It Is What It Is

Please don't forget to donate to Nifty if you enjoy reading the stories!

Email feedback can be sent to trager2275@gmail.com. © 2015 by Eric Trager.

Yahoo group: https://groups.yahoo.com/IIWII

*** I know that this chapter has been a long time in coming. I'd like to thank all the loyal readers who have stuck with me. I hope that this chapter will have been worth the wait! :-)

NOTE: This is a revision to Chapter 65 that had been uploaded previously. There were several material errors in the initial version of the chapter that was uploaded which are now corrected. I was not pleaed with that. ET

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

The next day, Sean concluded his business with Wilhelm von Hohenzollern at Burg Hohenzollern. As Ginny warned, Wilhelm was both bombastic and overbearing.

Sean was his usual unflappable self, making sure to behave toward his host in a way that to Americans would seem to be almost over-solicitous in acknowledging the hospitality shown to him which, while certainly first-class, was nevertheless typically teutonically stifling. In addition, Sean found the meals with all their heavy sauces to be excruciating. And he didn't care if he would ever see sauerkraut again in his life.

But he satisfied himself that, at least, he was able to steer the negotiations to what he was sure would be seen as a successful conclusion once he got back to Janesville. It had got down to the point where Wilhelm demanded that the amount be negotiated in Deutsche Marks and was nonplussed when Sean reminded him that the Deutsche Mark hadn't existed as a currency since 2002. Sean even volunteered to do the deal in Euros but was dismissed by Wilhelm with an insulting wave of the hand.

Sean stifled an eyeroll and finally won the argument when he asked at what exchange rate the dead Deutsche Mark would trade in today's market. He suggested that if the Wilhelm didn't want dollars and Sean couldn't accept dealing in a currency that didn't exist, then the deal could be done in British Gold Sovereigns as a half-way point.

The deal finally arrived at was for 425,000 U.S. Dollars value in British Gold Sovereigns to be deposited within 14 days at the Deutsche Bundesbank* in Frankfurt. Sean initially hadn't wanted to pay more than $350,000 but he ended up far closer to his amount than Wilhelm did to his.

Wilhelm initially wanted several million dollars, but when Sean laughed and replied that in that case he wouldn't have made the trip had he known there wasn't to be a serious negotiation things settled down after another suitably boring and meaningless lecture from Wilhelm.

Finally, Sean, having had enough, laid it on the line.

"Look, Wilhelm, let's cut to the chase here. I didn't come all the way over here just to listen to all this crap about how things were a hundred years ago. Neither one of us was alive then, anyway. So, it doesn't matter. And I honestly couldn't give two shits less. Sorry to put it that way but I don't. We both know none of this stuff can be quantified so let's just get on with it and get to a bottom line here. If we can. Anyway, at the nearest I can figure it and valued as it was at the time," Sean said, knowing that he was low-balling it, "we're talking about a quarter of a million here..."

"Ja, aber..." [Yes, but...]

"There's no buts here, Wilhelm. We settle it now or never. And I don't see where we've got a lot to talk about here. I didn't come all this way to talk about the weather so maybe I should probably head back home. Now, as much as I don't think it's the end of the world because I don't think much of the EU, some of my associates seem to think that we need to have some entry point into Europe in case your EU and the British make a shit show out of Brexit. Which I'm convinced that you probably will. None of you people could negotiate your way out of a fucking paper bag and your governments are leaving it all to third-rate political hacks. It's going to be a cluster-fuck and in the end the British will get tired of it and just leave. Now, I know you can't stand the British and that's fine but I also think it's fair to say that as tedious as you Germans can be, I'd rather deal with you than the French if we must have a foot in the EU. I wouldn't trust the French farther than I can urinate. And I'm sure you can at least understand THAT..."

"Ach! Die Franzosen!" Wilhelm said, rolling his eyes. "Ja, das stimmt..." [Ach! The French! Yes, that's true...]

Finally sensing he was getting somewhere, Sean got on with it.

"So, how much did you REALLY think you were gonna get and don't bullshit me again or I walk."

Wilhelm indicated that he wanted the ridiculous number of seven-hundred-and seventy-seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-seven dollars. In addition to promises to assist the Hohenzollerns in their quest to restore the German monarchy.

"So, that's $777,777," Sean smirked. "Are you sure you don't want 77 cents on the end of that, too? You know, just to make it even?"

Wilhelm was, as Sean could plainly see, growing incandescent at the much younger man opposite him not only being a tough negotiator who knew he had the upper hand, but also at Sean's unvarnished impudence. Wilhelm was not at all used to that.

"Look, Wilhelm, I'm gonna tell ya how this is gonna go and then we can both get on with our lives. When I came here, I figured at the most, and I DO MEAN at the most, I'd be willing to part with is 425,000 U.S. dollars. I really didn't want to go over 350 but I figured I'd go 425 if I had to do it just to get it behind me. That's it. Not a penny more. Between men like you and me that's chicken feed. And we will agree that IF things in your country come to such a pass that a restoration of the monarchy seems more likely than not that we'll help you out BEHIND THE SCENES and even then only once we withdraw any money we hold in interests in your country, which right now isn't much, in order to reduce our risk of being exposed to German political issues. That's as far as I'm gonna go.

"That's it. Take it or leave it. And there will be nothing memorializing this meeting in writing which I am sure you don't want, either."

Wilhelm sat speechless, but also puffed up by Sean's "between men like you and me" comment. Ginny schooled Sean well on how to butter up Germans.

"Well, I guess we don't have an agreement then," Sean said. "I'll be leaving now and heading back home in the morning," Sean said rising from his chair and extending his hand to Wilhelm.

"Warten Sie, bitte. Vielleicht hab' ich falsch eingeschätzt..." [Please wait. Perhaps I misjudged...]

"So, we have an agreement then?"

"Nicht die Vereinbarung die ich gerne gehabt hätte, aber ja!" [Not the agreement I would have liked, but yes!] Wilhelm answered resignedly.

"Look, Wilhelm, I'm sorry if I was a bit to-the-point, but I didn't see any reason for dragging this out any longer. Do you? Besides, I have a husband and four young kids at home who need my attention. I'm sure you understand."

"Was überraschend ist, daß Sie deutsch verstehen." [What's surprising is that you understand German.]

"Nicht schwer," Sean smirked. [Not difficult.] "And besides, I was speaking English in my Midwestern American accent which you understood, so we're even."

At that Wilhelm let out a hearty laugh. "Schnapps?" he asked.

"Don't mind if I do," Sean said in a mock W.C. Fields tone. "And if you have an ashtray that would be nice," he said with another smirk, and a wink, brandishing a pack of Camel straights.

Wilhelm snapped his fingers, calling a servant, which elicited an internal eyeroll and chuckle from Sean.

"Es war gut daß wir einen Deal machen können." [It was good that we could make a deal.]

"That's what I came here for. Now let's not do anything to wreck it because I want you to understand that I now consider the matter closed and I won't reopen it. It's a deal between to gentleman."

"Ja! Geschlossen! Wir haben ein Gentlemansvereinbarung!" Fritz answered, although somewhat condescendingly, raising his glass to Sean. [Yes! Closed! We have a gentleman's agreement!]

On the way back to Janesville, Sean reduced the meeting to writing for his own records, glad to have it over. He filed it away in a paper folder and locked it away in his briefcase. Sean kept nothing in the way of meeting records on a computer and never communicated electronically regarding them.

He knew there would be many such meetings to come with many such people. He'd win some and others he'd lose over the years. He knew that. But for now, at least he was on his way home.

Sean put down his pen. That meeting was twenty-three years ago. He felt he still had a lot more to say. A lot more that he needed to say. The almost forty-three years of his life had passed by in some ways so quickly.

And somewhere down inside he felt that what he needed to say the most he couldn't dare go near.

So, he decided to pick his pen back up and write about other things that happened in the intervening time.

He did most of his writing in his glass-windowed office in a series of adjoining buildings downtown that he converted into a museum open to the public which housed his personal automobile collection. [Sean's car collection is detailed at the end of the chapter] Over the years he'd made some significant automotive purchases, all of which were meticulously and exactingly restored in-house by his staff of mechanics, body men, and upholsters. All were restored to pristine original condition with the exception of three of the vehicles which were resto-mods and while the bodies and interiors were impeccably returned to factory-correct condition, those three cars rode upon modern chassis, suspension and brake systems, and with thoroughly updated powertrains, one of which was all-electric.

All the cars were driven to keep them in running form. It was one of Sean's favorite things to do to come down on a Saturday morning and have local kids queue up for rides. He didn't charge them a dime. He'd do it for an hour-and-a-half, or two hours. The ones who didn't get a ride were given special tickets to go to the head of the line next week. Every year for the Labor Day Parade, Sean selected a car to drive in the parade taking as passengers one athlete each selected from Craig and Parker High School. He also rented out the limousines, although very selectively, for special functions. It was a source both of great interest and pride to Sean.

Many an evening he'd spent in his office writing. And too many times he'd made too much of a dent in a 750ml bottle of brandy. More than once Sean woke up in the morning having no idea what he'd written the night before. Sometimes he didn't remember getting home. Sometimes he didn't get home.

He knew he had a problem, but it wasn't alcohol. He thought to himself that it wasn't quite as bad now as it had been, but it haunted him nonetheless. It robbed him of what he remembered life once was. He felt soulless. Empty.

He poured himself three fingers of brandy, not the first three fingers of the evening, and once again, began to write. He let his mind wander, but again couldn't face what he knew he needed to face.

The first thing that came to his mind was his four boys. They hadn't been boys for many years now he had to admit. The twins were almost 27, T.J. was 25 and Scott 24. They had all been good boys for the most part when they were growing up.

They were good students in school, all four graduating from Craig High School with honors. All four had played sports. The twins through their boyhoods grew like weeds as they had when they were toddlers. Once grown, they towered over their father, both at 6'5" and all through their high school careers were the stars of the basketball team, helping to bring home state championships in their junior and senior years.

Studious to a fault, the twins lead their class academically although at the end they were just edged out by a fellow student for the Valedictorian slot. They were quiet boys, known to be a little aloof and eccentric, and they kept mostly to themselves. While not unfriendly and generally well-enough liked by their classmates, neither one of them had many friends, if any at all, and certainly no close friends. There were basketball teammates and school classmates but that was about it. Neither did they go in much for typical school social events.

Now, in their late 20's the twins were the spitting image of their father when he had been a young man, although taller and lankier, and lacking Sean's supple musculature.

It was harder for Andy and Sean to know how T.J. would turn out since he was adopted and there wasn't much beyond the thinnest biological parental information to go on, but as a child he was cheerful and biddable, always eager to please. There was a difficult time in his early teens, about thirteen or so, when he was angry at the world having been adopted, telling his family that he didn't fit in and wished he was somewhere else. When told that his was an open adoption and he would be free to make arrangements to meet his birth parents should they be agreeable once he turned sixteen, that did not seem to placate him. He went through a period of some months being moody, sulky, and disagreeable. When a friend of his from school suggested he might need to "see a shrink" he snapped out of it pretty quickly, rounding on his friend that he "wasn't some kind of a freak." He apologized to the rest of the family, tears in his eyes, and told them that he knew he was the luckiest kid around.

T.J. proved to be, if anything, the quickest student out of the four boys. He rarely brought homework home from school and still pulled down almost all straight A's. Learning seemed to come effortlessly for him. He had a photographic memory. He was also the shortest of the four, at an even six feet, or maybe an inch less. But he had a more robust build than his brothers and was a starting running back on the football team as well as a sprinter on the track team in the Spring. Far less geeky than the twins, and with his sparkling, outgoing personality, T.J. counted many friends and was every inch the ladies' man.

That left Scott. Scott was a typical youngest child. A bit indulged and one could fairly say a little bit spoiled. He grew to be a tall young man, at 6'2" almost the same height and build as his father. And like his father and the twins, Scott exhibited the classic Branson looks: angular face, bright blue eyes, and blonde hair. He was the most rambunctious of the four and once or twice got into typical teenage trouble like the time he staggered home quite drunk from an after-game party as a 16-year-old Sophomore at Craig and threw up all over the bar at the Alamo. Sean didn't rub it in when the next day the mess was discovered and Scott, extremely contritely, spent a couple hours cleaning up after himself although Sean did run out and came back with a Hurley t-shirt that he made Scott wear for the rest of the day. While an honors student like his older brothers, unlike T.J. it required some bit of work on his part, and academically Scott worked to a standard he called "good enough." He knew what it would take to make honors, and he did "good enough" to make it, he knew what it would take to get into college and he did "good enough" to get there. Like his father, he was a natural athlete and had been the football team's starting quarterback. Like his father, as a Senior he'd won a Conference championship (but not State) and like T.J. he had no shortage of girls wanting to date him. A few of them he dropped when they referred to his eldest twin brothers as being "weird." To Scott, they were his big brothers and they could do no wrong. Anyone who had anything against them he wanted nothing to do with and that was that. He would drop them like a hot potato. It was almost a replay of the relationship between David and Kevin Dickson.

And then there were the cousins. John and Kathleen had their children in rapid succession. Six pregnancies resulting in seven children born over the course of nine years.

The first were the twins, Victoria Rosemary and John Joseph both now 25, then came Virginia Kathleen, 24, Christian Andrew, 22, Patrick Sean, 21, Bradley Richard, 19, and as a surprise a couple years after J.R. had got a vasectomy there came the last little girl, Margaret Mary, now 16 years old.

Their children filled the old Kennedy home on Saint Lawrence Avenue with joy and raucous laughter. A quiet home it was not. Taking after their parents, all the children were highly intelligent and fiercely competitive in whatever areas they chose to excel.

Looks-wise, their kids were a mixed bag. All the girls took after Kathleen being fair- complected and with wavy red, or reddish-brown hair. The three eldest boys took after John, being of slightly less-than-average height at 5'9" and having darker coloring. The youngest son, Bradley, joined his sisters in exhibiting the Kennedy side's Irish looks although with hazel eyes and medium brown hair. At 6'3" and 200 pounds, even though only 19 years old, Bradley had inherited the Kennedy height and sturdy build obviously from his grandfather, the late and unlamented Bill Kennedy. Unlike Bill Kennedy, Bradley was a cheerful boy and the favorite of his Grandmother Rose.

Their family size being what it was, J.R. and Kathleen bought and took over the old Trager home on the Rock River north of town for use as a Summer home. They could easily afford it because J.R.'s training in Agronomy at UW-Madison afforded him the knowledge and with time and experience, and with heavy backing from Sean and the rest of the Consortium, the opportunity to build the largest golf course construction and maintenance company in the Midwest whose clients included courses that had hosted such tournaments as the U.S. Open. Weekends at the old Trager house could have been a somewhat less grand replay of the 1930's Kennedy years at Hyannisport.

Kathleen took some years off to raise her brood to an age where they didn't need constant mothering anymore, and then she fulfilled her ambition by acquiring her own college education at University of Wisconsin-Madison. As time had gone by, it was no longer necessary for students to attend lectures as, other than laboratory classes, straight lectures could be streamed to video and saved. So, she completed most of her education from home only having to appear on campus for some labs, or to sit for exams. During those times she might be gone for a day or two and then would stay at a hotel in Madison preferring the old Edgewater Hotel where Brett and George Dickson had met for lunch that day years ago. When Kathleen was gone, Rosemary would stay in the apartment over the garage and look after all the kids. Her grandchildren loved her dearly. They called her "shwamee."

When learning to talk, Christian couldn't pronounce "grandma." It came out "shwamee" and the nickname stuck.

Kathleen completed, on time, her PhD in Psychology as well as an MD allowing her to be a Psychiatrist. She had a private practice affiliated with Mercy Hospital located downtown in the same building on Main Street that Joe Wyman had bought years ago and still owned. She occupied both storefronts. Of her paying clientele, for she did accept charity cases, there were a few members of Janesville's elite families who desired discretion. Kathleen had both the name and the social standing to provide that discretion, never mind that some people in town still looked askance at her for having married "that adopted Mexican." She didn't care what they thought and they knew it. Besides, she had the money on her own to have Sean and Andy's adjoining building to the north of her office modified in such a way that certain clients who could pay for discretion could enter through a hidden rear entrance to that building which was in the alley and that led through an underground passageway to Kathleen's office upstairs and next door. No place else offered that level of privacy. Kathleen used the fact that they took advantage of that and paid for it as a part of her therapy.

"I didn't hide it in High School when I fell in love with Johnny, married him, and bore him seven kids who I love all, so we need to face issues whether they're real or not and we need to explore if they're real or not," she told more than one of them. "I had a sister with a checkered past of her own doing, and I watched it all happen so I'm no prude or Rube about how the real-world works. I get how human beings operate," she would add. Her clients, no matter what they thought otherwise, loved her for her down-to-earth reality.

Kathleen was a consummate professional and never divulged client-patient information to anyone, but by the same token a time or two she did glean certain business information oblique to her patients' treatment that she felt she would be amiss for not sharing even if masked somewhat - more-or-less hinted at - and never mentioning names but going as far as she could go otherwise over pillow talk with her husband. It was a perk of the job and she thought "so what?"

After all, J.R. was her husband and his interests were her interests. They operated as a team. He was Johnny and she was Kath. Behind their backs some of the less charitable people in town referred to them as "Victoria and Albert" recalling the young English Queen who in 1840 deigned to marry the threadbare German Prince.

John was aware of what other people thought, too, but given his drive and that old chip on his shoulder, he merely redoubled his efforts to push ahead and be successful in his own right. And he was. He was featured on the cover of Golf Digest magazine for his stunning golf course designs and the impeccable maintenance and playability of the courses. He won an award for the Best New Golf Course of the Year in 2027 for a course erected on the banks of the Rock River on the grounds of the old General Motors plant when GM decided to close it and build a new plant on the outskirts of town. It was a championship-level course complete with a four- star hotel and casino and featuring a winding man-made stream diverted from the main channel of the Rock River that flowed through the course. When mature, it promised to be a certain venue for major PGA tournaments.

Joe Wyman had retired a few years before the GM plant relocated to a new facility on the edge of town. He'd run a successful operation all those years and was rewarded accordingly by GM upon his retirement for making profitable what most in the company saw as an outdated, useless white elephant to be got rid of. Not wanting to spend all his time in Wisconsin anymore, Joe purchased Ginny's Miami Beach condominium and was spending probably eight or nine months of the year as a Florida resident.

As Andy had suspected earlier, there indeed had been a romance between Joe and Mrs. Cheadle. She married Joe once Scott turned ten years old. Even now in their twenties, the boys revered their old nanny. She might insist on being called Gran now, but to them she would always be their beloved Mrs. Cheadle. If one listened carefully, with all four boys, one could detect traces of a British accent and word choices here and there. Very few American young men, for example, used expressions such as "bollocks!" or "bugger me!" or said "Ta!" for "good-bye."

Sean reflected on his four very different sons at their present points in their lives. The Twins always stayed close to themselves from the time they were born. They had that unbreakable bond. Maybe too much so, Sean had always thought, but they came into the world under duress, were well enough behaved children when he was a very young father with the aid of a nanny, they always did well in school, wanted to please their fathers and never got into trouble. They were every parent's dream. Except for one thing, Sean sometimes thought. They never seemed to form real friendships with other kids whether boys or girls. They operated as one person in two bodies. It was a battle Sean and Andy chose not to fight.

After college at the Marquette University College of Business Administration in Milwaukee where they both finished double-majors as undergrads in Mathematics and Finance, and both obtained MBAs in International Finance, finishing it all in five years and graduating Summa Cum Laude, they returned to Janesville talking up residence in the apartment over the garage at the Alamo.

The twins started a business which they located in a small rented office in the old Parker Pen building on Court Street where they concentrated on international currency exchange. They had their own money that had been gifted to them with which to start the business and after a little while they came to manage all international currency transactions for both the Consortium, Saeth Construction, and other customers some of whom wished the utmost in discretion and about whom they were.

They proved their worth a year prior, years after Sean's meeting with Wilhelm, by seeing in advance what no one else in the markets saw. They foresaw the collapse of the Euro by

Germany announcing without warning that their currency was to revert to the Deutsche Mark. In the weeks prior to that announcement, the Euro had been gaining against the British pound and the dollar. The market was saying that there was still more upside for the Euro, but 48 hours before the German government made their announcement the twins sold all their Euro denominated holdings and currency, dumping the money into dollars and pounds. They were proven right when in order to halt a market panic the Federal Reserve Bank and the Bank of England had to conduct massive market interventions in order to avoid a global recession. This caused a sharp run up in the value of dollars and sterling. Joey and Lennie then sold a large portion of their British pounds for dollars when they felt that the pound had exceeded a sustainable exchange rate against the dollar. The profits they put into gold which had to the surprise of everyone remained steady through the crisis.

What floored the twins was that they managed to pull it all off without attracting the attention of the financial press or any governments whether state, local, or foreign, or really any attention at all. The wisdom of being in a small, backwater town and conducting operations through multiple small shell companies located here and there and not always in the United States was not lost on them. In this instance, neither was their connection to Burg Hohenzollern, thanks to their father, lost on them. Yes, the reality was that they had a bit of a tip, but it wasn't ironclad by any means at all, and in the end they banked on what their instincts told them.

Some time after the great currency upheaval, they received a rather peculiar inquiry delivered to them in person by an old British gentleman after an introduction message from Sean. The man's name was Sir Nigel Pritchard. He introduced himself as a friend of their father and great-grandmother.

When they met him, they reckoned him to be maybe eighty-five years old, or so. Spry, but certainly up in his years. He bore a letter for them. The letter stated that it came from the office of the Lord of Mann.

When the twins inquired of the old man who the Lord of Mann was, he produced a chart of sorts indicating that the Lord of Mann was none other than King William V of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, then age 56 and in the thirteenth year of his reign. Unlike his father's tragically short three-year reign, it appeared that William, tall, regal, and obviously physically fit, had every prospect for a reasonably long reign although it would certainly be nowhere near the titanic 70-year reign of his redoubtable grandmother, Elizabeth II.**

As King, William proved himself to be more in the mold of his grandfather, Prince Philip, and perhaps also his great-grandfather, George VI, than he was of his late father, Charles III. William was a discreet, yet hard-working King who did not needlessly pester his Ministers. He was, however, exacting in his weekly meetings with the Prime Minister of the day and more than once saltily took a Prime Minister to task for being unprepared to answer questions on government affairs that he had already mastered and deemed to be of importance. If he had a question on some government policy before Parliament, William was known to fire off a letter to the Prime Minister commanding them to reply in writing and in a timely fashion as to exactly what the intent of the government was. There had not been a Sovereign since Victoria who made it their business to be that thoroughly and intelligently informed as well as, within his constitutional bounds, actively a participant in the governance of the nation. Like his grandmother Elizabeth II, William never gave interviews or public comment.

Of the King's letter Joey astutely asked, "Why is this letter from the King's office in his role as the Lord of Mann?"

Lennie echoed his brother. "Yeah, why is the letter not from the King himself? It's weird enough getting a letter from a King, but from someone claiming to be the King but by a different title, and not only that but the King of England?"

"Sirs," Pritchard began, "As no doubt you will appreciate, I am not at liberty to say much, but I will say what I can. My recommendation here is that you read the letter and perhaps get the advice of someone you trust before you reply. This doesn't mean that I am prohibited from having an opinion, and if I were asked what my opinion is I would say, off the record of course, that as a personage whose station requires an expenditure of a great deal of their own funds to maintain, the Lord of Mann simply may wish to avail himself of available legal opportunities to raise sufficient funds, never mind that his station requires that others are the active managers of his portfolio hence the letter originating from his office and not from him directly. Sovereigns, at least English Sovereigns, are not devoid of a requirement for their own income just as we all are. And there are certain expectations and duties that they must discharge. Therefore, you will understand the desire for discretion as no doubt you have that desire yourselves. This may be an opportunity of which you wish to take advantage, and then again it may not be. The choice is, of course, entirely yours, Sirs."

"We'll have the letter looked over," Joey responded.

"Yes, and please thank His Majesty for us," Lenny added.

"Very well, gentlemen," Pritchard responded.

Thus began for the twins a fruitful financial relationship with none other than the House of Windsor, for within a year not only were they transacting business for the King, but also for his son, George, Prince of Wales who was just about their same age. After some years the King put out through channels a feeler to the twins inquiring what their opinion would be to offers of knighthoods as Members of the Royal Victorian Order. Flattered, the twins respectfully declined His Majesty's offer in order to maintain their discretion. They intuited that the King was hoping they would refuse for precisely the same reason. Their reasoning was that if the King had wanted to make them members of the order he would have simply done so as there was no reason for him to ask. They knew well enough from asking their Gran, they still even now weren't used to calling her that, that this was how royalty paid a compliment in private.

T.J. had his own success. His scholastic abilities as well as his grandfather Joe's connections landed him an acceptance to Harvard University where he, to the surprise of his entire family, earned a M.S. Degree in Artificial Intelligence. Leveraging his grandfather's, father's and older brother's - as well as others - connections he accomplished the seemingly impossible which was to cause the leading Chinese artificial intelligence company to lose material amounts of money on their operations to the point where the Consortium bought the Chinese company and moved it lock, stock and barrel to Janesville. They had little trouble convincing the Chinese transplants, all of whom had deep background checks done on them, that instead of conducting industrial espionage on the Americans they would now be conducting it on the companies that amounted to branches of the Chinese Communist Party. A gated housing complex was built for them in walking distance of the business campus. This was the type of housing that they'd been accustomed to in China, and given that typical neighborhood small commercial amenities were available within the complex the new arrivals were greatly pleased as they were with provisions for indoor parking, a large amount of greenspace which was designed by J.R. and included a fish pond stocked with decorative fish as well as attractive exercise facilities and a mile-and-a-half bicycle course.

In an even greater coup, T.J. was able to undercover snag a few former Communist Party officials and once in Janesville kept them generously paid, and housed in a separate complex with extra security and working at a separate campus from the others. T.J. wanted them for the sole purpose of helping him to know the Chinese system and avoiding corporate espionage traps. Through channels, all the Chinese people who had come over were informed that they'd be paid handsomely and afforded the best benefits, but that their identities would be changed and if there was any funny business discovered they'd be returned to China. They were well aware of what that would mean for them. They never made any trouble.

T.J.'s company flourished. So successful was it that the United States Department of Defense sought him out specifically in order to help develop defensive and offensive systems for use in the Navy and Air Force. The Navy work had been so pivotal to the development of a new class of almost-unmanned aircraft carriers that T.J. was able to get the Navy to agree to name the lead ship of the class U.S.S. Wisconsin.***

And then there was Scott. Sean hated to admit it but of his four sons, Scott was his favorite. He was the most like Sean both physically and mentally. He was the same height and looked just like Sean did at his age. He'd played quarterback for the Craig Cougars and won a championship. He was popular and friendly with everyone although, like his father, he could be aloof sometimes. He was even-tempered, and like his father, too, maybe just a little bit cocky. And he had Sean's smirk. He also shared a good eye for nice clothing and unlike his three brothers, he was a good cook. If Scott thought Sean was feeling down, he would whip up a batch of shit on a shingle and sit and talk.

Also, like Sean, Scott hadn't really had an exact handle on a path for his life when he was in High School. At the end of it he decided, more by default than anything else, to enter college at UW-Madison and go for a Law Degree. It interested him as much as anything else did which wasn't particularly a lot. He was, again like his father, a smooth operator and knew the difference between telling someone what they wanted to hear versus what he really thought was the right answer if the situation called for it.

Scott was a quick study and by taking summer school courses he finished Law School a year early and decided that rather than go into practice right away, which would have been easy enough for him as he could have had a good position at A.W. Dickson simply for the asking, he would get his experience by becoming a Navy JAG Officer. Soon he was to move to Newport, Rhode Island for his training and once that was done, he would be commissioned as Lieutenant Scott Wyman, United States Navy.

Sean was proud of all his boys. And in the last year, T.J. and Scott had both become engaged to be married.

T.J. would marry his high school sweetheart. Her name was Ann Marie Schumacher. She wasn't from a wealthy family; in fact, her family was what uncharitable people would have called poor white trash. Her father had spent some time in jail as a young man on a charge of grand larceny and after that, although he straightened his life out, he was never able to earn an income that afforded his family any better than living in a 120-year-old decrepit rented apartment in the 300-block of Ravine Street on the near west side. It was on the same level of housing as the shotgun shack Sean, Andy and Ginny set eyes on years ago where Brad had lived although perhaps worse since it was a duplex that hadn't been nice even when it was new. Ann Marie's mother was a good woman, but she was uneducated beyond an altogether minimal high school level. She took no pride in her appearance, was slovenly with her clothing, and seemed content to work at jobs paying little better than minimum wage, if that. She was the type of person who, while sweet and the salt of the Earth, didn't know any better than to be obliviously content with the scant lot that she had.

Ann Marie didn't let any of that bother her, but she may have been a bit overawed by T.J.'s obviously exponentially better circumstances. They met in a math class as Sophomores at Craig. Assigned to work together on a project, she found T.J. to be smart and capable. T.J. found her to be all business when it came to their project and he was a little surprised that she didn't want to immediately get into his pants and seemed maybe a bit standoffish. He thought she was cute. She thought he was out of her league. She was surprised when he asked her out on a date.

T.J. was shocked when he asked her where she wanted to go for dinner that she readily gave her answer and didn't play dumb about it like most girls did. She wanted to go to a pizza joint on the south side. He asked and she answered. When T.J. allowed that he thought the pizza joint was in a sketchy area and that he could take her for a nice meal at the Country Club she demurred. The pizza place was fine she said, and besides they had the best pepperoni pizza in town. T.J. was not going to argue. The truth was that she didn't have anything nice enough to wear to a place like the Country Club. She was nervous and above all else wanted to make a good impression. Her nervousness went unnoticed by T.J. He liked her. That was the beginning of their relationship.

After they graduated, she followed T.J. to Boston and while she did not apply to Harvard, she had good enough grades in high school to be accepted at Boston College, a Jesuit University located nearby in Newton, Massachusetts. By this time, Ann Marie was well attuned to T.J.'s being from a fabulously wealthy family but being practical she knew that she would need a skill of her own in case anything happened and their relationship somehow didn't work out. To that end, she entered the School of Nursing and completed an MSN Degree with specialties in surgical nursing and nursing management. Her clinical practice was completed at Massachusetts General Hospital where she was well liked by both her peers and the Doctors. She finished with more-than-solid credentials. What she did not know was that there had been a fund set aside which would, whether she married T.J. or not, pay off her student loans. Sean liked Ann Marie and moreover knew her circumstances. She had worked hard to get ahead in the world on her own and she hadn't asked anyone for a nickel. True, the gift to Ann Marie would afford the Consortium a welcome tax deduction, but that wasn't the point. It was merely an added benefit of what Sean saw as doing the right thing.

Sean saw to it as well that when there were job openings at the GM plant both of Ann Marie's parents were hired on. It meant about an eight-fold increase in the family income and the chance to move out of a poorly maintained, drafty and dirty apartment and into a much newer and to-them-swanky split-level home in a better neighborhood. It wasn't anything to set the world on fire what with being in a south side blue collar neighborhood, but to them it meant everything.

They were so poor at housekeeping and maintenance, Sean thought, that he sent over specialists to educate them on how to take care of a home. The last thing he wanted to see them do was to ruin it. He knew they would take the favor well as unlike the obviously intelligent Ann Marie, Sean judged her parents to be mentally deficient.

In the end, though, Ann Marie and T.J. did marry. He was the adopted son. Told he was the chosen one he nevertheless carried a chip on his shoulder not unlike his Uncle John. Ann Marie was the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. They loved each other based on mutual attraction, but they both had their own insecurities. Ann Marie's insecurity was that she grew up poor and she promised herself that she would never be poor again wherever her relationship with T.J. went. T.J.'s insecurity was that he had no blood relation to what he knew was a considerable fortune. In the back of his mind was that at the end of the day there might well be nothing for him, and he wouldn't know that for a long time. He couldn't afford to wait and see. He wanted security.

They talked about the idea of not going back to Janesville after their schooling. They both loved Boston and in their final years living in a floor-through apartment in an old Dorchester triple decker in the Savin Hill Over the Bridge neighborhood they were in heaven. Close by were handsome, solid, sturdy old Victorian homes that had stood the test of time, and the bracing sea breeze of Dorchester Bay.

In the end, they did go back to Janesville. At least for a few years until T.J.'s company grew and flourished, but his heart and Ann Marie's heart were in Boston, not in the old midwestern river town. Oh, T.J. made sure his company was well-run, and he kept tight reins on it, spending some considerable time in Janesville every year having bought a condominium in one of Sean's downtown developments, of which over the years there were several. He specified one with four bedrooms should he and Ann Marie ever need them, and it was along the river and included a boat slip. He was careful that he and Ann Marie paid, and were seen to pay, themselves for everything they bought.

Over time, Ann Marie progressed to being one of the senior surgical nurses at Massachusetts General Hospital which was a prestigious position at arguably one of the finest hospitals in the world. And she was compensated appropriately. She found out over the years that Sean had paid for her college education and she saw to it that she paid back every red cent. Sean didn't like it, but Ann Marie made him take the money. He promptly invested the money with the twins in an account with survivorship rights stating that in the event of his death if Ann Marie survived him it would go back to her along with any increase.

Then came Scott. If the twins were the first ones, the ones who always held a special place in the hearts of their parents, and if T.J. was the chosen son, then Scott was the golden son. Never put a foot wrong to the rest of the world did Scott, and his fathers were forbearing with him. Even Mrs. Cheadle was a bit less strict with him. He was the last boy of her career and she knew it. From an early age he raced to keep up with his developmentally more advanced brothers and it showed. Even as a youngster he was uncommonly precocious and well- mannered. Sean thought that what others had said about his mother could equally be said of Scott: he knew with equal ease how to win and how to please.

Now, all grown up, Scott was engaged to be married as well. He would not marry his high school sweetheart as T.J. would, but a girl he met in college in Madison. Her name was Allison Kohler. She was an heiress of the substantial Kohler family of Sheboygan, Wisconsin whose family owned the entirety of the Kohler Company, world-renowned manufacturers of plumbing fixtures, small and medium size engines, furniture, electrical generators, ceramic tile, owners of golf courses and hospitality establishments among other things and whose family boasted two former Wisconsin Governors. It was a toss-up which one of the couple would be marrying up, or down. As far as Wisconsin went, this would be a marriage of royalty, the scion of the Janesville Jackman-Miller dynasty, with those in the know throwing the Kennedys in for good measure, marrying the Kohler heiress.

Sean thought on all that his sons had done. He could feel that he had been a successful father.

The first to bless him with a grandchild, of sorts, were the twins. One night a year ago while they were still living in the over-the-garage apartment at the Alamo, the alarm alerted the twins of a possible break in at the entrance near the side gate to their apartment. That area had always been the potential weak point in the Alamo security system. It's how Colleen Kennedy had snuck in and out.

At first, they wondered if they should ignore it, as there had been false alarms before. But the video indicated there was a person out there. They decided to cancel the police summons as the video of the person looked like someone who wasn't looking to do them any harm but someone who might be hurt themselves or needed help. It wasn't immediately clear to them.

Upon investigating they encountered a grisly sight. It was a young boy, perhaps 12 or 13 years old they thought. He was shirtless. His pants were ragged blue jeans that appears so dirty as not to even be blue. They were black. His torso and back bore fresh, bleeding wounds that they guessed to be whip marks. The blood covered what appeared to them to be older scarring. He was barely conscious.

Joey and Lennie were horrified. Joey yelled to Lennie that he should call 911 right away while he tried to see if he could tend to the boy. The boy was spooked on Joey's approach who, even though on the ground, moved back and away from Joey like a spider. His mouth moved but all Joey could make out was "no" and maybe what sounded like "please."

Joey didn't know what to do. He didn't want to scare the kid, but it sure looks like he was. Lennie was still on the phone. Just then out of nowhere, Brad came out of the Alamo. Brad motioned Joey away without saying anything. He approached the boy, who was still wild-eyed, but so weak that he couldn't really move anymore beyond making intermittent wild arm motions. He'd backed himself into the garage door anyway and didn't have anywhere to go.

Brad bent over, arms loose at his sides, and whispered in the boy's ear just for a second, or two. Brad seldom spoke longer than that in any circumstance. The boy seemed to calm down just a little bit.

Then Brad called 911 and added to Lennie's call that the ambulance was to approach with lights and sirens off. He knew instinctively that those would frighten the boy and Brad, unsophisticated but clear-headed, knew there was something deeply wrong here.

As Brad ordered, the ambulance showed up silently. The EMTs without a word other than for one of them to take Joey and Lennie to the side of the Alamo out of sight of the boy for some basic information. They got what slim answers that Joey and Lennie could provide and an offer to review the video tape, but with the admonishment that watching a video perhaps was not important at that time. They could show it to the Police who were sure to follow.

In the meantime, Brad stood in the driveway where the boy was and watched impassively as the EMTs did their work and took the boy away to the hospital.

Joey and Lennie told the EMT who had questioned them that they would be following to the hospital. Told that they could do whatever they wanted to do but that they would have no guarantee of access to or information about the boy once at the hospital, Joey and Lennie said that they didn't care. They knew they could pull strings if they needed to.

Brad's heart went out, but he knew there was nothing he could do to help the boy at that moment beyond what he did calming him down. The truth was that Brad thought he recognized the boy. Brad was pretty sure, although not a hundred percent, that the boy lived a couple blocks away from where Brad had lived in the Fourth Ward. If that was true then he was worried. Brad disappeared back into the Alamo after quickly taking a photo of the boy's face. When asked why he did that Brad just said, "Don't matter. Jus' go t' th' hospital and do whatcha need t'do. I know what I doin'." Brad went inside and called the Consortium Attorney, Tim Dickson.

Joey and Lennie followed the ambulance to Mercy Hospital and once there were able to establish without any problem by means of a text to the Chief of Police from old George Dickson that they were acting as only very temporary guardians for the boy until the situation could be stabilized.

Brad knew where Sean was. He was down at the car museum writing. Brad drove down there and let himself in. He found Sean and made no comment about the half-empty bottle of E&J brandy and highball glass on the desk.

"What are you doing here, Brad?" Sean asked.

"Never mind. Want you t' look at this pic." Brad then showed Sean the photo of the boy in the driveway of the Alamo.

"Jesus! That's the Alamo driveway! What happened? I really don't want or need any publicity here..."

"Won't be none..." Then Brad explained to Sean the whole story of what had just transpired at the Alamo and that he thought the boy might live near where he once did.

"OK, lemme make a call here," Sean said.

Sean picked up the phone and placed a call to Charlie Ditmar. Ditmar was now officially retired, but a handful of accounts he still handled if he needed to, the Janesville crew being one of them.

"Charlie, Sean Wyman. Good thanks. Brad's here with me. Listen, I got something here I wantcha to look up. I just sent you a photo of a kid. His face is a little beat up, but you can make him out. I need to know his name. I'd say he's 12, 13 years old or so and that'd put him in Middle School so I'm wondering if you can access the school system's records and do a little face ID on him. Brad thinks he might know about where the kid lives, so based on that I'd check Edison Middle first and then Marshall. I kinda doubt if the area of town where Brad thinks he might live is right that he'd be at Franklin. I need to know his name and home address. Yeah, it's an emergency. Wouldn't have called if it wasn't... They're taking him to the hospital and Joey and Lennie went after him. They're the ones who found him..."

"Sure thing, Sean. I suppose you'll be wanting this tonight?"

"I would..."

"Fine, lemme get to work here. I'll call ya back when I have something."

"Very good. Thanks, Charlie." Sean then hung up. "Satisfied, Brad?" he said.

"Don't hafta bite my head off. I gonna go now..." Brad said understandingly.

"Sorry, Brad. It's just..."

"Don't hafta `splain. I know..."

Sean privately thanked himself that Brad was so understanding. He poured himself another three fingers of brandy. As he did, he looked in the mirror. What he saw did not displease him. He did not yet have any gray hair and he still looked good with his long hair, although now more often than in years gone by pulled back into a ponytail. He noticed a few, though not many, lines on his face. Mostly from lack of sleep he thought. He noted that he still wore his clothes well as his membership at the YMCA kept him trim and although not the 190lbs he was in high school, his 205lbs fit him well. Sean still cut a fine figure.

About 15 minutes into his writing he was interrupted by his cell phone. He picked it up and saw that it was Charlie Ditmar.

"Hey, Charlie. Whadya got for me..."

"Welp, I was able to ID the kid. He's a student at Edison Middle. Eighth grade. Name's Tommy Lascelles. No middle name stated. No exact age but I'd say he's 13 or 14 most likely. School records list his address as 401 Park Avenue. Lists a guardian as one Crystal Grath. She's got a record. Drugs possession and trafficking, bad checks, welfare fraud, a couple of evictions, disorderly conduct. Kids got no priors but he's got a shit ton of school absences the last couple of years. Passes his classes but not by much. School noted last year they were watching him for signs of trouble at home but nothing further. School's got no birth certificate on file for him and there's no birth certificate I found on a nation-wide search for anyone with that name between the ages of 10 and 16. What's the deal with this kid anyway?"

Sean explained.

"Sounds like you might have another J.R. on your hands here..."

"I've already raised four of them, Charlie. I don't think I'm up for it."

"Alright, well, that's all the info I have."

"Thanks again, Charlie." Sean then hung up and phoned Joey.

"Joey, yeah it's dad. Look, here's the info I got on that kid," Sean then explained everything he'd jotted down from Charlie Ditmar. "OK, well, you said they checked the kid into a room? You don't give them any info on the kid, OK? Good. Don't. You don't know anything, right?"

Joey hung up and then found his twin.

"I already know what dad told you," Lennie said. "And I know that you're thinking what I'm thinking so let's go."

Joey and Lennie left the hospital without letting anyone know that they were leaving. Once in their car, they drove over to 401 Park Avenue, scoped out the house, and parked half a block away on the side street. They understood the sight of two 6'5" blonde haired young men on the street in that neighborhood at that hour of the night might get some attention so they walked casually around the block the long way to the house.

Approaching the front porch, they smelled an acrid chemical smell and a faint aroma of ammonia. In the background they heard the noise of what they thought to be a television and some unintelligible voices, a man and a woman. They looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and knocked on the door.

No one came.

Again they knocked. Louder. Lennie called out "Crystal!" in a gruff voice.

Eventually the door opened a crack revealing an emaciated, skanky-looking woman with bad tits and worse teeth maybe in her early thirties although worse for the wear. She was obviously high. They noticed the chemical smell more.

"Who the fuck are you!" Crystal said in a gravelly voice.

"You got son name Tommy?" Joey asked while Lennie stared at her.

"Who wants to know..." she said.

"We do," Lennie said.

"Didn't know he had a twofer tonight..." she said.

"Yeah, we had a twofer with him," Lennie said, pulling the door open and walking in with Joey behind him.

"Hey! What the fuck are you doing! Get the fuck outta here! The kid ain't here!"

"Where is he then?" Joey asked.

"How the fuck would I know? Maybe with his last trick!"

"We'll wait." Joey said.

Crystal sat on the sofa. In front of her was a disgustingly dirty, cheap, broken-down coffee table covered with empty beer cans, a glass pipe, an ashtray with cigarette butts spilling out of it. The twins noted the many burn marks on the tabletop as well as on the filthy carpeting. The room reeked.

Just then an equally skanky-looking man came into the living room. He did not look unfriendly, but when he half-smiled it was clear that several teeth were missing and those that were still there didn't appear to be long for this world. He had long, greasy hair and noticeable body odor. He sat down next to Crystal, picked up the glass pipe and hit it. Holding his toke in for a long while he then massively exhaled, looked at the twins and asked if they wanted to buy hits of meth.

"Nah, we did some already," Joey lied. "we got some weed, though. You mind if we smoke a bone?" he asked brandishing a joint.

"Whatever," Crystal said serving herself up a long meth hit.

"Do more hits you guys," Joey said. "I like whatcher doin'"

Crystal and the man helped themselves to two more massive hits.

"That homegrown?" Lennie asked.

"Yeah."

"Got anything else? I mean, we might wanna buy..."

"Got smack," Crystal said.

"Do some," Joey commanded.

"Who the fuck are you guys anyway?" the man demanded.

"We're the kid's next tricks. We're a twofer. Twins. We're gonna fuck the shit out of him."

"Show me the money," Crystal said. "Three fifty."

Joey peeled off three hundred-dollar bills and a fifty and threw them on the shitty coffee table. He then lit up the joint, took a healthy hit and passed it to Lennie.

"You guys seem pretty cool," the man said.

"Thanks, man," Lennie said. "Hey, I'm Steve and this is Tony. We're from Rockford but we heard about this kid. We hear he's got a real sweet ass."

"Dude, sometimes I fuck Crystal here and then I fuck the kid after. Crystal don't care as long as the kid eats her out while I'm fuckin' him... Kid's a piece of shit, but he brings in the rent money... He's got a sweet little boy pussy alright."

"Can't wait to use his hole," Joey said.

"You already paid. Keep him for a whole day if ya want," Crystal said. "What the fuck do we care `s long as ya bring him back alive..."

Crystal stretched a sturdy piece of rubber around her upper arm and readied a syringe in anticipation of a nice hit of heroin. The man did the same.

Not two minutes later both of them were in a daze as amped up on meth they'd now done healthy hits of heroin.

To the twins they looked both crazed and glazed.

Now was the time they thought to each other. Slowly they began speaking in their special language that they had since they were babies.

Crystal and the man didn't notice at first. When they did they simply stared, wide-eyed.

Lennie mentally helped them each to have another hit of meth.

Joey kept on speaking.

Lennie nodded slightly when the man readied generous heroin hits for each of them.

Lennie and Joey kept up their conversation. Then just Joey talked as Lennie left the room.

One minute...

Two minutes...

Finally, Joey and Lennie left the house.

But not without having the man pick up the phone, put the phone in Crystal's hand, and having Crystal's fingers dial 911. Once they were satisfied that the call went through, they took the phone with them and threw it in the river on their way out of the neighborhood.

Not being able to make any determination of the call because even though the line was open no one was heard on the other end, the 911 operator tasked a police cruiser to report to 401 Park Avenue for a welfare check. When the police got there, they found drug paraphrenia, but unsurprisingly found no drugs. None except what appeared to be the cooking stages of some meth. It appeared to be just another abandoned meth house to the cops...

Until they entered the living room.

There they spied what for all the world were maybe two dead bodies. Dead, or who knew, maybe just another OD call... It was all so routine...

Immediately summoned were EMT, Police, and automatically the Fire Department, too. Upon examination, both people were pronounced dead. The initial ruling was drug ODs but the EMTs noted as well, which was quite curious, that they had both swallowed their tongues.

The police roped off the house with crime tape and a detective and criminalist were called in.

The home was thoroughly inspected and dusted for prints. Not found was any trace of Tommy. What little he had Lennie fit into one Hefty bag and slung it over his shoulder. The three hundred-dollar bills and the fifty also weren't there anymore.

Silently, the twins communicated with each other. "Did we do the right thing?" "Yes, we did." "Should we feel guilty? Go to confession?" "Not necessary. We saw evil." "Yes." "Yes."

The twins knew the first thing they needed to do was contact their Attorney. They placed a call to their dad's old High School friend, Tim Dickson. Once through on the phone, they were told that Tim had expected their call and that they were to come straight to Tim's home. Of course, that would mean that Joey and Lennie would have to run the gauntlet of the State Police in the house next door that Tim and Brett bought to house them and to keep the neighborhood looking as normal as it could, so they told Tim no, that they would meet him at the Alamo.

"You guys are rough, lemme tell ya..." Tim said.

"Thanks, Uncle Tim!" they said in unison.

Tim would go to the Alamo alone. He didn't know what the issue with the two young men at that hour of the night could be, and it would make no sense to take Brett with him as Brett couldn't be involved with a story like this.

The reason Tim and Brett bought the house next door to them was that Brett was in his second year as the Governor of Wisconsin and it made sense to house the State Police guard there.

Brett's road to the Governor's Office had been both swift and unforeseen.

Prior to the last election, the state of the State of Wisconsin was parlous. The two previous Governors had each served two terms. The first was a Republican who had the bad luck that at the very beginning of his second term there was a healthy recession in the national economy. The recession deeply affected Wisconsin's economy, and as a result of sharply reduced tax receipts the state government had to cut back. The cuts were done ham-handedly because the Governor was unskillful and the state legislature was split with the Republicans controlling the Assembly and the Democrats the Senate. The legislature was more concerned with injuring the opposing party than they were making wise budget decisions. Each party outdid the other in agreeing to only the cuts they thought would hurt the opposing party's supporters the most. With a deadlocked legislature, the Governor couldn't do anything and had to sit and watch as the state's economy and finances tanked.

Running for a third term, the Republican Governor, as expected, was beaten. The Democrats swept the gubernatorial election and both houses of the state legislature. With all the levers of government power in their hands, the Democrats restored the former Governor's spending cutbacks and then some. But the tax revenues weren't coming in and so people who had money and businesses were punished in an attempt to make up the difference but responded to a greater degree than was anticipated by leaving Wisconsin for friendlier places. The result was that the state couldn't sustain its increased spending while at the same time the state's bonds sunk to the status of junk bonds.

The situation was untenable.

Brett stewed about it. Their three sons were mostly grown. Even though Tim wasn't a hundred percent back in Janesville now, he was close enough. Brett thought that if any one of them might have wanted to grab the sword it would have been Sean, but Sean was as disinterested in the state government as he seemed to be in everything else other than seeing to it that the consortium at least maintained its wealth and income through the economic downturn. Sean had become something of an enigma to Brett.

Brett resolved, and told Tim that, "Someone who's one of us, a regular person, has to stand! These people don't represent anyone! This is a fucking disaster!"

Tim kiddingly asked, "So, YOU wanna do it?"

"If I have to I will." Brett replied.

"You're serious, aren't you..."

"I am."

"I'll be in your corner, sweetheart. Just like always."

"Fine. When is your retirement again?"

"Six months. You'll be there, right?"

"I'll be there, and the boys will be there."

"Thanks. That... That means a lot. I... I..."

"You'll be glad to be back home full time."

"Yeah. You always know what to say..."

Brett went to see the Chairman of the Wisconsin Democrat Party and did not get a welcoming reception.

"You think that you wanna be the Governor, huh... That's nice, son, but we already got our candidate," Brett was told.

"I assume you're talking about the current Governor?"

"That's right."

"He's a fucking disaster. He's not going to win. You might as well FedEx the election to the Republicans."

"Look, son, I'm only gonna say this once. He's got the office, he's got the money, he's got the campaign machine, hell, we even got more votes than there are voters in some places," the man laughed taking a pull on his cheap cigar. "The fuckin' Republicans haven't got a chance."

"Maybe I'll run in the primary against him."

"What primary.... I looked you up. You might be a registered Democrat voter but that don't mean shit. You'll get no help from anyone. We'll bury you. Now, I'm gonna give you a piece of advice here, son, and you better listen. I've got a pretty good idea what goes on down there in Janesville and I don't think we'd want, say, the Department of Revenue getting curious, would we? I'm sure you'll make your usual campaign donation just like you've done before, but primary the Governor? You better just forget you ever thought of that. There ain't gonna be any primary, boy."

"I see..." Brett said, emotionless. "Thank you for your time."

Once back in the car, Brett was incensed. But he would not be stopped. He was smart enough to know that if he was going to get in the race there was no sense to do it unless he intended to win. And he knew enough to know that unless a candidate ran as a Democrat or a Republican there was no chance of winning. Independents don't win elections in state-wide races in Wisconsin.

A few days later Brett managed to get an appointment with the Chairman of the Wisconsin Republican Party.

Once the introductions were over, Brett cut to the chase. "I might as well get right to it. I want to be your candidate for Governor."

"What?" the man said. "I know enough to know that you're a registered Democrat voter. Is this some kind of a fucking joke?"

"No joke. Look, I've already seen the Democrats. It appears that they have their candidate. To the best of my knowledge you do not. You can't win with your last Governor. He's persona non grata in this state. And I don't think you can win with anyone from the legislature. They're all second-rate, bald-headed hicks and you know that as well as I do. Now, I think this Governor can be beaten. His record is indefensible. And, no, I'm not a Republican, but what do you care? Winning is the name of the game is it not?"

"How do you intend to win?"

"Look, I run a business in a small town. I'm an Attorney and an MD. So, actually I run two businesses. I'm a family man. I know what it takes to attract and keep business. I know the state's been bled white financially. I know the current Governor can't win. And I've got the money to finance my own campaign. It won't cost you a cent. Can anyone else say that? And I know your party hasn't got a lot of money in the bank."

"Um..."

"I didn't think anyone else could say that."

"How much do you think a Governor's race costs?"

"Let me just put it this way: it doesn't matter. I've got the money. The last Governor's race cost $150 million between the two candidates. That's $75 million apiece. I can spend the whole 150 if I have to. And that's the truth."

"Is that so... Look, let's do this. I'd like you to come back sometime next week and let's do a mock debate with the other person pretending to be the Democrat. Don't do any practicing, just come in cold."

"Fine. When?"

Brett showed up at the appointed date and time and blew the Republican Chairman away. His answers were quick, he didn't stutter, and when he didn't know the answer, he was skillful at turning his opponent's argument right back on him. Even fresh and green Brett looked polished. He was a natural. And his handsome looks didn't hurt, either. In the end, the Republicans had found their candidate.

During the election, Brett campaigned tirelessly. The threat of the state Department of Revenue turned out to be real, but George Dickson came out of retirement to quickly stall their proceedings before the news of it could get out. George would only tell Brett that "the old country lawyer still has a couple tricks up his sleeve." And so it appeared that he did.

Brett would campaign sometime with all, or some, of his three sons all of whom were engaging, handsome young men. He dazzled in the debates, rubbishing the sitting Governor to the point of leaving him huffing and puffing in the last debate when the Governor sputtered that Brett was "a child of privilege."

"I see," Brett said. "Let me tell the Governor about my privilege. My dad worked on the line down at the GM plant from the time he was 18 years old. My mom was a secretary at the courthouse. We lived in a small home. I was in High School when my parents bought their first new car. I went to work at Woodmans grocery store when I was 15 years old. And you wanna know something? No one watching us gives a damn about any of that. Some Governors are fiscal, some are spenders, but this Governor... If this Governor can be the Governor then anyone can be the Governor. His record is a disaster, it's ridiculous and it's tragic. The Milwaukee Journal – hardly a conservative newspaper – said in an editorial just the other day that the proposals my team is making, `would lead most reasonable people to believe they make sense,' and of the Governor's policies they said..."

"Your time is up!" the Governor bellowed.

"It's not up, Governor," Brett rejoined. "I still have 31 seconds left. Apparently the Governor is no better at reading a clock than he is at managing the state's finances. Of YOUR policies in this campaign, Governor, the Journal said that you have 'no clue and nothing to offer.' That is what they said. No clue and nothing to offer. But while you want to waste time talking about our backgrounds the only thing people want to know is what we're going to do with the next four years. Right now, the state continues to sink under your policies, Governor. Policies that injure everyone, including people like me who were born with no privilege at all."

Brett glared while the Governor stood red-faced and speechless.

Brett campaigned everywhere, even going into the student neighborhoods of Madison and the inner-city neighborhoods of Milwaukee. He laid out his platform and asked the people to give him the biggest majority in the legislature than any Governor ever had in order to get it through. He was chatty and cheerful when he spoke to people, even when they disagreed, and he always remembered how his dad told him that when you talk to someone you look them in the eye, and if a stranger talks to you then you thank them.

It paid off. On election day, Brett carried 70 of Wisconsin's 72 counties with 65% of the total vote. He was rewarded with large majorities in both houses of the State legislature. It was the most savage defeat ever inflicted on a sitting Governor in Wisconsin's history. Before all the counts were announced, Brett knew that he'd won. He asked the party chairman to have what are known in Wisconsin as the `WOW' counties - Waukesha, Ozaukee and Washington – to hold off and report in last. Those three countries were the ruby-red, middle-class suburban counties ringing Milwaukee County to the west and north. With the WOW counties still not reporting, Brett was ahead with 57% of the vote. It was all over. Brett had even stunningly taken Milwaukee County with 50.4% of the vote there. No one could recall the last time a Republican candidate for Governor carried Milwaukee County. He lost only in hard-left Dane County, home of the capital city Madison, and in Menominee County which had a miniscule number of voters and had never since it was created a county in 1959 voted less than 70% Democrat in a gubernatorial election.

Because of the quick and overwhelming verdict of the people, Brett rather early on in the evening received the concession call from the Governor, surprising Brett by being somewhat gracious which Brett wasn't buying. Brett thanked him, wished him well, and ended the call. The press was already descending on the Dickson-Dowling home. As Brett was now the Governor-elect there was a State Police presence, but Brett, Tim and their three sons came out on the driveway. Brett took the microphone to speak to the press gathered in the driveway of the old Ginny Miller home which had been Brett and Tim's home for the last ten years. Herb and Marilyn Dowling and George and Peggy Dickson watched with pride from the front porch of the Dickson home across the street. Herb Dowling could be seen wiping his eyes.

"I always said that Brett was a winner, don'tcha know!" Peggy whispered in George's ear.

"That you did, Peg. That you did..." George said, smiling and shaking his head.

"A few minutes ago, I received a phone call from the Governor conceding the election," Brett began. "There is still some final counting going on, but the polls have closed and the results are decisive. It's more than we had dared to hope. It looks like we'll have solid majorities in the Assembly and the Senate, too. On my first day in office each one of the items on the platform that I outlined during the campaign will be submitted to the legislature for action. In fact, they are ready to submit. And I will expect action quickly. I'm asking the current Governor and legislature to act merely as caretakers until inauguration day so that we won't have to waste time undoing things of the sort that usually happen when people are on their way out the door. I'll say again, as I said during the campaign, that my family will not be moving into the Governor's Mansion. Our home is here in Janesville and this is where we will stay. Madison is only an hour away. Finally, I want to say to every person in Wisconsin, no matter how you may have voted, I won't let you down. The state's finances and economy will be the focus of my administration. They have to be. I don't promise it's going to be roses all the way, at least not in the beginning. No honest person could promise that. But we all knew the state was in serious trouble or I wouldn't have won the election, my opponent would have. It's going to take us probably two years at the minimum to show solid recovery, and I said that during the campaign, too. We've got nowhere to go but up, so let's make a start, shall we?"

Brett then took a few questions.

"Governor-elect, you ran as a Republican..."

"You noticed."

"But you're gay. Isn't there a conflict with that?"

"Look, I'm sorry, what is your name and who are you with?"

"Sally Sundt from the Wisconsin State Journal."

"Yes, Sally... Well, this isn't a hundred years ago so I find your question to be a little bit old fashioned shall we say, but here's the deal: I knew that someone who's an ordinary person had to run. Someone who has no agenda other than improvement. Who am I? A Doctor and a Lawyer. Lots of people are Doctors and Lawyers. I'm not a politician. I don't care about their parties. Why should I? Do you? I made an attempt to get the Democrat nomination before I went to the Republicans, but the Democrats told me to get lost. A person has to run under the banner of one of those parties in order to win. That's just life. It's how the real world works, and I didn't get into the race planning to lose. No one worth voting for would do that. The label on the party isn't what's important. At the end of the day what's important is if you left the place better off than you found it. If you did your job. If you don't bullshit, pardon my French. That's the measure. I took no money from anyone in this campaign. Nobody owns me. And I'll tell all of you that I will not take this question again tonight or in the future. Next?"

Brett took a few more questions, then waved the reporters off telling them it was late, it was a school night for his boys, and he didn't want to bother the neighbors. Which he really didn't, but truth be told he could see his sons and husband getting bored, as he himself was growing bored at the inanity of the reporters.

He did manage to squeeze in before going that he would be holding no press conferences, nor would anyone from his team be holding any press conferences, during the transition period. "I don't believe in that. We only have one Governor at a time," Brett said. "Once I'm in office we'll make an announcement of how we'll accommodate the press." Brett had no intention of having either himself, or his staff be at the beck and call of news reporters. He didn't trust them. Besides, he knew that he was a newbie at politics and that he'd have his hands full given what he would inherit from the outgoing administration.

Two days later, Tim went back to Washington, DC. He would be gone a week. This would be Tim's last trip to Washington.

When Brett graduated from the University of Wisconsin with his JD and MD it happened quite by surprise, as Brett was expecting to do his internship at the UW-Madison Medical Center, that he was offered an internship at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. He took it.

As Tim was already done with Law School, Tim went with Brett. Tim needed a job, so he applied and was accepted to the Judge Advocate General's Corps as an Attorney with the rank of Lieutenant. Some years later Tim would influence Andy and Sean's son, Scott, to join the JAG Corps. But Tim was ready to retire now. He'd put in twenty years.

There would be a ceremony, of the type that Tim hated because he knew that he'd get emotional. The truth was that he'd miss his colleagues, but it was time to go home. Time to go back to Janesville.

Tim would retire with the rank of Captain. He made a name for himself both as a prosecution and defense attorney. He argued two cases in front of the United States Supreme Court where the Justices praised him for his clarity and brevity notwithstanding that he'd won one case and lost the other.

Tim viewed the law as his father did. His job was to give his client the best representation that he could. To Tim that was what the ethics that his practice demanded. Many of his case transcriptions appeared to be compact, that is until one read the annotations. Tim Dickson was a skilled practitioner of the law. Every bit as good, if not better, than his father, grandfather and great-grandfather. But it was time for Tim to go home now. His husband had what they both agreed was a higher calling and it would be Tim's turn to be the househusband.

Brett and their three sons flew to Washington for the retirement ceremony at the Pentagon. Of course, the annoying ever-present guard of two Wisconsin State Troopers were present. Naturally, Brett's boys delighted in giving them the slip, going out, and doing whatever they wanted to do.

They were three good boys. The eldest was George Herbert, 19 years old. He was Tim's son by a surrogate mother. They were all sons of surrogate mothers. George looked like Tim with red hair and brown eyes. The second son was Andrew Sean, 18. The third was Kevin David, 17. Andrew Sean was Brett's son and like his brother George he took after his biological father in looks being himself tall, slim, blonde and impossibly good-looking. Kevin David they could not be sure about as the sperm was a combination of both of theirs. He was blonde and handsome like Brett, but with a muscular build as a Dickson might have and a personality like his grandmother Peggy. No one wanted to look into it beyond that.

The audience assembled; Tim came out on the stage in a small Pentagon auditorium. Flanking him was a Navy Color Guard and his office staff, the most senior of whom he would promote to take his position and who was the one to take the microphone.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. We're here today to retire our boss, our Captain, and our friend and mentor. No one who's been in his office for any length of time will ever forget Captain Dix. Thank you, Sir! But we know it's time. You said so yourself last year that it would soon be time for you to go back to Wisconsin. To go back home. To the Captain's family who I see here, I'd just like to say on behalf of all of us..."

"Ten-HUT!" the senior Navy guard commander interrupted the officer at the microphone. "GEN-eral officer!"

Tim initially looked confused, but then turned and looked over his shoulder to see the barrel- chested visage of his brother, Lieutenant General David Dickson, United States Marine Corps, stroll in from the wings in his dress uniform, three silver stars on each shoulder. General Dickson motioned the officer at the microphone to make way.

"As you were," David began. "You didn't think you were gonna pull this off without getting a little crap from me, now, didja little bro?" David boomed with a smile. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Lieutenant General David Dickson. I've had the burden my whole life of being Captain Dickson's older brother. Seriously, they don't come any better than my kid brother. I'm happy for you, Timmy, and I'm happy for your family. You said you were only gonna do one tour, but it's twenty years later now and here we all are. I'm gonna..." and then David's voice broke, "I'm gonna miss you around the building here. I love ya, man..."

Tim teared up, took the microphone and made a heartfelt goodbye.

Tim flew back to Janesville two days later alone on a United flight as Brett and the boys had been whisked back home on a private airplane after dinner on the evening of the retirement ceremony.

At O'Hare airport in Chicago, Sean waited in his car for Tim at the arrival area. He specially took one of the most prized cars out of his collection to pick up his old friend and teammate. It was his 1958 Cadillac Fleetwood Sixty Special. The body was in a cream-colored custom lacquer paint with a two-tone light- and deep-brown leather-and-fabric interior done to factory original specifications. The car was a frame-off resto-mod with a modern chassis, brakes, and suspension. The original powerful-but-crude 365 cubic-inch Cadillac V8 engine was replaced with a state-of-the-art 3.0-liter GM turbodiesel in-line six-cylinder engine and heavy- duty continuously variable transmission augmented with electric drive motors that could deliver well over 50 miles per gallon in the massive old land yacht once out on the open road. Even at jaded O'Hare Field, people stopped and gawked at the old car with its unmistakable, confident and in-your-face 1950's GM styling, acres of chrome, and soaring fender fins. Across the back of the trunk lid, huge chrome block letters spelled out 'FLEETWOOD' while on each rear fender 'Sixty Special' appeared in gold script.

https://ccmarketplace.azureedge.net/cc-temp/listing/83/7468/2047843-1958-cadillac-fleetwood-60-special-factory-tri-power-std.jpg

Once away from O'Hare and barreling down the Northwest Tollway at 80 miles per hour, Tim turned to Sean. "You been OK, bud?"

"I have."

"Not buying, Wymo."

"Buy."

Tim knew better than to press further.

"Dix, I've done the best I can over the years," Sean began. "You and Brett were off in Washington. And that's fine, butcha were. J.R. and Kathleen had like six million kids and J.R. had to prove himself to himself. Andy helped, and that was fine, too. But in the end it all fell to me. Which I guess was OK. What'd ya want me to do?"

"Nothing different, Wymo. I told you all those years ago that you were a better quarterback than I was, and you're better now. I wasn't as good of a friend as I should have been over all these years. I um... I hope you can forgive me..."

"Shut up, Dix," Sean said.

Tim laughed.

A few minutes later Sean said, "I've been OK, Dix. Not great. I've had a lot of pressure."

"I know, man... It's just that, well, I mean, um..."

"Spit it out, Dix. We've known each other too long. Never mind. Can we talk about it later?" Sean said.

"Whenever you want. Like I said, Wymo, we've known each other a long time..."

"I'm hungry," Sean said out of the blue.

"Well, there's the Oasis coming up..."

"Fuck that, I don't want McDonalds," Sean said. "Maybe wanna stop in Belvidere and get a bite there? No one will know us..."

"You're obsessed with that aren't you?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

"I guess so now that I think about it."

After a while, Sean took the tollway exit for Belvidere and headed toward the downtown. Belvidere was a small town of about 25,000 people whose main claim to fame was the site of a Chrysler assembly plant. Sean drove around for a little bit and spied a cozy looking pizza joint as well as two adjoining open spaces in which to park the big Caddy.

Sean said very little over their meal. Tim mostly talked about how happy he was to finally be retired. "I stayed a lot longer than I should have, Wymo. Yeah, I came home every weekend every other time I could and shit, but still... Brett's had to raise our boys almost all by himself, and then he goes and gets elected Governor. I don't know where he gets his energy from. He finished two degrees in the time it took me to finish one. He's made our house a home. He's been a great father. I... I..."

Sean kept eating his pizza.

Tim was dismayed at his old friend's silence.

"Anyway," Tim continued, "I'd be lost without him as my husband all these years. I remember our fifth anniversary. I gave him a card. On the inside I wrote, "Grow old with me. The best is yet to come." I don't think I gave him my best. But he never complained. I don't know why he didn't put his foot down ten or fifteen years ago. But he didn't. That's how he is. It's how he's always been."

"I know, Dix," Sean said. "A couple times a few years back he asked me what I thought. If he should ask you to quit. I said I didn't know. Anyway, we talked about it for a while. He said the boys were pretty easy kids, and that a lot of time he could work from home. He'd send them off to school and then go down the law office, or to Mercy Hospital and he was always home just like any other dad would be. I really don't think he minded that much."

"But still, I feel like I missed most of all those years."

"So just don't miss the rest of them then."

"I can't. I let them all down."

"Cut the shit, Dix. You were there for every birthday, every Christmas, every game they've played in. Helluva job you did, I'd say. Yeah, you missed some, but..."

"What about you?" Tim asked, looking up into Sean's eyes. "What've you missed?"

"You know what I've missed," Sean said testily.

"Yeah, I know. How long's it been now? Ten years?"

"Twelve," Sean answered deadpan.

Tim reached out and grabbed Sean's hand. He didn't let it go. "You got a guy back at home who's been trying to help you. Who HAS helped you. You know that."

"But I'm just so..." Sean said, then began shaking his head with a dark look on his face indicating he wasn't going to go any farther.

"Say no more," Tim said. Then he slid Sean a piece of paper across the table.

"Read it when you get back to the car museum," Tim said politely.

"How did you know I go there..." Sean gasped.

"I know what I need to know, old bud. But most of all I know you've never put a foot wrong. And I know that in the last 20 years you improved our asset value by 300% which is about seven or eight percent a year whether times were good, or not so good and with little risk. I pay attention to what I need to pay attention to. Oh, I was jealous way back when Ginny passed me up for you. But I know now that it was the right decision."

"What's the paper say?" Sean asked.

"There was an old TV series back around 2018 or so and there's a scene in it that I want you to watch. Look, I've missed you, old friend. It feels like It's been a million years. I miss a lot, my husband, my kids, but I miss you a real lot. And I'm missing you now."

"I... I..." Sean stuttered.

"Just watch the scene, Wymo. You rescued me once, remember?"

"Whadya mean?" Sean asked. Then he remembered. "You don't mean back at the condo... That's not what you mean..."

"That and at the cabin up north..."

"We said we'd never speak of that."

"And so, we maybe shouldn't have before, but now I think it's OK," Tim said. "Just watch the video clip, that's all I ask."

"OK. Can I do it alone?"

"You and alone... What would it ever be but you being alone..." Tim exhaustedly said.

"Well, I mean..." Sean said, thawing just a tiny bit as Tim's comment hit home.

"Let's finish up with the food and hit the road," Tim replied, sensing that he'd gone as far as he could go and that he had plenty of time to get the lay of the land.

Walking back to the car Sean tossed Tim the keys and told him, "You drive."

"You sure?" Tim asked, grinning ear to ear.

"Fuck yeah, man... I'd just like to sit and think anyway..."

"I'll never drive another car like this again," Tim said.

"You can drive anything in the collection any time you want," Sean said.

Tim wheeled the big Cadillac out onto the Northwest Tollway. "Fuck, this thing drives like a new car. Wasn't expecting that!"

"This car's 82 years old but under the body IS a brand-new car," Sean said. "Everything. This is one of three of the ones I got that's a resto-mod. I had this one done like that so it would have a service life and be useful like a normal car. This car could cruise all day long at 80 or 90 miles an hour."

"Fuck this is awesome!" Tim said, now in a full giggle as he romped on the accelerator.

Sean felt a little better. He sat up a little straighter in the seat and, at least to Tim, looked like he was semi-alive.

Tim made a mental note that he would call Joe Wyman that night.

Tim had a ball piloting the Fleetwood Sixty Special back to Janesville. Once perfunctorily past the State Police checkpoint in front of his home, Tim heaved the Fleetwood into the driveway as if he were docking an aircraft carrier.

"Help me carry my shit in?" Tim asked.

"Sure," Sean said.

Once out of the trunk, Tim and Sean got the luggage into the house. The first thing that happened was all three of his sons ran up to give him a hug. George, the eldest son, said, "Want a beer, dad? Oh, and welcome home for good!"

"Stay for one, Wymo?" Tim said, looking at Sean with a smile.

"Sure," Sean said.

"We missed seeing you lately, too, Uncle Sean," Andrew, the second son, smiled. Sean looked at Andrew and felt such mixed emotions. Andrew was a great kid. He was kind and gifted with intelligence. He was his husband's namesake, and they bore similar personalities. They even bore a slight likeness to each other in the way they acted. If one didn't know better, one could almost be forgiven for thinking that Andrew might be Andy, Jr..

"C'mon, Uncle Sean, I'll getcha a beer!" Andrew said.

Sean tagged along.

"Here ya go!" Andrew said, popping the top on a 16-ounce PBR while grabbing one for himself.

"Thanks, Andrew. Say, so you're a senior this year, hey?"

"Yeah, just a little while left to go and then I'm off."

"Where to?"

"Naval Academy. Dad helped me get in. I wanna be a submariner."

"You'll be a good one, too, Andrew."

"Hey, you want a bong hit, Uncle Sean?"

"Sure, why not. I won't tell the Governor, OK? How's that going for you anyway?"

"Haha... The press and stuff pretty much leave us alone. Maybe they wouldn't have if we'd moved to Madison. Nobody at school treats us any different. George is only home for the weekend and then he's back to Madison to work in the Governor's Office."

"That's right, he gives the press the finger for your dad," Sean laughed." I forgot... And Kevin?"

"Ah, Kev's doing good. I think all he ever does is worry about what girl he's gonna doink next."

Sean laughed at that remark, being reminded himself of what it was like to be a kid. Remembering how he and Andy finally got together all those years ago. He smiled.

"Alright, Buster," Sean said, "I better shove off here so you guys can have your family time."

"OK, but, hey, don't be a stranger, Uncle Sean..."

"I'll try not to. Say, where's the Governor?"

"Ah, he's still up in Madison. He said not to hold dinner for him."

"Well, you tell him I said hello, will ya, Andrew?"

"I will."

"OK, I'm gonna say goodbye to your dad and then I'll see ya later."

Once back in the Fleetwood, Sean headed downtown to take it back to the museum and check it in for an after-drive servicing. He went into his office, picked up his highball glass, rinsed it out in the sink at the wet bar and poured himself some fingers of brandy.

He sat down to write. Of what, he didn't know. He might write about the business deals he and Andy did over the years. He might write about trying to be a dad to four boys. He might write about all his old friends, of whom he had made note cards briefly detailing where they were in life. He would think about it.

Tim didn't get much useful out of Joe Wyman that night. Joe and Tim had always been friendly and continued to be so, but it appeared to Tim that Joe was as baffled with his son as Tim was. Joe admitted that he wasn't back in Janesville enough to observe things on an everyday basis and that it might be possible that Sean put a good face on things during the times he was there. He apologized to Tim for not knowing more. He asked Tim to call him back any time he thought he needed to.

One night about two weeks later, Sean decided to write of Tommy. Little Tommy Lascelles. The boy the twins took in.

There wasn't much to say so far. Initially, Sean thought the twins were crazy for wanting to take on a troubled teenager, but then he remembered that windy, rainy day so long ago when J.R. was swept into their lives, and after that it was hard to have a criticism.

The day after Tommy showed up in their driveway, Tim took care of handling the legal paperwork to make Lennie the boy's guardian. Tim thought it would look a bit odd having two twin brothers who live together wanting guardianship of a teenage boy and he advised against it.

"I'm here to talk about this kid you kinda took in," Tim said when he showed up at the Alamo about a week later to check in, "Tommy la-SELLS."

"It's lassels' like in tassels,'" Lennie said.

The twins had been from the start totally honest with Tim about what they saw and did that night, and everything else having to do with Tommy. They were savvy enough to know that Tim regarded attorney-client privilege as sacred. Tim advised them that they hadn't done anything wrong anyway. As he put it, they took a ride in the car and talked to a couple of people who later OD'd. He didn't think there was any law against watching stupid people doing stupid things, and that there wasn't anything more to say other than that since the boy showed up in their driveway and the security cameras had captured him being pushed out of a car, Joey, Lennie and Brad offering first aid, and calling the EMT. The cops weren't going to come around asking questions about that. There was nothing there for them. Joey and Lennie's actions were on tape. Tim merely advised them to be as good to this injured boy as they could be and to follow their instincts.

"That's what we'll do," Joey said. "So far, so good anyway. He's eating well and maybe is just a little less skittish. And you're right, the cops haven't come around to ask us any more about it..."

"Yeah, and tell your mom thanks again. We think it was a good idea to take him out of school for the rest of the year and having your mom as a private tutor, well, he seems to like her anyway. Next year he can start as a freshman at Craig if we think he's ready. We understand he's got a lot of issues and Aunt Kathleen is taking care of him on that end. She's got him on some kind of med until she can nail down what's probably gonna be best for him. We know he's taking it like he should. We pretty much just let him do what he wants. He hasn't asked us for anything. He's pretty quiet. He likes to sit in the Library in the main house and read or watch TV, or so we think, but he pretty much stays in there. Brad seems to find time every day to spend with him. We don't mind. We figure he's gotta learn that there are adults who aren't going to hurt him."

"But...," Lenny said, "We know how it looks right now. We live in the apartment that's only got two bedrooms and now we're some kid's guardians. So, we made an offer on a house yesterday. We haven't told dad. We don't see him much..."

"No, we don't..." Joey said.

"Well, where's the house?" Tim asked.

"If we tell you then we'll have to kill you!" Lennie laughed. "Actually, it's three doors down on Garfield."

"I noticed the For-Sale sign in the yard there. That place is huge!" Tim said.

"It's not as big as this house. Plus no one can get mad at us. We didn't go far," Lennie continued.

"Yeah, and it's fine. It doesn't need any work. We'll have Great Lakes install the same security we have here. It's got space we can work from home if we need to... It makes sense. I just hope we're doing the right thing with that kid. He had it so bad. We don't even know if he knows how bad."

The twins and Tim unaware, Tommy had been listening on the other side of the door. He hurried back to the Library and took out the towel he'd hidden under the cushions of one of the chairs. The towel he used to wipe his tears. The towel could barely absorb the river of tears streaming down Tommy's face. Not that he believed it now, because too many times in the past some adults had been nice to him only to beat him, or torture him, or use him, but always to lie to him and return him to his hell, the house of horrors with his mother and whatever drugged-out guy she would have for a week or a month.

The twins hadn't tried anything on Tommy. They fed him good food, he had a comfortable warm bed, clean new clothing, he had his own teacher – her name was Mrs. Dickson - who was a nice, older lady who made him laugh. He had another nice lady he got to talk to about his problems with – Dr. Wyman - and she gave him some pills that made him feel, although a little lightheaded, much less jumpy. Tommy thought he might be able to trust these guys. Maybe. But he couldn't be sure. He hoped so with all his heart, yet he wasn't naïve. And he wasn't sad that his mom died. To Tommy she was the constant companion in his dreams when he would wake up in a cold sweat and jump if he heard a noise in the house. Tommy had never known his dad, and not being well raised or particularly well-schooled he didn't have any idea about how to go about finding him even if he wanted to. He still slept with his clothes on at the Alamo, though, because he thought someone might take his clothes away from him. And the house was so large and grand he knew these people could do with him whatever they wanted to and get away with it because no one else would see or hear. He knew how people with money could be. Someone was paying someone else to keep him maybe. He wasn't sure of anything.

Tommy cried, but he also didn't let his guard down. He told himself he couldn't afford to. The best thing for him to do would be to lie low, get to know the house and plan escape routes in case they were needed.

On his way out, Tim asked if he could speak to Tommy for a minute.

"Sure," the twins said.

They found Tommy easily enough in the library.

"Tommy," Joey said, "This is Mr. Dickson. He's your teacher Mrs. Dickson's son. He's also our attorney. He wants to talk to you for a couple minutes. This is just between you and him so we'll be in the bar."

"OK..." Tommy said nervously, eyeballing the large, muscular figure of Tim Dickson.

Once the door shut, Tommy stood up and started to undo his belt.

"What are you doing?" Tim asked, somewhat puzzled.

"I know what you want," Tommy lifelessly said. "Let's just get it over with."

"Look, kid," Tim said. "Sit back down and buckle your belt. I'm not here to fuck your ass if that's what you're thinking. I'm here to be your lawyer. There's some things we don't know about your case yet, but one thing we do know is that we're going to have to deal with Child Protective Services. That's fine. I know people over there, and we'll get it handled the right way. But we still have to be ready. Now, I want to ask you some questions. Is that OK?"

"You mean... You're not..."

"No, I'm not. Now, shall we get started?"

"I guess..."

"Alright then. I'm gonna take notes on what I think it important. And I'm going to record our session, too. State your name."

"Tommy Lascelles."

"Is that Thomas?"

"Yes."

"Middle name?"

"I don't know if I have one... Nobody ever said..."

"Interesting. Age?"

"Fo... Um... Fourteen."

"Alright, now I want you to tell me everything you remember that happened in the time immediately before you ended up in Joey and Lennie's driveway. Go ahead."

Tommy told a harrowing story about being taken from his home the day before by a man whose name he didn't know after his mother told him that he had to go. He related how he would have to bring back the money and hand it to his mother or he would be beaten and locked in the basement chained to the sewer pipe for at least a day but often longer with no food or water and no toilet. He said how the man was initially nice to him, bought him lunch and dinner and took him to see a movie. But after that, Tommy was taken to a motel somewhere, he didn't know where and couldn't remember the name.

They spent the next day there, the man smoking meth when he wasn't fucking the chained-up and gagged Tommy raw or whipping him."

"Whipping?" Tim asked. "Explain."

"With a whip," Tommy answered. "I know what a whip is. It was a whip. I couldn't get away because I'd pass out and he had me tied up with chains. He even whipped my balls."

Tim almost threw up.

"I see," Tim said. "Now, I need you to give me your best description of this guy, height, weight, build, any identifying marks you can think of. Also, what kind of a car did he have? License plate number if you managed to get it. I need to know anything and everything."

Tommy couldn't give Tim an outstanding description of the man other than his hair color and that he had a tattoo of a snake on one of his forearms. The car he was able to remember a little more about. He remembered it was rented, or so the man told him because Tommy went to light up a cigarette and was slapped and told he couldn't smoke in the car. Tommy also said he remembered that the car was white with a black interior and had Iowa license plates.

He finished by telling Tim that after two days of being fucked and whipped he was thrown into the car and then the man drove around for a while and pushed him out into the driveway at the Alamo where he was found. He said he was sure that he was going to die.

"Very well, I think that's enough young man," Tim said. "I take it the Police have interviewed you as well?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going to give a copy of what you told me to the Police just in case you remembered more now," Tim said. "Your mother is dead, and from what I gathered that doesn't make a lot of difference to you. I can understand that. But the man who did this to you is not dead, at least as far as we know. Therefore, we would like him to face the punishment the law will give him for what he did. Does that make sense?"

"I guess so. I just... I..."

"I'd give you a hug, Tommy, but I'm your lawyer. You can get your hugs from Joey and Lennie. I'm gonna tell you something else, too, Tommy, and I want you to look at me when I say this. I've known Joey and Lennie since they were babies. I played football with their dad in high school. They're almost like sons to me. Those two guys care about you. They are kind and gentle men. They will never hurt you. Never. Or use you. Or pimp you. Or anything else. And I'm telling you that as your lawyer. I know this must be hard for you, to learn to trust other people. I get that. My heart goes out to you. But know this: I will never lie to you. Understand?"

Tommy only looked at Tim, his lower lip quivering uncontrollably. And then the dam broke. He grabbed his towel, buried his face in it and cried. His entire body heaved and quaked.

Tim rose, patted Tommy on the shoulder and exited the room. He went to the bar and told Joey and Lennie to go see to Tommy that minute. "I'll see myself out, guys. I know my way in and out of here."

Joey and Lennie found Tommy still wracked with spasms in the library. Although he was 14 years old, he was small and slightly built, so Lennie scooped him up and let him cry on his shoulder until there was no more cry left in him while Joey rubbed his back.

Tommy started to feel better. Well, maybe not better, he couldn't explain it, but he felt almost as if some of his pain was leaving him. He could not know that among the twins' gifts was an empathic facility. They would never tell him, either. Silently they agreed that if this boy was going to recover, then he would have to believe in himself and believe that he did it on his own.

They would never mention their gift in front of Tommy.

In the meantime, Tim had driven to the Janesville Police headquarters and asked to see the Detective on duty. He was shown in. He informed the Detective that he was representing Tommy Lascelles in the open case matter, and that he wished to furnish the materials he gleaned from the interview he had with Tommy to the Police. "If you think it could be of some help, Detective."

"I'd say it couldn't hurt, Counselor. I appreciate it. If we have anything more we'll contact his guardian, Leonard Wyman."

"I'd like it if you'd add me to the list as I am Mr. Wyman's personal attorney."

"Consider it done."

On the way home, Tim telephoned Great Lakes Security and talked to their top investigator. As they had all found out over the years, Charlie Ditmar had left the company in good hands when he officially retired, although still retained ownership. Tim relayed the information he had and was told that Great Lakes would get right on the case. Tim thought that if anyone could find the guy, those guys could. There was at least some information to go on, anyway.

Tim did not head directly home after that. He called the house, Kevin answered, and he asked to speak to "the Governor."

"Hey, Sweetie," Tim said.

"Hey..." Brett answered. "Look, if you're going to be late that's fine. The boys have had their dinner and I'm gonna be a while on the line with the Treasurer anyway."

"More money problems?"

"No, actually we're in the black and it looks like it's going to continue. We're trying to figure out how to announce it in such a way that people don't expect us to just loosen the purse strings and start raining down money we can't spare on everything. We have to pay down the debt."

"Just tell it like it is. People will understand. Besides, you said it would take two years to show results and you were right. It's been just about two years. We can talk about that later if you want..."

"Timothy, I always ask your advice before I do anything important."

"Yeah, but you don't always take it..."

"That's true. I don't. But that's not why you asked me to marry you all those years ago."

"No, no it's not. It must have been that first date when we went to the golf course."

"Wanna go back sometime?"

"More than anything, hun. Anyway, I'm going to see Wymo. I've put this off long enough."

"I think so, too. You've always loved him, Timothy."

"Yeah, I have. He was the forerunner you know..."

"I know. Don't forget, you're an easy read."

"Wish me luck."

"As much as you need. Now, you wish me luck with the Treasurer."

"Tell him to fuck off. He's only the bookkeeper. You're the boss. You tell him whatever extra there is goes into the rainy-day fund until you know this recovery is real. That's what you promised: no more fucking around with the state's finances. You said you'd need two years to turn it around. Well, here it is two years later and it's turning around, or so we might think. You do what you told the people you would do and then you tell the people that. That's why they elected you. Let's face it, hun, one four-year term won't be enough to fix it all. You'll need another term, and the only way to get it is to be able to show positive yardage and to remind everyone that at the end of the day you delivered what you said you were gonna deliver. Our last Governor didn't do that, and neither did the one before him. Look where it got them. If they try to get you to start playing Santa Claus don't fall for it."

"I'll make the announcement at my next question time with the legislature. I'm not going to the press. I haven't done it so far so why should I start. Besides, I owe the press nothing. That Suzie Sundt outside our house on election night was beyond the pale and they're all just like her. I won't answer leading questions, and that's all they wanna do."

And that was true. In Brett's first week as Governor, he announced that instead of having him or a spokesman – Brett hated the very idea of someone else talking for him – taking often- snarky questions from the press in press conferences that he would instead appear once a week for 30 minutes in front of a joint session of the state legislature with the Speaker of the Assembly presiding and he would take questions from legislators. It was an American adaptation of the British practice of Prime Minister's Questions. Two years in it proved to be popular with the people and had the added benefit that legislators couldn't spout nonsense to the nearest media person because Brett had his answer ready to hand. Initially when a few legislators tried that tactic Brett made them look like utter fools. The lesson was quickly learned: you asked a businesslike question and Brett responded with a businesslike answer, but if it was tea that you wanted, Brett served it hot. And to go.

"Boy do I know you don't answer leading questions," Tim said, "and no you don't owe the press anything. You're elected. They're not. Fuck 'em. They're a buncha twats. They couldn't give a fuck about what they ask you in any question. They like to hear themselves talk. If anything, they owe you for fashion tips. You know that you were rated the Best Dressed Politician in the country this last year..."

"Well, that wasn't exactly hard... I mean in the guy's category..."

"It's not hard if a person looks like you do."

"Just don't get hard talking to Wymo..."

"I promise to try. How's that?"

"It's all anyone could ask. I know you love him. And I know he loves you, too."

"He was a little caustic the last time we talked."

"Well, we did kind of all leave him in the lurch all those years ago and after that we were kinda only half-assed friends at the most. I mean, maybe that's what he thinks. I know that's water under the bridge but imagine how he felt..."

"I'm not sure that I can."

"Listen, Captain Dickson, just go talk to Wymo. Spend whatever time you need. If you won't be home tonight just let me know. If it takes longer let me know. Take him up to the cabin if you think that's what you need to do."

"Alright. Love you, Governor."

"Love you more."

Tim headed downtown and stopped in at the old King's Pub bar, still a favorite watering hole for Janesville's well-heeled men. He pulled up a barstool and ordered a double Glenfiddich.

He sipped it and ran through in his mind what he wanted to say to Sean and what he hoped he would hear.

Once done, he tipped the bartender and went on his way. He had a pretty good idea he'd fine Sean at the automobile museum.

At the car museum, Tim parked in back on the alley. He knew enough to know that if Sean was watching his security monitors, which Tim guessed he was, he'd seen Tim pull up and get out of the car. Tim walked up to the back door and just for the hell of it put his thumb on the scanning pad located next to the door.

It worked. Tim heard the lock disengage. He entered the building into what appeared to be a large repair and workshop area. He heard no one else stirring around the place so he kept going. He knew there must be an office someplace.

Eventually Tim found the office. And in the office he found Sean. Sean looked up, startled.

"Dix? How the fuck? How did you get in here?"

"Thumb," Tim replied, sticking his thumb out. "I figured you'd be watching your monitors and know I was here so I didn't think I was gonna surprise you. Sorry about that. Anyway, like I said I tried my thumb and it worked." Sean looked like shit, Tim thought. His hair was disheveled, and his clothes were rumpled which on Sean Wyman was never seen. On the desk in front of him were several journal books, some open, some not and one of which appeared that Sean had been writing in it, a half-gone bottle of brandy and a highball glass with maybe a sip or two left in it.

"So, what's up anyway, bud?" Tim asked.

"You didn't come here to find out how my day was," Sean said. "Drink?" he asked holding the brandy bottle aloft.

"Don't mind if I do," Tim said, picking up an empty glass off a serving tray to the left of the desk that looked like it hadn't been touched for years.

"Bong hit?" Tim asked brandishing a mini-bong and lighter.

"Might as well..." Sean said unemotionally and without a smile.

Both men clinked their glasses, downed the brandy and took a healthy bong hit.

"So, let's cut to the chase, Dix. Why are you here?"

"That's not a very charming greeting, Wymo..." Tim said looking downcast.

"No, it wasn't. I'm sorry," Sean said pouring himself another three fingers.

Tim held out his glass. Once filled, he reloaded the bong.

"Wymo, I'll tell ya why I'm here. You're why I'm here. I love ya too much, man. I got something I wanna read for ya."

Tim pulled out a folded piece of note paper and began to read.

"I didn't like to see ye that morning. I felt for ye – to see ye coming there with your sons on one side and death on the other. No, I didn't like to see it. I felt sorry for ye. I know so well what your feeling must be – ye who had been so happy. There is no more pleasure for you, poor friend, and I feel for ye but what can I do for ye? I could die for ye."****

Sean was speechless.

Tim asked if Sean had watched the video clip he recommended.

Sean couldn't talk. He could only shake his head no.

Tim took out his iPad. "Here, watch."

Sean started the video. The scene was in a room at Marlborough House in London. The year was long ago. 1952. A 25-year-old Elizabeth II had just ascended the English throne upon the death of her father, George VI. Elizabeth was on a Commonwealth tour and in Kenya at that moment and it wasn't until some hours later that she was told she was now the Queen. Her majestic Grandmother, Queen Mary, elderly, infirm, and with but a year left to live, imparted sage advice in the form of a letter to the young Sovereign which was delivered to to her upon her aircraft's arrival in London and read by her before she disembarked:

"I know how you loved your papa, my son. And I know you will be as devastated as I am by this loss. But you must put those sentiments to one side now, for duty calls.

"The grief for your father's death will be felt far and wide. Your people will need your strength and leadership.

"I have seen three great monarchies brought down through their failure to separate personal indulgences from duty. You must not allow yourself to make similar mistakes.

"And while you mourn your father, you must also mourn someone else. Elizabeth Mountbatten. For she has now been replaced by another person, Elizabeth Regina.

"The two Elizabeths will frequently be in conflict with one another. The fact is, The Crown must win. Must always win."

https://youtu.be/FnBjb5imPLY

Sean looked up again, staring. "What... What should I do?" Sean whispered.

"OK, I made an appointment for us for tomorrow in Milwaukee," Tim said. "You don't have to keep it. I can always cancel it. I thought it might not hurt to go see Archbishop Taylor."*****

A long pause ensued. Sean looked perplexed.

He sighed.

"I'll go. I don't know what else to do... I have... I... I have...nothing..."

Tim went to his friend and took his hand, interlacing Sean's fingers in his own.

"You have me. You'll always have me." Tim said.

"Will you stay with me tonight? I have private sleeping quarters upstairs." Sean asked. "Here?"

"I will," Tim said. "And I'll stay for as long as it takes."

The two men went upstairs. Tim stripped off his clothing and stood naked before his old friend. Sean, still in his boxers and t-shirt hung his head. Reluctantly, Sean removed the last of his clothing, too. Once in bed, Tim pulled Sean in and spooned him. Sean heard Tim whisper almost imperceptivity into his ear, "I love you." Tim then fell fast asleep. Remarkably so did Sean.

The next day, Tim and Sean set out for Milwaukee. Sean selected the 1975 Buick Gran Sport as their ride that day. He wanted a nice grand tourer because the trip to Milwaukee from Janesville could be easily made along scenic country backroads but at the same time even though Sean somehow felt maybe a little bit lighter that his old friend Tim was there, he felt that it was only in that moment and he felt drained and therefore didn't want a car that demanded an excessive amount of driver attention, like perhaps the high-strung Cosworth Vega or the eccentric Corvair Monza. The Buick with its stout, low-revving 350 cubic-inch V8, decent handling, bucket seats, and that Buick ride would be just the ticket.

Once at the Archbishop's residence located behind the ancient Cathedral of Saint John the Evangelist in downtown Milwaukee, which dated from 1847, Tim and Sean were shown into the Archbishop's office.

"Good afternoon, my sons," Archbishop Taylor smiled, rising to shake their hands. "It's been a long time."

"Good afternoon, Your Excellency," Tim smiled back while Sean simply nodded. "Yes, it has been a long time. I knew way back at Saint John Vianney that you'd make good someday."

"What can I do for you, my sons?"

"Your Excellency," Tim said, "I'm wondering if you might have time for an audience with my friend here. If so, I'll disappear and go down to the Cathedral to pray."

"For you, Timothy and Sean, my time this afternoon is your time. I guess you might as well go and say your prayers now, Timothy. I'll hear your confession afterwards, so just consider your prayers a penance paid in advance. Pray hard," the Archbishop chuckled.

"Yes, Your Excellency."

With that, Tim exited leaving Sean alone with Archbishop Taylor. The Archbishop bade Sean take a chair in one of the two comfortable leather wing-back chairs facing his desk.

"Sean, my son, your friend Timothy is a good man. I've known him for his entire life. I baptized him when he was a baby. I officiated at his wedding back in the days when we weren't supposed to do that. Timothy is concerned about you. He'd like to help you, but he doesn't know how to go about it, or even if you would accept his help. He understands that he wasn't there for you when you might have needed his friendship the most. Above all that, though, he is your friend. He loves you. Perhaps we could talk about that, but I want to assure you that whatever we talk about is just between you and me. That's why Timothy isn't here now. You can tell me as much, or as little as you like, or even nothing at all if that's what you want. But if you do wish to unburden yourself, I'm here to listen.

"And I'll pray for you."

Sean thought for a moment. He started slowly, and haltingly, but he did unburden himself as much as he could to the kindly Archbishop. He stopped many times afraid that he would break down completely.

The Archbishop did not chivvy or cajole Sean to keep going, rather he waited patiently for the younger man to go on if he wished.

After a long while, when he thought Sean was finished, the Archbishop at last talked. "My son, if you wish I shall hear your confession now. Not that you might have much to confess, but it might be helpful."

"I'd like that, Your Excellency," Sean said quietly.

Once done, the Archbishop did not prescribe a penance for Sean. Rather, he advised that he should open his heart. Not for doing good because, as the Archbishop said, he knew that Sean had done good in his life, but to open his heart to life itself.

"I'll follow you out and we'll go to the Cathedral and I'll hear Timothy's confession now."

"Thank you, Your Excellency."

When Tim's confession was done, they bid goodbye to Archbishop Taylor and piled back into the car. Tim asked to drive. Puzzled, Sean gave Tim the keys but asked why.

"We're going up north. Up to the cabin."

"But, I didn't pack..."

"Not necessary. I have a shit ton of clothes and shoes up there and we're both the same size pretty much."

"I guess... How long we gonna be there?"

"Don't know. A few days, a week, two weeks... A month...."

"WHAT?"

"Don't worry, Kevin and Brad will take care of everything while we're gone. It's all set."

"You suck!" Sean sulked.

"We'll see if I do once we get there..."

"Does... Does Brett know?"

"He does. It was his idea."

"His idea?"

"Yup. I mean, I thought about it first, but he said it first. Don't worry, Brett and me, we've been together 25 years. I know what he's thinking, and he knows what I'm thinking. It's kinda automatic..."

"I guess... I'm not very happy you kidnapping me, though..."

"Shut up. You need this. And you know it."

END CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

*The Deutsche Bundesbank (German Federal Bank) is the central bank of Germany. It is the equivalent for Germany of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, or the Bank of England.

**Future timelines are of course left to the imagination of the author. No one wishes to see the demise of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, but she is only human. We won't see her like again. She gave her life to her country and represents virtues that hopefully will never go out of style: discreet authority, loyalty, service, tradition, and things that were built to last. She did it all as faultlessly as any human being could have. With respect to the story, in the year 2039 it would be unrealistic to think Elizabeth would still be on the throne at the age of 113. And it would, the author wagers most people agree, be unfair to her. I cut Charles' reign short and went straight to William just to cut to the chase.

***Prior to that, the last U.S. Navy ship to be named for the State of Wisconsin was the Iowa class battleship U.S.S. Wisconsin (BB-64). She was the last battleship ever built for the U.S. Navy, being commissioned in 1944 and finally retired in 1991. The Iowa class Battleships (Iowa, New Jersey, Missouri and Wisconsin) were the largest, fastest U.S. Battleships ever built and carried the heaviest armament with a broadside of 9 16-inch guns. Recall earlier in the story that George Dickson had served aboard U.S.S. Missouri.

****This is an editing and adaptation of some words supposedly spoke by the servant John Brown to Queen Victoria.

*****Archbishop Taylor is Father Taylor from earlier chapters. Offered promotion to be the Bishop of Madison, he declined. He wanted the Archbishopric of Milwaukee. A plum position of a major Archbishopric which in the past had led to promotion to a premier Archbishopric such as New York and a Cardinalate. Taylor had proven his worth to the Vatican over the years in terms of finance and in the end, Taylor got the job he wanted in Milwaukee.

SEAN'S CAR COLLECTION:

NOTE: All cars are frame-off restorations rebuilt to factory spec as new, except where noted.

1927 Chevrolet AA Capitol in navy blue.

1933 Chevrolet Eagle in two-tone black cherry.

1934 Oldsmobile F34 Convertible in maroon.

1936 Cadillac V16 Fleetwood in black lacquer.

1938 Buick Series 90 Limited in deep green-black. Resto-mod with up-to-date frame, suspension and brakes. Stock drivetrain replaced with GM battery-electric.

1941 Pontiac Torpedo Fastback Coupe in two-tone maroon and black.

1941 Chevrolet Master Deluxe in two-tone beige and brown.

1946 GM "Old Look" City Bus, Model 5105. In the green/yellow livery and the badging of the Janesville Bus Company of the time. Classic Detroit Diesel 6V/71 engine

1949 Cadillac Series 2-door 62 Sedanette in dark diamond blue.

1949 Oldsmobile 88 Coupe in red.

1949 Cadillac Series 62 4-door Sedanette in sea green with tan fabric and leather interior.

1953 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible in white with red leather interior.

1953 Buick Skylark Convertible in red with red leather interior and white trim.

1953 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight Fiesta Convertible in two-tone deep turquoise and white.

1955 Chevrolet Bel Air Convertible in rare monotone white with red/white vinyl interior.

1955 Chevrolet Nomad in two-tone red and tan.

1956 Chevrolet Nomad in two-tone turquoise and white.

1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham in deep brown-black with stainless steel roof.

1957 Chevrolet Bel Air Sport Coupe w/rare Rochester mechanical fuel injection. In two-tone red and white.

1957 Chevrolet Suburban in royal blue.

1958 Cadillac Fleetwood Sixty Special in off-white custom lacquer paint with two-tone brown and deep brown interior. Resto-mod. Modern chassis and suspension. Powerplant replaced with hybrid GM 3.0-liter turbodiesel in-line six-cylinder engine/electric motors and heavy-duty CVT transmission.

1958 Chevrolet Impala Coupe in monotone white with red & white interior.

1959 Cadillac Eldorado Seville in Georgian blue with white leather interior.

1959 Buick Invicta Coupe in metallic Coppertone.

1959 Chevrolet El Camino in monotone white with red trim.

1961 Chevrolet Corvair Lakewood station wagon in two-tone electric dark turquoise blue and white with beige vinyl interior.

1961 Chevrolet Impala Super sport "Bubbletop" Coupe in monotone white with red trim. Rare 409 cubic-inch V8 w/4-speed manual powertrain.

1963 Mercedes Benz 600 in metallic gold with black interior.

1963 Buick Riviera in metallic sea green with white leather interior.

1963 Chevrolet Corvette Split-Window Coupe in red.

1964 Pontiac GTO in navy blue.

1965 Chevrolet Impala Super Sport in white with red interior. 396 cubic-inch V8 w/4-speed manual transmission.

1965 Pontiac Catalina 2+2 in navy blue. 421 cubic-inch V8 w/four speed manual transmission.

1966 Oldsmobile Toronado in navy blue with navy blue leather interior and rare disc brake factory retrofit.

1966 Chevrolet Caprice Custom Coupe in white with rare vinyl top delete, blue body trim and blue vinyl interior.

1967 Pontiac Firebird Sprint Six w/four-speed stick in dark blue with white vinyl interior.

1967 Camaro Z/28 in royal blue with black interior. Rare Special Production Order Z/28 & RS option combination.

1968 Chevrolet Corvair Monza Coupe in red with black vinyl interior.

1968 Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser in Firemist red with rare woodgrain side trim delete and with tan vinyl interior. Ultra-rare Rocket 350 4bbl V8 w/four-speed manual transmission powertrain.

1969 Chevrolet K/5 Blazer in two-tone dark blue and white.

1970 Oldsmobile 442 W-30 in red with black interior.

1971 Buick Riviera in dark Coppertone with medium brown leather and brocade cloth interior.

1971 Cadillac Fleetwood Sixty Special Brougham in diamond mist black with black interior.

1975 Buick Gran Sport in medium blue with white interior.

1976 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible in white with red trim and white leather interior.

1976 Cadillac Calais Coupe w/rare vinyl top delete and sea green Firemist paint.

1976 Chevrolet Cosworth Vega in black with black interior.

1976 Buick Electra 225 Limited in blue-black with rare vinyl roof delete and deep red interior. Resto-mod. Modern chassis, suspension and brakes. Powerplant replaced with GM 3.0-liter turbodiesel in-line six-cylinder engine and ten-speed automatic transmission.

1976 Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser w/rare wood paneling delete. In maroon with buckskin vinyl interior.

1978 Pontiac Trans Am in gold with black interior and black firebird full-hood decaling.

1980 Mercedes Benz 300TD turbodiesel in canary yellow with tan MB-tex interior.

1987 Pontiac Fiero GT in black with tan interior.