· web viewmark my word judge he’ll be there. scout’s honor. —you’re a boy scout now?...

Bauer / AMERICA IS A GUN

PLEASE NOTE – REVISIONS SINCE EARLIER SUBMISSION: Man O’ War Elementary School is now Raging Creek Elementary School. PAYNE LaFONTAYNE is now PAYNE FONTAYNE. The chapter order is switched: chapter two (intro to Aaron Pappas the transgender character) is now the first chapter. The gun show section (a prologue) remains the reader’s intro to the novel and to Judge, but Judge’s rant against the NRI has been reduced. -- Chris

THREEAugust 6, 2016

Number of days before the final 2016 U.S. Presidential debate: 70

Tonight their plan was to check out Longwood Gardens, a thousand acres of horticulture bliss

two miles from a pet-friendly B&B Judge and Geenie stayed at last night. A short notice thing,

and LeVander’s treat, sort of, but it was business-related: Coupled with the Gardens’ annual

chrysanthemum festival there was also an art exhibit that LeVander hoped would draw a certain

somebody out into the open.

—Odds are Mr. Teddy will show, per LeVander’s text to Judge. My cop contacts are calling

it.

Sebastian Teddy. LeVander’s art-forging, art-thieving bail jumper, a fugitive who could cost

the bondsman his business if he wasn’t caught.

“Magnificent American art on display,” the classy Longwood Gardens website boasted,

including the work of some of the Philadelphia area’s finest artists, living or dead.

—Mark my word Judge he’ll be there. Scout’s honor.

—You’re a boy scout now? Not buying it.

—Yessir. Truth Justice and the American Way.

—Wrong motto, bozo.

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—Fuck if I care. This is red meat for a sticky-fingered guy like Teddy. Just get on it Gunny.

Love you bro.

Woo-hoo, Judge thought, small w, small h, because he wasn’t a flower person. On the other

hand, Geenie, who could carry herself like a thug when needed—a tall, femme-fatale, Glock-

toting thug—was a sucker for beautiful horticulture exhibits and fine art, and Longwood Gardens

in Kennett Square was gardening at its grandest. Judge could handle the flower exhibits as long

as there was the prospect of a pot of gold—a bounty—waiting for them somewhere in the

vicinity.

They presented their passes to the admission attendant inside the Visitor Center; the

attendant stopped them.

“Sorry, sir, your… other guest isn’t allowed.” Leashed and heeled behind him, Judge’s

German shepherd J.D. sat on his haunches, his tongue out. “Longwood Gardens policy is no

pets.”

Judge liberated two cards from his wallet, his Former Enlisted USMC ID, and his Emotional

Support Animal (ESA) ID, and handed them to the attendant. “Here. Check these out please.”

The ESA card was good for trains, planes, and whatever the hell other gatherings and/or

methods of public transportation Judge thought he could abuse when he wanted one of his dogs

with him. Yes, he had PTSD, some from a traumatic childhood, some from his military

assignments. Yes, he had Tourette’s, and he took meds for it. Yes, he kept a rabbit’s foot clipped

to his belt for whenever he needed fur and his dogs were otherwise preoccupied. And yes, J.D.

his German shepherd was good at intimidating bounties just by showing up, even the tougher

ones. Was J.D. needed to subdue an artist? Probably not. Judge had never met an artist he

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couldn’t push off his feet with a finger. But some of them—those starved, rock-star thin, street-

hustling types—looked like they could run really, really fast.

Judge and Geenie exited the Visitor Center, J.D. alongside. Water fountains illuminated in

infinite color schemes and shapes danced in rhythm to recorded music throughout a five-acre

garden as they walked. Jazz, from Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, Wynton Marsalis, John Coltrane.

The fountains were synched up, swaying to their mellow accompaniments, the jazz shaking the

lazy, wind-kissed flora and fauna in their fall colors, sprucing them up with be-bop and swing.

This, the exhibition of all these flowers and fountains in coordinated, cool, finger-snapping

abandon, Judge could get used to.

So what did Sebastian Teddy look like? Far as mug shots were concerned, his wasn’t a good

one. Slicked, oily black hair. Long face, beaky nose. Caucasian. Big front teeth, which he

proudly exhibited for the police shot, and inky but bright eyes to match. Height, five-five, body

type, slight. Anywhere from thirties to fifties, Judge guessed, when he saw the picture online.

LeVander’s text confirmed it.

—He’s 44. Likes to play dress up. A chameleon. Only other identifier is he talks with his

hands. And if he’s talking, both his mouth and hands are lying.

Their destination, after detouring to absorb the dancing water displays, was the Peirce-du

Pont House, where the art show would still be in full swing on the first and second floors. Long

and stately, Peirce-du Pont had a white, high-arched conservatory that connected two red-

bricked, three-story bookended colonial structures. Inside the conservatory a smorgasbord of art

media. Naming names familiar to Geenie, here was the work of Charles Willson Peale, Cecelia

Beaux, Dox Thrash, Howard Pyle, Maxfield Parrish, and the three Red Rose Girls, Violet

Oakley, Jessie Wilcox Smith, and Elizabeth Shippen Greene. More familiar to Judge was the

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work of Ethan Bowen, a photorealist painter whose piece displayed here captured the infamous

1968 Philadelphia Eagles Santa Claus snowball incident at Franklin Field. After some arm-in-

arm browsing with Geenie, she strolled one way and Judge and J.D. strolled another, toward the

bar.

The art hung on seven-foot temporary walls erected wherever they made sense in the

conservatory. Elsewhere were easels, behind cordons, all displayed under flood lighting. Visible

through the glass roof was a clear night sky full of stars and, as luck would have it, an in-

progress meteor shower. A heavenly exhibition.

“Sparkling wooder,” Judge heard someone say to the bartender, the bar cart near the Ethan

Bowen painting of football Santa, titled You’re All Getting Coal: Philly 1968. Money changed

hands; the bartender handed the “wooder” requester a bottle of Perrier. Mr. Wooder was short

with dark hair, thin, in a tan blazer, wearing tortoise shell glasses. He took a pull from the bottle

then got busy, interesting himself in the Bowen painting. Out came his phone, but it never made

it to his ear. He instead lowered it to his side, his hand and the phone in it poking out from inside

the sleeve of his sport jacket. He sipped his Perrier.

Judge heard the shutter to the phone’s camera, so did J.D., his canine head tilting—click,

click, click. So much for observing the No Photography, No Video sign on a nearby easel.

Click, click, click… Discreet photos from all angles, right, left, up, down, then moving

behind the tripod that held the painting, more of the same at the back of the canvas.

Judge’s assessment: not your average selfish rules-don’t-mean-me jerk; the guy was hiding

his fascination. Dark skinned, looked Latino. But how many Latinos spoke Philly-accented

English? Engage him, Judge thought. Ask him something, anything, about the painting. See how

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he pronounced Eagles. Judge’s own Philly accent had diminished, but it wasn’t gone; on many

occasions it, too, wanted out. So, accent-wise, who the fuck was he to cast stones…?

Screw it. Follow the hunch.

“That guy who played Santa that day, in the painting,” Judge pointed with his chin,

engaging Mr. Wooder, “he died a year ago last May. Frank Olivo. A barber from Delaware

County. That game made him famous. So, how about this year’s Eagles? Whaddya think?”

The phone disappeared farther up the sleeve of Mr. Wooder’s jacket. “Never heard nothing

about no Frank Olivo,” he said, “but yeah, how ’bout them Iggles. Lookin’ good. We’ll see what

happens this season. A bowl game maybe.”

Iggles. Two for two in the Philly lingo/accent department, like a true Phluffian. But WTF, a

“bowl” game? There was only one “bowl” game in pro football: The Super Bowl. And did he

detect a slight Spanish accent?

Something was off. Here maybe was an imposter. Maybe an art forger, or an art thief casing

the exhibition. Maybe, just maybe, Judge’s bounty.

“Good lookin’ dawg,” Mr. Wooder said, still playing the part.

“Yes, he is. Tell me, why the interest in this painting, Mister…?”

The guy’s hand went up, an open-palm, no mas gesture, the phone no longer in it. “Whoa.

No need for swapping info, buddy. ’Scuse me, I wanna get a closer look at a few other paintings

before the show closes.”

Judge and his K9 deputy backed off. Mr. Wooder went left, began discreetly snapshooting

another painting. Judge went right and crossed the length of the conservatory, where he found

Geenie. “See that little guy over there, near that painting?”

“Maxfield Parrish’s Mother Goose.”

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“Sure, yes, whatever. Him, in the tan sport jacket. He’s sneaking camera phone shots of the

artwork. He’s doing a poor job of hiding an unhealthy interest in some of these portraits. I think

he’s my guy.”

“Look, Judge, no scene in here, please, I beg you. The original art in here, the flowers—are

you sure?”

“Maybe. Not yet. But he’s looking good for it.”

They wandered through the crowd hand in hand in leash, working their way across the open

space of the conservatory, back toward the suspected bounty, except they were too slow. An art

curator with a grim face moved in close to their target, gripped his elbow, whispered into his ear

then escorted him away from the exhibits. In three seconds the curator’s contact escalated into a

bum’s rush with the indelicate help of two security guards, their target objecting to the

manhandling but soon led out of the building.

Judge and Geenie followed in their wake. The guards and the curator reentered the

conservatory, brushed off their clothes, the curator apologizing to them for the ruckus. Judge and

Geenie pushed through the French doors outside in time to see Mr. Wooder wildly gesturing at

the door he’d just exited, fingers, fists, arms, his smallish pelvis, all of his body speaking

volumes at his rude dismissal, his mouth spewing obscenities a little less in blue collar Philly

English, a little more sounding like the Spanish accent Judge thought he’d heard.

“Spanish, yes,” Geenie whispered, the two of them plus J.D. hanging back, “maybe some

Portuguese mixed in.”

The Spanish-slash-Portuguese, the prohibited photography, his generous helping of colorful

body language… the guy was looking better and better as their Argentinian target. Judge called

to him. “Say, sport, got a minute?”

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“No,” came with a chin thrust and a blazer tug, both righteous, “I do not have a minute, for

you or your beautiful friend. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must take my leave… immediately!”

Philly accent and dockworker attitude, gone. Their suspected bounty walked briskly toward

the Visitor’s Center, his walk soon becoming a cheese-it-the-cops sprint.

Judge, nonplussed, leaned down and spoke softly to his dog. “J.D., you’re up, dude.”

Judge let go of the leash. J.D. was off like an arrow from a crossbow. Big dog, small man, in

a few seconds it was over, the man on the pavement, his tan blazer sleeve the only thing

protecting him from a broken wrist or losing a pint of blood or both. J.D.’s mouth surrounded his

clothed forearm, maintaining the pressure like a snare on a bear’s leg.

“Not the wrist! Not the hands! Owww… Call him off! I give up! I will have it returned…!”

Judge found his cuffs, snapped one cuff onto a wrist, had J.D. heel, snapped the other cuff

on. The target was now seated on his butt on the walkway, his cuffed hands resting in his lap.

“See, all better now, Mister Teddy,” Judge said.

The bounty’s head raised. “You are mistaken. I’m a Philly longshoreman—”

“Spare me, asshole. The Philly accent wasn’t bad, but if you’re from the Philly docks, I’m

from Buenos Aires. My employer wants you back in the judicial system so he won’t lose his bail

bond money. Get up. We’re leaving.”

They escorted a mildly protesting Mr. Teddy, alleged, out through the entrance to Judge’s

van in the parking lot. Judge belted him into the jump seat behind Geenie. He tucked J.D. safely

into his crate in the rear then let his other deputy, boxer-terrier Maeby, out for a quick pee, who

then curled up behind the floor console between the front seats. A thick chain secured against the

inside of the roof rattled as Judge let it drop into his bounty’s lap. Judge attached the chain to the

31


man’s cuffed hands. Plenty more chains in the cargo area, plus leather straps, leashes, and

muzzles, with a shotgun clipped into a gun rack on the side wall across from the bounty.

“Comfy?” Judge asked.

“Um, no, thank you for asking, the seat isn’t…”

“I don’t really give a shit. It’s sit there or in the crate with J.D. By the way, J.D.’s not fixed.

Your choice.”

“Since you put it that way—”

“Glad we cleared that up.”

Judge pulled himself into the driver’s seat, leaned over for a peck from Geenie. He turned on

the ignition, addressed his bounty while checking him out in rear view.

“Some introductions then. I’m Judge Drury. As a heads up I’ve got Tourette’s, which may

or may not make an appearance on our trip. It’s medicated, so we’re coexisting. This is Geenie

Pinto, my life partner until, I suppose, I do something to piss her off, Tourette’s excluded. Love

you, sweetie.”

“Back at you, hot shot,” Geenie said. Air kisses.

“Up here also is my military working dog partner Maeby, a Marine like me. You already

met J.D. That should catch you up.

“So. To summarize where we are. In our midst, we have the legendary Sebastian Teddy.

Argentinian art thief, forger, con man, who I hear is one of the best art thieves out there, pinched

while slumming at a local art show. And you’re a bail jumper.”

“Outrageous! Mister Teddy would not frequent so… petty a gathering. He’s not simply one

of the best, he is the…”

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Small man, summoning a big bluster. Judge put the van in gear. “Give it a rest, Sebastian.

Fine, you’ve got a reputation, and you wouldn’t be caught within miles of a small exhibit like

this. Except you were.”

Judge waited for a rebuttal, but their passenger was instead preoccupied with the view out

the van’s rear window, the well-lit Visitor’s Center getting smaller in their wake. Their alleged

bounty finally broke the silence. “Preposterous. But I might know this Mister Teddy you’re after.

Perhaps we can work a deal—”

“Save it, sport. We’re on our way to Allentown. Be there in under two hours.”

In the rear view Judge noticed what the alleged Mr. Teddy had found interesting: a frenzied

crowd was converging on the entrance building from inside the botanical gardens’ grounds.

Security guards, and the curator who had confronted his bounty in the conservatory—they were

all in a hurry, entering the rear of the shop. Judge’s passenger was just as interested in the

activity as Judge was, maybe even more so.

The tumblers inside Judge’s head clicked, moving into place. A replay of their bounty’s

surrender: “I will have it returned…”

“Holy. Shit.” Judge hit the brakes, the van stopping short. He leaned over his seat. “You

stole something, didn’t you?” Right the fuck while they were watching… “Where is it?”

“I most certainly did not. You may even search me. I took snapshots of paintings that

interested me, that is all. But the staff, shall we say, were all kept very, very busy, were they not,

watching me take those photos?”

“Sonovabitch. Someone else, then—”

“I strongly suggest we get moving, Mister Drury, otherwise you might find yourself

relieved of your prisoner in short order, which could in turn relieve your employer of his bond.”

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After three years of searching for the right player, Judge and Geenie needed Sebastian

Teddy to return with them, more so than this international art forger, master of the con,

counterfeiter, and scammer of millions, could realize.

Judge put the van in gear. They left in a hurry.

***

“You feel like Chinese, Sebastian?” Judge said. “I do. Geenie and I feel like Chinese. My dogs

like Chinese, too. It’s decided. We’re getting Chinese.”

They cruised Hamilton Street in downtown Allentown, Pennsylvania, arriving at Lo-Phat-

Chow, on the corner of Hamilton and N. 10th. Eat-in plus takeout. It was a little after ten p.m.;

Judge found parking across the street. He climbed into the rear of the van and disengaged Mr.

Teddy from the hanging chains attached to him and his handcuffs. All part of the intimidation.

Mr. Teddy climbed out and blinked his night eyes at the bright restaurant marquis overhead.

Geenie sidled up next to him, put her arm through his, and escorted him across the two traffic

lanes toward the eatery’s corner entrance. Judge leaned back inside the van, to tend to Maeby.

“Do I really need these?” Mr. Teddy asked Geenie, raising his shackled wrists.

“For your safety. You’ll be less inclined to run. Which will make Judge’s deputy less

inclined to shred your ankle. Here’s a scarf. Cover your hands.”

Judge attached Maeby to a leash. It was her turn to be his support animal, but again only for

show, to keep Mr. Teddy on his toes. Judge patted J.D. in his open crate, between his raised

German shepherd ears. The dog lowered his head onto his paws, sighed, aware he was being left

behind. Maeby jumped down, and she and Judge followed Geenie and Mr. Teddy across the

street, not busy at this hour. The three of them plus the terrier-boxer mix paused before pulling

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open the front door, so their bounty wouldn’t miss what was across the intersection from them:

the Allentown Police Department.

“Thought you’d appreciate a decent meal before we turned you in,” Geenie said. “Oh.

Almost forgot. Someone will be joining us.”

A bulky person of color exited a parked car from in front of the police station, crossed the

quiet street diagonally, the traffic lights flashing yellow one way, red the other. Navy pea coat,

hands in pockets, jeans, a dark, floppy hip-hop beanie pulled over his ears; a healthy black

mustache. When he arrived, he and Judge clasped hands and pulled themselves together for a

chest bump.

“Gunny. ’Sup,” Judge said.

“Gunny. Hi Geenie. How y’all doing,” Gunny number two said. A quick peck at Geenie’s

cheek; she returned the gesture. Then his arm dropped down hard on Mr. Teddy’s shoulder,

which he squeezed. “So. Sebastian. Remember me? LeVander Metcalf, your bondsman. You

shorted me on some collateral.” He glanced at the police station. “We’re now going to fix that.”

Judge at six-two was an inch shorter than his buddy LeVander, and twenty pounds lighter.

Which made Mr. Teddy the significant underachiever, physically speaking, among the four of

them, Geenie included.

LeVander guided him forward, pulling open the restaurant glass door. “But first, let’s get

inside and have some chow mein, shall we?”

Their food orders placed, the sandwiched Sebastian looked uncomfortable in the booth, a valley

between the two mountains that were LeVander on the inside and Judge on the outside, and

Maeby at ease next to Judge’s feet. It was an hour before closing time, only one other group of

35


dine-in customers present. Geenie sat alone on the other side of the booth. The Allentown Police

Department loomed through the window over her shoulder, its well-lit interior lighting eye level

with their bounty.

“Can I sit on the other side please?” Sebastian asked in Spanish-tinged English, shielding his

eyes while addressing Geenie. “The lights…”

“No, you can’t,” Judge said. “Geenie, he’s all yours.”

Geenie folded her hands and started her spiel, speaking evenly, quietly, to avoid prying ears.

“Here’s where we are. You’re a fugitive. You failed to appear at your hearing. A bench warrant

was issued for your arrest.”

Their bounty squinted his confusion. “I do not understand your point.”

“The court notified Mister Metcalf that he’d need to forfeit your bail bond.”

“You’re telling me what I already know. I am still not understanding.”

“Ninety days from the order, the bond will be forfeited, which means the Court’s not quite

ready to take Mister Metcalf’s money, Sebastian. He has another eighty plus days or so to

produce you.”

“So? He walks me across the street tonight, turns me in, and the bond is saved. What is it

that I am I missing?”

“We have a suggestion—a proposition—about how you might use your skills for what’s left

of those eighty or so days.”

Sebastian’s eyes lit up but were soon squinting again. “What is your name again? You a Fed

or something? You would need to tell me if you were.”

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“Angeline Pinto. And that’s only true in the movies. I’m not a Fed, just a concerned citizen.

For now, all you need to know is we’ve got time, and we’ve also got you. You’d get a reprieve

from going to jail for a few months. If you cooperate.”

His hands were in his lap, Geenie’s scarf out of the way. He raised them to the table,

nonchalantly unfolded his salmon-colored cloth napkin—a nice touch for the restaurant, the

color matching the walls—separated his chopsticks, and set them out in front of him. When he

finished, he smoothed the tablecloth and raised his eyes, looking askance at Judge, then at

Geenie.

“Which means just under the wire for Mister Metcalf to avoid the bond forfeiture,”

Sebastian said.

“A couple of weeks to spare, yes,” Geenie said.

Their food arrived, filling up the table with rice, chicken and pork, and steamy Moo-Goo

dishes, interrupting their exchange. After the plates were distributed, the Moo-Goo found its way

onto them.

Sebastian picked up his chopsticks. “But I still go to jail, to await trial. That would be a

shame for that to still happen if I help you, wouldn’t you say?”

Geenie stared him down. Her glare then detoured for serious glances at Judge then

LeVander, then back to Sebastian.

“You scammed wealthy, influential people. They’re out how much—a few hundred

thousand? And these people can physically hurt you, right, as in do nasty things to your body?”

Sebastian tucked a piece of cubed chicken into his mouth with his chopsticks, chewed,

turned pensive. “I admit to nothing, Ms. Pinto. Like the law says, innocent until proven guilty.

Whatever you have in mind will probably be too big a risk.”

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Judge put his large hand over Sebastian’s delicate, lithe fingers, pried his chopsticks loose,

and raised them to within an inch of the man’s nostrils. He gripped the back of Sebastian’s head

and held it steady, adding a big, friendly smile.

“You ever pick your nose with these, Sebastian? I’ve seen it done in Afghanistan. We can

poke around back in there, pull out whatever we find, maybe poke inside your other orifices as

well, and add it all to your dinner. What say you simply answer Geenie’s questions and spare us

the bullshit, hmm? You might learn something.”

Sebastian eyed the chopsticks close up. “Since you put it that way, there are, I suppose, a

few intimidating people who… did trust me to acquire some valuable pieces on their behalf, at

below market prices—”

“How much would you owe these people in restitution?” Geenie repeated. “Once you’re

convicted?”

“Again, that’s presupposing my guilt—”

“How—much?”

“All told,” more table-cloth preening, “four hundred thousand, maybe four-fifty.”

She studied this short man with long, delicate fingers and restless, talkative hands. She said

nothing, deadpanning another stare at Judge.

Sebastian broke the silence. “You are wondering if I am that good at what I do. I am.”

“And humble, too. Supposing that’s true. Just how much money do you have? To put toward

your restitution?”

“Well, see, that’s the thing. I have some… expensive habits. And my cash, it is all tied up in

long-term instruments and the Argentina stock market.”

“Right,” Geenie said. “Sure. So you’re broke, then.”

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“Basically, umm… yes.”

More non-verbal discussion between her and Judge, all of it facial gestures and body

language. Judge shrugged, Geenie nodded; the two had arrived at a decision.

“What if I told you,” she reached over, took Sebastian’s hands in hers, sensuously massaged

his fingers with her thumbs, “we could help you prove to the court that you’re sorry for your

criminal behavior? So you’d maybe avoid having to do any real jail time?”

Nice touch, holding his hands, Judge thought. Sebastian’s eyes softened, absorbing the

attention. This was more than her good-cop routine; she was flirting.

Then, suddenly, she wasn’t. Sebastian’s eyes widened in pain. Geenie had his smallish

hands in a vice grip, his shoulders slumping with the increasing pressure. “We really need your

help with this, Sebastian sweetie. What do you say?”

He squirmed, tried to pull away, her grip too tight. “Stop! Okay! OKAY! Just how—might

that be—accomplished, Ms. Pinto? Owww… not the hands…!”

“Geenie. Call me Geenie. Very simple. First, you agree not to run. And to help you abide by

that agreement…”

Judge raised Sebastian’s pant leg, slapped a digital GPS monitor around his ankle, snapping

it closed.

“… this little ankle monitor will let us know where you are, day and night.”

Geenie turned her torturous grip into a polite handshake and resurrected her massage, soon

raising his throbbing fingers to her mouth and kissing them.

“Second, by working with us, the court might show leniency with your sentence if you earn

enough money from this arrangement to pay what you owe back. So, do we have a deal,

Sebastian, dear?”

39

Bauer / AMERICA IS A GUN 40


FOURSeptember 1, 2016


The front parking lot was empty at eleven p.m., the Brandywine River Museum of Art closed.

Lighting for a smaller lot encircled a cluster of cars in spaces near the museum’s side entrance:

one security vehicle, two beater cars, a late model Cadillac, and now a Chrysler minivan coming

to a full stop within the white lines in the row behind the other vehicles. The driver and the front

passenger climbed out while the side door for the minivan slid open for the other passengers to

exit.

A humid day had turned into a cool night, the river churning and gurgling nearby, sparkling

in the late summer moonlight. Payne Fontayne stepped onto the blacktop. Black turtleneck and

slacks, charcoal sport jacket, sunglasses; a cat burglar, man-of-mystery look. Dagmar Bystrom,

his female staffer, followed him. Blonde hair in a bun, gray workout clothes, a hefty six-footer

give or take, even without heels. Their outing to the museum on reconnaissance a month earlier

during visiting hours had been by personal limo; tonight’s was by Enterprise Rent-A-Car

minivan. Less conspicuous. Ms. Bystrom pointed to a ground-level side door with crisscrossed

inset wooden planking.

“We’re to use that entrance. Let’s go.”

Their previous visit had been enlightening. Bosco Horvath, art authenticator and critic, had

accompanied them. Prominent NRI member and a Virginian like Fontayne, but also like

Fontayne, Bosco was not native to the state. He was a transplanted Philadelphian. A Wyeth art

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expert, inclusive of all members of the artist-rich, talented Wyeth family, plus an N.C. Wyeth

biographer as well. After they’d finished their reconnaissance work that day, they had folded

themselves back inside the limo. Bosco gave his feedback.

“It’s authentic,” he said, then added, smiling, “and it’s one of my favorite N.C. paintings,

too. So tell me why I needed to see it, Payne. You, ah, looking to steal it?”

Fontayne let some empty-air drama stagnate for a moment before he delivered a deadpan

response. “Maybe.”

They both chuckled at that one.

Fontayne stifled himself, then clarified. “Seriously, Bosco, I’m just getting ready for the

next time it goes up for sale. I want it.”

“But Payne, you do realize that that might not happen again in your lifetime, right?”

“Unfortunately,” Fontayne said, adding a sigh to sell his feigned woe, “yes, I’m painfully

aware of that.”

What he hadn’t shared was Fontayne’s comical “maybe” response should have really been a

yes, considering it was an activity already in progress. The iconic painting would trade hands

again shortly, this time offered to a highly selective potential customer base of one, via a highly

clandestine online community—the “darknet.”

Fontayne had seen the Hickok painting up close in Las Vegas during its 2007 auction,

before he left the bidding when it exceeded $1.5 million. His prior close examination along with

Bosco’s pronouncement had sealed it. Tonight’s after-hours private showing arranged via a

darknet contact would move things along.

The price on the black market for the painting was $750K, or the cryptocurrency equivalent

of 172.68 bitcoin at the current exchange rate.

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“A steal,” his anonymous darknet contact vigilpokus101 prodded online weeks back when

Fontayne, or 2Asammy44, took too long—days—to respond. “Seriously, dude, we’ll get someone

to steal it for you. Put the bitcoin in your wallet on our website so we can do some recruiting.

Let’s get this par-tay started! When we deliver the product, you release the bitcoin and we all

walk away happy. Easy-peasy.”

No details were exchanged online. The first part of the plan would commence tonight, after

their meet-and-greet onsite with someone repping what vigilpokus101 dubbed as his darknet

“plumbers,” a Watergate euphemism good as any, far as Fontayne was concerned. Meet, greet,

then they’d respond to his assistant Dagmar’s bold suggestion regarding a certain non-negotiable

requirement to consummate the transaction. To assure there could be no hanky-panky,

vigilpokus101 or his proxies wouldn’t learn of this requirement until tonight.

Dagmar Bystrom. Fontayne’s chief of staff, and an NRI lieutenant twelve years running. Not

his lover, but not for a repeated lack of effort on Fontayne’s part, even though he was happily

married according to all public NRI information. He intended to take one more crack at that

coveted piece of ass, and soon.

The darknet. Lawless online wonderland that enabled anonymous communication via

software called “The Onion Router,” or Tor for short. When Fontayne learned of Tor from a gun

manufacturer four, maybe five years ago, an invitation to utilize it seemed about as appealing as

crawling against the undercarriage of a car. So drippy-dirty-skeevy, with lowlifes and bad actors

and products and services able to satisfy any need, for any person, group or species, animal,

mineral, vegetable, without prejudice. He’d become a regular, after having someone utilize it for

certain business transactions that were almost tame by Tor standards. Specifically, for brokering

43


gun sales that needed to fly under the radar, arising from these conservative ideologies that were

his and the NRI’s both:

Freedom took firepower.

Speaking softly worked only if the stick you carried was big enough.

There were no bad guns, only bad people.

And personally speaking, for Payne guns were equalizers, instruments that evened the odds

against bullies and bad actors, in particular a father who ridiculed his son at age six for wetting

his pants the first time he’d held one.

But tonight he was mixing business with pleasure, scratching an itch, having used the

darknet to address his most favorite passion, fine art and its acquisition, legal or otherwise.

The museum’s side door entrance opened on their approach. “Good evening,” the security

guard said. “Follow me.”

The group of four plus the guard entered a curved corridor softly lit by recessed ceiling

lighting. At the corridor’s end, another door. The guard punched in a security code and the heavy

door glided open. This process was repeated twice more, until the last door that opened placed

them inside one of the galleries.

“Glad to see you again, Mister Fontayne, Ms. Bystrom,” said the diminutive curator in heels,

her dark blazer crested with an embroidered museum logo.

Fontayne nodded, removed his sunglasses. Dagmar Bystrom spoke on their behalf. “Good to

see you again too, Ms. Adamsky.” Dagmar raised her head toward a camera at ceiling level,

gestured with her eyes only, then directed an intimidating stare complete with tightened jowls at

the curator, who was no taller than Dagmar’s shoulders.

44


The message delivered, Ms. Adamsky returned the stare, spoke. “Yes, the cameras are

operational, but they’re not recording in this wing. We can’t shut down surveillance in this area

in its entirety. Someone might try to steal something, right? Heh-heh. Let’s have at it then.

Mister Fontayne, do you care to examine it again?”

The monetary particulars of the heist: anonymous security guard, ten grand; Christine

Adamsky, one of the museum’s curators, reported to have a personal vendetta against the Wyeth

family that transcended two generations, forty grand, but not doing it for the money, she said;

and the last participant—where was this broker, anyway?—would get the remaining $700K, all

of these amounts to be released when the prize was validated as having changed hands. The

where-and-when of the prospective exchange had already been decided: downtown Scranton,

Pennsylvania, in the Houlihan McLean Center, a music hall at the University of Scranton, on the

night of, specifically during, the final U.S. presidential debate before the November election. The

venue was Fontayne’s choice. He, and therefore the NRI, were strong supporters of the

Republican nominee for president, Senator Carlson.

They would not be so gauche as to try to walk away with it now, tonight. Too many people

would need to be paid executing so bold a move, and a tracking device on the painting hadn’t yet

been neutralized. Execution by a labyrinth of third parties who remained at arms length and

anonymous, with no connection to Fontayne, was the way to go.

“Where is he?” Fontayne said, grim-faced. “I was told the broker would also be here.”

“And I am here, sir.”

A short man exited the shadows, stopping as he stepped under the circle of light behind them

to affect his grand entrance. Wine-colored cape under a long white scarf that hung to the floor,

for him not a great distance. With a thin, horse face of forty-plus years, a Humphrey Bogart

45


overbite, and a black Bogart fedora that he removed with a flourish, the wispy guy was more

wardrobe than he was person. Adding to the flamboyance was an untucked, open collared

Hawaiian shirt over jeans, his black chest hair visible, the jeans pants legs ending short of his

black and white Converse high-tops.

Fontayne remained unimpressed at so Capote an entrance. For sure, this was a flamer.

“Belmondo Devalkimer, at your service,” the new guest said, his accent south of the border.

He bowed, then held out his hand.

“Of course you are,” Fontayne said, close to a sneer, his handshake less than enthusiastic.

Ignoring the flamer, he returned his interest to the curator. “Yes, Ms. Adamsky, I damn well

need to see it again. Which way?”

Green, blue, and smidgens of red, the rest of the painting in shades of gold, tan, black, white, and

gray. Portrayed on the paint canvas were coins spread on the table, the round table planked, its

wooden edge chipped. A hatless James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok was seated with three other

poker players. Long chestnut brown hair that hung in waving ringlets to his shoulders, flat at top,

and parted in the middle; a mustache, a long coat, and a fluffy tie. A stagecoach flyer was posted

on the wall over his right shoulder, one observer to the game standing nearby. And painted into

Hickok’s right hand was a drawn 1851 Navy Colt percussion revolver, about to elicit the truth

from another poker player seated across from him. It was a near religious experience for

Fontayne, seeing the painting again.

“Ms. Adamsky,” he said, catching his breath, “to get this show started, I need the painting

off the wall.”

“Excuse me? You what?”

46


“You heard me. Take it down.”

An irate Devalkilmer stepped forward, gesticulating. “Absolutely not, Mister Fontayne! We

are not touching anything. The plumbers are still in the planning stages—”

“I’m not talking to you, Don Ho. Otto, handle that please.”

Otto inserted himself between Fontayne and the art broker. The bodyguard placed his hand

against Devalkilmer’s chest, grabbed some fluffy chest hair, and squeezed. He shushed the little

loudmouth with a finger pressed lightly against his own mouth.

“Thank you, Otto. I understand, Ms. Adamsky,” Fontayne continued, “that Dagmar has

already told you I have a special request.”

“Yes, but—”

“So here it is. Grab some gloves, remove the painting from the wall, and place it on that

table. I want you to hold it upright, balanced on its long edge. Got that?”

“But—”

“Do it.”

The curator left the room, soon returned with a box of sterile, un-powdered nitrile gloves,

the type used for fine art handling. She laid a row of pink gloves end-to-end on the tabletop to

approximate the length of the painting. She liberated another pair of gloves from the box and

squeezed them onto her hands. Facing the painting, she took a deep breath, squared her legs, then

gingerly lifted the frame up and off wall. On steady feet, she brought it to the table and set it

down on the line of gloves as instructed, upright, on its long edge.

Fontayne pulled two more nitrile gloves from the box, tugged them onto his hands. He

stepped in closer to the table, moving awkwardly close to the curator. He placed a hand on the

47


top of the frame, then he addressed her. “Ms. Adamsky, remove your hands from the painting

and back away. I have it.”

“Sir—”

“This won’t take long. I promise I’ll be careful.”

She did as told. The painting stayed steadily balanced in his hand, upright on the table. With

his other hand he removed a pen from inside his sport jacket. He pulled the cap off with his

mouth.

“Please, Mister Fontayne, sir, do not deface…”

Fontayne ignored her, caught up in the magnificence of this coveted piece of art, the pen cap

in his teeth. Dagmar responded for him. “Relax, Ms. Adamsky, this won’t hurt a bit.”

Fontayne lifted and rotated the painting in one hand, placed it back down on the table, the

back of the canvas now facing him. Pen in hand, he made a few light strokes in one corner.

When finished, he rotated the painting forward again. He nodded to his associate.

“Okay, that’s a wrap, everyone,” Dagmar said. “Ms. Adamsky, please rehang it so we can

all call it a night.”

The curator hustled to the table. Her cursory examination revealed no obvious markings

anywhere on the canvas, front or back. Fontayne found his sunglasses, returned them to his face,

then he addressed her.

“Invisible ink, Ms. Adamsky. Just know that it’s been marked, and that I’ll have a UV light

with me the night it’s delivered. Have a good rest of the evening.”

48


FIVESeptember 2, 2016


Day sixteen of freedom began much like most of Aaron’s prior days on the outside, with little

sleep the night before at his son Linus’ two-story condo, just inside Scranton’s city limits. The

nights subjected him to debilitating interruptions—taunts—that awakened him in fits and starts,

the horror of an extended nightmare.

“Wake up, Pinocchio… Get up, you blockhead, NOW.”

His eyes struggled to open, the image of the woodcarver Geppetto hovering over him,

Aaron’s arms outstretched, strings leading from his arms and head up to the small wooden bars

in Geppetto’s hands. Not Pinocchio’s creator Geppetto. This was SCI Muncy prison’s

overbearing Superintendent Smythe costumed in Geppetto’s white hair, white mustache, and

wire rims, his hands manipulating the puppeteer controls.

“You’ll never be a real boy, Karis—”

Aaron jolted upright in bed, his breathing clipping short then evening out then calming, but

with the calm came a chill that started in his back, across his shoulders. Sweat, his tee-shirted

back was soaked in it, his uncovered arms just as cold, the hair on them beading, dew-like, from

the anxiety. His sweaty head, his sucking-wind chest, the damp waistband of his pajamas—the

shiver came in waves, moving south, from head to neck to chest to flat stomach, then lower still

—

“… never be a real boy—”

49


… to his vagina, cold and ugly.

Aaron very much liked vaginas, just not his own.

***

“Where to today, Papa?” Linus asked.

Aaron sipped coffee while seated at a kitchen center island, surrounded by lots of condo.

Nice digs. The only problem was the gray, now popular as an interior color. Different shades of

it persisted throughout the condo, except for the guest room Aaron was using. Linus had

mercifully repainted it in a bold, silver-hued blue. A real color, not something lacking of it.

—a real boy—

His son Linus: a Villanova School of Law grad, then a clerk for the local Philly courts. He’d

moved north to clerk for the U.S. Federal Court System, Middle District of the Third Circuit,

located in Scranton. As a heterosexual single and loving it at age thirty-one, life for his son, to

Aaron, seemed good.

“Some shopping in town,” Aaron said, answering Linus.

“Shopping? Great. Need a ride? I can give you one if we do it first thing.”

“I’ll take the bus.”

Renewing Aaron’s driver’s license was on the list, just not an easy task. A challenge,

considering the felony and the gender change things he’d need to deal with.

His scheduled stops inside Scranton’s city limits would be to gun shops, looking for someone to

sell him a weapon or three. After that, time permitting, he’d get to the appointment with the

surgeon handling his gender reassignment.

But first things first, ever since he’d made the decision: guns.

50


Aaron stepped off the bus, hoofed it in the direction of Tim’s Sin City Tobacco and

Firearms, a storefront one block up from the bus stop. The tinkle of a small bell above the single

door greeted him; an Angel Clarence entrance to the mom and pop. An empty center aisle led to

a glass display case and counter combination that extended across the width of the store, its

content, guns.

“What can I do ya for?” the store clerk said.

Brown-bearded, maybe in his mid-fifties, the counter person’s haystack frame was draped in

a colorful untucked bowling shirt, mostly purple, some gold. A nice offset to the drab browns

and grays and army green décor that decorated the rest of the shop.

“Looking to buy a few weapons,” Aaron said.

“Good to know. I’m Tim.” The gold stitching above Tim’s shirt pocket read The Anchor.

Bowling team lingo for the cleanup bowler, usually the captain. “So what are you looking for?”

“A Glock handgun, plus a rifle, a semi-automatic R-15 Carbine. Ammo for both. For home

protection.”

“Good choices. Not cheap. Sure, I can help you. Some Glocks on display here, inside the

case, some on those walls over there. I’ve got a semi-auto carbine resale that I just cleaned up in

back; I think it’s a Remington. Give you a good deal. Be right back with it.”

Tim The Anchor set up everything on the counter, rifle, handgun, and ammo for both. “I’ll

need some info so we can get this moving,” Tim said. “Fill out these forms. I’ll also need a

driver’s license and a deposit to hold everything. Hey, you want a bump stock for the rifle?”

“A what?”

“Bump Stock. Turns a semi-auto rifle into something better than semi-auto, know what I’m

saying? A cheap add-on. They’re a lot of fun.”

51


“Sure. Look, my driver’s license is, um, pending restatement.”

“Oh. What’s that mean? You got a DUI or something?”

“No. It expired. I’m waiting on it to get reissued.”

“Huh.” Tim’s casual scrutiny turned more precise. “Where you been, out of the country? In

the military?”

“No.”

“C’mon, help me out here. Why no driver’s license?”

“I just got out of prison.”

“See, now that’s going to be a problem. Sorry, but we can’t do business.” Tim The Anchor

scooped up both guns from the glass counter and put them on the counter behind him.

Aaron pressed. “Look—Tim—I was wrongly convicted many, many years ago. It’s been

overturned. The reinstated driver’s license, the overturned conviction, the documents will all

catch up with each other in a few weeks. I’ll leave you a sizeable deposit. Cash.”

“That’s not gonna happen. Come back after your paperwork shakes out, Mister whatever

your name is. No deposit until you get that all straightened out.”

“Pappas. The name is Aaron Pappas. Please…”

“Pappas. Wait. Pappas? You’re a big deal. The Times-Trib just ran a story on you. The

Greek restaurant murders, back in ’86. You just got out…”

Tim’s eyes lit up, excited, but soon he was squinting, now in full reassessment mode. “Hold

on a minute. You were in Muncy Correctional. That’s a woman’s prison—”

Tim The Anchor’s face drooped. His gaze moved from Aaron’s unshaven face down to his

muscled chest then to his hands, both on the counter, their knuckles hairy from hormone

52


treatments. His scrutiny turned north again, to Aaron’s high and tight haircut. “Holy Jesus

monkeynuts. You’re a chick. Un-fucking-believable.”

Tim winced then quickly swept up the bullet cartons, the only things left on the counter,

leaving nothing else lethal within Aaron’s reach. “Yeah, um, no. Nope. Sorry. I’ve got a

reputation.”

“Please. I’ve got rights—”

“Not yet you don’t. You’re not legal until you can show me some ID and get that conviction

thing taken care of. Good luck straightening that all out. Right now you got nothin’. Get the fuck

out.”

Tim’s back turned but he kept talking, leaving Aaron with one final verbal indignity, not

quite under his breath. “Fucking freak.”

There was another mom-and-pop shop, smaller than the one he’d just left, within Scranton’s

urban footprint according to the Yellow Pages. Aaron sat on the bus, replaying what had just

happened, thinking through what could have made it worse. He’d resisted the urge to reach

across the counter and grab Tim The Anchor by his double-chinned, bearded neck, to choke the

life out of him, chose instead to peacefully leave the store, discouraged but not defeated. There

were other gun shops, other dealers, plus there were gun shows. But hearing “no” hadn’t sat well

with him; hearing it again wouldn’t make him feel any better. Knowing the real reason why—

“… fucking freak…”

—made it much worse.

To some, many, most, this was what he was. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, not really, but

after thirty years of incarceration, in the same cold, impersonal environs, inside the same four

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walls, with no one other than his heartless jailers to impress one way or another, he was like a

POW returning home after an unpopular war, the town reception lacking. Little celebration,

some discomfort, much hate.

And Tim’s bowling shirt. Very strange. Soon as Tim cursed him out, the shirt’s color

drained, turning from lively purple and gold to lifeless, cinder-block gray. Not killing the gray

right then and there—not draining Tim’s face of its color—Aaron had restrained himself and

walked away, the door’s tinkling bell closing behind him, Tim spared from earning his own

wings, for today, at least.

Aaron would give his gun store purchase effort one more try, at this other mom and pop, but

he expected a similar outcome. In the end, it wouldn’t matter. He had a Plan B. It would

necessitate getting help with setting up an Internet presence. He’d also need a credit card. Linus,

knowingly or not, would help him with both if necessary. He’d order what he needed online, and

build the guns himself.

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