Hack To The Chief

Hack To The Chief
By Joel Brooks

Chapter One
The house was cool as though the fall air had come early, though it was only late
summer. A refreshing breeze was blowing in from the cooling fans set in place to keep the
control room from overheating. They were hooked in all over, with the little crepe paper
streamers Beatrice had taped to them during Stephen’s last birthday. South Philadelphia’s
premier underground online networking shark. He hated the word hacker, as it had such close
proximity to the word hack.
Yes, the Reed Street brownstone was a powerhouse of sick jokes and snark to make them
giggle as they blindfolded and fooled the world’s top companies online into walking around with
their shorts down. Stephen had bought it for a mere three quarters of a million dollars when his
first major residually signed client breakthrough happened. By the time he got done sorting out
all of the back door traces to avoid charges or bad press for his client, he felt he had earned it.
Stephen was the guy who would turn you into a networking giant overnight. Other
“hackers” could offer you two million hits for two grand, but with their flimsy hierarchy of
programmers and programming, they would only fly under the radar for minutes. Stephen
believed in building quality stars from rare talent he sought out and handpicked. A piece of the
long term pie was his payoff, as it was a lot more than a onetime hack, and in return, of course,
for his silence.
Stephen had given birth to the idea during his summer before graduate school. A friend
from school who had moved to Amsterdam and ran amuck doing the craziest, most ill sought out
“shiznat” you could think of boosted his instant message social networking account. For ten
minutes, Stephen had two million plus followers. Though the account was shut down for ten
days, when it returned he found that some pretty heavy media hitters were still lining up from his
ten minutes of fame to follow him. This gave him the idea of making “fixed celebrities”. I mean
hell; Hollywood did it every day, didn’t they?
He spent the whole rest of his summer writing code to gain access to the entry points and
heavily guarded gates for the networking sites which would serve him the most. When he found
he was really good at it, he got himself fired from his summer job to work on it full time. On
arriving at graduate school, his list was near complete of unlocked gateways to the stars. He
would be making some of the brightest heavenly bodies visible on Earth, and it struck him as an
adrenaline rush for which there was no substitute.
By spring break, he had built the code to support clients legitimately seeking long term
exposure and was set to build, preserve, and charge to no end. For so long as the account was
operating, Stephen would hold the key to the public eye as it had begun for his starlets. He felt it

was only fair to get paid as such. He had taken a starving artist and propelled them into lavish
comfort, and it deserved an agent’s fee if it was done with the help of his work. That was an
industry standard, wasn’t it?
Thus far Stephen had produced two top forty hits, three leading roles in major films, and
half a dozen independent film artists gaining great wealth through internet exposure. He did not
ask for the rights to their work, or a cut of their merchandise proceeds. He charged a flat
producers ten percent agency funding fee on any and all profits made in their first year of
success. From there, he would continue to collect on any and all profits brought in from the sites
which he affected, payable in quarterly installments based on pay per click and view numbers
with sponsored advertising and so forth. Payments could be wired directly to his account in the
Cayman Islands.
Yes, the control room was cool for September tenth, and he prayed that no planes were
headed for towers any time soon this year. The damned high alerts of nine eleven took out some
of his prospecting for near a whole week every year due to over speculation as to the nature of
his business. With half a dozen packages being signed every quarter, he was busy tying up loose
ends for older accounts. He employed several workers to help out with the laborious tasks.
“Code Demon” Patrick Wallace, and chain smoker Beatrice “Butts” along with Michael
Maynard worked alongside of him for twelve hour days, four days a week with java boosts into
their new turf.
As Beatrice crossed from the adjacent hall leading from the kitchen with a fresh cup of
joe, the sixty – one inch plasma screen which dominated the center of the cage lit up with the
days wired funds intake. Stephen had been in business for eight long years, and there was always
a strange and powerfully exhilarating feeling watching the influx of money these days. Past due
accounts figures flashed onto the screen next, having been contacted and re-compiled by Patrick
earlier, and he frowned. Over a million and a quarter in outstanding payments from some fairly
well known celebrities. How quickly they forgot where they came from. They would test his
patience to the limits, what with all of the regular spot checking he had to do into their longer
standing and therefore higher risk accounts. They were all fucking ungrateful with their heads
stuck up their tanned asses, sitting in their spas and drinking bubbly until noon and lavishing
hundred thousand dollar credit lines for dinner wear on Rodeo Drive at dozens of shops. He
would issue them a round of statements, covered in their initial contract threatening to publish
the collected data from their various “adjusted” accounts over the years in his service and release
it to the entire network. With no way of tracking him down, there could be no fallout. His name,
address, phone number, and all of the other information about him that would put him in danger
had always been a very heavily guarded secret.
One such delinquent client who he had been forced to expose had attempted to track him
down, and had failed miserably. The accounts he affected for the clients were all done in such a
separate and unique way on each approach, that there was no way to trace any other activity and

even the F.B.I. had been stopped short of even having rudimentary reason to research any
further. His tracks were covered, and the client had been sued by several of his online business
partners for his fraudulent activities. Hollywood didn’t want to give him a new part, and his
block mall’s construction funding had fallen short due to the lawsuits.
Yes, the press fallout alone would be enough to cover his losses in a sort of no returns
penalty clause. And Stephen found it was a sure fire hit using the story as a sales tool for
prospective clients. The big bang was easy to get, he let them know, but when she’s offering
breakfast you‘d better oblige and not take a dive.
“I will get you laid, paid, and made, but only in fair trade, “ he often said to these teary
eyed recruits “Don’t act like a construction worker and screw, nut and bolt and you won’t get
knocked out before your career is knocked up.”
Just as Patrick was sending the top sites attention data collected from the fresh clients list
for review by the team from his terminal set up on the south wing of the control room cage, the
screen went white and then the entire cage shut down.
“What the fuck?” Stephen yelled in disgust.
With the entire system rebooting, a fax transmission began coming in on the mahogany
desktop across the rooms’ strategically placed fax machine.
“Butts, can you grab that for me?” Stephen asked.
“Butts grab this! Butts grab that! I need to grab a butt right now too. And not yours,”
Beatrice said in exchange while retrieving the paper printing out of the machine “what the
hell?!”
“Insidious flirt,” Patrick shot back from across the room.
“Player,” Butts retorted.
“Don’t hate the game,” Patrick rebuffed.
“Uhh boss, I think you had better take a look at this, “ she said as she brought the paper
from the fax to Stephen.
The fax was a collage of magazine clippings arranged to form a sentence. It said, simply
put “Get ready for restructuring. And a main frame made for you anew. Cheers.”
It was just then that Stephen noticed the reboot was taking an extraordinary long time.
The internet activity monitor was lit up like a Christmas tree and there was data flowing into the
system. The lights in the whole house dimmed for a second before returning to normal as Patrick
tried desperately to get the remote mainframe access panel open from boot mode to come up on

his terminal. If he could open it in CDOS, he could code his way into the other terminals to
protect them. But he had to do it fast. He wasn’t called “Code Demon” for no reason. Patrick
could type at a hundred and fifty words per minute at ninety five percent accuracy.
“Can’t alter the startup. The keyboard has been locked. It had to happen prior to
shutdown. Patty cakes, we are being hacked!”
“Fuck shit bitch!”
Beatrice gave him a dirty look.
“Watch your language, Patrick!”
“No, never mind. Tell ya later!” Stephen grumbled back at her.
“Dirtiest progression in the English curses vocabulary again?!” Patrick observed from a
prior conversation.
“Most definitely.”
Beatrice gave them both dirty looks.
“I need a bone and joint doctor.” Patrick remarked.
“So you’re referring to me as doctor now, that’s promising.” Stephen shot back.
“Stoner,” Patrick quipped.
“I resemble that remark.” Stephen admitted.
“You two are most definitely getting sicker by the minute. And check Mike out…”
They all glanced over to the far wall lined with cabinetry Stephen had done in Rosewood
the prior spring that housed the original client contracts and invoices. They were taking a risk
keeping such record, and kept very close tabs on the originals returning to the P.O. Box address
by couriers as instructed to their full introductory package clients.
Michael was busy shoveling handfuls of paper into the paper shredder, which he had
pulled up to the first available filing cabinet.
“Michael, stop it!” Stephen barked out in alarm.
“They are on to us! I am not going back to prison! I am not!”
There were tears streaming down Michaels red and inflamed cheeks as he windedly
shoved a new stack until the shredder was at capacity into the machine. Michael Maynard had
done a four year stint in the big house after some innocent hacker by standing into some wealthy

weed connoisseurs bank accounts. The paranoid chronic smoker had pressed full charges, though
no money was taken and no data altered. So four years of Michaels’ life had been spent trying to
unwind the fatal anger of his wife, left alone with a new infant in arms.
“Michael, just cut it out. There is more than you could shred in a day anyway. “
“But the early accounts had a legitimate e-mail of mine on them. It was the oversight we
noticed before we changed the filing codes and rules! I would be the one going down, Stephen!
Not fucking you!”
All five terminals reached the windows startup screen at the same time. Their moment of
untruth had come.
“Damn, this is the longest boot time in history. Should we check the server towers out up
on the the third floor?” Patrick asked in Stephen’s general direction.
“Fuck shit bitch!”
“Stephen, you are either losing it already, or lost it some time ago!” Beatrice disgustedly
observed.
“I know I’m mad. I’ve always been mad. You’d have to explain why you’re not mad…”
“Shut up!” screamed Michael, now openly wiping his nose on customer invoices.
Finally the desktops appeared on the seven screens across the cage. As soon as they
appeared, the icons began to drag and drop themselves into a zip file program with automatic e-
mail send out to an unknown address. They were then deleting from the system one by one via
the trash bin that seemed to be on a cyclic empty.
“This fucker is fast!” moaned Patrick.
“Want to try remote desktop access on the Mac?” Stephen practically demanded.
“Absolutely.” returned Patrick immediately.
The laptop whirred to life under Patricks flying fingertips and went quickly to the
desktop. From there an internet browser opened without Patrick asking for it and the address bar
sprouted up a new ip address every few seconds until it seemed to lock onto one long generated
code. Then the browser opened four new tabs, all instantly going to four new pages. They were
all opening up Stephen’s private accounts to show him what was going on that he could not
otherwise access. A video chat window popped up with a caller requesting that they pick up.
“Hell no, I don’t want to video chat with you assholes! How dare you show your face as
if what you’ve done is going to fly by me?” Patrick spat at the Mac, now opening the Cayman’s

bank account, the server front door for the system gateway code generators, and simply Patrick’s
car lease and client response e-mail account.
“Check the e-mail account.” Stephen ordered Patrick.
He was feeling tight in the chest, and wished he hadn’t let “Butts” smoke in the day room
that day. The dry acrid taste of lingering stale cigarette smoke made him dizzy and nauseous for
a second. He had to get a grip, and try and salvage what was left of the hard drives.
“Know what?! Fuck it! Grab screw drivers, pull all the drives! All three of you! Now!”
he ordered, shouting so loud it echoed in the room.
He dove for a tool box that was kept under the mahogany desk, usually used to clean
cooling vents of debris and dust. Michael was the one typically in charge of hardware
maintenance, and he wished he would come to his senses. He was world’s faster with a Phillips
head than any of the other three.
As he began cranking on the tower of the center station with the screwdriver, he
happened to glance up at the sixty- one inch plasma dead center. The six other monitors were all
showing the same thing. Stephen’s e-mail account was opening and composing a letter of
confession while the attached files tab added file after file of damning evidence of breaking and
entering into some multi- billion dollar corporations systems.
That was it for Michael. He ran for his shoes and began frantically putting them on. At
this point, his panic made Stephen panic too. Stephen began talking a mile a minute to remind
Maynard of the nature of their groups need to know privacy privileges.
“Michael, this is not just our hacking crimes. We will be hated and hunted by millions
around the globe for exposing and exploiting some the entertainment industries most loved
names! It won’t all go down in your name. We can still beat this. There has to be another
purpose behind all of this! Don’t go making any drastic moves! We have to stick together on
this! We have your back, Mikey!”
“Fuck you! You got me into this!” Michael snarled back at Stephen.
Suddenly at full steam, Michael plowed through Stephen as if he were a physical threat
barring him from exit. Stephen bolted after him and to the front stairs of the brownstone. He
grabbed Maynard by the hood of his sweatshirt and pulled him close to his face.
“Don’t be such a fucking coward!”
That’s when Michael did it. He sucker punched Stephen directly in the nose; a flat hit that
had it not been so quick and half cocked it would have broken the bridge. Stephen was enraged,
and through the open front door tackled him off of the stairs and into the moist summer ground
below, still wet from the morning’s rain. Michael landed in a mud puddle that slid in from his

wrist to his elbow. He pulled back his right to throw a jab at Stephens face and grass and mud
flew off of it in clumps.
Stephen watched with amusement as a whole grip of mud landed in Maynard’s gaping
mouth.
“Fucking mud mouth!” Stephen hit him with a solid left hook to the side of his face most
open to the walkway of the front of the house. He then clocked him the top of his head, in that
spot that throws your equilibrium o the crown of the head, immediately dropping him back into
the mud.
“Michael, you fucking leave now! Don’t come back! If I get hit, you get hit! Remember
that motherfucker. Just like this bullshit fight you started! Just like out here, I go down, you get it
worse! Get the fuck out!”
Stephen watched as Michael limped out the gate and onto Reed Street. From the corner of
his eye, he noticed a neighborhood patrol car coming from down the block. Shivering with a cold
chill of distaste for his present circumstance he briskly moved back into the stone house that
could afford him at least relative safety.
Making his way into the foyer off the main hall on the first floor which he had outfitted
with shelving to house his antique book collection, he retrieved the safe keys from a bureau
drawer of the dark teak oriental stand that he so often felt clashed with the hallway paint. Moving
aside Hamlet, and A Comedy of Errors, he pulled out a small pistol with a box of shells hidden
there.
The wind chimes hanging over the great oak front door creaked into life, announcing a
visitor. He had hated that damned doorbell ever since Patricia gave it to him for their anniversary
two years prior. He thought it added an air of airy mystical sound that shouldn’t be surrounding
his guests as they made their way into a very high tech junkies abode. He couldn’t explain it, but
that was how he felt.
Stephen put the gun in a drawer of the teak cabinet, and closed it in with the box of
shells. He then walked with heaviness towards the front door, starting to feel numb from the
afternoon’s events and wondering what could be next. He opened the door, pushing the old
fashioned brass thumb latch down and into place releasing the catch. The door swung open.
“Hi, I’m Captain Wallace from your local patrol. Was in the neighborhood and heard a
complaint phoned in from your neighbors about a fist fight in your front yard come in over the
radio. Sir, do you have any idea what I am talking about?”
“No, officer. Must have been one of those afternoon bums coming from McGreevy’s Pub
with one too many pints in them.

“That’s what I figured, but I thought I saw you a few moments ago. Can you give me a
description?”
“No officer. But thanks for your help. I’ll let you know if they come back around.”
Captain Wallace tipped his hat as Stephen closed and latched the front door, exhaling
heavily with a sigh. Thank God Maynard had parked nearby.
Mounting a set of freshly carpeted stairs leading to the second floor of his home, he felt
his mind grip for the bourbon on his nightstand. He had put the carpeting over the natural
hardwood floor to try and absorb some of the noise the control room so often spilled over into
the rest of the house. It had actually worked quite nicely. Besides, at night he would remove his
shoes and find furry comfort from the first floor almost all the way to the master bedroom under
foot. Thick, long vanilla shag with subtle speckles of brown woven into the fabric that gave the
appearance of sand in your toes.
As he swung down the corridor towards the master bedroom at the end of the granite –
tiled hall, he groped for his cell phone. It was right where he had left it, clipped in the protective
case that held it to his belt. He then felt in his back pocket for his tri- fold wallet that held his
money cards. The terminal downstairs had been showing someone tapping into his bank account.
There was over six million dollars in that particular account. He had no I.R.A. and had never
been too keen on investing, so he was belly up on the cadaver table and being cut open at the
throat.
Walking into the master bedroom he felt somewhat put at ease by the subtle décor
tempering his mental anguish. His clients were not being threatened without due cause.
Obviously he had made an enemy whom he had failed to predisposition before they got outside
of his sphere of influence. At the very worst, he had over two million dollars in high Indonesian
art stored in a warehouse in Germantown that he had bought for pennies on the dollar. It had
been his one reprieve, his in – case – of emergency business, and the source of legitimate
laundering for his money. The business did not turn over the stock as his I.R.S. paperwork
showed, but had the stock doctored to prove its legitimacy if needs be. Now more than ever he
needed to lean on that legitimacy as his other business came tumbling down around him.
He picked up the bottle of bourbon from the nightstand that housed his brass touch – lit
reading lamp. Brushing its base, the light illuminated the cool now dimly lit bedroom. He could
see now that the bottle was nearly three quarters of the way full. Stephen didn’t even bother with
the clean crystal rocks glass that sat next to his alarm clock. He twisted open the cap, and let the
warm comforting liquid ease down his throat in three long swallows. Immediately he felt less
tense, and almost clearer and more able to think through the mellow drama that was his current
chaotic reality.

“Enough of that, “ he said to himself thinking he could top off the bottle with the next
swig.
As he sat down the bottle, returning it to its place next to his drug store bought digital
alarm clock, the case attached to his belt began to vibrate. Stephen detached his cell phone and
reached for the “talk” button on the smart phone’s lit up screen. He held the receiver to his ear
and timidly answered “This is Stephen.”
“Stephen! Andrew Carnegie here. Remember me?”
` “Not the Andrew from the china white hollowed Buddha imports deal? I suppose you’re
not here to make another offer are you?”
“If only life were as simple as that, Stephen. Hijackers killed that connect nearly five
years ago when I couldn’t get a bigger boat due to you refusing to cooperate. No, Stephen I am
your arranged go – between for the pursuers of your pain who penetrated your previously pulp-
fiction world today.”
Stephen would have been taken back if it hadn’t been for the previous experience with
Andrew. He was connected on many levels to large supply drug dealers in ports all over the
world. At one point, he had promised Stephen a half a million dollars per shipment if he turned
over his warehouse goods and allowed the drugs to be imported with them once a quarter.
Stephen was afraid of the three day turnaround removing the drugs from the disassembled pieces
and hollowed statues on his property with the presence of so many inventory warehouse workers
and the threat of long term imprisonment. Too many witnesses to take the risk, he told himself.
He declined, and instead began moving in more imports for the books from his friend’s consorts
in one truck tariff free moves out of Texas under shell corporations he set up and sunk after the
buyout. Stephen had three dimensional carvings made for wall hanging that he procured for eight
dollars that would sell for eight hundred.
“Stephen I wanted to let you know that you have a choice in surviving this. Follow the
simple instructions I give you each day and you will be spared. I am sure you are still licking
your wounds, so I am going to give you time to collect your thoughts. I will call again in the
morning with instructions to guarantee your continued emancipation from all of this at eight A-
M sharp.”
The phone line went dead. Stephen hung up his phone and numbly replaced it on his belt
clip. If only it had been anyone but Andrew Carnegie, the soulless gambit who had his own
mother shot before she could testify against him in a money laundering trial. Though her body
had never turned up, and Andrew was set free of his charges, police had continued searching for
years. She had disappeared just days before the key- witness testimony in the trial, and it had
been a shot in the face to the justice system.

Removing the cards from his wallet to check his finances, Stephen made his way into the
master bedrooms private bathroom. One hand dialing account codes, the other lining up
toothpaste on his revolving toothbrush, he went through the throes of desperation. He was hoping
he had not lost all of his amassed savings.
Spinning the brush head over his teeth and tongue to remove the odor of the bourbon, he
painfully listened to the automated system in the Cayman’s read him a balance of zero dollars
and zero cents.
Just then Butts bounded around the corner from the direction of the adjacent staircase.
“All of this going down and you pick now to brush your teeth?”
“Butts, they took me for everything in my bank account already. Six million dollars, all
gone.”
“Everything? You mean you can’t pay me tomorrow?”
“I am broke, B. Let me get one of your cigarettes?”
“Can’t. Just ran out and switched to the e– cigarette.”
Stephen put down his toothbrush, turning it off and carefully replacing it on the charging
dock, and switched off the bathroom light. Beatrice followed as he moved, feeling a hollow shell
of his normal self, into the hallway and back down the flight of stairs and it’s sandy shag. On the
way down the thickly padded stairs, Stephen’s phone began to light up again.
“Oh no.”
He removed the smart phone awkwardly from his belt clip and prayed it was not his
demented torturer again.
“This is Stephen.”
“Stephen Bolsom? This is Home Access Security Gateways calling to say a silent key
point and video surveillance intruder alert has been triggered at your residence. Sir, I wanted to
call and see if everything is ok?”
“Yeah, no intruder here. Been having some internet connection problems that might have
set the damned thing off.”
“Good to hear sir. By company protocol police have already been notified and are on the
way to your home to do a routine face to face walk through inspection of your home. They
should be there in under ten minutes.”
Stephen’s face flashed a hot red, and he felt the sweat begin to pool on his clammy stress
taught furrowed brow.

“You can call them off. Everything is alright here.”
“Sorry sir, no can do. In person walk through inspection by authorities is mandatory
when an intruder alarm is tripped. I assure you sir; it’s all done for your own safety.”
“Ten minutes?”
“At this point, they should be there in less than eight minutes judging by how fast the
dispatch responded sir. Would you like for me to stay on the line until the police arrive?”
“No, that’s ok. I think I will go make them some coffee right now. Thanks for your help.”
“No problem sir. We are pleased to be your premier home security company, and look
forward to serving you in the future.”
Stephen hung up the phone and removing the safe keys from his pocket, immediately
began barking orders to Beatrice and Patrick in the control room the three were now standing
idly in.
“Here are the safe keys! They are labeled by room. Take all of the drives and disks and
master invoice sets and get them in the fucking vaults! Do it now! We have five fucking minutes
until the police get here to do a home security inspection! Just do it now!”
All three immediately began the clumsy and awkwardly slow process of gathering the
dismantled hard drives Patrick had removed and the stacks of client data in spindles floating on
work trays around the room and jogging with them to the three rooms that concealed vaults in
the floorboards, closet, and in the false cabinet. The master bedroom held its safe behind a
hidden latched shelving set at the back of the walk in closet. It was the largest of the three, taking
up nearly the whole wall. The guest quarters on the ground floor held a medium sized safe under
the Persian throw rug that was installed at the foot of the queen sized bed. The third safe was a
false cabinet in the wreck room that took up most of the finished basement.
Gasping to catch their breath under duress all three moved silently near a decade’s worth
of indispensible codes and data that had protected them and paid them so well from their
scattered resting places around the ghostly quiet control room. Outside somewhere in the
distance down the street, a car alarm beeped its persistent and droning alert. The neighborhood
dogs howled from their gated entrances, begging to have their ears given a reprieve from the
loud car horn. Stephen’s cat, Tommy stood in the open entrance way to the control room looking
very confused, her hair bristling back from the base of her stand offish raised tail.
“Shit! I forgot to feed Tommy! And give her medicine!”
Then it came, faster than what seemed possible. The whistling undertones of what
couldn’t have been a more foreboding front door chime announcing the arrival of the policemen
come to inspect.

Stephen quickly looked over the control room. They had about seventy- five percent of
the goods that were in need of lock and key put away. The room just appeared to be a rich tech
junkie’s work in progress, he told himself. Nothing to be suspicious of here. Not with the
breakers thrown and the business on the terminals obscured. The only thing left to do was to stall
the patrolmen while Patrick and Butts got the rest stored away and concealed in the safes.
Having three open safes in some sort of valuables transition laid open would not be easy to
explain away to police alerted of an intruder.
Beatrice and Patrick ran back into the control room for the final load of disks and drives.
The wind chime that was the mystical front doorbell insistently played its hollow notes again
reminding them of their conspicuous guests standing in wait on the front stoop.
“Finish up. And hide the safes. I will stall them for as long as I can.”
“I’ve got to quit smoking.” Butts wheezed, bending over at the waist, trying to catch her
breath.
“You don’t finish in time, we will be looking at some prison time that will make that
easy.” Stephen warned.
Beatrice squinted and her mouth quivered as she took a measured puff of steam from her
e – cigarette, its electronic tip glowing cherry red. She tilted her head back and released a cloud
of nicotine saturated steam at the ceiling fan, simultaneously replacing the item in her hip pocket.
“Ok Patty Cakes! Let’s do this thing!”
Patrick removed his coke bottle glasses and wiped them free of steam with his gray
cotton v- neck t- shirt. Holding them clasped by the stem between his thumb and forefingers, he
wiped beads of sweat already making him chilly in the autumn like air from his worry lined
forehead.
“Go team!”
They broke apart from their standing circle in the midst of the disassembled control
room, each holding their breaths as to what the next ten minutes would hold for their fates. An
unruly cop with a nosy disposition could prove to be quite the untimely exposing factor to tip the
scales on this ugly and subdued underground enterprise that had for so long lain just under the
authorities radar.
Hoping for a bored and calm “by the books” beat cop, Stephen walked calmly to the front
entrance of the hundred and fifty year old stone house, its floorboards creaking ominously.
Gathering his strength, and giving his disheveled hair a quick finger through comb, he
unwillingly opened the front door with a hollow click of the tarnished brass thumb latch.

Two uniformed South Philadelphia police officers stood, their military issue black work
shoes giving a dull hazy shine in the September mid- afternoon sun streaming in from overhead.
Their badges read “Captain Wallace” and “Detective Patterson”.
“Hello, Mr. Bolsom? I know I was here about twenty minutes ago and I spoke to you. I
am Captain Wallace and this is Detective Patterson. We received an emergency call from your
home security system company about an intruder in your home sir? May we come inside?”
“Everything is alright here, just a false alarm tripped off by some network problems.”
“I hope so, sir. But to be sure, we need to do a walkthrough of the premise. You’re not
being held hostage by an intruder right now sir?”
“No, no, no. It’s just I’m in the midst of some sensitive electronic upgrading and the
place is a mess.”
“We understand, sir. I’m afraid we can’t leave without doing an inspection. We are just
doing our job. It’s for your safety, sir. May we come in?”
Captain Wallace right breast pocket began a medium pitched jangling ring, vibrating the
pens jutting from its buttoned enclosure. He removed a small flip cell phone and said “Excuse
me.”
Turning to the side and stiffly marching a few feet from off the front stoop, he began a
low conversation with the caller.
“May I come inside now, sir?” Detective Patterson persisted.
Captain Wallace paced a few steps further from the house, glancing back at them and
waiving at them to go on without him.
One down and one to go, thought Stephen. May I come out of this with my ducks in a
row?
Stephen backed away from the entrance, making way for Detective Patterson to make his
way into the house.
“Is this a Historical Society landmark, Mr. Bolsom?” the Detective asked in a nasal and
guarded tone.
“As of two months ago. Just finished the main parts of the restoration and genealogy of
the lineage of owners it has had over the past century and a half. Still waiting on the contractor to
come out and install the plaques.”
“Very nice. And how long have you lived here sir?”

“I have been bothering the haunts here for eight wonderful years, Detective. She’s almost
a decade into what retouches I felt I could afford and still keep her genuine,”
“Very nice.”
Taking an icy breath of air as he passed the dining room bay window with the single
room air conditioner blowing a chill from its slot in the outward hinging lower pane placement,
he ushered the Detective into the kitchen.
The kitchen was redone with an elongated counter stemming from the surface element
stovetop done with Italian marble now cluttered with junk mail and the random assortment of
temporarily discarded odds and ends it always attracted. In the center of the room, a seasoned
century old chopping block he used as a cutting board made of a thick hard oak gave the room an
antique country accent.
“Would you like some coffee, Detective? I can brew some up fresh in a jiffy! And I think
I may have some coffee cakes from the bakery left over from this morning’s brunch if you like.”
“That would be nice, thank you Mr. Bolsom.”
Stephen thought this was all going too easy all at once. Alright, coffee and cakes but
don’t make him feel too much at home, he warily reminded himself. He pulled the discolored
yellow plastic air tight container that held the beans from its place on the corner cabinet’s
shelving. Spinning its interior rotunda, he removed a jar of ground cinnamon to sprinkle over the
brewing grinds. Hastily dumping an eyeballed amount of beans into the grinder, their aroma
lazily drifting from the off – yellow containers interior, he slid the vertical latch and lever into
place. A brief whirring sound filled the space between him and the Detective as the beans were
ground, spinning in a tight concentric circle visible under the translucent lid of the grinder.
Placing a fresh filter into the coffee pots brewing grinds enclosure, he dumped the
contents of the grinder into it. Pressing an alternating knob on the stainless steel faucet end and
activating the water filter, he filled the coffee pot to twelve cups of water, watching the softened
waters air bubbles collect on the sides.
“Filtered water. Makes it better. You like cinnamon, Detective?” he asked, sprinkling the
cinnamon liberally over the awaiting grinds.
“Sir, anything after the stale bargain stuff my wife buys would do.” The Detective
answered with a smirk.
Stephen chuckled and poured he water into the coffee maker as he tripped the red
glowing brew button to stat the brewing process.

The Detective was meticulously inspecting the assorted collection of junk mail on the
counter. Grimacing and glancing at his watch, he removed an eight inch long, narrow notebook
with cardboard backing from his deep left breast pocket.
He began to jot what seemed to be some very thoughtful notes onto its faintly gray lined
top page, and Stephen wondered if he was making a grocery list.
Sliding the pastry box with its cream white tissue paper jutting from the sides from off of
the room centered chopping block, he careened the lid at an angle and offered the Detective a
cake.
“Don’t want to ruin my dinner, but then again I may as well leave that up to the misses as
well,’ The Detective quipped, grabbing a cake from the boxes interior.
The Detective’s radio fuzzed to life from its leather harness attached to his hip. He
fumbled around the awkwardly long rubberized antennae and removing it, held it to his mouth to
respond to the dispatcher.
“Yes, dispatch. Engaged in official inspection now at the Reed Street residence.”
“Very good. Radio when you are finished.”
“That’s a ten- four dispatch.”
A few brief silent moments that made Stephen wonder in hope if Patrick and Butts were
done passed as his hair stood on end on the back of his neck. Growing impatient, Stephen went
to the china closet and removed a ceramic handmade mug with “Know Your .Biz” stenciled on it
from the interior. Pulling the three quarters finished pot from the coffeemaker, he poured the
Detective a cup. Handing it to him, he spun the wooden circular condiments tray on its axis to
move the creamer and sugar in front of Detective Patterson standing across the counter from him
on the outer edge of the kitchen. Patterson was still standing transfixed in his notebook.
“Here is the coffee. Creamer and sugar on the stand in front of you.”
“Thank you.”
He hastily added cream and sugar to his coffee and took a sip. His radio crackled and
Stephen jumped, growing more nervous about the control room and the safes by the second.
“Mr. Bolsom, if it is alright by you I will bring this with me. May I continue the
inspection of the premises now, if you please?”
“Sure thing.”
Holding his breath the whole time, Stephen led him first into the guest room. The Persian
rug was in place, and no notes were necessary in Patterson’s pad. When a brief wandering look

at the four rooms on the first floor was complete, he led him to the entrance of the control room
at the foot of the staircase which led to the second and third floors.
Detective Patterson’s radio crackled to life.
“Patterson we have a report of a car theft on Market near you. Can you proceed to the
call?”
“Wrapping it up here, dispatch.” That’s a ten- four. Give me about five minutes.”
Stephen grinned a stupid grin for a brief moment. The god’s were with him, if you could
call it that way after the series of events that had just befallen him.
Barely noticing the dismantled jumble that was the control room, they moved on to the
second floor. A brief two minute walk through to the entrances of each room on the second floor
seemed to quench the Detective’s curiosity, and he jotted a few final notes into his book, and
closed it after drawing a horizontal line across the page. He replaced the notebook into his shirt
pocket. Still shaky in the legs, Stephen plodded in front of him, leading him away from the third
floor narrow set of unfinished stairs which led to the top floor rooms containing the server
equipment. He held his breath as he led him back down the stairs towards the first floor.
“Does this place have a basement?” Patterson asked impatiently.
“With a pool table. Would you like to see it?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. We are all done here. Here is your coffee mug.”
He handed Stephen the mug, drained of its contents.
Stephen held out his hand to shake the Detective’s leather gloved hand, and the Detective
made a fist.
“I don’t shake hands, sir. Too many people, too many germs. That will be all thank you.”
He lightly bumped Stephen’s hand with a fist, giving a tired and subtle serious smile and
opened the front door.
Captain Wallace was in the street now, still chatting on the phone. He waived to them as
Patterson made his exit.
“Thank you, Detective Patterson.”
“Just doing my job,” he said plainly as he walked away.
Closing the door, Stephen felt a relieving rush of endorphins flood his senses making him
dizzy for a moment. Thank God for coffee and donuts, he chuckled to himself. Too cliché.

“Is he gone?” Beatrice voice floated from the landing of the third floor staircase down to
the foyer.
“We are good!”
`With a galloping gait, she and Patrick came bounding down the stairs looking pale and
relieved.
“You can both go now. Wouldn’t want you to work any longer with no pay tomorrow.
I’ll man the helm and see what I can come up with.”
“Are you sure, boss? What if these kooks show up in person making demands?” Patrick
half heartedly answered, adjusting the tongue of his canvass skate shoes.
“They have arranged for next contact by phone in the morning at eight. I think I am safe
for now. I’m going to get drunk and hope this was all a nightmare when I wake up which goes
away. Go home, guys.”
“Call if you need anything,” Patrick put in with a worried glance.
“Yeah anything at all, boss.” Beatrice added, grabbing her purse from a chair nearby.
After saying their brief goodbyes, Stephen wearily climbed the stairs and retired to the
refuge of the master bedroom and his bourbon. An hour later he was drunk and crying. An hour
and one minute later, he was asleep.

Chapter Two
At about seven thirty five in the morning, Stephen’s alarm clock rang its desperate call
for return to waking action. Doggedly fighting the daze of the bourbon from the evening prior, he
switched off its alert, which seemed to be rhythmically dictating the pound of the blood rushing
in his headachy hangover. His wrist hurt from where he must have slammed its Rolex bearing
weight on the antique ivory headboard in the middle of the night. He glanced at the dial of the
Rolex with a wince, reminding himself in its sharply detailed diamond lined dials that today was
September eleventh. Nice to know that flags would fly at half mast on the day he rose to bury his
old life.
“No time like the present to bury the past. Wish the hatchet stuck in my head would
detach.”
Sliding aside the crimson silk sheets and the thick down comforter, he squinted across the
room at his terry cloth robe, hanging from the back of his desk chair across the room by the
window. The weather, as it often did in Philadelphia had turned sticky, and already seventy five
degree farenheight humid morning air damp with dew moisture greeted his naked form as he
climbed from the bed.
Crossing the room, he gathered the robe about his shoulders and tied it off. At least he
wouldn’t have to explain this all to Patricia. She had broken off their engagement two months
prior when he had refused to turn off the backup taping of the bedroom home security cameras
while they were having sex. He was safe from intruders, and now safe from an ugly prenuptial
agreement that had been festering for a year. In fact, two weeks ago she had asked for him to
discontinue any further contact. She already had a new boyfriend.
Making his way through the dimly lit north to south positioned hallway just outside of the
bedroom which never seemed to catch the morning light, he carefully descended the stairs in his
bare feet. Arriving at the foyer, he opened the front door and stepped into the Reed Street
morning outside. The next door neighbor was already at work trying to reattach her rosebush to
her front window trellis and gave him a strained glance.
Remembering that he hadn’t picked up his late arriving mail from the day before, he
absently pulled the front door shut. The Inquirer was there on the straw woven welcome mat in
its dull light blue cheap plastic bag. He picked it up, and removed it from its moisture protective
sleeve. Scanning the front page with a frown, he regretted not having taken any aspirin for his
headache yet.
Then he saw it.

Across the walkway in the narrow patch of grass that was his front yard there was a
realtor sign stuck in the ground. A manila envelope was held to the post tied tight by a plastic
ring clasp. The sign read “Sold”.
“What the hell?”
Stephen rushed over to the sign to gather the envelope, feeling like he had been kicked in
the stomach. Opening its brass colored clasps, he pulled forth an immediate eviction notice and
the official deeds for the terms of the sale of his house as of September tenth.
“What the hell?”
He hurriedly rushed back towards the house, dropping the envelope and papers on the
lawn. At the moment his pumice stone softened bare feet touched the brick cobble stone
walkway, the security system armed and locked the house down with three shrill beeps and a
voice alerting him “Alarm on. Residence secure.”
Desperately he tried to throw the catch on the front door and shove it open, but it was to
no avail.
Then his phone began to ring and the front pocket of his robe began pulsing where from
where he had placed it before leaving the bedroom upstairs. He pulled it out and answered.
“You bastard! You sold my house!”
“Stephen, may I remind you that things could be a lot worse. We could turn all of your
company’s activities for the last eight years over to the F.B.I. and the C.I.A and put you away for
a very long time. Even better yet, we could simply end your life and make your sad looking
corpse disappear.”
“What do you want from me?” he gasped in a breathless exasperated tone.
“Well, for starters if you want to avoid trouble, you need to leave Reed Street. The house
is not yours, nor its contents and the authorities have been notified that you are threatening to
break in. They should be there in about five minutes or so.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh Stephen I am serious, and quite deadly. Get in your car and drive to the downtown
Hilton. There is an envelope waiting for you at the front desk with further instructions. That will
be all.”
The phone line went dead.
Stephen’s head was a clutter of jumbled and scared emotions. He was naked, alone, broke
and now homeless. All of this in under twenty – four hours since the initial breach into his server

and mainframe systems. He moved towards his Audi, wondering how he was to drive it without
the keys that should be in the crystal bowl in the foyer. His phone vibrated in his hand. A text
message had come through from Andrew’s number, a Newark area code. It read: “The keys are
in the center console of your car.”
Finding the doors open, he removed his gym bag from the backseat and slid open the
zipper. Pulling his workout warm up pants from the duffle, he slid them on under his robe
standing exposed to his watching neighbor in the street. He pulled an old t-shirt from the bag,
removed the robe and pulled it over his head. Placing his shower shoes on, he threw the gym bag
back into the back seat, noticing his old laptop lying in the passenger side rear seat well.
Climbing in the car, he pushed the starter button and threw it into drive just as a police
patrol car came cruising up behind him. Peeling out with an angry shove of his foot on the
accelerator, Stephen fumbled for the navigation system controls on the screen in the front dash.
He dialed in the Hilton, downtown Philadelphia, and got the most recent traffic alerted
directions. Turning on KYW 1060am with a solemn indifference he drove towards his mystery
reservation listening absently to the morning headlines.
Saving the trip route, and exiting the navigation system, Stephen spontaneously swerved
just in time to pull into his old “cry over your beer and ex” haunt of a neighborhood bar, Avenue
One. This was the only thing that was going to get rid of his nerves, and help him face the overall
hangover that was his morning. Besides which, Tim, the round the clock bartender was one of
the most intelligent alcohol shleppers he had ever met. How a guy with a Georgetown degree in
History and English Literature ended up shoving beers at drunks all day was a mystery.
The bar was dimly lit with already a half a dozen of the usual patrons seated around the
centered square bar watching Sports Center. Tim was dusting bottles and sipping on a latte when
Stephen entered. When he saw the shape Stephen was in, Tim spoke up.
“You look awful. What happened? Did you marry her?”
“Even worse. I took it up the ass last night.”
“Please tell me she was cute.”
“Tim I got destroyed yesterday. Give me a double screwdriver with shot of amaretto in
it.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Shut up. You know I like amaretto.”
“No, that you got destroyed. What exactly do you mean by destroyed?”

While Tim painstakingly mixed Stephens drink, Stephen filled him in on the events of the
last seventeen or so hours. Tim’s eyes slowly grew more angry as he listened, watching sip at his
drink, his elbows resting on bar rags sitting on top of the hardwood bar counter. Stephen told him
about his warehouse, and openly espoused his suspicions that they were going after that next.
“I’ll tell you Stephen, this is shit. Here’s what you do. Sell all of the warehouse goods to
one of those importers from the docks in one big lump. Move it quick like, you know? Then you
take all that money, launder it. Get it real clean. Cash. Untouchable. Stuff it in your socks and
use it to get through this. People might look at you kind of funny, but it’s money. Need another?
I mean it. You need to liquidate, man. It’s on the house.”
“Yeah, I’ve got to shake my bourbon street headache still. Pour it up.”
“That’s why they call it Avenue One. Get it, have a new one? We’ll fix you up.”
“That’s the worst line I’ve heard in years.”
“Yeah doesn’t seem to go over with the ladies real well either. They all think I’m trying
to get em drunk to get in their panties.”
Stephen didn’t laugh. He wondered if he ever would again. Tim took the hint and
wandered off to let him chill out in his stuff alone for a bit and to wait on another sunrise
customer. When he came back, Stephen gave him fair warning.
“Tim, the police are going to show up some point when they recognize my car. I am
reporting it stolen and leaving it here. I figure if they find it and put it in the impound, the repo
man can’t get at it and I can hang on to it for less that way until I can come back around for it.”
“Yeah, the police are around here all the time, no worries. I even run the line to some of
them on some games. You on the other hand don’t visit me enough. Go, ahead, get out of here
and report your scar stolen ya whacko!”
His headache greatly diminished, in fact with half a buzz from Tim’s stiff cocktails,
Stephen wandered out of the thick front door of Avenue One and back towards his Audi in the
small parking lot. A nearby sign read “no parking in rear” and Stephen chuckled to himself about
telling Tim he took it up the ass again.
He sank into the cushiony leather front seat of the Audi for what may be the last time,
and held his breath. He wondered what his life would hold from here on out.
“No time like the present to bury the past,” he startled himself by talking out loud.
He dialed nine – one – one and gave the vaguest report he could of a stolen Audi from
Reed Street to the operator. The operator took the details in a monotone and disinterested tone,

and with a bored voice reassured him that a police report would be filed and they would begin
searching for his car. He thanked her cautiously, and hung up.
He then dialed the number for his favorite local cab company and ordered a taxi.
Retrieving the in- case- of- emergency kit from his trunk, he went over its contents. Two ten
thousand dollar identity theft made credit cards, a fake I.D. and passport to match. He packed
the only money he had into a leather passport case with his fake credentials, which he in turn
packed into his laptop bag along with his laptop. A few short minutes later, the taxi pulled up and
he got in.
The taxi driver spoke up.
“Where to?”
“The downtown Hilton, please cabbie.”
“You can call me cabbie, just don’t call me crabby, or crappy, or pappy…”
“Just drive, please.”
“Testy, testy.”
The cab shuddered as it sprang forward towards the Hilton hotel.
“Do you have any aspirin?” Stephen asked.
“Don’t you think you should wait for the hangover at least?”
“Yes and no.” Stephen replied, irritated.
“Troubled by indecision? Yes and no.” the cabbie laughed back at him.
Great, a comedian for a cabdriver.
“Ok pal, take it easy. They give it up for a dollar and a quarter at the corner store right
down from your hotel. I’m fresh out.”
The rest of the ride went off more smoothly in relative quiet, Stephen thankfully noted.
Paying with his credit card, he tipped the taxi cab driver a flat five dollars and climbed out of the
cab in front of the Hilton. Nervousness gripped his guts as he realized he was about to encounter
the devil behind all of this again. The taxi pulled away as he tried to get a grip on his senses, and
push himself forward.
Reaching the front desk, he waited patiently to be noticed by the front desk clerk whose
name tag read “Thomas Seegerber”.

“Hello, sir. Can I help you?”
“Yes, Thomas. I have an envelope I was told waiting for me with you here.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Stephen Bolsom.”
“Ahh yes, sir, and here is your key card as well. You are in room 236. Enjoy your stay!”
Stephen nervously fondled the relatively thin envelope in Hilton stationary and the key
card. Reluctant to head up to his room, not knowing who or what would wait, he had a seat in the
lobby and opened the envelope.
Inside, also on Hilton stationary was a note reading in neat print: “Stay here until we tell
you. Room service is covered. Use the terminal we left. “After that was a series of pass codes for
the “terminal” and the wifi connection.
Now fully decided that he was not staying, Stephen opened his laptop from out of its
enclosure in the case. Logging on to the Hilton wifi connection, he used a program to get in to
the back door of a local motel’s booking logs. He found a vacant room, and marked it booked in
their system. Closing the laptop, he walked out the front door of the hotel and hailed another taxi.
A short cab ride later, Stephen arrived at his motel. After paying and thanking the
subdued taxi driver, he walked to the room number he had filled the motels system blank in as
booked. Removing a magnetic key card strip decoder from his attaché, he inserted the card and
watched as it decoded and unlocked the door to his room. Then, simple as that, he walked into
his new temporary residence, placing the “do not disturb” sign on the doorknob on the outside
for the maids to see.
Slinging the attaché with the laptop sleeve and his I.D.’s in it onto the nearby desk chair
in the dimly lit smoke smelling room, he noticed his phone was vibrating. It was Andrew
Carnegie’s number.
“What do you want?” he said, answering.
“Stephen, you are making this hard on yourself. We know you retrieved your
instructions, and then chose to leave. Where did you go, my dear boy?”
“I stepped out to have a drink.”
“Stephen, we have all that covered under your Hilton room service. We will play your
game though, for now. You have one hour to return to your room. However, in return for your
hostility, we have decided to take out a little more insurance. We are taking the names and
numbers and addresses of your dearest from your phone as we speak. In case we may need to
include them in all of our fun due to your games.”

“What?”
Stephen glanced at the screen of his smart phone. All of its contents and phone records
were pulling out of their files and emailing to an address he didn’t recognize.
“You mother…”
“Ahh Stephen. I will be in contact. Or we will find you and your mother very soon if you
refuse to comply. One hour Stephen. One hour. That will be all.”
The phone line went dead.

Chapter Three
Not figuring on being able to gain very much private access from his laptop or phone
anymore, Stephen had decided the following morning to pawn them in order to get breakfast and
a prepaid cell. The South Street Pawn Shop was his first order of business for the morning, and
promptly at nine am he checked out of his motel and headed for that vicinity.
South Street, Philadelphia was already at nine am its usual swarm of tourists and local
hippies and artistic types hanging around where the climate matched their clothes, or lack
thereof. Today Stephen was not here to share in the local art flair however, and he briskly walked
into the pawn shop he hoped would take his wares on the corner. Inside, rows of guitars hung
lining the walls, with stacks of amps to match from poor musicians who had lost their equipment
to poverty brought on by some other vice.
“Can I help you? The store clerk spoke up as he approached the long glass encased
counter.
“Yes, I have two items to pawn.” Stephen replied, placing the laptop and his smart phone
on the counter.
The store clerk examined the laptop first, noting the serial number, and turning it on and
off to check for pass codes and to see if it was functioning. He then gave the Android cell phone
a once over.
“This still has service on it?”
“I’m getting it turned off today.”
“Ok, I will give you eighty five for both. You want to pawn, right, not sell?”
“Yeah. You got a deal.”
The necessary paperwork and thumbprints followed, and Stephen walked out with his
eighty – five dollars. This, he figured could cover a pre-paid cell under his alias and his service,
and some breakfast to get him going this morning.
The sunlight streamed in dusty particle filled rays through the dark wood paneled blinds
that lined Carnegies study. It was only at his modest home here in Newark, New Jersey that he

felt completely secure to go about the very underground deals that made up his living. Unlike in
the days of his youth that had built his reputation, he was now very much a homebody. The
fireplace had the leftover ashes still left in a pile from the night prior when he had sat and mused
at this latest deal on the chopping block over some fine scotch from his collection. All of
Andrew’s days spent naked in deals such as this coming from the streets were only as
comfortably behind him as his ability to deal adequately with the current characters involved in
the deal on the table. He needed to stay in constant touch in order to navigate the trenches safely
without having to do too much face to face. As much as he wanted to hide inside of his nice
suburban home and keep out of the line of fire, it was a necessary evil at this point due to
Stephen’s resistance for him to venture out in order keep control over the very volatile tempo of
the current mission. It was time to negotiate his next venture to meet in person for this mess
Stephen god – damned Bolsom was creating. He tensed for the confrontation as his hand reached
for the old fashioned black rotary phone he had brought with him from his Los Angeles pad back
in the eighties. He had moved it from its perch on his armchair, and he swore “Damn it!”
It was a memento of his days as a heroine junkie that had ended his dreams of becoming
a Hollywood writer and began is lucrative middle aged criminal years. It was slow on the uptake,
just like him, and rang a fierce and barking ring as Carnegie was known for as well by his
affiliates on their many phone negotiations.
From his suede upholstered upright study chair with the eagle clawed legs, he moved
with increasing nervousness that took on more and more conviction in his stomach towards the
desk mid- room that held the rotary phone.
Flipping open to leaf through the large rolodex on reaching the desk, Andrew looked up
this most recent oil – tycoon he needed to reach. The man had proven too power hungry to pass
up the opportunity when Harry Sante had come calling. The ability to reach inside of his
competitors businesses undetected and resell the virus programming to a friend of both had sold
him immediately. And the chance to effect history in the ultimate deal involving Bolsom had
excited him, and closed the package for them all.
Andrew had come about being friendly with Harry Sante in a business sense when Harry
had emerged from Silicon Valley with a Department of Defense intelligence deal to speak with
the Navy about his newfound rich conglomerated business partners. These people had a
worldwide influence that was all too effective in altering government’s courses. This type of
influence was what had attracted Harry, a former Seal to make the deal to get back his retirement
benefits from the Navy in return for getting the thrill of pressing on the many crowned heads to
get much need intelligence in the industry.
Harry and Carnegie had met over a deal to move a financial sector attacking virus to be
used on an attack on the current Libyan regime to help move swiftly through what the group
hoped would change the powerful heads places in a great game of musical chairs. It seemed this

game was constantly being played in the areas tightening armed forces, and the time was ripe.
Andrew had made an offer for a businessman with whom he had held opium dealings while
sewing his oats in the Middle Eastern underground community in D.C. Not that his oats needed
sewing for Harry’s prime product. Sante was known for having the best product at all times, and
very few were even allowed to approach dealing with him unless they were likely to put the
product to use that matched its potential. Carnegie, who had named himself in a fast Hollywood
name change in the eighties, had been so honored to sit at these negotiations. He felt his name
was finally getting its value that just as the turn of the century Carnegie power in the history
books had been rumored to have had its start in drug money later gone legitimate, so was he
following suit as he had planned. He savored the taste of it all in its sweetness as he moved on to
bigger and better gains.
Finally pushing the fog of all of this background intensity, Andrew dialed the phone,
reading the number aloud from his rolodex. The line rang, and it read an announcement from a
push button menu answering service.
“Goddamn it!” Andrew swore to himself.
He hated these stupid computerized answering services that were turning one – man
enterprises into a corporate mess of menu’s and complications. It seemed if you wanted to sound
legitimate, you assigned numbers to your various issues and had your dinner dates call you at
your office to get their panties hot. Not that they could get through the maze of options to get
through to you at your end to wind up in the sack talk anyway, but it made a hell of an
impression at least. Andrew patiently awaited the end of the message that would tell him how to
access his party without the use of dial tones. Finally the message service machine ladies droning
voice said “If you are on a rotary phone, or if none of these options is suitable, please hold on the
line and an agent will be right with you.”
Andrew waited as the line clicked and began ringing another line. To his pleasant
surprise, the phone was answered by none other than who he sought: Abdul Rashaad.
“This Abdul, who am I talking to?”
“Abdul, Carnegie. Thought I’d do a fill in the blanks session. Let you know what your
boy Stephen is up to. This isn’t all going as planned. I need more from your end.”
“What you mean, not as planned,” Abdul responded with his thick Middle Eastern accent
“we take his money, his house, his files, his business, he will bow, no?”
“Well, according to our follow ups, he didn’t check into the Hilton and therefore did not
get the computer terminal left in the room for him to begin his work for us. He is refusing to
cooperate despite threats to turn him in for his severe white collar crimes. I need you to turn up
the heat on him and put a tail on him immediately.”

“A tail? You mean like having him followed around the clock? That will take one of the
Washington D.C. team members and I must have your absolute guarantee there is no other way.”
Abdul related, getting almost out of breath.
“Yes, he needs a tail. And we need to flush him to D.C. if that is where the team has
already assembled. This is imperative. Get him off of his turf, make him like a fish out of water.
No room to breathe. In fact, let him make his tail.”
“Make his tail?”
“You know, recognize the fact that he is being followed.”
“You want me to put a man on him in secret, but make sure he “makes” him? What sense
will that make in this plan of yours?” Abdul carried overtones of doubt into his carefully
annunciated reply.
Andrew replied.
“If he knows he is being followed it may scare him into accepting our instructions.
Nothing else so far has.”
“I see.”
“Yes, do it. That will be all.”
Andrew hung up the phone, wishing no further contact from his home office, yet
unwilling as of now to arrange the face to face meeting with this Middle Eastern rebel stranger.
Maybe it was just paranoia, but these international numbers showing up on his phone bill could
alarm homeland securities based on the damn loose surveillance allowed now under The Patriot
Act. Seemed they could pattern things based on data from your accounts for virtually no reason
but to be nosy. The less contact he had, the better.

Chapter Four
They were standing in front of ruined history, making history thought Abdul as he
rounded the curve in the road that lead to where the former Libyan wonder of the world had
been. Terrorists had destroyed the high art statues that had stood as tall as some palaces with
their missiles years back. These were the types of things this group of men had agreed together to
work to prevent, though their business was far from above board themselves. They were vying to
become a nuclear power, and to overthrow a U.S. President by assassination, these things they
could envision to the credit of their backgrounds, not to destroy their local history. That would be
a show of the kind of ignorant power hungry tyrannical rule that they so simply with their newly
acquired wealth and influence, said they would demolish.
As Mustafa Senussi, and Ahmed Tiran walked carefully over their Libyan brothers
heritage, they listened to Abdul relate to them what they had been waiting to hear. It was time for
them to leave the country, and become involved directly in the divine dance, the game that was
afoot in Washington, D.C., in the United States.
“My brothers, “Abdul spoke with reverence to his partners in this venture “we must now
act quickly and with no hesitation. The enemy is afoot, and he is being tailed by the tracers we
have on him now to get at him in the midst of his raw and ignorant greed. I am sending for two
more to go from the group, unless you agree with me. It is time for you to go, brothers. When
this man reaches D.C. there will be the need for the root of our power over here to be present.
Regardless of the military strength we have bought with this venture, we are the prime money
behind this, and therefore will be able to dictate the way in which things are happening the most
easily.”
Mustafa and Ahmed both shook their heads in agreement. Mustafa spoke up, “ Yes,
brother, we have made arrangements already to fly there via our private access jet tomorrow
morning. We felt the same thing was so very necessary at the very beginning, and we both look
forward to having you there as well with us to help as we take on the role of preservers of our
brotherhood.”
It was Ahmed’s turn, and he turned a shade of red as he began.
“Yes. I think too it will be all ready for us on the other side of this, without having to be
too close to the actual death we will cause. That I believe, should be left in the hands of our
militia men. It is an honor to do such a service for you, Abdul, in the face of what you have done
for our families.”
Abdul had taken them on at the beginning of his recent oil venture brought on by his
father’s death and his last will and testament betrothing him with much wealth. He had felt them
at the beginning to be the prime candidates to work the fields he wanted worked, and had quite

simply treated them both as if they were family from the beginning, allowing them each to earn
a substantial amount of money in his business before turning them to his bigger plans for the
group. He had been pleasantly surprised by their grateful and indeed agreeable replies to his
wants in the way of acquiring governmental or political power. How else should they feel, they
said, when in fact he had treated them to a world of wealth they never otherwise would have
found in their paths. Their families, and they themselves owed a deep allegiance to Abdul.
“That is good, brothers. I will be following you on that jet as soon as the character
himself is in D.C. The one we have planned to be the fall man in the assassination. It is essential
that you get him to retrieve the documents for the reconnaissance of the nuclear warhead as soon
as possible. Our date is coming swiftly as a steed to his sire, and we still lack the necessary plans
to make the whole thing worthwhile. Though it will be nice to see that tyrant of a U.S. President
go away, saving a good many of our regional friends and their families, it would all be a loss
without the information to get at that warhead and make the world tremble when they think of
threatening us this way again.”
They all murmured in agreement to this as well.
“Good, then it is settled. Tomorrow, Washington D.C. as a force. In the future perhaps
we will be invited back to make the peace arrangements for our brothers with Jihad’s supreme
weapon in our hands. Hum d’Allah.”
“Hum d’Allah.” Mustafa agreed, thanking Allah for this.
“Hum d’Allah.” Ahmed agreed.

Chapter Five
Stephen was on his way out of Philadelphia, that much he had decided. As to where he
was going to go, he had no idea yet. He had bought a new prepaid cell phone, and had used his
fake credentials name and information for the account earlier that morning. He felt naked
without a laptop, and he cursed his decision to not get one for the train ride to, well, wherever,
earlier with his credit cards.
Exiting the Market Frankford line subway terminal and climbing the stairs, he found
himself arriving at thirtieth street station, which was a hub of activity as usual. From this place
buses, local trains, and trains going nationwide and further left on a daily basis. He entered the
old fashioned looking brass railed door, and gazed up at the cathedral ceiling with its vast and
awesome décor, and at the statues standing tall against the incredible backdrop. He was going to
miss Philadelphia.
Taking no comfort in his decision, Stephen forced himself on to the long distance trains
ticket counter, and stepped into line. It was then that he noticed him. The man had been on the
subway train with him, and had sat somewhere near to him. He had exited at the same time, but
then again, a couple dozen people had done so, so Stephen had thought nothing of it. But now
this Middle Eastern looking stranger was sitting huddle in his overdressed overcoat and quite
simply watching Stephen as he prepared to purchase his ticket. Stephen looked directly at the
man, and the man, turned away, fiddling immediately in his pocket for his cell phone and
drawing it out.
This strange game of cat and mouse looks continued on as Stephen awaited his turn to
buy a ticket. When the time came, he was feeling rather paranoid when the man came closer and
in fact got in line close enough to hear what Stephen was saying. If this was a tail, he was most
definitely not about maintaining any kind of secrecy about it, thought Stephen. The least he
could do was offering him a false hope by buying a ticket to a place he never intended to go.
What was that place?
“One one way to Baltimore, please?”
“Your I.D. sir?”
Stephen fumbled nervously for his credentials, hoping the ticket clerk would not reveal
the name on them, but was soon disappointed.”
“Mr. Lawrence? Timothy Lawrence?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He winced as he heard the ticket clerk give away what was his last hope of
maintaining any kind of steady source of money in his grasp.
“That will be a hundred and twenty five, sir? How would you like to pay?”
“Credit, please.” He noticed the man who he had thought to be tailing him stepping
forward into the ticket booth clerk’s window next to him as he handed over his identity thieved
credit cards to the ticket window clerk.
He thanked her quickly and moved away from the ticket window when his ticket was
printed and handed to him. He checked the time on his train. Damn, he had over two hours to
kill, pun intended. This was never going to do. He looked around for the man in question, and
saw him almost immediately leaving the ticket booth and maintaining a loose distance behind
him. He swore under his breath and did the only thing he could think of. Making his way for the
nearest exit to the subway terminal, he made a run for it.
It was late night in the wine cellar at Alberto’s for a small crowd that was celebrating
with Andrew. Amongst the local muscle that had graced his tables were Sam Smalls, the local hit
man legend, and Tom Sade, who was still waiting to be made. Gathering up the rear of his local
favorites were the man simply known as “Toots”, famous for having sold more “flake” than he
could ever have dreamed of under the watchful eye of the NYPD back in the eighties, and the old
legend that had brought the notion of writing back to Andrew recently, his old buddy and NFL
Hall of Famer, Reggie Rawdell. Andrew was enjoying himself immensely, and didn’t even mind
that the bill was all going to his account for the party as he topped off the night enjoying all of
the rowdy memories he and his old buddies could remember.
“Remember when you and Toots thought that Tommy here,” Reggie grabbed Tom by the
shoulder “was going to take down your business for being on his turf, and you sent Toots to hire
a hit man. That hit man turned out to be Mr. Smalls here, and the beginning of what could have
been a very ugly masquerade for the two of you into real family business. Lucky Sammy here
has a brain to go with his bullets and cut you both in on a deal of his with Tom instead.”
“You two were going to bump off whom?” Tommy fired off in Andrew’s direction just to
watch him squirm.
“Nothing like that, Tommy boy. Just business that was way out of date and got settled
just great. Just great.”
“Hey, salut!” Tom raised his half empty wine glass to the crowd and in his booming
voice demanded a toast.

“Salut!” they yelled back in unison, draining what was left of their drinks.
Andrew had spared no expense. This deal with Abdul was going to practically put him in
retirement if it went down as it was supposed to. There was no reason to spoil this kind of
occasion, it was after all his sixtieth birthday party. It was an age he never had in his troubled
youth dared to dream of living to, and he felt it was worth every penny he could get to lure the
best from his past into the fine wine cellar at Alberto’s. The wine was flowing, and indeed the
sentiment was that this party had been an overwhelming success.
“You telling me, you wouldn’t try it again if you thought it would be worth your while,
Andrew, ma boy?” Reggie half assed his words and then as if in mocking toast “Here’s to
Tommy’s death! Salut to that.”
Nobody laughed. Nobody really seemed to think it was a funny one at all, and Reggie,
despite his normally cool exterior began to sweat immediately.
“Hey, he left me everything. What with me being his best track to the inside and all. Ain’t
that right Tommy?”
“I did no such thing, “ Tom took no pity on him and his tasteless comment.
“He left everything to that hooker wife of his, and a good thing too cause I’m her best
regular!” Toots quipped.
Tom, being the character he was laughed once, twice and three times in loud, short
staccato bursts, and then stopped and looked at Toots deadpan.
“So you’re the punk been hanging around the back door waiting for table scraps?!” Tom
shot putted one at Toots, to which Toots responded “Hell ya! One hell of a cook, your misses!”
Andrew remembered when he had first left Los Angeles and had taken his weary and
defeated game back to the east coast and had fallen in line with all of this gang. He had wasted
his time away in Los Angeles, getting heavy into drugs and wearily placing all of his bets on his
writing to make it in Hollywood someday. He was convinced that no matter the amount of
writing he wasn’t producing, that all of his contacts were selling him short. He would write when
he started getting paid, wasn’t that how it worked? How was he expected to take all of his time
writing when he wasn’t getting paid for it by anyone? It was the biggest waste ever too, because
God – damned Andrew could write! He had written one screenplay, and one novel to test out his
prowess in the late eighties and had not gotten a single non – form letter reply from agents in
response. That was when he had stepped up his game and moved out of the shooting up his veins
business and into the shooting up his enemies business. He had proven to be very good at this, all
too good and though he had earned quite the reputation there in Los Angeles, found that he
couldn’t take all of the heat coming his way alone and moved back to the east coast.

“A Brooklyn original, born and raised, which almost wasted away in California. You
fucking queer. Why the hell you go down that road anyway Andrew? Just suppose you had made
it as a writer back then. What the hell kind of stories did you have to tell back then as compared
to the ones we got now, eh?” Sam Smalls called him out in his boyishly simple and comfortably
drunk way.
“That cruel mistress who took me by the blood and socked me full of mud at every turn. I
was hooked and sure she was my heroine, ma boy. To anyone who has been there, it needs no
more explanation. But who’s to say these stories will go to waste. What with Tommy getting
made, maybe I get an inside track to a deal or two after all, eh Tommy?”
“You’re gonna get me made alright. Like in the sites of my last shooter. Speaking of
shooters, where is that round of Kamikazes I ordered?”. Tom replied half in jest in the waiter’s
direction.
The waiter, turned on an immediate heel and went for the stairs to go and fetch the late
and very much so coveted drinks by his severely inflating party check, and hopefully tip as
reward.
“Thatta boy!” Tommy yelled after him.
Andrew was at loss for words at Tom’s jest. It startled him almost, took him back how
much he still very much so held on to that writers simple dream of getting published someday.
He nearly teared up, he was so caught up in the sentiment, when Reggie let him know “Andrew,
don’t cry you old fart. He didn’t mean it, like I didn’t mean I would kill the poor bastard.”
“It’s my party, and I will cry if I want to. You would cry too, if it happened to you.”
“Speaking of which, where’s the music? This shit is like bad elevator music. That’s the
only bad thing I have to say about this place.” Toots remarked openly gawking at the speakers in
the corners of the room.
“Yeah, that’s what we need. Some good old Sinatra. When I was sixty, it was a very good
year. It was a very good year…” Andrew threw back, avoiding the teary eyed scene altogether.
The very group who had nearly done him in at every turn, each and every one of them,
were making this one of the best birthday memories Andrew could remember, and he was moved
to thank them. Not that paying the bill for the entire party was not thanking them, but after all,
what were friends for but to ask what you got them for your birthday, right?

Stephen made it onto the Market Frankford Line Subway seemingly unfollowed. As he
sped towards the downtown area, he did the next thing he could think of. He dialed his ex-
fiancée’s number. She knew more about him than anyone else, and God knows he needed
someone to confide in. Her line rang with a new ring back tone that was a song about finding
love after losing love. This was a good sign, maybe she hadn’t moved all the way on yet.
“Patricia here!”
“Patricia, this is Stephen. You are never going to believe what is going on with me.”
“Stephen, I thought I told you not to call. And what is with the new number anyway?”
“Do you remember the old days Patricia? That Radiohead concert I took you to where
you said you fell in love? Or how I used to order a dozen purple roses every week to your house
because it was your favorite color? Vacationing in Cape Cod every summer? Or how we met
even?”
“Stephen, you got bit by your neighbors’ dog, and I was there at the hospital to treat you.
Hardly the most romantic of scenarios. Come on, Stephen , why all the sweet talk? You know I
have a boyfriend?”
“Yeah, so I hear. But the bittersweet tone in your voice says you are in for another
Stephen adventure. I have one I am on, as a very much needed point. I have some things going
on right now, Patricia that you would not believe if I told you.”
“Well, I hardly have the time to do a bunch of catching up now, Stevie boy wonder. I
have just gotten home from a seventeen hour shift and I’m late fixing dinner for my soon to be
arriving guest. You’ll just have to try me…”
“I will do no such thing. I hate to sound desperate, Patricia, but I have to see you. I
desperately need the ear of someone who really knows me, or I at least thought you did. They
have taken everything from me, Patty cakes. I am homeless and running about with some
stranger following me.”
“Oh God, Stephen. You and your dramatics. What happened to the Reed Street place?”
“I can’t explain it all right now, but can I stop by? I have an AMTRAK ticket I may or
may not be using to Baltimore in two hours. Just for a few minutes. I swear I won’t cause any
trouble with your company.”
“Stephen, you never cease to amaze me with amount of trouble based on your own
irresponsible, see through procrastinating paranoia that you refuse to use as incentive to take care
of things properly. I will say that you can stop by, but…”

Stephen hung up and shifted uncomfortably in his subway car seat on the Market
Frankford Blue Line Subway as it tore into Penn Station. He was about to replace his cheap new
flip cell phone in his front shirt pocket, when it rang to life.
“Stephen, this Andrew. I have something to tell you. You are a wanted man in the
downtown area. I fear you have not been following our instructions, so we have taken the time to
give you some trouble. Got wind that you were headed to Baltimore? We won’t be making that
trip anytime soon, dear Stephen.”
“What the hell do you mean I am wanted?”
“There was a bank robbery in the downtown area just a few minutes ago and the
description of the thief was picked up by our radio police scanner patch specialist. It has been
altered, and boy do they know what you look like, you bank robber you! We saw you duck into
the subway, so we tipped them off to be on the lookout for you there. Don’t be too afraid my
boy, it’s only a questioning away from finding out it couldn’t possibly have been you, but what
else are we to do with you, Stephen? You won’t take direction from the only place that is ever
going to get you out of this mess intact, namely our boys you left behind at the Hilton. We have a
new plan for you. If by chance, you happen to keep your freedom intact here this afternoon, we
will have you out on a seven thirty train to Washington. It’s time you get a lot closer to the
sordid subjects of our unsightly soiree.”
Just then Stephen noticed a transit cop eyeballing him as the train door began to close on
their most recent stop. The cop took a second look, and began to talk into the radio attached to
his jacket. He began to approach from the very rear of the adjacent car slowly and steadily with
eyes on Stephen, in his direction.
“Thanks for the tip, Andy. That’s just dandy. Just dandy, Andy.”
Stephen hung up the phone and darted for the closing door. He managed to jam his foot
in the closing automatic door before it closed all the way, and it faltered and reopened. Stephen
bolted off of the train, and as he did so glanced around to check on the transit cop. The cop was
now jogging towards the front of the car, and barking into his radio.
“Penn Station! I’ve got him marked at Penn Station! He is off the train and on the move!”
Stephen jogged into the dozen deep crowds of pedestrians walking up the stairs towards
the street. He saw a young boy in front him with his Dad, wearing a Boston Red Sox cap two
sizes too large for him. Stephen yanked it off of the young boy’s head as he darted by and placed
it on his head. If his head was all that was visible, that should throw the cop off a bit. He heard
the young boy start to shout “He took my hat! Dad! He took my hat!” and he felt a pang of guilt.
He stalled his progress and eyeballed the approaching Dad and kid. He pulled a twenty out of his

pocket and shoved it in the Dad’s direction. “Sorry,”he barely managed to mumble to the
tentative looking father and he quickly turned and jogged forward again, getting lost in the crowd
in front of them.
When he hit the street level, he saw what he needed. It was a five dollar everything mom
and pop shop that had raincoats in the window. It was indeed beginning to rain. More than
anything, he needed to change his appearance. He ducked into the store and as quickly as
possible ascertained that they had large blue slickers for five dollars behind the counter. He
waived a five at the store clerk, and quickly made his purchase. Stopping at the door on his way
out, he removed his trench coat and replaced it with the slicker. Then dropping the trench coat
into the wastebasket in front of the store as he left, he saw the cops emerging from the subway
terminal. They glanced his direction, and looked right past him. It had worked! A wandering
nearby bum began to work over the trash can where he had left his London Fog, and his eyes
grew large and excited when he saw his score. As Stephen walked away, the bum was placing it
on his dirty barren shoulders, brushing aside his long tattered grey hair to place it there. He
tugged at his beard, and grunted a satisfactory sigh, and moved on.
Patricia lived near South Street in the Rittenhouse Square Condominiums. It was a short
walk away, and a walk through very untroubled streets where he would be less likely to
encounter a patrolling beat cop. As he made his way through the cold, wet streets, he took the
time to survey in his mind all that was in his check list of positives and negatives. Positive, he
was not yet being forced by Andrew and friends to do any sort of hacking as he expected was
going to happen certainly sooner or later. He was now aware that the business has something to
do with Washington D.C. He wasn’t sure if that was positive or a negative. He was positively on
the way to meet Patricia, and of that he could neither be sure it was positively naïve or just an
unsightly eyesore to think that she would turn him away unhelped.
Finally after about a twenty minute walk roasting all of the alternatives for action in the
fire that lit his intellectually spunky nature, he arrived at the gate to The Rittenhouse Square
Condo’s. The doorman greeted him, and asked whom he was there to visit.
“You don’t remember me? Has it been that long?”
“Oh, Stephen. I almost didn’t recognize you. Where did you get that butt ugly slicker?”
“Yeah, caught in the rain unawares. I never carry an umbrella. Five dollar store. Penn
Station.”
“Are you two, a thing again? Or am I gonna have to make some arrangements to have
you placed on the undesirables list? You know I’d really not enjoy that. She knows you’re
coming?”

“Yeah, she knows I’m coming. Can you give her a ring and let her know I’m here?”
“Certainly.” Paul, the doorman waved his hand over the massive phone with hundreds of
lines on it, and dialed up to five oh seven, Patricia’s home.
“Ma'am, you have a visitor here. Stephen I believe wishes to be let in?”
“Oh yes, this is Patty. Hey, is he drunk or anything?”
“No ma'am, he appears to be sober and sane to me. Can I send him up or do you need
more time? I know that you have company already.”
“Paul, you are too observant. What the hell you are doing making a living as a doorman
is beyond me.”
“Security. Security. That’s what I’m doing it for. Got to feed the kids somehow.”
“Yeah, I suppose you can send him up, Paul. But please, only if he’s sober.”
“You got it Miss Patty. He’ll be right up.”
Paul hung up the phone, replacing it on the ivory white cradle that held the massive
console next to it with the full listing of tenant’s condo extensions. He looked up at Stephen and
chuckled.
“I’m only supposed to send you up if you are completely sober. So tell me Stephen,
when’s the last time you had a drink?”
“Unfortunately, Paul my man, I have only wet my whistle with the rain so far these past
few hours. If you have any kind of spirits, I would be much obliged, though. You carry a flask?
I’m nervous, I mean I think she’s got her new boyfriend up there.”
“In which case, I need you to rescind your request and arrive sane and sober as she
intended. Now then, be on your way. Before she changes her mind, Stevie boy.”
“Thanks Paul. And here. “ He shoved a dollar into Paul’s awaiting hand.
“Ahh, tipping is a lost art. Thanks. Now I can hit the snack machine!”
As he nervously waited for the elevator to the fifth floor, Stephen rehearsed any number
of ways he could open conversation on arriving. He finally settled with “Old love meets new.
Why don’t we all have a few?” as being a must as far as ice breakers was concerned if her new
beau becomes too interactive. He just needed someone to know what was going on. There had to
be someone waiting to receive that phone call in case he ran into the ultimate hard place. The one
who could call all of his family and let them know he was alright. Well, sort of alright.

He arrived at the doorway, and found it slightly ajar. He knocked lightly on the door,
swinging it a little further open as he did so.
“Come in, boy wonder. Boy do you have timing!”
“Hello?!” he walked into the dimly lit, as if in romantic protest, sitting room that served
as the oversized foyer to her candlelit dining room next to the kitchen. There was a bottle of wine
sitting on the table, and a man who looked about thirty in age and of Asian descent seated on the
edge of his seat with a flabbergasted look on his face.
“Forgive me, I fear I have no choice but to be so rude. Just glad you weren’t in the nude!”
Patricia came into site leaving the kitchen, wine opener in hand.
“Did you just say you were glad we weren’t naked? Whatever happened to the voyeur in
you, Stevie? I thought you liked to watch everything dirty.”
“Did I ever make that impression a permanent one? Let me discount it as human nature
coming from the observation of one led by his penis player to another led by her propensity for
pleasure.”
The man looked even more uncomfortable now, and seemed on the verge of either
exploding or leaving.
“Stephen, this is Tam. Tam, Stephen.”
Stephen made his way closer to shake the man’s hand, but the Tam instead grappled
desperately for his wine glass.
“Stephen, Tam’s last name is Yu. He is best known credited for his work as a Video
Game Productions Manager on some very impressive stuff put together by independent local
teams of programmers who dare to bring their dreams to Tam to get them on the marketplace.
We met through your friend, Al Fisher who was trying that night to recruit for Jefferson Hospital
Physicians Pharmaceutical Education Organization.”
“Ah, good old Al. He always did make a great matchmaker. Just not for the Organization.
Did he ever manage to get that FDA approval on his nationwide education for physicians
speaking tour? He had some pretty heavy hitters saying that if he got it endorsed they would be
lining up for the next few years. He could turn them out in a very big money way! Oh sorry.” He
realized too late that he was completely ignoring Tam, who was staring blankly at the floor.
“So, tell me Stephen, before I get too tipsy on our second bottle of Chardonnay, to what
do we owe this visit today?”
“You’re a poet. I would love to just spill my guts, but I don’t know where to start.”

“Start anywhere because I am only giving you ten minutes.”
“Can I get a glass?”
“Ask Tam, he bought it.”
Stephen looked Tam in the face, and saw the man look back for the first time ever. Tam
just shook his head lightly signaling “No.”, but Stephen was unsure if it was a “no” to the wine
or just a “no this can’t be happening.” Stephen decided to skip his old love, new love why don’t
we all get a buzz line and cut to the chase.
“Tam, do you mind if I take Patricia alone to the other room? There are some things I
think you would rather not hear.”
Tam waved his hand towards the other room as if to say, “Be my guest” and nodded in
the affirmative.
“To the bedroom, honey?”
“Stephen, behave. You are scaring my guest half out of his sexy mood I had him in.”
They walked a short distance to the entrance of the bedroom, and Patricia eyed Stephen
warily. He thought for a just a minute that she had the buds of tears forming in her eyes, but she
seemed to shake it off and started in on him.
“If you are going to talk, talk. Otherwise please move on as I have asked you to do and
leave us be. I thought for a minute there, he was going to leave.”
“Patricia I am in big trouble. They sold my house out from under me, stole my business.
They almost got my car, but I reported it stolen.”
“Who are they? And how is all that possible?”
“I have yet to find out exactly who they are. I only get to talk to a go between by the
name of Carnegie. They reported me to the police earlier as matching the description of a
downtown Philly bank robber and had me hunted. They are not going to take no for an answer.
Remember what I told you about my business?”
“I remember it being the main reason I could never get comfortable with the idea of
having kids with you…” she looked towards the dining room, craning her neck as if to say “was
that too loud?”
“My business is gone. I am being blackmailed into working for someone else, something
involving D.C. My imports business so far as I know has not been touched, and may be my only
saving grace. They took six million dollars irretrievable from my Cayman Islands Bank account.
I am flat broke. Do you have any cash?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Are you on drugs Stephen? Tell me you haven’t turned to
that?”
“No, Patricia. I am not on drugs. Like fifty would do me a lot of good. Right now I have
been robbed of everything and just needed you to know if I call and say to call my Mom, or say,
my sister, that you would have a better idea of what is going on.”
“A better idea of what is going on? Stephen as far as I know you are talking like a crazed
conspiracy theory nut who is about to start breaking the law because he thinks he is being
followed. What the hell is this all about?”
Tam entered the small space, surprising Stephen. He was a very well built guy, and he
could see where Patricia found him attractive after having led a life of liaison for years with the
soft and cushy Stephen, whose only six pack was the one in the fridge.
“Is everything alright, Patricia. If it is time for him to leave, we can do this now.”
When he spoke, he had a slight hint of an accent that betrayed an exterior toughness that
seemed to teem through him as he stared coldly straight through Stephen’s extended arm.
Stephen put his hand on Tam’s chest to brush him off and help move him back out of the
room. Tam caught his arm, and twisted it behind his back as Stephen yelped in pain.
“What the fuck?! What the fuck are you doing?”
“That’s Mr. Yu, to you Mr. Bolsom. And I am asking you to leave. You are not welcome
here anymore.”
“Let go of me!”
They struggled moving back and forth for a moment as Tam firmly held Stephen’s hand
and left arm twisted behind his back so that he could not function other than trying to regain its
use. It had seemed all too easy to Tam, and this pissed Stephen off even more.
“Let him go, Tam.”
Patricia crossed the room and pulled her purse from off of an adjacent shelf that was next
to where the flat screen smart T.V. sat in the living room slash sitting room a few feet away. She
pulled out a few twenties and approached Stephen.
“Stephen, take this and leave. I’m not saying you are not welcome. I know you are in
trouble. I am just saying that my life cannot revolve around you anymore. Please obey my wishes
and leave now.”
Stephen reluctantly received the two twenty dollar bills with his aching left hand, and as
he massaged them into his billfold, finally used his line.

“Old love meets new love. Fits like a glove. Why don’t we all get a buzz?”
Tam squinted in reply and said coldly, “Why don’t you buzz off?”
Stephen winced and sighed in a slightly stern way at the tired thought of refusing and
fighting the man. Paul would be so disappointed, and perhaps even the police would become
involved and he had other things to be concerned about besides his hurt ego. He made his way
for the door reluctantly, followed by a heated Tam who was very nearly breathing down his neck
the entire way.
“Easy there, Bruce Lee.”
Patricia made sad eyes towards him as he approached the door, and directed her final
comments towards him loudly as Tam closed the door blocking him from reentering, “I’m sorry
Stephen!”

Hack To The Chief

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Hack To The Chief