 
Squirrel Bait and Other Stories

By Thomas P. Hanna

Copyright 2011 Thomas P. Hanna

Smashwords Edition

# Table of Contents

Squirrel Bait

The Never-Ready-Good-For-Nothing Gadget

Call Your Floor, Please

Check It Out

You Can't Go Home Again - Without a Tour Guide

Clancy's Funeral

Masterworks

The Store Angel

Discover Other Books by Thomas P. Hanna

# Squirrel Bait

Cindy Sue Chandler sat rocking and humming to herself as her brothers tried to reason with her. Tom, the eldest of the siblings, argued, "By all means by friendly with the guy but don't get serious about him. I'm telling you, that guy's as nutty as any can coming from the Planters people."

"He's a real oddball. Have you heard the stories about some of his so-called inventions?" asked Jeff, the baby of the family.

Cindy Sue replied evenly, "They're imaginative solutions to complex problems. Not everybody is able to appreciate keen insights."

"Oh please! Tell me you're kidding," Tom moaned. "Keen insights? What does the guy apply for a patent on? A doghouse with an inflatable moat that you blow up and then fill with water."

"Really a doghouse sitting in a wading pool," laughed Jeff. "Why this great invention? To cool off your dog on hot summer days."

"Except that most dogs won't go near the darned thing and the little one that did almost drowned," Jeff shouted as he fell over backwards off the footstool he was perched on onto the floor holding his sides as he laughed.

"He also claimed in the patent application that it would eliminate the need for a separate water dish for the dog and would simplify the dog washing problem if you just put some shampoo in the pool once in a while." Tom practically screamed this out since he was laughing so hard.

"That idea didn't quite work out but it was a novel approach to the problem," Cindy Sue pointed out.

"So was his solution to the energy problem," answered Tom.

"Let your bath water sit in the tub all day. Now what in the world was that supposed to do?"

Cindy Sue replied calmly, "Ralph simply realized that most of the heat we expend fuel and therefore money to put into the water for washing gets dumped into the sewage system where it's useless. What he proposed was letting the hot water from any source, not just baths, sit a while inside so it could give up some of its heat to the air before we dump it into the pipes under the streets. But it turned out that there were side effect type problems he hadn't foreseen."

"Like what?" Jeff asked.

"When he tried it for a week he found it made a monumental bathtub soap ring," Cindy Sue answered quietly. "It did occur to him to suggest that people let the water sit and give off the heat _before_ using it but nobody likes a cold bath. Anyway, he was at least trying to come up with new solutions. They don't always work out but it's more than most people do."

"Okay, there's a certain logic to that even though it didn't work out," Jeff conceded. "But what about that one of screwing the furniture to the floor? Please explain to me what that's supposed to accomplish."

Cindy Sue stuck out her chin a bit defiantly as she said, "Ralph knows that when people come home late at night and the lights are out they tend to stumble around knocking over furniture exactly when they're trying not to wake up anybody else. By screwing any light piece of furniture to the floor with little tabs he invented to attach to the legs you prevent them from moving. Therefore you can't make any noise and wake others up by knocking them over." She gestured to stop Jeff's objection, "Yes, except when you start shouting and cursing because you hurt your shin on the unyielding furniture you bumped into. So it won't help everybody. But many people do have more self-control than that even in the dark late at night."

"Thank you for recognizing my point," Jeff said.

Cindy Sue plowed on. "Note that those tabs also cut down on your work because you don't have to keep putting the furniture back in place if people can't move it out of place to start with. Also since it makes it too much trouble, you don't feel compelled to rearrange the room every time a little inspiration hits you or you get a new picture for the wall."

She held up a hand to get full attention for her next point. "Which also means that you're less likely to walk into the furniture in the dark because it's always in the same spot even though you had company that day."

"When you explain it like this, it almost makes sense. Why does it seem so dumb at other times?" Tom asked.

"Maybe because you're looking at the action without considering the reason for it," Cindy Sue replied. "Like seeing a tennis player running around the court without being able to see the ball or the opponent."

"But what about this chicken thing," Jeff persisted. "Now surely that has to be plain old-fashioned craziness. Why would you try to raise one-legged chickens?"

Cindy Sue said, "The project was to raise better tasting chickens. Ralph reasoned that the only way to be sure which ones tasted best so you could use them as breeding stock was to taste each one. So he carefully amputated one leg from each chicken and cooked it up. Unfortunately despite a lot of peroxide and bandages many of them didn't survive the surgery. Plus, those that did weren't very successful at breeding. They kept falling over and the roosters kept falling off. So Ralph scrapped the project and had a big chicken fry."

"Unbelievable!' Tom shook his head in amazement. "Well, remember that we warned you. Marry Ralph and you'll spend the rest of your days in poverty wondering what he's going to try next."

"Thank you for your concern but I can make my own decisions about the important things in life," Cindy Sue said as she got up to leave and end this conversation.

* * *

The next evening as Ralph and Cindy Sue sat together on the porch swing he told her about his new project. "A couple of days ago another person told me that I'm crazy. _Squirrel bait_ is what he called me. Now that set me thinking. The reference to squirrels that is. My father's oldest brother, Uncle Charles, bought a piece of land in the country a few years back. It had a stand of trees, an overgrown field, and a section near the house cultivated as a vegetable patch. Uncle Charles had a peculiar passion for nuts and he bought this place precisely because the stand of trees was a mixed planting of nut trees - walnuts, pecans, and Chinese chestnuts. The stand was supposed to produce good crops of harvestable nuts each year."

"That sounds like a nice place."

"How well the nut crops did after that first year none of us was ever sure because about all we heard from Uncle Charles was how the squirrels got all the nuts. Those nuts that were supposed to be his fortune. He had it all planned out. He'd just fill bags with the nuts and haul them off to the market. No plowing, no weeding, no spraying. The trees would do all the work and he only had to go in and haul off the finished product in the fall. Just shake the bounty from the trees as it were.

"The first year no one heard much about the squirrels, only about how good the crop looked and about how you had to be really smart to have the foresight to set yourself up in a good business that required a minimum of work, and how he would probably give up his regular job in town once he really got going as a nut supplier.

"The second year the squirrels arrived. None of us ever actually saw much of them because we seldom visited Uncle Charles once nuts were about all he would talk about. But we heard about the squirrels, oh yes we did. About how they were destroying his so carefully planned out business. He'd grumble, 'Those pesky bushy-tailed tree rats carry off more nuts than they leave and they sample half the ones they do leave behind. Hardly makes it worth going out to harvest 'em.' Each time one of us would talk to him, there'd be more talk about how bad the squirrels were and less talk about the crop and the possibilities of the no-work nut industry. We didn't ask too many questions. What was the point? We just drew our own conclusions and thought our own thoughts."

"You were being considerate not prying into his business too much," Cindy Sue said.

"This chance comment the other day made me think of Uncle Charles and his grove of trees. Here surely is a problem worth assaulting. If Uncle Charles has problems, then the nut industry as a whole must have much bigger ones. With shortages of everything being reported in the newspapers we'll probably have a shortage of nuts and nut products soon if we don't cut down on the competition from the animals. I figure that we still have a chance to head off the problem before it becomes a crisis if I put my mind to finding a solution."

"That's what you do so well, Ralph."

"To put myself in the proper frame of mind I went out and bought a can of assorted salted nuts to munch on as I contemplated the problem. I also consulted an expert, a biologist friend, who lent me some books about animal behavior. My usual approach is to read a little on the subject and then just let the problem sort of percolate in the back regions of my mind.

"It occurred to me at one point that I had muffed it. You know how it is, one of those nagging thoughts that insist on trying to creep into the back of your mind even though you resist it. My mistake was that I'd bought the wrong kind of nuts. Those were shelled. If I really wanted to think like a squirrel, I needed to munch on nuts that I had taken the shells off myself. I also realized that maybe I didn't even have the kinds of nuts any but city park squirrels like since most of the ones in this can were peanuts and they don't grow on trees. I hadn't done my homework. I hadn't checked on squirrels' preference for different kinds of nuts."

"I see your point."

"Suddenly it struck like a proverbial lightning bolt. Shell-less nuts! That was it!" Ralph continued. "One of the behavior books explained that many animals prefer to work a bit for their food and prefer to shell their nuts and seeds themselves. In fact they eat significantly less if you give them only pre-shelled food. So there was a solution. Grow nuts without shells. Then the squirrels won't eat as many."

"That makes sense to me," Cindy Sue said.

"Now, as you know, to me the earmark of a good solution is that it eliminates several problems at same time. With no nut shells, for instance, the shell removal process would be eliminated which would save time, effort, and therefore money. I will have to come up with some suggestions for new uses for nutcrackers though. We don't want them to be wasted."

"I'm sure you'll think of lots of uses for them."

"Plus since the trees won't have to put all that energy into making nut shells, presumably they'll concentrate on making more nuts to use up that energy. That should increase the harvest even more. See, one benefit on top of another if you have a good idea."

"It's really exciting to hear you talk about it."

"It keeps on building too. Without hard shells on the nuts, you won't need a hardhat to eat a picnic in a nut grove in fall anymore. That makes the land even more productive. See what I mean? This is a really good solution I'm working on."

"I can see that."

"Chance events often lead to great ideas. While I was gathering up the animal behavior books to return them I saw a picture in one of a bird trying to sit on an egg that was almost as big as it was. The caption said the bird was an Oystercatcher and that it was responding to a super-stimulus. The text explained that this bird species nests on the beach. The female is very protective of her eggs and if one rolls out of the nest she'll roll it back in. But presented with an artificial egg much larger than the real thing, even as large as the bird itself, the poor bird brain can't help herself. She'll abandon her real eggs to try to sit on the super-egg. She makes a complete fool of herself in the process because she keeps falling off, but she keeps climbing right back on because her instinct to incubate is being triggered so strongly she can't resist."

"She's a very devoted parent bird."

"As I looked at that picture the wheels in my head started turning. I was still thinking about solutions for the squirrel problem. I reasoned that if some animals respond to extra large or extra intense stimuli in a super-strong way, then squirrels might have a weak point like that too. Squirrels eat nuts and they also carry them away to store them. But if they were given extra large nuts they wouldn't be able to control themselves, they'd have to take those nuts rather than regular ones, right? So there's a perfect solution just waiting to be used. Spread a quantity of oversized artificial nuts through your groves. Make them oversized so they'll be super-stimuli and the irresistible objects of choice. But make them of a mixture of some kind of plaster and chemical fertilizer. The plaster would be easy to work with and shape so the super-nuts will be easy to make without special equipment. Then once they're buried in the ground the plaster will slowly dissolve and as it does it'll release the fertilizer so you'll feed your trees without having to do the work yourself."

"That's neat, Ralph. This is so wonderful. You're so wonderful."

"But it's not done yet. Since the fake nut will dissolve in the ground they won't be available as animal food in the winter. That will force part of the squirrel population to move elsewhere to find food. That in turn will reduce the amount of damage done to the crop the next year. And since the artificial nuts will be much heavier than the real ones, the squirrels will be so tired after carrying off and burying a few of them that they won't be able to carry off and bury many real nuts. See what I mean? It's a really great idea. In fact I'm going to make a business out of making the super-nuts and selling them to nut farmers. Then I'll be rich and able to take care of you forever if you'll let me."

Cindy Sue snuggled a little closer to him as she said, "There are moments when I suspect that people are right about you being crazy, Ralph. You're a crazy dreamer. Maybe you are _squirrel bait_ like the man said. But I love you and believe in you and I want you to take care of me forever."

He held her tight as they rocked.

"Maybe that's what you should call it," she suggested.

"What?"

"Your new invention. Call it _Squirrel Bait_."

"Yeah, maybe I'll... Maybe we'll do just that, honey."

* * *

A few days later Ralph wrote an advertisement. Perhaps you've seen it in some magazine or in the Sunday supplement of your newspaper,

_Keep all the nuts at home! There might be a goldmine in your backyard. Stop losses to animal thieves without harming them! Marvelous new product uses the latest scientific insights to safely and humanely eliminate pilferage of your valuable nut crops by wildlife. Has made many people rich. Man from North Dakota writes, "Worth many times the price. Saved a sackful with your product. Lady from Topeka writes, "Your product saved me so much trouble. I used to have to sit outdoors fourteen hours a day for five months a year chasing away the squirrels. May God bless you, you are truly a miracle worker." Full instructions free with each order. Small order (will protect up to ten trees) - $5.95. Large order (enough to protect thirty trees) - $22.50. Send name, address, and money to Squirrel-Bait_...

Some people laughed at the ad. Some laughed at Ralph and Cindy Sue. Most just went about their business as usual.

Ralph has now hired five full time people and twelve part-timers to keep up with the orders. The business is booming, Testimonial letters from little old ladies arrive every week with permission to quote them and a photo of themselves to be used with their testimonials in the ads, The ad now runs regularly in twenty-seven national magazines and 145 newspapers. Ralph and Cindy Sue are millionaires several times over. And very much in love.

Squirrel-Bait® is on its own.

It just goes to show what a good solution can do.

# The Never-Ready-Good-For-Nothing Gadget

Hiram Wilderstein stood at his office window humming and smiling to himself as he watched the pedestrians hurrying along the street two stories below. He raised his glass of ginger ale and toasted the passersby below. "To your curiosity and sense of challenge, my friends. And to my good fortune. May it be literally so," he added quietly.

He turned back to the little office, crowded to overflowing with boxes of papers and drawings from his many aborted business ventures. Never before had he had so much response to one of his advertisements and this was only the first day. He had sensed from the moment that the idea popped into his imagination that this would be the big one that would make his fortune for sure and it certainly looked like he had been right.

As far back as he could remember Hiram had had visions of making a lot of money without working very hard. Even in high school he had been quietly evaluating the potential of various careers from that point of view. He had decided that the logical thing was to sell, and the way to sell with the minimum of overhead was by mail order. The only real question left when he graduated from high school was what to sell. Now after a dozen years and some thirty different products he had apparently found it.

It was all really so simple. When he had completed a course on advertising and consumer motivation at the community college it had come to him in a flash. People disliked products that advertised themselves as something they weren't and at the same time many people seemed to have more money than they knew what to do with so they were forever throwing it away on junk, fads, and useless gadgets.

_If that's how they operate, then that's where I should meet them. I'll supply them with an honestly presented product and tease them with a little challenge - and I'll clean up_ , he concluded. So the _Never-Ready-Good-For-Nothing Gadget_ was born. An ounce and a half of gold-colored wire connecting four pieces of flat plastic, each a different size, color, and shape. It was, as far as Hiram could determine after a full month of playing with it, completely useless for any practical purpose whatsoever. While he was in the process of developing his ad he had given the thing to a number of friends and acquaintances to see if any of them could think of a possible use for it. No one could.

His small ads read simply, _The Never-Ready-Good-For-Nothing Gadget. Believed to be completely useless. Great challenge for gifts, parties, etc. Only $3.50. Available only by mail order._

And the orders and the checks poured in.

After several days it became obvious that the demand would hold for at least a few months, so Hiram shopped out the actual assembly and packaging of the devices to give him freedom to concentrate on promotional activities. He understood full well that promotion was the critical element in the success of any product for which there wasn't a clear and real need - which he estimated to include more than fifty percent of the products on the market any given day.

All of his life Hiram had been an observer of people and their behavior. At six years of age he had made a killing in baseball cards by shrewdly playing on human nature. He had collected by every honest means available to him (purchase, trade, barter, and cajoling) the picture cards of the Yellow Sox and the Buzzards, the two teams at the bottom of the ratings at the beginning of the baseball season. The other kids were happy to give him several of these losers for one of the favorites.

At midseason the bubblegum company stopped making the cards, as Hiram had overheard his neighbor predict they would back in the spring. Then the Yellow Sox surprised everyone except Hiram and his neighbor old Mr. McGee by moving into first place. Mr. McGee, who was the biggest baseball fan Hiram had ever met, had once played professional ball himself for two seasons with the Yellow Sox, the team that was now tearing up the league. He had told Hiram repeatedly that this was the year for the Sox to go all the way. He could feel it in his bones. Hiram didn't tell anyone else about this prediction; he just gathered all of the Yellow Sox bubblegum cards he could get his hands on.

When almost overnight the Yellow Sox cards were the ones most in demand and he had neatly cornered the market in them, the other kids had to line up to haggle for their new favorites to tuck under their pillows and to inspire them and bring them luck by being carried in their jeans pocket when they themselves approached the mound or the batter's box. They paid premium price for the Yellow Sox cards.

They also paid a good price for the Buzzard player's cards although that team was still in last place because Hiram had been actively spreading the idea of using these cards as dart board targets, kitsch collector's items, and insulting little bad luck gifts to one another. Many a third grade first baseman received an envelope containing one of these dreaded cards in the mail the day before an important game and became so superstitiously unsettled that his game was completely ruined.

Promotion was intuitive to Hiram. He had a sense of it, a feeling for what would or wouldn't work for a particular product. Any advertising firm could have made a fortune by paying him good money to assess their campaigns, but without the right courses on his transcript and the right connections in the back offices he couldn't even get his nose in their doors. Not that he really wanted to. He had always believed he would be best off as his own boss. He needed complete freedom to function well. Now he set to work with a passion.

First he sent copies of a cleverly worded little article about the newest fad, the _Never-Ready-Good-For-Nothing Gadget_ , to several hundred college newspapers across the country. More than half of them ran the piece and soon orders were pouring in from alert campus bookstore managers who knew a moneymaker when they saw one. The gadget became the fall semester campus rage.

Hiram took considerable pride in the fact that in less than a calendar year from their introduction to the market the _NiRGiN_ s (sounds like virgins), as they were now almost universally known, were the basis of college level credit courses in design and utility at more than two dozen colleges and universities. _NiRGiN_ s made Frisbees and hula hoops look like exotica.

When conservative groups around the country began to organize public demonstrations in protest of the commercialization and exultation of uselessness, Hiram readily agreed to debate their spokespersons in various public forums. He even quietly supported their activities through anonymous donations. "Exposure is exposure," he was inclined to say. "And exposure sells the product."

When Jay Leno and Dave Letterman both toyed with the things on camera the same week the sales doubled overnight. For months very little except word of mouth was required to keep sales high. The product had a kind of self-perpetuating sales appeal. During those months Hiram carefully prepared for the next big campaign - to be launched when, and only when, the interest began to flag as reflected in sales figures and public exposure.

But with his feel for such things Hiram sensed the diminution of interest before the sales reports gave any clear indication of it and he was ready to move immediately. With considerable fanfare, which included an expensive TV saturation campaign in seven major markets, he launched _NiRGiN 2_ , an entirely different but equally useless device with a contest offering $100 prizes to anyone who could come up with any practical use for the thing. The basic model sold for $5 and was an overnight success.

Entries for the contest poured in and each was evaluated by one of a panel of big name experts from several fields that Hiram had hired to act as judges. Those ideas that were approved by their first reader were passed on to the entire panel for evaluation. Each idea that was awarded a $100 prize was carefully written up in a lavishly illustrated large format soft cover book called "The _NiRGiN_ Use Book". The next Christmas these sold as a great novelty gift item for $12.98 and sold 20,000 copies the first week. Eventually it would be followed by the Use Books II, III and IV. Complete sets became collector's items and were traded on eBay regularly.

Hiram knew that he had made a real contribution to culture when Miami, St. Louis, and Spokane all bid on a super-sized sculpture _NiRGiN 2_ designed to be displayed in the courtyard of a city hall. Nieman-Marcus devoted a full page in their annual Christmas catalog to a diamond encrusted platinum version for $150,000.

The temptation to try to keep the momentum going by coming up with more and more useless or trivial products was very real, and many of his advisers recommended that line of action, but Hiram didn't let himself fail into it.

He explained to a TV interviewer, "There has to be responsibility at the bottom of it all. There's a time for playing silly games and thumbing your nose at conventional wisdom. _NiRGiNs_ were a way for people to do something wild, something slightly unconventional, something crazy – but do it without destroying their pocketbooks, their integrity, or their sense of humor. There's a limit though. Cross that fine line and large numbers of people suddenly realize you've stopped giving them a giggle and are now giving them the finger. Nobody likes to be played for a fool. Besides, this attitude implies that I had no serious intention in starting this whole thing, and that simply isn't true. I have had a serious purpose behind what I've done from the very beginning."

In the next few months Hiram was very busy making contacts and arranging meetings. He carefully avoided all publicity about his actions and intentions during this period, keeping the public attention riveted on the product. Sales of _NiRGiN_ s remained substantial although the decline had begun.

On April first, Hiram held a news conference at which he announced the formation of a non-profit corporation to be called the _Institute for the Study of Applied Uselessness_. The staff of the Institute would include a number of internationally known scientists and thinkers, backed by a virtual army of technicians and tinkerers.

Hiram explained, "The purpose of the Institute is to demonstrate that there are very few things in our world that can't be put to some practical use if we give full consideration to their potential. The Institute will study both the practical applications of various devices, processes, and materials, and the processes of human mental activity that so often restrict and limit our thinking so we overlook many applications of the resources we have available.

"It is anticipated that the Institute will make valuable contributions in the form of new products and processes, in additional uses for existing ones, and in basic understanding of human psychology. As of this date the Institute has already been awarded seven major study grants by the Federal Government and a number of contracts to undertake studies for international organizations have been entered into."

"Sir, is it the intention of the Institute to make uselessness obsolete - possibly within our lifetimes?" a reporter asked with a smirk.

Hiram answered seriously, "No, it's only our intention to make it less prevalent. We feel that a certain amount of uselessness is desirable, possibly even essential, to human affairs."

"Can you explain that a bit?" another reporter asked. "That seems to go against the whole current of thought in the modern world."

Hiram smiled slightly as if he were happy that someone had picked up on the matter and given him a chance to elaborate on the point. "There are two things in our lives that many people presume modern scientific thought is constantly trying to do away with. One is a sense of wonder at the marvelous workings of the natural world. Non-scientists often assume the scientists want to be able to explain everything in mechanistic terms and that there will no longer be any sense of awe and wonder. The other thing is our failure to find some economically useful purpose or use for everything. People assume that the only reason scientists and others study anything is to discover its practical economic uses and they have no interest beyond that in anything animal, vegetable, or mineral.

"However, neither of these assumptions is true. Quite on the contrary. The sense of wonder is precisely what fuels most of the scientific research. Wonder at the marvelous mechanisms when we can work out their details, and even more at the complexities within apparently simple systems that keep their secrets beyond the reach of our most advanced technologies.

"In much the same way the realization that certain creatures or features of the natural world are there and are perpetuated year after year without their serving any function in our lives emphasizes that we're only part of the overall universe and the whole universe exists alongside of us and despite us, but not entirely for us.

"There's something bigger than humanity, call it what you will. Uselessness reflects the fact that there's a power and an intelligence beyond our own and some things around us we can only admire and marvel at, not use and possibly not even understand. That's their part in this world. To be things that we can simply marvel at, delight in, and accept as they are.

"I personally believe we'd all be poorer if we didn't have some useless things in our lives. I'd include most of the arts under this general heading, as well as the appreciation of wilderness and natural beauty. One of the things I hope to see documented by the studies of the Institute is the real effect of these things that we judge to be useless in our lives. Without in any way attempting to prejudice the results of such research, let me say that I suspect we'll find having some useless things in our lives is essential to our mental health."

* * *

Five years after opening the Institute Hiram gave up his position as director to devote his full attention to his new project, _Inventors and Imaginations Unlimited_ , a cooperative venture of several dozen inventors and tinkerers to research and market their new ideas. It was a project very close to Hiram's heart and, according to his autobiography, it was his intended enterprise from his mid-teens on.

Beyond his wildest dreams they succeeded in bringing many useful and energy-efficient devices to the service of the people of the world and the inventors and the implementers were all comfortably rich and immensely satisfied in the process.

Shortly before his untimely death Hiram gave an interview in which he observed, "My own life story is the best evidence I can think of that uselessness can be put to good practical use if you really apply yourself. I used the useless but intriguing _NiRGiN_ s to finance both the Institute and _I & I Unlimited_ and many, many people have benefited either directly or indirectly from those projects. I had a whole lot of fun doing it too. What more could anyone ask?"

They buried him in a country graveyard that overlooks an expanse of tangled brush and protruding rocks for which no one can find any more productive use. Above his grave hangs a _NiRGiN 1_. His epitaph reads, "He was a completely useless man. Amen."

# Check It Out

Fifty-something Molly McPhee wasn't a notoriously patient person on her best days and today definitely wasn't one of those. She had stopped in this new supermarket and nothing was where it was located in the ones she usually shopped so it took twice as long as usual for her to find what she wanted. But at least she did find almost everything on her shopping list.

Now she stood at the front of the store facing the flashing sign that said this was the checkout area but it wasn't like any supermarket checkout area she had ever seen before. Instead of open lines there were a series of Plexiglas tunnels that reminded her of the starting gates at a horse racing track.

If you were claustrophobic, these might cause you a problem. From where she stood it seemed that there was a gate at the end of the tunnel where you would leave but she assumed that wasn't actually to keep you from going out of the tunnel and the store. The entire aisle was enclosed in smoked Plexiglas which she suspected made it somewhat soundproof. She wondered if that was to keep your scream when you saw your bill from upsetting the other shoppers.

She was particularly nervous because as far as she could see there was no one else in this area, no employees and no customers although two of the tunnels near the far end were closed right now so she couldn't see inside. But the sign said to enter an aisle to begin the checkout process. Molly went into the aisle but only pulled the cart partway in behind her to block the type of panel that was blocking off those two end units from closing behind her and confining her in that plastic cocoon.

She looked around inside. "What am I supposed to do here? Doesn't anybody work in this aisle? This doesn't look like any supermarket checkout lane I've ever seen before."

A synthesized voice said, " _Good day, Madam or Sir_."

"Huh?"

" _I am the F.R. S. seven hundred three ready to assist you_ ".

"Is this some kind of a joke? Where are you? Stop hiding under the counter or wherever you are and let's get this done. I don't like all this fancy dancy machine stuff."

" _BuyGood Markets welcomes you and thanks you for your patronage, For your convenience we have installed this totally automated checkout system that will speed you on your way while assuring you complete accuracy in tallying your bill_."

"Come on, come on. The ice cream's gonna melt."

" _The system F.R.S. seven hundred three has many useful features that I will be happy to explain to you with a four minute video lesson. If you are already familiar with my operations please push the response button to move directly into the checkout sequence_."

"Button? What button? I don't see any button."

" _Fine. Then we will proceed with the lesson. Welcome to the wonderful world of high technology. You are preparing to use one of the marketing world's most advanced consumer interface systems. Congratulations on your wise choice_."

"Button? There's nothing within my reach that even remotely resembles anything I'd call a button. What are you guys trying to pull?' Molly grumbled looking high and low.

" _The first item you need to become familiar with is the response button, so called because it is the button you must push to respond to my system prompts_."

"Yeah, but where is it?"

" _Please note first the painted shoe prints on the floor_."

"To heck with feet on the floor, where's the darned button?"

The computer voice gave its version of a polite laugh then continued, " _Sorry, gentlemen, but we only had room for one set of foot prints and the ladies outnumber you so..._ "

Molly shouted, "Don't tell me demographics, tell me where the confounded button is."

" _...you will have to play along with us_."

"Why? Why are you doing this to me?" Molly demanded.

" _When you are standing at the indicated spot the front edge of the counter is the response button. press down on it gently but firmly_."

"At last some useful information. Where is this confounded thing?" She slapped her hand on various sections of the counter.

Finally there was a _beep_ so she stopped. "That? That you call a button?" she said.

" _Now you have got it. Just push gently but firmly on that button whenever a response is called for_."

"Who designed this dumb thing and hid the button in the decorative trim?"

The computer continued right on. " _As you see, the response button has been made unobtrusive so my encounter cubicle would look less threateningly technical. We hope you like our decision._ "

"I don't. I dislike it very much but now at least I should be able to push you along and get out of here. Why oh why did I ever come into this store?"

" _Now I will familiarize you with..."_

"Skip that," She shouted as she slapped at the counter hoping to hit whatever had made the sound before. After three slaps she was rewarded with a _beep_."

" _The counter top is made of a special epoxy_..."

"How do we fast forward this thing, Mac? Let's get to the 'Here's where we check out your groceries' part."

A few more slaps and another _beep_ but nothing seemed to change.

" _The scanner uses a laser beam to_..."

She had at least gotten one bit of it now. She hit the counter repeatedly. _Beep, beep, beep_. But nothing else happened.

Molly said to herself, "Maybe I should just walk out and leave this stuff here. I could get it all at a sensible store that I know how to deal with."

The computer announced, " _Please note that one of my security features prevents you from exiting this cubicle until the transaction is complete and the appropriate sum tendered. This is to prevent shoplifting and mistakes and should result in lower prices for all of our prized customers_."

"Holy smokes, I can't even get out of this place. I'm like a mouse caught in a trap."

" _To make you feel more comfortable in interacting with me, please feel free to call me Mike. That stands for Machine Intelligence, Kinder Edition_."

"The other version must have been a real bruiser."

" _I am programmed to respond to some voice commands if you hold down the response button while speaking slowly and clearly into the microphone_."

"Oh no, not another hidden device. I can't take this."

" _For your convenience the microphone is placed in the counter top just upstream of the laser reader scanning plate_."

"More great design features," Molly said with scorn.

" _Please remember that your groceries cannot be sitting on that spot if you wish to use voice command responses_."

"Of course not. It'd make too much sense if I could talk into the microphone and position the groceries to be scanned at the same time. We don't want this high tech shopping experience to be rushed."

" _If you wish to proceed using voice commands I will give you a five minute tutorial in the acceptable commands that my system is programmed to recognize and respond to_."

Molly slapped at the counter and got a _beep_ in response. She grumbled, "More delay. Move it, Mac. Cut to the chase, for the love of Mike."

" _Yes? Did you address me? My acronym was spoken. You have now entered voice control mode_."

"Aw, Mike, I just want to get my groceries processed and get out of here."

" _No problem. I will be happy to begin the checkout process without further delay_."

"I don't believe it. This time it's actually cooperating and doing what I want to do."

" _Please line the items on the conveyer belt in single file. If possible, put multiples of the same item, like three cans of the same soup, together. When you are ready for the first group of items to be scanned, press the response button_."

"That seems straight forward enough."

She made a single line of bottles and packages down the counter then pushed firmly on the edge of the counter.

" _Thank you for indicating your readiness. Please indicate the processing speed you prefer by the number one, two, or three and I will proceed_."

"I guess the faster the better. Three."

" _Thank you. I will proceed at too speed_."

Suddenly the machinery sprang into action and in about two seconds with a cacophony of crashing and crunching sounds all the items that had stretched down six feet of conveyor belt were in one jumbled heap on the other side of the scanner.

Molly couldn't even get her words out before it was over but they spilled out afterwards. "Stop! Are you crazy? Holy smokes, look what you've done to those things!"

" _If that is not satisfactory, perhaps you would like to proceed at a slower speed_ ," the computer suggested.

"Yeah, like about one tenth speed should do just fine. Then the groceries might survive to reach my car anyway."

" _An added consumer bonus of working at the slower rate is that I am enabled to call out each item as it is scanned to reassure you that the items are being correctly identified and priced_."

"But, Mike, that would imply that I think you're capable of error. Perish the thought."

" _Sarcasm is not pretty_."

"Neither are smashed tomatoes and corn flakes reduced to dust," Molly replied as she surveyed the damage.

" _To proceed, position the next group of items on the conveyer belt and then push the response button_."

"I'm gun shy now, Mike, old boy. I don't know if I'm willing to take a chance on it. Maybe I should cut my losses by deciding not to buy the rest. I'll pay for the destroyed stuff and leave."

" _Come on, Madam or Sir, where is your sense of adventure?"_

"I think it got crushed between the canned peas and the chocolate éclairs. Oh my goodness but that did a job on the chocolate éclairs."

" _They will still taste as good once you get past the appearance part of it_."

"I guess so but it'll really be hard to overlook their mangled appearance," Molly said pulling that package from the pile.

" _I am ready to proceed when you give the signal_."

Molly could see no alternative, so she lined up a few items and pushed the button. "Okay, here goes nothing I hope."

" _Cut snap beans, A-Three brand. Sixty-five cents. Scouring pads, ten count. Generic brand. Ninety-eight cents_." It added an electronic _cheep, cheep_.

"Just ring up the damages, Mike. I don't need any commentary, thank you."

" _Bananas, two and one half pounds. Ninety-seven cents_."

"They're a rip-off but my mother insists on eating one every day. The middleman gets all the profit. It's not fair."

" _I regret that I am not programmed to discuss the politics of the world agricultural situation with you_."

"I'll be content if you just keep listing the groceries so we can get this done." She put the next items on the counter.

" _Dish detergent, inferior brand, twenty-four ounces. Seventy-nine cents_."

"You don't have to use the stuff, so spare me your ratings."

" _Apple, three pounds. One dollar seventy-one cents_."

"Apple! That's a rutabaga and they're going for twenty-three cents a pound. Get it right, Mike."

" _I must disagree. The FRS seven hundred three is programmed to correctly identify all fresh produce stocked in this store. I accept your apology for inappropriately trying to outsmart me_."

"Look, machine, I know a rutabaga and I know an apple and that's a rutabaga. At twenty-three cents a pound. Plus, who's ever heard of a three pound apple? Correct it."

" _The correct identity of the produce in question is rutabaga at fifty-seven cents a pound. Allow me to assure you that I have superior knowledge of these things since I am a computer_."

"Correction, what you are is a computerized turkey. One I have had enough of you. Get me a human being over here and make it fast."

" _The FRS seven hundred three is designed to handle all consumer interactions directly. No further assistance is required. If you will simply be reasonable you will concede that I am correct and you are in error. I will not even charge you extra for that_." It gave its tinny synthesized laugh again.

"I guess you leave me no alternative but to break you. Remember, you asked for this.' Molly said.

The computer voice called out loudly, " _Warning! Any assault on my structure will result in serious electric shock which may cause permanent injury_."

Molly smiled. "Don't be silly. I'm not going to beat you up, I'm going to fry your little silicon brain."

" _Warning! Any open flame will evoke a protective spray of fire retardant foam which may irritate your eyes and damage your clothing_."

"I think I'm detecting a note of panic in your voice, Mike. Maybe you should be prudent and signal for a human to come and take over here."

" _I can do this. I am programmed to deal with far worse than this. It is no sweat for me_."

"Here you go then. We'll play what's that?" Molly said.

" _Facial tissues, 100 count. Three dollars forty-nine cents. Ground sirloin, two pounds, thirteen ounces. Forty-three cents_." It gave a _beep_ and then an electronic whistle. " _I apologize. Something is not correct. That does not compute. Please pass those items over the scanning plate again_."

"I think I'm ahead so I'm going to decline your request. Here's some more for you. Isn't it wonderful what you can do by adding a few little lines to the bar codes? If you weren't programmed to verify the package weight and general appearance with the bar code number this wouldn't have any effect but you're vulnerable and that's what's going to break you."

" _Monster meal dog chow, 500 pound bag. One dollar twenty-nine cents_." Again a _beep_ followed by a whistle. " _Please pass that item over the scanner again. My check of the store inventory list fails to locate that item for sale here. There seems to be a problem with the bar code._ "

Molly leaned close to the microphone and said, "I think that whirring sound I hear is your electronic brain starting to percolate, machine. Can't identify the merchandise? Can't verify the items? It should be about 'Call in the human' time."

" _I can handle this. I have been programmed to handle every foreseen situation_."

"I'm royally annoyed that you've put me through all this inconvenience, machine, but I am getting some slightly sadistic pleasure out of tweaking you and detecting your soft spots. We humans have a thing about too smart machines."

" _That is a very childish attitude and unworthy of you_."

"I know and I'm so-o-o ashamed of showing you this item."

" _Fresh As A Daisy Kitty Litter, three ounce box. I am sorry, we do not stock three ounce boxes so that item does not exist. No charge_."

"Now that's a price I can live with, especially for a pound of imported Swiss cheese. What do you make of this one?"

The response was a harsh electronic noise. " _I am sorry but that item is not for sale. It does not have a valid bar code programmed into my system. Please place it in the reject bin on the far side of the counter top. We cannot proceed until my sensors indicate that it has been turned in. Please do not violate this rule_."

"I think we have a winner, Mike. This is the one you can't deal with so it's fry the silicon chip time."

The harsh electronic noise was repeated several times. Finally the computer's voice said, " _Okay, okay, you win. Someone is on his or her way. I hope you are satisfied now. They will probably send me back to checking for overfilled bottles on the beer bottling assembly line. Nice going_."

"Forgive me if I'm less than sympathetic. This wouldn't have been necessary if you had honored my request and called in a human to help me when I asked you to."

She looked up at the thin, straggly-haired youth with multiple piercings in and a scowl on his face who sauntered over. His nametag identified him as Drek and she thought that was very descriptive of the person.

"Yeah, whadaya want? You messin' with the machine? We don' like that. 'Specially when I have to cut my break short to find out what's happenin'."

"This is an improvement?" she asked herself.

He looked at the register screen. "The computer already has you tallied up."

"But half the items haven't been scanned," she replied indicating her half-filled cart.

Drek just shrugged and said, "That'll be $3,455.67. Unless you have coupons you forgot to present at the start."

Molly laughed. "The computer's revenge." She squeezed around the cart and headed around the back of the line toward the exit marked for those without packages.

"Hey, where you goin'? You didn't pay for this stuff," Drek called after her.

"I just realized I left my wallet in my other handbag so I'll have to leave all that for you. Enjoy."

Drek cautiously poked the package on top of the heap of crushed-together groceries. "Were those things chocolate éclairs? Wow! You'd never guess it to see that mess."

# Call Your Floor, Please

The Natterby was an old fashioned multistory office building with a high-ceilinged lobby that occupied more than half of the ground floor. Four large planters of palms and regularly replaced flowering chrysanthemums marked the corners of the open space and were the only impediments to your view or your progress across the terrazzo-floored expanse. A bench on each side of each square planter provided the only seating in the lobby. Doors provided access from the street on two adjacent glass-walled sides. The third side was a solid wall of polished marble. A bank of elevators, a group of payphones at each end, the base of a staircase, and two doors and a hall providing access to the offices at the rear of this level made up most of the fourth side.

The Natterby was also old fashioned in having elevator operators and an official Elevator Starter in charge of keeping things moving efficiently. The starter, Sam Smith, had a stand with a phone and space to store papers a few feet from the large office directory board so that he could be the information person as part of his duties.

Smith was in the habit of moving around behind the closest planter when he wanted to be as inconspicuous as his dark red with gold braid trim uniform jacket would allow. Since he was short and had a boyish look despite his thirty plus years he struck many as someone who had become separated from his high school band. Sometimes he was happy enough to go along with the youthful illusion but many times he worked at emphasizing his maturity and authority.

At the moment he was standing by the planter just watching. It was mid-morning and the traffic through the lobby was light He waited until hefty middle-aged Calvin Coolridge waddled over and had a minute to study the office directory before he made himself obvious.

"Yes, sir. Can I help you find something?"

"Oh hi. I'm trying to locate a Mister Simpson, Jonathan B. Simpson. I have an appointment but I'm not clear on whether I'm supposed to meet him here in the lobby or up in his office. In fact I'm not sure where his office is. I can never remember names, especially company names. I only remember his name because I have it written down." He waved an official looking envelope at Smith and then put it away again.

"Mr. Simpson's a tricky one. He really gets annoyed if people aren't prompt for appointments with him but once in a while he plays games and tries to avoid somebody he doesn't care to meet even when he had agreed to it earlier."

"Actually that's part of my problem," Coolridge explained. "I called the number I have for him and the male secretary or whoever answered said Mr. Simpson would meet me but then he hung up without saying where. I called right back there was no answer."

"That sounds like him. A nice man, you understand, but peculiar. Actually I'm pretty sure I saw him go out a while ago."

"So he's not even here?"

"I don't think so but if you want to find a seat off to the side there I'll be glad to point him out to you when he comes through the lobby. I owe him one for skimping on my holiday tip."

"Fine. I'd really appreciate it. Just give me a wave and point to him and I'll take it from there. You don't need to be involved."

"That'd be perfect," Smith said.

They moved off in opposite directions.

A _ping_ announced the arrival of Elevator One. Its door opened and Maybelline Marshall, the operator, looked out. Seeing no one nearby she called quietly, "Thirteenth floor. Ladies lingerie, farm implements, and explosive devices. Please step to the rear of the car." She let out a hearty laugh, then wondered aloud, "Now why can't I bring myself to do that when the place is crowded?"

"Because I'd fire you if you did," Smith said stepping to where she could see him.

"Oops! I didn't see you hiding there, Mr. Smith."

"But you should know I'm always here, Maybelline. Since they pay me to be traffic director for the elevators I try to keep an eye on the comings and goings."

Marshall muttered to herself, "And the goings-on as we all well know."

The _call_ light blinked on and a chime sounded. She said, "I'd really love to stay and chat, Mr. Smith, but someone on twelve wants down. That is of course if I have your permission to go, Mr. Official Elevator Starter. Oh, and here's a customer that needs a lift right now."

A man pushing a rack of brightly colored dresses and checking his watch as he hurried along rushed to the elevators.

Smith waved Marshall on her way and then continued the gesture into a hearty wave of greeting for his boss who strode across the lobby trying to looking important.

The boss leaned close and said in a conspiratorial tone, "Sam, this is most urgent."

"Sure, Mr. Frump."

"Do you know Jonathan Simpson?"

"Sure, Mr. Frump."

"He's the one who's office manager for _Economic Limited_."

"Sure, Boss. I know who you're talking about."

"Tallish sort of fellow. Usually wears a hand-painted silk tie."

"Sure, Boss. I know the guy."

The door of Elevator Three opened and several attractive young women emerged and walked across the lobby chatting. Frump's eyes were glued on them and for a moment his brain had no room for any other thoughts.

When the women disappeared out the door onto the street Frump realized with a start that he had become distracted but he wasn't sure about the details. He said, "Okay, I'll expect you to take care of that then. We're both depending on you. We want to keep our tenants happy."

"Uh, Mr. Frump..."

"But remember this is all mum. Talk could be embarrassing. This might even be illegal for all I know."

Smith whispered, "Uh, Mr. Frump..."

Frump whispered back, "Don't whisper, Sam. People will think I must be telling you secrets."

"But you haven't, sir?"

"Of course I haven't. Except of course just between us."

"No, I mean you didn't tell me what I'm supposed to do."

"About what?"

"About Mr. Simpson."

"Shh! For crying in a bucket, Sam. That's a secret. It was never said."

"Exactly, sir. You never said it. You _really_ never said it. So I have no idea what it's about."

Frump was confused. "Really?"

"Word of honor," Smith said crossing his heart.

"I didn't tell you there will probably be a process server around looking for Jonathan Simpson to give him a subpoena that would wreck his vacation plans so he wants to avoid that fellow and you're to use whatever clever devices you can come up with to keep them apart? I didn't tell you that?"

"No, but you don't need to now since I know what I need to know."

"Great, Then I really didn't tell you. Remember, mum's the word, I knew we could depend on you, Sam,"

"Right you are, Mr. Frump."

Frump signaled Marshall who has arrived. He entered her elevator with a confident smile and they ascended.

Smith looked over to where Calvin Coolridge waited and said to himself, "I think maybe I blew it. If Frump is involved I'll take it in the neck if Simpson's vacation is ruined. If Frump weren't involved it'd be sweet revenge on that cheap sucker Simpson. I'll have to see what happens."

* * *

Three businessmen entered from the street and went to the elevators. One, Mitchell Mosley, seemed to be in a trance, almost as if he were sleep walking, so the others unobtrusively guided him along.

"What do you say, Mosley, any interesting images in your dreams this day?" Mike Abbott asked.

Mosley looked up. "Huh?"

As the men entered her elevator Marshall said, "Call your floor, please."

Mosley gave a start. "Oh!" He hurried back off the elevator and over to one of the nearby pay phones where he dialed.

"What's he doing?" Hank Costello asked.

"Phoning his office upstairs. Sorry, I didn't see he was with you until it was too late," she apologized.

"Why's he calling upstairs?" Costello asked.

"To get the message," Marshall replied.

"What message?" Costello was intrigued now.

Marshall shrugged, "There isn't one. He just does that every time I ask for floors if he's distracted or daydreaming."

"Doesn't anyone stop him and explain his mistake?" Costello asked,

"It'd only embarrass him," Abbott explained.

"Doesn't _this_ embarrass him?" Costello asked.

"Not really," Marshall replied. "If he's distracted enough to fall for it he's also in too much of a daze to realize he misunderstood."

"Plus there almost always is some message waiting for him since his advice is so much in demand," Abbott said

"Or maybe he just has a very considerate secretary," Marshall added.

Costello looked out to see Mosley hanging up the phone. "That's amazing."

Marshall said, "Quick, what floors are you fellows going to so I don't have to ask again when he gets back here?"

"He might go through this more than once?" Costello asked.

"Six times one day. That was before I realized what was happening," Marshall said. "Now I usually remember to phrase the question differently."

"We want four and six," Costello told her.

Mosley dashed back onto the elevator saying, "Great, you're still here. Sorry about that delay."

* * *

Since part of his job was to keep the lobby neat, while it was quiet before the lunch hour rush began Smith walked to the far planter to remove a newspaper that had been sitting there for some time.

He took a minute to scan the headlines and when he looked up he saw Jonathan Simpson bustle in from the street. Smith tried to catch the other man's eye without attracting Coolridge's attention but didn't manage to do that so a more vigorous move was required.

Smith intercepted Simpson and stepped close and, barely moving his lips, said, "Mr. Simpson, could I please speak to you for a minute over behind the planter."

"Not now, Smitty, I'm in a hurry today."

"You could lose your vacation."

"What? What's going on?" Suddenly Simpson wasn't in such a rush.

"There's a man here looking for you. Has to see you in person. Waving around official looking papers."

"Oh no! I'm so close to getting away."

"He's waiting at the far side of the lobby there, He's not sure what you look like so he hasn't spotted you yet. Just leave right now. You'll be in the air before he knows he's missed you."

"But I absolutely have to get to my office first. My plane tickets are there and I have to activate some essential security systems. Can I get to the elevators or the stairs without crossing the lobby?"

"Can't be done," Smith said. "Any door from outside that doesn't open into the lobby would set off alarms and that'd focus attention on you when security rushed out and grabbed you."

"What can I do? You're supposed to be full of clever ideas."

"You'll have to cross the lobby but not be recognizable."

"Are you saying I should put a paper bag over my head?"

"No, that'd attract attention. This isn't the New York City subway so people here will stare at what's out of the ordinary."

"So what can I do? Help me. I promise you I'll never overlook you again."

Smith thought, _Aha, so you are aware of your omission, which means it was deliberate_. He said, "How about some dresses?"

"Drag? I'm not sure I want to go that far. If someone else recognized me..."

"No, I mean the racks of ladies wear they roll in and out of here all the time for the showings in the different offices upstairs."

"Are you suggesting that I steal a dress from one?"

"No, no. I'm suggesting that you could walk across the lobby blocked from view by a rack of dresses being wheeled along."

"Oh! Terrific idea. I owe you one for this, Smitty."

"And don't think I won't remind you of that. Here comes a delivery right now. Get out this way and persuade the man to let you walk with it."

Smith watched Simpson duck around the planter to intercept the rack of clothes, then he turned to find Calvin Coolridge coming across the lobby.

"Has Mr. Simpson come in yet? I thought that might have been him a minute ago," Coolridge said.

"I'll have to say that I haven't seen him get on an elevator anyway," Smith said not lying.

"Okay, thanks," As Coolridge turned to go back across the lobby he stopped to let the rack full of dresses go across in front of him. The delivery man was at the front end guiding it and Jonathan Simpson was walking along on the side facing the other two men with his arms spread along the dresses and his face buried in the cloth to avoid being recognized.

Coolridge stared at Simpson. He turned to Smith with a questioning look but Smith just shrugged.

When Coolridge looked away Smith coughed discreetly and gestured vehemently to Smith that the man to be avoided was now on this side of the lobby.

Simpson made a wild jump, hoping to go clear through the group of dresses, but succeeded only in getting into the middle of them. But at least only his feet were now showing.

Then a sequined black party dress fell off its hanger, wrapped around his feet, and tripped him.

The deliveryman, walking on the other side of the rack, had been lost in the music from his radio and unaware of what had been happening through all this but when Simpson's thrashing about threatened to overturn the rack he stopped and looked back.

From his awkward position Simpson called, "Keep going! For the love of Pete, don't stop. It's worth twenty dollars to you to hurry to the elevators."

At that moment Elevator One arrived at the lobby. Mitchell Mosley, lost in thought, walked out into the confusion with the dress rack. He glanced over at the activity as the rack of dresses with Simpson struggling to stay hidden inside with the one slinky number still hobbling him was pushed onto Elevator Two and that door closed.

Suddenly Mosley looked startled by a thought and rushed back onto Elevator One.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Mosley?" Maybelline Marshall asked.

"It just hit me. Turmoil," Mosley said.

"It sure was," Marshall agreed. "It's anybody's guess what that was all about out there."

"Would you please take me back upstairs immediately. I have to move on this," Mosley said then sank back into his thoughts.

"Is this one of your inspirations, Mr. Mosley?"

Mosley mumbled distractedly, "Fashion Turmoil. They make dresses. I have to put in some orders."

"Can you please hold just one second?" Marshall said.

Mosley was back in a dream state, his lips moving inaudibly, so he didn't object.

Marshall signaled frantically to Sam Smith. She called, "M and M tip. Fashion Turmoil. Spread the word."

Smith ran to a locked panel on the wall, fumbled it open and pushed a button. A loud gong-like tone sounded through the whole building. Smith shouted into an intercom phone which blared his words out through the P.A. system, "Fashion Turmoil. Buy! Buy!"

Smith watched the floor indicator as Elevator One ascended. He was wringing his hands and doing a little dance of pleasure at the thought of making a lot of money.

In the elevator Marshall said, "We sure do appreciate getting in on these things along with you, Mr. Mosley. We're all gonna buy every available share of Fashion Turmoil stock and get rich."

Mosley was still mumbling and distracted. "Have to sell it all. Quick as possible. I've got to unload it all right away."

In the lobby Smith wondered what it meant when the floor indicator showed that Elevator One had apparently stopped between floors.

In the elevator Marshall leaned close to hear clearly as she asked, "Could you please say that again, Mr. Mosley."

Mosley mumbled, "Sell. Sell it all. That's what I'll do."

Smith turned and walked out of view behind the planter just before the indicator dial started to move again. Elevator One was rapidly descending to the lobby,

The door opened and Marshall looked around frantically for Smith but couldn't see him. She glanced at Mosley standing mumbling in the elevator, took a deep breath and said loudly, "Call your floor, please."

Mosley snapped alert. He ran off the elevator and to a pay phone and dialed.

"Sorry to do that to you, Mr. Mosley, but I need a short delay here," Marshall said quietly. Then she called out, "Mr. Smith, where are you?"

Smith appeared.

Marshall yelled, "Sell! Sell!"

Smith rushed to the wall panel, sounded the gong-tone, and announced over the P.A. "Clarification. That was sell, not buy. Repeat, sell not buy. Sorry about that."

Moans were heard in all corners of the building and phones were grabbed up in many offices.

Calvin Coolridge came over to Smith again, "It's getting late. I have to leave for another appointment. If you could please tell me Mr. Simpson's office number I'll just drop off the things I have for him."

Smith gestured that he'd be able to help in just a minute or two as he busied himself making elaborate notes about something on a slip of paper as an excuse for not responding immediately.

Coolridge asked, "Is there any kind of an interoffice mail service in the building that could deliver it to him?"

Smith glanced over and saw Jonathan Simpson getting off an elevator in an outrageous disguise involving a raincoat, a wide brimmed hat, and a mustache apparently drawn on with eyebrow pencil. Smith forced himself not to stare as Simpson hurried out the door and down the street.

Coolridge took out the envelope he had waved around earlier. "These are his new plane tickets. The others were cancelled and his flight changed because he used an out of date charge card. His secretary was on the ball and caught the error and called in a valid charge number but the original flight was already booked up by then. It'd be a shame for him to get all the way to the airport and find out his flight isn't until tomorrow."

As he watched Simpson disappear down the street outside Smith was trying to decide what to do. He thought, _Nah, he'll never figure out what happened_. He said to Coolridge, "Here, I'll take those and see that he gets them. Thanks so much."

Coolridge hurried off and Smith slipped the envelope into his inside coat pocket. He smiled and said to himself, "I'll be sure to deliver them - about noon tomorrow. But first I'll let him sweat it a bit. He has to learn that holiday tips to the building staff are very high priority."

# You Can't Go Home Again - Without a Tour Guide

Pithmann's Corner, N.J. wasn't much to see when I was growing up there and it still wasn't much to see on my return. But it had changed in my absence. It had gotten some notoriety and a big new spotlighted sign proclaiming it the birthplace of J. Alfred Alfred, noted author. That's me. I had moved away when I was sixteen and hadn't been back for two dozen years. I had never made a big thing about my place of origin but, as I found out on this warm Saturday afternoon, they had.

Traveling between Washington and New York on business I had decided on impulse to get off the turnpike and drive the few miles out of my way to see what the old house in which I had been born looked like after all these years. I hoped the diversion would help me to overcome a bad case of writer's block.

Finding oneself a local celebrity without warning is a bit of a shock, if a somewhat pleasant one. Or so I thought at first. Somehow I had remained innocently ignorant of what was going on here in Pithmann's Corner and I was surprised, even amazed, that my publisher or one of my friends hadn't brought it to my attention.

It started at McPherson's Drug store (it used to be Sharkey's), which still contained the only lunch counter in town. Things had been spruced up a bit over the years - a new aluminum siding facade had been put on the building and the pharmacy area counter top now contained prominent displays of items that were always carefully hidden away under the counter before. The marble top lunch counter was the same but the stools had been recovered in artificial leather and a few booths had been added, each one named for one of my books in large letters on the aisle side. I didn't recognize any of the people, although everyone behind the counter looked old enough to have been around when I lived there.

What particularly attracted my attention was the large display of J. Alfred Alfred and Pithmann's Corner, N.J. souvenirs. All the usual kinds of things - ashtrays, wall plaques, paperweights, and luggage stickers but all with my name on them in a bold script quite unlike my own.

A sign calling attention to autographed copies of my books caught my eye. Curious I went to investigate. I had never signed any books for this purpose so I wondered whose copies they had obtained. Much to my surprise I found a trite little comment and my name scrawled on the flyleaf of each book - a different comment for each title - in a hand that didn't vaguely resemble mine.

As I was trying to decide just how I felt about this situation one of the clerks approached, a stout, red-faced man in his late fifties. "Can I help you with something, friend?"

"I was just looking at the books. Are you sure that they're autographed by the author? I've seen his signature and as I remember it doesn't look like this."

"Surely you're mistaken, sir. The gentleman signs each and every one of these especially for us. Sort of a friendly gesture for the folks in the old hometown you might say. He thinks very highly of us and tries to do what he can to help us out. It's a shame you weren't here a few weeks ago. He stopped by and signed this whole batch then. It's a special treat for all of us when he makes one of his visits."

"Does he do so regularly?" I inquired, my curiosity stirred up now.

"Regularly? Yes, I suppose you could say that. A couple of times a year as he comes and goes. He's very busy you know."

"Do you know him personally?" I asked, really anxious to know at this point.

"Well I've seen him a good many times and talked with him and all but I'm not an old drinking buddy or anything like that you understand. I imagine that most people in town have met him at least a few times."

Now I couldn't stop myself. "What does he look like?" I asked, all innocence.

The clerk rubbed his hand across his chin for a second as he thought. "Well he's a good head shorter'n you are. Sort of pot bellied. Kind of a five-by-five type if you know what I mean. Bald as a watermelon, with little blue eyes that sparkle and dance around in their sockets when he laughs. How's that?"

"Fine," I assured him. "That gives me a picture so I'll know him if I see him around town while I'm visiting."

Another clerk had walked up behind us while we were talking. His face was all scrunched up because he was concentrating and thinking very hard. "Aren't you..? I can't quite place you," he mumbled. "You look familiar. That is, like someone I should remember although not someone that I've met recently. But I can't be sure. I can't quite place the face."

I was blushing profusely now. What was I to do, contradict this other man and his elaborate story in front of his friend? Or perhaps make them all aware that someone else, some imposter J. Alfred Alfred, had been putting one over on them all and they were too dumb to even do a preliminary check on his identity?

What I did was meekly concede that I had lived in the town many years before but I expressed doubt that anyone would actually remember me since I had moved away when I was only in my teens. I did plant several clues if they cared to pursue them. To my surprise - I'm still not sure if my relief also - that settled the matter for them. They never asked my name or anything else about my association with the town.

Up the street was the house where I was born except that it wasn't the house where I was born. It was actually the big old house that was originally two houses down the block from our place. The spot where our house had been was now a parking lot for a small shopping center.

When I approached, an official looking elderly gentleman whom I didn't recognize emerged from the house. He wore dark blue trousers and a white shirt with _Official Tour Guide_ embroidered on the sleeve. This time I decided to be a bit more direct and raise an objection before this man had a chance to dig himself a pit of prevarications to fall into.

"Say, this isn't the old Alfred place," I said, "That was up the street a little farther. Just a little place with a green porch."

He gave me a look that said that he knew a troublemaker when he saw one, then he said, "Yeah, but the furniture and all are in here now. That place got torn down because it wasn't safe anymore."

Now what should I do? I knew darn right well that we had taken everything with us when we moved out. I didn't leave alone. The whole family moved out bag and baggage. So what did they have in the McCarthy Sisters old house that they were trying to palm off on the world as being memorabilia of me? I just had to find out. If I left at this point, I wouldn't be able to sleep at night wondering.

"Can you take me on the tour?" I asked. "Is there a charge?"

"Tour is one dollar, cash money," he responded. "Next tour is this afternoon. Two o'clock."

It was 12:15.

"Can I go in and look around on my own then?"

"Nobody's allowed in except on an official tour," he snapped. "That's the rule."

"Is there any way that I could persuade you to give me a special tour?" I continued. "I have a rather special and personal interest in this whole thing."

"Next tour is two o'clock," he said crisply.

"Are you absolutely sure that the furniture and all that are in here belong to J. Alfred Alfred?" I persisted.

"Yup. All his stuff. Guaranteed."

"Then I must insist on going in and examining it," I said firmly, "because it's mine then and I wish to see that it is being properly cared for."

His eyes had squinted down to little slits as he studied me but he didn't say a word.

"I'm J. Alfred Alfred, the author, I stop in this town for the first time in many years and find all of these unauthorized shenanigans going on using my name and capitalizing on my fame. None of this was ever cleared with me and most of it, maybe all of it, is in fact abso¬lutely fraudulent. To say the least I'm unhappy about my name being used in this crass commercial manner. Doubly so when most of the business is a fake. Like autographed copies of my books with a signature that isn't even a decent attempt at a forgery and a house that I only set foot in two or three times in sixteen years being billed as my birthplace. Before I decide what steps I'm going to take in this matter I insist upon seeing what all you're passing off as mine in this house. Will you show me through or will I have to bring in the law and make a big fuss about this?"

I was thoroughly worked up by then. More than I had intended to allow myself to become. But the old man infuriated me by the way that he just stood and stared at me without any display of emotion or reaction to what I had told him.

Slowly he took the pipe he had been puffing on from his teeth and said, "Next tour is two o'clock, whoever you are."

"I'm J. Alfred Alfred, the writer," I yelled at him.

He shook his head a little. "Can't be," he said. "You're too tall. I know you're story and your measurements inside and out, all the details. Talk about you on my tours all the time. You can't be him. You don't fit the description I give. Or look like the drawing we had made up. Whoever you are, you're somebody else. Old Mother Jackson, she should know. She took care of you when you were just a wee tyke. She was the one pointed you out to the rest of us and told us all about you. Surely you're not going to call that dear saintly old lady a liar."

"Where is this Mother Jackson?" I asked. "Maybe I can get this whole thing straightened out through her without causing a big fuss. I'm not trying to cause trouble," I added defensively.

"Oh, she's dead. About two years ago now. It's a shame." With a little glint in his eye he added, "But come back at two o'clock for the tour and I'll tell you all about yourself. You might learn something."

# Clancy's Funeral

Harry Clancy was an imposing man any way you looked at him. He stood three inches over six feet and tipped the scales at a solid 265 pounds. He filled doorways when he entered and had been known to use his bulk in this way to prevent the escape of someone whom he had decided needed to be taught a lesson about doing whatever Clancy said. In his early years he did the dirty work of this kind himself, but when he became rich and powerful he delegated the tasks to his subordinates. Privately though, he admitted that he missed the excitement and satisfaction of doing it himself.

His clothes were always expensive and well cut. The best was none to good for him. He had money to burn - most of it other people's - so he could do pretty much what he pleased.

Convention and the approved styles meant little to him. He asserted that he made the conventions and set the styles, he didn't follow them. When one newspaper commentator made a snide remark in print about Clancy's affectation in wearing top hat and tails at all hours of the day and every day of the year, he quickly found himself without a job. No explanations were given or needed. Not always that sensitive to comment in the news media, Clancy did tend to provoke speculation there by his refusal to grant any interviews although he was regularly approached by journalists.

Kids would line up when his chauffeured limousine pulled up so they could see the famous diamond rings that he wore at all times. He always got a charge out of flashing them at the waving crowds. Two large sparkling stones in nests of gold, one on each of his beefy hands. They were without question the largest gem stones of any kind that most people would ever see worn as rings and speculations about their value kept many a conversation going until the wee hours of the morning.

What fueled many more discussions was the question of where Clancy's money had come from. No one seemed able to account for the money that had allowed the man to make the many investments that now generated most of his income.

Clancy had risen from a semi-literate laborer to the owner of four of the largest businesses in town, treading on and stomping down many people who got in his path, but without ever having any job that would account for his accumulating wealth.

The combination of his physical strength, his lack of reluctance to express his displeasure at anything in very physical terms, and the appearance of wealth and financial security that his expensive clothes and accessories projected, assured him ready credit any place in town. In fact more than one businessman had noted that Clancy had outstanding bills with almost every shop within miles. These he paid off, but always only in part, at irregular intervals that suggested that the payments were prompted entirely by whim. Dunning Clancy about his bills was neither productive nor safe. More than one shopkeeper prayed that Clancy would take his business elsewhere since being honored with it usually meant losing money.

Clancy's wife was as well known about town as he was. She had earned the sobriquet "the Silent Lady" by seldom saying more than a few words to anyone. The nickname was also appropriate in another sense since conversations among the other ladies inevitably trailed off at her approach and didn't pick up again until she was well past.

She also dressed in expensive finery, but always in somber black with only a touch or two of fine white lace to relieve the austerity. She wore her hair in a tight bun on the back of her head and many commented behind her back that she apparently pulled her hair back so hard to do it that it produced her perpetually solemn look. No one could be found who had ever seen her laugh or say an unessential word.

All were aware though that she was always well informed about what was going on in Clancy 's businesses. Often she would appear at one of the factories or shops to deliver some important instructions about operations and no one was ever sure if she was merely acting as Clancy's messenger or if she was actually the one making the decisions and he was only a figurehead. Since none could get close to her, none could learn enough about her to be sure. Some believed she deliberately fostered this doubt in order to keep people uncertain, and therefore deferential. Whether deliberate or not, it worked.

Clancy's death came as a surprise to all. One night he sat down at his special reserved table in the hotel dining room for one of the huge meals that were his pleasure and simply fell forward into his snapper soup stone dead. No one ever found out exactly what killed him. It was enough that there were several witnesses to confirm the fact of his demise for any skeptics. Few tears were shed, although there were many unctuous displays of grief. The Silent Lady withdrew behind a heavy black veil.

From the beginning McMullen knew that Clancy's would probably be the biggest funeral he would ever arrange so he had to do it right. Everything would be big and flashy so he could charge the widow plenty. Everybody knew that she had it, so he might as well get his share of it. Simply enough, even if he did it for free - and there was no way he was going to do anything such thing - the local publicity that went with being selected as the establishment to handle the funeral-of-the-year would be worth many times the total cost of even Harry Clancy's funeral.

All furniture was removed from the parlor where the casket would be displayed so there would be as much room as possible for people. For an occasion like this everybody in town was sure to show up to see and be seen. A team of women scrubbed and polished for two days until the place gleamed.

When the flowers began to arrive it took three assistants working all afternoon just to position them. When the casket was put in place it stood against a solid wall of blossoms and greenery, with other flowers lining the front porch because there wasn't enough room for them inside. McMullen was delighted with the visual effect. It all looked so nice, so dignified, that surely not even Clancy's widow would have any comment about the size of the mortician's bill.

When the wake started, the parlor, and then the other rooms on the first floor of the mortuary, filled quickly. People kept arriving but few departed.

The whole crowd was abuzz. _He wasn't wearing his rings!_ Where were they?

At one time or another every man in town had heard Clancy swear that he liked his rings so much that he would be buried with them. "Nobody will tell me that I can't take them with me!" he would roar. He often joked that they were everyone else's insurance of peace after he was gone, since with those stones for weight there would be no chance of him bobbing back to the surface and haunting anybody.

Many a comment passed back and forth about the parsimonious wife ignoring the wishes of the tyrant that she couldn't defy while he was alive. And where was the widow? It was more than an hour into the official wake and she was nowhere to be seen. No one wanted to leave until they had seen her even though it was now uncomfortably crowded. Rumors were circulating that she had been seen smiling several times since Clancy died and many wanted to see this previously unheard of event for themselves.

No one was more disappointed that the rings weren't present than McMullen. Never in his life had he done anything larcenous or crooked - but if asked under oath he would have been forced to admit that was due to lack of opportunity, not virtue,. From the moment he had received the call to pick up Clancy's body from the hotel dining room he had been able to focus on little besides the rings. Those famous rings.

He was surprised and disappointed to note that the Silent Lady had removed them even before he arrived at the hotel so he didn't get a chance to see them up close. He had had a fleeting thought about having reasonable duplicates made and switching them but he couldn't do that without a good look at the originals so he let that thought evaporate from his mind.

When he asked the widow about the rings she told him only that, "They will be put on him at the appropriate time." McMullen had now repeated that quote a hundred times by way of answering the continuous chorus of questions about the whereabouts of the famous rings. He wanted it fully understood that the responsibility for depriving these people of one of the principal items of interest in their evening's diversion was the widow's, not his. There was no point in losing the benefit of the public attention by having any misunderstanding about that.

The crowd was getting so large that McMullen was beginning to worry about his property. Outside, groups trampled all over the lawn, a patch of grass and weeds that wasn't all that tough and healthy to start with. Inside, the crowd was now so packed and overheated that any minor incident might turn into a shoving match and no one could predict where that might lead. He even had a twinge of concern about the integrity the building since it hadn't been designed to support this large a mass of bodies.

Terry O'Malley was among the disappointed viewers in the main parlor. He was more disappointed than most because he had decided that at twenty-five he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by making a rapid departure from this area - taking Clancy's diamonds with him. He had arrived at 6:30 this evening, one of the very first, prepared to grab the rings at gunpoint and make a run for it.

Now he stood with his back against the wall, afraid to try to leave the room because the bodies were packed in so tight that someone was sure to notice the gun tucked in his belt. He was frustrated and angry. He had been cheated out of his big chance and he was looking for someone to take it out on.

He heard the whispered rumors that the rings would arrive with the widow but that just made him angrier. There would be too many people present then. He would never be able to get through the crowd fast enough to get away. But then inspiration struck him. They would all go home in a while and he would have his chance then. So he settled in to wait.

The big wait came to an end at 8:30. The mortuary was packed so tightly that people were having considerable difficulty getting in and out. Several women fainted in the hot, stale air. The buzz of voices had started off appropriately muted and hushed, but as the evening wore on the restraints slipped and the crowding increased and the noise level rose to a dull roar.

Those inside had no way of knowing what was going on outside so their first inkling that something was happening came when the main doors sprang open and were held that way. Few noticed at first, but gradually a ripple of comment passed through the crowd. More and more people stopped talking and turned to see what was happening. The silence spread to all corners of the room until everyone's attention was riveted on the door.

Only when the last whisper had fallen away and all movement had stopped did the Silent Lady appear in the doorway in black silk and her heavy veil. Immediately behind her were two uniformed private security guards. Even in the crowded conditions, a path opened for her and the guards. It disappeared again as soon as they passed as people jockeyed for position to see what she would do.

The widow stood by the casket without moving, veil lowered, for a full minute. There was considerable jostling for a better view by those behind her but no one spoke even in a whisper. Finally she lifted the veil, removed her gloves, and took the rings, the famous rings, from her handbag and slipped them on Clancy's fingers. She nodded to the armed guards and they took up positions by the casket were they could scrutinize all who approached. The widow turned and left, veil lowered. There were those who claimed that she was indeed smiling under that cover but the view of her face wasn't clear enough to be certain. The arguments went on and on.

Relieved of the necessity, and deprived of the opportunity, of making an emotional statement of condolence to the widow, the members of the crowd filed passed the casket for a good look at the rings under the alert eyes of the guards and then went home to speculate over their coffee cups. It didn't take long for the large crowd to disperse now that the element of mystery had been eliminated from the proceedings.

One of the last to leave was Terry O'Malley. He wanted a close look at the rings but couldn't risk having the guards notice the gun under his coat. He went across the street and stood in the shadows waiting for the guards to leave. There would still be a chance for him to make his big move and then it would be the big city and the big times for him. Those diamonds would keep him comfortable for the rest of his days.

At midnight other armed guards arrived to relieve the first pair and it became clear that the mortuary would be guarded until the funeral service in the morning. O'Malley was furious. He was also realistic. Stealing the diamonds with no one present or with only a few unarmed witnesses was one thing; attempting a robbery with two trained and armed guards on duty was another. His chances of success dropped significantly and his chances of getting killed increased greatly when those men came on the scene. He went home to toss and turn on his hard bed as he tried to think of a way around the obstacle.

In the morning many people arrived at the mortuary for another look at the rings before the scheduled service. Even McMullen hadn't been able to get close enough to actually touch the stones. The guards had very explicit orders. In the daylight they had more sparkle and were even more impressive that they had been in the poor artificial lighting the night before.

The funeral procession promised to be a mile long as more and more cars joined the line that was forming. Everyone who was anyone wanted others, particularly the widow, to see them there paying their respects.

At the last minute McMullen had changed his plans and decided to use the closed hearse rather than the one with the glass sides that he had made arrangements to rent from a large establishment in another city. He also changed the driver assignments so that his trusted associate Timothy Sullivan would drive the hearse and McMullen would ride with him.

When the widow arrived she was accompanied by a middle-aged man whom no one in the crowd knew. He followed deferentially behind her and waited for her signals.

The Silent Lady went to the casket and stood absolutely still several feet from it for a full minute before she raised her veil and stepped right up to it. She motioned to her shadow and he advanced to her side, took a jeweler's loupe from his pocket and, bending low over the body, examined both rings. After carefully viewing the stones from several positions he stood and nodded to the widow. She then pulled a document from her handbag and handed it and a pen to the man. He signed it with a flourish and returned it to her. She folded the paper and returned it to her handbag.

Now she nodded to the guards and they stepped out of the way to let McMullen and Timothy Sullivan to move in and close the casket. The man who had examined the rings left immediately, his job done.

It took twice as long as usual to get the funeral procession started on its slow journey to the cemetery at the far end of town. For effect - and to drag things out a bit - they took the long route through the center of the business district.

The procession was hardly a block from the mortuary when McMullen slipped from his seat and crawled into the back of the hearse. It was cramped but he managed to position himself in the blackened out back section so that he could open the sealing screws on the casket lid and lift it partway. It took but a second to slip off the rings, to shake the dead man's hand in thanks, and to close it all up again. Long before they reached the cemetery McMullen was back in his seat looking properly severe and funereal.

The interment went without a hitch or a question. There were again those who swore that the widow was smiling under that thick veil but no one could be certain.

* * *

Terry O'Malley dug for four hours before he reached the casket and another hour before he got the lid clear enough to open it. He only had time enough to see that the rings weren't on Clancy's fingers before he had to jump out of the hole and run because he heard someone coming. He got away just in the nick of time.

The police reported the theft of the rings to Widow Clancy as they had to. They were surprised that she didn't seem as upset as they had expected. She thanked them for seeing that the casket was properly resealed and the grave covered again and she expressed a hope that they would do what they could to discover who had done this terrible thing. But she never showed any real emotion about it. It was as if she had expected it.

McMullen was surprised to see Terry O'Malley getting on the train to New York City too. He avoided the other man since he didn't want to have any questions asked or any comments made to the people in town about his own quiet trip to the big city. He noted that O'Malley carried a beat-up suitcase and took a long look back before he boarded the train. A look that suggested that he didn't expect to see this place again anytime soon. McMullen also carefully avoided him when they left the train in Grand Central station.

"Imagine my total surprise when the jeweler tossed those things back on the counter and told me they were chunks of glass," McMullen said to Timothy Sullivan when he returned. "Maybe worth a couple of bucks as novelties but that was all. You could have knocked me over with a feather. At first I thought he was trying to gyp me so I took them to two other places and they all said the same thing. So we got nothing for our trouble."

"Aye, that's really hard to believe," Tim said rather firmly. "So much so that I find myself asking if you might be the one who's trying to gyp me out of my share. I've never completely trusted you, and your stealing those rings right off a dead man's fingers proves my point in that."

McMullen looked at him for a long moment. "You're probably right. You can't afford to trust anyone too much. But you'll note that I will go on with my business as normal because I don't have the money to do otherwise. If I were you I would search me right down if I should suddenly disappear because undoubtedly I would be off someplace else living it up. What I have been wondering all the way home on the train is whether old Clancy put everybody on all those years or if it is the Silent Lady who did the hoodwinking on the night of the wake."

Sullivan smiled, "Either way I guess she's sitting somewhere smiling about it all."

She was.

# Masterworks

The Overbach gallery glowed with carefully placed spotlighting. The beige carpeted room was crowded with elegantly attired beautiful people sipping champagne and playing the game of recognizing and being recognized while a few outrageously costumed individuals tried to steal the attention. It was the artist Ben Bengal's first show of new canvases in almost two years, an event eagerly awaited by many of the new group of collectors who were the financial backbone of the art community. Bengal was _In_. His works were very much in demand.

Bengal himself, resplendent in a black velvet suit and oyster shell silk shirt open to the navel over a tangle of gold chains, circulated easily through the crowd. He chatted with everyone, calling most by name. He was a professional and a master of the craft.

The exhibit included twenty new oils and a scattering of prints. They were well done in his typical style and he was proud of them. They were also all sold before the evening was half over.

Louise Overbach cornered him for a moment. "Ben, everything in the show is gone and I have just dozens of people besieging me to give them some idea of when there will be more available. I don't mean to be pushy, darling, but the tide is rising and you, _we_ , should be on it. Give me some kind of an idea of how long it will be. Let me start to schedule some private showings in the next couple of months. I don't need a whole show. Just a couple of pieces but something to keep the momentum going.

"Louise, dear, you know how I work. When the inspiration comes I work day and night. But I never know how long it will be before that happens again. I really can't promise you anything in any particular time period. I can't work under the pressure of a deadline. It dries up all of my creative juices. It makes it all so mercenary."

Louise brushed a speck of cigarette ash off his velvet sleeve. "I wasn't trying to put you under pressure like that, dearest. I know only too well how you react to that. What I had in mind was things that you might have tucked away some place. Perhaps early things or things that you really didn't like when they were finished. I'm told that most artists have closets full of things like that. Or sketches and partly finished pieces. I know you well enough to know that the initial idea is the stumbling block for you, not the mechanics of actually doing the piece. That part is automatic. Maybe you have some things _in progress_ as it were, canvases you can finish up even if no new inspiration comes along. It would really help us both out a whole lot, darling. There's a narrow line between keeping the interest high by not overdoing it and swamping the market. If your works become too hard to find those people give up trying."

"And you think that could happen in my case?" he asked.

"It's a hard thing to predict, dearest one, but there are an awful lot of disappointed people here tonight with perfectly good money in their pockets. They're eager to invest that money in some promising contemporary art works. It will burn holes in their pockets pretty soon. If Bengals aren't available then they'll have to invest in somebody else. The promise of another opportunity in the foreseeable future can put asbestos linings in at least some of those pockets though."

"My dear, has anybody ever told you what a marvelously persuasive person you are?" Bengal said as he smooched an air kiss in the general area of her cheek. "I do have a few things that I could pull off the shelf and touch up. A few that just need some time. The inspiration is already there. Since the response to this show is so good, I'll break out a favorite or two that I have been saving for myself. I can always paint another for my own wall. Is a month good enough?"

"Perfect, I would say. Sooner would raise questions about how you could pull it off if this show is the lot. Longer and they drift off in other directions. Thank you, dearest. I think that you'll be happy with of the results."

Bengal moved through the crowd, champagne glass in hand, answering questions, acknowledging introductions and generally accepting the accolades of the appreciative audience. When the situation required it, he would solemnly declaim little lectures on art history, the meaning of art, and his own style.

In the course of the evening he received several dozen business cards, hundreds of congratulatory remarks, three sexual propositions, and a proposal of marriage. All in all a fairly typical night for this sort of thing.

The crowd thinned out early since the opening was competing with several formal parties and the opening of the new opera season. Also, he reflected, because these people didn't particularly like to look at other people's art acquisitions. When they know that the canvases can't be theirs, they lose interest rather quickly.

In the packed house earlier he probably wouldn't have noticed the young woman intently studying the works. Now he was drawn to her. "See anything you like?" he asked.

"Oh, you startled me," she gasped.

She had long red hair and deep green eyes. She was pretty but not quite beautiful. Part of that, he thought, was because she was so serious and old beyond her years. She looked middle-aged although she was probably only thirty.

"This fellow does nice work," she said pointing to one of his paintings. "But I don't quite understand why they're making such a big thing about these being the first new canvases he's exhibited for two years. Why I saw several things of his just last week. I'm quite sure they were his work. They were exactly the style. It's quite distinctive, don't you think?"

"Indeed it is," Bengal agreed as he quietly removed his name pin from his lapel and pocketed it.

"But these are new works. What you saw were probably some of his older pieces. He has several works in each of the major museums in the area and in a number of the better private collections."

"No, this was in a gallery. They were for sale. And a good cut cheaper than the asking prices on these too, I note."

"Are you an artist or an art student?" he asked conversationally.

"No. Nothing professional. I just like to wander around in art galleries to see how other people see the world. I have neither talent nor money. Only a casual interest and some time on my hands once in a while. That and a sharp eye. It's kind of a game with me. I go from gallery to gallery and try to identify the artists without looking at the tags. I concentrate on their styles. I'm very good at it. Probably better than most of the so-called experts. For local artists, that is. I don't want to go making claims about knowing the whole world of art. But I'm good at local contemporary painters in oils."

"So you're sure that the works you saw in the... What did you say the name of the gallery was again?"

"I didn't. But it was the Chestershire. Over on Market Street."

"Yes, okay. You're sure they were done by this artist?"

"I'm not absolutely sure but reasonably sure. There are a few differences. It's the differences that have me fascinated. Trying to categorize them. I haven't seen that much of Bengal's work so I'll have to study it all closely."

"Indeed, you do that. It's been very interesting talking with you." Bengal walked off rubbing his chin and trying to concentrate.

* * *

It was raining heavily as Bengal ducked into the Chestershire gallery. He stood at the door and shook off his hat and then his coat. He had carefully dressed in the most inconspicuous clothes he owned and had combed his hair over his forehead in a style quite unlike his normal one. He was relieved to find that he didn't recognize the owner of the small gallery from any of his shows. The young man, one Henry Williams, seemed pleasant and knowledgeable enough but he obviously didn't pursue the art dealer's life in the usual manner. That, Bengal thought, might account for the relative obscurity of his shop. It certainly didn't reflect badly on his selections, however. He was impressed with the quality of the work. There weren't a great many pieces, but there were enough to attractively fill the walls.

Henry Williams left him to browse and disappeared into the backroom. Bengal wondered if he, like some dealers, had some sort of a surveillance system so that he could study the reactions of the shoppers without them knowing it. The possibility didn't bother him though.

He had worked his way around to the back wall when a canvas caught his eye. It was beautifully done in all the right colors - and in his distinctive style. The painting's theme was one that had never occurred to him but he realized as he stood there that this was exactly the way he would have done it if it had occurred to him. With even the little touches. A little bird in the lower right hand corner and a bee hovering by one of the flowers. Delighted, he looked further, and there was another canvas. And another. Three in all. Each one in his distinctive style. And, he noted on close examination, each signed by him.

He didn't have time to think about this before the gallery owner was back at his side.

"Have you found something that you like?" he asked. "Bengals. Very attractive. Bright colors and a moving, almost sensuous style. Did you see that there are three?"

"Real Bengals?"

"To the best of my knowledge," the young man replied frankly. "I purchased them through an intermediary. I don't know the artist himself. But I have no reason to believe they aren't the genuine article. They certainly have the style. And the signature. That checks with the published copies that I've seen. That's what I go on."

"He has a new show in town. Have you seen it?"

"No. I missed out on the opening but I hope to get at least a quick look before it closes."

"Does this intermediary, whoever he or she is, have access to more of these? Or are there only the three?"

"Offhand I'm not certain. I believe there was something said about the possibility of getting others if that was desired. Because of the small operating budget of my gallery I couldn't consider more than these at the time. But I can check for you if you're interested."

"I just might be," Bengal said. "I would appreciate your checking it out for me. And you wrapping up these three for me right now. I know what I like."

After Bengal left with the three painting Williams placed a call to his supplier. "Hi, I've just had a great afternoon. Paid the rent and have some left over. I just sold all three of the Bengals that you got me. The purchaser is interested in more if I can get them. So what's the story on them? Are there more available? He's going to check back with me early next week."

Chuck Stone played with a pencil as he spoke. "What was this fellow's name? Anybody you know or have dealt with before?"

"A new face to me, as a matter of fact. He wasn't very free with information about himself. He said his name was Zinger. No first name. He paid in cash so there's no paper trail there. Cash is fine with me of course," Williams laughed.

"I just wondered because I always try to keep tabs on these things so we don't overload any one source and attract attention. What was his reaction to the canvases?" Stone asked.

"He seemed genuinely delighted with them."

"What did he look like? Maybe he's somebody I would know. Some collector I've run into somewhere."

"He was big. About six three, I would guess. Big head of hair that was all messed up."

"Glasses?"

"Yeah, but he only put them on while he was looking at the pictures. He took them off and sort of self-consciously hid them every time I went near him," Williams noted. "Why all the questions? Is something the matter?"

"No, I don't think so," Stone replied. "I suspect maybe we have a very interesting situation developing but nothing you have to be concerned about."

"What about other Bengals?" Williams persisted. "Can you get me more of them?"

"Yes. I don't think that'll be any problem, but it'll be three weeks or more. I think I can get two or three more by then." Almost as an afterthought Stone asked, "This buyer. Did you notice his hands? Was he missing two digits from his left pinkie finger?"

"Why yes. I noticed that. Do you know him then?" Williams asked.

"Yes, I think I do. It probably was the person I was thinking of. Look, hang loose. I'll be in touch. Don't make any hard promises but you can say you expect to have some items of interest in about that time frame."

* * *

Exactly one month after the opening of the show, Ben Bengal provided Louise Overbach with six new canvases for the private showing. They were all well received and were quickly sold at top prices. All the new owners agreed to allow them to be added to the on-going show for its last two weeks. Items in the newspaper and in various blogs about the additions sparked a new interest in the show and in the artist.

* * *

Virginia Prior, one of the top local critics and the art editor for the largest local newspaper, discussed the show and the new additions with Bengal over cocktails. "I think I detect something new, something a little bit different, in some of the new pieces," she said. "Is this a new side of you coming out? Will we see a change in your works from this point on?"

"I suppose I'd have to say this new group represents...what? Different sides of my mind. Different moods and outlooks. Like different colors of lenses in my glasses they make the world look different. A schizophrenic sort of thing I suppose. Maybe just a little scary. Having these two different creative minds within me. I don't know. I find it happening more and more though. Sometimes I'm working in one mode, from one viewpoint; sometimes from another. I suspect it does show up as the difference in the work. It'll probably be there for some time then because that's how I'm operating these days."

"We'll be keeping an eye on this interesting development in your techniques and your personality," she promised him.

* * *

Bengal returned to the show later, drawn by some force that he couldn't identify. In the gallery he met a short man who was limping from picture to picture with the help of a cane.

"Very interesting work," Chuck Stone said to him. "Yours are they?"

"Why yes they are," Bengal replied. "Are you a dealer?"

"No, that's more than I can manage."

"A collector then?"

"To a limited extent. My main interest is that I also put brush to canvas."

"How nice. Do you live in the area? I don't remember running into you before," Bengal said unenthusiastically.

"I live and work locally but I sell quietly and without publicity. I don't have the personality for cultivating the critics, dealers, and the customers so I'll never make it big on my own in the conventional manner."

"Might I have seen some of your work somewhere? Some of the competitions or the galleries? What kind of things do you do, Mister... eh, what did you say the name was?"

"I didn't. You wouldn't recognize it anyway. Since you're not likely to see if anywhere so it's not important. It rhymes with Zinger."

Bengal jumped at that name but the man went on as if nothing had happened.

"I do rather like these," Stone said gesturing to the group of new paintings. "I rather like these indeed."

Bengal looked very intently at the little man. "Do you sell your work through one of the local galleries?"

"The Chestershire mostly," Stone replied.

"Sold anything lately?"

"Why yes, I'm happy to say. I'm working on several new things at the moment too. Keeps me occupied full time. I understand there's a growing demand for some of my works."

"Delighted to hear it," Bengal said, more at ease now. "I'm also glad to hear that you're working to meet the demand."

"Yes, well I had best get on my way. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

"The pleasure is mutual, I assure you," Bengal said as he warmly shook Stone's hand. "Good health and long, productive years to you."

"And to you," Stone replied with a wink.

* * *

A few months later Bengal was again clinking glasses with Virginia Prior, art critic and writer. "What new development in your life has prompted you to look me up?" she asked.

"It's a remarkable thing. It's like some kind of a religious conversion or something. For years I've had this thing where for days or weeks at a time there was just no inspiration. I would travel the desert paths of the soul or something. So my output was severely limited. Now suddenly I'm swamped with inspirations."

"Both parts of your mind?" she asked jokingly.

"Precisely. I'm turning out more canvases than ever before and the small but perceptible difference in stylistic viewpoint is there. It's amazing even to me. Or especially to me. At any rate, some people may wonder how I can be getting together a new major show only six months after the last one when the last one was more than two years in the making. It's a whole new me. The ideas are flowing and I'm working as hard as I can to capture as many of them as possible with both sides of my mind. It's a great experience."

# The Store Angel

For the second time in six months the Johnson and Murphy Clothing Emporium had been robbed and Bruce Johnson was furious. His partner, Harry Murphy, had tried to console him by pointing out that it could have been worse, it could have been a weekend when the loss would have been twice as great, but that didn't make him feel any better. His fury was especially acute because he felt sure that the incident could have been prevented if the salespeople had only followed his directives. Now he repeated his instructions to everyone on the sales staff that he could corner. Keep the drifters and the idlers out and there would be no trouble. For months, ever since the first robbery, he had urged all of the employees to be constantly aware of the people in the store - those who didn't seem to be interested in anything in particular and stayed longer than a quick walk through were to be considered suspect. He argued that it wasn't in the store's best interest to encourage, - or even permit, loitering in the store. If they weren't buying or actively looking they should be moved along. There were those, including his partner, who felt that too vigorous a program of shoving people out the door would earn them the _Bad Public Relations Award of the Year_ which comes in the form of a bankruptcy notice but Johnson countered their arguments with the evidence that the first robber had used exactly this ploy of loitering about waiting for the right moment to set them up. Bruce Johnson wasn't someone to get caught in the same trap twice. Everything he had was tied up in this store and he wasn't going to let it be taken away from him without a fight.

As soon as he began his patrol of the floor he saw the man in the wide brimmed hat standing back out of the way leaning against the wall. The fellow was tall and lean with sharp features and bushy sideburns. He was dressed in a cream-colored suit over a blue and white pin-striped shirt open at the neck. His light colored hat sat forward on his head and tilted down over his eyes a bit. He smiled in a friendly but distant way when he saw Johnson looking at him but he didn't move. All of the little alarm bells in Johnson's brain were going off. Why hadn't someone asked him what he was doing there? He was in plain view of at least three employees and none of them was tied up with other customers at the moment. Obviously what was needed was a demonstration of the proper approach.

Johnson strode defiantly up to the man who raised his head a bit to watch him approach. The man's expression was calm but alert and he seemed more interested in than intimidated by Johnson's disapproving frown.

"Is there something that we can help you with?" Johnson asked loud enough for everyone in the front half of the store to hear. All eyes turned to him.

The man smiled pleasantly and without any hint of nervousness. "No thanks. Everything is just fine. Don't bother yourself about me."

But of course that was exactly what Johnson couldn't do. "Are you waiting for someone?" he asked, careful to flick his name tag to identify himself as an owner of the store to call attention to that fact.

The man had very casually looked off in the other direction and now he brought his attention back to Johnson who was fuming at this nonchalant attitude. "No, I'm okay. Not bothering anybody. Just doing my job."

"That is where you are very wrong," Johnson blurted out. "You _are_ bothering someone. Me. If you have no business in here, kindly take yourself out of here."

"Oh, I can't do that," the man smiled amiably. "The place would fall down on all these people. That wouldn't be good at all."

At first Johnson was shocked. What was this man talking about? Automatically he looked all around at the roof and walls for some sign of imminent collapse. Seeing nothing to suggest a disaster waiting to happen, he turned his attention back to the man in the wide-brimmed hat. The man's attention had wandered again. Now he was gazing out the front windows into the parking lot.

"Look, Mac, I don't know what you think you're pulling, but if you aren't buying, you aren't staying. Do I make myself clear?" Again Johnson had raised his voice enough to attract attention all over the store. "I happen to be half-owner of this store and I'm telling you that we don't allow loitering in here. If you want to hold up a wall, go do it someplace else."

The man addressed him very seriously in a low voice, "I'm afraid that you don't appreciate the seriousness of this. I'm holding up this wall precisely and exactly because this wall is in real danger of coming down and bringing the whole place with it. Under more normal circumstances I wouldn't take quite so corporeal and direct a hand in matters but this is an emergency. I represent absolutely no threat to the security and smooth functioning of your operation so there's no need for you to get yourself all worked up over my presence. I assure you that everything will be all right as long as I'm here. Now, please, go about your business and stop attracting attention. You're only making this more difficult."

Johnson was livid. How dare this intruder tell him to go mind his own business. This was his business. "See here, you. Just who the heck do you think you are? You act as if you own the place."

"Not _own_ ," the man interrupted. "That's a word only you mortals would use. It has no meaning for me. The proper expression is that I'm _assigned_ to this place. Understand, I'm not complaining," he added quickly, "it's just a bit of a change from my last place. A step down some would say."

"Just who are you supposed to be?"

"Oh, I'm the store angel. My name is Alexis. How do you do," he said offering his hand.

"The what?"

"The store angel. I'm assigned to sort of oversee the establishment. Look out for the general welfare. Keep an eye open for no-no's in the back rooms. That sort of thing. For a couple of hundred years I specialized in castles. Let me tell you, that was a challenge. All those dark passages and secret stairways. I certainly had to stay alert all of the time then. But I did well at it. Excelled if the truth is to be told."

"Stop!" Johnson yelled. "This is utter nonsense. I won't listen to it."

Alexis looked at him coldly, obviously hurt. "I can't help it if you choose to ignore the facts." He leaned forward to poke Johnson in the chest with his finger then caught himself and quickly leaned back up against the wall. He glanced quickly toward the ceiling, then turned his attention back to Johnson. "Didn't you have any bringing up? Didn't your mother or someone tell you all about guardian angels? We're as old as... Well, I find it hard to believe that you've never heard of us."

"I've heard but I don't _believe_ in such things. Now cut the line of baloney and get yourself out of here. I've never heard of such nonsense. Get out of here!" Johnson said and made a grab at the lapels of Alexis' coat.

"Sir!" Alexis said with such force and authority that Johnson hesitated, "if you insist on my leaving, you have the authority to do so. Physical violence won't be necessary. I warn you that I might be tempted to retaliate in kind if you were to persist in your attack upon my person. Since you're a partner in the business I'll have to honor your request that I leave - although I'm sure you're going to regret it. I do, however, have some obligation to these other people."

Johnson had now signaled to the uniformed guard that he paid to add an air of authority to the security detail. "George, escort this crackpot out of here. _Now_. If necessary throw him out bodily."

"That won't be necessary," Alexis said. "I'll be only too happy to leave once I'm sure that everyone is safe." Raising his voice he shouted, "Everybody out! This is an emergency! This building is about to collapse. Please don't panic but do hurry. Get out and get clear of the building. I'll hold things until you're all..."

Johnson began waving his arms and shouting, "Don't pay any attention to him, folks. He's a mad man. Just go about your business. There's no danger."

The employees and the few customers in the store all stood looking from one to the other in confusion. One young couple at the front of the store bolted for the door and that started a wild scramble for the exits, employees pushing customers out of the way in order to get out first.

In a voice that rolled like thunder through the whole building Alexis ordered, "Walk calmly to the nearest exit. There is no need for panic. You are in no danger as long as I am holding things up. Don't panic and don't run. You are in good hands." Immediately everyone became more orderly in their evacuation of the store.

"Stop this! This is madness. This guy is just a weirdo. Come back here," Johnson yelled, waving vigorously at the employees as they streamed by him on their way to the doors. He tried to step in front of a few of them to stop them but they neatly sidestepped around him. His partner who had been busy in the office at the back of the store came out to see what the confusion was - saw the mass exodus and quickly joined it.

As the security guard stuck his head back in to see if there was anyone who needed help in getting out, Alexis called to him, "You'd better call the fire department. I'd hit the fire alarm but I can't reach it from here." The man looked at him uncertainly then turned and walked to the phone booth outside and began dialing.

Looking all around him trying to figure out what was happening as he walked, Harry Murphy practically ran Johnson over. "Bruce, what's going on?" he demanded.

"You wouldn't believe!" Johnson said. Pointing to Alexis he said, "This nut claims that he's the store's guardian angel and that he's holding up that wall so that..."

"He's the what?"

"The store angel," Alexis said. "As the other partner you could still countermand his order and save the store. You look like a person of some intelligence. Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

Murphy turned to Johnson and said, "Is he serious? What is really going on?"

"I'm afraid that you know about as much about it as I do," Johnson assured him. "I told him to move on if he has no business here and he tells me that he's the store's angel and he's holding up the wall and if I throw him out the whole building will fall down.'

Murphy looked out the front window as he asked, "That's what caused this panic that emptied the store and brought out the fire department?"

"Exactly. Now do you agree with me that we should have him arrested for causing this disturbance?" Johnson asked.

"I do indeed. People could have been seriously injured in the panic," Murphy said.

"There was no panic," Alexis corrected him. "I saw to that."

"This guy's a real fruitcake," Murphy said. "Don't let him get away. I'll get the cops. This is really something. I ought to get the press over here too. Then at least we'd get some free publicity out of it to balance off the loss we're suffering in all this confusion."

"If you gentlemen are in agreement that you no longer desire my services I'll withdraw them," Alexis said. "That means let the consequences be on your heads. Uh, not literally of course. Not unless you insist upon staying in here. You have been abundantly warned." With that he turned and walked resolutely toward the door.

Johnson and Murphy both looked up when a loud _groan_ sounded in the ceiling above their heads. They looked at one another for a second, then both raced for the door.

Only a second after they got out, there was a loud rumble and the whole building collapsed into a pile of rag-strewn rubble.

The partners searched through the crowd in vain for Alexis. He had completely disappeared. Fire and police officials as well as reporters were gathered at one end of the parking lot each with a list of questions for the two of them. When he looked around again Johnson realized that somehow Murphy had managed to slip away too, leaving him to face all the questions alone. How was he ever going to explain to people what had happened? He looked all around hoping that someone or something would provide a distraction so he could at least avoid the TV news cameras. Having to watch himself at six and eleven P.M. trying to sound convinced and convincing as he explained that he had ordered the store's angel to leave and the roof promptly fell in as that person had warned would be the worst of it.

"Honey, what's wrong? Are you all right?" his wife asked.

"Oh, am I glad to see you," he said as he grabbed her. "You won't believe what happened. Nobody will."

"Honey, you're just having a bad dream. You've been tossing and turning and muttering for the last half hour," she assured him.

"Do you mean the store didn't fall down? Alexis wasn't there?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, honey. The store was held up for the second time yesterday, that much I know. You came home tipsy after you stopped for a few drinks to drown your sorrow, then you completed the operation of wiping yourself out when you got here. I don't know anything about anyone named Alexis."

"What time is it?" he asked excitedly, noticing for the first time that it was bright and sunny outside.

"It's about eleven. I called the store earlier and told them you wouldn't be in today. In your condition I thought you'd prefer not to be seen."

"Please hand me the phone." He dialed and had himself connected with the security guard who was on the floor. "Is there a tall, lean man in a cream-colored suit and wide-brimmed hat standing against the south wall? Probably near the men's socks?"

"Yes, there certainly is," the security man replied. "I hadn't even noticed him. Is there something special that you want me to do about him?"

Johnson sat on the edge of the bed, his head pounding. He chewed nervously on his lip as he replied, "I don't know."

# Discover Other Books by Thomas P. Hanna at Smashwords.com

Techie Tales: 13 New High-Tech Heroes

These stories introduce 13 new comic book style heroes - not superheroes but scientific ones. Each uses a high-tech system based on state of the art and beyond science to give him or her a limited and specific enhanced ability to deal with problems. Here they continue the on-going process of testing and developing their inventions, using them to deal with problems large and small as they find them.

Boobs

Imaginatively dumb college guys Achey, Brakey, and Hart love breasts and mysteriously grow their own - then use them to cause mischief by entering the Home Coming Queen contest at a rival college while learning to undo the effect.

The Far-Out Show

In this parody (not a sci fi story) Nerber, a contestant from the planet Ormelex, secretly visits Earth as part of the first intergalactic reality TV show on his home planet. But the popularity of the show back home causes unexpected problems. Meanwhile the Producers shaping the show from a ship in space scheme to come out ahead. But Nerber has his own agenda from the start.

Is Titanic Rising?

Reluctant seer Adrian Barakat must help determine if the love of a strong-willed woman who died on _Titanic_ but is determined to be reunited with her fiancée before he dies is what made the restored ship resurface - and if this event is a danger to anyone.

Jail Job

In a classic underhanded scheme that goes awry, two prison guards plot to have two convicts they have depicted to the public as criminal geniuses "escape" so they can promptly recapture them for the reward. But the cons really escape. Ultimately that pair get back inside and claim they never left. That leaves the State with a P.R. headache that a smooth inmate operator helps resolve.

Lotta Losers

Politely bumbling Maddie Dullboy signs papers to win the Lotta contest - only to learn those are a contract that will bankrupt her family. Finding little sympathy for signing unread papers, she must learn to use the terms and fine print of the contract to become too much trouble for the users to use. She becomes more cautious in the process - or maybe not.

The One Percent Solution

The inept Perrine brothers steal a valuable painting only to have it stolen from them by the man who anonymously hired them to steal it. The brothers don't take this well so their challenge now is to make their efforts pay off for them and to punish him.

A Repo Angel

A new to the job Repo Angel uses the body of a dead woman to tell Stanley his soul is being repossessed. That leads to questions when her body is found and how she died is not clear to the police. Stan's new lady friend takes it on herself to find out whether he is a liar, a murderer, or crazy.

Third Time Lucky

Middle-aged Tess and Hal meet as volunteers in a charity food kitchen. Some say a meal they concocted made people feel better so they must deal with those determined to learn the secret "magic" ingredients despite all disclaimers. While dealing with that the pair find romance.

###
