Smoke Over the River - Franklin's Bennies Episode 13

Chapter 41: Avant Garde Neopolitan Painter

After I got a report from the prison that Mr. Kincaid was fast asleep, we locked up and headed out for a drive. I headed west toward the Missouri river. 

While the coastal drives near Donegal, Ireland far surpassed in scenic beauty the flat land topography of Highway 70 which connected our little college town to points east and west, the expansive width of our interstates compared to Ireland’s roads made driving easy. Nora had claimed. “Being able to see for many miles is comforting. Roads in the Midwest aren’t so swervy, turvy.” 

The drive down to the town of Rocheport, nestled on the river, took 20 minutes. I hadn’t taken Nora to the town before, despite its proximity.

My cousin Pat’s good friend, Issac Peterman, had recently opened a gallery, slash/eatery. He'd remodeled from the remnants of an old Baptist Church in the small town. Issac was Pat’s best friend and they had been college roommates. He had a swashbuckler way, bushy fu manchu mustache, and usually made a living as a muralist and part time college art instructor. He had two adolescent daughters raised by two wives. But now he was single. 

Rocheport’s claim to fame was a tie to the Lewis and Clark expedition of 1803. It was believed the explorers docked their canoes on the shores of what would become a river boat stop off. Some 200 plus years later Rocheport had become a little artisan village which catered to alternative lifestyles.

The homes and small downtown buildings, many of which were red brick and constructed in the 19th century, made the town a draw for those wanting a different abode from the suburban track-residences. 

I took the two-lane down the hill into the town. Chimney smoke billowed out of the homes. Mid-river, a barge sounded its horn.   

“Tis a nice drive,” Nora said, quiet on the ride down. “This place is a bit like back home.”

I stopped at Issac’s gallery, which sat across from a bicycle rental shop, and on the trail’s head of the MKT, which was the longest converted railroad track to recreation trail in the country, 

“It says ‘Nebo’, Nora said about the rainbow colored sign which hung above the gallery door. 

“That’s the name of the old church, I think.” 

“And this man is your cousin’s Pat’s best friend?” 

The few times I’d been around him he offered up some good advice to me, namely to take my job at the prison years ago, when I was most hesitant to do so. “Pays good and from what I know about you it will be a good fit,” he’d said. Despite what some said were his contrary ways, Issac was a man’s man, which simply meant he didn’t shy away from fear. He was someone who’d have your back, and according to my cousin could keep a secret. The last I’d heard he was living in the loft above the gallery.   

I rapped on the dragon’s head knocker of a behemoth oak double door. 

Peterman's rusted red beemer was parked in the gravel driveway. From a nearby walnut tree a rook cawed. “So he is an artist and converted this church into an art gallery,” Nora asked, stepping back and looking at the steeple.

I rapped again. “He is. And he did, or is… What do you see?” I asked. 

Nora scrolled down on her cell. “I was just trying to see what denomination the church is, a spire sometimes tells that. In Ireland you can tell protestant and from catholic.” 

“Keeps you from going into a King Billy church, does it?” I said, referring to William of Orange who conquered Ireland in the Battle of Boyne in 1690, making Ireland governed by the protestant monarchy. What does your Wikipedia say?”

“Haven’t gotten there,” Nora said, stepping back up to the door. 

“Likely, very protestant,” I said. “Not many catholics in this part of the country when this place was built. Still aren’t.” 

The double wide door opened with a creak. A 30ish tall blond poked her head out  “We aren’t open today,” she said. “Try back tomorrow.” 

She began to close the door. “We are friends of Issac’s!” I said. 

She poked her head out a bit more, studying me, then Nora and called back over her shoulder, “I, you have friends here.” 

A hoarse echo from behind her called, “You do say,” She let the door open, more creaking, to a full view of her, scantily-clothed red tank top, exposing her ample breasts, shorty shorts and black high heels. Not exactly weather-friendly, I said to myself. Nora moved behind me.

The door then swung open to Issac, cigarette unlit and dangling from his mouth, locks, gray streaked that stood angrily up at the hairline. A painter's smock, shirtless underneath, red blotched jeans, and holey tennis shoes, rig-out of the avant garde Neapolitan painter.

He got his bearings. “Well, well, Little Peter Cleary”…He stepped up to the doorway, past the woman, pulled the dangling cigarette out of his mouth and stuffed it behind his right ear and bear-hugged me. A faint smell of whiskey and tobacco emanated. He was an inch or so taller than me, 6, 1” about. His barrel chest, erect stature and bold countenance made him imposing. And alluring to women. 

He pulled me into what was once the church vestibule. I took Nora’s hand and coaxed her to follow. He continued to squeeze my hand, like an old uncle, his exuberance, I was certain, related to drinking. The afternoon sunlight beamed through the stained glass windows, into what was once the sanctuary, highlighting the fresh fern green, and cool blues of the church walls and the clay white color of the baseboards. A dozen easels, each with a painting resting on it, filled the one-time pew area.        

He released his grip. “So,” he said, examining Nora up and down, “This is the little lady that all these years you never let me meet.” 

I chuckled. The woman closed the door, shivering. “I was just about to start a fire,” she said. 

“This is my assistant, Darla,” Issac said. 

“Hardly,” she said, teasingly, disappearing into a nearby room.

Nora stuck out her hand. “I have heard a lot about you over the years.” Issac kissed her fingers. 

“How dashing,” she said, looking at me, blushing.

“Well, most of what you’ve heard is just made up by Little Peter’s cousin, Patrick Riordan,” Issac said, gently letting Nora’s fingers slip away. How’s he doing, anyway… Okay?” 

“Okay,” I said. He went on a ski trip with a new, uh, old girlfriend.” 

Issac motioned us further into the sanctuary.  “I wonder if he will ever settle down again. Let me take your coats.” 

Darla reappeared and dropped cut logs down on a marble tile floor in front of a fireplace. She then tore up some old newspapers and placed them under the burned logs. 

Issac motioned for us to sit in the remaining old church pew benches which had been moved to the brick wall. “Still working on the place,” he said, pointing to the dozen easels. “We had a disastrous first art show. We only had a dozen people. Didn’t really advertise and guess it was reasonable to understand why no one attended,” he said.

Nora and I sat, but quickly got up to look at the paintings. “Are these all yours, Mr. Issac?” Nora asked. 

Issac chuckled. “Darling, just call me Issac or I. Don’t think I am old enough to be your father. And yes, all the work is mine.” 

“His last name is Peterman,” I said to her. Actually, aren’t you also known as Ismael?” I said, recalling his name in the handball and muralist circles where he was well known. 

“I answer to that too.”

Drink,” he said.

Nora and I called out from the far side of the easels, “We’re good.” 

“Peter? I’ll get you a Moosehead. Make yourself at home.” 

Chapter 42: It’s A Colt 45

Issac’s paintings were oils, watercolors, landscapes and portraits.   The collection filled up the sanctuary where the pulpit once stood. His recent art theme, called Phone not Hooked up, was a collection depicting the evolution of the telephone from the 1890’s starting with a candlestick phone, to the rotary, to the touch tone, to the cell. He’d arranged a large easel to hold the four, 12 by 10 paintings, each showing the receivers disengaged from a caller. I studied each for an existential message of some kind. 

“Moosehead, “ he said, interrupting, handing me the bottle. He stepped back from the easel to reassess his work. “What do you think?”  

“I am sure it has a message,” I said. Nora, who was looking at a watercolor of a forest, stepped back joining us.

“It means that work can’t be done if we are focused on externals,” she said. 

Isaac nodded. “Very perceptive, M’ lady,” he said. “Actually it goes both ways. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”  

“Kind of like a …”

“A good woman,” Darla piped up from behind the counter engaged in fixing eateries. 

“Or a bad one,” Issac said. 

“You better be careful old man,” Darla said. “Remember you said I was your assistant.” 

Issac took another gulp of beer and explained the nuances of a piece he called the Headless Woman, a nude, sitting on a stool, but headless. “Someone who wanted to be anonymous,” I said. 

“You’d be surprised.”

Darla called out, “Another one of his assistants.” 

“Seems like a dangerous job,” I said.

We stopped at a watercolor of six Ionic-style columns. Nestled in between the third and fourth column, meshed in the vine covering the concrete he’d depicted a young couple kissing. He’d entitled it, A Getaway.  

“You should sell this to the university,” I said. 

“He doesn’t promote himself,” Darla said, putting finishing touches on some sandwiches. 

“I thought that was what assistants were for,” Issac said. 

“Snacks,” Darla said.

“Come, let’s eat.” Issac took Nora by the elbow, holding my pinky finger. 

“You can tell us whether it is the food or the art that is keeping business away.” 

We sat on high back bar stools. Darla had concocted a picture-perfect snack of ham, potato salad and pickle. Issac popped another Moosehead for me. 

“Wow.” I said. “Looks too good to eat.” 

“Actually, Issac took great pains to train me in how to make a neat sandwich.” 

“I haven’t figured out yet whether this place will be a gallery or a pub. Of course my wish would be to make a living selling art, but I think the reality of it is that central Missouri is not a place where people shop for what it is I do.” 

Darla stationed herself behind the counter next to a large utility sink and a large open-face refrigerator. A county food preparer license was pinned to a nearby bulletin board which also showed an assortment of announcements for alternative classes, one of which was for palm reading.

Issac gave us the lowdown on how he came to remodel the old church which was once a black Baptist church. “The name Nebo comes from  a mountain in Jordan and has some significance to Moses,” Issac said. “Probably should find out and make some art explaining that.” 

“What’s the ad about for fortune telling?” 

“There is a family of Romas here,” Issac said. “You know what they are?” 

“Gypsies,” Nora said. 

“Oh, you know about them?” 

“We had travelers in Ireland. I was told to stay away from them. They lived in trailers and I guess made their living… doing what gypsies do.” 

“The family here lives down by the river and the mom has come in to just browse. I kind of thought she was casing the place. But just my prejudice, I guess.” 

“We, uh, Issac, gets all kinds here. This place caters to, what did you say, ‘I’, the disenfranchised,” Darla said. 

“Actually, the mom’s name, gypsy mom’s name is Kirana. And I was thinking about having her do palm reading here. Might be a way to drum up business. Painting and palm reading. The college kids come down on weekends to stay in the bed and breakfast and bike the trail. And drink. Some go on river rides. They might find having their palm read a cool thing. And while they do I feed them with ale and substance.” 

“But that doesn’t have anything to do with selling paintings” Darla said. 

“That's why I need a good assistant. Sweetheart, show Nora around the place. I have something to give to Peter.” 

“Carry your plate. I’ll give you a tour,” Darla said.

Issac popped open another Moosehead. We toasted. “Your cousin asked me to clean this,” he said, pulling out a pistol from the bottom drawer of the bar counter. “I believe it was his dad’s.” 

I looked at the gun, in its polished holster. “It’s a Colt 45 Single Action,” Issac said. “Pat asked me to clean it. And see if it is in shooting condition. He took out a box of ammunition. Come on.” We left our beers behind. 

Issac directed me out the front door of the church carrying the weapon. “Let’s see how the ol girl fires.” 

We walked into a wooded area, some yards away from the gallery, into a small ravine. “So, I take it you’re not a gun aficionado, Peter?”

“No. Actually, I am ashamed to say that except for shooting a 22 long rifle when a teenager, I don’t know my way around guns.” 

He sized me up for the activity. “Best to know how to take care of yourself should the need arise. This little baby is a classic.”

We stopped in a clearing where Issac had set up a target shooting area. He handed over the pistol to me, walked some 20 yards away to a thick fallen walnut branch and retrieved some coffee cans lying about. He set the half a dozen cans atop the branch and traipsed back. “Now, the test.”

He loaded the weapon, explaining the gun is a Single Action Colt, the kind seen in cowboy movies, with a 45 cartridge and said that while my cousin inherited it from his dad, a WWII vet, the gun actually had its root in the turn of the last century. “Rough Rider Day,” Issac said. “Could be a reproduction, though. I don’t know enough about classic weapons to know. Looks authentic. ” 

He gave me a lesson on the mechanics of the weapon, its trigger, the hammer, and then loaded the bullets into the chamber, pointing out the safety. Then he raised the firearm shoulder high, holding the weapon with two hands and fired off the first shot. A bullet whizzed into the brush. “Too high.”  A puff of smoke bellowed. He cocked the hammer again and fired. A loud bing. The can flew off the tree branch. “Now that’s better. She works, the site and all.” Chuckle. 

“Try it,” he said. I hesitantly took the handle and listened as he showed me how to cock the hammer all the way. I situated myself, favoring the left eye. “Let one go,” he said.

A whistle sound went into the brush behind the tree branch. “Too high, too,” I said, nervously. Smoke, smell of polished metal.

Issac got behind me and schooled me on lining up the site at the end of the barrel. 

I fired again. Another miss. Again a miss, but seemingly closer to the target. 

A call from through the trees rang out, “Issac. The police will come.” 

He shook his head. “She doesn’t know we have no police or constable here. By the time the sheriff gets here whatever they were called about is history… Better mind, I suppose. Want to be a constable? I understand the city council here is contemplating getting one.”

“Up my amateur sleuth cousin Pat’s bailiwick more than mine. I’ll let him know, should he tire of teaching.”

Issac holstered the weapon, looked around for any signs of damage other than what we’d committed and pointed us toward the gallery. 

Chapter 43: Had Issac Discharged All The Bullets?

I gave a toot on the horn goodbye to Issac and Darla at the eatery door, the gifted painting of the Headless Woman in the backseat with the Colt pistol, wrapped in a plastic bag like a contaminant. Had Issac discharged all the bullets? 

“Darla told me she is a dancer at a gentlemen's club and met Issac there,” Nora said, inquisitive of life on the seemy side.

I chuckled. “He is a man about town.”

“Is that what you want to be?” Nora, asked. “Being a dandy like Issac.

“No. The only female dancer I need is you.” Nora squeezed my hand. 

Except for the big rigs the highway traffic was sparse. At home, we turned in early. 

Sunday Nora zoomed Donegal which was seven hours ahead of us. Weather was talked about, as was the matter of her niece’s, Maura Ann’s clef plate, as well as the absenteeism of Margaret’s husband, who drank up his earnings up at the pub. Over the conversation on the zoom from the kitchen I heard her mom say, “I rest easy, dear, knowing that Peter is such a good provider and dependable husband. Any news about a little one?”

I’d placed my cousin’s Pat’s Colt in the downstairs closet, rationalizing that when I returned it to him, I’d have him check the chamber for cartridges, too timid to do so myself. A girly man. 

I’d taken Issac’s suggestion and hung The Headless Woman on the wall in my little study, hidden behind the door when opened. Nora asked whether the painting wasn’t a gift for me as a reminder of some love I’d had who’d lost her mind, thus now headless.  

The contract about services to be rendered to the FBI was still sitting in my desk drawer. I hadn’t gone over the specifics of it with Nora, especially the life insurance piece.  

Gil now had an apartment in town and I wasn’t sure whether that gave me a restful feeling, or one of angst. 

Monday morning I dropped Nora off at her clinic and headed into my post at the prison. 

At Wanda’s, I stopped and went inside to place my order. Except for an old gentleman in bib overalls reading a paper in a corner table, the place was empty. Jasmine, her clerk, was back on duty, I guessed, due to an early out from her probation violation. She put her finger up to me and called back toward the kitchen. Wanda appeared. When she saw me, she shook her head apologetically, looked at the old man in overalls and motioned me back outside. 

The sun was coming up. She shielded herself from the rays and pulled me to the side of the building. She gasped, like she was starting a panic attack. “I am so sorry, Doc, but I didn’t know what to do. There were two of them.” She shook her head in frustration. “This is what happens. I knew I shouldn’t have played messenger man with that Coco’s sister, or whoever she is.” 

My stomach dropped at the sound of Franklin’s man’s nickname. “Slow down Wanda. What happened? Two of…?” 

“Gangster boys from KC. It was this past Saturday just after you came by early. Oh my God. I am sorry. I didn’t have your cell, or I would have called you then. They strutted in here like they owned the place. Lucky, none of my Sheriff boys were here getting their morning donuts cause their cocky way would have gotten them booted out of here in these parts. One asked me, not even subtle like, if I knew Coco. Jasmine was here. She got all flustered. She might have known something. I don’t know. You can't tell with these kids. She could have told someone when she was in lock up bout me knowing that Coco’s sister.”

A high rise chevy truck parked. A man got out, spit, took a look at us at the corner of the small eatery, nodded at Wanda and entered. “Jasmine can handle him. He only gets a Glaze and coffee.” 

She reached in her apron and pulled a pack of cigarettes and shook out a smoke. She offered me one. I nodded a no. She blew out a drag and unloaded. 

“Doc. I didn’t know what else to do. 

“The dreadlock’s one looked real deep into me across the counter like he wasn’t going to leave until I gave him an answer. The other just stared at Jasmine. We were the only ones here. I kept looking out the window hoping someone would show up. Jasmine started to go to the kitchen. The younger one said, “Stay here, little bitch.” He pulled his jean jacket back and showed her, uh us, he had a pistol stuck in his pants.   

“I thought they were here to rob us. But then since he asked about Coco, well, I knew it was something about whatever was in that note. We have heard of city home boys coming into our area, robbing someone or a store and taking off down the highway. The older one said to me, You got a letter from Coco’s people. You sent it up to someone inside. 

“I froze.” He said, “We need to know who you sent it up to and we will let you two be. The younger one went to the door, looked at the parking lot, which was empty, flipped the Open sign to Closed on the back of the door and snapped the window curtains down. 

“The older one waited for me to tell him bout the letter. I said to him first that I didn’t know what he was talking about. He turned to the younger one, motioned him toward Jasmine. He walked around the counter to her. Jasmine backed off to the shelves. She called out ‘D’. That is what she calls me. I said OK to the older one. And, Doc, I am so sorry. But I told him I gave it to you. I am… so sorry.” 

Another truck pulled up. Two men got out, nodded at Wanda and went inside. “I need to go Doc.” She flipped the smoke out onto a paved area, lightly touched my shoulder, turned back and said, “I'm sorry, Doc. I should have known better. ” 

Chapter 44: Smelt The Clothing For Any Trace Of Her

I climbed back into my car, without placing an order. The little town was slowly waking up. I took my route through both colleges. Students, who’d soon be leaving for holiday break, were still slumbering. 

Wanda had dropped a hot tamale on me when she asked me to deliver the letter to Franklin weeks earlier. Did Wanda even know my name? She just always called me Doc. 

She was alerting me to the fact that I should be on the lookout? My inclination was to call Agent Gil. I slammed my fist on the steering wheel, shouting, “Stupid, Stupid, Stupid.”  None of this had to happen if I’d nipped it in the bud at the outset and simply returned the letter to Wanda the day she gave it to me. And had torn up Franklin’s letter and told him I couldn’t help him. At the prison parking lot I found my tree and turned off the Escape. 

Nora had left a sweater in the back seat. I reached back, grabbed it and smelt the clothing for any trace of her, closing my eyes. Momentarily it brought me ease. But then I began ruminating about her safety. If this story Wanda had told me was correct and I had no doubt it was, then these two men took great effort to drive some 150 miles east to track down a letter sent by the sister of an inmate to a woman who owns a donut shop. One thug had called Jasmine a “little bitch.” What would they do to Nora to get the answers they needed? My dread turned to anger, which somehow was more comforting. I opened my eyes, deposited my cell under the car seat, clipped on my name tag, covered the lunch sack with Nora’s sweater and locked up. Later I’d call Agent Gil. 

These gangster boys didn’t know who I was. But a simple two-by-two tracking with the prison administration would shed light on me, the unassuming once counselor of Franklin, which I guessed was what they were after.

Inside the gates, I asked the CO in the Bubble in charge of calls to check their logs if anyone had inquired about mental health therapists. I was told mental health calls are forwarded to our secretary, Laurie.  

At my desk, I fired up my computer to:

“Staff, my father had a stroke in Phoenix and I am headed there. I won’t be in this week. Since neither Dr. Fordham or Mr. Cleary bother to read their text, or check their voicemail messages, I am placing both in charge as acting director in my absence. Dr. Fordham will handle suicide emergencies and matters pertaining to protocols of diagnosis. Mr. Cleary will handle all staff meetings and any staff concerns, which I am hoping there will be none. Everyone is to do their work.

Maria,”

“Fuck,” I said. In the shuffle at the prison over the weekend with Mr. Kincaid, somehow I’d missed Maria’s message. I thought I did check my messages. First things first. 

I called Three House to check on Mr. Kincaid. My real emergency had nothing to do with staff or inmate needs. 

Secretary Laurie bounced in, waved her usual jubilant hello. 

“Laurie,” I hollered. 

“You are in charge,” she said. 

“How’d you know?”

“Dr. Calderon called me last night. She said she couldn't reach you or Dr. Fordham. Someone needs to know what to do around here, Ha.” 

Laurie scooted in the cubicle. “Or is it Dr. Fordham, who is in charge?” she asked. 

“For high brow, technical matters, Dr. Fordham,” I said. 

“Did you need something?” she asked, sitting, shaking her foot, readying to start the day. 

“Let me know if anyone from the outside calls asking for me or wanting to know who has what case numbers. Likely a man. Could be…”

“Sweetheart, you know we get a lot of calls and if they ask for you I leave you a note. Creditors after you?”

I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “No, just that we need to probably know about calls coming in from the outside. This would…”

“Make that your first executive decision. Even sounds like something Dr. Calderon would approve of.” 

She got up. “Anything else, Mr. Acting Director?”

I shook my head as Dr. Fordham stuck his head in, sipping on a cup of coffee. “It's all your baby Mr. Cleary. I am only here for diagnosis purposes. There will be no suicide or suicide attempts. Thanks for covering for me with Mr. Kincaid. All's well that ends well.” 

“You heard.”

“Nurse Whiting told me. Said Maria couldn’t reach us.”

He held up his styrofoam cup. “Cheers.”  

I took another look at Maria's email, then checked my call out sheet. With Maria gone, not checking my actions, I could make a call to Mr. Franklin’s prison, to get reassurance from the man that no one had contacted him about me. I would get hold of his house there, tell the CO that I was doing a follow up medication check and ask if Franklin could call me. 

These gangster boys just came to town Saturday. It was Monday. Would they stay in the area or head back to KC? Queasy feeling. 

The day went by uneventfully. I put in the surreptitious call to Mr. Franklin’s prison down south, telling the CO at his house who I was, Acting Director, and that I was calling to get an assessment about his medication. Just a follow up, all protocol by mental health standards I said, realizing the CO could check up on the legitimacy of another prison calling to check on an inmate. A gamble.

During the day, I’d conducted my new charge as Acting Director the best I could. Mr. Kincaid got on the transfer list to another prison camp far away from his step dad, with the help of administration. 

At the end of the day just before leaving time, my phone rang. “Doc,” the scratchy voice said. 

“Mr. Franklin,” I said. “Thanks for calling me back.” There were clicking sounds on his end, signaling his call was being taped, as were all calls going out from inmates. 

I kept the call legitimate. “Are you taking your meds?” 

Chuckle. “Down the hatch Doc.” 

“Just needed to do a follow up.” Pause. “How about visitors? Have you had any?” 

More clicking in the receiver. “Nothing Doc. You comin down this way?”

“No. Just had to check.” 

Pause. “I get it Doc. All good here.” 

My gut said he knew why I was calling. Babcock stood at my cubicle door, alerting me to the time.“ Ok, then. Do what you're supposed to do,” I said. 

“Thanks for callin, Doc.” I  hung up. 

Babcock gave me one of his furrowed brow stares that I was doing something out of order. I packed up and made my way to the outside.

Through security, just as I was about to exit the prison, Sergeant Boye called out to me from the doorway of the administration. “Got a minute, Mr. Cleary?” 

Chapter 45: Chance To Talk About The Contract

Boyce motioned me over to a corner. “ So, Mr. Cleary, you just made a call out of the prison down south and talked to inmate Franklin.” 

News travels fast. “I did.” Keep eye contact, speak slowly. 

“I know you are taking over for Dr. Calderon. Her dad died.” 

“ Stroke, I believe. Still living.”

“So, is that call normal?” Boyce’s tone had been more kindly in recent weeks, than we had at first had a go-around when Franklin was at Tonopah.

I explained my reasoning due to double checking on his medication and that I thought Dr. Calderon would want me to do a follow up.  He seemed to take my response as reasonable and said, “Have a safe drive home.” 

At Wanda’s, I veered off hoping she might still be there preparing for the next morning. Her lights were off. In her parking lot I dialed up Agent Gil. He answered on the second ring. 

He blurted out. “Did you and the little lady get a chance to talk about the contract I left you? I know it’s a big undertaking. Just standard though.”  

I answered his question first before telling him my new news. “So I am the prospect. And you need to close the sale.”

“I can see how it seems that way. Perhaps, I need to be more sensitive to this whole thing. I know it puts you out there.” 

“Well, I haven’t shared much with Nora. But she’ll think it is odd. The contract and all. We are both wanting, uh, some satisfaction about the citizenship thing. So if you can get that ball moving then…”

He interrupted, “Peter.” Dead silence, then a sigh. “You know I am just on-my-way out as an FBI agent. And that is a long way from immigration. Uh… And what with all the border mishaps going on, I’d have to do some favor searching about Nora’s situation.” 

I couldn’t recall whether I’d mentioned the citizenship thing to him or not. Much of what I had coming in on my radar screen was a blur.  My anxiety had been on high alert since this morning. I steered from talk about the contract and blurted out, “This morning, getting donuts over here near my work, the owner of Wanda’s eatery told me that two gangster types she thought were from KC, visited her over the holiday weekend. They were threatening and asked her about a letter my former client Franklin’s sister had sent her.”     

“Go on, Peter.” 

“Just that they were threatening. But, Gil… She gave them my name.”

“These boys then know about the money. Their money, they think.” 

“Those aren’t words of comfort, Agent,” I said. A pickup pulled over in the parking lot in front of me. A young guy got out, adjusted his cap, which read Deere, gave me a nod, then jiggled the lock on the bed of the truck and returned to the cab, and drove off. 

“These were black guys, I take it?” Gil said. 

“I am guessing. One had dreadlocks.” I envisioned Gil sitting wherever he was, contemplating what to tell this near panic stricken new comrade-in-arms. 

“OK, Peter. Let’s don’t get ahead of ourselves. These guys' bark are often worse than their bites. If they are hunting down the money, they are out of their territory. Not normal for them. So go home, settle in and once you are in for the evening, give me a ring.”

I headed home. I hadn’t shared Wanda’s news with Nora when I made my lunch time check in. The question is, should I? 

I called up cousin Pat hoping for some reassurance that all will be well. He’d been skiing in Colorado with his girlfriend Colleen and since renewing our relationship I hadn’t talked to him for several weeks. I had his pistol. He picked up after several jingles. On my speaker: “Young Cous. You been out to see Issac, I heard.” A cat meows loudly in his background, then a dog bark. 

“He told you. We took a drive to Rocheport. Nora hadn’t ever been there. He gave me your weapon all cleaned and ready for use.”  

“No worries,” Pause as if he wanted to tell me something. 

Then, “Hello, Peter.”  

“Colleen says, ‘hi’.”  

“Tell her ‘hi’,” I  said. It was a bad time to talk about gangster types, so I told Pat I’d drop the gun by later. 

“Chow. Tell the little lady hi.” 

I kept an eye out for a tail in my rear view. Weeks ago, I was on the lookout for some government vehicle following me. Now, I was told I might have some gangster types tracking me down. Paranoia. 

Wanda said that two men showed up and threatened her. I took a deep breath, checked my rear view again, then regained the roadway.

I loaded the Van Morrison CD, Avalon, and let the King of Belfast croon. 

At my town’s first exit I took the off-ramp and headed to pick up Nora.