Chapter 13

Ruben looked stunned. I waited until he composed himself before I spoke. "Taking turns isn't precisely accurate. There will be times when we'll both be managers, but neither of us will take assignments at the same time, and I don't know about you, but I sure don't want to give up my downtimes. Here's how I see the arrangement right now. You'll work assignments approximately six months each year. You'll take two months downtime, and you'll manage my business in my stead for four months. I'll take assignments for approximately two months each year, take two months of downtime, and manage the business for eight months.

"This will put you in Phoenix with Robyn four months each year plus two more months with her for your downtime. We'll need to work with Robyn to figure out who should handle her duties for Protect & Serve for those two months, but I don't see that as an unsolvable problem. Ruben, that's six months each and every year with Robyn. Would this work for you?"

His eyes shined. "Perfect."

"Good. Let's talk money now. No pay for downtime. I won't open that can of worms. You'll earn what you earn on assignments, and, Ruben, I'll expect you to take some protection gigs. They pay less, but they're the backbone of the business. To keep the math simple, let's use 30-day months. Six months of assignments total 180 days. Say 135 days for recovery assignments and 45 days for protection jobs. That equates to $337,500 for recovery work and $45,000 for protection assignments. Add the two and you get $382,500. You'll be managing the business for four months each year. That's 120 days. I'll pay you $3,500 per day for this work, or $420,000. Adding your assignment pay to this number gives you an annual income of approximately $802,500 before bonuses. Waddaya say?"

"I say yes, Morgan. Hell yes!"

I stuck out my hand. He took it, and then pulled me into a manly hug.

I was on the phone with Gordy when Colleen walked into our suite, took the phone from my hand and said to Gordy, "Hold for a moment, please."

She set the phone on the coffee table, pulled me to my feet and kissed me silly. "That's for what you did for Ruben and Robyn, cowboy. They're overjoyed. They think you're the greatest thing since sliced bread, and I agree with them. I also love you to pieces." She kissed me again, putting more into the second kiss than the first, stepped back, glanced down, noticed the bulge in my pants, grinned, picked up the phone and said, "Sorry about that. Here's Morgan."

She handed me the phone, turned and left the room.

"What was that all about?" Gordy said.

"Colleen just expressed her appreciation for what I did for Ruben and Robyn."

Gordy laughed. "Little does she know."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"You can't kid and old kidder. Self motives glare at every turn on that deal."

He was right, of course.

"You just bought a manager for $120,000 a year so you can go play for two months and feed your adrenalin addiction for two other months every year."

He was accurate. I'd pay Ruben $420,000 for the four months he'd manage the business, but the $5,000 per day I'd earn feeding my adrenalin addiction for 60 days came to $300,000. The difference was $120,000. Gordy failed to consider one other expense, though.

"That's $120,000 plus bonuses, Gordy, and as far as Ruben is concerned, I won't be stingy with bonuses."

"As far as anyone is concerned is more accurate as attested by the bonuses you just told me to pay."

"Question, Gordy. I'm looking for an honest cop at the federal level, and I need some help countering the negative press I've been receiving. Can you give me any names?"

"Can't help you with a name of an honest cop. That's almost an oxymoron, but you've used a gal named Michelle Hendrix for public relations in the past."

"Is she Phoenix based?" The name struck a chord but didn't offer any memories.

"Yeah, but she's plugged into the media on a national level - I think. My knowledge of her is sketchy, Morgan. You dealt with her, not me."

"Does she know me as Morgan or Luke?
"Morgan." He gave me her phone number.

"Thanks, Gordy. I'll call her. How's Maggie doing?"

"Busier than a one-armed paper hanger and happier than a hog in mud." He lowered his voice. "She appreciates how much you trust her more than anything."

"I trust her, Gordy, because she's trustworthy." Besides, I knew if I gave her a task she couldn't handle that she'd go to Gordy for help.

I ended the call with Gordy and made another call. When a woman answered, I said, "Ms. Hendrix, please."

"This is Ms. Hendrix."

I recognized her voice. Memories! Ya gotta love 'em.

"Michelle, it's Morgan."

"It's about damn time you called me. You're in a world of hurt, buddy boy. You needed me yesterday, not tomorrow. Yesterday, hell! Make that last week."

"I can't come to you. Will you come to me?"

"Of course."

We talked for a half-hour. I told her about my amnesia and touched on the highlights of the major events from my time in the hospital to the present. While I talked, she booked a flight to Vegas online.

"I'll have Jasper meet you at the airport," I said.

"I know Jasper. Tell him to meet me in baggage claim."

I'd used Michelle in two previous situations similar to the one I now faced. The first occurred early in my career over four years ago in Miami, Florida, when the media labeled me a vigilante because I went into a stronghold and released three captives in a hostage situation.

The second time I used her services wasn't as cut and dried. The local cops wanted my hide, not some bleeding-heart media talking heads. That event took place two years ago in New Orleans. I was protecting a local businessman who was testifying against the mob. The businessman owned a strip club on Bourbon Street, and that's where the imported shooters hit us using machine pistols. I killed the shooters but took a bullet in the shoulder. Bullets from the machine pistols killed two innocent bystanders, tourists visiting the Big Easy, and worse, a French Quarter beat cop. Because a cop got killed, the local police wanted blood, and I was the only blood donor left standing... well, not standing precisely. I killed the last shooter from the prone position after being knocked down by the slug that hit my shoulder.

On that case, Michelle worked with my attorney to turn the negative media reports away from me toward the crime boss who sicced the shooters on my client and me, and then toward corrupt police officials determined to make me a blood donor.

After I ended my call with Michelle, I called my Phoenix attorney.

"Morgan," Tim Blount said, "has there ever been a time when you haven't been in trouble with the police?"

"Don't know, Tim. I still have some lost memories I can't wrap my mind around. I called because I need the ear of an honest federal cop."

"Humph. Good luck."

"Argh. I'm holding four of Karsh's bodyguards. They're wanted men, ex-cons who have broken parole. Also..."

"Whoa! What do you mean by holding them?"

I told him about P&S's Gitmo.

"You're kidding."

"Nope. It's a good facility, a little larger than we needed. It's capacity is sixteen, so with only thirteen prisoners..."

"Thirteen! You said four."

"Four bodyguards, yes. But we also took two of Karsh's assassins, his driver and his six gate guards."

"Took them? Did you abduct these men?"

"Shame on you, Tim. We made citizen arrests."

He laughed. "You should have been a defense lawyer, Morgan."

"Anyway, that's why I need an honest cop. We interrogated these men and uncovered enough evidence against the assassins and the driver to cause their arrests. The gate guards are just guards. We'll release them before we turn the bad guys over to the honest cop I'm looking for. What amazes me is the fact that the LVPD is protecting Karsh. He's a master assassin, Tim, the agent for a group of international assassins, and he employs men and women wanted by the law. Still, somehow he made me the bad guy. There's something wrong with this picture."

"Have you called Jerry Moody?"

"No. We haven't needed him." Gerald Moody was the defense attorney Tim lined up for me in Vegas.

"Call him, dammit, and I'm taking the next flight Vegas."

"Do you know Michelle Hendrix?"

"Yeah."

"She's flying in this evening to help with this problem. Call her. If you can take the same flight, Jasper will pick you up at the airport when he picks up Michelle."

"All right. Besides shooting up Karsh's compound, wounding him, his daughter and some other men and abducting thirteen of his employees, what other mayhem have you perpetrated?"

"Jeez, Tim, whose side are you on?" I asked the question with a smile.

"Yours. What else, dammit?"

Using the theory that a defense attorney shouldn't be handed any surprises if a subsequent court trial ensued, I told him everything.

The meal wasn't fancy, but it was mighty tasty: pot roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn from a can, and a tossed salad with store-bought dressings. I contributed a bottle of red wine for the meal, as well as a bouquet of flowers that April used for the centerpiece on the kitchen table.

The house where Charlotte once lived with her mother was like the meal, plain and simple but neat and clean. As a role model and mother, April sucked - no pun intended, Corny - but she wasn't slovenly, and it was obvious that she'd made an effort to impress me.

Of course, she had an ulterior motive, and depending on how she presented what she wanted, I was inclined to bend to her request. If she threatened or tried to manipulate me to get what she wanted, I'd become as stubborn as a Missouri mule. Knowing this, I decided to guide her presentation along a line I could accept.

I took a sip of wine and said, "April, I'm going to ask you the classic john question, and I'd appreciate an honest answer. How did a nice lady like you, a lady who keeps a clean house, a lady who is a mighty fine cook, become a prostitute?"

Her eyes turned to smoke, and she gave me a disgusted look as she considered various lies that she'd used when asked the question in the past, selected one, discarded it, and decided to be honest.

"Love and money," she said. "When I was sweet sixteen, I fell in love with a handsome, clever man, not unlike you, Ken. I ran away from home to be with him." Her eyes shined. "Gawd, I loved that man. I wanted to make him happy, so I did anything he wanted me to do." She frowned. "What I didn't know at the time was that he wanted me to make the money we needed to live on my back with my legs spread and wrapped around a variety of male backs, either that or on my knees slurping a variety of dicks. He had no abiding preference regarding the position I took as long as the money rolled in. Oh, he was clever about it. I told you he was clever. When you're sixteen and in love, the sex is... wonderful! I had a youthful, sexy body and a pretty face. I had men tell me I could've been a movie star, and Bob - the man's name was Robert Claridge - liked to show me off. He wanted me to dress sexy, so I dressed sexy, and exposing myself to other men turned him on."

She took a ragged breath. "It wasn't long before Bob and I had a threesome with another man, and then, to reciprocate, a threesome with another woman."

She glanced at Charlotte, expecting to see a shocked look. Charlotte wasn't shocked, so April continued. "Pretty soon, I guess you could say Bob and I were swingers, and you know what? I liked it. I liked sex - a lot. I liked a lot of sex with a lot of different partners, so one night when Bob told me that a man we'd just met wanted me badly enough that he'd pay $1,000 for the privilege, I said, 'Let's do it.' To be honest, I would've fucked him for nothing. That sounds like I turned myself out, and in a way I did, but unknown to me, Bob had been pimping for me for quite a while. Like I said, he was a clever man."

She paused and looked me in the eye. "I became a whore, Ken, because I liked the sex and the money. You offered to pay me $3,000 a month to stop being a whore. In my late teens, I'd sometimes make that much or more in one night, which brings up the subject I asked you here to discuss. I wanna renegotiate our deal."

Good. I could accept this approach to changing the deal. I nodded, giving her a silent green light to proceed.

"$3,000 a month doesn't cut it. Oh, I can make do with that much." She snorted. "I could make do with less, and have, but if I tried, one of my friends would call and say she had a john on tap who wanted to live every man's dream - that's sex with two women in case you don't know - and this friend would say something like, 'He's willing to pay a grand. We'll split it.' And you know what? I just might do it. An extra five hundred tax-free dollars on a $3,000 a month budget for an hour's work might seem worth the risk."

I can't believe it, cowboy, Colleen said silently. I think she's telling the truth.

"Besides," April continued, "I played with the numbers, Ken. You said I'd have to pay taxes on what you paid me. Than means social security contributions as a self-employed person, as well as income tax, so I don't have a $3,000 a month budget. It's closer to $2,000, and that doesn't cut it for me." She grinned. "I'll get tempted, Ken. I surely will."

I'd pulled the $3,000 a month out of thin air, so I wasn't married to the number, but I figured I could get something for the extra money she wanted.

"What about therapy?" I asked.

"I'll save you that money and pass on the therapy, Ken."

"No, April, that's not what I want. You made a good argument about money versus temptation, and depending on the amount you want, I'm inclined to go along with your request because I want you to succeed. April, you need more than money to pull this off. You also need professional help. You're a street hooker. I can only imagine the horrors and mental anguish you've experienced. What about drugs? At one time or another, I'd guess you got hooked on something. For all I know, you still have a monkey on your back, and from what you just said, I'm pretty sure that you're still a sex addict. Also, don't overlook the violence that has been visited upon you. You've been cut. You handle makeup well, so the scar on your face is hardly noticeable, but it's there, and it's testimony of the violence in your past you need to shake off. But the real psychological issue you've got to overcome to succeed is your self-esteem. April, you're much more valuable in many way than a receptacle for sperm. Don't even try to convince me that you don't have self-esteem issues you need to deal with. Drugs, past or present. Your sex addiction. Violence. Self-esteem. All issues that require professional help. April, as I said, you approached the money issue honestly, which pleased me. I want you to approach the psychological issues just as honestly with an open mind."

"I don't do drugs," she said. "I did at first, but not for a long time. No drugs, no booze beyond a drink of two now and then. What booze did to Charlotte's father cured me of booze. I don't even smoke cigarettes."

I smiled. "I believe you, but you've still got to deal with the negative residue from the violence you've experienced, as well as your sex addiction. Even more important is your need to feel good about yourself as a person. A therapist can help you minimize these problems. Here's my new deal. My accountant will pay you enough for you to clear $3,000 a month after taxes, but only if you'll see a therapist who can help you with the issues we just discussed. I want you to succeed, April. I will pay the therapist."

"I wanna clear $3,500 a month."

"Will you work with a therapist, honestly and openly?"

She hesitated. I waited. She nodded. I called Gordy and changed the deal to reflect our new arrangement.

"What's for dessert?" I asked.

April grinned. "Homemade apple pie and vanilla ice cream."

Cal Jones had to be happier. Tim Blount, Michelle Hendrix and Gerald Moody ordered cocktails. Sifu sipped hot tea. Colleen and I split a Pepsi. I'd asked my advisors to join me to meet with my Legal Beagles and P.R. Gal.

Michelle was middle-aged and classy, a bottle redhead, buxom and a little brazen. I liked her take-no-prisoners attitude.

Gerald Moody and Tim Blount looked enough alike to be brothers but weren't. They were big everywhere: tall, barrel-chested, large ham-like hands, potbellies. Their brilliant blue eyes were quick to appreciate humor, but were just as quick to flash hard and unyielding. Moody had brown hair; Blount's was lighter, approaching blond. They wore dark, custom-tailored suits; their shoes were shined, and their white shirts looked crisp.

"Evidence," Tim said with his booming voice. "You've told us what you and your crew did. What evidence, other than Karsh's say so, do the police have that ties you to the surveillance and assault on Karsh's stronghold?"

"A video of Sifu, Colleen and me driving by the compound," I said. "Colleen and I were disguised, though. Hall recognized Sifu as our driver when Hall followed and tried to abduct Colleen in Phoenix before we arrived in Vegas, and then he put two and two together to get four. I don't know if Colleen and I are actually recognizable in the video, or not."

"Facial recognition software can look past the disguises," Moody said.

"There's that," Blount said, but then shook his head. "Uh-uh, the police involved are corrupt. They're marching to Karsh's drumbeat; they aren't gathering evidence, and even if they are, a one-time drive-by is not surveillance, and certainly can't be labeled an assault. That is a public street in front of the stronghold. Right now, we can discount that video. What else, Morgan?"

"The police arrested a tech minding some surveillance equipment we were using to monitor the stronghold," I said. "The surveillance firm we hired said that such events are part and parcel of the nature of their business. They brought in their own attorney. So far, Protect & Serve hasn't been mentioned."

"Can the tech point at you and say, 'He ordered the surveillance?'" Blount asked.

"No, I've never met the man."

"What else?" Blount said.

"That's it."

"Hardly," Moody said. "You have thirteen men incarcerated in your own jail. These men can point at you and say, 'He did it.'"

"True," Blount said, "But the police don't have access to these men. Right now, the police don't have shit, Jerry."

"What about the brouhaha at the airport?" Moody said. "You were shot, Morgan. You bled. The police can tie you to that event with your DNA."

"True, if the police have tied that event to the surveillance and assault on the stronghold," I said. "I seriously doubt Karsh's tame cops would connect those events if Karsh didn't tell them about the connection, and even if Karsh told them, they wouldn't include the airport event as part of the justification for issuing my arrest warrant. Remember, Karsh's men used automatic weapons. The collateral damage at the airport came from automatic weapons, not from my weapon. I fired my pistol twice. The first bullet struck an assailant's vest. The second struck the assailant's head."

"There were two assailants," Moody said.

"I killed the other man," Colleen said. "One shot - a headshot."

Moody's eyes widened.

Colleen blushed. "He was trying to kill Morgan. I'm his sidekick and mate. I couldn't let that happen."

Michelle chuckled. Blount laughed.

She'll do, Blount thought.

"The bellhop at the hotel when you killed that assassin saw you," Moody said.

"I was disguised. He saw me only fleetingly, and the description he gave the police and reported by the media didn't come close to describing me. I left no other evidence at that crime scene," I said. "And before you ask, we wore ski masks when we attacked and took the four bodyguards and driver, and I wasn't present for the assault when we took the two gate guards and one of my men turned out the lights and shut off the water at the stronghold."

"So, the long and short of it is the police don't have shit, Jerry," Blount said.

Jerry nodded. "I'll confront the prosecutor handling the case tomorrow morning."

Michelle said, "Let's talk about the media. What do you have that I can use to turn the negative spotlight away from you onto Karsh and the corrupt cops?"

I grinned and handed her five files. "The two wounded bodyguards and the groundskeeper in the hospital are wanted men. They're out of prison on parole, but they broke parole, so warrants were issued for their arrests. The other two files are dossiers on the cook and housekeeper. These women are ex-cons, and arrest warrants were issued in their names for the same reason as the bodyguards and groundskeeper. Why is Karsh hiring wanted men and women, and why are the police protecting them instead of arresting them?"

Michelle chortled. "That'll be good for a start."

I said, "Right now, we can't divulge other evidence - like a recording of a telephone conversation between Karsh and a Lieutenant Delgado with the LVPD. Delgado is one of Karsh's tame cops. We can't release this tape yet because it proves that we had Karsh's stronghold under surveillance. At the right time, though, we can give you that evidence and more. I believe we've amassed enough evidence to prove that Karsh is an agent for a group of international assassins. Two of those assassins are incarcerated at P&S's Gitmo. This is why I need an honest federal cop who will understand that I've been acting in self-defense, someone with enough authority who will look past my surveillance and assault on Karsh's compound, take possession of the wanted men at Gitmo, investigate the corruption in the LVPD, and arrest Karsh and his tame cops."

Moody said, "You don't need to go federal to get that done, Morgan. The right State of Nevada cop would be just as effective as the FBI. No, make that more effective. From my observation, the FBI is a nothing but a humongous bureaucracy designed for one purpose, and that's to protect the FBI." Moody grinned. "What's more, I think I know the perfect state cop for the job."

"Well, hell, Jerry, give him a call," Blount said.

Moody nodded and said, "Tomorrow, after I deal with the Assistant District Attorney handling Morgan's case."

Who hired you to kill Morgan? I said in Karsh's mind, my projected thought purposely flat and unemotional. I was propped up against the headboard of the bed in my suite at the mansion. Colleen held my hand.

I let the question linger without follow up. Would Karsh believe he'd asked himself the question? Words in a mind had no tonal quality. Sometimes inflection was present, but as adept as I was at juggling the thoughts of others, with the exception of Colleen and Sifu, I could rarely determine the source of a thought unless I'd purposefully made a connection with a specific person.

Dumb question. Glen Brogan, of course, Karsh thought.

My heart hammered in my chest. Finally! Finally I knew my enemy! I tried. I tried as hard as I've ever tried to remember anything, but the name, Glen Brogan, prompted no new memories. I groaned with frustration. Colleen squeezed my hand, a gesture of sympathy.

I waited. I'd given Karsh's mind a direction. Would his thoughts travel down the path I'd suggested?

Morgan. A simple job, Glen said. Hah! Assassinating the President of the United States would have been easier.

I waited.

With friends like Glen, I don't need any enemies. Ruined! I'm ruined.

Seconds later: My boys. Where are my boys? Have they abandoned me?

Leg hurts.

Leg's gone. Phantom pain.

I waited through another pause.

Linda. What is she doing here?

It's dangerous for you to visit, baby girl, but I'm glad you did... Hurts. Phantom pain. Have you spoken with Nick and Joel?... Glen's ranch, huh... Good. I'm happy they're safe.

What is she doing?

No! Why!... Not Glen?... How could she? I'm her...

My connection faded.

I felt Joseph Karsh die.

Robyn, it's Morgan. Can you talk? I asked silently. For convenience's sake, I'd altered our agreement so I could connect with Robyn or Ruben to ask if I could connect. That's sounds confusing, I know, and the request for the change confused them at first, but after I'd connected a few times in this way, they understood why I wanted to make the change and went along with the method.

Sure. What's up? Robyn said.

I heard a silent mumbled curse. What's the problem?

My goldurned laptop is acting up. Waddaya need?

I have my enemy's name. It's Glen Brogan. I don't have his location, but I think he lives on a ranch. Try the State of Nevada first. If you don't find him in Nevada, move to neighboring states.

Will do. It might be a while, though. My computer's got a virus I need to track down and eliminate before I can do any searches. In the meantime, if you uncover any other info on Brogan, get back to me.

I've just given you all the information on Glen Brogan I'll get from Karsh. Karsh is dead, Robyn.

Dead!

Yeah, his adopted daughter, Linda, just murdered him in his hospital bed.

After I cut my connection with Robyn, I reviewed what I'd learned while in Karsh's mind. Nick and Joel were with Brogan on his ranch. Linda had spoken with her brothers sometime during the day, and she'd arrived at the hospital to murder her father, and his murder wasn't a crime of passion. It was cold-blooded and premeditated. Why?

I remembered her anguished cry when I wounded Karsh. "Daddy!" she'd screamed and, putting herself at risk, had rushed to pull him out of harm's way. That reaction didn't fit the demeanor and psychological makeup of the cold-blooded woman who had just walked into her daddy's hospital room and killed him without a qualm.

What changed her attitude from one event to the other? Did my enemy cause the change? Did Brogan order Linda to kill her father? Order? No, that would imply Brogan somehow controlled her, which to my mind wasn't likely. Maybe he hired her. Assassins could be dispassionate when it came to their professional assignments. Hmm, perhaps Brogan was holding Nick and Joel hostage, and Linda killed her father to gain their release. No, that didn't make sense, either. Karsh had said he was happy his sons were safe at Brogan's ranch.

I needed more information, and I didn't know where to look.

Argh. Memory loss is a trial.

Tomorrow, I'd listen to our recording of Linda's fatal visit to her adopted father's hospital room, and when I heard the name, Glen, I'd pretend to remember Glen's last name. Then I'd change Operation Nemesis to Operation Brogan and take the battle to Brogan, wherever he was. Memory loss is a trial, but telepathy often compensates, not completely, but sometimes enough.

I woke up early. It was still dark outside, so I eased from the bed so I wouldn't rouse Colleen. While I went through my morning rituals, I cast my mind out and about to check on those I cared for. Gordy and Maggie were asleep. Jenny, too. On the east coast, Mark and Jim were awake and doing their jobs, Dan Green and John Bucher, as well. They'd be flying to South America today, if the schedule hadn't changed. Corny was asleep. Sifu was rousing. Oops. I jumped out of his mind. Maria was going down on him. Gary Hoyt was speaking with the gate guards. I liked Hoyt. He was a good man. Ruben and Robyn were still asleep, as were Jasper and Horace. Dean was still in bed, but he was awake, and he wasn't alone. A woman I couldn't connect with was with him. They were having a grand time. Heather was awake, and her thoughts made me grin. Jasper would soon awaken to Heather's wake-up blow job. Yep. I sensed his groan of pleasure. He was coming around.

Jeez, Jasper. You could sleep through an atomic blast, Heather said, and from Jasper's thoughts I figured Heather climbed aboard rather than returning to her oral ministrations. Tim and Michelle were asleep. Wanda... oops. Wanda and Claire Finder were having a grand time, too. Leo Nelson and Roy Holbert were on duty, and they were talking.

Something's bothering you, Roy, Leo said. Wanna talk about it?

Humph, maybe. Yeah, I do, Roy said. Frankly, Leo, I don't like this assignment.

I sensed Leo's cynical laugh. It's not normal, that's for sure. I can't say I enjoy being a prison guard, either.

If Morgan asks, will you take on Protect & Serve as your agent?

Yes. How about you?

No way. I don't fit Protect & Serve's culture. I believe in the rule of law. Morgan doesn't. I don't know how many laws he's broken since my arrival, but it's been a bunch.

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Protect and Serve

Paul Phenomenon

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