Pitfall Read Free

blackmailed: I could take a medical retirement with a generous, as in the high five figures, monthly stipend.
    Or else.
    Looking back, had I really expected them to kill me? I don’t know; I’d heard stories of CIA-sponsored “accidents,” things no one could explain. All the publicity the operation had gotten would seem to preclude a personal attack, but you never know. 
    So not being an idiot, I accepted the deal.
    But I turned the tables. After Ferguson left I made some calls to some friends, and a month later, when he visited again (checking up, really), I had some jarring news for him.
    I told him I was fully aware that sometimes Uncle Sammy forgets his promises, so to keep things on a level playing field I’d made full documentation of everything, with verbal testimony, hard copies, and CDs of the same, safely squirreled away in several sites around the world against the day anything untoward happened to me.
    I went on to say if a week ever passes without me checking in with the people who hold that proof, then the lid comes off, the lights come on, and the shit hits the fan. Then no doubt Mr. Ferguson and his bosses will be invited for a command performance before the Senate Armed Services subcommittee to explain exactly what they’d pulled.
    That said, I awarded him a sunny smile. He opened his mouth, and closed it. Then shooting me a hard look, he stalked out. On reflection, I suppose what I did makes me a jerk.
    But I sleep well.
    And it gets better. Rather than spending the rest of my days slurping mai tais with beautiful brown-skinned women on a Costa Rican beach, I now assuage my guilt by unofficially taking on hopeless tasks that just skirt the edge of the law.
    For free.
    After leaving the gym I headed home, and fifteen minutes later found me pulling my car, a 1965 candy-apple red Mustang, into an open spot in my apartment house, concrete parking lot. Still stiff and sore from the attack, I’d just slid out cautiously, black field bag in hand, when I heard a young boy’s high, familiar voice calling out to me. “Hey, Mr.  Brenner! Hey, coach!”
    Turning around and looking across the lot, I smiled. It was Mark Brantley, one of the ten-year olds whose football team I coach for the Butler County urban league. He was pedaling his ancient, faded red Schwinn bike toward me, coming so fast his legs were almost a blur. A second later the boy skidded to a halt, his brow knitted in concentration, leaving twin foot-long trails of stinky rubber from his already thin tires.
    “All right, Mark! Pretty slick.” Shutting the car door with a solid thunk, I turned to face him and gave him a high-five. “Looks like you got that move down.”
    “You like that, huh?” Beneath his thick thatch of yellow hair, his corn-fed, freckled face now beamed. Ever since he told me he’d seen a kid on some TV show do that stunt, he’d been practicing. The last two times he’d taken a nasty fall, but he was game.
    I removed my sunglasses, hanging them from my red tee shirt by an earpiece. “You think you’re ready for the big screen yet?”
    “Pretty soon now.” His nod was absolutely serious. And then, as kids will do, he completely changed the subject. “Have you seen Billy?”
    “Billy Cahill?” Billy and Mark were best friends, sticking to one another like rare-earth magnets. “I think I saw him down the street at the corner store a few minutes ago.”
    Mark nodded. “Yeah, he’s supposed to be gettin’ us some red licorice whips. But I think either he got lost, or he’s readin’ that new Blue Menace comic.”
    Licorice. The most foul candy known to man. “Now then, what can I do you for?” Locking the car and pocketing my keys, I turned and started heading around to the front of the old building, where the entrance was, knowing he’d follow. “And this being Monday, how come you’re not in school?” I matched Mark’s stride as he walked his bike alongside. The traffic on this narrow side street was