 
Train Wreck – The Wrath of Mom

Jeanne Morrison

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 Jeanne Morrison

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Chapter One

Judy sat at the kitchen table, cleaning weed out of a bag for her morning joint. She dusted off her fingers and reached for her coffee, but it'd gone cold while she was seeding. She got up to nuke it, briefly wondering if she shouldn't add a splash of whiskey for the flavor. Nah. Better save it, there's not much left.

She was getting ready to tackle her day. She and Frank had already had breakfast; the encrusted dishes lay there beside her bag of pot – she was going to have to lick food off the baggie before sealing it up again. And she was going to have to humiliate herself buying more rolling papers soon, too. Why not just smoke a pipe or a bong? But that would mean never feeling how good it was to hold a cigarette. It was a well deserved indulgence. Worth a little humiliation. Maybe get them online – nah – humiliation before surveillance.

On her schedule for today were a few things that she could probably put off until tomorrow. They involved getting out of the house, driving, dealing with people, spending money, things she'd really rather not do until she had to, when she would steel herself and get everything done at once.

So with one thought she freed herself to do the million things she had to do around the house. The big one being reorganize the attic, there were other real, pressing tasks before her, like cleaning the kitchen. But she had to check email and there was The View at 11. Realistically, if she was diligent, she'd get around to sweeping the floor in the front rooms, but that would be it. The dishes, maybe. She sat back down with her coffee and gathered the weed into a little pile. She sighed. Life is tough for the organizationally impaired.

The phone rang as she was licking the edge of the joint closed. Ak. She jumped, and it flew out of her hand onto the floor. She stared at it angrily, but left it there and went to get the phone.

"Hi, Mom," she lilted, striking a happy note. She returned to the table with the phone, stopping by the pantry for the whiskey bottle. "What's going on with you?"

Mom started right in. Why don't you do something with your life? Was I too lenient raising you? Why did you choose the road to hell when I tried so hard to get you to do the right thing?

Judy practiced holding the phone just barely in hearing range and saying uh-huh at random moments. Light up now or wait until Mom's off the phone?

Mom kept going. If you'd loved me you would have listened when I told you about whatever. I was always right and you were always wrong. You're a loser. I don't love you.

Judy lit the joint and took a deep breath. Mom heard it.

Are you SMOKING? Judy had the phone wedged under her ear and Mom's screech made her loose her hold on it. It clattered to the floor. "Sorry, Mom," she yelled at the phone. "What?"

It sounded like you were smoking. I distinctly heard you take a puff. Believe me, I know what that sounds like. You can't hide from me. Have you gone back to smoking?

Cigarettes or pot? You never stop disapproving. "I don't smoke, Mom. I've never smoked." Mom fumed silently. Judy could feel the electricity thru the phone. She looked longingly at the still-lit joint, and sneaked a small hit, holding the phone to her chest. Can Mom hear thru her shirt?

"Um," she said with a bit of a squeak as she tried to hold the smoke in. She exhaled quickly and continued. "So how are you doing, anyway?" She went back to the joint, free to take another hit now that she'd asked Mom's favorite question.

I feel terrible. Something's wrong with me that the doctors can't find, and no matter how many I go to they all treat me like I'm a hypochondriac. I'm going to die right in their office one day and they'll misdiagnose that, I'm sure.

Judy made sympathetic noises between hits.

But that's not why I called. I called to berate you for the way you keep your house, and to yell at you because you never come and see me, and to abuse you for not showing me the respect I've lusted after all my life.

Quick. Get off the phone now. "Mom? Sorry, I can hear Frank calling me. I'd better go see what he wants. Call you later. Bye. Love you."

Judy hung up, took a loud, sibilant, rebellious hit, and hated her mom for as long as she could hold her breath.

* * *

Rick was in his Porsche, driving to the office. He'd been going for hours already, with a conference call at home that the kids interrupted with their noise, a meeting with a vendor at Caribou ruined by a panicky call from his wife – about nothing, and a bunch of traffic he had to skirt in order to get to the staff meeting on time. Of course, he could be as late as he wanted because it was his staff, but it was good to maintain discipline.

The phone rang. Mom. He didn't need this. "Hi, Mom. I'm driving."

Well, I won't keep you. You want to be safe when you're driving, and only a fool uses a cellphone when they're driving. But. I was thinking about your money problems.

Aw, Mom. "Mom, I'm in traffic. Can we discuss this later?" Always rubbing it in.

Fine. If you want to be that way. I just think it's criminal the way you neglect those poor children.

Rick nearly sideswiped the guy in the lane next to him. He muzzled a curse and shot him a violent finger. "Mom, I've really got to pay attention to the road now. I'll call you later. Love you. Bye."

He disconnected. Die, bitch.

* * *

Cindy was going around the house touching things. She did this now and then, just to keep track of where everything was. It was a comfort. She touched her antiques, she touched the frames of her museum quality paintings, she caressed her silk rugs, She lay down on all the beds and then smoothed the wrinkles back out of the Italian linens.

She was just rubbing the banister on the way downstairs to touch the things in the garage when the phone rang.

She checked caller ID and didn't pick up. It was Mom. Not home. I don't have to listen to you tell me how Judy is your favorite daughter and how my things aren't as nice as yours and why I'm not going to get anything when you die.

She heard the call go to the answering machine, and listened to Mom's querelous tones as she descended into the basement. La la la I can't hear you. Not calling you back. Not until after the funeral. Then it'll ring off the hook.

* * *

Gordon was sleeping off a fierce hangover when the phone rang. He'd been finessing a deal last night and it had gone on way past the time the garbage guys emptied the dumpster in the parking lot, which was where he'd stashed the stuff. It was a nightmare. He'd had to return all that money, and he'd been so drunk that he wasn't sure he didn't give them back more than they'd paid him, because he didn't think he had a twenty in his pocket, and wasn't sure where his pants ended up so he could check. The phone rang a long time, but since he didn't have an answering machine, it would ring forever. It must be Mom.

"Uh," he snarled into the phone, just in case it was someone else. An indeterminate grunt, it could be threatening or could mean he was in pain. It depended on who it was. This time, of course, it was Mom. "Mom, I'm sick," he moaned, feeling around for the glass of water he kept by the bed.

Mom wanted to know in agonizing detail what was wrong with her baby. Gordon just groaned again, taking a gulp. It was piss, because he'd been too drunk to go to the bathroom. He threw up over the side of the bed.

Mom threatened to come right over. Gordon sputtered, "No, I'm fine, really. I've got medicine, I've got chicken soup. I just need to sleep. Call you later, okay? Love you bye." Don't you fucking come here, ever. Or else.

He fell back into bed, exhausted, and lit a cigarette. The room stank of smoke over sweat and stale piss and a certain chemical tang. He fell asleep still smoking, but when he dropped the butt it landed on a wet spot and sizzled out.

* * *

Mom sat in the den. Pat Robertson just got thru telling his flock that they should reach out to those who have trespassed against them, forgive their enemies, and turn the other cheek, but always and without fail to hate the sin. Well, her kids had certainly given her enough sins to hate, but she still loved them, especially when she thought of how they were as kids. Judy was always asking questions and would listen for hours to her explanations. Rick mispronounced the simplest phrases, making such wonderful fauxpas that she still used them in conversation. Cindy used to bring her things she'd found around the house, little presents like her father's filthy shoes and empty cosmetic bottles out of the trash. And Gordon the youngest, her favorite, just simply adored her and still did. Filled with warm memories of her infant brood, she reached for the phone.

She called her eldest first.

"Hi, Mom," Judy said, sounding guilty. "What's going on with you?"

"Oh, I was just thinking of when you guys were kids," she said, fiddling with the phone cord. "You were so cute. So innocent. I remember..."

"Uh huh."

Judy must be preoccupied with something. "If you're busy I can call you back later," she offered.

"Huh."

"I was just thinking about how easy it was to love you all when you were younger. You were so trusting, and so cuddly, and we had the most amazing conversations about everything." She remembered driving somewhere when Judy was three. "There you were, asking about everything you saw..."

"Fascinating."

Is she even listening? "What did I just say?" She heard a cigarette lighter. "I didn't know you still smoked," she said mildly.

Clumsy Judy dropped the phone. The noise stung Mom's ears. "I think you could be more careful when I'm using my hearing aid," she started, but stopped because Judy was still fumbling for the phone.

"Sorry, Mom," Judy said as Mom switched the phone to her other ear and rubbed the bruised one. The bruises came so easily these days. Must take more vitamin C. "What?" Judy continued, sounding just like she did when she was six and Dad caught her trying to make Cindy eat mud pies.

"I said you could try to be more considerate, is all."

"I don't smoke, Mom. I've never smoked."

That wasn't the point. Oh, why did she bother? It's not like she had any influence over Judy's behavior. "I just wish..." she trailed off.

"Um," Judy said after awhile, sounding emotional. "So how are you doing, anyway?"

"That's very sweet of you to ask. I don't want to complain, but I've had better days. My knees have been giving me a little trouble the past few days."

Judy agreed that bad knees were no joke.

This pleased Mom. Judy's being sympathetic. She wants to hear what it's like getting old. I'll just mention what I've learned about things we used to think were okay. Maybe she can learn from me and change her life before it's too late. "I think if maybe I'd done some things differently, we would be in better shape today," she began.

"Mom?" Judy interrupted breathlessly "Sorry, I can hear Frank calling me. I'd better go see what he wants. Call you later. Bye. Love you."

Mom sat with the phone to her ear, a little stunned. She hadn't gotten a word in sideways. Sometimes she thought she was making some deeper contact like they used to have, but Judy was so distant most of the time, and didn't live a very interesting life. She'd shown such promise as a child, she was so dull now, but there was still time to blossom. She said a quick prayer for her daughter, and reached for the phone again at the next commercial.

She tried Rick's house first, but hung up when his wife answered, and tried his cellphone.

"Hi, Mom," he said, sounding angry. "I'm driving."

Did something happen, is he in trouble? "Are you alright, son?"

"Mom, I'm in traffic" He sounded overly patient, like he was lecturing a cretin. He spoke slowly and loudly, threatening with his tone to repeat it even louder and more slowly. "Can we discuss this later?"

"Fine. I just wanted to chat about when you were little, that's all," she said, with affection.

He was curt. "Mom, I've really got to pay attention to the road now. I'll call you later. Bye."

Such a busy boy. So headstrong, so sure of himself. Cocky. Like when he was four and announced he was going to be Daddy from now on and make everyone do things his way. Stay up wait eeet ookie.

She tried to call her youngest daughter Cindy after awhile, suddenly thinking of her while flicking past the Home Shopping Network. She knew it was futile; Cindy was never home and didn't have a cellphone. She was busier than Rick, and she didn't even have a job. The life of a socialite. How different from the way they raised her: poor, a Depression baby, a life of hard work and struggle and decent values. But her kids had life handed to them on a platter, and they developed habits of easy virtue. She said a prayer for her wayward children, asking for the Lord to take them into his fold.

She was watching a CSI program when she thought of her youngest. He loved to sit and watch them with her. He would come over more often but he was booked up at work. She knew right away that something was wrong because the phone kept ringing and he didn't answer. She just knew he was home and not picking up the phone. "Gordon," she urged as it continued to ring. Finally he answered.

"Uh," he croaked. He sounded awful. Feverish perhaps. She started patting her pockets for her keys.

"Baby?" she called. He needs his Mommy.

He was throwing up. "Mom, I'm sick," he moaned.

Where did she leave her medical supply kit? She looked around, got up, went into the kitchen and looked under the sink. "Okay." It'll take twenty minutes to get there.

"No, I'm fine, really. I've got medicine, I've got chicken soup. I just need to sleep. Call you later, okay? Love you bye."

She stopped and put the medical kit on the counter. She felt like going over there anyway, just to check up on him. He'd be grateful. But he was right, he needed his sleep. I'll drop by and see how you're doing later. Maybe go shopping for some healthy food and make a nice dinner for my baby.

Mom fixed herself another cup of coffee and went back to the den. Maybe it was prayer time and she could call in a request for prayers on behalf of her poor children.

Chapter Two

Judy had to go out after all. Despite rearranging her schedule so that she didn't have to leave the house for another day or two, she was now out of whiskey, and that forced her hand. It was a real emergency, and she couldn't even steel herself for the trip, because she was out of booze. Maybe her first stop should be the neighborhood bar, for some fortitude. It was a real problem, because it was so much more expensive for they-pour, and she was always in a cash crunch. But she couldn't go out in public sober, it made her so anxious that she wouldn't get half her errands done before she was fleeing back home. The thing to do was to get merry, and then she could accomplish everything.

She rolled another joint.

The conversation with Mom bothered her, as it always did. Mom knew every button, and pushed them all gleefully. She probably didn't even realize the damage she did with her casual, offhand remarks about what a loser Judy was. But she felt the sting for days. Loser, she'd mutter as she surveyed the mess of her house. Loser, she'd chant as she went thru her grocery basket picking out the things she couldn't afford this trip. Loser, she'd breathe as she poured her third drink before noon.

It wasn't just Mom, tho. It gave her the shakes dealing with anyone in the family. They were so different from her. They weren't sensitive like she was, they didn't have feelings for people who suffered and didn't understand why she couldn't take the hostility they threw about the place so casually. All she wanted was peace, and since she was a child she'd done everything she could to be the peacemaker in the family, to lead by example, and look where it got her. They made fun of her. They ignored her. They went on with their successful lives and didn't spare a thought for poor, principled Judy, their oldest sister. She should have been the leader of a far-seeing family of philanthropists and do-gooders, but what she ended up being was the joke in a family of right winged capitalists.

Where did she go wrong?

A gnawing feeling in her stomach reminded her that she was on a mission, so she collected her things, except she couldn't find her bag, so she didn't have her license. She found her keys after a ten minute search, stalking thru the rooms trailing pot smoke, and then had trouble remembering where her wallet was, so she scrounged handfuls of quarters out of the change jar and made it to the car, only to have lost her keys again.

A few rounds of this and she was grateful to pull into the parking lot at the corner bar. It was a dive, and she tried not to frequent the place, and they laughed at her when she counted out quarters for her drink. But she felt better afterwards, and got back into the car to run her errands, much more at peace with the world.

Back home, with a huge mug of coffee loaded with whiskey (the cheap stuff), she went downstairs to visit with her husband, Frank.

Frank was an inventor, one of some note. His big success had been a knife that cut a loaf of bread and buttered it with one stroke. But that was back in the '90s during the bread-machine craze, and it hardly sold at all now. The royalties were pitiful. He spent his days trying to come up with the next big thing, but he never seemed to get it right.

Currently he was working on a better mousetrap, one that caught the mouse by a paw and dangled it in the air for the cats to play with and eventually finish off. It wasn't going so well at the moment; the spring release tended to slap the mouse against the ceiling and kill it, and then the cats weren't interested.

Judy clumped down the stairs to the basement. She must be upset. Sure enough; she was lit.

"You've been talking to your mother again?" Frank cleared off a chair for Judy to slump into. Her eyes were animated, but she took a gulp before speaking.

"You have no idea." He thought he rather did. "She's so hurtful, she says things without even thinking about them. About how they affect me." She took another mouthful. Frank slowly moved over to his workbench and returned to his adjustment of the spring mechanism. He listened with one ear. "Today she was all like huffy about how I don't do anything. But I do lots of things, and she doesn't even want to know. Does she ask about what I'm doing? No. She never asks. She must think the only things that interest me are either satanic or drugs, and that's just not true."

Frank worked in silence. His mind was wandering and he missed some of what she was saying. He knew she was upset, and that the best response was to just let her have it out. The trouble was that she got obsessive about it, and would worry one of her mother's slights for a week before becoming offended by something else. "Well," he responded while she sipped on her coffee, "in another century you would have been burned as a witch by now. She's just taking the party line."

Judy scowled. "Well, it hurts, is all. I don't know why I have to do everything her way just to get her approval. It's not like I [i]need[/i] her approval or anything."

She was whining. Frank didn't like it when she whined. He hadn't married a spoiled teenager, and when she started whining he just wanted to slap her. But if he said anything now, she would turn on him and start to push for a fight. And Frank was Mister Wimpy when it came to fighting with women. "Yes, dear."

She ignored him. "I just know I'm not going to be happy until she's gone to her final reward," she said, draining the mug. "And I sure wish she'd hurry up about it, because I'm not getting any younger." She rose and looked intently at the empty mug. "In fact, I think all this harassment is making me sick. Too bad we couldn't do anything to hurry her along. Just think how peaceful it'll be once she's gone and I can get on with my life."

Judy tripped going over the threshold, and stumbled up to the kitchen for another drink, leaving Frank to wonder why she didn't just get on with her life while her Mom was still alive. He actually liked the old bat, tho he could see how she drove Judy over the edge. They were too much alike, was the problem. No wonder they carped at each other all the time.

* * *

Rick's day was going from bad to worse. He'd had to make a personal phone call to stiff a big vendor, and the guy hadn't been very understanding. Then his CFO told him they were going to have to do another round of terminations, but there was no deadwood left to trim, and he was going to have to let some personal friends walk. Today he was meeting with the bank for that credit extension he'd asked for, and he was beginning to think it might turn out badly. Well, it couldn't, and he was determined to get it one way or the other.

Rick was a determined man. He started the company with a trivial piece of software pirated from a friend, borrowed money from the guy to start up the company, and then hired him as his chief programmer. They developed more software, jumped a few trends, sucked the brains of people hired from other software firms, and rode high on the hog in the early years. And he'd expanded. They had a fancy corporate park, they had loads of perks, his top guys were getting high 6-figures, there were plenty of droids for every project, and everybody got stock options. But the company was seriously in debt, and now that NetSuite was king in the on-demand software industry, the market position of his FUXU package was bottoming out. He needed to borrow money just to make payroll and benefits, more money to make the lease payments, yet more money to put his kids thru school and buy his wife the car she insisted on driving. He was going broke, and it was making him lose his hair. And other things.

Back when he had loads of money he'd casually mentioned it to Mom. She'd insisted that real estate was the only safe investment. Unfortunately he'd listened to her, but not the part about buying raw land for cash and building a house to grow old in. He bought highly developed land that he could get an immediate return from. He became a slumlord. It didn't really fit with his running a medium-sized software empire, but the skillsets weren't that different. Employees, like tenants, were lazy and shiftless, and would rob him blind if given half a chance. And the cost of upkeep and evictions just added to his troubles. He owned half a dozen buildings and servicing that debt was no joke. It didn't hold a candle to what the company owed, but it was a limited company and he wasn't responsible. The apartments, like the kids' school, was all on him. And boy did that chafe his nuts.

Mom. He'd taken more bad advice from her than a loving son should have to take. And he'd finally learned his lesson and stopped giving her ammunition, but by then she knew all about his finances and took every opportunity to bitch at him about how stupid he was. That investment in gold way back in '80, right before it crashed. She never let him live that down. The stock market crash of '87. She acted like it was his fault. The derivatives scandal last year – he almost wished he'd become a stock broker, because even after the meltdown he'd still be rich enough to ignore her carping about those evil investment advisers.

Of course, his bad luck with investments lately was part of the reason why he was in such a fix, and the last thing he wanted was for Mom to rub it in his face. It reminded him of when she used to wash his mouth out with soap, humiliating him in front of the rest of the kids. He never thought about it without a poisonous surge of rage.

Rick looked at his Rolex. A real one. Second hand. It didn't keep perfect time, but who cared? He was going to be late for his appointment at the bank. He eyed the sky in disgust. What else could go wrong today?

His phone rang. It was his wife, complaining that Mom had hung up on her. Mom needs to die. But wait, if Mom died we'd get our inheritance, and that would really help. Especially if the others'll help me out – for shares in the company, say.

* * *

Cindy had been up for hours and only had a Zoloft, a Beverly Hills Spa diet drink and a stick of celery. And maybe a single potato chip. That's how she stayed so fashionably thin, but it got very difficult this late in the morning. Too early for lunch – first lunch; lunch lunch was with the girls at the Palm. It wasn't time to eat yet, she told her stomach firmly. Maybe some water. Maybe a zero full of Nutrasweet and Splenda. Oh for a diet Red Bull.

She went upstairs to get dressed. She had to get her hair done, and then lunch, and then Nordstrom's for a few things and then coffee with another group of girls, and then meet Bill and some business associate of his for cocktails and dinner. That's one outfit for five different functions. You had to be a genius. And she was. But sometimes she wished she had a dresser. A personal assistant.

Cindy happily fantasized a life full of servants while trying on various parts of her closet. If she'd had servants, she would just toss the rejected outfits into a pile and let them put it away. As it was, she rehung everything neatly as she took it off, and put it in order on a rack at the front of the walkin. To be refiled later.

The short list was a little racy, a little matronly, a little expensive, a little runway. Putting Mom in her place always made her feel lucky, so she decided to go with a little racy thing in black with heels only a 20 year-old would wear. A few flashy pieces of jewelry in discreet places, a touch of moose sweat on her underwear and a spritz of Clive Christian, a relaxing pharma melange in the jeweled clutch – for drinks with the client, and a pair of slippers in the italian handbag – for the drive home. She covered all the bases.

All the decisions made for the day, except the menu choice (which wasn't a decision, really because she always got the same thing), and the department roaming in the afternoon, Cindy headed downstairs to have a little bite to eat. As she was nuking herself an expensive frozen meal she took out her collection of pills and tapped out her daily dosages. She ate walking the treadmill.

It wasn't until she had her head back in the sink and the girl was rubbing her scalp (she tipped for a good long head massage) that she thought about Mom. Her heart always raced when Mom called; she wondered if it wasn't a mini-heart attack. Mom would give her a heart attack one day. Unless she got her first. She drifted off daydreaming of holding Mom's head under the water.

The girl scratched her head with her fingernails, so Cindy made her stop and only tipped her a dollar. She was snappy with the girl who did her hair, too – she was going on about nothing and it annoyed her. She looked around at other clients, all of whom had some defect of taste or intelligence. It was a blessed relief to sit and close her eyes when they put her under the dryer.

On the way to the restaurant she sorted thru her clutch and took a Zyban with some Apollinaris, and a Xanax to buffer it, and popped a Meridia to manage her appetite. If she took so many pills, it was because Mom had traumatized her so when she was a child. The tirades, the evil schemes, the persecution of Cindy, the cute one. She'd like to beat her to death with her bare hands. Nothing was ever good enough for Mom, and it sounded trite but it was the central truth in Cindy's life.

Thank God for modern medicine. She had charity business to discuss with the girls. They were organizing a fund raiser. It was a barrel of laughs but it was exhausting and thankless, and certain others always snatched the fun things and left the drudgery to her. She had to stay sharp or she'd end up with the trash detail, and thoughts of her horrible childhood had no place in important business like this. But with the particular blend of pharmaceuticals she was on now she could just stop thinking unpleasant thoughts. Just like that. La la la la la.

* * *

Gordon spent much of the afternoon loudly illustrating a textbook case of sleep apnea. He got up to piss once. He looked out of the window in passing. He smoked a couple of packs of cigarettes. He slept like the dead for 30 seconds at a time, having stopped breathing, and then woke himself up with a snort that sounded like a trumpet. He was exhausted to the point of tears the whole time.

Around 3:30 he got up, drank an energy drink warm, peed and shat, jerked off in the shower, shaved, and gussied up for the evening in a sports shirt and slacks with black socks and shiny shoes and several concealed weapons.

Like the rest of his family, except maybe for Rick, Gordon didn't actually [b]do[/b] anything you could point to. He freelanced. He dabbled. He entrepreneured. He was always busy, but he still had to make up things to put on his taxes. And to tell Mom. He always answered her queries with "Nothing," so she felt at liberty to send him on errands and have him over to fix the smallest things. But that's what sons were for, and he felt an obligation to do whatever it took to make her happy. Family before business.

* * *

Mom ate something that didn't agree with her for lunch, and spent much of the afternoon on the toilet, reading while it worked its way thru. She thought with regret about how her kids had grown up to be so distant, so uncaring. She could die alone in the house and they'd never know. Some of them would be glad. And for no reason. She loved them all. She loved their faults as well as their accomplishments, and it was always her role to help them choose the right path. For this they hated her. She wasn't deceived by the "loveu" sound s they made; she knew they were just waiting for her to die and leave them alone. But Mom didn't intend to do that, and they were just going to have to deal.

Chapter Three

Judy didn't feel well after lunch, so she took a rather long nap, leaving all those chores undone. Again. When she got up the sun was going down. Frank was still in his basement workshop; she could hear him running the drill. It was very irritating, and she was about to get up and tell him to have some consideration for her nerves, but then it stopped. A few minutes later, there started up a thump thump thump under the floor, and she tried to ignore it, but the rhythm was strangely in time with her heartbeat, and she couldn't stand it.

Frank heard her walking around in the kitchen above, and put everything away for the night. He'd made some progress with the spring tension, but he was thinking of redoing the whole concept. Maybe dangling them by their paw in front of a cat wasn't right. Maybe he should turn the whole idea around, impale the mice on skewers, and leave them as tasty t-balls. There had to be a reason the cats weren't interested.

Judy was sitting at the table, a glass of wine in her hand, fishing a roach out of the ashtray and preparing to light it. She put it back when he came thru the basement door. He went to the sink to get a glass of water, and came back to the table to join her.

They talked about his work for awhile. He mentioned the trouble he was having and she plucked a fanciful solution out of the air and tried to convince him he needed to go in that direction. She always did that. Channeling. Opening her mouth and letting random things fall out that she then interpreted as secret messages from the spirit world. Or something.. Yes dear. He sipped his water. Judy sipped her wine. They fell into silence.

"What do you want for dinner?" he asked suddenly, at the same time she was saying, "Yeah, definitely you need to put a natural spectrum spotlight on the little things." It was silent again for awhile.

They didn't have much to say to each other. They'd been married forever and raised a couple of kids. Now that they were left to themselves, he just wanted to tinker and she just wanted to sit and think. They had all their meals together and sat on the couch watching TV at night, and they even kissed each other before going to sleep. But they hadn't had sex in years, and she snored so loudly that Frank was grateful when she started sleeping in the kids' beds. They loved each other; they accepted each other's annoyances and failings and made the best of it. It wasn't a bad life at all. Each was free to spend their days as they wished, and neither saw any reason to object to what the other one did.

Well, Judy found things to object to all the time, but Frank was a forbearing, patient kind of guy who was more amused than irritated by her antics. They were a good team, stable and boring. He was more stable than she was, of course, and she was never actually boring, always up to something. They were boring together. They never fought, they never went out anywhere, they had no friends, they followed the same routine most every day and night. Nothing ever happened.

Frank made burgers. Judy opened a can of beans and poured another glass of wine. Over dinner they talked about Mom. Frank didn't share her animosity; he didn't have the buttons she had, and whenever Mom came up he tried to steer an objective path without setting her off. It often helped to remind her that she was the peacemaker of the family.

"I think your mother's just still trying to raise you," he said, finishing off his burger. "Maybe you're lucky. Some mothers go about their lives without a backward glance when the kids are grown." Frank got up to start rinsing the dishes.

"I know she thinks she's trying to help," Judy said plaintively, finishing her glass and eyeing what was left in the bottle. "It's just that Mom always wants me to do things her way. I can't stand it."

"She's never acknowledged your right to make your own decisions," he offered, clashing dishes together in the washing machine.

She picked up the roach out of the ashtray and fingered it. "The only way I could grow up was by rebelling against her."

He took her dishes. "But that would mean you defined yourself as being Not Your Mother."

She nodded rapidly. "I made a study of what she was like, and learned how not to do it."

And here you are, two peas in a pod. He looked around for more dirty dishes. "You've become her perfect antithesis. She should be pleased."

Judy frowned. "Well, she's not. She's still trying to fix me."

He laughed. "You're as fixed as you're going to get. You've made all your own mistakes, and you've been living with the consequences ever since."

You, for example. She uncorked the wine. "I just know she's never going to stop doing it. It's hopeless. She'll afflict me till she dies." She rose from the table, wine and roach in hand. "Hell, it doesn't matter when she dies, I'll still hear her voice until [b]I'm[/b] dead."

He tried to give her something positive to think about. "It's okay to resemble your family," he said, as she opened the back door to go out.

"No it's not. I catch myself interfering in my kids' grownup lives, and it makes me want to kill myself." She shut the door, downed the wine in one gulp, and lit the roach, singeing her eyebrows.

* * *

Rick arrived home to chaos. The kids were screaming and running around. The house was a mess, the dinner wasn't ready even tho he was an hour late. He found his wife in the laundry room scrubbing grass stains out of a tiny button down Brooks Brothers shirt.

"Where's dinner?" he greeted her.

She looked up at him with a shy smile. "Hello, dear," she said softly. I'm just trying to avoid getting Junior another shirt for class picture day. I don't think it'll show under his blazer, do you?"

"I asked where dinner was," he snapped. "I think that's more important than clothing, don't you?" She dropped the shirt into the washer and scurried past him to the kitchen. Such a difficult day, and he had to come home to blaring incompetence. He took a deep breath and tried to rid himself of the weight of disaster. Then the kids banged into something and he stalked out, ready to spank their little butts.

Over dinner, the kids silently picking at their food, his wife meekly attentive to his needs, he relented and told them how bad his day had been. The ungrateful vendor, the old friends who were falling down on the job, the bank that was out to get him.

"It's no wonder you were so hard on the children," she said, glancing at the kids to let them know their father still loved them.

He harrumphed. "The children get away with murder around you." He caught their eyes as they furtively looked at him. "That spanking was for things you did that I didn't catch you doing." The kids squirmed in their seats.

His wife cleared her throat. He turned to look at her. "The news said police arrested a criminal at some apartment building." She didn't want to say too much in front of the children. He shrugged eloquently. "Well, they might have looked like one of yours, but probably not." She turned to the kids, "Eat your dinner." Then she looked at him to see how he was taking it.

He thought for a moment. "You don't know what you're talking about. My tenants aren't criminals."

She changed the subject. Forbidden subjects were his company, unless he brought it up; his apartments, unless he brought it up; money, politics, religion or the weather, unless he brought it up. To mention anything about the kids would incur sarcasm and threats about whatever he thought they were doing wrong. She hesitated to draw his attention to herself because he could always find something to hammer her with.

"I went to the store today and saw some nice sirloin steaks, but they were so expensive that I put them back."

"You sound like my mother," he growled.

She blushed and looked at her plate. "Not that you don't deserve the best food, but I thought with the trouble at work, I could save a little here and there..."

He was suspicious. "Have you been talking to her?" What did they say about him?

"No!" He didn't understand. "She hung up on me. You know she doesn't like me."

"If you'd only make the effort." He looked away. "Or not. You're not her idea of a proper wife, anyway."

She was silent. The kids asked to be excused and fled upstairs to get ready for bed. She sat there for a moment, waiting, and then gathered the dishes and left the table when he didn't say anything.

Damn her. The last thing he wanted was for the two of them to be cozy together. Mom would infect his well-trained wife and they'd turn against him. Why not? Everybody else was turning against him. What more exquisite betrayal than by your mother and your helpmeet? He needed them apart. It was his ship, and he'd be damned if he was going to let a mutiny brew up.

* * *

Cindy was sick of listening to Bill brownnose his colleague. The guy was just interested in his Beefeater and soda, and Bill was playing like he was in the World Series. She was sick of smiling and tired of ducking off to the bathroom to be alone and self medicate. She'd had a long, boring day full of idiots and clowns an she just wanted to get her bare feet into those slippers. Chinchilla. She felt around in her clutch for another Xanax and downed it with a discreet sip of Jenssen cognac. Smiling.

Later after she let Bill have sex and he was sleeping, she lay in bed thinking until the Ambien kicked in. She'd been such a good daughter, and Mom hated and persecuted her. She married the first guy with prospects and escaped, and this is where she ended up. She blamed Mom for it all. A life of going thru the motions, of keeping up appearances. Doing all the things Mom had expected and demanded of her. Miss Achievement. She could just die, it was so empty.

She wanted to push Mom down the stairs at home, the stairs Dad sat on when he spanked them with the spatula every night. The stairs of pain. Humiliation. Red, inflamed bottoms.

Cindy slept soundly and didn't dream. But at 2:17 Sindy got up and rearranged the curio cabinet in the living room.

* * *

Gordon hit the streets in his Camaro, stocking up on energy drinks at the convenience store, stopping to buy a fistful of prescriptions from some guy, at the pharmacy to turn those scripts into merchandise, a stop at a guy's apartment for enough weed and a stop between apartment buildings for plenty of coke. He crumpled his last can of drink as he was pulling into the parking lot of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

He wasn't late. He was never late. The party never started without him. There was no late in his line of work, anyway. The real Scarlet Pimpernel got nothin on me baby. The bouncer waved him in. It was still early, tho it's never early in a strip club. The office workers and salesmen had gone home to their wives and the players were hardly up out of bed yet. It was a lull he loved. He could sit in his dark corner with his sunglasses on, nurse a drink, keep his eyes on everything, and do that thing he did.

Gordon was the majordomo of the Scarlet Pimpernel. You wanted to score, you went to Gordon. You needed a favor, you saw Gordon. When there was trouble, Gordon jumped into the fight. When the girls were having a bad night, Gordon comforted them. Everybody's pal.

Mom thought he was a UPS driver. Before that she thought he'd been a computer programmer and kept offering to talk to Rick about a job, so he picked another job out at random and pretended to do that. But badly. Always going to get fired because of something that wasn't his fault. Always being late on the rent. Always borrowing a little here and there. The fucking rest of them wanted to kill her, but he wanted her to live forever.

A guy he was waiting for came into the club, squinting against the gloom. He lit u pa cigarette and rehearsed how he wanted it to go.

"Hey, Johnny, how' s it hanging? Getting any?"

"Hey, Gordon." Johnny slid into the seat next to him "You'll like this. Allen's in jail."

* * *

Mom had slowly filled the dishwasher over the last week, and tonight she made a little game of putting soap in it and starting the wash cycle. She'd done a lot during the day, tho she couldn't point to anything. No matter, she was tired out and ready for bed, and now she could listen to the humming of the washer and pretend it was the kids back at home, talking in the kitchen. A nice sound, evoking lots of warm memories of when they were kids. When they were happy.

The trouble is that if they [b]were[/b] back home now they'd be sitting in the kitchen whispering about her. Mom bashing, they called it, thinking she never noticed. Didn't they know it hurt? They had to.

She vowed to cut them all out of her will. But first she'd have to write one. This started her thinking about her things, the valuable legacy she had to leave, things that she loved and cherished and took care of. She thought of the things she loved that had already been lost, or broken – or worse yet taken – by her own children. Her heart clouded.

She had almost given up on Judy, and poor Gordon needed her, but that Rick and that Cindy, they could be vicious. Some kids you really should drown at birth. She offered up a prayer that their arrows would be blunted and turned aside, and they be shown the mercy of the Lord in a way they'd never forget.

She really should at least make notes about the provisions of her will. Make sure Cindy or Rick didn't come in and take it all while she wasn't even cold in her bed. Or have her committed by one of their corrupt muckymuck friends and steal everything. Exclusion clauses, that's what she needed. I hereby leave (the fruit of my womb) one dollar ($1).

Chapter Four

Gordon sat in his dark corner and fretted over his drink. With Allen off the street he was short one guy: a good guy, if undependable; heavy on the sauce; too fond of crank; and a pathological liar. He was going to have to rewrite some of his plans for the next couple of days while Allen sat in jail, because he sure as hell wasn't going to bail him out. That'd be asking for trouble.

He sat in his dark corner while the music pounded and the girls danced for the customers. The room was all flashing lights and staccato noise. He lit another cigarette. It'd come to him.

Laurie appeared at his table, sweating and naked, her costume balled up in her fist. "I just finished my set," she complained, kissing the top of his head, "and you didn't look up once."

"I saw everything, babe," he assured her, suddenly animated.. "You were wonderful. And you look great." Gordon reeled back and latched his arm around her waist, pulling her in for a kiss. The skin of her back was cold to the touch.

She leaned over for his drink and finished it, then headed off to the dressing room. "You going to stick around until I'm off?" she called over her shoulder.

"Maybe not," he shrugged. Shit happens. "I'll slip in next to you when I get home." She waggled her ass as she slipped behind a screen into the dressing room. He savored every wiggle.

Gordon ordered a refill from Ginger when she passed, and tipped her a twenty. The place was stripclub red and black, with plastic palms in the corners and a glittery pole on the stage. It was way too cold for the girls to be running around mostly naked like they were, but oh well.

He noticed two cops sitting at a table halfway across the room. Plainclothed. Maybe federal. Trying to fit in. There was a party of young gangstas with fake IDs that the bouncers were keeping a close eye on; a trio of out-of-town salesmen close to them giggling and showing their stiffies to each other; half a dozen guys sitting singly here and there looking hypnotized. The place was empty. He looked over at the DJ, who winked when he caught his eye. Out of blow already? My man, he nodded back, hang a minute.

He thought about his plans for a few minutes. He had a million plans, of course. Schemes, plots, conspiracies, agendas, strategies, cons. Daily scams that fed into larger swindles that fueled widespread raping and pillaging, all ending with Gordon, Warlord of the Earth. He gave his balls a friendly scratch, stubbed out his cigarette, left his drink for Laurie to steal, and went off to the bathroom to dig into his bag of coke.

When he got back to his table, he saw his very own big brother Rick sitting over near the bar. Whoah. Gordon turned his chair away and adjusted the plastic tree, but Rick wasn't looking into the dark corners of the club. He was hanging out waving money around, looking for lap dances.

Not drinking, of course. Rick disapproved of it. Life was his high. Power, money, authority, those were his drugs. but he could really have used a good drunk to get some of that rebar out of his ass.

Gordon ordered another drink once he saw what Rick was up to. Rick was the most self-absorbed person he knew, and wouldn't see Gordon if he sat next to him. His first instinct had been to run, but he decided he had nothing to fear from his brother. It would be best to stay out of sight, tho. He motioned a bouncer over. "Hey, Jake, guess who that enthusiast is." He had to yell over the music. "My very own brother."

Jake looked impressed. "He's been in here before. Lunchtime. Spends a lot on the girls but he's really stingy with the waitress, and the doorman never sees a penny." He lowered his voice to a shout. "He likes Laurie a lot."

Gordon grinned. "Great. He's paying my rent. I like that. He can afford it. Owns a big software company. But that's not why I wanted to talk to you. See those cops over there? Who the fuck are they?"

Jake nodded and shrugged. "Nobody any of us know. Could be Feds. Homeland Security. The IRS. Whatever, we're keeping them entertained and safe." They've been day shift regulars for about a week, but here they are, doing overtime."

"They must be tired. What's their budget?"

"Standard tips. The fat one drinks a lot of vodka. The black one likes Zappo."

"Notice them paying attention to any particular girls?"

"Nope. They act like they've never been in a strip club, tho."

"I'll go over and educate them after awhile. Oh, and about my brother? Don't go comping him because he's family, okay? And spread the word? And if he gets out of line, fucking nail him."

Jake said, "I don't think it's going to take him long to offend someone."

Gordon sat and observed. How could he profit from imperial entanglement without attracting it himself?

Rick was really loving it. Naked girls who didn't mind being naked, girls who obviously wanted to be fucked, not like his frigid wife. Real women, like the girl in his lap, tugging his dick out of his shorts with her ass. Couldn't be more than 18. And she really wants it. God that feels good.

His phone rang (an unpleasant buzzing that interfered with his hardon). He went to turn it off but he tapped instead of pressed and answered it instead.

"Mr. Fucks, sir, don't hang up. It's me Allen from the Westerbrook. 12C? Allen Monroe. Your tenant."

Rick spilled the girl off his lap. His penis shrank and his balls started to ache. "Who? How'd you get this number? That's Fuchs, damn you. Do you know where I am? I don't need to be talking to you." He fished for his headset.

"Sir! Don't hang up. I've got nobody to turn to," he pleaded, "and your number is the only one I know by heart." He stifled a sob. "I call it every time I'm a little late on you know the rent payment. Just so you know I'm trying. Please help me."

Rick stopped. Someone he could kick while he was down. This was as good as sex.. The girl was still hot for him, but she'd hold. She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, inviting his lust. He felt like a winner, ruining some poor asshole's life. "You've been late on the rent every month for a year, and now you're a month and a half behind. It's too late to turn to me. You're on your own. Don't drop the soap," he chortled.

"I'll do anything," Allen wailed.

Rick pictured several anythings. Hmm. "It might involve bodily injury." He looked so hopeful the girl came up and started fondling him again. He waved her off.

"Mine?"

"An adversary's."

"Yeah. I'm good at that. If you throw my bail I'll be in your debt forever. Whatever you want." He started to weep. "I got nobody. My mamma died last spring and I never got over it yet." He choked up.

The girl was looking a little frustrated now. Rick was envisioning the possibilities. A hired killer. Stupid but tractable. Someone to take all the risk. And the insurance, and the inheritance. He calculated the total. A couple of million right away. It would help in the short term.

He swore to Allen that he'd call a bondsman right now, and went back to his lap dance without noticing the bouncer coming up behind him to talk about wasting the girl's time. She winked over Rick's shoulder, and he backed into the darkness.

Rick was halfway there in moments, dreaming about getting someone else to solve all his problems for him. Seeing Mom's cold flabby face shining up out of her casket years ahead of schedule. And all that money. Money he needed. That was his by rights. It should have gone to him years ago, when Dad died. But no, she punished him with it, teased him and tortured him. And spent it. His inheritance. And laughed at him when he lowered himself to practically begging for it. No matter that his company, and his stock options, dwarfed what his dad had managed to put aside in his lifetime. It was still his, and every bit mattered. Just on principal, never mind honest need.

Then the most beautiful girl in the world appeared on the stage. He opened his eyes to check if the one on his lap was fishing around near his pockets, and time just stopped as his eyes met an aristocratic gaze, a strong, coolly intelligent woman capable of meeting his strength. You could be with me, her eyes said. I could answer all your prayers. Her chest heaved with desire for him. At last, my equal, he thought, and came in his pants.

The dancer got off him, spilled his coke into his lap, and left abruptly. The manager came up as he was trying to wipe himself off with a cocktail napkin. Rick was too jolted by aching desire to speak. The man offered a bar rag and suggested that he tip the girl extra for the embarrassment. Rick peeled of twenty bucks, and another twenty, and twenty for the manager, then a fifty what the hell, and another fifty, and then the manager stopped glaring and said he'd see the girl got her tip. The man stood by while Rick got up to leave, because he was feeling a little lightheaded, and thought he might as well go home and get out of his wet things. He was too stunned to get the girl fired or threaten to sue the club. "Who's the girl on stage?" he asked as the guy opened the door and hailed him a cab. He chanted Roxy Roxy Roxy all the way home.

"You should have seen Zora's face," Jake said. "She acted like someone sprinkled used cat litter on her cereal. I thought she was going to hit him."

"That was as good an excuse as I've seen for a stern talking-to out back," Gordon observed. "I hope you didn't refrain from violence just because he's my brother."

"Nah. He was braindead. Don't know what got into him. Just handed over a kissoff and left like a good little boy. It wouldn't be any fun to beat the shit out of him like that. I'd like to wait until he does something."

"Another time, maybe."

"Sure."

Gordon got up to refill his nose, Ginger brought him another drink. He smoked a few more cigarettes and considered the club. It was a cavernous place, a small warehouse. A large gloomy room, capacity 250, with a stage going around the corner at one side, hiding a tiny dressing room behind it. The DJ's booth was in the middle, and the bar was at the other side of the room. The front of the room was where the bathrooms were, and the front door was sandwiched between the coat room and security room. Gordon's table was in the corner next to security. There were no lights there. It was dimly lit everywhere else except for the stage.

Beyond the main room was the VIP lounge and private booths, and behind that, down a starkly lit corridor, were the kitchen and storerooms, and the office. There was a back door. There were cameras everywhere: out here and in the lounge, the booths, the halls, the kitchen, in the dressing rooms, in the bathrooms, out in the parking lot, at the front and back doors.

Not in the office, tho. That only stood to reason. Lots of things went on in the office that were nobody's business; everything else was the business of the guy in the office. Likewise the courtesy telephone was recorded; the office phone was not. There were hidden microphones in the palms and cameras in the ceiling fans, but security had bug sweepers for the office and the owner's car.

Gordon wanted a piece of whatever was really going on there.

When he got back to his table, he noticed his brother-in-law Bill, sitting right up against the stage. Fancy that. Family night. Gordon watched him for awhile. Bill had a real eye for the girls. They'd been out a few times after Bill and Cindy got married, and those were some wild times. Gordon could hold his liquor (he was still practically a kid back then), but Bill could outparty him every time. They hadn't hung out in years, as Gordon's career took him farther away from legitimate work hours, but they still snuck out together for a snort whenever they met at some family thing.

Gordon was tempted to go over and say hey, but he had work to do, and didn't want to get stuck palling around with anyone he knew too well. So he stayed in his corner like a spider, watching Bill taste everything that came his way.

Bill was in a rare mood tonight. Cindy was out with her girlfriends doing something silly so he was here soaking up the pussy. He always had as much as he wanted from all sorts of women. It wasn't as if he had to pay for it. He just loved looking at them. All shapes and sizes. These girls were young and skinny with fake breasts, and he preferred plump and juicy, but a girl smells like a girl, and he wanted to meet them all. And since he'd run thru all the girls at the Pink Beaver crosstown, and Pole Acts downtown, he thought he'd test the water at the Scarlet Pimpernel.

And the water was fine. Dollar bills were never so well spent. The girls here did things they didn't do at the other clubs. It was outside the city limits and the rules were so loose that you could almost touch the girls with your hands. And they'd put their thing right up next to your face. And they'd bend over and let you have a good long look. He liked it here.

Bill ordered a beer. Bottled so he could be sure it was a real beer. A couple of girls came over and asked for lap dances. He obliged them all. And then he found one he really liked. She didn't ask for a lap dance, she stood there until he remembered his manners and asked her to sit. She let him buy her a glass of wine (white grape juice and soda, he assumed). They talked.

They were instantly attracted to each other. She was so friendly, so soft and gentle, with a forlornness about her that he felt protective of right away. They liked the same books and movies and shows. They wanted to see the same foreign countries. They believed in the same political causes. They shared the same religious views. It was as if he had run into his long lost identical twin. Except his twin wasn't a man. And he wanted to make love to his twin for the rest of his life.

She was obviously a very sensitive, refined creature. She told a sad tale about why she was in this business: she had ambitions to be an actor, but her evil mother mutilated her so that she could never go out in public without shame. That threw Bill until she explained that a very nice friend once offered to pay for plastic surgery. He wished it could have been him.

She never offered to do a lap dance for him. She seemed too depressed, too weighed down by life. He felt sorry for her. He wanted to protect her. She had too much good breeding to be in a filthy den like this. And she hated being here. But she had to make enough money to pay her dog's vet bills, which were enormous. The poor doggie had cancer and she wanted to leave work right now and go home early because she was so worried about it. But the operation was tomorrow and she still needed hundreds of dollars to pay for it.

He patted her hand and wondered why other women's skin wasn't as soft. After awhile she started to yawn and snuggle into his shoulder. He loved that feeling. A waif. Where are your parents, little girl? I'm lost, can you take me home, mister? But he couldn't dwell, and it was breaking his heart. He had to leave right now if he wanted to get home before Cindy. There'd be questions if he didn't. So he tenderly roused the vision of loveliness next to him and promised to come back tomorrow, pushing a fat wad of bills (mostly ones) toward her so she wouldn't have to go home penniless.

Gordon watched, amused as Bill turned over all his money to Laurie. She came by his table and complained about how hard her customer was to get money out of her, and how tired she felt. He slipped her an antique bottle full of coke and went off to the bathroom himself. It was just getting busy on the floor. The night was young.

Chapter Five

It was mid-afternoon before Rick got around to getting Allen out of jail. He'd spent some of the morning going thru Allen's apartment, sifting thru lots of trash, crushed beer cans, and dried-out fast food, looking for evidence of criminal activity.

Of which where was loads. Half a dozen flat screen TVs and no cardboard boxes. Pawn tickets scattered on the coffee table. Scales, rolling papers, powdery mirrors slid under the couch. A pile of muddy construction tools in one corner, greasy mechanic's tools in another. Awkwardly rolled-up copper wiring and car stereos. Plastic garbage bags full of other people's mail. Other people's prescription bottles in the medicine cabinet. And about a thousand dollars in cash. Just lying there on the back of the toilet for anyone to take.

Rick pocketed the money and let himself out of the apartment. This'll just about pay for trashing the place. There's still a month and half back rent to wring out of him.

He posted Allen's bail (the bondsman said he was charged with fleeing from the scene of an accident, DUI, possession, obstruction, driving on a suspended license, and resisting arrest) with Allen's own money, then went over to the jail himself to give the bastard a ride home and inform him that he was now Rick's slave.

"You owe me $300," he told Allen. "That's your bond." Allen mumbled his eternal gratitude and swore he'd have the money to him by the end of the month. Rick grunted.

Allen sat in the passenger's seat texting people as his landlord wasted the RPMs of his Porsche doing the speed limit, wondering how much longer before he could get high.

Rick began talking about what he was expected to do in return for being sprung, but only in general terms, and Allen didn't understand exactly what the job was all about. The man was using words pulled out of motivational handbooks, and Allen was starting to wonder if he was talking about taking over a rival company.

Catalyst. Team player. Closure. Leadership. Customer focus. Bottom line. Heavy lifting. Involuntary retirement. Sink or swim.

They got to the apartments. Rick parked and got out, following Allen up the stairs. This made Allen nervous – never let the landlord into your apartment – but the fucker stood over his shoulder and walked right in after him, looking around the place like he was ready to have his own building condemned.

"Uh." Allen wasn't willing to bring up the subject, but he was sure curious as to what song Rick wanted him to sing for his supper. He would more than likely find a way to squeeze out of it, but he needed to know just how persistent he'd have to be to make the problem go away. He hoped he wasn't gonna hafta give him a blow job.

Rick explained what he wanted.

Allen backed away, raising his fists. "No way. I'm not doing it." He felt his gorge rising and headed for the sink.

Rick heard sounds of retching and hacking and things falling over in the bathroom. Allen cursed for a few moments, and then the toilet flushed, and he came lurching back, using his sleeve to wipe blobs of yellow off his mustache. Rick drew himself up into his Maori warrior posture, his neck muscles bulging and his face turning red. He looked very intimidating. "You have to do this."

Allen hoped he was having a stroke. "Why, because you bailed me fucking out? Three hundred bucks to kill someone? You're insane. Get away from me, man."

Rick thought fast. "Look, I'm offering you a once in a lifetime chance. Low risk-high yield. Low-hanging fruit. I've got this client. He's big, huge, world class. A real prince in this Asian country you've never heard of. Near Vietnam." Allen nodded. "He's got this arch enemy, who ripped off his, uh, drugs, and raped his youngest wife – just a child, really – and killed his dog..." He saw Allen tearing up. His words were burning thru Allen's head. Rick focused his powerful intellect on swaying Allen's weak mind, and he could feel it working. "He's asking me as a special favor, the last request of a noble man – for which he will pay handsomely, and you get half, on a performance basis – by simply helping the man get his revenge on this vile snake who ruined his life." He eyed Allen to see how he was taking it. "I'd do it myself but I'm no good at that sort of thing. And you're an expert, right?

Allen ignored the question. "So there's like a bonus? And this guy I'm supposed to take care of is really scum?"

Rick winked. "Lower than you."

"But do I really got to do it the way you said?" He clutched at his stomach. "I think I'm gonna be sick again."

Rick shook his head. "Sorry, that's one of the terms of the contract. The Prince insists. And you've got to film it so he can enjoy his vengeance cold."

Allen thought about it. A lot of trouble to go to as a favor for a friend of some guy who only bailed you out of jail. "I don't think so."

"You don't understand. You have to. There's nobody else for the job."

"You can't make me. The smell alone would kill me. I'd rather die."

"You could go to jail," Rick said, indicating the loot. "I know what you're doing here. I've been watching you. I've taken pictures. I'll turn you in."

"Pictures?" he looked around in disbelief. "You been in my place?" His face got ugly. "You stole my money."

Rick laughed scornfully. "No I didn't. What money? Some lowlife accomplice of yours must have broken in while you were in jail." He marched over to the door and rattled the handle. "Look how flimsy this lock is. You only have to pull up on the doorknob and push to get in." He laughed. "Besides, I'd be the last one to steal your money. I'm waiting for you to pay me that back rent, so I want you to make as much money as you can. Believe me, I'd like to kill the bastard that robbed you," he said stoutly, reeling him in. "That's why this job is the right one. Plenty of money for everybody. I win, you win, the Prince wins."

"Well, maybe," Allen grumbled. "But do I have to leave him in the septic tank?"

"Wear a gas mask."

* * *

Rick was just getting into his car when Judy drove up and parked next to him. She seemed surprised to see him, but happy. It had been a year or two since they'd seen each other and he's always been her favorite oldest younger brother.

"Why Rick," she said, getting out of the car, "I thought that was your Porsche. I always say when I see a red Porsche, there's the car Dad bought Mom for Christmas when she bought him a mink coat." She waggled her head. "Well, not the same car, but you know..." It was a joke they'd found funny for years, but Rick wasn't laughing. Rick never laughed anymore, except at her.

Rick eyed his sister distastefully. He wouldn't let his wife out of the house looking like that. Filthy dress, baggy sweater, uncombed raggedy hair, a tattered Greek sailor cap with yellow stickies in the brim. Stickies everywhere, falling out of every pocket, streaming out of the open door of her car. Calling her a bag lady would be an exaltation.

"How's Frank?"

She danced around nervously in front of him, like her feet itched. "Oh, he's off to help Mom hang curtains, and I'm just off to the post office, and then..."

He could see she wanted to talk. Next she was going to ask him to go for a coffee. Or an herbal tea. Whatever; he was too busy to sit and make chitchat with his addled hippie sister. Especially because she'd want to talk about Mom, and that was the farthest thing from his mind.

Closest to his mind was just how stupid Allen was, and just how easily he was going to get way with it. Near his mind was sincere admiration for just how nimble and astute a player he really was. To come up with such a spellbinding story on the spur of the moment: he was that smart. Way smarter than Allen. Drug-addled, pickled Allen. He hated drunks, and Allen was a real alcoholic. Disgusting. How anyone could let themselves go like that?

"How's Alice?"

He got in the car and turned on the ignition, rolling his window down and shutting the door. "She's great. She's PTA Mother of the Year and Little League registrar and she's just been promoted to head of capital development at our church."

"You sound proud of her."

"She's come a long way because of my influence." He spun out, leaving black marks in the parking lot. Judy heaved a sigh of relief and headed for the apartment building's front door. Allen buzzed her in.

"Hey, got your text." She gave him a big hug. He looked like he needed it. "Thanks for calling me, I've been out of weed for ages."

"Yeah, well I just got out of jail and I need the money. A quarter, right?"

"Well, I maybe could get half an ounce just to help you out. I'll have to compromise on quality at the liquor store, but there's that saying about an ounce in the hand is like two in the freezer."

Allen liked that. They had a laugh. He wished he'd had a beer to drink with her, but there was nothing in that apartment. He could go get some beer and Chinese once she'd paid for the pot, tho. He rolled them a joint to be sociable, and was almost driven to tears when she pulled out a pint of vodka from her bag.

"Jail, huh? That's rough. What happened?"

"The Man followed me from my previous engagement, and got me for a taillight in the fucking parking lot." He shrugged. "Then they beat me up and took me in and made up a bunch of shit to charge me with. I'll get probation." He passed her the joint, a nice fattie.

She nodded and took a deep hit. "That's good," she croaked, smoke leaking out of her mouth. He unscrewed the cap and took another swig, then went to pit the cap back on, but she waved it off and reached for the bottle. She would ordinarily stop and buy dope, go to the liquor store, and scurry back to her warren, but this was one of the few places where she was comfortable. She liked Allen; she liked to talk to him. He was a poor dumb kid from a troubled family and she felt sorry for him. It's not like she could hang out for long, anyway. The pint wouldn't last more than twenty minutes, and then she'd have to go.

Chapter Six

Frank was in Mom's living room making adjustments to his latest gadget. She'd complained about having to open and close those heavy drapes every day, so Frank had automated the whole thing. The idea was that she could sit in her easy chair in front of the television and just push a button to open and close the drapes. But she lost the remote immediately, and now he was back, putting the whole thing on a timer.

And Mom was sitting there dithering over the exact moments to set the timer for. First thing in the morning, even if she'd stayed in bed? That would be best for the plants but it would be blinding when she got up to get her coffee. And how about at night? She didn't like the idea of drawing the shades at some arbitrary dusk, when half the year they'd still be open for people to see her thru the window, and the other half they'd be closed when it was still light out, and she would miss the sunset.

She had a vision she liked of herself, striding to the windows in the morning and flinging open the drapes, revealing herself in silhouette as the strong, decisive matriarch of a thriving clan full of grandchildren, all standing outside and looking up at her adoringly – the most important person in their lives.

Besides, how shocking it would be if she happened to get up early, and was sitting in the living room when the drapes suddenly opened. It would certainly startle her; maybe even give her a heart attack.

"I think I'd really rather have the remote, if you don't mind," she spoke up. She couldn't see much of Frank; he was bent over behind the TV, working on the outlet. Just his bony rear end poking out from behind the drapes. He stood up and ran his hands up the side of the window, tracing the wire. He sure was in fit looking A nice looking man, only about ten years younger. Suddenly she missed her husband. Judy doesn't deserve Frank.

She went over to see his device. "I'd have to change the settings on the timer practically every day without a remote," she continued, looking over his shoulder at it – a mass of wires and switches like a first generation personal computer. "I don't think it would be at all easy to change the settings." She straightened up and added brightly, "I won't lose it, I promise. I'll find the other one and then I'll have two."

Frank shrugged. It wouldn't make any difference in how the gadget worked. "I'll make it work either way," he said after a moment, and turned back to adjust more switches.

Mom had him set it for half a dozen on and off times, standing right there with him, half hidden in the drapes. She found the curtain ties and removed them, thinking how she never used them to tie back the drapes. She glanced over them for oil stains and saw grime and the dust of years ground into the fabric. Time to take these to the dry cleaners.

Frank emerged from the drapes dusting off his hands. "Well, I should go."

"No, wait," she said. She headed to the master bedroom, dragging the curtain ties behind her. "I need you to look at the shelves in my bathroom. They're all strange looking. I think mold's eating them."

Frank heaved a sigh and followed.

* * *

Alice lingered over the fruit section. She would have loved to buy those plump red strawberries or those shiny green apples. And some caramel dip. The kids would love that. But as chief cook and bottle washer, it was her duty to spend as little as possible feeding her brood. Fruit was a luxury. She almost never brought it home. The kids scarfed it all down the moment she took it out of the bag, and Rick the Prick was so mean about it that it wasn't worth the fight. But she could still look, still squeeze the peaches and heft the pomegranates and thump the melons. She looked at her watch regretfully, and decided it was time to go ahead and get her list.

She ran into Cindy in the diaper aisle. They hugged warmly. "Where are the kids?" Cindy asked, patting the baby on the head.

"At KidSports(tm). I usually slip out and run an errand." She smiled. "Some things are easier without them." The baby had her hands out for Aunt Cindy, who backed out of reach. "I have to get them in 20 minutes."

They moved on down the aisle together, strolling and talking. They talked about nothing; what they were having for dinner that night, how adorable the baby was, each other's clothes, were they getting fat, did they still look okay. Cindy and Alice were very comfortable in each other's company. They would have been great friends if Rick hadn't discouraged contact between them.

But she couldn't talk about that with Cindy. "You know, the other day your mom called me and hung up when I answered," she said, reaching for the wipe refills. "I think she's getting worse." This was a subject they were allowed to discuss. Rick approved, Cindy was eager, and it gave Alice a vent.

"I've been saying for years, Mom has Alzheimer's."

Alice stooped to get a giant bottle of bubble bath. "But she's getting mean."

"Honey," Cindy said, putting her arm around Alice's shoulder, "you don't know mean. My mom's the queen of mean."

"That's um," Alice searched, "Hilary Clinton, right?" They turned down the detergent aisle. Alice breathed the scented air gratefully, relaxing. Cindy wrinkled her nose at the cheap perfumes. She leaned in on Alice and the baby, trying to breathe their warm milky scent, but the baby latched on to her purse and pulled her blouse out of her skirt in an instant. Cindy wrenched away and hovered behind Alice while she struggled with the economy size detergent, straightening the hang of her clothes. She watched while Alice grabbed a gallon jug of ammonia and another jug of bleach and bent over to stuff them under the cart.

The shopping cart was nearly full with essentials – diapers, gallons of milk, family packs of meat, a pile of frozen food boxes, a stack of cans, cleaning supplies. Store brands. Cindy felt so sorry for Alice. "You work so hard," she said gently, rubbing her back as she wrestled the cart away from the endcap. "I just wish he treated you better."

Alice put her head on Cindy's shoulder for a second. "Oh, I'm happy enough, but thanks for the thought. I've got the kids, that's enough for me. And he's good to me, really." She looked at her watch and started heading toward the checkouts.

Cindy didn't say anything. They were back on a bad subject to talk about and Alice was starting to act distant. "Wait," she called, passing the baking aisle. "I'm looking for a meat thermometer. Help me." Alice brought the cart back They stood together searching the display. They swayed as one as they spotted it, and their hands touched as they reached out at the same moment. Like synchronized swimming. Alice found herself holding her breath.

They stood at Alice's SUV after loading the back. Cindy tucked a stray hair behind Alice's ear. "I need to talk to you about something." she asked, looking intently into Alice's deep blue eyes. "When can we meet again?" They hugged warmly, and Alice sped off to get the kids, five minutes late.

* * *

Gordon was on his third drink when Allen walked into the club and slumped into the chair beside him. "Hey, man, I'm broke," he said mournfully. Gordon rolled his eyes.

"Welcome back to freedom. Here, I'll buy you a drink."

"Thanks, bro." They sat silently watching the room until Sugar brought Allen a mug of watered beer. Gordon watched the cops watching the house, Allen watched the girls and fingered the lucky ring tab on his pinky. Maybe Gordon'd drop a couple of lines on him in the bathroom later on.

"So what happened?" Gordon, meaning his arrest on the street.

"I got robbed," he moaned, meaning the break-in at his apartment.

This took some time straightening out. Allen finished his beer.

"It creeps me out that someone was there while I was gone," he worried, scraping the label with a ragged fingernail. "I feel violated."

"I like owe a lot of money to certain people, you know?" He put the bottle to his lips a third time, cramming the tip of his tongue into its mouth.

"I'm out of weed, too, and I can't get no more fronted to me until I'm current with my man." He set the bottle on its side and began to spin it idly, letting it get to the edge before batting it back.

"There was this guy in the cell," he began, righting the bottle and beginning to bounce his open fist off top of the rim.

Gordon got up to go to the bathroom. Allen followed eagerly. "Hey, guess what? This guy? In jail?" He remembered Rick swearing him to secrecy, "He just hired me to kill this terrorist guy for some royal dude from like Heroin Land and film the whole thing. It's for a good cause," he chattered on. "And I get paid. Maybe I can cut you in, for a change."

Gordon whistled appreciatively as they entered the bathroom. "Lots of money?"

"He mentioned splitting fifteen million dollars."

"Wow." They gave each other high fives, then entered adjoining stalls.

"I'm proud of you, boy," Gordon said, sitting down with his pants on to open his bag of blow. "You're really coming up in the world." He reached in with his little finger to scoop up a nice long pile. He carried it to his nose and curled his lip up to close a nostril, inhaling deeply with all three lungs. "Why you want to record it?" he asked, feeling that chemical peel as it spread down the back of his throat. "That's like self-incrimination." His teeth went numb and he started sniffling.

"Nah, it's part of the deal." Allen was straining on the pot. "The guy wants to jerk off to it or something."

"What exactly does he want you to do?" Gordon sucked up coke into the other nostril.

Allen pulled square after square of toilet paper off the roll, which went whap whap whap on its spindle. "The dude hired me made a couple suggestions, but he pretty much left it up to me." He wiped his ass loudly, like using sandpaper on a snare drum "See, the guy was a bad motherfucker back in the day, killed and raped and mutilated all sorts of the wrong people. But now he's old and feeble. I won't have a problem. It'll be like killing a snake."

Gordon took a pinch for good luck and closed up the bag. "The only thing is, is I know you're just a petty thief. Why would someone hire you to murder someone? You couldn't kill a teddy bear."

Allen thought for a moment. "Hey, I'm mean when I'm drunk. And I've killed plenty of rats got in the kitchen at night." He reached under the stall and wiggled his fingers in Gordon's direction.

Gordon stood up quickly. Head rush. "What the fuck are you doing, Senator?" He kicked at Allen's hand.

Allen sounded desperate. "Hey, uh. Can I, you know?" His voice notched into a whine. "I been in jail."

"Fuck." Allen's hand shot back out. Gordon rolled his eyes and opened the bag for another quick snort. Then he put a pinch into Allen's palm. "There. Knock yourself out."

"Thanks alot, man. Save my life." Allen made snuffling noises. "You know what the really sick part of this is?" he asked as he came out of the stall without flushing I'm supposed to open up the fucking septic tank and dump the guy in there."

Gordon licked his fingers as he walked out of the bathroom. "God, that's really gross. It makes me sick to think about it."

Chapter seven

Laurie sat in the dressing room, staring at herself in the mirror. Her set was coming up and she had to change and redo her makeup. She was looking kind of haggard lately. She sure as hell wasn't getting enough sleep. She swigged at her drink and then grabbed a square of gauze to start repairing the smudges. Her regulars were thin on the ground tonight. She had a few new prospects she was mining; let's see if they didn't show up. She winked at herself in the mirror, then made a kissy face to put on her blush. Laurie was the hottest girl in the Scarlet Pimpernel, and there was never a shortage of men to line her pockets.

Problem was, where did it go? She walked out of the club with a thousand dollars some nights, and never less than $300. But by the time she got up out of bed the next day, she was broke. Maybe it fell out of her bag on the way home.

She put on fresh deodorant, sprayed her crotch with cologne, and stood up to reapply glittery body gel to her legs and belly. Most of the first application had rubbed off on the customers' pants. It was a service to the wives, leaving evidence like that.

Laurie was a bit of a chameleon. She was a feminist to the girls and a sex addict to the boys. Her mom thought she was a virgin, and each of her brothers thought he'd been the only one. She was in it for Laurie. But since everyone wanted her to be in it for whatever they wanted, she spent all her time fooling them. Her own image of herself was stark: two-faced and ruthless as a matter of principle, playing people against each other, manipulating events whenever possible, and always getting her way.

She changed her thong and bra to something lacy, pulled on a mini-schoolgirl skirt and a white shirt that tied below the breasts, footless knee socks, and fuck-me saddleox pumps. She redid her hair in pigtails with ribbons, and did a few cheerleader moves in front of the mirror to check the effect. 1 2 3 4 who the boys all squirtin' for – Roxy.

* * *

Gordon watched her set with interest. Laurie on a pole was a stunning sight. Some girls did acrobatics on the pole. Some did yoga. Some treated it like it was a piece of schoolyard equipment. Laurie illustrated the Kama Sutra. Gordon put a lot of effort into remembering his favorite positions for later.

His mind kept drifting back to his favorite subject – ripping off the club. Everyone knew where the safe was. But there was another safe where they put the money at closing time; else they took it home. Except that Gordon never saw bags of money leaving the joint. It would be hard to hide half a million in small bills every night.

He'd like to go over and smash the cops for talking while Laurie was dancing. Every other jerkoff in the place was drooling, staring up at his girlfriend and wishing hard. Those jokers were whispering in each other's ears like they were in church. He didn't care if the whole house talked thru anybody else's dance, but the extraneous movement ruined it for him when she was onstage – he could see the whole layout and only wanted to watch his girl. He glared at them as the music changed and Laurie started on some floor work that quickly grabbed his attention again.

He could easily satisfy his curiosity about the club's cashflow if only he would go on the payroll. The owner asked him often enough. He always said no. He liked his freelancing, and wasn't going to call anybody boss. But he had to find out, it was an essential part of his plan. Can't walk off with all the money if you don't know where it is. He couldn't ask the managers or bouncers what happened to the take at night. The girls didn't know (Laurie'd been angling among them for information). Maybe the house mom knew, but nobody was getting anything out of her. His main idea was to keep on sitting there until the answer revealed itself.

The music changed and Laurie did her strut dance, demanding that the customers stuff her garter. They queued up for the privilege. All but the cops. Gordon sat and fumed. Bad manners was a beating offence at the club.

Laurie came by the table when her set was over. She radiated heat from her body; her healthy, libidinous, sweaty, flushed body. Gordon squirmed with pleasure as she ran her hand up his thigh with one hand while picking up his drink and chugging it with the other. He raised a finger for another as Cocoa passed, and turned to gaze at his mostly naked companion. He felt true love welling inside him.

"There's a loose board on that stage," she groused. "I nearly caught my heel right there at the end." Gordon muttered an offer to go up and fix it himself. She ignored it. "I mean it's hard enough doing splits in high heels on a good, flat floor. The ridges on that stage, you can just slip right over them, and then you land real hard. I'm afraid I'll get splinters." Gordon offered a pain-free way to remove them, and leaned in to nuzzle her neck. She slapped him away and reached for the fresh drink, winking at Cocoa. "Did you see where it was?" Gordon blinked uncertainly a few times. "Where I almost fell." He tried to look knowledgeable. "I've asked Jerry twice already." Gordon swore to have a word with him immediately, and put his arm around her, feeling blissful. The drink was mostly ice when she turned it loose.

Laurie went off to get some table dances while she was warmed up, and Gordon went to the bathroom to do some blow. And to jerk off. On the way back, he stopped by to visit with the cops.

From a distance they looked like bobble headed penguins. They resolved into clean-shaven, short-haired guys in sunglasses. Their white shirts and ties were sweat stained and grimy polyester and their charcoal suits were made of viscose and had never been cleaned. They sat nursing their drinks; immobile.

"Whatcha having?" Gordon shouted as he loomed over them, a big grin on his face, his hands in plain sight. The fat one started, as if he'd been snoozing. The black one looked guarded. "Can I join you gentlemen?" Gordon persisted, smiling charmingly. He pulled a chair away from the next table and sat down. The cops were wary, their eyes darting around wildly behind their shades.

Gordon waved at Cocoa for a round, and flashed a free drink signal at his friend the bartender. Then he turned back to the cops. "I just happened to notice," he said gravely, the cops exchanging worried glances, "that you boys seem like you're from out of town. Is that right?" He grinned as they composed their faces. We're just a coupla salesmen from Ohio. "I couldn't help noticing," Gordon continued, "because I'm from out of town myself. Used to be. Come and go." He winked at them. "I know what it's like being in a strange place, not knowing the local customs, not knowing where to go." He waved at the club around them. "But you must have good instincts, because you landed up here. The prettiest girls in the world."

"Do you work here?" the black one asked, hoping to type him.

"Nah. I'm just a customer. A businessman, like yourselves." They nodded. Gordon reached over the table. "Name's Gordon." They shook hands. The fat one was "Sam", the black one was "Dave".

Their drinks came and they stared appreciatively as Gordon stuffed a fifty down Cocoa's bra. Dave looked like he appreciated his shot of Jagermeister. "Fact is, I used to be a strip club virgin once, and it's a difficult thing to watch, if you know what I mean." They squirmed. "So I thought I'd come over with a few helpful hints." They listened, rapt, even tho they were probly recording.

"Well, like a few minutes ago, when the star dancer was on, you should have been more attentive. And I notice you didn't go up and tip her during the finale." He shook his head sorrowfully. "That's bad." They looked shamefaced. Dave covered his mouth with his energy drink and Sam looked down at his stained tie. Gordon looked stern. "And I gotta tell you, the management is being real easy on you, letting you sit there and not buy drinks and lap dances. Especially since you don't tip them, either," he said, nodding at the bouncers.

The cops looked pained. "We just don't have the money," Sam sighed. "We'd like to, really."

Dave looked sincere. "Things've been slow."

"Well, that's why we hustle all day selling shit." Gordon laughed, clapping Dave on the back. "It's hell what we have to do for the ladies, ain't it?" He wondered if he should offer to advance them a little green. Nah.

"Well, my point is you just gotta be a little more expansive, is all. You don't have to spend a lot. You can get the bar to change it all into ones, if that'll help. You gotta learn to be generous and kind spirited if you want to get anywhere around here. See how fast those drinks came? That's cuz I take good care of everybody who crosses my path. Like you two." He put his arm around both of them and pulled them in for a just pals hug.

"Let yourselves enjoy the ambiance," he finished, standing and returning the chair. 'You'll be surprised at how nice people can be if you just treat them with dignity."

The cops thought about it. Gordon sent them a round from his table and saluted them when they looked up in surprise. They thought about it some more. Then Sam bought a lap dance. Then Dave bought one. Then they ordered a round by themselves. Gordon looked on, satisfied and happy. He loved to help people.

Jake came up and lingered by the palm tree. "Wired for sound and video?"

Gordon clicked his glass on his teeth. "Dunno, couldn't tell when I patted them down. Maybe."

"Know what they're looking for?"

Gordon took a sip and reached for a cigarette. "Not yet. Soon."

* * *

Sam and Dave pooled the last of their money for a final round of Jager shots. Plus tip. Sam smiled brightly at the doorman and promised to take care of him the next time, and didn't notice the pained smile. They were a little unsteady reaching the car, and sat in the parking lot for a few minutes. Observing. Sam was tired. Dave wished he had more money so they could go stake out the other clubs..

Dave was new at this. Just out of the academy. He was paired with a seasoned agent, the way they always did it, but Sam's experience was in mail fraud, and they were both floundering there in the strip club. Not sure what they were looking for, they had to report on everything so that their supervisor had as much to go on as possible.

The big picture involved international crime syndicates, corporate espionage, high tech treachery, drug trafficking, white slavery, money laundering, tax evasion, immigration violations, terrorism, and even mail fraud. Never mind gambling, prostitution and underage drinking.

There was a promotion in it for Dave, and a retirement bonus for Sam. If they got their guy. Which they weren't sure who the guy was. All they could see was a probable citation from the health department and out-of-code neon signage in the parking lot. To them it seemed nothing more than a plain old strip club – like a legitimate business. Like they would know.

They went home to their airport motel. Sam kicked off his shoes at the door, and shed bits of clothing all the way to the bathroom. Dave stepped gingerly around them checking the room for bugs. He was quick; he didn't want Sam making fun of him for going by the book.

Dave pulled a box of macs n'cheese from the closet, dumped it into a plastic bowl, added water from the sink, and nuked it until it started to pop. He scraped off the plastic forks and plates from last night's dinner, and set two grimy water glasses on the bedside table.

"We need more money," Dave said, picking over the cheese globs and uncooked noodles. He sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed.

"You need to get started on that report," Sam waved at Dave's Blackberry with a full fork. "We got a lot of information tonight." Sam was under the covers, buck naked, dribbling four-cheese macaroni on his chest.

"I'm kind of tired." Dave looked at his pillow.

"Hah," Sam gargled, his mouth full. "By the book."

Sam flipped thru the channels while Dave itemized the night's gleanings. He made much of the new informant, stressing the need to increase the budget accordingly.

Sam found the on-demand channels and was deciding between several soft porn offerings.

"At least turn the sound off," Dave insisted. His wrists were getting sore and it made him cranky. "Hey, I've been thinking..."

Sam looked over at him, hunched over on the edge of the bed holding his Blackberry on his lap, furiously thumbing it while staring off into the distance. Well, it was no miracle with those skinny fingers.

"I feel that we need a different approach," Dave said when he finished typing his sentence.

"I don't get you." Sam kept his eyes on the TV.

"He thinks we're businessmen, right? Salesmen or something. What if we came on like players?"

Sam looked over at him. "Why?"

"If we could get this Gordon guy working for us we might learn something."

Sam snorted. "Recruit him? As, what, a salesman? An agent?"

"No." Dave lapsed into pirate talk. He did that. "We fly their flag until we get within boarding range, and then we run up the Jolly Roger. And our pal Gordon will tie off the boarding ropes (lines?) for us.

"Um. I mean Arrgh."

"No, listen." Dave's eyes were bright. "We seduce him. Get him on our side. Make him eager to betray the big boss. We come on as more important than his boss's boss. Emirs of fucking Bahrain kind of thing. Hollywood moguls. Famous plastic surgeons. Enough money to set up three Scarlet Pimpernels across the street and turn this place into a dry cleaner's."

"I saw something like that in a film once," Sam said, learning forward and shedding macaroni further down the covers. "We appeal to his greed and tell him we're going to take over the joint and make him king." Then he had second thoughts. "I don't know if we could pull it off. You're kind of young and I'm kind of..."

Dave felt supportive. "You cracked the Social Security check ring in Cleveland."

Sam thought. "Hey, there was this case where I had to infiltrate this mob family in New Jersey. I dated the daughter." Dave looked incredulous. "Hey, it was twenty years ago. But it was easy." He grew animated. "We could do it."

Dave started to argue with him. Could not. Could to. It got to that point immediately; they weren't used to being drunk. They weren't sure what exact plan they were arguing about. They agreed they had to have more money to do more research at the strip club, and that Gordon was dumb enough to fall into their trap, and they argued about all the details.

They went to bed still mumbling. Sam dreamed of running a Mafia dynasty. Dave dreamed of being Miami Vice. He was the blond guy.

Chapter Eight

Judy noticed a bump on Frank's head during breakfast. He looked a little sheepish answering. "Oh, I ran my head into one of your mother's cabinets."

She fussed at him. "You shouldn't be over there fixing everything." She poked it and watched it change color from angry red to dead white. "You should let one of the other boys take care of it" She stroked his bald head affectionately, running her hand right over the bump. "Gordon, for example. He never does anything. It's his turn." She felt warm inside and thought about her first drink. "It's Rick's turn. You've done enough. Let them take the burden for a change."

She sat back down and they finished their oatmeal. He was quiet. She had the feeling he wasn't telling her everything, and she was right. The bump wasn't from his clumsiness in Mom's kitchen, but because he got dizzy in the bedroom and had to sit down kind of fast. Head first into the doorjamb. Mom made sure he didn't have a concussion, patched it up, and let him go home. It was nothing; he was fine. He just didn't want Judy to worry about him. She would insist on making a fuss, and he hated fusses.

"You need to stop going over there," Judy decided. "Damn her, always getting other people to do things for her."

"She's too old to fix things. Come on."

Judy looked ugly the way she frowned when she talked about her mother. "She never says thanks, she's never happy with the work, she never offers to pay for anything." She poked at a blueberry and slowly mashed it against the bowl. "Like we owe her."

"Some cultures are honored to take care of their parents," observed Frank.

"I'm not buying that. God, if she moved in here?" She wrung her hands. "We'd go bankrupt supporting her. All the things she'd want us to run down to the store and pick up for her. All the damn time. And she's not too old – she eats like a teenager. And she'd drink up all my wine and bitch about the quality. I'd kill myself before I'd let my mother live in my house."

"Well, she's not going to move in with you, so stop worrying. You can drink up all your wine yourself." Frank got up to start the dishes.

"The next time you go over there," Judy suddenly said, thinking of something, "See if you can't look thru her photograph drawer, you know, in the front room. I want you to bring me some old pictures from when we were kids." Frank muttered yes dear, briefly wondering why, then forgot her request as he went down the stairs into the basement.

* * *

Allen pulled up in front of Mom's house ready for mayhem. But he lost heart as soon as she opened the door.

His cover was that he was there to check the sewage connection – there'd been a bunch of pipes going bad lately and this address was on the list for preventative maintenance.

So Mom brought him in and followed him around, asking could he make the toilet stop running, and could he fix the drip in the kitchen faucet. She was pitiful. Allen didn't see an old fart anywhere, and soon found out that Mom was a widow. For years and years, poor woman. The house was a wreck and she was all alone, and none of her ungrateful kids ever helped repair the damage they'd so gleefully wrought when they were teenagers. Allen felt sorry for the old lady. That insane landlord of his must have gave him the wrong address.

Mom fed him well. He'd gone around the house with his tools rehanging this and reinforcing that and noticing lots of things that could use a man's touch. And they talked. He told her his sorry tale and she shared her pain. They were both of them pretty religious, and sat together on the couch and prayed with Creflo Dollar for all the poor sinners in the world.

Allen left Mom's house feeling like a different man. He ran a few errands (dropped off ounces of pot to regular buyers), and headed to the club for a few laughs.

He'd done some real favors for the old lady. She was such a nice person. He felt really good about being able to help her even a little. Maybe he might stop in again real soon and spend some time doing things around the house. Maybe she'd feed him again. He liked her. She made him feel grownup. She was so helpless, like a little kitten.

* * *

Gordon watched Allen duck as he came thru the door, squinting to see into the room. Allen was a changed man. Bought his own damn beer and even paid for Gordon's drink. He sat taller and had more confidence. "Hey is this what killing a dude does for you? I like it," Gordon winked.

"Nah, man, it wasn't no dude. It was a lady."

"No."

"Yeah." Allen looked serious. "An old lady. A nice old bird. Fed me dinner. Good dinner."

Gordon said, "I'm astounded. I didn't know you were going to knock off an old lady."

"Oh I would never do that. I figure the guy just got his address messed up, is all." Allen tugged at his beer and half of it went down his throat. He wiped his mustache. "I didn't kill nobody today." He looked Gordon in the eye over his bottle. "Just so you know."

Gordon nodded. "It's good to be cautious."

"Yeah. I figure I'll catch up with the asshole that hired me and tell him he set up the wrong house. But later," he decided, drinking the rest and looking around for the waitress. "Let him sweat for awhile wondering if his terrorist is dead yet."

"You know, I never thought of you as a killer." Gordon took a drink. A loser, maybe.

"Well," Allen grew philosophical. "I guess you just never seen me mad enough. There was this one guy when I was inside last time, they had to pull me off him a bunch of times, just for looking at me cross-eyed. He had his own bed in the infirmary 'cause of me."

Gordon gave him a thumbs up and lit another cigarette. It looked like he was going to have to drag Allen back to the bathroom just to be sociable. It wasn't likely Allen's new generous streak went as far as footing the fairy dust.

An hour later Allen was back at Gordon's table. He was animated. "You'll never guess what happened to me just now. This dude in the parking lot..."

Gordon covered his eyes. "Oh, man, don't tell me you were out there trying to get your thing wet again." He nodded over at Jake and Ron the doorman, standing at the entrance. "The boys here won't stand for it. You want to get laid, you go off with the dude in his car, or you come in here and give the girls your money back in the VIP room. You don't just go behind the dumpster."

Allen scowled. "No, man, that's not what I'm talking about." He put his hand on his heart like a boyscout. "I give you my solemn word as a White, God fearing Christian full blooded American male."

"Yeah."

"No. Listen. I was walking out to the truck to get a pack of smokes I had in the glove compartment, and this dude comes up to me with a proposition."

Gordon sat back. "Okay, I'm not going to fall for this. Go on."

"He said he heard I was the guy to go to if a guy wanted certain people taken care of. And I said yeah, what do you want."

"Real tough."

"Yeah. And he said he was representing this person who wanted this other person run off the road and made to look like an accident, and could I do it with my truck."

Gordon considered it. "You could do that. Especially after a couple of six packs."

"Yeah. I figure it's a no brainer. So here's the gig: I get $25 big ones for it. And all I got to do is make them crash their car. Easy."

"When's the job? When do you get paid?"

"When I do the job. It'll take a few days to iron out the details. Like where they're going so I can ambush them, like."

"Wait a minute." Gordon thought. "No, man, this is really important. You got to get a deposit. What if they back out? What if it's a trick?"

"Well, I'm supposed to meet the dude tomorrow night to find out the details."

"You demand half. Tell him you can't do it without them showing they're serious."

"Yeah. You're right. I'll do that."

"This is a lot of money. And a big risk you're taking. I mean, what if you lose control of the truck on a curve and wreck right up the road from them?"

"I'm not going to wreck. I know these roads better – drunk – than anybody."

Chapter Nine

Yesterday, Cindy got up to discover her kitchen in a shambles. All the pots and pans were out of the cabinets, spread all over the floor. Some of the most expensive ones were in the trash. Wine glasses were lying smashed in the sink. A dozen cans of food had been opened and spilled out on the counters. The freezer door was hanging open and goo dripped out and pooled on the floor. She wondered how she could possibly have slept thru it. It freaked her out that someone was in her house during the night.

Bill was off for the weekend, on a fishing trip with some clients. Normally she'd be glad he was gone, but the idea of being alone in the house with a burglar scared her to death. She started shaking as she ran up the steps to her room, nearly tripping on the carpet rail. She relaxed a little once her bedroom door was locked and she'd checked the closets and under the bed, and had an emergency handful of Valium She'd told Bill she needed a gun, right there under her pillow. But he just laughed at her. And then went off and left her to be victimized. Maybe he was trying to get rid of her. She heard the theme song from Gaslight in her head. She'd always hated and feared Charles Boyer. Those eyes.

She threw the drapes closed and huddled under the covers, dragging the dogs in with her to comfort her. The walls were dark brown; she could pretend it was still night, and go back to sleep. She thought about calling the police, but she really just wanted to sleep and make it all go away.

When Cindy got up, the first thing she did was call the cleaning lady to come right over, bowling right over her objections: this was an emergency. Then she called Bill's office for the cell number of a driver that had once done her a favor. She got up and headed for the shower and her medicine, and gave no further thought to calling the police.

Cindy did a lot of thinking in bed that morning. While she slept, she had an almost nightmare about shoving an angry giant, a threat to her very existence (the fiend from hell who trashed her kitchen) – Mom – casting her down endless stairs, enhancing the damage with her body language, then hurling herself down on top of the beast, stabbing and tearing at her, beating and pummeling her huge, invulnerable body. Only after hours of struggle did she succeed in strangling the thing, suffocating it with her weight, screaming and crying uncontrollably as she finally vanquished her enemy. Waking in a sweat, she lay there for a long time thinking.

She wanted a gun from the driver. And a hit man.

* * *

Allen was still in bed when a pair of mobsters came thru the door. He never heard them. He could fucking sleep thru anything, especially after a few shots of Patron. He slept thru some prodding and poking. He slept thru some shouting and yelling. He woke up when they flipped him over and stuck a flashlight in his eyes, then clapped him upside the head with it. He was awake enough to hear and understand "Protection" and "Law" tho it was a real funny accent and he didn't get much else. He was awake enough to see them going thru his stash and pocketing all his money. They hit him again and he went back to sleep. They left their card. Zombini Security. Call for Trouble.

* * *

Alice sat on the computer doing Google searches. The kids were at a soccer game and it was someone else's turn to carpool. Rick was off trying to collect the rent from his lazy tenants. He would be in a bad mood when he came home, full of scorn for the criminals that rented his apartments. She planned to have his favorite dinner ready for him. Roast chicken and stuffing. It was in the oven at the moment. The kids would be tired and subdued, and he'd never see them after dinner. Maybe she could get him to take a nice hot bath. She'd washed the sheets, and timed it so she could pull them hot out of the drier just before he went to bed. Everything to make him happy.

She looked up "poison." Then "fast acting poison," "slow poison," "undetectable poison." Then she looked up "overdose." And "accidental death home." She went thru ten pages of results looking up "wife death row," especially the images. Finally she looked up "household chemical mix poisonous accidental," and cleared the browser history right before she heard the garage door cranking open.

* * *

Allen rolled out of bed hurting. Most of him hurt because he was horribly hung over even after almost 12 hours of sleep. His head throbbed back of his ear, and he sat and thought about the mobsters while he got his things together.

Sitting back in the couch, Allen lit up a joint as thick as your thumb and took one puff. Then the door made a sound like there was a key in the lock, and in walked his landlord, Rick Fuchs. "Hey, what's going on, man?" Allen spat, slipping the joint under his leg." What are you doing?"

Rick closed the door behind him and loomed over Allen. "I could ask you the same question. What have you done about that little job I wanted you to do for me.?"

Allen wiggled as the joint slowly went out against his thigh. "Hey. I was going to call you. You fucked up, man."

Rick stiffened "What do you mean?" His eyes looked dangerous.

"I mean you sent me to the wrong guy's house, is what I mean." Allen wished he'd go away. It wasn't fair to disturb a man with a hangover. "Listen, let's deal with this later, huh? I'll call you." He rested his head in his hands. He needed that joint. Did he have any more crank?

Rick wasn't going away. "You killed whoever you found there, didn't you?" he demanded.

"Hell no, man, it was some sweet old lady. You didn't send me to off her. It would have just caused suspicion."

Rick backed away a step and clenched his fists, then crossed his arms. Was he holding his breath? He was getting very bloated. Like the angry green giant. Allen sat there wondering which cartoon character he was like. The Hulk. The Genie.

"You...must...kill...her," Rick spat the words, his neck distended, his eyes bulging.

Allen looked up at him. He looked like a Jack O'Lantern right before it hits the pavement late Halloween night. This guy's fucking crazy. "Hey, man," he said, raising his hands soothingly. "Get yourself another guy. Sorry." Rick put a hand in his pocket. Allen started to sweat. "Don't think I'm trying to get out of returning the favor for getting me out of jail," he soothed, his eye on Rick's gun hand. "But I just can't kill that nice old lady. It'd be like killing my own mother."

Allen cowered on the couch, his ears ringing with Rick's furious shouts, digging in the cushions for the lighter. Rick slammed out of there and stomped down the rusting stairs, dodging past the potholes to his car. Someone had run their keys along the driver's side of his Porsche, and it was all scratched up. He made a note to check the security tape and get revenge.. One more enemy to destroy – the list was getting longer, and he just couldn't get the help he needed. Nope. If you want the job done right, you have to do it yourself.

* * *

Cindy thought about Alice. She'd been thinking about her off and on lately. She'd felt so sorry for her when she married Rick. He was such a bully. He'd kept them from seeing one another, but they always seemed to get along. Now, with two kids and no time to do anything for herself, she was like a drooping potted plant. Cindy wanted to shake her until she cried, and then comfort her in her arms.

She waited in sight of the driveway until Alice drove off to the library. Before going in she swallowed two () with some old bottled water under the passenger seat.

Cindy ran into Alice in the botany section. "Oh, I didn't know this was your branch."

"It's not. This one has a lot of books on...antiques. I'm thinking of collecting 18th Century (name)." She scuffed the rug with her shoe until she saw how dirty it was. "Just doing my due diligence, as Bill likes to say."

Alice laughed silently, covering her smile. "That's funny. Rick says due diligence a lot, too, but usually he screams it at that Kramer." Rick foaming at the mouth at the equally rabid celebrity investment guy.

Cindy noticed her wince. "Does he scream at you?"

Alice smiled. "He never raises his voice. He says there's more strength in modulation."

"Oh, that's such bullshit. I've heard him yelling plenty of times. What's he doing, writing a motivational handbook? How to Cow and Humiliate People and Still Win a Popularity Contest."

"He's not that bad," she chided. "He loves the kids, and he's good to me."

"Hmm. Not my brother. He used to pull the tails off puppies."

Alice frowned. "He did not."

Cindy shrugged. "Well, no, I thought it sounded good. But he did close one in a door once. Killed the poor thing." Or else it was Judy. Or little Gordon. Whoever it was cried for hours afterward.

Alice said nothing. They stood with their backs to the shelves, facing each other.

Cindy looked her over, her skinny little arms, her wispy hair. If Alice were one of Cindy's dogs she'd be better taken care of. "Does he hit you?" she whispered. Alice teared up and turned her head away. Cindy grabbed her shoulders and asked again, hissing.

She said nothing. No, Rick didn't hit her. He would never lose his temper. She wasn't worth it. He left a small bruise last night, where he twisted the skin under her arm to make a point. Nothing she hadn't deserved for crossing him on something trivial. She should so know better.

Cindy didn't understand. "The better I get to know you, the madder I get about the way he treats you" Alice shrugged and looked to see if they were disturbing anyone. "There you go. He's got you scared of your own shadow, and you just shrug. You can't let him treat you like that." Heads were turning. "I should know. He treated me like that when we were kids. You don't even have to say a word, I know where he leaves marks." People were staring. Alice's hands and feet got pins and needles, her vision grayed out, and she thought she would faint.

"And now he's doing it to the kids, isn't he?" Alice was silent, struggling to stay upright. "Isn't he? Doesn't he yell at the kids all the time? Doesn't he punish them for the least little thing? He'll never change. And I stood by while he treated everyone this exact same way. But things have changed, and I'm going to do something about it. Real soon now."

The librarian came to throw Cindy out. She asked about antiques and grabbed a book at random on the way to the counter. Alice buried herself in the juvenile video section until she was sure Cindy had driven off.

Chapter Ten

Judy was proud of herself. She'd spent the morning actually cleaning and organizing. She'd seen something on television about hoarders, and it scared her. People could live like that, in that kind of mess? How, she didn't know. Looking around at her own personal mess, she couldn't see how it was as bad. Okay, there were things everywhere, she couldn't see the floor in some rooms, and if there were even a mild earthquake, she'd be buried by falling piles of magazines or books and they'd never find her. It wasn't as pathological as what she'd seen, but it was getting bothersome to navigate the channels. And a few of the piles were getting a little mildewed. So she decided to do something about it.

Trouble is, it made more of a mess to clean up than it did just to continue stacking them. She had to break down her piles of stuff and make new piles in order to get anywhere. A highly paid, detestably knowitall "mess consultant" would call for a dumpster and tell her to close her eyes as she tossed stuff into it, but Judy wasn't going that route, and wasn't going to have to listen to people judging her, even if they did it behind their eyes.

Frank came up from downstairs and wandered for awhile before noticing her sitting on the floor with papers in her lap. She was reading over something she'd scribbled on the back of an envelope who knows how many years ago. Her eyes were wet.

"What's the matter, dear?" he asked, concerned. Judy never cried.

She wiped her eyes and stuffed the piece of paper into the pile on her lap. "Oh, nothing. It's just that I used to have so many creative thoughts, and now I wonder what happened to them, is all." She looked around hopelessly. "Now I've got all this stuff and I can't remember anything, and can't find anything, and I'm just tired of it."

Frank always saw things differently. Judy's messiness was a reflection of her messy mind, and he loved her anyway. Even tho it caused a little trouble with forgotten bills and errands, it was more of an amusement than an issue for Frank. If she was content to wander around in a fog, he was content to let her.

She looked up at him with pleading eyes. "I want to throw stuff away, I really do, but I'm afraid. I can't." She trailed off. She was in the middle of a dozen little tiny piles that she had only decided to go thru again before deciding anything.

He wasn't comfortable when she used her little quirks against herself. "You're probably afraid you might throw out something that you'll need later." That was it: she tensed right up. "Remember how your mother used to come thru your bedroom and throw out things you'd been saving? And how upset you still get about it?" He looked around. "Well, I expect that all those issues will come to the surface once you get rid of the outer symbols. There are probably a lot of underlying reasons why you feel paralyzed right now. But look at it this way. You can control things by keeping everything forever, or by making the choices involved in throwing stuff out yourself."

Judy was only half listening. She was brewing up resentment about when Mom threw away her favorite doll because she'd cut her hair. Frank interrupted her brooding. "I know, here's a way of dealing with it I think you'll like. Anything valuable that you've written down, copy it onto a notepad, and then you'll have one list of important things and you can toss all the little scraps of paper."

Judy loved that idea. She got up and scrounged around, but couldn't find a big pad of paper. But she found a block of stickies, and started transferring her accumulated notes to them. A pocketful of posies. She went singing into the kitchen for a drink and came back to tackle an even bigger pile.

* * *

Sam and Dave were sitting in the room in the late afternoon. Too soon for macs n'cheese, too soon to go surveil the strip club, too late for a nap. Sam was watching a black and white movie, Dave was trying to concentrate on his report but kept following the dialog.

They were arguing about their cover. Pretending to be Sicilian Mafioso seemed like a bad idea. Those guys were everywhere: how did they know the club wasn't run by some family from Brooklyn? Sam was liking the Russian Mafia disguise. It lent an international flare he thought did justice to the rumors about the case. He thought his accent was pretty good, and secretly thought he looked like a bodybuilder in his suit – his impression of all Russian gang members.

Dave was set on being as piratelike as possible. He felt it was important to their mission to have the right attitude. They'd been given the Crown's permission to board and loot anybody in territorial waters. Since they were going a little beyond their brief – into uncharted waters – it was appropriate to be their own masterminds, to make their plans with swashbuckling daring and boldness, to strike without warning and show no mercy. Nobody would have time to do anything; they'd all stand there with their pants down around their ankles, offering their swords and pistols handle first, begging to be spared.

This difference between them was mainly expressed in bickering about clothes. Sam thought trenchcoats and sunglasses and cheap suits and shiny shoes (a lot like his office clothes), Dave wanted biker leathers, helmets, eye patches, gang colors.

"Anyway, I don't like how you beat that drug dealer up," Dave was saying. "Violence really isn't necessary at this stage, is it?"

Sam disagreed. Violence was what it would take to convince people they were mobsters. "These guys, you got to understand," he said, the voice of experience, drawing mostly from TV dramas. "They beat each other up for fun. Even their wives are violent. You should have seen the catfights my girlfriend used to get into with her mother. They left scars."

Dave was thinking. "Okay," he said, pulling up Photoshop on his Blackberry. "We'll redo the business card." He looked at Sam, who raised his eyebrows and continued watching the movie. "We'll need something to hand out around the club. You just wait, we're going to catch bigger fish than by just sitting there observing." Sam was absorbed in the movie. Dave opened the file. "How about Kalishnikov Security? How does that sound?" Sam grunted his approval. "Kalishnikov Lafitte Security. Kalishnikov Privateer Solutions. AK Private Security." He furiously adjusted the layout. "I'll have to reduce the font. It won't be as impressive. I know, we'll kill the tag line." He opened a browser window. "We could balance it out with some clipart. How would you like a lawbook? How about a spyglass? Or a machine gun? Oh, here's a pirate flag."

* * *

Bill showed up at the club for an evening out, just back from a weekend with the mistress in a colleague's vacation cabin. He'd told Cindy some tale about going fishing with the boys, but his fish never left the bedroom. And he'd forgotten his story when he got back, prompting a real snit fit from his loving wife. So here he was, where the women were always in a better mood.

Laurie was only a shade less bitchy than Cindy, but he overlooked it because she was almost naked. He insisted, and she did a lap dance for him. He tried to gaze into her eyes a she performed air-grinds, but she had her eyes closed, or stared out into space. Overwhelmed by her feelings. He knew that she looked on him as a protector rather than just another customer: an older brother. They were developing something special – mutual support – so he listened and sympathized with all her troubles, and she reluctantly let him help her solve a few of them. Always within the bounds of propriety. He could take her home and introduce her to Cindy, it was that straight between them. Of course, he'd like to be more than just a horny big brother, but he would take what he could get. Just seeing her smile was worth everything. He felt like he was 17 again. He sighed, happy and sad at the same time. Roxy.

* * *

No sooner had the bouncer freed up Bill's table (Laurie signaled that he'd run out of money), then Rick walked in and sat in the same seat. It was still warm, and Bill had been farting in it, but Rick never noticed. Roxy seemed surprised to see him sitting there, but was persuaded to sit on his lap, gracing his cheek with her cool lips. She really liked him.

They talked for some time. The room dimmed and the noise muted, and he found himself explaining the intricacies of his stock options to her – and she understood. Then he explained the mysteries of his blockbuster software program, and she understood that. Ever hopeful, he explained his tax situation as a slumlord, and she asked intelligent questions and made cogent suggestions. He was awed. And so attracted to her. A woman who could look him square in the eye, who could match him strength for strength. Who could be the soft receptive female to his hard probing male. She shifted her weight, felt his hardon poking her leg, and got up with a distant smile.

"Wait," he called. She turned and glided slowly back to him, taking his hand as he held it out to her. Like Cinderella at the ball. He was entranced: she responded to his every touch like, like that toy sailboat he had when he was a boy. The one Mom took away and threw in the garbage. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "I want to see you," he breathed, drawing her close. She pulled back, like a dance. He followed. "I want to see you alone." She tilted her head enquiringly. "I have to see you," he emphasized. "Not here." His hand gripped hers. She drew herself up, offended. He felt like a cad. "Not to cheapen it," he offered, "but I would be glad to gift you with," the moon, he wanted to say, "certain tokens," passed-on freebies from clients, "expenses, your time..." he flailed. She was too well bred not to see his gallantry as insult, in a place like this. How could one make a sincere gesture in this den of filth?

Gordon watched as they arranged to meet for extras and parted with soulful looks. Laurie made faces at him as she hugged his smitten brother goodbye.

* * *

"Aw, fuck, man, I'm hurting." This was Allen complaining to Gordon. "Those bastards robbed me. This is the second time this week, man. I'm falling behind with my guy, you know?"

"Do you know it's the same person?" Gordon asked. "Or persons unknown?" That was clever. Gordon admired his way with words. He should have been a standup comedian. Or at least a karaoke star. Maybe he could talk the DJ into doing some karaoke now and then. Say, amateur night.

"I've got my suspicions about the burglary. But I was in jail at the time and everybody knew it. But this time, I tell you, I thought they was going to kill me. See this?" He whipped off his cap and peeled his hair apart to show Gordon the knotted mess. "These two mob guys bust in and pistol whipped me."

"How do you know they're the mob?"

"Duh." He wagged his head. "Because they said so? Plus they left their card." He felt around in his pockets but came up empty of anything useful. "Hmm. A rubber. What's that doing there?" He gingerly deposited a dayglo lozenge in the ashtray.

"You don't have their card. That's okay." Gordon was losing interest.

"Well, and they told me I was going to be paying them regular protection money when they took my stash. That's mob."

Gordon agreed. He looked over at the cops at their usual table. He felt proprietary toward them, like they were his proteges.

They were coming right along. No more vodka tonic followed by soda on ice. No more Zappo cough syrup energy swill. It was shots at their table. Gordon was proud. The girls were warming to them as well. The bouncers no longer circled warily. They were starting to fit in. Gordon thought of how best to use them.

Allen was telling him about his meeting with the guy who wanted someone run over. "I said no way man, I've got to have half up front."

Gordon brought his attention back to his drink, which was empty. He was out of smokes, he wanted to slip off to the john without Allen in tow.

"So I told him I wasn't going to do it otherwise, and he calls up this chick who comes down and gives me my deposit." Gordon was surprised. "See, I'm not as stupid as I look. At first she wrote me a check..."

Gordon put his drink down. "She didn't. Boy, that's trouble."

Allen laughed. "Hah. Got you there. No way I'd take no check. We went to the ATM and she gave me cash money right there."

"That's better. All twelve and a half thousand? Let's see it, boy."

"I got four hundred," he mumbled.

"What? You were supposed to get half of 25 grand. Did you call off the deal?"

"No. The machine would only give her four hundred. She's meeting me later with some more."

"I don't know. That's kind of amateurish, if you ask me." Gordon handed Allen ten bucks and told him to go get him some cigarettes. Then he ducked into the bathroom and pretended to be someone else when Allen came by to cop. He never saw his change.

The cops were the center of attention for awhile after that. They threw money around, told the girls they were in town to make porn movie screen tests; told them they were opening a porn-star strip club, the hottest thing; asked if they wanted to audition.

"Bitches and Hos," Dave suggested.

"Porn Star Cafe," Sam countered.

"Hey, Gordo," Dave called as Gordon returned from a trip to the bathroom. "What would you call a strip club? If you had a strip club." Dave didn't hold his liquor very well.

Gordon considered it. Laurie's Lair. Loving Larceny. "Oh, I don't know. "Reluctant Virgins, maybe. 800 Fantasy Lane. Skins." They murmured approvingly about Skins. Gordon continued riffing. "Cheaters, spelled like the cat, of course. Double meaning. Or Mouse Trap, like pussy." He mused to himself. "Black Holes of Calcutta. Delta of Venus. Love Juice. Clap Trap. Wet Spot. Smega Thigh Sorority. Stiletto of Love." Dave appreciated the imagery. Sam turned pale and excused himself.

Gordon offered him a few select pills when he came back, to help settle his stomach. He seemed grateful for them, and downed him with another shot. Dave was starting to stumble over his words. Gordon decided to ask probing questions before it was too late.

Not salesman? No. Mysterious business associates back east somewhere had their eye on this area. They were scouts. Agents. There was money to be made. Money, power, control, wildest excessive greed.

Gordon asked more questions. Associates? Foreign potentates. Cartels. Important multinational industrial captains of industry. And armaments. Diplomats. Gordon could apparently take his pick.

Ultimate plans? (He might as well ask.) Rape and Pillage. Looting and burning. Hang them from the yardarm. Davy Jones' Locker. Swimming with the fishes.

Gordon thought about them for a long while once the club quieted down toward closing. They'd said a lot. If he'd gotten their confidence and they were telling him the truth, and not just trying to impress him, then he was looking at the ground floor of an opportunity that could result in him founding an empire of his own. If they weren't who they said they were, then he was going to use them just the same.

He was willing to be patient and figure these guys out. They'd said a lot in a few minutes. The last time they were here they looked like salesmen. This time they were more like Teamsters at a bowling alley.

* * *

Sam and Dave's mark Gordo had kindly arranged for a taxi. They laughed all the way home. We said agents. Hee hee hee.

Chapter Eleven

Rick came home in a foul mood. The kids disappeared into their rooms. They knew that you had to walk on eggshells around their father when he was like this, or he'd blow up at them and they'd get the worst of his anger.

Alice had no idea why he was so angry. He didn't usually explain, other than to rail at whomever because they were so whatever that they'd ruined his life. There was just no getting any sense out of him when he was like that. She had to wait until he calmed down, and then he wouldn't want to talk about it. So she'd snoop.

The kids acted up over dinner. One kicked the other under the table and they collapsed into fits of giggles. Rick took them out to sit on the bottom of the stairs for a spanking. He used his belt.

Alice sat at the table feeding the baby, listening to him berate the children in his heavy monotone, hearing their little protests turn into shrieks and sobs, the slap of the belt making her wince each time. Suddenly she pushed her chair away and stood up. Marching out to the hall, she yanked Junior off of Rick's lap and set him down by the door. Then she turned on her husband.

"I won't let you beat them like that. They're only children, for heaven's sake."

He stood up, furious. Quicker than she could move, he snatched her and whipped her over his knee. "I'll spank you instead," he hissed, and laid several heavy strokes on her butt with his hand.

The kids stood there, aghast. She saw their frightened faces and struggled away from Rick. She stalked off in the other direction from the kids. He followed and shoved her up against the wall, twisting her arm behind her. "You'd better be careful," he said in a low, dangerous tone. "I'm this close to throwing you and the children out in the street."

He wasn't joking. She knew she was on quicksand. "Don't take it out on the children," she insisted, looking him in the eye. He glared back. "They're not to blame."

"They'd just better be careful," he growled, releasing her. She quickly scooped up the kids and ran upstairs with them, leaving him to rage thru the ground floor, slamming doors and banging things from room to room.

After the kids were in bed and Rick had gone to a late business meeting with a potential investor, she let herself into his study and had a look. Everything in the room was dark and heavy and overstuffed – the couch, the drapes, the desk and chairs, the rug. The coffee table alone must have weight six hundred pounds. Carved teak root from Malaysia. Everything was shiny, neat, and imposing. Sound vanished into the dark corners. No light came thru the windows. The fireplace was walled up, now a bookshelf and his safe. There was a one way mirror, visible from the private bathroom he had built when the company got bigger and they expanded the house. The place always gave her the willies. She wasn't allowed to be there.

She went up to his heavy wooden desk, an antique from the '20s, gleaming with varnish and as big as a dance floor. All his reference books, magazines, papers, and reports were in their own stacks along the left side. His monitor was at the top, and a single tin soldier stood to the side, pointing his bayonet at a green shaded lamp on the right. Next to the lamp there was a small pile of cash, held down with a rounded rock (lingam). Hundreds, fifties and twenties. He would know to the dollar how much. He would notice if it had been picked up and examined. It was probably left there as a challenge. The house was full of tests like that, things placed precisely how he wanted them, with hell to pay. He probably had the place full of cameras and microphones, too.

But he left his notebook out. Usually it was locked away in the drawers along with everything else. Leather bound, his monogram in gold, marbled papers in the endleaf, thick white rag writing paper. Rick kept a diary. There were twenty years of volumes in the vault down at the bank. Which she didn't have access to.

She carefully wrapped her fingers in her shirt tail and opened the book where a thin metal ruler marked it. He was in the habit of ruling every page in lines he could write on. Like a little ritual. How cute. Paging back, she looked over the most recent entries. A complete record of his days, if you could understand the code. Numbers, maybe expenses, followed by scribbles she couldn't read – not scribbles, exactly, more like glyphs. Plain english sometimes, except for names and places. Lots of initials. Sometimes he broke into poetry, strange stuff about how enlightened he was and how he was raising the level of intelligence of the planet by his very presence. It was funny.

There was something, tho. It started a couple of weeks back with a little drawing lined in heavy boxes that almost went thru the paper. A stick figure being stabbed with a large knife. Then he started putting "Kill Mom" in the same kind of boxes. Then the boxes started taking up more room. The next to last page had boxes all in the margins. The last page had a big cluster of them right in the middle. It looked like a puddle of ink.

Was that why he was in such a horrible mood lately? Alice knew how much Rick hated his mom. He'd told her in vivid detail, for years, about all the horrible things she'd done while he was growing up. Alice hated her simply because of what he told her. She hardly ever saw Rick's mom; only on holidays, and Rick managed it so they were never together very long. It was formal between them at best. She didn't know if they could like each other. But nobody could be that bad – now that she had kids of her own, she began to wonder.

She giggled as she shut the door. "The power of my seminal vision ignites / and rains the fire of creation on fertile soil / blah dee blah dee blah." As she got ready for bed, she wondered if finally getting Mom out of the way would make Rick happy. She'd be willing to kill his mother if he'd truly relax and stop beating up on them. Nah. He'd just find something else.

* * *

Allen sat in his truck, smoking a blunt and shading his eyes from the sun. There was a cold beer between his thighs, and still three more in the little cooler next to the stickshift.

His target was parked at the drycleaners, and he was waiting to see the car - a PT Cruiser with smoked windows - pull out and go to the next place. He had an approximate itinerary – cleaners, post office, grocery store. He was supposed to wait until they were on their way home, and run them off the road at this little woodsy place a little ways out of town. He wondered who he was killing. He had even less information about this job than the one his landlord sent him on. All he knew was make, model and color. And an old W sticker. Killing a Republican. Why not? The first guy was a terrorist. It's a kinda balance.

There, he nearly got a glimpse of them this time, but the street trees were in the way. The car pulled out, and he eased into traffic behind them. Life was good. He cracked open another beer.

After dawdling thru town, the car finally got to an isolated stretch of road. Allen saw with pleasure that the road made a wide turn to the right with a big drop off on their side. He sped up and prepared to ram the car as they went into the curve.

But it veered wildly, right across the road to the other side, hit the gravel and stopped. Allen went shooting past as the driver got back onto the road. He was now in front, so he slowed down, wondering what to do. The car started to pass him in the middle of the curve. He jerked the wheel and sideswiped them with a big bump that shook the truck.

He'd be damned if they didn't ram him right back. His beer sloshed onto his nuts and he lost control of the wheel for a moment rescuing the situation. The truck nearly went over the side. By the time he pulled back on the road, they were gone. Fuck that shit. He reached for his last beer.

* * *

Sam and Dave stopped by on the way to the club to rip Allen off again. He was sitting there on the couch, rolling a joint next to a dumpy, middle aged woman. She grabbed her things and scurried off when they muscled the door open.

"Hey ain't you the guys I seen at the club?" Allen asked, a big smile on his face.

Sam kneed him in the face and took all his money.

Allen thought maybe his nose was broken. What assholes. He was about to tell them to be careful around Gordon's girlfriend in case he got jealous, but fuck them now.

* * *

Rick was in the club, waiting for Roxy to come back and snuggle for a few minutes before her show. She'd gotten up and run to the back of the club just as he was asking her why she'd stood him up this morning. She'd be back.

He was really there to meet a new prospect. He looked around as if the club was his, pretty impressed with his business acumen. This place was gold. It was like a fraternity. You could do deals there with anybody, with a lot less fuss than sitting around a boardroom with a bunch of lawyers hissing at you.

He saw someone that looked a lot like Allen, but only got a glimpse of him behind someone else and then he was gone. That reminded him – he still had to get his bail money back. He made a note in his little black book. A.-nu task. On second thought, they probably wouldn't let Allen into a joint like this.

Laurie came back and nearly walked right by him. She was in a hurry. Someone was giving her trouble and she was letting Security know.

He snatched at her hand. "Roxy, baby, where were you? Why didn't you call?" he pleaded as she tore herself away.

"Oh I just couldn't, baby," she called over her shoulder. "My mom came into town this morning."

He sat and glowered thru Roxy's set. Women were the scourge of the earth. Then Rick's prospect showed up and sat at the table next to him. Two of them. They introduced themselves as Sam and Dave. They were foreign. Representing foreign governments with lots of money and a few pressing needs.

Rick needed lots of money right now. He was way behind on the bills, his unofficial creditors were lining up three deep to be paid, he was getting death threats, and Roxy was nickle and diming all his pocket change. And he hadn't even made it to first base.

"So, you'd like to, what, invest in the company?" he asked a little nervously. "Normally we'd go thru Payroll. I'm sure we can work out the details quietly." There was a commotion in a dark corner of the club, distracting him. "As stockholders you'll want a tour, of course."

"We're going to be major investors. You could ah introduce us to select members of your staff," the vaguely Slavic one murmured. "Uh, the CFO, of course, and maybe your programming team." Custom software? "We'll want to make sure you've got the latest and greatest security measures," he continued. "To insure our investments is safe." He sounded kind of Cockney. South African?

"You've got no problem there. I invented security. My award-winning Gotcha! coordinates up to ten mics and cameras in every room of a large house. Plus multiple keyboard monitors."

The black one looked skeptical. "If you don't mind, we'll just have a word with your security guy, just have him familiarize us with the basics."

"Sure." He waived it away. "Details. Now exactly what were you interested in? And let's talk numbers."

* * *

Gordon was almost done working out his plan to rob the club, when he realized it wasn't good enough. The plan was to find the safe, break into it, and steal the money. Simple, elegant. But ever since Laurie acquired a cult following, he'd been wondering if he couldn't orchestrate something more dynamic. A sting.

He had half the management on board. He had henchmen, like Allen, real dogsbodies. He had the use of the Mafia guys, who could also pose as cops and get away with it (tho once they'd loosened up a little and confessed, it was hard to think of them that way). There was brother Rick to play, and Bill, too. He had enough talent to pull off the job of the century. And it would be so intricate that he'd be the only one who knew all the pieces. Still, he couldn't quite visualize the job. Simply stealing a night's take wasn't worth it. Stealing every night's take seemed a bit closer.

Take the Mafia dudes. Using their position as rivals, he could go to the owner with a counter-proposal. Of some sort. And work up some kind of turf war. And then organize his defeat, somehow. And take over. And then screw the rest of them out of any part of it, and keep it all for himself. Just because he could. King Gordon the First.

Allen slid into the seat next to him and bummed a cigarette. He looked shaken. "Buy me a drink?" He put his head in his hands and shook it slowly. "Man, I almost died out there."

"Really. Didn't get them, then? Did you get a good look at your target?"

"No, man. They tried to kill me." He was almost crying. "I'm not doing this. I'm just a fucking two-bit criminal. They can go kill their own targets." He was so upset that Gordon gave him a couple of valium and bought him a beer to chase it down.

Allen got a good look at Sam and Dave.

"Hey." He pointed. "Those are Mafia guys. Real nasty assholes. Stay clear of them, man." He felt his nose. "See this bruise? Remember that shiner last week? They got me paying protection." Gordon laughed. "Hey, it's no joke. They're fucking strong-arming me. I feel like calling the cops."

"Normally you'd call the Feds," he corrected, eying Sam and Dave. They went up a notch in his estimation.

Then Allen got a good look at Rick.

"Hey, that's the dude hired me to kill that terrorist guy." Gordon had to make him hush; he was almost yelling.

Gordon felt alarm. "What?"

"Yeah. That turned out to be that old lady."

Rick hired Allen to kill Mom? For real? Well, given Allen's level of competence, maybe not. But Rick wouldn't know that, would he? Was he really trying to kill Mom? Nah-Uh.

"Hey, Allen. I'll let you know something for free. That guy? Who hired you?" Allen nodded and stared in his direction. "He tried to get you to kill his own mother."

"For real?" Allen shook his head. "Damn, that's bad."

"Yeah. He's a bad dude. I should know. He's my brother.

Allen did a double take. "No." He looked from one to the other. "He doesn't look like you. He's real successful looking and." He stopped. "I mean, you look like you enjoy life, and he's just a miserable sack of shit landlord."

Gordon thought for a moment. "Allen, here's what I want you to do. That old lady means a lot to me. I know you want to help."

Chapter Twelve

Rick thrust his way thru traffic like he was driving a weapon. He'd been antsy all night, and even getting Alice to blow him hadn't calmed him down. The highway was all bollixed up and he'd been forced to call and reschedule his meeting with the bank. Now there was a hole a couple of hours long in his schedule. He found himself thinking about Allen's failure to kill Mom, and going thru all the ways he could do it himself. At the moment he was leaning toward cutting her brake line. He'd rejected reprogramming her onboard computer. This was the backup plan.

He got off the interstate at the next exit and worked his way thru the surface streets. Those international businessmen he'd met with last night were real jokers. The accents hadn't fooled him at all. But there was money behind them, and that's all he cared about at this point. His less reputable business partners had hinted that there were much bigger things going down at the club than would be healthy for him to know about. And that meant money. If he could just siphon some of it off as it flowed past, he'd be good to go. He could taste it. If the bank turned him down, these assholes would be his last chance. But hey, if the bank turned him down, fuck the bank. There were bigger fish to fry.

Speaking of money. Rick pulled into the parking lot of one of his apartment buildings. He collected a hundred bucks and a sob story from 6A, a probably worthless check (fraud charge as well as eviction) from 13B, and twelve hundred from 12C. Allen was there in bed, and after sleeping thru getting his pocket picked, Rick thought he responded nicely to a good prodding with his boot. Allen jumped out of bed and started swinging, then stopped when he realized it was his landlord.

"You look like you're surprised to see me," Rick observed.

"What are you doing here, man?" Allen whined, sitting on the edge of the bed and nursing his hangover. "You're not supposed to come in my house like that."

"Seeing as you're two months behind on the rent, I thought I'd pay you a visit and request that you pay me now." Rick towered over Allen, who could only look up as far as his crotch. Allen kept his head down. "Look at me," Rick insisted. People had to show respect. Allen twisted his head sideways and grimaced a squint. "And there's that little matter of the money you owe me for getting you out of jail."

Allen searched his pockets and started to explain – he was being robbed. Not just once, but over and over. Rick kicked him in the shins. And beaten. He was afraid for his life. He cried as he swore to get the money somehow and pay rent on time every month from now on. Even tho, compared to what he owed his dealer, two months' rent and a little bail money was piss in a rainstorm. He didn't tell Rick that part. Nor did he mention the Russian Mafia, following that well-known criminal rule, STFU.

Rick turned a deep red shade and rubbed his palms together slowly. "Keep in mind that the moment you're two and a half months late, I get the sheriff over here to evict you onto the street." He waved at the piles of stolen goods. "They'll be interested to see your various possessions. That means you have two weeks to come current on the rent. Understand?"

Allen nodded miserably. "But I'll let you work off the bail money you owe me," Rick continued. "Plus interest." Allen rolled his eyes. That blowjob. Groaning, he waved Rick over. Rick stood there, staring at him. "Get on up," he said finally, "I said you can start now."

Allen shambled out to Rick's car and sank into the seat, trying to avoid the light. He promised himself that he wouldn't be caught there again.

"What're we doing?" he finally asked, as Rick pulled into Home Depot.

"You're repainting the railings at Sea Pines."

* * *

Mom spent half the morning cleaning and dusting and arranging the front part of the house just the way she liked it. People didn't come to see her very often, and the fact that it was Rick's wife on the way over made her very nervous.

Rick was so like his father. Upright and honorable, strict and old fashioned. Altho she'd chafed under her husband's rule, he was always right. Rick wasn't always right, but he acted like it, and she found that very annoying. He was as hard headed as his father, too. And she wished he wasn't so hard on the kids. Both of them were tyrants sometimes. She remembered Rick's early tantrums when she made him do it her way. Two years old. She still wanted to slap him sometimes.

The doorbell rang, and there was a horribly tense few moments in the front hall, but now Alice sat in the living room, on the couch facing the fireplace, wringing her hands. Mom sat across a coffee table in the wingback chair that was her husband's. The baby lay in the carrier between them, asleep. Mom looked on fondly. "How're the kids?" she asked, looking for a way to start the conversation.

"Oh, they're fine." Alice seemed distracted.

"Soccer games? School pageants?" Mom desperately wanted an invitation.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Alice laughed nervously. "I made these chocolates and thought you might enjoy them."

"Yes," Mom said, taking a plastic container from Alice and looking at it suspiciously. "That's right. Weren't you working at a candy store when Rick met you?" She was happy that he made Alice stop working when they got married.

Alice was depressed for months after Rick made her quit. She was an award winning chocolatier and had just been asked if she wanted to become half-owner when Rick hustled her out of there like it was a bus station. Those little delicacies on the coffee table had taken her the best part of an afternoon to make. And there was Rick's mother acting like they were poison.

Mom tried another conversation starter. "It's warm for this time in autumn," she observed. Alice looked at her watch and sighed. "I suppose you'll take the kids sledding when it snows, she continued." Alice shrugged, pained. Rick thought it was dangerous. "I don't mean to be rude, but was there a reason you wanted to see me?" Mom was getting a little irritated.

Alice flailed. "Well, I thought...It's been difficult." She couldn't say a single word to her mother in law without Rick taking it out of her hide later. She shouldn't have come. "I wanted to tell you..." The baby stirred. "I just thought you should see the children more often."

Mom was in heaven. She put the baby on her lap and cooed for the rest of the visit. Alice softened, and tho she didn't say anything personal, Mom thought she seemed more at peace when she left. Mom liked to help, and hoped that she'd softened Alice's heart with the warmth of her love for her precious little grandbaby. Was Alice trying to tell her she was thinking of divorce? She sat and thought about that for awhile. Alice wasn't strong enough for her son. She tossed the box of chocolates in the trash before going back to the den, and sniffed – home made. She wasn't eating anything that didn't have a label on it.

* * *

Cindy woke refreshed. There'd been less vandalism lately, so she had stepped down the anti-anxiety medicine, and that strategic alteration to her nightly formula had her sleeping like a baby.

After her shower, as the morning pick-me-up kicked in, she ran down the stairs with a bounce in her step. Mom was probably lingering in ICU, and she was just waiting for the phone call to go down there and unplug her. The phone rang. It was Mom. She stood looking at the caller ID, her stomach sinking, her bile rising. She ran to the medicine cabinet to take something for the burning in her chest.

She called the driver who had arranged the accident. He gladly gave her Allen's cell number. She called it over and over again until he answered, his voice gravelly with sleep. Evidently he had let her down. Well, he could just give her the money back.

Cindy was having trouble getting started. She'd felt great this morning, and now her day was ruined and she hated the world. Poor thing, if Mom was going to die, it was up to her. The good part was that she would have to kill Mom herself. Maybe with her bare hands. The stress, however, was making her very fatigued. She took a couple of Provigil with a third cup of coffee, and decided to skip the workout this morning.

Bill stopped in unexpectedly just as Cindy was getting ready to go out. What was he doing home at that hour? "Shouldn't you be at work?" she asked. He looked like he'd had an accident.

"Oh, I got a flat on the way to work. Had to get out and fix it." He changed his pants, standing in the bedroom looking ridiculous in his socks and shirttails. "Hey, want a quickie?" he grinned. She snapped something about getting her hair messed and stalked out.

She waited by the foot of the stairs, tapping her heels on the marble floor. It echoed. "I want a word with you about one of your drivers," she started. "To begin with, he asked me to sleep with him at the company party last year." She told him about the shipment of Mexican pottery he'd brought in for her, entirely without paperwork. (She couldn't tell him about the truckload of illegals brought along to make sure nothing got broken. He could figure out that part for himself. Change this online.) Then she battered him with Allen's failure to drive Mom off the road, as if he were an employee. "I even paid him money to run my Mom over, but he failed at that, too." Who the hell was Allen?

He hadn't reached the office before he'd told Security to take the driver's badge. Nobody was working for Cindy. Everybody was working for him. He ran a major empire and she treated him like he couldn't deliver her paper right. "You're not man enough," she'd spat at him. Bill decided to do something about Mom. Just to show that bitch how it was done.

Cindy had palpitations from confronting Bill. She sat in the kitchen with another cup of coffee and tried to salvage what she could of her day. The front door bell rang. Cindy never answered the door. When she checked after an hour had passed, she found a plastic grocery bag on the porch. She peered into it to see a stupid snow angel craft project like they used to have to do in girl scouts. Hideous, dripping with hardened glue and flaked-off glitter. Some gift. She got on the Internet, looked up her sister Judy's Facebook page, and left a nasty comment about Judy's primitive artistic talent.

She found a stick and used it to put the bag into the garbage. Right on top of a bunch of discarded bills. She looked closely. Receipts from a jewelry company. A fur company. Settlement statements from the stock broker's. Cancelled checks made out to cash.

Cindy left the house already on the edge. She downed some valium to keep herself sane, and paid extra attention to the sloppy way she was driving. She was feeling pretty sick, and thought maybe she should be in bed. But, nah. She made her way to her neighborhood, to her house, like she was sleepwalking, not paying any attention to the traffic, the landmarks, the turns. It was like coming home. It was just like coming home. There was the old swingset, there was the dog house. That dog had been dead for twenty years. There was her bike that Judy had stolen and Rick had gotten run over by the milkman. Cindy shook her head to clear the cobwebs. She was parked across the street from the house where she grew up. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She was wearing a sky-blue silk suit with matching pumps and bag.

Cindy had a gun. It just fit into the bag. She'd been practicing with it, without actually firing a shot. Just pointing and clicking it. She never missed when she practiced. Especially when she was looking at certain people's pictures.

Parked at the curb in front of her mother's house, Cindy drew the gun from her bag. She had to struggle when it caught on the zipper. She had no idea what a safety catch was. She wasn't paying attention.

She'd seen Mom moving in the living room, behind the lace curtains. Was she pacing? Was she vacuuming? Was she dancing?

Shaking, Cindy pressed the switch and her window rolled down. Her hands trembled as she reached out of the car, aiming the gun at the shadowy figure moving inside the house. She squeezed the trigger, the gun felt like it exploded. Her ears rang with a dead noise and burnt powder filled her nose. One shot? Another? Did she empty the gun? She wasn't sure.

Cindy was back in her driveway before she wondered why she'd gone out of the house without any makeup on.

* * *

Mom was having an eventful day. Usually she sat in the den with the TV on and whiled her time away with friends on Fox and CBN. But she'd hardly sat down all day. First that strange visit from Alice and the baby. How big the sweet thing was getting. She was determined to spend more time with this one. Rick and Alice had conspired to keep her from the others, but she'd be damned if she'd be a stranger to them all.

Then someone threw a rock thru her window and she had to clean up all the glass. It would be cold once it got dark, how was she going to block the air? She rummaged thru the closet for awhile. Coats? Maybe a couple of old fur coats would work. Did the kids really have feet this little? Look at those adorable snow boots.

Then the doorbell rang. It was that nice man who'd helped out around the house. She immediately drew his attention to her windows; from there it was nonstop until she made dinner.

"You know, Ma'am," he said as she plunked a big spoon of mashed potatoes onto his plate. "That wasn't no rock that broke your windows."

"Wasn't any," she fussed. There was no excuse for improper English.

"Sorry. It was a bullet."

"What was a bullet? Oh, don't be simple. It was one of those hoodlums down the street. Can't be more than 8. They call me names when I drive by their house."

"No Ma'am," he insisted. "I found a bullet hole in your wall."

They went to look. "It's a mouse hole," she said, relieved. "I've had them before. They can get thru the tiniest holes."

She went to show him the hole in the floorboards of the pantry. He shook his head. "This looks more like rats. See, Ma'am, you just don't get mouse holes way up on the wall like that. And look, it's right opposite your window. I should look again. There could be more of them 'cause of all that glass I had to replace."

Mom couldn't believe it. Who would shoot at her house? "And what happened to your car?" he asked. "There was a big long scratch down the passenger side."

Mom sat down and fanned herself. "Oh it was awful. Well, I was distracted. I think I was on the phone. Yes. I was talking to my daughter in law, who I thought hated me. She had something to tell me, and wanted to stop by for a visit. I got to see the baby." Mom looked ecstatic. "I think she's going to divorce Rick. She seemed so unhappy."

Allen got her a drink of water. "The car?"

"Well. In all the excitement of talking to someone who hasn't bothered getting in touch with me for several years, I happened to drop the phone. The next thing I knew there was this horrible scraping noise, and I looked up and said a quick prayer, because I was right in the middle of running some poor man off the road. I felt so bad. I called 911. I hope he was all right."

Allen was alarmed. The poor old lady shouldn't be allowed to drive around by herself. She was going to get herself killed talking on the cellphone. He decided with no further thought that it must have been Rick that had driven by and shot up her living room.

After dinner he sat in the den and they watched the news and then a Disney movie on the Family Channel. He felt so at home that he nodded off, waking in the middle of the night to pee and finding himself all tucked in under a blanket on the couch, the house settling gently around him. He hadn't slept so well in years.

Chapter Thirteen

Alice woke up feeling miserable. She'd lain awake most of the night, torn by guilt. What kind of monster was she to poison her kids' grandmother? And not out of any malice toward the poor thing but just to test the formula. She was a monster. A murderer. And now she was going to go to jail and Rick would be free to abuse the kids as much as he liked. She'd had one chance to kill before they figured it out, and she should never have wasted it. Rick was right. It just showed how incompetent she was, doing a practice batch because she wasn't sure her chocolates would be good enough after all these years.

She was afraid to call and check on Rick's mother, but she went by the house after dropping the kids off at school. There was another car there. Oh no, she had time to call someone before she died. Or maybe they're both in there, stretched out, blue in the face.

She was further shaken when the door was answered by an unkempt man who looked close to death. Alice stood there, stuttering. The baby squealed. Suddenly Mom was there, looking like a hag, snatching the baby from Alice and drooling. They went back to the kitchen, giggling at each other, leaving Alice and Allen to introduce themselves.

Alice felt faint with relief and looked around for the chocolates. Thank God she hadn't eaten any of them. She was planning to steal them back and get rid of them, but they weren't around.

Alice sat on the edge of a stool at the counter. Allen buzzed around getting coffee for everyone while Mom and the baby played on the floor together. Alice felt horribly uncomfortable, and tried to make small talk.

While Mom followed the baby from room to room, Allen took Alice around and showed her his handiwork. The new glass, a stair rail he'd refastened to the wall, the loose brick in the sidewalk, all things he'd noticed and fixed without anybody asking. He was proud of his work. She was a little envious – Rick never fixed anything and wouldn't let her call a repairman. She left a little while later with a promise to come around again in a couple of days. She wanted to ask Mom to keep her visit a secret from Rick, but since they never spoke, she thought she'd be okay.

* * *

The GPS tracker in her car reported Alice's visit to Mom's house, as well as its duration. Down in the windowless basement of Rick's company, a lonely security tech noticed the unexpected deviation from her usual routine, and went back to doctoring surveillance tapes.

* * *

Sam and Dave were sitting in the car eating their lunch. Sam tossed the wrappers in the back. Dave noticed where every one went and promised to make Sam pick them up later.

The car sat in the sun. It was hot, and they had the windows up to avoid suspicion. They were on stakeout, and it was getting late. The sun was beginning to drop into their eyes. And still nothing of interest happened. "He's expecting money," Sam observed. "That's the part that bothers me."

"They've nixed the emergency funds," Dave read from his Blackberry.

"What're we going to do? The mark's expecting real money, a couple of million. That petty habitual criminal Allen doesn't have anything like that, and we can't just write the guy a check."

Dave thought for a moment. "Sure we can."

Sam scoffed. "Yeah, on my personal account, right?"

"No, man," Dave waved impatiently. "We'll do one of those Nigerian scams. Write him a huge fucking check and get him to cash it, then take it from him at gunpoint."

"Would Johnny Dep do that?"

"Hell yes, if he had the technology."

They sat in silence for awhile. "You know, I think there's something going on at the club."

"What do you mean?" Sam puffed himself up. "We're going on." He paused. "You vill pay us und shut up."

"Jesus, that's a German accent. Get it straight, will you? And stop throwing your trash in the back seat. What I was talking about was how easy it is buying a hit on someone here. I heard about two of them in the bathroom just this week. Some terrorist hit we should ask Homeland Security about."

"Like they'd tell us," Sam sneered

"And an attempted vehicular homicide."

Sam remembered something else. "Yeah, I picked up something about killing some old lady for the insurance money."

"Well, I think we should be reporting it."

"By the way, what exactly are we saying, anyway?"

"Um," Dave brought up his report.

"Let's see, we have our mark Richard preparing to accept money that we don't have, for industrial secrets he's willing to pass to enemy states."

"Da."

"There's that guy Gordo we don't know much about. We're thinking he's dealing drugs on the premises."

"You know, I think he might be undercover."

Dave went Hmmm and made a note. "We'll check that out." He summed up. "Okay, we've got drug trafficking and prostitution, extortion, and all sorts of vague rumors just to make it clear we've got our eyes open. There's that theft ring Allen is running. We could beef that up a little."

"Yeah, put that down –can we use grand theft auto?" Sam thought for a moment. "Sure we can, bet somebody's driving a stolen car right now. Have we run all the plates?"

"Not yet."

"Well, don't. We'll get the local boys on it." Sam tossed his almost empty coffee cup into the back seat, spraying sugary liquid all over. Dave yelped as a drop hit him on the nose, then started to bitch about it, but Sam was already pulling out of the parking space. Trailing Alice, who had just picked her kids up from school.

* * *

In the basement of Rick's company, the tech took note, and was concerned to see her being followed as an old two-door followed her past a camera at the subdivision's entrance.

* * *

Gordon wasn't feeling up to snuff. He'd stayed in bed too long this afternoon and still had cobwebs in his head. A 4-pack of energy drinks hadn't made a mark. A generous snort of cocaine only left him jittery, rather than alert. The blunt he'd just finished made him want to go back to sleep.

Truth was, he tossed and turned all morning. Because Laurie hadn't come home. He wondered if she'd been in an accident. If she'd happened upon some kind of trouble on the way home. If she were lying dead in a ditch in the woods just blocks from the trailer park.

The most likely thing was that she'd gone out for drinks with the girls after work. Surely she'd be home by...2:30 p.m. But she never came home last night, and she wasn't at the club now, and he was worried. So he took a couple of valiums to calm himself down, and chased it with a snootful of snow so as not to lose his edge.

Bill came in, looking for Laurie, but gladly bought a lapdance off of Moanie. It wasn't very crowded that early, so Gordon ducked down the service hall – Authorized Personnel Only – to avoid Bill's notice.

Hanging out around the back door entrance, shooting the shit with the bouncers. There was a bunch of them standing around doing nothing. Waiting. Gordon settled in, leaning against the corner of the dumpster, curious. The boys grew a little nervous after a few minutes. "Yep, lovely night," Gordon said, trying to start conversation, but even Jake was being close mouthed. "What's going down, bro?" Gordon sidled up to him, but Jake murmured something and moved off. Someone spoke softly into his Bluetooth. Everyone got a little more antsy.

"Well, I guess I'll go on back inside," he said loudly, pushing off the dumpster. "Hey, is the owner in his office? I need to have a word with him about one of the regulars."

The bouncers exchanged nervous glances. "Uh, he's not here," one said.

Gordon glanced at the owner's yellow Maserati. "Okay," he drawled. "I'll make an appointment for a later time," and sauntered around to the front of the building.

Where a taxi driver was unloading half a dozen predrunk businessmen, and arguing with the doorman. "I bring eight. Eight!" the driver was screeching.

The doorman shook his head slowly. "I counted four." They argued back and forth, the cabbie threatening to call a strike against the club unless he was paid the full kickback for all eight, the doorman telling him to bring his whole family in the cab next time so he could charge triple.

Gordon left them squabbling when another cab stopped and discharged Laurie. She looked wonderful. To lovesick Gordon. In the rearview mirror she looked haggard and pale; her hair greasy and disheveled, makeup smeared all over her face, her clothes smudged and ripped, her bag missing and all her money and drugs gone. She needed a drink so bad she marched right by Gordon as he held the front door open, and plunked down at the bar for some dog fur. Then she disappeared into the dressing room to get ready for her shift, feeling like crawling under the table and taking a nap. Maybe the drink will help.

* * *

Sam and Dave came in while Gordon was out back scoping the place out. Bill was sitting with them, talking seriously. Gordon could tell they were discussing some sort of deal. Sam and Dave sure could work a room. Since they'd dropped the businessman ruse they'd become major players at the club. Which was great cover for Gordon's own little plot.

* * *

Bill had come in with a heavy conscience. He'd just fired the one employee who could help him, and he didn't know where else to turn. He'd planned to get the guy to run over Cindy's mother with his semi. Maybe he'd been a little precipitous asking for his keys. Maybe he should reinstate him in exchange for this favor. But the guy hadn't returned his call and Bill could see where he might be a little mad.

Those Russian Mafia guys, tho. Roxy mentioned them the other night while he was letting her clean out his wallet with her cleavage. He had no use for gangsters. But after that barrage from Cindy he was determined to show her a thing or two. Maybe they could help. They certainly seemed willing, especially after he bought them a round of vodka with jager shots.

"Anyfink we can do to help." The fat one said expansively. "Vee can solf all your problems."

The one called Dave was having trouble with his phone, and kept tapping his earpiece. "Now about our fee," he continued quickly, distracting Bill's attention. "What do you say to...half a million?"

Bill swallowed. He didn't have anything like that. On the books, maybe, but he'd been cashing in investments left and right, and being way too generous with the soon to be ex mistress in order to buy off her suspicions. Bill the husband was mostly broke. Bill the trucking magnate had lots, but it was all tied up. What could he offer them – the leases on his trucks? "Well," he laughed, trying to look nonchalant. "Half a million's a little steep. Why don't you take," he counted fast, "fifty thousand, which I can get for you by next week, "And I'll give you the rest when you're thru." By then he should be long gone. But getting the down payment would take a miracle.

* * *

Laurie was feeling better. A couple of drinks, a snort a la Gordon, a quickie in the DJ booth while nobody was looking. She didn't feel great, and there were some black and blue marks on her legs that she hadn't noticed when she took her shower. Makeup would take care of that. Heavy makeup on her eyes, heavy powder on her face, lots of blush. And a big blonde wig because she didn't have time to fix her hair. Her hands were a little shaky, too; she'd noticed while putting on her eye liner.

She'd spent the morning on her hands and knees. First with Rick playing cowboy on her backside, and later beside the toilet because something she'd eaten didn't agree with her. Or was it something she'd drunk? She couldn't recall. Laurie was a blackout drunk, but it was only just a rumor to her. She looked in the mirror and adjusted her wig so the golden tresses covered her hickey. Where'd she get that?

She sighed and took another slug of her dog fur. She was real hungry tonight. "Two, four, six, eight, who we love to masturbate? Roxy." Stone broke, hungover, she already owed the bar and the house and the DJ and the house mom for tonight, and hadn't turned a single penny yet.

* * *

Allen walked in and started to sit down next to Gordon, but got up and walked out when he saw Sam and Dave. Gordon followed him into the parking lot. Allen looked around for their car, cursing because he couldn't remember what it looked like. He'd know by the dent he put in the trunk the last time they robbed him. A dent shaped like the desktop computer he'd flung down on them from his balcony.

Gordon grabbed him by his shoulder and restrained him from attacking a dusty black Celica. "Are you sure you want to damage that car?" he asked, whipping out a blunt and lighting it. He envisioned himself Humphrey Bogart lighting a cigarette in the fog, and adjusted his baseball cap like it was a fedora.

Allen composed himself, then calmly reached out and snapped the aerial while Gordon puffed the blunt alight. "Those jokers broke my TV," he said angrily.

"Why'd they do that?"

"I don't know, man, I wasn't even there at the time."

"Well, how do you know it was them?"

"Because they broke the door down and stole all my money a bunch of times. I can't be alone there anymore without shitting in my pants. Those Russians are so rough."

"Yeah, not like regular criminals, eh? Aren't you paying them protection money or something like that?"

"Yeah, I even been leaving it for them in an envelope, because I've been kind of avoiding the place. You know, the landlord."

"They've been taking the payment, right?"

"Yeah, but this time they kicked my TV in."

"Just plug in one of those plasma TVs you boosted."

"They're gone, man. Guy picked them up a couple of days ago. And then those bastards came thru and took every penny."

"Damn."

Allen fished around in his pocket and produced a pocket knife. "They're making me," he said, bending over and slashing a tire, "very uneasy." He moved to the back tire, "In my own home," he moved to the other side of the car, "and I'm getting a little tired," slash, hiss, "putting up with their bullshit."

Gordon stood by watching Allen, his head popping up around all four sides of the car, red with the effort. "Maybe you don't need to show your face inside again tonight," he said, indicating the security camera. "It might not be a good idea to be in there when those guys start complaining to the bouncers about their car."

So Allen went away and Gordon went back to his table and ordered a drink. Why would a bunch of Mafia guys be hitting Allen over and over? He didn't have any money, he wasn't a mastermind, he could hardly tie his shoes.

They sure had their hands in all the pies, tho. Rick, Bill, Allen. They were even sniffing around him and his various enterprises at the club. It began to dawn on Gordon that maybe these guys had something to do with the owner and whatever he was involved in. Something big. Gordon's palm began to itch. Going to come into money, he cackled, rubbing his hands together. Else that or going to kiss a fool. Whatever.

The DJ played a fanfare and Laurie was on stage and whipping about the place on her high heels. A bit unsteady maybe, but she really performed energetically when she was juiced. Like a ballerina on eight-inch heels. She did the strut first, which Gordon wondered about.

Usually she worked them into a lather before demanding all their money. Tonight she was acting like she hadn't eaten in a month, grabbing the bills out of the customers' hands. She wasn't letting them get away with just ones either. She even grabbed a few drinks off the tables and took healthy slugs before giving the lipstick-smeared glass back to the lucky bastard and waving to the waitress for a refill.

Gordon shook his head. If she wasn't the most popular dancer she'd never get away with half of her shit. But everyone liked her, and she was so charming. Usually.

She came up to him at the table and stole his brand new drink, downing it in a moment. "How about a snort?" she asked, a note of tension in her voice. "I'm flat broke and I think I'm getting sick." She sagged against him and ran her hand up his thigh. He felt sorry for her. All those guys, always trying to grope her, and she feeling ill. He just wanted to wrap her in his arms and snuggle in the bed with her until she fell asleep. But no, she was intent on making money, and struggled bravely to her feet. He tried to arrange to pick her up when her shift was over, but she said something about meeting him at home later.

So he settled down and studied the Mafia guys some more.

Chapter Fourteen

Gordon called Mom to see how she was doing. "And how's my favorite mother this fine day?" he boomed thru the phone, holding his finger over the microphone so she couldn't hear the bong.

"Sweetie, you're coming thru just fine," Mom assured him.

"But you've got the TV up so loud I didn't think you could hear me."

"Oh that's not the television. It's Allen." She said Allen's name as if he were some kid of Greek god. Gordon sputtered. What's Allen doing there? "He's a real treasure, and I have you to thank for it," she gushed. "My little baby boy, all grown up and taking care of his mother like he should."

"I will always take care of my mother. Why I've even taken out life insurance, with you as beneficiary." Or he did once, on impulse, but didn't keep up on the payments. He absently scrawled on a piece of paper – I Leave All My Worldly Goods to My Mother, Light Of My Life – and signed and dated it. "In fact, I've left everything to you into my will. Have you written your will yet, Mom?"

Mom ignored the question. "That's really sweet of you, dear, but wouldn't it be better to pay what you've borrowed before you die?"

She was really busting his balls. "Aw, Mom, you know I keep putting money by for you. But I had to handle a crisis last week. My car broke down and I had to get it fixed. An accident. I was nearly killed." There were now bullet holes in his car. He'd needed a new radiator, and his repair guy switched it with another car in the lot for fifty bucks.

Mom sounded distracted. "Well, I'm sure things'll improve soon. You're a big boy."

She was rubbing it in. How callous. "And now the car payment is due, and I've gotten a couple of shut-off notices. I'm really tight this month, and I was hoping you could lend me a few bucks so I could get these bills off my back." He was using that soothing but commanding voice that lulled the dollars from Mom's pocketbook.

Mom sighed. "How much do you need this time? You know, son, I don't actually have much of an income, just Social Security and some dividends. And I've lent you a great deal already. I think you should try to pay me back before you borrow any more." Gordon sat in stunned silence. Had Allen been talking to her about him?

Wow, this was way different from the mother he'd been wringing money out of since he was a little boy. She always gave him whatever he asked willingly. He called it borrowing, and he never actually intended to pay it back, but he meant it in the best possible way. Hell, there was no way he could start to repay her for any of the million and one things she'd done for him while he was growing up. And was still doing; every time he asked for something there she was digging deep and sacrificing for his benefit. She didn't do that with any of the others, and for that he would always hold her in the highest esteem.

Whenever she got persnickety like she was being now, he would just help himself to a few checks that happened to be lying around his drawers somewhere. Gordon cleared his throat. "I'm thinking about starting a family," he began.

"Does Allen know her?" Mom asked hopefully. She was that eager to meet the girl.

"Uh, no." Gordon thought quickly back. "Remember Maggie Peters?"

"From high school?"

"That's her. Well, I ran into her again after all this time."

"You're going to marry her?"

"No." He paused. "We're just friends. But her best friend. She was with her. She introduced us. She's going to be best man at the wedding."

In the end he got a thousand dollars. He got her to give the check to Allen for delivery. When interrogated, Allen mumbled reluctantly about someone named Laurie, and someone else named Roxy, but didn't seem to know much about either of them.

Mom and Allen sat around in the den watching television and making small talk. They were getting ready to go to the grocery store. They sure did get along well. It always took Mom some time to get ready to go anywhere, and Allen was content to sit and wait. The kids, and even her husband, had always fidgeted and carped at her, but Allen kept her company. A companion.

Allen congratulated himself on his good luck. Not only could he earn that last boy scout badge – assisting the elderly – but she was a damned good cook, and he could tell she was becoming really attached to her. And he was fond of her, too, in a way he couldn't describe. Like his mother, so alike in some ways. He felt protective, and warm, and just wanted to cuddle up at her feet, or throw his arm around her and shelter her from danger.

He insisted on driving her everywhere. And he never minded that she knew the way better than he did, he just let her tell him where to go. And he carried all the bags to the car, and put them away when they got home, and fixed her coffee and brought it to her in the den. He even saw her to the top of the stairs when she went to bed at night. It was something a girl could get used to.

Allen had it good. Mom's cooking, the run of the house after she went to bed, a free place to stay and somebody to feel good about. She'd offered him the couch in the den, but it was lumpy and the room was drafty. So after the first night, he pulled open a corner of the playroom, long ago packed with the stuff of four kids grown and gone away, and made himself a nest. A single bed mattress, some old blankets from the laundry room, a stained pillow. She thought he was sleeping on the couch, but he spent most nights tucked away among things that weren't his, like a pack rat.

He flipped thru the channels after Mom went upstairs, looking for something to watch. She didn't allow smoking in the house, but since she'd gone to sleep he felt entitled to indulge himself just a little. After a hard day's work keeping Mom happy. He used an empty beer can to hide the ashes and butts – he was good about hiding the evidence – and he had a find-proof stash of beers in the fridge, which she didn't allow either.

His cigarette smelled funny, like it was plastic. He was sleepy, and thought the hell with it, and turned the TV off. He was reaching for the lights when he got a good whiff of something burning.

The automatic drapes were smoldering. The little tiny motor that ticked over on standby while not in use. That slowly began to overheat. That had a short in it and started throwing tiny sparks that landed on the flame retardant-treated but inherently flammable lining. Which started smoldering quietly, the smoke drawn out of the top window, which was left open a crack and created a draft. Which stoked the fire.

Allen looked around half the house for the fire extinguisher. Gentle flames were beginning to be visible at the top of the curtains. The ceiling was beginning to blacken. He ran to the sink for a soaking pot of ex-spaghetti sauce as the smoke was beginning to fan out just below the ceiling, and the flames started making sounds.

Mom appeared in the doorway as Allen tossed a pot of greasy tomato water onto her drapes and the wall next to them, and the ceiling above them. She would have to repaint. Allen would repaint. Maybe the whole room. Look at that ceiling. She rushed over to him and gave him a big, grateful hug. "You saved my life," she said. "Another few seconds and we'd all have been dead."

He felt energized. "Oh no, Ma'am, no, it was just catching hold. We had plenty of time." She needed him.

"You can call me by my first name," she said, blushing.

* * *

Bill met with the Russian Mafia in the parking lot of the Scarlet Pimpernel. He gave them a briefcase, which they inspected on the hood of their car. Then everyone got back into their cars and sped away. The security cameras picked up the whole thing. The cameras transmitted all their data, live, to the basement of Rick's company, where a bored tech watched it all with an eye for editing.

The next day, Rick sneaked a spycam into the club and hid it in a plastic palm. He put a microphone in the bathroom. He adjusted the monthly invoice to cover it.

* * *

Sam and Dave played hot potato with Bill's money while sitting in their skanky car waiting for Rick to leave the office. Gordon drove by an hour later and saw them. He pulled over and walked back to their car. They were slumped in their seats, packs of twenties all over the back seat. They looked dead, but he didn't see any blood. Gordon cleared his throat and tapped on the window.

Sam and Dave started awake and rolled down the windows. They'd been spending so much time at the club, and drinking so much that they tended to fall asleep after a bit of activity, such as they had playing catch awhile back. The stifling heat didn't help, either.

"Y'all look like cats left you for dead." Gordon seemed fatherly to them, towering over their little car. "I'll bet you've been burning the candle at both ends, haven't you?" he asked gently. They had. He reached into his front picket and brought out a gram of coke. "Bolivian Marching Powder TM," he said, "lest you think it might be something illegal. It's an all natural energy vitamin that really works. Got a Coke we could mix it into? No? Well, here, I'll just use the old anatomical snuffbox," he filled the dimple in his thumb and bent over to snort it. "Ah. Just like that." He refilled it and brought it to Dave's nose, who took a deep sniff and then writhed and grimaced as the powder went down the back of his throat. Sam had some too. Gordon left them with the rest of the bag just to make sure they wouldn't fall asleep again. "See you tonight, fellas."

* * *

Bill ran into Allen unexpectedly in the club. Bill and Allen went way back. Before a series of DUIs robbed Allen of his CDL license, the boy'd been one of his best drivers.

Allen drank a beer and told him about his new gig, bodyguard to this poor old lady that people were trying to kill. "She's just like my mother," he said. "Only I'm starting to have impure thoughts about her."

"I had impure thoughts about my mother," Bill responded. "Hell, she was the only girl I knew." Except for a dozen or two others who lived in the neighborhood.

They talked about the good old days when they used to transport Mexicans. "Yeah, I'm out of that business now," Bill said with a shrug. He wasn't out of the business by choice, but he'd just finished firing the guy that did all the driving.

"Sure you are."

"No, really, man, I took so much flack from Cindy about those damned pots we smuggled for her that I got out of the business entirely. Half the pots were broken and there was all that shit in the news, and I'm still living it down at home. Let somebody else take the risk. I'm done." No such thing, of course, but then hadn't he just finishing firing his driver. "Cindy never figured it out, and she still thinks I didn't know about it," he chuckled.

Allen thought. "You know, it's been awhile since I seen her, but I thought I saw Cindy the other day. Right outside where I'm staying. How's she doing, anyway?"

Bill ran his hand thru his comb-over. "Well, she's just being a piece of work. You know how she is."

"Yeah, I remember when she'd come screaming into the office over some little thing."

"She hasn't improved any with age. She's just like her goddamned mother." He took a long drink of his bourbon. "I'm going to leave her."

Allen cheered him on. "It's about damned time."

"Yep, I've been planning this for years. You have no idea. You know how my mistress," he started. He really liked the way that rolled off his tongue.

"Yeah, Miss Extended Cab 1997." Bill's exploits were endless and monumental.

"Well, there've been others. And frankly, I'm tired of her. She reminds me of Cindy. But I met someone," he trailed off, looking into the distance at the end of the stage. "Recently. She's an angel. She makes me feel so strong. She gives me the most incredible boners. She fucks like a rabbit. I think I love her."

Allen looked at his old boss, aghast. "Come off it, man, everybody's in love while they're doing it. You're scaring me."

His face suddenly beamed. "There she is," he whispered as she ambled toward the stage, sloshing her drink. "Roxy."

Allen shook his head. "Man, that girl will eat you alive. Don't trust her as far as you can throw her, man." But Bill wasn't listening. "Hey, you know she's got a boyfriend," he continued, trying another angle. "He's right over there." But Gordon had gone to the bathroom. Laurie moved toward the table with a big smile on her face, gesturing at Allen to scram. So he left Bill to his fate.

* * *

At 2:19 in the afternoon Allen sat in his car at the public library. He'd stopped going back to the apartment to sell shit. Rick kept calling him, but he ignored all calls. Then the bastard had installed some sort of alarm that told him every time Allen crossed the threshold, and once Allen figured out the timing he decided to abandon ship. So now he met his customers in less dangerous locations. Like the parking lot of the Home Depot. Like the Quick Trip. Like McDonald's.

He was meeting Judy here because the library said safety to her. Quiet, hushed, reverent, people to go to with questions, kindhearted librarians dedicated to defending your freedom to learn about the subject of your choice. They met in the true crime section. Judy was looking deep into the eyes of Charles Manson. They spoke like conspirators, in an exaggerated whisper you could hear in the next aisle, saying nothing.

"Here you go."

"There's for you."

"Great"

"Well, I'd love to talk, but."

"Right. Gotta go."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Judy checked out an armful of books on murderers. The list was recorded as a matter of course and relayed to the proper authorities. Judy's face and Allen's back were recorded on security cameras exchanging money for a bag of weed.

Chapter Fifteen

Judy was making great progress with her new method of organization. She was using stickies to take control of her life. Not only were her pockets full of stuck and unstuck stickies scribbled with every kind of thing to act upon or think about, but she'd also started deconstructing piles of stuff and repiling them with stickie labels, according to category. The piles were necessarily neater and tidier, closer together and arranged according to size. And the multicolored coding system she'd worked out made a festive flag effect. You could pretend you were driving a closed course in a fast car. Vroom.

She stopped, whipped out a stickie pad and the pen from a chain on her neck, and wrote down the image. She'd been doing that a lot, lately. What she wrote down was just the barest description, something to jar her memory later. She was coming up with the most amazing stories, the most amazing characters doing the most interesting things. Like whole novels revealed in a moment's absentmindedness. She was scrambling to keep up with the thoughts. She was searching for a big empty notebook that was at the bottom of some stack somewhere.

It must be the act of writing that stimulates the brain to produce more things to write. If you make a habit of it, as she'd been doing with the stickies, then floodgates opened and the waters of creation flowed out over the barren landscape. She wrote that down and stuck it in her pocket. It felt so good to think about what if this and that, and to follow the chain of history as it unfolded, actual or made-up. Like a worm on a weighted hook, watching the water pass by, waiting for the fish. She wrote that down, too.

She'd been stopping for drinks and joints much less often since she'd become interested in organization, jumping up and leaving them on the table to go move something else. The idea that there was a place for everything, and that place was out of the way, was a new concept for her, and she was running with it. The living room was looking good. She felt like tackling the hall closet next.

As things got straighter around her house, Judy began to sort out some of the issues of her childhood. She thought a lot about her mother. Not all of it unkind. She began to see how a lot of her problems hadn't really been visited upon her by her mother, but had been her own problems, right from birth. She'd always been like that. Poor Mom did her best, but Judy was always going to turn out like Judy. God love her.

It didn't do anything for her various addictions, because Judy was still Judy, but it relieved the pressure to change, a little, and she relaxed some. Judy could live with everything staying nice and unchanging. Anything for peace.

As her head got a little clearer and better organized, and she started feeling more mammalian and less fish-like, she began to see things differently. Instead of her life as a long straight line, she saw it as a series of cycles. She could immediately see that because she never worked out her issues with Mom, all she ever met with were Mom clones. All of her life was projection and reaction, with more to come. A spiral. Judy was getting tired of looking into the mirror and seeing Mom.

While Gordon always acted like nothing bothered him, and Cindy always held on tightly to her sense of injustice and the many examples that called for revenge, and Rick aggressively rooted out whatever stood in his way, Judy tended to fold up defensively and numb herself to the injury and wait for the bad things to stop by themselves.

She'd always blamed their mother for making them that way, turning them into twisted reflections of her own issues. But now she was starting to see how her brothers and sisters had taken the same situation and made their own traumas out of it. Especially after having raised kids of her own. She felt as if she should be calling Mom weekly and apologizing for her wicked childhood.

So she stopped by Mom's house on her way to buy weed. Mom looked surprised to see her, but seemed pleased enough. The hugs were genuine. They really did love each other, despite all the painful memories. The hug went on. It got awkward.

Mom thought Judy looked homeless. Her eldest daughter was dressed in dusty shapeless clothes covered in stains and grit. She was dripping with paper squares full of the most alarming handwriting. Her hair looked haglike, and she smelled. Mom wanted to make her take those clothes off and get in the bath that instant.

"Mom," Judy said, breaking contact and standing with her arms crossed. "Did I have an invisible friend when I was a kid?" She remembered long conversations with someone wonderful, but it wasn't anybody she could name.

Mom stared at her. How in the world would she know? After all this time. She couldn't remember which of the kids had an invisible friend. They were quite worried about one of them at some point. But who cared? Wasn't today hard enough without trying to figure out the past? She made a noncommittal answer.

"Well, when did I start to make up stories?" Judy wanted more. To find out how long she'd been having story lines and plot twists go thru her head. To find out how long she'd been suppressing this little voice that was becoming insistent.

Mom was confused. Why did she want to know? "You mean tell lies?"

"No. I mean fairy tales, and drawings of princesses and castles and things."

"Oh, God, that. You were quite the artist in those days. I guess you must have been six or seven, eight, I don't know. You made me a book once, I remember. It had a dragon."

An emblem of her creative achievement. That was the best dragon she'd ever done "Where is it?" It was getting framed.

"Oh, it got milk spilled all over it years ago, and I guess I threw it out."

"Oh. I guess it ran." She felt deflated.

"And it got moldy." It was a real mess.

"Yeah." They could have kept it.

Mom saw her frown. "You made plenty of other things, and they all got put up on the fridge. Higher than anyone else's pictures."

It wasn't the kind of answer Judy wanted, but she came over to find out about her past. She'd forgotten lots of it, things she should remember. That missing time thing. She needed to hear the adult version of events that shaped her childhood and compare it to her own memories. It was urgent.

She had begun to recall that she'd had a keen interest in making drawings and paintings, years ago, something she'd put aside so she could concentrate on growing up, but that she still felt drawn to. "Do you still have anything I did back then?" She could remember doing nothing else but drawings in second grade.

"There might be something in the attic," Mom said, not certain. "You could look..."

Whole parts of her life were gone. She longed to sit at the counter while Mom made dinner, and pump her for how it really was when they were growing up. She only remembered some things, and it was obvious it was distorted. She wanted real insightful answers from her mother, who was after all the oldest remaining source of family history.

They parted with genuine affection and a promise to come over for dinner. Judy was excited about what she'd learned. She realized she'd been kind of numb, emotionally, for many years. She'd buried things that had happened to her and her siblings, and had really badly fragmented memories or just big holes around certain periods. And now that she was noticing the holes and the numb spots and the scar tissue, she had all sorts of questions and a sense of panic. If she could only understand it, she could do something about it.

* * *

Judy wanted to tell Allen about this revelation. For the first time in ages he was at his rat-hole of an apartment. There was a young guy hanging out with him, nice looking, smart, cute, nice eyes. She told them about all her mom-clone relationships and how she was trying to change history. They got high and grooved to the inscrutable ways of fate.

"I don't have a problem with my mom," Allen reflected. "I love her to death. Mom's are a national treasure. As a matter of fact, I'm staying with this old lady now who's a real joy."

"Well, my mom's okay, too, from the outside" she responded. "All my friends in high school used to love her. But if she was your mom, you'd know that she was the devil incarnate."

The cute guy was fiddling with some kind of remote. "Did you fix it?" Allen asked.

The guy flipped it over in his hand. "Yeah, it was easy. Now it'll signal whenever he's a quarter mile from here, and it'll get stronger at he gets closer."

Allen chuckled. "Bastard thought he could spy on me," he told Judy. "But Ben here reverse-engineered his own device and now we're tracking him. Good one, buddy."

The conversation turned to hypoxia, Judy having turned red and coughed up lung jelly on her next hit. The talked about how maybe part of the high was from holding your breath until you were lightheaded. They reminisced about fainting on purpose back in grade school. They talked about how many brain cells they had left, and did a very inept verbal calculation of just how many brain cells they'd killed off already. Judy was particularly fond of the feeling she got in her fingers and toes as the last of the oxygen was sucked out of her capillaries.

"So, what do you do?" Judy asked the cute guy. Ben. She wouldn't know how to answer if she'd been asked the same question. And she didn't think she wanted to ask Allen what he did. But Ben looked like he had a real job, and she was curious where he worked because she wanted to started driving by and seeing if she could spot him.

"Uh," he began to answer.

"Old Ben here is working for the FBI." Allen said proudly.

Judy was intrigued. Ben was embarrassed. "No. No, I don't. I'm a security guy, just a corporate droid. I stare at cameras and make reports. It's just that I did a little consulting for them once, a corruption matter involving a local legislator." He'd sharpened up a rather grainy low-light picture to show certain details that were originally vague and shadowed, but probably there.

"A certain slick motherfucker who is now in prison for extortion," Allen added.

"It's not all that exciting," Ben admitted to Judy. "It's all very technical." Judy had a vision of a cutting room floor and jotted herself a note. "And it's really boring," he continued. "Imagine scenes that never change, for hours on end. Where the most exciting thing is watching the dog pee on the rug in someone's house."

Judy looked around. The place was trashed. "So, where are you staying now?" she asked Allen.

"I told you," Allen said, accepting the joint and inhaling raggedly. "(Pause) There's this nice old lady that I'm kind of looking after for a friend." He took another hit and passed it on. "(Pause) She's kind of strict and old fashioned, and she doesn't like me drinking and smoking. But I got this secret bedroom she don't know about, and I'm keeping my beers in the vegetable keeper because she never looks in there."

Judy didn't believe it. "How do you know?" Personally, she never looked in her vegetable keeper.

"She told me. 'If I can't see it, it'll go bad.' So I know she won't catch me. It's like a dream come true," he said, "living there."

"You don't look so much like an ax murderer any more," Judy observed.

"And you're starting to gain weight," Ben added. "You should marry the girl."

"Oh yeah. I pulled these out of her trashcan." Allen reached under the coffee table and dragged out a plastic box of chocolates. Ben didn't like chocolates, but Judy took a handful and squirreled them away in her pocketbook. She was eyeing the container. A box!

Then Allen's remote started beeping. "Holy shit, he's coming." Allen said, sweeping up all the paraphernalia and heading for the door. "Everybody out." Judy and Ben were right behind him. Judy grabbed the container and the roach as she left. Allen's yell led the way. "Let's cut thru the bushes and go out the back way."

As she drove home with her bag of weed and her box, she felt happy for the first time in ages. She lit the roach and drove along slowly, smoking and thinking about her life. Real peace was at hand.

The cars had slowed to a crawl. Judy passed construction cones, and had to wait for the signal guy to wave her thru a big hole in the road. She timed her passage so she'd be exhaling out the window right next to the workers. She felt it was her duty to ease their labor and remind them of what was waiting when they finished for the day. And if they didn't smoke, it would be good for them. And if they were against smoking, then they needed to know how many others weren't. It was a statement.

Chapter Sixteen

Laurie got to work late. She was feeling sick, and not getting enough sleep, and maybe partying a little, and she kind of missed her alarm clock. The house mom didn't want to know. "Hundred dollar fine," she said, pointing to the posted list. Laurie wearily promised to pay before she left, and dragged her ass over to a table to get ready.

That Rick. He didn't drink, but he sure loved to see her knock it back. He wanted her loud and loose. She figured it was a dirty kind of thing. Some guys weren't interested in sex unless it was dirty. Rick liked it skanky. On the floor of the women's bathroom. Behind the dumpster out back. Crammed into his fucking Porsche.

She had more bruises, too. Her thigh again, her upper arms. There were finger marks at the base of her neck. She didn't like that. She had to twist her head around to see it in the mirror, and that made her hangover worse. She wasn't sure how she was getting the bruises. She didn't think Rick was holding her down, and didn't remember anybody else having a stranglehold. She hoped she was giving as good as she got.

Makeup and hair were an impossible task. She was so pale that if she didn't have to cover the circles under her eyes and all those zits, she wouldn't have to wear foundation. Her hair was so burnt and frazzled by bleaching that a bathing cap would be better. She was losing weight, too. Her neck looked like a chicken's, and her tits were no bigger than freckles. She liked to tell herself it was because she danced so much. My body is just one big muscle. And it was true that there was no fat on her – it meant she got drunk faster.

She figured she'd put on the schoolgirl outfit, because she could never mind most of the makeup if she did. That fresh look; the young ones loved it. She went to fish it out of her stripper bag, but the skirt was ripped and the blouse was all full of nasty brown stains. She took one look at it and tossed the outfit into the trash.

Finally dressed in a lime bikini with clear plastic six inch heels, she took a last look at herself in the mirror, did a cheerleader kick, and went out to meet her public. "Hang 'em high, hang 'em low, just enjoy the show. Roxy's got your dick and balls, any way you go."

* * *

Bill waited. A new sugar daddy, he languished in his seat until Roxy came on, and the other girls could do little to cheer him up. He saved his money for Roxy because he wanted to spend all his time with her, and more importantly, wanted her to spend all her time with him, and not be off with those other guys. He wanted to take her away to a fairy castle and bar the gates so only he could look at her luscious body and those deep sad eyes.

He looked around for the Mafia guys and didn't see them. He'd paid them 35k in small bills and was waiting for news of their success. He would know immediately if they'd succeeded. Cindy would call, on top of the world, crowing about the happy day. Then he'd tell her that he did it, and she would see what a good man he was and love him again. Or at least stop bitching.

The DJ started Roxy's fanfare and Bill perked up. Fuck Cindy. Then Rick came in. Bill took one look at him and lost all desire for Roxy. He left a small tip for the waitress and skedaddled, hoping he hadn't been seen.

* * *

Laurie came out on stage and did her set. She wasn't feeling up to it tonight. She was stiff and sore from who knows what. Gordon was off somewhere so she didn't have any coke to pep her up, and a couple of vodkas and orange juice had soured her stomach. She wanted to go home and go to bed, but these fucking men were going to insist on pawing her and saying stupid, boring things to her, and needing her to stroke their egos. She'd rather stroke their dicks.

She hated them all. Bill the Till had fled like he'd changed his mind, and there was Rick the Dick salivating away at the foot of the stage, and Allen the Tool hiding in Gordon's seat, and Jake the Snake, her favorite bouncer, and Little Meatballs her other favorite bouncer, and Fingerfuck Jonze the DJ, and Roll of Quarters Dan the bartender. Sam the Fart and Smegma Dave weren't in yet or she'd have a full complement of assholes, and Gordon of the Endless Schlong was out doing something no doubt interesting that she might hear about later. He'd better hurry so she could cop.

She loved them all dearly, but she hated men. This job made you see them clearly, and they were all detestable. None of them, not even the best of them, deserved anything more than abuse and torment. And she was sworn to use her God-given talents in the service of this lofty goal. After all, she was the bright center of the universe for every guy in the place, and on a larger scale, the pivot point for all of the money that ran thru the club. All those vast riches pouring around and thru her little fiercely burning soul. She felt strong, powerful, just by being there. Then she was suddenly in a bad mood again. Power goes better with coke. Where the fuck is Gordon?

Speak of the devil. Gordon had been out in the parking lot with Sam and Dave, and waved guiltily as he walked past the bouncers. Laurie finished up her set and went over to crowd Allen out and get her manicured fingernails into that bag of blow.

* * *

Sam and Dave, who never had smegma in his life, were sitting out in the parking lot trying to do lines off the steering wheel. Bits of marching powder kept cascading off the worn plastic. Sam smeared in what fell onto his pants.

"Let's try the dashboard," Dave suggested. "We got to get cokes the next time we do this."

Sam writhed as a snort made its way down his throat. "I don't like the taste of this stuff. I think maybe a V-8 would coat my throat better than a soft drink."

"We could go back to energy drinks," Dave suggested. "I liked the kick."

"Well, have at them. That shit tastes like cough syrup."

"I like cough syrup."

"Well, I like this stuff. It works great."

They did some more herbal energy vitamins.

Dave sniffled back a rush of snot. "I was thinking. This plan of ours to take over the club."

"Do we actually plan to take it over?" Sam asked. "I could see us running the club. You know, as an ongoing sting, getting the dirt on all the movers and shakers in this part of the country."

Dave had been resisting the desire to abandon the rules and do it their way. "No, we don't actually plan to take over the running of the club. That's just our cover. Don't get buried in the part."

"Yeah, right," Sam reflected. "We're Federal agents, after all. On a mission."

"My idea is we could be planning to rob it instead." Because if they robbed it, they'd have lots of money, and could finance their undercover operation for awhile.

Sam scoffed. "You're insane. How are we going to rob it? You've seen those bouncers. They're all armed, they're all on steroids."

"Yeah, but if we cut them in, then they'll be on our side," Dave pointed out. "We can use the money to take over the club later." Yarrgh.

"I like that." (grandiose coke)"So, what, do we hang out and rob them as they're leaving to go to the bank?"

"I'm thinking." Dave did another line. "Our first job is to collect information, and we still don't know much about what management is up to. We need an informant to tell us where they keep the money." He paused to wipe his nose on his sleeve. "Maybe we shouldn't have beaten up on Allen so hard."

Sam put on his Russian accent. "Mafia not have informants. Have muscle."

"Christ, man, that's Apache." He looked into the empty bag. "We're professionals, remember. We've got reports to write. Perps to catch."

* * *

Gordon sat in his corner behind the palm trees and sipped his drink slowly. From where he sat, he could see all the players, see who was using the front door, see who was heading to the back or the john, see who was sitting at the bar, see who was sitting in front of the stage. He could even see into the DJ booth, where Rick was fucking Laurie up against a speaker. He was only looking thru a little opening across the room, and it wasn't well lit in the booth. But Laurie's garter flashed and Rck's white ass shone, and Gordon watched the rhythm develop, spasm, and stutter to a stop. Ben the security tech had a much better view in his basement across town.

Rick left hurriedly, the usual change of heart after he'd come. The only other people he wanted to see weren't there yet and he didn't want to waste his time in a cheap, sleazy hole.

Laurie stopped by Gordon's table a few minutes later. "Baby, I'm dry," she huffed as she sat down next to him and grabbed his drink. She smelled like a wet dog. "Where did you get to before? I really needed you."

"I was just out supplying our Mafia friends with a little cocaine."

"You're not comping them, are you?" She felt protective of her stash.

"No, I wouldn't do that." He laughed, "They're so funny. The black guy tipped me the first time they bought some (slang). I almost gave it back, but figured, hey – they learned to tip. That had to be good."

Laurie's foot brushed against a plastic bag. "What's this?" She hauled it into her lap and had a look. Candy.

"Allen brought them in. I'm not sure I'd eat them. He said he pulled them out of the trash."

"Well, looks good to me. I'll brush them off. Mind?" He shrugged. She took the bag with her when she got the coke stash off him and excused herself.

* * *

Sam and Dave walked in ten minutes later. Allen spotted them. He'd been waiting for them. He'd told Gordon about the various attacks on Mom. It was pretty clear to both of them that after failing to get Allen to kill her, Rick was now taking potshots at her windows.

"But what about all these other things that might be suspicious? Like that accident she almost had. Like her brakes failing last week. Like the drapes going on fire." Gordon saw a pattern.

Allen shook his head. "No, the drapes got to be an accident. She said one of her son in laws put them up." Gordon wondered. Frank? Bill? "I don't know," Allen said. "You and Rick are the only ones I know in your mother's family. But I know all about them." He leaned forward. "She likes you the best." Gordon nodded.

He got up and left Gordon to think about his family, and approached Sam and Dave. Allen was being very brave. Six beers, a beta blocker and a Valium will do that. He circled like a submissive dog until they noticed him, his tail down and his ears forward. They scared him. He'd been paying them weekly, just like they asked, even tho it was hell getting that much money together every week. He was successfully dodging his fucking landlord, and being able to put the rent money toward protection was good, but it was never enough. He could upsell Judy whole ounces instead of quarters, and he was expanding his customer base by dealing to the local kids on their way home from school, but it was just stupifying every week, where the money could have went.

He was risking a beating, talking to mobsters. They'd beaten him up every time they'd seen him so far, so it was only in the strip club that he felt safe to approach. The big one got up as he got close. Allen started to sweat. He talked to the black one, he wasn't as scary. And he couldn't understand the fat one's accent at all.

After assuring them that he was happy to pay protection, and that there would be an extra something in it for them next time, he mentioned that he thought they should know a few things about someone they might be dealing with but were maybe ignorant of certain facts about. With all respect.

"So what do we know about this guy?" they asked each other after Allen had gone. Industrial espionage, securities fraud, tax evasion, conspiracy to murder. He was trying to kill his own mother. He was in desperate need of money. He was selling secrets to the Russians.

"But he's not, of course," Dave objected.

"He sure is. He doesn't know we're not the Russians."

"Avast. We'll snare him in his own ambitions."

Sam had an idea. "Well, hey listen to this. I know how we can get some money out of the cheap son of a bitch. Since we're planning to take over the club and run it as an information clearinghouse, let's find out if he's interested in coming in as a partner."

"Yeah, well if he's not, we're going to have to go back to plan C and rob the place in order to keep going."

Gordon walked up to their table as they were discussing the new wrinkle, quietly enough to hear most of it.

"Gentlemen, a little birdy told me you were interested in a hostile takeover. I want to be your corporate raider." He had Dave's vote right there, and had Sam the moment he mentioned the nightly deposit. His plans sounded just like their plans. Great minds think alike. Gordon ordered a round of Patron. And felt the ground shaking. Were they drilling back in the office?

* * *

Gordon was hanging out in the parking lot, having a smoke and gazing out at the stars visible beyond the security lights. It was cold. He snuggled inside his thin leather jacket and wished he'd worn a t-shirt under his shirt. He turned around when he heard gravel, and saw the owner driving up in a cloud of dust.

"Gordo, just the man I've been looking for. Get in. Let's go for a drive and look at the stars. We'll put the top down."

There were half a dozen kilo bags of coke on the floor behind the seat. White powder leaked from the open ones and swirled like snow in the turbulent air of the Porsche, shining briefly in the darkness as the wind took it. Gordon stuck his tongue out and his tongue grew numb.

There he was, in the passenger seat of a car that could do 150 and not shudder or wobble even a little bit. It was soothing, like sleeping on long trips in his dad's car. Except for the sobering way oncoming traffic bore down on you when you were going that fast. He could get used to it, tho. He could get there. He sat and dreamed of endless riches and power. Trading places instantaneously with the guy living the life, like in some movie.

The owner told Gordon about his huge empire. The strip club was only the first floor. He also laundered money. He also sold girls as sex slaves in Asia. And he was an arms dealer. And he supplied all the necessaries for a private for-hire mercenary army. His efforts had led directly to government overthrows in three countries.

"And all this is going thru the club?" Gordon asked, flabbergasted.

The owner looked at him and laughed. "Ever hear of drop shipping? Only the orders come thru the club, not the merchandise. Well, not the weapons. Or the girls. The drugs come thru all the fucking time."

"How much?"

"We're moving a hundred kilos a week."

"How?" You could have knocked Gordon over with an empty ziplock bag.

The owner looked sly. "Some secrets, eh? Want to find out, come work for me."

Gordon got back on track. "Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. There's these Mafia guys been staking out inside the club for awhile." The owner watched the road. "Regulars."

"Feds, tho, right?"

Gordon shook his head. "No, I'm certain they're from one of maybe six international crime rings." It sounded good.

"Whatever." The owner acted bored.

"Anyway, they're after you."

"Oh really? What makes you say that?"

"Mainly intuition, to tell you the truth. But listen here, they ask a lot of questions about you, and they've been talking about setting themselves up as rivals. I don't think they want to set up across the street or nothing. I'm pretty sure, from what they say, that they're planning on muscling in on your business and never mind having to get permits, if you know what I mean.."

"Well, I'm glad you told me that. It's good to have people who watch your back for you." He passed Gordon an eight-ball and a spoon. "I keep saying it, I need someone like you working for me. I'm getting ready to expand and move to the next level, if you know what I mean. And right now there's nobody here competent to do things the way I like them done. That's why I've been telling you all this. See if you're interested." Gordon's heart sang.

After he'd dropped Gordon back at the club, the owner called one of his guys and told them to watch him extra carefully from now on.

* * *

Rick pulled over around the corner from Mom's house. It was quiet and dark. There were no streetlights. He was alone. He pulled on a dark hood and gloves, and snuck thru the bushes between houses until he got to his back yard. He thought of the place as his, especially now when having it was so near he could count the sale price. Mom would die, he would get it all, and then he could go back to living the way he had been before there'd been all those financial complications.

Rick used the key under the mat to open the door to the den, and slid the glass doors open silently. He crept thru the den, almost stumbling on a large parabolic heater in the middle of the room. He tiptoed into the kitchen, carefully removed the burners, lifted the stovetop, and blew out the pilot lights. Then he turned the gas on, all four burners, and turned to go. There was a pile of old clothes on the table that Mom was giving to Goodwill.

Rick turned back to the sink. He piled the clothing in the den and poured lamp oil all over it, and took a can of WD40 and sprayed it all over the rug and the couch, and turned the heater on high.

He chuckled as he stood in the back yard, sheltered by the bushes. He would have waited for the fire to start, but a dog attacked him, and he had to run for the car, scratching himself on sticker bushes.

Rick went home feeling jubilant. He would have stopped by the club for a quickie with Roxy, but his shirt was full of spots of blood from hundreds of tiny pricks, and he wasn't sure if he'd gotten bit.

Alice was asleep, but woke up when he turned the light on. "What are you doing, dear?" she asked sleepily. Then she saw him pulling at his bloody shirt. "Did you get attacked? Are you all right? What happened?" And so on. She nattered on the whole time she was cleaning him up, and paid no attention to the fact that she was stinging him with the disinfectant. Finally he grabbed the bottle and threw it, and shoved her against the wall. She pretended to be hurt so he'd stop, so he fucked her in the ass like she also pretended she didn't like.

* * *

Allen was asleep in his nest in the playroom. He woke up with a full bladder and went up to the kitchen to pee in the sink and retrieve one of the beers he kept in the vegetable keeper. It was foolproof because Mom had confessed that if she couldn't see it, it was invisible.

He smelled gas, and saw that the cat had been after a mouse and had turned on the gas chasing him thru the burners. Good luck, cat. He turned the burners off and whipped his lighter out to relight the pilots. He lit a cigarette on the pilot for luck, and wandered into the den, where he found the door open and the heater on. She's such a forgetful old dear, he shook his head fondly. Good thing she's got me. He turned the heater off and went back downstairs to bed.

Day nineteen

Chapter Seventeen

Alice sat at church, shrunken into the pew. She was hiding bruises. Rick, a pillar of the church, looked pious and nudged her to smile at people.

He left in his car right after the service was over, leaving her and the kids standing beside the SUV with not even a backwards glance. She felt small; she was a bitter disappointment to him. She wasn't worthy of his attention. She sat and cried silently after strapping the kids in and turning on the movie.

Alice ran into Cindy unexpectedly on the way home. She was driving down the street, and Cindy honked from right behind her. Alice pulled over and Cindy got out and they stood around talking for awhile, until the kids got fidgety. Then Cindy suggested they go to her house for some coffee and cookies. The kids decided the issue.

The kids loved Cindy's house. Cindy let them slide down the banister, Cindy let them run and slide with their socks on the marble floor, Cindy let them scream and shout in the rotunda. Cindy fed them soft drinks and cookies.

Alice and Cindy sat in the kitchen while the kids amused themselves with Bill's Xbox. Alice felt happy for the first time in a long while. Cindy felt protective and angry. Alice had revealed her bruises and told Cindy some of what Rick was like when he was mad. Cindy's advice was to cut his dick off and then shoot him.

Alice defended Rick, because he was really soft hearted and tender, but people failed him and let him down and disappointed him and tested him and tried his patience and drove him crazy and broke the camel's back. They walked on eggshells around him in case something they did they set him off.

Alice looked bleak. To distract her Cindy talked about Bill. "I think I'm going to leave him," she said.

Alice looked at her with sympathy. Being alone would be a punishment. She hoped it wasn't contagious. Being alone with kids would be life at hard labor.

Cindy told her about the receipts she'd found. About the phone bills she'd gone back and checked. About more cancelled checks, more receipts, more settlement statements. About credit cards and accounts at banks she knew nothing of.

Alice advised her, which shocked both of them. Get copies of everything. Or change the locks and keep the originals. Alice had been reading legal thrillers. She liked figuring out what was going on.

Alice told Cindy she'd been snooping in Rick's things, and found things that worried her. "If I didn't love him, I'd think he was up to something, but he's just doodling." She didn't want to put too much emphasis on a few little quirks. "He's under a lot of pressure. I've been seeing it more and more." Sometimes it scared her. "When I'm lying awake at night, sometimes I wonder if he's not planning to kill me for the insurance and sell the children." Speaking it aloud, she suddenly felt how remote a possibility it was. Just her and her silly ideas, up all night being negative.

Rick would have thought it was an excellent idea. Gordon didn't think there was anything wrong with it, in principle, but would have balked if he'd ever had to look one of them in the eyes. But Rick would have done it to his own kids just to shut them up.

Cindy was appalled. She could see it. Rick was capable of it. He was a bully as a child, and had never gotten over it. He was a successful bully, and used it as his regular everyday persona. No matter what Alice saw in him, he'd buried that soft tender heart so far that he walked crooked.

Alice quietly freaked out. Telling Cindy some things had made them more real, and she had an unpleasant vision of Rick as a slavering monster looming over her and the kids. She was living with a dangerous predator who wanted to hurt her and eat her children. And there was no way out. She started to cry, and Cindy drew her close and stroked her hair while she sobbed.

Later, she stroked other things. The kids stayed in the den and didn't interrupt them.

* * *

After Alice left with the kids, Cindy wandered around her house putting things back where they went. She took two hydrocodone and a soma and felt better, but was still feeling raw. Poor Alice, poor dear Alice. She could just kill Rick for treating her like that. There were bruises on her body that nobody but a sadist would leave. Cindy kissed each one. Sometimes twice.

Fucking Rick. He was getting away with being a wife beater. And Bill was getting away with being a philanderer. What was Gordon getting away with? And that Frank?

Cindy fumed and steamed. Soon, wandering around the house wasn't enough to contain her fury. She downed a couple of provigil and hopped into the car to go to the range and practice shooting her gun.

Except she never made it to the range. She stopped off around the corner from Mom's house and sneaked in the back way. Standing in the back yard, hidden by the branches, she waved the gun at first Mom, sitting in her rocker in front of the TV, then some guy sitting on the couch next to her. She wasn't too steady and had trouble focusing. She wondered about the guy, but decided that he wasn't her target. She waved the gun at Mom and pulled the trigger. Mom and Allen saw and heard it, but were watching The Sopranos and were only confused.

The loud report startled Cindy. So did the kick. She dropped the gun. When she found it again and straightened it up, there was a dog looking at her and growling. She shot the dog and ran back to her car, where a guy was walking along holding a leash and peering into the bushes. She shot the guy, and sped away into the darkness as lights came on in the nearby houses.

Cindy slept well that night. She didn't see whether or not she'd hit Mom, but the act of pointing and shooting was so satisfying that she thought she might be content playing a video game. Kill Mom. Maybe she could get Rick to publish it. Fucking Rick. Foolish Alice.

She felt stiff, and might have attributed it to the exertions of the night's sleepwalking, but she was still blissfully unaware, and decided that it was because of Alice. Her whole body had come alive, and she could feel places that used to be numb. The way her thighs rubbed together when she walked. She hadn't noticed that before. The feeling of her pubic hair being caught in the fold of her leg. The bottoms of her feet. It was good to be alive. She felt like going back to bed for the sheer hedonism of it. And having Alice over again to help enjoy it. 1500-count sheets were meant to be shared.

Then she smelled burning hair. She ran downstairs to find her silk rugs smoldering in the fireplace. The smell was sickening. There were slashes thru all of her paintings. The masterpieces also had holes cut in them with scissors. In heart shapes.

She found one of the dogs in the microwave, and the other in the dryer.

She found another one of Judy's presents on the front steps. A newspaper christmas tree.

This was no accident. Cindy was pretty sure Judy was behind all this pointed destruction. How she – or whomever – got in was a mystery, but they went out of their way to wound her. They must really hate her.

They, hell. It had to be Judy. They hadn't been civil since her wedding night, when Judy disappeared with Bill at the start of dinner. They said he got called away for an emergency – they didn't want to ruin the wedding dinner for her (her last happy memory of wedded bliss). Later, their first lovemaking was memorable only for Bill's losing his erection after a few otherwise forgettable moments.

She didn't learn out until morning that Judy was found drunk and crying in a utility closet. Bill denied everything. Judy had apologized for twenty years, and Cindy hated her for it.

Cindy was a virgin on her wedding night. She was still the reluctant virgin with Bill. It never occurred to her that her husband had been sleeping with everything that smelled female. She thought he was a virgin just like she was, and then later revised it to being a virgin on the night before their wedding night (entrapped by her evil sister). She figured that she was giving him sex. It was good enough, and she could be assured of his faithfulness. Besides, he was impotent more and more lately. Soon she wouldn't have to bother.

Judy still had to be punished for ruining her marriage. Cindy thought about this in detail as she sorted a handful of pills for breakfast. Then Alice called, hysterical. Child Protective Services had just come to the house and taken her children.

* * *

Mom sent Allen out on an errand. While he was gone she went down to his nest and picked up some of the beer cans and cigarette butts. A simple walk-thru was enough to tell her what he'd been up to lately. He left a trail that an amateur detective would figure out at first glance.

Frank arrived. Judy was lucky to have him, and didn't know it. He reminded her of her own husband, long dead. They had the same sense of humor, the same way of laughing, the same lines around their eyes. Frank didn't laugh much when he was over at her house, but she liked having him around because she could pretend herself that her dear husband was still alive, and just in the next room.

Frank brought her a floor lamp. He would have been dismayed to see what had happened to the automatic drapes, so she didn't mention the fire, but made a big fuss about all the features he pointed out so painstakingly – the remote, the rheostat, the heat lamp, and his special effort – a white noise generator. So she could get a tan and listen to the ocean. A tanning bed and reading lamp in one. He was so clever. She watched him bent over, fussing with the controls.

She looked at the clock in the kitchen. "Now, just one more thing," she said, leading the way into the bedroom. Frank sighed.

This time she tied him up with belts and spanked him with a pingpong paddle.

Frank staggered to the bathroom afterwards, humiliated and out of breath. The belts had left marks around his wrists and ankles. He had a blister on his butt. He was wrung dry. Mom lay on the bed humming Old Black Magic.

Frank sat on the pot and let his erection subside so he could pee. He felt a little light headed. He started to tingle all over. And then he got hot and chilly at the same time. And then his vision grayed out and he was fighting to remain conscious.

Then he was on the floor and the paramedics were shining lights in his eyes. He was cold. He threw up and passed out again.

* * *

Judy was sitting with Ben and Allen in Allen's apartment for, he swore, the last time. While selling weed in a parking lot was safer than letting Rick catch up with him, it was much less comfortable. So they were there to hang out and smoke one last joint before he moved his stuff into Mom's house. And fuck the landlord.

Allen asked if there was anything they wanted for themselves, and began rolling a fatty. Judy put dibs on the mirrored tray as she pulled a fifth of cheap bourbon out of her pocketbook. Ben wondered if he should take his devices back, unless there was need of them at the new place?

"Hey, that's a really good idea. There've been some real suspicious things happening lately." His mind was filled with a vision of the electronic fortress. Cameras and microphones. Monitors lining his nest. "What kind of security would I need if I wanted to see down the street and around the corner and shit? And all the doors. And inside." He passed Ben the weed and the lighter. Judy passed him the booze.

"Wow," Ben said, saluting Allen with the joint before lighting it. "I didn't think you'd be serious. It would be horribly expensive." He thought while savoring the hit. "You'd have to pay a guy like me's salary for starters, and all the monitors, and the data storage. And the cameras. I guess a couple of million to see and hear everything." He paused. "Of course, the guy I work for is doing exactly what you're talking about at his house. It's not costing him a penny."

They agreed to look into the low cost option and Ben passed Judy the joint and had a chaser from the bottle. Ben didn't think much of his company's security procedures; it should be easy to divert a whole bunch of hardware without them figuring it out. He should know, he was in security, and they were an elite team of idiots.

Allen looked at the stickies flowing out of Judy's pockets and handbag. "So how's that neat thing working for you?" he asked.

She passed him the joint. "Oh, it's great." She took a swig. "You'd never believe it. I got the house to a certain level of clean – I could see the floor in every room – and suddenly I felt something shift in my head. And all of a sudden I could think better. It was like walking thru one of those clear plastic flap doorways into a refrigerated warehouse."

Ben said wow, and they talked about astral projection, and Allen tuned out. It was too New Age. He was more Stone Age. It was meat and potatoes roasting in the fire for him, while they sat around arguing about shadows on the fucking wall.

Judy showed them a painting she'd just done. A landscape. With a yellow sky and a red sun, and what looked like scorched earth. "Watercolor, right?" Ben asked, and they talked about paint for awhile.

Judy stopped to scribble something on a stickie. "It's because I've been doing all this organizing. All of a sudden I'm having all these ideas." She indicated her stickies. "And all these visions. Like something's trying to tell me something." Allen made UFO noises. "And I remember how creative I was as a child. But my fucking Mom. I remember her yanking me by the elbow one time, and shouting at me to do my homework." She rubbed her elbow. "She ripped up my drawing. My elbow's always hurt, ever since." The pain seemed to be coming from her shoulder at the moment, so she held the bottle in her other hand and rubbed her shoulder instead.

Ben rolled a somewhat thinner joint from his ounce as he told Allen about the surveillance his boss was doing. It bothered him because the wife was obviously the victim of his abuse, and the prick was using his suspicions to torment her. When in fact, he was being quite the man around town, himself. "I'm not supposed to talk about it," he said, looking at Judy. She nodded. "But it's gotten to the point where I don't feel I can just sit by and watch anymore." She thought he looked noble. "I'm working on a way to fix it."

Judy approved on principle. "Nail the bastard," she said. "Catch him beating her up and they can play it in court while he sits there and cries for mercy."

"Are you going to use a remote?" Allen asked.

Ben thought about it. "Well, it'll probably involve a remote, but it won't be as easy as the proximity alarm." It would be a wonder of the cryptocinematic world. It would win a prize at Sundance. A montage of security clips and sound bites.

Judy admired Ben's genius. He should meet frank. They'd have so much in common.

There was a noise at the front door, and suddenly a tall dark figure burst into the apartment. He stood there, shadowed against the light, a fearsome creature. Dark forms blinked up at him, shrinking back with terror.

Rick had tossed the Allen's-home alarm because it never worked. He'd trusted his instincts and just showed up. Surprise was everything. "You owe me three months rent," he boomed from the door. " Since you're obviously avoiding payment, I'll be taking it out of your hide." He waited for his eyes to adjust. The dark forms fidgeted. He advanced on them menacingly.

"Rick," said Allen, resigned. "Rick," said Judy, dismayed. "Rick," said Ben, wondering what happened to his proximity detector. Rick's vision cleared, and he looked from his tenant to his employee to his older sister. His mind stuttered for a moment. "Fuck me dead." said Rick.

He turned on Judy. "I can't believe you're here," he shouted at her, red faced. "I know what you're doing here." Filthy addict. He reared back. "And you've been drinking." She stared at him. He'd always wanted to say it – I'll deal with you later – but she was using her big sister stare on him and he couldn't get the words out. "Mom isn't going to like this."

Rick turned on Allen. "I need that rent right now," he threatened, grabbing Allen by the shirt and twisting. I'll deal with you later, he wanted to say, but he was dealing with him at the moment, drawing him to his feet and feeling around all his pockets for his cash. "We'll call this a partial payment," he sneered, thrusting Allen back into the couch. Ben used his cellphone to record the scene for posterity.

Rick turned on Ben. "You," he said with contempt. "Give me all your money."

Ben looked at him calmly. "Sorry man, you've already got it. Besides, I'm a little short since that last raise you gave me."

"I'll deal with you later," he snarled. "There's a drug test with your name on it at work."

As Rick cowed Judy into emptying her bag, Allen wondered about the two of them being brother and sister. He wondered about Rick being Ben's boss. He wondered what Cindy must be like.

Ben, filming the while, wondered what Judy thought of her brother's secret life. He did not wonder why his boss was a slumlord. He did wonder what else he could cut into his documentary.

Judy put the mirrored tray into her bag with the other things and got up to go. Rick had humiliated her.. He made fun of her books and her vitamins and her good luck charms. He jeered at her stickies. He taunted her with always being broke. He grabbed a popsickle-stick figure she was working on and snapped it in half. She wanted to kill him.

Chapter Eighteen

Judy picked her way carefully to Mom's house. She drove very well when she'd been drinking. Long years of practice. She always traveled under the speed limit, and took extraordinary care not to weave or cross over the yellow line or any of those things that attract attention. She didn't park well at the best of times, however, and often she'd find a ticket on her car when she came out of the liquor store.

Mom wasn't as pleased to see her as last time. She was a little distant, and Judy wanted to talk. She wanted to tell Mom about her new perceptions. She'd been practicing for a conversation with Mom while she was telling Allen and Ben about it. But Mom said she was going out, and they stood in the hall for a few moments, Mom holding her purse and keys, Judy sweating all over the painting she'd brought to show off.

She whipped the painting up and thrust it under Mom's nose. "I made this for you," she gushed. "Because I love you." It's how she used to say it when she was a kid. She still felt like a kid. She'd been thinking about how it was, and had a whole bunch of questions. How old was I when I broke my arm? What was the name of the boy I liked in second grade? Was I really grounded for Senior Prom?

Mom stood staring at the painting. The garish reds and yellows, the vomit-looking foreground. The edges were sticky. The thing smelled like a bar. This was clear proof that her eldest daughter was severely disturbed. She was still painting like a child, but expressing all kinds of hostility in her choice of colors. She was pitifully proud of it, like a baby showing off a handful of her own poop. And she'd been drinking. "That's nice, dear," she said mildly. "I've really got to go. I hope Frank's feeling better," and shooed her out the door.

"I'm thinking of becoming an artist," Judy said.

"Oh, you've had so many jobs," Mom said, edging toward the car. She was tired of hearing it.

Judy protested. "None of them were anything more than a job." This one is different.

"What's wrong with just a job? You could have stuck with one of them. You'd be near retirement now. Look at you – you're not even employed."

"Yes I am. I'm employed seven days a week making art." She thought of those stickies decorating the living room. That qualified as art. It would make a great exhibit – Hoarder's Living Room, Year 27. "Just because it doesn't make any money..."

Mom wanted to let her down easy. Nah, she'd been doing that for 50 years. "I'm afraid you don't have what it takes to be an artist. You'd be better off working in a call center, the way you dress."

Judy laughed bitterly. "Well, it's too late now, isn't it? I'm too old. Even if I wanted a job nobody would hire me. I could work at McDonald's, maybe."

'That'd be great." Anything would be nice. A productive member of society.

"I wasn't suggesting it," Judy sneered. "I'm not trying to get a job. We're doing fine, we don't have any debt and we don't spend much." She'd been rehearsing that.

Mom wasn't impressed. "Except for all that marijuana and alcohol you've been buying for the last thirty years. You'd be rich now, you know."

Know-it-all. "I don't want to be rich."

Mom just stared at her. I've raised a loser. "Maybe if I'd raised you differently," she began. If I'd raised you in the church. If I'd raised you with an iron fist. If I'd raised you with duct tape and attack dogs.

That's when Judy let her have it with both barrels. She had plenty of ammo to shoot. "There wasn't anything you could have done to raise us differently. The problem was you, Mom. We're all screwed up because of you and your problems. And Dad and his problems."

"Don't say anything against your father."

"And the elephants in the room. All the things we can't talk about. All the times you have to be right. We always have to do it your way because only your way is right."

Mom didn't have an argument, and couldn't see why it should upset Judy. Of course she was right. She was Mom. She had to be right. It was a horrible burden, and nobody appreciated it.

Certainly not Judy, who let loose with a lot more that she didn't remember later, and left. She left crying hysterically, wanting nothing more than for Mom to put her arms around her and comfort her. Except she would pull away and say something hateful, and so would Mom, and they'd be off again. Just like when Judy was a teenager.

She calmed down in the car. Driving home erratically, she thought about her smoking and drinking. If she did it to numb her pain, that was Mom's fault for causing the pain. Mom sensitized her to emotional brutality, and she's been trying to cover up the wound since she was a child. She would be strong, capable, and independent if Mom hadn't systematically broken her spirit.

Judy recalled a magic ritual to deal with mother issues and psychic blood suckers. A visualization, circle of safety, banishing kind of ritual. She needed an emblem. An old family photo probably still up in the attic. She'd remind Frank to get one the next time he went to Mom's. She wondered for a moment about Mom's reference to Frank – hoping he felt better. But she didn't give it another thought until she got home to an empty house. Where was Frank?

She found him after calls to several local hospitals. She took up several spaces in the parking lot and rushed into the emergency room. She got lost several times trying to find his room. They finally wrote it down for her so she could just show it to people.

Frank was lying in a hospital bed with the covers tucked in regulation tight, like straps. He was wearing an oxygen tube under his nose. He had on one of those ridiculous gowns. (Nice key pattern.) He was haggard and thin. Suddenly he looked old. His skin hung off his bones. His eyes were deeper set, and darker. His face was waxy.

Judy made him push over, and sat next to him, holding his cold hands. She got up and found the nurse to ask for a heated blanket. She got up again and asked the nurse to bring him some water. She got up and sat down again, snatching at his hand and fussing with it.

He was a bit groggy, and very slow, but gradually she understood that he had fainted and hit his head. He had a nasty gash on the back of his head, slathered in bandages. She teased him about giving him a mohawk to finish the haircut, but he didn't laugh. Everything still seemed to be an effort.

The doctor came in and explained it all. Sort of. They'd found nothing on the head x-ray but they didn't like his blood pressure and his bloodwork, and were going to keep him for a day (or so) for tests. He asked for Frank's medical history. No operations, no chronic illnesses. Still had his tonsils. Judy was surprised to hear Frank tell the doctor about previous fainting spells. The latest being that time he came home from her mother's with a bump on his head.

"Is my mom beating you?' she asked.

Frank looked sheepishly at the doctor. 'No. I'm losing consciousness and falling down."

Later on Frank was more like his old self, cracking jokes and agitating to sneak out and go home. Judy snuggled up to him, feeling anxious. The doctor had mentioned CAT scans and bypass surgery. Frank was getting old. She was going to lose him. She was going to be alone. She'd rather die.

The nurse came in during the night for a blood pressure check. Judy was asleep on Frank's shoulder. He was lying awake. When the nurse was gone he told he about his visits to Mom's. "I've been having sex with your mother." Judy shut her eyes and he went on. "It's been going on for a long time. Years."

Mom started it. She liked to pretend that Frank was her long-dead husband. She liked to role-play. She liked bondage and discipline. Judy blushed thru the whole story. Just the thought of Mom in leather made her sick.

He tried to stop going over there, but something had a hold on him. He hated what he was doing, but the brutality of it activated childhood traumas and he felt compelled to visit them again and again.

Judy started crying and after awhile Frank joined her. They sniffled and held each other until the nurse came in for another blood pressure check.

That night Judy and Frank saved their marriage, talking until dawn. Judy told him the lessons she'd learned, Frank told her the things he'd always wanted to do. They decided to sell the house and move to the country where they could have space all to themselves. Frank would build bigger gadgets in the barn, Judy would practice minimalism and start a flower farm.

That night Mom and Allen tried out Frank's sunlamp and were nearly blinded. Allen unplugged it and put it on the curb, where it was taken by a resourceful homeless guy and sold for five dollars to the local beauty shop, where it was used for one tanning session. The customer was rushed to the hospital with severe burns, and died later of radiation poisoning.

That night Ben sat up late cutting and splicing. He was weaving a story involving practically everybody. It was building nicely, but wasn't really going anywhere. That's the trouble with life, often it's pretty aimless. No plot.

That night Sam hashed out version 2.0 of the combined plan to rob the club, while Dave made up likely activities for all of his characters. They had a late macs n'cheese.

That night Rick and Alice didn't have much to say to each other. He sat at his computer making money in the stock market, vowing to flee the torment that was his life, and make a new start with a real woman. She sat at her computer and googled undetectable poisons.

That night Cindy took an Ambien and a Valium and slept like a log. Tsindee, however, went sleepwalking with her gun. She was Lieutenant Callous. It was South Vietnam. She was leading a squad of handpicked men into the clearing of a tiny village, surrounded by jungle. They were going from hut to hut and shooting everything. Mom looked up with terror in her eyes, her body wrapped around a tiny child who cried pitifully. She shot Mom, and as the child blinked in recognition, shot her as well, and went back to bed.

Bill was home. Cindy woke up feeling like she was being invaded. She heard the door slam, and now the TV was echoing in the kitchen as he got something to eat. She went downstairs and turned the sound off. Serial Killer on the Loose said the banner at the bottom of the screen. "It's the middle of the night," she said. "I can't think." She swallowed a handful of pills with his beer and went back to bed. He followed ten minutes later, and had sex with her sleeping body.

That night Gordon wandered around on the roof of the club, snooping. When the boss and all his boys had gone, he found a hatch. He found a safe. He found a trap door. He found a tunnel.

That night Laurie was alone at the trailer. She was bored, and the devils from the past were bothering her again. She drank up all the wine. She drank up all the beer. She drank the Listerine. She drove to the liquor store dressed in only a towel and high heels, and made it back home just in time for a three day drunk.

Chapter Nineteen

Sam and Dave were staking out Rick again, sitting in their car along some hedges at the side of a house. Nice neighborhood. Quiet. The subject was going to dinner at his mother's house. They were curious to see who Rick tried to have killed.

Sam and Dave – Feds, posing as international mobsters, posing as strip club regulars – were starting to look like they lived in their car. It had been weeks since their suits were cleaned, and the garbage was starting to pile up in the back. The car smelled of fat man, black man, ex hamburgers and dried up fries. Sam and Dave had dark rings under their eyes, and white rings in their nostrils. Sam's hands shook and Dave was always sniffling and rubbing his nose.

Sam and Dave saw Gordon and Laurie drive by. Dave made a note.

"What're they doing here?"

"She's probably the entertainment."

"I wish I could watch thru the window."

* * *

Gordon and Laurie drove to Mom's in silence. Gordon savored the companionable vibe between two compatible souls. Laurie thought how bored she was with Gordon's dullness. She could have mentioned the club and opened his floodgates, but she turned on the radio instead. Gordon's obsession with politics bored her more than silence. She unscrewed her flask.

Gordon tried to steer the conversation to the thickening around Laurie's waist. He'd noticed it a couple of weeks ago, when she was throwing up alot. Not that it was unusual for Laurie to throw up. But you couldn't just ask her if she thought she might be pregnant. She was touchy about her figure.

Laurie waved off Gordon's concern. She wasn't gaining weight, she was just bloated. Gordon was such a worry wart. She was getting tired of it. One of her sugar daddies was a film director and he'd been talking about making her a star, so she thought about that and they lapsed into silence again.

Gordon parked in front of Mom's house. He stood at the curb with Laurie in his arms and looked at the house, pretending not to notice Sam and Dave on the corner. He loved that house. He grew up there. He remembered how they used to play war as kids; all the neighborhood kids would choose up sides and shoot pretend guns and lob pretend grenades. Gordon skulked around the edges of the battle interfering with one side and then another, singling out his enemies one by one. Lobbing real sticks and real stones.

Allen opened the door and said a friendly hey to his old friends. He and Gordon did a gang sign.

Laurie shoved him aside with her hip. "What's that little creep Allen doing here?"

Gordon winked at Allen. "He's on assignment."

Mom was in the formal living room, sitting in Dad's wingback. There were new drapes and the ceiling was freshly painted. Gordon praised the work while Allen described the fire.

Gordon and Laurie sat side by side on the couch. He held her hand. It kept her from fidgeting.

"Mom, this is Laurie." Mom looked her up and down and forced a smile. Laurie glared back at her and said nothing. Laurie and Mom took instant dislikes to each other. Mom thought evil of anyone who would go out in public dressed like that. Laurie hated Mom because of what she did to Gordon as a child.

"So, Laurie, how long have you been seeing each other?" Mom peered at Laurie, who wouldn't return her gaze.

"Oh, a while." No way was the bitch going to get anything from her.

Mom looked perplexed. "Gordon, how come I never heard anything about this, sweetie?"

Gordon rubbed Laurie's shoulder. "Well, Mom, I didn't want to jinx it." He lowered his voice. "I'm kind of serious about this one."

"Are you, now?" Mom mused. She turned back to Laurie. "And what do you do, my dear?" she asked, a fixed smile on her face.

"Oh, I work in a bar," she said, waving vaguely. "Cocktail waitress."

Gordon didn't like Mom's smile. "Don't be modest," he said, looking for something to impress her. "She's been studying dance." Laurie left marks on his ankle telling him to shut up.

Mom's smile turned icy. "Ballet?"

Laurie grimaced politely. "Folk dance." She'd taken up dancing for its healthy effect on tips, but after an affair with the teacher ended badly, she continued to let Gordon think she was going for lessons, and went to see a sugar daddy instead. "College," she continued, not fond of the look on Mom's face. "For my doctorate."

"Oh." Mom got a nasty look on her face. "At least you're not an actress."

Gordon stepped in to enquire about Mom's health, and the focus was off of Laurie. For which she wasn't the slightest bit grateful. Gordon's pandering to his mother pissed her off. Mom's probing questions upset her. Prosecuting attorneys weren't as unpleasant. She felt queasy again. She excused herself to go to the bathroom. Once inside, she locked the door, sat down, unscrewed the pint flask, and rooted around her purse for some pharmaceuticals.

While Laurie was gone, Gordon whispered to Mom that he thought she might be carrying his child, and that he wanted to do the right thing. Mom was immediately torn. The thought – what an odious daughter-in-law – was equally balanced by the vision of more grandchildren. Unlike Rick, Gordon would let her see his children. On the whole, she was delighted by the prospect. Especially that he wanted to make it legal. Especially that there'd be new babies.

"You know," he remarked wistfully, "I would propose on the spot if I only had a ring." Mom thought for a moment, and then in a fit of generosity, offered to let him use her engagement ring. He was effusive in his thanks, and helped to wrench it from her finger.

* * *

Sam and Dave watched Judy and Frank drive by. "Who are those two?"

"Isn't that the chick we saw coming out of Allen's that time?"

"Maybe."

Judy drove past the house and parked turned in the direction for home. She took Frank's arm and walked slowly up the flagstones. She loved growing up there. They used to play hide and seek as kids. Judy always got up somewhere high. The willow tree. The copper beach. The roof. It took them a long time to find her, and sometimes they went inside and left her hiding.

Allen opened the door. Judy gave him a big hug. He promised they'd go out back and catch a buzz later. Frank, too, he offered, but Frank didn't get high, thanks just the same.

Mom was in the living room with Gordon. Judy was amazed at how clean everything looked. "Mom, do you have a maid?" she asked, and Allen beamed. Mom looked great: her skin was all pink and soft, and her eyes lacked that squinty look that said she was upset.

Mom simpered. "This is Gordon's fiancee, Laurie." Laurie squirmed and said nothing.

"Fiancee?" Judy looked at Gordon, who shrugged. Maybe he'd stretched the truth a little for Mom's sake. He was always telling her what she wanted to hear, and Mom fell for it every time.

"Laurie's a doctor," Mom continued. "Of tribal dance."

"Comparative religion," Laurie corrected. Her imaginary degree was a field she'd always been interested in.

"There is no comparison between religions," Mom said indignantly. "There's only one religion. All the rest are lies." Laurie raised an eyebrow. So Mom had religion buttons. Where should she poke next?

Judy turned to Laurie. "So you're a doctor?"

"No, a doctorate. In college?" Judy nodded. They talked about college. Neither had ever been, and that was a sore spot with Mom, but they were talking in low tones and Mom was soaking up attention from the boys.

Frank turned to Laurie. "Tribal dancing?"

"Belly dancing." They talked about dance and self expression, dance and magic, dance and sex. Since these were also sore spots with Mom, they too spoke in lowered voices.

Mom had asked Frank to come over to fix something, and since he knew what that meant, he decided to bring Judy. But he wasn't prepared for dinner, or for other family members. His plan had been to install his latest death trap, endure more humiliating sex, and try to escape without collapsing.

He felt very happy about Allen. Never again would he have to come over and help Mom, with Allen around. Frank avoided Mom's eyes. She kept drawing his attention to things, like the drapes he'd hung, the bookshelves he'd installed. Things that only reminded him of the depraved things she had done to him afterwards.

He brought out a plastic bag. Mom took it eagerly and peered inside. "What's this?" she asked. Frank mumbled as Mom brought it out and displayed it. "Frank has brought me a present." It was a heating pad. A heating pad with a specially modified control. He pointed out the features. This position for warmth, and this one for warmth and massage. He'd been struck by the simplicity of it one afternoon, when he noticed how icy her feet were in bed. "Why thank you, dear," Mom smiled. "I get so cold at night. Allen," she called, handing it to him as he came over, "please go put this in my room."

Judy was cold toward Mom, and spent her time hanging out with Frank and asking if he felt okay. She kept visualizing her very own mother having her way with her poor ailing husband, and could hardly sit still. Why was he still bringing her things after all she'd done to him? She wanted to throw a burning log into Mom's face, not heat her toesies.

They talked to Laurie for awhile, while Gordon was buttering Mom up to ask her something; money, probably. They liked Laurie. She was down to earth and said what she thought. They wanted to warn her about Mom's temper, but she looked like she could handle it. Which would be great. Mom had run off all of Gordon's girlfriends before.

"Where did you meet Gordon?" she asked as they watched him keeping Mom happy. He was almost prancing in front of the fire.

"He was always coming in where I work, and one night I sat and talked to him." She shrugged. "I liked him." He did magic tricks, he told her wild tales that couldn't be true, he waved a fantasy life for the two of them. Talked her right into bed. That, and a bottle of Patron.

"Well, he's my favorite brother, if that's any use. I like you. But he's – well, we're kind of the black sheep in the family, so the rest of them are predisposed to disapprove." Judy accentuated the syllables to make sure she wasn't slurring.

Laurie seemed to think everything came out fine. "Well, I'll have to meet the others, then," she said, deciding to get up and go to the bathroom again.

"They're all just pale reflections of Mom," Judy assured her.

Laurie reared back. "What, your mother? She's no match for me. And besides, my mom is just like her. I'll be fine." Mom heard that.

"Okay," Judy replied. Mom glared from across the room.

"Oh, Laurie, dear, come tell me about your education." She looked at Judy and grinned. "A master's degree, did she tell you?" Judy scowled.

Gordon and Allen went around the house looking at all of Allen's handiwork. The broken railing going up to the bedrooms. (Frank loosened it.) The new floorboards around the refrigerator. (Frank disconnected the defrost line and the wood rotted.) The badly wired 220 volt outlet in the kitchen that had a short in it (Frank), the leaking pipes in the bathtub (Frank's work in progress, just waiting for it to rot thru the floor)

Laurie stood in front of Mom like she was in front of the class, weaving a tale full of buzzwords while Mom looked for holes. Just like defending her doctoral thesis would have been. As if – Laurie never finished high school, and made six figures. Tax free. Who needed grad school?

Frank and Judy huddled in the corner and almost decided to make an excuse and go home before dinner. Then Gordon and Allen came to ask Frank detailed questions about the state of Mom's house, he being the expert. Gordon rubbed Judy's shoulders as they sat there, and she felt calmer. It was so much easier when they were kids. They always got along even tho there was the most space between them as siblings. Gordon wasn't as determined as the others, not as pushy, and they used to just sit around and talk. They never talked any more. There was so much more to deal with now. But it was nice being together now.

Gordon leaned in and kissed her neck gently. "I love you, sis."

"I love you, Gordon." She smiled and shut her eyes.

Allen saw the kiss, and smiled happily.

Laurie saw the kiss, and winked at Allen.

Frank saw the kiss, and squeezed her hand.

Mom saw the kiss, and grew suspicious.

Laurie went to the bathroom again. Allen mentioned it to Mom, and Gordon remarked how small women's bladders could get. Judy wondered if Laurie could have an infection. Mom was silent.

* * *

Sam and Dave watched Rick and Alice drive by and park in front of the house.

"There he is." Sam wiped fog off the window with his sleeve.

"Roger that." Dave mumbled the time into his mini voice recorder.

Rick strode up the flagstone walk to Mom's front porch, with Alice stumbling behind him on high heels he'd insisted she wear. He hated the house. He hated growing up there. His happiest memory was how they used to play Monopoly as kids. He did anything to get a monopoly, and then immediately slapped on hotels, to break everybody else.

Allen opened the door.

"You," Rick said coldly, and brushed on by. "I'll deal with you later." He really liked saying that.

Alice smiled shyly as Allen helped her with her coat. They talked about the baby. He wished she'd come by again because Mom really loved seeing that baby. Alice kept her answers short and avoided his eyes.

Rick found Mom in the living room with his least favorite siblings sitting around sucking up to her. "Where are the kids, honey?" Mom asked, peering around him into the hall.

"We're having a little trouble with the kids," he said, prepared to resist her prying. "Nothing serious. I'll talk about it later."

Rick looked around the room and sat down next to Mom. Scumbags all, soiling his – soon to be his – antique furniture. Gordon the drug addict and petty criminal, Judy the besotted hippie, Frank the crackpot inventor. And now Allen. He was going to have to lay down the law to Mom. She couldn't be allowed to keep criminals around

He was so glad they only did this once every couple of years. He scowled as Alice came into the room and chose a chair on the other side of the fireplace. She sat there and studied her hands. He wondered if he should discuss her little problem now, or wait until they were all gathered. For maximum effect.

Mom had called to invite Rick and Alice and the kids to dinner. She'd told him she had an announcement to make, something important to their future. He'd come prepared, with arguments for everything from him as executor of the will, to the great retirement home she could move into right away. Whatever she had in mind, he was ready to turn it to his advantage. Just sign here, Mom.

Someone was clumping down the stairs on loud shoes. Mom cleared her throat. "Rick, this is Gordon's fiancee, Laurie. She's a dancer."

Rick turned around with a sneer – Let's see Gordon's skank – and stopped in his tracks. His mouth dropped open. He felt like he'd been hit with a taser. Roxy.

First he felt embarrassed. God, Mom knew he was fucking a stripper. Then he thought of how hot she looked, and felt only lust. Maybe he could get her alone upstairs in the towel closet. Then he thought of her marrying Gordon and felt like beating his brother to death over it. Then he thought of continuing to fuck her once she was married. Take that, little brother. She loves me more than you.

Alice watched the thoughts play over Rick's face. She had learned to read him very well. What his face said now was that she was going to get it when they got home. For something.

Laurie sat down beside Alice and said something nice about her hair. It broke the silence. Rick sat down and stared at the fire. Gordon said something to Mom. Allen said something to Frank. Gradually the noise level got loud enough that Alice could say something back to Laurie. Laurie seemed nice. Gordon was getting old to still be single, and she wished them both the best of luck.

Rick ignored Frank and Judy, found his wife beneath contempt, and Allen beneath notice, and was embarrassed by Laurie, so he applied himself to wooing Mom and edging Gordon out. The thing to do was to convince Mom to sign her life insurance over to him so he could leverage it into multiple rewards. Twice what it was worth. Triple. She could enjoy it while she was alive and still leave it for her heirs. He could pay off his debts and invest the rest in sure things, and take care of the old bitch even tho she'd never appreciate it.

Alice watched Rick sparring with his brother. As Rick's wife, it was her place to disapprove of any choice Gordon cared to make. But she liked Gordon, even tho she had to join Rick in his disapproval. Laurie looked like a lot of fun. Maybe she could see more of them if they met at Mom's house, or she could visit them wherever it was they lived.

Rick brought out the present he'd brought with him and gave it to Mom with a flourish. It was a silver framed professional photo of Rick and his family. She cooed over it and made to hand it off to Allen, but Rick grabbed it out of her hands and patted his pockets, pulling out a small hammer. That's how much he loved his mom, he was going to put her gift up by himself. She beamed at him. Rick brushed past Allen and started making noises in the hall. "You," he called, and Allen turned and followed.

Rick handed everything to Allen to hold. "I need a step stool," Rick ordered loudly. "You owe me four months rent," he whispered. "How dare you be here?"

Allen shrugged. "Your mother asked me to help." He went to the kitchen for a stool.

Rick fumed until Allen got back. I'll tell Mom on you. He mounted the step and looked for the right spot to put the picture. "I'm not having a criminal in my house," he hissed.

Allen smiled and handed him the nail. "She knows about my past."

Rick snorted and drove the nail into the wall. "We'll see about that."

He put the picture above the linen chest, where it had a 180 view of the front door, living, room, dining room, kitchen and back door. The den was out of sight thru the kitchen but you had to pass it to get there. Anyone using the stairs to another level had to pass it. It had pride of place. Everyone would see it, anytime they went anywhere in the house. They would be reminded how successful Mom's eldest was, and would subconsciously affirm his right to rule the family fortunes.

He admired his photo.. Traditional frame, professional portrait, happy family, and a surveillance camera and microphone. He pressed a corner. Ben, watching from the basement of Rick's headquarters, pressed the record button and noted the new feed in the log.

He fussed with his present for a long time, reluctant to go back into the living room and see his perfect Roxy sitting next to that mousy little disappointment of a wife. He decided to propose to her the next time they had sex and leave Alice for a real live trophy wife.

Rick was suspicious of the others. They seemed to be in on something together, and were treating him like the outsider. He wondered about Gordon and Allen, how much they had to do with each other. He wondered about Gordon's and Judy's designs on Mom's fortune. He knew they were plotting against him. Plotting to rob his inheritance. He was in the strongest position; of course they'd try to gang up on him. They always had in the past, and he'd always gotten them to stand together and then yanked the rug out from under all of them.

He put his tool back into his pocket, admired the stiffy it gave his pants from certain angles, and swaggered back into the living room brandishing the bulge at his Roxy.

The moment he was clear of the door, Laurie got up and went off to the bathroom, looking nauseous.

Judy raised her eyebrows at Alice. Alice tilted her head.

* * *

Sam and Dave watched Cindy drive up and park right behind their stakeout. They both froze up and pretended to be head rests until she strode by, arguing with Bill.

She parked around the corner from the house on a whim, behind a nondescript car with two men in it. She might have gone in the back way if they hadn't been there. She had such mixed feelings about the house, mainly because Mom still lived there. She remembered how they used to play slaves as kids. She ordered her slaves around and was haughty and mean, and tied them to her wagon like horses. She didn't like it when it was her turn to be slave, and always ran away.

Bill rang the bell and ran his hand thru his thinning hair. Cindy reached into her purse for a couple of fuck you pills. Allen opened the door. Cindy swept by him as if he were a doorman.

"Hey," Bill said, shaking his hand. "You didn't tell me you were staying here."

"Man," Allen shook his head in disbelief. "You never told me she was her daughter."

"Wow," they said together.

Mom was in the living room, holding court. Cindy walked in to see Rick and Gordon running competing cons, and Judy and Frank sitting zombielike in the corner. Poor Alice looked broken, and Cindy wanted to sit down and comfort her, but had to go bow and scrape to Mom first. Bill came in and bowed and scraped even lower, and Mom hardly noticed him kissing her hand. What a cold bitch. Bill wasn't good enough for Mom, and she rubbed it into Cindy's eyes every chance she got.

Mom had called and confessed that she was writing her will. And in a moment of weakness had asked if there was anything Cindy especially wanted. She hadn't been expecting everybody to be there for dinner, but it had struck her funny that Mom wanted Bill to come along. Mom hated Bill.

Cindy's eyes narrowed involuntarily when she looked at Mom. Like she was squinting thru gunsights. Her eyes passed over Allen. She looked at Gordon and counted the number of charges she knew about, and thought about the times the family had to bail him out. Rehab. She looked at Judy and Frank and saw gray faceless shapes. Except that she'd like to slip Frank a couple of wakeup pills.

Cindy heard someone clacking down the stairs in cheap heels, missing the last one. Allen rushed to help. Cindy turned to see a drunk hooker wobbling into the room. She recoiled in horror and turned to the others to see if it was a joke. But they all acted normal. She hated her family.

"Cindy," Mom said. It sounded evil, snakelike, the way Mom said her name. "This is Gordon's fiancee, Laurie. She's a waitress."

Chapter Twenty

Rick scowled at them as they filed back in. Everyone else was already seated at the table, pretending there was nothing unusual about five people tromping in from outdoors, smelling like pot and booze.

Rick noticed Cindy missing a shoe and scored one for himself. He wouldn't say anything to her because he liked seeing her unhinged. Alice was alarmed because it showed Cindy at not her rational best. Mom wanted to say something about her daughter being barefoot, but she kept getting distracted.

Rick was talking about his company. He was branching out. Intelligent processing. Shared data. Nanotechnology. The monitor-all-the-rooms-in-your-house thing was just the domestic application. Corporate offices. Industry. Schools, hospitals, prisons, anywhere people get into trouble. The military. Street corners. Stores. Bathrooms. The applications were endless. He was planning on going public. It might technically be insider trading, but he would advise them to get in early.

Gordon sat down and started snickering at Rick. Cindy flipped her plate over to check the pattern. Judy grabbed a roll and nudged Frank for the butter. He was looking a little pale. Bill and Laurie exchanged longing glances.

Mom raised the happy subject of grandchildren. Mom was always ready to hint at how much she'd like to see her grandchildren. Gordon looked like he wanted to raise his hand and volunteer. Alice looked close to tears, and Rick looked furious.

"I had promised I would tell you later," Rick said gravely. "I want to assure you that no lasting harm has been done to the children." Mom gasped. He looked around at all eyes, except Alice's. "Yes, there's been some concern about the children. A question of negligence mixed with, shall we say, overzealousness. But we have a nanny with the children now, and we're getting Alice some help." He raised his hand, the head of the family. "No questions." He pointed at Alice, who shrank further. "I can't have you bothering her. You can see she's in a delicate state."

He turned to Mom – a man doing his valiant best. "Mom, I'd like to know if I could bring the kids by sometime. They need to see you more often. It's one of the symptoms of abuse, keeping people from their loved ones. I should have known, but never mind that now." He put on his earnest cub scout face. "We've neglected your part in our family, and I want to make up for it." He giggled inside. Free childcare.

Allen began bringing in platters and bowls full of food. Judy got up to help. They whispered in the kitchen. "Child abuse?"

"It's got to be Rick. Alice isn't capable of it."

"Asshole."

Cindy could see that Alice was heavily tranked. She grabbed her hand under the table. "What are you on?" she whispered.

"Seroquel."

"What do they say you've done?"

"Child abuse."

"Physical? Sexual?"

"Felony." They were talking about electroshock. Supervised visitations. House arrest.

Rick was talking to Mom, negotiating weekends with the grandkids. Mom decided that she never liked Alice, and would gladly have the kids to herself. Rick found himself promising to let her pick them up and drop them off, forgetting that he'd just gone out and sabotaged her car. It could go at any moment. But Rick, aware of the trade value of grandchildren, wanted to make sure she got as deeply involved as possible. To punish Alice.

Mom was eating it up. Volunteering to watch the kids any time day or night. Alice was pale.

While he was on a roll, Rick decided to reinforce his claim to the throne. He had the heir, after all, he might as well use the bastard. "Speaking of wills," he said, "I've started a foundation for the children, so that if I die," he bowed his head, "they will be taken care of for life. And they can't spend it on drugs or alcohol," he looked at his brothers and sisters. "Only education." They gave him dirty looks. "That means I have experience with complex insurance and inheritance products," he said. Scams, really. But they qualified him to take everything his mother owned. Rip off your own family first.

He turned to Mom. "Let me help you with the technical parts of your will. I can explain it all." Mom smiled at him, and Gordon started making noises. In fact, they all objected to his kind offer to help their poor old mother, who struggled to understand cereal boxes. He explained that he was only interested in what was best for Mom. Mom understood, but the rest of them questioned his intentions. Boardwalk and Park Place were mentioned. They brought up the hurricane fund in tenth grade. They accused him of treating Mom like a child.

Rick was tired of their disrespect. "I know best. As acting head of the family," he began. Everybody stared for a minute. And then they laughed. "Nobody else is qualified to lead this family," he said, standing up to prove his point.

He pointed at Judy. "You're a drug addict and an alcoholic." She looked at him. Duh. "So you're not fit to handle the family's assets.

"And you," he pointed at Cindy, "are obviously addicted to pain killers." Cindy stuck her tongue at him. He stuck his back. "You're not fit to run things, either."

"Gordon here," Rick shrugged elaborately, "has never held a job for more than six months, plus there was that time in jail." Gordon scratched his nose with his middle finger. "So he's not qualified to handle that kind of responsibility. That leaves me."

He would have been okay if he'd stopped at demolishing his brothers and sisters. Mom knew all that, anyway. But she got really upset when Rick accused Allen of selling drugs to Judy and stolen goods to Gordon. Really upset at great length. They all hung their heads until the storm passed.

Allen came in with the macaroni and cheese, looking angelic, and said they were ready to eat. He'd cooked all that food and never broke a sweat. Mom smiled fondly, and asked Allen to say grace.

It was mercifully short and to the point, from his days in prison. Mom, Alice, and Frank bowed their heads. Everybody else glared at Allen.

An enormous amount of turkey meat got piled onto everyone's plates. They were all set to eat just as much stuffing, creamed onions, green bean casserole, candied sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes and gravy as they could. The cranberry sauce bowl was already empty. They were all just tearing into their luscious, steaming piles of food when Mom spoke the fatal words.

"I'm writing a new will," she said calmly, slicing her turkey.

Judy nodded and kept shoveling it in. Maybe she should write a will, too.

Rick paused, then speared a sweet potato. "I'm so gad to see you're moving forward after Dad's death," he said tentatively.

Cindy looked around at all the expensive antiques and silver in the room. She wasn't hungry anymore. Where was the nearest Valium?

"I made Mom the beneficiary of my will," Gordon announced, dribbling white sauce.

Laurie watched the siblings' reactions with interest, then caught Allen's eyes. He winked. What was he trying to say?

"Nobody's asked me why I'm writing a new will," Mom remarked.

"Nobody knew you'd written an old one," Gordon pointed out.

"Well, I have." Well, she would have.

"Did Dad have a will?" Rick asked.

"He left everything to me." Mom took a sip of water.

They'd heard rumors even when they were kids about a trust set up for them, to be paid out years ago, when they turned thirty-five. Family rumors: more entertaining than urban legends.

"Why are you writing a new will, Mom?" Judy finally asked. Nobody wanted to hear the answer.

"Well," Mom said, her voice burning with disappointment, "let's just say I've been coming to certain realizations about what I mean to some people. But none of you wants to hear about that."

They all protested that she was their favorite Mom, and each one deserved her love the most.

She shook them off. "Anyway, I was trying to decide who gets what, you know, going around the house tagging things in my head." That's where Cindy got her household ritual. "And I thought I should just ask you all what you wanted." She smiled. None of them liked that smile. "So that's why I asked you all over here for dinner."

The kids all praised Allen's food, thinking Mom did the cooking. Rick and Cindy said it tasted just like when they were kids. Gordon thought it tasted better. Mom glowered in silence, and Allen neglected to correct their error.

"Well," Cindy ventured, picking at her food, "if you're writing a will, I guess it would be appropriate to go thru the house and look at things. Would you like to go with us, or should we each make a list and bring it back?"

"Like a treasure hunt," Judy said, going for creamed onions. They'd all loved playing that game. It would make them feel less awkward about picking over Mom's stuff in front of her. Mom waved: whatever.

Gordon said, "I'd like my bed, and my dresser, if you don't mind." He smiled fondly and popped a roll into his mouth. "For, you know, kids. Maybe I could get a couple of beds, in case I have lots of kids." He thought a moment. "Matter of fact, I could use all the children's furniture. That stuff is real furniture, not like the cardboard things we sleep on now. We couldn't break our beds when we were kids, even when we tried." Mom arched an eyebrow. "Just kidding, Mom."

"Maybe we need the beds and things for our children," Rick objected.

"I don't want anything," Judy said around a mouthful of sweet potatoes.

"Why don't you do an inventory, and put it all in a hat, and draw it four ways," Rick suggested. "Then we can trade for what we want."

"No I am not sitting down to a board game with you," Gordon said.

"Nor I you," Rick retorted. "You cheat." He paused. "All right, I think this is a horrible subject to be talking about over dinner," he said, using his CEO voice. "Mom is going to live forever, and we won't have to deal with splitting up this wonderful home between bickering sons and daughters." Because he was going to get it all anyway.

Laurie looked around. Nice stuff, old fashioned as shit, but worth loads on ebay. An estate sale would bring in a pretty penny. The best solution would be to burn it down around Mom's dead body. But she would be just as happy living there herself. She and Gordon. They could have a kid. She could quit the business and raise kids, and he could make tons of money selling drugs and guns in this tony suburban neighborhood. "Let's live here," she whispered to Gordon.

"There's another reason I called you together," Mom said when they resumed stuffing their faces. "It's a festive reason this time." They all looked up. "Gordon and Laurie are getting married, and they're going to have a baby."

They all stopped chewing. They all turned to look at Gordon and Laurie. This was the first Laurie had heard of either notion, and she did some quick thinking. A quarter of the inheritance. Maybe she could wring Mom for more, considering the heir she had to produce, and her beguiling ways with people she sucked dry. On the other hand, she was already sucking Rick and Bill dry of their share without lifting a finger. A quarter directly, and three fourths blood money. Either way, she thought she could get used to living there.

What did it for her was when Gordon pulled out a nice big diamond engagement ring and got down on one knee. Laurie knew without trying it on that it was too big, but that was no problem. She was going straight to the dealer with it anyway, to see how much she could get for it. Gordon beamed with pride. Mom had a condescending smirk on her face. "Wow," Laurie gushed. "It's beautiful." There was soap in the crannies. Maybe it hurt coming off her pudgy fingers.

"Of course I'll marry you," she said, sweeping him into her arms in a rush, grinning triumphantly at Bill and Rick, smiling her best Roxy smile at Mom – her newest regular.

"Laurie Fuchs," Bill said, and suppressed a nervous giggle. It should have been Laurie Kiepon.

Rick was stricken. It should have been Roxy Fuchs.

Cindy had eyes only for the ring. Mom's engagement ring. That ring was Cindy's. Mom had promised it to her. How could it be on Laurie's hand? Fucking Gordon. He conned it out of her. That bitch isn't pregnant. That's my ring.

Judy spent time looking at Laurie's middle, and at Gordon's middle, and imagining the combination of two such unique energies.

Mom spent time looking at Laurie's middle and calculating how long it would be until she had a new pet grandbaby.

Gordon went and knelt by Mom's side. "I owe it all to you," he began. "Everything." She patted his head. "Mom?" he said in a little boy voice, full of hope and promise. "I was thinking. Laurie was just talking about living here someday. It would be a great place to raise kids, you know." He nudged her. "Of course you know." He gave her a squeeze. "Mom? Do you think you could leave me the house? And most of the furniture?" He looked to see how she was taking it. She looked interested.

"I don't care about the investments," he insisted. "Except that Rick shouldn't get his hands on everything, because he's like a drunk with a bottle. Did you know he has gambling debts? I think he's got an addiction problem." He laughed and did a clown head-wobble. "I should know, right? Because the family came to my rescue when I needed it." He turned serious and put his hand on her knee. "I think Rick needs rescuing now. From himself." They both looked at Rick, who was scowling at Alice. "He'll lead the family into ruin. I just thought I'd warn you. You don't know him like I do."

He put his head in her lap. She stroked his hair. "Hey, Mom?" She hummed. "I'd really like to look good for the wedding pictures. Could I have a small loan so I can get that tooth capped?" He peeled up his lip so she could see the rot. That's what meth does to teeth.

"I'm sorry, son," Mom said, looking pained. "I don't think I should advance you any more money until you pay me back some of what you owe me."

"But Mom," he pleaded. "I'm in pain."

Mom looked to Allen for strength. They'd discussed it at length recently. Allen had insisted that her concerns for Gordon's financial situation were completely unfounded. According to Allen, Gordon made more than Saint Peter.

Gordon saw the look. "You're taking his advice? You're letting him tell you what to do with your own money?"

"Well, actually, I am. He's got very conservative ideas about money, and I think he makes a very good advisor." Gordon sputtered.

Rick screamed, "But he never once paid the rent on time. What are you talking about, good advisor?"

They whirled around, furious. Allen had something to tell them. He stood in the door holding his homemade peach pie and looked like he was going to say he put antifreeze in the dogfood.

"This is my very own mama's peach pie that she used to make for weddings and funerals and such," he began. Everybody looked at him. "She would have made it for engagements, too. But I didn't know about Gordon and Laurie when I made it." He got a concerned look on his face. "Now, I don't want you thinking I made it for a funeral or nothing. That wouldn't be very nice, and I've turned a corner in my life and just don't want to play that kind of joke no more." He spun the pie slowly. "Well, what I'm trying to say, it's special, with you here and all. I wanted to tell you, your mother, well, she's a good person, and I'm trying my best to take real good care of her."

Rick looked like he was listening to a homeless guy offering to wash his car. Cindy had a fixed half-smile of disapproval. Gordon and Judy weren't listening. The non-blood relatives got it first. They'd all been there.

The siblings themselves didn't realize what he was saying for quite some time. Then there was dawning horror on their faces. And all hell broke loose when Mom waved a ten carat diamond ring and he said, "Aren't you going to congratulate me? I'm going to be your stepdad."

Nobody touched Allen's peach pie.

* * *

Sam and Dave ran back to the car to get the parabolic microphone, but by the time they got the kinks out of it and set it up, all they could get was screaming.

The Feds got back in the car and sat there, dejected and out of marching powder, watching as the family streamed out of the front door and dispersed, some quite dramatically. Gordon stopped by with a new supply, thank God, and they paid him with money Allen had given them, that he'd taken from Rick's coat.

"All this stuff going on," Dave said, using his little fingernail to scoop up powder and snort it. "How am I supposed to correlate reports on all of these people? Where do I start?"

Sam looked at him. "Just the facts, man."

They laughed so hard the car shook. "I've always wanted to say that."

Dave passed him the ziplock. "Well you had to wait a long time because there's not a single true fact in these reports. And my job just got a lot harder, with this whole network being revealed. You can't make shit up when everything connects like this."

They watched and took notes as various suspects vandalized the resident's minivan. Rick made random cuts under the car. He got an air hose instead of the fluid line he was going for. Whatever. Gordon snapped the aerial. Cindy slashed the tires and made off with a locked tackle box from the back porch. Bill broke the wing mirror. Laurie poured gasoline on the lawn, spelling out a biblical sentiment.

* * *

Judy wrote things down on the way home. Ideas. Conversations. Suspicions. Frank was a little wobbly on the road. He went very slowly. They talked a little. Judy was happy for Gordon and Laurie, and even for Mom and Allen. It blew her mind, but sure, why not? Frank was relieved. Never again. He felt his whole life opening up before him. They held hands until they pulled into the driveway.

* * *

Rick drove home in a black mood. He was outraged. He knew Mom's marrying Allen would mean no estate to inherit. That idiot ex-con would squander it all. So, she was writing a will. She was leaving it all to Allen. He felt nothing but contempt for Allen – how dishonest that he was going to marry Mom instead of killing her, like he'd been told.

Alice sat as quiet as a mouse. She looked forward to the kids knowing Grandma better. Rick had been so reluctant, for so long. And now this complete about-face. If they were going to keep the kids from their own mother, at least there was someone they could turn to. She stifled a sob. It wouldn't do to break down in front of Rick now, not when he was in that kind of mood.

Alice was foolish enough to say something about Laurie when they got home, and that did it for Rick. He was very rough getting her clothes off, and made her do all sorts of things where he couldn't see her face. With her heels on.

* * *

Cindy had her gun out when Bill reached the car. She was aiming over the roof of the car, steadying her gun hand, trying to draw a bead on Mom. Mom was nicely silhouetted in the open front door. She wasn't even moving. But Cindy couldn't center on her. The gun kept bending.

Bill drove home. Cindy was outraged. What would the neighbors think? Mom, prancing around, acting half her age. Allen, what a fucking gold digger. And the inheritance. How could Mom be thinking of keeping any of Cindy's rightful property from her? And her engagement ring!

Bill wasn't listening. He was jealous of Allen. He'd always fancied old people sex and wished he could have some. Maybe not Mom, tho. Maybe Allen's mother. Later, Bill stared at his wife's comatose body and thought very hard for a very long time. Yes, he should leave Cindy, and the sooner the better. What a wreck. Look at all those pill bottles on her bedside table. But running after more pussy wasn't the answer, and he knew it. He needed to disentangle himself, and be alone for awhile. Maybe go on a retreat. Become a hermit until he had himself straightened out and could function in a way that wouldn't attract another Cindy, from another family like that. One Fuched up family or another. His chuckling stirred Cindy's sleep.

* * *

Gordon drove home hardening in his new resolve to kill Mom. Normally Gordon would never think of harming his dear mother. But there was Allen fixing to take his place as man of the house. There was Allen twisting her around to where she wouldn't help him out even when he really needed it. He should be mad at Allen, but Allen was just a pawn.

No, it was Mom at the root of his misery. She'd been holding the strings for thirty years. Gordon do this, Gordon fetch that. Gordon entertain me. Gordon listen to my incessant bitching. And for what? To have a petty criminal spending his inheritance on drugs? It was the ultimate betrayal. If anyone should spend Mom's money on drugs, it should be him. Replace Gordon as her favorite, eh? Nobody replaced Gordon.

Laurie shuddered at the memory of Mom's upper arms. They were wrinkled and wobbly. Mom was a spiteful, wrinkled old lady, who didn't deserve to live. And what could Allen be thinking, in bed with that whale? She'd taken him for gay since he didn't fancy her. But into old people? Gross.

* * *

Mom and Allen went about the dining room straightening up the table. "Bill asked me to put in a good word for him," Allen said, taking up the salt and pepper shakers. Mom snorted a dismissal. "I know Bill," he persisted. "He used to be my boss. He's a really nice guy. I like him."

Mom swept the crumbs off the tablecloth. Wonder who to give the good linen to. "He's a spineless husband and a useless son-in-law."

"He owns a big trucking firm," Allen protested. "He's a multi-millionaire."

Mom pinched her lips. "I can't see him running a real business, tho. A few trucks and some illiterate drivers, maybe." She moved the candelabra over to the sideboard.

Allen got mad. "You have no idea how hard it is and how complex it is," and sputtered to a stop.

Mom leveled a stare at him. "My husband's family ran empires and armies."

Allen rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, dear." He didn't suppose being engaged entitled him to a goodnight kiss, and he was right.

Later, Allen walked thru the hall on his way downstairs to his nest. He noticed Cindy's flowers and threw them into the garbage, sticking his tongue at Rick's picture as he passed.

Ben saved the clip for the blooper reel.

Even later, Frank's bed warmer went off. It was on a timer. Frank set it to self destruct at 2:30 a.m. Frank had intended it to be at Mom's feet, keeping them toasty warm. But Allen decided to use it for a different purpose. At 2:46 a.m. a special gel inside the heating pad began to ooze thru the plastic liner. The warm liquid spread rapidly thru the cloth cover. The wet pad contacted the electric source and became electrified. The cat died loudly. The smell lingered for days.

Chapter Twenty-One

Judy had trouble rousing Frank. He was pale and quiet. He sat in his chair after breakfast instead of going downstairs to his shop. Sometime midmorning, he announced he wanted to take a hot bath. Judy listened with one ear to make sure he didn't slip and hit his head. Having no idea what was wrong with him, she was free to worry about each situation, each environment, each action that might possibly injure Frank. For a minute she worried about an asteroid hitting the house. But she got over that when she found a roach and sat there hitting it for awhile.

Frank got out of the bath feeling a little light headed. He called her, and she went in to find him slumped on the floor with the towel draped around his middle. He was fumbling with it and staring. A stroke? But he roused, and was right when she asked what day it was. It scared the hell out of her, tho. She felt a deep, foreboding sadness, watching her husband fade before her eyes. Now that she loved him more than ever. Now that they'd cleared the air and could begin again. It just wasn't fair. All the good stuff kept getting snatched away from her.

She put Frank into bed, tucking him in and making sure he was cozy and warm. She fussed around for awhile, feeling his forehead, listening to his heart, putting pillows under his legs, filling the hot water bottle. She anxiously flitted around the room, trying to do everything possible to ward off trouble. It occurred to her that Mom, as demon sorceress, was sucking the life out of her husband. She ran and got salt and made a ring around him. she lit a candle. She went off and did things with the pictures she'd brought back from Mom's house. Not very nice things.

Judy spent the first part of the morning cleaning her house. There were piles everywhere. There were always piles everywhere i her house. But the piles had changed. No longer were they jumbles of random objects piled toward the ceiling. They were all like objects, all stacked orderly, all flagged gaily. And now there were less of them. Judy had discovered freecycle.org.

She found Frank sleeping peacefully. He looked thinner. The flesh was starting to hang off his bones. He was starting to look old. He'd been writing in a notebook. It was a will, signed and dated, leaving everything to her, superceding all other wills. Like he needed to do that. What a nice gesture. She kissed his bald head and shut the bedroom door. He'd never written another will. Except the one giving all his assets to mom, so judy would have to give up her art notion and get a job. She didn't know about that one.

She spent the next few hours posting items that she wanted to be rid of. National Geographics. Gothic romance novels. Excess kitchen equipment. Curtain rods. Old clothes. Lamps. Puzzles. Fish bowls. Used mom, cranky. Mother for sale, no offer refused.

At lunch, Frank looked no better, and willingly went back to bed. He was warm, and Judy didn't like how pale he was, and called the doctor. 10:30 tomorrow. Plenty of fluids. Keep him warm. Flu.

Judy went on a cleaning frenzy, looking for a book she remembered that had something particular to say about just the situation she was in. Usually this impulse would lead her to one distraction after another, and she would spend an hour pottering around the east end of the living room. But because she was looking for one particular piece of information, she ended up moving a wall of u-haul boxes filled with old linens, reorganizing a bookshelf, and putting three boxes of books next to the front door ready to go.

Judy was angry with herself for not knowing where the book was. One little piece of information, and it took her half a day to find it. That was just wrong. She could see how the way she lived, the sheer mess she wandered thru every day, dragged her down like wearing a dress in a swimming pool. It was a way of isolating her from her own competence. How could she begin to fail her potential when she couldn't move around her house? She could blame her lack of success on the mess she made. She could blame her mess on Mom. Well, okay, on the numbing she had to do to cope with Mom.

She was angry with Mom because Mom had gone out of her way to fling all of Judy's shortcomings in her face last night. Just like every time she saw her. Which is why she never saw her. It only now began to dawn on her that this was a little one sided. Mom couldn't be that vindictive, to always be scoring points of her oldest daughter. It just showed Judy's insecurity to take it that way. And Judy was still insecure. At 53. I ask you. Still looking over her shoulder to see who was judging her, still second guessing every decision and action and stray thought. Still anxiously peering into the future in front of every turning point. This is why she drank. Because when she was drunk, she couldn't make the effort to turn her head. She knew she was shielded by alcohol from mental abuse. Because of its nerve deadening effect. And pot changed her brainwaves. Psychic vampires couldn't suck her dry because they didn't know the frequency. But she wasn't drinking that day. She was staying home watching Frank. She was out of anything to drink, and should already have gone to the liquor store, but something told her to stay with him. So she threw herself into cleaning her house, and it worked to take her mind off it.

She smoked more dope to ease her anxiety. Half a joint every twenty minutes. Repeat if needed.

* * *

Rick dropped the kids off at school and returned to the house. He'd left Alice with the baby because the nurse wasn't there yet. He was looking for a live in nanny. He was thinking of one who looked like Roxy. He'd seen her picture online. She was from Romania.

There had been a tense moment in the car, telling them why Mommy wasn't taking them to school. He'd been really tempted to tell them it was because Mommy didn't love them anymore, but he couldn't stand the tears, so he said Mommy was very sick (he actually used the word crazy), and was getting the help she needed (his expression said she was going to die). Grandma would be watching them. They really didn't like that. Grandma smelled. He yelled at them about having proper respect for their elders. Damned kids.

He stood in the doorway while Alice cleaned the kids' rooms, jeering at her. She was a terrible mother. Not fit to raise his children. If he wasn't willing to protect her she'd be going to jail and never allowed to see the kids again. She was in tears, on her hands and knees getting dust out from under the beds. He trapped her there and disciplined her with the broom handle, to start with.

* * *

Cindy woke up with a fearsome headache. Nothing was right. Her head was at Bill's smelly feet, the air conditioning was on full blast and there were no covers on the bed. The curtains were down off the rods. The bathroom door was blocked with towels and cosmetics. The carpet was torn up on the grand staircase, the rips snagging at her feet as she went downstairs. The statuary in the foyer was smashed, the ferns were torn up. The dining room chairs were slashed. The mahogony table had a long, deep scratch down the middle of it.

There was a wonderful roast smell filling the house. The neighbor smoking a ham? She wanted some of whatever it was. Maybe she should call for some hotwings.

She went into the kitchen. The oven light was on. One of the dogs, she couldn't tell which one, was turning slowly on the rotisserie, dripping juices. The other, definitely Muffy, was partly down the disposal.

Bill awoke to Cindy's hysterical screaming, and called the police. They were halfway thru the interview when he noticed that the note left by the perpetrator was in Cindy's handwriting.

Bill quietly renewed his vow to leave. He was terrified that he would be next.

* * *

Gordon didn't sleep that night. He held court at the club until the sun came up. Crank and coke and Jack Daniels and he could stay up forever. He spent a lot of time thinking about how he could conveniently kill Mom and have someone else take the blame for it.

Laurie, too, stayed up late, but she was alone, back at the trailer. It was her night off, and nights off were sacrosanct. Usually spent sleeping as long as possible, and then again as soon as possible, aided by alcohol and Valium. This night she didn't want to sleep. She spent her night drinking Patron and modifying those chocolate candies she'd gotten from Gordon. With ground up sleeping pills dissolved in cinnamon schnapps. Spiteful lady didn't deserve to live.

She did up all the chocolates. Then she selected a nice Tiffany gift box to give to Mom. She also chose a nice box to give a few chocolates to Cindy. But how to deliver it. Maybe the best way would be as an anonymous gift, since Cindy would be suspicious if she were to offer it in person. Laurie did up the last of the chocolate in a little ring box, something Rick had given her a great ring in. The dealer didn't want the box, and it was a great box, so she was glad to get some use out of it. Some lucky asshole.

Laurie put all her little gifts into her stripper bag, and forgot about them until she found them while looking for a cream to put on a rash that had come up on her arms.

* * *

Allen came outside to get the paper. There was something wrong with the grass at the edge of the street. He went to look. He had to look from both sides. He tried reading it backwards. Words etched into the grass with gasoline. Very clear, if not very legible.

Ho Babbleon

Allen went around cleaning up the house. There were glasses in the plants. There were cigarette butts in the bookshelves. There were a number of disposable pill packages in the bathroom trashcan.

Mom grilled Allen about Laurie's waitress job. Allen never was much good under torture. Half an hour without a cigarette and he was making things up to tell her.

He had a little more discretion than that. He'd been in prison, he knew how to keep a secret. She even wheedled, and he withstood. Just gave a little bit of information. Of course, Mom was using her time tested whittling technique, and soon had all the pertinent details, with Allen still thinking she didn't know a thing. Men.

He told her all about the club, suitably censored. About Gordon's enterprises. Like a bellhop, he said. Full service. About Rick's and Bill's obsession with Laurie. Maybe a little familiar, he said. About Laurie. He tried not to say anything about Laurie.

"So she performs tribal dances on stage," Mom mused. "How large an audience?" she was trying to picture it. Laurie in Balinese dress.

"A couple of hundred sometimes. More intimate groups sometimes." Allen sidestepping every issue.

Mom got the image of a theatre, a cultural center, embassy parties. "Is alcohol served there?"

"No, I don't drink. A guy can go to a place and not drink, can't he?" Allen started to sweat.

"How can she be a waitress and also dance?" Mom was really thinking about it now. "Does she fund her dream of dancing with tips from her waitress job?"

"Well, she's not really a waitress. Ah. She's an artist, a real artist. She's spellbinding to watch. Tears come to your eyes," he said.

Mom looked like she wanted to be in the audience. Exotic dancing. Middle Eastern, African. Mom had trouble thinking either Rick or Bill cultured enough to appreciate it. "Well, how did she meet them? Where did you say she works?" Mom was just getting started.

"Oh, they didn't meet her at work." Allen thought fast. "She's, ah, also a dance teacher." Mom looked surprised. "They're taking salsa lessons." He looked secretive. "Don't tell their wives."

"Together?"

"Yes, uh, it's a class. Once a week."

"Hmmm. They must be closer than I thought." Rick and Bill have always hated each other.

Mom was suspicious. She retired to the den to call her family and see how they were doing this morning.

She called Alice. "Mrs Fee-yooks is having a nap," retorted some unknown woman, wrangling the syllables out of her mouth. Mom could tell Rick had caught her mispronouncing their last name. "Leave a message?"

Rick is cheating on you, Alice. "No thanks, ask her to call me."

"And you are?"

What a bitch. "Grandma," she said coldly.

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll tell her."

Mom hung up, very dissatisfied. Alice was taking a nap at 10:30 in the morning?

She called Cindy. Did you find your shoe? Allen found it. You can stop by and get it whenever you like." They chatted a few moments. Inconsequentials. Cindy was incoherent and mumbling.

Then Mom mentioned what Allen told her. Did Bill ever say anything about taking you dancing? A cruise? Anything?

Cindy laughed dryly. "Bill has never danced," she said. He flatly refused at the wedding. And then he went off with that bitch Judy.

"Well, I thought I should warn you. No, never mind. It's just my suspicious mind." In the end Cindy was practically screaming at her to tell.

"Well, it's just that I think Bill might have an unhealthy fascination with Laurie," she said mildly. "It seems they know each other." Cindy didn't admit she'd noticed the looks between them. But she hedged, looking for more. "I think they're doing ballroom dancing," Mom said. "Together."

"I did not know that," Cindy replied. The tummy tango, eh? He's dead meat. Running off after yet another sister-in-law? That's a capital crime. He should at least lose his penis.

Mom called her dear little boy. "Gordon, I think you ought to know that Laurie might be unfaithful. I don't want to be nosy, son, but are you sure it's your baby?"

"Sure, Mom. Laurie's as honest as the day is long. She tells me everything. I know it's mine."

"Gordon says no," Mom said, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. Allen tried not to look dubious. He was getting tired of skirting around Laurie. It would be so much easier if he could come out and say it – It's her job to be unfaithful.

"I don't know if I want her in this family," she remarked to Allen. "She's very trashy. A hairdresser would be higher class."

"But she's going to give you another grandchild," Allen reasoned. "That makes up for a lot."

Mom sniffed. "She's not good enough to raise my grandchild."

She called Judy next. "I think Bill and Rick might already know Laurie," she said. It was so exciting. "Maybe even in the biblical sense."

Judy got madder the longer mom speculated. Ancient Delphic rites. "Exotic means stripper, Mom."

Mom was in the middle of reacting to this when Judy decided she'd had enough. "You self righteous hypocrite. What have you done to my husband?"

"What's wrong with Frank, dear?" she asked mildly.

"He's weak as a kitten. Did he have another one of his spells?"

"No," Mom said, unconvincingly. "He was fine while he was with me."

"I don't think I can forgive you for having sex with my husband."

Mom let fly. "How dare you say that? How could you think such a thing?" She acted like Judy was depraved and making things up. Totally offended. Judy wondered if she could be wrong. If Mom could be innocent at the same time Frank was lying in bed with marks on his neck. If she held both universes in her head simultaneously, she could believe both. But, she reminded herself, nobody else lived in a science fiction world. She didn't think the idea of multiple universes was correct. She wasn't sure, but she suspected there was more rationality to existence. Probably not.

* * *

Alice was developing a nice case of poison ivy on the backs of her hands. She dosed it with calamine lotion that was in the kids' bathroom. Then she cried for ten minutes.

She didn't need Mom to tell her that Rick was running around with Laurie. Alice could see it in his face. She didn't mind at all. She wished Rick would go ahead and run off with her and leave Alice and the kids alone. But no, he'd just ruin some other poor girl's life. Maybe Laurie is carrying his child. Poor baby, just one more kid for Rick to beat up on.

She renewed her efforts to kill her husband. Alice had bruises she couldn't hide. She wore dark glasses to cover the black eye, even tho the nurse acted like she was hiding drug abuse. Whatever she said to the therapist was immediately being used against her, so she was being very quiet and docile. She was used to acting like a mouse, to walking on eggshells. It was no different, there were just more eggshells, and the stakes were higher. She needed to stop Rick before he completely isolated her and gained total control over the kids. She was afraid for herself, but her injuries would heal. It was the fear in the kids' eyes she was struggling against, especially the older one.

When they got home last night, Alice followed him thru house with a knife. He yelled at her to get in bed, and she was so afraid of what he'd do to her that she scurried right under the covers. She kicked herself for being so weak. Maybe she deserved such cruelty. She considered killing herself, but a very small voice said, "Nah."

Rick left his diary open again. There was a figure for his total debt in the margin. Alice swallowed, her throat dry. He owed more than he was worth. But not more than Mom was worth. There was her name on a sheaf of insurance paperwork. Alice studied the information spread before her. Life insurance, money to Laurie, shadowy business deals, Russian mafia. He was in trouble.

Damn right Rick was in trouble. At that moment he was all distraught because of the threat to his inheritance. He wanted Mom dead for the insurance as well as the will, and here she was ruining it by marrying that idiot Allen. He had to kill her now. But how to do it?

Her car has already been sabotaged. He couldn't get around Allen to push her downstairs or attack her directly. He could ask her to meet him somewhere on the road and then run her car into a ditch, but Allen would be driving. He tried to track her habits so he would know the best time to shoot a rocket into the house, but the reception on his photo frame wasn't good, because of Cindy's saliva marksmanship. Rick was in a dilemma. How do you kill your mother if you have to do it yourself? Not poison, not accident, not sabotage.

"Directly, with your hands." He was meeting with Sam and Dave, continuing negotiations about their investment. "With a gun or a knife," Dave continued.

"Da," Sam explained. "Keep doing it until blood is the only ting moving."

Rick felt sick. A river of blood. He tried to get the subject back to where they were supposed give him money for phony stock, but they were being slippery.

"Can't invest right now, must have down payment first."

"What?" Rick wasn't hearing right. "You're supposed to give me money."

Sam shrugged. "Takes money to make money."

Rick looked at them. "Is this a con?"

Sam and Dave shook their heads. "No. For bribes," Sam explained. "Customs."

* * *

Cindy was afraid to touch her things, assuming Bill had already brought Laurie around, and she'd already contaminated everything with her cheap, nasty germs. She looked around her, wondering if they'd had sex on that table, that sink, the back of that couch. She went for the cleaners and the gloves.

Bill came in as she was emptying caustic chemicals down the drain. She could have flung them into his eyes, but that's the kind of sweet person she was. She rinsed the container and put it back under the sink. "So, you're seeing Gordon's fiancee?"

Bill stared at her. "No, of course not." Oh no.

"Oh? So, whose fur coat was that in Mom's closet?"

"Um. Mom's?"

"Don't be stupid." She read from the jewelry receipt she'd fished out of the trash. "Mrs. Kiepon. I don't recall a new fur coat. Maybe I dreamed it?"

"Yes, that's it," he said, leaping at straws.

""Who's Roxy? This one's made out to Roxy Kiepon." Bill swallowed. "How charming. Laurie. Roxy. How many others have there been?" Bill backed away and raised his hands. "It didn't even start with Judy, did it? You were cheating on me from the beginning."

He tried to back out of the room. "I wouldn't call it cheating. I never told you about the others because you never asked."

"I wasn't supposed to have to ask. And didn't the marriage vows say before all others?"

"But you were before all others. You've gotten the lion's share all these years, and you haven't been half as good to me as they have."

Amazing, his balls. "So why have you stayed around?"

"Because you'd fall apart without me."

"That's bullshit. You need me."

"Maybe on a bad day," he admitted.

* * *

Cindy slammed out of there and went to see Alice, making sure Rick was out. A nurse answered the door and acted vague, but wouldn't let her in.

She stopped off at Mom's to get her shoe. Mom was home, so she had to endure a blow by blow of Mom's latest perceptions. Mom was always tediously willing to tell the minute truth about her revelation du jour. That was why Cindy hated repetition.

She left Mom standing in the doorway, waving like a robotic target. Cindy had the gun out before she opened the car door. She opened it, propped her body against the doorframe, rested her wrist on the door, and fired just as Mom turned to go inside.

The shot went wild. It ricocheted, like in the movies. And the cops must have been around the corner, because she had barely turned the corner and they were there. Cindy fled, and they chased her. It took all her skill to evade them, and she really loved the chase. Plus, it was still her neighborhood after all these years, and it took no time to lose them. Her thumb began to itch. She rolled the window down and let her hair flow. She felt like Cruella DeVille.

* * *

Laurie was driving along the same streets, on her way to Mom's with a basket of goodies. Her stripper bag was on the seat beside her, and her poisoned packages lay where she could see them. She was entertaining herself with fantasies of forcing Mom to eat the chocolates, like in mud wrestling, stuffing it in her mouth. Tonight, for your entertainment, Foxy Roxy (Laurie in a sexy boxer costume, smoothing her hair with her gloves) versus Mom (old crazy woman with straggly white hair, dressed in ratty housecoat with carpet slippers, riding the pole like a broom, muttering curses.) It's Snow White and the Wicked Witch.

"Have an apple, little girl."

"Apple. I'll show you an apple, old lady."

Cindy pulled over to get a pill to calm her down. She saw Laurie cruising thru the neighborhood, coasting toward Mom's house. She turned around and pulled up behind her just like she did with Alice that first time. It was so easy. This time she looked at the gun on her lap and thought of a very satisfying thing to do.

Laurie pulled over. Cindy walked up to the car, the gun in her pocket, a friendly smile smeared on her face. At least she's got both shoes on, Laurie thought. Cindy loomed outside Laurie's window. She made to open the door but Cindy leaned against it. So Laurie rolled down the window.

Cindy slumped inward suddenly, her hand stuck in her pocket. She caught herself and stuck her head inside. She didn't smell of booze, because her unsteadiness was a side effect of the chemical medly that was just kicking in. Laurie wouldn't have smelled booze on her, anyway.

Cindy saw the pretty package. "What are you doing here?" she asked suspiciously.

"I was going to give this to Mom," Laurie said. "As a peace offering."

Cindy laughed. "Like that'd work. Are you really going to marry my brother?"

Laurie shrugged. "He's okay. He tries." He'll do for now.

Cindy eyed her and scratched her cheek. "Well, don't think you're getting the house. It's mine."

Laurie rolled her eyes. "I thought it was Rick's."

"As if. Speaking of Rick, you know you're hurting Alice by taking him to the cleaners. He beats her up."

Laurie disagreed. "I'm doing Alice a favor, diverting his attention. I've got bruises too, you know. But at least I'm getting paid for them."

"That's what I mean. He's giving it all to you. Alice has nothing."

"Nonsense. He's giving it all to the bank. He's in so deep it's not funny. The house, the cars, the company, the kid's trust, all mortgaged way beyond what they're worth. And he's behind on the payments. She's got nothing no matter what." She knew all about it. Far more than Alice knew.

"Rick wants to see Mom dead just for the insurance," Cindy stated. "We talked about this years ago. He gets the money. I want all the stuff."

Laurie crossed her arms. "We'll see."

Cindy walked back to her car. Laurie was still alive – Cindy was beginning to like her. She was holding Laurie's bribe for Mom in her hand. Cindy loved chocolates. She threw them into the back seat and forgot all about them as she drove into town for her appointment at the hair dresser's.

* * *

Laurie pulled up to Mom's house and found Allen wandering around the front yard looking at the house. He was trying to find the bullet hole. Laurie called him over to the car and handed him the smaller box that she'd intended for Cindy. "For Mom," she said. "As a gesture."

"She loves chocolates," he said, and eyed it greedily. It would end up in the trash if it got as far as Mom.

"Hey, have you seen my fur coat? I left it in the hall closet last night."

"Nope. I looked around there this morning. Nobody left any coats."

Laurie shrugged and scratched her arm. Another sugar daddy would replace it.

Cindy drove by Alice's house on the way home. The nurse was out getting the kids, so Alice talked to her at the side door, glancing out into the street nervously. Cindy told her what Laurie knew about Rick. Alice told Cindy about Rick's insurance policy on Mom. Mafia. FBI. Foreign spies.

They hugged and kissed. The laughed about having itchy arms. Then they got spooked, and Cindy fled.

* * *

Allen was on his way to the club. He arranged to meet his customers – Ben the security guy and Judy – at the cemetery, one of the nicest places he knew for hanging out in pubic smoking dope. They lounged on low walls and read inscriptions and talked at length about stealth smoking, about letting the sweet odor of pot fill the air so that regular people can smell it but don't know where it is. Urban realism. Walking the walk for a free drug society. As opposed to a drug-free society. Allen and Judy scratched at poison ivy on their arms. They were just bullshitting. It didn't matter what the conversation was about as long as there were drugs present.

They discussed Alice and Rick. Allen told them that Rick tried to force him to kill Mom with his bare hands. In the septic tank. He told them about two drive by shootings. He told them about Cindy paying him to run a relative off the road. He told them about Bill paying the Russian Mafia to kill Mom. He told them about the brakes failing.

Ben told them about the tight net of suspicion Alice was under. Child Protective Services investigated a complaint. (Laurie. After Rick bitched for two hours about those damned kids.) They found evidence of abuse, and took the kids. Alice was charged. Alice was undergoing treatment. Rick was orchestrating her defense. (There were cameras in Rick's office and his phone was recorded.) Alice sat and cried all the time. She never saw her kids, only heard them, and that tortured her more than anything. They cried for her. They asked Why? They asked Where's Mommy? Her door was locked from the outside.

Everybody agreed that if anyone was abusing the kids, it was Rick. Everybody agreed that Rick was laying the blame on Alice and punishing her so nobody would suspect it of him. Ever the righteous Rick.

Ben was upset because Alice was being imprisoned and tortured. He could see it all, but he couldn't call the cops. They would just arrest him for violating his contract. He could only film it with a view toward releasing it on YouTube.

They all agreed that they had to do something, but what could they do? They didn't want Mom dead. But they didn't want to risk anything themselves. They decided that Ben should contact the FBI. Just call the hotline and the local agent would get back to him.

Talk like that made them uncomfortable, so they split up. It was getting dark. Judy took a few of Allen's chocolates to give to Frank. But he was not up to it, so she put them in the box she took from Allen's a few weeks ago. Surprisingly, they were just like the chocolates that came in the box originally. She licked her fingers. Cinnamon. Alcohol. Maybe later. Maybe she could resist. She left them on top of a stack in the kitchen and rolled a joint, and thought no more about them. Good girl.

* * *

Rick made his attempt to kill Mom. Paralyzed by the need to be superior, he couldn't just drive by and shoot, as Cindy had done, even tho he knew nothing of her attempts, or anyone else's – its vibe as an option was tainted. He couldn't poison her, everyone was doing that. He couldn't run her over, because Allen already tried that. He couldn't get in the house to sabotage anything, or to throw Mom down the stairs or accidentally strangle her, because of that cretin Allen.

What was left? What was elegant? Burn the house down. Firebomb it. Explosives. Steal a truck and ram it into house with a short fuse. Call the police and tell them terrorists were inside. Watch them make short work of Mom and Allen. Rick wouldn't have to lift a finger. He liked that. There was even a way to make a profit from it. He could taste it. He got out the gas can and started fiddling with it.

On the other side of the house, Bill made his attempt on Mom's life. He'd tried to have her hit, only to fail by some miracle, so the Russian guy said. So there he was in front of her house doing it in person. He hated her house. It was so colonial, so ostentatious. He saw it in her eyes, the only time she'd seen his house, how much she detested the home he made for Cindy. He could tell that she thought everything in his house was cheap and second rate, a brand new Victorian with all the gingerbread the structure would hold. She thought her fucking daughter deserved better than Dollywood.

Well, he was just trying to please her fucking daughter. Cindy told him she wanted Mom dead. He figured he could help, even if he was in the middle of leaving her.

He ran into Rick, also attempting to burn down Mom's house.

"It's that synergy thing, isn't it?" Bill wondered.

Rick confessed the deep financial hole he was in. Bill confessed to planning to leave Cindy. Rick liked Bill more all the time.

Bill felt sorry for Rick. In the middle of listening to what was wrong with his life, Rick gave Bill an idea for automation that opened up a whole new field. He interrupted Rick's litany and explained his idea. Rick saw immediately how he could do it cheaply. They formed a partnership then and there, with warm mutual feelings. This was how family was supposed to work.

Together they made short work of setting Mom's house on fire. They even left a calling card, written on the grass. They split up and headed for their cars, smelling of gas and feeling toasty warm with brotherly love. Rick planned to get the new idea to his lawyer in the morning, and fuck Bill.

Once he was back in the car, Bill called Cindy to give her the good news. Cindy was incoherent. "My blood pressure has changed. I can feel it." Bill called down the phone at her. He'd caught her just as her drugs kicked in. "I'm only on for seven more minutes, because I am going back to sleep." She mumbled a bunch of things, and then said goodbye and hung up.

Bill shrugged, and decided to go to the club and see if Roxy would talk to him. Cindy snored on, oblivious.

Allen was down in his nest, having a cigarette. Since he and Mom got engaged, she moved him into one of the kids' rooms. It was now fitting that they sleep on the same floor. Allen shrugged. He wasn't getting any no matter where he slept. And she was now forcing him to keep his room clean. He needed this refuge more than ever.

He smelled gasoline. He heard voices outside. He opened the sliding glass doors to see what was going on, and heard the whump of a fire starting. Racing outside, he saw shadowy figures escaping, but was in time to turn on the hose and put out the fire. He got to the little fires at the base of the yard last. Die die die. The gasoline words on the lawn were getting more original. Better spelled, anyway.

Mom came downstairs to greet him when he came back in, wet and smelling of smoke and gasoline. "My hero," she cooed. "Gun fire, arson, you're always there to protect me." She snuggled in for a hug. "You're my guardian angel." Allen felt like a million dollars.

* * *

Bill crawled into bed at 3:30 in the morning, smelling of smoke, beer, and pussy. Cindy snored on. Forty-five minutes later, Ssyndee got out of bed, refreshed. And looked around. There was that troll Bill snoring away. She could see his horned feet his spiny backbone. He was never any help. The dragons were in the basement. She could hear them breathing. They had dark breath.

It was up her. She battled them downstairs and in the back yard. She chased them into he neighbor's trees. They hid behind the neighbor's car, and she shot them. Then she ran back and built a barricade so they couldn't come up the stairs after her. Then she went back to bed.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The new day dawned bright and rosy. A soft breeze fluffed the air. The birdies, glad to be alive, went twittering about their business. An entire family of grown up kids woke from dreams of killing their mother. Intense dreams, deeply revealing of their own psychoses.

Scary, really, to think that real, grown up people with jobs, families of their own, whole unique existences – productive members of society, would dream of stabbing and shooting and gutting and ripping and beating the soil of their very souls.

* * *

Judy woke next to Frank, felt his pulse, felt his forehead, then snuggled next to him. They lay in bed watching the room getting light for a long time. Eventually Judy made coffee and they sat in bed and talked some more. It was like they were just getting to know each other. Later, they made love. It was comfortable. They both got out of bed smiling to themselves.

* * *

Rick woke next to Alice, who shrank from his energy even in sleep. He wanted Roxy so bad it hurt. A woman of substance, energy, intelligence. A real woman, unafraid of being a woman, able to take his maleness. To nurture him as a woman should. Not like this parody of a marriage, this ersatz female just lying there, passive and afraid.

Alice got up, and in her doziness, wasn't as careful as she should have been, and mentioned Cindy. She asked for it, really. She shouldn't make him mad. It was a casual mention, about how Cindy seemed to have mellowed over the years.

Something in her voice made him suspicious, and he soon had her pinned down and sobbing as she told him the truth. One more reason why she wasn't a fit mother. One more reason why she didn't deserve him, and he was wasting his time thinking she could be taught to satisfy him. He didn't want just adequate, anyway. He wanted perfection. And Alice had just failed on yet another front. Infidelity. Other women. His own sister.

But it wasn't really Alice's fault. She'd already proved herself a failure as a human being, and he no longer expected anything but failure from her. This time it was all Cindy's doing. It was obvious that Cindy had seduced her as a way of getting to him. It was nothing more than a plot to hurt him. Alice deserved what she got for betraying him, certainly. But Cindy was to blame for the whole sick idea. She deserved the worst.

So Rick set out to kill Cindy. It seemed so logical. If he was willing to kill his mother, what harm would it do to rid the world of another evil at the same time? He only needed to get Cindy and Mom together, and he could take them out with one little device. He'd seen them on the internet. Mini car bombs. Attach them anywhere, timer or remote, magnetic or glue-on. And boom.

Or use a long-range rifle. He began fantasizing complex scenes where the two heads would line up and explode as he caressed the trigger. He could even get into practice by taking out his dear brother Gordon so he could have Roxy all to himself. He dreamed about that for a long while.

* * *

Cindy woke up late, feeling fatigued. As if she hadn't slept at all. Yet the pills she was taking were supposed to leave her refreshed and alert. She needed several extra Adderall just to get going. Maybe she could blame it on her latest drug cocktail, a mixture of Ambien, Valium and Vicodin.

Bill had already gone to work. The TV news was on in the kitchen. The serial killer was at it again, uncomfortably close. This time it was execution style in the driveway as the poor bastard got home from work. Cindy felt afraid. Maybe it was the serial killer who was menacing them. Maybe they were in mortal danger. She called Bill and insisted he take her off to a resort that very minute. But he put her off firmly with all sorts of business crises he had to deal with at the moment. She was on her own.

Scratching a bad case of poison ivy, Cindy decided that she'd had about enough of Bill's deer-in-the-headlight reaction. It was obvious that he was getting ready to bolt. His suitcase stuck out from under his side of the bed, his jewelry was missing from his sock drawer, his checkbook was gone from the bill box. A business trip, he'd swear, if asked.

And then he would split and she wouldn't see him again. She knew it. But he wasn't going to get very far. She already had a lawyer, just waiting to pounce. No matter where he went, she would break him because he betrayed her, and would continue breaking him for the rest of his life, once for every slut he'd ever touched.

She liked her revenge stretched out. She wanted to see Bill suffer for the rest of his life. And she wanted him to live forever.

* * *

Around 4:30 in the afternoon, Gordon woke up with a hardon, and Laurie cooperated until she got nauseous in the middle and ran off to the bathroom. When she came back, neither of them were in the mood, but they did it anyway, and Gordon lost his erection half way thru. Laurie taunted him. Both Rick and Bill were better in bed than he was. She told him just how much she'd rather marry either of his brothers than to have to settle for him.

When she'd grabbed what was left of the bottle and gone off to the liquor store for more, dressed in only a baby doll top and a thong – with heels, he found a roach and lay back in bed, resting with his arm behind his head to smoke it.. He had two people to think about killing now. Mom, and Laurie.

How? Drug overdose was the first thing that occurred to him. But Allen would be able to handle anything, right up to too much heroin. Outright poison, but that wasn't his style. It hurt too much. Bashing with blunt objects, well, not women – his mom raised him right. Only in anger, anyway. Gunplay, and he certainly had his choice of guns, since he did a tidy side business selling them without permits. His style leaned toward sniping from a good hiding place.

He should just walk up to the front door, shoot Allen, and then walk into the den and interrupt Mom's afternoon programming to shoot her in the chest with a shotgun. That way he could have the last word. He would see her reaction. He would shed a little tear and ask forgiveness in a whisper, right before blowing his own head off.

As for killing Laurie, well, he could do that any time he liked, simply by pressing her gently underneath a pillow as she lay comatose in bed. Maybe tonight.

* * *

Down at the club, Bill went inside scratching furiously at his poison ivy. He walked up to Sam and Dave's table and pulled out a chair. Sam started bugging him for more money not to kill Mom. He brushed it off. "Now I want you to hit my wife, Cindy."

"Not so fast. You no have finish paying off hit on Mom," Sam said.

"Cancel it."

"Can't cancel. Told you before."

He stalked off when he learned Roxy wasn't coming in.

* * *

Ben came into the club for the very first time that night, rueing the cover charge and declining to get more than a soda water. He was uninterested in buying a lapdance. He'd called the FBI and been told to come into the club and see the two agents who would listen to what he had to say. He went up to Sam and Dave, ready to tell them everything, but it was the two guys his boss Rick had brought around, potential clients that had wanted to grill him. He hadn't liked them, and didn't trust anything they said. So they were Feds? Hmm. He thought quickly, and then gave them a memory stick and walked away before they could ask any questions.

* * *

Allen came in. He'd been to see Alice, carefully timing his visit to avoid her jailers. She gave him her cellphone, which had dozens of pictures of the contents of Rick's study. Especially his diary. Allen was very anxious to help the Russian mafia get the better of his ex landlord. He'd figured out that they had a counter-scam and were planning on taking Rick for everything he was worth, and kill him into the bargain. So he was helping them out with information. Allen couldn't do enough for his new friends. He even included a little something extra on his weekly protection payments.

He went over to see Gordon once he was done with the mafia. They weren't such good friends yet that he wanted to hang out with them.

"So," Gordon said, waving the waitress over. "How's it going with Mom?"

Allen looked a little glum. "Okay, I guess."

"What's wrong?" He ordered the usual. Carmen tossed her hips as she walked away. Gordon noticed.

"Well," Allen said, putting his head in his hands, "she's a sweet old girl and everything, and she really needs me. It's just that," he looked around. "Well,' he said, "I'm not getting any."

Gordon dropped his cigarette. "Whoa, buddy, that's my mother you're talking about." He paused to let it sink in. "Is she, like, frigid? Dried up?"

Allen winced. "I don't know, man, I'm telling you she's not letting me touch her. Not before the wedding."

"Have you set a date?"

He hung his head. "No."

Gordon couldn't help being curious. "But you, like, want to, um, do her, right?" Carmen was back with their drinks. He tipped her a twenty and copped a feel. She winked. He winked back.

"Oh, I don't know," Allen shrugged. "She's pretty hot for an old lady, I guess. I've always had a thing for older women." He took a sip of his drink. "It's just that I didn't think what that would be like when I was older myself. The wrinkles must be like a vulture's." He looked seriously at Gordon. "You know, your mom is like my mom to me. It kind of feels like incest." He took another drink. "But I figure, old people don't have sex, so I won't have to deal with it much." He lowered his voice. "Right now it's kind of painful. It hurts when I visit the club, you know? All that pussy walking around and I'm not getting any."

"I know how you feel," Gordon said. "When I got a vasectomy I had to abstain for two weeks. It was almost impossible. No jerking off, nothing."

"Yeah," Allen said wonderingly.

"In fact, I didn't last more than 24 hours. And boy did my scrotum swell up. Lasted about a week. Frightening."

"Hey, too much information. That's going to put me off sex for awhile. Thanks, man."

"Sure. You're welcome."

Later, they were in the bathroom, sitting in adjoining stalls. They were working on an eight-ball, passing the ziplock back and forth under the partition. Gordon thought for awhile. "You know, if I can be of any service, you know, just tell me," he said in a way Allen picked up on.

"Really?" Allen grabbed his own crotch and squeezed. He had tears in his eyes.

"It's okay," Gordon said. "I know what it's like to go without. I don't mind." He paused. "Just this once."

They squeezed into a single stall together. Gordon sat on the john with his pants on, Allen stood between Gordon's knees, his pants down.

"Hey, this'll be a hand job only, okay?" Gordon stated, just to make sure.

"Yeah, yeah, no problem," Allen insisted.

A few minutes later he asked Gordon to use some spit. He did. Then Allen asked him to cup his balls. Gordon did, laying a finger tenderly on Allen's anus.

When it was over, Gordon dodging a real wallop that hit the wall and slumped toward the floor, he noticed a tender look in Allen's eyes.

"Hey, don't fall in love with me, okay? It was just a hand job."

"Yeah," he sighed, "but don't you feel...?"

"No." Gordon reached behind Allen and unlocked the stall door. "Sometimes it's not mutual, okay?" he said to be clear, and pushed Allen out the door.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Frank and Judy took a long walk after breakfast. They walked arm in arm, talking about the changing seasons. They wondered how many more autumns they would see. After fifty you don't assume you'll see tomorrow, the way you did when you were a kid. They kept the conversation light. They were both exhausted. The family had already been talked to death. Neither of them wanted to dissect Mom's kinks or Cindy's neuroses, or dwell on anyone else's flaws. It was enough to be moving slowly down the street, leaning against each other in the sunshine, pausing to catch their breaths going up a hill, stopping to look at a house that was being renovated.

* * *

Rick and Alice weren't speaking to each other. Rick for punishment, Alice because her vocal chords were damaged. Dark bruises colored her neck and shoulders. She had an indentation on her forehead where his wedding ring landed during the fight last night. She had dared to stand up to him over the kids.

He was being abusive to the children, trying to force them overnight to be perfect children, because he couldn't face the fact that his kids were so badly behaved. He'd picked them up from school and taken them out for an ice cream, and they ran around like wild indians. So he was in the kitchen hectoring those poor children into being the perfect examples of his perfect fathering. And they were sobbing and crying their little hearts out. It echoed in the kitchen. It echoed in her head. She couldn't ignore it.

So she broke the lock, came out of her room, marched down to the kitchen, and yelled at him for mistreating the children. He ordered her back to her room. She glowered at him, and Rick saw that she was serious. He tried the usual silent treatment, sneering at her like she was a cockroach, showing her all the contempt he felt for her failure as a human. Usually it was enough to cow her, send her scuttling under cover.

He never expected a different response. She stood there, in front of the children, and refused to go back to her room. She raised her voice to him, called him abusive and mean spirited, told him he was ruining the children, and promised to call a lawyer in the morning.

So he taught her some manners. In front of the children. He left her there when she passed out, and went and spanked the kids and put them to bed, unplugging the night lights for extra punishment.

* * *

Tzingdii woke up next to Bill in the middle of the night and found a Tiffany box. It was wrapped like Christmas, blue with a white ribbon. It was a magic box. She opened it up, and it was full of fish food, so she gave some to the fishies in the tank. She opened it again, and it contained doggie biscuits, so she took a walk and gave them to her friends. She left some nuts for the squirrels even tho they were sleeping. Finally, as she began to get tired again, she left one for the dragon in the basement, and went back to bed.

When Cindy woke up, it was to find a chocolate on her pillow. Smeared all over it. Sticky sweet, with the metallic taste of sleeping pills: she'd know that taste anywhere. She felt nauseated. The attacks had just gotten too close for comfort.

She still had no idea how someone was getting in to mess up the place like that. And her pillow was only the beginning. Bill's wardrobe had been cut to pieces with scissors. His suitcase, half full of shredded clothes, had been peed in. His wallet had been emptied into the sink and set on fire. His private den was untouched except for fatal scratches on every CD and DVD he owned. His car – locked in the garage – had been coated with paint stripper, the tires were punctured, the windows were smashed in with his own golf clubs, the leather seats had multiple stab wounds, and the seatbelts were cut to pieces.

The scissors ended up less than an inch from Bill's comatose head. He'd gotten home at 4 a.m. and fell into bed, and didn't move once until he opened his eyes on a ruined pair of shears stained dark with something sticky.

The police dusted this time. There were no prints. But Cindy noticed that her white opera gloves were lying on top of her silk scarves instead of under them. They were folded differently, as well. And they were slightly damp. She almost said something, but a tiny voice persuaded her not to.

* * *

Gordon had this elaborate plan that depended on timing, the kind of plan that would make a great thriller. Using everyone's expertise, knowledge, skill, natural talent, intelligence. He couldn't fail. In his fantasy.

In reality, he had Allen as a sidekick, more like comic relief. He had Sam and Dave as heavies, but they were like the two Stooges. Several of the bouncers and bartenders were tentatively on his side, waiting to hear the details before committing themselves. And there were a few guys he used for other things that he could bring in at the last minute, for whatever they ended up doing.

He could use Rick on the operation, and Bill, and were still hoping to get them in on it before the shit went down. Bill's trucks, Rick's cameras. They would add a lot.

He had all the information he needed. There was that tunnel he found weeks before, and had not gone near since, once he noticed a camera watching. A tunnel, a trap door, a safe, a scheduled dumpster pickup.

Gordon's plans, altho mostly complete, were still incredibly flexible. It may turn out that they only robbed the place once, and never tried it again. It might turn out that they actually pulled a coup on the owner and ended up robbing it every night. Or it might lead to something even bigger, something with the guys who owned the owner. He had to have a contingency plan for every little wrinkle. He'd been working on it for months. He was very confident.

He was also coked out. He slept little, rattled on in conversation, was irritated when disturbed, easily distracted, and inclined to sudden fits of depression, when he thought about killing himself. He was obsessed with his plans, and thought of nothing else except sex and drugs. There was an intensity about him that made people nervous. His hair was lanky, his eyes were hollow, and his sweat stank. He itched all over. He was always pausing for the snort that refreshes.

In the cavernous pit that was his brain, Gordon had mislaid a prime piece of information. The owner was into some deep shit that wouldn't just sit there when the place was hit. The moment the regular system was upset, they would send someone to un-upset it. Gordon and his little operation were like flies in the window, annoying dirty little no-brains that were just there to give somebody's fly-swatting wrist some exercise. If he weren't so obsessed, he would have noticed this detail. If he weren't so drugged all the time, so full of the little games that made up his personality.

He was so caught up in the fantasy that he never noticed the trap. He had a meeting with the owner later that morning, during which he intended to offer his services as manager of the club – aim high. He was going to say that he felt ready for responsibility (as in the safe's combination), and that it was only right that he give something back to the place that was like a second home.

This was his big first step, after which all the little details of his plan would suddenly fall into place.

He never noticed that the owner was more than happy to hire him right into the top management spot, with no references, no trial period. It was more than just, "Can you start now?" It was like being on Queen for the Day. The owner stuffed a bundle of cash into his jacket pocket, handed him a big bag of coke, and made him sit in the big office chair he always used. He asked Gordon to sign a bunch of papers he said were just ways of avoiding taxes, but which were really complex legal deals, the nature of which wasn't apparent on the cover page or where he had to sign.

The owner hustled Gordon out before he had time to ask any real questions. All his concerns would be addressed at Orientation, he was told, as the owner bundled him out of the office to make room for another meeting. He didn't tell Gordon that the meeting was with his mercenary army bosses. He didn't tell Gordon that the meeting wasn't going to turn out in the club's favor. He didn't tell Gordon that a whole lot of shit was going to be coming down. Gordon would have merely filed it in his cavernous brain and continued walking right into the trap.

* * *

Frank felt better after lunch. He went downstairs to tinker in his shop for an hour, and then declared his intention to drive to the store for a part, and wouldn't listen to Judy's protests, and wouldn't let her come with him. He got a little testy insisting that he could do it by himself.

He drove to Mom's. In his pocket was a device he had made. It was an electric necklace. It lit up. It provided a healing tingle. It was beautiful. Mom loved it.

In no time, she had him in the bedroom closet, a belt around his neck, the buckle around a sturdy coat hook on the back of the door. He was naked, desperately trying to activate the remote control. But Mom discovered it. He'd hidden it where the sun don't shine, and it worked by compression. She pulled it out, and turned it on.

Five minutes later, the necklace was wrapped around Frank's genitals, and Mom was exploring the power settings.

* * *

Rick noticed Cindy's car headed to the mall, and followed her. She was going to lunch with the girls, as usual, and was running late. As usual. She never noticed him behind her. She parked her car out in the stratosphere because it was lunchtime, and saw the girls gathered on the sidewalk, waiting for her, as she hiked to the mall entrance. She never noticed Rick parked at the curb in front of the restaurant.

She greeted the girls, who were full of news, and they were just turning to go in when Rick sprang out of his Porsche – somebody of that build shouldn't go around in tiny cars – and oh my god shot Amanda with a Taser.

Cindy yelled at him; she wondered why he was attacking Amanda; she called 911. On her own brother. And it felt good. She enjoyed telling the police about his awful behavior toward his wife and kids. She told them that he'd been a bully all his life, always ready to beat down the slightest opposition. But they didn't want to go back to Rick's childhood. They wanted to know if he'd said anything. They wanted to know if he appeared intoxicated. They wanted to know if he had a gun.

* * *

Laurie waited a day, and when Cindy didn't die from eating her stolen chocolates, she felt it was time to escalate. She drove by Cindy's house after dark, and left another attractively wrapped gift on her front porch. From an admirer. Laurie got back in her car to go to work, and thought no more about it.

That night in the club, Allen brought in Mom's chocolates in their presentation box, and offered them around. Gordon ate one. He liked it. Jake said he was on a diet but took one anyway.

Sam had a bite and spat it out. "I hate liquor centers," he said, spewing peppermint schnapps all over the table.

Dave wiped himself off fastidiously. "None for me, thanks. What else have you got for us?"

Allen didn't know whether he meant money or information. He ended up giving them both. Most of his ready cash; everything he knew about Rick.

"Hey," he started. "I want you to know what Rick's like at home."

Sam grunted. "We know."

"No, I mean this guy who works for Rick, he's got a lot of security footage that show everything he's up to."

"We know. He came." Sam spat. "Useless."

"Really?"

"Yeah, nothing," Dave said. "No motion. Twenty cameras and no movement at all. For hours."

"You watched?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dave nodded. "Everything."

"Strange," Allen remarked. "He said he had proof of all sorts of shit Rick was up to."

Ten minutes later, Bill came in with a further down payment for killing Cindy. He brought it into the club inside a briefcase. Sam put on his best foreign accent. Dave tried to act nonchalant as he covered the case with his feet.

"Is it safe?" Bill wanted to know.

"We'll take exactly the same care as we did for hit on Mother-in-Law," Sam assured him. That worried him. They clarified. "Down payment goes straight to hit man. He's waiting in car."

Bill looked curiously at the cars as he left, but didn't see anyone. Maybe there was someone lying on the seat, out of sight. He was afraid to check, in case he got shot.

Laurie came by Gordon's table while he was in the bathroom, and found the presentation box of death that she'd given to Mom. Like bad pennies. She took it and tossed it into the dressing room, in roughly the direction of the trash can.

* * *

Cindy had developed an instant disgust for chocolate. Since waking up covered with it, she gagged whenever she thought about chocolate. And of course it was everywhere, so she went about constantly nauseated. She had to run out of Starbucks. She felt like barfing on the display in the grocery checkout line. She almost lost it at lunch when one of the girls ordered the chocolate souffle.

Cindy found the gift when she got home. She opened the package carefully. Chocolates. Her stomach heaved. She walked to the garbage can with them, but looked at them again carefully. They looked very familiar. She tasted the goo that oozed out of one corner. Just like what stained her pillow. Then she threw up lunch.

Was Judy behind all this stalking? Furious, Cindy swallowed a couple of Xanax to calm her down, and then called Judy and cussed her out. Twenty years of stupid, useless, insulting home-made crappy presents to wash away the guilt of a sin she can never be forgiven for. Twenty years of the pain of betrayal, constantly thrown in her face with cheap junk that can never make up for it. Twenty years of being a stupid waste of a time sister. Cindy yelled at Judy like she was still eight years old. Dull-witted, slow, peaceable, easy to outwit. Judy was stunned, and had no reply. Cindy took it as an invitation, and out poured forty years of resentment and hatred.

Well, Judy wasn't eight. She was 53. She was the mother of two grown children. She was a qualified homeopath, a licensed massage professional, a Reiki master, and a certified floral designer. She wrote an award winning blog, she raised prize winning tomatoes, she treated homeless people with respect. She was a well-adjusted, mature, middle-aged woman, being treated like she was a teenager living at home. Something was drastically wrong.

She'd show Cindy and the others to respect her, simply for who she had become.

Judy retrieved all her craft tools from their cabinet, proud of herself for finally having put them all in one place. She spotted the chocolate she'd brought home for Frank, still on the kitchen table. She wondered how to do it. Something simple and elegant. She looked at her straw broom, something she hardly ever used. She got busy.

It was a work of art. A lake of nasty tasting peppermint around a chocolate mountain, iced broomstraw trees and rosemary tops for the pines, and a gentle dusting of powdered sugar. It was beautiful, meticulous. Sure proof, if anyone ever stopped to examine it, that Judy was an artist.

She sat and cried for awhile, sad for all the injuries she received in childhood, angry about how mean her sisters and brothers had been, how there was no real love in their family. None of her siblings respected or admired any of her achievements, none of them were willing to treat her as the adult she had become. And nobody but her family would ever dare to treat her that way. After a single fortifying drink, she got in her car and drove over to Cindy's house, where she left her present, as usual, on the front steps.

Judy sat in her car, parked in the street, waiting for Cindy to come out and find her greatest gift. She got more angry and much less sad, and finally decided on a special finish for her present. She got out, snuck back up to the front steps, got out her lighter, and set the bag on fire. As it began to catch, she rang the doorbell and ducked behind a nearby tree.

Cindy never answered her front door. But she saw the flames thru the sidelights, and came bursting thru the door to see what was wrong. The bag was flaming higher, burning brightly because of the glue and the sticks. Cindy pictured her house going up in flames, and kicked out at the burning bag, stomping it with her Bruno Maglis. The bag squished as she put out the fire, her foot slipped, and Cindy fell and bruised her hip on the bricks. Judy giggled in the shadows. Cindy realized what it was all over her shoes, and threw up on top of them.

Cindy was freaked out by the molotov cocktail some stalker had left on her porch. She was sure it was Judy. She had her hand on the phone to call the police, but remembered how many times they'd been out lately, and how insinuating and rude they were the last time.

That night Cindy had trouble sleeping. So she took extra of all her usual medications, and had Oxycontin with a wine chaser for a nightcap. Later that night, Sindi would be patrolling with her gun and her magic box of chocolates. The dragons would send her messages. Bill would make it thru the night by the skin of his teeth.

Her last conscious thought was that she really ought to be killing Bill. He was the one who really deserved it. Never mind killing Mom, she couldn't help it. Or Judy, she was her own worst enemy. But Bill had a choice, every single girl, every single dollar. He really deserved to die. Any court in the country would acquit her.

* * *

Frank came home with burns and bruises, and as pale as a glass of milk. After bathing and dressing his wounds and putting him to bed, Judy did some thinking. He was Mom's victim, but he kept going back for more. So it must be something inside of him. He'd confessed to a fascination for pain. Spanking. Strangulation. Past the edge of sexual politeness and right into kinkiness and perversion.

They talked about it. Frank's color was good; he sat up in bed and they discussed the roots of his sexuality. His earliest sexual memories were of his mother, how she reacted when he got a hardon while she was changing him. He noticed her big eyes. She laughed at him. He had felt love for his mom, and also shame, because he was small and helpless and her laughter hurt. They talked about how what he'd felt then translated into his feelings now. He was powerless to keep from revisiting it whenever he could. But he hated every minute.

They wondered if role-playing would help them to understand what he was going thru. They decided to try an experiment, and so Judy spanked him a little. She popped his butt, and he flinched. The spot got red, in the shape of her hand. She rubbed it. The rubbing helped. Neither of them were comfortable spanking.

He asked her to tie him to the bed, so she got out some silk scarves. But she didn't know what to do with him if he just wanted to lie there. He asked her to tighten a scarf around his neck, and she thought about it and said no. Finally she lay down, and he kneeled and straddled her leg, holding the bedboard. Looking into each other's eyes, she slowly jerked him off. Not very kinky at all, but they loved each other.

After a rousing finish, Frank collapsed on the bed, breathing heavily, his heart pounding. He'd moaned, he'd quivered, he'd shaken. The loose skin of his arms and neck waved like linen on a line, his belly heaved and rolled, the tendons pulled away from his bones like ship's rigging.

He lay there comatose for some time. She dozed off next to him for a few moments, but then thought of something she wanted to look up before she went to sleep. So she propped him up on his pillows, kissed his forehead, and turned out the light.

Judy sat in front of her computer for an hour or so, smoking weed and looking things up – one thing leading to another on the internet. She started yawning, and figured it was time for bed. Brushing her teeth, she went to inspect her husband. He was exactly where she'd left him. She couldn't be sure, but in the dark it looked like his eyes were open.

She got into bed and resisted the temptation to wake him up to tell him how funny he looked. But when she woke up later to pee, she noticed that he'd never moved, never turned over. She touched him. He was cold.

She leaped up and stood dithering at the foot of the bed. Then she called 911. Then she ran around and cleared away all the evidence of illegal drugs. There were roaches and rolling papers and used baggies everywhere. Then she ran around picking things off the floor, clearing a path from the front door for the ambulance crew. She would have been proud of her work if there hadn't been more serious things to think about.

They came in fast. They went back out more slowly. There was nothing to be done. They took Frank away, and left Judy sobbing in a corner, waiting for them to leave so she could drown her sorrows. But she didn't. She was out of booze. But thank God for marijuana. She wandered thru the house, wailing and thinking, for the rest of the night and into the bleak daylight.

She decided that Mom had to die.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Cindy awoke to the sound of the blaring television. A bright and chipper woman bellowing in her kitchen. "Top of the local news this morning," she squawked. "Three convenience store employees are in critical condition after being apparently poisoned by an unknown customer."

She got to the TV to turn it off, and saw footage of a blurry woman on security cameras, weaving and bobbing to the cash register with her arms full of junk food. "The assailant evidently traded what she called 'magic chocolates' for $28.59 worth of merchandise and walked away. Employees ate the chocolates, which were later found to be heavily adulterated with barbiturates. The three are suffering from organ failure and respiratory depression, one is in a coma." A closeup filled the screen. Someone with a wig on backwards, and red lipstick used for eye liner and blusher as well as the lips. Certainly nobody Cindy would recognize. "Police are looking for a middle aged white woman, about five foot five, last seen dressed in a bloody bathrobe and high heels."

* * *

Judy sat at the kitchen table all morning and paid no attention to her TV. She worked her way thru a fifth of whisky and a quarter ounce of weed. She slept all afternoon. She didn't have many thoughts, but she wrote them all down on sticky notes.

* * *

Overnight, Sindi had driven over and left a chocolate in the mailbox for Alice. Rick noticed the flag was up, and checked it to find a black plastic convenience store bag with three boxes of animal crackers (for the kids) and a beautiful little handmade chocolate bonbon wrapped in a note.

Alice protested with growing hysteria that she didn't know anything about it. But the note had red lipstick hearts and arrows, and an indecipherable scrawl of a signature. It must be Cindy.

Alice continued playing dumb. Rick saw an animal fear in her eyes that drove him crazy. He emptied the bag on the table, shouting at them all. The children wanted the cookies, but he put the boxes in the disposal and turned it on, lecturing as they cried about manners and being greedy.

Alice went to snatch the chocolate, but he whacked her hand aside. She stood nursing her fingers, her eyes welling with tears. Looking pitiful. Bitch. Fornicator. Lesbian. He licked his fingers, sticky with cinnamon syrup. She turned to see about the children.

Alice turned her back on Rick.

He wasn't about to take that kind of disrespect. He pushed her, hard, up against the door. Everyone heard the crunch as her face hit the door jam. She crumpled to the floor, sobbing and bleeding. Rick couldn't take the Camille act, and walked out, taking the chocolate with him. He put it into one of the kids' fruit cup containers, and took it along for a treat. He liked chocolate.

* * *

Allen met Ben after work in the same row of gravestones where they'd met before. Allen really enjoyed the place. Judy was supposed to meet them there, but never showed. They took care of business. Allen tried to interest Ben in an upgrade this time – the dealer he got his pot from wanted to test the waters for some hydroponic shit. He produced a dime bag stuffed full of fuzzy looking pot. White widow. The good stuff.

"Wow," Ben said, holding the pouch in his palm. "Looks great." He rubbed the seal open and smelled. "Wow, I'm getting high just on the smell of the bud." He looked at Allen. "How much is it?" Then he took another deep sniff, resealed the ziplock, handed it back with a sad smile, and took the usual. Allen wasn't going to make a lot of converts to $500 an ounce weed among his clientele. His customers wanted the cheapest weed possible.

They watched the sun go down. They watched the moon come up. "Yeah, I guess when the moon's full, you'd have the moon on one side and the sun on the other. I never thought about it before." They were stoned, and things like full moons and coincidences meant a lot to them, so they talked while it got dark around them.

"What did you give Sam and Dave the other night?" Allen asked. "They weren't too happy."

Ben shrugged. "A joke. A montage of various cameras on off nights."

"Why?"

Ben looked at him like he was a child. "Because they're cops, Allen. They came around undercover with Rick one day, and asked me a bunch of cop questions."

Allen laughed "Hey, no, man, we thought they was cops when they first started hanging at the club. But they're foreign. From Russia or somewhere. Organized crime, just like here."

"But they seem like cops to me."

"Yeah, they're good. Gordon's planning to get them to act like cops when we take the place down." That should have been an oops-too-much-information moment for Allen. But he liked a good story.

Ben didn't object to spilling his secrets, either. "Rick's been putting cameras and microphones around the club for awhile."

This was news to Allen. "But he's not in on Gordon's plan, so I don't know why."

"He must have a plan of his own," Ben mused. "Wonder what?"

It got cold. It got kind of creepy. Allen talked Ben into talking to Sam and Dave again, so they both went on to the club. But Ben still regretted the cover charge. This time Sam and Dave asked questions, and Ben gave them lots of vital information, lots of footage, lots of recorded phone calls, lots of emails, lots of memory sticks. Everything that would make an airtight case against Rick.

Jake came in to work late, looking like death. He'd been sick as a dog all night, and nearly didn't get to work at all. He still felt sluggish, even tho he'd overslept the alarm by a couple of hours. Stomach flu. He nursed a V8 until after midnight.

Gordon followed him in, feeling a little ill himself. But nothing out of the ordinary, nothing a couple of energy drinks and some blow wouldn't cure. It was probably nerves. Because tonight was the night. He looked around, noted who was there, who met his eye and who didn't. Everything was ready.

It was a crowded night, there was plenty of money coming in. Plenty of money had been coming in for the past three days, not just the daily take from the club, but outside money, coming in and being secreted away. Money from the owner's shadow businesses. Bunches of money piling up in the safe, waiting to be snuck out in the trash and picked up offsite.

But his plan and all its contingencies had the dumpster full of trash only. Well, maybe the owner and his henchmen, too. But the money – several hundred thousand – was going home with him.

King Gordon.

There was just a little tiny conflict. Gordon was supposed to take over as manager in a matter of days. The little angel on his shoulder said that he was going to be running the joint soon, so his plan to rob the club had to be cancelled. But the little devil on his other shoulder said that robbing the club now would make the owner look bad, and since Gordon hadn't started working there yet, it would make him look good.

Gordon was working on a revised version of his plan, a version where they would get to rob the club every few months, starting tonight. He stared into the distance. The pounding beat of the music soothed the tension in his neck. Some more snow would be nice.

Laurie was on stage, looking a little tired. She'd been sleeping more. She was never in a good mood lately, either. And she was getting a little thick about the middle. With a girl that skinny, an ounce showed up. She wasn't going to be dancing for much longer. He was going to have to support her, and the baby. And he wasn't sure it was his kid. But what the fuck, what else were they going to do, break up? They were just too comfortable, crazy as that sounded.

Rick was down in front of Laurie, his elbows hanging on the stage. Usually he sat at a table in the middle of the floor, but this time he was lolling around like he was drunk, right under her feet. But Rick didn't drink. Rick looked down his nose at intoxication of any kind. Rick was holier than everyone in the room.

But Rick was drooling. Rick was staring. Rick was moving slowly. Rick was sweeping the stage with outstretched arms, reaching for his Roxy.

Laurie brought a stiletto heel down on Rick's fingers and ground the point in with a hip roll. He yowled in pain and sat back in his seat, stuffing his fingers in his mouth and rocking. He moaned Roxy over and over. Rocking. Roxy.

Gordon watched Laurie ruin his brother's writing hand. Poor bastard. He hadn't seen Rick rocking like that since Mom threw out his play carpenter bench.

Chloe brought him a drink, and plopped a presentation box onto his table. "The house mom found these in the back," she said. "Chocolate. I thought you'd want one."

He thanked her, and tipped her extra, and went back to brooding about his plan. He liked chocolates. The taste of the one he had the night before had left him wanting more. So he had another one. He watched Rick stumble out of the club, and almost got up to go see if he was okay. He licked his fingers instead.

A few people ate chocolate at the club that night. The cinnamon centers were just yummy. Some of the girls got a little sticky.

Allen came up to Gordon's table with Ben in tow. "Hey, meet my friend Ben. He works for old Rick the Prick there. Poor bastard. Told her he was broke. Did you see his hand?"

Gordon looked Ben over. "You picked a good night to show up."

"It's a full moon," Ben said. Gordon nodded at a chair. Allen brought over another for himself.

"Allen was telling me you've got plans for this place," Ben said. "Nothing specific, of course."

"I'll fill you in," Gordon said. "Work for Rick, eh? Let me guess. Security."

"Told you he was good," Allen crowed. But to keep it even, he announced, "Ben's been giving information to the Russians."

Gordon said, "Hmmm. Like what?"

"Well," Ben said, not quite meeting Gordon's eye, "they're looking for anything they can get on my boss. I've got evidence of illegal stock trades, wire fraud, embezzlement, bribery, extortion. That I know of. There are wire taps, video footage, computer files. I'm not exactly sure what he's up to here in the club," he said, looking Gordon in the eye, "but since he broke Alice's nose this morning, I feel obliged to step in and remove him from the family environment."

Gordon regarded him evenly. "Because of Alice? Not because of how he treats you as an employee or anything? Didn't give you a raise?"

Ben colored. "Alice."

Gordon frowned. "That's my brother you're turning in to the Feds, you know."

Ben felt really sorry. "She's so helpless..."

"I see." Love. Why did it always come down to a girl? "Well, good luck with that." He could fix it himself.

Allen and Ben exchanged glances.

"I told you they were cops," Ben said.

"They're not." Allen said.

"They are," Gordon stopped the argument. "I've just figured it out. They've been here all along, gathering information. This is all some kind of sting operation. And we're caught up in it. They want the owner, don't you see? Not Rick. Not us." Certainly not, they agreed. "Maybe they don't know they want the owner," he mused. He looked at Ben. "Can you handle a gun?"

Gordon ordered a round of drinks sent to Sam and Dave, and joined them at their table in time to pay Chloe. "I understand you boys are closing in on the kill," he said. Sam pretended not to understand. "Professionally," Gordon continued, indicating Sam's badge pocket. Then he grinned and slapped them on the shoulders. "Come on, boys, I've known all along you were official." Dave choked on his ice.

Gordon propped his chair on its back legs and stretched out between them. "I've got to hand it to you, it's a really slick operation. First rate. It's been a long haul, and you've worked real hard to get your man."

Sam looked proud. Dave smiled shyly. It was nice to have some respect.

"Yep," Gordon continued. "Selling state secrets. That's impressive. Say, did you know that Rick is my brother?"

"Well, kind of," Dave said, and trailed off.

Gordon brought his chair down and leaned into the table. "What if I told you that there was someone even bigger, that Rick is only small time compared to?" They didn't get it. "Someone who's dealing arms? And running hundreds of pounds of cocaine?" He mentioned white slavery and money laundering and their faces grew serious. Someone who actually fit the MO they got at their briefing all those months ago.

"Well," Sam said, "Rick is what we've got." Even tho most of it was cut from the whole cloth.

"That's not happening. He's my brother. What if I could get you proof of this other guy's operations?" Gordon offered.

"What kind of proof?"

He thought fast. "Oh, how about bank accounts, records?" He saw them pausing. "Security tapes? Witnesses?" He looked around, panicking. "And of course I'll deliver him to you for hassle free removal. Tied up with garlic slivers if you want."

Dave looked at Sam. "I don't know. We've got backup waiting to dive in and pick up Rick with a minimum loss of life. Ten minutes."

Gordon envisioned a gun battle in the club that night. "Oh, let's not be hasty. You want to be very careful about the timing." He was doing a lot of high speed thinking tonight, and his brain was getting tired. "I've got delicate operations just about to hit the skillet and you might mess everything up."

"What's going on, then?" Sam asked, peering at him over bifocals he hadn't worn before.

Gordon told them about his plan. The dumpster was going to be picked up at four in the morning. He and most of the bouncers and some of the customers were going to interrupt things at three, sequester everyone into the office, pull all the packages out of the dumpster, and run away. Sam and Dave were welcomed to join them, for an equal share. There would be plenty of time to deal with Rick tomorrow. And by tomorrow, there would be a super premium replacement suspect, and everything would turn out fine.

Sam and Dave looked a little reluctant. "Action?" Sam mused, "I don't know..."

With a little persuasion, they warmed to the idea of an improv heist. They would be the heavies, if need be. Step in and control things, get them all lined up against the wall and quiet. If it came to that.

"A little money tonight, maybe a better suspect tomorrow. It's not good enough," Sam growled. "We're getting a lot of pressure from above." His voice sounded a lot different than it had when he was Russian. Higher.

Dave was grim. "If we don't have something soon, we're going to have to go with option one."

Jake appeared at the table, looking haggard. "The owner wants to see you," he rasped.

"Fine." He handed his vial of cocaine to Dave. "Go powder your noses," he said, getting up. "I'll be back in a flash with something you'll be happy to trade for." It was like Monopoly, trading the orange for the purple. How fitting, him rescuing his shark brother. Gordon the great.

The owner was in his office, pacing nervously, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Sweat marked his armpits. Usually he was so suave. He was so smooth that Gordon just assumed he was part of the regular Italian Mafia. The American Mafia. The Real Mafia (tm). He always kind of looked up to the owner. Now, tho, he seemed a little ratlike.

"Here, kid," he said, forcing a bright, salesman's face. "I forgot to get you to sign another form." He laughed. "Always another form, eh? But for the lawyers..." He pulled a folder out of his desk and flipped from the title page to the signature lines. "Sign here."

Gordon had caught a glimpse of several words.

DEED OF SALE

That was one. Deed of what? Something important was trying to stick in his brain. The owner's name. Some weirdass name he couldn't pronounce. No wonder everyone referred to him by his title.

(hereinafter called the "Seller")

The owner was going on in a droning voice, reassuring, a narcotic voice. Sign here and here and here and here.

A moment later, Gordon wondered what that name was again. There was another line that featured his very own name, written in as Purchaser. His head began to spin.

"Bareass Entertainment dba The Scarlet Pimpernel," Gordon read wonderingly.

sum of one (1) dollar.

Twenties were the smallest bills he was carrying at the moment. He patted his pockets and tried to focus. The document blurred in front of his eyes.

Possession and occupation. Have and hold. Sole.

"Sign here at the big yellow X," the owner said, wrapping Gordon's fingers around a pen. The signature was almost legible. It didn't seem to matter.

SIGNED That's today's date already written in, he noticed.

AS WITNESSES: 1. He thought it might be Jake's scrawl. 2. And DJ's scribble.

"Keep up the good work, kid," the owner said, putting the pen back in his pocket. He handed Gordon a sheet of computer codes and the combination to the safe. "Sorry to be so hasty, but I've got to go out of town for a little while. You're in charge until I get back, and then I'll show you the ropes. Until then, you've got lots of latitude. Run it however you want." He tossed him a ring of keys. "Enjoy," the owner said, and escorted him out of the office.

Gordon skipped thru the corridor back to the lounge. Emperor Gordon. Time to celebrate. Then, damn – Sam and Dave had his vial. He skipped faster. Ben would watch him on the replay later and think how childlike he seemed.

Sam and Dave weren't at their table, so Gordon sat down and waited. He signaled Chloe for another round.

Sam and Dave were in the bathroom, making Allen turn his pockets inside out. They relieved him of his cash, and a nice little bag of high-grade marijuana. Protection money, plus a tip. Dave thanked him for the weed, they washed their hands, and left. Allen was only a little beat up. He was very confused. Were they Feds or Mafia?

Gordon was busy wowing Sam and Dave when Allen came out of the john. He was in a rare mood. They were drooling as he described what he had on the owner. Gordon was getting a little antsy even as he was working the Feds. Sam and Dave still had his coke vial, and he was tempted to run out to the car for his stash, but he had this deal to negotiate.

He was going to make their careers. Sam could retire, Dave could move up. They had all this stuff on Rick – corporate spy, high tech pirate, selling high tech to enemies, securities fraud, tax evasion, conspiracy murder – they could take all that, and add it to all the stuff they were going to get on the owner. All they hade to do was to write Rick completely out of the reports, exonerate him from all charges. And Gordon would give them their hearts' desires.

Gordon darted off to the door to take care of something. Sam and Dave whispered between themselves. It was possible. They could say their informant had changed his story, and it altered a bunch of known history on the players.

Gordon went to intercept a taxi driver. He'd come thru the restricted area and was heading for the front door, trundling a large suitcase. Gordon blocked his way and held the door. "Where did you get that?" he asked.

The driver shrugged. "Passenger luggage. Airport." He held out his hand for his club kickback.

"Fuck off," Gordon said, and opened the door. "You don't get paid when you take them back." He continued out to his car to fetch his stash.

"I am call strike," the driver shouted as he got in his cab. Gordon shrugged. After tonight, things would be different.

Back inside, Sam and Dave worked out the problem. Their existing reports actually conflicted with what they'd just gotten on the owner, so they needed another patsy to blame all their made-up reports on. It only took them a few moments to pick Bill. Dave began to grumble. Such a huge waste of effort – keeping records, making up records, fabricating witnesses, coming up with entire plots, dialog. All that work. And then just toss it out in the street when something better came along.

But it was a good deal, because a lot of what they had against Rick wouldn't hold water. They weren't going to pass it up because of a little work. Dave called and told backup to be ready for new orders, and when Gordon came back to the table, Sam hit him up for more marching powder. Something to help get all those reports rewritten asap.

Gordon walked back over to his table and ordered a drink. He was tired. Suddenly Laurie came up, looking for a fight. She weaved thru the tables, muttering to herself and batting off assistance. She was heading for Gordon. She was going to kill him. It was the last thing he needed that night. She screamed a collection of obscenities and attacked him with tooth and nail, leaving blood. Screaming. He drew back and slapped her in the face. She kicked at him with her long, stilleto heeled foot. He lifted her up and threw her over his shoulder and spanked her. In front of God and everyone. She screamed for the bouncers to throw him out. The house applauded. Gordon the World Champion.

Gordon looked around him and did a quick count of people on his side. He was fairly sure of his numbers. He'd been recruiting heavily, and they were mostly all on his side at this point. Fuck the owner. Because they were going to get away with it. Now that it was his club, he controlled the security cameras. They were all going to be blank when the cops had a look tomorrow.

But they didn't need Laurie making a scene right before they busted the safe. He got closer to Laurie, wanting to enfold her and calm her down, the Stripper Whisperer, but she spat at him, and hissed, and arched her back, so he asked Jake and Weasel to escort her to the house mom for a rest. Give her a Valium," he suggested as they passed.

Everybody was on high alert. Some of his boys were starting to look a little trigger happy. He decided he might as well act now, when the blood was hot. So he told Allen to alert them, and waited until they were in their places, and then went sauntering back to the office to rob the owner of three days of receipts.

Nobody was in the office. He let himself in with the key, after fidding with a number of wrong ones. The owner wasn't there either. Gordon checked the security cameras. There was the owner's car, in the parking lot. Was there a bathroom in the office? He checked around. He found a big bag of coke in the desk. He stopped for the pause that refreshes. He noticed the camera picking up a bunch of the same make and model SUVs pull into the parking lot. A group, maybe a bachelor party. How nice. A bunch of guys got out and started for the door. He was going to have to be more strict about the dress code from now on. None of those guys were wearing ties.

Chapter Twenty-Five

There was some noise at the back door, and in walked a bunch of the guys Gordon had seen on the security camera. He was reading over the deed of sale, and thought to go out and tell them they should go around to the front door like regular customers, but three of them waltzed into the office and blocked his way before he could rise.

They were holding automatic weapons. Gordon slipped the bag of coke into the desk drawer and closed it gently. Addict's rule number one: Always guard your stash.

He tried a friendly Hey There, but the men looked angry. They were military. Or police. Special Ops. Something. One of the three said something into his phone. More guys came in the back way. Gordon could see a small crowd on the parking lot monitors. Someone muscled his way thru the office door and stood in front of him. Everything was happening too fast for him to think about it.

"Where's the owner?" the guy asked him. He was gray-haired and wiry, the shortest guy in the room. He had a blue tattoo on his neck, and a gold front tooth.

Gordon wondered at this. Gang leader? "I don't know," he answered. "I thought maybe he was in the john. Who are you?"

The man ignored him and spoke to the guy with the phone, who then made a call. He gestured to the group behind him, and they started off toward the public area of the club. The guy made another phone call.

"Where are they going?" Gordon asked.

Still no answer. The men were all wearing black fatigues and vests, with shit-stompers, and all sorts of things bulged from pockets and dangled from belts and rings. They all had short haircuts. They were all big and burly. They could pass for bouncers at the club, except they didn't seem to have a sense of humor. Cops, maybe.

"Maybe you want to talk to me," Gordon spoke up. "I'm the new owner."

The leader was interested. "Oh, really? Where's the old guy?"

"Like I said. I don't know. He signed the place over to me and gave me the keys. His car is still in the lot, maybe he's having a nap."

The men stepped closer. "Well," said the little one, "perhaps we need to have a little talk about some business facts you may not be aware of." He looked suddenly menacing. Gordon began to sweat. "Where's the money?" he asked softly.

"Hey, what money? I'm only new," Gordon protested. The chief frowned, and one of the burly guys came up and mashed Gordon's face in a bit.

"Let's try it this way. Where's the safe?"

Gordon led them to the safe, and used the combination that was written on his cheat sheet, and was impressed to find the safe more like a vault. And flabbergasted to find it completely empty.

The chief wasn't, however. He barked something to the guy with the phone, who disappeared around the corner and had a few more quick conversations. Then he was back to whisper in the chief's ear.

They all heard a shot and screams out in the lounge, from way back in the office. His guards weren't very curious. Their leader was trying to figure out how to break the news to the virgin, while they stood around wishing they could be out front with their buddies, teaching the sheep a lesson.

Gordon was a little alarmed. His bouncers were out there spoiling for a fight. There were guys in the lounge and in front of the building, waiting for a signal. Maybe someone was trigger happy. He would have liked to go see, but the goons weren't going to let him. He looked at the monitors with the side of his eyes.

A bunch of couches were turned over near the bar, and Jake and Dan worked the trenches. The DJ was commanding a couple of girls and customers in the booth. Allen's head peeked around the bathroom door. The stage and floor were empty, the lights flashing on dusty black walls, the music pounding at a bunch of empty and overturned seats.

There was a small gathering of black uniforms near the door to the corridor. They were posturing menacingly and using violent gestures, pointing a lot with intimidating weapons. Then one fired off a shot as a bouncer dived behind a palm.

There was an awful lot of return fire.

Ben recorded the scene with his cellphone for posterity.

The uniforms in the office looked a little nervous. Gordon wondered at that. They weren't expecting any opposition. The chief gestured, and his guy made another call. Suddenly the sound of gunfire was cut in half, and Gordon heard soldiers running back down the hall. In step.

"I'm going to want to talk to you," the chief said as he turned to go. "Next time. Here's my calling card." And he drew his weapon and shot Gordon in the foot.

The soldiers left thru the back door as bouncers, dancers and customers came rushing down the corridor shouting and spraying bullets. People crowded into the office to see Gordon rolling around on the floor, his foot all bloody, with raw bits sticking out of what remained of his runners.

He looked up with a bright smile on his face, despite the pain. "Is there a doctor in the house?" he asked. Three customers stepped forward. "I've always wanted to say that. Hurry, fellas, it's killing me."

The docs fixed him up in return for free drinks for a month. By the time they were finished, he was joking about being robbed his first day on the job. The steep price he paid to buy the joint. No arm and no leg jokes.

He waited until they were gone before prescribing himself a liberal dose of cocaine, a renowned analgesic. He promised himself he would sprinkle some on the wound when he changed the bandages later.

Then he hobbled out to inspect the damage to his club, leaning on Allen's shoulder. He was shocked. There were several dead bodies, several writhing moaning figures, and several walking wounded. The place smelled like cordite. There was broken glass and broken furniture everywhere. And everyone was looking at him for decisions.

What would the owner do? Give the problem to the bouncers. He called Jake over and started telling him to deal with it in the usual way. Problem was that the usual way involved taking customers out to the parking lot and beating them up, then leaving them to sleep it off behind the dumpster, or handcuffing them and calling the cops on them for being drunk and disorderly. But these were bullet wounds.

Okay. Put the dead ones in the dumpster. No. That would lead back to the club. Put them in a taxi and take them to the airport. The driver would notice when they didn't pay the fare. Load them into the back of a pickup and drop them off at the hospital. Crude, but it might could work. Large thank you gifts for everyone involved.

The bouncers rounded up the dead and dying, the girls straightened the place up, Dan reopened the bar and the DJ put on some gangsta rap. Gordon called for a round for everyone, on the house.

He sat at his table, working the bullet-scratched surface with a fingernail. Sam and Dave came up to him and stood there silently. He looked up at them in a mental fog. It was the pain. His consciousness was shrunk to the size of a walnut because of the pain. He hated pain. He ordered another drink.

"You two never got to play the heavies, did you?" he asked them. "Things sure happened differently than I'd planned." Then he remembered he was supposed to turn over the owner. "Sorry, boys," he said heavily, "he gave us the slip right before the badguys showed up. He's gone."

Sam and Dave shared wide-eyed, panicky looks. Dave whipped his phone out and started punching buttons. He looked at Gordon with doubt in his eyes. "His car's out back."

"Yes it is," he replied. How did he know that?

Sam said, "GPS."

Gordon nodded. Gadgets. They had a GPS on the owner's car? Did they have one on his car?

"Do we even know his name?" Dave asked.

Gordon fished out the deed of sale. "I think he's going to the airport. There was this taxi driver with a big bag. It was before the shooting. I was suspicious. They're probably there by now."

"Too big to fit in the overhead?" Sam asked.

"Twice the size. Must have been full of cash. Maybe half a million."

Dave spelled the owner's name into the phone. He discussed the luggage issue. Then he hung up. Sam shook Gordon's hand and muttered how great about the club. Dave hit him up for a bag of marching powder. They left in a hurry. Got to get to those reports.

Gordon sat back and examined the past few hours. He was now the proud owner of a strip club. His men had beaten off an army. He was King Gordon and this was the first night of his new life as a player. Mom would be proud. Like he could tell her about it.

Allen sat down next to him. Gordon called for another round on the house. They cheered him.

"I guess we won't rob the place, then," Allen wondered.

"Right, Allen. We can't rob it. The owner robbed it on his way out of here."

"That bastard." Allen looked at Gordon's foot. The bandage was beginning to seep. "I was kinda looking forward to robbing the place," he moped.

"We'll rob it tomorrow," Gordon soothed. "We'll rob it every night." The Vicodin was kicking in on top of a couple of stiff post-trauma drinks. He was not caring much about anything at the moment. "We'll make it a show. Wild West Night. Come get robbed, and not just by the girls. All nude badguys. Wait, no."

That's when he opened the bar. He and Allen paid a customer for a table dance. The girls sat around drinking, stuffing dollars into the garters of hairy, naked men. The DJ got a blow job while he was queuing up songs. There was heavy betting on it.

Gordon hobbled off to the back to spend some time in his new office. He sat and looked thru the desk drawers. He looked thru the files. He looked thru the computer hard drive. He looked a good part of the way thru the big bag of coke.

He wondered about the attack on the club. Who were those guys? Why were they there? What did they want? He didn't bother wondering if they'd be back. He never for a moment thought he could be in above his head. He never noticed the circling shadows beneath him.

He had a lot of ideas. Ways of improving the club. New decor. New theme. What if they were to start a retail line? Videos. Clothing. Condoms. Ah, energy drinks. A few secret ingredients (cocaine and speed) and they'd be a real hit. Or some concoction of prescription drugs and cocaine he could call marching powder, in honor of Sam and Dave.

He wanted to liven up the routine in the club. It was always naked girls dancing and rushing the customers for money. What if they had theme nights? Slumber party, and all the girls could wear baby doll costumes. Halloween. How about a beauty pageant? Miss Nude Girl. Why not mud wrestling?

King Gordon the Great.

He was in the middle of unwrapping his foot to use a line of coke as a topical anesthetic. He glanced at the security monitors. There were lots of them. On rotation, nine at a time tiling the screen. Finally he noticed the camera that was focused on the dumpster in the parking lot. Rick was out there, fiddling with something. He called Jake, who sent Thumper the bouncer out to see what was going on. Thumper reported that Rick was fucked up, and that he'd been escorted to his car.

Gordon was hobbling down the long corridor to the front of the building, halfway decided to warn Ben so he could save Alice, when he heard another shot. The army was back.

But there was no second shot until Gordon came busting thru the door and Rick took aim at him.

Rick had eaten the chocolate he snatched from Alice earlier. He was unsteady, he couldn't see straight, sweat was pouring into his eyes. He was shooting with his left hand. He'd been sleeping it off in the car but woke up and decided to come back in and get even with Roxy for mangling his fingers.

Laurie was sitting on the edge of the stage, her shoes dangling. She was rubbing her shoulder where Rick's first shot had grazed her. Dan the bartender handed up a drink and she took it gratefully.

The bouncers surrounded Rick and disarmed him. Gordon had a few things to say about the reputation the club was going to develop if they let this kind of thing continue. They dragged Rick outside to teach him a lesson.

Rick staggered in a circle under the security lights, surrounded by grinning bouncers. They'd never liked him. He was a lousy tipper. And so superior. Only the fact that he was Gordon's brother had kept them from giving him a whipping months before. And since he'd just shot at his loving brother, they figured all bets were off.

Rick was defiant. He slurred his words, announcing in a whiny yell that he'd been recording everything that went on at the club, for months. He had the shit on everyone of them. He knew what each one was up to, and had enough evidence to close the club down and put them all in prison. He postured, he threatened, he insulted them. He was still trying to come out on top, even surrounded by a pack of snarling bouncers. He still wanted to bully a big bribe out of someone to keep quiet about it.

The bouncers circled closer. It started out as a standard ass-whipping. But then he slipped and went down, and they moved in.

Gordon appeared at the back door, hobbling over to have a look. Rick was curled up. He was dirty, his clothes were torn, he was scraped and scratched, and blood leaked out of the side of his mouth.

"You okay, big brother?" Gordon asked, bending down to look into Rick's eyes. Rick began to cough and spit, and started trying to get to his hands and knees.

But Gordon kicked him viciously in the head, and Rick went down again.

Gordon fainted right on top of him. He'd kicked his brother with his wounded foot and the pain shut him right down. The bouncers pulled Gordon off of Rick and propped him up on the side of the dumpster. He came around a few moments later, and looked over at his brother.

Rick was lying in blood and vomit and piss, left for dead by the bouncers. Gordon decided the club needed a different policy for undesirable customers. He struggled to his feet with difficulty, kicked his brother once more in the head for old time's sake, with his other foot, and stepped over him on his way back inside.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The next day was cold and rainy. It rained all day long. The cold seeped into everything, slowed and dragged at everything. Mechanical devices froze up, doors stuck, wheels and bearings turned reluctantly. Fingers and toes were stiff and painful, backs ached, sinuses clogged. Anything that rusts up in wet weather was swollen and hurting.

Everyone was affected by the rain. Traffic snarled, lines grew longer, people got grumpy. Everything took twice as long, and lots of things just didn't get done because it was too difficult to get around. Not that it was any more inclement than usual. It's just that this was a Class A depressive rain, strong enough to make birds and mammals suicidal, magnetic enough to give computers headaches, complicating everything enough to make it not worth doing.

It was a full moon. Usually a high energy time, when lots of people do impulsive things. But the rain had dampened the energy, sedated the natural exuberance of the full moon, like it was on Prozac. So everyone gave their impulses precedence, but the consequences worked themselves out in slow motion.

Overnight, a flock of John Does came into the ER. Several with acute lead poisoning, without IDs. Several Jane Does impersonating zombies and giving only aliases. Toward dawn those that could talk became a little more forthcoming. Half a dozen walking wounded all claimed to be going down the street minding their own business, but were pretty fuzzy about which street. And one poor asshole beaten all to hell who croaked on the table, whispering Roxy with tears in his eyes. All in all, it was a banner night in the ER. They'd planned for it, of course: they came out of the woodwork on a full moon.

Nobody ever mentioned the full moon on the morning news. People at the network noticed the uptick in strangeness, they even had a disaster betting pool every full moon, but it went without saying that astrology wasn't newsworthy, so it was never mentioned. Judy was the only one of the siblings who would have noticed this, or cared. She would have sat there and lectured the TV screen for twenty minutes on why the full moon was a big deal. But she wasn't watching television right then. She was having her own full moon crisis.

Just a couple of hours before the sun would have come up, if the sun were not depressed and lethargic and hadn't taken a valium and gone back to sleep, Judy decided that she was going crazy, and drove herself down to the hospital. There was a line, even at four in the morning. Noodling in her head about how wrong it was to make crazy people wait patiently in beige waiting rooms, she went off to the bathroom to roll a joint, and snuck out to smoke it in the hedges between the parking lot and the ambulance entrance.

The rain had slackened a little, but fat drops splattered on her from the bushes. She took a couple of tokes and started to relax. Maybe she wasn't really crazy. The next ambulance came over the hill, whining and blinking. She watched it come as the rain picked up again, wondering what kind of human tragedy it carried.

They had Rick in the back of the ambulance. She was positive. She stuck her head right into the gap between bushes and peered at him while they got the wheels down. He was horribly hurt, and very bloody, but it was her brother. She took another hit while the rain rolled down her hair, then carefully put the joint out, wrapped it in a stickie, and hid it in her pocket for later.

By the time she got inside he had already died. They were doing painful things with electricity in another room, and she was in a beige waiting room at the bottom of a long sign-in list. She sat under the television, ignoring the blather, thinking. She was crazy. And her brother was a goner, the EMTs had said he was running to the light as they wheeled him in.

Well, she never liked him anyway. But still. Her brother. Her oldest younger brother. She remembered how it was, being kids together, pulling each other's hair, ganging up on the other two together.

Somewhere he became a caricature of what their parents and the times had taught him. She had too. She was a campy old hippie, he was a cruel, driven tycoon. Not really themselves, but outfits they wore. The innocent kids, that was the real them. Or maybe not. Maybe the innocents had been switched out long ago for the conniving, scheming, self-centered, vindictive people they were now.

If they were still kids inside, then they could be forgiven. If they were responsible for the nasty pieces of work they'd become, then they were all fucked.

By the time the list worked its way down to Judy, she had decided she probably wasn't crazy, and went home to get a little sleep.

* * *

During the night, Cindy met Sindee. They went walking in magic rain cloaks that kept them dry. On a dragon hunt, they were wounded by the swipe of a claw. It itched horribly, and swelled and burned. Sindee showed Cindy how to cauterize her arm in the campfire. A dragon scratch is poisonous. Sindee explained many things to Cindy. They became very close.

That morning, Cindy woke up to find her arm bloody and scabby, the skin weepy raw and angry looking. The itch of her poison ivy was gone, but nothing stopped the pain of the wound in its place. She clutched her elbow and ran to the bathroom cabinet, where she downed two Oxycodone, furious she didn't have any more.

She screamed at Bill when she found him sleeping on the couch. How could he just lay there and let someone set fire to her in her own bed? Bill didn't answer. He was tied to the couch, covered in paint and other liquids from the garage. He promised not to tell a soul what happened, a horrified expression on his face.

Distracted from the pain, she untied him and let him go. He ran off as if expecting to be shot in the back. She thought to call the cops and report another attempted murder, but Bill wouldn't be there to back her up, and she didn't feel like being laughed at again. She was too stressed to be nice to sarcastic cops right now.

* * *

When Judy woke, it was as dark as when she got home, and raining heavily. She wondered if she'd slept an hour, or was it that evening? Or tomorrow morning? The confusion continued until she was fully awake. Which took many cups of coffee and whisky, and the few roaches set aside – for when she ran out of pot. Which she had done.

You could argue that it was Judy's desire for weed that led to her doom.

Frank's sudden death sent her into a tailspin. She stopped cleaning and organizing, stopped taking care of the house, the yard, the trash. She stopped washing her hair. She stopped bathing and changing her clothes. She smelled like rotting skin.

She went around in filthy socks, soiled pajamas and a ratty housecoat, the pockets overflowing with stickies. Why they hadn't seen to her right away when she'd gone to the hospital like that, she couldn't say. A reasonable person would have wanted Judy put away the moment he saw her.

It was early in the day. Having contacted Allen for an emergency supply, and agreeing to meet him at the liquor store, the one-stop idea being a prudent measure when she was a little impaired, she shed her bathrobe and staggered to her car.

She weaved and dodged and drove ten miles under the speed limit all the way home. Arriving safely, she noticed a car in front of her house. It was a representative of the county, waiting in the rain to talk to her. He was there to inspect a report of hoarding made by those seemingly nice EMTs, and to take appropriate action.

She walked him thru the house, pointing out the progress she'd been making. But all he saw was the devastation of her grief. He made her sign papers condemning her house as unsafe. He gave her a card and told her to call for more information, and warned her that the process could take some time. He gave her a moment to collect a few necessities, and suggested she go to a shelter for the night, or a hotel, or maybe she had family nearby she could stay with.

She spat into a puddle, got in her car, and left. Circling back, she returned to the house once he'd gone. There were new locks slapped on all her doors. Rain dripped inside her clothes and down her body. Her socks and shoes were sodden.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Laurie and Gordon got home as the streetlights were going off. The rain chose that time to puke all over them, and they had to wade to the trailer. It had been a rough night, and all Gordon wanted to do was go to sleep, but Laurie was turned on by all the shooting and wanted him to make love to her while twisting q-tips into the place where she was shot.

Sometime after they fell asleep, Sindee and Cindy left a magic chocolate for Gordon, whom they had discovered secretly raising dragons in the crawl space under his trailer. Cindy put it in a box that Judy had given her some useless craft thing in. Sindee drove over to his trailer, and they left it perched on his windshield wiper.

He got up out of bed late in the day, and went outside to check his car for any GPS devices Sam and Dave might have installed. There he found the box left by his sister. The box was ruined and flattened by the rain, but the chocolate inside was moist and delectable. He ate it on up, schnapps dripping off his chin in the rain, and then went back inside for that box of chocolates he'd rescued from the club. There was a hole in the box, and a spent bullet knocked around inside. Gordon lifted off the cover, laughed out loud, and ran off to wake Laurie and show her.

Food porn. The tip of the bullet just parted a perfect bonbon, stuck in a crevice it had created with the last of its momentum. A little bit of pink juice was leaking out around the tip. Allen would never believe it. A bullet, breaking the chocolate's cherry. It was poetic. He should save it. But Gordon loved chocolate. He should take a picture with his phone. But he didn't know where his phone was. Oh well, Allen would have to take Laurie's word as backup. She would back him up – she watched him eat it.

Laurie got up, got a drink, got high, and put on Natural Born Killers. So I blame it all on Woody Harrelson. Gordon sat and tried to watch the movie thru a blue haze of smoke. Laurie started in on him about Mom. Going off about how evil Mom was, pointing out all of Gordon's faults and tracing each one back to Mom. It was crystal clear that he was totally dependent on Mom, because if there was anything she knew in all its guises, it was addiction. Gordon was strung out on Mom's money. Duh. More importantly, he was at grave risk of being just like Mom. Just as crazy, just as controlling, just as self-centered.

Them's fighting words, but Gordon was a peaceful man. Laurie's incessant droning ate into his brain, her relentless criticism ate at his tender heart, her repoisoned chocolates ate at his insides.

He decided, amid snorts of coke and joints the size of his dick, that the best way to stop Laurie's carping was to eliminate the object of her carping. It seemed the simplest solution. Without Mom, Laurie would be happy. His job was to make Laurie happy. It was simple, every way he looked at it.

He made his mind up abruptly. It unfolded before his eyes. He and Laurie rode in like Mickey and Mallory, trading hip soundbites as they blasted everyone away, having sex over their dead bodies. Right. All his inner senses told him this was doable. And not only doable, but his obligation, and his alone. An artistic statement. He was willing to rearrange the bodies if need be, in order to work with his scenario.

He told Laurie his idea between hits off the meth pipe. "Hey, babe, let's go do something really fun. Let's go fuck up someone you really hate." Laurie squealed with delight. "Where's that shotgun?"

* * *

Cindy was in agony. Burned and scabby, her wounds throbbed and itched under the dressings. She screamed for pain pills, and got the doctors to write her nice prescriptions for OxyContin and Darvocet. She took double the recommended dose of each the moment she left the pharmacy, waited twenty minutes for them to kick in, then took four more in her driveway. Then it was time for a nap. But first, she hunted around and took a little cocktail of antidepressants and beta blockers with an amphetamine high-note and a vodka chaser.

Xynthde got up an hour later in a bad mood. The magic box was empty, but she took it with her. When she opened it later, it was a little cake that said "Eat Me," so she took a bite. She felt curious all over. Xynthde ate half, then decided that she needed to see Alice, take her the rest of the delicious little cake, which conferred invisibility. This showed Xynthde's true heroism, sharing the gift of the gods. Xynthde drove her chariot to Alice's fairy castle in the sky, but there were dragons guarding it. She'd seen them fly in from the west, where the wicked witch's fortress threatened all peace in the land. But suddenly there was the solution. How simple. She must follow the dragons back to their lair and kill them all.

Cindy woke up behind the wheel of her car. It was pulled over, halfway on the grass, around the corner from her mom's house. The wheels sat in deep ruts, her foot still on the gas. She was disoriented, and dizzy as she got out of the car. She wasn't really sure where she was, and had no idea how she got there. She grabbed her purse, on the passenger seat, and didn't look inside. If she had she would have found a box with half a chocolate leaking all over the bottom of her bag, a 9mm gun, three full clips, a taser, four or five empty prescription bottles, her wallet, cellphone and a pair of handcuffs.

* * *

After the dinner at Mom's, Cindy forgot all about the medicine chest she'd stolen. But she discovered it in the back seat when she went thru the carwash before going to kill Mom. She put it next to her on the front seat, and worked it open while her car went thru the suds. There were bottles of penicillin from the '80s – Mom had been breeding antibiotic resistance for years by only taking half the pills and stashing the rest. There were 50 year old bottles of paregoric, tranquilizers, amphetamines. A drug store in a box. There was even some morphine, and a syringe. All horribly out of date, but this stuff didn't lose its punch, most of it. Cindy's mouth watered. Which should she take first? Valium? Haldol? Phenobarbital? Benzedrine? She wanted to try them all.

It's no wonder that she fell asleep on the way to Mom's, and Xynthde drove the rest of the way. Standing on the grass in bare feet, wobbling with the breeze, Cindy and Xynthde weaved in and out of each other. Gradually Cindy understood that the dragon master, the wicked witch herself, was inside the fortress. Gradually Xynthde understood that Mom was the wicked witch herself. They both agreed that the wicked witch needed desperately to be killed, and that it would take the two of them working together.

They could hear dragon breath. It sounded like wind rustling the bushes, except it was regular. They looked around. The bushes rustled. Something was hiding behind them. They drew their weapons and crept forward, stalking the dragon.

Drug interactions produce strange side effects. A couple of hours ago, Cindy took a fistful of Xanax, which calmed her down remarkably. Helped her to achieve a few minutes of sleep, in fact. One of her favorite daily drugs, and one she habitually doubled or tripled the dosage of, because it was so good at making everything okay.

But the trouble with Xanax is that it makes you evil once it wears off.

Xynthde rummaged thru the satchel they'd brought. The stickiness intrigued her. Ah, the magic box. This time containing the sacred bonbon of life. It would make them invincible in battle. Xynthde loved chocolate. They shared it, for luck, then licked their fingers and moved into position.

The dragon stirred. Cindy felt the rage build up inside her. The dragon – might as well say Mom out loud – was the enemy she'd been fighting all her life. Any shred of independence was hers only because she'd hacked and cut her way thru. The way she lived, the things she owned, were only hers because she snatched them out of the hands of that greedy bitch, who sucked the life out of her.

She felt the power of her rage. All the side effects of her many medications gathered together and took a vote. It was a close race, and they held a runoff. Cindy was dizzy. She was weak. She was agitated. She was confused. She was excitable. She was exhausted. Her heart raced. Her breathing slowed. Her kidneys got gummy and stopped up. Her liver exhaled toxic waste. Her blood pressure dropped. She grew cold and hot at the same time. Her vision grayed out. She struggled to stay conscious. She struggled to remember her mission.

The dragon was breathing on the intrepid warriors. Its noxious gases corroded their skin. The smell of burning hair was overpowering, but the smell of burning flesh was strangely appetizing. Cindy could feel blood lust creeping over her, and looked in Xynthde's eyes to see it boiling there, too. An unspoken strategy passed between them. They readied themselves for the charge. Cindy checked her Glock; Xynthde wielded her battle scythe.

"One, two three, whee!" Cindy wailed, the very thing her parents said when they lifted and swung her between them as a toddler. Xynthde gave it to her as her personal battle cry, because of the good vibes the sounds contained.

Together, Cindy and Xynthde burst out of the bushes and exploded across the moat, crossing it in a single leap. The portcullis was dropping fast, the sharp spikes were twisted and corroded. Cindy wished she'd had a tetanus shot the last time she was at the doctor's.

They fought thru the guards and into the central courtyard. Spying the last of the ladder being drawn into the keep, they bounded over the heads of the guards and with a mighty leap, thrust their weapons thru the last rung, nailing the door open.

The dragon's stench was strong in the keep. There was her famous evil chariot over in the corner, and stolen loot piled against the walls. The dragon had probably just been thru there, and was at this moment in some deep lair inside the keep. The stink of ages rushed out around the brave warriors, but Xynthde had a potion against poison gas, and the girls shared three deep snorts and prepared for the long battle to the room at the top, where the dragon lived, and the wicked witch worked her evil. Or could the wicked witch be in her laboratory?

They split up. Xynthde ventured down to the dungeon, where she freed many prisoners and slayed all the guards, but the dragon and its evil master weren't there.

Cindy creeped up the spiral staircase to the room at the top, thankful the stairs were made of stone. The wicked witch could always hear her sneaking around when the stairs were wooden. The smell became more pungent, rotting flesh and shit, heat and stale air. Cindy's nostrils wrinkled and her lip curled involuntarily. She approached the heavy door. She released the safety on her weapon. She paused to listen.

In the tiny room at the top of the stairs, open to the air and the rain, rotting animal carcasses piled in the corner, the witch and her evil dragon crouched, holding their breath, smelling like fear. Cindy wasn't fooled. She was waiting for Xynthde to catch up to her, and then they were going to finally kill the wicked witch.

The fumes made her sick. She puked quietly, careful to project it into the middle of the stairwell, hoping to keep the slimy juices away from the steps. Where was Xynthde?

Cindy grew weak. The wicked witch was sapping her strength, sucking the life out of her even thru the heavy door. But here was her friend and companion, and suddenly Cindy felt renewed. They retreated half a circle and checked each other's armor. Xynthde shared some speed, and they shot morphine into the small veins under their tongue.

The dragon sniffed at the bottom of the door, identifying them. They could hear scratching and snuffling and the blood curdling voice of the wicked witch, wanting to know who was there. The time was now. They stood together on the landing, gave each other a last embrace, and burst thru the door like Butch and Sundance.

* * *

To be continued

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