Visiting hours at the Claremont Home for The Aged were from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon, and every day from nine-thirty on Freddie Barton and Stan Bates waited in vain for someone -- anyone -- to come and visit. Bill knew, but hadn't told Freddie that Freddie's family was so glad to be rid of him and his wine bottle that they would never be visiting, and Stan's family had moved out of the state. So, every day he had to clench his teeth to keep from telling because the knowledge would surely remove all hope, and his friends wouldn't live another month.

On this particular day of disappointment, Bill was trying to think of something, anything that might replace the one thing that was keeping Freddie and Stan alive... Stan, Freddie and Bill were all in their late seventies and they all had quite a bit in common. Stan and Bill were both Commandos during WW2 and Freddie, a Canadian, had been in the Rangers.

Freddie has worked for a collection agency under contract to several Canadian banks. After thirty-four years of faithful service, Freddie while scuffling with a fourteen year-old boy, over a repossession, lost his grip on the lad, the boy fell through the window and down four floors onto the sidewalk. Freddie fell to the depths of Hell and into a wine bottle.

Stan, on the other hand, never worked a day in his life. After leaving the service, he joined other mercenaries and hired out to the highest bidders in Europe, Asia and South America. His retirement was brought on by several gunshot wounds and twenty years in a Brazilian prison. He was released and deported to the United States. Needless to say, with no social security number and no work history, employment was impossible, so he didn't try. He picked up pretty good money pan-handling. Met a lady and fathered three children. When the kids grew up, got jobs and families of their own, he moved in with them. When he got old and feeble, they gleefully dumped him at Claremont and left the state.

Bill Kelly left the service and went immediately into the Los Angeles Police Academy. Thirty years later he retired as Detective Sergeant at the 77th precinct. He couldn't stand retirement, so he opened the Kelly Detective Agency and operated the private detective agency until he started having his trance-like seizures. They weren't like epileptic seizures with convulsions, but rather like a deep coma. They would come on unexpectedly with no warning. If no one was around to wake him, he'd stay in a coma with his eyes wide open. He couldn't drive and he couldn't be alone, so he signed himself into Claremont. He had no living relatives, and all he really needed was someone to wake him up when he seized and someone to drive him around, but when he saw all the guys his own age at Claremont, he decided to move it and get acquainted.

Claremont wasn't the most cheerful place in the world. The only time most residents left was when they left in the Claremont Mortuary's hearse. Many joked about the last ride in that fancy black limousine. In the meantime they pushed their walkers around or sat in wheelchairs with tubes up their noses. The longer Bill sat watching, the stronger his desire grew to get the Hell out of there. He slammed the book he was holding closed and growled,

"Shit, I've been watching you guys go through this routine for two months now...when are you gonna get it through your thick skulls that there ain't nobody ever gonna walk through that door? There ain't one damn soul ever gonna visit you, so quit playing the stupid game, damn it!"

Freddie started to cry and Stan got angrily to his feet,

"Now, look what you went and done. What kinda damn friend are you, anyway? I sorta had it figured out, but I knew that family meant a lot to Freddie and expecting visitors was what was keeping him alive. Now what, mister big-shot detective?" Kelly answered back,

"I just couldn't sit and watch you guys disappointed day after day. Hell, we're not that old...let's get out of here for a while. Freddie can drive my car. It's parked in the parking lot out front. We can go to my old office. I've got some stuff I'd like to show you -- something that might be a helluva lot more fun than waiting for visitors that never come. What do you say?" Stan turned and punched Freddie on the shoulder,

"What do you say, Freddie, want to go for a spin? Christ, I can't even remember the last time I went to town. All they can do is chew us out for going A-wall." Freddie perked up, wiped his eyes and nodded his head. The three shuffled down the hall, slipped out the side door and worked their way to the parking lot without being noticed.

Old Bill Kelly handed Freddie the keys to his buick station-wagon saying,

"Freddie, if you take me up on my proposition, you'll be my personal chauffeur and be driving this rig from now on...." He didn't elaborate because when he told them his entire plan, he wanted the setting to be proper and the mood just right. Freddie was obviously curious, but old enough to know he wasn't going to learn any more until Bill was ready.

Freddie followed Bill's directions and nearly an hour later they pulled into the parking lot of the Pomona Mall. Bill led them straight to the security office and knocked on the frosted glass.

"All right, all right don't be breaking the damn glass!" came from inside, and when the door opened, "Bill Kelly, you old goat. I thought you signed yourself in at the old fogy farm. What the hell have you been doing lately, and where did you find these old fogies you brung with you?"

"Be nice, Ed! These are my friends, Stan and Freddie. We all live together at the fogy farm. I hope you kept my office intact like you promised. We're going to be using it quite a bit from now on. The only reason I closed shop was because of my seizures; now, I've got Freddie as my driver and Stan as my leg-man -- Shit, Ed, I'm back in business."

Ed Chuckled, "Nothing' screwier than a eighty year old Private Eye. No, you old goat, everything is just like you left it. I sorta had a feeling you'd be back to haunt me. I'm heading home, is there anything you need from me before I go?"

"No, Ed, but I would like my computer put back online and set me up an internet account as someone in the San Pedro area. I'll set up a relay router down there. You don't need to know where. We'll be in touch."

After Ed departed and Bill had them seated in his old office sipping on some iced tea, Stan couldn't wait any longer,

"What in Hell is going on? Without even asking us, you're introducing Freddie as your wheel-man and me as your leg-man in some sort of private investigation agency. Have you gone nuts? We're dying of old age at Claremont, and you tell us you've just hired us....To do what?" Bill gave him a wicked grin and started talking while he opened his little floor safe,

"Stan, Freddie, sit your asses down on that sofa there. I'm gonna make you an offer that will bring spice back into your lives, and even if you don't live very long, you'll enjoy every minute." He straightened up and dumped the contents of a large manila envelope onto his desk. "When I was on the force, I made a collection of every really rotten miscarriage of justice that happened in L.A. -- every time a child rapist and killer got off on a technicality or a murderer went free because of improper police procedure in the collection of evidence, they went into this file. A lot of them are dead now or doing life for another crime, but this batch here are out walking the streets, and they never did a days time for what they did."

"What I'm offering you, my friends is the unique opportunity to help me bring them to justice. What do you say, sounds like fun don't it?"

There was dead silence for a few seconds, then Stan said, "Billy, you're crazy as a bedbug! I can probably whip the both of you, but I'm so damn old and decrepit that I couldn't whip my own grand-daughter. How we gonna handle bringing anyone to justice?"

"Well Stan, as I recall you killed people for money across three continents -- didn't even care why you were killing em. Why not knock off a few rotten bastards in the name of justice before we go. Might just be the only honorable thing any of us ever did. And besides, if we get caught, the worst we kin get is life in prison...ain't that a joke?"

They thought about it for awhile, finally Freddie whispered,

"Billy, would I have to kill anybody?

"No, Freddie you just do the driving, okay?"

"Okay, I'm in."

"Better'n watchin' soap operas," was Stan's comment, "I figure you've had time to figure this whole scheme out, so what's our first move?"

"Our first move is to get the hell out of the Claremont. I'll tell them that because you've agreed to work for me as my driver and handyman, I'll give you room, board and a salary. They'll be glad to get rid of us 'cause they need the bed space and we're too healthy to suit them anyway."

He explained that the Kelly Detective Agency had, at one time, been responsible for Mall security and this entire suite of offices were under his control. He had sub-leased this area to Ed and turned over Mall security to him. He'd closed the Kelly Detective Agency and leased out two offices to an import-export business, but there was still enough space for a small apartment, if everyone took a bath once in a while.

Like three guilty school children, they returned to the Claremont and announced their intentions to move out of there and in with Bill Kelly. Kelly could sense their greedy thoughts, so after he supplied a forwarding address for Stan and Freddie, he said,

"You needn't bother notifying their families about their change of address, I'll get off a wire this afternoon so they won't worry and so they can stop sending the money here to Claremont. I'm sure Stan and Freddie can put that money to good use, after they get settled into their new home." The secretary doing the paperwork frowned slightly, then through stiff lips grated,

"Of course you know, there will be many closing costs and contract termination fees!"

"Of course, Honey," Bill handed her a card. "You just forward those costs to my accountant. He and my lawyer will go over them, and if they're all right, they'll fire you off a check right away. You have a good day now -- I'll see you in church, Sugar..." and the three old fogies, suddenly standing a little taller, shuffled out of the Claremont, forever.

They spent the rest of the afternoon arguing over who got which beds and nearly came to blows over the TV remote, but odd man out settled that quarrel and Freddie ended up owning the remote. So, like it or not, from eleven til noon it was "The Young and Restless." That evening, they were like puppies fresh off the leach...they ate pizza, popped some corn and drank way too much beer.

Next morning, feeling more like ninety than like puppies, they sat and listened as Bill began the first of many morning lectures:

"Guys, listen up," he held up a thick stack of photos, "we've got a big job ahead of us, and if we expect to kill all of these rotten bastards, we've got to be careful not to get caught or killed in the process. Anybody disagree?" Freddie and Stan quickly shook their heads, no...then immediately wished they hadn't as the pain rushed to their eyeballs. Billy continued,

"We've all lived long enough to know that most everyone is a creature of habit. If you watch them close enough, you'll see that they invariably do the same things at the same time every day. It might not be obvious, and it might be only one or two things, but they are there. If we watch them closely enough, we can find those things. We can do it because old fogies like us are practically invisible. No one sees us because nobody wants to look at us. Now for the punch line...when we find out those habits, that persons habits are going to kill him -- or, only someone knowing that person well enough to know his personal habits could have killed him certainly not some eighty year old stranger."

"How long have you been planning this?" Stan asked, "I've run across some diabolical schemes in my life, but never one as cold blooded as one like this. Aren't you even going to let them know why you're killing them?"

"Why should we? Personal contact puts the plan in jeopardy, I really don't think that justice requires the killer or rapist to know he is being punished during his last moment on earth. I think the only important thing that we will accomplish will be to let every other living murderer, molester or rapist know without any doubt that death is the inevitable punishment for the crime, no matter what the court decision might be."

"Sound good to me," croaked Freddie, "I really don't want to get to know them before you guys snuff them anyway."

Billy took a slide and stuck it on his viewer. Freddie dimmed the lights helping his hangover in the process, and both he and Stan sat on the couch facing a small screen.

"This Scumbag is a San Bernardino Bail-Bondsman. His name is Edward Phillips, and he lives in Lake Gregory Village in the San Bernardino mountains. He's a real asshole preying on the poor defenseless families who come to him when one of the family is in trouble. He's married, has three children and is a pillar in the community. Down the hill in San Bernardino, he has a small army of pimps, pushers and violent criminals who do his bidding as long as he keeps them out of the slammer."

"The reason he needs to die is that he completely destroys the families who come to him for help -- especially if they have attractive children or viable property. He post bail for the family member -- of course, they have to use their property as collateral. His goon-squad runs the family member out of town or into a grave in the high-desert. When the bond goes into forfeiture, this bastard will delay foreclosure for a little fun time with one of the children. He keeps them enslaved with death threats and threats of foreclosure. Two people have gone to the police, and they both disappeared shortly after that. He was getting away with it when I was a cop and still is."

"Just to get your feet wet, I've already done the study on this one, so we can start almost immediately to put him out of business. We'll check him out in the morning, but I'd be willing to bet that coming down the hill, when he gets to Panorama Point, he'll take that turn as fast as he can hold the car on the road. He get a real kick out of scaring hell out of slower drivers by passing them on the right at about forty miles an hour. The turn is so sharp it's marked at fifteen miles per hour, but if you do it just right you can do fifty."

Billy took them outside, lifted the hood on the Buick and pointed to two tanks strapped to the firewall. He walked to the back groaned as he knelt down and pointed. When they finally got scrunched down low enough to see, they were able to see the spray nozzles mounted under the rear bumper each pointed outward toward the side of the road.

"Got a couple of heavy duty electric fuel pumps feeding these nozzles from those tanks on the firewall," Billy explained, "Tanks are full of diesel oil...that stuf'll make an asphalt road as slippery as snot on a doorknob. You guys beginning to get the picture?"

"For the next week, or as long as it takes, we'll be just going into that turn when old Eddie Phillips goes flying by on the right side. When we're sure there's nobody right behind him, I'll hit the pump switch. He'll hit that oil slick, crash through the guard rail and be pumping his brakes for the next fifteen hundred feet straight down. We'll stop, throw some sand on that oil and take off down the hill to report the accident to the first cop we see, or phone it in from the pay phone at fortieth street."

Freddie asked, "How do you know he'll get killed in the accident?"

"Yeah," Chimed in Stan, "a lotta people have been known to survive in accidents like that."

"Well, we'll just get to kill him again when he gets out of the hospital," Billy answered with a wide grin, "if we do it often enough, he's bound to get the message."

The first day they couldn't try because there were several cars close behind -- in fact, a kid in a Toyota truck was racing with Phillips through the turns and had to hit his brakes to avoid running into the three old duffers in the old station-wagon. The next day was perfect for their scheme. Phillips left early to beat the downhill traffic...he had an early court appointment.

When he saw the back end of the old station-wagon blocking the passing lane and moving cautiously along at about twenty miles per hour, he cursed and swung to pass on the right. He twisted the steering wheel back to the left as he entered the turn and felt the front end start to slide. He panicked and stabbed the brakes. The car turned sideways and slid even faster. It hit the guard rail sideways and flipped spinning out into space. Freddie's fears about Phillips living through the accident were soon put to rest because when the car landed fifteen hundred feet below, it exploded into a fireball that could be seen for miles. They sanded the oil slick, but there was no need to report the accident. It was speaking for itself.

As they drove slowly home, Freddie chattered constantly. Bill let him get it out of his system because this was the first, last and only time he was going to be able to talk about it, and Freddie obviously needed to either talk or cry. Stan was uncharacteristically quiet. He waited until they were back home sitting at the small kitchen table before he spoke,

"Billy," he said, "I don't think I can do this...you said yourself that I had killed people for money across three continents -- didn't even care why I was killing em. Well, you was right, but you missed the damned point, old buddy. The point was that it was just a job like pulling handles on a road grader. If anybody killed those people, it was those Bastards paying me all that money to do my job. I ain't never been bothered by it and don't have no bad dreams. This is different, and I'm afraid those nameless, faceless folks are gonna start botherin me if I start liking what we did today. And Billy -- I, I really got a big kick out of it!"

"Shit Stan, if that's what's bothering you, don't give it another thought. You're hired as of yesterday. You'll get five hundred a week, room and board, and you'll do any god-damned thing I tell you to! You got any problem with those conditions being put in writing? No? We'll I didn't think so. Now shut up and listen." Stan grinned and mumbled,

"Thanks, Billy, but I don't need that much money."

"Don't worry about it, the next son-of-a-bitch we're gonna kill has stolen so much money from his victims that I'm going to steal his money before we kill him. That's what the computer set up is for." They filled their glasses with iced tea and sat back as Billy dimmed the lights for another slide show.

"This my friends is Malcom Gilbert...he's been married four times now. Each time he marries the bride's parents have died within the first year after the wedding, and in each case, have left sizable fortunes to the surviving daughter. Each bride has perished in an accidental fire while Malcom was out of the state. On one occasion, he was in Hawaii. There was never any suggestion of foul play in any of the deaths. I had an arson team go through the place sifting ashes, but found nothing. Malcom is clever, and now Malcom is filthy rich."

"Then how do you know, he killed them? maybe it was just one of those long strings of coincidence -- like a jinx or something." Freddie asked.

"Because on his last attempt, he missed. That's when I really got involved. Malcom was in Barcelona, Spain at the Bull Fights and his latest bride, Shelly was home alone at their beach house in Malibu. Shelly fell asleep reading in bed...she had taken a mild seditive and was sleeping soundly. Someone filled her tub with water, even added her favorite bath fragrance. They put Shelly into the warm water, plugged in her hair dryer and put it on the foot-edge of the tub, put her heel on top of the cord, so any motion would bring down the dryer and left."

"When Shelly awoke, she was terrified. She was alive only because that wall outlet wasn't working. She had called an electrician, but he hadn't shown up to fix it yet. She called the police and I went out to get her story. I knew I'd found a chink in his armor, but I didn't dare use her as bait, so I told her the whole story of the lives and loves of Malcom Gilbert. I asked her to keep quiet about the whole incident -- just stay inside the house, call her attorney if she chose to, and make whatever plans she had in mind. All I wanted was a good look at Malcom's face when he walked in expecting to find her dead in the bathtub, but finding her happily watching TV. If he made a move, I'd protect her."

"I'll bet the son-of-a-bitch 'bout shit his pants when he walked through that door," Stan chortled grinning, "I sure wish I coulda been there."

"It was something like that," Billy answered, "His face went pale then dark with rage until he saw me standing over by the window. He jerked up short and growled at me, wanting to know who the hell I was. I showed him my I.D, and told him someone had tried to kill his wife while he was gone. I wanted him to come down to the station and give me a statement about where he had been and who hated him enough to try to kill his wife. He bitched, but went with me anyway."

"Did ya get anything out of him?"

"No Freddie, I grilled him for over three hours, he kept asking me why I wasn't asking Shelly if maybe she had some enemies somewhere in her past. I told him that just didn't compute, Shelly didn't have three ex-wives who had died under mysterious circumstances -- who had parents who had died under mysterious circumstances, whose current wife had just narrowly escaped being murdered. That's when he called his lawyer and wouldn't speak another word."

"Did he ever kill her?"

"Nope, I guess I scared him off. She filed for a divorce, he didn't contest, She's free, but unfortunately, so's he!"

"How we gonna kill him, Billy?"

"Obviously, the one thing that's kept him from getting caught all these years is a partner in crime who he really trusts. Most of these killings had to have been done by the silent partner -- the one who put Shelly into the bathtub. Malcom knew which bath fragrance to use and that Shelly used a hairdryer in the bathtub. Malcom was in Spain."

"I checked Malcom's financial records. He has several in his name only; however one account requires two signatures for any transactions. A Malcom Gilbert and a Charles Jackson are both required signatures. They were twin boys born to an unwed mother in 1948 both boys were put up for adoption at the age of eighteen months. One went to the Gilbert family in Bakersfield the other to the Jacksons in San Diego. How they ever got together is any body's guess."

"Charles has a forty-foot Owens, fishing boat tied up in a slip in San Diego. Malcom spends a lot of time fishing with Charles out by the Coronado Islands. Stan, I want you to rig up a couple of explosive devices that will be waterproof and triggered by a timer. That damn hull is fiberglass, so you'll have to find some way to attach them while nobody is around. When you guys are ready, take walky-talkies along, so Freddie can be your lookout. When they've cleared the harbor, call me and I'll empty their bank account into several accounts from here to China and back. By the time that boat goes into orbit, we'll have enough operating capital to last a lifetime -- especially for old fogies like us.

"Shake a leg now, if ya can -- I've got forty-six more photos and old father time is right back there nippin at our heels!

[END]