The Journal of Secrets

The Journal of Secrets
By Ian De Shils (Ernest Shields)

Chapter 10

Sam Libowitz

The journal ended abruptly with an entry stamped March seventh. The earliest is November second last year, so at least the dates jibe with what's written. This is no "manuscript," per se, rather, a set of very personal memoirs I'm sure Gibson had no intention of anyone but Sanders reading. What in the world does Pete expect me to make of it? There are only a few people named whom I might have any chance in contacting. Able Carson might be one. That name rings a bell, but exactly in what context I can't recall. I'll have to research it. I know for sure it has nothing to do with the Crocker-Anglo bank. That organization has long ceased to exist. They were gobbled up in a big merger some years ago.

Stan Mead, of Bascomb, Mead and Associates might be another candidate; although, he appears to be just a business acquaintance. Outside of Adam Brown, Bill Eaasy and Jim Fisher, the rest are all first names, and the last mention of Brown was in the seventies. There's always the Devil's Own club, of course, only I can't imagine how I'd go about getting anyone to speak me. Of all the revelations on the disk, the one that startled me the most was learning of Gibson's attempt at bringing down the Gambini mob. I knew GSI was a large, powerful company, but I had no idea anyone there would have the knowledge or the where with all, or the balls, for that matter, to go after someone like Gambini.

Until recently, old man Gambini was another of those 'Teflon Dons' the government couldn't seem to touch, then suddenly the FED's started whittling away at his organization. Two of his sons and several close associates were now in prison and Gambini, attempting to stay in control, was currently caught up in a major mob war. Had Gibson's revenge brought all this about?

Without prior knowledge of Jake Sanders' mental condition, I started reading those files with the preconceived notion those two were nothing more than a pair of predatory business men out for a fast buck. Now I'm not sure. Gibson's writing gives no indication of him being a callus person, yet the news reports definitely painted him as such. Could it be Gibson's devotion to his friend and lover was so all consuming he rushed into that sale blindly. Was his abandonment of faithful employees merely an oversight? There is a heap of conflicting data here that just doesn't make sense. I'll put out some feelers, make a few phone calls and see if I can dig up more information on Gibson and Sanders. The whole thing intrigues me and besides, I did promise Pete to look into it.

* * * * * * *

June 8th 1996

Dear Pete

You're not going to believe what happened today. I had a visit from a person named on that disk, a Mr. Robert Allendale. He is Ted Gibson's best friend, Bob, the one mentioned in conjunction with Martha. You could have knocked me over with a feather. Here I make a few inquiries and two days later this guy walks in, cool as cucumber, and hands me a note from Gibson himself. As far as I can tell, its authentic. I've matched the signature with a policy Prudential carries on Gibson. I've made a copy of the note for myself and include the original with this post. After Allendale left, I did some more checking into the sale of GSI and found something startling. According to those in the know, the price paid for the company was exorbitant; almost twice its actual value. The deal included both cash and stock and I've learned much of the cash went directly to a brokerage firm in New York City where it's been rolling over ever since at a phenomenal rate of return. In your highly biased gentile vernacular, those two guys are as rich as Jews.

What I don't understand is why Gibson's statement was given to me or how Allendale learned I was checking on Gibson. I have a gut feeling something very strange is going on. Why would a man as smart as Gibson do what he claimed in that statement when a phone call would have summoned a tow truck in minutes? And where is Sanders? The statement makes no mention of him at all. Do you suppose something has happened to him? I wish I could talk to Gibson. I'd sure like to know what went on after those memoirs ended. Why don't you find out what you can about the ranch. That would be the first place I'd look for answers.

Your Pal,
Sam

* * * * * * *

Note from Gibson:

To whom it may concern 6/08/94

On March 23rd of this year, I was forced to leave a Dodge pickup along Interstate 5, south of Portland, due to an overheated engine. The next day an employee was sent to retrieve the vehicle, but found it missing. My employee had no idea what happened to the truck and being unable to contact me, just assumed other arrangements had been made. I didn't learn about this mix up until recently. My trip to Portland was merely to catch a flight to Alaska, where I've been out of communication with my staff for several weeks now. From what I understand, the plates and registration were stolen. A representative will be sent with all documentation for the truck as soon as possible and I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused.

Theodore Gibson

* * * * * * *

The Monday after I mailed Pete the statement, Winchaslaw sent me on a wild goose chase down to Needles. I don't understand that guy. With millions at stake, I couldn't get air fare to Florida, but in the middle of June when it's a hundred degrees out, I get to drive to Needles.

"See what you can do with this." he said, handing me the file on a storage building fire. The claim was for forty grand.Where the hell was the adjuster? It took me all of an hour to determine the claim was legitimate, but I stayed for two days. If he want's to play games, he can pay per diem. When I went back to the office on Thursday, there was a reply from Pete.

* * * * * * *

June/12/94

Dear Sam

The day you received that statement, I got an identical one in the mail, and I don't believe a word of it. If you noticed there wasn't a name, address or a single point of reference in whole thing. It's a dodge, Sam, and I don't mean the truck. As far as the ranch is concerned, you read my mind. I just got word back from Craig the house there no longer exists. It burned to the ground sometime in March. The marshal thinks it caught fire during a late blizzard and strong winds fanned the flames enough to consume every last combustible item. I've seen the photos. There's nothing left but stone walls and
metal trash.

The locals had no idea anyone was staying up there. The owner stopped at the post office in November, told everyone they were leaving for the winter and had their mail forwarded to California. I've checked on the forwarding address and it's a Condo in Brentwood, I'm sure the same one mentioned in the manuscript, but guess what? That Condo doesn't belong to either Gibson or Sanders. It's owned by Gates Inc., a property management company located in Ventura, CA.

Gates insists their tenants are away for the winter and refused permission for anyone to enter the premises without a search warrant. And that, you see, is exactly where Gibson's note becomes a dodge. Your local authorities can't get a search warrant without a reasonable assumption of foul play or some illegal activity, and what do we have to go on? One abandoned pickup with an untraceable VIN. With Gibson's statement now on file we can no longer claim to be investigating a disappearance and that was exactly how I first presented this case to them.

I'm sorry to say your tip on Allendale only adds to the mystery. Surprise, surprise, both he and his wife are now gone, supposedly on an extended vacation outside the country. But get this, the name Robert Allendale shows up on the board of Gates Inc. If only we had some hint of illegal activity to go on, things might get rolling. As it is, if Gibson or his cohorts come forth with proper paperwork on the vehicle, the VIN number thing will be blamed on some screw up at Chrysler. And, as you well know, to a Judge, that would carry about as much weight as tearing the tag off a mattress. Chrysler would need to turn up a slug of similar cases to get the FED's involved and at this point, a federal investigation is what it would take to get into that apartment or into Gibson's bank records. Who would've thought one little note could bring everything to a screeching halt.

Keep up the good work, Sam, so far you're the only one who has come up with any leads. There's just one more thing you could do for me. See if you can locate the Harris'. The post office claims mail sent to that address is being picked up regularly, but no one recalls seeing them.

Your pal,
Pete

P.S. I found a new fishin' hole, old buddy, and I guarantee you're in for a real treat this summer.

* * * * * * *

I made a several phone calls attempting to trace the Harris', all without success, and then sent off a few written requests for information. I was trying to corroborate certain portions of the journal. Of course, I could just take everything written at face value, but it's nice to know for sure. I was wasting company time listening to the news reports about a shocking double murder, when my boss, Western's biggest time waster, (and waste of time), came to a boil again over the phone bills. He dragged out last months statement and for the next twenty minutes, grilled me. I finally agreed to pay for the calls I made, gave Winchaslaw twenty bucks and sent him on to his next victim. Does the man think we're idiots? Every month its the same old thing; a shake down over the phone bill. As sure as I sit here, Western never sees a dime of that money. It's Winchaslaw's own little scam pulled on a room full of people who see through it like water; yet, who continue to divvy up as if our jobs depended on it. Of course, maybe they do.

For the next few days I just idled along, knocking off small claims, mostly approving them. The little stuff slides through without much effort, even when we're quite sure the claim is fraudulent. It's simply a matter of money. Adjusters and investigators are a far cheaper commodity than lawsuits and lawyers. If a claim is for five grand or less, it's usually approved. The only thing I watch for are repeaters, the same person having the same accident time after time. Nowadays, it's easy to keep track of such things. A computer can match claimants and accident types, as well as witnesses, the lawyers involved, all pertinent details of a case and will spit out the profile of a claim in a matter of minutes. It doesn't often make headlines, but for some lawyers, small time fraud has become big time business. Thirty-five percent of five grand doesn't sound like much until you repeat it ten or twelve times a week. Then it becomes a million dollar a year business.

I spoke to Pete a couple of times, phoning him from home. The guys at the office have decided to give Winchaslaw a major let down next month. No more personal long distance calls traceable to anyone in our department. Gee, I certainly hope he can make his car payment without our help.

Like me, Pete hadn't learned anything new. I was getting frustrated. My written requests to Bakersfield were as yet unanswered and my local sources had gone as dry as sand. It was like trying to bail water from the Los Angeles River in July. Lot's of extraneous junk turned up, but nothing to float an idea on. I hate it when a case comes to a dead end. A puzzle unsolved is something I can't tolerate, it preys on my mind. I suppose that's what makes me a good insurance investigator, but sometimes it damn near drives me crazy. When I didn't hear anything noteworthy from my sources, I took a Saturday afternoon and drove to Brentwood attempting to locate the Harris'. I really didn't want to go near the place, the recent double murder there turned that normally quiet area into a circus. Luckily, where I was headed was a good mile from all the hoopla.

Again frustration. The condo manager was about as well informed as a fence post and just about as talkative, "Yes" and "No" seemed to be the full extent of his vocabulary.

"No, no one was living in the apartment, they're on vacation for the winter. "

When I pointed out that it was now closing in on the end of June, he shrugged. When I asked if the Harris' received mail at that address, again he shrugged, only this time he added,

"How the hell would I know?" He seemed to have a short fuse and only moments later began bristling at my questions.

"Look, fella, I'm new, besides, I just work here, I don't know any of these people and I don't know nothing about 'em. If you want information you call Gates, they're the ones who sign my paycheck!"

It sounded convincing enough, but as I was walking down the drive, I heard a door open and a woman's voice exclaim,

"Oh, Paul, thank goodness. would you give me a hand with this, please?"

"Why, certainly, Mrs. Eldridge. Why didn't you call me? This is my job! How are you feeling today?"

Gone was the surly voice, along with the impression he knew nothing of the tenants. Of course that didn't mean he knew Gibson or Sanders. If he really was new at the job, then he likely never met them. On the other hand, Gates was connected to Allendale and Allendale was one of Gibson's oldest friends. Just how deep did that connection really go? Did Gibson and Sanders have a vested interest in Gates, or did they merely lease the condo as a favor to Allendale? Damn, I wish that journal held more detailed business specifics. I was now running on pure supposition with absolutely nothing new to tell Pete, and to top it off, I just wasted an entire afternoon I could have spent with the twins.

Monday and Tuesday brought a few tidbits of information, nothing earthshaking, but the newspaper gave me a thing or two to think about. The front page was entirely devoted to the gory murders in Brentwood, but on page five I discovered something far more interesting to me. The mobster Gambini had been gunned down in Miami and the killer or killers made a clean getaway.

I decided not to write Pete this week. I'd be seeing him in a few days anyway, but I knew if he learned anything important, he'd call me.

* * * * * * *

June 27th 1994

Dear Pete

I'm sorry to say I still have nothing to report. It looks as though Allendale turned out to be my one and only lead. The Harris' have disappeared all right and I can't state for sure if they ever stayed at the Brentwood condo. The building manager is new and you know how things are down here. You can live next door to someone for years and never know their name. I have heard from people who knew both Gibson and Sanders and so far not a bad word against either of them. From what I'm told, both were hard working individuals, well liked, generous with their employees and friends, and big contributors to children's charities. One thing I learned was GSI is still maintaining the same level of contributions to the very same charities as when Gibson and Sanders owned it. Of course that could be part of the sales agreement, but it does seem strange. New owners usually want to set their own agenda for such things.

Another thing I found out was the Devil's Own motorcycle club disbanded quietly some eight or nine years ago and no one seems to know what became of the former members. They just faded into the woodwork.

I suppose you've read about the New Jersey gangster, Gambini, getting bumped off in Miami the other day. According to Gibson's disk, his run in with the old crook was some three years ago, but I have a hunch it was Gibson's prodding that actually finished Gambini. If you'll remember, it was about that time Gambini lost his nonstick coating and the government started filing charges that held. Admittedly, I don't know much about mobsters, but I do know a bit about human nature. When he became vulnerable to the government, he also became fair game to his enemies. Let a leader like Gambini start loosing it and you' ll have a dozen more, ready and willing to take his place.

The only good thing about a Mafia war, besides getting rid of a few undesirables, is they bump each other off so neatly. They're quite unlike the punks from the barrios down here who go around shooting anything that moves. We had another drive by last night, this time, three little kids were shot as they played on the sidewalk. One child died later. I tell you, Pete, people are getting mad enough to string those punks up from nearest light pole. Someday it's going to happen, mark my words. Someone will pull that shit, then have a car accident or breakdown and the neighborhood will get to them before cops do. I don't suppose it would stop the shootings, but it certainly would be poetic justice.

I was going to ask if the pickup had been claimed yet, but don't bother writing, I'll see you in person in a few days. We're leaving on the thirtieth to beat the fourth of July traffic. Oh, by the way, Cindy received a letter from Betty yesterday stating you, Tubby Evert, have been working out and lost fifty pounds. Well, guess what? That's about how much I've put on since we last saw each other. I'm no longer the skinny Jew boy you once knew. It must have something to do with turning thirty-five. Hey, maybe for the next thirty-five, you'll be able to hide behind a mop handle and I'll need the barn door. I'll see you in a few days, Pal. Give all my love to Betty,

Sam

* * * * * * *

We arrived at Pete's house mid-morning, then spent the rest of the day with Betty. Pete still had some last minute official business to clear up before starting his vacation. That evening, Pete took us to McDonalds for dinner. The kids loved it, but I couldn't help empathizing with Jake Sanders reported aversion to fast food. I prefer lighter fare myself.

Pete really has slimmed down. He was positively svelte and proud as a peacock as he strutted before us showing off his new, firmer physique. I'm happy for him, he's battled that paunch for years, but whether this new look lasts or not is another question. Pete has a genuine propensity for such things as Big Mac's and fries.

The next morning, Pete and I loaded the gear, rounded up the twins and headed out for ten days of roughing it in the back country; that is, if being sheltered by a $50,000 motor home can be considered 'roughing it'. As always, Cindy and Betty declined to share the experience. I can't speak for Betty, but Cindy's idea of a vacation is ten days of shopping, leisurely visiting with old friends and not once having to arbitrate an argument between a pair of rambunctious ten year old boys.

The fishing was by far the best we ever encountered, in fact it was too good. If the kids wet a hook, they caught a fish and then insisted on keeping everything they landed. It became quite a battle teaching them to be selective. Nights we sat around the campfire, telling tall tales, allowing the boys to stay up as late as they wanted, but every night around ten-thirty, we carried two tuckered out little fellows to bed. Pete and I would then go back outside with a couple of beers and reminisce about old times. Eventually, the talk turned to the abandoned truck as well as the revelations from the disk.

"You sure don't carry the same prejudice your old man did." Peter said, "The fact those guys are queer, doesn't bother you at all, does it? I guess living down in LA - LA Land, you've known more fags than I've ever met."

"Are you insinuating something, or just pulling my leg? Hell, there has to be a big gay population right there in Portland. Do you mean to tell me in your line of work, you never bumped into any of them?"

"Sure I do, but that's different. The ones I meet are in trouble with the law and usually end up being pretty unsavory characters. No, what I meant to say was you probably know a few of the everyday kind, perhaps someone you work with. I don't know a soul like that."

"Sure you do,--- there's Al."

"Al who?"

"Al Zatocny!" Pete's voice carried a completely shocked tone as he retorted, "Big Al? You're crazy!"

"Does the phrase, 'A Three Dollar Bill,' hold any meaning for you?"

"You can't make me believe that! Why, we were the 'Roving Four,' you, me, Al and Billy Akins, and you're telling me Big Al's a fairy? Who's pulling whose leg!"

"Honest to God! Al lives in Santa Maria now, I saw him just last April. He's a partner in an antique shop that's doing very well. He said they were thinking of expanding."

"They? Whose his partner?" Pete asked.

"A fellow by the name of Tim Wakefield. He seems nice enough, smart, well connected, and believe me, he is definitely Al's love interest. Al as much as said so."

"I can't believe it! Why, Al got us out of more scrapes than I can count. He'd crawl out of that little Corvair, unfold to about the size of King Kong, and all those guys egging for a fight would suddenly remember a previous engagement. How long have you known about him?"

"Only since April, but I think Billy figured it out a long time ago. Remember his prediction when Al married Laura? He said it wouldn't last six months and he was right on the mark."

"I always thought it was Al's mother who broke it up. She was forever sticking her nose in and Laura once told me she couldn't stand the old broad. When she died I hoped Al and Laura would get back together again, but he just sold everything and moved south. God, I haven't talked to Al in five or six years."

"Well, you'll get your chance this Fall. He coming up to attend the class reunion in September. As a matter of fact, I ask him ride up with us. You're going, aren't you?"

"Of course." Pete said, as he stood up. He began pacing about, kicking pebbles aimlessly, "I just won't know what to say to Al when we meet. Are you absolutely sure about this?"

"Damnit, Pete,--- if I had any idea you'd be so upset, I wouldn't have mentioned it. Al hasn't changed, he's exactly the same guy as always. Look, if he suddenly took up knocking over liquor stores, I could understand you backing off, but not over this! He's an old friend. How he lives his life in no way reflects on you or me, and if he's happy, then we should be glad he found happiness and not worry about who he found it with."

Pete chewed on it for awhile before he answered, "I suppose you're right. Only the thought of it takes some getting used to. He's such a big bruiser, I just can't visualize it. What about this fellow, Tim, what's he like?

"Well, he's a lot smaller man than Al, but then, who isn't? He's around thirty, maybe five-ten or so, and like I said, he seems like a nice guy. You don't have to worry, if Al brings him alone, he won't embarrass anyone."

"Jesus,--- we all grew up together. Al is the last man on earth I'd figure for that. I guess you never really know a person, deep down. Not even your friends."

"Sure you do, Pete, at least in all the ways that matter. Remember when you broke your leg? Al carried you a good two miles though some of the roughest damn county I ever saw. Billy and I could hardly keep up with him. You know, he got banged up in that fall, too, but the only thing he could think of was getting you to a doctor. Now,--- let me ask you,--- doesn't that tell you something about the man,--- deep down? Doesn't that tell you something about friendship? What more do you need to know?"

Pete stopped pacing and stood looking down at me.

"Sam, you always were smart and maybe you see things a little clearer than the rest of us, but how the hell did you get to be so liberal? Your old man would have shit a brick if he knew about Al."

"My Dad was a great guy and if you'll recall, he was fairly liberal himself about everything except homosexuality. I never knew why he had that hang up, but remember, as a boy, he barely survived three years in a German concentration camp and who knows what happened to him there. My Dad taught me a lot of things, but mostly he taught me to weigh the good against the bad in everything, and not jump to conclusions or fall for bullshit rhetoric. He must have been a pretty good teacher, because in the end, the homophobia remained just his hang up, not mine."

"I remember once when he wasn't so liberal." Pete snorted, "The time he caught us swiping his cigars. He made us smoke two each, right down to the butt. God, I was never so sick in my life!" we shared a good laugh.

"Me, too, but neither of us took up smoking afterwards. Aren't you glad?"

Smiling, Pete kicked the fire open, poured the last of his beer on the few remaining embers, then abruptly sat down again. I could see he was still having trouble accepting the news about Al. After the accident, Pete imbued Al with a kind of hero status and was now suffering from what is known as the 'feet of clay' syndrome. He'd get over it. Pete has an infinite capacity for bouncing back, which is after all, almost a prerequisite for a politician. At first, I was sorry for shattering his image of Al. Now I was glad it was me he heard it from and not someone else.

"Just remember one thing, Pete. Al is the same guy he always was. The only difference is in our perception of him. He hasn't changed so there's no reason for us to change in our attitude or our feelings for him."

"I understand that, but I still won't know what to say to him. How do you talk about something like that?"

"It's not likely to come up in conversation, so why say anything? At least now you know what topics to avoid. If he brings it up, fine, but for God's sake don't tell him I told you first. He's my friend, too, and I don't want him thinking I'm traipsing about the country reporting on him to everyone I meet."

Pete mulled it over for a few more minutes, still absorbing it, but finally the tension seemed to fade.

"You're right, Sam. I guess there's no real reason we'd have to talk about it. We'll just reminisce about old times and I promise I won't say a word." Then slowly a little grin touched his lips as he added, "Unless, of course, he asks me to dance,. . ."

The fishing remained good, the days clear and beautiful. We ended up staying longer than planned. The boys were having such a great time I hated bringing it to an end, but finally the clock ran out and we had to get back. We couldn't even stay in town overnight, just pulled in at Pete's long enough to take a quick shower and pick up Cindy before hitting the road back to L.A. We were almost to the state line when Cindy remembered she left a package in Betty's car and for the next few hundred miles, complained bitterly about me always rushing her. I kept my mouth shut, carefully avoided the fact that she regularly forgot things even when not rushed, although staying quiet on that point did take a bit of tongue biting.

The morning after we got back, I received a call from Pete. He told me while we were off fishing, Jake Sanders and his lawyer picked up the truck. They also presented a specific court order for the disk. From what I read of Sanders in the journal, it didn't seem likely he'd be up to handling that kind of business. I thought it might have been someone impersonating him, but Pete assured me it was, indeed, Sanders, and then added, that for all practical purposes, the case was closed and I could forget about it.

At work, the next morning, I found several new items on my desk, all of them replies from inquiries I made before going on vacation. Scanning them, I ran across a couple of eye openers and whether Pete likes it or not, I've decided to follow up a bit longer. That evening, I tried calling Pete, but he and Betty had gone to Seattle for a law enforcement conference and wouldn't be back for several days, so instead, I wrote to him, setting down my thoughts.

* * * * * * *

July 18th 1994

Dear Pete

It seems a remarkable coincidence the day after we left on our fishing trip, Gibson's lawyer and a man claiming to be Sanders show up to collect both the truck and the disk. I'm still not convinced the man was Sanders, but even so, how did they know you had the disk? I mean, you didn't advertise the fact, and you told me yourself only a few people knew the contents. I don't want to ring your bell, old buddy, but if I were you, I'd start looking for the blabber mouth in your department.

Gibson and Sanders must certainly have some powerful friends to come up with a court ordered release for the disk the instant your officers demanded it. The thing is, if they were going to play hard ball with court orders and such, why wait until you were out of town? My guess is they didn't want to deal with you directly. Maybe they figured your men would be easier to handle. I'll bet they wouldn't have shown those court papers at all if they could've bluffed their way through without them.

It's strange, call it a gut feeling if you will, but they strike me as being extremely well prepared minimalists who exert the least amount of effort necessary to achieve their goals. At no time have they done anything in a hurry or used more than the slightest nudge here and there to get it accomplished. What intrigues me is not what was done, but why? The truck is merely the tip of the iceberg and you can bet something happened at that ranch other than just an accidental fire.

When I got back here, I found a couple of replies to inquiries I sent out last month. One was a report on Abel Carson. I knew that name was familiar. Hell, he's been on the cover of News Week! Steven Abel Carson owns Delphi Investments, the New York brokerage firm. It's the same place where the lion's share from the sale of GSI ended up. According to the report, Carson and his Delphi Fund are a class act, solid grade A all the way. Since Carson, Gibson and Sanders all belong to the same 'club', I guess this is a logical arrangement, but remember, there was a tremendous amount of money involved in that sale and Carson seems to be handling almost all of it.

The other report is a genuine mystery all in itself. I was trying to trace the Harris' by tracing the truck and it seems that late last February, a young man was killed while in the process of stealing gas from a Ford Bronco. Yep, it was the same one belonging to Jake Sanders. Evidently, Lonnie Harris dropped the Bronco off for normal maintenance at one of those overnight service facilities, (his name was on the authorization sheet). When they finished with it, sometime after midnight, the mechanic parked it in the lot.

The report is sketchy but it seems that around three A.M., two guys snuck into the lot. One fellow stood guard while the other crawled underneath the truck to cut the fuel line and the whole thing went up like a roman candle. The police called it a gasoline explosion for lack of better evidence, but it does seem rather intense for that kind of accident. It totally demolished the truck and several nearby cars. The thing is, that with more than a dozen cars to choose from, why single out Jake Sander's Bronco? Was the guy really trying to steal gas as his accomplice claims, or was he setting some device that blew up in his face? My intuition tells me it's the latter. Movie magic aside, gasoline burns far more often than it explodes.

If it was a bomb, the question remains, who was the intended target? Remember, this happened a full four months after the Harris' came to L.A. and after that length of time, I can't picture anyone confusing Gibson with young Lonnie Harris. The only reasonable explanation I can come up with is that someone was after the Harris' and if so, it leaves us with several distinct possibilities. One, the Harris's got mixed up in something that has nothing to do with Gibson and Sanders. (It's entirely possible, coincidences do happen.) Two, Gibson's friends were trying to get rid of the Harris' for some unknown reason. (Admittedly not a very likely circumstance, unless of course, the Harris' found out something they weren't supposed to know. After all, they did have access to the condo.) Or three, the Harris' told Gibson's enemies where the two men were staying and subsequently those people wanted no witnesses hanging around to testify against them.

I guess what throws me off from all these theories is I just can't see Gibson as the despicable character former associates would hate. His journal doesn't indicate that at all, and besides, the time frame, the opportunity and the reasons for revenge seem all wrong. According to the disk, Gibson sold GSI in late October or November, but I distinctly remember it as being sometime in March when he and Sanders were first vilified on TV. That was well beyond the point where it would do anyone any good to bump them off, either emotionally or otherwise. Pissed off ex-employees don't sit around and plot for five or six months. They grab a gun and do the job instantly.

No, I think we are missing something by a wide margin. It may very well go back to the money aspect of the sale such as who gets what if both men die. That sale was private and so far I haven't learned the details of that agreement. When we last spoke, you told me to back off on this, but I've got an idea. I'll bet Gibson doesn't know I have a copy of his journal. I'm going to send a letter to Allendale's address with an offer to return it, but only if Sanders and Gibson will agree to see me. I've just got to meet those guys, they've taken up almost three months of my life.

I'll let you know if I ever actually meet either one of them. More than likely, they'll simply send a lawyer around with a court order for the disk, but its worth a shot. Maybe by September I'll have something further to tell you. By the way, Cindy is all ready making reunion plans. She says she has to lose eight pounds and that means I'll be living on salads until she does. Oh, and while I'm on the subject, Al is riding up with us. A message from him was on the answering machine when we got back. I don't know if Tim will be with him or not. Al is supposed to call Sunday and let us know for sure. I guess it depends if they can find someone to run the store for a few days. I guess that's all for now. Thanks again for a wonderful vacation, Pete, we had a great time.

Take care of yourself,
Sam

P.S. There's one last thing I need to mention. Cindy left a package in Betty's car and evidently, its all my fault. Please ship it to her. I'm tired of bunking down with the twins.

* * * * * * *

I got busy on my letter to Allendale, sent it off and only three days later received a phone call from Australia. The U. S. Postal Service could learn a thing or two from these people.

They granted my interview, but it would have to wait until Gibson and Sanders returned to California; probably, sometime in late September. I would be notified a few days in advance. The man on the phone was friendly, business like, and sounded nothing at all like Allendale.

The rest of July slipped by without incident, as did August. Oh, there were a few minor tremors, but after all, this is California. To those in my department, the biggest event of the summer, besides the constant T.V. coverage of the worlds lengthiest pretrial hearing, was watching Winchaslaw slowly go crazy as we each pulled out our phone logs and accounted for every last long distance call. I thought the man was going to cry.

September finally arrived. I broke out the motor home again, stocked it carefully and made absolutely sure nothing was forgotten this time. Cindy packed the boys off to her sister for a few days, and we leisurely drove up 101 on our way to pick up Al and Tim. Cindy had been less than thrilled on learning Al was bringing a friend along. Al was okay, he was an old buddy, but Cindy was more than a little uncomfortable at the thought of a total stranger sharing our cramped quarters. It wasn't until I fully explained the situation that she relented.

Perhaps it's not so surprising she accepted Tim with such grace and charm, after all, her favorite hairdresser, Armond, walks only on his tippee toes. I swear, that guy is more effeminate than Cindy, and almost as cute. A real tribute to modern plastic surgery.

Since we had the time, we tooled up the Coast road to Monterey before turning inland. Interstate 5 is an okay highway, but damned boring in the south. Above Frisco it gets much prettier, but nothing this side of Heaven can compare to the Coast road on a sunny September day.

Tim turned out to be a fine fellow. He not only had an extensive knowledge of antiques, but a broad range of other interests as well; however, it was his quick wit and fine sense humor, that soon endeared him to Cindy. They fell into a regular gabfest that lasted the entire trip. I liked him immediately, he carried himself with calm assurance of his own worth and displayed a quiet demeanor. While casting no aspersions on Armond, I'm really not all that comfortable around truly flamboyant people. Tim was more my speed, a down to earth sort of guy, much like Al in that respect.

Since there were four drivers available, we decided to forge straight on through to Oregon City. Cindy and I grabbed a few hours sleep, then about One A.M., took over the driving chores. An hour later, we were sipping coffee and talking quietly, thinking Al and Tim asleep.

"Tim is such interesting person and so sweet," Cindy remarked, "What do you suppose he sees in big old Al?"

From the rear came Al's good natured rumble, "I heard that, Cindy, If you're going to talk behind my back, at least wait until I'm out of earshot."

Then, Tim spoke up, "You'd be surprised, Cindy. At times Al has some very winning ways." We heard a muffled snort, followed a bit of thrashing about, "Unfortunately,---" He added, laughingly, "right now, doesn't appear to be one of them. "

"Oh, you guys! Go to sleep!" Cindy ordered, blushing brightly enough to be seen even by the dim light of the instrument panel.

We arrived in Portland a full day ahead of schedule. Cindy took off with Betty to pick up some last minute items, while Al, Tim and I drove across town to meet Pete for a drink. True to his word, Pete avoided bringing up the subject of Al's sexual orientation, but for the first half hour continued to view Tim with a jaundiced eye. Eventually mellowing, he actually began speaking to the man and a short time later they were swapping stories like old acquaintances. Pete's natural gregariousness fired by Tim's sense of humor finally won the day.

Tim was amazed to hear of Al toting Pete miles through the wilderness, but was even more surprised at learning of Al's past as a teen aged tough. "Al?" He kept repeating as if he couldn't believe the stories he heard. Finally the talk turned to the thing that had been preying on my mind for months. Like me, Pete had learned nothing new about Gibson and Sanders, but he was extremely wary of my upcoming interview.

"You just give them that disk and get the hell out of there, especially if it appears either one are not who they claim to be. And for God's sake, don't agree to meet them at a place of their choice, you pick the spot, and make sure it's during daylight hours. I don't like it at all, why not simply mail the disk and be done it?"

"You know me better than that. I'd wonder about it for the rest of my life. I never could stand loose ends and if there's any chance of finding out what happened at that ranch, I'm willing to go for it. But I promise, old buddy, I'll be careful."

The reunion's only disappointment was not seeing Billy Akins. His sister, Angie informed everyone he was in Spokane on business, but Pete told us the real reason. Billy was in jail again for back child support. Poor Billy, in the fifteen years since high school, he's been married four times, fathered six kids and the only thing he has to show for it is support payments large enough to float a small country. Evidently, Ted Gibson never knew anyone like Billy when he stated it was easier being heterosexual than gay.

Al decided to take up a collection. It was nice gesture by an old friend; although, I don't think the five hundred bucks will help Billy much. From what Pete says, Billy owes something akin to the national debt.

The trip home was uneventful except for our promising to spend Thanksgiving in Santa Maria with Al and Tim. We really should see more of our friends. Time has a way of slipping by unnoticed and as my father used to say, "In the end, all we have is our memories. Make sure you store up lots of good ones."

At Gibson and Sanders request, our meeting took place at their Brentwood condo. It was, however, nearing midday so despite Pete's earlier warning I felt safe enough. The two impressed me with their down to earth hospitality, and they did everything they could to put a stranger at ease. They also seemed completely unperturbed by my forced interview which was somewhat baffling. Had things been reversed, I'm sure I would have been far less hospitable.

Both were trim, handsome men nearing fifty, yet they retained a youthful vigor that made them appear much younger. Gibson was quite fair with a weathered look about the eyes you notice more in blond people. Sanders was a bit larger man, muscular, curly haired, slightly balding and deeply tanned. Both were very like the descriptions given in Gibson's journal.

Jake Sanders had made a complete recovery as far as I could see. He was very outgoing and likable while Ted Gibson was a bit more reserved. It was Sanders who finally brought up the subject of the interview.

"What exactly do you want to know?" he asked.

"Everything," I replied, "especially about what happened at the ranch in Colorado. "

Sanders face clouded with distaste as he said flatly, "Gambini happened." Then glancing at his partner he smiled, "Ted was extremely cautious when he went after him, but I guess someone in the FBI suffers from a loose lip. At least that's our assumption. Sometime last Fall, Gambini learned GSI set him up. It didn't take him long to figure out who the real force was behind all his problems and Ted immediately became number one on his shit list. The thing was, our friends became alarmed when they discovered Gambini making inquiries and quickly pressed their offer to buy us out. They figured if we were away on a long trip, they would have time to defuse the situation." Interrupting, I asked,

"When you say, 'friends,' do you mean the 'Brotherhood'?"

"Yes," he answered, "but at the time of the sale, Ted wasn't aware of the threat from Gambini. Our friends never mentioned it, they thought Ted had enough to worry about."

"But why such an exorbitant offer? The buy-out was, perhaps, twice the current value of GSI."

"Look, Mr. Libowitz, there's a lot about the inner workings of the Brotherhood I'm not free to discuss. Lets just assume they hurried the sale along by paying for the potential value of the company and let it go at that."

I didn't argue the point, nor voice my suspicion that much of the proceeds from that sale ended up back in the hands of the Brotherhood. I guess if your checks never bounce, it matters very little how much money you actually control.

"So, how did the mob locate the ranch? According to the journal, only the Harris' knew you were there."

"That's true, and that information nearly cost them their lives. Gambini's men mistook them for Ted and me and made one attempt with a car bomb before discovering their error. Later, they trapped them here in this very apartment and got the location of the ranch. The Harris' would be dead now if not for our friends. They got here in the nick of time and while it no longer shows, this place saw quite a battle. Unfortunately, our friends were also unaware of our location because at that moment, the Harris' were in no condition to tell them. By the time they could, it was too late. The hit men were on us." Sanders paused for a moment, then turned to Gibson.

"Why don't you tell him what happened at the ranch, I was in one of my foggy periods and don't remember much until the shooting started."

"Well," Gibson said, "along about four in the afternoon, a report came over the radio of an approaching storm. It looked like we were in for another dose of winter, not that it mattered much to me, but Jake was anxious to do a bit of hiking. The snow had been going fast for several days, so Jake decided to walk down past the corrals and back before the storm struck. It's perhaps a mile round trip up and down a fairly steep slope. I figured he'd be gone for at least half an hour, but in less than five minutes he was back, saying there was someone down in the valley on snowmobiles and they seemed to be coming up the mountain.

The valley is about four miles from where the house stood and when snow is on the ground, the road upward is invisible. I think they missed the house on the first pass, maybe even got lost, because it was near seven o'clock when they came back down the mountain. The house was built against a rise and difficult to see when everything is covered with snow. Of course, by then, the lamps were lit and they found us instantly.

I cracked the door to just enought to see who our visitors were, when someone opened up with an automatic and nearly took my head off. I dropped to the floor. In the time it took me to kick the door shut, Jake grabbed up a hunting rifle, slapped a clip in place and cut loose with a 30/30, shooting through the closed door. I think he got one of them, at least wounding him. There was a hell of a commotion outside, a lot of cussing and they scattered, laying down a barrage of gunfire as they went."

Ted cleared his throat while I sat on the edge of my seat waiting for him to continue. Instead, he reached into a drawer, extracted a photograph and handed it to me.

"This was taken right after Harris' rebuilt the house. As you can see, the windows on the ground floor were tiny and set high on the wall, relics from the 1860's. All Dan did was dress them up a bit. Upstairs it was a different matter. Those windows were large, accessible and completely open to attack. We barricaded the front door, killed the lights and waited. The only back door to the place opened into a cave with no exit from there.

While it was obvious we couldn't keep them from getting in through the second story windows, the stairway down emptied directly into a small entry hall. They would never get past that as long as the ammo held out. The wind was picking up. It was whistling in the eaves and I think the men outside were getting nervous about the storm. I heard someone yell,

"Let's get on with this, I'm freezing my ass off."

A few minutes later, first one then another of the upstairs windows came crashing in and we got ready for an assault, only we saw flames instead. They weren't coming in, they intended to drive us out. Again, Jake was moving with the same speed and precision as before, only this time he began grabbing up stuff by the armful and rushing it to the cave."

"At first I couldn't figure out what he was doing. We were trapped. The only way out was through the front door and that was sure death. Going to the cave would only forestall things. Jake made trip after trip, scooping up curios and bric-a-brac as though they were the most precious things in the world. Finally, I thought if we were going to die anyway, perhaps we could save some of those things. I grabbed the journals from the library and my laptop, then helped Jake remove as much of the other stuff as we could.

I don't believe we had more than eight or ten minutes before the stairway came crashing down, but in that time we cleared the ground floor of everything but books and heavy furniture. We even got a few of the smaller chests and cabinets into the cave before the smoke got to us. The last thing we did was seal the cave door as tightly as possible, wetting it down with water from the spring and packing wet sand along the bottom.

There was a pile of rock just inside, left over, I suppose from the time when the cave front was originally stoned up, and we used those to fill the casement directly behind the wooden door. We worked like madmen, alternately sloshing water on the door and stacking stones until we succeeded in closing the entry, but moments later the door burst into flame and smoke came pouring in through gaps in the rocks.

All the time we worked, we could hear the house crashing down as sections of the upstairs floor gave away, then a thunderous roar as the roof and upper side walls came down and after that, just the roaring of flames accented by exploding cans from the pantry. Personally, I thought we were done for. The smoke was so thick I couldn't catch a breath. It even put out the lantern, but Jake dragged me up to the spring and we lay with our faces practically in the water and just above it was an inch or so of fresh air.

The fire didn't last long, the wind whipped it along and it burned out in about an hour. Near the end, those same gaps between the rocks that let the smoke in, drew it out like a chimney. Soon, the air cleared enough for us to crawl off and catch some sleep and by morning it was completely gone except for the slightly scorched smell which I think came mostly from us." Gibson paused a moment.

"You know,--- the strangest thing was, for that whole night I never realized Jake was back to the present. I guess I was so worked up and exhausted, it never dawned on me. When we awoke, daylight was peeking around the rocks in the doorway, so I got up and immediately started pulling down the stones, but Jake stopped me. He heard the sound of a chopper off in the distance.

"Hold on a minute,' he said, "Lets see who's coming late to the barbecue."

It bowled me over, I looked at his soot streaked face and saw something I hadn't seen in days, his old grin. Believe me, after that last episode, I had no intention of bringing up any more past histories. In fact I was almost afraid to say anything, but I sure was glad he was back again. The noise outside got louder and we turned our attention to the chopper as it landed in the yard. A few minutes later we heard two men arguing."

"Well,--- there was only one door and they never came through it, but if you want to sift the ashes for bones, be my guest. You tell Gambini the contract is now half finished. I want the money agreed on deposited at once, and no more bullshit. That other thing was just Gambini's fantasy. It had nothing to do with the original deal. So, he didn't get a heart! Tough shit! I'm calling Zurich in the morning and my five million better be in that account." The other man replied,

"I'd be cautious about threatening Gambini if I were you, he won't take kindly to it."

"Ha! You tell that fat Ginnie if my money isn't there when I call, he'd better watch his ass. I don't take kindly to being stiffed!"

They left a few minutes later and we dug our way out only to find the bathtub covering the doorway. The odd thing is, the bathroom was originally at the other end of the house; yet, it fell on end directly in front of the cave entrance. When we crawled out, we saw just how fortunate that was. By replacing the tub exactly where it landed, you couldn't see the entrance from any angle. It was an absolutely amazing and a very lucky coincidence because I don't believe our hasty rock work would have fooled anyone."

"How did you get off the mountain?" I asked, "Isn't the ranch a long way from the nearest town?"

"You're damn right, it is. Moffat is the closest place and that's nearly thirty miles. We hung around the cave that whole day thinking there might still be someone watching, but no one came prowling about. The next morning we took off for Moffat. I suppose we could've stayed in that cave until spring. There was still about half a ton of fresh root vegetables in the bins and the cave was warm enough, but we were worried about how extensive that contract was. Jake had the foresight to grab our coats when we cleared out the downstairs, otherwise, we wouldn't have survived that trip. After the storm, it was bitterly cold.

We fussed about that day, burying the small stuff we'd saved in a dry, sandy area of the cave floor and stacking the rest out of sight in a side passage. We filled up on as many raw carrots and potatoes as we could stand and just rested. The next morning we left carrying more potatoes and a couple of bed rolls made out of a few large Indian rugs tied with binder twine. We found some work gloves and a canteen in the corral shed and luckily our coats had hoods, but believe me, it was no picnic. Damn, it was cold.

I don't think we traveled more than eight or ten miles that first day, the snow was hip deep in most places. At sundown we burrowed into the snow, snuggling up together wrapped in our Indian rugs and got through the night, if not comfortable, at least unfrostbitten. The temperature must have dropped to fifteen below that night. The next morning the sun came out, it warmed up considerably and the lower we went the less snow we had to contend with. By ten A.M. we were making good time and about three-thirty in the afternoon we came to a paved road, State 13. We missed Moffat completely and walked a few extra miles, but from there we had no trouble catching a ride into Hamilton where we could get to a phone." Gibson seemed to pause and Sanders stood up.

"I'm getting thirsty." he said, "Would you like something to drink, Mr. Libowitz? Ted?

"Whatever you're having will be fine." I replied, but he surprised me by bringing back plain water.

Gibson saw the look on my face and laughed, "Jake's the literal sort, just be glad he wasn't thirsty for one of his chili pepper and Tabasco concoctions."

Jake chuckled self-consciously, "I'm sorry, Mr. Libowitz, we also have beer and soft drinks. I'm afraid Ted is right, I do tend to take what I hear literally."

"Water's fine," I replied, "But would you gentlemen please call me Sam? I feel I know you both and that Mr. Libowitz thing gets in the way."

There was complete silence for a moment, then Jake said,

"As you wish, Sam. And I'm afraid you're right. You do know us,--- far too well."

I was taken aback by his words, but Jake raised his hands in peace,

"Don't take that as a threat, it's only a statement of fact. But you must remember, Ted's journal wasn't meant for just anyone to read, only me. As you can imagine, we were more than a little upset when in disappeared. I would appreciate the return of that disk along with your assurance you've made no other copies. It's extremely personal and it belongs to us!"

"But, that's why I came here!" I exclaimed.

"Now let's be completely honest, Sam. You came here for the express purpose of meeting us face to face and to learn what went on after the fire. You said as much in your letter and we agreed to it, but it's only fair to tell you while you know a lot about us, we know absolutely everything about you. I can state your bank account to the penny or tell you all about your high school days, like the time you and Peter Evert stole a car for a joy ride and wrecked it hitting a deer. You were driving and at first thought was a person you ran over."

"But,--- but how could you know that? We never told anyone!" Completely stunned, I remembered that incident as one of the worst scares of my life, I was sick about it for months afterwards.

"Or, how about the time you and Billy Akins went on that camping trip at Mill Creek and met that fellow from Judson Baptist Collage, a teacher,---"

"STOP!" I cried, suddenly drenched in sweat, I fumbled for the disk. Gibson watched my reaction, then reached over and patted my shoulder.

"Don't worry, Sam, we're not blackmailing you, it's just we wanted you to have a fuller understanding of what it's like."

His hand held me in the chair as blind terror built in my mind over what would happen next.

"You know," he said quietly, "It wasn't your fault. The guy shouldn't have been messing with your head in the first place. He brought it on himself."

"But,--- but, I hit him,--- I killed him,---" The horror of that moment came back to me. The man's nasty remarks about jews, the nightmares I had for years afterwards,---

"No,--- you just punched him. He died of natural causes, a heart attack. You don't really believe at fifteen you were capable of killing a man with a single blow, do you? You weighed what? Maybe ninety-five pounds?"

God, they knew everything about me! Every last detail! I couldn't stand it.

Gibson massaged my shoulder as he spoke, his words slowly calming me. For twenty years I lived with that secret, not even Billy knew what happened that day. I ran back to camp, grabbed my pack and left with Billy trailing behind asking what was going on. It wasn't until we got to Mosier that had courage enough to call the police, and I never gave my name. How did they find out? Gibson began explaining without my asking and as he talked the shock slowly ebbed away.

"The Brotherhood is pretty good at figuring things out, Sam. Most of our information about you came directly from your friends, only, don't blame them, they didn't realize. It became obvious something happened to you that summer; all your friends agreed you changed that year and you were never again the same carefree kid. We just backtracked, found the incident, talked to Billy Akins, checked old newspaper and police reports and dug it out. The rest was supposition based on what we learned about the man and what we knew about you. He was a jew baiter and you had a hot temper. The coroners report showed nothing but a heart attack and a slight bruise on the chin. Like I said, we can put two and two together."

He made it sound so reasonable, so easy to accept, only it wasn't. I'll always be haunted by that day. Yet, oddly enough having someone else know about it seemed to help, although for the life of me, I couldn't explain why. Sanders stepped out and brought back a double shot of whiskey that I accepted gratefully. He fussed around for a few minutes producing pretzels and other snacks which I didn't feel like trying and finally after I settled down a bit, Gibson removed his hand from my shoulder. It's funny how comforting a hand can be.

"Why don't we get back to events of last March." he said,"Unless you've changed your mind,---"

"No, I need to hear it all. I couldn't leave now without that! I'm sorry about being so inquisitive, but that's just the way I am."

"We know." Jake said quietly, a small smile playing on his lips.

Jake took up the narrative, "As Ted already mentioned, I was back and in full command of myself. Maybe it was the shock of being shot at again that finally brought me home, but I give Ted the real credit. It was he who worked out what my problem was; all I had to do was see it. During our trip down the mountain it finally became real to me I hadn't murdered Carla. His journal pieced it all together. You see, Sam, there was an enormous amount of anger in that marriage. I raged over what she did, even raged against what I was feeling for Ted. I blamed her for everything that was happening in my life and in the darkest moments of that confused time, I actually had considered killing her. Even now, about the only thing I remember of the shoot out, is blowing Carla's head away. It's a patently false image and I know it, but I still see it. One minute I'm getting out of the limo, the next I'm shooting Carla as she sits at the table at our Mira Lida house." Jake shook his head, "People can do the damnedest things to themselves," Then glancing at Ted, he added, "and to others,---"

Gibson smiled at Jake and I saw a look of pure affection and understanding pass between the two. I read it in the journal, but that look made me realize just how much caring existed there.

"But enough about me" Jake said, "When we reached Hamilton, Ted got on the phone to our friends, while I tried calling Annie. I received no answer, so then tried calling Brentwood to let the Harris' know about the fire. That call was intercepted by our friends who told me what happened here and we were advised to head directly to Craig, check into a motel and call back in an hour. At Craig we were told of a man named Sax who had been hired by Gambini for the contract. Sax was evidently more of a terrorist than a simple hit man.

He had his own organization and his services came high, but after Gambini's losses to Ted's vendetta, he must have thought the price cheap. Anyway, our friends assumed we were dead when they found Gambini about to pay five million to Sax, so they decided to use that money as a gambit to set Sax and Gambini against each other. They siphoned Sax's numbered account, then informed Gambini, Ted and I had been sighted alive and well at a ski resort near Steamboat Springs."

Somehow, listening to Jake, my own fright of a few minutes ago, faded into the background. I got taken up in the narrative, so much so that I interrupted once more.

"But, how do you get into a numbered Swiss account? I asked "I thought they were inviolable."

"Electronic transfer, of course, when it comes to things of that nature, our friends are nothing less than erudite." Jake answered my question with a vague wave of his hand that left the distinct impression he was not telling all. "Their plan," Jake continued, "Was based on the assumption we were dead. When we turned up alive, our friends realized the whole area around Craig would soon be swarming with hoods, both Gambini and Sax would send men to check out that report. It was time to get us, the hell, out of there. The truck was waiting at a local dealership, all gassed up, with a cellular phone on the seat and we scooted. By the time we reached Salt Lake City, we figured no one could find us, so we leisurely made our way up I-84 toward Portland. We were safe, but we had other worries.

Our friends had yet to find out the full extent of that contract or the other names on the list. We felt certain Sax wouldn't continue without the money, but what if Gambini all ready sent someone else? Right then, our biggest concern was Annie and the kids. We phoned a dozen times without an answer and our friends couldn't tell us a thing: All three had simply vanished, even the housekeeper was missing.

We were almost to Nampa, Idaho, when Ted remembered last fall, Annie inherited a little summer cottage about a hundred miles south of Portland, somewhere near the town of Lebanon. He didn't have the address, but a quick call to our friends got the ball rolling. We headed toward Lebanon on US 20, while they sent someone down from Portland to check. We were out of contact much of the way and didn't get back to where the phone worked again until reaching Bend. There, we received some good news for a change. Annie and the kids were safe and sound at the cottage. She had a crew of workmen busy adding a room and had gone down for a couple days to supervise."

"That's our Annie," Jake commented smiling broadly, "always in charge!" Then he continued, "Our friends warned us not to stop in Lebanon, but to press on to Portland. They finally found Annie's housekeeper. She was hiding out at the neighbors and frightened out of her wits. Two of Gambini's men extracted Annie's Lebanon address from her and in the process roughed her up. Our friends arranged for Annie and the children to disappear for awhile and we were told to get to the GSI office in Portland as soon as possible." Jake paused for a moment and took another drink of water.

"You know," he continued, "we would've made the trip without a hitch if we hadn't stopped for gas just before getting onto I-5. It was about midnight. Two guys came out of the station, got into a Chevy and slowly pulled away. Actually, I didn't notice them staring, but Ted did, and as I headed for the bathroom, the car suddenly spun around and pulled up crosswise in front of the truck. Ted realizing what was up, yelled and took off on foot around the opposite side of the station.

Maybe they didn't see me standing at the corner, but for some dumb reason they both took out after Ted which gave me the chance to get back to the truck They had us neatly boxed, another car behind gassing up and theirs in front, so I grabbed our bag, the ignition keys and threw it all in their car. When Ted came around the station I had the engine running and the door open for him. We took off like the proverbial scalded hound and thought we'd left them in the lurch until we came up under the lights of the interchange.

There was that damned white pickup no more than a half mile behind. It was then I remembered the spare keys in the glove compartment. When we hit the freeway, I floored it while Ted got busy on the phone telling our friends what was going on. The Chevy had a hot V8, but so did the pick up. We couldn't actually loose them, but they couldn't catch us either. They stayed on our tail no more than a mile or two behind.

You know the old saying about there never being a cop when you need one? Well, we drove flat out for more than sixty miles and never saw a bubble. Finally our friends called with instructions. We were to wait until we passed a group of motorcyclists, then feign car trouble, pull off onto the shoulder and get away on foot as fast as possible. It wasn't more than another few miles before we passed the bikers who gave us the high sign. I watched until the pickup pulled out to pass them, waited a minute, then let the speed drop, hit the breaks, whipped the car back and forth across the lanes a couple of times and onto the shoulder.

We were out and away before the pickup came screeching to a halt and as those guys stepped out they were suddenly surrounded by motorcycles and guns. Lots of guns. They gave up without a struggle. When we searched them, we found they also carried a cell phone. It was a sure bet someone was on the lookout for both the car and the pickup and probably had the Portland off ramps covered. We swapped places with two of the bikers while they took the car and our neatly trussed up mobsters, to the nearest crossover then back south again. The truck was stripped, wiped down thoroughly and we tooled our way into Portland riding Harleys."

"But why leave the truck? I asked perplexed.

"Why not? It was never going to be traceable, but it sure was visible. Besides, it would give Gambini something to think about. The last he knew, his men were in possession of it. We wouldn't have claimed it at all if it hadn't for the disk. Somehow it slipped out of Ted's pocket and we missed it when tidying up the truck. And, that,--- my friend,---" Jake concluded, "is about all there is to tell."

"Wait," I cried, "that only explains the truck. What happened afterward? What did you do with the gangsters?

"Does it matter?" Ted replied, coldly. "Gambini's people were not only killers, they were sadists. Those two goons were the same ones who questioned the Harris', right here, in this apartment. Dan and Lonnie's had nothing to hide, yet they broke Lonnie's wrists for the sheer fun of it and came within inches of killing both of them. Do you really care what was done with them?

"No, I guess not." I answered quickly, remembering Gibson's written comment about an eye for an eye.

A long silence ensued, broken at last by Jake remarking,. "Say, I'm getting hungry. Why don't we go out for a bite. There's a little place not far from here that serves terrific deli sandwiches. It's not Kosher, but it's good."

We walked the three blocks to the restaurant and as he promised, the food was excellent. Later, as we sat over coffee, Jake began to speak once more of Sax and Gambini.

"The plan our friends devised, at least, now, had teeth. Gambini knew for sure we were alive and was demanding his five million back, money Sax never saw. Sax was equally convinced Gambini was pulling some sort of scam, since the only evidence of our continued existence consisted of some reputed phone conversations between a Gambini lieutenant and two missing hoods. Sax was pissed at Gambini anyway.

The old man let out the contract, then sent his own men to do the job, hoping to beat Sax to the kill. I guess his thought was, 'A penny saved, a penny earned'. Sax found out about it when he kept stumbling into Gambini's hoods. They nearly messed up his whole operation with that clumsy bombing attempt, but they had beaten Sax to the Harris' and that really ticked him off. Sax nailed them when our friends flushed them out of the apartment and would have wasted those two if Gambini hadn't stepped in. The old man told Sax the job was his from that point forward and Sax let the guys go home to daddy.

The thing to remember, Sam, is that GSI was a privately held company, a partnership, totally belonging to Ted, me and Annie. You probably didn't know, but Annie held an eight percent silent interest and she was perfectly capable of running the company. Gambini thought he could destroy GSI with a few simple assassinations. He learned we carried a lot of outstanding debt from our expansion over the years and figured Ted's death alone might bring down the company, but he wasn't taking any chances. He also wanted a clean sweep of top management. That way, our heirs would have no ability to reorganize before foreclosures took place and threw GSI into bankruptcy.

And, you know, it might've worked just as he planned if the company hadn't changed hands last November. It was the one thing he didn't know. You see, a private sale doesn't make the business news unless someone wants it published. We were gone a full month before the hit was ordered and no one knew where we were. Dan has never gotten over his aversion for L.A., so the Harris' visited the condo only long enough to drop off the Bronco and then caught a flight to Acapulco where they stayed until about mid February.

Of course, after several week of not being able to locate us, both Sax and Gambini pulled their men back, leaving only intermittent surveillance, which completely missed the Harris' when they came back from Mexico. As I understand it, Dan and Lonnie stopped just long enough to collect the truck for a drive up to Santa Barbara, but when it was found missing, Gambini sent his men. They were waiting when the Harris' returned, got confused about who was who, and of course you know what happened after that."

The waitress came around with a refill and after she left, I said,

"So, when your friends released word of the sale, that was to ward off any further plans Gambini might have. I remember it made the evening news about how former GSI executives were released without severance. They made it look as though you guys flushed your employees. There was even one fellow in tears as he told how rotten he'd been treated."

Both men burst out laughing and Gibson said, "We saw that tape not long ago, Alex always was a ham."

It occurred to me Alex was probably the same guy once known as 'The Ripper' and abruptly I knew what became of the missing Devil's Own bikers. They all became rentacops! These two men were obviously in the Brotherhood much further than they let on, but it didn't seem wise to push for details. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I had a vivid picture of two goons with broken wrists, seat belted in a Chevy at the bottom of Puget Sound.

"I'm sure by now," Gibson continued, " You've made the connection between what we've told you and the New Jersey gang wars of the last few months. Sax crippled Gambini's bunch both financially and morally, and finally got to old man Gambini himself in Miami last June, but Sax made a lot enemies in the process. No one capable of paying his fee trusts him anymore and unless he finds a sponsor soon, his days are numbered. Our friends will keep an eye on him, but he's no threat to us now."

He paused for a moment, then added, "...and I believe that really is all there is to tell."

As we walked back to their apartment the conversation turned to the Harris'

"They were both doing fine when we saw them in August." Jake commented, "The house was rebuilt during the summer. Our friends paid for it out of Gambini's five million and then donated another goodly chunk of that money to the RS Trust in repayment for some of the treasures lost. Annie and the kids went with us on that visit and I believe our Annie has fallen head over heels for Dan!" he chuckled, "I'm not sure where it will lead, but it's certainly an interesting situation."

Gibson snorted, "Jake, I've all ready told you. Dan's as good as married. You know how persuasive she can be. Why, I'll bet Annie plans to have him gift wrapped for Christmas."

They laughed, then Jake said, "Lonnie seems to have found someone, too, we saw him in Craig one day with a very pretty young lady. They were just puttering along window shopping and Lonnie looked to be in seventh heaven."

The warmth and humor in their voices startled me. How different they appeared from the men who just moments before spoke calmly of mayhem and murder. I liked them both, yet they made me nervous. These were powerful men with even more powerful friends. In pressing for this interview had I learned too much? From the journal came an intimate view of Gibson's private life, and Jake's, yet these two broke all stereotypes. These were men of action, the Rambo's of the gay set and I knew too much about them and their shadowy Brotherhood. At present there was no hint of animosity; yet, I worried that a later pragmatism might very well spell danger.

We shook hands outside their building and the last thing Gibson said before I left, was, "Have a good life, Sam. It's been a genuine pleasure meeting you." he spoke with such disarming sincerity that it completely voided my nagging fears.

As that year faded into the next, a series of fraud cases came my way that brought me to the attention of my corporate masters. Speedy resolution of these earned me several fast promotions, culminating the following year in the post of regional manager. That job provided a suite of offices with actual windows and even broader horizons, all of which I considered long over due.

As far as Cindy was concerned, the real perk, besides the huge pay increase, was our new acceptance into the upper echelon of the company. Cindy and I now received invitations to gatherings we'd only heard about before and from these came other invitations from people outside the company. It was a whirlwind of parties Cindy took to like a duck to water and she met people there who took to her the same way. Our boys, who previously occupied her time were now in the care of a nanny or off to school and Cindy was, after all, a young, beautiful and vibrant woman, vulnerable to the glitter and glamour of the life style of these new acquaintances.

My promotions spelled the end for us. In a year we were separated, then, finally divorced and like so many others in this day and age I now see my sons only on weekends. I won't pretend not to have suffered over it, I did, and mightily, but I also understood Cindy. She had married me right out of high school, the summer I finished college and at times I knew she regretted it, if not having a career of her own, or at least a period of time in which to find herself. It's a mistake to marry before savoring life a bit. You'll always wonder what you've missed.

It was almost two years after my interview with Gibson and Sanders before I ran across them again. It was at another of those garden party, business gatherings L.A. is famous for, I caught sight of Gibson speaking to a group of people, but as I worked my way toward him, a hand grabbed my arm and Jake appeared beside me.

"Sam? Sam Libowitz!" I thought that was you, Sam,--- how have you been?"

"Fine, I replied, noncommittally, "and you?"

"Oh, we're just muddling along as usual." He replied cheerful. I couldn't help but notice he included Gibson in his answer. Evidently nothing there had changed, nor had I expected it would. Unlike Cindy and myself, those two were married for life.

"By the way, Sam, Ted would like to talk to you. When this shindig winds down, we'll come find you for a little chat. Now don't forget, stick around." And with a parting pat on my shoulder, he was gone in the swirl of merrymakers.

Three hours later we sat in the rear of a chauffeured limo and Ted Gibson was asking me to come work for GSI.

"I wasn't aware that you two were back running the company," I said in surprise, "but even so, what in the world could I do for GSI? I'm just an insurance investigator."

"Hardly 'just' an investigator," Ted replied, "You possess, possibly, the best intuitive mind on the west coast, if not in the entire nation. Look, Sam, since its inception, GSI has had in house investigators to cover all theft and fraud cases that fall under our security contracts. We need someone of your caliber to head up the new European branch and we are prepared to offer a very substantial increase over your current salary. This also includes company paid living quarters in Paris, and we can offer this with a five year contract, renewable at your option. Paris would be your home base; although, you would be required to travel extensively. GSI has plans of opening fourteen offices in Europe within the next three years."

To say I was startled by the offer, would be an understatement. I was stunned.

"Why me?" I asked, "There are plenty of others with better credentials. Look, if this a bid to bind my silence, Gentlemen, it's totally unnecessary. You all ready have that. Other than my buddy Pete, who is the soul of descression, I've never discussed your story with anyone, not even my wife."

Gibson smiled, "It's hardly that. You see, my friend, we were all ready sure of your silence before we spoke to you. If you were less than you are, that disk would've simply disappeared."

Nonplused for a moment, I finally gained the courage to ask, "And would I have also disappeared,--- perhaps, like Gambini's hoods?"

Startled, the two men looked at each other, then Jake began to laugh.

"Oh, my God, Teddy,--- he thinks we killed those geeks! Believe me, Sam, the last time we looked, those two were breathing just fine. In England, duringthe eighteenth century, when you wanted to dispose of someone without killing him, you merely signed him up in the Spanish Navy. Nowadays, countries are a bit more choosy on who they allow in their military. Those two are currently serving twenty years in a Turkish prison for smuggling dope. They were found drugged to the gills in the streets of Istanbul, loaded down with two kilos of the hard stuff. It's our friends answer to the Spanish Navy, but, Sam, that wouldn't have happened to you under anycircumstance. You see, our friends are also quite adroit at applying psychological pressure."

I felt much relieved to learn the Brotherhood was not into murdering its enemies, but that still didn't convince me working for them was a good idea.

"I concluded long ago, your 'friends' were not just another mob," I told them, "But it's not the same as having a genuine understanding of the situation. I'm afraid I can't accept your offer without knowing exactly what I'm getting into."

"Suppose we could convince you our friends are not into illicit activities and within, perhaps, another fifty years, the Brotherhood may actually be of great benefit to society. Would you then take the job?"

I thought about it only a moment.

"Yes." I replied.

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