

MEDICUS

A Novel

By Carl Ehnis

Copyright 2014 by Carl Ehnis

Smashwords Edition

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Also by Carl Ehnis:

One Page a Day (A book about EVERYTHING)

## Table of Contents

PART ONE

PART TWO

SEND FEEDBACK

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

EXCERPT FROM ONE PAGE A DAY

#

# PART ONE

## ONE

April 29, 1998

It was another fog-shrouded drizzly daybreak. Another broken form lay prone on the glistening pavement, an asphalt-stained trench coat hiked up and twisted around his backside like a sling. It was another early morning stiff in a heap atop a spreading pool of blood.

A gaunt devil staggered and hopped curb-to-curb wailing a harrowing, raspy swoon, "DA MANN HE DOWN DA MAN HE DOWN YOYOYO . . . YO!" He twirled on a bent brown finger a wallet folded inside-out, dropping credit cards, train tickets, kid pix, MetroCards, and a few bucks on the slick street. He careened hard against a stone-sided church wall, whacking his head again and again. Needlepoint pricks of dark-brown blood sprouted on his crumpled brow.

"MAAAANNNNN BE TAKING ME NOWWWWW. YOYOYO AAAAAHHHH WHA YUH GOIN' DERE YOU AHHHHHHHHH!"

The blue and white squad cars screeched to a stop and, soon enough, there was a half-nelson that made the red-bladed box-cutter drop to the ground. It was quickly Baggied by one of the uniforms as three other burly cops squished the twitchy perp against the rough stones of the church facade. The spotlights went up, the yellow tape was wrapped around and the photo strobes started popping. Thirty-second Street was blocked off between 9th and 10th to make way for the deliberate perfunctories of the professionals.

"Wait! Official police business! This is a crime scene, fella!" cried a uniform ordering a black Cadillac limo to turn around. The driver retorted with a few hectoring horn blasts. Then he rolled down his window.

"Hey, you're blocking the fucking garage!" the driver shouted, waving a fist at the cop.

A portly plainclothes man kneeling next to the corpse noted the chauffeur's aggressive tone and started walking to the car. The uniform addressed the driver with a trembling rage, struggling to maintain his composure in front of his superior officer. "Sir, you'll just have to find another. . . " he began, but by this time the tinted rear window of the Caddy had slid down and a pale pie face with a brownish-gray beard poked out. Retro Ray-Ban sunglasses concealed his eyes on this dank morning.

"Lipscomb! Lipscomb! That you? Come here!" said the man in the back seat. The slow-moving homicide detective recognized the man, sighed and trudged over to the Caddy. He motioned to the cop to back away.

"I don't need my employees seeing this crap. Can't you get on with your business and get the fuck out?" Lipscomb shrugged. He was rousted from a sound sleep for this?

"It's a homicide, Mr. Sagatini. There's a whole big thing we have to do. We'll wrap it up as soon as we can."

"Not one of my people is it? That black fella do it?" Sagatini asked, jerking his head in the direction of the man being kneed in the back by two plain clothes men as he was cuffed by a burly uniform.

"Listen, Mr. Sagatini," Lipscomb said in a confidential tone, lowering his head to the sill of the open window. He spoke just above a whisper as he negotiated a solution. Sagatini nodded reluctantly, a sour expression on his face. With the discussion ended, Lipscomb broke the yellow crime scene tape and directed Sagatini's limo down the block, past the body and alleged assailant, splashing through red-tinted puddles. The car then made a sharp right turn down a ramp and into the bowels of the yellow brick building that housed the corporate headquarters of MEDICUS, Inc.

## TWO

He was the son Lisa always wanted, but now she wasn't so sure. "Put the cup down, put the cup down!" _Why do I waste my breath?_ Some of the green juice splashed on the floor, but most of it decorated Ringo's beige sweater and dark brown slacks-—second costume change in twenty minutes.

"Victoria, why didn't you get your brother a cup with a lid! Look, get ready, you can't be late again or you'll rot in detention! Ringo, stop whining-—where is _Monica?_ " Lisa already had Ringo stripped to his skivvies and, look, a basket of clean clothes sitting by the stairs. _Why can't Victoria get it into her head once in a while to carry things upstairs without being told?_ Good thing Victoria hadn't chosen this day for her reformation, since here was a batch of clothes at the ready. Lisa plucked out an approximate match of slacks and shirt that she installed on Ringo in seconds, despite his dangerously flailing limbs.

"Where's Monica?"

"Here, as usual, Mother," Monica replied. Lisa's solemn cherub with light brown curls wore a denim jumper and a floppy shirt with fat orange-stripes and layer-upon-layer of black and red fat-beads around her neck. Monica had chosen fashion-phat for the day. As Lisa finished up with Ringo, Monica started poking fingers into Mom's ribcage, armed with the delicious knowledge that she was assailing her mom's weakest points. Lisa swung around, launching Ringo against the kitchen island, which kicked in his motor. Instantly two kids were all over Lisa, whose hair was still wet from the shower. Sixteen-year-old Victoria was above such horseplay and glowered with disapproval at the scufflers from the top of the stairs.

_"Everyone organize!"_ Lisa shouted, her hair self-weaving into a macramé of random tanglings. The clock on the oven door continued ticking and still no one had eaten breakfast.

"I want Special K and juice," Ringo cried out. "Victoria, please," Lisa begged breathlessly. Lisa fetched a cup with a top, filled a sandwich bag with Ringo's favorite comfort food, and ran outside to warm up the van before herding the kids out.

"William Deford asked me out," Victoria announced when Lisa returned. "It's only William-- _what's the big deal?_ " Victoria argued as Lisa dashed around the kitchen, gathering books, assembling lunch components, jackets, her own briefcase. "It's only the movies and the other kids will be there, so what's the problem? Looking at it that way, it's not really a date so, _right_?" The fact was, in the hubbub, Lisa was oblivious to Victoria's announcement. Victoria sighed—-she'd have to work the nerve up all over again later.

Lisa was having a good day. The kids were in good spirits. She didn't have to drag Victoria out of bed by the ankles, Ringo spent the whole night in his bed and didn't flood the sheets. Monica was cool as usual and her nails were growing bit by bit each day, which meant she'd been keeping them out of her mouth.

Yes, today would be extra special. Earl was going on a third interview with a mutual fund company in Midtown. He'd been looking hard now for three years. Poor Earl's so stuck at that godawful company in that God-forsaken part of town working for O.K. Crockett, that ungodly God-guy, and Earl deserved much better. As Lisa extricated herself from the quicksand of groping kids arms and legs, her mind flashed to Earl's chronic #2 Syndrome.

It seemed like he was always first runner-up when it came to jobs he really wanted. There was always someone else with a slight edge. Mr. Runner-Up, Mr. Short-End-Of-The-Stick, Lisa fumed as she watched Ringo suck from the well-chewed tip of a red drippy cup. She wondered what her sweet husband had done in life that caused his banishment to the dungeons of professional misery. Though, for the record, Lisa didn't believe in such things, off the record a case could be made that she had married a luckless man. He never picked a winning horse, never won a hand of poker. He lost big-time first to Victoria, then to Monica and finally to Ringo whenever the Candyland board was brought out.

The man's a loser, but in the good sense. It meant he'd earned everything that's come his way. No free rides for good ol' Earl. It's a good thing he's a smart guy with real talent, which no one who knew him could deny. Lisa longed for this to finally be the Big Break-—the fifty percent bump in salary, the private office and a modest staff. The fifty percent bump in pay! But, most of all, the respect he hungered for and a context for professional growth, which hadn't existed for the last five years. Lisa prayed to the burning light on the ceiling: If there is a God, please smile kindly on Earl today.

Lisa had a good feeling. She'd had it before, only to see it condense into a humid haze of disappointment. They had all but offered the job to him. Today was just supposed to be a formality. Hell, she even ironed a shirt for him-—wielding an appliance with which she had only a passing acquaintance. Even so, Lisa felt herself seizing up already. They said you should always be positive and expect good things. They said good things happen to those who expect it. Lisa knew damn well that that's a load of shit. Things happen just because they happen—-thinking doesn't make it so.

"Hey, Mom. We're ready," said Monica. Indeed they were. While Mom had vegged, the kids actually took care of themselves—-a positive sign, a portent, of a good day for Lisa.

"Cool," Lisa said. "You know, this is a big day for your dad. Big job interview. I think we're both pretty excited."

"Yeah, sure," Victoria scoffed. "He'll end up second again."

"It sure helps when you say stuff like that, dear," Lisa retorted. "Why don't you try to be a little positive for a change?"

"Hmmph."

"Victoria's a bad girl," Ringo chided. "Victoria should shut up."

"Thanks for the help, Ringo, but let me handle the discipline around here," Lisa said. "Oh, by the way, Vickster, listen up—-Ringo's dispensing excellent advice." The kids were finally strapped in the van, the house was probably locked, a few lights left on, but at least she could back out, which meant the appropriate drops would be made approximately on time. As Lisa gunned the motor, the telephone rang in the silent, empty house.

#

Three kids, three different schools and all deposited minutes before their respective bells. Ah, sanctuary! Lisa was finally alone and Mozart boomed through the van's eight-speaker sound system. She used to listen to the news on her way into work, but the news just made her tense and upset. Unlike Earl, Lisa couldn't just slough off the mass trauma of the daily world as "ephemera," as he called it. The endless electronic parade of shattered lives and acts of random violence never seemed to stir placid Earl, unless it was a situation with a direct and personal impact, such as a familiar name being arrested, afflicted, or scandalized. Earl gave his full attention to stock market dips that could rattle his mutual fund holdings, or a labor action that could suspend service on his rail line.

Lisa, however, avoided the news because it drained her of all energy. She was distracted by feelings of empathy for the stream of hysterical victims bellowing their agonies before the camera and in print. While Earl could relegate the stricken and unfortunate into abstract background noise in a world of pain, Lisa couldn't help being sucked in and it just blackened her day.

Lisa was early enough to get a great parking spot in the lot closest to her building, a nondescript white brick box sprawled over a dozen acres of formerly pristine woodlands and which was flanked on all sides by additional acreage of black-topped expanse for employee parking. Two thousand technology workers were stationed at this facility, which differed little from its four sister sites situated within a ten-mile radius of this northern Monmouth County hi-tech hub.

Lisa gathered her stuff and rushed inside, her employee I.D. badge dangling from her purse strap. She made her way down the hall toward the elevator bank, mumbling perfunctory "good mornings" to coworkers. It didn't register on her that most of her greetings were met with double takes and startled stares.

When she stepped in the elevator, she nodded at the other passengers. Instead of nodding back, however, they seemed to shrink away from her, retreating to the corners of the car like scuttling cockroaches. In fact, some scurried off at the first elevator stop, even though the lighted buttons on the control panel indicated that they were headed to higher floors. And each time the doors parted, those waiting to board took one look at Lisa and hurried off, pretending to have forgotten something at their desk. By the time the elevator reached the fourth floor, she was alone. She shrugged at their behavior, too preoccupied to process the weirdness.

Lisa, who led a software testing group at Imagin, the giant technology firm that, according to the press release, "designs telecommunication products and web-based solutions for medium and large-size corporations and research institutions," was all charged up because she was only half-way through a test plan that was due three weeks ago.

She fired up her PC and started culling through the dozens of e-mails that had accumulated over the weekend when she felt the presence of another person in her space.

"Karen! Why you sneaking up on me like that?" Lisa scolded without turning around. She knew it had to be Karen because the two of them always went down for a muffin and coffee first thing in the morning. It was then that the escalating oddness of the morning stopped Lisa in her tracks. It took the silence and stealth presence of her best friend to send chills up her spine. Karen typically barged into Lisa's office spouting invective about her screwed-up project or her lost weekend or the latest atrocity committed by her live-in boyfriend. Yet today she was a statue, utterly silent. The sight of Karen's stricken expression and trembling body aroused Lisa's curiosity. _What's going on here? Was the project canned? Was everyone canned?_

"Lisa, you're . . . here," Karen stammered.

"Evidently. What's up? My zipper open?"

"The news. Haven't you seen the news this morning?" Karen asked, her back pressed against a panel of Lisa's cubicle, as if to brace herself against a dead faint.

"What news?" Suddenly Lisa wasn't feeling so chipper. The world had gone strange.

"You better go home. You better . . ." and Karen started tugging Lisa out of her chair by her arm. "You don't know _anything_?"

"Cmon, Karen! Tell me what the hell is going on. This isn't funny. Tell me!" This was ridiculous and Lisa could feel herself getting hot. She had work to do. The test plan. The . . .

"I can't. I can't. It was on the TV. It must be a horrible mistake."

_"Karen! Goddammit!_ You're making me crazy. Don't just stand there!"

"They didn't say, but they think it's Earl. It was on the news," Karen began sobbing, and then she turned and fled down the hall. A group of co-workers gathered outside Lisa's cubicle. That tripped all the panic circuits. She hit Earl's work number on speed dial. Four rings and then his voice mail. She slammed the phone down, threw on her jacket and sprinted across the floor. When Norman, her coach (the Imagin word for "boss"), saw her dashing toward the elevator, he reached out to stop her, but she spun away with a whinny. The elevator took too long so she barreled down five flights of stairs and out to her car.

She careened around the complex's circular causeway and took back roads to the Garden State Parkway. The usual speed trap on Laurel Avenue wasn't there this morning, but if it had been, Lisa wasn't of the mind to stop. _What had gotten into Karen? What's with all the zombie behavior at the office?_ She rushed through the toll, smashing the flimsy wooden bar meant to deter toll cheats. At eighty miles-per-hour, Lisa remembered the radio and roughly twisted the tuner knob until it came apart in her hands.

With tears streaming down her face, Lisa cried out "I swear to God if this is some sort of joke . . . What about Earl? What about Earl?" _It's nothing-—they're just busting my chops, trying to get a rise out of me._ Then she started laughing. Hah! A zany bunch, pointy-headed nerds. It's nothing and they're all in on it. _Hah!_

She made it to her exit in record time and, naturally, had to endure every red light between the Parkway and home. When she turned into her neighborhood, Lisa had to slam on the brakes to avoid smashing into the rear of a television news truck parked outside the house—-one of three panel vans with tall aluminum towers and helical cables strung top to bottom. News gatherers patrolled the block and milled around her lawn, some even poked their noses right up to her windows. _They're in on it, too?_

In a blink they swarmed her and she had to fend them off with slaps and leg kicks just to get out of the car. Excited voices shouted all at once and she couldn't make sense of any of the questions. It was a rabid mix of commands, whines, and earnest pleas for comment on this. . . this event. Lisa clawed her way through the pressing mass, TV lights held inches away scorched her hair and scalp, flash units blinked on the overcast day. Lisa closed her ears. _Leave me alone._ She shoved her way through the mob, ripping three nails. Blood appeared on two of her fingers. She bumped against the back door, inserted the key and stumbled through the entrance, landing on her hip as she kicked the door shut with the sole of her sneaker. She rushed to the TV, but the morning talk shows were already airing, the local ephemera round-up covered and stowed away for the day.

She again dialed her husband's number at work. Four rings and then voice mail. Then she rifled through the family phone directory and rang up O.K.'s secretary. Laurie answered and Lisa could immediately sense Laurie freezing up at the sound of her voice. Laurie quickly transferred Lisa to Fred Monaco, informing her that O.K. Crockett was tied up in the boardroom. Fred was the former PR director and the man who had hired Earl, and who had since been demoted to manager when they brought in Crockett.

"Lisa, this is Fred. I'm so sorry to . . ."

"Fred!" cried Lisa. "What has happened to Earl? People are acting crazy. There are reporters all over my front yard. Why isn't anyone telling me anything?" There was a pause on the other end, quick shallow breathing.

"No one has spoken to you, Lisa?" There was an awful whelp from Lisa's end of the line.

"Lisa, I'm going to have to switch you over . . ." Fred began to say.

"NO! Talk to me Fred. Make yourself useful for once in your goddamned life!"

"Lisa, what are you saying?" asked Fred. His phone rattled so hard in his shaking hand that Lisa could hear the tapping of his wedding ring on the plastic handle of the receiver. "What has Earl been telling you about me?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Fred, but please talk to me," Lisa cried, but all she heard from his end was the hacking of a smoker's cough followed by a violent throat clearing. It seemed that he had reached a decision.

"This is really a human resources situation. It is not an issue that I'm authorized to address." Lisa, in other words, was not one of MEDICUS' publics. She could hear a click on the other end. Her experience testing telephone equipment indicated exactly what Fred had done-—he had pushed the transfer button on his telephone.

Lisa couldn't believe that Fred had brushed her off. On second thought, Lisa _could_ believe that Fred had brushed her off. Lisa knew Fred all too well through Earl. Earl had lots of Fred stories, most of them pertaining to Fred's problem with making quick decisions. Actually, Fred's problem was making any decisions whatsoever. Just three more years to retirement-—that's about all that was ever on Fred's mind. Until then, he was just looking for the smooth ride. But now Lisa had thrust him into the center of a crisis.

"Yes, yes, this is Lisa Parmenter-–with whom am I speaking? Oh, screw that. Just tell me what happened to my husband, Earl," she demanded.

"Ms. Parmenter? This is Human Resources. Yes. Are you a MEDICUS associate?" a creakily ethereal voice on the other end inquired.

"Are you crazy? Of course not. I'm asking you a question."

"And Earl Parmenter, you said he was your husband?"

"I'm not just _saying_ it—-Earl Parmenter _is_ my husband! Now could you please tell me what's going on?"

"Earl Parmenter is currently an employee in good standing at MEDICUS."

"Ms . . . Ms?" Lisa growled, controlling the urge to smother the HR drone in invective. Reach through the phone, through the wire, through the mouthpiece down her throat and rip out her impertinent lungs. "What's your name?" Lisa demanded.

"This is the Human Resources Department. Do you know Mr. Parmenter's employee identification number? I realize this may present an inconvenience to you, but, for security reasons, we cannot release personal information regarding the status of any of our associates unless the identity of the requester can be verified. Other than, of course, that he is currently a member of staff in good standing."

"You've got to be kidding. I'm losing it over here and that is the best you can do for me?"

"Unless you can disclose Mr. Parmenter's identification number--it's right on his company badge and pay stub. Otherwise, how can we be sure that you are who you claim to be?"

"You are completely out of your mind. Transfer me to someone useful. Give me your boss–-anyone!"

"I'm sorry, Ms. . . ."

"Parmenter. _I'm Lisa Parmenter!_ "

"We've been unable to verify that, ma'am. You could be a news reporter, for example. So, unless you can provide an acceptable form of identification . . ."

"Just go to hell!" Lisa sobbed as she slammed the phone down. She ran to the living room and threw open a window.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?" Lisa cried out in a voice that reverberated up and down the quiet, tree-lined neighborhood in the West End section of Long Branch. The milling gawkers and news hounds stopped in their tracks, startled by the sight of an hysterical woman with crazy eyes leaning out through an open window, beseeching arms raised to the sky.

#

Lisa sat cross-legged on the sofa while being attended by two police officers. One hovered over her; the other squatted at eye-level. Lisa knew who the hoverer was-—the asshole who gave her a ticket for speeding on Second Avenue a couple of years ago when she was late for work and Ringo was screaming his head off. Back then the cop was incapable of reading the situation and now he shifted self-consciously from foot to foot because he evidently remembered her, too--the lady with the attitude.

The squatter, Detective Vance, was the one who did the talking. She knew about him, too. He's the one whose wife was run down and killed by a guy running a red light while being chased by a Long Branch police car. The killer had just held up the BP station two blocks away, making off with a grand total of $47. It was big news back then-—the irony and so forth. Vance was waiting Lisa out, giving her all the time in the world. The room was silent except for the metallic squawk of the police radio.

"No one told me," Lisa said in a hushed monotone. "I called and no one would talk to me. Didn't they think I would eventually find out about my husband?" Detective Vance didn't answer her; he just maintained eye contact. Lisa's eyes were clear. There were no tears, just question marks. Later Vance would tell her he wore the same bewildered expression when they told him about Amy. They wouldn't let him see the body. Dead before she hit the ground. Last rites were administered at the intersection of Brighton and Norwood Avenue.

"Ms. Parmenter, are these your children?" asked Vance in a gentle voice as he pointed to a portrait of Ringo, Victoria and Monica mounted in a chrome frame over the sofa. The kids were photographed in soft focus and posed casually in pastel sweatsuits. Ringo was curled up on his back giggling as Monica tickled his belly. Victoria looked on, coquettishly chagrined by her siblings' behavior. It was a contrived slice of family life, the new cliche in family photos in these parts. Lisa's eyes widened in amazement when Vance mentioned the children. Under the crush of the day's events, Lisa had actually forgotten about the children, who were never out of her thoughts.

"Yes, I must . . ." said Lisa.

"We took the liberty of picking them up at school," said Vance. "They're meeting with the district psychologist. If you wish, we can help make arrangements for their temporary care. Under the circumstances, we thought you may need some time to yourself, Ms. Parmenter."

"No, I'll pick them up as usual. I'm okay," said Lisa.

"If it's all the same, Ms. Parmenter, I'd like to hang around for a little while. Maybe later you can answer a few questions for me."

"I'd like to see my kids. I should be at work. Can you call my boss, his name is Norman . . . Norman," Lisa said, as she reached for a piece of paper.

"It's been taken care of," Vance said.

Lisa struggled to compose herself, be present in the moment. The shaking of the shoulders, arms and hands, however, gave her away. Vance took her hand in his but she jerked away. He looked up at Patrolman Sage and nodded. Lisa's jaw eased open. The phone rang, a sound that jolted her. She let out a terrible howl, after which she fainted dead away.

#

Tonight the plan was for Welsh Rabbit. She has to remember to call Earl and have him pick up the beer she needed to make the roux. Victoria has dance class, but she'll be back by the time Earl gets home from work. They'll be able to sit down as a family, unless Ringo can't hold out till seven, when Daddy will walk through the door. When dad . . .

Lisa jackknifed to attention. Where was she? Someone was waving something pungent and disagreeable under her nose. A burly fellow wearing a white shirt with a badge pinned on his breast pocket that read "Carl" in red script. She recognized him instantly as the produce guy at the West End Foodtown. Wait. She can't call Earl-—that's right-—she can't and then, like a water balloon smashing against a concrete wall, Lisa erupted in a cascade of tears. It was a strange kind of weepy. She felt disembodied, just a pair of eyes floating outside the boundaries of her skin, a curious witness to her disintegration. She saw herself socked in by people, so many that they sucked the oxygen from the room, making her own breath come in short, deficient gasps. The two cops—-now she remembered. They were still there. The paramedics, Karen, one of her neighbors. There was her mom, and she was crying.

"OH MAAAAAAAAA!" Lisa wailed as she dropped into her mother's arms. Fully invested in the tragedy, the women pulsed in misery like synchronous motors, their clothes soaked with mingled tears. Vance sounded relieved when he whispered to his partner that this was progress.

"The children . . ." Lisa asked.

"It's okay, they're being looked after," said her mother.

"I have to tell them."

"They've been told," Mom said. Lisa's head bobbed up, her back stiffened. She wanted them gone, the whole lot of them to clear out. They hogged her air, choked the room, the air stale and depressing with a clashing mix of colognes, deodorants and a whiff of Clorox. The cops did a good job of keeping the reporters away, but she could still hear the flatulent chop of circling news copters. All must leave, she couldn't breathe!

"I'm sorry, Ms. Parmenter, we have to ask you a few questions and then we'll be out of your way," said Vance, stroking Lisa's shoulder so gently she could hardly feel his touch.

"Oh, go away, young man. Can't you see that this woman is grieving?" said Lisa's Mom, breaking away from her daughter to confront the cop.

"It's fine, Mom. They're just doing their job," Lisa said. She tried to focus on Detective Vance but his voice faded in and out. The ceiling seemed to revolve slowly and through the haze of activity and noise Lisa struggled to process the sounds emerging from Vance's moving lips.

"Ms. Parmenter?" Vance gently prodded. Lisa apologized, as she drifted in and out of the moment. Her mind sagged between the shouldering mists of trauma and Vance's elusive words.

"He takes the 6:02 a.m. from Long Branch Station every morning," she told him, in response to a question about Earl's morning routine. "I suppose he did the same today. We were all asleep." Then there was another question, a doubling back and information out of sequence. "Earl was 43 years old, the same age as me. He worked at MEDICUS for almost five years, I think. I'm not sure right now. I'm sorry." The thought of making a mistake terrified her. For a moment she was back at school, being quizzed by the vice-principal for some malfeasance. Lisa whimpered, her mother reached out for her hand. Vance patted her shoulder and kept apologizing for subjecting her to this interview.

"I wouldn't want your job," Lisa said, her voice breaking. Vance nodded.

"About my other question . . ." said Vance.

"Yes? I've forgotten. Oh yes, Victoria is the oldest. She's fifteen, no, sixteen, she'll be turning seventeen. Ringo, my son, is four and then Monica who's ten." That's when Lisa finally lost it. Her mom went rigid and Vance nodded his appreciation and backed away from the women. That was all for today.

## THREE

A snarling DeMastri Powers watched a tardy O.K. Crockett, the chief communications officer, stride like a warrior into the boardroom where impassioned words were being exchanged among MEDICUS' assembled brain trust. He took a seat at the back of the room.

"Crockett! Where the hell have you been?" roared Powers, the firm's chief general counsel. O.K. nodded self-consciously. He cringed like a child sensitive to loud noises whenever Powers addressed him in that tone, which was Powers' customary manner with him. "What is it? You got important business or something?" Powers asked. "Praying for guidance or whatever while we got fires raging out of control? _Fucking Christ!_ "

"Now hold on there just a minute, Mr. Powers. Abuse me all you want but taking the lord's name-—well that's just out of line, I'm sorry. I was just trying to get ahold of Lisa Parmenter, but there was no answer at the house."

"Yeah, yeah, don't bother with that," Powers grumped. "I just want to know what the hell you are doing about our situation here. What's your plan?"

"Sit down, Matty, you're getting overheated," Gaetano Sagatini growled from a plush leather seat at the head of the table. Powers pursed his lips and looked at his boss, the president and CEO. Then he shook his head and snorted with exasperation as he took his place next to Sagatini.

"O.K., my secretary called your office fifteen minutes ago, which means you should have been here about fourteen minutes and twenty seconds ago," said Sagatini. "I'm really pissed this time. I come in to work today and my driver almost runs over the body of one of your people. I told the cops I didn't want a fuss. But look, I'm getting fuss. My phone is ringing like crazy, the media's crawling up my ass. There are fucking issues involved."

"I'm sorry. I've been on top of this thing from the beginning. I feel terrible," O.K. said, his tanned cheeks flushed the color of wine and his arms folded tight against his chest.

"Shut up Crockett, don't spin me!" Sagatini shouted. "I want your ass out of here and answering the goddamn phone and telling the reporters to get their crayons out of my face! That's your job, for which we are paying you a sickening fortune. I want this whole fucking thing out of my face. Is that clear, flakman?"

"Yes sir, absolutely. But shouldn't we be formulating a crisis strategy?"

"No comment!"

"Sir?"

"That's the strategy. No fucking comment," Sagatini told him. "You pick up the phone and tell them no comment. Damn, wish I had a job as simple as yours. Of course we're getting a fucking strategy you half-wit! That's why we're here. Now get moving!"

O.K.'s clear blue eyes misted up and his large sympathetic jaw trembled. A deflated, O.K. nodded, spun on his heels and marched out the door.

The room went silent. Powers hated the silence induced by one of Sagatini's imperious rants, when the CEO mocked his management team with a palpable contempt—-his so-called "best people." Powers inclination, however, was to give his little survivor group some credit. There have been dozens who have come and gone—-many the cream from Fortune 100 companies with credentials up the wazoo.

But in the end, they didn't have what it takes to make the grade at MEDICUS. Those remaining, like himself, were survivors clinging to their precarious perches in the inner-circle. That is, until Sagatini tired of them, which would invariably result in their swift and surgical separation from the organization.

"You know, Guy, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to stick O.K.'s mug in front of the cameras," offered Simon Rogoff, the chief operating officer and Sagatini's second in command.

"He's an idiot!" Powers shouted as he pounded the table with the side of his fist. "There are _legal_ issues. Like we really need Crockett shooting off his mouth. What do you think, Paine?" Powers knew Paine Fear would keep mum, never to risk making an ass out of himself with Sagatini in the room. Fear was the type who always let others self-immolate, at which point he'd pile on.

"He's charming on TV. I saw him do that tennis benefit in the Bronx and he was every bit as professional as Regis Philbin," offered Trini Dove, head of Operations and the Customer Call Center.

"What legal issues?" Sagatini demanded.

"I'll handle them. _I'll handle them_ ," said Powers. "Look, Parmenter seems to have a wife. Someone better call her and it can't be Crockett–-soften up the widow, could be a liability consideration. I'll put it on my to-do list. Vis-à-vis the game plan here, I suggest a press release and some kind of internal communication to the slaves. I hear the natives are restless in the union. Last thing we need is to dig up that can of worms regarding the building deal—-the security issues and whatnot. Guy, I think the situation calls for a rapid response."

"Isn't that what Crockett said?" Sagatini asked.

"We're not getting anywhere, guys. The situation has to be handled," Fear declared, shattering his Buddha-like silence and, as usual, doing so by adding nothing to the conversation. Powers surveyed the fear-frozen faces seated around the gleaming mahogany boardroom table and realized that, again, he would have to be the one to seize the moment and take the point.

"I'll put together a plan and we'll regroup at three," said Powers.

"Trini, call Crockett. Tell him to set me up with one—- _and only one_ -—reporter at five. Otherwise, I'm not available today," said Sagatini as he dashed from the room. Powers shrugged and rose to leave. Fear leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head and stared vacantly at the idle rear projection screen on the wall. Dove looked straight ahead and smiled for no apparent reason.

## FOUR

Later that afternoon Lisa was curled up in a ball in bed trying to get some rest. She had the TV on in an effort to fill the silence. She could hear the shrill voice of a news reporter conducting an interview on location in front of MEDICUS headquarters. Lisa leaned up on her elbows and saw the image of Gaetano Sagatini, looking agitated with a microphone poked in his face.

_"Mr. Parmenter was a valued and results-oriented contributor to our organization and he will be sorely missed by his friends and coworkers,"_ Sagatini said with a shrug and a twitchy eagerness to make this encounter as brief as possible.

_"Mr. Sagatini, some of the employees here at MEDICUS have voiced some concerns regarding safety issues at this facility—-some even suggesting that an incident like this was bound to happen, given the neighborhood. How do . . ."_ But Sagatini didn't let the reporter finish before grabbing the hand holding the mike.

"Well, Andie, I've heard those complaints but let me assure you the safety of our employees is our top concern. When we moved into this building security was at the forefront of our plans. Sadly, you can't plan for every possibility, and accidents like this can happen. It's sad, but we have to absorb the lessons learned and move on."

"So you're classifying Earl Parmenter's death as a random accident."

"It's likely, but let me add that our employees are advised on individual security considerations that working in an urban environment entail. It's not like he was a new guy around here; he should have been more aware of his surroundings."

Suddenly Lisa's eyes were inches from the screen, tears streaming down her face as Sagatini scolded her husband for getting himself killed.

"But sir, isn't it true that in the six months since your office moved from your former Midtown location, two of your employees have been assaulted. I've spoken with several employees who described several incidents involving robberies at knife point and an attempted rape—-all during working hours."

_"The rape has not been substantiated!"_ Sagatini said, eyes averted from the camera.

"But Mr. Sagatini."

_"Look, I know where you're headed with this and I'm not going there with you, Andie._ No _one on the MEDICUS staff should feel their safety and well being are being put at risk. Our organization has done everything—-everything—-it can to provide a safe environment for its employees. Not to sound harsh, but with Mr. Parmenter it's all about wrong place wrong time,"_ a comment that drove Lisa back into bed and under the covers.

"One more thing, Mr. Sagatini, another source indicated that your security plan took a heavy hit during the last round of budget cuts just before you closed the deal on this building. Don't you think this incident, as well as some others, could have been avoided if MEDICUS maintained a more visible security presence?"

_"What have I already told you, dear? Look, thanks for the opportunity to speak with you, but I have to go,"_ said Sagatini as he squeezed past Andie and her crew and stormed back into the building.

Shaken, Lisa peered from under the sheets, reached for the glass of water on the table next to the bed and took a sip. Than she flung the glass across the room at the TV, missing badly. The sound of exploding glass against the wall prompted quick feet up the stairs. Her mom found Lisa crying hysterically into the covers, bellowing _"That man! That horrible man!"_

#

Three days later it was time to bury Earl Parmenter. Lisa's living room buzzed with muffled conversations. Victoria moved glumly through the house, dressed in a floor-length blue dress, a hand-me-down that one of her cousins wore to church one Easter Sunday more than five years ago. Lisa's mom corralled Ringo while Monica hid in her room. Dozens of well-dressed mourners hugged each other, while scrupulously avoiding a direct gaze into dewy eyes. The mingled smells of salty tears and strong coffee hung in the air. Just moments before they were scheduled to leave for the funeral home, the phone rang. Lisa, weary of the strain of attending to bereaved relatives and well-meaning friends, ran to the phone herself. The voice on the other end was stiff and direct.

"This is DeMastri Powers, Executive Vice President and General Counsel of MEDICUS Corporation. May I speak with Lisa Parmenter?" Shocked by the identity and timing of the caller, Lisa hesitated before replying.

"This is Lisa Parmenter. How may I help you?" she said in a thin, brittle voice. Well, she thought, he finally got around to it, on the day of her husband's funeral. Out of nowhere a surge of rage bubbled in her gut, a sinus-clearing wave of fury. She was certain that Powers could sense her state from his end of the line, because he went no further after announcing his name and title. Or maybe he was shocked and caught off guard when the grieving widow herself answered the phone.

"Uh, well," Powers finally said, clearing his throat. "Ms. Parmenter, I'm calling on behalf of the MEDICUS board of directors and staff to express their sincere condolences with regard to your husband's tragic accident. It's a terrible loss."

"What about _you_?" Lisa said, a remark met with dead silence.

"I don't understand. What _about_ me?"

"You are speaking for those wonderful folks on your board of directors. What about you, Mr. Powers?" Lisa asked. "You call just as I'm about to leave the house to bury my husband, the man I loved with all my heart. You're speaking to a person with three young children who suddenly don't have a dad. Tell me, Mr. Powers, how do you feel about that?"

"Ms. Parmenter, we're very sorry, words cannot adequately express . . ." Powers stammered before Lisa cut him off.

"Absolutely right, Mr. Powers! Words have failed your corporation for the past three days. Do you realize that this is the first contact I've had from any MEDICUS official since Earl's death? Do you know that when I tried to get some information about my husband on the morning he was murdered on your doorstep nobody would speak to me? That they hung up on me? And you know what, Mr. Powers? That behavior _did not surprise me in the least!_ " Lisa shouted, her face purple with rage.

"Now, now, Lisa, let's settle down here," Powers said in a voice hemorrhaging its assuredness under Lisa's withering attack.

"How dare you call me Lisa! Do you know what I feel like calling you right now but can't because my mom is standing right next to me?" (And trying to pry the telephone out of her daughter's steel-tight grip.) This was no longer the brooding widow-in-mourning Lisa. She was on fire! Conversation in the room came to a stop, the ears of the guests pricked-up by Lisa's eruption. Taking special interest were Earl's former co-workers in the Communications Department, Larry Hagel, Bethany Dingell, Laurie Wood and Linda Ewertson, who were forced by company policy to take a vacation day to pay their respects to their fallen comrade. Bethany seemed particularly pleased to hear Earl's wife lay the wood to DeMastri Powers.

"Again, Ms. Parmenter, please, I must apologize. Mistakes were made and there is no way that we can atone for the organization's behavior. But if you would, we need to briefly discuss the settlement in terms of Mr. Parmenter's group life insurance policy. As you know, in the case of accidental death while executing matters of company business, there is a double indemnity clause. However, the incident occurred some ninety minutes before normal business hours and outside the perimeters of the corporate facilities."

"Oh,yes, Mr. Powers. Mr. Sagatini made it quite clear on the news reports that my husband's death was a consequence of his own carelessness and stupidity."

"Again I apologize. Perhaps Mr. Sagatini's remarks on the newscast were unfortunate and easily misconstrued, and I assure you that he is personally devastated by the tragedy. Still, in essence, the reasoned interpretation of counsel is that Mr. Parmenter was not duly engaged in company business at the time of the incident and thus our inclination not to activate the double indemnity provision. For your convenience, you will receive the proceeds of Mr. Parmenter's settlement in a lump sum payment within the next three business days via courier. As a condition of expedited payment, we ask at the time of receipt that you sign a standard hold-harmless release relieving MEDICUS Corporation and its subsidiaries from future civil remedies. It is incumbent upon me as an officer of the company to inform you that you have the right to challenge any settlement."

It was, however, silly and unproductive for Powers to have droned on, because he had lost Lisa several stilted clauses ago. Since he had just continued to babble on, he was certainly unaware that Lisa had dropped the phone and staggered away, overcome by waves of fury and indignation when the true purpose of his call became clear. As she was about to express her dismay to all in the room there was a knock on the door. It was the driver of the long black car.

#

Back at the house after the funeral, Lisa was corralled by Earl's former communications team at MEDICUS. Larry insisted to Lisa and his co-workers that Powers was not really the problem, a point that Laurie heatedly contested.

"The guy calls up and talks about _insurance_! Where is his head at?" Laurie's head shook with disbelief.

"It comes from above. Everything comes from above," said Larry, a comment that was met with grunts of agreement by the others. "They're all terrified of the man. Sagatini doesn't want a fuss and it's Powers' neck on the block if something bad comes of this. Lisa, he just wants you to shut up, sign the release and go away. Keep the fallout to a dull roar. To him legal issues are an obnoxious annoyance he'd rather just ignore. Besides, all he cares about is commanding from his throne, beating up his subjects, and retiring to the Garden to watch his beloved Knickerbockers." Lisa nodded

"Yeah, that's what Earl always used to say. To him they were a bunch of shouters-—bullies and maniacs. But Powers was the one who called," Lisa said, her pain assuaged by a very good Bordeaux and a couple of Prozac thoughtfully supplied by Bethany.

"It has _everything_ to do with Sagatini!" added Linda. "It all goes back to the decisions that were made when they sold our old building." She explained how in the mid eighties Sagatini found a buyer for the former MEDICUS headquarters on 54th Street, a Sapporo conglomerate engorged with cash from the Japanese real estate bubble and engaged in snapping up blocks of prime mid-town office space. Quincy Halliburton, the former maitre d' and a buddy of Sagatini's second wife whom he was forced to hire as part of the divorce settlement, was put on the case to find someplace cheap to relocate the company. Halliburton was tipped off that one of MEDICUS' trade union accounts was looking to unload their old headquarters building on 34th Street. It seemed that many of its employees were being harassed by a colorful infestation of youth gangs and drug dealers that plagued the building's Hell's Kitchen neighborhood.

"The union would've sold the building for a dollar for all the headaches it was causing from a safety standpoint," said Bethany. "But the geniuses at MEDICUS paid about thirty percent above market and figured they had struck a great deal." On paper, however, the transaction was a cash windfall. She pointed out that MEDICUS netted millions on the sale of the old headquarters, which had been bought back in the 1950s, a sleepy time for the Manhattan real estate market.

"Sagatini and gang," Bethany continued, "figured it would only take a fraction of the profits to renovate the new offices while providing a spectacular one-time net gain that would offset major operational losses racked up over the year."

"I remember the employee backlash when the move was announced," Lisa said. "I told Earl that I wanted him out of there. Of course he joked about it."

"Tell her about the security plans, Larry. Tell her what Sagatini did," Bethany said bitterly.

"It was a joke," said Larry. "They promised a uniformed presence in and around the building. Twenty-four hour guards and closed-circuit cameras everywhere. Two outside guards, from six a.m. till ten p.m. An escort service available twenty-four hours a day, panic buttons in stairwells and elevators—-literally millions of dollars in security hardware and armed personnel. The guy in charge of building services showed me the proposal—eighty pages! Sagatini signed off on it just before the final move."

"Come on, Lar, get to the good part," Bethany urged. Larry explained that when the brass moved into the new building, Sagatini decided he didn't like sharing the same elevator space with the worker bees. So he had Halliburton get bids on converting one of the elevators for his private use, which included constructing an enclosure and alcove in his private office suite. As luck would have it, the elevator they converted to Sagatini's exclusive use was the only one that ran all the way down to the parking garage.

"The cost for that little off-the-books project ran into the mid six figures. Suddenly the funding dried up for two of the inside guards, the escort service, and the electronic alarm system," Larry said.

"How did he explain that to you guys?" Lisa asked, a question that elicited a group guffaw.

"Nobody was told, of course. We all knew, but were never officially informed," said Bethany. "Sagatini doesn't have much regard for the rank and file. We are, in his view, easily led, constantly duped and lousy at our jobs. He actually believes that no one knows about him and Trini Dove!"

"After the guards and the escort service," Larry continued, "the cameras were the next thing to go—-after all, they needed the funds to pay for Sagatini's Knicks season tickets. That was a no-brainer for him. They ended up installing a single camera by the loading dock, because preventing deliveries from being ripped off was the company's only real security concern. Then the first day at the new building Sagatini drives into work and sees some homeless guys loitering around the parking garage. That got him to thinking that he didn't like the look of the local scenery in his new neighborhood. Imagine that! He figured a guy of his stature deserved a full-time driver and bodyguard. So there goes one of our outside security guards. We lost the other one when Sagatini suddenly became a Rangers hockey fan after they won the Stanley Cup in '94, and he demanded the company to set him up with season tickets. Unfortunately, it was another lean year for our business under his shrewd leadership and the money had to be found somewhere. Halliburton, of course, found it in the security budget."

"So no outside guards?" Lisa asked. "Earl never told me that!"

"And cause you worry, dear?" said Laurie.

"For hockey tickets?" Lisa asked, her jaw trembling. "My husband is dead because of hockey tickets?"

"Uh huh," Bethany said. "The fish always rots from the head. He's always been an asshole . . . now he's a murderer." Laurie flashed Bethany the evil eye. Too much had been said. Lisa recoiled in anger and misery before falling into Larry's arms, heaving explosive sobs.

#

When the mourners had finally cleared out Lisa staggered up to her room like a boxer with a lethal habit of leading with his chin. She felt like the time a few months ago when she and Ringo were hacking around and he climbed the sofa and dropped out of the sky on top of her. She was lying on her back and couldn't get her arms up in time to break his fall. He landed with a crunching thud on her chest, forcing all the air out of her lungs and bruising her sternum. She remembered "seeing stars." Ringo's a burly little guy and Lisa was hurting. She scrunched into a ball and it took several minutes for her to regain her wind and clear her head. Ringo started crying but Lisa couldn't move. It took weeks for the bruises to heal.

Larry's commentary was like a dozen Ringo bombs to her heart. She had to escape. She wanted to check on the kids. Funny how for the first couple of days she couldn't bear facing them. Her mom had to step in for her. Now Lisa couldn't bear being away from them; they had become more of a comfort to her than a reminder of Earl. She gently knocked on Victoria's door before opening it. There she found stoic Monica, eyes brimming with tears, huddled over snoozing Victoria, whose head was on her lap. Lisa trembled at the injustice dealt to her children. She could think of nothing to say to comfort Monica. Instead, she just nodded and withdrew, closing the door behind her. What could she do? Ringo asked "When's Daddy getting home?" every five minutes, Victoria burst into tears at any mention or suggestion of her Dad-—his name on the junk mail, from the lips of anonymous telemarketers, the cards of condolences that Victoria opened because Lisa couldn't bear doing it herself. A family blown apart, and just one man to blame.

Lisa backed down the hall and felt again the swell of hurt and despair rising in a crashing toxic wave in her belly. She almost didn't make it to the bathroom in time to spew the latest tide of poison into the toilet bowl.

#

The medication her mom forced down her throat triggered a night of unconsciousness, a fitful facsimile of sleep. She awoke in stages, her brain in a deep freeze from an excessive dosage. After much concentration she determined that the previous day had been Friday, which, by means of pattern recognition, meant that it was Saturday morning. Early. Earl wouldn't be up and out of the house at the crack of dawn like usual. She reached over to tug on Earl's shoulder. She missed. Subsequent groping led only to the discovery of Marshall, Victoria's roly-poly pumpkin-colored cat. Lisa stroked his velvety fur and he licked her arm with his grinding-wheel tongue. His belly pulsed with a motor purr. Where was Earl's warm, familiar body? Must be downstairs fixing coffee. Maybe he went for doughnuts. Maybe--

No.

As the mists gradually withdrew, Lisa made the painful crawl to consciousness. Earl would go to the grocery store and she would take the girls to dance and karate. Then they'd all convene for lunch at Burger King and plan what to do that evening. Saturday night. Family night.

Oh yes, now her head was clear, followed by a resumption of the relentless spasms in the pit of her stomach and the achy trembling in her joints. Lisa propped herself up on her elbows and for the first time noticed Ringo curled in a ball at the foot of the bed and sound asleep. He never used to come in and sleep in Mommy's and Daddy's bed. But the last two mornings, that's where Lisa found him. She reached over and gathered him in her arms. She felt the need to absorb his warmth, his little boy smell and fragrant breath against her cheek, and feel the urgent thrum of his heart against her chest. She cradled him and, in the luxury of this precious quiet time, she turned things over again and again in her mind. The pain was relentless, visceral. It wasn't just the loss of Earl; it was how he had been snatched away from her with unspeakable cruelty and selfishness. It left her depleted and at a loss as to how she could ever restore her fractured family.

She heard someone at the front door. "Mom. FedEx package!" Monica cried from the landing of the stairs. Indeed, it was not FedEx, rather a private courier. Lisa could hear Monica insisting that her mom was busy and that she could handle the matter herself.

"I will sign for that, sir," she chirped with high-pitched efficiency. The courier, an elderly gentleman who arrived in a white panel truck pocked with extensive sheet metal damage, smiled at Monica and shook his head.

"Must be hand-delivered and signed for by the addressee, or I get in big trouble with the boss," he said, patting the somber child on the head. Monica had on Victoria's old black dance leotard and tights, which she'd been wearing to bed every night since her dad's death because she didn't own a set of black pajamas.

"That's okay, I've been handling my mom's business the last few days. She's been under a lot of strain, you know." The man stared with amusement at Monica's determined face.

"How old are you, miss?" the man asked.

"That's beside the point, mister. I can handle myself. I look younger than my age. You can give me the package," Monica insisted.

"That's okay. Thanks Monica," Lisa said as she stepped carefully down the stairs to the living room. "I think I can handle this one." She flashed a knowing smile to the courier, who remarked on the eloquence of Lisa's well-spoken ten-year-old.

"You don't know the half of it," Lisa laughed, giving Monica a squeeze.

"If you don't mind, Ms. Parmenter, my instructions are to wait and return the enclosed documentation with your signature to my customer." Lisa told him to make himself comfortable and she withdrew to the kitchen to inspect the contents of the envelope.

Well, it came a couple of days early, but as DeMastri Powers had promised, there was a check enclosed representing the proceeds of Earl's group life insurance coverage at work. The check, for a total of $275,000, was the largest single sum that Lisa's ever held in her hand. Also as promised was a single-page legal form that Lisa reread several times. She ran her tongue over her lips and twisted the belt of her bathrobe in her hands. Her stomach knotted up each time she came to the final paragraph of the release, the one that began: _Upon acceptance of the aforementioned settlement, the undersigned hereby relinquishes rights to all claims, encumbrances, injuries, and relevant judgments arising from the incident or incidents._

It would have been easy enough to turn the page and fill in the line with her mark and put it all behind her. Powers was thoughtful enough to enclose a ballpoint pen bearing a MEDICUS logo to seal the deal. She took the pen in hand and put it down on the line of the release requiring her signature, an act that activated a wave of nausea. When she brought the pen up, her stomach settled. She paused and sat back in the chair and took a deep breath. Again she placed the pen down on the signature line and again the gathering discomfort. Finally she shook her head, cocked her right arm and fired the MEDICUS pen across the kitchen with enough force to shatter the plastic barrel against the tile back splash of the sink.

She jumped to her feet and grabbed a pencil with a magnetic tip that was stuck to the refrigerator and scrawled her response on a sheet of notepaper imprinted with the timeless gag _One martini, two martini, three martini . . . floor_ , which she signed. She sealed the envelope, thanked the courier for his patience and sent him on his way.

"Are you making coffee for yourself?" asked Monica.

"Why yes, dear, I've given the issue some thought. Could I interest you in a chocolate milk and perhaps a side of Cheerios?"

"I'll join you for coffee and cereal and pass on the chocolate milk," said Monica. Lisa nodded and pulled out the grinder for the beans from under the counter while Monica fetched bowls and milk. Indeed, Lisa took out two mugs and measured out a sufficient quantity of beans for two cups. That's why Monica's mom was so cool. Every now and then she'd surprise her kids and let them get away with something really outrageous.

"You do know that serving coffee to a minor constitutes a form of child abuse," Lisa deadpanned as she watched her daughter dilute her quarter-cup of coffee with three teaspoons of sugar and half a container of light cream, which produced a pale custard-color mixture.

"I'll be eleven in three months," Monica retorted as she thoughtfully sipped.

"Well, _excuse_ me."

"You're looking better today, Mom."

"Thank you, I'm feeling better. How are you doing, Monica? I saw you last night in Victoria's room. You looked a little sad." Monica shrugged, a flicker of a smile crossing her face. Lisa knew she wouldn't get much out of Monica. Of all her children, Monica most reminded Lisa of herself. She, too, was a no-nonsense kid growing up. She was never into dolls or boys or dress up or some of the other things that enthralled her peers. She always felt more comfortable around adults, but was frustrated when they didn't take her seriously. She may have been small and plagued with a child's high squeaky voice, but Lisa had fully formed ideas in her head and it devastated her when she was patronized or ignored by her adult relatives and other family acquaintances. That was her bond with Monica, whom Lisa _always_ took seriously.

While teachers encouraged Monica to "come out more" and be like the other girls and do normal things like joining the Girl Scouts or trying out for cheerleader for the town's pee wee football league, Lisa knew better. She had Monica taking karate in an all-boy class and figure skating at the local rink. She understood that Monica, like herself, would never be a team player. She has her own will, her own ideas. Lisa knew that it'll be a tough road for Monica and it breaks her heart. Like her mom, Monica will never suffer shit gladly. It'll be one monumental frustration after another. And also like her mom, Monica would be relentless until she was afforded the respect to which she felt entitled.

Everything will be a test-—just like her ability to exert control in the face of family tragedy. Lisa observed how fully Monica invested herself in the ritual of mourning, how the idea of black appealed to her. She'd been wearing the same black stretch pants and turtleneck pullover everyday. Lacking black shoes, Monica resorted to her black foul-weather boots. If Lisa had permitted it, Monica would have dyed her brown hair black. Monica was into mourning chic. Lisa just wished Monica could just let up now and then, which will never happen.

"Hey, what's _she_ drinking?" whined Victoria, who emerged with red eyes, rosy cheeks and a towel wrapped around her wet hair. She was swathed in a floor-length cotton bathrobe with a pink rose blossoms.

"Mom and I are talking over morning coffee," Monica said with studied casualness.

_"Coffee! You can't have coffee_ ," Victoria protested.

"This morning she can," Lisa answered, fixing a stern gaze at Monica and then adding, "and _only_ this morning."

"Then I want coffee, too!" Victoria demanded.

"Out of the question. You're too young." Lisa grinned. "Fix yourself some chocolate milk."

"That's not fair, she's just a twerpy kid!"

"What did your daddy always say about fair?"

"Don't hit me with that, Mom, I don't need the grief."

"Fair is when clouds are gone and the sun comes out," Monica said with supreme joy.

"Who was at the door?" Victoria asked as she plucked soggy Cheerios out of Monica's bowl with her fingers.

"A man from your dad's company. He brought a check with him."

"Great!" said Victoria. "Was it for a lot?"

"Yes, it was. But it doesn't matter, I sent it back."

"You're kidding! They spell our name wrong or something? How can you turn down money at a time like this?" Victoria demanded, her mouth agape and brow creased with worry grooves. Worry was Victoria's constant companion-—worries about hair, clothes, sex, grades, and boys. Worries about friends, her skin, her height, her weight, her breasts, her feet, her menstrual cycle, her dance team, her choir. And now, with the death of her father, she was locked in the jaws of the mother of all human worries—money worry.

"Your concern is appreciated, hon," Mom said, an odd expression on her face, a clipped frostiness in her voice. "We'll be all right. Don't worry about the money. You girls run upstairs and get dressed. We may as well start picking up the pieces. No more moping around. The victim thing is getting old."

"Well, then," Victoria said, "if things are back to normal, I need to speak to you about William Deford..."

## FIVE

Laurie stationed herself with open eyes and open ears outside O.K. Crockett's door as a screaming projectile named DeMastri Powers burst into Crockett's office with flapping arms and crackling hair. Less than thirty seconds later Powers was followed by the pounding heels of a grimmer-than-usual Simon Rogoff, sans suit jacket and with spreading yellow stains circumscribing the armpits of his gray-white shirt. Each time the door slammed, raised voices and stomping feet shook the walls and floor.

"Look, look, look, look, _look_!" Powers screamed.

Question marks filled the eyes of O.K. Crockett and Simon Rogoff. "Come on, Matty, get to the point," Rogoff demanded.

"She didn't sign the goddamn thing!" Powers roared.

"Calm down, Matty, what are you . . ."

"Shut the fuck up, Crockett! Can't you control this guy?" asked eye-popping Powers of Rogoff, O.K.'s boss.

"The point, Matty, get to the point," said Rogoff, his face the color and texture of oatmeal. His hand rubbed his belly in the vicinity of his chronic ulcer.

"This is the life insurance settlement on the Parmenter matter," Powers explained. "We messingered it to his old lady and she _didn't_ sign the hold-harmless and didn't take receipt of the check. _Who the hell does she think she is?_ You call that bitch and tell her to sign the release and take the money. You do that, O.K., you hear me? _You do that!_ " O.K.'s bobble-headed take on Powers' outburst left him speechless, but Rogoff with a turtle's calmness tried to take Powers' pique down a notch.

"If we could just back up here a little, Matty, perhaps you could take a moment to explain the issues." Powers did mind. Mightily did he mind. He slapped his forehead with the back of his hand and let loose an oceanic sigh of exasperation.

"Everybody in this company is so goddamned slow on the uptake," Powers lamented. "You gotta be led around like nursery school brats. You guys don't know a pile of shit unless your noses get buried in it. Well, here it is. Take a whiff—-pile of shit!

"Parmenter gets whacked outside the building. Naturally there's an issue about the accidental death and dismemberment clause, which covers losses incurred on the premises or when the claimant is engaged in company business. So the incident occurs across the street from the building at 7:43 A.M. Since customary office hours are nine a.m. to five p.m., it's a fair assumption that the victim was not engaged in company business at the time of death and was clearly not on the premises. Hence our settlement offer of the face amount of the standard benefit. Given the nature of the incident, we drew up a hold-harmless agreement that we tied to an uncontested cash settlement. The widow didn't bite. She refused to sign the agreement and, as you can see, thereby rejected the offer."

"But isn't the insurance settlement a standard company benefit, with or without the release?" O.K. asked.

"Shut up, Crockett, you're out of line!" Powers said.

"Please, O.K., let me handle this," said Rogoff. O.K. crept over to one of his wooden guest chairs to sulk. Rogoff shook his head, then tilted his glazed eyeballs up at Powers. "Umm, Matty, isn't Mrs. Parmenter entitled to the insurance settlement without strings of any kind attached? Isn't it just a matter of producing an original death certificate?"

"Technically, the answer is yes. But tying the settlement to a hold-harmless creates an incentive. If we just flat-out gave her the money and then came back with the legal waiver, she'd throw it right back in our faces. It would give her ideas."

"Which it appears she had anyway," Rogoff said. Matty dropped like a bomb in O.K.'s chair. The sucking impact of his plop launched loose papers and knocked over a couple of plastic knick-knacks from O.K.'s desktop tchotchke collection. Then, like a Saturn IV rocket blast, Powers launced himself back to his feet and paced tight circles in the cozy confines of O.K.'s mid-level executive office.

"The issue is clear here, guys," Powers declared. "This is the behavior of a vindictive bitch about to launch a major legal assault on our corporation."

"Mr. Powers!" O.K. protested.

"Shut up, OK--don't you ever listen? Any greedy bastard leveraging her baser instincts and dragging the name of MEDICUS through the mud is a bitch in my book. We are perfectly willing to make a compensatory settlement. She should've taken the goddamn money and turned the page. That's what people do, you know. As it is, we have a slew of open issues and who knows what road she's going to take us down?"

"Then I suggest we escalate, Matty," Rogoff said. "Guy must be the sensitive, understanding soul to hold the conversation. Maybe all she's looking for is some empathy, some gentle hand-holding. A little détente with the big boss."

It was a suggestion that caused Powers to blow like a teapot. "Give me a break, Rogoff! Guy has no clue how to handle a situation like this. It calls for finesse and discretion. He'll go ballistic on the lady!"

Powers felt himself not just losing it, but _totally_ losing it. He gasped for breath; his neck veins puffed up like mini sausages. The room fell silent. Finally Powers' torrid pacing slackened to a nervous shuffle, to a contemplative stroll, and finally, journey's end as he collapsed again in O.K.'s desk chair. He saw there was no help to be had in the room. There was Rogoff hunched over and pondering the spreading lava flow in his belly while O.K. sat erect and attentive like a cadet awaiting orders. The crackling urgency slowly dissipated, replaced by a gathering gloom caused by the simultaneous realization of key decisions poorly made.

## SIX

Victoria bellowed from the kitchen that some lady named Laurie from Earl's old company was on the line. Lisa sighed and picked up the phone next to the bed.

"What have you done, girl?" Laurie giggled on the other end. "The bad-asses are really pissed and they're like screaming in O.K.'s office over something you done. Even Sagatini's in there."

"What are they saying?" asked Lisa.

"Had to do with some form they wanted you to sign, I think. You be expecting something from Sagatini, I'm telling you now. Don't you be taking no shit from that ass, either. Look, I got to transfer you into O.K.'s office—-that's where they're all at right now. O.K.'s afraid if he dialed you direct you'd just hang up on him. Here goes."

"Lisa, this is O.K. Crockett. I have Mr. Sagatini with me and he'd like to speak with you."

"Fine, put him on."

"Hello, Lisa, it's nice hearing from you. First let me apologize for our conduct with regard to your terrible loss. Please understand that our entire organize is deeply saddened by what happened to Earl, and if there is anything we can do to help you get through this period, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Mr. Sagatini," Lisa said, eyes rolling and again the encroaching nausea and weakness.

"And I want you to know that we'll always consider you part of the MEDICUS family. You have an open invitation to stop by anytime. If you need help settling certain affairs, O.K. Crockett will make our resources available to you."

"Thank you, Mr. Sagatini. That's a very kind offer. Will that be all?" She could make out an undercurrent of hushed chatter in the background on the other end.

"Well, yes. There is one other thing, Lisa," he told her. "As you know, we are just trying to clear everything up, not keep outstanding issues lingering, as it were. There is the matter of the settlement offer we sent to you."

"The life insurance," Lisa said in a stark, businesslike tone. "Yes, I returned the check."

"Well, now that you brought it up."

"No, I believe _you_ just did."

"But of course. Before we get into it though, tell me about the kids. It must be extremely hard for them to understand. Our hearts go out to them."

"They're good kids. They'll come out fine. Thank you for asking." Lisa assumed a dull expressionless tone, imagining herself reading from the label of a fabric softener. She wanted to express the chill and loathing she felt across the phone line.

"I'm sure they'll do well. My understanding is that Earl adored his kids. It's clear you folks are doing a great job raising them. But Lisa, the question regarding the life insurance--was there something that we didn't do on our end? What are your thoughts?"

Lisa kept them waiting for a maddening moment before coming back with a sharp, unsatisfactory response. "Yes, there are a few issues. It's not every day a person like myself comes into that kind of money, much less turn it down. I have to admit to being a little concerned about the release. I'm not sure of the technical implications from a legal standpoint if I were to sign it."

"Understandable. But I've been assured by Mr. Powers in our Legal department that this kind of thing is standard under the circumstances. You know how it is, lawyers always want you to sign one thing or another—-kinda justifies their existence," a remark Sagatini punctuated with a hearty guffaw. "In other words, Lisa, it's no big deal. It means nothing really. And between you and me, we bent some rules to get that settlement handled as fast as we did. It was the least we could do."

"I know you're looking out for my best interests," Lisa said dryly. "But my life has changed. I have to be careful—-very careful—-how I handle my affairs."

"Of course. Of course," he said. "I couldn't agree more with your concerns. But let me be clear on this, our proposed settlement was perfectly fair and within the bounds of our contractual obligations. Isn't that right, Mr. Powers?"

"Mr. Powers is listening in on our discussion?" Lisa asked, her voice registering shock and annoyance even though Laurie had tipped her off that Sagatini was amongst his handlers.

"That's beside the point, Lisa. Understand that this is your best chance to come out whole. I realize that you are under enormous strain and may not fully appreciate the generosity of our offer. Taking that into account, we chose not to withdraw it at this time. I'm instructing Mr. Powers to again forward the release to you for your acceptance. I trust we can put this matter behind us."

"I wish we could, Mr. Sagatini, but your offer is unacceptable. And you have no right to have your legal guy monitor our discussion. You have no right! You have called me under false pretenses and now you're trying to coerce me." And it was working--the sense of helplessness was almost overpowering. In a moment of weakness, she felt them chipping away at her resistance.

"Lisa, this is frustrating to us. We've proposed a superb settlement and you're throwing it back in our faces. Look, we feel bad about Earl, but we are not culpable for his death. You just have to face facts--your behavior is inexplicable."

"Stop calling me Lisa, Mr. Sagatini. Your company treated my husband like crap when he was alive. You have no right to assume that you can treat me like that as well!"

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?" Sagatini panted. Then Lisa heard someone suggest that the president temper his approach, followed by another voice on the phone.

"I'm sorry about all this, Ms. Parmenter. This is Simon Rogoff."

"What? You too? What's going on over there? Is your entire staff in on this conversation? Is this being broadcast on CNN?" Lisa gasped.

"No, just us. O.K., Mr. Sagatini, Matty Powers, and me. I think we need to take a minute to calm down. We all acknowledge the terrible accident."

_"Accident!_ " The phone was back in Sagatini's hand. "Let's examine that for a moment. I will acknowledge that this is not the greatest neighborhood to be wandering around at the crack of dawn. In fact, he had to be fucking out of his mind! Lisa, you have no idea how much your husband's miserable judgment and carelessness has cost this company already. We're sorry and all, but that doesn't give you the right to try to stick it to us. And if that's what's on your mind, it's not going to work. You've just about exhausted my patience and good will. It's time to do the right thing."

Lisa, heart pounding, reached across the bed and slammed the bedroom door with a vehemence that echoed like a gunshot. Then she said, "Would never have happened if your proposed security plan had been put in effect—-if you hadn't robbed the treasury and spent everything on yourself. If ..." Lisa couldn't continue, tongue-tied with rage. Tongue-tied in helpless misery.

_"Security!_ Everything is about security with you people. Who have you been talking to? That stupid news reporter? Security wouldn't have saved Parmenter's life. You can't help people who are hell bent on self-destruction. That's what it boils down to. Makes me wonder if he was driven to it by a certain someone—-get my drift? You have just one more chance, Mrs. Parmenter. I suggest you do the wise thing. That is your choice!" _BAMMM!_ went the receiver on the MEDICUS side. And Lisa was alone in the bedroom with a dial tone and a churning stomach.

"I guess we understand each other now," she whispered as she gently replaced the handset in its cradle. Again she raced to the bathroom, but this time the contractions almost felt good. The more she heaved the more a strange kind of energy started flowing into her. It was warm, then hot and it filled the hollows of her belly and traveled the length of her spine, tunneled through her skull and blasted her out of her torpor. She finally understood what she had to do to climb out of the abyss and heal her family.

It was time to battle the Evil!

#

The next morning Lisa ran a hot bath and emptied a bag of bath oil beads that Earl gave her ten Christmases ago. By the time the water was ready, Ringo was up and about. She dispatched him downstairs to have Victoria prepare his Special K and juice. Lisa eased her tense body into the soothing hot suds when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in, Ringo." As Lisa cast her mind adrift in the near scalding waters, she could finally feel the tenacious tendrils of misery loosen their grip. It wasn't just the heat and soothing bubbles, but a freshly struck inspiration. She was up most of the night formulating something radical and definitive in her mind, something sound and executable. She worked the details into a logical accretion of harmonies as though her plan was a symphony under construction. As Ringo munched his favorite toasted rice cereal, she leaned over and planted a loving kiss on the top of his head. She was going to save his life—-give Mommy time.

"Want some juice, Mommy?"

Lisa's pulse quickened at the thought of what she needed to do; excited that the first phase was about to be executed. She had clambered up to the bridge-—she's driving the boat. Lisa feverishly turned it around in her head. Yes, it was outrageous and way beyond the scope of her ordinary experience. But Earl had been killed. _Earl had been murdered!_ How could her response be anything less than commensurate to that horrible wrong?

Lisa had Ringo fetch the portable phone from the bedroom and she dialed O.K. Crockett's secretary.

"Laurie, I need some information. I need to know Gaetano Sagatini's date of birth."

"You need what?"

"I need to know when he was born. Also his kids, their birthdays, too. I know it may not make any sense, but it's very important to me," Lisa said with a firmness that brooked no refusal. Then she hung up, shooed Ringo out of the bathroom and pulled the plug in the tub. By the time Lisa had dried off and dressed, Laurie had called back with the information she needed. Then she took a deep breath and removed a package from the top drawer of Earl's dresser.

It was time to go through Earl's personal effects, which had been hand-delivered by an emissary from the New York City Police Department two days after his death. While the clothes, shoes and eyeglasses were still being kept as evidence, Earl's wallet was returned intact. All the photos, credit cards and other junk scattered on the street were thoughtfully collected in a one-quart zippered freezer bag. As Ringo watched computer-animated robots annihilate each other on morning TV, Lisa examined a dead man's belongings.

If there had been any cash in the billfold, it was now gone. Lisa cut up and discarded the soiled VISA, Discover, Lord and Taylor and Macy's credit cards and the Foodtown Club Card. She swallowed hard as she laid aside a plastic sleeve housing bent photos of her and the kids. She was slightly embarrassed by the condition of the wallet itself. The leather was worn thin and shiny. It was torn along the creases in several places, the edges abraded and curled. The stitched compartments were ripping away at the seams—-mostly old damage and not the result of Earl's final altercation.

The condition of his wallet was more or less typical of Earl's complacent attitude toward appearances. He'd keep the same suits in rotation years after they were shapeless, shiny, and threadbare. He'd replace the soles on his shoes a dozen times and buff the uppers until they were parchment thin before considering a new pair. If Lisa had allowed it, Earl's hair would be shoulder-length before he'd pay ten bucks for a trim. Such a bother. Lisa bought all his clothes, usually without Earl present. And this wallet, which she had picked out for him before Victoria was born and which should have been retired ten years ago, was classic Earl.

Lisa wondered what the police thought of a man—-a professional—-who carried around such a dogpatch accessory, and his wife for allowing it! The best outfit he owned was his $500 double-breasted charcoal interview suit from Mens Warehouse in Eatontown. He had worn it only three times. Now it was shredded and caked with filth and dried blood.

Lisa dug deeper into the plastic bag and found scraps of papers scrawled with names and numbers, a soiled wine vintage chart clipped from the newspaper, his drivers' license, a MEDICUS ID badge (could've used that with the HR drone to prove his identity), a receipt from BJ's Wholesale Club, a Ramses condom (Lisa smiled), and, Eureka! A folded yellow sticky with a list of numbers that correlated to Earl's electronic life--personal identification numbers and passwords from an assortment of accounts, both personal and professional.

Lisa packed everything else away and took Earl's list and powered up the PC on her worktable next to the armoire. Ringo crawled on her lap and got lost in the cascading frames of images on the monitor and cricketing clicks of Mom's mouse moves. Mom at the computer was an accustomed sight for Ringo, who knew not to finger the sacred hardware at risk of digital injury.

Lisa pulled up the MEDICUS Web site and entered in the string of codes indicated on the scraps from Earl's wallet. In a matter of seconds she was confronted by her first password prompt. She noted that, like most casual users, Earl tended toward names of family members and birthdays as personal identification numbers and passwords. The first name on Earl's crib sheet was "Ringo," which gained access to Earl's account. It was still open, despite the passage of time since his "separation." Lisa saw that he had 350 unopened e-mail messages, which were of no interest to her.

Next she called up his calendar function, but it was _not_ Earl's calendar that she was after. She clicked on the Tools function from the pull-down menu and chose "View Another Calendar," and typed in the name "Gaetano Sagatini." As she expected, access to Sagatini's calendar was password protected. Using the information furnished by Laurie, Lisa started hacking. His birthday, his ex-wife's birthday, his kids' names, his kids' birthdays—-all met with "Wrong Password, Please Try Again." Lisa was getting frustrated. Ringo was agitating for juice and pretzels. Just for kicks Lisa typed in "Trini."

Bingo!

Lisa celebrated by fetching a cup of apple juice and a chewy bar (out of pretzels again!) for Ringo and a glass of OJ for herself. Returning to her desk she scrolled through Sagatini's schedule, which validated certain assumptions. Every Wednesday at noon, for example, he had an appointment marked "Confidential." That would require a phone call to Bethany Page, Earl's former co-worker, for some reconnaissance and confirmation, but Lisa had a theory. The following Thursday his noon was preceded by an 11 a.m. appointment with Figga's Hair Design. Lisa scrolled back the three prior months and noticed that the Figga appointment was a bi-weekly repeater. Lisa smiled. It was just too perfect. Her plan was designing itself! It was time to shed her bathrobe and get into some grungy clothes for a trip to the attic.

Lisa's returning vigor attracted total family participation in a foray to the third-story domestic museum. There they pawed through generations of collected Parmenterian and Livingstonia (Lisa's side of the family) junk coated with fine dust and singed around the edges from decades of stifling summer heat in the poorly ventilated attic. Lisa intended to do this alone, but when Ringo wandered up and couldn't be persuaded to leave, she summoned Victoria to supervise him. Then came Monica, of course, who couldn't be left out. In the dimly lit clutter of the acutely pitched space, Ringo rediscovered treasures from his long-lost toddler hood that had mysteriously vanished from his life when he wasn't looking.

He shrieked each time he uncovered a retired relic, which triggered his insistence that it be reinstated to the family's living quarters. He demanded his wind-up swing, into which Mom and Dad used to install him for its clanking sleep-inducing rhythms. He gathered wooden and steel components of his crib, which was retired last year, and tried to reconstruct it. Despairing of the complexities of the crib assembly, Ringo next squeezed into his old car seat, got stuck and bellowed. Victoria had no sooner extracted him, which raised a storm of fine brown dust, than Ringo hunkered into the cockpit of his old 6-wheeled walker. He proceeded to lurch across the intermittently spaced floorboards, causing a racket that sparked a gale of protest from his big sister.

Meanwhile, Lisa observed Monica immersed in a soul session with images of her parents' past. Trunks of old photo albums and crumbling official documents were stacked on the floor beside her. When mom was young. Dad as a skinny adolescent lad in overalls and thick black-rimmed eyeglasses. A bleached Kodacolor print in graded shades of turquoise of Grandma and Grandpa with the three girls, taken when mom was about Monica's age. Lisa's hair was in pigtails, held in place with fat blue ribbons tied in floppy bows. She was wearing a long yellow dress with a busy floral pattern and her feet were jammed into sparkling black patent leather shoes. She smiled self-consciously into the camera, her little hands held at her sides and balled into fists.

Lisa understood how Monica could relate to the pain that her camera-shy mom felt that day. The caption running under the photo said "Easter, 1963." Page after page, the ancient photos of the wedding and honeymoon. Monica never knew her father's parents, who died in a house fire when she was two. She remarked to Lisa that her dad's strong jaw, soft blue eyes and fragile build bore a resemblance to her grandfather. Lisa told Monica that while Earl never had much to say about his father, he often remarked on the wit and intelligence of his mother, who ran a small newspaper in town. Even though her father in no way resembled his mother's round, soft-featured face and short solid build, Monica concluded that she was probably the source of her dad's creativity and sense of humor.

Lost in her archival dig, Monica seemed oblivious to the contentious racket stirred up by her younger and older siblings as they and their mother tugged at an ancient chest to extricate it from a heap of outdated or broken appliances. Finally Monica joined them and the steamer trunk yielded to their combined efforts.

Ringo and Monica projected a glittery treasure once the trunk cover was pried open. Instead what they found were old sepia prints of forgotten ancestors that were curling away from decrepit wooden frames in an advanced stage of dry rot.

They also discovered a cracked leather case, which was the object of Lisa's expedition. She carefully unsnapped the thin metal clasp, shiny from wear, and removed a tightly wrapped canvass carrying case divided into stiff molded pockets. One by one she extracted the carefully arranged contents. There were three stainless steel combs pitted and rusted from age and disuse. Lisa shook a small tin, labeled "Homer's Tonsorial Talc—-Extra Pure," the remnants of which knocked around like ball bearings in a spray paint can. She popped the top by pinching the edges and observed how age and moisture had caused the fine white powder to fuse into tiny gray pebbles. She marveled how items that used to be so familiar to her had, through the corrosives of nature and time, been transformed into strange artifacts from another age.

Next she removed two heavily tarnished metal hairbrushes with authentic boar bristles that, surprisingly, were still stiff and erect. Her fingers then probed a narrow pocket until she felt the long curved instrument that she was looking for. At least this item was just as she remembered it: the mother-of-pearl handle with an inlay of intricately inscribed gold initials--ML. The instrument felt sleek and substantial in her hand. She rolled it around in her fingers, reacquainting herself with it. Then she carefully unfolded the business part of the tool and was astonished when she saw the blade. While it didn't quite shimmer, it had weathered decades without a speck of tarnish or rust.

"Let me see that!" Ringo squealed, a boy with a perfect knack for plunging hell-bent into calamity. Before Lisa could react, Ringo grabbed the blade in the palm of his hand. The sudden sting and gush of blood from a deep wound made Ringo recoil in horror, drop the razor and cry out to his mom.

"Okay," Lisa shouted. "Everyone downstairs, we're off to the Emergency Room!" Lisa gathered Ringo in her arms and ordered Victoria to replace the items in the leather case. Lisa washed Ringo's gash and wrapped his hand tightly in gauze. Ringo bawled hysterically, but soon calmed down when Lisa informed him that he would be receiving emergency room attention. She cannily promised him a full-blown medical procedure, capitalizing on Ringo's fascination with the mysterious probings and prickings and the shining of penlights into various bodily orifices that visits to the doctor occasioned. On the way to the hospital, which was only a two-mile ride, Lisa calmly explained the engine of Ringo's misadventure.

"Your great-grandfather was a barber and had his own shop in Philadelphia for more than fifty years," Lisa recalled. "One of my earliest memories was sitting in his old leather barber chair getting my hair trimmed, with my mother constantly offering suggestions and criticisms. He thought my mom was pretty funny. He knew that she was aware that he only had one haircut. All kinds of different heads came into his shop, but they all came out wearing Grand Dad's haircut. I remember what he always used to say when he finished up, 'Okay, I hope I haven't made you look too Italian.' I didn't understand what he meant by that, but it never failed to crack my mom up."

"Is the shop still there?" asked Victoria as she sat in the back cradling Ringo's swaddled fist in her hands. Lisa wondered about that herself. She hadn't been back to the old neighborhood in 25 years. Not since things had begun to go down hill in the early-seventies. After a while, her grand dad decided it wasn't worth the bother to lose half his receipts to the local gang bangers, so he closed up shop.

"I was Monica's age when the place closed. He didn't have any sons to pass the business. Since I was always hanging around and playing with the combs and brushes and using them on my dolls' hair, he decided I was the one who was going to get his old tools. He said someday that I might have a son who would be interested in taking up the profession. The very next day after I got the tools he had stroke and a few months after that he passed away. I never cried so hard in my life. Since then, I've taken this stuff everywhere I've lived, but this is the first time I've opened them up." Lisa paused and cocked her eye at the rear-view mirror. She grinned at her son in the back seat. "And now look--my future barber doesn't even know which end of the straight razor to grip!"

"Maybe I'll become a barber," Monica said softly.

#

It was dusk by the time Ringo emerged from the ER, his hand wrapped in a bandage ball that protected a nasty gash that required more than a dozen stitches to close. Lisa was still miffed at herself for not responding quickly enough to pull the blade away when her son went for it. Ringo, on the other hand, couldn't have been more delighted. At first he seemed amazed at the sight of the pulsing blood spurting from his hand, and the stinging pain caused tears to briefly flow. But then the intense attention and the dramatic ride to the hospital resulted in exhilaration beyond belief.

He hardly whimpered as the ER resident and a nurse fussed over the wound and wrapped the bandage. The staff was amazed at Ringo's stoicism in the face of medical emergency. Then again, these were not the same people who treated Ringo's fractured wrist the year before or pumped his stomach six months before that when he determined that the latex paint Dad had used to paint his bedroom had the look and consistency of eggnog. They also weren't around when Ringo included physical trauma in his plans for his second birthday. The excitement and bustle of a house filled with relatives gathered for the purpose of celebrating the young lad's existence inspired him to disdain the convenience of stairs and instead launched himself from the second floor landing, over the banister to a jolting collision with the hardwood floor of the foyer. Ringo's battered form lay still for some time before Dad spotted him, scooped him up and rushed him to the hospital. By the time they arrived, Ringo was already reanimated, but they checked him out anyway. Lisa still had X-rays of her son's resilient and intact frame following his intrepid vault.

Lisa was especially miffed that she had to face the present crisis alone, without Earl. As Monica and Ringo played medical emergency in the backyard with improvised stitching needles, hypodermics, and sterile wraps, Lisa poked through shoeboxes of family photos that hadn't been consigned to the attic sauna. Unlike her mom and grand mom, Lisa never seemed to have the energy or enthusiasm to organize her prints in photo albums, even though she owned a dozen or so albums still in their cellophane shrink-wrap. Then again, her mom and grand mom never did hold down a full-time job, and some things just had to remain undone.

One by one Lisa flipped through images that haphazardly told the story of her 25 years with Earl. Earl with the long hair in high school and decked out in his paisley tux for the senior prom. Lisa in big hair and a pink chiffon dress and over-sized orchid corsage. An over-zealous blur of green eye shadow and bubble gum lipstick. Outtakes from the wedding photo album. She and Earl were too poor to hire a professional photographer, so Lisa's brothers-in-law did the job with cheap 35 mm Kodak range-finder cameras. Lisa and Earl on vacation in Cape May, and then London and Rome. Earl playing with the infant Victoria and splashing in a rapidly deflating kiddie pool with newborn Monica. Earl coaching Victoria's softball team, wearing his Yankees cap. Flat images of the man Lisa loved and desperately missed and who would soon join the flat sepia memories of his and her dead relatives. An element on a timeline with a beginning and now a sudden end. But not quite an end for those left living.

Lisa knew that her only chance to overcome this tragedy involved completing Earl's story in the proper way. It wasn't because she was a believer in some Divine Plan. Not at all. She accepted the twisty turns of life as little more than a roll of the dice, as permutations in a cosmos of indifference. Dropping to her knees and beseeching an invisible deity could never assuage the pain and emptiness brought on by Earl's death. She did not believe that peace of mind, consolation, and justice were celestial indulgences conferred by sympathetic mythical beings. Instead, they had to be purposefully sought and achieved on one's own.

Lisa's sole navigational tools in her vast uncertain universe were logic, balance and control. It was up to her alone to restore the equilibrium to the lives of her diminished family. Despite the ghastly task that lay ahead, Lisa knew that her recovery and the well being of her family depended on her ability to carry out the unspeakable.

## SEVEN

DeMastri Powers cooled his heels in the reception area outside Sagatini's office awaiting a meeting scheduled to have begun fifteen minutes earlier. With him were Paine Fear and Simon Rogoff. When the door finally opened, a young Hispanic girl tentatively stepped out, tugging at her clothes, her make-up smeared and her composure zapped. She hesitated, then smiled at MEDICUS' assembled brain trust. Bettina Thompson, Sagatini's executive assistant, shook her head in disgust as the girl collected her bearings, brushed the hair off her face with a swipe of her hand and exited the room with a locomotive swagger. Powers exchanged a knowing glance with Fear as Bettina breathed an anguished sigh.

"I guess you gentlemen can go in now," Bettina said. Paine Fear gave Bettina his patented wide-eyed smile, a window into his mind.

"What you looking at?" Bettina asked, glaring at Fear. "Ms. Ramirez happened to be dropping off some papers for Ms. Dove. You guys, I swear! Just go away!" The men chuckled, imagining what else the nubile Ms. Ramirez was dropping in that office, as they filed into the muffled lushness of the Sagatini's chamber of terror.

A densely carpeted hallway led in order to a small conference room, a kitchenette, Mr. Sagatini's sprawling personal office and, finally, a full bathroom containing a shower stall, commode, and a double sink, all featuring gold-plated plumbing fixtures. They entered to the gush of a flushing toilet followed by a rush of water in the sink, followed by a spirited session with a toothbrush and, finally, several rounds of volcanic gargling and aqueous expulsions.

The men made themselves comfortable in elegant cherry-wood visitor chairs arrayed in front of Sagatini's intricately carved medieval banquet table of a desk. His ablutions finally completed, Sagatini sneaked up from behind. For a large man, thought Powers, Sagatini was light on his feet. He took perverse delight in startling people with sudden appearances, especially when he was expected. _Freeze them, then strike mongoose quick!_

"Good, you're here," he muttered, oblivious to the fact that he had delayed the meeting by some twenty minutes. At Sagatini's appearance, Powers noticed that even Paine Fear's expression went blank. Three poker-faced men, each, Powers assumed, with stomachs similarly braising in an acid bath, trying hard to contain the plummeting sense of forlorn desperation from showing on their faces. Each prayed that he would not be today's victim--not be the insect du jour crushed under the sole of the pitiless boot.

"Gentlemen, I've been having talks with Malcolm Hayes," Sagatini announced, which instantly caused his three key executives to snap to attention. Malcolm, as they all knew, played basketball on Thursday nights at the Y with Sagatini. He also attended the occasional Knicks game with Sagatini using the MEDICUS seats. Malcolm also happened to be the chief executive officer of one of the city's leading health maintenance organizations, and MEDICUS' chief competitor.

"We've discussed synergies," Sagatini told them and then stopped, evidently awaiting their reaction. The rumors, Powers recalled, had been circulating for years, and each time soundly put to rest by Sagatini. This was the first time he had ever raised the prospect himself. "It was all preliminary and informal, of course. Two companies with different philosophies, business models, and so forth. But it could address some of our challenges in the marketplace."

"Were the tenor of the talks along the lines of acquisition or merger?" Fear asked.

"We're talking preliminary discussions, Paine," Sagatini shot back. "We're discussing the touchy-feely issues. Corporate cultures, operational capabilities, redundancies, that bullshit."

"Paine raises an interesting issue," Rogoff said. "We are similar in terms of reserves, premium base and enrollment. There are important questions regarding the structuring of a potential deal, not to mention corporate control."

"What have I said so far, Simon?" Sagatini asked testily. "What has transpired so far in this conversation?" Rogoff's gaze dropped to floor, his shoulders bunched like a mole trying to squeeze into a burrow dug by a bunny.

"We were discussing a deal with Community Health Incorporated," said Rogoff with hoarse trepidation.

"Fear?" demanded Sagatini.

"Simon pretty much capsulizes . . ."

"POWERS! Tell me what I've said!" shouted a fearsomely aroused Sagatini.

"You've had an informal discussion with Malcolm Hayes," Powers began uncertainly. "Philosophical discussions regarding potential synergies between our respective organizations." Powers looked hopefully at his boss and was relieved to see a softening of the tension and rancor-—a paler shade of rose-—in Sagatini's face.

"It utterly amazes me, you guys," Sagatini said shaking his head. "It utterly amazes me that there's only one person in this room who has any listening skills whatsoever. Very good, Matty. I mention the name Malcolm Hayes and suddenly you guys go from A to Z, the deal's done and we're about to form a motorcade to Luger's to celebrate."

"We all heard you, Guy. We were merely raising some pertinent issues," Rogoff said.

"Simon, please!" Sagatini said, his upper lip curled like a snarling cur. "I'm not stupid. I am familiar with the issues. You guys are here to listen, so _shut up_ and listen! Let's move over there." He jerked his elbow to indicate his sofa, which still radiated warmth and funk from his prior intimacy with Ramona.

Traces of fluid ecstasy remained puddled on one of the leather cushions. Sagatini obliged the three men, each of whom was acutely aware of the stain and its origins, to bunch together on the sofa as Sagatini eased into a facing easy chair. Fear adroitly moved to one of the dry cushions while Rogoff just as opportunistically cut off Powers' path and assumed the other unsullied position. Powers, devoid of options, grit his teeth and painstakingly lowered onto the soiled section. The viscous ooze penetrated the spun wool of his trousers, filling him with a perfect, crystalline hatred of his boss so pure that Powers knew that at the slightest provocation he could spring at Sagatini's throat and throttle the larger, ox-like man with his bare hands.

There it was, the latest atrocity—-the man's very semen and a young girl's stain of rapture. Powers miserably had to take it, rigid in this spot-—sickened in this spot.

"Why not relax?" Sagatini asked. "Comfortable Matty?" Powers' sickly smile no doubt delighted him. "Anything wrong?" Powers shook his head, knowing that the other two jackasses were working hard at keeping it in. Sagatini reclined way back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, his knees parted wide.

"So here's what we need to think about, gentlemen-—and I hope we're all listening. It has to do with cleaning up any dirty laundry. We'll be under a microscope. Fear, I want a full internal audit of all accounting systems. Rogoff, the same goes for systems and claim reserves. Powers, all the outstanding litigation must go away _immediately_ ," a chilling order with implied specificity that turned Powers' flushed complexion the color of plasma.

"Can I be any clearer, Matty?" Sagatini added, jabbing a finger of emphatic menace at his chief counsel. "Needless to say, not a word of this gets out. _Not a word._ " The three men nodded in unison. "Let's get on this right away. It's critical." His words dangled in the overheated jismy air as the three men hunched like gargoyles on the sofa.

_"We're through here!_ " he exclaimed, launching the men to their feet as if fired from a bazooka. The pant leg of one man was darkened by a sticky dampness stretching from the back of his knee to his right buttock. "Hey Matty, clean yourself up," Sagatini guffawed as they filed out the door. "Let's cultivate a little professional dignity here!" Sagatini said, erupting in a thunderous mirth. Overcome by the need to take another whiz, Sagatini made it to the bathroom just in time, though his aim was off by a couple of inches. As he hesitated by the door, Powers heard the splash of piss hitting the floor and Sagatini mutter, "Hell, they'll clean it up!"

#

As soon as Powers returned to his office he picked up the phone to address his so-called loose end.

"Yes, is Ms. Parmenter at home? Can she come to the phone? DeMastri Powers from MEDICUS. Yes, it's important." Powers wondered about the child with the cautious voice who answered the phone and asked such exasperating, circumspect questions. Obviously she took after that obdurate bitch of a mother.

"Ms. Parmenter, this is Mr. Powers, how are you this evening?" he asked with professional cordiality. The iciness in Ms. Parmenter's response was clear indication that she wasn't in the mood for small talk. "Well, then, you probably know why I'm calling. I trust you have again received our offer and that you have given . . . oh you have. Yes, most certainly it does make sense that you would consult legal counsel. Of course we fully expect that your attorney will be in contact with us. But if I may, I should remind you that the terms of our offer is set to expire within the next 72 hours, at which point . . ." Powers was stopped cold by Lisa Parmenter's rote repetition of her attorney's advice. Powers in a panic understood that this chilling descent into the inevitable morass of litigation could at last inspire Sagatini to summarily jettison his ass forever. _Must he beg this woman?_

"Ms. Parmenter, our organization has made every attempt to be up front from the beginning and our offer was in line with the circumstances. I personally find it hard to believe that any of us would care to endure a protracted, invasive process," he said, while desperately trying to conceal his anguish. "Ms. Parmenter, if I may make one more point . . . Ms. Parmenter . . . Ms. Parmenter? Ms. . . ." Power's voice trailed off in a pitiful vapor of woe and his head dropped to his hands. He couldn't be sure at which point she had hung up the phone this time. He did know that she hasn't gone away—-and she won't go away for a long, long time.

## EIGHT

Two days later Lisa got up early to deliver the kids to their various weekday drop-off points, and then continued on to the train station. She bought a round-trip excursion fare and soon was on her way to New York City. She traced the same route Earl took every day for more than five years, and the journey seemed to take forever. In her career Lisa never had to drive more than twenty minutes to work. It seemed that Earl never had a commute of less than an hour.

Even though Lisa caught the tail end of the rush hour, the train was packed with suits, both men and women. They were squeezed in like stuffed olives, lost in their routinized worlds. Each face wore the same taut, care-worn expression, their minds on the wars that lay ahead in the looming office towers. Lisa wondered if the hell that awaited them was as bad as the one Earl had to face each day.

Then, as if on cue, the suits arose in unison and fell into formation in the aisle as the train emerged from the tube that that was drilled a century ago beneath the Hudson River. Over the loudspeaker the conductor droned on and on about the abundance of transfer options among the various branches of NJ Transit, the Long Island Rail Road, and the city subway system. He reminded them to collect their personal belongings before detraining and to make sure to "watch the gap" and finished up with a sick comment about having a pleasant day.

The herd jostled and nudged against Lisa like overheated molecules in a sealed container, agitating to explode out of the car like steam from a teapot. Lisa seemed willed out of her seat by the kinetic motion of the other passengers. She was pushed and pulled out of the car, and she flowed with the crowd queued at the staircase leading to the concourse. Following an arduous cattle climb the crowd evaporated around her, rushing at once in all directions like a dispersion of billiard balls following a violent break.

Lisa did not come to New York City often and was easily disoriented by the rush and confusion. Her brain finally sorted out the chaotic stimulation as she wandered through the main concourse. Her first thought was to do her business at MEDICUS headquarters a long block away, but she nixed that idea to avoid the risk of running into someone she knew. Instead she decided that it made no sense to bother leaving the station.

The phone banks had an appropriate area code and were largely unoccupied. Without hesitation Lisa wiped off the handset of a blue credit card phone and punched up the number she got off the Web and had copied onto a Post-it Note. A pleasant female voice with a deep Italian accent picked up at Figga's Hair Design.

"Yes, I'm calling for Bettina Thompson, executive assistant for Gaetano Sagatini of MEDICUS Corporation," Lisa informed the woman. "Unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances Mr. Sagatini will be traveling out of town, meaning we must cancel his Thursday appointment. If we could resume the following week as usual, he will be in the office that day. Yes, 11 a.m. is fine. Thank you very much."

Lisa smiled as she hung up the phone. Twenty minutes later she was back on the train and headed for home. As soon as she walked through the door, she made another call, this time to Laurie, who was out to lunch. That was even easier. Lisa left a voice mail message indicating her intent to visit the city next week to collect Earl's personal effects. Then she turned her attention to equipment maintenance.

While that old neglected blade was keen enough to flay the flesh of her youngest, it clearly needed attention before being applied to its featured event. Grandpa's old strop was sold with the shop and, lacking a handy barber's supply outlet, Lisa rummaged through Earl's toolbox. She eventually found what she was looking for in one of the kitchen drawers–-the double-coarse sharpening stone Earl used on the kitchen knives. Lisa chose an old steak knife for practice and nearly flattened the edge before figuring out the proper pitch and stroke. Instructions on the whetstone box suggested lubricating the stone. Since she hadn't a clue as to the proper oil to use, Lisa brushed on a thin coating of extra virgin olive oil. From Italy-—most appropriate, she thought.

Lisa's design was to incorporate aspects of ritual into her plan. Earl had insisted on always using the right tool for the job. While he meant that from a utilitarian standpoint, Lisa also applied that wisdom from a spiritual angle. Thus her grandfather's razor-—no other tool would do. There was history in its handle. Old, sure hands of a long-departed pro would guide her hand and ensure success. To do what had to be done.

Once she had established a sharpening rhythm with practice cutlery, she took up the pearl-inlaid handle and methodically drew the blade across the coarse face of the stone, turning in expanding concentric semi-circles. She intently examined the edge of the blade, noting a sharp, but jagged finish. She coated the fine abrasive side of the stone with oil and repeated the slow, rhythmic turns while scrupulously maintaining the acute angular pitch to the stone. Again she examined the blade and was pleased to find the edge uniformly smooth and keen.

Lisa grabbed a tomato from the fridge. To her amazement, she was able to draw the blade through the ripe flesh without resistance, and like magic the tomato was sectioned into paper-thin slices without a drop of juice being spilled.

It occurred to Lisa as she moved on to carrots, frozen steak, and finally, the chicken legs that were thawing for supper that it would have amused Earl to see her again using the wrong tool for the task. Generally she did food prep using a fork and a steak knife. Invariably Earl would come into the kitchen and send her away before she hurt herself. Then he himself would wield his mighty Wusthoff blades and professional-grade Mandoline slicer and Calphalon pots and create the feast himself. Food was so central to Parmenter family life. When they assembled around the dinner table each night for a lively hour or more, Earl was always the core, the creative and binding force of the meal.

The force and soul of her family's equilibrium.

And now with the center removed Lisa was cast in a funneling vertigo that she had to somehow arrest. With the loss of control came a desperate passion. When she finally looked down at what she was doing, she was amazed to see the flesh of every chicken leg stripped clean off the bone with no more of an effort than it took to slice up a pile of fresh mushrooms. The blade was magic. _The blade was ready._

"Mom! What are you doing?" Victoria demanded, whose sudden appearance startled Lisa into dropping her instrument on the floor. She was so lost in thought that she hadn't realized that her kids were due home from school. She blushed and bent over to pick up the razor, which she then hid behind her back. Indeed it was an odd sight. Her kitchen counters were a killing field of denuded bones, piles of chicken flesh, frozen beef and tiny bits of fancifully carved fruits and vegetables.

"Ummm, well, what does it look like? I'm making . . . dinner," said Lisa brightly. Victoria's pinched brow indicated that Lisa had to do better than that.

"But I saw you using your grandfather's razor. I mean, wouldn't a knife work better? It must've taken forever to cut all this stuff up. Like, what's with all the food—-are we gonna actually eat all this?" Victoria asked as she inspected the precision of her mom's handiwork. Raw beef and chicken were sectioned and cubed into perfect one-inch by half-inch bits. The fruits and vegetables were also perfectly proportioned, almost as if they had been run through a food processor, a device Victoria's mom did not own. "Mom, you're freaking me out here."

Lisa deeply regretted being discovered amidst a smorgasbord of evidence with razor in hand. And now she had to make good on her characterization of the ridiculous products of her experimentation. She had been thinking along the lines of ordering pizza, but now she had to transform this mess into some kind of meal. Again the rising doubt--Earl was the master of the kitchen--he'd know what to do.

"Well, you know, I was just curious if I worked on the razor a bit I might be able to use it in the shower," Lisa said. "It's such a waste buying disposable blades all the time. I had to try it out on something before I put it to the leg test."

"Some test," Victoria said. Lisa assumed that Victoria was not going to leave this alone. Quick thinking was called for.

"I'd like you to tell me more about this William Deford. He called this afternoon and left a message. Do I know him?" Victoria's face flushed cow-flesh red and she scrambled into retreat mode. "I've _tried_ to tell you about him for weeks now. He's just a friend."

"Come on, Victoria, what _kind_ of friend? What are we talking about here?" Lisa chided, reveling in her unfair manipulation of a smitten teen and relieved to see Victoria wringing her hands and backing away.

"I've got to make a phone call," Victoria said.

"To Mr. Deford I reckon."

"Sally! I've got to call Sally," Victoria stammered uneasily as she disappeared in a puff of angst.

#

The following week, and four days before her official return, Lisa made an appearance at work. The idea was to preemptively condition Lisa's co-workers to her presence and to dispel early jitters and awkwardness over her reemergence into a secular, non-grieving environment. She knocked on Norman's door and took devilish pleasure in observing her coach's stunned expression when he looked up from his PC monitor.

"Don't say anything, Norman," said Lisa as she went over to shake his hand and plant a kiss on his cheek. She took a seat next to him and told him the plan for her workplace rehabilitation.

"I don't want to cause a stir when I come back next week. I figure I'd just make the rounds today, tell everyone I'm fine, the family's back to normal, and not to go treating me like some aggrieved alien once I'm back at work."

The squint, tight lips and fluttery arms indicated that Norman was still getting over the phenomenon of Lisa's unannounced appearance. One thing she did know about him-—Norman was not fond of surprises, and just showing up like this was a little cruel on her part. Once over the shock, Norman rubbed Lisa's arm affectionately and nodded.

"Thank you, Lisa. That's good thinking," Norman said. "Hey look, I know I've said it before, but again, whatever I can do . . ."

"Please, let's just turn the page. Earl had a lot of life insurance, and as long as I don't lose my job. . . besides, my attorney is on the case!" They laughed and Lisa squeezed Norman's hand. Then she began her painful rounds. One by one she sneaked up on co-workers glued to their computer screens, lost in the process of stringing snippets of code into algorithms that would build the next generation of "network solutions," as the marketing blitz noisily trumpeted.

One by one, near-sighted nerds were tapped on the shoulder by an emissary bearing a stark, visceral reminder of the real world and its messy complexities that could not always be reduced to bits and bytes. Lisa expected and allayed their embarrassment and uneasiness with a handshake or a hug. She told them that everything was cool, that she was fine and eager to return. She begged them to "mistreat" her as usual and not to deviate from their normal routine upon her return. She was upbeat and warm with even her most remote colleagues, some of whom she had never exchanged pleasantries before she had lost Earl. She endured more than two hours of this, a difficult performance that left her damp with perspiration, exhaustion and nerves rubbed raw.

"I want everything back to normal on Monday," she told Karen over lunch in the company cafeteria.

"Yeah, but going around making nice to all those geeks?" Karen said, which prompted a knowing laugh from Lisa. Karen was Lisa's savior and handler. She got her through the funeral and called every morning at "coffee and doughnut" time. She provided the essential shoulder and open ear to Lisa's endless babble on the tiresome topics of guilt, fear, doubt and the kids. Karen constantly reassured Lisa that she'd come through okay, that her stubborn and disciplined nature would reassert itself once she purged all the silly talk and catharsis.

Karen pointed to Lisa's eyes, which alerted her to an unwelcome puddling that betrayed the emergence of the bereaved widow, which would not play well in the current context and under the discreet scrutiny of her lunching coworkers. Dabbing gingerly at her face, Lisa laughed and collected the debris of her meal in preparation to leave.

"I'm thinking of playing hooky tomorrow—-taking a play day," Karen said. "Where do you want to go?" Lisa froze in her seat and felt her jaw stiffen. She couldn't help overreacting to Karen's suggestion and did all she could to unclench her face.

"Oh well, that'd be great," Lisa said. "But there are a few more things I need to do before I get back. Maybe we could get together this weekend. Go to the mall."

"What other things, Lisa?" Karen asked, searching her friend's face. "I need to get out of this place for a day. You still have Friday. What else is there?"

"Tomorrow's bad. I have plans that can't be changed. Loose ends. I'm sorry." Lisa saw the disappointment in Karen's face. Or was it confusion? Or _suspicion_? Lisa needed to be more careful. A dumb mistake. "Give me another day, Karen. Maybe tomorrow night. I'll call you later." Lisa rushed off to dump her tray on the conveyor and it was all Karen could do to catch up to her.

Lisa walked Karen to her cubicle and then had one more errand to take care of before picking Monica up at school. She summoned the freight elevator that would take her to the sub-basement and into the mysterious catacombs of Applied Research.

Given the current focus on software development, fewer facilities like this remained in existence at Imagin Corporation. This was where basic research on systems and hardware was still conducted. It was also where Lisa got her start more than twenty years ago. Back then it was wave guides and magnetic memory bubbles and pioneering research on gallium arsenide semiconductor chips, followed by breakthrough applications in laser technology and fiber optics. Today, a much diminished lab still performed small-scale experiments on superconductive circuits and quantum processors-—a far cry from Lisa's lab assistant days when she grew crystals, etched semi-conductor wafers, and contributed to the all-out assault on shattering memory capacity barriers.

She rubbed elbows with some true pioneers, many of the most brilliant engineering minds in the industry, including a couple of Nobel laureates. It was they who inspired her tortuous fifteen-year trek through night school where she progressively achieved her associates, bachelor's and finally her masters diplomas. The elevator's descent transported her to a vivid past. All the memories, the dim yellow lighting, the canary ceramic brick walls, and the faint aroma of benzene, came flooding back when the doors parted and she strode through the dank, essentially abandoned corridors of the old labs. As she passed the rooms that once were crammed with exotic machines concocted by the equally exotic men and women who used to work there, Lisa was caught up in a wave of nostalgia. She missed the equipment—-the clutter and chaos of the basement labs. The strangeness, informality, and the potential of great discoveries.

It became evident early in her career, however, that short of pursuing a Ph.D. in physics, the most promising track for her would be in application design and testing. Her timing was good because software development had evolved into 90 percent of her company's business. Today the lab and its handful of resident geniuses hang on if only as an accommodation to the organization's heritage and identity, since most of this kind of basic science was out-sourced to universities and small entrepreneurial labs.

Lisa hadn't been in the sub-basement in ages. Still the labs and offices were stuck in time, as apparatus from experiments abandoned back in the 70s still hadn't been dismantled. The space mirrored the neglect of the preoccupied minds of the scientists who populated it, a condition Lisa had counted on for this visit. She followed the buffed linoleum tile corridor to the clean room where she used to rinse raw boules of mineral substrates in a trychloroethylene bath. The clean room was a complex comprised of an outer room where workers donned lightweight plastic jumpsuits. From there they'd pass through a negative pressurized chamber and then enter a glass-enclosed space equipped with tubs, plumbing and various instruments used for projects requiring a sterile environment.

Lisa turned on the lights in the outer room and closed the door behind her. The place looked as though it hadn't been used in years, which made her nervous. She went straight to a long wooden floor cabinet and opened the top left drawer. To her relief she found the vacuum-sealed plastic package she was looking for and then raced toward the elevator when she was stopped dead in her tracks.

"Hey! What are you doing in there? What the . . . what . . . hey, that you . . . uh . . . Lisa? Lisa Livingston? No, wait a minute. You married that skinny fella with the long hair and black eyeglasses. I remember. Wait a minute . . . Pendergast. No, it was Pendergrass!" cried out an old woman wearing a faded housedress and waving a bright yellow feather duster.

"Sylvia?" Lisa said hesitantly. Could it be? She was _still alive_? She was all bent over and shriveled and past retirement age when Lisa last saw her more than a decade ago. Sylvia must be closing in on the century mark now. She looked the same; perhaps the crinkled grooves in her coal-black face had deepened over time. And her molasses shuffle seemed to have slowed to cooling tar. She still pushed the same dark green metal cart with the same bottles of cleansers, brushes and towels suspended on various hooks. And she gave off the same faint aroma of wintergreen from the deodorizing sprays she used in the rest rooms.

"You still here, girl? Boy, you changed--a full-grown woman now. You ain't no twig anymore neither," Sylvia said, pinching Lisa's cheek with hardened, work-worn fingers. "So what brings you down to this hole?"

"Just curious, I guess," Lisa stammered, flustered by the interruption from this astonishing apparition. "Nothing's changed much from what I can see. Kinda empty, though. Where is everybody?"

"Don't have but a handful of folks working down here now. Most at lunch now. Maybe they don't come back at all afterward. Sometimes they don't. Don't get much work done anyway. Don't need my sorry ass around anymore. Offered me a package and I'm liable to take it this time."

"What, Sylvia--you retire? For real? You were talking like that when I was here." Lisa noticed that Sylvia was checking out Lisa's plastic bundle, which made her pulse rate spike.

"You looking to do some painting, I can see," Sylvia said pointing to Lisa's package. "That's fine, nobody uses that room anymore. You go right ahead, ain't no word coming out of these lips. And how's the old man? I forget his name. You know I was the one who said to jump right in and grab him. Damned if you never did shut up about him."

"He's, he's at peace," Lisa said as she edged closer to the elevator.

"Yeah, you find a good man, you hold on to him. My Harry passed five years ago last week. Miss him badly, but I had him for 52 years. I thank the Lord for the years we had. But I have a hole in my heart, I'll tell you that. You love your man. I can tell you do. You're still young, you got your best years ahead of you, you lucky girl."

Lisa nodded and clutched her package very tight, trying to master her emotions. The vertigo was rushing in, being in this place and the memories. Fifteen years of night school, made possible with her man in the kitchen and shushing the kids so mom could study. Loving Lisa when the pressure made her surly and difficult and making the coffee to get her through the all-nighters. Most of the photos from her three college graduations had Earl in the frame with her. She insisted because it was his journey as much as hers.

So vivid were her memories that she could still smell the benzene fumes that used to pervade her day job. So present were the musty odors of the county college classrooms and the aromas awaiting her when she returned home late at night and Earl was always there to talk to her, eat with her, console her, encourage her. She felt herself being pulled down, sagging and spinning, into the wreckage of her present circumstances, hearing a distant voice call her name.

"Lisa! Lisa! I asked you, you got kids-—I can tell. You got a mom's face."

"Three. Three wonderful children," Lisa said, choking back tears and trying to steady herself. She jabbed the elevator UP button with her hip.

"Oh bless you. Bless you, girl. I can see you're having a great life," Sylvia said as the elevator arrived. Frantic to escape, Lisa embraced the old wintergreen lady in a bear hug, kissing her on the cheek and gushing a stream of fond wishes. The doors closed with a smiling, profusely perspiring former lab technician staring at an elderly cleaning woman with a faint bewildered grin on her face. Lisa, alone in the elevator, spun in a circle and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

#

When she got home Lisa made herself a strong cup of coffee, which revived her enough to shepherd the kids through dinner, homework and finally to bed.

She rummaged through Earl's closet and took out his old gym bag and started packing. Then she went on-line to double-check key information, shut down and then took a long hot shower. Before retiring, she practiced her yoga positions for the first time in almost a month, which helped reinforce a serenity of purpose and mission that afforded her the most peaceful night's sleep since the day before Earl was ripped from her arms.

The next morning she was welcomed to Earl's old workspace by Bethany, Laurie, and Larry. Tipped off in advance by Laurie, Fred had made himself scarce. Lisa knew she had allowed herself plenty of time and carefully culled through the remains of Earl's MEDICUS life, loading the few personal items he kept at the office. Pictures of the kids, pictures made by the kids. And then she refused look at them anymore. She dreaded the darkness that would tug at the corners of her consciousness, which would then be followed by the vertigo and the helplessness. And then she'd be thwarted.

She looked up and saw a face she didn't recognize watching her over the top of Earl's cubicle. They both froze. Then O.K. Crockett stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

"And you must be..."

"Lisa Parmenter," she said in the dry, neutral voice he would probably remember from their phone conversations. O.K. nodded gravely and wrinkled his brow in a look of concern.

"Thank you so much for taking the time to come in, Lisa. We are all devastated by the recent events and our prayers are with you and your children," O.K. said with a deft swing into comfortable evangelical cliche.

"Thanks, O.K. I've come for Earl's things. I'm sure you'll be wanting to use his cubicle," Lisa said as she stacked books, magazines, and photos into a corrugated moving box. O.K. watched Lisa with an intense curiosity. She completely understood that he had just expressed a heartfelt sentiment and yet she was determined to maintain a detached demeanor. Indeed, she could tell that O.K. was stunned by Lisa's cool behavior.

"No. No. We have no immediate plans for Earl's workspace," O.K. insisted. "I mean, there's no rush. I just thought that there were items of his that you would want. You know, things have a habit of walking if left unattended."

Lisa smiled at O.K. as she carefully folded the flaps on the carton. O.K. fumbled for something to say—-anything--to dispel the awkwardness of this encounter. Finally, he was forced into retreat.

"I have to run off to a meeting uptown, Lisa. I don't want you carting these things down yourself. Larry and Bethany would be glad to assist you," said O.K., and then repeated for the zillionth time his standing offer to address any and all of Lisa's concerns and to help make her difficult passage less painful.

"I appreciate that," said Lisa. "Good-bye." O.K. hesitated for a second before pivoting on his heels and striding back to his office for his jacket. Within seconds he re-emerged and slammed his door as he fled the floor to hail a cab.

"Worthless," Bethany muttered.

"Oh, I think he means well," Lisa said as she checked her watch. "I have to get going," she said, trying to suppress a nearly incapacitating spasm of anxiety.

"But Lisa, I thought we'd have lunch," Bethany protested.

"Hey, yeah, Mexican," Larry chimed in from the neighboring cube. "I'm sure Earl used to talk about our monthly Margarita crawls. We'll give you a guided tour of our favorite dumps."

"Yes, he told me all about that," Lisa said with a frown of mock disapproval. "No, I'm back to work starting Monday and there are a lot of things to take care of before then. I appreciate all you've done. Earl was so fortunate to work with people like you." At that Bethany, of course, burst into tears and Larry went sullen and silent. Lisa thought _Oh no_ , there was no wiggle room in the plan to defuse a tragic moment. She quickly gathered the box in her arms and tried to duck out, but Larry blocked her escape.

"At least let me lug that thing to your car for you," he said, wrestling the carton away from her. Lisa whipped her head back and forth, and forcefully pried the parcel away from a befuddled Larry. " _No!_ " she commanded with a shrill vehemence that arrested Bethany's trickling tears. "I mean . . . thank you very much," Lisa stammered. "I'd rather. It's not too heavy. It's no problem."

"Really, it's no bother. Let me . . . " Larry insisted as he executed a neat shoulder dip and upward swipe, but was countered by Lisa who twisted away and adroitly regained possession of her dead husband's things.

"Larry, thanks a lot. I'll call you. You've been great!" Lisa slapped hasty kisses on the cheeks of Bethany, Larry and Laurie, who stood frozen with puzzled expressions as she dashed out the door into the corridor leading to the elevator. _Too close for comfort!_ The elevator doors parted as soon as she pressed the button and it dropped nonstop to the lobby. Lisa backed out the front door of the building, praying the security guard wouldn't ask her to return her temporary ID badge. Fortunately he was busy shooting the breeze with three panting bicycle couriers and didn't seem to notice Lisa's exit.

Outside, she was momentarily staggered by a late spring cloudburst that had turned Ninth Avenue into a raging torrent. She was drilled by needle-like rain honed by a driving wind as she crossed the street to the lot where her van was parked. She threw open the sliding door and stepped inside, the tips of her fingers tingling from the adrenaline rush caused by the anticipation of what would come next. Again she checked her watch--10:54. _Perfect._

So far, everything was _perfect_! She reached for the black gym bag stashed under the front seat, took a deep breath, exited the van and scampered back across the street with umbrella flapping to the MEDICUS lobby. She hesitated for a moment to catch her breath and to record details of floor plan, security, and escape routes. Then she casually made her way to a grouping of Naugahyde-clad easy chairs abutting the front desk and dialed Bettina Thompson's extension on a house phone sitting on an end table. The receptionist herself was engrossed in an intense exchange with a hunky mail carrier and didn't bother to acknowledge Lisa's request to use the phone.

"Is this Ms. Thompson? Good, I have a package for pick-up addressed to Mr. Sagatini," Lisa told the voice on the other end of the line. Bettina Thompson sounded perturbed and complained that she was manning the office by herself. She informed Lisa that her assistant usually handled pick-ups, but that she was in an all-day class for Microscoft Project training. Lisa, of course, was cognizant of that information prior to her visit, since she had carefully examined all relevant electronic calendars last week as part of her preparation.

"Send it to the mailroom. I'm short staffed," Bettina told her. "I can't leave my desk."

"It's marked urgent," said Lisa, raising the stakes. She enjoyed the quandary she had caused for Bettina, who had to weigh the ramifications of receiving a delayed delivery from a special courier versus the risk of temporarily leaving her post and jeopardizing her paranoid boss's first line of security. A brief eternity later and to Lisa's unbounded relief, Bettina made the expected decision.

"Okay, there isn't any other choice. I'll be right down."

Lisa hung up and swiftly made her way to the elevators. Before she knew it, she was on the eighth floor. On the right side of the elevator bank was the door that led to Sagatini's office suite. She ducked into the ladies room located opposite the elevator bank and listened for his door to open, which occurred almost immediately.

Lisa peeked outside just in time to catch Bettina's backside disappear into the elevator. She waited until the three passengers who had stepped off to disperse before leaving the rest room. She slipped through the door into Sagatini's reception area, which, as expected was unoccupied. Lisa darted past Bettina's desk and through the door to Sagatini's suite of rooms, making sure to lock the door behind her.

#

Trini Dove's hair raveled like a ball of mesquite and her make-up cratered in the pummeling downpour when she stepped from the cab and dashed into the looming pile of yellow bricks that housed MEDICUS' corporate office.

"Ramona, I need to see you," Trini Dove shrieked as she flew past her assistant. She threw her umbrella and raincoat on the floor and whipped out a mirror to begin repairs. Ramona glided into Trini's office and shut the door behind her. Other than Gaetano Sagatini, Trini Dove was the only senior officer who kept her office door closed at all times. Shut and locked. She hated being seen by people walking past her door. It shattered her concentration—-job's damn hard enough without distractions.

"Mr. Sagatini got the papers that I had you take over yesterday—-the production reports-—he got them, right?" Trini demanded as she went at her unnaturally auburn mop with a bludgeoning brush and bursts of hairspray.

"Yes, Trini."

"You didn't _leave_ them with Bettina, now. I told you, they must be _hand-delivered_. I have my twelve o'clock meeting with Mr. Sagatini and it's about those numbers. You know Bettina, sometimes things don't make it from her desk to her boss's," Trini said, poking her desktop with the handle of the brush.

"Oh don't you worry about that. I personally put the folder in Mr. Sagatini's hand."

Trini seethed. _Was that a smirk? What's with the stupid grin? What's that little gutter-ass up to?_ She knew Ramona's kind. Trini had a good idea what's going on—- _she's been there_!

"What the hell are you smiling about, girl?" Trini asked, nostrils flaring, cheeks ablaze as she leveled a loaded mascara stick at her pert, young, sensuous assistant.

"I'm not smiling. Am I, Trini? The papers, they're fine," Ramona said, seasoning that grin with what Trini surmised was a suppressed snigger.

"How old are you, Ramona? Tell me that," Trini commanded, her cheeks ruddy and damp from the storm, a condition to be corrected by a pink puff laden with a fine sienna powder. She raised a sterile desert storm over her desk as she assaulted the planes and curves of her face with staccato blows from an over-zealous puff. She pointed to a chair and Ramona glumly sat down.

"I'm twenty-two."

_"Twenty-two_. A child!" Trini Dove exclaimed, though a child with a tight round butt and high-riding cupcake breasts. Trini assayed her hot-blooded little tease, her Spanish firecracker secretary. Trini could read those flirtatious eyes and lascivious smiles like the cautionary print on a condom wrapper. Trini knew! "A kid from the streets, that's all you are, Ramona. And I'm stupid enough to expose you to the CEO. Don't you dare smile at him like that!" Trini said with a screech as she aimed a tube sheathing burgundy lipstick at her assistant.

"I'm _not_ smiling," Ramona frowned, eyes pooling, tears forming. "I only gave him papers. That's all."

Trini longed to believe little Ramona. Did she have a choice? All other scenarios would be unbearable and so she tried to will herself into accepting Ramona's veracity. Trini also willed herself into believing that Guy didn't notice the subtle wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes and the crisis of diminishing muscle tension that contributed to a subtle swell of her tummy and rump. She willed herself to believe that he overlooked the chronic puffiness of her face forged by the late hours and the demands of her job.

She's sure that Guy understood. He mustn't notice such things. Her progress through the ranks and his increasing ardor moved in lockstep since it was a natural evolution of her talents and their personal chemistry. Of course she no longer had as much time to spend on herself and there was so much to learn with the job. After all, this executive gig was never part of her plans. The assumption was that secretarial school and her smoldering eyes and cute ass would be sufficient for landing the big corporate cheese so she could settle down, kick back, spread 'em and breed in relative comfort and ease.

Trini was convinced she hadn't lost her chops, something she reinforced every Thursday at noon, and on weekends and vacations—-whenever he needed her. She did what she could with her face, her hair and her wardrobe, but it was not as important to him anymore. She's got more to offer a man than a young girl with a tight butt and levitating cupcake boobs.

"That's all, Ramona," Trini said in a weary, care-laden voice. "I gotta leave for a meeting at the Call Center-—but first a word to the wise. Watch how you act around certain people." Ramona retreated with a look of confusion, a look of hurt. And Trini had to avert her eyes to avoid the harrowing image of a perfect set of Hispanic buttocks straining against tight jeans as they swayed out of Trini's office to a silent salsa beat. With a sinking heart, Trini battled the awful intuitive conclusions that were becoming impossible to suppress.

#

Lisa could hear the great man himself grumbling into the telephone. She popped her head in his office and smiled at him. He cupped his hand over the receiver and shot Lisa an inquisitive look.

"Figga's Hair Design. Your eleven o'clock appointment, Mr. Sagatini."

"No time. Get out of here!"

"But sir, the appointment was confirmed by your secretary. And if I leave, I don't get paid."

"So?"

Then her smile widened into a warm, entreating grin, the kind they use a lot on certain late-night cable television programs her kids aren't allowed to watch. "Mr. Sagatini, we could do something special. I'm feeling inspired today-—yes, you _really_ don't want to skip your appointment, sir." Lisa rested a hand on her jutting hip for effect and caught her breath as she endured his unsubtle gaze run up and down her body as he processed her proposal. Finally he cracked a calculating, smile.

"Yeah, sure, a cute thing like you. Go get ready."

Lisa's heart was was bopping like bongos as she stripped down in Sagatini's bathroom. She had to stop to steady herself because she began feeling another onset of the terrible spinning world, accompanied as usual by a swelling tide of nausea. She was overwhelmed by the desire to flee--battling her natural instinct to abort the mad design before it was too late.

After relieving her convulsing stomach in Sagatini's porcelain bowl with the golden handle, she finally willed herself upright. With trembling hands she removed from her bag a brown terry cloth towel, an old crib sheet, and the plastic jumpsuit and booties she had appropriated from Imagin's clean room.

She filled the sink with hot water and let the towel soak. It was time to set up the room. She caught a reflection of herself in the mirror and was momentarily flustered by the sight of her jumpsuit's lack of opacity. Mr. Sagatini would be in for more of a treat than Lisa had intended. She considered putting her bra and panties back on, but then dismissed the notion. Why ruin a perfectly good set of lingerie? Besides, a promiscuous display of form beneath the translucent plastic of her suit would likely distract the man from noticing the pallor of a face betraying its awful secret.

Lisa also noticed as she checked herself out that one of the side benefits of her recent trauma had been a reduction of appetite and the associated loss of weight. Her body hadn't looked this buff in years! She swallowed hard and stepped lightly into Sagatini's office. He was off the phone and was opening his mail using a small utility knife. He appeared startled and then mesmerized by Lisa's Hazmat-inspired eroticism.

"I guess we'll set up at your desk, Mr. Sagatini," Lisa said. "The chair is just about the right height." She walked behind Sagatini, who put the knife down on the desk and made a show of pressing the Send All Calls button on his telephone.

"Well, you know," he said, tilting back so he could face her, "we could start over there," pointing to the sofa. "You did mention that we were going to try something special today." He slipped his arm around Lisa's waist, his nose inches from the under swell of her left breast. His hand felt warm against the plastic gown. Lisa looked down and was repulsed by the clumsy man's sour breath and rolling girth. She deftly skipped away, aware that he was scrutinizing her every twitch and shudder. Lisa tried to deal with the vulnerability of her situation by invoking the single-minded focus and concentration she'd cultivated as a professional code cracker and the mother of three energetic children.

"Not yet," she said as she darted back around his chair and tied the crib sheet loosely around Sagatini's neck. Gathering her nerve, she spread it across his chest, trying to ignore his caressing hand on hers as she worked. She then unbuttoned his shirt collar and loosened his tie. By now his busy paws were grasping her waist, his eyes riveted on her chest. As she leaned over, he ran a finger down the side of her hip. He was about as subtle as a cock at sun-up. She broke away from him.

"Where you going?" he whined.

"I have to get something," she said, agonizingly aware that his eyes were now locked like twin phasers on her legs and buttocks as she left the office. Lisa wrung out the towel that was soaking in the sink and brought it and her shaving kit back into Sagatini's office. Her jaw muscles began to tighten, her hands went cold and tingly. She hadn't planned on the last minute jitters and the temple-pounding dread and loathing. She was further distracted by the way her plastic suit clung to her perspiration-soaked skin, which obliterated for Lisa any semblance of modesty. She turned away and tried to collect herself. Until a few minutes ago, her mind had been so clear, so focused. She couldn't lose it now. She'd be lost forever. Lost to her kids. To herself. She'd be better off dead.

"I thought we'd start off with a shave," she said heartily, squeezing Sagatini's shoulder.

"Shaves come last. They always come last," he complained.

"They come first with me," Lisa said as she eased Sagatini back in his seat, stroking his chest to win his cooperation. She cleared off space on his desk and placed a can of shaving cream, a brown plastic bottle of witch hazel and her grandfather's folded razor on the blotter. "I like a man with a freshly-shaved face. Nothing's a bigger turn-on than the aroma of witch hazel." She held her breath, clamped her eyes shut and brushed a feathery kiss on Sagatini's forehead. "I chafe easily," she added. Sagatini grinned and shrugged as she wrapped the hot moist towel around his face. "We'll let that sit for a minute." He grunted his assent as she tilted his seat way back to a near horizontal position.

A quick glance at his lap confirmed her intuition that her client had become fully aroused. She donned a pair of latex gloves. Then she fingered her grandfather's razor and unsheathed the blade, which she had honed to a molecular edge earlier at home. She stared briefly at the blade, then at Sagatini's flabby, fully extended neck. She raised the blade. _Then she froze, seized by a sudden catatonic terror._ Lisa felt as if an invisible hand had her by the wrist, restraining her from completing her task, which had taken so much planning and execution just to achieve this time and place. Her head swirled with confounding indecision, caught in the internal clash between her calm and methodical tendencies and the savagery required of her mission.

"Hey, I'm suffocating under here," came Sagatini's muffled voice.

"Um, O.K. In a sec."

Lisa's eyes rolled like cherries in a slot machine. She looked at his neck, at his crotch, at the office door, the private elevator across the hall. The blade handle felt foreign and awkward in her hand. Energy drained from her numb limbs and she felt herself being sucked into a vortex of swirling dread. She covered her mouth with a forearm to smother a whimper.

Then . . . Sagatini reached from beneath the sheet and grabbed a handful of Lisa's sweating ass. She gulped with shock and rage and with an automatic twitch ripped the razor across Sagatini's throat, loosing a brilliant explosion of blood. Goaded into a frenzy by Sagatini's lewd grab, Lisa repeatedly slashed at his neck in a blur of butchery. _Yet the hand on her butt wouldn't release its grip!_ Beside herself she slashed at his wrist with the razor, criss-crossing flesh with thin neat lacerating lines. She wiggled with the intensity of a belly dancer until the hand finally dropped down. Still, the large powerful man thrashed in his chair like a hooked marlin, bawling awful bubbling groans.

Lisa tried to hold him down by jamming an elbow against the blood-soaked towel swaddling his face. _Would he ever stop?_ In a panic she worked away at his throat, which had disappeared under a shocking mush of blood and gore froth. With his windpipe shredded, Lisa could feel the snapping of ligaments and tendons as they gave way to the rhythms of her blade. Then, finally, the scrape of bone at C-1 and C-2 of Sagatini's spinal column.

The infernal thrashing finally subsided. Lisa hovered over Sagatini's form, panting from revulsion and exhaustion. Her eyes were wide in astonishment. Her blood- and sweat-drenched gown clung like a second skin. Sagatini's head lolled lifelessly face-down on the crimson crib sheet bib. Lisa stepped away slowly and noted with curiosity Sagatini's post-mortem erection. She looked at her hands, the pearl handle of the razor was glued to the rubber gloves by his thick sticky blood. The time was 11:23 a.m. What had seemed like an eternity took all of 21 minutes from the moment she had entered the office. Lisa gathered up the shaving cream and unused bottle of witch hazel and stepped outside the slaughter zone. She stripped off her jumpsuit and booties and shoved them in her bag, careful not to get blood on the outside of the bag. Still wearing the gloves, she dashed to the bathroom and wrapped the razor in tissue and stashed it in her purse. Lisa was burning up, her body glistening with perspiration, which poured off her steaming body and stained Sagatini's plush sea foam carpeting. She was tempted to take a quick shower, but opted to dry off instead, using one of Sagatini's monogrammed towels, which also went into the bag when she had finished.

She had to take several deep breaths to clear her head. Then she used the phone in the bathroom to call the garage, summoning Sagatini's chauffeur and sending him and the garage security guard on an urgent mission to the Bronx to pick up tickets for Saturday afternoon's Yankees-Red Sox game.

Lisa dressed quickly, but took pains despite badly shaking hands to carefully reapply her make-up and fix her hair. Finally, wiping tears from her eyes, she summoned Sagatini's private elevator, avoiding a final peek at the carnage she left behind in the other room. She turned off the light in his office just as the elevator arrived.

When she landed in the basement garage, she saw that Sagatini's limo and personal guard had left on their mission to the Bronx, enabling Lisa to leave the building unobserved by nonexistent video cameras that were casualties to Sagatini's Knicks basketball jones. As she exited the parking garage she saw a yellow cab pull in. She stopped and saw a well-dressed woman with frizzy red hair step out while raging at the driver for some reason. Lisa had a good idea who she was and where she was probably headed.

The rain had stopped and Lisa casually crossed 34th Street to the parking lot, even though every fiber in her body screamed for her to break into a sprint. Soon she was back in her van and crawling her way toward the Lincoln Tunnel. Gradually the pounding in her skull subsided, replaced with a light-headed buzz that took on a rapid spinning velocity as she waited in line for the toll ticket at the New Jersey Turnpike. Her breathing was labored and her throat started closing up. As soon as she left the toll plaza, she pulled to the side of the road, shifted into Park and exploded in a hurricane of tears. She blew with the fury of an unstopped geyser.

Lisa had never felt better in her entire life.

#

"Pascual, you're too goddamn process-oriented!" Trini Dove shouted at her hapless prey, which was standard procedure at her monthly status meeting at MEDICUS' call center located on the upper West Side. On the ride over, rain had re-fucked up her face and hair. Again she was imprisoned in a cab with a mangy Afghan driver with industrial-grade BO and zero comprehension of why the West Side Highway made so much more sense than 10th Avenue at this time of day, which caused her to be fifteen minutes late for the meeting. "Quit with the critical paths and your off-line linkages. Speak the fucking English language!"

"Yes, Ms. Dove, but I'm the process owner and . . ."

"That's your _activity_ , P-man! If I wanted activity I'd've hired a vacuum cleaner! I'm results-oriented, that's how I got to where I am! It's outputs, not activities! Drill down to the optimal paradigm and that's the conversation I want to have here."

Pascual's eyes were glazed and beseeching. It was clear from his stricken expression that he didn't know what Trini Dove was talking about. He took a deep breath and said, "We are building out a top-line business platform from which we'll bubble up the appropriate distributional buckets."

"You're making me want to throw up!" Trini said as she flapped her arms like a hummingbird thrashing in a jet stream. Pascual and his boss, Adele, gazed down at their trembling knees. Though infrequent, Trini's visits to 67th Street were always like this. She railed and cursed at a manic pitch, seeming to speak in tongues as she vaporized the carefully designed project plans proffered by the management of her customer service team.

"If we could turn our attention to the metrics," Adele said as a rescue gesture for the rattled Pascual. "You'll see that the distributed trunks and call encounter reduction protocols have significantly reduced abandonment. Our team believes the data clearly trend a best-practice paradigm, and that's what needs verification." Trini yawned. She accepted on faith that the smudged output micro-printed on countless 11"x14" sheets stacked accordion-style before her supported whatever the hell it was that Adele was jabbering about. But the real issue had become time. Trini's noon appointment was only 29 minutes away. The resolution of this meeting was nowhere in sight, and 37 city blocks separated her from important face time with the boss. Trini had to act fast.

_"Enough!_ I've heard enough!" Trini declared. "It's too goddamn slow! Mr. Sagatini isn't the type to wait around forever. You think you're being real clever trying to sandbag me like this, but I swear to God, there will come a day when I'll just get totally fed up and refuse to cover for you folks. I'm tired of putting my ass on the line for the likes of you. _Consider yourselves on notice!_ " Trini paused and glanced again at her watch. Pascual and Adele looked at her expectantly. Then with a groan, Trini lurched to her feet and smoothed musses in her cocoa Chanel business suit.

"I'll leave you with this one thought, you two," Trini said as she hovered at the threshold of the conference room. "I was put in charge of this division because I am a change agent. I have no problem making changes. Big changes. I want a revised project plan on my desk by Monday morning." Trini left the stack of metrics behind as she charged off to the grateful sighs of her management team. She hammered the elevator button with the side of her fist and prayed that the traffic on West End Avenue would cut her a break. But again she was cursed with a cabbie who was deaf to her logistical exhortations, causing her to be late for her special noon appointment.

"Pull into that garage over there! I told you to take Eleventh Avenue, not Ninth! It always has less traffic!" Trini screamed.

"I know what you told me, but big accident there. Really big accident," replied Koffi something-Anandyanashimaga in a voice choked with irritation as he hunched over the steering wheel, bristling at the big-shit clueless bitch in the back telling him where to go.

"I didn't see any accident," Trini complained.

"It's on Eleventh. That is why I take Ninth, lady."

"Pull into that garage and let me out by the door." The cab lurched into MEDICUS' underground garage. The scraping of exhaust parts on the concrete apron ignited a burst of sparks and the car screeched to a halt at the threshold of Sagatini's private elevator. Trini saw that Gaetano's car was gone, as were his chauffeur and the garage security guard. Though taken aback by their absence, Trini assumed Sagatini would be in his office, since this was an appointment he never missed. She hated being late. She'd find some way to make it up to him. It was the stupid cabbie's fault. He took the worst, most congested route possible just to up the fare, she reasoned. She'll show him, no tip from her. He cursed her in his native tongue after she slammed the door and sprinted away.

When she keyed in the code for Sagatini's elevator, the doors opened immediately and she was whisked non-stop to the top floor. As usual, she ducked into the bathroom without first checking to see if he was at his desk. After throwing off her clothes, she extracted a tiny lavender thong from her purse. She wriggled into it and then debated whether to strap on the minimalist bra that coordinated with the soft velvet patch that went over her crotch. She shrugged, tossed the bra aside, and doused her cheeks (both sets), belly, arms and cleavage with Gaetano's favorite scent, L'Heure Demande, and left it at that. Besides, he couldn't stand having to fumble with bra clasps. Often he got frustrated and ended up bending and breaking them apart, and this stuff's not cheap.

She took a deep breath and crept along the corridor to his office. For some reason his office lights were turned off and Trini could dimly see that his chair was turned away from the desk and faced the wall. How sweet. He was apparently taking a catnap, something new for him. Perhaps he wasn't as keyed up as she thought. Great! This way he wouldn't notice her tardiness.

With a kittenish grin, Trini tiptoed around the desk. She noticed a rather large, dark brown stain on Sagatini's white shirt collar and assumed that he must be wearing his morning coffee. She reached with both arms over Sagatini's shoulders and was about to rake her fingers across his chest when she felt a warm sensation on her arms. She closed her eyes and brushed his neck with her lips. His head gave way under the pressure of her kiss. It lolled around to one side and hung lifelessly against his chest. At first confused, Trini brought the bloodied back of her hand to her bloodied lips. She noticed on his desk the open pocket knife he used for his mail. She reached for it and then, in horror, let it drop to the floor.

Trini backed away, her arms, face, chest and the bottoms of her feet smeared with Sagatini's blood. She pressed against the back wall. Her first thought was to get away—-she couldn't be found like this! She felt her way around in the darkness and crawled to the bathroom. Her hands trembled as she tried to clean off as much of the blood as possible, a process interrupted by her violently heaving stomach. Sagatini's Italian marble sink and gold fixtures were spattered by the partially digested contents of her breakfast.

She covered her mouth with a towel and screamed as hard as she could. Still, the escalating dread and confusion transformed Trini's world an incoherent blur. Her overriding fear was she would pass out and they'd discover her sprawled naked in this awful scene and she'd be one they'd accuse. _Had to get away. Had to get away._ She struggled into her clothes and raced to the elevator, her shirttail hanging and her hair and her face a fucked-up mess for the third time that day.

When she reached the garage, she was almost mowed down by Sagatini's limousine as it careened into the garage following a futile errand in the Bronx. Trini spun away from the limo, not even pausing to scold Manny Fernandez, Sagatini's chauffeur/bodyguard for his reckless driving. She could tell from the look on his face that he knew something was up. She rushed up the garage ramp and flagged a cab. As she got in, she looked back and whimpered in misery when she saw Manny leap out of the car and immediately grab the intercom that connected the garage to Sagatini's offices.

Trini hunkered down in a fetal position in the backseat, unsure what she was doing or hoping to accomplish. The journey to her co-op in Queens seemed to take forever. Traffic was backed up from the 59th Street Bridge on account of a crazed jumper and the rubberneckers checking out the police boat activity on the East River below. The driver joked about it, but Trini didn't hear a word he said. Her brain kept looping through the nightmare moments of thick sticky blood, gore on her lips, the stench of her lover's post mortem intestinal purge. Trini hugged her sore ribs, shaking like a squirrel peering down twin barrels of a shotgun.

_Will I ever get home? How long must I stay in this terrible car?_ Finally they made it over the bridge and eventually to her building in Forest Hills. She threw money in the driver's lap and rammed the door with her shoulder to get out, but then she saw two police cars parked in front of the building. Terror grabbed her by the throat and squeezed her ribs until she choked. She dove back into the cab and demanded the driver to take off.

Too late. A New York City police car swung around in back and blocked the rear bumper of the cab as another police car screeched to a stop perpendicular to the cab's nose. Two uniformed officers from each car hopped out. Trini exploded out of the car and tried to make a run for it, but she was tripped up and wrestled to the ground by two of the police officers. She howled and babbled as they wrestled her arms behind her back, cuffed her, and then dragged her to her feet. In the scramble, her blouse ripped open, which reminded Trini that in the rush to flee the office she didn't get around to reinstalling her bra. One of the cops took her by the arm and hustled her to the side of a patrol car where he wrapped her in a blanket. With tears streaming down her cheeks and eyes blazing, Trini doubled over in misery and disbelief.

"What's your name? What's your name?" shouted one of the officers.

"Is your name Trini Marie Dove?" demanded another.

_How did they know who I am? Trini thought._ She just looked at him through a haze of tears.

"I said, is your name Trini Marie Dove, currently employed by the firm of MEDICUS Corporation and living at 41 Bow Street, Queens, New York?" Trini gave the officer a curt nod.

"Well then," he said, "you are under arrest in connection with the alleged murder of Gaetano Phillip Sagatini. Murdock, why don't you Mirandize the prisoner while I call this in and deal with the crowd."

# PART TWO

## NINE

DeMastri Powers barreled into the boardroom and surveyed the confusion before him. A dozen men and women assembled with staffers rushed in and out with papers, messages, food, or for no reason at all—-just to be part of the event. Paine Fear and Simon Rogoff pow-wowed in a dimly lit corner.

Rogoff was uncharacteristically animated, stabbing the air with tomahawking arm motions. Halliburton flitted from one circle to another, hopping and clapping in confusion and grief. On the projection screen were televised images of the MEDICUS headquarters and stills of Sagatini taken from past annual reports as reporters detailed the carnage in the offices of the chief executive. O.K. Crockett was keeping the press at bay, promising a statement later that afternoon, which didn't give the boardroom people much time.

Powers slammed the door shut, which startled the collected officers into silence, which he immediately leveraged to his advantage. It was clear to him that his was the only mind with sufficient clarity to grab the podium, seize the microphone and assume ownership of the situation.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let's all take a seat," Powers said with uncharacteristic composure. To his surprise and delight, everyone did exactly as he suggested. They arranged themselves around the oversized hardwood table that gleamed like the dance floor in a Busby Berkeley musical. Powers suppressed the urge to smile, committed to battening down his exuberance to the proper cast of grim forbearance. "Thank you," he said, pleased by the echo produced by his over-amplified voice.

O.K. Crockett reentered the room, cleared his voice and raised his hand, which fluttered down like a shot-gunned duck when he was impaled by a withering glare from Powers. Then Powers cleared his own throat and plumbed the depths of his diaphragm for the proper portentous tone.

"For those of you who have not already been informed, Gaetano Sagatini was brutally attacked and slain not more than one hour ago. Let us not attempt to soften the facts. The commission of this horrifying act has apparently been connected to an officer of this company. However, until the incident has been fully investigated, we as an organization can make no assumptions, nor can we communicate such to any parties in an official context with regard to culpability. That said, we as the senior team are obligated to address critical strategic issues brought about by this unspeakable tragedy. As Senior Vice President, General Counsel and Corporate Secretary, I am empowered on an interim basis to guide the decision-making process of the firm until such time that we can convene a quorum gathering of the Board of Directors."

"Uh, Matty," Paine Fear said with a crooked index finger raised and pointed at the podium.

"In a minute, Paine," Powers said, conveying urgency with an impatient sweep of his arm.

"But."

"Not now! Look, I will speak with the police. Crockett, you set up the press conference for 4 p.m. I'll handle that as well. You gather your team and do up the press release expressing our shock and sadness, condolences to the family, arrangements to be announced yadayadayada. Rogoff, make sure that Crockett doesn't fuck up and Paine, you're going to have to explain the situation to Dove's people."

"Explain, Matty? Explain what?" Fear asked.

"Let me finish!" Powers said. "Halliburton! Have your people refer all calls to Corporate Communications. Crockett, take all Corp Com lines down. We don't want to be talking to anyone before the press conference. Simon, I want you to take the e-mail system off line. Don't want any loose cannons running around, and Halliburton, get in touch with the union and I'll have my staff personally call the members of the Board for an emergency session within 48 hours, if possible. Halliburton, get the catering service cranked up; we're going to be hunkered down for quite some time. Dove, dismiss all non-essential staff, given the emergency, but keep policyholder service on-line vis-a-vis state regulations. I'll call the mayor and governor. Who's taking notes. _Hey look_ , everyone, _get moving_. I got some cop waiting outside for a statement. Where's Dove? Where's? Oh . . . Oh."

DeMastri Powers was all charged up and lost in the spew of his commands. Despite the Dove gaffe, he had manfully grabbed the situation by its neck and wrestled it to the ground. He always knew that he could be the man-—the one with the cool head, the one who would know which buttons to push as the world was in flames around him. How fortunate, he thought, for the assembled sheep in this room that at least one man among them knew how to guide a steady course amidst roiling seas. But then, what's with the blank faces? Were they stunned into immobility by Powers' hitherto repressed adroitness? Were they transfixed by his command in the face of disaster? Why so slow on the uptake?

"Um," Paine Fear grumbled from the back. "Who died and made you boss?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean, Matty, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Paine's point is well taken," said Simon Rogoff, who had shed the hang-dog slouch and acquired a twinkle in his eye. "I think before we do anything we should get the order of succession straightened out."

_"Which is exactly what I'm doing!_ " Powers roared. "Under the bylaws of the organization, succession is an issue to be determined by the corporation's board of directors. Inasmuch that it is impossible to convene the board at this exact moment, the current situation constitutes an emergency and, as chief legal officer of the company, it is incumbent upon my office to assure the orderly conveyance of business in the interim in accordance with proscribed statutes."

"Sounds like a fucking power grab to me," Fear said.

"How can you think of such a thing at a moment like this?" Powers retorted.

"Here, here!" said Halliburton, tears of grief coursing down his puffy cheeks. "I was Mr. Sagatini's closest confidante and chief aide. With all due respect, Mr. Powers, as head of Human Resources and Special Projects, addressing the needs of the organization in this hour of crisis rightfully belongs in my office." His noble gesture proffered, Halliburton yanked a carefully creased lavender silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and dabbed at the pearly tears dotting his cheeks.

"Guys! Guys! We must present a calm, united front to the public, media and local law enforcement officials," Crockett said. "I propose a committee comprised of . . ."

_"Shut . . . the . . . hell . . . up . . . Crockett!"_ Powers screamed. "The last thing we need is one of your stupid suggestions. Didn't I put you on the phones or something?"

"Don't you tell Crockett what to do," Rogoff said with blossoming boldness. "Who do you think you are? Al Haig? Let's bring this thing to order. I am the chief operating officer of this corporation and clearly the second in command. Any assertion to the contrary is utterly off-base and . . . _who the hell let her in_?" Rogoff said with a singular display of animation.

"Matty!," Marci cried as she dashed across the room and dropped in a swoon into her husband's arms. Powers blanched as his sparse fly of hair wafted across his face, the crown of his shiny scalp reflecting the glare of the podium key light. Marci ejected globs of misery upon Power's breast as the surviving brain trust of MEDICUS Corp. looked on in stunned embarrassment. Marci whipped her head like a wild pony rejecting the bit, lamenting the sudden loss of her favorite uncle. She bruised Power's chest with her butting head, pushing him step by step away from the podium until he was pinned against the projection screen showing images from the local news and exterior shots of this very building.

Powers could not dislodge himself from his wife, his shirt, tie and suit jacket soaked in the outpouring of Marci's misery. His eyeballs distended more than usual from their eye sockets and words failed him despite repeated attempts to articulate.

"Matty, I think Simon is right," Paine Fear said in his rumbling smoker's purr. "Why don't you take Marci home, poor girl. Settle her down. She's suffered a terrible personal loss. Don't worry, we'll handle things on this end." Paine Fear said this with a pale smile on his face. It was the kind of smile, akin to a smirk, that has in the past portended many a hardship among Fear's subordinates. Fear's Mona Lisa smirk, Powers well knew, was an ominous cue for one of his implacable endgames, a signifier of a personal kind of victory.

But then Marci disengaged herself from her husband's breast and somberly proclaimed in a voice amazingly absent of tear-choked angst, "No, my husband is the only one who can lead my uncle's company in this time of crisis. I am—-we all are—-beside ourselves with grief. But MEDICUS was always Uncle Gaetano's foremost concern and we can't let him down." Marci had worked her way to the podium and was now at the microphone in full voice. The group looked on as she abetted her husband's quest for the crown.

"Nobody in this room was closer to Uncle Gaetano than myself," Marci said, a slight whimper working its way into her delivery. "And it was always his wish that DeMastri Powers become the next chairman. It was his intent . . ."

"Sagatini's dead. Get used to it," Fear said. A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. Marci paled at Fear's dagger of cruelty and Matty Powers' wattle fluttered from the unexpected dig.

"Seems like you've adapted to the news pretty quickly," Rogoff muttered. Fear shrugged, that infernal grin still owning his face. "What's the joke? The boss is dead and the place is crawling with pretenders and it seems clear enough to those who have managed to keep their wits about them that despite the grand gestures offered by the Powers contingent, there remains a vacuum at the top. _Sit down, Powers,_ _you talk too fucking much,"_ Fear barked when he saw Powers rise to his feet.

"Who do you think you are, Paine?" Marci cried.

"And put a lid on your old lady, she's getting on everybody's nerves," Fear said, squinting into the eyes of Power's wife. Marci tried to break away from Powers' restraining arms. Powers himself wondered why he didn't make a dive at Fear himself, perhaps unconsciously tallying the litigious fallout from such an impulsive act.

"I'm the guy who's going to get us out of this mess," Fear announced. "I'm not going to sit around and watch you wimps wring your hands and form committees while the company burns to the ground. _I'm_ gonna handle the cops. _I'm_ gonna handle the papers. My mug's going to be the one they see and it'll be my voice that they'll hear. One message, one story. One guy. Got that?"

"I'm _so_ surprised," Rogoff said as a got to his feet. "Just what you've always been waiting for, huh Paine? Been with the company, how long? Twenty-five, thirty years? And now you decide that today's your special day. Went out and got yourself a microscope and finally you've discovered your balls. Tell us all, what kind of credibility do you really have around here? The only soul who'd agree that you're The Man is the one who exists between your two ears. You're pathetic. You're a bully-boy and nothing else," said Rogoff with a voice shaking with pent-up emotion. The cork was out of the bottle. And with the former order of tyranny removed, the festering longings and bitterness of MEDICUS' brass was finally being aired. The screams and taunts and shouts resonated beyond the padded board room walls and into the ears of the assembled media, which O.K. was desperately trying to distract with press kits, pastry and hot coffee.

"So, _you_ gonna be The Man?" Fear said in a venomous ooze. "You broken down old fart. You couldn't handle the heat at the Travelers when Citigroup invaded so you came crawling here on your knees looking for a handout from Sagatini. You have no base here now—-you're a sorry waste," Fear sneered.

"Fellas! Fellas! Come on. My original proposal is sound," Power pleaded as Marci thrashed against his grasp. "Stop this petty squabbling. We need to present a united front."

"You really annoy me," Fear shouted as he reached for the nearest object, which happened to be a small glass ashtray engraved with an image of the MEDICUS logo and the legend "Fifty Years of Service," and chucked it as hard as he could in the direction of DeMastri Powers. It whizzed by the Chief Counsel's ear and smashed in a thousand pieces against the curved burnt-sienna velvet-clad wall.

In ducking the projectile, Powers lost his grip on Marci, who charged like a foaming thoroughbred around the table. She bore down on Paine Fear, pounced and wrestled him to the floor. Fear's implacable demeanor, a stony carapace interpreted by some as impervious to the meanness of this business, went the way of the flesh under Marci's furious attack. She sacrificed her perfect manicure as she whaled away at Fear's head and face, which were soon pulpy with a mixture of tears and blood. The sides of her fists bruised up from the rain of blows upon Fear's hard head, cheeks and nose.

By now Powers had dashed over in an effort to pry his crazed Marci off the writhing torso of MEDICUS' Senior Vice President of Operations. Powers' efforts, however, were thwarted when Halliburton heaved himself on Powers' back and, curiously, started slapping at the back of Power's head with the open palms of his hands. Rogoff launched himself from his seat to join the fray, followed by assorted aides, until MEDICUS' boardroom had devolved into a struggling chaotic mass of suited Samarai. O.K. Crockett, appalled by the shocking mayhem and ungodly stream of oaths and epithets, immediately headed to the exit. The doors, however, were suddenly blasted open by the assembling NYPD investigation team followed by a horde of impatient media bearing notepads and microphones. The force of their entry launched Crockett up, onto and across the expansive oak table before he tumbled in a heap on the legs of an upended boardroom chair.

Powers was living a nightmare. Blood in the water, blood on the news. The NYPD pounced on the sharks ripping away at each other in a feeding frenzy. Paine Fear, recently recuperated from quadruple bypass surgery, writhed as he was held face-down on the plush board room carpeting by a detective from homicide wearing a Lt. Columbo raincoat.

Powers recoiled at the sight of his wife being restrained by two beefy uniforms as she twisted and spewed streams of invective from her mouth and a mixture of blood and snot from her nose. They were all herded out amidst a terrible uproar. Crowds had assembled in the halls and on the streets outside the building and well-dressed piranhas clutching microphones emerged from vans with helical antennas reaching to the sky shouting questions as the bloodied dignitaries were loaded into a fleet of squad cars.

#

Early that evening Powers saw the twins watching from the window as Marci and he were deposited in their driveway by a blue and white New York City police car. The kids were impressed! Dad took Mom's hand and strode briskly to the front door, which was held open by Marci's mom, who watched the kids in the suburbs while Mom and Dad were being booked in the city. Grandma glared suspiciously at the far-away gleam in the eyes of her daughter and the half-smiling visage of satisfaction on the froggy features of her son-in-law. They swooped in, their fine raiment in tatters. Dad whipped off his suit jacket as Mom peeled off her wrinkled and stained linen coat.

"The phone has been ringing nonstop. I couldn't keep up," said Marci's mom in a voice dripping with indignation.

"I don't care," Marci said breathlessly, her eyes transfixed by the image of her husband, who shooed his yammering offspring into another room.

"I didn't hold dinner. I didn't know when you'd be getting back. It's all been on TV," Grandma scolded.

"Mother, Matty and I will be upstairs cleaning up," Marci said while sporting a smile fit for a starved carnivore. Matty grabbed Marci by the shoulder and gave her a yank in the direction of the stairs. Powers figured that they'd been doing a lot of flinging and shoving today and they weren't about to stop now. Matty flung Marci down on their four-poster king-size bed and then flung himself down on top of her. There they thrashed and groped and fucked with an abandon that recalled the torrid early days of their romance. Indeed, Powers wondered in his depletion if it had ever been this good. Sure, Marci lost her favorite uncle today, but she couldn't help exploiting a husband who appeared so engaged and commanding. So in control and decisive. There he was on the floor grappling with company vermin and rescuing his lady at the same time! "Oh Matty!" she swooned, "for once you didn't act like a lawyer. For once you stood up and had your way with them!"

And with her! He did all the things—-made all the moves-—that used to feel so good to her, swarming over her like a wild man. Like an octopus! Matty was energized and he did whatever he wanted and got whatever he wanted until he thought he was going to pass out from sensory overload. For once she didn't dive under the covers or draw the shades or douse the lights. Maybe this was the start of a whole new direction in their lives. Matty could tell that he had won the toughest battle of them all-—the one for his wife's respect.

Once the carnal furnaces had been banked, he and Marci watched the news in bed. Absent of context, the footage of the board room barn fight, the blood in the presidential office suite, the pathetic babble of an abashed O.K. Crockett in camera close-up, had the effect of dampening Powers' earlier euphoria, replaced by the tug of responsibility. Only his wife's persistent groping and gentle kneading of his drowsy organ restrained him from bolting out the door to the office.

Could he wait till morning to address the devastation, the construction of the story? Conceding the obvious, Marci finally withdrew her throbbing hand. Powers knew it was his fault—-he couldn't help glancing in the direction of the endlessly ringing telephone. Finally she proposed a deal--tomorrow would begin the new regime. All the strategy, all the spin, all the intrigue must wait until tomorrow. He promised to try, and she leapt out of bed to unplug the phone. When she returned, so did her hand to that special, if depleted, place.

"Marci, you have no idea. I have to go in. The company's future is . . ."

_"You_ are the company's future, love," Marci sighed. "And I am the wife of the company's future. I lost my uncle today, Matty. Your first obligation is to your family. I need consoling. The company can wait. I need to be in your arms tonight." But that tightness in his chest, in his stomach—-Powers just couldn't. Again Marci sighed, and this time she did what had to be done to keep him home tonight. She hunched down in the bed and pulled the covers over her head and started doing something special for Matty Powers. Something he'd find soft, moist and wonderful. And that's where she went for the first time since the earliest weeks of her marriage. At last the gentle rhythms of her favor sapped the pull of Matty's office and he succumbed to Marci's demands.

## TEN

Charley's Tavern was the place Lisa and Earl used to go when the kids became impossible, the pressures at work unbearable, their own give-and-take too barbed, and occasionally just to celebrate something good. Charley's did a nice tuna in a portobello and red wine reduction and the spicy fish chowder reliably blew the top of your skull off. But it was the giant martinis that kept Lisa and Earl coming back. Earl ordered them the same way every time-—Beefeaters, extra dry straight up with three fat olives. The buzz kicked in with the first aromatic whiff.

Lisa was on her second martini as Karen stared sullenly at her white wine spritzer. "What's the big deal about martinis?" Karen asked. "Tastes like gasoline. I could never get one down."

"This, sweet cakes, is what little girls drink when they grow up," Lisa bubbled.

"It's pure booze. It's an alcoholic version of heroin. How can you stand it?"

"They're pure therapy!" Lisa said. "Take a sip or two and all the cares and worries of the world seem to melt away"

"You're wasted. What's the deal?" Karen asked, making Lisa chuckle at this sudden role reversal. After all, Karen used to be the one egging Lisa on to go out for lunch and who kept the wine flowing until they'd "forget" to go back to work. Inevitably they'd reminisce about the parties Karen used to throw with Bing, her live-in lover for the last 23 years, and she was the one who would invariably brandish the bong in the blithe years before Lisa's tribe arrived. Lisa, Earl, Karen and Bing would bubble themselves into oblivion from the high-grade homegrown weed harvested from Bing's elaborate mini-plantation in the basement. Now it's just spritzers and candy-colored wine coolers for Karen, for whom hard-core liquor had lapsed into anathema.

Lisa defiantly drained her drink in a single, cough-constricted gulp. Then she burst out laughing. Through the haze of sensory pollution Lisa heard herself being accused of being fall-down drunk, which she denied, insisting instead that she was simply happy. Exultant. Liberated. She was indulging in a secret celebration of a project well managed and executed, just as she would handle the completion of a successful project at work. It was a total build-out leading to the desired output. She established goals, mapped out deliverables and critical gates, developed a strategy and married that strategy to an elegant tactical solution.

Sure, she could credit her natural creativity and organizational skills, but she was also indebted to certain professors at Monmouth University who taught her basic project management techniques as part of her masters program in software engineering. She could also credit her management for sending her to the three-day Microsoft Project workshop, a software program that Lisa used to map her every move, from the manipulation of Sagatini's calendar, to allotting sufficient time to field test her slashing technique, to the staging of the intricate progression that included collecting her late husband's effects to clearing Sagatini's control gate by sending his secretary on a wild goose chase. It was all there in her color-coded project plan.

She executed the final step of her plan when she got home—-she called up MS Project on her computer and deleted the evidence. After she powered down, she shredded all related printouts and paper copies, and tomorrow she'd use those scraps as tinder in the fireplace when she burns the contents of the bag that she had dumped in the basement.

A thousand things could have gone wrong, but Lisa was rewarded for her attention to detail. Her one regret was the last-second freeze-up, the near fatal hesitation as she held the razor suspended above the extended throat of Gaetano Sagatini. She was mystified and disappointed that her hate-fueled momentum was insufficient to move her into seamless action; rather, it took a lewd grab and a primitive reflex on her part to break the spell . . . and several major blood vessels. The escalating fury of her attack, she sheepishly acknowledged, became more a matter of exasperation over her vacillation than of vengeance. But Lisa did not intend this night as an occasion for an internal debrief; it was an evening of celebration. Her best friend needed a jumpstart.

"Karen, you know it makes me nervous when you watch me drink. I didn't like my first martini either. And I didn't like dope either, but I learned. New experiences keep you fresh and alive." Then she ordered another round for herself and one for Karen.

"But I have to drive," Karen complained.

"We'll walk!" Lisa countered, feeling the irresistible itch in her bladder. "Look, I'm going to take a leak and when I return, I want that glass empty! You are not permitted to order another spritzer. I will not make an ass of myself alone!" As Lisa careened among the tightly spaced tables, Karen held her nose and chugged her martini. She quickly lit a cigarette to get the taste out of her mouth and braced herself for the oncoming freight train soon to roar through her skull. By the time Lisa had returned from the bathroom, her friend had the same tingle in her tummy and twinkle in her eye as she.

"It's medicine, isn't it?" Lisa said with a conspiratorial wink. Karen shrugged and paid the bill. As they walked out Lisa glanced up at a news report on the bar television that documented a scene she knew well that had played out earlier that afternoon at MEDICUS Corporation headquarters in Manhattan.

She froze and watched the image of a Baggied corpse loaded into a paramedic van. She tried to catch the steady stream of babble from an ashen, overwhelmed O.K. Crockett. Most amazing of all, she saw jumpy images of what appeared to be a small riot breaking out in the MEDICUS boardroom, accompanied by screams and bleeped profanities from a woman Lisa could not identify.

Then there appeared a heavily air-brushed image of the prime suspect, Trini Dove, Senior Vice President of Provider Relations. The likeness was apparently retrieved from the archives of stock photo files assembled over the years by none other than Earl Parmenter. Lisa was transfixed by the images of MEDICUS' brass being led out of the building in chains and loaded into police cars. She couldn't restrain herself from exploding in a fit of laughter, which turned heads in the bar away from their conversations and the lurid images on the screen to a chortling woman's outrageous mirth. Lisa had caused an event that marked another first in her life--a scene. She had finally lost control of herself. The intensity of her laughter filled her eyes with tears and so weakened her that she had to prop herself against the bar. Karen took it upon herself to shepherd Lisa away, guiding her out of the restaurant and in the direction of the nearby beach.

"Let's take a walk," Karen said as she herself struggled to control her Beefeaters-fueled mirth bubbles, which only intensified as they reached the beach. Upon hitting the loose sand the women immediately lost their footing and tumbled in a heap arm-in-arm. They laughed and tickled each other like three-year-olds as the sun hovered low in the sky. The secrets floated near the surface and it was all Lisa could do to avoid confessing her exploits. _Karen, today I slashed the throat of the president of my dead husband's company. I've never been so excited in my life!_ Instead she just laughed and rolled over and over on the beach with Karen, packing every pore and crevice of her skin and clothes with fine Jersey Shore sand.

#

Lisa slept through the night without incident and Monica checked in with her first thing in the morning. Sure enough, there was Ringo snuggled up and digging in against Lisa's back, who was still dead to the world.

Monica didn't know why her mom was late or why she came home covered with the beach and smelling so bad. Mom kept a lot of things to herself. Monica understood and admired this mystery about her mother. Monica, too, was careful about protecting her deepest thoughts—-it was just the way she liked it. Monica would never say what was on her mind; Victoria and Ringo wouldn't be able to handle it. If Mom needed to go out on the beach and drink herself silly, then she had her reasons. Monica was cool with that.

"Hey, what's going on up there? Your pancakes are ready!" Victoria shouted from the kitchen.

"Quiet! Mom is trying to sleep," Monica yelled back as she disengaged herself from Lisa's hand and joined her sister downstairs.

"She's still drunk as a skunk is more like it," Victoria said, slamming the griddle with dramatic ardor. "This is scaring the hell out of me. Mom just isn't herself and I'll be goddamned if she thinks I'm going to waste my life watching you two twerps," Victoria said as a drowsy Ringo staggered downstairs and proceeded to empty a bottle of Log Cabin syrup on his flapjack.

"Daddy just died!" Monica said, "Give her a break."

"I have! _I have!_ " Victoria protested. "It's time to get over it. She has three kids who depend on her. She hasn't even gone back to work yet and it's been a month! You guys don't understand the stakes here. Did you know how much money Mom turned down from Daddy's old company? All she had to do was sign the check. What's going to happen to us now? If Mom stays like this much longer, maybe it means she'll stop paying the bills and we'll all be kicked out of the house and have to squeeze into one of those hideous garden apartments across town where all the drug addicts and losers hang out. What about my dance lessons—-and your karate, baby sister? How about things like clothes and movies and plays in the city? Is that all over because Mom is permanently zonked? Why couldn't Dad have been more careful? Look what he's done to Mom. Look what he's done to us kids! _Ringo, I swear to God if you don't put the syrup down I'm going to hit you over the head with it!_ " Ringo beamed a sticky-faced smile and then threatened to go up and tell Mommy, which kicked Victoria's pique up another notch.

"Sure, go right ahead, brat face! She's passed out in bed. Isn't that a cool thing for her kids to see? Isn't that a great thing to do to me? I could just die! I could just . . . " and then Victoria unleashed a shocking explosion of tears and tore away to her room to vent a drenching monsoon of lamentation. Ringo clambered behind his older sister, reentered his mom's room and crawled across Lisa's prone body. He fell instantly back to sleep, his sticky face like a magnet attracting particles of sand from Lisa's gently rising and falling belly.

Having lost her appetite as a result of Victoria's shameful outburst, Monica cleared the plates, leaving them in the sink to wash themselves. She turned on the TV in the kitchen, which was tuned to the local news. Monica heard names often used by her father when he talked about his job. The names were Sagatini and Powers and she saw the image and read the name on the screen of Dad's old boss, O.K. Crockett, who was described by the odd title of "Company Spokesman."

Everyone on the scene seemed so nervous, except of course the body that was carried out of the office building in a black plastic bag. She saw a picture of a woman whom Dad also mentioned on occasion. Her name was Trisha Love and she was the prime suspect. They locked her up in jail. Mom went to New York yesterday to pick up Dad's old stuff at the office. She was there the day that man was murdered. Imagine that, Monica thought. Did Mom see it happen? Why didn't she say anything?

Then Monica remembered the bundle in the basement, an old gym bag that Daddy used when he went to play basketball with the men on Thursday nights. She remembered how she couldn't restrain her curiosity and undid the clasp and dug through the clothes and towels that were soiled with what appeared to her a kind of brown paint. Monica began to wonder if the dampness that stained her hands really was brown paint. Suddenly Monica wasn't so keen about going back downstairs and taking another look. But she didn't know quite what to do next. In fact, she started shaking a little and then found herself sneaking into Ringo's room and rifling through his collection of Berenstain Bears paperbacks. She knew that she was too old and sophisticated for those silly tales that tried to teach kids how to behave, but she also knew that she could use a little comfort reading.

Monica couldn't settle down until she had knocked down a half-dozen titles.

#

"That was a smart move turning down the money," said Bess, Lisa's attorney. Lisa nodded, her head hurting badly. She was so wiped out when she that morning that she thought seriously of canceling this appointment. She couldn't remember the last time she had blacked out-—not since college, at least. She couldn't remember how she got home, why she woke up covered with grit or why Ringo was sleeping on the floor of her bedroom. Monica had appeared miraculously with a perfectly brewed cup of coffee. It must have been her daughter's thoughtfulness that fired her mothering instinct, inspiring her to work through the pain of alcohol poisoning and Victoria's foul mood to make it to Bess's office on time for the 11 o'clock consultation.

"I did it to piss them off," Lisa said softly. "Why make it easy on the assholes?"

"Whatever," said Bess, seemingly absorbed in the details of the case, rather than Lisa's irrelevant motives and emotional rationalizations. "I've done some preliminary discovery with several of your husband's former co-workers. I spoke with an Inspector Lipscomb of the New York Police Department. As a result of those discussions and examination of the salient aspects of the incident, I'd like to represent you in this case."

Lisa looked up at her former roommate with amusement. "Well, sure, of course. I thought that was settled."

"Not settled, really," Bess said. "Listen, Lisa, I only participate in actions that contain a reasonable probability of success. Our friendship is meaningful, of course. But my services are compensated only if I win. We're going to win this one."

Sure thing, thought Lisa. Bess looked so formidable this morning. Through all the years, she was still the personification of the nickname Lisa gave her back in school, which was Peek Freen. Bess was now and forever a very serious cookie. She truly has no sense of humor. During the brief period in college when she lived with Bess, Lisa recalled her friend's obsession with fitting in. Fitting in, however, only mattered to Bess insofar as it led to populating a usable network. The planning and construction of her personality began at an early age and was a deliberate ongoing project for Bess. She was constantly focused on the future payoff, which was a quick and true career path. Still, Lisa was caught off-guard by her friend's cautious approach when it came to her case against her husband's former employer.

"You know me better than anyone else, Lisa. You know I'm totally invested in my work," Bess said. "I am a sole practitioner, which means if I didn't think you had a compelling situation, I'm afraid I'd have to pass. I couldn't afford the time to do otherwise. Even for a friend."

Lisa was accustomed to Bess taking passes. Gerald said he was in love with Bess. So did Mark, Avery and Sam. Maybe they were in love with Bess's long slim legs and large brown eyes. Maybe they were in love with her meticulously toned body and smart, carefully tailored wardrobe. There were no rough edges to her personality, and the many men who hit on Bess did not for the most part mind her consistent and impenetrable cordiality. And none of them quite understood that Bess's impressive presentation and welcoming manner were not manifestations of their personal appeal to her. It was, instead, a deliberate strategy. She took a pass on the entanglements of enduring relationships, on marriage and kids and casual dating. She took a pass on anything that distracted her from the game plan that she had devised for herself. In a life filled with acquaintances and no close friends, Bess was content with what she had and where she was headed.

"Then I should consider myself fortunate," Lisa said with an ironic smile. "Hey, I'm not looking for any special favors."

"No. No, it's nothing like that," Bess said with pitch-perfect sensitivity. "It's just that so many people come into this office filled with such high hopes. They come in believing that whatever adversities they've encountered in life can be redressed in the courts. But it's not that way. Those big settlements you read about in the papers-—it's only because they're news. What you don't see are the thousands of cases that aren't worth the bother, that are turned away or dismissed, or that result in settlements for far less than the injuries merit. It's a long and difficult process. I don't want to subject anyone to it unless the upside is significant and fairly certain. And, from a practical standpoint, I can't afford to take on hopeless causes." Bess's penetrating gaze, rigid jaw and coiled fists, one of which had a white-knuckled grip on a Blackfeet Indian pencil, conveyed a sense of earnestness that Lisa tended to accept.

"Well, in your professional judgment, then . . ."

"You have a very strong case. There's negligence involved. There is documentation, a paper trail, and cooperative witnesses. Given public sentiment, it's not that difficult to find a jury that would be less-than-sympathetic to a large insurance company. All these are promising elements." Bess consulted her notes as Lisa nodded.

There was a long pause before Bess finally asked if Lisa would like some coffee. Lisa shook her head and then asked, "Okay, Bess, how much are we talking here?"

Bess donned her professional smile as she pulled a sheet of yellow foolscap with a calculation strip stapled to the corner. "As much as people think that damage awards are fabricated out of thin air, there is a sort of formula," Bess explained. "You compute lost wages and future benefits, loss of consortium and other economic issues such as young children and so forth. Then, given the egregious nature of MEDICUS Corporation's behavior before, during and after the incident and their long track record of abuse, you factor in a multiple for punitive damages. What I am showing you are figures I've come up with, net the firm's 33 percent contingency. There are, of course, normal expenses involved in filings, court expenses, administration and so forth that my office will charge at cost-–but there is no payment from you at all unless you collect a monetary settlement," she said as she passed the paper across to desk to Lisa.

While Lisa fancied herself endowed with a modicum of sophistication and worldliness, and even well read in the ways of the popular litigious culture, the figure she was shown staggered her like a cannon shot to the gut. She was faint from the evacuation of blood from her brain and an arid gasp heated her throat. She was parched, struck dumb and her fingertips and toes tingled as though wired to a transformer. Bess had presciently poured a cup of water from the ever-ready Evian bottle sitting on her credenza for the anticipated reaction. Lisa took a hasty gulp, which bumped up against the knot in her throat, making her choke and erupt in a moist coughing fit.

Bess, apparently accustomed to similar responses, ducked Lisa's spray and patiently sat with hands folded on the desk. After a while, Lisa recovered her composure.

"There's no way!" she exclaimed, while reasoning to herself that Bess never gambled unless she was convinced of a sure thing. And there she sat with cool detachment.

"The negligence is far-reaching, and our position is supported by precedents that are in line with the proposal. The estimate, in my opinion, is modest under the circumstances." Yet even Bess's deadpan presentation couldn't prevent a flicker of a smile to escape. Lisa could see that Bess was enjoying the spectacle of Lisa, her analytical and self-possessed friend, knocked off her pins by this startling disclosure.

"It's a lot of money," Lisa whispered as she stared at the crazy figures generated by Bess's calculator.

"Yes, it's a lot of money," Bess said.

"But I don't want to send the wrong message. I don't want it to appear ...to appear..."

"It won't," Bess assured her.

"What did you think I was going to say?"

"You don't want it to appear that you're trying to capitalize on the death of your husband at the expense of a deep-pockets corporation—-to take advantage of public sympathy." Lisa was about to respond to Bess's correct observation, but Bess raised her hand to stop her. Then she stepped from behind her desk and bent down in front of Lisa so that they were inches apart, eyeball to eyeball.

"You are a decent and compassionate human being. And now you are a woman who has to raise three children on her own, who lost her husband of 22 years--her lifetime love. He was a man murdered not by a deranged homeless drifter, but by a corporation harboring a callous indifference to the safety and welfare of its workers. A corporation that stinted on the protective measures it had promised to implement when it moved to a less secure block because of an advantageous business deal. A corporation that stinted on the installation of an adequate security or electronic surveillance system just so corporate executives could indulge themselves in lavish perquisites.

"These policy decisions followed a discrete and deliberate pattern that led to several assaults requiring hospital stays, a pervading sense of danger by most who worked in the building, and, finally, a highly preventable murder. You've endured a loss that can never, ever be undone. That's where that figure comes from, Lisa. Corporations are big, dumb and indifferent. They only understand one language--money. Well, then, that's the language we have to speak." Bess's brilliant eyes bored in at Lisa like an oncoming semi flashing its hi-beams. All Bess's eyes could see now was the top of Lisa's head, because Lisa was now gently sobbing into her hands. Bess backed away and smiled.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to practice my opening statement. I guess it worked pretty well on you."

## ELEVEN

From DeMastri Powers' perspective, O.K. Crockett handled this one well. He booked the grand ballroom at the midtown Sheraton for a 10 a.m. news conference. He and his staff were up all night putting together the press kit. The colorful annual report, 8x10 glossies of Sagatini's mug from a recent photo sitting, and the official bio tracking a young man's industrious ascent from the mailroom to the pinnacle of power and prestige as the leader of the premier not-for-profit health insurance corporation in New York City. Two hundred kits of this stuff housed in laminated cardboard folders decorated in the corporate colors of forest green and chrome yellow awaited the media that burst through the doors to face the panel of surviving executives.

Chastened by yesterday's police detainment and anxious about today's face-to-face with the press-dogs, Rogoff, Fear and Halliburton deferred to DeMastri Powers to spearhead the company response. Powers, still aglow and invigorated by the violent expunging of the Wicked Oppressor from the office of the CEO and an exultant night with his amazingly supercharged wife, took up the cause with unfettered vigor. He was so pleased with Crockett's arrangements that he allowed O.K. to kick off the affair with a few procedural announcements, including the introduction of the acting chief executive, DeMastri Powers.

Powers had a powerful desire to smile, but he knew that somber was the mood of the day. Dazzled by the TV lights, he couldn't see a thing in front of him. He stood behind the podium shuffling papers, saying nothing while he gave his eyes a chance to adjust. Then he took out his reading spectacles and recited from a prepared statement the essential sentiments of dismay occasioned by the events of the past 24 hours. This was followed by reassurances that interim leadership was in place to guide the organization through the present trauma. He then invited questions from the media, which he adeptly dodged with prolix legalisms and evasions until finally his responses were greeted with sporadic groans and sighs of impatience. It wasn't long before the group started to disperse and the TV lights were extinguished. Soon after the press conference began, Powers found himself facing a room artfully purged of news gatherers. The trays of sticky pastries were polished off, the coffee and orange juice guzzled, and DeMastri Powers came away a smashing success.

He defied them to salvage a usable sound bite from the performance. His sandbagging tactics left him so ebullient that he slapped a startled O.K. Crockett a high-five. And best of all, the other potentates of MEDICUS Corp sat like rigid totems throughout the entire proceeding—-unintroduced, unidentified! During the limo ride back to the office, Powers outlined an action plan to keep the lumbering insurance giant functional in the interim—-a plan that went unchallenged by his fellow passengers. He achieved bent-back subservience and silent acquiescence of his provisional accession.

It was a great start to the day for DeMastri Powers, but it didn't continue that way.

An envelope stamped "Certified" lay on the leather blotter of his desk. It was marked with a return address of some law firm in southern New Jersey. Powers did not make the connection until he ripped it open.

"FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING ASSHOLE BITCH!" Then he commanded Vanya to round 'em up. Immediately! And immediately they all appeared--Halliburton, Fear, Rogoff and Crockett. Crockett, however, was summarily ejected, his triumphant press conference quickly consigned to the archives of ancient glory. Powers stood rigid behind his desk, arms flexed and folded. Perspiration dotted his freckled brow and the gaping pores of his upper lip. The hair, off course, wafted like seaweed in a tsunami.

"Does that say $45 million?" Fear asked as his face assumed the usual smirk. Halliburton grabbed the sheet of paper out of Fear's hand and froze in shock. Rogoff, whose shoulders and chest thrust out like a bantam cock following the tragedy, had collapsed like a depleted bellows.

"Of course, there's no chance . . ." Halliburton sputtered.

"It's not been formally filed yet. It's a trial balloon," Powers said.

"Are they waiting for a counter-offer?" asked Fear.

"We made a fair offer," Powers said. "Sagatini would not budge. He . . ."

"Is dead," Fear said. "Must I keep reminding you? He is dead and now it's in our laps. I assume outside counsel will advise . . ."

_"Look_ ," Powers said testily. "Think it through, gentlemen, we don't have much time. The widow is a sympathetic case. Her counsel is just beginning to stir the pot. They're not into settling. They think it's, you know-—it's Lotto. But wait. Sagatini left an estate and survivors, too. They'll have expectations once he's planted and the memorial festivities are done. There are former wives, kids. They'll come creeping out of the woodwork and just you wait and see the numbers they come up with. If this thing goes any further with Parmenter, it'll only encourage the Sagatini clan."

"Fucking melodrama," said Fear with a sneer. "You're a paranoid son-of-a-bitch. It was an accident—-nothing more or less."

"This is _New York_! It's all about lawyers and not one of them is in his right mind!" Rogoff grumbled.

"Fuck you, Rogoff," Powers said. "And a good point. We'll touch base with Russell and McCanlon regarding our counter." Powers knew that he couldn't let this thing go to trial-—they'd take a beating. This was a salvage mission. They'd agree on a number, lick their wounds and go on from there.

"Ah, Matty," Fear said, "McCanlon-—isn't that the outfit that negotiated the purchase agreement on this building? And Mr. Russell, of course, the second Mrs. Sagatini's step dad, who is on retainer with MEDICUS as an unspoken divorce settlement accommodation, I believe. Are you sure his firm would maintain a proactive advocacy position for this organization? What if a more rewarding contingency were in the offing if they were to throw their allegiance behind the aggrieved Sagatini tribe?"

Silence in the room. Silence and heat. Powers had a core-melting hatred of Paine Fear and he hated him more at this moment than ever before. Fear had impugned his logic, his profession. _To think_!

"I assume ethical considerations will guide McCanlon's conduct, as they would any professional firm," Powers declared. "We have had a long, productive relationship. I would be surprised, shocked actually, if this incident altered the circumstances in a material way."

Matching smiles of hot skepticism decorated the faces of Paine Fear and Simon Rogoff, who took the plunge in support of the argument offered by Powers' antagonist. "Matty, I believe reasonable people would agree that, at the very least, a contingency plan should be in place if McCanlon does in fact resign the account. After all, the only thing binding them to our continued . . ."

"Was a professional commitment and their integrity as ethical practitioners of the law," Powers huffed with resentment. This elicited a roomful of rolling eyeballs. "Okay, fine," Powers said. "I'll initiate conversations regarding our concerns. Today. This is front burner. I want it all sorted out before word of the intended suit leaks out."

## TWELVE

Three days later Lisa found a gentleman in a rumpled raincoat at her front door, who identified himself as a homicide detective with the New York City Police Department. He had to reach and grab Lisa's elbow as she staggered back in dismay.

"I didn't mean to alarm you, Ms. Parmenter," Detective Lipscomb assured her. "I only have a few questions and then I'll be on my way. Incidentally, I handled the situation involving your husband and I want to extend my condolences on your loss."

"I appreciate that, Detective Lipscomb. You are here about that? I thought that was all settled." Lisa had made it clear at the outset that she wanted no part of the investigation into her husband's death. "When the prosecutor called I told him that the killer was clearly emotionally disturbed and he assured me I wouldn't have to participate in the case."

"Yes. Yes. We fully respect your wishes and you have nothing to worry about on that account. We have a full confession and are working out an arrangement that will keep that creep off the streets for the rest of his life. But I'm not here about that. There was another incident at your husband's former company." Lipscomb paused as Lisa tried to support herself while her internals collapsed into melt down mode. _Do they know? How did they find out? How did I screw up? My kids! What will happen to them?_

"Yes, awful, I heard about it on the news," Lisa said, struggling to meet Lipscomb's gaze with sympathetic eyes and a somber tone.

"If you don't mind, I have a few questions. It's my understanding that you were visiting the MEDICUS facility on the morning of the incident." Lisa was overcome by a rush of irrational speculation. Though she battled to maintain her presence of mind and keep her emotions in check, she couldn't help but betray her discomfort to the keen eye of her guest.

"Ms. Parmenter, are you okay?" Lipscomb asked.

"Yes. It's just so much at one time. Please understand, Detective," she said, touching his elbow and leading him to the living room where they could sit. "A lot has happened in my life lately."

"Well then, I'll make this as quick as possible. According to various MEDICUS employees, specifically Bethany Dingell and Laurie Gwathney, you apparently were in the building on the morning and at the approximate time that Mr. Sagatini's death occurred."

"What did they say?" Lisa asked.

"Nothing helpful, really. Was there anything that you might have seen or heard? It's my understanding that Mr. Sagatini's office happened to be located exactly one floor above your husband's workspace. Maybe you heard something--a scuffling maybe--or saw someone suspicious entering or leaving the building. Say, when you used the elevator. Or maybe in the lobby." Lisa didn't dare look at the detective, but she could feel the careful gaze of the professional assessing her every quiver, flinch, and nod.

"No!" Lisa exclaimed, instantly incensed over the sharpness of her tone. "What I mean, Detective Lipscomb, they have Trini Dove. They caught her. She's the one, isn't she?" she said, trying to suppress an inclination to shrill desperation.

"Ms. Dove says she didn't do it," said Lipscomb in a maddening deadpan.

"And you believe her?" Lisa said, clutching the edges of the chair's armrests. She could feel herself sweating through her T-shirt. Lisa _never_ sweats through T-shirts unless it was in her step aerobics class. Why was he here? Why had he come all the way from Manhattan? _Why was she behaving in a way that was beginning to make the trip worthwhile for him?_

Lipscomb just stared at her, waiting for her to tell him more. Tell him something incriminating! In desperation she crossed her arms and stared right back at him. She decided that two could play this game, and Lisa was always more comfortable assuming the offense in difficult situations. So, they had a stare-down. Shiny, smooth-faced Lisa, eyes boring into the tiny charcoal eyes of the cop. After a while, the detective figured it out and decided to put a stop to the silliness.

"True, Ms. Dove is a person of interest. But in a case like this, you know, we got to check everything out."

"You're checking _me_ out?" Lisa said indignantly, exploiting her tension-induced shrillness for tactical purposes.

"Be assured, Ms. Parmenter, you are not being singled out for questioning. We are speaking to everyone who was in the building that day."

"You drove an hour-and-a-half in shore traffic just to ask me that? Why didn't you just pick up the phone?" Lisa looked at Lipscomb, who locked on her expressionless eyes and the staring started all over again. He finally decided that it was unproductive trying to stare down a starer, so Lipscomb simply shrugged and got to his feet.

"I appreciate your time, Ms. Parmenter. I understand this has been a difficult period for you without someone like me coming around and putting your back up. I apologize for that, but that's how the rent gets paid. Look, if you remember anything at all that you'd like to tell me, I'll just leave my card here on the table. My best to you and your family." Lipscomb was gone as suddenly as he had arrived. Lisa, left alone, wandered aimlessly through the house, still sweating from every pore in her body, and on such a cool spring afternoon.

"Who was that, Mom?" Monica asked, who with catlike tread had crept downstairs. Her sudden appearance made Lisa jump. She swung around to face Monica, who retreated from her wild-eyed mother. "Monica, you scared me," Lisa said, trying to smile and put her startled daughter at ease. Monica looked at her stone faced. Lisa hesitated and then excused herself.

"Mommy has to use the bathroom, honey." But that didn't get Lisa off the hook. Monica was not the kind of kid who got bored and went away. Lisa could have taken a shower, polished her nails, flossed her teeth, and wall papered the kitchen, and still Monica would have waited. And there she was, standing outside the door when Lisa emerged from the downstairs lavatory.

The bright but taciturn child followed her mom around the house at a time when Lisa needed to be left alone with her own thoughts. She had thought the page had been turned. The case closed, the culpable parties punished.

"Okay, what is it, Monica?"

"I think we should have a cup of tea, Mom."

"Come on, you're not old enough to be giving me psychotherapy." Lisa laughed.

"What?" Monica's face pricked up with alarm.

"You seem to want to analyze my brain, dear. What's going on here? It's a lovely day. You should be outside playing, or practicing your karate or something. Why are you always in the house? Why are you always following me around?"

Monica just studied her mother in silence. She asked Lisa if she was angry with her. "I haven't done anything wrong," Monica said.

"You were listening in while the detective was here." Monica nodded. Lisa swallowed hard. "It was a private matter. None of your business. A terrible thing happened at your father's old company while I was there the other day."

"The president of the company got killed," Monica said without expression. Lisa nodded. "But why was the policeman here?" Another person with questions, Lisa despaired. They just kept on coming—-from Monica, from the NYPD, the local cop named Vance who called on the phone the day before and was at the house the day Earl was killed. He also wanted to know about Sagatini, and whether Lisa knew him. Lisa wondered if she was a little too candid in her remarks to him and if that was why Lipscomb appeared today on her doorstep. Vance had an easy manner about him. She mustn't allow herself to be fooled again. No more foul-ups. This must pass.

"The police are just checking up. Don't worry about it, Monica," Lisa said. "It's none of your business and it's really none of mine, either—-and we're just not going to discuss it anymore." Monica turned away, her shoulders slumped in dejection. And she didn't seem to understand that she had just been dismissed.

When she saw Monica's disappointment begin to take the form of tears, Lisa despised herself for the heartless treatment of her daughter. She gathered Monica in her arms and hugged her tightly. Lisa hated when she was called upon to explain difficult situations that young ears were unable to absorb. It was usually tiresome and unproductive-—and liable to increase the damage. The right thing was to push it away for now. Monica's arms hung like empty sleeves at her sides as her mother hugged her. She refused to play along with Lisa's approach—-the kid always wanted answers. Craved answers, honest answers, stupid answers. _Answers!_

In desperation Lisa took a deep breath and released Monica. Then she grasped her gently by the shoulders and laid down the law. "Listen, Monica, we got to focus on a couple of things. First, we have to start having more fun. For fun tonight, I'm going to begin teaching you chess. And then you're going to help me fix supper. Now I know what's going through your mind. You probably think I'm trying to distract you from all the stuff that's going on, and you're right. I know you're not stupid and none of what happened is out of your head. So I'm not going to even ask you to forget about it. We'd all like to forget about certain things, but of course we can't. I don't intend to brainwash you, but the only way we're going to be happy again is to start focusing on other things. Positive things that make us happy. The hurt won't go away, but we have to find ways of making it hurt not as bad. Right?"

Monica shrugged, a wise smile crossing her face. Lisa was quite aware that Monica responded when her mom leveled with her.

"So let's make a deal. We'll try to have more fun. And no more talk about cops and investigations. There's just nothing to be gained from that. Trust me on that."

Monica nodded as Lisa went in search of a chessboard that hadn't been seen since Victoria was born. Lisa wasn't convinced that Monica would buy into her proposed program. Those inscrutable dark smudges for eyes aimed straight at the floor made Lisa wonder what sort of equations Monica was parsing in that brain of hers.

Monica's expressionless wall of mystery worried Lisa on a more specific level. For example, did Monica sense that Lisa had noticed that something was wrong with the bundle of bloodied garments in the bag sitting in the basement sink that day? Lisa distinctly recalled the order of the contents--it was jumpsuit, booties, gloves, and towels. But the next morning when she retrieved the bag and took a quick peek, her booties were on top of the pile-—and the securely latched clasp of the duffel was undone. Could it have happened when she flung it into the sink? Did the contents shift through rough handling? Why didn't she do a more careful examination before burning the stuff in the fireplace?

Lisa tried to calm herself with the knowledge that Monica hardly ever visited the basement. Besides, wouldn't such a gruesome discovery have freaked a child even as stoic as Monica? She didn't exhibit any tell-tale behavior that would indicate such an extraordinary experience. Besides, Monica would have shared what she saw with Lisa. She would have demanded a complete explanation. A skeptic herself, Lisa found small comfort in those rationalizations. Lisa burned to ask Monica certain questions, but knew that she never could. Because Monica would not understand what her mom was talking about. _Because she saw nothing!_

And if she had? Simple. Lisa decided it would have to remain an awful unspoken secret between her and her daughter forever.

But there's nothing to worry about. Monica knows nothing!

## THIRTEEN

DeMastri Powers spent the balance of the spring and most of the summer consolidating his MEDICUS base and addressing the litigious fallout from the Parmenter and Sagatini murders. The Parmenter issue in particular was becoming increasingly intractable, given the unwillingness of Ms. Parmenter's attorney to compromise any aspect of the negotiation. Power's frustration was somewhat allayed by positive developments in the project that mattered most to him.

It was shortly after Labor Day when Powers gained the upper hand in the scramble to assume the chairmanship of MEDICUS Corp. Stymied by an unclear line of succession, the MEDICUS board, at Powers urging, created a temporary Office of the Chairman comprising himself, Simon Rogoff, and Paine Fear. The Board's Executive Committee, whose members Powers himself had a major role of recommending during Sagatini's reign, would deliberate succession issues and present a final recommendation for the Board's approval by year-end. By then, Powers assumed, his case will have been made, his chits called in, and his ascension assured.

But that was not his only iron in the fire. A project that was on hold ever since Sagatini's death was suddenly back in play. Powers had received an intriguing invitation that brought him on this brilliantly crisp autumn morning to the corporate offices of CHI Corporation, MEDICUS' chief rival.

He wasn't certain that just his presence here was not some kind of regulatory violation. Should he have sought counsel from his colleagues, or at least the outside consultant? Was he acting in the best interest of the corporation or just in the best interests of DeMastri Powers?

He was doing both.

As he hunkered in a deep slouch in the plush upholstered easy chair set on an expansive Oriental rug in a waiting area teeming with tropical plants in terra cotta planters the size of bathtubs, Powers concluded that doing both was okay. Through the jungle of ferns and floppy-leafed botanicals, Powers glanced uneasily at the executive receptionist chatting on the phone in a strange language. She had greeted him (fifteen minutes ago!) in perfect English. He had assumed that she was Hispanic, judging from her chocolate complexion, round-ish face, dark eyes, prominent bone structure, and the scent of bracingly sweet cologne that the Puerto Rican girls at his office favored. But the language she spoke certainly wasn't Spanish. Filipino? Samoan?

Twenty-five minutes passed.

Powers was getting edgy. He didn't know Nando very well; they're nodding acquaintances at City union welfare fund meetings and industry gatherings. He was a snappy dresser, Italian double-breasted suits, Versace ties, folded hankies in the breast pocket, gold tie bars—-all that. Powers himself was never a power suit guy. Off the rack at Lord and Taylor's suited him fine. Besides, business was his preoccupation, clothes to him were an irrelevance. Besides, Sagatini was a blue blazer and khaki slacks guy, so most of the other execs were careful not to out-dress the boss.

Thirty minutes!

Perspiration dampened Powers' snug collar. Clammy moisture matted his fluff of hair. He felt a tightness around his shoulders and armpits from the bunching of his shirt and jacket caused by the sweat and squirm of anticipation. Powers absolutely knew what Nando was doing-—Nando was icing him. Same thing they do in basketball games when the defense calls time-out before a player attempts the game-winning foul shot. Make him wait; try to ice the shooter.

THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES!

Powers rose from his seat and approached the receptionist, who had been ignoring him with professional aplomb-—apparently routine in this office. Powers was moved less by indignation of this unprofessional treatment than by the escalating pressure on his bladder. Before he could ask directions to the washroom, an electronic peeping, like the cautioning cry of a rain forest insect, diverted the receptionist's attention.

"Mr. Montoya is ready to see you, Mr. Powell," she said, beaming a frigid smile. Powers weighed the gambit of hitting the men's room and thus icing Mr. Nando for a moment, but nixed the idea. Powers figured that a trip to the men's room could possibly alert Nando to an uneasiness that Powers was loath to reveal.

The man who had kept Matty Powers waiting burst from behind his sleek desk, which was a construct of four fat magnesium pedestals supporting a mile-long plate of two-inch thick ice-blue tinted glass. With beaming eyes and a booming voice, Nando enveloped Powers' right paw in both of his and gave a mighty squeeze. He offered coffee, cappuccino, latte, frappe, mineral water, soft drinks, cookies, pastry, hard candy, bagels-—Powers could make a meal of this visit.

Nando's tumultuous welcome made Powers feel like he was having a reunion with a long-lost cousin with all the world to catch up on. At no time, however, in the opening conversation wherein mutual acquaintances, current conditions of the marketplace, the unseasonably chilly weather, the prospects of the Knicks in the upcoming playoffs or the ridiculous regulatory loads being dumped on the legal teams at both companies was there an apology for making DeMastri Powers cool his heels in the outer office long enough to fill his bladder to bursting. Powers understood. The rules and protocols, however tiresome, were understood. There was no question in Powers' mind that his host was a hideous person; what Matty needed to determine was whether that hideous person was a man he could work with.

"Nando, thanks a lot for inviting me. We don't get together nearly as often as we should. But, frankly, the antitrust police . . ."

"Sure sure sure sure sure. _Sure_ , Matty! The regulators have us all spooked. I can appreciate your discomfort—-being here with the enemy, et cetera, informally and so forth, of course Matty. Things are still a bit crazy in your shop, which is to be expected. I can understand that."

"I'm sure you have some idea," Powers said. "I'm here alone and confidentially, but our interim management team will at some point have to be apprised of our . . . our conversations."

"I couldn't agree more!" said a grinning, nodding and effusively charming Fernando Montoya, his diamond-studded cufflinks glinting in the dazzling sunlight pouring through the colossal picture windows lining the walls of his corner office, which held a commanding vista of mid-town office towers and, beyond, the shimmering waters of the mighty Hudson River and the cliffs of the Palisades. "You needn't worry. Nothing leaves this office," Nando purred in sotto voce.

"Okay then, Nando, it's your meeting," said Powers, distracted by the crippling urge to urinate. Nando seemed to sense Powers' discomfort, which only inspired further conversational tangents.

"I just wanted to check in to see how you were doing, Matty," the garrulous lawyer lied. Powers suppressed a skeptical snort. This was the first meeting Matty's taken with Nando Montoya in his entire life. "After all, we're a tight-knit community. A tragedy that afflicts one of us affects us all," Nando said as the unordered decaf cappuccinos arrived. "The memorial service for Gaetano, it was so well-attended. He was much respected in the industry and the community. I believe I saw the mayor there."

"Did you?" asked Powers, recalling that the mayor's office cited "prior commitments" that precluded Hizzoner's attendance at the funeral. He sent the assistant commissioner of benefits administration. "The outpouring from well-wishers was quite moving. But if we could steer the discussion to the matter at hand—-the shared interests of our organizations. I know it was one of Mr. Sagatini's primary initiatives, but with his death . . ." Powers said, and waited for Nando to complete his thought. Instead Nando took a sip of steaming froth and said nothing.

"Good cappuccino," Powers said to break the silence. Nando smiled and nodded.

"Matty, it would be hasty to conclude that the storms buffeting your firm should in any way diminish our interest in pursuing potential opportunities that offer mutual advantages," Nando said, a declaration that made Powers' eyes spin with glee. "I think an appropriate amount of time has passed to resume our conversations. Don't you?"

"Well, that's getting to the point, Nando, and I appreciate your confidence. Indeed there are promising commonalties that after appropriate explorations and due diligence may offer fertile grounds for additional inquiry. But before going further, after all, the overture came from this office . . ." Powers enthused, which he followed with an impenetrable high speed monologue traversing legal, pro forma, and operational issues until Nando finally had to raise his hand to stanch the torrent of his guest's chatter.

"Matty, Matty," Nando laughed. "Believe me, I share your enthusiasm. Further, my position is that we can move briskly, ethically and in good faith, if the initial spadework is left entirely in our hands. The bean counters and operations folks can be brought in at the appropriate time to do their thing, but the essential architecture can begin right here with us-—between you and me. What do you think?"

A nanosecond elapsed before Powers piped up, " _Agreed!_ " A deal! Powers was spearheading a deal! And it wasn't just another dreary negotiation with some flatulent union chieftain or flunky apparatchik from the City. Now he's the deal guy with millions on the table! "Well then, I guess it's time that we get down and do some strategizing!" Powers said with a wink. Funny, Matty's need to piss had passed. Nando gave him a big smile and nodded.

First thing Powers was going to do when he got back to the office--order up some teeming jungle flora for the wait area.

#

Paine Fear was a hard case. For him, a negotiation or a relationship seldom required that he actually enjoy the company of his rival, or even that they thought alike. Rather, that they could think compatibly. In his view, you could cut deals with your bitterest enemies if, in the end, the needs of both parties were reasonably served. It took three marriages for him to understand that simple verity.

He recalled how the first Mrs. Fear took pity on the portly nerd in college who was so shy that she had to explain her mute partner at social gatherings, since he seldom uttered a peep himself. He compensated for his reticence by submerging himself in his career, which hastened her exit from his life due to her insistent demands that he take an active role in the raising of their kids, an enterprise in which Paine could fathom no gain.

So Fear moved on to Taylor, a clear compatibility since she was the daughter of a senior executive for whom Fear worked at a large health insurance company. From Taylor, Paine absorbed the nuances of moving among certain elites. What to wear, which part of town to live in and whom to include on his Rolodex . . . and whom to delete. Sadly, however, as he ascended to officer level at MEDICUS, he noticed that Taylor's hips began to sag, her shoulders thicken, and facial skin-fatigue set in, compromising the formerly taut lines of her prominent bone structure. Compared with Guy's third wife and Marcy Powers, Matty's perpetual babe, Paine Fear concluded that his mate was no longer suitable to his high station, thus the elevation of his girl-on-the side to the master bedroom and an amicable, though costly, settlement with Taylor.

Wife number three, Paine called her "Jelly" because she was the perfect spread, was wholly compatible with today's Paine Fear. She had long blonde tresses, deep-set blue eyes that illuminated a perfectly pristine cranial interior, and marvelous fleshly appendages that she tanned and toned for hours each day at an uptown spa. She never complained when he came home late or went out with the guys. She could do the small talk at the mandatory social gatherings that he hated so much, gave him a mighty fuck whenever or however he desired, but never got on his case when she got the need and he wasn't up to performing, which was often.

In exchange, Jelly benefited from a lifestyle that revolved around a glorious pre-war co-op on the upper East Side, with high ceilings, an expansive view of Central Park and a housekeeper who came every third day. She had Saks and Bergdorf credit cards and Paine never looked at the bills. And when she tired of his doughy bod and their prolonged periods of abstinence, there were plenty of eager muscle boys down at the club to provide extended services.

Paine was aware of all this and tacitly accommodated Jelly's dalliances; it's the price the hard-bitten war horse was willing to pay for the benefits of marrying youth. Fear was a businessman, who each day weighed gains versus losses. He won his beautiful, undemanding wife; she her well-paid, permissive sugar pop. He'll be well into his dotage before Jelly's baby-smooth skin loosened and sagged and gravity undercut the wondrous cantilever of her cresting bosom and boxed butt. It shouldn't matter by then. Maybe, pondered Paine, number three would be his last.

Fear assumed the equable view of the practical warrior. Take for instance the phone call he was on with that unctuous lawyer from CHI. The good cheer and banter between them barely masked the chill contempt that lie beneath the veneer of civility. It's with a certain undercurrent of tension that Paine Fear seemed to conduct all his deals. Paine understood what Nando wanted, and he would weigh what must be given to achieve the desired outcome.

"The key here is to contain discussions and particulars to a limited subset of players," Nando said carefully.

Paine nodded at his end and purred his concurrence. Then he said, "There is the question of management. Many will be reaching for the crown, and I would presume that in the end, the balance would tilt toward your end. After all, your asset base and our current leadership void, given the passing of Guy Sagatini." Fear waited, hoping Nando would grab the bait.

"Yes, those are important issues. But Paine, if you don't mind my asking, where do you see yourself fitting in under the umbrella organization?" Nando's bluntness surprised Fear—-a lawyer not given to pussy footing. Fear drew up his protective shield.

"My vision is to strike a fair deal and contribute as much as I can to the successful merging of our interests, of course. Given the proper rationale and incentives, consideration could well be given to disqualifying myself if my role would in some way be duplicative." _Why not say the humble nothings that Nando wanted to hear?_ Paine Fear, of course, was out to cover all his bets. Any deal had be structured to expose and annihilate Powers and Rogoff, thus leaving Fear the last MEDICUS man standing.

"That's a sensational gesture," Nando said. "It seems we're both on the same page. Without question we will build into the model essential roles for those of us instrumental in crafting the deal. And, as far as we're concerned, you're the man we can trust to be MEDICUS' primary player. I want you to know that."

Though Paine knew that Nando was shoveling the shit, he allowed himself to take pleasure in his rival's shameless stroking. Fear fully expected that, in the vacuum created by Sagatini's death, CHI would swoop in under the pretense of rescuing MEDICUS' listing ship and usurp all meaningful managerial responsibilities. That was fine with Paine, as long as he could keep his stick in the brew long enough to enshroud himself in a capacious golden parachute. But first . . .

"I should mention that, with regard to those litigation and labor issues we discussed, they are being addressed and will soon be resolved to our mutual satisfaction."

"Perhaps we should bring your Mr. Powers into the discussions," Nando said, wrapping a helpful suggestion around a tactical probe. Paine didn't hesitate to confirm his perception of Nando's true wishes.

"No, not at all. Won't be necessary. I'm working through other channels and I see no need for the involvement of other MEDICUS officers at this point. As you said, speed and efficiency are enhanced through a lean transition."

"Good observation, Paine. As far as we're concerned, you will be our primary contact throughout the due diligence-—just to make things easier all around. Just me and you, compadre." Fear hung up the phone with a smile on his face and visions of a whopping buyout on his horizon.

## FOURTEEN

For more than four months there were no further visits from local and distant police detectives, no further disruptions to Lisa's adjustment to single-parenthood, and no peep out of Monica regarding what she did or didn't see in the basement that late afternoon in April.

From what she'd been told by her attorney, Lisa's case was going well and providing her with the satisfaction that Bess's demands were driving Earl's former MEDICUS antagonists crazy. The children still had down periods and Ringo kept asking "When's Daddy coming home," even though Lisa had explained the situation a thousand times. Still, the healing was slowly taking place and Lisa was managing four, sometimes five, hours of sleep a night. It was a start.

Almost every day after school Lisa sat down in front of a chessboard with Monica. What began as a daily chess lesson in May had by mid-September become Lisa's consistent annihilation at the hands of her strategically gifted daughter. Today's rout, however, was abruptly terminated by Victoria's concussive entrance. Spewing tears and a howling roar, Victoria transfixed Lisa and Monica by an outburst extraordinary even by Lisa's most vociferous child's standards. Lisa dispatched Monica to the kitchen for water and then to her room to avail Victoria an appearance of private counsel. It took longer than usual for Lisa to talk Victoria down to a level of coherence. Such was the enormity of the effort that Lisa grew concerned that Victoria's distress was a result of a trauma more profound than the usual crises to which she routinely overreacted. In fact, Lisa was hardly prepared for what Victoria had to say.

"They knocked William Deford _down_! They hurt him bad—-broke his arm!" Victoria whimpered.

"Who did?"

"The men. _The men!_ "

"What?"

"They were watching us during lunch. We ate outside on the bleachers at the soccer field and I saw them. They were looking at me—- _right at me_! They were standing in the parking lot. I didn't really think anything of it. They were all dressed up so I figured they were from the Board of Ed or something."

"Why didn't you tell somebody?" Lisa asked, clamped in an icy cloak of dread.

"I didn't think—-it didn't register. But after school I saw their car. It was driving real slow behind us as we were walking home. I told William and he just got pissed. He's on the wrestling team and, you know, he's ready to kick some ass." Victoria made an "O" with her mouth-—amazed at her accidental use of a coarse expression. Lisa nodded, indifferent to language with which she ordinarily disapproved; hungry, instead, for the facts. She gestured with her hand for Victoria to continue.

"So they stop the car. It was on the corner of Bath and Hoey and the guy in the passenger seat gets out and he's this huge dude and you could tell he was probably really ripped under his suit—-I mean, he even towered over William, but William doesn't wimp out. He's like, "What the f—- do you want?' Man like he's really in that guy's face and the guy goes-–I mean it's like William's not even there, he's in my face—-I can't see his eyes; he has these dude sunglasses on. Really in bad taste, ugly-—and asks if I'm Victoria Parmenter. _He knew my name, Mommy!_ "

Lisa was rigid. "What did you say?"

"I said 'It's none of your business,' but I don't think it mattered because my face was all red and I was scared out of my mind and maybe I shrieked a little. Maybe that was the answer he was looking for. But then William-—he's so cool-—he goes up to the guy—-I mean William is cut—-he's a rock but this guy was like a tank. William tells him, in his face, to back off and leave me alone and it's no business of his who I am and stop freaking me out. William was _so_ brave!"

"And the man from the car knocked William down?"

"Flat on his butt! William got up and the guy like takes his arm and brings it around his back and I swear William can't move a muscle and veins are bulging from his face and neck and you can tell he's real pissed and couldn't do a thing about it. I hear a loud snap, William screams and finally the guy in the suit tosses him aside like it's Ringo or someone. And then he turns to me. By that time I'm peeing my pants and he says to me 'Tell your mama we stopped by for a visit.' Then he says like they're not going to be so nice the next time if you don't do the right thing. I mean, _what a jerk_! What is he talking about? What's going on here? I mean, he picked William Deford up like it was nothing and he wrestles at 172 on varsity. He's at the hospital. What's going on here? What's happening to us?"

Lisa wrapped her hysterical daughter in her trembling arms. Did her best to calm her down, told her nothing and tried to figure out what to do next.

#

Bess was passionate about two things: her legal career and her automobile. Truth be told, her sleek, conservative wardrobe, the lush oak paneling of her private office, her appearance at stuffy gatherings of the rich and well-connected, her pro bono work for high-profile charities, her holiday card list, and so forth-—all were manifestations of a deliberate strategy focused on the image fortification that was fundamental to the execution of her business plan.

Her Porsche—-now that was different. The Porsche was acquired for companionship. It was not an accouterment; it was her best friend. Sure it was beautiful and it was an appropriate signifier of power and taste when she attended her various commitments. But more than that, its perfect shape and pure performance were completely in sync with Bess herself. Unlike her clients, the courts and her professional associates, Bess's high expectations for her Porsche were never disappointed. Her endless and often tedious days each concluded the same way. Her eyes would light up and a small smile creased her face as she approached her Porsche in the parking lot. It took great self-control not to break stride and sprint to the sanctuary of her car and the perfectly balanced door that closed with a pleasing _thunk_ that conveyed a reassuring solidity.

She stroked the milky smooth interior leather surfaces, joined with perfectly sewn seams. She nestled in the unearthly comfort of the driver's seat, losing herself in the seductive cocoon of her car. She shifted through the gears with a light touch, enjoying the throaty response of the powerful engine. She lost herself in the joy at of its taut suspension and the way it seized the curves and climbed and swooped with effortless fluidity.

Bess was intoxicated with the sense of control she had over her car—-a control she found so elusive in the messy work of the law. Her Porsche was so perfect—-her perfect client, her perfect judge, her perfect jury. It was an eloquent brief that carried its point with exactly the right words and pitch-perfect nuance. The car was her isolation in a world polluted with clatter, sloppiness and pure noise. Just her, the musical hum of a tuned engine and a magical ride that negated the pitching G-forces. At times she wished she could just drive her car away, stopping only for gas and a handful of Slim Fast chocolate bars. Her mind and her car were a symphony of sympathetic waves.

But the guys in the white Cadillac behind her seemed oblivious to the car-as-therapy concept. The Caddy was their tool of the trade. And the trade at the present time was to follow a certain teal blue 911 Turbo Cabriolet very closely and ram it ever so gently but with sufficient force to cause its startled driver to lose control and go careening into a guardrail, and then ripping through the guardrail head-on into a stream of speeding oncoming traffic. Suddenly the car shaped like a tear drop was airborne, the driver crushed against the back of her seat by a deployed air bag and an array of violent, contradictory forces. The landing impact on the pavement shredded the roof and the outside world rushed in on Bess with a horrible roar. The inverted bug was tossed to and fro by twisting vehicles avoiding the crushed wreck that danced on its back like a hockey puck, its trail marked by a bright red streak. Finally the spinning tomb tumbled to the shoulder and slammed into the side of an overpass, the impact righting the smoking wreck back on its wheels. Dignity in death.

## FIFTEEN

Lisa called the number on Vance's business card and two hours later found herself with the kids and William Defoe's parents in an airless, grimy conference room at police headquarters. The buzzy overhead lighting bathed the room in green fluorescence, rendering a Martian glow to their faces.

Detective Vance asked the questions as another officer stood by with a pad and pencil. In fact Lisa recognized the note-taker as the same one who was with Vance in her living room the day Earl died. While simmering with indignation that Victoria had become the latest family victim, Lisa understood the necessity of maintaining an outward calm. She couldn't let herself unravel, which could alienate the detective and render their overheated charges to a brusque dismissal. Vance listened patiently and without interruption as William, his arm in a sling with a cast encasing his forearm, recounted his and Victoria's harrowing attack. Once William had finished, Vance asked the other cop for his notes and flipped through the pages a few times. Then he got up and walked behind his seated guests as he offered up his observations.

To Lisa's chagrin, Vance suggested that William was perhaps a victim of a random act of violence, a simple matter of hormone-crazed thugs out on a joyride who happened to spot a cute babe with her hunky beau. He urged those in the room to try to place themselves in the perpetrators' mindset: What could be more fun than pulling over and scaring the shit out of the girl and humiliating the muscle boy by pounding the crap out of him? Lisa was so not buying that hypothesis—-and she was pleased to see by their pinched expressions that neither were William's folks.

"I just don't think so," said Emily Deford, William's mom. "People just don't drive around this town and beat up our children. This isn't Newark. My child was being _followed_. I don't know if it was him or Vickie, but they're after our kids and you got to do something about it." Mr. Deford nodded in vigorous assent. Vance looked at Lisa, who shifted her gaze to William's agitated parents, whom she gave an approving nod. She was glad that the Defords had expressed their doubts instead of her. She saw in Vance's refusal to meet the frightened eyes of both children and parents that even he didn't appear sold on his theory. She decided the sensible approach was to cultivate a potential ally by helping Detective Vance defuse the situation.

"I think what Mr. and Mrs. Deford would appreciate from you, Detective, is some idea of what can be done to make sure this kind of thing doesn't happen again," Lisa said.

"No. That's not what we want," said Mr. Deford, a sweaty, thick-set man who in stature resembled the heavy appliances he hauled up cramped spaces for a living as a delivery contractor at the Middletown Sears store. "We don't care about your theories or your guesses. We don't want our kids hit on by goons. And we want those jerks caught and put away." That sentiment was echoed by Mrs. Deford, who wept as she caressed the ugly blue-green welt that had spread across William's face. Lisa had her arms wrapped around Victoria, whose rigid gaze was focused on the faded puke-green linoleum floor.

"That is absolutely our intention, Mr. Deford," Vance replied. "But based on what we have here, we can't just go look under a few bushes and haul in suspects. We will step up patrols around the schools and local neighborhoods. We have already advised neighboring law enforcement officials of this incident. There is, however, no reason to believe at this time that your kids were specifically targeted. If they show up again, we will get them-—that's a promise." Vance had moved next to the door, indicating the conclusion of the meeting. The Defords grumbled as they filed out of the small room, but Vance asked Lisa to remain behind. He also asked that Victoria wait outside.

Vance was holding a fax in his hand, which he said had arrived just prior to the meeting. He read it again to himself and then locked his gaze on Lisa's eyes. He shrugged and told Lisa that they were again faced with a situation—-a terrible tragedy, but one that he ardently hoped was not directly connected to her.

"Ms. Parmenter, I understand that an Elizabeth Marie Armstrong is representing you on a civil action involving your husband's former employer." Lisa nodded, her eyes furrowed with concern and curiosity. She noticed that Vance's hands shook as he held the sheet of paper.

"Yes, we were roommates briefly in college," and then added with a nervous laugh, "Of course Bess went on to make something of herself."

Vance nodded humorlessly as he handed Lisa the report. When she read it she felt like she had stepped into a vacant elevator shaft. Vance had to help her to a chair.

"Could you get me a glass of water?" she asked.

#

Lisa couldn't take her eyes off the rear view mirror on the drive home. What did she expect to see? Some nutter craning from the window of a close-following vehicle and taking bead on the nape of her neck with an automatic weapon? A fireball streaking out of the sky on a screaming trajectory bent on smashing her brood to bits? She dismissed the notion of paranoia; rather, she had never felt so rational in her life. Vance used the word "accident," but Lisa knew better. She had chosen Bess to represent her precisely because Bess was not the kind of person disposed to accidents. Bess was a rock—-a solid relentless force when she was locked on a case.

The news had a suffocating effect on Lisa, like being trapped in the coils of an enormous snake. The connections in this case were hyper clear to her and she was tempted to lay out her theory to Vance back at police headquarters. Instead she held her tongue. While it was important not to come across as a hysterical victim, Lisa felt it equally critical that Vance not experience her ability to maintain the cold-blooded presence of mind to spout theories on the warm news of the horrifying death of an old friend. Her eyes kept darting to the rear-view mirror-—and with mounting regret to her sullen daughter staring out the side window. Lisa knew whom Victoria blamed for her incident with William. And how could Lisa deny it?

"I like your friend," Lisa said. Victoria didn't stir. "William seems like a good guy. He stood up for you. I like his folks, too." Lisa knew words like that would have typically made Victoria perk up and unleash a torrent of manic effusions. Instead, just a listless nod, Victoria's head rested against the window. _Should her head be against the window like that? Where it would be an easy target?_

"William is nice," Victoria finally responded. Lisa waited for more. But more wasn't forthcoming. That was no good.

"You should invite him to dinner. Show him what a great cook you are!" No response. If this were Monica, Lisa's would become frustrated. Lisa demanded attentive communication with her kids, and Monica shared only as much as she cared to reveal and no amount of cajoling could make her budge. Victoria, however, kept nothing inside. Her moments of mystery and restraint were rare and easily shattered.

"Mom, is somebody out to get us?" Victoria finally asked, a catch in her voice. Lisa had anticipated that question and took her time to respond. Long ago she promised her kids that she would never lie to them--or even try to finesse the truth. If there was something she didn't want to discuss, she'd always say so. Thus denial in this case was out of the question.

"I think it wouldn't hurt us to be careful." Lisa's eyes were fixed on the road ahead, careful not to betray with a look or a gesture the dread raised by her daughter's intuition. Still, Victoria was not satisfied with her mom's response.

"Are we being watched? Are they out to kill us? Does it have to do with Daddy? Does it have something to do with Daddy's old company? Does it . . ." Victoria demanded. Her head was no longer wedged against the window. She sat bolt upright in the seat, her eyes glued to the side of her mother's face. True to form, pensive and thoughtful was an unendurable state for Victoria. She had to talk.

"I don't know what it is," Lisa said. "If you're nervous and upset, you have a right to be."

"You keep looking in your mirror, Mom, what are you looking for?"

"I always watch the mirror. You're supposed to know what's going on in back of you when you drive." Lisa forced a grin through clenched teeth as her pulse quickened. Her hands gripped the steering wheel as if it were the panic bar on a plunging roller coaster. Almost as if conjured by her imagination, Lisa saw a large white sedan following a few cars behind. A traffic light two streets ahead was green and Lisa slowed down, hoping to get lucky—-and she did. As soon as she was half block a way, the light went to amber and she gunned the engine, making a hard left turn at the intersection. The force of the maneuver slammed Victoria hard against the back of the seat and led to a whimper of protest. But that was okay because it worked. She lost the white car at the red light. She took a serpentine route home and by the time they arrived, she was confident that the other car had given up the chase.

Lisa burst through the door leading from the garage and flew to the bathroom. She half-expected the garage door to be booby-trapped and rigged to go off the instant she pushed the remote for the automatic door opener. She loathed her present state of terror and uncertainty and vowed to put an end to it. She doused her face with cold water. A white-hot fury rose in her chest. She dashed out of the bathroom without bothering to dry her face. She snatched the cordless phone and rushed to her bedroom, closing and locking the door behind her. She punched up a number from Earl's personal phone book.

"Give me Mr. Powers, please. Tell them it's Lisa Parmenter." There was a gasp on the other end, followed by an extended wait. She sat hunched over on the bed, her jaw rigid with tension, her feet tapping a staccato thrum on the carpet. She tried to picture the various scenarios Powers was sorting in his mind when his assistant informed him of her call.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Powers is in a meeting," said the placid female voice at the other end.

"Interrupt the meeting," Lisa demanded. "I must speak with him now. I will not take no for an answer. You will jeopardize your position with your organization if Mr. Powers learns that he missed my call."

"Hello, Ms. Parmenter," Powers instantly piped up, obviously listening in. He was as slick as a mud pie.

"You killed my lawyer, attacked my daughter and beat up her boyfriend," Lisa told him. Silence on his end. Sharp shallow breathing. "Go ahead, say something, Mr. Powers. _Admit it_!" Lisa longed for a moment alone, blade in hand, in the same room with a shackled DeMastri Powers. This time it wouldn't take an ass grab for her to do what she had in mind.

"Wait. Hold on there. You've got me, I mean I don't know what in blazes you are talking about. Your lawyer? Dead? Oh my _god_!" Powers exclaimed.

"You son of a bitch. How dare you pretend to me. How dare you act shocked. _You_ did it!" Now that Lisa had him on the phone, she started to get the awkward sense that she didn't exactly know what she expected from DeMastri Powers. The denial was inevitable. But was it enough just to let him know that she was on to his game? She couldn't let on that she had no idea what to do about it. As the heat of her anger ebbed, she felt embarrassment and regret for calling Powers. There was nothing left to say to him-—no demands to make other than to call off the killers. Nothing else to say that wouldn't make her sound like a shrill, pathetic victim. The call was a terrible mistake. Fortunately for Lisa, after Powers' initial shock wore off, the motor mouth of the natural attorney kicked in. Powers babbled away, kicking issues in the air like a soccer player in warm-ups tapping the ball to himself, off his foot off his knee off his head off his shoulder off his knee off his . . .

"Of course, Ms. Parmenter, if the incident you describe truly occurred and the investigation carried certain implications that indeed presume the taint of malfeasance and circumstances lead to the association of any past or present member of this corporation or any of its subsidiaries, you can be assured . . ." Powers blithered, blathered and droned.

Lisa had of course hung up long before Powers had finished. When she opened the bedroom door, there stood Monica, who was apparently monitoring the situation. "What are you doing here?" demanded Lisa. Monica peered up with large brown eyes that registered a flicker of alarm at her mother's sharp demand.

"I heard there was more trouble. With Victoria. Is she okay? Your lawyer got killed." Before she could stop herself, Lisa let loose and slapped Monica hard across the face, causing her daughter to whip around and stoop over, holding her head, whimpering in pain and shock.

"Keep out of my business, you hear?" Lisa cried. "How dare you listen in on my private conversations! _Who do you think you are?_ Go to your room!" Lisa was a thundering rage --a lit fuse and a cracking face-slap that led immediately to the materialization of Victoria and then Ringo. There to gawk. Lisa bowled them over with a look of such malevolence that Victoria skittered back into her room as Ringo collapsed in a sobbing ball. And just as quickly as it came upon her, Lisa's anger and indignation dissipated, replaced by the vacuum of aching regret.

Lisa gathered Ringo in her arms and stroked his head. _No, Mommy's not mad._ She carried him outside and pushed him on the swing and still he sobbed and flinched with every nudge. As she stood in the backyard gently pushing her son, Lisa pondered the obvious equation: They did it to her and in turn she did it to her kids, which meant _she could not stop until it was all set right._

## SIXTEEN

Powers stopped Fear in the hallway and said, "You'll never guess who I just got off the phone with." Fear followed him to his office where Powers slammed the door and told Fear to sit down. He paced back and forth behind his desk. Fear looked at Powers with eyebrows arched. "You probably already know," Powers added.

"Gaetano Sagatini phoned in from Hell?" Fear cracked.

"Very funny, worse than that. It was Lisa Parmenter. Appears you been talking to Martin. Looks like his handiwork. Killed her fucking lawyer. _Are you crazy?_ What's the idea bringing Martin into this? She could have been handled." Fear gripped the arms of the chair and exhaled deeply.

"It cannot be connected to Martin or the organization," he assured Powers.

"Golly, and Lisa Parmenter calls me and it's only a fishing expedition on her part, is that what you're saying? Wait till the pros do some investigating. You know what we got to do," Powers said.

"Hmm. But you know what that means."

"That stuff about Martin having killed is just a lot of horseshit. He's not that nuts."

"And _what_ did you say about Lisa Parmenter's lawyer?" Fear asked, minus the usual smug grin. Powers dropped in the chair behind his desk. The two men stared at each other, then simultaneously turned their heads to the window. Powers despised Fear for bringing Martin into this. _What did he expect?_ Well, it was his job to make him stop. It then occurred to Powers that maybe this wasn't such bad a deal for him. Why not ring Nando and let him in on Fear's horrendous lapse of judgment-—yeah, that would be slick. Link Fear to the maniac and he could kill two birds with one stone, figuring a little added leverage with CHI was not a bad thing. There's no law saying Fear had to be part of deal. _Yes_ , Powers decided that he'd get on the horn with Nando, once Martin was dealt with.

"He's got to be isolated," Powers declared. "He can't be part of this. He's not right for the project. Every time we tie up one loose end, another one comes undone. Martin will slip up, they'll trace it to us and then we're all screwed up the ass."

"You're being paranoid, Matty."

"I'm right, too."

"Yeah." A slight caterpillar twitch over Fear's right eye, something that acted up every now and then. The last time Powers saw it was in the board room when Fear was closely questioning him on the interim managerial delegation issue that preceded the succession melee. It was a slight, pulsing vein. Just enough, though, for Powers' to notice.

"I say we get it done today. We'll honor the severance clause in his contract, maybe add a sweetener-—you decide," Powers said. Paine Fear nodded.

"But what if he doesn't call off the dogs?" said Fear. "He probably won't, you know, for spite. It could just make things worse. It could escalate." The hooded eyes of Paine Fear receded into his pumpkin skull.

"Paine, not to be mean about it, but he's your dog. So you got to show him the door. I say do it now. Control the damage."

"I'll think about it."

"Nothing to think about. End of day today."

#

Trini Dove paced the puckered linoleum tile floor of the unpainted cinder block walled conference room used for legal consultations. Every now and then she glanced at the impeccably groomed man in the $4,000 suit made to measure at one of those elegant old world haberdashers on Madison Avenue. He was accessorized with a white monogrammed silk handkerchief crisply folded in the breast pocket of his jacket. She noted the gold chain attached to his watch fob, the Gucci briefcase, the diamond encrusted cufflinks, and the perfectly shaped half-moons of his professionally manicured fingernails. And she let out a loud _harrumph_!

"So you're Matty Powers' guy?" Trini Dove said. The man nodded and folded his hands on the beaten metal table. He sat perfectly erect, as if his backbone were lashed to a fat length of rebar. "Where'd you come from? You know, you're the third lawyer I've spoken to. The others just wanted me to cop a plea so I ran their asses out of here. Rate things are going I'll have to represent myself. Do you normally handle this type of case, Mr. . . . Mr. . . ."

"My name is Eli Morgenstern, Trini. My law firm was engaged through the recommendation of Mr. Fernando Montoya acting on a request from your DeMastri Powers. And yes, Trini, we handle the full range of civil and criminal..."

"You will please have the courtesy of addressing your client, if she so chooses to become your client, as Ms. Dove," Trini said, wondering what to make of this courtly dandy in the butler's outfit. "I'll be the one making the final determination of my representation."

"Oh, then you have other candidates in mind," Morgenstern said rising to his feet. Trini was confused. Was he about to reject _me_? All at once a pebbling of perspiration erupted on Trini's upper lip.

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" she said, arms tightly folded against her chest.

"Why, I'm leaving, of course. You must understand, Ms. Dove. It is the policy of my firm to scrupulously screen prospective clients for suitability. It is I, in fact, who am interviewing you. Now, with that settled, I want to hear your story. Leave out no details. I require from you perfect honesty."

Morgenstern approached Trini and guided her with an outstretched arm and a forceful index finger to a steel chair with a torn vinyl seat cushion set next to the gray steel table. Morgenstern had a rigid, almost wolfish glare that was set off by an incongruously fragile, nasally voice. There was no spark of humanity in his fixed focus, no softness in those pinched cheeks and long, thin nose and reptilian pursed lips that stretched at a constant tension. Trini Dove started to feel like she had no choice in the matter. There was an chill exuded by a man who was obviously a monster in his profession. After all, she thought, wasn't the mighty Trini Dove herself vanquished by the levitating force of his single extended digit?

She allowed herself to be interviewed, and she told him the complete tale. From the meeting on 64th Street that was running late to the cab ride to 34th Street and then the unspeakable Grand Guignol spectacle of her lover's gruesomely dangling head.

The lawyer never relinquished eye contact with Trini Dove. He wrote nothing on his pad. In fact, the lizard man sat so still that he didn't seem to be breathing. Trini was depleted by the time she had finished talking, her chest heaving from the strain. She was desperate for reassurance, for sympathy, for consolation. For hope. After a long, silent pause, Morgenstern shook his head and interlaced his long bony fingers on the table in an odd effeminate manner. Then he spoke.

"Why did you run, Ms. Dove? Why didn't you call the police instead? You understand that's why you were remanded without bail."

"I was terrified and confused. I didn't want to be found, you know, nearly naked in my boss's office. You understand that, don't you? How it would look . . ."

"I don't believe you, Ms. Dove. I think you are lying to me."

Trini's heavy breathing was short-circuited by a gasp and an explosion of tears. This time Trini's tears were not those of anger and outrage, but of misery and frustration. She buried her head in her arms and sobbed from the top of her thinning mop of auburn-to-silver hair to the tips of her orange booties. A fat guard with strawberry blonde hair looked through the one-way mirror to watch this hard lady come so undone. It made her smile and she unleashed a guffaw that echoed through the metal-clad walls of the corridor.

Morgenstern looked on with casual indifference. He waited, hands folded in front of him, a glacial stare and rigid posture indicating that he was unmoved by the humid pathos before him. It seemed that time was not a consideration for him. Finally, "Ms. Dove, are you ready to go through your story again?" With the effort of a dozen Atlases, Trini raised her head from the sodden pumpkin sleeves of her jumpsuit. A look of miserable incomprehension clouded her features. She shook her head.

"I told you my story. It's the same story I've told everyone-—the cops, Powers—-everyone. It's the only story because it is true. You have to believe me, you're my lawyer! It's true, it's true, it's true!"

Morgenstern shrugged and opened his leather-bound pad. The pages inside were jammed with voluminous entries recorded in a tiny, precise hand. "Ms. Dove, it's not my role to divine the truth of your remarks, rather it is the jury that you must convince. But here is what the jury is going to learn." Morgenstern softened his voice, making Trini Dove lean forward in awful expectation. In a bland, matter-of-fact recitation, Morgenstern broke the case down for her. Trini Dove could be placed at the scene. The attack occurred during her regularly scheduled appointment with the victim, a point verified by Sagatini's secretary and his chauffeur/bodyguard. Her clothes were saturated with his blood and traces of her hair were found on and near the body.

She had motive. Trini Dove's long-running affair with Sagatini was common knowledge among staff members, a revelation that shocked Trini and caused her to edge away from her counsel. It was known through corroborating sources that Sagatini was also carrying on with a Miss Ramona Valdez, Ms. Dove's own administrative assistant. "Jealousy," noted Morgenstern in an aside, "is a compelling motive in crimes of passion."

Finally, Trini Dove had opportunity. She was alone with Mr. Sagatini at the approximate time of his death. As Morgenstern flipped laconically to the last page of his notes, he had more or less sealed the circumstantial lid on the case.

"There also appear to be character issues, Ms. Dove. Your co-workers at MEDICUS were put off by your management style, as it were. You were said to be 'difficult.' Summary dismissals, abusive and confrontational in meetings, excessive in your censure of those in the support ranks," listed Morgenstern. "In fact, one staff member, a woman, contended that you not only had her demoted, you also threatened her with violence if she ever spoke to Mr. Sagatini in your presence." Trini slowly shook her head, mouth agape, face the color of pancake batter. As Morgenstern droned on, Trini squirmed as a rising bubble of acid burned its way up her throat.

"The profile of potential witnesses paint you in a very uncomplimentary way. Your defense will have to overcome the image of an allegedly overbearing executive who terrorized her staff, threatened others with bodily harm, and was prone to irrational outbursts of anger. So you see, Ms. Dove, we have our work cut out for us."

Trini Dove slumped in her chair and folded her arms, her eyes contemplating her kneecaps. As Morgenstern patiently waited, Trini could feel the hot anger ebb and a new emotional front take its place. It was a cold one that settled like a veil of permafrost. It introduced a new mode, one of fear and panic. _Could they make this stick? Could they actually make this stick?_

## SEVENTEEN

Lisa looked at her hands and wondered why she couldn't stop them from shaking. They'd been doing that ever since she slapped Monica. It reminded her how one thing could lead to another, back to that day in Sagatini's office when she was up to her elbows in blood. How shock waves of disbelief, anger, guilt and triumph roasted her nerves.

The day she discovered her latent capacity for violence.

To her toolbox of logic, process, and execution, Lisa had cultivated a new aptitude that enabled her to apply more immediate and satisfying solutions to certain problems. It was a power, however, whose potential for abuse sickened her.

She struck Monica in the face, and she was inconsolable.

She recalled spanking Victoria once when she was five-years-old. Since then, she hadn't raised a hand to any of her children. But now that she had killed, it was not so hard to slap Monica in the face for no clear reason. The quick fuse of anger had been lit and instead of the governing response of reason and restraint, her hand flicked out and connected with a child's cheek. How could such a destructive reflex be so automatic? Her fingertips tingled from the violent memory; she was frightened and confused. Her behavior, her judgment, appalled her.

Then when Monica stopped crying and left by the back door saying she was going for a walk, Lisa went cold with terror, yet she was powerless to stop her.

It seemed like hours, but in fact it was only minutes before Monica returned and ran inside. Lisa cried out in relief and threw down her knife that she was using to prepare dinner. Then she ran and embraced her daughter in a bear hug, smothering her with kisses on both cheeks and apologizing profusely for her miserable behavior.

"It's okay, Mom," Monica said. Lisa wiped tears from her eyes and went back to her scallions. Monica followed close behind, holding a little note pad in her hand. Lisa knew that Monica awaited an explanation. Demanded an explanation. As the aroma of sizzling strips of sautéing pepper, chicken, mushrooms and green onions filled the air, Lisa relented, stirring as she spoke.

"I am suing your father's former company for placing him a position that ultimately led to . . . to us losing him," said Lisa, carefully—-painfully—-selecting her words, not so much for Monica's sake, but for her own. She knew that Monica didn't need to be shielded from the plain facts, regardless of their nature. No, it was for Lisa's own benefit that she laid out her thoughts with such precision. "It's not that we necessarily need the money," she told Monica, "but the company must suffer enough that in return they will protect their employees better in the future. That is, I think, what your father would have wanted."

"The company made an offer," said Monica, who took it upon herself to grab plates and glasses from the cabinet and cutlery from the drawers and set the table.

Lisa nodded. "But I didn't feel, and neither did my attorney, that their offer was sufficient. Bess, Ms. Armstrong, countered with a much higher amount. They objected . . . They," and Lisa couldn't help it, she felt the swell of pain and fury all over again.

"So they killed her," said Monica dryly.

"That's what I think. They're under the impression that that's the way it will end. That and what they did to your sister, that we'll be scared off."

"They have a white car," said Monica as she set the last place at the table and picked up her pad.

"How do you know that?" asked Lisa, dreading what Monica would say next.

"They followed me on my walk just now," said Monica. Lisa dropped her spoon and slapped a cover on her spitting stir-fry. She started to reel and had to steady herself on the side of the range. _What kind of careless beast of a mother had she become?_ She looked at Monica, who appeared to interpret her mother's speechlessness as disapproval of her detective work, but she continued anyway. "I knew who they were the minute I left the house. They were waiting up the street. I made sure there were plenty of people around, or I would have come straight back home. I walked to the woods."

The muscles around Lisa's temples tightened, her palms damp with a cold sweat. Her child the decoy. The lure. They followed Monica. She told Lisa about leading the men into the woods and losing them among the narrow paths and switchbacks and how she ran to safety after they had doubled back and passed her as she hid behind a large boulder.

"That's enough, Monica. Go wash your hands and call your sister and brother for dinner."

"But Mom."

Lisa shook her head. "No more talk. You took a big risk. You have no idea. We all have to be careful. We have to find out who those men are and . . ."

Monica flipped dramatically through three pages of notes in her pad and pushed it in front of her mother's face. "This is the make of their car and the license plate number."

It was after supper when Vance arrived. Lisa, Monica, Ringo (on Lisa's lap), gathered around the kitchen table and stared sullenly at the detective. Monica focused on Vance's holstered weapon. She scowled with disappointment when Vance announced what he had discovered based on Monica's disclosures.

"But you can find the car," Monica said. Lisa's gaze was also riveted on Vance's neutral demeanor. She had hoped for better results, for more progress.

"The tags were stolen off a wrecked Nissan pick-up, which is no surprise," Vance said.

"Then can't you arrest the junkyard guy? You know, for letting them have the plates?" asked Monica. Both Vance and Lisa looked at Monica. Lisa was amazed, though not surprised, that her youngest daughter was asking the questions before Lisa had the chance.

"You're a pretty sharp kid," Vance said, and then explained that the truck was stolen and found stripped on the Long Island Expressway, the plates long gone by the time the wreck was towed to police salvage. "There are about 125,000 white Caddys fitting the description you supplied, Monica. But I have to congratulate you on the fine police work that you did," said Vance, fishing through his shirt pocket for a replica police badge the department juvenile officer hands out when she visits schools for the D.A.R.E. anti-drug program. Monica accepted the small gift with an indifferent shrug. Lisa was amused by Monica's expression of disgust whenever she was treated like a child.

"Then I guess you better start checking," said Monica in deadly earnest. Vance started to laugh. Lisa's narrowed eyes and stiff posture put an end to Vance's amusement. Lisa wondered how long it would take before it would occur to him that he'd better start taking her daughter more seriously. "Rest assured, Monica, this case is my top priority.

"What are you going to do?" asked Lisa. "Do you have any leads? We want to be involved." Lisa locked her hand on Vance's forearm across the table. She wasn't conscious that she was doing it and her forcefulness seemed to startle Vance. He looked at Lisa, then at Monica. Then he asked Monica for a chance to speak to her mother alone. Lisa shook her head, informing Vance that Monica could stay put. "She has ways of finding things out anyway. As you can see, Monica's older than her years,"

Vance nodded and filled them in on what he knew. The county prosecutor, he said, was not enthusiastic about Lisa's theory regarding the death of her attorney and was inclined to classify it as a routine one-car accident. "Hot car, impatient driver behind the wheel seeking a thrill that was beyond her skills to control. Skid marks, speed, a lack of eyewitnesses made the whole thing tidy and disposable," said Vance, paraphrasing his conversation with the DA.

"How would _you_ classify it, Detective?" asked Lisa pointedly as she released his arm.

Vance sat down, crossed his arms and shook his head. "There isn't much to go on," he said. Lisa's eyes darkened at this, as did Monica's. "I mean, the evidence suggests what the DA has concluded. That doesn't mean what we suspect didn't happen; it's just that there's no evidence at this point."

"Then what Monica said before applies. Please work on it," said Lisa sharply. "My Victoria was accosted by two large men in a white Caddy. Monica was stalked by two large men driving a white Caddy. Bess was killed by two large men in a white Caddy. _What are you going to do about it?_ "

"Mom!" cried Monica. "We got to keep our heads here! Can't solve crimes if we lose our heads!"

"Okay, okay," said Lisa with a chuckle. Of course Monica had no idea that Lisa had staged her little outburst for effect—-a tactic to keep the urgency of this matter top of mind for the detective. To light a fire under the investigation, as it were. She apologized to Vance, attributing her behavior to an expression of frustration. "There's been a lot of that around here."

Vance again requested—-in fact insisted-—that Monica permit him a few moments alone with her mom. Lisa looked at Monica and nodded, then asked her to take Ringo outside. Monica hesitated but she could tell her mom was not up for a debate. When they were finally alone, Vance took Lisa's hand in his and spoke to her in a quiet, confidential voice.

"You've been through an awful lot, Ms. Parmenter. If you'll permit me to say so, I think you are a remarkably strong woman. But even so, what you are experiencing can test anyone's sanity. I may be overstepping my bounds here, but I think that I can help you somehow. I've been there. I lost my wife in much the same way that you lost your husband. I still get the flashbacks, the cold sweats, the mornings where it takes all my strength to drag myself out of bed. Tearing up, it seems, for no reason. I've been there, Lisa. I'm still there. I just want to tell you, I'm not a cop twenty-four hours a day. If you ever feel the need, you can talk to me." Lisa's eyes began to redden and she looked away from Vance, smiling weakly. The tide of anger, her resolve, receding.

"Detective," she said, "are you hitting on me?" She was joking, but Vance flushed a bright crimson. She looked at his hand, which was still holding hers. He quickly relinquished his grip, evidently unnerved by Lisa's flip remark. Lisa smiled broadly. Then she took Vance's hand back in hers and squeezed it reassuringly.

"Look, you may think that you know me, what I'm going through and so forth. To say I'm out of my skull about what is going on in my life is true to a point. Because I am problem-solver. When my husband died, sure, I hated the world. I was wiped out, and what little energy I had was wasted on hate and depression. Which made me even angrier. I let myself become a victim, a miserable and pitiful creature. That's not me.

"It wasn't until I started pulling myself together, went back to work, got the kids whipped back into shape that I began to come out of it. But here we are, once again the target. This time I'm looking to you for help. And about what you said, sure, I get the same dreams as you. They come and go, but those things are beside the point. I have a family to protect. I want justice. You are a gentleman and I appreciate the interest you've taken our welfare. But I need you to be a cop—-twenty-four hours a day. I need you to protect my children and send those shit heads straight to Hell." Gripping tighter, white-knuckles, fiery eyes met and Lisa searched and searched. _Was Vance the right man? Was Vance the right man?_

He nodded, his eyes locked on Lisa's unwavering gaze. He peeled her fingers away one by one. He took up his card that Lisa had left sitting on the table and scrawled several numbers on it. "Two things, Lisa. First, this is my home number and that's my cell number. Second, my name is Austin and you can call any time day or night. If you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work. Monica won't have me slacking anymore." Vance edged out of his seat, not for a second taking his eyes off of Lisa, who followed him out of the house and watched as he folded his long lanky frame into the car and roared off, lights blazing.

Was he the right man?

## EIGHTEEN

"Mr. Powers, I think you should see this," said Vanya over the intercom. Something in her tone made Powers drop his briefs and dart over to his assistant's workstation. There he saw two burly men in uniforms, hunched over, puffing hard, bruises on their faces and necks, blood leaking from noses and mouths.

"What's this?" Powers sputtered.

"Mr. Bane," groaned one, a swarthy Hispanic with bulging biceps and a voice wracked with teary _sup-sups_. "He wouldn't _leave_." The man shook his bruised hands in exasperation.

Powers' eyes bulged, hair a-flight, chest pounding. _What the...? What the...?_

"I mean, he's _crazy_ , man. Beat the crap out of the two of us. We tried to carry him out, you know. _But man..._ "

"Are you saying that Martin Bane physically assaulted you?" asked an incredulous DeMastri Powers.

"Mr. Fear, he said to escort Mr. Bane from the building, that he was terminated, but he comes at me like I'm not prepared and clips me good on the chin, man. I see the stars and Rey comes in to help out, grabbed the man's arm. Mr. Bane, he bit Rey on the arm like this Rey lets go and Mr. Bane kicks him in the balls. Rey is doubled over and it pisses me off and I load up to lay him out real good and next thing I know I'm on my ass, nose broke I'm sure. Rey, he's crying, isn't that right?" Rey nodded, lips clamped shut with contained tears. "I tell you, man is a wild bull kicked both our asses as we take off man that that...I'm quitting this job. Can't take this shit no more."

"Okay, okay, settle down, Ramon," said Powers, terrified by the display of human wreckage wrought by the fists and feet of Martin Bane.

"My name is Rolando."

"Well, fine, Rolando, whatever. Settle down. Where is Mr. Bane now?" Powers demanded, wondering if Martin was going for his gun with ideas of taking out the entire floor.

"I don't know, man. His office, I guess. I'm not going back there, if that's what you think."

Powers shook his head as he took in the chilling sight --two terrified and humiliated potential litigants fidgeted before him. Business as a contact sport. A half-hour earlier a gloating Paine Fear had called after an apparently successful face-down with the former union boss. But like everything else, Powers knew that he himself would have to provide closure. Fear, Powers surmised, did not wield the heft of decisiveness that guys like Bane would respect.

As he made the slow walk to Bane's office Powers could feel a rising tide of adrenaline flood his body. Dogged by waves of increasing panic, Powers feared for his life. Should he have Halliburton call the cops? Would it take guns and nightsticks to get the gangster out of his office? Is that an image we needed to see in the morning papers?

But Powers knew he had to step in and handle things his way. He'd first have to show solidarity with Fear—- _use Fear as a human shield?_ That's what he'd do. He'd grab the craven Fear and confront the reluctant bull and pray that bullets wouldn't fly. No! A change in plans. Suddenly Powers found his nose buried in Martin Bane's chest. He had crashed right into him as he turned the corner to Bane's office. _Mental note--Keep your head up when barreling down hallways._

The collision appeared to have no effect on Martin—-a casual encounter. For a man who'd just been in a fight, Martin's suit remained nicely pressed, hair perfectly in place. There were specks of dried blood on the back of his hands, probably not his. Powers was riveted to the spot, rattled by the kind of shiver that the prospect of extreme physical harm can provoke.

"Let's talk in your office, Matty," said Martin in his usual level burr. Powers nodded. He edged backwards, never taking his eyes off Martin's composed visage.

"Heard you were in a little fracas, huh?" said Powers with a nervous laugh as he ushered Martin into his office and prayed that Vanya would pick up the phone and dial up the N.Y.P.D.

"Company's paying the dry cleaning tab for this suit," growled Martin. Powers was not sure if that was meant as a joke. He'd never heard Martin tell a joke when sober.

"But seriously, Martin..."

"Seriously," Martin interjected with uncharacteristic abruptness, "I'm not a man who likes to be made a public spectacle." Powers was about to leap in, but was stopped by Martin's upraised hand (thankfully, not a fist . . . or a firearm). "That was a weasel move you guys were trying to pull. I don't like weasels, Matty. It's gutless weasels that landed me in this sorry company in the first place. But let me tell you, you don't have what it takes to get rid of me. I'm here until I get tired of the place, know what I mean?"

Martin and Powers sat facing each other in easy chairs about ten feet apart in Powers dank, spacious office that had become humid with nervous sweat. Martin got up, but not to leave. He closed the door, glaring at Vanya, who twitched in front of her terminal. Martin returned to his chair and loosened his thick neck muscles with violent twisting motions with his head. He played with his cufflinks as he started to speak.

"Let me give you the lay of the land," he said to Powers, who nervously swiped at his scalp, disordering and re-disordering a coiffure years ago surrendered to anarchy.

"I don't . . ." stammered Powers.

"I _know_ you don't," said Martin. "That's why I'm here to fill you in. First thing you got to know, the boys at CHI are going to eat you alive. You have no experience dealing with that sort of negotiation. That sorry union you got here still kicks your ass in every negotiation. You guys are always giving away the fucking store."

"Absolutely untrue!" Powers protested. "What about the new physician fee schedules and doctor visit co-pays?"

_"Bullshit_ returns. You already got the gun to the heads of all the doctors in town since you own the city contract. That's a half-million members right there. That's not negotiating, that's extortion. Good for you, grab the opportunity. The union contract, that was bullshit. Salary increases were twice the rate of inflation, just a ten-buck co-payment on medical. All because Sagatini didn't want guys in front of the building holding up cardboard signs."

"We're a union shop. Wouldn't go down well at City Hall if we played hardball on certain issues," said Powers, alluding to MEDICUS' biggest customer, the employees of the City of New York

"So, what about CHI? They're union, they contract with the city. Do you know what kind of contract they're shoving down the throats of their rank-and-file? Huh?" Martin paused. "Of course you don't even know the fucking answer because you don't do the fucking homework. And what's more, you don't know how to win. Don't know how to compete. Malcolm Hayes and Nando Montoya will eat your lunch. I'm the only guy here who can deal with those characters. Been at it for thirty years. It's in my blood. So what's your strategy? Run my ass out of here by sending in a couple of goons? What am I supposed to do? Go quietly. _Fuck that!_ I could have done much worse to them—-remember that."

"That was Paine Fear, I wasn't the one . . ."

"You're such a pussy, Matty. The blame game was fine when you were ducking Sagatini's bombs. But that doesn't cut it any more. You're better off with me than without me. You're walking into a slaughter house and don't even know it." Martin sat back, folded his hands, his face no longer taut and agitated. He made eye contact with Matty Powers, lizard eyes that liquefied whatever starch remained in Powers' spine. Powers felt his face go slack as the numbness radiated through his body-—his feet were pins and needles-—all the way up to his kneecaps. He couldn't stand up if he tried.

Martin had not leveled him physically. No, Martin's brutality was expressed through a simple, systematic unmasking of his incompetence. Powers had the lost sensation of defeat and embarrassment. Still, the lawyer's busy mind continued to race, to seek wiggle room-—to have something to say, a verbal harbor to hug. Martin sat expectantly, his leonine countenance unfazed. In fact, he had the relaxed look of a sated bull as he exhaled a billowing plume from a very fat and illegal cigar.

But then a spark of inspiration flickered in Powers' breast. The wisp of a rebuttal! Could there be a way to salvage this? _Yes!_

"Two issues," said Powers with gathering assurance. "One, you, Martin Bane, are in rehab mode here at CHI. Two, given your past convictions on various labor racketeering charges, you, Martin Bane, are an impediment to the execution of any deal involving the public trust vis-à-vis the proposed merged operations of MEDICUS and CHI." Powers paused and stared stonily at Martin Bane. How could Martin deny that his criminal record would arise as an issue during the due diligence?

The logic was clear—-Powers again urged Martin to take the liberal severance deal that was on the table, rather than risk jeopardizing the deal and cause all parties to walk away empty handed. Powers' proposal, however, just prompted another tumbling boulder of white smoke from his adversary, which laid Powers out in a coughing fit.

"Matty, you need me more than ever. Look, I have anticipated all your concerns about certain risks that I may personally present. But you are exposed to even larger risks if you don't let a pro handle the negotiation," said Martin, as he eased back in his chair, a greenish-purplish welt starting to emerge on his left cheek. Powers noted that it appeared that at least one of Martin's assailants got a good one off before getting cashiered.

"We got it under control, Martin," Powers said icily, still convinced that the last thing he needed was some ruffian cutting complex deals in the corporate suite. Under a new head of steam, Powers' felt up to the task of informing Martin that he was not dealing with the usual run of cigar-chomping, beer-swilling union thugs. This was about sophisticated high finance deal making. _How dare that felon project himself into such a role._ Still, Martin refused to budge.

"Look, I'm offering to save you from yourself," Martin said. "With me, you'll get the deal you're looking for."

"Will that include running any more cars off the road and beating up the offspring of future litigants along the way? The shit we're in is already deep enough without you setting your goons loose on our enemies. Your tactics don't assuage my doubts." Powers was back on his feet and pacing the office like the head cock. He no longer feared for his life, given Martin's expressed desire to play in the same sandbox.

"To your point, Matty. I am not that crazed lunatic, as you suggest. I employ professionals who follow orders explicitly. In the real world, one uses real leverage. The fine line between achieving your goals and getting buried depends on how well you exploit your advantages. You of all people understand that our fortunes depend on successfully addressing the Parmenter situation. I can make that happen."

"I order you to stop, Martin. As acting senior officer of this company, I have the authority to control your activities," said Powers.

"Power belongs to those who know how to exercise it. You, Matty, are a novice," snarled Martin as he extinguished his cigar by smothering its tip on the pristine surface of a crystal paperweight commemorating Powers' first ten years with the firm. Powers tensed with sudden rage, his fingers fluttering like a sham musician playing air harp. He rose out of his chair and hovered over the sitting bull opposite him, ready to lash out in denial of Martin's absurd assertion. But then Martin himself stood up and grandly gestured with his massive hands like Moses upon his return from the Mount.

"Number one, Matty, you _can't_ stop me. Number two, you _don't want_ to stop me because I'm doing what's best for all of us. Number three, don't even think about challenging number one."

Martin winked and smiled at the pulsating Matty Powers as he strode out of the office. Powers ran to shut the door after Martin left. Then he returned to his desk and walloped the hard mahogany surface with a closed fist. The pain shot all the way up his shoulder and down his spine. He called out to Vanya to have her arrange a car to St. Clare's for X-rays.

## NINETEEN

It was Friday night, the Fears were eating in and a special guest was expected. Paine Fear's instructions to Jelly were explicit, including the menu, the wine and her attire. Tonight an impression was to be made, a strategy implemented. Jelly called the raw oyster appetizers a silly cliché, and the wild mushroom bisque downright hilarious. But the extra time she spent in the bedroom plucking stray sprouts of eyebrow and buffing rough ridges of finger and toenails solidly displayed qualities of being a good team player.

"What's he like?" Jelly asked in a jolly singsong voice.

"He's your type," said Fear. Jelly wrinkled her tanned brow as Fear smiled with confidence. "Don't worry." Fear was sure that tonight's project would cause his wife no inconvenience at all. In fact, it comprised two of her favorite amusements--clever intrigue and a dark mysterious man. Fear patted the bathrobe swaddled Jelly on the butt and hustled her into the bedroom to finish dressing. He felt the butterflies kicking up and he considered a hasty martini before his guest arrived; but too late for that, the doorbell rang. Just before Fear opened the door, Jelly cried out, "Hey Painey, do you think I should wear a bra?" Fear rolled his eyes, ignored the question and greeted a beaming Nando Montoya.

Nando swept Fear up in a bear hug, a demonstration of physicality that Fear found unnerving but one he endured with forced bonhomie. Nando was decked out in evening black. From his $2,000 Italian black leather shoes to his form-fitting silk sports jacket, to his impeccably styled jet-black hair, Nando lit up the room with a cool luminescence.

"Absolutely lovely home, Paine," said Nando with hearty brio. "Light and understated. Is this evidence of the excellent taste of your wife?"

"Which wife?" replied Fear disingenuously, which prompted from Nando a volcanic chortle. Fear, who was incapable of original humor, stood arms folded with a puzzled look on his face. His follow-up was meant not to amuse but for clarification. It was in fact his second wife, Taylor, who was responsible for the furnishings, art objects and wall hangings in the apartment. She was an art history major at Vassar and a former student curator at the on-campus art museum. She even chose and paid for this Upper East Side residence, partial as she was to historic buildings with their high ceilings, intricate plaster moldings, curious alcoves, incongruous columns and dusty chandeliers.

It didn't faze Fear that he continued to live among the trappings of his former marriage. He just found it expedient to keep things as they were—-the aesthetics of interior design of no intrinsic interest to him. Or to Jelly, whose focus on the "performing" arts made her oblivious to her environment. It seemed to Fear that Jelly was like a child romping in her parents' living room. As Fear prepared the martinis at the sleek mahogany and alabaster wet bar, he noticed that Nando had suddenly gone silent. Even with his back to the room Fear knew exactly what was happening.

"My wife, Jill, Nando," said Fear, still with his back to his wife and guest. "Jill, this is Fernando Montoya. Everybody calls him Nando." When Fear finally turned around, he saw that the two were mutually transfixed, just as he had anticipated.

"Most people call me Jelly," said Jelly cordially.

"I can imagine," Nando said with a wide grin, admiring the fine silhouette produced by Jelly's ultra-snug little black dress. Through the miracle of Lycra, aided by a smidge of prurient imagination, Fear could discern the taut muscular delineation of Jelly's belly and butt. And it was easy to conclude from the negligible expanse of bosom left unexposed by her frock's scooped neckline that Jelly had decided to forego supporting infrastructure.

"Charming," purred Nando, who reached for Jelly's hand and brought it to his lips. "I had no idea that my dinner invitation would include the company of such a dazzling hostess, Paine. Congratulations!" Fear sidled over with a brimming trio of pyramidal glasses with delicate filaments of ice floating on the surface.

"I'll have Dora bring out the oysters," Fear said, pretending not to notice the fused gazes of his wife and business associate. In fact, his quick assessment of the situation excited him with the inevitability of the night's stratagem.

"Oysters?" Nando asked with a sly smile. "What a treat!" Fear and Nando chuckled while Jelly just smiled. Fear first toasted his guest's health and then topped off the glasses to toast the prospect of their imminent business triumph. By the end of the second glass, the expensive gin had done the trick and both Nando and Jelly were speaking in raised animated voices at the dinner table. Nando regaled them with colorful tales about his privileged childhood as the son of a local government official in San Juan, his law school experiences at Columbia and the craziness of his first three marriages.

Jelly's manic giggling at every twist and turn of Nando's adventures seemed to have an elevating effect on her guest. Of course the first bottle of wine went with the soup, so her speech became unsteady and the hair that was carefully tied in a chignon collapsed around her shoulders, framing her décolletage in provocative disarray.

Throughout Nando's lively monologues, Fear snickered at the appropriate moments as he repeatedly glanced at his watch. The braised duckling was especially tender tonight, but Fear just picked at it. He had stopped drinking after the first cocktail and glass of wine. He needed to be alert and prepared in case Nando launched one of his legendary zingers, which usually came in high and hard. But Nando's manner seemed oddly careless, given his strategic responsibilities and the delicacy of his and Fear's mutual endeavor. He avidly consumed Paine Fear's spirits while commanding the attention of Fear's wife. Jelly laughed and encouraged Nando, as Fear had coached her earlier. She appeared to be under no strain at all-—she was clearly liking the work.

"By now your husband must have shared with you the excitement between our two enterprises, Jill," Nando said, winking in the direction of Fear. "One that should provide us all with a comfortable annuity, wouldn't you say, Paine?" Fear smiled wanly, straining to hear, before finally . . . the phone! Fear jerked to his feet before realizing that Dora was still on duty and that dashing off to answer the phone would have been an affront to his guest. "Once a few details are worked out, right Paine?" Nando said, disarming that somewhat menacing comment with a hearty laugh. Fear, arms folded and hands clamped tightly on his elbows, nodded.

"Things are going fine," said Fear dryly as he raced to refill Nando's glass. The last thing Fear wanted was to have the conversation regress into an assault on MEDICUS' faltering contribution to the merger due diligence. Instead, Fear hoped that Nando was registering the glazed expression on Jelly's face produced by the bland turn of the conversation to business. Fear cracked a knowing smile at Nando and tipped his shoulder in Jelly's direction. Fortunately, Nando got the hint.

"You're right, Paine. Tonight is not about that at all, Hey! So sad the passing of Mr. Sagatini and so forth," said Nando as he grabbed the bottle next to Fear's place and replenished Jelly's glass.

"Guy croaking, that really sucked," said Jelly with a giggle. Fear grimaced. Nando smiled, dark eyes twinkling. Dora brought the portable phone to Fear, who excused himself. As he passed Nando, he leaned over and confided in a whisper that Jelly hadn't meant to laugh.

"The wine's making her a little silly. We were all deeply shaken by Mr. Sagatini's death. Horrible, just horrible." Nando nodded gravely, covering his mouth with his hand as Fear left the room. Nando looked over at Jelly, her mouth frozen, eyes tearing from contained mirth, causing them both to relieve themselves in merry guffaws.

Fear returned with a carefully rehearsed visage of gravity and seated himself with painful deliberation. Jelly covered her face. Fear assumed that his intoxicated wife's effort to stifle her giddiness was prompted by the prearranged disclosure of dire information that Fear was building to share.

"Is it bad news, Paine?" asked Nando. Fear's brow creased with despair.

"I'm afraid I'm needed at the office. Another brush fire. I'm going to be fairly late, but there's no one else to hand it off to. I'm so sorry, Nando. Please stay as long as you like. Dora does a great tiramisu, and we'll just do this another time." Nando reached over and placed a consoling hand on Fear's shoulder. Fear noticed the perfectly buffed nails at the end of Nando's long, sinuous fingers. The subtle vanilla scent of expensive cologne. Nando nodded, offering to walk Fear out, but Fear stiffened and leapt to his feet, imploring Nando to stay and finish his dinner. In fact, Fear's vociferous insistence left Nando with no other choice.

"Please, we invited you for dinner and this shouldn't put a damper on your evening. You'll find that Jel . . . Jill is a most gracious hostess." Jelly loosed an uncontained chortle, which caused both Nando and Fear to spin on their heels. Fear's lips tightened with disapproval. Jelly followed him to the door, where they conferred in low voices.

"You're right, he really is cute," Jelly whispered.

"Just do what you do best, honey," said Fear as he leaned over and offered her a chaste kiss on the cheek before leaving. For added realism, Jelly chased after him with his briefcase, returning to the apartment somewhat out of breath.

#

With stoked anticipation, Nando tried to recall the last time he found himself alone with a young, voluptuous and tipsy young woman bursting out of a short tight dress. Months maybe—-he's been so busy at work. Jelly smiled back at him. Rather than stand their gaping, Nando busied himself by pouring another glass of the gut varnish zinfandel that Fear chose to accompany the duck. He turned to approach Jelly's place at the table and fill her glass only to discover that she had already re-situated herself next to his place, her chin at the tip of his elbow. Nando smiled, topped off her glass and offered a toast.

"To Jill, Paine Fear's charming and beautiful wife," Nando said with a flourish. His sip was in delicate counterpoint to Jelly's deep draught. Nando's eyebrows arched like crossed swords, his lips pursed in a mischievous grin, an expression that Jelly mimicked.

"Do call me Jelly. Everyone does, Mr. Montoya," a sarcastic formality that elicited a good-natured laugh from Nando.

"Only if you call me Nando. Absolutely no one calls me Mr. Montoya," said Nando, except of course his Balinese receptionist who only calls him Nando whence scaling the peaks of carnal fulfillment together on the calfskin cushions of his office settee. A passionate one, that girl, thought Nando. Lithe and agile, tender and sweet. Then he considered Jelly; he could appreciate the more robust as well. Perhaps a bit sloppy, but sensual in her way and with the body of a swimsuit model, a tight butt and a glorious set—- _what could she possibly see in Paine Fear?_

"You know, Nando, you are not like most of my husband's business associates," said Jelly, as she watched him help himself to more of Dora's excellent smashed potatoes. "They are not nearly as interesting and certainly not as handsome." Nando, enjoying Jelly's fortified flirtation, stopped feeding himself. He stared into her large, languid blue eyes and placed a hand on her wrist.

"That's a special compliment. But really, I'm just an insurance lawyer when you get down to it." Jelly shook her head, then scampered off to the kitchen, returning with a platter of leftover appetizers.

"That's just what you do, Nando. It's not who you are," said Jelly, somehow managing to regain the thread of her conversation. "Me, I don't even have a job. I work out, go to movies and the theatre. I shop a lot. But that's just what I do. It's not who I am." Nando watched Jelly with great interest as she placed a half dozen oysters on her plate. Then, as she kept her gaze fixed on Nando's eyes she brought a shell to her mouth and sucked up the salty sweet sea meat with a muted slurping sound.

"That's an interesting way of looking at it," said Nando, who replaced his fork on the plate and focused his complete attention on his business associate's wife. "Please tell me then who it is that you are."

Jelly paused. She looked thoughtful, but Nando figured that the tyranny of the night's countless cocktails would in the end rule out profound introspection. And he was right.

"Oh, I'd prefer not to get into that," said Jelly. "A conversation for another time. Let me show you something—-it's how I like to enjoy oysters with special friends." Still staring deeply into Nando's eyes, she brought a heavily laden oyster shell to her lips and let the shimmering morsel slide into her mouth. But instead of swallowing, she reached for Nando's head, drawing his lips to hers. She pried his jaws apart with her tongue, using the back of her tongue to nudge the lump of flesh into his mouth. She then closed her own mouth, allowing her lips to linger briefly pressed against his. Then she pulled back and gently dabbed oyster brine from Nando's mouth and chin. Nando savored the faint metallic tang of oyster meat, which was enhanced by tannic overtones imparted from Jelly's last sip of wine.

"Do you want it back?" He smiled. Jelly laughed and shook her head. Nando tilted his neck way back so that Jelly could observe the slight bulge work its way down his throat. They sat facing each other at the table, Nando's hands on Jelly's knees, slowly kneading the warm firm flesh of her upper thighs. Jelly brushed his hands away and pushed the platter containing the remaining oysters toward him. He then fed her in a similar fashion. Soon there was no more dabbing of the lips, the two enjoying the bracing mix of sea brine and the sweet liqueur of a stranger's saliva. With one oyster left, Jelly interrupted the wordless conversation. "What I like is not knowing where the oyster ends and our tongues begin." Nando nodded in agreement, fascinated by Jelly's marvelous observation and also how in this odd way he found himself so utterly aroused.

"Yes, yes! A brilliant insight-—the textures and sensations are so similar!" With that, he inhaled the last plump oyster and cradled Jelly's face in his hands. His sensitive fingers massaged her cheeks as he focused on the gentle internal thrum of her tongue, cheek and throat muscles as they shared the final morsel of oyster.

They passed it from mouth to mouth several times before it slid behind her tongue and beyond the reach of Nando's. He started to pull away, but found his head clamped in place by Jelly's surprisingly powerful hands. She swung onto his lap and they resumed their facial explorations with fingers and lips. Jelly took Nando's hand and placed it just beneath her armpit, which he understood as permission to explore. When he slowly let Jelly down on the plush carpeting of the dining room floor, the little black dress hiked way above her waist. Nando paused and passed a sideways glance at her exposure. Jelly's eyes popped open. _"Don't stop!"_

"But your cook. She's still here."

"Oh, right, Dora. Yes, she usually handles the camera."

"She _what_?" asked Nando with a start, straightening up and looking down at Jelly lying prone between his knees.

"Sometimes I like to do it on video. I can't very well tape it myself," said Jelly staring up at him with a wicked grin as she reached out and began to slowly caress his crotch. "The framing is never right!"

"No, no. I don't think that will be necessary. Not tonight," said Nando. With a teeth-gnashing grin, he tried to process this unexpected twist, one that had taken some of the edge off his desire. Certainly he didn't need a record of this evening to get around, and the presence of the maid was just too great a risk—-a potential tool for extortion perhaps? A set-up? Yet how inconvenient to reject Jelly's busy fingers as they coaxed such wondrous sensations? She didn't seem worried and, after all, Paine Fear constituted no threat to him. Still, it was a nagging concern that Nando found difficult to ignore. Jelly, seeming to sense Nando's discomfort, proceeded to unfasten his belt and lower the fly on his slacks.

"Don't worry, Dora will let herself out through the kitchen door," Jelly said dreamily. "She's probably gone already." Nando had no choice but to agree—-or comply-—as Jelly undid the button at the waistband, letting his slacks drop weightlessly to his ankles.

"This . . . we . . . probably shouldn't being doing this . . . you're a married woman. Paine would . . ."

"Not have it any other way," said Jelly as she sat up and took down Nando's boxers with a decisive tug, smiling broadly when she observed the physical evidence of his rejuvenating interest. "Besides, you are my guest and it's my pleasure to offer you my personal hospitality," a point she proved by taking another part of her guest into her mouth.

His eyes tight with pleasure, Nando relinquished the debate.

## TWENTY

The following Monday morning Powers found himself being led through the plush carpeted hallways of CHI headquarters by a stern-faced underling whom he didn't know and who insisted on meeting him at the security desk in the lobby. In the two months he'd been working with Nando Montoya, Powers would routinely sign in and zip straight up unescorted to Nando's penthouse floor. _So what's with the minder?_ She was a rude, tight-lipped young woman who wore no make-up and had her hair pulled tightly back from her face. She had nothing to say to him beyond a perfunctory greeting until she pointed at the closed door and told him he was late. Sure, his radar was up and his heart was pounding. She told him that the meeting was already in progress and to knock before going in.

Upon entering, Powers winced from the glare of the intense overhead lighting. Aligned along the walls of the cramped, shoebox-shaped conference room were easels of flip charts with various Sharpie-scrawled headings such as "Deliverables," "Objectives," "Issues," "Ownership," "Actionable Follow-ups," "Sleeve Managers," and "Critical Paths."

The room went silent when he entered. A large, craggy-faced man whom Powers did not recognize sat at the head of the oval table and pointed with a wagging index finger to the empty seat next to him. It amused Powers that almost everyone in the room was dressed as if they had converged on Brooks Brothers en masse to take advantage of a volume discount. All in gray, all in pencil-thin pinstripes, blue oxford shirts. Both men and women. The men sported teal and gold striped ties, the women with variations of blue, gold and crimson scarves knotted around their necks like silken nooses. White pressed three-point handkerchiefs in breast pockets—-both men and women. The silence was broken by Nando's familiar voice.

"Good! Good! Matty has finally arrived. Our emissary from MEDICUS. We start our meetings here on time, but, heck, we'll let you off the hook this time," said Nando with a hearty laugh. This unexpected gang of B-school androids made Powers uneasy. He thought it was going to be a one-on-one, a routine status update. "This is our M & A task force, Matty. We won't take the time now for introductions. You'll be fast friends soon enough. These are the people capturing strategic control issues and resolutions," Nando explained. Powers shrugged as he finally took a seat among the sea of gray wool, and not the chair indicated by the menacing index finger.

"We're creating the operational platforms for the evolving paradigm, Mr. Powers," declared a perky young female unit with milk-and-honey complexion and microscopic wire rim eyeglasses. "After all, the acquisition will offer the opportunity to cross-sell mutual existing product platforms through innovative tactical bundling, enabling us to deliver value-added service packages with integrated value propositions."

"That's a real mouthful, Miss, uh, Ms.," Powers smiled as he tried to wrestle meaning from the young woman's mystifying spew. His comment, however, was ignored because the young woman had evidently stirred up a hornet's nest of controversy by her outrageous remarks.

A young man across the table broke in with high-pitched urgency, "Don't forget, Libby, end-to-end integration that is customer-driven, that's the key. Everything else is brand positioning, which doesn't cascade down to customer preference channels. Don't you agree, Mr. Powell?" Powers felt the penetrating heat of the collected stares of voracious young cadets of conquest bore into him.

"The customer. Yes, the customer benefits most from our . . . our. My name, incidentally, is Powers. But didn't one of you use the word 'acquisition'? I believe it's a merger that's under discussion . . ."

"Of course. Of course. Merger, Mr. Powers," said the one man not dressed in gray pinstripe. Instead he wore a perfectly pressed bespoke navy blue pinstripe with a snow-white dress shirt and navy blue and red patterned tie. He was older than the collected tyros. In fact, older than Powers and Nando himself. He was the man with the finger and stern expression whose seat offer Powers refused when he had arrived. Powers was caught off-guard by the raspy, high-pitched voice that emanated from such a massive bellows.

"Matty, have you met our President and CEO, Malcolm Hayes?" Nando asked. Powers shook his head. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Powers. We're just noodling here, you know, assembling the bare bones of our common relationship matrices and experiential protocols." Malcolm looked around the room at heads energetically wagging. Powers imagined the yelping and prancing of eager young pups begging for a pat on the head or a word of Master's approval. Powers' eyes clouded over. The language being spoken in that room was as recognizable to him as the phone babble indulged in by Nando's receptionist. All eyes shifted from Malcolm to Powers.

"Good, that's very good, Malcolm," Powers said. "The spadework, yes, that's what's being laid. And that's a good thing. Strategy-wise."

Another young minion in gray, a frail lad with orange hair, fair skin and icy blue eyes piped up in a shrill squeak, "Well, I don't understand what you mean by 'spadework,' Mr. Powers. I believe the object is to enrich our mutual target segment franchises while purifying and melding brand values." The preppy puppy tapped thin tapered fingers impatiently on the blond maple table top, while others leaned forward and stared at Powers with expressions that Powers interpreted as disdain. He tasted the bitter seepage of bile in the back of his throat. With mounting indignation, Powers began to understand what was going down here--Nando had ambushed him! Nando was subjecting him to consultant-speak hell . . . for punishment . . . for . . .

"Excuse me, folks. I'm here to represent the legal and regulatory issues, and frankly, all this positioning-paradigm-speak may not be the best use of resources," said Powers, instinctively resorting to the offense when the face he was desperately trying to save was his own. He knew this tactic was a risk with Malcolm in the room, but it was the chairman himself who broke the tension with a booming guffaw. The collective grays considered the Boss with knitted brows.

"Nando, clear the room," said Malcolm mildly once he had gathered his composure. Nando raised a hand over his head and twirled a languid forefinger, prompting a flapping of paper and clatter of chairs as the grays filed out with military precision. Powers looked on with chagrin as Malcolm and Nando held an extended whispered exchange, during which both glanced periodically at Powers. Finally Malcolm nodded to Nando and stood.

"I have to apologize for bringing you in for this, Matty," said Malcolm. "That was not the meeting we intended for you. Frankly, the conversation we need to have concerns certain actionable target dates that remain in arrears and that are sorely taxing the compressed cycle times. Since these implementation issues fall within Nando's purview, he will take it from here. Again, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance." Malcolm spoke without a smile or a nod. He even exited the room without shaking Powers' hand.

Nando left his seat and slowly walked around the room, stopping intermittently to fondle the corners of a flip chart pad. He smiled a tight grin at Powers, who smiled back. Powers noted an absence of the usual warmth and good humor in Nando's smile. The dark eyes were hooded and focused at some point several inches above Powers' head. As he continued his thoughtful orbit, he stopped every now and then, looked at a flip chart page, then back at Powers. Powers was stumped by this behavior, which did nothing if not summon a certain menace. _What was his game?_ Powers had long ago lost patience with corporate histrionics-—much too old school, much too Sagatini.

"Looks like you guys all use the same tailor," Powers said, hoping his quip would snap Nando out of this ridiculous behavior and inspire him to get on with the business at hand. But Nando didn't laugh at Powers' joke. Instead, he grabbed a green felt marker and positioned himself next to an easel at the end of the table.

"I suppose like minds think alike," said Nando. He wrote the word "Process" on the flip chart page.

_"Process?_ " asked Powers. Nando tilted his head with an exaggerated nod. Then he fixed his eyes on Powers.

"And we do think in a certain way here," Nando said as he underlined the word "Process" with three emphatic strokes of his Sharpie. "You see, we follow a process, Matty. It's how we get things done. We do competitive analyses, we do strategic game plans, we follow business procedures validated through case analyses and statistical modeling. It's how to win in a competitive environment. At a time when knowledge and tactics, and not necessarily connections and birthright, are success determinates."

"Still, your people sound like a bunch of geeks," said Powers with a laugh and the hope of disarming his host. Nando smiled patiently. Then he began to instruct. It dawned on Powers that the blank sheets of paper taped to the walls were evidently not for the meeting that was just terminated, but for this particular tutorial. Powers watched in wonder as Nando drew boxes and circles with connecting lines and arcs, accompanied by recitations covering topics such as "customer value management" and "process information management" and "synergistic leveraging." Page upon page became thick with notes and equations setting forth in mathematical terms the financial and strategic potential of MEDICUS' and CHI's impending union. By the time Nando was through, his precise scrawl covered four walls much like the multiple chalkboards used in an advanced physics lecture.

Powers removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow. The stuffy room was redolent with the sweet petroleum aroma emanating from Nando's brace of multi-colored felt-tip markers. Powers grasped the cushion of his seat in hopes the upholstery would absorb the nervous sweat from his palms. He hadn't felt this intimidated since Sagatini was alive.

"That's quite a spiel," Powers said, shaking his head.

"It's the strategic model," Nando replied as he tossed his markers on the table and rolled down his sleeves. "Fundamental business principles. And the reason I'm going through all this is to share with you our perspective on the issues and the part you play." Powers stared blankly at Nando. His face was hot, not with impatience, not with rage, but with embarrassment and fear. Nando, CHI, the whole lot of them were going to eat his boys alive. _They've got process!_ That revelation reminded him how unbearably bright the room seemed, fluorescence over load. Nando took a red marker and went to the page on which a triangle was drawn and the words "Contingent Deliverables—-legal issues" were scrawled.

"Look at this," said Nando. He took a fat green file off the table that Powers hadn't noticed to this point. "These are pending liability litigations in which CHI is named as a defendant. You will note that most have reached settlement while the balance is being challenged as lacking merit, in the company's view. So?" Nando stared at Powers expectantly. No smile now, the large black eyes piercing. Scalding.

"Nando?"

"Your deliverable, Matty. Part of the due diligence. I _need_ your contribution—-just as we discussed more than six weeks ago.

"As I said, we are going through the review and assembling . . . '

"The time extension for that deliverable came due today. At noon. The time is now 11:55 a.m. This project is precisely timed because its complexity gives us no alternative. There are inherent benefits for all of us, but only if the execution is seamless. What is your timeline, Matty?" Nando's squared shoulders, the upraised hand holding the blood-red marker, the clenched jaw and the tense leaning stance of a cat readying to pounce—-the unambiguous demand. A demand that required more than the shrug that Powers was about to give.

"I need another week," Powers offered in a thin, retreating voice. Nando registered no immediate reaction. Instead, he turned his back to Powers, let his arm fall dramatically to his side and the marker drop from his hand. Then he circled the conference room and sullenly tore down the flip chart pages sheet by sheet. He took a wastebasket, slammed it on the table, and violently crumpled all the sheets into tight balls and stuffed them into the gray rubber container.

"What are you doing?" gasped Powers. Nando ignored the question, then took the seat next to Powers and pulled up close enough that Powers could tell from his breath that Nando had earlier chosen raspberry hazelnut for his morning coffee.

"Do you see," said Nando, "the consequences that a failure to follow through can have? Can you see the potential fate of our exceptionally conceived plan? The wasted man-hours? I thought we were on the same page. I thought you were the type of guy we could work with. But, my friend, you're letting me down. We can no longer afford to cling to old habits where 'two weeks' or 'one week' may have been at some place or time a satisfactory response."

Powers wished he had a cigarette, a habit he had given up a decade ago. He desperately needed something to do with his hands, which began fluttering up from his sides, something that tended to occur when nerves started getting the best of him. His jaw tightened; there was a clammy dampness in his armpits. He was an executive vice president for a leading health insurance corporation. Not a man whose hands should flit about his face like floating dust bunnies during a tense meeting. Not a man who should swipe at his sweating brow with a saturated cloth when closely questioned by an industry peer who was obviously testing him.

Powers was a lawyer, accustomed to the tight squeeze, who should be able to effortlessly deflect a roiling surge. And he had worked for Sagatini, godammit! That should count for something. Powers sucked in his gut and squared his shoulders and then moved out from under Nando's nose with abrupt decisiveness, hoping to disrupt the charge of his inquisitor.

"Your deliverables, as you call them, are on target and that is commendable," Powers said. "But also understand, the management crisis at MEDICUS has not fully subsided. Yes, it will take more time—-but time is what we need to do it right. I will get you your case files as promised. Might I add that, as impressive as your process may be, life is not as orderly at MEDICUS as we both would like-—we're not at a point yet where we can tape flip charts on walls." Nando bit his lip and stared down at the table. Powers heart leapt up. _He was born to do this._ _Take your whacks—sure, go ahead. But the mighty oak that's DeMastri Powers will not topple!_ But wait. Nando's jacket was off again. The diamond studded gold cufflinks were carefully removed and slipped into his shirt pocket above the royal purple monogram. The sleeves were slowly folded to his elbows. The jaw hardened and the executive smooth, almost unctuous gentleman disappeared behind an eye-glare and rigidity that resembled Death.

"It's time we got to understand each other a little better," said Nando softly. "I do of course appreciate the current stresses on your organization over the past year. We all here at CHI truly do. In fact, it is in light of those difficulties that we are holding out this solution to you. And we believe that our accelerated schedule is to your benefit. It does neither of our organizations any good to backslide into fluid time frames. Can we agree on that point?" The intensity of Nando's glare precluded challenge. Powers nodded.

"Good." Nando whipped out a legal pad and brandished a stylish pen with a CHI logo engraved on its polished teak barrel. "This Friday I want all open litigation status filings with projected material adverse effects delivered by messenger to me. (Powers bit his lip.) Also by Friday noon, I want all open claim files exceeding reserves of $50,000 on my desk. I want customer service and call response rate reports by Wednesday of next week, management information system workflows and logic diagrams at the same time, along with outstanding Request for Proposals for any group case exceeding 400 members . . . " Powers raised his hand.

"The latter reports-—that's Paine Fear's responsibility. Those areas report to him." Powers felt he was back in the old Sagatini days, his days as the flogged functionary and chief passer of the buck. It was his survival mentality that enabled him to persist in a broken organization, where accountability was a mystical notion. The downside, however, was the enervating thought that he was ceding authority to his peer.

"But we agreed that you would be the point man during the due diligence," Nando retorted.

"There's enough on my plate. You'll have to approach Paine on those issues, given the compressed time frame. There's no choice, Nando."

"Paine has played a sufficient role in this matter. I expect you to handle the exhibits."

"I don't understand," said Powers, growing hot with indignation over Nando's stance. "Fear hasn't done a damn thing!"

"We'll get back to Fear in a minute," said Nando, suppressing a smile. "Now, the Parmenter thing. You know and I know that she could cost you millions, not to mention the collateral PR damage-—it's a potential deal-breaker. Just get it done. By the end of the week I want to hear good news."

"There are complications," Powers groused. "She's really digging in her heels. You heard that her attorney died in an accident." Nando took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his neck. Exhaled very slowly.

"She remains an issue. One that has to be settled one way or another. Now let's take a walk."

Nando escorted Powers from the conference room to an elevator, where they whooshed fifteen floors to Nando's penthouse level office. They passed the bamboo forest and Nando's exotic multi-lingual greeter whom Powers acknowledged with a slight wave, which she pretended not to see. He wondered where his own office would be once the deal closed. There would be lush wood paneling, a leafy waiting room and soundproof walls. He'd have a commanding role and a salary to match, if he could only take care of a few loose ends. When they entered Nando's office, Nando buzzed his assistant, ordering her to "send her in."

"As we discussed, Paine Fear is handling his portion of the project with great care and discretion," Nando said, his mood remarkably lightened from the severe taskmaster in the conference room. "In fact, I'd characterize his performance as _stellar_." No sooner were those words out of his mouth than Jelly Fear flounced into his office. Powers eyes bulged out of his head and a grinding nausea locked up his gut. He tried to ask Jelly what the hell she was doing there, but his throat constricted in speechless shock.

"Hi, Matty, nice to see you again," said Jelly, who was wearing a short black skirt and tight white blouse unbuttoned down to here. She grabbed hold of Nando's head in both her hands and smothered his mouth with hers, making deep damp sucking sounds. The sight made Powers feel faint and somewhat panic-stricken. Then Nando started undoing Jelly's remaining buttons, hesitating at the last one.

"Um, Matty, we've covered just about everything, don't you think?" Nando said as Jelly turned and faced Matty with a delirious grin on her face. She tugged at Nando's wrists, urging him on.

Matty tripped on a potted fern in his dash to the elevator.

## TWENTY-ONE

The only reason Lisa was in Victoria's room while her daughter was in the bathroom was to deliver a batch of clean laundry. Yet she couldn't help noticing the provocative image functioning as her daughter's screen saver. It was a digital photo of William Deford looking quite, um, manly and predatory in his skin-tight wrestling outfit. When Lisa went over for a closer look, the bottom of the laundry basket jostled the mouse, which restored an e-mail message to the screen. Lisa's eye happened to catch the opening line, which made her drop the basket and fall into the desk chair.

Check it out. Mandy's folks are off to D.C. on Friday and she's got the whole place to herself!!! Zach's up for it, if you know what I mean!!!! How about you and William? I think Perry and Estelle, too!!!!

As Lisa scrolled down, her gut turned to rock. The note from

Hi gang! This is it! BJ party, my house—-yeah, yeah, doing the LEWINSKY!!!!!! Bring your own studly honey . . . and power up your VIBRATOR!!!!.This Friday . . . time tba. Show him that you love him!!!!

_"Mom_ , what are you doing looking through my e-mails!" Victoria screamed as she stood by the door. Lisa cowered, caught red-handed.

"I'm sorry, Vic. I didn't mean to—-the laundry basket bumped against the mouse. I . . ." Lisa jumped awkwardly away from the desk and made for the door. Victoria blocked the opening and stood hands-on-hips, glowering at Lisa.

"I can't believe you!" Victoria wailed, her voice raw with anger and, Lisa surmised, embarrassment over what she knew her mother saw. "I can't believe you'd do such a thing. Aren't I entitled to any privacy at all? What am I, a prisoner in my own house?" Then came the explosive hurricane of tears. Lisa tried to reach out and comfort Victoria, but Victoria scampered away and huddled on her bed, arms folded tightly against her chest.

"It was wrong of me, yes. Absolutely wrong. I have no right to read your e-mail without your permission. But it was an accident. It truly was." Since Lisa figured this violation had already engraved her name on Victoria's eternal shit list-—at least temporarily-—she might as well go all the way and lamely offer counsel to her outraged daughter. "But you know what I saw. Would it be something that we might want to discuss?"

"About the party at Mandy's?" said Victoria, a suggestion that deescalated the tears to snuffling after shocks. Victoria let her arms hang loosely by her sides.

"Is 'BJ' what I think it is?" asked Lisa, pretty sure that she knew the answer. She read _Cosmo_ whenever she gets her hair done at the mall. It tends to cover that sort of thing exhaustively.

"Um, well, what do you think it means?" asked Victoria, in a hiccupping voice, traces of tears, but a trickle instead of a gush. Progress.

"Look, Victoria, we've discussed boys and dating and the kinds of pressures that arise. And I would guess you and William are past the hand-shaking phase of your relationship." Victoria's eyes widened at her mom's suggestion, and the fact that Lisa had insinuated herself next to her on the bed where they could sit shoulder to shoulder.

"I'm a virgin, Mom. William and I have not had sex, if that's what you're worried about," said Victoria, lips tight with defiance.

"I wasn't worried about that," Lisa lied. "I trust your judgment. Besides, I'm fully aware that I have limited control over your behavior when you are outside these walls. I can only hope you've been raised in a way that will help guide you in the decisions you make. Even when it comes to the line in the sand that seems to be drawn with that party."

Victoria shuddered and didn't respond. Lisa waited. Summoning all her will, Lisa got up and forced herself to walk out, but just as she reached the door, Victoria squirmed and squeaked, "Mom?" Lisa stopped and sighed with relief. "What's it like? A B.J.?" Victoria asked.

"Oral sex?" Lisa translated for shock value.

Victoria nodded, wincing at her mom's bluntness.

Lisa wasn't one to flinch when discussions drifted to intimate disclosure. She believed that repression when it came to the exploration of healthy carnal behavior was a damaging byproduct of outmoded moral assumptions. Besides, Lisa heartily embraced the earthier attributes of the species.

"It's not like I can speak from experience," Lisa said, smiling widely as Victoria giggled self-consciously. "But from what I've heard . . . " and this time they laughed in unison, which helped allay Victoria's discomfort and provide the cover Lisa needed to put her arm around her daughter's shoulders. After all, Lisa and Earl were not shy about displaying their affection in front of the kids. The ardent hugs, deep kisses, ass pinchings and so forth. Lisa assumed that Victoria had drawn her own conclusions about her parents' private moments behind the locked door of their bedroom. Lisa recalled with a fond glow that sometimes she wasn't exactly self-contained when she and Earl were in the mood, and Victoria's bedroom was right next door.

"Well," Lisa continued, "it's like trying to force a deli pickle down your throat without gagging and throwing up, which is almost impossible. The guys seem to like it—-so much in fact that when they get sufficiently worked up you then have to deal with the ejaculation issue, which comes at you as a hard stream of loose custard that tastes sort of mucous-y, but saltier. And they expect you to swallow it. It's not exactly foul tasting or even objectionable from that standpoint. But when you think about where it comes from, you know, that's the same chute they use for peeing, it can definitely play on your mind. And, no matter how careful you are, it still gets all over your clothes and face and it's sticky, especially when it dries. And it has an odor that takes a while to get used to. I don't really see the benefit of this activity from the girl's standpoint. It's uncomfortable, not a little demeaning, highly yukky, and hardly a shared pleasure. But as I said, the guys seem to like it and girls do like to please their guys."

Throughout her description Lisa observed with a little cruelty as Victoria's expression gradually changed from the wonderment of discovery to the saucer-eyed look of horror.

While Lisa saw no particular advantage in casting this sexual act in a positive light, she did intend to accurately prepare Victoria for what she could expect if she were to RSVP to Mandy in the affirmative. And in Lisa's mind, she was being completely objective, if unsparing. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times her lips ventured south of Earl's navel since the birth of Victoria. Ever since they stopped smoking weed.

On the other hand, Earl couldn't keep away from the nether regions of Lisa's body, a behavior she found even more inexplicable, given the range of unhygienic bodily functions and the attendant microbes that were so densely clustered in those climes. She generally tried to push his head away when he'd nuzzle down there, ostensibly to protect him from the inherent minginess of those parts. But he was so insistent, perhaps because he had a knack for sliding his tongue in just the right place, which would instantly launch Lisa into an uncontrollable swoon. Maybe that's the part that she really didn't like, that some other person, her husband, had the ability to make her utterly lose control of herself with one simple maneuver. Despite the incredible pleasure rush of Earl's orally induced orgasms, Lisa hated the feeling of helplessness and inevitability of his assaults. And that was maybe the part that Earl both understood and enjoyed the most. He had the power to make his tough nut of a wife melt like street tar on a July afternoon-—a pleasure for him sufficiently sublime that he never forced her to reciprocate by urging her upon his male parts.

"Mom?" said Victoria, sitting slump-shouldered and clearly exhausted by this conversation. Lisa jerked to attention, catching herself. She had drifted off on a private tangent. A sexual reverie. Amazingly, this was her first protracted sexual musing in the six months since Earl's death. For the first time, she found herself lamenting that lost part of her life. She'd been so busy.

"Yes, sorry, Vic. I got sidetracked." She noticed a look of confusion crinkling her daughter's face. "Um. Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

"Well, like, yeah, Mom. Like, aren't you going to ask me if I'm going to Mandy's party or not? I mean you're not going to let me go anyway, now that you know. Right?" Victoria crossed her arms and cocked her head as she looked up at her mom. Lisa scratched her cheek. She knew how most moms would respond to the chilling prospect that confronted her. But Lisa refused to let herself fall into the easy patterns perpetuated by typical over-protective moms. She wanted to be better, because she wanted her kids to be better. And sometimes that meant making things tougher on them.

"You're sixteen, Victoria. You'll be an adult soon. You've got to practice making important decisions. This is a good one to start on." Lisa kissed Victoria on the cheek, jabbed her playfully on the arm and shut the door behind her as she left the room, hoping for the best.

## TWENTY-TWO

Martin Bane was growing impatient with the clowns working the deal from the MEDICUS side and was primed to jettison them. He knew that Hayes and Montoya were counting on him to work in the background to put the final pieces together, and the sooner the better. That's what brought him to Rikers.

Martin pulled some strings with the Warden's office to secure a private, unmonitored conference room. He also greased the guard to treat the suspect gently and not put a clock on the meeting. The coffee and bagels were a nice touch, too. Also a nice touch was Trini Dove arriving unescorted and unmanacled through the door.

Martin stood as she entered the snug, steel-clad room that had a row of grated windows that looked out on a buzzing corridor of echoing slams and profane hollering. The room was dominated by an oval table with a gray rubber laminate top that curled up at the edges, thus exposing the particle board underlayment. Trini nodded as Martin gave her a brisk peck on the cheek. Martin could tolerate Trini Dove. She was a noisy bitch, but always easy to look at. Wasn't his type, though. He tended toward quiet, undemanding blondes with long legs and a sense of adventure.

He watched as Trini poured herself a cup of coffee and tore apart a pumpernickel bagel, and was reminded of another thing he liked about Trini. Though she made a nice appearance and often affected a disposition of sugary innocence, there were also those interesting moments of unguarded savagery. The way she went at her food with ripping fingers and her subordinates at work with bared fangs. Martin understood well the desperate aggression that drove ambitious climbers of minimal talents like Trini Dove. It's the same disposition that propelled his ascent through the ranks of one of the city's most brutal labor organizations. He was not convinced, however, that it was the same kind of predisposition that could unleash brutal savagery in the executive suite. And so his appearance at the Rose Singer Center.

"It's good to see you, Trini. This can be a harsh place," said Martin, a remark that prompted a sarcastic arch of Trini Dove's eyebrows, a familiar precursor to one of her violent eruptions. But she let it pass. _Spirit broken? Already?_

"Why are you here?" Trini grumbled as she slathered a dense coating of butter on her bagel. The first butter she's had in months, she said, adding that oleo was all you got in prison. Greasy meat, packaged mashed potatoes, soggy vegetables-—that's it. Trini looked drawn and sleek. Cheeks gone sallow and skin gray and cracked. Trini said she never eats. Except she was chowing down now.

"I'm only seeing you for the bagels," Trini said. "I knew you'd bring them in from Brooklyn. Best in the world." Martin understood. It wasn't that long ago that he was in Trini's spot-—not exactly for homicide, but some of his operations with the union had been misinterpreted by the District Attorney's office. Yeah, he couldn't deal with the food either. He enjoyed watching Trini cram the bagel down and then reach for another. She had an appetite that defied manners and self-restraint. Trini Dove devoured with all her heart, her eyelids heavy with pleasure. He waited until her second bagel was half demolished before speaking.

"We're worried about you, Trini," said Martin. "Actually, I wouldn't put it that way-—I'm worried about you. I don't give a shit what anyone else says. It's about the position you're taking with regard to your case." Trini froze in mid-bite, put down the bagel and took a long, thoughtful sip of black coffee.

"That surprises me, Martin. You and I haven't said boo to each other in the three years you've been with MEDICUS. Why should you start caring now? Outside of that useless skinny lawyer you guys set me up with, I've had no contact with any of my so-called friends at the company. Almost as if they're satisfied hanging me out to dry."

Martin shook his head, a deadpan expression on his face. He was surprised that her time at Rikers hadn't dulled the edge of her defiance, which he admired. Never expected to discover this much starch in Trini Dove. Her current resolve seemed unwavering and Martin had to give her credit. After all, she was the one who had the smooth ride, greasing her boss's rod all the way up to senior vice president despite a lack of relevant experience. And, from what he's observed, she seemed endowed with few of the instincts and management skills that tend to be useful qualities for those in positions of leadership.

"A lot of thought has been given to your defense, Trini," Martin said. "The criminal justice system is much like business. The art of compromise."

"You all think I'm guilty. That I did it," said Trini as she ripped off another bite with flashing teeth, which had remained remarkably white given her generally reduced appearance.

"You can't assume that," said Martin.

"That's what you all think anyway. And putting a nice neat end to the case and avoiding a messy trial and kissing off my ass to some institution for the rest of my life-—sure, it's a clean, convenient way to square things so you guys can go do your merger thing. I know that's what you think and why you're here, Martin. So don't try and bullshit me!" A slight flush warmed the cheeks of Trini Dove, the fire re-lit after months of systematic desensitization in that hideous kennel. Martin shrugged and thoughtfully smeared cream cheese on his bagel.

"Okay, Trini. You've made your point. Let's say that part of my intent is to tidy things up with regard to your case, and you resent that. But let me tell you something else-—and this is my honest word. You decide to do it your way, take this thing to trial, and they're going for a home run. You're just a hunk of prime meat to them and they want to put your lights out. I'm not saying that to scare you. We've checked with the DA's office and there's an asshole with political aspirations and your case would be a career-maker for her. Look how hard she fought against you posting bond—-no way you should be stuck in here. You've got be pretty damn sure of yourself." Martin brought his hand up to his mouth and leaned over to take a bite, but Trini intercepted his wrist. Her powerful grip violently shook the bagel from Martin's hand. And the complacency from his brain.

"You don't understand," hissed Trini Dove. "Listen to me. I did not do it. _I did not kill anybody!_ " Trini locked on to Martin's eyes. Her other hand swung around and clamped on to his other wrist. Martin remained cool, letting Trini get this out of her system. Sure, this place was loaded with alleged felons who "didn't do it." Why should Trini be any different? If she's good enough to convince herself, maybe she'll have a better chance with a jury.

"Personally I find it hard to believe that it was you, Trini. But the evidence . . ."

_"What evidence? What evidence?"_ Trini shrieked, evidently loud enough to inspire the appearance of the matron, who rushed in and tried to unattach Trini's hands from Martin's wrists.

"That'll be enough, Dove. Are you done with her yet, Mr. Bane?" Martin shook his head and pointed impatiently to the door. Still under the spell of the two twenties that Martin had slipped her, the matron grunted and withdrew, slamming the door behind her.

"Martin," said Trini, with tears clouding her eyes but with an ever-tightening grip, "Guy was dead when I got there. His head. I touched his head and it almost fell on the floor. I panicked and ran. I didn't know what else to do. The next thing I know, the cops have me pinned to the gutter, my blouse torn. They say I killed . . ." The grip finally loosened and Martin found himself with a shuddering, sobbing Trini Dove collapsed in his arms. He cradled her head, her body limp with grief and frustration.

"You've got to be honest with yourself," Martin said. "No one else is placed at the scene. The cops have a fairly plausible theory about why you may have wanted to do something like that. They even found some silly little penknife—-as if that could've done the job. It doesn't exactly help matters that you fled the building with Guy's blood all over you." And suddenly the heaving of the bosom and the trembling of her back stopped. Red-eyed and miserable, Trini looked up at Martin.

"I know what it looks like. But it wasn't me. It wasn't me." Trini straightened up and returned to her chair behind the table, running her fingers through her hair, wiping tears from her cheeks. As he observed Trini trying to compose herself, Martin was amazed at the strange twisting tightness in his gut. He waited for her to continue.

"I could rot away in a place like this forever—-I know I have that choice," said Trini. "But it's wrong. It's wrong because I didn't do it. And I don't care what the fucking prosecutor says." Trini took another sip of coffee and folded her hands on the table. Martin stared into her eyes, his brow wrinkled, his mouth shut tight. The union boss knew what was happening here. Martin could not be beguiled by a bully's bluff, a lawyer's bluster or even a woman's tears. Those acquainted with Martin Bane knew it was a waste of time trying to bullshit him. His adversaries knew that Martin's radar was unerring. He'll destroy them every time. And he was shocked by what his radar was telling him now. The question was--If not Trini Dove, then who?

#

Afterwards Martin had the car take him to Midtown. He felt like a steak and a Scotch. Actually, he just felt like a Scotch and it wouldn't look right without the steak. On his way back from Rikers he called a friend and offered to treat for lunch. And sure enough, by the time he arrived at The Palm, Nando was at the table waiting for him. As was Martin's double Glenfiddich. Martin cracked a smile.

"I didn't know Scotch had to breathe," Martin deadpanned as he let the maitre d' take his overcoat. Nando was sipping a tall draft and waiting for Martin to finish his first drink before asking about the visit to Rikers. Martin shrugged as Nando ordered another round.

"She's holding up okay, considering the circumstances. She's turned out to be a harder case than I expected."

"Meaning?"

Martin shrugged again. Meaning he was trying to decide between the New York strip and the rib eye. He had no qualms about making Nando wait for answers, and Nando showed no sign of impatience. After all, he's endured Martin's deliberate style for almost twenty years, first as chief labor counsel for the City of New York and then as part of Martin's legal SWAT team at District 37. Martin's lost count of the number of times he and Nando have stared across the negotiation table at each other for hours on end without a word being exchanged. Martin liked and respected Nando Montoya. He knew that behind the urbane and polished exterior, Nando was a ruthless warrior. Cold as ice.

"I'm going with the strip. Want to split the lobster?" said Martin. Nando smiled.

"She must be ready to cut a deal by now," said Nando, who nodded at the waiter and briskly handled the order. He grimaced as he ordered Martin's steak well done ("no pink in the middle"), twice-baked potatoes and no tomatoes or cucumbers with the lettuce. Martin himself cringed as Nando ordered his own steak very rare ("just slow it down"). It was a Palm ritual they've played out through the years. After his third drink, Martin felt less keyed-up.

"Maybe she didn't do it," said Martin as he played with a cocktail napkin and watched the bustle of white-aproned food carriers shepherding massive trays of prime beef and fixings to a well-heeled expense account crowd in the city's oldest restaurant. This is where he comes for great beef when he wasn't able to make the trek across the Williamsburg Bridge to Lugers. His mouth watered at the prospect of The Palm lobster, a monster that could inspire a cheesy Japanese horror flick. Yet it was succulent and tender, like a critter a third its size. Martin had his big appetite today, and when he turned to face his drink, he was amused by the look of utter incomprehension on Nando's face.

"What the hell did she say to you? What the hell are you saying to me?"

"She said she didn't do it." Martin pushed aside the bread, the salt and pepper and other table clutter to make room for the main events. "I have a feeling." And then he took another swig. Martin had a nice buzz going now.

"That's fine. That's really special," snapped Nando. "She's at the scene, she's got blood all over her boobs, she knows the little tramp she's got working for her is humping the boss—-come on, Martin, what the hell are you saying to me?" Nando's face was flushed with exasperation. But Martin was reticent and paused to admire the first course. The sea beast had been delivered and the conversation resumed across several elongated antennae and splayed limbs steamed a brilliant crimson.

"I wish you wouldn't talk so loud," Martin muttered as he snapped off a claw the size of his wife's foot. A cloud of sweet-smelling steam rushed from the dismembered joint.

"What did you expect?" Nando demanded through clenched teeth. "What did Ms. Dove do? Hand the knife to Sagatini and tell him, 'Here, I want you to slash your throat until your head falls off because you've been unkind to me?'"

"I'm not saying she didn't do it. But I've got a feeling . . ."

"Look, that girl has been informed that she's in really deep shit and it's her choice how it plays out. I'm depending on you to get her to do the right thing." Nando stabbed at the tail end of the lobster with such force that the whole carcass lurched up from the platter and then plopped back down with a table-shaking clatter. Martin motioned to a server, pointing first at his glass and then indicating that his dining companion would join him.

"I don't drink Scotch," Nando complained.

"You do today," Martin smiled. The men then tore into the lobster without another word, lost in their separate thoughts and charmed by the tender meat slathered in glistening drawn butter. As the shredded exoskeleton was whisked away and they awaited their steaks, Nando raised the other issue.

"I've lost my patience with the woman. The idiots you work with can't do a thing with her."

"That would be Lisa Parmenter. I am taking care of that as well."

"It's not working. Just another stubborn bitch. It's time we ramp things up." Martin had learned something new about Nando-—his friend did indeed drink Scotch. Also, he couldn't recall seeing Nando so unsettled. Must be too much of the cushy corporate life at CHI. So easily put off by a little resistance.

"Say the word, Nando. I got a couple of guys who're pretty pissed off at her as it is. Problem's easily solved." Martin had a feeling where things were headed. He understood Nando's logic and could see the wheels turning. And he didn't lack the guts-—after all, Nando said the word that got Parmenter's bitch lawyer introduced at high speed to an unyielding overpass. He figured that Nando would regret orphaning a few kids, but he was also aware that they at least had a grandma standing by. "Great lobster, huh Nando?"

"I don't want the Parmenter case lingering. Those things never end well. The publicity is something else we could live without."

"Just say the word. Simple and efficient is how I operate," Martin said, alluding to his preference for the scorched-earth approach. Indeed, he chafed under the niceties and gentile treacheries of corporate politics. Issues like Lisa Parmenter or Trini Dove never lingered when he was with the union. When they arose, they were handled quietly, expeditiously. Permanently. But he could see his friend hesitating, uncomfortable with the "Word." Was it the kids? _A conscience?_ Martin knew what it was and was surprised to find it in a man with whom he shared so much in common. Could it be the sudden appearance of a heart after all these years? Martin was, in fact, shocked. He watched Nando take out a pen, jot down a figure on a napkin and hand it to him.

"It's our final offer. That's it, Martin."

"And when she refuses?" said Martin.

"Then do what you have to do."

Martin ordered two more Scotches.

#

Later that evening after the kids had retired for the evening, Marci and Matty polished off a bottle of savignon blanc and cuddled in the family room loveseat upon which love had never been made. With Mom always around, there was always the fear of being caught. After the first two glasses had mellowed him out, Powers glanced down at Marci, who was engrossed in a TV program that dramatized a paramedic team racing to late night medical emergencies in a large and dangerous city. As the characters punctured arms with needles and slapped on defibrillator pads, Powers regarded his wife with a critical eye. The focus, softened by the wine and dim mood lighting, made the scheme seem feasible. Powers assessed Marci's sleek long legs and smooth, relatively unwrinkled skin. She did work out almost every day, which went a long way to tightened the sags and mitigate the lumps and make her generally more presentable than most women her age. Of course few would mistake his raven-haired spouse for Fear's current bimbo, but she was . . .viable. _Yes, she was viable!_

He bent down and kissed Marci on the lips. His sudden and unexpected show of affection caught her by surprise and she drew away with a startled jerk, like an inert body on TV being zapped with external heart stimulation. But then she exhaled deeply and smiled-—she was on her third glass of wine-—and wrapped Powers in her arms and slathered his face with a passionate smooch.

She was as ready as she'd ever be, Powers surmised. He pushed the mute button on the remote and pulled away from Marci's lips, gently caressing her shoulders. "Down here?" she murmured. Powers shook his head and whispered softly in her ear.

"We have to discuss an issue relating to the merger." Marci stiffened and sighed, but then pulled herself up and snuggled into Powers' arms.

"You know that when it's all done and settled, we'll walk away with a bonus and compensation package that will make us very comfortable," Powers said. Marci smiled and nodded, tilting her head up and moistening her husband's lips with a tipsily loving kiss, her breath a rich fermented mist.

"But it's taking _so_ long and we have so many plans," Marci whimpered. Powers needed another healthy swallow to take some of the edge off his nerves.

"There are a million details, some easier to square away than others. Some, in fact, that don't lend themselves to easy solutions." Marci, her head back in his lap and legs draped over the armrest, looked up at Powers, her eyes narrowed with concern.

"Does that mean it won't happen?" she whispered. "Does it mean that you're stuck where you are forever? Is that what you're going to say?" Matty resumed the scalp massage, the other hand placed comfortingly on his wife's shoulder. He shook his head and smiled grimly.

"I'm not in control of all the variables. I'm dealing with very strong-willed people. I need an edge to help make sure we come out on top. Some insurance. I figured out what we need." Powers paused and he could sense the muscles in Marci's back relax. He knew that she loved when he problem solves. Even when the problems were small and the solutions themselves half-baked. The aura of control was often more important than the actuality with Marci.

"So what's the plan?" She smiled. "Is someone going to be sued?"

"Not as simple as that," said Powers. "Someone has to be charmed." Marci's eyes flapped open and she looked up at her husband, who wore a troubled smile on his face. A grim smile. She put her hand on the hand that was stroking her hair. Powers took a deep breath. He explained what he had in mind. He suggested where and when. Marci listened with eyes open wide and then with eyes easing shut and then eyes glistening with moisture that collected and flowed into streaky lines of tears. The grip on her husband's hand relaxed. She slumped.

"There's no other way? The loose ends you spoke about?" said Marci in a pleading voice.

"Very unlikely. Nando's on the verge of throwing me over—-I can feel it." Marci nodded. She sat up and took another sip, and then complained that somehow the wine had acquired a bitter taste. She spat it back in the glass. Then she rose unsteadily to her feet and clutched the empty bottle by the neck and staggered into the kitchen to toss it in the recycle bin.

She coughed hard, then screamed, "Matty-—take the fucking garbage out!"

## TWENTY-THREE

Three days later on a crystal clear mid-November morning Marci Powers emerged from Grand Central Station and strode purposefully along the humanity-choked sidewalks of Third Avenue. She was totally outfitted in new duds, from the Manolo Bacchus pumps to the Gucci diamond-studded leather barrette holding her swept-back shock of coal-black hair. The diaphanous black silk skirt that swished several inches above her kneecaps brushed sensuously against her Uma Lagudi nylons, for which she had paid a ransom at Lilani's in Soho. And the Loveladies leotard top, also in black, sheathed a form still capable of raising an eyebrow or two, despite the wearer's four-plus decades and increasingly casual relationship with the downtown Bally's facility.

The hair, the make-up, the nails—-all were done at Bergdorf's and it was just part of the investment. The only not-new thing was the underwear, which was a present from Santa last Christmas and until today never worn--a navy blue silk thong bikini and matching under wire push-up bra with the clasp in front.

It was decided by Matty and Marci that today would be the day.

She took 48 hours to think about it. To let it sink in. And once the anger and humiliation had subsided, the prospect began to excite her. It started with a tickle in her tummy and a frank stare of appraisal in the mirror following last night's shower. What had loomed as a grim proposition gradually took the form of romantic fantasy in Marci's mind. The small roles she had played in local theater productions provided a kind of foundation-—a mindset-—for the deployment of a similar intelligence and skill set for this particular challenge, which held a palpable reward upon success. The theatre minor had finally landed her first serious role.

Turning right down Madison Avenue and waiting for the light, Marci rehashed the morning that had been a blur to her. She had pretended to still be asleep when Matty rose for work. She could hear his hesitation, the suspended breath. She could feel his eyes on her back, pausing, perhaps imagining how it would . . . .go. Then he pulled away, hustled out of the room, hurriedly got dressed and skulked off to the office. Marci reached into the drawer of the small wooden nightstand next to the bed, as she did almost every morning, and retrieved her "little friend." She remembered switching it on and parting her knees. But then she reconsidered and returned it to its compartment, concluding that it would be best if she were a little keyed up as she plunged into her adventure.

She labored through the routine of feeding and packing the kids on the bus. Then, still in her bathrobe and underwear, she pulled out CHI's annual report and turned to the page arrayed with group photos of the company officers. The roster of middle-aged white men comprising CHI's executive ranks were the usual gray, fleshy eminences, with closely cropped or non-existent hair. Then she came to his image. As Matty suggested, this one was different. Eyes that stared at her off the page, burning black coals fringed by eyebrows as dense as quills on a porcupine's back. A large, powerful nose and soaring cheekbones that tapered to a strong, angular jaw. A face that radiated power, mystery and passion. Marci summoned the thespian mindset of the ingenue. She meditated on the photo, the handsome man's gaze watching her as she moved around the room, an earnest prey of seduction.

That was the image she kept in her mind as she cut over to Park Avenue. She felt aroused by the slender lower strap of her thong, which tugged at her privates, and by the voluptuous sensation of bosom overspill rendered by the snug design of her silk bra. It was all she could do to keep her stride to a modulated, purposeful gait, when her fevered mind hankered for an all-out gallop. She had the folder under her arm, which she nervously checked three times to verify the address. All she had to do, however, was to look at the polished brass plaque affixed to the gilded entrance to the building to know she was at the right place.

Before slipping through the revolving door, she turned and faced the teeming block of well-dressed men and women hustling in all directions to important appointments. She was filled with the energy of Manhattan and a twinge of momentary regret for her life of exile in a Long Island tract home. She determined, once the deed was done, that she and her family would uproot to the upper West Side. She was pulsing with the thoughts of a woman exploding out of her skin, emerging from the pinching borders of her suburban chrysalis.

The floor was so high she could feel her ears pop in the elevator. She emerged at the reception area feeling slightly disoriented. She announced herself to the sleek Filipino secretary, who stole a gathering glance at Marci's appearance and maintained the professional decorum to temper her reaction to a discrete smile. Soon Marci was admitted into Nando's cavernous office with its panels of window walls and the spectacular view of Central Park.

The man at the desk was studying a fat binder and jotting notes on a yellow legal pad. He didn't seem to notice her, so she boldly made her way across the plush white carpeting, carefully maintaining her modeling school carriage. She tried not to stare at the preoccupied gentleman, who cast an even more formidable image in person than suggested by his portrait in the company annual report. She admired the abstract art on the walls, several oils and acrylics by unfamiliar artists. Ever so muted were cascading waves of music-—fevered bowings of cello, violin, and viola. She was elevated by the aroma of Nando's cologne, a complex fragrance that lured her with the same intensity that Matty's habitual vanilla splash of Old Spice repelled her. Marci had a sensitive nose and a man's aroma was the first thing she noticed. Finally Nando looked up, and then leapt to his feet and extended his hand.

"So you must be Mrs. . . ."

"Marci. Marci Powers," Marci said brightly.

"Then I am Nando. Short for Fernando, of course, but nobody calls me that. So tell me, Marci, how did Matty Powers achieve such a beautiful woman? Does he have a certain appeal that's not readily evident to someone like me?"

Marci smiled sedately, deliberately projecting the confidence of a woman accustomed to flattery. She was, in fact, instantly drawn by Nando's dark, animated features and congenial manner. She admired his crisp dress, the custom suit and shirt with French cuffs rakishly rolled up to his elbows. He exuded an energy that radiated like thermals off a hot summer street.

Marci gave a hearty laugh and thrust her chest out a bit further. Then she handed him a folder that contained the papers that supplied the pretext for this visit.

"So tell me, beautiful Marci, do you frequently serve as your husband's courier?" he asked, putting the envelope down without examining its contents.

"Matty said he had meetings all day but was anxious to get these documents to you," she said. "I had plans to be in town today and offered to help him out. Besides," she added, "Matty said that you would be an interesting person to, umm, meet." Nando nodded thoughtfully, picked up the envelope and removed several legal size manila folders. Marci leaned forward and playfully mimicked Nando's expression of gathering concern. After riffling through each folder, Nando pursed his lips and ran his fingers through his thick black hair.

"This, these files, is that all?" he asked. Marci nodded. He suddenly darted from around the desk, deftly took Marci's hand in his and led her to the soft leather sofa in the far corner of the office. Marci felt electric, excited by Nando's ease and self-confidence. Seated at opposite ends of the sofa, Nando smiled warmly and bore into Marci's eyes with a penetrating, almost levitating gaze. "Your husband is a good man, and I enjoy working with him. How did you find him?"

Marci gratefully accepted a cup of perfectly steeped Earl Grey tea from Nando's assistant, took a sip and recalled for Nando the evening some twenty years ago when she attended MEDICUS' annual holiday party at the New York Hilton and was introduced to the company's new chief general counsel. "He had all his hair back then." She giggled.

"Your uncle was Guy Sagatini," Nando said, who seemed increasingly intrigued as Marci unwound her tale.

"He was so cute, clumsy in a way for someone in such an important job. My uncle tended to hire people like that, you know. Not necessarily clutzes, competent I'm sure. Just not exactly the debonair type." Nando exploded with laughter, nodding vigorously and squeezing Marci's arm.

"I know _exactly_ what you mean. It's a motley group. Adorable in their way." Nando grinned, seeming to ignore the potential risk of insulting the spouse of one of the motleys.

"Uncle Guy, well, he was a tough sort-—I miss him badly. He really knew how to make that company tick," Marci said, finally at ease and encouraged by Nando's eager interest and high spirits. Marci described their five-year courtship, the first tentative kiss, the honeymoon at a resort in the Pocono Mountains that featured a bed in the shape of a Valentine and a bathtub in the shape of a Valentine with cup holders and high velocity water jets. She described a serene domestic life, casting herself as the doting mom and the wife of a hard-working corporate man with madcap hair and a mercurial management style.

Nando smiled throughout her unremarkable biography until Marci noted a gradual darkening in his demeanor, the edges of his mouth growing taut and troubled. Again Nando took Marci's hand in his, placing his other hand on top. She looked at his firm cocooning grip and instantly dammed her stream of fond reminiscence. It seemed that it was Nando's turn.

"Tell me, Marci," he asked earnestly. "What is your dream? So clearly an attractive and intelligent woman such as yourself—-surely there is something more, a calling perhaps."

Her gaze narrowed in confusion. What did he mean? Had she inadvertently painted a portrait of utter banality, one that betrayed a discontent that she did not necessarily feel?

"My dream, Nando?" she repeated, feeling her hand becoming hot and uncomfortable inside his grasp, knowing that he must have sensed it as well. She couldn't resist the gnawing pangs of anxiety, that she was losing control. With a simple wink, a warm laugh and clever concern in his voice, Nando seemed to be reeling her in.

"My life is wonderful. I want it to get even better-—help my husband succeed with your plans. He wants it badly for himself."

"Your husband, your husband. I'm asking about _you_ , Marci. What do _you_ want for _yourself_?" Nando implored.

Marci's eyes broke away from his, to the splotchy artwork on the walls, to the floor and the patterns and swirls of a powerful vacuum's track etched in the soft carpet pile. Staring out the window at the puffy cloud-dappled sky. Buying time to formulate a response. She resolved to stay her reckless course and embrace Nando's tactics, reaching for his arm and gripping it tightly. "I meant what I said, Nando. I want to help in whatever way I can. To be part of the team. It's exciting to me. I love the theater, performing and singing, it's what I studied—-my passion. But this is real. It's thrilling and I want to be part of the game," she said, her piercing cobalt eyes boring into his, her lips pursed in an affecting, voluptuous line of concentration.

Nando glanced at the hand that clutched his arm. Smiled. Then, with a nerve and confidence that both shocked and excited, he stroked her hair, pressing the strands between his thumb and forefinger. He focused on this gentle motion as he spoke in a warm, seductive purr.

"I believe everything you are saying. You are an intelligent and vital woman. And why shouldn't you be included in the process? You know how hard Matty is trying to facilitate the merger. But I must tell you. There are certain issues, however, that seem to resist resolution. And I don't see sufficient progress in the materials that you brought with you today."

"Would the absence of that information be . . . be, I guess, what you would call a deal breaker?" Marci's lips formed a pout of concern. She crossed her legs, a maneuver that uncovered an expanse of upper thigh flatteringly sheathed in expensive pantyhose. She peered down at her knees, confident that Nando's eyes would follow hers.

"Let's just say it doesn't help things," Nando said, clearing his throat. "We must manage all the risks. It's a process called due diligence." She looked up at Nando, eyes arched in puzzlement, which made Nando tilt his head up as well and acknowledge that he was caught admiring Marci's legs. He smiled sheepishly and paused before launching into an extensive technical description of pre-merger fact-finding.

Marci, brimming with self-confidence, seized the advantage, vigorously nodding agreement with Nando's various arguments, smiling at his witty asides, and gravely biting her lip when the darker matters of MEDICUS' non-compliance were raised. Through the cascade of impenetrable finance speak, Nando seemed not to notice that his hand was resting on Marci's upper thigh, insinuated there, of course, by Marci herself. She had also taken the hand that had been stroking her hair and cupped it between her hands, kneading and caressing. Then, suddenly, he broke off in mid-sentence and took Marci into his arms.

"Nando, I want to work with you!" she squealed.

"Marci, I want to work with you, too!"

The pitched melodrama caused them both to burst out laughing. Nando was the first to recover.

"Look, we can't stay here. Let's take a ride." Marci nodded vigorously and kissed Nando on the forehead before disengaging herself and lurching to her feet. She waited outside his office as he made a phone call. They held hands in the cab, hardly speaking as they drove uptown. She stared out the window, crackling with apprehension and excitement, intensely aware that the gentleman beside her was absolutely focused on her. Wondering where his gaze was playing, she finally stole a glance, and sure enough, his eyes were riveted to her back. She smiled, a tight smile this time because the cab had pulled up to the appointed address.

"Marci, we don't have to go in," he generously suggested. "We could go stop someplace for a drink. Perhaps drop you off where you need to go. Please don't feel that you have . . ." but Marci instead kissed Nando hard on the mouth, her hand touching the side of his face.

"Thank you for asking," she said, and let herself out of the car. Nando leaped around the back and escorted Marci into the towering marble building, the door held open by a rigid, uniformed sentry. Marci felt as if she were entering a grand basilica. The atrium's white marble walls and vaulted ivory ceilings guided one's gaze to God's kingdom.

Arrayed along the vast entrance hall were copper clamshell wall sconces shaped like hands folded in prayer and from which emanated an ethereal glow. The polished brass doors of the elevators were adorned with Art Deco reliefs of fanning plumage and heroic figures battle-clad in skirted armor and horsehair crested helmets-—the gates to Heaven itself. The clack from the pointed heels of Marci's pumps striking the pink granite floor reverberated through the largely uninhabited space. When Nando took her arm, she could feel the tension and anxiety of her task melt away. By the time the doors closed behind them, she was floating, floating, floating to the 18th floor.

Curiously, Nando rang the doorbell rather than let himself into the apartment. The sight of the woman answering the door so shocked Marci that Nando had to physically urge her inside.

"Hello, Marci, long time no see," said Jelly Paine, who had evidently expected Nando's guest. Marci took a deep breath, her hand gripping Nando's shoulder.

"What's she doing in your apartment?" she demanded.

"Why, Marci, Jelly lives here. I live in Westchester," Nando said with a trace of a chuckle.

"But you . . ." stammered Marci.

"Close friends. Like yourself. Jelly is helping out with the deal. I've found her work to be exceptionally . . . umm . . . enthusiastic." Ignoring Marci's stricken expression, Nando laughed and was joined by Jelly.

"Cmon, Marci, relax," said Jelly. "We're all going to be one big happy family soon." As if to prove her point, Jelly took Nando in her arms and slathered a wet, noisy kiss on his lips. Nando separated himself and held his hand out to Marci.

"She's right, you know," said Nando. "We will all soon be one close-knit team. _Very_ close." With that Jelly removed her bathrobe, revealing an extra-large New York Jets green uniform top with a large "19" stitched on the back. She approached Marci and tenderly stroked her face. Marci flinched, her jaw rigid and quivering. Jelly then ran her hands through Marci's thick hair. Tears formed on the corners of Marci's eyes and rolled down her perfectly buffed cheeks. She was frozen to the spot, unmoving. Then Jelly kissed her on the forehead.

"Make her stop, Nando. This is a . . . a misunderstanding." Jelly began rubbing Marci's shoulders. Then she took one of Marci's hands and placed it on her waist.

"No, Marci," said Nando in a dry, insistent voice. "You said you wanted to help. To make the deal happen. You _are_ helping. Esprit de corps—-it's important, you know. It brings the parties closer together."

"I didn't mean this! I didn't . . ."

Jelly's hands cupped Marci's pretty oval face, and she whispered, "I had no idea you were so pretty, Marci. You're hot, actually. Who'd a thunk it?"

"Nando!" Marci cried.

"I have to confess something, Marci," Nando said as he settled into one of the Paine Fear's plush living room sofas. "I take pleasure in watching two beautiful women." Jelly brushed Marci's brow with feathery kisses and guided Marci's hands to her chest. A horrified Marci Powers broke away from Jelly with a whimper, flashed a look of pure hatred at Nando and fled the apartment, hammering the elevator buttons with staccato fists.

## TWENTY-FOUR

What else could Lisa do—-she had, for all intents and purposes, been slammed against the wall and shaken down. The menacing voice on the phone late last night brooked no compromise. It was take it or leave it or suffer the consequences, which he left to her imagination.

Lisa told him to go to hell, fully aware that the hour of reckoning had arrived. She had no choice but to implement her contingency plan.

Lisa took the next day off from work to set things in motion. She walked the two miles to the Rent-A-Wreck branch, which offered a choice--a ten-year-old Lincoln Town Car in black or a five-year-old maroon Caprice Classic. She was looking for something large and substantial and was smitten by the Lincoln's digital speedometer. She signed it out for the weekend and prudently opted for the collision damage coverage. She drove the car to the Monmouth Mall and deposited it on the fifth floor of the parking garage. She then called for a cab to take her back home, where she started packing up the kids for their stay at Grandma's.

It would be a busy Friday night for Lisa. In addition to her own plans, it was also the night of Mandy's infamous party. Lisa couldn't get the precarious state of her daughter's virtue off her mind. Would Victoria do the sensible thing, a formidable challenge given Lisa's presumption of the relentless pressure applied by a testosterone-driven lad-hunk seeking carnal release outside the ministrations of his own hand?

Added to Lisa's anxiety was the recent clumsy and obvious disappearance of certain pieces of elongated, cylindrical fruits and vegetables from the kitchen. After all, she remembered doing the same thing herself when she was a teen. She wondered if her mom kept count, too. Lisa couldn't get over the fact that kids nowadays considered oral sex a form of spectator sport. Or a social ritual. That morning Victoria casually mentioned that William was going to pick her up at her grandma's at seven.

"Where are you going?"

"I . . . I don't know."

Later that afternoon Lisa took the kids to the mall to meet her mother. On the way she distracted herself by monitoring Ringo's and Monica's battle over his Pokeman cards and sneaking glances at the rear-view mirror to make sure she didn't lose sight of her stalkers. She met up with her mom at Lord and Taylor, with Lisa explaining the hastily arranged overnight by saying she needed at least twenty-four hours of private time-—time off from the kids, when in fact her thoughts were entirely focused on a clockwork plan designed to solve a certain problem once and for all.

Lisa insisted that her mom take the minivan, since it was already packed up and provided much more space than her mom's Honda Civic. They exchanged keys in the mall parking lot and Lisa kissed the kids goodbye, hugging Victoria especially tight and whispering a heavily freighted "Be good" in her ear. Lisa watched the van drive off, making sure that it was trailed by a certain large automobile with heavily tinted windows.

Lisa then rushed to the Civic and proceeded to stalk the stalkers. Her heart was pounding; this was the toughest part of all, positioning her children as decoys. But she was watchful. She had her cell phone on the seat next to her and Austin Vance was on speed-dial. She parked down the block from her mom's townhouse and watched them as they watched her mom and the kids get out. A sudden urgency in the sedan's movements indicated their discovery that Lisa wasn't in the van with the rest of her family. They drove slowly by the vehicle, craning their necks to look inside. Then one of them actually got out of the car, peered into the van, and then walked by the front door of the house, clearly puzzled. He rejoined his partner who was seated on the passenger side and speaking on his cell phone. Finally they pulled away and headed to the Garden State Parkway. Lisa followed at a discrete distance.

So far, so good. Now it was a matter of patience and opportunity.

She let several vehicles slip between her car and the maroon Caddy (the white one, she assumed, discarded once it got too hot) at the Exit 105 toll ramp. She had no idea where they were going, but it was comforting to see that the Honda's tank was more than half-full, enough to drive to Venus and back. She was rigid with apprehension and perspiration dotted her brow as she gripped the steering wheel in a stranglehold.

To help settle her nerves, she rolled down the window to let in the unusually cool late-autumn air. The crisp breeze whipping through the cabin sharpened Lisa's senses—-she noticed everything. The intense oranges, reds and yellows of the fall foliage flameout along the highway. The aroma of rotting leaves mingled with the nauseating exhaust smoke spewing from the highway's bunched, fast-moving vehicles. She slalomed in and out of lanes, her eyes locked on the taillights of the aggressively piloted Caddy.

She risked a closer tail as they approached the Raritan toll, with its multiple exits, wide barriers and clustered exit ramps. She chose the same tollbooth as the Caddy, letting two cars in between them, then she gunned the accelerator to catch up to the streaking target. She relaxed a little when they didn't veer off the highway at one of the numerous exits immediately following the toll plaza, which would have resulted in their sudden disappearance and the instant termination of her project.

Ten miles later they did pull off, at the Clark exit, and slowly plied their way through the dense urban traffic of Cranford, Westfield and Scotch Plains. Then they ascended the winding roads of the Watchung Mountains to a small wooded community in Union County called West Stemper. Lisa, her window now rolled up, worried that the thinning traffic would make it difficult to maintain her cover.

Eventually the Caddy turned off the county road, making a right onto a residential side street with huge, luxurious homes that ran from boxy colonials and stucco cantilevered contemporary concoctions to stone and brick fortresses with gates, elaborate gardens and plaster statuary. Lisa had to drop way back, since now it was down to her Honda and the odious Cadillac. In the gathering darkness Lisa watched her target make a sharp left turn onto a narrow lane flanked by towering maples and tall hedges that sealed off the corner properties from the outside world. She approached the turn cautiously, knowing that she had to risk losing the other car if the alternative would lead to her discovery.

She turned and crept an additional 30 yards and jerked the car to a halt. The Cadillac was parked in the gravel driveway of a sprawling brick ranch-style house with a densely treed front yard that offered a partially obscured view of the facade and front entrance. Lisa killed the engine, flicked off the headlights. She watched the two men trudge slump-shouldered to the front door, where they were met by a man dressed in a thick bathrobe. Lisa reached in her purse and removed a small pair of binoculars.

The man of the house had a large head and a thick wavy swath of silver hair that seemed to give off sparks from the reflected light of dual electric brass lanterns flanking the front door. His sideburns extended to a lush steel gray Hemingway beard that was meticulously groomed. His hard features and dark shadowy eyes suggested power and intimidation, an impression reinforced by the two heavyset lugs who seemed to cower in the shorter man's presence. They kept silent, nodding and shrugging as the other man spoke. A hot flash of panic shot through Lisa when Hemingway glanced up and seemed to peer right into the lenses of Lisa's binoculars. Then he scanned his front yard. It was impossible to read his expression through the forest of his facial hair. Next he turned around and disappeared into the house, followed closely by the two men. Lisa assessed her situation with mounting alarm. Had she been spotted? Impossible. She had to be at least 100 yards down the road from the house. There were other cars parked on the street, which was unlit.

Yet the man seemed to look straight at her. It was time to improvise. She got out of the car and walked casually toward the house. She ducked along the four-foot high stucco wall running the length of the property, staying low enough to avoid being spotted from any of the facing windows. Then she dashed past the Cadillac to the side of the house that was not illuminated by floodlights. She crawled to the back, and was relieved to see that the man didn't appear to own any large noisy pets with sharp teeth.

She saw light coming from one of the basement windows, so she made her way on hands and knees across the cedar boards of a large backyard deck, which was damp and slippery from the gathering frost. She sidled up to the window and peered in from a corner pane.

There they were!

The backs of the three men faced her. They were standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling steel locker that was open and stocked with an array of firearms. The bearded man pulled out two shiny silver handguns and passed one to each of the men. They deftly broke down the weapons and reassembled them, checking barrels, sightings, trigger action. The guns made sharp, chilling _clacks_ that Lisa could hear through the window.

She couldn't make out what the bearded man was saying, but it was clear from the burly men's body language and downcast eyes that the man in the basement was scolding them for some reason. He gave each a couple of clips of ammo, which they popped into the handles of the guns and then they were done. When they left and the lights in the basement were extinguished, Lisa scampered back to the Honda.

Lisa was in the car by the time the three men reappeared at the front door. The bearded man kept jabbing a finger into the sternum of the larger of the two men, his eyes dark and menacing. Then Hemingway looked away and again seemed to peer directly at Lisa's Honda, which made her double over in breathless alarm. She resisted the impulse to start up the car and zoom away, which would have utterly exposed her. She forced herself to stay put, trying to persuade herself that he had seen nothing to arouse suspicion.

When they started to pull away, Lisa hunched down low enough in the seat so they wouldn't see her as they drove by. Lisa resumed her pursuit convinced by what she had seen that the voice on the phone was for real. It seemed MEDICUS was done negotiating. And so was she.

It didn't take long to catch up to the Cadillac, and she had a good idea where it was headed. The terror that initially had her by the throat when she saw the bearded man hand over the guns had turned to rage. To pronounce sentence on her, on Bess, her kids! The bitter and poisonous loathing that infected every fiber of her body made her want to ram the rear of the car ahead of her as hard as she could and then leap out and pound away at the enemy with her fists. But that was a fantasy; she knew she had to keep to plan.

As they got back on the Parkway she entertained herself with the ghoulish speculation that the vehicle three car lengths ahead of hers was on a mission to unload a flurry of rounds into her body and make her children orphans. That was unless they intended to perform a more thorough cleansing by dropping in on Mom and wiping out a couple more generations of Parmenters while they were at it.

She checked her watch and was furious to discover that this all had to go down in the next hour, otherwise her point of rendezvous would be inaccessible. Worse, the Caddy started slowing down, eventually moving to the extreme right lane. Lisa was left with no choice but to follow at a similarly diminished speed. The Caddy was doing 45 mph in a 65-mph zone, causing Lisa fits.

She was forced to switch into the center lane, otherwise risk discovery. And when she did, the Cadillac just as abruptly slammed on its brakes, accelerated after Lisa had passed, then swerved in behind her, clipping a Buick Regal that was following Lisa and couldn't yield quickly enough to the Caddy's rash maneuver. A mini-drama played out when the driver of the Buick with the crunched rear fender honked and gave the Caddy the finger. Then a shot rang out and the Buick disappeared from Lisa's rear view mirror. The crack of the gunshot sparked a bolt of terror down Lisa's spine, but she willed it out her tailbone, forcing herself to regain her composure and focus.

How long did they know she was tailing them?

High beams flared off her rear-view mirror, blinding her until she could flip the mirror into the nighttime position. Checking the road marker, she saw that she still had 25 more miles to cover until her exit, and she knew what the men in back of her had in mind. _It was too early to get discovered!_ Vivid images of Bess's crushed Porsche spewing flames and smoke against a bridge abutment tormented Lisa's imagination.

She rolled up the window and, cognizant of the guns, glided snakelike from one lane to another, eliciting a chorus of car-honk catcalls from the motorists she dodged and narrowly missed as she passed, and which were echoed when her oversized pursuers mimicked her movements. The overwhelmed Honda strained under her heavy foot, and she knew it would be impossible for her 1.5 liter lawnmower motor to out-sprint the V-Tec jet-engine powering the Caddy, which kept bearing down despite determined shifts and feints. She eventually found herself pinioned between two SUVs that were matching her speed, evidently to frustrate her wild lane changes. Lisa's eyes opened wide as she watched the blinding headlights behind her move closer and closer until finally...contact!

Lisa violently swung the steering wheel to maintain control following the moderate nudge, yet she was unable to avoid swerving into the gigantic Ford Excursion next to her. The vehicle was so over armored with sheet metal and padding that the driver didn't seem to notice that he had been sideswiped by the diminutive Civic. The Ford dropped back, moving in behind the Cadillac because both the driver and Lisa simultaneously observed that a state trooper had slipped in behind them.

Lisa rejoiced at this development, and for the next twenty miles she stayed glued to his taillights. And, like a dutiful pace car, the Cadillac dropped several car lengths behind her. As she cruised along, Lisa distracted herself by formulating potential excuses to explain the damage to her mother's car. She wasn't sure that informing Mom that it was caused by a couple of gangsters trying to kill her would quite cut it. Those thoughts, however, only stirred Lisa's resentment, which could prove a distraction in the next stage of her plan.

She again rolled down the window to get another shot of cold air, hoping it would refresh her thoughts and control the sweats. Her rage cooled to a simmer as the wind screamed through the worn weather stripping of the twelve-year-old vehicle. With her exit coming up the trooper suddenly signaled for a left turn and peeled off in an "Authorized Vehicles Only" turnaround that led to the northbound side of the Parkway, which left Lisa alone with her pursuers.

Spotting an opportunity, Lisa swerved to the far right lane and insinuated herself between two slow-moving vans, frantically checking her mirrors for the whereabouts of the Caddy. Suddenly it materialized right next to her on the left, the window on the passenger side down and a man with a gun taking careful aim.

Lisa screamed and slammed on the brakes, prompting the driver in back of her to lean on the horn and swerve into the center lane to avoid plowing into the rapidly decelerating Honda. She thought she heard a distinct pop, and a quick glance to her right confirmed it—-a concave hole with spidery filaments of cracked glass emanating from its center on the passenger side window of her car. Must have passed behind her head by a fraction of an inch. She floored it with a mile to go, shifting lanes madly, matched move for move by the Cadillac until she flew off at Exit 105.

She zoomed right through the toll barrier and, with great relief, spotted a green light at the intersection of Route 36 and Hope Road. The clock on the dashboard read 9:10 p.m., twenty minutes till closing. Bathed in the brilliance of the Cadillac's high beams behind her, Lisa could see the ghostly silhouette of her hunched-over head and shoulders on her tiny vehicle's headliner. She wended her way along the packed commercial corridor flanked by big box shopping outlets, car dealerships, hotel complexes, supermarkets, and finally, Lisa's destination--the Monmouth Mall.

She kept checking her side mirrors for an out-thrust appendage gripping a pistol. No, she concluded, even her desperate assassins would not resort to rolling carnage when, with a little patience, they could wait and do the job more efficiently in a stable, stationary position at the next red light. But Lisa had more extended plans for her life expectancy, and instead avoided a line of stopped traffic by veering off to the shoulder and motoring as fast as her car would take her to the next intersection. There she hung a hard right onto the equally congested service road leading to the mall. Horns blared, indignant cries rang out and Lisa narrowly missed pancaking her car against an overstuffed Lincoln SUV packed with a half dozen screaming kids and a stooped, embattled stick of a woman driving home after a harrowing evening of store-hopping. The Cadillac was briefly delayed at the intersection by a tanker truck screaming through the traffic light, heedless of the potential human cost had the other motorists not been endowed with lightning reflexes.

Good. That gave Lisa the space she needed. Again traffic signals worked in her favor as she made a left into the emptying mall parking lot. She cut across the mammoth expanse of asphalt and scooted into the parking garage, making sure the Cadillac remained at a distance in her rear view mirror.

She swung around the banked turns of the oversized concrete cochlea and screeched to a stop on the third level, unfortunately in a space reserved for cripples next to the walkway to Macy's. She could hear the cacophonous scrapes and squeals of the ungainly pursuit car as she cut the motor and raced into the department store. She waited just inside the entrance until she heard the slamming of the Cadillac's doors. Then she sprinted through the store, hurtled down the escalator, bumping startled shoppers who couldn't make way quickly enough. She dashed past the jewelry and cosmetics displays, whooshing by a human cologne mister, who was set spinning on her towering pumps.

Gasping for breath, Lisa rounded the corner and burst into the mall's main corridor, sprinting past the Foot Lockers, Hickory Farms, Limited, Limited Too, Delia's, and then a right into JC Penney. Dashing past cosmetics counters, she sent another mister spinning on her pumps and a phalanx of apparel stands rocking as she rammed through a set of double doors that led back to the parking garage and up five flights of stairs to the top floor and her waiting rental car. She gunned the engine of the black Lincoln and began a slow crawl from the upper level, lights off. Level Five. Level Four. Head out the window, peering over the guardrail where she could see down to Level Three.

Two big guys, one blowing smoke rings, as they crouched low against the rear bumper of her mom's Honda...waiting with guns drawn. Window rolled back up, rounding the bend, hi-beams on, accelerator floored and with dive-bomber precision the Lincoln closed in as the two stunned men grew larger in the windshield.

They had no time to react, except with wide-eyed shock before both bodies were sent hurtling like rag doll matadors tossed by a powerful bull on the horns of a solid thrust. End over end they flew before landing with a thud more than sixty feet from the point of impact. Lisa slammed on the brakes and thrilled at her horrifying handiwork, watching as one of the bodies twitched from head to toe. She backed up and repeated the maneuver-—nothing more than human road bumps—-just to make sure. Lisa leaped out of the car to verify her results and remove a couple of essential items several feet from the bodies.

She returned to the car and calmly drove down two winding turns and out of the garage. She cruised the five-miles home well below the speed limit and parked the car in the garage, lights out. Then she called a cab to take her back to the mall to retrieve her mom's Honda. When she arrived, the parking garage was already an active crime scene, but she was able to convince the investigating officers that she had seen nothing and needed to get home to her kids. They let her collect her car and go.

## TWENTY-FIVE

Lisa hopped back in the Honda and zoomed off on Highway 71. Turning right on Anchor Street in the leafy Elberon section of Long Branch, Lisa found herself dealing with the sweats all over again. The mortal relief elicited by the completion of her earlier mission butted against a fresh wave of anxiety.

She slowed to a crawl as she passed a particular residence, a white brick McMansion with a looming tile mansard roof, huge rectangular windows with tightly drawn vertical blinds, and an elaborate fronting of Oriental shrubbery. Lisa groaned at the sight of a familiar sub-compact among the half-dozen or so cars along the curb. _Were those two heads that she saw inside?_ A metallic tang of dread formed in the back of her mouth, but Lisa forced herself to drive on, suppressing the impulse to leap out of the car and burst through the front door like a one-woman SWAT team and then.. _.do what?_

Defeated, she drove home, filled a bucket with soapy water, donned rubber gloves and started scrubbing the nose of the Town Car rental. A few minor scratches, none of which would be noticed by the rental agency. Bits of hair and strips of fabric from ripped clothes were lodged in the front grille and bumper. Specks of dried blood. Lisa scrubbed the tires and bumpers-—couldn't leave a trace. No major damage, which was a relief. She was about to crawl underneath to check the under carriage when there was a sharp rapping on a garage door window.

She looked up and gasped at the sight of Detective Austin Vance. Scrambling to her feet, Lisa ran to turn out the light and open the garage door. As the rising door revealed the detective, Lisa feverishly scoured her mind to figure out a way to handle his untimely intrusion.

"That your car?" asked Vance, extending a hand in the direction of the Lincoln, which Lisa intentionally misinterpreted as a greeting and gave his hand a firm shake. "I thought you drove a Windstar," he added, an inquisitive eye focused on the vehicle in the darkened garage.

"In the shop. This is a loaner," Lisa said as casually as she could.

"Sure treat a loaner pretty good," he said, pointing at the bucket that Lisa, to her immeasurable regret, still held in the hand that wasn't attached to Vance's.

"Bird crapped all over it," she said with a forced laugh. "Can't be seen around town with a car looking like that—-Victoria would never allow it. What's up, Austin?" Lisa coaxed Vance out of the garage and activated the automatic close. Vance hesitated, taking another look through the garage window before following Lisa to the front door. She saw him glance at her bucket, in which strands of black hair could be seen floating on the sudsy surface. She poured it out in the flowerbed next to the door and then hustled Vance inside.

"I apologize for the late hour, but I have news that you might want to hear," he said when they reached the kitchen. Lisa put some water on to boil. "From the Eatontown Police Department."

Lisa felt her cheeks heat up. As she had feared, her scrupulous strategy to keep things simple and elegant was getting screwed up by the intrusion of clumsy improvisation. As a seasoned systems engineer she understood that in any planned endeavor random variables would inevitably surface. Things that could never be anticipated or completely controlled, even if the relatively seamless Sagatini operation had provided false confidence. Her appreciation of the unexpected, however, in no way soothed the grinding nausea provoked by Vance's appearance. The urge to capitulate, drop all pretenses and dissolve in a sodden confession became for Lisa an overwhelming impulse. She fought it off by focusing on tactics and stage management.

She made sure to keep her back to Vance until she had reassumed a measure of composure. She fussed with tea bags and boiling water as she listened to his report, calmly going about her work as he described the two crushed corpses, the impressions of tire treads running up the torsos and the smashed skulls. Vance even offered up photos, arranged on the table, when Lisa turned around and placed a steaming cup of green tea in front of him. The harshly lit police photos lay bare the grisly tableau she left behind at the mall garage, which made Lisa light-headed. Flattened forms pressed on yellow-lined black asphalt, a contorted hand reaching out, bloody fingers twisted grotesquely.

Lisa wobbled, thoughts racing and converging in an enveloping roar and then she found herself in Vance's arms. Never saw him get to his feet. He eased her around the table and tried to set her down gently in one of the chairs, but her arms, acting independently of her will, coiled around his neck, holding fast, clutching tight. The simple act of compression seemed to reduce the pressure and heat in her brain, yet also yielded a gathering humidity in her eyes, which swelled to a brook of flowing tears.

Vance shifted position and sat on the chair himself, holding Lisa on his lap. He let her work through her release, stroking her hair, rubbing her back. She surrendered to the need for this brief ventilation to clear her mind and restore her equilibrium. She felt comfortable with Vance, somehow unembarrassed by her emotional venting. Maybe it just felt good to be held by a man again. To run her hands across his broad, muscular back, the scent of his hair; even the pressure of his gun against her hip. As her tears subsided, Lisa was still reluctant to let go. To stroke Vance. Ignore for the moment the danger . . .

"You recognize them . . ." Vance said with an interrogator's finality. Lisa loosened her grip, removed her head from his shoulder and faced him, unashamed by her tear-streaked face. She nodded.

"Those are the men who killed Bess. They're the ones who were after my kids."

"Are you sure?" Vance asked as he gently brushed away the tears from Lisa's face. She noted how carefully Vance studied her face and she put up her hand to stop him. She wiped her own face. She was alert to the risk. She disengaged herself from his lap and busied herself by the sink.

"Yes, I am certain," she said.

"The car they were driving. It wasn't white."

"It was a burgundy Cadillac. They switched it. I saw it yesterday when I took the kids to their grandmother's."

"They followed you. Did you get the license number?" Lisa took out a paper and pen from a drawer next to the sink. She scribbled down the number and handed it to Vance, who nodded.

"I'm going to need a statement, Lisa. It's best that we do it at headquarters." Then Vance approached Lisa and put his untouched cup of tea on the counter, waiting for Lisa to turn and face him.

"Can we do it tomorrow? I'm a little shaken up," she said. He took Lisa's hand in his, and then said the thing that she dreaded most.

"Of course, it can wait until next week, when more facts are in. Before I leave, though, I really have to take a look at that car in your garage." Lisa shook her head vigorously, forming the word _No_ on her lips without uttering it. But Vance held fast. "I'm sorry, Lisa, I really have no choice. You understand that."

After Vance left, Lisa didn't even try to go to bed. She propped herself up on the sofa in the sun porch and resumed struggling through an awful mystery novel she'd been unable to finish for months. The sound of the blue Plymouth Neon pulling into the driveway made her heart flutter. It was late, 2:20 a.m. by the clock on the VCR. She dove off the sofa and crawled to the front window to spy on the car's occupants. She saw William thrumming nervously on the steering wheel. Victoria was looking at him, and then over at the house, lights off except for the one on the timer switch in the sun porch.

Lisa watched with mounting despair as Victoria took William's hands in hers, placing them around her neck. Then she took his face in her hands and kissed him hard. She kissed his mouth, his nose, his eyes and rubbed his chest and shoulders. Lisa returned to the sofa in utter desolation, unable to bear witness to the immersion of her daughter in the heat and passion of young lust.

By the time Victoria finally let herself in the front door, Lisa had taken up her book and was pretending to read. A pained rebuke escaped her lips.

"You should be at your grandmother's," she blurted out, chagrined by her automatic resort to the irrelevant. Victoria giggled and shrugged.

"I wanted to come home," she said. Lisa was taken aback to find her daughter so lighthearted after what . . . what . . . went on. Emotionally spent, Lisa just stared blankly at Victoria, whom she expected to head up to her room, to her bathroom, to her bed, and then out of sight until noon. But that was not what happened. Instead, Victoria walked over to her mom and sat cross-legged on the floor at Lisa's feet. "I didn't want to leave you alone tonight. I knew you would be worried."

Lisa was shocked by Victoria's unprecedented show of concern and sensitivity. Could that be part of the epiphany inspired by a young girl's first blow job? Lisa could smell William's cologne radiating off her daughter. The sadness and despair aroused by that sweet aroma compounded the torture of Lisa's evening. Lisa looked away from Victoria, fidgeting with the pages of her book. Her focus was shot; she had spent the last two hours on page 126. She felt Victoria's hand on her knee.

"Don't you want to ask me anything, Mom?" said Victoria with a cruel smile and a giddy lift to her tone. When she should have been mortified, stricken and teary-eyed—-like Lisa was that first time with some guy named Eddie, when no sooner had her lips made contact with the crown of his penis and he couldn't control himself for even five seconds. Lisa shuddered at the memory.

"Okay, Vickie. You went to the party tonight. I didn't forget that." Lisa resisted the impulse to start scolding her daughter, which would accomplish nothing short of total and permanent alienation. She just stopped there.

"Yes, William and I went to the house. You already know that because I saw you cruise by in Grandma's car. By the way, what the heck happened? It's all bashed up."

"A little mishap. Go on with your story. Tell me about the party."

Victoria then erupted in a disturbing burst of laughter, which only stoked Lisa's annoyance. Victoria laughed so hard she pounded the carpeting with her fists. Lisa waited impatiently for her daughter to calm down. "William and I sat in the car. He was as uncomfortable as I was. So we left."

Lisa looked at Victoria, exhaled deeply and began to chuckle herself. She felt like taking her daughter into her arms and smothering her in a grateful hug. But Victoria, holding up her hand, wasn't finished.

"But Mom, it was a special night for William and me and we wanted to end it in a special way. So we drove to a place he knows in Red Bank, and look." Victoria lifted up her shirt, revealing a delicate silver hoop impaling the pale, taut skin around her naval. "Isn't that so cool? William had his done, too."

Lisa shut her eyes and slumped into the sofa's well-worn cushions and sighed. "Oh shit."

#

Neither of them made it to bed that night and together they greeted a bright and sunny Saturday morning. Thanksgiving was a week away, six months to the day of Earl's death. They talked until sunrise, gabbed and gabbed like they never had before. About William and Dad and Lisa and their life before the kids and then after the kids came and school. They talked about the tortured social dynamics of teen life and the sharp pain of dermal penetration by fat needles and the art of body mutilation. There were ground rules set. Lisa wouldn't ask Victoria how she arrived at the decisions she had, just like Victoria wouldn't persist in asking about Grandma's car, or why there was a strange vehicle in the garage.

They swaddled themselves in heavy parkas and walked the mile to the Long Branch boardwalk. They strolled arm-in-arm, mainly to share body heat and fend off an icy blast screaming in from the north, from the direction of Sandy Hook. Lisa breathed in deeply the salty sea air and held her daughter fast against her, and Victoria clung just as tightly back. They walked the length of the boardwalk to the site where the pier and the burnt-out Haunted Mansion amusement park used to stand. Lisa wallowed in a rare contentment, a sense of serenity she hadn't enjoyed since the cathartic throat slashing in the offices of Gaetano Sagatini.

All that had occurred validated her conviction not to ever surrender to the prison of victim-hood. _Never_. And the young girl next to her was the reason. With her spirits soaring, Lisa decided that she was picking up Monica and Ringo early from Grandma's. They're going bowling—-somewhere-—as a family. No more cowering like a frightened mouse in the house. No more capitulation to dark and elusive threats. Sure, they'd probably find others to replace the thugs she had just flattened. There was, however, a big difference this time. She had taken their guns and ammo. Lisa was armed and dangerous!

Chilled to the bone, Lisa and Victoria visited Millie's Omelette House a block from the boardwalk. They each inhaled half dozen leaden buttermilk pancakes, washed down with a couple of cups of steaming hot coffee before heading back home. Talked out, they walked the rest of the way in silence. Lisa stole an occasional glance at Victoria, marveling at her daughter's exquisite development. She was already two inches taller than her mom, with a thick mane of brown hair that hung below her shoulders. She had striking deep blue eyes, like her dad's, and the angular, defiant jaw (and attitude!) from Lisa's side of the family.

Unlike many girls her age, Victoria didn't slouch slump-shouldered and tentative. She copied her mother's erect carriage, out-thrust chin and confident stride—-Lisa had difficulty keeping up with Victoria's pace. Victoria would be fine, Lisa concluded. And it was all her doing. As the early morning sun slipped behind a pile of cottony clouds, Lisa was fortified against the blustery cold by a surge of love and contentment that warmed her to the core.

When they turned down the wide avenue to their house, Lisa's good cheer took an immediate hit. There was a car in front of the house. A dark blue Acura with New York plates. Lisa stumbled and would have taken a header to the sidewalk if Victoria hadn't caught her by the elbow.

"What's wrong, Mom?"

"There's a car in front of the house."

"Uh, like, cars always park on our street. Probably visiting the Minellis," said Victoria, referring to the neighbors across the street.

"Maybe," said Lisa, who knew that Sally Minelli had family in Queens—-a family that never visited Jersey. Ever. "I think we better turn around."

"Cmon, Mom. Are you spooked or something? It's just a stupid car. I'm cold and want to get inside."

Lisa was also shivering, but not from the cold. She could kick herself for not bringing a gun. _Guns-—another difficult explanation for Victoria._ There'll be no fooling around any more. No more deceptions. Lisa has seen the movies-—it's always the same. They come out guns blazing, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake and horrified onlookers frozen in place. Lisa knew that she and Victoria had already ventured too close to home, that they'd been spotted. She shuddered and held her daughter tight as they approached the house. She saw someone seated behind the steering wheel of the car. She noticed that he wasn't as beefy as the men from the night before. Probably had much larger associates already in the house, ready to spring the trap.

As they kept walking, Lisa took another quick glance at the driver. He was shabbily dressed in a Fordham Law sweatshirt and a shapeless wool ski cap. Not a very professional look. No doubt they were down to the second-string. She pretended not to see him and turned left in front of his car, walking at a slow, measured pace toward the garage. Running would have been pointless—-can't out run a bullet. She took out the key ring from her purse and pushed the button for the automatic garage door. She left the door open after entering. Why not? They already had the drop on her.

She was on high alert as they entered the kitchen from the door in the garage. No rustling, no evidence of a stranger's presence, no foreign scents. Must be waiting . . . in the living room, the sun porch. With a large gun, a silencer in place and plenty of ammunition so they wouldn't miss this time. Working for double pay on the weekend. Lisa and Victoria shed their parkas and threw them on the kitchen table. Lisa was choked up, desperate, out of ideas. How could she save Victoria? She had managed so well until now. She could tell her to run, but it wouldn't do any good. Bullets are fast.

The doorbell.

That's the trick. Go and answer the door, get blown away before she's two steps out of the kitchen.

"I'll get it," said Victoria.

"NO!" Lisa cried. " _I'll_ get it. You stay here. If you hear anything, run out the back door. Run as fast as you can. Take the cell phone and when you're out of the neighborhood, hide and call Detective Vance. He's on speed dial. Tell him they've moved in and they got me. Tell him . . ."

"Mom! Get a grip! What the heck are you talking about? I hope you're joking. Look, I'm answering the door."

No she wasn't. Lisa took Victoria by the shoulders and threw her to the floor with all her strength. Victoria landed with a grunt on the flat of her back, the wind knocked out of her. Lisa took off for the living room, bracing herself for the explosion and the sudden agony that awaited her, tears of terror and regret obscuring her sight. She so much didn't want to die. She could not die-—not yet. She missed Ringo and Monica so badly she couldn't feel herself move, numb from the neck down as she rushed into the ambush just like Trini Dove. For the first time things were utterly beyond her control!

Bracing for the deafening explosion. No flash. No screaming pain . . . yet . . .

Just . . .

The . . .

Door . . . she opened—-

It was the man in the Fordham Law sweatshirt, perspiration dotting a bristly face. He swiped at his copiously running nose with a foul sleeve and his hair was a bird's-nest tangle. Lisa squinted through moist eyes and looked at his hands, his empty trembling hands that nervously clenched and unclenched. Seemingly unarmed.

Lisa, staggered by the prospect of her continued survival, opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She tried again.

"Ugggeeeek?" she said. The man, also struggling for words, stuck out his hand. Lisa looked at it as one would a rare specimen in a biology lab. She didn't know what to do with it—-shake it and risk a kung-fu takedown?

"Um, Lisa? Lisa Parmenter? Nobody answered the door before, so I waited in the car," said the man, squinting, clotted hair thatches rearranged by a stiff breeze blowing through the open door. Lisa nodded. With extreme hesitance in his voice and a quick withdrawal of his hands to the pockets of his jeans, the man announced, "I'm DeMastri Powers. Do you mind if I come in?"

"Who is it, Mom?" shouted Victoria from the kitchen. A pause, Victoria repeated the question, jarring Lisa to her senses.

"A man from your father's work," she replied. Powers nodded vigorously, hopefully, and tried again to take Lisa's hand in his. Lisa looked with confusion at the soft clammy paw that gripped her hand; then she snapped to attention. "He apparently has some business," she said, as she showed DeMastri Powers to the living room. "Why don't you go up and take a bath? You don't want to get your belly button infected," Lisa said, which was met with an anguished snort before Victoria trudged upstairs to her bedroom, still woozy and confused after her mom's take down.

"So?" asked Lisa as the dread of a moment ago was replaced by a gathering disdain. She stared suspiciously at the unprepossessing form of DeMastri Powers, a man she knew only for his shrill, demanding tone on the telephone.

"Look, Lisa, if I may call you Lisa. I know you hate me—-that is something I completely understand. But you'll have to get over that because from this moment on we are going to be working together quite closely." He paused, evidently to gauge her reaction. Lisa was taking his measure, the worst surviving asshole at MEDICUS sitting in her own living room. Here, she assumed, to make another offer to save his worthless skin.

"I'm not here to try to bribe you, Lisa. I'm here to ask for your help. I'm here to blow the whistle on the whole fucking crew."

#

Lisa made waffles from scratch. She hadn't made waffles from scratch in almost fifteen years and she had to empty a couple of cabinets to find the old imported Belgian waffle iron, a family heirloom of forgotten origin. She broke out the flavored coffee, a treat she hadn't extended herself since Earl's death. She'd squeeze fresh oranges for the man if she had them.

DeMastri Powers was now Lisa's best friend in the world! Because he just got kicked out of his house. His soliloquy lasted for nearly two hours, time that passed in a blink for Lisa. His story was a parable of intrigue that no one could have made up. With wide-eyed amazement Lisa listened to the florid man with the wild hair spin a tale of sex, drama, and violence in the most unlikely of settings, a leading non-profit health insurance company. Lisa was mesmerized as Powers uncovered rock after rock, laying bare teeming colonies of wriggling corporate low-life.

"My wife wants to leave me because I forced her to have sex with a business partner. Then there was this odd twist—-said business partner intended for my wife to have sex with the wife of another business associate prior to having sex with my business partner and, one could assume, the wife of the other, et cetera."

"But your wife . . ."

"Initially acquiesced, but to her credit, fled and . . ."

"Kicked you out of the . . ."

"Your waffles are outstanding! I'm very hungry. I haven't eaten in over 24 hours."

"My grandmother Victoria's recipe." Powers nodded briskly, nervously. A tear slapped away by a furtive hand from the embarrassed man for whom Lisa kept the coffee hot and flowing. "Tell me about . . . about . . . my husband," Lisa said, trying to maintain her self-control but letting a stammer slip nonetheless. Her request was accommodated by a cascade of revelations that echoed the accounts shared months ago by Earl's former co-workers.

"Everything is in the trunk of my car outside. The files, everything," Powers said.

"Earl would . . ." Lisa began to say, her thought finished for her in the haunted whisper of the newly purged and spiritually aroused Demasti Powers:

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry. Earl would probably still be alive, his attacker most likely detected and subdued by an armed presence that would have otherwise been in place. Clearly criminal negligence. Now it's all about damage control-—you know, you've seen it. You just wouldn't take the shut-up-and-go-away money. They won't stop, you know. Unless we stop them ourselves."

Lisa turned away. To her consternation, tears again ran down her cheeks. She couldn't help it. When Earl was alive, Lisa could stone-face almost anything, but since the ordeal of his murder she's had to make adjustments. With Earl's death Lisa often found herself unmoored by the churning whitewater of mortal grief. Each tortured night it seemed to overwhelm her in an emotional vertigo. Alone and with the house asleep, she relinquished control into the folds of her pillow, when she couldn't be seen or heard.

She had the sense to appreciate the essential release, recognizing the restorative miracle of power weeping. Even now, when overwhelmed by situations and revelations in non-private settings, Lisa had developed an intriguing emotional circuit breaker, minus the risk of incapacitating grief. An almost unnoticeable sprouting of tears would dot her cheeks, yet she spoke in a level, unbroken voice or listened with otherwise complete serenity. Like a valve spitting excess moisture from a pressurized vessel, the tears have become a controlled burn-off until it was safe to blow off the lid, which had to wait until it was dark and she was alone.

"My attorney . . . Bess."

"Martin Bane's handiwork. I have recorded conversations in which he makes certain allusions. I have transcriptions in a safe place. The men who were sent after you and your children. And I can't begin to go into the merger with CHI; corners cut, documents faked, guys doing whatever just to get their share of the treasure once the deal was done. Even Trini Dove, the girl who did us all a favor by slashing Sagatini—-she's all taken care of. She'll get life in maximum security or maybe even the needle, so she's permanently out of everybody's hair."

"So you think Trini Dove did it?" Lisa probed. Powers shrugged.

"Sure, who else? Besides, who cares about her? We're going to fix everything. I've got a legal team, same firm that's representing the Sagatini estate. I've got files and records-—the whole lot of them are going down for good-—or at least for a very long time. Hell, I don't even care what kind of deal I can cut for myself. My life is ruined. I've destroyed my marriage, alienated my kids. I can't believe what's become of my life. I can't believe . . . " said Powers, slumping in a soggy lump on the table as Lisa hovered over him, watching him. Victoria, fresh from her shower and a brief nap, stared at him, too.

"Who's the man crying at the table?" asked Victoria.

"Friend of the family," said Lisa casually. "A good friend. Why not pour Mr. Powers another cup of coffee? He's got a big week ahead of him."

"Mr. Powers? DeMastri Powers?" huffed Victoria in astonishment. "But Daddy said that he was the worst . . . "

"He's changed, dear. He's different," said a beaming Lisa. Powers raised his damp, stricken face to nod a greeting to Earl and Lisa Parmenter's radiant daughter with the impaled navel that was airing itself in a baggy plaid pants and belly shirt ensemble. "He's a changed man who is going to solve all our problems."

## TWENTY-SIX

Glorious daybreak. The wind howled and an early season snow squall swirled. Cars skidded and slid up and down the street like two-ton toboggans. Lisa was out of bed like a shot when she heard a moaning sob of disappointment, Ringo's "I wet my bed." Lisa flew into his room, gathered soggy Ringo in her arms and plunked him in the already filling tub and, with one mighty arm, swept the comforter, top sheet and rubber-coated bottom sheet into a waiting laundry basket.

Lisa was okay with Ringo's lapse.

She danced into Monica's room and met her middle daughter already attired in the day's coordinated black jeans and top. Lisa didn't care. Nor did she care that Victoria's buoyant mood of bonding that lasted all of two days had dissipated with the wind as she reverted to the familiar snarling beast of the early-morning sleep-deprived teen. Unresponsive to gentle measures, Victoria had to be yanked to the floor by her ankles to kick-start her motor for the coming school day. Lisa didn't mind.

For Lisa, it's only fair weather. She's got a lawyer-—an entire New York City law firm-—and key witnesses and documentation and soon she'd be able to flush the entire nightmare affair down the sewer of distant memory. They can't kill off all the lawyers and she's got the duplicate key to Power's storage locker in Brooklyn, so even if they go after him, the documents would speak for him posthumously. The law firm was sending an advance team to the Marriott in neighboring Red Bank for a sit-down to hash out her case. And the numbers Powers suggested dwarfed even those presented by her late lawyer Bess, numbers that would house and feed the next several generations of Parmenters in grand style.

At work Lisa could finally sit in front of her computer and actually focus on system specs and bore holes into faulty algorithms without having to suffer the internal voices and fears that had dominated her waking hours. She worked through lunch and would have forged on through the night if not for the programmed alarm on her desktop set to go off at 3:30 p.m., the time she had to pick up Ringo at the bus stop. She sighed, longing for the structure and therapy of her work to last a little longer. Instead she powered down and considered a family dinner out tonight, comfortable in the assumption that she would not have to keep an eye forever peeled on troubling vehicles in side view mirrors.

There was, however, a sedan parked by the curb when she arrived home with Ringo, a car she recognized. Detective Vance stepped out and escorted her to the door and followed them into the kitchen where Lisa whipped up a quick peanut butter sandwich for the famished Ringo. Vance looked uneasy and Lisa shooed Ringo into the sun porch to catch the day's installment of _Arthur_.

"It was a good day," said Lisa, assuming that Vance's apparent grimness would be lifted by the news regarding Powers' defection. His response, however, was simply a half-hearted nod.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, Lisa. Very glad," Vance said, though he did not appear all that glad. "Look, I need to know a few things about the . . . I'm sorry, maybe we should sit down." The look on Vance's face set off Lisa's internal alarm. It was the same unease she remembered from the old days, the real old days when she was in middle school and forgot her homework and had to explain to the tenured tyrants who loomed over her. She had an awful premonition that made her palms sweat as she stumbled into a chair. She so much didn't want to hear what was on Vance's mind even though she had a good idea what he was going to say.

"Austin?" said Lisa in a brittle, vulnerable voice.

"The car in your garage the other night. The black Lincoln. There is evidence that it may have been in an accident. Lisa, I think you may know something about that. I think that is why you were cleaning it up when I stopped by."

"Like I said, birds went to the bathroom on it. I was cleaning that up, as I said," Lisa whispered in what sounded to her like a little girl's shrill whine.

"I checked it out myself. I found other . . . damage. I took samples to the police lab in Freehold to get checked out." Vance bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. He reached out and stroked Lisa's arm. She didn't try to stop him. She liked his touch, which was interesting. Generally she recoiled when men with whom she shared no intimacy touched her. But she liked Vance's touch.

"I understand," she said. "What do you think happened?"

Vance did not immediately answer. Instead he just looked down at the table, at his hands. Lisa felt herself slipping away, spiraling down an abyss of hopelessness that reminded her of the first surreal moments the day she met Vance. The day Earl died and she passed out in his arms. Here he was again, a recurring presence in her cycle of calamities. Ringo, Victoria, Monica on her mind, as they were back then. First without a father. Next without a mother. She could not hate Vance for doing this, for doing his job.

"I don't think this is the place to discuss that," Vance said after a long thoughtful pause, his own voice curiously choked. Lisa staggered out of the chair and started clattering around the sink. She wished that he'd leave. She didn't want him to bear witness to her potential disintegration, which was growing increasingly likely by the moment. Still, there was that part of her that wanted to trust her emotions to Vance. He's never come on as a cop, even when in uniform and accompanied by his human note-taker. His compassion never failed him and his warm, comforting embrace demanded nothing in return.

He reminded her of her dad, especially on the day her town celebrated its 300th anniversary, when the Chamber of Commerce sprung for the deluxe fireworks package. A child of six, Lisa huddled in the thick, embracing arms of her father, burrowing in until she was shielded from the terrifying explosions and brilliant bursts of light, shrouded in his large, reassuring cloak of security. It stopped her tears. She could not remember the last time she so longed for the sheltering embrace of another human being. She longed to crawl like a frightened child onto Vance's lap. A woman responsible for three savage killings. She wanted all the fear, the guilt, and the consequences stroked away by his broad, powerful hand. She wanted to be understood. She was only a mom held in thrall by the biological imperative--the safety and protection of her kids. And now she was the one who craved protection.

"We have to go now, don't we?" asked Lisa as she stood at the sink, gazing out the window. The swirling snow was piling up in the backyard. Too dry and windy to build a snowman with Ringo and Monica. A good day for hot cocoa and cookies with the kids. Monica arrived and announced that there was a man at the door. The news set Lisa off in a sudden rage and she spun around to face Vance. She swiped at her tear-streaked face with an angry hand and cursed at Vance.

"You didn't need help, Austin," she seethed. "I wouldn't have put up a fuss. I'm not an animal-—I did what I had to do." She slammed the dishtowel on the floor and steamed out of the kitchen, leaving the stunned detective and Monica with arched eyebrows in her wake. Vance shook his head and left by the back door as Lisa rounded the bend to the living room to face what she expected to be a cop in uniform, cuffs in hand. Instead she stumbled and almost fell flat on her face with shock at the sight of her visitor.

"Recognize me, Lisa?" asked the sturdily built middle-age man with a lush, perfectly groomed silver-flecked beard and thick wavy gray hair. Up close she could see his deeply tanned face and expressionless brown eyes. Lisa marshaled the limited self-control she had left and shook her head in denial.

"That surprises me. It really does," said Martin Bane in a low, menacing hiss. He folded his arms and watched as Lisa tentatively stepped into the living room. Martin circled behind her, cutting off the opening from the vestibule and hall leading to the kitchen. He approached her slowly, his face tight. He leveled her with a menacing gaze. Lisa stepped side to side, almost tripping over the coffee table; in fact slipping but still able to maintain her balance. She met Martin's gaze, figuring that he'd spare her from harm if he were forced to look her in the eye. He spoke barely above a whisper.

"Because I think you saw me the other night," he said. "I know I saw _you_!" He carefully scanned her face, which was not difficult to read. Lisa was hot, a sweaty sheen coated her face and she was shaking so badly that she hugged her sides, digging her nails into her rib cage in a futile attempt to compose herself in the presence of that bear of a man. Next she found her upper arms clamped in Martin's powerful hands, which made her let out a muffled shriek.

"Stop it. Take your hands off me," Lisa growled, less in anger than in dread.

"Shut up, Lisa. I had my doubts, but my better instincts were right as usual. Trini Dove didn't whack Sagatini. _You_ did, you goddamn bitch!" Martin snarled. "Look at you flinch. I can see it in your face; your body is a dead giveaway. You're a fucking killer. That's what you are, a fucking killer."

"You're full of shit!" Lisa cried in a hushed retort, as unconvinced by her performance as Bane appeared to be. Her mind raced as she tried to figure out some way to handle an encounter with this first manifestation of intelligent life from that horrible company. "You don't know anything!" was the best she could come up with.

"Yeah, right. I know what I saw. I saw the goddamn car that was following my boys. Next thing my guys are road kill. They've worked with me a long time. You've destroyed some expensive assets, bitch. I could crush you. Crush you right here and now. Who would've thought a wimp like Parmenter would ever hook up with an animal like you? You're up shit's creek now. You must've known this day would come."

He squeezed tighter and tighter. Tears streamed from Lisa's eyes; she couldn't bear the bruising pressure he applied and expected to soon hear the snapping of bones. Tears progressed to open weeping as Martin mercilessly ratcheted up the pressure. Her knees buckled under the terrible pain. Then, from out of nowhere, Monica leaped with limbs flailing on the back of Martin Bane, yanking his hair and pulling at his ears as she bit into his neck. In shock, Martin released his grip on Lisa, who pulled away and staggered backwards, knocking against the coffee table and falling hard on her back, banging her head against the granite hearth of the fireplace. She watched in a daze as Monica squirmed and eluded Bane's slapping swipes, holding on for all she was worth. Finally he whipped violently around, which ejected Monica from his back and ended with a crash landing on the soft pile of the living room carpet.

Beside himself with rage, Martin turned toward Lisa's prostrate form, anxious to reach in and rip out her liver with his bare hands, but he didn't get the chance. Instead, his face went blank and he dropped in an inert heap following a smart blow administered by the butt end of a gun to the back of his head. Vance quickly slapped on the handcuffs before the sprawled Martin Bane came to. Vance, breathing hard, was about to check on Lisa, but she had already crawled over to Monica and was holding her stunned but uninjured daughter in her arms, smoothing her hair, hugging her and apologizing.

"What the hell . . ." gasped Vance. Victoria appeared at the top of the stairs, roused by the roughhouse in the living room. She let out an ear-piercing scream at the sight of the broken furniture, the burly handcuffed man on his stomach, and Vance with a knee jammed into the lower back of Martin Bane. Lisa swiveled her head from Monica to Vance to Victoria to the ceiling.

"Everything is all right," she stammered with a complete lack of conviction.

"But Mom. What have you done?" screamed Victoria as she stamped her feet.

"It's okay, Mom. We've taken care of it!" Monica assured her as she rubbed the rising egg on the back of her head.

"What the hell?" gasped Vance as he hauled the groggy Martin Bane to his feet.

And then the room fell silent. All eyes focused on Lisa, who sat cross-legged on the floor. She inhaled deeply and let out a long, melancholy sigh.

"Austin, let me settle the kids down, throw some clothes on and then I'll go meet you at your office. Give me an hour." Vance shrugged, pulled Martin Bane to his feet and escorted him to his unmarked police car. Monica helped Lisa up as Victoria slowly made her way down the stairs. Lisa led the girls into the kitchen and told them to sit down. As she prepared them hot steaming cups of cocoa with frothy swells of melted marshmallows, Lisa explained in concise detail how far a mother must sometimes go to safeguard the welfare of her family.

#

Vance generally interrogated suspects and witnesses in one of the conference rooms set aside at headquarters for that purpose. The rooms were fully equipped with state-of-the-art audio and video recording equipment and one-way observation mirrors. For this interrogation Vance opted for the privacy of the captain's office, since the captain himself was away for the week on his annual fly fishing junket at some secret stream in Wyoming.

When she arrived, Lisa was generous with the details-- the garroting of Sagatini, the caravan to Bane's house in northern New Jersey, the harrowing return trip on the Parkway and the ingenious cat-and-mouse at the mall, followed by the coup-de-grace. It was a story Vance absorbed with little outward expression, a story told with shocking detachment by Lisa. Her extended narrative was interrupted by periodic sips from a cup of strong black coffee.

Vance didn't take any notes. He wondered if he should tell her. But what should he tell her? That he intended to poison his career and violate his sworn oath? That the offer of protection in lieu of justice would change both of their lives forever? When Lisa had finished, without having been asked a single question by Vance, she sat perfectly composed, hands folded on the captain's desk. She stared expectantly at Vance. After an extended pause to see if she had anything else to add, Vance asked, "Are you prepared for the consequences of your actions, Lisa?"

She nodded without hesitation, and replied in a firm, self-assured voice, "As long as my kids are safe and taken care of, I can handle what's coming to me. I have a very good attorney now. I'll take my chances. We had no chance when those two murderers and the gangster who hired them were in circulation."

Vance sucked in his cheeks and then exhaled deeply, like a cliff-diver revisiting his sanity one last time before shedding reason and springing forth in a potentially fatal plunge. "What you have told me, coupled with the corroborating evidence I've collected and the accounts of certain eyewitnesses, would result in quite serious charges, if," said Vance, who again paused and took a breath before casting the die, " . . . if what you said were ever to leave this room."

_"What?_ " Lisa exclaimed.

Vance shook his head and reached for Lisa's hand. "Sometimes the justice you deserve is not the justice the system provides. I can't see you standing trial for this incident. I can't allow it. You've been through too much. I want you to walk out of this building today and never tell anybody what you've told me. You did the right thing. We're the ones who failed you. Why should you take the fall for being able to do what we couldn't do for you?" The sight of Lisa, her mouth wide with shock and her hands gripping his, caused tears to well up in the corners of Vance's eyes. They sat motionless like this, oblivious to the uproar of phones, drunken rants, and the crackle of police radios outside the office door. Finally Lisa loosened her grip, a flicker of fear dancing in her eyes.

"But what about Bane? He knows everything."

"Don't worry about Bane," Vance said. "That'll be handled." Vance then got to his feet and helped Lisa up. He began showing her around Captain Accomando's office--the citations, the stereo system, the PC with the Internet hookup and laser printer and the coffee maker and the TV set—-the trappings and perks of municipal cop success. "This is my next step up. I aced the exam. I should be next in line," said Vance.

"What'll this do to your career?" asked Lisa.

Vance shrugged. On the way to the door, Lisa stopped, turned around and threw her arms around Vance and hugged him hard and then kissed him on the cheek. As she broke away, Vance pulled her back and embraced her, pressing her head against his chest and stroking her hair. Eventually they parted, Lisa smiling as she stood by the door. "How can I thank you for this?"

Again Vance shrugged. "First, figure out how to square things with Trini Dove. Then go home to your kids. That's all. Let me stop by now and then." Lisa nodded and then Vance found himself alone in an office that will never be his.

## TWENTY-SEVEN

It was a day for packing. A day for being a rat, sated and bloated from plunder at the galley stores, to take the flying leap off the deck of a listing ship. Paine and Jelly Fear were arranging their trunks for a long, long trip. Fear saw the news on MSNBC and scanned the shrill write-up in the _Post_ and consulted with private counsel. He figured his best move was to take his severance plus a few other goodies and go cool off for a while. To Rome and then who knows? They won't be able to find him unless he wanted to be found.

Fear was agile and had wired some hefty transfers to the relative safety of places like Zurich, Amsterdam, Hong Kong, and St. Croix. He had done the research and made certain inquiries a while ago and was well prepared for this day. He packed three suitcases and directed the super to stow the rest of their stuff in storage. A whole new life awaited him (and Jelly). Sure, she pitched a fuss and pulled a face. She was losing New York, her favorite playground. The gym, the stores, the muscle boys, the restaurants. Her home. But staying behind was out of the question and so, with a heavy heart, Jelly began packing herself, flipping duds haphazardly--a toothbrush, her diaphragm, shoes—-some without their mates. Her clothes-—all of them-—were New York City clothes. You couldn't just box rags like these and then unpack them in some barbaric outpost and resume functioning with ease and comfort. She whined to Fear that she would need all-new stuff for the all-new ex-pat Jelly Fear. Something for consolation, a salve for her depression.

"I don't _want_ to go," Jelly pouted, for the five millionth time. "Why do we have to leave?"

"I told you why," Fear growled. "It's all over for us here. Just shut up and pack."

"Let me stay."

"You can't. You're my fucking wife."

"So?"

"You can't stay, that's all. After all, you'd just lead them to me. Too risky."

"What are you talking about?"

"Get used to it, Jelly. We're gonna be stuck in close quarters for a while and we'll get along a lot better if you just keep your mouth shut and do as you're told. You—-in fact everyone—-would have been a whole lot better off if they'd just done what I told them to do. Would never be in this situation."

"Paine . . ." Jelly whimpered. He turned away. She let it drop. As she shoved a few nighties on top and slammed down the cover of the suitcase, the doorbell rang. Paine and Jelly jerked to attention. Fear's face froze with dread. Jelly rushed to the intercom.

"It's Nando Montoya," said Jelly, as she and Fear exchanged tense glances. _They couldn't have found out about his plans already!_ Fear shrugged and told Jelly to let him come up. _So what?_ Nando no longer had a hold on Fear's life. It's all come undone anyway. _So what? So what? So what?_ When she opened the door Jelly gave Nando a big hug, within eyeball range of Paine Fear. _(So what...so...)_

"Hello, Paine. Leaving on a trip?" asked Nando, who made an unusual sight himself for a weekday morning--a collar-less beige shirt, slightly wrinkled, blue jeans and topsiders. A beat-up leather jacket with ridiculous suede patches on the elbows. A startling departure from Nando's obsessive elegance.

"Business takes me out of town," said Fear dryly.

"For an extended period, I would guess," Fear shrugged as Nando continued. "Well, that's not a bad idea, given the situation. I have found myself with plenty of time on my hands, as well. I've been, as it were, stripped of my portfolio and am on the move myself." Fear's eyebrows arched. A double shock--Nando's slacker dress and his failure to elude the swinging blade.

"Guilt by association was my undoing," said Nando. "Malcolm thought I got in a little too tight with you guys--your Mr. Bane and, amusingly enough, Jelly herself. Stockholders would frown, et cetera, you know. A stir in the press. But it's a gilt-edged settlement. A gentle landing and so forth, even if it wasn't something that I had planned on. My parachute is broad and generous, as long as I shut up and leave. Ah, regrets!"

"I'm sorry to hear that, Nando," Fear lied, rather relishing the downfall of his slippery adversary from CHI. In fact, the rapid accumulation of bodies tumbling off tall perches had a way of rousing Fear from his malaise.

"Thank you," said Nando. "And you're doing the smart thing yourself. I wish you a bon voyage, Paine. Not the kind of deal either of us had in mind." Nando smiled, Fear's face a blank. "Of course, the reason I'm here. That's probably what's on your mind. Actually, it's about Jelly. I hate traveling alone, especially with a one-way ticket to some dreary Caribbean paradise. The infernal sun, day-after-day. Nothing to look at but sand and sea gulls and wave after monotonous wave. What do you think?"

Paine looked at Jelly. Jelly looked at Nando, a flicker of joy and hope in her eye.

"Jelly is my wife. She is supposed to, you know, have some sense of loyalty. For better or worse, and so forth."

"Yes, yes, of course. But think of it, Paine. Imagine the flexibility and mobility you'd be accorded once liberated from the responsibility of accounting for two. You'll remake a life for yourself, one in which you'll never again have to bend to appease the preferences of another. Or impose a life on another whose misery will impinge on your own peace of mind. Think about it. Ask Jelly what she prefers. Take your time, but I have to get to Teterboro in the next ninety minutes and the cross-town traffic's hell." Nando folded his arms, an expression locked in deadly earnest. Fear wrinkled his brow in deliberation, not at all offended by Nando's bold proposal. Both men looked at Jelly. Jelly shifted her weight from foot-to-foot, eyes buggy, mouth agape-—a silent plea. A silence she couldn't maintain.

"Please, Paine. Please, I love the islands!"

"But, Jelly, you're my wife." Fear laughed. Then Jelly laughed. Then Nando laughed. It was so funny. Fear knew that with his bankroll he could easily fill Jelly's role if ever he were so moved. Nando's offer was enticing, though he would miss Jelly's joyful noise, embracing musk and diverting bedroom acrobatics. But again, nothing a man of Fear's means couldn't find elsewhere.

"But of course. You two lovebirds run along. When I land, I'll let you know how to get in touch. Send you a postcard."

Jelly ran to Paine Fear, threw her arms around his neck and gave him a bell-clapper of a smooch. By the time she released him, Nando had two of her bags under his arms. As Jelly and Nando dashed off to their tropical exile, Fear closed the door, picked up the phone and called a cab. With nothing left to do, Fear paused, his back against the door, and felt a smile-—an infrequent genuine smile-—stretch across his face. It was a smile of adventure and conquest. A smile of freedom. A smile of rejuvenation and adventure.

Things had worked out just fine.

## TWENTY-EIGHT

Lisa kept her promise to Vance, even though it meant sacrificing an heirloom. A relic. A keepsake of battle. She carefully wrapped it in layers of cheesecloth and then composed a detailed description broken down by dates and times and technique—-a complete what, why, when, where, and how. Leaving off, of course, the "who." Then she enclosed it all in a prepaid Priority Mail envelope and took a long Sunday drive.

Lisa crossed two state lines and chose at random an empty industrial park somewhere in the pasturelands outside of Shelton, Connecticut. There she found a curbside cluster of urgent delivery mailboxes, wherein she deposited her package. And then she drove home again without stopping.

Mission accomplished.

## TWENTY-NINE

Three Years Later

The house was situated at the end of the block, not far from the humpbacked concrete sea wall and, beyond, the blue-green waters of the Atlantic. It was formerly a small hotel built in the late 19th century in the Queen Anne style. The original house burned to the ground in 1962 in a blaze that engulfed half the city, and was essentially rebuilt a year later and made into a rooming establishment. It had been subdivided into a warren of tiny compartments to house kitchen workers and housekeepers indentured to the numerous restaurants and hotels in the area.

More recently it had been converted into what so many of the residences have since become, both a home to a family and an inn for vacationing couples, mostly young-marrieds and empty nesters longing for a relaxing seaside getaway unmarred by the Jersey Shore's proliferation of honky-tonk boardwalks, screaming amusement park rides, and pounding water parks. The home's brochure, a handful of which were available to passersby in a brass beach bucket screwed to the post gate in front of the house, bullet-pointed the many charming features of Cherrywood Cottage.

The design, like most of the homes in the historic district, was unique and impractical. The imposing gables and asymmetrical structural massing provided a striking silhouette. The facade was a riot of irregular detail, with exterior treatments of yellow brick for the first story, brown cedar for the second, and mauve clapboard for the third. The space was broken up at intervals by mismatched Palladian, baroque and lancet windows. The paired gables featured shingle inserts, an octagonal turret on the left and a wrap-around veranda supported by a row of chubby columns, decorated with radial brackets. The eaves, curves and sides were fringed in carved gingerbread, meticulously restored and painted in a half-dozen complementary colors.

Intricate details of period architecture abounded inside the house. Sections of inlaid parquet floors were broken up by Persian rugs in the four public rooms. Dominating the parlor was a large fieldstone fireplace and a magnificent oak staircase. A collection of restored brass fixtures unearthed at local antique shops and estate sales supplied the lighting, and refinished antique furnishings and bone lace window treatments lent the interior experience suitable authenticity. Butternut pocket doors separated the sitting room from the dining room, and each space offered breathtaking examples of Victorian marquetry and stained glass windows. Two small bedrooms for single guests were located on the first floor and four large bedrooms occupied the second. Each bedroom, according to the brochure, had a private bath with wall-mounted commodes and a claw foot bathtub. The spacious attic had been subdivided into three bedrooms, which served temporarily as the family's living quarters.

A man in overalls was out front turning the soil for the summer garden, the hardy early flora already poking through the thawing earth. It was mid April, too brisk for the tourist invasion, yet warm enough for the year-round residents to embrace in relative privacy the qualities that lured swarms of summer visitors that choked the narrow streets, shops, and beaches through Labor Day. After flavoring the soil with a mix of organic fertilizer and manure, the man took a break to mop the sweat from his face. As he removed seedlings from flats stacked on the porch steps, he heard in the distance the mashing of gears and sporadic engine farting that heralded a daily ritual that he had come to cherish. He knew this would result in another interruption. And, sure enough, when the bus screeched to a halt in front of the house, Vance immediately found an energetic eight-year-old crawling up his back and draping himself around his shoulders.

"Ringo, give me a break!"

"Hah Hah! Hah Hah! I'm a sumo wrestler!" Ringo squealed, who was then spun round and round by his step-dad. Ringo loved to rassle and before long, he had Vance on the ground, rolling in the dirt and processed manure, muddying Ringo's new cargo baggies and Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt. That'll lead to trouble, but Vance didn't care. He's a man who had learned to let things go. Everything but certain secrets. Was it such a bad thing?

Lawyers cut deals all the time, bartering the currency of prison time, probation, and immunity to achieve larger purposes. But three years ago Vance was only a cop. What did he have besides intimidation and evidence? Intimidation was useless against a beast like Martin Bane. But he applied what leverage he could. He cut a deal with the wily deal maker. Forget what Lisa did to the MEDICUS CEO and Bane's wiseguys and Vance could overlook what they did to Lisa's lawyer, an offense that could otherwise remove the two-time felon Bane from circulation for the rest of his life. Savvy to the ways of the criminal justice system and the dicey evidence linking Lisa to Sagatini's murder, Bane wisely acceded to Vance's proposal.

Bane played the criminal justice system like a song, cutting deals that enabled him to escape much of the collateral damage following MEDICUS' Chapter 7 filing. Thanks to top-drawer legal representation, he pleaded down to a wrist-slap three to five-year sentence for aggravated assault and probation violation. (Further proof of the wisdom to never skimp when it comes to hiring legal talent materialized that very morning when Vance signed for a significant FEDEX delivery addressed to Lisa.)

Amazing the odd turn his life had taken. It was a strange transition for a man accustomed to calling the shots to leap at the opportunity to play a supporting role in another person's dream. At what cost, he wondered, had he adopted his new life? As it turned out, one dream replaced another, the one whose seed was sown that afternoon in the captain's office as Vance was taking Lisa's statement. With shocking ease, values and ambitions forged over the three-plus decades of his life simply withered and dropped away like spent leaves in autumn.

After he took her statement he held a business meeting with Martin Bane in his holding cell at the Long Branch Police station. The next day Vance turned in his gun, his badge, and his written notice to a baffled chief of police. And that was that. In stunned silence his resignation was reluctantly accepted. Then, on his first day of civilian life, he crossed the street to The Mix intending to blind himself with serial double martinis. He left after a single sip of his first one. He went over to see Lisa, who had taken the day off from work, and told her what he had done. The contours of Lisa's face, generally pinched with tension for as long as he had known her and especially when he showed up that day, relaxed and furrowed lines of worry gave way to a remarkably serene countenance. Her usual pensive gaze softened and in its place was a sparkle of, what could it be, joy? Hope?

Her transformation before his eyes was something Vance would never forget. A large goofy grin then stretched across the lower third of her face. And Vance did the only feasible thing under the circumstances. He took her by the shoulders and kissed her on the forehead and then on the mouth. It was a kiss that lasted for hours and was resumed in various permutations in Lisa's bedroom throughout an afternoon of sweaty, therapeutic lovemaking.

Vance got to his feet and brushed the dirt off himself and Ringo. "You smell bad, boy. Let's get some ice cream." It was three blocks to the pedestrian mall and the French pastry shop that featured waffle cones and 45 flavors of ice cream. But it took a while to get there, since Vance stopped to gab with a half-dozen locals. Topics ranged from political cloak and dagger among vying leadership of the volunteer rescue squad, of which Vance was a member, to preparations for the upcoming spring walking tour of Cape May's Victorian neighborhoods. The latter event was a cause of particular excitement to Vance and Lisa, since this was the first season that they deemed the restoration of Cherrywood Cottage sufficient to meet the demanding local standards required for participation. All it took was an outrageous investment and fourteen-hour days of hard labor over the course of two-plus years.

But for Vance, the work was incidental to a world that began for him when Lisa invited him into her family. It wasn't long ago that Vance thought that making chief of police would be the crowning achievement of his life. Instead, all it took was a filthy boy tonguing an oversized eggnog ice cream cone, his hardboiled mom and her two headstrong daughters, to supplant an old dream and replace it with a new and more rewarding one. Vance shook his head in wonder-—the blessings and generosity of God.

Now, if only he could get Lisa to attend church with him!

#

The business was humming. And it _is_ a business. Not some dappled fantasy of an oppressed wage-slave lost in daydreams of gracious inn keeping in a restored Victorian manse, of serving tea, scones and small talk to a civilized clientele of idling professionals. It was a wreck, this structure that Lisa bought from the proceeds of Earl's life insurance and 401(k) plan redemption. A gloomy, crumbling haunted house on a block of exquisitely tended gingerbread and rainbow-colored jewel boxes. Assuming the role of aproned innkeeper had never been one of Lisa's pipe dreams, but the concept seeped into her skull one day while reading a Web classified. At the time she was mired in a difficult transition, life's fractures slowly healing, and the proposition popped up unsolicited on her computer screen as if it were an omen.

There had been layoffs and budget cutbacks at work and her job, though not immediately threatened, had become empty and pointless. Besides, after what she had been through, she discovered that all she really cared about was what she had almost lost—-her children. And she wanted them all the time and within her sight. Then that odd and exhausting afternoon with Vance. She smiled as she gazed down at her expanding belly. The woman who examined things on all sides and from every angle found herself getting pancaked like a quarterback caught in a blindside blitz. The tide of altered circumstances began to sink in the day she found herself naked on her back and exposed to more of Vance than she ever could have imagined. After a while, she realized that there could be only one course of action--she had to be with him, too—- _all the time._

She sold the house, packed up the kids, quit the job and never looked back. She and Vance and even the kids were tireless, doing most of the work themselves. The carpentry, plumbing, electrical and painting. Crashing at night in sleeping bags, dodging the moisture from a porous roof, subsisting on food prepared on hot plates and potluck from understanding neighbors. Slowly the house started to preen like a peacock, with Easter egg colors on the sidings and moldings. Trim carvings and stair spindles a broad palette of 19th century hues. Restored antique gaslights and trunks and high boys and bedposts and water closet fixtures.

Still, Lisa harbored no illusions. Gratitude, relief, loneliness and desire led her to the bedroom the day Vance quit his job. But over time he won her soul the way he invested himself in the task of the house and his knack with the kids, especially his remarkable ability to win the grudging affection of her oldest daughter. Midway through their first year together Vance migrated from the parlor to Lisa's bedroll and, later that year, to a small civil ceremony at Cape May Courthouse. Monica, at Vance's behest, even wore a light blue dress for the occasion.

Lisa had expected a problem with Monica, who still fancied herself her mom's mentor. Lisa's protector. But a certain bond developed between Vance and Monica when they started sharing a common interest. Monica in her freshman year at high school was already the star of the cross-country team. She discovered a love for long-distance running while plying the rolling dunes of Cape May. Vance, himself a runner, asked to join her one day. Then it became two or three days a week. Sometimes they would be gone for an hour or two, both indefatigable, and when they returned and Lisa asked what they were up to, what they had talked about, Monica would shake her head and say, "Nothing." Vance was no more forthcoming, refusing to violate a sacred confidence. And of course Ringo was affixed to Vance's hip. He went to fire department meetings with him, went to auxiliary cop meetings with him, mitered moldings, painted walls, built furniture, cooked dinner with him. Lisa sighed with conviction. Earl will never be out of her thoughts, but her memories of him won't deprive her of her love of Vance.

Two envelopes lay on the kitchen table, one open, the other still sealed. The one she had opened was perfume-scented and from a box of stationery given by Vance as a gift to his stepdaughter upon her acceptance to Brown University. The letter represented a milestone, a shift in tone brimming with chatty enthusiasm and talk of new friends, impossible professors, endless studying and a crammed social calendar. She was finishing her first year away from home and fully rehabilitated from a severe case of homesickness; one that required an emergency mission to Rhode Island for psychic first-aid prior to Halloween.

Lisa drove alone to Providence and by the time she had calmed Victoria down, she herself was a damp rag of distress. Victoria's pain stabbed Lisa as surely as a blade to her own heart. But she couldn't show weakness and she knew it would be the same when it came time for Monica and Ringo, who were growing and maturing in a blur of time. But Lisa will cling to them. She will cling to Vance. All of them--they are forever her center.

The other delivery was a FedEx envelope that came later that afternoon. It was a vestige of her past. An anticlimax-—a vestigial part of a black patch of history. The process had dragged on endlessly as her adversaries contested every motion and appealed every tactic from Lisa's legal team in bankruptcy court.

It was clear early in the process that the company's commercial liability coverage would be insufficient to cover claims filed by its numerous creditors. The legal team that DeMastri Powers assembled for Lisa, however, knew where all the assets were hidden and what skeletons to rattle from which closet, thus enabling Lisa to steadily move up in the hierarchy of claimants. The result of Powers' hard work had finally arrived and, oddly, after the years-long battle, Lisa found herself calmly indifferent to the spoils of her triumph. Barely a trace of what was then exists intact today. As far as she knew, Martin Bane was still at Joliet serving out the remainder of the plea-bargained probation violation rap. Paine Fear was not as fortunate; he was arrested at Kennedy Airport attempting to board a flight to Rome and elude charges of absconding with company funds and falsifying documents in connection with the MEDICUS/CHI merger proposal. Lisa assumed that he too would eventually be released from wherever he was cooling his heels, presumably to disappear forever.

Just a few days ago Lisa was on the phone with DeMastri Powers, who was granted immunity in exchange for testimony that cooked what was left of MEDICUS' goose. Powers had called with the news that his oleaginous former partner-in-crime, Nando Montoya, had just been convicted by a Florida State Supreme Court on 42 counts of insurance fraud. He had apparently perpetrated a string of shell company operations ostensibly to populate portfolios of excess-of-loss reinsurance treaties (whatever those were). As it turned out, the paper companies were whipped up by Montoya for the sole purpose of helping his corporate clients evade U.S. taxes. He was arrested in his Mom's kitchen in Miami about a year ago during an ill-advised surreptitious visit to the mainland.

While Nando spends the next ten years in a Texas prison, according to Powers, Jelly Fear will assuage her loneliness by attending to her burgeoning real estate empire in Hamilton, Bemuda, which she started as a hobby while Nando was off breaking international laws. Powers described Jelly's remarkable way with people, especially wealthy (and horny) U.S. ex-pats, which had fueled a spectacular career that found her brokering deals involving high-rise condos and undeveloped beachfront properties worth millions.

Lisa was delighted that Powers and Marci reconciled shortly after Lisa filed her suit. The Powers packed the kids up and moved to upstate New York, where he works for himself as a part-time lobbyist in Albany for a national chain of HMOs, in between real estate closings and personal bankruptcy work-outs. Lisa has reserved rooms gratis for the Powers clan for the past two Labor Day weekends. They, and the occasional note and Christmas card from O.K. Crockett, who finally pulled together enough of a congregation to found his own church in Hampton, NJ, remain Lisa's only links to Earl's MEDICUS past.

Lisa finally tore open the other envelope, crumpled up the cover letter, and glanced at the check before slipping it into the back pocket of her jeans. Then she headed down the block to the local Wachovia branch (it was okay-—she had warned them about _this_ deposit).

On the way Lisa recalled with delight reading about the furor set off when NYPD Detective Hiram Lipscomb presented a mysterious package with no return address to the lead prosecutor in Trini Dove's murder trial. The package contained an ancient beat up tonsorial razor and a five-page document outlining step-by-step the perfect execution of a corporate monster's murder. The author, clearly still at large, provided irrefutable proof that Trini Dove had been set up.

From the cancellation of Sagatini's regular in-office haircut to the pseudo-arrival of a pseudo-package that led the boss's gatekeeper to abandon her post, to a precise description of the victim's wounds, there was sufficient cause to doubt Trini Dove's participation. It also helped that the razor still contained traces of Sagatini's DNA and that the wounds corresponded perfectly to the curve and markings of the blade.

Lisa, of course, understood the risk of turning over such evidence and the remote possibility that it could be traced back to her. But she also knew, and was reminded with some gentle prodding from Austin Vance, that to condemn an innocent person to a life in prison or worse was something that would haunt her conscience forever. Today Trini Dove was a free, if unemployed, former executive and the murder of Gaetano Sagatini remained unsolved.

Against her nature, Lisa consciously surrendered to a way of life that had become an unfolding improvisation. After Earl died and all that followed, Lisa realized that waiting for a court settlement—-waiting for anything—-just wouldn't cut it anymore. The timing was right and without hesitation she developed a strategy that included the tendering of a risky invitation to Vance, who eagerly accepted. She did the research, drew up a business plan, and plunged into implementation. Behind the facade of the retro architecture and the ambiance of times long past was the machinery of a modern, hi-tech business--the very model of a system engineer's dream.

To conserve resources, Cherrywood Cottage's electrical and heating systems were controlled by a central server fed by nearly a hundred lighting, smoke, and temperature sensors. It was a system designed, programmed and tested by Lisa herself. Three dedicated lines were routed through Lisa's computerized telephone system that instantly displayed the caller's name and address and automatically entered reservation information, including credit card checks, and added both queries and confirmed guests into Lisa's marketing database. She developed Web-based, e-mail and snail mail marketing programs that have resulted in 100% bookings of the seven available rooms and suites through the next eighteen months. Monica has been trained to monitor, maintain and program periodic upgrades to the system. The result? Lisa's begun meeting expenses and should turn a profit inside of six months, which means she's become independent and is passing along skills to Monica for which there will always be a market demand.

Monica was becoming independent.

Between Lisa, Vance, and a small crew of local tradesmen, Ringo was learning rough framing, cabinetry, painting, electrical wiring and plumbing repair.

Ringo was becoming independent.

Lisa achieved what she had set out to do—-render that FedEx delivery irrelevant. Make what she has and whom she can influence stand on his and her own, and solve their own problems. Do whatever it takes. As she patted the check in her back pocket, she could look beyond this house. To other houses—-she now had the resources to buy twenty more places just like this one. She could begin by moving the family into her next project and renting out Cherrywood's attic rooms. She could fill them easily enough from the waiting list. Install an innkeeper in the carriage house apartment to handle the day-to-day routine. That's a plan. Or she could just keep things as they are and give all the money away. That, too, held a certain appeal.

But those decisions were on hold, as she again found herself stroking her tummy in a circular motion, the same as she did with Victoria, Monica and Ringo. Tomorrow Lisa would be 47-years-old and she's celebrating it by going to the community center with Vance for their first Lamaze class. Of course Victoria threw a fit when she found out, shocked by the notion of a woman of her mother's advanced years rearing a child from scratch all over again. Monica shrugged, laughed a little and went out for a ten-mile run to ponder the ramifications. Ringo was beside himself with delight and kissed Lisa's belly. And Vance. And Vance. Lisa smiled, remembering how he held her, hugged her and kissed her long and tenderly before the tough, laconic cop broke down in tears. How he immediately called for reservations at the Washington Inn to celebrate and how they made love afterwards, and then stayed up all night planning the decorations for the nursery.

On the way back from the bank Lisa stopped to admire the brilliant vermilion and yellow wash painting the late afternoon sky. Two blocks down was the ocean where the blood red sun was lowing to the horizon. She could hear soft shuffling footsteps behind her and then a gentle hand on her shoulder. Monica was back from her run, panting softly. She was now a couple inches taller than Lisa and becoming a dark, mysterious beauty, her black hair closely cropped, her wiry frame taut and surprisingly powerful. Her thoughts, still guarded and her own. She kissed her mom on the cheek and patted her tummy.

"Things cool with the fetus?" Monica asked, amused by her clinical cleverness. Lisa nodded.

"Money came today."

"How much?"

"None of your business."

"Oh, you'll tell me. You can't keep that from me."

Lisa shrugged and smiled, careful to stifle the impulse to cast an adoring, lingering gaze at her daughter in public. They passed by the house and headed to the beach. They walked across the sand to the lapping water's edge and enjoyed the sunset together, united in their silence.

Lisa and Monica won't be home until after dark.

# # #

## Send Feedback!

Thank you for taking the time to read this book! It's tough being noticed, so if you like what you've read, please consider writing a review at the website where you downloaded this book. Please check back to my author page from time to time for important announcements, including the upcoming release of my next novel, RACE RIOT, which is scheduled for...some day soon. Connect with the author by visiting my blog.

## About the Author

By day, Carl Ehnis writes soaring marketing prose for a major financial services company. By night, he has authored the novels MEDICUS, Race Riot, Happy Hour, Verite, and the curious non-fiction project called One Page a Day (check out the following exerpt). He's a life-long resident of New Jersey, has a wife and kids, two domesticated animals, plus other unwanted vermin taking up residence in the walls of his rambling 100-year old residence.

Read on for an excerpt from

## One Page a Day

A book about EVERYTHING

By Carl Ehnis

#

# 

# Preface

I have never kept a journal and, clearly at the age of 55, this is no time to start. Never needed to before: the first four books came and went quite easily, without notes, diaries, journals, creative writing workshops, and so forth.

My first book was completed at the age of 27, and my buddy said, "Wow, it's great. Didn't know you could even write, dude. You should get it published."

But I said, "Nah, I can do better," then boxed it up and stashed it in the attic.

Book number two was started at age 28, completed at age 34, and was called "remarkable" by another good friend and college professor.

But I said, "Nah, I can do better," and it, too, found its place in the attic. At age 35, book number three was begun and subsequently rewritten eight times because it had legs, or so I was informed by a host of admiring readers. And I had hopes, because it was my masterpiece, thick with plot, rich in style, and brimming with insight and provocation. So I sent it to a publisher and it came back with a polite note saying, "This is a very promising manuscript, but our list is filled at this time and, unfortunately, we cannot take on additional projects at this time," and suggested that I find an agent.

Needless to say, my wife was quite excited by the response and encouraged me to keep sending it out, but I declined. I had learned something about myself. What I learned was that I was not good at handling rejection. So, at the age of 45, I let this book join its exiled cousins in the attic.

Now, it's just another orphan in a brown box embrittled by the breathless heat and shuddering cold of a poorly insulated gable-roof warehouse of neglect. Then came the fourth, begun at age 44 and completed six years later. A nice work, a corporate thriller, mature in tone. A story of revenge exacted by a powerful female protagonist. My wife thought it was great stuff and told me I had to send it out.

But I said, "What if it's rejected?" and with that the manuscript joined my third-story den of detritus about three years ago, as I turned 52.

I haven't written a word of fiction since. Maybe I had nothing more to say. The compulsion for self-expression in my twenties and thirties slipped into an occasional apathy in my late forties and has since become a full-blown complacency in my mid-fifties.

But apathy/complacency precedes death and I'm terrified--terrified of dying. So I will write again, even if I don't particularly relish the demands of its practice. To write is to be—if I write I can't die, or something to that effect. Writing for writing's sake—or rather, writing to ward off the permanent shroud, yeah. Happily, I have happened upon a theme and a style, which I'm calling Extreme Pastiche. The title of this project indicates exactly what it is: One Page a Day. And the topic is: Everything.

# Day 1. May 27, 2009

Since this is the beginning, I'll go back as far as I can. My first memory was of running down a grassy incline in front of my house on a sunny summer afternoon wearing brown shorts and a yellow shirt made out of a corrugated fabric, somewhat like seersucker. I was three years old at the time. I was hugging a large rubber ball in front of me, most likely to join a clutch of neighborhood kids at the bottom of the hill, but that part I don't remember.

The memory cue comes in the form of a stentorian fire horn blast that startled the hell out of me because the siren was mounted on a telephone poll not more than 50 feet from my position on the bluff—so I was subjected to the full effect. The ball popped out of my arms as I clamped my hands to my ears to muffle the sound blast. That's when things get sketchy.

There was a stumble over the ball and then a tumble and shouts from the valley at the base of the hill. I was off my feet and bounding against edges of sharp rocks embedded in the grassy slope. I don't recall making it to the bottom of the hill. This is what I recall: being hoisted up high by adult arms and feeling very sleepy and being shoved into the back seat of our ancient DeSoto (Let's date this around June of 1957) and then there was a zooming take off followed shortly by a brutal stoppage of forward momentum and the sound of crumpling steel and a powerful whiff of motor oil.

The following I can only surmise and piece together from subsequent discussions with family members:

  * I surrendered consciousness when my body was hurled against the back of the front seat, this being the days before seat belts and other forms of passive restraints.

  * There was a welter of commotion from grim rescue teams.

  * The multiple trauma rendered me comatose for more than a week.

I missed the funeral.

# Day 2. May 28, 2009

That, as previously mentioned, is a fair account of my earliest memory. I'm not a psychologist, and have precious little patience for self-analysis other than a random curiosity for interesting behavioral phenomenon. (Yes, I know, odd behavior for a person who has written four novels.)

For example, why do I remember my earliest memory? My assumption, as slyly inserted in the previous section, was that the sudden blast of noise—perhaps the loudest sound ever to rock my forming brain in those days—was behind the staying power of that memory. While the key, life-changing events that followed its initiation would, I think, be the professional interpretation of my memory, it is the running with the ball and the sound that I truly remember—the events afterward were simply events that occurred and were relayed to me through conventional narrative.

I'm glad, though, that for the first time I have put this memory down in writing. The gradual onset of senility is a family characteristic and it could start spreading its insidious vines up my brainstem at any moment, if it hasn't already. But now it's down in electronic form, which means I will have this memory forever, or at least long after I have forgotten it.

Here's a little exercise for you while I finish up my one page for today: Think back: What is your earliest memory? Be sure to write it down on a piece of paper and put it somewhere you can find it so that you can recall it after you forget it. You'll be glad that you did.

# Day 3. May 29, 2009

(Yesterday's page came up a little bit short, so I'll try to make up for it today. It's easy now to tell if I'm content cheating, given Microsoft Word's ability to give you a running word and character count.)

Now that I've introduced my earliest memory, we'll skip through all subsequent periods of my life and focus on the present—my current state, or the building of my next future memory.

As usual, I'm writing this at work because I have nothing else to do, really. I write investment brochures for a mutual funds company and we are in the worst investment crisis since the Great Depression, so no one wants to buy our products and thus have no desire to read the stuff I so ably churn out.

People have been cashing out of our mutual funds right and left, which is killing our bottom line and has led to numerous force adjustments. My department has been cut by 20 percent. They keep me because I'm the only writer, a skill they find awesomely mystical, even though, as an unpublished novelist, I don't really consider myself a true writer. Just a guy who can string together sentences with enough coherence and persuasion to help commercial organizations sell products and influence people. And for this skill I probably make gobs more money than 95% of published novelists.

I've been doing the same job for about 20 years and I, like most people who have done the same damn thing for more than 20 years, am bored out of my skull. My boss was fired some months ago on account of his breathtaking incompetence. (I helped write the dismissal recommendation for his boss!)

I applied for my boss's job, thinking that directing others and being the strategic mastermind behind the various collateral produced in my area might be a pleasant and reasonably challenging change of pace for me—a brooming of the cobwebs threading the creative stalactites of my soul, so to speak.

They went in another direction for the job, much to my dismay. Of course, perhaps there were issues with my disinclination to hew to various company dogma, and a wit that at times dipped into the sarcastic (they said), which I preferred to characterize as "sardonic," a much more agreeable term, in my opinion.

I also know that they don't think of me as much of a team player. They assured me that they value my contributions, that I play an important role in the organization, et cetera. And they're right. I'm an old shoe and a comfortable fit. I'm a copy generating machine and in that role I am, to my management, a reliable utility. Like a light bulb or a faucet. But there's something else, too. But that's tomorrow's page.

# Day 4. June 1, 2009

Alert readers will notice a calendar anomaly in this endeavor in which June 1 is following May 29 in apparent violation of the thematic structure of this book. Had you been even more alert, however, you would have remembered that this project is being done at work on company time, which precludes page production on weekends, holidays, and vacations.

In other words, Happy Monday! (Most likely other structural improvisations will intercede over time that will corrupt this format, not to mention the havoc that serious editing will reap once the initial draft is complete. But we soldier on.)

Last Friday's page ended with a fairly dynamic cliffhanger of sorts, in which I intimated that there was more to my not getting the job from which my boss was fired than I had disclosed up to that point. The thing is, a whole weekend has passed and now I've forgotten what that thing was.

So there you have it, a structure to a book based on daily output—no more, no less—from an aging author with a failing memory and with an inherent laziness that precludes him from maintaining a journal to compensate for the stuff he would otherwise forget. So, going forward, when a cliffhanger is employed (which will be as often as possible), I will jot a few notes in the margin to remind myself of the forthcoming payoff.

The good thing about all of the preceding dissembling is, as I finish today's page, I will have an exceedingly juicy fresh memory for tomorrow. (I do remember that the task at hand was to counter balance my earliest memory with my most recent.) Tomorrow I will meet my new boss and will relay my impressions before I forget them shortly thereafter. (I guess this is a semi-cliffhanger.

# Day 5. June 1, 2009 replaced on January 20, 2012

You will note the date has been superseded in this installment. It is because an ironic impossibility has occurred that enables you to read this fine literary creation. One of the compelling themes driving this work describes my previous disinterest in potentially encountering serial rejection in the course of seeking publication of four novels. Now, "ironically," I have actually broken into print via a change in attitude. I've taken a position of publish or die.

I've self published--and skipped the middle man and you, some stranger, can now read my gilded prose. So, about this "replacement" page.

The zero chance of publication that I had assumed while crafting these pages freed me to be boundlessly honest, explicit, and free with my thoughts. I've exploited that potential to quite an extent and, in most cases, you will be treated to the unvarnished me.

However free I may be to practice my art, there are some entries that would put aspects of my life in jeopardy, i.e., things that could blow up my marriage, family relations, job, and friendships. Given the now public exposure of these pages, some of the stronger stuff must be replaced. This entry, for instance, goes into great depth about my current management, not all of it complimentary and, as long as I depend on this job for material sustenance, the replaced entry must be...replaced. My insights into the nature of my new boss may be a little...too...much.

Now, now, please stifle that groan. Yeh, I'm creating boundaries and stifling my art. But, what the fuck. I'm mature and seasoned and experienced and have learned over the years that art isn't everything. Besides, why must you be such a voyeur? This thing will still be 99 percent pure—and the stuff that's left out could only hurt others who you don't even know. Yes, replacement pages constitute a compromise. But listen, Skippy, everything in life is a compromise.

# Day 6. June 3, 2009 replaced on January 20, 2012

Yes, it's happened for a second day in a row. A replacement section. So it was basically a continuation of my impressions of my new boss and what she had in store for me. Let me set the context. As noted previously, I have been in the same job for the past, oh, 14 years. Of course, back when the original entry was done, it had been 11 years. But once the momentum of time kicks in, 14 years isn't much different than 11.

Fact is doing the same job for such a long time can make things rote, boring, and unchallenging. And I feel the same way now as I did on June 3, 2009. Two and half years later, nothing has really changed. But, since I'm on an irony kick, I'll put some more ironies on the fire. (No excuse for that!)

I was not happy when I was not selected for my boss's job. But over the intervening years, she's proven to be a good editor, which has enhanced my work, and has served as a reliable buffer in terms of process and administration so that I can focus on the carefree world of content development. My bitterness at the time was partially a result of career frustration, of carving my rut deeper and deeper.

But as red tape and bureaucracy and the obsessions of those around me to "adding value" pretty much ground progress to a halt, I actually can count my blessings. I would've hated Becky's job if it had been offered to me. Even if Becky gets hit by a bus or finds something better in the Big City, I will not apply for her job. It's a thankless perch with just a high enough profile to expose yourself to the wrath of your many clients and nights of a churning stomach and disquietude.

Not for me. Now I treasure the days when I can hunker down to the screen and churn out fragments of drivel, un-beckoned to a raft of meetings because it's Becky's role to go to meetings.

So even if I had kept my less than complimentary entry in place here, it would have been misleading because Becky turned out okay for me, contrary to expectations.

# Day 7. June 4, 2009

There's a young woman on my train, let's call her "Chinless," since that is her chief facial characteristic from my point of view. It's unfortunate that such an unfortunate construction should detract from an otherwise attractive woman. She has lovely blue eyes, long silken brown hair and a fetching slim figure.

Alas, it's the chin, or lack of same, that dominates, but that is not the point. Chinless and I board the same trains each morning and evening and never exchange more than a cordial nod. But yesterday our relationship deepened to a mutual eye roll when a certain blowhard four rows up from me was yakking at trading pit volume on his cell phone for most of the ride.

This is at 6 a.m. when most riders, including myself, address our chronic sleep deficits. So we are in this silent car except for Mr. Master of the Universe pricing this and selling that at rock-star pitch, his voice bouncing against the walls, punctuated by thunderous laughing guffaws and exclamations.

I could've yanked the phone out of his fist and he could have simply talked into his hand and his hapless party on the other end could probably still have heard him without the intercession of electronics. I sighed heavily, other passengers moaned, I happened to glance at Chinless and we rolled our eyes in unison.

The anger, my indignation, a violent rage—I could picture myself rising from my seat, striding over to the fat, balding phone guy, yanking the damn thing out of his, stomping on it and slapping the side of head so it would bounce against the train window.

Then I would tell him to spare his fellow passengers the boring details of his private conversations. And if he rose out of his seat, I would stamp on his foot, knee him in the balls and push his nose in with the heel of my hand, so as not to injure my guitar-playing fingers.

But I didn't—and wouldn't do that. And you want to know why?

# Day 8. June 5, 2009

I'm a flaming coward. A frightened little bunny. I've never been in a fistfight, ever. Not even a pushing and tripping skirmish. I'm afraid of getting hurt, I suppose. I have no clue how to scuffle, quite frankly.

What if I truly bashed someone—how would I deal with the mess issuing from opened-up facial wounds and so forth? What if they hit me in the face, in the nose and blood gushes forth or they belt me in the stomach and I lose my wind and can't breathe, like that time in Little League when I took a pitched ball just below the ribs and it knocked the air out of me and I thought the gray blanket of death was about to smother me? I'm fast and nervous—I can outrun any bully or cower in the face of physical threat that would turn any potential abuser away in disgust.

So that's why I didn't smack the guy with the phone in the side of the head, even though he deserved it. Or the chatty fatty ladies who sit at the front of my car on the evening train and carry on like clucking magpies while I'm trying to read good literature. Or any of a multitude of permutations of such rude and obnoxious people who share my commute and deserve my violence that will never be issued because of my cowardice.

Cowardice, though, takes many forms, which I'll cover in its many shapes over the course of this project. If that's the kind of theme that distresses, bores, or depresses you, then stop reading now.

The agony won't be worth the precious moments that may provide amusement in these daily reports. (Today's Friday, the next entry will not be contiguously numbered calendar-wise (Just a reminder.).)

# Day 9. June 8, 2009

Today is Monday, which long ago ceased being "Go for the Gusto" day. My gusto has been fading badly the last few years, and when I didn't get my boss's job, the gusto just got up and left. It happens when your opinions aren't valued, when you come across clearly contemptuous of management, when the only reason they keep you is because no one else can do your job, which you can do in a comatose state, but have absolutely no other choice but to continue doing what you're doing until the day comes when you leap victoriously into retirement, a prospect over which I obsess daily.

Why is Monday "Go for the Gusto" day? Well, obviously the attitude and energy levels are set for the week on Monday. Guys in Sales do the whole Marine Hoo Hah! thing on Monday and then hit the phone banks like they're storming the beach.

I'm supposed to think about things—about how to pitch our products better, devise powerful new processes and initiatives that will break through the clutter, explode out of the box, innovate the collateral that will break down barriers and make assets under management skyrocket.

Well, been there. Done that. Now each Monday I face the wall, dispirited, disheartened, apathetic, flaccid, enervated, defeated. Before the week has even started. I'm stuck in a yes loop, a bobbleheaded nod of concurrence with whatever bright ideas management cares to inflict.

I used to be more swashbuckling—a push-back kind of guy who would get angry over stupidity and question the boss to his face. I thought my behavior was heroic—showed a passion for quality, et cetera. No, I was wrong. Instead, I was a bad team player with questionable leadership skills. But I was good at writing, doing what I do—forever and ever and ever. That is my wall.

This leads to a discussion of another form of cowardice of which I am guilty.

# Day 10. June 9, 2009

Fear of change. Fear to take a risk. When I catalog the list of things I hate, it all seems rooted in my cowardice.

I hate my rut, my routine, lack of authority in my day-to-day, the tedium of at my desk at 8:00 and back on the train by 5:09, the dull conformity of my company, my glacial progress in accruing an adequate retirement stash, the inability to enjoy life with the gusto (that word again!) of my children, the regret of the things I've never done including, but not limited to, bungee jumping, snow skiing, organizing a running race, coaching Little League, running for mayor, doing cocaine, doing LSD, sipping absinthe, making a movie, driving cross country with no money and no plan, visiting Africa, jumping out of plane (attached to a parachute), attending Bonaroo, and so forth.

It's all cowardice. Even 30 years ago I knew I wasn't cut out for the corporate thing. Never was a very good team player—baseball was my only team sport and the part I liked the best was just me with a bat in my hand against the pitcher.

Why did I study English in college when I should have taken some business courses and picked up some skills in starting my own gig? I regret bitterly accepting that safe, comfy corporate job in 1978 and sticking with it only because it was easy and secure and...well.

Cowardice, fear of failure, bankruptcy. But what would bankruptcy really mean to a 25-year-old? Instead I'm this nondescript mid-manager-type guy with four perfectly fine unpublished novels and working on a fifth, whose footprint in life is a dull impression in the sand waiting to be washed away at the next high tide. Here's something: Honesty is but a painful acknowledgment about one or more personal failures that lends perspective to misery.

# Day 11. June 10, 2009

Yesterday was heavy but today's a new day. During this morning's run I was listening to Sister Andrea, a cut from the Mahavishnu Orchestra's live Central Park recording that took place back in the early 70s and it brought to mind the vehement insistence of my virtual guitar teacher who said speed is not important when it comes to soloing, rather it was the hook and story that matters.

But I was/am addicted to the breathless, electric buzz saw fingerings of the great maestro John McLaughlin who is nothing without the blinding speed.

Still, I can see his point. The great bluesmen B.B. King and Buddy Guy and immortal rockers like Page, Hendrix, Slash, and so forth—speed was an element, but it was the beauty and logic of their stories that sold their music. But what's not thrilling about the great McLaughlin or Malmsteen or the whole clutch of metal guys who reel off the cascading notes with preternatural velocity. Well, speed, yeah!

Part of it is I'm not fast. My fingers stiffen and lock up when I try to arpeggiate too quickly. I'm more cut out for the slow blues and torchy rock.

That's why I admire the speed demons, even though, back in the day, it was fashionable to sneer at the conceit of athletic fret-burning at the expense of structure and pace. Nah, it was jealousy!

# Day 12. June 11, 2009

Nothing to write. Only Day 12 and nothing to write. This happened sooner than expected. Makes me long for the days when the fiction writing flowed like blood on the page, which in sunny retrospect now seems like an effortless exuberance. I'm sure I had my dry days then, too. Wasn't really different then.

I did a page or two a day first thing in the morning when I got to work. But I'm really stumped now. Maybe it's time to introduce a major character. We'll call her Micky, her real name. She's been my wife for a long time, going on 35 years. She has made me what I am. She changed my diet. I no longer have bread and butter with every meal and I don't eat unusual species and cuts of meat, such as lamb, pigs knuckles, beef tongue, and a broad range of charcuterie. I now eat lean meats, steamed fresh vegetables, lots of potatoes, brown rice, papayas and other exotic fruits.

My contribution to her diet is shrimp cocktail, which she has me prepare because I am a meticulous cleaner of shrimp. I also introduced her to Beefeaters martinis, extra dry, up with olives. When I make them, I skip the vermouth entirely and go with a few drops of olive juice to cut the juniper nectar a tad.

We limit ourselves to one jumbo martini a week, usually on Fridays. Given the current psychic death spiral of my life, it is taking enormous self-discipline not to haul out my drinking tools more frequently. Okay, I got through the day.

#

# Day 17. June 19, 2009

Maybe I should have been more sensitive to the telltale signs that make all revolutions both impossible and inevitable. The hunched shoulders and nervous grunt of the octogenarian owner of the gentleman's barbershop on Brighton as I greeted him the other day. The refusal to post Today's Specials in the window of Primavera's Italian Delicatessen for three days running.

Sirens in the night, yet nothing in the local paper the following day about the ensuing police activities. No kids in the streets, no Mexican migrants on bicycles, no joggers in the downtown. Patrons did fill the outdoor seating areas of my city's food establishments, but now, in retrospect, I remember the subdued hum of their conversations, the lowering of eyes at my approach, the furtive glances of people having something to hide.

Yeah, in retrospect, maybe the air did crackle with electricity for the preceding few weeks--thick with latent possibilities.

Two days ago I found myself in the middle of it, while feeding my rental DVD to a vending machine at my favorite Foodtown. Shots rang out of the stillness and suddenly I found myself running like a maniac for cover.

But everywhere I turned there were bullets whizzing by my head and embedding in car body sheet metal, walls, trees, and...people. The Foodtown parking lot erupted in a chaotic cacophony of cars slamming into each other trying to escape.

I saw my own car in flames so I took off for Main Street to duck into a store or restaurant until the attack, or whatever it was, ran its course. But then...

(This will have to wait. It's the weekend!!!)

# Day 18. June 22, 2009

There was a tremendous explosion and black clouds and debris filled the air. I was knocked off my feet, my skin shredded by glass and shrapnel as I struggled to get up. Screams and sobs rang in my ears in between bursts of small explosives and the rat-a-tat-tat of small arms fire.

By now lines of bloody victims staggered from the downtown area, clothes in rags, moaning for help. Several toppled and died on the spot. I made my way to the city center where the carnage was everywhere.

Steaming hunks of flesh, decapitated bodies with chests blown apart, viscera puddling on the street and sidewalks. One huge explosion followed another and then all that was left of the downtown was rubble where stores and apartments once stood.

Then I saw Micky and my daughters somehow making their way through the frightened mobs, my one daughter, Erica, missing an arm and her sweatshirt black with blood. Natalie looked okay until I noticed one of her shoes was missing. Along with her foot.

Micky sobbed and fell into my arms and I could feel a damp heat across her shoulder and of course my hand came away dripping with my wife's blood. I could feel her weaken, her grasp give way. I gently let her down to the pavement and watched as she expired.

Natalie and Erica pumped her shoulders and slapped her face, trying to revive her, but I said "Stop! Stop! There's nothing that you can do." And then a tremendous explosion and flash of brilliant light blinded us all. "Stop! Stop!"

# Day 19. June 23, 2009

"Watched me expire? You just stood there and watched me expire?! That's what's gonna happen when we're under attack, you're going to stick me with the girls to get blown up while you wander around in a stupor?"

"A stupor? I've never heard you use the word 'stupor'."

"Well, yeah, that's what it sounds like. You off doing your own thing while I have to manage everything. But, what about the bright light? What does that mean?"

"I don't know what it means."

"Well, that's a pretty overworked cliché, don't you think. If you ask me, it's just a defense mechanism to protect you from visualizing your own death. But you certainly don't lack any clarity about mine."

"Probably makes me a selfish bastard."

"And what's this about blowing your kid's foot off? Mutilating your own children, that's really sicko."

"It's not like I have control over content, Pookie."

"Not consciously."

"Right, not consciously."

"Need you to run to the store to pick up some mayo for the tuna salad."

"Don't you remember, the store is all blown up!"

"Then travel back through time."

"That's a plan!"

# Day 20. June 24, 2009

"And, like, you know, you blow off your own daughter's foot! How twisted is that!"

"Sorry, Natalie, I didn't mean to."

"Well, Dad, that's just twisted. Why didn't you blow up? Why did you get Mom shot? At least Erica probably had it coming."

"It's not something I scripted. I only told you guys about it for the purposes of sharing. I've been told I don't share enough—that I spend too much time inside my own head. Jeez, guys, it was only a dream."

"A dream that you called 'recurring,'" said Micky. "Something is very wrong when you maim your family in a recurring dream. Jiminy Crickett was not joking when he said 'a dream is a wish your heart makes.'"

At this point, for the sake of disclosure, my wife and teenage kid are having a lighthearted moment at my expense. My description of their mutilation did not disturb them in the least. In fact, compared with Natalie's steady diet of blood-soaked horror thrillers that she and her girlfriend devour during sleepovers, my dream was tame.

"But you say you never remember your dreams. Why do you think you remembered this one, dear?"

I don't know. That's what I tell my wife. But I think I do know. I'm not fond of loud, sudden noises. They alarm and irritate me. I never could handle thunderstorms as a child; they sent me into a quivering terrified retreat. Today I just find them rude and unpleasant.

I think about this aversion and certain contradictions. I love loud rock and orchestral music because it overwhelms the senses in a pleasurable way. But loud, sudden noises like explosions and screaming outbursts pierce my false veil of serenity.

I imagine a car suddenly crashing through my living room and pinning me against the wall while I'm watching TV. I imagine intruders in black invading my home and firing loud automatic weapons at me and my family. I imagine aircraft flying over my neighborhood followed by the deafening explosion of ordnance. The flash of light, the terrible loud noises.

I remember at a very young age, lying injured in the back of my father's car—a flash of light, a loud deafening explosion.

# Day 21. June 25, 2009

I must confess: I've already violated my system. My page for yesterday was actually written first thing this morning. Most annoying, work intervened yesterday and I was busy all day in meetings and fixing. Fixing is what I mainly do now. Much of the promotional material spewed from my department arrives at my desk in haphazard, impenetrable form from product experts and other illiterates. They come with instructions to "Work your (my) magic." In other words: to fix.

I write hardly anything from scratch anymore. We don't really do new pieces because of budget constraints, so I'm recycling old stuff or fixing new stuff that will only go on the Web or print-on-demand.

I make sentences out of stream-of-consciousness drivel and create focus out of Medusa strands of random arguments. I take the shapeless rocks of my co-workers intentions and chisel various forms of literature out of them—letting their inner logic emerge. That's what I mean by fixing things. I'm part intensive care nurse, part copy editor, part word mechanic.

It's boring as hell, but my skills strike awe in my co-workers, so that is reward enough for this thankless, enervating experience that my situation here has devolved into.

I'd kill for a brand new product launch, a new think piece about the direction of the macroeconomic economy over the next decade. But not yesterday. I had to fix an emailer with a bad headline and an inappropriate opening. And I had to be nice. Pleasant. "Thank you for the direction," I said to the many many helpful people who extol my work and then go about changing it.

I'm taking a long weekend.

# Day 22. June 29, 2009

About the guitar and me being a musician. Feelings here, as usual, are conflicted. Like all masculine youth reaching puberty in the late 1960s, starting a rock band was de rigueur. I chose guitar and my supportive parents paid for lessons at the local music shop, whose teachers taught me nothing but the notes on the strings and chords, chords, chords.

So my friends and I bashed our way through some Cream and Tommy James and the Shondels songs, with me playing chords, chords, chords and stumbling through lead passages because I knew NOTHING about soloing thanks to the dim bulbs at the music shop.

I played hours and hours and got nowhere, but my senior year in high school I saved all my Golden Broaster and Fuller Brush door-to-door cash and toured Manny's Music and Sam Ash in New York and a bunch of places in New Jersey and bought my first real guitar, a Martin D-18, for $366. I took it to college with me and sang off-key for myself and played lush and loud with my amazing guitar.

In a desperate measure to "get good," I took classical guitar lessons at college, my instructor laughing when he saw my Martin and told me it was not a classical instrument and refused to offer lessons until I got one, which I did the next day at a local Sear-Roebuck for $40.

After a semester of torture and hard work, both my instructor and I agreed that I sucked at classical because I didn't practice enough and I didn't practice enough because I HATED IT! So I wrote songs on my Martin, sang them to my fiancée, got married two years later, and put my Martin in various closets where it sat for the next 30-odd years.

# Day 23. July 1, 2009

(Missed a day here—another power failure, so if the computer can't boot up, neither can I!)

So lately, as an unfulfilled writer, an underachiever at work, a parent with an indifferent attitude toward childrearing, I retrieved my Martin from its dormancy. It began a year or two ago when Natalie started taking guitar lessons from a brilliant kid who leads several local bands.

So I got the itch, realized I didn't know anything, decided to start from scratch and sent away for an Internet guitar course that assured me that I will "Learn and Master" the guitar in 20 lessons.

Took me a year and a half to get through the course, practicing every day. Hey, finally learning how to solo—it's a thing called pentatonic scales. My god, what a revelation! The notes flying from Eric Clapton's fingers, from Jimmy Page's fingers, from Carlos Santana's fingers, from B.B. King's fingers. All based on the five forms of the pentatonic scales.

Why didn't the assholes at the music shop teach me the pentatonic forms? Were they afraid that I would become too brilliant? They wanted to keep the secret to themselves and a select few? Fuck! It would've changed my life. I would've been on the path to guitar god at an age when it would have meant something.

Now, my aged head, where learning new stuff takes double the effort of my formative teen years, plods clumsily through as Natalie bolts through her lessons without any perceptible strain. So at the age of 54, introduced to the pentatonic scales. Four decades too late!

# Day 24. July 6, 2009

This is several days after my last entry, which is acceptable given the long weekend for the July 4 holiday. If I can pick up my train of thought, perhaps calling me an over-achieving underachiever pretty much captures it. It being, facing no professional challenges at the moment and none on the horizon, I seek other outlets.

When you read about greatness in the business world, whether it is the child of a sharecropper rising to CEO or a shoeshine boy or gal who eventually owns an airline—most career ascents evolved from hard work and a break here or there. Maybe a mentor or two along the way to offer insight or a contact or three to grease the skids.

These things, however, do not happen to everyone. None of those things happened to me. At the age of 55 I've never gotten the big break, the breakthrough job—never even had a mentor of any stature.

So I'm in low middle management making a decent salary because I own a craft of sorts. Nobody to blame except myself, really, it's just how it is—so I seek my challenges elsewhere.

I've already written about my reticent travails as a novelist—if only for a contact or two in the publishing industry. Deep sigh. But then, as also mentioned earlier, I've run out of ideas and am reduced to doing this half-ass extreme pastiche that may lapse into fiction eventually once I've run out of interesting things to say about my life. Still, nothing beats the challenge of writing a decent novel.

As I've seen that peculiar talent evaporate with time, I've taken up running marathons, which is a tremendous challenge both physically and mentally. But the best part is, as a sporting event, it's a meritocracy. You know exactly where you stand because the clock doesn't lie. And according to the clock, I'm in the top 20 percent of my age group when it comes to competitive running. More on that tomorrow.

# Day 25. July 7, 2009

(The problem with the page-a-day thing is sometimes I get on a roll, which you must've noticed, has occurred on a couple of occasions, yet I stop when I reach the end of a page no matter what because that is the rule. Sure, I could easily kill two or three days of pages in one sitting, but then I could let a whole week go by without writing a thing and fall behind. Writing is a solitary discipline and the only one you have to answer to is yourself. And sometimes "yourself" can be overly lenient and be in a "What the fuck, I'll let it slide" frame of mind for extended periods of time. It happens to me and I tend to be a pretty disciplined guy. Just ask my wife, my kids...)

So, with running, I started jogging in my 30s, got in with a fast crowd and began competing in three- and five-mile races after a few years. The idea was to keep in shape and find an outlet for my competitive juices since I tended toward lackluster jobs, couldn't indulge in team sports without injury, and because running is cheap and requires no special skill or talent.

As I approached age 50 and intimations of mortality beckoned, I decided to do something outrageous to deny my personal mortality and somehow prove that there are worse things to do to a body than to work it unreasonably hard. That would be to run a marathon.

For a year I trained, ratcheting up my miles to unheard of levels. I ran and completed the New Jersey Marathon one month after surpassing the half-century mark. Damn. Done. More on this tomorrow!

# Day 26. July 8, 2009

I thought that would be that. Half a century old, can run 26.2 miles without stopping, thus I will never die. (What a relief, death is such a terror!) But then, not only did I not die upon completing the New Jersey Marathon, I did it with speed and energy to spare and qualified for the Boston Marathon, the world's most prestigious road race. Running pals insisted that if you qualify for Boston, it is incumbent upon you to enter.

I was on the hook. I entered the Boston Marathon, one of the very few worldwide marathon events in which a runner must meet a rigorous qualifying standard based on speed and age. As a 50-year-old, my qualifying time was much slower than it would have been at age 30, which is the only way I made it, since I'm not an inherently fast runner. But that in no way diminished the pride of accomplishment, since thousands of distance runners make it a life-long goal to run Boston, but never succeed at qualifying. So I was among the elite.

Boston beat the hell out of me. It was the single most difficult and painful experience of my life. It was a bright sunny day with the temperature in the low 70s, a virtual inferno for marathon runners for whom sub-50 degrees is ideal.

The course was hellish—no shade and the monstrous hills didn't begin until mile 16, with the infamous Heartbreak Hill coming up at mile 20-and-a-half. By that time I was a depleted, dehydrated, beaten refugee trudging the final six miles in a throbbing stupor, my muscles twitching like a broken neon sign.

My wife broke down in tears when she saw me at the finish. I affirmed my immortality at age 50 in New Jersey; and unaffirmed it in Boston at age 51.

# Day 27. July 9, 2009

But I have helplessly caught the bug. I've gone from medium distance runner (10K or less) to long-distance running (15K up to full marathons). Is running fun? No, not especially. It can be monotonous, and you can get really tired and out of breath. And you can get hurt.

If you're really competitive and obsessive, which the majority of runners are, you're never satisfied with your training or your race results.

But there are benefits. Remember what I said about control in one of my earliest "days"? Running is one of the few things in life in which I have absolute control. It is, in fact, part of my trinity: Guitar, this dumb writing project, and running.

I control when I go running, where I run, how far I run, and how hard I run. It's all on me because no one else really cares. And it's cheap. Four pairs of sneakers a year, a couple of pairs of shorts and shirts plus entry fees for the dozen or so races I do a year. My exercise space is outside my door, so it's convenient.

Plus, I can do it alone. I don't have to depend on anyone and no one depends on me. It feeds my inclination for introversion, but, ironically, my tiny group of best friends are all runners and some of the greatest times to be had is when I'm running with them. But not too often—don't want to become dependent!

And I never get hurt, because I'm a Chi runner. But that's for another day.

# Day 28. July 10, 2009

Had a great idea yesterday for today's page. Didn't write it down. Forgot it. It doesn't matter—if I had written it down, it would have violated this format since today's page would have been started yesterday. Can't violate the discipline. Oh, wait!

There should be nude photos on the Internet of everybody. (Nice transition?) It would save a lot of embarrassment, scandals, marriages, rescinded job offers, et cetera. Here's how to make it happen:

Take a universally used Web browser, say Google, and add an application to the standard offerings of Google Maps, Google News, Google Shopping and so forth. The application could be called Google Nude.

Click on Google Nude and search a name of someone for whom you seek a nude image. If there's a photo of that person out there somewhere in cyberspace, the Google nude program would automatically alter the image á la buff! Just like jokesters Photoshop people's heads on other people's torsos.

In fact, in the Tools tab of Google Nude, you can customize your friend's nudity in countless ways to suit your body preferences. Make a man a girl a girl a man, adjust anatomical features, skin tones, poses, age characteristics, flaccid or engorged, and so forth. Given today's technology, the renderings would be flawless and indistinguishable from an individual's authentic private parts.

Imagine, no more destroyed careers, marriages, families, or reputations due to unintended Web erotica of their person. Because all our persons would be subject to electronic erotic rendering, thanks to Google Nude!

That wasn't yesterday's brainstorm—I made this up on the spot! See? There's no reason to lament foregone inspiration—there's always another idea around the corner. If it can happen to a spent writer like me, it can happen to you. Have a great weekend!

For the rest of ONE PAGE A DAY, find a copy at your favorite e-book retailer.

