Counterpunch

By Alexander Connolly

A clandestine meeting, a hitman unleashed, a terrorist attack not foiled, a discarded FBI investigator with nothing to lose—a story that just doesn’t seem to add up and a woman who will prove it to be. So, is the die cast, for a race to prevent a human tragedy not seen since 1963, identify the perpetrators behind the biggest terrorist attack on the US mainland since 2001, and bring to justice the mastermind behind it all.

Moving at a steady clip and shifting seamlessly between the US, Europe, and Asia, Counterpunch delivers above the belt, below the belt, and on every possible side of the belt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781662401817

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Counterpunch

Alexander Connolly

Copyright © 2020 Alexander Connolly

All rights reserved

First Edition, July 2019

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

This is a work of fiction. Other than truly historical events, no other event portrayed in this work is meant to be a characterization of an actual event. Any resemblance to institutions or organizations, active or defunct; buildings standing or demolished; or people, living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-6624-0180-0 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-0181-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

A Meeting

Dougie Master

A Plan

Dick Maguire

A Cell Awakens

A Second Front

Final Countdown

6/6

Aftermath

Colette Casey

Getting Started

Practice Makes Perfect

The Import

The Chase

Colette’s Discovery

On the Trail

The Stakeout

The Confrontation

The Change in Plan

The Hit

A New Plan

A President Unleashed

Jamshed Kamboh

Dick’s Plan

Execution

Redemption

Unfinished Business

Surrender

To my wife Eleanor and our three children—James, Maire, and Anne—without whose endless encouragement, tireless effort, and selfless donation of their time to review the storyline as it evolved and the manuscript as it was completed, this seed would never have successfully germinated into the completed story it became.

And in memory of the countless victims of past, present, and even future terrorism, whether domestic or international; and whether motivated by religious, political, or any other force.

Also by the same author:

Corpus Christi

A Parable of the Christ

A Tale of the Troubles

A Story of the Redemption of One Man

A Meeting

How may I help you? the maître d’ asked.

Yes, my name is Harold Wilson. I am here to meet a Mr. Edward Heath, who I believe has a reservation for seven thirty, Padraig Flynn said in reply, using an assumed name while looking around the establishment. A typical Morton’s, he thought to himself as the young lady checked the reservations du jour. He had been in many but not this particular one.

Yes, Mr. Heath has a reservation, she confirmed. Let me show you to his booth. It is one of our more secluded ones. But first, may I take your coat? she asked.

Of course, but please be careful. It is wet, Padraig answered, continuing, It is raining heavily outside.

Is that an Irish accent I detect? the young maître d’ asked, taking the coat and putting it in the cloakroom.

It is, Padraig said. Is it still coming through? You’d think living outside Ireland for as many years as I have, it would be moderated a bit.

I am sure you hear this a lot, particularly here in the US, but it is lovely, she said as she gestured him to follow her to the table. Making conversation with him as they walked, she asked Padraig where he lived, if he didn’t mind her asking.

Jersey, he replied.

Oh my god, she said, that’s where I am from, just across the river.

No, not that Jersey, Padraig answered. That’s New Jersey. I am talking about the original Jersey. You might think of it as Old Jersey, in the English Channels Islands.

Oops, I’m sorry, she said embarrassingly.

They arrived at the table.

Edward Heath, real name Jack Lynch, could see Harold Wilson, real name Padraig Flynn, approaching the table.

He stood up.

Hello, Harold, he said, reaching out his hand, nice to see you again. It has been a long time indeed.

It has, Padraig said, as he gave his friend a firm handshake and a warm embrace.

Jack and Padraig went back a long way. They went to school together, experienced the pain of loss together, and converted their wound-up potential energy into kinetic by enlisting in Ireland’s armed struggle together.

Let me introduce Manuel Lopez, Jack said. He is our host for this dinner and the individual I mentioned that wanted to meet with you. Manuel was the chief of staff of the last president of the USA, Graciela Rivera.

I am Harold Wilson. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lopez, Padraig said, reaching out his hand.

The pleasure is mine, Manuel Lopez replied, adding, call me Manuel.

And please, call me Harold, Padraig answered.

Sit, sit. Jack gestured to them both. They all sat down. As he did so, Padraig discreetly wiped his now noticeably wet hand on his leg under the table. The amount of sweat on Manuel Lopez’s hand was definitely noteworthy.

As confident and calm as he looks, something about the occasion has him nervous, Padraig thought.

Your waiter will be along shortly to take your order for a cocktail to sip over as you look at our menu, the maître d’ said as she lifted the one place setting not to be used and left them to their conversation.

First time in New York, Manuel said to Padraig, attempting to make some small talk before they got serious.

No, I have been here many times, Padraig answered, but I think this is the first time I have experienced rain that reminds me of Ireland. Of course, I am usually here in spring or summer, never in November. I’ll make a note to self to stick with spring or summer visits. They all laughed.

Jack interjected, Let me begin. Harold, we have a job for you. A job unlike any you have ever undertaken before.

Padraig was about to say something when the waiter came over. Gentlemen, my name is Mort, no relation to the proprietor, he said as he chuckled, waiting for a laugh from the table. None came. Okay, he continued, may I start you with a cocktail while you look over the menu?

Jack looked over at Padraig. "Do you have any whiskey with an e?" Padraig asked.

We have a fine selection of bourbons and Scottish malts, the waiter answered.

"That’s whisky without an e, Padraig said a bit indignantly, I meant Irish."

Oh, I’m sorry, sir, the waiter said a bit sheepishly. We have Jameson.

Padraig waited for the rest, but there was none.

Okay, Jameson it is, he said. I’ll have a double. No rocks. Water on the side and a teaspoon please.

A teaspoon? the waiter inquired.

Yes, a teaspoon.

And you, sir? the waiter asked, looking over at Jack Lynch.

I’ll have the same, he said.

Ah, damn it, Manuel Lopez said, make it three.

Done, the waiter said as he turned to fulfil their order.

What’s with the teaspoon? Manuel asked.

Ah, that’s an easy one, Padraig answered. It’s all you need, a teaspoon of water poured into the glass of whiskey. It has an unbelievable effect on the taste, releasing the trapped aromas and enriching the flavor considerably. Taste it without the water and taste it with the water. You’ll notice the difference.

I will. I look forward to it, Manuel answered.

Okay, back to business, Jack Lynch asserted, Harold, as I said, we have a job for you unlike any you have ever done before. We have a high-profile target, arguably the highest caliber of target possible.

Manuel Lopez looked over at Padraig. Padraig didn’t flinch.

He interrupted Jack. Before we go any further, Edward, may I ask Harold to tell me a little about himself?

Me, Padraig said, you want to know about me? I am sure you have all the information you need in that envelope in front of you.

I do, Manuel answered, but I’d like to hear a bit in your own words.

Padraig looked over at Jack. Jack nodded. Padraig trusted Jack. Jack was his agent, his connection to the world of contract hits and the only individual in the specialized profession they were part of, to which he afforded limitless trust. One trust slip, and it was curtains in their business.

Start with your days in the Irish Republican Volunteers, Manuel said.

Ah, the IRV, Padraig said. Well, I was part of what we called ‘the armed struggle’ as a sharpshooter. Padraig paused.

Jack could see Padraig was uncomfortable. He interjected. Let me explain. Harold was a master sniper in the IRV, the highest level of marksman in their ranks. At the end of the armed struggle, he had more kills than any other sniper in the organization. And uniquely with Harold, all his kills were combat kills. He only shot people who were themselves engaged in shooting. Usually this was members of Britain’s security establishment engaged in shooting at protagonists in riot or gun-battle situations. I say, usually Britain’s security establishment because on some occasions, the kill was a member of a pro-union loyalist paramilitary organization. A lot of British soldiers who were out on routine street patrol were killed by IRV snipers. None of these victims were the result of a shot by Harold here. He refused orders to carry out such hits.

Manuel looked over at Padraig.

Padraig spoke up, I considered myself a noble soldier in an ignoble war. Ultimately, differences of opinion on the evolving tactics of that war led to me distancing myself from the armed struggle. I never actually left the IRV. I just became less and less active and was largely inactive when the Good Friday Agreement was signed in 1998. As part of that agreement, the IRV gave up its weapons, which were irreversibly and verifiably destroyed under independent eyes. The IRV disbanded, though I suppose should the need ever arise again they would reach out to old volunteers like me.

Or maybe not, Jack quickly added, you are getting up there in years.

And what have you been doing since you left the IRV, Harold? Manuel asked.

Again, Jack stepped in. Harold has been in private practice, you might say. He has been available on a contractor-for-hire basis for specialized services.

Tell me about your last contract, Harold, Manual said.

Padraig looked over at Jack again. Jack nodded. He began.

My last contract was an international arms trafficker. It was in international waters off the coast of the French Riviera. Padraig stopped there.

How did you do it? Manuel inquired.

That’s not something I ordinarily share, Padraig responded.

Well, it’s something we’d like to hear about, Manuel continued. It’s a necessary testament for us to understand your ability to work in a difficult environment and your suitability for the mutual challenge we have in front of us.

Padraig looked over at Jack; Jack nodded again.

Padraig began. The target was in a luxury yacht anchored about two miles away from the yacht we were in. Both yachts were stationary. Both were anchored and bobbed up and down, making a shot impossible without compensating technology—technology that didn’t exist but which needed to be invented.

What was that technology? Manuel asked.

A computerized buoyancy measurement system, Padraig answered, to measure the buoyancy of a target relative to the buoyancy of a source and that alarms when both source and target are on the same wavelength, literally. That is, the relative position of both is calculated as successive waves pass, and when each is on the same wave experiencing the same wave amplification, a shot can be taken without fear of the buoyance interfering with the trajectory. A long-range sniper rifle with enhanced telescopic capability and a faint laser light in the hands of the right man when that alarm sounds and you have a guaranteed hit. He stopped there. Nobody said anything.

Padraig added, need I say more?

No, Harold, that’s enough, Manuel said.

May I get to the topic at hand then? Jack asked.

By all means, Manuel answered.

Harold, Jack continued for the third time, we have a job for you unlike any you have ever done before. There is no envelope to give you. There is no file to review. This is a ‘say it, don’t write it’ affair. There is no paper trail or digital footprint associated with this operation. It is high risk, high reward.

Padraig was getting impatient. He interrupted Jack.

Just tell me who it is.

Jack paused.

Manuel interjected, It is Dougie Master!

Padraig’s jaw dropped. He looked around to make sure there was nobody within earshot of the back-corner booth they were sitting in. There wasn’t.

You mean the president—President Dougie Master! he exclaimed.

Yes, Manuel Lopez confirmed.

Now it is time for you to talk! Padraig exclaimed.

Manuel took a large sip of his Jameson and went on. I am a member of TAC, or Take Action Committee. Unlike a PAC, or Political Action Committee, which relies on words and words of dubious truthfulness at that, TAC relies on actions. And we are committed to the ultimate action. This president is an affront to the office of the presidency. He is systematically dismantling the legacy of his predecessor. If he could, he would wipe out the very existence of the prior president. As it is, he is doing a job of some note. He has pulled out of an International Planet Ecosystem Pollution Accord. He has pulled out of a Multilateral Agreement on Nuclear Containment in Korea. And he has rolled back much of the advancements made in environmental legislation. He continues to challenge, at every opportunity, the landmark medical legislation passed by the previous administration. He will not stop until he has erased the previous administration from the historical record. Thankfully, he can’t erase the fact that the previous administration was the one that got the perpetrator of 9/11, the worst single act of terrorism ever committed anywhere in the world. Hell, he even tried to say that the Baltimore attacks happened under President Rivera’s watch. How do you change time for God’s sake? Anyway, our TAC has been established to ensure it is Dougie Master who is wiped out and not just historically but physically and actually.

You are joking, Padraig said.

I wish I was, but I am not, Manuel answered. He must not be allowed to do what he is doing. There is a constituency that is committed to this outcome.

The constituency wasn’t exactly what Manuel was portraying it to be and one he probably abhorred, but he was nevertheless very convincing in his pitch.

Why would he want to do this? Padraig asked, Why would he want to wipe out the memory of your boss?

Well, let me tell you, Manuel answered. Remember the Washington Correspondents Dinner a few years ago! At that dinner, you may recall, President Rivera noticed Dougie Master in the audience and launched into an unrelenting roast that was simultaneously embarrassing and funny. This was after Master had challenged Rivera’s legitimacy to the presidency. She joked at Master’s expense that now that the controversy is over and her legitimacy was resolved, Master could revert to working on more serious issues, like establishing whether Elvis really has left the building or confirming whether Bigfoot really exists in Northern California or even putting to bed—once and for all—the truth concerning whether ET ever did return to his home planet. The audience laughed mercilessly at Dougie. Though the room was dark, everyone could see him seething. It is my belief and the belief of those on our TAC that it was that night that Dougie Master determined to become president and wipe out the historical achievement and memory of his predecessor. Whether it was that night or another, it doesn’t really matter. He is doing what he is doing. And we want to stop him.

You want him taken out, and just how do you propose we do it? Padraig said, in a voice raised as high as he dared, given the public setting that they were in.

That is your job to figure out, Manuel retorted. There is $10 million in it for you, $2 million now at the outset, and the balance on the completion of the task. All we ask is that it be done sometime between now and the next election. We do not want him standing for reelection. That gives you two years. That should be enough. You decide when, where, how. You and Edward can confer and let me know. Once you let me know, the deposit money will be transferred to an account to be specified by Edward. Once that happens, the clock is ticking.

Are you ready, gentlemen? the waiter asked.

They all welcomed the interruption. It was getting heavy for sure, and even though they weren’t really ready, not having looked at the menu at all, they had been in enough Morton’s Steakhouses to be able to order their favorites from memory: a prime rib, a filet mignon and a New York strip steak. A house-recommended bottle of red wine helped wash down food so moist it could almost have washed itself down. A chef’s selection of sides helped. It was all small talk for the rest of the evening, an enjoyable evening despite the heavy nature of the task at hand. A trio of after-dinner drinks in lieu of desserts, needless to say, helped with the mellow mood at the end of the night.

As they waited for their taxis, their parting words were We’ll be in touch.

* * *

Jack and Padraig met at their prearranged post-dinner rendezvous in Connolly’s Irish restaurant near MOMA.

Jesus, Jack, Padraig said, what the hell! Is this legit?

It is, Jack replied. "Manuel is who he says he is. That is a matter of public record. His TAC does exist. You can look that up. We don’t know who all is behind it. That is shielded. I just know everything followed all the usual protocols. An ad was posted in The Times of London classifieds: ‘Copy of Darby O’Gill and the Little People needed. Please call 001 [phone].’ The ad was up for three days, then it was replaced by one that said: ‘Does anyone remember the name of the king of the leprechauns in Darby O’Gill?’ And it listed the same number. When I saw that, I knew whoever placed the ads knew our call signal. I called the number using a burner. I don’t know who answered the phone. No names were exchanged. I just said, ‘King Brian.’ Whoever it was gave me another number to call. I called that number and set up a dinner appointment with a Mr. Zepol. Per our usual procedure, I set up a duplicate reservation at a different table and watched for the individual to show and took plenty of photographs. After a while, the individual left. Then I left. I waited a bit, then called the second number, and asked why no one had shown up for the dinner appointment. Whoever answered it said they did. They explained that they were at Morton’s on Fifth Avenue at the appointed time. ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ I explained to them. ‘It was my mistake. I didn’t know there was more than one.’ I told them I was at a Morton’s in Lower Manhattan. I reiterated my pretense that it was my mistake, apologized profusely, and rescheduled for tonight. In the meantime, I was able to get the identity of the individual in the photographs. Mr. Zepol turned out to be Manuel Lopez. I should have known Zepol was just Lopez backward. I’m slowing down. Anyway, voila, here we are!"

That’s all reassuring, Jack, Padraig said. I’m settling down.

Can you do it? Jack pushed. Will you do it?

I don’t know, Padraig confessed. This isn’t 1963. Presidents don’t ride about in open-top limousines. In fact, they ride about in a Beast with a bulletproof body like no other car on earth. They are hardly out in public at all. After Hinckley tried to shoot Ronald Reagan in 1981, the amount of time that the president is exposed to the public is limited considerably. Most, if not all, interactions with the public are with carefully screened visitors to the White House. Even when he travels in the Beast, all roads that he traverses are closed to other traffic. And when he flies, all airspace within five miles is restricted. Even when he is in public settings, he is behind bulletproof glass. And every building that offers a vantage point for a sniper is secured, and every rooftop is manned with snipers to protect the president. In my opinion, it is next to impossible to get to him.

Well, if anybody can figure a way, it is you, Padraig, Jack said. So think about it for a couple of days and let me know. Now let’s have a real Irish whiskey.

You mean a Bushmills? Padraig offered. I’m in. Mother’s milk. One other question, Padraig asked, Harold Wilson. Edward Heath. Couldn’t you have come up with better aliases for this meeting?

They both laughed.

Nobody anywhere knows anymore who they were, Jack added.

* * *

After Jack left, Padraig got a taxi down to Lower Manhattan. He went to the Irish Hunger Memorial down on Vesey Street. He liked it there when he was visiting New York. Not a major attraction by New York standards, it isn’t much known outside the Irish community and maybe not even much within it. Composed of an original abandoned stone cottage, stone walls, fallow potato fields, and the flora from the north Connacht wetlands, it was as close to being in Ireland as possible while in Manhattan, and it was a place for contemplative consideration at any time, but especially after dark on a wet New York evening. He always looked for the stone containing his native county Antrim for the memorial contains a stone engraved with the name of every county in Ireland. Every county contributed victims to that terrible tragedy. As he sat there and contemplated the contract before him, he thought about the morality of the business he was in. He thought about the day his own mother was the victim of a sniper’s rifle back in 1981—a day that is living in infamy in the recesses of his mind. It was the day on which he pledged to find the perpetrator and bring him to the same form of justice he meted out to his mother. On that day, he pledged to sign up to be part of the armed struggle, and he did. As it turned out, he was a natural shooter with a keen eye and a steady hand. It was somewhat ironic he thought that he would become the very instrument that took his own mother. He worked hard to justify it, especially to himself. He did that by insisting to himself that unlike the killer who took out his mother, a good woman, he was a shootist who only took the lives of people who were bad and whose demise would actually be a good thing for the world. He had long stopped believing in a Judeo-Christian God, though deep down, he knew there was some unseen force behind it all. He just didn’t know what.

He called Colette Casey. Hello, Colette. I am in New York. I need your services.

Another job? Colette asked.

Maybe, Padraig answered.

Colette was an old friend of Padraig’s, a former CIA analyst who joined the agency after 9/11 and left after Osama bin Laden was killed. That was her commitment to the country and her promise to herself. She kept it. Her increasing concern about ever more questionable tactics was definitely a motivator. She now lives and works in New York City. Leveraging her experience with the agency, she works as a private investigator performing background checks on individuals applying for sensitive jobs. But she has also been part of Padraig’s support system for years having been introduced to him by Jack to aid him in his research for an earlier contract. As he was thinking about it now, he realized that it was almost ten years ago now.

How time flies, he thought. He began to reflect a little bit on his relationship with her. It was a multidimensional relationship, if ever there was one: trusted confidante; purveyor of professional services; on-again, off-again boy-girl relationship. He thought about the on-again, off-again boy-girl part. He knew it was his profession. He knew it bothered her, not enough to refuse to assist him but enough not to commit to him. She made it clear; there would be no permanency until he left the life of a contract killer behind. He hoped he would one day. He had only one thing to do. That was the end. Everything else was the means to an end. It was definitely complicated, to say the least, but he had a need right now, and she had a way to meet that need. He was just as adamant now as he was at the beginning that a subject of any of his contracts must be judged as qualified to be a target by him alone. He would not contract for intrinsically good people. He knew Colette Casey would be able to get him what he needed now on Dougie Master. He needed more than the public persona. All had access to that.

I need you to provide a dossier on somebody for me, Colette, Padraig stated.

Who, may I ask? Colette replied.

Well, not only may you ask, but actually, you must ask, Padraig said, otherwise, you’ll be handing me a blank sheet. It is Dougie Master. Padraig waited.

President Dougie Master? Colette repeated inquisitively, to be sure of what she heard.

Yes, Padraig confirmed.

May I ask why? Colette inquired.

Not yet, Padraig answered, when you have it for me, I’ll let you know.

Okay, she affirmed.

Now, he went on, I need a full dossier going as far back as you can. Start with his parents and then go into his own upbringing and development through his formative and early career years. Can you do that for me? he finished.

Padraig needed such a dossier for it was an integral part of his justification to himself.

I can, she said. It’ll take me a month most likely.

Can you do it in two weeks for me? Padraig replied.

For you, Padraig, absolutely, Colette said.

Thank you, Padraig acknowledged, now how are things with you?

He wanted to end the night making light talk. It was a heavy-topic day.

Dougie Master

Hello, Padraig Flynn, he answered into the cell phone.

Padraig, Colette here, the voice on the other end of the phone said, I have your dossier on Dougie Master.

Great, Padraig answered.

I’ll be in London the day after tomorrow, Colette continued, Why don’t we meet? I can come down to Jersey. Presumably, that is where you are.

It is, but I have to come up to GB myself soon. I have a couple of people I need to see. Why don’t I meet you in London, the day after tomorrow in the evening then? We can have dinner and go over the dossier, Padraig countered.

Perfect, Padraig. I’ll text you my details. We can meet at seven pm then, Colette confirmed.

Look forward to it, said Padraig. Now tell me how you are doing. They continued to talk.

* * *

Padraig pulled up outside the DoubleTree in Westminster. Colette could see him from the foyer and attempted to rush out to meet him before he had to get out of the car. He could see her coming. That prompted him to get out anyway and greet her with a warm hug. So nice to see you was their joint refrain.

Okay, where to? Colette asked as she sat in the passenger’s seat. She had mistakenly walked round to the driver’s side, forgetting that the steering wheel was on the other side from what she was used to in New York. Padraig laughed.

I was thinking we’d go to Waxy O’Connors, one of my favorite Irish pubs when I am in London. It is just off Piccadilly Circus. I’m not sure where we’ll get parked, but we’ll find somewhere, he said.

Never been there, Colette replied, so this will be a first. I look forward to it.

Once inside, they got a table in a corner. It was a midweek early evening, so it wasn’t overly busy. Later on, it would be bedlam. Those days were mostly behind Colette and Padraig.

What can I get you? the waiter asked in a west coast of Ireland accent. Padraig could tell. He looked over at Colette.

You order for the both of us, she said, I am easy.

Two Guinness and two fish suppers, Padraig answered the waiter.

Right on it, he said and left.

Once he had done that, Colette took an envelope out of her handbag and handed it to Padraig. He opened it and began reading. Then he stopped.

Why don’t you give me the rundown, Colette? he said. I can read it to cement my understanding later.

Okay, Padraig. No problem, she said and began, Dougie Master is definitely a character, and not a very savory one at that. We all can see his public profile. His private one mirrors that. Or maybe it is the other way around. But let me begin at the beginning, if you excuse the pun.

Excused, Padraig said.

Colette continued, He is the product of two immigrants himself, so it is a bit ironic that he is so hard on immigrants. After all, if it wasn’t for immigrants, he wouldn’t be here, never mind president. His mother was a Catholic emigrant from Ireland escaping the aftermath of the Irish Civil War. His father was a Protestant emigrant from Germany escaping the despairs of the Weimar Republic following the end of the First World War. They both came through Ellis Island in 1922 at eighteen years of age without any major difficulty, being released into the care and custody of people whom they knew. I don’t know how or when they met, or know much at all about their early life in America, but I know they got married in 1929 at aged twenty-five and had six children, the youngest of which is Dougie. He was born in 1944 when his mother was forty. There was some concern for his health, her being of the relatively advanced years that she had attained.

Maybe questions about his mental stability can be traced back to this, Padraig said.

Colette chuckled at that before continuing, They lived in tenements in the Williamsbridge area of the East Bronx, where Dougie’s father worked two jobs to try to make ends meet. Their early years were difficult for sure, probably not unlike the experience of first-generation Hispanic immigrants today. You could be forgiven for thinking that experience would be a source of some compassion toward immigrants by the president today, but alas, it isn’t.

You’d think, Padraig interjected.

Colette went on. "Master Senior was ambitious and desperate to begin the long climb up the social ladder. He knew he couldn’t do it with jobs alone. He had to take a few risks, and he did. He played the stock market during the long recovery after the great Wall Street crash of 1929 and, by all means, showed some heft and generated not insignificant success. He started the climb he yearned for. By the time young Dougie was about two years of age, the family had moved to Queens. With the postwar boom underway, Master Senior hitched his wagon to the burgeoning property development and management market getting into brick and mortar, where he bought land on the cheap for development into suburban estates. He definitely had a knack for buying low, developing cheaply, and selling high. I am sure it was this trait or knack, whatever you would call it, that he passed on to young Dougie. Master Senior was both a landlord renting out homes for stipend income and a speculator buying and selling homes for investment income. He was also arguably someone with racist tendencies, seeming to prefer to rent to people of his own race or limiting the number of people not of his own race. He also seemed to charge more to those he deemed to be of higher risk. Mostly people not of his own race. Similarly,