“You want her to have another stroke?” Tilda said, looking at Weecho’s bleached yellow hair. 

They were on a FaceTime hookup, Tilda on an iPad at the hospital, still on guard duty for Weecho’s mother, Weecho on his iPhone at Nina Galleon’s bungalow where he’d gone back to get the puppy (the ASPCA idea not his best, he’d decided).    

His mother had gotten well enough that the hospital was letting her go back to the prison clinic later that day. 

“You sure she’s ready?” he asked Tilda. 

“I’ll be with her.” 

Which Weecho could tell meant he should be with her, too, bleached hair regardless. “Can we hook her up on this, so we can talk?”   

“Better you’re here in person,” Tilda said. “To explain yourself.” 

“I’ll get there soon as I can.” 

“Check with me first. We might be in transit.” 

“I’ll talk to you later.” 

He disconnected and called for the puppy, who was in the bungalow’s galley kitchen, chewing on some sausage Weecho had picked up before he got on the A train for the trip back out. 

He took a bite of some he’d kept for himself and made another sweep of the living room. Poked around the sofa again, looked out at the deck through the sliding glass door. 

 Where was the DVD? 

He’d missed it first on the train ride back out, when he felt his empty shirt pocket. He retraced his steps – train platform, tree they’d sat under, streets coming back to the bungalow… 

But deep down he knew. 

Juna had it. 

She’d lifted it when she was saying goodbye, hugging him at the bus boarding gate and touching his shoulder. 

When Weecho played it back in his mind, he felt it happening, the disc sliding out of his pocket. Was too numb and distracted at the time. 

In a way it was good she had it – at least he knew where it was. Knew how her mind worked, how she’d justify it: She’d found it in the safe at Lynch’s, had shot her way out of there, it was just as much hers as anybody’s. Whatever she saw as the payoff was anybody’s guess. She just knew it was leverage and there’d be a way to cash in.  

                                                #          #          # 

In a Central Park meadow off by itself, Alex Alexey’s tai chi class was wrapping up. Even in a T-shirt and loose sweats, the man came across with style. He made a series of smooth, slow moves, sweeping his hands, standing on one foot like a stork, then doing something where he looked like a designer tree swaying in the wind. At the end of the series he bowed to the old Asian man who’d been leading the class. Scooped a towel off the grass and draped it around his neck.     

He spent a few minutes talking with his classmates, a typical New York mixed bag – couple of seniors, a waitress he knew from the coffee shop he went to, investment guy between jobs – then said his goodbyes and started walking east, into the mid-morning sun.   

Two minutes along the footpath, he knew he was being followed. Behind him the follower sensed he’d been sensed.  

It didn’t help that the follower was trying to deal with a puppy he had on a length of rope. Weecho had remembered what day Alexey said he did his tai chi and thought it would be a chance to catch him on neutral ground, out of his element. 

The puppy stopped to pee. Weecho tugged the rope. By the time they got going, Weecho had lost Alexey. 

He came to where two paths crossed in the trees, stopped and checked in each direction. Still couldn’t see Alexey. Over in the bushes something rustled. Weecho went to check it out, had a feeling he was getting suckered. Alexey, whatever the circumstance, was always in his element.     

A strong arm shot out and wrapped around Weecho’s neck, pain shooting through his shoulder.  

“Ow! Take it easy, it’s Weecho.” 

The Rottweiler puppy lunged at Alexey, snarling. 

Alexey let go and jumped back, stared at Weecho’s chopped blond hair, the oversize Armani shades. 

“What the hell happened to you?” 

“There’ve been issues.” 

Alexey looked at the barking puppy. “Who’s that?” 

Weecho pointed to a park bench. “Can we sit?” 

                                                #          #          #  

Before they sat, Alexey went over to a push cart and bought a big soft pretzel. Brought it back and started feeding bits to the puppy. Peace. 

“People are looking for you,” he said to Weecho. 

“Why do you think I’m walking around looking like the village idiot?”  

“I thought you were some pervert.” 

Alexey had been pretty sure who it was, was getting his jollies showing how he’d done it back in the day. 

He fed another piece to the dog. “So what issues are we talking about?” 

“Good news, bad news, good news.” 

“Like...?” 

Weecho told him about breaking into Lynch’s safe, about getting the laptop and how he’d lost it back to him, then finding the DVD of Gatchel with the opium girls, and losing that too. 

Alexey said, “So far I’ve heard only bad news.” 

“The good news is, I think I know where the DVD is.” 

“Think?” 

So then Weecho had to tell him about Juna taking off with the DVD, no idea where (leaving out how she’d picked his pocket). Didn’t tell him about her copping all the cash from Lynch’s safe and taking off with that either. 

Alexey took a long look at him, knew there was more to the story. 

Weecho said, “Maybe she wants to use the DVD to get herself back in the mix here.” 

“She was never out of the mix.” 

“She thinks she was. And by the way, I got shot.” 

Alexey’s eyebrows went up. “Shot?” 

So then Weecho had to go through that. 

“You had a big night, screwups and all. We’d better get someone to look at that wound.” 

“Later. Tell me about Bigsby.” 

That caught Alexey off guard. He sat for a minute, tossing more pieces of pretzel to the puppy while he decided how much he wanted to tell.  

Finally he pushed up from the bench. “Let’s walk.” 

                                                #          #          # 

“Harlan Bigsby cut his teeth on Iran-Contra.” 

Alexey talked as they walked along the bridle path that winds around the Central Park Reservoir. All the joggers were up there on the track that runs right next to the reservoir itself, so besides a horseback rider or two, they had the bridle path to themselves.  

“I’ve heard about it,” Weecho said. 

“It was in Reagan’s time. I couldn’t appreciate then what a rat fest it was.” 

“I know weapons were part of it.” 

“The U.S. used Israel to sell weapons to Iran, and funneled the money raised by the sale to rebels in Nicaragua. Anti-communist rebels, the Contras.” 

“That doesn’t sound bad,” Weecho said. “I mean, anti-communist.”  

“The Contras were basically terrorists. To their own people.” 

“So were did Bigsby come in?” 

“The money was funneled through a bank he controlled. That he still controls, among a lot of other things.” 

They stopped while the puppy sniffed some manure on the path. 

“He’s a big political backer,” Alexey said. “Gets chunks of covert money into campaigns so it can’t be traced.” 

“Gatchel?” 

“You saw the two of them.” He gave Weecho a look. “Which you seem to have a knack for doing. Which is the main reason I haven’t thrown your ass back on the street.” 

Weecho tugged the puppy and they went on walking. “So what’s the problem?” 

“He finances black ops against causes or countries he doesn’t agree with.” 

“With all due respect, he sounds like your kind of guy.” 

“One of the countries is Israel.” 

“Oops.” 

“Exactly.” 

“But you said he used Israel to sell weapons.” 

“That was then.” 

Just then a squirrel sprinted across the bridle path and the puppy lunged for it, pulling Weecho around on the rope when the squirrel ran behind them. He managed the rope with his good hand and got the puppy under control. 

Glanced back at something that had caught his eye a minute ago. In the shadows of the big trees lining the path, a young woman was in the tall grass picking flowers. A peaceful scene, would have made a nice picture if Weecho had had the camera. She had her face turned away – but she wasn’t fooling him. He’d seen that dancer body up close. 

Dara was keeping watch on Alexey. Keeping an eye on this person he’d run into, with the hair and the glasses, though by now Weecho was sure she knew it was him.  

And in that instant, seeing Dara so natural and unthreatening, over there in her cutoff shorts under the trees, Weecho had a flash. A freeze-frame of a future thing he knew would happen. Knew how the Bigsby issue would end.  

                                                #          #          # 

“You sure this’ll work out?” Weecho said. 

The puppy had just peed on the Oriental carpet in Alexey’s library. Dara was mopping it up with Alexey’s tai chi towel. 

“He’s nervous,” she said. “He’ll be fine.” 

She had offered to take the dog in. Weecho was worried that Alexey, still in his sweats over at his desk, would veto it now with the mess. But Alexey didn’t seem to notice, was tapping a number into his phone.      

“Jasper’s a good name,” Weecho said. Dara had picked it, would make sure the puppy got what it needed. 

Weecho hadn’t told her right off about getting shot, had wanted to get the puppy squared away first. Alexey was calling his off-the-books doctor, the doctor telling him now that he could be there, but that it would be better for Weecho if he could come by the office, which wasn’t far. Weecho said no problem, never got there as things turned out.      

Jasper went over and plopped himself at Alexey’s feet, sniffing his Pumas.       

Alexey finished the doctor call, said to Weecho, “Try Juna again.”  

Weecho speed-dialed her on his iPhone, third try, still she didn’t pick up.  

“Maybe she’s screening you,” Alexey said, pointing to one of the phones on his desk. “Use that one.” 

Weecho did, same result. “She could be in a bad reception place.” 

“Tell me again exactly what was on that DVD.” 

Weecho had only seen it the one time at the bungalow, and described it best he could. Alexey closed his eyes, like he was trying to picture each detail as Weecho gave it.    

Weecho by now knew a little bit about Alexey’s thought process. Knew his priorities, the biggest naturally being his businesses, the publishing and the communications. His empire, though he didn’t call it that, and what he had to do to keep it going.  

How to come up with the Prize. 

He was looking at Weecho while the dog chewed his shoelace, like how to use this snoop of a kid to get back to where he could get what he needed. 

Dara, like always, was one step ahead. “Why don’t you call him? Act like you have it. Or will soon enough, when you get through to Juna.” 

Alexey thought about that. Gave a slow nod and reached for the secure cellphone on his desk. Scrolled to a number and put through the call.    

“This is Alex Alexey. I’d like to speak to Senator Gatchel.”