 
RACE RIOT

CARL EHNIS

A NOVEL
ALSO BY CARL EHNIS

MEDICUS

ONE PAGE A DAY
RACE RIOT

Copyright 2016 by Carl Ehnis

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

E-book formatting by www.gopublished.com
CONTENTS

Title Page

Also by Carl Ehnis

Copyright

PART I

PART II

PART III

PART IV

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About Carl Ehnis
PART 1
Chapter One

April 1993

Nick Freeman's world glowed like the radiant sunset of the now late spring afternoon. He was mesmerized by the amazing industry of his next door neighbor, Joe Snyder. Nick didn't miss a move as Joe chopped and raked thatched turf and fed the loosened sod with crushed limestone, a mix of nitrogen and phosphorus, pre-emergent crabgrass killers, and dangerous insecticides. The sweet aroma of cut grass mingling with the tang of fertilizers and poisons seemed, to Nick, a wonderful blend of nature and technology. In other words—Nick smelled opportunity!

Above the clatter and roar of the mowers, whackers, chainsaws, and blowers erupting across the pale green 60-by-100-foot suburban plots checker-boarding his neighborhood, Nick laid out his plan.

"I see that, first, it will probably happen in the mail. I post a minimal stake, branch into other media and ultimately infomercials once the cash flow picks up. Then I'll sell my lists, parlay the profits into land, mutual funds." Nick's arms made sweeping arcs in the air, his breast filled with the prospect of his inevitable conquest. All the while he stood in unshorn, shin-high green and brown vegetation of uncertain species at his property line. Joe, his back to the neatly trimmed grounds on his side of the low-rise hedgerow bordering the two properties, listened politely.

"Sure," Nick continued, "I know what you're going to say—everybody dreams of doing it—the big slam dunk. But how many dare take the plunge?" Nick's blazing eyes and caterpillar-dense eyebrows teased and menaced Joe into responding.

"I don't know," said Joe.

"Then let me tell you. Only a select few. The ones willing to bring...it...on! Those with the balls to put their capital where their mouths are."

"Sure, go for it, Nick. You've worked hard enough at it."

Nick rolled his eyes and snorted with exasperation. Joe just didn't get it. Heck, he was a cop and Nick figured he wasn't dealing with a whole lot of imagination here. He'd have to lay it out—lead him by the nose.

"Okay, what's so great about grass that would make a reasonable guy like you blow off a whole day and cover yourself with fertilizers and cow shit?"

Joe wore a patient smile. "Got to feed the soil and knock out the weeds and bugs in the spring—doesn't take care of itself, you know. I like making the place look good—I suggest you do the same, salvage what turf you got left." Joe looked past Nick in mock horror at his neighbor's lawn. But Nick wasn't paying attention. He was itching to let Joe in on a little secret.

"You know, speaking of lawn care," Nick said. "There are guys making a fortune sharpening lawnmower blades. It's a big business, but all broken up into tiny little pieces. If you were to have a little vision, you wouldn't stop at lawnmower blades. You could service all sorts of garden tools, knives, scissors. Start-up costs are insignificant. You could do it in your basement—even your garage."

Joe shrugged and a grin broke out on his rugged, dark-brown face. "Start a little business on the side, build it into some kind of empire, and live happily ever after—is that it, Nick?"

"It'll take commitment, of course. But before you know it, you got a tool sharpening business full-time, and could run your own shop. Besides, what kind of life is it getting shot at for a living?"

"I don't get shot at for a living," Joe laughed. "That's only on TV." Joe turned away to get back to work, but Nick felt he could still close the sale. Joe was like so many others—never looking beyond their current circumstances. Oblivious to opportunity.

"Snyder, you're just stuck in neutral—the world's leaving you in the dust." Joe stopped walking and turned to face Nick again, but Nick did not give him a chance to respond. "You think you're cool, that you have yourself a snug situation. Sure, you're in government. But things can change. What if the property reassessment is voted down? What if taxpayers figure that they're fed up? Then come the cutbacks and you can kiss all those nice regular salary bumps good-bye and the bonuses that you guys think are handed to you by God. Maybe some staff adjustments, what in the civilian world they call RIFS—reductions in force. 'Right sizing.' Sure, you got seniority , but nothing's written in stone. By May, you could be out on your ass. There are no sure things when you trust others with your fate. You need back-up. Hell, you guys always preach back up."

"So, then, lawnmower blades. That's my back-up? That's a good one!" Joe laughed. Nick felt the burn of surging frustration, but was momentarily stopped in his tracks by the annoyed voice of his wife calling him to dinner from the kitchen window. He wondered how much of this conversation she had overheard.

"You are not listening, man," said Nick with a hushed intensity wouldn't carry to the kitchen window. "You're just watching my lips move. Maybe lawnmower blades...maybe some other thing. The point is you need back-up. Leave your options open."

"Get inside now, Nick—and leave Joe alone!" Nina cried out. Nick shook his head and hustled through the back door to the kitchen. There he found Nina bent over the sink and ripping the plastic wrap off a package of boneless chicken breasts. With her back to him she hefted a mallet on a board of prone meat and came down with a powerful splat. Nick sighed—apparently Nina had heard enough to set her off.

"Look, I was just trying to..." Nick stammered, but stopped when Nina pounded the kitchen counter not with a mallet, but with a fist.

"Trying to do what, Nick? Trying to browbeat a man who will someday be the chief of police around here with one of your crazy schemes?" Nina demanded. "Think about, he was number one in his class at the academy; he was the first black cop on the force and he's won all sorts of awards and commendations—who are you to be giving Joe Snyder career advice?"

"We were having a private conversation," said Nick as he left Nina to her pounding and pouting. He retreated to the den where Kristina and Halle were performing under the spell of Sega/Nintendo/SONY whatever. Kristina, at twelve, was devastating with the boxing glove attachment that she used to exchange simulated jabs and uppercuts with hulking video images of real-life heavyweight prize fighters. Halle, five, intermittently cheered and demanded the glove contraption from her sister. Intent on their game, the girls squirmed away when their father tried to hug them. He shrugged and requested the whereabouts of Tara, his seven-year-old. Nick pressed on more forcefully: "WHERE IS YOUR SISTER?" Kristina retorted, "I don't know – no one told me to watch her! Ask mom." Nick grunted, hung his head and returned to the kitchen.

Nina was furious. His pattern—spreading the gospel to neighbors and other acquaintances. It drove her crazy—then his next move would be to make nice. Still, when Nick made a rear approach with a sneak bear hug, the instrument flew from Nina's hand, over her shoulder and knocked a glass half-filled with grape juice to the floor.

"Dammit, Nick! Don't do that!" she whelped. Nick heedlessly buried his mouth in the exposed flesh of her neck. As he slobbered and gnawed, he cupped his wife's breasts in his hands. And just like that the anger ebbed from Nina and it was impossible to suppress a smile. Wass that all the man had to do? A crude fondle and the world was okay, the damage undone? No, in Nina's mind it went further than that. Nick's world with her and the kids should be fantasy enough for him. He didn't need those other things.

"KRISTINA!" shouted Nick, "come in here please and give your mother a hand. Some juice spilled on the floor." He bit Nina on her ear and clasped his hands around her flat belly.

"I DIDN'T DO IT!" Kristina retorted. "HALLE DID IT!"

"NO I DIDN'T! GIVE ME THAT GLOVE!" cried Halle.

"Your father did it...OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH, stop it," shrieked Nina as Nick nibbled redoubled prejudice.

"Spend some time with me tonight," said Nina as she playfully buried her tight bottom into Nick's ample thighs. "Sure, I'd like that," he replied. "Get the kids to bed – maybe break in that Christmas present from Santa..." which elicited a tittering protest from Nina. It was already April– it had been a long time, a thought that occurred to Nina and Nick simultaneously. One that caused Nick's hands to withdraw and Nina to get back to her chicken. Nick offered to clean up the mess; Nina cleared her throat, the fleeting spell broken.

"No, that's all right. I'm the one that threw the mallet anyway," said Nina. But Nick already had the mop in hand when Tara dashed into the kitchen crying hysterically. She hurled herself into her mother's arms.

"THE KIDS CALLED TANYA'S SISTER A SCARECROW FREAK AND THEY SAID TANYA'S GONNA LOOK LIKE A SCARECROW FREAK AND TANYA STARTED CRYING AND THEN THEY SAID ANYONE WHO PLAYS WITH TANYA'S GONNA LOOK LIKE A SCARECROW FREAK AND IF I PLAY WITH TANYA I'M GONNA LOOK LIKE A SCARECROW FREAK ANDANDANDANDAND..." Tara wailed as Nina and Nick exchanged startled looks.

"So what did you tell them?" said Nina, cooing into her daughter's ear.

"I told them 'You're crazy. I won't play with you!' But I like them!"

"You did right. You said just the right thing, Tara," assured Nick.

"I'M TALKING TO MOMMY, NOT YOU!" wailed Tara. Nina was afraid that sooner or later the neighborhood urchins would figure out that there was a problem with a member of the Snyder household and make it their mission to inflict the inevitable cruelties that childhood required.

"Your daddy's right. You did the right thing," said Nina. "Let's all get ready for dinner." Nina was ignored by everyone – girls absorbed in video wars and Tara torn apart by a deliberate act of social ostracism.

Nina felt sorry for Joe and Doris, having to deal with the pressure of being the lone black family in the neighborhood, one of a handful in the entire town. Of course Doris grew up in West Stemper with Nina and the matter of race was never an issue back when they were kids. And growing up in a virtually all-white community as an adopted daughter of the white Presbyterian minister never made Doris feel particularly black. Nina, in her admitted naiveté, was shocked by the stir caused when Doris and Joe hooked up at Clemson and decided to move to West Stemper to raise their family. Nina wonders how she and Nick would have coped with the pressures faced by Doris and Joe – of constantly being under the scrutiny of neighbors and local "opinion makers." Everyone knows how smart and hard-working Joe Snyder is; but in the microscopic minds of a few, his accomplishments did not mean that he ceased being black – even in this liberal upscale community.

It's never been a smooth ride for the Snyders. Nina wondered if, indeed, their adversity worked to draw Doris and Joe closer in their marriage. Nina wondered if the lack of some similar "common cause" caused the man she loves so much to drift away from her.

A gale of protest when Nick pulled the power cord on the Sega/Nintendo/SONY just as Kristina was about to knock out a reeling Mike Tyson for the first time. Meanwhile Nina conducted quiet counsel with Tara, trying to explain the irrationality of the day's experience. Finally the family assembled at the table. Tara instantly drained a cup of milk and demanded another.

"Please...may I have more milk, Tara," Nick snapped. "You have the manners of a savage – go get it yourself."

"I'm not talking to you, daddy. You're mean," Tara pouted.

"Yeah, and I'm violent, too, little girl. One more word out of that fresh mouth..."

"Nick, please. Tara's upset," said Nina, expecting the inevitable explosion and at her wits end on how to avoid it. Her thoughts drifted to her running shoes, some clean shorts in the dresser, a domestic jail break.

"Yuck! My chicken's pink!" Kristina complained.

"STOP COMPLAINING ABOUT EVERYTHING AND EAT IT ANYWAY AND THEN GO TO YOUR ROOM! YOU'RE GROUNDED!!" roared Nick.

"Oh no! Don't eat it!" said Nina, frantic, the fuse lit. "Nick, how can you tell her to eat...she'll get food poisoning. Oh, I'm sorry. I should've cooked it longer. Everyone start on the salad while I nuke the meat." Nina snatched the plates from the table and flashed Nick a scolding look. Helluva nerve he scowled back at her. Mind drifted to the meat mallet. This, the man who had his hands all over her just a few minutes ago. Now she felt like burying a sharp instrument in his brow. Why this constant tension? Why couldn't they be civil with each other any more? She hadn't changed. He had! He had!

"Am I still grounded, Mommy?" asked Kristina, with tears in her eyes, refusing to look at her daddy. Good thing, because Nick had a death grip on the arms of his chair, his face a deep scarlet and his stubby legs poised to leap on top of his impertinent daughter. All it would take was one little crinkle of the nose and...

"No, of course not. Everyone's a little jumpy. Tara had a bad day and we're all upset..." said Nina, trying to master her own anger. She could almost feel the heat coming from Nick's corner of the table.

"Oh, so what I have to say carries no weight. Just like that, the girl is absolved. When I say you're grounded, YOU'RE GROUNDED," Nick insisted. "The kid has gotta learn..."

"Don't call her that," said Nina "We'll talk later, Kristina." But Nina was drowned out by Kristina's wailing reaction to her father's decree, which set off Tara in a sympathetic wave of demonstrative grief. Tired of being ignored and thinking it high time for comic relief, Halle decorated her dinner by pouring the contents of her milk cup onto and over her bowl of applesauce. She watched it drip, drip, drip onto the floor. She seemed glad that she was not the one in trouble this time.

"Leave Kristina alone, Daddy," scolded intrepid Tara.

"EVERYONE SHUT UP," roared Nick. The noise abated to a rolling whimper.

"What do you mean you'll talk later..." growled Nick to Nina, whose eyes were edged with tears. Knew it was coming. Saw it coming. Couldn't stop it from coming. Every muscle tensed with frustration, air crackling, she sensed the odor of ozone.

"Just what I said," Nina scowled, her voice rising in intensity. "Kristina and I will talk...LATER." Nina observed Nick stiffen in his seat, but she cut him off before he could challenge her. "And don't you ever tell me to shut up again. Nobody uses shut up in this house." Nina solemnly rose from her chair in response to the beeping microwave.

"I've lost my appetite," grumbled Nick as he struggled out of his seat and shuffled toward the basement door. Nina, at the kitchen counter and with shoulders bunched, ripped pieces of chicken apart with a fury that well exceeded the necessary force.
Chapter Two

The Dream

Down 10 steps. 90-degree right turn. Three more steps. A hand reached out in the dark, groping for the light switch. A burst of brilliant fluorescence and his office was open for business. Part warehouse, part mailing house, part laundry room, part workshop, part sanctuary. Nick tottered his way through a chaotic clutter of baskets, paper, plastic paper holders, newspapers, magazines, circulars, labels, envelope boxes, books, file folders. He scraped his thigh against a sharp edge of the ping pong table (Damn!) that groaned under the weight of several hundred unsold volumes of John Wright's Royal Road to Riches, an introduction to the world of direct mail marketing.

Reeling from the goring, Nick careened past the furnace and toppled a wastebasket hidden beneath a heap of discarded penny-savers. Tripped up and staggered, Nick was still able to reach out and right himself against a file cabinet drawer that was open just far enough. Then, as the drawer eased shut under the weight of his bulk, Nick recovered his balance and swung over to the large wooden swivel chair in front of his desk. Wouldn't be a bad idea to clean this mess up someday, he thought to himself.

His stacks. He burrowed through debris, grabbing for the file containing paste-up boards for the next newsletter. It was rounding into final form. He fanned through yesterday's postcards: NO BALONEY...I MADE $600 LAST WEDNESDAY RECONDITIONING LEAD ACID BATTERIES – AT HOME! EARN THOUSANDS MONTH AFTER MONTH CASTING EXQUISITE KEEPSAKES...$1,000 OUT OF ONE BAG OF CEMENT!!! $500 A DAY MAKING PVC FURNITURE...FREE GOLD NUGGETS NO CATCH!...BIG BUCKS DRESSING ADORABLE TEDDY BEARS FOR KIDS IN HOSPITALS STEP-BY-STEP INSTRUCTIONS.

Glory! Another strong issue. 435 new businesses lined up for the new edition. This time next week he would be able to close it out and go to press. This was Nick's ad:

500 BEST HOME BUSINESSES – You can be financially independent in 90 days or your money back! Enclose $5 and #10 SASE to: Nina Publishing, P.O. Box 916, West Stemper, NJ 08110.

Nick keystroked each new business from his postcard responses onto a newsletter page template. It was his third issue – he lost only $300 on the previous edition (after duplication, advertising, mailing and other expenses). He was hoping to break even on this one. He has half a shoebox worth of subscribers, totaling 227 index cards. At $5 a pop, minus the cost of ads in Popular Mechanix, Field and Stream, and Opportunity Magazine, he was almost out of the hole. He'd like the ad to pull better (who wouldn't?) and he had control copy in each of the three publications, but he's not sure if it's the copy, the offer or the price that needed adjustment. Of course, it's only been six months with this particular project and, in this business, persistence was the key. No absolutes, no guarantees. Testing testing testing.

Nick knew the drill and has the faith. But Nina didn't understand the science and loathed the investment – the investment he was committed to making for a direct response operation to take wing. For all his assurances, however, even he conceded that his arguments would be more persuasive if coupled with a better return. Despite Nina's misgivings, Nick was unwilling to surrender to disappointment, not with such a sober and sensible plan:

He sought to exploit the desperate and the lazy: those eager to empty their pockets in return for discovering the mysteries of financial success. His market was the legions of the feckless: those who dream of finding a gimmick that will catapult them from Tobacco Road to Easy Street. He thumbed through letters and postcards from breathless respondents and current subscribers: "I just lost my job and need to raise cash fast...get me started! Now!"..."My wife is a whore and she says I'm a load but she's stupid – I work hard if I'm challenged mentally...Send me free information. Help me show that bitch!"

Prospects included the young, the old, the curious and the lonely. From precociously greedy nine-year-olds to withering prisoners of nursing homes – money will set them right. The old ladies: they just want to strike it rich without getting out of bed. Then there was the growing list composed entirely of tenants of the nation's vast correctional institutions. Nick's market comprised anyone looking for the easy way out.

Alas, Nick found himself unmoved by the countless sob stories. He discarded the convicts and old farts right away. They dirty his lists with non-responses – they're just trying to fatten up their daily mail call. They have no money to send to Nick and his well of sympathy and patience with non-performers ebbed with each drop of red ink that stained his ledger. He was in it for the loot, not to accumulate pen pals.

His most valuable resource was his active names. They occupied more than 20 shoe boxes, sorted by product, inquiry, sales, repeat customers, non-performers and miscellaneous prospects. The boxes were stacked on steel shelves, though Nick dreamed of converting his precious lists to a PC database. His thinking was late 20th century, but he was shackled by 19th century technology. Here it was, 1993, and he couldn't even afford a lousy two grand for a bare-bones personal computer. At least he had his electric Smith-Corona, even if the "z" stuck, but how often do you use "z" anyway?

The last of the businesses were pasted down for the night and Nick carefully placed the Bristol Board on top of the others, which were tidily stacked and prepped for the printer. Then on to his current pet project. Telephone book covers. Simple concept. Just a matter of lining up a network of local merchants to take out ad space on plastic slip-binders that cover and protect local telephone directories. How could any businessman refuse that kind of exposure at just $250 a pop? No one throws out phone books. Nick was still polishing the offer letter and planned to begin canvassing prospects in the next few weeks. Before long, he would be branching out into Berkeley Heights, Westfield – the rest of the county. Of course it'll mean hiring staff, an accountant. Finally: a computer! Just a little up front work, but the payoff was inevitable –there's absolutely no credible competition in this market.

But the jackpot may have nothing to do with mail-order or phone book covers. It was a breakthrough idea that he'd been turning around in his head for months now. He was still trying to fire arrows through it, but none of them made a dent. It's almost out of the germination stage – Nick was set to pounce on this one.

He checked his watch and was startled to discover the entire evening's shot to hell. There was a dull rumbling in his stomach, a reminder that he never got around to eating dinner. Bet the chicken's well done by now. Some kind of argument with the kids...or was it with Nina? He decided he should close down and head upstairs and attend to damage control. But first he slapped on a cassette tape entitled: Mindblaster Series: You Are The Key To Your Success. It guaranteed to reveal "the secrets of financial success through personal magnification." Nick had to wade through all eight tapes by the end of the month so he could return them and get his money back.

"...3 years ago I didn't have a cent in my pocket. I had no money and zilch credit. I worked in a small restaurant washing all the dishes. The smell of rotting food was unbearable, it's something I will never forget. As bad as it was, it kept me alive. The day I got fired I was really down. It wasn't my fault. My miserable job was lost forever. My money started running out. I needed a good-paying job..." And then the narrator described how he didn't just get a job, he got a whole new life. He learned all about "mindblasting." It turned his life around and it could turn Nick Freeman's life around, too. Instead, Nick decided to turn his life around tomorrow. He shut off the tape and headed upstairs. It was a productive evening. Another step in the progression. He was that much closer.

He emerged from the basement and from the darkened kitchen he felt his way with foot extended through the den. He slowly climbed the stairs, the house utterly silent, which was how it usually was at 11:30 pm on Sunday night. He edged his way to the bedroom. The children breathed heavily in their rooms. They didn't come down to say goodnight. They understood how much he hated interruptions when he was working in his office. He took off his clothes in the tiny powder room off the master bedroom and silently slipped into bed. Nina was fast asleep. Nick slid over to give her a hug and she reflexively snuggled against him. He noticed that she was wearing the filmy black teddy he gave her for Christmas and that she had doused herself with L'Heure Demande, his favorite scent. On the night stand were two tiny glasses of untouched Drambuie, but in the darkness Nick could not see them. He sighed and rested his chin against Nina's bare shoulder.
Chapter Three

The Scion

Dunston Thurmond peered at the glorious spring morning unfolding at his feet from the floor-to-ceiling window of his glass-enclosed corner. But, alas, Dunston's current disposition was less than sunny. His mood was darkened by a mild melancholia. His morning run, a daily 5 a.m. ritual, was at the heart of the matter. His usual seven miles disappointed him. His time was off. Despite ideal weather conditions, his time was off. His machine—that sleek 6-foot, 2-inch frame of hardened muscle and sinew—had let him down. His long powerful strides were as smooth and economical as ever knocking down the first miles. But then fatigue set in earlier than usual, subtly eroding his pace. Hence Dunston's chiseled countenance was clouded with displeasure, casting a pall on his appreciation of Nature's present glory. To punish himself, he refused to put the top down on his new BMW on the way to work. And he would pound the Versaclimber harder at the club at lunch time.

"Mr. Thurmond, Mr. Wilmot on line 5 – are you 'in' yet?" piped Jill Sanderson, Dunston's assistant.

"Please tell him I'll call back...and, oh, Jill, could you step in for a minute, I'd like to see you." Seconds later Jill materialized in front of Dunston's desk. His personal assistant conformed to his conviction that, while all things must work according to function, matters of aesthetics also came into play in setting the tone of a business environment. Jill conformed to function—the primary consideration. She anticipated his needs with clairvoyant deftness and she exercised faultless judgment in the handling of his schedule and interaction with subordinates. She projected an air of formality and efficiency in the execution of her day-to-day chores, but she could also be empathetic and candid with Dunston when called for.

As for the aesthetic? Ahh, Jill was a goddess! Those large brown eyes and dramatically high cheekbones lent a sleek, feline cast to her expression. Her thin, perfectly formed lips were often pursed in a tight smile suggesting modesty and quiet confidence. Her light brown hair, which she wore shoulder length, fell and glistened like a model's mane in a shampoo commercial. Her lean muscular body came partly from being a runner, like Dunston, and from extended sessions in the weight room. She insisted that she battled weight problems in an earlier life, but Dunston could not imagine his 23-year-old secretary being old enough to have had a "previous life," let alone the concept of an ounce of excess body fat on such an exquisite figure. To Dunston, Jill was perfect in every way. It was why he hired her.

"Please close the door, Jill," Dunston murmured in a distracted voice while pretending to pore over insurance claim reports. He forced himself to delay, to appear immersed and burdened as a tactic to impress. Finally, he glanced up abruptly, catching Jill's eyes. Despite an attempt to convey casual, Dunston's penetrating aqua eyes, set beneath a tangle of untrimmed eyebrows, could sometimes appear menacing. His face softened into a smile, but even his smile seemed unnatural on a face made severe by a sharp patrician nose and wide angular jaw. Features that were a proud family tradition.

"It's Dunston. When the door is shut, I'm Dunston. Mr. Thurmond is fine otherwise," he gently scolded, straining to maintain his focus on Jill's face, so tempting was the impulse for his eyes to wander south into sweet distraction.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dunston. I forgot," said Jill, with a clipped, nervous laugh. She was seated on one of the guest chairs facing his desk, toying with Dunston's expensive chrome and Lucite pen/calendar/calculator/thermometer/organizer set, a gift from his estranged wife upon his promotion to Vice President of Claims Administration.

"Oh no! I'm not scolding you, Jill. It's just that stiff and formal are not my style. I know that may not be my reputation around here, but I truly am trying to cultivate a more relaxed atmosphere."

"I'm sorry, sir," said Jill. She's spellbinding screamed Dunston silently to himself, his gut knotted in her presence. Must he always choose them like this? Was it an ego affliction? A need for self-torment? He couldn't help himself.

"But you know what you just did?" She shook her head with a look of concern. "You called me 'sir'! Now that's almost as spine-tingling as 'Mr. Thurmond!'" Jill laughed self-consciously, but in that musical way of hers that sent a shuddering surge through Dunston's loins. She thinks he's a wit. Yes, he could handle this situation.

"To the matter at hand, Ms. Sanderson," he purred merrily, a formality that elicited endearing, precious, provocative, and conquering laughter from the beautiful and disarmed woman. "I have a problem I'd like to bounce off you." Dunston was back on track. He fluttered his eyelids and stroked his long, sallow cheek with a manicured index finger. "As a runner you will understand this," said Dunston as he launched into a description of the morning's disappointing workout. He lamented his flagging splits and the disastrous finish all under perfect weather conditions. Throughout his monologue he contemplated the ceiling. But heading toward the finish, his gaze gradually tilted down until his focus fixed on Jill's eyes, which seemed to startle her.

"Just a bad day. I guess. It happens to me all the time," she reassured him, breaking off eye contact, a soft pink coloring her cheeks. She started fidgeting with papers. Dunston realized the pettiness of his morning displeasure, but it's all just a strategy to ease into a more productive conversation. He suddenly leaped to his feet, flinging off his suit jacket, folding it with great precision and laying it on his credenza, at last uttering, "You run today?" A frown darkened Dunston's severe visage when Jill informed him that she's a night jogger.

"I'm just not a morning person," said Jill.

"I imagine not," replied Dunston. "I vaguely remember being single myself – will be again soon...heh heh," a comment that sets off immediate idiot alarms in his head. That was smooth! Look, her face is like a radish and she's ready to spring out of that chair and sprint out of my life. Reach...reach...for something else. "What I meant was I've always been an early riser. Never sleep past 4:30. Don't need more than four hours a night. Just so busy, you know." Now he's afraid he was boring her, but the natural color was returning to her face, she smiled – so dangerous! And best of all, she murmured her admiration for her boss's discipline and energy.

"I can't claim credit. It's in the genes, I guess. Tell me, Jill, have you tried those Lycra running outfits? Personally I got my first pair of compression shorts and they feel great. But between you and me, I do feel a bit self-conscious – they're pretty clingy."

"I always wear them. They give terrific support – almost feels like I'm wearing nothing," she said with her endearing, precious, provocative, and conquering laugh, launching rockets of prurient speculation down Dunston's spine.

"I like running without a shirt on," he countered, sustaining the stripped-down motif. "I find it helps my breathing somehow. We live pretty close by; maybe we could work out together some time. It's easier to pass the miles with a partner." She didn't issue an outright rejection, but she hesitated over the hour.

"Maybe I could make some adjustments. Say, there's no reason why we shouldn't make things more convenient for you. The company pays for my membership at Tonucci's – and there's no reason why you shouldn't take advantage of that, too. Sort of as an added perk, and then you could go at lunch hour." A significant pause. "Like I do." Jill's eyes lit up. Ah, Tonucci's: The magic word. The luxe sweat palace for West Stemper's rich and powerful. Jill gushed with gratitude, Dunston's heart leapt up! Sure, playing his Tonucci's card with Jill was very much like cheating. But if you have a trick in your bag—well, it's a trick in your bag!

"Why not? You're doing great here and this is one way the company can show its appreciation. And I'm sure you would use it, that's the thing, and it would give us a chance to get to know each other a little better – in a more relaxed setting," Dunston fantasized out loud, his searching eyes again affixed on Jill's dark brown ones. She looked down at her steno pad and Dunston realized that perhaps the envelope had been pushed sufficiently for one day. "Okay, think about it, Jill. Just let me know if you're interested and I'll sign the paperwork, no problem. In fact, I'll give Billy Tonucci a shout this morning." Now he caught himself hovering, damn fool! He couldn't help it. Assuming the higher perch was a natural impulse for him, even when if it could mean compromising the delicate task at hand. Hopelessly mired, he exercised the cut and run. At times retreat was the best salvation.

"Now would you please have Freeman step into my office?" he said with a quick shift into executive crisp. "And tell him to bring the Mercy Environmental file with him. Thanks." Not a good day at all for Dunston Thurmond. He was not accustomed to such oafishness. Indeed was this the same man who brought the crowd to its feet following his valedictory speech at Dartmouth? And was uncertainty an issue when he politely shunned his father's offer to be the next in line to assume control of the family's international advertising business? This couldn't be the guy who turned down law school, the other family trade, despite his uncle's urgings, after snagging his MBA at Wharton. No, it certainly wasn't uncertainty that led him to reject a guaranteed career track – at the risk of incurring family-wide displeasure – for a ground-floor management training job at stodgy old Great American Property and Liability Insurance Company, where at the age of 33 he became the youngest department head in the company's 155-year history.

Dunston knew exactly why Jill disrupted his equilibrium. She's unlike any woman he's ever pursued. But he wants her and aloofness she frustrated him, which was why he summoned Freeman.

Nick Freeman was a sure cure for Dunston's sagging spirits. He crept forth cautiously as Dunston fidgeted over scraps of interoffice junk mail. His administrative claims manager looked more disheveled than usual this Monday morning. Nick Freeman was one of Dunston's "old pros" in claims – one of those crudely formed, uncomplicated beings, molded of the same stuff that resulted in policemen, carpenters, football referees and the like. There were swarms of them living quiet lives in modest, yet meticulously kept blue collar neighborhoods just north of the West Stemper business district. Heroes on the company bowling and slo-pitch softball teams. Awkward brutes, some of them, and each incapable of a properly dimpled necktie knot. But what they may lack in refinement, they compensated for in basic horse sense. Their noses were attuned to the questionable and fraudulent – a pre-requisite for the professional claims man.

Nick Freeman was solid with his fraternity in many ways. He was in his mid 40s, which made him a lifer. He didn't go more than five-foot-six and his surging gut made him appear even shorter. His collection of blue Arrow Oxford shirts should have been retired to the fashion archives years ago. He wore them so the shirt tail parted before the tuck in his trousers, forming a bowed white triangle of undershirt just above the belt buckle. On especially hectic days, the entire shirttail would work its way out of Nick's drawers, a presentational outrage he never seemed to notice. The trousers themselves were also a problem. He wore the same pair, or identical knock-offs, of patterned rust-color slacks that reached to mid-ankle. These were matched with a well-broken-in pair of brown loafers that would probably fall to pieces were they to encounter the business side of a buffing rag.

That was Nick Freeman. The description, with minor adjustments, could apply to any of Dunston's claims people, which he affectionately dubbed his "Troll Patrol." In some ways, though, Freeman's behavior deviated from the norm. For instance, his obsessive hobbies with their singular objective of sudden wealth accumulation. Of course, it wasn't happening for Nick quickly; it wasn't happening for Nick at all. Dunston understood that it was reasonable for anyone mired in the hopeless pit of an insurance claims career to have an eye out for hitting the jackpot, but Dunston would expect his trolls to confine such pipe dreams to the state lottery or the casinos in Atlantic City. Dunston was willing to concede that Nick, with his intricate schemes, did reveal an interesting, if quixotic, spark of creativity. This aspect of Nick fascinated Dunston in a mildly perverse way. Nick's dreams were more vivid than most of those of his sort; even if, in Dunston's mind, Nick lacked the equipment to pull them off. If nothing else, Nick presented an amusing sideshow.

"Pleasant weekend, Nick? The weather was glorious. Junior was up from Florida to shoot a commercial in New York, so afterwards I took him to the cousin's farm in Hunterdon and we rode the hills for hours. Really makes you leave behind all the stresses that build up during the week. And how did you spend your time?" boomed Dunston with an exaggerated buoyancy.

"I spent most of it in the basement. The kids basically played video boxing, little Tara was tortured by the neighborhood brats, I had a fight with my wife and the fuel pump went on the car, almost causing a fire. No, I couldn't get out to the country this weekend," said sour-faced Nick.

"I'm sorry that things didn't work out for you," said Dunston, outwardly unfazed by Nick's ill humor. "I would like to see how those Nintendo gadgets work sometime. Of course, that would mean I'd have to go out and get a TV set."

"Oh, that's right, I guess you don't have time to step into the present century and waste away in front of the tube like everyone else, what with your schedule and such," said Nick through clenched teeth.

"I'm impressed that you do," said Dunston. "Seems like you're a pretty busy guy yourself. How's the old mail order biz going? Hear anything from the Fiji Islands? A friend at the club has a son who collects stamps from obscure places...perhaps the reach of your marketing endeavors extends to some of the out islands and Africa?"

"I'm not sure I'd notice. I'm not really in it for the stamps, sir," snapped Nick. "You can tell your friend...tell him..."

Freeman was not being much fun this morning concluded Dunston. He was riling easier than usual. Then again, he was not exactly a slow-burner. "Oh, I didn't mean that, Nick. You know I'm just kidding. I have the utmost respect for what you're trying to do. Quite honestly, though, I wouldn't mind seeing some of that same entrepreneurial zeal in these parts. Perhaps the Great American is not a comfortable fit when it comes to your cosmic vision; but, my friend, while it's still paying the bills..."

"Fine, fine, thanks for the pep talk, sir. But maybe we could work our way around to the chase here and address what's really on your mind."

Dunston was amused by Nick's unabashed insubordination: it's a refreshing attitude in a company where managerial tendency was to disdain staff as silent, unpleasant peasantry. Dunston abided Freeman to speak to him in this manner because a troll like that required an illusion of empowerment to function effectively. Dunston was comfortable enough in his position to feed Nick's pride while the reins of influence remained securely in his hands.

"Oh, well, sure. My apologies, it didn't occur to me that I was boring you with a 'pep' talk, as you call it. But I did ask you in here with a few questions concerning Mercy Chemical. I see that no decisions have been made with respect to our initial reserves position..."

"That is something we discussed last Wednesday. It's a legal issue. We can't estimate our losses in writing because records like that can be subpoenaed. You know that, Dunston. We're trying to duck liability on this one and it's the word from Legal: nothing in writing."

"I've got to report large losses to Talbot – he'll want preliminary reserves, what do I tell him?"

"Tell Mr. Talbot just what I told you. He's a lawyer, too, and he knows damn well that EIL claims are a hot button and that nothing is ever written down. And don't think I don't know what you're up to, boss." Nick's breathless accusation was noticed and ignored by Dunston. He will get what he needs from Freeman. Because now the game will stop. The line to be drawn must be understood.

"Then give me a verbal. How much will that loss cost us?"

"Fifty cents."

"Cut the crap!" Dunston commanded, blazing eyes firing flares. "Give me a figure I can give Talbot. He's the damn president of the damn company and he's got a right to know. He's waiting in his office for me right now!" Dunston's countenance darkened, his noble features sharpened with predatory intensity. The charm of Nick's defiance had dissipated – Dunston would not brook a personal challenge.

"The damn president is the first damn guy to answer a damn deposition, sir," hissed Nick. "You're so damn smart, you should know that. Tell him we're still evaluating the issues and cannot set aside a reserve until the site survey report by our engineers is complete. (Dunston shook his head). Stall him, charm him, do whatever it is that you do in that winning way of yours to put him off. I don't need my balls busted on this one. I have enough problems to deal with." Nick rose to leave, but Dunston had sprung to his feet, sprinted around his desk and slammed the door before Nick was out of his chair.

"I don't know what you mean by those insinuating remarks, Nick. I'm merely asking for technical information from my technical guy. We're not stupid, we appreciate your sensitivity to the issues at stake. Everything is off the record. But how the hell do we look to upper management if we can't get them the numbers they need?" Dunston's urgent baritone dropped to a whisper. "We're all competing for the same bonus pot at the end of the year and I understand your position on these internal political matters. But it's important to all of us, Nick. It's important to you."

"I'm acting in what I think is in the best interest of the company," Nick retorted. "I'm doing what I know is in my best interest."

"Perhaps something for which I which I should be the judge, Nick. Your self-interest is something over which I do have some influence. Believe me, I am working on your behalf."

"Mr. Thurmond, no."

"A number, Nick."

"Make one up yourself, sir."

"A number!" Dunston hissed.

"Fifty cents."

"Think about it, Nick."
Chapter Four

The Catharsis

Nina rushed home following a half-day substitute teaching assignment and invited Doris for lunch. Doris Snyder and Bernice Sanford (now Thurmond) were Nina's closest friends. They grew up together, married and started families at roughly the same time, and have lived in the same community their entire lives. It played out as a dream for Nina. Despite an inquisitiveness that spurred her to test new activities and ideas (occasionally leading to fractured limbs and ephemeral shifts in her belief systems), Nina found the familiar comforting.

She regretted, however, that while she and her friends shared proximity, their frequency of contact suffered from the demands of daily living. Nina's family took up much of her time. Then there was the part-time job, which she'd never give up. She loved the life of a substitute: the chance to set her own schedule and teach different subjects to a new group of kids every day. Bernice, the perpetual over-achiever, was either wrapped-up in her medical career or busy chaperoning her daughter, the Viola Prodigy, on various road trips or dragging her son into the city to shoot another Doritos commercial. Or she was jetting off somewhere with Dunston Thurmond, her dazzling husband.

Nowadays it was usually just Nina and Doris. But even for them, contact was often reduced to hasty waves across the fence and rushed vows of "must get together soon" for weeks on end. Indeed the months passed like lightning, but Nina periodically arrested time, if only for a moment, to have lunch with her friend. She had to, otherwise too much of importance slipped by. Too much of lesser importance got in the way.

"Let's get smashed!" shrieked Nina as Doris extracted the cork from a white zinfandel that she brought to complement Nina's peanut butter and banana sandwiches. The meal was a tradition. Since elementary school it has always peanut butter and banana, apples sliced in quarters and a package of Drake's Kakes. The wine was a recent enhancement.

"You're right. This cheap stuff will go bad if we don't drink it soon. I'll take mine on the rocks and in a big cup!" declared Doris. "And by the way, keep your man away from mine. Dammit, seems Nicky now wants to get Joe in the knife sharpening business. And a week or two ago it was painting chrome on car bumpers and that was right after something about repairing small holes in windshields with some goop so that the whole thing didn't have to get replaced. Nicky cracks Joe up, but what would happen if he started taking him seriously? He'd have no energy left for me. And a girl has her needs, you know!" Doris gave Nina good-natured pop on the shoulder, which was met with a quick, weak smile from Nina.

`"I guess Nick wants everyone to be as busy as he is." Nina looked away and coughed. Why did Doris have to bring up Nick's name? That wasn't the point of today. The idea was to have a good time, but how could she with her life in a shambles? It's not that she objected to Nick's enthusiastic attempts to develop his own business, but repeated disappointment had soured him. He had become a monster at home, short-tempered with the kids and critical of everything she did, when he bothered to speak to her at all.

"I guess you should drink up, girl," said Doris, who seemed to understand that she was here to listen. She nodded and patted her friend's arm as Nina laid out the ruins of her marriage. Doris made sure to keep Nina's wine glass full, which only seemed to hasten Nina's collapse into a heaving ball of misery on the kitchen table.

"We don't...talk," stammered Nina. "We never go out. I try to make myself attractive for him...you know. But we don't even...we don't..." she broke off.

"Fuck," finished Doris. "You don't fuck. Just say it."

Nina nodded her head, reeling from the shock of Doris' glib assessment. She described the blowup at the dinner table the previous night and how she got ready for him in the bedroom, hoping that would move him to turn up the heat, and how he never showed up until she was fast asleep and how that wasn't the first time. Nina's aghast by her free-flowing tears: a woman who detested the loss of emotional control.

"You're doing fine, Nina," cooed Doris, who then stridently proclaimed, "If Nick isn't up to banging a hot piece like you, than the problem's with him, honey! He ain't ever gonna get better tail than what he's got lying right next to him," said Doris, whose gift for language could usually breach Nina's darkest moods. Indeed Nina did lift her head, her moist eyes brightening, and a clipped laugh emerged through her vale of misery. Doris, of course, was right about her "hot piece" observation. At 41 Nina still looked (and sometimes acted) the part of a teenager. Her smooth, un-creased face and silky blond hair could belong to a woman half her age. And her slim, toned body was a wonder for a woman at any age.

"Thanks. I know I look okay. But it's not just the sex. Nick's so preoccupied. I'm worried. How is it going to end?" Doris, spun the base of her wine glass impatiently on the table, grabbed Nina's elbow and declared:

"If you don't like what your old man is doing, just tell him to quit it. Whenever Joe starts doing something stupid, I just tell him to stop." Nina, her brow furrowed, asked Doris if that approach actually worked.

"Usually," said Doris, which Nina assumed was a lie. Joe's not the type of guy prone to foolishness. Joe Snyder was probably the most focused and rational human being Nina knew. Doris needing to say no to Joe? Inconceivable.

"No, I can't just tell Nick to stop. He has so much of himself and our savings invested. He has this big dream of striking it rich. It's a sickness and I don't know how to stop it. It's a sickness...that's all," said Nina, fading to silence, before adding: "I don't want Nick to become a mental case."

Doris' ears pricked up and the pleasant wine-induced buzz collapsed like a punctured balloon. Suddenly realizing the unintended hurt she had just administered, Nina recoiled in dismay and embarrassment. She took Doris' hands in hers. "My god, Doris, I didn't mean..." and again the tears, this time staining the cheeks of both women. The wine: a poor idea today.

"No, don't worry, you didn't mean anything. I know that," said a trembling Doris, who quickly regained her composure. "Look, I don't know what to say. The boy will come to his senses one of these days – once he understands what he's got," said Doris, defiantly batting the moisture from her cheek. "What the hell, girl, if you get real desperate, I've got some down-and-dirty videos you can borrow – when it comes to relieving tension, they do the trick!" They laughed as Doris left to brace herself for Lavinia's return from grocery shopping, a project requiring more fortification than that contained in a half-bottle of wine.
Chapter Five

The Troll

Nick was back at his desk. Grumbling. This was not The Dream. This was not the Pure Platinum Idea. This was the nightmare from which he was desperately trying to awaken. The exhilarating rush of planning and building that consumed him on nights and weekends came crashing down on Monday mornings. Mondays were always the pits – but why did this one have to start off with Dunston Thurmond? Bad enough were the waves of hopelessness and dread that smothered him by the time he rolled into the parking lot every Monday morning – but then to be met with Dunston's foot-in-the-gut greeting. The Monday Blues: starting earlier and earlier each weekend. Vague pangs and stomach rumblings late Saturday night, intensifying all day Sunday, and then in bed, the onset of crippling depression. It mocked his dependence, his inability to break free from the bonds of the paycheck. The pain, less a slashing knife in the chest than a cast iron piston compressing his gut. Nick knew what it was. Failure.

It seemed like it had been this way forever. Actually it had been 18 years at the same desk at the Great American. He celebrated his last promotion almost ten years ago. In the meantime he's seen hotshots like Wilbur McKenzie and Dunston Thurmond – men 10 years younger and a fraction as capable – zoom past him in brilliant arcing career trajectories. Glib talkers, sharp dressers, unctuous politicians, thick with contacts. Only thing Nick was good for was supplying the strong back. He was the go-to man. For the tough calls. The guy who repaired the wreckage when the superstars fucked up. Because he'd been there for 18 years. You learned a lot in 18 years; but, in Nick's case, not enough of what it took to reap the rewards and recognition that he desperately desired.

The others took their bows while Nick attended to a mute audience of claim files, transmittal documents, faxes and years of accumulated loss records that burst from file drawers and spilled to the floor in endless accordion reams of documentation. The sloppiest, most productive workspace in the department. No, this was not the dream. It won't happen here. But it will happen. It will. He's got the Pure Platinum Idea that no silver bullet could penetrate.

"Saw you in with the boss. What's the good news – finally get the bump?" It was Matthew Dillard, slurping and splashing a typhoon of hot coffee on his shirt, tie and slacks. Dillard was one of Dunston's prototypical trolls: keen as a scaling knife, sophisticated as a Chevy wagon and loyal as a hunting dog. At 52, he was a lifer – a worker who took pride in simply being a good claims man. A practical, undemanding sort who recognized a cozy niche when he snuggled it – exactly the characteristics that Nick found so contemptible. But how come Dillard was always so cheerful and Nick a seething pile of rage and depression?

"No, tried to get me screwed again. When I raised a fuss, got reamed. The usual. The prince wants me to commit on Mercy. Please don't drip on my desk, some of these folders might be important," said Nick, sweeping a brace of files to the floor, scattering their contents in the process.

"Oh, sorry, didn't know I was spilling," said Dillard, jerking the cup again and splashing more on himself and the carpet. "So why don't you? We've put up preliminary reserves before. Why all the big secrets?"

Nick marveled at how a smart guy like Dillard could be so naive. It wasn't obvious to Dillard that management was setting Nick up to take a fall on Mercy so that Thurmond emerged unscathed. It would never occur to Dillard that the company would actually screw one of its own.

"You're too damn suspicious." Dillard emptied a chair of more papers and plopped his ample ass down. "You think everything is a conspiracy. No one's out to get you. Jesus, you're the top guy in the department." Dillard beamed that teddy bear grin in an effort to defuse his coworker – trying to make things more...pleasant.

"I guess that's my place in history, big fella," said Nick bitterly. "'Nick Freeman, good claims guy. Died broke.' Makes me want to throw up."

"Holy smoke, what makes you so jolly this morning?"

Nick settled back in his chair, paralyzed at the thought of gathering his wits and updating his claim diary. "I was up late, couldn't sleep. Usual stuff. Don't light that thing."

Dillard, a former cigarette smoker, had initially taken to sucking on plastic coffee stirrers to satisfy the oral urge and had just recently switched to a pipe. Nick was mystified by the pleasure Dillard seemed to take in his pipe ritual – of rooting through the soft mossy loam of his tobacco pouch, pinching a wad of spongy weed between his thumb and forefinger and mashing it in the bowl of his lustrous walnut burl instrument. Nick watched as Dillard gaped like a bedazzled savage at the flare of yellow flame when he lit the tobacco compost and sucked at embers until the ashes grew cold. Then he tap, tap, tapped the spent bowl on the side of a wastebasket until every speck was evacuated was that man insane? Nick felt like an ambushed parishioner at mass watching a priest methodically administer the rite of holy communion.

"You know, I think this baby is the answer for you," suggested Dillard. "You're always so keyed up. Here, try my pipe. It's great! When I smoked cigarettes I was a nervous wreck. But this pipe, boy, it makes you want to slow down, take stock, appreciate things more. Cmon, sit back, take a draw, I don't mind. Think about the goodness of life. Step off the merry-go-round for a spell."

"Lip cancer."

"A trade-off. Beats getting a heart attack. That's what's gonna happen. You worry about every little thing. I don't want to come in here someday and have to deal with the sight of you slumped over on your desk." Dillard was sham smoking. He held his pipe in a large, hammy hand, bringing the tip to his thick pink lips. He sucked deeply on the unlit pipe, his scarlet cheeks collapsing like twin bellows and his tiny black eyes easing shut in imagined ecstasy. He removed the pipe and formed an "O" with his lips and blew softly in Nick's direction, who observed without expression.

Of course Nick knew what Dillard was doing – he was resorting to a coping mechanism, like thumb sucking. But Nick refused to surrender to the sanctuary of self-deception. He won't smoke pipes, cigarettes, pot or crack cocaine. Do that stuff and you are either throwing in the towel or cushioning the fall. Dillard needed to be informed of this, but there was no point: the man was a programmed robot.

"What else did Mr. Thurmond do in there to set you off?"

"Just his existence. He's the problem, it's obvious to anyone with a brain. People like him using toads like us to go to war for them. How can you stand it, Dillard? How can you not feel humiliated by the process?" Nick rocked in his chair, marinating in sour mash humiliation. The bottom two buttons of his shirt were coming undone. More undershirt – an expanding tee-shirt teepee. Nick did not look dashing en rampage.

"I don't know where you're coming from with Mr. Thurmond," said Dillard defensively. "He's pretty sharp. Sure turned things around here. How can you not respect the man?" Dillard defiantly lit his pipe and released an enormous wall of smoke, savoring this small rebellion against Nick, but Nick wasn't buying. It's bullshit. Dunston and the Dartmouth degree. Dunston with the precocious brats. Dunston and the weekend with the horses. Nick couldn't stand it! Dunston's daddy's a millionaire, made sure the brat went to the right schools, uncle set him up in management here, went around with his nose up in the air like royalty while tossing a few crumbs to the trolls – it's all a façade. And guys like Dillard ate it up!

"I can't believe you're jealous of him. No offense, pal, but just look at what he's done. Look how he has this department humming. You got to admit he's a damn good leader." Dillard spewed more pipe exhaust as he navigated through a swamp of print-outs and exited Nick's cubicle, shaking his head at his buddy's odd pronouncements.

Nick stared across the pale red expanse of the claims floor, at the dozens of workers resolutely punching keyboards or scrawling on legal pads or babbling into telephone headsets. If they looked up from their work, their eyes darted away from Nick's. They overheard his heated exchange with Dillard. They'll provide Nick a wide berth.

Dillard and the others were of a similar mind. They loved their company. They loved Dunston Thurmond. It would be much easier for Nick if he would just go along with them. Buy into the illusion. The communal love fest. Be satisfied with the incremental gains accruing to the corporate infantry. But he couldn't. He craved the authority he didn't have, the wealth he didn't have, the freedom he didn't have. His heart sunk knowing that he wouldn't get those things here. He needed the things that corporate creatures like Dunston took for granted, but he was not one of them so it won't happen here. He was 45 years old and running out of time.

Nick turned to his files, but saw from the corner of his eye that he's about to be accosted by Jill Sanderson, who was making a rare personal visit to his cubicle. All eyes were on Dunston's runway-gorgeous secretary as she swished across the floor. Yet another red flag that stoked Nick's contempt – what the hell were they looking at? She was office decor, like the vertical blinds, jungle plants and pretentious artwork on the walls. Part and parcel of the Dunston brand, but Nick suspected that his boss would also have her as an expensive toy, much like his jet ski and hang glider. She was transparent to Nick, but she was no fool. She could endure the leering faces, because she was sticking for the bonus round. Nick scribbled something on a yellow sticky and folded it in half. When she arrived, there was a tight, prissy smile frozen on her pretty face.

"Is this what Mr. Thurmond is looking for?" as she reached for the paper in Nick's outstretched hand.

"Yes," said Nick. "This should satisfy your boss." Even he could not help but be mesmerized by the hypnotic motion of Jill's lissome ass as she glided back to her desk. The relentless demon in Nick's head raised the familiar clamor: "I've got to get out of this place!"
Chapter Six

The Tidy

The wreckage wrought of her worthy intentions rendered Nina miserable. A harmless lunch with her best friend Doris became, to Nina's horror, a hysterical gut-purge over petty domestic issues, capped by a poignant reminder of Doris' own personal calamities.

Nina displeased herself.

Nina started doing what she always does when she was out of sorts: straightening up. She scrubbed the kitchen counters, rearranged den furniture, dusted and vacuumed the rugs and mini-blinds. While Nick was in the basement last night she scrubbed all three bathrooms. The harder she worked, the more agitated she became. Propelled by the bracing fumes of ammonia and a burst of dirt-fueled aggression, Lisa cleaned, mopped, and wiped her way to the basement in hopes of finding laundry to wash. Her quest was pre-empted when she stumbled over a stack of John Wright's Royal Road to Riches how-to-get-rich manuals, lost her balance and landed hard on a hillock of glossy "opportunity" magazines. The crash caused her to bite down hard on her lower lip. Nina tasted the salty trickle of her own blood, the perfect fuel for a perfect detonation.

She struggled to her hands and knees, surveyed the moguls of printed matter and loosed a howling "I CAN'T TAKE THIS!" Her arms a blur, she gathered and organized chaotic piles into neat stacks, assembling orderly skyscrapers of investment publications, arranging them alphabetically and then by publication date. She then attacked Nick's ping pong table, jamming all the billing invoices, receipts and assorted coupons and orders into color-coded folders, aligning them in neat rows along the length of the table. She pulled all 22 boxes of index card lists and consolidated them until just 11 boxes remained. She used the empties for Nick's writing implements, staples, stationery supplies, premium incentive samples, thumbtacks, Post-It Notes and other scraps. She charged into his file cabinets and removed all non-paper items: baseballs, darts, trophies, caps and empty soda cans, thus restoring the drawers' long-lost facility to shut. She dashed to the attic in search of large corrugated boxes, which she loaded with periodicals formerly scattered on the ping pong table. She labeled the boxes and arranged them neatly under the table. With sweat streaming down her face and soaking through her cotton tee-shirt, she grabbed Nick's Shop Vac and sucked up all the dirt, dust and loose hardware off the floor, screaming fragments of tracks from an old Blondie album at the top of her lungs. It took several trips to the trash cans on the side of the garage to dispose of years of accumulated clutter. Trash deposited, she vacuumed the floor again, dusted Nick's desk and tidily arranged his art boards and mail bins. She stopped, looked up and smiled. The basement was reclaimed. Her vision of order and efficiency restored, Nina's raging anxiety subsided. She felt better. She rolled the sweaty lint from the interior of her Playtex gloves into little balls in her hand. She hummed a Sarah McLaughlin ballad. She was ready for a good run.
Chapter Seven

The Grocery

They had been cruising the supermarket for more than an hour. They were about a half way done. Some of the frozen food in the cart began to thaw and soon they would be trailing a drippy green path of defrosted frozen spinach juice. Joe grasped the cart handle in a white-knuckle death grip, his patience expiring like the rapidly approaching freshness dates on their perishables. His daughter Lavinia scrutinized every product on the shelves, reading labels, checking nutritional content and consulting a long, elaborate shopping list she had printed out the night before on her PC.

Lavinia did all the food shopping now. The doctor even encouraged it.

"Lavinia, coffee is coffee. You don't even drink coffee. Maxwell House Master Blend is on sale," suggested Joe through clenched teeth. Lavinia ignored her father as she compared tins of Folgers, Chock-Full-of-Nuts, Yuban and Martinson's. She settled on the Medalia D'Oro. The can was carefully placed upright in the upper left-hand corner of the cart, next to similar sized containers of various products that passed Lavinia's inspection. She rearranged three other items in the cart so the coffee would not tilt or rattle.

Another piece of the puzzle. They moved on.

Lavinia dug through all the packages of chopped beef to find the exact weight and fat content indicated on her list. As usual, her search was fruitless and she used the meat manager's phone to order ground sirloin to her exact specifications. They were expecting her call. Two minutes later the package of meat arrived and was placed on top of the coffee, parallel to and supported by the front rim of the carriage. As usual. Then it was 15 minutes at the fish counter as Lavinia made the fish man show her every flounder fillet so she could choose the ones with the proper weight, color, shape and texture. At the two-hour mark, they finally hit the egg and dairy section – the final aisle. There Lavinia bought seven one-quart containers of Edy's vanilla fudge ice cream, one gallon of 1 percent milk, and three cartons of jumbo eggs. She examined her list and drew the final three lines across the final three items with her purple highlighter pen. She looked gravely at her father and nodded.

"We're finished," said Lavinia. Joe sighed and guided the cart to the checkout line. Doris started making him do the shopping trips with Lavinia about two months ago, since the time Doris broke down in tears at Shop Rite, causing Lavinia to "act out" and hurl tins of Utz pretzels at her mom, resulting in their lifetime banishment from that particular supermarket. Since then grocery shopping became Joe's personal torture. It was his turn to assist his daughter. His turn to watch a cautionary tale unfold as his offspring turned such admirable qualities as preparation and attention to detail on their ear. Qualities that had made Joe what he is today. They made Lavinia what she is today, too. Joe shook his head.

Lavinia placed cans in order of descending height on the conveyor built. These were followed by neat rows of boxed items, then packaged meat, which was grouped according to species and cut. Lavinia insisted on bagging the groceries herself, waving away the boy who was paid to perform that service. As Lavinia arranged the sacks in the cart, she permitted her father to pay the cashier.

Lavinia demanded to check the change against the receipt to make sure it was correct.
Chapter Eight

The Cough

Dunston Thurmond was seated military-erect in an extravagantly upholstered burgundy leather easy chair across from his boss, Darren Talbot, president and CEO of the Great American. Talbot, a large man with a walrus mustache and a gruff manner, sham coughed prior to issuing significant pronouncements. The conventional wisdom around the office was "no cough, no worry." But if there was a cough...

Dunston made it a practice to informally amble into Talbot's office several afternoons a week after 6 p.m. Most of the office staff had called it a day by then. Dunston was confident in the assumption that his was a welcome presence in the president's office – Talbot seemed to hold a genuine affection for the youthful executive. As for Talbot, Dunston found him boorish, bland and provincial—a testament to humble origins. Talbot began his career in the early '50's servicing an agency debit. He worked hard and went to school at night, first for his GED, then his BS and eventually a JD. He was recruited into management in the late '60's and, through dogged perseverance, made it all the way to the top seven years ago, when his predecessor died in this very office.

"You weren't here then, Thurmond," purred Talbot (no cough), drawing Dunston into his story by starting in the middle. "McKechnie was the one who found him. Slumped over on the desk. It was the oddest thing. Mackie said the old man's head was on the desk and his arms were just kinda dangling at the sides. The chair was half pulled out – like he was sleeping. Damnedest thing. It's my understanding that the impact of his face crashing on the desk – this desk right here as a matter of fact – actually broke his damn nose. Of course, by then it didn't matter! Already croaked. Massive hemorrhage. Stroke, you know. Maybe an aneurysm. Makes me think about ordering a thicker blotter."

Most annoying was Talbot's habit of lighting up a fat cigar at the end of each day. He cupped his hands with a flaming wooden match and puffed like a locomotive, as most cigar smokers do. Their simple aim, Dunston suspected, was to befoul as many cubic yards of mechanically purified office air as possible. Maybe it was the smoker's way of marking territory – perhaps more civilized than urinating like a hound around the perimeter of one's office – but that bracing sooty stench permeated the executive wing. Twirling gray exhaust clouds emerged and obscured the fat man's face, muffled puh...puh...puhs wafted from the center of the incendiary zone. Then the hands parted, the round cheeks discharged their load and a rush of smoke tumbled like a wispy boulder at a rapid roll right in Dunston's direction, who somehow managed to suppress a yelp of utter despair.

"Don't mind if I smoke, Thurmond?" inquired Talbot off-handedly.

"Of course not," winced Dunston. "Nothing like a good cigar to cap off a day, I suppose."

"Oh, I've been rude! Here, have one!" chortled Talbot with CEO heartiness as he thrust the entire box tobacco turds in Dunston's face. Dunston demurred. Talbot coughed(!). Dunston's arm automatically flew out and reached for a cigar, but he avoided lighting it.

"I was senior vice president then," said Talbot, resuming the thread of his story of which Dunston had long since lost track. "It was between me and Mackie for the top job. Hell, I was a fixture here and Mackie, well, he had that wife who was a little too active on the Democratic Committee...of course he couldn't bear having to report to me, so I guess we're all better off. He's in charge of that bed-pan mutual in Kansas City – we're not really in touch much any more – well, anyway, you just got to be in the right place at the right time. That's all. Much of getting ahead is to make sure they see you, son."

Dunston fashioned a look of admiration on his face and shook his head. "I'm sure there's more to it than that, Mr. Talbot." The crooked ash at the tip of Talbot's cigar butt had grown precariously long. Dunston nervously anticipated the moment when the balance of dynamic equilibrium was overwhelmed and the briquette of spent tobacco fuel would plummet into Talbot's lap. To Dunston's relief, Talbot nonchalantly tapped the ash into a wastebasket next to the desk.

"Thought I was going to mess myself again, eh?" said Talbot, his eyes a-twinkle. Dunston blushed. "Great! I got a rise out of you!" Talbot roared with laughter as astonishment wrinkled Dunston's brow. But Dunston quickly checked himself and stretched a broad, good-natured smile across his face as his rollicking boss steadied himself with one hand on the desk, the other on his plump vested belly.

"Well, sir, you found me out," said Dunston with a strained bonhomie, masking his disdain for Talbot's crass humor. "I guess I didn't expect the ash to make it to the wastebasket."

"You mean ash can!" bellowed Talbot, who launched into another mirthy seizure. Several thoughts flashed through Dunston's mind as Talbot rollicked to a state of oxygen depletion. His first thought was to plot a discrete escape. Then, more to the point, Dunston speculated if Talbot's merriment rose sufficiently to induce a terminal coronary event, would Dunston himself be in line for a bump? After all, this office – that desk – had a history. And there was a vacancy next door where a senior vice president used to be. But Dunston had an act of charity in mind first.

"While I have you in a good spirits, sir, I'd like to revisit a matter that was left unresolved the last time we discussed it several months ago. Regarding Nick Freeman's promotion, of course."

"Oh yes, Freeman. Freeman. We discussed Freeman? If you say so – you liked the ash can joke, heh?" Talbot collected himself and squashed the remains of the cigar in a crystal ashtray presented to him by HR on the occasion of his 30th service anniversary. "And what did I say, Thurmond?" drawled Talbot, his smile melting ever-so-subtly, appropriated by a more somber business demeanor.

"You said to check back with you the following quarter."

"And being the conscientious manager that you are, you are doing exactly that right now," said Talbot, a chill edge creeping into his tone.

"I don't mean to pester you about this, but I do take an interest in Nick's career."

"Good! Good for you, Thurmond! That's exactly what I like about you. There's no mystery to succeeding in this business. Any dolt can understand insurance. But to manage – that's an art. You gotta know people and, dammit, you are a good people person! You care about your people and they respond to you. Can I pour you a drink?" Talbot reached into his desk, hauled out a liter bottle of Grand Marnier and two china espresso cups. Dunston accepted the cordial, however with no intention of sipping it; he was strictly a wine drinker, and a picky one at that. "Yes, you're the complete package. Your leadership skills are admirable, of course, but you've got a way with people. I don't mean to spill the beans, but, perhaps you've noticed, there's an empty office on this corridor – you know what I mean?" Talbot tossed his drink down and winked at Dunston, who nimbly adopted an abashed smile, delighted that the subject had come up. He even took a sip of the Grand Marnier. So the strategy became obvious: build upon a proven formula. Dunston will take up the cause of his trolls! "But what about Nick?" asked Dunston.

"Nick? Freeman again? You want him promoted. How come?" Talbot poured himself another round and topped off Dunston's cup.

"He's one of my best people. He's saved us hundreds of thousands of dollars, millions perhaps, and he's good at bringing the kids along. I think taking a leadership role in the department is a good evolutionary step for him. And it might even act as a shot-in-the-arm incentive-wise." Might even stifle his insolent mouth for once, Dunston added as an afterthought to himself.

"That's interesting, Dunston. Explain what you mean by 'shot-in-the-arm.' How should I interpret that comment?" Talbot turned his chair and looked out the window facing the now-vacant parking lot. Dunston was caught off guard. Now and then Talbot could surprise with an unexpected comment or thoughtful question. One should always be prepared.

"Oh, well, you know. The excitement that comes with professional recognition. The added sense of responsibility – the impulse to reinforce the sense of your worthiness to senior staff. I guess that's what I mean."

"But tell me, Thurmond, I asked for your interpretation."

"Sir?"

"Dunston, I've been around a terribly long time. A company is bound to become a large portion of a person's life when you've been there forty odd years. You go through your ups and downs. Maybe there are times when you're not as energetic when it comes to work as at other times. Maybe you're liable to coast a little – maybe you think you've earned the right to take some time off at your desk. Tell me, son, say that you're supervising just such an employee – hypothetically speaking, of course."

"Freeman?"

"I said 'hypothetically.' How do you motivate such an individual? You don't have to answer – that's a rhetorical question. You're a people person and I won't put you on the spot, because you don't deserve to be. But may I suggest that there is one tactic that is just plain ineffective given the situation just outlined. I would never consider rewarding anybody in the hope that it will inspire improved work performance. It just doesn't work. In fact, it could perpetuate mediocrity and it abuses the whole incentive system." Talbot swiveled abruptly and faced Dunston again, who was straining to suppress external evidence of his humiliation. Still, a faint blush colored his handsome face.

"Mr. Talbot, I hope you are not suggesting..."

"Freeman? No, I'm not suggesting Freeman at all," said Talbot, beaming his most disarming, stockholder-ingratiating smile.

"After all, I don't want to turn this into a major issue," said Dunston coolly. "I would hope that you would weigh my judgment in this matter; but, of course, while also reserving your vision as regards the company's overall strategic requirements. Nick in his way truly is a key asset, but may I add that we are totally on the same page with respect to your hypothetical example and I appreciate your insight when it comes to human nature."

"Thurmond, are you getting huffy?" Talbot was still smiling.

"Why no. Well, maybe just a little."

"That's okay. I'm just busting your chops, man!" and then that hideous guffaw again. Dunston's pained grimace was forcibly twisted into a smile.

"So, have you reached a decision yet, Mr. Talbot?" smiled Dunston, finally sniffing a victory.

"Yes I have. The answer is no." Talbot was not joking and the smile on Dunston's face vanished. His heavy jaw drooped slightly, but enough to be noticed by Talbot.

"Oh, I see. Perhaps, if Nick asks, what could I tell him with regard to his prospects within the organization? I would like to work with him to develop an action plan..."

"Oh please, Dunston! You're such an idealist! But then again, you're young and you have a right to be that way, I suppose. Tell me, how long has Freeman been with the company?"

"Almost 20 years."

"Is he going anywhere? I mean, these guys, especially those in the Claims Department, talk a good game. But how many of them actually walk?"

"I don't know exactly what you're getting at."

"We're adjusting our perspective here, we're talking business case. What I'm asking is whether The Great American is at risk of losing Nick Freeman."

"I haven't given the prospect much thought, actually. He is fairly specialized in the policies and practices we follow here."

"Exactly! Freeman doesn't represent a significant flight risk. He's been here quite a while, which means there must be something about the company that appeals to him, be it job security, the cafeteria food, laziness, whatever. But after all, we haven't promoted him in ten years, so I see a man who must be fairly content with what he's doing or, if not content, at least not motivated enough to take matters into his own hands."

"I see what you're driving at, Mr. Talbot. It's cheaper to maintain the status quo," said Dunston impassively.

"I'm not sure I like the way you put that, Dunston. But this is one of those tough calls you learn how to make when you start working in this part of the building. You don't make a lot of friends at this level. But you've got to be practical. Our underwriters and sales reps work the revenue side of the house. Claims spends it. Whom would you rather reward?"

"That's a little unfair. Good claims people can save the company money."

"And good salespeople can make even more. It's good to know a little about the claims process – that's why you're serving a tour there, son – but it's not the best career choice if you want to make any kind of living. Generating income always takes priority over the relatively modest savings on the payout end. Rainmakers are the heroes – always."

"A good underwriter beats a great claims guy any time," murmured Dunston, quoting from the great unpublished handbook of property and liability insurance.

"Unfair, certainly. But that's just how it is. Hey look. I'm not gonna be a hardass about this. But our competitors are breathing down our necks and we have to be careful the way we allocate resources."

"I understand that, of course. But it's a pity to be drawing the line at Nick Freeman."

"I agree with your logic. And Freeman is a good man and deserves recognition. Look, you get back to me on this next quarter and we'll see what we can do for him," said Talbot, as he rose from his chair and headed to the closet to extract his briefcase and raincoat.

"Fair enough, sir. I don't want to beat this thing to death, but when conditions improve..." said Dunston.

"I like your persistence, Dunston! Good times around the corner. 'Night, son." Talbot headed to his private elevator and Dunston, on his way back to his office, basked in the embracing warmth that came from the knowledge that he did all that he could.
Chapter Nine

The Saboteur

With the care of a supertanker pilot plying the craggy shoals of an alien coastline, Nick guided his battered Toyota Corolla into the cramped garage, missing Kristina's bicycle by the width of a human hair. He crushed one of the kid's bikes last week – he thought it was Tara's – but still hadn't gotten around to taking her to Toys 'R Us for a replacement, hoping that it would slip her mind.

Nina rounded the bend to the driveway, panting like a puppy as she sprinted to the finish of her five-mile run. Nina was doing resistance exercises against the fence by the time Nick had struggled out of the subcompact's tight squeeze. He approached her, but was repelled by the overpowering scent of Jean Naté. He wondered why women bathed themselves in fragrance before they exercised – what's wrong with the honest aroma of human sweat? Could it be any worse than Jean Naté?

"Hi sweetie!" Nina chirped joyously, delighted it seemed by the sight of her rumpled husband. Her runs tended to energized her. Nick couldn't figure it; he's near collapse after climbing a few flights of stairs.

As she stretched against the fence post, Nick admired Nina's form—she was as firm and shapely as the day he met her, back when she was a sophomore in high school and he was working his way through county college manning the counter at the West Stemper Quik Chek. Of course he himself had gained about 60 pounds since then, which didn't terribly concern him. He felt fine, so if he put on a few pounds, it's sure a hell of a lot easier to buy clothes in a larger size than to risk a heart attack through strenuous exercise. He conceded that surrendering to a billowing profile was not fair to Nina; but somehow it didn't seem to diminish his attraction to her.

"Hey, where you going?" she called out as Nick headed to the back door. "How about a kiss hello?"

"You're all sweaty. I'll meet you in the shower."

"Oh? Really?" she cried with a throaty guffaw, things looking up in a hurry. "But the kids are home."

"And?" Nick shot back.

"Well, all right!" she said, pausing in mid toe-touch. The hell with the cool down, she took off on Nick's heels.

Tara and her friend Tanya were hunkered in the den absorbed in a Sleeping Beauty video and Nick gave each a kiss on the forehead. Neither acknowledged his arrival, accustomed to his casual affection. He was still revved from yet another contemptible day at the office. Though his battles with Dunston were over with the early morning skirmish, Nick was forced to work through lunch enlightening a platoon of trainees on the fundamentals of casualty claims investigation. Early during the course prep he tried to slough off the training burden on Magee or Dillard, but Dunston wouldn't hear of it. "The kids just gravitate to you, Nick. They look up to you in a mentoring sense," oozed the patronizing bastard. No sooner had he shooed the last of his disciples from his cubicle than he took a call from a broker in Texas reporting a spectacular explosion at a Phillips gasification plant, and they're looking at loss of life and catastrophic property damage with environmental implications. Nick threw up his arms and groaned. He could hardly pass on this one. Petrochemical cat losses were among Nick's 15 or 20 specialties.

He sighed as he shuffled through the stack of mail on the kitchen table. The latest issue of Opportunity Digest came out last Friday, so Nick expected a heavier-than-usual mail call for the next couple of weeks. Most likely Thurmond will have him to put in some extra time on the damn plant explosion. Might even make him go down for a personal look. Nick already begrudged the time he puts in on the job. But he's the expert. He can't help it – he's good at claims.

He flicked on the lights at the top of basement steps. As he descended, a searing barb of mortification raked his spine. His sparse hair stood on end. Out croaked an anguished yelp before his voice box froze up tight. He dashed to the ping pong table, then bounced off, then dashed to his steel shelves, then bounced off, then dashed to his desk. And bounced off. He groped for his 22 shoe boxes ¬– which now numbered 11 – of file cards. They're all mixed in together... They're all together. THEY'RE NOT SORTED... "HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT, I'VE BEEN SABOTAGED!" Nick managed to scream. He raced over to unfamiliar cartons that were tidily socked under the ping pong table, but in so doing he strained his lower back and barked his knee against an aluminum table leg. He took but a moment to recoil in agony – not a present concern. There was no time for the pain right now. His magazines, his paperwork – strewn asunder! Not the way he had them. Kristina, Tara, Halle – no, it couldn't have been them. It was all too tidy. It was ... all... put...away. It's all...all FASTIDIOUS. "HOW DARE YOU," cried Nick, his voice a burbling tremolo.

He hop-skipped up the stairs, his pique peaking as his altitude rose. He hobbled bent over ape-like through the den, a blur to the two girls absorbing television. Up the staircase in three long steps, the bedroom and then the bathroom where Nina was bathing. In a flash, the accumulated frustrations and resentments of his day charged in from their various corners in his brain, converging at a central point of impact – Dunston, Dillard, Jill, the plant explosion, his business in a shambles...

KABOOM!

He flung open the shower stall door, causing a startled Nina to jump. With soapsuds glistening on her loofahed pink skin, she laughed girlishly and exhorted Nick to strip down and hop in – but first lock the door, of course. But that was not a playful expression on his face. His eyes flashed like cop car lights and his jaws flapped, but at first no words came out. He steadied himself against the side of the shower enclosure, and then his excited voice reverberated against the blue-green porcelain tiles:

"YOU WERE INTO MY THINGS...YOU TOUCHED MY THINGS... HOW DARE YOU DISTURB MY OFFICE! WHAT IS GOING ON HERE – ARE YOU TRYING TO DRIVE ME CRAZY? EVERYTHING IS A...A...MESS." Drool condensed on the corners of Nick's mouth. Water spattered on his face and clothes as he edged closer to Nina. His eyeglasses steamed up and he whipped them off into the sink next to the shower. Nina stood with arms folded defensively against her chest.

"I was cleaning, I was cleaning! You know how I get, I have to clean. Okay? I ran out of rooms and then I was in the basement," said Nina, in a voice choked with anxiety. "Please leave me alone. Calm down, Nick."

Not a wise suggestion.

"YOU WERE INTO MY THINGS. STAY OUT OF MY BUSINESS, HEAR? STAY AWAY FROM MY THINGS. YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING. IT'S A DISASTER. IT'S...IT'S...SABOTAGE!" How Nick's rage bubbled and spewed, a short and squat volcano. But Nina was not contrite. She had no idea what she had done wrong. Nick took her by the shoulders and squeezed hard, the slanting spray from the shower formed streaming rivulets down his face. "You did it on purpose, damn you, you did it on purpose..." thundered Nick, shaking his head as he gripped her tighter.

Nina sank slowly, her back pressed against the wall. As she slid on the slippery tiles, her shoulder brushed against the pointed edge of the metal soap dish, ripping skin. The drainage was stained pink as rushing water mixed with the blood from Nina's wound. Such was her misery that she hadn't notice at first that she was bleeding. But Nick had. He was horrified and reflexively released his grip. Nina dropped to the floor with a splat. Nick staggered back, his lashing anger replaced by dismay.

"I'm sorry...oh, I'm sorry," he stammered. "You're bleeding," he said in a hushed voice. Nina looked up at Nick and then at her shoulder. She put a hand on the shallow but bloody gash and turned to face Nick again, this time with an expression of numb disbelief.

"Get out! I was only cleaning. Dammit, get out of here! Get out. NOW!" Nina sat motionless, her legs apart on the floor of the shower stall and her right hand applying pressure to the wound. She tilted her head to face the driving stream and let the warm spray wash over her face. It felt soothing.
Chapter Ten

The Process

Lavinia and her dad finished hauling the grocery sacks to the kitchen. Joe mistakenly lingered a moment too long, prompting a scolding glance from Lavinia: Joe's cue to leave. For the next 30 minutes Lavinia unpacked the purchases, double checking labels for contents and quantity and weighing some items on a small kitchen scale to verify the weights printed on the labels. In the event of inaccuracies, Lavinia will demand that they return to the market the next day to bring such matters to the attention of the store manager and negotiate an exchange.

After the cabinets were neatly squared away, with items arranged by size and contents and, within weights and types, stacked alphabetically or by Sell By dates, Lavinia prepared the dinner. Since she did not believe in storing fresh fish for any length of time, she baked the painstakingly selected flounder fillets in lemon and garlic, steamed fresh string beans and whipped up a large batch of rice pilaf, using her special secret recipe she had made up herself. Her mom, dad and sister were seated in the dining room, waiting for Lavinia to serve them. They tacitly acknowledged that to assist with the dinner in any way would result in a sharp rebuke from the chef. An eerie silence settled upon the dinner ritual. No one spoke as Lavinia doled out precise servings to each family member, reserving the tiniest portions for herself. The only sound was the tinkle of flatware on dinner china. Lavinia chopped her tiny chunk of fish into minuscule morsels. Then she pushed her small mound of rice to the corner of her plate. She chopped her beans into infinitesimal segments. She tasted a piece of fish. Doris and Joe exchanged looks of mute exasperation. Tanya asked for seconds. Lavinia launched from her seat.

"No, you sit and eat," said Doris. "I'll take care of Tanya."

"No! That's my job! I'm in charge of the food on shopping night. You know that," said Lavinia calmly, but with an edge and with beads of perspiration popping out on her upper lip.

"This is ridiculous," said Joe, once Lavinia was back in the kitchen. "When are we going to start seeing some progress? What are we paying that doctor for. We've already run out of health insurance for the shrink sessions. The girl looks awful." Lavinia kept losing weight—more than 20 pounds in the last nine months. She weighed at most 85 pounds, hardly sufficient to sustain her lanky five-foot, five-inch frame. Her arms and legs were like bicycle spokes and clothes hung from her limbs like limp lasagna draped on a pasta rack. She'd lost patches of hair and deep hollows had formed where her cheeks used to be. Her appearance was alarming.

"Dr. Magen said it would take time," whispered Doris.

"By the looks of her, we don't have much time left," said Joe. Lavinia returned with more food for Tanya. Conversation was suspended until she again bounced to her feet a few minutes later, this time to start clearing the dishes.

"Is that all you're going to eat, dear?" asked Joe, heroically trying to mask the desperation he felt. "You barely touched your dinner – and it's so delicious."

"I had a big lunch. I was hungry, so I pigged out," said Lavinia with a self-conscious laugh.

"I find that hard to believe," said Joe. Lavinia's eyes filled with tears. Doris flashed Joe a savage glare.

"If Lavinia said she had a big lunch, then that's what she did," said Doris, who didn't believe her daughter either.

"That's okay, Mother. Daddy can think whatever he wants to. I can take care of myself, as you can see. Daddy just wants me to eat so much food that I'll blow up and get fat just like him. I like the way I look. Everyone's so critical."

"I'M NOT FAT!" roared Joe. "Why do you keep calling me fat – I don't even have a pot. Everybody my age has a pot, but I don't." Joe knew it was exactly the wrong tack to rage over Lavinia's weight. But the months of frustration had taken their toll on him. First she was "obsessive/compulsive," then she was "anorexic" and then she was "bulimic" and now her current quack said she's a "little bit of everything." Whatever it was, Joe hated what he saw was impatient for results. He was getting them now: Lavinia took a deep breath, clucked and then whooshed into a typhoon of tears. Her hands gripped the bottom rails of her seat. She arched her back and whipped her head and heaved deep rattling sobs. Doris leaped to her feet, smacked Joe on the back of his head with an open palm "We'll talk later," gathered her daughter in her arms and fled the dining room. Tanya slouched in sullen resignation. A recurring dinner time pattern. With Lavinia gone they could at least eat in peace, and not worry about having their plates prematurely bussed to the kitchen.

"I don't want to see you start pulling that stuff," grumbled Tanya's dad.

"No, I don't think so," said Tanya brightly. "I like eating."

After a while Doris called down to Joe, who bolted upstairs. He and his wife observed in silence as Lavinia did her sit-ups. Her Gumby arms were folded against her chest, her coat-hanger legs bent at the knees. She raised her torso halfway up and then drifted slowly to the floor like the fluttering of a falling leaf. She would do three sets of 100, exactly. Sweat dripped off her brow and chin, but the fixed expression of concentration on her face and her slow, rhythmic breathing never altered. Her back and abdomen likely burned from collecting pools of lactic acid, but Lavinia's manner bore no external cues of discomfort. Her movements did not deviate from the first set to last and were as regular as the slap of windshield wipers in a steady rain.

When she was finished, she wiped her brow—once—with a red dish towel that she kept in the bottom right-hand drawer of her perfectly arranged bureau for that specific purpose. Then trembling with exhaustion, Lavinia headed to the bathroom where she would remove her clothes and spend ten minutes before the full-length door-mounted mirror and scrupulously study her body. Searching for damning evidence of non-thinness. Finding none, she would stand in a hot shower for 12 minutes. Then she would lock herself in her room, do her homework and, when everyone else had gone to bed, Lavinia will creep downstairs to the kitchen. She will systematically remove cans, boxes and cartons of food. She will eat a quart of ice cream, a box of Cheerios, four bananas, two cans of cold baked beans, a box of Oreo cookies, a package of sliced ham, a can of spaghetti and then wash it down with a pint of milk and a Diet Coke. She will then head back to the bathroom, lock the door and quietly purge every last ounce of food and drink she'd ingested. No need to even use her finger any more – her stomach knew the drill. She would have to flush the toilet four times before it was all gone.

Finally, Lavinia was ready for bed.
Chapter Eleven

The Pure Platinum

The surest escape from domestic tension was Nick's hole in the ground. And today he felt better – there were dollars in the mail. Willie Sims of Chicago wanted The 20 Best Businesses to Begin at Home and he sent a money order for $20. Marla Mappleworth of Tecumseh, Arkansas, wants "more information" on making $1,000 a week repairing velour and vinyl in her spare time. She sent $12.50 for the booklet (cash), a price that's refundable once she begins ordering from Nick's supplier. Nick had high expectations for this venture, but the last three months produced just six booklet sales, and none of his "hits" resulted in collateral orders. He needed a core following to set up businesses, follow through and work at it. Like any business, success is rooted in repeat sales – virgin customers are too expensive to cultivate.

Why must Nina add to Nick's frustration? He had to spend the entire evening trying to recreate his thoroughly compromised system by the dubious intentions of his wife. She took no interest in his work. Her eyes took on the 100-mile stare whenever he tried to explain the intricacies of his plans. But did that prevent her from bulldozing his carefully assembled inventory into her concept of "order?" Treating his business like so many pantry shelves. There was nothing in the house that was his.

More and more he was awakening to the possibility that mail order may not be his destiny. It had occurred to him that he was ignoring a fundamental tenet to building a successful business: Work in a field you know. Thus, he was mulling over the risk management angle in his head, even though he clearly did not have the resources to launch his own insurance company. And becoming a full-time independent claims consultant was too risky, given his present grocery bills and mortgage payments. But there was another possibility that was crystallizing into a finished concept in his mind. He knew that it was right because just yesterday there came a stirring in his loins that was impossible to ignore. Like most things, loins preceded brain; but on this one, the two were in near lockstep. There would be significant and recurring windfalls that could effectively reduce his mail order enterprise to a sideline dabble. Though tempered by repeated disappointment, Nick still could not suppress the rush of optimism that came from the discovery of a sure thing. Sure, he's had these feelings before, but that was years ago when he was an inexperienced prospector easily taken in by hucksters selling fool's gold. Nick was no longer anybody's fool: now he's a man with a plan! Pure. Platinum.

"DAD!" shouted Kristina, who had crept up behind him. A startled Nick spun violently around, driving Kristina cowering to a corner. Nick smiled, assessing his daughter's extreme reaction as an outcome of his grumpy humor of late. Sure, he knew he'd been a little intense around the kids (and not just the kids, for that matter).

"Yes honey. I'm sorry. I was thinking – didn't hear you come downstairs. What's up?" Kristina hesitated, sizing up the situation before responding. She seemed surprised to find her dad in good spirits.

"Mom said that if you're interested in dinner, she wants pizza." Again, the acid gut. There had been numerous discussions with his wife concerning the family finances, the strain of repeatedly ordering out and the fiscal damage resulting from those trips to the mall. And now she wanted pizza. Then again, in light of the day's events, perhaps he could understand her demand for a night off from the kitchen.

"Can we, Dad? I want everything on it –- I like anchovies now, you know," Kristina panted, having long ago forgotten that her dad had grounded her and that it was her punishment to mope around the house long-faced for the next fortnight. Nick's punishments, however, were seldom taken seriously. He had a consistency problem. He put on a grim face, rubbed his chin, then suddenly grabbed Kristina in a bear hug, which he wouldn't release until she was giggling out of control.

"I suppose we should pick up some orange soda with that, unless you want to join your mother and me for a beer." Nick laughed, a rare event, and Kristina attacked his neck with tickling fingers. Then she scampered upstairs to have her mom phone in the order. Nick turned back to his typewriter and then, on second thought, killed the power and headed to the kitchen. There was a certain serenity that had come over him knowing that the flailing will soon be over. Because, finally, he had The Idea. Pure. Platinum.

"Don't worry, Nick," said Nina. "I'll take the girls with me to get the pizza." He crept uncertainly and put his arms around her. But she tensed up and fiercely broke free of his arms. "I have to get things ready."

"I'm sure that's not what you mean."

"Maybe I don't want to be touched right now. I don't like what happened. You really hurt me, Nick." The girls came rushing into the kitchen, ready to drive off with mom.

"I'm sorry. I got mad."

"That's no excuse. You frightened me. You hurt me."

"I know that." This wasn't shaping up like a quick fix. Nina refused to look at him. She was fishing through her purse and bounding around the kitchen, almost like an aroused parakeet crashing against the sides of its cage. Such an annoyance and aggravation. He wondered why he constantly found himself playing defense. Why must he always be the one to initiate negotiations and diplomacy? She did things to annoy him, too. In fact, most of their squabbles arose from something that she did to cause him to lose his temper. After all, it wasn't like she didn't know the soap dish was there. This sucked.

"We'll talk later," said Nick as Nina bustled out the door. When the kids were strapped into the car, Nina cried out, "By the way, Denice Thurmond called and she and Dunston invited us to a cocktail party at their place on Saturday. And I said we could. I hope you don't have a problem with that." The car door slammed and they were off. Nick walked into the dining room and punched the wall with a closed fist. Hard.
Chapter Twelve

The Thwarted

Dunston had finally summoned the courage. He was in his garage, compounding the finish on his MGB-XT custom roadster. He dialed up Jill's home number on the phone – he made the decision to alter his schedule and do his training runs in the evenings. To accommodate Jill. Five rings, then six. A groggy voice picked up. A groggy, peevish male voice.

"Hello, is Jill there?" croaked a crestfallen Dunston Thurmond.

"Hey, who wants to know?"

"Oh, never mind." Dunston gently depressed the disconnect button and then slammed his polishing rag in disgust on the immaculate concrete floor.
Chapter Thirteen

The Deceived

"Are you going downstairs again tonight?" asked Nina. The pizza was consumed, the kids were in bed. Nick had built a raging fire in their custom fieldstone fireplace in the den. Nina insisted on the fireplace when they purchased the house nine years ago. For her, the fireplace added a homey, romantic touch to an otherwise nondescript room. Nick went along because it added to the resale value. They had traded up from their first home, a tiny two-bedroom cape cod, during the real estate boom of the mid-80's. The dream consisted of this modest three-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath expanded cape tract house that blended into a neighborhood that materialized in its entirety in the spring of 1984. Nina and Nick paid extra for the fireplace, the Corian countertop upgrade in the kitchen and for the tile in two of the baths. Nina did it for convenience and appearance, Nick for resale value.

The walls were decorated with framed cover reproductions from old issues of The Saturday Evening Post and the rooms furnished with colonial-style pieces from a local discount furniture outlet. Nick and Nina's home was comfortable, if not cutting-edge chic. Their no-nonsense residence blended in well with the neat, utilitarian character of their friendly middle class neighborhood.

"No, not tonight. I don't want to think tonight," said Nick. Nina did not speak to Nick through dinner. And Nick did not speak to anyone at all. The unfortunate gash on Nina's shoulder and the prospect of an evening at Dunston's were caused Nick to seethe through dinner. He bridled at the prospect of his pretentious nemesis flaunting his lavish home and his collections of wine and cars and art and kids. And he'll work the room, spouting charming observations and witty asides appropriate to each guest. Nick wondered what Dunston will say to him. Of course he'll gush over Nina, as is his style with any attractive woman, and Nina will be thrilled by his flirtations as Nick steams.

"I guess you're looking forward to Saturday night, then," said Nick.

"I haven't seen Bernice in a while. She's so busy at the hospital and little Ingrid's musical career."

"Oh. Good. I guess all the bigshots from the office will be there. Talbot and his cronies. Why else would he throw a party?" Nick was not coming off well here—more meanness to the one person presumably in his corner, which was the last thing he wanted to do. But he couldn't help himself. And he couldn't figure it out. Nina seldom raised her voice to him. Considerate to a fault when it came to his needs. Never hesitating when he needed her to get the kids off his back. Nick was always the bad guy. And, as the bad guy, he needed victims and, hewing to the norm, he chose from among those who were closest to him and most vulnerable. He concluded that it must be his resentment of Nina's "goodness" that caused him to behave so. If only she could be the asshole once in a while, things would be fine.

"I can't make you go, you know that," said Nina. "But it wouldn't hurt you to be around Dunston and those other executives. Use it as a chance to schmooze with the people who could possibly help you in your career. Let them know you're alive."

The bile of indignation was collecting in his gut and he was about to again protest the state of his career and the incompetence of those at the top when he noticed Nina grimacing and caressing her wounded shoulder. No, he didn't want to hurt her anymore, even though the prospect of spending an evening surrounded by preening, pretentious people would cause him nightmares.

Nick could see that Nina was yet another fan blinded by the glowing aura of Dunston Thurmond. Whenever Nick tried to explain how Thurmond got by simply on charm and looks, she would shrug and shake her head. Nick was, it seemed, the only individual on the planet who failed to perceive Dunston Thurmond's amazing qualities and towering greatness. The Thurmond appeal eluded him and he wearied of constantly setting others straight with regard to his boss's "true" nature. Their eyes glazed over as they bit their lips in doubt. Why should it matter, Nick brooded: wasn't it enough that I knew?

"Fine, we'll go," he grumbled.

Nina edged closer to Nick and he automatically took her hand, which she unexpectedly jerked away. She was not up for holding hands, now was for talking. Nick patiently contemplated the fire while Nina, the one who demanded the fireplace, stared at Nick.

"You're jealous of Dunston, isn't that the real problem?"

"Jealous of Dunston? Ridiculous!" Nick pouted, his stomach roiled with churning bile. (She got what she wanted, why was she still badgering him?)

"Of his success. Because if that's the case, you're the one who's ridiculous."

"I'm sorry about the shower thing."

"We're not talking about the 'shower thing,'" Nina snapped. "Something's bugging you and it's driving me crazy, I'll tell you that, Nick. I want to start living a normal life and, dammit, it's getting tough around here to do that. What's it going to take?"

Well, what a pleasure. In the romantic flicker of firelight and on the very same sofa and circumstances that inspired the crazy physical abandon that seeded the earliest manifestation of daughter Tara some years ago, Nick found himself facing down a terrier-like interrogation from an out-of-sorts wife. And why? They've been through this time after time. His problem should be clear to her by now. It's Dunston Thurmond – what he had. What Nick didn't have. "It's money, as always..." said Nick.

Nina sighed, a catch in her throat each time Nick brought up The Topic – his Topic. As far as Nick was concerned, there seemed to be only one topic. She didn't even have to respond, the tears gathered in her eyes as if on command. Nick saw the terrible effect his words had on Nina, but he couldn't help himself.

"Dunston has it. We don't. Dunston has the beautiful home, the gorgeous cars, the tutored kids, the country club, the European vacations. Dunston has. We don't. That's it."

"How many times do I have to tell you it doesn't matter?" said Nina, her voice breaking with emotion, despite a heroic attempt to restrain herself.

But it mattered to Nick. He worried about money all the time. The mortgage, the VISA charge, the home equity loan. And don't even think about college for the kids. All the things that matter revolved around money. Nick despaired over the eight or ten hours a day he spent working at a job he hated – for the money. And then at home worried about money for the next six hours until he went to bed only for money to be the thematic driver of his nightly nightmares. Just look at those pathetic sucks who write to him: all desperately fumbling for the miracle solution that will lift the grinding burden of economic survival off their backs. Nick saw that he had more in common with them than the blessed Dunston Thurmonds of the world.

"I don't agree!" Nina retorted. "You think that money is all that matters because you want to think that way. Maybe you'd be a lot happier if you just stopped thinking about it for awhile."

"Good idea, because we sure as hell don't have it."

"I'm serious. I'm tired of it, Nick. I'm seriously tired of it." Nina folded her arms and contemplated the dying embers of Nick's fire. A protracted silence. Nick's stomach churned with the heat of smoldering hardwood. Just how it always felt – the lining of his gut was microns away from requiring prescription-strength Tagamet. Just how it always felt. Relentless like a prowling shark. Four percent control 95 percent of the wealth. No wonder the other 96 percent go through money denial. Insisting that money wasn't everything. Money wasn't everything in Liberia, it's true, because there was no money in Liberia. In America, where insatiable demand feeds the cancer of credit, consumers pretend they have money when they buy things they can't afford. It shapes their attitudes, their grim prospects. It dots their stomachs with orange embers. Nick was a realist. He comes clean. He makes no bones about it. He wants to crack the top four percent, just like Dunston Thurmond and Darren Talbot. They're nothing special, they just have money and, thus, their lives have no problems.

"Do you love me anymore, Nick?" said Nina in a dry, husky voice. Her wine glass was empty and gone to was the testiness in her voice. Perhaps, Nick thought, he had worn her down. He often had that effect on people.

"Yes. Of course," said Nick, contemplating his stomach, not really listening to his words. "Why do you even ask?"

Nina shrugged. "No reason. I just wonder..." She rose unsteadily to her feet and slowly headed upstairs, leaving her the glass on the end table next to the sofa: an uncharacteristic lapse of fastidiousness. "Going to bed," she said. "My back stings."
Chapter Fourteen

The Genius

Abner Clary sealed himself in his basement office, where the only sounds were of drippy Windham Hill recordings and the crackling synapses of his marvelous brain. Imagine instead of a dual-stack system we incorporated a single precipitator with a closed double combustion chamber. The floating, wasted notes of a noodling pianist says "why not?" and thus Abner entered the formulas into his computer's CAD program. It was so much better down in the basement. His former office in the extra second-floor bedroom was spacious, bright... and a total distraction. Acoustically it was a disaster. Noise and family members, like smoke, had a tendency to drift upwards and smother his most creative reveries. The windows peering out at his backyard were a constant temptation, turning his thoughts from mechanical and chemical processes to those of meteorology and horticulture. And from the window he could also spy the alluring skeleton of his Datsun 240-Z hobby car.

The decision to relocate his livelihood to the basement was not taken lightly. Michelle objected – it was unseemly for a professional of Abner's stature to work out of a dungeon like some mad scientist. But Abner argued that he would benefit from a sharpened focus and be closer to his references and his tools. Left unsaid was the crux of his strategy: to flee the intrusions of Michelle and Trina and gain the peace to explore on his own. His wife and daughter both disdained the basement. Years ago Michelle had insisted that even the washer and dryer be moved upstairs and a utility room built to accommodate them. Trina found the basement messy, dangerous and depressing. In the basement Abner found salvation.

Besides, it was not dark and dingy. Abner installed fluorescent lighting panels in the ceiling, genuine maple veneer paneling on the walls and industrial grade carpeting over moisture-resistant rubber padding on the concrete floor. He built modular birch cabinets and shelves and even treated himself to a motorized drafting table. He sold his old computer and built a new one over a long weekend with eight times the speed and memory capacity. He branched separate circuits off the main box for his office and had plenty of juice to power his PC, fax, four-speaker music system, dehumidifier, mini-refrigerator and microwave and still have amps to spare for future improvements. Abner's office was a dream. If only the same could be said of his business.

The present slow period was unlike others he's endured in the past. It made him wonder if he was caught in an extended retrograde trend. He could not rule that out. He booted up Excel and selected his performance tracking spreadsheet. He programmed several variables to simulate future growth trajectories using coefficients derived from fiscal years 1983-85, a recovery period following his previous worst down-cycle. Back then he doubled his income in two years and reduced his man-hours spent prospecting from 40 percent to 15 percent. Plus he increased his hourly rate 20 percent and doubled his retainer fees for certain high-grossing accounts. In the last two years, however, his rate has held constant and his retainer business evaporated. He must even weigh the feasibility of reducing his hourly and per diem – a drastic and unprecedented step, considering the time invested building his client list and project portfolio. At this stage of the game, he should be subcontracting job shoppers, not becoming one!

It was well-known that no one brought more to the table when it came to process facility design and general industrial engineering than Abner Clary. His flow systems, equipment specs, plant configurations and siting proposals were meticulously designed and generally implemented without alteration and within expense parameters. His skills were admired – even envied – by senior plant engineers up and down the east coast.

But what happens when "the table" disappears? What good was it if he's a master of a dying art? He studied engineering at Lehigh because, when growing up in New Jersey, his region was nothing if not a powerhouse producer of paints, steel, industrial solvents, pharmaceuticals, automobiles and petrochemicals. And, with a knack for taking things apart and modifying them in ways that boosted their performance, Abner longed to lose himself tinkering on the state's commercial corridor of roaring, pounding, smoke-belching industrial toys. It was a wish fulfilled. He savored the irony that his work was play and that the more he played the more money he made. Wasn't that the way – those doing what they loved tended to reap the greatest rewards? How could they call what movie stars or professional athletes do for a living work? Real work was busting your hump, hating your job, hating your boss and grinding out every nickel you made and then going home at night sore or angry or both. He'd had jobs like that out of college. It wasn't until he gave up being an "employee" and became a full-time consultant that he began playing for a living.

But why hadn't he been playing enough lately?

The answers were easily exposed in Excel. The microeconomic approach was only as good as one's data and interpretive skills. The fact was, Abner sighed, the Northeast was dying. Heavy industry was moving south and west and beyond, to places like Mexico, South America and the Pacific Rim. Called up the project log database, where the answers were as plain as day: organizing plant closures, downsizing systems, planning new facilities in low-cost, industry-friendly states and countries. In fact, the good old days of designing elegant systems to maximize production, minimize waste and speed up delivery were virtually gone. Today, at least sixty percent of Abner's billings were for pollution and environmental work. Rather than losing himself at his tracking pad tweaking CAD designs, he was instead poring over multi-volume tomes of federal and state environmental regulations to develop compliance strategies for his clients. Too often when they saw what it required to conform to various environmental regs, they tossed Abner's proposals back in his lap and simply shut their businesses down. Or picked up stakes and left the country. Now when Abner drove to various sites in Hudson, Essex and Middlesex counties, he counts the growing number of shuttered facilities belonging to former clients. The environmentalists won the war. As an engineer, Abner could design processes to reduce emissions to whatever levels were decreed by the paper pushers in Trenton and Washington. But while the technology was flexible, the laws of economics were not. The price of compliance with increasingly stringent standards was getting too high, reducing Abner's role to one of intermediary between his client's business and the auctioneer.

No, work was less fun than it used to be. Environmental engineering was government bureaucracy, lawyers, rabid consumer groups, remedial performance-choking designs, and disillusioned clients. And unfulfilled engineers. Plus, the pay was not as good and his expenses were by no means diminishing. While the house was paid for, he had a wife who liked to shop – a wife who was proud of her husband's independence and had an inflated notion of his income potential. His bright and beautiful daughter will be matriculating in the fall at a private college that, at this rate, he could ill afford. Pressures of a practical kind were nudging aside the serenity of his professional pursuits. At a time when household expenses were increasing, his income was not. He still made more than he needed to live on, but he was accustomed to a cushion and the margin was growing slimmer. The hard times should have ended by now. The macro indicators said so and past evidence so indicated. Was it a matter of waiting out the storm? Or should he be exploring new directions? Abner never needed a strategy before. What sort of times were these?
Chapter Fifteen

The Brother-in-Law

"Abner? Abner? Are you in there?" Abner was rescued from his dismal contemplation by a gentle knock on the door and the familiar voice of his brother-in-law. He scooted in his chair over the sheet of fiberglass carpet protector and let Nick in. As usual Nick briskly shook Abner's hand and headed immediately to the computer to see what Abner was working on. Nick's hands were constantly busy fondling Abner's stuff: his models, his catalogs and magazines, his finely machined prototypes and obscure instruments. Abner didn't mind. Nick may be meddlesome, but at least he was interested.

"So is business picking up yet? Recession's over, you know. All according to The Wall Street Journal and Business Week. Durable goods, wholesale prices, consumer confidence – everything's up, up, up," said Nick cheerfully.

"Wish the hell they'd tell my customers that. This state is dying, Nick, and it's taking me down with it. Don't tell Michelle that, of course, but I'm a little concerned." Abner was drawing plans free-hand of a scrubber stack for a pollution projects. Nick was transfixed. He loved watching Abner draft figures. The masterly way he traced lines and arcs and merged them into serpentine mazes that somehow formed clockwork manufacturing processes, the byproduct of which was a lucrative career for the nerd that the Nina's sister married.

Abner fascinated Nick. He was a slim, twitchy guy with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, standard-issue gold wire-rim eyeglasses and a high reedy voice that constantly questioned and probed for the unsolved problem. Abner slavishly adhered to stereotype, from the threadbare oversized flannel shirts and coffee-stained corduroy trousers and plastic pocket protectors crammed with Rapidograph writing instruments, to a relentless drive to researching, measuring, testing, modifying and refining. Perfection was the beacon, with attainment (and thereby the vacuum created by closure) dangling comfortably out of reach. Engineering was not just Abner's profession, it was his being. If Nick was a spouting typhoon of ups and downs, Abner was steady-as-she goes. Nick was awed by Abner's capabilities: a master of his science, his domestic organization, his lawn! But Nick suspected that Abner's vision extended only as far as the task at hand. Abner scaled to succeeding levels with methodical care and only when prodded by circumstances. He was a tinkerer and a master of incremental enhancements. Unlike Nick, who fancied himself a man of vision – a leaper where Abner was a crawler. But Abner's the one who could call his own shots; the one who was not stuck in some corporate ghetto. It was in consideration of this factor alone that Nick was unashamed to declare that he envied in full measure the life of Abner Clary.

"What the hell, Abner, you've been through slow times before. Get on the horn and drum up some excitement. Whenever I'm here you're working your ass off on something. I bet you don't charge enough," said Nick.

"I wish it were that simple. I've been 'on the horn.' But fact is, there aren't as many people to call anymore. They're all cutting back. A few left the state, some have just packed it in." Nick was fondling a sleek black graphite rod with a digital liquid crystal display on the tip. It came packed in a large padded box with the words Edmund Scientific stenciled in large block letters. Another tool. Nick was disappointed if a visit to his brother-in-law's house did not feature an exotic new tool. He frowned at this one with the stupefaction of an ape contemplating a monolith in that old science fiction movie. There have been several stumpers recently. In past visits the tools were spectacular – like the 15-horsepower diesel home generator unit, the air compressors and assorted attachments, the portable hydraulic car lift, the electronic engine analyzer, the lawn tractor found abandoned on the sidewalk, an inertial wheel balancer, the self-adjusting azimuth telescope, a commercial acetylene torch kit (including two dozen specialized burning tips), a five-position centrifuge and so forth. But now Abner was getting into these esoteric instruments and testing devices. Any day now Nick expected to arrive and find a miniature linear accelerator uncrated in Abner's back yard. Such a busy mind...

"It's a dynamic response electrostatic soil analyzer," Abner explained, wresting the baton out of Nick's fumbling hands. "Much more versatile and precise than test strips and faster than conventional chemical sampling. If you want, I could show you how to program it and we could go over to your place and test your dirt. I'm pretty excited about this thing. Just five years ago something like this was three times the size and still had to be plugged into a remote unit the size of a small refrigerator."

"How much?"

"Got it forty percent off. Used my A&M Testing Laboratories stationery to order it. All I have to do is fill out some technical forms on the unit's performance and they'll refund the balance of the cost. Hey, you're all dressed up, what's the occasion?"

But Abner was addressing empty space – Nick had left the office and was poring over Abner's workbench in the adjoining, unfinished part of the basement. He was handling brown bottles filled with chemicals. Abner's query prompted a darkening in Nick's mood, and he gloomily informed Abner that he and his wife had been summoned to a cocktail party hosted by his boss.

"If you don't want to go, why go? It's Saturday, after all," said Abner with charming naiveté. "I thought you didn't like the guy anyway."

"I don't like the guy! But he's my boss and I have to go. And Nina thinks he's just fabulous and it would be a good thing if I could assume some of his finer qualities, whatever they may be. Can you imagine that? Hey, what's this stuff?" Abner cut the office lights, closed and carefully locked the door. He saw Nick reaching to the top of a steel shelf, his eye caught by a vessel containing a gooey pink fluorescent liquid. Before Abner could warn Nick that the bottle was loosely capped – the goop required a ventilated seal to avoid a dangerous gas build-up – Nick grabbed it from the shelf, tipping it ever so slightly and spotting his tie, shirt and suit jacket. "Oh shit!"
Chapter Sixteen

The Sister-in-Law

"Oh yes, Trina has settled on Wesleyan, even though she was wait-listed by Yale. She likes New England, especially in autumn, and so do I. It's exciting, you know – of course we'll miss our baby, but it will be so much fun, too, you know. Abner's not so crazy about Wesleyan – too artsy, he says. At least it's not Bennington, if you know what I mean. Would give him a shit fit. 'What's she gonna do when she gets out?' you know, that kind of thing. But he'll get used to it. Have I shown you the plans for the kitchen? I want everything new. Total tear down. With Trina out of the house, I do need a project and this kitchen has never really been suitable. I could get a job or something. I could volunteer somewhere. You know, somewhere nice, like the church. But not the soup kitchen or anything like that. I'm sorry, but I couldn't handle the bums, you know, the smell. Well, I haven't really decided..."

Nina sat in wonderment as Michelle flitted like a hummingbird from one topic to another. Her younger sister was a talker. Always Michelle has always dominated: the floor must be hers, the locus of all eyes and ears. Dare someone break in and steal a word, Michelle fidgeted impatiently and without listening until she could reassume command of the conversation. Nina recalled saying hello and hugging her sister when they arrived, but she's not uttered a word since. Of course Nick took off like a pistol shot to Abner's sanctuary, leaving Nina alone to be Michelle's aural receptacle. Just as well, Nick couldn't stand Michelle's constant shower of nonsense. "She certifies her ignorance with every word she utters," he'd say, or some remark to that effect.

While they fought bitterly growing up, Nina and Michelle have grown closer now that they no longer share the same home. Nina was intrigued by the "concept" of Michelle ¬¬– her sister being everything that Nina was not. Michelle's tendency to consume her environment, while Nina nibbled around the edges. For Michelle it was always "Here I am!" For Nina, it was "If I may." Michelle was the cheerleader, the soloist in the choir, the lead in the play, the first hand to shoot up in class, right or wrong, she just had to speak. Nina was the cross-country runner, an tone-challenged alto in the chorus, stage crew for the plays, and the one cowering in the back of the class, terrified to be called on even though she knew the answers.

Nina viewed Michelle as herself magnified. The same long, silky hair; clear lustrous complexion and dark blue eyes. But Michelle's voluptuous figure was in sharp contrast with Nina's lithe, greyhound physique. Michelle was sexy, Nina cute. Nina admired Michelle's full breasts and firm round butt. And so did Michelle. Even in high school Michelle was enthralled by her form and never squandered an opportunity to display high thigh and maximum cleavage in her choice of attire. While Michelle was being sent home from school for flouncing around in dress-code trashing micro-miniskirts, Nina moped through the halls in bib overalls and sneakers. In fact, Michelle's single competitive sport in school was the high dive, because there she could indulge in sanctioned skin exposure while voguing on a pedestal before a clutch of slavering male spectators. Though her scores were mediocre at best, Michelle drew a capacity crowd at the diving pool whenever she was competing. And off in a side lane would be Nina practicing her event, the breast stroke, where everything happens beneath the water's surface.

"Hey, world to Nina—what are you thinking about?" Michelle suddenly demanded, jolting Nina to attention.

"Oh, about us, Nick and me. It just seems that things are working out so well for you. But for us, everything's such a struggle." Nina smiled her sad smile, which prompted gales of mocking laughter from her sister.

"There you go again! You're just too damn smart!" Michelle chortled. "Sometimes you got to do your thinking between your legs!" Nina arched her eyebrows, which Michelle misinterpreted as a cue to continue. Which she did. Michelle always insisted that most problems become magnified the more you chew on them. Michelle's all purpose solution: hop in the sack, go shopping, spend Nick's money – heck, that's what he's there for anyway.

"No, not that again," Nina protested. "It's not about money."

But that's the one topic in which Michelle and Nick concurred. The things you have, the comfort you achieve, the fullness of life seemed to boil down to the same thing as far as they're concerned. But give Michelle credit, she lived her philosophy.

"Do you think I married Abner for his looks? I love him, of course, but dear me, he can be awful geeky. Do you know how much effort it took just to make him presentable?" Nina's parents were indeed surprised when Michelle brought Abner home and introduced him as her fiancé. Based on her track record, they expected any of a constellation of disasters: a biker, a rock musician, a gym rat, an artist, a drug dealer, an English major. Michelle did little to conceal her colorful lifestyle from her family. To her credit, Michelle was ahead of her time – the one rule in all her relationships was an insistence on the use of condoms, which she supplied because she had a brand preference. In the end, however, not only did she choose a meek, studious nerd, she's stayed put for almost 18 years. But she's kept an open mind and occasionally admitted (boasted) that her straight and narrow conjugal path had included numerous detours. "After all, this is Abner we're talking about!"

"You're just like Nick. All he ever talks about is money, too. I don't feel we're struggling. We have a nice house; sure, it's no palace. The girls are happy and have everything they need. I just feel that I'm losing him."

"You don't think he's banging another chick," suggested Michelle, a preposterous suggestion making them both burst out laughing. Nick may have one or two redeeming features, but his physical presentation left much to be desired. They both understood that even if he did have the swarthy, chiseled look that could turn a woman's head, his manner and attitude could repel the most masochistic of mistresses.

"No, I don't think anyone else is sampling the charms of my cuddly little bear," giggled Nina. "He's just into himself."

"Oh, so he'd rather beat off. Lookit, we're both well-preserved, but neither of us can compete with the babes in the titty rags or pornos – my suggestion is to confiscate his stash so that he's stuck looking at you and only you. At least till he comes around."

"Don't be disgusting," said Nina, appalled that her sister would suggest that such filth could find a place in her home. "I think Nick is just not interested. Besides, why must it constantly come down to sex and money? Between you and Doris, you always think the answer's either robbing a bank or getting laid."

"And?"

Pause.

"Well, it's not always that simple."

"Oh?"

"Dammit, Michelle. Nick and I used to have a wonderful relationship." Nina could almost hear the alarms going off in Michelle's head. The smirk on her sister's face said it all. Still, Nina couldn't help herself and again tortured her sister with her "relationship" speech. She explained how sex was only part of a much deeper, loving relationship that she and Nick used to have. How much warmer and caring and supportive and intense their life together was compared with most couples they knew. A wistful, faraway look in Nina's eyes.

"Oh cut the shit. Yeh, you guys are so special. You guys had a relationship. I guess the rest of us beasts are hopelessly primal. You're brain-fucked, Sis. I still like my analysis. You may be older, but I'm the one speaking from experience. I agree that you desperately need a relationship, but a horizontal one with some stud with a big cock. It'll clear your head. You're clogged worse than a snake that's swallowed a bunny." Nina threw her arms up in surrender, amused by her sister's prescription. They quickly changed the subject when they heard heavy footsteps pounding the basement steps.

"Nina, Nina! You won't believe what happened!" Nick's face was flushed, he was out of breath and foaming with excitement. "Look at my lapels! Look at my shirt!"

"K-Mart, circa 1985. Slightly irregular, but on you looks okay – even dressy," cracked Michelle.

"Shut-up, Michelle, you're not funny," Nick barked. Nina glared at Nick – she couldn't stand 'shut up.' Not from her kids and not from Nick. She told Nick that his clothes look fine.

"That's exactly the point! They...are...perfect! And they shouldn't be. I accidentally spilled some sort of goop..."

"It was an undiluted solution of my grass and foliage treatment, actually," clarified Abner for accuracy.

"Whatever, it was pretty toxic stuff."

"You could drink it out of the bottle and suffer no worse than a mild stomachache. I formulated it to be non-toxic, but effective. You never know when kids or pets might get into it..."

"Yeh, yeh, right. Can I finish my story please? Well, I splatter this stuff and then I say to myself, 'oh golly gee, I'm going to have to go home and change or, drat! miss out on that swinging Thurmond soiree' (Nick ignored Nina's stern glance), but no! I'm saved! Abner pulled out a rag and a bottle of this solution, dabbed some on the stain and, zoom, it's outta there! The blotch literally leaped off the fabric and my suit was saved. I've never seen anything like it."

"I use it around the house, too," Michelle chimed in, having sat on the sidelines intolerably long. Then she started in like a Proctor and Gamble commercial, explaining at length how Abner's goop gets out rug stains, food, blood, scuff marks, just about anything. And it only costs pennies a bottle.

"You should think about marketing the stuff," said Nick. Coming from Nick, those words were a conversation killer. For those that know him, Nick's entrepreneurial exhortations had become a tired routine a long time ago. A long, long time ago.

"We have to be on our way to the Thurmond's now," said Nina coolly. "I need a good time."

"You speak in contradictions, sweetheart: a good time and Dunston Thurmond strikes a false note," snarled Nick.

"I'll drive," Nina said. "I can't wait."
Chapter Seventeen

The Reward

Joe Snyder pulled into the gated parking lot behind the municipal building just like any other day. He rolled out of his car and tugged at his shoulder holster before slipping on his suit jacket. Then he walked briskly to the back entrance, punched up the security code and awaited the buzzer signaling the door release. He stopped by the officers' lounge to grab a donut and coffee, but discovered the coffee machine turned off and the usual box of donuts missing. Joe figured when they don't think the superior officers will be around, the amenities can go by the board. He hated working Saturdays, and he resented being called in at the last minute to cover this one. He muttered an expletive, resigned that this inauspicious start was a prelude to a particularly trying day.

As he was about to march into the dispatcher's station to complain, he saw ribbons and crepe paper draped from the front desk and a huge sign with the word "CONGRATULATIONS!!" strung high across the corridor. Joe suddenly found himself engulfed by the entire department staff – duty and off-duty patrolmen, the desk sergeant, the captain and other detectives, the animal control officer, the city clerk, the janitor and all three dispatchers. And the Chief himself. They pounced on him, pounding him on the back, hooting and honking and raising a deafening din. Finally the Chief, a round red-faced man with an orange fringe of hair trimming an otherwise bumpy-speckled bald head, perched on the steps to the front desk and peered down at the reveling mass. An enthusiastic man given to ceremony and bombast, the Chief seized this opportunity lustily by the throat. He grandly raised a hand to still the chatter.

"I guess by now you figured something is up, eh Joe? HAW! HAW!" the Chief roared, joined by the others. Joe absorbed the scene with a weak, embarrassed smile of confusion. But he got the hint when his boss brandished a white envelope and handed it to Joe.

"Buddy, you deserve this if anyone ever did. Don't bother reading it now, but in here is the official announcement of your elevation, as it were HAW HAW, to Deputy Chief. The bump in grade and salary, the vacation plan and other fringe benefits, the office next to mine – the whole shebang and whatnot! I'm proud of you, Joe. You've come a long way and God bless you!" The air rang with cheers. The janitor flashed the room lights, which made the waving arms seem to staccato-sway in strobe-like slow-mo. A few sadists blew whistles in the confined space. Joe was struck dumb. He was up against some stiff competition for the job and his sudden success overwhelmed him. He was mobbed, both his hands being pumped by well-wishers, and he reeled from the good-natured body blows from his over-muscled colleagues – from some of the very guys he had competed against. Suddenly he was their boss. Suddenly he was the assignment officer for all investigations and departmental initiatives. Suddenly, for the first time in his life, Joe Snyder truly was The Man. Number Two on the force.

He was speechless at a time when the Chief himself tugged at his elbow to say a few words. Life will never be the same for Joe Snyder. Dropping out from high school at 16. A GED and working three jobs to get through Clemson. The Academy. And now this. It was never easy for Joe Snyder. But, corny as it seemed, Joe's faith in rewarded persistence had just paid off. Setting goals and working hard and never giving up—what he's always done. A painfully deliberate career progression, milestones arduously accrued – never before was there the telling, spectacular leap. Until today. He scoured his mind for the right clichés and was finally able to whip up a few. All things are possible if you put your mind to it and stick with a plan. That's exactly what he'll tell them.
Chapter Eighteen

The Fall

Nina suppressed a gasp of wonderment as she guided Nick's Toyota up the winding red brick driveway that terminated in a quartz-flecked white brick rotary by the Thurmond's front entrance. The sprawling center hall colonial with its hand-dressed quarry stone facade was among the finest residences in the county. Passed down through multiple generations of Thurmonds, the home was a trophy of fortunes generated in chemicals, advertising, the law, women's apparel and finance. Under its present occupants, the mansion bore tribute to the impeccable good taste and spirited wanderlust of Dunston and Bernice Thurmond. Nina parked the car and was about to leap out when Nick leaned over and took her arm.

"I'm only here because of you," Nick said. "This is a pile of pretentious bullshit and, what's worse, you seem all taken in by it."

"Don't ruin this day for me," said Nina bitterly. Not another word passed between them as they approached the portico framing the massive white-washed double doors, which parted before Nick could reach for the doorbell. They were met by Dunston himself, who crushed Nick's hand in a bone-splintering handshake.

"Oh Nick, great you could make it. Wonderful!" gushed Dunston with forceful sincerity. Then he fixed Nina in his gaze and gave her a warm hug, followed by a kiss on the cheek. "Nina, you look beautiful. I'm so glad to see you." Yes, Nina did look wonderful. She wore her special robin's egg blue silk cocktail dress: the one that draped fetchingly over her shoulders and hips with a hem that was angled several inches above her knee. It was an unforgiving, form-fitting outfit that flattered her sleek silhouette, a fact that did not escape Dunston's notice.

"Clearly you must still be running," said Dunston, his arm still encircling Nina's waist. She nodded, pleased that at least someone appreciated her rigorous conditioning program. "Ummm, we should go out together sometime. Running, that is," laughed Dunston. "That is, of course, if Nick doesn't mind. Maybe he could join us." They all got a laugh out of that one, the stunning Nina, the stunning Dunston, the arriving guests. Nick's grin tugged ever tighter at the corners of mouth.

"Why should I mind, Dunston? I'm sure you'd be more interesting company for my wife than that twiggy neighbor of ours," said Nick, drawing a sharp look of disapproval from Nina and a puzzled frown from Dunston. "I'm sure Nina is up for just about anything you may have in mind." Nina flushed at Nick's comment and had to restrain herself from going at Nick with her carefully lacquered fingernails. She settled for digging a heel into Nick's foot, which produced a well-deserved grimace. She hoped Dunston was not as embarrassed as she by her husband's behavior, and was grateful that he pretended not to have heard Nick's unseemly remark.

"Where's Bernice?" said Nick, in an attempt to defuse the situation. Nina was suddenly filled with guilt, having forgotten the reason she was there. Indeed, she was having difficulty taking her eyes off Dunston. She was also conscious that he has had his arm around her for an inappropriate length of time. She didn't think Nick noticed. And then she wondered why that would be her primary concern and not that of being offended by Dunston's casual liberties.

Dunston adopted a grave demeanor as he explained that Bernice had to hop an emergency flight to be with her ill mother in Tampa. "I couldn't in good conscience postpone the party. How could I disappoint my guests? Bernice, of course, passes along her regrets." His arm finally left Nina's waist and he slipped away to fling himself upon Darren Talbot and Mrs. Darren Talbot, who had arrived in a metallic gold Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolet. Nina chuckled at the incongruous sight of the gray, heavy-set man and his matching wife wedged into such a jewel-like scarab of a machine. Two overfed clams flopping out of a gleaming gilded shell.

Nick tugged at Nina's elbow, urging her inside. He apparently required fortification before subjecting himself to the tedium of cocktail chatter with dismal types from the office. An unmistakable sense of style and place pervaded the Thurmond's vaulted parlor. In consultation with the interior design firm that's been "with the house" for three generations, Dunston and Bernice have spent the last several months freshening up the family's 19th-century British theme. Thus, a somewhat unusual combination of cool aquamarine and yellow floral fabrics were matched with beige Brunswick and Fils floral wallpaper. The waist-level maple chair rails and wainscoting below, formerly a murky chocolate brown, had been stripped and finished with a satin lacquer over a light blond stain. The authentic alabaster ceiling, with its delicate swirling textures, was wisely left untouched in the makeover.

Tucked against one wall was a solid mahogany wet bar to which Nick made a beeline, leaving Nina marooned in a sea of richly dressed strangers. She pretended to study the half-dozen paintings of blustery Welsh landscapes hanging on the walls. She couldn't help chuckling when she came across an oversized gilt-framed rendering of a pair of scuffling Staffordshire dogs decorating the space above an antique sofa newly upholstered in shimmering blue-green chintz. She recalled Bernice's anguish over having to re-hang that particular painting, not being fond of the musty "hunt club" motif in her most formal room. But the artwork was as much a compulsory inter-generational legacy as the prominent Thurmond jaw, and at least the dogs, unlike some of the crated masterpieces in the attic, weren't depicted shredding some bloody game animal.

When Nick returned with Nina's white wine spritzer and a gin and tonic for himself, they strolled past guests, nodding politely, and headed to Dunston's drawing room, itself a virtual replica of an upscale London salon. Two of the hunter green walls were decorated with more canine and heather art from the narrowly-themed Thurmond collection. The other walls were taken up by intricately carved mahogany bookcases, which rose to the elaborate crown moldings framing the 14-foot-high hammered-tin ceiling. And there was the homey touch of a gas-fed fireplace sporting a roaring blaze at one end of the room. A desert white Persian rug, another Thurmond heirloom from an undetermined ancestor, covered most of the Italian quarry stone floor. Nick assayed Dunston's extensive old book collection and tartly speculated that his literary "wall decorations" had never budged from the shelves.

A thunderous hello and it was Dunston again, with Talbot and a swarm of senior-level sycophants yapping at the vents of the CEO's double-breasted navy blazer. Nick took one look, drained his cocktail with a prodigious gulp, and went over to shake Talbot's hand. Nina meanwhile was led away by Dunston. Still throbbing from the doomsday Thurmond grip, Nick's hapless digits were again assaulted, this time by Talbot, who after 18 years had finally got Nick's name straight.

"Freeman, great to see you! Thurmond said you'd be coming, something about your wife and his being high school buddies. How goes it with the Phillips explosion? I heard they could see it from outer space! And bodies everywhere!" Mrs. Talbot, a round woman with a jolly pink face winced and tapped her husband's wrist.

"Oh, that's a terrible thing to say," she scolded. "Besides, must you always talk about work?" Nick, still unaffected by the shotgun burst of his first GT, permitted himself to be amused by Mrs. Talbot's rebuke. He bet The Cough didn't work on her. "I swear, that's all he talks about – that damn insurance company."

"I guess it only makes sense, Mrs. Talbot," said Nick, taking a turn at gratuitous schmooze. "A man in your husband's position is bound to be completely immersed. Quite a spread Dunston has here."

"Helluva place. Must be great having rich relatives!" gushed Darren Talbot. "But tell me, Nick, what about the body count?" Mrs. Talbot threw her arms up in disgust and stormed away. Talbot's entourage closed ranks and elbowed for position around the boss...and Nick! Great American's comptroller and putative heir-apparent Mortimer Bass, the senior vice president in charge of commercial lines underwriting, the vice president of marketing, the chief actuary – all straining to hear what Nick Freeman had to say - and not a little chagrined that a claims troll should command center stage in the midst of their corporate eminences.

"Maybe you guys don't want to hear this until you've had a few: things are grim in Texas," pronounced Nick with melodramatic gravity. Talbot's face clouded over. The faces of his senior team clouded over. Then Talbot grinned. They all grinned. "Well, then, to the bar boys!" exclaimed the chief. Nick held his position, careful not to appear presumptuous. "Cmon Freeman, what'll you have?" said Talbot, who coughed, thus propelling Nick into joining the group. "We're drinking martinis," said Talbot. Nick grinned, "Well, so am I!" He dared to fake a cough of his own.

In the dining room the bosses' wives orbited the magnetic host, sipping their chardonnay while Dunston himself opted for an obscure sauvignon blanc. "My cousin Ernest has become something of an ex-pat since he dropped out a few years back and bought 200 acres of prime farm land in western Argentina," said Dunston. He recounted how Ernest fled the rat race of a booming law practice in Sausalito a few years back, took some cuttings from a small vineyard he owned in Sonoma, hired away an up and coming apprentice wine-maker from Stags Leap and set up shop in Patagonia. "Pretty exciting stuff," Dunston said, holding up his glass. "Maybe it's family pride, or just the great Argentine soil, but Ernie's got something here: ¬ light and fruity, a touch of minerality and a crazy long finish that I personally can't resist." Then he challenged his rapt listeners to give the SB a shot, suggesting that, by comparison, the very good chard they'd been drinking would start tasting flat and overdone.

Melissa Talbot had heard enough and marched straight to the bar to dump her flabby swill and sample some exotic South American grape. She was followed by the Comptroller's wife and the Actuary's busty girlfriend (who incidentally had become a topic of ugly party buzz). Nina was about to check on Nick when Dunston took her elbow and asked if she'd be interested in seeing his latest restoration project.

"Oh, I don't know, that's something Nick would appreciate more than I," said Nina blushing, much to her consternation."

"But Nina, I'm asking you," said Dunston cheerily. Irresistibly. She let herself be led through the kitchen, which engulfed the equivalent combined space of Nina's kitchen, den and living room. White birch cabinets lined the walls and the endless counters were made of hand-polished slate-gray granite. But Nina barely noticed the cooking amenities, riveted instead by the intoxicating patter of her host. Dunston took her out a back door and along a walkway of diagonally patterned distressed red brick that traversed a garden alive with blooming crocuses, tulips, daffodils and wildflowers flowers that Nina couldn't identify. Then there was the bubbling artificial pond stocked with a half dozen orange carp next to a stand of towering bamboo, which provided a secluded setting for a small patio table set. Their destination was a whitewashed clapboard-sided building with a triple garage door front. Dunston punched up a four-digit code on the security keypad, causing one of the doors to groan into action, rising slowly to reveal in dramatic fashion a four-wheeled form tightly cloaked in a canvas wrap. He whisked Nina into the immaculate garage as the door closed automatically behind them.

"This is my baby," beamed Dunston. He unzipped the cover with a flourish, revealing his gleaming 1957 MGB TC. "What do you think?" But he didn't await her reply. "I've been working on this one for more than three years. It's been more challenging than my other projects." It's then that Nina noticed three other vintage English roadsters parked in Dunston's expansive "showroom." "I got it as a burnt-out shell while Bernice and I were in England a few years back. I had it crated and shipped after scavenging as many parts as I could from dealers and flea markets in London and Manchester. As you can see, it's almost finished. Some more work on the brake lines, the hydraulic clutch. Carburetor adjustments – it has three, you know..." Then Dunston fell silent and observed Nina, who was running her fingers slowly over the polished walnut burl steering wheel. It was very quiet in Dunston's spartan, harshly lit garage. There was a faint aroma of engine oil and brake fluid, enhanced by the delicate floral notes of her L'Heure Demande fragrance. Nina gazed at the instrument panel on the dash, fully aware that Dunston's gaze was focused intently on her.

"Would you like to try it on?" offered Dunston, opening the door and guiding her into the driver's seat, which was on the right side of the car. He got in on the other side. Nina felt a sudden awkwardness seated in close quarters with her husband's boss and her husband...elsewhere.

"It must take some getting used to, driving on this side. Shifting with your left hand," said Nina.

"You'd be surprised, it becomes second nature almost instantly."

"The car is beautiful, Dunston. You've done a fabulous job." And she didn't just mean the car. Look at his house, his party, his career, his style. "It's just...dazzling," said Nina, less in awe than regret. Dunston looked away and assumed a grave mien, tenderly taking Nina's hand in his.

"Not everything is as seamless as it may appear. Bernice's mother – that whole story is not exactly factual. Bernice is indeed in Florida, but not with her mother, who actually lives in Rhode Island. Actually, the problem is between us; it's been building for some time. I'm not sure it's something we can work out. I know she's one of your best friends, which is why you're the first person I intended to tell. Before any ugly stories get started, you know. We're amicable of course, but our relationship simply no longer exists." Dunston stared through the windshield, appearing unwilling to observe the effect of his words on Nina, who was shocked and trembling. She thought of Bernice, always rushing from one place to the next. Never having time for her friends. Always at the hospital, a symposium, traveling with her kids, teaching.

"Are you two thinking of separation?" When she finally turned to him she saw his handsome, angular face collapsed in a desolate frown, his eyes downcast. He offered a quick, slight nod. Nina touched the side of his face with her fingers. "I feel so sorry," she whimpered softly.

Dunston turned to her and placed a hand on Nina's bare shoulder. He insisted that Nina not concern herself with his problems—that some way it will all work out. And he offered her a peck above the ear. She looked up, tears now streaking down her cheeks. "It's not just that...I understand the disappointment. The loneliness. I do know what it's like," she said in a voice choked with emotion. There was a brief suspension of conversation, and then, like lightning, Dunston had Nina in his arms mashing his mouth against hers. Her lips were soft and pliant as she offered no resistance. He dragged her over the gear shift lever and lay her across his lap, simultaneously lifting her short dress over her hips. He ran a hand along her thigh, snagging her pantyhose on his jumbo college ring. The tumbling clinch of their lovemaking caused the finicky seatback mechanism to release, hurling Nina on top of Dunston. Now wild with excitement, Nina sucked on Dunston's neck after flinging off his tie and ripping open his shirt. Dunston shoved his hand under Nina's panties and clutched her straining ass. It's when Nina rubbed her silk-sheathed chest across his face that Dunston erupted in his bespoke slacks.
Chapter Nineteen

The Seeding

The Thurmond party had picked up steam, thanks in no small part to the fleet fingers of the two white-jacketed bartenders. Nick, having excused himself from the Talbot coterie, was sipping his second martini and carrying on a lively conversation with Arthur Calhoun and Jimmy Procaccini, neighbors who flanked the Dunston estate's eastern and western borders respectively. Calhoun was a furniture wholesaler who also happened to own several warehouses. Procaccini was vague about his profession – something to do with import/export. It took him overseas frequently.

"Sure, it's common knowledge that insurance is a rip-off," piped Nick, who was in a buoyant mood and calculatedly out of earshot of his company's pooh-bahs. "Everyone's finger is in the pot, you know. Waste, duplication of processes, inefficiency, larded expense ratios – jacks things up for everyone."

"Tell me about it," grumped Calhoun, the anguished millionaire. "I'm up for renewal and they're sticking me with a 40% increase, fucking extortionists. I don't know what the fuck I'm paying for. No major loss in over 20 years. They tell me I'm high risk. Fuck them, high risk."

"Don't think it shows up in my paycheck," snorted Nick in agreement. In fact, Nick was on fire—he couldn't have planned a better context to make his move. The glint in his eye was Pure Platinum. It was now or never. "You may be interested in something that I've been exploring – on the side, if you will. It's a whole different way of approaching the risk management issue. I guess you could call it a more flexible financing strategy." Calhoun appeared puzzled, but he was on his fourth Jack and Coke—Nick was keeping track.

"Hell, I'd even listen to a guy like you if it'll cut the goddamn insurance tab. Tell me more," demanded Calhoun. But Nick demurred, explaining that his idea was somewhat complex and he'd prefer to prepare a formal presentation.

"It's definitely workable, I'll say that much," said Nick. "I'm in the process of firming things up on the capitalization, incidental details and so forth." Calhoun told Nick to set up a time with his girl for next week and then tottered off for a refill. Procaccini stepped in and buttonholed Nick, confiding barely above a whisper, "You trying to rip the old man off? You'll see, Calhoun's tighter than a nun's ass." Nick purpled up, but before he could defend himself Procaccini put a finger to Nick's lips.

"I say go for it," grinned the olive-skinned Sicilian with tiny black eyes and super slick dyed black hair. He sported a black turtleneck sweater under a smartly-tailored navy blue blazer with fussy brass buttons and some kind of boating club insignia embroidered on the left breast pocket. His tan Sans-A-Belt trousers accommodated an expanding girth and his fancy maroon alligator shoes were from Rome direct. "Calhoun's a piece of work; he'll whine a blue streak and try to stiff you in the end. Had a misunderstanding with him myself a few years back regarding some shipment. I coulda' done something about it, but..." a thought that was interrupted by a sudden vision. "Hey, check it out, who's the babe with Thurmond?" exclaimed Procaccini. "Top drawer trim with the old lady out of town." Nick's face re-flushed. He realized he was obliged to aggressively challenge his boorish friend, but instead let it pass.

"Oh, her name happens to be Nina Freeman and she's been my wife for the past 15 years." Rather than recoil in embarrassment, Procaccini expressed admiration for Nick's prowess. And, sure, his point was well taken: Nina did look fine in that dress. As she approached Nick, he noticed a huge run in her stockings. He didn't like the way Procaccini leered at his wife, so he took Nina's arm and escorted her to the other side of the room. Still Procaccini called out Nick's name, and when Nick went back to see what he wanted, Procaccini whispered something in his ear and handed him his business card. By the time Nick rejoined Nina, Dunston was with her again.

"You don't mind if Nina and I go out running now and then, would you Nick?" said Dunston. "Running alone gets to be a drag. Not many of my friends are as committed to a regular schedule as Nina."

"Why, I'm not Nina's keeper," said Nick with unaccustomed cheerfulness. "She can weigh such monumental decisions for herself." Nina smiled and nodded. Nick thought it was a smile of relief. It was not.
Chapter Twenty

The Invalid

Rita Dillard's deteriorating condition made her feel weak and helpless. Husband Matthew took his wife's hand in his and was alarmed by how dry and lifeless it felt. He knew that she was less worried about the disease than the hardship it inflicted on the family budget. It didn't help that she was the one who handled the finances and knew to the third decimal place the damage being wrought by her medical bills and drug prescriptions.

"I have a good plan at work. It pays most of the bills, at least 80 percent," said Dillard.

"I know, I know," said Rita. "We're lucky to have the coverage we do. But still, once you get past the deductibles and co-pays, it's still thousands of dollars that aren't covered. What I make at school and your income just can't keep up. I know it's not right to blame them - it's not their fault, it's mine." By now Rita was sobbing softly, prompting tears of despair to well up in Matthew Dillard's eyes. He knew - everyone knew - that no one worked harder at his job than Dillard and he, along with Nick Freeman, were always top tier in department closed claims surveys. He never expected anything more in return than an assured spot in the organization, a living wage, and a secure pension when it came time to unstrap the harness.

"We'll make do," he said, "I've got to figure it out."

Rita nodded and took both of her husband's hands in hers. "Matt, I didn't have a good visit at the doctor's today. He said things are bad—it's shutting down." The tears came harder as she has difficulty comprehending her own words. A life veering off a well-worn path. Never a sick day in her 25-year career teaching art at Our Lady of Peace. Then six months ago, a routine urinary tract infection. One thing led to another and now the prospect of kidney failure. She could barely endure the agony of repeating the words spoken by the specialist earlier this morning. "Matt, the dialysis will not work forever. I require a kidney transplant. We don't have the money for the co-insurance. Our savings can't take the hit—we'll have nothing left. We don't have enough equity after the refinance to take out a another mortgage on the house. I'm a monster for doing this to us."

By now, Dillard's face was drained of color and he had collapsed weeping into Rita's arms. He muttered hopeless, incoherent denials before slowly drawing away. The walls of his existence were pressing in, his choices narrowed to the point of suffocation.

"For everything I do for that company, I'm sure they'll take care of us. Mr. Thurmond will understand. Don't you worry about anything, dear. Getting well, that's your only concern. I'll handle the rest. I'll approach Mr. Thurmond as soon as I get back."

"Back? Back from where?"

"Have to go to Texas for a few days, the Phillips explosion. They need an experienced hand down there. They wanted Freeman to go but he made a stink, so they asked me. It's a big loss. Just a few days. I don't really have a choice."

"I need you, too, Matt. Please, can't Nick go? Please, just this time?"

"I'll be back before you know it. Day after tomorrow. I promise." Rita winced and let herself down on the sofa, moaning softly. She was in pain and her husband couldn't take it. He ran to fetch her medication.
Chapter Twenty-One

The Workout

"Mom, it's Lavinia," said Kristina. Nina shuddered at the sight of Doris's wasted daughter. They ran together a couple times a week. Lavinia wore the same shapeless tee-shirt – any shirt would look baggy on her – and fluorescent green running shorts. Her flamingo legs poked comically out the leg holes, terminating in huge sneakers and oversized white socks that she yanked most of the way up her calves.

Her appearance was startling.

"Are you ready, Mrs. Freeman? It's a lovely day to go running, why don't we try for seven miles?" Lavinia, of course, delighted in torturing herself. Nina had never gone longer than a 10K and she wasn't about to start now.

"I'll do my usual five. Did you take any fluids before coming over, Lavinia?" This comment – any comment on the topic of Lavinia's intake of nourishment – put Lavinia on the defensive. It seemed that Mrs. Freeman was constantly quizzing Lavinia about food and beverages. That's nobody's business but her own.

"Yes, I drank a quart of ice water a half hour ago," Lavinia lied.

They start off together but, as usual, Lavinia insisted on a one- or two-stride lead. Even when Nina caught up to engage her in conversation, she methodically inched forward to her "safe" lead. Lavinia mystified Nina. What was going on in her head that caused her do this to her body? A smart and talented girl with normal loving parents – what's the story there? Why was she so driven to be a step ahead? Why put so much pressure on herself—to the point that...that...she had become this?

"Give me a break, Lavinia, you're going too fast." Lavinia smiled faintly and imperceptibly throttled down. "Your mom said that you're thinking of going out for the cross country team in the fall."

"I'm fast enough, but I don't have the time," puffed Lavinia, her face contorted by the strain of her pace. "I have a lot of household responsibilities. I have to study harder to qualify for the National Merit Scholarship. It's an important goal of mine."

"But you're already on the honor roll."

"Not the same thing. I have to do better in my class ranking – I know I can improve. Board tests are next month and I have to get ready for that. And the ACTs are coming up. Can't make any more commitments."

Three miles down and Lavinia's pace had Nina winded. They stopped talking and Lavinia could no longer contain her impulse to sprint ahead. With a half-mile to go, Lavinia's arms pumped like pistons, chugging way ahead of Nina, who, even going all out, could barely keep the teenager in sight. A dull ache in her stomach and a slight stitch in her side were signals that she was exceeding her pace, forcing her to slow down. She observed the frenetic sprinter ahead of her and wondered how far she could have gone if she had had half of Lavinia's drive at her age. Would she have been a straight-A student? Would she have gone on and accomplished great things in life; become a renowned doctor like Bernice Thurmond? An admired executive like Dunston?

Nina pulled decent grades, even made honor roll a few times, and that was good enough. Besides, she had her friends, went to the movies, painted her nails, got drunk. Why couldn't Lavinia slow down and kick back now and then? Take an hour off. Ten minutes, maybe. Was it that tough being the only black girl in her class? It never bothered Doris when she was growing up. Doris was just one of the girls and her color was never an issue back then. She was never weird or obsessive. Was Joe doing it to the girl?

By the time Nina reached the house, Lavinia was parked on Nina's doorstep. Her head hovering between her knees. She snorted in labored gasps, punctuated by violent hacking coughs that shook her entire body. "I'm going to throw up, Mrs. Freeman. I'm going to throw up." But Nina knew that she wouldn't, because Lavinia was always like this after her runs. She overextended herself and couldn't seem to help it. This was followed by a "miraculous" recovery ritual. The spectacle horrified Nina, but she dreaded even more the prospect of Lavinia running on her own. Nina insisted that if Lavinia runs, she must go with her.

"Don't you think you should maybe take it down a few notches, Lavinia? You're not doing much good for yourself trying to go so fast all the time."

Still hunched over, Lavinia shook her head vigorously. "I can't slow down. If I do that it only means I have to run farther."

"And you don't have time for that," concluded Nina sadly. So much to do. So much responsibility at such a young age. Nina watched with a helplessness tinged with anger as the girl methodically burned through youth, possibly her life. Lavinia had no idea how great these years could be. How wonderful they were for Nina and Doris.

"Please don't stop running with me, Mrs. Freeman," begged Lavinia. "We have the most interesting conversations."

"But we really don't talk that much."

"Well. Yes. No. That's what I like about it, I guess." Lavinia raised her head, her eyes darting in all directions. She suddenly leaped to her feet and sprinted back to her house, extending a twig-like arm high overhead, twirling her hand in a circular motion, her back to Nina. Waving good-bye. When Nina went inside, all three daughters were camped at the window watching spectral Lavinia disappear through her back door.

"Lavinia's weird, huh Mom?" said Tara.

"Yeh," said Kristina. "Tanya said she doesn't eat any food and then throws up at night."

"Enough of that." Nina scolded. "I don't want to hear it."

"But Mom," protested Tara. "If Lavinia doesn't eat any food, how can she throw up?"

"Enough, I said! It's none of anybody's business what Lavinia does." But Nina herself shared Tara's curiosity. Where did that creature come from and why was she doing this to her best friend Doris?

"Mommy," Kristina pronounced, "I want spandex tights like yours. They're sexy."

"Help me with dinner, girls, Daddy will be home soon." Halle retrieved the mail, another heavy load. Mainly for Daddy's business. Maybe that will make him happy.
Chapter Twenty-Two

The Appeal

"I'm glad things went well in Texas, Matt. Thanks for filling in for Nick on this one – I really appreciate it. You know how important it is to have a presence on the big hits. It reassures the clients – and it doesn't hurt to have a top guy watching out for our interests, as it were." Dunston glanced at his watch. One of his trolls had just returned from the field and felt obliged to check in, even though it was after hours. Normally this would not be a problem, but Dunston had a running date with Nina Freeman and already there was an anticipatory tightening in his shorts. He hoped his impatience wasn't showing. Dillard wasn't a bad guy; besides, Dunston knew that Dillard was an admirer of his polish and charisma. Dunston's susceptibility to adulation obliged him to endure Dillard's full appraisal of yet another mundane plant explosion. At least the photos were not yet back from the lab.

"I think we'll ring up a Cat on this one. We still don't have word on reinsurance collectibles, but the risk was carefully written. We hope to get out of it with just a thin hit on the working layer," said Dillard, with zestful indulgence in the jargon that circumscribed his professional life. In the Claims rotation only a couple of years, Dunston cringed when buried in shop talk. He smiled and nodded, which only encouraged Dillard to jabber on until, like the spent burn of a fuel-depleted industrial complex blow-up, Dillard finally petered out.

"And there you have it. Naturally I will write it up first thing in the morning and follow up with our excess layer brokers so that we can start writing checks." Dillard sat with his hands folded on Dunston's desk. This was not what Dunston wanted. What he wanted was for his troll to struggle ungainly to his feet and waddle out of the office, taking his flapping shirttail with him. Instead Dillard sat with an expectant half-smile on his face, which reminded Dunston of a panting puppy anticipating a pat on the head. Dunston's face continued to lock in his warmest smile, even though his jaws were tightly clenched with impatience. He had only ten minutes until his scheduled rendezvous. He could scream.

"Well, yes, fine. GREAT JOB!" Dunston cried, perhaps too enthusiastically. His auditorium voice. Dillard himself was jolted by Dunston's booming praise. "Why don't you run along home, you must be exhausted. And, Matthew, if you want to knock off tomorrow, I certainly won't notice." Dillard beamed, a willing receptacle for an executive's generous praise, which he mistook as a strategic opportunity.

"Thanks for your kind words, Mr. Thurmond. But there is one other thing, something that I do find a little uncomfortable bringing up. Hat in hand, if you don't mind. Fact is I have never made a request like this since I have been with the company." He then described in more detail than Dunston could easily tolerate Rita Dillard's medical predicament and the financial impact of their inadequate health insurance and, indirectly, the inadequate level of Matthew's current income to address his mounting expenses. When Dunston could no longer endure Dillard's tortuous appeal, he broke in and cut to the chase.

"Matthew, please, I believe that you are trying to request a salary adjustment. I understand that you have a lot of pride and bringing this topic up to me is very difficult for you." Dunston smiled as he said this. Then he frowned. "I'm terribly sorry to hear about Rita and it must be a terrible emotional burden. As you know, our compensation policy rewards performance and experience. And, frankly, you and I both know that you are one of our top people here in claims. While your domestic situation is what seems to be prompting your request for an increase, I can probably submit a recommendation that's entirely performance-based. I realize that this can be a harsh and sometimes unforgiving system. But it's something we both have accepted as a condition of working here."

Dunston was speaking over Dillard's head. Literally. When he indulged in policy-speak, Dunston invariably fixated on a spot on a wall six inches above the crown of the head of the person he's addressing. He found it easier to concentrate this way. When he finally lowered his eyes to meet Dillard's, he found what he is looking for: bewilderment.

"Are you saying that I may not merit an increase?" Dillard croaked, a sense of defeat clutching his throat.

"No, absolutely not. That's not what I'm saying, Matthew. You probably do, but I can't make a case for an adjustment to the salary committee based on your personal situation at home. What I will do is this: I will prepare the necessary paperwork and flag it for prompt review. Unfortunately, we're really squeezed budget-wise – the underwriting cycle as you well know is not very favorable and we're affected as much as everyone else in the business. In a nutshell I'd say, yes, you deserve a bump, Matt. But it will be crapshoot once it leaves this department."

"I would appreciate anything you could do, sir."

"No promises, except that I will try. But if there's any other way that I could help you out..."

"No, that's all I can ask of you. Thanks." Dillard finally pulled himself up and ambled slump-shouldered out the door. Dunston shook his head. Not once in two years had he been able to get a troll promoted. Not once had he managed even an interim increase – not even for his best performers. In fact, Dunston no longer bothered with the paperwork; it was bad for his record to tilt at such windmills. Besides, guys like Dillard tended to muddle through. They always do.

And also besides, Nina was waiting.
Chapter Twenty-Three

The Pitch

The door buzzer yowled like a heavy metal rocker's fuzz box, startling Nick into seizing the door knob and barreling through. The building in West Stemper's warehouse district resembled a large metallic toaster, four stories high and two blocks long. It was one of dozens of identical featureless boxes engaged in fabricating and storing mass quantities of goods. This box happened to be the property of Dunston Thurmond's neighbor, Arthur Calhoun.

Calhoun's office was a jumbled riot of fabric swatches, stain blocks, catalog slicks and Steelcase file cabinets with drawers sticking out like horizontal buck teeth. Calhoun himself cradled a phone between shoulder and ear as he alternately shouted and scribbled illegible notes on crumpled scraps of yellow foolscap. When he finally hung up, he swiveled and faced a smiling Nick Freeman, who was brandishing a sheaf of papers and notes from an open briefcase balanced on his lap.

"Glad to see someone happy tonight," growled Calhoun, who was not having a pleasant late afternoon. As usual, he told Nick, he was up to his hairy gnarled elbows in scuz: Teamster scuz, mob scuz, jobber scuz, accountant scuz – all hastening the ascent of the implacable column of mercury in Calhoun's home sphygmomanometer. The furniture wholesale business was a lot of heavy lifting, razor-thin margins and the bludgeoning blows of the union hammers. He had it all: bookkeepers striking separate deals with suppliers, accountants rigging phantom accounts for their own retirements – all with Calhoun's money. To hear him tell it, Calhoun's time was consumed by a ceaseless vigilance to controlling the rapacity and cutting off the scuz before they ripped off his balls. His vigilance had made him a rich man, but it also turned his face a permanent watermelon red, with bulging pouches under his eyes and a complexion rutted with deep-carved dry-bed tributaries of anxiety. He spat out his words when he spoke, with large balled fists and a voice often strangled by deep glottal phlegm. His throaty rasp was further colored by a torch and pitch parade of unfiltered cigarettes and mugs of black coffee.

Nick took in the building, the buzzing office, the unremitting roar of heavy equipment and the aroma of black diesel smoke suspended in a cloud from an endless motorcade of trucks hauling cheap furniture to anxious retailers. Nick envied the hell out of Calhoun.

"If we could turn our attention to the purpose of this meeting," suggested Nick, which was met with a curt nod and a futile throat clearing by Calhoun, who lit another cigarette. "I've looked over your current policies, Arthur – the group term life, the key man, deferred compensation contracts, general and special liability programs, property indemnity, et cetera and you know what?" Nick paused for dramatic effect; a very brief pause because the tobacco smog and truck emissions were doing a number on his stomach. "The fact is you are absolutely right. You're getting ripped off and I think we could set things up in a way that could save you a hell of a lot of money." Calhoun inched closer to the desk and crushed his half-smoked smoke in a ceramic ashtray in the shape of a mermaid with breasts the size of depth charges.

"Fucking insurance companies getting rich on my back – bunch of parasites. I knew it all along," Calhoun growled. "You guys got a fucking palace for a headquarters and you don't get digs like that and overpaid bullshit artists like my neighbor if you're not ripping somebody off. Sorry if I'm coming across a bit harsh, Freeman, but I'm in business and I know. Had to kick my new accountant out on her cute little ass just before you got here cuz I find out that she stung me for five grand dummying jobber invoices. Please take this in the vein that I offer it – I swear to god, if you expect to put your fucking paws in my fucking pocket for nothing..." and up went Calhoun's fucking column of mercury. Nick forced a broad, though slightly cowed smile.

"I know exactly what you mean," said Nick. "And believe me I get it firsthand every day I'm at work. And I'm sick at heart about it, Arthur." Nick took a deep breath, summoning his impression of evangelical fervor. First commandment of Henn's Triangle of Wealth, Part III: "Win your client's confidence by confirming their core beliefs and then promise a simple and specific remedy."

"My insurance company is no different than the rest," empathized Nick, who then explained how the Great American took Calhoun's money, set aside a piddling portion to cover claim reserves and overhead and then invested the rest to reap gigantic profits. They could get away with it because their accounting systems were so convoluted that no one could understand them other than those who built them. And, according to Nick, that included state regulators, who were mostly dressed-up insurance shills in bed with the industry before, during and after they hold office.

"Tell me about it," groaned Calhoun, warming to Nick's spin on the world as he knew it. "Fucking assholes getting away with murder – and my money."

"Exactly, it's the biggest scam in the world. It takes a guy working on the inside like me to truly understand that. But it also takes a guy like me to know how to work the system to the customer's advantage." Nick paused for dramatic effect. It's going just like rehearsal in the shower this morning. It looked like he was about to hook his first fish, because now Calhoun was neither swilling coffee nor sucking tobacco smoke. He was looking at Nick ... and LISTENING.

"The first thing I have to tell you, Arthur, is what I have in mind for you is not high-tech and it's not a gimmicky system that no one can understand. What I've developed is a new way to use the oldest form of commerce in the world to finance portions of your insurance program. It's called the barter system. Fact is, properly designed, you could end up financing your complete program not with cash, but with unwanted merchandise." The expression of benign wonderment vanished from Calhoun's face, replaced by a rutted brow and a haze of suspicion.

"You're beginning to sleaze at me, Freeman – hey, are you Jewish? Is 'Freeman' Jewish? Sorry, meant to ask you that right off, not that it makes any difference to me, but I like to know who I'm dealing with. No offense intended, of course."

"None taken," said Nick, though he was amused by Calhoun's quaint anti-Semitic stereotyping. Rather than laughing out loud and risking insult, Nick insisted that issues pertaining to the metaphysical and the supernatural, such as religion, didn't interest him. He told Calhoun that he was devoted heart and soul to the religion of commerce. "Maybe there's some Jewish blood in my family, but I wouldn't know it and, frankly, I couldn't give a shit one way or the other."

"You're okay, Freeman. I like that. Keep going: you're still making sense, even if it sounds a little screwy."

So Nick laid it out. He described how in the old days you'd build a chair or a table and use it to pay the outstanding dry goods bill at the grocers. No money changed hands, but you got your butter and corn meal and so forth and the shopkeeper got a brand new table. Then he explained how a creative application of the same concept could be applied to Calhoun's insurance problem.

"Arthur," said Nick, shifting into a hushed, earnest tone, "not only is barter appropriate for your business, it will also solve several headaches at once. We're talking about a very happy ending as far as your balance sheet is concerned." Freeman was revved and poised to close. He'd been planning for this moment his entire life.

"Let's say we get right down to it, Freeman, I've got a dinner appointment at eight," said Calhoun, still not quite sold. He let Nick know that he fancied himself an adherent of the "no free lunch" school and was poised to cave in to the better impulses of his suspicions. After 35 years in the furniture business, he was not easily mesmerized by the siren song of a slick salesman.

"I understand, let's talk numbers. I assume that you carry inventory that is distressed in one way or another – let's say slightly irregular, perhaps out of style. In other words, stuff you can't sell. Undoubtedly this stock will have to be liquidated or destroyed and you'll end up having to take a write-off on it," said Nick as he jotted down figures in his leatherette binder. This was the close!

"Now I know your general liability, key man and property damage programs are costing you this much," said Nick, dipping his pad so that Calhoun could read and confirm the hefty six-figure premium. "Once you pay up, it's gone forever, minus the tax write-off, of course." With his heart pounding and his dream hanging in the balance, Nick proposed a trade: he'd provide insurance to protect Calhoun's business in return not for cash, but for deeply discounted inventory that Calhoun no longer wanted. He let his offer sink in. Calhoun was silent.

"The benefit to you is quite obvious," continued Nick. "You're clearing out a load of unwanted merchandise and using it as an alternate financing mechanism for a portion of your insurance program. So Arthur, what do you think of barter now?"
Chapter Twenty-Four

The First Date

After all, Nina could hardly expect Dunston to plop his sweaty bod into that dreamy BMW and thus stain the blond leather upholstery with body salts. Fortunately he brought a change of clothes and, what with county water restrictions in effect and the local mandates to conserve natural resources...well, Nina passed the bottle of Dr. Bronner's Pure Peppermint Castile Soap to Dunston, who squirted a small amount into his hand. He lathered vigorously and sudsed Nina's body in the driving shower. He massaged away the dirt and perspiration from their six-mile jog, running his soapy hands up and down her tingling torso, pausing to twirl rigid nipples with sensitive fingertips. She arched her back, careful to twist away from the keen edge of the soap dish that one day administered a mean gash, a bloody flow, bitter memories...

Nina felt like an involved spectator as Dunston lovingly ran his peppermint tongue from her ankles to her calves to her thighs and up and up, furtively flicking in hidden recesses. So this is what she'd been missing. The girls were at Scouts, dance rehearsal and softball practice; Nick was at a business meeting with a man who sold furniture and Dunston just happened by. Well, by appointment. He gently pried her legs apart and, since this was fate, she was in no position to resist. As she undulated in the teeming shower, Dunston cradled her butt in his sensitive peppermint hands. Water streamed over her face and throat, on Dunston's rippling back and flattened sandy hair, his face submerged in her – locked in her, locked in the dream, the water washing all sin away. They eased out of the shower in slow motion, rolling onto the carpeted bathroom floor. He slipped on top of her and she stroked his turtle-shell hard back. Then she slyly reached around his haunches and squeezed tight. A short hot rush spread like a languid stream within her. She sighed and then laughed hard while he issued a hearty patrician moan of satisfaction.

They lay side-by-side still and panting.
Chapter Twenty-Five

The Recruit

Nick was behind the wheel of his Toyota Corolla, taking his brother-in-law to NAPA for a new steering rack for the Clary family Voyager. In front of them was a large, late-model Mercedes-Benz sedan belching clouds of diesel soot into the Toyota's clattering ventilation system. Nick informed Abner Clary that generals drive Benzes and Beemers, the foot soldiers putter in Toyotas. It's been one Toyota after another for Nick Freeman. But a few more home runs like the one he hit today and he could start thinking about shopping for serious Teutonic hardware.

"Then I'm going to take the shit that Calhoun transfers to me and package it into subsequent deals. It's not that complicated – I'm surprised more people aren't doing it," Nick purred.

"But Nick, now you have a warehouse full of junk that even Mr. Calhoun can't sell: how do you intend to get rid of it? It must make you a little nervous – do you have some kind of safety net that I'm not aware of?"

"Calm down. Let's do some arithmetic – I believe that is your strong suit." Nick had committed the numbers to memory. He provided Arthur Calhoun insurance that if paid for in cash would run about $565,700 in premiums. Calhoun made a good faith deposit of $56,570 in cash on the spot, which constituted Nick's commission, and provided the balance in the form of distressed merchandise from his inventory. "A quick lesson in economics, genius. How much can you pull down per hour designing a scrubber system for a paint factory?"

"Depends, the size of the company, the magnitude of the project – the variables are endless..."

"Cmon, Abner, we're just being hypothetical – we're playing pretend. Just make up a number."

"I don't know, $150 an hour, maybe $200 if they're one of the top three."

"Now tell me how much can I make designing smokestacks and pipelines and whatnot?" Abner laughed out loud and shook his head. "Exactly right, Mr. Clary. That's economics. My engineering skills aren't worth shit. But, my friend, yours, well the market is much more responsive and you could clear several grand after a few days at the drafting table."

"Your point being..." said Abner impassively. Nick was disappointed. He expected Abner to have figured it out by now.

"Okay, let's take this one step at a time. Above a certain price there is no market. Nobody will pay for your services if you charge, say, $500 an hour. A few may bite at three. But you'll have to fend them off with a T-square if you come down to fifty an hour." Nick explained that Calhoun's inventory couldn't be sold at the price Calhoun was selling it at. The idea was to sell way below manufacturer's cost, because no matter what the sales price, Nick got to keep 100 percent, minus shipping and storage. Then he rattled off the names of wholesalers, liquidators and catalog houses who would be delighted to take Calhoun's sticks off his hands at Nick's rock-bottom price. The lesson here was that nothing is unsellable if the price is low enough. "I have several pending bids already and a preliminary order from a wholesaler in Minnesota," said Nick.

Bottom line, according to Nick, was that after selling the inventory and holding back a prudent amount of the proceeds in escrow to cover insurance reserves, Nick still walks away with a profit in the low six figures. All because his operation doesn't have the inherent inefficiencies and high overhead costs of a conventional insurance company. "It essentially comes down to putting myself in a position of offering great deals to insurance buyers, merchandise distributors and, best of all, to myself." Nick winked at Abner Clary, who nodded with the slightest trace of a smile.

"I'd like you to give this deal a bit of thought," Nick continued. "I expect it to grow. I expect it to become big. With your help, it could happen a lot faster and a lot bigger than me working on my own. It's got serious upside potential."

"Really, Nick. How much are we talking about?"

"Let me buy you a beer."
Chapter Twenty-Six

The Celebration

"I'll prepare a special meal!" chirped Lavinia. "Let's go shopping, Mom!" Doris shook her head with a pained expression. No, they were going to order pizza and invite the whole neighborhood. Nothing was going to diminish this day for Doris Snyder. Certainly not another ghastly trip to the supermarket with her daughter. The public announcement of Joe's promotion had to be held up a few days for official reasons – a paperwork thing he was told. Like everything else, nothing came easy to Joe Snyder. But now the word was out: the first black cop in town is now the first black deputy chief.

Joe spent the last few days in a euphoric haze. He kept pinching himself and splashing his face with cold water. Was this really happening? To me? He leaped from his 10-year-old Caprice Classic and hurried in the house to embrace the enthusiastic reception of his family. Doris jumped into his arms and wrestled him to the floor, joined by Tanya who crawled on top and started tickling him. Lavinia stood off to the side, still in a sulk over the pizza concept. Sulking about the odd sense of emptiness she felt over her father's amazing triumph. Joe spotted her out of the corner of his eye and grabbed for Lavinia's leg. But she pulled away, squeezing off a labored smile, an effort akin to extracting the last nerdle of toothpaste from a spent tube. Joe shook his head, closed his eyes and resumed the friendly wrestling match on the kitchen floor with his two willing combatants.

The food was delivered and that night was an open house at the Snyders. Dozens of friends filtered in and out, raining generous praise on Joe's accomplishment. His pastor thanked the Lord; his buddy at the men's store credited Joe's power ties and well-tailored sports coats. His mechanic took no credit at all, except to say that he made it possible for Joe to make it in to work every day. And Nina was so happy for Doris that she smothered her neighbor's cheeks with kisses. When Nick finally returned from the Clary's and found his family at Joe's house, he paid no notice to the cause of excitement.

"Hey Joe, guess what I was up to this afternoon?" he said as he barged through a clot of pizza-chomping celebrants.

"Nick, Joe just go promoted today," said Nina. "How about that?"

"Great! But guess what? I'm about to close a huge deal and kiss off the treadmill for life! What do you think of that?" Nick was beside himself with delight. Joe's wide smile dimmed and confusion momentarily clouded his eyes. What's Nick talking about? "I told you it was going to break and, brother, it's happening and it's big! Baby, it's big, big, BIG!" Nick was oblivious to the disapproving stares from Joe's now-silent guests.

"Nick!" snapped Nina harshly. "This is Joe's celebration. You can talk about your deals later. Not now!" Feeling conspicuous and embarrassed, Nick flushed a screaming scarlet. He shrank away, withdrawing into the silent crowd. And as he backed out the side door, a dull murmur built to a raucous roar and the party reignited. Without Nick, who made his way back home a broken figure of dejection.
Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Skeptic

"If you ask me, you got to be out of your mind, hooking up with Nicky," Michelle groused as she power walked on the family treadmill. "It doesn't take a genius to see the guy's a loser – and you have a reputation to protect."

"Yes, yes, I do have to think this over a little more. But the way he explained it, his plan seems to make sense. And if it works out..."

"Yeh, a big IF!" protested Michelle. Abner suspected it was Michelle's reputation that concerned her most if he hooked up with Nick. Those in her little circle got a lot of laughs out of Nick and his outsized pipe dreams. People who would be unable to separate their perception of Nick from the value of his ideas. It was the type of narrow thinking Abner found irritating, and worse, unproductive.

"Look, this might mean I could retain my current clients by offering financing alternatives, which could open up more opportunities on the engineering side. I've got to think about packaging my services to respond to the economic needs of my customers. It makes life more complicated, sure, but it's not like current conditions can support a full-time consulting engineering business."

"Are you sure you're not being overly pessimistic? You're always looking under rocks. And I don't follow Nick's deal. But I do know people and Nick's a creature I could never trust enough to go into business with. Remember, babe, we've been through some lean times and you'll pull through as always. You always underestimate yourself." Michelle goosed the treadmill to a 7 mph jog.

Abner did not agree with Michellee—he fully understood his capabilities and was not prone to irrational emotionalism. He also knew that Michelle desperately cared about maintaining the status quo, even though the status quo would no longer do given the current economy. He wished his wife could be a little more open minded. A little more practical. Sure, no relationship was perfect, and he allowed himself the pleasure of observing the long athletic strides of Michelle's smooth bronze legs. He was especially pleased with her rich skin pigmentation, which was artificially achieved through a formula that Abner himself had developed. Michelle slapped on a coat at night and by morning she looked like she had spent a week in Cabo. It cost just pennies to mix, yet it produced a deeper, more authentic look than the other "sunless" tanning salves sold in drugstores. Abner the industrial engineer also had a gift for chemistry, which he considered a relaxing sideline offering a stimulating plunge into the natural sciences.

Michelle, gasping with exhaustion, cut off the machine and toweled down. "By the way, Nina asked if you could whip up a few bottles of that spot remover for her and the kids. Tara raising some cash for a class trip and she thought maybe they could sell some to the neighbors. If you give her the formula, she'll mix it herself."

Abner smiled, recalling the tension in the room when Nick himself suggested marketing the stain remover. He was beginning to believe that his wife and sister-in-law had underestimated Nick's acumen. Abner decided that not only will he make up a batch of spot remover, he'd send over a couple of cases. But he will protect the formulation. It's a laboratory exercise.
Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Treat

Tara was home alone playing Nintendo-Sega-Sony whatever when Nick returned from the Snyders fuming. The drudge next door gets tossed a bone by the City and they treat it like he's won the fucking lottery. Fuck! He'll end up working twice as hard and the extra dough will be crushed by inflation and taxes. No one cares about the real news Nick had to offer. Nothing like being a visionary in a myopic world.

"So why aren't you next door joining all the hoopla?" brayed Nick.

"I don't like pizza."

"Of course you do, that's all you ever eat."

"I don't like the pizza they got. I like Dominos." Tara was scoring big and she finally got Iron Mike Tyson reeling against the ropes. Her fist shot up in victory. Nick saw an opportunity.

"Let's get an ice cream cone!" he bellowed, high-fiving the heavyweight conqueror. A popular suggestion, even though Tara hadn't had dinner. Neither had Nick, but he was in a rebellious mood, so he swept up Tara in his arms with thoughts of victory and a double scoop of pecan praline on mind. This would be the first of many celebrations for Nick. It didn't matter that only his daughter was available to share in his triumph. The magnitude of his accomplishment would eventually become clear to all the doubters. Soon the bandwagon will roll!

"Which car are we taking, Daddy?" But Nick walked past both cars, took his daughter's hand and set off on foot for the Tastee Freeze, which was almost a mile from the house.

"So, Tara, Daddy's going to be rich soon, what do you think about that?" asked Nick as Tara counted telephone polls, skipped and picked up tiny smooth stones for her collection. She ignored his question and had him appraise the quality of a cloudy chunk of quartz that she discovered on the sidewalk.

"It's fine. Breathtaking. What do you think about being rich?"

"My class needs money to go to Washington DC for three days," said Tara. "Do you still have my stone? Show me, please." Nick smiled and handed it to Tara. They finally arrived at the Tastee Freeze, debated the relative merits of plain chocolate versus multi-color sprinkles, made their choices and headed out. He watched Tara's ice cream melt down her shirt as they walked home.

"If you'd like, I'll clean up around the edges for you." Instead, Tara screwed her face up in contempt.

"You just want to eat my ice cream. You're done with yours and now you want mine. No way! It's mine and I'm going to eat it!" She buried her mouth in the cone and came up with a face coated with dark peanut butter chocolate. Nick patted Tara's tightly scrunched shoulders and let go a soft, throaty laugh: the patronizing kind that Dunston uses to elicit endearment from his inferiors. He liked the way Tara stood her ground, just like Daddy. As she grows up that quality will serve her well, just as it's about to pay off big time for Daddy.

"No, you're right. It's your cone and, if it drips a little, so what? We don't care, do we?" Nick gave his daughter a big smile and a wink. Why should he care? He'll be rich soon.
Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Lab

Nina's kitchen table was hidden under a canvass tarpaulin, upon which were assembled rows and columns of neatly trimmed swatches of various household materials: cotton, muslin, polyester, silk, wool, linen, carpet fragments. Nina supervised as Kristina and Tara attacked the squares with various agents, including hot coffee, catsup, pork blood, mustard, lipstick, shoe polish, India ink, crayons, used motor oil, grape juice, calamine lotion and Easter egg dye.

"This is fun!" squealed Halle as she spurted a plume of squeeze-bottle mustard at her older sister, who screamed. Nina fixed them with a cautioning stare and they settled down. "But how do we make money spilling stuff?" inquired Tara.

"With this," said Nina, dramatically brandishing a 12-ounce bottle from a box on the kitchen counter. The container was a standard brown chemical vessel with a screw-top and a home-made label created on a Macintosh computer.

"AC's Spot Remover – 1001 Uses," read Kristina. "What's the deal?"

"Watch this," said Nina. She unscrewed the cap, poured a small amount of the clear, odorless solution on a discarded face cloth and in minutes every stain on every piece of material was wiped effortlessly away without a trace.

"Let me try!" cried Tara.

"No, I wanna try first," demanded Kristina. The stains were gone faster than Nina could squirt, rub, pound or soak them in. Regardless of the material or the severity of the blemish, even 8-year-old Tara could soak and rub them out in seconds.

"What is this stuff?" said Kristina, taking a whiff from the bottle.

"Don't smell it," warned Nina, "we don't know exactly what's in it. A chemical– something your uncle invented. Daddy stained his suit the other day and it came right out with this stuff. I figured – rather your father suggested – that this is something we could sell to other people."

"I'm not going knocking on strangers' doors for Tara's stupid trip," said Kristina the Grouch. For some reason, the whole enterprise rankled her.

"I can't go alone. I'm only eight," protested Tara. "I want to do it. Please, Kristina. Kristina won't go – can you go, Mommy?"

"Shut up, twerp!" snapped Kristina in a fit of indignation.

"Stop it and listen," commanded Nina. "Uncle Abner is asking only a dollar for each bottle you sell. My thinking is we sell AC's for five dollars a bottle. We give three dollars for Tara's trip, Uncle Abner his dollar and then a dollar to you, Kristina, for helping out. I've got 24 bottles here, plus this tester, which means, Kristina, you stand to make $24 if you guys sell the whole lot."

"That's not fair!" cried Tara, suddenly beside herself. "Why does Kristina get paid and not me?"

"It's a bribe," charged Kristina.

"It's a commission," corrected Nina. "And Tara, your payment is the money you raise for your trip. Kristina's not going on a trip."

Tara's eyes welled up. Why can't she have the cold hard cash – and the trip? She didn't want to go to stupid Washington DC anyway. It'll be boring. Imagine the Barbie outfits she could buy with the money Kristina stood to make on this deal. And Kristina will probably spend it on something dumb, like a CD or pierced earrings or something. Tara couldn't help it, she was sobbing profusely.

"Cmon, brat! This is hard labor for me," said Kristina. "We probably won't be able to get rid of this stuff anyway. Who cares about stupid spot remover?"

"I want money, too," whispered Halle, who was being ignored amongst the battlers.

"Cut the tears, Tara, you two better start ringing doorbells," said Nina, loading swatches and staining substances into nylon carry totes for the girls. "And I happen to think that this is a very useful product. Once people see how effective it is, I wouldn't be surprised to see half the bottles gone this afternoon. Be optimistic. Have a positive attitude."

"Oh, like Dad," cracked Kristina. "He's always bragging about how much money he plans to make – but he never does. What's the point?"

"Shut up, Nan!" cried Tara. "He told me last night that we're going to be rich."

"He's said that before," sighed world-weary Kristina.

"But he really meant it. He even took me to get ice cream and didn't yell at me when some of it fell on the sidewalk."

"You're crazy," said Kristina, which incited Tara to come at her with fists flying and the two rolled on the kitchen floor, grabbing and kicking with a fury unusual even for them. Nina tried to separate them, but when one of Tara's flying feet nicked her mother on the chin, Nina lost it.

"CUT THE SHIT!" she hollered, which instantly cut the shit. The girls, grasping each other in death grips, ceased all motion and looked at their hovering mom in stunned silence. Mom never screamed like that at them and Mom never used profanity in front of them. The girls rose slowly and delicately parted – at no time taking their eyes off their mother's face, which was pale with disbelief – gathered their wares, whispered apologies to each other and to Mom without further prompting, and headed off to commence commerce.

Nina shook her head. She couldn't fathom her horrifying outburst: like a swirling firestorm building up inside her and detonating with unbridled force. This was not Nina.

This was not Nina.
Chapter Thirty

The Proposal

"Sorry to hear about Rita," said Nick. "I had no idea that things had turned for the worse. Tough on the kids, for sure." Nick and Dillard were parked in the employee cafeteria pounding coffee and sticky buns, a ritual observed every Friday mornings before settling into the grind.

"The kids are fine. They're my strength. The thing is, the health plan is coming up short and the meds are hardly covered at all – they say it's experimental. My wife may be dying, Nick, and we can't afford the treatment she needs." Dillard went glassy-eyed, which made Nick uncomfortable. Nick had a nominal affection for Dillard and was sincerely moved by his predicament; but frank discussions of pain and weakness made Nick's skin crawl. Nick found bad news, tragedy, death and pain difficult to accept. When others openly confided their grief and anxiety to him, his tendency was to withdraw, seek an escape.

"At the very least you should consider hitting Thurmond up for a raise. God knows you deserve an interim increase after all you've done."

Dillard shook his head. "I tried that and Mr. Thurmond promised he would do what he could. I think he meant it. Can't count on it, though. He pretty much said he feels bad about my situation, but he can't buck company policy on merit-based increases."

"The weasel," snorted Nick. It figured. A valuable, loyal grunt like Dillard going through some tough times, worried sick about his wife. How much would it put them out to reach into their treasure chest and direct a few coins his way? "Didn't I tell you they were a bunch of ungrateful leeches? And here's the proof." Nick shook his head and awaited the usual denial and refutation from the company man seated opposite him. He was surprised that none was forthcoming.

"You would think so. But I guess you have to have a policy and this is the one we're stuck with. My tough luck – but we'll get by. Fuck the bills, I just want Rita to get better." Unlike most mornings, when coffee and pastry were respectively guzzled and gobbled in 10 minutes or less, Nick and Matt lingered silently, lost in their separate thoughts – Matt's tinged with tragedy, Nick's aglow with opportunity. Thoughts that could merge into a solution beneficial to each.

"Have you given any thought to helping yourself?" asked Nick. Dillard looked blankly at him. "I mean, making some dough on the side. I guess probably not, you don't strike me as the type. Still, I think I may have an answer for you."

"Sure you do. Another one of your schemes. The last thing I need in my life is to lose my shirt selling books through the mail. Let's go." As Matt rose to leave, Nick grabbed him forcefully by the shoulders and shoved him back in his chair, fixing him with a fiery glare. "What the...." sputtered Dillard.

"Hear me out, Dillard, you can at least extend me that courtesy," said Nick with calculated intensity.

"Hey, my backlog, my..."

"Fuck your backlog, for Christ sake." You're in a bind here and I have a solution. Look, if you depend on the company to get you out of this, you'll be selling pencils on street corners before that ever happens."

"So you'd have me depend on you..." and again Dillard rose and again Nick shoved him back down. Dillard swatted Nick's hand off his shoulder, but made no further attempts to escape.

"Good. Look, this is what's happening." Nick described an enterprise that was starting to take off. He talked about entirely new ways to fund insurance exposures, with little risk and virtually no overhead, and with an eager clientele set comprised of various manufacturing and wholesaling concerns.

"But you don't have capital, for god sakes. What the hell...who in their right mind would do business..."

"I've got that covered, don't worry. I know this business, remember? Keep in mind, this is not 'pie-in-the-sky'. I have closed my first account – and it's big money – and there are plenty of others lined up. I've made contacts and I've considered every angle: there is no way this can become anything but huge."

"But?"

"I need paper," said Nick. He explained that he was one or two contracts from ditching his cubicle forever, but that he would need someone on the inside to supply him with approved contracts, reinsurance documentation, underwriting binders and a state-registered name to back his operations. He did not intend to go through the expense and regulatory scrutiny of becoming a licensed underwriter himself.

"Of course what you're proposing is illegal."

"Technically, perhaps. But my risks are negligible and the projected profitability astronomical. Conventional dealings with the insurance establishment blow costs out of the water. I'm better off setting up my own reserves and having the good name of the Great American on my paper. If worse comes to worse, I've got an inside claims guy – yourself who can expedite excess loss development from the coffers of our distinguished employer."

"That is outright fraud and embezzlement!" and again Dillard edged out of his seat. So it was time to bring out the big guns.

"Matt, your fee works out to $8,500 on the first deal alone. That covers a lot of fucking dialysis. We can save Rita's life. And there's no risk to you. And there will be more deals and it will be a steady stream. What the hell has this company ever done for you? What the hell has this company done for either of us? All I'm asking for are a few papers, appropriate signatures and an occasional excess of loss claim. You talk about legalities, but the way we've been screwed all our careers that's the real crime. Cmon, this is the breakthrough both of us have been waiting for." Nick's shirt was sweat-soaked and already hiked above his navel and it wasn't even 10 a.m. Dillard was himself shuddering and flushed a blood red.

"This is wrong. I've never broken the law in my life."

"Nobody gets hurt. It's completely safe. We both make some dough. Twenty years in the business. I know what I'm doing."

Dillard shook his head.

"Think about it. That's all – just think about it. I'm giving you first crack. Discuss it with Rita. If you want, I'll speak with her myself. My offer stands."

Dillard was frozen in his seat. This time it was Nick who stood up and walked away from the table. He'd shot his wad and all he could do was wait.

Dillard sat frozen in his seat.
Chapter Thirty-One

The Windfall

Nina was calling and Abner could hardly hear what she was saying over the din of supercharged children dashing through the house whooping and high-fiving and fondling dollar bills counted and sorted and distributed four and five different ways.

"Yes, gone in maybe a half an hour. Couldn't even get through the entire block KEEP IT DOWN I'M ON THE PHONE WITH YOUR UNCLE. I'm sorry – the kids are pretty revved."

"UNCLE UNCLE WE NEED MORE STUFF," squealed former skeptic Kristina.

"YEH, MORE MORE MORE, WE HAVE BUCKS," cried super-salesman Tara.

"What they said, Abner!" Nina seemed very much caught up in the frenzy. She said the kids only finished one side of their street before their entire inventory of spot remover was scarfed up. Mrs. Finley alone bought three bottles. The girls had to take back orders for additional units. No sooner had the they returned home than the phone started ringing with orders from insistent neighbors who rushed to get their dibs in for the next batch of miracle product.

"I think we could sell as much stuff as you can make," said Nina. "The girls are out of their minds with excitement and I'm pretty thrilled myself. And there's the annual flea market at St. Michael's coming up next month and the tables are only $15. I think we're on to something here...." gushed Nina.

Abner smiled on his end of the phone, distracted by parallel thoughts whirring through his brain. He wondered how Nick hadn't hit the jackpot yet. Marketing the spot remover was Nick's idea. Perhaps he had too many ideas – spread himself too thin, unfocused. Maybe all he needed was some support for the truly promising projects. Abner now found the prospect of being a variable in this equation stimulating. He was, after all, an entrepreneur, a role requiring a degree of risk. He hadn't, however, risked much lately, so maybe it was time for a sight readjustment. Given Nick's present focus – coupled with some assistance from Abner – perhaps an intriguing synergy could bloom.

"Abner? Are you still there? What's the matter – aren't you just thrilled? How soon can we get a bunch of cases mixed up pronto?"

"Well, I really ought to explore patent issues with regard to the formulation before we consider wider distribution...and that will take some time."

"We don't have time! The girls are frothing at the mouth. We can't lose the momentum. Worry about the patent later – like after the flea market." Nina had never shown Abner such animation. He had always admired Nina's level-headedness, in contrast to her often impetuous sister. To observe Nina abandon her usual critical reserve thrilled him. He promised to call one of his industrial clients to mix up a small batch right away.

"How long? Tell me."

"Gee, Nina, never would have figured you as the hard-driving business type. I guess a little bit of Nick was bound to rub off on you."

Nina laughed, "Only a little, I hope. Only a little. Gotta go. Girls want to go over the story again. Thanks a lot, Abner. Call me back."

Abner hung up the phone and tripped downstairs to his office. He was fascinated. This little trial had erased all doubt from what at the outset appeared to be a shaky hypothesis.
Chapter Thirty-Two

The Big Plan

This was a big day for Dunston Thurmond. He had a noon "run" slated with Nina Freeman and, after weeks of tactical planning and negotiation, he also scheduled an evening trot with glorious Jill. And it's turning out to be a hot day, which at the very least implied a running bra and lightweight shorts on Nina and who-knows-what on Jill. An exhausting agenda, especially on the eve of the West Stemper 10K. Dunston hoped that Nina could again shed the kids – they're off from school this week, but he knew she'd try. The present moment was especially delectable as the claims man himself sat before him, obviously oblivious to Dunston's designs on his mate. Life could be so uplifting: Dunston was unable to recall so much carnal intrigue at one time, going back to his undergraduate days. Even now, when forced into discussion with the tedious and morose Nick Freeman, Dunston felt a certain sense of well-being in anticipation of the lunch hour.

"You have to sign these, Dunston. They're the large loss reports," said Nick as he placed them on the corner of Dunston's desk, forcing his boss to reach over to snag them.

"Where? Where? I always tell you to put X's where you want me to sign. You know, you could give them to Jill to bring to me. No sense wasting your time in here," said Dunston impatiently. He had more important things on his mind. He waved his monogrammed Ferrari da Varese fountain pen in the air as he zeroed in on the appropriate spaces.

"It may be a good idea to look them over – you know, to make sure I did these correctly," snickered Nick.

"I'm sure you did your usual thorough job. I know this is the Citgo loss..."

"Actually no, it's the Philips explosion. File number H-00153."

"Yes, I'm sorry. I guess I'm a little distracted. You've done an excellent job on this case – you and Matthew Dillard," said Dunston as he scribbled his practiced scrawl on the bottom of the report without once glancing at the figures. He wondered if Nina was as pliant with Nick as she was with him. Of course not just look at him. How could she bear to touch him? Dunston found himself a fortunate vessel of a frustrated woman's pent-up energy. Fortunate to sample a mature woman's passion in a young woman's body.

Nick grunted as he left the office. Dunston did not realize Nick was gone until he asked him a question only to look up to find an empty chair. He smiled and shook his head. He observed Jill's long, gracefully curved back as she busied herself with correspondence outside his door, her jumbo sky blue gym bag stowed under her desk. He couldn't help speculating on the contents of the bag. It will be unseasonably warm after work and they will change in the company's executive locker rooms. What will she wear? Dare he go shirtless? Would that be making too strong a statement? After all, she may still find him intimidating. He settled on a thin singlet – one of his slightly frayed ones – that would be best. Dunston considered himself a master of calculated casualness. It was driving him crazy. Only 11 a.m. A good day to take an early lunch. He called the Freeman home and heard what he wanted to hear. He smiled, put on his suit jacket and told Jill that he had a luncheon appointment, followed by a zoning commission meeting at the borough hall. Then he reminded her of their "date." This was shaping up as one of Dunston's top ten days of the year.
Chapter Thirty-Three

The Shared Secret

Spotting the Clary residence was a piece of cake. You went by turf. Situated in an upper-middle class settlement of perfectly maintained split-levels, neo-colonials, neo-Tudors, and neo-Victorians, the Clary home popped with the greenest blanket of turf on the block. It was a green that glowed. A uniform poster color the hue of a Fujicolor box, of a leprechaun's breeches, of a good mariscada green sauce – bursting with vibrancy and horticultural health. A luminescence that threw reflected color against the white vinyl siding of the Clary home and formed a perfect border along the bone-white cement sidewalk. From the air the neighborhood yards appeared as patterned rectangles of roofs and green yards, green yards, green yards and, suddenly, GREEN YARD! ... the latter being the yard belonging to Abner Clary.

Could it be a case of fertilizer overdose?

No. Abner Clary shunned the use commercial fertilizer. Ever. Toxic to the environment.

Then he must over-water.

No. Abner Clary never had to water his lawn. Even in the droughtiest of droughts, when water restrictions were in effect for months on end, Abner's grass was GREEN as the lawns of his neighbors faded to yellow straw. What was his secret? What was his secret? A wink and a smile was all you'd get from Abner, whose lips were sealed. Landscapers called, the garden clubs begged, the local paper had him on the follow-up list; but if Abner told, everyone's lawn would look like his. He won't even tell his wife's sister.

"But please, Abner. Look what's happening with the spot remover. We could sell whatever you use on that grass. I bet it would move even faster," gushed Nina, who brought the kids to help Abner mix up a batch of spot remover.

"Damn, you're getting more like Nick every day," Michelle chided. "Looks like you're out to make your first million by tomorrow." Nina smiled. A very broad smile. Meanwhile, Kristina, Tara and even little Halle, eyes flashing with unbridled greed, were ganging up on Uncle Abner to pump out more product. Orders awaited.

"Let me take the girls to Gekko's. He'll be doing small batches and has most of what we need on hand. We'll be gone till about three." This plan was popular with the little nieces – and with Nina. They bolted out the door, crawling over each other to be the first one in Abner's minivan. Uh oh, Michelle had Nina by the shoulders, eyes riveted on the smile that wouldn't come off Nina's face.

"Okay, who ya' screwing?" demanded Michelle with a mischievous gleam.

"Hey, we're charging a fair price. In fact I think we set it too low."

"I mean screw as in getting laid. Come on, I can tell. Don't insult me, who's putting the wood to you?" Smile's still there. "See? I knew it!" squealed Michelle as she gave her sister a bear hug. Of course, there's no point in holding back when Nina's snared in Michelle's zone of expertise. The truth comes out...each and every detail. Dunston's garage, Nina's shower, their "running" date that was only minutes away. Michelle's eyes widened with sincere admiration.

"Whew. I'm absolutely impressed!" Michelle wiped away imaginary drops of ardor from her brow. "Sometimes you absolutely amaze me. He's absolutely beautiful – I don't know what to say. Dunston Thurmond, holy shit!" Michelle was absolutely moved. "Now look at you there's color in your cheeks and you're lighter on your feet: don't you feel better?" Nina looked right and left, expecting perhaps an unseen eavesdropper or a lightning bolt from a vengeful God. She smiled and nodded like a puppy. Michelle released Nina and pushed her roughly to the door.

"Well don't let me hold you up you have a date," giggled Michelle. "We'll continue this discussion at another time. But geez, Dunston Thurmond – the very idea gives me no choice but to take my hot ass upstairs and power up the magic wand and do some dreaming," cracked Michelle with a lewd grab of her crotch.

"You're utterly disgusting, Michelle. How can you think such things?"

"How can you not?" Michelle retorted, and then gave her sister a large sloppy kiss on the mouth. "That's from me to Dunston, you lucky bitch."

And, as things worked out, Dunston was indeed waiting at the curb in front of Nina's house. And also as things worked out, Dunston and Nina never did get around to actually running.
Chapter Thirty-Four

The Plan

"Then I can count on you for all six trailers, Mr. Procaccini. Retail...yes I don't care what you can get retail, my figures are wholesale and I'm offering you 40 percent off that...I don't...I don't...you do the shipping FOB I want this shit off my hands within two weeks or there will be penalties you know I'm paying storage...yes cash is a little less but I'll take a certified check made out to, ummm...F&C Enterprises. No, I don't need anything now, I'll hold your offer for no more than 14 days but payment is in full at time of shipping. Yes, we got ourselves a deal." Nick gently put down the receiver. In less than 10 minutes on the phone he closed a transaction with a cash equivalent of about five years of his present salary. In one day he accumulated a massive inventory of furniture from Calhoun, which he was able to sell to Procaccini in less than 24 hours at very beneficial terms. Six figures, baby. Big time, baby. A surge – a thrilling surge of ecstasy electrified his being. Nick was on his way. With Abner's help, he would be making contacts, setting up appointments and networking his program. Six figures this week, then seven figures and then and then and then – who's to say?

"Get in here, Dillard," Nick growled, punching the stretched fabric walls of his cubicle. Is this what it's like when the dream blow strikes? Skin tingling, thought waves crackling: an implacable wall of confidence that crushed all obstacles. Like playing at CEO or winning baseball's triple crown or simply being Michael Jordan. Beating the losers, beating Death. Nick glanced around and assessed his surroundings with contempt. He'd explode out of his present hell like a Saturn V rocket! "Sit down, Dillard."

"What's the story – what are you all worked up about Nicky?" Dillard presented his usual browbeaten, slack-jawed vision of despair that Nick found so offensive: a troubling portrait of himself if he were to continue on his freshly shed professional path.

"Okay, listen up, pal. I just got a commitment from a wholesaler who will take Calhoun's furniture off my hands and you and I are going to do a dry run. This is what I need." Dillard's role as the prospective Mr. Inside would consist of being the bridge between the insurance industry establishment and Nick's new maverick enterprise. Dillard was to plunder the Great American forms warehouse and procure sales binders, a supply of pre-signed declaration pages that Nick could complete as deals were arranged, reinsurance account codes, signed certificates of coverage and bordereaus with commercial SIC's as needed. The forms were no big deal, the signatures were the value-add. Once Nick was launched, it would be up to Dillard to get Thurmond to sign-off on the claim reports and Underwriting to counter-sign the coverage binders, making Nick and, indirectly, the Great American, liable for a share of his customers' losses. The Great American's good name, from a paperwork standpoint, would be the fronting company out of which Nick's business would operate. If Dillard cooperated.

"The commission is as we discussed," said Nick. "I expect to close the deal within 14 days, during which time I will set up appropriate escrow accounts under my corporate name, F&C Enterprises, what do you say?"

Nick's dizzying stream of commands were met with saucer eyes from Matt Dillard. He shook his head, too stunned to budge.

"Yes, yes. I'm not bullshitting," said Nick. "For once in my life I've lit onto the real thing and now I'm offering to share an opportunity with you. This is only deal number one and I won't be around here much longer. I need your help. I need your access. Say something, Dillard. For godsakes." Nick drummed on his desk with a pencil, his lips scant inches from the tip of Dillard's pink nose.

"But Nick, you can line those items up yourself. You don't need me to do that."

"Of course I need you. I'm outta here. People do leave, you know. Afraid to pull the trigger?" Nick paused, bored into Dillard's eyes: "If you don't, you're risking your wife's life."

"That's unfair! You're telling me to break the law. I'm not that kind of guy."

"Then what kind of guy are you? Look, sure, I can get the stuff I need this time, but we have to do this for practice – get the kinks out of the system, so to speak. Hell, life is filled with tough choices. Already you are obliged to expose my plan or else be considered an accessory to the act. But think about it. If they haul my ass away, you're left with nothing. Do you think this fine benevolent employer of ours will reward you for blowing the whistle? What do you think?" Dillard, arms flapping, was too rattled to think. And Nick wouldn't let up. "You jerk. I worry about you and Rita."

"Nick, stop it. I can't take it. You're moving too fast."

"Well if you don't do it, I suggest you march into Thurmond's office right now and relay the details of this conversation. Play the hero for ten minutes, but then screw up any chance you could've had to get out of the hole. You're key to my operation. I can trust you."

No response. Dillard looked at Nick slack-jawed.

"Then you'll do it. Good. Good for you."

"I didn't say that. I've got to think about it some more."

"There's no time. Seize the moment now."

Jill appeared outside Nick's cube, freezing both men in mid crisis. "Mr. Thurmond was tied up downtown and asked if one of you could stand in for him at the large loss meeting. I'm afraid it started five minutes ago in the Comptroller's office. Nick, I think he wants you there."

"Hell, why doesn't rock jaw get his own candy ass back here and send proper representation to the meeting?" hissed Nick. "Is he afraid someone might ask him a question?"

Jill flushed. "I'm sure Matthew could represent the department just as well. And, Nick, I don't like how you talk about Mr. Thurmond. Not at all."

"Hmmmph," Nick snorted. "Then it's settled. I'll go." He struggled into his undersized blazer, snatched a sheaf of printouts from Jill and trudged to the elevators, leaving Jill with arms tightly folded against her chest and Dillard in a terrified stupor.
Chapter Thirty-Five

The Deflated

The good news was she looked smashing in her tight chrome yellow running bra and shiny black Hind compression shorts. The bad news was she wasn't alone. The man with her had his arms under her shoulders in a full-nelson wrestling hold, gently twisting her torso to and fro. When the man saw Dunston approach, he released her. The unfamiliar man stood a shade over six feet and had shoulder-length blond hair that glistened in the late afternoon sun. His rugged, tanned face was partly obscured by expensive swept-back Oakley shades. His right ear was impales by a tiny diamond stud.

"Dunston, I asked Klaus to join us. I hope it's okay with you," said Jill. Klaus seized the hand of a dismayed Dunston in a death vise so debilitating that Dunston was prevented from retaliating with the famous Thurmond grip. Up close Klaus was a withering vision. He was a good 10 years younger than Dunston and had the body of a god. Shoulders and chest, abs and lats, were running-lean yet powerfully cut. He was a dazzling specimen of fortuitous gene-play and serious lifting. Just enough silken yellow fuzz on the hard rise of his chest to soften the effect of those dark brown nipples. Fuzz that didn't unaesthetically creep below the lower mesa of his pectorals – this was observable because the evening heat (and perhaps a fondness for his own image) caused Klaus to eschew a top layer, much to Dunston's consternation. He wore tight white running shorts that accentuated his compact granite butt and the prominent soft bulge in front. He had long, gracefully muscular legs, with just enough of those goddamn silken tufts of hair to confirm that vanity didn't cause him to shave down. The skin containing this extraordinary package of flex and definition was the same shade as the cocoa leather seat upholstery in Dunston's restored English roadster (minus the "natural" blemishes). He was easily the most beautiful man Dunston had ever seen. And his hands were all over Jill.

"Pleased to meet you," purred Dunston disarmingly. "Glad you could join us," though it was apparent that it was Dunston who was joining them. "Sure is hot out, but it looks like you're dressed for the weather," he added stupidly.

"Oh, I always run like this, at least down to 55 degrees," said Klaus, who spoke with a slight accent that Dunston could not quite place. An affectation, he concluded. "Clothing restricts movement, even the best gear. My times seem to improve in proportion to the less I wear," Klaus beamed proudly.

"Klaus is my running coach," said Jill, as she sat on the grass, her legs spread apart in front of her, toes pointed up. Klaus resumed her warm-up, pressing against her back with his forearms until her chest kissed the ground. "He's manager of the running store downtown – we have a running club. He organized tomorrow's race. I've learned a lot working with him." They exchanged knowing smiles. Coach had Jill's shoulders firmly in hand and he gently lifted her to a sitting position. Finally he eased her down until she was flat on the ground, her arms lying loosely perpendicular to her torso. Dunston rubbed his face to make sure his tongue remained safely secured in his mouth.

On the road Jill and Klaus took off as if shot from bazookas, Jill's ponytail bopping in the breeze, Klaus's muscles pulsing with each footfall. Dunston refused to be intimidated – this was his game and he confidently strode up to meet their pace, before dropping back, puffing noticeably. Klaus eased off the throttle and retreated two or three paces to the trailing Dunston. As they ran, Klaus glanced every now and then at Dunston's shoulders and feet. Dunston found this disturbing but managed to focus his attention ahead on Jill's long smooth legs and firm angular bottom – a worthy distraction. Even the superbly-conditioned Nina Freeman had an ever-so-subtle posterior jiggle when she ran, a reasonable concession to age and childbirth.

"You could pick up a few seconds if we corrected that interior pronation issue," said Klaus. Dunston was jostled from his meditation by Klaus's appalling observation.

"What do you mean? My orthopedist insists I have perfect alignment. Are you sure about that?"

"What would a bone doctor know?" said Klaus disdainfully. He pointed out that Dunston's shoes were especially worn on the instep, while the outer soles were still like new. He offered to construct a compensating orthotic if Dunston stopped by the store. "It'll help you with your times and you won't get so tired fighting against it." Humiliation set in when Dunston conceded that Apollo had a point. The clip-clop of Dunston's gait made him sound like a cloven beast next to the hushed ticking of Klaus's feet as they stroked the pavement. If it was any consolation, Dunston believed that he was shattering his regular pace.

Klaus and Dunston continued to hang back, both minds apparently transfixed by the same sight and the same thoughts. Klaus turned to Dunston and winked, "She's heavenly in the sack, too." Dunston bit his lip as his face reddened. But Klaus was still not through. "You may try to catch up to her," he said, "but maybe not such a great idea?"

Dunston clenched his teeth so hard that he felt a headache coming on. Klaus and Jill set a challenging pace and it was taking a toll on Dunston, who was too breathless to exchange any more words with Klaus for a couple of miles.

"You're laboring, my friend – don't exceed your pace," Klaus suggested amiably, gliding as Dunston chugged. "You should save something for tomorrow's race." Then he swung ahead and patted Jill on the back; she looked at him with a smile.

When the Great American building came into view, Dunston unleashed a powerful finishing kick and bolted ahead of his two companions.
Chapter Thirty-Six

The Victory Dance

"We did it! We did it! We're on our way – let's go look at cars. That's it. The first thing to do is freshen up the ol' image. Maybe I should arrange a cash transfer. MMMMM. No. Shouldn't count your chickens et cetera et cetera. One goddamn deal and we're going to turn over 200 K." Nick had Nina clamped in a crushing embrace. She was pinned against the copper door of the refrigerator. Her husband was again clacking his jaws and unleashing torrents of words, but this time it was not a dispirited dirge recounting the degradations and persecutions that regularly mired him into a tar pit of despair. He was – oddly – joyful. Beside himself would be a better description. He was squeezing the air out of her lungs, but it felt good to her on a day filled with good feeling. She had coupled with her sleek lover earlier in the afternoon, scaling a pitch of passion that left her spent, which led to the cancellation of her 4 p.m. run with Lavinia. Dunston, as it turned out, was a seamless tactician, possessed of extraordinary agility and feminine body sense. Still he was, after all, only Nina's lover, not her loving companion. Taut, powerful muscles and classic body lines may heat up the bed and look good on a poster, but the hairy porky Nicky made a puffy pillow of a squeeze. Nina loved being squished by Nick. When she and Nick (used to) make love, Nina preferred the lights off – not bashful about her body, but of his. Yet she sought a blinding bath of illumination when she was with Dunston – how else to delight in the full effect?

The man jubilantly mauling her, sloshing Dunston seed, certainly was not suffering from her secret. She asked herself what could be wrong with the lively abandon in which she indulged herself in her moments with Dunston – an abandon that would likely be terminal for Nick if he ever tried? For Nina it was sufficient that Dunston had her intimacy, not her love. Nothing more or less than an innocent, prophylactic wick dip.

"So you had a good day, dear," said Nina in understatement, hoping that she had thoroughly rinsed the residue of Dunston musk from her body. Even if she hadn't, Nick was not one to pay close attention.

"Nina, we are verging on breakthrough heaven. I predicted it. And it has come to pass. Let me explain..." He released her and as she fell away he yanked open the refrigerator and reached for the bottle of Reunite that's been standing undisturbed on the bottom shelf since it was given to them by Doris and Joe a Christmas or two ago. Nick was a beer guy. Nina was partial to Crystal Light. He poured two glasses and then strutted to and fro across the kitchen, splashing drops of celebratory libations on the linoleum in true claims-guy fashion.

"Your brother-in-law and I have embarked on a joint business venture. Something that I've been planning for quite some time–a melding of my genius for insurance and Abner's high-tech brain and industrial contacts." In head-spinning detail, Nick revealed the superstructure of his brilliant new cash machine, summoning images of a future packed with more and more deals yielding scaleable piles of crazy riches. He was a gushing font of plans for new cars, new computers, a new house and a new neighborhood, maybe even in that gaudy, snobby area where the great Dunston Thurmond planted his digs: "Your wondrous partner in sweat."

The latter reference momentarily jolted Nina, whose mind had drifted to the carnal carnival she had enjoyed earlier that afternoon. She quickly realized that Nick was alluding to Dunston and their joggings, not their thrustings. The fleeting look of shock on Nina's face temporarily stalled Nick's gush, but she urged him to continue. Now that he had Nina's undivided attention, she found herself stimulated by his noise, but not unconditionally.

"What you're talking about is legal, right?" she said. Funny, the floor burning ceased and Nick took a lusty swig of wine. Then he turned to face his wife.

"My business is taking off, dear. Please help me celebrate the fact. We are about to come into a great deal of cash. This is going to happen, Nina. Get used to it. By your reaction one could suspect that you doubt my capabilities. Perhaps you've determined that a late-blooming, fat loser slob like myself can't turn things around. I guess you gave up on me a long time ago."

Nina was stunned by the sudden shift in Nick's mood – just as she was about to toss caution to the wind and abet Nick's good humor by uncritically embracing his present euphoria. But then he turned on her. Perhaps his point was well taken. Time and familiarity did indeed make Nina skeptical of Nick's upside. She did not know many rich and successful people. Maybe subconsciously she expected them all to embody Dunston's proud bearing or Martha Stewart's astute elegance. Nick tries so hard only to get nowhere, while for an anointed few it seemed wealth and success were natural accouterments of their existence. But Nina rejected the suggestion that Nick's physical stature had anything to do with it. She so desired her hidden prejudices be disproved when it came to Nick. Not that wealth particularly interested her; rather, it's her longing for Nick to find peace. Maybe, she thought, making a few million would do the trick.

"No, don't misunderstand me. It's just that most people work themselves up slowly," she said. "A little here, a little there. Like your mail order business. List building, mailings." This last point was intended to please Nick; to let him know that she had acquired some of his direct marketing vernacular that he wasn't preaching to a stone wall all these years. He pulled up a kitchen chair, straddled it backwards, and peered into his wife's eyes.

"Yes, Nina, you're absolutely right." He calmly explained that, indeed, his plans had been incubating for years and, while he hasn't had much to show for it, the final pieces of the puzzle were finally in place, the network was roughed out. There was nothing left to do but implement.

Never had Nick looked more earnest, more focused. Nina was trying to believe him—not sure she could withstand another crushed pipe dream. Nick had become more and more despondent over his failures, withdrawing from his family as he searched desperately for the next sure-fire scheme, spiraling deeper and deeper into a dark place. How many times had Nina heard those chilling words: "This is it!"? But this time there was no shrill edge to Nick's voice. Also gone was the usual manic bravado. This voice was new to Nina.

"It's wild, Nick. Simply wild," said Nina, shaking her head. "You and Abner in business together. Going into insurance, I can't figure it – it's not exactly been a gusher for you up to now." Oops a thoughtless remark slipping from reckless lips. But Nick grinned and let it pass. It simply did not apply.

"It's not about insurance, dear. It's about a whole new way to conduct business – insurance just happens to be one element in the overall model. The only reason it's part of the plan is because it's an area of expertise."

"Well it makes sense, sure. But you've had your hopes up so high before. Please don't let it get you down if it doesn't work out exactly as planned. Don't be doing this for me or the kids – you have nothing to prove to us."

"No. It's not at all like that. I'm doing this for me. I can't keep living like we've been. This is not what I had in mind for my life. Why do I have these dreams if they're not meant to be? And, dammit, how the hell do you explain Calhoun and Procaccini and even goddamn Abner plopping into our laps at just the right moment? Look, Procaccini was able to move all the merchandise I bartered from Calhoun in less than six hours. If Abner's consulting business was going great guns, you think he'd be open to this venture? The genius is searching for something himself. And look, I'll even have Dillard on board because his wife just took a turn for the worse and our shitty medical plan at work won't pay enough for a new kidney, so the guy's desperate. If I were the superstitious type, I'd call this an omen. Look, I've been on a losing streak all my life. I was beginning to give up hope myself. But if I had stopped trying, we would be giving up on any possibility of ever getting anywhere."

That is not an argument Nina was inclined to accept. Nick was no dope, in fact he's highly regarded at work. Perhaps he fell short when it came to office politics, but why should that be a fatal flaw? She reminded Nick that Dunston thought he was the best man he's got.

"Dunston is absolutely correct. If justice and good sense prevailed in the vast kingdom of the Great American, I would have Dunston's job. But don't get me started on that. I'm not the fair-haired kid–never was and never will be."

"Actually, I think he likes you – I don't think he's nearly as selfish as vain as you make him out to be." (After all, Dunston considerately brought Nina to screaming ecstasy before surrendering to his own pleasure.)

"Seems that you still don't understand the slightest thing about Dunston Thurmond. Frankly, he's the last thing on my mind right now. I'm in the process of structuring my own reward after years of dedicated service. And I'm doing it without having to submit to the usual humiliating games. I'm finally using my brain. That's my advantage–I'll use my brain where the kiss-asses use their lips. Maybe it's time to bust some Dunston chops. I'm entitled to a little fun."
Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Passage

It was a good thing Jill and Klaus opted for a one-mile cool-down run following their fast five with Dunston. This way Klaus missed the spectacle of Dunston Thurmond heaving the contents of his stomach into a Great American executive locker room toilet bowl. Dunston was paying the price of smashing a personal best time by 40 seconds, all in the cause of saving face before his secretary and her fleet Pegasus. Dunston could not recall the last time he was so diminished following a run. Perhaps he doesn't push himself hard enough. Didn't throw up even after finishing the New York City Marathon in '88. Maybe missing lunch had something to do with it. Perhaps his Nina session impaired his race. And this was a race—make no mistake about that. While he did manage to nip Jill and Klaus in the end, he clearly was the worse for wear as the other two jabbered like magpies complete with fluttering arms and laughing asides along the entire route. Dunston knew he trained as hard as they did. Could it be: his first intimation of mortality?

Dunston rose uncertainly from the supplicant's position and took a long, hot shower. Mortality? Others always considered Dunston mature beyond his years, even at ages in the single digits. Was it simply the bane of the natural leader: the one who at all times must wield and project control? Captain of the Little League team, class president, National Honor Society, Eagle Scout, college graduate at 20 – always the best, always the youngest – yet with the easy manner of the seasoned veteran. A master of life and love. But did that suppression of youth hasten its ultimate decay?

In the deserted locker room Dunston appraised himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. His image, wrung of body fat, was muscular in a sinewy ropy way: neat rectangular abs and sharply bladed pecs, as if molded in clay with a sculptor's stylus. Not like Klaus, whose hardened torso seemed dressed and chiseled in stone – indicating at rest a compact package of compressed power and energy. Dunston shifted his consideration to his lean, borderline skinny legs and essentially invisible butt. His lower half did not project the hard curves and definition of a true sprinter. Not like Klaus's. Then he cradled his genitals in one hand and critically assessed an organ of reasonable mass and utility, given the bearer's slender frame. Still, he conceded that the wad in Klaus's drawers would clearly require at least a one-and-a-half Dunston hands to corral. He finally looked up and, amazingly, his majestic cheekbones, nose and chin now seemed to him sharp and haggard, and there were streaks of gray discernible in his lustrous light brown hair. Yes, this was being vain and irrational. After all, few were blessed with his natural beauty. He stood out among most men...who were 36. Klaus will be 36 someday and he won't look half as good as Dunston. He'll never light up the room the way Dunston can. Never have the style, the resources, the social connections. The trailing eyes.

Dunston yanked himself out of this non-productive reverie and dressed quickly. There was no time for such nonsense, he had to get home and meet with the lawyer regarding the divorce. It was to be a clean, uncontested split. It was the best, most painless way. Best for the kids. Soon Dunston would be free and if he wanted to pop his secretary, no one could stop him! Call up the old girlfriends he left in the bullpen. By the time he reached the car, the day's humiliations were forgotten and a strategic plan was in place. He was thinking of joining a running club.

The buzzing in his ears as he headed to the parking lot came from the revving of a powerful German sports car. A well-fed middle-aged woman in a pink dotted Swiss culotte dress and beige Panama hat was behind the wheel. "Why, Mrs. Talbot, come to pick up Mr. Talbot?"

"Oh, Dunston, how wonderful to see you," she said, grinding the shifter and cutting the engine. "It's our Mexican fiesta night at the club and he's still in the office. It's terrible how he stays so late every night. Be a dear and go fetch him, we're already twenty minutes late." Though mildly offended at being used as an errand boy, Dunston took it as an opportunity for another after-hours schmooze with the boss.

The lights in the building were extinguished, except for the solitary glow spilling from Talbot's office. Dunston crept to the door, where he saw Talbot's head, resting face down on the desk, arms hanging limply at his sides. Looming over Talbot was Mortimer Bass, the Great American's comptroller. Bass, caught off guard by Dunston's unexpected appearance, let out a startled whelp.

"I just got here. I found him like this," said Bass, waving Dunston inside. Dunston shrugged and smiled, amused that Bass was so rattled at discovering the boss asnooze. But as Dunston made his way to the center of the office, he noticed a puddle on Talbot's desk. A line of dark red blood, emanating from Talbot's left ear, had pooled on the blotter and formed a thin stream that trickled down the front of the desk, dripping to the carpeting below.

"He's dead, I think," said Bass.

"Probably before his head hit the desk," agreed Dunston. They looked at Talbot and then at each other in stunned silence. Outside the president's window was Mrs. Talbot leaning on the horn of the Porsche and calling out to her dead husband. They're both late.
Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Commotion

Abner showed Kristina how to design labels for the spot remover bottles on his computer. She searched Abner's CD-ROM for suitable clip-art and settled on charming icons of coffee cups, catsup bottles, squatting dogs and the like. She then married the visuals with a Chancery Script rendering of AC's Spot Remover: 1001 Uses. Abner composed a brief set of instructions that were laid out sideways. Some final design adjustments and the project was deemed complete. Next he showed Kristina how to insert sheets of gummed labels into his color inkjet printer and, in less than thirty minutes, 144 perfect bottle markers in three colors were all set for peeling-and-sticking.

Meanwhile, Tara and Halle were in the unfinished part of the basement carefully transferring five-gallon jugs of "product" into 16-oz brown glass bottles using Abner's electric siphon. Never had he witnessed such enterprise and cooperation among his nieces, who ordinarily repelled each other like identical poles of a magnet. But spot remover brought them together, if not wholly peaceably. In fact, even as the small lot was being fabricated at the factory, Abner had to step in on a couple of occasions to douse flare-ups of sibling violence, especially between the two younger girls.

In the midst of the commotion, Nick telephoned from the office to disclose the good news about his breakthrough deal and to enlist Abner's services for a loss inspection of Calhoun's warehouse facilities. Abner filled Nick in on his project with the girls.

"How about that," sighed Nick. "The message is finally sinking in. Maybe the girls inherited something from me after all. I tell you, Uncle Abner, it's been a great day. I bet it was Tara's idea. She's the budding entrepreneur – I've got her pegged..."

"Actually it was Nina's idea. She was looking to try out a different direction than the usual candy and gift wrap routine. And the results – let's just say we're overwhelmed. Ended up I had to arrange with Gekko Chemicals for a batch order."

"Nina? Really? Interesting. Gekko Chemicals? Let's talk about that for a minute. You know, when the iron's hot..."

"GIRLS, I'M TALKING ON THE PHONE WITH YOUR DAD, PLEASE KEEP IT DOWN." Tension in the basement as the three girls circled each other, squealing garbled epithets as they deconstructed the accident that left a small colorless, odorless spill on the floor. Raw nerves exposed, the scent of violence.

"I'm sorry, Nick, gotta go. The girls seem upset. Can't hear myself think." Nick chattered on but Abner couldn't hear him over the raging sisters. He hung up and darted to the other room, only to find Michelle entangled in the center of brawling youths. Thinking quickly, Abner grabbed a propane torch and lit an intentionally inefficient yellow flame, which he then extinguished in a puff of smoke in the direction of a nearby smoke alarm. The high-pitched screech of the activated device instantly arrested the commotion. When he was satisfied that the crowd was neutralized, he pulled the alarm battery.

"Look what happened, all that noise set off the smoke alarm," Abner quipped. "Let's all move away from the spill and discuss what just took place. Kristina, you go first."

"I don't know," said Kristina sheepishly. "I got mad I guess. They spilled the stuff and were wasting it."

"Was not, it was an accident," insisted Tara.

"You two are so clumsy," complained Halle.

"Take it easy guys," said Michelle. "I came down when I heard the racket and the kids were having at each other and I was afraid they'd break something and get hurt. I don't like this, Abner. "I've never seen the girls like this," she added under her breath.

Abner scratched his hairless chin. Maybe a wisp of a beard would look nice there, he mused – give him a contemplative, Shaker kind of look. He'd been mulling it over for some time. Would take awhile to cultivate hair on his face, given his fair complexion. The transition to full growth would be awkward, which is why he's resisted the impulse in the past. His bland anonymous look was getting old, but he was not the body-piercing, tattoo-on-the-shoulder type. For him it was more about image-enhancement, not image-makeover. But then why should he bother? Never much cared one way or the other about his appearance, impatient with the superficialities of fashion. And there were so many more important things to think about. Besides, what's the big deal – despite the nerd's handicap, he still landed a bitchin' babe in Michelle, which was still a mystery that defied explanation. Even seeing her in an oversized sweatshirt and cutoff shorts, her long yellow tresses flying chaotically in an awkward tussle with the, Michelle retained a dazzling allure. Abner still couldn't help thinking that Michelle married him as a goof. But if that's so, it's turned into a long-running goof; maybe he'll propose the chin tuft idea to her. Everyone was waiting for Abner to say something; that was except for Tara and Halle, who were again clutching and snarling and fixing for all-out warfare. Their clatter intruded on Abner's ruminations. "Well, it's been an interesting day for all of us. Why don't you girls pack up and I'll take you home."

"About the mess..." said Kristina.

"Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it." Nick's kids were breathing hard with nostrils flaring, their sparrow shoulders raised and twitching. Enough for one day. Eager to get back to ringing doorbells and counting receipts, he suspected. "Michelle, the girls could use some fuel, why don't you fix them something while I clean up and load the bottles in the car."

After they scrambled upstairs Abner dipped a finger in the spilled product on the floor and took a whiff. Then he placed the finger on the tip of his tongue. No flavor, no aroma – like water. He sprinkled kitty litter on the spill, waited a few seconds and then swept up the saturated clay granules. As he locked up the office his phone rang again.

"Why the hell did you hang up on me? Never mind never mind fill me in about that chemical outfit that's doing the spot remover. And what was that racket all about – sounded like all hell breaking loose – did you feed the kids chocolate or something? Dammit, how many times have we told Michelle..."

"No, Nick, nothing like that," said Abner. "They just seem excited about their project. It may be something else, but I can't be sure at this point." But he did have his suspicions, which he'd rather not explore with Nick pending further investigation.

"Yeah, fine. Keep it to yourself. Whatever. Hey, about the chemical company and so forth. We've got to touch base and put together a tactical plan now that this thing is taking off. You know, I'll be prospecting heavily over the next couple of days and I'll need some leads from you. Also, we have the beginnings of a cash flow so we need to go shopping for a computer and stuff, which I will leave up to you. Abner? Are you there?"

Abner assured Nick that he was listening, but he also knew that Nick was probing and prodding – seeking final commitment: Was Abner was ready to cast aside the engineer's cloak of skepticism and participate in an eccentric brother-in-law's wild ride? Abner was still listening, but there was a toxic, gnawing sensation in his gut, which could be alleviated in part only by the assumption of a detached viewpoint. Abner opted to temporarily suspend judgment: to regard his activities as data gathering–as field research. If the salad days of the past were gone forever, Abner knew he couldn't afford to laugh off Nick's advances. Besides, Nick made just enough sense to intrigue him. "Yes, don't worry, Nick. I'm aboard."

The line was silent at the other end. What Abner could not see was Nick's upthrust fist and dance of victory in the confined space of his office cubicle. Abner was the final piece of the puzzle.

"I'll be by tomorrow morning at 9."
Chapter Thirty-Nine

The West Stemper 10K

More than 3,000 runners pawed the asphalt, snorting and stretching and pounding electrolytes prior to the start of the annual West Stemper May Day 10K sponsored by The Running Store and Mekong Sports Gear, Ltd. Colorful banners decorated with daisies and daffodils and sponsor logos were strung across the Start/Finish line, lending a festival air to a grim event of endurance. The May Day 10K was a major event on the TAC Tour, attracting elite runners from along the entire East Coast.

Dark menacing clouds hung low across the valley and the forecast was for a steady downpour to hit by noon. Since the race was slated for a 10 a.m. start, the race committee, chaired Klaus Przyblinski, was confident the event could be run and packed away before heavy weather weighed in.

Booths lined the main drag dispensing water, free chiropractic manipulations, "power" drinks and vitamins, analgesics, transcendental meditation literature, massage therapy, flyers on upcoming races, hot dogs, pretzels, free demonstrations of a certain super spot remover by three enterprising young children and, of course, vendor stalls selling running togs, athletic accessories, gym bags, health club memberships, life insurance, bonsai plants, U.S. Savings Bonds, burial plots, salvation through Scientology, and cable TV subscriptions. The rescue squad was standing by and the fire department was also there to accept donations and solicit volunteers. Today the sleepy Union County hamlet of West Stemper was abuzz and open to the world.

And there was Klaus himself with world class runner Grete Waitz on his arm, leading her about and beaming a smile of such brilliance that its dazzle could have very well impaled the overcast and summon forth the embracing rays of Ra. Runners engulfed the famous female marathoner, who was under contract to Mekong Sports, which considered the West Stemper event a must on the spring roadrunners tour. As the willowy Ms. Waitz graciously signed flyers, sweatbands, baseball caps, tee shirts, and other paraphernalia, Klaus was distracted by an adoring gallery of female runners seeking his advice on running form and athletic gear. This unconvincing stratagem was just an excuse for them to sidle up close and admire Klaus' form-hugging Mekong speed briefs and deep-scooped Mekong singlet, the Number 1 racing bib appropriately pinned to his chest. Klaus looked fast standing still; but he was not quite world class, even though he was a cinch to finish in the top 10. Working her way through the crowd was girlfriend Jill, also outfitted in Mekong, her legs sporting an early spring tan (an impossibly rich bronze so early in the season and clearly a product of extended synthetic infrared sessions). Klaus broke away from his impromptu clinic to grab Jill's hand and deliver a swift sweet kiss to her cheek, which elicited a groan of envy from Klaus' gallery and a baffled smile from Ms. Waitz. Klaus cut a swath through the knot of worshipful runners with Jill in tow and proffered a personal introduction to her idol.

"I'm not sure if I'm the celebrity here," smiled Ms. Waitz. "Your handsome boyfriend has quite a following himself." Klaus grinned with feigned self-consciousness as Jill blushed shyly, shaking Ms. Waitz's tiny, almost fragile hand. Grete Waitz's tanned and radiantly expressive face was creased and weathered from years of intense training and competition. Her long blond hair was meticulously tied in a braid that trailed to her waist. In person she was shorter than Jill had expected and her running-trim frame was wrapped in a fluorescent peach and green nylon Mekong warm-up suit. One look at the avian form of Ms. Waitz and Jill could feel her heart sink. She could see that while her own height and flawless figure were the stuff of magazine covers, she was just too over-sized to win the big road races. In this respect, Jill and Klaus were in the same boat. Sublime beauty had its practical drawbacks.

Klaus peered skyward, then at his watch, and hustled Jill and Grete off to the reviewing stand, where they were to meet up with his running club and get the race underway. From the corner of his eye he caught the arresting sight of two stunning female runners stretching next to a table laden with water-filled Dixie cups. They were evidently sisters, since they shared the same basic coloring and facial features, but one was more endowed on top and rounder on the bottom and presented an enchanting vision of taut flesh nominally restrained in a pair of hot yellow "bun-hugger" spandex shorts. The two women had as their center that Dunston gentleman who Klaus and Jill had chased into oxygen debt the day before. Klaus filed that image in the back of his mind, but now the air about them had the electric aroma of an impending cloudburst.

"Dunston Thurmond, good luck," hailed Klaus. "Let's hook up after the race," and off he scooted to grab a mike and round up the contestants. Michelle swiveled like a bird-dog sighting a stricken duck and observed Klaus disappearing into a mob of skinny folks in shorts, tee shirts, tank tops and sneakers . Michelle's eyes were affixed to Klaus's rippling shoulders like a laser-guided range-finder of a Stinger rocket launcher. Michelle was a casual racer, participating in only two or three a year – and then only to exploit these events as a human safari. She was there for the guys in shorts, often shirtless, and most of them in shape. She shimmied herself into over-snug outfits and roamed the pre-race staging areas, pausing to bend and stretch wherever it could cause the maximum distraction to the greatest number of great-looking guys. She shunned the elite road racers – they were fidgety and preoccupied and, besides, had all the physical appeal of Rwandan refugees. The guys in the middle of the pack, however, were heavenly until they left the heavily winded Michelle in the dust after a mile or two. While her sister could keep up with them, Michelle inevitably faded back into the pack with the flabby and elderly by the latter stages of most races, a lamentable fate that more than anything served as incentive to improve her conditioning and reduce her times. She could sightsee and preen only so much pre-race and was so whipped afterwards that all she cared about was a soft grassy spot to drop her bones and bemoan her depletion.

"Who is that guy?" demanded an incredulous Michelle. "Dunston, you know him?"

"He's a guy in town. I believe he works at The Running Store." Nina shot her promiscuous sister a scolding look while Dunston cursed Klaus under his breath. He only met the man yesterday and for the second time Klaus had intruded upon Dunston's agenda. This time he had interrupted a touching and heart-felt exchange with Nina, which Dunston hoped to parlay into further cementing Nina's appreciation of his sensitivity and thoughtfulness. The race was set to begin in less than five minutes, so Dunston suppressed his agitation and hastily tried to pick up the thread of his conversation.

"It was an aneurysm that simply ruptured. It was utterly horrifying," he said, his face knitted with concern. Nina nodded gravely.

"Is he married?" asked Michelle anxiously.

"Dunston just said his wife was waiting in the car," Nina retorted.

"No, no. Not him. I mean Klaus. I bet that babe with him is his wife. A guy like that can't be running around loose, my god, just look at him."

"I believe that was Grete Waitz, the famous racer," said Dunston with a trace of consternation.

"No, I'm not talking about the dried up little blond in the parachute outfit. What about the gorgeous leggy bitch with the real tight ass?" corrected Michelle, her voice tinged with frustration.

Michelle was silenced momentarily when Dunston informed her that the "leggy bitch" happened to be Dunston's personal secretary and Klaus' girlfriend. Nina suffered her sister's bad behavior with flexed lips and a crumpled brow. And, as taken as Dunston was with Michelle's appealing contours and carefree attitude, she did represent an impediment to the task at hand. This was a moment position himself as more than a mere bedroom attraction to Nina, assuming that Nina, like most women, would seek more in a relationship.

"I feel sorry about your boss, Dunston, I really do," said Michelle, with jolly sincerity. "It must be shocking, whatever will your company do?" Without a pause for a reply, away she gamboled in a jaunty, crowd-pleasing vogue.

"I have to apologize for Michelle. Races make her edgy and she tends to spout a bit. She's really a sweet girl, but has a tendency to come on pretty strong." Nina reached reflexively for Dunston's hand but then caught herself and instead patted him on the arm. It was getting too casual. A gun sounded, followed by a static-y voice on the P.A. that summoned the runners to the starting line.

Dunston conjured his warmest smile and shrugged. "I like Michelle. I love you. There's no problem. If it's important to her, I'll arrange an introduction for with Klaus and Jill later. Let's go have a race."

The starting line was across from the West Stemper Volunteer Fire Company, chosen because it was the widest section of the town's longest boulevard. And because, from a practical standpoint, it abuts the large community parking lot, which was filled to overflow with the vehicles of contestants, spectators, cable TV equipment and weekend shoppers. Once the gun sounded runners would follow Monument Speedway, the town's main drag so named for the odd bronze statuary memorializing local Revolutionary War heroes. The roadway was divided by a broad arboreal median containing a column of ancient maple trees in perfect alignment and carefully tended beds of early spring flowers. On either side of the street were commercial establishments comprising the West Stemper central business district, with the usual banks, hardware stores, video outlets, bakeries, drug stores, fashion boutiques and restaurants. A radical facelift several years ago redressed the storefronts with a continuous chestnut stucco facade and shiny sea-foam tile roofs. Telephone poles were concurrently yanked from the ground and service and utility lines were submerged beneath roadways. The crumbling cement sidewalks were replaced by patterned red brick with loosed packed sand used as mortar. The downtown, once a dowdy aggregation of independent and clashing structures, now exuded a tidy sense of warmth and comfort – a picture postcard of suburban good taste and prosperity. It was, in fact, the downtown renewal that sparked the rebirth of the moribund business district and served as inspiration to neighboring communities to embark on similar efforts. It also inspired the corporate owner of the local Running Store outlet to sponsor a high-profile road running race using the revitalized downtown as its centerpiece. Dunston Thurmond took special pride in the fact that, as lead councilman, it was his forceful advocacy of the downtown renewal before the borough planning board and various merchants and citizen groups that the project was initiated and completed without compromise. Skewered at the time in the local press over the burdensome costs, property tax surcharges, and construction delays, Dunston Thurmond was now adored by the Chamber of Commerce, whose businesses he saved, not to mention the political establishment, whose careers were validated by Dunston's visionary persistence.

At the 1-mile mark, the herd would make a hard left turn as the course departed the business district. The balance of the race comprised a showcase tour of the neighborhoods and parks of the host community – a meandering course of hills, valleys and countless turns and switchbacks to ensure that the race would not once cross the borders of the village, making this an exclusively West Stemper event.

Residents just outside the blare of city center lived in tightly clustered developments of wood-frame Cape Cod homes, most with clapboard or vinyl siding, but some with brick facades and clapboard sides and backs. Many had added dormers to accommodate domestic expansion and to exploit their steeply pitched gabled roofs. Most of the homes featured an attached single-car garage – the most the narrow lots would allow. Those most desperate for elbow room converted their garages into living areas. Where this occurred, a short driveway terminated abruptly at a blank wall or window instead of a garage door. Roughly half the residents of West Stemper populated this part of town: the core middle class community that migrated west from New York City in the forties and fifties as commuter rail and bus lines extended westward. It was in one of the newer developments in this section where Nick Freeman and Joe Snyder made their homes.

Up several steep hills to a skyline ridge, past a large park facility housing a complex of baseball fields, tennis and basketball courts, the town pool and a nature walk, the course entered Bell-Aire – a grand assortment of more elaborate residences: oversized colonials and split-levels, faux-Tudors, contemporary wood and stucco confections with strange architectural curves and thrustings, each nestled on a rolling acre or two of land, most professionally maintained by armies of landscaping contractors. Affluence in abundance, not always tastefully spent by the West Stemper elite, typified the hills of Bell-Aire. It was at this high perch, both geographically and socially, where the likes of Dunston Thurmond made their homes.

The runners then got a breather as they made an extended descent that comprised the final two miles of the race, passing picturesque stands of maple, ash and birch. They snaked their way through transitional neighborhoods of nearly identical four-bedroom colonials, clad in aluminum or vinyl, with an occasional four-sided brick for the conspicuously ambitious. Weedy brown lawns and untrimmed shrubbery were forbidden in this neighborhood. Passersby of one home in particular have been known to literally avert their eyes from the glare emanating from its impossibly luminescent kelly green turf.

The final leg of the race was run on a twisty county road that passed through dense woods before merging with Monument Speedway at a junction considered the official gateway to West Stemper. This area was marked by a famous bronze rendering of a rearing steed carrying Colonel Makepeace Samuel Sutton, West Stemper's most decorated colonial war hero. The race finished about a half mile up the road, where it began, at the town center. And now the runners anxiously pawed the ground, tossing down furtive slugs of power drink, compressing their ranks, edging closer to the front, ready to burst to trample to explode....

CRACK!!

And as the pounding hooves leapt into motion at the pop of the starter's gun, the assembled clouds overhead rumbled with thunderous applause, followed by slashing sheets of warm, driving rain.
Chapter Forty

The Peterson Connection

Abner and Nick steered an oversized green plastic shopping cart through the spacious concrete aisles of Petersons. They were browsing in the electronics section. Petersons had a vast electronics department. It fit in with Petersons' vast departments for home furnishings, bulk dry foods, wet foods, produce, frozen foods, pets and pet accessories, clothing, meats, tires, auto accessories, optics, photographic, outdoor furniture, gardening, sports equipment, travel, and toys. Merchandise packed in large boxes, mob-size portions, multiple containers and bargain-priced in lots and stacked on skids on steel racks that reached to the sky – or at least to the warehouse ceiling, which appeared to brush the thinner reaches of the atmosphere. Petersons Warehouse Store was the largest indoor air conditioned space in the county. Constructed on a sanitized landfill three years ago, Petersons KO'ed the local BJ's and Costcos by being even larger, even more diverse and even cheaper. Its mere existence had altered the purchasing habits of the locals, creating a boom in the pick-up truck and minivan trade. Customers were drawn by the clarion call of bulk purchasing–a six-month supply of toilet paper and dog food in jumbo, shrink-wrapped packages. Petersons Warehouse Store transformed area families into frenzied hoarders, obsessed with erecting and stocking shelves of their own satellite warehouses at home, lest they suffer the disgrace of ever running out.

Nick came to Petersons to purchase a computer. He brought Abner with him, who charged right past the PC aisle to inspect the latest Mac hardware. Nick followed on his heels trying to pick up snippets of specifications, applications, migrations, et cetera spewed by Abner, who still didn't realize that Nick was only along to write a check and provide a strong back.

"Look," said Nick. "Let's save some time here. I don't know jack shit about this stuff. Just pick out what we need so we can start cooking."

"It may be pertinent for you to know that I get a special discount here – as a contractor," said Abner.

Nick's ears pricked up. "You do work for Petersons?" As Abner plugged away at Tetris on one of the display models, he informed Nick that he helped out with the design of the building's environmental control specs.

"I thought you only dealt with heavy industrial clients."

"Sure, but Petersons has a 22-bay auto service center – lots of exhaust fumes, chemical waste. I designed the sprinkler and venting systems and prepared the EPA papers and drawings. Came in under budget, they were pleased and gave me an associates discount card." Nick pulled Abner's hand away from the Mac's mouse and, under intense questioning, Abner's admitted that he was tight with the local outlet general manager, which meant only one thing to Nick.

"You must introduce us," says Nick with a smile. "Today would be good, Abner. No time like the present. This is a big place. Lots of inventory turnover. Look at all those people – carrying shit out of here as fast as they can load the shelves. Maybe we can help fill those shelves back up. What's there to lose?" Abner fidgeted, hesitated—he knew Nick was not about to let up. "Never can have too many outlets. If I can get an outfit like this a better deal, well, do you know that babe or not?"

"But this place is national. They have their wholesale suppliers and all that."

"So you're saying it's not worth a try."

"I'm saying that maybe we should think about it before we plunge in." Abner nervously fingered a 144-pc. carton of frozen chicken fingers, perhaps wondering if his were the fingers of a chicken fingering frozen chicken fingers. Was he freezing in the face of opportunity?

"Are you chicken?" said Nick, startling Abner by barging in on his silent metaphor. "Look, I intended to cold call Petersons anyway when our next deal was lined up. Wouldn't it be more helpful if we could approach them on a more familiar basis? I offer her no risk and your presence as a contractor and intermediary would be all we need to clinch the deal." Abner shoved the chicken fingers back in the freezer; he reached for the strip steaks instead. Nick added slyly, "Of course your cut on all our deals is significantly enhanced when you're involved with the referrals." The acid in Abner's stomach protested the current tack of conversation – Nick was moving very fast. But Abner couldn't fault Nick's logic. He shrugged and led Nick to the business office.
Chapter Forty-one

The Deluge

It came gusher, but nothing stops a conditioned runner. A race is never canceled, the field merely winnowed to the fanatically disciplined who embraced adversity as a test of commitment. Splashing feet headed uphill slipping on sheets of cascading water only to slosh through shin-deep pop-up lakes at the bottom, some losing sneakers in suctioning whirlpools. Some persevering with bare feet, stepping on stones, tearng skin, twisting ankles and snapping tendons and ligaments on road objects obscured by temporary tidal rushes.

Runners cursed the rain, not for the obvious perils or discomforts, but for the havoc that unsteady footing would wreak on finishing times. The clock may as well be packed away because today's sleepy 10K through the tight and cozy suburban community had turned into a struggle for survival.

Klaus understood that once the gun sounded, it was too late to stay the herd; so after the first half mile, he pulled up and chose to walk the course and render what aid he could. He made his way back to the reviewing stand and grabbed a walkie-talkie, figuring this was going to be a busy day for the emergency teams. Dunston and Nina broke out together and as the first wave of moisture pelted them Nina suggested they run for cover. Dunston shook his head: "Never stop once a race begins. The weather is just an added factor." Nina was dubious, but she kept going, worried about Michelle. Worried about the girls and their sales booth. Water splashing on her face made her squint through her contacts. She kept shaking her head to clear her field of vision, which at best was no more than a few feet ahead. She inhaled mists of water with every breath, thanks to the vertical rain clashing with the horizontal wash kicked up by the pounding feet in front of her. Her lungs already ached from the strain of the slog and the futility of trying to catch her breath. And she had completed little more than two miles–less than a third of the race. On either side of the street runners walk slump-shouldered back to the Start in disgust, in failure, realizing that the more demanding sections of the course lay ahead and would be virtually insurmountable for all but the most conditioned. Dunston was almost out of sight, damn him. Despite it all he wanted to make his time. "DUNSTON...DUNSTON," Nina cried out. He looked back and put a hand to his ear. "DUNSTON!" Nina shouted, and finally he slowed and allowed her catch up. "Please stay with me, I don't like this...maybe we better stop," she urged. Dunston shook his head.

"Can't. This is what racing's about. This is an opportunity!"

"Just stay with me then." Nina was hacking, having never competed in such a downpour: a desperate thrashing against the current. Dunston shrugged in disappointment and trotted along at Nina's diminished pace, cursing her under his breath. With Klaus on the sidelines, Dunston hoped the storm would have sufficiently handicapped Jill to enable him to catch up to her and share an intimate hardship experience – to exploit this fortuitous disaster and force them to strip away formal pretenses and draw closer in some special way. Dunston wondered if these were the thoughts of a clever strategist or the fanciful musings of a dreamer angling for the impossible prize. As they crawled up the first major hill of the race, Nina and Dunston were met with the eerie groans of runners in distress, lamenting in unison the terrible pain shooting up their legs and radiating through queasy bellies and settling like a dull spike in the fissure between their shoulders. More dropouts tottered to the side of the road, pounded into submission by the sadistic downpour that came in sheets and which a ripping wind socked into waves that pummeled frail runners who were steadfastly propelled by determination and habit.

Nina assumed that by now her sister was comfortably swaddled in the van and with, she prayed, her three girls. She knew she ought to turn back herself. She had lost all sensation below her knees, her legs battered numb by the whitecaps cresting from curb to curb. The strain even showed on Dunston's usual placid, confident face – she could imagine what she must look like. His beautiful stride had become a splashy chop; but even through this, Nina could tell that it was taking all of Dunston's self-control to keep from surging ahead and leaving her in his wake. She tried to retreat into some deep, impermeable pocket within herself, to shut out the present and make her body a fortified cocoon against the elements. She was buffeted from one side of the road to the other amidst a brutal hill climb. Toying with the pain, boxing with the pain, using anything for distraction. And Dunston was no help, he kept two strides ahead of her, which compounded the misery, since his powerful wash drenched her with each footfall. But she was withdrawing ... withdrawing .... withdrawing almost gone ...

BUT UP AHEAD. ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. Nina snapped out of her trance. A small black form huddled over on the granite curbside, legs dangling lifelessly by a flooded sewer drain. A potent surge of dread and Nina rocketed ahead, past Dunston.

"DUNSTON," Nina cried. "I'VE GOT TO HELP!"

"THE RACE! THEY'LL COME FOR HER," he screamed furiously.

"NO. I KNOW HER – SHE NEEDS ME. YOU KEEP GOING." Dunston looked doubtful, shook his head, considered. By now Nina was thoroughly involved in attending to the girl. Dunston looked at Nina and then at the crest of the hill as runners slogged their way to the summit. He spit, shrugged and dashed off and out of sight. Nina glanced over her shoulder, half expecting Dunston to be there. But he was long gone and she was alone, trying to figure out how she was going to transport the girl to first aid.

"Lavinia, can you hear me? Can you walk?"

"Mrs. Freeman. Hi." Lavinia looked at her with a crooked smile. "I'm going to throw up." Nina felt a gathering rage. "No you're not! You always say that. We're going to walk back to Monument and take it from there." No, this time Nina was wrong. Lavinia did indeed throw up—a thin yellow fluid that bubbled down her tank top and dripped on her knees. The rain instantly washed it off. Shocked by Lavinia's casual upchuck through smiling teeth, Nina loosened her grip, which was also ill-advised because Lavinia's eyes fluttered shut and she toppled unconscious and face-first to the muddy turf on the raised side of the curb, soiling herself with a mixture of mud, grass stains and vomit.

"That looks like your skinny neighbor," commented another saturated runner who stopped by to help out. "I guess she's done for the day."

"MICHELLE," shrieked Nina, stunned to see that her sister made it so far into the race. Stunned also to see her always immaculately groomed sibling with water-tangled hair and squinty eyes from the wind-driven downpour. A face pale and haggard and looking every day her 38 years.

"Thank god you gave me an excuse to stop. You came through again, Sis. I guess the plan is to drag her back to an ambulance somewhere."

The two hoisted Lavinia's inert form and draped her ropy arms over their shoulders. They were careful to keep Lavinia's head from lolling against her back for fear she'd swallow and inhale rain and run-off from other racers. From time to time Lavinia came to and mumbled to Nina: "Why'd you stop? Why'd you stop? I ruined your race. I did it." Nina patted Lavinia's head with her free hand and told her not to worry. Nina's body ached from the struggle of hauling Lavinia through a river of drainage, and it didn't help that Michelle was nearing her limit, visibly sagging and limping.

"Are you okay, 'Chelle?" a pet name Nina seldom used (and Michelle hated) except in the face of the most extreme circumstances. Michelle was labored head down, taking a lot of water in the face. "Michelle!" barked Nina. Her sister hadn't spoken for almost half a mile, an unprecedented silence in Nina's experience. Michelle tilted her head up, her face streaked with tears and her chest shuddering with sobs. Seeing this, Nina took a deep breath and shook the water out of her eyes; but her attempt to shore up her sister's spirits ended abruptly as she herself broke down. As they faced the next hill through a gathering head wind, and with almost another mile to go before the first aid station, another form appeared out of the mist. Upon reaching Nina and Michelle, he wordlessly grabbed Lavinia from their shoulders and tossed her over his back like a sack of laundry. Michelle's eyes widened and her mouth cracked opened with astonishment.

"What happened here?" he said, in a faint accent that Nina found difficult to place. "This is bad – slow rapid breathing. Ambulance is just over the hill." Nina and Michelle followed closely behind Klaus, Michelle's mood brightening. She dashed the tears from her eyes to better appreciate the Hercules before her, who hardly bent under the weight of his frail human load.

"She's the daughter of a friend – umm, I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name earlier," said Nina.

"It's Klaus. Klaus, you know, the friend of Dunston's secretary or something," Michelle piped up, suddenly light on her feet and splashing merrily in the unremitting downpour. Things working out even better than planned...

"Yes, I am sort of in charge of this race. It's terrible, an utter disaster. I'm beside myself."

"Don't worry, it's not your fault," said Michelle, who pulled alongside Klaus. "The girl has an eating disorder and passes out all the time anyway."

"Michelle," Nina said sharply. "Not everyone needs to know that. She shouldn't be racing. I wish I knew she was planning to run. Dammit, I should have known. What am I going to tell Doris?"

"It's tough," said Klaus. "I have a couple like that in the running club. I warn them, but they think it'll help their times if they weigh 80 pounds and have bones sticking out. Ridiculous."

Nina raced several steps and then a couple of blocks ahead, impatient to get Lavinia packed off to the hospital. Nina wondered if, indeed, this was the denouement. That the poor girl should die this ugly way, competing in a race she was in no mental or physical condition to enter. And that somehow Nina bore responsibility. Nina had two paramedics standing at the ready by the time Klaus and Michelle arrived at the first aid tent. It didn't help that when they looked into Lavinia's eyes and took some vitals, the professionals who had "seen it all" issued a "Holy shit" in unison. Nina tried to maintain her composure, even though her impulse was to sprint through the temporary brooks and lakes of her village baying like a gored beast.

"I'll go with you," she told delirious Lavinia and the ambulance driver.

"What about Doris?" said Michelle, working her own angle. "I'll go with Lavinia and you can get the kids home and pick up Doris. No way she should go to the hospital alone."

"I have to go, it's my race ," said Klaus.

"Thank you, that's very thoughtful, Klaus. But we can handle it," said Nina, prompting a stern frown from Michelle.

"Please, I feel responsible. Your sister and I will go. Please don't argue, I must go," he said, his penetrating blue eyes conveying a no-nonsense intensity that zapped Nina's resistance. She stood frozen in the rain and watched as the stretcher was wheeled away. Klaus grabbed Michelle's hand and pulled her into the back of the ambulance. Michelle struggled to appear somber. As the van pulled away, Nina broke into a sprint, trying to control the uncoiling terror. Racing, racing. To get to the car. To collect her kids. To get to Doris. To get her hands around the menace and throttle it. To control it.
Chapter Forty-two

The Emergency

An emergency. In slow motion. The sheets wet and rank from fresh urine stains. The shades drawn, maybe a little rest, that's all she needed. But the chill enveloped her. Huddled and shivering in the darkened room she tried to close her eyes. A gnawing pain grinding her body as tears flowed from unweeping eyes. The smell was bad and she was damp. The smell was bad. A chafing soreness between her legs; a constant seepage she could not control.

"matt...matt."

An invisible blanket, its hollows stuffed with lead like the X-ray shield in the dentist's office, a body-length mass crushing the air and fluids out of her, making her drowsy, eyelids flickering flickering but sleep wouldn't come...

"matt....matt....tina....audrey...get your father....matt"

A young woman entered the room, whimpered and raced away. Moments later Matt Dillard appeared. The rain pattered against the half-closed window, poured through the screen and on the floor. The driveway and street transformed into foaming rapids. A terrible chill gripped Dillard as he peered into Rita's damp, pasty face. Movements in oatmeal. To the phone. Waiting at the door. Piling blankets on a moist trembling body; frightening, but less so were it motionless. Waiting and waiting and then the slow back-up into the driveway river, yellow parkas leaping and running but in slow motion. The stretcher up the stairs to the bedroom, securing and intubating and the fretful pantomime communication of the paramedics. Metallic voices and squawks from two-way radios.

Setting out as if by ark, Dillard followed in the station wagon and up ahead a surrealistic show cadenced by the futile thwapping of windshield wipers: an endless column of skeletal phantoms in soaked short pants and vented shirts trotting in the middle of the street, unpausing for an emergency vehicle, itself pulled from the racing scene by Dillard's call to 911, stopped by a police barrier to let pass the pack of human antelopes sloshing in the needle rain, strained breaths. Dillard soaked in his own perspiration, two teens in the back seat totally silent; an eerie daytime darkness. Why did the ambulance stop? Why weren't we moving? Why were all those people outside in the rain? At long last the barrier was removed, with straggling competitors circling the two vehicles, which they let pass – a cop came up to Dillard's car, but one look at the stricken driver and they waved him on, the tale written on poor Matthew Dillard's face.

What was he thinking? What was he thinking? Just get there. Follow the Christmas light display on the truck ahead, don't slide off the shoulder and into the woods and down the muddy banks. Think navigation and nothing else. Crawling along, less than 20 miles per hour yet the penetrating urgency of the siren and dazzling red, white and blue strobes gave the appearance of speed. Why so long, why so slow?

Were we just waiting for her to die?

Upon entering the Frantic Zone, the looming brick box of the hospital and then to the rear to a series of loading bays with large neon letters in red above a platform spelling out "E M E R G E N C Y", Dillard felt a tingling lightheadedness. The punishing rain. Yellow ponchos burst from automatic doors and swung open the rear hatch of the ambulance before it came to a stop. A police officer in an orange slicker energetically motioned Dillard to a side row, out of the way of another ambulance lit and screaming and affixed to his rear bumper. In his daze he was slow to respond at a time when others demanded crisp, decisive action.

Dillard waded fitfully through rushing brooks to the bright lights of the emergency waiting room, his two sobbing girls in tow. Rita's stretcher had been whisked away moments before, disappearing behind privacy screens situated inside the door. A gurney raced past and an intern elbowed Dillard to the side.

"Make way, fella. We've got a kid in shock."

His car was still running in the parking lot. He was silent and motionless as over-stimulated people swarmed around him – a stationary rock amongst the rapids. Someone tugged on his sleeve.

"Not now, Audrey. Not now. Don't you see..."

"Sir, I must take down some information." Dillard was startled by the stern, pitiless voice. It was not Audrey. It was a woman in a blue smock. She guided him to the reception desk.

"Now, sir, I need to see your insurance card."
Chapter Forty-three

The Winners

Nina rushed to peel off her wet clothes and threw on a warm-up suit and jammed a sweat outfit and slippers into a grocery bag for her sister. Then she put Kristina in charge, pleading with her not to beat on her sisters or operate any devices that involved combustion. Then Nina locked herself in the bedroom bathroom and bawled hysterically, a towel clutched to her face so the girls wouldn't hear her. She felt sick to her stomach as she called Doris, who greeted the news with a blaring silence over the phone and then a locked jaw and flowing tears when Nina escorted her from the house to the car. Through a still-raging downpour and whipping winds of the darkening afternoon, other motorists could faintly discern the unusual forms of two women: one hunched over a steering wheel, the chin of the other propped on the dashboard, as the station wagon plied the flooded streets like a sleepy canoe. At the hospital they found Klaus and Michelle wrapped in blankets and locked in earnest conversation in the waiting area. Doris bolted to the front desk to inquire about Lavinia and was quickly led away by a nurse.

"Oh, don't worry about your friend," said Klaus, who leapt to his feet when he spotted Nina. "Her vitals were shaky at first, but they put her on saline and a few other meds to bring her around. Your sister was very comforting on the way to the hospital. Kept talking, trying to get the girl to respond. Compared with her, I was pretty useless." Klaus and Michelle, bundled like disaster refugees, gazed adoringly at each other.

"I brought you some dry clothes, Michelle," said Nina, handing over the bag to her sister. "Sorry I couldn't bring something for you, Klaus, but you'd look pretty funny in my husband's stuff." Michelle giggled. "You both are so kind to be here, I can't thank you enough." Nina's voice was pinched with emotion. "Lavinia is so driven—she's often the last to know when she's taken it too far."

"It makes me ill to look at her," Michelle helpfully added.

"She's an ill young lady – it's very sad," said Klaus, shaking his head. "Well, it looks like my ride has arrived." Dunston and Jill burst through the Emergency Room doors, medals dangling from their respective necks.

"Look, Klaus, I finished third overall female!" gushed Jill. "My best ever. I won my age group. I can't believe it! Are you proud of me or what?" Dunston was beaming his grandest, most winning smile, and even took the liberty of placing an arm around Jill's shoulders before she broke away and planted a kiss on Klaus' cheek. When Klaus did not instantly respond to Jill's rapture and affection, and she noted the look of disapproval on the faces of Nina and Michelle, she appeared to realize that her sunny elation had failed to light up the room.

"Oh, I'm sorry. This is embarrassing," she stammered. "I'm sorry."

"How is the girl after all?" said Dunston, who had rushed to Nina's side as soon as Jill broke away to embrace Klaus. "A race official informed us that she was taken here and that you and Klaus were with her."

"She'll be okay. I see you finished the race okay," said Nina, fingering Dunston's 4th place medal. "Congratulations."

"Yes, congratulations to you both," intoned Michelle with jolly sarcasm.

"Thanks, those were easily the toughest conditions I've ever run in," piped Dunston heartily. "Worse than any snowstorm. If it will make your little friend..."

"Her name is Lavinia, Dunston. I told you before, she's not my 'little friend.' She's got a name and her name is Lavinia." Nina could feel her self-control slipping, slipping, slipping.

"What I'm trying to say, Nina, is that there were few finishers – and more runners down than I'd ever seen. When she's up to it, please tell her...tell Lavinia... that she has nothing to be ashamed of."

"I disagree, Dunston," said Nina icily. "She never should have been allowed to run. It's dysfunction, not courage. No, I shouldn't say that. No, I'm sorry." Again she felt a suffocating bog of tears clogging the back of her throat, which both frustrated and confused her. Nina was not a weeper. At least not so readily and in public. An alarmed Dunston Thurmond hustled her off to a less hectic corridor and reached out an arm of consolation, which she gently pushed away.

"I should have stayed to help, that's the problem, isn't it?" said Dunston, who went on to inform Nina that the woman in charge of hospital administration was a friend of his from prep school and he was sure he could arrange to have Lavinia moved to a private room with no trouble. He added that he also works out with the chief psychiatric resident and could put in a word, but Nina shook her head.

"No, we really don't need any special consideration. Thanks."

"I should have stayed and helped out. That's it and I'm ashamed of myself. Leaving you alone under those conditions was inexcusable. All I can do is ask for your forgiveness." Dunston peered expectantly at Nina, who nervously tapped her foot on the granite floor. She finally took his hand in hers.

"Dunston, understand, this is not about you," a remark that caused his firm grip to loosen. "It would have been selfish of me to have forced you to stop. I'm glad that you did well. Let's leave it at that."

"Thanks, you have no idea what a relief that is to me. But, please, maybe it would help if you would share what it is that's eating at you. I'm sure..."

Nina shook her head.

"Look, at least let me have my car service drop you and your sister home. You shouldn't have to drive after all this..."

Nina refused, harder this time.

"Nina, you're shutting me out – I want to help. If you would only tell me..."

"I don't think so. I've got to be with Doris. Please excuse me." Nina pulled away and rushed behind the swinging doors leading to the treatment rooms. Dunston shrugged and returned to the waiting area where he found no Michelle, no Klaus. No Jill. There he stood among the bustle, quite sodden, chilled, and alone.
Chapter Forty-four

The Pathos

What gives here? – didn't that loser understand Dunston was in crisis? Dillard insisted on seeing him first thing Monday morning. But Dunston was in turmoil, with unreconciled impressions buzzing hectically in free-space and out of his control – his world unbalanced. The weekend that started out so promising, with the death of his boss, deteriorated into a road race debacle in which he assumed the role of lead cad in front of his girlfriend, a bore of no substance before his secretary, and a selfish lightweight before the Nordic god with whom he must at some point cut a deal. Such dread and misery he must put aside to humor the fretful demands of a subordinate.

"I know there's a lot on your mind, what with the death of Mr. Talbot, and I wouldn't trouble you if this weren't important. But, sir, the worst has happened. Rita over the weekend suffered complete renal failure and now she's wait-listed for a transplant as soon as a suitable donor can be found. I of course volunteered one of mine, but the tissues are not compatible." This was indeed a pathetic story. Dunston saw how Dillard shifted uneasily in his seat and kept clicking his ballpoint that visiting this office under these circumstances was an act of torture for him.

"I'm very sorry to hear that, Matt. Is she home or still in the hospital?" With his eyes wandering around Dunston's extravagantly appointed office, Dillard launched into a prolix description of Rita's condition and how she could not leave the hospital until a a suitable donor organ was found. Lest he be sucked into the tedious quagmire of Dillard's morose tale, Dunston skillfully guided the conversation to the actual point of Dillard's visit.

"Matt, I wish Rita well. Now I believe you are following up on the topic we discussed the other day." He needed Dillard out of there and intended to make short work of this session. Even at his most stressed, Dunston could easily shift into policy-speak and fog the brains of even the most attentive. Besides, the trembling wreck before him was not as prickly and challenging as, say, Freeman, for instance. (Alas that name. Was it too soon to call Nina? Shit. The pangs pinging deep in his belly kicked up again. Should have taken a personal day.) Dunston brought a wan smile to Dillard's face when he lied that the paperwork for his raise was in and that he had even mentioned the topic of the increase to Mr. Talbot. "Of course, now you see the circumstances have changed."

"Those decisions are made at that level? The head of the company makes the final call on raises at my level?"

Dunston shrugged, agreeing that, technically, Dillard was correct. A salary action could indeed be made under Dunston's authority, with final sign-off from the Comptroller for budgetary and control purposes. But Dunston was a careful player. He was required to submit a monthly HR action report that went to the CEO. Just to cover his bets, Dunston found it a good practice to make Talbot aware of promotions and salary adjustments before he saw them in writing – it defused potential political unpleasantness.

"So my raise is up to you." Dillard looked baffled, and replaced the pen in his shirt pocket. His eyes stopped wandering, his gaze squarely on Dunston's regal visage.

"Well, yes and no. I have the authority, but it's important for the company and our department to make sure that I use that authority with discretion." Encountering unexpected close questioning, Dunston resorted to a neutral smile. He really needed to end this conversation.

"So my raise is not up to you," said Matt, his supplicant's tone assuming a slight edge, which didn't go unnoticed by Dunston, who smoothly affected a good-natured laugh.

"Things are not that cut-and-dried, Matt," said Dunston, invoking his hale and patronizing purr. He instructed the poor troll that the issue was not like claims, where it's pay or not pay; that there were other factors to consider, such as salary bands, staff morale, corporate strategy and so forth.

"So you are weighing my worthiness in light of the big picture. I guess that's what they do now."

Dunston adjusted his posture and leaned over his desk, pretending that Dillard was the beneficiary of his entire focus and concern. He saw a confused claims troll before him, obsessing in his little world and, unless Dunston could find some way to placate him, productivity issues could arise. Dunston knew that, under the circumstances, reinforcing the lie was the prudent course.

"No decisions have been made. Usually it doesn't take more than a week or two. But now with the situation in the Executive Office, it could take a little longer. I have to ask for your patience. I'm sorry, Matt, I'm trying but it's the absolute best I can do for you at this time."

"But the bills are piling up now. I have co-insurance of 20 percent – it's thousands of dollars." Dillard not only had Dunston in his unwavering gaze, he actually leaned forward in his chair and touched the vice president's immaculate desk with his sweating hands.

"I understand, and it's painful for me to have to put you off," said Dunston, glancing at his watch. "But we have no other choice. Look, Matt, we'll revisit this topic soon, but an emergency board meeting is beginning in five minutes and I can't be late. Things will work out, I absolutely promise you that." It must have been the magic words, because the bunched look of agitation on Dillard's face noticeably relaxed. It appeared that Dunston had even achieved a small smile of gratitude from Dillard. It looked like he had done it again!

"If you say so, sir," said Dillard in a lighter mood. "Oh, before you go, I need your signature on some papers, if you would – have to be Fedex-ed this morning." Dunston scanned the documents briefly and hesitated. Dillard briskly described the documents as standard releases establishing reinsurance binding authority. Strictly routine.

"This would be an underwriting matter, wouldn't it?" said Dunston with a rare show of interest. "And who is this F&C Enterprises? I've never heard of them."

"They're a P-cat spin-off from EXCEL in the Caymans. We do some third-party claims administration, but underwriting has managed to stick us with all the rest of the paperwork – don't know how this always seems to happen," grumbled Dillard in apparent disgust as he watched Dunston impatiently search the documents for the spaces requiring his autograph. Dillard then hastily collected the documents and shoved them in his folder. As they left the office, Dunston had his arm around Dillard's shoulder, again assuring him in his most compassionate tone that everything would fall in place for him once the dust settled. And for the first time, Dillard himself had a sunny smile for Dunston.

"I'm beginning to think you're right."
Chapter Forty-five

The Doubt

Joe had taken a sick day, a startling development. Only his third sick day in 18 years. A man can't go to work and protect the public safety after a night spent hunched over the kitchen table, still dressed in the navy blue blazer and tan slacks he wore to work the previous day. He listened to the gurgling of his raging stomach. He listened to the bitter sobs of his wife and gazed in despair at the blazing double-tube of the circular fluorescent ceiling fixture raining green light on his closely cropped black hair that delivered an optic overload to his brain, yet still the light did not illuminate the darkness inside his skull. Over and over Doris described to Joe the sight of her daughter propped and punctured in the hospital bed, lying delirious until chemicals and fluids gradually restored her to herself. "She is stabilized, please go home Mrs. Snyder and get some sleep" the doctor insisted. "Your daughter will be discharged tomorrow. We're sorry that this happened again." Doris nodded, glad that Nina was there.

Tanya crept out the back door without breakfast. Her dad sat at the kitchen table contemplating his large, clasped hands. Tanya kissed him on the cheek before heading out front to wait for the bus. He didn't seem to notice. She said that she hoped that the kids in school don't find out about Lavinia's latest episode. She didn't need the grief.

Joe felt a light touch on his shoulder and then the heavy breath of his wife next to his ear. "I love you Joe."

"Thanks." Joe finally rose from his chair and turned to hug his wife. After a night's sleep, her eyes were dry and clear. She wore a terry bathrobe and her morning face. Joe thought she looked radiant. Youthful and fresh, like before the kids came. Before they were married, when he was a young cop and they lived in a minimally heated second floor apartment in a two-family house in Newark. It was a gilded past stripped of all anxieties, struggles and failures. It was a precious time alive in legend, sorely missed, that never existed.

"What's next?" Joe asked. "Do we have her put away? Is that what we do – shove the problem off on someone else? Make it go away?"

"She's down to 82 pounds, Joe. She's never been that low. Dr. Magen stopped by; he'll want to see her again this week. He was very reassuring." Joe took both of Doris' hands and pulled them around his neck and pressed them against his chest, kissing her forearms through the fabric of her bathrobe. He stared straight ahead and spoke in a half whisper.

"It's not working with the shrinks. Does Dr. Magen intend to do anything? Talk to her? Has talking worked so far?" He shook his head, released Doris' hands and got to his feet. "Maybe I should go to work. I'm way behind. This is coming at a bad time."

"I know," Doris said. She stroked Joe's broad chest, as much to feed off his strength and the powerful rhythm of his heart, as to put him at ease. "You're home with me today. Maybe we'll go somewhere, to Holmdel Park, and have a picnic. I'll order subs."

"The thing is it's my job to know how to deal with peoples' disappointments. That's what most crime is about. People taking what isn't theirs because they have no hope in the world of getting it any other way. Bad guys are more ambitious than the average Joe, but they lack the patience and discipline to work for what they want and earn it the right way. But then there's our little girl. She's giving in to this disease without a fight. She's just going down without a whimper. That's not what we're about, baby. It's beating the hell out of me. I don't understand it. The docs don't make any sense. They're as much in the dark as we are."

"So we just give in, too? Stop the doctors, stop trying? Is that what you're saying? She's my girl," Doris said. Joe looked at the kitchen light, but his eyes were merely dazzled as his soul groped in darkness. "She is good. She has special abilities. We have to give every possibility a chance. Lavinia will die, Joe. I can't let that happen. I can't lose my baby," Doris said, with dry-eyed determination to a man whose face was cradled in the soft, comforting hands of his wife.

"I should be going to work," he muttered mechanically. "I'm way behind way behind, but the air smells so fresh after that storm. Spring perennials are out. They need me downtown." Joe broke away from his wife and doused his face in the kitchen sink. "Okay, dear. Whatever you want to do is fine with me," he said.
Chapter Forty-six

The New Recruit

"Looks like you were right about Mr. Thurmond. He left me twisting in the wind," Dillard said, shaking his head in disbelief. "This really surprises me. Am I that naive?"

"Yes, you are, Dillard," Nick nodded.

"Don't fuck with me. But damn, if you didn't have this one figured."

"Don't be so hard on yourself – I just happen to be a cynical guy. Sometimes I'm right."

"Guys like Dunston create this image of themselves, and dopes like me fall for it. So you think he'll hold up my raise indefinitely?"

"You will never get your raise. Let me have a look at the papers."

"He signed them and barely looked at them. That surprised me, too. This new generation is so careless."

"It's called arrogance. It's a cultivated vice of the proud and entitled. If you're patient, Dunston's arrogance will play right into our hands, and it will be Dunston himself crawling to you on his knees. I have a whole raft of transactions that will require your participation, and you will never have to beg for indulgences from me. I may be an asshole in some ways, but I don't play games. You do the job and I will pay. I visited Mr. Calhoun this morning, and it was my first payday. In compensation for your fine work with these documents, it is your payday, too." Nick counted out Matt's fee in hundred dollar bills – an amount that exceeds by 20 percent the original agreement.

"But Nick."

"No big deal. I need you on board. Enough about that. Here is a listing of documents I need from you by Thursday afternoon." Nick handed Dillard a manila folder with a sheet listing form numbers and instructions, which Dillard studied with some uneasiness. "Don't lose faith, pal. I'm depending on you."

"Well, no turning back."

"Hey, don't beat yourself up. Look at it this way—for once in your life you're being paid a fair wage for your services. Continue to do your job as always and these little moonlighting assignments for me will not be doing anyone harm. In the real world, this is how business gets done."
Chapter Forty-seven

The Board

From the four corners of the globe, Great American's board of directors was summoned to an emergency meeting. They, along with select company officers, were escorted into Great American's cavernous boardroom. Suitably sepulchral, the oblong, high-ceilinged chamber featured thick oak paneling, three extravagant crystal chandeliers and an enormously complex audio-visual system that no one knew how to operate. In fact, the late Mr. Talbot was the only one who could make the microphone work without horrible screeching noises emanating from the speaker system. And he was the only one who had mastered the zoom feature and laser pointer during slide presentations. Yardley Glance, the aging executive vice president and great grandson of the Great American's founding father, was at the podium as the attendees sunk into their pillowy plush leather seats. Lining the back of the room seated on folding chairs were senior vice president and comptroller Mortimer Bass, the company's chief general counsel and corporate secretary, and the six division vice presidents, among whom Dunston Thurmond was the most junior. Dunston and his uncle, board member Timothy Cleese and managing partner at the law firm of Cleese, Hardy, Kleppinger and Binderstock, exchanged grave nods as Glance rose to speak.

"I'm sure all of you by now have heard of the tragic passing of Darren Talbot this past Friday evening." Glance's voice was absorbed by the wall, the carpeting and the fine wool business suits of the assembled dignitaries. Figgie Bartel, vice president and chief counsel, stood in back and tugged theatrically at his earlobe, prompting Glance to fidget with the lectern controls, which unleashed a leveling screech of feedback through the loudspeakers. The group nodded knowingly at one another, the impact of the sudden loss of Darren Talbot made poignant by this small glitch.

"I guess we could really use Darren now for this microphone," said Glance, drawing an appreciative titter from the crowd. "I feel I can speak for all of us here that today we mourn the passing of a great man. His career at the Great American was nothing less than historic. He took a sleepy, complacent organization and endowed it with life and energy." Glance then launched into a long-winded appreciation of Darren Talbot's lustrous career and philanthropic contributions to the community. When he finally wound up, the audience erupted in a thunderous ovation.

Glance raised his eyes from his notes, and tears could be seen moistening his wrinkled cheeks. There were even some damp eyes among the board members themselves, some feeling pangs of remorse at the passing of a man whose bombastic ranting and browbeating presentations enabled him to ramrod whatever proposals he ginned up before them.

"Of course, even in this time of sorrow, we must concern ourselves with the continued welfare of the organization, and the matter of Darren's succession must be addressed without delay." Glance paused for dramatic effect. The row of hitherto uninvolved Great American executives perked up as Glance moved on to the main event of the meeting.

"As you know, it is the tradition of the Great American to develop and groom our own people to progress through the ranks. Now I know that the mantra for these times is to bring in new blood with new ideas and to shake things up. Frankly, when it comes to an organization with our traditions and history of progressive success, I reject those arguments." Once again, an outbreak of thunderous applause, especially from the assembled would-be candidates in the rear of the room. Glance continued, somewhat taken aback by the enthusiastic reception of his presentation.

"It is a tradition that I believe should be sustained. With this singular exception. It is generally followed that when the chief executive relinquishes office for one reason or another, the second in command assumes the vacated position. I don't think any one of us needs to dig up an organization chart to see that that person would be me. Let me say from the outset that I would do anything that is in the best interest of this firm – but one of those things is not to assume the role of chief executive officer. These old bones are ready to be set out to pasture in the next few months, and it would only make sense that a younger, more vigorous management team be in place to meet the challenges that lie ahead in the coming years." Again the room erupted in mighty applause. Glance appeared chagrined, and the flow of tears resumed.

After he regained his composure, Glance instructed the senior officers to return to their departments to enable the board to commence the succession deliberations. As the line of Great American brass filed out of the room, Uncle Tim gave Dunston a wink. Dunston smiled back discreetly, but the exchange did not go unnoticed by Mortimer Bass, the odds-on favorite to be Darren Talbot's successor.
Chapter Forty-eight

The Wheeler-Dealer

"Yes, don't you worry about the paperwork, the binder's in effect, but, as we agreed, your trucks make the delivery to one location I'll fax the complete address it's only Indiana. Indiana. Indiana. You're the best look I got a call on my other line. Thanks Mr. Calhoun again good... good. Yes, Freeman, oh Ms. Estrada I enjoyed meeting you at Petersons the other day look I have distressed planters from a mill in central Jersey like we talked about and I took the liberty of shipping samples – oh they arrived, great! About 30 flats 50 to a flat I got an interested buyer in Michigan but you'd be saving me a bundle in shipping, yes, exactly as we discussed 60 percent off wholesale brings us to yes, $105.75 FOB is about right, yes an Abner Clary customer so it's first class goods I'll have to get back to you about shipping dates, be by around six for the deposit, about 10 percent to get the wheels turning. Ms Estrada. Thanks. Thanks. Great! My other....my other... line. Abner– great news, Estrada's taking the planters off our hands call Gekko in Carteret we're going to barter them for the CGL exposure and a portion of the worker's comp, but look, you got to get your ass over there in the next few days to do an inspection. That's a fee deal and you get 100 percent. You get... listen, no I don't think Nina's acting weird ...now about the. Shut up and listen! The inspection is $500 up front and that's all yours. I've got the forms and the binder you can take care of it. I don't have time to worry about Nina now. No more so than... well maybe Nina's still a little a little disturbed about that toothpick next door. Can't you see that we're just a little busy here? Look, I just did a quarter mill worth of selling today and I don't have time to worry about the fucking wife, okay? I suggest you do the same, man. Call the Gekko dude and then touch base with the German fellow in Rahway with the lamps and the chemical guy, some juicy pollution leverage there. But it depends on the inspection. There's got to be no risk. I'M NOT TALKING TOO FAST!! CAN'T YOU SEE THAT I'M JUST A LITTLE BIT EXCITED? I'M DAYS, MINUTES HOURS AWAY FROM DITCHING THIS HELLHOLE. REMEMBER...REMEMBER...REMEMBER STOP INTERRUPTING HOW IT WAS LIKE FOR YOU? Look, Abner, do those things I gotta call on the other line what is it about the spot remover – dammit Abner look I gotta go I don't care if the whole fucking family goes door-to-door goddamn Junior Achievement project get them out of our hair so we can do real work, GOODBYE! Yes, sorry to keep you waiting, oh Mr. McCoy, well I'd like to get together with you to discuss a proposition touched on by your consulting engineer Abner Clary that may contain a solution for your facility liability exposures. Yes, Mr. Clary will be there, he's my partner and of course he will be conducting whatever engineering studies ... and yes, of course he designed the systems so there will be no problem there. But the point – the point – no, you don't have to worry about us, we're backed by an organization rated A++ by A.M. Best and AAA by Standard and Poors. Look, I'll fax you the confirmation, hey, and it's great talking to you Mr. McCoy bye yes, Nina, hi, I'll be working a little late tonight the phones won't stop ringing oh good so you're setting up a table at Englishtown on Saturday – now why didn't I think about the commercial prospects of spot remover, no, don't get mad geez calm down what's gotten into you still bent out of shape about poor Lavinia yes yes no I'm not making fun...look, things are at a boiling point on a number of deals no, I can't talk, DEAR! MY OTHER LINE...MY OTHER LINE! I don't care, no I can't put aside any time on Saturday I'm just too busy and that's the way it is sorry... Nina? Nina? Nina? SHIT!" Nick mistakenly disconnected the other line and dropped Nina. He slammed the handset on the cradle. A small clot of eavesdroppers had congregated outside his cubicle, wondering what Nick was up to. He leered back at them, then bowed his head and contemplated a foolscap pad crowded with the chaotic notes drawn from his phone work. "Fuck you all," he muttered under his breath. Didn't care if they heard him. Not anymore.
Chapter Forty-nine

The Ascension

The peculiar terror imparted by the stark manly leathers, the dark hardwoods and sumptuous furnishings of the Great American boardroom was heightened when the room was sparsely occupied. Dunston had been summoned by Yardley Glance to attend an urgent meeting. He expected to see his fellow department heads when he arrived, but the only ones seated at the table were Glance, Mortimer Bass and Uncle Tim. Dunston hung back and assumed a seat in the row of spectator chairs behind the big table. The other three were holding forth in low tones that were easily sopped up by the looming walls, baffled ceiling and oceanic carpeting. When Glance looked up and saw Dunston at the opposite end of the room, he seemed startled and confused, before seeming to understand what was going through Dunston's mind.

"Oh, Dunston, you're here, please take a seat beside me," said Glance. "No, there will be no one else attending this meeting." Dunston's throat suddenly constricted. He was not prepared for this. His heart began to pound and he cursed himself for not maintaining better self-control. This was a piece of cake. Of course, Uncle Tim's on the Executive Committee. This must be it. Senior Vice President! Talbot intimated as much before he croaked. He must look ridiculous. He hoped the subdued lighting didn't betray the alarm that must have been evident in his coloration. Dunston thought to smile, but perhaps that would have been inappropriate – and then which of his smiles? Thinking quickly, Dunston rose to his feet and selected a pursed-lipped acknowledgment followed by a quick snapping nod. Uncle Tim again winked at Dunston, which Dunston wisely chose not to acknowledge. He smoothed out his jacket before taking the chair next to Yardley Glance – the one that happened to belong to the black female attorney board member from Harvard.

"Relax, Dunston," said Glance with parental gentleness, "this will not be painful for you." (Oh shit this was not working – if only he had that lawyer's pigmentation, his agitation would not be as visible.) "I think we should get right to the point. As you know, gentlemen, Darren Talbot was a very thorough and conscientious man and, not surprisingly, he did give some thought to succession. Indeed his recommendations were kept in the Legal Department vault for several years and have, in fact, been modified from time to time to account for changes in personnel, market conditions and various career tracks." As the old man rambled on, clearly savoring his brief hour of glory, Dunston allowed himself to tune out and picture his new life on Executive Row as one of the company's top five officers. Dunston intended to change his life completely. He'd begin by jettisoning Klaus from Jill's life forever by promoting his heavenly secretary, forcing her to spend her every waking hour with him and inviting her to share his sprawling mansion, once the unpleasantness with Bernice was wrapped up. He'd also find a way to keep the lovely and delightfully voracious Nina Freeman in the picture. She had developed into such a pleasant and responsive diversion for him, and she looked so fine during the race this weekend in her saturated singlet. Dunston remained lost in his reverie as Uncle Tim handed single-page documents face down to Dunston and Morty Bass, indicating that they should not yet turn them over. He was brought back to the moment when he heard Tim utter his name, and was shocked when he heard what Tim had to say. He described a change in management structure and the establishment of a new Office of the Chairman, which would be occupied by the Chairman and Chief Executive Officer and the Vice Chairman and Chief Operating Officer.

"The reason you are here is that it was Mr. Talbot's final wish – with the board's concurrence – that the new Office of the Chairman be occupied by you two gentlemen." Cleese paused for effect. The great Thurmond jaw trembled. He couldn't believe it: Dunston Thurmond, the Number 2 man, catapulting past a brace of more likely candidates. On the other hand, there was the hint of a smug smile of expectation on the face of Morty Bass. After all, financial guys have been taking over the leadership of all the major insurance companies. He would savor the view from the helm. But ....

"Dunston," continued Uncle Tim, his voice vibrant with anticipation, "it is my pleasure to offer you the chairmanship of the Great American Property and Liability Insurance Company. You will be the youngest CEO in the history of this organization and the youngest CEO in the industry. But your performance, judgment and the esteem in which you are held by your peers and leaders throughout the industry make your election a proud milestone for this corporation. May I be the first to congratulate you." Dunston could not shake his uncle's hand. He could not remove his hands from the arms of his chair. His hands were locked like a suicide's grip on the railing of a the jumping bridge. He squirmed, panic-stricken. Can't...move...his...arms. His uncle leaned over and hugged him instead. Suddenly Yardley Glance was out of his seat and both he and Uncle Tim helped Dunston to his feet and pounded him on the back and pumped his flaccid hand. Meanwhile a pained smile was pasted on the face of Morty Bass, a different kind of shock no doubt tingling his being.

"And Morty, we will continue to depend on you for overseeing the continued financial and operational well-being of the corporation. As Chief Operating Officer and CFO, you will be Dunston's right-hand man and, between the two of you, the Great American will ascend to even greater heights well into the next century. Congratulations. Congratulations to you both," said Glance, dabbing at tears trickling down his crinkly cheeks. "A press conference is being scheduled for tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. to make it official. As I said at this morning's meeting, I expect to hang on only long enough to facilitate the transition, but as soon as you no longer need me, I am willing and eager to step aside and turn the ship over to you...." and Glance's voice blended into the curtains into the ether into the ages as Dunston's head swirled. Poise and projection. Image was illusion. He hoped the old fart drones on and on, at least long enough for him to gather some composure. A fluid and firm control of all circumstances defined the persona to which Dunston Thurmond aspired. From shaking off the most crushing blind side hits as a high school quarterback to romancing the most desirable women on campus, Dunston kept his keen edge honed. Long ago it had become automatic, whether it was defusing a fractious town council or bedding the adorable wife of a co-worker, lifelong practice had rendered a certain ease. He was inclined toward high risk and challenge, so when extraordinary turns like this was encountered, he could embrace it with spirit and élan. Nothing to faze Dunston Thurmond because grace and cool was his studied style. Even through the prevailing shock, Dunston saw that Morty Bass was still staggered on Queer Street, thus enabling Dunston to assume the initiative. He sprung over to Morty and delivered a crushing handshake, followed by an over-the-top bear hug.

"I'm sure I speak for both Morty and myself when I say that we are shocked, humbled and honored by the Board's decision," said the new CEO, his arm still around the bent and rumpled bean counter with the lizard eyes and sweaty upper lip. "It's a tremendous challenge. It just fills me with a sense of awe and pride at the confidence shown by the Board and our former chairman in considering me for this position. Frankly, I'm stunned." Dunston had regained his legs and unfurled the Big Beamer – the luminescent smile that was so key to his landslide election to town council, that won the heart of his gifted wife, and the adoration of co-workers, politicians, old school chums and numerous others who kept his Day-Planner jam-packed. There was a trace of that same smile, handed down like a family treasure, on the jubilant face of Uncle Tim, who hugged his nephew and kissed him on the cheek and pounded him on the back and, finally, Glance himself, who thought of Dunston as a son and had no idea that Dunston regarded the aging executive as nothing more than a superannuated overpaid relic of a bygone corporate era. But Dunston beamed him the big one, too, and suddenly the discrete and self-effacing Glance himself was smothering Dunston in a frail hug, imparting upon Dunston a vague scent of mothballs. Then out of the corner of Dunston's eye he saw the smiling Morty Bass taking in the less than formal scene, and already Dunston noted a whiff of danger. The fixed stare was back and so was Morty. The shock and disappointment had subsided for now and, even though Dunston's gallantry and rapid recovery gave him the jump, there was still Morty to consider.

"Well, guys, I guess we should keep this under our hats till tomorrow," winked Dunston, as he bounded out of the boardroom, which in his mind had transformed into a welcoming shrine of camaraderie and fulfillment. His room!
Chapter Fifty

The Climax

Tara was home sick. A sore throat, nasal congestion, a hacking cough – a residue, Nina was convinced, of the race last Saturday. Nina fed her daughter soft-boiled eggs, toast and apple juice. She played games with her and let her watch some videos in the hope that she would fall asleep. Nina was still depleted from yesterday's rocky patch, still uncertain why she had substantially lost her mind as her kids looked on. Maybe it had something to do with Nick's computer, which took up his entire weekend. The two hadn't exchanged a simple conversation in days. And when she tried calling him at work, he was brusque and impatient with her and blew her off as quickly as he could. These days he seldom emerged from the basement, but the food she left for him somehow disappeared and the laundry basket did manage to fill up with his soiled duds. To Nina, however, the intriguing part was the growing dispassion with which she had come to regard her domestic predicament. After all, she too had much on her mind. And her solitary efforts to rekindle relations with her preoccupied husband amounted to little more than the squandering of emotional capital. Thus her feelings had become vague, difficult to pin down. Her thrust had gone to drift and Nick, through his detachment, had begun to evolve into an abstract presence to her. Like an aging pet to feed and clean up after.

Besides, the children completely filled the void. She and Tara played game after game of double solitaire, with Nina careful to let her cough-wracked daughter win every time. Tara was a terrible loser, never gave an inch. Never admitted to weakness or remorse. She was her father's daughter. Finally, after a successful half-dosing of Nyquil, Tara staggered to bed and fell into a deep, snuffling sleep. No sooner was Tara tucked away than Nina heard someone knocking at her back door. She gasped, remembering she had forgotten to tell Doris that she'd be unable to drive her to the hospital to retrieve Lavinia, who was held an additional two days for observation on account of her dangerously low body mass. Doris must have been here already. But when Nina opened the door, she found Dunston instead, standing in a dazzling slate pinstriped suit and clutching a bunch of red and white roses, with a timid, self-conscious grin stuck on his face.

"Uh, you! Dunston," gulped Nina, who suddenly felt ridiculous in her dirty sweatshirt and plaid boxer shorts and scuffies.

"Look," Dunston gushed, "I had to see you. I felt so bad about the other day and so forth. But guess what? I'm the number one guy now. I'm CEO, can you believe it? I just came back from the press conference so I guess it's official – I'm in charge of the whole damn company!"

"Why, Dunston, that's ... that's something. That's great! Terrific! It's what you wanted, right?" Nina tried to smile, but was utterly confused – what was going on here? Shouldn't Dunston be at work? How could he be CEO? Was Tara still asleep?

"It's really too much to comprehend all at once, so I had to get out of the office for a few hours – to contemplate. I needed someone close I could share the news with," a soul-searing remark that drove a stake through Nina's heart. He professed that he hadn't spoken to Bernice in months and hardly ever saw his kids. But why did he choose her to be the one with whom to share the news?

"I'm happy for you. I really am," said Nina, but with the lack of conviction that came from a mind grappling with a multitude of crises. She went over and gave him a hug. He was not inclined to let go. "Please, Dunston, I've got a sick child in the other room."

"She's asleep."

"How do you know?"

"Trust me."

"Dunston, stop, I can't." Already he had her shorts around her ankles and his nose was nuzzling irresistible hotspots. "At least let me call Doris, she'll be over any minute." By the time Nina was off the phone Dunston was out of his suit and the two rolled around the kitchen floor that Nina had had scoured with extreme frenzy the day before. Nina pushed Dunston's head away from her face, encouraging him to instead feast upon her stomach and upper torso as she sought contemplative space to weigh a revelation prompted by his visit. Her dramatics the other day, she concluded, were partly based on confusion over how to interpret Dunston's race day behavior. Not so much his selfish inclination to indulge his drive to compete – she rather expected that. No, she was shocked by his insistence to assume blame and then to grovel before her in the hospital — his demand to summon his resources and connections to serve her – an indignity that Nina would have never expected of Dunston. His tongue. His tongue - What a gift. Hard ... to ... con...cen...trate ...FOCUS. How much of Dunston was illusion? Maybe she was beginning to learn — knowledge she could use. Fingers stroking, probing, driving her to the edge, but first a cooler head must prevail and she forced herself to push his hand away and yank his head from her breast, plunking it down on her neck, his busy lips and tongue generating electric waves, rendering her body a visceral conductor:...but ... business... before... pleasure...

"So that leaves a vacancy, right?" said Nina, trying to maintain a steady timbre as the rest of her oscillated like an belt sander. The lips, teeth and tongue paused (thank god) and Dunston abruptly lifted his head to consider Nina and her flushed face with his beautiful ice blue eyes.

"Huh?"

"Your job in claims is open. And you know Nicky is your best claims guy. Don't you think he'd make an excellent candidate? What do you think, Mr. CEO?" Nina tried to imitate Michelle's coquettish giggle. She knew it sounded ridiculous, but hell, it elicited what appeared to be a genuine smile from Dunston. He gave it perhaps a two-second thought.

"What's the harm? It is the Claims Department," said Dunston. "Nick probably won't embarrass himself. But you're going to have to buy him some new suits. You really need to dress him better." Dunston then ran his hand the length of Nina's body and said, "Besides, a man should be rewarded for his excellent taste in women." Nina went for that laugh again, which was smothered by a long breath-sucking kiss. To reward Dunston's first executive decision, Nina reached down to guide him home. But it appeared that he had already parked and was charging through the door.

So preoccupied were Nina and Dunston with their little celebration that they failed to notice the muted hum of a small, four-cylinder Japanese automobile as it pulled up behind the BMW parked in Nina's driveway. And such was their immersion that even the muffled closing of the car's tightly constructed door assembly escaped their attention. In all fairness, though, how could Nina and Dunston have anticipated that Nick would decide that today, of all days, to knock off early and spend some more quality time with his new Macintosh computer? And, from Nick's point of view, how could he have anticipated that today, of all days — the day of Dunston's coronation — the new CEO's BMW would be parked in a humble claims man's driveway? Who would imagine that the new king would inaugurate his reign by running five miles with the insignificant wife of an insignificant corporate cipher? Nick considered restarting the car and heading back to work – he in fact never cleared his half-day with the boss, which was what Dunston still was until a suitable replacement could be found. But why, Nick decided, should he begin respecting Dunston's authority at this point?

So he gathered his papers and headed to the back door, figuring to fix himself a sandwich and grab some chips en route to the basement. Just as he was about to open the door, however, he noticed that the kitchen was currently in use. Lest he be seen, Nick dropped to his knees and peered through the lower left window pane of the four-panel glass door. A sudden chill seized his gut, followed by a lightheadedness that imparted a fantastical quality to the scene before him. He couldn't help but watch. And listen. His stomach rolled convulsively, causing him to spray the budding beds of Nina's assorted marigolds, daffodils, and pansies with semi-digested streams of coffee and chunks from this morning's poppy seed bagel with extra cream cheese. A banjo-legged Nick staggered backwards until he bumped against his car. He clumsily clawed his way through the door. The sound of the engine starting and the car pulling away did cause Nina to flinch momentarily, but Dunston's clever fingers and nimble tongue were far too tenacious in their mission and so she let herself again be sucked into the dark warm hollows of his love.
PART II
Chapter Fifty-one

Seven Months Later

The view from the third floor window of the residence nicknamed "The Trapezoid" was quite satisfactory. A stacked triad of triple-glazed octagonal windows reached from Nick's kneecaps to a curved peak several inches above his head. These windows he'd keep; the other mundane rectangular windows and skylights – those will have to be torn out and reconfigured to off-kilter dimensions of his own devising. A home as metaphor of the occupant's life. Nick's former metaphor consisted of aluminum siding, standard double-hung single-glazed windows, naugahyde/Herculon-upholstered furniture, a one-car garage with unfinished Sheetrock walls, Formica counters and linoleum kitchen and bathroom floors: symbolic manifestations of the compromises and failures that defined Nick's life of just a few months ago. The Trapezoid was an evolving organic extension of Nick's present. No square corners, no off-the-Home Depot-shelf building materials. The tile was from Portugal and Italy. Plumbing fixtures from obscure suppliers in Wisconsin. Tables, chairs and sofas from Sweden and Germany. Carpeting that was white and fluffy and difficult to clean. Granite counters and terra cotta flooring in the kitchen. No concession to expediency – and plenty of surprises. No front lawn, rather an intricate Japanese garden with fussy plantings, both native and showy, and labyrinthine arches and trellises and all maintained at a price not for the faint of heart. Unstinting. The trapezoidal pool with ferns and palms in the back, which Nick never used. A mini gym with a treadmill, a Nordic Track and a Versaclimber for Nina and the girls, which Nick never used. And on and on. Six bedrooms, a den, a wine cellar, and a large office space on the third floor from which Nick had a commanding view of the most satisfying irony of all:

His neighborhood.

Lush maples, oaks and birches grown to maturity provided shade for the wide boulevard where nestled the nests of West Stemper's most well-endowed residents. A boulevard that was gated at one end, even if the gate was never closed and a sentry never posted, but which could be if the proles ever grew restive. From his present vantage, Nick needed merely to peer to the right and three houses down to spot the home of his former boss, Dunston Thurmond. And there was the happy band now. A line of them. Running in formation all slender and sleek in their colorful Spandex wrappers. A brisk early December day, the snot free-flowing down frozen faces – the healthy beautiful people. The power-striding silver-phantom Nordic charmer in front, followed by the CEO's long-limbed honey-haired secretary, followed by the lanky, slightly frayed CEO himself, and then Nina, who cantered with restraint to enable her chugging but game sister Michelle to keep up.

They glided like ducks in a row. As these things happen, Nick had reached a stasis in his relationship with Nina. They had gracefully fallen out of love (momentary sigh), but the fact was, Nick's too busy to love anyone. He resolved to become that way shortly after the scene in his kitchen on the day of Dunston's promotion, as he waited up the street for Dunston to consummate his visit with Nina. Based on what he had witnessed, Nick decided to move up his timetable and he submerged himself in his basement for a week of round-the-clock deal making. A confused Nina kept trying to get him to take a pause, to speak with her, but he kept sending her away. She finally confronted him early on the morning of the fifth day, a scene Nick recalled with a warm sense of satisfaction. How, with that desperate look in her eyes she yanked his chair away from the desk and positioned herself in front of his computer monitor, demanding an explanation for his cloistered behavior. Her powerful legs locked onto his knees and her hands were clamped to the arms of his chair, rendering him immobile. She puffed like a thoroughbred airing it out on the homestretch. Then Nick told her with words he had rehearsed over and over again:

"I came home a little early on Tuesday afternoon –- or was it late in the morning?" He enjoyed observing all the color – all the fury – drain from Nina's face.

"What, I mean, how early?" she stammered as she released her grip and staggered back a couple of steps.

"A late-model BMW was in the driveway. So I parked behind it." He remembered the look of pure terror on Nina's face as he continued. "I got out and went to the back door. But just as I was about to go in, I noticed you and the new CEO having a special moment..." at which point Nina yanked at her hair, unleashed a pitiful, soulful groan and fled the basement. A couple of days later she came down again, this time expressing remorse over her infidelity. Nick asked her how long she and Dunston had been going at it.

"It wasn't the first time," she said, quickly adding that "I don't love him, Nick. I love..." Playing hurt, Nick cut her off, saying he didn't want to hear her sorry excuses. That's when she demanded the divorce.

"We can't continue like this," she said. "You've been ignoring me for what seems like years. You don't share your life with your family anymore. I'm a stranger to you now. You don't care about me or your family. You've lost us, Nick –- give us a chance to live a normal life."

"No," he said. "It doesn't suit my purpose to separate from you. After what you have done to me, I haven't any choice but to protect myself." He still smiled whenever he recalls Nina's exasperation. As expected, she didn't understand his logic.

"Of course you don't," he said, adding cruelly that he "will not have my girls grow up in a broken household. It does me no good to break up with you. We will continue to live together. As a family. It suits my needs." She then fled the basement in a huff of confusion and frustration. Two days later she descended the stairs for a final time. She told him that Dunston had called, demanding his return to the office. In fact, Dunston was going to announce Nick's promotion to vice president. And Nick remembered the exact words of his response:

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I will be going into the office today," he said as he turned off his computer. "And coincidentally, I also have an announcement to make," pausing for dramatic effect. "Today is the day I tender my resignation."

The joy of that moment so many months ago was as fresh in Nick's mind as if it were yesterday. It was the day he officially took control of his world. He was fueled by 25 years of pent-up frustration, and as the deals and the dollars piled up at a dizzying rate, he had no time left for anyone else. Beautiful, naive Nina had become an integral element of his empire and her presence in Dunston's bed was a sacrifice that Nick was willing to endure for the viability of his enterprise. May the adulterous flame burn long and hot! Over time Nick and Nina became distant and polite. They slept in separate hexagonal bedrooms. The kids suspected that nothing was wrong. In fact, they were confused by their suddenly buoyant and accessible Dad. It was a confusion that was set aside whenever he invited them into his office and taught them the computer and played games with them and took them to movies and bowling and out to dinner. For Nick, it was part of the strategy. As long as he was aces with the kids, the wife couldn't leave.

Like ducks in a row.

Bottom line: Nick was where he ought to be. Four telephone lines, ringing constantly, and a separate feed for the fax and E-mail. Two computers now and his own color LaserJet. He invited Abner to set up an office for himself in the Trapezoid's sprawling loft, but the tinkerer was much too fond of his basement bunker, even if Nick's digs offered more flair. His brother-in-law's taciturn frown now melted more easily as the commissions and inspection fees put a rosy glow on his household's bottom line. Even in the go-go 80's Abner's business never prospered to this extent. His daughter Trina was packed away to Wesleyan, the first year paid in cash following three rapid-fire barter deals with Petersons and two chemical manufacturers, who were falling all over themselves to take advantage of Nick's irresistible indemnity programs. Even Michelle had warmed to Nick, discovering that the failed buffoon turned out to be a late-blooming genius – a quality of accomplishment that she appreciated, and from which her own material appetites were benefiting. How could she help but grow fonder of her brother-in-law under the circumstances? He had become so much more interesting to be around.

Oftentimes, such as when all four lines were blinking, Nick tilted back in his $1,200 ergonomic executive chair and savored the vindication of his years of struggle. And by the time the lights stopped blinking on the telephones, Nick would have enriched himself by thousands of additional self-made dollars. But first, up came Tara, with Uncle Matt Dillard in hand, automatically guiding him to the plushly carpeted "Conference Zone" set off by a floor-to-ceiling glass block partition a few feet from Nick's desk.

"Dillard, good you're here, I need some things handled," said Nick, as he sprang from his desk and grabbed folders from Dillard's hands.
Chapter Fifty-two

The Quarry

A Dunston quandary: Were Saturday morning runs part of a calculated strategy to diminish Dunston Thurmond's stature in the eyes of his fellow club members? Even if that were the case, joining the running club, he decided, was a wise decision. Nina's sister had insisted that Nina join with her because Michelle longed for the president's attention. And with his divorce in the books, Dunston was further committed to being Nina's exceptionally supportive running partner. Besides, Jill herself never missed a Saturday morning and Dunston thereby attained precious proximity to an intermediate-term project that continued to require careful and persistent cultivation. He didn't know why he worked so hard at wooing such ordinary babes. It's not like his phone had stopped ringing. Old girlfriends from B-school, his gym, from various social meets – even some who had forgotten his name when he was a lowly vice president – left ever-more breathless messages on his machine. Dunston wondered why they called and why they didn't interest him more. Most were already married anyway. Some even had their own CEO or medical professional for a mate. It was flattering in a way.

The Saturday runs were Dunston's favorite, despite certain unsummoned memories. Klaus kept a smart pace and, all things considered, the compact community of West Stemper with its contrasting verdant park lands, jewel box town center, tidy avenues chock-a-block with rows of tract homes and of course the extravagant palaces of his own neighborhood – many of which were obscured by last spring's ferocious rainstorm – could be picturesque and diverting on a clear day. And Dunston also appreciated the great deals Klaus arranged by the Running Store for the latest in form-hugging running apparel that adorned the splendid figures of the three female joggers, not to mention Klaus himself, were Dunston so inclined.

In his role as head sheep dog, Klaus dropped back and let the other runners pass, assuring his flock that their forms were divine, their times respectable and that coffee and bran muffins awaited them at the finish. He lingered by Dunston and casually throttled down.

"You haven't missed a Saturday run yet, that is good," said Klaus.

"I guess I'm a creature of habit."

"The shoes, they seem to be working for you. Your stride is much improved. I bet your splits are too, eh?" Dunston allowed a bashful grin and even poked Klaus on the arm good-naturedly. He picked that move up upon his elevation to CEO. The board members of the Great American, all luminaries in their various professional endeavors, indulged in a lot of poking and grabbing and holding—business as a contact sport. Seemed to set the proper collegial tone, so Dunston introduced a new physicality into his repertoire. He's been poking Great American vice presidents, town council members, his mailman and he even poked Freeman on his last day in the office. By then the shock of Nick's resignation had given way to relief that he would no longer have to wrangle with Nick's exasperating deportment. Poking, he discovered, was a great leveler, though he dare not try it with women – especially his personal secretary, for whom he still lacked a salient strategy.

"Listen, Dunston," said Klaus, assuming a confidential tone, "we share a couple of common interests. One, of course, is our love of athletic competition and physical conditioning." Pause....pause...

"Yes?" said Dunston, darting a glance at the chiseled god, whose eyes stayed focused on the road ahead.

"And the other, of course..." Dunston followed Klaus's gaze to the lithe form a short distance away cresting the hill that led to the entrance of Bodman Park—a form wrapped in gleaming silver Spandex that deflected sunlight like the glint of a polished blade. Dunston and Klaus paused to appreciate the magical elevation of an already heavenly body.

"Okay," said Dunston. "You've caught my interest."

"Well, good, my friend. Our race in May, you see, could use a new lead sponsor. We've lost the aspirin company, you know – they moved to Connecticut and that's a major blow to the event. A certain insurance company comes to mind. I know you are a busy man, but if you wouldn't mind meeting with the club's promotional director, I would be much obliged."

"And this individual?"

"Oh, I'm sure she would be thrilled, too," said Klaus with eyes a-twinkle as he motored away.

* * *

"Hey, look. Nick's looking out the window. Wave." said Michelle, prancing like a three-year-old as she passed the Trapezoid. Nina plowed ahead, looking neither right nor left. "Cmon, girl. He's looking at us. Hey, he's waving!" Michelle bumped Nina on the shoulder, forcing a tight smile and a half-hearted wave from her sister. Nick, visible through the hideous irregular windows on the third floor of Nina's new home, had a tight smirk plastered on his face and responded with a finger wiggle-thrum on the window pane. Nina hated the Trapezoid. She hated the huge, odd-shaped windows. She hated the asymmetrical room dimensions. She hated the diving and swooping walls and ceilings and outcroppings and inclines and the staircases that curled and twirled and never seemed to go straight up like they should. She hated the daunting, professionally appointed kitchen with restaurant stove and stainless steel fixtures and recessed lighting and the inset rocks in the floor. She hated the exotic throw rugs from Asia and Africa and the strange bentwood furniture from Europe or Mars or wherever. And she hated the condescending decorator who Nick called in to assemble the whole sick thing and who still wouldn't desist from calling her "Tina." Nina hated the wall hangings – the slap-dash ugly abstract oils and acrylics, the pornographic silk-screen of a nymph and a satyr at some watering hole, and the yarn and ribbon tangle of knots hanging from the faux-tin ceiling in the putrid high-gloss slate foyer and the lace work runner on the mantel and the high-arching floor lamps with the tiny black heads containing halogen bulbs that packed an overbearing wallop of luminescence. She hated the garage door that opened with a touch of a button and she hated the vacuum cleaning system that consisted of long hoses that connected to various brass orifices strategically located throughout the house. She hated the phones that had dozens of buttons and features that Kristina was trying to teach her to use but with limited success. She hated her neighborhood, where the houses seemed miles apart, and the neighbors themselves who appeared even more remote. She missed Doris, she missed her old cape cod, with the rectangle rooms and the furniture that was broken in and comfortable. With the kitchen where she constantly bumped elbows with her kids and sometimes even Nick. She missed her bedroom and the shower stall with the soap dish with the sharpened edge she had learned to deftly dodge over the years. She missed ...

"What's with you, Sis?" said Michelle. "You haven't said a word for miles. You tired or something? Can't be that I'm running too fast."

"I'm fine. Maybe a little winded. Not used to the cold air."

"Yeah, and..."

"That's all."

"Yeah and... why didn't you want to wave to Nick? He was standing at the window waiting for us to go by. That was no coincidence."

"What makes you say that?"

"Men don't do anything – especially Nick – without pre-calculation." Michelle said this with a deadpan seriousness that finally forced a smile from Nina.

"You've got everything figured out, don't you? Now stop making me laugh. I'm gonna cramp up."

"Great – then I'll finally finish ahead of you." Klaus and Jill had become specks on the horizon, while Dunston ran alone about thirty meters ahead of Nina and Michelle. Dunston and Klaus had spoken briefly before the latter took off like a shot. And then Dunston himself had adopted an uncharacteristic bounce to his step. "I really enjoy running in back of Dunston," said Michelle.

"I know what you mean."

"You can see every muscle in his back in that outfit. I'm glad Klaus got him that weight set. I love it when men work out. Dunston's taken what God's given him and made it better. But you gotta be born with a butt like that."

"Yes," said Nina, with a touch of melancholy in her voice. "Maybe we should speed up and join him – the idea is running as a group, isn't it?"

"First you got to tell me what the hell is going on and don't say nothing because I always know and don't tell me that you're already tired of Dunston cuz all I can say is pass him over and then you're out of luck."

"I'll drop by later."

"Hmmm. Maybe, but I've got plans. I'll call you. HEY DUNSTON! WAIT FOR US!" Dunston whipped around, an open-mouthed grin stretched across his healthy-pink, wind-burned face. He passed a quick glance at his groin to make sure things were back in perspective before letting the women catch up.

Yes, the Saturday morning workouts were the best.

* * *

"Okay, let me see the forms. I'm meeting with Pescadore on Monday and he'll be needing a binder before any inventory is released. And the treaty advice for Calhoun – yes, that's it – good, signed by Thurmond. I see you haven't had any trouble getting in to see the big shithead...he hasn't been asking questions..."

"No trouble at all, Nick," said Dillard. "I've handled him."

Nick nodded and carefully examined each document. He was so absorbed that several moments passed before he noticed that Dillard had remained standing over him, his lips pursed. Expectant.

"You're forgetting something, aren't you? I mean when I started ... you're a little in arrears in terms of..." Dillard murmured. Nick didn't hear him. He settled behind his thick glass desk, booted up his computer, dislodged a brace of files from the bottom desk drawer. Finally he looked up: "What? What do you want?"

"You're behind...You're..."

"Geeze. Fine. God, Dillard, finally making some real cash and you still got that salary man mentality. You know, guys owe me thousands of dollars – and look, 10-days paid-in-full is written into all my contracts, which for the most part has become a fantasy – but you don't see me hitting them up every hour..."

"Hey, give me a break, the hospital and the specialists and so forth, it's a little uncomfortable. The phone calls..."

Nick started waving his arms, a signal for Dillard to shut up. Nick was no longer forced to put up with petulance. Especially from his forms flunky.

"And I'm getting tired of you constantly cutting me off before I can finish a sentence." Dillard looked crossly at Nick, who throughout their conversation had been scrolling through his e-mail and transferring appointments to his new electronic calendaring device. But then Nick pushed himself away from his desk and fixed Dillard with an icy glare.

"What the hell are you trying to say?" hissed Nick, who leaned forward aggressively, a pose calculated to result in a hasty and complete retreat by his meek colleague. But for some reason, it wasn't working this time.

"I'm saying, Nick, that it is wrong for you to take me for granted." Now Nick had to restrain himself to keep from laughing. This pathetic excuse for a man was regressing to his infancy. His feelings were hurt. So he patted Dillard gently on the shoulder and urged him around to his sitting area behind the glass wall. He put a saintly smile on his face and asked Dillard to "share." Dillard appeared confused, but grimly persevered.

"I've had to put up with your lectures for years. And you were right about a lot of things. Sure enough, I was passed over for department head when Dunston got promoted and you left. I guess that's par for the course. But now everyone's on notice. I'm not taking it anymore. Not from anybody." Nick, his face smarting from the forced smile, disliked the implications of Dillard's proclamation. Maybe it was time to bop this puppy's nose with a rolled newspaper. Nick's smile melted away, the eyes hooded.

"Remember, you're speaking to the guy who rescued your ass. If not for me, where would you be? I saved your fucking wife's life. And who's paying for your kids' education?"

"Great! But at what price? I never got a speeding ticket in my life and now you've got me committing felonies against my own company. Okay, we made a deal. But you're behind on payments." Nick exploded out of his chair and rushed to his desk where he rifled through several drawers. He emerged with a wad of tightly wrapped bills in high denominations and impatiently counted out Dillard's remuneration. He threw it on the table in disgust. "Take your goddamned money. First time ever I don't pay you in advance and you act like I'm stiffing you. You've changed, man."

"You're the one who's changed."

Yeah, the first thing out of Dillard's mouth that made any sense. Sure, Nick's changed for the better. He made the arrangements, did the deals: he's an economic force. He was bigger and better than even he ever imagined possible. Nick had changed and he thanked his lucky stars each day for his transformation. It was high time to put this relationship into its proper perspective.

"Your role, Mr. Dillard, is simply to collect papers and autographs. And for that you get paid handsomely. You're nothing but a fucking gofer. A little gratitude would be in order, pal. It's your strength – look at all the years you've been kissing ass at that company of yours. Now you kiss my ass."

"That's where you're wrong, Nick Freeman," grumbled the nascent bull inside of Matthew Dillard. "I've got experience and accomplishments. And don't start rolling those fucking sarcastic eyes."

Why isn't that sonuvabitch backing down? Nick had four lights flickering on his phone and twenty voice mails that needed his attention. There was no time for this bullshit. Who the hell did Dillard think he is?

"I swear to god I don't know what's gotten into you. TARA. GET OUT OF HERE. DON'T YOU SEE I'M CONDUCTING BUSINESS?" Tara had to pick a time like now to come in and play video games. Nick was on fire. His sweatshirt sweat-soaked and his balding head and unshaved face were florid and glistening.

"Hi, Uncle Matt," said Tara uncertainly from the doorway.

"Hi, Tara. It's nice to see you." Silence as Nick simmered and Dillard flushed with embarrassment.

"Well...good-bye," said Tara. Dillard and Nick nodded.

"Now look what you did," said Nick. "I'm trying to work on building some sort of fucking relationship with my kids and then you come in here and start throwing a fit." Nick felt himself heating up all over again, but he made himself sit down, hoping that Dillard would wind up and get the hell out. Nick conjured the image of an invisible hand exerting a downward force on the crown of his head: an imaginary device he dreamed up as a way to help manage his...passions. By resisting the urge to spring from his seat and pounce like a wild man on the bones of an ungrateful guest who could use a sound beating, Nick was addressing his need to project a more professional bearing. Submerging what he acknowledged was a volcanic temper was no mean feat, but it had to be done. It was part of the show. He would deflect anger and outrage by invoking their opposites. He stepped it down to a whisper and summoned a painfully sincere smile – the patronizing kind of which the prick Dunston Thurmond had mastered several variations. He addressed Dillard in a barely audible voice.

"What did you say? Why are you talking so low?"

"You have something on your mind, Matthew. There appears to be an anger in you, and I find that confusing. Should I be questioning my decision to have made you part of this enterprise in the first place?"

"You know better than that," said Dillard, taking his cue from Nick and speaking barely above a whisper. "The fact is, I'm still a good claims man and I also know a thing or two about underwriting. And I'm assessing the risks. I have to tell you, we're already in it up to our eye sockets with this business. Even if we were to stop now, well, you know."

"And so would you." Nick's smile disappeared. He put it back on. It fell off again. He put it back on again. This was costing him a lot of energy.

"We are, I guess, the term is symbiotic. Bottom line, Nick, my price has gone up. By a multiple of two. I need to retire soon – chuck the whole sorry mess. Salvage what's left of my conscience."

Nick's elusive smile was unsalvageable by now. Really gone. He waged a battle with the invisible force pressing on the top of his skull, through his skull and crushing his brain, surging down his spine and inflaming his guts. He looked away, rose slowly. Then he took careful, measured steps around the partition to the rhomboid windows behind his desk and out of Dillard's undistorted line of vision. He gazed distractedly at the street below, which was now being dusted by a swirling snow burst.

"So you're shaking me down," said Nick in a soft, edgy tone. Still managing to conceal were outward cues of fury.

"I'm not shaking you down. My price is commensurate to the risk. Basic insurance principles."

"I'm assuming all the risks."

"I am an accessory to fraud. That is my personal risk. Look, I'm scared shitless. I can't continue doing this much longer. But I am not financially prepared to stop just yet."

"No, you can't. But, as you suggest, we rise together and we sink together." Nick returned from behind the desk wearing a surprisingly placid expression. Matt, however, was shaking like a kitten caught in a snow drift. Sweat slicked his cheeks and salty droplets stained the rare ivory alpaca leather of Nick's confab sofa.

"Then you accept my terms?"

Nick looked away and clasped his hands behind his back. Then he walked over to Matt and hovered for just a moment: an intentional power hover. Then like a depth charge he suddenly plopped his burly bulk down, jolting Matt to attention.

"No," said Nick. "We made a deal and the terms stand."

"What the fuck, are you crazy Nick? I could turn you in!" Matt's face instantly changed from flaming scarlet to blizzard white, the blood evacuating his cranium through popping neck veins. A startling sight that amused Nick.

"Look, get these papers signed and notarized. I'll need them by Wednesday. Our business is finished, Dillard. You may go now."

"This isn't over, I'm really serious."

"By Wednesday, Dillard. Now get the fuck out of here." Nick licked his lips and dashed behind his desk before Dillard was even out of the room. He picked up the phone, pushed the intercom button and summoned Tara. "Okay honey, sorry about popping off on you like that, Daddy was upset—hey are you up for a few rounds of Mortal Kombat?"
Chapter Fifty-three

The Visitations

Abner Clary sat alone in his den watching race cars on TV fly around an asphalt oval at 200 miles-per-hour. Abner seldom watched anything else on commercial television. No sitcoms, no drama series, no films, no do-it-yourself shows, no Playboy Channel, no MTV, no other sporting events. Only race cars on ovals, on gran prix circuits, on dragstrips, on salt flats, on figure-eight tracks. Cars, noise, smoke, technology – an endless fascination. They just went round and round, but Abner was engrossed because he knew what was happening inside the engine, inside the cockpit, inside the driver's head. He participated totally. He vaguely heard the back door slam. He hadn't noticed Michelle peeking in to see if Abner's race had started. He also hadn't notice Michelle nodding and looking over her shoulder and mouthing the word "Okay." He paid no attention to the sound of the den door closing behind him or the pitter-patter of two sets of feet up the stairs to the bedroom. If he weren't so preoccupied, he would have simply assumed that his wife was finished with her run and had gone upstairs to clean up. And, indeed, there was a rush of water as she turned on the shower located in the full bath off the master bedroom. She told Klaus that he could go first while she fetched some fresh towels from the hall linen closet - and locked the door to the bedroom on her way back. She returned and discovered that Klaus had already stripped off his running outfit. She gasped with delight, her brain overwhelmed by a zillion impulses at once: just where did one begin with a man like that?

"I'll wait...outside," stammered Michelle, her eyes drinking in every square inch of the most divine human body she'd ever ensnared in a confined area. Klaus pointed to the floor, indicating the NASCAR spectator in the den.

"Oh, Abner will watch those silly cars go around for the next two hours. Then he'll be in the basement till dinner time playing with his Tinker Toys." Michelle found herself locked in Klaus' gaze. She made a show of shyly edging back against the door. He held out his hands. Then through some mysterious levitating power, Michelle found herself enfolded in his arms and it was full steam ahead.
Chapter Fifty-four

The Continuing Struggle

Joe Snyder could never get through to Nick on the phone anymore. At least today, he achieved a spot on the holding queue. Ever since his former neighbor sold the old place to him and moved to that bizarre monument on the hill, touching base with the wizard was as challenging as scoring an audience with the pope. Had the power gone to his head, or was Nick Freeman truly the breathless, hard-charging entrepreneur that he projected? Joe was the first to admit that he was a long-standing member of Nick's vast pool of skeptics. To Joe, long hours, hard work, dogged determination and a firm policy of not making waves were the essential ingredients to career growth. While he never tried to discourage Nick from chasing his dreams, he was never convinced that Nick had the stuff to pull it off. Joe remembered seeing Nick's brand of wild-eyed ambitious behavior when he briefly lived with his aunt in Charleston. He recalled the swaggering dudes with their brash woofing and posturing, bragging about their connections, their command of the play. Most were just lazy connoisseurs of the easy out and quick fix, which made good chatter, but yielded little profit. Then to save face and buy instant respect, they resorted to the street trade. In time, their hot flames were extinguished by the flash of gunpowder or the slash of the blade, followed by the silent horror of their young gruesome corpses displayed side by side, the smirks erased forever from their fresh young faces. Then there was Joe, a real success story and a role model and likely an object of ridicule in his old neighborhood: whitey's puppet.

But Nick took a different path. He kept investing, testing, tasting and trying until he found a recipe that worked. There was, after all, fire behind Nick's smoke. After all the bravado and false starts and empty boasts, Nick became a man of substance. He became a corporation that even Joe himself owed. Nick sold his old house to his neighbor and generously took back the financing as a favor. Joe's plan was to make some renovations, which he would do himself, and use the property for rental income. But that was before his mom's uninsured farmhouse in South Carolina burned and he had to chip in for a new place for her sisters and her to live. It was also before the insurance for Lavinia's mental health visits ran out for the year, which was about the time she doubled up on the weekly visits to the shrink. It also was before the furnace in his own house quit, setting him back a couple thousand, even though he installed the new one himself. The bottom line was the bills were mounting at a pace his civil service salary, even at its new, loftier level, could not sustain.

"Yes, Joe, sorry I couldn't get back to you. I'm busy as hell, I'll tell you that. What can I do for you?"

"I've got to see you, Nick. Look, I'm having a little trouble coming up with the cash this month. There have been a few setbacks..."

"Hey, don't sweat it. I'd like to stop by a little later and take a look at what you've done– still got a stake in the old place, you know. Don't worry about the cash. We'll work it out." Joe put down the phone in disgust. Scaling new heights, encountering new walls.

* * *

Nick took a look around and seemed to like what he saw. He inspected the freshly painted walls, the sanded and stained hardwood floors, the brand-new thermo-pane windows and re-tiled lavatory. He asked Joe if he had any tenants lined up yet.

"No, I'm not quite ready for that. I've got to be honest with you Nick – and please don't take this the wrong way – but this place needed more renovation than I had expected." Nick nodded.

"Well, I knew I wasn't exactly selling you a cream puff – but I tried to take that into consideration when we structured the transaction. I wanted to do this more as a gesture of friendship because you were always a great neighbor and had to put up with a hell of a lot from the Freeman household." Nick slapped Joe on the shoulder as they headed to the basement. Joe pointed out where entire runs of poorly assembled PVC drain pipes were beginning to leak and come apart, requiring expensive repairs after only 12 years. There was also the upgraded electrical service box that he intended to install to meet new code requirements, once he rewired some of the existing household circuitry to relieve overloads. Nick nodded thoughtfully and pointed to the section of the floor that used to be his office.

"Basement looks a shit load bigger without all my crap down here. Damn, the agony I went through. Makes me shudder to think about it. The uncertainty – that was the worst of all. Would things ever work out the way I planned? Years of hell, utterly. Year after year."

Joe couldn't help laughing over that one. "Could've fooled me, the way you were constantly bragging and carrying on. We all thought you were nuts, but one thing we never thought is that you ever had doubts yourself." Now Nick had to laugh.

"Blowing smoke – trash talking – just to cover up the sheer terror. You got to sound like you know what you're doing, even if you don't. No one knows everything. But clients will bail the instant they sense any doubt or uncertainty on your part." Joe never gave much thought to how Nick kept himself motivated. It was too easy to dismiss his behavior and scheming to the antic machinations of a borderline lunatic. Easy to dismiss, easy to patronize. But like most things – just too easy, too pat. How many of those so-called lunatics turn out being the ones ahead of the curve? Joe saw more than his share of loons in the course of the day, not a visionary in the lot. So when faced with a true breakthrough like Nick's, Joe felt a mixture of awe and remorse. Never a sense of connection. It's not how it happened for Joe. Despite the running joke in the Snyder household about "First black to do this, first black to do that," Joe still didn't consider himself special. The milestones were there, but merely as markers of perseverance, hard work and solid support from the community. Nick never had the benefit of peer reinforcement, and had to endure more than his share of ridicule. Nick invested the hard work, but his fortune was more an outcome of vision and genius. Or so it appeared to Joe Snyder.

"I admire what you've done, Nick. I really mean it," said Joe, voicing an ardent sentiment that appeared to startle Nick.

"I wouldn't consider it a done deal at all," said Nick. "It could be lost just as easily as it came. Despite my best efforts. It's exciting, but also precarious. But tell me Joe, why am I here?" They returned to the kitchen and shuffled across a heavy canvas tarp shielding the floor from the chemicals used by Joe to strip degraded finish off the cabinetry. The only working appliance was Nick's old refrigerator, which was stocked with six-packs of Coke and Old Milwaukee beer. Joe grabbed a couple of the latter and set up two folding chairs in the otherwise empty room.

"I'm afraid that I may be in a little over my head, Nick. I thought with the promotion and all I could help out a bit more with the family in Carolina. But then things started getting out of control." As Joe catalogued his recent financial setbacks, Nick seemed seem taken aback by the tone of defeat in Joe's voice—was he about to get...tearful?

"I understand. Even on a Deputy Chief's salary, a guy can get squeezed."

"Exactly. And here I am the ultra-conservative, always-pay-cash cop; it's more than a little embarrassing, if you know what I mean."

"Dammit, Joe, that's life." Then Nick perked up, an idea suddenly materializing in his brain. "Up until a few months ago what you're experiencing here was my daily existence for years. The world's not going to end for you. It's just a tough patch. Once this place is fixed up and you have good tenants the cash situation will take care of itself. But maybe you would be interested in a different kind of solution." Nick flashed Joe a facetious smile.

"Oh geez!" said Joe laughing. "What do they say about leopards changing their spots? I can't be going into the knife sharpening business at this point. And water purifiers are not really me." But Nick was serious. He went to the refrigerator, cracked open another cheap beer and commanded Joe's complete attention.

"Listen, I'm always interested in reaching out and making new business relationships. You know, networking for the Nineties. I'm targeting a variety of manufacturing concerns; for instance those who may, for whatever reason, be in arrears with their municipal taxes. Perhaps those who may be in technical breach of certain construction and building codes, due say, to facility obsolescence or a scarcity of capital. Joe, you're friendly with the folks in City Hall, if you know what I mean."

Joe's face went blank. Gone was his agitated amusement. Nick went on to explain that the very existence of some of his business partners teetered precariously on their capacity to satisfy the increasingly strict regulations and zoning requirements being imposed by the state and local communities. They desperately needed someone on the inside an advocate when it came to securing such essentials as building and use permits, inspection approvals and so forth.

"But I don't see how I..."

"Joe, you have pull in town. You have friends on zoning commissions, local and county government. You are known and loved. Sometimes a good word from someone like yourself can expedite the process and make life for my struggling clients a little easier. It's vital to my business that those who pay me remain viable themselves. We can put you on retainer – something worth your while." Joe shook his head and waved his hands.

"Okay, I see what you're trying to do. And it's a good thing. But I'm still a cop. I play by the rules, even if the rules seem unreasonable and stupid at times. You're asking me to help you cut corners."

"There's more to it than that. At the rate things are going, there isn't going to be any business left to regulate any more. What good are your rules then? Look, you may be able to help in other ways." Nick started to describe some of his customers in heavy manufacturing, a few whose facilities were located in less than secure neighborhoods. He searched Joe's face when he suggested some lucrative moonlighting opportunities and site security consulting. Joe was poker-faced until Nick delicately mentioned that some of his clients were interested in acquiring "enhanced personal security." With that Joe stood up and crossed his arms.

"Look, Nick, thanks for your consideration. I see where you're headed with this and you've left me with some things to think about."

"Of course, of course. I'm hitting you with a lot at once. Go home and think about it. It could pay off very well, square away some of those personal problems. Cmon, Joe, I get off by tossing friends a lifeline every now and then." Joe and Nick left the kitchen and slowly walked to Nick's car. Nick's brand new Lexus: a Toyota all grown up.

"We'll set up a payment schedule you feel comfortable with. We're friends first. But what I really want is to give you a chance to leverage your skill, experience and professional influence in new creative ways." Nick glared intently into the dark suspicious eyes of Joe Snyder. Joe locked onto Nick's eyes with equal force. The spectacle of their stare-down caused both to dissolve into guffaws of merry mirth.

They shook hands and then Nick climbed aboard his Lexus. He hunkered down in its plush leather womb, ignited the magnificent motor, and guided the peerless machine down the street, away from his troubled past and into his perfect present.
Chapter Fifty-five

The Minor Irritant

Dunston Thurmond was growing into his new office. He had the ash-burned carpeting replaced, got the walls painted and the place fumigated to eradicate all traces of cigar reek. The fixtures scrubbed, the furniture reupholstered, the desk refinished and a computer workstation installed – Dunston did not use the computer much, but he did occasionally log in to his wine discussion group on the Web: good for small talk, swaps, auctions and grape gossip. And there was the Dow Jones and Bloomberg services that saved him the bother of having to ink up his hands reading the Times or The Wall Street Journal. He assigned Talbot's old secretary, a taciturn, dowdy old hag with an intense dislike of young achievers like himself, to Morty Bass, who as assistant chairman now occupied the office adjacent to Dunston's. Best of all, after the first month he was able to jettison Yardley Glance, following a gala send off at a pricey New York City restaurant. Glance had since installed himself at the family's 300-acre estate on eastern Long Island, moving forever out of Dunston's thoughts, forever out of his orbit. It was so like the modest and self-effacing gentleman that Glance turned down an emeritus position on the company's board of directors. Truth be told, Glance refused before Dunston could even tender him an invitation, not that one was forthcoming. Dunston despised the musty, drab swell of tradition that Glance represented. Dunston was for youth, and vigor and fresh starts. He would remake the company in his own image. Didn't need old farts and corporate Luddites sucking the wind from his sheets. Dunston had Public Relations update the Glance biography so it would be handy for the eventual wake – thus closing the books on the Great American tradition.

Dunston loved his new brass nameplate that had CEO after his name. He loved his new CEO stationery, his private CEO bathroom, his CEO multi-media entertainment center, the CEO after his name on his issues of The Wall Street Journal, Business Insurance and National Underwriter, and the CEO after his name on his new subscription to CEO Magazine. He had already mastered the grave, assured delivery required when speaking to reporters on corporate and industry developments. And he gleefully accepted invitations to spearhead various initiatives by insurance trade associations, whose drab memberships were eager to bask in the charismatic emanations of the latest soaring superstar. He was even invited back to Dartmouth's Tuck School of Business to deliver a commencement address.

Unlike Talbot before him, Dunston frequently emerged from his office to stroll among his minions. If the corporation is the last vestige of monarchy in this land, then Dunston was the benign sovereign to his people. He was kind, yet firm. Demanding, but fair. As Talbot himself said, Dunston was a good people person. And, as long as quarterly results maintained their buoyancy, he was flying high and pulling down four million-plus bonus per annum.

But being a good, open-door-policy-type guy did have its limits, such as these all-too-frequent visits from claims troll Matthew Dillard. He seemed to pop up with papers to sign.

"You know, it has been six months and McDougal should be up to speed by now: maybe you should be going to him. Perhaps even Morty," said Dunston as he flipped through the papers contained in Dillard's manila folder. He appeared to study them; but, as usual, appearing to study them was all he did. So much tedious paperwork associated with the insurance business. But without the signature of a corporate officer, checks for large claims could not be issued.

"Frankly, Mr. Thurmond, no," said Dillard firmly, a response that drew a startled arch of the eyebrows from the CEO. Dillard pointed to McDougal's lack of claims background and his abbreviated stint in Underwriting, which failed to cover the types of complex reinsurance and automatic facultative agreements that Dunston was authorizing.

"He's bright and mature beyond his years. His credentials are impeccable," said Dunston. Dillard knew all about McDougal and his Wharton and the Boston Consulting Group pedigree, but was still unimpressed.

"This is the infantry, Mr. Thurmond. It's easy for the novice to get ambushed. You don't learn this stuff overnight. And how long's he been here – three years at most?"

"Yes, of course, point well taken. It's a good thing, watching out for your boss like that. But I can't help but think there is more to it than that." Dunston hastily finished signing. He knew where to spot the dotted lines by now. Dillard smothered a smirk of satisfaction.

"It's Nina Freeman on line two ..." cooed the voice of Jill Sanderson on Dunston's intercom. He forgot himself and for a split second appeared flustered. Dillard maintained his blank expression. Dunston had Jill take a message. "Maybe it's not about McDougal," Dunston continued. "How many times have you seen it happen? Young hotshot from Underwriting or Marketing or Finance comes swooping in for a cup of coffee in Claims or Admin and then moving on. I can see it sticking in the craw of department veterans, you guys in the trenches. But, Matt, these men and women are fast-tracked for a reason – they are this company's future and they sorely need line experience."

"I see. I guess I'm more or less a part of this company's past."

"I'm not saying that." Dunston leapt to his feet, darted from behind his desk and plopped down in the newly upholstered leather chair next to the one in which Dillard was seated. Donning his warm, personable smile, he explained that Dillard represented both the present and the future of the company – the type of guy relied upon to produce today and nurture for tomorrow. "You're a great team player. But might I also suggest that perhaps this role is not one that you entirely embrace. There may be some resentment, even if only on a subconscious level." Dunston regarded Dillard with a sincere but commanding intensity, expecting the troll to cave as usual.

"Not in the least," said Dillard. "But I thought the original choice for your replacement in Claims was Nick Freeman," a remark that caught Dunston off guard. "Wasn't Nick was our top claims guy?"

"Who told you that? Nick quit before I could even recommend a replacement. No doubt he is the source of that nugget of misinformation. You must be careful with what you choose to believe from disgruntled former employees. Will there be anything more, Matthew?" Dunston resisted the urge to retreat behind his desk to his extravagantly comfortable executive chair that towered a good two inches above the ones in which Dillard and he were seated. An old trick.

"If not Nick, then who, sir? Was I ever part of your consideration?"

"I'd like to answer that question, but it would be inappropriate for me to comment on the deliberative process. And while I did make the final decision, it was done so only after carefully weighing the input from several officers of the company. And, if I may be perfectly frank, it's only proper and within the prudent norms respected by the organization that the reasoning and justification behind significant corporate actions be held in strictest confidence."

"Then I never was truly considered for the opening..." said Dillard in a husky rasp of dejection. "Well, could we discuss my raise? You're CEO now, you have the power..."

"To be exercised judiciously and with great care," said Dunston, the grin extinguished, the CEO finally removed to higher ground behind his desk. "I suggest you speak to your new boss. You worked for me for a period of time, but now McDougal is your direct report. Salary recommendations in the Claims Department must be made at his discretion. After all, it is his budgetary responsibility now."

"Yes, of course. I apologize. I think I understand the situation." Dillard hugged his folder and got up to leave. Dunston made a mental note to have Jill subtly restrict the Great American's open door policy as it pertained to Matthew Dillard.
Chapter Fifty-six

The Needle

Nina mustered a battalion of bottles military fashion in a space she herself designed in the new basement. A pumping apparatus and a network of plastic tubing connected the vessels to a 20-gallon barrel brimming with product delivered this morning by Abner Clary. She painstakingly filled, capped and packed the bottles in 24-count corrugated cardboard boxes. Her daughters used to handle this operation, but it invariably led to mayhem, assorted injuries, groundings and stress headaches for Mom. Now the girls were employed strictly as sales representatives and table tenders at the occasional flea market and swap meets. But even then, the girls seemed disposed to drop the gloves as soon as the bottles were uncapped and the demonstrations took place. Nina had even received disturbing phone calls from spot remover customers regarding her children's fractious displays during sales presentations. Nina wondered why her lectures on respect and cooperation were falling on deaf ears.

"There are machines that do this sort of thing, you know," said Nick, startling Nina, who thought she was home alone.

"So what rouses you from the corporate suite?"

"They automatically apply the labels, fill the jars, and load the cases in a fraction of the time it takes you to do it by hand."

"I enjoy doing it this way. It gives me time to think. Like ironing. It's my contribution. Whether you noticed it or not, the girls' spot remover business is doing very, very well."

"Depends on how you define 'very well.' Sure, it's a nice sideline for you guys, teaches the kids about the market and all that good stuff. But, you know, it could cause us some headaches at tax time. Maybe you should think about backing off..."

"Nick, don't start. I know this can't compare to your mega deals, but give us a break, they're just school kids and this is important to them. You should be backing this operation just like we did for you in the beginning."

"You've got to be kidding. You fought me all the way. Backing me, bullshit. You resented my mail order business from the beginning. You resented every goddamn hour I put into my projects. Do you have a clue what support means? Look, this Mr. Clean thing is flash in the pan. Don't take it so seriously. I should know." Nick had done it again. He knew just which buttons to push.

"Cmon, Nick. You're just down here to get me pissed off. Well, you've succeeded. And pretending you give a damn about the kids, sticking us in this awful house..."

"Hey, I didn't take Dunston away," he snarled, prudently situating himself out of range as Nina grabbed an empty and threatened to turn it into a projectile. Nick saw her face and body go rigid. Boy was that easy. She's not so tough. He knew she was fighting back the tears. But behind his insinuating smile was a certain rage.

"I would drop Dunston in a minute if we could change things to the way they were," she said, her voice breaking.

"The way things were sucked. You said so yourself."

"Not the way we were last year or the year before. Think about before we had the kids. You were starting your career. Don't you remember that? The way we felt about each other?" Nina did. They were in love. They were constantly, obsessively, in each other's thoughts. There was no reason to suspect it was a lie back then. "Do you have any feelings like that left? Look, it's like you're starting a whole new career. Why can't we share in that excitement again? I don't understand why, but I still care about you. I guess that makes me appear pretty stupid. Maybe I'm not that strong a person. Of course what I feel is not very logical, doesn't fit into your business plan."

"I never cheated on you, Nina." Nick conceded there were times when he ignored her. Took her for granted. But she had no appreciation of the effort it took to build a business while holding down a full-time job. And she sure as hell didn't wait around. "I understand why you did it, but don't confuse that with my condoning your behavior."

"Nick, say the word and I'll never see Dunston again. I promise you."

"Too fucking late!"

"Dammit, Dunston doesn't mean as..."

"He means a lot to me," snapped Nick. "Continue doing what you're doing with Dunston. I insist. God knows he's a lot easier on the eyes than my lard ass. And I'm sure his moves in the sack have me beaten ten ways to Sunday. Look, it's better this way – you're getting yours, the kids have a spectacular new home and a caring intact family unit. And, with your help, I got Dunston right where I want him."

"I don't understand."

"And why should you? Just don't let the girls in on your little adventures. I'm trying to bring them up in a wholesome environment."

"You're a real asshole," Nina hissed, which elicited a guffaw from Nick. "I want a divorce. Dunston wants to marry me."

"No. It doesn't suit my purposes. Besides, you don't even love him," said Nick as he spun around and headed back to his office.

Nina turned and faced her cases while enduring a rising wave of fury that kept building and building and leaking from her eyes and nose as salty tears and she filled and spilled and wept silently, lest he hear her.

* * *

Tonight Nick was doing the cooking, which equated to opening a large jar of Newman's Own Sockaroonie and boiling a pound of spaghetti. He had Kristina throw together a lettuce and tomato salad and, as a special treat, let the girls drink out of juice boxes instead of the usual sour-tasting one percent milk that Nina still prudently purchased in bulk once a year in powder form at Petersons. The doorbell rang as Nick disgorged a steaming load of water and pasta into a custom-fit high-impact plastic sink colander. Tara exploded out of her seat to get the door and screamed from the other room that Uncle Matt had come to visit. Nick groaned and loaded up the girls' plates before proceeding to the three-story, bleached white Catalan tile foyer.

"Here are your papers. All signed and so forth." Dillard shoved a 9"x12" Kraft envelope into Nick's tomato-stained hands. Nick grunted and tore open the envelope to inspect the documents, a practice that annoyed Dillard every time he did it. Which was every time. "A guy would think you could trust me by now. They're all in there."

"Hey, don't get defensive about it. You're a day early and I appreciate that. I can get a jump on closing things out tomorrow. Look, I'm in the middle of fixing supper – Nina and her sister are having girls' night out at some fancy restaurant – it's not a good time to run up to the safe."

"Don't worry about it. I'll stop by on the way home from work tomorrow. I know you weren't expecting me..."

"Well... thanks, you know what it's like — battles in the kitchen."

"Sure, of course. Go ahead, but first, you know, as we discussed, I still would like to feel more like a partner in this enterprise. I hope you've given that some more thought."

"I still don't think this is the right time. But if I could give you some advice: try not to get ahead of yourself. Have some patience and everything will work out."

"With all due respect, Nick, you need the things that I do for you. It's a matter of fairness and I won't resort to begging."

"And I wouldn't expect you to. Keep doing a good job. That's your best plan."

"Your answer, then, is final."

"Yes."

"Well, I guess that settles things." Matthew Dillard spun away and hastily exited The Trapezoid, leaving the door open wide behind him. Shaking his head and wearing a tight smile of condescension, Nick kicked the door shut with a resounding slam and hastened to the kitchen to preside over three tomato faces.
Chapter Fifty-Seven

The Big Night

Forget all your cares at The Manor House: the posh destination for the Grand Occasion. Behold the imposing gated circular drive, the uniformed valets and the sprawling marble fountains bustling with dancing nymphs, guzzling satyrs and chubby cupids squirting streams of water from their nubby marble penises. The blood red canopied and carpeted threshold was flanked by massive whitewashed wooden columns carved in imitation neo-Roman style. The maitre d'hôtel awaited within, smartly liveried in white tie and tails as he escorted guests down a grand hall adorned with 19th-century American oils depicting scenes of the hunt. (Yes, the Thurmond family had a stake in the establishment and the art was from their vast and narrow collection.) In the main dining room draped purple velvets, soft earth tones and dark plush carpeting provided an elegant, though reassuring motif — balancing Management's commitment to rendering a first-class dining experience to a local clientele who could easily be intimidated by such high-flown indulgence. An array of spectacular chandeliers shed a flattering buttery glow upon customers and servers alike. The beige stucco walls and honey-toned wood paneling provided a warm and relaxing feel to the room. Doric-style pink marble pedestals with tall, dramatic vases held towering arrangements of exotic African florals. The semi-circular banquettes with high upholstered backs bestowed plush privacy and generous separation between dining parties. The cushy furnishings and dense draperies reduced noise to a soothing murmur. The air was redolent with floral perfume and the sumptuous aromas wafting from the kitchen, which specialized in classic and new-wave international cuisine. With a classically-trained French executive chef, who perfected his craft in star-studded kitchens from Paris (under Ducasse) to Hong Kong, and a staff comprised of professionals who commuted daily from New York City, The Manor House had put the village of West Stemper on the culinary map.

Dunston poured another glass of a sterling Chateauneuf-du-Pape from the late 80's for Jill. It was, of course, from his private cellar. Since its incorporation in 1756, West Stemper had been a dry town and customers, even in this fine temple of dining, had to bring their own. For years the Manor House had done battle with the town council to grant a liquor license exclusion and enable the establishment to assemble a wine collection befitting its stature, but the zoning commission held fast. So the odd sight of exquisitely dressed local elite carrying small suitcases or brown paper bags of their favorite grape continued.

Dunston was holding the Champagne for the fourth course. How intricately this evening was planned. He wore his favorite Armani, a dark gray single breasted European cut with pencil thin chalk-line stripes, in his breast pocket a burgundy silk handkerchief that matched precisely the color and pattern of his sleek Hermes tie. The shirt, of course, was starched white and custom-made, with cuffs clasped by solid gold diamond encrusted half-moon cufflinks. To freshen his coif, he even paid a $200 visit to his hair stylist before meeting Jill, and he wore his bluest set of contact lenses.

And why shouldn't he be at his best? A palpable gasp passed through the dining room at Jill's arrival. She wore a sleek, form-hugging robin's egg blue dress dotted with tiny silver sequins that reached to the floor, but featured a dramatic slit that soared to mid-thigh. A deeply plunging neckline exposed an arresting expanse of bosom, an effect accentuated by a braided black velvet choker with a mauve porcelain cameo clasp centered on her throat. Her long silken hair was arranged in a sleek chignon, and every now and then flickering light from the table candles caught a glint cast by two sets of tiny diamond stud earrings. With complexion already bronzed for the season, she had confidently shunned makeup, except for a light pink lipstick and a subtle touch of blush to highlight her cheeks.

"Did I tell you how extraordinarily lovely you look tonight?" said Dunston, with genuine awe. "You positively light up the room." Jill looked away with a self-conscious smile; but then, emboldened by two glasses of wine, she couldn't help laughing at Dunston's incessant flattery.

"I wish you'd stop saying that. It's embarrassing. I mean, there are many beautiful women here tonight."

"No, no...your modesty is very sweet."

"Dunston," exclaimed Jill, with a slightly tipsy titter. "But to change the subject, I was kind of nervous about tonight. I admit ... I mean this restaurant, dinner with you, it's a little overwhelming. And you're trying so hard to make it comfortable and I just... Well, thanks."

"It's the wine," Dunston joked, as a waiter craftily topped Jill off, thus exhausting an outstanding bottle from that marvelous vintage. Jill sipped. Dunston sipped. This was progress. This was going well. An appetizer arrived of turbot wrapped in herbed asparagus ties accompanied by a celeriac lasagne for Jill. Dunston opted for an unadorned tartare of tuna with pickled ramps and shitake mushrooms (raw flesh always put him in the mood).

"No, it's not just that, Dunston. It's really cool that you brought me here—this amazing place—just to talk about the race. It's probably no big deal for you, but something like this is special to me. After all, I'm only your assistant." Jill shrugged her shoulders, seemingly abashed at her sudden gush of earnest appreciation. But Dunston found himself battling pangs of frustration. He despaired that three years of daily contact had done nothing to breach the boss/subordinate barrier between Jill and he. He had tried everything. Except the direct approach, which he would never risk. And there she sat, melting in gratitude for his small favors, utterly oblivious to the enormous power she had over him. Would it be wrong to leap over the table and smother her now? No, first the Champagne.

"Jill, it is always the woman doing the gentleman a favor when she grants the privilege of her company at dinner." This elicited another sweet titter from Jill. And another sip. No, a draught! Dare the Champagne be uncorked before the second course? "Besides, as you said, we're here on business."

* * *

The wine flowed copiously, too, at a table situated on the extreme opposite side of the dining room from Dunston's and Jill's banquet. Nina chose the wine (she selected two gift bottles of Sauvignon Blanc from an obscure winery in Argentina). Michelle was in high spirits. She wore a lovely chiffon dress with an arresting décolletage that sagged to ever more dangerous depths as the evening progressed. Service from a team of attentive staff was better than usual.

"Michelle," whispered Nina, "fix yourself. I mean you're falling out," and then she burst out laughing, joined by her sister, who tugged at her dress, which did nothing to alter the altitude of her horizon. Nina herself looked sleek in a smartly tailored black-satin sleeveless jumpsuit.

"We should do this more often, Sis. I have no idea what I'm eating, but it sure as hell tastes great." Michelle studied the waiters as their slim, vigorous bodies bustled about in fitted black tuxedoes. She found high entertainment watching the monied, over-fed middle-aged men with their dewy-eyed young girlfriends or second wives charming each other over obscenely over-priced food. Eyes of all darted to peripheral patrons to assess who was there and to make sure they themselves were observed. It was all positively thrilling. Abner took her to the Manor House once, but only after weeks of incessant badgering. He appeared uneasy throughout the meal, eating complicated, unfamiliar food while trapped in a crowd of expensively dressed, pretentious people and being fussed over like children by an indulgent and vaguely judgmental staff. Abner preferred his meals home cooked; but if he must go out, he gravitated toward eateries that offered coupons and family-style prices. And kept things simple, with menu items that could be identified and served in sufficient quantity to satisfy an average male appetite. And he couldn't even get a beer here – had to run next door. Not the kind of place for an astute, value-oriented consumer.

"I love this place, Nina. Has Nick ever brought you here?" which prompted the appearance of Nina's Nick pout. Not even a quantity of fine wine could forestall the outbreak of melancholy at the mention of Nick's name.

"No, Nick wouldn't think of taking me here. His idea of eating out is calling for a pizza and lugging it home. But then we really don't do that much anymore."

"Oh dear, what is it, Nina? Growing pains of the nouveau riche and famous?"

"Okay, fine, make fun me. Meanwhile my life is a mess."

"Well, yes, it's plain to see. Your husband has just struck it rich. You've purchased an outrageous house in the snootiest part of town. You can drop a wad in a place like this at a moment's notice. Your kids are doing great in school, you don't have to work anymore and you're getting laid by one of the most beautiful and successful studs in the world. You're still seeing Dunston, aren't you?"

"Well...yes." But Nina insisted that Michelle did not see the entire picture. She didn't see that the more successful Nick became, the nastier he got. She felt like a prisoner in his house, while Nick savored the role of the pitiless warden.

"So he knows about you and Dunston." Michelle tossed that live grenade casually and the detonation had an instantly sobering impact on Nina. Without waiting for Nina to ask how she figured that out, Michelle took another gulp and presented out the evidence.

"First of all, you're lousy at secrets. Always have been. And second of all, Dunston is constantly at your place – sometimes parking in your driveway even though he only lives a few houses down. Why don't you just hang a billboard on the lawn saying 'I'm Getting Laid by My Husband's Old Boss!'" When Nina informed her sister that Nick had actually caught them "in the act," Michelle reached for the bottle and filled Nina's glass to the rim.

"After that," Nina continued, "things started happening real fast, the money came rolling in and Nick became more obsessive than ever. But strangely, he's been real nice to the girls. I don't think he's hollered at them once since he quit his job. But it's like I no longer exist."

"And you still love him."

"How can you say that? He treats me like a piece of shit, excuse the language. But you're probably right. We have a lot of history..."

"Okay, enough, this is supposed to be Fun Night. I can't handle the melodrama anymore. It's hard to listen to your sob story and keep an eye on the ass of that very fine busboy over there with the fantastic mustache. I wish Abner would grow a mustache, or at least do something to make life more interesting. So you want a divorce simply because you were caught fooling around?"

"Huh? Well, I think it's the only solution. My life with Nick has become intolerable. If only he could regain the wonderful qualities he used to have, but he's not even making an effort. I've promised that I would cut it off with Dunston..."

"Oh, don't be a dope. He's too good to lose. But figure some stuff out first. What's the degree of Dunston's interest in you? Do you love him? But that's irrelevant—it's a good move to promise faithfulness, even if you don't intend to keep your word, which I hope you wouldn't. That's my advice."

"Please, Michelle, couldn't you just give a little tug, I can almost see your nipples, for god's sakes. Just humor me here. A little more, I'm tired of being stared at. Thank you. I don't understand..."

"Girls without boobs wouldn't understand," snapped Michelle. "They do get tired of being so confined all the time. Especially after a little wine. You'll have to excuse me, but I do have to tinkle." Michelle was squirming in her seat and flagged the bushy faced busboy who rushed over somewhat overeagerly. "Please hold that thought, Nina. Sir, would you mind directing me to the powder room? You'll have to forgive me, but I forgot my eyeglasses at home. If it's not too much of an imposition, perhaps you could take my..." and the gallant young man swiftly accepted the proffered limb and escorted the sexy lady the long way through the bustling dining room. Nina smiled and shook her head, then nodded to the waiter to open a second bottle. Waiting for the pleasant buzz to return, Nina sadly envied Michelle and the spectacle of her undulating powder room parade.

* * *

Jill, finally at ease. She was laughing and telling stories and charming the most impressive man she'd ever met. Dunston Thurmond was scintillating, dapper in his perfectly tailored suit, directing the serving staff and the conversation with easy confidence. The occasion summoned a gracious congeniality to Dunston's manner that was usually submerged beneath the crisp decisiveness that described his style at the office. The food was delicious, especially the creamy mix of white beans, wild mushrooms and tender cabbage accompanied by tender chunks of lobster meat bathed in a sea urchin sauce that Dunston chose for Jill's entree. The sorbet with a mash of mango and pomegranate was a flavor revelation. In between were tastings of grilled langoustines paired with sautéed artichokes and brocolini, deep fried baby squid with just the right touch of fresh mint and dill and a creamy pickle-rich ravigote cloaking gelatinous cubes of calf's foot. Jill could hardly contain squeals of delight. And finally an irresistible Champagne that Dunston discovered at an obscure "mom-and-pop" vineyard during his last wine-tasting expedition to France and Portugal. Micro bubbles of brut instantly evaporated on Jill's lips, and, by the time she swallowed, the heavenly experience bore instant repetition.

"We would like to assume primary sponsorship for the race, Jill. After all, the Great American strives to be a good corporate neighbor. Hell, I've been doing that race since the beginning and I can see that it's a great thing for the town and the sport of road racing. If I've had any complaints in the past with regard to the philanthropic policies of the company, it's that we pretty much have all our eggs in the United Way basket. You really like that Champagne, huh? (Jill giggled and wiggled her glass in the air, which was instantly refilled by the attentive staff.) But before you brought the proposition up, it had never occurred to me that we could get some good publicity out of the race while also contributing in an important way to the community. You're quite a persuasive person, Jill. I guess the evening has not been wasted," said a beaming Dunston Thurmond.

Jill nodded shakily, and Dunston, emboldened by his command of the evening, smoothly took hold of her non-drinking hand. Unfortunately her face flushed pink and her shoulders stiffened.

"Dunston, I think we should go now. I've had a lot to drink and could use some air." He released her hand and quickly her normal color reappeared. Their coats materialized from out of nowhere and soon Dunston's British roadster appeared at the entrance, its engine growling. What the buzzed and preoccupied couple failed to notice in the bustle of leaving was Dunston's elbow brushing against the gossamer shoulder poufs of a gorgeous woman in a low-cut dress being escorted to the powder room by a beaming cadet from the serving staff.

* * *

Sprawling low-slung buildings with extruded steel walls loomed one after another along the barren expanse of Industrial Road. An eerie nighttime hush settled in around the warehouse district. No roaring trucks, no scuttling human ants patrolling shipping platforms, no shuttling of oversized crates from one block-long rectangular box to another. No smoking exhaust and no traffic on the streets. After-hours zoning restrictions. Shipping yards and their vast empty parking lots were illuminated by tower-mounted quartz halogen lamps whose powerful beams flared high into the heavens and dimmed with a ghostly pallor the last full moon before the Christmas holiday. A lone station wagon crept along the four-lane roadway, searching for a particular building among the dozens of identical structures differentiated only by large block numerals affixed to the uppermost street-facing corner of each five-story building. The car parked on a side street two blocks from the target structure. Matthew Dillard was aware that parking in the adjacent lot would result in a video record of his movements by CCTV cameras. He was a loss control specialist with a professional's knowledge of commercial security systems. He shut the engine off and reached for a small tool box.

The consummate claims man must have an aptitude for details. Take nothing for granted. The unanchored rug, the ungrounded appliance, an improperly applied floor wax—such were the minutiae that turned up in loss control surveys that catalog potential liability hazards. Thus, the thorough claims man always accompanied the licensed engineer on site surveys (as he had with Abner Clary on this one). He noted conditions and entered recommendations on items that Abner overlooked, such as dead zones in alarm sensing and blind spots in the video surveillance systems. And of course he inventoried locksets and keys, chastising the principal for carelessness in the over-distribution of entry clearances. Of course Dillard kept an un-inventoried set for himself, just in case.

So achieving access was routine, a matter of walking a tightrope of blind spots. He used a side door and from his tool box he brandished a powerful flashlight. Assuming that the owner was too cheap to follow through with the inspection report, which recommended the procurement of nighttime security personnel, Dillard strode with the confidence that his project would proceed without interruption. His first stop was the basement service area. He located the critical master valve in the jumbled network of pipes and fittings and gave it a half turn. He was back upstairs in a flash.

Dillard had committed the floor plan to memory, including the fact that the door to the utility room did not have a lock. Soon he found himself in a cozy little closet and facing an array of industrial-size electrical circuit panels. He placed the flashlight between his knees and cut the main power switch. Then he pulled a timer and a pair of jumper cables from his tool box. After removing the main panel and making the connections, he adjusted the timer, turned the power back on and retraced his steps to the car. He'd like to come back in an hour when the place would be abuzz with excitement, but he had one more stop to make before knocking off for the night.

* * *

"Don't even think about it, you're in no condition to drive, Nina. We had an awful lot to..."

"Oh, you had more than I did. Besides, I don't get smashed anymore. I'm fine." Nina laughed and playfully jiggled the steering wheel, prompting Michelle to grip her sister's shoulder and nervously suggest that she substitute behind the wheel.

"It's just that I am not used to seeing you so, um, high-spirited – figured it must be that you're shit-faced. You're a lot more fun like this, but not in a moving vehicle." Michelle spoke from experience, her history having included occasional run-ins with stationary road objects caused by gentleman escorts suffering various chemically induced impairments. Her husband, on the other hand, scrupulously observed even the most trivial traffic regulations and always resisted strong intoxicants until the car was safely tucked away in the garage.

"Well, how about that, my wild little sister has gone old farty on me," sang Nina, who failed to come to a complete stop before making an illegal right turn on red at one of West Stemper's busiest downtown intersections. "I'm in complete control, believe me," she declared.

"How dare you call me that," barked Michelle in mock annoyance. "Why just the other day I achieved a personal breakthrough."

"Please, I love you, but I really am not interested in the sordid ..."

"But it's really outstanding. One of my greatest adventures – something I've been working on for, well – it was the best ever."

"Okay, you're going to tell me anyway: What's this wonderful new thing?"

"Klaus!" cried Michelle with delight. The car swerved to the side and Nina slammed on the brakes. Some buzz.

"No! How the hell...Abner is letting you date? No, I can't believe...he doesn't know anything about it, I'm sure."

"No, it's better than that."

"What do you mean? I..."

"He was drilling me in the bedroom while Abner was downstairs watching car races."

"That's crazy. You're out of your mind. I mean....the danger."

"YES. It was thrilling. The man came three times in three different places in a little over one hour. I lost count for myself; I thought I was going to pass out. I mean just the sight of him is almost enough to..."

"I can't imagine. I'm speechless," said Nina, jolted into sobriety, the warm glow on the wane. "The chances of you being caught..."

But her sister did not immediately respond; there was a faraway look in her eyes as she replayed cherished scenes in her mind. Nina pulled back on the road and found a lite rock station on the radio. It was amazing how Michelle could still be thrilled and sustained, not to mention preoccupied, by the acting out of her carnal imaginings. Nina, on the other hand, often felt indifferent to the vagaries of sex. She was a virgin until she and Nick started dating, and even then it took months before she was comfortable. It was pleasant and sweet and he was always indulgent, satisfying her needs before letting go himself. What she liked was his gentleness, the closeness of his breath and urgency of his touch. What she liked was afterwards, when she curled up in his cocooning arms and stroked his chest or spun tufts of his chest hair around her fingers, listening as he fell off to sleep, listening to the dull rumble of his heart, breathing the pale aroma of his scent. When that went away, she found a surrogate lover in Dunston. And though as a lover he was a revelation, Nina treasured most the anticipation, the bold approach, the sweet soft kisses he dropped like petals on her face. The way he grasped her hands in his and drew her close before the rush to undress. How he thanked her when they were finished and gently massaged her face and hair with his fingers before he disappeared. These were thoughts she could never share with Michelle, the sexual mechanic, for whom conquest, technique, and maximum stimulation were the keys to a happy, healthy love life.

She was jarred back to the moment by the appearance of a tiny yellow car on the side of the road ahead. But Dunston had said his was the last intact model of that MG...and parts of the engine still lay scattered on the floor of his garage. It must be someone else's. A man dressed in an expensive overcoat was stooped over the engine compartment.

"Looks like Dunston's sports car up ahead. Let's pull over and see if we can lend a hand," said Nina.

"No, keep driving," ordered Michelle.

"What, are you crazy? Yes, I can see, it is Dunston. It's cold out, we've got to help."

"No, Nina, no we don't."

"Cmon, why are you being so mean? It's cold outside. I'm going to stop."

"He's not alone," Michelle declared. "Pass by and you'll see." Nina gasped as she swerved to the inside lane and glanced at the stricken vehicle as she passed by.

"Jill," Nina croaked. All dolled up. Can't catch a break. Showing off the classic metal to the striking bimbo. Can't catch a break. Accelerator slammed down hard, a squeal of tires and the head buried under a vehicle's skirts popped up with a start, whacking hard the underside of the bonnet.

"Nina, I'm sorry that you saw that. They were at the restaurant, too. I sort of bumped into Dunston when I went to freshen up – I don't think he saw me."

"He's with Jill, how could he see anyone else? Just look at her," said Nina miserably.

"She's an airhead, a whore."

"She's young and beautiful."

"She's a vain gold digger."

"She's athletic, charming and professionally accomplished."

"She's a superficial bitch."

"Thanks, Michelle. You're sweet."

"Stop it. Nina, stop it."

"What do you mean...." and her voice trailed off because she knew what Michelle meant because she was transparent to her sister. He was free to do what he pleased with whom whenever. He was on his own, the divorce was final – it was Nina who exercised the freedom she did not possess.

"He's cute and dresses nice and is real smooth, but underneath it all, he's a penis-brain like all the rest," said Michelle. No rebuke, no denial from Nina. Oh gawd! And the evening had been so perfect, those huge crenelated mushrooms in the spicy port reduction – the kind of mushrooms rooted out by pigs in the woods. And that layered soup with the melting island of sour cream and chives in the center. Michelle hated to cook, but she savored the creations of talented kitchen professionals. "If you're going to be like this, just take me home. You'll get over it, dear. Make it a novelty night; invite Nick to your bedroom. Pretend that you're cheating on your lover by doing your husband."

No response.

"You're right, sex is not the answer. A long shower perhaps...a kelp mask for your face..."

"Michelle, don't worry, I'm not traumatized. Dunston is entitled to his social life. I've never encouraged him to extend our relationship beyond what it currently is." Michelle wouldn't respond, but Nina could hear what she was thinking loud and clear: "Shut up! If he wants to see other women, it's his choice."

"But his secretary. What a wimp. First time in recorded history that's ever happened."

"I feel badly for Klaus, I would hate to see him hurt."

"Such consideration! He plays by the same rules, my dear. Don't you worry about Klaus, I have plans for him. Just let life happen, you'll survive." Michelle eagerly jumped from the car when she got home—Sis needed time to stew in her juices.

Nina did agree in part with her sister's analysis. Sure, she'll survive. But more and more she saw herself consigned to the fringe: playing the role of spectator. As those in her life zoomed off in divergent vectors, touching her, consuming her soul and flesh for sustenance, feeling herself diminished. Survival was not the issue. Things had to change. Perhaps they already had. Caught in the reflection of her rear-view mirror was a faint red-orange glow hovering over the darkened horizon. It rose above the Watchung Mountain range that demarcated the northern boundary of West Stemper. A shimmering, expanding cloud filled the sky at an accelerating rate and, if she concentrated, Nina could almost smell the acrid smoke, even though it was miles away. There was a sense of waiting in the night air, of anticipation — this cold dark night.

"Wow, looks like something big blew up," said Michelle, rushing into the house to turn on the news. No, she was wrong. It was a sign. A portent. It was something, Nina decided, that she can latch on to.

* * *

The night sky pulsated with a ruby glow and shooting stars of yellow sparks, the air alive with the electronic buzz of responder sirens and the roar of unmufflered fire truck engines. And then the lusty purr of a resurrected British roadster followed by the triumphant slam of the dual bonnet lids. The sleepy suburban community swarmed with activity on a frosty December night, and only the unsettling sight of what appeared to be Nina's Toyota wagon speeding into the distance could detract from Dunston's pleasure.

"Looks like quite a fire – maybe one of the factories or warehouses is going up," said Dunston as he wiped his hands on a rag that he always went with him when he was out in the MG. He squeezed a line of mechanic's goop on his fingers to erase traces of grease and oil. It had a pleasant, lemony aroma. "I hope the Great American doesn't have a piece of that."

"How did you get the car going so fast?" asked Jill, who was tightly wrapped in Dunston's ankle-length camel's hair coat.

"Had to, couldn't let you get cold," said Dunston as he carefully pulled back on the street. "I've had this thing apart so many times that, after a while, you know where to look. If it wasn't a carburetor float, we'd be looking for an ignition issue. If not that, it would be a tow. I'm really sorry this happened, it's embarrassing."

"No, doesn't bother me. I like a little adventure now and then."

Dunston beamed – but not too broadly. They arrived shortly at the tiny, two-story whitewashed cape with black shutters that Jill shared with Klaus. "Dunston, I just want to say that I had a terrific time tonight. The food..."

"The wine," they gushed in unison.

"It was just wonderful. And thanks for the race support. It means so much to the store and the running club. And now look: a light show in the sky."

Yes, a sign. A portent, thought Dunston. He reached boldly for her hand — a boldness more remarkable than at the restaurant, because then they were under the spell of a fine champagne. Jill, to his relief, did not instantly pull away. Maybe Klaus was doing Dunston a bigger favor than he expected. Her gaze was fixed out the windshield at the shower of red embers and brilliant orange flares — a splendid display of pyrotechnics to end a particularly enchanted evening.

Dunston had turned it over and over in his mind before it finally became plain what he found exciting about Jill, and to some extent Nina Freeman and his former wife. Stunning as she was, Jill's looks had little to do with it. The crowd that Dunston ran with as a single man and on occasion revisited during his marriage was smarter, definitely richer, more experienced and almost as physically endowed. But early in his nurture he learned how easily those pampered princesses folded: soon it became little more than seduction-by-the-numbers. Their teasing taunts and silly mind games were nothing more than a tiresome prelude to their assured capitulation. Those bored and beautiful rich girls lost their mystery to Dunston, and the thought of ever permanently attaching himself to one made him shudder.

But a woman like Jill: guileless—or so it seemed. Without apparent schemes or unstated agendas. But what if she were not as she appeared? And what if she were? She was an excitement and misery that Dunston could hardly bear.

"The night does not have to end here," suggested Dunston, employing a coy, almost boyishly shy smile that was synthesized this very evening for this very moment while he shaved in front of the bathroom mirror. Her hand withdrew.

"I don't know what you mean," said Jill, alarm not yet evident in her tone.

"I mean that we could go back to my place, sample some very old brandy and extend the good vibrations of the evening." Jill adjusted her position ever so subtly and bit the bottom of her lip. For others this could have been construed as an endearing affectation. For her, it was just Jill un-self-consciously biting the bottom of her lip.

"I don't. I don't think I should. Klaus is inside, he'll be waiting." Dunston was crestfallen.

"Jill, this is difficult." Dunston cleared his throat, his voice shaking slightly — a play at a risky display of vulnerability. "For some time, let me say, I have been hoping that our relationship could assume a more substantial character. I believe that which brings us together so closely on a daily basis is also what acts as a barrier...as a wall that keeps us...keeps me at least...from discovering the part of ourselves in which something truly special could develop." Dunston's face sagged under the weight and embarrassment of his incomprehensible utterance.

"That's a wonderful thing to say," she said, placing her hand on his arm and smiling in a way that simultaneously melted his heart and stoked his desire. He reached for the ignition, but then her hand darted over and firmly restrained him from starting the engine.

"Under any other circumstances, I would say yes. You are a wonderful man in every way. But I'm in love with Klaus. I could not let myself do anything to risk my relationship with him. I am so flattered. You've given me a night I will never forget. Thank you, Dunston." At least he got a friendly peck on the cheek as she nimbly alighted from the cracked leather seat of the roadster and saw herself to the door. Dunston paused momentarily to collect himself before starting the engine and making the slow, wounded crawl back to his large, empty house.

No change in plans. He pulled out a very old, expensive bottle of brandy. Dialed Nina's number.

* * *

"The real strong odor is from the furniture refinishing chemicals. The varnish is especially toxic."

"We got to get out of the car. Get closer." The daughter accompanied her father on the emergency call — she insisted. Joe Snyder was astonished by Lavinia's sudden interest in public safety. He couldn't resist bringing her along. She promised she would stay in the car. Keep out of the way.

"Hold your horses, let the fire department do its job. There'll be time enough for the investigation once things are under control," said Joe.

"But someone could be caught inside. We gotta go now."

"Lavinia, you promised me...."

"But Daddy, this is not right. A terrible disaster and we're just sitting on our hands. We've got to help. Look at the smoke – the flames are shooting into the sky as high as you can see. Have you ever seen such a fire?" Joe was edgy. No, he had never seen such a fire in town. People better keep their heads – don't want dead heroes. On the way to the scene he stopped at the borough hall and emerged with an armload of files from the Records Division that applied to this block of buildings. This way he could alert emergency crews to the classes of combustibles they'd be dealing with. Inventory lists detailed flammables of sufficient potency on the premises that Joe expected satellite bursts to ignite adjacent structures on this cold and gusty night. Lavinia was herself close to detonation — Joe felt he had to do something. Lavinia never did anything half-way: no telling where this sudden jag of humanitarianism would lead her. He grabbed some rolls of police barrier tape and the two of them waded into the milling confusion to mark off boundaries and attempt to restrain an encroaching public. It was important to keep Lavinia's mind and hands busy. To keep her out of harm's way.

The heat smoke were so intense it forced firefighters to retreat and train high pressure hoses on the inferno from a safe distance. The plan was not to salvage the structure, but to contain the blaze to the single building. The air resounded with alarms and sirens and shouting voices and splintering wood and groaning metal. Distant klaxons summoned equipment from neighboring townships. Television and print reporters were already besieging the fire commanders and a wind-tossed, camera-equipped helicopter buzzed the scene at low altitude. Powerful spotlights from video crews and police vehicles bathed the area in an eerie day-for-night whiteness. Water from leaking fire hoses froze instantly on asphalt, causing numerous slips and falls among rescue workers and scrambling gawkers.

Joe hustled to the makeshift command post, a parking lot across the street from the blaze, to offer his interference for the press and to take overall command of the disaster scene. With the Chief out of town, Joe was in charge of public safety. He grabbed a portable radio unit from a patrol car and instructed the police dispatcher to roust the entire department to handle traffic, crowd control and potential casualties. Soon he was engulfed by a yapping swarm of uniformed patrolmen, auxiliary police, the media and curiosity seekers, causing him to lose track of Lavinia. He cursed his decision to allow Lavinia to accompany him. What was he thinking – that he was treating her to a sideshow? But at the time he had no idea of the scale of the disaster. Nonetheless, was this any worse than leaving her home to do a thousand push-ups before refunding the day's caloric intake?

* * *

"Abner? Get your coat on and pick me up. That's right. Now. Bring the report with you, Calhoun's not home he's probably already there. Bye." Phone slammed, pacing...pacing...pacing. Checked his escrow account. No way he can cover. No fucking way. Call Dillard in the morning. Of all the goddamn luck. Startled by the harsh mechanical grind of the automatic garage door opener followed by the soft putter of the Toyota's engine. Nina emerged from the garage by way of the laundry room just off the kitchen. "Good, you're back, I have to go out. Abner's picking me up." No response. Nick stopped in his tracks. Looked in Nina's direction for the first time. Her cheeks were red and moist, her mouth clamped shut. Nick was confused. "You upset or something?"

She ignored him and dashed upstairs, carelessly dropping her overcoat on the steps. Nick shook his head. Now what did I do? Phone rang, Nick answered, line went dead. Doorbell rang, he hesitated going to the door: given the present pattern, he figured to find no one there. But it was Abner. "You drive," snapped Nick.

"Do you think we really ought to go there — we shouldn't get in the way."

"For damn sure – this could cost us a quarter million or more." Abner's face went pale, his gut an acidic chain reaction.

"My god. How can we pay? We're ruined. How could I have ever allowed you to talk me into..."

"Shut up! Do you think I'm stupid or something? I've got it covered. Now put your thinking cap on. You did the plant inspection. Talk to me about electrical violations, chemical risks, combustion accelerates. There are issues of moral hazards, et cetera. Think, man. Maybe we get off Scot-free."

"Original wiring is about 20 years old, some of the upgrades and renovations are much newer. All standard practices and up to code." Abner confirmed that if it was an electrical problem, it wasn't due to any flagrant violations. He noted a heavy inventory of flammable chemicals, but properly stored in sealed containers and kept away from gas burners, heavy equipment and electric motors.

"You're not telling me what I want to hear. How closely did you survey the premises?"

"Nick."

"Okay, I'm sorry. Just a little keyed up. Can a fire like this start spontaneously?" Abner shook his head, but suggested an on-site investigation by forensic specialists.

"I'm liking the word forensic — are you suggesting arson?"

"I'm suggesting that I don't have the expertise to investigate a fire scene. We better park here," said Abner, pulling his van into an empty parking lot several blocks from the blaze. Plummeting temperatures and a fog of pungent smoke had thinned the mob of spectators, intimidated by the uncontrolled inferno. Roaring flames were punctuated by occasional explosions and arcing fire bursts. Three screaming EMS vans raced from the scene as Abner and Nick hustled for a better look. First casualties of the disaster. The fire had spread to two smaller warehouse facilities flanking the principal structure. The containment team retreated while training heavy ropes of water on dancing flames. Water dripping to the ground froze, endowing stationary structures with beards of sheeting ice. Footing was perilous as emergency workers moved gingerly. Nick and Abner approached the phalanx of fire engines, police vehicles and paramedic vans set off from the main action, but they didn't get far before bumping up against a ribbon of yellow police tape. Nick climbed over without missing a beat, but was instantly accosted by an alert auxiliary cop handling crowd control.

"It's okay, I'm from the loss control investigation unit," said Nick. "This is my engineer," nodding in the direction of Abner Clary. The cop looked doubtful, but Nick whipped out his old Great American identification badge.

"I got to check it out with command post," said the fake cop, an eager young stringbean with a high nasal voice who would be back at his job in the morning telling a good story and stocking the produce bins at the downtown Acme Supermarket.

"Can't wait," said Nick, his fuse smoldering. Hands clenched and unclenched. Abner held a gloved fist over his head, praying that his partner would not go off.

"It's up to Deputy Chief Snyder..."

"Joe? Joe's in charge? Tell him it's Nick Freeman and that I have an important stake in this building. I need a report. Well, cmon let's get ...." the rest of Nick's words were lost in the sickening creak of rupturing metal beams and crunching side walls — the roof of a burning building gave way in a slow-motion crush, tugging with it crippled support walls as it heaved towering plumes of orange, red and green glitter sparks in its wake. The crowd gasped.

"Oh no. I hope nobody was inside," cried Abner Clary. Nick ignored the drama of the moment and instead scanned the hectic swarm of rescue workers, trying to find a familiar face.

"Where the hell is Snyder? Where the hell is Snyder?"

* * *

"Nina, is that you?"

"Yes."

"Great. I tried calling earlier, but the person picking up the phone ... actually, there was no answer. I got the machine."

Pause.

"Nina, are you okay?"

"Been better." Nina was shocked to hear his voice. What about the girl? Was she there? What kind of game was he playing?

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I've got just the thing to cheer you up – a 25-year-old brandy that will warm the innards on a cold winter night. The kids in bed? Tell the old man you're going out for some fresh air. "

Pause.

"Nina, please, I'd love to see you tonight – I can't have you sad. I won't permit it. We could just talk..."

Nina gently replaced the handset on the bedroom phone and methodically removed her gown, slipping into a pink cotton bathrobe. She visited the children's rooms and kissed each of them lightly on the cheek, careful not to wake them. She paused at the doorway to Halle's room. Her daughter was fast asleep, her face bathed in soft illumination leaking from the ghastly Art Deco ceiling fixture in the hallway. She was beautiful, her daughter with the fine brown hair and tiny nose and freckled cheeks. The ferocity of the love she felt for her children bewildered and amazed Nina. Those sweet, noisy bickering beasts dominated her to the core. She was held helplessly in the grip of the futile desire to protect them, to indulge them and shield them from the awaiting horrors that will temper them and lamentably wean them from childhood. The phone rang again; the machine would pick it up on the second ring. There would be no message. She will counsel them and caution them, but as they become teenagers Nina will lose them. She will be nothing but a nuisance speed bump impeding them on the exhilarating highway to discovery. She wanted to hold them in her bracing, experienced arms all the time: be their armor and sanctuary. Hell, they'll need something a lot more practical than hugs to survive, muttered Nina aloud as she flung off her robe and ran a hot shower. The phone rang again, the caller no doubt disturbed by his failure to get through – will he be bold enough to come to the door himself? No, it's Dunston. Two rings. The machine.

Nina's spent body was bombarded from three angles by the "spa" shower installed at Nick's insistence in the bedroom bath. The hard hot jets of water drummed her neck, her belly and thighs. She allowed herself to be taken into the enveloping steam clouds of pleasure, inviting therapeutic streams to wash away the hurt and frustration of the evening and before and the future. She rotated slowly in the luxurious rhombic space of the black-tiled enclosure, rendering every inch of her body to the therapeutic spray. She stretched clasped hands high over her head, the water pounding her shoulders under her arms her ribcage was that the phone or her imagination and the hard rain on her face, hot water washing away the warm tears that weren't present but could have been if she had let them. Still the drone of analysis couldn't be thrummed out of her and her deliberations could not cease even when she was asleep and dreamt the dreams of the restless and haunted. In her grander imaginings of martyrdom, she saw her flesh as the tender meat feeding the appetite of the man she loved, a love eventually discarded when he launched himself to the stars that rendered her irrelevant. But when she tried to replenish the aching hollow carved by his abandonment, she reeled from the cruelty administered by the one grown embittered and diabolical.

Such a happy wallow for Nina! But she was not fooling herself. Her "martyrdom" was a nothing more than a self-serving delusion for her real ineptitude: when she found herself reduced to serving yet another man's hunger. She understood that to envy her sister was not akin to emulating or becoming her. How could it be simple sex with Nina? The physical pleasure of the drilling rivets of water pounding her head and face could not wash away the frustrating truth that there was no "fling" in Nina. She was a lousy libertine – at once intrigued and outraged by Michelle's savage adventures with a god and her husband only a floor away. Could Nina herself simply experiment like that? Could she disengage her mind from the act? Could she do it just for the sake of exploring the boundaries of carnal fulfillment? Maybe approach the prospect from the angle of scientific self-discovery? No, she recoiled in horror. Nina was wired to make the full investment. Seeing Dunston with Jill tonight: that was the proof.

Of course Michelle would command her to towel off and swathe her warm pink body in a fur coat and nothing else and skip over to Dunston's for multiple body cavity sex. Doris would hum the same tune, but would insist on a monogamous dip. Such focused and clear-headed thinking did not come easy to Nina. She was tired, with hardly enough nourishment to sustain her kids – her only benign carnivores. She believed in the healing powers of extended water massage. The spa shower was one of Nick's better ideas.

* * *

"Let's go!" barked Nick, who pressed against the police tape. Abner sprawled on the frozen earth, taking cover from the latest fireball flares. Nick yanked Abner to his feet and pulled him under the tape.

"Nick. Are you crazy? We'll get arrested or something."

"Nonsense. Joe and I are tight. It's not like we're here to gawk. You see Calhoun yet?" Nick and Abner slipped and slid on ice-cloaked asphalt as they made their way through a confusion of twisted electrical cables sprouting from roaring mobile generators, water hoses and various rescue vehicles. Finally they reached a clamoring semicircle of emergency workers, each shouting at a large hapless man in an oversized black ski jacket. But Nick charged right up and grabbed a handful of Joe's sleeve.

"Hell of a mess, Joe. What's your report?" Joe's mouth formed a large "O" as the rest of the group fell into a stunned silence. A high piping voice weighed in with "He's the one – says he's a friend of yours. Hey you, I told you to stay behind the line!"

"Shut up Squeaky! I have business here," Nick menaced. A couple of strapping regulars restrained Nick in a half nelson, but he whipped around to free himself. "Now let's all settle down," demanded Joe. "Nick, what we have here is a disaster scene. It's not secured for the general public — anything can happen. As you can see I'm kinda busy at the moment..."

"Look here," cried Nick. "I have a lot of money tied up in this place and I need a report – these guys look like they know what they're doing. Carry on boys. And why the hell are they roughing me up..." Abner looked away and nervously kicked at imaginary stones on the ground, aware that nothing constructive could come of this except profound embarrassment. Joe placed a beefy arm around Nick's shoulders as he steered him away from the command center.

"Nick, you got to help me do my job. I'll answer all your questions – but in the morning."

"But it may be too late by then. Abner suspects arson and I agree." Nick's eyes blazed and his comments had an inflammatory effect on Joe.

"We will conduct the investigation and report it to you, that's our job and we are the professionals. Priority number one is that we've had five people taken away by ambulances and a couple of them are in bad shape. I will not have any more unnecessary casualties on my watch. Go home, Nick. Believe me, I appreciate all you've done for me as a friend, but you've got to let me do what has to be done. Everyone here depends on me and, as you can see, the situation is not yet under control. I'm asking you as a friend." Another explosion, another roof gave way – a muffled scream that could only have emanated from inside.

"OH SHIT!" Joe huffed, and bounded away at a sprint to the latest cave in. Nick stood alone in the frozen parking lot. Abner caught up and looked at Nick inquisitively. "So, what's the word?" Nick took a while to answer, watching as Joe's distant form donned a bulky flame-retardant suit and an oxygen tank and waded into the remains of the collapsed structure.

"No more to be done here," said Nick, barely above a whisper. "Let's go."

* * *

Mrs. Finley was at it again with the copper-clad cookware that gets all junked up with ugly black carbon deposits that used to be impossible to scour off. That was until those kids with the spot remover showed up on her doorstep. Though the pots shine real nice now, Mr. Finley was getting darn tired of sitting at the kitchen table watching his wife rub and scrub every night. He was not one for reading – scanned the paper a couple times a week, but things like magazines or books made him snoozy or gave him a headache. He enjoyed watching the TV, but didn't like doing it alone. He and Mrs. Finley watched everything together and talked about what was going on in the programs and they critiqued the commercials. They mostly watched shows about cops and robbers and occasionally miniseries made from best-selling romance novels. They didn't like those pornographic programs aired during prime time about high school and college kids fooling around with each other, or those way-out spaceship shows whose characters were concocted with lots of rubber and plastic appendages to make them look like scary aliens.

"You almost done, Mrs. Finley?" asked Mr. Finley, who thought his house and their things were already clean enough.

"Mind your own beeswax, Mr. Finley. These pots need a cleaning. Go watch TV – stay out of my hair."

Mr. Finley shrugged. Mrs. F. never used to snap at him like that. Never knocked him down, either, the way she did the other day. The compulsive cleaning – he didn't get it. Damn, she went through the change a good ten years ago, and she's stabilized by now. He decided to go get the gun. Has an old shotgun his dad gave him years ago when they used to go deer hunting in North Jersey. Now he kept it in the bedroom, just in case – you never know what you're going to run into. Even in a snug little town like West Stemper, crazy stuff going on all the time.

"What are you doing with that?" demanded Mrs. Finley, as Mr. Finley removed both cartridges from the barrel and started taking the gun apart.

"Haven't given this thing a good cleaning in months. Here, pass over that miracle juice, see how it does on some old iron." Mrs. Finley looked up exasperated – she hated being interrupted. She splashed a few ounces in a bowl and set it impatiently on the table. Mr. Finley took a clean cloth and dipped it tentatively in the clear, odorless solution. At first he rubbed cautiously on a small section of the trigger mechanism. Instantly all the old oil, grease, and grime from decades of use and storage dissolved. A few more passes with the cloth and the mechanism sparkled factory-fresh. Mr. Finley was amazed and immediately threw himself into the task. In no time he had the filthy weapon in pieces on the table. He saturated the cloth with cleaner and started scrubbing away with jolly abandon.

"You don't have to rub so hard," said Mrs. Finely crossly.

"Huh?"

"Let the cleaner do the work."

So the missus thinks she knows everything. Mr. Finley was doing a darn good job and the innards of that baby were really taking a sparkle. "I'll do it my way," he snapped. Mrs. Finley stopped scrubbing her copper egg poacher, stunned by Mr. Finley's tone of voice – he never spoke rudely to her. He seldom said anything that could not be finished appropriately by the word "Sweetheart." He was a mild mannered soul, a kind and thoughtful man.

"We're missing TV," he grumbled. "So if I'm going to clean my gun, I may as hell clean it my way!"

Maybe that's the way some people talked, the swear words and all. But it's not the way Mr. Finley ever spoke to her. And she wouldn't stand for it.

"Let's stop then," she declared. "I won't have such language spoken in this house."

"Great. Now you have me with the gun all apart and you decide we stop. No way. Give me the stuff," he huffed. By now Mr. Finley's face was flushed, which was not a good sign on account of the mild heart episode he suffered five years ago. He snapped the gun back together, leaving only the long heavy barrel tubes to polish. He'd been saving them for last in anticipation of the dazzling gleam they'd assume once he finished with them.

"No. Stop it! Stop it!" squawked Mrs. Finley. She was distraught – never a harsh word passed between them. A stern look was all it ever took to settle the situation when she disapproved of something Mr. Finley had done. And he had a way of pursing his lips and studying his shoe tops to indicate any displeasure with her. But this...

He grabbed wildly for the bottle of miracle cleaner, wresting it from Mrs. Finley's tight grasp. The loosened cap flew off in the scuffle and a splash of product doused Mr. Finley's shirt. Gasping for breath, he felt a fearsome rage swell in his breast – a fury that crowded out all sense and perception of what he was doing, which happened to be the final assembly of his weapon and the insertion of two fresh cartridges. The tremendous explosion of the gun going off and the powerful kick against his shoulder jarred his thoughts into sudden clarity. He was aghast to see the spreading spray of his wife's blood and flesh on the ultra-clean kitchen wall tiles and spotless white refrigerator door. His jaw dropped in disbelief at the sight of the pulsing stump where seconds ago was affixed Mrs. Finley's head. The phone rang – curious neighbors. In numb horror and despair, Mr. Finley faced away from the gruesome scene and propped the stock of the gun against a side cabinet on the slippery wet kitchen floor. He took a long wooden spoon and slid it through the trigger mechanism and then inserted the end of the barrel into his mouth. He started to gag, but his discomfort was temporary, as he managed to place his feet on either end of the spoon and use it as a remote lever to depress the trigger in one easy motion. A second tremendous explosion.

The phone rang and rang.

* * *

He ran the events of the evening around in his head. It was a slick and seamless seduction. He could find no fault in his approach, his execution – even his close. The crackling tension and risk almost defeated him, but he kept his cool. In a way he understood tonight, acknowledging that a mortal, even an exceptional mortal such as himself, suffered long odds when competing against Adonis. What a man treasures most is that which he cannot have. Dunston guffawed out loud in the library of his enormous empty home, mindful that the assuring smoothness of a fine liqueur had disassembled his thoughts into a string of sodden clichés.

There was the emptiness to address. He called Nina. He called for first aid but even she was repelled by him. He resorted to calling his ex in Florida. Even the voice of a former lover could sometimes render an essential warmth. They spoke as adults, in a cool and congenial manner. Can't the kids come up for New Year's – he'll go down for Christmas, but then leave straight away after dinner. Did his career crowd her out – did her career crowd him out? The reasons, ahhh, they were complex and inevitable. Shifting needs and emotional demands. Or was it something simpler – the increasing thickness of her buttocks and thighs and a once-taut belly yielding to flesh and gravity. Creases of worry on her face and the sprouting of a few gray hairs in her jet-black mane – normal patterns of wear and tear for a mother of two and a career that required her full love and attention. A family with so much success that the marriage couldn't bear it. At the time, they both said that the consummation of the divorce was a load off their minds. And her move to Florida was logical, the offer from the university irresistible and the opportunity for the kids impossible to turn down. How could anyone question the logic of the situation? Dunston hung up the phone and again the vacant vastness of his digs unsettled him. He poured another glass and downed it in a single gulp. But a grinding distress was taking control and he felt tears forming in his eyes. Sure, he could respond to any of the 13 messages on his machine, mostly friends offering him holiday cheer and invitations to this or that. He could seek the easy camaraderie of the guys at the tony gin mill where he knew they would be gathered. No need to be alone tonight. But his heart was not in it. He staggered to his feet and went to fetch his coat. Still wearing his evening clothes, he headed out the door.

* * *

Joe's world was silent except for the rushing air of his attached breathing apparatus. And that suited him just fine for the moment. He wore a sealed firefighters' helmet connected to an oxygen tank strapped to his back. The heavy fireproof suit and hip-length boots with the steel heels and toe boxes made locomotion a slow, arduous process. By rights Joe should not be snooping around the highly unstable bones of a smoldering building, but he needed to get away from the relentless voices as much as to satisfy his urge to assume a personal, hands-on role. Crowd control and the coordination of logistics of complex disasters were not for Joe – he's a cop, not a choreographer. Now he could confront the disaster on its own terms: the tumbling debris, the dust and swarming clouds of ashes. He hauled up still-burning timbers and glowing embers of unidentifiable fragments. Flaming skeletons that formerly supported walls flared on all sides, an eerie space that Joe patiently patrolled, secure within the cocoon of his protective outfit. He was at last satisfied that no one was present inside the building when the roof collapsed and he started for the nearest exit. He emerged from the tottering structure trailing a fiery path and was instantly accosted by two patrolmen restraining a soot-smudged teen.

"Where did you find her?" asked Joe wearily.

"She made a dash for the building when the roof collapsed – don't know what was going through her head, but the guys got her before she got too close."

"I had to make sure nobody was hurt, Daddy. Didn't you see? The way the place caved in, it was just awful. Like, could I just stand there and do nothing?"

"That's exactly what you should have done, Lavinia," said Joe, brushing off glowing orange crumbs as a patrolman helped him off with the suit.

"Geez, Daddy, you're not even a fireman and you went in the building."

"But I was wearing this contraption, for Pete's sakes. Lavinia, you would've gotten killed in there. You've got to exercise more sense." Joe was mortified by his lapse of judgment. How could he have brought his daughter to such a scene? He suddenly noticed that her face and clothes were covered with dirt and there were traces of dried blood on her hands. "Where are your gloves – it's freezing out here. Your mother is going to kill me..."

"I had to take them off when they started burning..."

"DID WHAT?"

"Well, I wasn't paying attention when I starting searching through stuff and when I looked down..."

"Enough! Enough!" cried Joe, taking his daughter's hands in his and checking for burns and abrasions. He yanked one of the special cops over and told him to have Lavinia checked out by a paramedic and driven home immediately. Lavinia was led away slump-shouldered as a patrol car pulled up to Joe with lights flashing and an anxious patrolman telling Joe he'd better get in. He spoke in a low trembling voice. Joe nodded. He got in the car, called in and ordered the coroner and the county sheriff to meet him at the Finley residence. Then, seeing that the fires were finally yielding control, he passed command over to the fire chief.

The media had already formed a motorcade to the Finley home, assuring that the peaceful, low-profile community would star in the morning press and TV news. Joe slouched into the seat of the cruiser, overcome with a mixture of exhaustion and sadness. He yearned desperately to awaken from this awful dream.

* * *

As the wind picked up, Dunston tightened the scarf around his neck and slipped on a pair of leather gloves. His walk took him along the silent streets of his neighborhood, past the white-columned colonial mansions, the dark-stained shingled contemporaries and the free-form concrete and stucco "concept" homes. Nearly every residence was decorated with tasteful displays of Christmas lights and nativity scenes, a practice encouraged by the neighborhood civic association, of which Dunston himself was president. Pressed for time in his new corporate position, Dunston hired a professional decorator to outfit his home, but he seldom paused to admire the glorious curtain of white-lights that framed his house and the brace of angels fashioned from vines and twigs that lined the length of his extended driveway. The Santa sled and reindeer on the front lawn struck him as a bit over the top, but the authenticity of the nineteenth century hand-carved antique sled and life-like deer figures compensated in craftsmanship what the display may have lacked in taste. There was a row of waxed sandwich bags containing glowing candles along the curb in front of his house, part of a necklace of flickering lights stretching unbroken for the length of his block, a striking visual effect and an astonishing phenomenon of cooperation among neighbors who seldom had much to do with each other.

Dunston made three circuits of the neighborhood, pausing each time in front of the Freeman house. He couldn't stand the Trapezoid – it was an eyesore in a neighborhood featuring an otherwise gracious mix of both old and modern styles. So many meaningless angles and swooping curves, a muddled monstrosity inflicted on his block by its nouveau-riche occupant bent on thumbing his nose at what he evidently perceived to be the pretentious West Stemper aristocracy. Dunston had hoped that when Nina and Nick moved in, she would have had the sense to introduce drastic improvements. But as it turned out, Nick was the one smitten with the home, and proceeded to compound its shortcomings with unfortunate renovation decisions. All this while Nina lapsed into an unexplainable malaise. He concluded that Nick's relocation to this neighborhood and into that garish building was a leering act of vengeance directed at Dunston himself. And while it did bring his lover closer to him, Dunston seethed at the proximity of his most annoying former claims drone.

What an endless evening. Like most days, Dunston arrived home with two briefcases stuffed with drab memos to read and management reports to interpret; stuff that sat by the back door untouched. After all, he had his evening with Jill to look forward to, which came to a premature end. And now he was stationed across from Nina's house, his quicksilver decisiveness frozen in the winter air: an air tinged with the faint odor of smoke from a distant fire. An air still charged with the uproar of emergency vehicles tearing importantly in all directions. An air now swirling with thick wet snowflakes. The night pulsed with excitement and momentous events. Dunston didn't want it to end, so he weighed the risk of ringing her doorbell in the hope that Nick was not at home. He bit his lower lip and crossed the street to the Freeman's side. But before he could make his approach, he heard the hum of Abner Clary's minivan as it turned the corner and headed for Nick's driveway. Nick occupied the passenger's seat and Dunston was sure he could discern that characteristic smirk on Nick's face as they passed by. Ignoring his neighbor's bad manners, Dunston smiled at him and nodded.

Dunston was out of choices. He'd be up all night with his Armagnac and his memos.
Chapter Fifty-eight

The Day After

"Look, I got a call into police headquarters and the fire department, you know, the county inspector's office – it makes a difference, you know, if it's arson. Yeh, there'll be an advance but I'll need an inventory from you." Nick was dealing with his first major loss and was on the phone trying to comfort his grief-stricken client. "Look, I'm spending all my time on it; let me go so I can get you the money." But Nick was no sooner off the phone than Nina was on the intercom announcing the arrival of Matthew Dillard.

"Yes, it's about time. Oh, thanks, hell, terrible fire. Bad thing for us. Very very grave."

"Did anyone get hurt?" asked Nina.

"Afraid so... there you are, Dillard. Thanks Nina," said Nick as he hung up the phone.

"Look, Matt, I don't know if you heard about the fire at Calhoun's warehouse last night..."

"I saw it on the news. Pretty spectacular. Guess it hit you pretty hard."

"Right, Calhoun says there was a fatality, a couple of volunteer firemen in the hospital. Bad scene. Bad scene for us." Dillard didn't hear the last part. His pink complexion went to gray. He excused himself and hustled to the bathroom next to Nick's office, where powerful abdominal spasms discharged this morning's undigested breakfast. Dillard gripped the sides of the sink in an effort to compose himself, but he still appeared shaken when he returned to Nick's office.

"Sorry, Nick, I guess the bagel this morning didn't set right. Maybe I'm coming down with something." When Nick looked up from his papers, he was stunned to see that Dillard's usual ruddy complexion had turned the color of undercooked oatmeal.

"I'll say. You look really bad. Looks like more than a bad bagel. Hell, how can a bagel be bad? It's just flour and water."

"What's that supposed to mean? I just don't feel good. That's all. Don't read anything into it. Look, I have to go." Dillard was on his feet and pacing the office like a caged cat. His behavior arrested Nick's attention –like he was jumping out of his skin. But on a morning like this, the last thing Nick had time for was to play touchy-feely with that sorry lad.

"No offense, pal," said Nick. "I think you need to go home and take care of yourself. Incidentally, as you can probably guess, we're going to require some deep pockets to help out with this claim." He assumed that Dillard was aware that Nick's enterprise was not sufficiently reserved for a loss of this magnitude. He'd need Matt to prepare claim reports, do the loss analysis and make the cash transfer from the Great American. "I trust that you can make sure that this incident does not end up too prominently on the large loss report," said Nick.

"You're asking a lot. Very risky stuff. High six figures. Maybe seven. Not easy to sweep this kind of loss under a rug."

"Find a way, I can't think of everything. There's a solid gold carrot at the end of this stick when you get it done." Dillard didn't reply, instead he turned and tripped out of the house to his car.

* * *

Harmless entrepreneurial venture and finessing a few rules – nobody gets hurt. But people got hurt. A man died. Dillard was now a bigger monster than Nick. Another core-rattling shudder seized Dillard's flaming gut; he pulled over just in time to lean out and heave what was left in his stomach into a storm sewer. Everything was changed. He was now more tainted than Nick – where does it stop? Where does it stop? Dillard found himself on Industrial Avenue, which was still cordoned off and abuzz with fire equipment and long blue and white trailers from the state arson investigation unit. They wouldn't let him close enough to the burn site to assess his handiwork. He should go in to work. But he couldn't. He would call in sick. He was sick. He stopped downtown to buy a pack of cigarettes, and was sucking on one before he was even out of the store. Hadn't smoked in two years, except for that silly pipe. But now he was sucking like his life depended on it. Making up for lost time, Dillard drove around town two, three, four times until the pack was empty. He returned to the same Seven Eleven, got a strange look from the counter clerk when he frantically demanded another pack, this time unfiltered, then back in the car and smoking around town two or three more times and he didn't pull into his driveway again until that pack was half-spent. He knew Rita would smell the tobacco on his breath and in his clothes. (Should've picked up a pack of Big Red chewing gum like he used to.) He'd say it was secondary smoke from the fire investigation scene. He couldn't break her heart and confess that he was back on the weed. But there was no alternative to tobacco. Rita was never a smoker and didn't understand. So this was another thing he would not be able to tell her. Dillard was learning new skill sets. For the first time in more than 30 years of marriage, he was learning the art of concealment. He wondered how he'd do. Life before was so casual and pure plaid simple – tell the truth, don't put on airs, and don't try to put one over on the missus. Cornball simple, but he and Rita seldom quarreled, and, even when they did, the air was always cleared before the lights were turned out at night. But that wouldn't do anymore. Matthew Dillard was a man with secrets and, with secrets, went responsibilities. Whatever it took, at least it was getting the bills paid. And goddammit, the bills don't stop and that meant going into work after all and writing up an ugly excess-of-loss-claim that would have to be approved and signed off on by no one else but the CEO himself. Dillard parked the car and rushed in the house for a quick shower and a fresh shirt. There was paper to churn. And bonuses to be earned.

* * *

With each ring of the telephone, Nick's jangled nerves absorbed another jolt: "What are you talking about, tires slashed? Signs of forced entry? Mal, I don't know. Damnedest thing. Every goddamn vehicle – somebody's out to get me... no, don't worry don't worry just get me an inventory I'll take a ride out myself. Look, my other line...bye...yes...the other line...I don't know about a check today. Abner, good, it's you. The Gekko place out in Carteret was hit last night – some slashed tires and broken windows and, I don't know, but I'm wondering if someone is trying to send a message. I don't get it. Spoke to Calhoun already and he's bent out of shape, you could understand, and he'll be stopping by for a small advance but I'm counting on the reinsurance deal to handle most of it. I hate depending so much on Dillard, but I'm not left with many choices here. No, I don't think this is a good time for you to be doing preliminaries in Houston — I know it's a big project engineering-wise, but I'm going to need you here for a few days Abner....Abner? Ah shit!" Abner hung up, but he was packing for Houston anyway – part of a barter deal with a warehousing outfit in Chicago. Abner's doing the site survey and initial specs for their planned Texas facility. Had to let him go—he's still trying to resuscitate the engineering side of his business – there's the future to think about.

Nick was up and pacing, the phones silent for the moment. He wanted to call Dillard again, but he was probably not at work yet. He had messages on voice mail – call-backs on some more deals. Everyone clamoring to trade goods for insurance. But after last night, Nick had little appetite for morning follow-ups. It was a matter of putting things in perspective: just a setback. His first setback. It need not be fatal, but that didn't make it hurt less. As long as he kept his head. Even though there was still a cup left in the carafe in the office coffee-maker, Nick needed to get away from his desk and he went down to the kitchen to brew a fresh batch. He heard the perky pipings of Regis and Kathy Lee in the den, so Nina must still be home. He poured two cups and took one in to her. If Nina was surprised to see him, she didn't let on. They sipped in silence as Regis and Kathy Lee bubbled and bobbed through a bright and lively hour of light-hearted banter. Then the station cut away to the local news and taped highlights of last night's warehouse fire and the scene in front of the Finley home, where two plastic body bags were being loaded into the back of an EMS vehicle. Nick's eyes widened when he recognized the house on the other side of his former home and some of the bystanders. Then he saw Joe Snyder talking to some cops.

"Isn't that..." Nick said with amazement.

"Yes. It was awful. Ethel Finley and her husband. He lost it or something ..." Nina put down her mug of coffee. Earlier, when she was packing the kids away to school, she rushed to turn off the TV to spare the children the grisly details when the news came on. "I have to speak with the girls – Mrs. Finley was a customer of theirs. They may not understand what went on. I can't believe it myself. Tara especially could be difficult."

"Right. Of course," said Nick. "It was a terrible night. The fire and then this. You know the fire was real bad for me. It was Calhoun's warehouse that went up."

"What does that have to do with you?" Nina said, blowing on her coffee and turning from the set to look at Nick.

"It was my first deal, don't you remember? I bartered inventory for property and liability indemnity coverages. As you can see, there is not much property left to speak of – and plenty of indemnity to provide. My little corporation has to make good."

"Oh dear, so you've had a business setback," she said, with just a hint of mocking scorn creeping into her voice, Nick was far too self-absorbed to detect anything but concern in Nina's response.

"Yes, a setback is a good way of phrasing it. It will call for some creative scrambling. Nothing for which I don't have a contingency plan. My personal reserves are a little short, but there is other paper – has to be – just hate to tap into it so early into the enterprise..."

"We're not going to lose the house..." said Nina wistfully. "If that's the case, we'll just drive up sales in the spot remover business."

"No. We're not going to lose the house. We're not going to lose a step. There was another little claim last night, too. An obnoxious piece of vandalism. The whole thing makes me a little suspicious."

"Is that so?"

"My first two claims. Both on the same night. I've been in insurance for 22 years and I've seen it happen before. Companies going belly up from unrelated, seemingly coincidental occurrences. I didn't believe it then. I don't believe it now."

"Probably just a run of bad luck. Things will even up. You wouldn't have it any other way," she added with a touch of despair and looked away. She took another sip of coffee and waited for him to leave.

* * *

"How could you expose our daughter to that scene?" cried Doris. "She had no business being there. What's gotten into you, Joe? It's not like you, not like you at all." It was also not like Joe to be circling the kitchen table 'round and 'round, over and over, which was what he'd been doing since leaving the Finley's at 2 a.m., and now it was 9 o'clock and time to be on his way to work and the phone kept ringing and ringing..."Joe, answer me! Didn't you expect Lavinia to do something foolish at the fire? Is that what you wanted? Is that it? How could you have that on your conscience?" Words of hurtful reproach seldom crossed Doris' lips, but that could be explained: Doris had become a distortion, twisted by stress and anxiety. She failed to even notice that Joe kept walking 'round and 'round. She didn't notice that he was completely unresponsive to her shrill accusations. Just 'round and 'round.

"When I was a rookie in Newark, back during the riots, there were rocks and bottles flying through the air. Bullets everywhere, bodies in the streets. I saw one guy, a big black dude coming at me with a pry bar and I pulled my gun. But before I could get a round off, his head was blown clear off his shoulders from the right side. Nailed by a National Guardsman. I mean his head was there one minute, then, just ....gone. The momentum of his rush, you know, after his head was blown off, carried him a few more steps and right into me. And you know I was too shocked to move out of the way. I had never actually seen a man get shot like that before. He weighed a ton and it took all my strength to push him off. My uniform was covered with his blood. When I checked out the body itself, the stump had all kinds of crap coming out of it, blood spurting and oozing. And there was no head. I threw up, sure. And his blood was all over me. I remember pushing the body away and then I just sat on the curb, all hell breaking loose around me, numb to it all. I don't remember how I got back to headquarters, what became of that uniform. Who took the body away. Doris, last night reminded me of the Newark riots. Two people ripped apart. Heads blown clear off their bodies. I was young back then, not mentally prepared. I don't know how I handled it last night. I'm sorry about Lavinia. Is she okay?"

Doris looked at Joe, wide-eyed. She absent-mindedly picked up a paper bag Joe had put on the table. He brusquely snatched it out of her hands and put it next to his briefcase on the kitchen counter, muttering something about "evidence." Lavinia appeared in her night gown, an dreamy expression on her face.

"I'm okay, Daddy," she said. Doris nodded at her daughter, but said nothing. "I hope I was helpful last night. It was very exciting. Thank you for taking me." A faint curl of her upper lip that passed for a smile displaced Lavinia's usual pout of suspicion.

"Actually, honey, it was a bad call on my part," said Joe. "I shouldn't have allowed you anywhere near such a dangerous situation. I'm glad to see that you're all right. You can think about staying home from school if you don't feel up to it." Doris shook her head no, but Joe was not paying attention to her.

"No, I have to go to school. I've already missed too many days – I'm afraid it will affect my grades. I'm okay."

"Honey, your grades are perfect."

"John Hentwing has a 4.15 average. I'm only 4.10. I can't afford to let down. John never misses a day. I've missed four." The pout was back. Joe and Doris bit their tongues. Balled their fists. Doing what the shrink told them to do. So...hard... to...just...back...off.

"Then, dear," said Doris, "you should go up and start getting dressed." Lavinia darted out of the kitchen and up the stairs. "The doctor's office called today – Lavinia's psychiatrist – they've canceled her appointments this week. They said it was regrettable because Lavinia desperately needs the therapy. But there's nothing else they can do."

"How bad...?"

"We're six weeks behind. They were very nice about it, but you know..."

"Sure. But I guess. I guess. We're off the couch sessions for a while."

"Look, I can't increase my hours at the hospital, Joe. In fact they're cutting back on everyone because of the managed care thing and I may not even have a job a month from now. What can we do to make sure our daughter gets the help she needs? Do you have to send those checks to your mother every month?" Joe turned away from Doris, feeling the walls close in tighter and tighter, the muscles in his chest squeezing tighter and tighter. He was a grown man. He couldn't cry out in pain. He's got to hold it in. It's not like he was still a patrolman and could do a security detail at night off the books. Technically, a deputy chief was always on duty. You'd think at this stage in his career...

"I'm sorry Joe. What else can we do?"

"I have to see Nick Freeman. Got to get to the office. We'll do something, Doris. Maybe we got to go to church more often." Joe grabbed the bag and his briefcase. Doris hustled upstairs to wake up Tanya. Time to start the day.

* * *

"Did I mention I am pissed? I'm really pissed, Freeman. All my stuff – I mean all of it is gone. I'm pissed! Were you watching the news?"

"Yes, Mr. Calhoun, I appreciate your feelings. Yeah, it's been on all morning. Believe me, my staff is all over this and you'll get taken care of 100 percent. Don't worry."

"Yeah, now what about my check?" Swarthy Arthur Calhoun paced Nick's office (he now had no office of his own) and refused to take a seat or sip a complimentary cup of coffee. Nick found Calhoun on his doorstep ringing his chimes at 6 a.m. Since Nick hadn't hit the sack himself until 3 a.m., he wasn't prepared for the sight of a grumpy claimant at such an hour. Nick sent him away and told him to come back after lunch, but Calhoun couldn't hold out past mid-morning. Nick tried to explain that it was not just a matter of taking out a checkbook and cutting reimbursements for thousands of dollars. There's got to be an investigation of some kind, forms had to be filed: there was a process.

"Shitting me, Freeman. Shitting me," whined Calhoun.

"WAIT," cried Nick, with fire in his eyes. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU ACCUSING ME OF? I'M NOT FUCKING WITH YOU. I DON'T FUCK WITH ANYBODY!" Calhoun appeared startled by Nick's sudden detonation. So was Nick, who was standing toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose with a stunned client. An unusual customer relations technique. There was a knock on his door. It was Nina complaining about the language emanating from the office. Nick ignored her. "I never lied to you, Mr. Calhoun. I fully intend to make you and your business whole. I am not stalling and I am not putting you off. The goddamn fire just occurred nine hours ago and you're at my door demanding instant restitution. I know you live in the neighborhood, but, jeez, give me a fucking break!"

Art Calhoun backed away and quietly took a seat in the conference area, explaining to Nick in a softer voice, "You gotta understand, that's my business. I shut down for a day, a week, hell, I'll never catch up. I got my inventory, deliveries to make and now there's nothing to deliver. Been in business for myself for 40 years and never had a disaster like this."

"Sure. Sure," said Nick. "I apologize for blowing up like that – it's just I go ballistic when my integrity is questioned." Nick offered a preliminary disbursement to help his customer take care of his immediate needs. He scribbled a check drawn on his business account for several thousand dollars – almost the entirety of its present balance – to silence Calhoun until the "reinsurance" was executed. Calhoun seemed adequately defused and Nick detected what seemed to be the slightest smile of gratitude for the advance. Nick knew he paid him too much, but it got Calhoun out of his face for at least a while.

"You know, when I get back in business, I intend to spring for the security guard. Probably could have nipped this thing in the bud," said a remorseful Art Calhoun.

"There you go," said Nick, with false heartiness. Another knock on the door and Nick was stoked all over again. "Nina, I'm in conference. It better be important..." But it wasn't Nina, it was Joe Snyder. Nick rolled his eyes, but he was more than happy for whatever intelligence Joe could offer. "Sorry, Joe, thought you were my wife. This is Art Calhoun – it was his warehouse that burned down last night. What's the word?"

Joe explained that the investigation is just under way, but one thing they did discover was the sprinkler system had been intentionally shut off. Joe looked carefully at Calhoun, who was wearing an expression that wasn't difficult to decipher, since his eyes were popping out of his head and his lips flapped in disbelief.

"What does that mean to you, Mr. Snyder?" said Calhoun.

Joe suggested that the fire was intentionally set and the perpetrator had ample knowledge of the electrical and plumbing systems to make sure of a total burnout.

"I can't believe it," sputtered Calhoun. "Who would do that to me? I mind my own business. If it were an accident or something – I could live with that."

Nick stroked his chin and took a seat on the sofa next to Calhoun. Joe sat in an easy chair across from them. "Complicates things for sure," said Nick. "Can't be a settlement until we have some answers." Calhoun slumped as Joe made an appointment with Calhoun to discuss the investigation.

"I need to be able to count on your cooperation, Mr. Calhoun. Maybe later on this afternoon?" Calhoun nodded and rose slowly to his feet. Joe also stood and smiled stiffly, trying to put Calhoun at ease. "Mr. Freeman and I have some matters to discuss in the meantime. I'm very sorry about what happened, but we're working toward a resolution." Nick showed Calhoun the door with a consoling pat on the back.

Once Calhoun left, Nick turned to Joe and told him that it his life would become a lot simpler if it ended up that Calhoun really did have something to do with fire. Joe stood behind Nick's desk, gazing out at the brown wintry day, the silent street flanked on either side by enormous bare-branched maples and sycamores. He considered the sprawling Neo-Greco-Roman creation across the way that where livesd a man Joe suspected of mob connections, but whose activities had never imposed on the jurisdictional concerns of the West Stemper constabulary. Still Joe squirreled away scraps and fragments of information – a professional habit. One of the little things he did that gained a competitive edge.

"Nice house over there. You've got yourself into a very elite spot here. How badly are you into Calhoun's warehouse?" Nick pushed by Joe and took a seat at his desk. Joe didn't budge, transfixed by the scene of comfortable affluence. Nick looked over Calhoun's file and inventoried the painful damage for Joe: the primary property damage, the business interruption rider, a small carve-out on the general liability side. He worked the calculator for the tenth time this morning, praying that the numbers would come up friendlier. They didn't.

"My guess is we're talking over a million. And since my contract with Calhoun was on the soft side, being it was my first deal, we may be interested in looking into the moral hazard angle." Joe shrugged—what? Nick explained:

"It's a kind of incentive to commit fraud. Mr. Calhoun bought insurance on the cheap. Maybe he's having credit problems; maybe the business is not in the pink–whatever. Well, a major loss followed by a fat check from the insurance company could sure simplify life a bit. One-stop liquidation of depressed assets. Moral hazard." Joe nodded gravely and promised to do a deep background check on the warehouse owner.

"You know, my business is still finding its legs," said Nick. "That fire was a major blow and already I'm tapping into certain special reserves. Get something on Calhoun, Joe. I'd be real grateful." Nick was startled to find himself clutching Joe's elbow, tightly. Joe's gaze was still fixed out the window, acting like this was nothing more than a casual conversation. He was still a cop. Nick regretted the display of vulnerability. Joe did not need to see this side of him.

"We'll follow the trail wherever it leads," said Joe thoughtfully. He then pulled out a steno pad and wandered around the office, asking Nick questions regarding Calhoun's business, his friends, his enemies, his personal life. As Nick provided what he could, Joe occasionally jotted down a note. For the most part, however, Joe seemed more absorbed by the view from the third floor of the Trapezoid.

"So is this how you professionals do it?" a comment that raised Joe's eyebrows. "You know, acting like you're not paying attention when you really are – lulling a person into making careless disclosures." Joe looked at Nick blankly. "I mean, you seem to be tuning in and out. You're not writing much down. Makes me think you're a pretty crafty guy — on the other hand, maybe I really am boring you." Nick smiled, Joe chuckled.

"OK, Nick. You caught me. Yes, maybe I am a little distracted. Point is, yesterday really shook me up. A guy who'd been a regular on the Police Auxiliary for 25 years perished yesterday in the fire. It was a heart attack, sure, but brought on by all the smoke and excitement. Then, of course, the Finleys. This town never had a fire-scene fatality before, and it's been more than 20 years between murders..." and then his voice just trailed off, not finishing his thought. He reached for his paper bag and removed an uncapped brown bottle and asked if Nick had ever seen one like it before. Nick turned it around in his hands and nodded.

"This is an empty from the spot remover stuff that my wife and kids sell door-to-door. Gets out all kinds of dirt and stains. My genius brother-in-law invented the formula. In fact, my in-house sales force has been so successful that they're screwing up my taxes," he added, trying to lighten the mood.

"I found this on the kitchen table at the Finley home. There was residue of the substance on the murder weapon."

"Meaning?"

"I'm not sure. Probably nothing. Just a strange case. Don't know what to make of it, maybe you could get me a full bottle so we could have it analyzed at the lab. Sometimes you don't have much to go on," Joe said in a whispery, far away voice. He landed on Nick's sofa and let his head loll all the way back until his face tilted toward the ceiling. Nick couldn't recall seeing Joe so listless, so ready to pack it in.

"Got a long day ahead of me. Nick, maybe it would be best if I sold the house back to you. I'm on overload, afraid my head's going to explode. The bills, the job, the pressure..." Nick shook his head and started rummaging through his desk drawers. He was going to make his friend help himself.

"First rule of real estate," said Nick, "is never become a distressed seller. At best I could offer you a wash. Besides, my cash flow, as you can well understand, could be healthier at the moment. You've put a lot of work into the place; don't let it go to waste. Here, look at this." Nick handed Joe a thin file.

"These applications are for permits to carry..." said Joe, peering briefly at the completed forms.

"They've been hung up by red tape for various reasons. In fact, one guy who owns a plant in Carteret was just hit yesterday evening, tires slashed on his whole fleet of delivery trucks, some broken windows. I have a piece of that loss, too – so like yourself, last night was not so hot for me in more ways than one."

"They were rejected because..."

"I'm not sure. Gun laws in this state are impossible. Seems like only cops and crooks can pack heat around here. These guys work late at night in some pretty hairy neighborhoods. Hell, we're talking responsible citizens here. They run businesses and are just trying to protect themselves and their assets. Maybe you could look into it, Joe. It would provide them some peace of mind and make me a hero, if you know what I mean."

"You know I have a problem with this sort of thing."

"It's worth fifteen hundred dollars apiece if you could pull some strings," said Nick, which caused Joe to swing back to an upright position.
Chapter Fifty-nine

The Score

Maybe just a touch of anxiety when Thurmond's secretary called him in. But Dillard was careful. He chose to break the claims down into seven smaller submissions: by risk categories, degree of exposure, reserve compartments. A consolidated sum of the total loss would have caught even Dunston's fleeting attention. Dillard sprinkled the package of claims randomly through the large loss report. Even so, on the off chance that Thurmond had turned over a new leaf and decided to actually study the report, Dillard tried to present it in person and distract the Chairman's attention as he approved the disbursements. But no such luck, Jill had become a steely gatekeeper; it appeared that Matthew Dillard was no longer worthy of cozy audiences with the king. Alas, Dunston had begun to acclimate himself to the arrogance of high office.

"Thank you for stopping by, Matt. Mr. Thurmond left this for you," said Jill, handing him the blue folder. Matt returned a thin smile when in fact he wanted to leap in the air and click his heels. A quick glance revealed the coveted signatures, which meant he'd have a bunch of checks to deliver to Freeman in the next 48 hours. If he really wanted to cut the mustard on this one, he could probably have the payments executed by this afternoon, but that would attract curious eyes from Accounting. No sense showing off. Nick, who'd been on his case three times a day since the fire, deserved to be left out to dry for a couple more days. What little clout Dillard could wield, he did with evident delight.

Dillard had become curiously light-hearted as he went about his mischief. He used to blame Nick for corrupting him. But that was before the good sense that made him an outstanding claims man kicked in. The claims man did not possess in his tool box the slick élan and iron nerve that would enable him to finesse the facts to achieve his ends—skill sets more the province of pros in the Marketing and Advertising departments. Claims men worked with scraps and microscopes; they were dogged assimilators of evidence – the truth-seekers of the insurance world. To distort and mislead was contrary to their nature. Similarly, Dillard couldn't lie to himself. One was not corrupted, one became corrupt. It was an act of free will. The swirl of temptations notwithstanding — Rita's illness, his miserly employer, the unrelenting browbeating by Nick Freemen — those friction points constituted self-deception and excuses. Dillard himself was culpable and he knew it.

But another thing he knew was for the first time in his life he could enjoy the essence of control. He had the Great American by the short hairs. He had Dunston Thurmond by the short hairs. He never thought he could do it – he never thought he would want to do it. But there it was! Nick's insight into human nature and the politics of large organizations caused an awakening in Dillard. So the claims man was not who he used to be. Got news for Nick Freeman, snorted an aroused Matthew Dillard – got Nick by the short hairs, too! The pincer was closing in and Nick would be left with no choice but to sit up and take notice.

Dillard's holy crusade. Even if it meant loss of life, there were casualties in every worthy cause. A fake cop lost his life. A wife desperately ill — the same war, the same battle. Risks were taken, choices made, consequences sometimes unintended. He lit up an unfiltered cigarette. The odd bubbling sensation of euphoria confused him.
Chapter Sixty

The Merchant

Drawing an efficient floor plan in an oddball puzzle of a house like The Trapezoid could be confounding for even the cleverest interior design professional. So likely were rooms with wild spatial distortions that defy utility as functional living space. Nina had co-opted just such a niche that was wide enough and long enough to park her own personal computer and a tiny rhomboid desk. There, behind a locked door, she downloaded some of Nick's prospect lists into her own database program and taught herself how to compile and structure mail-merge operations and compose persuasive form letters.

Nick's preoccupation with the insurance barter business had reduced his mail order activities to a single standing ad in Popular Mechanics. Even infrequent customers for his get-rich-quick pamphlets were handled through a drop-ship arrangement with an independent distributor in Topeka. The point was simply to keep a finger in the pie. One keen observer of his operation, without Nick's knowledge, had been scrupulously studying his mail-order guides and had even sneaked some offer letters from his files. But Nina had her own marketing plan in mind. Thus, with the help of her mid-range PC, which she purchased out of spite (Nick used a Mac) from spot remover proceeds, Nina had embarked on some empire-building of her own.

For more than two weeks she'd been honing her four-page pitch letter – all the books said that four pages generated the most responses, even though no one read all that copy. She photographed her kids removing impossible stains from carpeting, clothing, upholstery and countertops. She planned on incorporating the photos in her letter and having the job printed at the local letterpress on a Lustrecoat paper stock. The two-color layout included a logo and letterhead she had designed herself using shareware graphics programs that Abner found on line. She'd come up with a test price of $8.99 for a 32-oz. bottle, plus $2.95 for shipping, with suitable discounts for volume purchases. She was excited about her initial test mailing, which would consist of 500 names from Nick's "A" list. If she could garner a 5% response, she would spring for a 5,000-piece run. Then she'd be able to take advantage of third class bulk rate discounts. She contracted with a local design firm to come up with packaging ideas. Since she pegged production costs at less than three dollars per unit and fulfillment at another two or three, Nina expected to achieve a margin of about five dollars per bottle, minus acquisition expenses. As with most mail order start-ups, Nina did not expect to break after her first full-scale mailing given initial design, printing and production costs. But with plenty of cash flow in hand from her kids' door-to-door sales to reinvest into her new distribution medium, it would become a simple matter of fine-tuning her lists, perfecting the pitch and automating the fulfillment process to squeeze the most from her market. And then, as Nick's how-to books suggested, once she built a loyal following in mail-order, she could branch out into catalogs and specialty stores. Maybe a spot on QVC. Nina the Spot Remover Queen.

And it wouldn't stop there: she was already working on diversification. She saw money growing in her sister's front yard. People would pay through the nose for poster-paint green grass that resisted most pests and blight, never lost its depth and intensity even through summer droughts and the dormant winter months, required almost no watering and grew so slowly that a biweekly trim was all it ever needed, even during an El Niño summer. She knew that Nick had repeatedly tried to pry the secret formula out of Abner Clary, but her brother-in-law was adamantly opposed to marketing his wondrous discovery to other over-achieving turf slaves. Even visions of fantastic wealth did not seem to sway him — Abner clearly coveted the distinction of owning the greenest, most trouble-free lawn in town (in the world!), and he wanted to keep it that way.

But all it took was the promise of a cut of the profits for Nina to successfully engage her sister to discretely secure a few milliliters of the mystery substance, which Nina would take to a lab for analysis. Michelle, eyeing the potential royalties, could care less about grass, as long as something was there to cover the dirt. By bottling and selling the secret, Nina figured it wouldn't be long before all the homes across America would pay to have grass that looked like Oz.

Such were the concerns of Nina's new life with and apart from Nick. By an act of sheer will she determined that her feelings for him had died. She faced a future as a doting mom and a hard-charging businesswoman who would, if things worked out, one day pull up stakes and move into her own place with the girls and live a life separate from the man with whom only a short year ago she had expected to share eternity. It's okay. The tears have dried, the trauma absorbed. Nothing he could say or do. He probably won't even notice. The girls will cry and complain, which they did anyway. They could see Dad whenever they wished and Nina herself will never trash him to their faces. Any alternative to this plan was implausible.

Of course she could use Nick's help in structuring her enterprise – she'd be foolish not to tap his hard-won expertise honed over the years of crash and burn. But to do so would invite a storm of ridicule and discouragement. And Nina knew enough that her recently forged "iron will" remained brittle at best. So while she pined to have Nick critique her pitch letter, she would instead trust her instincts and go to press and let her prospects judge her pitch. She persevered with the confidence that came from merchandising a great product. And, according to all the texts, that's the key element in building any successful direct mail business. She will call Michelle to see if she was up for a ride to Gekko Chemicals.

* * *

From the upstairs bedroom window Abner recognized the unmarked West Stemper police car in his driveway and the burly black man standing patiently at his front door. He would have to suspend for now his investigation, which had so far revealed several empty condom wrappers carelessly left uncovered in the wastebasket in his bedroom. This painful discovery explained why the sheets had been stripped off the bed and, he assumed, spirited to the laundry room. Since Michelle just changed the sheets the day before, the question remaining for Abner was no longer "what," but "with whom." Clearly someone who could soil rubbers at a far greater clip than Michelle's husband.

"It's you, Joe, nice to see you," said Abner to the Deputy Chief, who had arrived with a paper bag in hand. Abner brought Joe Snyder into the den and offered him some coffee, which the cop turned down: pressed for time, he said. "What brings you here? Some fire the other night."

"Well, you know we had all kinds of bad business — a murder/suicide. You probably saw it on the news."

"Terrible terrible tragedy. Such a shame," said Abner shaking his head. He knew Mr. Finley from the school board. The man had been active in town for some forty years. Never really knew his wife.

"Worst I've ever seen. Can't get it out of my head. This bottle was at the scene. Don't think it means anything, but it was found with the bodies. I just came from Nick Freeman's and he said that this is one of your concoctions and it's supposedly pretty effective. Anyway, I don't know what's in this stuff, whether it could be a factor. Maybe inadvertently, you know how kids experiment with all kinds of inhalants – airplane glue, disinfectants, gasoline fumes. I'm just thinking..."

Abner explained that the formula was a highly dilute solution that was both odorless and colorless, noting that he'd worked with it a lot and never experienced any physical effects. Despite his own explanation, however, Abner's mind was churning and he started feeling a queasiness in his gut. A nervous rumble.

"I'm sure you're right, but the whole case just throws me. A quiet, gentle couple ending up like that. Tough thing to figure out. Maybe you could provide a sample—that would be great. Thanks for your time, Abner," said Joe.

Once Joe Snyder was on his way, Abner rushed to the laundry room and found the stained sheets and comforter, concluding that he would not have to conduct a chemical analysis of the residue to nail down certain activities unfolding in his bedroom that morning while he was off performing a safety inspection at a resin factory in Nutley.
Chapter Sixty-one

The Empowered

Three silhouetted figures in tight black jumpsuits who crept like giant mice in the plant office would remain with Gekko always. Listening to the muffled creaking of the steel security door as it was pried open and the urgent, hushed whispers. He himself was doing a final walk-through of the facilities, his usual end-of-day ritual – making sure power equipment was shut off, that product was safely sealed and stowed, the security systems activated.

He sensed as he checked the locks on the loading platform garage doors that something was not quite right. An unfamiliar panel truck was parked across the otherwise empty street outside the factory's 10-foot-high razor-topped security fence. He heard a thump as he approached the accounting office and then hit the deck. Flashlight beams danced against the walls and ceiling as the specters groped around the office until they found the safe. Then there was the whine of a high-speed drill, a sound that caused his heart to sink. Somehow they knew that tomorrow's payroll was in the safe. They knew that several important deliveries had been made that week and that the proceeds, rather than being safely deposited in the bank, still sat in the office safe because the owner was too busy to drive downtown to make the deposits himself – a task he entrusted to no one else.

All Gekko could do was stand by and watch. Three times in the last two years. The first time he was prepared: he sent both perpetrators home in bags. They were trespassers, he caught them with cash in their possession. All it took was two rounds from his .45 automatic to bore neat holes through their skulls. He foiled a crime, but for that his unregistered firearm was confiscated and he was lucky to get off with a suspended sentence and probation for unlawful possession. The second time he was condemned to watch. To lose himself in the fury and helplessness as he watched them drill out the lock, pry open the door and empty the contents of the safe into nylon bags. He could see that each was carrying a 9 mm automatic pistol – he'd have been a fool to rush them. And even though he called the cops, it took them a half hour to arrive at the secluded industrial park. By then it was too late. They were never caught.

But never more.

In his hands he fondled a brand new weapon. A shiny black handgun that fires 24 rounds with one squeeze of the trigger. Now at night when he inspected his plant, it was with a flashlight in one hand and a powerful gun in the other.

And this time he was legal. Thanks to a helpful vendor, calls were made, arms were twisted, bureaucracies breached and now a citizen had regained the power to protect his property. Gekko will never cower in dark corners again.
PART III
Chapter Sixty-two

The Losing Streak

They're fast and they tease the bounds of control, thrusting her to the sacred edge. That's the attraction. Wheels on her feet and her body a blur, the concussing wind pummeling her face and her swinging arms and match stick legs.

Lavinia loved her new in-line skates.

With orange oversized bumper pads shielding her knees and elbows and wrists, and coordinated orange headgear corralling the dozen or so crooked braids sprouting from her long, oval head, Lavinia circled the neighborhood again and again before breaking away with the escape velocity of a Jovian probe to the outer edges of town, riding a momentum that blasted her along the narrow, lightly traveled county roads that swooped and curved through the Watchung Mountains.

Zooming Lavinia flew down the declines and scaled the upgrades, ignoring the screaming pain in her thighs and calves and the hot burn in her chest as she challenged the limits of her endurance. Sometimes she passed her occasional running partner and former neighbor, Mrs. Freeman, who jogged at a relative turtle's pace either alone or with her weekend club. Lavinia smiled through clenched teeth and waved through her agony, but she never slowed down. And she didn't use the sidewalks and she didn't yield to motorists because she was fast and strong and immortal.

...when she was wearing her wheels.

* * *

More mischief at a co-gen plant in Elizabeth. Some nuisance vandalism this time, the bottom layers of coverage – the part that Nick retained in return for the fly ash and gypsum that he trucked to central Pennsylvania for use as fill for strip-mined wastelands. Nick was initially skeptical of Abner's idea of converting scrubber waste into a matrix that could make vegetation grow on desolate mining plains. But after running a test patch, Abner proved that by combining the by-products of alkaline ash and toxic acid from waste-burning plants, a fill material could be formulated that was ideal for growing grasses and trees. Now Nick trucked the stuff by the ton to revitalize soil-dead landscapes in Pennsylvania, West Virginia and North Carolina at an expected revenue-to-expense ratio of close to 400 percent. That project alone could have made several millions for Nick and Abner after just the first three months of operation.

Except for a run of bad luck.

Ever since the Calhoun plant fire, there had been a steady string of losses that defied actuarial probabilities. Chemical spills, burglaries, bursting pipes, more fires – it seemed that no sooner had he signed a new client than some horrible loss reared up. Even the Petersons warehouse store had a suspicious smoke situation that was never traced, but was cause enough to shutter operations for three days of clean-up. The killer was that Nick had a piece of the business interruption coverage to go with the property damage exposure. A loss like that in such a clean, modern facility was inconceivable. But that seemed to be characteristic of most of Nick's losses. Not part of the business plan.

So despite healthy seven-figure grosses, Nick netted no more than what was required to project the image of a prosperous lifestyle. Those pesky claims were taking their toll, and he had to dip regularly into his phantom reinsurance treaty with the Great American – now to the tune of several million dollars. He chalked it up to growing pains. He chalked it up to his inherent bad luck. At least the mail order business continued to putter along – everybody wants to get rich and he had the books to teach them how. It was a small but steady income stream. He could use more time to continue building that business, but already it was nearly impossible to balance all the demands that currently absorbed his attention. His stomach was at constant war with his emotions. He had a strong cash flow and a Rolodex bulging with contacts and clients. But it was not adding up—the bucket wasn't filling fast enough to keep up with the leaks.

Plus there was Dillard's increasing dissatisfaction with his role in Nick's enterprise. With the Great American now a key source of Nick's indemnity income, Dillard's power and boldness had grown proportionately. His demands had become overbearing, bordering on extortion. He appeared under the impression that he had Nick at a disadvantage. In one respect, Dillard's assumptions held some truth, but Nick maintained the confidence of an entrepreneur who succeeded on guts and creativity – attributes that did not vanish after a few setbacks.

No, Nick wouldn't let the current, short-term situation consume him. He was not the same man who dwelled in pain and insecurity down in the basement all those years. He was a man with crystal clear vision with a view from the third floor. The present clouds would soon disperse. Why should his business be immune from a bad quarter? There are millions to be made in the next!

It amused him that Nina was building a fledgling mail order enterprise based on his spot remover marketing concept. And now she was even working on a plan to market Super Green, the name she'd given Abner's lawn chemical concoction. Nick was mildly offended by Nina's refusal to seek his advice. She probably thought he didn't know that she'd downloaded several of his lists into her computer, along with PC versions of his mail-merge and spreadsheet software, and that she'd consulted his mail order library for guidance. Perhaps his Nina alienation project was succeeding all too well. They'd gone from bitter words to total silence to civil and perfunctory coexistence. Maybe someday Nick would need a wife again. But that time was not now.

"Did I interrupt something?" Dillard inquired as he walked into Nick's office unannounced. "Saw you staring through the window – didn't want to disturb the great mind at work."

"Do you have the checks?" Dillard handed them over before Nick had completed his sentence. He calculated the total of the three checks in his head, which came to more than he had expected, which meant the business was flush for at least the next few months. This removed some of the strain and Nick sat down behind his desk. Dillard, who tended to quickly dash off upon the execution of business, instead took a seat opposite Nick and pulled out a yellow file folder from his briefcase. "You know, I had another occurrence last night," said Nick.

"Yes, I know," said Dillard, a odd, crooked smile spreading across his face. He handed the folder to Nick for his consideration. It contained news clippings from local papers, copies of police reports and screen captures from video newscasts.

"So you keep a record of these things – what's the point?"

"Well, these all go into what you might call my personal scrapbook," said Dillard dryly.

"Okay, let's cut the cryptic act. There's something on your mind, Dillard. Let's have it."

"As you wish. But first I must warn you – you're going to get very very angry," a taunt that was sufficient to elicit a curled upper lip from Dillard's seething mentor.

"Dillard."

"OKAY. But I've got to explain it my own way. Stop looking at your phone! First I talk about me. Then I talk about these," he said, indicating the clippings. Nick folded his arms, leaned way back in his chair and heaved a theatrical sigh.

"I know I've been pestering you ever since I got into this business about extra considerations," Dillard began. "I have a pretty good idea of the state of your balance sheet and I also know that without me you'd be operating without a net. So, Nick, given the level of responsibility I've assumed, the pains I've taken in all my transactions at the Great American to protect our little operation, I've grown to mean more to you than simply being an employee – your gofer, as you put it. I view our relationship as more or less a partnership." Dillard paused, bracing himself to absorb what he expected to be a firestorm of indignation from Nick. But there was no storm. Nick instead swung his chair around and faced the window, his back to Dillard.

"Go on," said Nick, his voice a muffled murmur, empty of passion.

"I do want to get out of this business. I fully understand that if you want to swallow the poison pill, there could be legal action. But then we both go down. That would make no sense at all. But my doctor says that the pain in my stomach is that old ulcer kicking up again — the one that laid me out for almost two months a few years back. And I'm back to smoking. It's my body telling me that I'm not cut out for this type of work. I'm eligible for early retirement next year. That, along with a few more fat paydays from you and I can get out of this business. But it will take a significant bump in my fee. I will now require 30 percent of the proceeds, after claims and adjustments."

Dillard's demand caught Nick's attention. His chair swung back around and he confronted Matthew Dillard with a face torqued into a clownish, Dunston-like grin, eyebrows arched. "You require a third of my proceeds? Now, Matthew, tell me: how you settled on that mystical magical number? Did a fortune teller advise you? Did you visit an oracle? And why stop at 30 percent? Why not 40 or 50 percent... partner? Don't partners share 50-50? That's the trouble with you, Matthew, you think too small. Go for gold. How about 100 percent of my income? You are so goddamned important to me – hell, you got me convinced that you're worth whatever you say you are."

"I thought you might react this way," said Dillard in a thin, unsteady voice.

"Then why do you humiliate yourself so, friend? Look, the way things are going with my business, the cash flow ain't so hot. I couldn't really up your fee if I wanted to. Hell, you got the clippings yourself. Unless we loot the Great American's surplus altogether, I doubt I could shower you with the riches that could sustain you through your dotage, even if I were so inclined." Then Nick bent forward abruptly; planted his nose inches from Dillard's. "How many times must I tell you – I AM NOT SO INCLINED!" "Now to the clips," said Dillard, ignoring Nick's extreme pronouncement. "As a former claimsman, do you really believe in bad luck? I mean, look at these losses, week after week. Small claims, large claims. Almost like clockwork. Ever think that your current crisis was anything other than a run of bad luck?" Nick froze, eyes buggy, lips parted. Dillard paused to collect his clips, put them back in his folder and the folder into his briefcase. Then he gathered himself and his jacket and headed to the office door.

"I know a way to really improve your loss experience, Nick. And you know it, too. Just say the word." Dillard waited, the smile gone, replaced by a dour stare and a clenched jaw. Nick rose halfway out of his chair, and then abandoned all effort to control his trembling rage. Focused in a whisper: "Get the fuck out of here!"

"That's not the answer, Nick. And I'm not kidding," growled Dillard. The answer took the form of a bull-rushing Nick, who clumsily charged from behind his desk, a wild funnel cloud of fury, tripped up by a coffee table leg in his sitting area and sent sprawling to the floor. But he popped right back up, fixing to physically throttle with his bare hands the neck of Matthew Dillard, who by then had since fled the scene and was well on his way to his car and on to the next item on his agenda.
Chapter Sixty-three

The Experiment

Abner had his chemistry set out. A stainless steel table in a "clean" section of the basement held several racks of glass tubes, beakers, graduated columns and burner units plugged into a 5-gallon tank of propane, like the ones used for welding torches and home barbecue grills. He even had a reconditioned centrifuge that he rescued from a neighborhood junk-out pile. He salvaged the old blower fan when the kitchen was renovated about ten years ago to construct an exhaust system that vents waste gas through its own double-walled aluminum chimney that ran up the side of the house to the roofline, in accordance with local code requirements.

"It's a typical surfactant in most ways," said Abner to his less-than-mesmerized wife. "But instead of long chains of carbon, sodium and sulfates, I've broken the compounds down into smaller segments without jeopardizing the tension between the hydrophilic and hydrophobic ends of the molecules. The result yields even smaller bubbles than conventional detergents."

"Smaller bubbles," Michelle repeated. "So what?"

"As bubbles form around oil and grime, the surfactant molecules position themselves between the stain and the material – be it cloth, carpeting, linoleum, whatever. The smaller the bubbles, the easier it is for them to intervene. The smallest I've found in my research is about one ten-thousandths of an inch in diameter. I replicated that surfactant years ago using the standard technology. But my shortened bubble chain has decreased bubble size by a magnitude of ten. Through the introduction of a certain amino acid..."

"You don't have to prove your cleverness to me, Abner. Nina and her skinny friend are going to be here in about five minutes, so maybe if you would just fill me in on why you called me down here, love." Just like Michelle, hated getting down into the weeds of his inventions. Abner appraised his wife's selection in attire and wondered if running was the only thing on the agenda today for her. It was a pleasant day but not exactly warm, yet what she had on top was one of her skimpiest running bras. Abner didn't care to find out what he'd discover if he were to follow her.

"Oh sure, getting carried away again. Sorry, but the chemistry fascinates me. What it is, you see: I can't get that Finley thing off my mind. This solution — the cleaning solution — is a unique formulation compared with what I've seen in the technical literature and on the Web. I mean, the Finleys were using it. That's why I'm looking into it."

"Oh, don't be silly," said Michelle. "Hundreds of people are using the stuff. He and the old lady had a falling out, that's all. He probably forgot the Valium that day and just flipped his lid." Then Michelle was off like a rabbit at the sound of the doorbell. Case closed. Abner pondered his relationship with a woman so quick to dismiss complexity. So quick to dodge difficulties. But there was no time to think about that now because the kids had arrived.

Abner believed he was closing in on a solution, one developed without the advantages of sophisticated biochemical laboratory equipment or a staff of clinicians to assist him. His natural resourcefulness would have to suffice. He simply offered to take Kristina, Halle and Tara off their mother's hands while she was off running with her sister and treat the girls to lunch in exchange for their participation in an experiment.

"McDonald's, we're going to McDonald's," declared Tara.

"Wendy's. I can't eat McDonald's – it makes me throw up," Halle countered.

"Be polite, you two. Uncle Abner's treating, so he decides. I think we'd all like Pizza Hut, though," suggested Kristina in a reasonable tone. On the other hand, Abner was not paying attention to any of the recommendations – he was inclined to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Wonder Bread from his own kitchen.

"Enter, ladies," he said. He had placed three small beakers containing a clear colorless liquid on his workbench. He wore a digital stopwatch around his neck and cradled a clipboard in his arms and began checking each girl's pulse rate. Then he instructed them to stand in front of the beakers labeled A, B and C and gently sniff. "Kristina, you take A, Tara B and Halle C."

The girls obediently followed Uncle Abner's instructions. He had intended to build a complete theoretical model before risking field experimentation. But the particular substance he was testing, though straightforward in formulation, appeared to have never been used for specific commercial applications. Thus, whether he liked it or not, Abner was forced to blaze new empirical ground—in a hurry.

As the girls whiffed away, he checked and recorded their pulse rates. With two of the girls he noticed a significant increase in their post-exposure rates compared with their resting pulse rates. The third "control" sniffer showed a level reading. He then isolated Halle to his adjoining office and shut the door. Then he peppered Kristina and Tara with questions about their state of mind. Are you comfortable? Are you calm? Are you nervous? Do you feel happy? He had compiled a list of more than 40 questions, some worded in a way to distract the girls from trying to give the "correct" answer, which enabled him to focus on the manner, not the substance of their responses. Abner took detailed notes, both on what the girls said and their manner and body language. When his interrogation was completed, he brought the samples to his office, beckoning Kristina and Tara to follow. He then took Halle with him and closed the door behind Kristina and Tara and Samples A and B. He went over the same list of questions with Halle. This time his notes were not as detailed and, in fact, he stopped the interrogation after Question 25. He could tell by the ruckus breaking out in his office that his operating hypothesis was probably correct. Abner found this outcome disappointing to say the least.

"Okay, keep it down, kids. It's time for lunch."
Chapter Sixty-four

The Plan Goes Awry

This was Dunston's plan: An informal Sunday morning brunch with the assistant race coordinator at his home. Of course this could have been done at the office, but Dunston discouraged the conduct of outside activities on company premises: a wonderfully convenient policy to invoke when it meant luring Jill to his kitchen. Jill arrived exactly on time in a powder blue sweat suit, her hair tied in a pony tail. Dunston greeted her in ripped blue jeans and a college sweatshirt: a relaxed, unthreatening ensemble painstakingly assembled for its effect. He brought her into the kitchen and poured tall glasses of orange juice that he himself had laboriously squeezed that morning. He then prepared two flawless omelets containing crabmeat, chopped red potatoes, shitake mushrooms, baby spinach and melted goat cheese. Jill watched as he cooked, clearly in awe of his sure-handed way with his professional copper omelet pan.

The eggs were served with freshly baked corn muffins, wild blueberries and French vanilla coffee that was ground moments before Jill's arrival. Dunston had set up a table in the garden on this relatively mild March day, and they sat bathed in morning sunlight like blessed deities.

"I had no idea you could cook like this," Jill gushed, laughing the endearing musical laughter of the hopelessly beautiful. Dunston affected a practiced sheepish smile.

"Usually it's a bowl of Cheerios and out the door," he sprightly replied. "Now and then it's fun to pamper yourself. Incidentally, in case you were worried, these are three-egg omelets, but they come out fluffier if you omit one of the yolks." Dunston noticed that Jill had finished her orange juice, causing him to leap from his seat for a refill. She tried to restrain him – to eat his eggs before they got cold – but he was off and presently the popping of a cork could be heard from the kitchen. He came back with two mimosas. "I do recall you having a taste for champagne. The orange juice is a concession to the morning hour," said Dunston with a gleam in his eye. Jill put up a good-natured protest and then they toasted the upcoming race.

Which is when Dunston became magnificent. He had proposals and artists' renderings and sketches and promotional suggestions and lists of dignitaries with whom he consorted and who owed him favors and would don shorts and compete and say a few words — luminaries from the business world, sports and entertainment, a rap star who Dunston helped get a meeting with a highly placed former college chum at Sony Records.

Jill sipped her mimosa as she was absorbed into the complete Dunston aura. It did not seem like boasting when the connections and capabilities poured from Dunston's lips. His eyes blazed with enthusiasm...about the race. About the race. And every so often he slipped in a cockeyed smile and a hot-fire meeting of the eyes. Dunston made sure her glass was never empty. After a while she seemed to stop listening. But he was afraid to stop talking, hoping his voice was like a reassuring tune, a wispy romantic surge of strings and croonings that filled in the background – a song that slowly loosened and seduced. He wondered how close he came that night. He was certain he captured her interest; otherwise, why did she again tiptoe into the lion's den?

"What do you think?" he broke off abruptly, realizing that her eyes were straying and his words were being received like vapor wafting lazily into the warm spring air. When that happened in the boardroom, he'd usually ask for questions or tell a joke. He wouldn't risk humor with Jill. He was glad to catch her off guard. She startled adorably, with a spontaneous hunch of the shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Dunston, I guess I was daydreaming a little. This is such a beautiful, quiet spot. The thing is there are so many possibilities. Things I really hadn't thought about. The publicity angles, with the radio stations and local cable."

"I've already got the PR guys working on copy. Next month we'll go full bore in all the media. It'll be the biggest race of the season." How the words kept tumbling out. He had the ability to gab and charm and persuade even when not paying close attention to exactly what he was saying. This freed him to search her face and body language for clues. She smiled dreamily, which with most women indicated tacit consent and a quick close. But Jill was not like most women. Her expression was chillingly similar to the one she wore in the car that night, before she made her escape. He could not trust conventional cues with her. Maybe he should have stopped trying, that he was over reaching. She was too young; she lived with the perfect man. But that only made her more desirable. And he was sure that he loved her.

"Sorry, excuse me. I ... I... really don't. I'm not used to drinking champagne in the morning. I'm sorry. Maybe..."

"It's okay, Jill. It's 2 o'clock. You've been here for almost three hours." An unsteady smile crossed her face; slender fingers thrummed on the table. Was she was trying to say something? She nodded her head and then a quick nervous laugh. Suddenly Dunston leapt to her side and lifted her out of her chair, crushing his lips against hers. Their mouths and tongues melded in hot searching kisses as their bodies locked in a frenzied clinch. But then, from some distant reservoir of will, Jill summoned the resolve to propel Dunston aside, in the process losing her balance and tumbling gracelessly to the hard brick floor. Dunston rushed to assist her, but he himself had caught the contagion of clumsiness and tripped on a raised patio brick, landing hard on his butt. When he peered up, his eyes were met with the look of terror. Jill whipped her head right and left, tears streaming down her face. Unable to speak, she struggled to her feet and fled the garden, racing from Thurmond Manor to the sanctuary of her Saturn wagon

* * *

Michelle pulled up short on the side of the road, doubled-over with a side cramp. Nina slowed down to check on her sister, but Lavinia didn't break stride. Michelle waved them both to continue on, she'd catch up. But she was breathing hard and her face was screwed into a tight grimace.

"We'll just walk for a while," said Nina, a selfless gesture in light of the fact that Michelle knew how much an interrupted workout could ruin a perfectly good day for Nina.

"No. No," Michelle insisted. "Besides, you have to keep your eye on that one," pointing in the direction of a gangling brown smudge in baggy gym shorts and an oversized sweatshirt as she became a vanishing speck on the horizon. Michelle knew she could count on Nina's sense of responsibility. "Besides, Klaus lives a few houses down and I can have him drive me home on his way to work." Nina arched her eyebrows, but bit her tongue. She patted her sister on the back and went chasing after Lavinia.

Michelle spied Klaus' van parked in front of the tiny cape that he shared with Jill. He greeted her with a wide smile when he answered the door. He was dressed in loose-fitting khaki slacks. Barefoot. NOT WEARING A SHIRT!

"Is Jill home?" Michelle asked, but she already knew the answer and kicked the door shut behind her.

Klaus shook his head, smiling. "She had a race meeting, I believe, with one of the corporate sponsors," he said, as he watched Michelle unbutton his slacks and pull down the zipper in one amazing fluid motion. As usual, underwear was not part of today's ensemble. Michelle's tongue embarked on a succulent journey from down under and up his torso and across his face. She stopped long enough to ask the usual question: "Are you in a rush to get to work?" He smiled, lifted her into his arms and made for the bedroom to initiate the more rigorous portion of Michelle's morning workout.

Above the din of their love-making, neither heard the soft hum of a Saturn motor or the slam of the back door. They did, of course , hear Jill's pinched shriek. Jill's wounded cry. Jill's horrified moan.

Thinking quickly, Michelle invited Jill to join in. Klaus looked on incredulously as Jill responded to Michelle's suggestion with another honking outcry, another slam of the back door and the grinding ignition and blast off in her economy wagon.
Chapter Sixty-five

The Condemned

The following morning found Dunston running a little late. Put in an extra three miles, but still he couldn't calm the flutterings in his stomach. He had composed a monologue and rehearsed it exhaustively before he went to sleep the night before. He secretly hoped that she would take a personal day.

But no. He stepped off the elevator, turned left at the executive corridor, and spotted Jill at the far end, her back to him as she hunched over an open file drawer next to her desk. The impulse of self-preservation screamed at him to flee down the fire exit stairs, but that was rejected as undignified behavior for the CEO of a major financial services corporation. He trudged forward like a condemned man to the gallows.

"Good morning, Jill," said Dunston meekly, forgetting the witticism he had crafted for this moment to put her at ease. She nodded curtly, her back to him still as she pretended to fuss with files. "Look, um, we should....I think talk. Later," he stammered, abashed and furious at his ineptitude.

"Mr. Bass is waiting for you."

Dunston's heart sank as he peered through the glass wall of his office and saw the rumpled figure of his Comptroller and Vice Chairman comfortably sprawled in one of Dunston's over-stuffed leather chairs that faced his own intricately carved oak desk. "Does he have...I mean, it's not our usual time."

"He said it couldn't wait. He insisted," said Jill, still refusing to face Dunston, but for reasons other than those he would suspect. She was hiding the tension in her face, her eyes red and puffy still from the compound traumas of the previous day. "I'll get you some..."

"No, I'll fix my own. I'm not exactly prepared to meet with Morty. Not just yet." Dunston floundered for words, coming close to blurting "I love you, Jill," but that would've required some follow-up — and with Morty waiting in the office and drinking his coffee, Dunston instead settled for a long, heartsick sigh. He dashed past his open office door, flipped a jaunty wave and a hearty hi to Morty as he fixed himself a heavily creamed cup of French Vanilla Roast in the kitchenette adjoining his office. Then he crept in with exaggerated care, ostensibly to avoid spillage. But what he really desired to avoid was Morty Bass.

Morty's about numbers and numbers made Dunston's mind wander. Numbers were Morty's lifeblood and sustaining pulse. These weekly meetings, always on Wednesday mornings at 9 a.m., comprised Morty droning on and on and on about the parallel columns of tiny print-out squiggles aligned like tiny soldiers on page after page of computer sputum. Morty dissected and interpreted and, when necessary, jolted Dunston out of a glazed-eye trance by requesting an impression or decision. Call it Morty's revenge. Dunston never much considered the drab, disheveled accounting genius who rose from his abacus in the Finance department to Chief Underwriter to Comptroller to Vice Chairman as anything more than a useful technical guru: a valuable arrow in the quiver of the more presentable and debonair chief executive. Dunston never guessed that behind the rage-of-the-fifties rumpled gray suits, threadbare white shirts and narrow striped ties lay the heart of a corporate gladiator eager to guide the Great American into the next century. After thirty years, it was strange that Morty still didn't understand that a man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair that rustled like leaves on the whim of prevailing breezes and gooney-geek black-framed eyeglasses with lenses the thickness of bullet-proof glass and whose soft, thoughtful conversational style that lulled rather than inspired, may not possess the qualities most desirable in a chief executive. Morty still seemed to harbor the illusion that brilliance and competence were sufficient.

Dunston did find Morty's resentment mildly unsettling. He'll never forget the dark cloud of disappointment that briefly, though tellingly, passed across Morty's face on the day of the announcement. He knew what Morty was thinking: that the truly worthy worker bee, with all the right credentials, was being passed over in favor of the young tyro with the million-dollar smile and thousand-dollar suits. It was made clear that day that Morty is, and will always be, a tool – albeit a well-paid tool at that. And even though Dunston was sympathetic to poor Morty's plight, he was wise enough to use him just like his predecessor had. Morty became Dunston's right-hand man, but there was no ambiguity about their relationship. Dunston called the shots and Morty executed on the CEO's will. And all Dunston had to do was put up with Morty's tedious ramblings on Wednesday mornings. Except for today. Monday.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Morty – had a rather busy weekend," said Dunston with forced cheeriness. Morty flicked a quick smile and opened a red folder containing, of course, printouts with neatly arrayed rows of computer-generated wisdom. For some reason Morty's hands were shaking as he presented a copy of his figures to Dunston.

"I know our regular meeting is on Wednesdays. But I ended up spending much of the weekend going over some interesting claim reports. I think what I've come across is something that should be brought to your attention right away." Despite the urgency of his preamble, Morty's voice remained thin and bland – a droning modulation that never varied. A voice appropriate for suicide hotlines and subliminal message audio tapes.

"The floor is yours," said Dunston. In an uncharacteristic flourish, Morty rose to close Dunston's door and draw the curtains on the hallway-facing side of the office. Dunston was amused by what for Morty constituted outrageous histrionics. But it was Morty who emerged an hour later from Dunston's office with a smug grin on his face and a spring in his gait. His exit was followed immediately by a buzz on Jill's intercom from Dunston to hold his calls and summon Matthew Dillard to his office.

* * *

The curtains remained drawn. Dillard had anticipated that this meeting would take place sooner or later. He observed the sickly look on Dunston's face. The CEO's powerful chin was locked and the muscles in his jaw twitched and trembled. His eyes cast a terrible glare as he stood hunched behind his chair, hands on desk and shoulders thrust forward in a stiff-armed sprinter's stance. Dillard pretended not to notice Dunston's agitation and blithely helped himself to the pile of papers scattered in a heap on Dunston's lambskin blotter. Dillard sprawled in the guest chair, diffidently flipping his tie over his shoulder. He neglected to wear his suit jacket in the executive wing, a breach of corporate etiquette. Dillard knew what to look for in the printout and only made a show of riffling through the pages. He also seemed to know that Dunston Thurmond was not always a patient man. But Matthew Dillard was. So he waited.

"Okay, Matthew, explain."

"Large loss reports."

"Cut the shit! Morty was just in here and put me through the ringer for the last hour. This is your work."

"And yours," said Matthew with a wink. "After all, your signature authorized all these transactions. Could I have some of that flavored coffee?" Dunston was beside himself, purple-faced and nostrils flaring, ease and urbanity wrung from his being.

"Matthew, I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation. You've been with this company for how long—20 years...30 years?"

"I wouldn't expect you to know the answer to that one. To be precise, I've been with the Great American for the last 32 years, in my present position for the past 15. When I started at the Great American, you were five years old, Dunston. You're young enough to be my son. And look at you now. How about that?" Jill entered with Dillard's cup of coffee and almost spilled it when she took in the scene: Dunston rigid and rancorous and hovering over his desk while the meek and retiring Matthew Dillard lounged like Cleopatra on one of her boss's guest chairs. Dillard took the cup from Jill's trembling hands with a friendly wink.

"Is everything okay, Mr. Thurmond?" said Jill, a look of confusion in her eyes. Dunston gave a quick jerk of his head and suddenly Jill was gone.

"Better than the bilge you get out of the machines around here, Dunston. Ever think of getting a coffee service?"

"Cmon, Matthew, explain these companies. Explain these claims. Do you understand the implications of what's in that file?"

"Totally. I completely understand what's in that file. The companies in question are a fiction – my fiction. I have created a network of shell corporations to spread around losses generated by certain unfortunate events over the last six months. The contracts in question are properly structured pro rata and excess reinsurance treaties, but I did take a few liberties in terms of underwriting the business, bypassing various binding controls, claims appraisal routines and so forth. To let you in on a little secret, I adjusted the claims myself."

"And who in Underwriting is cooperating in this lucrative little venture with you, Matthew?"

"Believe it or not, Mr. Thurmond, in my many years here at the Great American, I've learned just about all there is to know about this business. Fact is the only help I got from Underwriting was a couple of minutes alone in the stock room to get the proper forms and binders. Then it was only a matter of a short hop to the Kinkos downtown to create an authentic-looking Great American rubber stamp and seal embosser. Fact is I served as my own underwriter." Dillard slurped noisily from the delicately curved lip of a bone china coffee cup with the Great American logo rendered in gold leaf on the side. He splashed some coffee on his shirt, a stain that after a few washings will blend in with the others. For a while Dunston couldn't speak. The blistering attack mode was not working. Dillard had obviously steeled himself in advance for just such a face-down. He was in fact taking pleasure in his exposition. "Yes, Dunston, I bet you're amazed at how you've misjudged one of your claim trolls. 'By god, he even understood how to underwrite.' How can a man with a community college background and dirty fingernails grasp the fine art of insurance underwriting -— the holy turf of MBA's and well-bred scions with Ivy League degrees?"

"Did you think this all up yourself, Matthew? Or did your friend Nick Freeman have something to do with it?"

"No, I didn't. But I took someone else's idea..."

"Nick Freeman," Dunston interjected...

"We have a kind of partnership, but the details and execution are my work entirely."

"Doesn't seem fair," said Dunston, affecting a wistful tone, hands now clasped behind his head, his remark met with questioning eyes. "You understand that you will be taking the fall for him. Matthew, I plan to be patient with you. I think you have been making terrible mistakes. You've betrayed the trust this organization has placed in you. You've betrayed the trust of our stockholders and policyholders. I think I understand the reasons driving you to do such things, but the route you've taken is unacceptable."

"Cmon, Dunston. Don't lecture me. How many times did I come to you for help just to get ignored? Besides, in the interest of the company — in the interest of our stockholders — I've saved this company millions through the day-to-day proficiency I bring to my job. And for what? To see my wife become an invalid and nearly die? To see three mortgages on my house? To be buried under a mountain of debt so deep that I wake up nights screaming? Don't lecture me, son. To think how much I used to admire you. Everyone envies you. But the sad truth about you is that you're sloppy and lazy."

Bullseye. Dunston was back on his feet, his fist pounding the desk. Veins bulging in his neck and his face contorted in a spitting rage. "Enough!" Dunston hissed. "Your relationship with the Great American is terminated. There is no place in this company for liars and thieves. And don't think that criminal prosecution is out of the question, Mr. Dillard. Pack your stuff. I want you out. Today."

But Dillard made no effort to leave his seat. Dunston sat back down, his eyes narrowed to tiny slits, his face like a hatchet in profile. He was so riled that it failed to register on him that Dillard was the first man he'd ever fired during his career at the Great American. He was jarred suddenly out of his aggressive posture when Dillard banged his coffee cup and saucer on Dunston's desk, unleashing a wavelet of hot liquid over the side of the cup, clearing the edge of the saucer, before landing and breaking into little aromatic beads on a corner of Dunston's ultra-polished desktop. Dillard seemed surprised, perhaps a little disappointed, that the cup did not shatter as a result of this powerful act of defiance.

"You are not going to fire me, Mr. Thurmond. In fact, you will do quite the opposite. Next week you are going to announce my elevation to the position of Vice President, Claims. And, in keeping with my new responsibilities, you will also authorize the doubling of my present salary, not including the $25,000 promotion bonus that you will have electronically transferred to my account by noon Thursday."

"Dillard, I don't know whether to call Security or the men in the white jackets for you..." said Dunston, feigning weariness.

"You will do all those things for me, Dunston, because you are fully responsible for everything I did. Your signature is on all the paperwork. As far as anyone would know, this whole thing could have been your idea. You have shirked your fiduciary responsibility to our policyholders. The magnitude of the scandal that you are party to will rock not only this company, but the entire insurance industry. And, sir, yours is the name people will remember. I'll just be some insignificant, misguided 'troll' who lost his way."

"You can't threaten me, Dillard. You cannot extort me. I'm man enough to accept whatever the consequences..."

"Cut the shit!" Dillard snarled. "You're willing to risk your career, your reputation, your family's humiliation, just to get my ass. I don't think so. First of all, I don't think you have the balls. Besides, I've provided you with an out. Give me the job I deserve and the pay that goes with it. I'm sure you can find something else for the sorry boob you now have running the department. Cmon, Dunston, all it takes is a little finesse and a slight reorganization. For once introduce a little justice into the system and put someone in charge who can do the job. I'm making it easy for you, Dunston. It's a natural for you." Dillard eased back in his chair, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Dunston's eyes were downcast, appearing to contemplate his crotch: a rare slip by a man obsessed with the projection of appropriate power postures. He caught himself, looked up, edged closer to the desk and folded his hands. Thus adjusted he addressed Dillard in a more temperate tone. "And this thing on the side with Freeman–it would cease."

"I am saving for retirement; the pension plan around here would make a pauper out of a guy like me."

Dunston evinced a slight grimace. "And you expect me to continue to endorse your antics?"

"Absolutely," said Dillard cheerfully. "I guess we're a team now. Besides, isn't it better that it's finally all out in the open anyway? It really is, Mr. Thurmond." Dunston rolled his eyes and for the first time let slip an uninhibited, unprocessed smile.

"Well, since we are, as you say, a team, I should share with you some of the burdensome decisions that I am currently forced to weigh. You may recall that we began our discussion with me divulging to you the gist of my meeting with Mr. Bass this morning. Absent that meeting, I would probably, in my admitted carelessness, have continued to naively sign your large loss reports. Unfortunately, Mr. Bass has become an element in your scheme. Wouldn't you now agree that he, too, is a member of our team?" This observation evoked a slight change of weather on Dillard's face to partly cloudy.

"I see. That's something that I will leave up to you, Dunston. Morty's a get-along, go-along kind of guy."

"It's not quite as easy as that. Like yourself, Mr. Bass has thought this thing through quite thoroughly. Frankly, he has demanded that I step down. Resign from the Great American, if you will. For personal reasons. In return, he'll keep our indiscretions under his hat."

"And you believe him. He just wants your job."

"That's a board of directors' decision. He did respectfully solicit my endorsement, of course. Matthew, I don't have to tell you that we live in a cynical world. I have no choice but to take him at his word. I save face, my reputation intact. His offer is one that I must consider."

"That changes nothing between us, Dunston. I can still blow the whistle on you, whether you work here or not. It would finish you in this industry, even get you kicked out of your country clubs and charity committees. A real flame-out."

"If vengeance is that important to you, Matthew, you could do those things. But bottom line, if I'm gone, you're done as well."

"I suggest you work on Morty," said Dillard, a shrill note of tension slipping into his voice. He then sprang to his feet and left the office, slamming the door behind him. Dunston picked up the intercom and instructed Jill to set up an immediate meeting with his Uncle Tim and to cancel his appointments for the rest of the morning. He then flung the damning sheets from Mortimer Bass's file across the office. Then he buried his head in his arms and wept softly into his richly appointed lambskin blotter.
Chapter Sixty-six

The Issues Multiply

Seldom are results as unequivocal as those recorded at the Freeman trials. Blood pressure elevated 15 percent, resting pulse bumped up 50 percent. Were they just skittish over monitored by their uncle? If so, why then did the metrics of those exposed to "live" chemicals register a deviation while his control subject did not? Could it be the control was not as susceptible to examination anxiety? Abner concluded that the experiment must be rerun, with personality variability factored out through protocol modification. Above all, care must be taken that his clinical design be above reproach. Perhaps more subjects and a double-blind set-up to root out his own potential biases. He mustn't allow an unsound procedure lead to the alienation of his sister-in-law, of whom he is extremely fond and who was building a successful business based on his formulation.

Abner had thoroughly investigated the obvious — often he has exposed himself to the suspect fumes. Countless times he has uncapped a bottle and taken deep breaths, and each time all he smelled were faint notes of chlorine and burnt charcoal: that's all. His mood was always unaffected. He did not perspire, his rate of respiration remained level and his pulse did not twitter. It occurred to him that years ago, while working his way through college at a metal stamping plant, he was overcome and permanently injured by exposure to 1,1,1 Trichloroethane fumes, a chemical solvent used as a degreasing agent. To this day Abner's sense of smell was profoundly impaired; it's been 20 years since he could trace the watering in his mouth to the steak Michelle was broiling in the kitchen. Could this explain his apparent spot remover immunity? Just what he needed: another question to which he could not provide an answer.

Best to retreat to America OnLine and a check on his investments. Counting his eggs had become a source of warmth and satisfaction for Abner. An escape. Since hooking up with Nick, Abner's earnings and net worth shattered even his most optimistic growth models. And Nick's system, having restored some of the bloom to the economic outlook of his clients, had led to industrial expansion plans and associated engineering projects on the consulting side of Abner's business. Indeed Abner, who managed his own portfolio, had enjoyed the agreeable problem of having to devote more of his time to the allocation of his burgeoning cash flow. He shifted his investment focus to more aggressive stock mutual funds and high coupon bond instruments, because his usual low-to-moderate risk-averse positions were already adequately reserved. He was delighted to have sufficient cash on hand to finance the remaining three years of Trina's education at Wesleyan. And that included one year off-campus in Florence to study early Renaissance architecture. He had maxed out his Keogh investment for the year, and he was also constrained by IRS restrictions on how much he could sock into IRA's for himself and Michelle.

He was living a dream!

So he punched up his on-line broker to buy a few hundred shares of a tax-exempt muni bond fund. It will mitigate some of his tax exposure, which was never a concern before he teamed up with Nick. The buy was confirmed by a beep on his Macintosh, followed by his signoff. Then it was on to the Excel worksheet detailing his family finances, which had become so bloated and complex that it took a while to boot up. Abner was left with no choice but to split the spreadsheet in half, creating separate spreadsheets for family budgetary expenses and one for investments and financial modeling. He delighted that this endeavor would take him the rest of the day, distracting him from less enjoyable tasks.

* * *

"Good heavens, Dunston, it appears like you just took a dose of strychnine. Come, close the door." Dunston still felt like a school lad in his uncle's cavernous wood-paneled private office. As managing partner of New Jersey's leading "white-shoe" law practice, Timothy Cleese held firmly the reins that guided the fortunes of 350 associates and general partners, each of whom were chosen (not recruited) from the top five percent of their Ivy League law school classes. Cleese, Harvard Law of '61, finished third in his class, a superfluous flourish of achievement, given his assured position in the 150-year-old family practice. No Fortune 500 corporation or international enterprise with facilities or other interests in the Garden State dared proceed without consulting with the most well-connected corporate law practice in the state. Significant criminal trials were relegated to second-tier status without at least one associate from the trial law division. Under Uncle Tim, the firm had successfully expanded its reach into the formidable Manhattan law scene. But even more exciting, the overseas division that Tim was in the process of building (in partnership with his former classmate colleagues on the Continent), would soon undertake the drafting of standard instruments of commerce to be used in the nascent European Economic Community.

And Uncle Tim, Dunston's father's brother from his mother's first marriage, did it all with a hearty, gregarious ease that belied the shrewd and capable mind of a first class world-mover. Tim talked loud, drank prodigiously, was known for the occasional dalliance that Aunt Jo endured with a tortured grace, and worked 16-hour days, except on Sundays, which he usually spent asleep on a sofa with football games blaring on the TV in the parlor of one of his homes in New Jersey, Manhattan, Long Island or his island getaway in St. Barts, which he hadn't visited in at least a decade.

He always greeted his favorite nephew with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, a display of affection at odds with the staid and aloof Thurmond family manner. He had a warm spot in his heart for Dunston. According to Tim, Dunston was the most brilliant and promising kid out of the last two generations of Thurmonds — the one with the balls to turn down a life of assured material wealth, social attainment and professional prestige for that "insurance thing." Everyone thought Uncle Tim would ostracize the rebellious young Dunston for shunning law school for Wharton. But Tim, something of a maverick himself, applauded Dunston's decision and was flattered when Dunston permitted him to pull a few strings in his position on the board of the Great American Insurance Company to facilitate Dunston's first situation out of B-school. And, as pleased as Tim was when his firm was chosen as a lead counsel for the International Monetary Fund, that coup paled in comparison to the day his nephew was elected to lead the Great American into the 21st century. Sure, the boy may still be a bit wet behind the ears, but he's got all the tools. Hell, Alexander had conquered the world at 25. Why not a CEO in his thirties?

"I haven't seen that look on your face since the day you and Bernice split. Nothing can be that bad." To Dunston, however, something was even worse. He imagined himself teetering on the brink of utter destruction — the loss of career and dignity. Family disgrace and personal ruin. Dunston was struggling to suppress the tears percolating so close to the surface as he spilled the details of Morty's gambit to Uncle Tim. As he did so, Tim's perfect poker face registered absolutely nothing. He had heard far more sordid tales in his time as a defense attorney. Such cases have contributed much to the firm's wealth and reputation. Dunston's jaded uncle found his attention drifting amidst his nephew's trembling anguish, thinking that he was in need of a rare steak and a brawny red wine for lunch. Tim set the alarm on his Swiss Army watch (a trademark) to ring in 15 minutes, which should give Dunston sufficient time to vent. Tim nodded sympathetically during Dunston's poignant admission of guilt and carelessness. When the watch finally sang, Tim let loose an exaggerated sigh of relief, which startled his nephew.

"You know, Dunston, you are not a little boy anymore," said Tim sternly. "And it's especially unbecoming for the chief executive of a venerable corporation like the Great American to whine like a fretful wife." There was a twinkle in the eye of Uncle Tim, which contrasted sharply with Dunston's pinkening shock. "You behave as though you're the first guy in the world ever to be party to financial irregularities. Your innocence is refreshing to that extent, son. Take a look around this beautiful building. Look at this ridiculously pretentious office and all the other ridiculously pretentious offices on this floor. This firm employs hundreds of brilliant, articulate, well-trained professionals plucked from the crème-de-la-crème of the finest law schools in this great nation of ours. We pay them lavishly and I blush each time I think of what I myself earn, and we don't do a damn thing except charge outrageous fees to extricate people like yourself from the messes you get yourselves into. And don't beat yourself up over this, Dunston, I still believe deeply in you, son. My clients include top guys from the some of the largest corporations in the world – and they do far more serious and stupid things than you did. Think of it as if you're joining an elite club. Listen, despite your wonderful accomplishments, you're only human like the rest of us and none of us is perfect. Give yourself some credit, you had the brains to come to your uncle with this matter before it got out of hand. Most guys wait until it's too late and that's when my fees get really unconscionable. You are permitted to smile at that, Dunston." Tim's eyes continued to twinkle and a normal color slowly returned to Dunston's face.

"Uncle Tim, you are taking this very well. But understand, it's my career – what will my friends think – and I'm scared shitless."

"I raise my eyebrows at your language, Dunston. Ah, but the spice and spunk only add to your character. Look, I'm hungry as hell and I'm in the mood for the color red – a good steak and a bottle of Napa cab."

"I don't have much of an appetite..."

"Okay, you're not in the mood for small talk. Well then, this is what has to be done." And by the time Uncle Tim finished explaining, he could sense that the knot in Dunston's stomach was starting to uncoil and the large, jut-jawed professional grin once again adorned his face. Dunston agreed to do lunch with his uncle, but Dunston was in charge of ordering the wine – a peak, mid-eighties Bordeaux, compliments of the Great American.

* * *

This day should have provided more uplift for Matthew Dillard. How well he had planted the seeds, cultivated his snares and worked the principals into uncompromising positions. What he didn't do was fully plan for the unexpected. He had underestimated Morty Bass, who loomed large as a troublesome wildcard, causing Dillard to feverishly devise ways to accelerate the process. He now understood how wholly dependent he had become on Dunston Thurmond. Would Dunston prove to be a man of honor? Or was he truly the empty suit described by Nick Freeman, subject to combustion once the heat was applied?

Dillard was driving too fast, eliciting angry horns from angry drivers while angry clouds spit a spiteful rain. The neat, interlocking pieces of his puzzle were being twisted and snapped apart and dewy drops of nervous sweat sprouted on Dillard's face. He tightly gripped the steering wheel as twilight fell. He pulled onto the interstate and drove and drove, mile after mile, just trying to clear his head. To think. Action must be taken, but it must be the correct action. He pulled off at a rest station and had the attendant fill his tank. He rushed into the men's room and buried his head in the sink, dousing it with a blast of cold water. The shock of the icy stream jolted him to high alertness, but his train of thought remained skewed to fuzzy.

Back in his car he turned for home. It was getting late and Rita would be worried. Had to get home, sleep on it if he could — but he must move quickly. He must get home. Rita would be worried.

But Rita was not worried. She was unconscious. She was on a stretcher and being loaded into an ambulance. Dillard saw the flashing red, orange and blue lights when he turned down the block and he instantly drew conclusions. He moaned out loud and gunned the engine the rest of the way. He arrived just as they were closing the rear hatch. He shoved a paramedic aside as he rushed to his wife, but he was restrained by another paramedic and a police officer. Dillard identified himself and demanded an explanation. Doris Snyder was there. She mouthed the words "renal failure" to Dillard. Doris was the one who found Rita unconscious. Brought brownies over to cheer up a friend, her old high school art teacher and a fellow CCD teacher at St. Michael's Church.

A busy technician pushed past Dillard, leapt into the idling vehicle and tore out of the driveway and into the night. Dillard looked into the worried faces of his neighbors, most of whom were probably wondering why he wasn't home to help his wife. He searched for his daughters, but the house was empty — Rita was alone, until Doris found her too late. The small crowd dispersed, muttering words of sympathy and reassurance to Dillard. Doris left. He was alone in the rain. He mechanically opened the door to his car and started the engine. He should follow the ambulance to the hospital. He should be at his wife's side. He should...

The blue and white street signs directing the way to the hospital pointed right. Dillard turned left.

* * *

Nina had removed all the benches from her brand-new teal blue Ford Windstar, a vehicle she leased herself from the proceeds of her blooming mail order business. She raced to her supplier in Carteret and loaded four drums of spot remover in the back. Then she took a meeting with the owner of a plant in Rahway who was interested in bottling and labeling her product, then finally off to a fulfillment house on the same block that boasted the capacity to handle the packing and shipping of anything anywhere.

Nina was thrilled. She had outgrown the basement. Her days of lining bottles up in neat rows and painstakingly pouring product through kitchen funnels and peeling and applying gummed labels were numbered. Nina's mailbox overflowed with orders and inquiries from every state and Canada. She ran classifieds in Country Living, Discover and Ladies Home Journal. She had, with Abner's assistance, developed a spreadsheet to chart her sales activity and keep track of receivables and payables. Her tiny workspace was a riot of flyers, brochures and catalogs pitching packaging designs, corrugated boxes, soft-sided shipping envelopes, automated labeling devices, outsourcing services, postage metering devices, database software and commercial real estate. And now even the banks were calling. Would she be interested in opening a business account, a money market account? Perhaps she could use a professional cash flow management strategy, a revolving credit line, all-in-one investment services, electronic funds transfer, lock-box services – Nina was a player!

As she delighted in the heady ascent of her enterprise, she could finally appreciate the lure – the all-consuming passion – that took possession of her husband and to this day perpetuated and sustained the monster he had become. Through this witness had come wisdom. Nina would never exclude her family, her friends, her principles. She had the girls involved in selling, taking phone orders, boxing product and stuffing envelopes. She paid them by the hour and by the bottle. Their bank accounts were growing and for the first time in memory, Nina saw her daughters starting to tolerate each others' company.

This business fueled her with an unexpected reservoir of energy. She literally launched herself out of bed each morning. She couldn't wait to embrace the haul from the mailman each day. Her mail was even heavier than Nick's, a stubborn man who still refused to acknowledge the validity of Nina's venture. But Nick's approval was no longer an issue with Nina. She was riding the crest of her own skyrocketing enterprise and flaunted the ultra-confidence of a woman newly endowed with a finer wisdom.

She tingled!

Even her running times defied the body's natural cycle of decay as she shaved a full ten seconds off her mile splits in recent workouts. She was no longer a woman with defined boundaries. Even her beautiful lover, she discovered, had failed her revised criteria as a mortal god. A new clarity imparted a distinct excitement — an exhilaration — that suddenly, she understood everything. No, Dunston Thurmond was not what he seemed, but that did not mean he was no longer suitable to his role. Once she realized that, she found herself seeking him out more and more. She embraced him and her new world with a fierce passion, often expressed with a vaulting leap into her lover's arms when he answered his door, oblivious to prying eyes peering out from the corners of neighborhood windows. And where she used to swoon in submission to his expert manipulations, it seemed that more often than not, it was Nina who led the charge. Through the vast hallways and formal rooms and upstairs quarters the thrilling cries of a woman fulfilled echoed through Dunston's empty house. To her, Dunston was the perfect complement to a regular running schedule, workouts with free weights and simulated skiing on her NordicTrack. He was an exotic piece of exercise apparatus.

She wisely let Dunston credit himself for her sexual enthusiasm, not daring to suggest that her new-found abandon derived from more fundamental emancipations. She learned the hard way that the men in her life were chained to their insatiable vanities. She could now exploit this weakness for her personal fulfillment. And it made her feel truly on her own. She will live in Nick's house, but not as his de facto prisoner. She would do the dance for Dunston's dick, but he would in return deplete himself for her own pleasure. She served no one except those who could not serve themselves, and she would teach her daughters never to fall prey to the same snares that for so many years kept her locked in a kind of spiritual paralysis.

Helplessness, Nina discovered, afflicted those who were either lazy or didn't know any better. As she pulled the van into the Clary driveway and observed her kids bursting from the front door and Michelle trailing behind them, Nina savored the irony that her irreverent, obsessively sensual and free-wheeling sister had become the most powerful role model in her life.

* * *

Events were no longer free to run their course — it was time to make the push. Nothing was free of risk. The most perilous exposures exacted the highest premiums. Fire and water and explosions: money was tinder lit by calamity. Dillard had adjusted claims long enough to know. And now his personal high wire act was wobbling, even with the final perch a few enticing steps away.

He saw them take Rita away. He had to take care of business so he could take care of her. He's got his tool box. It'll be large and he'll jump on it fast. Then he won't have to depend on Dunston Thurmond anymore. Or Nick Freeman. There was a small cabin in the Catskills just right for two people, plus an extra bedroom for when the kids were off from school. One big burn and he could buy it for cash.

One last push.

He was terrified that Dunston would cave. The claim will be submitted, adjusted and initial checks cut before the end of day tomorrow. Dunston will do that one small act for him just to get him off his back. Dillard was even willing to take his promotion off the table to grease the deal. He wanted to pull off the road and call the hospital, but he was afraid to stop. He was doing it for Rita. More important than pacing the hospital emergency room waiting area for hours, wringing his hands, helpless and alone. After tonight, he would never again leave her side. He won't have to.

As expected, the service roads honeycombing the Carteret industrial park were still and lifeless. As before, Gekko's facility appeared unguarded and the parking lot was empty. Last time he was here to do his mischief, Dillard stumbled around in the unlit grounds, dropped his flashlight several times and still he was left undisturbed as he slashed tires and smashed windshields on most of the delivery vehicles and forklift trucks. That incident was more or less a dry run – a security check.

Again Dillard was amazed that so many of Freeman's clients made such nominal investments in protection—almost as if certain facilities deserved to burn down or blow up. In a way, perhaps he was providing a cautionary service. As before, Dillard parked on the street and grabbed his box. As he had with Calhoun's warehouse, Dillard had prudently secured a key to one of the doors near the loading platform during his loss control inspection with Abner Clary.

But this time the key didn't work. Dillard took out his penlight and compared the engraved number on the key with the one on the lock and saw that it wasn't a match. Well, at least they took the precaution of replacing the locks after the last episode of vandalism. He was impressed, but also frustrated. Too many surprises for one day, so there Dillard stood, arms folded, thumping his head disconsolately against the steel door. Bump...bump...bump. Maybe it should not have been so easy. Until today there had been miraculously few complications, few obstacles. So easy if you had a plan. Would he really have to resort to a pry bar tonight? In disgust Dillard gave the door a healthy bang with his fist and, to his amazement, the heavy steel door shuddered and creaked open! He hesitated, shrugged, and walked right in.

His path was lit by the narrow beam of his penlight. He figured to wreak maximum mayhem by rolling a few drums of petroleum-based distillates from the storage area to within sparking distance of the main circuit box. He sighed as he wended his way around bulky stainless steel tanks and pipe works: he was almost sentimental about his final night as an industrial terrorist. Who would have ever have thought that he would become so accomplished? It was no different than anything else — it was all about doing a job well. Dillard prided himself on his preparation, thoroughness and perseverance: qualities essential to success, whether it's for building bridges or blowing them up.

* * *

Perhaps the silent figure shadowing each of Dillard's movements would throw in a couple more important qualities: maintaining humility and avoiding overconfidence. The shadowy figure believed the sales rep who insisted that the state-of-the-art alarm system would do it. It didn't. Neither did the high-security safe nor the new armed guard who spent his shift drinking, sleeping or both. The new locks didn't do it, nor did the high-intensity outdoor lighting system.

So now he did it himself. As he fixed the trespasser in his sights and gently squeezed the trigger on his new pistol and heard the deafening blast echo through the darkened building and watched the silhouetted figure drop in a heap on top of his toolbox, he couldn't suppress a slight smirk of satisfaction. When he turned the lights on and verified the results of his uncanny aim, he holstered his weapon with the self-assurance of a man who no longer cowered helplessly in dark corners.
Chapter Sixty-seven

The Anti-Hero

Abner Clary's relentless objectivity prevented him from denying the obvious even when he tried. In retrospect, it was not difficult to benchmark key instances when the evidence assumed an unmistakable pattern.

But should he blame himself for not acting sooner? After all, he was the inventor: the rainmaker whose discoveries bestowed success upon and exacted gratitude from his sister-in-law and wife. He was the hero astride the shoulders of his adoring teammates, happily inattentive to the disaster he had wrought.

But from the violent Finley deaths to the chemically altered behavior of those around him, Abner could not deny his responsibility. For several days he turned sullen and withdrawn. As he tapped and clicked his way through a perfunctory refinery flow system on his Mac, a bewildered Michelle nibbled on his neck and rubbed his chest in that most expert and diverting way of hers. But Abner could not respond to her caresses. He felt anesthetized. He spent more and more time in the basement working on plans, his reports to Nick, state environmental filings for his clients. Playing Tetris for hours on end.

He wondered about Michelle. Was he willing to share her? Had he always shared her but just wasn't aware of it? A prisoner of his ruthless logic, Abner presumed that her needs have always been addressed when his energies flagged before her substantial libido. Indeed she had grown careless and Abner has caught her in telephone conversations that ended abruptly when she saw him approach. Of course the memory feature on the caller ID revealed all that Abner needed to know. One of these days he'd likely follow her on one of her runs, if only to confirm his suspicions: if only to satisfy is curiosity or even build his case. While discoveries of this nature in the past would have crushed him, he was disturbed instead that Michelle's inconstancy was no longer a source of agitation. Perhaps it provided him with an escape from a relationship that seemed to make less and less sense as time went on.

"Cmon, Abner, it's been almost two weeks, you're ruining my reputation," said Michelle as she climbed aboard Abner's lap and separated him from his keyboard.

"I'm sorry, Michelle, not now – there's no time..."

"God, you two are incredible," cracked Nina as she bounced down the steps to Abner's office.

"You knew your sister was coming over this afternoon," scolded Abner, red-faced as he untangled Michelle's legs from his chair and then from himself. Michelle shrugged, unfazed by Nina's sudden appearance.

"Well, I thought we could sneak one in real fast — you know how you love it in the chair!" teased Michelle, abetted by Nina, who giggled with the devilish intent of provoking her bashful brother-in-law. He forced a weak smile: let them have their fun, even if it was at his expense. Because what he had to say to Michelle and her sister, while necessary, would be unbearably difficult nevertheless.
Chapter Sixty-eight

The Clouding

It is not unusual for Joe to start off the day by being summoned to the Chief's office. A more congenial boss he could not imagine, but still a boss who long ago became irrelevant to the efficient functioning of the department. As the Chief cruised into his 35th year, and with a comfortable retirement fewer than six months off, he had delegated most of the day-to-day to Joe and the other superior officers. But Joe was the one with the broad shoulders and sympathetic eyes that commanded the Chief's greatest trust and affection. While it had not been detrimental to Joe's progression up the departmental ladder, the Chief's fondness of Joe also meant bearing the weight of the aging lawman's most personal confidences.

Joe had sweated through the Chief's two trial separations and eventual divorce, his eldest daughter's drug overdose and her subsequent conversion to Judaism. He suffered through the Chief's heart attack and hernia operations and the deaths of both parents. And he was also the nodding, smiling, supportive audience for the Chief's endless stories from his days in the service, the academy, of his triumphs in the trout streams of Montana, and the RV caravan vacations with his Airstream trailer club (whose annual membership invitations Joe tactfully, but firmly, declined).

Joe sometimes felt he knew more about his boss than he did his own wife. As the Chief chattered on about his fears and insecurities, Joe squirmed in his seat, even as he nodded with a wise and sympathetic half smile. Joe did not believe that people should so carelessly expose their vulnerabilities to others. Joe himself never does. Who really cared about someone else's problems – especially when they don't touch on one's own life? Besides, it embarrassed Joe to see a man of the Chief's stature and accomplishment debase himself to a subordinate.

And it was not like Joe didn't have a full caseload. He had made little headway on several high-profile investigations in the last six months and he knew that didn't look good for his review. It kept him up nights because he was not accustomed to professional setbacks. It was hard to avoid possibility that he may not quite measure up to his current responsibilities — that the job he had coveted his entire career and finally achieved may in fact be over his head.

Those were thoughts Joe could never share with anyone else.

Joe's colleagues on the force considered him to be bulletproof, a rock. If he were to reveal to others his current doubts, it would only puzzle them. And the Chief, preoccupied by his own concerns, could not be expected to make space to accommodate Joe's crisis of confidence. As it had been throughout his life, Joe was on his own. He swallowed hard and knocked on the Chief's door. As he entered the office, Joe was surprised to see that the Chief was not alone. With him was a heavy-set, middle-aged man with a large red face, close-cropped steel-gray hair and a very serious look on his face. Joe recognized the man, who remained seated as the Chief leaped to his feet.

"Joe, glad you're here. I'm sure you have probably met Lieutenant..."

"Griswold, from Carteret, of course, delighted to see you again," a forced cheerfulness met with a gruff, throat-clearing acknowledgment and nod from Griswold.

"The Lieutenant here is inquiring about a shooting that took place last night at a chemical manufacturing plant," said the Chief, passing Griswold's preliminary write-up to Joe. One look at the report and Joe's heart sank to his kneecaps and he retreated to the chair next to Lieutenant Griswold. "As you can see, both the perp and the plant owner are local residents, but the Lieutenant's concern seems to be with regard to the weapon and the shooter's permit to carry..."

"I know," said Joe in a hoarse, brittle voice. "I know."

"The point is, Deputy Chief Snyder, it is my department's contention that Mr. Gekko should not have had a weapon in his possession. His past record indicates that his finger is a little twitchy. As you know, his license was revoked in 1988 for a similar incident..."

"Excuse me, Lieutenant," snapped the Chief, "You can't expect a man from my department to be aware of every..."

"But it is your man's name on the permit approval papers," interrupted the humorless Griswold.

"He's correct, Chief. I did approve Mr. Gekko's permit application. He had completed the mandatory waiting period and doesn't have a felony conviction. His service record indicates a thorough knowledge and training in the proper use of firearms."

"Snyder, did it escape your attention that Mr. Gekko's 'thorough knowledge' in the use of firearms resulted in the deaths of two men on that very same factory floor eight years ago under similar circumstances? Opportunity existed then and again last night for Mr. Gekko to summon appropriate law enforcement personnel to handle both situations. Instead, Mr. Gekko decided to administer justice on his own, resulting in another shooting fatality. Chief, isn't it true that our respective police departments discourage citizens from taking the law into their own hands — especially when it comes to the use of deadly force?"

"Hold your horses, Griswold," howled the desk-pounding Chief. "You can climb off your fucking soapbox. You can't come in here and use my office to attack members of my department. And to question the judgment and integrity of a man like Joe Snyder of all people — don't be ridiculous!"

"I'm not attacking anybody, I'm providing facts that demand an explanation."

"Look, my office and the West Stemper Police Department are not to be held accountable for your local situation."

"Chief, let's try to be reasonable here. A crime occurred last night, committed by a man who never in a million years should have been allowed to carry a concealed weapon. The whole thing is pretty damn ugly and it doesn't do much to enhance the image of the city of Carteret. And it was your guy who made it all possible."

"Joe, you don't have to take this crap. Seems Lieutenant Griswold has himself in a tizzy over the death of some criminal scum when maybe the real point is the right of an individual to protect his property. Maybe it's a good thing Joe did approve the permit. According to Gekko's statement, burglaries at his place seem to be pretty regular affairs. Maybe he wasn't getting the kind of police protection..."

"Look, Chief, I don't like where this discussion is leading. We need some answers — like how come we were not consulted with regard to the permit application? This guy was clearly a poor candidate..."

"Who says?" cried the Chief waving his arms. Finally Joe let out a heavy sigh and waved off the antagonists.

"It's okay, Chief, Lieutenant Griswold's points are well taken. Perhaps a few corners were cut in the application process. I deeply regret last night's incident. I happen to know the wife of the man who was killed and I have no idea what he was up to in that facility last night. This is a terrible tragedy and one that should never have happened. I take full responsibility for any negligence with regard to the incident and I would be much obliged to be involved with the investigation."

"Joe, you don't have to do that. Don't take this upon yourself, son," said the Chief. For the first time the scowl on Griswold's face softened.

"That's swell, Snyder. It takes balls to admit that you fucked-up. I didn't expect that from a guy with your track record. To be honest with you, I was the one who rejected Gekko's last application, based mostly on the last time his target practice led to two dead bodies. I got a lot of heat from the brass because Gekko's thick with a couple of guys on the council. So now when I see Rambo with a legal certificate and then there's another stiff on the floor, I figure it's someone else in the department pulling strings. But no, he came to West Stemper instead."

"Look, I was sloppy. There's no excuse," said Joe, muttering into his lap.

"I'm still not convinced that what Joe did was improper," insisted the Chief. "Gekko's record does not necessarily disqualify him from..."

"I'm sorry, that's not the point, Chief," interrupted Joe. "Now if you don't mind, I think I'm obliged to pay a visit to the deceased's wife. I'm sorry about this whole thing, Lieutenant. I'm very sorry, Chief." Joe rose and hustled from the office, tears welling in his eyes.

* * *

Abner was dealing cards. The game: Go Fish. This was regarded as a silly waste of time by Nina, given her stack of pending orders sitting at home. The more he insisted on playing, hand after hand, the more restless she became.

"Chill, Sis, this is supposed to be fun. How many times have you seen the whimsical side of my husband?" cracked Michelle, who was herself growing weary of Abner's enforced recess — to the point of agitation. To the point of...

"Okay, then, we'll stop," said Abner, placing his cards face down on the work table and setting uncapped bottles of spot remover under the noses of both women. "Bear with me, if you will. Kindly take a healthy whiff from your respective containers."

"For crying out loud, Abner, it's just the spot remover," declared an increasingly shrill Nina. The intense frown on Abner's face, however, caused both women to shrug their shoulders and comply with his instructions. He then directed Nina to recite the alphabet backwards, a suggestion that provoked a huff of exasperation and a hurried evacuation by Nina. Abner scampered after her and implored her to return and let him resume his demonstration. In fact, he threw both his arms around her and tried to forcibly drag her back into his office. This did not play well with Michelle, who ordered Abner to remove his hands from her sister. But Abner was not inclined to end his experiment. Already his reluctance to follow through on past hunches had resulted in unspeakable mayhem.

As he tried to restrain Nina's powerful resistance, he was spun around from behind by Michelle, whose face was twisted in a white-hot fury and whose coiled fist was expertly launched, connecting solidly on the side of Abner's head. The blow knocked Abner off his feet, his eyeglasses sent flapping across the room and smashing against a leg of his drafting table.

Thus his experiment achieved closure.

Horrified, Nina and Michelle raced to Abner's side clucking rapid-fire words of shock and remorse as he groggily tried propping himself up on his elbows. Failing that, he collapsed into the lap of his assailant. Michelle offered to run upstairs for ice, but Abner, feeling his suffering justified, refused succor. He requested his chair and the women's attention. As he massaged his throbbing temples and Michelle flexed her throbbing right hand, Abner stated his conclusion.

"Nina, I'm so sorry, but the spot remover business is done. No more distribution. All existing stocks must be destroyed." From the top drawer of his desk Abner extracted copies of the formal documentation of his research and handed one to each sister. Distracted by his aching head and the claws of nausea squeezing his belly, Abner slumped in his chair and waited.

* * *

For Joe it was difficult to recognize the delirious patient with the gray inert face lying in the hospital bed. The stricken woman with flexible plastic tubing sprouting from her arms, hands and groin would probably be dead had his wife not discovered her yesterday passed out on the floor of her living room.

"She's having a severe renal episode, officer. This is not a good time."

"Will she make it?"

"We're not sure. Please, you can't stay."

"Let me ask her one question. Just one question."

"She's very weak, I don't know if she'll be responsive."

"Let me try," he said.

* * *

If he were a smoker he'd be sucking on a big fat turd of a cigar, stinking up the place just like the braying old fart who formerly occupied this chair. Perhaps since he had never endured the depths of despair and frustration that accompanied the painful progression of the typical salary man's business path, Dunston did not harbor a well-developed streak of cynicism. But that's what Uncle Tim was for and Dunston credited himself for the wisdom of getting his uncle involved and resolving the crisis before any lasting damage had been caused. By the time Uncle Tim was through with Morty Bass, there was agreement on a generous lump sum payout and a 60-day elevation to president and chief operating officer, sufficient as set down in the company by-laws, to qualify him for the senior tier pension plan. In exchange for the buy-out, which will be executed through a routine fax vote of the board and expedited by Uncle Tim's law form, Mortimer Bass agreed not to publicly disclose certain business activities on the part of Matthew Dillard and Dunston Thurmond that could be construed as questionable by certain regulatory and judicial bodies.

Dunston did understand that, strictly speaking, Morty's fiduciary responsibility to the corporation obliged him to disclose all financial anomalies to the board. But Uncle Tim figured that he wouldn't. After all, Morty was getting his bump, his name and new title announced in The Wall Street Journal, and a comfortable nest egg. Appeal to a man's vanity and mendacity and he will follow you anywhere —that was Uncle Tim's credo. And Dunston, in his adorable naiveté, was amazed how easily Uncle Tim made the dedicated company man cave. Dunston, for whom wealth and prestige came as a birthright, habitually underestimated the lure of the buck: a force too potent even for Morty Bass, the company's workaholic model of rectitude, to resist.

Talk about rising from the ashes: after last night's fortuitous tragedy at the chemical plant, all Dunston could see were calm seas, clear skies, and steady-as-she-goes. He made a personal vow to start reading things before he signed them and to no longer accept on faith that his associates were as committed as he to the welfare of the Great American. He picked up the phone and instructed Jill to have a case of '82 Chateau Latour Grand Cru sent to his uncle's place on Long Island as a token of his appreciation. But before Jill got off the intercom, she announced the arrival of an uninvited guest, who bypassed Dunston's gatekeeper and impertinently barged into the CEO's office, plopping himself down in the same chair occupied by the late Matthew Dillard just a few days ago. Dunston made a mental note to have an automatic locking mechanism installed in his outer door. Though stunned by Nick's sudden appearance, Dunston was able to salvage an emergency expressionless expression.

"Dunston, when I heard about Matt Dillard's unfortunate accident I felt it appropriate to personally convey my condolences to staff here at the Great American. After all the years of support and commitment generously extended by the company in nurturing Matthew's career, I did expect to find the organization in deep mourning."

"Well fine, Nick. I suppose that's very thoughtful of you. It's nice to see you again. Now, if you don't mind," said Dunston as he rearranged papers and reached for the phone...

"And, besides, we really haven't spoken, you and I, since I departed this organization lo those many months ago. But as you may or may not know, I never did sever all relationship with the company." Dunston put down the telephone and let his papers lie. He regarded Nick with a frosty glower.

"Nick, we no longer have to play games with each other. In particular, I no longer need to humor your rude and insolent behavior. Simply state your business, if you have any."

"Gosh, Dunston, I miss Mr. Cool. Who is that edgy guy sitting behind your desk? All and all, seems to me that this job suits you. You sure do look the part in that great big chair and this glorious office. I'm sure many people were surprised by your rapid elevation, but not I. This is your destiny, my man. Perhaps it came earlier than expected, but we can both agree that this is where you belong."

"Please get to the point. I have a full plate today." Dunston's tone was harsh, but his expression was deliberately locked in neutral.

"Well I'm fucking busy, too, my friend. The reason being is that I take care of business and that takes all my time. I sweat the details, unlike a certain meteoric superstar running a multi-billion dollar enterprise."

"I do believe I know what you're talking about."

"That does surprise me. Dillard and I had assumed that we could have continued running our little enterprise through your office indefinitely. I'm shocked you found out, but I bet you weren't the one to make the discovery." By then the facetious smile on Nick's face had vanished.

"That's none of your business."

"In any event, things don't get any easier with Dillard's unfortunate accident. It appears that we will be forging a closer business relationship, old buddy."

"When hell freezes over," snarled Dunston.

"A disappointing cliché coming from you and, in this case, an inappropriate one as well," sniffed Nick, appearing to enjoy watching Dunston's composure crumble and the snarling beast emerge.

"I don't have to do anything. I no longer have to tolerate your obnoxious attitude and your smartass mouth. If it's a payoff you want, name your price and let's get on with it. I admit it. I've made my share of mistakes, especially when it comes to you. But this is going to end now. What will it take to get your annoying ass out of here?" Dunston hadn't noticed that he was on his feet and raging over a casually ensconced Nick Freeman on the opposite side of the desk.

"No, my friend, it isn't as easy as that," drawled Nick. "I happen to value my organization's present relationship with the Great American. And with Dillard's forced retirement, I fully expect substantial improvement in my loss experience. Frankly, your continued cooperation suits my purposes for as long as you are associated with your present employer."

Dunston sucked his cheeks in and stroked his beardless chin, wondering how Nick learned to become so adroit. He grudgingly admired the ability of his former sour-faced grinder of a claims slug to sit before him and masterfully employ the tools of extortion on a man of such accomplishment. That Dunston underestimated Nick had become clear. That this should not be allowed to continue was clearer still. Dunston reassumed his seat and took a swig from the omnipresent bottle of Evian on the corner of his credenza.

"Well, you put me in a difficult spot. You guessed correctly that it wasn't I who discovered certain unusual loss developments; which means that others in the organization know what's been going on. I cannot really count on the suppression of this information within our closed circles. The prospect has been presented that perhaps the noble way out is for me to submit my resignation to the Board of Directors. To be honest, Nick, it is a strategy to which I am giving serious consideration. I've been assured that, in exchange for my head, there will be no general disclosures, if you will. While following this course is extremely unpalatable to me from a professional standpoint, it does contain the advantage of concluding our particular business relationship." And with that Dunston let slip a trace of a smile, which was met with a tense grin from Nick, who wiped his brow with a sweat-stained sleeve of his trademark unpressed blazer.

"Well, I guess you really got me there. For reasons that evade me, you are not despised enough by anyone in this company that they would truly want to see you fall —no one here who wouldn't button his lips for a decent share from the treasure house. Even so, the solution you present is untenable. That's because I may be the one guy in the world who would delight in your utter annihilation. I cannot be bought off. And surely as night follows day, the moment you announce your separation, I go to the media, the district attorney and the SEC with our little secrets."

"You have no credibility, Nick. Who are you anyway – an annoying windbag, nothing more. A malcontent. My attorneys would have your entrails scattered to the wind before your deposition hit the courts. Besides, blow the whistle on me and you destroy yourself."

Nick appeared unimpressed with Dunston's response. Instead, he wheeled in closer to the desk, planted his elbows firmly on the edge, hands clasped. He thrust his head and shoulders forward and, in a soft voice, commanded Dunston to sit down. Dunston looked left and right, again surprised to find himself back on his feet. He coolly eased into his chair. He leaned in toward Nick, arms folded and met Nick's steely gaze with his lips pursed, faintly suggestive of a cocky smirk.

"What you suggest is not good business," said Nick in a low and, for him, reasonable tone. "As you know, Mr. CEO, lose-lose situations do not translate into a win for anybody. Picture ourselves in adjoining prison cells. Of course you'd probably go off to one of those country club camps — I'm sure Uncle Tim could pull strings in that regard. But go away you will — I've got the documents in a safe place and they would turn up."

"At this point, I don't really care. Perhaps it's what I deserve."

"Noble of you. Disingenuous, but noble, Dunston. It's also unnecessary and it doesn't suit my purposes."

"I don't care about your purposes – you have no idea how much I don't care..."

"Well how about your sterling reputation, Mr. Philanthropy? Mr. Rotary Club, Mr. Town Council, Mr. Chairman of United Way, Mr. March of Dimes Walkathon, Mr. West Stemper 10K, Mr. Elder of the church et cetera et cetera? How would you like to have all that come crashing down around you?" Nick was boring in, his face rigid and jaw clenched. Reading the question marks in Dunston's eyes. Dunston resisted the temptation to shrink away, to heave his chair back against his mahogany credenza, against the wall, through the wall and into the hall. Nick was boring in, flashing dark brown eyes and a terminal demeanor. Dunston tried to shatter the tension with a nervous chuckle.

"Nick, this is getting a little over the top...I'm at a loss...I'm..."

"Fucking my wife, Dunston. Is that what you're trying to say? Yes, my wife is involved in an adulterous affair and you two have been carrying on for quite a while. Don't even attempt to deny it. You are breaking up my happy happy home. I am bereft. My beautiful wife and our lovely children — all those who I am losing because of you. Can't you see the horrible human toll it is taking on me?"

Dunston was not enjoying Nick's sarcasm; rather, his eyes were downcast, studying his deluxe hand-stained lambskin blotter. A tightening in his chest.

"Thus, it will become my mission to warn others. Yes, warn others about the voracious sexual menace parading around disguised as the handsome, successful and urbane corporate executive. Yes, the others must be warned. The papers notified, the Board of Directors advised, the alumni association, The United Way Executive Committee...the Thurmonds of Easthampton..." Nick was done, the stern, confidential message delivered. He eased back in his chair. So well-padded, so comfortable. At times it could feel like a bed of nails. But then there were times like the present, when the upholstery was like an embracing pillow of heavenly bliss. One look at Dunston's slackened, uncomprehending expression and Nick could tell that he was no longer in a communicative frame of mind.

Dunston did not see Nick leave.

* * *

"So you see. So you see," said Abner with a sigh. Nina twisted in her seat and wrung her hands.

"There are lots of harmful products in the marketplace," she said. "I mean, household cleaning materials, motor fuels, paints and solvents. People have to respect the risks of the products they use."

Abner shook his head. "Nina, please understand this experience has wiped me out. For all I know, this so-called harmless chemical mixture of mine just may be a killer. I can't bear that burden..."

"Oh, there's Abner being silly," said Michelle, wiping away her husband's concerns with a wave of her arm. "As far as the Finleys are concerned, they were living under the same roof for more than 50 years and that makes for a lot of baggage. Probably Mrs. F. said something that lit the old man up and the gun just happened to be handy and kaboom! So there was a bottle of spot remover on the table. What I'm saying Abner, is that it was incidental. Stop blaming yourself for everything."

"I think Michelle does have a point," said Nina. "I'll admit that you ahve a strong case there. But murder? I think that's a stretch. It's not like you were there or even knew the people that well."

"I can't help the way I think," Abner grumbled. "My conclusions may not be airtight from a scientific standpoint, but prudence and the evidence we do have indicate that it makes no sense to take any more risk."

"I understand," said Nina softly. She approached Abner and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead. "You have to obey your conscience. I would never ask you to go against your principles — I see what happens when other people do." Abner was touched by Nina's apparent acceptance of his results. He understood that she was terribly disappointed, but he knew he could count on her to do the morally correct thing.

"Thank you, Nina. I'm very sorry."

"It means we need to be more careful. From now on all our bottles must carry prominent and explicit warning labels..."

"But Nina..."

"It's such a valuable product, we can't possibly consider withdrawing it from the market. Now that we know about the potential side-effects, we can inform our customers."

"But Nina, I thought, I thought."

"Abner, this is my business," said Nina, her voice choked with emotion. "Don't you understand that nothing good is perfect? Flaws can be found in everything and everybody. The important thing is to understand they exist and to deal with them. We can take your discovery and create safeguards. This setback doesn't have to destroy the business. Not when there are other options."

"But you must consider, there are product liability laws," said Abner. "You could lose your profits, your home, the shirt off your back if liability can be proven. It happens every day. That's a cold hard fact, Nina. Look, do kids read the labels on bottles — hell, how many adults read them?" Abner's convinced that he's the only guy in the world who bothers to read all the literature pertaining to the chemicals he uses around the house. No, labels just don't cut it when it comes to liability.

Sometimes I think you're just afraid of your own shadow," complained Michelle, taking up the cause. "My god, Sis takes something you've invented, scores big time, runs into a minor glitch and then proposes a perfectly reasonable solution — and it's not good enough for you. You're right, it does come down to a question of risk. She's willing to take the leap and you're not." It was just like Michelle to pare an issue down to a personal attack, thought Abner. She could care less that this product can injure people. For Michelle, it was not an issue of prudence and responsibility; it was whether her husband had the guts to forge ahead regardless of the consequences. Where did this complete absence of moral values come from?

"I think Michelle brings up an important point," said Nina. "We expose ourselves to risk every time we get in the car and drive to the market. Every time we turn the oven on..."

"This is different..." said Abner testily.

"I can't stop. That's just it, Abner. I can't stop now. And I'm not sure that we need to at this point," said Nina firmly, but with a decisiveness undercut by a slight quavering in her voice. "At least let me give it some more thought."

* * *

He was utterly befogged as he contemplated his multi-function mahogany veneer desk set. The phone warbling warbling. Buzzing buzzing from Jill, who appeared disconcerted by her boss's unusual unresponsiveness. She always checked on him when he seemed to be in one of these moods. But his door remained closed, which meant no interruptions.

Seated erect at his desk. Pinpoints of red and green lights aglow on his phone, voices that needed to reach him, guidance sought and decisions required. He knew he should pick up the phone, but his hands wouldn't move. The buzzes and beeps were muted and removed from him and his mind floated like a dust bunny in a gentle breeze.

Cannot call uncle again. Cannot stay cannot leave. The buzzer from Jill again. He was being rude. He mustn't ignore her, what kind of message would that send? How many hours had passed? He should go to the club and lift — it would snap him out of his funk. Or run. Would Jill run with him? Of course not, she's in love with Klaus. Can he pick up the phone? He must call. Nina! He must call... Procaccini, yes, he's the one. He must call...

But that will have to wait, because materializing before him now was Joe Snyder from the West Stemper Police Department. "I'm sorry, Mr. Thurmond," said Jill. "You didn't respond to your buzzer and Deputy Chief Snyder said he has urgent business." Dunston, suffering miserably from Jill's sadistic use of formality in addressing him, failed to respond.

"Mr. Thurmond?" prompted Jill, her face darkening with concern. "Dunston?" she added meekly – a tactic that seemed to elicit a response.

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Oh, Joe, I believe. Where did you come from?" said Dunston with a (genuinely) abashed grin on his face. "I mean, please have a seat — what can I do for you?" he added, extending a hand. "Jill, please, if you could bring us some coffee."

"No, no, that will not be necessary, Mr. Thurmond," said Joe. "I know you are an extremely busy man, but as your assistant said, there is a very serious matter that I need to share with you." With that, Joe settled into the same chair that only a couple of hours ago was occupied by his former and Dunston's current neighbor. He handed Dunston a folder of papers that on sight induced the return of a pale cast of helplessness to Dunston's face, an effect that would not escape the professional listener's detection.

"But he died last night..." whispered Dunston under his breath.

"These papers were found in his car. Maybe you could identify..."

"These are claim forms. They appear to be filled out already. For a catastrophic loss. An industrial fire," said Dunston in a vague, faraway voice.

"The address..."

"I see."

"Mr. Thurmond, what does this say to you?"

Jill returned with two cups of coffee, despite Joe's protestations.

"Well, Joe, it is fairly apparent what's going on here. Matthew Dillard was moonlighting at the company's expense."

"Yes. Is there anything else you could tell me?"

"There is no crime. No one left to prosecute, wouldn't you say?"

"Mr. Thurmond, I had a very brief discussion with Mrs. Dillard. As you may know, she's in intensive care at Overlook Hospital. Understandably, she was heavily sedated and was drifting in and out, if you know what I mean. The thing is, though she was very weak, under questioning she indicated something about an arrangement the decedent had with Nick Freeman, whom I believe is a former employee of this organization. Is that true?"

Dunston nodded, the mist clearing from his eyes.

"And," Joe continued, "she said it had something to do with insurance and that somehow the Great American was involved. Would you be aware of such an arrangement?" Joe looked down at his notepad.

A pause.

"No," said Dunston firmly. "No. Nick left the company to do his own thing. We were sorry to lose him, but he has a strong entrepreneurial drive."

"Then all relations with Nick Freeman were severed when he left the company."

A pause.

"Yes."
Chapter Sixty-nine

The Cold Shoulder

Three days after Abner revealed the results of his experiment to Nina and Michelle, neither woman would budge, so he loaded his minivan with several gallons of product that he kept in inventory for Nina's small door-to-door and flea market business. Today was hazardous waste day at the local landfill and Abner was doing the right thing. The evidence could not have been clearer and he had expected Nina to sensibly fall into line. Instead she let her recent success to overrule her sense of responsibility. He still expected her to come around – if she didn't listen to her sister. As he secured the rear hatch of the minivan, he saw an unmarked West Stemper police car pull up behind him. Joe Snyder emerged with a friendly wave and a briefcase in hand.

"Good morning, Abner," said Joe as he shook Abner's hand. "It looks like you're heading off; but if you could give me a few minutes, I think it's pretty important." Abner led Joe inside to the dining room.

"I'm here with regard to the Matthew Dillard shooting...at that chemical plant in Carteret," said Joe, hesitating as usual. Abner felt his heart drumming and his body temperature spike. When Nick called Abner with the news the other day certain events instantly made sense to him. He was appalled by his line of reasoning and realized that a more deliberate examination of the facts was warranted before jumping to unseemly conclusions. But now Deputy Chief Snyder was here.

"I was shocked and saddened," said Abner.

"Yes. My wife Doris is very close to Rita, Mr. Dillard's wife. Very upsetting personally. First of all, I don't understand why Mr. Dillard was at the plant at that hour." Joe paused. Just then Abner noticed that his right foot was tapping an up-tempo rhythm without the benefit of a high-hat cymbal. He squashed the percussion with his other foot as Joe looked on. "But then we found these in his car," said Joe. Abner took the photocopied Great American claim forms from Joe, which instantly confirmed his suspicions.

"So Matthew Dillard intended to defraud the Great American Insurance Company. By causing an...an...accident."

Joe Snyder nodded. Abner peered searchingly at Joe's expressionless face.

"And?" said Abner, uneasy with Joe's silence.

"Well, I'm just wondering what you think of that...in light of the fact that you and Mr. Dillard conducted a safety and loss control audit at the very same facility. In light of the fact that several other facilities at which you both performed safety and loss control audits have incurred losses at a much higher rate than would be expected, according to a source at the Great American Insurance Company."

"So you think I have something to do with that?" said Abner, in a voice shaking with sudden terror.

Joe paused again.

"I'm totally shocked, Joe. You know me. I couldn't...couldn't."

"Calm down, Abner. I'm not accusing you of anything. According to the documents you are holding in your hands and others that I found a couple of days ago during a search of Mr. Dillard's residence, there appears to be a correlation between certain large losses at industrial and warehouse sites and safety inspections that you and he jointly performed. I'm not sure that the paperwork we found is complete. That is where I need your help."

"And I thought it was just a matter of bad luck," sighed Abner.

"Well, as you can see..."

"For some reason Matthew Dillard was fouling his own pond," said Abner. "I don't understand why he would assume such risk."

"Maybe between the two of us we can figure that out, Abner. When I visited Rita in the hospital, she was very weak. But whenever I mentioned Nick Freeman's name, she became quite agitated. What do you make of that?"

"It must have something to do with our business. We all have a stake..."

"Abner, I need to know everything."

"I can't, not without Nick present. It wouldn't be right."

"I cannot emphasize enough how important it is that you tell me everything you know. I will speak to Nick of course. But for now, we need to square away some serious issues — criminal issues. I have to request that you accompany me to headquarters and make a statement."

"OH MY GOD!" cried Abner. Joe smiled.

"Don't worry, for Pete's sake. It's routine. Believe me, Abner. If you provide your full cooperation, you'll be fine. I'll make sure of that."

"OH MY GOD!"

* * *

"Great, you're here. I could use some fun."

"Nick's not here?"

"Hmmmm. Suddenly a consideration for you? As a matter of fact, he left the house early. You're looking a little peaked this morning..."

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," said a grave Dunston Thurmond, who took Nina by the hand and led her to the kitchen. "There's no other way to put this, so I'll come right out with it: Nick knows about us." Dunston had dreaded Nina's response: she could be such a naive and fragile woman. But this was information that he could no longer withhold from her, regardless of the trauma it would cause. He was, however, stunned to see that his announcement elicited nothing stronger than a shrug and blank stare from Nina.

"I know," she said with shocking equanimity. "As a matter of fact, he's known it for some time." At this Dunston squinted hard and his rock jaw dropped like a fat man leaping off a high bridge. Observing his reaction seemed elevate Nina's mood, watching how a simple response could crack Dunston's smooth façade like an egg.

"But that's outrageous. You did not share this information. I don't..."

"What difference does it make?" said Nina laughing, throwing her arms around his neck and affixing a large soulful kiss on his flaccid lips. "In fact, he encouraged me. Said it suited him just fine."

"Cold hearted bastard," growled Dunston theatrically. United in cause, Nina teased Dunston by sprinkling feathery kisses on the delectable juttings and crevasses of his face and neck. "Please, Nina, I did not come here for the reasons ULLLPPPPP!" His words were jammed back down his throat by the intrusion of Nina's fluttering tongue and...he pushed her away.

"We've got to talk."

"I don't want to talk."

"I'm ruined and disgraced," whined angst-ridden Dunston.

"But, Dunston, understand, first I must get laid."

"Your language is astonishing, Nina." A charming flush tinted the perpetual tan of Dunston's face. Accustomed to the polite fury of Nina's love-making and the self-effacing conversation prior and post, Dunston was confounded by her sudden casual and prurient treatment of their relationship. "I didn't come over here to, in your words, 'get laid,'" piped Dunston indignantly.

"Oh," said Nina, "Well, then let's take a seat. Could I fix you a cup of coffee?"

"When did Nick find out — I mean how long has he known?" Dunston demanded.

"What does it matter?"

"It does."

"A long time ago. Look, Nick really did encourage me to see you. Why the heck not? My husband and I haven't had a relationship in the normal sense for over a year. We just live in the same house. Our lives are moving in different directions. Away from each other." Nina spoke in a bland, passionless voice. "He keeps saying it suits his purposes — our relationship, Dunston." Dunston nodded and buried his head in his hands. His muffled voice was taut with emotion.

"Your husband Nick is a clever man. Shrewder than I expected. Believe it or not, he has it in his power to destroy my career. He is running a scam involving the Great American — and my name has appeared on some incriminating documents."

"I don't care what my husband does."

"We're not talking about Freeman. I mean Nick. I'm talking about me. I'm looking at some pretty serious charges. I tried to cut a deal. To save both our skins. But Nick isn't buying. And he's leveraging our relationship, Nina, as a possible extortion. To destroy my reputation. And yours for that matter."

"So both you and Nick are crooks," deduced Nina, a judgment that that was received with a yelp of protest.

"That's an awful thing to say, considering the circumstances."

"But it's true," countered Nina firmly as she stared at the top of downcast Dunston's skull. When he finally raised his head, he looked at Nina through red, tear-laden eyes. A hurting gaze that did not elicit a sympathetic return.

"Dunston, be a man," she said in a soft but stern voice. "You and Nick have dug yourself a hole and I'm afraid it's up to you to get yourselves out of it. I have problems of my own. Maybe not on as grand a scale; maybe too trivial to be of interest to a man like you. But, honey, I've had setbacks before and I've bounced back. I will again. Maybe a little adversity is good for you. Look at yourself: you're smart, rich, well-connected, and beautiful. Believe me, you'll bounce back stronger than ever. All you have to do, Dunston, is grow the fuck up."

Dunston wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his Italian-made navy pinstripe jacket. "I never thought you capable of such cruelty. To speak to me this way," he whispered, clearly dismayed by the expression of disgust tugging at the corners of Nina's mouth. "You've got to understand, Nina. I love you very much. I want you to cut Nick off and be with me. But now I don't know. You are no longer the person I thought you were."

"I am not responsible for your illusions," said Nina. "And don't fool yourself into thinking that you love me. You love the same thing about me that I love in you. I have strong feelings for you, but we had it right in the first place. Every time I see you it is thrilling. Making love to you is a dream, Dunston. And what makes it so great is there's nothing more to it. No demands or commitments. When you came here today to pour your heart out to me, I was disappointed. Honestly. If I truly loved you, Dunston, I would have taken your hand, tried to comfort you and make you feel better. But the point is I only wanted to make love to you. And even now, that's all I want." Nina stared fiercely at Dunston's tear-swollen face and watched his red-streaked bronze complexion change to the color of chalk. Finally, an embarrassed laugh.

"Well, I guess I've been told. Maybe it's an understatement, but I'm not particularly up to satisfying your needs at the present time. I was hoping for some support, but with that not forthcoming and with my machinery currently out-of-whack, as it were, I guess I had better leave."

She nodded at Dunston and turned away.

* * *

Another person remained in the police car while Joe was talking with Abner. Joe excused himself and went to the front door to wave the man in to join them. The man identified himself as Special Agent something-or-other and presented him with his calling card. He immediately demanded a tour of Nick's and Abner's business spreadsheets. Abner, who seldom sought eye-contact, did so in this case and was chilled to find staring back at him two tiny black eyes fixed in rheumy yellow pools on the flat-featured face of a middle-aged Asian man. A face of implacable cool. Abner hesitated and glanced at Joe. Joe nodded with reluctant encouragement.

"Deputy Chief Snyder said you assured us of your cooperation."

Abner stood riveted to his doorstep, tormented again by the dull nausea that had troubled him since his face-down with Michelle and Nina and by Joe's appearance two days ago.

Again Joe nodded.

"Mr. Clary, you do have an agreement with Deputy Chief Snyder. In any event, your cooperation is not required — records can be seized, if necessary."

"Please, Special Agent Noguchi, that will not be necessary," said Joe. "Cmon, Abner, let's head down to your office." Joe took Abner's elbow and led him like a skittish first date to his computer. Abner powered up as Noguchi nosed around Abner's meticulously ordered office.

"Printouts of the last quarter's transactions are in the safe," said Abner. "Behind the dart board. But it's easier if I call up the data on the screen." Joe and Special Agent Noguchi flanked Abner at the computer as Abner summoned up spreadsheets, income reports and consolidated statements.

"Where are the transactions involving the reinsurance contracts with the Great American?" demanded Noguchi. Abner paused.

"Nick insisted on a separate ledger. I'm not sure why — I guess for tax purposes." Noguchi snorted under his breath and insisted that Abner call up the data.

"So your friend was running two sets of books concurrently. Does your firm employ a CPA? Who is responsible for filing your taxes?"

Abner's fingers froze on the keyboard and his throat went dry. "Nick handles all that," he murmured.

"Okay, Clary, I want a printout of the current screen, past and present client lists and a copy of your last three quarterly reports to the IRS," said Noguchi. "I also need copies of brokerage licenses, bordereau agreements, state insurance department approvals and so forth." Abner gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering.

"Joe, this is...I mean the — this business — it's Nick business, I don't think..."

"Our agreement is for you to supply certain information in return for your immunity from prosecution," snapped Noguchi, a pushy man with little use for subtlety.

"I don't think he means that," said Joe softly.

"Joe, you should be speaking to Nick about this. Or at least let me call him."

"We will, Abner, we will. But first we need your help in gathering certain documentation before we can productively approach Nick," said Joe, who kept a restraining hand on Noguchi's arm.

"You never mentioned anything regarding tax records, client mail lists or licensing information. I am very uncomfortable with all this. I am not the senior man."

"Then we can only assume that you intend to void your agreement," barked Noguchi, earning and ignoring a scolding glare from Joe Snyder. "What did you think we were going to ask you for?"

"It's getting too deep. Besides, I can't help you with everything. You will have to get some of this material from Nick."

"I guess we're done here, Snyder," snarled Noguchi. "All bets are off. Maybe you weren't clear enough with Mr. Clary with regard to the situation. So far what I see is probable insurance fraud, federal and state tax evasion charges, violation of various interstate commerce laws, accessory to first degree arson, criminal trespass — and we haven't even started digging."

"But I didn't know...."

"That really doesn't matter, Mr. Clary. You appear to be a bright and resourceful individual. Maybe Joe Snyder buys the dumb and innocent act. Let me tell you, sir, I'm not convinced."

"That's enough!" growled Joe. "Abner, I do suggest you think about what Special Agent Noguchi has said. And the offer still stands. Your cooperation will be acknowledged as agreed. We all want to conduct the investigation as expediently as possible and get the damn thing over with." Noguchi cast a withering look at Joe and stamped a spit-polished shoe in disgust. Joe glared at Noguchi and gave his head a jerk, indicating his desire for the special agent to leave the office. When Noguchi didn't budge, Joe bluntly told him that he needed to have a few words in private with Abner. Noguchi exited with a scowl and lit a cigarette in the unfinished portion of Abner's basement. Joe Snyder closed the door, dragged a stool from the drafting table and sat knee-to-knee with Abner, the tips of their noses separated by at most six inches.

"Yeh, Noguchi's a hard ass," said Joe. "But before this thing plays out, you're going to have to explain a lot of things to a lot of other hard asses. You've given us some valuable information here, despite what my partner says. But I can't stress enough the importance of giving us your full cooperation. The charges Noguchi is tossing around are not just to scare you. Your partner is in deep shit. Not just the fraud aspect, but also the fact that people have been injured and lives have been lost possibly as a direct result of his operations."

"Nick had nothing to do with Matthew Dillard's activities."

"I'd like to believe you. Dillard worked for Nick. Was Dillard on his own when he set those fires, vandalized several other facilities and broke into the chemical factory? Both Nick and Dillard had motive, financial and personal, to cause harm to the Great American. Can you shed any light on that?" Joe spoke barely above a whisper.

"I've known Nick as long as you have, Joe. He's too sharp to assume the kinds of risks that Dillard took. In fact, Nick was extremely concerned and puzzled over the mounting claim losses. Maybe that has something to do with the supplementary spreadsheets — sometimes that's done for unusual business developments. I do know that our estimated tax disbursements went down when we pro-rated receivables for certain accounts. According to Nick, it was done to stabilize cashflow. But again, I don't claim to have expertise in that area."

"I think you better tell me all you do know about that." Abner was dismayed that he even brought the tax angle up. He was thinking out loud. It was a habit of his — it helped him to crystallize and order his thoughts. But what was he thinking with Deputy Chief Joe Snyder and Elliot Ness in the other room? "I can't handle any more today, Joe. When are you going to see Nick?"

"Soon. Maybe today or tomorrow. Not to sound like a broken record, Abner, but again you are doing the right thing." An infernal knocking on the door. A heavy sigh from Joe as he climbed off the stool and made his way out, taking the yapping special agent with him.
Chapter Seventy

The Contract

Neo-classical statuary of draped and undraped marble nymphs posed erect and stooped and reclining, some frolicking in cascading fountains as others gazed with spooky white marble eyes at the quiet avenue to the south, at the 10-foot beige stucco walls bordering the close-cropped weedless lawn both east and west, or toward the glorious 8-column façade of the white brick mansion to the north. Another gaudy "pile" in Dunston's "eclectic" neighborhood. A red brick drive encircled the fountains and complex ornamental plantings. Oversized polished brass lanterns on the front porch complemented massive carved oak double doors at the entrance.

Till now, Dunston had never been inside the house, even though it was only two doors down from his own. Procaccini was preceded by a cloud of smoke from a lit cigar as he answered his own door. Inside there are more nymphs, more marble, augmented by oversized oils of fat naked ladies and roly poly cupids from the Elizabethan period decorating the walls leading from the atrium to Procaccini's study. In the study were several display cases containing antique firearms and assorted bric-a-brac from old military campaigns — diaries, mess kits, combat ribbons and so forth.

"You have something of a museum here," said Dunston, silently appalled at the agglomeration of schlock art and junk that Procaccini undoubtedly paid a fortune to collect. His host nodded with a smile, apparently pleased by Dunston's appreciation of his collection. He and Dunston seated themselves in facing leather-upholstered easy chairs separated by a chunky Oriental black-lacquered table. Procaccini set two glasses, an ice bucket and a bottle of deeply aged Macallan's single malt on the table, insisting that they drain consecutive glasses to each other's health before another word was spoken. Then Procaccini launched into a monologue with tales of his international travels in quest of collectibles, the rise and fall of his three marriages, and the ongoing battle he's been fighting with turf grubs, which he said are out to destroy his "million dollar" lawn and rare plantings. Halfway through his third shot, Dunston found it harder and harder to quell the radiant glow that could undermine his sense of mission. He summoned a bashful smile.

"Ah, again I find myself rattling on. A bad habit. Tell me, neighbor, what brings you to my palace?"

Dunston lost the smile and installed in its place his grave boardroom frown. The flutter of nerves that he had anticipated before this meeting was blessedly in abeyance, thanks to the scotch. "Well, Mr. Procaccini, it concerns a neighbor, Nick Freeman." Taking his cue from Dunston, Procaccini delicately placed his drink on a cut-glass coaster. He gestured old-world style for Dunston to continue.

"There are some matters, some developments, involving Freeman and myself that have become most unsettling. Very damaging, if you will, to my corporation and my career. I don't think I need to go into the details, they're beside the point. But the bottom line is this: I have, foolishly to be sure, been lured into one of Freeman's schemes that could escalate into serious charges against me from the state insurance commission and perhaps other law enforcement agencies."

"You're tapping into the company booty — well good for you!" chortled Procaccini. "Sleazy industry if you ask me. You're just getting yours: what's the big deal?"

"Well no, not really. We're not talking about intentional acts on my part. This all occurred through my lack of oversight. Frankly, I owe everything — my position, my prestige — to my company. I deeply regret what has happened."

Procaccini nodded and leaned forward in his chair.

"The point is Freeman is out to destroy me professionally and personally. And believe it or not, it's working. One phone call and my career is ruined. Another call and my reputation's shot to hell."

"I guess he knows that you're banging his wife," said Procaccini with a straight face. "You have excellent taste: she's delectable."

"How the hell did you ...."

"Well, neighbor, what's so hard about looking out the goddamn window?"

"So you didn't really know..." Dunston sputtered.

"But I do now."

"Oh. Oh. But you know what I mean. Fact is I've worked hard to build my career, my position in the industry, in this community. I can't allow one man, especially a guy like Nick Freeman, to compromise all that. Too many people will get hurt. I can't have that on my conscience."

"And you want me to do what?" said Procaccini in a dry, accusatory tone that chilled Dunston to the core. Procaccini poured another shot for himself and Dunston. "It's okay, Dunston."

"I'm...willing to pay...you...for taking care of it," said Dunston in a faltering voice, the ice-blue eyes condensing into misty pools.

"I don't see how I could be of much help," said Procaccini. "I feel badly about your situation, but I think you labor under a misconception as regards my occupation and connections. It's a common mistake that many others make—and I take no offense—but I truly am an importer and exporter of..." and then it was Procaccini's turn to be dismayed as he bore witness to the spectacle of his guest's utter disintegration. Dunston's sudden and resounding sobs rattled through the marble halls and shook the crystal chandeliers of Procaccini's grand home.

Procaccini tried to console the distraught CEO, but since some volcanoes just needed to vent, he sat and waited uncomfortably until Dunston ran short of breath.

"It's okay, Dunston, you've always been good neighbor." With a sigh he wrote a figure on a piece of paper. He raised Dunston's quaking head by the hair and showed him his proposal. Dunston nodded and gradually his sobbing ebbed to sporadic snuffles.
Chapter Seventy-one

The Consequences

Why didn't he feel better? He had Dunston Thurmond by the balls. He had summoned rage and indignation and menacing oaths and finally desperation and capitulation. Confirmation and vindication: the stripping of a cellophane man.

But shouldn't the POW! of absolute victory be more complete and satisfying? The answer to his own question was sickeningly evident. The ache in his belly and the grinding of teeth — the cold sweat and sleepless nights and the ringing in his ears: the sixth sense suggesting that it was all starting to come down around him.

When success was new to Nick, it took him by surprise. The inflow of virgin revenue unleashed a gratifying rush of joy and exhilaration and it was new every time and unexpected every time. But present now was the familiar nausea that had heralded failure through all the desperate years and he knew that the symptoms rarely manifested without cause. Nick was in its grip and never was it more intense. In the past he rushed to Nina for comfort and support, but he had effectively shut off that option. He thought he didn't need her anymore. She was already invested and spent for the business — had to be done. The fist was banging the desk. The coffee was cold and betrayal was in the air. They will find out about Dillard and it will lead them to him. Dunston will turn to jelly. He summoned Clary and forwarded his telephone and then left his office to wait outside. Tara was playing jacks in the hallway and Nick went and gave her a big hug. Trying to crush the hopelessness out of his breast through a surrogate crying towel. Instead he crushed the wind out of her lungs, making her squeak in protest. He released her and she tiptoed away, her face wrinkled with confusion.

When the van pulled up, Abner paused for a moment before opening the door. Nick's unexpected appearance from the side of the house led to an unchecked grimace to cross Abner's face, a reaction that did not pass unnoticed by Nick, who hastened his gait to intercept Abner before Abner took more than a few steps.

"What took you so long, Abner? I've been waiting."

"I'm..."

"Forget about it. Tell me what's going on. You've been talking to somebody. I know it. You haven't been calling, you haven't even been responding to e-mail. What's going on?" Words and accusations gushed from Nick's lips as fast as he could spew them, and the ferocity of his manner drove Abner physically against the door of his van.

"Nick I...Nick I...."

"TELL ME TELL ME TELL," Nick demanded, spittle spraying and dripping and splashing. "YOU'RE IN THIS, TOO, GOOD BUDDY. WHAT HAPPENS TO ME HAPPENS TO YOU. I'M NOT GOING DOWN ALONE..."

"Calm down, calm down. Nick, you're losing it," said Abner, with terror in his eyes and flight likely on his mind. His hands fumbled for the door handle. But that avenue was cut off when Nick captured him by planting his hands on the vehicle's door, straddling Abner between his arms. Abner ducked beneath one of Nick's containing arms, and Nick raised a knee to block Abner's escape, but all that did was trip Abner up and send him sprawling to the driveway. Before Nick could pounce on him, an unexpected voice interceded.

"Hey Nick, what the hell are you doing?" Through all the commotion, neither Nick nor Abner had noticed the arrival of Joe Snyder in his unmarked car. Abner scrambled to his feet and removed himself to a safe distance from Nick. His fingers fluttered and his lips flapped wordlessly as Nick spun around and regarded Joe with bulging eyes and a sweaty brow. Joe was poker-faced, but he instinctively opened his suit jacket wide enough to reveal a portion of his holster. Nick looked at Joe's belt. Joe looked at what Nick was looking at and discretely re-buttoned his jacket. Several seconds passed without words being exchanged. By this time Nina had situated herself by the front door, as confused as Joe by her husband's apparent standoff with her brother-in-law.

"Oh, so you're in on this too," said Nick severely to his former neighbor. "What's Abner been telling you?"

Joe looked at Abner, pursed his lips and shook his head.

"I'd like to have a little talk inside, Nick," said Joe in a low, no-nonsense voice—a tone Nick had never heard from Joe in the past. At least not with him. Abner was a pole stuck in the ground, unsure whether to follow Joe and Nick inside or to climb into his van and leave.

"You can go, Abner," said Joe. "I need to speak with Nick." Nick stared daggers in the direction of Abner, who felt his arm being gently tugged and led by Nina to the passenger side of the van. Saying nothing, she climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine and drove away with her stricken brother-in-law.

"She's in on it, too," snorted Nick derisively. Joe rolled his eyes and followed Nick up the stairs and into the office.

"Nick, that's pretty weird behavior, if you don't mind my saying it." Nick had no response. Instead, the computer was powered up and Nick muttered to himself, rifling through drawers, papers flying — a blur of fingers, the arching of shoulders and then all became still: Nick's body, Nick's mouth, Joe. Except for the hum of the LaserJet ejecting page after page of documentation.

"What are you looking at?" Nick scowled. Joe didn't not reply. "Disregard that little scene outside. Part of being in business — got to set the help straight now and then. You've got to keep your eye on the ball all the time — your flesh and blood are at stake. People you got working for you, sometimes they aren't on the same page. Got to set it right."

Joe nodded. Nick knew what Joe was doing. But he was so sucked in by the turmoil that he didn't notice the pain in Joe's eyes, the caved-in posture of a man battling his own emotions. But this was not about Joe.

"Abner is doing what he thinks is right," said Joe softly. Nick bit down hard on his lip and shot Joe a savage glance.

"Yeah, sure. Like usual, Clary the frightened little bunny. Look here, Joe — are you visiting as a friend or is this official business?" Joe seemed to struggle with Nick's belligerent attitude. The hatred in his friend's eyes seemed to have an enervating effect on Joe.

"You're right. I'm here on business. But I'm always your friend. Which makes it that much harder to do my job."

"Someone else could've been assigned..."

"Yes, that's true. In fact, given the nature of the investigation, it's most likely outside my jurisdiction. But I volunteered — I cashed in some favors, pulled strings, I suppose."

Nick shook his head. "Well you surprise me, Joe. I see it all the time — the jealousy and envy. Make a few bucks and then you become a walking target. They all either want your money or see you fall flat on your face or both. I thought better of you. I'm sad to see that you're just like the others. But not just like them, you're worse. You want to be the one to bring me down. Nothing like friendship. And when you think of all the stuff I did for you..."

"Cut the shit, Freeman!" The wounded soul awakened. Joe was suddenly a ball of rage. Pity replaced by indignation. Maybe he expected remorse but instead got censure. They're missing each other by miles. The unexpected rebuke silenced Nick in mid-tirade.

"You can be a real selfish sonuvabitch," said Joe. "Look, I prayed that what you built here was above board — that it could actually happen the way you envisioned it. I know how hard you've worked, the failures and the ridicule you've put up with. But you made it, man. You made it and I say that's great. You had a dream and busted your ass and it paid off. I was happy for you, Nick. You've got your goddamn nerve accusing me of trying to bring you down — of jealousy. Absolutely nothing could be further from the truth. Do you have any idea why I'm here? Why I'm doing this?"

Stunned by Joe's vehemence, Nick timidly shook his head.

"Because I'm in an ugly business. The feds and the DA are all over this case. They smell blood and it's all I can do to hold them back — a case like this can launch careers. All I would need to do is step aside and they would be on your ass like a pack of wolves. Yours, Abner Clary's and Dunston Thurmond's and anyone else involved. What I'm doing is out of friendship. You've been generous to me and I'm just trying to repay the favor. I don't want to see this thing made into a spectacle."

Nick drooped. Shoulders shrunk. Eyes dimmed. All his rage and all his vitality expelled with a single heavy sigh. He turned to the side and through the silly rhomboid window arrangement he stared at the looming green-swathed Watchung Mountain range. There was a strange lightheadedness, a muted sense of unreality and his friend, the cop, was in the room. Cops were never there to help. But the cop was a friend. Which meant more?

"How bad, Joe? How bad is it?"

"The investigation is ongoing."

"Joe..."

"Doesn't look good. We've seized records. Serious laws have been broken. Felony-grade. You will need an attorney fast. I'm concerned about Abner Clary. He elected to cooperate in exchange for immunity from prosecution. But Nick..."

"It's okay, Joe. Abner has to do what is best for him. I suppose it would have all come to light anyway. Maybe we could work out a similar deal..."

"Look, Nick. I can't promise you that. But..."

"In exchange for my cooperation — yeah I watch TV. I guess we be going downtown, eh Joe? You know — to make a statement?" said Nick, croaking out a hollow laugh.

* * *

Nina took the long way to Abner's house. In fact she went in the precise opposite direction. She drove erratically, her brow wrinkled, the steering wheel clutched tightly in her long slender fingers.

Nina was driving pissed. She grit her teeth to keep from screaming.

Abner was too absorbed in his personal anguish to concern himself with the dodges and braking squeals of Nina's motoring technique. He compared his present situation to a chemical reaction that failed to conform to carefully plotted equations and experimental protocols — when eruptions burst forth with greater fury than predicted in the design phase. He badly wanted to slap a lid on it, fold it up and put it all away in a drawer, but it was TOO LATE. It was impossible. It was spreading in every direction just like the hurtling universe nanoseconds after the Big Bang. How he longed to gather it all in his arms and crush it to dust. What will it do, where will it go? He had to know those things.

"So you and Nick, looks like you were having words."

Abner kept silent.

"Who's blaming who? Don't worry, Abner. I bet it's not you. It's that husband of mine. I know it. Who's going to jail? Is it you? Is Nick going to jail? How about Dunston Thurmond?" Nina's voice assumed a shrillness bordering on falsetto.

"Jail?" Abner squeaked. "Who said anything about jail?"

"Was always in the back of my mind. All those years, all those plans and schemes. I figured if he ever got desperate enough — well, the proof's in the pudding." Nina tossed her head back and broke off a bitter laugh. "I guess it was fun for him while it lasted."

"What do you mean? Who's talking about jail?"

"I want you to tell your man to keep supplying the chemicals," said Nina, shifting to her true agenda. "I know you told him to stop. I know—I just came from the plant. You can't do that, Abner. Not on your own. We agreed that the labels — the labels would carry a clear warning..."

"No, Nina. No we didn't. You..."

"I can show you the re-design. I did it myself on desktop. The wording may need some work, but this will solve the problem...I swear it will."

"NO IT WON'T," declared Abner in a rare outburst. "We are killers, you and I. We didn't know in the beginning. But now that we do, it only increases the blame." Nina shook her head.

"Don't be so dramatic. Our simple little product isn't as bad as a lot of the stuff they sell these days. Look, the maker of this car kills thousands of people every year in crashes, but no one's accusing Chrysler of genocide. As long as the risks are known —and they are now. And we're doing the responsible thing."

Abner shook his head, harder this time.

"Don't stop me. Please, Abner. My customers depend on me. This product is important. They believe in it and we are obligated to serve them. Don't just think of yourself." They turned into Abner's driveway and Nina cut the engine, maintaining a stranglehold on the steering wheel, her fingers waggling like those of a power hitter poised to rip an oncoming fastball.

Abner just looked at her, eyes glazed.

"Please call Gekko, you've got to call."

"I can't and I won't, Nina. You of all people must understand that. Look, I've got work to do. You can have Michelle take you home," he said, scrambling from the van and leaving Nina alone to simmer.

Not until he crossed in front of the van did he notice Klaus' car parked at the curb. He sighed impatiently and, when he rushed through the front door and found his wife and her boyfriend on the living room floor sweaty and entangled, he calmly requested that Michelle take a break and give her sister a ride home. He leapt over the lovers on the way to the basement to fire up his computer.
Chapter Seventy-two

The Good Cop

"You in love with that guy or something? I say we bust him now. We got him on at least a dozen counts. Don't want him running out on us. Listen to the way he talks. He's got that look about him. He'll skip, I know the kind," grumped Noguchi, squinting at the television monitor focused on the suspect left alone in the next room.

"I don't think that's necessary right now," said Joe. "You heard me tell him to hang close — he's not going anywhere. He's not stupid. Give the man a chance to clean up some loose ends."

"You've lost your objectivity on this case," said Noguchi, who launched into a litany of Nick's alleged felonies, from bilking his former company out of millions to running an illegal insurance operation out of his house. "He's front-page news, Snyder — are you crazy?"

"I don't need the publicity. Nick Freeman is a good friend of mine. He's not going to be fodder for someone else's career nut — especially yours," said Joe, who had honed a keen loathing of his partner and rival.

"Then maybe you just back off. This is federal business."

"And I'm leading the investigation and I'm saying we give him a few days. Look, that happens to be a decent man in there, despite all the shit that's gone down. He's a man who was backed into a corner and made some errors in judgment out of desperation. But don't you worry — you're absolutely correct, that man will end up in a cage. In the meantime, I say he is worthy of some respect." Perspiration had soaked through Joe's shirt and slacks and suit jacket.

"Deputy Chief Snyder, you are making a mistake. You must remove yourself from this case. You know that it is contrary to established procedure to participate in cases involving family or close personal friends. You seem to be held in high regard in this police department. So maybe it takes an outsider to point out such things — things that your adoring peers here may generously overlook. I intend to go in and read — respectfully read — the alleged felon Mr. Nicholas Freeman his rights." The smirk was gone from Noguchi's face. His dark brown eyes coolly consider the broad angry black man drawing himself full-length before him. Joe's taut, densely-muscled body and tense expression exuded extreme antipathy.

But if Noguchi was intimidated by the larger man, it did not show in his demeanor. Like two boxers locked in a pre-bout stare-down, Joe and the special agent engaged in an eyeball joust of near-comic intensity. Joe despised the part of him that comprised the entirety of Noguchi: the single-minded drive for the hunt, the discovery, the kill. Joe understood the adrenaline rush from his days on the State Police Task Force. Real police work: routing out, beating up and subduing the human trash in the urban dumping grounds of Newark, Jersey City and Camden. "Hones the edge, feeds the need," he was fond of saying to his mortified wife. "Great for my service record, too," added the careerist in him.

And now fretting nervously and picking at his fingers on the monitor was a shattered man who may incidentally become the source of the most glittering star on Joe Snyder's and Special Agent Noguchi's service records. Yeah, Joe understood Noguchi's outrage over his reluctance to pounce. Two ambitious cops.

"You've made your point, Noguchi," said Joe. "I'm still asking you to back off for now. Give me three days and I will handle the bust myself. I will vouch for Freeman — anything happens, I'll take the heat."

"Not good enough. You're too involved. Drop the case."

"Not a chance." Eyeballs locked.
Chapter Seventy-three

The Parting

Twenty-four hours from race day and Nick's telephone was silent. He had had all the lines disconnected. Even the computer was powered down. Abner will tidy up. So what? So it wasn't right? Who cares about all the clients who depended on him — who cares that he introduced a better way? Big deal. He injected imagination, greased the wheels of commerce and everyone made money. Even the Great American would not have come to grief had it properly rewarded the dedication and know-how of a key man instead of fatally feeding the abyss of his hopelessness.

Power wielded by tyros with small minds. Laws that don't serve. A death sentence to innovation. Joe would be here soon.

"Are you okay, Nick?" It was Nina. She was wearing her running outfit, the powder blue nylon shorts matched with a white and maroon-striped technical singlet with a tiny Nike swoosh on the right should strap. Her usual long blond hair was now worn short and Nick could even see her ears. She spoke in a warm soft voice, but her gaze seemed harder, more focused. Nick was taken aback by an unmistakable hint of concern.

"Nina. You've cut your hair."

She shrugged and groaned softly. "Yes, about four weeks ago. When the weather warmed up. It's more comfortable — time for grown-up hair I suppose."

"It looks nice. I like it." For once Nick was not rushed, gone was the undercurrent of impatience in his voice. Nina moved from the door, approaching Nick's desk but not sitting in one of the chairs arrayed in front.

"Joe is waiting downstairs. He said you were expecting him. I'm sorry... you know..."

"Thanks. If I don't have a chance in the morning, just to let you know, I honestly regret treating you like I have. I was selfish. I over-reacted to your thing with Dunston. I was wrong. Just...wrong. Pretty smart guy, huh? Look what I've done. And you say Joe's here."

"You are very smart," said Nina. "That's never been a problem with you."

Nick shrugged. He could see a flicker of sympathy cross Nina's face. But then it was gone and Nina again observed him with a fixed, probing intensity.

"You don't deserve this, Nick. I feel badly. Things got out of hand."

"I didn't do half the things that they're saying I did. It's turning into a public lynching." Now it was Nina pursing her lips with impatience, which made Nick alter his tone. He cared what she thought. Now that it was too late, he cared what Nina thought. "But these things will sort themselves out."

"I'll tell Joe that you're ready. I'm truly sorry." Nina turned to leave, but Nick had one more thing to say to her.

"Nina, at least I was right about Dunston Thurmond, wasn't I? I had him pegged from the start." Nina hesitated for a moment, turned back half-way to face Nick, but then flew down the stairs to a waiting Deputy Chief Snyder of the West Stemper Police Department. Nina nodded at Joe, who did the slow climb up the steps. Nick smiled warmly and gripped Joe's extended hand. He took Joe to the sitting area and had a steaming cup of fresh-brewed coffee by Joe's arm before he had a chance to object.

"This is hard. It's really hard for me, Nick."

"Oh, come now, buddy. This is your job. I'm the one who fucked up. Don't beat yourself up over it. So, what's the poop?"

Joe took a long pull from his coffee and settled back in the easy chair. He explained that the plan was to pick Nick up tomorrow at 9:30 a.m. The idea was everyone's attention would be on the road race. Since Nick's situation fit under the category of "high-profile," the more distractions the better.

"The press?"

"Unavoidable: big names involved, big bucks. I'm sorry, but the newspapers and TV folks will eat this up. We'll be as discrete as possible. I'll be personally transporting you, probably with Special Agent Noguchi — he insisted. We'll use the back entrance to the Federal Building in Newark."

"What? Newark? What about here in town? At least Elizabeth," cried Nick, his face suddenly pale.

"The federal charges take precedence. It's why Noguchi's involved. You will be processed. Fingerprints, pictures, forms to fill out. Most likely you will be detained until bail is set. Make arrangements for your attorney to meet up with you around noon."

"I'll be locked up," whispered Nick. Joe nodded.

"Temporarily," said Joe. "I doubt that bail will be waived. I've spoken with the prosecutor, and I think she's convinced that you can be relied on to hang around."

"I'd like to see Nina run. It's important to me."

Joe hesitated and frowned. Finally he shrugged. "But then we have to go right away. Noguchi will be pissed, but I can handle that."

"Are you letting Thurmond run? When does he get his?"

"It's all part of the deal I cut with Noguchi. He demanded a show, so it will be an on-site collar at the Great American Monday A.M. With Thurmond involved, it will deflect most of the attention away from you. It'll be Thurmond's mug on the evening news, not yours so much."

"I guess this will shake things up around here for awhile. Hey, let's look on the bright side; chances are I'll get off with a slap on the wrist. Maybe I won't even have to serve time — that's what my lawyer thinks. Why shouldn't I believe him?" Nick smiled. Joe did not. Instead he gave Nick a pop on the shoulder and headed out the door and down the stairs. The next time Nick Freeman would see his old neighbor, Joe will be hauling his ass off to jail.
Chapter Seventy-four

The West Stemper 10K

It was up the slight slope in a whir of humming wheels and then skying off the sidewalk to the smooth black pavement of an empty street, flanked on either side by immodest mansions and kaleidoscopic gardens of the flaunting rich. Lavinia was all pumping elbows and piston legs and slamming breaths — had to be home in five minutes to meet her ride to the race: Nina Freeman. It was a mild spring day of gentle breezes and twittering birds and screeching children on bicycles. A day of the big race unthreatened by black clouds and needle-sharp bullets of rain.

Lavinia could not wait. She just could not wait! She couldn't sit still for days, the looming race the largest event in her life. She was "slimmer" than ever and the searing pain in her joints — those sour pockets of lactic acid — overwhelmed the invariable ache of emptiness in her belly and that was why she did it. It was also part of the challenge. Start the race tired, run as hard as you can, lose yourself in the light-headed float, but finish — always finish. Avoid last year's disgrace.

She was a mile from home and her wheels were pitted and smoking, she was going to melt them! But then as her block loomed into view she cornered a bit too sharp and the edge of her right skate slipped on some loose gravel, skidding it into the path of the left skate, which caused a high-speed leg-tangle, propelling the spindly missile of a girl off her axis and hurtling out of control. She was briefly airborne before her flight was arrested by the unbending nub of a fire hydrant poking through the sidewalk just in front of her house. She felt a hot flash of pain followed by a radiating numbness before the flicker in her eyes was extinguished. Lavinia had checked out.

Her mom, having witnessed her daughter's collision from a living room window, gasped and bustled out to Lavinia's side. Seeing up close the broken form of her daughter, Doris unleashed a terrible howl and stomped around limp Lavinia before collapsing senseless to the ground. Through rattling sobs, she gathered her daughter's bloody head in her lap. By this time Nina had arrived and she exploded from the car, instantly sizing up the scene. The child's face was turning to gray, and all her mother the nurse could do was cry and grope at the air in helpless misery. Nina bristled with rage and shoved Doris aside.

"She's not breathing!" screamed Nina, who flopped down and blew air into the child's lungs. "How long has she been like this?" demanded Nina in between puffs. But Doris, unable to speak, just sat on her ass, legs splayed on her lush lawn, dumbfounded, watching Nina.

Still Lavinia would not breathe, which infuriated Nina even more. She blew harder and longer. She slapped the unconscious girl on the face. From out of nowhere a crowd of curiosity seekers gathered; they were eventually joined by a police cruiser. The officer tried to wrest Lavinia out of Nina's arms, but Nina refused to release her. "Go to hell. I'll take care of this," she hissed at the flustered officer.

"Enough of this crap, Lavinia – BREATHE!" commanded Nina. Finally the wren-like girl fitfully obeyed. A choking, sputtering cough was followed by halting breaths and only then did Nina let the late-arriving paramedic crew take over, as the crowd swarmed around the agitated hero. Nina broke away and approached Lavinia's bawling mom, but Nina could see in the woman's eyes that Doris was somewhere else. All Nina could do was shake her head in frustration. Loathsome, disabling helplessness, don't let it possess. Don't let it possess.

When Lavinia and Doris were loaded into the back of the EMT truck, Nina trotted back to her minivan and gunned the engine to life. Because she had a race to run. And she was going to be fast. She was going to be fast and no one was going to catch her. Not today. Not ever. Not ever!

* * *

Abner waited up the street to bear witness to the seizure of Nick by Snyder and Noguchi. Then he proceeded to the Freeman home to do some seizing of his own. Abner understood Gekko's impulse to cut a deal with Nina behind his back. Abner understood that paying for his criminal defense with regard to the manslaughter charge would be a hardship for Gekko; that he couldn't afford to turn away the business. Abner's fling with "big business" had not necessarily made a cynic out of him, but he gained a better appreciation of the motives driving those around him. And, sure enough, behind Freeman's garage were three full barrels, recently obtained, that Abner removed with his hand truck and laboriously loaded into the cargo hold of his minivan. He had already called ahead to make sure it was hazardous waste day at the local landfill.

Would this stop her? Abner had his doubts. But until she did stop, he would continue to make these trips and intercept her stock. He had no choice. He had to live with himself.

* * *

Sparkling sun, a crisp snapping breeze and downtown West Stemper was bustling with the traveling caravan of racers in their sleek togs and high-tech shoes swallowing streams of energy-producing concoctions out of plastic squeeze bottles: the West Stemper 10K would soon begin. No Grete Waitz this year, because her sponsor pulled out; but so what, Dunston flew in Alberto Salazar and the flashy Americanized whippet from Spain signed furiously for adoring fans and earned his hefty appearance fee by reeling off racing tales and peppering his gab with frequent references to the generosity and community spirit of the Great American and especially its dashing CEO, Dunston Thurmond.

But where exactly was the dashing Dunston Thurmond? He was not at the star runner's elbow, basking in the Olympian's reflected greatness — that was where Klaus had situated himself. Neither was he directing festivities at the reviewing stand — Jill's committee had that covered. Then surely he was on the streets and working the crowds, cell phone in hand, modestly harvesting praise and glory on behalf of his company and its adopted promotion. He was not there, either. So where was Dunston Thurmond and his honorary Number 1 racing bib? Thousands awaited.

Hint: A white BMW convertible with its darkened windows rolled up was parked in an elevated lot overlooking the town center of West Stemper and its swarm of nervously milling racers. The engine was off but the car remained occupied by a man wearing light blue running shorts and a snow white singlet, the six-inch square of Tyvek with the Number 1 numeral in black pinned to the fabric covering his belly. The man of the hour was frantically dialing numbers on his cell phone. But Nina didn't answer — all he got was her machine. His uncle didn't answer. All he got was his service. Dunston felt the vice tightening — it could be a few days, maybe just a couple of hours. His uncle advised him to remain tight-lipped but optimistic. The leather seats were stained with Dunston sweat, as were his bedclothes and the suits he wore over the last week. He could feel it all coming down around him, like cheap wallpaper in 110% humidity. The visits from local and federal law enforcement agencies, the constant rumors, the seizures of records, the unreturned phone calls to friends who had somehow found out. Dunston knew he couldn't run — except in today's race, where his absence would have been inexcusable.

What if it was today? At West Stemper's premier annual event: with all the newspapers, cable TV, and radio stations, whose presence Dunston himself arranged? Sadistic headline whores poised to drag him off in chains and leg irons, wearing nothing more than his hi-tech skivvies. Why wouldn't anyone answer the phone?

A person is always alone in a crisis.

* * *

Nick was playing it cool. Had his best polyester sport jacket pressed and he wore his clean tie. He considered having his topsiders buffed, but figured the shabby environs of the federal courthouse building didn't warrant that level of attention. He greeted Joe with a warm bearhug and a startled Noguchi with a preemptive knuckle-crushing handshake. Noguchi immediately went for the handcuffs, but Joe waved him off. Nick agreeably offered to comply with standard procedure by holding out his hands, but Joe insisted.

When he climbed into the backseat of the car, however, everything changed for Nick. Maybe it was the crankless windows and the hole where the doorlock button should have beem. Maybe it was the faint aroma of sweat mixed with the essence of Jim Beam or the constant crackling of the police radio or even the sight of a shotgun bolted to the dashboard. Or maybe it was the image of his beloved Trapezoid receding into the distance in Snyder's side view mirror that made Nick's blood run cold and the long-suppressed terror to emerge in full roar: the chilling realization that he was no longer a free man — that soon he would enter a new, unfamiliar life.

There was an urgent call over the radio that caused Joe to shut the safety glass partition dividing the front and back seats. Through the Plexiglas Nick saw the muscles in the back of Joe's neck bunch. Joe let the handset of the radio drop to the floor and then he jerked the car to the side of the road. They remained stationary for several moments, Noguchi yammering heatedly with hands swiping at air as Joe slumped in the seat, aloof from his partner's paroxysm. A squad car with sirens and lights blazing came screaming up behind them, startling Nick into a serious panic. Before leaving the car, Joe opened the glass divider and faced Nick, who was scrunched in a corner, his head below window level to avoid gawkers.

"I'm sorry, Nick, an emergency at home. I can't handle this detail right now. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

"But Joe. Joe! You can't leave me here," cried Nick, face flushed, sweat streaming from every pore. "Can't it wait? It's got to wait!"

"Lavinia's had another accident. Real bad this time. I've got to get to the hospital. I'm sorry, Nick. Special Agent Noguchi and Patrolman Haze will take care of you. Don't worry, things will be fine."

"That's no good, Joe. You promised me. I can't go through with this. No way. You can't back out now. No!" Nick clutched the seat of the patrol car, immobilized.

"Shut up, Freeman," Noguchi growled.

"I have no choice. I've got to go. I'll catch up with you later." Joe leaped from the car and into the passenger's seat of the trailing squad car. A rangy, crisply dressed young officer with a bullet haircut and a menacing glare shot a glance at Nick through the window before assuming the driver's seat. After the squad car taking Joe Snyder to the hospital sped away, Noguchi swung around and leered at Nick.

"You've got your fucking nerve speaking to an officer of the law that way," snarled Noguchi. "Look, you got some kind of hold over that cop, but that won't play with me. You're my prisoner now and, just to let you know where things stand, I think you're an asshole and I'd like to run your sorry butt in right now. But I gave Snyder my word that you could hang around for this idiotic race and you will. But try anything, step out of line just once, and they'll be hauling you to the judge in pieces. Got that Patrolman Haze?" said Noguchi. Patrolman Haze nodded with a semi-smile.

Nick shrank and shrank and shrank.

* * *

The sun was warm and embracing and many of the mingling runners had stripped to the waist or to running bras as they attended to their pre-race rituals. The air echoed with up-tempo rock and blues tunes blasting through a bank of oversized loudspeakers donated by the promotional affairs department of a major New York City record label, whose generosity was predicated on the condition that those of its artists comprise the sole sounds pulsing through those potent circuits.

And there were free Dunkin' Donuts for everyone, and clowns and ventriloquists dressed as their favorite marathoners drifted through the crowd passing out leaflets touting power drinks, upcoming races, sneaker sales, massage therapy, healing teas, and exercise literature. Free kiddy rides could be had on any of several West Stemper fire department apparatus on hand today, but the hook and ladder was reserved for the high angle camera shot of the massing runners pawing the starting line as race time approached. There was bunting, banners, lucky drawings and free samples of goodies ranging from super-absorbent wrist bands to Advil caplets.

"It's a festival. It's a festival!" gushed Klaus, who strode through the crowd followed by a retinue of adoring female running club members and other hangers-on. (Jill was conspicuous by her absence.) But where was Dunston — the man of the hour? Dunston was the one who had elevated this once sleepy, home-made event into an athletic spectacular, with national sponsors and banners with famous trademarks flapping in the gentle breeze everywhere you looked — and there's Salazar! Even Bill Rogers showed up and he arrived, by helicopter, in the center of town. Broadcast vans with dishes on their roofs — and not just the local cable access stations, but also the VHF and national cable TV snobs from New York and ESPN. Finally, there was the man himself, emerging from an alley, slump-shouldered and glum in his $40 Katami singlet and $30 Hind shorts. Oddly, Dunston seemed to be trying to lose himself in the swarming sea of minimally clad athletes. But Klaus spotted him and dashed to embrace Dunston, who today appeared somewhat less substantial, almost frail. Dunston swore he could hear the crunching of bones from Klaus's enthusiastic embrace. And the best he could manage was a wan smile. So dispirited was Dunston that he could not even summon a prop grin, a suitable public face.

He'd given up the ghost. He suffered Klaus' ebullience until Klaus himself desisted by gracefully withdrawing from the listless actuator and heading to the reviewing stand to stop the music and set off the thundering herd. Would Salazar run, or was he just for display? And what about Rogers — or was this just another cameo? There were whispers that Benoit-Samuelson would make the hop from Maine, but still there had been no sighting. But already the day was a success, given the bright sunny weather and the estimable contingent of celebrated twigs in high-priced polyester. And it was all because of Dunston Thurmond: the uncharacteristically reticent host.

* * *

With the race route in mind, Abner wisely avoided Monument Ave., even though it made him ply a tortuous path to the county landfill. He figured he had just enough time to make a quick stop downtown for a cup of coffee before the streets were barricaded and the race begun. His heavily laden Windstar struggled up the steep grade and into the parking lot of a Krauszer's convenience store packed with customers. Finding no available spaces, Abner threw the van into reverse and skillfully slalomed between erratically parked vehicles. He edged back cautiously into the busy thoroughfare and, in a rash act, illegally parked just past the mouth of the parking lot and in front of a fire hydrant. What the hell, it would only take a minute to cop a cup of strong black Mocha Java, which he'd pay for with exact change to save time. He'd even keep the engine running and the emergency flashers engaged. An acceptable risk, and besides, the police had their hands full today with more important concerns.

No sooner had Abner alighted from his car than the sound of an approaching siren pierced the clamorous carnival air two blocks to the east. Racers flitted back and forth across the street to obtain last-minute supplies of electrolytes and carbo fixes from the store. One hapless skeleton in faded maroon shorts and a bright yellow tee-shirt timed his dash just as the speeding squad car crested the hill, rounded the bend and, spooked by the unexpected presence of a not-fast-enough-moving form in the middle of the road, swerved to the side and plunged head-into-quarter-panel into an illegally parked minivan. There was a thunderous explosion and both vehicles were instantly engulfed in angry flames and black smoke. The patrol car's two occupants, a slight, sandy-haired patrolman who was behind the wheel, and his strapping black passenger, managed to untangle themselves from the spent remains of their airbags and staggered from the vehicle to safety.

Meanwhile, Abner Clary had just finished paying for his extra-large coffee when it flew out of his hand as he and the rest of the customers in the packed store hit the floor following the collision. The windows rattled and the foundation shook as racks of Cheetos, lottery tickets, skin magazines, smokeless tobacco cans, shoelaces, baseball cards and chewing gum toppled to the floor. As stunned customers struggled warily to their feet, their eyes and ears were assaulted by an escalating mayhem of screaming voices, sporadic detonations and leaping licking flames. Yet again they were rocked as a large gun went off one block away, loosing a torrent of sneakered feet marking the start of the West Stemper 10K.

The first thought that occurred to a horrified Abner Clary, other than regret for having violated city parking regulations for however brief a period of time, was that he never tested the action of spot remover fumes when exposed to combustion.

He should have. Because high into the deep blue sky rose a proliferating black smudge diluted to gray as it dispersed and traveled a swift route on the wings of a springtime breeze over the course traced by the pulsing snake of competitors. Particles of soot and suspended chemicals descended in a vapor precisely in the runners' path and was taken up in their airways, some coughing, some cursing. And while witnesses after the fact insisted that it all began with a routine jostling for position among the race rabbits, the flash point could have occurred at any point in the competition. But the calamity was maximized because it did indeed emanate from the front. Second-place runner Number 4, choking on soot and miffed by the serpentine weaving of lead-runner Number 695 (whose lowly numeral and non-elite racing status gave him no right in the first place to snag a position at the head of the pack at the starting gun), was further insulted when his attempt to pass was thwarted by 695's diagonal route across the avenue, a common tactic intended to jam trailing racers into a curb or off the course. Rather than hang back and reformulate strategy, Number 4, under the spell of explosive spew, instead grabbed Number 695's elbow and yanked him back. Number 695, gasping the tainted air, went wild with rage and soon the two were rolling in the street flailing and grabbing and tripping up trailing contestants, who were themselves surrendering their lungs and sensibilities to the choking air cloud. Waves of bodies tumbled domino-like, igniting artificially altered tempers. No one gave a thought to hopping up and resuming the course, because the noxious miasma was trapped between opposing mountain ranges and hovered sadistically above the narrow glen in which West Stemper nestled. Even as a dilute vapor, the spot remover formula spread its infectious malevolence with the speed and destruction of a nuclear fission chain reaction. Streets and front yards and sidewalks were filled with writhing, tussling bodies. Those not already partnered with a warring opponent roamed menacingly about spoiling for a scuffle to join. And mixed in with the random were the latent vendettas kindled to wildfire by this odd intoxication. A beautiful woman in white, wronged in many ways, sought out the race coordinator and soon Klaus found himself under attack. Jill's fingernails tore deeply into the meat of his neck and she pummeled his face and his arms with hard little fists. Inflamed himself, Klaus shucked his manly etiquette and tried to body slam Jill to the ground like a football spiked following a touchdown. But she clung to him and they landed together hard on the asphalt, tearing flawless flesh and spotting the pavement with shredded skin and blood. Wild with pain and anger, Klaus tried to free his arms to neutralize her attack; but she was quicker, working her knees up high and weighing into his scrotum with a savage swing that froze him and provoked a horrible yowl that was stifled by a gurgling stream of thin brown vomit that spattered the ground and Jill's sparkling linen. But still she whaled away with fists and feet on his back and chest before grabbing a hunk of his hair with the aim of dashing his bloody bean to the ground and cracking his skull open like a coconut; but her savagery was abruptly terminated.

A powerful grip clamped her by the pony tail and pulled straight down, causing a radical spinal arch. Her feet left the ground and her legs flew apart akimbo from the swift clean jerk and she landed with a grunt flush on her kidneys. Her lungs wrung of air, she mouthed a pathetic whoosh. Before the cobwebs could clear, she was assaulted by a blur of tightly balled fists emerging through a spray of blond hair and a trailing mist of expensive perfume. Jill's delicately beautiful face reddened and puffed up under Michelle's brutal attack and, as her eyes swelled shut, Jill considered her attacker with disbelief, horror and rage. Michelle, filled with fury and confusion, couldn't stop herself until the poor victim was broken, bleeding and inert. Finally it was Klaus himself who staggered to his feet and separated Michelle from her unconscious victim: but Michelle still could not stop swinging, kicking, butting and spitting. She broke away from Klaus because she couldn't stop couldn't stop couldn't stop...

Down the road the course had become an admixture of blood, power drinks and water. Firemen trained hoses on run-a-muck runners and onlookers who were similarly incited. The high-power spray only intensified the crowd's rage and fists were thrown, bodies hurled, outfits shredded and blunt instruments wielded without provocation, because the bewitched air was sucked in gasps through flaring nostrils and bubbled diluted through the bloodstreams of thousands, some of whom overturned cars and smashed store windows just for the hell of it.

At the center of the spasm was another woman, bruised by projectile bodies and bleeding from an ugly gash in her shoulder where someone weighed in with a plastic chair from a roadside water station. Nina staggered in a daze, partly aware that she too was stifling as best she could the urge to take up a weapon and wade into the crowd and just swing and bang and scream. She made a slow, determined march, shaking a fist in the air: "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! We're here to run! We're here to run!" And even the manic and deluded around her took notice of her focused intensity, which made her target. She was shoved and pinched and slapped and slugged, but still she didn't waver. Unsure of where she was going, but absolutely committed to appear in control, she struck a commanding presence in the midst of chaos. She tried to separate combatants, but more often she was the one stomped and thrown to the ground. But each time she pulled herself up and resumed her trek through the detritus of paper cups, broken asphalt, torn clothing, shredded bunting and weeping casualties. Nina could not abide chaos; chaos drove her out of her mind.

The police were dumbfounded and, with Joe Snyder out of touch and the Chief on vacation, the body of the West Stemper Police Department was without a head. Several patrol cars on race duty were spinning on their backs like inverted turtles, some spewing smoke and flames. Officers commandeered bicycles and passing cars to race back to headquarters and don riot gear and load up on tear gas. But most never made it because gangs of crazed runners lurked at every corner and swarmed anyone in uniform.

Situated high above the action, at the top of the steps leading to the West Stemper Presbyterian Church, were perched a now-cuffed Nick Freeman and his attendants. From the town's loftiest elevation, Nick stared in wonderment at the latest chapter in what had become a star-crossed running event. In horror he spotted the form of his wife wading through the tangled masses of scuffling bodies, dodging missiles of all description and being tossed and turned by the spray from high-pressure hoses. He grabbed a pair of binoculars out of the hands of Noguchi, who elbowed him roughly on the chin.

"That's my wife down there!" Nick screamed. "She's gonna get herself hurt."

"Fuck you, dirtbag," said Noguchi, who let Nick hold on to the glasses anyway. Through them Nick saw two grappling, blood-soaked figures rolling on the street. Adjusting the focus he saw one was his sister-in-law on top of a badly beaten woman who Nick did not recognize — but, there was Nina! She was peeling Michelle off the prostrate form and wrestling her to the ground and then they went at it with fists, nails and teeth until a man intervened and pried the panting and depleted women apart. And Nick could see —yes, that was Dunston Thurmond, his perfect hair in disarray and his singlet in tatters and, how about that — his running shorts ripped to pieces, exposing his bony white ass. His appearance seemed to galvanize Nina all over again and through the now-shaking field glasses Nick observed his wife poke, punch, knee and elbow her not-so-secret lover. The blow that bloodied the regal Thurmond nose was also the one that provoked Dunston to switch from a defensive stance to one that had him firing a coiled fist that landed with crushing sincerity on Nina's jaw.

Nick recoiled as if he were the one at the end of Dunston's fist. Wild with rage, Nick broke free of his captors and started to streak down the steps of the church, fixing to throttle the life out of Dunston Thurmond. Thurmond will never get to trial. He will die today! But no, Noguchi and Patrolman Haze caught up with the burly, out-of-condition prisoner before he made it halfway down the steps. Noguchi's first blow was to Nick's gut, which doubled him over. This was followed with an uppercut from Hayes that shattered Nick's chin and split open his mouth and nose. Nick fell to his knees and Noguchi instructed Haze to straighten him up. Noguchi administered a brutal kick to the ribs with his spit-polished officer dress boots. Nick would have cried out, but his crushed diaphragm seriously compromised his ability to breathe. Haze patiently propped Nick up as Noguchi donned leather gloves. The special agent assessed his quarry before unleashing a flurry of vicious blows to Nick's temples and jaw, which mercifully doused his lights. Unable to shoulder the dead weight any longer, Haze tried to heave Nick down the 15 granite steps that terminated at a circular concrete drive in front of the church. Nick stopped rolling a few steps from the bottom, which inflamed Noguchi and prompted him to wield his steel-toe booted foot several times on Nick's shoulders, ribs, chest and face until an inert heap of battered human flesh tumbled and lay in a pile on the ground.

Haze and Noguchi high-fived, their eyes pooled with blood-lust and residual spot remover frenzy. Nina, with blood trickling down her cheek and nose, lay unconscious in the arms of her dazed and depleted sister. Dunston stared uncomprehending at his raw and pulsating hands. Jill's ravaged form twitched sporadically as Klaus knelt beside her and gently sobbed. A stiff breeze dispersed the chemical cloud. Fewer than 30 minutes after the cannon's boom, the odorless poison had withdrawn and the battlefield was silent.
PART IV
Chapter Seventy-five

May Day. One Year Later

The plant was a cheerier place. The old chemical factory had taken on new life since the previous owner sold out under distressed circumstances to fund his criminal defense costs. The new owner threw herself into the task of transforming the drab, underutilized facility into a vibrant manufacturing and mail-order production house. The walls and floors popped with high-gloss yellows and greens and the piping and ventilation ducts had been repaired and painted a smart matte black. In the chemical processing wing, she retained the former employees, increased their pay and added a shift. They cranked out a miracle product guaranteed to weed, feed, grow and restore even the most ragged turf into perfect carpets of emerald green or your money back. The plant couldn't have become available at a better time for Nina. After a mere three-month marketing blitz, she couldn't keep up with demand and was forced to expand out of the Trapezoid's basement into more spacious commercial quarters.

Teams of moms working part-time shifts took orders and followed up on customer inquiries in Nina's burgeoning telemarketing department. More than a dozen technicians working a high-powered LAN system designed and programmed by Abner Clary tracked orders, compiled customer databases and composed automated mailings to current clients and names from brokered lists. And in his own domain, walled off from the controlled mayhem of the factory floor and the buzz of the Accounting and Marketing, was a lavishly equipped laboratory with a small development staff supervised by Abner Clary.

Abner finally made a deal with Nina that they both could live with: He would voluntarily relinquish patentable rights for the commercialization of his lawn care product and overnight skin-tanning salve if Nina promised to exit the spot remover business. Of course, following last year's race (the final West Stemper 10K, wisely decreed the town council), Nina was herself repulsed by the very notion of her little brown bottles of liquid rage.

She didn't care if anything marketable ever again emerged from the amazing brain of Abner Clary. She'd already made a fortune in grass greening and skin bronzing and associated products. Even Nick's old get-rich-quick books were catching on with her various cross-over mailing lists. No, her job offer to Abner was an act of gratitude and remorse. Following soon after last year's race riot, Michelle moved out of the Clary residence and fled with Klaus Przyblinski to Key West to develop a series of sex therapy videos aimed at the "maturing couple" market. Abner insisted that Michelle left no broken hearts at home. He had in fact grown bone weary of the singular dimension that Michelle brought to his life. Having her and her pet obsession migrate a thousand miles to the south could, in his view, do no worse than radically improve his life. He eagerly helped her pack.

Despite reassurances from Abner, Nina still shouldered the guilt for introducing her sister to the running god from the Running Store, a sensual temptation that proved a little too much. Her conscience was further compromised when she found it impossible to pass up the business opportunity of becoming the exclusive packager of her sister's DVDs and print materials, which have made Klaus' and Michelle's familiar faces on the afternoon talk show circuit and which, by the way, was generating a gushing revenue stream for Nina's mail-order business. (They were going to sell the stuff anyway, Nina reasonably concluded. Someone had to do fulfillment!) All things could be rationalized, given Nina's comfortable new mindset, in which she just shook her head and surrendered to the futility of trying to influence others when they're hell-bent on certain trajectories.

A heartening sight slashing through the facility at lightning speed was a chubby black girl strapped into a wheelchair and wearing a crash helmet. She had become Nina's most valuable resource— a spectacular mind for data and accounting systems. She developed Nina's quality control procedures, list filing protocols, and production coordination schedules. She kept every facet of the business integrated and running with amazing precision for such a rapidly expanding start-up. Nina had retrofitted the entire facility with ramps and elevators to accommodate her most able disabled person, who used the plant as her private steeplechase course. The wheelchair brakes squealed to a halt in front of Nina's outrageously unkempt desk in her glassed-in office located between the telemarketing studio and the factory floor.

"No crisis this time, eh Lavinia?" remarked Nina, looking down from a two-foot high printout of names and addresses purchased from the Adam and Eve company, an indispensable source for marketing her sister's videos. She and Michelle spent weeks working on the copy and artwork for the ad campaign. She knew she had a winner once she and her sister settled on the Mid-West affluent mature matrimonial market segment as their target audience. And in Michelle and Klaus, she couldn't have found a more knowledgeable and photogenic couple. She was, however, put off at first not only observing her sister execute all manner of sexual acts, but also listening to the couple avidly explaining methodology "live" in mid-performance. From a technical standpoint, Nina was astonished by her sister's expertise (and supple grace) and relaxed performance under studio lighting conditions. Michelle invited her to all the shoots — after all, it was Nina's capital at stake — but for Nina it was a step she wasn't ready to take, and politely declined.

Nina set aside issues of morality in connection with this product line, choosing instead to capitulate to the cry of capitalism. She resolved that her sister and her lover were indeed providing an important service to couples with at-risk marriages. Perhaps if Nina herself had introduced such an aid in her marriage, her relationship with Nick could have been salvaged and her affair with Dunston never considered. Perhaps the amicable settlement reached between Abner and Michelle after she left him also made it okay. Perhaps the large mark-up for the tapes and illustrated companion manuals, which she sold by mail, on the Web, and soon via infomercial on cable TV, also made it okay. Judging from the P/L statements that Lavinia plopped on Nina's desk, everything may just be okay.

"No crisis at all, Mrs. Freeman, I'm here with good news — we cannot keep up with demand for the dirty videos."

"They're not dirty videos, Lavinia," said Nina sternly. "They are marital aids — they help couples with certain problems."

"But you're showing people having sexual intercourse. And they're not even married. And she's your sister," said Lavinia with a sly smile. Nina had never seen Lavinia smile before her accident. She smiled all the time now.

"It's more complicated than you make it out to be," said Nina, dismissing the topic with a flick of her hand and a grin on her face. She marveled at Lavinia. Her heart stopped twice on the way to the hospital. The doctors were pessimistic even after the third surgery. But Lavinia applied herself to recovery with the same manic verve that she brought to bear to her eating disorder, her studies, her athletic endeavors: to everything. She willed herself out of the coma, off the intubations and breathing apparatus and other plastic invasions. She willed herself to consciousness and forced the flow of feeling and control to her arms and upper torso. Her incredible will, however, will never be able to undo the physiological devastation that rendered her lower extremities useless.

But paralysis turned out to be Lavinia's salvation. Finally the coiling serpent in her belly, which had thwarted an army of shrinks and the kind ministrations of her parents, loosened its grip. The tyranny of perfection withdrew in stages from Lavinia's life. Because she was no longer perfect. Her dread of mirrors vanished. Her dread of loose body tissue — gone! Because it no longer mattered. The thrill of her liberation made Lavinia...HUNGRY! She came home from the hospital with a roaring, insatiable and indiscriminate appetite, cramming down everything her mother put in front of her, and she kept asking for more more more and Doris was euphoric.

Lavinia started to gain weight.

Inside of six months her weight doubled and now her stomach never hurts and gone was the compulsion to rush to the toilet and engage her reflex and then to her room for a fast thousand chin-ups. Some days she didn't even exercise! Then Nina offered Lavinia this job after school and, in between sacks of potato chips and chocolate chip chewy bars, the girl whose life Nina saved had become an indispensable part of Nina's long-range business plans.

"I understand, Mrs. Freeman, it's business and that's fine — it's cool."

"But it's not like just anything goes," corrected Nina. "My sister offers a valuable service in what happens to be a personal area. I think we are handling these materials in a very discrete and responsible manner..."

"On Oprah and Sally?" Lavinia giggled (She could even giggle, marveled Nina.)

"Look, I would never condone Sally," Nina cracked, and they both laughed.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Freeman, I'm not trying to give you a hard time. And, you know, you got me doing so many cool things that I really don't care what you're selling. You see here, there's this software package I'd like to try out that's a combination database and accounting program that will take payables and receivables, embed them into linked spreadsheets called multi-tasking and ..." Lavinia gushed, though she could see that Nina's mind was elsewhere. Nina couldn't help beaming as she observed Lavinia teeming with plans and ideas that could never be addressed in five Lavinia lifetimes. Already Nina had triumphantly discarded The Trapezoid, which was up for sale and she hoped to do the same soon with this creaking factory building. She dreamed of a spotless sprawling plant in the Southeast and flashy corporate offices in a glass and steel high-rise in the Newark Gateway Center, perhaps even Manhattan — presiding like God in Heaven over her blossoming empire.

Nina never felt better. She was reinvented — resurrected from the living death of her old servility. Had the bitterness left...had she ceased caring? No, it was just Nina moving on. She credited some of her success to her late husband, who was, ironically, the only fatality resulting from last year's race fiasco. Nick, after all, taught her the business, though it was never his plan. If she was able to make a go of it honestly, then that was his legacy. In a more substantial way, he made things easier for her — his million-dollar life insurance policy helped pay for this facility, with enough left over for growth and future investment opportunities. But while Nina presumed that she had successfully dislodged Nick from her life long before his death, there was still a confounding emptiness and sorrow that haunted her when her thoughts strayed to his memory.

Perhaps she even found a remedy for that. Nina accepted Abner's invitation to move herself and the kids into his place. It was ostensibly an innocent and practical solution for two pragmatic people burdened with homes too large for their separate needs. But Nina suspected there was more to it than that. Of course her sister confided to Nina a long time ago her impression that Abner had married into the right family, but to the wrong sister. As she boarded her flight to Florida, Michelle even implored Nina to let her "off the hook" and take up with "a more suitable man than that blowhard you ended up marrying." Nina had no response, recognizing the foolishness of questioning Michelle's judgment in her area of expertise. Besides, it was hard for Nina not to notice that certain look in Abner's eyes whenever he was with her. Was she betraying hers? Was he lonely in that king-size bed in the master bedroom? It was a thought that made her smile. Still, that was for another day. Nina kept her head stuffed with details: with her kids and her business and her sister's start-up and her running. Keeping busy, keeping moving.

She also relied on Lavinia to keep her abreast of developments in the scandal growing out of the arrest, conviction and incarceration of the former CEO of the Great American Property and Liability Insurance Company. The Dunston Thurmond trial, which had become a ratings-grabber on Court TV, dragged on week after week as a young assistant prosecutor trying to make a name for herself battled a battery of slick associates from a top New Jersey law firm, led by an avuncular senior partner with a family tie to the defendant and endowed with an endless supply of tension-shattering saloon jokes. For Lavinia the proceedings were significant because it was her father's investigation that broke the case and led to his promotion to chief of police upon the retirement of his predecessor. Nina herself was subpoenaed to testify, but she had little to offer regarding her late husband's dealings with Thurmond and never got past the deposition stage. She truly didn't know Nick's business and never particularly cared about the mechanics of his deal-making. Nina was shocked to see the actual conviction of Dunston Thurmond on most of the charges of insurance fraud, embezzlement and professional malpractice — crimes that would pluck him from the mainstream of society for at least 10 non-paroleable years. (The more serious conspiracy to commit manslaughter charge for a contract allegedly placed on the life of Nick Freeman couldn't be proved and was dropped.) Both Nina and Lavinia couldn't believe that Dunston's illustrious and videogenic defense team couldn't secure the revered defendant's freedom, especially since his undoing was mainly attributable to the bland, data-choked testimony supplied by none other than the meek, unpressed scarecrow bookkeeper Mortimer Bass.

Nina took no satisfaction in the downfall of Dunston Thurmond — her wonder lover had taken his predicament hard. His image on the news showed a haggard hollow shell: a dead man inside. Perhaps he'd perfect his tennis and backgammon game in the minimum security facility suited to felons of his class, but Nina suspected the glimmer in Dunston's eyes may have been extinguished forever.

She shrugged. Best to turn back to the task at hand. Keep busy.

"Well, what do you think, Mrs. Freeman? I've priced the software and hardware requirements with three vendors and it's all written up in my proposal, so all I need is the go ahead from you," said Lavinia, impatiently tapping the desk with a clipboard and pushing more papers in Nina's face, which would only add to the heap of printouts, catalogs, sales manuscripts and accounting ledgers spilling from Nina's work table. Lavinia, with eyes blazing, demanded an answer, wouldn't go away without an answer, insisted and insisted.

"Are you tuning me out again, Mrs. Freeman? Don't tune me out. The competition, you...we... must... are not moving fast enough — there's so much that needs to be done." Nina took a deep breath and then glanced at and immediately deposited in her blue recycle bin the day's issue of the Newark Star-Ledger with the page-one story on Dunston's sentencing. They used that photo again of Dunston's miserable perp walk to the courthouse prior to his arraignment last spring. He was hunched over, his face hidden behind the sleeve of his sport jacket. Why didn't that pathetic photo still evoke a strong response in Nina? What was she tuning out?

"I love you very much, Lavinia," proclaimed Nina, as tears formed in her eyes. She nodded hard, afraid that she would cry if she were to elaborate on that sentiment.

"That's, uh, nice. Thank you," said Lavinia hesitantly, before resuming her rush her rant her cascade. "But wasting time like this wastes opportunity, Mrs. Freeman. I know I've been there I may only be a kid but look what I've been through I almost killed myself six or seven times how many people can say that and only because I was stupid which is why I stopped eating but that was my focus, but that has changed and it's positive — not the paralysis or anything, that's tragic. Maybe to you but not me, but it got my head together and now I'm committed to what's important and you know, life is too precious and so the real tragedy is if you don't reach for the gusto every minute, for example this business which I think...." and Lavinia rolled and turned and rolled and turned back and forth across the broad expanse of Nina's linoleum-covered office floor. Her voice was a delightful noise that Nina tuned in and out like listening to a radio station playing soft rock.

Finally Nina rose from her desk, stretched her arms high over her head and unleashed a large, voluptuous yawn. She unzipped her jogging jacket and took down her nylon warm-up slacks, revealing the same pink and powder blue singlet and snow white running shorts that she wore at last year's West Stemper 10K. It took several washings, but she was finally able to get all the dried blood and road tar out. Her pale white arms and legs were now sleeker and more muscular, a material reward for her three-night-a-week weight training program developed by the same personal trainer who was supervising Lavinia's rehab.

Nina's face was unlined, alive and aglow. She stepped around her desk, her warm-up suit a heap on the floor. She intercepted the rambling Lavinia, upon whose head she bestowed a wet, loving kiss. She strode through the factory, beaming a distant smile that had become familiar to her staff. And when she hit the parking lot she became a rocket. Running hard, running without effort or conscious thought. Long, confident strides.

Running alone.

# # #
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Thank you for taking the time to read this book! It's tough being noticed, so if you like what you've read, please consider posting a review on the website from which you downloaded the book. Please check back to my author page and Facebook from time to time for important announcements. I've also launched a blog on which I am constructing my next novel, tentatively titled LET'S COOK! Any and all kibitzing accepted!
About the Author

Carl Ehnis was a former master of marketing prose for a major financial services company. But at night, he also authored the novels Race Riot, MEDICUS, Happy Hour, Verite, and the curious non-fiction project called One Page a Day. He's a life-long resident of New Jersey, has a wife and two married daughters, two domesticated animals, plus other unwanted vermin taking up residence in the walls of his rambling 110-year-old residence.

