Squatter with a Lexus
By Tom Lichtenberg
Copyright 2010 by Tom Lichtenberg
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be resold or given away to other people. Thanks and enjoy!

Katie Parsons

When Katie Parsons received a letter notifying her that she had thirty days to present the key to the strongbox or its contents would revert to the state, she realized that either this was a mistake or else her ship had finally come in.
It was a mistake.
When she inspected the envelope she discovered that the letter was addressed to a Mr. Pearson Holmes. She had never heard of any Holmes outside of Sherlock. 
"Oh well,” she sighed. "Easy come, easy go,” and tossed the letter into the kitchen garbage pail. It sat there all day Wednesday, all day Thursday, and most of Friday, until her husband, Keith, finally took out the trash. Then the letter sat in the yard beside the garage for the rest of Friday, and well into Saturday morning.
It was retrieved by Freddy the Freegan on Saturday, June 23rd, at 11:47 A.M. That is when our story begins. 

Lieutenant Mike

Going through people's junk mail wasn't his usual thing, but Freddy sometimes made exceptions. A man has got to pay some bills, after all, no matter how far off the grid he'd like to get. There's some wiggle room in the freegan ethics, and sharing information doesn't pose any major contradictions. He looks, he finds, and if he can make a little something on the side for sharing, it's all good.
"Those Parsons keep it clean,” he tells Lieutenant Mike.
"They've got their reasons,” Mike replies. He's got some sort of feeling about Keith Parsons. The information sharing goes one way, as far as he's concerned.
"I mean no scraps, no junk, no reusable anything,” Freddy relates. "They've got some mighty consciousness going on in there,”
Mike speaks Freddy's language by now. There's been a history of sharing. Not usually a patient man, he lets Freddy ramble on. His coffee's getting cold as they sit there in the Main Street Diner. Freddy would like another slice of pie but Mike is holding out.
"So they got a disposal,” Mike says. "Come on. Tell me what you saw,”
"Nothing,” Freddy says. "They do recycling too. Someone drinks a lot of Gatorade and Red Bull. Or maybe one of them drinks the Gatorade and the other one the Red Bull. I could dust for prints and find out,” Freddy chuckles. He thinks he's being funny. Mike doesn't even smile. He's staring at the cream congealing in his cup.
"What else,”
"They get some junk mail,” Freddy says, "I'm surprised they don't recycle it. Catalogs especially. What a waste. She likes furniture and gardening, I'd say. I'd guess they own the house because of all the mortgage re-fi junk they get. Someone's getting old - they get a lot of cruise brochures and retirement shopping specials. And some other banking stuff,”
"Banking?” Mike looks up.
"Yeah, a couple of things,”
"What bank?" Mike asks.
"Fourth Fidelity was one. Hedgerow Funds the other. First was bogus, though. It wasn't addressed to them," said Freddy, handing over the mail.
"Oh?"
"Yeah, somebody Pearson. No, no. Pearson Holmes. Mailman probably mixed it up. Parsons, Pearson, easy. "
"What about the Funds?"
"Brochure. Pamphlet. Nothing personal,”
"Damn,” Mike is disappointed. "Nothing else?"
"Nope,” says Freddy, wishing he had more to say. "The rest was basic trash. Paper towels, wrappers, peach pits - love that summer fruit, you know."
"All right,” Mike gets up, peels out a twenty and throws it on the table. He's a very large man, barely squeezes out of the booth. Freddy swipes the bill and sticks it in his pocket, nodding.
"Any time,” Freddy says.
"I'll let you know,” the cop replies, and walks away. Freddy waits until he's gone, then slides the cooling coffee over. “Waste not, want not,” he tells himself, as he calmly drains the remains.  Thirty days, he thinks, only now it's more like twenty-five. Who the fuck is Pearson Holmes and where'd he put that key? 

Benjamin Holmes

A procession of text lines falling across the screen had no indication of a Pearson Holmes. There were plenty of combinations of the name, notably a captain of industry in Britain and a semi-famous poet who once knew a somewhat more famous poet. This led him on to a search of moguls in general, and a sidetrack about romanticism, but he knew he had to hurry. In this house the younger male roommate tended to come home unexpectedly on Saturdays. 
Freddy lowered the laptop lid and slid out the second floor bedroom window of the pleasant beige suburban mini-manse, and just in time. The silver Range Rover made its appearance at the end of the block, and no sooner had he slipped through the hedge than it presented itself on the yellow brick driveway. Young Rob was cheating on boyfriend Peter again. Two mid-twenties men in tennis outfits chuckled and murmured their way into the front door.
Freddy was annoyed, but on this side of town he had no other easy online access. Guess I'll try the phone book, he decided, and meandered down to the local post office. There were seven Holmes's in the book. Stepping outside with the silently sliced page, Freddy punched some numbers into the last remaining pay phone. Somewhat surprised that the numbers still worked, he started down the list.
He presented himself as a bank representative, inquiring on the whereabouts of the mystery Holmes. One after another, the answering Holmes had nothing to give him, nothing until the last. 
"Pearson Holmes?"
"Yes, thank you. We'd be glad of any information,” Freddy said.
"Why?"
"Official bank business,” Freddy intoned. "Confidential, you understand."
"And you're calling me out of the blue asking if I've ever heard of him? Some procedure you got there."
"We'd be much obliged,” Freddy continued.
"Sorry,” the man at the other end replied, and hung up the phone.
Aha, Freddy thought. That was a definite nibble. Benjamin Holmes. 422 Maple. Next stop, strongbox. 

Marcus Holmes

As soon as he hung up the phone, Ben picked it up again and called his brother Marcus. After waiting through the obligatory thirteen rings he was greeted, as expected, with a mumbled "Yo.”
"Marcus,” he said, "Somebody just called about dad."
"What are you talking about? Who called?"
"Said he was from a bank, but didn't sound like a bank. Sounded like snooping."
After a long silence, Ben heard Marcus sigh, and then say,
"I don't know what the fuck you are talking about,” and he hung up the phone.
Ben called back right away but this time had to wait through twenty six rings before hearing the familiar "Yo.”
"Maybe it's got something to do with money!" Ben exclaimed.
"You think? Bank calls and you think it might have something to do with money?"
"Maybe he left us some money,” Ben continued, ignoring his brother's sarcasm.
"Dad never had any money,” Marcus replied.
"Maybe he did,” Ben said. "Maybe it was a secret,”
"No,” said Marcus.
"But,” Ben began.
"Did you call the bank back?" Marcus asked.
"No,” Ben admitted.
"Well, little brother, maybe you should,” and with that, Marcus hung up again, and Ben knew it would be useless to try and call again. Marcus would never answer the phone more than twice in one day. He had his rules, and stuck to them no matter what.
"Fuck,” said Ben. He paced around his tiny apartment for a minute. Gloria would be home soon. She'd know what to do. 

Gloria Holmes

All day Sunday Gloria brooded. She had tried to get through to someone at the bank, but the answering service referred her to the fact of office hours. It seemed ridiculous to Gloria. These days they are glad to take your money any hour of the day or night and any old day of the week, but help you? No. Nothing.
She had already made up her mind to camp out first thing Monday morning and be there at the main branch of the Fourth Fidelity downtown on Piney Street before the doors even opened, and it fell to poor old Mr. Moot to have to deal with all her pent up curiosity.
"I'm his daughter-in-law,” she explained, "My husband is his youngest son. You sent us a letter."
"Yes, so you said. Do you happen to have a copy of this letter?" Moot inquired.
"Do I look like I have a copy?" Gloria replied, "of course I do not. I assumed that since you sent us a letter you would know what it was about."
"It would help to see," Moot tried to imply, but Gloria was all over his desk again, jumping up from her chair and pacing around, wagging the occasional finger at the row of tellers lined up beside her.
"Does anyone know? Who do I have to ask? Who's in charge of sending letters to people around here anyway?"
"I checked the computer,” Moot spoke up.
"Well, check again,” she demanded, and she came up behind him and for a moment considered shoving him out of his wobbly chair and taking over the machine. At this point the Bank Director, Harley Swink, made his appearance on the scene.
"Please take a seat,” he imperiously directed. Swink was clearly accustomed to obedience. At his gesture even Gloria complied.
"Now then,” he proceeded, once she'd calmed a bit. "What is all this about, Mr. Moot?"
"The lady,” Moot nearly whispered, "is inquiring after a letter she claims to have received from our office, regarding a Mr. Pearson Holmes.”
"Pearson Holmes?" Swink said, "Are you quite sure? Pearson Holmes?"
"He's my father-in-law,” Gloria said.
"Quite,” replied Swink. He appeared to be deep in thought, standing there with his arms crossed and his thick white hair just so. 
"Quite a feat,” he continued after a bit, "to be the daughter-in-law of someone who was dead before she was even born,”
"Then you know him,” Gloria replied, ignoring the condescension. "Of course my husband was only a child when his father died. He barely remembers him at all. Nevertheless."
"Quite,” Mr. Swink insisted, "And so you have the key?"
"The key?"
"You did receive our letter, did you not?"
"Of course,” Gloria lied.
"The key, then, to the strong box. You have precisely twenty-three days to produce the key, or else the box, and all of its contents, will be forfeit. According to the contract, naturally."
"What's so important about the key?" Gloria wanted to know. "You could just open it, couldn't you?"
"The contract,” Mr Swink sighed, apparently weary of repeating himself. "It's all in order. Quite. Wait here,” and so saying, Swink vanished behind the tellers into some secret chamber well concealed. Gloria felt conflicted. Happy to have found out more about it, but puzzled about the contract. She knew so little about her husband's dad. Only her brother-in-law Marcus seemed to know anything about the man, and getting anything out of Marcus was, well, a fucking pain in the ass! “Marcus,” she thought. “Goddamn freak.”
Swink returned with a copy of the contract. It was several pages long and made no sense to her at all. There was no indication of the contents of the box. No mention of Ben, no mention of Marcus. No mention of their mother either, no details of anything, really, mostly legal clauses. The party of the first and the party of the second. The interests of the state. The key must be produced. That much was clear. The expiration date as well. July 19, this year. 
"You may keep it,” Swink declared, and with that he sort of waved and turned away.
"Bring us the key if you can,” he casually mentioned as he disappeared for good.
Outside on the pavement, clutching the paper, Gloria stood for a while and just one thought pervaded her mind.
The key. 

Gary Grasz

By the time that Gloria Holmes had parked herself in front of the Fourth Fidelity on Monday morning, waiting for the bank to open, Lieutenant Mike had long since seen what she was about to see and learned more than she was about to to learn. He had rousted Swink out of his golf game Sunday, police business, you understand. Swink understood business, police and otherwise, and ever since the Holmes case had come to his attention, he had become more than slightly interested. 
"The salient feature of the contract,” he dictated to his secretary, Lila, "is that it doesn't matter who brings in the key, as long as someone does."
He had said the same thing to Mike, as they stood there in the secondary vault, gazing at the box. It was, as the name suggested, a big hulking object on the floor in the corner of the room, around two feet on every side, and as black as death.
Monday morning Mike was reading through the contract yet again, after he squeezed himself into the very front booth at May's Cafe. It was all a bunch of nonsense to him. He had understood nothing each time, which was why he'd invited his lawyer buddy, Gary Grasz, to breakfast.
Grasz was running late, as usual. All of his clients were either out on bail or trying to get out on bail, which meant he was tied up in the courts or at the bondsman's almost all day every day. When Grasz puffed in all scattered, Mike waved him over, and before he even got settled, Mike had pushed the pile of papers across the table at him.
"Greek to me,” Mike muttered as Grasz started piecing together the pile to make sure all the pages were in order. The waitress knew what he wanted and had a glass of orange juice in front of him before he even noticed her. 
"Criminal case?" Grasz queried, already knowing the Lieutenant wouldn't tell him. He didn't bother listening to the silence that followed his question.
"A lot of stipulations,” he said, rifling through the contract. "Party of the first, party of the second."
He pushed the papers around with one hand on the table while his other hand groped and finally reached the OJ. After taking a big gulp, still focused on the pages.
"Nothing about the contents of the box,” he said. "Angie? Can I get a bagel? Onion. Toasted? Yeah, lots. Thanks."
"Sure I want to know what's in it,” Mike was saying, "but more than that I want to know why. Think it's authentic?"
"No doubt,” said Grasz. "No one but a lawyer could put together shit like this. As for why, I cannot tell you."
"Got a guess?"
"Maybe,” Grasz paused to take another swig. "Might be this Holmes guy wanted to leave something special for someone, but he maybe didn't trust them. No, maybe he didn't even know who. He wanted to leave it for someone, but didn't know who."
"I don't get you,” Mike was eating nothing. The case was making him hungry for something other than food.
"Whoever he gave the key to,” Grasz said. "Or whoever would know where he put it, that would be the person who deserved it. Just a guess. Lot of factors. How old he was at the time, was he married, things like that."
"Huh,” Mike grunted. He was not going to tell Grasz anything. Now that Grasz knew about the key and the guy's name too, he already knew too much. “How many people know about this?” Mike wondered, as Grasz flew off to his next emergent crisis. Keith and Katie Parsons. Freddy. The bank manager. Himself and now Grasz. The one thing none of them seemed to know was, who the hell was Pearson Holmes? 

Peewee

422 Maple was in a crappy part of town. Freddy usually avoided neighborhoods like this. The houses were too close together and open, visible to each other. He preferred the fancier parts, where hedges and high wood fences made it much easier to slip in and out unseen.
Here, also, the people had really gross garbage - old pizza, spit sodas, and everything reeking of beer and piss. And their dogs were either mean or noisy or both. Lucky for him, the Holmes's were an exception. They had a sweet little terrier named Peewee who just wagged his tiny tail and licked Freddy's hands all over, nice and quiet. 
Once inside, Freddy relaxed. He'd seen the man and wife head out pretty early in the morning, so he figured they'd gone off to work. The house was left a mess. Freddy felt a bit grubby just standing there looking around. The wife was kind of gaudy - favored bright yellows and reds. Some kind of Hawaiian chick, he thought, from her photos and her wardrobe. Not to mention the travel posters lining the walls like some perpetual reproach - see what I left behind for you?
The husband seemed to live for his jazz recordings. “Never understood that shit,” Freddy thought. Between the two of them they had quite a collection of ashtrays. You had to admire the rat pack mentality. There was stuff piled all over the living room floor, the closets were overflowing with stuff, they had stuff in the small laundry room out back and the kitchen was littered with dishes and trash. 
Problem was, none of the stuff was useful. “It's all just waste,” Freddy thought, “Resources down the drain.” Usually Freddy would liberate something, recycle and redeploy, try to extend the life of the product, but these people had nothing but bottles and cans - and it looked like they didn't even recycle.
"Just info, I guess,” he decided. The fridge in the kitchen was the first place to look. Freddy copied down numbers and names from the various scraps taped and stuck on with magnets (Hawaii!!). Some relatives, he judged, maybe friends. There were photos of Gloria and Ben on a trip (Hawaii!!), and a picture of somebody's child. They didn't seem to have one of their own. 
He looked through some drawers, found some bills. Everything was on credit and installments. TV, furniture, everything. These people were deeply in debt. Encouraged, no doubt, by the hyperconsumptive mentality. Rat race. Working to buy shit they don't even need. Ugly shit too, like that couch. Feeding themselves crap like those Fritos and Cokes. They are going to make themselves sick and for what? They can't even pay for this stuff so they have to work harder and more.
Freddy filled up his list with the names of the banks and the stores and the credit card companies. He wanted to get out of that place. Feeling guilty at leaving recyclables behind, and yet not wanting to leave any traces, he snuck out the back, gave a pat to the dog, and slipped off into the morning just as Gloria walked up the front steps. 

Marla Rainbow Sky

Gloria opened the door and was surprised that Peewee was not waiting for her as usual. 
"Peewee!” she called out. "Where's my little munchkin?” The dog came clattering from the kitchen, slipping and sliding on the bare linoleum floor until she scooped him up and smothered him with kisses.
"There's my little darling. There's my sweetie peewee.” She carried him back to the kitchen while muttering "what a fucking shit hole. Who's gonna clean this place up?” She headed straight for the cupboard and grabbed a Snickers bar, tearing off the wrapper with her teeth and letting it fall on the floor. With her foot she opened the refrigerator door and leaned in to grab a Coke. With one hand still holding the dog, she had to put the candy bar in her teeth to grab the soda with her other hand. All things accomplished, she marched back to the living room and plopped onto the recliner, letting Peewee settle into her lap. She grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. 
"Can't believe he turned the fucking volume down AGAIN!” she shouted, as she pressed the button with her thumb repeatedly to get the maximum sound. Some advice doctor was telling some whore to stop fucking her husband's best friends all the time and she was like, "but I need to fuck. I just need to fuck all the time.” 
Gloria wasn't listening. That thing about the husband reminded her of her husband's brother, who she hated almost as much as he hated her. “I will never get a damned thing out of Marcus,” she thought, “and Marcus is the only one who would even know.” Gloria reviewed the facts she had. Fact one, Ben and Marcus’ dad died more than thirty years ago. Fact two, Ben was only two at the time. Marcus was seven so he actually remembered the man just a bit. Fact three, their mother took off when Marcus was nine and Ben was four. Fact four, nobody knows whatever happened to that bitch - Marla Rainbow Sky or whatever the fuck her name was. Fact five, as far as Gloria knew, nobody had any papers or pictures or records or anything at all about the late Pearson Holmes. He was some kind of hippie, she recalled. Lived off the grid, as they say.
"Fuck!" she blurted out and Peewee gave her a really sad big-eyed look. "Oh no, my precious,” Gloria patted him, "not you. You're my baby. My darling. My pumpkin.” To herself she added, “What the hell am I going to do? I have got to find that key.” 

SmudgePot

Marcus Holmes lived surrounded by machines. He had at least twelve computer monitors lined up neatly on rolling racks arranged in a semicircle around an old oak desk that featured a Betty Boop ashtray, a keyboard, a mouse, and a whole lot of switchboxes and cables. The bottom shelves of the racks were filled with handmade tower computers all running different flavors of Unix. A couple of UPC's hummed noisily along with the PC fans and CRT displays, but otherwise the only sounds in the apartment were the clickings of mice and the keyboard. The one-room studio was dark except for the monitors. 
Marcus spent his days in front of that desk, studying the screens. He maintained a number of systems for outside sources and only left his hovel for occasional shopping expeditions. Usually he took delivery and a boy from down the hall came Sundays to cart away garbage and do a little straightening in exchange for pirated video games.
On a typical Monday Marcus took in lots of email assignments and requests and dispatched with necessary duties quickly. Cron jobs took care of most of the work. For everything else he had a script and if he didn't have one, he made one, and if it was for something that would need to be done more than once, he would stick it in a cron job. He had once met the guy who invented the cron but he couldn't remember his name. That was in the old days, anyway, when Marcus still had some interest in people. 
Now he had interest in data. People in the aggregate were more his style. Individuals were always disappointing. Sooner or later you always found out they were boring, and Marcus hated being bored.
Hating was his other hobby. Data, then hating, then waiting to die. He was already on the list. He had kidneys that weren't any good. Already it hurt him to sit all day, and he was researching various recliners. It pissed him off that he had to use a browser for this work. He preferred to use Lynx but now everyone had those stupid "shopping carts" and other so-called user-friendly interfaces and it drove him crazy. 
People are like dogs, he thought, except instead of having to sniff at everything they have to look at everything, as if they wouldn't know what it was if they couldn't see it. More looking meant less language and less language meant less thinking and that's why people today are so stupid.
Marcus lit another cigarette and muttered about users. The idiot CEO from SmudgePot or whatever that stupid startup was had forgotten his password again and needed his login ASAHP. Marcus toyed with the notion of giving him the password "password" but decided instead to give him 'a:sjdUY22n'.
The telephone rang. He let it ring thirteen times, then answered.
"Yo.”
"Marcus Holmes?" A deep heavy voice inquired.
"Could be,” he replied, "who wants to know?"
"Police business,” said Lieutenant Mike. 

Gramm

Lieutenant Mike was not happy. As a rule he followed his ample gut, played his hunches and refused to believe in coincidences. There was something he didn't like about this case. He was sure that Katie Parsons was kiting checks and yet he couldn't get anything on her. Also, she was way too young for that husband she had, and way too good looking too. That was the first thing that got her under his microscope. 
Mike Gramm was a legend for his hunches. He could sit out at a Cinnabun in any mall anywhere and point out every single person with a criminal record passing by. "Larceny,” he'd grumble with his mouth full of stickiness. "Prostitution. Narcotics. DUI,” His new partner would think he was full of it, but he'd learn over time not to doubt. Lieutenant Mike was almost never wrong.
He'd spotted Katie Parsons at the mall one day, checking out Renaissance DesignWare. No way she can afford that stuff, he said to himself, and he wasn't judging by her outfit but only by the way she walked. "Gutter trash," he said. She was just his type. Then when he saw the old man, he knew. She was taking him for his money. Satisfied, he turned away, but then the rookie said, "hey look, she's paying," and he had to turn around and notice she was writing a check, while the old man stood by watching.
It didn't seem right. It didn't fit in. Later he'd gotten her name off the check by asking the cashier for it. Got the address, got the phone. Got the California driver's license number too, and when he ran her through the system he got jack. She seemed legit. He didn't buy it.
Now it led him to this Marcus Holmes guy. Strong box. Dead guy. Missing key. He was curious about the box, but more than that, he wanted something on Katie Parsons and the case just wasn't going that way. 
Holmes had nothing. Didn't know his dad. Didn't know anything about the box, not even the name of the bank. Had a brother, though. Tuesday morning Mike got a call from Swink, who told him all about Gloria. Gramm added three more names to his list of people who knew about the box. He was sure - his gut was certain - that one or more of the people on that list were going to end up in a room alone with him someday. 

Llewellyn

Freddy's home was a dirt brown bungalow set back behind a mass of broken concrete and weeds. On one side was a junkyard. On the other side, the ground was being prepared for a series of new condos. In the front of the house, a forest green Lexus LS 311 sat clean and largely unused. 
Inside, Freddy's co-rewilder, Llewellyn, was concocting a meal composed of rescued scraps and foraged vegetation. These items, combined with water from the construction site's hoses, were combined in a long-handled pot of her own invention, and dangled over the fireplace's blaze of furniture and driftwood.
Llewellyn was dressed in revitalized fabrics, and sported a lion's mane of wild blond hair piled up and around her square-ish face. As Freddy entered the house, she turned and pushed up his glasses to give him her customary kiss on the brows. Llewellyn was a mass of trade secrets.
"Smells good,” Freddy said as he plunked himself down on the salvaged love seat. 
"Hecka foraging today,” she replied. "Wait ‘til you see the reads.”
Llewellyn's favorite passion was books. She'd read anything, as long as it was found and not bought. She had not bought a thing all year, not a single item of any kind. Freddy sometimes made up the difference when there was something she wanted but just could not find, but he usually kept it quiet from her. As far as she knew, neither of them had any use for money at all.
They didn't pay rent. They were squatters. They didn't pay bills. They used water that was otherwise paid for next door. They didn't bother with lights, when candles or oils and wicks would suffice. They had no need for electricity at all. They needed no phone, no computer. They walked or they ran or they fixed up a bike and used that. The car out in front was for show. Who would think of a squatter with a Lexus? So nobody came by to check.
"Got something going on,” Freddy said.
"Oh yeah? Is it cool?" she wanted to know. Freddy knew not to tell her too much. If she knew what it was, that a bank was involved, and possibly cash, or anything with capitalist connections, she might get upset. It was better to shield her from details like that.
"Yeah, it's a mystery,” he told her, "some guy whose been gone a long time. People are trying to find out who he was,”
"Was he someone important?" she asked.
"No,” Freddy said, "that's the thing. It seems he was totally out of the system, but a long time ago, like a hippie. They can't find anything on him.”
"Awesome,” she said, "it's so cool we have roots in the past.”
"Yeah,” Freddy agreed, but he was thinking what a pain in the ass it was that this guy had been so good at it. He was wondering how he was ever going to find that key. 

Mary Ellen Leipzig

As Attorney Grasz' private legal secretary, Mary Ellen Leipzig was used to working on constant interruption mode, so it didn't faze her one bit when she was asked to assemble every single piece of information known to the system regarding one Mister Pearson Holmes.
She went about this business with her usual efficiency, notwithstanding the nauseating effects of her latest round of chemotherapy. Cancer didn't stop for work, so she wasn't going to let work even pause for cancer. She was going to beat that thing one memo at a time.
Mary Ellen would not rest all day Monday and all day Tuesday until by Tuesday midnight she had a fairly thin dossier to present to her boss. Inside that dossier was the known legal record of Holmes, his parents, his spouses and his children.
Shandar Devi Holmes and Luisa Castle Holmes had produced the Pearson offspring one cold morning in the month of March. Almost precisely 30 years later, long after the parents' untimely demises, Pearson too was recorded deceased in a multi-car pileup on the 238 near East 14th and the Mission. At that time he had two boys, aged seven and two, and a wife, Marla Rainbow Sky. It was recorded that Pearson was the driver and proximate cause of the entire accident, which claimed three other lives as well: Martin Beasley, aged 49, Barbara Beasley, 47, and Rikki Octavius Beasley, 11.
The parents had passed when Pearson was only nine years old. The rest of his childhood was well documented by the various State and County homes where he was placed. After the age of 16, and until the death certificate, only one more legal record survived: a telephone installation charge at a bungalow in Berkeley. Otherwise, Pearson Holmes did not exist, according to the government. He never filed any taxes, never had his name affixed to any lease, never bought a car, never bought a home, never had a credit card, never had a bank account. He never had a payroll job, and he never had a social security number. 
Mary Ellen felt obliged to list all of the records she did not find, but had expected to. The more she researched, the more intrigued she became. She was itching to ask Mr. Grasz about the case but knew that it was not her place. She continued to search all public records from her computer at home, but only found one more item - a contract for a strong box placed in the Fourth Fidelity Bank vault on a July 19 nearly thirty years past. As Mary Ellen read the terms of the deal, her eyes widened and she knew she'd stumbled on the essence of the matter. As a legal secretary Mary Ellen, more perhaps than anybody else, understood the hidden logic behind the seemingly twisted terms. 
And she thought she was beginning to understand what Pearson Holmes was up to. 

Cuero de Canela

Ben knew he had to take a roundabout approach if he was ever going to get anything out of Marcus. The brothers had not spoken face to face in years. On the telephone, he could only get one chance to ask one question, and he almost always blew it. He didn't understand his brother at all but at least he'd come to learn the rules, and he realized he didn't have time for the standard approach. 
For two days he thought and thought and came up with nothing. He considered anagrams. He contemplated riddles. He reviewed the concept of codes and secret messages. Each of these notions had some merit, but they required someone more skilled than he to pull them off. Marcus would see through anything he came up with, and probably within minutes. He would have to think of with something else.
Wednesday morning he had a dream, and the dream supplied him with the weapon he required. In the dream he was surrounded by people very much larger than himself. He was in a tight spot, possibly an elevator, and slowly being crushed by these obesities. They were all turning slowly around, as if being roasted on a spit, and their pink flesh threatened to absorb his own brown skin, to squash it, to crush and liquify it out of existence like a grape in a wine press. In the dream he was about to scream but then he smelled a smell that made him recall his mother and he woke up with the understanding of how to smoke his brother out.
That morning he went to a dollar store and bought some assorted items. From his haul he selected a cinnamon stick and an oblong leather patch. He lit the cinnamon on fire and while it smoldered he rubbed it all over the patch. Then he carefully placed the remaining cinnamon stick inside the patch, and rolled the patch in newsprint, and put the rolled up collection inside an empty toilet paper tube. All of this he put inside a manila envelope, addressed the envelope to Marcus, took the bus across town to Marcus' apartment, placed the envelope in the mail slot, rang the doorbell and went home.
All the way on the bus ride home he smiled and knew he'd won a very important victory. 

Kristin O'Leary

First thing Wednesday morning, Gary Grasz sat down at his cheap metal desk and studied the papers left him by his secretary. "Damn good work,” he muttered, and then he thought "it'll be a damn shame when I have to replace her. It won't be easy to find somebody that good for that price. But, already the insurance premiums are making a dent. It's probably got to be sooner than later.”
Grasz had three court dates by nine, some bondsmen to meet, parole officers too. He had to check in with the warden as well. “Time's wasting,” he thought as he glanced through the lists. Everyone who ever knew Holmes was in there, everyone on record, that is. All of his teachers, all of his classmates, all of his relatives, all of his friends. Up until to a certain point. And then nothing. “Hmm,” Grasz snorted. “Not much to go on now, is there?”
He quickly decided that it would be useless to look up those former acquaintances. He might find a lead if he had a detective, but he wasn't paying for that. Besides, all the time it would take to track down these people and talk to them when the chances were good that they would know nothing, even if they even remembered the guy.

The relatives were easily managed, since they were all dead. The wives could be a different matter. Marla McCann and Kristin O'Leary. Both were reportedly missing, but both had left more recent trails. He might put Mary Ellen on that. Judging from what she had gathered so far, she could probably sniff up some clues.
“OK then, the wives, but that's it. And the kids. I could talk to the kids. We know where they are, but what would they possibly tell us? They're already in on it, aren't they? Maybe they know what's inside. Could be. I'll bet you they'd clam up at once. Get suspicious. Okay, just the wives. Mary Ellen.”
He dashed off a note and left it for her. Then he picked up some papers and shoved them inside his already bulging portfolio, and scattered himself off to court. 

Mama Rosetta

You don't get along without getting along. No one knew this better than Freddy, who seemed to know somebody everywhere. He was always dealing, always trading, always exchanging favors. "It's not what you know,” he used to say, "it's who you know and who knows you.” He was on the margins but he tried his best to stay inside of the law. He had information for the cops. He had salvage for the yards. He had "surplus" for the neighborhoods and could "find" an awful lot of useful stuff for anyone who needed it. Part Robin Hood, part Dodger, Freddy roamed the streets in search of every and all adventure. Now, when he needed information, he began to make the rounds.
Old-timers knew a lot but weren't so reliable. Drunks knew more than you would think but it wasn't easy getting it. Freddy started with the madams. Some of them had been around so long it seemed that they knew every man who'd ever lived. They all come back to mama. Mama Rosetta that is.
Freddy knew her taste in foreign films and would often find unusual ones for her. He'd got her started on Japanese Noir and she still owed him big-time. Freddy wasn't interested in her typical transactions. 
“Did she know of Pearson Holmes?”
“Of him? Yes. Knew him? No.”
Wednesday night June 27th was hot. At nine o'clock it was still clocking in over ninety. Rosetta was out on her patio in the back of the old Victorian, sitting in front of a window fan that was blasting out high. She mopped her patchy balding head with washcloths wrapped around ice cubes. Two cigarettes going continually and a bottle of scotch nestled tight in her crotch, Rosetta was set for the evening. Freddy had hopped over the low stone wall and pulled up a chair beside her.
"Pearson Holmes,” Rosetta repeated. "Now we're going way back. I knew his best friend once upon a time. Used to tell me stories,”
"Who's the friend?" Freddy wanted to know.
"Fellow by the name of Hansen. Charles, it was. Called him Charles, not Chuck,”
"Where's that guy now?"
"Oh, long gone. Long time now," Rosetta replied. "Drank himself to death like near everybody else,” She paused to take a swig out of her bottle as the thought occurred to her. "They found him floating in the river up in Boston. Funny thing. Charles was bobbing in the Charles,” Rosetta cackled, then sputtered up choking for a few. Freddy waited quietly, until the old bitch calmed herself.
"Holmes, though, piece of work from what I heard,” she eventually went on. "Moral high ground was his game. Holier than you and me. Wouldn't sully his hands with no honest day's work. Wouldn't let the system drag him in and drag him down. Charles used to tell me about those speeches. He'd go downtown every now and then and stand out on the corner giving lectures, whenever he was good and angry enough. Then after he'd raked in some bucks he'd suddenly feel better about old Babylon and head back home. Wouldn't see or hear from him again for awhile.”
Freddy thought that lots of people might remember a man like that, but where would you begin? Can't go around asking every random old guy about a homeless bum who used to rant and rave down by the terminal! "Head back home,” though, that's what he asked her about next, but Rosetta couldn't tell him. She knew where Charles lived at the time. By the waterfront, near the houseboats. That made a lot of sense. There were still camps down there nowadays. Somebody might remember.
He left her with a copy of 'Branded to Kill'. She was going to like that one, he knew, and he clambered on his bike and started pedaling waterward. 

Black Angus

Lieutenant Mike didn't make Lieutenant by trusting other people. He also didn't make it by doing a lot of work himself. Those two principles had served him well and remained his guiding star, so as he sat there in his booth at the Burger Joint, he considered whom he trusted least that day, and who was likely to do the most work for him. He was not surprised to discover that the same man fit both bills, or, at least, his office did.
He had needed Grasz to decipher the legalese, but knew that Grasz would take that ball and run with it, straight to his devoted assistant, the steady and persistent Miss Leipzig. Mike also didn't like leaving a booth too soon after scrunching into it, so he grabbed his phone and placed a call instead. The ever obedient secretary was soon motoring across town to bring the Lieutenant his very own copy of the dossier. 
He invited her to join him and even offered her a lemonade. Gramm was being generous that day. Mary Ellen sat in the booth across from him, sipping on her straw and watching him turn page after page of names and connections as he chewed on his medium rare burger.
Occasionally Mike asked her a question. She was delighted to answer. Yes, the Kristin wife came first. No kids from her. Yes, the Marla was the same one later booked as Rainbow Sky in various disturbances. No, she didn't know if either of the boys had any contact with their mother in recent years. Yes, those were all the "students" known to have attended that particular "boarding school" during those intervals. Yes, it's possible that Pearson Holmes had gone by other names at times but she had no proof of that. Yes, Grasz was mostly interested in the wives.
Naturally, Gramm told himself, not surprised that Grasz would choose the easiest and most obvious leads. Well, let him chase the wives, Mike thought. He would have Miss Leipzig follow up on classmates and former professors. He himself would do what he did best - nothing at all for now.
He had no more questions and dismissed Mary Ellen with a grunted thanks. She was glad to help him anytime and would certainly do as he requested. Lieutenant Mike was very pleased with himself. Now, he thought, digging into a butter-soaked baked potato, who else can I use in this matter? 

GriftCom

Marcus didn't receive the package until the pizza delivery guy handed it to him along with his garlic-peanut-artichoke-onion pizza. Marcus set the manila folder aside until he'd finished dinner and was ready to take a long look at the state of his various systems. It was his custom to never do only one thing at a time, so he was unable to inspect a suspicious item of dubious origin unless he was also working. Or sort of working. It bothered him when everything was going right and there were no "fires to put out,” as the lame engineers would say.
With no damage to control, Marcus was stuck with admiring his handiwork. It didn't even strike him as odd at first when he pulled out the toilet roll containing the leather patch rubbed down with cinnamon. Maybe he thought it was something he had ordered online and then forgotten about, but after he pulled it out of the folder and gave it a glance, he sat it down on his desk next to the mouse and returned to inspecting monitor six. Was it possible that the CIO from GriftCom had really tried the same wrong password more than ten times in a row? With the caps lock on? Marcus smiled and then he felt a memory of his mom coming on.
He was eleven. His dad had been gone for some years already. Mom was struggling to pay the bills. She had an obsessive notion that somewhere in the house there was a pot of gold. Literally a pot of gold. Marcus was sure his mother was going insane. She was digging through the pantry, pulling out every assorted coffee can and mason jar and inspected their contents as if there was going to be a pot of gold in one of them. 
"Come on, you stupid motherfucker,” she yelled in his memory. "Where the fuck did you put that fucking pot of gold?"
"Um, mom?" the young Marcus tried to interject, "like pots of gold are for leprechauns?"
"Or rainbows,” she muttered, not glancing over at him, "like rainbows in the sky? Get it?"
He got it. She had changed her name to Marla Rainbow Sky a long, long time before and never hesitated to bring up rainbows or "rainbows in the sky,” to distinguish them from the kind of rainbows you can see on oily parking lots.
“Mom never found that pot of gold,” he told himself, and wondered why he even thought of it just now, and this is when he noticed the toilet paper roll again. This time he picked it up and studied it, turning it around and inspecting every angle. 
"What the fuck?" he said out loud. It was definitely a puzzle. Who would leave a thing like that outside his door? He pulled the leather patch out and unrolled it, pulling out the cinnamon stick as well. Holding the patch in his left hand and the cinnamon in his right, he forgot all about his monitors and his scripts. Instead, he thought about his father and the time he brought a bicycle home that he claimed he'd found in a dumpster. It was just the right size for Marcus and it was his favorite color, too. Marcus was five and felt a little queasy about it. He knew it was exactly what he wanted and at the same time he felt guilty, like he'd stolen it. He knew that it was wrong.
Marcus never rode that bike, no matter how hard his father tried to get him on it. Later on, when it was still collecting dust out under the stairs in the back, Ben rode it when he got old enough, and never gave it a second thought. 
"I thought it was what he wanted,” he heard his father say and somehow he heard his mother's voice, as clear as day, say back,
"That child is not like one of us,” 

Willa Gonzaga

Gloria had absolutely nothing to go on, but if anyone deserved to find that key, damn it, it was she. Nobody else had to put up with that loser of a husband who, after all, was the son of the man who had left nothing else to anyone else as far as anyone knew in this world. Therefore, logically, the treasure rightfully belonged to her. She carefully brought the subject up on Thursday, while gossiping over the fence with Willa Gonzaga, her elderly next-door neighbor.
"What if you wanted to find a thing,” she had said, "that somebody hid a long time ago, and you didn't know where to even begin?”
"Private detective,” Willa replied. "It's obvious. They're all the time solving cases that nobody else could solve.”
"That's on TV,” Gloria said. "There's no such thing as a real one, is there?”
"Of course there is,” Willa said, "of course most of them are kind of seedy. Go around taking pictures of husbands and wives out screwing around,”
"If only,” Gloria sighed. 
"But some of them do an honest day's work,” Willa went on. "Like finding things or kids that went off. Only thing is they're expensive."
"Oh yeah?" Gloria asked, "how much?” She figured that as long as Ben's name was on the credit cards, she could spend as much as she wanted and not have to worry about it. 
"Don't really know,” Willa answered. "It probably depends on the job, on the thing that you're looking for. They'd probably all want a cut.”
"Huh,” Gloria didn't like the sound of that. "Wish there was someone who was cheap but good.”
"You could always try Dawn Debris,” Willa said, "I hear that she don't charge nothing, but you got to watch out. She won't even go near any case if she thinks you're looking for something worth money."
"What did you say?" Gloria was sure she'd misheard.
"Oh yeah, she's an odd one I hear. Only finds things that aren't worth nothing. You know, like lost teddy bears, sentimental items like that."
"What is she, some kind of retard?" Gloria inquired.
"Something like that,” Willa nodded. "You can find her in the Yellow Pages under "Things: Lost and Found.”
"No shit,” Gloria said. She would have to check that out. “A private detective, for free? But nothing worth money?” Hell, she could easily make up some story. Who'd know? 

Cindy Buck

Thursday, June 28th. 20 more days until doomsday. Ben sulked at his desk in his office. It was another slow day. Outside in the shop, it seemed that nobody needed anything packed up and mailed. Nobody needed a notary. Hell, nobody needed any stamps! He was thinking about going out there and sending young Cindy Buck home. She was the teenager he'd hired to fill in a few days a week. She was working her way through community college and Ben always felt guilty when he sent her home early. He figured he was costing her classes or books or a meal, though she seemed quite well-fed, and she never complained.
She never said much about anything, in fact. She was a sizable girl, and hated to move. She preferred it when no customers came. Then she could flip through her Cosmo collection, pausing to sniff the perfumes. Cindy Buck never wore makeup, but she knew a whole lot about it. She often passed the time discussing makeovers with the housewives who stopped by to check on their mail. At Ship’n’Go, there was usually somebody wasting their time. Today hardly anyone came by.
It didn't help that it was ninety degrees in the shade, and this corner of the strip mall at the far end of the lot was the hottest and least shady of all. Customers would have had to make an effort to sweat all the way there from the grocery store, and they could always check on their mail another day.
Ben finally worked up the shame to dismiss her and Cindy rolled off out the door. Ben waited before taking the seat. He didn't like to sit where she'd sat until her warmth had cooled off and the red plastic cover had reassembled its shape. He stood there sweltering and fussing about the twenty days left till the state took possession of his father's only legacy. He was depressed about his tactic with Marcus. "I should have heard something by now,” he moped. "I might have to go to Plan B,” 

Manson

Armed with a case of those airline-sized bottles of assorted alcohols, Freddy made the rounds down by the waterfront. He'd kept up these casual visitations for some time, on the theory that it's always better to be in good with the locals than not. To the drifters and the homeless and the professional bums, Freddy was someone reliable. He couldn't save your world, but he'd come up with something you desired every now and then, and that was more than almost anyone else would ever do. For the old guys by the docks, that usually meant whiskey.
In bits and pieces he heard some legends surrounding their former compadre Holmes, and was not surprised that some of those stories were the same as he'd heard told with other names attached as being the subject. These fables go around. The time the cops were looking to bust up drug rings, where they'd go to ground, get hid and never found. The lottery winner who distributed his cash with all the neighborhood. The guy who'd filled a shopping cart with books and walked right out of the bookstore, once again sharing the wealth with all. Stories that usually surrounded the myth of stuff being given away.
There were also legendary outlaws, pulling famous scams, and getting away with them. If you were giving booze away and asking about a name, that name would show up as those outlaws too. Or how he hung around with Manson. Or how he'd robbed a bank and fooled the cops. Or how he'd jumped once from the bridge and didn't even get a scratch. Or how he was supposed to be dead but people had seen him since. Some of these as well - he faked his death, he killed his friend instead, he paid somebody off, he moved away but promised to return with pots of gold for everyone.
Resting up at home, Freddy was sure that he knew little more than when he started out. Some said he'd gotten hitched a time or two, and finally settled down, had kids, did dock work on the side, some carpentry, odd jobs. He'd found some folks who said he'd done some work for them. He was known as a sort of community leader. Bossy, in other words.
A lot of old-timers laughed and laughed when they recalled him trying to organize along the principles of anarchy. He took a few things seriously. Politics, marijuana, music. They said he knew his way around boats, a natural sailor who sometimes did crew work as well. He was pretty well-known there for a time. A fixture on the waterfront. Old men still remembered him.
"I am going to have to do better than this,” Freddy told himself. The man was a phantom. He had been around, there was no doubt about that. But he wasn't looking for a myth, he was looking for a key. 

Eric "Peanut" Haskins

Mary Ellen amused herself by thinking up nicknames for the various former "classmates" of Pearson Holmes. Richard "Catfish" Junker of Jackson, MI, for example, now aged 69 and retired from a career as a private security guard. Carl "Soybean" Ellis, 68, of Dayton, OH, former tractor salesman. Henry "Pinky" Trellis, 72, of Long Beach, longtime food and commercial workers union representative. Most of those ex-wards of the state had found quasi-stable stations in life and managed to eek out a decent existence. Some had died young, like Eric "Peanut" Haskins, a dockworker who'd fallen from a cruise ship on his one and only dream vacation. Almost none of them had even remained in the state, let alone locally, after their release from ‘education’. It was as if they'd all been given marching orders to get out of town by sundown.
Some of the warders remained, but of those only one was still coherent, a maven by the name of Adrienne Knacht. This was long ago, of course. She didn't remember Pearson but she did remember "Catfish" and was not surprised to hear of his long confinement followed by a spell as a prison guard. "He had a powerful need for security,” she recalled. Once when a gang of boys had busted out, he went straight back to the front gate where he stood, dripping in the rain, begging to be let in so he could squeal on the others right away. Purvis Anders was her other pet project. This young man ate nothing but buttered toast in the seven years she has known him. 
The Lieutenant will be disappointed, Mary Ellen thought, as she crossed off every name. It had taken all day long to come up with nothing. There must be something else, she told herself, and started over from the top of the dossier. Births, marriages, deaths. Everything seemed in order there, or was it? She looked again at the police report about the multi-car accident. The Beasleys were all accounted for, but Pearson Holmes? He'd been identified by a California driver's license. Mary Ellen was surprised she'd overlooked this commonplace detail before. Pearson Holmes had never been issued a driver's license in the state, and yet? She entered the number into the DMV database and discovered that the name assigned to that number wasn't Holmes. It was Eric "Peanut" Haskins. 

Baby-wets-her-pants

In her drab little walk-up, Dawn Debris was already wishing she had not opened the door and let the creature in. Now it was in, and it was sprawled all over her couch, disturbing the papers she'd deliberately left strewn to discourage anyone from sitting there. The Gloria-thing (or whatever it's name was) was not given to getting clues.
It was, however, given to yapping, or was that the little dog-like creature she was carrying in her shoulder bag?
"And so my husband is just totally distraught,” it was saying, as it went on and on with an obviously made up story about a key to a locker (or to something) that was oh so crucial to her hubby's mental health. And that awful squirmy voice, like it was programmed in like a Baby-wets-her-pants.
"Listen,” Dawn broke in, "a key is only to open something, right? But it's never the only way to open it. You can always smash it open, am I right?"
"Oh no, no smashing,” Gloria replied, "because the locker is also special. It was the only thing left him by his dear departed daddy. We don't want to smash it, just complete it.”
"And you don't know what's inside?"
"That's just the thing,” Gloria answered, "inside is not important, just being able to open it when the day comes.”
"And what day is that?"
"The anniversary, of course. My father-in-law's passing. He was supposed to open the locker on the anniversary, a kind of ceremony, but we never had the key.”
"Never?"
"No, never. My father-in-law passed away before he could pass it on.”
"And of course you've searched his house and everything.”
"Well," Gloria paused, "he never actually had a house. We have no idea where he put it. No idea at all.”
"Oh,” Dawn thought, "there is an element of interest, even though I'm not buying this ceremony story for a minute. If there's a key, there's probably valuables involved, and I usually don't do valuables. And this woman is giving me the creeps. I'm sure she's up to no good. 
"I'll want to talk with your husband,” Dawn decided.
"Um, okay,” Gloria replied. She had wanted to keep Ben out of it, but time was running out. She wasn't sure that he could keep her story straight, but she swore she'd make him pay if he screwed up. 

Essence d'Odeur

Gary Grasz had no trouble tracking down Kristin O'Leary. He'd bailed her out of prison so many times he could find her with his eyes closed. As it was, he didn't need to. No sooner did her name come up on Mary Ellen's list than it also came up on his current client list. Not as Kristin O'Leary, though. This time it was Essence d'Odeur. Her little joke. At fifty-nine you might think she'd have stopped turning tricks but she kept in shape and it takes all kinds.
"Essence, I presume?” Grasz gleamed at her from across the glass.
"You're looking mighty shiny yourself,” Kristin returned.
"Got a question or two for you,” he proposed.
"Not until you get me out of here,” Kristin turned her face away, then stood and left the cubicle. Grasz sighed and made the arrangements. A few minutes later they were in his brand new BMW, wheeling towards the waterfront.
"Old news,” Grasz said, "a blast from the past,”
"Hot diggity,” Kristin croaked, lighting up her third Virginia Slim in eleven minutes. 
"Pearson Holmes,” Grasz said, and Kristin burst out laughing so hard she thought she'd lose control and bang her head on the glass or something. 
"What the fuck!" she declared, "old news is right! What was I, seventeen? That son of a bitch, never kept his dick in his pants for two hours straight."
"That so?" Grasz encouraged.
"Mother fucker,” Kristin spat. "Didn't pay for either one of my Pearson abortions! Didn't believe in it. Wasn't pure, he said. Fucking pure!"
"He had two other kids later, I'm told,” Grasz suggested.
"Yeah, that little twat Marla. Served her fucking right, the bitch.”
"No love lost?"
"He always had some little thing around. Never knew what they saw in him. Far as I could tell he was a liar, a phony, a bum, just a straight up world class loser.”
Grasz kept quiet, kept driving. He was worried that he might not get the Beamer inside his garage before the rain started falling, and he hated to get the car wet. Already it looked like a storm coming in. “Just drop Kristin off up ahead and scoot home,” he said to himself. In the passenger seat, Kristin was finally coming around.
"So why are you asking about Pearson Holmes all of a sudden? It's been what, like thirty years since that motherfucker died? What's up?"
"Oh, his name just came up in the course of business," Grasz tried to lie. "Your name came up too, being his ex-wife and all,”
"Just came up? Who are you trying to fool? That fucker's name would never 'just come up'. You're holding out on me, aren't you? Think you're gonna get something for nothing? Think again, Gary boy. I want my piece. I deserve it,”
"Okay, okay. There might be something. I can't tell you too much because I don't know much, but he left something behind, a locked box, and no key. We need to find the key.”
"Yeah? Well, what if we do find the key, then what?"
"Then half for you and half for me. Whatever it is. What do you say?"
"I don't know,” Kristin was thinking mighty hard. "I don't know if that's good enough.”
"Come on, Kristin. You can trust me, right? How many times have I bailed you out? Have I ever let you down? Look, you're home now."
Grasz pulled his car over to the curb beside a rusting old green houseboat, barely tethered to the dock. 
"I will let you know,” she said, as she slid herself outside. 
"We don't have a lot of time,” he told her. "Only eighteen days!”
"What? It’s in some kind of a time-release capsule? Thing gonna blow up or something?"
"It just goes away - poof - like Cinderella's coach, right to the State."
"Well, wouldn't that be something. Mother fucker never paid a dime of taxes in his life. Serve him right to see them take whatever the fuck it is. It's probably nothing, though. His idea of some big joke. Wouldn't put it past him. One last 'fuck you' to the man.”
“Goddamn it,” Grasz thought as he hurried his car back home in the gently falling rain. Now I'm going to get spots on the hood. 

Ship'n'Go

Ben thought about another way to get something out of Marcus. This time not so sneaky, he decided. This time not so subtle. Still it took him time to find the objects he required. A tiny tin yellow hot wheels VW van. One of those rubber-band-propelled balsa wood airplane kits. Three blue cats-eye marbles. A photograph of an old green army tent, barely held up by its poles, and with that, a swatch of an old bandanna soaked in deet. All of these things he carefully packed in separate little boxes, surrounded by bubble wrap and taped with masking tape. All of them together he placed in one big box and left it, again, outside of Marcus' door. He wrote on the parcel, in black magic marker: 
"Happy Pontoon Days"
When he got home he was confronted by Gloria and a woman he'd never seen before. She was short, skinny, sporting a crew-cut and military fatigues, complete with shiny combat boots. 
"Dawn Debris,” she introduced herself, holding out her hand. Ben took it and looked questioningly at his wife.
"Where have you been?" she demanded. She had rushed home to get there first to brief him on the story, and fuck, he wasn't there. He was always there! Every day, after work, he comes straight home from the goddamn Ship'n'Go, six o'clock on the dot he's there asking "what's for dinner?" as if he didn't know how to stick a box into the microwave himself.
"Something I had to do,” he told her as she grabbed him by the arm and told the lady they'd be right back and marched him straight into the bathroom where she slammed the door behind them.
"This is the private eye I was telling you about,” she said.
"You didn't tell me about a," Ben began to say, but Gloria stopped him.
"Listen up,” she said, "and listen good. I am only going to say this once. Your father left a locker, right?"
"Lock box,” Ben said.
"Ssssh!" Gloria put her hand over his mouth, "I said listen, not talk! So we are supposed to have a ceremony on the 30th anniversary of his death but we need the key for the ceremony and we don't fucking have it, right?"
"Right,” Ben muffled through her palm. "We don't have it."
"So she is going to find it for us,” Gloria said, "but she's some kind of weirdo who won't go find a damn thing if she gets a whiff that the thing in question is worth any kind of money, you got it?"
"No idea what you're talking about,” Ben thought, but he just nodded instead.
"Okay,” Gloria pulled her hand away. "Now do not fuck this up!” and she opened the door and pushed him back into the living room, where Dawn was standing just outside. Dawn smiled.
"Please to meet ya" she said.
"Likewise,” Ben replied, "Gloria tells me you're some kind of private eye,”
"Some kind,” she said, "don't know exactly what kind but yep, some kind for sure,”
"Would you like to sit down?" Ben asked, suddenly becoming conscious of the pigsty condition of their house and the fact that there was nowhere anyone could sit down even if they wanted to.
"Uh-uh,” Dawn politely replied. "Can't stay long. Just wanted to go over some facts."
"Shoot,” Gloria said, shoving Ben aside to stand between the two of them. Dawn had to peer over Gloria to say,
"About the locker. Can you show it to me?"
"It's not here,” Ben said.
"Not right now,” Gloria quickly added. "It's in storage,”
"Okay,” Dawn said, "so when can I see it?
"Do you have to?" Gloria asked.
"Yeah,” Dawn told her. "Want to see what kind of key I'm looking for,”
"Oh, it's just a regular key,” Gloria said, "nothing special. Just a key,”
"I still want to see the locker,” Dawn repeated.
"It's at the bank,” Ben blurted out before Gloria could stop him.
"Bank? Ah. I see. A bank. Well, thank you very much for consulting me,” Dawn said, and turned to leave.
"Wait,” said Gloria, "don't go,”
"I'm sorry,” Dawn replied, turning slightly towards them. "I don't do banks,” and with that she marched right out of the house, leaving Gloria with a look on her face that you wouldn't want to see, not if you were her husband at that moment. 

Crank

Harley Swink was nothing if not ethical. In a word, he was nothing. Ever since the day that notification requirement appeared on his computer screen, he'd been consumed with curiosity. He'd gone so far as determine who else in the banking system knew anything about the box. As far as he could tell, there was only Mr. Moot. 
Moot had been with the bank forever. Well, almost forever. Forty-four years, since his internship at the age of twenty. He would be retiring soon, whether he liked it or not. Swink was looking forward to that day. He had never enjoyed the inscrutable Mr. Moot, always sitting there at his customer relations desk, having relations with customers, every day without fail from nine until three. 
Only Moot's name was on the original receipt. Only Moot had renewed the paperwork, once every year as required by law. Oh, others had seen the box, to be sure. Everyone who stepped inside the vault could not fail to notice the nasty little thing occupying the far right corner of the floor. “Ugly thing has got to go,” Swink told himself, “and only two more weeks and change.”
Swink had a plan and it involved a man named Crank. That was all, just Crank. Swink discovered him through intermediaries, and never met the man in person. They communicated through channels. Crank required certain photographs from certain angles. He required certain plaster moldings that were tricky enough to undertake. Swink was sure this last job would get him in trouble, but so far nobody seemed to notice anything untoward in the security videotapes. Hell, nothing ever happened in the vault, and no one was ever going to look at security videotapes unless something did happen, and a bank officer hunched over a strong box in the vault for a minute or so was not going to attract much attention.
It had made him sweat, though, and Swink did not like to sweat. He blamed it all on Crank, which made him feel much better. He paid the man good money for the facsimile of the key. He would use it, on the evening of the 19th or the morning of the 20th, sometime between the expiration of the contract and its expected delivery to the franchise board. No one would ever know. He would open the box. He would take out the contents. He would leave a simple note behind - "Naah Naah Na Foo Foo" - or something to that effect. And that would be the end of that. 

Emma Tourette

The fact that Holmes had apparently forged his name onto Eric Haskins driver's license was enough to get Mike Gramm to re-visit the apparent accidental death of the latter that same year. The timing was just too good to be true. On May 19, Haskins sets out on the one and only dream vacation of his life, a whale-watching cruise to Alaska. On the very same day, while the ship was still in harbor, Haskins fell from the upper deck, breaking his neck, and died. Numerous eyewitness claim that Haskins had been drinking heavily, was weaving erratically, and the fall was clearly accidental. Police called to the scene filed a simple report, no muss, no fuss, no Eric 'Peanut' Haskins.
Lieutenant Mike was already in the habit of calling the poor man 'Peanut', even though Mary Ellen Leipzig had only invented that nickname for him the day before. She had annotated her entire sub-report with ad hoc nicknames. 
Comparing reports, Mike noted that Holmes' accidental death occurred exactly two months later, July 19, and not two blocks from the dock where Peanut's ship was parked. Coincidence? 
At this late date it was impossible to trace the history of the forgery. The document itself did not exist. The bodies had long since been disposed of. The fact remained that Eric Haskins and Pearson Holmes had been roommates at the Old West Boarding House For Boys when they were in their early teens. Nearly thirty years later they had died within weeks, within blocks of each other, and the one had stolen the other’s ID. Surely there would be links that could be traced.
Lieutenant Mike did not want Mary Ellen getting any closer. She already knew much more than he had wanted her to, and he certainly had no intention of doing any of the work himself. It was time to bring in someone else, a specialist, an identity hound first class. Fortunately he knew just the lady for the job - Emma Tourette, the famous forensic analyst, recently retired from the force but still on the hook for a favor or two. 

Butterfly.net

Freddy the Freegan was depressed. He was getting no closer to the key. He'd spent the whole week using every means at his command, sneaking time on various computers, jacking phones for informational calls, personal interviews, landscape inspections, data sharing with informants. He'd used hard-earned cash and not-so-hard-earned cash but what was bugging him was the parallels. The guy was too much like himself.
He kept putting himself in Holmes' shoes. "What would I have done?" he asked himself, yet knowing that he wasn't really Holmes and the question had no answer. Holmes had died and hadn't planned to die. No doubt he'd put the key some place he knew would be safe, a place that no one ever knew of but he. It was probably in some tree trunk by the water, some tree that got cut down and mulched. Some Sawdust Nation freak probably got his chainsaw jammed up on the thing, cursed it, pulled it out and flung it into the water. 
There were riches in that strongbox. Freddy at least knew that. Anyone like him would never go to all that trouble otherwise. It put his name on record with the bank. It ensured they'd get in touch with him some time. It's hard to live a double life. 
"My girlfriend doesn't even know my real name,” he reflected. Llewellyn didn't want to know. She'd rather no one have any names at all but as she said, you can't go around calling everyone "hey you.” So they settled on first names only. She'd laugh if she knew my last name, he told himself, but he knew hers. Llewellyn Reich, age twenty-two, of Anaheim and Los Altos. Her parents were both successful executives in high tech companies like Engorge and Butterfly.net. She was a girl who'd had everything and didn't want it anymore. She wanted to cleanse herself of all the crap her parents had showered down upon her since infancy. The best of diaper bags. The latest off-road strollers. The martial ballet uniforms and classes day and night. 
“Such an innocent,” he thought. So much she didn't know and he would keep it from her. It's one thing being a Freegan, Freddy knew. It's another to really be one. 

The Belle Epoque

Unwrapping the meticulously arranged package item by item, Marcus had no doubt it was his little brother's doing. Nobody packed a box like Ben. He'd had a genius for wrapping ever since he was a little kid, when they'd give each other newsprint origami shells containing nothing for Christmas. This was in the days they lived in the army tent by the docks and their father tried to make it seem special, camping out, living in Nature, one with the world - and its cold, damp misery.
Once their father dragged home a wreck of a Country Squire and they lived in that car for weeks, the height of luxury for them. The panels even looked like wood that you could burn to stay warm. Marcus chuckled over the airplane and the van. Leave it to Ben to track down items like that. It's as if he wants to tell me something, Marcus thought, but we both remember everything, I'm sure. Mom thought that van would get us clear to Kansas but we didn't even make it out of town. She was going to leave this place behind forever, give us a new start in a new world altogether. Well, maybe she made it, but she sure didn't take us with her.
But Ben got it wrong with the smells this time. The insect repellent was from later, from after mom had left, from the time when we lived in the boat with Kristin and her "friends,” She would rub that stuff all over her legs and back before going to bed, then sleep outside on the hammock so that we could have the bunks at night. And he remembered Kristin telling him a hundred times that they could stay but not forever 'cause who the hell did they think they were and just because she'd once been married to their dad it didn't mean she gave a shit, but still she gave them everything and more. Food. Clothes. Shelter. Going without it herself. Making sure they went to school, did their homework, later on got jobs and got paid. 
"Or is that what he's telling me?” Marcus wondered. "What have we ever done for her?” Nothing she didn't expect. How many times she yelled at us 'get lost', 'get out of here', 'leave me alone', and 'never come back'. How many drunken nights? How many days did we spend wondering which jail cell she was in or was she even alive? How many times did we try to make her quit that life?
He rolled the three blue marbles across his desk, back and forth, from palm to palm, the sound reminding him of the houseboat and its leakiness, its creakiness, the way it banged against the dock, and that reminded him of the day they saw her "special boyfriend" take his fatal plunge from the top of The Belle Epoque. 
A towering figure, Haskins was. Especially with his arms stretched up as high as they could reach, and it looked as if he was standing on his toes when he deliberately dove down. The long way down. How he landed on the dock not a hundred yards from where they had gathered to wish him a bon voyage. Kristin didn't talk much after that, not much that wasn't curses and screams, and she took everything, literally every little thing that was in the houseboat at the time and she threw it overboard. Ben and Marcus watched the pots and pans and silverware sink, they watched their clothing float, they watched their toys all slowly sail away, and it was nothing to them. They'd already lost everything before. 

Sharon Heights

Ben wasn't surprised to find himself sleeping in the office that night. It had happened before, but this time he knew there was no going back. Gloria had stepped over so many lines. He wouldn't even bother replaying in his mind the horrible things she had said this time, the various threats, the allusions to his manhood, all of that noise coming out of her mouth that made him realize he hadn't really been listening to her for years already. 
It was a relief to leave all that behind. From now on it would all be new. First thing Monday morning he'd paid a visit to Sharon Heights, the financial lady he'd been hearing about on the radio. She arranged to consolidate his debts, cancel all his credit cards, cut Gloria off without a cent. The mortgage and bills would still be paid but she'd get nothing else without a legal order. "Just wait till she finds out,” Ben gleefully thought. He wondered where she'd be the first time her credit card was rejected. Oh, how he wanted to be there. How he wanted to be the person standing behind her in line. How he wanted to be the cashier who had the pleasure of denying her. He even wanted to be the bank official at the other end of the phone call who would say, "I'm sorry. There has been no mistake. Your cards have all been canceled by that lazy, no-good, childish moron of a husband you once had.”
Sharon couldn't handle the divorce proceedings but she knew someone who would, and Ben was already waiting in his reception area Monday afternoon. “I've only got my sleeping bag and my little stuffed yellow tiger,” he reflected. He'd saved that tiger from floods, from fires, from Kristin O'Leary, from Gloria and a host of garbage men. And now, with no one and with nothing but his storefront in the mall, Benjamin Holmes was starting all over again. 

Albany House

This was no big deal. This was a no-brainer. Every day the lines grow longer, people needing food, families without homes and nowhere else to go. How can you not help these people? It's not so hard to cook all day, to serve all day, to take a little for yourself and then go home at night, wherever you call home. Most of the volunteers at Albany House had genuine homes to go to. Some of them had husbands with cushy jobs and kids who didn't need them anymore. Others had nothing else to do but grab a little sanity.
Some came early in the morning and stayed all day, others showed up for an hour or two and did whatever they could. Donations needed sorting. Vegetables needed washing. Potatoes peeling. Clothes laundering. Toys fixing. 
“If you have enough, why the rush to always get more?” Llewellyn had never understood this, even as a child. She would eat just enough, while kids around her stuffed their faces and got fat. She would sleep just enough, where others refused to wake up. She was easily satisfied but constantly pampered with more and more and more. Her parents did not understand her. They felt rejected when she failed to enjoy all their purchases. On Christmas day she would carefully unwrap her too many presents so that later, when no one was looking, she could package them up again, and sneak some down to the donation boxes outside of the public library.
She could find everything that she needed. People were always just throwing things out, perfectly good items like couches and chairs, towels and sheets, dresses and shoes. The practical people would give them to shelters like Albany House but most of the time these things languished outside until taken away to a dump. Ridiculous. Stupid. Mean. In her world there was something for everything - free clinics, freecycle, community gardens, recycling and squatter collectives, a parallel world lacking nothing but offering much more instead.
She was finally living a life that made sense. To work, to contribute, to have your own life, your nest, your family, your tribe. With Freddy she felt they were Adam and Eve, creating a new world but better because it was starting out right, with a heart and a sense that all people have value. Is there anything wrong with that? 

Stinky

"Dirty hippies,” Emma thought. "No wonder they all just burned out.” She was considering the proposal from Gramm. She didn't like him, never did. "Fat lazy slob,” she considered. "Ought to let the bastard do something himself.” On the other hand, she was recently retired and didn't mind taking his money. The pension was shit. After all she had done, all those years. They promise you one thing then take it away when the time comes for them to deliver. You see it all over. Governments, airlines, factories. Pension? Oh that. Sorry, we're broke. Fuck you.
Emma Tourette lived in a cute little cottage in the northwest corner of town. Here there were many such cute little cottages, most of them currently in the process of being demolished and replaced by hideous mini-mansions with columns and pillars, and fountains in the middle of the fucking driveway for Christ's sake. Nothing could be more absurd. She was thinking of selling her place to one of those greedy developers. She could move out of town, far away. Alaska, she thought, but she hated the cold. Texas, she thought, but she'd rather be dead. "Fuck it,” she thought, "I got nowhere to go,”
Gramm had left a message on her telephone. Look into the matter of this ancient dead hippie. She remembered the case pretty well. In those days the hippies were all over the docks. The dockworkers hated them all. There were lots of bar fights and street brawls. Long hairs were trying to move in on the longshoremen haunts. It seemed the cops were always being called out to rip down their tents and tow away their rusting old vans. Kids thought they could live in the park, on the lots, that no one would care, they could do what they please. No fucking way in the world. You want to sit your ass down? Then show me the green. You pay for the spot where you stand.
There was all sorts of shit going down in those days. Drugs, of course. Lot of that. Emma had started out in vice, so she'd put in her time on those streets. Eventually she'd moved on to background. She knew everyone who wasn't anyone, so to speak; the phony IDer's, the forgers, the frauds, the black market dealers, the sharks and their marks. Gramm wanted to know who'd made the ID that replaced Haskins with Holmes. “Who cares? It could have been anyone and now they're both dead, so what the fuck does it matter? Oh well.” There was cash to be had. She could lie. She could cheat him as easy as not. Might as well say it was Stinky. Hell, it probably was.
No doubt it was a crime of opportunity. Didn't Haskins and Holmes share a squeeze? She was sure she'd heard something of that. Holmes was about "new arrangements,” Haskins was merely in love. So when Haskins couldn't hack it, and did himself in, well then Holmes took advantage and took what he could. She remembered that Holmes was an expert in taking. There was talk around town at the time that the dead guy had more than you'd think, and that Holmes had a plan to get rich off the corpse, but then he'd become one himself. The girl had lost both of her men just like that. Emma laughed. That girl, she had so many names. 

Roselle

"What have you got?" Lieutenant Mike was to the point. He enjoyed these little visits because it meant a return to the Main Street Diner, where the short order cook knew how to make toast, and the waitresses were always young and friendly and round. He had his eye on a short one named Roselle and he liked to check up on her from time to time. He'd hang around for an hour or two, see if she was acting different. He knew all about her problems and was waiting for the right time to see if there was anything he could do. For example, he could beat the crap out of that lying, two-timing husband of hers.
"Same old, same old,” Freddy replied. He was enjoying a nice warm lemonade with salt. "These people are clean, I tell you. Clean as they come.”
"I know, I know. Recycling and all. You know I don't give a shit about that.” Mike wanted more on Katie Parsons. "What about bank letters. Any more of them?"
"Nothing but the usual junk. Re-fi now. Credit guaranteed. Buy a new whatever with your home equity loan approved up to eighty zillion bucks,” Freddy chuckled, but Mike didn't even crack a smile.
"Wasting your time,” Freddy suggested. "Let me scout around the neighborhood. See what else I can find. There's bound to be someone more interesting around there.”
"It's the lady I want,” Mike said. "I know she is up to something. The other day, well, it's none of your business. I got my reasons.”
Roselle came by to fill up his glass of water. Mike was drinking extra water just so she'd have to do that. He gave her the standard wink and Roselle realized that the fat guy could only play two notes - wink, and g'bye. Some guys got lots of moves, she thought. Some guys got no moves at all.
Mike dismissed the freegan with a twenty and a groan. Maybe the kid was right. Maybe Katie Parsons was only a trophy. It was time to move on. “Sometimes you get a feeling and it doesn't pan out,” Mike decided. He was already considering sending Freddy after a couple of young men he'd noticed the other day. These boys looked like some kind of tennis nuts, with their yellow sweaters and their Beamer, but one of the guys he was pretty sure was wanted somewhere. Deviants, likely, and a lot of times that meant drugs. You could almost always get somebody on that, if you really wanted to. Nothing made him happier than a bust. It was already getting to be too long since he'd knocked some creep off his lifestyle. 

Zentek

Mary Ellen sat quietly in the lobby of the corporate headquarters of Zentek International, a "Corporate Calming Institution,” She felt quite calm herself, but then again, she was always calm. Mary Ellen had mastered her inner life quite early, around the age of three, when she was content to sit and watch her parents glare at each other from across the dining room table. They were excellent at bickering without words. Mary Ellen soon picked up on all of those subtleties. A mere glance by either one in any direction was loaded with information. 
In school, Mary Ellen was always the good listener, always the quiet one, and as she sat there waiting she realized she could have achieved much more in life. Every leader needs a most devoted follower and she had not picked her leader wisely. Grasz was not even a decent man, but at least he was reliable and worked hard. She smiled at the thought. His idea of working hard consisted of rushing around and sweating! She was the one who worked.
Now she was here and didn't have long to wait. A tall, thin woman in her sixties came out to greet her. She was wearing a long purple dress, unusual attire for a corporate executive. The woman extended a long bony hand as Mary Ellen stood and accepted it.
"Marla Rainbow Sky,” the lady said. "So sorry to keep you waiting. Won't you follow me?" and turned and gracefully sauntered back in the direction from which she'd come. Ms. Rainbow Sky (Mary Ellen had first looked under Sky, Marla Rainbow, before realizing her mistake) occupied a very fine office overlooking a duck-laden pond encrusted with miniature palms. Her desk was curvy and made of some reflective stone. Her seats were unusually comfortable. Mary Ellen was glad to accept one and made a note to try and find such a seat for her small desk at home.
"You said it was a matter of family?" Marla continued, once she'd seated herself.
"Yes, ma'am,” Mary Ellen replied, "a matter of family business.”
"Well, then,” Marla waited for Mary Ellen to speak further.
"It concerns a Mr. Pearson Holmes,” Mary Ellen ventured, and paused to notice that Ms Sky was hardly surprised.
"I imagined as much,” she stated, "as I have had no other family in my life. Though it was quite a long time ago.” 
Mary Ellen suddenly had the image of the woman, much younger, with black hair instead of the white, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it languidly.
"And my sons?" she asked, as if an afterthought. "I trust they are well? I sort of keep tabs, you know. In the background, of course.”
"Oh?” Mary Ellen was startled a bit. She hadn't been thinking of them. She was focused on the matter of the strongbox and the key.
"Yes,” Marla went on. "I was a terrible mother, you see. Irresponsible, stupid and careless. I would leave those boys with anyone, anyone at all, if I had the chance to get out of the house. I would leave them with strangers. I would leave them with drunks. It's a wonder I wasn't arrested. Now they're both grown men of course,”
"I didn't know,” Mary Ellen muttered. She had no idea how to respond. "I never had children myself,” she offered.
"Quite a bother,” Marla said. "They were much better off without me, and I without them. And all of us were better off without Pearson." 
She paused for a moment, reflecting. Then she gathered herself and prompted Mary Ellen to come out with the business at hand. When Mary Ellen told her about the strongbox she laughed. She laughed quite a bit, to the point where she started to stammer and choke.
"My goodness,” she finally spoke. "A secret hidden treasure! How wonderfully romantic of him."
"It's just the kind of thing he would do,” she continued. "I'm positive there's nothing inside it. Nothing at all. You will see. He used to play tricks like that all the time. He'd tell Marcus he had a surprise for him, and show him his fist, and when Marcus would pry the fist open, he'd laugh and show him the nothing inside. And then he'd yell 'SURPRISE'!”
Mary Ellen nodded her head. So Marla did not have the key. Check another one off of the list. And when she asked if by chance Marla might know its whereabouts, it set off another round of hysterics, followed by the certainty that there was no such thing. He'd thrown it away, flung it into the harbor. There was absolutely, definitely, indubitably no key.
Mary Ellen was beginning to think so. 

Peter Perkins

Half-asleep in his unmarked car, Lieutenant Mike continued to watch the house the young men had entered hours earlier. He had already determined that the place - an original Victorian from the old days, very nice - belonged to a retired stockbroker named Peter Perkins, who'd lived there more than twenty years. "About as long as that one boy's been alive,” Mike decided. Clearly Perkins had well-defined tastes. There were background files on him, but nothing was ever done with them. Certain elements in the force prefer to know who's who and what's what, just in case they ever need to.
Mike was scanning through his laptop, looking through photos and reconstructions of the other man, a slightly older model who seemed to be in charge. He had done the driving, although the other one had the key to the house. It struck him, and not for the first time, how many times you come across the same types doing the same things. There are lots of stories, but most are variations on a theme. Mike was thinking pills, and sure enough, his hunch paid off. There he was on the screen in front of him, Albert Lessig, age twenty-nine, two years in Soledad for X. 
"Ah well, so what?" Mike thought. "A lot of people have done their time, and for a lot less reason.” 
He was hoping for something more, something different, not just two young party boys who liked to get it on behind the back of some old man who probably doesn't even care or maybe even likes to watch. He was thinking about chucking it and moving on. But just as he was turning the ignition key, he had another thought, and looked up Peter Perkins again. Yeah. yeah, profession, real estate, assets, hobbies, associations. Beasley, Perkins and Co? Where had he come across that name before?
Beasley, Perkins, Beasley, Perkins, he typed in a desktop search for the name and rapidly came up with the Pearson Holmes vehicular incident. Beasley, yes, was Martin Beasley. Names and dates and places matched. They'd been partners way back when. Beasley was the founder, and Perkins had inherited the business, all of it - commercial real estate law. Some years later he had sold it for a hundred million bucks.
Mike was impressed. Who can say "a hundred million bucks" without being impressed? The stockbroker thing must be a hobby, an excuse to get out of the house. Never married, though, no children. Didn't need an excuse like that. "Lucky son of a bitch,” Mike thought, but he'd never believed in luck. 

Kitty Hock

"I will get everything. All of it. I will,” Gloria declared. "If he thinks he's going to get away with this, well, he's not. He's simply not.”
The lady in the seat next to her nodded her head and smiled politely. Kitty Hock was very good at smiling politely. She'd been doing it her entire life. "And look where it's got me,” she muttered to herself.
"First thing my lawyer's going to say is 'lock it down'. That's right. As of such and such a time and such and such a date, just 'lock it down and count it up'. There won't be any wiggling out of that."
Kitty nodded once again. The buzz of the airplane engine was music to her ears compared to the prattling of her aisle seat companion. "How am I even going to get past her?" she wondered, Kitty being so frail and all, and Gloria so formidable.
"I told him, I don't care what is in that box. It's mine. Not some, not half. It's mine. I don't care about his brother. I don't care about his mom. It's mine. Every little scrap. It's only fair! Didn't I help him build his business up when he had nobody and nothing? Didn't I sit there counting rolls of plastic tape? I did it, not that Cindy Fuck or whatever her name is, that fat blob he's got there sitting in his storefront window now. No wonder nobody comes in! They're afraid of her, afraid she's gonna sit on them or something."
Kitty had to think fast or this was going to be the longest flight in history. "Mustn't let it ruin my vacation,” Kitty thought. It was her first time going to Hawaii. 
"Excuse me,” Kitty said, and tried to stand. Gloria glanced over but didn't budge.
"Excuse me,” Kitty repeated. "I need to go to the bathroom,”
"Oh,” Gloria finally noticed. "Well, if you have to.” 
She didn't want to get up but made the effort anyway, certain it would be yet another gesture destined to be unappreciated. No one ever bothered to give her the consideration she deserved.
Kitty managed to barely scoot by, and whispered,  so no one but herself could hear, "I think I'll try and find out just how long a person can stay in there,” 

Ma

Friday night found Marcus outside for the first time on a Friday night in years. A lot had changed since the last time he'd tried to do this. He waited quite a while at a bus stop that no longer existed for a bus that no longer ran. When he finally caught on and got some assistance, he discovered it would take him three buses where only one used to suffice. He made all the transfers, and found himself down by the waterfront a little before the sun set. Not enough had changed down there, and he found Kristen's houseboat with ease.
For some minutes he stood on the dock outside her door, knowing she was inside but not yet ready to knock. She saw him before he did, and opened the door to him.
"Well, well. Marcus my boy."
"Kristen,” he replied, and she smiled and said he'd better come in or else the neighbors would talk.
"Imagine what they'd say,” she declared, "a gentleman caller at my door!" She laughed at his unease and waved him into the tiny room that served as her living room, dining room, and kitchen. Marcus had to stoop to stand inside.
"How tall you grew,” she said, following behind him. "If I'd know you were going to get that big I'd have got myself a taller house. Can I get you something to drink? Oh, and sit down, sit down. You can't be comfortable standing there,”
Marcus selected a bench that folded out from the cabin wall. It was covered with a green and red plaid pattern that brought back waves of memories, dizzying as he tried to sit. 
"It's almost too much,” he said.
"I know, I know, you were always so impressionable," Kristen said, offering him a glass of sparkling water. "Do you still like this stuff?"
"I do,” he said. "Thanks, ma,”
"Now, don't go calling me ‘ma’,” she said. "You know I never could stand that."
"You loved it,” Marcus said, and for the first time he also smiled, and then the both of them were grinning, and then Marcus suddenly stood and cracked his head on the ceiling, but never mind, he reached out and grabbed her and they hugged each other like crazy.
"I've missed you, boy,” she said.
"I never get out much,” he mumbled, releasing her, and sitting back down, finally taking the drink from her hand after it had nearly been crushed between them.
"You never did,” she replied. "Always a homebody. I could hardly get you to leave whenever a client arrived."
"I was hoping they'd go away,” he told her, and she nodded sadly.
"I know, dear, I know. It was very brave of you and I appreciated it." There was a long silence. Marcus several times began to speak, but couldn't go through with it. Finally, he said,
"I've wanted to do something for you for the longest time. I'm ashamed I never did."
"I've been okay,” Kristen told him. "I never lacked for anything."
"That's good,” he said, "but now I'm in a position where I can, and I've done it."
"Done what, dear?"
"You'll be getting an annuity. A sum every month, through the bank. Now, don't bother trying to say ‘no’ because you can't say ‘no’. It's done. I wish it was more but it ought to be enough. I'm sure you have bills."
"I have some,” she said, "nothing much."
"Well, insurance for one thing. I'm going to make sure you get some decent health insurance, especially long term, you know what I mean."
"That will be a relief,” she admitted. "I have been worried about that."
"It's going to be okay,” he told her, and again they had a pause, but this time there was no tension in the air.
"How's Ben,” she finally asked, and Marcus smiled and said,
"I think he's going to be okay. Had a dreadful wife there for a while. At least that's over with, I think."
"Marriage is best left to the experts,” Kristen said. "They're the only ones who seem to know anything about it. No one who's married seems to know!" and she chuckled quietly at her own little joke. 
Marcus and Kristen said nothing about Pearson Holmes. They didn't have to, and they didn't want to. And when he left, later that evening, they arranged to get together on Sunday, just to hang out, and maybe take a sailboat out on the bay. It was something they had always loved to do. 

Bob Harlington

Mike was surprised but not too surprised that Freddy knew all about Perkins.
"It's sort of my part of town,” Freddy said. "I've gotten a lot of really good stuff around there."
"And from Perkins in particular?” Mike requested. Freddy was uncertain how much he should tell the policeman. After all, breaking and entering was still frowned upon among certain segments of society. He paused, trying to think of some good lie, but Mike was onto him and he knew it. Freddy shrugged.
"It's all right,” Mike told him. "I'm not after you. I don't care how you find out what you know. I just want to know what you know."
"Quite a bit about them,” Freddy said, "and none of it's cute."
Mike bit into his sandwich. He liked the turkey bacon club they made at this diner. The ice tea smelled suspicious, though, like the water had come straight out of the tap. He set it aside and signaled for the waitress.
"Bring me anything out of a can,” he directed when she arrived, then he added, "Diet Coke,” with a wink.
"Got to watch out for my waistline,” he said to Freddy, who ignored the friendly jest. Freddy was thin as a nail himself, and always felt squashable around the big guy.
"The old man is loaded,” Freddy said, "but as far as I know it's legit. Got a thing for the ponies and he spends it like water. You can find him most Saturdays at The Meadows. That's when his little boy-o cats around."
"I've seen him,” Mike countered, "and his pals. He runs with some elements, if you know what I mean."
"Know it,” said Freddy, eyeing his car. He'd parked it right out front but wasn't sure he'd locked it properly. Mike noticed his anxious glances and remarked,
"I've seen you go around in that thing sometimes. Nice wheels."
"Shit,” Freddy thought, but said it out loud.
"Not a thing,” said the cop, "not a worry. Just wondering how you got it."
"I lease it,” Freddy said, and Mike laughed.
"You lease it? Well, fuck me twice in the gut,” and continued to laugh. Freddy shrugged. It was embarrassing, he knew, but the cop was bound to find out. It's what he did, for Christ’s sake. He had spies and he had spies who spied on his spies, and Freddy was one of his spies and had spied on some of the other spies and so he knew. That's just how it goes. He decided he'd just play along.
"I got a good deal,” he replied. "You should do it. Bob Harlington Lexus and Dodge,” and something about that sent Mike to hysterics, and he pounded his fist on the table so hard the suspicious ice tea flew out of its glass and covered one half of his plate.
"Fuck,” Mike declared, and swooped up his sandwich in time to avoid the contaminant. "Sorry, my boy" he went on. "You're just killing me. Say, does she know?"
"Does who know?" Freddy asked, and was already afraid of the answer
"Your gal,” Mike replied, "your soup kitchen gal. Doesn't strike me as the Lexus type"
"It's a good cover,” was all Freddy said and Mike knew. He hadn't guessed until now, but his favorite little hippie, his know-it-all, do-it-all, easy-does-it, in-and-out master, was nothing but a trustafarian, a cruiser on the easy side of life.
"It's not so bad,” Mike declared, "it's all right. I won't tell. We've all got our crosses to bear" 

Miss Blatt

On Monday, July 16, Swink prepared for all of his day's business with his customary efficiency. Meetings were attended, decisions were made, letters were dictated, mistakes were not made. He was still going ahead with his plan. Crank had provided the key, which sat now in his pocket, heavy and good. He felt, as usual, supremely confident, and yet there was also an unaccustomed sensation accompanying his mood, a vague restlessness, perhaps even doubt. As soon as this feeling was duly registered and noted, he at once informed Miss Blatt that he'd require his Zentek service that afternoon.
Miss Blatt made all the arrangements. The people at Zentek didn't mind last minute appointments. They were always prepared. When an entire corporation is so focused on living in the moment, it is easy to get things done. 
Zentek provided a range of services, and a corresponding price list. They offered a veritable wine list of calming technologies, with something for everyone. Cashiers at a drugstore, for example, could benefit from their "blind fingering" technique taught in onsite seminars. Individual contributors could gain insights from their online lecture series entitled "My Cubicle, My Life,” Even the manicurist at the nail salon could use Zentek's "Customer Enfacement" skills.
For Senior Executives of Large Corporations, such as Swink, Zentek had more exclusive goods and services to offer. These high rollers were entitled to personal onsite visitations from executives at corresponding levels. Sure, it cost more, but it was worth it. On this day, the Vice President of Calming Affairs, the self-assured, sophisticated, ever swank Ms. Rainbow Sky was assigned to visit the bank, and not for the first time. She was already acquainted with his ways.
Miss Blatt greeted her on the ground level and escorted her to her superior's office. By this time Harley Swink had detected a definite increase in his general uneasiness, and was rapidly putting his little orange golf balls all across the office.
"Quite wild,” said Marla as she entered the room, and Swink looked up from this stance.
"Yes, quite,” he replied with a shrug. 
"Thank you for coming,” he said. "As you can see, my stroke is well off,”
"Have you forgotten our little techniques?" she asked, approaching him in small steps, so as not to frighten him off. These executives were so like wild beasts, she concluded, like squirrels, perhaps. Yes, rodents of one kind or another. Always rushing about their business, often wrong but never in doubt.
"It's difficult to remember,” he answered, and truly he always forgot. Didn't he pay people to remember things for him? Then why should he bother himself?
"Come, come,” she said gently, "please take a seat,” and she herself sat on his nice leather couch, and patted the place right beside her. Swink was already feeling more comfortable. 

Steve

Felons, misdemeanants, miscreants, losers, all of them innocent, not guilty. A parade of these types kept Gary Grasz busy by day and by night, his pager always paging, his phone always ringing, the paperwork, just the paperwork was enough to drive a man crazy. Especially now, since Mary Ellen's relapse over the weekend, if he wasn't already insane he would be very soon. 
"I've got to get out of this business,” he thought, and he wondered if his devoted assistant's condition was maybe a sign from some God that yeah, it was time to get out. "Fat chance,” he decided, that some God goes around making some people mortally ill so that others will consider a career move. The idea would have made him laugh if he'd been the kind of man who ever laughed at ideas. It was hopeless. Nothing was going to easily solve all his problems. Without Mary Ellen he would need a new process, one that entailed doing less work, and making less money. 
"What the fuck am I doing?" he blurted out loud, and the felon beside him, a burglar named Steve, said
"Excuse me? I don't get your drift?"
"Oh, nothing,” said Grasz, "just a momentary crisis. I'm sorry. Now what were you saying?"
"I was talking about our mutual friend, Stinky,” Steve said, "he has some information you might be interested in.”
"Look, I'm not a cop,” Grasz replied, "and I can't afford a snitch, you know that.”
"No, no, this one's for free, "Steve informed him, "he asked me to tell you, as a favor.”
"Why's that?"
"He was talking with your girl, Mary Ellen. He would like to help her, you know. So he says, give this info to Grasz and tell him to sell it - he'll know where - as long as he gives what he gets to his girl Mary Ellen.”
"Stinky said that?" Grasz was puzzled. "Since when does he know Mrs. Leipzig?"
"She paid us a call in the clink,” Steve replied. "I was there. I met her myself. Wonderful gal, such a shame with the cancer.”
"So, okay, what's the deal?"
"You've got to promise me first"
"I promise. I promise. I'll give her whatever I get for it."
"You'll make out,” Steve went on. "There's a heist in the works, and a big one. Fourth Fidelity office downtown, on Thursday, this week, the 19th, don't forget.”
"What kind of a heist? Is that all you got?"
"No, there's more,” Steve replied, "it's an inside job. Very nice, don't you think? Bankers robbing a bank? That's like me breaking into my house." Steve laughed out loud. He was the kind of a guy who would do that.

Nicole Elwin

Nicole Elwin was the VP in charge of Security for AGI, parent company of Fourth Fidelity Bank, among others. Her office on the 36th floor was at just about the level of the tallest redwood tree in the world. From here she surveyed the entire western half of the city, from the financial district all the way to the harbor. AGI was into everything (some referred to it as All Grab Incorporated), and everything required security. Security meant technology, and Elwin was Queen of that world. She had been there on the ground floor, in the early days, when passwords weren't even encrypted. She'd been IBM when it was still Blue, she'd been Microsoft before they did Windows, she'd been RSA, she'd been PGP, she'd been everywhere at one time or another.
Unlike some, she hadn't been all into options, which explained why she was even still working. She liked to think it was the passion, her lust for security at all costs. At home, she owned a set of the most intricate locking chambers; you could hardly proceed from one room to the next without the secret commandments. 
This one was going to be easy.
"They have surveillance, correct?" she snapped. "They have the technology in place, do they not?" and before Mike could answer she continued, "of course they do, I should know. Did I not design their whole system myself? Are we not aware of the risks in a bank?"
"I'm sure that you are,” Mike broke in, but she dismissed his small comment with a wave of her wrinkle-free hand.
"I must say, Mr. Gramm, this is hardly worth mentioning at all. So you heard from a source? So they mentioned a date? Why the fuss, Mr. Gramm? We're prepared any day, every day of the week, to be sure."
From Lieutenant Mike's perspective, it was almost as if she were towering above him, though the lady was barely five feet tall. Her whole tone conveyed immense height.
"We own banks, do we not? We own vast pots of gold, you might say. Do we guard these vast pots? Yes, we do. Do we watch our vast pots? Yes, we do. Do people attempt to make off with our gold? Yes, I'm afraid that they do. And what becomes of these misguided souls? Do we stop them? We do. Do we catch them? We do. You should know, Mr. Gramm, you more than most. Do we not turn them over to you? Yes, we do. Have we ever lost any of our vast pots of gold? Not with Elwin in charge, I should say!"
"Yes, Ms. Elwin, I'm aware of," Mike attempted to say.
"Elwin in charge, I repeat myself, Gramm,” she went on. "We do not care at all who they are. 'A man on the inside', you say? We don't just have employees here at AGI,” she said, "we have suspects. Each one. I should know. They are all of them ripping us off every day. Oh, it might just be a download here and a download there. It might just be a pencil or a paper clip. It might just be a few minutes of porn while the boss is away out of town. Oh, we know. Every stroke that they type on their keyboards. Every scratch they eek out with their pencils and pens. We know who spends far too much time in the bathroom. We know who goes out for a smoke, for how long. All of this we compile and ignore, Mr. Gramm. All of this is some kind of theft. Do we care? Yes, we do. But are we dumb, Mr. Gramm? No, we 're not. We know what can be avoided, and what can not. We are dealing with humans after all, are we not? A man on the inside, you say? We will catch him, of course. And then you will have him. There's no need to worry yourself, Mr. Gramm. Good day, Mr. Gramm. Goodbye."
Gramm had no other choice but to leave. He was itching for a bust, just itching like mad. The department had paid decent money for the lead. He was damned if he was going to be shunted aside like a bug, but what could he do? Sit on the curb and watch all day long? He wanted to yell
Really bad.
He waited until he got into his car, and had pulled out onto the freeway, and then he let out.
"GOD DAMN FUCKING DAMN GOD FUCKING GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING GOD FUCKING GOD DAMN" and he pounded on the steering wheel until he inadvertently honked the horn. Drivers to his left and right looked over at him, so he hunched down as best he could hunch and shut up. 

Miss Tweedle

At nine o'clock, Wednesday morning the 18th of July, just moments after Miss Tweedle had opened the doors, Mr. Moot found a gentleman at his desk, then taking a seat and making himself comfortable. The man was around his own age, perhaps a few years younger. He was mostly gray on top and wore thick black-rimmed glasses. He was not wearing a suit but looked nice. He was dressed casual but rich. There was something about him that looked familiar to Moot, but he couldn't quite place it at first.
"Good morning, Mr. Moot,” the man said.
"Good morning,” Moot replied, "I'm sorry, but."
"Quite all right,” the man laughed. "It's been a long time since the first and last time that we met. Perhaps this will help,” and the man handed him a white envelope. Moot took it and removed three items.
The first was a receipt, very old. The second was a letter, newly written. And the third was a key, black and thick. Moot read through the letter two times and looked up. 
"Of course,” he said, "It was only a matter of time, Mister, um, Mister?"
"Call me Keith,” the man said.
"Of course,” replied Mr. Moot, standing up. "Follow me,”
Moot buzzed the man back through the short swinging door and they both went down into the vault. There it sat, in the corner on the floor, the heavy Magellan strong box. Moot bent down and attempted to lift it, but it would not budge.
"Please don't strain yourself,” Keith Parsons insisted. "We're both of us too old for that."
"Shall I call somebody to help?" Moot inquired.
"Can't we just leave it?” Keith asked. "I can take what I need from it easily.”
"Why not?" Moot responded. "We've already arranged for a pickup this Friday at noon, just in case.”
"Then it’s settled,” said Parsons, and he bent over and inserted the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the top. He extracted a slim manila folder, and made sure that nothing else remained inside. He re-closed the lid and re-locked it, putting the key back into his pocket. He opened the folder and pulled out a sheaf of carefully wrapped bundles of papers.
"I hope you found everything in order" Moot said. 
"Yes,” Parsons replied, "it's all here,” and together they left the vault. Moot accompanied Parsons back through the swinging door and past the front desk, where Swink was casually inspecting his tellers' behinds.
"Good day, Mr. Moot,” said Keith Parsons, and Moot leaning forward, replied quietly,
"And good day to you, Mr. Holmes.” 

Epilogue

A late night walk along the waterfront. No one is around, just a lone man walking, thinking about what the hell he's going to do. His best friend committed suicide and it was all his fault. The women he loved, well, there were two of them, and did he really love them? And speaking of two of them, what about the kids? He'd never wanted any kids.
A dark night, quiet, and then two cars approach from opposite directions, both going too fast, both slightly out of control, and right in front of this man these cars collide at full speed, a maximum of shattered glass and everybody in them, all dead on impact. None of them were wearing seat belts. Of course, he would have to take a closer look. One car contained a whole family, wiped out, just like that. The other car held just one man, slumped over the wheel where he'd smashed open his head. 
Holmes gently lifted the man's wallet and inspected the contents. The cash, he removed. The driver's license he replaced with his own fake ID. The driver was from out of town. That would do. He inspected the name and the age. He took a few other items of interest, just enough to create a new set. Someone was going to have disappeared. Why not him? They were about the same age. Good enough. A late night walk. A new life. And the new name was one he could live with. 
Parsons, Pearson, easy.