Date: Sun, 5 Dec 1999 21:01:29 -0000
From: Ernie <ernies@ionia-mi.net>
Subject: Secrets chapter 10

Secrets
by Ian DeShils

Chapter 10

Sam Libowitz

		<<<<<<<<<<<<<<++++++++++++++++>>>>>>>>>>>>

The journal ended abruptly with this entry stamped March 7th. The earliest
one is November 2nd last year, so at least the dates jibe with what's
written.

This is no "manuscript", rather, a set of very personal memoirs and I'm
sure Gibson had no intention of anyone but Sanders reading them. What in
the world does Pete expect me to make of it? There are only a few people
named whom I might have any chance in contacting. Able Carson might be
one. That name rings a bell, but exactly in what context I can't recall.
I'll have to research it. I know for sure it has nothing to do with the
Crocker-Anglo bank. That organization has long ceased to exist, they were
gobbled up in merger some years ago.

Stan Mead, of Bascomb, Mead and Associates might be another candidate
although he appears to be just a business acquaintance. Outside of Adam
Brown, Bill Eaasy and Jim Fisher, the rest are all first names, and the
last mention of Brown was in the '70's. There's always the Devil's Own club
of course, only I can't imagine how I'd go about getting anyone to speak
me.

Of all the revelations on the disk, the one that startled me the most was
learning of Gibson's attempt at bringing down the Gambini mob. I knew GSI
was a large, powerful company, but I had no idea that anyone there would
have the knowledge or the where with all, or for that matter, the balls to
go after someone like Gambini. Until recently, old man Gambini was another
of those 'Teflon Dons' the government couldn't seem to touch, then suddenly
the FED's started whittling away at his organization. Two of his sons and
several close associates were now in prison and Gambini, attempting to stay
in control, was now caught up in a major mob war. Had Gibson's revenge
brought all this about?

Without prior knowledge of Jake Sanders mental condition, I started reading
those files with the preconceived notion that those two were nothing more
than a pair of predatory business men out for a fast buck. Now I'm not
sure. Gibson's writing gives no indication of him being a callus person,
yet the news reports definitely painted him as such. Could it be that
Gibson's devotion to his friend and lover was so all consuming that he
rushed into that sale blindly. Was his abandonment of faithful employees
merely an oversight? There is a heap of conflicting data here that just
doesn't make sense to me.

I'll put out some feelers, make a few phone calls and see if I can dig up
more information on Gibson and Sanders. The whole thing intrigues me and
besides, I did promise Pete to look into it.



June 8th 1996

Dear Pete

You're not going to believe what happened today. I had a visit from a
person named on that disk, a Mr. Robert Allendale. He is Ted Gibson's
friend, Bob, the one mentioned in conjunction with Martha. You could have
knocked me over with a feather. Here I make a few inquiries and two days
later this guy walks in cool as cucumber and hands me a note from Gibson
himself. As far as I can tell, its authentic. I've matched the signature
with a policy that Prudential carries on Gibson. I've made a copy of the
note for myself and include the original with this post.

After Allendale left, I did some more checking into the sale of GSI and
found something startling. According to those in the know, the price paid
for the company was exorbitant. Almost twice its actual value. The deal
included both cash and stock and I've learned that much of the cash went
directly to a brokerage firm in New York City where it's been rolling over
ever since at a phenomenal rate of return. In your highly biased gentile
vernacular, those two guys are rich as Jews. (I wish!)

What I don't understand is why Gibson's statement was given to me or how
Allendale learned I was checking on Gibson. I have a gut feeling something
very strange is going on. Why would a man as smart as Gibson do what he
claimed in that statement when a phone call would have summoned a tow truck
in minutes? And where is Sanders? The statement makes no mention of him at
all. Do you suppose something has happened to him?  I wish I could talk to
Gibson. I'd sure like to know what went on after those memoirs ended.

Why don't you find out what you can about the ranch, that would be the
first place I'd look for answers.

                              Your Pal,
                                         Sam




To whom it may concern 6/08/94

On March 23rd of this year, I was forced to leave a Dodge pickup along
Interstate 5, south of Portland, due to an overheated engine. The next day
an employee was sent to retrieve the vehicle, but found it missing. My
employee had no idea what happened to the truck and being unable to contact
me, just assumed that other arrangements had been made. I didn't learn
about this mix up until recently. My trip to Portland was merely to catch a
flight to Alaska, where I've been out of communication with my staff for
several weeks now.

From what I understand, the plates and registration were stolen. A
representative will be sent with all documentation for the truck as soon as
possible and I am sorry for any inconvenience this has caused.

                          Theodore Gibson


The Monday after I mailed Pete the statement, Winchaslaw sent me on a wild
goose chase down to Needles. I don't understand that guy. With millions at
stake, I couldn't get air fare to Florida, but in the middle of June when
it's a hundred degrees out, I get to drive to Needles.. "See what you can
do with this." He say's, handing me the file on a storage building
fire. The claim was for forty grand! Where the hell was the adjuster?

It took me all of an hour to determine that the claim was legitimate, but I
stayed for two days. If he want's to play games, he can pay per diem.

When I went back to the office on Thursday, there was a reply from Pete.



June/12/94

Dear Sam

The day you received that statement, I got an identical one in the mail,
and I don't believe a word of it. If you noticed there was not a name,
address or a single point of reference in whole thing. It's a dodge, Sam,
and I don't mean the truck.

As far as the ranch is concerned, you read my mind. I just got word back
from Craig that the house there no longer exists. It burned to the ground
sometime in March. The marshal thinks it caught fire during a late blizzard
and that the strong winds fanned the flames enough to consume every last
combustible item. I've seen the photos, nothing left but stone walls and
metal trash.

The locals have no idea that anyone was staying up there. The owner stopped
at the post office in November, told everyone they were leaving for the
winter and had their mail forwarded to California. I've checked on that
forwarding address and it's a Condo in Brentwood, I'm sure the same one
mentioned in the manuscript, but guess what? That Condo doesn't belong to
either Gibson or Sanders. It's owned by Gates Inc., a property management
company located in Ventura, CA.

Gates insists that their tenants are away for the winter and refuse
permission for anyone to enter the premises without a search warrant. And
that, you see, is exactly where Gibson's note becomes a dodge. Your local
authorities can't get a search warrant without a reasonable assumption of
foul play or some illegal activity, and what do we have to go on? One
abandoned pickup with an untraceable VIN. With Gibson's statement now on
file we can no longer claim to be investigating a disappearance and that
was exactly how I first presented this case to them.

I'm sorry to say your tip on Allendale only adds to the mystery. Surprise,
surprise, both he and his wife are now gone, supposedly on an extended
vacation outside the country. But get this, the name Robert Allendale shows
up on the board of Gates Inc.

If only we had some hint of illegal activity to go on, things might get
rolling. As it is, if Gibson or his cohorts come forth with proper
paperwork on the vehicle, the VIN number thing will be blamed on some screw
up at Chrysler. And as you well know, to a Judge, that would carry about as
much weight as tearing the tag off a mattress. Chrysler would need to turn
up a slug of similar cases to get the FED's involved and at this point, a
federal investigation is what it would take to get into that apartment or
into Gibson's bank records. Who would have thought that one little note
could bring everything to a screeching halt.

Well, just keep up the good work, Sam, so far you're the only one who has
come up with any leads. There's just one more thing you could do for
me. See if you can locate the Harris'. The post office claims mail sent to
that address is being picked up regularly, but no one recalls seeing them.

                         Your pal,

                                   Pete

PS. I found a new fishin' hole, old buddy, and I guarantee you're in for a
real treat this summer.





I made a several phone calls attempting to trace the Harris', all without
success, and then sent off a few written requests for information. I was
trying to corroborate certain portions of the journal. Of course, I could
just take everything written at face value, but it's nice to know for sure.

I was wasting company time listening to the news reports about a shocking
double murder, when my boss, Western's biggest time waster, (and waste of
time), came to a boil again over the phone bill. He dragged out last months
statement and for the next twenty minutes, grilled me. I finally agreed to
pay for the calls I made, gave Winchaslaw twenty bucks and sent him on to
his next victim. Does the man think we're idiots? Every month its the same
old thing; a shake down over the phone bill. As sure as I sit here, Western
never sees a dime of that money. It's Winchaslaw's own little scam pulled
on a room full of people who see through it like water, yet who continue to
divvy up as if our jobs depended on it. Of course, maybe they do.

For the next few days I just idled along, knocking off small claims, mostly
approving them. The little stuff slides on through without much effort,
even when we're quite sure the claim is fraudulent. It's simply a matter of
money. Adjusters and investigators are a far cheaper commodity than
lawsuits and lawyers. If a claim is for five grand or less, it's usually
approved. The only thing I watch for are repeaters, the same person having
the same accident time after time. Nowadays, its easy to keep track of such
things. A computer can match claimants and accident types, as well as the
witnesses, the lawyers involved and all pertinent details of a case and
will spit out the profile of a claim in a matter of minutes. It doesn't
often make headlines, but for some lawyers, small time fraud has become big
time business. Thirty-five percent of five grand doesn't sound like much
until you repeat it ten or twelve times a week. Then it becomes a million
dollar a year business.

I spoke to Pete a couple of times, phoning him from home. The guys at the
office have decided to give Winchaslaw a major let down next month. No more
personal long distance calls traceable to anyone in our department. Gee, I
certainly hope he can make his car payment without our help.

Like me, Pete hadn't learned anything new. I was getting frustrated. My
written requests to Bakersfield were as yet unanswered and my local sources
had gone as dry as sand. It was like trying to bail water from the Los
Angeles River in July. Lot's of extraneous junk turned up, but nothing to
float an idea on. I hate it when a case comes to a dead end. A puzzle
unsolved is something I can't tolerate, it preys on my mind. I suppose
that's what makes me a good insurance investigator, but sometimes it damn
near drives me crazy.

When I didn't hear anything noteworthy from my sources, I took a Saturday
afternoon and drove to Brentwood attempting to locate the Harris'. I really
didn't want to go near the place, the recent double murder there had turned
that normally quiet area into a circus. Luckily, where I was headed was a
good mile from all the hoopla.

Again frustration. The condo manager was about as well informed as a fence
post and just about as talkative, "Yes" and "No" seemed to be the full
extent of his vocabulary.

"No, no one was living in the apartment, they are on vacation for the
winter. "

When I pointed out that it was now closing in on the end of June, he
shrugged. When I asked if the Harris' received mail at that address, again
he shrugged, only this time he added,

"How the hell would I know?"

He seemed to have a short fuse and only moments later began bristling at my
questions.

"Look, fella, I'm new, besides, I just work here, I don't know any of these
people and I don't know nothing about 'em. If you want information you call
Gates, they're the ones who sign my paycheck!"

It sounded convincing enough, but as I was walking down the drive, I heard
a door open and a woman's voice exclaim,

"Oh, Paul, thank goodness. would you give me a hand with this, please?"

"Why, certainly, Mrs. Eldridge. Why didn't you call me? This is my job!
How are you feeling today?"

Gone was the surly voice, along with the impression that he knew nothing of
the tenants. Of course that didn't mean he knew Gibson or Sanders. If he
really was new at the job, then he likely never met them. On the other
hand, Gates was connected to Allendale and Allendale was one of Gibson's
oldest friends. Just how deep did that connection really go? Did Gibson and
Sanders have a vested interest in Gates, or did they merely lease the condo
as a favor to Allendale? Damn, I wish that journal held more detailed
business specifics. I was now running on pure supposition with absolutely
nothing new to tell Pete, and to top it off, I just wasted an entire
afternoon that I could have spent with the twins.

Monday and Tuesday brought a few tidbits of information, nothing
earthshaking, but the newspaper gave me a thing or two to think about. The
front page was entirely devoted to the gory murders in Brentwood, but on
page five I discovered something far more interesting to me. The mobster
Gambini had been gunned down in Miami and the killer or killers made a
clean getaway.

I decided to write Pete this week. I'd be seeing him in a few days anyway,
and I knew that if he learned anything important, he'd call me.



 June 27th 1994

Dear Pete

I'm sorry to say still nothing to report. It looks as though Allendale
turned out to be my one and only lead. The Harris' have disappeared all
right and I can't state for sure if they ever stayed at the Brentwood
condo. The building manager is new and you know how things are down
here. You can live next door to someone for years and never know their
name.

I have heard from people who knew both Gibson and Sanders and so far not a
bad word against either of them. From what I'm told, both were hard working
individuals, well liked, generous with their employees and friends and big
contributors to children's charities. One thing I learned was that GSI is
still maintaining the same level of contributions to the very same
charities as when Gibson and Sanders owned it. Of course that could be part
of the sales agreement, but it does seem strange. New owners usually want
to set their own agenda for such things.

Another thing I found out was that the Devil's Own motorcycle club
disbanded quietly some eight or nine years ago and no one seems to know
what became of the former members. They just faded into the woodwork.

I suppose you've read about the New Jersey gangster, Gambini, getting
bumped off in Miami the other day. According to Gibson's disk, his run in
with the old crook was some three years ago, but I have a hunch it was
Gibson's prodding that actually finished Gambini. If you'll remember, it
was about that time that Gambini lost his nonstick coating and the
government started filing charges that held. Admittedly, I don't know much
about mobsters, but I do know a bit about human nature. When he became
vulnerable to the government, he also became fair game to his enemies. Let
a leader like Gambini start loosing it and you'll have a dozen more, ready
and willing to take his place.

The only good thing about a Mafia war, besides getting rid of a few
undesirable's, is the fact they bump each other off so neatly. They are
quite unlike the punks from the barrios down here who go around shooting
anything that moves. We had another drive by last night, this time, three
little kids were shot as they played on the sidewalk. One child later
died. I tell you, Pete, people are getting mad enough to string those punks
up on from nearest light pole. Someday it's going to happen, mark my
words. Someone will pull that shit, then have a car accident or breakdown
and the neighborhood will get to them before cops do. I don't suppose it
would stop the shootings, but it certainly would be poetic justice.

I was going to ask if the pickup had been claimed yet, but don't bother
writing, I'll see you in person in a few days. We're leaving on the 30th to
beat the 4th of July traffic jam.

Oh, by the way, Cindy received a letter from Betty yesterday stating that
you, Tubby Evert, have been working out and had lost fifty pounds. Well
guess what? That's about how much I've put on since we last saw each other,
I'm no longer the skinny Jew boy you once knew. It must have something to
do with turning thirty-five.  Hey, maybe for the next thirty-five, you'll
be able to hide behind a mop handle and I'll need the barn door.

I'll see you in a few days, pal. Give all my love to Betty,

                                             Sam





We arrived at Pete's house in mid morning, then spent the rest of the day
with Betty. Pete still had some last minute official business to clear up
before starting his vacation. That evening, Pete took us to McDonalds for
dinner. The kids loved it, but I couldn't help empathizing with Jake
Sanders reported aversion to fast food. I prefer lighter fare myself.

Pete really had slimmed down. He was positively svelte and proud as a
peacock as he strutted before us showing off his new, firmer physique. I'm
happy for him, he's battled that paunch for years, but whether this new
look lasts or not is another question. Pete has a genuine propensity for
such things as Big Mac's and fries.

The next morning, Pete and I loaded the gear, rounded up the twins and
headed out for ten days of roughing it in the back country, that is, if
being sheltered by a $50,000 motor home can be considered 'roughing it'. As
always, Cindy and Betty declined to share the experience. I can't speak for
Betty, but Cindy's idea of a vacation is ten days of shopping, leisurely
visiting with old friends and not once having to arbitrate an argument
between a pair of rambunctious ten year old boys.

The fishing was by far the best we had ever encountered, in fact it was too
good. If the kids wet a hook, they caught a fish and then insisted on
keeping everything they landed. It became quite a battle teaching them to
be selective. Nights we sat around the campfire, telling tall tales and
allowing the boys to stay up as late as they wanted, and every night around
10:30, we carried two tuckered out little fellows to bed. Pete and I would
then go back outside with a couple of beers and reminisce about old
times. Eventually, the talk turned to the abandoned truck as well as the
revelations from the disk and one night Pete said,

You sure don't carry the same prejudice your old man did. The fact that
those guys are queer, doesn't bother you at all, does it? I guess living
down in LA, you've known more fags than I've ever met."

Laughing, I said, "Are you insinuating something, or just pulling my leg?
Hell, there has to be a big gay population right there in Portland. Do you
mean to tell me that in your line of work, you never bumped into any of
them?"

"Sure I do, but that's different. The ones I meet are in trouble with the
law and usually end up being pretty unsavory characters. No, what I meant
to say was that you probably know a few of the everyday kind, perhaps
someone you work with. I don't know a soul like that."

"Sure you do, there's Al."

"Al who?"

"Al Zatocny!"

Pete's voice carried a completely shocked tone as he retorted, "Big Al?
You're crazy!"

"Does the phrase 'A Three Dollar Bill" hold any meaning for you?"

"Now you can't make me believe that! Why, we were the Roving Four, you, me,
Al and Billy Akins, and you're telling me Big Al's a fairy? Who's pulling
who's leg!"

"Honest to God! Al lives in Santa Maria now, I saw him just last April.
He's a partner in an antique shop that's doing very well. He said they were
thinking of expanding."

"They? Who's the partner?"  Pete asked.

"A fellow by the name of Tim Wakefield. He seems nice enough, smart, well
connected, and believe me, he is definitely Al's love interest. Al as much
as said so."

"I can't believe it! Why, Al got us out of more scrapes than I can count.
He'd crawl out of that little Corvair, unfold to about the size of King
Kong, and all those guys egging for a fight would suddenly remember a
previous engagement. How long have you known about him?"

"Only since April, but I think Billy figured it out a long time ago.
Remember his prediction when Al married Laura? He said it wouldn't last six
months and he was right on the mark."

"I always thought it was Al's mother who broke that up. She was forever
sticking her nose in and Laura once told me she couldn't stand the old
broad. When she died I hoped that Al and Laura would get back together
again, but he just sold everything and moved south. God, I haven't talked
to Al in five or six years."

"Well, you'll get your chance this Fall. He coming up to attend the class
reunion in September. As a matter of fact, I ask him ride up with
us. You're going, aren't you?"

"Of course." Pete said, as he stood up. He began pacing about, kicking
pebbles aimlessly, "I just won't know what to say to Al when we meet. Are
you absolutely sure about this?"

"Damnit, Pete, if I had any idea you'd be so upset, I wouldn't have
mentioned it. Al hasn't changed, he's exactly the same guy as always. Look,
if he suddenly took up knocking over liquor stores, I could understand you
backing off, but not over this! He's an old friend. How he lives his life
in no way reflects on you or me, and if he's happy, then we should be glad
he found happiness and not worrying about who he found it with."

Pete chewed on it for awhile before answered,

"I suppose you're right. Only the thought of it takes some getting used
to. He's such a big bruiser, I just can't visualize it. What about this
fellow, Tim, what's he like?

"Well, he's a lot smaller man than Al, but then, who isn't?  He's around
30, maybe five-ten or so, and like I said, he seems like a nice guy. You
don't have to worry, if Al brings him alone, he won't embarrass anyone."

"Jesus. We all grew up together. Al is the last man on earth I'd figure for
that. I guess you never really know a person, deep down. Not even your
friends."

"Sure you do, Pete, at least in all the ways that matter. Remember when you
broke your leg? Al carried you a good two miles though some of the roughest
damn county I ever saw. Billy and I could hardly keep up with him. You
know, he got banged up in that fall too, but the only thing he could think
of was getting you to a doctor. Now let me ask you, doesn't that tell you
something about the man deep down? Doesn't that tell you something about
friendship? What more do you need to know?"

Pete stopped pacing and stood looking down at me.

"Sam, you always were smart and maybe you see things little clearer than
the rest of us, but how the hell did you get to be so liberal?. Your old
man would have shit a brick if he knew that about Al."

"My Dad was a great guy and if you'll recall, he was fairly liberal himself
about everything except homosexuality. I never knew why he had that hang
up, but remember, as a boy, he barely survived three years in a German
concentration camp and who knows what happened to him there. My Dad taught
me a lot of things, but mostly he taught me to weigh the good against the
bad in everything, and not jump to conclusions or fall for bullshit
rhetoric. He must have been a pretty good teacher, because in the end, the
homophobia remained just his hang up, not mine."

"I remember once when he wasn't so liberal." Pete snorted, "The time he
caught us swiping his cigars. He made us smoke two each, right down to the
butt. God, I was never so sick in my life!  " I chuckled, "Me too, but
neither of us took up smoking afterwards. Aren't you glad?"

Smiling, Pete kicked the fire open, poured the last of his beer on the few
remaining embers, then abruptly sat down again. I could see he was still
having trouble accepting the news about Al. After the accident, Pete imbued
Al with a kind of hero status and was now suffering from what is known as
the 'feet of clay' syndrome. He'd get over it. Pete has an infinite
capacity for bouncing back, which is after all, almost a prerequisite for a
politician.

At first, I was sorry for shattering his image of Al. Now I was glad it was
me he heard it from and not someone else.

"Just remember one thing, Pete. Al is the same guy he always was. The only
difference is in our perception of him. He hasn't changed so there's no
reason for us to change in our attitude or our feelings for him."

"I understand that, but I still won't know what to say to him. How do you
talk about something like that?"

"Well, it's not likely to come up in conversation, so why say anything? At
least now you know what topics to avoid. If he brings it up, fine, but for
God's sake don't tell him I told you first. He's my friend too, and I don't
want him thinking I'm traipsing about the country reporting on him to
everyone I meet."

Pete mulled it over for a few more minutes, still absorbing it, but finally
the tension seemed to fade.

"You're right, Sam. I guess there's no real reason we'd have to talk about
it. We'll just reminisce about old times and I promise I won't say a word."
Then slowly a little grin touched his lips as he added, "Unless, of course,
he asks me to dance. . ."

The fishing remained good, the days clear and beautiful and we ended up
staying longer than planned. The boys were having such a great time I hated
bringing it to an end, but finally the clock ran out and we had to get
back. We couldn't even stay in town overnight, just pulled in at Pete's
long enough to take a quick shower and pick up Cindy before hitting the
road back to LA. We were almost to the state line when Cindy remembered she
left a package in Betty's car and for the next few hundred miles,
complained bitterly about me always rushing her. I kept my mouth shut,
carefully avoided the fact that she regularly forgot things even when not
rushed, although staying quiet on that point did take a bit of tongue
biting.

The morning after we got back, I received a call from Pete. He told me that
while we were off fishing, Jake Sanders and his lawyer picked up the
truck. They also presented a specific court order for the disk! From what I
had read of Sanders in the journal, it didn't seem likely he'd be up to
handling that kind of business. I thought it might have been someone
impersonating him, but Pete assured me that it was indeed Sanders, and then
added, that for all practical purposes, the case was closed and I could
forget about it.

At work, the next morning, I found several new items on my desk, all of
them replies from inquiries I had made before going on vacation. Scanning
them, I ran across a couple of eye openers and whether Pete likes it or
not, I've decided to follow up a bit longer.

That evening, I tried calling Pete, but he and Betty had gone to Seattle
for a law enforcement conference and wouldn't be back for several days, so
instead, I wrote to him, setting down my thoughts..




July 18th 1994

Dear Pete

It seems a remarkable coincidence that the day after we left on our fishing
trip, Gibson's lawyer and a man claiming to be Sanders show up to collect
both the truck and the disk. I'm still not convinced that man was Sanders,
but even so, how did they know you had the disk? I mean, you didn't
advertise the fact, and you told me yourself that only a few people knew
the contents of it. I don't want to ring your bell, old buddy, but if I
were you, I'd start looking for the blabber mouth in your department.

Gibson and Sanders must certainly have some powerful friends to come up
with a court ordered release for the disk the instant your officers
demanded it. The thing is, if they were going to play hard ball with court
orders and such, why wait until you were out of town? My guess is that they
didn't want to deal with you directly. Maybe they figured your men would be
easier to handle. I'll bet they wouldn't have shown those court papers at
all if they could have bluffed their way through without them.

It's strange, call it a gut feeling if you will, but they strike me as
being extremely well prepared minimalists who exert the least amount of
effort necessary to achieve their goals. At no time have they done anything
in a hurry or used more than the slightest nudge here and there to get it
accomplished. What intrigues me is not what was done, but why? The truck is
merely the tip of the iceberg and you can bet something happened at that
ranch other than just an accidental fire.

When I got back here, I found a couple of replies to inquiries I sent out
last month. One was a report on Abel Carson. I knew that name was
familiar. Hell, he's been on the cover of News Week!  Steven Abel Carson
owns Delphi Investments, the New York brokerage firm. It's the same place
where the lions share from the sale of GSI ended up. According to the
report, Carson and his Delphi Fund are a class act, solid grade A all the
way. Since Carson, Gibson and Sanders all belong to the same 'club', I
guess this is a logical arrangement, but remember, there was a tremendous
amount of money involved in that sale and Carson seems to be handling
almost all of it.

The other report is a genuine mystery all in itself. I was trying to trace
the Harris' by tracing the truck and it seems that late last February, a
young man was killed while in the process of stealing gas from a Ford
Bronco. Yep, it was the same one belonging to Jake Sanders. Evidently,
Lonnie Harris dropped the Bronco off for normal maintenance at one of those
overnight service facilities, (his name was on the authorization
sheet). When they finished with it, sometime after midnight, the mechanic
parked it in the lot. The report is sketchy but it seems that around 3 AM,
two guys snuck into the lot. One fellow stood guard while the other crawled
underneath the truck to cut the fuel line and the whole thing went up like
a roman candle. The police called it a gasoline explosion for lack of
better evidence, but it does seem rather intense for that kind of
accident. It totally demolished the truck and several nearby cars. The
thing is, that with more than a dozen cars to choose from, why single out
Jake Sander's Bronco? Was that guy really trying to steal gas as his
accomplice claims, or was he setting some device that blew up in his face?
My intuition tells me it's the latter. Movie magic aside, gasoline burns
far more often than it explodes.

If it was a bomb, the question remains, who was the intended target?
Remember, this happened a full four months after the Harris' came to
LA. and after that length of time, I can't picture anyone confusing Gibson
with young Lonnie Harris! The only reasonable explanation I can come up
with is that someone was after the Harris' and if so, it leaves us with
several distinct possibilities. 1, the Harris's got mixed up in something
that has nothing to do with Gibson and Sanders. (It's entirely possible,
coincidences do happen.) 2, Gibson's friends were trying to get rid of the
Harris' for some unknown reason.  (Admittedly not a very likely
circumstance, unless of course, the Harris' found out something they
weren't supposed to know. After all, they did have access to the condo.)
And 3, The Harris' told Gibson's enemies where the two men were staying and
subsequently those people wanted no witnesses hanging around to testify
against them.

I guess what throws me off from all these theories is that I just can't see
Gibson as the despicable character former associates would hate. His
journal doesn't indicate that at all, and besides, the time frame, the
opportunity and the reasons for revenge seem all wrong. According to the
disk, Gibson sold GSI in late October or November, but I distinctly
remember it as being sometime in March when he and Sanders were first
vilified on TV. That was well beyond the point where it would do anyone any
good to bump them off, either emotionally or otherwise. Pissed off
ex-employees don't sit around and plot for five or six months. They grab a
gun and do the job instantly.

No, I think we are missing something by a wide margin. It may very well go
back to the money aspect of the sale such as who gets what if both men
die. That sale was private and so far I haven't learned the details of that
agreement.

 When we last spoke, you told me to back off on this, but I've got an
idea. I'll bet Gibson doesn't know I have a copy of his journal. I'm going
to send a letter to Allendale's address with an offer to return it, but
only if Sanders and Gibson will agree to see me. I've just got to meet
those guys, they've taken up almost three months of my life!

I'll let you know if I ever actually meet either one of them. More than
likely, they'll simply send a lawyer around with a court order for the
disk, but its worth a shot. Maybe by September I'll have something further
to tell you. By the way, Cindy is already making reunion plans. She says
she has to lose eight pounds and that means I'll be living on salads until
she does. Oh, and while I'm on the subject, Al is riding up with us. It was
on the answering machine when we got back. I don't know if Tim will be with
him or not, Al is supposed to call Sunday and let us know for sure. I guess
it depends if they can find someone to run the store for a few days.

Well, I guess that's all for now. Thanks again for a wonderful vacation,
Pete we had a great time.

		Take care of yourself,

                                        Sam

P.S. There is one last thing I need to mention. Cindy left a package in
Betty's car and evidently, its all my fault. Please ship it to her. I'm
tired of bunking down with the twins.



I got busy on my letter to Allendale, sent it off and only three days later
received a phone call. . .  From Australia. The U. S. Postal Service could
learn a thing or two from these people.

I had my interview, but it would have to wait until Gibson and Sanders
returned to California. Probably sometime in late September. I would be
notified a few days in advance. The man on the phone was friendly, business
like, and sounded nothing at all like Allendale.

The rest of July slipped by without incident, as did August. Oh, there were
a few minor tremors, but after all, this is California. To those in my
department, the biggest event of the summer, besides the constant TV
coverage of the worlds lengthiest pretrial hearing, was watching Winchaslaw
slowly go crazy as we each pulled out our phone logs and accounted for
every last long distance call. I thought the man was going to cry.

September finally arrived. I broke out the motor home again, stocked it
carefully and made absolutely sure nothing was forgotten this time. Cindy
packed the boys off to her sister for a few days, and we leisurely drove up
101 on our way to pick up Al and Tim.

Cindy had been less than thrilled on learning Al was bringing a friend
along. Al was OK, he was an old buddy, but Cindy was more than a little
uncomfortable at the thought of a total stranger sharing our cramped
quarters. It wasn't until I fully explained the situation that she
relented.

Perhaps it's not so surprising she accepted Tim with such grace and charm,
after all, her favorite hairdresser, Armond, walks only on his tippee
toes. I swear, that guy is more effeminate than Cindy, and almost as
cute. A real tribute to modern plastic surgery.

Since we had the time, we tooled up the Coast road to Monterey before
turning inland. Interstate 5 is an OK highway, but damned boring in the
south. Above Frisco it gets much prettier, but nothing this side of Heaven
can compare to the Coast road on a sunny September day.

Tim turned out to be a fine fellow. He not only had an extensive knowledge
of antiques, but a broad range of other interests as well, however, it was
his quick wit and fine sense humor, that soon endeared him to Cindy. They
fell into a regular gabfest that lasted the entire trip. I liked him
immediately, he carried with him calm assurance of his own worth and
displayed a quiet demeanor. While casting no aspersions on Armond, I'm
really not all that comfortable around truly flamboyant people. Tim was
more my speed, a down to earth sort of guy, much like Al in that respect.

Since there were four drivers available, we decided forge straight on
through to Oregon City. Cindy and I grabbed a few hours sleep, then about
1:00 AM, took over the driving chores.  An hour later, we were sipping
coffee and talking quietly, thinking both Al and Tim asleep.

"Tim is such interesting person and so sweet," Cindy remarked, "What do you
suppose he sees in big old Al?"

>From the rear came Al's good natured rumble, "I heard that, Cindy, If
you're going to talk behind my back, at least wait until I'm out of
earshot."

Then, Tim spoke up, "You'd be surprised, Cindy. At times Al has some very
winning ways."  We heard a muffled snort, followed a bit of thrashing
about, "Unfortunately. . . ." He added, laughingly, "Right now, doesn't
appear to be one of them. . . "

"Oh, you guys! Go to sleep!" Cindy ordered, blushing brightly enough to be
seen even by the dim light of the instrument panel.

We arrived in Portland a full day ahead of schedule. Cindy took off with
Betty to pick up some last minute items, while Al, Tim and I drove across
town to meet Pete for a drink. True to his word, Pete avoided bringing up
the subject of Al's sexual orientation, but for the first half hour
continued to view Tim with a jaundiced eye. Eventually mellowing, he
actually began speaking to the man and a short time later they were
swapping stories like old acquaintances. Pete's natural gregariousness
fired by Tim's sense of humor finally won the day.

Tim was amazed to hear of Al toting Pete miles through the wilderness, but
was even more surprised at learning of Al's past as a teen aged
tough. "Al?" He kept repeating as if he couldn't believe the stories he
heard.

Finally the talk turned to the thing that had been preying on my mind for
months. Like me, Pete had learned nothing new about Gibson and Sanders, but
he was extremely wary of my upcoming interview.

"You just give them that disk and get the hell out of there, especially if
it appears either one of are not who they claim to be. And for God's sake,
don't agree to meet them at a place of their choice, you pick the spot, and
make sure it's during daylight hours. I don't like it at all, why not
simply mail the disk and be done it?"

"You know me better than that. I'd wonder about it for the rest of my
life. I never could stand loose ends and if there's any chance of finding
out what happened at that ranch, I'm willing to go for it. But I promise,
old buddy, I'll be careful.

The reunion's only disappointment was not seeing Billy Akins. His sister,
Angie informed everyone he was in Spokane on business, but Pete told us of
the real reason. Billy was in jail again for back child support. Poor
Billy. In the fifteen years since high school, he's been married four
times, fathered six kids and the only thing he has to show for it is
support payments large enough to float a small country. Evidently, Ted
Gibson never knew anyone like Billy when he stated it was easier being
heterosexual than gay.

Al decided to take up a collection. It was nice gesture by an old friend,
although I don't think the five hundred bucks will help Billy much. From
what Pete says, Billy owes something akin to the national debt.

The trip home was uneventful except for our promising to spend Thanksgiving
in Santa Maria with Al and Tim. We really should see more of our
friends. Time has a way of slipping by unnoticed and as my father used to
say, "In the end, all we have is our memories. Make sure you store up lots
of good ones."





At Gibson and Sanders request, our meeting took place at their Brentwood
condo. It was, however, nearing midday so despite Pete's earlier warning I
felt safe enough. The two impressed me with their down to earth
hospitality, and they did everything they could to put a stranger at ease
They also seemed completely unperturbed by my forced interview which was
somewhat baffling. Had things been reversed, I'm sure I would have been far
less hospitable.

Both were trim, handsome men nearing fifty, yet they retained a youthful
vigor that made them appear much younger. Gibson was quite fair with a
weathered look about the eyes that you notice more in blond people.
Sanders, a bit larger man, muscular, curly haired and slightly balding and
deeply tanned. Both were very like the descriptions given in Gibson's
journal.

Jake Sanders had made a complete recovery as far as I could see. He was
very outgoing and likable while Ted Gibson was a bit more reserved. It was
Sanders who finally brought up the subject of the interview.

"What exactly do you want to know?" he asked.

"Everything," I replied, "Especially about what happened at the ranch in
Colorado. "

Sanders face clouded with distaste as he said flatly, "Gambini happened."
Then glancing at his partner he smiled,

"Ted was extremely cautious when he went after him, but I guess someone in
the FBI suffers from a loose lip. At least that's our assumption. Sometime
last Fall, Gambini learned that GSI had set him up. It didn't take him long
to figure out who the real force was behind all his problems and Ted
immediately became number one on his shit list. The thing was, our friends
became alarmed when they discovered Gambini making inquiries and quickly
pressed their offer to buy us out. They figured if we were away on a long
trip, they would have time to defuse the situation." Interrupting, I asked,

"When you say, Friends, do you mean the Brotherhood?"

"Yes." He answered. "But at the time of the sale, Ted wasn't aware of the
threat from Gambini. Our friends never mentioned it, they thought Ted had
enough to worry about."

"But why such an exorbitant offer? The buy-out was perhaps twice the
current value of GSI."

"Look, Mr. Libowitz, there is a lot about the inner workings of the
Brotherhood that I'm not free to discuss. Lets just assume they hurried the
sale along by paying for the potential value of the company and let it go
at that."

I didn't argue the point, nor voice my suspicion that much of the proceeds
from that sale ended up back in the hands of the Brotherhood. I guess if
your checks never bounce, it matters very little how much money you
actually control.

"So, how did the mob locate the ranch? According to the journal, only the
Harris' knew you were there."

"That's true, and that information nearly cost them their lives. Gambini's
men mistook them for Ted and me and made one attempt with a car bomb before
discovering their error. Later, they trapped them here in this very
apartment and got the location of the ranch. The Harris' would be dead now
if not for our friends. They got here in the nick of time and although it
no longer shows, this place saw quite a battle. Unfortunately, our friends
were also unaware of our location because at that moment, the Harris' were
in no condition to tell them. By the time they could, it was too late. The
hit men were on us."

Sanders paused for a moment, then turned to Gibson and said,

"Why don't you tell him what happened at the ranch, I was in one of one of
my foggy periods and don't remember much until the shooting started."

"Well," Gibson said, "Along about four in the afternoon, a report came over
the radio of an approaching storm. It looked like we were in for another
dose of winter, not that it mattered much to me, but Jake was anxious to do
a bit of hiking. The snow had been going fast for several days, so Jake
decided to walk down past the corrals and back before the storm struck.
It's perhaps a mile round trip up and down a fairly steep slope. I figured
he'd be gone for at least half an hour, but in less than five minutes he
was back, saying there was someone down in the valley on snowmobiles and
they seemed to be coming up the mountain. The valley is about four miles
from where the house stood and when snow is on the ground, the road upward
is invisible. I think they missed the house on the first pass, maybe even
got lost, because it was near seven o'clock when they came back down the
mountain. The house was built against a rise and difficult to see when
everything is covered with snow, but of course by then, the lamps were lit
and they found us instantly. I just cracked the door to see who our
visitors were, when someone opened up with an automatic and nearly took my
head off. I dropped to the floor. In the time it took me to kick the door
shut, Jake grabbed up a hunting rifle, slapped a clip in place and cut
loose with that 30 - 30, shooting through the closed door. I think he got
one of them, at least wounding him. There was a hell of a commotion
outside, a lot of cussing and they scattered, laying down a barrage of
gunfire as they went."

Ted cleared his throat while I sat on the edge of my seat waiting for him
to continue. Instead, he reached into a drawer, extracted a photograph and
handed it to me.

"This was taken right after Harris's rebuilt the house. As you can see, the
windows on the ground floor were tiny and set high on the wall, relics from
the 1860's. All Dan did was dress them up a bit. Upstairs it was a
different matter. Those windows were large, accessible and completely open
to attack. We barricaded the front door, then killed the lights and
waited. The only back door to the place opened into a cave with no exit
from there. While it was obvious we couldn't keep them from getting in
through the second story windows, the stairway down emptied directly into a
small entry hall. They would never get past that as long as the ammo held
out. The wind was picking up,it was whistling in the eaves and I think the
men outside were getting nervous about the storm. I heard someone yell,

"Let's get on with this, I'm freezing my ass off."

A few minutes later, first one then another of the upstairs windows came
crashing in and we got ready for an assault, only we saw flames instead.
They weren't coming in, they intended to drive us out! Again, Jake was
moving with the same speed and precision as before, only this time he began
grabbing up stuff by the armful and rushing it to the cave."

"At first I couldn't figure out what he was doing. We were trapped. The
only way out was through the front door and that was sure death. Going to
the cave would only forestall things. Jake made trip after trip, scooping
up curios and bric-a-brac as though they were the most precious things in
the world. Finally I thought that if we were going to die anyway, perhaps
we could save some of those things. I grabbed the journals from the library
and my laptop, then helped Jake remove as much of the other stuff as we
could. I don't believe we had more than eight or ten minutes before the
stairway came crashing down, but in that time we cleared the ground floor
of everything but books and heavy furniture. We even got a few of the
smaller chests and cabinets into the cave before the smoke got to us. The
last thing we did was seal the cave door as tightly as possible, wetting it
down with water from the spring and packing wet sand along the bottom.
There was a pile of rock just inside, left over, I suppose from the time
when the cave front was originally stoned up, and we used those to fill the
casement directly behind the wooden door. We worked like madmen,
alternately sloshing water on the door and stacking stones until we
succeeded in closing the entry, but moments later the door burst into flame
and smoke came pouring in through gaps in the rocks. All the time we
worked, we could hear the house crashing down as sections of the upstairs
floor gave away, then a thunderous roar as the roof and upper side walls
came down and after that, just the roaring of flames accented by exploding
cans from the pantry. Personally, I thought we were done for. The smoke was
so thick I couldn't catch a breath. It even put out the lantern, but Jake
dragged me up to the spring and we lay with our faces practically in the
water and just above it was an inch or so of fresh air. The fire didn't
last long, the wind whipped it along and it burned out in about an hour.
Near the end, those same gaps between the rocks that had let the smoke in,
now drew it out like a chimney. Soon, the air cleared enough for us to
crawl off and catch some sleep and by morning it was completely gone except
for the slightly scorched smell which I think came mostly from us."

Gibson paused a moment, before saying,

"You know, the strangest thing was, for that whole night I never realize
Jake was back to the present, I guess I was so worked up and exhausted, it
never dawned on me. When we awoke, daylight was peeking around the rocks in
the doorway, so I got up and immediately started pulling down the stones,
but Jake stopped me. He heard the sound of a chopper off in the distance.

"Hold on a minute,' He said, "Lets see who's coming late to the barbecue."

It bowled me over, I looked at his soot streaked face and saw something I
hadn't seen in days, his old grin. Believe me, after that last episode, I
had no intention of bringing up any more past histories. In fact I was
almost afraid to say anything, but I sure was glad he was back again. The
noise outside got louder and we turned our attention to the chopper as it
landed in the yard. A few minutes later we heard two men arguing."

"Well, there was only one door and they never came through it, but if you
want to sift the ashes for bones, be my guest. You tell Gambini the
contract is now half finished. I want the money agreed on deposited at
once, and no more bullshit. That other thing was just Gambini's fantasy. It
had nothing to do with the original deal. So, he didn't get a heart! Tough
shit! I'm calling Zurich in the morning and my five million better be in
that account!"

The other man replied,

"I'd be cautious about threatening Gambini if I were you, he won't take
kindly to it."

"HA! You tell that fat Ginnie that if my money isn't there when I call,
he'd better watch his ass. I don't take kindly to being stiffed!"

They left a few minutes later and we dug our way out only to find the
bathtub covering the doorway. The odd thing is, the bathroom was originally
at the other end of the house, yet it fell on end directly in front of the
cave entrance. When we crawled out, we saw just how fortunate that was. By
replaced the tub exactly where it landed, you couldn't see the entrance
from any angle. It was an absolutely amazing and very lucky coincidence
because I don't believe our hasty rock work would have fooled anyone."

"How did you get off the mountain?" I asked, "Isn't the ranch a long way
from the nearest town?"

"You're damn right, it is. Moffat is the closest place and that's nearly
thirty miles. We hung around the cave that whole day thinking there might
still be someone watching, but no one came prowling about. The next morning
we took off for Moffat. I suppose we could have stayed in that cave until
spring. There was still about half a ton of fresh root vegetables in the
bins and the cave was warm enough, but we were worried about how extensive
that contract was. Jake had the foresight to grab our coats when we cleared
out the downstairs, otherwise we wouldn't have survived that trip. After
the storm, it was bitterly cold. We fussed about that day, burying the
small stuff we'd saved in a dry, sandy area of the cave floor and stacking
the rest out of sight in a side passage. We then filled up on as many raw
carrots and potatoes as we could stand and just rested. The next morning we
left carrying more potatoes and a couple of bed rolls made out of a few
large Indian rugs tied with binder twine. We found some work gloves and a
canteen in the corral shed and luckily our coats had hoods, but believe me,
it was no picnic. Damn, it was cold. I don't think we traveled more than
eight or ten miles that first day, the snow was now hip deep in most
places. At sundown we burrowed into the snow, snuggling up together wrapped
in our Indian rugs and got through the night, if not comfortable, at least
unfrostbitten. The temperature must have dropped to fifteen below that
night. The next morning the sun came out and it warmed up considerably and
the lower we went the less snow we had to contend with. By 10 AM we were
making good time and about 3:30 in the afternoon we came to a paved road,
State 13. We had missed Moffat completely and walked a few extra miles, but
from there we had no trouble catching a ride into Hamilton where we could
get to a phone."

Sanders stood up, "I'm getting thirsty." He said, "Would you like something
to drink, Mr. Libowitz? Ted?

"What ever you're having will be fine." I replied, but he surprised me by
bringing back plain water.

Gibson saw the look on my face and laughed, "Jake's the literal sort, just
be glad he wasn't thirsty for one of his chili pepper and Tabasco
concoctions."

Jake chuckled self-consciously, "I'm sorry, Mr. Libowitz, we also have beer
and soft drinks. I'm afraid Ted is right, I do tend to take what I hear
literally."

"Water's fine," I replied, "But would you gentlemen please call me Sam? I
feel that I know you both and that Mr. Libowitz thing gets in the way."

There was complete silence for a moment, then Jake said,

"As you wish, Sam. And I'm afraid you're right. You do know us. . .  Far
too well."

I was taken aback by his words, but Jake raised his hands in peace,

"Don't take that as a threat, it's only a statement of fact. But you must
remember, Ted's journal wasn't meant for just anyone to read, only me. As
you can imagine, we were more than a little upset when in disappeared. I
would appreciate the return of that disk along with your assurance that
you've made no other copies. It's extremely personal and it belongs to us!"

"But, that's why I came here!" I exclaimed.

"Now let's be completely honest, Sam. You came here for the express purpose
of meeting us face to face and to learn what went on after the fire. You
said as much in your letter and we agreed to it, but it's only fair to tell
you that while you know a lot about us, we now know absolutely everything
about you! I can state your bank account to the penny or tell you all about
your high school days, like the time you and Peter Evert stole a car for a
joy ride and wrecked it hitting a deer. You were driving and at first
thought was a person you ran over."

"But. . . But how could you know that?  We never told anyone!"

Completely stunned, I remembered that incident as one of the worst scares
of my life, I was sick about it for months afterwards.

"Or, how about the time you and Billy Akins went on that camping trip at
Mill Creek and met that fellow from Judson Baptist Collage, a teacher. . .

STOP!" I cried. Suddenly drenched in sweat, I fumbled for the disk. Gibson
watched my reaction, then reached over and patted my shoulder.

"Don't worry, Sam, we're not blackmailing you, it's just that we wanted you
to have a fuller understanding of what it's like."

His hand held me in the chair as blind terror built in my mind over what
would happen next.

"You know," He said quietly, "It wasn't your fault. The guy shouldn't have
been messing with your head in the first place. He brought it on himself."

"But. . . But, hit him, I killed him. . ." The horror of that moment came
back to me. The man's nasty remarks about jews, the nightmares I had for
years afterwards. . .

"No, you just punched him. He died of natural causes, a heart attack. You
don't really believe that at fifteen you were capable of killing a man with
a single blow, do you? You weighed what?  Maybe ninety-five pounds?"

God, they knew everything about me! Every last detail! I couldn't stand it.

Gibson massaged my shoulder as he spoke, his words slowly calming me. For
twenty years I lived with that secret, not even Billy knew what happened
that day. I ran back to camp, grabbed my pack and left with Billy trailing
behind asking what was going on. It wasn't until we got to Mosier that had
courage enough to call the police, and I never gave my name. How did they
find out? Gibson began explaining without my asking and as he talked the
shock slowly ebbed away.

"The Brotherhood is pretty good at figuring things out, Sam. Most of our
information about you came directly from your friends, only don't blame
them, they didn't realize. It became obvious that something happened to you
that summer; all your friends agreed that you changed that year and you
were never again the same carefree kid. We just backtracked, found the
incident, talked to Billy Akins, checked old newspaper and police reports
and dug it out. The rest was supposition based on what we learned about the
man and what we knew about you. He was a jew baiter and you had a hot
temper. The coroners report showed nothing but a heart attack and a slight
bruise on the chin. Like I said, we can put two and two together."

He made it sound so reasonable, so easy to accept, only it wasn't. I'll
always be haunted by that day. Yet, oddly enough having someone else know
about it seemed to help, although for the life of me, I couldn't explain
why.

Sanders stepped out and brought back a double shot of whiskey that I
accepted gratefully. He fussed around for a few minutes producing pretzels
and other snacks which I didn't feel like trying and finally after I
settled down a bit, Gibson removed his hand from my shoulder. It's funny
how comforting a hand can be.

"Why don't we get back to events of last March." He said,"Unless you've
changed your mind. . ."

"No, I need to hear it all. I couldn't leave now without that! I'm sorry
about being so inquisitive, but that's just the way I am."

"We know." Jake said quietly, a small smile playing on his lips.

Jake took up the narrative, "As Ted already mentioned, I was back and in
full command of myself. Maybe it was the shock of being shot at again that
finally brought me home, but I give Ted the real credit. It was he who
worked out what my problem was. All I had to do was see it. During our trip
down the mountain it finally became real to me that I hadn't murdered
Carla. His journal pieced it all together. You see, Sam, there was an
enormous amount of anger in that marriage. I raged over what she did, even
raged against what I was feeling for Ted. I blamed her for everything that
was happening in my life and in the darkest moments of that confused time,
I actually had considered killing her. Even now, about the only thing I
remember of the shoot out, is blowing Carla's head away. It's a patently
false image and I know it, but I still see it. One minute I'm getting out
of the limo, the next I'm shooting Carla as she sits at the table at our
Mira Lida house."

Jake shook his head, "People can do the damnedest things to themselves"
Then glancing at Ted, he added, "And to others. . ."

Gibson smiled at Jake and I saw a look of pure affection and understanding
pass between the two. I had read it in the journal, but that look made me
realize just how much caring existed there.

"But enough about me" Jake said, "When we reached Hamilton, Ted got on the
phone to our friends, while I tried calling Annie. I received no answer, so
then tried calling Brentwood to let the Harris' know about the fire. That
call was intercepted by our friends who told me what happened here and we
were advised to head directly to Craig, check into a motel and call back in
an hour. At Craig we were told of a man named Sax who had been hired by
Gambini for the contract. Sax was evidently more of a terrorist than a
simple hit man. He had his own organization and his services came high, but
after Gambini's losses to Ted's vendetta, he must have thought the price
cheap. Anyway, our friends assumed we were dead when they found Gambini
about to pay 5 million to Sax, so they decided to use that money as a
gambit to set Sax and Gambini against each other. They siphoned Sax's
numbered account, then informed Gambini that Ted and I had been sighted
alive and well at a ski resort near Steamboat Springs."

Somehow, listening to Jake, my own fright of a few minutes ago, faded into
the background. I got taken up in the narrative, so much so that I
interrupted once more.

"But, how do you get into a numbered Swiss account? I asked "I thought they
were inviolable."

"Electronic transfer, of course, when it comes to things of that nature,
our friends are nothing less than erudite."

Jake answered my question with a vague wave of his hand that left the
distinct impression he was not telling all.

"Their plan," Jake continued, "Was based on the assumption that we were
dead. When we turned up alive, our friends realized the whole area around
Craig would soon be swarming with hoods, both Gambini and Sax would send
men to check out that report. It was time to get us the hell out of
there. The truck was waiting at a local dealership, all gassed up, with a
cellular phone on the seat and we scooted. By the time we reached Salt Lake
City, we figured no one could find us, so we leisurely made our way up I-84
toward Portland. We were safe, but we had other worries.

Our friends had yet to find out the full extent of that contract or the
other names on the list. We felt certain that Sax wouldn't continue without
the money, but what if Gambini had already sent someone else? Right then,
our biggest concern was Annie and the kids. We phoned a dozen times without
an answer and our friends couldn't tell us a thing: All three had simply
vanished, even the housekeeper was missing. We were almost to Nampa, Idaho,
when Ted remembered that last fall, Annie inherited a little summer cottage
about a hundred miles south of Portland, somewhere near the town of
Lebanon. He didn't have the address, but a quick call to our friends got
the ball rolling. We headed toward Lebanon on US 20, while they sent
someone down from Portland to check. We were out of contact much of the way
and didn't get back to where the phone worked again until reaching Bend,
but there, we received some good news for a change. Annie and the kids were
safe and sound at the cottage. She had a crew of workmen busy adding a room
and had gone down for a couple days to supervise."

"That's our Annie," Jake commented smiling broadly, "Always in charge! "
Then he continued,

"Our friends warned us not to stop in Lebanon, but to press on to
Portland. They finally found Annie's housekeeper. She was hiding out at the
neighbors and frightened out of her wits. Two of Gambini's men had
extracted Annie's Lebanon address from her and in the process roughed her
up. Our friends arranged for Annie and the children to disappear for awhile
and we were told to get to the GSI office in Portland as soon as possible."

Jake paused for a moment, took another drink of water, and said,

"You know, we would have made the that trip without a hitch if we hadn't
stopped for gas just before getting onto I-5. It was about midnight. Two
guys came out of the station, got into a Chevy and slowly pulling away.
Actually, I didn't notice them staring, but Ted did, and as I headed for
the bathroom, the car suddenly spun around and pulled up crosswise in front
of the truck. Ted realizing what was up, yelled and took off on foot around
the opposite side of the station. Maybe they didn't see me standing at the
corner, but for some dumb reason they both took out after Ted which gave me
the chance to get back to the truck They had us neatly boxed, another car
behind gassing up and theirs in front, so I grabbed our bag, the ignition
keys and threw it all in their car and when Ted came around the station I
had the engine running and the door open for him. We took off like the
proverbial scalded cat and thought we'd left them in the lurch until we
came up under the lights of the interchange. There was that damned white
pickup no more than a half mile behind. It was then I remembered the spare
keys in the glove compartment. When we hit the freeway, I floored it while
Ted got busy on the phone telling our friends what was going on. The Chevy
had hot V8, but so did the pick up. We couldn't actually loose them, but
they couldn't catch us either. They stayed on our tail no more than a mile
or two behind. You know the old saying about there never being a cop when
you need one? Well, we drove flat out for more than sixty miles and never
saw a bubble. Finally our friends called with instructions. We were to wait
until we passed a group of motorcyclists, then feign car trouble, pull off
onto the shoulder and get away on foot as fast as possible. It wasn't more
than another few miles before we passed the bikers who gave us the high
sign. I watched until the pickup pulled out to pass them, waited a minute,
then let the speed drop, hit the breaks, whipped the car back and forth
across the lanes a couple of times and onto the shoulder. We were out and
away before the pickup came screeching to a halt and as those guys stepped
out they were suddenly surrounded by motorcycles and guns. Lots of
guns. They gave up without a struggle. When we searched them, we found they
also carried a cell phone. It was a sure bet someone was on the lookout for
both the car and the pickup and probably had the Portland off ramps
covered. We swapped places with two of the bikers while they took the car
and our neatly trussed up gunsels, to the nearest cross over then back
south again. The truck was stripped, wiped down thoroughly and we tooled
our way on into Portland riding Harleys."

"But why leave the truck? I asked perplexed.

"Why not? It was never going to be traceable, but it sure was
visible. Besides, it would give Gambini something to think about. The last
he knew, his men were in possession of it. We wouldn't have claimed it at
all if it hadn't for the disk. Somehow it slipped out of Ted's pocket and
we missed it when tidying up the truck."

"And, that my friend," Jake concluded, "Is about all there is to tell."

"Wait," I cried, "That only explains the truck. What happened afterward?
What did you do with the gangsters?

"Does it matter?" Ted replied, coldly. "Gambini's people were not only
killers, they were sadists. Those two goons were the same ones who
questioned the Harris' right here in this apartment. Dan and Lonnie's had
nothing to hide, yet they broke Lonnie's wrists for the sheer fun of it and
came within inches of killing both of them. Do you really care what was
done with them?

"No, I guess not." I answered quickly, remembering Gibson's written comment
about an eye for an eye.

A long silence ensued, broken at last by Jake remarking,. "Say, I'm getting
hungry. Why don't we go out for a bite. There's a little place not far from
here that serves terrific deli sandwiches. It's not Kosher, but it's good."

We walked the three blocks to the restaurant and as he promised, the food
was excellent. Later, as we sat over coffee, Jake began to speak once more
of Sax and Gambini.

"The plan our friends devised at least now had teeth. Gambini knew for sure
we were alive and was demanding his five million back, money that Sax never
saw. Sax was equally convinced that Gambini was pulling some sort of scam,
since the only evidence of our continued existence consisted of some
reputed phone conversations between a Gambini lieutenant and two missing
hoods. Sax was pissed at Gambini anyway. The old man had let out the
contract, then sent his own men to do the job, hoping to beat Sax to the
kill. I guess his motto was, 'A penny saved, a penny earned'. Sax found out
about it when he kept stumbling into Gambini's hoods. They nearly messed up
his whole operation with that clumsy bombing attempt, but they had beaten
Sax to the Harris' and that really ticked him off. Sax nailed them when our
friends flushed them out of the apartment and would have wasted those two
if Gambini hadn't stepped in. The old man told Sax the job was his from
that point forward and Sax let the guys go home to daddy. The thing to
remember, Sam, is that GSI was a privately held company, a partnership,
totally belonging to Ted, me and Annie. You probably didn't know, but Annie
held an eight percent silent interest and she was perfectly capable of
running the company. Gambini thought he could destroy GSI with a few simple
assassinations. He learned we carried a lot of outstanding debt from our
expansion over the years and figured Ted's death alone might bring down the
company, but he wasn't taking any chances. He also wanted a clean sweep of
top management. That way, our heirs would have no ability to reorganize
before foreclosures took place and threw GSI into bankruptcy. And you know,
it might have worked just as he planned if the company hadn't changed hands
last November, It was the one thing he didn't know. You see, a private sale
doesn't make the business news unless someone wants it published. We were
gone a full month before the hit was ordered and no one knew where we
were. Dan has never gotten over his aversion for LA, so the Harris' visited
the condo only long enough to drop off the Bronco and then caught a flight
to Acapulco where they stayed until about mid February. Of course, after
several week of not being able to locate us, both Sax and Gambini pulled
their men back, leaving only intermittent surveillance, which completely
missed the Harris' when they came back from Mexico. As I understand it, Dan
and Lonnie stopped just long enough to collect the truck for a drive up to
Santa Barbara, but when it was found missing, Gambini sent his men. They
were waiting when the Harris' returned, got confused about who was who, and
of course you know what happened after that."

The waitress came around with a refill and after she left, I said

"So, when your friends released word of the sale, that was to ward off any
further plans Gambini might have. I remember it made the evening news about
how former GSI executives were released without severance. They made it
look as though you guys flushed your employees. There was even one fellow
in tears as he told how rotten he'd been treated."

Both men burst out laughing and Gibson said,

"We saw that tape not long ago, Alex always was a ham."

It occurred to me that Alex was probably the same guy once known as The
Ripper and abruptly I knew what became of the missing Devil's Own
bikers. They had all become rentacops! These two men were obviously up in
the Brotherhood much further than they let on, but it didn't seem wise to
push for details. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I had a vivid
picture of two goons with broken wrists, seat belted in a Chevy at the
bottom of Puget Sound.

"I'm sure by now," Gibson continued, " You've made the connection between
what we've told you and the New Jersey gang wars of the last few months.
Sax crippled Gambini's bunch both financially and morally, and finally got
to old man Gambini himself in Miami last June, but Sax made a lot enemies
in process. No one capable of paying his fee trusts him anymore and unless
he finds a sponsor soon, his days are numbered. Our friends will keep an
eye on him, but he's no threat to us now."

He paused for a moment, then added,

"And I believe that really is all there is to tell."

As we walked back to their apartment the conversation turned to the Harris'

"They were both doing fine when we saw them in August." Jake commented,
"The house was rebuilt during the summer, our friends paid for it out of
Gambini's 5 million and then donated another goodly chunk of that money to
the RS Trust in repayment for some of the treasures lost. Annie and the
kids went with us on that visit and I believe our Annie has fallen head
over heels for Dan!"

He chuckled, "I'm not sure where it will lead, but it's certainly an
interesting situation."

Gibson snorted, "Jake, I've already told you. Dan's as good as married. You
know how persuasive she is. Why, I'll bet Annie plans to have him gift
wrapped for Christmas."

They laughed, then Jake said, "Lonnie seems to have found someone too, we
saw him in Craig one day with a very pretty young lady. They were just
puttering along window shopping and Lonnie looked to be in seventh heaven."

 The warmth and humor in their voices startled me. How different they
appeared from the men who just moments before spoke calmly of mayhem and
murder. I liked them both, yet they made me nervous. These were powerful
men with even more powerful friends. In pressing for this interview had I
learned too much? From the journal came an intimate view of Gibson's
private life, and Jake's, yet these two broke all stereotypes. These were
men of action, the Rambo's of the gay set and I knew too much about them
and their shadowy Brotherhood. At present there was no hint of animosity,
yet I worried that a later pragmatism might very well spell danger.

We shook hands outside their building and the last thing Gibson said before
I left, was,

"Have a good life, Sam. It's been a genuine pleasure meeting you." And he
spoke with such disarming sincerity that it completely voided my nagging
fears.


As that year faded into the next, a series of fraud cases came my way that
brought me to the attention of my corporate masters. Speedy resolution of
these earned me several fast promotions, culminating the following year in
the post of regional manager. That job provided a suite of offices with
actual windows and even broader horizons, all of which I considered long
over due.

As far as Cindy was concerned, the real perk, besides the huge pay
increase, was our new acceptance into the upper echelon of the company.
Cindy and I now received invitations to gatherings we'd only heard about
before and from these came other invitations from people outside the
company. It was a whirlwind of parties that Cindy took to like a duck to
water and she met people there who took to her the same way. Our boys, who
had previously occupied her time were now in the care of a nanny or off to
school and Cindy was, after all, a young, beautiful and vibrant woman,
vulnerable to the glitter and glamour of the life style of these new
acquaintances.

My promotions spelled the end for us. In a year we were separated, then,
finally divorced and like so many others in this day and age I now see my
sons only on weekends. I won't pretend not to have suffered over it, I did
and mightily, but I also understood Cindy. She had married me right out of
high school, the summer I finished college and at times I knew she
regretted, if not having a career of her own, or at least a period of time
in which to find herself. It's a mistake to marry before savoring life a
bit. You'll always wonder what you've missed.

It was almost two years after my interview with Gibson and Sanders before I
ran across them again. It was at another of those garden party-cum business
gathering that LA is famous for. I caught sight of Gibson speaking to a
group of people, but as I worked my way toward him, a hand grasped my arm
and Jake appeared beside me.

"I thought that was you, Sam, how have you been?"

"Fine, I replied, noncommittally, "And you?"

"Oh, we're just muddling along as usual." He replied cheerful. I couldn't
help but notice he included Gibson in his answer, evidently nothing there
had changed, nor had I expected it would. Unlike Cindy and myself, those
two were married for life.

"By the way, Sam, Ted would like to talk to you. When this shindig winds
down, we'll come find you for a little chat. Now don't forget, stick
around." And with a parting pat on my shoulder, he was gone in the swirl of
merrymakers's.

Three hours later we sat in the rear of a chauffeured limo and Ted Gibson
was asking me to come work for GSI.

"I wasn't aware that you two were back running the company."I said in
surprise, "But even so, what in the world could I do for GSI? I'm just an
insurance investigator."

"Hardly 'just' an investigator," Ted replied, "You possess possibly the
best intuitive mind on the west coast, if not in the entire nation. Look,
Sam, since its inception, GSI has had in house investigators to cover all
theft and fraud cases that fall under our security contracts. We need
someone of your caliber to head up the new European branch and we are
prepared to offer a very substantial increase over your current salary.
This also includes company paid living quarters in Paris, and we can offer
this with a five year contract, renewable at your option. Paris would be
your home base, although you would be required to travel extensively. GSI
is has plans of opening 14 offices in Europe within the next three years."

To say that I was startled by the offer, would be an understatement. I was
stunned.

"Why me?" I asked, "There are plenty of others with better credentials.
Look, if this a bid to bind my silence, gentlemen, it's totally
unnecessary."

Gibson smiled, "It's hardly that. You see, my friend, we were already sure
of your silence before we spoke to you. If you were less than you are, that
disk would have simply disappeared."

Nonplused for a moment, I finally gained the courage to ask, "And would I
have also disappeared, perhaps like Gambini's hoods?"

Startled, the two men looked at each other, then Jake began to laugh.

"Oh my God, Teddy, he thinks we killed those geeks! Believe me, Sam, the
last time we looked, those two were breathing just fine. In England, during
the eighteenth century, when you wanted to dispose of someone without
killing him, you merely signed him up in the Spanish Navy. Nowadays,
countries are a bit more choosy on who they allow in their military. Those
two are currently serving 20 years in a Turkish prison for smuggling
dope. They were found drugged to the gills in the streets of Istanbul,
loaded down with two kilos of the hard stuff. It's our friends answer to
the Spanish Navy, but, Sam, that wouldn't have happened to you under any
circumstance. You see, our friends are also quite adroit at applying
psychological pressure."

I felt much relieved to learn the Brotherhood was not into murdering its
enemies, but that still didn't convince me that working for them was a good
idea.

"I concluded long ago, that your 'friends' were not just another mob," I
told them, "But it's not the same as having a genuine understanding of the
situation. I'm afraid I can't accept your offer with out knowing exactly
what I'm getting into."

"Suppose we could convince you that our friends are not into illicit
activities and that within perhaps another fifty years, the Brotherhood may
actually be of great benefit to society. Would you then take the job?"

I thought about it only a moment.

"Yes." I replied.




Epilogue



When I first came to work for GSI, Ted ask me to write of my experiences in
tracking them down. He also wanted my thoughts on why I accepted this job
so readily. The latter, I wasn't sure I could explain that in any logical
way, since I don't recall even thinking about it. It just felt right. As
far as the former is concerned, I'm afraid I put him off. The first years
were very busy and Ted never pressed the matter, but a couple of months ago
he sent along the same disk I gave him that day in Brentwood and ask me to
fill in the blanks. That is what I've done and I hope it's satisfactory.
All that's left is a little addendum about life in Paris and few assorted
thoughts.

Paris has been my home for three years now, but as Ted warned, I travel a
great deal. GSI is doing extremely well in Europe. We have gained a
reputation for being the one security company that can't be outfoxed and so
far that's been the case. It would be nice if I could take credit for that
reputation, but I can't. In my first year here the people I work with
taught me more about tracing fraud and theft than I learned in ten at
Western, and yet my employers insist I have the potential of being the best
there is. I hope that's more than an assumption on their part, for I've
never held a more satisfying post.

I came over in advance of GSI's grand opening with Carl Swenson, a man who
has since become my closest and dearest friend. Carl spoke French like a
native where as I struggled with the high school variety, and that mostly
forgotten. Carl became my teacher, not only in the language, but in the
culture, quietly steering me around the blunders I might have made. He is
so fastidiously neat that it was some time before I connected Carl with
Ted's description of him in the journal. We share quarters in this crowded
city, a nice three bedroom flat the company provides and Carl walked out of
the bathroom one morning without the removable bridge that I never
suspected he wore. That broad smile with the three tooth gap. A revelation
to say the least. I still have trouble visualizing Carl as the biker dude
called The Bear, but my boys live for the stories he tells. Fortunately he
cleans them up a bit.


David and Daniel spend the summer with me. Paris truly is the City of
Lights and the boys never tire of exploring its potential, what's more,
both are now as fluent in the language as I. At sixteen, they have become
very cosmopolitan in their outlook, yet when their mother recently
divorced, they made a supreme effort to get us back together. Cindy came
with them this summer and stayed for two weeks. She is as beautiful as ever
and much more confident now than I remember her. We had a lovely time and
I'll be seeing her quite often now that Paris is one of her stops a buyer
for Niemann-Marcus. Cindy is finally spreading her wings. She has great
taste and I know she will be a huge success at what she's doing, but I
doubt we will ever again be more than friends. The career she always
yearned for is at last within her grasp, and I. . . Well, I am no longer
the same person I was. It seems we have both changed a great deal these
past five years . .

Soon I'll be traveling again, on this occasion back to Los Angeles. I have
finally consented to the initiation and expect it to be a somewhat
harrowing ordeal. When the subject was first broached two years ago, I
flatly refused, remembering Ted's description of his experience, but I've
been assured that things are different now. No more forced initiations,
those are ancient history as is the little added 'something' that drove
initiates to sexual frenzy. Now, there simply stands an open invitation to
those selected and I find that invitation irresistible. Yes, I'm fairly
comfortable with the idea. It no longer scares me. . .  Much.

I respect the goals of Delphic Brotherhood of Light. Their view that
diversity is a positive human trait, is one that I have always held, and
their vast experiment at developing a new social conscious, will, I'm sure,
culminate in a better life for everyone. It will take years of course, many
generations to get past the bigotry, rhetoric and fear, but the Brotherhood
takes the long view and I like that. Not only do I feel genuine fondness
for all the Brothers I've met so far, I find myself looking forward to
closer ties to this extended family. The fact that I can so easily identify
and bond with the Brotherhood is undoubtedly the reason they selected me
for this job in the first place. Jake tells me that many things have
changed in the years since he and Ted became members. The experiment, as
well as the Brotherhood itself is evolving with each passing year, and that
is as it should be. Nothing static will ever benefit humanity, it must
change if it is to meet the needs of a future sociaty. Yes, I'm absolutely
sure constant change is ongoing, Carl himself has mentioned it and I trust
his judgment implicitly, yet in the back of my mind lies a suspicion that
at least one thing about the Brotherhood remains exactly the same. It may
take a different face, it may come about in gentler ways, but as Ted in his
journal so succinctly quoted The Ripper,

     "Once chosen, it's only a matter of time. . ."


                             				 End