MANHATTAN MASQUERADE

By Michael Howard

(This story is rated "T" for language, adult themes, and violence).

45. After The Party's Over

Sunday Morning, January 15, 1933

"There it is. The face that launched a thousand... bullets."

Jessica Silverton paused halfway down the corridor of the Marwell Building's fourteenth floor and a frown came to her features. Then her heels drummed along the parquet floor as she approached the man leaning insolently against the wall.

"I can't believe Galen told you about... that!"

"He didn't have to tell me." Joe Perlman reached over to where the outer door of his office was propped. Even after being battered off its hinges, its frosted glass window pane was still intact.

His forefinger tapped on the third word of the legend 'Greater Gotham Detective Agency.' "I could see right from the start you'd be trouble. Another Typhoid Mary, except that you never actually worked a day in your life."

"You really are... " A sufficiently withering reply eluded her for the moment so instead she pointed to the sling holding up his left arm. "I see the veterinarian has got you all fixed now. How nice."

She slapped him forcefully on the shoulder, taking care to avoid the location of his bullet wound by several inches. "Too bad we didn't think about getting you a muzzle at the same time!"

Silverton saw the corners of his mouth twitch, which was as close to a smile as she'd ever seen from him. "What are you doing out in the hallway anyway? Galen finally decide to cut the deadweight in the agency?"

"I've already had my turn on the griddle."

The blonde considered his words a moment, then moved closer so she could drop her voice to a whisper. "Mulrooney's in there now? With Galen?"

Perlman nodded once.

"Is there going to be a problem about last night?"

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

Silverton hurried to the entrance and stepped through without knocking. Galen Slaughter had been sitting behind the receptionist's desk, but when their gazes met he rose to his feet and gave her a warm smile. Flanking the desk, however, were a pair of middle-aged men in topcoats whose expressions showed neither warmth nor welcome.

She decided to give each of them a respectful nod anyway, before turning back to Slaughter. "Operative Number 5, reporting for duty, sir."

"One moment, please," Slaughter told the two men as he wheeled Betty Moravic's chair around the desk and held it in place until Silverton seated herself upon it. She hoped he missed her involuntary moan when the thigh recently pierced by Marcus McCairnen's stiletto came in contact with the chair cushion, but that seemed doubtful.

"The only orders I have at the moment," Slaughter's gaze moved to Perlman at the doorway for the briefest instant, "Miss Borgia, are for you to avoid unnecessary exertions over the next few days."

"No promises there, Mr. Slaughter. The Remora business has been concluded, but we still have that long-delayed visit to Khajuraho on the agenda."

"Khajuraho, right. I certainly hadn't forgotten about that." Their eyes locked together for a full five seconds and a warmth seemed to flow over her, as if a summer breeze was wafting through the office.

Slaughter turned away with visible effort. "Where... Yes, introductions. I know you met Police Commissioner Mulrooney last night. The other gentleman here is John O'Brien, Chief Inspector of the Department."

"A pleasure, Inspector," Silverton said, matching the man's jowly, sad-eyed features with a name she had seen frequently in the newspapers.

"Surely it is," replied O'Brien facetiously and with the suggestion of a Gaelic lilt. "Now, young miss, we're going to be needing your full name, your address, the details of your employment here-"

Mulrooney cut him off with a wave of the hand that showed no animosity and was apparently received without it. In the accents of the native New Yorker he prompted, "Slaughter, you was sayin' somethin' about Rancourt's costume... "

"Yes, Commissioner, quite a revealing choice there. But more on that in a minute.

"So, under the alias of John Patrick Remora, James Rancourt recruits a small army of underworld gunmen. Supposedly they were hired to rob the wealthy patrons at the Parkview Hotel last night. I say supposedly because theft was never Rancourt's true intention for the evening. As witnessed by the fact that several of his men were provided weapons loaded with blank cartridges.

"No, Rancourt and Martin Doherty-"

"Remember him, Commissioner?" interrupted Perlman. "The department's fair-haired boy? A few months back he got command of one of those roving gun squads you dreamed up to fight the rackets. There's irony for you, huh?"

"Doherty's assignment there was my doing, Joseph," answered O'Brien. "Which I certainly won't be claiming as the wisest decision of my forty years on the Force." He eyed Perlman's bulk a moment before adding, "And when a man gets to be your size, it appears there's plenty of room left over for the storing up of old, old grievances."

"Ha!" said Silverton, before turning to stare intently out one of the windows facing Seventh Avenue.

"Those gun squads won't win no prizes, neither," allowed Mulrooney. "But git back to Rancourt, already."

"Right," said Slaughter. "He and Doherty had arranged for a group of plainclothesmen to be hidden about the Parkview. As soon as Remora's hired dupes would have shown their hand, they'd have been cut down by police bullets."

"Wit Doherty bein' praised for his," a look of contempt came over Mulrooney's craggy features, "diligent detective work in uncoverin' and preventin' the crime."

"Considering the swank crowd gathered at the hotel yesterday, Doherty'd probably be jumped up to Captain by the next New Year," muttered O'Brien.

"Quite possibly," agreed Slaughter. "But the credit would have to be shared. James Rancourt was the one who dreamed up this scheme, after all. And there's no telling where it might have ultimately taken him if it had succeeded."

"The nomination for Manhattan District Attorney in this fall's election at the least," suggested Silverton.

"At the least," repeated Slaughter. "Just think how the press would have played up this apparent victory over the criminal element. In a time of unprecedented unemployment, when it appears government has lost the ability to effect change or to protect the people, a single pair of civil servants manage to outwit and then outfight a horde of gangsters. They save the elite of New York from being robbed - or worse. And Rancourt himself does it while wearing the costume of a 'knight in shining armor.'

"The D. A.'s office? Yes, certainly, but only until '34 when he could run for state governor."

"And from there he could have followed Roosevelt's path to the White House," finished Perlman. "Rancourt wouldn't have been the first politician to reach high office with a trail of corpses behind him."

"So you got no idea what they done wit Bob Hogan's body?" demanded Mulrooney.

"Nothing definitive, no. But that meatpacking plant back on First Avenue would have presented certain... disposal opportunities for a man in the wholesale murder business."

"God rot his soul," intoned the Commissioner with bowed head.

"If Rancourt ever had one," added Silverton. "But that's not a concern for anybody in this world anymore." She exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to look at the private office behind her where just a few days ago she and Perlman had been helpless, abused prisoners. "So that just leaves Doherty... "

Slaughter glanced from Silverton to Perlman. "You two wouldn't know this but the Commissioner made a call to headquarters a moment ago and was told members of the Confidential Squad spotted Doherty at Grand Central. They tried to bring him in - without handcuffs, apparently because of his rank - but before he could be secured in a car he stumbled, or perhaps threw himself, in front of a Forty-Second Street taxi. Dead at the scene."

"Then that's case closed," said Perlman, his eyes meeting Silverton's from across the room.

Considering what you suffered at Doherty's hands, if you can let it go, then so can I. "Case closed," repeated the blonde softly.

"Not jist yet, it ain't," growled Mulrooney. "Not 'til every dirty-fingered sonuvabitch who stood wit Doherty last night is rounded up and ass-kicked off the Force."

"We'll get them, Edward," said O'Brien soothingly. "With the help of these three, we'll get 'em all. And the papers will never need know a thing about it."

"Ya think so? An' how are we explainin' the sudden death of a Manhattan assistant district attorney? Or a legendary crime fighter like Lin Tyler?"

"Just tell the truth, Commissioner," advised Slaughter. "As best you can piece together Tyler got Rancourt to help in a plot to fight crime in the city. They went to the packing plant on First Avenue to confront an up-and-coming mob boss named Remora. There was a gun fight which caused a fire and that took the lives of all three men."

Should I be this quick to commit myself, Silverton wondered idly, to a man who's such a fast thinker, and is so good at lying without actually lying? She mentally stripped away the quiet grey three-piece business suit Slaughter was wearing and saw again the rippling brown muscles beneath. Oh, yes!

"Young man, telling the truth is always a worthy goal," said O'Brien. "Whether you carry a badge or not."

Slaughter returned the Chief Inspector's half-smile. "I'm glad we can see eye to eye here, sir."

"As am I. Now I think it's time to hear how it was that you and your coworkers came to be involved in the business."

"Not much of a story there, Chief. I happened to run into Tyler the other day and offered my services in whatever he was working on."

"Where?" asked Mulrooney.

"Where did I meet him? Magruder's."

A look passed between the police officials.

"That can be an unfriendly place for a detective to be showing his face," said O'Brien. "I hope you didn't have any trouble with the locals."

"None to speak of, sir."

"I see. And that wouldn't have been the first meeting between you and Mr. Tyler I take it, considering how generous you were with your time."

"No, Chief. Our first meeting was Paris right after the War."

Mulrooney scratched his sandy hair. "Tyler was in the A. E. F?"

"No, still with the Secret Service in those days. He went over to guard President Wilson during the peace negotiations."

"Were you part of that guard detail, too?"

Yes, it is definitely beginning to feel like O'Brien has an ulterior motive in his questioning now.

"They could certainly find more qualified men for that task than a newly unemployed fighter pilot like myself. Back in the early months of 1919 my official job description was translator. I've managed to pick up a few languages in my travels. Which I thought you'd remember, Chief Inspector, considering how many times I've assisted your Detective Bureau in crimes that involved foreigners."

"Indeed you have," allowed O'Brien. "But that cooperation hasn't always been one-sided. I'm thinking back a dozen years to-"

"The Wall Street bombing," finished Mulrooney. "Didn't you jist happen to be on hand fer that one too?"

"I guess I was," replied Slaughter with a quick, uneasy glance at Silverton.

"That attack is officially listed as unsolved in the Department's record books, but considering just a few hours later we found you standing over the bullet-ridden corpse of a U. S. Army major-"

"Back off, Chief!" snapped out Perlman. "You agreed to the cover-up at the time and you're not going to renege on the deal now. It's too damned bad if your conscience - or more likely your scorecard - is bothering you. Although, if you are going to insist on the full confession route today, then I'll call the Herald-Tribune right now and tell my poker buddy Stanley Walker all about the evening I just spent locked in an office with your boss."

"You back off, Perlman! And Johnny, kin we jist stick with one fuckin' case at a time here?"

Mulrooney let his breath out in the sudden silence and then dropped back onto a corner of the desk. In a much lowered tone he said, "I know an I respect every man here. There's no need fer threats between any a us. But I'm gonna git some straight answers from the two a you beginin' now."

Both private detectives gave somber nods.

"So, when we start pokin' through them ashes on First Avenue, it's gonna be a helluva lot more'n jist three bodies that turn up."

"No worries there, Commissioner," replied Slaughter. "The intensity of the fire and then the compression of a six-story building will make it impossible to distinguish between human and animal bones."

"Uh huh. From the amount a shell casings I seen layin' around, you three had plenty a company fer awhile there. Was any a you recognized?"

"I don't think so. That's not a very well-lit neighborhood, and it was a misty night with rain and snow. None of us was dressed in a conventional manner at the time either."

O'Brien gave Silverton a thoughtful look at that last sentence but did not speak aloud.

"Anyway, all three of us made public appearances at the Parkview Hotel last night. I spoke with Vincent Astor myself and he would vouch for me being around the entire evening if I needed him to."

"In the penguin suit, yes," said Silverton. "I saw Mr. Astor as well. He commented on my costume."

"Commented or salivated?" wondered Perlman. Without waiting for a response he added, "Yeah, Vinnie and me kicked it around a bit, too. He wanted next month's rent early so he wouldn't have to hoof it home from the party."

"Don't take that statement too literally," advised Slaughter. "But Mr. Astor actually does own this building."

"Along with about half of the rest of Manhattan," she added.

"Close to it," agreed Slaughter. "So, any other concerns, gentlemen?"

After Mulrooney and O'Brien had exchanged questioning looks and then shrugs, Perlman said, "Well, I have something else to bring up. Hogan's old spot at Homicide is still open and the only thing Doherty is going to be filling from now on is a dirt hole."

"Go on," said Mulrooney warily.

"Think about O'Boyle over at Missing Persons for the job. He's a good man. And he helped on this case without even knowing it."

"Christ, but you're a nervy bastard," said O'Brien. "Although... I do know the Sergeant, and with a name like that, we're probably kin from way back."

Mulrooney stood up. "We better go before he starts askin' fer my job. But the pair a youse will be in my office at noon today."

"Like hell," Perlman told him placidly. "There's no rush anymore. I gave you descriptions and even names sometimes for every bull I'd seen with Doherty for the last two weeks. Slaughter too."

Mulrooney's eyes showed blue fire. "Perlman... "

"Maybe I'll stop by Tuesday, Wednesday at least. But before that," Perlman shot Slaughter a knowing glance, "I'm hoping to make it over to Khajuraho myself once or twice."

"You always was an insubordinate-"

"Well, Commissioner," interjected Slaughter hastily. "I can assure you the Department will always have the complete cooperation of this agency."

"Never doubted it," Mulrooney replied with a final scowl at Perlman. He considered Slaughter for a long moment and the many lines of his face seemed to soften. "So, young fella, you make it over ta the East River much these days?"

"No, sir," said Slaughter with a smile. "But the next time you feel like going for swim, give me a call."

"I'll do that." Mulrooney turned to Silverton and touched a thick forefinger to the brim of his homberg. "C'mon, Johnny, back ta headquarters."

Perlman walked out with the two police administrators and as they passed from view Silverton heard Mulrooney growl, "O'Boyle, huh? Tell me somethin' about him, Chief. 'Cause all I know now is he's got terrible taste in friends... "

"What's all that swimming business?" she asked Slaughter when the hallway conversation had faded away.

"My first meeting with the Commissioner was back in 1904. A river boat had sunk and Patrolman Mulrooney distinguished himself in the rescue effort."

"What did you do?"

"Helped my mother tend to the survivors, mainly."

Silverton guessed he had played a more active role in the incident then that but he spoke again before she could.

"How did your visit with Dr. Salerno go?"

"I'm calling him Peter now, in view of our repeated and rather intimate acquaintance these last few days. He said I'm doing very well and should be able to take on another criminal mastermind in a day or two."

"Listen to the ugly lies coming out of that beautiful face. I'm certain what he really proscribed was a minimum of seven days complete bed rest."

"Then let's compromise," she said, one fingertip snaking a path along the buttons of his vest. "Seven days in bed and no rest."

He squatted down so that their faces were at the same height. "My parents didn't raise any fools so the only response that comes to mind is my place or yours?"

She cupped a hand against his cheek. "Nathan and Galena get the highest marks from me, too. Although I was thinking we could leave the city entirely - which isn't to say I don't love this beautiful metropolis of yours now. From above or down on the streets. But I happen to own a little cabin up in Maine and this time of year there won't be anybody around for many, many miles."

"Excellent. I'll get us a car and swing by your apartment after I've finished at police headquarters. And a few other places."

"You're sure you can handle this kind of... excursion right now? Peter tells me between patching up you and the Golem, he's contributed 'a linear mile' of rolled bandages to the cause this morning."

"Clearly he's mad at the two of us for getting him out of bed so early on his one day off."

"And perhaps for putting yourselves in harm's way once again?" she asked with an arched eyebrow.

"That may have been another factor. But I'm sure Richard Whiting actually took up the bulk of Peter's time - and medical supplies. So how is Whiting now?"

"He's supposed to make a complete recovery. Physically at least."

"Thinking of the injuries that don't show?" Slaughter asked.

"I am. But what happened to Richard last night could actually be a good thing. Make him finally grow up. Them grow up. To my surprise - and her too, I think - Maggie Brundage has been sticking with him through it all."

"Anything is possible with the right woman at your side."

She smiled. "Or in the lead. And now that Doherty is dead, Richard's career as a vigilante will remain secret. Imbecile! Going around town dropping off taxidermy cards because he thinks he's helping the police capture gangsters the law can't touch."

"When all of those trophies he collected actually held positions in local crime that the Remora organization wanted to take over for themselves."

"Yes, he and the feather-brained Margaret truly deserve each other. But I'm still waiting to hear about your current condition."

"Never better."

"Welcome news, but vague."

"You muster up the courage to go to Maine with me and I'll show you rather than tell."

"Ooooh. And will there be a standing ovation afterwards?"

"Possibly. Most women just don't have the energy left, but you are in excellent physical condition... "

"My word, where is that soft-spoken, self-effacing gentleman I first met just twelve days ago?"

"You've changed me forever, Miss Silverton. I could never go back to who I was in the pre-Jessica era."

"And I'm so touched by your flattery I won't even suggest that this giddiness is probably as much sleep deprivation as infatuation." She stood up and placed her arms about his neck. "And for the record, Mr. Unemployed Fighter Pilot, I don't want you to change a single thing about yourself."

Their parted mouths moved closer, then sprang apart suddenly.

"If you can please pardon the intrusion, Miss Silverton, ma'am, your very good friend is here to see you."

Momentary confusion came over the blonde, who couldn't understand why Althea Hawkins would leave the hotel she'd been escorted to, or still more puzzling, why Perlman would ever speak civilly to her.

The answer that came into view was a diminutive, black-haired Russian beauty named Sophia Kandinsky.

Well, of course. Silverton gave Slaughter a tight-lipped smile and then walked forward with an extended hand.

Kandinsky eyed it with obvious trepidation before offering her own.

"I never got a chance to thank you for your assistance last night."

"Mademoiselle, I did nothing."

"Not true. Perhaps you didn't actually fight anyone, but you helped bring those fence posts over to us at great risk to yourself. That might well have saved all of our lives."

The Russian turned a puzzled face toward Slaughter, as if seeking assurance that she wasn't being teased.

"She's speaking for all of us here, Sophia."

Kandinsky's gaze traveled about the room and after Perlman gave her a disinterested tilt of the head, the woman's face lost a small part of its habitual melancholy. "So my clothes, my things, they are for my keeping?"

"A resounding nyet to that idea," said Silverton. "We believe it may, may be possible to keep that très formidable derrière of yours out of a Chinese prison, but the furs, the gowns, the jewelry, all of it goes back to the stores it came from."

"That money will then be turned over to the insurance investigator on the case, the Russian gentleman who trailed you here from Shanghai."

"But Galen, the monies won't be of the same highness."

"Meaning the returns won't match the total value of the gems you... appropriated from that Englishman back east? Probably not."

Before Slaughter could suggest making up the difference himself Silverton said, "Good. Then maybe the bastard will think twice about lying to the next woman he sets his sights upon."

"You are being so much kind, but it is without hope. The 'bastard,' the bastard that is bloody, even with a fullness of money and interest, will never be let go of this."

"Sophia, I'm going to make sure of it by calling in a favor." Slaughter gave Silverton an apologetic look. "I really need to stop doing this, but just one more for the sake of clarification." Facing the Russian again and after an embarrassed cough he said, "I happen to be the man who stopped the Shun Lo murders a few years back. Even if your former associate there in Shanghai doesn't know about that case, his fellow jewel merchants will not have forgotten. And they'll make him drop this matter between the two of you when I ask it."

"Merci, my boyar," whispered Kandinsky. "Thanks to all of you for protecting me from my choices that were wrongful."

"You're welcome," replied Silverton. "Just remember that isn't a full time career for any of us. The next time you pick the wrong man to latch onto, you're on your own."

Kandinsky made a dainty little swish of her hand. "Three strucks and you're out!"

Sweet Lord, thought Silverton. If I'd been born with le pénis, I'd probably be chasing after you myself. Aloud she said, "I'm guessing you will land on your feet here, Miss Kandinsky."

"Sophia, please."

The blonde nodded. "Sophia. But to make certain of it, I'm going to arrange for you to get a credit voucher for the local Silverton Department Store. There you will be able to pick out a wardrobe you can truly call your own."

"Yes?"

"Yes. And after that, a train ride to a much more hospitable climate."

"Would that be a one-way ticket by any chance?"

She glared at Perlman for several seconds before facing the Russian again. "You won't need passage back, Sophia, because there's a job waiting for you at our store in Los Angeles."

"Mexico? The English is not so smoothly sailing already for me."

"Not Mexico, dear. California."

"Colorado?" Kandinsky gave the word a few extra syllables but neither male in the room showed displeasure over her diction.

Silverton decided to try a new tack. "Are you by any chance familiar with a place called Hollywood?"

"Oh, very much yes!"

"Well, that's where you're going."

"But only because daddy doesn't have any stores in Australia," interjected Perlman.

Silverton unclenched her teeth. "You'll start out as a salesgirl, Sophia, which should probably last about fifteen minutes before they raise you up to store model."

Kandinsky gave Slaughter a barely disguised look of distress. "I... You are so much of the generosity, mademoiselle, but-"

"Jessica."

Ruby lips parted for an instant to show the whiteness behind. "Jessica. But I have the hoping... there has been told to me... "

"That with your looks and the quality of your voice, you should pursue a career in entertainment? I absolutely agree. I'm investing in your future here, Sophia. Three different girls who once worked at our L. A. store are now under contract to different movie studios, and I'm certain you will be joining that group very soon."

"If that could be to happen, I swear to pay back to you all your kindfulness - with the double!"

"And it would be very rude of me not to let you do that," Silverton replied dryly.

Kandinsky moved to the door, then turned back around. "To think, the day is to come, maybe is to come, when I have so much of the riches that I too can be in dresses 'off the rack' and coats that are only of the cloth."

She stared down at the soon-to-be-lost-to-her ermine, then back at Silverton. "But some women have their treasures by the inside of them."

"Write to us, Sophia," requested the blonde. "I want to hear how you're getting along."

"We all do," said Slaughter. "Although your future success is not in doubt."

"I will do that," promised Kandinsky. She wrinkled her nose in amusement. "It will be well practice for my camera speaking."

"I'll walk you to the taxi stand," offered Slaughter.

"With much thanks but no, Galen. My new life is today beginning, and the pathway is for one."

When Silverton was the sole female present once more she said, "Gentleman - and gentle thug - I think the next Garbo just walked out of here."

"But the queen patroness of the arts is still on hand. Did Otto Kahn get his start by shipping off every artiste who got within a hundred feet of his boyfriend?"

"The only way you'd know Art is if that was the name of your old truant officer. But Mr. Kahn happens to be a family friend of mine, and yes, I do try to emulate his good works."

She gestured to herself with an open palm. "Otto Kahn." A finger jabbed in his direction. "And Genghis Khan. See? They can't say we have nothing in common."

"No, they can't," agreed a smiling Galen Slaughter. "But I thought we were done with the name-dropping."

"Actually I showed admirable restraint there by not mentioning that Vincent Astor used to come regularly to my grandparent's house for dinner when he was a student at Harvard. Or that I won my Maine cottage on a wager with Mr. Kahn."

Perlman dropped down wearily onto the couch behind him. "Your self-restraint is what we all love best about you, princess."

Silverton's sour look faded away when Slaughter held out the receptionist's chair for her again.

"Still in a generous mood?" he asked.

"For you, yes."

"Then do me another favor, please, and find a job for Judith Goslin as well."

"The redhead who almost got us all killed through her stupidity?"

"Want of employment - hunger - would cause anyone to make imprudent decisions."

"Have you heard about the Depression? It's been in all the papers."

Slaughter leaned back against Betty Moravic's desk. "Been too busy for newspapers the last few days."

The blonde blew air through her lips. "Fine, I'll come up with something for her. But not counter work. With that 'dem' and 'dose' accent of hers, it's going to be backroom stocking."

"As long as she can eat and sleep indoors," replied Slaughter. "So, let's move on to the next consideration. Between the money we found in Rancourt's autogyro, the reward Marcus McCairnen will get from smashing the Remora gang-"

"Which you will not go to collect without me backing you up!"

"Us backing him up," corrected Perlman.

Slaughter nodded his thanks to each in turn. "Agreed. So those two amounts, along with the check Herr Burkhardt promised the agency for preventing the party at the Parkview last night from turning into a bloodbath, should total something close to one hundred thousand dollars."

"Damn, Lucrezia, that's like a month's allowance for you."

"Or a month's bananas for you."

"A considerable sum," agreed Slaughter. "But with all the human misery caused by this case, there isn't enough money in the world to really set things right again."

Perlman rubbed his eyes with a massive fist. "Yeah, well, cash won't hurt things neither."

"A third off the top for Lieutenant Hogan's widow?" asked his partner.

"Not that much. She's almost sixty and they never had any kids. Say fifteen for her. And God fuckin' damn it, I'm gonna have to go see her in person. She's deserves to know the real story of her husband's disappearance. Part of it anyway."

"I could do that," ventured Slaughter.

"You've never met her. It should be me." Perlman sighed noisily. "And thirty-five grand to be split between the survivors of the slugs Whiting and the Remora gang made disappear. O'Boyle can help with that."

"He is going to owe you a favor soon," said Slaughter.

"Looks like it. And the rest of the money can go to Holy Cross."

"Father Duffy is smiling down on you right now."

"I've heard of him before," said Silverton. "By all accounts a truly great man. Speaking of which, there are plenty of people around who would call you two saints for the cavalier way you're letting all this money slip through your fingers."

The partners shared looks of amusement and then Perlman said, "If I wanted dough that bad, and didn't care where it came from, I'd have just stayed on the Force."

No insults with that one, Joey? You are tired.

"And anyway," added Slaughter. "The new women in our lives already make Joe and I the two richest men on earth."

She blew him a kiss and then turned to Perlman. "If you know what's good for you, you'll throw out that line yourself sometime today. And speaking of your far better half, where is Betty right now?"

Perlman's face went sour. "Running an errand."

"She's gone to see Okami Kagemoto," explained Slaughter. "Who we have since learned did not leave New York last night after all."

"She went off to meet the Japanese spy? Alone? I don't like that idea at all!"

"None of us do, Jessica. But she insisted. Anyway, if Okami meant to harm her - or drag her back into their espionage bureau - he had his chance last night. Instead they parted amicably and he even gave her that explosive device to help rescue us."

"Okay, Galen, I remember all that. But no good can come of a second meeting between them."

"Yes, it can," insisted Slaughter in lowered tones. "Because they'll be talking about their divorce proceedings."

"Ooooh. Right." Silverton glanced over to Perlman, slumped still farther down on the sofa and staring absently at a spot on the carpet. God, he's putting on a brave front here but every second this separation goes on must be agonizing.

"So how is your father this morning?" asked Slaughter.

Okay, I understand the concept of distraction. "Surprisingly energetic," replied the blonde. "You would have thought at his age, he'd have gone down as soon as we made it back to his hotel, but no. And the only way I was going to get away to come here at all was to promise a long visit home in the near future.

"Blaugh!" she said, showing off her tongue. "I'm sure Sinclair Lewis had Shaker Heights in mind when writing Babbitt."

"Actually, he's told me differently."

Silverton frowned as she pointed a finger at Slaughter. "Last warning, buddy."

"I'll stop when you do."

"Humph. Well, whatever the literary influence of Shaker Heights, it's a true bastion of puritanical hypocrisy. I've been running from that place my whole life and now, oh joy, I'm going back. See, the birthday for my kid brother Nickie is in-"

"How much are you getting from the Combination?" demanded Perlman suddenly.

Slaughter gave Silverton an amused look which clearly said, 'Hey, we tried' before replying aloud. "McCairnen got ten thousand to start, with another twenty-five to be paid upon successful completion."

"Pocket change," sneered Perlman. "They're coming out of this stronger than ever."

"Maybe in the short run. But it's not going to last."

"Meaning what?"

"In the early days of the Fericul investigation, I went to see George Medalie, the U. S. Attorney for Manhattan." Slaughter turned to Silverton to add, "Another dropped name there I realize, but I'm not claiming a close friendship with the man. I only know him at all because his wife helped me with a case once. A brilliant woman. She speaks Ancient Greek better than most of us do English.

"Anyway, Medalie knew nothing about any Tanas Fericul. No surprise there I suppose, but he was very interested in what I could tell them about the Combination. His chief assistant, an energetic young man named Dewey, must have taken ten full pages of notes.

"It won't happen overnight, but I'm certain now that the law will finally catch up with Luciano, Schultz, Buchalter, and the rest."

Silverton smiled even as she was shaking her head from side to side. "And those victories will come without the premature deaths of any innocent bystanders."

"I believe so, yes."

"Major Slaughter, I think you may have already earned that standing ovation."

He inclined his head in modest acknowledgement of her words.

"But I have to tell you there, Galen my love, hearing about all these policemen and federal authorities you know, the detectives right there in your own building even, makes me wonder why we couldn't have had a little bit more help last night in those final battles."

"Don't you think there is a large percentage of the population who would refuse to believe in disguised criminal overlords no matter how long a friendship they've had with the person making such a claim?" Slaughter countered.

"I suppose. And of course you do love a challenge."

"I'm dating you, aren't I?"

"Heh. I'm starting to think giddiness doesn't become you."

Before Slaughter could reply they were interrupted by Perlman.

"Wait a minute. It just clicked. The main reason you kept this all private was because of Betty. You - none of us really - knew what crimes she might have committed through this Remora business, or in her past. And if Mulrooney or the Feds were involved too soon, she might have had to take a hard fall."

"Which I wouldn't want to happen to any woman I like as much as her. And, ah... " Slaughter showed rare discomfort before concluding, "And I refuse to let happen to my partner's girl."

Perlman stood up and crossed the room. For a naive instant Silverton thought the two men would embrace, but instead they clasped hands with an intensity that made their forearms quiver.

How long the handshake might have lasted none could say because a small blinking light on the wall opposite from the blonde announced that an elevator car had returned to the fourteenth floor.

The men moved apart and Perlman almost ran to the open entrance. The sudden sag of his shoulders when he peered into the hallway told Silverton and Slaughter that Betty Moravic had not yet returned.

"Hey, Mr. P. There was a taxi driver come by who just dropped this off."

"That's the janitor's son," whispered Slaughter to identify the unseen owner of the youthful voice.

"I didn't think you'd be in now but I can-"

Perlman's one working arm darted out to grab at a rectangle of paper. "Go back to bed, Willi. But before you do, you tell your Pop we want this damned door fixed today!"

Back inside the office the detective stared at the front of the sealed envelope for several seconds before announcing softly, "It's addressed to me. In Betty's handwriting."

Slaughter walked halfway to his partner and then stopped. "I could open that for you without actually reading it."

Perlman seemed to consider this for several seconds before his gaze shifted over to Silverton. "I, uh, I know you can handle Japanese. How's your shanty town American?"

She bolted to her feet and rushed to his side just ahead of Slaughter. Worried that her fingers would betray the sudden anxiety she felt, Silverton tore open the envelope with frantic haste and unfolded the paper within.

Perlman said, "And make it out loud, Lady Macbeth."

With narrowed eyes she replied, "Oh-kay."

Silverton took a deep breath and softly cleared her throat.

" 'Joey, if I had a week I couldn't properly express to you what your acceptance, your love, means to me. You gave me back my self respect, my life!, and for the first time in fifteen years I can look forward to the future.' "

She paused, half expecting him to take the paper away. Instead she got a nudge that staggered her.

"Reading on," Silverton announced after meeting Slaughter's eyes for an instant. 'But I don't have a week, or even that many minutes to spare here, so I will simply say that I never really loved a man before you and I will never love any other besides you. The only thing that takes me away now is an opportunity to serve my country, the entire world in a sense, in a vital matter that I cannot ignore even though I now feel I'd rather be with you, even as a secretary, than head the entire U. S. Military Intelligence Department. But as a wise man once told me, sometimes what we have to sacrifice is the thing we most desire. Back during the war, I heard stories of an American spy codenamed Peacemaker. In fact I even got a glimpse of him once from a distance, although, ha!, I eventually reached the conclusion that my sixteen-year-old self just didn't make a lasting impression on the fellow. ' "

Silverton drew in her breath sharply as she pressed the letter to her chest. "Am I thick! I just now realized that it was Betty who wrote that unsigned letter we read at your apartment two weeks ago. The one threatening to unmask you as Peacemaker."

"Which she had no intention of doing of course. Her real, long term goal there was to show us we had a secret ally in the Remora organization."

"Keep reading already!" roared Perlman.

" 'Because I was required to do confidential clerical work when not out in the field (don't ask!) I was privy to the details of a few of his missions. The last one of the war, right before the Armistice in fact, required him to do nothing less than save Paris itself from destruction by the Germans. A task he managed to carry out even though it required him to cause the death of his own best friend. ' "

Now I understand why you suffer nightmares around the date of the Armistice each year.

Silverton looked up at Slaughter and saw the pain that had come into his grey eyes, but he waved an impatient hand at her to continue.

" ' The pride I felt in being included in the ranks of an organization like that has been absent for a very long time, but it was finally rekindled by the acceptance shown to me by you, and Galen, and by young Miss Silverton. Now I must - I will - prove myself worthy of that trust! All my love for all of time, B. ' "

The blonde handed the letter to Perlman and then repressed a shudder. "Oh Betty, what have you done?"

Slaughter was pressing the side of one fist tightly against his thigh. "There were hints she was considering a move like this. But I... I thought she had given up the idea."

"What do you think she's planning?" asked Silverton. "Steal Japanese diplomatic codes? Invasion plans maybe?"

"That doesn't seem likely. Okami Kagemoto may be the black sheep of his family, but I can't see him allowing that kind of espionage activity against his own country."

"But this is his doing, ain't it?" rasped out Perlman, his face darkening in repressed rage.

"I'm sure it's been in her head all night, perhaps for days now, but apparently Okami has said or done something to spur her into action."

"I don't suppose there's some way to keep her from leaving the city," said Silverton.

"Asking Mulrooney for a police cordon would mean embarrassing questions - and frankly, Betty and Okami are both clever enough to avoid it anyway. Can I see the letter, please?"

Slaughter carefully examined the front and back of the paper, then held it up to the light.

Giving it back to Perlman he asked, "See the slight tear on the upper left corner, and the other one a third of the way down on the right? Back during the war American agents would use that to signal that a delivered message was authentic."

"Kagemoto's in the business," said Perlman. "Maybe he knows that too."

"That's... possible," said Slaughter, in a tone that implied otherwise.

His bullet wounds made him groan softly as he bent down to retrieve the fallen envelope. After giving it another lengthy appraisal, he faced his partner once more.

"Leaving aside emotional considerations here, have you picked up any indications at all, any hidden messages to make you believe that Betty didn't write this note or that she didn't chose the words?"

Perlman exhaled slowly. "No."

"And neither do I. There are some chemical tests I can run on these papers, but barring some unexpected discovery there, I think we have to accept this message at face value."

"Then how do we help her?" asked Silverton.

Perlman answered before Slaughter could. "By going off to Japan, that's how!"

"Joe, it's not as simple as that. Before heading over there you'd have to decide whether or not to enter the country openly. If it's under your own name, the Kempetai would keep you under constant surveillance. And if you go in disguise, then Betty wouldn't know how to reach you when she needs you the most."

"Then what's your expert opinion?" demanded Perlman, accusation dripping from his words. "Stay here and do nothing?"

"You listen to me both of you," rasped Slaughter, surprising them with the sudden intensity in his voice. "When the Kagemotos took my children - caused their deaths - I lead an invasion force of that rock pile they call home. It was the first time in 643 years that an enemy had set foot on Japanese soil, and we drenched that island in blood from one end to the other."

Slaughter took a deep breath and the words that followed were back were his customarily calm tones. "I've done it before and will again - gladly - if a return to Kage Jima is in Betty's best interest. But it wouldn't be. All we'd accomplish there is alerting the enemy that she's planning a move against them, so they'd be on guard and she'd be in greater danger.

"Do I recommend waiting? Yes. But we certainly won't be idle. I have reliable contacts in the intelligence services of eleven different nations who can help us here, and there's another man I know with a private spy network to rival any of them."

"Pickering?" asked Perlman.

"Yes, Pickering."

Silverton held up the letter that Perlman had absently placed back in her hand. "There's a passage here. Uh... Yes. 'The only thing that takes me away now is an opportunity to serve my country, the entire world in a sense.' Do you think perhaps she's learned of some type of new invention that the Japanese have developed? A device that could threaten every other nation?"

"Well, she actually qualifies the remark about this having international implications," said Slaughter. "But still, you're on the right track there, I think. Okami is a nationalist to a certain extent, and if he has decided to work against his government, his own family here, then he's placing his personal code of conduct ahead of his patriotism."

"Which has some disturbing implications," remarked the blonde. "We seem to be dealing with a particularly dangerous type of weapon. A super-weapon if you will, that-"

"That even a ninja thinks is too terrible to be used," finished Perlman.

Slaughter inclined his head once in silent acknowledgement, then walked back to the receptionist's desk. He seated himself in front of the typewriter stand and feed a clean sheet of paper into it.

"What are you doing?" asked Silverton, walking closer.

"Preparing a coded message about Betty."

She watched as string after string of seemingly random number combinations appeared across the page. Silverton wasn't at all surprised to learn he was a fast typist, but to watch him compose and simultaneously encipher the message at the same time was a bit disconcerting.

The blonde glanced over toward the room's other detective but he was staring blankly at the sofa opposite him.

Too preoccupied to notice, she told herself. Although, after all these years together, Perlman probably isn't fazed by any of Galen's abilities anymore anyway. And at any rate, truth be told, Joey has some pretty remarkable qualities himself. I'd rather be set back down on the killing floor of that meatpacking plant again than admit it out loud, but there is a first-rate mind to go with that super-human strength of his.

Her eyes lifted to the framed documents on the wall behind him. The descriptions of his military citations and his accomplishments as a police detective extended in a row from one end of the reception area to the other.

Remarkable is probably putting it mildly. If I actually had some of the deductive reasoning on display there, maybe I could understand why he asked me of all people to read that letter from Betty...

Slaughter stood up and pulled the completed document from the typewriter. After rolling the chair back beneath the desk, he looked over to Silverton and Perlman. "It should just take a few minutes to deliver this, but I want to stress one last point before I go. Pickering will certainly be able to help us here, and my government contacts as well, but our greatest asset is still Betty herself. She's acted imprudently in going off without us like this. Obviously. But her Secret Service training will reassert itself at the proper time. Once this unknown objective of her's has been located, she will bring in the resources necessary to capture or destroy it."

"Meaning us?" asked Silverton.

Slaughter allowed himself the slightest of smiles. "Can you think of three better choices?"

Interlude for author ramblings (scroll beyond the bolded text to finish the story)

I first 'discovered' the trio of Slaughter, Silverton and Perlman about thirty years ago. Entire notebooks were filled by me in detailing story synopses (a few dozen at last count), time lines, biographical sketches, family trees, supporting cast lists, a rogue's gallery of recurring villains, even architectural floor plans, but it wasn't until the early 1990s that I got serious about properly chronicling one of their adventures. Being a painfully slow writer (and a one-finger typist at that!) it took many, many months but eventually I reached Slaughter's line "The pessimism is justified, partner" from what is now Chapter Forty.

And then I stopped cold, finally done in by the combined demands of stressful employment, new home ownership, and parenthood. Okay, so a generally lethargic nature played a role as well. The biggest culprit, I realize now however, was a lack of feedback in those pre-internet days. More on that in a moment.

Flash forward to the summer of 2007 when, as a bonding experience with my two incredibly talented daughters, I decided to try to write a fan fiction myself (hard to turn down that kind of money 8-). Well, the people over at Fan Fiction dot Net were very welcoming, and inexplicably kind with their comments, and I came to realize that while writing would never be easy for me, the effort is much more endurable if there's a chance people will actually read the final product.

And so I literally dusted off the shoebox holding those fifteen year old typewritten chapters for Manhattan Masquerade and, a mere twenty-two months later, here we are. My profound gratitude goes out to the following reviewers:

Screaming Phoenix (first in so many ways), Melissaeverlasting (who knew a Gryffindor graduate could be so good with computers?), Mr-K312, Laura Crossing, AmarettoTresses, Nemo, Sophiesix (whose talent and prolific diversity make her the Queen of this website - just being published isn't good enough, her work should be carved on the sides of mountains!), Vivaldia, Noncynic (a fellow pulp fan and the one internet author I think I'm most similar to in terms of writing style - which I hope he doesn't take as an insult and doesn't scare off the readers he richly deserves. Your Four Seasons magnum opus is my next literary stop), Lady Patriot (she OWNS the Eighteenth Century!), Unitarian Jihadist, Puerto Rican Princess, Narq, Aims80, Wrybreadspread, and finally, last but by no means least, Alix Cohen (I'm probably twice her age so why can't I put words together even half as well as she does?).

To you, and to the visitors in forty-two countries who looked in on this story and motivated me to keep the lid off that shoebox, my humble thanks.

And now the obligatory, and in this case painfully long Historical and Linguistic Notes:

The quote that Perlman rather maliciously paraphrases at the start of this chapter ("Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?") is from Christopher Marlowe's (1564 to 1593) Dr. Faustus.

'Typhoid' Mary Mallon (1869 to 1938) infected no less than 53 people with typhoid fever, some fatally, because she refused to give up her career as a cook.

Perlman originally introduced Jessica to Commissioner Mulrooney as Lucrezia Borgia back in Chapter Thirty-eight. The true Lucrezia (1480 to 1519) was reputed to be an infamous poisoner in Renaissance Italy.

Edward P. Mulrooney (1874 to 1960) is considered one of the finest police commissioners in the long history of New York City. Unlike so many 'society' leaders of the N.Y.P.D., Mulrooney worked his up through the ranks by a combination of personal courage (he was cited three times for bravery) and unquestionable integrity even during a time of widespread government corruption. Almost comically taciturn under ordinary circumstances, he was capable of mercurial rages when confronted with police malfeasance (real or implied). His pattern of speech clearly proclaimed his humble origins, but he was an insightful, quick-witted man who took a hands-on approach for troubling investigations even as head of the Department.

Irish-born John O'Brien (1867 to 1954) served an incredible forty-one years with the New York Police and once walked a beat with Mulrooney. Like his friend, O'Brien was reserved by nature, but with a calm and methodical temperament that never deserted him no matter how vexing a problem he and the Department might be confronted with.

Today's bookstores are overflowing with historical detective series and I'm certain the team of Mulrooney and O'Brien will be making an appearance in print some day.

By the way, when Jessica says she's seen the name John O'Brien in the newspapers, she meant it. The mayor of New York at the time of this story was also a John O'Brien!

Khajuraho - a complex of temples in central India which are decorated with dozens of erotic, at times even highly explicit statues.

A. E. F. - American Expeditionary Force, the official designation for the U. S. Military in World War One France.

The Wall Street bombing occurred on September 16, 1920. Thirty-eight people were killed and one hundred forty-three more wounded. Still officially unsolved some ninety years after it happened.

Stanley Walker (1898 to 1962) a Texas-born journalist who served as city editor of the New York Herald-Tribune from 1920 to 1935.

Vincent Astor (1891 to 1959) was considered to be the first member of the renowned Astor family with a strong social conscience. He was an avid supporter of Franklin Roosevelt.

The General Slocum was an excursion ship which caught fire in the East River on June 15, 1904. Out of 1,342 passengers, more than a thousand died. Patrolman Edward Mulrooney distinguished himself in the rescue efforts.

Boyar - A Russian noble, the equivalent of a Western European knight.

Greta Garbo (1905 to 1990) Swedish-born actress who achieved her greatest fame in American cinema. Most famous today for a line she spoke in 1932's Grand Hotel ("I vant to be alone.") Apparently Sophia saw the movie...

Otto Kahn (1867 to 1934) was a noted investment banker, collector, philanthropist, and yes, patron of the arts.

As noted in an earlier chapter, Holy Cross was a Catholic Church in Hell's Kitchen famous for its pastor, Francis Patrick Duffy (1871 to 1932). Father Duffy was a military chaplain with the 165th Infantry in the First World War, which also included Joe Perlman among its roster.

Sinclair Lewis (1885 to 1951) American author who's 1922 novel Babbitt took a satirical look at middle-class values in the United States.

Shaker Heights - Ohio suburb that became home to many well-to-do families after the decline of Cleveland's Euclid Avenue AKA 'Millionaire's Row'.

George Medalie (1883 to 1946) was married to Carrie Kaplan (Barnard Class of 1905) who taught Ancient Greek. The scholarly couple regularly exchanged notes written in that alphabet.

The 'energetic young man named Dewey' mentioned above was Thomas Dewey (1902 to 1971) who would go on to prosecute organized crime in New York City throughout the 1930s and 1940s. In 1948 he would come in a close second to Harry Truman in the U. S. presidential election.

Charles "Lucky" Luciano (1897 to 1962), "Dutch" Schultz, whose real name was Arthur Flegenheimer (1902 to 1935), and Louis "Lepke" Buchalter (1897 to 1944) were all members of the Combination who had their criminal careers ended by Dewey.

Kempetai - Secret police force that served the Japanese military.

The Mongols made their second and final attempt to conquer Japan in 1281 AD. Like the earlier effort in 1274 AD, it failed because of determined resistance by the Japanese and bad weather.

Kage Jima - 'kage' is the Japanese word for shadow, and 'jima' means island.

"Okay, I'm sorry if I'm coming across like a broken 78 here, but just one more time, if you please."

Okami Kagemoto's fingers tightened on the steering wheel in momentary frustration, then a resigned but apparently sincere smile came to his lips. "This is not a scheme to get you back. I will not contest the divorce. We will never again share intimacies in a husband and wifely manner. That cover things sufficiently?"

"It's a good start to this conversation," replied Betty Moravic with a satisfied nod. She paused as a delivery truck passed them on the left. The truck bed was empty but the driver still scowled at the leisurely manner in which Kagemoto was operating the Model A. Or perhaps it was his oriental features that were found objectionable.

"Is it left at the light here?" asked the Japanese.

"Yes. So this mysterious professor we're chasing, it could well be he'll have left Rome by the time we get there."

"Possibly."

"And we don't know his next destination, his nationality, or even his true name."

"That's also true."

"But you're certain of this... mission he's been entrusted with? Who he's travelling with?"

"I wish to the Gods I was wrong about it. But I'm not."

"Okami, I... This ... In all my years of intelligence work, this is the most reprehensible thing I have ever heard."

Kagemoto nodded grimly. "I reached the same conclusion after a long sleepless night. Nights actually."

"But to what end? All this has been done to ensure that there's no interference with Japan's goal of world domination?"

"Our military leaders will be content with East Asia. We're aren't British after all."

"All nations are the same when it comes to protecting their vital interests. Or punishing their enemies."

"Under the current circumstances, I could hardly argue the point," said Kagemoto softly.

"So you first learned of this... "

"Less than a month ago. And if I hadn't been dispatched to New York in search of you, I'd probably never have been told the secret at all."

"They kept it from you because you're an honorable man in a very dishonorable profession."

"In other words, a pathetic fool. Do we turn up here?"

"Yes. We're almost to... There. See the steel arch through the trees? That's Washington Bridge. When we cross it, we will have left Manhattan."

"Possibly for a very long time," said the Japanese.

"I hope you're wrong about that at least, but success matters more here than speed."

"Right. You, ah, never explained just how you ended up working with Slaughter-san. Or where you first met him."

"No, I never did. Or ever will." Moravic turned away to consider a young couple enjoying the unseasonably mild weather with a stroll through Highbridge Park. What I wouldn't give to have that be Joey and me, she thought to herself. Someday again maybe. God willing.

"More than one door has been closed between us, it appears." She did not respond and he added, "Although given what I know of your own background, I can form a reasonable theory."

Moravic refused to let herself show alarm there, but could only breathe again when he concluded, "Which I will keep to myself because of the debt of honor I owe the man."

"Galen isn't the only one racking up such a debt. If your family were to discover what we're setting out to do here... "

"They'd say I was driven to madness by an occidental she-devil."

She laughed mirthlessly. "Figure out a way to convincingly fake my death when this is all over and your mother - among many other people I could name - will be extremely happy."

"If we can actually manage to track down our quarry I'll believe anything is possible."

"A mysterious globe-trotting Eurasian academic whose appearance changes with each new locale? No, the only chance we have here is to concentrate on the... " the woman's expression twisted up with distaste, "the two future weapons of war."

"Agreed, but I only saw them once, and it was a very fleeting glimpse at that."

"Which is still more than anyone else who counts in the last nine years has had. God, almost a decade! Thousands of days of thinking one thing when actually it's something completely different. And is this surprise a good one or still worse news? I honestly don't know."

She took a calming breath before continuing. "Okami, I remember the goal here is to retrieve them without further bloodshed, but somebody needs to pay a price for this. A heavy price."

Several seconds elapsed in silence before he murmured, "That's not our agreement here."

"No. And I suppose it isn't really my call anyway." But I know who will get to make that decision when the time comes.

After they had paid the toll and were approaching the midway point of the bridge, Moravic asked, "What were they doing when you saw them?"

"Gymnastics."

"Of course. A very useful skill in their intended career. Were they... good?"

"Incredibly so. The proficiency alone should have been a clue to me." He rubbed his palm along the upper curve of the steering wheel in a thoughtful manner. "The boy never uttered a sound the whole time I was there. Just studied me with his eyes. But the girl... I've always considered myself immune to the appeal of children but she was cute. So animated. And as she performed one flawless, effortless back flip and handspring after another, she... she counted."

"In Japanese?"

"Yes. And then Mandarin. And English. And German. And Russian."

"Their handler is apparently a very efficient man," he was told with undisguised bitterness. "I'm sure martial arts training will begin soon, if it hasn't already. And marksmanship. Lockpicking. Codebreaking. Disguise. Everything they'll need to know to someday be good little secret agents for the Empire of Japan."

Moravic used a forefinger and thumb to massage eyes that were starting to sting with unshed tears. "Everything except that their father is Galen Ulysses Slaughter."

The operatives of the Greater Gotham Detective Agency will appear next in Land Of The Fallen Gods but for the immediate future at least this is

THE END

12/26/2010