Weeks before… Amsterdam Central was hot and humid, packed with tourists, most loaded down with huge backpacks. Signs were everywhere warning neophytes to beware of pickpockets. Springtime. The season of tourists, when the thieves came out of hibernation. I had flown into Schiphol Airport, then caught the train into Amsterdam Central. Wearing worn jeans and a wife beater, backpack and sandals on, I put on my shades and followed the crowd, took a number and waited my turn, then exchanged dollars for euros at the train station, tried to use some of the Dutch I remembered, told the old, stout attendant bedankt for her help, not sure if that was the right word, but she smiled and in stiff English told me that I was welcome in return. We smiled after butchering each other’s language. She looked at me with endearing eyes, no idea of what was going on inside of me. I’d come here on business. Business from me always put grief in the hearts of others. My whole life had been one big business trip. I’d never played. Never had fun. Business was wearing me down. She said, “American or Italiano?” I nodded “Both.” “If you taxi, use the TCA taxi. The others will give you a higher rate, overcharge you.” “Bedankt.” “Make sure you stop at the Sex Museum. It is by McDonald’s. Look for McDonald’s. The museum has the biggest penis. Maybe three hundred centimeters tall.” “A nine-foot-tall penis?” “And maybe one hundred eighty centimeters around.” “Did Shaq donate his organ?” She didn’t understand my American NBA humor. “Take picture. Then go take pictures of the marble penis fountain at Casa Rosso. The penis gushes all day and night.” “Bedankt.” “And McDonald’s has a urinal shaped like a women’s mouth with big red lips. It was in the newspaper. Crazy people angry, so it might not be there for long. Photograph as well.” “Bedankt.” “The Opstapper. The weather is very nice so ride the Opstapper to sightsee everything.” “Bedankt” “But the best way to see Amsterdam is from the canals. Look for St. Nicholas Boat Club.” I became patient, let the old woman finish telling me where to find the best shopping and where to bus market Raven art, let her tell all she wanted to tell me before I left her window. I headed out into the heart of Amsterdam, a liberal city that had more weed-selling coffeehouses than Seattle had Starbucks. A place that sold international pussy the way IHOP sold Rooty Tootys. Air was so damn clear here, skies so damn blue, more beautiful than the godly blue that hovered over North Carolina. The area around the train station was buzzing with languages I couldn’t comprehend. Coffee in hand, I was almost run down by an old woman on her bicycle. She was yapping on her cell phone as she sped by. Others were pedaling and smoking. One was pedaling and putting makeup. If you thought the drivers multi-tasked in LA, you haven’t seen shit! I looked up on top of the brick structure, the Museum of Sex straight ahead. In the land of wooden shoes and bicycles, my target was less then a mile away. For a few moments I stood on the sidewalk, part of me wanting to turn around. But I mumbled, “Some people deserve to die.” Anger checkmated reason. I bypassed the cabs, headed by the bicycle parking lot, a lot that was at least three levels high, passing at least a thousand parked bicycles along the way. Most of the population was on bicycles. Don’t believe me google it. Maybe that’s why, relative to the overeaters in America, everybody looked so goddamn slim and sexy. Even the butt ugly had sex appeal, bad teeth and all. There was something about the European women. There was something about America, maybe that racial divide that existed from coast to coast, that beast that created fear based on ignorance, maybe that made American people unlikable. Between racism and classism, not many people liked anybody. Maybe it was that every other building here was a coffee shop and every coffee shop sold weed, that and the open sex market, that made the Dutch people more congenial. Getting high kept your mellow. Sex killed stress. America had laws and taboos about both. Son of a bitch If all this was legal in America…The world would be a better place. But then again hate belonged to the world Hate rules the world Hate ruled my heart Hate was making me a rich man I moved deeper into the dark and seedy part of the city, if only in reputation and not in appearance, and stopped at Lunchroom 52, a coffee shop that faced the Oude Kerk, a Gothic, Old church that cast its shadow over all the windows in this red-light district. As if God were looking down on, maybe looking over, all the whores, taking care of all the children of Mary Magdalene. Most of the glass windows that housed the whores were in sets of threes, un-air-conditioned rooms smaller that a jail cell, fans blowing on high, recalculating odors that had permeated sheets and wals, the edges of their worn mattresses no more than two feet from the alley, the room barely big enough to house a sink and a bed with come-stained sheets. He’d been easy to find because all the windows had numbers the way homes had addresses. He worked out of window 120. And the fact that in the mist of females he was the only Jigglo. A sign in the window said that all major credit cards were accepted. I didn’t bring any weapons, no way to transport deadly hardware on a plane. From canal to canal, warning signs were posted, letting everybody know that it was illegal to possess any kind of weapon. The second part of that warning was that, in a country where the world’s oldest profession was legal, where people culd buy hash or marijuana at any coffee shop, hard drugs weren’t allowed. The warning ended with a notice that there was a regular police patrol. I contributed to the local economy and bought three packs of Weed. Purple haze. The pure stuff. The pre-rolled dope was cut with tobacco. I rolled a joint. Smoked it as I sipped a Heineken. Even when it was legal, it felt like the police should rush in and handcuff everybody in the place. But all over, in every seat facing the canals, people were firing up their medicinal cigarettes like they were Kool Menthol, that secondhand smoke giving the city a contact high. I studied the roads and canals, mapped my exit. His information was already memorized, already knew in which section of Raamverhuur I would be able to find him working his window. I knew he was renting a one-bedroom flat near Wijde Kersteeg and Warmoesstraat. I knew he was renting because even though selling his dick was legal, it was hard for a male whore to own a home, the lenders didn’t want to gamble and lend the whores money. The business was legit, but the whores, male or female weren’t trusted. Never trust a whore I took his pictures out of my pocket. I had several, all with different-colored hair. Damn fruit cake, made me sick. Looking at these pictures you wouldn’t tell that this fella was once a Champion. Once a saint Now a male whore I checked the window of 120 again, his red light still dark, the red velvet curtains closed. As I walked the narrow alleys, some whores had their doors open, sat on the edges of their beds smoking, fans on high, faces made up and damp with sweat, looking like mannequins in a Victoria’s Secret window who would come to life for a price. Some were on cell phones, a few jumped out in bondage gear, whips in hand, playfully swatting the asses of young men as they walked by. One grabbed a man and tried to entice him and his wallet into her tiny room. Other working women were tapping on their windows and smiling that insincere whore’s smile. The lack of sleep and heat was getting to me. Amsterdam rarely had hot days. That day heat was rising as if the devil was passing through town. I walked around looking at the whores, looked at all the girls in all of the windows. Unimpressed until a girl working in a window near Brouwergracht and Palmstraat caught my eye. She was working window 693. I paused and stared. At first I thought she was someone I knew, someone I wanted to be with. The girl in window 693 was exotic and dark. Her beauty was disturbing. Scared me that she reminded me of someone I desired. I stared at her awhile I fell into a trance I stood in front of her window Filipino music played from the boom box sitting at her feet. She wore six-inch clear-heeled shoes. Red lingerie. Arched eyebrows. Long black hair. Same type of outfit that was in a thousand red-lit windows within a square mile. She eased off her barstool, adjusted her tits, came to her window. As crowed passed and evaluated her, she stared at me. Her eyes were glazed over. She opened her window. I didn’t move. She extended her hand. Almost touched me. I backed away from her, left taking steps backward, and watched her as long as I could. I only went a few feet, then I turned and looked at her again. My breathing had become ragged and uneven. I turned around, went to go back to her. Just that quick another man was at her window, being led inside. I shook it off. Shook away that desire. Desire for a women who she reminded me of. I regained my focus. Reminded myself why I was here. I was here for the man who worked window 120. He wasn’t in the window. I had his home address. So I walked the canals toward where my target lived. To the apartment he rented. Too many people were out. I didn’t go to his door. Stood a block away. I waited. Thirty minutes passed Than an hour He came out wearing some shorts and a wife beater. His short brown hair was cut short. Goatee on his chin, and a tattoo on his right arm. He was brining a bicycle down the stairs. I walked toward him. Tourist season. People were all over the rue. Too many eyes to take him right now. If I had known he was home, I could’ve broken in and had this over with. I could do this right now and be gone, could blend with the crowd. I walked toward him, my steps quick. I was almost close enough to grab his hair when he started pedaling. His legs were strong and he took to the bike lane fast, made his horn ching-ching and mixed in with the cars and bikes and pedestrians that shared the same narrow roads without complaint. There wasn’t any need to run after him. I knew where he was going. He was going to work his window. I had time. I went back toward Brouwersgracht and Palmstraat, went back to window 693. The exotic girl was there, her curtain open, her red light on. I stood in front of the window. I stared at the doppelganger of someone I desired. Her doppelganger stared at me. Her disturbing beauty anchored me. I put my hand on her window, my palm resting right above the visa American express master card accepted sign. She took everything but food stamps I could have her. By cash or credit, I could buy an illusion. I could finance fantasy. She slid off her barstool; put her hand up to mine, the scratchy glass separating us. I nodded. She opened the door to her world…. - [ * * * ] - Sean, I know you were pissed about the last time we meet, and I can tell you’re the type who holds a grudge. Who isn‘t in today’s world. But butting into my epic defense at the PPV is going to do nothing but show the world just how much of a old duch you are. You had your chance here, and you blew it. Then you had a second run, and guess what….You fucked that one to. And now here we are, the 3rd attempt. For crying out load, you’re the Jake the Snake of are game. Let’s face it Sean, you’re in that situation. You can try and be the face of NLWF for a 3rd attempt, but when it comes to facts you’re just not NLWF. When someone sees NLWF they don’t see someone trying to be The Standard. They want someone who goes above and beyond the standard. They don’t look for a washed up coke head. They want someone who takes action against pissants trying to run amuck on his turf. You, sir, are not that kind of person. You’re just in the middle, looking for some acceptance. In reality, Sean, you don’t have a place here. You’re just… here. People don’t go crazy when you come out. People don’t go ‘Holy SHIT, there he is!’ or anything like that. You’re just stuck in mediocrity. On the other hand, I’m that surprise hit everyone is talking about. People don’t appreciate what I do and I really don’t care. Fans want to kill me yet they always go crazy for me. It’s like they’re happy to see a fresh breath of air in wrestling. It’s like I’m the savior of wrestling from people like you. I’m The Savor and I am the prince of NLWF. Get used to it. Don’t sit there and call me a joke when I’ve caught you when you were off your guard. That I took the North American Title on one of your ‘off days’ don’t even try and pull that whole deal. Fact was you were already beat before the bell even rung. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you think I’m a joke or that my first victory was a fluke not because when you don’t beat me at Avulsion, you’re going to look fucking retarded. In the end, it’s how you’ve always looked. Right? You know nothing about me besides what I have done here. What have I done here? Will in less then a months time I‘ve become the face of NLWF. Enigma may be the Undisputed champion, but it‘s my face they all come to see. If it wasn’t for me, Enigma would be Undisputed champion to the layoff line. As far as I’m concern you all owe me an apology for breathing new life into NLWF. What makes you think that you can beat me Sean? What, deep down in that chest of yours, believes that you can beat me? What forces you to get the extreme honor of facing me in the ring? The fact that I granted you this non-title rematch? It’s like I said to you before, kid. Just because I handed you a shot doesn’t mean you are guaranteed the victory. I was guaranteed it when I pinned your’s limp carcass two weeks ago. Evaluate all the steps necessary to beat me. Talk about how I lost to Isaac last week because, ya know, it’s never been said before. Talk about how since he beat me and you’re going to be able to beat me. But you’ll be missing a key point in that equation. Isaac is half the man you are Sean. Here is a guy coming back from injury, and is on the up swing. He doesn’t come back to blow another attempt. He was ready last week, and you know what he still barely defeated me. He couldn’t pin me, he won due to a count out. Keep thinking you have me beat, Sean. Keep thinking my mind games haven’t worked and while you say that the mind games seep into your brain. When you look at me in the ring, the mind games will have done their job. All your beliefs of wrestling better than me can go out the window when your head explodes like a watermelon on stage due to a severely above standard Last Shot. I’ll be the Leo Gallagher of NLWF and everyone will clap and applaud when I smash your brains all over the ring. Then you’ll finally understand why you should have stayed in the shadows. You’ll finally understand why I’m the future of NLWF. Why I am the North American champion and you‘re that failed sob story. You’ll finally understand why you want what I have and I don’t want anything you have. You have nothing. I have everything. After Avulsion, I guarantee it will stay that way. I will remain The young buck who you can’t touch and you can go back to being what you always have been. Substandard. - [ * * * ] - Thirty minutes later I was back near window 120. Another thirty minutes passes before those red velvet curtains opened. I froze where I was. Waited for him to appear. And within a minute, he did. There he stood in a white G-string jock strap combo, letting his package bulge for the females looking for fun. His face was worry free. Presentation of his wares in full effect. I stood off to the side. Women slowed and even men as will slowed at his window, most in groups, some alone, all of them in awe. Group after group paused and stared at him as he stood in that window. Gave him more attention that the other whores received. Guessed it paid to be the only male on the block People hired me to exact death for different reasons, but most contracts, if not all, had one thing in common: freedom. The death of one person always freed another from some prison. I wanted to get out of my own prison. I wanted my own freedom. My target pulled up a barstool, sat, waited for work to come her way. Men and women stared at him, but he made eye contact with no one, his eyes on the ground most of the time. Ashamed at what he did for work Ashamed about how hard life has crashed down around him. It seemed dehumanizing, sitting on display while people passed by on the cobblestones, sitting for hours, almost naked, with people staring like they were watching animals at the zoo. I approached him from the side, was standing against the wall in front of his window, listening to the Bob Marley tunes coming from the beat box on the floor of his tiny space, looking inside his world, seeing a small bed and a sink that housed a few toiletries, looked at him as droves of people passed between us, had been frowning at him for five minutes before he looked up. “Suces Moi, Sean?” He heard his saint name and almost fell off his barstool. His hand went up to his mouth, then his eye, before he crossed his arms over his bare chest. I walked to his window, a few inches of glass separating, my reflection lying on top of his face, our bodies lining up, most of our features lining up in a surreal way. He asked, “How did you find me?” “I found you.” He shivered. “What do you want from me?” “Some people deserve to die.” Terror took over his eyes. His jittery body language showed his fear. I tried his door. Despite the heat, most of the whores has their windows open. Window 120 was locked. Inside this peaceful country that bred pickpockets, he’d been living in fear. Teeth clenched, I whispered, “Open the goddamn door.” The curtains closed. His red light darkened. I tapped on his window. “Open the door. Cocksucker!” He heard me. I know he heard me. Three men showed up a few minutes later. I had expected at least one more. They walked up on me, gangster intentions in their eyes. I turned around and walked away. Took to the narrow alleys, kept my pace normal, headed down a strip that was empty, no surveillance cameras overhead. They were on my heels the entire stroll. I was nervous. Nervousness was a mainstay I’d learned to live with. I turned fast, the biggest of the three had his arm cocked, his fist aimed at me, and I took a blow to my jaw, staggered into the brick wall. That blow had hurt me. Sobered me. I worked through the pain, traded blows in a filthy alley, bobbed and weaved his destruction, put my right knee in his gut, and when he bent, came up and landed a fist in the big man’s throat. He was good at giving but horrible at receiving pain. One blow landed and he stumbled from me, was about to fold. My fear was on him unleashing a barrage of elbows that left his face a bloody mess. He went down gagging. Then there was two more, both looking surprised, scared, and pissed. I was all on the next one, had put a simple foot in his nuts, made him fold in agony, a blow that hurt my ankle as well. While the second one went down, the third one swung at me, missed, and I went after him, my ankle aching, and I tackled him, grappled with him, wrestled him to the ground, and slammed my fist into his face as many times as my hand could stand. I delivered one final enraged blow that cracked his ribs. I looked up at the one I had downed with a groin shot. He was slowly by agony and frozen in fear. I pounced and attacked him, left him in the same state as his coworkers. Without thought, I picked up a brick. Raised it high, brought it down on the big man’s hands, bones cracking with each blow. Then I did the same to his two friends. Sweating, favoring my left ankle, I limped away, bruised and battered, damn near thirty broken fingers and more than a few broken ribs writhing in pain in the filthy alley behind me. I was kind to them that day. I had smashed their hands. Smashed hands couldn’t hit you with a sucker punch. I’d learned that early in my career. Take out the hands first. Take out their legs to keep them from running for help. They crawled away from me, made it to their feet, and stumbled down the canal, never looking back. I could’ve beat them senseless. But I walked away. Their hands were so mangled that they’d have to pop a Viagra and use their dicks to dial for an ambulance. I limped back to Window 120. The red light was off. The curtains open. The bed empty. Sean was gone! Insane and fuming, I rushed back toward his apartment, moves as fast as I could, limped down the canals, stopping when the pain in my ankle felt too great. I was going to break into his apartment, but didn’t have to. His door was ajar. He had run back, gathered his things and left minutes before I had arrived. The place he had rented was tiny, outside of the pain he’d left on the wall, door to door, closet to closet, it was mostly empty, a few things left on the floor in haste. The bike had been dropped and left in the kitchen. I supposed he had taken too much to leave on a bike. I imagined he was running with fear in his heart and suitcases in his hands. I took that bicycle with me when I left. Injured, I rode toward the train station. Didn’t find him at the station. I rode from Amsterdam Central to the Anne Frank Museum, then back to Rembrandt Square. Sweating and searching every canal, looked in so many coffee shops I had contact high, looked in every red-lit window until my eyes owned the same devilish hue. Then I was too tired, was in too much pain to keep going. I checked into Hotel De Gerstekorrel, a short walk from McDonald’s and the sex museum. From my bed it was a two minute stroll down the canal back to window 120. I tended to my wounds and iced my ankle and, after very little sleep, checked out of the hotel the next morning, rode the canals again, began searching for the runaway at sunrise, riding while the party people were staggering back to their rented rooms, while the unshowered whores were bicycling home, was on the cobblestone roads before the street was crowded with bikes. I rode until the sun started to set again During peak business hours I checked window 120. A new Dutch girl was there. I asked for the man who was there the day before. She said that man was gone, then offered me her services. I passed. I walked the canals, looked in every window, just in case he had changed. He could’ve moves two blocks away, could’ve leased a new window in one of the other two red light areas in the city, could’ve started selling his worn out dick in someone’s home. Wherever he had gone, he was still a worthless whore. Whoring was all he was good at. Like killing was all I knew. - [ * * * ] - You don’t have anything on me, Sean. You can talk a big game but as we’ve seen numerous times that doesn’t matter against me. You can bark the biggest bark but you’re going to be the bitch in this match. You’re going to be the one I can bend in ways a human isn’t supposed to bend. You’re going to feel pain like you’ve never felt it and you’ll thank me after it’s over. You’re not going to become the comeback story in our encounter. You might leave on your back to walk. You’ll probably finally realize that your career is over. You can realize this when I send your body crashing to the mat for a second time around. You get my drift, right Sean? You’ll still inform me though how this is your time and all that jazz. You know, it’s worked so well for everyone else. People want to think that if they tell me how I’m just this young kid, on a hot start. You’re all waiting for me to phizzle out like Dazz or that Punk fella. But I’m not like them. I’m here to stay. I’m here to accomplish everything I can on my first attempt. Not one a second or third attempt. Your most likely sitting there watching me just rip right through you, for a second time. Wishing you had something to come back on. Your digging through your archive, looking for anything that could make you sound like a threat. Your sitting there, watching this…this…kid…this cocky son of a bitch rip you a new asshole, and there is nothing you can say or do to match this. My flow is untouchable…And yours…Will it has a new face to it…MINE Bring whatever you can muster up. I just gave you facts about how I’m better than you. You’ll bring speculation and you’ll bring stories that are going to try and intimidate me. Spare them, please. I’ve heard them all eight times over. You can tell me that I’ve been saying the same things over and over again. I love that one. I do because people don’t listen. I’m sure you won’t either. This match isn’t going to be fun for you. This match is going to be proverbial rape. There is nothing you can do to stop it so you’re just going to take it. I’ve done this too many times so I know what I’m doing. Hell, to change things up I might throw an American flag over you and fuck you for old glory’s sake. I’ll make you my Real American Bitch. FUCK.OUTTA.HERE - [ * * * ] - “Carmine?” Lisa’s soft voice. “Let your seat back up and put your seat belt on.” “Were here?” “Can’t wait to run through customs and get to my boo.” The plane was descending into London. The plane went down as my anxiety rose up. I looked over at Mrs. Jones. She was reading the New York Times. The picture of the dead Reverend named Coleman was staring at me as I came back to this world. This dead reverend was everywhere I didn’t know if Mrs. Jones had opened that paper to taunt me. Didn’t know if she was one of them. The plane taxied into the airport. “I am so pumped up.” Lisa yawned. This time tomorrow, me and my boo will be riding the London Eye and drinking champagne while we’re way, way, way up in the sky. By next week I’ll be chilling and watching EastEnders, Kumars at No. 42, Big Brother, living on Love island with my boo, riding the red buses, tubes, and trains, being knackered and happy.” We landed. The ding came that told us we could get up. Mrs. Jones was still quiet. Lisa was still hyped. “So, your boyfriend is in Rent.” “You have to come to the play. Both of you. You have to see my boo rock it.” “And you said you want to play the Mimi part.” “Hello? You hearing me? I want to get in Rent and play Mimi so fucking bad.” “Who is Mimi?” “She’s the stripper strung out on drugs. Awesome part. Her solo is off the chains.” “Then you’d get to be on tour with your boyfriend.” I helped Lisa with her backpact, grabbed mine. “You know? When I get in Rent, it’s going to be on and popping. We’re going to be rocking and shacking up and doing the damn thing U.K. style. Shit, we’re going to be like Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis. Just watch. You’re gonna look up and see me onstage playing the hell out of Mimi, spotlight on this ass, people applauding the whole friggin’ nine” I thought about how the flight attendant had brought Lisa back here. How they had strategically sat her next to me. Didn’t know if Lisa Mack had been sent back here to keep an eye on me. Lisa went on, “Can’t believe you haven’t seen Rent. Mrs. Jones, did you see the play?” Mrs. Jones shook her head, still no eye contact. Lisa asked, “The movie?” Mrs. Jones offered the same distant and unkind response. She focused on moving with the crowd. There was some sort of holdup. We had landed but we weren’t getting off the plane. As if they were waiting on law enforcement. I kept Lisa talking, kept making everything look normal. “Which is better, the play or the movie?” “I like the play better. Theater person, you know? They used most of the original actors from the play in the movie, but ten years or more had gone by since it was on Broadway…or off-Broadway…wherever it was…and the actors…well, they looked old as shit. For the play, they were just too old, you know? I mean, like, Hollywood old, not real people old.” I answered Lisa, “Is that right?” We finally started moving “So the actors in the movie were too old for your taste.” “The play was written for people in their later teens and twenties. Not pushing forty. Who wants to watch some over-the-hill, old-ass actors almost in their forties acting like they were fags and addicts in their late teens and early twenties? Oh, you know in London, a fag is a cigarette, so don’t get offended if someone asks you for a fag or says they haven’t had a fag all day, or say they can’t stop because they’ve been fagging since they were a teenager.” “Thanks for the info on fags.” “Snap. My bad. You’re not gay, are you? I mean, I don’t want to offend you if you are.” “Not gay. Not offended.” Then we were leaving the plane. Making turn after turn, customs being at least a mile away from where we landed. Lots of walking. Lots of jet-lagged people on moving sidewalks. Mrs. Jones was behind me. Still silent. That newspaper still in her hand. Reverend’s face refused to stop taunting me. Then we were corralled at customs, standing in the long line for non-U.K. citizens. Moving up one by one. The agents were checking passports and asking questions, then stamping passports. Police were all around. Police were all around. As were the drug and bomb sniffing dogs. I flipped open my bogus passport. Reminded myself what my name was this time. Hoped the passport hadn’t been flagged. My nerves had me shifting and sweating. Lisa smiled at me. “You okay?” “Jet lag.” “Me too.” I said to Lisa, “You were saying about the play?” “Oh, yeah. The play, those old-ass actors, even the chick that played Mimi…Rosario Dawson…she’s so beautiful…but too damn old to play nineteen, you know? Why couldn’t they hire age-appropriate, out-of-work uberactors? It’s better to act up than act down, you know?” they needed to hire somebody who could act and sing and dance and pass for nineteen.” “In other words, instead of Rosario Dawson, they should’ve given you the part.” Lisa laughed. “Yeah, I’m hating.” I said, “You’re stuck on yourself, you know that?” “Duh. I’m an actress.” “Right, right. Part of that narcissistic lot.” “Stop being mean to me.” Mrs. Jones was in front of me. Lisa was behind me. Mrs. Jones was directed to an agent. She handed him her blue passport. She said a few things to the agent. Then she glanced back at me. From the newspaper she held, Reverend’s face was staring at me. Mrs. Jones was let through without too many questions. I thought she would walk on, keep going, and head into London. But she stopped and waited. No tears in her eyes. No expression on her face. As if the tears had been a sham. I’d grown up around treacherous women. Had worked with cons and killers all my life. Mrs. Jones waited. I felt trapped. I was directed to the same customs agent. While Mrs. Jones stood there, the picture on the front page of her newspaper glaring at me, I took easy steps toward the agent. Throat tight, palms damp, I handed him my passport. The agent stared at me. Stared hard. Treachery lived in his blue eyes. Mrs. Jones and her wretched newspaper remained in front of me. One of the customs agents looked at Mrs. Jones. He nodded at her. She nodded in return. A coconspirator to this treachery. She touched her wild mane in a telling way, like she was signaling the authorities. The customs agent in front of me swiped my passport. Something went wrong. He swiped my passport again. He read the screen and stared at me with a stiff poker face. Stared at my injuries. He looked me over again. Stared at the passport, stared at me. Not too far away more policemen appeared. Sean…The one who got away. I thought about Sean. Going after him had been a big fucking mistake… -- That’s a Wrap! --