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  Already Gone

  A Passage to the Other Side and Back

  John Fluent

  Already Gone

  A Passage to the Other Side and Back

  John Fluent

  Copyright 2016 John Fluent

  All rights reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond the copying permitted by US Copyright Law, Section 107, "fair use" in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpts), without written permission from the author.

  Published by:

  Passages Press

  Vernon Hills, Illinois

  email: [email protected]

  Second Edition – March, 2016

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Sumantra – The Waymeet

  Chapter 2 Marvin Gardens

  Chapter 3 La Jolla

  Chapter 4 The Hiwakulani

  Chapter 5 Ford Island

  Chapter 6 The Somerset

  Chapter 7 The Glade

  Chapter 8 Rum Jungle

  Chapter 9 Angus O’Toole’s

  Chapter 10 The Pagoda

  Chapter 11 Already Gone

  Chapter 12 The KGC

  Chapter 13 Déjà vu

  Chapter 14 The Mandela

  Chapter 15 Buzzard’s Roost

  Chapter 16 Namaste

  Epilogue

  To my wife, Bobette, I’d be lost without her.

  Prologue

  In the course of conversation, Namaste asked his guru Sumantra:

  What is death?

  I don't know, replied Sumantra.

  But if you're a guru, you should know!

  While it is true that I am a guru, it is not true that

  I am a dead guru.

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  MARCUS RENO was a man after Willy's own heart although Willy didn't know that yet. Tall, thin, with blonde hair, blue eyes and the face of an altar boy, Marcus was shrewd, charismatic, intelligent and totally inept at business. A gambler at heart, he lived by the principle that anything worth gambling on was worth cheating at. Born into money, he grew up in Rancho Mirage, California. His father was president of Lear Jet.

  Leaving the university short of a degree, the old man gave him a gift of twenty thousand dollars to get started in life. Marcus lost most of it gambling with the rest going to a host of hookers and strippers in Las Vegas. Then in rapid succession, the old man would invest in a business of some kind or another and Marcus would gamble the proceeds and quickly run it into the ground. He and his father hadn't spoken in years.

  He rented a furnished beach house in Mission Bay paid for by surreptitious checks from his Mother. Underground poker games were held on a weekly basis with Marcus taking a sizable cut of the action. During a recent high stakes game, a country club type claimed that the dealer, a friend of Marcus', made a false shuffle and was stacking the deck. And of course, he was. Things got heated with the player threatening to turn both of them into the local authorities. The game was shuttered and Marcus decided to make himself scarce for a while. Putting his few belongings in a storage locker, he rented a room in a distressed area of downtown San Diego.

  He happened upon Willy in the Gaslight District late one afternoon while Willy was working a variation of the Melon Drop on a couple of unsuspecting tourists. Intrigued, Marcus sat down to watch as Willy relieved the mark of three hundred dollars cash.

  The melon drop is a scam in which the scammer will intentionally bump into the mark and drop a package containing already broken glass. He will blame the damage on the clumsiness of the mark, and demand money in compensation. This con arose when grifters in Japan discovered that the Japanese paid large sums of money for watermelons. The scammer would go to a supermarket to buy a cheap watermelon, then bump into a Japanese tourist, drop the melon, and set a high price.

  "You Ok there old timer?" Marcus said as Willy sat down on the bench next to him. The old guy looked vaguely familiar although Marcus was certain he'd never seen him downtown. The way he was dressed, shabby but neat, Marcus thought he might be homeless. The wild shocks of long curly, gray hair shooting out from under his battered ball cap added to the impression. There were any number of homeless people on the streets of San Diego and they frequently hung out in the Gaslight Area. If I were homeless, he thought, I'd probably hang out here too.

  "I'm all right, son, except that gentleman broke a couple of antique vases I bought just a short while ago." "Looks like he compensated you for them," Marcus responded smiling broadly. "He did," Willy replied with a smirk, "after a bit of an argument. All's well that ends well. You saw the whole thing then?"

  "Sure did," Marcus replied holding out his hand. "Name's Marcus, Marcus Reno." "A pleasure, Marcus," Willy said shaking his hand. "William Boggs. Friends call me Willy."

  "So Willy what kind of scam was that you just pulled?" "What gave me away son?" he replied rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Oh, I don't know. Just one hustler to another I suppose."

  "It's called the Melon Drop. I use it occasionally when I'm running short of pocket change." "Bit risky pulling that downtown isn't it?" Marcus asked. "No, actually it's just the opposite. As long as I choose my mark carefully the risk is quite minimal. Tourists generally don't want to make a scene. They may bargain me down a bit on the price, but they usually pay up."

  "How do you pick your mark Willy?" Marcus asked. "I look for a respectable well-dressed couple. Then when they bump into me, I make it look like it's their fault that I dropped my package. I tell them that I spent my last dollar on an anniversary gift for my wife and appeal to them to do the right thing. It's usually the woman who convinces her partner that he should reimburse me for their clumsiness."

  "Got any other cons you use when you're short on cash Willy?" "Oh, there are quite a few tried and true schemes,” he replied. “My personal favorite is the pigeon drop. I don't use it often as it requires the skills of a two-man team."

  "How does it go down?"

  "I go to an expensive restaurant in my shabby clothes. After an excellent meal, I claim to have left my wallet at home, which is nearby. As collateral, I leave my only worldly possession, a violin that provides my livelihood. After I leave, my partner swoops in, and offers a large amount for such a rare instrument, then looks at his watch and runs off to an appointment, leaving his card for the mark to call him when the violin owner returns to pay his bill."

  "The mark's greed comes into play when I come back, having gotten the money to pay for my meal and redeem my violin. The mark, thinking he has an offer on the table, then buys the violin from me after I reluctantly agree to sell it for a certain amount that still allows the mark to make a profit. The result is we're richer, less the cost of the violin, and the mark is left with a cheap instrument."

  "The last time I tried it was some years ago at a posh restaurant in Coronado. The mark, the restaurant owner, became suspicious and demanded that I play the violin for him before he bought it. Well, I can't play a lick so that was the end of that."

  "What happened?" Marcus asked laughing. "I feigned offense, grabbed my violin and got the hell out of there. I haven't used that scam since. Say how about some coffee over at the diner? I made a few dollars on that last transaction so I'll buy," Willy offered. "Why not,” Marcus replied standing up. “Let's hit Marvin Gardens, though. I'd like a beer rather than coffee."

  "Marvin Gardens it is. Let's go!"

  As they walked towards the tavern, Marcus noticed that Willy used a cane and walked slowly with a decided limp. He thought better than to ask him about it. He couldn't remember where he'd seen the old man, but he was sure he recognized him from somewhere.

  * * * />
  Chapter One

  Sumantra & The Waymeet

  Sumantra: It's about time. I've been waiting for you to notice I was here.

  Namaste: Yes, I see you now. A moment ago there was nothing here—nothing at all. Just a velvety, peaceful darkness. I was quite disoriented. Still am actually. Where the hell am I?

  Sumantra: Do not worry my friend. I am here to answer your questions and address your concerns. So please proceed—ask me anything.

  Namaste: Anything?

  Sumantra: Anything!

  Namaste: As I said before—where the hell am I?

  Sumantra: We'll get to that shortly Namaste. Isn't there a more significant and pressing matter on your mind?

  Namaste: Nothing more important than where I am at the moment.

  Sumantra: I see. Let's try a different approach. What is the most momentous and crucial question with which you have always struggled?

  Namaste: Oh that. OK, I'll play along. Is there life after death?

  Sumantra: Yes, that's the question and the answer is—yes, most assuredly. There is no such thing as death. Life goes on forever and ever.

  N. OK, then—what proof is there that life continues after death?

  S. A more appropriate question would be—can consciousness leave the body? If consciousness can leave the body, what better proof is there that life continues after death!

  N. I agree that consciousness will leave the body, upon death, but that proves nothing.

  S. Ah, but if consciousness can leave the body, AND RETURN TO IT, might that not be ample proof?

  N. Yes and if pigs could fly . . .

  S. Let's try another angle. Namaste, do you understand why you're here with me?

  N. I haven't got a fucking clue.

  S. Well—are you familiar with the theory of reincarnation?

  N. I've heard of it. Something about beginning a new life in a new body?

  S. Yes, you could describe it that way.

  N. I've never considered being reincarnated. That's all just nonsense as far as I'm concerned. I've never believed in any life after death much less multiple lives.

  S. Yes and that is why you're here with me my friend. You don't believe in a life after death. That's such a shame since you have been reincarnated hundreds of times. You've been practically everything in your past lives. You've been a coward and a hero, a killer and a teacher, a monk, and a warrior. A male and a female. A husband and a wife. In fact, your last physical life was as a man named Marcus Reno.

  N. My last physical life? Where am I now?

  S. I'm afraid, my friend, that you're already gone.

  N. Already gone? You mean I'm dead?

  S. As a doornail.

  N. What? No way! Where am I?

  S. You are here with me my friend. You are in a Waymeet.

  N. A what?

  S. A Waymeet is a gathering place of sorts for recently departed souls who did not believe in an Afterlife.

  N. Yeah right. This is some kind of dream I’m having here! Who the heck am I and why are you here?

  S. I am here Namaste to help you remember who you really are. Perhaps we should look in on Marcus Reno to see what you were up to in that life.

  N. Look in on this person? How are we to do that?

  S. Simply focus on the mural in front of you.

  N. Funny, I didn't notice that painting a minute ago.

  S. It's been there all along my friend. You simply were not focused on it. Now, concentrate on the area vibrating in red, and hang on. You're in for a bumpy ride.

  S. The year in terms of Marcus's time is 2015. This is the month of July. The 20th of July to be exact and we are in a city on the West Coast of the United States called San Diego.

  Take notice of the tavern under the blue awning to your left. The man with the faded ball cap is William Boggs. The young man next to him is Marcus Reno. That's him holding the door open. Do you see?

  N. Why yes but who is William Boggs and what is he to do with this Reno Person?

  S. Ah, that Reno person is you my friend and that's where this particular adventure begins . . . .

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Marvin Gardens

  A SQUEAKY CLEAN facsimile of an Irish Pub, Marvin Gardens earned its reputation for its affordable happy-hour specials and monstrous corned beef sandwiches. The bar and dining area were empty when Willy and Marcus entered except for two old geezers playing dominos at a table in the back. They took a seat at a booth near the entrance.

  "I'll get the drinks, Willy," Marcus said. "What will you have?" "Coffee black if you please," Willy replied. Marcus's curiosity about the old man gripped him more tightly as he brought his beer and Willy's coffee to the table. “Here you go, Willy," Marcus said as he placed the hot coffee and cold beer down.

  "Now tell me what's going on. I have a feeling I know you from somewhere." "So you do, Marcus, so you do. I taught Eastern Philosophy at UC Davis. You were in several of my classes. I'm Professor William Boggs."

  "UC Davis! My God, Wild Willy Boggs?"

  "Yes, my fame precedes me. I recognized you right away as the cocky young man who slept through most of my lectures. I'm no longer associated with the University, though. You might say I'm on sabbatical, however, a more accurate statement would be that the board suggested rather strongly that I retire."

  "I didn’t recognize you, professor,” Marcus said contritely. “That’s OK son, my appearance has changed a bit since my teaching days.” “I do remember a few of your lectures,” Marcus added. "Never really grasped how they related to Eastern Philosophy but the tales you told about your treasure hunting trips were a hoot."

  "Yes, well, the University shared your view son. The regents felt I should focus my classes solely on the subject at hand rather than hunting for buried treasure and the like."

  "How did you get started pulling these cons of yours? They don’t seem to be in keeping with your role as a college professor?" Sipping his coffee thoughtfully Willy replied, “It all started some years back when I chaired a committee for the university charged with investigating Pell Running." "Pell running? What’s that?" Marcus asked.

  "It's a scam targeting mainly online education programs. The swindler enrolls in college and applies for a federal Pell Grant, which currently provides up to about six thousand dollars. Unlike loans, Pell Grants require no repayment. After the college takes its cut of the grant they forward the rest to the applicant for approved expenses, room and board, books and the like. The thief keeps the money, quits attending class and runs off to repeat the process at another university."

  "Is this a lucrative scam?" Marcus asked.

  "Oh yes, there are ringleaders out there who recruit fake students who allow their personal information to be used to enroll in courses and to apply for federal aid in exchange for a cut of the cash. The anonymity of online classes makes them an easy target. Our committee found that the university was not vulnerable to this particular con. We did recommend measures to be adopted which would not put the school in jeopardy in the future. I became so interested in how these scams worked that I decided to try a few of them myself. Hence the melon and pigeon drops. My all-time favorite, which I never tried myself, is the duplicate bag scam."

  "What's that involve designer handbags and purses?" Marcus questioned.

  "Oh no, this scam goes back twenty-five years or more. It was used by smugglers bringing cocaine into the country from Columbia. A mule would pack two identical suitcases for the trip to the States. One bag contained the mule's clothing. The other was packed with the drugs and clothing not belonging to the mule. A small identifying mark was placed on this second bag.”

  “Upon arrival in the States, the mule claimed the bag containing the drugs and proceeded to Customs. When it was her turn to be inspected, she placed the bag on the counter opening it with the top facing her and obscuring her view into the suitcase. If the drugs were not detected by Customs, she closed the bag and proceeded merrily
on her way leaving the other bag at the baggage claim area."

  "And if Customs found the drugs in the bag?" Marcus asked.

  "Ah well, then she became indignant insisting that she didn't know there were drugs in her suitcase. Looking in the bag she pointed out that the clothing was obviously not hers. It belonged to someone else. She was five foot eleven inches tall. The apparel packed was for someone far shorter than she. She would state excitedly that her bag must still be in the baggage claim area. And sure enough there it was. The duplicate bag packed with her clothing. There wasn't much customs could do except seize the drugs and let her walk away. Of course customs caught on to this trick and the scam died."

  "But enough about me. What about you Marcus? You graduated from Davis?" Willy asked. "No, afraid not," Marcus replied. "About 15 hours short of a degree. Since then I've fooled around with a few business ventures. All unsuccessfully I must admit. Until recently I was making a good buck hosting an underground poker game out by Mission Bay."

  "How do you make ends meet holding poker games?" Willy asked. "I run the game with two friends of mine, the Almanac brothers. Together we take a rake or a time drop and work the flourish on the customers now and again. We were making good money until recently when Paulie Almanac got caught base dealing to his brother." "What's a rake?" Willy asked sounding amused. "A small percentage we collect from each pot as our profit for the night," Marcus replied.

  "And a time drop?" Willy asked. "A seat fee,” Marcus replied. “A fee to play for a particular period. We use it when we have a group of particularly low-stakes players." "How do you find players for these games of yours?" Willy questioned. "We alert our regulars via text of the location for the week's game. I also have a number of bartenders and cab drivers on a finder's fee basis if a fish is looking for a game."

  "A fish?" "Yes, Marcus replied with a smirk. “A bad player or a high roller. These are the types to work the flourish on." "What type of flourish?" Willy asked. "There's dozens of ways. Card flashing, shiners, base dealing, card marking, deck stacking."