A Smile for the Road
     Two strangers exchanging romantic glances on the highway meet later.  

     The smile on the face of the beautiful woman in the car to his left was seductive at best, and at the least intriguing.  However, the distance between their cars continued to grow, as she sped past him.  Though he could see only the part of her above the door line, he imagined a perfectly proportioned body to the angelic face which was now fixed in his mind.
     In the distance ahead, he saw her adjust her rear view mirror, and he was certain that she was equally interested in him.  Gunning the engine in vain, he attempted to catch up to her, but his compact Honda was no match for her newer and larger Cutlass.  Now she was no longer in sight.  He smiled inwardly; content in knowing that someone had maybe seen something in him.  His divorce, now seven months old, had all but obliterated his self-confidence.  This millisecond encounter on the freeway had worked miracles for his psyche.
     The wedding reception that evening no longer seemed as threatening to him.  An office acquaintance, Greg, was the newlywed, and Scott had only accepted the invitation as a matter of courtesy.  After a short, mandatory appearance and meal, he would again retreat to his television and watch ESPN's SportsCenter repeat itself late into the night.  It was a ritual he had become all too familiar with since he and Sarah had parted.  He simply had no desire to do anything else.  Depression was a strange new friend to him.  Usually upbeat and friendly, he found the adjustment to single life difficult and lonely.  The brunette on the highway had been the only thing to perk him up since long before the divorce.  He mildly cursed himself for not being able to catch up to her.  Then he smiled again, telling himself that such encounters were simply unfulfilled fantasies.  The reality of the crowded parking lot at the hall jarred him away from his highway vision, and he found a spot at the far end of the pavement.
     Inside the hall, he placed his gift for the newlyweds on the appointed table and greeted the several friends and others that he knew.  A quick scan of the ballroom told him that most of the 200 or so guests there were complete strangers.  Probably friends and relatives of the bride, who were from Cleveland, some thirty miles north.  He made his way to the punchbowl and then began to search for a seat -- one from which he could make a quick exit without anyone noticing.  The pickings were slim, however, but he finally managed to find a spot at a table along the far wall.  No one at this table knew him, and he could enjoy relative anonymity while there.  After the food had been served, the bride and groom opened the dancing and Scott shrank closer to the wall.  Only the band's slick adaptation of hip, modern songs kept him from leaving immediately.  He liked music and usually liked to dance.  But not on this evening.
     Perhaps ten songs and forty-five minutes later, he stifled a yawn and was in the process of rising to leave when he saw her talking to the bride.  It was the highway smile, herself!  "Incredible," he thought.  "Could this really be her?"  The smile on her face was unmistakable, and she was much better than just proportionate -- she was stunning.  Scott watched her from a distance for what seemed like an hour.  The unadorned finger on her left hand caused a smile to fix firmly on his face and slowly he made his way toward her.  Just as he was about to introduce himself, several people crowded between them and one older man whisked her away to the dance floor.  Over her partner's shoulder, the same sweet smile and the large dark eyes told Scott that she had also seen and recognized him.  He waited eagerly while she danced for what seemed like a double set, and when it was over, she made her way toward him.
     "Well, hello!" she said, as she extended her hand warmly.  "How surprising to see you here!"  All the while peering into those dark pools of mystery, Scott managed to speak as he took her hand gently in his, "This is incredible!  Why are you...who do you...?" he stammered, as he attempted to learn her connection to either the guests or the wedding.  She laughed at his inability to say a complete sentence and said, "I'm Kalie, Sharon's cousin."  Sharon was the bride.  Kalie took Scott's hand again as the music began, and led him toward the dance floor.  "You do dance, don't you?" she asked without turning toward him.  When they reached an opening on the floor, she spun gracefully and nestled against his chest in a slow and romantic sway.  Her perfume was as delicate and enticing as her smile.  Her soft brown hair pressed against his cheek and his nose sought the aroma of her hair.  His feet miraculously kept time with the music, despite his jangled nerves, which slowly began to stabilize.
     "Do you always smile at strange men on the freeway like that?" he asked.  She tilted her head back to see his eyes and answered, "No, but you had a very nice smile also, and I just couldn't resist.  I hope you don't think too badly of me."  His smile grew larger as he drew her closer, and he replied, "I find this all so difficult to believe."  They danced the remaining dances together and chatted cordially between songs.  She was also divorced, having been through the process approximately five months earlier than Scott.  She was from Independence, a city just south of Cleveland, and was three years younger than him.  When they had seen each other on the freeway, she was hurrying home to pick up her wedding gift, which accounted for her late arrival at the reception.  They found that they had many things in common, which only increased the size and frequency of their smiles as the reception went on.
     What had originally been a dreaded event for Scott now promised much more and his renewed optimism gave him an inner buoyancy that he had not felt in a long, long time.  By now, the bride and groom were cutting the cake and beginning the other ceremonial rites which signaled the end of the reception.  Scott began to feel the slightest hint of urgency at learning more of Kalie, since the evening was nearly over.  Unknown to him, Kalie also began to be a little edgier for the same reason.  Neither wanted this evening to end.  After unsuccessfully attempting to catch the bride's garter, Scott and the other men gave way to the ladies, who would try to snare the bouquet thrown by the bride.  Kalie positioned herself strategically behind the bride and gave a last, confident look to Scott.  The ever-present smile continued to grace both their faces.
     When the moment came, the band supplied a drum roll as the waiting maidens crouched like vultures in anticipation of a meal.  On a count of three, the bride heaved the bouquet backward over her head and it zoomed directly for Kalie's raised open hands.  However, just at the last possible instant, a tall, teenaged blonde, looking like a basketball center in a dress, lunged forward and literally stole the prize out of Kalie's grasp.  Dejectedly, Kalie turned toward Scott with a mock frown upon her face.  Seeing the giant smile still glazing his mouth, she broke into an even bigger grin and fairly ran into his arms.  She encircled his head and neck with her hands and planted a short but sweet kiss on his hungry lips.  "Thank you for your support," she murmured.  Neither noticed that the lights had come on in the dimly lit hall and the other guests were beginning to leave.
     In the parking lot, Kalie strolled toward her dark blue Oldsmobile, with Scott's hand in hers.  At the car, she opened the door with her key, but was tugged gently away by Scott, who swept her into his arms in one motion.  He pulled her close and kissed her tenderly, but with a fire which set their hearts racing and juices flowing.  Her body molded easily to his and as their lips met, it was apparent that it was something each had been wanting to do since early in the evening.  The kiss lasted a very long time, because by the time they finished, all the other guests had gone.  Looking up into his eyes, Kalie saw small glints of light -- reflections of the half moon above them.  Instinctively, she looked toward the heavens and took in the beauty of a cloudless sky filled with twinkling stars.  It was a perfect setting for the end of what had been a perfect evening.
     "Are we going to say our final goodnights right here, tonight?" asked Scott, already hopeful that the woman in his arms would soon become a permanent part of his life.  "I think it's best, don't you, Scott?" she answered his question with one of her own.  After what seemed like a very long silence, he said, "Look...I'll admit that we first met under some very unusual circumstances, but we have mutual friends who would have possibly tried at some point in time to introduce us.  I never expected you to just pull off the freeway and make mad, passionate love to me.  At any rate, I would have been frightened silly of you if you had, but...” His remarks brought an audible chuckle from her, as she stepped back from his embrace, but still held each of his hands in hers.  "Scott, I only smiled at you because you had such a nice smile of your own.  That was all there was to it on the freeway," she said.  Looking intently into his sparkling eyes, she continued, "Now that I have been properly introduced to you, and having spent the better part of nearly four hours with you, I am very much impressed with you.  I would like to see you again, and if you would like to call me, we can make arrangements for such a meeting, is that okay with you?"
     Scott drew her slowly and very deliberately back into his arms and they kissed once more -- passionately, but not nearly as long as before.  His actions and her response required no more words, and when their lips parted, she pressed her business card into his hand and said simply, "Goodnight."  He relaxed his grip on her left hand and opened the door to her Oldsmobile for her.  As she drove away, Scott stood in awe in the direction of the woman who had just left.  Both of them wore the same warm and inviting smile that they had exchanged on the highway earlier in the day. 

 Almost Heaven
     A young boy's annual summer hiatus in West Virginia has a special and long-lasting memory. 

     Though he had been born in these very same West Virginia mountains, he never failed to appreciate their majesty and natural beauty.  Cruel, unknowledgeable people in the north often made fun of the state and its people, and, as a boy, he could never understand why.  Several years later, singer John Denver would immortalize the state in song and the state would eventually acquire its popular, “Almost Heaven” motto.  During the summer of 1951, he would learn just how prophetic that phrase would turn out to be.
     He had returned again for the summer, and his birthday was only a few days away.  This birthday would turn out to be one of the most memorable of his life.  He eagerly looked forward to returning to his grandparents’ farm down by the river.  It was a perfect location for a boy and it allowed him to discover and revel in nature in ways that he never envisioned while living in a large city five hundred miles to the north.
     On the western side of the river, the craggy face of the mountain climbed nearly ninety degrees vertical for more than a half mile.  Forty feet above the river, a single rail line had been chiseled from the rock.  Long, slow-moving coal trains would appear from around the far, southern bend, hauling their products north to connecting spurs.  More rapidly moving empty trains on the return trip south always whistled their arrival in the valley, and he and the other children always ran to wave to the engineer.  Signaling back to the train was something from which none of the children ever tired. 
     The river was a special treat for him.  In his home in the city, the river had been huge, sludge-filled, and extremely slow moving.  Man-made concrete banks lined each side of the river as it wound its way through the city.  The river in the valley was narrow, faster moving, and was shallow and clear.  However, because of the long history of coal mining in the region, the river in the valley was now heavily polluted.  Coal dust runoff had gradually become black river silt, and as the heavy carbon residue sank to the bottom and covered the rocks there, it also killed off all marine life.
     The local residents had long ago forgotten the Indian name for the river, and now simply referred to it as “the river.”  To the boy and some of his young cousins, it was known as the “Black River.”  And though it was not clean enough to swim in, it delighted the young city boy to merely wade along its rocky shore.  The cool, rippling waters were a pleasure to him, and though he was told that nothing lived in the river, he continued to fish its waters.  He never ever caught anything, however, but the combination of repeatedly casting out his bait, the fast-moving water, and the rocky bottom caused him to reel in countless empty hooks.  He was certain, despite the contrary from his grandfather, that some large mountain trout had taken his bait.  He never lost his boyish enthusiasm for fishing, even in a river that was dead.
     His grandparents’ home was a small, simple frame house that stood on just over five acres of land and abutted the river.  The front of the property went right up to the two-lane blacktop highway that snaked its way through the mountains.  The grandparents’ parcel of land was pie shaped, and the outer, wider edge of the piecrust lay along the river.  The narrower portion of the front edge of the land touched the roadway at the bottom of a rather severe “U” shaped curve in the road.  The location was well known to local motorists, who – on more than one occasion – failed to properly respect the curve, and plunged over the twenty foot embankment into the rich loam of his grandfather’s farm.
     After a fully loaded Pepsi Cola truck had failed to negotiate the dangerous curve earlier that Spring, intact bottles of the cola were being dug out of the soil among the potatoes and carrots during the growing season.  The boy watched in amazement and glee as his grandfather occasionally dug up a six-pack of Pepsis from the farm plot.  The harvesting of bottled soft drinks from the earth was something that no one up north would ever understand or believe.
     “Grandpa… I’m not gonna drink this one!  I’m gonna save it and take it home with me for some of my friends to see!” he said, clutching the bottle close to his chest.  His grandfather said nothing, but smiled an encouraging acknowledgement.
     On the far side of the road, across from the house, the mountain rose in a gradual incline to an altitude rivaling the steep cliff facing it from the other side of the river.  As on the top of the craggy cliff, the sloping mountain was covered in a lush variety of small hardwoods, fruit trees, and firs.  A beautiful green mountain laurel filled in much of nature’s open spaces in the valley and on the mountainsides.  At the base of the mountain across the road, before the terrain began to rise sharply, an ice-cold spring bubbled up.  His grandfather, along with other local residents, cleared the area and used stones to build a small, inviting grotto, and people from far and wide stopped their vehicles there and collected buckets and bottles of the pure, sweet drinking water.
     At the conclusion of each school year, for the past five years, he had returned to his grandparents’ farm beside the river, and he loved it.  The air was clear and fresh in the tiny valley and it was an ideal place for a boy to spend his summers.  This summer was special above all others.  This year, his two younger sisters had also come for the summer.  There were cousins in the valley from Indiana, Ohio, and Kentucky to join those already living nearby.
     In addition to his sisters, the boy’s mother also returned home.  Her return, however, was not because she simply accompanied her children.  She had separated from her abusive, alcoholic husband.  The separation was as much for her own mental and spiritual well being as for the summer break for her children.  For her son’s eleventh birthday, in August, a large, but simple party was planned.  All of the cousins, plus a fair number of neighbors’ children, with whom the boy had become acquainted over the years, were invited.    
     The party was preceded by wading at the river’s edge, a short contest of skipping stones across the river, and games of tag and hide-and-seek.  His grandmother busily baked and decorated the birthday cake before the children would be called inside.
     “Jack… I miscalculated on the number of children that will be attending the party so we’re going to need some more ice cream.  Why don’t you take the birthday boy and drive over to Bradshaw and get another half-gallon of ice cream?” asked his grandmother of her husband.
     It being the boy’s special day, the grandfather happily allowed him to ride along and the two got into the grandfather’s station wagon and began to back the length of the long driveway, in the direction of the highway.  At the end of the driveway, the boy got out of the old Ford and opened both sides of the double swinging gate, to allow the grandfather to drive up the steep entrance to the highway.  Beyond the gate, the driveway exited to either side, up the steep embankment.  They would be using the southbound driveway on this day.
     At that precise moment, a southbound Sealtest Dairy truck rounded the dangerous curve and, as if on cue, the back doors of the truck opened and a ten-gallon cardboard container – the type used in soda fountains – and filled with Neapolitan flavored ice cream, tumbled down the embankment toward them.  The cylinder of ice cream rolled squarely through the open gate, stopping to rest at the feet of the birthday boy.  Both the grandfather and the boy laughed happily about their “gift” on this special day.  Now there was no further need to make the trip to buy ice cream, so he simply re-latched the gate and his grandfather carried the ice cream into the house to the thrilled and waiting youngsters.
     “Now, where on earth did you get that ice cream?” asked the grandmother.  She knew that they had not had enough time to drive the eight miles into town and back again.
     “We ordered it,” the grandfather said as he gave a wink to the boy.  “It just dropped out of the sky for us.”
Everybody laughed, but only because of the apparent absurdity of the comment.  They had no idea of how close that response was to being the absolute truth.
     The summer hiatus at his grandparents’ farm always reconnected the boy with nature.  This year, it also offered a brief respite from a harsh, unfeeling father.  More than anything else, it allowed an opportunity for a boy to dream… to capture a summer full of magic moments.  Where else in the entire world could an eleven year old boy get Pepsis grown in the garden and stray ice cream containers that rolled right down one’s driveway?  West Virginia was indeed… almost Heaven.

     The dispatcher said that the man with the gun had run south, down the alley.  Since I was already a couple of blocks south of where he had last been seen, I stopped my cruiser and cautiously entered the alley.  Although it was nearly three o’clock in the morning, the lights from the main crossing streets afforded enough illumination to silhouette anyone near the center of the alley.  I could see no one, and I cautiously entered – my Smith & Wesson 9mm semiautomatic pistol drawn and ready.
     Almost immediately, my heart began to increase its tempo, and I felt the pulsing sensation against my tightening collar.  I quietly kept my back up next to the rear of the building, and started to inch my way north.  My weapon was at the ready.  The sound of a distant siren tried to reach my ears, but the pounding rhythm of my heart easily drown it out.  I continued to slowly make my way up the alley, with my eyes straining to see anyone or anything in the alley.
     Suddenly, about twenty-five yards away, from out of the darkness came a loud “CLANG!”  I froze in my tracks, but recovered quickly and lowered the gun until it was pointing at the sound.  Now the sound of my own breathing seemed to be giving my position away in the shadows.  For what seemed like an eternity, the scene in the alley just stopped cold.  Nothing moved.  I was about to order whomever it was to come out with their hands up, when a large yellow tabby cat gave out a disconcerting “Meeeooow” and came out of the shadows.  After it saw me, the cat turned and ran back down the alley toward where I had entered.  I relaxed slightly, allowed myself a deep breath, and smiled a bit of relief at the noisy cat and then resumed inching my way up the alley again.
     When I reached the spot in the darkness where the cat had been going through the garbage can, the vague outline of a man stood up abruptly.  Instinctively, my gun leveled at his upper torso, and I could hear his breathing, which was, by now, louder than my own.  “Hands up,” I commanded, in a voice that meant business.  But the shadowy figure did not move.  Did he have a gun?  Was it pointed at me at this very moment?  For a split-second, the pitch darkness of the alley seemed to favor him, though we both actually shared that advantage.
     “Hands up, I said!”  This time with even more authority and a determination in my voice that could not be misinterpreted.  The man still did not comply with my order.  Now, I found myself in a bit of a sticky situation.  If I moved closer to arrest him, and he still had the gun, he was sure to fire.  If I tried to call on my radio for backup, it would afford him an even better opportunity to shoot.  If I shot blindly at the man without ever knowing whether or not he really did have a gun, my police career would undoubtedly be over.  Images of headlines about a cop shooting an unarmed man mingled with visions of a police board of inquiry handing me my walking papers.  All of these thoughts came to me in less than a half of a heartbeat, but now the incident was moving in extreme slow motion.  Almost stop-action.
     I estimated that the man was about fifteen feet away, and at the same time, I took the smallest measure of comfort in knowing that the protective body armor I wore would stop almost every known caliber of handgun ammunition.  “Drop the gun and put your hands up,” I said, as my eyes strained to see through the darkness.  Still no response or movement from the suspect.  “Damn it!” I thought to myself…”Why doesn’t he do what I say?”  Although only about ten seconds had passed since we began our face-off, it seemed like hours.
     All of a sudden, I found myself looking at the shiny round end of a gun barrel – the momentary glint of which, was the only thing visible in the darkness.  My trigger finger automatically tensed and prepared to fire, just as I heard a familiar “CLICK” from my shadowy target.  Instinctively, I surmised that he had taken his gun off safety, and was preparing to fire.  With the greatest urgency now, I began to consciously squeeze the trigger, and a loud “BOOM” followed. 
     The sound was not from my gun, however.  A six-inch muzzle flash was streaking its way toward me, followed closely by a 158 grain armor-piercing bullet.  My gun, incredibly, had failed to fire – despite the panicked “pull” that I was now placing on my trigger.  Although his bullet was now whistling toward my chest, I froze in my tracks and was unable to duck or avert the onrushing lethal force.
The deadly projectile first pushed the thread of my uniform into the fabric shell of my vest.  It continued to tear through the layers of protective Kevlar, and was on a direct collision course with the most vital of my internal organs.  “How could this happen to me?” I thought to myself, as the nose of the super-heated bullet struck skin and began to bore its way into my body. My last conscious thoughts rapidly alternated between each of my children and my wife.  I was about to die a lonely, vicious death in an alley, without being able to say goodbye to my loved ones. 
     Tearing tissue, bone, muscle and fiber, the man’s bullet hit me with the velocity of an airplane and began to tumble crazily end over end as it sped toward my heart.  The pain was unbearable, and I felt blood now gush out of the wound as I sank to the asphalt floor of the alley.  The blood pumped savagely out of me as I continued in vain to try to squeeze the trigger at the man who had shot me.  He was now running out of the alley, and I was dying.  “What a lousy way to die,” I thought out loud.
     I was covered in sweat, and I sat bolt upright and looked at the clock.  Four-ten A.M., and I had had the same dream.  Again.  In the ten years since becoming a police officer, I had experienced the same recurring dream at least a dozen times, and each time, I woke up in a cold sweat.  I once checked with some of the other cops I worked with, and was surprised to learn that they, too, had similar dreams…dreams always ending with them being shot by the bad guy, while they were paralyzed and unable to fire their own weapon. 
Psychologists say it is because of our innate nature of not wanting to kill anyone with our gun.   A few say that it is out of anxiety of actually getting into such a situation.  No matter the cause or reason, all the cops that I know who have experienced it say that it is simply part of the job.  It is something that just goes with the territory, but it is an officer’s worst nightmare.

     Nearly a generation ago, Michael O’Ryan was a police officer, but he looked and acted more like an oversized Leprechaun.  He was as colorful and argumentative as any Irishman could be.  He had been active in the Fraternal Order of Police since his early days on the job, and worked tirelessly as a member of the FOP Bargaining Unit to get police wages in the city to a decent level.  He got the job, primarily, because he was superb at arguing.  He was later the President of the Lodge for two years, and he took the city administrators to task over the tiniest of issues. 
     He was also a fiery and wiry little guy with a quick temper and one of the foulest mouths ever.  When angry, whether peeved at a wayward citizen or a fellow police officer, Michael could dress anyone down in a manner befitting a Marine Corps D.I. at Parris Island.  As a former Marine, he delighted in being compared to the rough and rigid Drill Instructors.  He also was an impeccable, though sometimes slightly outlandish, dresser.
     After having been a three-wheel motorcycle traffic officer for most of his police career, Michael finally landed a job in the Hit and Run Unit of the Traffic Bureau, and ultimately finished his career as a plainclothes investigator of Hit and Run cases.  Shortly after assuming his new position, Michael went out and bought himself a brand new white fedora, with a wide black band.  If ever there was a gangster hat worn in the police station, this hat was it.  He took a lot of ribbing over the hat, but he gave it right back, too.
     “Where the hell did you get that hat?” someone would ask, jokingly.
     “You guys ain’t got no idea what I paid for that hat,” he’d say.
     “Whatever you paid for it…you paid too much,” was the stock reply, usually accompanied by a laugh.
     “Well, screw you, and the horse you rode in on!  You ain’t got the class or the balls to wear a hat like this,” he would angrily reply.
     Michael babied the hat constantly – never wearing it in rainy or snowy weather, and always picking lint off or carefully re-shaping the brim.  He had a routine that he followed religiously.  When he first arrived at work in the morning, he would put it on top of the hit and run evidence locker in the closet, and then go down to the first floor coffee shop for his morning coffee.  It was a routine that never varied over the course of the three or four years that he spent in the Hit and Run Unit before he finally retired.  Someone else also knew his routine well.
     One morning, after returning to his office after his daily coffee, he was assigned to go out on the road to interview witnesses during the investigation of a hit and run case, and he went to the closet to get his hat.  When he opened the door, he saw that his precious hat had been horribly crushed, and was filthy – covered with oil and dirt, and a tire tread mark was prominent across the entire hat and brim.  Upon seeing his beloved white fedora in such a state, he immediately went into frenzy, stomping around the office and flailing his arms wildly.  He truly reacted in the manner of an angry Leprechaun who had been caught and forced to reveal the location of his treasure.
     “You dirty rotten lowdown sons-of-bitches that did this, I swear that if I ever find out who did this, I’ll kick your ass so bad that your balls will be where your tonsils are,” he said.  His tirade went on and on.
     The two guys who worked in the office with him, William White and Josh McAnerney, both practical jokers, were obviously his first suspects.  White towered over O’Ryan by at least eight inches, and McAnerney had a reputation of being one of the toughest and meanest men in the whole county in a fistfight, but that didn’t stop O’Ryan from accusing them.  Instead of challenging him, however, both merely laughed about the condition of his hat.  And O’Ryan continued to burn.
     “That’s what you get for wearing a pimp’s hat in here,” they each told him.
     This did nothing but get O’Ryan more upset.  When angry, O’Ryan became the quintessential fighting Irishman, rolling up his sleeves and challenging anyone and everyone.  His face and his balding head got as red as the butt on a baboon.  The veins on his neck looked like they could burst at any second.  White and McAnerney just sat at their desks and smirked, while O’Ryan proceeded to do his own version of the Mexican hat dance, as he further stomped the hat into a flattened mass, and cussed it, and whoever had ruined it for him.  Finally, White got up and walked out.  In less than a minute, he returned with O’Ryan’s precious fedora, in perfectly fine condition.
     Michael O’Ryan was speechless – obviously a first for the feisty Irishman – and he angrily snatched the hat out of White’s hands.  He sat down for a long time, with his hat on the desk before him, still silent.  Gradually his head’s natural color returned and he began to smile an embarrassing smile that told everyone he realized how childish his behavior must have seemed.
McAnerney and White had long been planning their little caper.  From the very first time they saw Michael wearing the hat, they had been planning.  As soon as one of them saw a close “double” to the hat in an area thrift shop, they bought it for fifty cents.  They then took it to the basement garage where they rubbed it in the oil and dirt and then backed over it with one of their unmarked cruisers.  At the opportune time, they switched the hats and then sat back and watched the highly volatile Michael O’Ryan go ballistic.
     Soon the story about Michael’s hat became a part of police lore, and many of the old timers on the police department still recall the incident.  Now, when a police officer is chided about wearing an unclean uniform, he is often told, “That uniform is as dirty as O’Ryan’s hat!”

The Bus
     A phantom bus runs an eerily familiar route. 

     The chill in the night air was just enough to make my spine tingle… as if I weren’t already uneasy about being in a strange neighborhood on foot.  Never mind about why I was there, except to say that it was a necessity.  But it was also one of those nights that you just knew something bad was likely to happen.  Ominous clouds, moving rapidly and high in the atmosphere, mostly hid a glittering quarter-moon.  On this night, every shadow seemed darker and more menacing.  I was alone and a long way from home, and it all added up to a strange, if not surreal, set of circumstances.
     I walked along the street with a steady, positive stride.  If anyone was watching or following me, I certainly didn’t want to show that I was worried about anything.  A block further up the street, I had made a futile effort to whistle, but the notes seemed lost and insignificant against the vast, empty night and only made my situation seem that much more dire.  A dog barked in the distance, from behind a hulking, unlit house and I hoped aloud that it was responding to me, and not someone or something else possibly headed in my direction.
     Two blocks from my destination, a dim streetlight offered me barely enough illumination to check the crumpled bus schedule in my pocket.  A crease in the old document almost obscured what I was seeking from the table, but I was able to see that the last scheduled Sherman Drive bus was due at the turn-around at the end of the street at eleven-thirty P.M.  By my wristwatch, I had ten minutes to get there.  I looked back up the street and saw a distant pair of widely spaced headlights cutting through the night.  It could have been my bus, and my first reaction was to say aloud, “Please let it be my bus.”  Although I was not talking directly to anyone, I soon realized that what I was actually doing was praying.
     If it was my bus, I had two choices… I could either wait and catch it at the first bus stop after it made its turn-around, or I could walk to the turn-around at the end of the street and board there.  I opted for the latter, thinking that the bus driver might sit at the turn-around for a few minutes before beginning his final run of the day, and it seemed like a far better idea to wait aboard the bus than at a relatively dark bus stop in an unfamiliar neighborhood.  The thought of being able to finally board the bus caused me to walk with a much more comfortable stride.
     As the headlights neared, I could tell that it was my bus, and a sense of relief came over me.  Now, I could make out the brightly lit interior of the bus, the amber lights at the upper front corners, and even the lesser-illuminated scroll area that advertised the route, just above the windshield.  The bus seemed to be moving along at a pretty good clip, and I increased my pace in order to be at the turn-around at the moment the bus arrived.  Suddenly, because of the speed of the bus, I found myself walking quite rapidly.  I still had half a block to go, and the bus was nearly upon me.  The orange and white bus was a very old model, probably manufactured back in the fifties, I guessed; as it tore past me, still a hundred yards or more from the turn-around.
     As it reached the turn-around, it turned very quickly and then stopped, air brakes hissing venomously, enveloped in an eerie cloud of dust that rose up from the street.  Like a proud and pugnacious bucking bronco awaiting the opening of the rodeo gate, the bus gunned its engine as it sat there, contemplating its return up the street, and its final run of the day.  Still some fifty yards away, I again found myself praying aloud… this time, that it would not leave before I was aboard. 
     As I neared, the bus slowly began to move and I began to run, still several yards away.  I waved frantically to the driver, a burly red-haired man, but he evidently could not see me because of some very tall weeds growing alongside the open end of the street.  Painfully, I watched as bus number three, without a single passenger aboard, after lumbering slowly out of the turn-around, gathered speed and once more raced crazily into the night.  It was a scene reminiscent of the headless-horseman galloping wildly across the Connecticut countryside in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  And just as scary.  I stood watching in disbelief as the red taillights finally disappeared into the darkness.
     While standing in the turn-around, comforted by only a single streetlight, I started to ponder my alternatives, and they were few.  I double-checked the crumpled schedule and reconfirmed what I already knew.  There would be no more buses running until six o’clock the next morning.  And it was not even midnight yet.  I was a whole city-width away from home and with only precisely enough money to pay for a fare on a bus that I had just missed.  There was no way around it… I would simply have to walk the several miles home.  And the long and desolate route awaiting me seemed about as treacherous as walking blindfolded across a minefield.
     In the distance, another pair of headlights faintly appeared, giving rise to a momentary hope that perhaps someone – anyone – knew that I was stranded there and they were coming to assist me.  Then the sinister thoughts began to kick in.  The approaching vehicle could also mean trouble for me.  It could very easily be a car full of troublemakers’… gang members… anything evil… who knows what?  In anticipation of avoiding a problem, I felt it best that I stay in the glow of the streetlight, so I stood there staring into the slowly approaching headlights.  As the lights neared, they appeared wider than normal.
     “‘Looks like a bus, but it’s probably a truck,” I surmised.
     And then I could make out some familiar features.  I saw two amber lights at the upper corners, and then the lighted interior and the backlit scroll window above the windshield grew distinct.  It was a bus!  Bus number 2706, and it was a sleek new model with the familiar orange and white colors in a modern design.  This bus moved much slower as it entered the turn-around, and an older gray-haired driver waved to me as he began his turn.  The front and side route scrolls both read ‘Sherman Drive’ and I was baffled, but deliriously happy.  With a decidedly friendlier hiss of air, the passenger-less bus stopped and the front doors silently folded open.
     “Howdy, young man,” said the friendly driver.  “‘Been waitin’ long?”
     As I dropped my coins into the fare box, I looked up and said, “No… not really that long, but I just missed the last bus.”  I took the front seat across the aisle from the driver.
     “Then you’ve been here quite a spell,” he said.  “The bus ahead of me left here an hour ago.”
     “Oh, no sir… I just missed the Sherman Drive bus - number three - not more than a few minutes ago.  As a matter of fact, you had to pass it about five or six blocks up the street.  It was really flying!”
     “You gotta be mistaken about that, son.  There ain’t no bus number three on this route and I’m the only Sherman Drive bus on the road now.”  Checking his own paperwork, he said, “The bus ahead of this one was bus number 2755.”
     “It was an older bus – maybe fifty years old, orange and white.  And marked ‘Sherman Drive.’  The driver was redheaded and he pulled in here like he was late for supper.  Then, just as quickly, he tore out of here like a man possessed.  I didn’t have a chance to stop him, but it was definitely bus number three.”
     “Well, now… that’s real odd.  I ain’t about to dispute you further, son, but that sure is strange,” he said. 
I could tell by his voice that he thought I was mistaken about the number on the earlier bus, and I merely dropped the issue.  He was a skilled driver and he maneuvered the big quiet bus up the darkened street at the legal limits.  I kept looking up ahead of us into the darkness for the taillights of the other bus, but it never came into view.
     Gradually, we rode out of the dark and deserted residential area of the route and over streets occupied by other vehicles as we approached the center of the city.  And there were other buses too, but no number three, and none as old as the one I had seen earlier.  The driver and I didn’t speak the rest of the way.  Soon, we were once more in progressively darker neighborhoods as the bus had nearly crossed the city.  When we approached Thirtieth Street, my stop, I stood up and thanked him for the nice ride.
     As the bus glided to the curb at Thirtieth Street, he said, “You know… almost forty years ago, when I was a new driver, we did have a bus number three on the Sherman Drive run.  The driver was running late one night and speeding… trying to make up lost time.  He went through a stop sign and hit a fuel truck and both vehicles burned to a crisp. ‘Funny thing is… I still remember the guy’s name.”
     The accordion door opened as I stepped down to exit, and he said, “The driver’s name was Red Cloverman.”  I turned around in time to see a strange, puzzled look on the driver’s face as the door quietly folded shut and the bus continued on into the night to the bus barns at the end of the Sherman Drive route.
     The remaining six or seven blocks to my home were dark, but the streets and houses were infinitely warmer than those of the other neighborhood on the far side of town.  Now, I walked with a definite purpose, but with no trepidation.  Still… I couldn’t help feeling a little like Ichabod Crane.  All the way home, I kept looking over my shoulder, as if ghostly bus number three might come roaring down upon me again at any moment.

     Seven victims had already been buried and two others lay critically ill from their wounds.  He smiled to himself; content in the knowledge that he had finally gotten the attention that he believed he deserved.  Now, people were noticing him – or at least noticing his deeds.  He had single-handedly managed to cause an entire metropolitan area to fear and respect him.  Schools changed their schedules of activities, outdoor events were cancelled at all levels, fewer numbers of people walked the streets, and it was all because of him. 
     The power gave him a certain rush, merely knowing that hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions now altered their lifestyles because of him.  His targets were also now scarcer, although there was still a large segment of the public that refused to bow to the mass hysteria and continued in their usual patterns.  They felt that there was safety in numbers and that the odds were in their favor.  It was from this pool of scofflaws that he vowed he would select his next prey.  He had not personally known any of his victims and from the distance that each was shot, there was little feeling of remorse for what he had done. 
     He refused to even consider them as people.  He did not care for all the emotions that others exhibited during his reign of terror.  He did not care because his own life had been devoid of affection, love, and caring.  He did not care for any of that mushiness because he was totally unfamiliar with it.  He had grown up as an abused and unwanted child and he never got any of that kind of stuff from his mother, who seemed to resent that, as a baby, he had intruded upon her life and plans.  He never knew his father, only the series of men who sought out the infrequent companionship of his mother, and none of them liked him or treated him pleasantly either. 
     In school, his grades were poor and his social skills were far from adequate.  “Underachiever,” was how he had often been characterized.  He chuckled to himself as he repeated the term in his mind.
     “Underachiever.  I guess they’d probably have to call me something else now,” he thought.  An evil smile crept across his unwashed and unshaven face.  The assault rifle with telescope that he now cradled in his arms had become the great equalizer for him.  It gave him instant credibility and made everyone sit up and take notice.
     “I’ll bet they’ve even heard of me in Europe by now,” he almost said out loud. 
     The thrill of his evil deeds was exhilarating for him.  He had collected all the stories in the various newspapers around the area.  He delighted in reading about himself, although none of them had been able to identify him by name.  He especially liked it that there were so many theories about him and his motives for the shootings.
     “How stupid all these people are!” he thought.  “Nobody knows anything about me and yet all these experts are giving their opinions about me.”
     While watching news accounts on the television about the shootings, he found himself verbally debating with the experts.  He would actually shout them down and laugh at their inability to correctly define any of his personal attributes.
     He really enjoyed the pseudo-celebrity status to which his deeds had elevated him.  He secretly wished to have his name and photograph revealed, but he knew that he had to be extremely careful with that kind of information.  He was not quite ready to end his game just yet.  The Ace of spades playing card that he had left behind after gunning down victim number eight was really nothing more than a ruse.  He knew that FBI and police profilers would attempt to make some logical connection to the card, and it pleased him to think that he was that much smarter than the so-called experts.  They had called it the death card, but to him, it was simply something to confound and confuse them.  Prior to leaving the card at the scene, he had never even known that the Ace of spades was sometimes referred to as “the death card.” 
     For a moment, he lay motionless in the shrubbery…only his eyes moved, as they scanned the scene before him.  There were a few pedestrians out this evening, and any one of them would be an easy target, but he was waiting for a particular type.  He wanted to next bring down a woman…maybe someone who reminded him of his mother.  Maybe someone who was as cruel to their own child as his mother had often been to him.  He “practiced” quietly by placing the crosshairs on the men who walked before him.
     “Pow,” he said to himself, as he pretended to squeeze the trigger.  Another smile slowly transformed his face.  He was giddy with the power that the weapon gave him.
     “Pow,” he said again, as another unsuspecting man stood in the crosshairs.
     His preferred attack position on this evening was in the untrimmed shrubbery of a medium-sized office building across the street from a small retail center that included a gas station.  He had selected the building because of the shrubs, and because it was on an elevation slightly higher than the target area across the broad, eight-lane street.  The entire office building was usually empty by dusk, and it was on this evening, also.  His car was parked in the rear of the office building, and it was less than three tenths of a mile to the on-ramp of the interstate highway.  Getting away from the scene quickly, as he had done in the past would be easy.  He prided himself on his careful selection of shooting sites and their close proximity to an interstate ramp.  It was also the only thing about him or his methods that the police or FBI had thus far correctly surmised.
     Suddenly a woman got out of a car in the gas station and walked to the rear of it to gas the vehicle.  His heart began to beat faster in anticipation of what he was about to do.  It beat so hard that his weapon shook slightly with the same tempo.  Through the scope, he was able to see only the top half of the woman, and she remained in the crosshairs only intermittently.  She appeared to be moving about as she pumped fuel into the car, and her movements were distracting to him.  Unless she stopped moving and walked to the other side of the car, he would be unable to fire at her with any certainty.  He was just about to pull off her as a target, when she unexpectedly walked around the car and was now fully exposed to him as she talked into the passenger window to someone inside.  His trigger finger once more began to squeeze the crescent- shaped trigger. 
     Then suddenly, his sighting was totally obstructed by a large tractor-trailer on the street that pulled out of a nearby driveway and was now passing agonizingly slow between him and his intended target.  By the time that the big rig cleared, the woman had gone back to the other side of her vehicle and was now preparing to enter the car.  He had but an instant to reacquire his target and drop her in her tracks before she got back in her car.
     The man’s finger anxiously cradled the trigger as he took aim.  “Hold it right there,” he said, adding, “and don’t move a muscle,” as he pointed his 9mm service pistol at the head of the would-be sniper lying prone in the bushes.  The silver badge on his chest contrasted starkly with his navy blue uniform, and easily identified him as a police officer.  He was no more than ten feet from the sniper and could not miss if he had to fire.
     The officer had been patrolling the area and was specifically checking out the parking lot of the building when the strange car in the rear aroused his suspicion.  He then walked around the building and saw the sniper taking aim at the woman across the street.  In half a heartbeat, he had sized up the situation and was now firmly in command.  The man on the ground lay motionless for what seemed like an eternity to each of them.  For an instant, the sniper considered his options, then whirled and attempted to point the rifle at the officer. 
     The loud gunshot echoed off the front of the building, and people on the street turned in all directions, attempting to see what had caused the noise.  Finally, a few of them saw the smoke from the end of the barrel.  The seven-year veteran officer had just fired his weapon in earnest for the first time in his career, and it ended the terror and the life of the suburban sniper.

     The little boy was barely four years old.  Like most boys his age, the sight of a large, shiny fire truck captivated him.  Whenever a fire truck would go by, with siren wailing, the boy would run to look at it.  The bright colors, the loud, piercing siren, and the firefighters in their full equipment were too much for him to ignore.  His large, brown eyes would become inordinately larger when they gazed upon firemen or fire trucks.
He had never really seen a real fire truck any closer than to have one pass in front of the family car, while it hurried to some kind of emergency.  But oh, how he yearned to be close enough to touch one!  He recalled seeing the fireman at the wheel of the passing truck, and also those firemen who clung to the rear of the truck.  The distinctive helmets, raincoats, and boots were apparel that he recognized as easily as most children recognize characters from Sesame Street.
     His most cherished toy was a wooden fire truck, with wooden wheels, which had belonged to his father.  It was so old that the wooden wheels had become dry and brittle, and there were large cracks in them that caused the toy to “click” and bounce as it was pushed across the floor.  The tiny wooden ladder had long ago been lost.  When the original paint wore off the truck body, the father repainted it with the only paint available…a rust-resistant variety which was more brown than red.  Still…the boy loved his fire truck.
     His family, having moved into the neighborhood almost a year ago, knew very few of the families around them.  They barely spoke to their new neighbors, who seemed distant, and not at all eager to socialize.  The little boy’s family was extremely religious – so much so that many people looked upon them as oddly different.  The family prayed daily in the home and never missed the weekly worship services offered in their community.  Their religion
prescribed that they wear plain and simple clothing, which only called further attention to them.  Their religion also prevented them from doing many of the things done by other families, and as a result, their neighbors did not warmly accept them.
     The family kept to themselves and rarely left the house except to go to the market and to their religious services.  The father drove, but the mother did not.  Automobiles frightened her, and she preferred to walk.  She had not done much walking since they moved into this neighborhood, although she planned on eventually walking her son to kindergarten.  Her husband did not like her to walk in the neighborhood, and he often told her stories of pedestrians being robbed or beaten.  The stories only reinforced for her uncertainties about the area and the strange, unfriendly appearing people who lived there.
     The boy’s father, away from home much of the day, would often return home in time to kiss his son good night.  By the time the boy awoke in the morning, his father had usually already left for the day.  The father had learned to use a computer at the last place they lived, and now he spent most of his working hours at a computer keyboard.  It was an antiseptic type of work, and a means for him to end years of toiling as an anonymous common laborer.  The computer would eventually allow him to progress to more technical venues, and he saw this as a direct route to his ultimate destiny.
     On one of the few days that the boy’s father was home, the boy asked his father to take him to see a fire truck up close, but the father resisted.  He was unsure about how the men of the fire company would feel about him and his son.  The little boy begged and pleaded, but he could not convince his father.  At the wife’s urging, however, the father finally relented and agreed to take his son to the fire station near the end of their street.  In
truth, the father was as curious about the fire trucks and the firemen, who operated them, as was his son.
The late summer weather was ideal for a short walk and father and son strolled the short distance to the firehouse.  As they neared the station, the father felt hesitant about asking anyone for permission to look, but the excitement of the event caused the boy to break free from his father’s grasp and run the last fifty yards toward the open fire bay.
     Stopping at the edge of the huge overhead door, the boy stared in amazement at the large red truck with all its gleaming chrome.  As taken as he was with the truck, the boy was afraid to cross the imaginary line and dare touch the machine.  The appeal of the fire apparatus to the boy was tremendous, but its actual size and nearness seemed overwhelming to him.
     One of the firefighters then coincidentally appeared through an inner door and saw the rapt attention of the boy, who was now joined by his father.  Though neither uttered a word, it was obvious that both father and son were awestruck by the size and splendor of the magnificent fire truck.  The fireman chuckled to himself.  It was a very familiar scene to him.
     "Would you like to come in and get a better look?” asked the firefighter, directing his question to the adult, but looking squarely at the boy.
     The father whispered something to the boy, who immediately broke into a large smile and slowly; they both entered the sanctity of the station.  After only a few minutes, of looking and lovingly caressing the giant tires on the truck, the boy was hoisted up to the seat of the truck by the firefighter, who urged the boy to check it out.
The boy grasped the massive steering wheel with his tiny hands and peered out the windshield to the street beyond.
     “Vroom, vroom,” he said, imitating the sound of the massive truck as only a four-year-old could.  The boy’s father beamed with a smile that told the firefighter how happy his kindness had made his son.
     After a few minutes, the firefighter lifted the boy and carried him to the rear of the truck and placed him at one of the spots usually occupied by a firefighter in route to a fire or other emergency call.  It offered an entirely unique perspective to the little boy who remained speechless with excitement.  He could recall seeing a real fireman pass by him while standing in this exact location!
     The father, although extremely appreciative of the firefighter’s hospitality, did not want to take up any more of the firefighter’s valuable time, so he urged his son to come down from the truck.  But the boy was so caught up in the moment that he was oblivious to his father’s voice.  Again, he called upon his son to get down, and allow the fireman to return to what he was doing before they arrived.
     “Really…it’s not a problem,” said the fireman.  “Let him enjoy himself a little longer.”
     It pleased both men to watch the boy revel in his immediate fantasy world.  The child’s eyes were bright and filled with wonderment.  The boy’s father was at once taken back to his own childhood, when he was given the then-new toy fire truck.  For the briefest of moments, he was free from any stress or urgency.  The fireman also flashed back to his own happy childhood memories of such a treat.
     When, at last, it was really time for the two visitors to leave the fire station, the firefighter lifted the boy off the truck and handed him down into the waiting arms of the father.  Hand in hand, the two began to slowly walk away, as the boy continued to stare over his shoulder at the impressive truck behind him.  He simply could not take his eyes off that beautiful fire truck.  It was a day that would forever live in the memory of the little boy.
     “Wait a minute!” called the firefighter from the station behind them, and he was now trotting after the pair.  He had a small package in his hands.
     “Yes?” asked the father; unsure of why they had been stopped.
     “I wanted your son to have this,” replied the fireman, handing a twelve-inch long toy fire truck to the little boy.  Both the father and the son were nearly overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity of the fireman.  Instead of saying anything, the boy went slack-jawed and smiled with absolute abandon.
     “What do you say?” asked the father of his son, prompting a proper display of gratitude from the boy.
     “Thank you,” came the elicited response in a shy and tiny voice.
     “You are very welcome!” said the firefighter.  “You come back and visit us again, real soon.”
     Upon reaching their home, the boy ran to his mother and proudly showed her the fire truck given him by the fireman.  He excitedly told her of his visit, and how he had “driven” the fire truck and had been allowed to climb around the back of the truck.  The father stood silently by, taking in all of the exhilaration of his son.
     His eyes and those of the boy’s mother at last met and he smiled slightly and said; “I think he will become a fireman when he grows up.”
     A few days later, the father was preparing to leave the house on business again, but this time it was different.  He told his wife that he would be gone for several days.  It was not unusual for him to go away for a day or two, because he had left on such trips at other times.  A much stronger and longer-lasting embrace characterized this goodbye to his wife.  Their kiss was the slightest bit deeper and more prolonged than usual.  Though she sensed that her husband seemed uncharacteristically more affectionate on this occasion, she did not see the welling up in his eyes, and he masked his true emotions as he spoke his goodbye to her.  She also had not witnessed his protracted goodbye to his son, as he kissed and patted the head of the sleeping child.  With a final wave, the father started his car and drove away in the darkness.
     The following day, on September the eleventh, the television station interrupted its regular programming with the news that terrorists had hijacked and flown two planes into the World Trade Center twin towers in New York, and another into the Pentagon in Washington.  A fourth had crashed into the Pennsylvania countryside.  The wife watched in horror as the scene played out in front of her.  The events brought torrents of tears to her eyes, while her son played quietly on the floor with the new toy fire truck.
     The next day, the boy’s mother continued to be captivated by the riveting events.  She watched the ongoing tragic events unfold on TV, as her son played at his mother’s feet with his toy fire truck.  At one point, the boy happened to look up at the television screen as a team of rescuers was carrying the body of a lifeless firefighter from the rubble on a stretcher.  He stopped his play and stared at the action on the television.  He recognized the helmet and clothing of the victim.
     “Mommy,” asked the little boy, “what is wrong with the fireman that those men are carrying?”
     Somberly, his mother answered, “That fireman has gone to heaven.  The other firemen could not save him.”
     Now all at once, the boy understood enough of the previously meaningless adult conversation on the television to know that it somehow affected his mother and also the firemen, whom he so especially admired.  From that point on, he watched a great deal of the television coverage – particularly when the scene was one depicting fire rescuers.  Though he had no idea of what had precipitated the tragedy, his concern was real and apparent.  He
seemed to sense the importance of the work performed by the firemen who were captured on the TV screen, despite his tender age.
     Two days later, the boy’s mother answered a knock at the door, to find two men standing there.  They identified themselves as FBI agents and showed her a picture.
     “Is this your husband?” one of the agents asked.
     “Yes,” she answered, now beginning to link together subtle clues to the reason for her husband’s secretive business and dark lifestyle.
     Her thoughts also instantly raced back to their last goodbye, and she now understood its urgency, also.  From the pit of her stomach, a dull, gnawing feeling began working its way toward her throat, and she worked hard at fighting the nausea now invading her body.  She wanted to cry, but her eyes only watered and stared vacantly into space.
     Her husband, an Islamic fundamentalist, she was informed by the federal agents, was suspected of being one of the hijackers involved in the attack on America.  The agents were armed with a search warrant and in a matter of minutes, teams of investigative technicians and agents swarmed over the modestly furnished house.  There would be many more questions from the FBI, but she would be unable to give them much information.  She knew little about his friends, acquaintances, or business practices.
     In the Islamic tradition, she had never been told of her husband’s business or even his plans.  Unfamiliar friends had offered to finance their trip to America from Egypt and she was grateful for their assistance.  The harsh life that they had shared in the poorer settlements in Egypt was now behind them.  She and their son had dutifully accompanied her husband first to Germany, and after two years of college there, he suddenly announced that they were going to America.  She believed that they were making plans for a life in this new and wonderfully free country.  She never questioned her husband’s intentions.  It was not unusual for an Islamic household to function exactly in this manner.
     The FBI search team continued to literally turn her simple house upside down, as she sat quietly on the sofa.  The commentator was now recounting the estimated death toll as the television continued its coverage of the terrible event.  She could no longer bring herself to look at the awesome destruction or to think of the agonizing deaths of so many.  Her dreams now in ruin, through tear-blurred eyes, she looked down at her son as the innocent boy raced the wheels of the toy fire truck across the floor.
     “Vroom, vroom,” said the make-believe firefighter.

Duplicity
     Two veteran FBI agents are tricked into unwittingly assisting a wily drug trafficker.

     A top-secret hard drive, with the code name of Project Burpee, was missing from the Los Alamos Nuclear Laboratory.  The prime suspect, Dr. Robert Wexler, a nuclear physicist, was the Group Leader of the team conducting the research.  The hard drive was signed out to his possession, and though he had stated that he had done nothing illegal or improper with it, he claimed that he could not remember what he did with the item.
     Upon being assigned to the case, FBI agents Errol West and Kevin Brown started their investigation by looking back over his original security clearance background check.  But in examining the twenty-eight year old records, the pair found nothing out of the ordinary, so they were forced to turn to other avenues for the investigation.  Agent West delved into his personnel files in HR, while Agent Brown set the wheels in motion to begin to examine Dr. Wexler’s telephone and credit records.
     In the personnel file, some hand-written notes containing calculations, and dated as recently as a week before the Burpee hard drive came up missing, intrigued West.  Eventually, he was able to track down the HR specialist who had made the calculations and inserted them in Robert’s file.  She told Agent West that Dr. Wexler had called her and requested some preliminary figures “in case I would retire right away,” as it had been phrased by Robert.  Dr. Wexler made the telephone call just six days before the hard drive disappeared. 
Since Robert Wexler was already 63 years old, on rock-solid financial footing, according to his credit report, and his wife had already retired, the prospects of an imminent retirement ordinarily would have been of little concern.  But a missing Q-level hard drive, last known to be in Dr. Wexler’s possession, and the words “in case I would retire right away” attributed to him, easily captured Agent West’s attention.  If Agent Brown were to come up with anything from Robert’s telephone records, if might even be downright incriminating!
     When West returned from HR, Brown had Robert’s credit report and telephone records spread across his desk.  When Brown saw West, he said, “Nothing too much out of the ordinary in the telephone records, Errol.  In fact, Wexler and his wife probably made fewer calls than most couples their age.  There’s only a handful of local numbers and a similar number of long distance numbers.  It’ll be a day or two before I can get the Telephone Company to get me the names or businesses that were called by the Wexlers.  How ‘bout you…any luck in HR?”
     “Oh, yeah!” said Errol, imitating the happy and optimistic sound of Tom Watson as he shouts his approval of a new club in the Adams Golf commercial.  “While you’re going over his telephone calls, keep an eye out for anything which might mean a quick trip out of the country, or plans to buy real estate somewhere else.”
     “What’s up?” asked Brown.
     “Less than a week before the hard drive disappeared, Dr. Wexler called HR and had them do some calculations on his retirement, ‘in case I would retire right away’.”
     “He said that?” asked Brown incredulously.
     “Pre-zactly!” answered an obviously satisfied West.
     “Wow!” exclaimed the younger agent.  “No kidding!”  Both agents then continued to pore over their newly discovered information.
     In a few days time, Agent Brown discovered that Dr. Robert Wexler’s telephone records revealed that he had recently called not only a local travel agent, but had also been in regular contact with a real estate agent in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.  It now seemed obvious to both agents that Dr. Wexler’s plans to retire and move to Mexico, coupled with the timing of the disappearance of the Burpee data, was suspicious enough to warrant a trip to Puerto Vallarta.  They would also check Dr. and Mrs. Wexler’s banking records to see if any unusually large deposits had been made in a time frame relevant to Mexico and Burpee, or whether or not there was a pattern of continued, suspicious regular deposits preceding the disappearance of the Burpee data.  More and more, and at the moment, Robert Wexler looked like a prime suspect to both West and Brown.

                                                                                      * * *

     No commercial airlines offered a roundtrip to Puerto Vallarta from Los Alamos with a turn-around within a week, so West and Brown were forced to charter a private flight, which turned out to be a total nightmare.  In the first place, they sought to hire a small jet, but wound up with a twin engine Beechcraft, more than twenty-one years old.  On such short notice, it was their only option.  The price they were charged was about three times what commercial fares, if available, would have cost.  The pilot, Lance Simonson, looked like something out of an old Dan Duryea “B” grade movie – unshaven, unkempt, and looking like he had been stranded in Los Alamos for a year or two.  And he flew his aircraft as though it was his first time up alone.  Both agents were sick after their flight to Mexico, and did not look forward to the return leg of the flight.
     In Puerto Vallarta, they located an automobile rental agency, then all three checked into a moderately priced hotel before splitting up for the day.  About two hours later, the FBI agents managed to find the real estate agent that the Wexlers had contacted about their dream retirement home.  Senora Lupe Sanchez was a pleasant, well-educated woman of fifty or so, whose English was exceptional.  Though she was very cordial and cooperative with the federal agents, she was not the least bit in awe of them or their police powers.  She told them that the Wexlers had been vacationing in her community for several years and had only recently inquired about the possibility of buying a small home there.  She also showed the agents the style and price range of homes that were most favored by the Wexlers.  They were not luxury homes in any sense of the word, nor were they on the beach, but situated a short and delightful stroll from the beautiful Pacific Ocean.
     While in Puerto Vallarta, the two FBI agents also attempted to check the local banks to see if the Wexlers had any large sums of money stashed away there, but got a stiff rebuff from each of the Mexican bank officials.  Anxious to connect the Wexlers to as much in Mexico as possible, the agents went to the local police and sought their help in convincing the local bankers to cooperate.
At the police station, West and Brown initially found little interest in helping them.  In sparse English, a man appearing to be a ranking police officer offered to help, and as he did so, he grinned a wide, toothy grin and made gestures indicating he expected to be paid for his assistance.  After a hurried conference with his partner, Brown reached into his wallet and pulled out a crisp new Benjamin Franklin and extended it to the Mexican officer.  Then all three got into the agents’ rental car, a worn out ’88 Honda Accord, and drove to a bank on the directions of the Mexican officer in the back seat.  Before entering the bank, the Mexican had the agents write down the name of both Wexlers on the back of Agent West’s business card, and bade them to wait, while he went inside the building.
     After about ten minutes, the Mexican officer returned and got back into the Honda.  “I’m sorry, Muchachos,” he said, “they have no een-formation on the Wexlers.  We shall have to try another bonk.” And he directed them to another, larger bank.
     As they were in route to the second bank, West, who was driving, asked, “You mean the Wexlers have no account at the bank we just visited, or do you mean that they do have an account there, but they will not let us see it?”
     “Si, Senor West,” he answered, while looking out the side window.  “”Sometime eet just hoppen theese way.”
     “Yes, they have an account, or no, they don’t have an account?  I don’t understand what you are saying at all,” said Agent West angrily now, as he looked at the officer in the backseat through the rear view mirror.
     Ignoring West’s question, the Mexican officer pointed to the bank just ahead, and said, urgently, “There, Senor…pool over there.”  West pulled the car over next to the more than fifteen-inch high curb, which necessitated the passenger in the back seat to slide across and exit on the driver’s side. He then leaned into West’s side of the car and extended his hand for more money.  Then he snapped his fingers and motioned for them to hurry it up.  West and Brown looked at each other in amazement and shook their heads at the same time, then West put the car in “DRIVE” and pulled away – leaving the Mexican standing in the street and looking bewildered.
     “Un-freaking-believable!” said West, and Brown agreed as they headed back toward their hotel, the El Pacifico.
     At the El Pacifico, West and Brown looked for Lance Simonson, but could not find him, and he was not in his room, which was next door to theirs.  They left word with the desk clerk that they wanted Simonson to contact them as soon as possible, as they were ready to return to Los Alamos the next day.  The rest of the late afternoon and early evening would be spent at the hotel pool and in the restaurant.  After a couple of very potent Margaritas in the hotel bar, the two agents went to their room.  It was almost eight o’clock.  By ten o’clock, Simonson still had not contacted them, and they began to get ready for bed.  They also worried about being able to get back to Los Alamos tomorrow.
     Finally, at about twenty minutes after ten, their telephone rang and it was their pilot.  Agent Brown took the call, and he heard Simonson ask, “Well, how was your day?  Are we all set to leave tomorrow?”
     “Yeah,” said Brown.  “Where are you now?”
     “I’m at the airport. ‘Ran into a couple of old buddies here.  Imagine that!  Say…what time are you guys gonna wanna go back tomorrow?  I’ve gotta file a flight plan, ya know.”
     “I don’t know…maybe eight o’clock?”  He looked at West, who nodded his approval, and then he spoke back into the telephone, “Sure…eight o’clock.  Meet you in the lobby about seven then.  Okay?  Okay.  Bye.”  Turning to West again, he said, “He said he was at the airport with some old buddies, but I didn’t hear any planes or anyone being paged.  I don’t know about that guy, Errol.  I just don’t have a good feeling about him at all!”
     Errol never spoke, as he had already turned over and had his back toward Brown, but he just grunted something which sounded like, “Me neither.”  Brown then turned off the lamp and both men went to sleep.  At 4:12, according to the L.E.D. dial on the clock radio, the light-sleeping Kevin Brown was awakened by the sound of Lance Simonson’s door closing.  Then Agent Brown heard Simonson cough aloud, before starting the shower.  The next two hours for Brown would be fitfully spent trying to get back to sleep before the alarm went off.
     Before meeting Lance Simonson the following morning, Kevin Brown discussed the fact with Errol West that their pilot had come in after four o’clock, and each was concerned about him not having had enough sleep to safely fly them back to Los Alamos.  As nice as the Puerto Vallarta area was in which to vacation, their official business was over and they were ready to go home.  They had little choice but to fly back with Simonson.  They did not want to spend another night in Mexico.
     When the pilot finally appeared in the El Pacifico lobby, it was nearly seven-thirty, but neither of the FBI men said anything about his being late.  They hoped that he had slept right up until the last second before coming downstairs.  “Hot date last night?” asked Kevin Brown.
     “Uh, well…you might say that,” Simonson answered sluggishly, smiling sheepishly as he peered through eyes as red as the cayenne peppers in last night’s dinner.
     “Do you think it’s safe to fly with so little sleep?” asked Errol West, trying to mask his fear with a tone sounding more concerned for the welfare of the pilot.
     Simonson laughed and tried to shrug off their concern for his lack of sleep.  “Heck…flying with only a couple hours sleep don’t mean nuthin’ to an old bush pilot like me.  I’ve been flying on schedules like this for almost twenty years now.  I started my own charter service fifteen years ago and started flying missionaries deep into the Amazon jungles of South America.  I’ve landed on strips no more than a dirt road wide in Guatemala, and more than once I’ve been fired on by one of them Latino rebels in Panama, back when Noriega’s pals were still around.  Y’all aren’t scared are you?”
     “Oh, no – not me.  I’m not scared at all,” said Agent West nervously.  “How about you, Kevin.  Are you scared?”
     “Who?  Me?  Scared?  Ha!  That’ll be the day!” said Brown, rolling his eyes dramatically upward as if praying, while at the same time turning away so only West could see him.  Agent West almost burst out laughing at his partner’s response.  Even the crimson-eyed Simonson picked up on it and chuckled aloud.
     At the airport, the Beechcraft was not parked in the same place that it was when the two federal agents last saw it.  Instead of being next to a gray hangar near the center of the small airport complex, the plane was now parked all the way on the end of the tarmac, just beyond the last hangar.
     Agent Brown remarked softly to his partner about the plane being moved, and Simonson overheard him and answered, without looking up, “We did the maintenance on it down here.  That’s why it’s moved.”
     There was a noticeable puddle of oil on the tarmac directly under the starboard engine, which West pointed out to the pilot, but Simonson simply shrugged it off, saying, “They spilled that when we serviced it yesterday.”  Unconvinced, West and Brown inspected the faded blue and white cowling covering the engine and pointed out what appeared to be drops of oil on the underside – just above the suspicious puddle.  “Pressure blow-off.  Happens every time we service her.  Put too much oil in and when we turn over the engine, a little bit squeezes out.  Nuthin’ to worry about, guys.  Honest!” said the pilot.
     Simonson then took the suitcase that each carried and stowed it in the closed, aft section of the Beechcraft.  West and Brown were still outside, inspecting the rest of the plane, although they really didn’t know what they were looking for or why.  Once everyone was aboard the plane, Simonson seemed to go through a professional enough checklist before take-off, but neither of the passengers really knew if the pilot was doing everything expected of him.  They could only hope.  When the second engine (starboard) started even more quickly than the one on the port side, even though it was accompanied by a small cloud of blue smoke, there was a feeling of relief in the FBI men, and each saw the other noticeably exhale.
     After communicating with the tower, the Beechcraft was cleared for take-off and Simonson increased his speed just as the plane reached the end of the runway.  The windsock at the top of the tower was as limp as a strand of day old spaghetti.  Now heading straight down the runway, the plane strained and roared as Simonson applied more and more throttle.  When a good portion of the runway had already gone by and they still had not become airborne, West and Brown looked at each other with a good deal of stark fear in their eyes.  Finally, as the Beechcraft reached the three-quarter mark, its nose lifted slightly then appeared to drop back down for a split second before finally becoming fully airborne and climbing in a steady, but uncommonly slow ascent.  The low rock formation at the extreme end of the airport property passed threateningly close as the plane continued to seek greater altitude.
     Lance Simonson was perspiring heavily as the plane, at last, began to bank toward the northeast.  Errol West, normally of fair complexion, was a paler shade of white, and Kevin Brown’ knuckles were gripping his seat so hard that his knuckles matched the pasty color of his partner’s face.  “What the heck was going on back there?” asked Brown of the pilot.
     “Wind shear!” replied Simonson.  “We almost didn’t get up because of it.”  He turned his head so the two federal passengers could not see the sneaky grin that he was trying to stifle.
     “Wind shear?” asked Agent Brown as he looked directly at Errol West, who was also looking into his face.  “What wind shear?  There was no wind on the ground before we took off.”
     “Starting at about Durango in the north, and especially over here along the pacific coast,” explained the pilot over the roar of his two engines, “they have a mean wind shear that hangs about a hundred feet off the ground, and occasionally sweeps down to ground level in places.  The natives have a name for it.  They call it…” and he quickly searched for a name, “they call it…El Jalapeno.  That’s what they call it – El Jalapeno!”
     The two FBI agents looked at each other with a look that said, “No way!”  Then at exactly the same instant, each asked, “El Jalapeno?  Isn’t that just a hot Mexican pepper?”  They waited for Simonson to explain himself.  Neither of the agents had ever heard of “El Jalapeno.”
     “Yep…that’s exactly right!  And that’s just why they call it that.  A hot Mexican pepper!  That wind shear just comes off the hot Mexican desert and burns like a hot pepper.  Now you know why they call it “El Jalapeno,” explained Simonson coolly.
     Because of “El Jalapeno,” or whatever, the Beechcraft was never able to regain the same altitude on the return flight north, at which it had flown south.  And neither West nor Brown said any more about the performance of the airplane.  They were simply too thrilled to be getting to the end of the flight and the weird ways of pilot Lance Simonson.  They most certainly did not want to jinx the flight home.
Despite flying home at an inordinately low altitude, and on two engines that seemed destined to die of old age while still on the wing, the return trip was, overall, smoother than the trip down.  Agents West and Brown, although they had spoken to one Mexican real estate agent, two Mexican bankers, and one too many Mexican police officers, had really not learned anything new on the Wexlers.  The FBI agents considered their trip to Puerto Vallarta a waste of time.  But not Lance Simonson.
     As Agents West and Brown headed across the tarmac toward the parking lot that held their rented Taurus, Simonson stood in the shade of his Beechcraft and counted the money that he had earned for the trip.  More money than he had ever made in his entire life!  Not the money that he had been paid by the two FBI agents for the flight, but even that was a handsome sum.  He patted the fading blue and white fuselage tenderly, and ever so gently flicked a loose chip of paint off with his fingernail.  Then he went back aboard the plane and opened the cargo compartment and gazed lovingly at the two hundred kilos of marijuana that he had just flown in from Mexico.  Thanks to the presence of his FBI chaperones on the airplane, getting past customs had been a slam-dunk.
     “El Jalapeno!” he said out loud, causing him to laugh so hard that his side ached.

                                                                                             * * *

     It had already been more than ten days since the FBI had been called in on the case, when a copier technician – doing routine maintenance -- discovered that the missing hard drive had fallen down behind the copy machine in Dr. Wexler’s laboratory.  However, still unconvinced that the misplaced hard drive had not been tampered with, Agents West and Brown had it taken to the FBI laboratory in Washington, where technicians disassembled it and computer experts also scrutinized it carefully.  The FBI laboratory ultimately concluded that the integrity of the hard drive had not been violated and possible criminal charges against Dr. Wexler ceased to be an issue.  Things finally began to return to near normal at Los Alamos.
     Because he had the final responsibility in the matter of the missing hard drive, Dr. Wexler was reprimanded by his administrators at the nuclear laboratory, and although he had done nothing wrong, it merely hastened his anticipated retirement.  He and Mrs. Wexler sold their Los Alamos residence and purchased a small and lovely hacienda within walking distance of the beach in Puerto Vallarta, according to their previous plans.  On their way to the beach, they regularly pass by a large, iron-gated estate that overlooks the Pacific Ocean.  The neighbors told them that it was only recently purchased by another American from Los Alamos, but the Wexlers do not know him.

     At sixty-four, I found myself fresh out of a failed marriage and back on the dating scene after more years than I care to admit to.  I hadn’t been in the position of having to find a date since my early thirties, and back then it was the bar scene.  But for over twenty-five years, my alcohol intake has been mostly confined to mouthwash, sore throat spray and from numerous liniments that my aching body has absorbed through osmosis.  The bars were definitely out.  It looked as though Internet Dating Services were the modern way to meet the opposite sex and I gave it a try.
     I had been burned on blind dates years before and reasoned that with the Internet, I would be able to see a photo of any prospect and could rule out a great many simply by their own descriptions of themselves, their distance from me, or how they looked.  The first night, after paying a nominal fee, I spent about three hours online and the ladies looked generally terrific.  I settled on one whose user name was “desert_flower.”
     Her profile looked almost too good to be true... almost straight up and down of everything I wanted in a woman, and my own profile seemed to fit her wishes perfectly also.  Her age was listed as either sixty or sixty-two, although I can't remember for certain, but she was definitely within my desired age bracket.  And her photographs showed her to be exquisite.  After several introductory emails, I was ready for the next step… to hear her voice over the telephone and also to get a feel for her personality.  Her emails had already proved that she was both witty and articulate and in time, I found that her voice was heavenly.  In our conversations, she possessed a great sense of humor and seemed to say all the right things at just the right times.  I also learned that her real name was Cynthia.  What a beautiful name!
     The first night, we talked for over two hours then two or three times after that for at least an hour each time.  Our conversations didn’t just flow… they gushed!  We talked of our youth, our careers, our children, our grandchildren, our triumphs and our disappointments.  She knew that I was big-time against drinking because of my abusive alcoholic father.  She commiserated with me and said that she had suffered a similar childhood and felt the same way. 
     She also told me that she was in excellent health and only took one prescription - for hypertension.  She told me that she worked out regularly at the health club.  “Oh, my God!” I thought… remembering her listed height and weight, “The woman must have the body of a Greek goddess!”  I lied and told her my only meds were an occasional Viagara (my very weak attempt at humor). 
     That seemed to pique her interest immediately, and she asked me several very personal questions.  Questions that I would have never thought to ask her, but I must confess that they did stir my imagination concerning her obviously healthy libido.  My only actual prescription is one that I take for my slightly arthritic knees, but only if it is damp outside, or after standing, walking, or sitting.  I scarcely notice any discomfort when I’m in bed.  
     She proposed that we take in a movie, and at her suggestion we settled upon the remake of Flight of the Phoenix, which just opened at a theater not far from her condo.  I agreed.  The prospects of having a date with a hot-to-trot lady in a theater caused me to drift back in time to my teen years in the back row of the old neighborhood theater, which we nicknamed “The Passion Pit.”  I was more than ready to meet this lady!  She gave me directions to her condo and told me to "just wait in the parking lot" until she came out.  When I pulled in, she called me on my cell phone and verified that it was I in the green Toyota Four Runner. 
     In a minute or two, a woman, looking old enough to be the mother of the woman in the Internet photos, came out.  She looked at least eighty-two if she looked a day.  She had no eyebrows, only two crooked lines drawn unevenly on the lower part of her forehead with an eyebrow pencil or even more likely, a black magic-marker.  Her lipstick was smeared and in a gothic shade of dark, darker, darkest red, and there was a perfectly round rouge (NOT blush) circle on each cheek.  Her hair was a shade of red that could best be described as "mercurochrome," and it clashed with her dark blue (with glitter) nails.  The kicker, however, was that she pulled an oxygen bottle on a small cart with wheels, and had the tubing in her nose. 
     It reminded me a little of the scene from the movie, “Sunset Boulevard,” where a young and handsome William Holden first lays eyes on the aging and garish Gloria Swanson.  For an instant, I thought of simply driving away quickly, but I couldn’t bear to see her breaking into tears while I just suddenly drove off, or maybe becoming angry and hurling her oxygen tank through my rear window.  And she had a certain crazed desperate look in her eye that told me she looked capable of throwing herself beneath the wheels as I escaped.  So… being the gentleman that I strive to be, I reluctantly decided to go through with the date. 
     She had previously told me that the movie started at 4:30pm, and we were set to get there at 3:30 or so, to allow for conversation.  In reality, however, I found that the movie was not actually scheduled until 5:30, so she suggested that we go to a nearby pub and have a drink.  The place reminded me of the bar on the TV hit, "Cheers."  Not so much because of how it looked, but because everybody yelled out, "Cynthia!" instead of "Norm!" when we walked in.  I had ice water, while she had a double gin and tonic.  When she finished her drink, she hinted that she wanted another, but I somehow talked her into going to the movie early.  While she was chugging, she managed to come up for air long enough to tell me that she also had a pacemaker. 
     In the theater, she picked the seats, and we sat (honest to God!) on the FRONT row.  We were so close that all I could see were bright splashes of dancing colors before me.  The sound track, coupled with my memory of the plot of the original picture, enabled me to make out what was happening on screen without really being able to see anything.  I thought I recognized Dennis Quaid’s voice on screen, but couldn’t be sure. 
     When the picture started, she started hacking and coughing so violently, I thought she might also have tuberculosis, and she did it several times throughout the film.  Immediately after each coughing jag, she would clear her throat and then start hacking and hawking like a cat bringing up a big wet hairball, and then she would spit it into her handkerchief.  She never did catch on to why I went to the restroom three times.  On the way back, I happened to see a poster of the film in the lobby and confirmed that it was Dennis Quaid’s voice I had heard.  
     After the movie, she suggested that we go back to the pub for another drink, but I fibbed and told her I had to be somewhere else (actually ANYWHERE else) in a few minutes.  She bought my story, but asked me if I would please stop at the supermarket near her home.  She said that she had promised an elderly paraplegic in her condo unit that she would pick up a couple of things for him.  At that point, I felt terrible about all the bad things I had been thinking of her, because she was so kind and thoughtful to help another poor, unfortunate soul. 
     She directed me to the store and I parked up close so that she wouldn’t have to pull her tank a great distance.  I asked her if she would like me to carry it for her, but she politely refused.  She came out in less than five minutes… carrying only a bottle of gin in a paper bag.  I think I knew for whom the gin was intended. 
     When I dropped her off at home, she leaned over and puckered up, but I resisted the urge and did not kiss her goodbye.  As I drove away, I swore that I would not do that again.  But believe it or not, this disappointment did not dampen my interest in Internet dating. 
What I did was to prearrange to have a close friend promise to call me about half an hour into my next Internet meeting.  If she turns out to be real and genuine, I will tell him that I’m busy, and promise to return his call later.  If she is anything like this lady, I’ll tactfully explain that I’m sorry, but I have to leave because of an emergency.  Maybe she’ll actually believe it when I tell her that my apartment was just driven into by a huge truck.  Hopefully, she’ll never find out that I live on the second floor.