Nathaniel's Chorus. Gary Lightfoot

says as he stands up, “now y’all get the hell off my desk.”

      Aaronson and Bernard quickly jump off the desk and stumble into Cliff. Senator Bernard catches himself and pulls away from Cliff. Senator Aaronson lingers in Cliff’s arms until Cliff becomes uncomfortable and stands her back up on her feet. Cliff then takes one step backwards, comes to attention and then asks for further directions.

      “Senator Branch sir, will there be anything else?”

      “No son, I appreciate your history lesson tonight. You seem to know a lot about these, Challenge Coins, do you happen to have one?”

      “Yes sir.”

      “Show it to me.”

      “No sir.”

      Senator Branch glares back at Cliff,

      “Son, do you know who you’re speaking to?”

      “Sir it’s not that I’m refusing to show it to you, it’s that I’m not carrying it with me today.”

      Senator Aaronson raises her hand, “then you owe him a drink!”

      “No ma’am I don’t. The Senator does not have a coin either.”

      The Right Reverend Jeremiah Branch leans against his desk as if it was a pulpit. He then glances around the room as if a ghost was chasing him. He then begins looking through the file laid open on his desk. “I don’t see any mention of Nathaniel Foot ever being in the service.”

      Senator Bernard snaps his fingers and exclaims, “That’s right!” he then joins in Branch’s search through the files on his desk.

      Senator Aaronson composes herself and attempts to join in, “Guys, what are you doing?”

      “Miss Aaronson ma’am,” Senator Bernard says as he continues to read through a file he had lifted up from Senator Branch’s desk, “this MAN just told us that ONLY military folk CARRY a challenge coin around. If Nathaniel Foot HAS a coin, HOW did he get it?”

      Jeremiah stops his frantic search and looks up at Cindy and gently says, “That’s right honey, if Nathaniel was in the military and we can’t find any record of it, then he must be hiding something. If he is hiding something, I can use that against him.”

      Cindy Aaronson, shocked by the glimmer of tenderness just displayed by Jeremiah Branch, is caught off guard. She brings her hand up to her breast and looks away from the group. As she turns to walk back to her chair, she notices a bruise in the imprint of Branch’s hand beginning to show on her shoulder. She reaches for her suit jacket, puts it on, and rejoins the group in their search through Nathaniel Foot’s files.

      Φ Π Ψ

      As midnight approaches in Mexico, Neil Foot is coasting into the lights of Hermosillo. Stopping only for gas, he has been driving for 12 hours. He looks down at Shelly’s fuel gauge, it reads ½ tank, but sensing that he picked up some bad gas earlier, Neil has decided to stop in Hermosillo, a more touristy type of town, one where he should be able to find a higher, truer octane rated fuel. The Shelby Cobra’s 427 cubic inch engine’s exhaust note begins to echo off the buildings,

      “Whop-a-da, Whop-a-da, Whop-a-da!”

      Idling past “Dos Amigos”, a tourist hot-spot, Shelly sets off a few car alarms when her purring, “Whop-a-da, Whop-a-da, Whop-a-da!” changes to a “Whop-a-da, Whop-a-da, Whop-a-da, Ding, POW!”

      Neil laughs out loud and then comforts Shelly, “I’m sorry Shelly, I shouldn’t laugh at your backfires; you don’t laugh at my farts. Don’t worry, we’ll fix your indigestion with some octane boost when we fill up.”

      Neil and Shelly begin to roll into a newer “PEMEX”, the nationalized gas station in Mexico. Before turning completely off the road, Neil comes to a complete stop and studies his mirror. Since sunset Neil has been followed by the same set of headlights, ever careful to stay just out of reach of them, but not too far ahead that he didn’t know where they were nor close enough for Neil to positively identify the car. He was sure that it was a late sixties American car due to the headlight configuration; a pair of lights on each side being stacked one on top of the other, but the make or model were a mystery. His mirror remaining empty for what should’ve been enough time for the trailing car to catch up, Neil drives into the station and parks next to the pumps.

      An elderly, medium framed man wearing a “Diamond Backs” baseball cap and a Ford Racing t-shirt, stands up from his lawn chair and approaches Neil, “Buenas noches amigo.”

      Neil acknowledges the greeting but continues to look over his shoulder, “Buenas noches.”

      Walking toward Neil, the gas station attendant begins speaking in English, “Nice car, she real or a kit?”

      Unsure of the gas station attendant’s intentions Neil hesitates to answer. The man could be interested in stealing the car if Neil admits to the authenticity of the Shelby Cobra. Neil thinks to himself, “Good-looking American man found dead in Hermosillo, his rare sports car missing and presumed to being driven by a Mexican drug lord.”

      Neil studies the man as he walks to greet the attendant, as Neil shakes the attendant’s hand, he holds the man’s hand firm while taking another step forward and into the man causing the attendant to stumble backwards. As Neil catches the man he discreetly searches him for a weapon.

      The old man apologizes for his awkwardness, “I’m sorry amigo. My knees aren’t use to the nights down here.”

      Neil helps the man steady himself, “Where are you from?”

      “Phoenix Arizona.” The man proudly proclaims.

      “What brings you down here?” Neil hears himself ask and grins at himself at the irony of it, an American living in Mexico asking a Mexican who was living in America why he was now living in his own country.

      The oddity of the question also grabs the attendant as funny and they both begin to laugh.

      “Say, do you want a cup of coffee?” the attendant says as he motions toward the station’s office.

      “Thanks, that would be great. Would you also have some kind of octane boost?”

      “Yes sir, we have several kinds.”

      As the two new friends are about to enter the office, Neil hears the sound of a highly tuned big block American V8. He turns and watches as the same headlights that had been following him since sunset, slowly glide past the station.

      “Pontiac Catalina, nuts the windows are tinted, can’t see the driver.”

      The attendant, who also heard the exhaust, turns to confirm Neil’s assessment,

      “Yes sir, 1967 Catalina, but that’s not a stock motor in her. I had a Bonneville similar to that one but mine was mint green, she was a beauty. That one’s color looks to be what we called, Fawn.”

      “You seem to know a lot about cars.” Neil says while watching the Catalina pass out of sight.

      “Yes sir, I use to be one of the detail men for a collector in Scottsdale.”

      “Really? I bet you’ve seen a lot of nice cars.”

      “Yes sir, I knew your car was an original right off.”

      Neil laughs, “How could you tell?

      “It’s easy, there’s just something about the real thing. You just feel it.”

      Neil puts his hand on the old man’s shoulder, “Ok, now how about that coffee and an octane boost for my friend?”

      Neil fills Shelly up with Premium and adds the octane boost to her tank. He then thanks the attendant for his friendship and begins to pull away from the pumps. Before turning out of the parking lot and onto the main road, Neil hesitates and scans the street looking for the ’67 Fawn Catalina with tinted windows. With the street empty in both directions, Neil pulls out of the station leaving