The Racketeer

he’s the guy who’s behind these accusations; says he and Bannister were friends and talked at length about Judge Fawcett and his dirty work. He’s really bitter at Bannister.”
    “When can I see my brother?”
    “Not until Saturday, regular visitation. I’ll go back to the jail this afternoon with a copy of the indictment. I can pass along any messages if you’d like.”
    “Sure, tell him to keep his mouth shut.”
    “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

CHAPTER 20
    T he details are vague and unlikely to become clearer. Pat Surhoff is willing to tell me that the clinic is a part of the U.S. Army hospital at Fort Carson, but that would be hard to deny. He cautiously says that the clinic specializes in RAM—radical appearance modification—and is used by several agencies of the federal government. The plastic surgeons are some of the best and have worked on a lot of faces that might otherwise get blown off if not radically modified. I grill him just to watch him squirm, but he does not divulge much else. After my surgery, I will convalesce here for two months before moving on.
    My first appointment is with a therapist of some variety who wants to make sure I’m ready for the jolting experience of changing not only names but faces as well. She’s pleasant and thoughtful, and I easily convince her that I’m eager to move on.
    The second meeting is with two doctors, both male, and a female nurse. The woman is needed for the feminine perspective of how I will look afterward. It doesn’t take me long to realize that these three are very good at what they do. Using sophisticated software, they are able to take my face and make almost any change. The eyes are crucial here, they say more than once. Change the eyes and you change everything. Sharpen the nose a bit. Leave the lips alone. Some Botox in the folds of the cheeks should work. Definitely shave the head and keep it that way. Foralmost two hours we fiddle and tinker with the new face of Max Baldwin.
    In the hands of less experienced surgeons, this might be a gut-wrenching experience. For the past twenty-five years, all of my adult life, I have looked basically the same, my face shaped by genetics, weathered by the years, and, luckily, unblemished by wounds or injuries. It’s a nice, solid face that’s served me well, and to suddenly ditch it forever is no small step. My new friends say there is no need to change anything, only a few ways to improve. A nip here, a tuck there, a bit of tightening and straightening, and, voilà, a new version that’s every bit as handsome and much safer. I assure them I’m much more concerned with safety than vanity, and they readily agree. They’ve heard this before. I cannot help but wonder how many informants, snitches, and spies they’ve worked on. Hundreds, judging by their teamwork.
    As my new look comes together on the large computer screen, we have serious discussions about accessories, and the three seem genuinely excited when a pair of round tortoiseshell glasses is placed on Max’s face. “That’s it!” the nurse says excitedly, and I have to admit Max looks a lot smarter and hipper. We spend an entire half hour playing around with various mustache schemes, before tossing the idea altogether. We split 2–2 on the idea of a beard, then decide to just wait and see. I promise not to shave for a week so we’ll have a better idea.
    Because of the gravity of what we’re doing, my little team is in no hurry. We spend the entire morning redesigning Max, and when everyone is happy, they print a high-definition rendering of my new look. I take it with me back to my room and tack it to the wall. A nurse studies it and says she likes it. I like her too, but she’s married and does not flirt. If she only knew.
    I pass the afternoon reading and walking around the unrestricted areas of the base. It’s much like killing time at Frostburg, a place far away in both distance and memory. I keep coming back to my room, to the face on the wall: a slick head, slightlypointed nose, slightly enhanced chin, leaner cheeks, no wrinkles, and the eyes of someone new. The middle-aged puffiness is gone. The eyelids are not quite as large. Most important, Max is staring through a pair of round designer frames, and he looks pretty damned hip.
    I’m assuming it’s just that easy, that these doctors can deliver a face that looks exactly like Max on the wall. But even if they get close, I’ll be pleased. No one will