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The Currency of Time Ch. 01

By: DanielQSteele1



 ((It's been too long since I've been in Literotica and I've honestly missed it. I don't know how much I can say about this, but I've been working on the project that last occupied me here, but I have too many ideas at shorter length that I'd like to see here. I know that I've been very remiss in returning communications from readers and I'd like to do better.Anyone with questions or comments they'd like addressed privately can contact me. I've had this story - which I'll publish in four installment - proofed by two professional editors and four of what are called 'Beta readers), so any mistakes fall squarely on my shoulders 





   I could have expected a lot of things.

I could have expected to go down in a plane crash. It happens to a lot of those men – and lately women – whose business puts them in the air a lot, chasing the sweet smell of crude across oceans and continents, countries and mountains and swamps. And through some of the greediest, most gun-happy thugs you'll find anywhere in the third and fourth worlds.

I could have expected cancer. It took out my dad at 57. He'd been a strong, unstoppable workhorse of a man until lung cancer destroyed a man who, in the ultimate bad joke, had only smoked cigars and never many of those. The doctors who detected it and treated it and fought it with him, told him it was probably exposure to all the chemicals you're exposed to hunting oil across the globe.

In the end it wasn't technically cancer that got him. When he was very weak, I gave in to his pleas and drove him out the airfield in western Jacksonville where his twin engine Cessna Crusader was kept waiting for him. I helped him into the cockpit, he gave me one last hug, said, "give them hell, son," and took off without clearance.

They found the wreckage of his plane in the Atlantic about ten miles off the Jacksonville Beach coastline the next day. They never found him. And that was the way he would have wanted to go out, not gasping for his last breaths hooked up to tubes and machines.

I went with some friends to O'Brien's, a Westside bar, and together with O'Brien who'd known my dad for 20 years, and some of his and my old friends, toasted his life and his success in ending it the way he wanted to.

I could more likely have expected to be shot by some jealous husband or boyfriend. I'm not particularly proud of my behavior as a young man. I fucked – as the expression goes – anything with a vagina that would stand still long enough for me to fuck it. Whether they were married or single was a minor consideration that didn't particularly bother me one way or the other.

As a married man, I looked back sometimes and regretted that I had hurt a lot of people, hurt a lot of men in a way that I would have hated to have been hurt myself. But at the time, I was a homing missile guided by my dick like most young men and I never once – as far as I can remember- worried about the men whose women I fucked.

I didn't expect what life had waiting for me.   

I was twenty five when I met my Waterloo. She was red haired, with a slender body, milky skin so fine you could see the network of fine blue veins under the skin and a light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I wouldn't have been surprised to see her in an ad for Guinness Stout on some Irish television commercial skipping across a field of heather in the brilliant Irish summer sun, clad in a summer frock, sunlight burnishing the halo of flame-red hair floating like a cloud behind her.

Everything was fine and delicate except that mouth. Wide and full lipped, made for laughing and downing pints of beer and chocolate covered cherries and long kisses and sucking a man's cock until he lost his mind. That last thought was the first one that popped into my head the first time I saw her staggering into her father's $20 million dollar St. Augustine waterfront mansion at 7 in the morning.

Assisted by two female friends who could also barely stand, all their clothing together would barely have covered one female body. There was enough skin showing to reveal a body that except for that mouth didn't appeal to me. She was altogether too slender and coltish – and young – to be my cup of tea. I preferred them older and more fully developed, meaning I liked tits big enough to fuck and asses full enough to get a good hold as you pumped.

Besides which, she was the only daughter of Orion I. Lancaster, founder, owner and head of OIL, Inc., one of the largest independent oil companies in the world and a hungry rival to the slightly bigger local Gate Petroleum Company. Gate specialized in bringing in oil to supply their own burgeoning chain of gas stations and convenience stores headquartered in Jacksonville and scattered around the Southeast. OIL Inc. found and supplied oil to dozens of buyers but hadn't gotten into the retail end of the oil distribution business.

That was the reason that the Gate owners had a net worth in excess of a billion dollars, and Oil, Inc. – meaning OI Lancaster – was worth only a measly $250 million. Even so, she was the sole heir to a $250 million fortune which meant old Lancaster was very protective. I knew all about this because my father had been one of the main oil men for Lancaster for a decade before his death and had become one of the old man's closest friends.

Because I'd grown up around the business, I knew and liked the old man and I think he'd always felt the same about me. His first wife had three miscarriages before Deirdre was born, and two miscarriages afterward before dying in a birth related disaster. That made him consider her a true miracle and unable to do any wrong. His second wife had a son, but it turned out that Lancaster hadn't been the father and when the truth was discovered, the unfaithful wife and the son by marriage were gone and legal documents stronger than steel had been drafted to ensure the fake son would never get a penny of Lancaster money.

I'd been dogging my father's footsteps in the oil exploration business since I was old enough to bug him unmercifully to take me along with him on his trips. That was at the age of nine. By ten he'd talked my mother into letting me go along with him. He brought along books I had to study and a tutor for when I was in the states. As long as I kept up my grades, he told me and my mother, I could go with him. Mom fussed, but he told her he'd grown up that way and hadn't ended up that bad. And then they vanished into a bedroom and Mom said okay.

Dad was a good father, and a good husband, but he'd grown up in the hardscrabble oil fields of Oklahoma and Texas and he never could see the harm in a boy becoming acquainted with booze and good cigars.

He drew the line at sex, because he knew he'd eventually have to come home and face my mother, but he couldn't keep an eye on me 24 hours a day in the field and in a little fishing port on the western shores of the Mexican coastline, I'd met an 18-year-old goddess. Raven haired, big hipped and with heavy breasts that I couldn't take my eyes off of from the time I met her in the home of one of his wildcatter friends.

I was 13 going on 20 and she was sweeter than honey. We stayed there two weeks and I fell in love with her and she broke my heart with a 20-year-old shrimper who came back in off a voyage and took her away from me with just a look and a smile. But 13-year-old hearts mend fast.

So I grew up tall and solid like my father, with a taste for big breasted Latin sirens, the same kind of hunger for the black gold that made the world go round and the kind of instinct for where it was and where it wasn't that had made my dad a millionaire three times before I was ten. Of course he lost it all every time, which was why he ended up working for OIL Inc. and a steady paycheck.

At the age of 25 I'd worked everywhere from Canada to Mexico to Indonesia to fields in Darkest Africa. I was gone more than I was home, but I'd gotten my diploma and I was making carloads of cash and entertaining ladies with a dick that never seemed to get satisfied or tired, so I was a happy man.

Until I had the misfortune of meeting Deirdre Lancaster. The misfortune? You'll understand later. The first time I'd seen her staggering into her daddy's mansion I didn't think much about her. She stank of alcohol and slurred her words and just stared at me when one of her blonde nearly-naked friends staggered over to me and grabbed my dick through the jeans I was wearing.

"Hey, DeDe, you gotta check this out. I think that bulge is real."

"I think..." DeDe began, and then started throwing up in a huge vase that held a massive growth of Elephant Ears. They're really pretty weeds, but Lancaster had always loved them, something about the wilds of Central America where he'd met the late Mrs. Lancaster.

"Oh shit," the blonde said, and I moved back just in time to avoid the projectile vomiting coming out of her. Their little brunette friend was quietly emptying her stomach onto an expensive Arabic rug. They obviously couldn't hold their liquor.

A phalanx of maids and butlers and chauffeurs swarmed over them and they vanished upstairs to be cleaned up and put to bed.

I had come in for dinner with Lancaster and to talk a little oil. We were through and I was thinking seriously about doing a little barhopping to see what kind of pussy was available tonight. Lancaster walked up behind me and I turned to face him.

"Could I talk to you for a minute, Michael?"

I was really getting antsy for some action, but like I said, I liked him, and he paid me very well for my services.

"Sure," I said and followed him into one of the mansion's libraries. That's another distinction between rich people and the Very Rich. The Very Rich have more than one of everything. He sat down in a very comfortable looking chair with padded arms and motioned for me to sit across from him.

"I'm sorry you had to see her like that. She's really a good girl. Just...she was 10 when her mother died. I've dated a few women and I bought her the best companions and governesses, but they don't make up for the loss of a mother. She's gotten wild, and her friends are worse."

"No need to apologize. I haven't been a saint myself, as I'm sure Dad told you often."

"The difference, Michael, is that he was kind of proud of your tomcatting around. No one wants to see their Little Angel drunk and throwing up in vases."

"Well, I guess I can see there would be a difference."

There didn't seem to be much else to say so I lapsed into silence. After a few moments:

"They tell me you have some trips planned to South America over the next month or two?"

I was technically an employee of OIL Inc., but, like my father, I didn't work under strict supervision. I'd go out on assignments when top management told me to, but I could go out on my own and had already sniffed out two major oil fields, one in Cuban territorial waters that was secretly being prepared for a joint Cuban/British deal, with OIL Inc. being the silent partner of the Brits.

"Yes, I think there's a major field that no one has looked at in the Brazilian rain forest. Of course, getting it pumping is going to require some miracles to overcome opposition from international tree huggers and the Chinese who'll use the tree huggers as their front, but I think the oil is down there."

He leaned forward in his chair.

"I appreciate your dedication, Michael, and I have as much respect for your instincts as I do for your father's, but I have to ask you for a favor."

"A favor?"

"Yes. I can't ask you as a matter of business to do what I'm hoping you'll do. This is not business, it's personal."

I put my hands out, palms up symbolizing both my lack of understanding and the importance of what he was asking me.

"We're not the only people who have gotten wind of the rain forest oil field, Mr. Lancaster. Like I said, the Chinese and the Russians and the Saudis are all hearing whispers. Everybody knows about the Russians and the Chinese, but the Saudis are prowling all over the world too. There are a few in the Royal Family smart enough to know the ocean of oil they're sitting on isn't going to last forever. They're going to have to control other oil resources around the world to keep their Crown going."

"We're in front right now because we've done preliminary studies, we've bought officials in the Brazilian government, and we've made friends with a few of the indigenous peoples in the area. But we only have a lead. We could lose that lead."

He stretched out one large, weathered hand with a thumb and only three fingers and laid it on my knee. He wore a suit now, but he had been a wildcatter and carried a lot of scars. He had lost that finger creating his company.

"I understand what you're saying and I have talked to people about your work down there. So I know what I'm asking and I know what we're risking. But I'm going to ask you to stay here in Jacksonville for a few weeks, maybe a month."

"Doing what?"

"My daughter is currently on break from the University of Florida. She graduated from Bishop Kenny two years early. She was always a very good student, and she moved another year ahead at UF. She's taking a few months off from grad school, but she should have her Masters in Business Administration within the year. I have enough people and safeguards in place in Gainesville that I think she'll stay out of trouble, and she's a good student when she has enough on her mind and on her plate to keep busy. But she has too much time on her hands here."

'"And what does that have to do with me?"

"She is a very intelligent and willful girl, and she's too beautiful for her own good. Men are always trying to get something started with her to try to get to my money. She's smart and charming enough to twist most of the male employees I assign to her around her little finger. And she usually gets the females I assign to her in enough trouble that she can slip away from them."

I couldn't help shaking my head.

"You want me to put a major oil field on the back burner so I can babysit your little girl?"

He nodded.

"Really?"

"I have no doubt the oil deal you're working would mean a lot of oil, and a lot of money for this company. But I have a lot of money. And I will have a lot of money no matter what happens in Brazil. But there will always be more oil fields, more discoveries. I only have one daughter."

I tried one last time.

"With all due respect, Mr. Lancaster, and you know I respect you if only because Dad, if he were here, would kick my ass if I showed any disrespect, this is not a good idea. I'm no professional bodyguard or nursemaid. There are tons of people you could put around your daughter who would be a lot better at keeping her out of trouble – and from vomiting into your vases." 

He patted my hand.

"I know that, Michael. But you have some things going for you that they don't."

"I'm all ears."

"For one thing, you're almost family. I know I pay you, but you grew up in this company. I've known you since you were a little boy. Like your father, you're loyal, and not just because I pay you. You're a good man, just like your father. I can trust you, and I do.

"And, you're a hell raiser. I know how many bars you've been thrown out of. I know how many 'accidents' you've had with young women that your daddy had to buy you out of. I know how many times you've been arrested and how many times your daddy – and I – have had to pay to grease the wheels of justice to get them knocked down to misdemeanors or dismissed.

"I know how many fights you've been in, and the fact that you've never lost any of them. You're a big, strong guy who knows how to fight. Which counts for a lot.

"So far all we've got is that you like me, and I have a bad habit of getting into bar fights and getting women knocked up. Not the best recommendation in the world."

"True. But, it helps that Deirdre has always had a little crush on you, although she'd kill me if she knew I'd told you that."

"A crush? Mr. L, honestly, I barely knew she existed before tonight."

He smiled.

"I know. I know you've been busy and that she was a little girl and even though she's grown up, she's not your type. That's another reason why I want you. I know you like them busty and big-assed. It makes me a little more comfortable knowing she doesn't ring your bell. But, she's noticed you for a long time. I've caught her staring at you when you weren't noticing and a few of her friends have told me she's been – very explicit – in telling them what she wanted to do with you when you got smart and noticed her."

I shook my head.

"Now I really don't know if I want to do this."

He just grinned.

"You're not afraid of bar fights or married women and their jealous husbands, but a 20-year-old college student you could power lift with one hand scares you?"

"It's not the same thing."

"I know, but I trust you. I think you can handle the challenge. You up for it?"

What could I say?

So, instead of flying over the jungles of Brazil's rain forest the next Friday night, I walked into Pelicans, a new bar/disco on Jax Beach with Deirdre, three of her blonde girlfriends, and four guys who had to be college students judging by the way they looked at me as if I was an incredibly square uncle assigned as a chaperone.

I ordered drinks and flirted a little with her friends, which was the easiest way to blend into the group. One of the prettier ones and I clicked and when she dared me to get out on the dance floor I took her up on her challenge. She was a pretty good dancer, but hell, when you looked like her and showed as much skin as she did, all you had to do was move around with or without rhythm and nobody – guys especially – would complain.

When she started moving in close, rubbing her very hard nipples against my chest and giving me the equivalent of a hand job with her thighs, I had to back away a little. If she kept it up – I'm not made of stone and I couldn't watch the boss' daughter while I was off premises fucking her friend's promised land. 

I made excuses to get off the dance floor and when I returned from a not-really-needed visit to a bathroom, she'd already been swept off by a tall young stud who was engaged in simulated or maybe not so simulated sex in a corner.

I went back to Deirdre's table. She sat sprawled in an adoring ring of her four admirers. There were a lot of empty shot glasses, wine glasses and bottles scattered around the table. She seemed a LOT more drunk than any of the four guys. They were all having a good time, laughing and teasing her. I looked around and noticed that her two female friends had vanished onto the increasingly crowded dance floor. I didn't like the way things were going.

I grabbed a chair and pushed my way next to her, crowding out the nearest drooling guy. He gave me a dirty look but I gave him a dirtier look.

"Deirdre, sweetie. You look like you're about to pass out. Why don't I take you somewhere for some coffee and air. I think you'd feel a lot better and we can come back in later. Okay?"

She raised her head to stare at me bleary-eyed and said, "Do I know you? Oh, you're tall, dark and a house servant. You my chaperone tonight? Thanks for the offer, but my friends, my buds, will take care of me. They take care of me so good. Don' you guys?"

A good looking blonde, who might have been legal – barely – reached out to squeeze one of her small breasts which brought a squeal from her and stared at me with a confident sneer on his face.

"Yeah, Captain Do-Right, we take REAL good care of her; we'll bring her home when we're done with her."

Two of his friends backed him with the same shitty grins that almost dared me to argue with them. The only one of the four who gave me even the slightest moment of concern was a dark skinned kid with straight black hair, Asian and Caucasian features intermingled and the kind of thick body you sometimes see on Polynesian football players and wrestlers. He didn't run his mouth, just kept observing me coolly.


The Currency of Time Ch. 01



Deirdre let her head hit the table with a thump. I shook her shoulder but she just drooled onto the table. She was out of it, and she hadn't drunk THAT much.

Now I knew what was happening. I could have called the cops but to get her away from these guys I'd have to put them down first, and if the cops came when we rumbled, there'd be reports and calls to parents and all the embarrassing things I didn't want to happen.

I stood up and grabbed her shoulder and tried to lift her up, but she slid through my fingers like mercury back into her chair. I motioned to a waiter and when he came over stuffed a $100 bill in his shirt pocket. He bent forward,

"This drunk young lady is Deirdre Lancaster, the daughter of one of the richest men in the city, probably the state. He is a very protective and grateful father. I'm her bodyguard. If this guy or anyone else tries to leave here with her in tow, tell the management to call the cops and her father because she's been date rape drugged. I'm going outside with these three gentlemen to discuss the matter. Back in a few minutes.

I kept my eyes on the Polynesian but he sat quietly.

I walked ahead of the three motor mouths who were happily telling me what they were going to do when we got outside. I hadn't taken a full step when I felt motion behind me and half turned, caught the arm of the guy trying to crack a beer bottle over my head. I half hoisted, half threw him over my shoulder. I made certain that he came down face forward on a wooden packing crate that had contained expensive bottles of booze at one time.

I couldn't decide if the cracking and splintering sounds came from the thin boards of the crate, or cracking of teeth and facial bones. Whichever, he didn't try to get up and gain revenge. He just lay there bleeding and crying.

Behind him came the other two. A wild swing led the first one to stumble past me. As the second one came at me rearing back a big fist, I stepped into him and poked my finger into his eye, he gasped which turned into a choking gasp as I struck him in the throat with a knife hand thrust. He couldn't catch his breath which made it hard for him to block the first shoe I buried in his crotch. But he was pretty tough. He didn't go down. The second kick left him rolling around on his back in the alley trying to curse and catch his breath at the same time.

"You fucking son of a bitch, I'm going to break your neck and feed you your balls," the third guy said as he completed his stumble and came back at me.

"Okay, but I'm not going to drink anything you give me so it might be tougher for you than it usually is."

He swung at me but was careful not to overshoot and leave anything for me to grab on and pile drive him. He came at me and at me and I kept swatting his punches away with no great degree of difficulty. We could do this all night but the Polynesian kid might decide to dive in or some of his other friends might show up. So I stepped forward and left myself open. He stepped inside, tripped me and holding my right arm tried to slam me down in a modified wrestling or MMA submission move.

Unfortunately for him, as he was moving I spun around with the goal of putting him in an arm lock submission. Now when somebody is behind you with a good grip on your arm and you have no leverage to break the hold, anybody who's ever done this with a live partner knows you go with the hold and try to make an escape or tap out after you go down.

You DON'T try to throw the guy behind you over your shoulder. If your opponent isn't ready for it or quick enough to ease up on the pressure, what happens is you hear this sickening CRACK which is the sound of an arm being torn out of the shoulder socket shredding bones and tendons and giving an orthopedic surgeon enough work to send at least one kid to college.

I'd been in a couple of training matches when something equally stupid was tried so I had just enough warning to let go and he caught me with one arm and threw me over his back. I didn't hear anything crack, but I did hear him scream. The arm had probably been pulled out of socket, or close enough to hurt like hell. I looked around and saw the Polynesian kid headed my way.

I focused all my attention on him and made myself loose and ready to move in whatever direction was necessary.

I studied his face, particularly his eyes. You can usually read an antagonist's moves and intentions from his eyes better than any other tipoff.

"We going to go round?"

"You've had some training," he said.

"Some in a gym. Never messed around with belts. Mostly street fighting. Learn as you go."

"I guessed. I've got black belts in karate and judo. Started when I was four. My dad pushed me, but after a while I got to like it."

"I'm impressed. I've never kicked the ass of anybody with your credentials. But there's always a first time."

He looked me up and down, and said,

"I can take you. No doubt in my mind. But you're good enough, and wild enough, that you might accidentally hurt me, or I might accidentally kill you. This was supposed to be a fun night out, not a battle to the death."

I set my body in a defense posture.

"Your definition of a fun night out and mine are completely different. Drugging a woman and taking her somewhere for a gang rape she's helpless to resist, that's not a fun night out. I don't have to rape women to have fun. I feel sorry for you fuckers if you think that is fun."

I glanced over at the ruin that was his friends.

"Whether you kill me or I hurt you, cops are coming into this. I've told people inside you were date rape drugging her. If there's a death back here and a lot of people saw us come back here, the cops will be all over you. And when her daddy finds you that you drugged his daughter, he won't need 'no steeenking cops' to handle you. You'll just vanish. Guys that got rich in the oil business are not your typical buttoned down business types."

He bent down beside the guy with the arm out of socket. 

"Bobby, Bobby, hold on a second. Take a deep breath and close your eyes. Go limp."

An instant later he did something and Bobby screamed loud enough to wake the dead. Then he went limp for real. The Polynesian held his head and lowered him to the floor of the alley. After a moment Bobby raised his head and said weakly, "What'd you do. That almost feels right."

"Just gave you some relief from the pain. I need to get you guys to an emergency room. Beaches is probably the closest."

Bobby looked over at me.

"Kill that fucker, Mo. Tear his arm out. I can wait."

Mo gave me a studied look, than turned back to his friend.

"I think the cops will be here sooner rather than later and we don't want to be hauled in for a brawl. Besides which, her daddy will back him up and he's a very rich and powerful man. I don't want to tangle with him."

"You afraid of this fucker, Mo? I've never seen you back down from anybody."

"Not afraid of him. But...you've got a beat up arm that can probably be rehabbed and you'll still have a shot at the minors. If he hadn't let go of that hold, your arm would be gone. You might still have it but it'd be dangling at your side for the rest of your life. All your dreams, all your plans, would have gone up in smoke, all for a piece of ass. That's crazy. I kill him and my life is over. What the fuck kind of night out is that, Bobby? You're risking everything for a crazy bitch. You might be willing to throw everything away for her, but I'm not."

Mo turned to me.

"I know what you did for Bobby and I appreciate it. Walk away from this and no hard feelings."

I stared at him and tried to take in his words.

"No hard feelings? You stupid bastard. You were trying to drug and gang rape the daughter of a man who's been good to me. You expect me just to forget about that? No way in hell. I'm waiting for the cops and if you want to try and kill me, come at me. You might not be as good as you think."

He shook his head.

"You really don't know what the hell you're talking about, do you? You think we were drugging her to get her to someplace private and have our way with her virginal bod?"

"Well, yeah."

"Go in there and talk to some of the waiters, a bartender or two. Take her somewhere and have them do a tox screen on her."

"What?"

"Yeah. The light begins to dawn. The tox screen will show she's got enough in her to be relaxed, but she's faking the rest. And some of the waiters and bartenders will tell you we've carried her out of here blitzed more than a few times in the last six months. She knows every one of us and she's willing going every step of the way. When we get someplace private every one of us will fuck her, two and three at a time, and she'll be begging for more. Your sweet little virginal maiden loves it up the ass, loves pulling trains, loves playing a victim of rape who gets carried away and really gets into it."

     "You're saying she-"

I tried to get my head around it. I was more than familiar with role playing in the bedroom, but this sounded far beyond any kinky I was familiar with.

"Yeah, I'm saying none of us are rapists. We just found a really kinky bitch who likes to party, and we're more than happy to party with her."

He looked down at his friends.

"Your call. You bring the cops in and it'll be embarrassing for us until the lawyers prove this was just consensual rough sex. But it will come out. But your little friend is going to be a hell of a lot more embarrassed. Bobby down there has a father who's been a big contributor to Republican and Democrat governors for 20 years. He's not going to let Bobby take the rap for this and he's big enough that he can cause her daddy a lot of grief. You still want the cops called in instead of just letting us walk away? You could take her somewhere you can sober her up and figure out a story her daddy will buy?"

If he was lying, it would be easy enough to prove and I could always find them again. But it was a smarter move to get her away from here and the cops.

"Take your friends and get the hell out of here. I'll let this pass unless I learn your story is crap. You seem like you might have some brains, so you ought to know this kind of shit can't end well, no matter how much money Bobby's daddy or any of the rest of you have. Even if this is all a game, all you need is one accident, a little too much drugs or somebody that reacts badly to what you feed them, and you'll still find yourself with a prison record. I know it can't be that hard to find bitches to party with. You don't need to be doing this."

He bent down and carefully helped Bobby to his feet.

"You take care of your girl and let me take care of my friends."

I walked back into Pelicans and found Deirdre at a table toward the back, head slumped on the table. A couple of waiters who'd been standing near her approached me, one asking, "cops?"

"No. We'll just handle this privately."

I shook her but she just rolled her head back and forth and mumbled. I didn't know if she was acting or if she'd gotten a touch too much of the drug in her system. I gave a waiter a parking slip for my car and bent and hoisted her over my shoulder with as much effort as it would have taken to lift a child. The only real concern I had was if she was going to throw up all over me. Fortunately, she didn't and I got her out to my 2001 Jeep Cherokee Sport. The parking attendant opened the passenger door for me and I dropped her inside. Then I found a motel on Atlantic Boulevard heading away from the Beaches after hitting an all-night coffee shop and buying three large coffees and then two Big Macs at an all-night McDonalds.

I got her inside, then brought in the coffee and hamburgers, locked the door behind me, and sat down on one of the two double beds beside her. Her flaming curls lay around her on her pillow. They were so red they looked unreal. She was snoring, her small chest rising and falling. Between the snores, her lips moved and I could almost make out pieces of words. She wasn't my type, in almost any way, but her lips were swollen and wet and somehow that made me hard. Her skin was freckled, lightly patterned and so white it looked like ivory parchment. I looked at her chest above her breasts. The skin there was almost translucent, showing a network of light blue veins under the skin.

The only light I had on was the table lamp beside her bed. Under its soft glow she had an ethereal appearance, like something not quite human. I liked my women fleshy, solid enough to hold and fuck and possess, but there was no denying she was a beautiful woman if your tastes ran in that direction.

"Deirdre...Deirdre."

I patted the side of her face and she blinked. After what seemed like a struggle she pried her eyelids open. I don't know that she was seeing anything, because she looked at me and said, "Bobby?"

"No, Bobby's gone. I kicked his ass and sent him to the hospital."

She blinked a couple of times.

"You hurt Bobby?"

"Not as bad as I could have, but yeah, I hurt him."

"You asshole."

"Sorry about that, but when I think a girl is being drugged to take somewhere and rape, it tends to irritate me. I had no idea you guys were partying."

She tried to raise her head but fell back immediately."

"Dizzy."

"That's what can happen when college kids are messing with powerful drugs. Sometimes it works like a dream. Sometimes you end up with a dead party girl."

"I repeat – you're an asshole. I would have been fine"

"Maybe so sweetie, but when you're planning on doing this kind of shit and you know your daddy has a guy watching you, it would be nice to give a heads up so I don't wind up in jail or kill some of your friends."

She lay back, breathing slowly.

"You're not going to throw up on me, are you?"

With her eyes still closed, breathing through her mouth, she said, "I don't think so."

I sat on the bed beside her and put my left hand under her neck and lifted her up and toward me.

"What-"

"It's easier to drink hot coffee sitting up. And I think you need hot coffee right now to come out of this."

"I don't want any."

"Listen to Dr. McCarthy. Hot coffee is THE wonder drug, elixir of the gods, good for what ails you. Humor me."

I picked up a cup of good, strong generic black coffee and held it to her lips. She spit.

"That's HOT!"

"It's supposed to be. Blow on it a little bit to cool it off, but swallow a sip."

It took a couple more attempts, but she finally managed to swallow a good-sized mouthful.

And spit it out.

"Goddamn. That's black coffee. BLACK coffee. Who the hell drinks their coffee black?"

"I do, sometimes. But it is great for clearing the fumes out of your head. Hold your nose and drink some more."

"I'm going to tell my father you took me to a motel room while I was drunk to have your way with me. He'll fire your ass and NOBODY will be hiring you in the oil business, no matter how good you are."

I held the coffee to her lips again.

"Two things. He's not going to do anything to me when I educate him as to what a cum guzzling, train pulling slut he's raising. He might put you in a well-guarded nunnery somewhere. And the second thing...much as I love your father, if he blackballed me there would still be a hundred places I could go that would pay me what he's paying me – and more. Oil companies don't give a shit about blackballs."

"Think you're pretty damn smart, don't you?"

And then she spit hot coffee in my face.

I didn't even think because if I had I would not have done it. But my hand shot out and I backhanded her. Her head bounced off the pillow and she stared at me in shock. Those luscious lips dripped blood onto the pillow.

She rubbed the blood off her lips with one slender finger.

"I cannot believe you did that."

"People don't spit hot coffee on me. Even beautiful women."

Her eyes widened for a second.

"You're a brute."

"And you're a bitch."

I went into the bathroom and came back with a wet cloth and some tissue paper.

I patted the blood off first with the cloth, then the tissue paper. Her lip was cut but not severely. It would heal.

"You're not going to apologize?"

"Are you?"

"I shouldn't have spit on you"

"I shouldn't have hit you. I am sorry for that."

She reached up with the cloth and wiped the remnants of the coffee off my nose and cheek. It stung. If she had spit in my eyes it would do more than sting a little.

"Are you okay? That was reflex."

"I'll live, now drink and don't spit on me anymore. Try to get that cup down and we'll see if you're nauseous. If you can hold it down, a hamburger would put something solid in your stomach."

"I don't know if I can."

"I want you to try. I really should be taking you to an ER or an all-night Doc In A Box. The stunt you pulled was stupid and it might still have an effect on you."

"I'll be fine."

"Because you've always been fine before?"

She didn't say anything.

"Mo said you've done this before. You call this 'partying'?"

"I'm legal and I can party any way I want to."

"Letting guys drug you and bang you like a drum until you can't walk straight?"

"Different strokes."

I looked at that sweet, innocent, ethereal face and still found it hard to believe.

"You really are a slut, aren't you? I feel sorry for your father."

"What you think of me doesn't matter. YOU"RE not my father, or my parole officer."

"Thank God."

She put the coffee away and a few minutes started on one of the Big Macs and polished it off. She stared at me for a moment as I finished the last of my Big Mac."

"I gave you a hard on, didn't I? I could feel it when you carried me in here. For such an upstanding young man, you got pretty hard pretty quick handling an unconscious young woman."

"Purely physical. Had nothing to do with you. You're not my type. Not enough up top."

"A stiff cock doesn't lie."

"You're a pretty girl with a nasty mouth. Don't flatter yourself. I wouldn't touch you. Too much chance of picking up some strange bugs."

She just shook her head.

"You are such an asshole. Are you sure you weren't born back in the 1950s?"

I just held my hands out, palms up in confusion.

"What?"

"How many women have you fucked, Mr. McCarthy?"

"None of your business."

"I've had sex with 50 guys – and given out a few hand jobs. How many women have you had?"

"Still none of your business.

"I can remember eavesdropping on your father and mine talking about some of the scrapes you got in. I know you banged a lot and got a few women – including some married ones - pregnant before your dad got you out of it. I know you fucked a lot more women than I did men. Question. Have you ever been with more than one woman at a time?"

She stared at me and laughed. A low, musical laugh. Something about the vibration got me harder.

"Don't bother answering. It's in your eyes. Was it fun? Did you switch from one pussy to another, have three or four mouths sucking you at the same time? And I know you hated it. You fucking hypocrite."

'Who I fuck- and how many – is my business. And I'm a man."

She bounded up next to the bed. I braced myself. She still carried coffee and while I didn't think it was boiling anymore, it was still coffee.

"Bulletin, you big asshole. It's the 21st century. Women don't wear veils and walk behind their men. We fuck who we want to, when we want to. Just like men. And I, Deirdre Lancaster, as the only heir to an oil company, can fuck anybody I want to, standing on my head if I want to, and no one is going to throw rocks at me or light the pyre. I'd rather my father not know about this. But not because he's going to put me in a nunnery. Because he's my father and I'll always be his little girl and him knowing about that stuff would be – icky."

"I should still tell him. Just to keep you safe. You keep running around doing shit like this and one day you could wind up in real trouble. Why don't you just find some nice respectable businessman boyfriend who has a few friends and do your partying with alcohol and coke like everybody else?"




The Currency of Time Ch. 01



She moved closer and I stood up involuntarily, instinct telling me to watch out. She stared up into my eyes and said, "Could I see your driver's license?"

"What?"

"I think you're really 50 and passing for 25. With a lot of surgery, I think you could pass."

I put my hands on her hips to move her back and froze. She saw it and smiled.

"I guess I could try to be as 'respectable' as you, but I'd really have to work at it. I've been hearing stories about you and your exploits - stories I wasn't supposed to hear about - for years. How many women have you gotten pregnant and your daddy had to pay off to have abortions? How many 'girlfriends'? So, how many? One hundred? Two hundred?"

"Who knows? Who cares?" 

"Exactly. I've fucked – maybe – 50 guys. I like to fuck gangs of them at one time. But I'm a slut, and you're just a red blooded, all American boy."

"Yeah. I didn't make the rules. Letting yourself be drugged, pulling trains...you're a slut."

"I get tested regularly and my guys use condoms. You ever get yourself tested?"

I looked at her face reddening in anger, the crimson of her lips and thought of her lying in a bed while cocks entered all of her holes in a rhythmic fucking and felt myself getting hard. I didn't let it bother me. It was like sitting in a hotel room with a porn star having seen her getting massively fucked. It was just a natural male reaction.

"Not that it's any of your business, but yes, I get tested regularly even though I always use condoms since I grew up and developed a few smarts. I haven't gotten anyone pregnant in years, since my father beat some sense into me."

"You ever think about all those little McCarthys who might be running around now if your daddy hadn't been so quick to pay for abortions? Or if you'd been man enough to accept responsibility for your wandering dick? You ever think about what it would be like to play daddy, if any part of you was grown up except your dick?"

"Somehow those words of wisdom ring hollow falling from the lips of a whore still dripping cum."

A small smile played on those ruby red lips and somehow that pissed me off even more.

"Ooohh, I think maybe I hit a nerve, Mr. McCarthy. You ever think about them in the long hours of the night? Women are supposed to be the ones haunted by the ghosts of children who will never be born. Men don't care about that. Not real men. You're not – SENSITIVE – are you? It's okay. I'll keep your secret from your drinking buddies.

"No, I'm not sensitive. How many abortions have you had?"

An expression came and went so quickly on her face that I couldn't identify it.

"However many I've had, that's my business."

She was right. It was her business. And this conversation was deeper and more raw than I had ever had with a woman. I preferred my women light and air headed and their only interest in depth was how deep I could bury myself in them. All I'd been doing was a favor for an old man who'd been good to me and my father. All I needed to do was make sure she was in good shape physically and get her home.

Which I did an hour later. There was a parking area behind the main house between it and a series of guest cottages for special visitors and partying. A series of pools of varying sizes dotted the landscape between the cottages. It was near 1 a.m. and older types were in bed and the younger were still out partying.

She approached the nearest pool. It was relatively small, maybe10 yards long and five across, but it was at least 20 feet deep with frescos and a few small statuary scattered across the bottom.

"It is so fucking hot. Let's go in, McCarthy."

"Sorry ma'am. Not dressed for it and I'm ready to head to bed."

"You are sooooo old to be so young."

She threw me a look of challenge that if she had appealed to me at all, would have had me stripping down and in the pool. Fortunately, she didn't.

She stripped out of her top, slid off the bra that covered those small breasts topped with what looked like Maraschino cherries, pulled her dress down and followed with a thong like dental floss, revealing that, as I'd thought, she was a true redhead.

"Your loss," she said, laughing, then turning and diving into the pool.

She came up dripping and glistening in the lights over the pool. I found myself regretting that she wasn't my type. 

"You sure?"

Jesus, but she was hot. If she'd only had more by way of tits. But...

The more I thought about it the more I realized I couldn't leave her out here alone. For all I knew, she had other guys she could call and hook up with. And then we'd be right back where we started. Not to mention that my name would be shit with Lancaster after he'd asked me to watch out for his baby girl and I'd lost her after learning what she was up to.

 She splashed me. And then splashed me again. After the third time I slipped off my shoes and dove in after her. I didn't strip because there was no way in hell I wanted anybody coming out and finding me naked and frolicking with the boss's daughter. Not that I couldn't explain what was going on, but still...

Naturally she slipped out and up the far side of the pool. She leaned over the side of the pool and taunted me. Damned if her breasts didn't appear a lot more succulent dripping water off the hard tips.

"Why don't you try to come up and catch me, McCarthy? You're a grown man and I'm just a little girl."

I just stared at her, treading water in the center of the pool, my drenched clothes dragging and forcing me to tread with a lot more effort than I would have otherwise. She stood there shimmying which made her slim body shake in fascinating ways.

"What's the matter? Those big muscles might be nice for attracting certain kind of bimbos, but it makes it hard to move quickly, doesn't it. You're a behemoth, but quick little mammals can run rings around a big dinosaur like you, can't they? You couldn't catch me if you tried."

She expected me to try to climb out and then as soon as I had dragged my waterlogged clothes and body out, to dive back in and keep the game going. I surprised her by staying where I was.

"No sense of adventure, McCarthy? You like those big soft cows that throw themselves and their udders at you? Not used to dealing with anybody but bimbos? Well, I think I'll slip away before you can get out, call some friends and find a party. And you can explain to my daddy why you let me slip away when he sent you to keep me on the straight and narrow."

I looked into her beautiful eyes in that face set off by wild red hair and wished she was about ten years older. When she grew up, small tits or not, she'd probably be the kind of woman that got under your skin. But now she was just a pain in the ass.

"I'm not chasing you, Deirdre. If you want to jump back in and engage in some water games, I'm up for it. If you want to run off somewhere and fuck the night away, go for it. I'll tell your daddy what's going on and let him worry about you. If he wants to fire me, let him. I won't lack for work."

"You're no fun, McCarthy. I'll give you another chance, just to be fair."

She dove in and circled me like a silver, red-haired fish, laughing at me until I reached out when she came too close, grabbed a wrist and brought her to me. She fussed, but I put my arm around her waist, grabbed the ladder into the water and hauled myself out. I carried her under my arm toward the main house while she kicked, scratched, hollered and called me all kinds of bad names.

I stomped into the main house, squishing as I went, a red haired harridan screaming and hollering 'rape', 'kidnapping' and 'call the police'."

Butlers and maids and security men started swarming and when the first two big men grabbed me to force me to release her, I let her go. Many of the people here knew me, but she was the Lady of the Manor.

 She was talking to a couple of the maids and getting ready to get out when Orion Lancaster, dressed in a evening gown worth more than most working men would earn in a year and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, walked in.

"What the hell is going on out here, Michael?"

"Daddy, he manhandled me and he's going to tell you a bunch of lies. Don't believe him."

"Michael?"

"Can we talk privately? And have your men hold onto Deirdre."

When we walked into a library, he turned to me and said, "talk to me."

I told him the story and I could see the pain and shock in his eyes. She might think of herself as a grown woman, but she was still his little girl.

"Honestly, Mr. Lancaster, if she was just partying and screwing around, I wasn't planning on telling you. She's not doing anything that a lot of girls her age aren't. But what she's doing is dangerous. They're playing with date rape drugs and probably worse. Like I told the guys who were planning on partying with her, people make mistakes. Sometimes drugged women never wake up. It's dangerous for her to keep going on the way she's going."

"You swear you're telling me the truth?"

"On my father's grave."

Two security men brought her into the library. She had a hard time raising her eyes to meet his, but when she did I could see that she was his daughter. The same iron will, the same strength.

"I suppose he's filled your head with lies, daddy? And you believe him without hearing me out?"

"Tell me the truth."

She lowered her eyes again and then raised them.

"Alright. I was partying. I wish I could tell you I'm still your virginal 12-year-old daughter, but I can't. People grow up. I like sex. And I like men."

"You play games where you let these 'friends' of yours drug you into unconsciousness and then rape you?"

She stared daggers at me.

"It isn't rape. It's consensual. It's...a fantasy. No one gets hurt. I date nice guys, students and sons of people running empires almost as big as yours."

He stared at her and I was glad I didn't have children. Nobody to break my heart.

"Do you always use condoms – in these games?"

"Mostly."

The look on his face changed.

"So not only do you take a chance of dying by taking untested drugs, you risk AIDS and God knows what else."

She refused to answer him.

He walked over to her and cupped her face in his hands.

"You're the only thing I have left of your mother. You will inherit a fortune and a major company when I die. And you're willing to throw all that away for...a few thrills in the bedroom?"

"I'm young. And it didn't have to be this way. You could have let Julian stay with me. He loved me and I loved him. I wouldn't be doing all this if you hadn't scared him away, if you'd let me pick my own man."

He tightened his grip on her face and she winced.

"The piece of shit made you kill your own child so I wouldn't know what was going on. He got a 16-year-old girl he was supposed to be tutoring pregnant. And I didn't have to scare him away. I offered him a flat million to dump you and go away and he was gone before the ink was dry on my check."

"He left because he knew you'd kill him if he didn't go."

"It doesn't matter. You're on complete lockdown. Security will accompany you everywhere you go, whether it's to the bathroom or to the movies or back to classes. You will be drug tested every day."

"You can't do that. I'm over 18, an adult. You can't keep me here against my will. I have rights."

"I can Baker Act you for up to 60 days, maybe longer, after drug tests confirm that you're a threat to yourself. I can get a friendly judge to commit you for six months for treatment and therapy at a private mental facility. There won't be any days at the beach, movies, barhopping where you'll be going. Choose. You can stay here and follow my rules and you'll be tutored by a fat old grandmother, or as God is my judge, I'll lock you up for as long as I can."

"You would do that to me?"

"To keep you alive, yes."

I barely had time to get my hands up before a whirlwind of nails and teeth descended on me. Fortunately, I outweighed her by a hundred pounds and it wasn't hard to keep her off me. The two security guys pulled her off me.

When they'd removed her, Lancaster looked at me and said, "I know she's royally pissed right now, but she'll get over it. Thank you."

"It made for an interesting Friday night, anyway."

I thought about making a late night run by some of my favorite spots and seeing if I could bag something for the night, but I wound up showering and hitting the bed. Somehow, I had the feeling that anybody I found would be just plain dull compared to what I'd already experienced.

Time passed. Another Friday. I had just flown in from Miami after four days of sniffing around rumors of an undiscovered oil field close enough to flood Miami Beach with oil if things went wrong, but it appeared to be just another of those will-of-the-wisp rumors that made the oil business funny, if frustrating.

I had managed one too-short, session with a very bilingual Cuban who was able to tell me what she wanted in two languages. I'd had about 12 hours sleep in 96 hours and I was living on coffee. My bed looked very inviting.

I was sacked into my condo on the Lancaster estate when I heard the knock at the door.

"Go away. I'm off the clock."

The knocking resumed. I'd kept in contact with Orion so I doubted it was from him. I opened the door. Deirdre stood flanked by two attractive women who attempted to play down the fact that they were carrying, but it was obvious. They looked to my eye like female cops, so they had to be security.

"Yes?"

"We apologize for disturbing you, Mr. McCarthy, but Ms. Lancaster insisted on seeing you, the shorter blonde said. It was clear that this wasn't the most fun assignment they'd ever had.

"What do you want?"

"I apologize for trying to gouge your eyes out the last time we were together."

"Feeling bad about that now?"

"A little. Can we put that behind us?"

"Why?"

"I need a favor."

"I know I shouldn't ask, but what?"

"Can we go out and get a drink at Jax Beach. They've got some really cool bands playing there tonight."

"Are you insane? You think I'll take the chance of taking you out and losing you?"

"I give you my word, I won't try to run."

"That counts for a lot."

"Please."

She examined the two women and said, "Nobody who takes me out has any idea about music after 1995 and they have no sense of fun at all. It's more fun staying in and reading."

I looked at the security women..

"This is okay with Mr. Lancaster?"

"He said he trusted you."

I could barely keep my eyes open and the bed looked so inviting. I never could figure out why I said yes, but I am sure that that was the start of the collapse of my life.

We drove down from St. Augustine on US 1. The closer we got to Jax Beach, the heavier the traffic got. When we approached the Beach community, it took 30 minutes to get through four blocks of partiers. I found a spot after paying a guy $50 for his spot in one of the walkways to the Beach. We were only two blocks down from a row of four bars and night spots, each one offering an array of bands.

I didn't hold onto Deirdre but she didn't bolt. I just kept an eye on her. We walked into the first bar which didn't have standing room only; it was more like breathing room only. You couldn't avoid getting a contact high by taking deep breaths.

After three beers and two runs by bands I'd never heard of, but which weren't too bad, Deirdre leaned over and said, "I have to go pee."

She made her slinky way through the crowd. I watched her enter the bathroom. I dropped a few 20s on the bar to settle our bill and made my way outside. I walked around to the back and walked back up the alley that ran the entire block. I passed four or five drug deals but when I got hard looks I just returned them and the buyers and sellers returned to their business.

I came to the back of the bar we'd been in. A tall shaggy blonde guy looked at me and must have recognized me. He raised his hands and made what he thought was a karate stance.

"Go away. She's not going to be available tonight."

"If you don't get your ass out of this alley, I'm going to hurt you."

I stepped into him and hit him as hard as I could in the nose. I felt a satisfying crunch and he fell to his knees. He held his nose and cried. Being hit hard in the nose when you're not used to it hurts. I grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet and sent him on his way. I stepped to one side and waited.

A couple of minutes later, a brunette in a miniskirt slipped out the door looking around. I stepped up behind her.

"Hi, Deirdre. Your friend is gone."

As I spoke I snapped a handcuff on one wrist and the other on my left wrist.

"What? McCarthy? What are you doing?"

She looked down at her wrist and exploded.

"Handcuffs? Handcuffs!"

"You wanted a night out. Now you can have it and I don't have to worry about you slipping off."

"How?"

"You forget I'm older than you and I've hit a lot of bars, including this one. I know that that bathroom has an exit to the alley. I've used it. It wasn't hard to figure out what you planned. Were you really that damned sex starved you were going to sneak out to another orgy? With that zero?"

"No, believe it or not. He thought we were going to have sex, but probably not. I just wanted to get away from you and have one night to have fun without feeling like I'm a prisoner under observation. Now I expect you're going to drag me back home and narc on me to my father."

"Why?"

"Handcuffs. That makes it pretty obvious."

"It's up to you. We can go home, or we can listen to some more bands, have some drinks. I wouldn't mind that. But, like I said, it's up to you."

"The handcuffs stay on?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

We went back in and drank, listened to bands bad and good, she talked me out onto the dance floor and while we were dancing she flung her arms up high enough for everyone to see the handcuffs. It took a while for people to notice, but after a while there were cheers and laughing and the dancers started to clear a space around us.

"I need me a pair of those," I heard, and there were more comments of that general nature. 

We kept dancing, drinking and moving from bar to bar. Finally at 4 a.m. when I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, I had to tell her, "I'm all in. We've got to go, or you'll have to carry me out."

She didn't object and within a half hour we were back on the estate. I called ahead and the two blonde security women were waiting as I drove up to my condo. I unsnapped the handcuffs.

"That was fun." Deirdre said. Her hair was swirled around her face, her face flushed, lips redder than crimson.

"Glad you enjoyed it. Now get out so I can get some sleep."

"Okay, but first..."

She reached over and placed her lips on mine. It was a soft, tentative kiss, but it made her seem like a different person for a moment. Then she opened the door and went to the security women. I got out and went into my condo and barely made the bed. I didn't bother undressing. I think I was awake for a half second after my head hit my pillow.

But even in that instant, I had a sudden bad feeling. Things had changed, and even if I wasn't quite sure how, I knew it couldn't end well.

I didn't see her for two weeks. I thought about her once in a while, and when I did I wasn't sure exactly how I felt about her. I was back in Jacksonville on a Saturday morning and at loose ends. I had no work, no plans. I drove out to St. Augustine Beach and walked the dunes. I felt oddly restless but I didn't know what I wanted to do.

I drove back to the Lancaster estate. I had a great dinner, ribs that literally melted in my mouth, roasted asparagus and the best crab cakes ever made. Lancaster had never spared any expense in making sure, if you were on his estate, your tummy was going to be happy no matter how the rest of you felt.




The Currency of Time Ch. 01



I sat on my bed and sipped at the quality Bourbon that was available in the bar, again courtesy of Lancaster's largesse. I didn't want to watch television, go out to the movies, head out for drinks and I didn't really feel like hunting fresh female companionship. It was unusual, but everybody has to take a night off once in a while to re-charge the batteries.

There was a knock at the door. I had a sudden intuition who it was, but if she wanted to go out again tonight I was going to have to pass. The mood I was in, I wouldn't be good company.

She stood there, dressed in scarlet short-shorts, a scarlet scoop-necked peasant blouse, looking like a walking flame. She held a paper bag in one hand and a stack of DVDs in the other.

I looked around for her handlers. They were there, as unobtrusive as they could be, but they were there.

"I'm afraid this is going to be a bad night, Deirdre. I'm not in the mood to party."

"That's good. Neither am I. I was hoping I could hang with you, smoke some weed, get drunk and watch some DVDs. "

"I don't know."

"I promise I won't spit any hot coffee on you. I'm bored. Maybe if you smoke a little bit and get drunk, you'll feel better."

The story of my life is a gradual descent into the abyss. I should have declined her offer, but I said, "Come on in."

We smoked and drank and watched two movies that wouldn't be released until the next year, "Men in Black II" and "Jason X." One was okay and one sucked. We made bad jokes about the one that sucked. I realized that when she wasn't being a spoiled brat who liked fucking multiples of men, she wasn't a bad kid.

At some point during the night, she wound up curled against me. She felt good against me. I wasn't sure when she started rubbing up a huge erection, but there it was. I grabbed her hand and said, "Stop."

She looked up at me with eyes I'd never noticed were a brilliant green and asked, "Why?"

I couldn't come up with a good reason so I remained silent.

Sometime later she was sucking, licking and nibbling the head of my cock. I have had a lot of blow jobs, but at that moment I really thought I was the recipient of one of greatest blow jobs in the history of the world – if not the single greatest.

She put a condom on me, mounted me and rode me like a bronco. I had enough presence of mind to ask her if she was safe to fuck and she informed me that her father had had her checked for every STD in the history of the world and she was clean.

We rested and I realized that itchy restlessness that had hung over me all day had vanished. It could have been the alcohol or the pot, but I had a feeling it was her. 

It was hard to hold onto my thoughts, but I managed to say, "This doesn't make any sense. You're not my type. Women like you don't appeal to me."

"Could have fooled me," she said with a grin. She bent down to go after my cock again and I grabbed and stopped her.

"Stop. I don't understand. What is happening?"

She climbed on top of me. We had AC but no ceiling fan so I didn't understand why her hair flamed about her in ever-changing patterns.

"I shouldn't tell you, but I will. I have placed a Geis on you. Think of it as an Irish love spell. When I was a little girl, my father would tell me how we were descended from the gods of the Tuatha De Danann, the Celtic deities of Ireland before Christianity. He told me at times I could wield magic."

She leaned down to kiss me and her green eyes glowed in the dim light.

"I have placed a Geis on you and you are mine forever. You will be my man until you die."

The rest of the night drifted away in memories of soft female flesh, plunging into female openings, climaxes each stronger than the last, and then oblivion.

I woke Sunday morning to find a warm bundle next to me. I rolled out of bed to go pee and she was awake and staring at me when I came back.

"You sorry you didn't go out?"

"No, but I have to admit, you kind of creeped me out."

"How?"

"I didn't know I was bedding a witch."

She thought about it for a second, then burst into laughter.

"The Geis, Tuatha De Danann, all of that? You believed that?"

"It was all pretty – impressive. And your hair doing that floating thing, and your eyes glowing..."

She laughed again.

"I suppose being stoned out of your mind had nothing to do with all that? I'm surprised you didn't see leprechauns, or fairies. I've heard the stories of the Tuatha De Danann and the other Irish legends since I was a little girl. I was just having fun with you."

She rose naked out of the bed and swayed over to me.

"Does that mean you really think you're in love with me?"

"Don't push it. I'm just stunned that we wound up in bed together."

She turned and walked back to the bed and began to slip on her clothes.

"Okay, but next time you've going to have to come after me. I won't be throwing myself at you again."

Later that day I received a summons from Lancaster. I'd been expecting it. I walked into an open solarium centered on an Olympic sized swimming pool with glass walls that allowed a great view on the marshes behind the main house. There was a time, I'd been told, when the marsh had been dotted with clumps of oyster beds, but they had all been wiped out years before.

I didn't know what to expect. I wasn't ashamed or embarrassed at what had happened, but she was his little girl.

"Sit," he said gesturing to a pool chair. When I did, he just looked at me for a little while.

"I know what happened," he said. "I just don't know what, if anything, it means."

"That makes two of us. I don't know either."

"Is it just physical, or ..."

I looked him in the eye.

"It's definitely physical, but she's gotten under my skin. I told her she's not even my type, but I've been thinking about her. More than I ever expected to."

"I'm not going to tell you not to see her. Honestly, I trust her more with you than anybody I can think of. I don't think you're going to use her, but try not to hurt her, if you can."

"I think you ought to be telling that to her."

'I think you can handle yourself."

"I used to think so."

FAST-FORWARD TWO YEARS

It is early 2004, Orion has been dead a year from a sudden stroke, and Deirdre and I have been married for two years. She had gotten under my skin and I couldn't get her out. I still have a suspicion that she possesses magical powers because I've never been able to figure out how I could fall so hard and so fast for somebody who wasn't my type.

But I did. I always thought that when I married I'd probably keep a woman or two on the side because I could never imagine one woman keeping me satisfied. It didn't work out that way. We don't have sex every night when I'm home, but it's a rare week when we go three days without hitting the sheets. And I still do a fair amount of flying to various spots so coming home is always a party.

It's a good life, even though it's very different from anything I ever imagined for myself. 

   I have a wife, a job that now is more than a job because my work is for both of us, and I have learned that I want children. It just seems that now that we're both orphans, one or two chubby red-headed babies would make us a family and carry on for both of our families in the future. But so far, we haven't been lucky. We keep trying. It's a pleasant task.

Lately, though, there's been a faint undercurrent of ... something. I can't put my finger on it, but I think I've been spending too much time away from home. I had already decided that when I flew back home, we'd take a month's break on some tropical island, swim in the surf all day and drink tropical alcoholic drinks and spend all night making love.

I had been in one of the Russian Republics I'd rather not mention when I got an urgent phone call from one of Deirdre's assistants.

"Mr. McCarthy, I – I don't know how to tell you. Ms. Lancaster has been in an accident."

"What kind of accident? When? Is she hurt?"

"An automobile accident. She crashed into a power pole on I-295."

"When?"

"Night before last."

"Two days ago? Why the hell didn't somebody call me? And was she driving herself? Why?"

There was silence on the other end of the line. 

"Why wasn't I called? Is she hurt?"

More silence.

"What the hell? Are those hard questions to answer? Talk to me. Was she hurt bad?"

"I – we were told not to contact you..."

"You were told not to contact me? Who the hell told you that?"

"I'm afraid I did."

I recognized the voice of Daniel Goldman, Deirdre's chief administrative assistant. I had met him many times over the past year since Orion died. Deirdre was the owner of the company - no Board of Directors - it was hers, lock, stock and barrel. But she didn't know the business and Goldman had worked for her father for five years before his death. So he handled the day to day operations. He was a hard man and he didn't suffer fools, but we'd always gotten along.

"You told them not to call me and tell me my wife was in an accident and in the hospital?

Who the hell do you think you are? She's my wife."

"I run Lancaster Oil at her direction and I'm also responsible for her welfare as the chief stockholder in the company. I made the decision not to notify you."

"What possible reason could you have to keep me in the dark about her condition?"

"I'm not going into detail about that. I had reasons. I have a doctor's warning to keep you away from her, and her direction that she does not want to see you."

"That's impossible."

"It's very possible, Michael. She does not want you coming back. If you agree to continue working on your current project, we'll maintain your current pay scale. If you try to come back, all your credit through Lancaster Oil will be cancelled and you'll be left broke and you won't be working for us any longer. Try getting out of the Soviet Republics with no money and no official backing."

"I don't know why you're doing this, Daniel, but you're making a damned bad mistake. One you're going to regret."

"Don't try to come back. This situation may change and everything will be explained to you. You'll understand. But if you try to get back to Deirdre, we'll stop you."

"Good luck."

Within a half hour I found that all my company credit had been frozen. I could borrow money from friends, but they'd probably find another way to stop me. So I went to an acquaintance in the government who'd already made a good amount of money on the suspicion of a possible new oil field and called in a favor.

In an hour I had flown out on an unregistered private jet taking a path mostly over ocean waters, first the Mediterranean, then the Atlantic and we flew south to Cuba. We spent 20 minutes on a Cuban airfield where I transferred to a helicopter and it delivered me to a Norwegian freighter bound for Miami. A short hop on a private plane dropped me on a small private airfield in North Jacksonville where a rental car was waiting. It's good to have friends.

I called Goldman. It was 9 a.m.

"Where are you?"

"Keeping tabs? Back in Jacksonville. Let me see her. I'm going to get in. Whatever is going on, I deserve to know."

"You're not going to want to, Michael. Trust me. Just give it a few days and I'll be able to tell you everything."

"Okay. See you at the hospital."

"Michael..."

I hung up on him.

At 11 a.m. somebody identifying himself as Michael McCarthy entered the hospital and made his way to the third floor looking for Ms. Lancaster's room. At 11:05 somebody else identifying himself as Michael McCarthy entered the hospital looking for Ms. Lancaster, managing to elude hospital security and was spotted approaching from a different direction. And at 11:10 a third Michael McCarthy made his appearance and took hospital and Lancaster security on a merry chase.

At 11:20 a nurse wheeled a patient in an oxygen mask on a gurney into the Lancaster room. Lancaster security descended like a swarm of angry bees on the nurse, who apologized for the mistake. While she was doing that, I sat up, slipped off the oxygen mask, and placed the barrel of a Colt Python in the back of the nearest security man.

"If everybody is real calm, nobody has to get hurt. Get the hell away from my wife, Daniel."

He had been standing at her bedside. I saw her as I saw him. Her face was swathed in bandages, but that flaming red hair wasn't covered. Our eyes met and I saw surprise and shock, and something else.

"Deirdre, what's happening? Daniel tried to tell me you didn't want to see me. Talk to me. If your – face – got messed up in the accident, you know it doesn't matter. I love you."

Then I saw the tall man standing next to her and holding her hand. I'd never seen him in person, but I'd seen a picture of him from the days when he'd gotten a young girl pregnant. He had long hair down to his shoulders and a diamond stud in his left ear. He looked like a matinee idol or rock star, not an English tutor. And he was holding my wife's hand, while I'd had to con my way into her room. Something was wrong here.

"Gutman, you asshole, get your hands off my wife."

There were three security men, besides the one who had stiffened with the barrel of a Colt Python in his back. Daniel made a gesture and they closed in on me.

"Don't be stupid, Michael. You pull that trigger and you'll wind up in prison. Don't throw your life away."

"Okay, you're probably right."

I brought my knee up as hard as I could between the legs of the security man in front of me and pushed him down. The closer of the three men swung but I leaned over, caught his wrist, heaved him on top of the gurney and kicked it away. The gurney made it out the door with its unwilling passenger before I heard the sounds of machinery crashing into passersby.

The bigger of the security guys lunged at me, arms wide to grab me in a bear hug. Obviously he figured the safest way of getting me down for all of them to take a crack at was using the weight of his body to bring me down. I tried not to break his jaw but I whacked him pretty good with the butt of the Python. 

I wheeled around and found the last security guy coming straight at me arm out like a running back. I feinted left and when he moved in that direction I got past him and had the Python barrel snug under Daniel's chin before any of the men after me could lay their hands on me. I didn't see but sensed everybody coming to a sudden halt.

"Don't, Michael," he said while holding his hands up and out in a silent command for everybody to avoid doing anything stupid.

"You keep everybody back and I won't do something crazy like blowing your brains out. But you never can tell, Daniel. You guys have been pushing and pushing and I feel like pushing back."

Everybody froze. After a moment I said, "You're not going to keep me away from my wife. I don't know why you're trying. I don't know how that asshole Gutman wound up in here."

"Maybe I can explain," came a voice from behind me. I looked back and saw a six-footer, slim and dressed stylishly, standing in the doorway. He wasn't in hospital dress or carrying a stethoscope but everything about him screamed out, 'doctor.' His hair was a silver gray without one hair out of place. On second thought he looked more like a Hollywood actor playing a doctor.

"I'd love to hear your explanation."

"I'm Dr. Mayfair, your wife's psychiatrist, Mr. McCarthy. Two nights ago she suffered a traumatic head injury when her car hit a power pole. The facial injuries probably won't be long lasting because she threw her hands up at the time of the collision when she smashed into the windshield. But she suffered a concussion and, we later learned, amnesia as well. 

"Amnesia?"

"A particular type of amnesia. She knows who she is and most of her basic memories are intact. What she's lost are the last three years of her life up to and including the accident."

"Amnesia? Is this a bad Movie of the Week?"

"It's a very real phenomenon, Mr. McCarthy, regardless of how it's been portrayed in lots of bad movies."

"The last three years? So, she doesn't remember..."

"Anything about you, your marriage, your time together. The death of her father. That part of her life has been wiped away."

"But she remembers him," pointing to Gutman who was grinning at me.

"Yes, Mr. McCarthy. She remembers him as the person she loved in the last period she remembers. She called for him when consciousness returned and became very disturbed until he could be found and brought to the hospital."

I stared at her where she held his hand as if he were the only thing keeping her from being swept away in a storm.

"Okay. She forgot about me. But she's known me a lot longer than three years. And you must have told her that we've been married for two years."

"She doesn't remember you from the past. She was shown your picture and told what had happened. But...she didn't react well. You have to remember that she awoke to a world radically changed from the one she remembered. She became so agitated that I suggested that her staff wait at least a few days, maybe a week before allowing you to see her. To give her time to adjust to her new reality. Extreme agitation could actually cause the amnesia to worsen."

"Could you take that barrel out from under my chin," Daniel asked, touching the barrel very, very carefully. Then...

"I know you from the past few years, Michael. There was no way in hell you'd stay away if I'd told you that the doctor said to stay away from her until she was feeling better. It was heavy handed, but I thought if we tried to keep you stuck in Eastern Europe, it might give us some time to get her and you adjusted to what's happened."

He smiled at me.

"Stupid of me, I guess. I knew you were hard headed, but I forgot that you've been involved in dicey and illegal actions since you were a teen. It would be hard to pen you up, but I didn't think it would be impossible. 

"Look, Michael, regardless of how pissed off at me you are right now, I hope you know I did this because the doctor said she needed time away from you to get better."

I kept the pistol where it was and turned back to Deirdre.

"Is all this true, Deirdre? You don't remember me and even thinking about me is causing you upset?"

"Yes, Mr. McCarthy. They told me we were married and showed me pictures, but it's not real. I don't remember you, remember getting involved with you. I don't know why I married you. You don't even appeal to me. I can't imagine your touching me, much less....."

She closed her eyes and her voice rose.

"Please, get him out of here..."

Mayfair said, "Get him out. Her blood pressure is spiking. We can't afford anything that might impact on her brain and nervous system. Now."

"We need to go," Daniel said.

"Okay. But Deirdre, they told me you didn't remember me at all after you woke up. Is that true?"

She opened her eyes.

"No. I have no memory of you at all."

I handed the Python to Daniel, butt-first and let the security men manhandle me out of the room. There were uniformed police waiting for me. Daniel motioned to them.

"This was just a little misunderstanding, gentlemen. There's no problem and I apologize for calling you out here."

When they had left, Daniel said, "I'm going to hold onto this," gesturing with the Python, "although I know you can come up with more. You're free to go, but if you return to the hospital, I will have you arrested for assault on my security personnel and trespassing. Don't come back to the Lancaster estate. You'll be escorted off. Your employment with Lancaster Oil is terminated. Your pay is terminated. I'm sure you'll land on your feet."

I shook his hand.

"I appreciate you not filing charges and letting me walk away. Let me know if there are any changes, or if her memory comes back."




The Currency of Time Ch. 01



"You'll be the first to know."

I walked out of the hospital accompanied by an honor guard of three security men. I looked back one time.

Right now all the odds were against me, but I had one advantage. I knew she was lying, which meant this whole amnesia story was a crock. I wished I didn't know. I wished I could believe she had really lost her memory and MY Deirdre might someday return to me.

But now I knew that was only a hopeless dream. I was going to have to learn to live my life alone. 

****************  *******************



The Currency of Time Ch. 02



June 4, 2004

The sign over the three-story building two blocks north of the Courthouse and two blocks east of the Cop Shop read "Bailey, Devon, Martin and Wilkes" in very large golden letters. The joke I'd heard men working for Lancaster Oil make was the rumor was that the letters were actual gold. 

Bailey and Wilkes etc., was one of the older, more successful and definitely most profitable law firms in Jacksonville.

And they had made a lot of that money representing Lancaster and his oil company for nearly 30 years. Plus, Mort Bailey was a personal friend of Lancaster before his death, also Deirdre's godfather. 

So I didn't have any illusions about what I was walking into. I'd received several e-mails and one very personable call from a very sexy sounding female associate inviting me in to discuss the situation involving Deirdre with members of the firm in an "informal and relaxed atmosphere."

I had no doubt they were probably planning on separating me from my cock and balls in an "informal and relaxed manner" and assumed I'd be a sheep walking into the slaughter among a pack of ravenous wolves.

Before I stepped out of my 2003 Jeep Liberty I made a series of quick phone calls, then closed out the last one and stepped out of the Liberty, making sure to hit the lock. This part of Jacksonville was Lawyer Town with more attorneys and practices in a square mile than should be allowed by law. It was a miracle that the stench of brimstone didn't hang over the entire area. 

But despite the fact that it was usually crawling with cops and a whole host of hypersensitive legal eagles, this part of Jacksonville was also crawling with crackheads and crack whores and pot and pill and coke dealers and pushers and people willing to part you from your life for a $100 bill. So it was never a good idea to be walking late at night, unless you were one of the former types, and you never left your vehicle unlocked.

I walked in the front door and took a deep breath. It was the smell of money and law books mingled. A redhead in a dark crimson dress cut just low enough to tease males entering the room looked up at me and smiled.

"Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?"

I couldn't help smiling back at her, despite her being one of the Enemy.

"I'm sure you could, but I'm actually here to see Mr. Bailey or someone in his staff. I'm Michael McCarthy."

Her smile flickered only for an instant and then she said, "Oh. Of course, Mr. McCarthy. 

They are waiting for you in the third floor conference room."

She gestured to someone to my left and a shadow materialized which turned out to be a monolith about four inches taller than my 6-2. He was dressed well, but the bulge of a large caliber weapon in a shoulder holster on his right, his close cropped hair and that cold stare told me he wasn't an attorney type. I'd seen his type in rough areas around the world. But I hadn't expected to find him here in Jacksonville.

"If you don't mind," he said, gesturing to me to raise my arms.

"And if I do mind?"

"That would be a shame...sir. My job is security for the building and I'm afraid I can't take you up until I've checked you for weapons."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. You may not have been following the news, but there have been several incidents in the city where an irate client shot or attempted to injure attorneys or their staffs. One attorney was shot in the courthouse. Mr. Bailey and his staff often deal with matters that arouse extreme emotions. So, no one goes up without being checked."

I raised my hands and let him pat me down. He brought out several objects but after inspecting them, handed them back to me. I turned around and let him do the same.

"Follow me, sir."

I followed him to an elevator door whose brass must be polished to gleaming perfection every night. About 10 seconds after he hit the button it opened and I followed him in. The ride took another 10 seconds and then I followed him out to a hallway lined by pastoral landscapes. Just walking down the hallway was enough to induce daydreams of running through fields of wildflowers under a summer sun. I doubt any pissed off client could keep fury going by the end of that long walk.

My guide stopped and gestured to another door. I opened it and stepped inside. And stopped.

It was a long room and in the center was a long oval table with room for twenty-six seats, 12 on a side and seats at both ends. The table was polished wood, polished so brilliantly that I felt like squinting from the reflection of the overhead lights. 

The table wasn't what made me come to a complete stop. Fifteen of the seats were occupied. I spotted Bailey sitting at the end of the table, with Billy Wilkes sitting to his right. Deirdre was at his left. She was looking down at the table. And there were 12 more occupied seats. If this was what Bailey and Wilkes considered an "informal and relaxed" meeting, God only knew what they would muster up for a formal meeting.

Bailey motioned to the seat at the opposite end of the table from him.

I pulled it back and sat.

"I think this is how Custer must have felt at that little get-together at the Little Big Horn."

Bailey didn't break a smile.

"I appreciate your efforts to break the tension, Mr. McCarthy. But this is a serious situation and a serious meeting. I was hopeful our getting together outside of an official meeting place would help us talk frankly - and realistically - about how we can resolve this dilemma to everyone's satisfaction."

"Where no one is taking notes and nothing gets into the record. Off the books, so to speak?"

He looked over at Deirdre and it was as if a silent message passed between them. She met his glance and then she raised her gaze to me. She tried to make it a stranger's stare, but I saw something behind it. Or maybe I just thought I did. She lowered her eyes again.

"Exactly, Mr. McCarthy. Being able to speak honestly has helped mediate many a knotty problem."

"Well, I'm here. Let's talk."

"Before we do, Mr. Harper-Stevens (pointing to the 6-6 feet of beef on the hoof who had patted me down) has informed us of several devices you carry. One appeared to be a digital recorder. And the other was a cell phone that could be used as a recorder as well. To ensure that we can speak frankly, I'd appreciate your turning those over to one of our secretaries during this meeting."

"They're not set to record and you can see that. I wasn't aware we'd be discussing anything particularly illegal or inappropriate here today. My 'devices' stay with me. Or I walk out of here. Your choice."

"Your attitude is not what we were hoping for, but, as you said, we won't be discussing anything illegal here today. At any rate, I appreciate your wanting to get right down to it. Let's do that. You're aware that your wife wants out of your marriage?"

I took a deep breath.

"I know that on several occasions she has made it known to me that she isn't happy, but that's a long way from wanting a divorce."

She looked me straight in the eye for a moment then dropped her eyes again.

Bailey reached out to take her hand.

"She told you she wanted a divorce two months ago. And told you again that she wanted a divorce a month ago. And told you a week ago that she wanted a divorce. I'm not sure how much more clear she could have been."

As she glanced up again, I stared back into those eyes that had once loved me. Somewhere inside me I cherished the fantasy that she still did. But I couldn't prove what she denied was true. Her beautiful face still bore the bruises from the automobile accident that had nearly killed her and had killed our marriage.

"Deirdre-"

Her voice was trembling, but iron in its conviction.

"No, Michael. Whether you believe it or not, I didn't fall in love with you. I didn't marry you. I didn't spend a wonderful two years as your wife."

"You know you did. It doesn't matter whether you like it or not, it's a fact."

"No," she said, for a moment her voice breaking. "I know what you say, and I know what other people say. I've seen the pictures of our wedding. But all that doesn't make any difference. I didn't meet you. I didn't fall in love with you. I didn't live with you for two years. For me, none of that ever happened. It isn't real to me."

"Amnesia doesn't cancel out reality. It doesn't make a marriage go away."

"It cancels love," she said. "I don't know you. I never fell in love with you. When you touch me, it's a stranger touching me. How can you expect me to - want you that way - when we've never touched. Never kissed. This is like a nightmare I can't wake up from. All I want is for this - for you - to go away so I can go back to my real life."

"It seems pretty clear cut, Mr. McCarthy, that regardless of whether you were married before, you're not married now," the other senior partner Wilkes said in a voice dripping with mint julips. You can take the boy out of Blue Grass, but you can't take the Blue Grass out of the boy - even after the absence of decades.

"Maybe you are, but in reality, there is no marriage."

"I thought lawyers believed in the law."

Bailey shook his head with something that was almost a smile crossing his features. But not quite.

"Lawyers don't believe in the law, Mr. McCarthy. We believe in our clients. The law is merely the tool we use to advance our clients' interests."

"It would seem to me that if you were looking out for your client's best interest, you'd be encouraging her to agree to my request that we go to a marriage counselor while she works with the best psychiatrists and physicians we can find to try to unlock her memories."

"That is your idea of Ms. Lancaster's best interest," Bailey said. "She believes her best interest is to end this non-marriage and resume her previous life."

He steepled his fingers together and stared at me across the long expanse of polished wood.

"As a practical matter, Mr. McCarthy, this meeting is in truth a gesture - of respect for your position. Quite honestly, I can understand your feelings and if I were in your situation and were about to lose a wife who appears to be the woman I wed but is a different person, I would fight just as hard to hold her.

"But the hard cold truth is that you really have no say in the matter. Florida is a no-fault state. If Ms. Lancaster wants a divorce, she will have her divorce. You can fight it, but you will lose.

"I'll still fight it."

"Why?"

"Because I love her. Because she is my wife. Because amnesia is a tricky thing and she could regain her memories AFTER she's married to another man and that would be the pits. Because I don't like losing. Call me anal, but I like to keep the things that are mine. Because no matter what you say about Florida being a no-fault state, it only works that way if you give up and let it. If I fight it, if I keep throwing up roadblocks, I can delay it. And the longer I delay, the more chance I have that her memories will return."

Bailey passed a folder to the silver haired attorney who sat on his left, next to Deirdre. He brought it over to me. It was the report from Dr. Herbert Mayfair, the psychiatrist who had examined Deirdre after the accident and had been treating her since then.

"I don't know if you've had a chance to examine Dr. Mayfair's report..."

"I have."

"Glance at it again, please. Humor an old man. Dr. Mayfair is a respected psychiatrist who has been in practice for 15 years in Jacksonville. Read his conclusions."

I'd already done so, but I opened the folder and glanced through the pages. Toward the end he wrote:

"My investigation, together with medical data from the accident through the current time, leads me to conclude with close to 100 percent certainty that Ms. Lancaster has suffered serious brain trauma that alone would be sufficient to explain her amnesia covering the period of the last three years."

"Following the traffic accident of March 17, she was admitted to St. Vincent's with swelling in her brain from the trauma of smashing into the front windshield of her vehicle. This swelling, bleeding into the brain and the trauma could easily have caused sufficient damage to destroy parts of her memory."

"While there are no signs of continuing brain damage, nor any lasting damage to the brain, the trauma itself could easily have caused amnesia that would remain long after any physical damage disappeared."

"There is also the possibility that any physical damage would have been compounded by psychological factors. Based on Ms. Lancaster's surviving memories, and testimony from people around her, she had no relationship with Mr. McCarthy prior to the last three years and she exhibited resistance to the idea of marrying him but was in effect forced to by her father. If this information is correct, it is very possible that she simply does not want to remember the years of her forced marriage."

"In conclusion, it is my professional opinion that further attempts to restore her lost memories would not only be very unlikely to succeed, but moreover would work against her overall best interests for continued mental health."

"As you can see," Bailey said, "it is unlikely that your wife's memories will ever be recovered, or for that matter, should be. Any professional can tell you that amnesia is still a very hazy area. Are you prepared to gamble your wife's happiness on a hope that Dr. Mayfair says is unlikely in the extreme?"

I could have quibbled about the obvious fake references to Deirdre's unhappiness during our marriage. She could have been acting, but I didn't think she had been. But I wanted to keep this little get together going, I picked up my cell and hit the number one. As everyone at the table stared at me, I told the person on the other end, "It's time. Come on up."

Bailey started, "what is going on, McCarthy," before I interrupted. 

"You didn't say I had to come alone to face your legal army. I have someone I want up here."

Bailey stared for a moment, then told his private muscle, "Go down and meet whoever it is."

"You can send him down, but it's going to be a waste of time. Nobody is going to believe he's a gun toting crazy and if your ape lays his hands on him, you're the ones who are going to be facing a big civil lawsuit."

Bailey picked up a landline phone on the table at his right and punched in a number and listened.

After a moment, he grimaced and said, "Send him up. He doesn't need an escort."

Bailey looked over at the muscle and said, "It's alright Stevens. Head downstairs and resume your duties,"

A half minute after Harper-Stevens walked out, a tall, angular man with dark 

hair cut in an old fashioned almost-buzz cut walked in. Combined with the hawk nose, the piercing gaze and the ram-rod straight posture, he could have posed for a World War I German Aircraft Ace Poster. The only thing missing was a monocle and a cigarette held loosely in his lips with a cigarette holder.

His eyes seemed to take in and assess everything around him. Even if I hadn't known he was a shrink, I would have known. Some cops are cops in or out of uniform, some doctors don't need a white coat and stethoscope. He was one of those guys. He sat down beside me. 

"Dr. Teller."

"Mr. Bailey, gentlemen."

Teller nodded to them 

"Can I ask what you're doing here today, Dr. Teller? This is not a hearing, nothing official at all. This is just a conversation between Mr. McCarthy and some of our staff about his marital situation involving Ms. Lancaster."

Teller nodded to me and then looked back at Bailey.

"I'm not really sure why you'd need half your legal staff for a simple conversation, but in any case, Mr. McCarthy decided he wanted to have me on hand if questions arose about Mrs. McCarthy's mental condition. By the way, I'm not quite sure why you refer to her as Ms. Lancaster. As of this moment she is still legally married to Mr. McCarthy."

"It's a matter of a woman's choice, Dr. Teller, as I'm sure you're aware, and in her mind, Ms. Lancaster is all but a single woman again. The steps to that end are merely a formality.

"And," Bailey said, "we welcome your input, but I know you've read the report from Dr. Mayfair as to Ms. Lancaster's condition. You're a respected professional in your field. So is Dr. Mayfair. Regardless of your opinion, we have enough with Mayfair and other related testimony that we believe a judge will rule that Ms. Lancaster cannot be held against her will in a marriage that simply doesn't exist in her mind."

Teller rubbed his chin as if he were pondering some deep puzzle.

"You obviously are aware of my report on my conversation with Mrs. McCarthy. And you are equally aware of my conclusion that there is nothing to indicate that there was any continuing trauma or brain damage that could have contributed to any type of amnesia. Amnesia is such a catch-all phrase that it can be applied to so many types of memory disturbance that it really means nothing at all unless you can be more specific.

"While my investigation of her hospital records and MRI and CAT scans showed some initial brain swelling which would be expected in such a violent accident, there is nothing to indicate the kind of severity that would cause such a loss of memory, much less one limited to a certain period of time. And there is nothing at all to indicate continuing brain swelling or other stressors."

He pulled Mayfair's report from in front of me and opened it, flipping through the pages.

"As to Dr. Mayfair's conclusion that there may be psychological reasons for the amnesia, that is one of those diagnoses that are easy to make, and virtually impossible to rule out. Great for backing up a diagnosis of amnesia when there's no other tangible evidence."

"That's your opinion, Doctor," Wilkes said. "And while you are a respected psychiatrist, I'm sure you're aware that opinions are like assholes. Everyone has them. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion."

Leaning over to me, Teller said softly, "There's a reason the saying - First, let's kill all the lawyers - is so popular. Wilkes loves to shake up opposing witnesses, and he can get away with a lot more today than he normally could."

Looking back at Wilkes, Teller said, "You're right of course. An opinion is an opinion, not a fact. I can only say that after interviewing hundreds of suspects in cases ranging from murder to rape to cannibalism, I have come to a firm conclusion that Mrs. McCarthy is not telling the truth."

He stared at Deirdre until she raised her gaze to meet his. Normally she had the poise and control of being the Princess and heir to a kingdom, but I saw something in her eyes I'd rarely seen before. Fear, or at least uncertainty.

"Normally, I'd leave my comments at that. Any further comments would be in most instances inappropriate. But, since this is apparently a very informal meeting to air out our differences and you have no difficulty in bringing assholes into this discussion, I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you, Mrs. McCarthy, that I believe very strongly that you're lying about suffering from amnesia and an inability to remember your husband. You're faking.

"And," he said before Wilkes could reply, "while it may be impossible to come to a 100 percent reliable conclusion as to the truth of her comments, there is a method available that would at least lend a strong indication as to their validity."

"No!'

Bailey reached over and grabbed Deirdre's hand. She had blurted it out so quickly there was no doubt what she was talking about.

"Ms. Lancaster is perfectly in her rights in refusing any type of lie detector test, Dr. Teller. You know that such tests have never been allowed in court because they are not reliable. In this situation involving extreme emotional stress, they would be even less reliable."




The Currency of Time Ch. 02



"They cannot be probative, of course, but many suspects in criminal cases take them simply to bolster their claims to innocence. If Mrs. McCarthy were to take such a test, it would at least add weight to her claim to be telling the truth. And it would show she was not afraid to take the test."

"Why not just take a lie detector test, Deirdre," I asked her, her gaze drawn to me like iron filings to a magnet. "What have you got to lose? As Bailey said, if you want a divorce you'll probably get one no matter what I do. If I could really believe your story, I might...be willing to walk away."

"There will be no lie detector tests," Bailey said.

She stared at me with what seemed like real regret in her eyes.

"Why can't you believe me? Let me go so we can both get on with our lives."

"I can't believe you because you've told so many lies."

"Mr. McCarthy! I'll ask you to remember that this meeting was called in part for your benefit, to allow you to work out a reasonable settlement that otherwise could very well cost you many thousands or more in legal fees to resolve. Any more comments along those lines and we'll have to reconsider continuing."

Wilkes had obviously taken to the bad cop part with glee and enthusiasm. I stood up and pushed back my chair as Teller also stood up.

"Gentlemen, it's been real. See you in court. Real court."

Bailey motioned to me to sit.

"Mr. McCarthy, Billy, let's keep our heads. We won't do anyone any good if we let emotions run rampant. Everybody sit down. We may have to discuss some sensitive issues, we probably will, but I think we all realize that everyone is going to save a lot of money and hurt feelings by getting as much done today as possible."

He did a pretty good job of smoothing things out, but I had the advantage. I knew I could climb on the table and piss on his head and they wouldn't let me walk out. They needed me and my agreement more than I needed anything from them.

"Now, Mr. McCarthy, while my associate might have been a little strident, there really is no need to be talking about lying. No matter who might have lied about what, it won't make any difference in a divorce case."

"But you see, that's where you're wrong. My wife has lied about some important things. Things that hurt. And if you want to know why I'm in no mood at all to be cooperative, or reasonable, it's because I'd like to expose those lies."

"Mr. McCarthy. No matter how much pleasure it might give you to bring up dirty laundry from your marriage, it doesn't serve any good purpose -"

"It serves the purpose of keeping me here. You invited me. And the longer I'm here, the more certain I am there's something you want from me. Let's get everything out in the open."

He leaned over and talked briefly to Wilkes in a whisper.

"Alright, Mr. McCarthy, we'll give you room to run. Perhaps if we can get these issues into the light, we may be able to save everyone a lot of grief. Go ahead."

I picked up my cell and hit the number three. Then I sat back and waited, watching Deirdre's face, staring from Bailey to Wilkes to the silver haired attorney to a female lawyer. But never at me. Never at me.

Five minutes later Earl Wilson walked in. He carried a briefcase and was dressed in office casual, a pair of grey dress slacks, polished black shoes, and a white dress shirt without a tie. He walked back to me and sat, swinging the briefcase up onto the table.

"This is Mr. Earl Wilson, Wilson Investigations. I'd give you his qualifications, but I'm pretty sure you've already used him or gone up against him. When I came back into the country and found out about Deirdre's accident, I was curious. She is headstrong and reckless, but I'd never known her to be careless in her driving. I knew her father had her trained as a young teenager by the best defensive drivers in the world.

"Not that he was concerned about her joyriding, but the daughter of anyone worth that kind of money always has to be alert to the possibility of kidnapping or terrorist assaults. During our marriage we did some driving and I could honestly say that she was a better driver than me, and I'm not bad."

As I spoke she lifted her gaze again and stared. She knew I knew.

"So I employed Mr. Wilson to look into the accident and my wife's behavior in general before and after the accident. I'll let him continue."

Wilson had snapped open his briefcase and took out papers and photographs.

"I studied the accident report and associated accident and injury photographs. For some reason the photographs and diagrams were difficult to find. I was even told that they were misplaced or lost. However, I was able to find them and made copies, which I have for your inspection if you'd like.

"The very first thing I noticed was a contradiction between the accident report and the photos of damage to the car and injury to Mrs. McCarthy. The police report stated that Mrs. McCarthy was the driver and alone in her car at the time of the accident. The accident occurred on Interstate 95 entering Jacksonville from St. Augustine. It appeared that Mrs. McCarthy lost control of her vehicle at a relatively high speed and slammed into a power pole on the side of the highway."

He tapped his fingers on the polished wood and looked from Bailey to Wilkes, a slight smile playing on his face. Bailey looked like he was about to snarl and Wilkes like he was about to have a violent intestinal attack. Both of them knew what was coming. 

"If you examine the photographs of damage to the car, the major portion of the damage was to the right front, not the driver's side which would be the case if it had run head-on into the power pole. It looks, in fact, that the driver tried to take evasive action to swerve to the left. And the majority of the blood and other evidence of the collision was on the right, passenger side.

"I submitted the data to two different accident experts, and they both agreed that there was no human way that Mrs. McCarthy could have suffered her injuries if she was driving the vehicle. She had to be in the passenger side at the time of the accident."

"I'd say that only proves that you used the services of two low level so-called 'experts'," Bailey said. "I'm not an accident reconstruction expert, but I've handled enough of these cases to imagine several ways in which a driver could be bounced around and suffer those same injuries"

"And, in any case, what difference does this make to anything we're talking about," Wilkes added."

I made a gesture to Wilson and he prepared to continue. As I did I looked at Deirdre and I could see it in her eyes. She looked like an animal whose pursuers were closing in, closing off all avenues of escape.

I didn't say the words in the increasingly quiet conference room, but I felt like she hadto have heard my thoughts.

"You fucking bitch. Why did you have to lie? If you'd just come to me and been honest, we could have done this the easy way."

Wilson leaned forward on the table and folded his hands in a mock prayer.

"Since it seemed virtually certain that there had been two people in Mrs. McCarthy's vehicle, I became curious about how the police report said nothing about a second person. I talked to a lot of people. I found a police communications official who told me the accident had originally been called in as involving two individuals. But within a few hours any mention of a second person seemed to have been forgotten.

"Now, Mrs. McCarthy was taken to Baptist Medical Center and there was no record of another patient being brought in from an automobile accident at about the same time. But, I checked other hospitals, and I found out that a Julian Gutman had been brought into University Medical Center at about the same time. Curiously enough, he sustained injuries including a broken rib and facial lacerations of the type an exploding air bag on the driver's side would have caused.

,Wilson looked from Bailey to Wilkes and he couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"Now, normally, any time a patient is brought in from an accident, a police report is written. But, for some reason, I couldn't find any report on Gutman's accident. The only way I could imagine that happening was if someone was willing to spread a lot of money around to see that no reports were filed. To avoid embarrassment to all concerned. And it would take a LOT of money and pull in high places. Because if it were to come to light, the officers in charge would be in deep shit with Sheriff Knight. Unless the orders on how to handle it came from him, and in that case you're looking at a major political scandal."

For once Bailey and Wilkes had nothing to say.

"And as a matter of interest, Julian Gutman..."

"Is the asshole who seduced a 17-year-old, got her pregnant leading to an abortion, and took a million dollars from her daddy to go away and never come back," I chimed in.

"And then as soon as daddy was gone, he crawled back and started working on her again."

I tried to get her to look at me but she refused. It didn't matter.

"Not much mystery about who was driving her car, is there?" I said, to make the point clear. "Or what they were doing? Or really, who spent all that money and used all that influence to make Julian disappear from the story?"

"You're coming very close to slander, to actual defamation of character," Wilkes said. "You're not dealing with public figures. You even suggest that our firm conspired to break the law, and you'll be lucky if you're left merely broke."

I almost laughed out loud.

"If I didn't know how good an investigator Mr. Wilson is, I might be trembling a little bit, but whatever he comes up with will be rock solid. And I think he can come up with enough evidence to cause you a lot of heartburn, so let's hold off on the legal huffing and puffing. Mr. Wilson, would you continue?"

"Yes, sir. Well, I acquired enough confirmation about Mr. Gutman's injuries and more information about Ms. McCarthy's condition - information that wasn't in any medical records. I found a nurse who said she and others who treated Mrs. McCarthy when she was brought in noted the - unusual - nature of her injuries."

Wilson stopped for a moment but no one was going to ask.

"Mrs. McCarthy did suffer facial injuries and there was a fair amount of blood, but in cleaning her injuries the attending nurses found another substance mixed with it. The nurse who told me the story said it was fairly obvious what the substance was, but to be thorough the nurses took samples and had it tested. The substance was male semen. The nurses said it was - a direct quote - all over her face."

Deirdre had a naturally rosy complexion that any Irish lass would have been proud of, but now her complexion flooded a deeper red. But she said nothing.

With a smile on my face, I asked, "Wilson, that would seem very unusual, wouldn't it? Did the nurses have any ideas on how her face might have wound up splattered with semen?"

Without breaking a smile, Wilson said, "Well, there was some speculation that there was a divine incident and an angelic being somehow ejaculated all over her face during the accident. Or, an attendant in the ambulance might have done the dirty deed, without the two other staff including one female paramedic also in the ambulance, having any idea what happened. OR, Mrs. McCarthy and Mr. Gutman might have been having sex in the car prior to the accident. 

'I'll leave you gentlemen to decide what the consensus of opinion was among medical personnel."

He leafed through another packet.

"Following the discovery that the two of them had been together that night, I started backtracking them. Fortunately Mrs. McCarthy's own security people have GPS trackers installed in all her private and corporate vehicles for protection in case of kidnapping or terrorism. These of course are not open to public review, but by a series of fortunate coincidences I was able to access them and they showed the two had spent some time at Neptune's Cave, a lounge on St. Augustine Beach."

He smiled as he discussed the 'fortunate coincidence' which I knew had to piss off Bailey and Wilkes. He was very good at finding out things that he wasn't supposed to know anything about. The only thing he was better at was wiretapping.

"I was able to find witnesses who observed the two of them being - very intimate - while they were there for several hours. And they were seen to leave the establishment together, very inebriated, and allegedly returning to Jacksonville, where Mr. Gutman was living in a condo purchased for him by Mrs. McCarthy."

"Enough," Bailey said, and while he wasn't loud, he silenced the room.

"We've already discussed the fact that none of what you've said can be proven and regardless, it makes no difference at all to a future divorce. I'm not going to comment on whether Ms. Lancaster might have had a relationship with Mr. Gutman. Because, if she did, it would be a matter of no importance. Adultery carries no weight in the modern world where children are not a factor and support or alimony is not a factor."

He reached out and grabbed Deirdre's hand in a gesture of support.

"Again, there may be differences of opinion as to the memory loss she's suffered. But regardless of what you believe, it doesn't affect her request for a divorce. So, despite all of the extraneous issues you've brought up, the central issue we have to settle is how we can most painlessly bring your marriage to an end."

"I guess you weren't listening when I said I don't want a divorce and I'll fight you as long as I can to keep my wife from running around with the piece of shit who got her pregnant when she was underage and then ran like a scared rabbit when her daddy waved money in front of him. Even if I didn't love her, I'd fight a divorce just to piss him and her off."

"Is it worth spending the kind of money you'll have to spend to piss off your ex-wife?"

"Money is not going to be a problem for me."

Wilkes gave me a knowing look and said, "So you're planning to soak your ex-wife because she's wealthy. In a marriage of only two years, when the partners spent the majority of that time apart, I don't think you could expect a substantial settlement of any kind."

"No, I just want what's due me if Deirdre insists on this divorce."

"What is due you!?" Wilkes said in apparent disbelief. Of course, he knew better but all good lawyers have to have the acting bug. A lot of them might have made it on the silver screen if they hadn't had to take such a big pay cut to become movie stars.

"Yes, Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Bailey, what is due me. The real reason we're here today. We can continue playing games, but I know what's at stake. I've always known. We can do this for hours, but why not cut to the chase?"

"If you're familiar with why we're here, why go through all this," Bailey said, pointing to Wilson and Teller.

"I wanted to see if at some point she could look me in the eye, if she had any kind of conscience left, if the girl I thought I knew was still alive in there. The answer is obvious, now."

Both Teller and Wilson looked at me curiously. They had played their parts, but they didn't know the end game here.

"I feel like I came in here in the middle of a movie," Wilson said, "and I thought I knew the plot of the whole story."

"Do you mind?" I asked Bailey. He shrugged.

"This whole meeting has never been about Deirdre wanting a divorce and my refusing her, or about this amnesia that's she's claiming. I always knew the amnesia was faked, and I would have given her a divorce at any time, but she wouldn't divorce me if she could - the way things are now."

"How could you know?"

For once she stared at me without lowering her gaze. And just for a little while, I saw the woman I'd known.

"It was simple, Deirdre. When I came back, you acted shocked as if you'd never seen me before. You knew who I was, because obviously people would have shown you my picture. But you said you'd never seen me in person.

"Your father told me, though, when he first asked me to watch out for you that you'd had a huge crush on me in your early teens. I didn't notice you at all, but you noticed me. You might not have remembered our dating or our marriage, but you wouldn't have completely forgotten a guy you'd had your first big crush on.

"And when you seemed to have completely forgotten about me, I knew the amnesia wasn't real. From there it was just a matter of investigating and placing enough bugs in various locations to pick up clues."

I turned my attention back to the legal army at the other end of the table. I stood up and paced.

"What I couldn't figure out at first was WHY Deirdre would fake amnesia. As you pointed out, gentlemen, I couldn't stop her from divorcing me if she really wanted to. And, quite honestly, Deirdre, once I found out that you were screwing around with that piece of shit Gutman, I would have let you go."

I walked up behind Deirdre who stiffened but did not move. The silver haired younger attorney started to rise but Bailey shook his head and motioned from him to stay in his seat.

"It's okay, Matt."

I placed my hands on her shoulders and gently tightened my grip. She refused to look around at me.

"But when I realized it was Gutman you were cheating with, everything fell into place. I knew why you'd come up with the amnesia plan. It was pretty smart. It's not going to work, but it was clever and it showed imagination. I knew it had to be your idea. Gutman was too fucking stupid to come up with something like this."

"I usually like those murder mysteries where the detective gathers all the suspects together in a room and lays out the plot, but I have to admit, I'm still completely in the dark," Wilson said. I had a feeling that some of Bailey's staff were also completely lost. 

"I really don't know what the hell is going on,"

My dramatic gesture of stepping up behind Deirdre and laying my hands on her shoulders was backfiring. I could feel the heat of her skin under my fingers and I could remember what that fair flesh had felt like when it was skin to skin. Keeping my fingers from stroking was getting harder and harder, and I wasn't sure I was going to be able to release her. Even knowing what she'd done to me, there was a tactile memory of our nights together that was getting stronger and stronger.

"It's because you don't have all the facts, Wilson. The most important of which is that Mr. Lancaster was concerned that our marriage have a good chance of succeeding and so he placed some pre-nuptial provisions on the marriage. Legal provisions that both Deirdre and I had to agree to and sign."

"Simply put, for every year of the marriage, I was to be given one million dollars in a settlement in the 10th year of the marriage. We could divorce or not after the 10th year, but the money would go into an account for me. If the marriage ended through Deirdre's infidelity, I would receive an automatic $10 million payout. If the marriage ended prior to the 10th year for any reason other than MY infidelity, I would receive $10 million."

There was a notable stillness in the room. The mention of a $10 million divorce penalty would tend to do that anywhere other than Hollywood - or the Hamptons.

"Now, a $10 million marriage penalty, which Lancaster obviously put into play to try to keep his daughter from falling prey to fortune hunters while she was married, might have had a deterrent effect of most people, but not Deirdre. She has always been a very spoiled rich little girl and I knew that she'd probably pay it without blinking an eye to find happiness with Gutman."

That soft flesh under my fingers could have turned to warm stone.

"But Julian Gutman, he's another story. Julian came from a lower middle class family and a million dollars is serious money to him. $10 million ... I doubt he can count that high. And the thought of me walking away with $10 million of what would have been HIS money after he married Deirdre must have burnt his ass up."




The Currency of Time Ch. 02



"No, this has all been a ploy to somehow get around giving me the $10 million that Lancaster wanted me to have. Deirdre had to break her father's will to keep her asshole lover happy. And the thought of whatever else she has done to keep him happy turns my stomach."

I bent my head so my lips almost touched her ear.

"That you did all this for him, that's what hurts the most."

Without turning her head or moving an inch she whispered back, "let go of me, Michael. Just let go."

I managed to unclench my hands and backed away. I had to, and I had been in enough bar room brawls to sense that Matt - whatever his name was - was tensing in his seat to rise up and do something foolish. I wondered if he'd also sampled Deirdre's pleasures. But Lancaster had told me that when she was with Gutman she had eyes for no one else.

More than likely, this was simple chivalry. She was the kind of woman you wanted to do things for. I had maybe an inch on Matt, and he was a lawyer for Christ's sake, but, like I said, you develop certain instincts and I had the feeling he might be tougher than he looked.

I backed away and held my hands up in a peace gesture.

"And in this fantasy of yours, how does Ms. Lancaster developing amnesia do anything to this end?" Bailey asked. He didn't look really unhappy. This had been a fishing expedition and now they knew what I knew.

Wilson leaned back in his very comfortable chair and said, "Hey, guys, I'm an outsider and even I can answer that. Lancaster was a devout Catholic, as are you, Mr. Bailey. The McCarthy's were married in a Catholic Church with the Monsignor Gerald Alcott presiding. And I know you don't have the presiding head of a Catholic diocese do many private weddings. So he's obviously close to the Lancaster family.

"I'm not Catholic, but I've worked on some divorce cases in Catholic marriages. The Catholic Church is not big on divorce, but there are a few exceptions. And annulments can be had for various reasons. They don't hand them out like Halloween candy, but the church does allow them.

"I would imagine that if Mrs. McCarthy were to visit the Bishop with her tale of woe - a very short marriage with no children ending in her forgetting everything from the past three years and making her a stranger to the man who wanted to spend the night in her bed - he would be at least inclined to listen to her plea."

"Maybe," Bailey said. He was smiling now and I didn't like it. "But, gentlemen, even if you think that my respectable firm would engage in such sculduggery, what about the civil courts? Mr. McCarthy could carry the fight there, and Catholic doctrine doesn't carry much weight there."

I took in that smile. I had a feeling Bailey wasn't used to losing and he wasn't going to tell me that his firm was going to do the right thing and give me what Lancaster had wanted me to have in the event that Gutman slithered back into his daughter's life.

"Why do I get the feeling that you're not really worried about whatever I'm planning to do all that much?"

"Perceptive," Wilkes said to his partner.

"Smart too. Orion told me that he was smarter than you'd expect from his appearance. Said he looked like a big roughneck, but he had the brains to build OIL Inc. even bigger someday. Turned out he was right. Did you know this was a production, Mr. McCarthy?"

"A production?"

"I think you know what I'm talking about. We wanted to find out what you knew, what you'd done, and what you were likely to do in the future. You were much more likely to be free with information in an informal setting. We've learned what we set out to discover. And since we don't need to continue the production, we start the real talking."

"So? Talk."

He pointed at Teller and then at Wilson, saying, "You gentlemen won't be needed any longer. McCarthy, why don't you let them leave."

"I don't think so."

He got up from his chair, the seat of power, and walked down the length of the table, finally resting his hip on the tabletop casually.

"Fine. Let's sum up. You believe your wife is faking amnesia from a very real and serious automobile accident. You have a psychiatrist who shares that opinion. We believe Ms. Lancaster suffered real and serious brain damage in a horrendous accident. Nobody, in our opinion, would put themselves through that kind of trauma to stage a fraud - one that she didn't need anyway."

He pointed to Wilson.

"You hired a private investigator who acquired information that casts doubt on Ms. Lancaster's account of the accident, but you can't prove anything regarding the details of the accident and the supposed malfeasance of the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office.. You can prove that she was seeing Mr. Gutman while she was still married to you. But, without making light of your feelings, from a legal sense - so what?

"Her relationship with Mr. Gutman was and is perfectly legal. It happens. People fall in and out of love all the time. She is obviously not going to seek to reconcile. And she will do everything within her power, and ours, to see that you do not receive the $10 million provided for in the marriage documents."

He ran a hand over his bald and shiny head.

"Does that pretty much sum up the situation?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Except you glossed over the most important point, which is I am going to be awarded that $10 million no matter what kind of legal smoke and mirrors you're going to use to break the pre-nuptial agreement.. You're going to lose."

Bailey got up and walked toward me until he was close enough to touch. For a man in his 60s, he was in pretty good shape. He looked back at his army of staff and motioned and an older woman, dark haired and still attractive, stood and brought him a document.

"Thank you Marge."

She showed a little wiggle as she walked away and the look in Bailey's eyes showed me that there was more than legal business going on in this office when the two of them were alone. It was encouraging to know that there was still life south of the border into the later years.

He handed me the document.

"As you'll see, this is an agreement to give up any claim to the $10 million in return for an immediate $250,000 payment. You can sign that right now Mr. McCarthy and receive the $250,000 today. Ms. Lancaster can receive her uncontested divorce within the month and you two can resume your separate lives."

I couldn't help smiling.

"You obviously think I'm an idiot. Why would I do that?"

"Because you won't have any choice."

He moved to the center of the room and made a sweeping gesture to cover the whole room.

"You made a joke at the beginning of this meeting about the disparity between our firm and yourself. Remember. You compared yourself to General George Custer at the Battle of the Little Big Horn. Again, you were perceptive. It wasn't a joke. That is your situation. You are outmanned, outgunned, completely unprepared for the legal battle that is preparing to envelope you.

"I know you think you occupy the moral high ground and that will enable you to prevail, but that merely illustrates your naivete. Courtroom battles are won by the stronger force. And compared to Ms. Lancaster, you aren't even an ant going up against an army."

"You're going to hurt my feelings if you keep that up."

"This isn't a joke. Think about it. As best we can determine by checking completely legal sources, you have a bank account and assets amounting to about $35,000. You had nearly $75,000 but paying for Dr. Teller's services is not cheap and Mr. Wilson took another large chunk of your cash for his fee and spreading cash around for his information.

"Ms. Lancaster , through her personal fortune and 100 percent ownership of OIL Inc., is worth approximately $150 million. You don't even have an attorney representing you. There are at least 50 working on Ms. Lancaster's case. You have one investigator, good as he is. We have 10 investigators looking into every aspect of your life and marriage.

"You might think as the current husband of Ms. Lancaster you would have access to some of her funds, but that is not the case. We have managed to block access to the estate's funds and any alimony a foolish judge might award you is frozen until the case is resolved.

'Which will take years and years and years. WE will fight to keep this case alive as long as humanly possible. We will fight for an annulment and dissolution based on cruelty and domestic abuse. The divorce is going to be so entangled in various criminal cases that it will take a long time to untangle all the snarls.

"In a short while you're going to run out of funds for investigators and experts and any decent kind of legal aid. You're going to lose. Lose the $10 million. Lose your marriage. Lose your representation and maybe lose your freedom."

"I can't wait to find out what kind of terrible things I've done to my innocent wife."

I couldn't stay in my seat. I made my way around Bailey and as Matt started rising to intercept me I pushed him down a lot harder than I needed to. I took the back of Deirdre's chair and spun her around where she couldn't hide from me.

"I guess I never knew you, Deirdre. I expected you'd fight like hell for Gutman, but you would destroy me to give him that $10 million wedding present? You'd sink that far for a fucking lowlife, a piece of shit who forced you to kill your baby and then let himself be paid off to abandon you. It's a good thing your father is dead, because it would break his heart to see how low you've sunk"

"Just sign the papers, Michael. We're through. Take the $250,000 and get out of my life."

"The problem, Michael is that you're been brainwashed by all the movie and television courtroom shows," Wilkes said approaching me from behind. "The courtroom isn't some bloodless arena where legal arguments are tested and weighed to determine Truth. It's a battlefield. Once men fought and died on fields to determine which side God would favor. Today we use words and books and evidence."

"But it's still a battle," Bailey said. "It doesn't matter whether you're in the right or not. We will swarm you, we will bury you in motions and a forest of legal papers. We will beat you down. We'll sendyer after lawyer that you - a layman who doesn't know the law - won't be able to even answer adequately. We will overwhelm you, we will break you."

Bailey stood behind Deirdre, his hands placed on her shoulders where mine had been moments before.

"And that's not the worst of it, Michael. We won't play by Marquis of Queensbury rules. This is a bareknuckle fight. Deirdre has told us how you assaulted her on that very first night that her father entrusted her safety to you. You drugged her and when she resisted, you smashed her lip with your fist.

"We have testimony from several of her friends that when they tried to intervene to protect her because they could see you'd drugged her, that you sent them to the hospital with some serious injuries. Four men tried to stop you, and you beat them senseless. What chance did a 110 pound girl have to protect herself from you?

"And after you'd raped her that first time, you continued to dominate her by threating to use your friends to convince her father that she'd been a slut having sex with any number of men. While she admits to being - wild - she did not want to hurt her father by hearing your lies about her behavior."

He glanced down at Deirdre and then around the assembled men and women of his staff.

"I'm sorry Deirdre. I know you didn't want anyone to learn these embarrassing details, but it's necessary that Michael know how far you're willing to go to end your marriage."

"And why would you marry such a monster, Deirdre? Why would you marry me and stay with me for two years if I were such a terrible person?"

She stood up looking like a flame haired queen and for a moment I could believe her claims to have the blood of the Fey running in her veins.

"Because you are a violent and dangerous man, Michael McCarthy, and you knew how I felt about Julian even after my father drove him away. And you swore to me that if I did not marry you and allow you to seize my father's company, you would find Julian and beat him to death with your bare hands. And I believed you."

I knew what she was doing, and it still hit me like a hard fist to the center of my chest.

"Sign the paper and end this," Wilkes said from behind me. "You're not just facing financial ruin. The statute of limitations hasn't run on the rape, assault, drugging or other criminal charges. This could get very ugly."

"It hasn't gotten ugly already?"

"It could get much uglier. Michael. Don't force it to go that way."

Wilkes placed the paper on the desk and laid a gold and silver enameled pen that looked like the real thing on it.

"Sign it Mr. McCarthy. You're not a stupid man. You're good at what you do. You've already lost your wife. You can walk away with a quarter million dollars and make a new life, or you can fight and waste years of your life and maybe ruin your life. It's not a tough decision."

Teller had been taking it all in. He reached into a pocket and pulled out what looked like a mint and popped it into his mouth. The way he did it made me think he'd been a smoker for a long time. It was typical smoker behavior after they'd gone smokeless.

"Mr. McCarthy, I wouldn't presume to tell you what you should do. It's your life. But I will say it doesn't take a trained psychiatrist to see that this meeting has been orchestrated for one purpose - to shake you up and make it difficult for you to think clearly. It's the civilian version of the famous "shock and awe" doctrine performed so perfectly by the U.S. military in Iraq last year. The idea is to overwhelm you." 

Beside him Wilson raised one finger as if calling for my attention.

"I'm not a lawyer, McCarthy, but I know that wills and pre-nups are hard to break, especially when they're drawn up for a man with Lancaster's money. Of course, these were drawn up by the man who is going to try to break them, so they might have more luck. But, Mr. Bailey and Wilkes will have to be careful because lawyers are sitting in prison cells for that kind of crap."

Bailey smiled as if the thought of going to prison was amusing.

"Your friends are not lawyers, Michael. Listen to someone who is a lawyer with decades of experience. Not signing will be the worst mistake of your life."

I stood there looking at the legal army he'd gathered to oppose me, the tip of the spear of the unstoppable legal juggernaut he said would destroy me. It was a sobering sight.

Which is why the smile that lit my face puzzled everybody. Wilkes and Bailey exchanged glances as if wondering whether I'd cracked and gone round the bend. Deirdre studied me and I could see the realization growing. She didn't know what was coming, but in two years and a lot of energetic nights in bed, she knew me well enough to know that bad stuff was galloping over the horizon and the shit storm was approaching. She tensed in her chair, but there was nowhere to run.

"Mr. Bailey, Mr. Wilkes, you are correct that my two friends are not lawyers. I'm not a lawyer. I don't have an attorney representing me. But...

"I do have any attorney...sort of. He's working pro bono. Not costing me a penny. But he's a pretty good lawyer. He knows you. Let me give him a call."

I grabbed my cell and punched in #9. There was no need to say anything.

Thirty seconds later the phones in front of a half dozen chairs started ringing. Bailey and Wilkes were away from their chairs so there was a chorus of "Mr. Bailey, Mr. Wilkes, police are downstairs. They're ordering everyone to stay in their offices. They've arrested Mr. Stevens. They're coming up the elevator."

Bailey and Wilkes motioned for their staff to calm down and get off the phones. Bailey shook his head

"I don't know what kind of sleazy trick you're playing. McCarthy, but you're playing with fire. I am going to chew up whatever cheap ambulance chaser you've got coming up here and spit him out. I've been a long-time supporter of Sheriff Knight. I've contributed to all his campaigns. And when I tell him about his officers being involved, officers will be disciplined, if they keep their jobs."

I heard steps coming down the hallway. The door opened and first one, then another and a third uniformed Jacksonville Sheriff's Office deputy walked in the door. Followed by Mr. Harper-Stevens, with his hands cuffed behind him, followed by another behemoth in the blue sheriff's office uniform.

Last to come through the door was an unremarkable short man in civilian dress who slipped in almost unnoticed at the rear while everyone was watching the uniformed cops and the matching bookend behemoths. While most of the staff was focused on the cops, Bailey, Wilkes, the silver haired Matt and every other actual lawyer kept their eyes on the short civilian.

He wasn't the kind of figure who would have evildoers trembling at his approach. His clothes were good quality, but the white dress shirt swelled against his gut and there were gaps between the upper buttons. His thinning hair was a shade of what could only be called mousy brown, but the heavy afternoon stubble was jet black, making him look like a drunk stumbling in from a 48-hour binge. He was what any Irishman would recognize as a child of the Black Irish. Nothing else fit, but that heavy black stubble marked him indelibly. 

His name was William Maitland, he was the number two prosecutor in the State Attorney's Office for the Third Judicial Circuit. And he was my Ace in the Hole.

"Maitland!" Bailey said in evident disbelief. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Hello Mort, Wilkes. I could ask you the same thing."

"What?"

"I've never seen so many legal types gathered in one room anywhere except a Bar meeting when they're passing out free booze. You almost didn't have enough staff downstairs for us to go to the trouble of arresting. I had to leave a few officers downstairs just to keep them from heading out for Mexico or Canada."

"Maitland, this is no joke-"

"You're right, Mort. This is a raid."

"A raid," Wilkes said.

"Come on, Wilkes. You have to talk to make this interesting. Repeating what I say won't make any kind of headlines on tonight's newscasts."

"You've always been a headline grabbing, cold blooded son of a bitch, but you've gone too far this time. You've bitten off way, way too much for you to chew."

Maitland grinned as if he knew a joke that no one else had a clue about.

"Awe, Mort, I always thought you liked me."

Bailey grabbed a telephone off the table.

"Give me your boss' number, Maitland. If you're still working at the State Attorney's Office tomorrow, I'd be very surprised.

"Mr. Edwards is in Tallahassee today and busy. But I have his number and you should probably touch base with him."

Bailey dialed the number and after a moment he punched a button and a voice could be heard on the other end.

"I want this on speaker, you son of a bitch, so everyone can hear your head being handed to you."

"Hello. Got just a minute. I'm ready to go into a meeting."

"Dallas, this is Mort. Mort Bailey."

"Oh, hi, Mort. I hope this is something we can talk about later."

"We need to talk about it right now. Do you know what Maitland is doing right now in my office?"

"No, but I know why he's there. He told me he'd received some very disquieting information about your firm. He was going to come to your office to clear up some things."

"He broke into my office with armed police, put my security guard in handcuffs, and said this is a raid. Since when do your underlings go around raiding law offices?"

"Maitland is a very responsible, level headed guy. He wouldn't be there if he didn't think there was a reason to be there."




The Currency of Time Ch. 03



APRIL 17, 2009

Luis gave me a nod from behind the bar. It was a Friday, but a lot of the regulars hadn't shown up. Guatemala and particularly the port cities like Puerto Barrios on the Gulf of Honduras and Pacific sides were hurting. The American Depression of 2008 could be called a Recession in the U.S. but it was a full-fledged 1930s Great Depression in the Central American economies. 

A lot of the shipping business that brought money and jobs into Puerto Barrios had dried up. Bars like Luis' Eldorado, that once did a flourishing business with many local types and Americans doing business down here, were keeping their heads above water - barely. My buddies and I were doing our bit to keep Luis' open and in the black.

The booze wasn't too bad, and not too badly watered down. The local females weren't too hard on the eyes. The place was always good for some poker and we could keep track on world affairs through the cable link to CNN. All in all, while I checked out rumors of a possible oil field a few miles off the coast in the Gulf of Honduras, it was a comfortable place to hang out.

Luis was well connected and he was usually aware of what was going on this part of the port. So I excused myself from a poker game being played with some of the local gangsters and a dark haired angel with breasts that nearly fell out of the sheer blouse she wore and stood up. 

Maria ran a hand lightly down the side of my thigh and although she didn't come close to my dick, I started getting hard.

"Don't be long," she said in heavily accented English.

"How could I stay away from you for long?" I replied in Spanish. That brought a smile that made the blood in my lower extremities hum right along. Poker was for relaxation. We wouldn't lose too much and wouldn't try to take the gangsters for too much. They were fairly pleasant as long as they weren't losing a lot of money. And my two friends and I carried enough hardware that they wouldn't cause trouble. Too much effort for too little profit. 

But Maria and that body of hers! Now, she was going to make this a memorable night. It would cost me because the head gangster was either her boyfriend, husband, or pimp. But it would be worth it. It had been a little too long since I'd buried myself in a warm, rounded female body. There were rooms upstairs available at very reasonable rates. I intended to be in one of those beds with Maria in the not too distant future.

"Luis?"

Luis was probably only about 40, but he looked to be about 60. He had one of those long, bony faces with bags under his eyes that made him look like he was always sleep deprived.

"There are people looking for you."

"Yes?"

People looking for me could be a good thing or a bad thing, but usually it turned out to be a bad thing. I tried very hard to stay away from married women but sometimes mistakes happened. Sometimes business deals didn't turn out the way they'd been planned and some businessmen weren't the kind to take a long range view of wins and losses. They wanted their money back - now. There weren't a lot of philosophical businessmen south of the border. Not that many north of the border, for that matter. But unhappy businessmen in the U.S. and Canada were likely to send lawsuit notices. South of the border they were more likely to send men with guns.

"Americans. Two of them. Well dressed. One is older, a big dark haired man. The other one younger with silver hair."

He snorted. 

"They might as well carry signs saying 'rich North Americans'. They probably wouldn't live long enough to be a problem, but they have three armed bodyguards - one of them very big, well-armed, and very bad. A Brit."

The last caught my attention. It was unlikely to be who I thought it was, but it was odd.

"Anything else?"

"They are throwing money around freely, so it won't be long before they walk in here."

I reached into a hidden pouch in my money belt and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. We threw a lot of money his way, but down here it was common courtesy to repay a favor with currency.

"Gracias."

He shrugged.

"De nada."

I was walking back to my table when Ben Overhouser intercepted me. He had been a part of my crew for nearly five years and always had my back.

"Something?"

"Not sure. Two Americans looking for me with three armed bodyguards."

"You want to hang here or make ourselves scarce? We can ask around and find out who they are before we meet."

"I think I know who they are. I'm just not sure why they would be here."

I had a hunch. One I didn't want to think about. Despite my warning, had something bad happened to Deirdre - something final - and the company had thought I should be notified? I had walked away and buried her. But she refused to stay dead.

I didn't even want to think about that. I had wished a lot of bad things upon her over the last five years, but I didn't wish death upon her.

As Maitland had said, I was just stupid.

I sat back down and Maria began almost jerking me off, but not quite. Her husband-boyfriend-pimp Macario and two of his stooges glanced at Maria but then returned their attention to the table. A deck waited for the next hand and there was about a hundred dollars American in ones and change and a few fives scattered among the players. 

We never played for heavy stakes and Macario's boys knew that if they tried to bump the table stakes up to $5 a hand or higher, we'd just shut down the game and go back to drinking. Too much money on the table was a bad idea all around.

Overhouser carried an AK47 on a loop from his left shoulder and it was always ready. He had been a mercenary in a former life and like a lot of professional soldiers he swore by the AK 47. Besides its mystique fashioned in guerilla conflicts around the globe, he swore that it never jammed, never misfired and you could put almost any kind of shell in it and it would still spit out death .In a holster on his side, he carried a Clapp Colt 1911 .45 with 20 rounds in an ammunition belt. In a shoulder holster he carried one of the new Glock 31 semi-autos and ammunition in a bandolier. He hadn't had to shoot many people in the five years I'd known him, but he looked fierce as hell.

Ray Windell carried a Mossberg 500 specially adapted short-barrel shotgun, which was very good for calming down disagreements in tight quarters, a Glock 17L pistol with a 17-shot magazine and on his hip a Sig Sauer P320 with a 17-shot magazine.

And me. I carried a FNX 45 revolver which carried 16 very nasty and high powered shells that if they didn't kill you, they were likely to leave you wishing you were dead. That was the handgun I carried in a holster on my right hip loosely. I ran my fingers over its metal and I could fire without taking it out of the holster. Of course, Maria ran her fingers over it while running her fingers over other parts of my anatomy, but I didn't figure she'd want to shoot her own man and she couldn't take it away from me.

And, on various parts of my body I carried a three-inch long Bond Ranger derringer which fired two BIG shots, a Patriot 45, and a Stinger SS. Again, I'd only had to shoot one man in the last year, and he had been surprised as hell when he missed the derringer and it blew a very big hole in his chest. But he hadn't been willing to discuss our differences like gentlemen.

Actually life in Guatemala was not nearly as blood thirsty as that accounting might indicate, but looking like bad men had worked for us so far.

I sipped another whiskey during the next hand while Macario griped about his luck at the table, the miserable economic climate and how difficult it was for a hardworking Guatemalan to 

From time to time his thugs would throw in a comment or two. I was pretty sure he knew I knew what he and they were saying. 

People came in and out and now there were four gangsters and then five, moving from the bar to buy drinks for a couple of the working girls and hitting the bathrooms as well. I wasn't really worried, but I began to get a general bad feeling about the evening. Maria stood at my side and nuzzled my ear. Her breath was sweet and the feel of her soft flesh pressing against my shoulder was very nice. In English and Spanish she told me how big and hard I felt and how she was dripping, waiting for me to take her upstairs.

Of course, I knew I was just a job for her, a source of coin. The whore with the heart of gold is as rare as the Unicorn, but I couldn't help the effect she was having on me. We are all slaves to female magic.

I asked her to get me another shot of whiskey, and as she walked away I looked at Overhouser and Windell and tapped my white gold Rolex Oyster Cosmograph. Both of them nodded. We needed to close things out shortly and get out. 

I looked back at Macario and noticed his lustful glance at my Rolex. It was stupid to be flaunting steak in front of a starving tiger, but the Rolex was my most prized possession. My father had always wanted one, and from time to time he'd had the money, but there was always some reason why he couldn't buy it when he could afford it. When I could afford it, I wasted no time and I'd worn it on my wrist for the past five years. It truly would come off my wrist only after my heart stopped beating.

He grinned at me, although it wasn't a friendly grin. He wanted what I had and he was weighing how much it would cost him to try to grab it from three well-armed Yanquis.

"Michael McCarthy, you're a hard man to track down"

The chatter in the bar stopped. Overhouser and Windell kept their eyes on Macario and his men. I turned around and wasn't surprised to see Hugh Davidson and Matt Henry standing in front of the bar. A few feet behind Henry stood the hulking Harper-Stevens and two other men who had to be professional bodyguards.

Macario and his men studied the newcomers. As Luis had said, both Davidson and Henry reeked of American wealth and the smell had the same effect that spilled blood would have on sharks. I knew I had to get Davidson and Henry out before the sharks went into a feeding frenzy and a lot of bodies piled up.

I walked toward them as quickly and casually as I could but the hair rose on the back of my neck.

"Davidson, Henry, it's been a long time. Why don't you guys come with us to our hotel room and we can talk about why you're here."

Davidson reached out to shake my hand, saying, "That would be fine. We didn't want to get in the middle of your business here."

As he took my hand his left swung around and I saw that the same expensive attache case he'd carried into Bailey's conference room was attached to his wrist, with a handcuff.

It was one of those moments that freezes time. As I saw it my gaze shot back to Macario. He had seen it as well and he was pulling out short barreled revolvers in his left and right hands and shouting to his men. Bullets began to smash into the bar and bottles shattered behind the bar.

I shoved Davidson aside and hoped he'd have sense enough to go to the floor. I had my FNX out and was pulling the trigger as fast as I could. Time unfroze but it was still moving very slowly. Macario's body was slammed backward by the FNX shells and his shots were going wild all over the place. Maria was screaming and had hit the floor. I had a feeling this wasn't the first time she'd been in a gunfight.

Windell had brought his shotgun up and even while one of Macario's lieutenants pointed an old-fashioned six-shooter at him, Windell fired the shotgun. The blast threw the small man against the back wall of the bar. From behind me I heard shots from where Harper-Stevens and the other two bodyguards were exchanging fire with two more of Macario's gang. Then all hell broke loose as Overhouser from the floor where he had dropped while bullets were whizzing by him opened up with the AK 47, spraying the back of the bar with a hail of fire.

The scene was still struggling to come to full speed from the slow motion action that had been unfolding all around me. I watched Macario hit the back wall, stand and then wind up cut down by AK-47 fire. Four of Macario's men went flying in different directions. After the sudden explosion of violent noise, there was only silence.

I took in the sobbing, the movement of people trying to get to their feet, and then I glanced down at Davidson where I'd pushed him to the floor. He held a Glock in a professional two-handed grip, aimed directly at my chest.

There wasn't time to wonder why, I just threw myself as hard as I could to the left to try to get out of the line of fire. As I fell, Davidson fired once, twice and three times where I'd been standing. He lowered the Glock and I allowed myself to breathe again. I looked in the direction he had fired.

Another man who had been with Macario, based on the two handguns that slipped from his lifeless fingers, was folding up and falling to the floor.

"Sorry, McCarthy. I saw him and didn't have time to warn you. I'm glad your reflexes are good."

Harper-Stevens walked over to the dead man and rolled him over. He looked back at Davidson.

"You military, Mr. Davidson?"

"A long time ago."

"You must have kept up your practice. Three shots to the heart, all fitting within a half dollar. I don't know many professionals who could do that in this kind of situation. They could have sent you as MY bodyguard."

"I handle 'troublesome' situations for the bank. I've had anti-terrorist training. And I was a military cop in Berlin in the 70s when it was the Wild East. I guess it's just ingrained now."

Luis poked his head over the top of the bar.

"You're going to owe me big time, McCarthy."

His gaze ran from one end of the building to the other. Six dead men on the floor. Maria bent over Macario, sobbing. Five barflies and port workers who had picked the wrong night to come in for drinks standing up and wondering if it was safe to bolt for the door to the outside.

Henry knelt in the corner and looking closer I saw he was staring at one of the bodyguards who lay sprawled out on the floor of the bar. Moving closer, I saw a bullet hole in the center of the fallen man's forehead, blood beginning to pool beneath him. I put my hand on Henry's shoulder.

"Are you okay, Henry?"

He didn't answer for a moment, then looked up at me. There were tears in his eyes.

"He pushed me down when the shooting started and stood over me. He died saving my life. Nobody's ever died to save my life before."

Harper-Stevens was beside me.

"That's what he was paid to do, Mr. Henry. That's what everyone who works as a professional bodyguard, or a mercenary, knows is a risk of the game. He was well paid, and he knew the risks."

"His name was Goldberg. Tommy Goldberg. He has a wife and two kids back in Jacksonville."

Harper-Stevens loomed over him, his voice lowered to a near whisper.

"This the first time you've ever seen somebody die like this - in real life."

Henry just nodded.

"It's not like the movies," Harper-Stevens said. "It's real."

He grabbed Henry by his arms and pulled him to his feet, pushing him toward Luis and the bar. He held up two fingers and Luis filled two glasses with whiskey.

He just nodded to me and stood Henry against the bar, picking up one of the shot glasses and handing it to him.

"The first thing you do is down two shots of whiskey, and then as many more as you need. Feel free to upchuck, or cry. Do whatever you need to do but you need to keep moving. It will be easier tomorrow.

Davidson looked around as he got to his feet.

"We need to get out of here. We have six dead locals and one American. I'd hate to have to explain that to the local cops when they arrive."

Windell and Overhouser walked toward us, Windell leaning on Overhouser. I noticed the blood staining his shirt and dripping down his chest. Windell stayed on his feet, but he was pale.

"You going to be okay?"

Windell nodded.

"Bastard was faster than I expected. But I'll be okay. Doesn't feel like he busted my shoulder and O says it's a straight through and through. We can run down the coast and be at a clinic in a couple of hours. I'll last that long."

Then, looking at me, he said, "what about you?"

"What about me?"

Windell reached out and ran his finger along the side of my face. He pulled it away and blood dripped from his finger.

I reached up and ran my finger across my cheek. The pain hit me a second later. There was a half-inch deep furrow running from my ear to the edge of my mouth.

"Shit. I must have used up all my luck for the next five years."

"No," Overhouser said. "You used up all your luck for the next 25 years."

He reached up and ran his finger over my scalp. It was dripping blood when he drew it back.

"What the hell?"

I was almost afraid to reach up and touch my scalp but I did so. There wasn't a deep furrow, only a scratch, but it was bleeding like crazy. As I ran my fingers over my forehead I wiped away the blood beginning to seep down over my left eye.

"I don't know how in the hell you managed to miss being killed twice by less than a fraction of an inch in a firefight," Overhouser said. "We ever go to war again, I want to be standing behind you."

I didn't want to think about the odds against me continuing to breathe so I went over to the bar and told Luis, "What would it cost to have these bodies disappear without reports going to the local Policia? And replace all the damages? Can you make this go away?"

Luis studied the bodies, the bullet holes, the smashed chairs, the five witnesses huddling in a corner and Maria kneeling over Macario's body.

"Ten thousand American. Cash. Now."

"Done."

I reached into my money belt into a compartment behind the buckle and pulled out ten crisp one-thousand dollar bills. Then I handed over another thousand dollars.

"Free drinks for our friends over in the corner for the next month or so. That cover it?"

"Si."

He was already on a telephone barking out Spanish so rapidly that I had trouble keeping up. I thought the dead men - the Guatemalans at least - were on the road to becoming chum for the fishermen who brought in sharks to satisfy the Chinese and Asian markets for shark fin soup and other delicacies.

I approached the five witnesses with my FNX held loosely in my right hand, Windell at my right holding his shotgun at a 45 degree angle, Overhouser carrying the AK47 with the barrel pointed toward the floor. Harper-Stevens loomed up behind us.

I singled out a rough looking six-footer with broad shoulders and the skin tone of a man who worked in the sun all the time. In Spanish I told him, "I have a proposition for you and your friends."

His gaze darting among the firepower facing him, he answered, "What kind of proposition?"

"You're going to go home and forget you saw anything tonight, or even that you were in here. There's a hundred dollars American for each of you, and a free bar here for the next month. If you can keep your mouths shut."

Four minutes later they were gone. I approached Maria, still cradling Macario's bloody head in her lap. It looked like she was crying real tears. Overhouser had removed all of Macario's firepower.

"Maria. Maria, you need to go. Macario is gone. We will be leaving and we'll give you a ride anywhere you like. We don't have to do anything, you don't have to earn your ride, but..."

"He was my husband, you bastard. He was my husband and you killed him."

"He didn't leave us any choice. And, now you're a widow, so..."

She screamed and hurled herself up at me only to be caught by Harper-Stevens and held tightly against his chest. He tightened a ham-fisted grip on the side of her neck and within moments she sank back against him. Motionless.

He handed her over to me and I threw her over my shoulder. We couldn't allow her to go right now to the local police screaming about a Yanqui massacre of her husband and his friends. Harper-Stevens knelt down over the fallen body of Tommy Goldberg and lifted him like a man hoisting a child.




The Currency of Time Ch. 03



We looked around carefully when we stepped outside. It was already near ten p.m. and there were few people on the street. We didn't see any police patrols. We found our jeep where we'd parked it down the street from the Eldorado. Davidson and Henry and their crew had come in a Lincoln Town Car.

"Follow us. We're heading for the harbor. We have a motorboat there to take us out to a yacht a friend loaned me. It will get us down the coast."

There was more room in the Town Car so Maria and Goldberg's body were guarded by Harper-Stevens and the remaining security guard. Davidson drove. Henry rode with the three of us in the jeep.

As we followed the winding streets toward the waterfront, Henry suddenly said, "Six men died back there. How - how do you - go on like nothing happened?"

"We're not," Overhouser said. "We're just getting out before we wind up spending years in a Guatemalan jail or with our throats cut by those bastards' friends."

I motioned for him to cool it.

"Mr. Henry, we're not acting like nothing happened. Windell was shot and will need medical attention, one of your bodyguards was killed, and I nearly had two holes put in my head. Overhouser is right. There is no way there could be a good ending to our killing Guatemalan nationals and having a wife testify as to how we attacked them. Don't forget. We were the victims. They came after us and we were defending ourselves.

"You're in shock right now because you're not used to experiencing this side of life. This is a different world. We're used to it because we live in it. You're not. Like Harper-Stevens said, just keep moving, go back to your life, and this will all seem like a bad dream."

He was silent while we made our way to the powerboat. Two trips brought all of us to the 50-footer that a Chinese general had said I could use for keeping my mouth shut about activities that would have put him in front of a firing squad. It was small but it was fast and had two bathrooms, a completely equipped galley with some expensive food stuffs (caviar-stuffed shrimp in the freezer), a complete medical kit and an area where you could lay a patient down while sewing up their boo-boos.

There were only four beds but you would throw a blanket down and sleep on deck if more passengers came. Overhouser was constantly riding my ass about learning the proper nautical terminology for beds and stuff. I very reasonably reminded him, "I'm not a fucking sailor and I can call them whatever I want, and besides, I pay YOU. Understood?"

But he remained defiant. If he hadn't been such a good oil man, and so good with the AK-47 I would have fired him. But I figured his services were worth a little aggravation. He had also been a medical corpsman and was good at patching up things, handling broken bones, all the misadventures you could encounter a long way from a regular hospital.

He administered an injection to Maria after laying her down in one of the beds - bunks, OK. She turned over and snored in her sleep. Looking down at her with bronzed skin showing all over the place, long thick black hair cradling that pretty face, I wished that she could forgive me for killing her husband, scumbag that he was. But that wasn't going to happen. If I ever laid down with her, I'd get up minus dick, balls and my head.

"We'll check on her but I think that should keep her down for eight to 10 hours," he said. "Let me give Windell some TLC that will keep him breathing until we reach a clinic in Puerto Cortes," which was a fairly good sized city just across the border in Honduras. 

Harper-Stevens and the other bodyguard, a guy named Larry, were at the wheel, Stevens inspecting the layout.

"This is a sweet ride, Mr. McCarthy. When I heard what you did and that you'd left the country, I figured you'd be in some Colombian prison by now."

"A reasonable guess. But fortunately there are enough undiscovered oil fields and people and companies and countries panting to discover them that I've done pretty well. How about yourself?"

"It took about six months to fully recover from that damage that asshole Grove did to my ankle and leg, but I came back. He was one lucky mother-fucker. If he'd ever had the balls to give me a second try, I'd have put him in the hospital, but he didn't turn out to be a bad sort. Married my sister, actually. He's a constable in London now, by the way. And I went with the bank, better pay and benefits. I have a 17-year-old I'm putting through NYU. She's going to be something. About as far from her old man as you can get. I think she'll wind up in the fancy-pants Diplomatic Service and never have to duck bullets or beat a hasty retreat. She's going to go a lot further than I ever dreamed of."

For a big, scary guy, he looked positively cuddly for a moment. Something about kids. They have that effect on big tough guys. I felt a deep pain I couldn't identify for a moment. Then I shoved it back down into the darkness where old dreams lurk.

I heard someone approaching and found Overhouser standing there.

"Let's go below deck and get you sewed up, Boss."

I'd been keeping a cloth against my cheek but it was dripping red and I had to keep wiping the drip of blood into my left eye from my scalp. We headed toward the bunks but Overhouser pulled me toward the small clinic area with the cot.

"I sedated the girl and I gave Windell some strong pain medication that has him groggy. I hope he can sleep some before we get to the clinic in Puerto Cortes. He needs the rest. I can sew you up in here."

I sank down on the cot and stretched out, closing my eyes. He took the pad away from my cheek which hurt like hell because the blood has turned into glue holding the cloth to the flesh. I felt something stinging applied to the cut and I knew he was cleaning it with alcohol.

"That's one hell of a cut, boss. I'll do the best I can and they can work on it at the clinic, but I think it's going to leave a real big scar."

"Shit, that means it's curtains for my big screen career."

He laughed.

"I hate to break it to you, but you weren't good looking enough for the silver screen before Macario shot you."

"Do the best you can. Just don't leave me The Phantom of the Opera."

"I'll use Butterfly steri strips and leaving the serious stitching up to the docs. Let me put some of this topical pain ointment on it and then I'll start. It's still going to hurt."

"I laugh at pain."

I wasn't laughing when he finished, but it hadn't been that bad. He blotted up the blood on my scalp and then buzzed my head with a razor and placed several long Band-Aids from the back of my skull to the front.

"Those are only scratches on top. I think the Band-Aids will stop the bleeding and in the morning they'll be healing."

We sat there silently, feeling the motion of the yacht as its engines pushed it through the waves in the early morning hours, the sound of the hull slapping waves and from somewhere not too far away the toll of a buoy in the dark seas.

"Michael."

I opened my eyes. He virtually never called me anything but Boss. And when he did it was something serious.

"We've been through a lot of scrapes the last five years, haven't we?"

"It's all been fun and games, Ben. But if it wasn't dangerous, your wife would have to give up her volunteer work at the animal shelter and get a real paying job."

He smiled. He didn't talk about his wife much, but when we had had the time and good fortune to find friendly ladies, he always passed on the opportunities presented. And some of the opportunities had been very tempting.

"I don't know how to put it into words, but this is different. I have a bad feeling about all this."

"It'd be hard to have a good feeling about bodies dropping all around us."

"It's more than that. I don't know what's in that briefcase that Davidson is lugging around, but I have an idea. I think you do too. It's money. A lot of money."

I nodded.

"Yeah, I think it's a lot of money."

"The rumors I've heard are that you burned up a cashier's check for ten million dollars. I'm sure it's exaggerated, but-"

"It's not exaggerated."

"You burned up ten million dollars. In an untraceable Cashier's Check?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I had my reasons."

"Temporary insanity?"

"My reasons, Ben. I don't expect you to understand. I don't expect anyone to understand. They're my reasons."

"You think she sent you another check?"

"I don't know any other reason for Davidson and Henry to be here with that briefcase."

"How do you trust anybody? A free ten million would even tempt a rich banker or lawyer. We don't know anything about the bodyguard and Stevens has a daughter he could set for life if we all vanished. I'd trust Windell with my life. But ten million untraceable dollars? Even me, boss, even me. I have a life in Tampa. But I've thought about it. Not hard. But it's crossed my mind."

"It's probably crossed everybody's mind. Which is why we need to get this over with."

I stood up a little unsteadily but got my balance. 

"Find Davidson and Henry, Stevens and the other bodyguard. Send them down to the den."

He gave me a nasty look but just shook his head. He knew what I was talking about. The den was in the center of the yacht, with a couch and several chairs, a pool table and a fully stocked bar. I made my way to it. I checked my watch. It was 2 a.m. The witching hour or close to it. Time to bring down the curtain on this shitty melodrama that Deirdre had set up. Reduce the check to ashes, if there was a check, and all the suspicions and paranoia swirling about the yacht would instantly vanish.

Davidson and Henry walked in behind Overhouser. Davidson still looked like he was ready to report to the office, a crease in his pants and his shoes shined. Henry was in his bare feet and his clothing looked like he had been woken out of sleep. A far cry from the polished attorney type I'd seen in Bailey's office five years before.

"I'll head up to get Stevens," Overhouser said. I noticed he carried the AK-47 on his shoulder, even here. Before he could make his way to the door, the surviving bodyguard, Larry, a tall, slim brunette who always carried a .45 automatic on his hip, stepped through the doorway.

"I left Stevens at the wheel. He said he'd already seen this once before and I might enjoy it more."

I sat on the couch and motioned for Davidson and Henry to sit down as well. Overhouser took up position behind the pool table where he could watch us and Larry as well.

Davidson swung the attaché case up on the table between us and reached into a coat pocket to retrieve a small key. He unlocked the handcuff and then a second key opened the case. He popped the case open. Inside were two envelopes. I thought I knew what was in one. I had no idea about the other. I picked up the second, which was fatter and unlike the first bearing handwriting on the outside. I turned the envelope around to read the writing.

"Michael...please read this. Deirdre."

"What the fuck is this?" I said, hurling the letter at Davidson.

Davidson caught it in mid-air.

"Ms. Lancaster asked us to deliver this to you. She hoped you'd read it."

"And why exactly, why the fuck would I read ANYTHING that bitch sent me."

"I can't answer that. I just know she asked you to read it."

"Forget that."

I picked up the thinner letter and ripped the top off. I tapped it and a folded manuscript slipped out. I didn't even have to unfold it. One ten million dollar cashier's check looks much like another ten million dollar cashier's check.

"Anybody got a lighter?"

"McCarthy, don't do anything too hasty. I know you have - hard feelings - toward your ex-wife. But we also know that you could use the money. Don't let your pride blind you to practical matters. I've checked you out and I know you've lost $2 million this year. I don't know how much you have socked away, but $10 million can help."

"Mr. Davidson, I bow to no one in my admiration of your banking expertise. But you don't know everything. I did lose $2 million this year. I came out $3 million ahead last year. So maybe I'm down to my last million. Maybe I have more salted away.

"BUT, if I was down to my last $5, I'd wipe my ass with that check, send it back to Deirdre and tell her to choke on it. I'm not taking anything from her, now or forever."

"Even so, I have to ask," Davidson said. "Are you sure you want to do this? If you don't want it, give it to charity. Give it to Tom Goldberg's family, or at least a part of it."

"Give it to the animal shelter Carrie works at," Overhouser said. "Ten million could save the lives of a lot of stray dogs and -"

I looked up as his head jerked back and a black hole appeared in the center of his forehead. A second later there was another shot and a second hole appeared in his left eye. He fell lifeless to the floor.

The bodyguard Larry swung his .45 away from Overhouser's body and centered it on us.

"Don't anybody do anything rash. I don't think you three are carrying, but Davidson, you stand up and turn around. I want to make sure you don't have any firepower. You're too good. Stand up."

Davidson stood up slowly, spun around, opened his shirt and turned his pockets inside out.

"Okay, sit down. McCarthy, now you. I heard stories about all the pocket pistols you carry. Stand up and strip. Don't be stupid. I might need you guys so I don't want to kill you. But I'm pretty fast and I will kill you if I have to."

I wanted to try something, especially looking at Overhouser's body, but he was focused and ready and obviously had been planning this. The Bond Ranger derringer was the only thing I had on me.

""Two fingers and throw it over here. Carefully."

He picked it up, carefully. 

"That is one nasty piece of sneaky hardware. I think I'll keep it."

I glanced as unobtrusively as I could to the doorway Larry had come through. He caught my glance and smiled.

"I wouldn't be counting on any rescue by the big man. He's tough. But three bullets to the back as close to the heart as I could make them, and one to the back of the head took him out."

"You shot him in the back?" Davidson said, anger rising as he spoke,

"I sure as hell wouldn't come up and face him in a shootout. He was too big and too good. And he was too much of an old-school asshole to see the sense of us working together to split millions of dollars. It made more sense to kill him."

I tried as hard as I could to make my face blank, hoping he couldn't read my mind.

He smiled at me, but his gun hand was rock steady.

"And McCarthy, you're thinking about your shotgun wielding friend, Windell. He might have been a problem, but I went down there earlier and put a knife through his heart and cut his throat, just to be on the safe side. Then I pulled a blanket over him. He did try to put up a fight, but he was too groggy."

I made up my mind right then that I might die, but I was going to kill this son-of-a-bitch before I did.

"Oh, and I hated to do it, but your girlfriend, the black haired whore from the bar, had to be taken care of, too. I cut her throat and covered her over with a blanket. She never came to. Really not much of a loss, although she did have a smoking body."

I was rising to my feet when Davidson grabbed my wrist with a grip that didn't feel like an old man.

"Don't. It'll just get you killed."

"The son of a bitch-"

"There are only three of us left."

"That's right," Larry said with a grin that made it mandatory I pull his balls out through his throat. "You three are alive because I might need one or two of you. I don't think I'll need ALL of you."

"You never can tell," Davidson said in a calm voice. "It would really be a bitch to do all this, kill all those people, and then kill the one man you needed to carry this off. We're unarmed. We won't cause you any trouble."

"I hope not, Pops. If I have to, I can always blow this yacht up, get away in the motor boat, and send all your bodies down to the ocean floor. I'm keeping you alive for the convenience."

His gaze moved to the check on the table.

"Henry, you're the pussy of this group so you pick the check up and carry it halfway to me. Drop it on the carpet. Then go back to the couch. Do it slowly. No quick moves and you make sure you don't block my view of the other two. I think you're the one I need the least."

Henry did exactly what he was told, dropped it and then backed away. Larry bent, never taking his eyes off us. He opened the check. The only visible sign of what he was looking at was the slight widening of his eyes.

"Ten million FUCKING dollars! Ten million FUCKING dollars! Cashable anywhere, by anyone."

He ran his finger over the front, as if wanting to know what ten million dollars felt like.

"So you won the lottery?"

He looked up at Davidson.

"I'd say so, Pops. Even if I had to make a deal to turn it into cash, I'll still clear millions."

"I hate to rain on your parade. I'm a banker. You try 'dealing' with anybody in this part of the world and they even suspect what you've got, and you won't live five minutes. You try taking it to any bank, and you'll be dead in 30 minutes. If any government official learns what you've got, you'll wish you were dead in a day or two.

"You give it to me, and with my connections I could arrange to cash it for you. Maybe for a 'reasonable fee.' Maybe a million or two. But on the other hand, you go in to the bank with me and I'll walk out. You won't. You stay hidden somewhere with these two guys as hostages to make sure I come back. But what if they're not as good friends of mine as I make out? I could be on a jet to Jacksonville and you'd be left with two bodies and a lot of bad people coming after you. All that killing for nothing."

"So why shouldn't I just kill you all right now, take the check with me and take my chances?"

Davidson just stared at him. Even though he was unarmed and Larry was an armed and ruthless killer, I began to think that Larry was out of his depth.

"Because if you kill us, you might as well blow your brains out. But, you tie both of them up and leave them on the yacht and we can take the motor boat. By the time they're free, we'll be long gone. And there are places, in Hong Kong and Asia and the Arab Emirates and Dubai where a check like this could be cashed with no muss or fuss. They're used to dealing with much bigger amounts. We're going to be someplace where it won't be easy to just kill me. You're better to run because you'll have a lot of money and a lot of world to hide in."

"Why would you be so good to me? You'd have all kinds of chances to screw me over."

"Because it's not my money. And I have more than I'll ever spend. And a lady with her own bank who'd give me as much money as I ask for. I don't need the check. And you're welcome to run. Honestly, I don't really care if you get away or not. Everybody you've killed have been strangers to me. I'm a banker, not a cop."

I could tell he was thinking about it, considering the odds. And probably fantasizing about retiring to Paradise.

I hate it that that was probably the last thought to go through his head. Followed by a large caliber bullet.

His legs went out from under him as he pitched forward to land face first near Overhouser's body.

A monolith of a man stood swaying in the doorway. As we watched, his pistol fell to his side, his knees buckled and Harper-Stevens collapsed like a huge oak on his side. Davidson was to his side first.

'Stevens."

Blood gushed out of the big man's mouth. 

"Sorry. Sorry. Bloody mess."

"Don't apologize man. You saved all of us."

"We thought he'd killed you," Henry said. "He thought he'd killed you."

"He did," the big man said, trying to open eyes that ran red with blood. "But...not easy to kill an SAS."

His eyes closed and he shuddered. Davidson held his bloody head in his hands. He gently slapped Stevens' face. Stevens tried to open his eyes.




The Currency of Time Ch. 03



"Stevens, listen to me. Hang on a little longer. Your daughter, the one in college, will have a free ride as far as she wants to go. And when she's out in the world, she'll always have the Hunt Bank and Lancaster Oil at her back."

Stevens seemed to smile, although I wasn't sure if he was still with us.

"And when we get back, I'll tell her that her father died like a soldier, carrying out his duty to the end."

I think he did smile at that and the life left his body.

I went to Overhouser, but he was already cooling. Henry walked over to Larry, took his pistol from his hand and fired four more shots at point blank range into his skull. Blood spattered.

"He was already dead."

"I know, but it made me feel better."

I ran for the clinic but I knew what I'd find. Windell lay wrapped in his blanket, which when unwrapped revealed a soggy, bloody mess. I couldn't help thinking what it must have felt like, lying there too groggy to fight back as he was being killed.

I went to Maria's bunk. He had wrapped her too, but pulling the blanket back uncovered the red ruin of her throat, which had soaked down into the fabric underneath her. In death her features had relaxed, so that she didn't look like she was dead, only sleeping.

Maybe I felt worse for her. Windell and Overhouser had been my friends, but they were part of my crew. I'd have died for them and I thought they would have done the same for me.

But she was not part of our business. Maybe she was a whore, almost certainly, but she hadn't set out to kill us. She had fallen in love with the wrong scumbag and she'd still be alive if I had left her in the bar or dropped her off somewhere on our way to the powerboat.

I went back to the den and found Davidson and Henry taking straight shots of some very expensive whiskey and bourbon. Overhouser, Larry and Harper-Stevens lay where they had fallen. They had covered Overhouser and Harper-Stevens with blankets. They left Larry out naked to the world, as if he didn't deserve the dignity of being covered in death.

"Not much we can do for them now," Davidson said. "We should be at the next port where we can hire aircraft to fly us back with their bodies.'

Looking at Larry, I said, "He doesn't deserve a burial. I think I'll just toss him over the side and give the sharks or bottom feeders a treat."

"I think he was married," Henry said. "He might have had children. Whether we take him back or throw him to the sharks, I think we should keep what happened here to ourselves. Why punish his family for something they had nothing to do with."

"Matt, if I was you, I'd find another profession than the law," Davidson said.

When Henry gave him a questioning look, Davidson said, "You'll never make a successful lawyer. You're too decent. Lawyers have got to be assholes. It's in one of the Bar rules."

"Some of the best people I've known have been lawyers. And some of the worst," Henry said. 

Pointing to an empty glass sitting in front of me, he said, "Pour yourself a drink, McCarthy."

I poured whiskey and held the glass up as Davidson and Henry did the same thing.

"To absent friends," and we clinked glasses. And drank expensive booze while the dark seas sped away beneath our feet rushing into the night.

An hour later I was at the wheel. The yacht almost sailed itself, but I'd done some boat handling and we were getting close enough to more traveled waters and a city where we could arrange transport of bodies back to the states that we needed to be careful. We had radar and sonar and radio communications but sometimes eyes on the sea helped.

I figured I'd have some time to think about everything that had happened, but Davidson came up behind me.

"You mind some company?"

"No. I thought you'd be getting a few hours' sleep, though."

"Don't need as much sleep as I used to. Besides, I had a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about."

"As long as they're not-"

"Deirdre Lancaster and Julian Gutman were married three months after you left the United States."

"You're my elder and I was raised not to lay hands on an elder. But if you're not gone very soon, I'm going to do my best to remove you."

"You probably could, but you can't remove Deirdre from your head."

"Is that what this is about? Did she give you instructions to make sure I know how her life is progressing? I know she's a valued customer of the Hunt Bank, but how big a whore are you for valued customers?"

"It's not like that. Just let me speak for a couple minutes, and then it's over. I won't say anything else."

"She did her best to get me killed with that damned check and now she's trying to blow my peace of mind all to hell. But, go on. The next thing I know she'll be sending bounty hunters after me. But try to make it short."

"She and Julian were married three months after you left. She filed for divorce a year later after innumerable fairly public affairs on his side. Before the divorce could be finalized, despite her offer of a one million dollar settlement, he hired a hitman to kill her. The hitman, of course, was an undercover officer. Gutman, the moron, panicked and tried to escape when they were arresting him and he shot the undercover officer. Killed him.

"He was charged with first degree murder of a police officer in the commission of a felony, and a plot to kill the owner of a $250 million company. The State Attorney didn't try to bargain, just convicted him and got him the death penalty. He's in Raiford right now where he'll probably be for a long, long time since the death penalty is being phased out.

"I can't tell you how I know, but unimpeachable sources tell me that he's having more sex than he's ever had in his life, but I doubt he's enjoying it all that much. He is a very pretty man."

I looked out at the inky water passing below us and tried to feel satisfaction at the thought of Gutman being fucked senseless every night by cons who probably weren't sensitive lovers. But it didn't make me feel better. It just made me sad for everything that had been thrown away.

"I've burned up the check and the letter from her. Now I know how her life is going. Do me a favor, Davidson. When we hit land, I'm going to make arrangements with a local church to give Maria a decent burial if they can't find her family. I'm taking Windell and Overhouser's bodies back to their families. You take your bodies home. And tell Deirdre to leave me alone, forget me. I don't want her getting any more innocent people killed."

"You know that if you'd just cashed the check five years ago, this would never have happened, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know, Davidson. That is what makes this harder. But I couldn't cash it."

He put his hand on my shoulder.

"I understand. More than probably anyone else, I understand why you couldn't. Doesn't make it any easier."

That's the part of life that really sucks. You always have to deal with the consequences of your actions, no matter how long it takes before the bill comes due.

*************** *************** **************



The Currency of Time Ch. 04



JULY 23, 2014

I flew into Jacksonville International Airport for the first time in ten years. The sun was shining and the ground temperature was 92 degrees. As we circled the airport I could see black thunderclouds building in the distance. I'd forgotten how clockwork the summers were in Jack-sonville. 

Hot as hell during the day, summer heat like a thick cotton blanket lying across your face, followed most days by the rumble of afternoon thunder and violent, refreshing storms that were wonderful to experience if lightning or high winds didn't kill you or demolish your house in the night.

I got a rental and took care of some business, then bought flowers and visited the Ever-green Cemetery. I found the graves without much trouble, although the old cemetery had ex-panded and added sections since I'd left. Granite headstones marked the resting places of Ei-leen and Patrick McCarthy.

I'd bought vases for the roses I'd gotten for Mom, her favorite flowers, and the sunflow-ers that Dad, a big rough Irishman, had told me were his favorite because they had been his mother's favorite.

I'd expected to find the gravesites a little forlorn. Evergreen was managed well and the owners kept things cleaned up. But it had been ten years since I'd last been there, and there was no one else to visit or remember them.

But they were well trimmed and vases already sat on each grave site, although the flow-ers in them had faded and wilted. I looked around but there were only a couple of visitors a long way off. I knew that sometimes church groups would visit and take pity on the forgotten graves and take special pains to beautify them and leave flowers. Whoever they were, they had my grat-itude.

I had meant to leave the flowers and spend only a moment. But I sat for an hour and I could never later exactly remember my thoughts. I don't even know if I thought in words. Only feelings of sadness and loss, for a life and things that were precious and now were gone forever. 

I had most of the day to kill so I drove around the downtown and found myself heading out U.S. 17 South. I took the off ramp, drove onto the divided four-lane that veered right and found myself traveling into the past. A lot of buildings, like the old pharmacy, a few small stores on the left side remained unchanged. On the right O'Brien's had expanded at least two stores down from where I remembered it.

And it had been big when I had been a regular. I wondered what O'Brien had come up with to fill that extra space. It was only a quarter to 7 and so there were plenty of parking spaces. I pulled into one on the curb and made my way to the front door. It still said in the same golden, gilt lettering, "O'Brien's."

The doors had changed, now resembling the old fashioned wooden swinging doors of a Western saloon. But there was plate glass above the painted-on wood design and an electric eye swung one door open inside and opened the other to the outside to let customers leave. There were two more doors at the very end of the bar. One had a steps and a railing for the handi-capped, another a ramp for wheelchairs. It all seemed so much more -- civilized -- than it had been. But times change.

I put my hands out and the door swung inward. I stepped inside and looked around. The long wooden bar seemed longer than I remembered. Obviously the business had expanded. There were tables for customers to sit and drink, a large area for dancing, the far area reserved for pool and a few electronic games. Despite time of day, approaching twilight, the bar was still largely empty. Which wasn't unusual for a Wednesday.

Looking across the floor I spotted a large sign across the wall saying, "O'Brien's Late Night Eats."

Of course, that's where the expansion had been. He had taken over the adjoining shops and turned it into the late night restaurant night owl customers and late night partiers had been asking for. And the doors were handicap accessible. But, I'd be willing to bet, he could lock them with a touch of a button behind the bar.

Occasional brawls had always been part of the lure of the bar, but you couldn't have riots spilling out into the restaurant where customers were eating. So he had the best of both worlds - the wild and woolly bad bar vibes on one side, and a sedate eating experience on the other.

"You doing an inspection, or are you here to drink?"

The blonde bartender's words weren't particularly friendly, but the face and honey hair piled high above her, and the chest that filled out an "O'Brien's World Famous Saloon" T-shirt made me willing to overlook the attitude.

I walked over to the bar and leaned over to see the rest of her. Hot pants caressed a par-ticular nice ass and she had legs that went on forever, ending in four-inch platform heels.

"How tall are you, anyway?"

"Anybody ever tell you that you're a little too curious? Ask me about what we serve and I'd be happy to talk to you. And keep your eyes off my ass."

The tone still wasn't very friendly, but there was a twinkle in her eye. This was foreplay. I liked this game.

"I'd say six-foot in stocking feet, add in another four inches for heels, and I don't know why you're working here, but with legs like that, I'd say you must have been a showgirl at one point. Vegas? New York? Private clubs? And I'm sorry for staring, but you have a fantastic ass."

She didn't take offense and I didn't expect her to. Any woman that looked like her had to be used to being hit on

"Are you going to drink? That's the reason most people go to bars."

"Coors. In the glass."

"That's the way we serve them."

She turned around and bent under the bar, flexing that ass and I had an almost over-whelming urge to bite it. She came up with a bottle and a mug and poured it until the head lapped the edge of the mug without spilling a drop. She glanced at me from under long lashes and looked like she was struggling not to laugh.

"You must really love your Coors."

"Something like that. I like beautiful things, and Coors is a beautiful beer."

She let me wet my lips and take that first wonderful sip of ice-cold beer and then said, "You're a pirate?"

"Pardon?"

She reached out with one long finger and almost, but not quite, ran it along the deep scar that cut the middle of my face from under my ear to the edge of my lip. It had been bright red when it first healed but now had faded to an angry brown under the sun of a lot of alien climes.

"It makes you look like a pirate, or a very bad man."

"No to the first, yes to the second. And you can touch it if you want to."

That almost made her smile.

"Does that line ever work?"

"About fifty percent of the time."

"You must hang with some really stupid women. I think you'll be disappointed in here. The average IQ of our female customers is too high to fall for that."

"That's okay. I'm not interested in picking up any of your customers. Now, the staff, that's a different story."

"Sorry, our waitresses don't make dates- during business hours. We find it causes too much trouble and distraction. What they do off duty is their own business."

"I was thinking more along the lines of bartenders."

She just shook his head.

"How old are you?" she asked.

I gave her a long up and down look. When I looked closer at her face and neck, it was obvious she wasn't as young as I'd first thought. But she was still a beautiful woman.

"Thirty eight, but you've obviously managed to fight off the ravages of time. Are you forty-five, fifty? I don't have mommy issues and I don't go cougar hunting, but you're a beautiful woman. Could a cup of coffee next door during a break hurt anything?"

This time she did smile.

"I'm closer to sixty than fifty, and if I'd ever had children, you could be my son."

"A little older than I thought, but I'm not asking you to marry me. Just have a cup of cof-fee and talk? Again, what can it hurt?"

She leaned over toward me and did something that made her breasts bulge out even further. 

"But what would be the point? I don't think you're the kind of man that likes to make pointless conversation. I've met men like you many times before. A cup of coffee, or a drink al-ways leads somewhere else. And you're used to getting what you want. But you're not going to get it tonight."

"Even if that was true, would it be so terrible? You've obviously an interesting woman besides your appearance, and I could tell you stories from a misspent lifetime that would probably amuse you. I honestly may never, likely will never, come this way again so we probably won't meet again. Haven't you ever heard that old saying, 'what happens in Jacksonville, stays in Jacksonville'."

I stared at her breasts and smiled. A lot of women have told me over the years that the smile is my best feature.

"And can you honestly say, with no one around, that you won't be even a LITTLE curious after I'm gone about what it might have been like?"

"If you don't stop hitting on my wife, McCarthy, I am going to kick your Irish ass clean across the bar and out to the street."

I swung around on the bar stool to find O'Brien poised to land a haymaker that probably would have jolt me from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. 

"O'Brien? Your wife?"

He just grinned.

I stepped into him, wrapped my arms around him, and spun him around. Since I was about a half foot taller, I took him off his feet. We both pounded each other's backs until he said, "Jesus Christ, Mike, let me down. This is embarrassing."

I let him down. He had changed. He'd aged. He still had most of his hair, but it was streaked with silver. He was a little thicker through the middle, but from the strength in his arms he still had the power that had killed at least one man in the ring when he fought professionally. Even when I'd been a young man passing through his saloon, he had been well beyond his pro days, but no young stud was ever stupid enough to think about getting into it with him.

I looked over at the blonde. She was smiling at him fondly.

"Really, your wife?"

He leaned into the bar and she bent down to give him a long wet kiss. It should have been funny, that tall gorgeous showgirl type bending over to kiss the short muscular man, but it wasn't.

"My wife. And I have to tell you, Mike, I'm glad I recognized you before I did something I would have regretted."

"Ignore him," she said. "He's used to men flirting with me. That's the reason why he has me in this outfit. He knows I can handle myself. And now, O'Brien, will you do me the honor of introducing me to your charming friend?"

"Sorry, Sugar. This is Michael McCarthy, the son of an old friend who practically grew up in this bar."

She reached out and shook my hand.

"I'm glad to meet you Michael. How come I've never seen you around here before?"

I took a second to think and then said, "I've been gone a long time."

"Sugar, pour me a beer and Michael, you tell me what you're doing back here. It's been TOO long."

Perching himself on a stool beside me, he took the frosted beer mug she handed to him and turned to me as she moved down the bar to handle three customers who had just walked in.

Touching his mug to mine, he said, "To Old Friends, and Bad Pennies who keep turning up."

"I'll drink to that, and to people that never get old. Honestly, I thought you might be dead by now. It has been a LONG time. Instead, you got yourself one of the nicest -- Ladies -- I've ever seen. It's got to be a companionate marriage. Considering your age -- and all."

He rapped my chin with his fist, still able to move so fast I couldn't have blocked him, and said, "Yeah, it's companionate as Hell. Sometimes we companionate two or three times a night. Actually, I shouldn't lie. I don't companionate twice a night anymore, but once usually does the job."

"You're an old dog, O'Brien. You give me hope for when I get as old as you."

Take a deep swallow of the golden beer in his mug, he wiped the foam off his lips.

"What are you doing back in town, Mike? Davidson told a few of us what happened and that you weren't planning on ever coming back? I'm not sure anyone ever blamed you."

"An old friend of mine, from high school, died a week or so ago. His family got a mes-sage to me to make it back for the funeral, which is tomorrow. And I took the opportunity to visit mom and dad's graves. There are a couple of other things I need to do, maybe an extra day, and then I'm out of here. I'm glad I had a chance to see you -- and meet your hot new wife -- because I don't think I'll ever be coming back. There's nothing here for me anymore."

He looked down the bar to where Sugar was flirting outrageously with the three customers. His eyes actually twinkled.

"So, what have you been doing the last ten years, or at least the last five?"

"Same thing I was doing when Davidson and Matt Henry ambushed me in Guatamala. I've visited maybe 50 countries and all seven continents in the last 10 years, flown into and out of more foreign airports than I care to remember. I've sailed through a few hurricanes and typhoons, ran for my life in the Ukraine and the Congo and Myanmar. I've had dysentery, Yellow Fever and Malaria. Been shot twice since Guatamala. Stabbed once. Crash landed an airplane twice. Just the run-of-the mill stuff.

"On the other hand, I've seen waterfalls hundreds of feet high that maybe no white man -- maybe no man -- has ever seen before. I've sailed over what looks like the ruins of Atlantis, but are really only coral formations where the ships haven't reached. I was alone in a 20-foot-long skiff in the Indian Ocean while a 50-foot-long Great White played tag with me."

O'Brien shook his head and took another swallow.

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Mike you make me wish I was young again and could go with you."

I looked toward the front doors and the crowd that was beginning to stream in. A few older couples, but most younger couples and singles, the guys looking as cool as they could while they scouted the female singles who tended to hang in groups. Here for the music, the drinks, the good memories and maybe the chance for the Glorious Lay of a Lifetime. It was all so damned sweet and innocent, no matter how bad the guys thought of themselves, the girls in their short skirts and nearly invisible tops with eager young breasts playing peek-a-boo and promising the delights of heaven to lucky young men. They wanted to appear sinfully decadent, but all they were was young and in full bloom.

I felt so incredibly old viewing the scene. I felt like a visitor from another time, another planet traveling back into time.

"It might sound romantic, O'Brien, There are moments, but it's usually pain and being scared shitless, and working 36 hours straight on project that don't pan out. It's eating in strange little hole in the wall restaurants that leave you puking and shitting for 24 hours, It's always being an outsider."

"Then why do you do it?"

"I love it, I'm good at it. And there's nothing else I can do."

"Can do or want to do?"

"Same thing."

"You ever think of settling down somewhere, Mike? The world is a big place, there are a lot of beautiful cities, a lot of beautiful women out there. And there are oil companies and companies that deal with oil everywhere."

"Not really. A city is a city, no matter how beautiful or exotic. And when you can live anyplace, what difference does it make? And there are always women. But, they're only women."

A sad and knowing look crossed his face. He didn't need to say anything, but he did.

"You've never found The One?"

"I did. But I lost her a long time ago."

He motioned to Sugar and she tore herself away from her admirers.

"Give us both another round. And don't get those guys so excited they'll be hopping over the bar to get at you."

She patted him on the head.

"You know I'd just toss them back over again."

She refilled us and then leaned on the bar with her elbows.

"So, Michael, how did you get that awful, romantic scar?"

"A man was trying to kill me. I killed him."

She glanced from her husband to me, then said, "That happen often in your line of work?"

"Fortunately, not too often. Now, it's my turn. One of you guys tell me how you got together. What I'm really asking is how in the world did an old guy land a gorgeous wife like you? It sure as hell wasn't his looks."

"No, it was his money."

"I knew it had to be something like that."

O'Brien swatted me on the back of the head.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, McCarthy. I'm not that old."

She reached out to caress his gnarled fist that had done so much damage to so many men.

"No. I had semi-retired to Miami-"

"You retired. You were a showgirl?"

"For a few years. In Vegas and New York. I went to school at night, got my accounting degree, started handling money for some of the girls I worked with. Then I started a successful escort service --"

She stopped when she saw the look on my face.

"Not that kind. There are always rich men who want an attractive, leggy showgirl type on their arm at dinners, nightclubs, anything. I kept my business clean enough to keep the cops away. I told my girls, 'if you want to sleep with them, go head, but keep it off the clock. Do it on your own time."

She gave O'Brien a look that almost convinced me they were the real thing. Even though it seemed impossible.

"I branched out into talent management for a while, got married twice and divorced three times. Little story there. Finally decided I didn't need any more money and I wanted a place on the water where I could walk the beach in shorts and bare feet. I found it and I was happy."

She pointed to O'Brien.

"Then this guy came along and everything went to hell."

I laughed.

"I can totally see that."

"Tell him the whole story, Sugar. How you got so lucky to land the man you've been looking for all your life."

She rolled her eyes.

"And modest, too. I hadn't seen my brother up here in years and I heard he and his wife were having trouble. I came up to see what I could do. But, this guy had already saved his marriage, and probably his life."

O'Brien shook his head.

"Chris has been a friend of mine for 30 years. His wife contacted me and told me ...they were in trouble. I didn't do anything heroic. I just sat him down and talked to him like an old friend. I gave him some information and he and his wife were able to straighten out their lives. I'm just glad it resulted in me meeting Sugar."

"My brother told me what had happened and I decided to meet this character before I headed back south. So I walked into O'Brien's one Friday night and...things just happened."

The look that passed between them proved telepathy existed.

"This was last year? O'Brien, you are a fast worker."

"We were married two months after that first night," she said.

"Neither one of us are spring chickens, McCarthy," O'Brien said. "When you get our age, you realize you don't have forever. You meet someone and you don't want to say goodbye - you don't."

"You gave up heaven on the beach to come up to Jacksonville and work in a smelly bar? Now, that must be true love."

"It's not where you're working, but who you're with,"she said, reaching out to grab his hand again.

"She's not a bartender, Michael. She bought in and is a half partner. We were able to do some work on the place. It was her idea to create the 'late eats' restaurant."

"And there's beaches twenty miles from here," she said. "We keep a condo at Jax Beach for when I have an uncontrollable urge to put my feet into the sand. And I talked him into hiring a real Assistant Manager so he only has to work four nights a week. I thought about trying to talk him into retiring full time with me, but...this bar is his life and I'll never get him out of here completely."




The Currency of Time Ch. 04



"I'm happy for both of you. I do have one question though. With you so tall, and O'Brien so -- height deprived -- how do the two of you -- you know...?"

She just smiled a feminine smile.

"He's tall enough to reach all of the good parts."

O'Brien -- as God is my judge -- blushed.

There are sailors who told me in my travels there are instincts that cannot be explained rationally. That there are times when all the scientific equipment is clear and the forecasts call for brilliant skies and calm winds. And you're on the deck of a ship and you're looking at peaceful vistas of calm water when a strange feeling will begin to grow at the base of your spine.

It grows up through your stomach and the hairs on the back of your neck rustle and then rise in fear and it takes over your body and even if it is still and calm, you can sense a wind from Hell beginning to sweep across the water. Your eyes strain to see -- things -- beginning to move deep within the blue. The ship begins to move beneath your feet.

They called it the Dark Seas. And if you ever feel it, they said, get the hell out of there if you can, or get to the nearest shore, because all Hell is about to break out. And when I asked them why I hadn't heard about it before, the answer was simple. The people who didn't run didn't live to tell anyone about it.

I'd never heard anyone talk about it occurring on dry land. But I now knew what it felt like because it swept over me like a chill wind from Hell.

I stared at my old friend and told him, "You'd better call the cops right now, O'Brien. Because I know you used to be a pro fighter and all, but that was 40 years ago. When this is over, I'm going to hurt you."

Sugar stared at me with fear clear on her face, which must have meant she believed my threat.

"When this is over, you've got the first shot," O'Brien said. "And it's been 40 years, but no man has ever put me down. You're welcome to try, Michael, but there are things you don't know, and you need to know. If I get a beating, it will be worth it."

"Hello, Michael."

I turned to face my undying personal nightmare.

Ten years had filled out her coltish lines, added weight to her hips and breasts, added a few lines to her face and almost eliminated the faint scars from that accident so long ago. Her hair was still that blazing crimson and it still crackled as if flowing around her head, She looked like some angry Irish deity, ready to hurl lightning. She wore a simple red dress, cut lower in back than in front, high enough to show those great legs of hers.

"Why are you here, Deirdre? Why the hell won't you leave me alone?"

She took a step toward me and involuntarily I took a step back.

"I know what happened to your friends five years ago. I'm sorry. I never meant for any of that to happen. If you don't believe anything else I say, believe that."

"I don't believe anything you say, including that. When your lips are moving, you're lying."

"Can we sit at a table and talk?"

"Short answer is I don't want to talk to you."

"Michael, please. Just a few minutes."

"I can't afford to lose another few minutes out of my life. No thanks."

"What do I have to say to convince you to talk to me."

'Say Goodbye."

She stepped back and sank into the chair at one of the small tables that dotted this part of the bar. 

"Just talk to me, Michael. Let me say the things I need to say to you. Let me try to help us both find closure. And then you can go off and vanish again for the rest of your life -- the rest of our lives -- and I will never try to find you again."

"Sorry, Deirdre -- or Spawn of Hell as I like to call you -- but I already told you I don't believe anything that comes out of your mouth."

"What will it hurt?"

"What did it hurt to see you sucking on his lips and gasping for more at the fucking con-ference in Bailey's office? You could have pulled my fingernails out and been more merciful. You didn't have to play with him in front of me, but you did. So, what will it hurt to sit and talk with you? It will hurt like having my skin set on fire. I gave up masochism for Lent."

"I...I wish there was some way I could make you believe how sorry I am for what I did -- for what happened. You ever stop to think I was 22 years old. He was my first love, the man I wanted to be the father of my children."

"Good luck with that."

"You never did anything you regret, Michael? Don't forget. We used to talk. I know how you used to be. I know what you did when you were 16 and 17 and 18. I know about the woman in Cuba that killed herself after you took her away from her husband and abandoned her.

"You ever think about her? Or any of the marriages you left shattered after you'd had your fun? You told me yourself you were a cold blooded asshole."

"I was a kid, Deirdre, that's the difference. Twenty two and married for two years is not a kid. You were a grown woman and you knew what you were doing."

I took a deep breath. I was not going to let my feelings show in my voice.

"I deserved better from you, Deirdre. I was a good husband. I loved you. And I trusted you. And apparently nothing I ever did was good enough for you. You got exactly what you de-served."

The crowd that had begun to fill the tables were staring at us, I realized. O'Brien stood behind me.

"You need some privacy. I'll open up the restaurant for you. It's not open for customers yet."

"Not necessary, O'Brien, I'm out of here. I'll give you your beating another day."

He closed his hand around my wrist. 

"You've been running for 10 years, Mike. Stop it here. Finish it. Do it so you can bury the past and start a new life."

"I haven't been running from anything, O'Brien, and not from her."

"And in ten years you haven't found a woman you loved. Haven't found a place to sink roots. Haven't found a place to call home. You call that anything you want, but I call it run-ning."

He was wrong. I hadn't been running. I'd just been living my life. But I thought about it. What could she do to hurt me worse than she'd already done. It was just a few minutes and maybe if I was honest with her, she'd release me. 

"Ten minutes. It won't take longer than that."

I started walking toward the restaurant. O'Brien walked ahead of me. In a moment I felt her walking beside me and then ahead of me. I closed my eyes to try to scrub the vision of her ass in that red dress from my mind. But when I opened my eyes, she was still there.

Sugar must have opened it from the bar, because the doors swung open. It looked like an all-night diner, the kind that used to spring up near bus stations. Formica counter top with the coffee pots behind it and behind that the kitchen. There were plastic round swivel seats at the counter and tables with red plastic table clothes. They hadn't been set with napkins and utensils but I could hear people in the kitchen. 

O'Brien bellowed, "Stay in the kitchen for a little while guys. We can open a little later tonight. I got customers who need some privacy out here."

Then, "it's all yours," and he walked out.

She leaned back against a table top which naturally highlighted those legs of hers. 

"What is so urgent that we had to meet face to face, Deirdre? What do we have left to say to each other?"

"Why didn't you take the $10 million the first time? Or the second time in Guatamala?"

"Why did you offer it the second time?"

"You know why. It didn't take a year after you left before I realized what kind of man he was. Before I realized I'd been a silly little girl that fell for a pretty face and that the only thing he ever loved about me was my money. I realized my father had been right in everything he said about Julian. He was greedy and narcisistic and violent and he never could keep his hands off any woman that was around him.

"I put up with his putting his hands on me for awhile because I told myself I deserved it. I had thrown away a good man for a piece of shit who was good in bed. But, it wasn't long be-fore I decided he had to go. 

"And you know about his trying to have me killed. I should have known from the way he wanted to deal with you that he'd treat me the same way. But the good thing was, Julian was always stupid. There were a lot easier ways he could have killed me, but he tried to be fancy and hire a hit man."

She ran her hands over her dress, smoothing it down over her thighs. Whatever she did, reminded me of the body beneath.

"I had no idea you were going to burn the first check. I understand now why you did it. You were saying 'fuck you' as eloquently as you could. But I hoped after five years your anger had cooled and you'd take the money. There was no other way I could try to make up for the hurt I did to you, the pain I caused."

"They call that blood money, Deirdre."

"Sometimes money is the only way you have to say you're sorry."

"It's not enough. It never was."

She stood up.

"So that's it. We're done. You don't believe people can change, grow, become better people. Despite your own experience."

"Maybe people can change. Maybe you're not the same person you were. But I don't care."

I thought the look of pain that crossed her face was what I'd been waiting for for 10 years. It was the perfect ending to my last trip to Jacksonville. I was about to walk away, but I stopped. She would never understand, she would never hurt the way I wanted her to hurt unless I explained it to her.

"You know how my father was, I talked enough about him. I don't know if I told you that much about him before he went to work for your father. He started working the oil fields in West Texas when he was 14. He was a millionaire three times before I was ten years old. And he lost it all each time.

"He loved that life, but he told me that it was never fair to my mother. She was a woman, he said, and a mother, and they want stability. A steady paycheck. A house. So he went to work for your father. He got to travel and Mom got the stability she wanted. It only lasted a few years before she died, but he enjoyed working for Orion and so he stayed.

"When I was a little boy and he had just lost a couple of million dollars and we had to spend the night in the home of one of my mother's aunts, Mom was a little upset. And I was old enough to realize not having any money was not a good thing. He sat down with me and told me the truth about money.

"He said money was like food, or water, or air. If you're starving or dying of thirst, or suffocating, nothing in the world is more important. If you have enough, you don't even think about it. And he said I'd never had to worry about money.

"He said, 'son, you're never going to be poor. You have my knack. I can't smell oil under the ground. But I can sense it, I can feel it. People say I'm crazy, but I know I can -- and you'll have the same knack. Once you've proven you have it, all kinds of people will throw money at you.

" 'And that's why you should never worry about money. People fight and die for it, but it's not what counts in the end.You can't take money with you and it's not the measure of whether you've led a good life. 

" 'The currency of time, the measure of what your life has been worth, are the memories you make, the people you've loved, the impact you leave behind you'."

"He knelt down beside me in that strange house and told me, 'If I was to die tonight, with nothing but the change in my pockets, I wouldn't die a poor man. I've loved your mother, and I've loved you. All the rest of it is dust in the wind'."

I could almost hear his words in my ears across the gulf of 30 years. He was still the smartest, wisest man I've ever known. And I'd never forgotten his words.

"Part of the reason, Deirdre, why I rejected your $10 million checks was to poke my finger in your eye. But the real reason is the $10 million doesn't even come to making up for what you did to me."

"I don't understand."

"I know. You never have. I never wanted to love you. But I did. And that spell you placed on me made me want things I'd never wanted before. I wanted a home, a family, a life. I dreamed of wandering the world and always coming back to you. I dreamed of our children. A little red haired boy and a little red-haired girl. In my dreams I could see them perfectly.

"It's been ten years, Deirdre,and once in a while, a rare while, I still dream of them.

But they're still toddlers. They've never grown. And they never will. Because they'll never be born. They're ghosts from a life that I'll never have.

"That's why I hate you, why I'll never forgive you no matter how much money you throw at me. You stole that life from me."

I walked away from her to the door that led to the bar. I raised my hand to knock when I felt her hand on my shoulder. As she always had, her skin burned. I thought she must have a normal temperature of 108.6. She stroked the back of my neck and then ran her fingers across my scar. I would not give her the satisfaction of turning to face her.

"The scar makes you look mean, Michael. I wonder how many women it's drawn into your bed."

I reached up to knock on the door hoping O'Brien was waiting for my signal.

"So you hate me, Michael. All right. I'm a businesswoman. Maybe we can work a deal. If you won't take the $10 million in a lump sum, maybe I can pay off my bill on the installment plan.:

I knocked on the door.

"If you ever are back in Jacksonville on business, you are welcome to come to St. Augus-tine to enjoy the estate. You remember, the sleeping facilities are first rate and Andre is still my personal chef. I had him prepare Duck L'Orange tonight which I remember was your favorite. I'll only charge you $1,000 per night against your tab.

"You don't even have to see me if you want to spend the night there. I'll stay out of your way. I remember you loved the estate when you lived there."

I removed her hand from my face.

"You are literally insane, Deirdre, if you think I'd come within a thousand miles of you voluntarily."

"You can even have me whenever you're in the mood. I think you'll find you'd pay $10,000 a night for the experience if you had a professional rate my services. I'm very good. Oh, and I know you hate me. But you'd still fuck me."

The door finally opened allowing me to escape. The bar was filling up but I saw Sugar and O'Brien behind the bar. There was an open bar stool in front of them. I honed in on it and told Sugar, "give me one Coors to get the taste of that conversation out of my mouth and I'm out of here..

I closed my eyes but I could still sense her behind me.

"Before you leave, Michael, I hope you'll come out to my limo. I have something for you."

She was gone or the brooding feeling of a live electric wire behind me was gone. I opened my eyes and grabbed the mug full of Coors. I hoped the beer would sooth the trembling vibration inside me.

I closed my eyes and wished that magic was real, other than the kind that vengeful Irish demigoddesses wielded. What would my life be like if I never gotten involved with Deirdre Lancaster? I might have a wife and children and a home. Except that it wouldn't be the same. Because she wouldn't be there.

I took a gulp of Coors and told O'Brien, "Why do I have this really bad feeling about what she's got waiting for me out there?"

"The only way to find out is to step outside and take a look."

"You know, don't you?"

He shrugged.

"What do you suppose your father carried down with him into the ocean that day?"

I didn't need to answer him because he'd known my father, but I said, "He carried the memories of my mother and me."

"And what are you going to carry down with you on the day that it's your time, Michael?"

After awhile I got up from the bar and walked outside. It seemed like a long time and she had probably already left.

She was bent down beside a 2014 stretch white limo talking to someone inside. Then she turned back toward me. She walked toward me in that hip-strutting gait that no other woman had ever managed to quite imitate.

"You couldn't resist."

"Can't we just get this over with, Deirdre? Tell me what the next mind-blowing secret is and let me get back inside to drinking."

There was a faint smile on her face, coupled with an expression I couldn't decipher. Behind her I could see a pretty young woman getting out of the back passenger seat, and on the other side of the car a hulk easily the size of Harper-Stevens dressed in a black suit.

She stepped to one side and I saw what walked along behind her holding the hand of the pretty young woman.

There are moments when the world turns on its axis and everything that was old and established vanishes like dew in the sunshine; when the world you knew changes and you change with it.

He had the same flaming red hair as my ex-wife, the stocky body of a four-year-old big for his age. He wore shorts and a Jacksonville Jaguars tee-shirt.

"He's yours. I know you might not believe me, but..."

I looked into my father's eyes, into my eyes, and knew I didn't need proof. He was me, the earliest pictures my father and mother had shown me. I had no idea how she had done it, but she had said she had magic.

I studied him, his face, his stance. He was studying me, holding tightly onto the hand of the woman who must be his nanny. He didn't look at me with fear, glancing from Deirdre back to me. It was more caution. I couldn't really blame him. I'm a big guy, that scar across my face didn't do anything for my cuddly factor, and I was pretty scruffy as well.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the bodyguard moving around the car behind him. He carried what looked like a Glock on his hip and had that tell-tale bulge on his left side. When you're guarding $250 million, I could appreciate the caution.

I bent down on one knee. Closer to his height, I felt I might not be quite so frightening.

"You're my daddy."

"I am?"

"I recognize you from your pictures. Mommy has them at home."

"What's your name?"

"Michael Orion McCarthy. Orion is for my grandpa."

I looked back at Deirdre. She had taken my life away from me. Thirty minutes before my life had been my own. I was an orphan. No mother and father, no wife, no children. I could risk my life, or throw it away, and no one had a say, because it was my life.

It wasn't mine to throw away any more, to take stupid risks with. Because there was someone else who had a claim on it.

I held out one hand to him, moving as slowly as I could.

"I'm sorry I haven't been here, Michael."

"Mommy 'splained that. She said you're really busy. You fly all over the world. You do 'portant things. But she said you would come someday."

"I'm glad I came today, Michael. I won't leave you alone anymore."

I fell to both knees as he hurled himself into my arms. I tried not to hug him as hard as I felt like doing. After awhile he pulled back and said, "You're awful big, daddy."

"Your grandfather, my father, Patrick McCarthy, was a big man, too. And you will be someday."

Deirdre came up behind me and took his hand.

"It's getting late, Michael. You still have to eat and brush your teeth and get to bed. Say goodbye to your father."

"Can you come home and tuck me in? Read me a story. Mommy reads me a story every night."

"I guess that depends on your mother, Michael."

She handed him over to the nanny.

"Let me talk to your father. He may be able to come by. But you have to get ready for bed."

The bodyguard and the nanny got him into his car seat and the bodyguard got behind the wheel. As the nanny closed the door, his small hand waved.

"What? How?"

Thunder rumbled in the distance and you could smell rain in the air. We moved under the awning in front of O'Brien's. The regular summer thunderstorms were getting ready to sweep through, although it might take a couple of hours to move in off the Jax Beaches which was the usual summer pattern. 




The Currency of Time Ch. 04



She faced me while a wind rufled her mane of red hair around her face.

"How is this possible? I can do a blood test, but you and I both know it's not necessary. But that's impossible?"

"No, I'm just not sure how to tell you without making you hate me more."

"I don't know that that's possible."

"I knew that you wanted children, Michael, But...I was still in love with Julian. And I thought...I was sure, he would come back for me. But you kept getting me pregnant."

"So you aborted them?"

"No. I didn't abort any of the three times I got pregnant. Remember, I was raised Catholic. But with enough money, you could have the embryos removed and frozen so they could be implanted later."

"I repeat -- what changed?"

"After what happened in Guatamala, I knew you were never coming back. I've been with other men since Julian, but I never found anyone I wanted to be serious about. And then I realized that I still had a piece of you. I might never see you again, but I could see you in him. So I tried and we lost the first embryo. We tried again and Michael was born."

"And you never thought of letting me know?"

"You tore up my letters, wouldn't take any communication at all. And even if I had gotten the word to you, would you believe me -- without seeing him?"

"Probably not. So, now what?"

"That's up to you. He's your son. I won't let you have joint custody and if you try, I'll stop you. But you're welcome to see him whenever you're in Jacksonville. If you want to take him on trips -- within reason -- feel free."

"How many bodyguards will be tagging along?"

"None. He's your son."

"And why wouldn't I just take him, vanish and you could spend the next decade looking for him?"

"Because you're a decent man, Michael McCarthy. You wouldn't' steal a son from his mother, you wouldn't cause him pain."

"You're awfully sure of yourself."

She stepped closer as the night drew down and the wind whipped dust in the street. Behind me I could hear the sounds of the bar, but it seemed as if we were the only two people in the world.

"You remember that tape recording you played in Bailey's office that day. You remember I said that I had feelings for you. That was the truth. I didn't want to be in love with Julian when I met you. But I was. I didn't want to hurt you, but I did. That doesn't change the fact that I know what kind of man you are."

I turned to go back inside, to the light and laughter and music and beer, away from this all too-sad autopsy of everything that had gone wrong with my life.

"Michael."

"What? I need something to make me feel good."

"Can you come by the estate tonight? Michael will be crushed if you don't. And -- I have some papers I hope you'll sign."

"Papers?"

Every suspicion I'd had flared back to life.

"Guardianship papers. I'd like you to agree to become Michael's guardian."

I turned back to her.

"What does that mean?"

"If something happens to me, if I die before he turns 21, I want you to become his Guardian. That means you'll have complete control of his money and my company. I don't expect it to happen and you won't have any responsibilities as long as I'm alive. But..."

I just stared at her. I was getting mental whiplash.

"You're the only man I've ever known who didn't care anything about my money, or the company. If I die, I know you'll take care of Michael, because he's your son."

I had pushed open the door when she said from behind me, "My limo left. Is there any chance you can give me a ride to the estate? It's going to storm tonight. Andre said he's outdone himself with the Duck L'Orange. And he's always enjoyed the way you enjoy his food. That way you can get a good meal, say goodnight to Michael and we'll finish our business together."

I let the door close and turned and walked her to my rental.

************** *************** **************** ********* 

From inside the bar two pairs of eyes watched the man and woman enter the rental.

"What do you think, Sugar?" O'Brien asked.

"He's lost."

THE END