It was the wrong thing to say to Weslo, that she didn't pay taxes, but Beth hadn't known that he worked for the IRS when she uttered those words.

    Beth buttoned her blouse, tucked it into her skirt and said, "Your thirty minutes are up; that'll be one hundred dollars, including the tip."

    Weslo handed her a hundred dollar bill and said, "Worth every penny; actually that would be ten thousand pennies." He was barely five feet, short hair graying at the temples, early fifties, wearing rimless glasses, drab suit and tie, and yellow suspenders.

    "You an accountant?" she asked, then put the bill in her small black purse and snapped it shut.

    Weslo ignored her question. "Do you work every day? I'd like to see you again."

    Another sucker, Beth thought. After three months Beth had learned to size them up and con them into a generous tip for a little extra. There was no sex involved and she didn't even have to take off her clothes, maybe just show a little to get a good tip.

    "I'm here noon to eight, Monday through Friday," she said.

    "Like a civil service job," Weslo commented.

    "Yeah, except I'm sure I make a lot more money."

    "And tax free, right," said Weslo, smiling.

    "Of course, I'd have to be pretty stupid to pay taxes on this kind of money. It's all cash."

    "Or to say something like that to an IRS agent," Weslo said, congratulating himself as he sprung the trap. He was still smiling, but the friendliness in his smile had evaporated.

    "What?" A puzzled look brought wrinkles to Beth's youthful face.

    "IRS," Weslo said, flashing his ID. "Give me your purse."

    "Do you want your money back?"

    "No, but next time it'll be free. Let's have the purse," he said. "I just want to check your ID." When Beth hesitated Weslo grabbed her purse, unsnapped it and spilled the contents on the desk. With the smoothness and speed of a blackjack dealer, he lined the items up in a row: ATM receipt, Kleenex, makeup, lipstick, driver's license, proof of auto insurance, key ring and cash. Weslo counted the cash, five-hundred forty dollars, announced the tally and handed the cash to Beth.

    "Let me count it," Beth said, fearing some sleight of hand. She counted it twice, five-hundred forty each time.

    Weslo withdrew a small spiral notebook from his coat pocket and focused his eyes on the items spread across the table. He copied Beth's name, home address, driver's license and insurance information. Weslo shot a glance to the left, unnoticed by Beth, and wrote down the account number printed on the ATM receipt and the balance, $3,657.

    "You through?" Beth asked, as Weslo replaced his notebook. She picked up the items one at a time and stuffed them back into the small purse.

    Before Beth could retrieve her car keys, Weslo picked them up and turned the keys over and over in his hand, smiling as if recalling a private joke. "You own a Corvette?" he asked. Beth didn't reply. "Must be the red one out front, looks new. Paid for with tax free income?"

    "What do you want?" asked Beth.

    "You admit you make a lot of money," said Weslo. "I could estimate how much you clear, calculate the tax and penalties you owe, put a lien on that nice Corvette, maybe put you in jail. Then you wouldn't need the Corvette." Weslo chuckled and Beth could see that the little shitweasel was enjoying himself. "But if you take good care of me each time I come back, I'll be too busy thinking about you instead of your taxes."

    "Each time?" Beth said, thinking what an asshole this guy was. Beth was working in the latest adult entertainment business in South Florida, where guys could use a private office, choose a secretary and engage in verbal sexual harassment without fear of being sued. It was role playing, not the real thing. She'd had enough of the real thing, working in a dentist's office, city planning department, then a real estate company. It was always the same thing, comments about her large breasts, asking if they were real, running their hands through her long blonde hair, asking if she were a real blonde, pats on the ass with their grubby hands. If she couldn't avoid it, at least she could get paid for enduring it Beth thought as she read the ad in the sports section of the local newspaper: If you can't abuse your own secretary, use ours - verbal sexual abuse only. Beth called about a job, said she had experience as a secretary and being sexually harassed, knew what men wanted.

    "Only once a week," said Weslo, but he'd come in as often as he damned well liked. What was wrong with this broad anyway? She'd better get used to seeing him or he'd make her life miserable. He could give her references, deadbeats who'd had the bad luck to cross his path at the IRS, the sorry son of a bitches.

    "I'm not sure how long I'll be working here," Beth said.

    "I know your name and where you live Beth, and I have ways of finding people. I'll be back Tuesday and I'd like you to wear a short mini skirt next time. Have a nice weekend."

    Beth ground her teeth as the IRS man left, a habit she exhibited only when highly pissed. Have a nice weekend; only if she read in the Sunday paper that the IRS man had driven into a canal and been eaten alive by an alligator.

    Beth went out to the waiting room, peered out the storefront window and saw the IRS man drive off in a dark blue Ford Tempo with a government license plate. He was probably going to harass somebody else, she thought.

    "What are you looking at?" asked Roxanne, sitting at the small table that served as a reception desk.

    "Ever see that guy before?" asked Beth.

    "No. Any trouble?"

    Beth paused, then said, "No, I just wanted to see what kind of car he drives."

    "See how much you can squeeze out of him next time?" asked Roxanne. "They drive a nice car, means they like to spend money."

    Some car, a Ford Tempo, and not even the latest model. Next time she would get nothing. That's what the IRS man had told her, but maybe the little shitweasel wouldn't come back. "I'm going to leave early, I've got a splitting headache," said Beth.

    "You sure you didn't have any problem with that guy?"

    "No."

    "You're not going to meet him are you?"

    "No, I'm just going home," said Beth. She drove the Corvette south to Atlantic Boulevard, then east toward the Intracoastal. She'd stop at a bar, have a few drinks and listen to some music. Maybe she'd meet somebody she knew who could cheer her up, or someone she didn't know who could cheer her up. Her boyfriend Cliff was still in jail, the son of a bitch. How many times had Beth bailed him out, paid his lawyer and loaned him money. The only skill Cliff had, and he was good at it, was hot wiring cars for her uncle Ray who ran a chop-shop. Beth had met Cliff at Ray's shop when her old car needed some work, much more than she had expected. Instead, she decided to scrap it and get a new red Corvette.

    Tuesday arrived and so did Weslo, wearing the same brown suit and tie, this time with red suspenders that had little white ducks on them. "I'm here to see Beth," he announced.

    "Beth's with a customer," said the receptionist.

    "But I have an appointment," said Weslo.

    "Beth said her six o'clock was late so she took another customer."

    "She should have waited for me," Weslo insisted.

    "I'm really sorry, but I'm available. My name's Roxanne." She stood up and walked around the table to give Weslo a better look. Another well stacked blonde, but he had a craving for Beth, and it would be free.

    "I'll wait for Beth," Weslo said. Things were ass backward here; Beth should have waited for him, not the other way around. He'd have to straighten her out so it wouldn't happen again. Maybe she had forgotten just who he was, the IRS man thought.

    Forty minutes of waiting, and no mini skirt. He'd have to talk to Beth about that also. They went to an office in back where Weslo sat behind a desk and asked Beth to bring him a cup of coffee. Without looking into the cup Weslo poured its contents into the wastebasket, then handed Beth the empty cup and told her the coffee didn't have enough cream. "What kind of secretary are you, anyway," he barked. He went through this charade three times.

    "I told you to wear a mini skirt," said Weslo. "Did you forget?"

    "I don't own one," said Beth.

    "Then buy one for next time, you can afford it. For now, just hike up your skirt." Beth complied. "Higher," said Weslo. "Now bring your steno pad, I have some dictation."

    Beth did as she was told, sat on the corner of the desk and unbuttoned her blouse. Weslo ordered Beth to unhook her bra.

    "That's extra," she said.

    "Have you forgotten, I don't pay," said Weslo. "Unhook your bra and take it off."

    "No," said Beth. "The only sexual harassment I have to put up with here is 'verbal' harassment. I don't take my clothes off, whether you pay or not, and if that's not good enough for you, go to one of the strip joints down the street or the lingerie studio next door." Beth could usually handle them, the assholes, but she wondered about this guy, the IRS man. Maybe he was going to be a problem. She'd have to wait and see.

    He'd let it go for now, but Beth needed to understand the consequences of not obeying him. It was time to teach the broad a lesson.

    Weslo returned Friday, not waiting until the following Tuesday. Beth was occupied with a customer. Weslo decided to wait, but not here in the reception area where customers came and went, sneaking a glance at each other, hoping they didn't know one another. Over the protest of the receptionist, Weslo went to the back, knocking on each door until he found an unoccupied office. He sat and waited, a look of satisfaction on his face. Things would be different today.

    "You bastard. What the hell did you do to my bank account?" Beth demanded, as she stormed into the office where Weslo waited. "I went to use the ATM and my balance was only $57. The bank told me the IRS took $3,600 from my checking account. How did you find out where my bank account is?"

    Weslo made a nasty little smile, the kind reserved to civil servants who enjoy exercising power over the helpless. "It's really quite simple; from the ATM receipt in your purse the first time we met."

    "I want my money back," said Beth.

    "I don't have your money, Beth, the IRS does and I'm certain you owe then a lot more. I might be able to get your money returned, but it takes time to process paper work. I don't mind helping you, as long as we're friends. We are friends, aren't we?"

    "Sure," said Beth.

    "I want us to remain friends, Beth, but you need to listen more carefully when I say something. I expect you to wear a mini skirt next time."

    "I told you before I don't have one."

    "Then buy one," said Weslo.

    "I don't have any money, you cleared out my account."

    "You can earn more. I won't be back until Tuesday; that should be enough time." Weslo knew that Beth had another account with the same bank, a money market account with a balance of $34,206, but he didn't want her to know that he was aware of it. Starting with her driver's license, Weslo had obtained Beth's Social Security number and learned about her money market account.

    The door opened suddenly and slammed against the wall hard enough for the knob to leave its mark. Beth had forgotten her other customer.

    "You said you'd be right back, Beth. I'm tired of waiting. Who's the monkey with the funny glasses anyway?" He walked as he talked, straight toward Weslo. He was young, muscular and unshaven, probably a construction worker Weslo judged from the man's clothes.

    "You don't seem to realize who . . ." Weslo started to say as the big man approached, right fist clenched and ready.

    "Don't," said Beth, as she stepped between them and grabbed the clenched fist. "If you want to hit him, do it outside. You'll both have to leave. I have another appointment in five minutes." 

    "I'll see you outside, candy-ass," the other customer said to Weslo.

    The Ford Tempo was parked at the far end of the strip shopping center, away from the secretarial suite and the lingerie studio. Weslo got in, turned on the lights and the ignition and started to back up, then paused as he heard tires screeching. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw a pickup truck rushing toward him, lights off. The impact knocked his head against the steering wheel, leaving a bruise on his forehead. The Ford's engine died and Weslo sat there dazed, not believing it and not hearing the screeching tires as the guy took off. Weslo hadn't seen the driver, but it must have been Beth's customer, that dumb redneck. The rear bumper of the Ford was bent and the end of the trunk caved inward. He'd have to get the car fixed, but not at the GSA motorpool; there'd be paper work and questions. Weslo would look around for a body shop, but that could wait.

    Beth's day started Friday with a regular customer, a known quantity, a big tipper, followed by more of the same. It had been such a good day that she should have known that things would turn upside down before it ended. The IRS man had seen to that. Beth had gone to the ATM in the afternoon to find her account depleted and then the IRS man had shown up and gotten into a fight with one of her regular customers. Never mind the fancy joints along the Intracoastal, Beth decided to find a bar nearby, one she'd patronized before so she wouldn't feel uncomfortable. She ordered a Long Island Tea, the drink for those in a hurry, later switched to a Tequila straight up, then went back to Long Island Tea until the bartender cut her off.

    Beth awoke at 5:00 A.M., found herself on her living room sofa. She stared across the room at a small flashing red light, her head pounding inside, and made her way over to the answering machine. Only one message, from the IRS man. He said he'd been in a car accident and might need to borrow Beth's car while his got fixed. Then he said to have a nice weekend, and one more thing, he would see her Monday instead of waiting until Tuesday. Was the IRS man serious or did he just want her to know that he had her unlisted number. Beth turned off the machine, ran to the bathroom and vomited.

    Weslo drove the Ford Tempo to work earlier than usual Monday morning. He found a self-park lot near the IRS office and backed into a space where the damaged bumper would be hidden from the view of any curious fellow workers. Weslo would get the Ford repaired later in the week, or maybe on the weekend. It might take a few days and the IRS man needed the car to track down deadbeats he had leads on, put the squeeze on them and watch them squirm. Then there was the matter of Beth. Weslo would search to see if she had more bank accounts when time permitted. In the meantime it wouldn't hurt to do the paperwork on Beth's money market account, have the lien ready.

    Monday arrived, Beth not knowing what to expect from the IRS man after his car had been rear ended by one of her customers. His message had mentioned borrowing her car until his was fixed. Maybe the IRS man would blame Beth and ask her to pay for the repairs. Weslo arrived at six o'clock as promised.

    "I didn't have time to get a mini skirt yet," said Beth.

    "That's all right," said Weslo, smiling. "I wasn't expecting a mini today. I gave you until Tuesday." The smile dropped off his face and the harassment commenced. That's what he was there for, wasn't it, sexual harassment you couldn't get away with at work these days. Weslo skipped the coffee routine, told Beth to unbutton her blouse and sit on of the desk for some dictation. The memo was to Beth, comments about various parts of her body, what he'd like to do to her, but not here. They could go to a motel room, have dinner first if she wanted.

    Beth kept telling herself it was just role playing, the IRS man knew that and wasn't serious about the motel. She complied when he asked her to unbutton her blouse, but that was as far as she intended to go with this shitweasel. Beth looked at her blank steno pad and didn't see that look in his eyes just before the IRS man stood up and grabbed for her breasts. He got a brief handful before she rolled backward over the desk and landed on her feet.

    Weslo said, "You need to be more cooperative."

"What the hell do you think you're doing," yelled Beth. "No touching. I told you no touching. In here it's only verbal sexual harassment, V E R B A L. That's it. This is only roll playing."

    "It's not realistic if there's no touching," said Weslo.

    "That's the way it is. Besides, you're not even a paying customer," said Beth. It was against the house rules, but Beth would let some of her regular customers get a feel here and there, if she liked them and if they knew how to tip properly.

    "You mean you'd let me do what I want if I paid?."

    "That's not what I meant," said Beth.

    Weslo knew exactly what she meant. He knew how to read people, discern if they were telling the truth.

    The door opened and Roxanne announced, "Time's up. Your next appointment is here Beth."

    "What about my car?" asked Weslo. "I want the name of the guy who tried to punch me in the face last time I was here. I know he's the one who rear ended me."

    "I don't know his name," said Beth.

    "Then I'll look at your appointment calendar," said Weslo.

    "Go ahead," said Beth, "our customers don't use their real names."

    "I can't get the car repaired at the GSA motorpool. I've got to use a body shop," said Weslo, "and someone's got to pay for the damage."

    "Not me," said Beth. "You took all my money out of the bank."

    "True," said Weslo, "but you're still working, bringing in those tax free dollars."

    Beth didn't respond, just started grinding her teeth. She hadn't liked the IRS man when they first met, took a strong dislike to him in fact; now her feelings had turned to hate. Beth looked at the IRS man, an arrogant little jerk with sallow features that suited his bland personality. Beth no longer wanted the IRS man to drive into a canal and be eaten alive by alligators; she wanted to feed him to the alligators herself, and watch them chew each bite twenty-eight times.

    "The whole thing is your fault, Beth. You should lend me your Corvette while my car gets fixed. It could take some time. You can always take a taxi to get to work."

    Beth stopped grinding her teeth, started poking her index finger into the IRS man's chest and said, "I'm not giving you my car and I'm not taking a taxi. You can take a taxi."

    The IRS man stepped back as Beth continued poking him in the chest, until he backed into the wall and lost his footing and his spectacles. "Now look what you've done," said Weslo, his face turning deep red.

    "I didn't mean to do that," said Beth.

    "I'm the wrong person to push around," said Weslo.

    "I'm sorry," said Beth. "Listen, I have a friend who owns a body shop, owes me a big favor. Maybe he can fix your car really fast. Wait here while I use the phone." Beth called Ray, briefly told him about the IRS man, that she was in a jam and needed Ray's help.

    "Well!" said Weslo, when Beth returned.

    "It's all set. Take your car to my friend's body shop late Thursday, pick it up Saturday. You'll only be without a car for one day, and he won't charge you anything for the repairs," said Beth, handing the IRS man a scrap of paper with an address on Old Dixie Highway. "Ask for Ray."

    "I'll be back tomorrow," said Weslo, "and don't forget the mini skirt."

    "Tomorrow?" said Beth. "I thought you were coming today instead of Tuesday. I canceled your appointment and I'm booked solid tomorrow," she lied. "How about Wednesday?"

    "I said I'd be here Monday, not Monday instead of Tuesday," said Weslo. "I'm sure you'll figure something out, Beth. I'll see you tomorrow."

    Tuesday morning, on the way to work, just before noon, Beth stopped to deposit $750 in her money market account. "Are you sure you want to deposit that?" the teller asked.

    "What do you mean?" asked Beth.

    "The IRS put a lien on that account this morning. You can put money in, but you can't take it out," said the teller. "Do you still want to make a deposit?"

    "No." Beth started grinding her teeth, then     stopped. "Is there any money in the account?"

    "Let's see," the teller said, tapping a few buttons on her computer. "Yes, $34,206."

    "But I can't touch it," said Beth.

    "Not until Thursday, next week, when the lien expires, unless the IRS renews it," said the teller.

    The lien only froze the account, the money was still there, but the IRS man could empty her account at any time. He had control over Beth's money and could take her car away at any time, all legally. It sunk in, what the IRS man was trying to do. Verbal sexual abuse would not be enough to satisfy him. The IRS man would pressure Beth into doing things she didn't want to do, not even for her good customers. After pondering her situation, Beth decided the best course of action would be to try to please the IRS man, within limits. She would protest, then appear to give in under pressure, until she had a more permanent solution. There had to be one.

    "You're sending an IRS guy to my shop!" said Ray. "I don't believe it. What did you tell the guy?"

    "I told him you were a friend who owed me a big favor," said Beth. She explained in detail how her life had become miserable since she had met the IRS man.

    "Good thing your boyfriend is still in jail," said Ray. "If Cliff heard about this, he'd kill the son of a bitch."

    "I haven't made a visit for two weeks and I don't want to tell him about it. He might do something stupid," said Beth.

    "Like try to break out of jail," said Ray.

    Tuesday night, Weslo was on time. Beth didn't have another six o'clock appointment, but she told the IRS man she had canceled a regular customer and the guy was so mad he might not come back.

    "I see you've started listening," said Weslo. "you're wearing a mini skirt this time. Sit on the corner of the desk." He dictated a memo to Beth, she pretending to write it down, detailing case histories of people who had cheated the IRS or were behind in paying their taxes. Weslo enumerated the consequences that befell such unfortunates: loss of car, job, home, family and even prison, not jail, but prison. "Do you understand why I'm telling you this, Beth?"

    "Yes," she said, grinding her teeth.

    "Good, now unbutton your blouse and take it off slowly."

    Beth removed her blouse and Weslo edged closer, said her perfume excited him and asked if she used it all over her body. He started taking liberties with his hands. Beth let the IRS man enjoy himself briefly, then ran her hand along the underside of the desk and pushed a hidden button that released a sound like an old fashioned doorbell.

    "What was that?" he asked, startled.

    Beth turned around and grabbed her blouse, put it on quickly and said, "That's the signal a Code Enforcement Officer is out front. They drop in unannounced to inspect the premises, mostly to see nothing illegal is going on. Sit down and give me some dictation."

    The last thing Weslo needed, with his position, was to be caught in a compromising situation. When the door opened, a face appeared briefly, asked no questions and disappeared. Weslo looked at his watch; his half hour was up.

    "Satisfied today?" asked Beth.

    "Yes," said Weslo, "except for the interruption."

    "I went to the bank today to make a deposit in my money market account," said Beth.

    "Then you know about the lien," said Weslo.

    "Yes," said Beth, "You’ve got to remove it. I need access to my money. I did everything you asked today."

    "Well, Beth, the lien expires next week, unless I extend it, and your money is still there, nice and safe," said Weslo. "Why don't we just leave things as they are for now. If you continue to cooperate, I'll let the lien expire." Weslo gave Beth a good pat on the rear as he left, promising to return Friday.

    The IRS man arrived twenty minutes late Friday, perhaps testing her to find out if Beth would wait this time. This time the IRS man carried a package. Beth sat on the corner of the desk and removed her blouse as directed. Weslo opened the package, removed a bottle of Champagne and filled two plastic glasses. "It's Friday, I thought you'd like to unwind a bit," said Weslo. "Maybe we can go somewhere for dinner later."

    Beth accepted the glass and took a sip of Champagne after a stupid toast, "to us." Might as well humor the jerk, she thought. "That was nice of you to bring the Champagne," Beth said, " but I can't have dinner with you tonight. Maybe next Friday." She needed to delay the IRS man until the lien expired, then withdraw her money and leave town.

    "You're not trying to stall me until the lien expires," Weslo queried."

    "No," said Beth. "I already have a date tonight. I know a fun place in Boca Raton you'd like, but I can't go out until next Friday."

    Was she giving him a line, Weslo wondered. "What about this weekend," he asked.

    "I'm going to Tampa with my uncle," said Beth. "We won't get back until late Sunday night."

    This was going nowhere. Weslo didn't come here to play games. He gave Beth dictation, more comments about her figure, interspersed with generous sips of Champagne. Beth didn't keep up with Weslo's drinking, but he didn’t notice. His speech slurred and he switched to dirty jokes, none complimentary to women. Weslo spoke slower, told Beth to remove her skirt. She did, thinking she could handle him in his inebriated condition. Weslo stood and poured another drink for Beth. He approached her, but she refused the drink. Weslo drank it himself, leaned forward to place the empty glass on the desk next to Beth.

    "Time to sample the goods," Weslo said, moving in with lightening speed for a drunk and unfastening Beth's bra in front.

    "Do you like what you see," asked Beth, before she slid off the desk to a standing position. "Close your eyes and I'll take everything off." Beth let the IRS man stand there waiting, asked if his eyes were still closed before she gave him a swift knee between his legs where it would hurt the most. The IRS man doubled over in agony, moaning and cursing. Beth grabbed her clothes and ran to the front in search of Roxanne.

    "You bitch," said the IRS man as he staggered into the reception area. "Somebody call me a taxi!"

    "Call it yourself from the pay phone outside," said Roxanne. She and Beth stood side by side, a united front.

    A weak smile returned to Weslo's face as he spoke, slowly but less slurred . "I'm going to extend the lien on your bank account, Beth, or just take the money out. I can sell the Corvette, and put it toward your back taxes. I'll have to look up the law and see what we do to people who assault IRS officers. Think about that, Beth."

    Maybe Beth had overreacted, hit the IRS man too hard. "I'm sorry I hurt you. Champagne goes to my head; makes me do stupid things. Let's talk about this next week?"

    "Maybe I'll drop by your home Sunday night, Beth, nice light blue apartment building with white shutters, right," said Weslo. "It will be your last chance to make things right."

    Beth called Ray from home and reported the latest incident. Ray said he would talk to the IRS man when he picked up his car. Why didn't Beth drive to Key West in the morning and stay until Monday, enjoy the weekend. Beth hung up and packed an overnight bag with a bikini, suntan lotion and sandals.

    "What do you mean my car's not ready!" said Weslo. "You told me it would be ready on Saturday at four o'clock. It's Saturday and it's four o'clock."

    "My mechanic is sick today, said Ray. "I'm working on it myself, have it ready by six and I'll fill up the gas tank, no charge."

    "Sure, sure, you guys are all alike, car's never ready on time. I spent $16 for a taxi to come over here for nothing," said Weslo. "You going to pay for that?"

    Ray slipped Weslo fifty dollars to cover taxi fare and told him to walk to the bar at the end of the block where a taxi was usually waiting in the parking lot. The IRS man could go home and relax for a couple of hours. When he returned it would be dark, and it would be safer if Weslo took a taxi to the bar and wait out front for Ray. He would fill the gas tank and drive the Ford Tempo to the bar to meet Weslo.

    Weslo arrived early and waited inside the bar until six o'clock, drinking diet Coke, then stepped outside to look for Ray. The Ford Tempo pulled up and the driver stopped on the far side of the parking lot, hit the horn once. Weslo walked to the car and Ray said to get in, he would drive back to the body shop and get out. Ray turned on the radio and pushed the buttons until he found the country station he liked. Johnny Paycheck was singing an old song, "Me and the IRS," and where to put Form 1040. How appropriate, thought Ray.

    "What kind of music is that!" said Weslo.

    "Now," said Ray.

    "Now?" repeated Weslo.

    The man crouched on the floor in the back seat of the Ford Tempo sat up slowly, quietly, gripping a wrench. The metal came down hard behind Weslo's left ear, but not too hard. The man, Ray's mechanic, knew his tools, knew just how hard to hit the IRS man without killing him. Ray wanted the IRS man to be alive to enjoy the rest of the evening Ray had planned for him. The Ford pulled into an unlit parking area off Dixie Highway and they placed Weslo's crumpled body into the trunk with the care due a sack of potatoes. They continued back to Ray's shop where the mechanic retrieved a pickup truck and followed the Ford Tempo as Ray drove south on I-95, west on I-595, then slowed and proceeded north on U.S. 27. The speed of the vehicles diminished suddenly as they left the smooth highway and bounced along a gravel roadway.

    The bouncing rousted Weslo back to consciousness, welcomed back with a severe head ache, ringing in his ears and total darkness. He was uncomfortable and tried to straighten his body, but he was confined in a small space, disoriented at first. He could feel motion and hear the crunching of gravel under the tires. Weslo realized that he was in the trunk of a car, maybe the Ford Tempo. The motion stopped, Weslo heard voices, felt the car door slam and was pitched forward as the car drove slowly down an incline. He heard another door slam, not the Ford Tempo, then voices again. Ray left the engine running and put the brake on, then opened each window two inches and got out.

    The trunk opened and Weslo looked into the bright illumination of Ray's oversized flashlight. He tried to block its brilliance with his hands. "You look uncomfortable," Ray said, looking at Weslo. "Let's get him out of there," Ray said to the mechanic. They helped Weslo out of the trunk. "He looks unsteady," said Ray. "I think he should sit down. Help me get him into the front seat of his car. Maybe we'd better fasten his seat belt so he doesn't tip over."

    Weslo sat behind the driver's seat of the Ford Tempo, holding his temples with both hands. Finally he said, in a weak voice, "What the hell is going on?"

    "I don't want you bothering Beth anymore," said Ray. He reached in and released the brake before closing the door. The Ford Tempo moved forward, downward, and into the water before Weslo realized what was happening. The trunk of the Ford Tempo lifted high into the air, then slid under the surface as air bubbles rushed to the surface, barely visible in the moonlight. As Weslo frantically tried to release the seat belt and open the doors, gasping for air, the Ford Tempo filled with brackish water through the open windows. Within a few minutes the Ford Tempo was completely submerged, Weslo stopped struggling and the air bubbles ceased.

    Beth called Ray Monday night after her return from Key West. "I had a talk with the IRS man," said Ray. "He won't bother you any more."

    Beth knew not to ask questions, but still she was curious. On Thursday Beth would withdraw the $34,206 from her money market account and change banks.

    On Thursday the morning paper carried an article captioned "Dive team finds 12 stolen cars." It stated: Mud and brackish water poured through the open windows of a missing Ford Tempo as the car was pulled out of a canal off U.S. 27, where police found 11 other cars. The Ford Tempo had been reported missing by the IRS after one of its employees had failed to report for work for several days. The graveyard for stolen cars at the bottom of the canal was discovered after environmental officials were called to investigate the cause of oily water. The cars had been underwater for months, except for the Ford Tempo. A body found in the front seat of the Ford Tempo has been identified as that of Morris Weslo, long-time IRS employee assigned to the collection division. Mr. Weslo was also designated last year as the local officer in charge of receiving complaints about sexual harassment within the IRS. Although he bore recent head wounds, a bruise on the forehead and another behind the left ear, possibly from being struck with a blunt instrument, the cause of death was determined to be drowning.

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