"I have cancelled your reservations at the Black Eagle Hotel for tonight," Jim Santana had said with a knowing sparkle in his eyes and his arm around his own wife as he left the reception that morning. "I hope you do not mind, Hannibal and Jedediah. Clara and I thought that perhaps you and your lovely brides might enjoy the bridal suites here at the Plaza a little more. Eh?"

The boys could not help but agree as they returned from Jed's triumph at the Wild West show and their sensational dinner with Buffalo Bill and his retinue at Delmonico's. Heyes, Beth, Curry, and Cat stepped down from a pair of cabs and entered the palatial lobby of the Plaza. Heyes straightened his tie in one of the floor to ceiling mirrors and smiled promisingly at Beth. "Why bother?" she whispered in her groom's ear, as her hand ran down his back, "won't be wearing that for long . . . or anything else."

Heyes grinned at her. "Public appearances, darling."

"I sure didn't ever think I'd be staying in a place like this!" said Curry to Cat as they glanced around at their luxurious surroundings. "Wow!"

"Watch the best and learn, husband," said his bride with pretended seriousness. "Or the best on this side of the Atlantic, anyhow." She and Jed chuckled happily together, thinking of Buffalo Bill's stories about grand European hotels.

The two pairs walked up to the polished carved wood front desk. "We'd like to check in. Sorry for the late hour. I understand Mr. James Santana made reservations for us for tonight," said Heyes to the desk clerk.

The clerk looked at the two couples superciliously, "Please sign here, Sirs and Madams. Mr. Santana did make two reservations for guests tonight. He said to wait until past midnight if necessary."

"Jim said we're in the bridal suites?," said Curry as he signed in with his left arm still around his wife. The clerk observed their names with care so he could address the wealthy Mr. Santana's friends appropriately. Cat gave her new husband a glowing look as she finished signing "Mrs. Jedediah Curry," for the first time.

"So you've got space for us?" asked the Kid, whose hotel had a single bridal suite in name only.

"Of course, Mr. Curry!" said the clerk, appalled that anyone would think the Plaza had only two bridal suites, "Mr. Santana reserved bridal suites 3 and 4 for you. We have several more."

Heyes signed his name in the immaculate hand-writing that Beth had taught him when he was still fighting to speak. Beth looked self-conscious as she wrote, in her own neat hand, "Mrs. Hannibal Heyes." She had practiced this new signature, but this was the first time that it really applied to her. The clerk watched them sign and carefully suppressed any sign that he recognized the names. Jedediah Curry, without the notorious nick-name behind which the first name normally hid, might have been new to him. But considering recent newspaper stories and years of wide-spread publicity before that, he could hardly help having heard of Hannibal Heyes. The two names together spelled out the situation very clearly.

"So you are friends of Mr. Santana's?" inquired the clerk skeptically as he handed the two new husbands their gleaming gold door keys. "He and his wife have some . . . interesting acquaintances."

"Including us," said Heyes with a warning flash in his eye. "I've known Jim Santana fifteen years. He and I, and Mr. Curry, and the ladies, we'd all thank you for keeping our names quiet." A roll of bills quietly found its way across the desk. The desk clerk could certainly do math. He knew what Heyes, Curry, and their friends had been doing fifteen years before. But he could also count the numbers on those bills and see the disquieting look in Jedediah Curry's keen blue eyes.

"Mr. Santana said our stuff's in the rooms?" said the Kid.

The clerk kept his cool. "Yes, Mr. Curry, your luggage was sent up hours ago. And you can be assured that we will keep . . . undesirable elements away."

The four newlyweds crossed the polished marble floor to the elevators. A neatly uniformed young elevator operator opened the gate of the shiny brass cage elevator and invited the two couples in. "Wow, I never rode in one of these new-fangled things before!" the Kid whispered to Cat.

"What floor?" asked the young operator.

"What floors are bridal suites 3 and 4 on?" asked Heyes.

"The eighth floor – excellent views. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. . . .?" the operator asked as he pulled a lever and the car began to climb.

"Heyes," said Beth with a proud look at her groom.

"And Curry," added Cat, reaching for her husband's hand.

The elevator operator turned to working the handle that controlled the car's speed. He concentrated carefully to avoid any unpleasant roughness in the operation of the machine. Then the meaning of the names he had just heard seemed to strike him. He snuck a couple of secretive, bright-eyed, glances at his infamous passengers, but said nothing.

"Here we are, ladies and gentlemen," announced the operator grandly, "the top floor!" as he smoothly lowered the machine's handle to avoid a hard stop and opened the gate for the two couples.

"Thanks, boy," said Heyes, flipping the young man a quarter.

"And you might keep it quiet," said Curry, hanging him a couple of folded up dollar bills.

"Wow, thanks K . . . Mr. Curry!" said the boy, happily pocketing his outsized tip.

As the cage vanished downward and the two newly married couple walked down the wood paneled hall, Heyes chuckled and spoke in low tones. "Not likely he'll keep it quiet! Press will be everywhere, after that performance of yours this afternoon, Jed. Word'll get around, no matter how much cash we hand out at the Plaza."

"Sorry, Heyes," muttered Curry, "Just couldn't resist. Sure can use that thousand, with the baby on the way. And your murder trial didn't exactly do us any favors, you know." Heyes scowled at him, but the blonde ex-outlaw started to laugh. "But why not let folks know who we are? We've kept so darn quiet for so long – why do we have to do that anymore?"

Heyes shrugged. "Maybe you don't, but I've got university presidents and academic deans to worry about. Got to behave proper, watch my academic reputation."

"But not too proper past that door, Mr. Heyes," said Beth with a wicked smile as she pointed at the sign that said "Bridal Suite 3."

Just as the two Western couples, with anticipatory smiles on their faces, were about to use their golden keys to open the doors of the two bridal suites, a slender figure in a busboy's uniform came rushing up to them. "Kid, Heyes, a word for the Brooklyn Eagle on your weddings and the Kid's fancy shooting at the show today?"

"No!" said the Kid, opening the door of the bridal suite just long enough to admit Cat and himself. Then he slammed the door shut in the reporter's eager young face.

The disguised reporter turned to Heyes, pulling out a notebook. He gave the darker ex-outlaw a hopeful look.

"You heard the man!" growled Heyes as he worked the gold key in the bridal suite's door.

Beth stepped through the door of bridal suite 3. Heyes stepped in behind her and slammed the door.

Beth looked at her annoyed husband and said, "Oh, Heyes! On our wedding night!"

Her groom sighed and put his arms around his bride. "I'll worry about it tomorrow, Elizabeth Heyes. Tonight, I got other things on my mind."

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The next morning Heyes made sure that he and Beth were dressed properly before they opened the door to anyone. The former leader of the Devil's Hole Gang rang for room service to get both couples a quiet breakfast. He watched carefully to see who came to the door. It was a real waiter whom he recognized from their reception, but the slender blonde young man looked nervous. "Here, boy," said Heyes to the waiter when he had deposited the breakfast trays on their desk, "Take this message to the front desk. We aren't happy with the security here. A reporter from the Brooklyn Eagle got up here last night dressed as a busboy. Mr. Santana will be distinctly displeased. After we and the Curries have eaten, we'll want to see a manager up here. And boy, what's your name?"

"Mortimer Whistler, Mr. Heyes." The waiter whispered. He was sweating.

Heyes held the waiter's gaze with his own for a long, tense moment. Then he said, "Listen, Mortimer, could you get this note delivered for me, and keep the address it's going to strictly private? If I'm sure no word got out, I'll make it well worth your while. If word gets out, you'll never work in hospitality or any other position of trust in this city again. You got my drift, boy?"

The young man nodded, swallowed hard, and carried the messages away as quietly as a mouse with all the squeak scared out of him.

When the breakfast dishes had been cleared away, both couples met in the Heyes' room. There was a soft knock on the door. "Who's there?" asked Heyes gruffly.

"Henry Laurence, manager of the Plaza."

Heyes opened the door a crack and looked the man up and down, while the Kid held his Colt on the man. He seemed authentic. The slender, mustachioed manager covered his nerves by looking fierce, with his mustache bristling. Heyes nodded crisply and let him in. The Kid returned his Colt to its holster on his hip.

Laurence immediately began to offer apologies and excuses, "Mr. and Mrs. Heyes, and Mr. and Mrs. Curry, we at the Plaza are mortified that a reporter bothered you on your wedding night! We will . . ."

Curry cut him off, "Forget it! Listen to my partner. And listen real good." He wasn't holding a gun any longer, but the manager darted a glance in the direction of the weapon.

"Yes, sir. We can arrange. . ."

Heyes' voice was calm but firm. "I'll decide about the arranging, if you don't mind, Mr. Laurence. If you can't manage anything I tell you, you let me know and we'll figure another way."

"Mr. Heyes, this is the Plaza. We know how to provide security for celebrities who stay here . . ."

"Well, you messed it up this time, didn't you? I'd rather try my way, Mr. Laurence. I've made a living keeping a whole damned gang and its take away from sheriffs, posses, and bounty hunters. You think the press is much different? Listen to me."

Laurence nodded and listened. A smile grew on his face as he nodded at the conclusion of what the former outlaw told him, with a few added touches from his equally imaginative partner. "I think we can manage that nicely, Mr. Heyes, Mr. Curry. And may I say, it's a pleasure doing business with you?"

Curry laughed. "I hope so, Laurence. If this don't work out, you might change your mind."

Later that morning, a dark-haired bus boy and a blonde waiter and a pair of maids whose uniforms didn't quite fit, especially over the growing middle of one maid, made their way down the back steps and out the back service entrance of the Plaza. They had suitcases in their hands. The four looked around a bit nervously as they walked down three blocks and caught a pair of cabs, one man and one woman to each, in different directions. Watchers from the upper floors of the Plaza looked on with satisfaction.

It wasn't long before an assortment of figures who had been eating push-cart food, reading newspapers, and otherwise loitering around near the Plaza just happened to stop what they were doing and hail cabs of their own to pursue the retreating "employees."

"There's one more, maybe we haven't fooled him – he's from the Herald-Trib – oh, there he goes." The manager put away his opera glasses. "Give it a few minutes, and I think you'll be in the clear, ladies and gentlemen. I really don't see any reason that you need to go individually."

"No carelessness, Mr. Laurence! Take nothing for granted. In our old business, we learned to watch every detail. You cut corners, and you wind up behind bars," said Heyes, brushing a microscopic bits of dust off of his suit.

"Or worse," said the Kid.

Laurence smiled. "Like on the front page of the Times," said Laurence with a satisfied glance at both former outlaws and their wives. He was enjoying this little adventure. "I wish I could share this story, but, of course, I won't."

"Discretion is the better part of valor, Mr. Laurence. It might also keep you from being fired," said Heyes with a slightly predatory smile.

"Or worse," said the Kid with a mild look at the hotel manager, who was looking a little pale.

Heyes turned to his wife, "Now, my dear Elizabeth, I think we might be safe to go out and catch cabs one at a time with a few minutes between each. That honeymoon your sister offered us far from here in an unexpected direction is sounding more attractive all the time. I – we'll see you at Charlie's place tonight, Jed and Cat. Good luck!"

The Kid nodded at his partner. In a few minutes a handsomely clad blonde man walked casually out the front door of the Plaza with a suitcase in his hand. Without looking around at all to check for watching reporters, he asked the bell captain to call him a cab. Soon, Kid Curry was headed in the direction of Charlie Homer's apartment. His wife set off in the same manner about five minutes later. Within twenty minutes, all four newlyweds had left the Plaza for the quarters they would inhabit until Heyes had taken care of business he wanted to start before they left for West Virginia.

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Thurmont Brown walked down 7th Avenue in a haze, thinking more about the novel he was reading than about the reality of New York City around him. The pudgy young man was avoiding thinking about work until he had to. When he had been in law school at Columbia University, just two years before, he had never thought how dull practicing law might really get to be sometimes. The case research was occasionally challenging and he dealt with some interesting people now and then, but for the brilliant young lawyer, most of his legal practice just wasn't exciting enough to hold his interest. It was too easy. He had had some hopes when his old mathematics professor, Charlie Homer, had told him that one of his students would be coming around for a consultation. Homer had said the man was pretty interesting, although he hadn't said in what way. But Brown supposed the new potential client would turn out to be just as dull as the rest of them.

Brown walked into his office and, with an effort, returned his attention to business. A dark-haired man with a scarred face and a new brown leather briefcase was perched uneasily on the edge of one of the chairs in the waiting room. "This is Mr. Heyes," said Brown's secretary. "The client Professor Homer told you about?"

"Oh yes," said Brown. "I'll see you in a moment, Mr. Heyes. Give me about five minutes before you show him in, Mr. Jewell."

Shortly, the young secretary showed Heyes into Brown's office. It was a small but smartly furnished space with gleaming wood furniture with brass fittings. Heyes noticed what appeared to be an authentic rack of buffalo horns on the wall next to the young lawyer's diploma. Heyes smiled as he recognized the Columbia University coat of arms on the sheepskin. He wondered where he would wind up hanging his own diplomas, if he ever got the chance. Today's business might help him in the direction he wanted to go.

Brown rose to shake his potential client's hand. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Heyes. Professor Homer said he had recommended me to you. I'm glad you took him up on it. What can I do for you?"

Heyes looked uncomfortable despite the padded leather seat of the chair Brown had for clients. The lawyer noticed that his potential client spoke in a soft baritone voice with a western accent not too dissimilar from Homer's. That seemed promising. "I've never had a middle name. I'd like to take one. I understand you are experienced with that kind of thing."

Brown looked down at his desk as he took notes on a yellow legal pad. "Yes." He glanced up at Heyes for only an instant before he looked back down at his notes. "Why do you want to take a middle name?"

"I don't like my first name. I hate it. I never use it. Friends just call me Heyes. But now that I've got my B.A. and M.A. and I'm looking for a professorship, I'd like something more dignified. I can't change my first name, but if I could add a middle name I think it might help job applications. It might also help my authority as a professor once I'm hired. If I am. And my new wife likes the name. I do, too."

"That sounds reasonable enough," said Brown without enthusiasm.

"Is it complicated? Or expensive?" Heyes asked, trying not to sound as anxious as he felt.

Brown kept looking down at his notes as he spoke in detached tones. "No. Not normally. Taking a middle name rather than changing an existing name is particularly simple."

"Oh? What's involved?" asked Heyes.

"It depends slightly on where you were born. If you weren't born in New York, and your accent tells me that you weren't, you'll need to provide proof of where and when you were born. You fill out some forms. You pay a fee to file in civil court. If the judge approves the name change, and it would be rare for such a thing to be refused if you aren't a convicted criminal or otherwise trying to avoid criminal prosecution, you get approval and have the new name printed in a newspaper so the public can see it. Pretty simple." It sounded as if Brown had said all of this many times.

"Um. Not so simple," Heyes gulped.

"Please explain," said Brown looking up briefly as he continued to take notes. The suggestion of complications didn't seem to bother him in the least.

There was a moment of silence. Brown prompted Heyes, "Where were you born?"

"Missouri. A rural area outside of . . . Hannibal." Heyes' aphasia flared up so that he had to struggle to say the name – his own name.

Brown wrote that down and went to the next in what was clearly a long-accustomed series of questions. "Do you have a birth certificate?"

"No."

"A family Bible with the record of your birth in it?"

"No. And don't keep asking for documentary proof. Everything was burned when my family was slaughtered in the Kansas Border Wars. Our farm, the local church, my school – everything." Heyes sounded increasingly uncomfortable.

The young lawyer seemed totally unflappable. He glanced up at his client for only a moment. "Not having proof of birth is very common and not too hard to work around. I can manage it. Do you have a relative who can swear to your place and date of birth?"

"No. They were all . . . killed. My whole family . . . murdered. Or all but my second cousin, and he's two years younger than I am." Heyes struggled slightly with aphasia again.

It helped some that the lawyer seemed totally unfazed. "That is regrettable, but there are ways of dealing with it. Do you anticipate other problems?"

"Yes."

"What, specifically?" Brown looked up and met Heyes' eyes for just a second.

"I am a convicted felon. Or I was. I was pardoned on the one count I was convicted on. And I have been granted amnesty for the counts that were not brought to trial. I was also prosecuted for a crime of which I was found innocent."

Heyes was surprised that Brown kept looking determinedly at his notes. It had to be obvious to the lawyer who his new client was, yet the name and the dramatic story seemed to mean nothing to him. When the lawyer did look up, he looked merely curious in a mild, professional way. Heyes imagined he could hear the cash register ringing in his new lawyer's head. Money must come before anything else for the man.

"What were those crimes, please?"

Heyes recited his shocking record calmly. "I was convicted of armed robbery and pardoned. I was granted amnesty on some 42 additional counts of armed robbery and other associated counts – breaking and entering, conspiracy to commit robbery, jailbreak, etc. I was found innocent of murder. Here. This will explain it." Heyes pulled his amnesty documents out of his new briefcase and put them on top of his new lawyer's legal pad.

Heyes tensed. Brown has remained incredibly cool so far, but this unmistakable revelation of exactly who his new client was would surely destroy that. Yet the young lawyer read through the formal documents with no show of recognition, much less surprise or fear.

"I see," Brown said at last, handing the papers back to Heyes without turning a hair. "You fear that your taking a new middle name might be interpreted as an attempt to hide your identity as a former felon or as being too close to an alias?"

"Yes. I would, of course, write to those four governors and to the senator who led the fight for our amnesty, before I took any other steps. But I wanted to consult you before I did that. There's no reason even to bother them if you think there's no hope for it. And, of course, when applying for any position or signing any contract, I would disclose my full name and my criminal record."

"Of course," said Brown. "What middle name would you like to take?"

"Joshua," said Heyes.

"Why Joshua?"

Heyes paused for an instant before he could speak. "It was my father's name. And it was the first name I used for my alias for the last seven and a half years while the . . . my partner, Jedediah Curry, and I were on the right side of the law and seeking amnesty. So I do worry that it might be seen as hiding behind an alias."

Brown's eyebrows went up skeptically, but he showed no other emotion. "Your fears may be justified, Mr. Heyes. Are you set on that name? Another would be easier."

"I know," said Heyes with a tinge of sadness, "I would prefer Joshua if possible. I answer to it as readily as to my own real name – really, more so. And it's the name I used when I was courting my wife. We just got married yesterday."

"I see. I would suggest that you go ahead and write to the governors and the senator, explaining to them as you did to me. Give them my name and address. If they have no serious objections, or you can address any objections, then you could go forward with legal action. There would be no guarantee, but I would guess that the approval of the men who granted your amnesty would weigh heavily with any judge. And equally, their disapproval could doom your application."

Heyes nodded. "Alright. I'll do that before my wife and I leave on your honeymoon."

Brown was still taking careful notes. "How long will you be gone, and where?"

"A week. In rural West Virginia. My wife's sister and her family live there. They run a hotel where we will be staying. I'll leave the address with you."

"Yes, please do that. I will be interested to see what response you get to the letters. I think that concludes our business for today, Mr. Heyes. Please speak to my secretary, Mr. Jewell, about your bill. Communicate with me as soon as you return to New York. And congratulations on your marriage." The two men shook hands.

Heyes talked to Beth about this meeting at her apartment, now their shared apartment, when he got back. "I worry about the guy. He's so young. He doesn't seem to understand who I really am. Or was. It was like he'd never heard of me."

"Is that so shocking?" Beth looked up from the letter she was writing to a friend who hadn't been able to come to their wedding.

"Yeah, it is. It's been years since I met a man or woman I could be sure hadn't heard of me. Seems like everybody in the country's heard of me. And heard bad things. You know. But this guy, I mean, what's wrong with him? He's not that young. He's American. If he's got good sense, why hasn't he heard of me? I'm going to him about my name and he doesn't get what the problem is with it. I didn't ask if he'd heard of me. I didn't want to sound proud of my dirty past. But it worries me." Heyes sounded more than worried. He sounded flustered.

"Heyes!" Beth laughed unkindly at her husband. "You're upset. You really are. You always say you want everyone to forget about you and the Kid, your past. You say you're ashamed of it. But now you meet someone who really has forgotten you, or who just doesn't get all excited about you, and you can't take it. He hurt your vanity! This young man met the great Hannibal Heyes and wasn't hero-worshipping him, and it really bothered you. And it still does."

"Oh, it does not! I just hope he understands the implications. If he doesn't know who I am and then he has to deal with people who do . . ."

Beth laughed at her husband. "Heyes, you silly man! He must have heard of you. You're right – everyone has. But he's no hero-worshipping boy. He's a professional. He's keeping this on a professional basis. And it bothers the heck out of you!"

"It does not!" Heyes snapped.

Beth grinned at him. "Oh yes, it does. Don't worry, honey. I think it's adorable."

Heyes glowered. "Adorable my foot! You think I'm vain."

"Oh, Heyes, darling. I'm no fool. I don't think you're vain. I know you're vain!" She kissed him to take the sting out of the remark. "You'd better learn to cope with people who don't kiss your feet. You're going into academia."