This story was developed from a lengthy scenario by a reader, "js," 
that was posted in December 2010.  Note, however, that my plot 
follows quite a different path from that which he envisioned.    





                         UNDERCOVER  

                             by

                        C. Lakewood



    FBI Special Agent Tom Tucker was not ordinarily a very 
introspective man.  But his current environment -- the gentle 
swaying of the train; the rhythmic clickety-clack of the points;
the flat, featureless terrain drifting past the window; the grey, 
unbroken overcast -- all combined to lull him into a reflective 
frame of mind.  He glanced again at the bogus ID for his 
undercover assignment as senior guard at Wormwood Prison...er, 
"Correctional Facility."  His cover name was to be "Thomas 
Piperson."  He grimaced and put away the papers.  Apparently the 
assholes in "Documents" were as "whimsical" about names as his 
parents had been.  Sighing, he resumed contemplating his life.

    Up to a point, he had no complaints.  After high school, he'd 
served a hitch in the Army -- as an MP.  That was okay, though of 
course it was nothing as glamorous as the Rangers or the Air 
Cavalry.  He'd gone through college on the G.I. Bill.  Then came 
the FBI Academy, where he'd done very well.  He wasn't the 
brightest trainee in the class -- or the most athletically gifted 
-- but he was easily the most conscientious, willing to work long 
hours at an academic or physical problem until he had nailed it.

    He graduated with high marks, and, soon enough, married Cathy 
Parr, the prettiest girl in the class of trainees.  She'd insisted 
that they keep it a secret, however, until such time as there was 
no longer any danger of its harming either of their careers in the 
Bureau.

    Maybe THAT was the moment things began to go sour, but it was 
difficult to say.

    After a couple of minor cases, he'd been given an undercover 
assignment...at which he'd excelled.  His uncanny ability to adapt 
to his environment, regardless of how unusual, made him a natural 
for this sort of work, and the Bureau kept him at it. 

    He was phlegmatic enough that, so far, he had avoided becoming 
schizo as the succession of undercover assignments passed.  But the 
problem was that the Bureau had him pigeon-holed, and he was just 
too valuable to promote.  He watched others from his class at the 
Academy rise in the Bureau -- including Cathy (who still hadn't 
decided that the time was right to disclose their marriage). 

    So many roads not taken....
 
    He sighed and absently ran a finger across his upper lip, where 
his moustache had been.  He'd grown it for his first undercover job 
and kept it through all the ups and downs since.  God, he'd loved 
that 'stash, but now he'd had to shave it off as part of his new 
undercover look.    

    He gritted his teeth and returned to contemplating his current 
assignment.  There was reputed to be a white slave racket operating 
out of Wormwood Prison, and it was thought that the warden, Roscoe 
J. Swyne, ran things, but there was no real proof.  The employment 
record of "Tom Piperson," however, was unsavory enough that he 
should be quickly welcomed into the gang and so be in a position 
to eventually shut it down.  

    An announcement came crackling over the loudspeaker.  It was 
incomprehensible, but he could guess its meaning.  He looked out 
the window again, saw the grey prison towers rising a few miles 
off, and knew the train must be nearing Blackwater, Texas. 

    A few minutes later, the train pulled into the vintage station, 
and Tom alighted.  He was immediately greeted and led to a sleek 
official limo, his baggage was stowed, and the car and motorcycle 
escort set off. 

    As they drove through town, Tom took note of the general 
dilapidation.  In fact, the only buildings that looked to be 
well-maintained were the depot, the Sheriff's office, and, at 
the far edge of town, a gaudy truck stop.  Then, closer to the 
prison, the color of the landscape abruptly changed from adobe 
yellow to lush green as they neared a gated community filled 
with manicured lawns and sparkling new houses.  "Mostly prison 
personnel live in there, and a few other VIPs -- the Sheriff, 
the JP, the Doc...," the limo driver said, smugly.  Tom didn't 
like the look of it much -- the houses were too obviously 
"up-scale" for his taste, the grounds were too immaculate, and 
there weren't enough trees.

    They turned in and proceeded to a big pale blue colonial near 
the center of the tract.  Tom's new home.  After dropping off his 
baggage and taking a leisurely tour of the house (which was 
furnished in a comfortable, middle-class style), they continued on.

    Beyond the walls of the new tract, there was another expanse of 
parched no-man's-land.  Then cultivated and irrigated fields began 
and stretched the rest of the way to the prison walls.  A few 
Mexican laborers were moving about listlessly.  

    The only other apparent movement was the heat shimmer on the 
horizon.   
 
		******************************

    Meanwhile, Senior Special Agent Cathy Parr was approaching the 
edge of town from the east in a dusty Baja Bug that sported a 
pretentious Nancy Pelosi bumper sticker.  Operating under the 
name "Lucy Brown," Cathy was playing the part of a college co-ed 
returning to school after Spring Break.  She was wearing a tight 
black t-shirt (emblazoned "BERKELEY"), a hot pink wraparound 
miniskirt, white thong panties, and a pair of flip-flops.

		******************************

    Driving into town, she sneered at her surroundings.  "So 
this is Blackwater," she muttered.  "They should have named it 
'Backwater' instead....  Of course, I haven't seen the color of 
the water yet."  She stopped off at the diner in the middle of 
town to get something to eat and found it, not surprisingly, 
practically deserted.  She hesitantly slid onto a rickety stool, 
and the counterman -- who resembled Cletus Spuckler -- put a glass 
of water in front of her.  ("Well," she thought, "it's not actually 
black....  It's a sort of beige.")  

    When she ordered an egg white omelet, iced tea, and a bran 
muffin, "Cletus" gawked at her a moment and drawled, "We got 
chili an' beans."

    "Anything else?"

    "Shore.  Chili 'thout beans.  An' coffee t'drink."

    "Nothing else?  Eggs?  Sandwiches even?"

    "Nope.  All out."  He grinned.  "Lunch crowd's been an' gone."

    "Okay.  Whatever."

		****************************** 
   
    Dawdling over a bowl of over-spicy chili and a cup of bitter 
coffee, she thought of the gourmet meals she was accustomed to, 
but which Tom had never learned to properly appreciate.  She took 
a sip of coffee and grimaced.  Tom....  Nice enough, but SO 
dull....  Their marriage had been tolerable to begin with -- she 
owed him something for tutoring her in several Academy classes and 
for watching her back as rookies in the Bureau -- but before long 
she'd realized that trying to maintain it was SUCH a mistake....  
But would Tom agree to a divorce?  He always was a reasonable 
man...pliable....  And, if he didn't like it, well...so what?  He'd 
surely keep quiet, not wanting publicity any more than she did....  
But she'd better act quickly, before her lover, up-and-coming 
Federal prosecutor Harry Dane, got antsy and started sniffing 
around in another direction.  She was glad she'd told her lawyer 
to send Tom the papers for his signature right after he got back 
from this assignment.  Success or failure, it didn't matter....  
He'd be so distracted -- either so elated or so depressed -- that 
he'd probably just sign without thinking.  In the meantime, she 
knew she'd better get on with her undercover chore -- her first and 
last.  To her, it was strictly a résumé item, a stepping stone to 
promotion, not a career by-path to get stuck in...like Tom.  She 
did need the field experience, though; most of her postings had 
been in administration.  She hoped she could wrap this job up 
quickly and get back to Harry....  

    Damn!  Just thinking about that made her wet.       

		******************************

    Moments later, she emerged from the diner and gazed up and down 
the dusty street, sourly.  "What a dump!  That town in "Bad Day at 
Black Rock" was booming by comparison."  Sighing, she turned and 
headed for the Sheriff's office.

		******************************

    Tom was received at the prison cordially enough, but with a 
certain reserve -- rather more than might have been expected from 
his rank alone.  It was almost as if everyone were waiting to 
exhale until after the warden had passed judgment.

    And that was going to come quickly, for he was shown directly 
into the warden's office. 

    Warden Swyne -- which he insisted be pronounced "Swinny" -- 
was short and plump, with an habitual scowl and small, shrewd 
eyes that saw everything.  He was dressed in a cliché white suit 
and was smoking a cliché big black cigar. 

    Show time!  Aware that he really should have made the 
transition sooner, but nevertheless quite unruffled, Tom 
slid effortlessly into his corrupt Tom Piperson persona.  
As successful as it was effortless, the masquerade 
completely won over the warden.  At the end of the half 
hour interview, in fact, the warden was actually smiling, 
and both men were enjoying cigars and bourbon.

		******************************

    Earlier, back in town, "Lucy Brown" had introduced herself to 
the Sheriff and his two deputies -- Jeff and Joe Tweed -- whom 
she had mentally tagged as "Tweedle-Dumb" and "Tweedle-Dumber."  

    "I'm driving back to school and have quite aways to go yet, 
through some bad-ass country, all alone, so I'd really like to 
find a reputable place around here where I can get my brakes 
checked.  Like they're a little...mushy, you know."

    The Sheriff, pretending to be solicitous, asked a short series 
of seemingly innocuous questions and quickly determined that she 
was, indeed, traveling alone and that no one knew exactly where 
she was at the moment.

    "And what if your brakes ARE defective, young lady?  Can you 
afford the cost of getting them fixed?"

    "Sure!  I may be a little low on cash, but...ha, ha...that's 
credit cards are for."

    "Well, how much cash DO you have?"

    She pulled out a small wad of bills and quickly added them up.  
Um...$76 and...53 cents."

    He shook his head.  "Tsk, tsk.  Then you're in violation."

    "Violation?  Of what?"

    "Local Ordinance 303.5....  'A suspect is guilty of misdemeanor 
vagrancy if unable show possession at least $200 cash when required 
to do so by legally constituted authority.'"  
 
    "But...I have...."

    "Cards make no difference at all, missy.  Law specifies cash.  
So you're under arrest.  Cuff her, Joe."

    "No!" she shrieked and bolted for the door.  (She was later 
able to convince herself that she acted that way simply to 
enhance her cover as a somewhat rebellious college co-ed.  But, 
in fact, she just panicked.) 

    Jeff Tweed, slightly quicker than his brother, made a grab for 
her.  He missed her, but managed to catch the trailing edge of her 
wraparound skirt and tore it off her.  Also losing her flip-flops, 
she went spinning and stumbling through the door and out onto the 
sidewalk wearing only a t-shirt and thong panties.  Stupefied by 
events and blinking in the sun, she was easily caught up to by 
the two deputies and, despite her resistance, hauled back inside. 
 
    Her wrists were cuffed behind her, and she was unceremoniously 
shoved into a cell.  

    She hyperventilated for a moment and then whined, "Please give 
me back my skirt."

    The Sheriff reached for his telephone.  "No.  It's evidence 
now.  AND the shower shoes."

    "At least uncuff me then."

    "Uncooperative prisoners stay cuffed."  He dialed a number, 
lowered his voice, and spoke briefly into the phone.  Then he 
called another number and, after a second short conversation, 
hung up, leaned back, eased his belt, and lit a stogie.  Raising 
his voice, he said, "Trial's at 2:00, girl."  He blew a smoke ring. 
("Berkeley, indeed!" he silently sneered.)

		******************************

    The interview -- and the cocktail hour -- over, Tom had just 
gotten up when the warden's phone rang.  After answering it, he 
gestured at Tom to stay.  The call was brief.  Hanging up, the 
warden leaned back with a satisfied expression.  "New fish comin' 
in 'round 2:45.  College girl.  Looker.  Be good for you to see 
how we process 'em heah."   
  
    "Is there an...observation room?"

    "Used to be.  Now we's all up t'date.  Yoah office's next doah. 
Monitor on yoah desk lets you see whatevah any of the cctv cameras 
sees.  Channel numbah 1's the gang shower, numbah 3's Processin', 
an' so on....  Go and have some fun with it, but, when the new girl 
arrives, you come back heah an' watch it....  I'll commentate...an' 
have some instructions for you."

    Tom saluted and left.    
 
		******************************

    An hour later, "Lucy," the Sheriff, and Jeff Tweed were 
standing before the desiccated figure of the local justice of 
the peace, in the "court room" of the JP's faux Victorian house.  
Besides her handcuffs, she was wearing only the Berkeley t-shirt 
and damp thong panties. 

    The court procedure may have been unorthodox, but the verdict 
was never in doubt: guilty of 1) driving an unsafe vehicle, 2) 
resisting arrest, 3) assaulting a law enforcement officer, 4) 
public indecency, and 5) vagrancy.  It all added up to a total 
of three years (sentences to run consecutively)...at Wormwood 
Correctional Facility.  To boot, her car was forfeited, and she 
was assessed $76.53 in court costs. 

		****************************** 
    
    Tom had plenty of time.  He inspected his new office -- where 
he found an appropriate uniform hanging -- then changed clothes 
and played a while with his all-seeing monitor before the newest 
prisoner was admitted to Wormwood.  At his core, Tom Tucker, FBI 
agent and husband, was shocked at his wife's half-naked condition, 
but the Tom Piperson persona, which was now dominant, simply 
shrugged and looked forward to more of the show.  The thought of 
it gave him an erection, however, and, as a precaution, he rolled 
on a condom.  Making a last twitch to his new uniform, he left for 
the warden's office without further delay.

		******************************

    The warden had already unveiled his wall-mounted, 52", HD 
monitor and poured out generous amounts of borbon-and-branch.  
During the initial segments of Lucy Brown's processing 
(fingerprinting and mundane paperwork), he and Tom chatted 
amiably -- mainly about NASCAR, Longhorn football, and coon 
hunting.  (And both men worked that double entendre for all 
it was worth.)  

    When the strip search began, however, they both drained their 
glasses and leaned forward.

    Tom hadn't seen his wife naked recently, so this was a real 
treat for him.  Of course his erection immediately began to grow, 
and he found it difficult to divide his attention among watching 
the screen's unfolding drama, controlling his hard-on, and 
listening to the warden's running commentary.

    "We haven't been real busy lately," the warden said.  "So I was 
able to put mah best people on this fish.  Man's Alfred Hof.  (I 
call him 'Jack.')  He's a Kraut (an' I don' know if he gets the 
joke).  Don't look like much, but he got the thickest fingers I 
ever saw...an' knows what to do with 'em, too.  Nigra's Camona 
Jackson -- her mama wanted to name her aftah the on'y thing she 
could remembah 'bout the daddy, but jus' could not spell 'kimono.'  
Camona hates white women, but she sure knows her place 'round 
white men.  You gonna like her....  Heh, heh."

    "Lucy" had dropped her t-shirt and thong into a cardboard box 
that was merely labeled with her prison number, "808-8383."  Now 
completely naked, she was being shoved into a shower and tossed a 
cake of coarse soap.

    Tom grinned.  "Cold water, looks like.  Makes her nipples 
really stand at attention.  That soap doesn't lather too well 
in cold water, either...."

    "It don't lather good even in hot water," the warden noted.  
But prisoners don't get hot water.  We don't coddle 'em here...  
'specially not HER kind.  But that's jus' the start.  When she 
finely DOES get her crotch soaped up enough, Camona'll bring out 
a long-handled brush an' give her a real good scrub...right where 
it'll do the most good."

    Tom managed -- barely -- to continue controlling his hard-on, 
but almost lost it when the prisoner was forced to straddle the 
scrub-brush and allow her cunt to be vigorously scoured.   

    She had three orgasms and, by the end of her shower, was near 
collapse.  Nevertheless, she had to prance around the room until 
she had dried off a bit, then stand still for a thorough delousing. 

    When she was ordered to bend over, the warden nudged Tom.  
"Watch her dance when that dee-lousin' juice hits her cunt and 
asshole.  She'll itch like hell for a week.  As many times as 
I've seen a gal get sprayed, it nevah fails to impress.  Next, 
you know, they'll lay her out on the exam table with her feet 
in the stirrups an' shave her, an' then ol' Jack an' his monstah 
fingers'll see how much get-up-an'-go she still got."

    He glanced over at Tom, who had already sweated through his 
once-crisp uniform.  "We ARE tapin' this...in case you're at all 
int'rested." 

    "Yes," Tom croaked.  "Ve-ry interested."

    As he watched his wife's crotch shaved bald and then teased and 
finger-fucked until she was writhing and moaning and cumming...and 
begging for more, a worm began to grow unnoticed in his mind, and 
his feelings for Cathy started to undergo a change.  She was 
beginning to fade as a love object and becoming a mere sex object.  

    But Tom Tucker was initially oblivious of this shift, and Tom 
Piperson didn't care enough to give it any thought at all. 

    Tom Piperson might, however, have given the handlers credit.  
They had taken her freedom, her car, her money, her ID, and her 
clothing.  Cathy, who had viewed herself as a sophisticated, even 
liberated, young woman, had been scrubbed and disinfected as if 
she were a mangy stray dog, a flea-infested bitch.  It was a tried 
and true procedure and was even beginning to have an effect on her. 
She felt degraded.

    Meanwhile, the guards were speculating about how much her 
"hot little honeypot" might bring in when she started work at 
the truck stop....  

    "That'll come later," the warden said.  "First, we'll put her 
in the fields for a coupla days, 'til she gets her mind right an' 
can 'preciate the advantages of bein' a 'truck stop girl.'" 

    They continued to watch the processing unfold.  "Jack" and 
Camona tag-teamed "Lucy" for a while, and then she was dragged 
off the table and stood against a wall so that mug shots could 
be taken.  Finally, she was issued an ultra-short grey smock, 
and the show concluded.

    As he stood up to go, Tom looked thoughtful.  "Did you notice, 
sir, how she flinched whenever Camona touched her?  She's got too 
high an opinion of herself.  I think we ought to give her a couple 
of big, black, butch cell-mates.  Teach her a few things...help her 
get 'her mind right.'"

    "Excellent idea, son," the warden chortled.  "An' I know just 
the perfect pair."

    Leaving the office, Tom smiled to himself.  He wondered how 
long his wife's secret prejudices -- anti-lesbian, anti-black, 
anti-Hispanic -- would hold out in the face of..."community 
pressure."

		******************************  
    
    In briefing Tom on his duties, the warden had broadly outlined 
the various stages of the new prisoner's attitude adjustment, and 
Tom began implementing the program.
    
    For two days, "Lucy" worked in the fields carrying water to 
the Latino laborers, cleaning latrines, and chopping weeds.  Her 
only garment was a coarse, sweat-soaked smock, barely long enough 
to cover her cunt in front and the upper third of her butt in back. 

    Tom had no trouble keeping track of her by means of his monitor 
and the prison's extensive cctv system.  He also had frequent 
conversations with Camona Jackson.  He was able to make some 
suggestions (utilizing all he secretly knew about his wife's 
psyche) to ensure that her life was as insufferable as possible.  
He stressed to Camona that the prisoner's bottom should feel the 
kiss of the strap as often as need be.  And he got full reports 
on the night-time activities of "Lucy" and her two brawny 
cell-mates, LaVonda and Sharmelle.

    Camona thoroughly approved of the new head guard's methods -- 
especially when he told her to use her strap whenever the prisoner 
showed any inclination at all to try to ease the incessant itch by 
masturbating....  

    At the end of her third day at Wormwood, "Lucy" was brought in 
to see Tom in his air conditioned office.  He surveyed her over 
the top of a large, refreshing mint julep.  "So how do you find 
life here, missy?"

    She licked her parched lips, but it didn't do much good.  
"P-please, sirrr...."

    "I asked you a question, girl.  Refusing to answer is plain 
insolence.  Bend over."

    She hesitated only momentarily, knowing delay would just make 
it worse.  She bent and took hold of her grubby toes.  Her sweaty 
smock slid limply down her back, and she was exposed from heels to 
shoulder blades.  Her butt was already red, and Tom fancied he 
could see it throb.

    He made her wait for it, but at last said, "Alright, Camona, 
lay it on."

    The wiry matron grinned and swung her strap viciously.  She 
chuckled at the honky prisoner's thin whine.  She swung again...and 
again....  She wondered what Capt. Piperson had in mind.  She had 
surely made it clear to him that she was totally without 
inhibitions and would follow any order (ANY order!) that he cared 
to give her.  He had been at the 'Wood only a short time, yet she 
already loved the easy way he wore his authority, and often 
privately thought of him as "Massa Tom."  She lost track of how 
many times she swatted the fish, but was disappointed when the 
Captain called a halt.  

    Her disappointment vanished a moment later when he said,
"Camona, take down your trousers...so the prisoner can thank 
you -- very personally -- for your exertions on her behalf."
 
    With no hesitation, Camona dropped her uniform trousers and 
stepped out of them.  Unbidden, she also skinned out of her panties.

    "Well, go ahead, #808-8383.  You're surely not shy...not after 
all the cunt-licking you do in your cell at night."

    Camona's cunt looked (and smelled) well-used, and her body 
odor was the sort of sour musk that, back in civilization, "Lucy" 
had always found most objectionable.  But it was visibly wet, and 
"Lucy" was so thirsty that she plunged her face deep into Camona's 
crotch without further urging.
          
    Slurping sounds filled the room as Tom watched, outwardly 
impassive.  Finally, he motioned to Camona to push the prisoner 
away.  "Lucy" sat back on her heels, licking her lips and staring 
at the matron's cunt hungrily.  

    "Still thirsty, 808-8383?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "Then take off that...frock...and crawl over here."  He 
swiveled his chair toward her.

    With only a glance at Camona, "Lucy" scrambled to obey.  (Tom 
noticed that her nipples were fully erect.  It was a nice look, but 
thought-provoking.)  When she was crouched at his feet, he rasped, 
"Take out my cock and suck it.  And do it slowly and lovingly.  If 
you finish too soon, Camona'll spank you; if you bite, Camona'll 
spank you; if I lose my hard-on before I cum, Camona'll spank you; 
if you don't swallow ALL my cum, Camona'll spank you; and, if you 
don't moan and carry on like it was the best thing you ever tasted, 
Camona'll spank you.  Understood?

    "Y-yes, sir," she breathed.

    Camona grinned like a wolf contemplating its prey.

		******************************
    
    It was an astonishingly good blow job.  Of course, she hadn't 
sucked him off for years, but his memory was pretty good for such 
things.  She'd been nowhere near this expert before.  She must have 
been getting plenty of practice since then...and from a guy -- or 
guys -- who were a lot more demanding than he had ever been.  
"Well," he thought, "he who laughs last...."  He was leaning back, 
with his eyes half-closed, enjoying himself immensely, when his 
left eye glanced at the far upper corner of his office -- where the 
tiny cctv camera (with its wide-angle lens) was mounted.  The red 
light was on, but he didn't care.  In fact, he hoped that the 
warden (whose monitor was the only one that could get this channel) 
liked the show.  Warden Swyne was a perverted old bastard -- and 
crooked as hell -- but in their brief time together had been nicer 
to him than he could remember anybody at the Bureau ever having 
been....

    Then he went back to contemplating the bar code now permanently 
displayed on the small of her back, like a "tramp stamp."  ("What 
an appropriate term," the worm whispered.)  He smiled.  Cathy had 
always disdained the two tattoos he'd gotten in the army, calling 
them "trash."  Well, things change....

		******************************

    When she at last finished off the best blow job he could even 
dream of, she began to plead to be promoted from field hand to 
"truck stop girl."  He envisioned her auditioning like the whore 
she was begging to be, stripping on stage, in front of him and the 
off-duty guards (male AND female), masturbating herself to multiple 
orgasms, and sucking off her audience until everyone was satisfied.

    He knew she'd find the truck stop particularly degrading -- 
both because she'd be required to perform all manner of sex acts 
for all comers...and also because she'd have to do it for less 
than she used to spend on a Big Mac.  He'd damn well make sure she 
was worked hard, frequently checking her progress personally, 
forcing her to service him like the whore she had become...years 
ago.

    Life had certainly taken an unforeseen path.... 

		******************************

    Eighteen hours later, that path seemed to be headed over a 
cliff.

    The Sheriff was doing some routine book-keeping when Joe Tweed 
ambled in with the paperwork on the confiscated Baja Bug.  The 
Sheriff barely glanced at the documents, and Joe was about to 
leave, when he paused and remarked, "Cooter checked the VIN number, 
as usual, but it was kinda weird...."

    "Just 'VIN,'" the Sheriff said drily.  "Stands for 'Vehicle 
Identification Number.'  You wouldn't say 'Vehicle Identification 
Number Number,' would you?  And what was so 'weird' about it?"

    The deputy shrugged away the first question and answered the 
second.  "'Twasn't registered to the girl at all.  Belongs to some 
kinda oddball company...unh, 'Frodo Baggins Industries'"  

    The Sheriff practically leaped from his chair.  "Jesus H. 
Christ!"  

    The deputy cringed.  "Sounded to me like a buncha hippies."

    Pausing to regain his composure, the Sheriff pulled out a 
cigar, bit off the end, lit it, and settled back.  "Back in the 
Carter administration -- before you were born -- some pointy-headed 
bureaucrat got the bright idea that the government's undercover 
vehicles'd be easier to keep track of if the dummy companies they 
were registered to had the same initials as their agencies.  The 
Immigration and Naturalization Service had 'International Napkin 
Supply,' for example....  So who do you suppose had 'Friendly 
Bakers, Inc.,' 'Franco-British Imports,' AND 'Frodo Baggins 
Industries'?"

    Even Joe Tweed was not dim-witted enough to have to ponder that 
question long.  "S-so what'll we do?"

    The Sheriff was obviously turning over a plan in his mind, 
checking it for defects.  At last, he straightened up.  "Go get 
your brother, and I'll give you both your instructions....  God 
help you if you screw this up."

		******************************

    At 6:00 that evening, the Sheriff, the warden, and a third man 
were meeting in the most legendarily secure room in the prison.  
(The Sheriff, indeed, was always somewhat surprised that it wasn't 
equipped with a "Cone of Silence.")

    "I've been busy this afternoon," the Sheriff said, tonguing his 
cigar into the corner of his mouth.  (The atmosphere inside the 
smallish room was thick, but nobody seemed to mind.)  "The car's 
forty miles east of town, headed west.  It's in an arroyo and has 
a busted axle.  The mileage's been adjusted.  Her prepaid cell 
phone's on the seat; battery's drained, but you can't get a signal 
out there anyway.  She's never actually called anybody on it.  The 
poor girl obviously tried to walk out and got lost.  Tsk, tsk.  
Probably will never be found...what with the coyotes and buzzards 
and all....

    "The court record's burnt.  And I guess all traces here 
have been taken care of?"  When the warden nodded, the Sheriff 
continued.  "Outside of my office, the only people who'd remember 
her are the JP (who's fixed), Sam at the diner (Who's on an 
open-ended, all-expenses-paid trip to visit his cousin in King of 
Prussia, Pennsylvania), and some miscellaneous prison personnel." 

    "Mah people are okay," the warden said.  "How 'bout yoah 
deputies?  Theyah not the sharpest knives in the drawah."

    "They may be stupid, but they're bright enough to know when 
to keep their mouths shut."  

    "There IS one other to be accounted for," the third man said.  
He was Hispanic and very ugly -- somewhat resembling Danny Trejo, 
who played the vampire bartender in "From Dusk Till Dawn."  

    "Who?" the Sheriff asked, ruffling.

    "Her contact an' backup.  They would never send her in alone.  
Who is new in town?" 

    The warden opened his mouth, but hesitated.  The Sheriff 
chuckled.  "He's already been spotted.  I got a call from my 
deputies while I was driving over here.  They're at the truck 
stop.  Seems there's a guy been lollygagging about since 
yesterday who's driving a truck labeled 'Fannie's Bavarian 
Ice-cream.'"

    They all relaxed.  (Especially the warden.)

    "Well, they'll send choppers up and find the car sooner or 
later," the Sheriff said.  "They'll ask a few questions, and 
find no leads, and soon go home, more less satisfied.  If it 
were the Rangers, I might worry some, but these are just the 
Feds, remember.  Still, Carlos, you ought to take your newest 
acquisition tonight and get back south of what used to be a 
border...but don't let me get started on THAT can of worms...."

    With an exchange of currency, the meeting broke up.

    And so the path diverged from the edge of the cliff.  

		******************************

    That evening, having killed enough time to get back on 
schedule, the providential ice cream truck left the truck 
stop, heading north, on secret assignment.

    A week later, the Feds showed up, asked some questions, had 
lunch at the diner, and went back home, more or less satisfied.  

    Some time later, Tom submitted his report, casting considerable 
doubt on the existence of any white slave operation in the area.  
Not long afterward, "depressed over the disappearance of Special 
Agent Parr," he quietly resigned from the Bureau. 

    He stayed on, though, as chief guard at Wormwood Prison, where 
he did at least have Camona Jackson to console him.  He re-grew his 
moustache.  In due course, he succeeded his friend and mentor as 
warden.

    He also became rich and, eventually, retired to a villa in the 
Maldives.