Partners II

By

Dough Hubler

Tony knew.

Only Tony knew that Tony knew.

He didn't know why and he didn't know how, but Tony Villicana knew about the suit.

Sitting in an elegant French restaurant of his host's choosing, he fought the impulse to stare across the candlelit table at his former high school teacher, Ralph Hinkley.

The fight was a mismatch from the beginning.

Having noticed the obvious scrutiny from his previously outstanding "problem student", Ralph pleaded between bites, saying, "Tony! Please, what is it? You don't like my suit or something?"

All eyes at the table now turned and focused exclusively on Villicana… Ralph's, his wife, Pam's, even Tony's young bride, Rhonda's. Never one to shy away from attention of any sort, Tony grinned and answered, saying, "Now that you mention it, I seen you in flashier suits, Mistah H!"

"Tony!" Rhonda scolded, punching her husband's considerable arm with her tiny, ineffectual fist. "Be nice! Mr. And Mrs. Hinkley here asked us out to dinner to celebrate your job and the baby! Don't be a jerk!"

"Rhonda, please," Pam offered with a brilliant and beguiling smile. "According to Alice Cooper, school's out forever! I think its alright if you call us 'Ralph' and 'Pam' now!"

"Hey, I just got used'ta not callin' you 'Mizz Davidson'," Tony replied, holding up both hands for emphasis. "Let's not go'n get crazy all at once, huh?"

"And, your suit is very nice, Mr… I mean, Ralph," Rhonda offered, trying very hard to hide a girlish giggle.

The suit.

It was amazing to Tony Villicana… how simply knowing about the suit's existence going into the puzzle made all of the other pieces fall neatly and easily into place. It was during his first foray as a fledgling FBI agent that he had learned the truth, or more accurately, the series of truths. For the past few years, Bill Maxwell, senior FBI agent and Tony's current partner and mentor, had constantly brought Hinkley, a high school teacher, into the crossfire of federal cases that he was clearly unqualified for. Hinkley seemed able to magically transcend both time and space, coving impossible distances in an impossibly short span of time. He was even, somehow, able to pitch a two hundred mile-per-hour fastball for a major league baseball team! Nearly all the mysteries were suddenly solved once Agent Villicana saw Ralph flying in a belted, booted, blood-red superhero costume… the suit!

The twin mysteries of "how" and "why", however, still eluded Tony, but the subtle training that the FBI had afforded him led directly to the "when".

Field trip.

Palmdale.

Electrical blackout.

Bill Maxwell.

Pam was happily chatting with Rhonda Villicana about the younger lady's first trimester when both Ralph and Tony recognized an all too familiar commotion coming from the front of the restaurant.

"As you were, there, Pepe Le Pew," growled a voice above the ambient sounds of the dining room. "I see 'em right over there! Hey, Ralph!"

Federal Agent Bill Maxwell clumsily wound his way around and through the tables of annoyed patrons until he finally arrived at the Hinkley party. He grabbed up a vacant chair from an otherwise occupied table, spun it around backwards and straddled it, seating himself solidly between Tony and Ralph.

"French, Ralph? Gimme a break, will'ya!" he sneered, disgusted. "You chose a French restaurant? Those garbanzos eat snails, for cryin' out loud!"

"And, you eat dog biscuits, Bill," offered Pam with a warm if somewhat condescending smile.

Bill straightened, proudly puffing up his chest, and replied, "Which happen to be made in the good ol' U S of A, counselor!"

"Hey, I gotta admit," Tony shrugged. "They ain't half bad with a little chocolate milk!"

Rhonda Villicana's jaw dropped in astonishment as she pleaded, "Tony, please tell me that you didn't….."

"Hey, easy there! That's all he had t'eat in his whole stinkin' place!" Tony interrupted in explanation. "I opened the refrigerator… all Mistah M had in there was three ice-cubes and a light-bulb!"

"That's nothing. Have you seen his bathroom?" asked Ralph with one eyebrow arched.

"Nah, even I ain't that brave!"

"I'm right here listening, kiddies!" Bill exclaimed. "An' you're sittin' around here talkin' about me like I'm some old geezer that the family's lookin' to stash somewhere! 'What're we gonna do with Pop?'! Besides," he calmed, turning towards Tony. "I only came in here for a quick confab with my partner."

As Pam and Rhonda both sat harassing a completely disinterested Bill for disturbing their special evening out, Ralph wrestled with an emotion he had never before associated with either Bill Maxwell or Tony Villicana.

Jealousy.

Bill came all the way out here, he thought silently, specifically to speak to Tony… he even called him "partner"! Right in front of me!

Ralph's mind meandered back to the moment, and the momentousness, of meeting Maxwell… and of the almost immediate dislike he had developed for him. Bill seemed to solidly stand for everything that Ralph stood just as firmly against. Maxwell was maniacally conservative with absolutely no room for tolerance. Ralph was more a product of the idealistic 1970s. They were the classic polar opposites, thrust together by extraordinary forces, which somehow transcended those differences and managed to bring out the best in each other. Their relationship had gone from an uneasy, unwilling alliance to an unfailing feeling of family and, as loath as he may be to openly admit it, Ralph considered Bill to be his closest friend.

Now, after all that they had seen and experienced together, Bill was channeling all of his attention towards Tony and Ralph felt… betrayed… abandoned… forgotten?

"I dunno, Mr. Maxwell," Rhonda said nervously, shaking Ralph from his reverie. "That sounds kinda dangerous t'me and I don't want nothin' to happen to my Tony!"

Characteristically, Bill replied, "Your husband here didn't join the Campfire Girls, sweetheart! He's a fed now. Comes with the territory." Looking into Rhonda's warm and worried eyes, he just as uncharacteristically softened, adding, "Besides, this ones a cakewalk. Nothin' to it, a baby could do it!"

"S'just a stakeout, babe," Tony comforted his bride, wrapping a muscular arm around her petite shoulders. "Observe without engagement, right, Mistah M?"

"Ya got it in one, kid!" Bill agreed. "Like I tol' ya, it's a milkrun! Uh, Ralph?" he added, turning towards Hinkley. "Could I speak to you in my office for a moment?"

Ralph refused to accept how strangely happy that simple request made him at that moment. Instead, he grinned, adjusted his tie at the collar, excused himself from the table, and followed Maxwell from the dining area.

Tony watched until both men were out of sight, then stood as well, saying, "'S'cuse me too, huh… I gotta go take a whiz."

"Tony!" scolded Rhonda, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "This is a high-class place we're in! Y'don't go saying something so low-rent as 'whiz' in a place like this! You're supposed t'say 'I'm gonna go hit the can'! Right, Pam?"

Pamela Hinkley barely managed to stifle a laugh as she hastily stuffed a breadstick in her mouth.

Tony scanned for the two men as he walked beyond the dining room, but to no avail. Deciding that he might as well "hit the can" while he was up and out, he stopped just short of opening the door, hearing the voices of Bill and Ralph reverberating from inside the men's room. He spied a payphone on the wall next to the restroom door and put the receiver to his ear, pretending to be engaged in conversation as he instead concentrated on the supposedly secreted exchange.

"That doesn't exactly sound like a 'milkrun' to me, Bill!" Ralph stated directly. "Maybe Rhonda's right to be worried!"

"Nah, not on Villicana's part," argued Bill. "He'll be doing it just the way I laid it out… observation only, no engagement. But, I'd still like you to scope the whole magilla before we set it up. You know, fly, hologram, go all see-through, whatever."

Ralph hid his excitement behind a well-rehearsed mask of indifference. He let out a deep sigh and said, "Well, alright, Bill, if it's really that important… but, I won't be able to get away for any extended amount of time until this weekend."

"This… week…! That's shavin' it a little close to the bone, kid," Bill intoned impatiently. "Our stakeout is set for Sunday evening! I was hoping to get a few days headstart on this!" He paused a moment, then was struck with sudden, if not exactly uncommon, inspiration. "Hey! Why not right now, Ralph!" he asked excitedly. "You could fly out there, give it a quick look-see, and….."

"Bill, we're at dinner!" Ralph interjected, deflating the FBI agent, causing his shoulders to droop slightly. "And, besides, the suit is tucked away in its little black case on the top shelf of my closet! I stopped wearing it under my street clothes some time ago!"

"Okay, fine," grumbled Bill. "Saturday then… early! Oh-seven-hundred!"

"Good… now, tell me again," said Hinkley. "What exactly is it we're looking for here?"

Bill threw his arms out in bewilderment. "I don't believe this!" He blurted. "I just gave with the whole bird's-eye lowdown out there at the table!"

Ralph put his hands on his hips, offered a tightlipped smile and replied, "Humor me, alright?"

Agent Maxwell sighed and simply stated, "Byron Muntz."

"I know that name." Ralph replied. "How do I know that name?"

"Oh, I dunno, maybe the papers or the TV!" Bill started rattling off statistics before he even got the small spiral notepad out of his sportcoat pocket and flipped open. "Byron Muntz… known as 'Lord Byron' by all the ladies down at the Mafia Sewing Circle and Book Review Club… started out twenty-five years ago as a grunt, running numbers and pushin' protection… moved all the way up in the organization to become 'first louie' under Salvatore Gamboni himself. The tip we got said that he's gearing up for a coup, getting ready to put Gamboni on 'extended leave' and take over the entire organization."

He flipped the obviously unnecessary notepad shut and stuffed it back into his pocket. "There's a warehouse at the corner of Ansbury and Beldale, supposedly where he's stashed an impressive lil' arsenal as well as the plans and the bankroll he needs to pull this thing off…but, we haven't been able to get anyone inside to verify, at least not without tipping our hand. That's why me and the kid're staking it on Sunday. Carlisle's had a real stick up his butt lately about search warrants… well, about my search warrants, anyway… so we gotta be sure, real sure that there's illegal ordinance in there with this 'Lord Byron' before the bust or there's a real good chance that this city's gonna see the biggest gangland war since 'The Godfather'!"

"With that much firepower," thought Ralph aloud. "It's a pretty sure bet that they're more than prepared to use it."

"Which is about the same as throwing popcorn and peanuts at the little red jammies!" grinned Maxwell. "Just remember to keep your head covered!" He took in a deep breath, let it out and added, "So… anything else?"

Tony hastily returned the receiver to its cradle and hustled back to the table where his beautiful bride waited.

"You was gone for so long, I thought you might'a fell in!" Rhonda joked, poking him in the ribs.

"Baby, please," chided Tony, shaking his head from side to side. "This is a high-class place we're in!"

As Bill and Ralph reappeared, all eyes turned questioningly towards them. Under the uncomfortable scrutiny, Ralph stammered a bit, then covered with, "And that, Bill, is why it was called the Industrial Revolution."

Bill, obviously embarrassed by the unintentional slam against his intelligence, responded with, "Golly, gee… thanks, teach! Just wait'll I tell all the kids down at the maltshop!" He then gave a short, curt bow to the table, saying, "Ladies, including you, Villicana, enjoy the rest of whatever passes for food in this dive… oh, and Villicana," he pointed at Tony. "Remember, tomorrow's Thursday and it's your turn to bring the doughnuts. I like the ones….."

"With the chocolate on top and the white cream inside," finished both Tony and Ralph together.

"Wiseguy, snot-nosed kids," Bill shook his head and turned for the door. "I spend my life surrounded by wiseguy, snot-nosed kids."

………………………………………………………………………………

Byron Muntz paced the warehouse floor, thinning the leather soles of his incredibly expensive Italian shoes. He was in his mid-fifties, tanned and well conditioned. The only bits of graying that anyone could possibly notice was salted into his neatly trimmed sideburns. Muntz was impeccably dressed, wisely exchanging the stereotypical gangster gaudiness for attire generally reserved for bank presidents. He carried an unlit Cuban cigar between the fingers of his left hand and used it pointedly to emphasize his speech.

"And you have been reassured that Maxwell will be here Sunday evening?" he asked softly, but with a rumble of power to his voice that was indefinable. He gestured with the cigar to the nearly empty warehouse. There was obviously no great store of weaponry as had been purposefully reported. There was, however, a well-constructed barricade of sandbags, four feet in height and ten feet in length, bent in the middle forming a great v-shape. The apex pointed directly at the main entrance while the arching sides offered protection from the blacked-out windows on either wall.

Three men sat atop the barricade, each with their personal choice of automatic weapon at his side. The fourth man, standing at military "parade rest", answered, saying, "Yes, sir. We were able to channel the information through one of Maxwell's most trusted informants. He'll be here, either alone or with that new rookie agent he's been partnered with."

The man known to both the lawless and the media as Lord Byron walked slowly but purposefully over to address his underling, quietly asking, "How do you know this for such a certainty, Baker? Why alone and not with an assemblage of agents?"

Baker stood ramrod straight, unflinching, unchallenged. If Muntz's direct scrutiny caused him distress even to the decimal point, it was in no way apparent. "He needs this bust, sir," he replied calmly and in complete control of himself. "As I understand the situation, Bill Maxwell is something of a joke in the federal department. Word has it that his director is merely waiting for the right opportunity to either transfer him or to force him into early retirement."

"And is it our purpose here to embarrass Agent Maxwell?" Byron asked tilting his head slightly. "To see him disgraced and summarily dismissed?"

"No, sir." The military man replied. "Our purpose is to appeal to his growing need to prove himself worthy… and, thus, lure him into an ambush and see that he does not survive."

"You say that the agency for which he works does not take Maxwell seriously," muttered Muntz as he turned and began his pacing again. "More the fools they. Bill Maxwell is a cat… he sees things that others can't, he never fails to land on his feet and he seems to have nine lives."

"Well," sneered one of the seated men, chuckling. "Cat or no cat, he ain't gonna have none'a them nine lives left if he shows up here, boss!"

Byron Muntz stopped in mid-stride, his back to all four men, and said without turning, "Baker, tell your men that when I want their opinion, I shall beat it out of them." As Baker broke his stiffened stance just enough to cast a glare of loathing towards the cowed and frightened minion, Lord Byron continued thinking aloud, saying, "So, he needs to bring this one in alone to prove himself, eh? Alright, we'll gamble on that." He turned his head just enough to personally address Baker, saying, "We'll all gamble on that!"

………………………………………………………………………………..

There was a Thursday-night calzone waiting for him at home, his grandmother's recipe, and yet Tony surprisingly cruised down Ventura Boulevard at the established speed limit… something he had always regarded as more of a "speed suggestion". It wasn't the "Villicana Piranha", but the T-top Trans-Am he drove suited Tony well… power and flash, trouble on wheels.

His elbow was on the open window, his hand on the wheel, but his mind was on the conversation that he'd just left behind in Bill Maxwell's cramped cubicle.

"So, lemme in on it… what's the deal with this Lord Byron guy?" he had asked his mentor as he slumped in a chair in front of Maxwell's desk. Bill sat hunched behind it, pecking away with his two index fingers at the archaic typewriter, tilting his head forward and back, staring over and through his reading glasses. "'Cause, I gotta tell'ya, Mistah M, you seem to be making this very personal, y'know… an' you always tol' me that was a stupid thing t'do."

"I never used the word 'stupid'," Bill said finally, leaning back in his chair and pulling the glasses from his face. He studied his young protégé for a wordless moment, then sighed, closed his eyes, and kneaded the bridge of his nose.

"When I was a rookie, just starting out, like you are," he began in an unusually reflective voice. "I was partnered with a senior agent named Bill Young… my 'old guy'. They used to call us 'The Double Bill!'… great guy… top notch… made half the bureau look like meter-maids… taught me everything I know….."

Bill stopped there, staring wordlessly at a spot on the far wall. He suddenly caught himself sliding into a state of "saccharine" and harrumphed, clearing his throat. "Like I said, heck of a guy! Anyway," he continued. "He told me two things that I'll always remember, personal things, that've stuck with me all these years… carry 'em around with me everywhere. The first one was, 'Kid, after twenty-one, the years just fly by!'… geeze, it seems like just last month he told me that….."

Maxwell sat with an unusual smile on his face and Tony couldn't tell which end of the emotional spectrum it leaned towards. Villicana allowed for the moment, then prompted his partner with, "An' the second?"

Bill smiled genuinely this time, continuing, "Bill Young's wife used to make this homemade chili… real 'code blue' stuff, melt the enamel right off'a your teeth… and the ol' man absolutely loved it. Mind you, it nearly killed him every time he ate it, gave him a heartburn that could'a powered Burbank, put him on his back, brought his knees to his chest, but he wouldn't stop wolfin' it down. I asked him one time why, if it hurt him so bad, he kept going back for more, and he looked me square in the eye and told me, 'Kid, ya love certain things, sometimes ya gotta pay a price!'" Bill gazed directly into Tony Villicana's young eyes and added, "That one phrase covers a lotta ground, kid… duty-wise, life-wise, family-wise. I've carried the lesson of it with me since I was a snot-nosed kid like you," he grinned affectionately. "Now, it's your turn."

Any wise remark that Tony might've made refused to materialize in his mind or his heart as both men sat silently. If either of them was at all uncomfortable with the moment, neither expressed it. Bill then turned slightly, leaned back, and purposely found that same spot on the wall, studying it intently as he continued.

"It was… uh… twenty-five years ago this month that this… street punk lookin' to make his bones with the organization decided to 'off' a fed," Maxwell spoke softly, his eyes never wavering, his breathing being obviously, forcibly controlled. "So, this… this kid, he sat and waited outside'a the agent's apartment and he… uh… jumped outta the shadows in the middle'a the night….."

Bill physically fought for and won a tentative control over his voice if not his true emotions. "And then this… this punk, he stabbed Bill Young in the kidneys four times and left him to die in the shadows… of the shrubbery… until they found him in the morning….."

Tony Villicana wouldn't have said a word at this point even if one had come to his mind. He knew, after all the years of associating with Bill Maxwell, that this was a time for listening alone.

"That street-punk was Byron Muntz," Bill said after taking in a huge, sustaining lungful of air. "And he killed my partner… he killed my friend as some kinda stupid initiation." He cleared his throat and Tony could see Bill struggling to re-erect his practiced "fed" persona. "Gamboni's organization worked their magic, of course… had his slimeball lawyers get Muntz off, kept the papers from draggin' his name into it… and, I've been doggin' Muntz ever since."

"So," Tony ventured softly. "This is personal… and you really want this, wanna take this Lord Byron out… wanna kill him….."

"No!" Bill responded immediately, emphatically. "No, kid, I do not wanna kill him! That'd be crossing the line! I'm a good fed and doin' something like that would spit right in the face of Bill Young, his memory and everything he taught me! But, do I want this? Do I wanna be the one to put Muntz away?" he paused, considering. "Yeah… it's personal, and it's wrong, and I know that… but, yeah, I want this."

Tony shrugged, leaning forward, "But, Mistah M… won't Gamboni's people have him right back out on the street in like an hour or somethin'?"

Maxwell offered his young partner the first genuine smile of the afternoon. "If this scenario plays out the way the smart money says it should," he nearly sang. "We'll bust Muntz with the plans, the cash and the ordinance… and the word'll be out all over town that he was plannin' on planting Gamboni! Now, knowing how personally Salvatore Gamboni takes things like disloyalty, the safest place for 'Lord Byron' after that will be maximum security, and he knows it! Besides," he looked at the open hallway outside his cubicle. "I know how much I need this one."

"Whatta'ya mean?"

"Love may be blind, Villicana," Maxwell replied, his eyebrows raised. "Or, in the case of your poor, lovely bride, also deaf, dumb and unable to smell…"

"Easy there, chief!" Tony grinned, seeing a bit of the old Bill peeping through.

"But, I'm not blind," Bill sighed. "And, I ain't deaf, and I ain't all that dumb. I know what's being said about me upstairs… how the suits are gunnin' for me… so, I need this one, Tony… I need this one bad."

Bill's face at that moment of revelation haunted Tony Villicana as he drove home. Life forces situations on us, Bill had said. It's how we deal with those situations that define the kind of person we are.

A right turn off Ventura would lead Tony home to Rhonda and dinner.

Tony turned left.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Friday evening and Ralph Hinkley was in a panic, a genuine, stomach-twisting, "come to Jesus" panic.

He had tried countless calls to Bill's office phone as well as the one in his apartment, but Agent Maxwell appeared to have gone AWOL. Ralph paced the floor of his living room, trying his best to remember the names of every favorite restaurant, theater, and pool-hall that Bill loved to haunt, when inspiration borne of desperation ultimately struck him. He rushed back into his bedroom and pulled open his sock-drawer, roughly rummaging through it, sending cascades of unmatched socks to the floor.

A glint of the harsh overhead light flashed off of its metallic cover and Ralph pulled the small, slim two-way communicator from the drawer and thumbed the activation switch. His first instinct was to shout, "Bill! Are you there? Come in!", but years of working with a federal agent had taught him some elemental aspects of proper procedure. The switch he activated would pulse a slight vibration and an amber light through Bill's communicator, just in case the agent was in a situation demanding silence.

"Ralph? Is that you?" Bill's voice came through, sending a shiver of relative relief through Hinkley's body.

"Bill, I've been looking all over town for you!" he exclaimed.

"Uh… did you happen to look anywhere near the vicinity of Ansbury and Beldale?" snickered Maxwell. ""Cause, that's where your ol' Uncle Bill is… sittin' in his car, watching a warehouse that hasn't learned any new tricks in the past few….."

"Bill!" Ralph interrupted and then stalled, looking for the right phrasing of his next question. "Bill, did you, uh… did you happen to come by my house and borrow the, uh… you know, the suit?"

"Borrow th'… Ralph, what're you talkin' about? You know that the little green guys in the flyin' Cheerio said the thing won't work for me!"

"Yeah," Hinkley agreed, his stomach twisting around his spine. He hoped that sitting on the arm of the couch might unknot his gut.

He was getting tired of being wrong.

"Yeah… yeah, I know. It's just that… well, Bill, I think I… might'a… kinda… sorta… lost it."

"Lost it? Lost what, Rakph? What're you talkin'…" Bill asked easily at first, uncomprehending. Hinkley could almost hear the crackle of the light bulb blinking on over Bill's head. "Lost… you lost the suit! Ralph, don't play games with me here!"

"It's no game, Bill," Ralph began in explanation, climbing to his feet, grabbing his car keys and heading out the door. "I went to the closet to get it out for tomorrow morning and it was gone, box and all! Pam's been in 'Frisco since yesterday morning on a case and I know I saw it in the closet after dinner on Wednesday! Are you sure you don't have it?"

"Am I sure…?" Bill exclaimed in sarcastic frustration. "Well, there ya went and tripped me up, Ralph! I can withstand any form of torture but one, the direct question! Yes, I'm sure I don't have it! Did'ja check on the floor, maybe it fell….."

"Bill, I've turned the house upside down," said Ralph as he dropped his wife's VW into gear, heading for the corner of Ansbury, Beldale and Bill. "Which would have been a tad easier to do if I'd had the suit on!"

"Ralph, I need that recon!" Bill explained in as controlled a voice as he could manage. "Its fourth and forty-seven, and this's the last play of the game here! Without knowin' for a stone cold fact what's inside… waitaminit!… awww, no…..!"

Maxwell immediately recognized the car slowly pulling up to the front of the suspected warehouse. "What does that rookie think he's doin'?" he asked quietly before thumbing the two-way again. "Ralph! It's Villicana! He's just pulled up in front of the warehouse in that TA of his! That kid's gonna blow this bust! What's he thinking…..?"

"Take it easy, Bill," Ralph replied, gunning the VW for all she was worth. "Just get out of the car and wave him over! God knows you've done it to me often enough!"

Bill intended to do just that, standard operational procedure from the Maxwell Manual, but was suddenly stunned into immobility as he watched Tony Villicana leap from his car and rush towards the warehouse door. That single, insane action, in and of itself, couldn't compare, however, to the staggering fact that Tony was dressed all in red, trailing a cape!

"He's got… he's in the suit!" Bill said softly to himself before thumbing his two-way and shouting into it, "Ralph! Tony's got the suit! He's got it on!"

"My suit!"

All Bill could do was nod vigorously in the direction of the communicator.

"Bill, I'm three, maybe five minutes away!" Ralph said, trying to force the accelerator through the VW's floorboard. "Bill, you've got to get over there and stop him! Stop him!"

They both dropped their two-ways onto the passenger seats of their respective vehicles and Bill jumped from his car just as Tony ran shoulder-first and slammed through the front door of the warehouse.

Villicana was stunned, both physically and mentally. He had run with youthful force, fully expecting the door to give way, splintering like the balsa wood of his boyhood airplanes. His plan was to burst through the door and into the warehouse, landing in an imposing, offensive stance, effectively scaring those inside into emptying their small intestines. The door did, indeed, allow itself to be forced open, but not without putting up a worthy fight. Tony stumbled through, nearly losing his balance, a jarring ache in his shoulder. He somehow managed to retain his feet as his eyes struggled to adjust to the subdued lighting of the inside.

To his credit, Tony's hope that Byron and his men would be startled did follow the established plan, but they were not stunned into total inactivity. Bill could hear shouting and scrambling as he rushed for the open, displaced door, but the air was sucked suddenly from his body by the sound that followed.

Automatic gunfire!

"Mr. Personality", the henchman who had stupidly spoken out of turn to his taciturn employer, had spun at the sudden intrusion, slinging his weapon with him. Not having the presence of mind to engage the "safety", he involuntarily squeezed the trigger, sending a spray of a dozen shells into the air before releasing his grip. Every slug flew unimpeded, striking nothing more than warehouse wall with the notable exception of the final two, which struck Tony's right shoulder, spinning him like a top and sending him sprawling with a cry to the floor.

Bill reached the doorframe just as Tony's head hit the floor. The young, ridiculously dressed Federal agent stared up at him with questioning, pain-filled eyes. Maxwell's partner was only two feet away from him, but Bill knew that he would have to holster his weapon and openly expose himself to the gunmen in order to pull Tony to safety.

The question never formed in his mind as he leapt into the doorway and, hooking Villicana beneath his arms, dragged him out of the warehouse doorframe amidst a deadly sandstorm of flying lead.

"Bill," Tony gasped as he tried to cradle his wounded arm. "It didn't work… the suit, it….."

"'Bill', huh?" Maxwell grinned ineffectively as he quickly surveyed the damage done to his young partner. One bullet had merely grazed the anterior edge of Tony's shoulder, but the other had hit the deltoid dead center. "Whatever happened to 'Mr. M'?" Bill raised Tony's upper body as gently as he could, looking beneath him, yet still causing a brave, stifled, groan. "I know, I know," Maxwell said soothingly as he lowered Tony again. "I'm sorry."

Bill could hear gruff, indistinct voices within the structure and knew he had precious little time remaining before those inside were outside. He unfastened the dark cape just beneath Tony's chin and wrapped it tightly under the wounded man's arm and over his shoulder. "Clean exit, kid," he relayed rapidly as he worked. "You're gonna be fine. This'll help'ta stop the bleeding until we can get you sewed up."

Maxwell stood and removed his sportcoat, which he balled up and placed beneath Villicana's head. He pulled his back-up weapon, a nine-millimeter, from his ankle-holster and handed it to the young agent. "Ralph'll be here any minute." he said, straightening and staring at the open doorway. "Tell him what happened and that I said to get you one outta the suit and two, to the hospital!"

"You're not goin' in there alone! Ya gotta wait…!" Tony gasped as he tried to get to his feet. A wave of nausea returned him to his back.

"You gonna stop me, rookie?" Bill asked with a smile. "Face it, kid, they're gonna be comin' through that door any second. We try to stumble to your car or mine, they'll pick us off like a shootin' gallery… this is the only chance either one'uv us got!" Before Tony could utter another word of protest, Bill had sidestepped boldly into the open doorway, stood there a moment, and then moved inside.

"Hold it, boys!" Maxwell heard as he scanned the warehouse's interior. His weapon was still secured in his shoulder-holster for the moment. He had no idea how long he would be in possession of it. He counted five men approaching him, four of whom were aiming deadly ordinance in his general direction. As far as he knew, there could've been another dozen hidden behind a long, broken barricade of sandbags. The leader of those he could see, however, spoke again, adding, "Hold your fire. Let us show a moment of respect to a man who would disply such bravery… or would that be stupidity."

"You should know the difference by now, Muntz," Bill replied sarcastically, trying to stall the gunmen long enough for Ralph to arrive and get Tony safely away. "We both know that you're the west coast distributor for 'stupid'!" He heard several bolts being pulled and waited, stone-faced and stoically, to be cut in half.

Byron Muntz merely smiled, saying, "Agent Bill Maxwell… lifelong servant of the people slash tool of the federal effete. It's been an exceedingly long time." When Bill didn't respond, Muntz added, "I was wondering how many of your partners I would have to perforate before you finally gathered up the courage to face me."

The seasoned agent knew when he was being baited and chose not to bite. Instead, he said, "You might wanna consider conserving ammo, Byron… especially if you're making plans to take on….." It was then that Bill realized how stark and empty the warehouse truly was. This was no command center, no base of operations. The suspicion began to creep over him like so many red ants… a setup.

"Take on…?" Muntz repeated, leaning in to hear the remainder of the statement. "Ah! You must be talking about the rumored coup, the overthrow of the Gamboni regime, am I right?" Bill chewed his tongue, which succeeded in keeping it quiet and in his mouth. "Of course I am. I can see the realization washing over you, Agent Maxwell. How banal and insipid you must be feeling at this moment!"

Bill took in a long, slow inhalation through his nose and let it out just as slowly before saying, "Yeah… right… okay, so I was setup… classic scenario... beautiful piece'a work." Bill took a step backwards, gesturing widely with his arms. "I gotta say, though, Byron, that I'm flattered! You went through all this just to get to me… quite a step up from cowering in the dark and stabbing an unarmed man in the back!"

Muntz merely smiled in reply as Bill continued, slowly trying to make his way back to the door without drawing attention to the movement. "So, there's no trouble in paradise after all, huh? No plans to take Gamboni out and replace him as head of operations?"

Byron Muntz finally, slowly drew his own weapon from beneath his immaculately tailored suit jacket and leveled it at Bill Maxwell, who recognized it immediately. A forty-four magnum Dessert Eagle… a canon… the beast weighed six pounds without the clip… could blow a fist-sized hole through a man standing on the other side of a car door! Muntz matched every step that Maxwell had taken, saying, "Oh, no, Agent Maxwell, much of the information you were fed was accurate… there are indeed plans to 'take Gamboni out', as you so quaintly phrased it. You know as well as I that the old fool has become a tad too soft, a touch too slow to keep up with the ever-changing demands of running such an organization as ours… correction, an organization such as mine. Gamboni strives far too stringently for respectability these days, to distance himself from the people and places, the things and ideas that transformed him into the force we all once esteemed. Now, he is nothing more than an embarrassment."

Maxwell ventured one last step backwards. He could nearly see the doorframe peripherally, but managed to keep his eyes locked and engaged with Muntz's. "I have a partner bleeding in the dirt out there," he stated flatly with as little emotion as he could manage. "I'm gonna leave now and drive him to the hospital."

Out of the six men standing within the warehouse's interior, five laughed aloud, with Byron Muntz's chortle being the quietest and most controlled. "You're a governmental man, Maxwell," Muntz stated, deliberately dropping the pseudo-respectful "Agent" from Bill's name. "We'll put it to a democratic vote. Does anyone here believe that either Bill Maxwell or his garishly garbed partner will leave this place alive?"

"I do."

The voice was deep, resonant, with the merest trace of an accent and its unmistakable power drew everyone's attention towards the door. He stood there but a moment, silhouetted by the brightness of day behind him, before boldly stepping into the warehouse and standing at Bill Maxwell's side.

"M-M-Mr. Gamboni, sir!" stuttered Byron Muntz, lowering the weapon that was growing exponentially heavier in his hand.

Salvatore Gamboni's gray, bushy eyebrows rose highly on his deeply tanned face as he repeated, ""Mr. Gamboni" now, is it? Not 'the old fool'? Not the dinosaur you just this moment described to Agent Maxwell?"

Bill didn't know whether to be honored or horrified that Gamboni knew him by name, so he chose to be concerned about it at a later date and allowed the conversation to continue.

Muntz wanted to say, "Mr. Gamboni, I can explain", but his elder stopped him short with the simple gesture of a raised hand.

"I am not nearly the fool you believe me to be, Byron," Gamboni continued, taking a solid stance, his arms crossed over his chest. "I have known for some time of your delusions, your disloyalty, your designs upon the organization that I began while you were still wetting the bed… nor, was I foolish enough to openly admit such knowledge unattended."

Suddenly, every blacked-out window surrounding the warehouse's exterior walls shattered inward as blue-metal barrels burst through, artillery manned by a good dozen of Salvatore Gamboni's most trusted associates. Muntz's men, without waiting for the obvious order to be issued, wisely lowered then dropped their weapons.

"Twenty-five years ago," Gamboni shook his head sadly. "Twenty-five years ago, an ignorant, snot-nosed punk put a hit on a federal agent in an attempt to gain my favor… an execution I neither endorsed nor appreciated. To take the life of a police officer was anathema enough, but a federal agent….."

"And your guys in the snakeskin suits got him off." Bill stated softly, barely realizing that he was actually giving voice to thought.

Gamboni turned easily towards Maxwell with a genuine look of contrition on his deeply lined face. "Agent Maxwell," he began, a definitive alteration of tone to his voice. He spoke softly and sincerely. "It seemed very important at the time that this cowardly murder of Agent Young not find its way to my doorstep."

"Mr. Gamboni," Bill replied, matching tone and intent. "As far as the Bureau was concerned, it didn't just find its way to your door, but was sitting on your sofa with its feet on your coffee-table! We knew it… we just couldn't prove it."

Gamboni inhaled deeply, sadly, and slowly exhaled before replying. "As I said, it seemed important at the time… but, a man grows older, hopefully wiser, and things of importance change. Life becomes more precious, loyalties deeper. But, even back then, certain responsibilities demanded strict attention. Mr. Muntz was what you call a 'loose canon'… a liability that demanded watching. Still," he at last turned to regard the man known as Lord Byron. "Even though I feared a day like this might come, a day of premeditated treason, I had hoped that after twenty-five years… well, as the axiom goes, 'keep your friends close…..'"

"And your enemies even closer," Bill Maxwell finished, drawing Gamboni's attention back to him.

"Agent Maxwell," Gamboni said softly yet firmly. "I would consider it a personal favor if you would leave us alone here to conclude our… business. I assume the Trans-Am parked outside is yours." He gestured towards the open door, adding, "If you would be so kind."

A torrent of thoughts assailed Bill Maxwell, one tumbling over the other as each fought for dominance. The two that ultimately won out were not those of vengeance or duty… they were instead the simple statements, "A man grows older, hopefully wiser, and things of importance change," followed by, "Kid, ya love certain things, sometimes ya gotta pay a price.'"

Bill thought of Byron Muntz and his twenty-five years of hatred.

Bill thought of the crime lords standing before him and his sworn duty.

Bill thought of Tony, turned and left the warehouse.

The blinding glare of sunlight glinted off of Villicana's car, which now seemed nearly surrounded by pristine, newer model vehicles, none of which belonged to Ralph Hinkley. Bill shielded his eyes and stared across the street to see Hinkley's VW parked next to his own sedan and turned back to the Trans-Am. A blond shock of curly hair peeked above the backseat and Bill Maxwell rushed towards the driver's side. As he clambered in behind the wheel, Bill glanced quickly back to see that Ralph and Tony were both slouched down in the backseat. Villicana was valiantly trying to wear Hinkley's clothes, which were both too short and too tight on him… but would invariably draw fewer stares at the hospital than the suit he had been wearing!

Bill gunned the engine and shot out a spray of gravel as he took to the road, growling, "Ralph! I thought I left orders for you to get Villicana out of here!"

Ralph, already wearing the bright red tights, pulled the tunic over his head. Amazingly, as soon as the suit was in place on its rightful owner's body, the two bullet holes in the right shoulder began to miraculously reweave themselves. Within seconds, the suit was once again perfect and whole.

"I'm sorry, Bill," Ralph explained. "But I got here just after the parade arrived! While everyone was concentrating on the warehouse windows, I scrambled across the street and found Tony laying on the ground beside the car! I guess he had crawled there to get out of the way. I had just gotten him into the backseat and out of the suit when you came out! What happened in there!"

"I'm not… sure!" Bill stammered as he sped towards the hospital. "Outta nowhere, Gamboni and his goons showed up and pulled my kiester outta the campfire! It was the darndest thing I ever seen!"

"I called him."

Bill's eyes shot up to the rear-view mirror to see Ralph stare open-mouthed at Tony. "You… called Salvatore Gamboni?" asked Ralph incredulously.

"Hey, I wasn't all that sure the suit idea would work," Tony offered, trying to shrug then painfully deciding against it. "And since members'a my family knows guys that knows guys, I thought it'd be good for Gamboni to know what was goin' down. That way, me and Mistah M, we'd have back-up, but the bust'd still be ours." Tony struggled to sit up, his back beginning to cramp from being stuffed and hidden. "Speakin'a which, what's up wif dat suit anyways, Mistah H? I seen it turn you inta some kinda superguy, but on me, nothin'!"

Ralph nearly tried to lie his way out of an explanation when he caught the reflection of Bill's eyes in the rear-view mirror… eyes that spoke volumes. Ralph could almost hear Bill saying, "He took a bullet meant for me, Ralph… just like you did once. The kid deserves an answer."

"Well, we're not really sure, Tony," Ralph offered as they sped along. "But, we were told that, since it was given to me by the… by the people who gave it to me, I was the only one it would work for."

"Because it was given to you," offered Tony.

"That's the way we figured it, kid," answered Bill as he pulled into the emergency lane of Good Samaritan Hospital and slid to a squealing stop.

"By the guys what owned it before you?"

Ralph shrugged as he attached the cape about his neck, preparing for a discreet departure of invisibility. "I suppose so. We've heard about other suits and other owners… even met one once."

Bill came around to the passenger door and helped his young partner out of the backseat.

"So's, you're tellin' me," Tony grunted against the pain in his shoulder as he struggled to stand straight and tall. "That if Mistah H here officially decided to retire from the superguy business and officially decided to give me the suit, it would officially work for me?"

Bill and Ralph stared unspeaking into each other's eyes, suddenly wondering the same thing.

………………………………………………………………………

"This matter with Muntz… it has been taken care of?"

The driver's dark glasses kept his gaze from being discerned as he glanced into the rear-view mirror. "Yes, sir, Mr. Gamboni," he answered curtly. "As per your instructions."

"Good," the older man replied, taking a chilled bottle of spring water from the limo's refrigerator. "Keep me informed."

Salvatore Gamboni placed an open folder across his lap and began leafing through the sheaf of papers contained within it, asking, "And this is the total accumulation of information we have on Agent William Maxwell?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. Now," he said, taking a sip from the cool bottle. "I wish to arrange a meeting with his immediate supervisor… I believe his name to be Carlisle."

TO BE CONTINUED