“Listen you little shit. You need to get off your ass and do something.”

Sergei Petrokof was not a man known for his patience, and once again, Robert Loftis, Jr. (little Bob) was the object of his ire. Sergei’s anger wasn’t due to Little Bob’s actions. Little Bob was just a surrogate for Jason Bishop, Bob’s brother-in-law; which really wasn’t fair. Since little Bob hated Bishop too.

Bishop had jumped the almost two year surveillance leash that the Russians had on him, and Sergei rightly thought that was a problem. “Look, Sergei, we’re locked down in a Paris hotel by this virus thing. What can Elizabeth do? You got people in New York. Use them.”

“This is your fault. You promised me two years ago that she would get me my share of the company.”

“And you will. It just depends on my getting control.”

“You said that two years ago.”

“Yes, but NOW my sister is prepared to file for divorce. The minute she does, the Judge will award her the majority of Bishop’s shares.”

When Big Bob Loftis and his son-in-law, Jason Bishop, bought Five Borough Partners out from under the control of Sergei and his Russian mobsters, they’d walked off with assets that were initially purchased with the Russian’s laundered money.

Now those assets were worth many times what Loftis and Bishop had paid for them. On paper, it was thirty billion, but there was probably much more. The Russians wanted their share back with interest, and Little Bob wanted to be free of his brother-in-law.

The problem was caused by the recent death of Robert Loftis Senior. Knowing his liver cancer was going to kill him, Big Bob left his assets equally to his two children. He had sold his company, Precision Aeronautics, to the Boeing Corporation for two billion dollars. Boeing paid half in their own stock and the balance in a long-term note.

It had been a considerable fortune at the time. Boeing was doing well, and the agreement seemed a win for all sides, but things had changed for Boeing, and the Loftis children’s inheritance had all but disappeared.

The elder Loftis also held forty-five percent of Loftis & Bishop realty. The balance was held by Bishop until his father-in-law died. Big Bob left fourteen percent of Loftis & Bishop to each of his two children and the balance of sixteen percent to his son-in-law in trust for his grandchildren.

This last bequest put Bishop in control of his company and all its assets. With only twenty-eight percent of the shares between them, the brother and sister had no say in the control or operation of the company and could not, under New York Law, seek a dissolution of it. So, they were powerless, and even worse, Little Bob could not get into the money laundering business with Sergei.

Sergei tried to intimidate Bishop. But the Brooklyn raised Bishop was not susceptible to threats. So, Sergei backed his threats with action. Bishop’s secretary was accosted in the street on her way home from work. A lock of her hair was cut, and the next day it arrived in a Fed-ex box marked personal.

A week later, Sergei received a Fed-ex box. When the box was opened, they found the right hand of the man who had cut the secretary’s hair.

Sergei got the message. Bishop had friends whose predilections for violence were more extreme than the Russian mob was accustomed to, or able to tolerate.

So, Sergei tried to bribe Bishop, but this too failed for Bishop was only allegedly dishonest. He was admittedly in bed with the bad guys. But he wasn’t one of them. It was why so many disreputable parties trusted Bishop.

Sergei found a more receptive person in Little Bob. The latter was smarting from being passed over for control of a company that was founded with his father’s money.

Little Bob’s incentive to do business with Sergei only increased as the fortunes of Boeing faltered, and the value of his inheritance dropped. He wanted and needed to do business with the Russian. But both men were stymied until the Bishops’ marriage blew up.

“I’ll speak to my sister,” Little Bob told Sergei, “Maybe she knows where Bishop is or how to find him.”

The noise of the El rattling by woke her up. She was lying in a rumpled bed, and there was just a hint of dawn peeping through the windows. A male body was snoring next to her, and she was covered in an assortment of substances. Alas, she’d fallen again.

She recalled that she’d been at the Randolph Tavern the night before. The place was overpriced. But the atmosphere was upscale, and they poured a pretty heavy-handed shot. A bunch of them were sitting together, watching the Cubbies on the TVs behind the bar.

The Cubs were playing Pittsburgh, which should have been a walkover. But Bryant booted a hot grounder into left field and the Buccos on first and second romped all the way home. She’d played third base for four years at Northwestern, and it made her nuts. So, she was perhaps a bit colorful in describing the man’s sexual predilections and questionable ancestry.

That little meltdown attracted the attention of a hot looking corporate player who sidled over and asked her why she was so critical of the poor man. “Poor??!! Do you have any idea how much money he’s getting paid to fuck up a simple ground ball?”

He’d spotted her the minute he walked in the door. She was sitting with a bunch of Gen Y hipsters who had “internet dweeb” written all over them. They were around a couple of pulled-together tables that were littered with glasses and bar snacks. At six-one and a hundred and ninety well-proportioned pounds, he normally had his pick of the litter, and he chose this one for tonight.

She was hot, in a tomboy-turned-curvy-woman kind of way, a little shorter than medium height, perhaps five-five, and he couldn’t exactly evaluate her body since she was sitting down. But he really liked what he saw up top.

She had all the earmarks of an Irish Colleen, amazingly thick copper hair cascaded in ringlets past her shoulders, a classic heart-shaped face pointed chin and gorgeous high cheekbones with a dusting of freckles.

But her eyes were her real gift. They were huge, emerald green, and dancing with merriment, intelligence, and something else. She had a long Irish nose and the widest, most expressive mouth, her lips were pure sex.

Those lips were currently yelling, “Come on, you pussy!!! You gotta pick those up!!!” Then, she launched into a profanity riddled tirade that questioned everything from the player’s sexual orientation to his mother’s many anonymous lovers.

He slid into the chair next to her and said, “Why are you being so hard on the guy? That was a really hot shot.” She turned to look at him appraisingly and said, “He shoulda been crouched on the pitch, not standing up with his arms hanging down like an orangutan.” Then she stopped and added speculatively, “And what brings you to this place, mr. hotshot MBA?” That was intimidating. He was supposed to be the one with the hook-up line, not her.

He looked bewildered. So, she slid her chair back, stood up, and said casually, “Do you happen to have a place nearby?” This wasn’t any frail little thing. She was busty and long waisted, with a no-nonsense body that screamed carnal delight. She was wearing tight jeans that showed off long legs and a beautiful round ass, and her throwback Ron Santo jersey was stuffed full of boobs.

He kind of stuttered, “I’m in the Randolph Tower.” He could see that the location impressed her. She said, “That’s convenient. It’s right upstairs.” Then she turned and walked out the door. She knew he’d follow. It was a bit intimidating. He wasn’t used to being dragged back to his own place for sex.

He had a one-bedroom apartment facing the elevated tracks on Wells. She ripped his shirt open and began kissing his chest before he had even gotten the door closed. They didn’t bother to turn on the lights, as they wrestled their way into the bedroom.

Naked, she had a beautiful body, narrow in all the right places and full where it counted. Before he had slipped off his shoes, she had unzipped him, fished it out and gobbled it. The moment she had him ready, she lay back invitingly. Her loud gasp preceded a lingering cry of satisfaction as he slipped into her snug furnace.

What followed was a moaning, groaning, back-scratching one-night-stand for the ages. She was uncommonly strong for a partner. So, he held nothing back. She came loudly two or three times before he yelled, “Unnnnhhhh, Ahhh!!” and filled her up.

They lay silent for a few minutes, just catching their breath. Then he felt a mouth bringing him back to full mast, and they did it again, doggy-style this time. She had a beautiful hard, bubble butt. There were two more times during the night. Each equally draining.

He awoke in a contented haze. The early morning sun was streaming through the big windows, and the woman had completely vanished. He didn’t even know her name.

Ellie slipped out of bed as quietly as she could and retrieved her panties. He had a dresser in the large well-appointed bedroom. She silently pulled it open, looking for one of his t-shirts.

She needed to get out of there, and she wasn’t about to ruin her Ron Santo jersey with all of the gunk. It’s one of the problems of being the woman in these little tete-a-tetes. You accumulate a lot of nasty stuff.

She didn’t bother to put on her bra, just stuffed it in her purse, struggled into her jeans, grabbed her shoes, and headed for the hallway. She didn’t want to talk to the dude. He’d served his purpose.

Seriously ... of course she’d enjoyed every second of it. But she wasn’t as slutty as last night made her seem. It was just that in a single week, she’d lost her job, her home, and her boyfriend, and she was feeling the need for a little reaffirmation.

It wasn’t like she’d gone to Northwestern to be a weather girl. She wanted to do sports journalism like Erin Andrews, or Kristin Cavallari. She had the background for it. She’d played NCAA Power-Five softball all four years at Northwestern.

But the powers-that-be at the local Fox station took one look at her, and the next thing she knew, she was standing up in the morning slot talking about Chicago’s shitty weather. The job basically sucked. She was getting paid the minimum for an on-air personality, and she had to get up at four in the morning, to make it down to the station for makeup. They even made her supply her own outfits; while subtly reminding her that she should buy stuff that showed off her great tits.

She had been doing weather for eight months when the station manager called her into his office and laid it on the line. Either she put out, or he had a hot young thing who would. She took her grievance to the folks in H.R., and shortly thereafter, she was handed a pink slip for “spreading malicious and slanderous gossip.”

She took her troubles to Joe Gordon. He had been one of her journalism professors and always a bit of a mentor. He was an older guy. But he’d been smart enough to branch out into online media. His site was built around superior production values and writing. Now it had become one of the real hip-happening stars of the Windy City market.

Joe said, “I’d love to put you on staff Ellie, but you have no experience. My investors aren’t going to let me hire you without some proof that you can dig up a good story,” He added kindly, “If you have any ideas, I’d love to back you. But it had better be decent stuff.”

So, she dragged her useless ass back to her Chicago double-decker in Printer’s Row. King and she were renovating it. They had gotten together just before they graduated. He’d played linebacker for the Wildcats, and he was a bit of an alpha male. She was willing to overlook that little personality flaw since he was ALSO a hunka-hunka burnin’ love, and he rocked her world. Problem was that he was also stupid,

How stupid? Well, he should have been watching TV. If he had, he would have known that she was replaced in her normal morning slot. Instead, she walked in to the sound of some slut being noisily railed in their bedroom. She’d fucked King enough times that she could tell that both of them were coming to a thrilling climax.

It wasn’t like she didn’t know what kind of guy her boyfriend was. Everybody knew he was a ladies man. It was just that she thought she could change him. Women are kinda dumb that way; sigh!! Thus, as she was passing through the kitchen on her way to the bedroom, she filled a big galvanized pail...

She could’ve been one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse for all they’d know that she’d just arrived in the doorway. He had her legs gathered up past his shoulder, and was pounding her so hard that the knobs on the brass headboard were denting the drywall, meanwhile the slut was yelling, “YESSS BABY- GIVE IT ALL TO ME!!”

So, she did.

She tossed the full bucket of cold water on them. That’s how you break up fucking dogs, right? There was a frantic couple of seconds while the two of them gathered their wits. King jumped to his feet, still befuddled. The bitch was lying there, shocked. She should be. Ellie hadn’t seen her little sister Marnie in a couple of weeks. She must have come by to visit.

Ellie was furious. She’d save the heartbreak for later. She looked at the mother-fucker and said, “The place is in your name. I’m outta here!! I’ll get my things when you aren’t around.” Then she looked at Marnie, who was scrambling to cover her nakedness with a wet sheet and said, “I don’t care what your explanation is. You’re outta my life!!” Then she turned and marched out the door as both of them yelled, “Ellie!!”

It was one of those cold misty October mornings. She walked down to Navy Pier, sat on a bench, and cried. What had she done to piss-off God so much!!? In a matter of two short days, she’d gone from being a successful TV personality with a good-looking live-in boyfriend to being an out of work homeless lady with NO family.

She was sniffling when a genuine bag-lady sat down next to her. The bag-lady had been pushing her grocery cart past looking for bottles. She said in a gravelly voice, “Men?” Ellie nodded miserably. The bag-lady said, “That’s the way things go: you think you got a great yarn, and something comes along and messes up the finish - and there you are.”

Ellie said sadly, “There you are.”

The bag-lady said curiously, “Are you gonna do something about it? Or travel around picking up bottles like me?” Okay, that was an object lesson.

Then it hit Ellie, and she thought, “Maybe I’ll travel around and write about it. What’s your story?” It took her half-hour to get Trixie, the bag-lady’s story. Yes, she was a girl like Ellie once.

Ellie wrote it up in the Public Library over on Division and was sitting in front of Joe Gordon by lunchtime. That was the beginning of her career as a lifestyle reporter for Chicago’s number one online magazine. Joe said, “I’d love to put you on staff Ellie, but you have no experience. He added kindly, “I can pay you for this piece, but you will need to come up with an angle for a salary job.”

Madison Square Garden sits atop Penn Station like an elephant on an anthill. The sporting area is famous for its basketball, hockey, and boxing (not to mention the live and extravagant concerts), but the train station is more famous for its dirt, grime, and delays.

Jason Bishop entered the maze of below-ground corridors, threading his way past the overpriced little shops and food vendors. Trying his best to avoid the pickpockets and con artists while making his way to the large Amtrak timetable announcing arrivals, departures, and, of course, the endless delays.

Bishop would buy one ticket here and another in Chicago. He had cash in his pocket for the tickets with his hand firmly on his wallet against the threat of the pickpockets. But he needn’t have bothered the station was near empty thanks to the coronavirus (COVID 19).

The place had an almost post-apocalyptic feel about it. Gone were the queues for the trains, and empty was the passenger waiting area (a little cattle pen space in the middle of the station.)

The virus was a pandemic to most, but a once in a lifetime opportunity for Bishop. It had trapped his wife and her brother, Robert Loftis (aka little Bob), in France. Unable to fly home, Mrs. Elizabeth Bishop, her brother, and her three children were holed up in a plush hotel suite waiting out the pandemic. And so, for the first time in nearly two years Bishop was free to execute the plan he had been putting in place since the untimely death of Big Bob Loftis from liver cancer.

Jason first met Big Bob fifteen years ago shortly after first making love to his daughter Elizabeth Loftis, known to friends and family as Liz. She was a pretty girl in those days young and sensual. If she was not entirely virginal, she had an innocent manner and appearance. That style was at once disconcerting and appealing in a Wall Street attorney.

In the days after 9/11 and before the great recession of 2008, New York was on a buyer’s binge. Real estate was hot, and fools were overpaying left and right for property. It was only natural that some would get in trouble and end in bankruptcy court. It was, in fact, a strategy for the unscrupulous. Borrow more than you can pay back, then file bankruptcy and give the lender a haircut. In a year or two, resell the property in a hot market.

As a young, very green attorney, Ms. Loftis found herself in bankruptcy court, attempting to argue that her client should be paid on its mortgage. They never taught her about bankruptcy at Harvard. (Elizabeth Warren notwithstanding.) Only a few studied business failure, Harvard educated SUCCESSFUL corporate lawyers.

Therefore, it was quite a surprise when Liz found herself feeling like Alice in Wonderland or more accurately, Alice Through the Looking Glass, in a court of law where left is right, and right is always wrong. A place where there’s the verdict, and then there’s the trial.

Liz entered the small courtroom on that cool spring day in 2005. She was a recently admitted attorney and a very junior associate sent to cover what was believed to be a routine appearance for an adjournment. She was sure that it was one of her superiors who had made the mistake, because the bankruptcy partner was on vacation, and his assistant was sick.

Liz had come for an adjournment, what she was confronted with was known as “a cramdown,” a crude description for what constitutes the rape of a security agreement. The second mortgage that Liz’s client held was about to disappear, and there was nothing the novice attorney could do about it.

She looked to the jury box on the left side of the courtroom. The place for a jury was required by an obscure and arcane (read asinine) US Supreme Court case, but no jury ever sat in it, because the Judge rendered all of the verdicts. Instead, the jury box was filled with the bankruptcy insiders, the small group that made up what some people refer to as the bankruptcy bar, and others the bankruptcy ring.

Liz was confronted by a Judge who was preparing to vacate the mortgage and then set a date to determine what an unsecured mortgage was worth. In other words, it was a case of first the verdict and then the trial. Your mortgage is worthless, so come back in three months, so we can prove it.

It was at that moment, Jason Bishop leaned over the court rail from the first row of spectator seats and whispered in Liz’s ear. He was by then known as a first-class bankruptcy hack after only five years in practice,

“I elect under 1111B for my client.”

She heard the words but had no idea of their meaning and hesitated. The voice behind her spoke again, and it was firm, “I elect under 1111B for my client.”

“Your honor,” Liz began, “I elect under 1111B for my client.”

The Judge jerked straight up in his chair, and the bankrupt’s attorney was on his feet objecting. However, the Judge could only grumble and allow the election. Liz knew something had happened that greatly displeased her opponent, but she couldn’t understand what it was.

Outside in the courthouse hall, she gazed up, despite her heels, into the deep-blue eyes of her benefactor and asked, “What did I just do?”

“Saved your client’s lien.”

It was all he said as he walked away. He was a big ox of a man. He was neither handsome nor well-dressed and, yet he had about him a certain alpha-male animal magnetism. He would prove to be a man of few words who everyone listened to. Jason Bishop, aka Bishop or simply JB, was a night school graduate. He founded his practice from his car and was working his way up the bankruptcy court ladder with frequent stopovers in the criminal court.

On the return of the bankruptcy partner from vacation, the young Ms. Loftis was given accolades for her quick thinking and discovered that, in fact, she had saved the day. She didn’t mention the help she had received through the intervention of a stranger.

She went looking for that stranger when she found herself going back to bankruptcy court again. However, she first purchased a copy of “Bankruptcy Law in a Nutshell.” When she saw her man, she went right for him. Liz usually got what she wanted. It had been that way all her life, and so Jason Bishop was just a big man who represented a small challenge.

On his side, JB knew the bankruptcy code by heart, but very little about women. Unlike the privileged Elizabeth Loftis, he was born into a lower-middle-class family in Canarsie. His family was an old one, but several hundred years of poverty is still poverty.

Jason Bishop had ambition and a taste for the expensive things in life. It was a weakness that Liz, one day, would exploit. However, back then, all she needed was the fatal ability she had been developing since before mother nature converted the little-girl into the young woman. Where men were concerned, Liz had an appetite that knew no restraint and an ability to attract the male gender that was the envy of her feminine peers.

Jason’s capture took Liz all of a month. It was the fact that it took that long to bring down her quarry that astonished her. The problem was that JB didn’t like her or, more accurately, he didn’t like what she stood for, the privilege of wealth.

For her social class, Liz was not notably priggish or insensitive to others. However, it is impossible to be completely free of one’s upbringing. She was a person brought up in wealth, which meant elite private schools, Harvard instead of the University of Washington, and Vacations in Europe and the Far East. She was rich and entitled, and she knew it and thought nothing of money. Wealth was a fact, and one she didn’t have to think about.

Jason was the opposite. He had no money, and his world was delimited by that fact. He had no true place in the legal profession. That’s why he had been relegated to the bankruptcy and criminal arenas. Where he excelled but was widely disliked or more precisely feared. In a game with twisted rules, where the apparently losing hand was the normal winner, Bishop was a superstar.

It wasn’t love at first sight, but neither could deny the attraction that existed on multiple levels. Liz enticed him, and despite an inner voice that whispered caution, JB let himself be drawn into a relationship with a woman who was his exact opposite.

It might not have gone anywhere had cupid or whatever fickle god of love out there had not taken a hand. Liz found herself in love with a big ox of a poor boy, and he was cupid’s reluctant victim. One more male who had let his heart rule his head and would live to regret it.

Big Bob Loftis lived in a mini-mansion overlooking Lake Washington, in Seattle. He technically lived alone since his wife, Karen, died giving birth to Elizabeth’s brother Robert Junior. Little Bob was a man who was nothing like his father. Fate, or a quirk of genetics, had determined that he couldn’t be.

Where Big Bob was a short, stout man, who other men claimed had a constitution of iron and nerves of steel, his son was tall but reed-thin and weak. Moreover, little Bob had been a sickly child and deprived of a mother; he grew up a bit starved for affection and was selfish for it. Little Bob was doted on by his big sister. She seemed to have inherited all the looks and brains, before her brother could get a share of any of it. His father overcompensated and spoiled him shamelessly. Consequently, Little Bob the man was still a selfish boy and well-deserving of his diminutive nickname.

Big Bob had been a Boeing Engineer when opportunity came knocking. A graduate of North Seattle College, the middle-class Robert Loftis, knew a good opening when he saw it. He had risen to the manager level at Boeing when the opportunity arose to take the CEO position with a struggling aeronautics parts supplier. Two years later, the company he ran, Precision Aeronautics, was the leader in its field, and Bob Loftis would come to be its majority owner.

It was with trepidation that a wealthy but lonely man met his only daughter’s proposed husband. The trepidation was short-lived. It took only five minutes for the small but dynamic man to size up the much larger man as a good-natured and dependable giant. Within the hour, Bob was calling his future son-in-law JB and by the time of the wedding ceremony in St. James Cathedral, the father of the bride and the husband were thick as thieves, in the literal sense.

The wedding was in Seattle, and that was why fourteen years later Jason Bishop was in Penn Station waiting for the Lake Shore Limited to take him to Chicago. Leaving in the late afternoon, the train would arrive in Chicago in the morning some nineteen hours later.

There were only two places you could file for divorce. That was in the state in which the parties were domiciled or the state in which they were wed. The Bishops lived in New York, an equitable distribution state, and they were married in the State of Washington, a community property state. On that little variation in the law, there hung a hundred billion-dollar prize.

Jason Bishop had been waiting two years for the opportunity he now had. He was slipping out of New York without notice and headed for Seattle, Washington. There a set of divorce papers were ready for the filing, and all they needed was his signature. The why of the divorce had several levels, and none of them pleasant. There was infidelity, corporate malfeasance, an arrogant wife, and an unscrupulous and ne’er do well brother-in-law.

After buying his, ticket Bishop took a seat in the cattle pen of a waiting area. He looked oddly out of place in his wingtip shoes, Brooks Brothers pinstriped suit, and button-down oxford shirt. His clothing shouted Wall Street lawyer.

Two men approached. They were a Mutt and Jeff pair. A tall Mediterranean looking man and a much-shorter lighter complexioned fellow. As they approached, Bishop stood and then hugged each man in turn, first the shorter man, Anthony the Tiger Mancuso and then the Taller, Big Nicky, who was Tony’s enforcer.

“I still think this trip is a mistake,” Tony said again.

The three men had been friends since they grew up together on the street of Canarsie. Tony was now a Capo of the Cabrasie crime family.

Bishop said earnestly, “Like I’ve been saying. I need to get to Seattle to file for divorce and keep control of my company.”

“Yea, but an accident would be safer and more efficient,” Nicky chimed in.

“She’s still my wife. Whatever she may have done, I’m not going to see her killed. What would I say to my kids.”

Tony nodded his head in understanding, but he gripped the arm of his friend and said, “Look, you be careful, once you cross the state line at Erie, you are out of our jurisdiction and fair game. The Russians want you dead.”

“Hey, relax. They won’t expect me to be on a train. They’ll be looking at the airports, and besides, you know me, I always hit first.”

Both Tony and Nicky laughed at the last comment. When they were kids Bishop had always been the one to start the fight. It was how they met in a school yard brawl. They had started out as opponents and ended up as friends. The three Musketeers one for all and all for one, but what Bishop did now he did alone.

Tony took his friend’s right hand and gave it a good squeeze despite the CDC’s warnings to the contrary. And then he said, “You be careful, and I promise if you don’t make it, those fucking Russians won’t live to enjoy their spoils.”

Just then, the Departure board lit up, and the announcer called the boarding for the Lake Shore Limited. Tony gave his friend a last hug and slipped an envelope into his pocket.

“What this?” Bishop asked, fingering the edge of the envelope and realizing it was crammed full of something.

“Your share of the Thompson bust out counselor,” Tony informed Bishop. “I’ve washed it all nice and clean for us.

Jason frowned, “you told me that case was on the up and up. That Tommy Thomson was just a businessman who had an unfortunate run of luck.”

“He did,” Nicky quipped, “But it was at our sport’s book.”

“And his property in Brooklyn?” Jason asked.

“I’m going to build a nice social club in Canarsie. Improve the neighborhood,” Tony said with a laugh. Then he smiled and patted his friend’s pocket that held the envelope. “it’s fortunate,” he said, “ that I never tell my attorney things he doesn’t want to know and can’t divulge.”