What Holds the Future? by Bill Tope

What Holds the Future? by Bill Tope

i
Sweeney sat in the examination room, clad in a hospital smock that was open in the back, and staring bleakly at the pale green walls and the shiny white tiles. A tech walked to and fro, checking this and that and killing time. They were awaiting Dr. Ahmed, the neurologist, who was to conduct the electromyography (EMG) test, in conjunction with a nerve conduction study (NCS). Sweeney had been experiencing a rapid decrease in muscle strength for the past several months and had become rather alarmed. Very nervous now, he breathed shallowly through his nose.

Finally, Ahmed entered the room in a rush and nodded at the tech, who began applying what she called “electrodes” to various parts of Sweeney’s arms and legs. After a few minutes, she smiled at him and said the NCS part of the test was over. Next, she inserted tiny needles into various muscles of his legs, and asked him to assume a rather awkward position on the examination table. The needles pinched a little. After a while, she returned to his side and said that the EMG portion of the test was complete as well, and in a few minutes his vascular surgeon would be joining him. As was usual these days, all Sweeney’s doctors, MDs and specialists alike, operated out of the same venue and dealt with him on the same day. Supposedly it saved money for a declining industry.

Within minutes, Dr. Scoggins came in and for the next forty-five minutes conducted what he called a doppler ultrasound. He had explained prior to the test that he was checking for venous insufficiency, which had resulted previously in Sweeney losing two toes to amputation. Scoggins was exploring the possibility of inserting a stint in his patient’s foot. Using a sensor, he ran it up and down Sweeney’s legs, which resulted in a slurping sound that sounded like a garbage disposal eating through waste. Scoggins said he would apprise Ahmed, who headed up the team of doctors and acted as their spokesperson, of the results of the test. He thanked the patient and departed. Again, there was zero waste of motion. Everyone seemed to be on a time clock.

“I leave you get dressed,” said Dr. Ahmed, poking his head back into the room. “See you back one week,” and he backed out of the examination room. Sweeney quickly slipped his clothes back on, grabbed his cane and took his leave. He no longer drove, owing to the unstoppable progression of his Parkinson’s, so he had to wait  90 minutes for the return trip to his home, by way of the transit bus apportioned by the county for the aged and the disabled. Time was, he remembered, when the bus would deliver him to his destination, wait for him and then redeposit him back home, charging their passenger only a token fare of a couple of dollars. Now, the fare was reflective of the actual cost of the cross-town trip, largely unsupported by government contributions. It was as much as ten times what it once was.

“What’d they tell you, Sweeney?” asked Sally, his wife of 20 years, joining him in the kitchen, where Sweeney was doing damage to a cake that Sally had just iced.

“I’ll know in a week,” he replied. He looked at his wife. ‘What’s the news with the union?” he asked.

Sally worked for McDonalds, whose employees were presently involved in bitter negotiations with management over attaining union representation. The talks had stalled over a recent Supreme Court case about whether union representation in the restaurant industry was even constitutional.

“Hell, we’re not gonna get a union,” she said, scowling. “The district manager threatened to shut down any shop which approved the union. And even if he doesn’t, the chance of our getting an insurance plan rests somewhere between slim and none.”

“When’s the vote?” asked Sweeney.

“This Friday,” replied Sally. “They’re keeping the location of the union meeting under surveillance by some anti-union goons. Any non-hourly worker caught in attendance stands to be fired.”

Sweeney shook his head in defeat. Although he had not worked for nearly ten years, owing to the progression of his multiple disabilities, he could remember better days, when the federal minimum wage was for a short time more than twice the $7.25 figure it rested at today. There hadn’t been state minimums at variance with the federal standard for at least six years, since the advent of yet another detestable SCOTUS decision.

“Those bastard fat cats are making money hand over fist,” griped Sweeney.

“People don’t care, so long as their Big Macs cost just a dollar,” said Sally. “I have to work tonight,” she told her husband.

“You just ended your shift,” protested Sweeney. “Well, it’ll be some overtime at least,” he said, thinking it over.

“Get with the program, Sweeney,” said Sally, a little peevishly. “The president issued an executive order which ended time and a half pay for ‘low-status’ employees who worked less than 60 hours per week. Remember?”

Sweeney nodded. “Uh huh. I’m going over to Joe’s,”  he said, referencing his best friend since high school.

ii
Luckily for Sweeney, Joe Lambert lived just on the next block, else he never would have made it. Limping up the fieldstone walkway to the huge home, he rang the bell. He could hear a resonant chime echo through the house. In a moment, Joe appeared.

“Hey, Sweeney,” he said, toking on a reefer. “C’mon in, man.” Sweeney followed him into an elaborate living room, replete with expensive leather furniture and a nine-foot TV. “You wanna get high, man?” Joe asked.

“I’m good,” said Sweeney.

“Drink?” Joe was the most hospitable person that Sweeney knew. They were like brothers. Sweeney had gotten Joe his first job, at an auto assembly plant where Sweeney had worked up until his early retirement. He accepted a beer.

“Are you here for the reason I think you are?” inquired Joe. The other man nodded. “Goddamn, man, you know I’d get Sally a job if I could, but right now there just ain’t no way.”

Joe was a postal worker with the USPS, which explained his opulence. Letter carriers earned more than $100 per hour and jobs with the post office had become the most sought-after slots in the nation. Retirement with 80% salary after just 20 years accounted for its popularity. It also served to keep the work force young and physically capable. Joe, who was Sweeney’s age, had gone into management several years before. Sweeney, unable to work, had tried, through his only contact with the agency, to get Sally a job there. It was one of the few jobs —  almost all governmental — which offered a generous medical plan as well as a premium wage. On the down-side, first-class postage was now $7. The Spoils System was alive and well in Washington D.C., thought Sweeney, where the ins took care of their own. He kept his thoughts to himself.

“What about in the near future?” asked Sweeney hopefully.

“Not the near future,” replied Joe, shaking his head.

“Who do I have to blow to get Sally a job?” asked Joe bitterly.

“You know they put a priority on “connectedness,” said Joe, referencing the industry’s jargon for preference given current and past workers’ relatives in the selection of new employees. This explained Joe’s family having attained more than a dozen positions in the past five years.

“You can tell them Sally’s your cousin,” suggested Sweeney, only half in jest. He drank some beer.

“They do a complete DNA screening and would know,” Joe told him regretfully. “I’m sorry, man. You know I love you and Sally.”

Sweeney came to his feet and smiled at his best friend. “I know. Thanks, Joe, I’ll be seeing you.”

iii
Sweeney walked into his kitchen through the back door, only to find Andrus, his only son, standing before the refrigerator with the door wide open. The yellow light showed Andrus’s acne in sharp relief.

“Trying to cool the house?” asked Sweeney pointedly. He had to be mindful of every penny. And utilities were not cheap.

“Sorry, Dad,” said Andrus, closing the door.

Sweeney stared at his son’s left hand, with the two missing fingers. Andrus worked at the Pernel beef processing plant and had several accidents with the razor sharp knives and electrical slicers. At four, he had showed promise at the piano but now, at 14, that ship had sailed.

“How’s work, son?” asked Sweeney.

Andrus unconsciously massaged the missing joints in his hand and replied, “They’re hiring younger kids now. Nine and ten. They’re fast, but they’re careless. One of them almost cut my hand off last night.”

Sweeney nodded. He’d love to tell his son to quit work and just attend high school full-time, but they both knew they couldn’t be that extravagant.

“I might have a new job, Dad,” said Andrus brightly.

“Yeah, where?”

“Stoner’s Market,” replied Andrus.

“You mean the dispensary?” asked Sweeney, referencing a new warehouse-sized pot emporium on the other side of town. It was just opening and was set to hire some 200 new employees. Marijuana was the crop of the future.

“Yeah. Is that okay? I mean, you and Mom like the occasional steaks I bring home from Pernel…”

“Sounds a lot safer, son. I say, go for it.”

“Thanks, Dad. Can I take the moped and go apply now? They’re only taking applications today and tomorrow.” Sweeney smiled and nodded.

iv
That night, at supper — ribeye steaks, courtesy of Andrus — the family sat around the dinner table and genuinely enjoyed one another’s company.

“Mom, Dad,” said Andrus. “I got the job at Stoner’s!”

“Congratulations, baby,” said Sally. “I’m so glad you won’t be handling knives or saws anymore.”

“What will you be doing?” asked Sweeney.

“Don’t know yet,” replied Andrus, taking a bite of steak. “We all go in for orientation next Monday. They said I might be able to keep going to school part-time, on days when I don’t work.”

“I’m proud of you son,” said Sweeney.

“I have news about a possible new job too,” said Sally excitedly. The others looked expectantly at her. “Sportspad,” she said, indicating the state’s most profitable industry. In the last quarter of 2035, Sportspad had grossed $40 billion. Nationwide, gambling had eclipsed food as the number one expenditure, with gross receipts in excess of $4 trillion.

“I applied this morning, during my shift break, and I’ll hear something in a couple days. Isn’t this exciting? Andrus and I both may have new careers.”

Sweeney smiled weakly. “I wish I could take a job too,” he murmured.

“Baby,” said Sally, “you are this family’s rock. Don’t ever think that you don’t contribute!” Round the table, the family exchanged warm smiles.

Alone now in the living room, Sweeney sat before the muted television, watching the frenzied action of Mutant Jeopardy Anachronism, where game show contests struck each other with medieval weapons and answered questions displayed in runes. Sweeney meditated on his life, his family. Despite his health issues, he was content. He couldn’t ask for a nobler son or a more faithful wife. Although prostitution was long legal, he never entertained the notion of engaging a “Stormy,” as they were commonly known.

Two days later, it was Joe who paid a visit to Sweeney’s humble abode. “Sweeney,” he said without preamble, “do you think that Sally could get me a job with Sportspad?”

Sweeney regarded him quizzically. “What do you mean? You have the best job in the universe.”

“No more,” complained Joe, shoving his fists into the pockets of his jacket. “I was canned.”

“What happened?”

“There’s that Covid-29 still running around, and I wore a mask — against postal regulations. The government declared that Covid — the Kung Flu — doesn’t exist and expressly forbids wearing masks. They fired me for cause; said I was disloyal.”

“I’m sorry Joe. Can’t you file a grievance for wrongful termination?”

Joe shook his head. “Not since we abolished the union two years ago as a condition for a $15 an hour raise. We screwed ourselves,” he said contritely.

Sweeney blew out a breath. “I’ll talk to Sally, but you know she just started a couple days ago. Also, there’s your history with the USPS,” he noted.

“Yeah, I know how most employers feel about the post office. They hate us. Forget about it, Sweeney,” He waved his hand. “I wouldn’t want to be a black mark on Sally. She might even get fired, if it gets out she knows me. I gotta go,” Joe said, and quickly quitted the modest domicile, embarrassed for having imposed on his friend.

Sweeney thought long and hard about his friend’s misfortune, but in the end, decided that Joe was right: acknowledging their acquaintance with an ex-postal worker, let alone trying to get him a job, would only result in Sally being blackballed or worse.

That afternoon, when everyone had returned from work, Sally had great news. She was ready to burst.

“What is it, Sal?” asked her husband.

“Health insurance — maybe!”

“Sportspad is going to give the workers health insurance?” asked Sweeney, hardly believing his ears.

“Not exactly,” corrected Sally. “They’re holding a raffle, with 20 winners receiving health insurance. The entrance fee is $200 per chance. Do you think I should do it, Sweeney?” she asked.

“What are the odds?” he asked.

“Well, there are just over 9,000 employees, so…”

“Do it, Mom,” urged their son.

Sally looked at Sweeney. He nodded.

v
Sweeney sat alone in the neurologist’s examination room, awaiting the results of his EMG exam, his nerve study and the doppler test, which he had taken the week before. Though the office was cool, perspiration stained his armpits and he felt a cold bead of sweat trickle down his back.

Sweeney had suffered from diabetes for more than thirty years and the doctor had pointed to that as a possible explanation for his sudden muscle weakness, dizziness and his inability to walk without incident. Of course, he said, it could be ALS or some other disorder. This test, he decided, would tell the tale of the tape.

The longer the physician tarried, the more disconsolate Sweeney became: what if his poor diabetic care over the years had come back to bite him, left him in an untenable position? The symptoms over the past several months, after all, had only gotten worse. The neurologist had suggested that the progressive wasting of Sweeney’s 50-year-old body due to the15 years he’d suffered from Parkinson’s Disease had played a hand as well. Most people, Sweeney knew, didn’t get the disease until their 60s. At first, he’d asked himself, why me? But, he concluded, why not me?

At long last, Dr. Ahmed shuffled into the room, took a seat on a green leather stool that was equipped with wheels. Sweeney regarded him dubiously. Doctors just weren’t what they once were, he thought. Ahmed looked up. Without preamble, he began. “I have good news and bad news. Which you want to hear first?” he asked, a little whimsically.

“The good news,” Sweeney said without hesitation. He had always been one to eat his dessert before his dinner.

Ahmed nodded. “You no have ALS.”

Sweeney released a sigh. Thank God, he thought, he didn’t have Lou Gehrig’s Disease, for which there was no cure, and which was 100% fatal. The doctor went on, “And you no have myasthenia gravis or muscular dystrophy.” He smiled a little, as if holding back a punchline.

“So what do I have?” Sweeney asked.

The smile fled. “You have massive nerve damage owing to your diabetes,” he announced. Sweeney blinked.

When Sweeney asked for more detailed information, Dr. Ahmed began speaking blithely of microvolts and voltage amplitudes and peripheral neuropathy and proximal nerve damage and the like and Sweeney found this incomprehensible. He shook his head and asked simply, “How can it be treated?”

“It can’t be treated,” Ahmed said shortly. “It too late for that.” And he folded his hands and gazed dispassionately at the other man; other patients were awaiting his expert attention. Ahmed’s attitude seemed to be that, owing to Sweeney’s poor diabetic care, he’d brought this tragedy on himself and the doctor had no sympathy for him.

“Then there’s nothing I can do?” Sweeney asked, just to be certain he understood.

“Buy a walker,” the doctor suggested. Sweeney’s mouth fell open. “Or better yet,” Ahmed went on, “make it a wheelchair.” Sweeney froze.

Seeing that Sweeney’s fifteen minutes (mostly spent waiting for Ahmed to appear) had elapsed, the doctor rose to his feet, the stool sliding back and gently bumping against the exam table.

“See you in three months,” he said indifferently, heading for the door. “Don’t stay in office too long,” he cautioned.

“What,” Sweeney asked peevishly, “did you miss class the day in medical school when they taught bedside manner?”

Ahmed stiffly drew himself up to his full height of five and a half feet and said, “Mr. Sweeney, perhaps you find new doctor for your future needs. You’ll be needing ongoing prescriptions and I no feel we can help you anymore.”

“What?” his patient cried, aghast. “How can you abandon me like this? How am I supposed to find another doctor?” he wanted to know. He had been seeing this neurologist for the past fifteen years, since long before the vast changes in the healthcare industry transpired.

“This medical organization take collections very seriously, Mr. Sweeney,” said Ahmed out of the blue. “And you owe already more money than your prospective life expectancy will permit you to pay. You send only $100 per month for past fourteen months,” he pointed out.

Sweeney stared at him. Had the doc pulled that nugget of information out of his ass? he wondered.

“Maybe you like signing over you assets in lieu of final payment. Tell me,” he said, showing a spark of interest for the first time during the office visit, “what the appraised value of your estate?” Unknown to Sweeney, Ahmed had a real estate business on the side.

“What, are you filling in as bookkeeper to earn a few extra bucks?” Sweeney asked, needling him. Ahmed billed him $170 per visit which, lasting just fifteen minutes, put his compensation at nearly $700 per hour.

“Pay your bill,” the physician replied bluntly, as if reading from a sampler. “Otherwise, I no longer treat you.”

Sweeney’s mind spun. Since the revocation of Medicare more than five years before, millions had languished from lack of medical service. And without the ready government checks, the medical profession had suffered as well. Some had becomoe more hard boiled.

Ahmed added, “Medicaid we not take, or what’s left of it.” Sweeney knew he would never qualify for Medicaid anyway, as — for now — he owned his own home, although he was months behind on his property taxes. Plus, he still received nearly $400 per month in Social Security. Five years before, he had gleaned more than $2,400 per month in federal stipends. And his retirement pension, from employment in the auto industry, had, at about the same time, been voided by an infamous Supreme Court Decision. Robbins v. Tesla had robbed former autoworkers of billions of dollars each year that they had coming from voided pensions.

“Answer me this, doc,” implored Sweeney. “How long before I die?”

Ahmed paused and said thoughtfully, in his broken English, “Who knows what holds the future?” And he disappeared into the corridor.

vi
“What did the doc say, Sweeney?” asked Sally as she stepped out the kitchen door onto their patio, to find her husband waiting there.

Sweeney, having snagged a beer from the fridge, flashed a skeletal rictus of a grin and said, “About what we expected, Sal.” He took a pull from the bottle.

“Did they adjust your insulin or anything?” she asked.

Sweeney shook his head. “The issue never came up.”

“It didn’t?” she asked, surprised.

“I never saw the endocrinologist,” he explained, and retailed for Sally what had unfolded between Sweeney’s neurologist and himself.

“But what’ll we do? You’ll need someone to write prescriptions for your meds,” she pointed out.

Sweeney shrugged. “I guess I’ll go to a free clinic,” he suggested.

“There’s only four left in the whole state and the nearest one is in the next county, and you know the bus doesn’t go out of county. And you aren’t able to drive my moped. Sweeney silently reminisced about owning and driving a car. He tipped the bottle back and guzzled the remainder of the yeasty libation.

“When’s the raffle?” asked Sweeney, suddenly remembering their one slim chance for health insurance.

“It was today,” replied Sally. After a pregnant pause she said gently, “We didn’t win.” Sweeney nodded.

Just then, Andrus walked in, carrying an old-fashioned brown paper bag. “Free samples,” he said with a grin, handing the bag to his mother.

Sally pulled out marijuana candies, oils, cigarette papers, loose pot and on and on. Both parents smiled and nodded in satisfaction at their son.

vii
Things continued apace for the Sweeneys until one afternoon when the size of their family was increased by one: Andrus introduced his parents to his girlfriend, Angel, a pretty, silken hair girl with a dazzling smile. Angel was, it turned out, pregnant with Andrus’s child. Because of the pregnancy, she had been disowned by her birth parents, and Andrus asked if it would be alright if Angel moved in with them. Angel quickly endeared herself to the Sweeneys by earnestly promising to do the laundry and make the beds and wash the dishes in return for their hospitality. Immediately, Sweeney and Sally welcomed the new addition to their happy family.

Sweeney sat in the front porch swing, silently contemplating his life, as he was wont to nowadays, particularly since he was on the brink of becoming a grandfather for the first time. Andrus and Sally continued with their successful careers, but the jobs paid only minimum wage, as did 95% of non managerial or non-governmental positions throughout the U.S. And, although inflation was at a record low and prices were modest, there was still no health insurance and Sweeney knew his $400 per month was of little help to the struggling family. It was mostly eaten up by medicines and transport costs he consumed with increasing frequency. The family, he decided gravely, would be better off without him. With this dismal thought, he took a great breath and let it out. He was pondering this issue when Angel approached and took a seat beside him on the swing.

“Mr. Sweeney,” she began.

“You can just call me Sweeney,” he told her with a smile. “Everyone does.”

She smiled back. “I wanted to get your advice on something.”

He turned to face her. “What is it, Angel?” He was coming to love her like a daughter.

“Do you think I should get an abortion?”

Sweeney stared at her. “Why would you…”

“I know a baby is a big expense,” she interrupted, speaking rapidly. “And I’m young; I can have children later. I’m just 14,” she pointed out.

“Well, the government pays a birth stipend,” said Sweeney, trying to recall the particulars.

“I know Mr. — Sweeney. But the minute the baby is born, they forget about it. After 12 months the baby has no health insurance, and after just 12 weeks, the mother doesn’t either. What if something happens, what if the baby gets sick?”

“Abortion is illegal, Angel — everywhere,” he told her.

“I read a magazine, and it told how you could give yourself an abortion, using a…”

Angel was tied in knots, Sweeney could see. How could he comfort her, tell her that everything would be alright, when he didn’t feel that way either? Hell, fifteen minutes ago he was contemplating taking his own life. Angel was talking again. He listened.

“I want Andrus to finish high school. I want him to go to college. He’s really smart and coukd be successful; maybe get a job at the post office, you know what I mean, Sweeney?”

Sweeney was moved. “Yes, I know what you mean, baby,” he said, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

viii
As the birth of Angel and Andrus’s child neared, the joy in the Sweeney household was palpable. Until it wasn’t. One day, returning home from work at Stoner’s Market, Andrus was shot by a high school student who was on a mindless rampage to slaughter other human beings. It happened every day, but not in their town and not to Sweeney’s family, or so they all thought.

Andrus lay in a hospital bed that the Sweeneys could ill afford, slowly recovering from his gunshot wound. He had been shot through the neck, and it was not known if he would fully recover. Angel lay in a bed in the maternity ward of the same hospital, three floors above where Andrus was recovering. Police appeared one day in Andrus’s room, when Sweeney was present, and counseled them not to press charges against his assailant who, they said, was “just acting out.” Stories in the newspapers had it that the16-year-old had connections that went all the way to the top echelons of state government. Irate, Sweeney waved his cane and shooed them out. They tried to negotiate with him, even propositioning him with possible health care coverage, but Sweeney told them to beat it. Turns out that they were not detectives at all, but rather, lobbyists for the firearms industry.

They told Sweeney, “There are now more than a billion weapons in the hands of law-abiding citizens in this country, and we see no reason to manipulate this incident to give the Second Amendment bad press.”

Months later, when Andrus had fully recovered from the gunshot wound, he returned to work, only to discover that he no longer had a job. His father, it seemed, had pressed charges against the shooter, and Stoner’s Market, like all dispensaries, owing to the tax revenue they generated, had close ties with the state and federal governments, which stood firmly behind the Second Amendment. Andrus was discharged “for cause” and blacklisted for all future employment in the entertainment industry.

Finally, the baby was born. Sweeney tried to dissuade her, but Angel was adamant: she named the child, a boy, after Sweeney. She named him Eric, which was Sweeney’s real first name. But, gradually, Sweeney began to physically fare less well. Medicines were prohibitively expensive and even getting to the free clinic where his new neurologist had hours but once every month, was problematic. There were days when he skipped his insulin injections altogether.

Things began to change for the better, however, the day that Sweeney met Adolf Shyster who was, naturally, an attorney. The lawyer knocked on the Sweeney front door.

“Mr. Sweeney,” said Shyster, introducing himself, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” They shook hands.

“Call me Sweeney. And, how can I possibly be of interest to a tort lawyer?” asked Sweeney.

“I learned from my investigators that you worked in the auto industry for years before you developed Parkinson’s Disease and were forced to retire and go on disability.”

Sweeney nodded. “That’s correct, but I don’t see….”

“Have you ever heard of trichloroethylene?” asked Shyster.

“TCE? Of course, it’s a degreasing agent. We used it at the plant.”

“Trichloroethylene has been widely implicated as a cause of Parkinson’s,” said Shyster succinctly. Sweeney stared at him, sudden understanding dawning on his face. “And you had significant exposure to the product,” added the lawyer.

“Do you think I may be able to get some dough out of this?” asked Sweeney, drawing his shaking fingers to his chin. “Hey, wait a minute, the EPA banned that stuff, it must be almost a decade ago.”

“One company continues to use it to this day,” explained Shyster. “And they were never implicated for TCE use during the previous litigation.”

“Frankly, I don’t think I’m going to even be around long enough to go through a prolonged litigation,” said Sweeney. “Doc told me I got just a few years left. What’s in it for me, practically speaking?” he asked pragmatically.

“I think,” said Shyster with confidence, that we can shake loose some coin from this company with the mere threat of legal action.”

ix
Adolf Shyster, unlike most tort lawyers, was not unreasonably greedy. He’d eked his way through law school, with a GPA well in the bottom quarter of his graduating class. However, he did graduate. He decided that one good score was all that life owed him and he was content to settle for that when it came along. The case of Sweeney v. Meeson Automotive was never filed, but was settled in the boardroom of that conglomerate.

“So what’s the deal, Adolph?” inquired Sweeney, waiting in an outer room at corporate headquarters. With him were Sally, Aldrus, Angel and little Eric. They were all on pins and needles. Even the baby seemed excited.

“Here’s the deal,” explained Shyster, handing a document to his client. “This is a nondisclosure agreement, an NDA. By signing that, you promise to never, under any circumstances, reveal the details of our agreement with Meeson, so help you God. If you do, they can sue you and take back all the money they’re giving you here today.”

“How much?” asked Sweeney, looking down into Shyster’s beady black peepers and getting right to the point.

“$12 million for you and $12 million for me; 50/50, just as we agreed. Deal?” he asked. Sweeney appended his signature. They shook hands.

“Deal,” he said. Shyster returned to the boardroom.

“Dad,” said Andrus, “do you think it’s right that we don’t let the people still working for Meeson learn that they’re in danger? I mean, we got ours, but, you know?”

“That’s a thoughtful, adult question, son, and I’m proud of you for asking it.”

“But, what’s the answer?” persisted Andrus.

“Word might in fact leak out,” suggested Sweeney with a little twist of his lips. “No one knows what holds the future.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Bill Tope 2024