I’d just lumbered through the front door of Billy Straybuck’s Adams Morgan condo when I heard, “Sunuvabich, I got called for jury duty again!”

“Well, damn, Billy, I thought sitting in judgment of some lowlife who shot gunned an old lady cashier in a convenience story would be something you’d look forward to. Know I would. Sadly, I’ll never get the chance … “

“Being as how you were a five year guest of the state of North Carolina for an infraction of a similar nature?”

“Wasn’t nothing similar about it, William.”

“Okay, Virgil. Anyway, you look enough like me. How ’bout I give you my driver’s license, you go down there and see all the fun you been missing.”

“Sign me up.”

“You gotta be shitting me.”

“I’m serious as a heart attack.”

“Still crazy after all these years.”

“You know he was referring to a woman in that song?”

“I do,” he said turning away to hide the shit eater.

On the appointed day I headed out of the condo about seven o’clock and walked over to 16th Street to pick up a south bound bus that’d get me down to Judiciary Square. That was the first time I’d ridden the bus during DC morning rush hour. Leave out my times in the joint, I’ve never seen so many serious looking people packed into one tight space. Felt like belting out the first chorus of “Hale to the Redskins” just to cheer ‘em up.

When I got up to the floor I was supposed to get up to, I started worrying somebody would question whether or not I was really William Straybuck. But the nice lady who checked me in barely glanced at the license and said she hoped I’d have a nice day. Probably helped that I gave her a 200 watt smile and said how nice her hair looked.

Wasn’t long before a bunch of us got called for a panel by a bossy lady up at a podium and then followed the bossy lady down a long hall and parked our 40 odd butts in the chairs of a court room.

I didn’t notice him at first. I was too busy enjoying the surprising comfort of my chair and the looks of a comely girl to my right. When the judge walked in and all of us had to rise, that’s when I noticed him. Ravon Warfield. The judge announced Ravon had been charged with aggravated assault or some such and that he would be the defendant in the trial. I didn’t pay much attention to the charges. I was holding myself back from climbing over folks to get to Ravon and end the need for a trial. But then I’d be the one on trial. Not a good tradeoff, so self-restraint prevailed. For the moment.

As time in the courtroom crawled along, I sank further into a hole by getting selected for the jury that would judge this asshole. I almost wished I’d gotten picked as an alternate. That meant I’d “ride the pine” like a backup quarterback who had to be ready to jump in the game if the starter got injured. But backup quarterbacks are itching to get in the game. I wasn’t itching.

Billy was lounging in front of the big screen when I got back to his condo after 5:30 or so.

“How’d it go, Virgil? No cops been around to arrest me for sending a felon down to do my civic duty for me.”

“Day’s not over.”

“Should I be planning a vacation to a nation that has no extradition treaty with the US of A?

“Not just yet, but keep that idea on the front burner.”

After I filled Billy in on the day’s events, he leaned back in the Barkolounger and stared at me stone faced. Then his lips started quivering, and then it all poured out in a deafening guffaw. I did the same.

When we finally caught our respective breaths, he said, “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

“Most likely.” Then the guffawing got going all over again.

The next morning I left out a good 45 minutes earlier than I had the day before. Didn’t want to be scrunched in on the bus again with all those sullen souls. Plus, a good walk might clear my head. With all the DUI’s I’d accumulated, walking long distances and me were good buddies.

Once us jurors got seated in the box after the judge had told us to, he took his own seat and wished us good morning. He was a big man with white hair that his wife probably all the time dogged him to keep better trimmed. His accent put him somewhere from around Boston. But he didn’t come off as one of those Harvard boys who talk with their jaws clenched and their heads tilted back as if they didn’t want to catch a whiff of the lesser beings they were addressing. I could see he’d had his nose broken a few times, and there was scarring under his eyes. He’d probably tossed a few guys threw a bar window and vice versa back when youthful valor prevailed over discretion. I liked him.

The rest of the morning and half the afternoon was swallowed up by the prosecutor and the defense attorney laying out their take on the trial. The prosecutor was a black lady with a stick up her ass, and the defense attorney was some old hack who looked more interested in having his first martini of the day than in keeping Ravon from doing another stretch.

Since it was getting close to four o’clock when the defense attorney finished his opening argument, the judge adjourned for the day telling us to be back at nine the next morning. He also reminded us to refrain from discussing the trial with anyone and from reading or watching or listening to any news about the trial. Could be some of the other jurors might actually abide by those instructions.

I had decided to walk back; seemed as good an idea as walking down. I was trudging along when I realized the streetlights had popped on. Made sense. It was early December. I’d just veered right off Florida Avenue onto Champlain Street and found myself passing a dimly lit sports field.

“Just keep strolling, motherfucker. Don’t turn around.” The voice sounded like it belonged to a bass singer in a R&B band.

“Might I assume you are carrying a firearm, sir?”

“We both got shotguns aimed at your redneck ass. Do anything to spook us, you’ll be extremely dead, extremely fast.”

“Then, gentlemen, I shall endeavor not to spook you.”

“Good choice. Now, here’s how you can keep living a while longer … “

“I’m all ears.”

“That smart mouth’s grating on me, country. Stop talking, and listen close ’cause we only gonna say it once.”

I stopped talking and nodded.

“It’s simple. Ravon ain’t found guilty, we will find you. Then you and that cracker you stay with will die slow and painful. Now go away. Do not turn around.”

I didn’t turn around, and I didn’t hear them drift off. I focused on remembering everything I could about what’d just happened.

After I ran it by Billy, he didn’t say a word for a good 30 seconds.

“Well, well.”

“Been thinking the same.”

“Again, what’s Ravon been charged with?”

“Supposedly, he stabbed some undercover cop in a bar over in Northeast. Prosecution’s claiming it was assault with a deadly weapon on a federal agent. Defense claims that’s bullshit. Says Ravon was just defending himself against a thug.”

“How’s the cop doing?”

“Prosecutor didn’t say nothing about that. Defense says he’s back on full duty.”

“How come this didn’t get pled out?”

“Been wondering the same thing.”

After chewing on this some more with Billy, any thoughts I’d had about getting excused from the jury dried up. I wanted to find out what the hell was going on. Moreover, I was major pissed at the two assholes who’d menaced me with shotguns. Slow and painful? We’d see who knew something about slow and painful.

The first witness the prosecution put on the next morning was the cop that Ravon had allegedly stabbed. He looked like a thug. That was all right. Undercover cops are supposed to look like the criminals they set up and put away.

I thought the old boozy public defender did a better than fair job of dismantling the cop.

Question: “Agent Johnson, how long was your hospital stay after the stabbing?”

Answer: Agent Johnson didn’t have a hospital stay. Paramedics at the scene put a butterfly bandage over his wound. No stitches had been required.

Question: “Agent Johnson, what is your approximate height and weight?”

Answer: The defense attorney had to ask the agent to speak up: six-five/260 or 270. Conservative estimates, if you ask me. Didn’t much matter. Compared to Agent Johnson, Ravon was a size petite dwarf.

Question: “Agent Johnson, did you identify yourself as a federal agent prior to picking the defendant up with one hand by the scruff of the neck and shaking him like a leaf?”

Answer: Of course the prosecutor objected, the judge sustained, and the question had to be rephrased. The facts were a bit murky, but it sounded like Agent Johnson had delayed identifying himself until Ravon had stuck him in his right arm. The one used to hold the little prick a foot and a half off the floor.

By now it was ten-thirty or so and the judge called for a 15 minute recess. That was time enough for us jurors to go to the bathroom, sneak out for a smoke, grab a cup of coffee, or whatever. I don’t smoke, but I did want to get outside for a sniff of air. As I stepped on to one of the escalators, I found myself right behind a grandmotherly juror I’d smiled at a few times but had not spoken to. She reminded me of a woman who had worked as a domestic for a rich white family when I was a kid in North Carolina. I was the gardener/handyman for the same family in the summers.

As she plodded out the main entrance, I caught up to her and matched her steps.

“Sure is a pleasant day for this time of year, now isn’t it?”

“You’re from down south like me, now aren’t you, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am. Kinda figured you were from back home. I enjoy chatting and I pegged you for a chatter. That’s not something most people in this city want to do.”

“No, they don’t, and after more than forty years, I still have not gotten used to their reticence.”

“Well, I hope you never do get used to it.”

“I hope I don’t, either,” she said as she took my arm and we continued a stroll around the building. In the space of ten minutes or so, we discussed a number of things, not one having to do with the trial. As the escalator pulled us up to our floor, she said she’d enjoyed our conversation. I said the pleasure had been all mine. Then she shook her head and sighed, “Now back to our sitcom.” I stifled a laugh, but a chuckle sneaked out.

By about two o’clock the prosecution had wrapped up its case. The judge then turned to the defense attorney and said, “Mr. Kincaid?” The old lawyer pushed himself out of his chair and scuffled his arthritic way around the defense table while nodding at the jury with the hint of a grin. He then faced the judge. Raising his hands palms up and shaking his head, he said, “Your honor, the defense would like to move … no, let me amend that, your honor. How about if the defense just rests?”

The judge pursed his lips and nodded his head for about ten seconds. Then he said, “Very well. Ms. Turner, are you prepared to make your closing argument after a short recess?”

Ms. Tightass Turner rose and said, “Your honor, I was hoping to have the evening to prepare my remarks.”

“And you, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Your honor, I’m ready to go right now. We’ve wasted enough of the jury’s time with this preposterous …”

The judge raised his right hand like a school crossing guard: “Mr. Kincaid, let’s save the histrionics for your closing argument.”

“My apologies, your honor.”

The judge pursed his lips some more and gazed up at the ceiling, his forehead knotted in a scowl. Then he shot the prosecutor a hard stare and said, “Okay, it’s about 2:15. Let’s call it a day. Everybody get out of here and go home and get some rest. We’ll begin closing arguments in the morning. I want this case to go to the jury no later than 10:30, 11:00 at the latest.”

“Yes your honor,” said she with downcast eyes.

“Absolutely, your honor,” said he with almost no smirk at all.

The Lear Jet had just touched down at the tiny airport in Butte. He hated winter cold, even the mild stuff that settled into the Mid-Atlantic States at the end of November. But what hit his face and lungs when the cabin door opened nearly knocked him to his knees.

“Get used to it, Chug,” said the larger of the two, one in front of him and one behind.

“You may be here a while, Chug,” said the other.

He detested both of them. They always called him by the nickname he could never shuck; they had no respect for him. He was a nuisance. Someone to be looked after like an unruly teenager. Someone who kept them from the serious law enforcement work they had been trained for.

But their disdain was dwarfed by his massive craving for the wonderful crank that his wife, his powerful wife, had said he could never again consume. Ever. Not if he wished to avoid death at the hands of violent sociopaths in a prison or anywhere else they could rid themselves of the problem he had become.

Us jurors weren’t out more than 45 minutes. Most of that time was taken up with choosing a foreperson. As luck wouldn’t have it, that turned out to be me. So I got right to it.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen for investing me with this responsibility. Perhaps we should take a voice vote before we have any discussion.”

For a minute or two I wished I’d had a gavel to settle things down. In addition to all the shouts for “Not guilty,” there were other comments:

“This was bullshit.”

“She ought to be brought up on charges of prosecutorial misconduct.”

“Can we finally get the hell out of here? Damn!”

Once the verdict was “published,” the judge thanked us for our service; Ravon gave the old boy who saved his ass a hug; and the place emptied out in a hurry.

I was about to head north back to Billy’s. Off a ways, I heard a couple of popping sounds. Didn’t make much of it. Then I heard a bunch of voices screeching, “Oh my god!” and “Call 911!”

The city part of me said, “Just leave it be and keep walking.” But the country part won. I hauled ass towards the commotion. Might be I could help out.

I couldn’t. By the time I pulled up huffing and puffing, the place was infested with cop cars and two ambulances, all putting on a light show with their strobes. Just off to my left was a huge cop with his notebook out patting the shoulder of a woman who could have been my momma. She was trembling and trying to catch her breath and speak coherently all at the same time.

“Yes, ma’am, I know this has to be upsetting for you. I do. Maybe we could get you some water.”

“No, no. That won’t be necessary. I can pull myself together. I saw way worse when I was a nurse in Vietnam.”

Without taking his eyes off the woman, the cop reached into his pocket and pulled out a five and handed it to a young female cop standing to his right. Barely above a whisper he said, “Alice, be a dear, and go get us a bottle of water, would ya?”

“Sorry, ma’am, you just take your time and tell me what you saw as best you can.”

I eavesdropped on the interview and learned the basics of what had happened.

Soon as I walked in, Billy handed me a Corona. I told him about getting chosen as foreperson and the acquittal and all. That made him laugh. When he saw I wasn’t joining in, he said, “What you leaving out?”

“Ravon’s dead!”

“What!”

“Yep. Drive by right after he left the courthouse. Two right together in the chest. Had to be pros. Gangbangers can’t hit their ass with two hands.”

“Sunuvabich.”

“Yeah. Sunuvabich.” I blew out a long breath and stretched my arms as high as I could.

“So?”

“So, how about another beer? You have one, too. Then let’s see if we can’t make some sense of this mess.”

We hashed it out for well over an hour. At the end we had come to a few conclusions. One was, now that Ravon was gone, we probably weren’t in much danger of also getting shot at. Still, letting our guard down wouldn’t be prudent. Another was that we didn’t want to let this thing slide. Ravon, evil little shit that he was, didn’t deserve getting snuffed like that. Plus, we knew pros didn’t kill people like Ravon unless there was juice behind it. And the cops weren’t gonna pursue this the way it needed to be pursued. Too much other stuff on their plates. Lastly, we needed some assistance. We figured Big Time was our best means of getting it.

The smaller of the two handed chug the phone.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t think it could get worse, but it did.”

“What do you mean?”

“They shot him on the street.”

He dropped the phone. His knees buckled and he plopped into the puddle of vomit on the oak floor. Five seconds later he was unconscious. He didn’t hear the larger one say into the receiver, “I’m sorry, ma’am, we’ll have to call you back.”

About 4:30 the next morning Billy and I threw a couple of overnight bags into his Navigator and headed for 395 South. We hit a little backup around Richmond but made it to the North Carolina border before ten. Then we drove southwest for three hours and pulled into Warsaw before two o’clock.

Warsaw is one of hundreds of little towns in North Carolina that back onto the Appalachian chain that runs from Georgia/Alabama to Maine. I’m typical of the folks from that region. Scottish/English/Irish redneck. Descended from people who came over here centuries ago to do dirty work for British royalty. Like their ancestors had done centuries before them. Tough breed. Ill tempered and quick to fight even if our adversaries can crush us like a bug.

Not a lot of black people over here. Big Time is black. Billy and I have known him for as long as I can recall. He was always big; now he’s enormous. About six-four and 400 pounds if he’s an ounce. Big Time sort of straddles the world of legitimate commerce and criminal enterprise in the greater Warsaw metropolitan area. He steers clear of drugs and prostitution, which keeps the church going types off his back. The rest of the community mostly turns a blind eye to his trafficking in stolen auto parts, major appliances, and other goods his customers pay close out prices for.

Billy parked the Navigator in front of the hardware store that actually is a hardware store and also serves as Big Time’s corporate headquarters. When we walked in, I heard the same sound from the spring loaded door as I’d heard for the last 15 years.

“Junior, you know a little WD-40’d get rid of that squeak.” Junior is one of Big Time’s nephews. He’s about a two thirds size replica of his uncle.

“Nah, then we’d have to get one of them little bells the ladies in the dress shops use to announce customer arrivals. How the hell are you, Virgil? You too, Billy? Been a while.”

“It has, Junior. Too long. Wish we could chat some, but we really need to see Big Time if he’s around. Some shit going down we could use his counsel on.”

“Sorry about the shit, but he’s the man to see about such matters. He’s back in there somewhere. Holler at him.”

We did that and found him in a tiny little office that made him seem even larger than he was. He was perched on a little typist’s chair with his feet up on a desk that had to predate the Spanish American War. If either the desk or chair gave out, the resulting crash would wake up seismologists around the state.

Big Time didn’t get up to greet us. The energy for that might have precipitated the coronary event headed his way unless gastric bypasses go on deep discount.

“Well, I’ll be blessed, good lord has seen fit to visit upon me two of my favorite white folks.”

“Come on, Big Time,” said Billy, “You got a whole lot of caucasians on your list of special people.”

“Been meaning to scratch some of ’em off,” he said with a chuckle that sounded like a shove engine idling in a switching yard.

After we finished up with asking about each other’s loved ones, the smile on his big face slackened. “Caught a smidgeon of what you said to Junior when you come in. Sounds serious.”

“Yeah, it kinda is, Big Time,” I said. Then we backed the story up to the point where Billy got the notice for jury duty and brought it up to the present. While we talked, his eyes narrowed down like a lion focusing on a herd of water buffalo. And all the screeching sounds from his typist chair weren’t there anymore.

When we had wrapped it up, Big Time sucked in several gallons of air and said, “Yeah, that is some shit, isn’t it?”

We nodded.

“Tell you what. You boys come back here tomorrow morning. Around ten. Meantime, I’ll see what I can dig up. Then you can head back north with a better sense of what oughta get done. That work?”

We got up, and I said, “Most appreciative, Big Time.” He was already looking down at some piece of paper as he waved us out.

When we were back in the Navigator, Billy said, “What now?”

“Let’s drive about twenty miles or so and find a place to stay where nobody knows us. We hang around in Warsaw, anybody we see will tell people we didn’t see, and they’ll get all worked up that we didn’t pay ’em a call, too.”

“Know how that works.” Five minutes later we were out in snow covered country so pretty I almost forgot why we’d made the trip.

The next morning we were back in Big Time’s office. Looked like he hadn’t moved an inch since we’d last seen him.

“Made a few calls. Didn’t come up with any hard answers for y’all, but I got a better picture now of what mighta got this mess rolling.”

Ten minutes later we were headed back to DC. “Last time I get you to take my place for any goddam thing, Virgil.”

“Now that wounds me, Billy.”

“Redneck asshole.”

Hard to take exception to that characterization.

The next morning Billy asked, “So, who’s this brother we’re supposed to pay a call on?”

“Arthur Littlefield?”

“Right. Some second or third cousin of Big Time’s. He took over Hubcap Tom’s business?”

“That’d be him.” Hub Cap Tom was a retired DC cop who had had a junk yard over near where Florida Avenue meets up with New York Avenue. He had sold the business to Arthur. Arthur decided to keep the original name because Tom’s place was where everybody in auto repair sent customers who’d lost hubcaps by accident or thievery. Word was that a lot of Tom’s customers had paid for the same hubcaps two or three times.

The establishment is not a particularly attractive venue. It’s surrounded by a 12 foot high chain link fence topped off with concertina wire. Inside you will find a couple of huge Rottweilers or German Shepards straining at their thick leashes wanting to kill or maim you. As you try to find what serves as an office, you gotta wend your way down a narrow pathway with huge piles of hubcaps towering over you. If any of ’em toppled over, might be days before you got dug out.

Billy and I gave the Rottweilers a friendlier greeting than they gave us as we worked our way back to Arthur’s office.

“Big Time didn’t tell me you two boys was white,” said Arthur with a wide grin as we squeezed our way into his sanctum.

“Arthur, we’re just light skinned,” I said as I shook his hand and then Billy did the same.

“My bad. Sit yourselves down.”

He must have caught us staring at him because he said, “Wondering how I can be related to Big Time with him being as large as a house and me being as skinny as a broom handle?”

“Well, yeah, sort of,” said Billy with a grin that had some bashfulness in it.

“Beats the shit outa me.”

When we all three stopped chuckling, Arthur said, “Big Time filled me in on the basics and asked me to shed whatever light I could on your problem.”

“We’re obliged,Arthur,” I said.

“Do the best I can.”

Arthur talked for a good half hour with a question here and there from me and Billy. What spooled out is that there were two players behind all the mess. One was a congresswoman named Alison Carver Christie. The other was her husband David “Chug” Swift.

“Ms. Christie? She’s a classy lady. Falls on the right side of every issue I care about. Improving our shitty public schools. DC statehood. Helping our hard working Latino brothers and sisters find a way to keep from getting deported. Treats you the same whether you’re the Queen of England or the school custodian.”

“And Chug?” asked Billy.

“You remember some of the rich families back home in North Carolina?”

“Weren’t that many where we grew up, but, yeah, a few of ’em stick out.”

“Okay, well old Chug’s from one of them families. Money that goes way back. Now there’s so much of it that none of the younger ones need to work if they don’t feel like it.”

“And Chug don’t feel like it?”

“He don’t. Not worth a damn. But what he does feel like is stuffing his nose with cocaine and chasing after women half his age while Ms. Christie is up on the hill fixing what needs fixing in spite of the fools around her getting in the way.”

“That sucks,” I said.

“It does. Anyway, as the two of you are more than likely aware, cocaine is pretty much a drug for people that got money. Everything works smooth as long as the rich user is keeping up with payments to his supplier.”

“It’s when the user gets in arrears that problems start to crop up?” asked Billy.

“Well, what happens is the supplier just shuts off the spigot. If he’s

owed a bit of money, he don’t go and make a big fuss about it. He just says no more. You’re done. What’s Chug gonna do? He’s no street thug with a gun and a posse.”

Billy’s brow furrowed. “Thought there was a bottomless pit of money for Chug to keep scooping into.”

“Doesn’t work like that. Seems Chug reached too deep into some trust fund or such and a family lawyer shut the vault. Probably pissed Chug off, but he’s a limp dick and didn’t see any option other than to do what he was told.”

“But Chug’s still saddled with his craving for the white stuff,” I said.

“Yep. Tugging on him something fierce. So what’s the fool go and do?”

“Finds another, more reasonably priced substance to make all his cares and woes blow away,” said Billy.

“And what substance you think that might be?”

I said, “Crack’s a safe bet.”

“That’s right. And a god awful choice for Chug.”

“Because,” said Billy, “Now he’s gotta deal with criminals who’ll kill or put serious hurt on customers that are slow pay or no pay.”

“There you go,” said Arthur.

“Okay, Arthur,” I said, “But how does this all tie into Ravon?”

“Well, here it starts to get messy. Because Ms. Christie knows exactly what’s going on with her good for nothing husband. She’s tried everything imaginable to turn the man around. Including sending him off to fancy rehab places where they all sit around and talk about how they’re fucked up because their parents were assholes.”

“Didn’t work?” I asked.

“Nope. Even when them people want to get unhooked, most times it don’t work. With a shithead like chug? Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

“So what’s the congresswoman do?” Billy asked.

“Well, she knows she’s gotta do something drastic because Chug’s crazy out of control with the crack digging its hooks into him.”

“So … ?

“She pays a visit to some of her friends in the Justice Department to see if some deal can be struck to save Chug’s sorry ass?”

“Like, what kinda deal?”

“Okay, up to this point I’m pretty sure I know what I’m talking about. But now I’m working mostly on rumors and hunches and the like.”

“It’s okay, Arthur,” I said. “You’re clearing away some of the fog for us.”

“Way I understand it, U.S. Attorney tells Ms. Christie they can find a place way out in Montana or somewhere that no crack dealer’s ever heard of, much less could find. They can hide Chug out there.”

“So they put him in witness protection?”

“Not all official like that. Just got him stashed in a cabin in the mountains with some old boys with big guns babysitting him.”

“And Ravon?”

“Seems old Ravon was Chug’s delivery boy for the crack dealers. Things got worked out between Ms. Christie and a big shot DA so that Ravon would go through a mock trial where he’d be acquitted in return for giving the DA enough on the crack dealers to put away some big boys.”

“Ravon gave up the big guys before he went on trial?” I asked.

“No, that’s the thing. Way I understand it, Ravon told ’em he wasn’t giving up shit ’til he got acquitted.”

“Sweet Jesus!” Billy said.

“So this whole bullshit trial takes place and the judge and that tight ass prosecutor and the defense attorney, none of ’em, don’t know it’s bullshit. Then Ravon ends up getting executed before he can finger the true bad guys?”

“Yep.”

“Could it get any more fucked up than that?” Billy asked.

“Don’t see how,” Arthur said.

The two of them had been drinking, drinking a lot, as Chug had lain on the cot cocooned in an old sleeping bag. He was snoring, and they were glad to have a respite from his incessant whining. They assumed the final days of this wretched assignment had arrived. Soon would come the call that summoned them back to the world of long legged women, milder temperatures, and true crime fighting.

When they had tired of their booze and lie swapping, they found their own cots. They weren’t worried about Chug. Where was he going to go? The temperature outside was below zero and a blizzard was rattling the only door into the cabin.

The first one woke up in a hangover fog. He saw sunshine trying to burrow its way into Chug’s sleeping bag, but Chug was not in it. A bolt of fear stung his sour stomach.

“Chug, where the fuck are you?!”

His shout only awakened his partner.

“He’s not here?”

“Get your shit on. Now!”

Two minutes later they were pulling the door towards them when a wheelbarrow’s worth of powder snow drained into the cabin. But there was no wheelbarrow and no one to dump it. Just the wind.

“This is not good. This is not good.”

“Once again you’ve proved your powers of deduction to be vastly superior to my own.”

Billy and I told Arthur how much we appreciated what he’d told us. And then we asked him: “Where can we find the high level thugs who unleashed all this shit?”

“You boys don’t wanta get anywhere near those fools. They’re stone killers surrounded by evil motherfuckers who guard their asses day and night. Big Time is a bad dude, and even he’d think twice about messing with them. Don’t do it.”

“Duly noted, Arthur,” I said. But he still told us where we could find them.

It had taken almost a week for me and Billy to get the stuff we needed to pull off our caper. Now it was time to shit or get off the pot. I said, “Are we crazy enough to do what we’re about to do”

“Hoss, I got no doubts about the craziness. That’s just us. We’ve known that for a good little while.”

“Yup.”

“I think the bigger question is whether or not we’re doing the right thing. ‘Cause I’ll tell you right now, the powerful people in this town aren’t stepping up. Ravon’s a good example. Yeah, he was a stinky little thug, but he did not deserve to get mowed down in broad daylight. No goddam way.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s do this thing.”

It was just about 4:00 am when the patrol car crawled by the front of the crumbling brownstone. The cops knew exactly what the place was and the miscreants who oversaw it. But the Constitution had always stopped them from eradicating the scourge.

Then it happened. Two blinding bursts in front of the car. “Are those fucking flash bangs?” asked the one in the passenger seat.

“I don’t give a shit if they’re firecrackers! Crawl out your side. I’m right behind you. Call it in.”

Two more explosions. Then the cops started firing into the building. The return fire from the house was ferocious. Within five minutes there were more police vehicles than anyone had ever seen on that street. An army reservist who had twice been deployed to the Gulf mumbled, “Might as well be back in Baghdad.” His partner mumbled back, “Think I felt safer there.”

The two dark figures on the roof, the ones who had started the bedlam, had slipped away.

A couple of weeks later Billy and I were back in Warsaw. We’d just sat down with Big Time and finished up with the pleasantries when he asked, “So, what’s the wrap up on all that nastiness you apprised me of a while back?”

Billy and I grinned and shook our heads. I blew out some air and said, “Well, Big Time, it’s not a happy ending, but it’s a better finish than it woulda been if you hadn’t helped out.”

“For damn sure,” said Billy.

He nodded and waited us out.

“You likely heard some of this from Arthur,” I said.

“I did.”

“All right,” I said. “For starters, Chug, the congresswoman’s husband? He’s no longer with us. Word is he froze to death in a snow storm out west. The media is going crazy with that one. They’ll probably get more details on what went down, but my guess is they’ll pretty soon leave it go. If only because some other sordid shit’ll pull ‘em off in a different direction.”

“Some coon dogs can’t be trained to stay after one scent.”

“’But you can talk sense to even the worst coon dog,” said Billy.

Big time cracked a smile, but just barely.

“That crack house headquarters over in Northeast? You know the one I mean?”

“Arthur told me the place’s no longer open for business.”

“Actually, it burned down in the fire fight with the cops.”

“And the former residents?”

“Some dead, some under indictment, and some … we just don’t know. But it’s unlikely they’ll be coming back to DC in the immediate future, if ever.”

“Cops aren’t partial to getting shot at.”

“Not generally.”

Then I turned to Billy and said, “I just heard spring knocking out front. How ’bout we go say hello?”

Same squeak in the door as we ambled outside.