As the Great Matilda and the *former* Lead Inspector Malone attempted to discuss Martinism for the fifth time in two days, “Ivan” Malone turned in his ticket at the turnstile for the late-out-of-the-gate 2007 Major League Baseball All-Star Game. Tough security measures were in place, and the annual event was taking place in mid-July instead of earlier (as usual) ’cause of the intentional food poisoning which took place at concessions near the Founders Club of the Marlins’ Dolphins Stadium…leaving fourteen dead in May.

Nothing could have stopped “Ivan” from gaining entrance, but…Good Al Malone had been defrocked –relieved of his righteous official duties– because of being (”inexplicably,” read the report) out of touch with colleagues “at crucial crossroads.” His duly authorized doors were closed. Padlocked shut.

Instead of lighting two cigarettes in bed, doing his favorite imitation of Paul Henreid, Al took in The Great Bottom of The Great Matilda really well, and swelled over her like one of those full Half Moon breakers she had been talkin’ about.

Our Potential Hero had become temporarily *displaced*, courting his particular form of madness. Making no more of a fool of himself than Hamlet hesitating, or sterile farmer Quixote circling like a lunatic Hidalgo, Good Al finished with a flourish before returning to the dim lights of the living room…and a return to the Moon card discussion.

It wasn’t until the real lobster was on the table, however, that the Tarot’s decapod crustacean commanded the conversation’s spotlight: “See…it strives to attain manifestation, crawling from the abyss of water to the land,” instructed Matilda.

As The Great Matilda quietly served Our Great Oceanic Organic Tea to our Good Al Malone, she recounted fragments of her honeymoon for him. Initially. He quickly got her to change the topic, though, back to the business of tracking down…Those Responsible.

Not before, however, he had the thought: “You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake.”

Wild thoughts in the ‘midst of a manhunt for The Mastermind. Funny as the hell they were in, but he couldn’t help himself.

His mind was racing into *film noir*. The visual motifs that predominated in his favorite began to catch his attention in Matilda’s room: the low key lighting, the diagonals (of kitsch)…reality not being what it seemed, he was sure. *Mildred Pierce.*

For her honeymoon, she had experienced coastal cuisine in its truest and finest form at The Ritz-Carlton, Half Moon Bay’s signature restaurant, Mavio. Now the entire AAA Five Diamond resort, situated atop a dramatic ocean bluff, was gone. Its array of compelling wines from around the world lay all over the body of Pastry Chef Michel O’Malley and colleagues amidst the remnants of the old 1,000-square foot display kitchen and raw bar. Decadent desserts with innovative pairings and creative plating –along with the personnel– had become the victims of the only 7/7 suicide bombing. Memories of the warm and relaxed ambiance with panoramic ocean views creeped in as she watched the area’s two golf courses burning like a forest fire on the early evening news.

In her reverie, she instinctively reached for her cards.

The phone kept ringing and ringing, but The Great Matilda couldn’t make it in time. She was too transfixed by the news.

While Good Malone was burning rubber to get to Matilda’s before closing, health clubs around the nation were being informed that their clients were becoming sick –some dying– as a result of methylene chloride having been heated via their air ducts. In the form of Phone Calls Taking Responsibility…anonymously.

The colorless, volatile liquid with its sweet chloroform-like odor is quite pleasant. But…it becomes particularly toxic when heated, emitting the potentially deadly gas phosgene.

He never brought handkerchiefs along, this Malone. Didn’t own any, this simpler singular fellow, even though his glands were infinitely more active than those of Bad Malone.

Lead Inspector Malone’s specialty was electronic surveillance from early on; it included covert video and audio installations, body recorders and body transmitters used for consensual monitoring, court ordered bugs and wiretaps. He was a participant in many covert surveillance operations against foreign intelligence and terrorist organizations. In addition, he had participated in numerous operations against La Cosa Nostra crime families and other Criminal Organizations in the United States.

He went *on the take* just a few days before the U.S. Government secured his services, for the purposes of tracking down…the Moloch from Eire and/or his ireful colleagues. Terrorized by $$$.

“Nothing more to be done for now,” thought well-monogrammed Malone. Made the grade, the *madmen* had, Bad Big Time.

There was never anyone to contact for quiet moments. Now not a sound penetrated the placid, bare room, padded. He felt his glands’ gook, and perhaps something in his eye too. But he only saw the pad and pencil on his lap. His name in Gaelic. He thawed.

> “I’d love to say we’re going to see green in our lifetime. It’s kind of an aspirational state, but I can’t tell you in the foreseeable future we’re going to be below yellow.” That’s what Michael, Homeland Security Head, had said.

Mmm….

Mexico, Maine, not very far off from the longitudinal line of *Marlborough* (is how The Mastermind liked to spell it), went up –the little red brick building and its immediate area– at virtually the same time as the white house hugging the nearby rugged, but beautiful private island of Manticus, one of the last places in Mooseland where the old Down East lifestyle survived in anything like its pure form, unspoiled and unpretentious. The Wyman Dam, so crucial for the Kennebec, *went* at the same time as the residential village situated along U.S. 201 which housed most of Moscow’s citizens. 11:09am (EST) all, all on time. 07/07/07.