beyond words, she kept her head down so as to spare herself from prying eyes, her stringy brown hair hanging over her face like a curtain, shielding her identity.

How did it all go so wrong? she wondered. Who had betrayed her like this? If they had just left her alone, Nigel and she would have been happy together for life. But no, someone had to rat her out, and now it was all over and she was going back to jail, never to see the light of day again. Once again, she was alone, with no one to turn to for help; Nigel was nowhere to be found, having gone off on some business trip to wherever. Whoever it was who betrayed her, she wished him/her/it into the lowest depths of Hell.

The rear doors of the police van yawned open like the gates of Dante's Inferno. Pamela was brusquely shoved inside the steel reinforced van, then the doors slammed shut behind her with a deep metallic sound like doom itself. Burning with anger, she sat on the metal shelf that served as a bench, cursing those who had thwarted her plans, and the treachery of the Fates for bringing her so low. Her only hope for freedom lay in some sort of technicality that would overthrow all charges against her, but even that slenderest of threads was too fragile for her to hang onto. If only Nigel would come to her rescue...





Any thoughts of rescuing Pamela Piccucci, aka Petersen, from her captivity by the LVMPD were light-years away from Nigel Sweeps' mind as he basked in the sun on the stony coast of the Riviera with his latest conquest, a shapely Norwegian blond twentysomething named Inge, lying topless beside him. Indeed, even if he had learned of his mistress' plight, he would have done little if anything about it. Pamela had been good company at first, but after six months of her living with him he grew bored with her. True, she had shared his enthusiasm for classic cars, showing a surprising knowledge (for a woman) about them, but that was as far as common interests went. As he got to know her better, she turned out to be just another gold-digger looking for a rich husband so she could live in luxury. Such was the plight of being a billionaire, he mused sadly. It was best just to cut his losses and move on.

His cell phone serenaded him with Chopin's Minute Waltz. He reached over, picked up the offending device and flipped it on. "Hello?" he said in a bored tone.

"Mr. Sweeps?" It was his social secretary back in Honolulu.

"Yes, Marten, what is it?" Sweeps droned.

"I have some rather bad news for you, sir," Marten said. "It seems Ms. Petersen was arrested for something she did in Las Vegas."

Arrested? Sweeps sat up. "All right, Marten," he said, now attentive, "give me all the details."

Marten gave Sweeps all the details, from beginning to end. Sweeps listened silently, his face unscrutable. "And when did this happen?" he asked calmly.

"Around two PM, Honolulu time, sir," Marten answered. "Shall I make...arrangements?"

Sweeps thought it over. "Yes, Marten," he replied evenly. "Arrange for Ms. Petersen's belongings to be removed from the house. Any purchases she made at my expense are to be returned for refunding. I want no trace of her in that house when I return, is that clear?"

"Very good, sir," Martin said deferentially.

Sweeps flipped off the phone without so much as a goodbye, then settled back on the Riviera shore. How nice that things worked out so well for him, he reflected. Now that Pamela was on her way back to prison, he was spared the trouble of tossing her out personally. If only all of his problems could resolve themselves so easily.

[RACHEL02189]

But if she comes home crying, so help me, God, I'm gonna kill that guy and make it look like an accident


Nice Criss

[Veritas]

Dinner had been superb. Springs found the prime rib had been cooked to perfection (Dimitra had ordered the chef salad), and the house wine had been the perfect compliment to the meal. Piano music softly filled the dining room, accompanied by low murmurs of conversation from the other diners. It felt good to go out with a lady again--a real lady, not some bubbleheaded bimbo looking to make a name for herself by hooking up with a former mobster. Springs found Didi a rather handsome woman for seventy-four; she must've been quite a looker back in the day, he thought. Her husband had been a really lucky fellow to have married her.

Dimitra could not remember a time when she felt this relaxed in public while visiting in Las Vegas. Normally, she was either fraught with tension over her famous son's latest "demonstration", or she was constantly accosted by his fans, the Loyals, who wanted a picture with "Mama Angel" to post on the websites. Tonight, however, there were no fans, nor crowds to watch her Christopher risk his life in some dangerous stunt, just Danny and herself in a very nice restaraunt, enjoying a wonderful meal and each other's company.

They spent the better part of the evening telling each other's life stories: Springs had been married twice and divorced twice, producing only one son, Bryan, who had been the light of his life until he got drafted into Vietnam back in sixty-eight at the tender age of nineteen, and got sent home in a body bag a year later after he took a wrong step in a minefield in Da Nang. Both his exes remarried, sparing him the burden of paying alimony. "No hard feelings," he had said, shrugging, "just that neither of 'em worked out--we just didn't get along after a while. Mimi and I got joint custody of Bryan, so I was sort of a part-time dad to him. Saw him on weekends, holidays, spent half his summers with me. It wasn't the best way to raise a kid, but it worked out. Better than no-time, anyway. At least I got to see him on a regular basis."

Yes, it was true, he had been a mob enforcer, but he was no cold-blooded killer. "Usually I just shook down the bums, took the money and left," he said. "The only ones who got bumped off were those who double-crossed us, fellow members of the Syndicate, like Bugsy. People who were in the system; private citizens we left alone, and no cop-killing, either--that was bad for business. Usually we just passed a few hundred to the cops to look the other way, like in Chicago under Capone--why ice someone when you can just pay them off? That was the way we did business back then."

"Are you sorry for the things you've done when you were with the mob?" Dimitra asked naievly.

"Hey, no life is without regret," Springs replied, "but back then, it was the way things got done around here. It was a different time and place, I can tell ya that. It was either join up with The Guys for a chance at the big time or spend the rest of my life drivin' a cab in Queens." He leaned forward. "I've been out of the rackets for almost thirty years, Didi. I ain't done nothin' to no one in all that time. And I ain't gonna do nothin' to you, neither. I done things I ain't proud of, I admit, but like the man said, you can't make an omlette without breaking a few eggs. My life with The Guys had its problems, especially where law and order were concerned, but there were good times I'd give anything to go back to. I lived during the Depression, y'know. I don't know what your country was like back then, but here in America you did what you could just to survive, even if it meant breaking the law. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and we were as desperate as hell back then."

"I know of desperation, Danny," Dimitra said sadly, "and fighting to survive." She told him of her childhood in war-torn Greece, where food was in such short supply that a loaf of bread was a luxury. No sooner was her homeland liberated from the Nazis than the Civil War broke out. She had fled with her family to America when she was just thirteen years old to escape the horror and privation of constant warfare. Even in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, life had been a struggle: learning a whole new language, adjusting to an alien culture, and barely making ends meet from whatever employment her father found. They sought refuge in the Greek Orthodox Church, their only link to home.

She met her husband, John Sarantakos, in the mid-fifties. He had been a former Mr. Universe, she told Danny, and she had fallen in love with him practically at first sight. They married and had three sons: JD, named after his paternal grandfather according to custom, but referred to by his initials so as to avoid confusion; Costa, a photographer and technician for MindFreak productions; then, of course, her famous son Christopher, known to the world as Criss Angel. Of the three boys she and her husband raised, it was Christopher who turned out to be the biggest handful--he would ride his bicycle off the roof of the house as a child; he practiced magic in front of his exasperated family to exhaustion (theirs, not his); he burned a hole in the brand-new carpeting doing pyrotechnics in the house when he was sixteen. As he rose to fame and fortune, his acts--demonstrations, he called them--became more and more dangerous, often reducing his mother to tears afterward.

"He was a good boy, really," she insisted. "He never got into trouble with the law, at least not seriously, just for performing without a permit in New York. He just loved danger, that's all. After this one stunt in Florida where he had to escape from a building to be torn down, he said, 'Mom, I promise, no more dangerous demonstrations.' And he kept that promise, so far."

"Your son's quite a character," Springs said.

Dimitra smiled. "Really, he's still a little boy at heart," she said affectionatly, "only bigger. His toys are bigger, too--motorcycles, cars, videogames big as a phone booth. And he's done many charities for children as well, seeing them in hospitals. He has his good side." She hesitated a moment. "He can also be a bit...overprotective of me at times."

Springs' eyebrows shot up. "Overprotective?"

Dimitra sighed. "He, and my older sons, worry about me so much, especially after John died of cancer eleven years ago. I had heart surgery a few years ago, and there they all were, by my side. It was JD who insisted I get the MRI in the first place. Christopher dropped everything and flew back to New York that very night, he was so worried about me. He showers gifts and flowers on me whenever I come to Las Vegas. I get the best suite in the Luxor, taken out to the best restaraunts, but still, I'd like to have my own company and enjoy Vegas on my own instead of with his entourage. Don't get me wrong, I love my Christopher, and my older sons, but it's like they are smothering me at times."

"How'd they react when you told them about me?" Springs asked.

Dimitra sighed again. She had hoped Danny wouldn't bring this up. "Well, Christopher began to feel a bit...resentful at first," she began.

"Resentful?"

"Yes, but only at first. I managed to smooth things over with him."

"Why the hell should he resent me? The guy saves my ass from getting shot, and now he's sore over my going out with his mother?"

"Our family has always been close," Dimitra explained. "Sometimes too close. I guess he saw you as an intruder or something. I know it sounds ridiculous, and it is, and I told him so. He has no right to interfere with whom I care to associate, I said. Mr. Springer is a very nice man who would never harm me, I told him."

"Did you get through to him?"

"I think I did," Dimitra replied. "He told me he was sorry for being jealous of you, so I think he got the message."

Springs brightened a little. "Tell ya what," he said, "you bring the family over to my place for dinner sometime, and I'll prove to Christopher that I'm not the threat he thinks I am. We'll iron out any problems right then and there. Whaddya say, huh?"

"That's a wonderful idea, Danny," Dimitra said, beaming. "I'm sure Christopher will agree to come over."





"He wants us to what?" Criss stared dumbfounded at his mother.

"He wants us to come over to his house for dinner," Dimitra repeated. "You don't have any objections, do you?"

"Well, no, I...I..." Criss stammered.

Dimitra stared daggers at her son. "After what we talked about last night, you're still harboring feelings of jealousy, aren't you, Christopher?" she accused him.

Criss felt the sensation of having a blackjack being held over his head, and not the card variety, either. "It's not that, Ma, really it's not," he protested.

"Then what is it?" Dimitra demanded.

Think, Criss, think! Yeah! "It's just that I don't know how I'm going to fit this into my schedule, that's all," he alibied. "I mean, I'd love to have dinner with Springs and all, but--"

"You have Monday night off, don't you?" Dimitra countered.

"Well, yeah."

"And you don't have anything planned for that evening, do you?"

Criss suddenly found a way to buy some time. "Lemme check my planner," he said hastily, and rushed to find his PalmPilot. "Where'd I put that thing?" he muttered, making a show of slamming drawers and sifting through papers.

"It's in your pocket, Christopher," Dimitra reminded him.

A flustered Criss rose. "Ahem, oh, right," he mumbled as he took out his PalmPilot. "Let's see here," he murmured as he scrolled down on the tiny screen, "Monday, Monday, Monday--ah! Here we are! Nope, sorry, Mom, I promised to meet with Sully on Monday evening about a new CD Godsmack is producing," he said apolgetically.

Dimitra walked over and snatched the device out of Criss' hand. She read the memo on the screen, then hit Delete. "Not any more, you're not," she said to her protesting son. "You're going to dinner with me and your brothers on Monday night, and that's final! I'm going to prove to you that Danny is not the monster you think he is! If you're half the man you think you are, you'd put aside these childish emotions and be friends with him!"

She slapped the PalmPilot on the desk and sailed out of the room. Criss could only stare incredulolusly at his mother's retreating figure. So it's "Danny" now, he thought, unable to comprehend this sudden revelation. God, she's getting in deeper with this guy! What the hell am I going to do now?

He looked at his PalmPilot and sighed defeatedly. "Sorry, Sully," he spoke to the device, "I can't make it on Monday, but Mom made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

[RACHEL02189]

"Sorry, Sully," he spoke to the device, "I can't make it on Monday, but Mom made me an offer I couldn't refuse."


lol

[Veritas]

"Died?" Casey was stunned. "How? When?"

"This afternoon," Sharon answered. "How, I don't know yet."

The two of them were in Sharon's bedroom. Casey had just come home from nursing school when she was summoned by her mother to "talk". From the grim expression on her face, Casey could tell the news wasn't good. There was no outpouring of grief after she heard the news of her father's death, not even a tear, just the feeling that things had changed and she would have to deal with it somehow. If she felt any sympathy for her father, it was more out of pity than devotion.

"I have to see Benny tomorrow," Sharon continued. "We need to make arrangements for the funeral. You think you can cover the expenses from your inheritance? It's not going to be anything elaborate, just a basic burial."

"Sure, Mom," Casey replied, shrugging her shoulders, "no problem."

"Good." Sharon laid her hands on Casey's shoulders. "Don't get too upset over this," she told her daughter. "Your father wasted his life drowning in self-pity, even before the accident in the stockyards. He went from being a man to being a blob in front of the TV screen, refusing to do anything with his life. I married him simply because I was pressured into it; I sacrificed going to business school just so I could satisfy my mother's outmoded beliefs about marriage and family. You're smart, Casey, you got a life ahead of you. Whatever you do, don't throw it away just because someone sweet-talks you into marrying him--no guy is worth it."

Casey embraced her mother tenderly. "I promise," she said.





I am not looking forward to this, Criss repeated to himself as he drove his Rolls Royce to Springs' house Monday evening. I am so not looking forward to this.

His mother, Dimitra, had made the arrangements for dinner that evening at the Springer residence. Criss had been forced to postpone his meeting with Sully Erna regarding the new Godsmack album, offering no alibi but the truth. Sully's Mafia jokes ("I'll just tell everyone you went to see your Godfather!" he had quipped) failed to improve his mood. He had hoped that JD and Costa would side with him and refuse to go, but they showed themselves amiable to their mother's wishes. To add insult to injury, Criss had been designated the family chauffeur for the evening, which meant he had to remain sober enough to drive home--another disappointment, since he could have used a few drinks to help him get through the ordeal.

"Turn right over here," Costa, the unofficial navigator, told Criss.

Criss swerved to the right, barely clipping the curb with the large vehicle and sending his mother and brothers sliding in their seats. "Take it easy, willya?" JD snapped. "This ain't your Lambo, you know!"

Criss muttered some semblance of an apology and drove on through town, his eyes focused on the road ahead of him. Behind him, a flustered Dimitra smoothed out her dress and primped her hairdo. I just can't understand what's gotten into Christopher lately, she thought. He's been so disagreeable ever since I met Danny. I hope this evening he'll snap out of it.
The more affluent section of Las Vegas came into view, its mansions soaring like the mountains that had once dominated the landscape. "There's the street right over there," Costa directed. "Just hook a left over here."

"I know where I'm going, Cos," Criss growled. "I got the address right here."

"Well, excuse me," Costa retorted sarcastically.

Dimitra's maternal instincts kicked in. "Now, stop it, both of you!" she snapped. "I don't want any unpleasantness tonight. We're guests at Mr. Springer's home, and I expect you to behave like mature adults!" She leaned over to the driver's seat. "And that goes especially for you, Christopher! I don't know what your problem is with Danny, but I expect you to be cordial to him tonight!"

"Yes, ma'am," Criss said, a bit taken aback at this sudden outburst from his mother.

"Good. We're going to have a lovely time tonight, so let's just relax and enjoy the evening, shall we?"

Dimitra's admonishment met with a resounding silence. Criss drove, Costa looked out the window, JD idly cleaned his fingernails. Satisfied that she had made her point, Dimitra settled back in her seat.

God, what an evening this is going to be! Criss thought. I am so not looking forward to this!

[Veritas]

Sharon beamed with pride over the elegantly set table in the main dining room. Polished sterling silver flanked gleaming white English china, accented with delicate crystal stemmed glassware, all set on blinding white linen. Fresh flowers crowned the tabletop, two lighted tapers set among them. It had taken her a whole hour to arrange all this for Mr. Springer's dinner party, making sure everything was perfect. True, she wasn't invited, only serving, but it didn't matter--she was as proud of it as if she herself was hostessing the event. She had always wanted to have a nice dinner party like this when she was married, but Phil's plebian tastes didn't mesh with her own; even on Thanksgiving he and Benny ate in front of the television set, scarfing down turkey and stuffing from TV trays, leaving Casey and herself to eat in the tiny kitchen with the roar of the crowd in the background.

Sharon went into the kitchen to check on the roast. The guests were due any minute now, and she wanted all the food to come out evenly, no delays--God forbid the meat should be underdone and the vegetables overcooked, or vice versa. Even though it was a plain all-American meal of rump roast, broiled potatoes, steamed vegetables and white rolls ("Nothing fancy-schmancy, okay?" Mr. Springer had instructed, "We ain't expectin' the President of the United States here."), she was determined to make it the best dinner ever.

The roast was done according to the meat thermometer. Sharon took the heavy pan out of the oven, removed the roast and set it aside to "rest", and drained the drippings to make gravy. Thirty-five years of neglected culinary skills had come rushing back to her in one evening, and she was making the most of it.

This was the kind of meal she had been taught by her mother would appeal to her husband. The reality was that Sharon couldn't even get Phil to the table, let alone prepare a feast fit for a king. When he had been working, he'd head straight for the TV, beer in hand, claiming he'd "grab something later". She used to plead with him to come join her and, later, the kids, for dinner, but he responded by whining how hard he had worked that day and couldn't he just for once relax? In the end, Sharon gave up trying, resorting to canned soups and stews and other convenience foods. After Phil's accident, Sharon simply dished out whatever was available and served it to him and Benny, his constant companion and fellow couch potato. This would have gone on indefinatly had not Casey inherited that money from Mr. Piccucci. After that, Sharon had found the will to leave that blob of a husband and shiftless loser of a son and move on.

Casey had another evening class, so Sharon was on her own tonight. She could have used the help, but education took higher priority over entertaining, she had insisted to her daughter. She'd manage, no problem, she said. So Casey left for class, and Sharon was in the kitchen, happily preparing Mr. Springer's dinner party. Not only was it a chance to show off her talents in the kitchen, but tonight the mystery lady of whom Mr. Springer had become so fond would finally be revealed. She had never learned the woman's name; all she knew was that the "lady friend" had three grown sons--not all that surprising given their advanced ages--who were coming with her tonight. Whoever she was, Sharon was determined to make the best impression she could, even if it wasn't her party in the first place. She even wore a starched uniform for the occasion. Tonight, everything counted.





The Rolls glided up the curving driveway and came to a halt in front of the main entrance. Criss drew a deep breath to clear his mind. "Here we are," he deadpanned.

Something in the tone of his voice seemed to add "Let's get this over with." He got out of the car, circled around, and opened the rear passenger door to escort his mother out. It was the classy thing to do, considering the circumstances. Dimitra slid out of the car and allowed Criss to take her arm. JD and Costa followed close behind.

"Quite a place here," JD commented.

Costa nodded. "I guess crime does pay after all," he quipped.

JD smirked. Criss rang the doorbell and stepped back a little. Dimitra, sensing his resentment, gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Criss returned the grasp a bit too firmly than normal. Lord, let everything go all right tonight, she prayed.

The door opened, revealing a uniformed housekeeper. "Good evening," she said warmly. "Come right in. Mr. Springer will be down shortly."

The family entered the mansion, their footsteps echoing in the giant foyer. "Have a seat in the front parlor," the housekeeper said. "And help yourself to the bar--Mr. Springer set out the drinks for you."

Dimitra thanked the woman and entered the parlor. Criss lingered behind and silently signalled the housekeeper. "Uh, excuse me," he whispered. "Is Casey Worth here?"

"Oh, no," the housekeeper said. "She's at nursing school tonight. Are you a friend of hers?"

"Well," Criss hedged. "More of an aquaintance, really. It's a long story."

The housekeeper nodded and returned to the kitchen. Criss could not help but notice the resemblance to her and what he remembered of Casey's face. In fact, she seemed an older version of Casey. Could the housekeeper be her mother, perhaps?

Criss didn't dwell too long on that thought; he had more important business to attend to. He returned to the front parlor and headed straight for the bar for a bit of liquid courage. He mixed himself a Martini and drained it in one gulp. If he was going to face Springs, he needed to be prepared.

"Evening, friends!"

Everyone turned to face Springs as he stood in the entryway, dressed to the nines in a white dinner jacket, black bow tie, and black trousers creased sharply enough to slice cheese. A red carnation was set in his lapel, giving Criss the impression that he looked like a bridegroom, an image that made his skin crawl.

"Welcome to my humble home!" Springs said magnanimously. "Glad you could make it!"

Dimitra walked up to Springs and embraced him. "Hello, Danny," she said warmly. "These are my sons," she said. "This is JD, the eldest..."

JD and Springs shook hands. "Nice to meet you, Danny," he said cordially.

"...and this is Costa,"

Another handshake. "And I think you know Christopher already," she said, casting a discreet but very insistant warning glance upon her youngest son.

"Hey, Angel," Springs said, pumping Criss' arm. "Long time, no see."

"Hey, Springs," Criss said, suppressing his emotions for his mother's sake.

Springs headed for the bar to mix himself a Manhattan. "Quite a family you got there, Didi," he said, holding up his glass. He turned to the brothers. "I had a son once. Bryan, born in 'forty-nine. He'd be sixty this year if he hadn't gotten himself drafted and sent to 'Nam. He was just nineteen when he got himself killed. Stepped on a land mine, they said--blew him all to hell."

Criss couldn't help but feel a bit of pity for Springs. Losing his only son like that must've been hard on the old man, he thought. For the first time, he saw a side of the old gangster he never noticed before: a vulnerable side, a human side, a side that actually felt grief over the death of a human being, even if it was his son.

"Bryan's gone, my exes are gone, The Guys are gone," Springs went on, drinking his Manhattan. "It's just me now. Well, me, Sharon and Cassie."

"It's Casey, Springs," Criss corrected him.

"Whatever."

Sharon appeared in the room. "Dinner's ready," she announced cheerfully.

At the mention of dinner, Springs brightened. "Okay, who's ready for chow?" he said jovially. "I'm starved!"

He gallantly extended his arm to Dimitra, who took it with a blushing face. The family followed him into the dining room. The moment of pity vanished, and Criss was left with the same maelstrom of emotions he felt earlier. Let's just get dinner over with, he thought. The sooner this is over, the sooner we can get out of here. Just don't blow it, for Mom's sake.





While Springs and the Sarantakos family were sitting down to a fine dinner of roast beef and vegetables in the comfort of the Springer mansion, Pamela Piccucci was staring glumly at the fare served in the women's lockup of the Clark County Jail: a bologna sandwich on dry white bread, a small scoop of greasy macaroni and cheese, a puddle of watery applesauce, and a half pint of milk. A cellophane wrapped plastic spoon lay in the groove beside this glorious repast, the only eating utensil allowed in the jail. With all the money we shell out in taxes, she grumbled to herself, you'd think they'd serve better food here!

She turned to the server, a fellow inmate, behind the counter, an obese woman of undetermined age with her frizzy bleached hair bunched in a wispy hairnet who was working the dinner shift as part of her work detail. "Is there any way I can get a salad around here?" she asked. "I mean, is this all you have? It's not very healthy."

Derisive laughter echoed behind Pamela' back from the other prisoners. The inmate server looked at her casually. "Well, you got a choice," she rasped loudly. "Eat it or starve."

More mocking laughter from the other prisoners. Pamela slunk away from the counter with her tray. She still could not believe that just a few days ago she'd been living in style with Nigel Sweeps in Honolulu, dining on the best cuisine his personal chef could create (and oh, what he could create!), and lounging by his poolside, being waited on hand and foot by his household staff. She'd be there still if not for that cretin "Dog" Chapman and those ruffians he called his family bursting in like that and hauling her away like a common criminal. Now here she was, clad in prison orange, surrounded by females who were barely a few degrees removed from animals, forced to eat this...slop. She had made a simple, civilized request for better food, only to be humiliated to the core by those selfsame female animals who deserved to be here more than she did. The unjustness of it all made Pamela want to weep.

When the Chapmans took her away, she had shouted for Marten to call Nigel in France to come to her aid. She trusted Marten; she knew he'd never let her down. She was sure that he had called Nigel and given him the bad news, and that Nigel was now winging his way homeward to rescue her. I just have to be patient, she reminded herself firmly, fighting down feelings of hopelessness and despair. It's going to take time, but I know Nigel will come through for me. Soon I'll be flying back to Honolulu and eating those marvelous dishes the chef makes. I just have to hang in there, that's all.

Pamela nibbled on her sandwich, grimacing at the rough texture of the mass-produced bread which grated her tongue like sandpaper. The applesauce was more like apple soup, but it was the only thing that tasted good. She did not dare touch the mac-and-cheese--God knew what some psychopath working in the kitchen had put in it. Nigel, please hurry, she prayed. I can't live like this much longer!

"You gonna eat that?"

Pamela froze, too afraid to turn around to see who was speaking. A sharp nudge in her arm jolted her out of her paralysis. "I said, you gonna eat that?" the gravelly voice repeated.

She turned to see a stout woman scowling at her with a face hardened by years of misfortune. Pamela's mind tried to register the woman's request. "Oh-oh-oh," she stammered. "You mean this?" She pointed at the mound of yellow macaroni on her tray.

"Yeah, that," the stout woman said. "You gonna eat it or not? If you don't, I will."

It wasn't a suggestion, it was a demand. "Oh, no," Pamela said nervously, "you can have it if you want." She pushed the tray to her new companion. The stout woman grunted her thanks and dug into the macaroni and cheese with gusto. Pamela burst into tears. Oh, God, Nigel! Please hurry! Get me out of this hellhole! Get me out of here before I starve to death--if these people don't kill me first!

[Veritas]

It had been months since Criss had been served a meal family-style, with all the food in bowls for self-serving; he had become too accustomed to restaraunt and room service since he had been living in Las Vegas. In a way it was a welcome change--it bought back memories of his childhood back in Long Island, New York. It would have been an even more pleasant family meal if not for the fact that it was Springs and not his father who was sitting next to his mother.

Dinner was being served in the "small" dining room, a twenty-foot square area with a small hexagonal table covered with a white tablecloth that Criss guessed was also used as a poker table. Five place settings were meticulously set, with a modest floral centerpiece in the middle of it all. Dimitra could not get over how "lovely" it all was, and even Criss had to admit it was pretty impressive. Springs gallantly pulled out a chair for Dimitra, then sat down next to her. Almost defensively, Criss took the other chair next to Springs. JD and Costa took their seats without demur.

Sharon entered the room, removed the centerpiece and set it aside on the sideboard, then went back into the kitchen to fetch dinner. First came a basket of rolls, then the two covered dishes of potatoes and vegetables, then the piece de resistance, the large roast simmering on a silver salver, flanked by a large fork and carving knife, which she set in front of Springs. "You really outdone yourself there, sweetheart," Springs said jovially.

Sharon smiled and disappeared into the kitchen. Springs stood up to carve. The carving knife he used conjured up images of Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho in Criss' mind. The way Springs carved seemed to confirm those images--he lunged into the meat and sawed away, with no finesse at all. He quickly dismissed such gruesome images as he passed his plate for a slice of beef. Dimitra, sitting opposite him, didn't seem fazed at all, but thanked him graciously as she received a choice portion of roast.

"So, Springs," Costa said casually, "I hear you got a book coming out."

"Yep, that's right," Springs said, sitting down after slicing up the meat, "sometime next year, they say. The Guys of Glitter Gulch, it's called. It's all about me and The Guys and how we made it big here in Vegas. Hell, we practically helped build Vegas!" He took a mouthful of beef. "We made it what it is today!" he bragged.

"What about all the others?" Costa inquried. "You know, Bugsy Siegel and all of them?"

"Oh, yeah, they were there," Springs conceded. "I remember when Bugsy built the Flamingo--God! What a fiasco that turned out to be!" He shook his head. "Y'know, Bugsy got taken by the construction crew building the joint. They'd get some palm trees, say, and then tell him that they were no good or something, so he'd have to buy new ones, and then they'd take the same trees and say they were the new ones, so Bugsy kept paying for the same damn trees over and over again! Bugs was a good enforcer, but he was a lousy businessman. In the end, the Flamingo cost over two million plus--I can't work it out in today's money, but it was a helluva lot more back then. The Syndicate got fed up with Bugsy pouring all their cash into the Flamingo and not gettin' anything out of it, so they bumped him off and took over."

"You ever meet Bugsy Siegel?" JD asked.

"Once," Springs replied, "and once is enough. It was in the Flamingo, and Bugs was there wearing a dame on each arm--he was married, by the way, not that it ever stopped him from having a good time. Some chiseler was in dutch with one of the croupiers at the craps table, raking up the chips using loaded dice. Bugsy got wise to them both, see, and both of 'em were 'escorted' out of the Flamingo. Next thing you know, the two of them are being hauled off to the hospital. Bugs went on with his dames like nothin' happened. That's when I learned that Bugsy was one guy you didn't want to be on the bad side of. I swear the guy was bordeline psychopathic. That's how he got the name Bugsy, though you didn't want to call him that to his face--he hated being called Bugsy, and he let you know it."

"Sounds like a fun guy," Criss murmured under his breath.

"What about you?" Costa asked. "What was your role in The Guys of Glitter Gulch?"

"Me?" Springs shrugged. "I was the collection agent, you could say. My job was to collect the 'insurance' from the casinos and other places like that."

"You mean protection money, don't you?" Criss said accusingly.

"Look, kid," Springs said, leaning toward Criss. "Back then, everyone had their hands in everyone else's pockets. If you had the goods on anyone, you had an edge. Everything was run by the mob, owned by the mob, and protected by the mob. If you wanted to stay in business, you paid up. Even we had to pay the Syndicate just so we could stay in business. The only thing that kept our kneecaps intact was Blusey's bookkeeping skills. He knew all the loopholes, all the ins and outs of the tax system. Not only did he make us rich, but a lot of other guys as well. Thanks to Blusey, the Syndicate needed us more than we needed them."

"When did it all stop?" Costa asked. "When did all the extortion, the killing and the corruption end?"

"I got news for you, bright boy," Springs said, waving his fork at him. "It ain't never stopped. Where there's money to be made, there's gonna be blood--the more money, the more blood. It's still going on to this day, though you'd never know it. Silence has always been golden in the rackets--you keep your lip zipped, you stay healthy. Look at me--I'm eighty-six, and I outlived just about everyone in the Syndicate, so you know how silent I've been all these years."

"Until you wrote your book," Criss said.

"Hey, I figure no one's gonna whack me if I talk now," Springs laughed. "Everyone I wrote about is dead and buried. Who's gonna care, huh?"

Springs took a swig of his dinner wine. "And I'll tell you something else," he said. "I got a call from the History Channel not too long ago. They want to interview me about The Guys for some series they're doin'. They ain't never heard of The Guys until the Piccucci Affair, and now they're all over me like a cheap suit about it! How about that, huh?"

"Sounds interesting," JD spoke for the first time that evening.

"Speaking of the Piccucci Affair," Criss said, suddenly remembering, "any word about Pamela?"

"Pamela?" Dimitra asked, puzzled.

"Pamela Piccucci," Springs said. "She's the dame who bumped off Junior and Tina, remember?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't," Dimitra replied.

Criss and Springs stepped over each other trying to relate the whole sordid affair, starting with the will, then the threats Casey had received, then the standoff in the service corridor. "Your son here jumped her when the cops showed up," Springs said. "Knocked the gun right out of her hand. Saved my life, and that little girl--what was her name?" He turned to Criss.

"Alicia."

"Yeah, her. Blocked her with his own body. You should be proud of him, Didi."

"I am proud of him," Dimitra said.

Criss shrugged modestly. "Anyway," Springs continued, "I heard they nailed her in Honolulu, bought her back to Vegas. She'd been there for six months, shacked up with some Canadian billionaire."

"Who took her down?" Criss asked. "Police?"

"Nah, some big brusier called 'Dog'," Springs said. "Big guy, long blond hair. Should be throwing drunks out of bars."

Way to go, Dog! Criss cheered inwardly.

"Anyway, I was the first to spot her," Springs went on. "I was fiddling around on the computer, y'know--"

"You go on the Web?" Criss was surprised.

"Sometimes. I even got one of those websites about The Guys. Heather helped me set it up--smart girl. Anyway, I see her picture on the screen with that Canucky rich guy, and I tip off Detective Meridian about it. The rest is history."

"I thought silence was golden in the mob," JD said.

"Yeah, well, I did it for Junior, y'know. She was his wife, and she bumped him off by blowing him up in his car so she could get her meathooks into Mick's estate. She's just as bad as Tina was, God rot her soul. Now she's back in jail where she belongs; everyone is gone, and Cassie got her share of the estate; the rest went to the kids."

"Well, I'm glad Casey got something out of it," Criss said, correcting Springs' mistake yet again.

"You did the right thing, Danny," Dimitra said, laying a hand on Springs' arm. "I'm glad you called the police about that awful woman."

"Well, like I said," Springs said, "I did it for Junior."

"Are you being called to testify?" Costa asked.

"Me?" Springs shook his head. "Nah, I didn't get the word. Cassie did, though. Poor kid, gettin' mixed up in this whole mess like this."

"I got summoned, too," Criss told him.

"You did?"

"Yeah. December seventeenth. That's the trial date. I just hope it doesn't drag on like the OJ Simpson trial."

"Nah, it won't," Springs said, shaking his head, "They got it all on tape, remember? They got enough evidence to send her up the river for good. It'll be over by lunch, dinner at the latest."

"Speaking of dinner," Dimitra chimed in, "this was a very good one. Thank you for inviting us."

Springs patted Dimitra's hand. "My pleasure, Didi," he said. "Always a pleasure to entertain a lovely lady like you."

Criss froze for a moment. Was Springs simply flattering her, or was it deeper than that? He's eighty-six years old, the rational side of his brain told him. It's not like he's trying to seduce her. He just wants companionship. Let him alone, willya?

But what if it is something deeper? the emotional side argued. What if he wants more than just "companionship"? I have no objection to Mom having friends. I just don't want her to get hurt by this guy, that's all.

His mother's voice came between the two sides. What kind of "hurt" are you talking about, Christopher?

What kind of "hurt" indeed? Was he being too defensive, too overprotective? His family had always been close-knit, but they weren't La Cosa Nostra, closing ranks upon any hint of intrusion. Why the hell couldn't he bring himself to trust Springs?

Because of Dad, he finally admitted to himself. I don't want Springs to replace Dad in Mom's affections, even if he has been dead for eleven years.

Again, his mother's voice echoed in his mind. No one can replace your father. He'll always be the love of my life. Nothing can change that.

Okay, Criss determined, I'll give Springs the benefit of the doubt. If Mom wants to be friends--just friends--with him, then that's okay by me. He laughed inwardly. Hell, the old fart's pushing ninety! What kind of romance could he make? And Mom's seventy-four, way past menopause! Her idea of a romantic evening is watching a movie! Maybe this'll work out after all.

His resolve faded before paranoia. Still, I don't want her to get hurt in any way. I just want her to be happy, that's all. I have her happiness in mind, always. But if Springs destroys that happiness in anyway, then I am so going to go Bugsy Siegel on his eighty-six year old ass!

"You okay, Criss?"

Criss jumped back into the present at the sound of JD's voice. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine, JD," he insisted. "Really I am."

"Springs just asked if you wanted another drink from the bar."

Criss shook his head. "Oh, no. No thank you. I'm driving."

Springs rose from his seat and invited his guests back into the living room. Sharon appeared to clear the table. Criss rose and followed his host into the living room, sticking close to his mother. Well, I managed to get through dinner all right, he thought. Now to get through the rest of the evening. Just play it cool, Criss, and you'll get through just fine.





Criss began to relax in the parlor with his family while their host mixed himself an after-dinner cocktail. So far, so good, he thought: Springs hadn't made any moves on his mother during dinner (save for that little hand holding episode, but in retrospect, that had been no big deal). Dimitra settled into a large, overstuffed armchair with a cup of coffee--a good move, Criss thought. Springs wouldn't be sitting next to her. He sat alone in the loveseat, while his brothers sat side by side on the sofa, savoring the afterglow of such a good meal. Even Criss had to admit that the dinner served tonight was top rate. Of course, Casey's mom, Sharon, had prepared it, not Springs himself, but Springs knew how to host a party, that was for sure. He made a mental note to give Sharon his compliments, and maybe see Casey herself. Not that he had a thing for her; he just wanted to say hello and get her take about the trial next month.

Springs returned with his drink and sat down in a large leather easy chair, his favorite spot in the house. Criss could see paperback books of crossword puzzles stacked underneath the side table beside him. He recalled with a twinge of sadness how his mother used to bring his father those same puzzle books while he was recuperating in the hospital from stomach cancer. He could not remember his father ever doing any of them, though. John Sarantakos had been more into physical activities than mental ones--sitting around doing crossword puzzles bored him silly, even if he was laid up in bed for weeks at a time during his illness.

"So, tell me about yourselves," Springs said casually. "I know what you do already, Angel, but what about you two?" He pointed his glass at JD and Costa.

"Chiefly, we work for Criss," JD replied, nodding his head at his famous brother. "Production, setups, planning new episodes and demonstrations--"

"And trying to talk him out of it," Costa chimed in.

"And trying to talk him out of it," JD echoed, chuckling a little. "See all this grey hair I got? I blame him for it."

"Ah, c'mon," Criss moaned.

"No, really," JD insisted. "This is a guy who impaled himself with hooks and got hoisted by helicopter over the desert, nearly ran himself into a wood chipper, almost got blown up in a van, a car, and a hotel that was being demolished--"

"JD," Criss interrupted, "you don't have to relate my whole career."

"Well, anyway," JD went on, "Criss here's been trying to kill himself by any means necessary, all for the sake of entertainment. In fact, his idea of a birthday gift for Mom was turning himself into a human torch!"

"A human torch?" Springs repeated, puzzled.

"Yeah, it was Mom's seventieth birthday," JD explained. "And Criss here got the, quote, bright idea, end quote, to light himself on fire in honor of the occasion. He did it, too, right there on Fremont Street."

"How did you feel about all this?" Springs asked Dimitra.

"I was not happy at all," Dimitra replied grimly. "I was screaming 'Put him out! Put him out!', but he just walked around with his whole backside on fire, then he fell down, and then his assistants finally came along with fire extingushers, and all of a sudden he just disappears--all that was left were his clothes! It turned out that the assistant who put him out was Christopher himself. Everyone thought it was a wonderful trick, but I was very upset about it."

Springs turned to Criss. "You got some pretty odd ideas when it comes to birthdays, Angel," he commented. "Y'know, you're supposed to light the candles on the cake, not yourself."

Criss could only nod feebly, a sheepish grin on his face. "Well, you get the idea about what he puts us through," JD said. "Don't think he's come out in one piece every time he does something dangerous--he's been in the ER so many times, he's on a first-name basis with the hospital staff!"

"C'mon, JD, I haven't been there that many times," Criss protested. "Only...what?..." He tried to calculate on his fingers how many times he'd been taken to the emergency room after a stunt gone wrong. "Three, four times?" he guessed.

"More than that, Criss," JD argued. "A lot more than that. If it wasn't for the Luxor paying for his health insurance, we'd be over our heads in medical bills."

"I'm fine, really," Criss insisted.

"You are, maybe, but you turned us into nervous wrecks over the years." JD turned to Springs. "I can't tell you how many times he's made Mom cry when he's doing some crazy-assed stunt--sorry, Ma--only to turn up all of a sudden expecting us to applaud him! There were times I wanted to wring his neck!"

"So why work for him?" Springs asked.

"Why?" JD pondered the question. "Because we're family, I guess. I mean, Criss maybe a famous magician and all that, but to us, he's still baby brother, and we gotta watch out for him. That's the way our family's always been, looking out for each other, though it seems we look out for Criss more than he looks out for us."

Criss almost jumped out of his seat. "That's not true!" he cried. "I've always looked out for my family, and you know it! When Mom had that heart surgery, I was on the first redeye to New York! When Dad was sick, I put my career on hold to take care of him!"

"Christopher, calm down," his mother admonshed. "There's no need to carry on so."

"Don't go telling me I don't look out for my family!" Criss ranted. "If anything goes wrong, I'm there! If someone hurts Mom--or you guys--he's gonna regret it for the rest of his life!"

"Someone like me, perhaps?" Springs said.

Criss fell into an awkward silence. "Yeah, I know all about it, Angel," Springs went on, setting down his glass. "Your mother told me about how you felt about me'n her gettin' cozy. I show her a good time, you think I'm hot for her. Geez-Louise, you're acting like she's a teenager and you're her dad worrying about her goin' on a first date! Well, lemme tell you something--your ma's a sweet lady, and I wouldn't hurt her for the world. We're just friends, okay? So, if I were you, I'd loosen those tight family bonds a bit and let us enjoy each other's company. We ain't got no funny stuff between us. Hell, at my age, I ain't got no funny stuff left in me!"

Criss fell back in the loveseat, sullen. Dimitra turned to Springs. "You have to excuse my son, Danny," she said apolgetically. "Ever since their father died, all three of them became my guardians, so to speak. It was hardest on Christopher, because he's the youngest."

"Yeah, I know, I know," Springs nodded sadly. "Hell, you're lucky to have 'em. Me? I ain't got no one to take care of me except the mother-daughter team I hired. Hell, Cassie and Sharon's the only 'family' I got now. Ma, Pop, both brothers, my two exes, my son, Bryan--I tell you about him?"

Everyone nodded.

"They're all gone," Springs went on. "I outlived my whole family. Hell, I outlived almost all of Las Vegas! The Guys, the Rat Pack, the Syndicate-most of 'em, anyway. And Liberace, Carol Channing, Harry Blackstone, Jr.--you know him, dontcha, Angel?"

Criss nodded. Harry Blackstone, Jr., was practically a household name when he was a child, the premiere magician of his age, carrying on his father's legacy from the days of vaudeville.

"Hell, I even outlived Elvis Presley, if you can believe it!" Springs exclaimed. "I mean, geez-Louise! It's like I'm immortal or something! Well, lemme tell ya--living forever's no joyride if everyone you know are dropping like flies! I've been scanning the obits every morning to see if anyone else I know's gone belly-up on me. Just last week, I counted three good friends of mine who're pushing up daisies as we speak. And I keep askin' myself, when's my number gonna turn up? Not that I'm dreading it--quite the opposite, in fact."

"Danny, don't talk that way," Dimitra pleaded.

"Nah, nah, nah, don't gimme that 'life's a gift' crapola," Springs grumbled. "The novelty wore off about ten, fifteen years ago. Sometimes I think they shoulda given that stomach transplant to someone else, someone younger, someone who still had something to live for, y'know? Why the hell should they prolong my life? I had a good run; now it's time to pack it in. What's left for me, anyway?"

Dimitra reached up and took Springs' hand. "I'm here, Danny," she said tenderly. "I'm here for you."

Springs squeezed Dimitra's hand affectionatly. For once, Criss felt no objection. He knew Springs was a lonely old man, but he had no idea just how lonely he really was. Here was a man who had survived everyone he knew, from his former gang members to his only son, God rest him. His whole generation was passing away, one by one, fading into history like the era in which he had thrived. For the first time, Criss could see just how much the old man needed his mother, and how much she needed him. Who was he to stand in their way? He rose from the loveseat and crossed over to Springs. "We're all here for you, Springs," he said, extending his hand. "No hard feelings?"

Springs grasped Criss' hand. "Ah, hell," he said, shrugging. "I ain't one to hold a grudge."

Criss smiled. "Me, neither."

[Veritas]

The kitchen door opened as Sharon was loading the dishes into the dishwasher. Casey stepped in, clutching an armload of textbooks. "Hi, Mom, I'm home," she said cheerfully. "How was the dinner party?"

Sharon looked up at her daughter, not a little proud of her in her student nurse's uniform. "Hi, hon. Dinner was great. Got some leftover roast beef and potatoes over there, still warm--help yourself."

Casey set down her books, picked up a clean plate from the cupboard and dished out some of the beef and potatoes. "Looks good, Ma," she said. "How come you never cooked like this at home?"

Her mother sighed ruefully. "Well, your father was the type who'd rather eat in front of the TV than at the table," she replied. "Your grandmother spent a lifetime teaching me how to cook, but it just wasn't worth the effort anymore, so I gave up." She stopped stacking dishes. "I gave up on a lot of things when I married your father," she mused sadly. "Business college, a career, independence." She turned to Casey with a tear in her eye. "You're the only good thing that came out of my marriage, you know that?"

"Mama, stop that," Casey moaned.

"No, no, it's true," Sharon insisted, wiping her eyes with her dishtowel. "I would have given up on life itself if it wasn't for you. Benny was as big an underachiever as his father, no matter how much I pushed him, but you--you were different. You had the smarts, and you had the talent. Even when you were our only source of income, I knew you were destined for bigger things, that someday you'd succeed where I didn't. You were my last, best hope in my life to do something right."

"Ma, please!" Casey hugged her mother affectionatly. "Don't sell yourself short. You were the one who held the family together. You supported us more than I ever did. I just bought home the bacon--you were the one who fried it up and made it last until my next paycheck."

Sharon smiled through her tears at such a touching metaphor. Casey looked at her mother. "Do you miss Dad at all?" she asked.

"In all honesty," Sharon replied, "no, not at all. In fact, when I heard that he died, I felt...liberated. You may be too young to remember the Iranian hostage crisis, but I felt like those former hostages when they stepped off that plane after four hundred and forty-four days of being imprisoned by the Ayatollah Khomeni. When your father died, my life began. He was your father, yes, but he wasn't a very good husband. He was more like an overgrown infant, always whining when things didn't go his way, and demanding to be waited upon hand and foot."

"So why didn't you leave him sooner?" Casey asked.

"Because of the way I was brought up," Sharon replied. "I was taught practically from birth that marriage is forever, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, 'til death do us part. And then there were you two. If I had divorced you father, I'd have been forced to support you as a single parent, and there aren't too many paying jobs for someone with no experience. I counted on Phil for support for you and your brother--that's why I stayed."

There was a awkward silence as Sharon returned to filling the dishwasher. "Need help?" Casey asked.

"No, no, it's okay," Sharon said, bravely fighting back tears. "You get something to eat. You've had a long evening at classes. I can finish up in here."

Casey picked up her plate of food. "By the way," she said curiously, "who was the mystery woman Mr. Springer is interested in?"

"Well, you know that magician, Criss Angel?"

Casey's curiosity took a bewildering turn. "We've met." she replied casually.

"Well, the mystery woman happens to be his mother."

Casey almost dropped her plate in surprise. "Mr. Springer is dating Criss Angel's mother!?"

"Well, not exactly 'dating'," Sharon said. "She's just a 'lady friend', or so he says."

"I wonder how Criss feels about all this," Casey mused.

"Ask him yourself," Sharon retorted. "He's in the living room right now. His brothers are in there, too."

He's here!? Casey reeled from the shock. My God! What do I do? Do I dare go see him? I can't just barge in there and see him! Mr. Springer will get upset at me! Do I even want to see him? Does he even want to see me?

Casey sat at the tiny kitchen table, stewing in her own emotions, her dinner untouched before her. How do I handle this? I can't see him right now, that's obvious. Should I wait until they leave the house? No, the kitchen's too far from the front door. Should I wait for him by the driveway, just hide in the bushes and wait until Mr. Springer leaves? No way! He'd think I'm a stalker! Well, maybe not a stalker, but he might get the wrong idea about me. I mean, it's not like I have a crush on him! I mean, I like him, but I'm not in love with him, and I know for a fact he's not in love with me. He's just a friend, that's all. Not even that--he's an aquaintance. That's it! He's an aquaintance! We were just two people who got thrown together in a set of extraordinary circumstances.

She smiled at that. A set of extraordinary circumstances. That was a good way of putting it, if you called a fake bomb threat and nearly getting killed in a hostage standoff a set of extraordinary circumstances. Like six degrees of separation; that would make a good title for a romantic comedy, she thought. The humor of it eased the tension she felt about Criss. No, she decided, now would not be a good time to see him. Maybe when she took Mr. Springer to the Luxor for an afternoon of gambling she would see him again. Confident in her decision, she ate her lukewarm dinner in peace.

After dinner, she gathered her books and quietly made her way to her room, not wanting to disturb Mr. Springer's guests. She couldn't resist a quick sideways glance into the front parlor to see who was in there, though. Mr. Springer was there, next to the bar, of course. Two other men sat on the sofa; they must be Criss' brothers, she reasoned. A dark-haired older woman sat in the big chair next to Mr. Springer, obviously Criss' mother. What was her name? she wondered. She couldn't see Criss anywhere. I wonder where he disappeared to? she asked herself. She giggled a little at the unintentional pun she had just made. Disappeared to--little joke there. Disappeared--poof! Just like that!

Casey turned away and was about to head upstairs when she bumped into something tall. She looked up, startled, to see a very familiar face smiling at her.

"Hi, Casey," Criss said. "Nice running into you again."

"Oh, Criss!" Casey panted, recovering from the shock. "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there."

"How could you miss me?" Criss laughed. "I'm head and shoulders taller than you."

"I know," Casey said, shifting her textbooks in her arms. "I was just...preoccupied, that's all."

"With what?"

"Well, I just got back from class, see, and, well..." Casey trailed off, lowering her head somberly. Criss sensed something was wrong. "Well, what?" he asked.

"Well," Casey hesitated, not sure if she should tell him at first, but she finally plunged into it. "My dad died a few days ago," she said softly.

"Oh, Casey, I'm so sorry," Criss said sympathetically. "How'd it happen?"

Casey took a deep breath. "It just happened, that's all," she replied. "Benny came home one day from the Book Nook and found Dad in his wheelchair, dead. Heart failure, they said. He never got any exercise, and he ate too much junk food sitting in front of the TV day after day, so it was bound to happen sooner or later."

Criss laid a hand on her shoulder. "Gee, that's too bad."

"Don't get too upset over it," Casey said. "He bought it upon himself. He really wasn't much of a dad to begin with. Oh, sure, he provided for us, but we never did things together, like going to the playground and things like that--none of the 'daddy' things other fathers' do, you know? He spent more time in front of the tube than with his family, even before the accident that crippled him. I never realized what a total stranger he was to me until he died."

Memories of Criss' own father, dead for eleven years now, came floating back to him. He recalled the boating trips on the Long Island Sound, the afternoons at the shooting range, the hours spent under the hood of his older brothers' cars, the family get-togethers. He remembered the days working in his father's cafe, bussing tables and washing dishes. Every minute he had spent with his father, no matter how trivial or tedious they had been, had been in retrospect quality time, from the moment he could first recall his father's face to the final breath when he died lying in Criss' arms. To hear Casey tell of her father's neglect and indifference of his children, he concluded that there was no comparison between them; the two were polar opposites in his opinion.

"So, what are you going to do now?" Criss asked.

Casey smiled and shrugged. "Go upstairs and do my pharm homework," she said.

"Farm? You studying agriculture?"

Casey giggled. "No, silly! Pharmacology. It's part of my nurse's training."

"Oh, pharm!" Criss suddenly understood and laughed at his misunderstanding. "Okay, I get it."

He turned to leave. "Nice running into you again," he said.

Casey smiled, blushing. "I ran into you, remember? Like last time on Fremont Street?"

Criss feigned astonishment. "Wow! Deja vu all over again!"

"Good night, Criss."

"Good night, Casey."

They parted ways. Well, at least I didn't smear an ice-cream cone all over him this time. she thought. That's a relief!





The evening drew to a close, and Springs bid his guests good night. He cordially shook hands with the three Sarantakos brothers and gave Dimitra's hand a flamboyant kiss like an eighteenth-century nobleman. Criss rolled his eyes in disdain over such an overdramatic gesture; his brothers were simply amused. Dimitra giggled like a schoolgirl, blushing. Once they were in the car, however, her demeanor changed.

"What was that all about, JD?" she demanded.

"What was what?" JD asked, bemused.

"That little outburst you had after dinner," Dimitra replied, "going on about Christopher's career and all that. You had no right to bring up personal family business like that. Danny just wanted to know what you did for a living, that's all, but then you had to lash out like that, starting a fight with your brother in his house. I had expected an angry outburst from Christopher tonight, but not from you."

"Sorry, Ma," JD said drily, "but it just came out that way. Must've had a few drinks."

"That's no excuse."

"Well, it's over, okay? Let's just put it behind us and go home." JD settled back in his seat and fell silent.

Dimitra said nothing more, but her mood didn't soften one bit. She was still put out with JD's shameful behavior that evening. She had feared her youngest son would do or say something to antagonize Danny due to his resentment of his friendship with her, but instead it had been her eldest, the one she had counted on to keep the peace, who had acted out in anger, though not at Danny himself. Thankfully, Danny had been gracious enough to overlook the incident, defusing the tension with his charm and his tale of woe concerning his only son who had been killed in Vietnam forty years ago. Christopher had taken it to heart, it seemed, because he had risen up and made peace with Danny right then and there, a concilitory gesture that had filled her with pride and delight.

The Rolls Royce pulled up to the parking valet kiosk at the Luxor Hotel. Criss let his mother out of the car as he did when they arrived at Springs' house, then he tossed the keys to the valet for him to park it. JD and Costa waited for their own vehicles at the kiosk while Criss escorted his mother inside. Dimitra gave Criss an affectionate shoulder hug. "I am very proud of you, making up with Danny like that," she said.

"Making up?" Criss was perplexed. "I never had a fight with him, at least not personally."

"But you were angry with him," his mother pointed out.

"Well, yeah, but I didn't hate the guy," Criss argued. "I just wasn't sure of his motives at first, that's all. I was worried about you more than him."

Dimitra smiled a little. "Well, I hope you see you have nothing to worry about. Danny may have had a criminal past, but he's put it all behind him now. He's a good, decent man, and a good friend. You should know--you're the one who met him before I did."

Criss halted in his tracks. "Say, Ma," he said thoughtfully, "tell me--what did you think of Springs when he first told you he had been a mobster?"

"Me?" Dimitra thought it over. "Well, I admit I was a bit...uneasy at first." She laughed nervously. "I mean, it's not every day you meet someone who's been a member of the Mafia."

"Springs wasn't with the Mafia, Mom," Criss told her. "The Guys of Glitter Gulch were completely independent, aside from their connection to the Syndicate."

"Aren't they the same thing?" Dimitra asked.

"Not really. The Mafia were Sicilian-based, related by blood or nationality, working mostly in the East, like New York--La Cosa Nostra, and all that.. The Syndicate were more, well...businesslike, more like a corporation than a gang."

"Ah."

"The Guys of Glitter Gulch were on the fringes, really," Criss went on. "They did well for themselves, obviously, but Springs' said they had to pay protection money to the Syndicate to stay in business. It's all hierarchy: the higher up you were, the more power you had, the bigger your take. Given all the violence in organized crime, what with the drive-by shootings, the bombings and all that, it's a wonder Springs' lived as long as he did."

"Well, maybe it was because, deep down, Danny was a good man at heart," Dimitra said.

Criss looked doubtful. "I dunno, Ma," he said, shaking his head. "Like Mae West said, goodness had nothing to do with it."

[Veritas]

Phil Worth's funeral was brief, a mere twenty minutes long. Only his surviving family and a few former co-workers from the stockyards attended the service at the Vermuellan Funeral Home on State Street. There were the usual platitudes and saccharine-sweet purple prose meant to offer solace to the bereaved, but to Phil's widow, Sharon, it was all a load of crap. Oh, sure, there were the few remaining friends who told her what a great guy Phil had been, and how much they'd miss him, yada, yada, yada, but they were all wasting their breath with their sympathy in her opinion. Why should they care whether he lived or died? Why should she, for that matter? Phil hadn't done anything with his life except gripe, whine and complain about the unfairness of life, all but ignoring his family's needs for attention, degenerating into a huge lump of flesh in a wheelchair after the accident crippled him for life.

Even though Casey could easily afford to cover the cost, Sharon kept it to the barest minimum: the casket Phil's body lay in was the least expensive in Vermuellan's showroom, an unadorned steel chest lined in white satin. The suit he wore had also been provided by the home--none of Phil's regular clothes would fit him, not after ten years of chugging beers in front of the TV. No flowers adorned his casket, nor were there any photos of him displayed. Nor was there a special luncheon arranged after the service. Phil already had a crypt reserved for him in a mausoleum where the rest of his family was buried, sparing her the added expense of a burial plot. The total cost came to about four thousand dollars and change, about two thousand less than the average funeral package Vermuellen offered.

Even though Sharon and Phil had been divorced for a few months prior to his death, she still received the complimentary memoral Bible from the funeral director after the internment ceremony as a courtesy. Sharon thanked the director graciously, took the Bible home in its gift box, and stored it away unopened in her closet.

After the formalities of Phil's internment had ended, it was time to settle a more practical matter. Sharon offered to transfer ownership of the little brown and brick house to Benny; now that he had a job and could support himself, she reasoned, he could afford to have a place of his own. The house was practically paid for, she said, only ten more mortgage payments to go, and the property taxes weren't too bad. All he had to cover were the utilities, the trash collection fees, and whatever expenses were needed to keep up the house. If he cut back on his trips to the bars and clubs, among other things, and saved his money, he'd do well for himself.

Benny was outraged. "What the (bleep) are you tryin' to do?" he exploded. "You two got all this money, and you're living it up in some rich old fart's mansion, and you wanna stick me with that (bleep)hole of a house, and expect me to pay for it myself?! (Bleep) that, lady! I'm movin' in with you!"

"Don't you call me 'lady', Benjamin!" Sharon snarled at her son. "I'm your mother! And you are not moving into Mr. Springer's house, either! And we aren't 'living it up' there, we work there, we're his employees, and I'm not going to have you lying around his house, watching TV all day at his expense! It's time you grew up, Benjamin, and that time is now! No more free rides, no more 'loanskis', no more sponging off your family! I thought I made that very clear when I moved out, remember?"

Benny stared blankly at his mother, irritating her more. "Obviously, you don't," Sharon said. "All those years sitting in front of the tube must have turned your brain into mush. Well, let me refresh your memory: you're thirty-three years old. You've never held a job in your life until now, and then only because you were ordered by the court to find one. You've wasted the best years of your life vegging out in front of the tube with your father. You've never met a girl who wasn't swinging from a pole naked in a club. You've never made the slightest effort to improve your life in any way. You're a parasite, leeching from your family and friends. And you expect me to allow you to live in our employer's house, free of charge? Ha!"

Sharon rose from the battered kitchen chair where she had eaten all her meals alone for ten years and leaned closer, right into Benny's face. "Get this into whatever it is you have for brains, Peter Pan," she growled. "Life is work! Your father worked, I worked, Casey worked, but you never did. The economy may be down the tubes, but there are still people out there earning a living, and they are proud of it--not just for the money it brings, but the sense of self-satisfaction they get from doing it. You want something, you have to work for it. It's what made America great. It's slugs like you who bring this country down by sponging off hardworking people like us! Now, I don't mind my tax money going to help people who need it when they got dealt a bad hand, but I get pretty (bleeped) off at those who think the govenment owes them a living--people like you, Benny, people who don't have the gumption to get off their asses and find work. Do you want to end up like your father, dying from too much beer and junk food and too little exercise, if any? Do you?"

Still the blank stare. Sharon rose in disgust. "I feel like I'm talking to a brick wall here!" She turned away from the dull lump sitting at the kitchen table. "From now on, Benny, you're on your own!" she snapped, grabbing her purse with one hand and her daughter's arm with the other. "C'mon, Casey, we're leaving."

The only sound that followed was the slamming of the front door, then silence. "(Bleep) you, (bleep)!" Benny shouted out the minute he found his voice. "(Bleep) you both!"

He rose to get a beer from the fridge. "(Bleeping bleeps)!" he muttered. "Got all that money and won't give me a dime of it! Well, (bleep) them!"

Benny cracked open the can of beer and chugged it down without stopping for breath, then angrily flung the flimsy aluminum container against a wall. "They think they're so (bleeping) smart, just because they work for that decrepit old fart in his (bleeping) mansion!" he groused. "They got all that money, and they don't do nothin' with it! What the hell are they savin' it for, anyway? I'm family, I got as much right to it as they do! I should just go up there and make them gimme my share of the (bleeping) pie! Yeah, that's what I should do! They ain't got no right to hold out on me like this! I'm still family, right? Right?"

He got up for another can of beer. "Yeah, I'm gonna go to that mansion, go in, and make them let me live there! I ain't gonna let a couple of (bleepsie)assed (bleeps) make a (bleepsie) out of me! Uh, uh, baby, no way in (bleeping) hell! I got as much right to live in that mansion as they do! Hell, I'm family!"

Benny sat down in front of the television with his second can of beer. It was kind of lonely without Dad around, but TV filled the void in the only way it could, visually and aurally. "Yeah, I'm gonna go to that old fart's house and demand that I should live there, too!" he vowed. "You just wait, Ma, you just wait and see."

He tuned into one of his favorite shows: Maximum Exposure, a testosterone-fueled celebration of mayhem and destruction with smarmy commentary from the announcer. Benny settled back with his beer, his anger fading as he watched some poor jerk on a snowboard go crashing into some trees below.





Autumn faded, and December arrived with its happy anticipation of the holiday season to come. Normally, Criss would be looking forward to his birthday on the nineteenth of that month, but the gray spectre of the Piccucci trial clouded over any joy it would have brought. Worse, there had been a news leak about when and where the trial was to be held, and Criss knew from experience that a media circus would result, with himself in the center ring. He couldn't excuse himself from it like he could other commitments; this was a legal duty, one which his attendance was mandatory. He would have to make arrangements to enter the courthouse unobtrusively, even if it meant sneaking in through the back door. The more he disassociated himself from the trial, the better; he didn't want to be linked to the Piccuccis in any way, shape or form.

He hadn't even been directly involved in the first place, come to think of it. He had never heard of the Piccuccis until that phony bomb scare. He had just been an innocent bystander when this whole thing happened, and he had tried to downplay his small act of heroism when he tackled Pamela Piccucci in the service corridor, but his celebrity status had worked against him, catapulting him onto center stage in this crime drama, making him the hero in spite of the contrary. When pressed to give a statement about the trial, Criss would mutter "No comment", and go on his way. Unfortunatly, this evasive measure only whetted the media's appetite--cover-ups and conspiracies made good copy. Soon, Criss began to dread the sight of a camera or a microphone thrust in his face whenever he appeared in public. As a result, the famous illusionist became more reclusive, avoiding any contact with the media. He hoped that when the trial was over things would get back to normal.

He gave his performances, distracting himself with work. He still made time for the few fans who spotted him in the Luxor atrium, posing for pictures and signing autographs. To his relief, they were too awestruck being in his presence to ask about the trial. As a precaution, however, he sent a memo to the official fanboards that no mention of the Piccucci trial was to be made online; if asked, they were to delete it or send a "no comment" message to the senders. He knew the majority of the Loyals would respect his privacy in this matter, just like in other matters concerining his private life.

The small minority, however, the lunatic fringe who wanted to know every little detail of his life, were another matter. Every celebrity had dealt with these obsessive types in the course of their career, sometimes to the point of tragedy. If Criss Angel was involved in a murder trial, then they wanted all the dirt, and they wanted it now. Evasive answers only fanned the flames of their passion, just like with the media. No one would be satisfied until it was over.

And when it was over, what then? Would he be able to put the whole sordid affair behind him, or would they still be demanding his take on it? The media could milk any crime, any scandal, any indescretion on any celebrity's part for all it was worth until the next big shocker came along. This trial was a tabloid writer's dream: money, murder, adultery, the mob, a gorgeous wife, and of course a hot celebrity magician thrown into the mix. Definatly movie-of-the-week material. Criss could do nothing except hope that the whole thing would blow over and the Piccucci Affair would fade into the annals of history. Unfortunatly, he still had to deal with the present, as he was about to find out.

He was in his office, poring over the reviews of Believe, his magnum opus with Cirque de Soleil. Things had picked up lately--the shows were selling out, and people lined up to get tickets. The reviews were mixed: many were positive, but there were a few who dismissed it as an overblown magic show. Well, there was no pleasing everyone, he thought. Hell, even Houdini had his detractors. The important thing was that Believe was selling out night after night--why should he care about the opinion of a few tight-assed critics?

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Criss called out, still perusing the reviews.

Costa entered. Criss looked up at his brother and smiled. "Hey, Cos, whassup?" he greeted him.

Costa didn't smile back, just held up a magazine. "I got something here I think you should see," he said, handing it to Criss.

Criss opened the magazine. He noticed with distaste that it was Celebnooz, one of the sleaziest gossip rags in the trade. Time and again Criss' name and photos had been splashed across its pages with whatever rumors circulating about him at that particular moment trumpeted loudly in lurid headlines. Like other rational, thinking beings, he dismissed the tabloid as trash, unworthy of attention. Why his brother would bring him a copy puzzled him; he knew Costa was too intelligent for such drivel. "So, what's the deal?" he asked.

"Read this," he said, pointing it out to him.

Criss looked at the garishly printed page before him. What he saw made his blood boil and his jaw drop into his lap. It had nothing to do with the Piccucci Affair, but to him, it was just as devastating:

CRISS ANGEL'S MOM DATING MOBSTER!

read the headline. Below it was a photo of Springs and Dimitra walking side by side, hardly touching each other, in what looked like a restaraunt. From the way she was dressed, Criss could tell that the photo had been taken after their first dinner date together. "What the (bleep)?!" he exclaimed, glaring at the picture.

"I'm just as (bleeped) off as you are," Costa said. "I don't know how it happened, but there it is."

Criss threw down the magazine in outrage. "Those mother(bleepers)!" he snarled. "Those (bleeping bleepers)! God Almighty! I can't believe they did this!"

"Hey, it's what they do," Costa reminded him. "It's their stock and trade to spread rumors, no matter what or who's involved. It's part and parcel of being a celebrity, you know that."

"About celebrities, yeah, okay, I can handle it," Criss conceded. "But about Mom? Geez! This is hitting below the belt, man! No one trashes my mother, and I don't give a (bleep) who's doing it! So help me, God, I'm gonna sue their asses for this!"

Costa grabbed Criss by the shoulders in an effort to calm him down. "Criss, if you take any kind of legal action against them, it's gonna make a bad situation worse; you'll only be spreading the story farther if you make it public. You'll only be playing into their hands by making a big deal about it. My advice is to do what you've always done with this rag--ignore it. Everyone knows Celebnooz is nothing but a pack of lies. I mean, who reads this (bleep) anyway? Hell, you've been trashed yourself in this, and no one's called you out over it, and I doubt anyone's gonna call you out on this one. Take my advice, Criss, and don't do anything about it. I promise you, nothing's gonna come out of it."

Criss looked at his brother. "You think so, huh?" he said.

"I know so."

"Well, I hope you're right, Cos," he said, keeping his anger in check, "because if something does come out of it, someone's gonna be sorry he ever snapped that picture. No one--but no one!--slanders Mom like that! No one! Got that?"

[RACHEL02189]

I would love to know what Criss would think if this was real

[Veritas]

As the day of the Piccucci trial drew nearer, Las Vegas seemed to be swept up with mobster fever. Clubs threw parties with a Twenties/Thirties theme. Party guests dressed in costumes of the period: double-breasted pinstriped suits, two-toned shoes, flapper dresses with cloche hats, all accessorized with hip flasks, fake tommy guns and "heaters" (pistols). Bars turned into Prohibition-era speakeasies, complete with secret passwords and fake police raids to add to the drama. DVDs of Casino, Goodfellas, all three Godfather movies, and other gangster films flew off the shelves.

Television networks aired any episodes from CSI Miami, NY, or Las Vegas dealing with organized crime. The History Channel held a "Mob Rule Week", showing marathon reruns of Mobsters, Godfathers, The Mafia, and other series. Turner Classics ran every gangster film in their library starring James Cagney, Peter Lorre, Humphrey Bogart, and Edward G. Robinson. Frontline, 48 Hrs., and other news documentary channels aired interviews with Donnie Brasco and Joe Valachi, the two men who fingered the Mafia and lived to tell about it.

It was during this time that Springs' interview was aired for the first time on History Channel. Practically overnight, the former small-time gangster became a celebrity, no longer a relic of a bygone era but a living legend who had actually known the rich and infamous from the golden era of Vegas. He posed for pictures; he answered questions about his past, clearing up misconceptions about the Syndicate; he met the decendents of those who had worked in the original Glitter Gulch casinos, who showed him photographs and asked him if he recalled anyone in them, which he seldom did--sixty years at most had passed when they had been taken, and names and faces had faded from his memory. He even posed with the Mayor Goodman and the Las Vegas Historical Society for a feature article for the Sunday paper--all the more poignant, since Goodman had been called "The Mouthpiece of the Mob" when he was a defense attorney back in the Seventies, defending gangsters like "Lefty" Rosenthal and others. By the end of the week, the forgotten hoodlum had become as famous as Bugsey Siegel himself. Some viewed him as a criminal, others as a sort of anti-hero, like Dillenger or Bonnie and Clyde. It didn't matter to him--Springs was riding high, and he was enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

That is, until someone made the Celebnooz article about Springs' supposed "involvement" with Criss Angel's mother public knowledge.

Ironically, it started with a post on the fanboards from an indignant Loyal who spotted the article in that particular tabloid. He/she was upset about "that trashy piece of crap" turning beloved Mama Angel into a gun moll. How dared they slander Dimitra like that? How could they do such a thing? and so on and so on. The post itself would have faded into cyberobscurity had the poster not reproduced the actual article on the site.

Other outraged Loyals fired off their defense of Criss' mother, spreading the flames to other fansites. Soon, other entertainement sites picked up on the story, complete with the controversial photograph. The webs transferred to print, and in less than a week, the National Enqurirer, the Star, US, People, and Entertainment Weekly had picked up on it. Criss Angel's mother involved with a mobster with ties to the Syndicate was just too juicy to ignore.





The girls sat in Alicia's bedroom. Snow had piled up outside, cancelling school for the day. Mom was at work, and Kyle had made a rare foray outside, sliding down the snow-covered slopes by the railroad tracks on giant inner tubes, so they could talk undisturbed. They had just read the article about Dimitra and Danny "Springs" Springer in the entertainment section of the local newspaper, the only source of outside information allowed in the Rose household.

"Do you think it's true?" MA asked. "I mean, you met the guy when you were in Vegas last year, right?"

"Well, I met him," Alicia said, "but I really didn't get to know him. He was just there in the hallway, you know? I didn't know who he was then. I was too scared that Pamela was going to shoot me at the time. He was just an old man in the hallway who got in the way. Tell you the truth, he didn't look like he could hurt anyone--he walked like he was crippled or something, limping and shuffling like that. And besides, I don't think Dimitra was even there at the time."

"But do you think it's true?" MA persisted.

"That Dimitra's going out with him?" Alicia shrugged helplessly. "Well, maybe they're not going out as in 'going out', but going out like 'hanging out'. I mean, how old is Dimitra, anyway?"

"Seventy-four," MA answered.

"And this guy is...what?..." Alicia scanned the article. "Eighty-six. Hmph! I don't know how romantic you can get at that age."

"So you're saying they're just friends?"

"At that age?" Alicia sniffed. "What else could you be?"

"But what if they're not friends at all?" MA suggested. "Maybe they were just walking side by side without knowing it, and some paparazzi took their picture and blew the whole thing out of proportion? They'd do that, you know."

"If that's true, then Dimitra and Criss could sue the magazine for...what do you call it?"

"Libel?"

"I think it's slander, but it's the same thing, so, yeah, that's it."

"Even if it was true," MA said, "I'd still sue if I was Criss."





"I'LL SUE THEM!!"

Criss furiously pitched the magazine he had been reading across the suite, sending his cat Hammie scurrying for cover. "So help me, God, I'm gonna sue those mother(bleepers)!" he ranted.

"Criss, take it easy--" his brother, Costa, tried to calm him.

"Take it easy? Take it easy?!" Criss turned on Costa like a snarling animal. "'Nothing's gonna come out of this,' you said! 'Just ignore it', you said! 'Nobody reads that crap, anyway,' you said! Well, look what the (bleep) happened! They turned Mom into a mobster's floozy, and all because of that one photo!" He threw himself on the sofa. "Jeeezuskhrist!"

"Hey, you think I'm not upset over this?" Costa said defensively. "I'm as (bleeped) off about it as you are."

Criss sat on the sofa, fuming. "How the hell did it get out, anyway? Who let it leak out?"

"Criss, it could have been anyone," Costa said.

"No," Criss argued. "It was Celebnooz. They got their own website, remember?"

"Anyone with a PC could have spread it around," Costa pointed out.

"I still hold them responsible."

"You know what I think?"

"No," Criss retorted.

Costa ignored his brother's rude remark. "I think we should find Mom and sound her out about all this. She may want to just ignore it."

"What about Springs?"

"We'll talk to him later. Right now, we got some damage control to do, and it starts with Mom."

"Do you think she's read it already?" Criss asked, fearing the worst.

"If she hasn't," Costa replied, "we'll break it to her gently. This is gonna really upset her, so let's approach this with kid gloves."





As it turned out, Dimitra had read the article, from the very issue of Celebnooz that Criss had discarded. She had discovered it in his office when she went to see him last week, and had found it lying on the floor. Instinctively, she picked it up to toss it in the wastebasket, mentally admonishing her youngest son about his lack of housekeeping skills as she did so, but the image of her with Danny caught her eye. She was shocked to discover that someone had taken a picture of them as they were coming out of Andamo's restaraunt, and had blown their friendly little dinner engagement completely out of proportion. Now she sat in Criss' suite, shaken to the core. Costa and Criss sat beside her, trying to comfort her as best they could while keeping their own anger in check. Their eldest brother, JD, had been summoned earlier to help defuse the situation, but had not yet arrived.

"It was just dinner, that was all," Dimitra murmured, still in shock. "Nothing happened between us. It was just dinner."

"We know that, Ma," Criss said. "We know you and Danny didn't do anything wrong. It's just the tabloids were there, snooping around for a scoop. I've been a victim myself, you know. The more famous you are, the bigger the target you become. Like Costa said, it's what they do."

"Can't you do something about this, Christopher?" Dimitra pleaded. "Tell them the truth, make them stop all this? They'll listen to you."

Costa shook his head. "No good, Ma," he said. "He has no more power over the press than you do. If we deny it, they'll scream cover up and make us look even more guilty. If we insist they stop, they'll just do it more. They're like dogs with a chunk of meat between them--once they sink their teeth into it, they won't let go until it's been devoured. The only way we could get back at them is if we could prove that what they said was a total lie, except that there's the smallest grain of truth in it--you have been seen with Springs, and you were friends with him, so it's our word against theirs. All we can do is wait until the storm blows over."

"That's what you told me last time, Cos," Criss shot back, "and look what happened--it got worse! No, we gotta fight this thing head-on!"

"How do you propose to do that, Christopher?" Dimitra asked calmly.

Silence was the only answer Criss had to give.

[Veritas]

If Pamela Piccucci had heard about Springs and Dimitra Sarantakos, she probably would have laughed or at least sneered at the octogenarian former mobster dating Criss Angel's seventy-four year old mother. The Clark County lockup, however, did not allow any newspapers, magazines or any other form of outside contact save for letters from family, and those were scanned for content by the guards. She was completely cut off from the world where she was; the only person who came to see her was her defense attorney who had been moving heaven and earth to avoid the death penalty for her.

Three weeks had passed since her rearrest and there was still no word from Nigel. Hope gave way to despair with each passing day without hearing from him. By the middle of the third week of her captivity, she began to realize that Nigel had given up on her, just like everyone else. Boy, Pam, she said to herself, you really know how to pick 'em!

She rubbed her face with her hands as she sat in her seven-foot-square cell, dressed in the garish orange scrubs with CLARK COUNTY CORRECTIONAL FACILITY stenciled on the back of her shirt. Her makeup had long since been scoured off, and her once carefully coiffed hair now hung in shaggy brown strands. There were no mirrors, not even in the bathrooms, for her to use to fix herself up. As time passed, she had forgotten what she looked like, or rather what she used to look like. She could only look at her hands, those once petal-soft hands with the perfectly manicured nails that shone pearly pink from buffing and polishing. The hands she saw now were coarse and raw from three weeks of washing with commercial soap and calloused from the wooden handles of the broom which she pushed as part of her work detail assigned to her by the supervisor. They were the hands of an old crone, not an heiress. She could only wonder if her face showed the same ravages of time as her hands did.

Her waistline had broadened, due to the heavily carb-laden diet of the lockup and the lack of exercise. Apart from mealtimes in the cafeteria and the ninety-minute work detail, she was confined in her cell like everyone else--more so, since she was considered a "flight risk". She had tried to do some calisthenics in her cell, but it was too narrow to do anything besides run in place and touch her toes. As her despair deepened, she gave up on even these simple exercises and began to look as dumpy as her fellow inmates.

God! How she wanted out of here! To see the sky, to feel the sun on her face, to breathe the fresh air, she would have sold her soul to the devil! Every day dragged with leaden feet in this hellhole until Pamela didn't even know what day it was anymore. She looked around her cell. No art, no color, no light except for the tiny window which allowed only a few threads of morning sunlight for only a few hours, just a seven foot square hole in the wall that was smaller than her wardrobe at her home in Vegas, with a shelf attached to one wall serving as a bed. The walls seemed to close in on her, suffocating her, threatening to crush her.

Suddenly, Pamela clutched her chest and began gasping for breath. The walls were closing in on her! She had to get out of here! She needed air! Frantically, she clawed at the steel-reinforced door of her cell, trying to open it. There was no handle on the inside, but there was a small opening where prisoners held out their hands to be cuffed or uncuffed. She lowered herself to the floor and positioned herself by the opening. "Help me!" she screamed. "I got to get out of here! I can't breathe! Help me, please! Get me out of heeeeeeeeerrrrrrre!"

The only response were the jeering catcalls from her fellow inmates. "Here, fishy, fishy! Here, fishy! Fishy! Fishy! Here, fishy!"

Pamela shriveled up into a ball and sobbed uncontrollably.




It had been a very quiet trip to Las Vegas for Alicia and Nancy Rose. Mother and daughter barely spoke to each other except when it was necessary. There was no animosity between them, no anger or resentment, just the grim, businesslike attitude of a parent escorting her child to court. Alicia felt a bit intimidated by her normally chatty mother's dour silence during the car ride to the airport, then during the wait in the terminal, then the flight. She had said nothing to her except the usual "Have you got everything?" "Do you have your papers?" and "Don't forget your schoolbooks; you can do your homework on the plane." From her mother's attitude, one would have thought Alicia herself was being tried instead of Pamela Piccucci.

Alicia had secreted MA's drawing in her backpack, along with the specially selected birthday card for Criss. How she was going to present it to him without her mother's interference was going to be a problem. She had no idea of the layout of the Clark County District Courthouse, or how many people were going to be in there. She figured if she could somehow separate herself from her mother, lose herself in the crowd, then work her way toward Criss, she'd have just enough time to hand him his present. If she was lucky, there would be time for a quick kiss. Other than that, she would just have to play it by ear, wait for her opportunity, then make her move. It was risky, but for Criss, it would be worth it.

Nancy Rose had located reasonably affordable accomodations close to the courthouse, a double room in a small, independently owned motel. Alicia had secretly longed for the Luxor, but knew her mother could neither afford nor did not desire to stay there; her moratorium against "that Criss Angel person" was still in full effect, more so since they arrived. She was not allowed to go sightseeing or shopping, as they were in a strange city as her mother put it, even though the motel provided a map of downtown Las Vegas highlighting all the shops, restaraunts, clubs and casinos. Homework was the only activity permitted during their stay (she had been given her assignments ahead of schedule during her two-day stay for the trial so she would not have to make up her work upon her return), making her feel more and more like a prisoner instead of a witness.

So there was Alicia, dutifully studying at the writing desk in the small motel room while her mother reclined on one of the double beds, reading a paperback novel. She longed to be free, to go out and find Criss, but she was stuck with her mother in this cheap motel room laboring over her math homework. All she could do was bide her time until tomorrow, when she would go to the courthouse and testify against Pamela Piccucci, and hopefully she would see him there.

She had finished her studying by six-thirty that evening, though her body was telling her that it was eight-thirty in the evening. She vaguely recalled that Las Vegas was on Pacific time, while Iowa was on Central, a two-hour difference in time zones. She was a bit hesitant to say anything about it to her mother; her present mood hadn't eased since their arrival. Still, she decided to risk it.

"I'm done with my homework, Mother," she said quietly and politely. "When are we going to have dinner? I'm getting kinda hungry."

Nancy looked up from her book. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Six-thirty."

Nancy looked at her watch. "I got eight-thirty," she said, somewhat surprised.

"Las Vegas is two hours behind us," Alicia explained. "They're on Pacific time."

Suddenly, her mother remembered. "Oh, that's right" she said, adjusting her watch. "Well, come on, let's go down and get something to eat."

Alicia could tell by the tone of her mother's voice that she begrudged her daughter's request for food. "Mom, if you don't want to go, just say so," she said.

"Well, of course I want to go," her mother protested. "You said you were hungry, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah, but the way you're acting it's like you resent it," Alicia argued. "In fact, it's like you resent taking me here to Vegas. If you didn't want to go, why didn't you arrange for someone else to take me?"

Nancy stood there, unsure of how to answer.

"Ever since we left Marvinville, you made me feel like I'm the one who's the prisoner here," Alicia continued. "You've barely said a word to me since we got in the car. Now that we're here, I can't go anywhere, I can't do anything. This is Las Vegas, Mom, the Entertainment Capital of the World! If we're going to stay here, at least let's have a little fun, okay?"

"We're not here to have fun, Alicia," her mother said, "we're here because you witnessed a murder and you're testifying tomorrow."

"So? We can still have a good time while were here, can't we?"

"I'm not going to let you run around in a strange city all by yourself--"

"So, you can come with me--"

"I have no desire to go sightseeing tonight," Nancy said. "This isn't a vacation, Alicia, this is serious."

Alicia sighed in exasperation. "Geez, Mom, lighten up a little, willya? You've been acting like a prison warden since we left. I'm just saying that since we're here, let's make the most of it. Why can't you just relax and enjoy yourself for a change?"

"Because I have a responsibility toward you, that's why," her mother replied. "Just remember, you ran away from home, made me worried sick about you, and you ended up witnessing a murder to boot! And you think I'm going to let you take a holiday after all that?"

"I said you could come with me."

"The only place you're going with me is to the courthouse tomorrow," her mother retorted. "The sooner this business is behind us, the better we'll all feel. In the meantime, we'll just go down to the diner and get something to eat."

Alicia burst into tears. "Forget it," she said, throwing herself onto the other double bed. "I'm not hungry anymore."

"Alicia!"

"Just forget it!"

She buried her face into the stiff linen pillowcase, smothering her sobs. Nancy sighed. Somewhere along the way the lines of communication had broken down between them, she thought. Where did it all go wrong?

Oh, she knew where it went wrong: with that Criss Angel person. Ever since Alicia discovered that man and his TV show, she had gone from a sweet little girl to a rebellious teenager. It was all his fault she was this way. Nancy had tried to break her daughter's obsession with him, but it seemed the damage had been done. She had hoped that her new friend, Mary Ann, that fine, wholesome girl who belonged to the Altar Society and the Youth League, would steer her away from this dangerous obsession, but without success.

Alicia continued to weep silently in her pillow. Nancy began to feel a bit of pity for her. Maybe it's a phase, she thought. Children go through phases growing up. I'm sure she'll grow out of this one in time. Adolescence is never an easy time for any child. True, she almost got herself killed by this obsession of hers, but maybe she's learned her lesson from her experiences.

She sat down on the bed beside Alicia. "Look, it's been a long trip," she said, trying to comfort her sobbing daughter. "We're both under a lot of stress, and we're both going through jet-lag, so why don't we just go out for a bite to eat and call it a night." A burst of magnaminity came forth. "We'll even have some ice-cream if you want," she said cheerfully.

Alica turned over to face her mother with tear-streaked eyes. "That's your solution to everything, isn't it?" she rasped. "When you can't handle the truth, you bury it in a dish of ice-cream. Sometimes I'm not really sure what decade you think you're living in."

Nancy was taken aback at these words from her daughter. "You don't understand," Alicia went on bitterly. "You just don't understand at all. You never have, and you probably never will. It's like you're living on another planet, you know? I've never been able to open up to you because you seem to be living in the past and you can't relate to what's really going on in this century. You condemn everything I love because it doesn't fit into what you think the world should be. I'm not you, Mom, I'm me! I love Criss Angel, you hate him--fine! At least respect me for my choices in life."

"It's fine to respect other people's choices in life," Nancy conceded, "but if those choices are life threatening, then it's my duty as a parent to steer you away from them."

"Criss Angel is not life threatening, Mother!" Alicia snapped. "He's the man who saved my life, remember? I hope that when you meet him tomorrow, you'll see that he's not the horrible monster you think he is!"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow, at the trial! He has to be there, because he's the one who apprehended Pamela Piccucci! He's the one who kicked the gun out of her hand!"

"If he's there tomorrow," Nancy said. "I'd like to meet him."

Now it was Alicia's turn to be surprised. "You would?"

"Yes, I would," Nancy replied. "In fact, I'd like to have a few words with him myself."

A sense of foreboding crept over Alicia. "In the meantime," Nancy continued, "I don't want you going near that man if he is there, at least not until I've had a chance to speak with him. Now, let's have some supper and turn in. We've got a busy day ahead of us tomorrow."

Alicia trudged behind her mother to the diner. In a moment of clarity, she realized she had overplayed her hand with that last outburst, and now her mother would practically shackle her to her side in the courthouse. How was she going to give Criss his birthday present now?





The Honorable Judge Hendershot had given explicit orders that the trial of Pamela Piccucci was to be "closed": no cameras, reporters, or anyone else not summoned by the court to appear was allowed in the courtroom for the duration of the trial. The last thing he wanted was a media circus, he said.

Unfortunatly, a media circus was what the Piccucci trial was turning into. The day of the trial had not even dawned when camera crews, reporters, news photographers, and the reviled paparazzi laid siege upon the Clark County District Courthouse. To add to the general mayhem, stalwart Loyals crowded the entrance to catch a glimpse of their idol, convinced he would be summoned to testify. After all, Criss was the one who apprehended Pamela Piccucci with that karate kick, so he had to be there, they reasoned. Besides, his birthday was two days away, and no Loyal worth his or her circle-A pendant was going to let it go unobserved, even if it was in a courthouse.

It was chilly during those early hours of that December morning. The fans huddled in blankets, braving the elements, waiting patiently for the appearance of The Angel himself. They whiled away the time taking pictures of each other, videotaping birthday messages to Criss, chatting and schmoozing as if it was a Loyalfest. Meanwhile, the media were setting up their equipment, making sound checks and whatever other checks had to be made to broadcast the trial to the world at large. They, too, wanted to see Criss, to interview him, get his opinion about the trial, and to try and get a statement regarding his mother dating a mobster.

In his hotel suite, Criss dressed as conservatively as his wardrobe would allow: a black suit, white shirt, dress shoes instead of his usual boots. It was the same outfit he had worn for Easter services at Holy Trinity. He still looked suavely fashionable, even without his trademark bling dangling from his neck, but today it didn't matter. The summons he had received back in October lay on the table; he needed it to get into the courtroom. He was still upset over the Celebnooz article concerning his mother and Springs, and wished he was going to court to sue them for defamation, if not libel, but he had to put that on the back burner for now. This morning, he had other fish to fry.

[Veritas]

Springs stared unbelivingly at the mob scene outside the courthouse from the inside of his Mercedes. Almost a hundred blanket-wrapped onlookers held up placards with WE LUV U CRISS and other protestations of love and devotion for their idol. News vans lined the street, their crews carrying and setting up the most sophisticated audio-visual equipment the old mobster had ever seen. All around the perimeter, uniformed police officers struggled to keep order, herding the crowd behind wooden barricades cordoning off the main entrance.

"Geez-Louise!" Springs exclaimed. "I ain't seen a crowd like that since the Rosenberg trial back in the Fifties!"

He hadn't been officially subpoenaed for the trial, but he was just as eager to see justice done as anyone else. With the help of Detective Meridian and the district attorney, he managed to get a ringside seat in the courtroom for the trial. Besides, he had to drive Casey Worth, his caregiver, to the trial anyway; she was in the middle of this whole mess, poor kid, he recalled sympathetically. Casey sat beside him in the passenger seat, just as awestruck by the publicity of the trial as her employer.

Springs steered his car into the courthouse parking lot, noting with interest and a little amusement that valet parking was available. Well, it beat circling around trying to find a parking space, and trying to remember where it was later on, so he decided to take advantage of it. He pulled up to the drive, handed his keys to the casually dressed attendant, and he and Casey made their way into the courthouse.

"Geez!" he muttered, impressed. "Even the government's showing some class!"

The media outside the courthouse recognized the former gangster (and rumored love interest of Criss Angel's mother) and began snapping pictures of him. Reporters surged up to him, microphones in hand, barking questions and demanding statements. Springs tried to wave them off, Casey pleaded with them to let him be, but the press refused to retreat. The Clark County Sheriff's Department came to the old man's rescue and cleared a path for him and Casey to get through.

"Geez-Louise!" Springs panted. "Not even Capone got that kind of reception!"

The Loyals remained behind the barricades, anxiously awaiting the arrival of their idol. How would they know he was here? they wondered. Would he come in one of his customized cars? Or in a limo? Or maybe on one of his motorcycles? Or maybe he'd suddenly appear by magic? In the end it really didn't matter: Criss Angel could arrive riding on a donkey and they'd still be happy to see him. They just wanted to see him, touch him, hear his voice, snap a picture of him even with a cameraphone, and, of course, wish him a happy birthday with gifts and cards. He was the star of the show, the hero of the drama that was to unfold in the courtroom that day, their idol, their Angel. He was their everything.

The Loyals were so wrapped up with expectation as tightly as their blankets and sleeping bags, they paid no heed to the cab pulling up to the curb, nor to the three young people getting out of it. The three surviving Piccucci children, Andrew, Matt and Heather, made their way into the courthouse undisturbed and unnoticed. No one seemed to care about the burden of sorrow and shame the two boys felt about their mother being tried for their father's murder. Heather Piccucci, Mick's daughter by Tina LaRue, had agreed to chaperone the two boys to the trial. There was no animosity between them; indeed, they barely knew each other except by name. They had received their share of the estate and had moved on with their lives, the boys in California, Heather in Las Vegas.

Next to arrive was Detective Jim Meridian. A few reporters ran up to him for a statement, but all he gave them was a curt "No comment", and went into the courthouse. He knew from long experience that blabbing to the press about the details of a trial, any trial, was prejudicial to the case. He'd worked long and hard for this moment, and he wasn't going to blow it.

Another cab pulled up to the curb. Alicia Rose and her mother, Nancy, stepped out on the curb. Alicia strained to see anyone she knew among the Loyals, but her mother kept pulling her along, anxious to get this business over with. Alicia clutched a large handbag that she insisted carried "just a couple of books in case things got boring", as she told her mother. She even showed them to her: a copy of The Song of Bernadette for her English class, and a small paperback teen novel she had picked up at the drugstore before the flight. Nancy approved her daughter's choice of reading material and didn't say anything more about it. What Alicia didn't reveal was that the bag also contained the very special birthday present with the very special birthday card for Criss Angel, which she was determined to give to him one way or another.

Soon, a plain, nondescript blue Cadillac glided up the street. It tried to swing around unobtrusively to the back, but it was too late; both the media and the screming hoard of Loyals saw who was inside, and the Caddy was suddenly surrounded by estatic fans and pushy reporters. It took half the police force on duty there to clear away the pile of humanity so as to let its occupant out of the car. Criss Angel sighed heavily. "So much for anonyminity," he grumbled.

Bracing himself for an onslaught, he emerged from the Caddy, two police officers flanking him on both sides. Squeals and shrieks shook the midmorning air as the Loyals hailed their idol with undying devotion. Criss waved at them, shook a few hands, begged off signing autographs because of the trial, all the while fending off the persisitant press and their incessant interrogations.

"Criss, is it true your mother's dating a mobster?" a reporter demanded.

"He's not a mobster, and they're just friends, so leave them alone," Criss snapped.

"Criss, do you approve of your mother being associated with a member of the Guys--"

"They're just friends, okay?"

"What about the trial, Criss? Do you think Pamela Piccucci will get the death penalty?"

"That's for the court to decide, not me."

"Are you for or against the death penalty?"

"No comment."

Criss was escorted to the courtroom on the second level of the building. The parties involved were all waiting outside in the hallway: Casey Worth, Springs, the Roses, the Piccucci children, and Detective Meridian. Alicia's heart stopped when she saw him. "Criss!" she gasped, brightening.

She was about to dash into his arms when her mother halted her with an extended arm and a disapproving look. Alicia glared angrily at her. "You remain right where you are, young lady." Nancy ordered. "And as for you," she said, zeroing in on a bemused Criss, "I want to have a talk with you--privately."

"About what?" Criss asked, still bewildered.

Nancy Rose drew him aside into the elevator bank. She looked up at his face six inches away from her own and cut to the chase. "I don't know who you are, mister, but ever since my daughter's seen you on television she's been rebellious and arguementative, talking back to her elders, stealing money and sneaking around behind my back. Before she met you, she was such a sweet little girl, not an ounce of trouble from her. Now, she's turned into a...a punk! It's getting so I can't control her anymore! It was because of you she ran away from home, all the way from Iowa! She's turned against her family, her friends, and her church--and it's all your fault! If I had my way, I'd sue you for it!"

"On what grounds?" Criss wanted to know.

"Well..." Nancy thought about it. "Alienation of affection, for one thing."

Criss snorted in derision. "That's for married couples!" he exclaimed, laughing.

"Well, all right, maybe I can't sue you on those grounds," Nancy conceded, "but I can lead a boycott against you and your shows! I got the whole Catholic Church on my side, and once they know of your misleading ways, you'll be out of a job!"

"Go ahead," Criss challenged. "I've had religious groups riding my ass for years now, and all they've done was generate more publicity for me. The more they try to make me look bad, the more they make me look good. You know what they say: any publicity is good publicity."

"Now, see here, Mister Angel--"

"No, you see here, Mrs. Rose," Criss interrupted. "I didn't make Alicia run away--she chose to do that herself. It was all her idea to run away to Vegas like she did. I was just hosting a big Loyalfest for all my fans, that's all. I didn't even know who she was until Tina LaRue got murdered and she witnessed it in the ladies room. You accuse me of being a bad influence on your daughter? Well, let me tell you there are worse influences on kids than me, some even in your own community if you look carefully enough."

"Our community is a shining example of civic pride and public morals," Nancy retorted loftily.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

"Well, maybe you should take a closer look at this 'shining example' of yours," Criss suggested, "and you might just discover some tarnish on it. It's easy to create an illusion of public morality and civic pride, as you so proudly said--and believe me, I know about illusions. The only difference is I'm the only one willing to admit creating them."

"Are you saying that my friends and neighbors are all perverts or something?" Nancy accused him.

"No, I'm saying that you're naive to think that your community is so morally righteous that it's immune to crime," Criss told her. "No one's perfect, Mrs. Rose. Not me, not you, not Alicia--no one. That's why we're here in this courtroom today, to testify against an imperfect woman who murdered her husband and another woman because she got so greedy for her father-in-law's money. You think I'm a threat to public morals? Wait untl you see what's in that courtroom--then decide."

"All the same," Nancy said, refusing to back down, "I don't want you near my daughter ever again! If I see so much as your name in the paper, I'll burn it in the incinerator! If Alicia even mentions your name in my house, I'll wash her mouth out with soap! I am going to purge you from our lives if it's the last thing I'll do!"

Criss leaned against a wall. "You said in the beginning that you didn't know who I was, right? Well, maybe it's time you did."

With that, he told Nancy Rose the story of his life: he had had a strict Greek Orthodox upbringing by his Greek immigrant mother and bodybuilder father, who had instilled in him the ethics of hard work and persistance. Yes, he went through a rebellious phase in his early teens, but what adolescent didn't? He had worked in his father's restaraunt, started a music business with his brothers, and had been a role model student in school. He had put his career on hold when his father was stricken with cancer. He had done street magic, first in New York, then in Las Vegas. He had worked hard to get where he was today, and had never been in trouble with the law (at least not seriously). He was not a devil worshipper as some right-wing Christians claimed he was, nor did he mislead kids into immorality. He was an artist and an entertainer, nothing more. If he was guilty of anything, it was being too good at what he did.

"If you keep forbidding Alicia to have anything to do with me, she's just going to do it more," Criss pointed out. "The more you forbid her, the more appealing it becomes. You were a teenager once, Mrs. Rose. Didn't you have some sort of obsession in your life? Didn't you want to rebel against your parents' authority?"

"I was a perfectly normal, wholelsome young girl in my day," Nancy informed him. "My life centered around church and school, and family, of course."

"Boy," Criss said, "your life must have been boring as hell."

A giggle came from behind. Nancy and Criss turned to see Alicia standing there, her hand clapped over her mouth. "I thought I told you to stay where you were!" Nancy snapped at her daughter.

"Take it easy, Mrs. Rose," Criss admonished. "Alicia, come over here for a sec, willya?"

Alicia happily complied. Criss laid a hand on her shoulder. "Tell your mother about what happened in the service corridor after the murder," he said.

"Pamela Piccucci had a gun to my head," Alica began, "and when she saw Mr. Springs, she pointed it at him. Criss was there, and he pulled me behind him, like this." She demonstrated how Criss had shielded himself with his body. "Then he kicked the gun out of Pamela's hand and tackled her. He saved my life, Mom. How can you condemn him for that?"

Criss smiled. "You see? I'm not a pervert. I'm not the evil monster you think I am. I'm a man, just like every other man on this planet. I care about Alicia, really I do. I don't approve of her running away from home any more than you do, and I made sure she got home safe. In fact, I paid for her trip home. Ask Detective Meridian, he'll tell you."

Nancy stood there, unsure of what to make of this but refusing to back down. The rumbling sound of the courtroom doors startled her out of her reverie. "It's time, Mrs. Rose," Criss said. "Let's go."

Nancy turned to go. Criss followed, but Alicia stopped him. "Wait," she said, and pulled out the very special birthday present with the very special card and handed it to him. "Happy birthday," she whispered, choking back tears.

Criss took the gift. "Thank you, Alicia," he whispered back, and kissed her on the forehead.

"C'mon, Angel!" Springs called out. "We ain't got all day! Get a move on!"

Criss and Alicia entered the somber atmosphere of the courtroom together. Alicia no longer cared about the trial. All that mattered was that Criss got his present and she got a kiss in return. That one little kiss sent her soaring to heaven on angel's wings. It was bliss.

The bailiff's voice announcing the arrival of the Honorable Judge Hendershot bought her crashing back to earth, reminding her of the grim reason why she and Criss were there in the first place.

[RACHEL02189]

As the fresh prince said: PARENTS JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND

[Veritas]

Compared to the chaos from the media and the Loyals, the courtroom itself seemed eerily quiet. The twelve members of the jury sat in the jury box, actually a raised platform with twelve padded leather chairs and a wooden rail in front of it. A court reporter sat on her stool, preparing the dictation machine to transcribe the testamony of the witnesses and the defendant. Casey Worth sat somewhere in the middle of the courtroom, fidgeting nervously. The Roses sat on the opposite side, Nancy keeping her daughter as far away from Criss Angel as possible, though not far enough for Alicia to cast longing glances upon her beloved idol. Detective Meridian was front and center. Criss and Springs sat together close to the witness stand, conversing in low tones.

"So, how's your mother doin'?" Springs asked.

"She's good," Criss replied. "I'm still (bleeped) off about that Celebnooz article, though."

"Because of what they wrote, or who they wrote about?"

"Both," Criss spat.

"You still don't like your ma goin' out with a mobster?" Springs asked.

"It's not that at all," Criss protested. "It's how they blew it all out of proportion. They practically made Mom and you look like Bonnie and Clyde! I swear I'm gonna sue those (bleepers)! That guy had no right to take your photo like that! It's libel, that's what it is! Celebnooz is nothing but a filthy gossip rag spreading around lies and rumors and passing it off as news! You know they are, Springs! They slandered you almost as much as they did my mother."

"Look, we'll settle their hash later," Springs muttered. "It's time."

The side door of the courtroom opened. Two uniformed guards entered, escorting a haggard woman in prison orange and shackles on her wrists bound to a heavy leather belt. She was guided to the defendant's chair in the front of the courtroom where her attorney waited for her. The members of the jury saw her only as the one whose fate was in their hands, and nothing more.

Springs was stunned at the sight of the wretched woman in garish orange--this was not the Pamela Piccucci he remembered from the photographs of the family outings from the past. Gone were the designer clothes, the carefully coiffed hair, the cosmetics concealing the flaws of advancing age. Casey was a bit surprised as well; she remembered Mrs. Piccucci as a rather nice lady who had offered her a bouns for caring for her father-in-law. How she had changed! Then the memory of the hostage crisis in the service corridor came rushing back to her. Still, she could not help feeling a bit of pity for her, looking the way she did now. Is that what jail does to a person? she wondered.

"All rise."

Everyone present stood up as the Honorable Judge Hendershot ascended to the bench. He commanded them to be seated, then sat down himself. "The case of The State of Nevada v. Pamela Piccucci," he intoned. "Will the defendant please rise?"

Pamela struggled to her feet, hampered by her shackles. "Mrs. Piccucci, you are accused of two counts of murder, one count of attempted murder, one count of felony assault with a deadly weapon, three counts of assault with a deadly weapon, one count of causing a false alarm in a public place, and one count of violation of bond. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty," Pamela replied drily.

"You may be seated."

Pamela lowered herself down into her chair. "The prosecution will now give their opening statement," the judge commanded.

The prosecution was all to willing to give their opening statement. Pamela Piccucci had murdered her husband by blowing him up in his car, strangled her mother-in-law in a restroom, then took an innocent girl who had witnessed the crime hostage. Before that, she had planted a phony bomb in a cleaning cart of the woman, Casey Worth, who had been Mick Piccucci's sole heir to his estate, as a threat to give up the inheritance, causing havoc and chaos in the hotel where she had been employed as a housekeeper. Video surveillance showed Mrs. Piccucci carrying the "bomb" in a Gucci shopping bag, and she had all but confessed to her crimes when she held the witness and three other people hostage. Only the intervention of the police and the quick thinking of one Christopher Sarantakos, aka Criss Angel, prevented any more bloodshed.

Alicia gazed adoringly at Criss when the counsel made that last statement. Her mother, however, remained unmoved. The counsel went on recommending the defendant be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, and that meant the death penalty.

"She's gettin' the chair for sure," Springs whispered to Criss.

"Uh, I think it's lethal injection here," Criss reminded him.

"Whatever," Springs said, shrugging.

The prosecution ended their statement. Now, it was the defense's turn. Pamela's attorney made a heroic effort to refute the charges made against his client. How could a woman who had no knowledge of explosives blow up a car? How could she deliver a bomb, even a phony one, when she had been at the day spa all day? His client was a victim of circumstance, and nothing more, he insisted. To execute her would be to murder an innocent woman.

"Innocent, hell," Springs muttered under his breath. "I'll prove her innocent, all right."

The defense concluded their statement. "The court calls Pamela Piccucci to the stand."

Pamela stood up and shuffled to the witness stand. "Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" the bailiff intoned.

"I do," Pamela replied.

Springs sniffed. "Yeah, like hell she will."

[Veritas]

"Now, Mrs. Piccucci," the defense attorney said, "can you tell the court where you were on the day your husband was killed in his car?"

"I was at the day spa," Pamela replied. "I was there all day. You can check if you want."

"And on the day your mother-in-law, Tina LaRue, was strangled in the ladies room in the Luxor Hotel?"

"First of all, Tina was not my mother-in-law," Pamela testily replied. "She divorced Mick years ago. And I was out shopping that day, then I got my hair done at Etenne's."

"And on the day of the bomb threat?"

"When was that again?"

"March of last year."

"Oh, I don't know, I can't remember. We were so caught up in the aftermath of Mick's death and the reading of the will, that much I remember, I don't know what else I did, or at least any thing out of the ordinary, aside from the funeral and the will and all."

"But you were nowhere near the Luxor Hotel."

"I've never been there at all."

"Do you know Casey Worth?"

"Of course. She was Mick's nurse."

"And you knew that Mick left his entire estate to her in his will?"

"I was at the reading of the will, Counselor," Pamela retorted. "I know what was in it."

"Were you aware of any threats made against Ms. Worth?"

"If there were threats made against Casey, they undoubtedly came from Tina. She was always a greedy b--....witch."

"Do you have any idea who killed your husband?"

"It had to be Tina. Who else could it have been?"

It coulda been you, Springs thought bitterly. You wanted that dough as much as Tina did, you mad-dog (bleep).

"Then who killed Tina, in your opinion?"

"I have no idea. It certainly wasn't me."

There were more questions about Pamela's whereabouts during the murders, then the prosecution took over. The counsel did not question her directly, but bought the court's attention to the videotapes of Pamela smuggling in the phony bomb in the Gucci shopping bag, then the standoff in the service corridor. In the first, Pamela's face was concealed, barely recognizable from the grainy images on the surveillance tape. The second, however, showed Pamela more clearly, leveling the pistol in front of Casey, Criss and Springs. Criss was shown pulling the frightened Alicia behind him, shielding her from certain death with his own body.

"You see, Mom," Alicia whispered. "He really was a hero."

Nancy shushed her daughter and turned her attention back to the proceedings. The prosecution showed the pistol, labeled Exhibit B, the phony bomb contraption, labeled Exhibit A, the blue scarf used to strangle Tina LaRue, labeled Exhibit C, and the threatening letters, labeled Exhibit D. They all had her fingerprints on them, he said, and with video surveillance, it clearly showed she was responsible for at least on of the murders, the threats against Casey, and the assault with a deadly weapon charge.

Pamela said nothing. She was dismissed from the stand. "The court calls Alicia Rose to the stand."

Fear shot through Alicia's bony frame. Instinctively, she turned to her mother for assurance. For the first time since the Roses arrived in Las Vegas, Nancy reached out to her daughter tenderly. "It's okay, honey," she whispered. "Just go up there and tell the truth."

Alica stood on shaking legs and stepped up to the stand. Her nervously wandering eye fell upon Criss Angel, but not even his presence could calm her pounding heart in the face of the ordeal awaiting her. The bailiff's administration of the oath echoed distantly in her ears--all she could do was nod. "You have to speak up," the bailiff reminded her.

She choked out a feeble "yes", barely audible to the court reporter who recorded it anyway. Then she collapsed onto the seat in the witness stand, unable to stay on her feet any longer.

"How old are you, Alicia?" the prosecution asked.

"Thirteen," she squeaked.

"Could you repeat that louder, please?"

Alicia drew a deep breath. "Thirteen," she said into the microphone more clearly.

"Can you tell the court what you saw on the day of March**, 20**?"

Alicia swallowed hard, unable to speak at first. Again, she glanced at Criss, who gave her a reassuring nod and a thumbs up. That simple gesture gave her the courage she needed to speak. "I was in the restroom in the Luxor Hotel," she began. "I was there to attend Loyalapalooza, and I had to go to the bathroom, so I went into the restroom. I was in the stall when I saw this pair of legs wearing those kind of stockings with the seams running up the back, real shiny, like silk, and high heels. Then I saw the legs shuffle about, like they were falling, then I peeked out, and saw a hotel maid strangling the lady with the stockings and the high heels. I didn't know who she was at the time, but I saw her get killed."

"How did the hotel maid strangle the 'lady with the stockings and high heels'?"

"With a blue scarf," Alicia replied. "A dressy scarf, not the kind you wear in the winter."

The prosecution held up Exhibit C. "Was this the scarf used in the murder?"

"That's the one."

"Now, could you tell the court what happened in the service corridor?"

"Well..." Alicia blushed. "I was in the security office, and I was getting hungry from all the waiting, so I decided to slip out and get something to eat--I was going to come right back, really I was! But, anyway, she caught me, and put a gun to my head, and dragged me off." She sniffled a little. "I was so scared."

"Who caught you?"

"That woman dressed as a hotel maid who killed the other lady."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, she was dragging me along, when she stopped. She saw Mr. Springs, though I didn't know who he was at the time."

"Who's Mr. Springs?"

"He's over there, sitting next to Criss."

Springs waved casually. Alicia continued her testamony. "Anyway, she threatened him with the gun, then Criss and Casey came in, and the lady threw me into Criss' arms. Criss held me behind him, saying she'd have to get through him first. He protected me, Mr. Lawyer, really he did!"

"I'm sure he did. Now, do you remember what happened next?"

"Well, I heard Casey identify her as Mrs. Piccucci, and I thought it wierd she knew her. Then she went on about how her husband being dead, and how killing Tina was justifiable homicide. Then Detective Meridian showed up and ordered her to freeze, then Criss tackled her. Criss is a hero, Mr. Lawyer. He saved me, and Casey and Mr. Springs. Of course, Detective Meridian was a big help, too," she amended.

Thanks a lot, kid. Meridian thought.

"Is the person who murdered the woman and held you hostage in the restroom here in this courtroom right now?" the prosecutor asked.

"Yes," Alicia said. "She's sitting over there, in the orange jumpsuit."

Pamela glared at Alicia, but the latter took no notice. The counsel for the defense cross-examined Alicia, trying to discredit her testamony on the grounds that she had been a runaway, but was overruled by the court. Alicia stuck to the truth, stealing glances of Criss' face for encouragement: yes, she had been a runaway, and yes, she had lied to come to Vegas, but she only wanted to see Criss Angel. She hadn't planned on witnessing a murder--that was something else altogether. The judge agreed with her and insisted that Pamela was on trial, not Alicia.

Alicia was dismissed from the stand. The poor girl practically bolted away from the stand. Criss stood up as she stepped through the gate separating the bench from the viewing area. Impulsively, she and Criss embraced, to the horror of her mother sitting on the other side. "Oh, God, I was so scared," she whimpered.

"It's okay, Alicia," Criss whispered. "You did just fine."

Alicia and Criss untangled themselves and resumed their seats in the viewing area, Criss next to Springs, Alicia next to her chagrined mother. Alicia could not help but feel a bit triumphant over her hugging Criss like that. Score one for the home team! she thought, gloating.

"The court summons Casey Worth to the stand."

Casey rose and walked up to the witness stand. She took the oath and sat down. "Now, Ms. Worth," said the counsel for the prosecution, "you were the only one who inherited the estate of one Michael Piccucci, Sr., is that correct?"

"Yes, sir, it said so in the will, and let me tell you I wasn't happy about it."

"No? Why not?"

"Because it bought me all kinds of misery," Casey replied. "I got a death threat in the form of two letters and a fake bomb, then I was nearly shot in the hallway of the hotel where I used to work, then I was sued by my own father for money I didn't have--it's been a nightmare! We were going to settle it in probate court, but Mrs. Piccucci tried to kill me for it. Everything Alicia said was true about what happened in the hallway that day. And that fake bomb scared everyone out of the hotel."

"Can you tell us what happened on that day, Ms. Worth?"

Casey related the story of the phony bomb found in her housekeeper's cart when she was in Criss' suite. He had found it first, she said, and they called the authorities. The bomb squad had been summoned, the hotel evacuated, and she and Criss had hidden themselves behind a trash dumpster. It had turned out to be a fake, but she had lost her job because the president of the hotel had deemed her a security risk. That was when she went to work for Mr. Springer "over there", she pointed out.

"And what about the day of Tina LaRue's murder?"

She had escorted Mr. Springer to the Luxor for an afternoon of gaming while she went to pick up her paycheck, she said. The hotel suddenly went into "some sort of lockdown" because there was a murder. Mr. Springer went in to identify the body, which he had confirmed was Tina LaRue. He'd been ordered to stay outside per Detective Meridian's orders, but being the garrulous old man he was, shuffled in for a drink. She had begged Criss to help her find him, only to end up in a hostage situation in the service corridor. Casey identified the gunwoman as Mrs. Piccucci, and had listened in horror of how she had killed not only Tina LaRue ("justifiable homicide" the way she had put it), but also her husband, Michael, Jr. Detective Meridian showed up, Criss had tackled Mrs. Piccucci, and that was the end of that.

"Are you sure it was Mrs. Piccucci who did all that?"

"Yes, sir, it was. She practically confessed everything in that hallway."

Again the cross-examination from the defense, and again no refutation or changes in testamony. Casey was dismissed from the stand. She flashed a smile at Springs, then at Criss, as she made her way back to her seat.

"The court summons Christopher Sarantakos to the stand."

Meridian was confused. Who the hell is that? he wondered, until he saw Criss walk up to the stand. Oh, him? Oh, yeah, I get it now--Criss Angel must be his stage name. With a handle like that, it's no wonder he shortened it!

The bailiff administered the oath."Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

"I do," Criss replied seriously.

"You may be seated."

Criss sat down. "Would you tell the court what happened on the day of the bomb scare in the Luxor?" the attorney asked.

"I was in my suite, getting ready to go to the gym, when Casey showed up to clean the suite. She wheeled in the cart, and I saw something gowing behind the vacuum cleaner. It looked like a bomb, so Casey and I got the hell out of there."

"Did you think Casey put the bomb in the cart?"

"She swore up and down she didn't," Criss replied. "And anyway, she was as scared as I was. She even reminded me to get my cat, Hammie. I can tell you, she's not the type to kill anyone. Later, we found out that 'bomb' was a threat--directed at her, not me."

"And what about the incident in the corridor?"

"I was just a bystander, that's all. I wanted to get back to work, but Casey was worried about Springs and wanted me to help look for him. Geez, all she had to do was look in the hotel lounge. But anyway, we got waylaid by Pamela there, holding a gun to our faces. She had Alicia in a sort of hammerlock with the gun to her head. She threw Alicia towards us, and I pulled her back behind me to protect her. Then Pamela went on about having killed her husband by blowing him up in his car, then practically confessed to killing Tina LaRue, saying it was justifiable homicide."

"Then what happened?"

"Detective Meridian came in and ordered her to freeze. She dropped her guard for a moment. I took advantage of that moment and tackled her, and Meridian came over and cuffed her. He's the real hero, here--I just helped."

Thanks, Angel, Meridian thought. I appreciate that.

The cross-examination did nothing to change Criss' testamony; he stuck to his guns, so to speak, fending off the defense's interrogation like so many karate kicks. Finally, he was dismissed from the stand.

"This court is recessed for one hour," Judge Hendershot said with a bang of his gavel.

The weary jury stood, stretching their aching limbs. Springs struggled to his feet, then regained his jovial composure. "Anyone care to join me for lunch?" he announced to the assembled company in the viewing area, clapping his hands together. "I'm starved!"

"If you're paying," Criss replied.

"Course I'm payin'. Cassie?"

"It's Casey, Mr. Springer."

"Whatever."

"And yes, I'd like that."

Springs turned to Heather, Andrew and Matt Piccucci. "Kids?"

"That'd be nice," Heather said in her usual timid way. "Thank you, sir." The boys nodded in agreement.

"How about you, gumshoe?" Springs said jovially. "You're the one who cracked this case."

Meridian laughed a little. It wasn't every day he got invited to lunch by a former mobster. Besides, he was somewhat interested in Springs' book due to come out soon. "Ah, what the hell?" he said, shrugging.

Springs turned to Alicia. "How about you, little girl?"

Alicia was about to enthusiastically agree, but her mother interrupted. "I'm afraid we'll have to pass, sir," Nancy said quickly.

"Why? What'sa matter? Something I said?"

"It's not you, Mr. Springer," Nancy said, "it's just that..."

"It's just that she doesn't trust me around her daughter," Criss spoke up. "She thinks I'm a bad influence or something."

Springs snorted and jerked his thumb toward Criss. "Him?" he laughed. "Hell, he's practically a Boy Scout. In fact, I know his mother--sweetest lady you ever met. You ain't got nothin' to worry about. Now, c'mon, lunch is on me!"

"Mom," Alicia hissed, "this man is a former mobster. I think we'd better take him up on his offer, don't you think?"

Nancy thought it over. "C'mon, Mrs Rose," Meridian said, smiling. "I'll make sure Criss behaves himself. He does anything funny, I'll put the cuffs on him."

"Sure, and watch me get out of them," Criss retorted half-jokingly.

Nancy ignored the jibe and nodded her reluctant assent, and all went down to the small cafe down in the lower level of the courthouse. "I'm warning you, mister," she hissed at Criss. "You stay away from my Alicia, understand?"

"I told you, I'm not a pervert, Mrs. Rose," Criss insisted. "I thought we made that clear already. What do I have to do to prove my good intentions, huh?"

"I'd prefer you disappear entirely," Nancy replied. "But all the same, I'll be watching you."

Good, Criss thought sarcastically. Maybe you'll learn some civility while you're at it!

[RACHEL02189]

That lady is pain in an ass

[Veritas]

The ground level cafeteria was a rather dull place, a cinderblock cellar with a steam table serving hot meals, some vending machines for soda and snacks, and an antiquated drinking fountain in one corner. Small square tables were positioned diagonally in the dining area, if it could be called that. Still, this didn't faze Springs. "Hell, I used to eat at the Automat back in New York," he said.

"What's the Automat?" Alicia asked.

"Oh, well, back in the Thirties and Forties, it was this place with all these little cubbyholes with glass doors containing food. You'd dropped some coins in the slot and took out what you wanted from them," Springs explained. "You'd get a dinner, pie, coffee, things like that. Back then, fifty cents could get you a whole meal with dessert at the Automat."

"Wow!" Alicia exclaimed. "Things were sure cheap back then."

"Yeah, well, it was the Depression, y'know," Springs went on. "You were lucky if you made fifteen dollars a week. Hell, Henry Ford paid five dollars a day, and that was a damn good wage back then."

Alicia looked up at her mother, who nodded in agreement. "It's true, you know," she said sagely. "Times were hard, harder than they are now. Banks had failed, businesses closed, people got by the best they could--just like today."

"So when did it end?" Alicia asked.

"It took a world war to get us out of it," Springs replied. "The whole economy shifted into overdrive for the war effort. Good pay, but..."

"As much as I appreciate the history lesson, Springs," Meridian interrupted, "but we only got fifty-two minutes until court reconvenes, so let's get something to eat, shall we?"

The group picked up their trays and chose their meals from the steam table. One of the workers behind the counter recognized Criss and doubled over in ecstacy, then pulled herself together long enough to serve him the chicken dinner he ordered. Criss took his meal, autographed a paper napkin for the counter waitress, and moved on. Meridian looked annoyed but said nothing. He was impatient with celebrities as a rule, always hogging the spotlight and demanding preferential treatment, though Criss Angel proved to be more tolerable than most. He'd been on the force too long to get starry-eyed over anyone famous, no matter who they were. If they were law-abiding citizens, he ignored them altogether; if they broke the law, their asses were his.

Springs approached the cashier first. "Party of seven," he said, jerking his thumb behind him. "I'm paying."

The cashier nodded, surprised at this unusual request but rang up the orders nonetheless. Springs looked around the dining area, not liking the arrangement of the small tables.

"C'mon, Angel," he said to Criss. "Let's make things a bit more cozy, shall we?"

They pushed the wobbly square laminate tables together to form one long dining table, with Springs at the "head". Meridian had the dubious honor of sitting on his right, while Casey, ever the devoted caregiver, sat at his left. Alicia wanted to sit next to Criss, but her overprotective mother decided that she would be safer sandwiched between herself and Detective Meridian. To Alicia's delight (and her mother's consternation), Criss strategically placed himself right across from her, giving her a mischievious wink as he did so. The Piccucci children sat at the end, with Heather at the "foot'.

The meals were served in clear plastic and styrofoam containers from the counter to be eaten with plastic utensils, but Springs' convivial mood gave the informal cafeteria an atmosphere of a four-star bistro. The normally taciturn Meridian began to lighten up a little; Heather Piccucci, usually a shy, timid soul, flashed one of her rare smiles, and even giggled at one of Springs' antiquated expressions. Even the uptight Nancy Rose began to drop her guard through the magic of the former gangster's old-school charm and mannerisms.

"So, when's your book coming out?" Meridian asked. "I'd like to read it sometime."

"They said next year," Springs replied. "Hope I don't croak before then."

"Ah, c'mon, Springs!" Criss nudged him playfully. "You're a tough old bird! You've made it this far, you'll last a few years longer."

"Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it."

"Oh, now don't start that again!" Criss groaned.

"Start what again?" Nancy Rose asked.

"Well, when you're eighty-six, life kinda loses its glamour," Springs sighed ruefully. "Hell, I outlived just about everyone in Vegas, from Bugsey Siegel to Elvis Presley, if you can believe it. They're all just memories now, memories I put on paper while I still had my marbles long enough to remember them. That's why I wrote that book in the first place--so no one would forget, especially me."

"Don't you have any family, Mr. Springer?" Nancy asked.

Springs shook his head. "Nope, all dead and gone. Both my exes and my son, Bryan--gone, just like everyone else I knew."

"What happened to your son?"

"Got killed in 'Nam, back in sixty-eight. He was only twenty years old when he died."

Nancy became immediatly sympathetic. "Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Springer."

"Yeah, well, sorry ain't gonna do nothin'," Springs grumbled. "I figure when my number comes up, we'll be together again in the Great Beyond, same with the exes. I just hope when I see Mick there, he'll have a brandy waiting for me, just for old times' sake."

"Mr. Springs?" Alicia piped up.

"Hm?"

"Is it true that you and Criss' mother are, well...?"

Her mother tried to silence her. "Alicia!" she hissed.

"Nah, nah, let her ask," Springs said. "We gotta clear the air about this, anyway, right, Angel?"

Criss nodded. "You see, Springs and my mom became friends one day when she was waiting for me to take her out to lunch. We ended up becoming a threesome, then it went on from there. They're just friends, that's all, no romance, at least not at their ages." he smiled a little at that last quip. "We even had dinner at his house, me, Mom and my brothers, didn't we, Springs?"

Springs looked knowingly at Criss. "You know why I invited you and your family to dinner, don't you?"

Criss stared blankly at Springs. "Because you got a little overpossessive of your mother, there, for a while," Springs said. "You didn't trust me around her for some reason. In other words, you were acting like the little girl's mother over there when you got friendly with her daughter."

Criss held up his hands in concession. "Okay, okay, I admit I jumped to conclusions about you at first," he admitted, "and I'm sorry I doubted you. But you have to understand we're a close knit family, and after losing Dad to cancer like that, well, my brothers and I became Mom's 'protectors' in a sense. But I want Mom to be happy, and if you can make Mom happy, then I'm happy, too." He extended a hand to Springs. "Friends?"

Springs took Criss' hand. "Hell, I ain't one to hold a grudge."

"But what about all those magazine articles?" Alicia pressed.

"Don't believe everything you read, Alicia," Criss told her. "Especially Celebnooz, which is nothing but a load of BS. They blew the whole thing out of proportion, and I'm still very upset about it."

"You and me both," Springs chimed in. "Buncha muckrakers."

"Are you going to sue them?" Alicia asked almost eagerly.

"Well, like Springs said, we'll settle with them later," Criss replied. "Right now, we gotta get through this trial first."

"Hope it ends soon," Alicia sighed. "I mean, with your birthday coming up and all, it's kind of a downer to be stuck in a courtroom and all that."

Springs brightened. "Oh, you got a birthday comin' up, Angel?"

Criss shrugged modestly. "Well, yeah, it's actually on Saturday--"

"Well, hey!" Springs crowed. "We gotta do somthin' about it! How old are ya? Thirty? Thirty-five?"

"I'll be forty-two," Criss replied drily.

Springs was taken aback. So was everyone else (save for Alicia, who already knew just about everything concerning Criss Angel). "Forty-two?!" Springs exclaimed. "You gotta be kiddin' me! You don't look like no forty-two, not by a longshot!"

Criss smiled in embarrassment. "Hell, when I was forty-two, I didn't look nearly as good as you!" Springs said. "You could pass for thirty if you were a day! What's your secret? I know it's not keeping regular hours and eating sensibly."

Criss laughed. "Well, I do try to eat sensibly," he said. "But I guess I just got good genes. You know, my dad used to be a former Mr. Universe back in the Fifties."

"It's true!" Alicia spoke up. "I saw the photo in your book! He was really buff!"

Nancy became alarmed. "What book?" she demanded.

Once again, Alicia realized she had revealed too much. In a flash, she came up with an alibi. "I saw Criss' book in the library once," she fibbed casually. "I saw it there."

Nancy shot her daughter a disapproving look. "You should be careful what you read, young lady," she admonished. "You know I don't like you reading inappropriate material."

Alicia was relieved that her little white lie had covered her backside. Criss, however, was miffed. "Inappropriate?" he echoed incredulously. "What's 'inappropriate' about it?" he challenged. "There's nothing in my book that I would not let any member of my family, not even my niece who's a teenager herself, read in it. Lighten up, lady! I'm not evil!"

"He's right, you know," Springs agreed. "He's not a bad sort. He's a great magician, you know. Kind of a lousy dresser, but a great magician." He leaned closer to Mrs. Rose. "If he can find it in his heart to trust a guy who'd been in the rackets to be with his mother, I think you can find it in your heart to trust him with your daughter. I'm not sayin' you should let her date him, of course, but still..."

Nancy remained sullenly silent. Meridian looked at his watch. "Court's going to reconvene in ten minutes," he announced. "We'd better wrap this up."

Everyone picked up their plastic trays, disposed the containers in the trash, left the cafeteria, and headed for the elevator, leaving the cafeteria staff to put the tables back in order. Once back in the courtroom, the group took their seats. Alicia sat directly behind Criss. Her mother did not detour her away, but sat next to her. It wasn't a sign of complete trust, but for Alicia, it looked hopeful.

[RACHEL02189]

I'm really starting to hate this woman

[Veritas]

"The court summons Detective James Meridian to the stand."

Meridian strode up to the witness stand with an ease born from years of experience. The oath was merely a formality to him, and he sat down as casually as if he was in his own home. He was not in the least intimidated when the attorney for the prosecution stepped up to examine him. He accepted lawyers as part of the American judicial system, but only as a necessary evil of sorts. Time and time again, Meridian had suspects in custody who "lawyered up" and refused to cooperate during investigations without their Miranda-guaranteed right to an attorney present during questioning. Lawyers did more to hamper investigations than reluctant witnesses or lack of evidence in his opinion. There was no love lost between the Nevada State Bar and the LVMPD.

"Detective Meridian," the prosecuting attorney said, "you were the chief investigating officer in the murders of Michael Piccucci, Jr., and Tina LaRue, is that correct?"

"That is correct."

"First, how did Michael Piccucci die?"

"He was blown up in his car, in his driveway," Meridian replied.

"How did the car blow up?"

"The lab results showed traces of gasoline in the cooling system. Gasoline had been poured into the radiator, and with a powerful Maserati engine, it heated quickly and caused it to explode."

"When did this happen?"

"Approximatly two in the afternoon, on March **, 20**."

"And where was Mrs. Piccucci during this time? Was she home when the explosion occurred?"

"No, she was out shopping. She didn't come home until four-thirty."

"And her sons, Andrew and Matt?"

"They were at school at the time."

"Did you uncover any evidence of who was responsible for the crime?"

"Yes. We found the gasoline can in the garage after the lab determined the real cause. We found fingerprints on the can itself."

"Whose fingerprints?"

"Pamela Piccucci's."

Springs chuckled softly. Good work, gumshoe!he said to himself.

"Next, the murder of Tina LaRue," the attorney continued. "Did you uncover any evidence of who was responsible for that?"

"We had an eyewitness," Meridian replied. "Alicia Rose. The blue scarf used to strangle Tina had the initials PJP monogrammed upon it as well."

"PJP?"

"Pamela Jean Piccucci."

Pamela grimaced but kept silent. Of all the scarves I could have used, she thought bitterly, I had to use one with my initials on it!

"Where was the body of Tina LaRue found?" the prosecutor asked.

"In a trash dumpster behind the Luxor Hotel."

"How did you know it was Tina LaRue?"

Meridian pointed to the viewing area. "Daniel Springer over there identified her."

Springs gave a modest little wave. "And so you have no doubt that Pamela Piccucci murdered Tina LaRue."

"None whatsoever," Meridian replied, "especially since she practically confessed everything while she was holding Casey, Criss Angel and Alicia hostage in the service corridor at gunpoint. The video surveillance tape showed everything--pity it didn't have audio."

"And what about the phony bomb threat?"

"Oh, that? Well, her prints were on that thing, too." Meridian gave a small chuckle. "Gotta admit, it had us fooled there for a second when the bomb squad hauled it out of there. Looked pretty realistic."

The prosecutor held up the fake bomb. "Is this the device found on the hotel cleaning cart?"

"That's the one."

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," the prosecutor said, bringing the phony bomb to the jury box. "This was the 'bomb' used to threaten Casey Worth into relinquishing her inheritance. Examine it closely, if you will. It consists of a few pieces of wire, some road flares and a digital alarm clock powered by a nine-volt battery. Perfectly harmless, but just realistic enough to create panic in a major hotel and to summon the Bomb Squad." He returned the bomb to the evidence table. "Detective Meridian, do you have any evidence proving who was responsible for the placement of this device?"

"We have some video surveillance of a woman dressed as a maid fitting Pamela's description carrying something into the housekeeping area," Meridian replied. "And we do have her fingerprints as well, both from the bomb and the letter with it."

"Are you sure it was Pamela Piccucci who was carrying the bomb?"

"We deduced it to be so."

"How?

"First of all, it's hotel policy for all employees to enter the hotel through the service entrance in the back of the hotel, using a keycard. She came in through the front, using the main entrance. Second, she was carrying it in a Gucci shopping bag. How many housekeepers do you know go shopping at Gucci? And third, the woman on the tape fit her description, as I said before. It took a while, but we found her eventually."

"So you have no doubt in your mind that Pamela Piccucci is responsible for the bomb scare incident at the Luxor?"

"No doubt about it."

"Can you tell the court about the moment you arrested Pamela Piccucci in the service corridor of the hotel?"

Meridian did so, leaving out no detail. Thanks to the "eye in the sky" security detail, he had discovered Pamela in the corridor, holding the three witnesses hostage. The minute he arrived at the scene, he ordered her to freeze. Then Criss Angel tackled her the second she dropped her guard, and Meridian put the cuffs on her. She was immediatly taken into custody."

"But she escaped, did she not?" the prosecutor asked.

"Yeah, the very day she got out on bail," Meridian answered gruffly. "She sold her car and headed for Honolulu, of all places."

"How did you find out she was in Honolulu?"

"Again, with the help of my friend, Springs, over there. He was surfing the Web, and came across her photo with that Canadian rich guy, what's-his-name. Anyway, she'd been shacking up with him for about six months or so. The process server discovered that she wasn't home by the pile of mail in the house, so he reported her missing. Springs called, tipping me off about her being in Hawai'i, I contacted the Honolulu Police Department, and they did the rest."

Thanks to Dog, no doubt, Criss thought. I tipped him off, too, you know.

The prosecution withdrew, satisfied with the examination. Now it was the defense's turn, but it proved to be almost futile to get the veteran detective to refute his testamony in the face of such overwhelming evidence. The weary attorney sighed in defeat. "No further questions, Your Honor," he said.

"Does the prosecution wish to call on any more witnesses?" the judge asked.

"No, Your Honor."

"Then the counsels will make their closing statements, and the jury will withdraw to determine the verdict."

The prosecution went first. He lambasted Pamela for her crimes, villifying her as a double murderer who would stop at nothing to gain her late father-in-law's wealth. She had threatened an innocent woman, causing mass hysteria in a major hotel in the bargain. She had no consideration for the welfare of her own children, preferring instead to be the mistress of a billionaire in Hawai'i. She had no conscience, he said. If anyone deserved the death penalty, it was Pamela Piccucci.

The defense went next. Pamela Piccucci did not deserve to die, he said. She was still the mother of two boys who did receive a portion of their grandfather's estate. Her ex-mother-in-law had blackmailed her, he reminded them, and her husband had cheated on her. The videotape of her allegedly delivering the bomb was too vague to prove her guilt, and anyone could have poured gasoline in the Maserati. All she was guilty of was wanting her father-in-law's money, just like Tina LaRue and her husband. It would be too much to plead for clemency, but at least mitigate the sentence to a term in prison, he pleaded.

Both sides rested. "You have heard the testamony of the defendant and the witnesses," Judge Hendershot told the jury, "and now it is up to you to render the verdict. Keep in mind that the vote must be unanimous. You will be permitted to view the evidence shown in court today in the jury room to help you decide. You are dismissed."

The jury rose and filed into the jury room. "This court is recessed until the jury is ready to deliver its verdict," the judge announced with a final bang of the gavel.

Everyone in the viewing area stretched their aching limbs, glad to be leaving the stifling courtroom again. "So what do we do now?" Alicia asked.

"I don't know about you," Criss replied, "but I got to go out and meet my public. They've been out there all day waiting for me, and I don't like to disappoint them." He gave Alicia a quick peck on the cheek. "Later," he said, and left the courtroom.

Alicia glowed. Her mother looked shocked and appalled over such an audacious act. Springs couldn't help but laugh at Nancy's distress. Meridian decided to go back to his office and do some paperwork until the jury reconvened. Outside, they could all hear the band of Loyals cheering wildly as their idol appeared on the courthouse steps.

"HEY EVERYBODY!" Criss shouted to the crowd outside the courthouse. "HOW YA DOIN'?"

The mob responded with a deafening collective scream. Criss joined in with a yell of his own, pumping his fists in the air like a champion boxer. Then he trotted down the concrete steps to meet and greet his public, shaking hands, signing autographs, accepting birthday cards and gifts (he handed them to one of the security guards escorting him to put aside for the meantime), posing for pictures, and generally enjoying himself. These were his people, and he wanted to be with them.

This impromptu Loyalfest did not go unnoticed by the media. Siezing the chance, they swarmed up to Criss, demanding updates on the trial, information regarding the relationship between his mother and the former mobster, Danny "Springs" Springer, and other statements they could relay to their editors. Criss walked a tightrope between fending off the press and controlling his fans, all the while answering questions as best he could under the circumstances.

"Criss, what's the scoop on the Piccucci trial?"

"The jury's out right now, deciding on the verdict," Criss replied.

"Do you think Pamela Piccucci will be found guilty?"

"Beyond doubt. There's too much evidence against her."

"Pamela was in hiding out in Hawai'i a few months back. You were friends with Dog the Bounty Hunter--did he have anything to do with her capture?"

"First of all, I'm still friends with Dog, and yes, he had everything to do with Pamela's capture, because I'm the one who called him on it."

"How did you find out before the police did that she was in Honolulu?"

"My buddy, Springs, told me back at the Luxor. He also informed Detective Meridian about it, too."

"How was Pamela in the courtroom? Was she defensive?"

"She looked like (bleep) in there." Criss clapped a hand across his mouth, embarrassed. "Oh, excuse me, are we live? I didn't mean to say that."

"We'll edit it out."

"Okay."

"Criss, do you think Pamela Piccucci will get the death penalty?"

"Like I said before, that's for the court to decide, not me."

"Tell me, are you for or against the death penalty?"

Criss hesitated for a moment. "That's a pretty sensitive subject there," he hedged. "But, personally, I'd rather Pamela should be allowed to live--but not for the reasons you think."

"What do you mean by that?"

"What I mean to say is Pamela should be given life in prison so she can spend every day thinking about what she did. Killing her isn't going to change anything--she'll die in there protesting her innocence, totally unremorseful over her crimes. If I had my way, I'd post the pictures of her husband and Tina LaRue in her prison cell, so she wouldn't be allowed to forget. And picutres of her two boys, too, just to remind her of how she ruined their lives by committing murder. But as I said before, that's for the court to decide."

"Criss, what about the rumors of your mother dating an ex-gangster?"

"What about them?"

"Well, are they true or not?"

"First of all, Mom's not 'dating' anyone," Criss said testily. "She and Springs are just friends, that's all. I mean, Mom's seventy-four and Springs is eighty-six, so what kind of 'dating' are you talking about?"

"Do you approve of this 'friendship' as you call it?"

"Look, my mom's old enough to decide who she wants to be friends with, okay?" he retorted. "Springs is a good guy, he's no longer with the mob or anything, and Mom likes to spend time with him. She doesn't need my approval, or anyone else's for that matter. She's a grown woman who knows what she wants, okay?" Criss's ire began to rise. "As for that article in Celebnooz," he went on, more agitated than ever, "All I can say is that they had no right to publish that photo of them when they were at dinner that night! It was total invasion of privacy! Celebnooz is nothing but a filthy gossip rag filled with a lot of BS! They can say what they want about me, but I'm going to tell them right now: leave my family alone!" He drew a deep breath to calm himself. "That's all I'm going to say on the subject," he said in a calmer tone.

"But what about--?"

But Criss was out of earshot. He had returned to the Loyal meet-and-greet with renewed gusto. Those closest to him during the press conference discreetly remained silent on the subject of his mother and Springs, concealing their nervousness with quivering smiles and trembling handshakes. The last thing they wanted to do was make their idol angry again.

[Veritas]

Inside the courthouse, Alicia, her mother and Springs watched Criss work the crowd of fans and media through the window. Alicia yearned to be out there with them, but her mother insisted she remain indoors because it was safer. For once, Alicia didn't argue--she knew from her last experience at Loyalapalooza that crowds could be dangerous. Besides, she already had a more intimate encounter with Criss than they did. Still, she wanted to join the party outside instead of being cooped up in this stifling building with her mother.

Nancy, however, had a different view of the situation. "Disgraceful," she muttered disdainfully. "Simply disgraceful. This is a court of law, not a nightclub. Don't those people have jobs or something to go to?"

"They just want to see Criss, Mother," Alicia pointed out.

"They're creating a public nuisance, is what they're doing," Nancy shot back. "All that fuss and bother for that..."

"That what?" Springs prompted.

"That...that Criss Angel person," Nancy sputtered. "I mean really! What's he done to create such a furor out there?"

Alicia suppressed her laughter at such an understated question. "Oh, nothing," she replied airily, "except have his own live show in Vegas, star in his own series on TV, perform on Broadway, release some CDs, and generally become famous for his demonstrations."

Nancy looked at her daughter. "What do you mean, 'demonstrations'?"

"Oh, that's what Criss calls his stunts," Alicia explained. "Like when he escaped from that concrete box in New York, for instance--things like that."

"Concrete box?" Springs looked interested. "How'd he do that?"

"Well, Criss was set inside this heavy glass and steel box, and concrete was poured inside it," Alicia related. "The walls, I mean, not right on top of him. He had twenty-four hours to get out of it or the box would be dropped from a crane. He made it out, of course. He appeared on this scaffolding right after the box crashed to the ground."

Springs pondered this. "Concrete box," he muttered thoughtfully. "Sounds like a mob hit."

Alicia giggled at the reference. Nancy was unimpressed. "It was all a silly trick," she said. "He probably wasn't even in that box in the first place."

"He was, too, Mother," Alicia argued. "There was a camera in there all the time he was in there."

"All the same, it was just a trick, Alicia," her mother insisted. "That man makes a living fooling people he can do magic."

"He's an illusionist, Mother. He's the greatest magician since Houdini."

"He's a charlatan, if you ask me."

Springs spoke up. "Yeah, well, so was Harry Blackstone," he said. "So's David Blaine. So's Siegfried and Roy. So's David Copperfield. So's the rest of 'em, for that matter. They're all charatans, but they're damn good ones if you ask me. Now, Angel out there, he knows how to put on one helluva show. He knows he's foolin' them, they know he's foolin' them, but who the eff cares? Everybody's having a good time, y'know? They come to see him perform, he wows 'em on stage, the producers get their money, everybody's happy."

"Even so--" Nancy began.

"Even so, I think you'd better cut this guy some slack," Springs said. "You'd been riding his kiester ever since we've been here. He's a great guy, really. And believe you me, I've seen my share of chiselers in my time, and he ain't one of 'em. He's good to his ma, and in my book that makes him all right."

"But look at them out there!" Nancy said, pointing to the crowd outside the courthouse mobbing Criss. "They're treating him like he's some sort of...god or something!"

Springs shrugged. "So?" he said indifferently. "They did the same for Sinatra back in the day. Same for Liberace, and then Elvis Presley. You shoulda seen the mobs back then! Screaming women, passing out cold right there on the street. This is a friendly gathering compared to then!"

"That's because the police are out there, maintaining order," Nancy pointed out.

"So? The cops were there then, too." Springs shook his head. "You shoulda seen Vegas when Elvis died," he said. "The whole Strip was one big wake; hundreds gathered to pay their respects one way or another! I swear I ain't seen that kinda public mourning since FDR died in office!"

He turned to Nancy. "Angel's top of the heap right now, but who knows where he'll be in ten years," he said sagely. If he don't kill himself doin' his act, he'll still be a headliner or he'll be a has-been in the gutter--and I've seen both. I've seen acts that wowed 'em in the Fifties that no one remembers to this day. One day they're headlining, the next day they're at the bottom. The Rat Pack, Sinatra, Liberace, Robert Goulet, Carol Channing, Elvis--they all had their moment in the spotlight, just like Angel out there, and five, ten years from now, there'll be someone else. People come and people go, but there'll always be another show--that's what Manny down at the Sands told me once."

"No one can replace Criss Angel," Alicia muttered defiantly as she watched her idol move among the crowd. "No one."

"Uh, excuse me?" came a man's voice from behind.

Alicia, Nancy and Springs turned around to see a uniformed police officer facing them. "Are you in Courtroom C?" he asked.

"Yes," Nancy replied.

"The court is ready to reconvene," the officer told them.

Springs drew a deep breath. "This is it," he said. "Somebody better fetch Angel out there, or he's gonna miss it."




Criss was lost in the mob of Loyals outside. His hand ached from signing too many autographs, and spots danced before his eyes from the constant flash of camera bulbs, but he took the time to sign just one more autograph, take just one more picture, accept just one more birthday gift from another starry-eyed fan. He reminded himself that they were the reason he was famous; without them, he was nothing.

The officer who had found Springs and the Roses went outside to bring in Criss. "Mr. Angel!" he shouted. "Mr. Aaaaangellllll!!"

"What?" came Criss' voice from somewhere.

"The court's ready to reconvene!" the officer shouted.

"What'd you say?" Criss shouted back.

"I said the court's ready to reconvene!!"

Criss scribbled the last autograph and handed it to a grateful young Loyal. "Sorry, I gotta go," he said. "The jury's back."

It took the combined efforts of the officer and the security guard escort to extricate Criss from the mob of fans and back into the courtroom in one piece. Ever the showman, Criss gave the fans one last triumphal wave before entering the courthouse. Once in the quiet lobby of the building, he drew a deep sigh of relief and exhaustion. "C'mon, let's get this over with," he said impatiently.




Meridian's pager went off while he was preoccupied with some paperwork. He glanced at the LED screen on the tiny device. It was from the prosecuting attorney for the Piccucci trial. He looked at his watch. "Two hours," he muttered. "Time flies when you're having fun."

He rose from his desk and headed for the courthouse. The precinct and the courthouse were in the same municipal complex, so Meridian could walk there in under five minutes. He had a good idea what the verdict would be, but he was still eager to hear the results as much as anyone involved. There was the slightest chance Pamela would get off on a technicality, or some holdout persuaded the jury to vote not guilty like in the movie 12 Angry Men (he enjoyed that flick, by the way), but he was confident that justice would indeed be served. Indeed, a guilty verdict would seem almost anticlimactic from his point of view. He would have preferred to stay in his office and finish the paperwork, and let the prosecutor phone the results in, but as the arresting officer he had the duty to see this thing to the very end. And the end was what Meridian wanted more than anything right now.





The twelve members of the jury filed in and took their seats in the jury box. Pamela sat in the defendant's chair, still shackled in her wrist cuffs, her eyes glazed, her face ashen. Her fate was now in the hands of those twelve strangers chosen at random by the state.

"Will the defendant please rise?" the judge ordered.

Pamela rose to her feet, supporting herself on the table. "You have reached a verdict?" the judge intoned to the jury.

"We have, Your Honor," the foreperson, a heavyset woman of about sixty, replied. She handed a paper to the bailiff, who in turn handed it to the judge.

Judge Hendershot read the verdict silently, then looked at the wretched woman in prison orange standing before him. "Pamela Piccucci," he said somberly, "you have been tried by a jury of your peers, and found guilty on both counts of first-degree murder, one account of attempted murder, three counts of assault with a deadly weapon, one count of threatening bodily harm, and one count of violation of bond."

Casey trembled with relief. Criss and Springs shook hands. Alicia instinctively reached over and hugged her mother, who hugged her back. Andrew and Matt Piccucci sat like two stone statues, totally unmoved by the verdict. Heather only sighed, simply glad the ordeal was over. Meridian remained indifferent; to him it was another case closed and time to move to the next one.

Pamela, however, stood there, numb with shock. "Does the defendant have anything to say?" the judge asked.

Pamela swayed on unsteady feet, struggling to find her voice. "Your Honor," she whimpered. "I did not kill my husband, nor Tina LaRue. For me to take another life is abhorrant to me! Your Honor, there's been a terrible mistake!"

"Yeah, and you made it, lady!" Springs sneered.

Judge Hendershot banged the gavel. "The jury has reached it's verdict by the weight of the evidence presented in this court," he said. "Sentencing will take place two weeks after the holiday recess. Case dismissed, court is adjourned."

A final bang of the gavel, and it was over. Pamela was led from the courtroom, wailing piteously. Everyone else was just glad to get out of there. "God, I need a drink!" Springs grumbled. "Hey, gumshoe! How about that double Manhattan you promised?"

Meridian chuckled. "C'mon, old man," he said. "I'll be off duty in an hour. Think you can wait that long?"

Springs turned to Casey. "Don't wait up for me, Cassie," he said. "Gumshoe and me're gonna have a drink to celebrate."

"It's Casey, Mr. Springer."

"Whatever." He then turned to Criss. "You wanna join us, Angel?"

"Can't," Criss said. "Gotta do a live show tonight. Thanks anyway." Suddenly, he remembered something. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two tickets. "Here," he said, handing them to Alicia. "Two passes to tonight's show."

Alicia took the coveted passes and gazed at them reverently. Two passes to Believe! It was, well, unbelievable that she would have the privilege of seeing Criss' show! It was a dream come true! Her ecstasy, however, was rudely cut short by her mother snatching the passes out of her hand. "I'm afraid we'll have to decline, Mr. Angel," Nancy said curtly. "Alicia and I have to return to Iowa first thing in the morning, and I can't have her staying up past her bedtime."

"But, Mom!" Alicia protested.

"But nothing, young lady!" Nancy shot back. "You're not going, and that's final!"

Alicia burst into tears and ran out of the courtroom. "For chrissakes, lady!" Springs said. "Let the kid go to the show!"

"No, I'm not going to let her go," she persisted. "That girl's got to learn some discipline!"

"And you gotta learn to lighten up a little," Springs shot back. He snatched the passes from Nancy's hand. "If you ain't gonna take her, I am!" he said.

"Over my dead body!" Nancy snapped.

"Don't tempt me, lady."

Nancy stared at the old man, appalled. Springs left the courtroom with the passes, Criss following behind him. Meridian turned to her. "He's right, you know," he said.

"How can you agree with him?" Nancy asked, stunned.

"Because I've been with the department for twenty years," Meridian replied. "I've worked Juvenile for three of them before transferring to Homicide, and I know that kids are gonna rebel no matter what their parents do or say."

"I'm trying to protect her, Detective," Nancy argued.

"Protecting her is one thing," Meridian said, "smothering her is another. You think permissive parents have problem kids? Uh-uh, it's the overstrict ones whose kids rebel--that's probably why your daughter ran away in the first place. Alicia told me about you when I had her in for questioning, and at first I thought she was exaggerating like all kids do. After meeting you, I'd say she was right on the mark. Criss makes a friendly gesture and you throw it back in his face? Geez, lady, it's a magic show, not a human sacrifice! From what she's been through, I'd say you owe it to her to go see it. If I were you, I'd swallow your pride and go to the show with Alicia."

Nancy stood there, stunned. "Think about it, willya?" Meridian said. "One night couldn't hurt."

He turned away, leaving a fuming Nancy in the empty courtoom.

[RACHEL02189]

Listen to the man Nancy live a little

[Veritas]

Alicia slumped by a large window, weeping as though all the joy in life had been taken away from her. For one glorious minute she had been given access to Criss Angel's show Believe, free of charge and as his personal guest, the greatest opportunity any Loyal could wish for, only to have her overbearing mother snatch it away from her. To add insult to injury, her mother had told Criss that she "couldn't have her staying up past her bedtime", as if she was a five-year-old! How could she be so unreasonable? How could she be so cruel? "It's not fair!" Alicia sobbed. "It's just not fair!"

"Alicia?"

She looked up to see Criss and Springs standing beside her. "Oh, God, Criss!" she cried as she flung herself into his arms. "I'm so sorry about my mom acting like that to you! I don't know why she still hates you even after--"

Criss shushed her. "Hey, it's okay, Alicia," he reassured her. "I've heard worse."

She looked up at him. "I do want to go see Believe, I really do!" she said eagerly. "I want to see it more than anything else in the world!" She lowered her brimming eyes. "Mom's probably torn up the tickets by now," she said sadly.

Springs smiled smugly. "What? You mean these?" He held up the passes like a pair of playing cards.

Alicia's face brightened when she saw the precious tickets in the old man's hand. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Springs!" she squealed, throwing her arms around him. "Thank you so much! You're the best!"

Springs laughed indulgently like a doting grandfather. "I told your ma if she wasn't gonna take ya, I would," he said.

Alicia was delighted. "I'd love to go with you, Mr. Springs!" she said eagerly.

"Now hold on a minute there, missy!" came her mother's voice from behind.

Oh, joy,Criss thought. Here comes Mrs. Buzzkill.

Nancy Rose stepped quickly forward. "If anyone's taking my daughter to any kind of show," she said loftily, "it's going to be me." And with that, she snatched the passes away from Springs. "I'm not going to have a total stranger escorting my little girl to a strange place in a strange city."

"I ain't a total stranger," Springs argued. "We had lunch together, remember?"

"All the same, it'd be better for all concerned if I took her to the show," Nancy said.

If she takes me, Alicia thought grumpily.

"Good day, gentlemen," Nancy said curtly, bowing a little with condescending coutesy. "It's time to go, Alicia."

Alicia allowed her mother to tow her away, but she whipped her head back and mouthed I'll see you tonight before disappearing into the elevator bank. Springs shook his head in disbelief. "Geez, whatta broad!" he muttered. "Must've been weaned on a pickle. No wonder her kid ran away from home."

"Sorry you had to miss out on the show, Springs," Criss said. "I would've liked to have seen you there."

"Whaddya mean 'sorry'?" Springs pulled out two tickets from inside his jacket. "We'll see you tonight," he said with a knowing wink and a nudge in Criss' side.

Criss was puzzled. "'We'?" he asked. "What do you mean, 'we'? Who's 'we'?"

Springs snorted. "You ain't figured it out by now, kid?"

Something clicked inside Criss' brain. "You mean you and Mom...?"

"The gentleman wins the kewpie doll."

Criss exhaled in surprise. "God, what an evening this is going to be!"






The announcement came bursting out of the courthouse in the form of a cunning Loyal who had slipped into the building under the pretense of being employed in the cafeteria, had followed Criss and company to Courtroom C, and from what snatched of conversation he had overheard inside, discovered the verdict, then had dashed back outside to relay the good news. "GUILTY!!" he had screamed at the top of his lungs.

The mob of Loyals cheered; the media went on full alert, ready for an official statement from someone with more authority like Detective Meridian or one of the attorneys. Following the verdict came more sombering news: Criss Angel had left the building, so they must all disperse quietly and in order. The disappointed Loyals shuffled reluctantly away from the courthouse, grumbling and pouting. A few circled around back, hoping to catch at least one last glance of their idol, only to be thwarted by more security detail.

The media, however, remained, duty bound to get the official statement of the verdict. A podium was set up on the courthouse steps, flanked with a dozen microphones, for the district attorney to make the announcement. The silver-haired, black-suited DA calmly stepped up to the podium, cameras flashing in his face. "Ladies and gentlemen of the press," he began. "Pamela Piccucci has been found guilty on both counts of murder in the first degree, as well as on all other counts of attempted murder and assault. Sentencing will take place two weeks after the holiday break."

"Will she get the death penalty?" a reporter shouted.

"It is likely Mrs. Piccucci will be sentenced to death," the DA replied, "but that is not to say she will. Her attorney is appealing. No official statement has beem made by the court at this time. Thank you."

The DA left the podium, his duty done. The media clamored for more statements, but the police herded them away. The Piccucci Affair was over, at least as far as the general public was concerned. For Pamela, sitting in the temporary lockup awaiting transfer to the women's prison, the nightmare was just beginning.




The theater lobby was filled to capacity, low murmurs of muted conversation rumbling throughout the room. The bartender behind the small portable bar supplied a steady stream of mixed drinks to thirsty and bored theatergoers. On the wall beside the entrance a huge poster of Criss Angel hovered above their heads like a sinister otherworldly being. The people chatted amiably with each other while they waited for the doors to open. Tonight's topic of conversation, however, was not focused on Criss.

"Hear the latest about the Piccucci trial?"

"I saw it on the news this afternoon. They found her guilty."

"Pretty fargone conclusion, wouldn't you think?"

"Well, yeah, but she coulda gotten off on a technicality."

"Technicality my ass! That case was airtight as they come!"

"Did Criss Angel testify?"

"He was there at the courthouse, so, yeah, I guess he did."

"I hope that (bleep) gets the juice!"

"Two murders? No doubt."

"I dunno, man. I got some...reservations about the death penalty."

"What the hell do you mean by that? She killed her husband and her mother-in-law! Eye for an eye and all that! She deserves to die!"

"Well, killing her isn't going to bring them back, for one thing."

"But it'll make damn sure she doesn't kill again!"

"Look, let's not get into that right now, okay? We're here to enjoy the evening, so let's just drop it, all right?"

"Didja see Criss at the courthouse today?"

"Hell, yeah! I was so there! It was so cool the way he came out and met everybody! It was so worth the wait!"

"Didja hear how he got (bleeped) off at the press about his mom?"

"He got (bleeped) off? Hell, I was just as (bleeped) as he was! They had no right to trash Dimitra like that!"

"What'd they trash Dimitra about?"

"That she was going out with some former mobster. God! Don't she have a right to privacy?"

"When your son's the greatest magician in the world, you can't expect much privacy."

"But still!"

"Oh, my God! Ohmigodohmigodohmigod!! There they are!!"

"Where?"

"Over there!!"

The crowd parted like the Red Sea as an elegantly dressed Dimitra entered the lobby, escorted by "Springs" Springer, last surviving member of the notorious Guys of Glitter Gulch, nattily attired in a tailored suit. Mouths gaped as the couple passed by, smiling and nodding like royalty.

"Oh, my God! It's true then?"

"Seems so."

"I heard Criss say they were just friends."

"Just friends, my ass!"

"Look, if Criss says they're just friends, then they're just friends, okay?"

"They may be 'just friends' now, but what about in the long run?"

"We'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it."

Springs made a beeline to the small portable bar. "Gimme a Manhattan," he ordered.

The petite brunette bartender obediently mixed the drink handed it to the old man. "You want anything, Didi?" he asked.

"A gin and tonic would be nice," Dimitra suggested.

"Gin and tonic for the lady," he ordered the bartender.

The Loyals present for the evening performance could not help but comment on this scene. "Did he just call her 'Didi'?" said one.

"Yeah, it seems he did."

"Whoa! He's really tight with her, ain't he?"

"Just play it cool, okay?"

"Wonder how Criss feels about all this?"

"Well, he would have said something at the press conference this afternoon, but he seemed to be pretty down with it."

Meanwhile, Alicia and her mother mingled among the lobby crowd. Alicia was all atwitter to see Criss live on stage. She had suffered much just to get to the theater. Her mother had insisted on a full hour's studying before she would even consider allowing her to go. She even quizzed Alicia on her lessons to make sure she hadn't been faking it. Once she had passed the examination to her mother's satisfaction, permission was granted--after her mother laid down some ground rules for tonight's conduct.

"Stay close, don't run off," Nancy had instructed. "If you have to use the ladies' room, let me know. There will be a lot of strangers there, so if you do get lost, don't talk to any of them--find a security officer or a hotel employee. Otherwise, find the ticket office and stay there until I find you. And don't wander off outside--it's night, and who knows what kind of crazies are running around out there. And above all, mind your manners!"

Alicia swallowed her bile and bitterly complied. Geez, Mom, why don't you just put me on a leash? We're just going to see Believe, for chrissakes! You act like I'm going off to kindergarten or something!

They took a cab to the Luxor Hotel. Alicia could hardly contain her excitement upon arriving. She gazed lovingly at the enormous banner advertising Believe, with the larger-than-life image of Criss Angel upon it. "Control yourself, Alicia," her mother warned her. "You're a young lady, not a hooligan."

Alicia looked at her mother quizzically. "Hooligan?" she asked. "Aren't hooligans English soccer fans?"

"You know what I mean," Nancy said.

The cab stopped in front of the hotel. Nancy paid the driver his fare. Alicia could contain her excitement no longer--she shot out of the cab like a bullet, overjoyed to be there at last. Nancy followed and corralled her excited daughter. "I told you to stay close!" she admonshed.

Alicia came to heel, frustrated. She wished it had been Mr. Springs who was taking her instead of her killjoy mother. She never lets me have any fun! she fretted. Just once, I'd like to see her lighten up a bit! She's so...so...repressed! Her idea of fun is having the ladies from the church over for coffee! Well, I'm not going to be like her when I grow up! I'm going to enjoy life, no matter what anyone says! And it starts right now!

Alicia and Nancy found themselves by the small portable bar where Springs and Dimitra were standing, surrounded by admirers and curiosity seekers. Springs, of course, dominated the conversation, waving his Manhattan glass for emphasis. "The guy's name was Edward O. Thorpe," he lectured to the group who hung on his every word. "He wasn't a gambler, nor even been in a casino. He was a math professor from some Ivy League college on the East Coast. Guy was a real genius. He practically invented card counting--figured it all out by himself! Then he went and published it in some journal those eggheads read, y'know? Professor Blackjack, they called him. One day, this professional gambler called him out on it, Manny Kissel. They got together and hit every casino in Atlantic City, then they came to Vegas. They won so much dough the pit bosses would come around and close the table when they got too hot--and they were plenty hot, lemme tell you!"

"Didn't they get arrested or anything?" someone asked.

"Card counting wasn't even heard of back then," Springs replied, "let alone illegal. It's because of Professor Blackjack that card counting's banned in every casino in the country. Casinos don't like losing money, no matter who you are."

Suddenly, Springs spotted Alicia and her mother. "Hey, little girl!" he greeted her jovially, "how ya doin'? Glad you could make it."

Alicia giggled nervously, blushing. "Here's the kid who put Pamela Piccucci away!" Springs announced, putting his arm around her shoulder. "She saw her bump off Tina LaRue in the can!"

"Mr. Springer, please!" Nancy hissed.

"What? It's true, ain't it?"

"I know, but we'd like to put it behind us," Nancy insisted.

"Whatever." He turned to Alicia. "Buy you a drink, sweetheart."

Alicia looked at the small bar. "Uh, I'm only thirteen, Mr. Springs," she said nervously.

"Mr. Springer," Nancy corrected.

"So?" Springs said indifferently, "I'll buy you a Shirley Temple."

"What's a 'Shirley Temple'?" Alicia asked.

"It's just ginger ale and grenadine with a lemon twist and a cherry. No booze."

"Well, okay," Alicia said. Then, remembering her mother's warnings, she turned to her and asked, "May I?"

"You may," Nancy condescended.

The Shirley Temple was served in a highball glass with ice. It tasted strange at first, but Alicia grew to like it; it was the closest to having a real grown-up cocktail, making the evening more exciting to her. Springs turned to Nancy. "I'd like you to meet Didi," he said, presenting Dimitra to her. "She's Criss Angel's mom, y'know."

"How do you do, Mrs., uh...Angel?"

Alicia came to her mother's rescue. "It's really 'Sarantakos'," she whispered.

"Oh, Mrs. Saratakos," Nancy corrected herself. "Thank you, dear. And this is my daughter, Alicia."

"Hello, Alicia," Dimitra said.

"Hello, Dimitra," Alicia said.

Nancy gave her an admonshing nudge. "Mrs. Saratakos, Alicia," she reminded her. "You don't address older people by their first names."

"But, Mother, everyone knows Dimitra," Alicia protested.

"All the same, it's rude."

Alicia sighed. Whatever!

"Please excuse my daughter's lack of civility, Mrs. Saratakos," Nancy apolgized.

"It's all right, Mrs..."

"Rose. Nancy Rose."

"Rose," Dimitra repeated. "Such a lovely name."

"Why, thank you, Mrs. Saratakos."

Alicia wanted to know more about Dimitra's relationship with Mr. Springs, but kept silent for fear of her mother's wrath. Maybe later she could sound out either of them about it, she thought. Maybe she would get lucky and meet Criss again after the show, but she knew that was next to impossible with her mother hovering over her. Instead, she finished her Shirley Temple and set her glass in the dish bin beside the bar.

"And how did your testamony go, Alicia?" Dimitra asked.

"Well, it went okay, I guess," she replied. "I was so nervous I couldn't barely talk up there! I told them everything I could remember. That defense attorney was the really scary one--he kept trying to trip me up every step of the way! I'm just glad it's over."

"We're all glad it's over," Nancy chimed in. "Let's hope this will be our last trip to Las Vegas."

"Whaddya talkin' about?" Springs said, offended. "What's wrong with Vegas?"

"Well, it...it just has too many bad memories for us, that's all," Nancy replied.

"For you, maybe," Springs retorted. "Don't let one bad experience hold you back, lady! This berg's got it all--gambling, shows, you name it! I've lived here half my life, and I never let any 'bad experiences' stop me--and believe you me, I've seen a lot worse than either you or Alicia here's ever seen, and not just from the Syndicate, either! Read my book when it comes out, you'll see."

I'm sure you have, Mr. Springer, Nancy thought bitterly. I'm sure you have!

The theater doors opened. A steady stream of people flowed inside. "Showtime!" Springs announced. "C'mon, Didi, let's see what your famous son's got up his sleeve!"

Dimitra laughed. "You would be surprised at what he has up his sleeves, Danny," she said.

Criss had arranged for the Roses to sit in the orchestra level, giving them a perfect view of the stage. Springs and Dimitra, however were in the upper balcony, close to the railing. Springs fretted about being in the "nosebleed section", apologizing that he couldn't get better seats. "Tickets were selling like hotcakes out there," he said. "This was the best I could do."

"They're fine, Danny," Dimitra said. "I can see perfectly from here."

The lights dimmed. Applause broke out, then died down when the eerie music started. Alicia sat in her seat, enraptured. She forgot all about the trial that afternoon and her mother sitting beside her, and lost herself in the surreal world of Believe. This was what she had been waiting for ever since she first heard about Criss Angel--to be swept away to a mystical, magical world, far away from Marvinville, Iowa, and the dreariness and the frustration that came with living there. She was the Alice in Criss' Wonderland, with no desire to go back up the rabbit hole, but to be Queen of his world forever, consort to the King of Magic himself, her Angel, Criss.

[Veritas]

Believe wasn't just a magic show, it was an experience. Bizarre and curious characters came hopping, creeping, and leaping across the stage, even into the audience themselves. For Alicia, the whole thing was delightful, a circus for grownups as she would define it later. The real world ceased to exist as the giant rabbits cavorted on the stage, the acrobats contorted themselves in way that seemed inhumanly impossible, and the lithe and limber dancers stretched and glided on the stage. In the center of it all, Criss Angel was the ringmaster, the conductor in this theater of the surreal, silently guiding the cast under his spell to perform his will. Alicia didn't want to think of the performers as real people with real lives. She wanted to see them as beautiful, dreamlike fantasy characters coming to life before her eyes.

Unfortunatly, all dreams have to end. Criss and the cast stood on the apron of the stage for their final bow at the end of the performance, greeted with a standing ovation from the audience. Alicia applauded enthusiastically, crying out for more, but the houselights came on, ending the dream and bringing her back to dull reality. She looked around herself, bewildered at first, but came back to her senses, remembering she was in the theater. Her eyes fell upon her mother sitting beside her, who, to her bewilderment, looked absolutly shell-shocked.

"Mom?" Alicia said quietly in her mother's ear. "Are you okay?"

Nancy started, then looked at her daughter. "Hm? Oh! Uh, oh, I-I-I'm fine, dear," she stammered, still overwhelmed by what she had seen on stage. "So, what did you think?" Alicia asked.

"About what?"

"About the show, of course!" Alicia giggled.

Nancy tried to regain her bearings. "It was..." Her head swayed as if she was about to faint. "It's just..."

"Pretty amazing, wasn't it?" Alicia said enthusiastically. "It was so cool, the way Criss--"

"I wouldn't call it 'cool', Alicia," Nancy interrupted her.

Alicia stared at her mother, dumbfounded. "I expected a magic show," Nancy said, "and end up seeing that...that pornographic freak show! If I had known it would be like that, I never would have bought you here!"

"Pornographic?" Alicia was aghast that such a charge could be made against Criss Angel. "I didn't see anything pornographic about it! It was wierd, but it's supposed to be wierd!"

"You're too young to understand, Alicia," her mother said. "There are some things a child shouldn't be exposed to."

"I'm not a child, Mother!" Alicia cried. "I'm thirteen years old, and I'll be fourteen in two months! I know more about these 'things' you're so afraid of me finding out than you think I do! You're the one who doesn't understand!" With that, Alicia stormed out of the theater. Nancy called out to her to come back, but she was lost in the retreating crowd, out of earshot. With a sigh, she walked up the aisle, hoping to find her in the lobby.




Alicia burst into the ladies' room, her eyes brimming with tears. She just doesn't get it! She still treats me like I'm a little kid! I'm in high school now, for chrissakes! Doesn't that mean anything? My God! What do I have to do to prove that I'm grown up now? How do I make her understand? She retreated into one of the stalls to sulk. I wish Mr. Springs had taken me instead of Mom the killjoy! It would have been a more enjoyable evening with him instead of her!

The thought of Springs brought about a feeling of deja vu. Alicia looked around the stall. Suddenly, a chill shot down her spine. This is the stall I was in when I saw Pamela Piccucci murder Tina LaRue! she realized. I was in this very spot when it happened!

A sharp pain shot through her stomach. It wasn't nausea, but something else, something she just couldn't put her finger on. Instinctively, she undressed herself underneath her skirt and lowered herself onto the toilet, hoping it would pass. Something did release itself from inside her, but it wasn't the usual waste. A quick swipe with a wad of toilet tissue, and Alicia discovered that her life would never be the same again.




Up in the balcony, Springs and Dimitra were preparing to leave. The few who recognized Dimitra complimented her on her son's fine performance. She returned them with gracious thanks. Springs beamed, proud to be associated with her. "Helluva show he gave down there," he crowed. "Florenz Ziegfield woulda been proud!"

"You must have seen many good magicians in your day," Dimitra commented. "You were here since Las Vegas started."

"Oh, yeah," Springs nodded. "Harry Blackstone, senior and junior--junior was the one of the first to play here in Vegas. Most of them were cheezy, rabbit-out-of-a-hat one-night stands, but then came Copperfield and the rest. But your son down there? Hoo! He really knows how to wow 'em!"

The two strolled down into the lobby. "Care for an aftershow cocktail, Didi?" Springs asked.

"You'll excuse me," Dimitra said. "I have to, ah, powder my nose."

Springs nodded. "Sure, doll, I'll be waitin' by the bar."

Dimitra left Springs to the welcoming warmth of his last drink of the evening and headed for the ladies' room. Inside, she was startled to see Alicia Rose standing there, pale and shaken. The older woman approached her sympathetically. "What's wrong, dear?" she asked tenderly.

Alicia whirled around, surprised and then relieved to see Mama Angel standing beside her. "Oh, Dimitra," she cried, flinging her arms around her.

"Now, now, now, everything's all right, honey," Dimitra cooed in her best maternal voice. "Now, you tell me what's wrong here?"

Alicia stood there dumbly. "Where do I begin?" she asked helplessly.

"Well, the beginning is always a good place to start," Dimitra quipped.

The hapless girl smiled a little. "Well, first of all, this is the place where I saw the murder," she began. "I was in this stall right here, and I saw everything."

"Oh, dear," Dimitra said. "No wonder you're so upset."

"Well, that's not the half of it," Alicia said. "I came in here because I was mad at my mom for...well, you're not going to like this, but my mom hates Criss." She flung her arms up in despair. "I don't know why she doesn't like him!" she exclaimed. "I even introduced her to him at the trial! He practically told her his life's story, and she still thinks he's a, quote, bad influence on me! She blames him for my running away to Vegas!"

"You ran away?"

With a heavy sigh, Alicia confessed to her escape to Las Vegas for Loyalapalooza, right down to her stealing the money from her parents. "I gave it all back, really I did!" she insisted. "And not only did Criss save my life, he paid for my trip back home. You'd think she'd be grateful." Her face turned remorseful. "Please don't think bad of me because I stole money to see Criss," she pleaded.

"Now, dear, I don't think bad of you," Dimitra said assuringly. "What you did was wrong, but you admitted you were wrong and you did your best to make up for it--that's a very mature thing to do."

Alicia smiled at that. I wish you were my mother instead of Mom, she yearned mentally. Suddenly, another stomach pain jabbed her from inside. Alicia winced, clutching her abdomen. Dimitra became alarmed. "What's wrong, honey?" she demanded. "Are you sick?"

"No, it's not that," Alicia groaned. "It's just that I got my...my...you know."

"Your menses?"

Alicia nodded. Dimitra fished out a quarter from her handbag, dropped it into the "feminine needs" vending machine, and pulled out a box containing a sanitary napkin. "Here you go," she said. Alicia accepted with thanks, went back into the stall, and emerged a minute later, calmer and better prepared. Dimitra smiled again. "Feel better now?" she asked.

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Is this your first time?" Dimitra cautiously inquired.

Alicia responded with a sheepish smile. "Yeah, it is."

Dimitra clasped her face in her soft, withered hands. "Today, you are a woman," she said proudly, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Now, we'd better find your mother," she told her. "She'll be looking for you out there; she must be worried about you." Personally, Alicia thought, I'd rather stay with you--and Criss.



Out in the lobby, Nancy Rose searched frantically for her daughter among the theatergoers. "Alicia?" she called out. "Alicia, where are you? It's Mother, honey! Answer me!"

She paved her way through the mass of human bodies in her quest to find Alicia. She wasn't by the box office as prearranged, nor was she in the gift shop. She couldn't have gone outside, not with this crowd in the way. She had to be somewhere, but where?

Nancy spotted Springs by the bar, enjoying an after-show nightcap. She rushed up to him, hoping he would have news about her daughter. "Mr. Springer?" she said breathlessly, "have you seen Alicia? I can't find her anywhere!"

"Now, now, just simmer down, willya?" Springs said to her. "She's around here somewhere. When'd you last see her?"

"In the theater after the show," Nancy replied.

"So, okay, she couldn't have gone far," Springs reasoned, taking a swig of his Manhattan. "Just wait until the crowd here thins out, and she'll turn up."

Nancy glared at the old man in irritation. He's so drunk he doesn't care that my little girl's lost in here! she thought angrily. "Well, I'm calling security," she snapped, turning on her heels and storming away. Springs simply shrugged and drained his glass.

A round of applause drew his attention from the bar. To the Loyals delight, Dimitra had appeared in the lobby. Those who knew who she was fawned over her as if she herself had been the star of the show: syncophantic fans reached out to her for hugs and kisses. She greeted everyone graciously, smiling and accepting their praises with warm courtesy.

"She's pretty popular around here, ain't she?" Springs said to the bartender.

"Oh, yeah," the bartender replied. "Her son Criss Angel's the biggest draw here in the Luxor. He's the King here, so in a way that makes her the Queen Mother. All the fans are nuts about her."

"Do tell," Springs murmured.

Dimitra finally made her way to Springs, who, in turn, noted Alicia following her. "You sure know how to draw a crowd there, Didi," he noted.

"Only because they know Christopher," Dimitra replied modestly.

"And as for you," Springs said, turning to Alicia, "your ma's been looking for you--she's worried sick about you running off like that.."

Alicia grumbled. "I was just in the ladies' room, that's all."

Springs put two fingers into his mouth and gave an ear-splitting whistle, startling Dimitra and everyone else around her. "Hey! Mrs. Rose!" he shouted. "We found your kid here!"

Alicia was embarrassed. Dimitra laughed nervously. Mrs. Rose made her way to the bar. "Alicia, where have you been?" she demanded. "I've been looking all over for you!"

"I just went to the ladies' room," Alicia said. "You don't have to make a big deal about it."

"I told you not to wander off like that."

"I didn't 'wander off', Mother," Alicia argued. "I left deliberatly, remember?"

"Well, we'll discuss this when we get home," Nancy said in an effort to save face. "Thank you, Mr. Springer, and Mrs. Sartakos."

"It's 'Sarantakos', Mrs. Rose," Dimitra corrected. "And before you go, I'd like to speak to you--privately."

Nancy was taken aback at this unexpected request, but readily complied. "You wait right here, young lady," she ordered her daughter. "I don't want to go looking for you again."

The two women left. Springs turned to Alicia. "Buy you a drink?" he asked.

"Only if it's another Shirley Temple," Alicia told him.




Dimitra led Mrs. Rose back into the ladies' room, away from the din of the afterglow party in the lobby. "So, what did you want to talk to me about?" Nancy asked.

"I just want to know," Dimitra said calmly, "why do you hate my son?"

"Hate your son?" Nancy was puzzled.

"What do you have against my Christopher?" Dimitra pressed. "He's done no harm to you, or Alicia. He even saved her life, sacrificing his own to protect her, and yet you demonize him. Alicia told me all about it, right here in this restroom. Why?"

"With all due respect, Mrs. Sarantakos," Nancy began, "I feel your son has been a negative influence upon my daughter."

"What do you mean, 'negative'?"

"Well, Alicia used to be such a sweet little girl, but now, ever since she got involved with Criss Angel, she's been uncontrollable, rebellious, and inconsiderate. He's all she thinks about, morning, noon and night. She's developed an unhealthy obsession with him that's turned her against her family, her school and her church. Now, I understand that you love him, being his mother and all, but after seeing his show tonight, well, I can't have Alicia getting involved with him any longer. She's just a child, you know. She's too young to be exposed to such...material. You understand, don't you?"

"I understand, all right," Dimitra retorted. "I understand you are trying to keep Alicia from growing up. You say you were offended by what you saw tonight? Well, when I was a growing up in Greece during the Nazi occupation, I saw things that no child should have seen, or experienced. I saw war, destruction and death every day. I cannot remember a single day during my childhood that I was not hungry or frightened. People whom I talked to one day disappeared the next. When I fled to this country with my family, I was Alicia's age. I was angry and rebellious, too, because I was uprooted from everything I knew to a strange country whose language I could neither read, write or even speak. I was angry at my mother and father at the time, but in the end, I appreciate the sacrifice they made; I am alive and well because they made the decision to come here to America.

"When I had my sons, they went through the same rebellious phase as well when they became teenagers. Christopher would listen to heavy-metal albums like Motley Crue and others, over and over again. His hair was long and shaggy like a sheepdog's back then. His father and I wanted him to go to college, but he wanted to do magic, so we let him. Today, he's a successful magician and performer, yet he still loves his family dearly. When I had to go to the hospital for heart surgery, he flew all the way to New York to be with me. Does that inspire rebelliousness to you, Mrs. Rose?"

Nancy remained silent. Dimitra went on. "And how can you claim he's been a 'negative influence'? Christopher has taken time to visit sick and dying children in hospitals all over the country. He's performed for servicemen and women in the Armed Forces, free of charge sometimes. He's never taken drugs, not even smoked a cigarrette, in his entire life. He's not a saint, but he believes in God--we taught him faith and hard work would lead to success, and he's followed our advice all of his life. Any parent would be happy to have such a role model as Christopher. And as for being inconsiderate, well, we're all a little inconsiderate at times, are we not?"

Nancy gaped. "But his show...?"

"His show is something he'd worked on for fifteen years," Dimitra told her. "I am sorry you found it offensive, but it's mild compared to the strip shows and other so-called 'adult' entertainment here in Las Vegas."

Nancy stood there, not knowing what to think. Dimitra laid a hand on her shoulder. "I know that Christopher's fans do silly, even dangerous things to meet him," she said sympathetically. "I agree with you that Alicia's running away from home was wrong, but she did try to make up for it; she returned all the money she stole from you, didn't she?"

"Well, yes..."

"And that to me is a sign of maturity, is it not?"

Nancy returned the charge. "Well, if she hadn't been lured by Criss Angel, she wouldn't have had to steal money and run away in the first place!" she said sharply.

"'Lured'?"

"Yes, lured! Criss tempted her away from her family, so she ran away."

"No, Mrs. Rose, she wasn't 'lured' as you say," Dimitra said evenly. "She was impulsive, yes, but she wasn't 'lured away'. Think back when you were her age--did you do anything impulsive back then?"

"I most certainly did not!" Mrs. Rose replied loftily. "I had a normal, happy girlhood back then. I concentrated on school and church, and I took part in wholesome civic and church activities, and I certainly didn't go running off to some faraway city chasing after some celebrity magician or something! Now, I'm sorry you had such a hard life back in your homeland with the war and all that, but I assure you I was not like that at all."

Dimitra shook her head. "I doubt that very much, Mrs. Rose."

"What do you mean by that, Mrs. Sarantakos?" Nancy demanded.

"I mean to say that if you were a 'normal' girl, you would have experienced the same rebelliousness that I, Alicia, Christopher and every thirteen-year-old would have felt inside," Dimitra explained. "What you think is disobedience is in fact a part of growing up. She's asserting herself as a person, getting ready to fly the nest, so to speak. She's still dependent upon you for care, but not as much as she used to. When she ran away from home, she was testing her wings. True, she discovered she was not ready yet, but she was mature enough to learn from her experiences to realize that. Alicia is turning into an adult, Mrs. Rose. She's becoming a woman--in fact, she has become a woman this very night."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll let Alicia answer that one."

Nancy put two and two together and understood. "You mean...?"

Dimitra nodded. "Fortunatly, I was here to help her. She handled it just fine, no panic or anything. You prepared her quite well, I'd say."

"Oh, yes, uh, thank you." Nancy stammered. "I just wish I'd been here to help her, that's all."

"I understand," Dimitra said. "But it's time to let Alicia do things more for herself, now. She's not a child anymore; she'll still need you, but you can't keep her in a bubble, shielding her from the world. Don't be afraid to let go, Mrs. Rose, or your daughter will never grow. Let her blossom, like her name, and you will see just how beautiful she can be."

Dimitra left the ladies room quietly. Nancy leaned against the sink and wept silently, torn between the past she cherished and the future she had to face.

[Veritas]

Morning came. Alicia and her mother finished packing their things and left the motel room. Alicia had wished she could see Criss one last time before she left, but reluctantly, grudgingly accepted the fact that it was not to be. At least she had seen him at the trial, and had given him his card and birthday present without protest from her mother--that was some consolation, at least.

She had told her mother about her menarche last night while they waited for the cab to take them back to the motel. Nancy, her eyes red and puffy, had merely nodded, then had gone into the small sundry shop in the hotel to purchase a package of sanitary napkins and a box of Teen Midol. "Don't open this until we get to the motel," she had instructed. Alicia had complied, a bit surprised at her mother's somber demeanor. I bet Dimitra told her about it, she thought. That's why she's so sad.

Nancy checked out of the motel, picked up her luggage, and she and Alicia climbed into the cab waiting for them in the drive. As they rode to the airport, Alicia could not help but stare at her mother's blank stare, the same look she had when her father told her he wanted a divorce. For the first time, she felt sorry for her mother.

"Mom," she said softly, "are you all right?"

Mom merely nodded, her face still expressionless. "I'm fine, dear, thank you," she murmured as if half asleep.

Alicia was not to be put off. "Is it because of what happened in the hotel?" she persisited.

Nancy's head swiveled. "A lot of things happened in the hotel," she replied quietly. "Some things I can't talk about."

"Maybe it would help if you did," Alicia pressed. "You're always telling me to talk to you about things. Why can't you talk to me about them?"

Nancy sighed. "We'll talk about it when we get home," she said. "Now's not the time and place for it."

Alicia smiled understandingly. "Sure, Mom," she said. "Whatever you say."





The prison van rolled through the gates of the Clark County Women's Correctional Facility that same morning, with its cargo of five prisoners all dressed in orange scrubs. Two black women, one Latina, one of undetermined origin, and one white female filed out of the van and into the prison building as quickly as their shackled ankles would allow. The two black women shuffled through Processing with the air of renewing a driver's license. The Latina and the mixed-race woman sullenly did as they were told, but not without a few rude comments to the guard at the desk. Only the lone white female, who just yesterday had been convicted of double murder among other charges, hesitated before entering into this unfamiliar environment she had heretofore never even knew existed. The uniformed officer beside her had to nudge her inside toward the reception desk.

"Name?" droned the guard.

"Piccucci, Pamela," the uniformed officer told him, handing over a manila folder containing her files.

The guard opened the file and read its contents. Then he peeled off a bar code sticker, pasted it onto the folder, and handed it back to the officer. "Move on," he said.

The prisoners were taken into another room, where they were ordered to strip, hand in their street clothes to the impound office, shower and line up before another office to be body searched. Pamela cowered, trembling, terrified of the ordeal to come, while her companions from the bus bantered lewd comments to each other and to the guards, which the latter ignored, immune to the taunts and insults of convicts.

She folded her clothes as neatly as she could, covering herself with the threadbare towel provided by the prison, and gave them to the impound officer. The showers, she discovered to her horror, were just spigots on a wall, offering no privacy whatsoever. The gritty brown soap rasped her skin like sandpaper. She did not linger as was her habit, but dashed through it within the space of a minute. She huddled in her towel by the wall before the second office, praying to a God she barely believed in to get this over with.

The two black women went first, then the Latina, then the unknown. Finally, it was Pamela's turn. She entered, shaking like a leaf, before two female guards inside. One ordered her to drop the towel and bend over while the other pulled on a fresh latex glove.

"Do I really have to?" Pamela whimpered.

"Yes, you really have to," the guard with the glove sneered, mocking Pamela's whiny tone. "Now move it--we haven't got all day."

Pamela slowly complied. The guard with the glove probed her insides with professional indifference, shattering the last shred of dignity she possessed. She felt violated, almost raped by this Amazon in uniform. When she was ordered to move on, she ran out of the office, clutching her towel like a security blanket. Receivng her prison uniform was practically a blessing after what she had been through.

After Processing came Orientation. It sounded harmless enough. Pamela recalled her freshman orientation in college; it had been a rather fun weekend back then, with a party at the end of it. This one, however, was more like a drill: Out of bed at six AM; breakfast according to block schedule; work detail eight until ten; classes until noon; lunch according to block schedule; exercise yard until one; cells until dinner according to block schedule; lights out at nine PM. All staff were to be addressed as "officer". No drugs, food or other contraband allowed in the cells. Two books maximum allowed in the cells. Prisoners were responsible for upkeep of their cells ("No maid service here," the officer said unhumorously). Any fighting or other breaches of the rules would result in disciplinary action, from revocation of privileges to solitary confinement.

Pamela's spirits sank with every word spoken by the officer. God, get me out of here! she beseeched inwardly. Why didn't Nigel come to my rescue? I thought he loved me! Doesn't he care anymore?

The new prisoners were marched to their cells, carrying their wad of sheets, blanket and pillow. Pamela found herself roomed with the unknown-origin woman in a five-foot square cell with a single frosted glass window reinforced with steel wire. She stood there, staring at the wall, stiff with shock, while her new roommate made herself at home, tossing her bundle of bedding onto the top bunk. "You gonna stand there all day?" she snapped impatiently. "Move it or lose it!"

Pamela dropped her bundle onto the lower bunk and sat down. The other woman pulled out a cigarrette and lit up. "You're new around here, ain't ya?" she asked.

Pamela nodded feebly. "Yeah, I figured you were," the other woman said. "They don't get too many white women here; it's mostly black or Mexican. White women usually get all the breaks." She took a drag from her cigarrette. "Whaddya in for, anyway?"

"I...my husband was murdered," Pamela murmured.

"Yeah? What'd he do, cheat on ya or somethin'?"

"Look, I don't want to talk about it, okay?" Pamela said sharply. "I'm innocent! I didn't kill him! It was a mob hit!"

The other woman laughed derisively. "Sure it was, sister," she sneered.

"No, really, it was!" Pamela insisted. "My father-in-law was a member of the Syndicate back in the Fifities. He made his fortune by extortion and racketeeing. You ever heard of The Guys of Glitter Gulch?"

The other woman shook her head. "Nope."

"Well, they were all part of the Syndicate, and Mick was in on it. When he died, instead of leaving his fortune to his son, my husband, Mike, he left it all to his caretaker. At first, I thought it was his ex-wife, that golddigger Tina LaRue, but it wasn't. If she wasn't dead already, she'd be sitting here instead of me! I've been set up to take a fall for the mob! I'm innocent! Can't you understand that?"

"Oh, sure, I can understand that," the other woman said with feigned sympathy. "We're all innocent here. I'm innocent, you're innocent, everyone's innocent. If you think it was a mob hit, fine by me." She crushed out her cigarrette under her foot. "Tell ya one thing, though: you spin one helluva yarn. I mean, I've heard some real whoppers in my day, but, honey, you take the cake!"

Pamela fell silent. It was no use. How could she have hoped to find sympathy in this living hell they put her in? Whether they sentenced her to life or death, she knew she would not survive long in this place. No one would listen to her, let alone try to help her. Sitting in this cell the size of a walk-in closet was like being entombed alive except for the surly woman sharing it with her. Suddenly, the prosepct of Death Row seemed welcome. I hope they do execute me, she thought. The sooner, the better! If I have to spend the rest of my life in this hole, I'll kill myself!





It was eleven-fifteen when Criss awoke in his dressing room. He looked at his watch, startled at first at the time. What? Did I just spend the entire night in my dressing room? he thought. He shrugged it off; it wasn't the first time, he reflected. The black, windowless interior made it hard to judge night from day; he'd come here completely exhausted after a performance and fall asleep on the Murphy bed, dead to the world, only to wake up thinking it was still night when it was well into the next morning. The pity of it was that he woke up alone. Oh, well, he hadn't been in the mood, anyway.

He peeled out of his costume and pulled on his regular clothes. Later, he would grab something to eat and head for the Production Office. Right now, he could use a shower. There were no bathing facilities in the dressing room, so he had to go back up to his suite. On his way up, he passed the security office where a guard sat at the desk reading the morning paper. His eye caught a glimpse of the headline:

PICCUCCI FOUND GUILTY ON ALL COUNTS.

Oh, yeah, the trial, he recalled. Well, he was glad it ended as quickly as it did. There was no question about Pamela's guilt; she practically admitted it when she held him hostage, and the videotape revealed everything. And, of course, Alicia's eyewitness testamomy. Poor kid, he thought, what she must've gone through. His role had been minimal at best, though he did lend a hand in Pamela's capture. He was glad to do it, but he still wished he hadn't gotten involved in the first place. Well, it was over, thank God, and now he could get on with his life, same as everybody else in that little drama. Build a bridge and get over it.

Criss went into his suite. The first thing he spotted was the birthday gift Alicia had given him lying on a table. For some reason, he had never gotten around to opening it. He went over to the table, picked up the present, and peeled off the wrapping paper. It was a tasteful nude drawing of himself, framed in silver. Kid's got some talent, he thought. Then he opened the card. Next to the Hallmark inspired greeting printed on it was a personal note: MA drew this for you. I just picked out the card. You'e made a very big difference in our lives, Criss, and we love you for it! Thank you for saving my life! Happy birthday to our Angel! Love, Alicia and MA.

Criss set aside the picture. The lengths that his Loyal went through to express their devotion to him, he reflected. On paper, on film, on videotape, even on flesh they immortalized him, though it grieved him that some like Alicia would risk their lives just to meet him. The very thought of a thirteen-year-old girl running away from home and traveling several hundred miles all by herself to Las Vegas just to catch a glimpse of him stirred up guilty feelings in his soul. She could have been mugged; she could have been assaulted; she could have been murdered; she could have been forced into a life of teen prostitution by some pimp. Maybe that was why he got involved, he thought suddenly. It was to protect Alicia from harm, and to get her back home safely. Of course, he didn't want Casey or Springs to get hurt, either, but still...

He silently thanked God that Alicia was back home with her mother, safe and sound, then headed for the bathroom for a quick shower before breakfast.





Epilogue:

Breaking news: Pamela Piccucci, the woman convicted of two counts of first degree murder in the notorious Piccucci Affair, was sentenced to death by lethal injection by order of the district court today after only an hour's deliberation by the jury. Mrs. Piccucci had been found guilty of murdering her husband, Michael Piccucci, Jr., and former mother-in-law, Tina LaRue. She had also been responsible for sending a fake bomb threat in the Luxor Hotel last March, threatening the caregiver who had been named Michael, Sr.'s, sole heir to his estate, causing widespread panic among the guests and staff. Her attorney is appealing the sentence.





The release party in the Grand Ballroom of the Luxor Hotel and Resort for Springs' new book, The Guys of Glitter Gulch, was in full swing. Springs was dressed to the nines in a pinstriped suit and broad brimmed fedora, his trademark Manhattan in his hand. He schmoozed around with the guests, a wide grin on his weathered face, basking in the limelight. His escort for the evening, Dimitra Sarantakos, stood beside him, radiant in a shimmering blue evening gown with pearls. Big Band music filled the air, and the liquor flowed like a Harry James solo.

"So, what inspired you to write your memoirs?" the social columnist for the Las Vegas Sun asked Springs.

"Well, I wanted to set the record straight while I still had all of my marbles," Springs replied. "I owed it to The Guys to tell their story--it's sort of a memorial to 'em. Hell, we practically made Vegas what it is today, y'know? Me, Mick, Blusey, Shorty, all of us. We turned this little one-horse town into the mecca it is today! Yeah, I admit we roughed up a few people now and then, but that was the way we did business in those days. If anyone got bumped off, it was within the ranks, no innocent bystanders or nothin'. That wasn't good for business relations, y'know."

"You had a stomach transplant about a year ago," the columnist went on. "How's that holding up?"

"Doin' good. Guy who donated it musta been Italian--I've been eaten' a lot of pasta since then," he joked. "But seriously, sometimes I wish they'd given it to a younger guy instead of wastin' it on an old fart like me, y'know?"

"Danny, don't talk like that," Dimitra admonished.

"Nah, nah, it's true," Springs insisted. "I'm eighty-six, for chrissakes! What the hell is prolonging my life gonna do?"

"Well, you lived long enough to publish your book," the columnist pointed out.

Springs shrugged. The columist turned to Dimitra. "So, Dimitra, how long have you known Danny Springer here?"

"Oh, about since spring of last year," Dimitra replied. "We've been very good friends ever since."

"Is there any truth to the rumors about you and Danny here contemplating marriage?"

Dimtra laughed, flustered over such a thought. "Oh, heavens no! Nothing like it at all!"

Springs took over. "Look, I went through two marriages, and both ended in divorce," he stated. "I ain't gonna go through that again, nosireebob! I ain't plannin' on having kids, and I ain't gonna let myself get tied down again. Didi and I are in it only for the companionship. Besides, if we did get married, I'd just leave her a widow again, and I know she don't wanna go through that for a second time, right, Didi?"

Dimitra nodded. "I lost one husband twelve years ago," she said. "I couldn't bear to lose another."

"Moving on, do you have any comments about the Piccucci Affair?"

"I ain't losin' sleep over it, if that's what you mean, " Springs said dismissively. "It's over and done with. She's gettin' the juice, and that's all there is to it. Next question."

"Is Criss here with you tonight?"

Springs turned to Dimitra. "Yeah, where is he, anyway?"

Dimitra smiled. "Oh, he'll turn up," she said. "He always does."

A voice from behind startled them. "Someone mention me?" Criss said, popping up suddenly.

Dimitra cried out in surprise. "Geez-Louise!" Springs exclaimed, clutching his chest. "Gimme a heart attack, why don'tcha?"

The columnist regained her composure. "Criss," she said, "good to see you."

"Good to see you, too," Criss returned. "And it's good to see you," he added, putting his arm around his mother. "And it's good to see you," he said as he laid an arm on Springs' shoulder.

"So, Angel," Springs said casually, "how's tricks?"

"I'm glad you asked," Criss replied, withdrawing his arms.

He produced a silk handkerchief, held it up in front of himself, then whisked it away, producing a bottle of brandy in his other hand. "There you go, Springs," he said proudly, giving the bottle to the astonished old man. "A little something for the occasion."

"Now, that's my kind of magic trick," Springs laughed, taking the bottle and holding it up for a photographer who snapped a picture of him. "You'd have made a fortune during Prohibition doin' that."

"Could we get a group photo, please?" the photographer requested.

Dimitra, Criss and Springs huddled together within camera range. A flash of the bulb, and the moment was preserved for posterity. The shutterbug strode away, leaving the three of them to talk.

"So, Springs, now that you got your book out, what're your plans for the future?" Criss asked.

Springs shrugged. "I dunno," he said. "Golf, cards, the slots. Maybe take in a show now and then. There ain't much left to do when you're eighty-six. Nothin' left to do but wait until my number comes up, I guess." He put his arm around Dimitra. "At least I won't be lonely anymore," he said with a bit more confidence, "now that I got Didi here."

"What about you, Mom?"

"I'll be staying with your brother, Costa, for the time being," Dimitra replied. "It's closer to Danny's house, so we won't have to drive far. We'll keep each other company for as long as we can. With him, I am not as lonely as I was back in New York."

Criss had accepted his mother's friendship with Springs a long time ago, but for the first time he welcomed the former mobster into his heart, if not his family. Even the unlikely possibility of having him for a stepparent didn't seem so repulsive anymore. Mom made Springs happy, Springs made Mom happy, and that was all right with him.

Casey Worth, Springs' caregiver and personal assistant, stepped up. "Mr. Springer?" she called out. "It's time for the press conference."

Springs drained the last of his Manhattan and headed for the stage. At the podium, the master of ceremonies made the introduction: "Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you one of the living legends of Las Vegas, a man who had, in his own way, helped create this city into the Entertainement Capital of America. His recently released book is a record of the history of Vegas in all its glory. Please welcome the last surviving member of The Guys of Glitter Gulch, Danny 'Springs' Springer!"

Springs stepped up to the podium amid thunderous applause. He tipped his fedora to the audience, then cleared his throat. "Thank you," he rasped. "First of all, I'd like to thank all of you for comin' to this clambake tonight--pretty damn good turnout, I have to say. I'm actually glad I lived long enough to see it."

More applause. "I was here when this was a stop for workers on the Hoover Dam," he went on. "They'd come in here to drink, gamble, get a little in the back room, if you know what I mean."

Criss listened to the rest of Springs' speech, holding his mother by the waist. "I'm glad you and Danny became such good friends," Dimitra whispered to her son.

"Ah, he's not such a bad guy," Criss said, "once you get to know him."

Dimitra leaned closer. "We're going to New York later this summer. Danny promised to take me to Queens to show me his old neighborhood--that is, if it's still there. And I want your aunts and cousins to meet him as well. I hope they like him."

"They will," Criss smiled. "Hey, he's practically family already!"

Dimitra smiled back and hugged her famous son. "So, lemme say that it's good to know I did something worth writing about," Springs concluded. "You've been a great group! Enjoy the evening, and don't forget to tip your waitress!"

(finis)

[Smurf]

Hi i just wanted to say how much i enjoy reading both of your stories , i thought they were both beautifuly written :) . Nancy reminded me of one of my school teachers ,she was a bit like that , i'm glad Dimitra manage to get through to her , i 'm glad that Pamela got caught , i also i really like Springs :), and i also had a lot nice images of Criss came into my head while i was reading both stories :)

[Veritas]

Well, thank you.

[Smurf]

Your Welcome :)

[The unnamed one]

Ha it took me two hours but I just finished reading both of your stories ..... They are very well thought out kudos to you ..... Enjoy your day

Ash