He Might Just Cure You

Episode 1: The Scheme

Edward Lynch walked down the Central Park path in his Adidas jogging suit. He was probably supposed to be jogging, or even running, but walking seemed to be his maximum speed.

Dan Mangan had been expecting him. The chubby man always walked the same path. Today, Dan waited at a bench along that path, in plain sight, and felt for the gun hidden inside his jacket. As Mr. Lynch walked by, Dan stood up and followed him, pulling out the gun and casually pointing it at the millionaire.

Mr. Lynch looked back at him warily, and suddenly realized he could run, after all. Or at least jog.

Dan walked after him, barely having to quicken his own pace to keep up with the slow jog. But Mr. Lynch was starting to gain some speed. Dan chuckled to himself. Amazing what a little adrenaline can do. He aimed the gun at the older man and let off a shot. Mr. Lynch finally broke into a full run.

Dan grinned. This was going to be fun.

Mr. Lynch ran onto Central Park West. Dan watched as the balding man looked up and down the street watching taxi after taxi speed by. Dan took his time. He knew what his target was likely to do; he wasn't worried about him getting away.

A young redheaded man was looking under the hood of a taxicab that was pulled over to the side of the road. Dan watched as Mr. Lynch jumped into the back seat, shouting at the driver. "Let's go! Go! Hurry, man!"

Dan aimed and fired, then immediately ducked behind a tree.

The redhead looked out from behind the raised hood of the yellow car. "Was that the tire?"

"No! He's shooting at me!" Mr. Lynch sounded frantic. "Hurry up!!"

The other man turned around and gazed in Dan's direction. Then he looked back at Mr. Lynch.

"Start the car!" The young redhead called out to Mr. Lynch. It was a ridiculous request, considering his passenger was ducked down in the back seat.

The cabbie hurriedly jumped into the driver's seat and fumbled with the key in the ignition, even as the hood of the car still stood open. Dan leaned against the tree and wondered briefly if the car would actually start. It didn't matter either way; he was always up for a good chase. This might be even more fun than he had first imagined.

"It's not starting," the cab driver shouted. "Get out and push the car." He turned the ignition key again and the engine rolled over. "Never mind. Hang on. Here we go!"

The car took off, blindly, until the hood finally flew down so the two could see.

Dan chuckled again, only slightly amazed the cab driver hadn't hit anyone in his hasty escape. He hopped into his own car, eager for the chase.


"What's happening?" The driver asked his new passenger. "Who is he? Who are you?"

"I'm just a simple man. Please, save me." Mr. Lynch had no idea why that young thug had been after him. He didn't dress overly well when he went for his walks. He wondered if the newness of his jogging suit and tennis shoes had made the hoodlum take notice of him.

"Then why is he shooting at you?" the red-haired stranger asked while trying to maneuver down the crowded street. He honked at a car in front of him, urging it to move, even though it was stopped at a red light.

"I don't know." He really didn't.

The light had changed and the cabbie revved his engine, maneuvering expertly through the city traffic. "Mister, is this some mob nonsense? I'll get screwed along with you!" The driver suddenly seemed to realize he may be in just as much danger. "Why didn't you jump in someone else's car? Why mine?"

Mr. Lynch shook his head. "You were stopped."

"With the hood up! You're lucky the car even started." The driver glanced in his rear-view mirror and then screeched to a stop. "See that Jeep behind us? Please, go in that!"

A red Jeep pulled up next to the stopped car. Mr. Lynch turned, only to see the same young thug from the park driving it. The dark-haired man turned to him and pointed his gun straight at him.

"Augghh!" Mr. Lynch screamed and ducked down, even as the driver of the yellow cab suddenly lurched forward at full speed again. The sound of another gunshot rang in the air.

The red jeep gave chase down a one-way street and then up another. They were leaving the midtown area of Manhattan and heading into a more residential section of the city.

"Dear Lord!" The cab driver cried out. "Hey, do you know any prayers?"

Mr. Lynch hated to admit that it had been a long time since he'd gone to church. "What?"

"Any prayers? We need to do something." The driver had clearly lost it.

"I don't." He couldn't even think of a simple one in his current state of mind. What had he done to deserve this?

"Come on, man, sing any hymn you know! I'm busy driving." The redhead glanced nervously in the mirror again.

Mr. Lynch peeked out the back window to see if there was still reason to be nervous. The red jeep wasn't far behind them, and the driver was grinning like a madman. He started saying the only prayer he knew. "Now I lay me down to sleep ...." The man in the jeep took another shot at them. Mr. Lynch ducked down, putting his arms over his head for protection.

"We're dead meat!" the driver shouted out.

"If I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take ...." Mr. Lynch sobbed through the words.

"Not that prayer! Shut up! Shut up!" The driver seemed agitated. His freckles stood out white against his face, contrasting with the red stubble of beard. He came to a stop and opened the door. "Go away! Don't follow me!" the cabbie shouted as he leapt out of the car. "You'll get me killed."

Mr. Lynch followed him anyway. They raced down the sidewalk, the cab driver yelling "Stop! Shoo!" the whole time.

"Please, man!" Mr. Lynch was clinging desperately to the other man. Or, he would've been, if he could have kept up with him. He was scared and did not want to be alone.

"I'm outta here!" The younger, more-fit man jumped over a fence and ran off.

Mr. Lynch managed to clamber over after him. The two ran up and down alley ways, in between buildings. The older man kept following the cabbie, feeling some odd sense of security that he wasn't alone in this bizarre situation.

Suddenly, the thug from the park ran into the same cleared section by the apartments as they had. Mr. Lynch stopped and ducked back behind a tree. The villain hadn't seen him apparently; he continued to run after the cab driver.

He waited a few seconds to catch his breath. He was just about to leave his hiding spot when the dark-haired, gun-wielding youngster was back. Another shot was fired.

Mr. Lynch ran blindly and then he saw the red-haired driver again. He meant to run after him but accidentally ran smack into him.

"You again?" The man shook his head. "Get away from me!" He ran in another direction.

Mr. Lynch followed him. "Please! Help me! Don't leave me!"

The red-haired kid was fast, but Mr. Lynch found the adrenaline was helping him keep up. He could hear the shots being fired behind him the whole time, and was thankfully amazed that he hadn't yet been hit. The young man in front of him ran into a door, and Mr. Lynch ran in right behind him, shutting it as he did. "Quick! Call the cops!" he called out to the men sitting in the room.

The redhead was moving slowly now, pulling off his beige dress-shirt, revealing a white tank top underneath that showed off his muscular build.

Other men in the room looked up and smiled at him. "Good morning, sir!" one of them called out.

"Welcome. Some tea?" A rough-looking kid with a toothbrush in his hand asked.

"Hey, Red ... here ...." Another man in the room handed the redhead a clean, bright green shirt.

"How's life, Lynch?" An older man sat on one of the chairs, grinning at him.

Mr. Lynch was shocked. He stared back at the familiar face. That man shouldn't even be in New York. "You? Here?" He really didn't know what to think.

"Call your wife." The redheaded taxi driver tossed a cheap cell phone at him.

He reached to catch it instinctively, and then stared at the object in his hand, still unsure what the cab driver expected of him.

"Tell her you've been kidnapped. Two million, cash. Got it?" He wandered over to a pocket billiards table and picked up a cue stick. He studied the table for a few seconds and then took a shot.

"Kidnapped?" he echoed weakly. "But ...." The cab driver had kidnapped him? No, he had followed the driver willingly. None of this was making any sense. "Why?"

The redhead turned back to him and shrugged. "You borrowed money; you didn't return it on time."

The door behind Mr. Lynch swung open and the thug with the gun burst in.

The redhead addressed him harshly. "Dan, I said, 'point the gun', not 'shoot all over Manhattan'."

Mr. Lynch's jaw dropped open. The thug from the park and the cabbie whose car had been so handy, they were in on it together. It had all been an elaborate ruse to get him here. And, even recognizing the man sitting relaxed on the couch, he still wasn't exactly sure why.

"Chill out, Jimmy." Dan looked down at the gun in his hand. "They're fake bullets. Lifted them off the riot gear from that protest in the park last week. They just sting a bit."

Mr. Lynch didn't know what was going on, but he saw an opportunity to escape. He wasn't worried about the thug; the gun was no longer a threat. He turned to leave out the still open door, but Dan grabbed him and held the gun to his head. "Hey, Lynch. At this range, even these rubber bullets can do the job."

Mr. Lynch breathed out slowly. He was stuck here after all. "Who are you people?" He eyed the man who had addressed him earlier—the man he knew—still not sure if he was actually the one behind all this.

"We're social workers," Dan answered, lowering the gun slightly.

"Loan Default Prevention Specialists," Jim clarified.

"You owe him two million." Dan pointed to the man sitting calmly on the couch and dragged Mr. Lynch over to him. "Pay up. Go home."

Mr. Lynch sat down. He glanced at the phone still in his hand, wondering if he could place an emergency call. He turned his gaze to the man in front of him. "But, Monty, you know I paid Mr. Orlando that money back in time."

Monty Wilson shrugged his shoulders. "Pedro Orlando swindled me; took all my money and fled to Mexico City. I don't care what deal the two of you guys had; I want my money."

"But it was you who asked me to pay him!" Mr. Lynch shook his head. "You told me to give the money to Pedro."

"I don't care!" Monty raised his voice. "I want my money back."

"Hang on." Jim had been playing pool with one of the other toughs in the room. He straightened up again and looked over his shoulder at the two of them. "You paid his money back to this Mr. Orlando?"

"Yes! He told me to! Ask him." Mr. Lynch pointed at his brother-in-law.

"What does he care?" Mr. Wilson replied.

"Shh." Jim put a finger to his lips. He turned around to face the two squabbling men.

"Monty, you made a big mistake." Jim walked over to them. "Lynch, go home."

Mr. Lynch dropped the phone on the coffee table and walked over to the door, glad to get out of there with his life. He had never cared for Montague Wilson and wished the man had stayed lost. When he had first shown up at their house in Sleepyside, he had half-hoped the man was an imposter. But when he hadn't tried to scheme them out of money and had invited them out to his own thriving dude ranch out in Arizona, he had warmed up to his wife's brother, slightly. And, for what it was worth, his brother-in-law had lent him some money when one of his investments went south.

He walked out of the room and shut the door behind him. He was about to take off, but what would his wife think if he left her brother there to face the gang or mob or whatever they were—especially after he had helped them in their time of need? He stood just outside, crouching behind the door, hoping to listen.

He heard Jim talk to Monty. "And, you, call your wife."

"But ... I don't have a wife," Monty protested.

Mr. Lynch peered through the crack between the door and the wall. It was a thin door, and this was obviously not a well-cared for building. He was able to see a little bit inside if he squinted just right.

"Don't get me riled up or ...." Dan walked past his view, a switchblade flipping open and shut in his hand. Mr. Lynch wondered when he'd put the gun down and picked that up. "You'll be riding home in three different bags. Tell someone to send one million because you've been kidnapped."

"Wait ... what? Are you holding me for ransom?" Monty seemed surprised that these unscrupulous guys would turn on him.

Mr. Lynch couldn't make out the short response one of them gave.

"Why one million?" Monty asked.

"Because you were dishonest," Jim told him. "My father says, 'Don't be dishonest, and don't tolerate dishonesty.' Now, call your wife. Or your mother. Or your sister. Whatever relative you have that will deliver the money for you."

Mr. Lynch rolled his eyes, still crouched behind the partially-open door. This mobster is punishing my brother-in-law for dishonesty? He hoped Monty didn't call Caroline, but he probably would.

A man came up beside him, looking at him curiously. He was holding a letter of some sort in his hand. "Are you James Winthrop Frayne the Second?"

Mr. Lynch shook his head wordlessly, pointing to the closed door.

The delivery man knocked at the door, and Mr. Lynch decided to make his getaway before that gang inside changed their minds about letting him go. Hopefully he could get in touch with Caroline before Monty did.


The knock on the door sounded again. Jim looked around the room. He glanced at one of the other thugs in a black t-shirt. "Mikey, you grab Monty."

"Sure, Red." Mikey pulled Monty's arms behind him with one hand and held the other over his mouth.

Dan handed Mikey the switchblade and glared at all the other gang members. "Quiet."

A third knock sounded on the door. Dan opened it slowly.

A delivery man stood on the other side. "Telegram for James Winthrop Frayne, II."

Dan signed for it and looked over at the redhead.

"Open it. Quick." Jim gestured with his hands for Dan to go ahead and read it.

The two had been friends for a long time; still, Dan raised an eyebrow. Jim was clearly anxious. He tore open the telegram and started to read.

"When?" Jim asked, starting to pace around the room.

"The evening train, Jim. Five o'clock." Dan peered around, resting his eyes on the pool table. That would probably be the heaviest thing to move.

Jim closed his eyes. "Damn. We're screwed!" He leaned back against the wall, looking defeated.

"Pete, call Crystal. Move it!" Dan watched, satisfied, as Pete ran out the door, and then quickly got to work in the room. His friend needed him, and he would make sure that everything would be ready before that five o'clock train pulled into Grand Central Terminal. "Jim, shave. Tommy, get the scrubs. Fred, where are the sheets?" Dan moved over to the pool table and stared at it thoughtfully. He glanced back at the double doors that led into the dining room and kitchen area. "Mikey, what did you do with Monty?"

Mikey pointed to where Monty had been dumped on the couch, hands tied and mouth duct-taped shut.

"Great. Give me a hand with this, then." Dan hoped the two of them could lift, or at least drag, the heavy table into the other room.

Around him, he could hear the other gang members moving furniture around and scrambling to make the room look orderly. One of the guys was pulling boxes out of a closet and setting up the cots.

He and Mikey got some help from a couple of the others, and they did manage to drag the pool table into the adjoining room. He shut and locked the doors that led that way, not wanting to take any chances that their unexpected guests would walk through there.

He went back to the main room, studying it to see what else still needed to be done. He heard someone hammering outside and cautiously stuck his head out the front window. He peered up at Pete and gave him a thumbs up. "Good." He glanced over to the street. "Great." He pulled his head back inside, satisfied that all the appropriate signage was going up. The car now parked outside was not the commandeered taxi Jim normally drove, but the luxury sedan with custom plates reading: "JWFIIMD".

Someone had moved Monty to one of the beds and had pulled a heavy sheet over him, and Fred was dressed in one of those crummy little robes that opened in the back, sitting on the other examining room bed. Tommy sat in the waiting room, looking thoroughly miserable, which wasn't that hard for him to pull off.

Crystal wandered in to the room. She was wearing a little nurse's uniform, and Dan waggled his brows at her. She rolled her eyes in return. "Where's my reception desk?"

"Here, help me with it." Dan shoved the small desk toward her and she pulled it into place. Then she grabbed a chair and sat behind it. She pulled her hair back into a fairly respectable looking pony-tail and grabbed a clipboard with a sign-in sheet on it.

Jim came out of the bathroom, clean-shaven, and wearing a lab coat over his other shirt. He had a stethoscope hanging around his neck. Dan nodded at him in approval. They would be able to pull this off. They still had five minutes before they had to leave to meet the train.

He stepped outside one more time, pulling the ladder away from the door and bringing it inside to the closet. He shoved the now-empty boxes someone had left out back into the closet, too. Everything was set. Almost. He grabbed a small sign off the floor, reached back into the closet for a hammer that was still sitting out and two nails. He shut the closet door and quickly hammered the "X-Ray Room" sign onto the door. He put the hammer away and shut the door once more.

Then he ran into the bedroom and changed out of his jeans and skin-tight black t-shirt into something a bit more respectable: slacks and a dress shirt. From the pile of clothes on the bed, it looked like all the other gang members had donned dress shirts as well.

He stepped out into the front room, put his hands on his hips, and surveyed the area one last time. They were good to go.


Winthrop Frayne walked through the crowded train station, his wife Katie at his side. He felt a tug on his pocket. With quick reflexes, he grabbed the hand, still holding his wallet. "You're a rookie," he said, not unkindly.

"Sorry. Forgive me. It was on the floor ...." The tough-looking man mumbled, his dark brown hair hanging in his eyes. "I was returning it. I'm not a pickpocket."

Someone in the crowd reached out and punched the man in the jaw. "Was this man troubling you? Bloody thieves all over this town. Should I call the cops?"

"He stole from me. I'll deal with it." Mr. Frayne reached out and helped the man up. "Come with me."

"N-no," the thief stuttered. He looked rather frightened, but Win kept a hold of his hand.

"Mrs. Frayne! Mr. Frayne! So good to see you." Dan walked up to Jim's parents. Then he saw the man with them. His eyes widened with recognition. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Win raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"

"Him? No." Dan quickly denied it. "No."

Win turned back to the thief. "Son, it's simpler to live honestly. Understand?"

"Come on. The car's just outside." Dan tried to hurry the Fraynes out of the crowded station.

"You're hurt," Katie said to the thief, noticing the blood running from the new cut on his lip. "Come. Our son is a doctor."


Dan pulled the sedan up to the Manhattan office and parked. He got out of the car and opened the door for Mr. and Mrs. Frayne.

Mr. Frayne studied the sign hanging above the door. "Wow. Is that a new signboard?"

"Yes, sir. It was put up right after we got the telegram." Dan chuckled inwardly. He did not much care for this charade of Jim's, but he understood his friend didn't want to disappoint his parents. He reached his arm out for Mrs. Frayne. "This way, ma'am."

Mr. Frayne raised an eyebrow at Dan's comment, before reading the new sign. "James W. Frayne, II, M.D.; Private Practice." He nodded and beamed proudly at his wife.

"Yes, yes, it's our son's name. Now, let's go in and see him. I miss him." Mrs. Frayne tugged on the young criminal's arm. "Come inside. My son will fix you up."

"You know, kid?" Mr. Frayne turned to the thug. "My son ran away from home when he was fifteen. But unlike you, he worked hard and turned his life around. He became a doctor. Now he has his own practice. A small one, but he takes on a lot of the charity cases. Many of his patients can't go to one of the city hospitals unless it's an emergency because they lack insurance."

Dan tried his hardest not to roll his eyes at Mr. Frayne's praise for his son. He finally got the trio inside. Jim was still wearing his lab coat, and he was holding up an x-ray of someone's skull. "It's what we feared. Lymphosarcoma of the intestines."

Fred sat on the examining room table, stuffing his face with a tangerine. "Will I live, doc?"

Mikey, also wearing a white lab coat, nodded at the man. "Yes, of course. Because only Dr. James Winthrop Frayne knows the cure for this disease."

Jim lowered the x-ray. "Father, you're here!" He went over to greet them, shaking his father's hand.

"How are you, Ma?" He smiled somewhat shyly at his mother.

"Fine. Fine. How are you?" She reached out and hugged him briefly.

"I'm great." He grinned.

"Great?" Dan turned to the scumbag next to him, his lip still bleeding from the earlier hit in the train station. "He works day and night, ignoring his own health."

"That's my son! Always selfless." Mr. Frayne beamed.

"Thanks, Father." Jim gave an almost imperceptible warning glare to the criminal with the Fraynes.

His father pulled Luke, the thug, forward. "Oh, and look at this young man. He's bleeding." He turned to the man. "The doctor will fix you right up."

Dan snickered.

Luke looked positively frightened. "You? A doctor?" he managed to finally ask.

"Dr. Andrews, it's a deep cut; an emergency." Jim grabbed Luke and pushed him into Mikey's hands.

Mikey quickly pulled Luke into the small bedroom off to the side, barely opening the door wide enough for anyone to see through it, and just as quickly pulled the door closed behind him.

"Don't worry." Jim grinned. "Dr. Andrews will deal with him. You must be tired. Do you want to rest?"

Mrs. Frayne shook her head in protest. "Seeing you makes us less weary."

A scream could be heard from behind the door.

"What's happening?" Mrs. Frayne peered at the door, looking very concerned.

"They're punching—" Dan started to explain.

"Stitching," Jim corrected. "Stitching him up; it's painful." He mimed the act of pulling a needle through his lips.

Suddenly, a woman ran into the room holding a large brief case. "I've brought it. Here!" She looked around the room until she spotted Jim. "One million. Let my brother go, please!"

"Mrs. Lynch? You're Mr. Wilson's sister?" Jim strode quickly across the room and pulled the sheet down over Monty's head. He was angled so that his parents couldn't make out the person he was looking at.

The woman nodded. Her eyes filled with dread as she saw that her brother had a sheet over him as if he were dead.

Jim shook his head and placed the sheet back. He turned back to Mrs. Lynch and pasted a serious expression on his face. "I'm very sorry, ma'am. If money could save lives, then the rich would never die."

Mr. Frayne smiled sympathetically at Mrs. Lynch.

"Dan, help the lady." Jim pointed to the frazzled woman.

"Huh?" Dan stood up straighter. "Yes, doctor." He turned to the distraught woman and held his arm out for her. "Ma'am?"

"But ... I ...." Mrs. Lynch looked like she was about to protest.

Dan quickly grabbed a hold of her arm and pulled her toward the door. "Please come with me."

Mrs. Frayne touched the lady on her arm, stopping them. Her eyes conveyed her sincere condolences. "I am so sorry for your loss."

Dan stifled a snicker and led Mrs. Lynch outside, even as Jim was making up some disease from which the woman's brother had suffered.

Once they were clear of the office, Dan took the brief case from her. "Is this all of it?"

"Yes. Yes." Mrs. Lynch looked like she was near tears. "But ... am I too late?"

"Chill out, lady. Go sit in the car or something. He's fine. He'll be right out." He turned to go back into the office.

Mikey was dragging Luke outside to the curb, beating him as they went.

"Damned rodent! Beat it!" Dan managed to hit the former gang member with the case as he ran off, his tail between his legs.

He went back inside to see Mr. Frayne leaning over Fred. "Are you okay?" the older gentleman asked. "I'm sure I've seen you here before."

"No. It's ...." Fred looked like he was trying to think of some illness he should have. "I'm ... I'm ...." He looked around the room nervously. Then he clutched at his chest over his heart and tried to fake a heart attack. It was completely overacted, utterly unbelievable, and yet, the Fraynes seemed to believe him.

"Dr. Andrews?" Jim looked around the room and saw that Mikey had followed Dan inside. "Take my parents outside, quick. Nurse!"

Crystal looked up from the reception desk. "Yes, doctor?"

"Get me a sedative." Jim leaned over Fred and pretended to try to pump his heart back into action. As soon as he saw that his parents were out of the room, he slapped Fred hard across the cheek.

Fred recoiled, but then held his hands up in a shrug. "What?"

"You over-acting piece of crap." Jim clutched at his own heart and faked an over-dramatic heart attack, to demonstrate how he had acted. Then he pointed to Tommy, who now looked like he was about to pass out in the waiting area. "Look at him. What a natural actor he is! He's been acting sick for three years and Father's never recognized him." Jim slapped him on the head again.

Meanwhile, Dan took advantage of the elder Fraynes' absence. He strode across the room to where Monty Wilson still lay on the gurney and pulled off the sheet. Monty stared up at him, his eyes wild, but his mouth was firmly duct-taped shut. "Get up, you jerk. You're cured. Now, get out!"

Monty sat up, hesitantly, and Dan pulled the duct tape off his mouth but didn't bother to untie his hands. "What the hell is going on?" Monty demanded.

Dan shoved the gurney toward the door, letting it roll on its own. "It's a long story. Scram!"


Dan found Jim sitting near the edge of the large reservoir in Central Park. He approached him slowly.

The redhead didn't even acknowledge him.

Dan sat down next to him. The breeze was causing the water to ripple; it was very peaceful here. "Jim, if it hurts you so much, why don't you just tell your father the truth?"

Jim kept staring at the water.

"Explain to him that in this city, a mob boss gets more respect than any doctor." Dan picked up a stone and tried to skip it across the surface.

Jim turned to him. He picked up another stone and did skip it. He always had been a bit of a show-off. But the ploy had worked. Jim spoke. "He'd die if he found out. It's just seven days of drama, Dan. They'll leave at the end of the week and we can go back to our normal routine. Let it be. Okay?"

Dan nodded. It was like this every visit. The huge fuss and rigmarole to put up the pretense that James Winthrop Frayne, II, was a doctor: someone who would make his father proud.

Author's Notes:

Word count: 5,010

Huge thanks to Jenn, Dana, and Trish for editing this for me. They have all given me very helpful critiques and feedback, not to mention fixing numerous comma issues, a few typos, and even some verb tenses. I'm always amazed that no matter how many people I ask to edit, while they all find a lot of the same grammar or typo issues, they also always find different things to help improve the story.

This is, far past the deadline, a CWE #6, starring:
James Winthrop Frayne, II, Dan Mangan, Matthew Wheeler, and Honey Wheeler.
Also starring (in order of appearance): Mikey—the Cowhand, Winthrop Frayne, Katje Frayne, Brian Belden, Peter Belden, and Edward Maypenny.
Guest appearances in this episode: Edward Lynch, Montague Wilson, Luke—the Cowhand, Crystal—the Cowhand, Caroline Lynch, and a few other Cowhands.

I have a feeling no one will actually know this movie. But I'm not going to name it just yet, in case anyone does want to hazard a guess. I will give you a hint. It's a Bollywood. Moving the action from Mumbai to Manhattan posed quite a few challenges. Things are different in New York, and I will be asking people to really suspend their disbelief at some of the upcoming situations. But I have fabulous editors who have given me some ideas, so hopefully I can manage to make this work somehow.

Monty Wilson: real or imposter? Well, kinda both. No, he's really Caroline's brother. He's just got some characteristics from the fake Uncle Monty thrown in there. ;)

I must thank my sister for inspiring me, and also for helping me cast this particular movie; not to mention semi-permanently lending me her copy of the movie. Thank you, Sylvia!

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All copyrighted material and characters are used with no permission whatsoever but with tons of love and admiration.

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