What You Can't Unsee - Franklin's Bennies Episode 12

Chapter 36: Fingernails Gnawed

I stepped closer to the plexiglass. “Hey Mr. Kincaid,” I hollered. 

He stopped humming, proudly grabbing his penis. “I talked to you a while back, do you remember?”

He approached the cell door, still holding his thing and pasted his nose against the plexiglass. I stepped back. “You the doc who said he was going to get me sleep meds.” 

So much for being totally out of this world. I nodded. Keep the conversation going. “You were having bad dreams about going to the camp where your step dad is, remember?”

Mr. Kincaid stomped his feet on the cell floor, smudging his feces some more. 

“Mr. Cleary,” the nurse called out, steps behind me. “It’s Doc Farnsy. Can you give him a report?”

Once an inmate is placed on suicide watch, it is prison protocol to contact the medical doctor. They could be located anywhere in the state. There were just three psychiatrists on-call to service the entire state. Each having their territory serving the 23 prisons.  

I took the phone, leaving Mr. Kincaid at the cell door. Doc Farnsy is middle eastern as are many of our doctors. Most are empathic to the plight of the men inside, although distinct accents make their words hard to understand at times, especially over the phone. I hadn’t met him, but had talked to him before when on-call.

I related what I knew about Mr. Kincaid’s background. When asked about whether I thought Mr. Kincaid was having a psychotic break, my answer was that if so, I’d classify it as brief since he just responded to an historical question I had asked of him. I wasn’t certain whether memory and a psychotic break were juxtaposed to one another. 

I asked Dr. Farnsy to consider something that would assist with sleep, knowing prescribing straight sleep meds was out of the question. I told him I was in the midst of talking to the man and to please hold on. I handed the phone back to nurse Becket and stepped up toward the cell door.

Mr. Kincaid was fixated on something below him, but still had his head pressed onto the plexiglass, seemingly waiting for my return. Tattoos covered most of his arms. He sniffled, wiping his nose with his hands. His fingernails, gnawed to points, had gooey excrement covering his thumbs and forefingers.   

He was a sad case. As I recalled he was originally put in Ad Seg originally due to behavior problems in the main population. The nurse tapped me on the shoulder. “The doctor went ahead and ordered 20 mg of Zyprexa, BID. He wants to know if the man will need to be restrained to take it.” 

I knew that to force medication on an inmate would first require an emergency hearing. The overall situation would become most compromising for Mr. Kincaid, which wouldn’t happen overnight. COs would storm into the cell, geared in swat garb and force the medication on him. “Dr. Farnsy wants to know what you want to do.” 

I raised my finger in a “hold on.” My strategy was simple. Tell Mr. Kincaid that he will be getting meds and will get to go to a camp far away from his stepdad. A half-truth anyway.   

Keeping my distance from the cell door. I said, “You are going to be transferred to another camp, far away from your step dad. I want to know where you want to go?”

Mr. Kincaid stepped back and took hold of his penis. “You ever seen anything this big, Doc?” 

Nurse Becket moved back from the door. The Lieutenant, also feet behind, was ready to pounce on the man. “So, if you agree to take some meds, shower, then we will get your papers ready to go to Cameron. How’s that sound? Your step dad is at Pelosi. You’ll be far away from him.”

Mr. Kincaid stared blankly for a moment, then smiled fiendishly at me. “As long as I can take my Josh with me,” he said, stroking his penis, which was becoming aroused. 

“You better hurry this up, Doc, or we are going to have to call the cavalry,” the Lieutenant said. “Just to hose him down and straight jacket him.”

Mr. Kincaid was slipping into an infantile state, likely consistent, I guessed, with his feelings of past abuse. I let the man twirl, stroke his organ and bend down. He grunted, then urinated.

I felt he would come back to reality long enough for me to get him to consent to take the medications.  He wasn’t refusing medication. Just the opposite. He wanted it. One side effect of Zyprexa was drowsiness, which was a good thing at this stage of his episode.

I stepped back toward the wall with nurse Becket. “So, can you give the Zyprexa to him if I can get him to take it?”

“That’s what I am here for.” She shook a small plastic bottle.

“That’s forward thinking,” I said. 

Nurse Becket and I approached the cell, hazmat suits with latex gloves. The Lieutenant handed me a small paper cup filled with water and gave me a look about whether to unhook the chuck hole. I nodded with a go ahead. “This son-of-bitch throws shit, Doc, we are calling in the troops.” 

The Lieutenant dropped the chuck hole. Mr. Kincaid stood proudly by waiting. I had visions of poop slung my way. “Mr. Kincaid, here's some water. I want you to drink this with this sleep med and then we will get your transfer started.” I set the cup on the ledge of the chuckhole, enough to allow him to pick it up.    

Mr. Kincaid spun around several times, his private parts swinging. “That’s about it, Doc. We need to get this going,” the Lieutenant said. I raised my finger to hold on. 

“Mr. Kincaid,” I called. “Here’s the medicine. Take it with the water.” I placed the pill on the chuck hole ledge.

I stepped back. Nurse Becket and the lieutenant waited behind me. From the bubble above two COs looked down. We had the time of day on our side, early morning. Any other time the noise of other inmates would be a distraction. But most were asleep. 

Mr. Kincaid held onto his penis, stepped up and took the pill, dropping it in the water and with one quick motion downed medicine with a swing. He let out a howl, then twirled around the cell, like a ballet pirouette.

“Did he take it, Mr. Cleary?” Nurse Becket asked.

“I think. Zyprexa has a sedating piece to it, doesn’t it?”

“That’s why Dr. Farnsy prescribed it.” 

“Guess we’ll see if he settles down.” 

Nurse Becket and I backed away from the cell and watched him twirl and pirouette. “If this works, good job,” the Lieutenant said. “If he starts shitting again, we are going to have to get him in restraints, though. You guys take off. We’ll call you if he starts up again.” 

Chapter 37: Coco, A Bad Hombre

My prayer for the moment was that the medication will take hold on Mr. Kincaid and I won’t be called back into the prison to witness the swat team putting him in restraints. After beating out my note of the encounter, I headed home, cell phone and prison beeper on the car seat.

The sun was coming up. Late Fall is usually a beautiful time in the Midwest; even though some snow has fallen, there is stillness about, awaiting the winter. I pulled over at Wanda’s eatery. It was early Saturday morning. The parking lot was uncharacteristically empty. A few patrons were in the drive-through. 

I hadn’t been back to visit her since she’d taped the note for Coco, AKA Mr. Franklin, atop my donut box weeks back. I’d purposely avoided dropping by. 

Wanda was manning the counter herself. A new work face was attending the drive through. Wanda brightened up seeing me. “Doc. Thought they transferred you down south or something. Kind of early. Didn’t know you worked weekends.” 

I ordered a cinnamon roll and one to go for Nora and told Wanda I was heading home after being called in the wee hours. She interrupted me. “Let me guess, one of the inmates tried to end it all.”

I related the all too familiar story to her, knowing she’d been on the inside herself and had likely experienced seeing women at her prison on the edge. “The gentleman was just having a meltdown. Got him to take some medication.” Wanda nodded while she helped box a drive through order, handing it over to her helper. I inquired about Jasmine, her other helper. 

“Meth. She’s got violated and sent back.” 

Wanda laid down my order with a large cup of coffee. She waved me off from paying. I could smell a strong scent of perfume. In her early days she’d likely been a beauty. Now, with some 100 pounds of middle age girth, she’d lost that head-turning appeal. But she made up for it with hearty honesty and caring concern for her  customers. She motioned me toward a small table, I suspected she wanted to know about her earlier note. A note which I had thrown away after Mr. Franklin was transferred to his new camp. I didn’t know whether Wanda knew Mr. Franklin or had been just a messenger for Mr. Franklin’s family. 

I replayed her note in my memory, oddly timed with the letter Franklin had given to me, which was now in my home study. What had it read, something like auntie needs to move? That was consistent with Mr. Franklin’s letter to me that he’d wanted to buy his aunt a home away from the drug-infested neighborhood which had claimed the life of his little nephew. 

Wanda and I sat. I sipped on the coffee, a Highlander Grogg. “Doc, I apologize for passing on that note a while back. I should have known better. Back in the day when I was on paper, that would have gotten me sent back.” 

I nodded. “No problem. I looked over my shoulder at a new arrivee, a farmer type, wearing a John Deere cap and overalls. Wanda gestured a hold on with her index finger and went to take the man’s order. 

“Your  usual, Frank?” she asked. She placed a box, apparently already prepared, on the counter for the man and filled up the man’s thermos mug. He dug out cash and deposited a dollar in the charity jar for a vet’s fund, made small talk inquiring about Jasmine, who he said he guessed would be back when she got herself into a better thinking way. Wanda said she’d passed on the man’s inquiry to Jasmine.

The new girl at the counter disappeared to the back room where the baker was. “Don’t be long, hun” Wanda said to her, scooting around the counter dusting off some flour, then taking a seat next to me, laying down a fresh sack of pastries on the table for me. “I have to watch her. She has a crush on my new baker, Chad, or he on her. Don’t need no hanky panky in the bakery during work time.”

I chuckled. “Got to run a tight ship, I am sure.”

“What with the way the world is today. Just want the younger set to understand that work is not all that easy to get in this part of the world.”

Anyway, I am sorry bout the note I gave you to pass on. But that man’s sister was a cellie of mine and when she heard her brother was at this camp, well, you know, she just needed to get a message to him. She is in KC and can’t make the trip down. And don’t guess the man has any minutes on his phone card. So…” 

“I understand, and for whatever it’s worth, he’s been transferred down south,” I said. 

Two more customers arrived. Wanda got up. She whispered to me so the new customers couldn’t hear.  “Don’t need to warn you or nothing Doc, but that Coco, was a bad hombre in the day. Don’t be a stranger.”

Outside, I chomped into one pastry and tuned into a morning sports talk show and made my way home to Nora. That Coco is a bad hombre, seemed a bit of a stretch to me. 

Mr. Franklin, the best I could conclude, was a drug pusher as were about half of the prison population. Stealing drug money from a gang was ballsy and was retribution for his nephew’s death. My conundrum was now: what to do about Mr. Franklin’s via Agent Cummings’ needs. 

On the drive, I zoned out listening to two sports announcer-boy types on the radio pontificate that Mizzou had over reached their athletic capacity joining the SEC years earlier.

A text buzz on my cell said “call home.” I pulled over and dialed up Nora. She answered on the first ring, sounding out of breath. “Oh, Peter, those two men were here who were here weeks ago. The Garda, uh, the government ones. Please...” 

“Slow down, doll,” I said, trying my best to keep calm, feeling palpitations start up. 

“They knocked on the door but I didn’t answer. You said never let anyone in, unless you are home.” 

I watched a Peterbilt in my rear view barrel toward me in the inside lane, then it quickly changed lanes and whizzed by. “Good. How long ago was that?”

“Oh.”  Then Gaelic…” Nil a fhios agam.” Neel iss ah-guhm.

“English, sweetheart.” 

“Sorry… I don’t know. A half-an-hour ago. I guess they knew it was too early …Peter, why are they here? Is it about your man in prison?”

I breathed a deep one. “I don’t know. Don’t answer the door if they come back! Promise.” 

“I wouldn’t. Where are you now?” 

I gave her my 10-20 and ETA, and pushed down on the pedal. I was at least 40 minutes out, enough time to brew up angst. Fucking assholes, knocking on my door in the early AM. I remembered I’d given agent Cummings the little metal bug I’d found in my study, which those boys had planted. 

I put the speedometer on cruise control at 75, five miles over the limit, and scrolled down for Cummings number. Despite the early hour I dialed and I got his voice mail, which just said leave a message. 

Chapter 38: Agent McCabe And Kohlbane

I pulled in my driveway, just as a black sedan with the fed license plate made its way up the hillside and boldly pushed in behind me. Nora was at the doorway. I’d been awake, going on 24 hours, if I didn’t count the few hours of shut eye I’d gotten before being called into the prison hours earlier. 

I was ripe for snapping at someone for the slightest provocation. I eased myself out of the driver’s seat, moved toward McCabe and Kohlbane standing in the driveway several feet from my car. I guessed they were at my home to legally gain entry into the illegal bug they’d planted. The bug, now in the hands of my new friend, FBI agent Gil. 

“Peter,” Nora called from the doorway, her tone cautionary, pleading for me not to lose my temper. 

“Gentlemen,” I said, avoiding eye contact, scowl forming, as the two men neared.  

“Sorry for the early morning call, Mr. Cleary,” McCabe said. “But can we talk to you inside?”  Despite it being the weekend both were dressed in their bland Fed uniforms, dark blue suits from some discount chain, laced up soft soled shoes, more for leisure or running down bad guys.

“Sure,” I said, wanting to blast out, “ listen boobs, this is harassment and what is it you want?” But I led them down the walk.

Both men traipsed behind me close enough to smell an onion odor from one of them. Breath aside, the two really were cut from a different cloth than agent Gil, who had a desperate Columbo manner that endeared him to me. These two were strictly bureaucratic clods.

At the doorstep, I kissed Nora, handing her the pastries from Wanda’s. Her bathrobe was drawn tight around her slip of a waist. She lightly touched me on the chest, “You had me worried.” 

“You remember Agent McCabe and Kohlbane?” I said.

Nora smiled, “Yes,” Both men eyeballed her well-tapered ankles, as she headed to the kitchen to deposit the pastries.

I motioned them toward my study, where Franklin’s letter was still stashed. I pointed one to a chair, opened the window shutter a crack and took a seat at my desk. 

McCabe sat and pulled out photographs from a manila folder, which I recognized as being Ruben Weintraub. Kohlbane furtively leaned against the door, behind me, I suspected to get the bug.

“Mr. Cleary, we apologize for the inconvenience of the morning visit but we really need your help. He flicked a photo of Weintraub shaking hands with a man I didn’t know. “You remember the photos we showed you of this man, Ruben Weintraub, a money launderer?”

I nodded, not wanting to commit to anything. “You said you didn’t know him but you do know his partner, your patient, uh client, this man.” He pulled out another picture from the folder of Mr. Franklin. And flicked the photo of him with his index finger.

I sighed. “OK,” I said, keeping true to my commitment to say as little as possible. I restacked some papers where I’d left the letter from Franklin and slowly moved my chair back from McCabe who had scooted nearer to me, onion breath and all, likely trying to pressure me into commenting. 

Kohlbane piped up. “Mr. Cleary, we aren’t here to hassle you, only to get some lead on your client who is also connected to the man with Weintraub.”

My little study had been built as an east side addition to the old house, mostly to avoid the western sun rays which were intense in the afternoon. On the west wall of study, next to my little desk, I’d hung my diplomas and a certificate I’d gotten for Cognitive Behavior schooling.

I saw Kohlbane’s image in the early morning sunlight, reflecting off my WashU. degree, then saw his right hand atop the door casing, searching, while McCabe distracted me, asking me to look closely at the picture of Weintraub with another person. “Know She began to close the door.”We ahim?”

“Can’t say I do,” I said about the man, who was dressed in a nondescript suit much like McCabe and Kohlband. “Looks like one of your boys, though.” 

McCabe scoffed. “He’s a banker in KC. And we believe a link to this money laundering thing.” 

I nodded. I was about to ask what Franklin had to do with this guy, but was stopped by a knock on the study door. “Yes.”  

“Peter. You have another visitor,” Nora said, peeking in, then stepping aside to Agent Cummings. He appeared like he’d been on an all night bender, Mark Twain hair more disheveled than when I’d parted with him a day earlier. He edged himself into the small room.

“Thank you, darling,” he said to Nora. She tightened the belt on her bathrobe.

Kohlbane, an inch or so taller than Cummings, gave the man space, moving back from the door to my bookcase, empty handed with no bugging device.

“Boys… gentlemen, I am afraid you have screwed the pooch here,” Agent Gil said. He flashed his picture ID. “My good man here, Mr. Cleary, is cooperating with us on a matter and…”

McCabe stood up, squinting at Cumming’s ID, “You are ‘whom’…?

“I believe it is ‘who’,” agent Gil said, letting the picture ID billfold flap open showing his badge. Kohlbane moved up to view. 

Cummings gave a hard stare at the man. Both men, now standing, readied for verbal combat. 

“I am going to have to invoke a code 28 on you guys, that is unless you want to fight over jurisdictional matters. I am guessing that’s why you are here, pestering this young man and his wife on what is it…” he checked his clock which he wore upside down on his left wrist, “uh, wow, 7:30 am.” 

McCabe eased back toward the wall, careful not to lean against my diplomas. “We have jurisdiction over money laundering matters, and that's what we were about to share with Mr. Cleary, uh, Agent, uh…

“Cummings.” Gil reached over and picked up the pictures, looked at the photos with discernment, as if he’d retrieved some stolen merchandise. He stepped back leaving me at my desk in the middle of a kind of standoff triangle of the men. He set the photos back on my desk. 

“Well, the thing of it is, boys,” he said, “ you guys will need to sign off, or sign in with my office in KC to avoid any jurisdictional conflict. Did you do that? I don’t think you guys have an office within 600 miles of here, do you? Chicago, the closest I am guessing.” 

McCabe, the lead dog of the two, pulled-out a small notepad, and clicked a ball point. Officially, he scribbled out something, then asked, “Can I see your ID Agent, uh…?” 

“Cummings, C U M M I N G S,” Agent Gil said, handing his billfold over to the man. 

McCabe mumbled something to himself writing out the information, then handed the billfold back to Cummings. “We’ll get that information and will be back.”   

“Don’t forget your pictures,” Cumnings said, handing over the pictures atop the folder. 

I trailed behind the two men to the front door. McCabe turned, “A little advice, Mr. Cleary. Choose your company well.” 

“I’ll remember that,” I said. 

I watched them make their way down the sidewalk to the sedan. Nora, now dressed for the day, jeans and pleated blouse fitted to her shapely extremities, leaned against the stairway wall, arms folded. 

Chapter 39: Gave Me The Pepsico

For the most part Nora was an easy read and left no leaf unturned when it came to matters of house and heart. But, the Franklin matter and our recent uninvited visitors were upsetting our little family cart. And I had no one to blame but myself. 

“This, Peter…” she said, stepping down to the living room, “has got to…”

Cummings came to my rescue, at least for the moment, piping up from the study doorway, “I am sorry mam, about this all,” holding a picture he’d apparently confiscated from McCabe’s folder.

I’d guessed he’d introduced himself to Nora when he rang the doorbell earlier. He repeated his apology about the invasion of the two federal investigators and said,  “Those two are way out of their jurisdiction.” 

Nora gave a gentle, courtesy smile. “Thanks officer,” she said, changing her worried countenance to a welcoming. “Would you like some coffee? Peter brought back some donuts from one of his girlfriend’s pastry shops.” 

Gil set the picture of the unknown banker back on my study desk. He accepted Nora’s invitation by sticking around for a donut and coffee courtesy of Wanda’s. He told us about his lineage to County Tyrone and Nora related hers to Donegal. He showed us pictures of his former wife and daughter. When he suggested that our little home would be a nice place to raise a family, I took the opportunity to urge Gil back to my study. 

I sat in my study chair, again thanking Gil for coming to our rescue from the Treasury guys. 

“You want the down dirty about what I want you to do,” he said, running his finger along the door jam. “So was the boob in here looking for his little spy gizmo?”

“Seemed to be, but was interrupted when you showed.”

“I’ll be right back, ” Gil said. 

While Agent Gil ran to his car, I took another look at the photo of so-called banker who was involved in suspicious activities with lawyer Weintraub. I was an innocent party to it all and got the sinking feeling I was in over my head. A need for sleep fell over me like a heavy blanket.

“Even though you gave me the Pepsico,” Gil said, returning,” this baby will tell us that nothing else in the room has been compromised.” 

He’d brought in a small transistor and an envelope. He laid the envelope on my desk, holding the transistor, eyes bugged out as if he’d found a combination to a safe. “Where’s your cell?”  

I handed my Samsung over. He ran the device over it, shook his head that I hadn’t been compromised and proceeded to scan my little office with the gizmo… “Nothing… You’re good.” 

“Was that thing supposed to beep if it found something?”

Chuckle. “I don’t know. I guess. I just bought it off Amazon. Never used one since the early days.”

“So sorry about it all today, Pete. But the fact that other agencies are involved in the matter with your boy Franklin only makes me want to take care of it more urgently. Yesterday, I got the sense you wanted to cooperate.” 

I fisted a yawn. “Seems, I have gotten myself deep into this thing, not intentionally.” 

Slight grin. “You are just a caring guy, Pete, who seems to have an air of adventure in him.”

I related my real concern, other than protecting Nora, was how Maria at work, my boss, would feel about me helping the FBI and asked Gil whether I didn’t need to come clean with her.

“You know Bulley Knox?”

“He’s the director of DOC, I know that. Don’t know him.”

“Bulley and I go way back. He is privy to the Franklin matter. I set up a kind of sting in your boy Franklin’s cell. You told me yesterday Franklin felt as much. Anyway, it didn’t work out. But Bulley helped out. If we get this going and I need to do so pretty quickly, Bulley will be told. And I am guessing that it will be his call whether to tell you boss. That should free you up with your boss in terms of whether you are breaking some institutional rule about insubordination or some bullshit thing… 

“So let me give you the down and dirty of it all, Petter. I know you’ve been up too long. So here it is, as far as I know about it right now.” 

“We have players in this whole thing. And the thing, some might say a sting, the end game is the arrest of this shyster Weintraub for money laundering, whether we get him with the cash money in hand, or get something as good as him incriminating himself to his part in what I believe has been his life blood for his legal career. It couldn’t happen without your boy, Lennox Franklin, player one, although he’s locked up. 

“Player two is Bulley Knox. His part is to fend off any communication from Weintraub to Franklin. Weintraub pretty much dumped the man under the bus for this drug paraphernalia case and third strike statute. Fuck, I am not touchy-feely liberal, let’s give the inmate a second, third of fourth chance, but I am not sure Weintraub even gave the guy good legal counsel. The fuck had ulterior motives to put Franklin in the slammer. ”

I was reminded of the emails and cautionary admonishments sent by Knox’s office telling staff not to have any fraternization with inmates. Would someone like Bulley Knox have my back in this sting?

“You with me, Pete?” Gil asked.

“Just tired.” 

“Ok. Let me get to it.” 

Player three and four in the sting according to Gil, was Franklin’s sister or cousin, no one knew her relationship to the man for sure, a strip club name, Scarlet. And a man called Swing. 

I raised my hand up to a hold-on position and shuffled some papers about on my desk, uncovering Franklin’s letter. I handed it over, folded, coffee stained, the letter, now weeks old. Cummings nodded to himself several times as he quickly viewed it.  “This is good. Is it mine to keep?” 

“Please, take it off my hands.” My worry quickly again turned to the matter of confidentiality. Franklin had entrusted me with the letter and now I had all but handed it over to a federal agent. 

“Now we have some peripheral players, such as Franklin’s aunt. I guess it is his aunt, that right?” Gil continued.

“As far as I know.”

“And with this type of thing, peripheral means anyone who knows about what Franklin has stashed. The black community, regardless of the so-called money stash being in KC, is a small community, and by now likely a slew of Franklin’s gangster boys know about it. They are just waiting for someone to lead them to it.” 

“And that someone is me.”

Soft smile. “Yes, I know this may not be the thing that makes you feel safe.”

“You and I are the other major players in this thing. And it will be important for you to know that I will be with you through this whole thing.” 

Chapter 40: For All The Confidential Informants

Gil opened the envelope he’d laid on my desk. “I want you to look at this,” he said, handing me a two page document which read, “Contract for Personal Services.”

I looked at the legalese, got a queasy feeling, then saw some typed sentences in bold.  “Said party… my name, agrees to cooperate with the federal bureau of investigation in a criminal investigation in exchange for expedited citizenship allowance for. Nora's name. Said party, my name, agrees to cooperate with the federal bureau of investigation in a criminal investigation without suffering repercussions in said party’s work and /or career promotional or salary increases due to assistance in criminal investigation.”

It continued, “If said party agrees to terms of this contract, said party names as a beneficiary to term life insurance policy of 250,000, Nora’s name listed, in the event said party dies due to injuries suffered while engaged in this criminal investigation. 

Term of this contract shall expire; the date left open.”

“Is this normal for what you guys do? I mean, seems…

“I wouldn’t say it is normal. For all the confidential informants, CI’s, we use, certainly not. We string those smoos along and they understand, cooperation might mean a reduced sentence down the road, but that applies to personal service contracts we might use for outside agencies, everything from a janitorial service to an agency who runs background checks and everything in between and beyond.” 

“So I am like a janitor?” Chuckles.

“Could give you the nickname ‘The Cleaner.’

I nodded, but didn’t feel too jokey. “Looks like there is a possibility I might get my clock cleaned though according to what this says.” I flicked the part of the document which references life insurance.

“Just standard, Peter,” Gil says, reassuring me. “No need to sign anything today. I know I said to talk this over with the wife, although in hindsight I should have probably suggested leaving out any details. More for her safety.” 

“Peter, if I was more of  a nursemaid type, I’d take your hand and say, ‘It will be alright’.”

Hopeless chuckle again. “Famous last words.” 

“I don’t think our biggest problem will be getting Weintraub to bite off on our plan, but with the gangster boys who have played look-out on auntie’s home since your boy has been locked up.”

After reading my troubled manner, Gil placed Franklin’s letter in his jacket and said, “I’ll let you get some sleep. Give the little lady my best again.”

Whether or not I was a patsy for the feds, a huckleberry, Agent Gil had found his go-to-guy for what he’d claimed would be his last hoorah. I’d placed the contract in my desk drawer, sometime to be shared with Nora. Or not.

It was all of 9 am and a lot had happened since I’d been awoken by Dr. Fordham to cover his on-call crisis at the prison in the early morning hours of this day. I’d been up since 5 am the day before. 

At the prison, I’d spent hours coaxing a man with a sudden case of scatolia, feces smearing, into taking meds, then had gotten some low down on Franklin from Wanda at the pastry shop, finally arriving home to find federal agents at my door. Luckily, Gil had come to my rescue. All these events had worn me out. I stumbled to bed, cracking the bedroom window, letting in the crisp late fall. I was out within a minute. 

The smell of Coco Chanel and a kiss on the nape of my neck awoke me at 1 pm along with a no nonsense erection. Nora snuggled into me under the sheets, her velvet, milk toast skin meshed with mine. I peeked a look at her curves, no blemishes, something I really had taken for granted since we had first made love, the night of our honeymoon at the Lough Eske castle in Donegal. That night, and subsequent weeks thereafter, I thanked the Gods for my good fortune of having found a beautiful Irish lass, who seemed to be in love with me despite myself and who was willing to leave the hills and dales and family she loved for a then unemployed American.

Lithely, she moved all her 105 pounds atop me, and undid her auburn hair, tied in her customary running-around ponytail and let it fall about my face. Her perfume melted me. She buried her teeth into the notch in my neck and nibbled softly. 

She murmured. Bites to my ear lobe. A breeze whittled in through the shutters. After minutes, both of us meshed together, “Is there anything you want to tell me, Peadar?” the Gaelic for Peter, pronounced, Pa der. 

“I need to go to the bathroom. ”I said, half lying but needing to stall, sighing. I slid out of the Norwegian futon. 

“That’s not what I mean.” 

I stood, naked with my back to her and tweaked open the shutter a crack. At the high end of our street on what is called Redbud Hill, joggers, cyclists and walkers made their way up and down the hill, braving the chill, going and coming from what is called the MK trail entrance.  

Two middle-aged women, a little white terrier with a tiny red vest   yoked to one by a leash. They descended the hill, chattering away to one another. A young cyclist, decked in a spangled, brightly colored racing garb, geared his mountain bike up the hill.  

I traipsed off grabbing my bathrobe. Raccoon eyes in bathroom mirror. When I returned to the bedroom Nora had on one of my WashU sweatshirts covering half of her thighs. “Did you think up a good story to tell your wife?” she said, emptying my dirty laundry from a small plastic bin into a larger one, her eyes sorting clothes. 

“Agent Gil said he might be able to take care of any immigration problem we have.”

“Soo, that is all he said?”

“For the time being.”  Fib.

“Glad you came back to me today,” she said, laundry bins stacked atop one another. “Could we take a short drive somewhere?”