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Richard Prosch

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Free Crime Story: The Luck of Frankie Irish

February 2, 2020 By Rich

November 9, 1965: More than 53 years ago, my mom — six months pregnant with me — was stuck in JFK International Airport when the lights went out. Nobody expected the grid to be down for long, but the blackout stretched through the night into the next morning. At JFK, people drove cars up to the windows to shine headlamps into the terminal. Mom remembered a nice elderly couple who stood up and insisted she sleep on a bench while they watched over her.  The old guy rolled up his jacket as a pillow, and his wife shared her candy. Mom had several stories from that night, all good, all filled with the kindness and reasoned ingenuity of strangers. She never tired of telling about it. Me, I was in the dark anyway.
 
A few years ago I read Herbert Asbury’s terrific book, The Gangs of New York—which inspired a mid-century wiseguy character named Frankie. He bounced around between stories for a while until one day, I realized Frankie was at the airport on November 9.
I had to write the following story to find out why he was there.
 
 
 

I never had the luck of Frankie Irish.

He isn’t so good looking, and I don’t know how much bread he’s got in the bank, but he’s always been the kinda slob who could turn a turd into gold without the stink rubbin’ off.

Here’s an example.

Back when we was growing up over by the dumps and we both wore the same kinda torn sardine stained clothes and couldn’t afford haircuts, Frankie’s dad used to make him haul out the night’s empty beer bottles.

You better believe Frankie did it too.  His old man could lay in a beatin’ make Casius Clay look like a schoolgirl.

But rather than complain, Frankie held his breath and dug through the trash and collected out all the beer and soda bottles and caps. He used to sell the bottles for a penny or two a piece. Ten years later, them caps are worth a lot of dough too. Turns out that some of ‘em got collectible.

Me on the other hand, my old man drank more expensive brew but I got no caps to show for it. So my luck’s just the opposite of Frankie.

We’re opposite in other ways too.

Me, I’m a flatfoot detective, and Frankie, well, he’s, uh…

He’s something else.

I saw him duck into the john at JFK International airport around 5:15. Just before the lights went out at 5:27 p.m. November 9, nineteen hundred and sixty-five.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I was down at one of the terminals on police business, and I’d just moved my coat and offered the seat next to me to a gorgeous blonde filly, well-built wearing a nice Gabardine sweater and straight from the sticks with her Hooterville accent when I see Frankie.

Well there’s worse places to be than sitting next to some nice trim on a cool evening when all of a sudden she starts boo-hooing on my shoulder.

Turns out she’s a couple months pregnant and supposed to meet her Marine Corps hubby who’s flying in from Europe.

She grabbed around at my lapel, and I thought what if the jarhead shows up now with her paws all over me?  So I tried to untangle myself, which took quite a while and after about ten minutes, I saw Frankie again. This time carrying a book, making a bee-line for a Vendo Coke machine.

So I told mama where I was going, then wandered through a dozen pedestrians to say hello. I get there, Frankie’s trading Playboy party jokes with some bald stiff in gray flannel.

“Detective Tesh,” he said, after telling the guy the punch line.

“How you doing, Frankie?”

“I can’t complain. Fella was just telling me he thinks the Russians are infiltrating the book industry.” Frankie held up the hardback he was reading: Herzog by Saul Bellow.

Frankie was always reading something highbrow.

“Aw, I don’t think the Russians give a crap what we read. And if it’s all the same to you, I wouldn’t go spreading talk like that. People are nervous enough as it is.”

I put a little official weight into it and baldy sorta melted into himself.

“Nice visiting with you,” he told Frankie and disappeared into the shadows.

“Nice to see you, Tesh. Buy you a Coke?” He flipped open his Zippo and lit a cigarette and gave me his familiar crooked kid smile.

“No thanks,” I said.

Frankie was slender, looked five years younger than his thirty years and had a scar down one side of his face where he almost bought it back in a Jersey alley when we both worked for Ike’s shoe company.  His hazel eyes were warm and caring. Not at all the eyes of a killer.

“What brings you to JFK?” he said.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I said. “I sorta figure we might be hanging around, waiting for the same plane.”

“Need to know,” said Frankie. “And you don’t old pal.”

“Olivetti sent you over, didn’t he?”

“Might be I drove over just to watch the girls. You too?” He nodded toward where the pregnant gal waited for her hubby on bench.

“You noticed, huh?”

“She seemed to take a liking to you.”

“I never had the luck you had, Frankie. Especially not with the gals.”

“You’re too hard on yourself. Looked like you were doing fine.”

“She’s a good kid. Waiting for her husband.”

 He finished his cigarette. Then he added. “It might be I got orders to drive over.”

Frankie had been working for Tony Olivetti since Alan Shepherd flew in space, and here we were half way to the moon. 

“You’re still a wheel man? You ought to ask for a promotion.”

“Look who’s talking. You buy Doris an automatic washer yet?”

“One day.”

“It’s always one day with you, Tesh. Any time you want to come over, Mr. Olivetti’d be glad to talk.”

“You got it made, don’t you pal?”

Frankie just gave me that old smirk. “Clean livin,’” he said.

That’s when I see my partner, Jerry Tubb, waving at me from across the room. But I didn’t want to lose Frankie, something being up.

“Can I ask you a favor, Frankie? Man to man?”

“Course.” Frankie saw Tubb waving too.

“Watch the pregnant lady ‘til I get back? Make sure she’s okay, nobody takes advantage of her?”

“Long as I can.”

So I jogged across the concourse to where Tubb was standing, beside a potted plant just outside the men’s room door. Same door I saw Frankie use earlier.

No matter what time of day, Tubb looked like he just crawled out of bed. Hair heavy with gel, going every which way. Shirt wrinkled and tie practically twisted into a noose around his neck.

“The plane’s in. Bobby Mark’s onboard, confirmed.” He told me the gate number, and it was only a few yards from where we were standing.

I blew air into my cheeks, then let it out slow, glad to feel the reassuring weight of my shoulder holster and the hardware stashed close to my heart. The little .38 wasn’t as big as Tubb’s .45 auto, but it packed enough punch to take out a skinny dago like Bobby Mark if need be.

Hopefully there wouldn’t be a need.

Me and Tubb were only supposed to detain Mr. Mark until the D.A. and his special prosecutors could arrive.

“Where’s the D.A. now?” I said.

“Midtown somewhere. Last I talked to anybody it would be at least a half hour until they get here.” We were fifteen miles out of midtown. Half hour on a Sunday morning maybe. I glanced at my watch: 5:19.

I figured we had a least an hour.

“You see who I was talking to?”

Tubb nodded, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “That’s another thing,” he said, kind of quiet like.

“What’s another thing?”

“Word is that Olivetti also wants to snatch up Mr. Bobby Mark.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Frankie’s supposed to pick him up, right?”

Tubb chewed his bottom lip, seemed to be holding something back.

“You think Olivetti send Frank over to whack him? That doesn’t square. Frank ain’t the guy for that kinda job. I ain’t saying he’s a choirboy, but—”

“Look Tesh, you and Frank grew up together, I get that. So I gotta tell you….”

“What the hell, Tubb?”

Something was bothering the man.

“Here’s the thing. According to a snitch I got in the organization, it’s the other way ‘round from what you said.”

“Mark’s supposed to kill Frankie?”

Tubb nodded. “Your pal is a marked man. Contract came out this morning. Apparently Frank’s been sleeping with the old man’s daughter or something and….”

Turning fast, eyes straight back to the Coke machine, I tuned out the rest of Tubb’s explanation.

Frankie was gone.

My watch said 5:25. The plane would be letting its passengers out on the tarmac. Bobby Marko would be inside the terminal any minute.

I told Tubbs to hold tight and scanned the crowd. If Frankie didn’t know what was up, and his nonchalant attitude told me he didn’t, then I needed to find him fast. Before Bobby Marko got off the plane, before—  

And then I saw him. 

Frankie on the bench with the pregnant gal rubbing up against him, both hands on his lapel. She was crying, and Frankie seemed to be doing his best to reassure her, patting her arm, giving her that crooked kid smile. 

He kissed her forehead.

She kissed him back.

Which didn’t seem right, her old man coming back from the service and all. Her old man probably on the same plane as Mark.

That’s when a funny idea hit me, just out of the blue, and it’s part of what saved Frankie’s life.

What if? What if just by chance, the pregnant lady lied? What if her old man wasn’t a Marine at all? What if Mark was her old man?

I took two steps forward, bumped into a teenage kid with a transistor radio cord stuffed in his ear, reached up to adjust my shoulder rig, and spotted the gun in the pregnant mama’s purse.

“Frankie!” I yelled.

He looked up, caught my eye, jumped away from the girl as she brought up the gun.

And that’s when the lights went out.

To her credit, the girl held her fire. She was a pro, all right. A street amateur would’ve fired into the dark, straight at the last place Frankie’d been.

Whoever this gal was, Olevetti had hired well.

In the sudden blackness everybody was yelling and crying and making all sorts of racket. About a dozen lighters went on and then a few flashlights, and when I finally stumbled to the bench, nobody was there.

Outside the terminal’s big glass windows, the skyline of Manhattan was pitch black.

The luck of Frankie Irish.

Seconds away from a little lead pill and the Almighty puts his would-be-assassin in the dark.

Tubbs was beside me then with a flashlight. “What do you think, Tesh?”

“I think the lights went out.”

“We need to help calm people down.”

A dozen or so airport security guys were shouting above the crowd, telling everyone to stay put, that everything was under control.

Not exactly true, but a glance into the outside blackness showed a score or more shadows just sort of milling around in front of airplane lights and automobile headlamps.

A couple cars crossed the parking lot and drove straight up to the terminal windows, shining their lamps into the building.

“Those guys have the right idea,” said Tubbs.

“I gotta find Frankie,” I said, giving his arm a pat.

“What about Bobby Marko?”

“Do your best,” I said, grabbing his flashlight.

I went straight down the terminal about thirty feet, then turned hard to the left.

Frankie and me were both pretty familiar with the layout of the airport. More than a decade before, when it was still called Idlewild and the drive from Midtown was a lot more casual, we’d sometimes come out to watch the planes and hustle the tourists.

We got so we knew the people who worked there pretty well. I mean the janitors, the maintenance guys, the vendors.

Frankie made friends with this old guy named Sonny who ran a newsstand. Sonny would hold back new paperbacks for Frankie when they came in. Just behind his nook, Sonny kept a stash of cigarettes and girly magazines in a cold air return vent. 

Frankie always liked that vent. He didn’t care about what was in it. Instead he used to talk about how you could hide out in it if need be. How you could sneak all over the airport. 

But it turns out things have changed at JFK since those days. And moving through the dark with dozens of chattering strangers didn’t help me find my way.

I took a couple wrong turns.

When I got to the old newsstand, I shined my light around the counter to see Frankie and the girl rolling around on the ground, each of them struggling to get control of the popgun she held in her fist.

“Stop! Police!” I said, flashlight in my left hand, .38 in my right.

I had no intention of shooting anybody.

The girl had her leg up and kneed Frankie in the balls. He curled up and rolled over and she was on her feet.

And my flashlight went out.

Just like that. Weak batteries, bad switch, I don’t know which.

One second I could see, the next everything went black.

I expected a shot, but just like before, the woman wasn’t going to waste it.

“Drop the gun,” I said into darkness.

I could hear both of them breathing. 

The gal’s air coming and going at a fast clip. She was standing now. Frankie sort of groaning up from the linoleum floor.

Maybe three seven feet separated us. About half that between them.

There was a rustle of movement, and then Frankie’s voice. “You need a light, Detective?”

A spark, and Frankie’s Zippo flamed to life.

The gal wasn’t pointing her gun at Frankie.

In fact, since Frankie now held the gun, she wasn’t pointing it at anybody.

Within seconds of my appearance, Frankie had turned the tables. All I could do was stare at the girl’s crumpled body and hope beyond hope that she had lied about being pregnant.

  • ••  •  •

We sat on a bench sharing a Coke while we waited for Tubbs and the D.A., the petulant girl smoking a cigarette in the light of half a dozen car headlamps. I wasn’t quite sure what he’d done, a nerve pinch or something, but somehow Frankie had dispatched her without hurting her overmuch.

When she came to, her sweater was rumbled and she had a run in her stocking. And she lost a shoe.

That was about all.

Just like old times.

Yeah, except this girl wasn’t interested in any of our fresh remarks.

In the glare of the car lights she looked like a femme fatale in one of those old movies.

Word was that the entire eastern seaboard lost power when the grid went down. Nobody knew when the lights would come back on.

“Illayna Petrochev,” said Frankie.

“Russian.”

He nodded, took a swig from his bottle. “Soviet Grey Book. Didn’t realize I was so important they’d come after me.”

“Me neither,” I said. “I thought you were here for Bobby Mark. Thought Mr. Olevetti sent you.”

“I said I was here on orders, Detective. I didn’t say who sent me.”

“Who sent her?”

“Not Olivetti. Somebody a little more official. Somebody watching out for Russians.”

I held his gaze. Then said, “Frankie Irish. Secret agent. Doesn’t seem likely.”

“A man can work for more than one organization.” He shrugged, handed me a business card. “Keep it in mind.”

I took a drink, took my time swallowing while I stared at the girl. 

“You want a Coke?” I said.

Her answer was in Russian. Wasn’t hard to translate.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

When I looked up, Tubbs was there.

“Ready to clear this up, Tesh? Security’s got everybody on their way.”

“You get Bobby Marko?” I asked.

My partner shook his head. “False alarm. Turns out he wasn’t on the plane after all.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said, killing the soda. I handed him Frankie’s business card. “Call the number on there. Tell ‘em what happened.”

“Who’s this then?” he asked about the girl..

“That’s the luck of Frankie Irish.” I tipped my empty bottle. “Here’s to clean livin,’” I said.

“Clean livin,’” said Frankie.

 
 

Filed Under: Blog Tagged With: crime, free short story, gangs, Irsh gangs, JFK, mystery, New York, New York blackout, Richard Prosch, Season of Ice, short fiction

What’s Left Behind

June 12, 2018 By Rich

I was 7 and she was fourteen, and I was madly in love.

Being what it is, memory doesn’t always follow a linear narrative, so the movies in my head are fragmentary bits and pieces, a patchwork quilt of happy, smiling pictures that still warms my heart now, almost fifty years later.

She sat in the back of the school bus. I was in the front, where the little kids were supposed to be.

But she crooked a finger at me, invited me back with a big smile, her long blonde hair caught and pulled by the wind of an open window, dust billowing around us as we roared headlong down a rural gravel road. Me, swaying along down the aisle like a sailor on a ship at sea—landing in her arms (Big hug!!!).

She let me sit beside her and I told her about a kid who brought his dog to school (She got a kick out of the story). About my dad’s hernia operation (That story—not so much). I told her what I wanted to be when I grew up (an animal doctor).

She told me she wanted to be a princess.

One day she got off the bus early and forgot her math book, a heavy tome covered in brown paper with a big, blue B painted on the front (B for Bloomfield. Go Bees!).

Panic! I called to the driver, made him stop, then hurled myself out the door with her book, waving wildly, shouting, yelling.

She was so grateful, she kissed my cheek.

Swoon!

Because we were neighbors, I saw her one day fly past in a blue car with some other girl. And she was laughing.

She was always laughing and smiling.

But in my mind—if not in reality—that was the car that took her away.

Took her away from all of us. Forever.

To this day, I don’t like blue cars.

They put a memorial plaque up in the band room to remember her. I didn’t see it until I arrived on the high-school scene six or seven years later. The memorial brought back all the memories and I’ve carried them with me all these decades.

When I passed her in age, I remember thinking I was finally old enough to take her to the movies.

In my thirties, I thought about her one day—and realized I was old enough to be her dad.

Typing this, now, I could be her grandpa.

And she’s still back there in time, ageless, laughing and smiling with peace symbols embroidered on her jeans and a necklace of beads around her neck.

And part of me is still there too, ripped up by the roots and left like dried flowers pressed in a book with a big blue B on the cover.

Tonight, I’m thinking about what’s left behind.

And who.

Filed Under: Blog, First Skirmish

Free Crime Story: Gatekeeper

June 5, 2018 By Rich

So you know you’re getting older when you refer to 30 year-olds as kids. When you you catch the sly wink or smile of a cute gal, but do the mental math and nod wistfully. It’s inevitable. But more, it’s okay.

We’re not supposed to be young forever.

And how we grow old, and how we grow up, and how we treat the kids—that’s important stuff that a lot of people forget. Or never learn to start with.

There’s a lot (no, I mean a LOT) of bad in the world. But the worst is the abuse of kids. And that word—abuse—cuts a wide swath including manipulation and exploitation. Over-indulgence and neglect.

How the old ones treat the young ones —and what happens as a result—tends to show up often in my stories. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, as in Gatekeeper, a story included in Thomas Pluck’s acclaimed Protectors 2 anthology collection, it includes justice.
—

This story was free during the first full week of June, 2018.

—
“Gatekeeper” is one of several short stories in Protectors 2: Heroes, a collection edited by Thomas Pluck.

Each month this year, I will post a free crime story on the first Tuesday of the month, and a free western story two weeks later on the third Tuesday. The stories will stay up for seven days, and each will feature a “behind the story” post.

Filed Under: Blog, Free Short Stories

50 Shades of Sunday, or How I Made Up With Mama Tilda For Being a Long-Haired Hippie Freak

May 29, 2018 By Rich

Mama’s stare is so hard, so consistent, and so filled with disgust, I struggle not to turn away.
But I keep my eyes level, my unaccepted hand out, my backbone straight.
I’m trembling inside.
“Happy Birthday, Mom,” I say, thankful in that awful spotlight to know Tilda isn’t my mother.
Her daughter-in-law, my friend Jean, puts a gentle hand on the old lady’s shoulder.
“Rich is saying hey to you, mom,” she says.
Tilda holds me with her eyes, doesn’t miss a beat. The battle-scarred she-wolf glaring at a scrawny pup.
“I know,” says Tilda.
I don’t even rate a sneer.
“She’s just mad Fred isn’t here,” whispers my wife, Gina, and it breaks the tension enough for me to make a hasty escape toward the gift table where I toss down the birthday card I carry.
Gina gets us some punch.
Fred, our basset hound, is part of the reason Mama Tilda doesn’t like me. (A recent incident involving a rain-drenched Fred, Mama trying to nap in Jean’s recliner, and a lot of slobber.)
The other reason is that I’m a long-haired hippie freak.
I know this because one afternoon after walking Fred past Jean’s house, my friend shared her mom-in-law’s frank judgement.
“She’s from a different time,” said Jean. “She worked in the mills her entire life. She’s a hard woman who doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”
So, going into the birthday part, I knew the part I played.
But in the near-decade we’ve lived in South Carolina, Jean has become family. And Jean’s family, too is dear to us.
Sipping my glass of bland pink punch, I look across the room at Mama in her chair, stoically accepting her guests, greeting each of them with not much more joy than she showed me.
She’s a hard woman. And I wonder about her.
When we leave, I don’t say good-bye.
And then, one bright Sunday morning, I’m standing in the open narthex of a historic church as the congregation flows past, moving outside where they’ll shake the minister’s hand and greet the noon hour.
Gina and I are picking Jean up for lunch after the service, and we arranged to meet her here in the front of the church.
While we smile and nod, and greet a few people we know, I spot Mama Tilda, doddering toward me.
I can’t tell if she’s seen me.
She’s resplendent in a soft orange dress, tasteful gold earrings, and a freshly colored pile of thick-sprayed hair.
An old man greets her with a smile and, incredibly, she smiles back.
I’ve never seen Tilda smile.
Even now, it’s not much. Sort of an anemic tic of the cheek. But it’s there.
And the sparkle in her eyes can’t be denied.
This is Tilda in her element. With her people.
And her soft, parchment thin hands, knobby from decades of work and thick with veins gently accept the greetings offered to her. She holds hands with the man, his wife. She bends to touch the chin of a toddler. She coos over a newborn babe.
And then she’s beside me, looking straight into my eyes.
“Good morning, Tilda,” I say.
She nods, turns away. We’d both like to be somewhere else, but we’re trapped by a new wave of chatty, back-slapping parishioners heading for the exit at glacial speed.
“Nice day,” I offer, just for something to say.
Tilda nods. Which is some progress.
And then she cocks her head and her eyes light up with emotion.
She puts her hand gently on my arm, and when she speaks, her voice is warm like I’ve never heard it.
“I’d like to show you our upper room,” she says, and moves backwards toward an open door I hadn’t noticed before.
Again she touches me, then gives me a mischievous wink and crooks her finger for me to follow.
Away from the crown, beside an open stairway, Tilda is suddenly all sweetness and light.
“You’ll find a lot of joy in our upper room.”
Not being a religious person, and certainly not a Methodist, I’ve never been in the church before.
Or alone with Tilda for that matter.
“Discipline too,” she says. “I can show it to you,” she flashes me a genuine gold-crowned smile. “If you’d like.”
Swallowing hard, I don’t know what to say.
Tilda’s warm hand of friendship—of joy in the upper room!—rests on my arm.
Her smile is contagious.
Alluring.
She really is a beautiful woman.
The upper room awaits!
“Your wife will enjoy it too,” says Tilda.
Now I’m really sweating.
And she steps toward me.
Reaches around my back.
“Mama?”
Tilda picks up a paper pamphlet from a pile on the polished table there.
She holds it in front of my face, a thin newsprint booklet bound with two staples. A photo of a stained glass window on the cover, a series of Bible verses and commentary inside. The cover is emblazoned with the tract’s title.
The Upper Room.
“Read this devotional every morning when you get up, and each night before bed.”
“Joy?” I say.
Tilda pats my arm. “And discipline,” she says.
Then she moves deliberately back to the crowd.
As I watch, she turns back once. “Share it with your dog, too,” she says.
And she gives me that hard stare I’ll always remember.
And wonder about.

Filed Under: Blog, First Skirmish

The Wheel of Life

May 22, 2018 By Rich

Newly wed, living in Laramie, Wyoming.

And we’re getting to know the neighbors in our apartment complex.

There’s the young couple that graduated with my cousins from Sioux City East.

And a Mormon couple who cook outside on the deck.

There’s a strange single guy we simply call “CIA” because we know he’s a spy.

And then there’s the family in the corner with three kids who become our best friends.

The oldest girl, who is six, comes over to our apartment daily. Rather than knock on the door, she stands at the screen door, points a demanding finger, and announces her intention: “In!”

And we let her, often followed by brother and sister, in to share afternoon cookies or a slurp of soda.

When she falls out of her bunk bed, and breaks her arm, I draw a Snoopy on the cast.

During the Fourth of July, she sits on Gina’s lap.

Fast forward 17 years.

The little girl is getting married, and she invites our not-quite two year-old son to be her ring bearer.

It’s a Scottish themed wedding, and Wyatt gets to wear a kilt.

Splendid!

Great-grandma Hattie is of Irish descent, so we secure the McFarlane tartan.

The boy accomplishes his task in grand fashion and we never tire of saying we’ve finally discovered what real men wear beneath their kilts: Pull-Ups!

Fast forward 12 years.

The married girl, who no longer lives in Laramie, has kids of her own.

The oldest is soon closing in on the age that his mom was when we met her.

And our son is in high school and—if he gets married at the same age she did—could conceivably ask our friend’s daughter to be a flower girl in his wedding.

And the wheel of life goes on.

And the generations pass.

Around and around.

Filed Under: Blog, First Skirmish

Free Western Story: Not Much the Cowman

May 15, 2018 By Rich

Slumped over in his sheepskin coat on a bed of bug-chewed corn husks in a Nebraska sod cabin, Mike Morris realized it was almost Christmas and he’d missed the fiery Ozarks autumn foliage for the first time in his life. Nothing helped his melancholy, not Slick Peterson’s dirty jokes, not Windy Bly’s sour smelling mash in the coffee. At the spindle legged cedar table, Slick fumbled with the slick glass chimney of a kerosene lamp that the wind kept blowing out, while Windy tilted back on the cramped room’s only chair, scabby bare knees showing through threadbare holes in his pants.

This story was free to read the third week of May, 2018.
“Not Much the Cowman” is one of several short western stories in my collection, Tough Job in Driftwood.
Each month this year, I will post a free crime story on the first Tuesday of the month, and a free western story two weeks later on the third Tuesday. The stories will stay up for seven days until the next week’s blog post.

Filed Under: Free Short Stories Tagged With: fiction, free fiction, free short story, free story, Richard Prosch, short stories, west, western, wild west

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