Chapter II

Jack:

"Oh?" I ask. My voice is steady, even though the barrel of the gun looks big enough to drive a 57 Chevy down. "Really? He had a pound of Columbian white in his locker…drug residue all over his house, and then he turned states evidence to the Grand Jury to get you indicted."

"He didn't have a choice." She says, "I knew that he was never involved…. But nobody would believe me, and when Mr. Hendricks decided to check on his own…he died." She pauses, "And that day he told me he was bringing information…and guess what?"

"The car crashed and burned, and nothing was left." I wonder what my smile looks like to her. "I did some investigative reporting on the mob in the 70's—lots of people developed health problems, or bad luck with cars back then, as well." I look at her, "Are you going to shoot me? Because I'm getting awful tired of that thing in my face." She goes back to her seat, and sits down. She isn't pointing the gun at me, but it's in her lap, with her hand still around the grip.

"So you believe me?" She asks.

"I believe something is screwy…but let's stay on track…how did you sell him out?" Now she can't meet my eyes. Not at all.

"I promised him I wouldn't stop until he got out." She says, and her voice is a whisper. "I swore it."

"And then?" I ask.

"That's when they pinned that bombing on me." Kim isn't looking at anything in the room. "I had been putting beacons out for Global Justice…they said they were for detecting anyone moving around…but one of them was a bomb. Maybe Drakken or someone else switched it, but then it went off…and all those people died." She hunches in on herself.

"But that wasn't the worst…then they came and took Jim and Tim away—said mom and dad were too dangerous to have them, since they'd let me run wild…they did all those exposes… everything I had ever said they twisted…" She lets go of the gun, but I could care less. I've seen it before—you have to tell someone. I've seen it in people being led to execution and people on their death beds…and in a one time cheerleader and hero, and current stripper in a dingy little room, with the sound of a pair of junkies fighting over a joint outside the window.

"Then there was the money in the account—I never had that account… I mean, why would I get a part time job at a fast food place if I had four million dollars?"

"Maybe your boyfriend had something to do with it?" I say, "Getting up in front of a Grand Jury and saying, 'Kim Possible helped me hide the coke, and timed missions so we could move it..' That's pretty damming." Kim nods, and I'm surprised. Usually knives in the back make for bad feelings. She doesn't show it…or at least the pools of water in those huge eyes aren't from anger.

"He had to, you see? They didn't say it, but it was plain—say it or his parents would die… I mean they had pictures of his dad, his mom….everywhere." Now she looks desperate. "It was the plan, see? I had time between the indictment and the trial, and I'd break it right open!"

"Didn't work, did it." I reply.

"No." She whispers. "Right after the Grand Jury, they moved me to a…juvenile hall. I couldn't do anything…it was…" She pauses. "If you talked back, they beat you, if you tried to do anything, they beat you…sometimes they beat you because they just liked it. But that didn't stop me."

"What did?" I say. The gun falls, unnoticed to the floor, and thank god it didn't go off, as Kim walks into the bedroom and grabs that stuffed animal and holds it to herself. Nothing else in here, I see…was that the one thing she grabbed? The one thing she has? I don't know. Some questions even reporters don't ask.

"They showed how they could get to dad and mom…the money laundering case…then that inquiry at the hospital…" Her eyes are squeezed shut, her breath coming fast… "Then they kept at mom and dad, and wouldn't stop until mom…until mom had her nervous breakdown and-" she doesn't go on, but I do.

"And tried to commit suicide." I say, "And then let me guess, your dad divorced her, for a lot of reasons…not the least of which was a little bird told him it was the only way he could get the twins back…ever."

"I don't know." She says, eyes still shut. "I wasn't around for that… I knew then, see, that I was just a stupid little girl…and I couldn't save Ron, I couldn't even save myself… so I broke my promise. The night they told me about mom, I broke out of the place, and I didn't try and find information… I went right back home, and grabbed" her arms tightened, "this, and the emergency cash Dad and Mom kept around, and I ran. I didn't stop running until I came here, because I figured that if the bar's using underage dancers, nobody's going to turn me in." Her voice gets soft that I can barely hear it. "And I left Ron alone…."

Kim:

I should keep my eyes open. The gun's on the floor, and he could be holding it right now, for all I care. But would it really be that big of a deal? If he shoots me, maybe it just finishes what started a year ago…

"So." he says, "Who do you think did this?" I blink. He's not laughing, or telling me to stop trying to spread blame like everyone else did. I…

"You believe me?" I ask. He nods.

"Kid… I'm old. Everyone else you talk about, your generation, they talk about the government as this friendly, cuddly buddy that protects them…even your parents." Now he leans forward. "Well let me tell you something… I was born in 1946… I remember back when the government wasn't your friend, and walking into the wrong part of town could get you lynched…or executed if you tried to defend yourself." Now he looks down. "And I remember when news reporters did something about it, instead of getting up in front of a TV camera with their botox, reading what the advertisers want everyone to hear. People don't want to hear bad news, now…not about what counts. I think you were railroaded…because I'm 60 years old, and I have a feeling about these things, and it's going off right now." I open my eyes and look at him. He is old…but his eyes are meeting mine squarely, and I suddenly wonder what he thinks of a quitter like me. Somehow he knows, I don't know how, but he knows.

"You were screwed from the beginning." He says, "Anyone with four million dollars could have had you both killed anytime they wanted to—they didn't. They wanted you discredited…destroyed." He grins, at me, "So who did you piss off?"

"Nobody!"I almost scream. "I've don't know who… I mean yeah, Drakken and all the others, but they didn't gloat, and I think they would." I see Jack blink.

"They haven't done anything of late." He says. "That could be a point." Then he's looking at me.

"OK, Kid…truth time. You've pissed off someone very, very powerful. You stay here, then I guess you won't be found—maybe they don't care anymore…maybe you're just under their radar." He pauses, "But if you get back in the game…then all bets are off—they won't ever forget you after that, and we may have one shot—miss and we're dead."

"Why would you be interested?" I ask.

"Pulitzer?" He says, and then his face gets a lot more serious, "Or maybe I'm sick of sitting in joints like the Booty Barn, listening to guys joke about screwing their own supporters, and writing a story that'll be deep sixed because it doesn't fit the viewing demographic. Maybe I want to do something so big it'll blow the lid off this stinking cesspool…and I have a hunch this might be it."

"But they'll kill you too, won't they?" I point out. He laughs.

"Kid, I smoke, I eat bad, I don't exercise since my stint in Vietnam… and I've used up more luck then any five normal people. They kill me… well, it saves me from the nursing home, at least."

"Why should I?" I say, "Like you said, maybe they don't care anymore, and we don't even know who they are."

"That's right." He says, "You can stay here, in these palatial accommodations." I wince, but he isn't through, "But of course, sooner or later, they're going to realize you aren't going anywhere…that their star dancer doesn't have anyplace else to go. Ready to give your boss a blowjob to stay on the docket? What about when he wants something a little extra—maybe for you to give special lap dances behind the stage… Of course, you'll get older," He's looking positively grim, "You'll get wrinkles… and believe me when I say this kid, you can't imagine how fast this sort of life will give them to you." He shrugged, "you don't blush anymore, and the clients don't always like that—they love the idea of thinking that you're still embarrassed…and pretty soon your work day is seeing how many five dollar blow-jobs you can give in the back, and how many days you can go between getting beaten up." He gives a lopsided grin. "See—you're a bit like me. Look me in the face and tell me that you have so much to lose."

He's right. I realize. Maybe I would have died…but I've been dying ever since I ran out on Ron… Sooner or later, if I stay here, I'll keep that thought on the way here, walk in, grab my cuddle buddy, and the gun, and the last thing I'll ever feel is the barrel in my mouth.

"OK." I say, "You're right—If this works, fine…if they kill me…" I pause, and realize that this is the truth, "Fine. Living like this…" I let the sentence trail off. "So…." I ask. "What do we do?"

"Do, kid? First of all, we get out of this dump…then we get some information…" He suddenly gives me a grin that takes off about 30 years.

"And THEN, we go rattle some chains and see what falls out…"

To be continued.