[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!