PROLOGUE

     11 St. Clair had been as quaint and peaceful as any place in small town in America.  But that was about to change.  And it would change more than just the landscape of the town.  It was about to change the life of a young teenager in ways he would've never imagined.

    Everybody knew him as Pouch, a nickname given to him by young older brother Jeremy.  His brother had christened him with the nickname when he was only five years old, often telling them his younger brother he was so small he could probably fit in the pouch of a kangaroo.

     It had already been a month with an omen to strange things to come, eight straight days of rain followed by this very humid afternoon and evening of almost completely overcast skies.

     Pouch didn't know what made him take that particular route home.  He usually left the sandlot courts, crossed the city's main highway and stop at Mr. Emilio's store, which was the most popular grocer in the neighborhood.   Emilio had become like a second father for the youngster.  His father and Emilio had served in the Gulf War together before Pouch's father died of what was thought to be Gulf War Syndrome.

     In some ways Pouch was much closer to Emilio than he was to his own father who seemed to always be away working odd jobs from night-shift common dock worker to a wayward truck driver.  Whichever the situation, Pouch wouldn’t see his father for days and would confide in Emilio for  any rate, he would be gone for days and Pouch would see Mr. Emilio for counsel and support.  

  The friendship between Pouch’ father and Mr. Emilio suffered drastically when Emilio became successful enough to move hid store out of the depressed community and to a more upscale downtown district.  From that point, Pouch often felt that his father was jealous of Emilio’s success and disapproved of their closeness.  Soon, the tow men’s association diminished, as so with it Pouch’s relationship with Emilio; or so he thought.

      Mr. Emilio was the only person who supported Pouch’ ambitions of joining the police force by going to the police academy when he finished high school.  He was always enthusiastic about Pouch’ collections of police clippings on Mafia activity and shared in the glory of him playing a mini-detective in the neighborhood.  Everyone in the area had a concern about the increasing drug trafficking in the area, but everyone besides Mr. Emilio felt that Pouch’ desire to return to his home and spend his career keeping the neighborhood clear of crime was only a fantasy.  But Mr. Emilio knew Pouch much better than his own father did, and knew Pouch much better than his own father did, and knew his potential.  Everyday after a work out on the sandlot courts, Pouch would stop by the store for an awaiting soda pop and ice cream come compliments of Mr. Emilio.  That would give him the enthusiasm to athletically fantasize about him being a decathlon athlete in the Olympics and to pretend he was performing the different events on his way home. 

    Today, instead of turning right at the corner and dropping in to see Mr. Emilio, he turned left at the corner and ran down the back alley where he had witnessed the murder, which was incidentally the shortest way home.  There was an old warehouse across the street form the alley’s exit.  The warehouse had been a packaging plant several years ago, but had since been abandoned.  Often when passing in the area at dusk, Pouch would see young kids throwing stones, breaking many of the windows in the building and running in and out using the building as a playhouse.  It was suspected that this was a place for meetings of the big Mafia bosses.  There would be times that Pouch would see several expensive looking automobiles pulling into the area but he would not stay to expound upon his curiosity.  Pouch, however, had noticed a pattern in news clippings.  Nearly every time he would see the cars there, several days later he would either read about a murder in the area or see the police brining a dead body out of the building. 

     For this day, Pouch had been the witness to a most violent crime.  A crime that is often thought about, often visualized by imagination, but never associated with one’s own world of reality.  A woman had been brutally assaulted, to an extent unknown.  A helpless anatomy lay seemingly paralyzed at the mercy of three hoodlums of the east side of Manhattan.

     They were mobsters that appear to you through your own imagination; through your own cruel fantasies; through your own inclination of fear.  This did appear to be a Mafia number.  But why?  Why would this innocent young bystander be an open target of a Mafia contract?  Or was she really an innocent bystander?  Or was this even a Mafia hit?  There were plenty of uncertainties in Pouch’s mind as he tried to evaluate the situation.

     Over the past couple of years, Pouch had scrutinized local Mafia happenings through reading newspapers and watching and asking questions.  He had somehow become familiar with the entire East Side operation and the people involved.  As he viewed the brutal attack from behind a corner of one of the typically dilapidated warehouse buildings of the ghetto community, he could clearly tell that this was not a sex crime and that the mobsters made not attempt at sexual molestation.  This was something that was totally premeditated and closely resembled a Mafia contract by the way the gangster acted.  The question now lingered in Pouch’ mind of what importance this woman was the security of Mafia operation.  Could it be that she was carrying lethal info that could damage the syndicate where her death was necessary?  Lately, there had been many hits in the community of people who had past affiliations with Mafia activity.  No one knew if the Mafia was in the middle of planning something big or had a big shipment of narcotics coming in soon and that too much information had leaked to the outside world. 

     Dr. Ray Hays, through a series of events, had gained access to some mob files of their recent criminal activity, and was definitely a threat to western and eastern Mafia security.  It wasn’t long after that his family had been seriously threatened because Dr. Jacobsen would not answer notes and phone calls that Boss Harry Fitschu, a local gang leader of the East Side, was on his trial and wanted to see him.  Thereafter Dr. Jacobson attempted to stay out of the public’s eye in fear of being picked up and brought to Boss Fitschu.  Pouch, however had not been aware of the Mafia involvement that Dr. Jacobsen had encountered earlier in life.  He had been closely associated with de. Jacobsen and had noticed when he had disappeared from the public’s eye.  Dr. Jacobsen discovered that his wife and family had been getting threatening phone calls and he thereafter responded via telephone to a message he received form the East Side organization.  He acted very cool about the situation and threatened to reveal this information to the authorities if there was any more contact from the mob.  Pouch was unaware of the detrimental effect this information could have on Mafia operations on the west side if this reached the wrong hands.  Thus he was grieved to read in the Gazette that on the night of July 22, about six blocks form his residence.  Dr. Jacobsen was found dead of apparent head injuries.  The local 25-year-old man, who had gone to City College, received his degree and had now been practicing medicine locally how cow now become another victim. 

     Pouch had been a close friend of Jay Jacobsen as far back as when Jacobsen was in grade school, although Jay as several years older.  He had schooled Pouch while he was coming up and taught him skills in the game of basketball, which Jay excelled at even though his first love had always been medicine.

This had run through his head as he ran from the corner of the warehouse building down one of the myriad of dark alleys that were in his neighborhood.  His home, which he would joyfully admit never became an example, was twelve blocks away, which left plenty of room for thoughts and fears to run through his skull at an incredible rate.  Could the mobster have seen him as he accidentally knocked over a trash can as he left the scene of the crime?  Should he tell someone what he had seen and risk being the mobs’ next target?  Or should he just run and bear the unknown? 

The fact that Pouch hadn’t eaten a meal since early that morning didn’t seem to bother him as fear dominated him at this point.  (There were not streetlights as Pouch walked in the approaching darkness about four blocks toward his home.)  This seemed the perfect situation for him to be forced into, making any number of spontaneous decisions as to what to do in this present instance.  He was scared, puzzled and walking in utter disbelief of what he had witnessed.  It was one thin to read of brutal murders in the news, but quite another to visually witness such a brutal.

   Every evening Pouch had walked home through these very alleys, returning from a long hot day on the basketball court, since this was the main recreation during the school break.  There were no places in the neighborhood for a kid his age to go other than the basketball courts.  There were no tennis courts, swimming pools, or other forms of recreational facilities in the neighborhood.  (A big majority of the homes were significant of poverty as you can see.)  Only twelve breadwinners of the twelve families on Juniper Street held a steady job and had a chance of someday escaping the ghetto.  Thusly the city government would not provide recreation facilities in as much as the conditions of the homes were the number one concern of community representatives.  Therefore, neighborhood kids were forced to go to the sandlots in order to enjoy their free time.  These however were the main havens of the drug pushers employed by the Manhattan Crime Club, the largest operating syndicate in East Manhattan. 

1

   DARKNESS SET IN as Pouch reached his home.  He was quite exhausted this evening and did not look forward to sitting up with the family and playing cards as they normally did.  Pouch knew that it would be easily detected that something was bothering him.  He couldn’t hide his feelings.  Yet, he knew he couldn’t reveal what was on his mind.  Thus, avoidance seemed to be the best method. 

    With both his mom and father gone during the day, Pouch gained a feeling of independence, which over-shadowed any feelings of loneliness or neglect.  He stayed in his room the entire evening using the excuse of having eaten out as an alibi to avoid the family social hours.  He stayed in his room reading back through his old police news clippings and doing anything he deemed necessary to appear occupied. 

    “Pouch, dinner’s ready.  Are you coming down to eat?” bellowed his mother in the same voice he heard so repetitiously every evening. 

  Once again his mother called, “C’mon down.  Your food’s getting cold.”  Fortunately, he wasn’t forced to face the family, as his mother quickly perceived that he had already eaten and discontinued her efforts. 

  Andy and Willie, the two youngest brothers, never missed a meal and were always on time for supper.  They instinctively knew that when Pouch wouldn’t eat supper or instinctively knew that when Pouch wouldn’t eat supper or join the family, something was bothering him, even if he had eaten They rushed upstairs to harass, as much as inquire about it, but were quickly thrashed out of the room by Pouch’ harsh yet sarcastic words.   

   Willie never pursued a conversation with Pouch when it appeared he was upset, but Andy was quite the opposite.  He was the family clown and always got on Pouch’ nerves at the wrong time.  However, the two were hungrier today than normal and neither wished to harass Pouch any further, particularly right before supper.

  At the dinner table, it would never seem quite without Pouch and he would hardly missed, as Andy and Willie would always cause a big disturbance.  Mom would always act disinterested at the conversing about marble collecting and stickball.  Mom had dearly wished for her fourth child to be a girl, so she could share some feminine conversation at the dinner table, but again it didn’t work out that way.  It seemed that only when Pouch’ father would make it home in time for dinner would she be able to express her thought and feelings of the day without the foolish laughter. 

  It was at these times that she missed Jeremy, the oldest son, the most.  It was Jeremy who she related too best and who would comfort her in times when Pouch’ dad was absent for long periods on his trucking jobs. Jeremy had been committed to the rehabilitation hospital for drug dependency and had not returned to society as quickly as anticipate.  He had become a victim of the local drug pushers and had gotten really strung out.  There was certain closeness and feeling of trust between Jeremy and mom, mush different than that with Pouch’s dad.  He was away so much that he didn’t see what was happening in the neighborhood and why Jeremy was getting into trouble stealing to buy the drugs to keep he going.  Both mom and Pouch knew, but couldn’t get the police to investigate since it was so widespread.  It was only Jeremy’s maturity that saved him from dying in the streets and becoming another drug statistic.  It was a dark period in the family’s life when Pouch and his mother discovered the problem with Jeremy, but the father gave no comfort.  Only the trust and confidence that his mom had in him, with Pouch’ assistance, convinced Jeremy that he needed to escape and seek professional help.  Dad was never around at any of the critical periods and in a way this was destroying his relationship with the rest of the family. 

   This incident alone, gave Pouch the motivation to try and do something to help clean up his neighborhood.  He had vowed on the day that Jeremy entered the hospital that he would study and read to prepare for his venture toward the police academy the next year.  Though Andy and Willie were too young to understand, at ages nine and twelve, they knew that their brother was reacting angrily to what happened to Jeremy and that there mother was extremely hurt.  At the dinner table, they would often notice her staring at the walls, wishing for something to comfort her.   

     That’s why they tried to act crazy and do anything to disrupt her chain of thought.  Pouch understood, but was fighting his own problem.  Andy and Willie understood, and knew that they would have to stay close and stay together to protect each other form the streets, since both mom and Pouch had taken up different roles in Dad’s absence.

   There was an even greater role that Pouch had to play with the absence of Jeremy and because of what happened.  The problem with Jeremy had lingered upon his mind from the time he was first committed.  An infiltration had suddenly begun to tear his family apart, and it was now left up to him to put together the pieces.  The start of it all would have to be his making restitution for the violent and criminal acts that were occurring in his neighborhood.  He now looked upon himself as an adult and knew he’d have to take upon the role of the leader.  This would start with investigating the incident that he had witnessed.  It was the first time that he had been an eye witness to a crime, yet he knew to move too quick toward the police would be useless.

    He now felt that fate had caused him to witness the violent crime.  He couldn’t understand deep down what attracted him to monitoring the Mafia activity and keeping all those police clippings, but now he felt that it had all come into focus.  Perhaps it was an omen; as if he was now the chosen savior. It was true that he couldn’t explain to friends why he has such unusual hobbies, unlike those of other 17 year olds.  Even chasing girls had become secondary.  He didn’t want Jeremy to be rehabilitated and come back to the same awful scene. 

    He had to find out everything by himself, totally alone.  Pouch had to find out why they killed her, where they came from, and what evidence was available from the murder that he could take to the Precinct. 

   In actuality, he had become his own little private investigator, a real Sherlock Holmes type of character that he had fantasized about being.  But this was indeed no game, not in his mind or in reality.  He realized that he could go undetected, unwatched and collect information that even the force’s best undercover men couldn’t get.  However he knew he had to be careful. The Mafia had their own of turning up the heat.  The manner in which Dr. Jay Jacobsen’s family was harassed was typical.  Pouch knew that as he undertook his mission.  That would be the stopping point.

2

     A LINCOLN TOWNCAR and a Rolls Royce pulled into a vacant parking lot adjacent to two freight warehouses.  The Rolls Royce was the first car to arrive and was occupied by two men.  Afterwards, the next three cars, all Lincoln Towncars, arrived almost simultaneously. 

    Gathered together were five of the top mob bosses in the United States.  Heading this crew of Mafia executives was a short, stern-looking, very distinguished man from Chicago named Dally George.  Chicago had always been Dally George’s home and it wasn’t ironic that his base of operations was in Chicago.  Yet he was the man who put the syndicate on the map and in the minds of the belligerent police force’s that fought against its expansion.  He was the all powerful, the bug cheese, the man who was most responsible for the success of the black marketing and the underground on the East Coast.  He was as charismatic as Patton and had a chorus of followers just as great.  Some love him, some hated him; but everyone respected the power that he possessed. 

     All of Chicago belonged to him and he demanded everyone’s respect, including the police force.  He demanded top-notch performance from his hit men, his ladies, and his pimps on the streets, his informants, and his black marketers.  And he paid top dollar to them to protect him and his ever-growing fortune.  He led the cavalcade in his most elegant car, a classic Rolls that was well respected and admired at it was often seen touring the streets of Chicago.  But now he was in New York to conduct come very important business.

    About a block away form the front of the warehouse where the vehicles parked, was a big building which had no signs of significant marking and appeared to be normal office building.  This however was the main meeting place for the big guys.  East Manhattan district had always been and out of the way spot where the big time gangsters and their associates could meet without the disturbance of the police, who rarely came into the area to answer the calls of the local disturbances. 

    Across the street was a private health spa, which was the body building gym for all of East Side’s Mafia men.  It was an exclusive club that had gained an operating license and permit and all the other procedures for any other legitimate business.   Within that gym qualities and intestinal fortitude, buildup of physical exegetical and aggressiveness was personified in the workouts.  It was almost a requirement that all of the Mafia’s men present a very intimidating image. 

    As the men entered the building, the boss of the local syndicate which took the name Manhattan Crime Club, E. Howard Fitschu, would be convening a big conference meeting with two of his main bounty hunters who lived different lives, in separate seclusion, until called upon for a job.  During all meetings, everything was kept in the utmost of confidentiality and the secret meeting place kept everything unnoticed.  Jim (Muscles) Wright and Eddie Baker, two of MCC’s best men were reporting back to the boss on the results of their recent contract on Susan Kelly. 

    “Hey, Eddie, baby, what’s going down,” said Wright as they walked between the corridors of the dilapidated building towards a room in which Boss Fitschu was sitting at an old table awaiting their arrival.

    “Not much man, I’ve been just shaking a long, doing my thing,” replied Baker. 

Jim Wright had always been the quiet type who didn’t do much talking and firmly believed and practiced that action spoke louder than words.

    “Yeah, man.  I hit the scene a couple of times up here.  I got tired of playing that family man role.  I thought the old’ lady was catching on and was asking too many questions.  I thought it would be good to get her from under my skin.”

    As the two walked into the room, Fitschu appeared to be in no mood to exchange congenialities.  He had a definite serious, concerned look on his face, which was quickly observed by the two men. 

    “All right, sit down and let’s get to business.  Cut the yaki-dak stuff,” interrupted Fitschu before Baker could present a greeting.  “I want to know how it went down.  I don’t like being here too long and I’m getting bad vibes for some reason, so spit it out with no delay.”

    Fitschu always had that way of leaving nothing left unsaid and making his point very clear.  He was in the mood to be riled up at any little irritation.  The boys couldn’t understand why, but were smart enough not to inquire. 

    “Everything went down smooth, boss.  She’s out of the picture for good,” answered Baker.

     Fitschu sat back in his seat for a moment of retrospection. 

   “Y’know, that contract would have never become a reality if Kelly hadn’t been messing around with the 23^rd’s informants.  Why didn’t he just come to me when I put the word out on the streets?  I don’t like killing women.  You guys know that isn't my style.  But he wouldn’t come to me, and I don’t like worrying over nothing.”  The two agreed and I acknowledged Fitschu’s comments.  They suddenly shared a sense that Fitschu was apologizing, feeling sorry for having to put the contract out.  They could see it in his eyes and it worried them.  Boss Fitschu had never before displayed such and emotion.

    “And now that he’s still not responding concerns me.  If killing his old’ lady doesn’t shake him up then he’s reacting the opposite of what we want.  I don’t know what he’s up to, but whatever it is, it isn’t good.  The streets are too silent.  I want him out of mind.  Do you boys know what I mean? Are you tough enough to handle it?”

   The boys knew exactly what he meant as the y clenched their fists in acknowledgement which brought a smile form the weary, every-graying man.  There was no question that Muscles Wright and Eddie Baker were tough enough.  They were both draftees into the Vietnam crisis, one detached from a promising future and still feeling bitter anger trough the years at society.

   Eddie Baker was a huge black man, with monstrously intimidating size.  Everyone within the organization feared him and often thought he was unpredictable to the extent of being crazy.  He made a note to let nothing he did under cut that feeling.  He was six food five and carried 230 pounds of solid muscles.  The only fat deposits on his body were at his waistline, which hardly classified him as being obese.  It was, however, the only thing that separated him from Charles Atlas.  Added to that bulk was a face, which carried a look of defying ignorance and meanness.  A look, which was increased by an easily visible scar on his cheekbone, which he suffered during the war when he was hit by, fragments from an exploded mortar round.

   After returning from the war, Baker had been seen meeting regularly with members of the underworld who were deeply involved in East Side operations.  They would meet in bars, gambling casinos, discotheques, or any place that looked natural.  It wasn’t long before Baker was pulled into the system partly through his increasingly deranged minds and some battle scars, which had inflicted his heart with anger at society and a reason to fight back for what he felt was a grave injustice done to him. 

   Baker gained seniority with the organization much quicker than many.  He became the main man that Boss relied on, who never questioned a mission, experience that the Army had taught him to live with.  But he had done just as much to earn it.  Yet, because of his deranged nature Fitschu never left anything up to ingenuity.  He recognized that Baker’s strength was his ability to be a follower and carry out a mission but not to lead anyone or anything.  He was far too unpredictable.  Baker often resented this to a great degree, and felt that one day he would get even. In fact, Baker was spending his life doing things to get even with people.

   Muscles Wright had been a straight product of the system.  He had all the tools and the background that the Mafia wanted when they went recruiting to pick up guys form the streets. He had previous arrests for arson, theft, robbery, armed and unarmed assault, and assault and battery, all before the age of seventeen.  Those were just the minor leagues for him.  The thing that attracted the underworld to Wright was his way of thinking which was conducive to successful hit men.  As Muscles got older, he made it his business to indicate to the syndicate that he didn’t commit crimes to survive but for enjoyment.   He would often be seen purposely beating a young girl right in front of the police informants or Mafia syndicate men.  These reports were slowly getting back to Fitschu and he was enjoying what he was hearing.  He offered no excuse to life for what he was doing.  He was just a vigilante.  There are often people in society who for no reason at all are just bad for life.  Muscles Wright was that kind of guy.

   The only difference between him and Eddie Baker was that Wright had proven through the years that he could think, plan and execute.  This made Baker and Muscles the perfect team.  They were the Starsky and Hutch of the organized crime world.  They had been given the responsibility of overseeing the drug activity and black marketing in the East Manhattan area.  It was, in effect, their own turf and their job was to protect Fitschu’s interest there.  The MCC was gaining muscles throughout Manhattan and was going full steam like an onrushing 18-wheeler.  Organized gambling, extortion, drug marketing and sometimes murder were the keynotes. 

      Boss continued to talk in retrospect for several minutes as he leaned slowly back in his chair and lit a cigar.  The lighting of his cigar always preceded an emotional response.  Fitschu had established many patterns as such.

   “I want that Jimbo dead!” said Fitschu in a suddenly intensified manner.

   “He is on to me.  I can feel it.”  It was obvious that Fitschu was working up a sweat, which perforated not just from his gestures.

    “We can handle that, sir.  Just give us the word,” replied Wright.

   Fitschu very coolly put his cigar out against the end of the chair as he stood and began pacing back and forth in deep thought.  In an instant, he turned and faced the two as if he had been struck with a brainstorm.

   “Saturday night, he’ll be at the Cat Club.”

   “How do you know that, boss,” asked Wright, as Baker remained silent. 

   “I just know it.  Word on the street is that he’s looking for something.  I got a call from Charlie the other day that he was in there while he was cleaning up, asking question.  Not anything that meant anything.  At least Charlie did call.  That’s good business sense.  You boys should take note of that.”

    Baker felt insulted by the comment, as usual, yet on Wright it had no effect. 

     “He did mention to Charlie that he would be in there on Saturday.  I know he’ll be there with what’s going on in there Saturday night.”

    “How do you know?” asked Baker.

    “Listen, punk,” exploded Fitschu as he grabbed Baker’s jacket.  “Don’t ask me any questions.  I don’t pay you to think.  You act stupid and you will get burned.”

    There was no doubt to both Baker and Wright that this was totally unnecessary, and that Fitschu was only using his aggressiveness to reinforce authority.  Fitschu had indeed presented himself as a God-like figure demanding total respect.

Fitschu quickly regained his perspective on the situation and prevented himself from losing his control.  There was always something about Baker that caused him to lose his temper.  Fitschu gingerly released Baker’s collar and slapped his face gently, apologetically.

    “Listen, don’t ask questions of me.  I’m going to let you two handle this one yourself.  I don’t want to lose another night’s sleep.  I will tell you this.  Don’t leave Hollie out.  You know her past connections with Kelly.  She could be very useful.  I’ll let you handle everything the way you want it.  The contract is effective now.  The only two things I require is that everybody know and see the results of this.  I want this to be a symbol for everybody to know not to try and get too close to me.”

    “You mean this contract should be done in full public viewing?” asked Baker.

    “Not quite, you dummy.  I don’t want anybody to identify you.  I just want to make sure the streets see his body torn and mangled.  That’s why the Cat Club would be a perfect place.  Since everybody will be there, I’m sure Sinclair’s informants will be in there trying to leak information to his boys from the 23^rd Precinct who’ll naturally be undercover.  The other thing is to let me handle Hollie.  Once you guys let me know the scoop, I’ll tell you how I want Hollie to fit in.   I do have a plan but I wan to see how you guys will handle it.  It’s time you moved up in the organization.  You’ve been bonus babies too long.”

    A sudden grin appeared on the face of Baker, as he felt they had received a temporary wartime promotion.  But as suddenly as the smile appeared, it disappeared, as there was a sudden inclination of fear upon the face of Eddie Baker.  Pictures of the hit on Susan Kelly in his mind brought back a bad picture.  It was a relapse into his past, which brought him instant terror.

    “Hey Boss, wait a minute, something’s wrong!”

    “What are you talking about?” replied Wright jumping upon the remark like a desert cat seizing his prey; he quickly detected a feeling of insecurity in Baker’s face.

    “That kid.  I saw that kid.  He was scared.  He was running scared.”

      Muscles reacted aggressively in a remorseful state of anger at Baker for keeping this information secret.

    “You mean somebody saw us knock off the girl?” asked Muscles, as Baker remained silent.  “Oh, hell, what the crap is going on?”

    Boss Fitschu remained silent for the moment as he stared puzzled at Baker and Muscles.  It’s like the inclination of fear of the unknown and unsaid had suddenly struck him, and he feared intensely the upcoming conversation.  He had become speechless and his thoughts were temporarily paralyzed in disbelief after the praise he had just given the duo.

    “All right, Eddie, how did someone see us?  I thought you agreed with me that everything was cool when we left there.”

Baker’s voice descended into an insecure state of calmness.

    “I don’t know.  Hell, wasn’t anybody near the place at first.  At first I wasn’t sure if I actually saw somebody.  I thought for a couple of days that maybe it was an optical illusion or something.  But it just suddenly dawned on me as we were talking.  Just when you stabbed the girl, I heard a trashcan fall over next thing I know a young kid took off out of the alley from behind it.”

    “Then why didn’t you say something then?”

    “Look, man,” replied Baker in anger, while glancing over towards Fitschu to monitor his reactions.  “I didn’t know if the kid saw us or not!”

    “How the hell could he have not seen us?  You said he jumped from behind the can when I cut the chick.  Of course, he saw everything and knows our faces.  Oh, that’s just great man, just great,” said Muscles Wright as he frustratingly began walking towards the open door.

    “That doesn’t mean the kid saw us.”

    “What the hell do you mean he didn’t see you,” replied Muscles in amazement, as Baker’s totally unrealistic comment caused hesitation as he motioned back towards Baker in anger.

    “You stupid dog, you’re always so stupid!” added Muscles Wright as he turned away from Baker and began walking away.

    “Look, Muscles, man.  I’ve had enough of your…”

    “All right, shut the crap up,” Fitschu finally interrupted thus postponing the charade of pathetic dialogue while still attempting to remain composed.  “Just stay cool and let me figure this thing out.”

    The two men remained silent as they stood away from each other not to look in each other’s eyes.  They were indeed shocked at the reaction of Fitschu, so far.  Normally, they felt he would have exploded all over them.  Yet, they glanced and saw a look in Fitschu’s eyes, which they had never before seen.  It was a look of intense fear and concern.  Like the link that Jimbo Kelly would be looking for was out there waiting for him to find it; suspended in an hourglass.

    Fitschu sat down but just as quickly got up from his chair in a most nervous manner.  His hands began shaking in a manner never before seen.   

     He twirled the chair and once again turned towards the open window in a deep chain of thought

     “Sir, if I may suggest, I…”

    Baker was quickly interrupted, which by now came as no surprise to him.

    “Listen, damn it, how many times have I told you?  Shut the crap up.”

    “Yes, sir,” responded Baker respectfully.

    “I could nail you against the wall for this.  We’re in worse shape now than we were before,” said Fitschu, as there became frequent pauses in hi speech.  “All the girl did was to provide the bait for the police to lure us.  But now, we got a kid, a stupid kid out there who for sure could nail us…”

    “Sir, I said he might not have seen us.”

    “Just shut your face!” screamed Fitschu as he once again grabbed the collar of Baker’s jacket and began squeezing before gaining control of his emotions and letting go,  “Just…just go out there and find that kid and take care of him.”

    Fitschu quickly grabbed his glasses and prepared to leave the room as he confirmed with Baker the description of the teenager before he exited to his limo waiting outside.

    “But you still want he contract on Jimbo Kelly to go down?”

    “Yes, without a doubt,” answered Fitschu as he stopped before ducking to get into the Lincoln Continental as Baker whistled, signaling for their vehicle to come up from in front of the warehouse to pick them up.  “I want you to put the word out on the streets about the kid.  Be descriptive and have anyone who sees him, let you know immediately and stall the kid until you can get there.  From there, it’s left up to you.  I’ll have to get back to my estate and do some figuring.  I’ll get in contact with you two tomorrow.  You’re still my bonus boys.  Just take care of things for me, okay?” asked Fitschu with a slight smile before entering the vehicle.

     The vehicle, which Baker and Muscles arrived in, drove up just as Fitschu’s vehicle sped off.  The duo got in and it took off with a screeching noise that could be heard for blocks.  They passed through the housing area and within minutes were back on the freeway.  Baker and Muscles Wright began discussing the situation and making initial plans towards the dual mission that they now encountered.  It would be dusk before Baker and Muscles would once again reach the seclusion of their private residences.