Waking up early seemed to be a habit - not an unpleasant one by any means but definitely a habit.

Outside, a heavy mist - or a light rain - was falling. Visibility was zero and I wasn't interested in sitting zazen in the rain. Some did - I knew - but practicing the middle way by mortifying the flesh, in even a light rain, wasn't my idea of appropriate.

Instead, I sat by the sliding doors, overlooking the haze-obscured patio and wondered where the gulls and pelicans were flying ... if they were at all.

Last night, both Captain Donavi and Dan had offered me support ... for whatever I decided to do.

The question was ...what did I want to do.

Thus far, my primary interest had been to find out what had happened ... and who I had been ... I hadn't really thought much further than that.

Now that I knew who I had been, I also knew who had died nearly two months ago. One Gregory Thorne.

Mr. Thorne was something of an enigma. In one sense, we were intimate acquaintances - I'd inherited his habits, his knowledge ... hopefully his talents ... but I also knew almost nothing about him. I couldn't even assume that we shared the same likes and dislikes.

It wasn't something I was going to worry about - except as an abstract exercise. Worrying about what a dead man had liked and disliked would be a futile exercise in frustration. But, whatever I had inherited from Gregory Thorne ... and there seemed to be a lot - in several senses ... I also owed him something.

Not justice. That was a legal concept ... well, an ethical concept too ... but it wasn't a personal objective. Certainly not an objective I felt any compulsion to achieve.

Or, maybe, justice was the right word - in the sense of something fitting and appropriate, instead of the legal sense. Poetic justice perhaps? That was a concept I could accept. Relish even. Maybe that was something else I'd inherited from the deceased Mr. Thorne.

His books had tended that way - toward a poetic end rather than a jurisprudent solution. That was part of what was wrong with 'The Sucker Game' - the ending in the copy I'd received from Barbara was more legalistic than realistic ... and not at all poetic. That was one of the things wrong - one of the reasons it wasn't a Gregory Throne novel.

The solution Thorne would have come with would have been very different. The kind of solution that would leave you thinking "yeah, that's right!"

So what should I do about the murder of Gregory Thorne? A legal solution wasn't practical ... or possible. And it wasn't appropriate ... it wasn't the kind of solution Thorne would have plotted ... and, I assumed, that meant it wasn't the kind of resolution he'd have wanted.

I was pretty sure that I knew why ... and, knowing why, I could easily deduce who.

So, I should shoot the culprit in the head? Lex talonis? An eye for an eye - a life for a life?

No, that wasn't the way. It wasn't my way certainly. And it probably wasn't Thorne's way either. Not considering the attitudes and feelings I'd inherited from him.

Granted, there was a saying: "If you meet Buddha on the road, slay him." But the culprit wasn't Buddha and the admonition wasn't really about murder but about following the teachings rather than reverencing the teacher.

So what would be appropriate?

A resolution which left the culprit in circumstances where ... where, just maybe, he might learn from his experiences?

Financial crimes - where there was one, there were probably many - could be redressed. And that could be handled legally - that was what courts of law were for. They were slow, yes, but in such matters, they usually worked.

The money wasn't important - not, at least, to me. Money was simply a convenience.

For others, however, money might be very important. Literally even? As in matters of life and death? But hadn't it already become a matter of one life and death? One man had died. And, as a result, another had been born. The event had a balance - but it wasn't a balance the person responsible for the act had intended.

The intent had been murder - a moral as well as a legal crime.

And moral crimes - were there more than one? - were another consideration.

Yet retribution for a moral crime was no excuse for committing a moral crime.

To harm neither by action nor by inaction ... which was the greater?

The answer, of course was that neither was greater nor lesser.

If I took no action, was I then responsible for whatever actions another took as a result of my own inaction?

I had a memory - was it mine inherited? Or something read? Did it matter? - of a wise man offering counsel: "Where force is not permitted, one is still not constrained to inaction. Instead of countering force, one is permitted to redirect another's force into a course where they may learn from their own actions and thereby become wise." The memory of advice was associated with another of landing heavily on the dojo mat - of a redirected action resulting in small calamity. A redirected action which one learned from.

Not, I decided, something read about but something real ... as real as memory ever is.

And there was another memory - this time from chaos theory - about how the results of any action can not be predicted ... but, equally, the results of inaction were not predictable. If the flap of a butterfly's wing in the Amazon can cause a hurricane in the Azores a month later would redirecting that butterfly - even in the slightest fashion - prevent the hurricane? Or cause a drought in Asia six months later.

In a chaotic universe, could any man - the scientist-philosopher had asked - be responsible for the results of any action?

But this was a question the Buddha had answered - twenty-five centuries before - saying that each individual was responsible not only for what they did but also for what they intended. That right thought and right attitude were as important as right action. That even inaction was itself an action. That since perfection was not possible, to strive to cease to desire perfection - or any other thing - was the only way to release - to nirvana.

Perhaps, today, the Buddha would have described life as a catch-22.

Perhaps he would have been right.

But inaction was not a solution.

Right action, on the other hand, ...

* * *

There wasn't much in the fridge for breakfast.

I had a car ... and funds ... and supermarkets were open early - which made the simple solution obvious.

* * *

The Fed Ex delivery van had shown up a few minutes after nine.

The package from Barbara contained a thick slab of photocopied sheets but she'd also included a diskette - a spreadsheet in Excel format - and a note: "Let me know," Barbara had scrawled, "what you find out. Your check will be there tomorrow."

I didn't need the check - now - but the thought was appreciated.

The obligations imposed by accepting the check were redundant. Nothing at this point could have stopped me from finishing 'The Sucker Game'. It was an imperative with all the irresistibility of gravity. Or time itself.

Bob Heinlein had let one of his characters explain - I couldn't remember which book - "A writer doesn't write because he wants to, he writes because he has to." And that was it, in a nutshell - it wasn't 'want to' or because we were 'paid to' - those were just gravy, icing on the cake - the real and only reason for writing was 'have to'!

If Dan found himself in the grip of that same imperative, then he'd become a writer come hell or high water.

But, for the moment, I hoped I could still distract him to be an accountant. Or, more accurately, an accountant/detective.

* * *

"There's not much doubt about it," Dan announced a half hour later. "The figures in the note - the second column - came from your royalty statements. The totals match and the dates match. And, if the third column represents what you actually received, then, yes, you've been heavily embezzled.

"Now, I've already faxed a copy of the power of attorney to Waterhouse Securities" - that was where the number with the 'WS' initials had matched up - "together with a request for a statement covering the last four years. If your Bank of Shanghai contact can supply the same, and if the figures from those two sources match up with the third column, then you've got a prima facie case.

"It would help if I could get a copy of your tax returns," Dan continued. "If you've been living outside of the US, you're still supposed to file returns. Problem is - we don't have your social security number. But, now that you have a name, the SSA" - the Social Security Administration - "should be able to dig up your number. And, with that, I can contact the IRS and request copies ... May take a while though - the Internal Revenue doesn't work very quickly.

"Even so," Dan concluded, "I don't think we'll have enough to take into court and get a conviction ...but it should be sufficient get the authorities involved and to start a search for additional evidence. Maybe I should introduce you to an attorney?"

"Not yet," I decided. "At least, not professionally. I think I'll pursue it on my own for a bit first. Not for court evidence - just personal evidence."

"You'd not be leaving us out," Captain Donavi sounded hurt. "Seeing as they'll be taking the cast off today, you wouldn't object if I was watching your back? Can't be sitting around reading while you're having all the fun now, eh?"

"Get your cast off," I grinned. "Then we'll see. No rush, though. I still need a day or two to set things up."

* * *

Problem with taking the Captain to the hospital for his - hopefully - final check out ... and to leave the walking cast behind was that Father Hardesty collared me. Figuratively speaking, of course - and he was pleasant about it.

"I appreciate your concern," I assured him. "But I don't think counseling will be necessary." I did agree to a cup of coffee - in the cafeteria - and a chat.

Over coffee - except, remembering the coffee, I bought a soft drink instead - I gave Father Hardesty an abbreviated - and edited - version of the events of the past week, explaining that I was an author, that I was in contact with my publishers, that I'd located my bank and that I was busily picking up the pieces of my past life. None of it was exactly a lie but I allowed him to assume more than I'd actually said.

Not that I was trying to mislead him precisely, more that I was trying to settle Father Hardesty's concerns by assuring him that I was okay and that I was returning to a normal life. What a 'normal' life might be, I wasn't sure - from what I'd learned of my history, my 'normal' was what most people would have considered 'abnormal'.

At any rate, by the time Captain Donavi reappeared - with his cane but sans the cast - our conversation had turned to other topics and the good Father was no longer pressing me to consider 'recovery assistance'.

"Morning, Captain Donavi," Father Hardesty greeted him. "You're ready to return to sea?"

"Next week," the Captain agreed. "Adromea's cruising this way, makes port in Diego first, then back to the Bay. Be a few days but reckon I'll wait for her to find me." He set a cup of java on the table, then pulled out a chair to sit.

"How's the leg feel?" I asked.

"Glad to have it back," he grinned. "A bit weak but I'll have my sea legs back quick enough."

"Where next?" the Father asked. "Still working the coast?"

"Caribbean's next trip," Captain Donavi replied. "South to Panama, then cross to the Gulf and north again. Got a mixed cargo, dropping part of the load in Equator, then crossing to Haiti and up to the Keys. Looking to ship out, eh?"

"God speed you," Father Hardesty grinned. "Maybe someday. A sabbatical at sea wouldn't be the worst vacation I could think of. Unfortunately, not this trip."

"Be dropping you a card then," the Captain decided. "Let you know how the weather sets, eh?"

We talked a while longer, then said our good-byes. I added another thank-you for the assistance in finding the Bay Tour Services slot.

Still, I wasn't sorry to see the last of the hospital - they'd been kind ... and, once I'd had a chance to check on insurance and such, I'd be contacting them about the bill. Since it seemed that I wasn't a charity case after all, I figured that I owed them that.

* * *

On the way out, I made a phone call and arranged a lunch date, including the Captain for a three-some. Dan had told us he had a few things of his own to take care of today and, tentatively, I had plans for the evening but the rest of the morning and the afternoon were free and ... well, I was interested in seeing Lucille again.

I was also feeling a little nervous and was taking Captain Donavi along for moral support - making the luncheon date more social and less intimate by including him in the party.

* * *

Lucille's shop - I wasn't sure what I'd expected - was located in the very upscale Galleria - an open-air shopping mall specializing in boutique-style establishments rather than your more conventional department stores. The establishment was named Le Vévés - a name taken from the elaborate designs used in voodoo rituals - and the bright, open portico structure of the shop was accented by detailed and colorful designs on every available surface ... including the floor where wide tiles bore incised designs, each one individual and different.

Inside - again contrary to whatever expectations I might have held - the same styles of designs appeared on pottery, carved in wood and even printed in various sizes on sheets of hand-laid papers. Shelves held small vial of fluids, large stoppered jars held herbs, powders and roots, baskets - themselves works of art - held less identifiable items. Bottles - labeled in colorful if primitive script - stood in ranks, seeming that no two were the same. Gourds - bright with designs - hung from the arches. Over the door, as we entered, an elaborately-carved staff was tied with colored threads. Elsewhere, carved wooden snakes were brilliantly painted, strange devices of feathers hung next to Congo-style drums, a glass case held strange wrought-iron devices together with otherwise-ordinary kitchen knives, a shelf was filled with what could only be ceremonial dishes and jugs

If I had suddenly found a basket of shrunken heads - even though it was the wrong culture and wrong continent - I wouldn't have blinked an eye.

The one thing that did appear out of place was the pair of video terminals - and keyboards - sitting at each end of a polished wood counter.

"Alex, Mikael," Lucille greeted us from behind the counter. "Look around. I'll be just a minute, okay?" She returned to the customer she was waiting on.

He - the customer - was strangely dressed indeed. Strangely only in view of the location - a perfectly ordinary light gray business suit matched his tightly-kinked gray hair while his polished cordovan shoes matched his skin and the dark red-striped tie was an accent. A perfectly ordinary banker-type. No tribal robes, no broad-tipped spear ... just a gold Rolex on his wrist and a ruby signet stone on his hand.

For that matter, aside from the fact that I suspected she would look at home anywhere, Lucille was dressed in a soft, gold-patterned pants suit which held nothing suggestive of voodoo rituals ... but which looked all the more powerful for it's otherwise ordinary appearance.

The two shop assistants - one a young man with skin quite as light as Lucille's and something of the same mixed features, the other a middle-aged woman with a darker complexion - looked more in keeping with the decor ... but also less assured and self-possessed. The young man wore a white shirt with an embroidered front - white on white - while the woman was dressed in a blue and white striped dress which she filled amply enough - not over-weight but not thin either. Had she added a white bandanna to her coiffure, she might have been the traditional image of a voodun priestess.

But it was Lucille who dominated the establishment - by image, attitude and stance. It was as if her imprint was on every item in the store and her presence hovering over every shelf, basket and tile. A very intriguing woman.

* * *

Lunch - at another Galleria establishment - was light, delicious ... and distinctly French. Of course, with Lucille for company, I might have said the same dining from a hot-dog stand ... and, in all honesty, I had trouble remembering what I had eaten.

For that matter, I wasn't really sure what we talked about either. Of ships that sail? Of sealing wax? Of cabbages and kings?

It really didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that - all too soon - it was time for Lucille to return to Le Vévés and let her assistants have a lunch break.

But, another time - we'd agreed - we'd have dinner ... sometime when there was no rush.

* * *

"You've a bad case, eh?" Captain Donavi asked as we returned to the van. "A nice lady. And," he added, "she finds you attractive."

"Huh?" I blurted, stupidly.

"Lucille, laddie," the Captain amplified. "I said she finds you attractive. The two of you look good together. Well matched."

"She's lovely," I agreed, shaking myself to clear my thoughts. "And fascinating."

"So?"

"So? What do you mean?"

"So are you going to attend the ceremony on Saturday?"

"Uh, yes. I'd be crazy not to," I agreed. This was Wednesday. And we - Lucille and I, not the Captain - had a tentative date for dinner Friday as well. The Saturday invitation had been included both of us - and Dan as well - and I was certainly planning to attend. I wasn't sure what the ceremony was for - Lucille hadn't offered details - but I had no intention of missing it. I was as much fascinated by the voodoo aspect as I was by Lucille herself ... and I was definitely fascinated by Lucille.

Tomorrow - well, I had plans for tomorrow. And they could get complicated. Also, tomorrow depended on how the rest of today went ... on whether I could find what I needed this evening.

But I was definitely going to try to keep Friday evening open ... and Saturday too, if possible.

* * *

"If you have a social security number," Dan announced, laying his briefcase on the coffee table, "it's under some other name. The SSA doesn't have a Gregory Thorne listed who matches even vaguely. As far as they're concerned, you don't exist."

According to his account, Dan had spent part of the afternoon - at his office - searching the Internet for Gregory Thorne ... and part of it locking horns with the Social Security Administration.

From his expression, the SSA had come out ahead.

I hesitated to ask about the IRS.

"Here, try this," I passed him a tall glass, then handed a second to the Captain before relaxing on the sofa with the third.

"Pretty good," Dan lowered the glass. "Limeade?"

"Not exactly," I offered. "Fresh lime juice, soda, a little sugar ... and crushed ice. Add mint but no alcohol. Tropical drink except you don't usually get enough ice in it."

"Usually sweeter, too," the Captain offered. "Better this way - cold and tart."

"Why don't you," I suggested, "just call Barbara? At Brown and Vauxhall?"

Dan glared at me over the rim of the glass for a moment, then lowered the lime and soda and smiled wryly. "Always the simple approach, right? Yeah, I guess they'd have it, wouldn't they?"

"Seems likely. Couldn't hurt to try." I thought a moment, then added, "For that matter, I suppose I should have asked her myself ... so, before you kick yourself, you can boot me. Okay?"

Captain Donavi had the courtesy not to laugh but was smiling fairly widely. "Sounds like honors are even, eh? Might ask if they have a record of your passport number as well."

"They might," Dan agreed. "I'll call tomorrow. Something else is bothering me," Dan took another sip before changing the subject. "Tell me, Alex, how in the devil do you present a villain without making them so obviously a villain that everybody starts rooting for them to get bumped off in chapter one?"

* * *

"So," Dan summarized, laying the knife across his plate, "one the one hand, we can have a villain who isn't - that is, a villain who - except for their crime - is an otherwise pretty nice person. Or, on the other, we can have a villain who is so villainous that the readers will think they must really be innocent and that someone else is the villain. Or, on the third hand? Can I say that? Anyway, we can keep the villain in the background so their personalities aren't that obvious until the finale."

"Or, on the fourth paw," I smiled mildly at my own joke, "you can mask your villain with an even more villainous innocent person. Haven't you ever known someone who acted like a perfect bastard but wasn't really a villain at all? How about the 'blackmailer' in ... what was it? ... One of the Dick Francis novels?"

"Enquiry wasn't it?" Dan thought for a moment. "Where the blackmailer was blackmailing the villains to keep them on the straight and narrow? But the blackmailer was one of the victims, wasn't he?"

"Something like that," I nodded.

"I remember a Captain on the Scorro Line a few years back," Captain Donavi considered. "One of the blackest of men, you'll ever meet. Only time I ever saw him smile was a time when a bo'sun took a header off the gangway. In Naples, it was. Anyway ..."

* * *

"You've still go me puzzled," Dan admitted. "You go and buy old clothes, then - to go bar hopping in the rowdier part of town - you're dressed like a ..."

"Like a ..?" I prompted. I was wearing some of Jerome's flashier cast-offs ... and the panama hat. Seemed perfectly appropriate to me. Besides, Dan was the one dressing down - between his rather baggy pair of slacks, a sweatshirt that would have served better as a polishing rag and the best part of a week's growth of beard, he looked a proper sight. Of course, the decently polished loafers were a mis-key but ... it really didn't matter. Not tonight, anyway.

"Never mind," Dan shook his head. "I suppose you're going to take up gardening and that's what the old clothes are for, right? No, don't tell me - I'd rather think about it. You going to drive? Or shall I?"

"Maybe I'd better," I suggested. "I've got a pretty good idea where we're headed. Van's easier on the Captain anyway." I'd forgotten for the moment that his cast was off now ... but he was still carrying the cane and limping a bit.

"Let's shove off," Captain Donavi agreed. "First round's on me." The Captain was dressed in his usual dark blue slacks, a knit shirt and a light weight jacket. Perfectly presentable ...

* * *

"Do'n care," I slurred my speech. "Chang'd the locks she did. Now wha's a man suppos'd t' do case like that?"

This was our sixth bar this evening and the dingiest yet. Across the room, Captain Donavi was showing Dan the finer points of pool ... except Dan was sticking to soda with a twist against the Captain's uzo and, without the handicap, was shooting better bankshots than the Captain .. better than most of the players for that matter. In any case, they were both having a good time, leaving me to work the bar.

I wasn't nearly as drunk as I sounded ... but not as sober as I preferred either. The way things had been going the last few days, I didn't need to be an alcoholic - I was drinking enough without being one. Or drinking too much really.

I'd also padded my wallet - filling it with worn one's - and had managed to keep it almost falling out of my hip pocket without actually losing it for most of the evening. Just a little extra bait.

Problem was - nobody was biting.

Most of them I didn't blame for not listening - as a drunk, I was pretty boring. Lamenting how 'she' - unnamed - had tossed me out, changed the locks and how I really needed to get back in ... just to get something - also unspecified - which I'd left hidden, I wouldn't have listened to me either. For that matter, I was getting pretty tired of having to be me.

Then I finally got lucky when I felt someone stumble as they passed ... and felt the absence of the bulky wallet from my pocket.

The passer-by was a gray-haired gent, moderately heavy - the gap between his jean jacket and his levis exposed a striped shirt - weaving his way unsteadily to the restroom at the rear. He looked familiar as well - I was pretty sure I'd seen him at the last watering hole - a couple of doors down the street.

I let him have his lead - then, when he entered, got up from my stool and followed ... dropping as much of the drunk act as I could.

"You can keep the cash," I advised, leaning casually against the door. "But I'd like the wallet back. If you're disappointed, however ..." I was holding a crisp fifty extended upwards between two fingers, waiting for him to turn around.

When he did, he was no more drunk than I was - less probably. "Okay, bud," he attempted a sneer. "I'll take the bonus. Your leather's in the trash if it means that much to you."

"Not really, but it seems a shame to toss it. After all, it did cost me ten - be a pity to throw it."

"So? You planning to fan yourself with the bill? Or you have something in mind? If you're bent, forget it - try the White Swallow, downtown."

"Don't flatter yourself," I smiled. "Even if I was, you're not my type. I'm more interested in some equipment - the fifty's a finder's fee. On delivery."

"What is this? Some kind of setup?"

"You could have saved me a couple of drinks if you weren't so damned cagey," I ignored his protest. "You'd have saved me a lot of trouble if you'd pinched the wallet two stops back. Look, if you don't want to play, return the thirty and my leather and we'll forget it. On the other hand, if you want to earn General Grant, let's cut to the chase. Which is it?"

"Suppose you tell me what you're looking for."

He was right - I hadn't. Maybe I'd had more to drink than I'd thought. "Nothing too complicated," I suggested. "Just a good set of entry tools. I figure you might know someone." I waved the fifty slowly - baiting.

"Might," he looked interested. "Then again, I might not. Good tools are expensive. You flush?"

"Enough," I suggested. "Not that I'd want you to get any ideas about easy pickings."

"Yeah, I know," he admitted. "You've got company. Suppose I make a call or two?"

"Fine," I agreed ... even though that wasn't what I was thinking of. "I'll be at the bar - drinking coffee." I slipped the fifty back in my pants pocket and stepped away from the door - while he was finding a phone, I needed the urinal.

My nameless acquaintance stepped past me and pulled the door open. Outside, Captain Donavi was lounging against the opposite wall. Next to him, Dan was leaning on a pool cue.

"Be out in a minute, guys," I nodded, turning back to the fixture. Too many drinks and not enough rest stops.

* * *

"Half an hour," my inept cannon reported, returning from the telephone. "Friend says it'll cost you two C's. Plus the fifty."

"The fifty's yours if the merchandise is any good," I agreed, making no move to produce the bill. "As for a brace of Franklins - we'll see how good and what - then we'll talk about it. In the mean time, have a drink - you're buying."

* * *

How good was pretty good ... but not fantastic. The glass cutter was a three dollar item at any hardware store while the needle-nosed pliers could be had for under ten. Besides, cutting glass from one side only works in the movies and on TV - in reality, you score from one side, then tap it from the other. For B&E, simply masking the glass with duct tape and then whacking it's easier. And quiet enough generally.

The lock picks, however, were easily worth twenty-five and they were the main item I was interested in.

I pulled the picks and a small steel pinch bar across the table, shoved the rest of the gear back and settled down for some serious haggling.

We settled on sixty.

Adding the thirty for bait and the fifty for arranging the deal, I was out a hundred-forty - plus the cost of drinks. I wondered if Dan could figure a way to write the evening off as a business expense?

Of course, given a little luck, some time and a good story - i.e. a lie or two - and I could probably have managed the picks for twenty or thirty dollars from legitimate sources. Then again, it might have taken a day or more just to find some.

In any case, Dan had enjoyed the evening.

* * *

Back home - I'd let Dan do the driving - I demonstrated the usefulness of my purchase.

It only took me a little over two minutes to open the front door ... not too bad considering that I had no idea how long it had been since I'd practiced ... the drinks hadn't helped either.

"Told you," Dan addressed the Captain as I turned the knob. "Definitely spy material - writing's just his cover identity."