"Sam, do me a solid; you gotta get us out of here. Please, the wife's going crazy!" I was desperate.

My contact only chuckled. "What's the matter, Garry? Can't stand small- town life? Come on, Buddy; you've only been there there a month. Pawnee can't be that bad!"

He had a point. "No, Pawnee is great!" I agreed. "The girls are adjusting well, it's safe and my job's going pretty good. It's just . . ." I paused and sighed. Begging had always been beneath me, but Gayle and I were desperate. "We're bored, Sam! There's gotta be something we can help out with! A takedown, a stakeout, surveillance van even! Just for a few hours?"

Sam chuckled. "Guess I don't blame you guys. Look, let me ask around and I'll get back to you. Okay? And Garry?" He paused, trying to emphasize whatever he was about to say.

"Yeah."

"No freelance! You got that? If you two go off the reservation, there won't be anything I can do to help you, and Marchionne has eyes everywhere, looking for you. "

I sighed again. "We know. There's been chatter. Look Sam, we gave our word. You know it's good. We came to you, remember? "

"Alright, yeah, you're right. Give me two hours." Sam disconnected, leaving my cell silently against my ear.

I held the phone there for a long moment more as I gazed out over the duck pond. I hated where I was sitting; anyone with a small caliber handgun and a silencer could have taken me out right then and there, but Garry Gergich isn't a suspicious guy, so I resisted the urge to look around. There was someone visible in my periphery though, so I stretched and made a show of smiling.

"Aww, that's great, Honey!" I said to no one at all, more loudly and with more affection than I probably should have. "I have to get back to work, see you tonight?" Of course, no one replied, but I continued, just the same. "Love you too, can't wait." I snapped the phone shut and stuffed it in my pocket as I stood up. The person I saw had moved on and I couldn't see anyone else nearby as I turned to go. My lunch break was over; time to go back to work.

GG

You were probably confused by that whole conversation, so I should probably introduce myself. My name is Giani Alvericci . . . Ah, Garry Gergich! Jeez, I gotta remember to go by the cover that my handler gave me.

Hey, this is a delicate subject. You wanna go for a ride with me? Um, maybe leave your cell phone here. Say, you're not wearing a wire, are you? Sorry, old habits die hard. Hop in.

So here's the thing; I used to be what is known as a cleaner for the Marchionne crime family. My wife, Grace, that is, Gayle, has been my leading lady almost since the beginning. Yeah, we had to go into witness protection after Anthony Marchionne . . . Yeah, the Anthony Marchionne, went off the deep end and started killing those feds.

Well, anyway, I don't do cop; uh-uh, no way! Killing cops is messy; it's a black hole of killings to cover killings and cops don't ever stop looking for a cop killer, even if that cop was as dirty as a plowed field. See what I'm saying? That was always my father's number one rule, and ours as well. Except, old Tony, he didn't like that very well, see? And he grabbed one of my little girls to prove his point. I mean, come on; who grabs a four-year-old to keep as hostage? Millicent didn't deserve that. Me and Grace- Gayle- we got her back, but we left a trail of evidence and six dead wise guys behind us. Nobody, and I mean nobody, touches one of our little girls and gets away with it!

One family meeting later, we went to the feds. I turned state's evidence on Old Tony and here we are, safe in Pawnee, Indiana while Tony rots in a federal pen for racketeering. He'll be out in six years, and then it'll be straight to the state pen for murder. I like to think of it as Tony's social security. He's about that age, you know.

Anyway, like I said, Pawnee's safe. the girls can walk to school and back, even at night, and I have a nice, safe, boring job at the Parks Department. The only problem is, Gr- Gayle and I are bored to tears. I mean, how many cookies can one mom bake before she goes out of her mind? And me? My co-workers are enough to drive a man postal!

I'm not kidding! It's like I'm invisible, unless I mess up, and then I'm the worst person they can think of. On the other hand, I did kind of set them up to think that way. But you'd think that they could keep my name straight! Okay, okay, you got me. I hate it that they call me Jerry, but I gotta' admit, anyone going in that building to look for Garry Gergich- or Giani Alvericci, for that matter- isn't going to find anyone. No one knows who I am, or rather, who I'm supposed to be!

My cover at the Parks Department is perfect. I've set myself up really well to be the bungling bureaucrat over there. Not one of them could ever believe that Jerry Gergich could possibly be a Mafia hitman, much less his sweet little wife!

Getting 'planted' by the agents in charge was ridiculously easy. They hacked the public records and planted a file in the Municipal Library System, and then transferred it to the Parks Department. I showed up, handed Ron Swanson a file folder and said I'd been transferred out of the library. He didn't ask a single question; just congratulated me for making it out of there alive and pointed out a desk. I've been there for months now, and most people have barely noticed.

The work there is not bad; I'm outside for part of the day in order to walk through parks, offer tours, inspect structures, pick up litter . . . That sort of thing. And every summer, I get to fill the hummingbird feeders in all the parks. That means I get to go early and walk through the parks before anyone else is there. I can be me- Giani- for an hour every day, and no one sees.

GG

My desk phone rang near the end of the day. "Parks Department, this is Jerry," I said into the heavy-duty handset. These phones date back to the late nineteen seventies, so the handset could give someone a concussion if you hit them with it, and the phone cord would serve well as a garotte. There are six of them within easy reach of me right this second, and it's a comforting fact.

The voice of my handler spoke quietly into my ear. "We have a job for you. Go to lot forty-two on your way home and wait for my call."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Sir!" I responded in a 'customer service' voice. "We'll get on that right away." The phone went dead. "Yes, Sir, Mister Mayor," I added to the dial tone, "we'll take care of it." Only one person looked at me when I replace the handset onto the cradle.

"Is there a problem?" Ron asked. His tone tells me that he hopes there is no problem.

"Oh, not at all, Sir," I told him with a dismissive wave of my hand. "The mayor noticed a trash can tipped over in Lot Forty-Three. It's on my way home from work. I can clean it up before I get home." I gave him the wrong lot number on purpose. If he inspects and there is no tipped trash receptacle, then he'll think I either got the number wrong, or I already cleaned it up. Either way, he will be a half-mile from where I am to meet my handler.

Swanson frowned at me. "Those trash receptacles are mounted on a slab of concrete, each. How do you expect to pick it up, Jerry? For that matter, who could have tipped it over to begin with?"

I hadn't realized that the trash cans were reinforced, so I swallowed nervously. "Um, it's probably just the teenagers," I hedged, mind working furiously. "They probably took the bag out and dumped the trash again. It's been a real problem lately."

Ron nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe. Keep me informed."

My "Yes, sir," was said to his retreating backside and it was punctuated by the slam of his office door. The nice thing about Ron Swanson is that he never pries into my personal life. He asks as few questions as possible and does about the same for the department- as little as possible. I find him to be the perfect bureaucrat.

It was hard to wait until the end of the day to leave, what with the possibility of a real assignment looming, but I managed to pretend to look busy until five o'clock, when it was acceptable to leave. I also did my best to look as clumsy as I could on my way out. That way, no one would know I was in a hurry.

"Don't forget to pick up that trash out in lot . . . forty-three, was it?" Swanson called from across the parking lot.

"I won't!" I promised, having no intention of ever arriving at the lot in question.

"I don't know, Jerry, those trash receptacles are heavy. I better go out there with you," he decided.

I did my best not to let my impatience show. "I'll follow you then." Inside my car, I vented my frustration a little before I realized the advantage of the detour. I had time to call my wife and tell her what was going on.

Lot Forty-Three turned out to be a fenced dog park. To my relief, there was a trash receptacle near the entrance, and it was still firmly upright in its concrete foundation. Unfortunately, there were three or four raccoons, scattering garbage from it everywhere. I parked behind Swanson, who left his battered, old, red pickup truck with a shotgun in his hands. My instincts went on high alert. I reached for the handgun I had concealed in a hidden compartment of the center console.

"Jerry, stay in your car," he ordered out loud, and cut loose with his shotgun, aiming up into a tree. The raccoons scattered. He put the shotgun back on the rack in his rear window, so I left my Beretta where it was. "Okay, it's safe to come out now," Swanson called, leaving me no choice but to get out and help pick up the mess.

Now, most dog parks have a trash receptacle by the entrance. People are supposed to bring baggies and pick up after their dogs; they can leave their bags of turd in the trash canister. No one ever does. The dog park was littered with 'brown bombs' while the trash receptacle seemed to be used by the local residents for their household trash. Thanks to the raccoons, that household trash was blowing around the dog park, both inside and outside the fence.

Swanson and I got to work, chasing down the trash and bagging it for the sanitation workers. As soon as I stepped foot inside the dog park, my foot landed on an particularly large pile of dog 'mess'. Honestly, it didn't bother me much. I mean, shoes wash; but I knew that a certain response would be expected of me.

"Aw, jeez," I pretended to groan as I looked at my half-worn loafer. "Gayle just bought these for me!"

"Shoes wash; get back to work," Swanson replied without looking up. "The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can go home, and I have a thick steak and a barbeque grill calling my name."

It was a typical response from him and I was grateful. Ron Swanson is one of the few people I work with that treat me with any kind of decency or respect. Between the two of us, the mess was soon corralled.

Swanson tossed the last bag of trash near the curb. "You go on home, Jerry. I'll finish up here." He didn't wait for a reply before he was on his cell phone, calling for the municipal garbage collectors to come and pick up the trash we'd bagged. I just waved and headed for my car. For good measure, I made a show of wiping dog poop off my shoe before climbing into my car.

Lot Forty-Two and an important contact were just down the road. I took my time getting there. Just in case Swanson noticed, I drove around the block and entered from the back side. Swanson and his shotgun had me on edge though, so I took my time walking to the man I took for my contact. He was obviously looking for me from the other side though, so I inched my way up to him, as carefully as I could.

"Excuse me," I said when I was about a pace away, "are you looking for something?"

I laughed when the agent whirled around. He wasn't amused. "Funny; are you Gergich?"

"Who wants to know?" Instantly, I was on guard. "I mean, come on, man. I just stopped to see if you need help . . ."

"Sam sent me," he blurted out. "You still want this?" In his hand, a manilla envelope dangled enticingly. I steeled myself against grabbing it out of his hand.

"I might," I hedged instead, when every fiber of my being cried out for me to take it. "What's in it?

"Standard stuff," shrugged the agent. "Sam said to remind you, he wants this guy alive and to tell Gayle the same thing. He's waiting for your call."

With that, the agent handed me the envelope and walked away. I stuffed it up inside my sweater and headed back for my car, doing my best to look like I was just enjoying a stroll. Lot Forty-Two was just an empty lot, overgrown with weeds and with a 'for sale' sign near the busier street. It was hard to look like I belonged there, wading through knee-deep grass.

At home, I greeted my girls and met my wife's gaze with a nod to the bedroom. The girls know better than to disturb us when the door's closed. We've set them each up at various times, making it so that they'd barge in and be embarrassed, so now they don't barge in anymore.

Gayle took the hint. "Hi, Honey," she greeted in that sappy, fake-sweet voice she uses when someone else is around. "I'm so glad you're home! I bought you a new shirt, want to see it?" She headed for the bedroom. I wasn't long in following. When I shut the door, Gayle was saying, "you have to take that shirt off in order to try this one on." My wife is a genius. No little girl in her right mind is going to want to linger by the door after that!

She dropped the act as soon as the door was locked. When I turned around, she already had the curtains shut. I love her; Gayle thinks of everything! She looked impatient, so I dumped the envelope on the bed. A burner phone, sheaf of papers, plane tickets, and photograph landed on the bed. It was a standard 'work order', in our line of work.

"What do we got, G?' She asked me, all business. Her real voice washed over me like a cool shower. It was relaxing and invigorating, all at once. I hate her fake voice, but I never say anything. It's necessary for her cover. The real woman is mine alone, and I love that about her.

Ignoring the phone, tickets and photo, I picked up the sheets of paper. "His name's Viktor Romanov. They have a warrant out for his arrest and all of the evidence they need to gain a conviction, but this guy's a slick ba- brat." Gayle shot me a warning look. Ever since the girls arrived, Gayle hasn't tolerated bad language in the house, even when they're gone.

She picked up the photo and studied it. "Armenian," she remarked with a huff. "This could get tricky."

"We're not allowed to kill him," I told her, then had to ignore the disappointment in her eyes. Another thing that changed about her with motherhood is her values. This guy was a threat to the society our precious daughters live in, so naturally Gayle wanted him out of it.

"Oh, fine," she relented with disgust. "What's the job then?"

I perused the notes the feds had sent us. "We're supposed to get him into a motel room, tied up, and call in the feds. They'll take him from there. As long as he's alive, they don't care how we do it."

Gayle brightened up right away. "Ooh, this is starting to sound like fun." When Gayle has fun, it's a rewarding wrap up, so I started looking forward to the mission as well. "Our flight leaves in two hours," Gayle noticed. "We'd better get packed and to the airport."

"Do we have a sitter?" I asked. After the last time we left the girls to go on a job, I haven't trusted a sitter to keep them safe.

"I think it would be better if they split up," Gayle decided. "Let me see if I can get them into three different sleepovers."

She offered me a promising grin and grabbed the portable phone. I got to work packing. There's a safe hidden in the floor under the bed, where we keep our gear. I grabbed it out, and then changed my clothes into something a little less 'Garry' and more 'Giani.' Gayle's eyes lit up at the sight of my Armani suit. I doubt anyone in Pawnee Indiana is going to recognize a suit like this. I'm not sure anyone here will even know who Georgio Armani is. They probably think he's a terrorist or something. Living here is going to kill me. Why the heck does everyone in this town have to be so . . . hick?

A short time later, the two of us were headed out the door. All three girls were at separate sleepovers so we could have a 'date night'. My genius wife had promised a return sleep-over to each of the hosting moms. She loved having kids over, so this return favor wasn't exactly anything she'd suffer to give. I don't mind them either, especially if it gets me away with my hot wife, doing something we both enjoy.