New York University, 13 years later

    "So when we talk about variables in business, what are talking about here?"

    Professor Ira Lowenthal finished writing the word "variables" on the old speckled blackboard, pushed his wirefarme glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose and turned to face his lecture hall filled with young minds.

    "Anyone? Yes."

    A blonde girl in the third row had just raised her hand. "Cash flow?"

    "Definitely." Lowenthall wrote it on the board. "What else? Yes, Mr.-" He consulted his seating chart. "Branson."

    Michael Branson lowered his hand. "The current economy."

    "Yes. A major factor." He jotted it on the board. "Anyone else?"

    The youth sitting right next to Branson raised his hand.

    "Go ahead."

    "What place the Yankees are in in the East Division," he said with a grin.

    The class was silent for a moment, then a few stifled chuckles. Lowenthal crinkled his brow. "The Yankees?" He put one finger to his lips for a moment and reconsulted his seating chart. "Forgive me, but I don't think I or the rest of the class follow you. Perhaps you could expand upon this reason, Mr. Young?"

    "Five bucks says you won't pull this one off, James," Branson whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

    Young whispered quickly, "Double or nothing."

    "Done."

    Young looked up at the lecturer and began, "Well Professor, it seems to me that, here in New York at least...well, even across the country, that the Yankees are something of a staple in Americana, as well as a source of good feeling about America itself."

    At this Lowenthal seemed to think for a moment, then nodded. And so, Young pressed on.

    "Now the Yankees haven't had a genuinely bad season in over a decade. And just through personal observation, spending and profits in America tend to be higher when the Yanks are in one of the first three slots of the AL Eastern Division, and almost always the same way when they're in the playoffs. It just seems to me, that, even though there is no direct correlation between athletics and economics, the Yankees seem to have a fairly considerable influence over the American economy."

    Lowenthal simply looked at Young for about ten or twelve seconds before turning to the blackboard and writing "NY Yankees". He then turned back to Young and with a sigh stated, "Mr. Young, that has to be about the most original and innovative answer I've received since coming to NYU. But tell how did you correlate the spending profit margins with the Yanks' standings?"

    "Simple. The Wall Street Journal and the sports section."

    Young grinned again as the whole class applauded. He looked over at Branson, who simply rolled his green eyes.

    Young stepped out of the lecture hall and into a wave of students making its way down the corridor. He was flying high with a grin on his face, half because of the applause he'd just received, and half from the look on Mike's face. Mike had once said that he was trying to be James' ego check in human form. Well...he was trying.

    Branson suddenly appeared at his right shoulder, his explosion of curly red hair bouncing along as he was keeping up with Young.

    "You smartass son of a bitch," he growled with a smirk and handed Young a Hamilton.

    Young couldn't help laughing. "You do realize that I just bullshitted my way through that entire thing, don't you?"

    Branson glared at Young with an open mouth, which brought Young's laughter to a roar.

    "Just kidding, just kidding," he sputtered. "It's all true, pal. At least I happen to believe so."

    Branson closed his mouth and silently fumed a bit. "Goddammit. I thought I was actually gonna get my ten bucks back. Why the hell do you always have to show off so much, man?"

    Young sighed under his breath. "Here we go,"

    Branson kept going, "Everytime we go to class, hit a bar, hit the basketball court, you always gotta act like you're the fucking King of Queens. And who gets the questions about who you are? Let's think here...Oh, that's right, me."

    Young knew he had to head Branson off before he really picked up steam. Once he did that, there was no shutting him up.

    "Mikey, I've known you a long time, right?"

    "Of course. You fell in the mud puddle outside PS 118 right after me." Branson was referring to the time when they had first met on that rainy opening day of first grade.

    "Yeah," said Young as he turned the corner and openned the door to the lounge. "And ever since we were kids I can remember listening to you complain about my attitude. What the hell are you always bitching about? In case you haven't noticed, I'm not changing my ways. Maybe I should, and maybe I shouldn't. But It's always served me."

    Young strolled over and plopped down a couch with a coffee table in front of it, upon which layed today's issue of the Times. Branson meanwhile went to one of the computers on a nearby desk, and gave his final words on the matter.

    "It's still a pain in the ass trying to live up to you in a crowd."

    Young paused halfway in picking up the Times and looked at Branson with a few hurt feelings. He never knew that that was how Michael really felt. It sort of sparked his curiosity, and he got up and walked over to the computer desk.

    "You really feel that way?"

    Branson glanced up, immediately sorry that he had said a word. "Just forget it. You're my best friend. I wouldn't change that."

    Young didn't exactly consider the matter closed, but he would let it go for now. He glanced at the Google Search Branson had just run.

    "How to cook a fifteen-minute lasagna?"

    Branson shook his head. "Why the hell did I ever take Home Economics in college? I gotta be the dumbest guy on the face of the planet when it comes to choosing courses. 'An easy A.' Whatever."

    Young chuckled and started back for the couch and the Times. "Lemme know how that turns out, I might want some dibbs on it."

    Branson scoffed. "If you don't read an obituary for a Michelle Wyatt, professor at NYU, then you'll know if you want any of it."

    Young rolled his eyes. "If you've got half your mom's cooking skills, then you've got nothing to worry about. Say, Davis texted me in class. He's got Yankee tickets for Saturday. Wanted to know if I had a second man."

    "The answer is no James. Because Michael has this little thing called work to show up to the next morning or else he gets thrown out of his apartment."

    "Awwww, come on you bum, there's no sense in busting your ass delivering Chinese the rest of your life when all you get is a headache in return. Take a sick day for Christ sake."

    Branson gave him a sidelong look. "I don't know, you kinda staled my appetite for baseball last period. Who's playing?"

    "Chicago."

    Branson seemed to consider for a moment. "Nah, I'll just tape it."

    Young sighed. "Suit yourself."

    Young picked up the Times and sat down again. He turned the front page over to the bottom half where a headline earnestly caught his eye.

    ANOTHER OF NY'S FINEST MURDERED

    Young was in disbelief. "Son of a bitch," he said under his breath.

    It wasn't quite quiet enough to go unheard because Branson got up. "Oh God. What now?!" he said irrascibly.

    "Look at this!"

    Branson walked over with a harried look on his face. He had procrastinated heavily on this Home Ec assignment and now it was biting him in the ass. He looked at the headline.

     "How many is that now?"

    "The third in two weeks. Listen to this. 'NYPD officials are still   perplexed by this recent epidemic of murders that Police Commissioner Raymond W. Kelly say are "coming far too close to home." Last night the body of Officer Rodney Reid was found gunned down in Brooklyn. "We know that these heinous killings are connected through one piece of evidence," said Kelly. "A white rose has been found near the body of all three officers. We hope this article sends a message to the perpetrator...we will find you." ' "

    Branson scratched his auburn locks. "That's spooky."

    Young was irked. "Forget spooky, alright? Look at this. The other bodies were found in The Bronx and Staten Island. They're all three connected by the rose. This bastard is going borrough by borrough. It fits!"

    "Here we go again," was all Branson had to add and started walking back to the computer.

    "What's that supposed to mean?"

    "Nothing."

    "Whatever Mikey. Say the words!"

    Branson turned slowly and eyed Young with a patronizing look. "James, every time something police related comes up in the news, you always act like you're on the freaking case."

    Young had no answer for that, so he looked out the lounge window. "So?"

    Branson looked at the floor. "Look, I'm sorry. I know what the NYPD means for you. To this day I still remember your old man's funeral. All the cops that were there-"

    "Just shut the fuck up will you?"

    "No, lemme finish. Being there...what's it been? 13 years ago? Seeing all those guys there and the pride and prestige they carried in their uniforms and shields, I know why you still love the force. But James...it's not healthy what you're trying to do."

    Young continued to stare out the window, until finally, "You're right, I gotta quit living in the past." Young got up to leave and made for the door. He'd be damned if he let Mike see him in this state.

    "Hey James..."

    Young turned.

    Branson was smiling. "See ya Saturday night."

    Young grinned a little and walked out the door.

    Young rode his Razor scooter to Mid-Manhattan Library and spent a few hours there, looking at old microfilm records of murdered policemen. He really didn't give a damn what Branson had said about his unhealthy habits. He still wanted to be on top of things for his own peace of mind. Or disquiet.

    He jumped on the subway at 14th and Union Square after leaving the library, and transfered at 51st to head home to Queens. The ride on the underground train always seemed to clear his senses for some reason.

    Getting off at Elmhurst, he didn't even bother to unfold his scooter, and started walking in the direction of his mother's house. At an alley he heard something that made him backtrack to the lip of the wall. What he saw chilled his blood.

    Two men were scuffling down the alley about fifty feet, he couldn't see their faces. They were both putting up a hell of a struggle with the other. One would land a punch. The other would shove the opponent back into the garbage cans lining the alley. Finally one got thrown against the far alley wall into the light so that Young could see his face. He was tall with short brown hair and had a salt and pepper beard.

    His opponent came up and punched him in the gut. But wait, that wasn't a hard enough punch to make him double over that long. When the puncher pulled away, Young saw in horror that it was a switchblade that had been driven into the bearded man's stomach. And that bearded man...was now slumping to the ground.

    Young pulled his head back from the alley's mouth and leaned heavily against the wall, his eyes wide. His breath a savage pant. He could hear someone in the alley running, but he didn't dare look. One minute passed. Then another. And a third. He finally summoned the memory of his father, which gave him the courage to peek around the corner.

    He saw only the man lying next to the wall. Cautiously, he approached. Crouched down, he hurried over to the fallen man. And looked for any sign of life. He felt his neck...nothing. Blood was pooling on the ground now. Soon the ten pints that fill a human body would be all over the alleyway.

    Something caught his eye in the light, on the ground. A white rose. Young smacked his own forehead. He looked at the body, and carefully pulled the breast of his leather jacket over. Gleaming in the pale light from the streetlamp high above, attached to the man's belt, was a tin shield.

    He dropped the breast of the jacket and stood up. He threw his gaze toward the other end of the alley. No one was there. Only some steam coming up through a storm drain blocked his view of the alley's other mouth. He tip-toed as quickly as he could to the alley's end. When he got to the mouth, he saw no one.

    Shit!

    Young pulled out his cellphone and dialed three numbers before hitting SEND.