 
BRISOC FOLLIES

by Brian Bakos

cover art & photos: Brian Bakos

Copyright 2020, Brian Bakos

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to anyone else. If you want to share this book, please buy an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and obtain your own copy. Thanks for respecting the author's hard work.

Table of Contents

Prolog

One: Rhona's Book Club

Two: Motor City Man

Three: Bill Throws a Dinner Party

Four: She's Crazy About Me

Five: Opportunity Gone Awry

Six: Hanging on Telreaka

Seven: Porch Music

Eight: The Pizza Guy Delivers

Nine: Tell-Tale Hiccup

Ten: There's a Dog in the Car

Eleven: The Future Lies Ahead

Connect with the Author

Brian's Other Books

#  Prolog

A word from the author:

If you're feeling a bit down or creeped out, possibly from reading my other stuff, this book should help pick you up. If not, maybe a stiff drink can help.*

Cheers!

* The author disavows any intention of offending the sensibilities of any reader for or against alcohol. Also, any sensibilities about race, religion, national origin, political persuasion, sexual orientation, reproductive rights, climate, guns, cultural appropriation, veganism, recreational drugs, etc. If you can think of some other reason to be offended, please fill in the blank. _________________________________

# One: Rhona's Book Club

Each month, Rhona's Book Club highlights exciting new literary talent. Be sure to tune in Friday for the latest selection! – TV promo

Friday afternoon

Allie sat with her co-workers in the employee lounge, listening to the trash talk. It involved Phil Klacik, the technical writer employed on a contract basis.

"He's not bad looking, in a gangly sort of way," Cher said.

"Yeah, but what a dork!" another girl said. "Did you catch his outfit? Like a varsity sweater from Loser U."

Allie chortled along with the others, though she didn't enjoy it much. The conversation moved to another topic—the latest movie, or something.

Is this all there is?

Almost a year at BriSoc Enterprises, and Allie still associated with this low-level group. What about that guy from senior management who'd whisk her off to better things, the one with the sports car and yacht? He didn't work here, unfortunately.

Cher was her only real friend, somebody who might have an interesting future; she'd gotten stuck with that Tom guy from Marketing, though. What was it with these beautiful girls settling for yo-yos? Sometimes, she wanted to grab Cher's hand and flee this place together, but where could they run?

They bookended the table and its load of lesser types. Cher with her long, straight ebony hair; Allie, a natural blond with plenty of body.

Phil Klacik entered the lounge and conversation died, as if people didn't want their adult-entertainment comments overheard by a fuddy-dud uncle. Amused and sarcastic eyes watched the intruder pour coffee.

Allie looked away. _Geez!_

To think he'd tried asking her to lunch a few weeks ago. She'd not been tactful blowing him off. Why bother being nice to somebody so far below your league?

Gripping his mug of coffee, Phil maneuvered around the little crowd at the table, banging against the recycle bin on his way out. Hot liquid slopped onto his hand making him wince.

"Careful," Jeff said. "Don't let that bin knock you over."

Snickering.

"Klutz," somebody muttered.

Allie shook her head. _That guy's hopeless._

* * *

Navigating the rabbit warren aisles between cubicles, brushing against the gray fabric walls, Phil Klacik experienced a moment of empathy for every lunatic who'd ever come to work wielding a gun.

I'm a klutz, huh?

What would it be like, he wondered, to stroll into the lounge wearing a long overcoat with an Uzi concealed beneath? The gun would feel cold and lethal against his body.

First scene:

The members of the _Wise Ass Club_ hanging out in the lounge smile sarcastically, amused at his odd-looking garment. He pulls out the Uzi, and their smiles disappear.

As they gape through terror-bulging eyes, he sprays the room with bullets. Bodies thud; blood oozes across the floor. Before the pool can spread over his shoes, he departs.

Change scene:

Heads for the elevator bank. People get out of the way. Enters an elevator car.

Change scene:

Exits the elevator and enters the Boss's office. Delivers a burst of gunfire. The Boss is wearing a white shirt over his ample gut. Bullet holes bloom upon it like death roses.

Phil knew he could never do such horrible things. His personality did not contain room for nihilistic violence. He was much more the type to shake the dust off his sandals and depart an unfavorable situation.

One of his _characters_ might be psychotic enough to try, though. Maybe he could write a novel about a guy who gets fed up being the office dweeb and decides to settle the score...

He entered his own cube and the exciting world of fiction disappeared, replaced by dull routine. Phil plopped into his chair, spilling more coffee.

"Damn!"

He'd been on this assignment four months and had not made a single friend. His early 20's 'colleagues' made it clear that he, mid 30's, was the old man out of their hip crowd. They regarded him as an eccentric figure better suited to some rarefied academic atmosphere, like a nutty professor wandering the corridors between classes muttering to himself. Definitely not someone to include in lunch-time outings.

Hell, I'm not Norman Bates.

In any event, he didn't fit into the shallow world of his co-workers. Their constant chatter about entertainment, money, and clothes was enough to fatally bore anyone with half a brain. The ostracism still hurt, though.

The phone rang... the Boss. "You've got the systems documentation materials I sent?"

"Yes." Phil looked glumly at the imposing stack of papers on his desk.

"I need all the revisions finished by Tuesday noon."

_Screw you!_ "I'll have them ready," Phil said.

"Good."

_Click_.

Jerk!

Again Phil thought about the sub-machine gun. The plot for a new novel began to form: Creative genius stuck in a dead-end day job cracks and shoots a bunch of people at the office.

He turned over ideas in his mind, sipped coffee, turned over more ideas. No, it wouldn't work. There simply wasn't enough there to write a whole novel.

Then he had it!

_Somebody else_ does the shooting and pulls a frame up. The killer wears a ski mask, along with some stolen clothing, and witnesses assume it's the creative genius. Only cynical, world-weary private detective Vance Hewlett suspects the truth: a renegade executive has eliminated people who knew too much about his crooked dealings. Then...

Phil's eyes fell upon the disheveled document pile burdening his desk like some half-baked Leaning Tower of Pisa. He crashed back into the real world. The new novel would have to wait until later. The dreary necessities of daily survival came first. With such a tight deadline looming, he'd have to put in extra hours. But not today; he had to be home in time to watch a very special television show.

Early evening

Home at his apartment, Phil popped open his second beer and sprawled before the TV. Like millions of others, he was watching the Rhona Edwards talk show. His creaky old VCR groaned, taping the event.

The VCR was a relic, but it still worked and he had plenty of blank tapes. Phil rather enjoyed his retro technology; it harkened back to a simpler time, like his novels did.

Through the developing glow of his beer buzz, Phil watched Rhona interview her guest—a self-absorbed young actress bellyaching about the challenge of balancing her career with the demands of motherhood.

"It isn't easy, Rhona," the actress said. "I want to be a normal mom for little Preston, but everywhere we go, people know who I am."

Little Preston sat beside her on the couch, one of those pudgy, arrogant little kids you just wanted to smack. The camera zeroed in on him. Mommy slanted over, beaming proudly, to be included in the shot.

_Give me a break. Better yet, give me a beer._ Phil guzzled half the can.

Rhona listened attentively, as if this drivel had great important. She could make you feel like the center of the world. Phil raised his beer can.

"Here's to you, Rhona."

Soothed by the alcohol, numbed with TV prattle, his mind wandered over the past few years. He recalled the many lonely hours writing his novel, the rejections, the nearly hopeless search for an agent, and, finally, the miracle day when a publisher bought the book.

Then the crash back to reality: minuscule sales, zero publicity, no blip on the _I-Am-Somebody_ scale. Oblivion. Phil was on his way to the Palookaville where nearly all first-time novelists ended up. Out of nowhere, the second miracle happened when...

Here, on the television screen.

The yaketty actress finally shut up and scooted down the couch, vacating the space next to Rhona. Preston had been hustled offstage. Rhona held up a book, _his_ book.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," Rhona said, "it's my pleasure to introduce the man behind the latest addition to my book club. Please welcome the author of _Murder among Friends_. He's a fine new literary voice: Mr. Phillip Klacik!"

Applause.

Phil watched himself walk across the screen toward Rhona. He didn't look too bad, thank God, though he'd been scared to death—blinded by the lights, uncertain what to say.

Rhona perceived his tension when he sat down. Reaching over, she placed a hand on his and gave a reassuring squeeze. The effect was dramatic, calming. Her show-business persona dropped away briefly, and he loved her for it.

Then she got down to it. "I'm so glad you could come today, Phil. This is the best part of my job, introducing great new talent to my viewers."

The on-screen Phil grinned shyly. "Thanks, Rhona."

"I never thought I'd include a book from the murder mystery genre in my club selections," Rhona said, "but your depth of psychological insight and fine use of language changed my mind. What gave you the idea for _Murder among Friends_?"

The television Phil, energized by the praise, stretched out on the studio couch and poked an elbow over the back.

"Well, Rhona, it all started like this..."

The Phil on the dinky apartment sofa triumphantly finished his beer.

Monday morning

Phil arrived two hours early at BriSoc Enterprises, intending to catch up on his backlog of work. An empty, half-lit office area confronted him as he got off the elevator. It looked like an abandoned TV studio set for a depressing soap opera. He stifled a shudder.

All weekend, he'd basked in the glory of success. Now he was back in this mind-numbing place. Machinery in his brain ground painfully, trying to shift gears.

He wanted coffee but avoided the darkened employee lounge with its towering vending machines—their plastic fronts reflecting the indicator lights of the coffee maker, like pairs of eerie red eyes. A shiver ran through him as he walked past, gaining speed.

He arrived at his cube and snapped on the area light.

"Isn't this great?" he muttered, viewing the oppressive stack of documents burdening his desk.

It hadn't magically disappeared over the weekend. Neither had his bills for rent, auto loan, and credit cards. They all pulled together in a noose, drawing him here. He sat down and fired up the computer. This was going to be one long, lousy day.

Fortunately, the warm glow from Friday evening still shimmered through the gloom. When he'd first been selected for Rhona's book club, it was like God had reached down and picked him for some holy distinction. He'd gone quite off his head and had actually approached Allie, the floor's premiere hottie, intending to ask her out for lunch.

What an idiot he'd been! He'd walked up to her cube, foolishly convinced she'd be thrilled to hear of his success. Instead, he'd learned the true meaning of humiliation.

"Hi, Allie," he'd said. "How's it going?"

She turned a tight-lipped expression toward him which said loud and clear: _"Get lost!"_

He felt unnerved, as if somebody had shoved a revolver into his ribs.

"What do you want?" she asked in a cold, flat voice.

"I, uh, well, I'm going out for lunch, and..."

"Look, I'm really busy right now, okay?"

"Sure... sorry."

Phil cringed at the recollection. So much for his vaunted "depth of psychological insight." Gain a little notoriety and go straight for the sex bomb with the flinty heart.

Well, doesn't every guy think with his dick?

He set to work on the systems document. What a waste of his best hours. Later on at home, sluggish and bleary-eyed, he'd get to write on his new novel. Then there'd be the weekend writing sessions, banging away at the keyboard. Social life, what's that?

The morning trudged past. Except for a quick john break before the others arrived, Phil never left his cube.

He was so absorbed in the meticulous revisions that he didn't notice the gathering assembly of his co-workers. Someone coughed and he looked up, startled, to see a group of people blocking the entrance of his cube, pushing their way in. Faces poked over the walls. He was surrounded!

A jolt of panic stabbed him. _What's happening?_

For a horrible moment, he thought the lynch mob had arrived. Then:

"How's the famous author?" Jeff inquired from the midst of the crowd.

"E-excuse me?" Phil said.

"Stop being modest," Cher said. She stood outside with only her head visible, like a Jack O' Lantern perched atop the cubicle wall. "We saw you on Rhona Edwards, the big up-and-coming novelist."

Phil's face reddened. "Oh, that... yeah."

"How did it feel to be up there with Rhona?" another woman asked, the one who'd called him "klutz" the other day.

"Does she look as young close up as she does on TV?" somebody else wanted to know.

The crowd pressed forward, hungry for any scrap of information. Phil recoiled in his chair, dumbfounded. What could he say? He could only shrug and smile into the awkward silence.

Jeff rescued him, thank God. "Sorry to barge in on you like this. Maybe you could tell us more at lunch? We're going to that new Chinese restaurant. How about coming with us?"

"Uh... not today, thanks." Phil gestured to his pile of documents. "I'll be working through lunch. Tight deadline."

"Okay, Phil, some other time then?"

"Sure, thanks."

The crowd departed like a flock of magpies taking wing. Phil exhaled. He'd scarcely been breathing.

_I'm the big celebrity now. Klutz one day, hero the next_.

Still, he couldn't help being flattered by the attention. Who wouldn't be? Perhaps he should go out to lunch with them. The backlog could wait.

He pictured himself holding court, like some ancient Mandarin, at a low table in the Chinese restaurant. People would be jockeying for position next to him, competing to pay his tab, absorbing every word he uttered as profound truth.

Later, the begging for favors would start: people brandishing manuscripts they'd written—did he know of a good publisher, an agent?

"Can you get me on TV?"

"Can you introduce me to somebody important?"

_Oh, please,_ Phil groaned.

The little drama in his head fizzled out. Being the big fish in this minuscule pond didn't make for a good fantasy. His cubicle felt as claustrophobic as a solitary confinement jail cell, yet how could he survive without a day job?

Even if Rhona's Book Club spiked his novel's sales, the next royalty check was months away. His cherished dream of being a fully independent writer still seemed far beyond his grasp.

His hyperactive imagination concocted new scenarios. Images bubbled up from his deepest longings. Staring at the computer monitor before him, Phil visualized a new and rewarding life.

First scene:

He sits beside piles of his books, autographing copies for his multitude of admirers. His hand is getting cramped. An obnoxious little kid named Preston acts up, and his mother smacks him back into line.

Change scene:

He's participating in a literary panel discussion: _The Murder Mystery in American Literature, from Poe to Klacik_. He's just finished speaking, outshining the other participants with his brilliant insights. People are silent, thoughtful, then they applaud thunderously.

Change scene:

He's in a tasteful French restaurant across the street from the Chinese place. He and his dinner guests enjoy the fabulous wine Phil has selected. An elegant lady, who looks a lot like Rhona Edwards, sits beside him. Discreetly concealed by the table cloth, her hand strokes his inner thigh.

"What an exquisite Merlot!" someone exclaims. "A harmonious blend of cherry, plum and cedar flavors, with a hint of smoke in the finish."

Phil smiled into the computer monitor. "Oh, really?"

A presence loomed behind him, blotting out the other images. He turned to see Allie standing in the entry.

"Hi, Phil," she said. "What's up?"

His daydreams vanished like a puff of smoke blown away by a hurricane. The commonplace air whooshed out of his cubicle, replaced by the overpowering fragrance of Allie's perfume.

"Hi," he managed to say.

"Congratulations." She beamed an incredible smile that smacked him an almost physical blow. "I hear you made quite a splash on TV."

Phil couldn't believe it. Was this goddess actually speaking to _him_? Smiling, friendly.

"Thanks," he said. "Not much of a splash, really, just got my toes wet."

She laughed lightly, her blue eyes sparkling, and his mind began to slip. He instantly forgave her everything. So what if she'd shot him down once? It would be an honor to lie on the floor, right here, and let her walk all over him, digging in her spike heels.

From Phil's subconscious, jaded private detective Vance Hewlett uttered a warning: _"Basic law of the universe, son. The better looking the girl, the more crap she gets away with."_

Shut up!

Allie's face turned serious. "I'm sorry about the other week, Phil. You caught me at – "

The phone on his desk rang.

Godammit! Let it ring.

No, he couldn't do that; it was probably **The Boss** again.

"Excuse me a minute." He tore his eyes off Allie and picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Phil."

"Well," a female voice said, " _finally_ got hold of you. I couldn't get through on your cell."

A wave of pleasure washed over him. It was Debbie, his literary agent, calling from New York.

"Debbie!" he exclaimed. "Yeah, sorry about that, my battery's dead."

"I tried calling you at home, but I kept getting that prehistoric answering machine." Debbie said with her usual bluntness.

"I don't think I'm there right now."

"That's clever. I didn't know you were a comedy writer."

Phil grinned. "I love you, too, Debbie."

"Whoa, this sounds serious."

"Damn right!"

He relaxed in his chair, stretching his legs out and stroking his free hand along the back of his head. He loved their foolish banter. So what if Betty was a grandmother 20 years older than him? He felt like the King of the World. On the phone, his trusted business associate—in his cube, a beautiful woman. What else was there to life?

Debbie had good news, too; Phil just knew that. Anticipation vibrated through him, spreading across his broad grin.

He looked up toward Allie, and his pleasure vanished. The magnetic smile she'd worn earlier was gone, replaced by a tight little snarl. Her eyes glittered with cold fury.

The sight pinned him to his chair; his breath stopped with a gasp. He felt like a tiny animal about to be ripped apart by a predator. All the humiliation he'd suffered at her hands a few weeks ago came rushing back.

Allie's terrifying expression lasted only a moment; a cheery smile pushed it aside. "Talk to you later," she said sweetly.

She exited the cubicle, leaving a wispy trail of perfume.

"Phil? Are you there?" Debbie's voice asked from a million miles distant.

"I-I'm still here."

His midsection ached. Yet he also felt a profound relief, as if he'd dodged a shotgun blast.

"Hey, no kidding," Debbie said. "Get home, get writing. I've negotiated a three-book publishing deal for you."

Phil's mouth dropped open. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Debbie said in a faintly teasing tone. "Don't act so shocked. You deserve it, and Rhona's Book Club gave us the clout to pull it off."

"How much for the cash advance?" Phil heard himself say.

"The advance? Brace yourself, Phil. Are you sitting down?"

"Y-yes," Phil squeaked.

Debbie waited a few unbearable seconds before continuing in a low voice. "The publisher is offering to pay, up front..."

* * *

Allie had begged off lunch with 'the gang' using some lame excuse. They weren't fooled, however, and gave her knowing looks. They understood she was sticking around to hobnob with the new celebrity.

After they cleared out, she'd made a beeline to Phil's cube and had suffered a painful setback. Now she was in the lounge regrouping for another foray. She poured two Styrofoam cups of coffee.

Does Phil take cream?

She'd add cream to one and leave the other black. She'd take whichever he didn't want, sipping it occasionally, her butt positioned half on / half off his desk top, after refusing his offer of a chair.

"No thanks," she'd say. "I've been sitting all morning. It feels good to stretch my legs."

And she would stretch them, to good effect. Then she'd feign interest in something on Phil's computer so she'd have an excuse to sidle close, pressing lightly against him.

She squirted creamer from its plastic tub into one of the coffees and watched the spurts disappear into the hot depths. A naughty smile crossed her face.

Why haven't I ever noticed before how attractive Phil is?

He looked like Arthur Miller, that writer who'd been with Marilyn Monroe. He was the deep, literary type—quiet on the outside and boiling under the surface with artistic energy.

Sure he was a bit gawky, but that could be smoothed out. Besides, a man of such creative power didn't need to worry about appearances as much as an ordinary guy did. With the right woman directing his life, he could go far. New York, Hollywood, Paris. The sky would be the limit, in your own private jet.

A dark cloud passed over her reverie—that Debbie slut! Who was she? He'd sure lit up when she'd phoned.

"I love you, too," Allie mimicked.

Her hand tightened, nearly crushing one of the cups. She recognized the error of showing her anger in front of him, but she'd been caught off guard. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

"Sorry about the other week," she'd started to say before Debbie interrupted. "You caught me at a bad time. I'd just broken up with my boyfriend and was in a terrible mood."

It was the perfect excuse. Any girl would be a little bitchy under such circumstances, and the recent breakup would boldly announce: "I'm available!"

Of course, Chet, her boyfriend, was still around. What a hunk he was, too. But a girl had to make choices if she wanted to get ahead in life, and Chet wasn't moving up the career ladder much. She'd have to dump him. Even for somebody as attractive as herself, grooming two stags at the same time was a surefire way to lose both of them.

What about sweetener?

She grabbed a packet of the artificial stuff and picked up the steaming coffees. Thus armed, she proceeded down the passage back toward Phil's cubicle, doing her best strut, her natural blonde hair bouncing lightly on her shoulders and trailing behind in sensuous wisps. She felt powerful, at the top of her form.

There was still that Debbie babe to consider. No matter, she was probably just some boring dishrag of a woman. Allie would shove her aside easily enough.

She felt the television lights on her, sensed the audience's presence and basked in its admiration. Millions of eyes caressed her through the camera lens. A perfect smile spread across her mouth as the talk show host stood to welcome her.

Allie entered Phil's cubicle and stopped short. He was gone. A sheet of paper taped to the monitor bore a crudely-drawn happy face and an ungrammatical farewell: _Goo-bye Folks!_

Monday night

Phil's fingers blazed over the keyboard of his vintage laptop, bashing out page after page of his new mystery thriller: _Murder among Co-workers_. A cup of coffee, black, rested on the work table, and a discarded fast food bag lay crumpled on the floor. He'd dived into work as soon as he got home and had scarcely left his chair since.

The book was virtually writing itself. Characters leapt from the pages full-blown with all the power and vitality of those in his first novel. Dark wit prevailed, and his acute "depth of psychological insight" rolled from his fingertips.

The phone rang. He looked across the room to the old landline unit. The answering machine ground out its taped message. Silence. The machine shut off.

Phil shrugged. _Couldn't be anybody important._

He glanced about his little one-bedroom apartment with distinct unaffection. He'd soon be abandoning this place. He'd also ditch the landline and his other outdated technology—the old laptop and TV, the VCR, the cheap burner phone with the dead battery. He'd once taken perverse pride in these items; they seemed to distinguish him from the common herd. Now he realized they were just excuses to cover up being broke.

For the first time in his life, he was thinking like a man of means. It was time to move up in the world—get a new wardrobe, find a nice girlfriend. He smiled and returned to work.

* * *

Standing at the counter of her open kitchen, a cigarette protruding from her clammy fingers, Allie reached for her phone. Her other hand clutched a glass of wine. She'd quit smoking years ago, but tonight she'd burned through half a pack. Her dream was slipping away, and this was her final chance to claw it back from oblivion.

Never before had she called a guy to ask for a first date, but with a powerful swig of Merlot, she gulped down her pride and jabbed in the numbers. Five rings, each one wrenching her heart. Then a decrepit tape answering machine began to whir.

_Hi, this is Phil. Please leave a message. If you're calling from BriSoc Enterprises, wait for the tone, then hang up. Sorry Allie, that includes you._ _Beep!_

"Ugh!"

Allie hurled her phone into the living room. It bounced off the sofa and onto the carpet.

A tempest of rage and humiliation swirled around the apartment as her romantic dream blew apart. She refilled the glass and drained it, lit another smoke. Her fingers beat a furious rhythm on the counter top.

"To hell with that twerp!" she slurred.

The inrush of alcohol finally calmed her. With a violent wrench of willpower, she threw Phil Klacik out of her mind forever.

She became philosophical. It wasn't so bad calling up a guy, now that she'd tried it.

What about Bob Nemeth in the Legal Department? Now there was hunk, and someone with a big future if his cards were played right for him. Allie crushed out the cigarette and flung the pack into the trash.

Yeah, maybe she'd get Bob's number from her friend in Personnel and call him up. Some pretext, say she needed legal work done and could he recommend a good lawyer? Maybe we could get together for lunch and talk about it?

Tomorrow's a good time for that, when I'm sweet and sober.

# Two: Motor City Man

The Motor City Man never rides alone. – advertising slogan of the scent for real men

Saturday afternoon

Paul Giroux entered the world of fantasy racing.

Standing at the workbench, a shop manual opened before him, he gripped an imaginary wheel in his left hand. With his right, he ground the floor shift through its gears. His body swayed as the dream vehicle maneuvered the curves...

He caught a reflection of his real car in the wall mirror—the dings, rust spots, and windshield crack. He skidded back to earth.

_Ah, well, let's get on with the oil change_. Paul examined his stash of lubricants on the bottom shelf. _Dang. Short a quart._

He walked across the garage and opened the door to the house. "Ma! I'm going to Auto Supplies. You need anything at the store?"

"Just a minute!" she called back.

Paul slid into his old banger and shut the door. It screeched on rusty hinges.

Better get WD-40, too.

Ma appeared at the driver side window. "Pick up a tube of hand lotion for me at Cosmetics, will you?"

"Sure thing."

She handed over a large bill.

"Got anything smaller?"

She gave a motherly smile. "Use the rest to buy yourself cologne."

"I don't need – "

"Girls like a guy who smells good. When are you going to find a nice one? Always working on cars."

"Oh, Ma."

She reached through the window and pinched his cheek. "Take my word for it. Ladies don't care for _Eau de Gasoline_."

"Okay, thanks."

Paul exited Auto Supplies carrying his bag of purchases and walked through the Hardware Department, past the tool displays. The tools crooned a siren song. He lifted a set of wrenches in its clear plastic casing. They had ratcheting box-ends, the kind he preferred. He fondled them as the money Ma had given him burned in his pocket. Reluctantly, he put the wrenches down.

He headed for the Cosmetics Department where he snatched a tube of herbal lotion off a shelf and got in line at the cash register. Three people stood ahead of him, including a large, broad woman who obstructed the view ahead. The line ran alongside a glass cabinet containing premium men's colognes. All were in elegant packaging with hefty price tags.

Guess I'd better buy one. Ma will be ticked otherwise.

One product caught his eye: Motor City Man cologne, "The scent for real men." Its display placard showed a macho guy standing beside a sports car, a beautiful woman on his arm. Detroit's Renaissance Center towers loomed in the background. Paul's rather grungy reflection contrasted with the formally dressed couple.

"The Motor City Man never rides alone," the display read.

The line moved; a sensuous voice interrupted his thoughts. "Will that be cash or charge?"

A fabulous girl stood behind the register, looking right at him. She appeared to be Afro-Asian—long hair and eyelashes, almond eyes and dark, creamy skin begging to be kissed. _Jouli_ according to her name tag, and miles out of his league.

"Uh, cash," Paul said.

Jouli took the lotion from his agitated fingers and scanned it into the system. His encounter with her would soon be over. He couldn't bear the thought.

"I-I'd like some cologne, too, please," he said.

"Which one?"

Paul gestured to the Motor City Man display.

"Good choice." She gave a pert little smile. "We just got that in."

She opened the cabinet and withdrew a box, using slender fingers tipped with beautifully painted nails. How could such a commonplace action look so totally sexy? Paul imagined himself stepping into the ad with Jouli on his arm and displacing the couple by the sports car.

"Will there be anything else?" she asked.

Yeah, your phone number!

"No thanks, that'll be all."

Saturday evening

A car pulled up to Rex Chrono's house and five girls piled out. Guys standing around the living room with cans of beer gazed through the picture window and smiled. The girls with them were less enthusiastic.

"Dang," Rex said, "we have a male shortage."

"You'd better do something about that." Cindy pinched his cheek. "I don't want too much competition, you know."

"Yeah."

Rex moved across the living room, whipping out his cell phone like a swordsman preparing for battle. He plunked into the reclining chair beside the stereo. Cindy stood behind and kneaded his shoulders as Rex perused his contacts list.

"Ah! Here's an oldie."

He stabbed the number. After a few rings, a masculine voice came on.

"Hello?"

Somebody turned up the stereo.

"Hey, dude!" Rex shouted over the music. "How's it hanging?"

"Rex? It's been ages," the telephone voice replied.

"Yeah, right. What're you doing now?"

"An oil change."

"Still working on cars, huh?" Rex said. "Put away the wrenches and get down here. There's a party going on."

He placed his phone against the blaring speaker to emphasize the point, wishing he could see the reaction on the other end.

"That wasn't very nice," Cindy said. "Who are you talking to?

Rex withdrew the phone from the speaker. "Paul Giroux, an old high school pal. Don't worry, he won't mind."

"How sweet."

She gave him a peck on the lips. He held onto her and dragged things out, caressing her hair and running his fingers over her line of earrings.

"Still there?" Paul's voice yelled over the phone.

Rex let go of Cindy. "Yeah, just a little distraction on this end."

"Distraction, eh?" Cindy gave him a playful shove. "I'll remember that, Mr. Chrono."

She walked off toward the snack bowls, hips swaying to accent her superb figure. She glanced back at Rex, but he was too absorbed in his phone call.

"You've got to help me out, Paul," he said in an urgent voice. "The girls are like fish in a barrel. Even you might get lucky."

"Thanks."

"Just kidding. I've got the house all weekend. Some of my friends are here from college."

A pause. "I don't know, Rex. They're not my type of crowd."

"Make them your crowd, buddy! Come on down. Stay overnight if you get too blasted."

"Well... ok."

"My man!"

Rex terminated the call and went back to his contact list. "Let's see, who else can we scrape up?"

Party time

Paul cruised past Rex's house, acutely aware that his rumbling old banger was out of place in the neighborhood. Hey, maybe his car didn't look like much, but it could kick ass when it needed to.

Two girls were going up the walkway to the front door—bright, attractive college-type women who looked sophisticated even in their causal clothes.

"Oh man, I'm out of my league here," Paul muttered.

He parked several doors down and reached for the six-pack on the passenger side. The little cologne box also lay on the seat where Paul had forgotten about it.

He opened the box and pulled out a small blue flask with a silver cap designed like an upright car wheel. It glittered coldly under the street lamp.

"What the hell, can't hurt anything."

He splashed cologne on his face and neck. A pleasant, spicy odor filled the car.

"Not half bad." He screwed the cap on and shoved the bottle into his glove compartment.

The driver side door screeched open. In his haste to leave home, Paul had forgotten to lubricate the hinges. Ordinarily, such a noise didn't bother him, but in this upscale neighborhood, it intruded like a belch at a church service. Paul exited and closed the door as quietly as possible.

A modest wind kicked up, tousling his hair and roiling the cologne scent. He walked toward Rex's house amid a cloud of fragrance. Some bounce entered his step, swagger to his hips. He imagined an admiring crowd lining the sidewalk, cheering him on. Cameras flashed. Paul waved to his fans.

Party sounds came from the house as he mounted the porch steps. A girl appeared at the screen door—sweet, blonde, sexy.

"Hi!" Paul said.

"Hi," the girl answered with a bored look. She made no move to let him in.

"Uh... this is Rex Chrono's place, right?"

"Yeah."

She moved closer to the screen. Her nostrils flared a bit, and the jaded expression receded.

"Come in." She opened the door, and Paul entered the living room.

He shifted the six-pack to his left arm and offered his hand. "Glad to meet you, I'm Paul Giroux."

Judging by her smirk, the girl seemed amused at his formality. "Sounds French."

"French Canadian, actually."

"I'm Allie. Maybe I was French, too, in a previous life."

"Great, I, uh – "

"Hey dude!" Rex Chrono approached behind a blaring light and a video camera. "Glad you could make it."

Paul squinted and held up a hand against the glare. "Yeah, me too. What's with the camera?"

Rex switched off the annoying thing. "My little dude cousin loaned it to me. He's going to be a movie director."

"That's nice."

Rex handed off the camera to a girl standing nearby and snatched the six-pack from Paul.

"Save this for later." He pressed a mixed drink into Paul's hand. "This'll make your pecker stand up."

Rex seized his arm and led him toward the crowd in the dining room, which had been cleared for dancing. Paul glanced back at Allie, who retained her amused smile.

"Hey everybody!" Rex announced. "This is Paul, my bud from back in the day."

It was largely a college crowd, lots of State U attire in evidence. They seemed friendly enough, though some looked surprised at Paul's working-class appearance.

"Love your sweatshirt," one guy said, indicating Paul's NASCAR-themed garment.

"Thanks."

Rex moved off, and the myriad conversations restarted. Paul noticed another bombshell girl across the room. He moved toward her.

"Hi Jouli," he said, "remember me?"

"You know my name, very observant," Jouli said. "Yeah, I remember you—Motor City Man."

"Good to see you again. Maybe you could you tell me a little about yourself?"

Did I say that?

He'd tossed the line out casually, minus his usual shy bumbling. Was it the cologne giving him confidence? Couldn't be the booze, he hadn't drunk any, yet.

"I take classes at the community college," Jouli said. "Business management mostly. What are you interested in?"

"Auto mechanics. I hope to get on a racing team."

"That sounds exciting."

Paul fortified himself with a sip of mixed drink. "Yeah, if I can catch the right break, who knows? NASCAR, Indy."

"I thought the drivers got all the girls," Jouli teased.

"Maybe I can change that." Paul took a bigger swig, grimaced.

"A little too strong?" Jouli poured some of her soft drink into his plastic cup. "Try this."

Music exploded from the speaker system.

"Okay everybody, let's dance!" Rex shouted.

The lights went out, a strobe flicked on, and the gyrating began. Paul danced with Jouli as the crowd pressed in upon them. A bit of his drink spilled out, so he quaffed the remainder with one gulp.

When he lowered his head again, Allie has taken Jouli's place.

What the hell happened?

Allie snatched away his plastic cup and shouted in his ear. "Stick with the good stuff!"

The next hours roared by in an alcohol haze—dancing with Allie, with Jouli again, with other girls. Drinking beer with some guys in the kitchen while talking cars and commenting on the women, declining tokes on various joints making the rounds.

And always, the macho scent of Motor City Man carried him along, instilling confidence and bravado.

Rex played the exuberant host, circulating with the movie camera, catching impromptu moments, yucking it up with his State U buddies. His girl stayed at his side, but she didn't seem to be enjoying herself. Rex was too busy working the crowd to pay her much attention.

Paul felt kind of sorry for her. He figured she was Rex's local squeeze when he was home from college. Pretty girl, too, like the ones Rex pursued back in high school.

_She's as out of place with this crowd as I am,_ he observed through his alcohol buzz.

Though he wasn't _really_ out of place. His cloak of acceptability still held, especially for Allie. Guys were falling all over her, but she kept aloof, unwilling to spread herself too thin. When she wasn't dancing with Paul, she mostly socialized with a girl friend she'd introduced as Cher, a co-worker.

Cher was also gorgeous, with long, jet black hair, plus an incredible face and body. Paul wanted to dance with Cher, but Allie hustled her away before he could ask.

Jouli made an early exit. Unlike most of the others, she appeared stone sober. "Have to work tomorrow," she said. "Nice to have met you, Paul."

"Yeah, nice meeting you, too."

Ask for her phone number!

Before Paul could say anything further, Allie slid into his arms. Slow music began, and she drew him onto the dance floor center. He watched Jouli depart. Guys tried to intercept her, but she politely shed them like rain drops. A total class act. Allie nuzzled his neck and blew the other girl out of his mind.

Sometime later, Paul left the dance floor for a bathroom break. The party crowd had thinned, but there were still enough to make a line outside the john—all of them girls.

"To hell with that," a drunk guy said, bumping into Paul. "There's lots of room off the patio."

"I'll just wait here."

"Suit yourself." The drunk reeled off toward the back door. "I gotta go piss like a race horse."

Allie sidled up behind Paul and whispered in his ear. "There's a bathroom upstairs in the master bedroom. No waiting."

"Thanks." Paul exited the line.

Allie watched him head for the stairs, a wicked smile playing across her face. She went to have a brief word with Cher.

The second-floor facilities were large and luxurious—marble counters, double sink, a general air of prosperity. Paul washed his hands and looked up into the huge mirror. A grinning, somewhat inebriated face gazed back.

He flashed it a thumbs up. "Handsome devil."

Away from the press of bodies on the dance floor, the Motor City Man cologne asserted itself, throwing its masculine scent around. Still going strong after all this time. Damn good stuff.

Paul emerged into the master bedroom where Allie was sprawled seductively on the king-sized bed, a drink in her hand.

"Uh... hi," he said. "W-well, what do you know?"

She moved to the bedroom door and locked it. "Yeah. What do you know?"

* * *

In the basement, away from events on the upper stories, Rex played poker with a few buddies.

"Your friend is doing all right with the girls," one of them said.

Rex chuckled. "Yeah, he's got that 'downscale charm' women go for."

"I need to get one of those NASCAR sweatshirts," another guy said. "How'd you meet him, anyway?"

"High school," Rex said. "We had some good times. He always had cars, and I found the girls. He was pretty shy back in the day, though. I don't think he ever scored."

Cindy observed from the sidelines, clearly unenthusiastic about the conversation topic. Rex gestured to the camera lying on a chair.

"Hey Cindy, get a shot of us, will you?"

* * *

Things were progressing well in the master bedroom. Paul and Allie were stretched out on the King bed, down to their undies and heading fast toward the big event.

Paul's cell phone intruded with roaring engines and screeching tires from the _Bullitt_ movie sound track.

"Let it ring," Allie said thickly.

Paul flopped an arm onto the nightstand and retrieved the annoying item. "I have to take this call."

"Whatever." Allie rolled away in frustration, Paul's other hand slipping out of her bra.

"Hi, Ma," Paul said into his phone. "Don't worry, I've decided to stay overnight at Rex's."

Amusement replaced the ire on Allie's face. She got up and headed toward the bathroom, a bit unsteady on her feet.

"Would you want me to drive if I've had too much to drink?" Paul said.

A torrent of words poured into his ear.

"No, Ma, I'm not smoking 'wacky tobacky.'"

With his free ear, he heard the shower turn on. The bathroom door opened, and Allie poked her head out. Paul clamped his hand over the phone.

"Coming?" Allie said. "Or is it too soon for that?"

He slapped the phone back to his ear. "Gotta go, Ma. Love you, too."

Paul ripped off his briefs and threw them on the bed. He dashed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Allie had already entered the shower. A long, intense kiss started things off.

Allie lowered a hand. "My, feels like somebody is ready for action."

"At your service," Paul gasped.

"A hard man is good to find, I've heard."

"Ohhh."

Allie's sparkling laughter danced among the water drops. She reached for a bottle of shampoo and a washcloth.

"Let me scrub you down, Paul. You worked up quite a sweat on the dance floor."

She poured shampoo over his head and lathered it up, washing his face and neck with the suds.

"Mmm..."

Paul tried to kiss her, but she pulled away from his soapy face.

"Rinse off first."

Paul turned dutifully under the water cascade.

"That's a good boy." Allie commenced scrubbing his back with the washcloth.

"I don't believe it," Paul murmured into the blasting water. "This can't be happening."

The day's exertions rinsed away, leaving him clean and pliant. The odor of shampoo replaced the macho strain of his cologne. He turned back toward Allie and took her in his arms. Her eyes were closed in lustful anticipation; she seemed entranced. Her lips parted, revealing perfect teeth.

Something was wrong. Allie sniffed Paul's neck, then his cheek. Her eyes popped open, and she shook her head vigorously. Her body went rigid.

She looked down. "Oh, my God!"

"What?"

Allie yanked open the shower curtain. "Nothing. Stay here, okay?"

She grabbed a towel and fled.

Soon afterwards, Paul exited the bathroom, also wrapped in a towel. Allie was pulling on her clothes and talking on her cell.

"Cher? Thank God! I need a ride... Please, just get here... Yeah, I'm still at the party."

"What's going on?" Paul said.

Allie lowered her phone. "I'm really sorry." She retreated toward the door. "Let's pretend nothing happened."

"But – "

"I'm not like this. I-I got carried away. Did you shrink in the water, somehow?"

She sidled out of the room. The door closed with the finality of a coffin lid.

"Ahhh!" Paul collapsed onto the bed face first, like a slaughtered tree.

Aftermath

When Paul awoke hours later, he was still lying in the same position. Morning sun peeked through the drapes as he rose from his bed of pain. Underpants stuck to his face.

"Ach!" He tore them off.

He moved to the window and confronted a new day. The light hurt his eyes.

Soon afterwards, he clattered downstairs to the living room. Rex and others lay sleeping on sofas and floor. Paul wondered absently what happened to the video camera, as it was nowhere to be seen among the party wreckage.

He maneuvered past the comatose heaps and around a puddle of vomit. Rex's phone started ringing.

"Better pick up, dude," Paul muttered as he exited the house.

Outside was glorious sunlight, but in Paul's mind, desolation reigned. He crossed a barren landscape toward his car. A cold wind screeched, and thunder growled.

Paul roared along the freeway middle lane, window open. The party house retreated into the distance, and fresh morning air blasted away the stench of the previous night's humiliation. He flicked on the radio just as an ad was coming on:

Men, is your sexual performance not what it used to be? Do you have difficulty satisfying that special lady? Then try our...

He switched it off. "I've had it with women. I'll _never_ put myself in a situation like that again."

A disabled car sat on the right shoulder. A girl with a cigarette and a disgruntled expression leaned against it.

She's hot!

Without pausing to think, he whipped into the right lane. Another car blared its horn and swerved out of his way.

"Screw you!" somebody yelled out the window.

Paul pulled onto the shoulder and backed up to the stranded vehicle. He got out.

"That was some maneuver," the girl said.

"Yeah." Paul glanced toward the traffic. "What was that guy doing on my road?"

The girl looked familiar. She laughed, and dimples replaced her disgruntled expression. Recognition dawned.

"You were at the party?" he said.

"Yeah, I was there with Rex. My name's Cindy." She held out her hand. "You're... Paul, right?"

He shook her hand; it felt nice.

"So, what's wrong?" he said. "The car, I mean."

"It just sort of quit."

"Mind if I have a look?" Paul turned his hand over and held it out.

She eyed his NASCAR sweatshirt, then his open palm. She dropped the car keys into it.

Paul reached in through the open driver side window and tried the ignition. Nothing. "Alternator probably went out. Did you call a tow truck?"

"It's Rex's car, so I called him. I was going for breakfast takeout when it died"

"Uh huh." Paul moved to the hood and popped it open.

"You know a lot about cars?"

"A fair amount."

He ran his hands through the innards, all the while keeping Cindy in his peripheral vision. She watched with interest. Or was she only interested in the machine?

Back off, she's Rex's girl.

"Belts and hoses aren't too good, battery looks old." He yanked out the oil dip stick.

Cindy puffed her cigarette. "I told Rex to take it in for maintenance. He can be such a slacker sometimes."

Paul shoved the dipstick back in place. Cindy looked at him expectantly. He lowered his eyes to his grimy hands.

"I'd better get cleaned up."

He returned to his car and rustled hand wipes out of the glove box.

"She is A-number one," he muttered as he scrubbed his hands.

He looked back toward Cindy. She was leaning far under the hood of her car, displaying her superb rear end to full effect.

Oh, man!

All thoughts of Rex blew out of his mind. Paul groped desperately for the cologne bottle. By the time he found it, Cindy had joined him.

"What've have you got there?" she asked.

"It's just, uh..."

Cindy took the bottle. "I've seen the TV ad for this: 'The Motor City man never rides alone.' Is that true?"

"I... well..."

Cindy unscrewed the cap and sniffed. "Mmm, nice. Put this in your gas tank, eh? Get your engine running real good."

Paul writhed with embarrassment. Cindy gave a teasing chuckle. She screwed the cap back on and returned the bottle.

"You seem genuine, Paul. I like that."

"Really?"

Cindy nodded. "There're so many phonies around. Guys like Rex."

She walked back to her car. Paul trailed after, still gripping the cologne bottle.

"I've been standing out here wondering why I'm still seeing that guy," she said. "I couldn't think of a good reason."

She tossed the car keys onto the driver seat.

"So, where're you off to, Paul?"

"Uh... I was going to get some breakfast."

"Okay if I join you?"

"Yeah!" Paul practically shouted.

"Well, let's go."

Cindy walked to Paul's car and got in the passenger side.

"Coming?" she called.

"Sure."

Paul hesitated a moment longer, studying the bottle of cologne. He dropped it onto the driver's seat of Rex's car.

"Enjoy that, pal."

He trotted back to his own car and drove off to a better future.

# Three: Bill Throws a Dinner Party

A late afternoon Saturday shone bright and optimistic in the kitchen. Bill raised a stemmed glass in salute.

"Here's to _my_ kitchen!" He turned to the wider house and expanded the toast. "Here's to _my_ house!" He sipped Merlot.

Okay, it wasn't really _his_ house, just a rental property, but within it he was king—at last. Four years of school and a long, discouraging job search while he stayed with his parents. Then the glorious day five months ago when he landed a position at BriSoc Enterprises.

He'd wanted to fly the coop immediately, but Mom had said, "Stay home a while and pay down some of that student loan debt."

So he had, but now he was free. Today was for celebrating; his parents were coming over for dinner.

Bill glanced through the oven door window at the magnificent prime rib within. He'd gone a bit overboard purchasing the roast, as it was large enough to accommodate a half dozen people. He'd hoped to have a date to show off to his folks, but things hadn't quite worked out yet. Some day soon, hopefully.

"Looks like I'll have leftovers for days." He took another sip of wine. "There are worse things."

The phone rang. It was Vic, a buddy from work.

"Hey, Vic! What's up?"

An excited voice poured into Bill's ear, full of enthusiasm.

"You're in a new relationship, eh?" Bill said. "Congratulations."

He glanced impatiently at his watch as the voice rattled on. An idea flashed in his mind

"This is fantastic," Bill said. "I really don't have time to talk right now, though. Why don't you two come over? I'm having a dinner party."

A muffled silence. Vic must have covered his phone while he conferred with somebody.

Vic came back on. "Are you sure it's okay? This is awful short notice."

"No problem at all. There's tons of food."

"Well..."

"Why don't the two of you talk it over?" Bill glanced at his watch again. "Hope you can make it."

"We'll do that. Thanks."

"Great! See ya."

Bill hung up and took another sip of wine. _Gonna need more salad_.

He turned to his cutting board with its legion of vegetables and commenced chopping away with the big knife. There was certainly more to throwing a dinner party than met the eye. He'd been at it for hours.

Farther down the counter stood the pièce de résistance, a large chocolate layer cake made from Mom's special recipe, laced with walnut chunks. Soon would be time for the great frosting ceremony.

I hope Mom is impressed with it.

The phone rang again. It was Cher, a co-worker at BriSoc Enterprises, and a real catch. Unfortunately, Tom had already reeled her in. Some guys sure wallowed in undeserved good luck.

What could she want?

He picked up. "Hello, Cher."

Her voice surged through the earpiece on a torrent of pain. "Bill! I just have to talk to somebody. I can't get ahold of Allie..."

Bill's stomach tightened; a frown crumpled his face. "What's wrong, Cher?... Cher?"

Agonized moments passed. Stifled sobs leaked through the phone. Bill's frown deepened.

"I broke up with Tom!" she wailed.

Joy burst across Bill's face, displacing the frown.

"That's wonderful!" He grimaced. "I-I mean, sorry to hear it. So... you're available again?"

"I thought he was the love of my life, and now this!"

"Don't take it so hard. He's been cheating on you for some time, you know."

Cher's voice quavered. "I suspected that, but I didn't want to believe it."

"Yeah, he's been dating various guys for over a month now."

"What!"

"It's true; ask around," Bill said. "Girlfriend's always last to find out, eh?"

"Oh my God!"

"Tom's always been on the fence; now he hopped off on the other side. These things happen."

"W-wasn't I good enough for him?"

"I know you need time to get over this," Bill said. "So, give it a few minutes, then come to my dinner party. We'll go dancing afterward. Sound like a plan?"

"I, uh..."

"Vic's coming with a date, too. We'll have a good time, get your mind off your troubles."

"Well..."

"Great! I really have to go, Cher. See you in a few."

Bill hung up the phone and rubbed his hands in anticipation. "Things are looking up!"

He regarded the chocolate cake. "You need some frosting, my friend."

He seized an offset spatula as if it were a combat weapon and got to work.

Just as Bill completed the frosting job and had placed the dozen walnut halves precisely around the top of the cake, the front doorbell rang.

I wonder who that is?

He approached the door, hoping it was Cher on the other side. A delightful scenario played out in his mind.

"Great to see you," he'd say. "Let's have some wine before the others get here."

As they enjoyed Chardonnay on the living room couch, Bill would listen attentively to her woes. She still needed to get Tom out of her system, and he was just the type of sensitive guy to help her do it. He'd be sympathetic and understanding, make up for his rather boorish performance on the phone.

She'd offer to help with the final preparations, and the two of them would repair to the kitchen with their wine glasses. She'd be all happy and relaxed by then...

Bill opened the door to find his parents. Dad, solemn and dignified in his dark suit; Mom, her customary forceful self with a sweater outfit and ropes of silver chain around her neck. Romantic visions of Cher dissolved.

"Mom, Dad. You're early."

They entered, Mom leading the way.

"Yes, I figured you'd need help getting ready," she said.

"Hello, son," Dad said.

"Good to see you, Dad." They shook hands.

Mom strode into the living room, glancing about critically. "You moved away from home for _this_?"

"Well... yeah."

"It needs a woman's touch. When are you going to find a nice girl?"

Thoughts of the newly available Cher danced in Bill's mind. "I'm working on it, Mom."

"Maybe you're not working hard enough." Mom gave his cheek a not entirely gentle pinch and light pat.

An awkward silence ensued. A doorbell provided relief.

"Excuse me, somebody's at the other door." Bill gestured toward the sofa. "Please have a seat."

Bill entered the kitchen and opened the side door. Vic stepped in.

"Glad you could make it," Bill said.

Vic glanced around the room, his manner tentative, uneasy. "This is your new place, huh? Sweet."

Some of the uneasiness penetrated Bill's bonhomie. "Why didn't you go around the front?"

"I wanted to see you alone first," Vic said, "introduce my significant other."

"Sure, I'm anxious to meet her."

"That's just it..."

Vic gestured outside. Tom walked in grandly.

Bill's jaw dropped. "Tom?"

"Hi, Bill. Good to see you."

"W-well... isn't this a surprise?

Tom offered his hand. Bill shook it weakly.

He turned toward Vic. "You guys are joking, right?"

Tom walked around the kitchen, surveying the place confidently. "It's no joke. Great place you've got here, Bill."

"Uh... right."

Bill grabbed the wine glass off the counter and took a deep swig. Vic and Tom exchanged smiles.

"Thanks for inviting us over," Tom said. "Vic had a few doubts, but I said, 'what the hell?'"

He placed an arm around Bill's shoulders. "Really coming up in the world, eh? New job, fancy digs. Very impressive."

Bill shot a distressed look at Vic, got only a helpless shrug in return.

"Don't look so shocked," Tom said. "You knew I broke up with Cher, didn't you?

Bill gasped, nearly choking on the wine. _My God, Cher!_

He moved away from Tom and grabbed his phone off the counter.

* * *

Cher was halfway up the walk to the front door when her phone erupted. She yanked it from her purse and shot it an irritated look.

"Give me a break, Bill." She tossed the phone back into her purse. "I'm here already, okay?"

She continued onto the porch.

* * *

Bill held his phone in a death grip. "Pick up... pick up."

The front doorbell rang. Bill lowered his phone as horrid realization took hold.

"Come on in, dear," he heard Mom say. "My, aren't you the cute one!"

Cher said something. Bill was too panicked to make out her words.

"He's back there in the kitchen," Mom said.

Footsteps approached. Bill turned frantically on Vic and Tom. "You guys have got to leave!"

He shoved them toward the door.

"What's going on, man?" Vic said.

"Hey, my new shirt!" Tom protested.

Cher entered the kitchen and halted, wide-eyed. She took in the situation with cold fury. Everyone cringed.

"Y-you snake!" She grabbed a quarter lettuce head off the cutting board and hurled it at Tom. "You two-timing rat!"

Bill stepped toward her, hands spread in appeal. "I'm sorry about this. I can explain everything."

Cher elbowed the chocolate cake aside and grabbed the chopping knife. Bill dodged out of the way.

She approached Tom, a snarl disfiguring her face. "You'll be singing soprano when I'm finished with you!"

Tom fainted. Vic caught him before he could hit the floor.

Dad entered the kitchen, shock etched on his face. "Young lady! What are you doing?"

Cher halted her advance and looked toward him, still gripping the knife. Chocolate frosting dripped from her arm.

Mom entered the kitchen, crossing in front of Dad. "That's what I like to see, a girl with spirit!"

"Mom, I..." Bill stammered.

She wagged a scolding finger. "Something's wrong here, Billy, and I suspect it's all your fault."

In a desperate attempt to retrieve the situation, Bill pasted on a smile and tried to act casual. "Heh, heh... well... isn't this a unique way to break the ice?"

He glanced at each condemning face—saw Mom and Dad's icy disapproval, Cher's fury, Vic's desperation. Only Tom did not accuse him, being as he was passed out.

Bill's smile faded. He grabbed the squished cake and held it up for all to see as his world tumbled down.

"Chocolate cake, anyone?"

# Four: She's Crazy about Me

Jeff secured his wheels at the library bike rack and wandered afoot through the glorious Sunday. Around him, people bustled about the plaza, and kids frolicked in the leaf piles.

Ah, it's good to be back.

Yesterday, he'd returned from a two-week tour of China and was feeling himself a new man, despite the jet lag. He was full of wisdom and insight denied ordinary guys. Beijing, the Great Wall, riding a camel in the Gobi, cruising the Yangtze—every moment a new adventure.

Phil Klacik's precipitous rise and flight from the little world of BriSoc Enterprises had inspired Jeff to get off his ass and go for the gusto. Do more, be more, see the world. Time to get things rolling here at home, now.

First order of business, find a girlfriend.

He approached a big, dry fountain with autumn leaves scattered inside. A towering statue of a male nude rose from it, arms up thrust to the heavens. A female stood above his right shoulder, her bare breasts proudly confronting the sky.

I like that.

Large, exotic birds flew above the naked humans, avian symbols of freedom and adventure. He'd never seen such birds before, but why not? They fit in with his soaring mood.

Jeff lowered his eyes to discover Cher, his co-worker from BriSoc Enterprises, sitting on the fountain edge. She looked glum.

He trotted out some Chinese, "Nĭ hăo."

Cher swiveled a crestfallen face up toward him, without a word of greeting or recognition.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

She stood and unleashed a tale of woe. "My dog just destroyed everything in my house!"

"Bummer," Jeff said.

"He's a puppy. I'm trying to train him, and he yanked all the stuff out of the cushions. He pulled up the carpet, he... I just... it's terrible."

_Nice to see you again, too,_ Jeff thought.

"Well," he said, hoping to change the subject. "I'm not really much of a dog person."

"It's not just my dog, it's my job," Cher whined. "You know what it's like at BriSoc."

"Uh, yes I do."

"I have to work so many hours, and they don't care what time of day it is, they call me..."

Jeff nodded and pretended to listen while his mind wandered elsewhere.

"... and they don't appreciate anything," Cher was saying.

I wonder what Allie's doing today?

Before his international experience had turned him into a man of the world, Jeff would have hesitated to contact a woman like Allie this way, but now he'd ascended to higher realms. He pulled out his cell phone and texted:

Hey! I'm back. Let's meet. Coffee? – Jeff

When he looked up from his phone, Cher was onto another topic.

"I'm taking classes now, but it's so hard making time to study," she said. "And I don't know what I'm doing half the time, and..."

He nodded with bored commiseration and directed his eyes upward, along the soaring bronze statues with their glorious nudity. He wondered what it would be like to stroke those metallic breasts. His cell phone pinged. A message from Allie:

No thx. Hu gave u my number?

Jeff felt a momentary deflation, but Cher was finally discussing a topic of interest to him.

"... besides that, I broke up with Tom," she said. "I'm so lonely. And Bill had this terrible dinner party yesterday – "

The words blasted through Jeff's indifference like a clarion call from the sculptures looming above. All discretion blew out of his mind. He moved in on Cher.

"Wait a minute," he said. "You're available now?"

"Well, yeah," Cher replied, leaning away from him.

"Then how about coming to my place for a little naughty time?"

Cher recoiled. "W-well, you low-down..."

"I know it's six flights up, but the elevator should be fixed soon."

She turned and strode off angrily.

"Hey!" Jeff called after her. "Did I say something wrong?"

Cher halted and spun around. Jeff flashed his most alluring smile, projecting his new-found sophistication.

She walked back toward him.

Now, we're getting someplace. Smooth out the approach a bit and things will be fine.

He saw a pair of hands coming at him, palms forward. A heavy push struck his chest.

Next thing he knew, Jeff was sprawled on the pavement amid fluttering orange and yellow leaves, watching Cher stalk away.

She's cute when she's aroused.

A stranger arrived on a bike and dismounted. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I think so," Jeff said.

The stranger helped him up. "What happened?"

Jeff pointed toward Cher's figure, moving off into the distance. "That girl's crazy about me."

# Five: Opportunity Gone Awry

Phil Klacik walked east along the commercial avenue, skirting the parking meters. His new book, _Murder Among Co-workers,_ absorbed his mind.

The manuscript was almost completed, and only a few plot points needed smoothing out before he could send it to the editor. Not a big problem; the solutions would soon come, he knew from experience.

He'd bashed away on the novel for months, scarcely taking a break. He'd not even moved from his dinky apartment yet and was falling back into his eccentric, solitary ways.

Phil knew he often impressed people as being a bit odd. His awkward, introverted manner did not identify him as a "people person." Nobody ever thought of him as a "good old boy." He wasn't the sort of guy to go snapping towels in the locker room.

This needed to change. Phil yearned to break out of his shell, and finding a girlfriend was the top priority... someone like Kyla Braun, the female lead from _Murder Among Co-workers_.

She was Afro-Asian American, a real knockout. The type of woman Phil would have considered miles out of his league, before his literary and financial success. Now he was ready for her.

His writer's mind could not help dissecting this desire. Why did he find her so attractive? Was it just an obsession because she was another race, like in that _Jungle Fever_ movie? What would Vance Hewlett, his insightful private detective character, say about this?

"Son," he'd say, "let's look at the facts, not that they matter much in affairs of the heart."

* * *

Jouli Hanson strolled west along the commercial avenue, skirting the store windows, observing her reflection with approval. She was descended from a military officer and his true love, combining the best features of her handsome African American dad and beautiful Japanese mom. She was accustomed to men falling all over her.

So, why am I alone?

Had her beauty become a trap? Did it prevent her from seeing below the exterior of the men she dated? Maybe she was being too selective when it came to appearances.

Jouli sighed. Eventually, her attractiveness would fade. Where was Mr. Right? She needed to find someone with depth and intellectual resources. A guy who could provide financial security, free her up to raise the two children she so much desired. Good looks were fine, but they were the icing. The cake underneath was the important thing.

Her image gazed back from the windows, a little sad now.

* * *

Phil emerged from his ruminations, and Vance Hewlett faded away. A woman was coming up on his left. He couldn't make out her face because it was turned toward the store windows. Someone across the street caught his eye—Allie. She was walking arm-in-arm with a big, handsome guy, like a football player out of uniform.

Ah, what might have been. Maybe I was too hard on her.

Phil swiveled his head as he passed by, keeping the couple in view. They didn't notice him.

Nah, I made the right choice.

When he looked ahead again, the sidewalk was clear, except for a young mom pushing her child in a stroller.

Cute kid.

# Six: Hanging on Telreaka

"You can get just about anything on Telreaka Road, depending on how much you want out of life." – area resident

Saturday morning at the redoubt

April First. Spring was finally arriving... someplace. Outside, fumes from cars speeding on Telreaka Road mingled with frosty morning air.

Bob Nemeth sat at his kitchen table, ingesting the Grande Hills Memorial Park literature along with his coffee. The illustrated brochure displayed rolling vistas of well-kept graves, dignified mausoleum structures, and a tasteful chapel.

Should I buy that burial plot? Can I afford it at this time?

No sense leaving things to the last minute, as had been the case with Mother last year. A funeral plan purchased "pre need" would avoid such problems.

He'd just turned twenty-six, but anything could happen. A car wreck, his recurring chest pain—the doctor said it was only heartburn aggravated by stress, but you could never _really_ be sure. He'd known an athletic twenty-year-old guy in college who'd dropped dead while playing golf. Heart failure.

Grande Hills cemetery was located several miles up Telreaka Road, near Rita's apartment and midway to his job at BriSoc Enterprises. All his familiar haunts were strung along that road like artificial pearls on a choker.

He contemplated the myriad options on the enclosed "Pre-Arrangements" form.

Place of service: funeral home / church / cemetery

Preference: earth burial / mausoleum / cremation / other

Decisions, decisions.

Bread slices popped from the toaster, startling him. The pain in his chest nagged. Before he could grab the hot items, his phone rang, giving him another near coronary.

I've got to turn down that damn ring tone.

It was Rita.

"Hello, Bob, how are you feeling?"

"Hi." He brightened slightly. "Not too bad."

"Wish I could say the same."

"What's wrong?" Bob's chest gave another twinge.

"Oh, the usual," Rita said.

"Well... are we still on for lunch at the mall?"

"Sure, at Scotty's. They've got a good heart-smart menu."

Rita was always so sensible. _What would she think about the pre-arrangements issue?_

"There's something I want to discuss over lunch," he said. "I need your input for an important decision."

"Okay, Bob. See you there."

The old clock in the living room bonged, but he was used to it and didn't react. He shoveled the brochure into his briefcase and got to work on the toast, slathering it with low-fat butter substitute and sugarless preserve. The house settled around him.

Only the windows facing Telreaka Road had open blinds; the others were covered tight, giving the place a shadowy, downcast look. He was accustomed to the ambiance, having lived here his entire life. University and law school had been commuter operations, which had spared him a good deal of student debt. Still...

He sighed and downed the last of his coffee.

A few hours later, Bob glanced at the living room clock. _Might as well get going._

Ample time remained until his lunch date with Rita, but you never knew. Maybe traffic would be jammed up, or maybe he'd get a flat tire, or his car might break down some other way. It was old and needed replacement, but there was that pre-arrangement expense to consider—it was a matter of priorities.

He opened the side door and reluctantly ventured onto the three-acre property with his briefcase. Sun blazed through the chill, hurting his eyes, and he was grateful to enter the dim confines of the old garage. He got into his sedan and donned sunglasses before driving out into the world.

Telreaka awaited at the end of the long driveway, gleaming and noisy with traffic. This was a corner property, and the other side abutted a commercial street. Bob glanced toward it. In contrast to Telreaka, the street was dark and gloomy; mist hung near the pavement. This stark contrast was a bit jarring, but he was getting used to it.

The great trek

He swung north onto Telreaka, the transmission whining as the old sedan crept up to speed. He cruised the middle lane, securely bordered by concrete barriers, passing new construction sites mixed in with the shady motels, used car dealerships, and cheap restaurants of this down-at-heel, though gentrifying, stretch of road.

A hospital came up, the place where Mom had been. Bob recalled his last visit with her. Mom had rallied, a final burst of energy before the end. She was in rare form, looking back upon a lifetime of joys and regrets.

"Get the hell out of this area," she'd told him. "Just because I got stuck here with your father doesn't mean you should, too. Go someplace interesting. Find a nice girl."

"I have a nice girlfriend."

She nodded. "Mmm."

Bob was nonplussed. He'd thought she liked Rita.

"Go someplace interesting," Mom repeated, "New York, Chicago. You shouldn't have trouble passing the bar exam in another state—a bright, handsome boy like you."

"I've got a good job here."

"It was fine for starters, but it's not big enough for you, anymore."

Bob looked away, toward the flower arrangement he'd brought. Red roses, her favorite. They made the room smell like a funeral parlor.

Mom reached over her arm, with the IV attached, and took his hand. "You've been such a good son. I'm glad I can leave you the house property."

Tears welled in his eyes. "Oh, Mom – "

"The land didn't used to be worth much, but with the whole area building up, it should fetch a good amount." She fixed her sunken eyes on his face. "Sell it, Bobby."

News of her death came to him at work the next day. She made the northward journey to the funeral home, which Bob was now passing, and then to Grande Hills cemetery.

A freeway exit approached:

I-94 West

Chicago

Bob wondered idly why the sign mentioned a city so far off when there were plenty of other municipalities between. _What would it be like to get on that freeway and roll?_

A realization struck him hard: _I haven't been off Telreaka Road in almost a year._

It was true. His work with the BriSoc legal department was done mainly in-house or through teleconferencing. The district court was a few miles up the road from his office. Rita lived on Telreaka, and their outings were restricted to its entertainment venues.

Bob had never been one to venture far, but now he comprehended what a massive rut he was in. He glanced at his watch, still plenty of time.

Today's the day. I'm taking a jaunt.

He drifted into the right lane, intent on turning down a side road for a mile or two of sightseeing. He stopped at the next red light and flicked on his turn signal, waiting for traffic to clear.

Then he paused.

The brightness from the intersection dimmed rapidly as it moved down the side road. Half a block away, it disappeared altogether, leaving the street in misty darkness. Frozen birds huddled on the power lines.

Damn!

The car behind him beeped. Bob shut off his turn signal. The light changed to green, and he roared off in what was, for him, great speed.

We'll do it some other time.

He crept back into the safe middle lane. Residential side streets drifted past, their signs hardly big enough to read: _Chocolay_ , _Strick_ , _Bender_ , _Harvard_.

Bob had been accepted at Harvard law school but had chosen to stay local and take care of Mom, who was in the early stages of her fatal illness. Dad had passed on long before, and no one else was available.

Grande Hills cemetery approached on the right. Through the spears of the iron fence he saw a backhoe digging a grave. Pain stabbed his chest.

Did I remember the brochure?

He jerked his head toward the passenger seat and was comforted by the sight of his trusty briefcase, his final gift from Mom.

Rita's apartment complex appeared. Rita had to work today and advised him that she'd be too tired for their usual Saturday night date. Hence, lunch at Scotty's. He hadn't been there for a long time, not since his meeting with Allie, from another department at BriSoc.

She'd wanted to discuss a legal referral, and he'd been glad to oblige. Things hadn't gone well, though. As lunch progressed, Allie faded. Her bubbly enthusiasm gave way to passivity and unease. Maybe his conversation was a bit off-putting that day since he'd had a lot of worries on his mind. He vaguely understood that Allie was coming on to him, at least at the onset, but he could never be disloyal to Rita.

Ahead, the office towers of BriSoc Enterprises emerged from the background. On his right, the turnoff for Telreaka Acres mall appeared.

Made it with plenty of time to spare.

Bob entered the huge parking area and found a spot in the outer regions. He needed exercise and was, frankly, embarrassed by his vehicle. Best if not too many people saw him near it. The jibes from his colleagues about his "undertaker car" were becoming more sarcastic. Whenever he had to drive to the district court, the company provided him a better one.

He entered the mall. A pair of young women exiting the glass doors looked him over, but he paid no attention.

Mall world

Bob wandered the anchor department store aisles, killing time until his luncheon date. A whirlwind of cares occupied his brain:

What about the funeral pre-arrangements? Rita said she wasn't feeling well... There's another roof leak; the whole house needs to be re-shingled...

Through his anxieties, he noticed a striking young woman posted behind the Cosmetics counter. She looked Afro-Asian, with dark honey skin, almond eyes, and an outstanding figure.

I could use some cologne.

He gravitated her direction, falling in behind two enormous women.

* * *

The pair of women moved past, seeming to displace the air in their wake and forming a pressure wave that forced Jouli back from her position behind the glass display counter.

_Oh my,_ she thought, _are people that overweight back home?_

She'd been in the area a full year, coming to stay with a friend after the breakup with Mr. Wonderful in Chicago. Jouli sighed. Her romantic options were ticking away, along with her biological clock.

Jouli had been angry and embarrassed by the breakup with Randy. They'd been a real number, and she couldn't face her social circle without him, even though her friends were glad she'd ditched the two-timer. She knew it was stupid to leave Chicago, but one thing leads to another. Anyway, she'd be going back soon.

She smoothed her clothes and gave her nails a quick glance. When she looked up, a man was at her counter.

God, what a hunk!

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Er, yes," he replied, "maybe some cologne."

"For you or your lady friend?"

"Me, I guess."

Her customer had both hands on the counter; he wore no wedding band. His eyes had a deep, sad look.

He needs some TLC, bad.

She moved down the counter and withdrew a bottle of Motor City Man cologne from its display. "We've had good reports on this one."

Her customer scrutinized the blue vial with its silver-wheel cap. "I don't think so. Not my style."

Jouli paused, reviewing the options. "We have a special this week on Rail Splitter."

She gestured to a cardboard display showing a bearded, muscular man leaning on an axe and gazing dramatically into the distance. A slogan ran along the bottom: "Cut to the chase"

Her customer looked dubious.

"It's quite nice." Jouli picked up the sample bottle. "Try it."

She took his wrist before he could pull it away and sprayed some on.

He moved the wrist to his nose. "Smells nice."

The guy sure was great looking, despite his downcast expression—chiseled features, wavy black hair, trim build. He had a smart, professional demeanor. And there was something more about him that Jouli found tremendously attractive.

What is it?

The huge women walked past again going the opposite direction, sucking on soft drinks. Jouli's customer pressed himself against the counter out of their way.

"Is it just my imagination," Jouli said in a low voice, "or are people fatter here?"

He swiveled his head to observe the women. When he turned back, a kindly smile occupied his face. "It must be difficult for them."

_That's_ what it was. He had compassion in his spirit, sympathy for others. Quite a change from the cocky and selfish Randy, from everyone she'd dated. Randy would have known the perfect insult, and Jouli would have laughed, disliking herself all the while.

"You're not from around here?" he asked.

"No, Chicago. I'll be moving back next week."

"Really?" He took out his wallet. "Guess I'd better take a bottle, then."

"I'll still be with the store chain, but as an assistant manager. If I pass the training, that is."

"I'm certain you'll do very well."

Jouli rang up the sale and handed over the package.

"Never been to Chicago," her customer said. "I understand they have great museums."

"Look me up if you're out that way," Jouli blurted. "I'll be at the Naperville store, in the western suburbs."

She blushed and lowered her eyes. The customer cleared his throat, fidgeted with his package. An awkward silence ensued.

"Thanks, maybe I will," he finally said. "It's been nice talking to you..." He glanced at her name tag. "Jouli. Have a nice day."

"Bye..."

"My name's Bob Nemeth." He gave her hand a courtly shake, then he was gone.

She let out a pent-up breath. _What got into me?_

Jouli Hanson did not invite strange men to look her up. They had to earn her attention the hard way, impress her, strut their stuff.

Yeah, right. That's the kind of thinking that landed her with Randy and too many other arrogant jerks. But a white guy? What would her friends and family think?

To hell with what they thought! Jouli rested her elbows on the counter and watched Bob disappear into the crowd. Who said affairs of the heart made any sense?

* * *

After his encounter with the extraordinary woman in Cosmetics, Bob resumed his wanderings through the mall. His dress shoes clacked on the polished floor; the briefcase dangled from his arm. The cologne bottle resided in its depths, along with the cemetery brochure.

He was feeling better. Women were always coming on to him, and he'd grown immune to it over time... but there was something different about this one.

Ah well, we're not in the same league.

Besides, he was committed to Rita. They were practically engaged. He pushed Jouli out of his mind... almost succeeding.

Bob arrived several minutes late at Scotty's. He maneuvered through the lunchtime crowd, looking for his girlfriend. The restaurant was festooned with Scottish-themed displays: tartans, flags, Highland photos. Bagpipes hung from the ceiling, confronting the bar drinkers like a bloated spider. He noticed Rita at a remote corner booth; she didn't see him, yet.

As he approached, he took in the frown creasing her face and the tight line of her mouth as she studied the menu.

She ought to smile more.

"Hi," he said.

Rita looked up, and she did smile, rather thinly. "Hi, Bob."

He sat down across from her. "Sorry I'm late."

Rita nodded. She seemed displeased. Even so, she looked good sitting in the puddle of shadow on the far side of the table—blonde, petite, nicely dressed and made up.

"Don't I get a kiss?" Bob said.

She leaned over the table, into the glare of the hanging lamp. Bob met her there and exchanged a quick peck. Her premature smoker's wrinkles became apparent. When she settled back into the shadow, her youthful attractiveness returned, so did her dour expression.

Bob tried to lighten the mood. "Nice ambiance, here. Makes you want to be Scottish, doesn't it?"

"What nationality did you say you were?"

"Hungarian."

"Oh, right," Rita said, without enthusiasm. "I'd rather go outside. They've opened the patio."

"Sure," Bob said warily.

Rita wanted to smoke, he knew. She always did when she was upset.

The patio was uncomfortably cool, despite gas heaters flaming here and there. Bob and Rita were the only customers to brave the elements. In the distance, beyond the parking lot, cars roared past on Telreaka Road.

Rita inhaled her menthol cigarette and blew the smoke outwards, for the benefit of any passersby. She raised an eyebrow.

"What did you want to talk about? The 'important decision' you mentioned on the phone."

"Oh, that." Bob looked down at the heart-smart salad Rita had ordered for him. He hated it. "Well... you see..."

Rita fixed an expectant gaze on him. "Come on, out with it."

"It's just... well." Bob unzipped his briefcase and reached inside. His hand brushed the package of Rail Splitter cologne. "It's in here, somewhere."

He shuffled through random papers, finally locating the cemetery brochure. It was wrinkled when he pulled it out and gave it to Rita.

She grasped his extended hand and sniffed his wrist. "You bought cologne?"

"Uh, yeah, just now." Bob grimaced inwardly. He was as much as admitting his shopping foray had taken precedence over their lunch date.

Rita sniffed again. She raised narrowed, mistrustful eyes. "It's different."

"Yeah, well... thought I'd try something new. The bottle you bought me is almost empty."

Guilt stabbed through him. _She suspects something._

But there was nothing to suspect. All he did was buy cologne, right?

She released his hand and settled back with the brochure. "Grande Hills Memorial Park, eh? Aren't your parents buried there?"

"Yes."

Bob writhed with unease. Despite his earlier interest, the death literature was now the last thing he wanted to talk about. Rita pulled a mighty drag from her cigarette and held it in.

He fumbled for a change of topic. "You said on the phone you weren't feeling well?"

She looked up from the brochure, exhaling smoke. "It's the same crap. Dr. Keating suggested I go in for tests."

"When would that be?"

"In a couple weeks." Rita shrugged. "When things slacken off at work."

"Okay."

She unfolded the pre-arrangements form. "You're considering a purchase?"

"I... thought about it."

Rita's mouth tightened. "Mmm."

She puffed her cigarette, nodding as she perused the sheet. Something was building inside her. Bob had seen this before, an excess of toxic displeasure was getting ready to spew forth. What was she ticked off about this time? His taste in clothes, his political opinions, his inability to read her mind?

She seemed to come to a decision. This whole ill-advised lunch had been building up to a clash, and here it was. Rita tossed the paper onto the table. Bob flinched.

"Look," she snapped, "I'm not at all happy about – "

A coughing fit interrupted her tirade.

"Rita?"

The coughs thundered on, shaking her body. Her face took on a greenish cast. She sprawled across the table, knocking over Bob's salad.

"My God!" he cried.

Friday afternoon, two weeks later

Rita got over her Scotty's attack, thank heaven, but her health remained a continuing worry. Bob was racked with guilt over the next days as she prepared to undergo extensive medical tests at the same hospital where Mom had died. He'd wanted her to check in right away, but she'd valiantly held out until work could afford her absence.

What had gotten into him at the mall that day? How could he have been such a waster chasing after that girl in Cosmetics, leaving Rita alone and unprotected? He made a silent vow. _Just pull through, Honey, I'll never hurt you again._

Bob sat nervously in the hospital conference area, waiting for Dr. Keating. He'd just left Rita's semi-private room and had been disturbed by her drawn, haggard look. She'd held onto his hand with almost desperate force as he sat beside her bed, near the vase of red roses he'd brought.

_What if she's_ _really_ _sick... like Mom was?_

Finally, Doctor Keating arrived with his customary undertaker-grim expression. Was there more behind it today? Had the tests revealed something horrible? A sharp pain jabbed Bob's chest.

"Please tell me straight, Doctor, what's wrong with Rita?"

Keating sighed and leafed through the papers on his clipboard. "Nothing, as far as we can tell."

"N-nothing?"

"We've run the complete battery of tests. They all came up negative."

Bob let out a relieved sigh. The pain in his chest abated.

"If she doesn't quit smoking, though, she _will_ have future problems," Keating said.

"I've talked to her about that before. Maybe she'll quit this time."

Keating nodded wearily and adjusted his glasses. "I'm no psychologist, but it seems to me Rita is creating her own health issues."

Bob drifted through the parking lot on wings of happiness. Everything was going to be fine! Tomorrow morning, Rita would check out of the hospital and a whole new life would start for them—no more arguments and misunderstandings, just the sweet ministrations of love.

But as he neared the car, his euphoria cooled. The reboot of their relationship assumed the aspect of a tough, rocky climb rather than a garden promenade. The sky was darkening, despite the early hour and absence of clouds. Bob fumbled out his keys and opened the car door on grating hinges.

He pulled carefully out of the hospital drive and swung north onto Telreaka, meaning to switch direction at the next turnaround and head south toward home. His mind was so preoccupied with Rita that he failed to enter the left lane in time, however. The turnaround zipped by.

Damn!

It was over a mile to the next one. He tuned in the radio. An advertisement for a rival medical center played:

_Heart Attack!_ _Two words that have devastated countless lives and turned dreams into nightmares. Should a heart attack enter_ _your_ _life, seek help at one of the country's premier cardiac centers..._

"Ohhh."

Bob turned off the radio. His eyes drifted to the passenger seat where the Grande Hills cemetery brochure reposed. He'd tossed it there after the Scotty's incident, and it had accompanied him ever since. He passed under a large sign:

I-94 West

Chicago

The danger did not register until too late. He was hurtling along at fifty mph in the EXIT ONLY lane. Bob looked frantically for an opening in the left-hand traffic, but he was hemmed in. Momentarily, he'd be exiting Telreaka!

With a final panicked effort, he zoomed toward a small opening in the left lane, not seeing the car moving into the same space from the other side. In a cacophony of horns and screeching tires, Bob flung the wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding a crash. He swerved down the freeway entrance ramp, cutting off a pickup truck before slamming over the curb and lurching to a halt bare inches from the guardrail.

He sat stunned, mouth gaping.

"You dumb sonuvabitch!" The pickup driver shouted as he maneuvered past. "Can't you figure out where the hell you're going?"

"No, I can't," Bob murmured.

With a jerky motion, he pushed the shift lever into Park. Both hands trembled so much he had to clutch the steering wheel to steady them. His heart pounded; curiously, he felt no chest pains.

He looked over his shoulder. Backing up was out of the question; he was too far down the exit ramp. Ahead, the sky turned black and menacing. He decided to get out.

I'll walk down to Telreaka and call a tow truck.

But his hands would not release their vise grip on the steering wheel.

What the hell?

Cars honked, more invective came his way. Soon the cops would arrive. Ahead, the gloom lessened a bit, and he could faintly make out the shape of cars on the freeway.

"What the hell!" Bob shouted.

He wrenched the transmission into Drive and stomped the gas. His car shot forward as the darkness ahead shattered like a mirror breaking to pieces.

* * *

Several miles west along the freeway, a couple driving an SUV watched an old sedan roar past them on the right. Shreds of paper flew from the driver side window. Some of the confetti bounced off their windshield.

"Look at that guy," the man said. "He must be in a rush to get to the cemetery."

# Seven: Porch Music

"Don't be fobbed off with that dirty, druggie rock & roll culture. It's not good for you." – Johnny Rotten

Hal gazed over his guitar from the porch toward the audience members seated on the lawn, and beyond them to the red compact parked at the curb with a _For Sale_ sign on its windshield.

So, this is where it all ends?

Although reasonably healthy, considering his age and background, he couldn't escape the eerie sensation that things were coming to a dénouement. Maybe it was the song they'd just finished with its downer, junkie theme: _Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)._

Gerry adjusted his signature white cap. "What's next, Uncle Hal?"

"How about... _It's the End of the World as We Know It_?"

Gerry grinned. "Okay if I sing lead this time?"

"Go for it."

Hal spoke into the microphone, projecting his voice toward the audience members sitting across the street on lawn chairs. "This next song is dedicated to a special lady who recently passed on... kind of ended the world as I knew it."

He pointed toward Freddie, who began the opening drum roll. Gerry launched into the stream-of-consciousness lyrics: "That's great; it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an aeroplane..."

Gerry had real talent on bass guitar and as a vocalist—the "New Jack Bruce," as he was sometimes touted.

_Runs in the family,_ Hal thought with pride.

He had no children but had made a strong connection with his youngest brother's son. They got along well as musicians, despite the 50-year age difference. Their _Cosmic Loser_ band was gaining a solid reputation and was the top act at this year's Porch Music festival.

The kid would go far if he didn't screw things up, and Freddie was no slouch on drums, either. The chorus rolled around. Hal joined in:

"... It's the end of the world as we know it. It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine."

Hal didn't feel fine, though. Gerry was making the same mistakes he had as a young man—booze, pot, sleazy girls, experiments with heavier drugs. He'd yet to do the ditch-the-good-woman thing, but it was surely coming. If only Gerry would listen! Not that Hal himself had ever paid attention to wise counsel.

The sky was darkening, though Hal detected no clouds. The people across the street dimmed. For a moment, he thought he saw Carmine standing by the lawn chairs, swaying to the beat, her long, black hair flowing.

No... it was some other girl. Carmine was from long ago.

She'd been too conservative for him, too anti-drug, and she disliked his party companions. She was marvelous but didn't fit into his world.

Right. Some fucking world.

After myriad alcohol and drug crises, Hal finally straightened out. By that time, he was old, his once promising musical career a shambles. And now this reboot, launching Gerry on the same Shit Creek he'd once paddled.

The chorus came again. Hal sang counterpoint: "It's time I had some time alone.... Time I had some time alone..."

He was alone, all right. Carmine had died recently. He'd kept track of her from a distance, hoping they might reconnect, somehow. She was also childless, marrying a man with kids of his own and contenting herself with raising them.

Ah, if you could only do a replay, like a studio recording.

The sky darkened further. Hal could scarcely see his band mates on either side. Light swirled around him, followed by a blinding flash and explosion.

* * *

Hal groped into consciousness. He'd fallen back into a chair, and Gerry was at his side.

"Uncle Hal, are you okay?"

On the lawn ahead, people crowded into a curious knot. "Lightning... something weird... let's get out of here."

The onlookers dispersed, leaving a clear view to the red car parked at the curb. Only it wasn't the same car.

What the hell's going on?

Hal rose from the chair and crossed the lawn to the street. In place of the generic econobox, a hot Mustang was parked at the curb—like the one he'd use to squire Carmine around back in the day.

He approached the open driver side window. Keys dangled from the ignition on an angel keychain, like the one Carmine once gave him.

Well, I'll be damned.

He rested his hands on the door. They were young guy's hands, smooth and unblemished. Another pair of hands removed the _For Sale_ sign from the windshield and tore it up.

"She's all yours, get in," a pleasant voice said.

A very tall man stood beside him. Hal did not dare behold his face. Instead, he turned toward the porch.

"I'd advise you not look back," the man said.

But Hal did. He saw himself sprawled in the chair. Gerry was speaking urgently into a cell phone. Freddie had left his drum set and stood by his other side.

Hal walked toward the porch. As he got closer, the figure in the chair began stirring to life. He gazed at his hands. They'd become semi-transparent; he could almost make out the lawn through them.

"Your choice, friend," the man by the car said.

Hal paused and called out to Gerry. "Fly right, kid!"

He jogged back to the Mustang, gaining more substance with each step. He drove off, and never looked back again.

# Eight: The Pizza Guy Delivers

Debut

Gerry pulled up before the apartment building and grabbed the pizza warming bag off the passenger seat. This was his debut in the new role of "Pizza Guy." He tried to give the situation a positive spin.

If nothing else, this is a night for new experiences.

He preferred the experience of being a bass guitar player in a rock band, but since the sudden death of Uncle Hal, that gig was on hold. He got out of his car and walked toward the door.

A security guard sat at the lobby desk.

"I've got a delivery for 601," Gerry announced.

"Hmmm."

The security guard picked up a phone. He looked bored, like somebody who already had enough experience in his job.

"They want you to bring it up," he said.

"Alright."

Gerry proceeded to the elevator bank and confronted a stark sign:

Out of Order

please use stairs

He looked back toward the guard, who jerked a thumb at a metal door with _Stairs_ written on it.

"Okay, got it," Gerry said.

He walked to the metal door and placed a hand on the knob.

Bzzzrrrt!

An ear-splitting buzz issued from the door as its lock disengaged. Gerry stumbled back, his hand flying off the knob. The security guard shot him a malicious grin.

Thanks a lot, jerk.

Gerry passed through the door and began the ascent. After three stories, he had to take a break.

Damn, I gotta quit smoking.

Memories of Uncle Hal's strange demise bubbled up again. Imagine, struck by a lighting bolt during a performance, out of a virtually clear sky, too. At first, he'd seemed only stunned and had begun to revive. Then he was gone, with a big grin on his face, no less. Gerry could have sworn he'd heard his uncle's last words floating on the breeze: "Fly right, kid!"

Along with Uncle Hal went the bar gigs, the chili cook-off appearance, and the art fair performance that promised a particularly good take. Next thing to go was Gerry's bass guitar, sold to pay urgent bills. He was lucky to still have his car.

At least Uncle Hal died while doing what he loved best. Keeling over when delivering a pizza would be a different matter.

After five stories, Gerry was ready to fling the pizza over the railing. He held onto it, though, and persevered, exiting on the sixth floor. He shuffled along the carpeted hallway toward Apartment 601.

Inside 601

Cher sat beside Jeff on his living room couch, sipping Merlot. Since pushing him down at the fountain that day, she'd gradually had a change of heart. Jeff wasn't a bad sort, he just lacked discretion at times, the right tone. She'd been teaching him more about that lately, and about some other stuff, too, of the kinkier type.

Things were getting a bit dull, though.

We need to spice things up. How about a threesome?

This had been a cause for dispute between her and Tom. He was gung ho about a threesome, but she'd been too jealous to take the plunge. Maybe if she'd agreed, Tom wouldn't have left her.

But that was in the past. Mr. Wonderful hadn't shown up yet, and Jeff was really just a place holder, so jealousy was no longer an issue. Certain things had to be gotten out of one's system before settling down, right?

Ah, well, who'd be available for it?

Opportunity knocked, or rather, rang the doorbell.

"About time he got here," Jeff said.

He left the couch, a little unsteady on his feet from too much wine on an empty stomach. He opened the door.

"Hold on man," he said. "I have to get some cash."

Jeff disappeared into the bedroom, and a cute delivery guy stepped in.

_Nice_.

Cher recognized his sexy eyes, broad shoulders, and easy movements—not to mention the white cap.

"You play bass in the Cosmic Losers, don't you?" she said.

"Used to, until we lost our lead guitar."

"I was at that performance. Terrible what happened."

The pizza guy advanced into the living room, flashing a gorgeous smile. "Yeah, I saw you across the street, dancing by yourself."

Cher's face warmed, and not just from the Merlot.

Jeff's irritated voice came from the bedroom: "Where the hell's my wallet?"

Cher looked toward the bedroom door. "Maybe you left it in your jacket... the blue one."

When she turned back, the pizza guy was closer.

"My name's Gerry," he said.

"I'm Cher."

"Where is the damn thing?" Jeff said.

"He'll probably be another minute, Gerry. Why don't you sit down. Would you like some wine?"

"Sure, thanks."

Gerry set the pizza box on the coffee table and sat on her right, against the sofa arm.

"Fuck!" Jeff shouted in the bedroom. Gerry recoiled

"That's Jeff," Cher said. "He's really very nice. Maybe the three of us can be friends."

Gerry smiled uneasily, then took the offered wine glass. Cher wrapped an arm over his shoulders.

Jeff emerged from the bedroom holding his wallet. His eyes bulged as he took in the couch scene.

"Come join us," Cher said. "This is Gerry; he plays bass."

Jeff approached, staring daggers at the pizza guy, who responded with a benign smile.

"Lighten up, Jeff," Cher said.

Jeff sat down at the far end of the sofa, grabbed the wine bottle off the side table, and took a deep swig. Cher smiled.

"Let's have some pizza." She opened the box and withdrew a slice. "My, it's hot. The way I like it."

She offered the slice to Gerry, and he bit off the point. His cell phone rang.

"Who's that?" Cher asked.

Gerry consulted his phone. "My boss. He must be wondering where I am."

"Maybe you should tell him you're busy." Cher cocked an eyebrow. "It's up to you."

Gerry shut off his phone. Cher fed him another bite of pizza.

Jeff was not clearly getting into the spirit of things. He remained on his end of the couch, slugging direct from the wine bottle and resisting Cher's efforts to draw him in. The alcohol caught up with him, and he nodded off.

"Let's go." Cher took Gerry's hand and led him into the bedroom.

Things get dicey

Jeff startled back to wakefulness, prompted by a loud "Woo hoo!" from the bedroom. He took in the empty couch, and his anger boiled.

He strode to the bedroom where a disgusting scene was playing out. Cher and the pizza guy were in bed, naked. His wrist was tied to the post in one of Cher's kinky role-play scenarios.

"You little slut!" Jeff shouted.

Cher looked out from under the covers, eyes wide and fearful. Jeff shot her an enraged glower and stomped away.

Events proceeded in a nightmare blur. Cher jumped out of bed, seized her clothes, and ran out. A furious confrontation erupted in the living room. Gerry listened in growing alarm but could do nothing, as his wrist was tied securely to the bedpost. He struggled vainly to free himself.

"Why don't you get lost, already?" Jeff shouted.

"Fine!" Cher yelled back.

The front door opened and slammed. Everything became deathly silent. Jeff appeared at the bedroom door wielding a knife.

"No! No!" Gerry pleaded.

Sometime later, his wrist cut free from its binding, Gerry enjoyed a glass of wine under the sheets with Jeff. This certainly was a night for new experiences.

# Nine: Tell-Tale Hiccup

Mall drama

Allie and Cher crossed the lot toward Cher's car, their arms loaded with purchases.

"That's quite a story," Allie said. "I take it things are over with you and Jeff?"

"To put it mildly. I was fortunate to get out of his place alive."

"Now I understand why he took a couple days off work," Allie said. "He's seems to have cooled down, though."

"Yeah, he's cold, alright."

They arrived at the car and unloaded their packages.

"How about dinner at the Chinese place?" Cher asked.

"Sounds good." Allie grinned and riffled in her purse. "I'd better call Chet, make sure he's not up to something wicked."

Cher sighed. "Think I'm finished with the wicked ways. It's time to settle down."

"Damn!"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing... my phone's gone."

"Oh? When did you last use it?"

Allie cast a worried glance toward the mall. "In the coffee shop, I got a text message."

Cher pulled out her own cell. "Better call it in; let's go look."

They retraced their steps to the mall and approached the Customer Service counter.

"Get in line," Cher said. "I'll check the coffee shop and the places we went afterwards." She disappeared into the vast acreage of the mall.

Allie waited anxiously. A line stretched before her, and people crowded the counter ahead. Nobody was having a good time, judging by the universally grim expressions.

"I feel so dumb," she muttered.

"Why's that?" a masculine voice said.

Allie turned to see an incredible, athletic guy towering behind her—like a champion quarterback just stepped out of his football uniform.

God, what a hunk!

"I lost my cellphone," she said.

He shrugged. "These things happen."

A customer raised his voice at a hapless service rep standing behind the counter. The quarterback looked toward the disturbance, then back to Allie.

"How do you think I feel, losing my fountain pen?" he said.

"Yeah. I mean, who even uses fountain pens these days?" Allie grimaced inwardly. _That was stupid!_

He didn't seem to mind, though. They shared a laugh. The tension drained out of Allie, and the forbidding lineup of disgruntled people wasn't so bad any longer.

"My name's Greg." He extended a hand.

"I'm Allie." His hand was firm and powerful in hers.

Allie noticed Cher observing them from a distance, sizing up the situation.

Yeah, check him out. Not too close, though.

Cher tucked something into her purse. A few minutes later, she walked up.

"Oh, hi," Allie said. "Did you look everywhere?"

Cher nodded, her eyes fixed on Greg. "Who might this be?"

"Uh... Greg, this is my good friend, Cher. We're co-workers."

"Pleased to meet you," Greg said.

Cher smiled.

An older woman standing behind them tapped Greg's arm. "Excuse me, can you tell me what this says?" She gave him a lengthy receipt.

"Certainly." He took the paper and began deciphering the fine print.

Cher moved in close to Allie and whispered. "You seem to be in good hands."

"I just met the guy."

"Uh huh, famous last words." Cher pulled the phone from her purse and handed it over.

Allie shoved it into her bag. "Where'd you find it?"

"The coffee shop." Cher turned to leave. "Call me if you need a ride. Somehow, I don't think you will."

"Cher..."

"Bye."

Greg looked up from the receipt. Cher flashed him a parting smile.

Across town

Chet wandered the residential streets. This was Allie's night out with the girls, and he was feeling lonely, a bit relieved, too. Their relationship was starting to drag. Great sex could carry things only so far. It boiled down to what Allie called his "lack of ambition."

His football hero days at a small liberal arts college were over, and he had settled into the working world grind. He was good at his job, too, but Allie liked the upwardly mobile type—guys who were laser-focused on career advancement and would retire with fat pensions.

To him, the future was an adventure to be filled with interesting experiences and travel, like that Jeff guy who'd run off to China on his vacation. Have less, do and see more. Chet was a certified scuba diver and had begun flying lessons. Sky diving was next on the list. Allie did not join him in any of these activities.

Maybe things would work out with her, maybe not. Directly ahead, a disturbing scenario played out. Chet looked on with growing apprehension.

* * *

Erika flung open the passenger door and exited the car. Bruce vacated the driver's seat and followed, his blue blazer flapping in the evening breeze.

"Look, I said I was sorry," he pleaded. "It won't happen again."

"Where have I heard that before?" Erika spat. "Now leave me alone."

She strode toward her apartment building, hoping to lose Bruce, but he kept up the pace.

She turned. "And why did you pick up that Romero jerk?"

"What could I do? I owe him, and he needed a lift."

"Just what do you 'owe him' for?"

"Look," Bruce said, "come back to the car. I'll drop him off quick. We'll go have a good time."

"No, I'm not going back to your car. I never want to see you again."

"You don't mean that, Babe."

"I do mean it!"

She was at the front stoop to her three-story apartment building. "Stay out here."

He followed her inside and up the flight of stairs to her door. She turned on him, frightened now.

"I told you not to come in."

Inside the apartment, her dog barked furiously. Erika fumbled out her keys.

"Look, I know you're upset," Bruce said in his smoothest voice, the one that had tricked her so often before. "Let me come in. I'll only stay a minute. I promise."

"No."

Bruce seized her arm. "Listen to me, bitch."

"Let go!"

The barking became louder.

Erika unlocked the door; her dog, Quimby, charged out. The little brown and white mutt still wore his flower garland in observance of his second birthday. He sank his teeth into Bruce's pant leg.

"Hey!"

Bruce lurched toward the stairs, struggling frantically to shake off the dog. "Get this damn thing off me!"

He lost his footing and crashed down the flight of stairs, Quimby in hot pursuit.

Erika followed. "Quimby! Get over here."

The dog dutifully jumped into her arms. She pulled out her phone.

"Don't call the cops, Babe." Bruce looked scared, like someone who'd already had too much involvement with cops.

Quimby growled.

Bruce slid away along the floor. "Keep him away from me!"

Erika spoke in a low, ominous voice. "I'm getting a gun permit, too." She aimed a finger pistol at Bruce and dropped the hammer. "I see you again, you're dead."

"Okay, I get the message."

Bruce regained his feet and checked himself over. "My fucking jacket's ripped."

"Get out!"

Bruce looked uncertainly toward the exit, then back at Erika. He seized the dog from her arms and smacked it hard. He dashed out the door.

* * *

Chet stood uncertainly near the parked car. What should he do—go after them, call the police, mind his own business? Was that girl in real danger?

The guy in the blue jacket emerged from the apartment building and ran toward the car with a struggling dog in his arms. The woman chased after him, shrieking. Chet's protective instincts blasted to the fore.

"Hey, what're you doing?" He stepped in to block the sidewalk.

A bald man exited the car and landed a hard right.

"Nice move, Romero!" the guy with the dog said.

From his position sprawled on the sidewalk, Chet watched the car race away.

Back at da mall

Allie and Greg relaxed at Scotty's restaurant. Their table gave them a good view of the bar with the dangling bagpipes.

"Nice ambiance," Greg said. "Makes you want to be Scottish, doesn't it?"

"What nationality are you?"

"French."

"Maybe I was French, too, in a previous life." Allie hiccupped. "Excuse me. This always happens when I drink."

Greg hoisted his martini. "I'll drink to that."

"Sorry you didn't get your fountain pen," Allie said.

Greg set his glass down and leaned over the table into the hanging lamp glare. "Tell you the truth, there was no fountain pen."

"Really?"

"I saw you standing in line and needed an excuse to get acquainted."

Allie chuckled. "Naughty boy."

"Are you upset?"

"Do I look upset?"

He grinned and eased back into the shadow.

Allie sipped her frozen piña colada. Ordinarily, she didn't prefer piña coladas, but she'd ordered this one to help project an image. The drink was sweet, a little exotic, and required some work to consume. It played hard to get.

She took up the earlier conversation thread. "So, you're the district manager now?"

"Yep, as of last week."

"That must be quite a step up for you." Allie raised the piña colada. "Congratulations."

"Thanks." Greg tapped her glass with his martini. "It's been a challenge learning the ropes."

A rather disheveled man took a stool at the bar. He wore a blue blazer with a torn sleeve. Greg shot him a glance, then returned his attention to Allie.

"I've thought of going back to school for some more training," she said.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'm in a rut at BriSoc Enterprises. It's getting time to move on."

"And leave Cher behind?"

Allie smiled. "Oh, she'll do fine. Maybe I'll take her with me."

A bald, mean-looking guy with a ring in one ear approached the man with the torn sleeve. Greg observed through narrowed eyes.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Torn sleeve demanded.

Allie turned her head toward them, alarmed.

"I had to drop off the goddamn dog," the bald guy said.

"You didn't hurt the fucking thing, did you?"

"Naw, it's okay."

"Hold on a minute," Greg said.

Allie reached for him. "Greg..."

He was already approaching the bar. "Excuse me, guys."

The two men turned hostile looks his direction.

"This is a nice place," Greg said. "You really shouldn't be talking like that."

"Fuck you, man," the guy in the torn jacket said.

Greg smiled. "Would you care to step outside and repeat that?"

The man's eyes widened and his mouth trembled. He was clearly intimidated, despite the presence of his bald pal.

"Or I could lay you out here," Greg said. "Your choice."

An ugly silence hung over the bar. The bald guy tapped his friend's shoulder.

"Let's go."

Torn jacket downed the last of his drink and reached for his wallet.

"That's okay," Greg said. "Drink's on me."

The two men left. Greg tossed some cash onto the bar and returned to the table where Allie was observing him with awe-struck admiration.

He sat down. "What's this about going back to school?"

Things throw down

After the police officers left her apartment, Erika turned her attention to Chet's face.

"That's a nasty shiner. You should go to the emergency room."

"It'll be alright," Chet said. "It's no worse than a couple hockey injuries I've gotten."

"I'll get us a rideshare."

"No, you've had enough trouble. Stay here."

Erika seized her phone. "I want you to go and let them have a look. Use the same driver to get home, on me. It's the least I can do."

Chet grinned, a bit painfully. "Okay, thanks."

* * *

Allie walked arm in arm with Greg, headed for his car. She was a little unsteady. Another piña colada, wine with dinner. Greg's confrontation with the guys at the bar had been so thrilling she couldn't restrain herself from drinking too much. She was loose and happy, in the mood for adventure.

"This has been quite a day," Greg said.

"That's for sure."

He grinned. Greg was so cute when he did that.

They arrived at the car. It was parked in the outskirts because the lot had been full when Greg arrived. Now it was alone under the street lamps amid a sea of empty spaces. A median stood alongside with evergreen trees and low bushes.

Greg reached for the passenger door. Before he could open it, Allie grabbed onto him for a deep, romantic kiss.

"Whoa," Greg said when she pulled away. "I like that."

Allie drew him onto the back seat. Soon, the car began rocking.

* * *

Erika sipped tea laced with brandy and lime juice. _Poor Quimby. That bastard better not hurt him._

He would, though, if he thought he could get back at her that way. At least, he'd try to blackmail her to keep her from making too much of a row with the cops. How did she ever get involved with that low-life creep?

Whatever else happened, she was purchasing the firearm and putting in her CCW application. Then a restraining order against Bruce and that Romero thug. Chet knew a good attorney who could handle it for her.

Chet.

She held up the paper with his number. The rideshare guy had already phoned to say Chet got home safely, but it would be good to follow through. Her call went to voicemail.

"Hi! This is Erika. Just want to make sure you're all right. I'm really sorry about what happened." She fortified herself with a slug of tea and pressed on. "If you're... available, I'd like to see you again. Under better circumstances, this time."

* * *

Allie and Greg sat at a table in the all-night café—her, tense and agitated; him, cool and composed.

"I've never done anything like that before," Allie said.

Greg regarded her with amused pleasure, a little smile playing about his lips.

"It's not like me at all." Allie sipped her coffee, looking sheepishly up at Greg. "I don't want you to think I'm easy."

He grinned and leaned back confidently in his chair. "We're all easy, with the right person."

Allie hiccupped. "Oh, I should get home."

"When can I see you again?"

"Could we not talk about that just yet?"

The final scenes

Curled into a tight ball on her side of the bed, Allie heard Chet enter the apartment. Then the sounds of him emptying his pockets on the living room side table.

Ohh... how am I supposed to handle this?

She heard the shower running in the bathroom and Chet's phone ringing from the living room charge stand.

Who's calling him at this hour?

When Chet entered the darkened bedroom, Allie still had not decided what to do. She determined to sleep on it. After all, tomorrow was another day.

A hiccup betrayed her. She desperately hoped he wouldn't notice, but another, louder hiccup sealed her fate.

"What's the matter?" Chet stroked her back. "Drink too much?"

Allie rolled over. "Chet..."

"Yeah?"

"There's something I need to tell you about."

A tense silence.

"What?"

"I-I met somebody at the mall, and..."

Chet said nothing until Allie had spilled every bean. Then:

"Isn't this the end of a perfect day?" He rose from the bed. "Don't worry, I'll get my stuff out of here first thing tomorrow."

He went to the living room and flopped onto the couch.

Chet awoke and stared at the ceiling with its water stain from the apartment upstairs. Morning sunlight poked through the window. He gingerly touched his bruised face.

Yep, it's still there.

He rolled off the couch and headed for the bathroom. A quick glance into the bedroom verified Allie was still asleep. With any luck, he could throw together his possessions and be gone before she woke up. Good thing he hadn't put in a 30-day notice at his own apartment yet.

He left the bathroom carrying his bag of toiletries and the college Alma mater towel he'd brought with him to the love nest. He yanked his phone off the charge stand.

I've got a voice message.

* * *

Allie awoke to the sound of laughter. Confused, she crept into the hall and peered out to the living room. Chet was there, yucking it up with somebody on his phone.

_He doesn't seem too upset_ , she thought rancorously.

She spotted his black eye, and her anger cooled, replaced by a stab of guilt. He glanced her direction and nodded, then returned to his conversation.

"Yeah," he said, "sounds good... any time that works for you."

He rose from the couch and exited the front door. Allie drifted to the window and observed him pacing the sidewalk, phone stuck to his ear.

I'm glad he's taking things so well.

She sat down on the couch. A peculiar, empty feeling pressed in. This was how you blew out of a relationship, eh? Her cell phone rang in the bedroom.

Allie charged in and flung herself across the bed, seizing her phone off the nightstand. "Greg! I was just thinking about you."

# Ten: There's a Dog in the Car

"Why do we always have to bring that twerp along?" Cousin Jesse said, loud enough for me to hear.

"Hush, Jesse," Aunt Theresa said while she shoved the last bag of groceries into the trunk. "You know why. He has to stay with us until his mother is well."

"When's he going back?"

"In a day or two." She slammed the trunk. "You can hang on that long, can't you? It's not easy for me either, you know."

She glanced my direction and pasted on her little smile a bit too late. I'd already seen the pinched look on her face, the one that let me know I was a royal pain in the butt for her. Jesse rolled his eyes, the jerk! Nice of him to be so concerned about Mom, too. It's not her fault she got a bad appendix that almost exploded.

I didn't think grown-up people had such problems. Eddie, my friend at school, had his appendix taken out and enjoyed showing off his scar. He was real proud of it, like it was a special achievement award. Things had been terrible with Mom, though. She got real sick and had to be rushed to the hospital. Even Dad flew in from Arizona to see her after the operation.

I thought Dad would take me with him, but he didn't want to. His new job is keeping him busy, he said; summer is too hot in Arizona for me to have any fun, and everybody knows I don't get along well with my new step-mom.

Dad was the one who suggested I stay with Aunt Theresa for a while. She lives only a few miles away, and besides, she owes us.

Turns out Mom loaned Aunt Theresa a bunch of money once and never got paid back. So, _I_ was the payback, arriving like a booby prize on Aunt Theresa's doorstep. You could say there's not a lot of love in our extended family.

At least the ordeal would be over soon. Mom was home from the hospital now and almost recovered. Much longer with my relatives, and I'd be totally nuts. Why hadn't Aunt Theresa moved to Arizona, or Afghanistan or someplace?

Jesse and Aunt Theresa got in the front seat, and I slid in back. Just before Aunt Theresa closed her door, a little brown and white dog slipped in and climbed onto the seat next to me. It had a collar, so it was obviously not a stray.

"There's a dog in the car," I said.

Aunt Theresa ignored me, as usual, and started the engine. She has this way of not hearing you.

Jesse heard, though. "Yeah, right," he sneered.

"There's a dog in..." I saw something outside that made me stop talking.

A bald, mean-looking guy with a stick in his hand was walking around the parking lot looking for something. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The dog cowered and whimpered, pressing itself next to me. Luckily, Jesse chose that moment to flick on the radio, and nobody heard.

"Turn that radio down!" Aunt Theresa snapped.

I pushed the dog as far out of sight as possible.

We left the grocery store and drove for some minutes. My mind raced. How could I manage to keep Arrow, as I'd already named the dog? He had a white pattern on his head that looked like arrow feathers, and his nose was pointy. I named him, so I should get to keep him, right?

He was perfect for me, but I knew Aunt Theresa would not allow it. Mom would, though, if I begged hard enough and if I could get home, somehow.

As a last resort, I could roll down the window and shove Arrow out at a red light. At least he'd escape the mean bald guy. My stomach tightened. No, I couldn't do that; he might get hurt. How would I hold up if somebody pushed me out the window?

Other wild schemes went through my head. Maybe I could jump out at the next stop sign with Arrow and run. No, this was a 2-door car. I'd have to reach past cousin Jesse for the handle, and he'd slug my arm. Maybe I could fake a panic attack...

We drove toward the "Railroad Track Wasteland" where four sets of tracks ran alongside each other. Nothing else existed in this wide area except for a couple of low buildings and some big, scrubby bushes.

_Bompity-bomp!_ we crossed the first set of tracks.

_Bompity-bomp!_ we crossed another.

Just after the last set, the car took a big bounce, and Arrow barked.

Aunt Theresa whipped around. "Where did you get that thing?" she bellowed.

"He jumped in at the grocery store."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did tell you."

Jesse let fly with a string of curse words. Aunt Theresa didn't even scold him for his foul language.

"That dog's going back right now," she said.

"Please let me keep him, Aunt Theresa!"

"I won't have a strange dog. Besides, he's got an owner; don't you see his collar?"

She turned the car around and drove back toward the tracks. No, she couldn't do this! Arrow belonged to me, not the mean stick guy. I fought to keep down the tears.

The red signal light ahead was flashing, but there was no clang, and the barricade jerked in the up position, like it was stuck. Aunt Theresa was so steamed she didn't notice. She hunched behind the steering wheel and bounced over the first set of tracks.

I saw a lone train engine off on the farthest track coming toward the road.

"There's a train coming," I said.

We crossed the first track, then the second. The engine disappeared behind a building.

"There's a train coming," I said.

Aunt Theresa shot me an angry look over her shoulder. "I've had enough out of you, Ryan!"

Cousin Jesse turned around, scowling. They were both looking at me as the engine came down on us, horn blasting. Aunt Theresa slammed on the brakes.

The engine smashed into the front of the car, spinning us around. I grabbed Arrow and held on, both of us howling. A screeching noise, a thousand times worse than fingernails on a blackboard, nearly broke my eardrums. The train engine glided past like a huge whale, leaving us in its wake.

We all got out. Hot gasoline fumes hung in the air. Maybe the car would blow up! Wouldn't that be something? Aunt Theresa shook violently. Her eyes bulged; her mouth gaped open and closed like a speared fish. Otherwise, she looked wonderful.

Jesse wasn't quite so lucky. Blood trickled from a little cut on his forehead. He whined a pitiful "wimph, wimph" sound. You'd think his whole head had been bashed in.

Arrow and I were fine. I felt terrific, actually, like I'd just got out of jail. I bounced on my toes, swinging my arms around as adrenaline rushed through me. The car wreckage was a beautiful sight. What a great time!

"See you later, Cousin." I patted Jesse's flabby shoulder. "Thanks for everything."

I ran toward the street corner, Arrow close behind. People rushed past us toward the wreck, talking excitedly.

"Did you see it happen?" somebody asked me.

"Yeah, it was cool!"

Sirens wailed. After I was well away from the mayhem, I whipped out my cell and called home.

Several minutes later, Mom drove up. I yanked open the passenger side door and jumped in the car. Mom pulled me close and kissed my forehead.

"Oh Ryan. Thank heaven you're safe."

She was thin and pale, but her voice was strong. I was so overjoyed, I could barely talk.

"Let's go home right now, Mom. We can get my stuff later from Aunt Theresa's."

"Alright."

Arrow jumped into the back seat, and I closed the door. Mom started driving, unaware of our passenger.

A short while later, we pulled into our driveway. I opened the door and stepped gratefully back onto my own front lawn. Home at last! Arrow barked with joy.

"Well, what do you know," I said, "there's a dog in the car."

Editor's Note: Mom insisted that a search be made on the "Missing Pets" website. The real owner was located, and Arrow / Quimby was returned to her. Everyone became friends.

# Eleven: The Future Lies Ahead

Cher tasted her frozen daiquiri in the remote corner booth of Scotty's restaurant. The frigid cocktail matched her mood.

Not that it wasn't good to be seeing Allie again. They'd lost touch since Allie left BriSoc Enterprises, and this invitation to lunch would be their first meeting in quite a while. Cher consulted her watch, ten minutes to go. Allie was nothing if not punctual.

Cher wished she could escape the grind at BriSoc, too. What was the company slogan?

Handing you the future

The future being handed her was unattractive, and she wanted a better one. What a crock women bought into these days: _"You can be as big a dog as any man! It will make you deliriously happy."_

She wasn't happy. The meaningless affairs, one-night stands, and BDSM experimentation left a void in her heart. Even her relationship with Tom had been insincere, a stopgap until something more interesting came along. As she grew older, things got less interesting.

Speaking of crocks, don't forget the 'reproductive justice' pitch: _"Shout your abortion! Experience the joy, freedom, and empowerment that comes from killing your baby."_

Thank God, she'd avoided that trap, but she knew others who hadn't. They covered their wounded spirits as best they could. Cher gazed into her daiquiri. Her life had been virtuous for some time now. Trouble was, virtue could be boring.

Allie appeared by the bar; Greg was with her. Talk about waving a jug of water in front of a girl who's dying of thirst. They were speaking with the waitress. Cher looked away, preferring to be 'surprised' when they showed up at her booth. A minute passed.

"Hello, stranger," Allie said.

Cher glanced up from her cocktail and managed a smile. "Allie! Good to see you. Hi, Greg."

"Hi, Cher."

They slid onto the seat across from her, moving as a single unit. The waitress appeared bearing three glasses of sparkling wine.

"What's this about?" Cher said.

"We thought it was a good occasion for a toast," Allie said.

She thrust her left hand under the glare of the hanging light. A diamond festooned the ring finger. It stabbed a powerful ray into Cher's eye.

"Ohhh. Congratulations!"

Cher embraced Allie across the table. Happiness overwhelmed her, along with an unfortunate tinge of jealousy. They hoisted the wine glasses and saluted the joyous event.

"Well, let's eat," Allie said.

They were perusing the menus when Greg noticed somebody across the restaurant.

"Excuse me." He walked off toward the bar.

Cher took Allie's hand. "You've really made it, girl. Have you set a date?"

"Sometime in May, probably the fifth. Then it's off to Europe for our honeymoon. Will you be my maid of honor?"

"Of course."

Again, the happiness-jealousy barb poked Cher's heart. She brushed away a tear before Allie might see it. Greg returned, accompanied by another guy.

"Ladies, this is my cousin, Jack."

Cher looked up at a man every bit as attractive as Greg. If Ivan Drago from the _Rocky IV_ movie had a twin, it would be him—with better hair and an uber-sexy smile.

"This is Allie; you've heard a lot about her," Greg said. "And this is her good friend, Cher."

"Pleased to meet you both," Jack said. "Is it all right if I join you?"

Yes!

"Certainly." Cher moved down, making room for him.

As the men exchanged small talk, Cher gave Allie a questioning look. Allie smiled impishly, the gleam in her eye matching the one in her diamond.

* * *

Phil Klacik autographed the copy of _Murder Among Co-workers_ and returned it to the middle-aged lady standing before his table.

"Thanks so much for buying my book," he said.

"I love your writing!" the woman gushed. "When's the next one coming out?"

Phil smiled. "I'm working on it."

The woman moved off, and another person gave him a book to be signed. Phil flexed his hand. He wasn't used to so much manual writing. His penmanship had always been bad and was getting worse as the day wore on. His fans didn't seem to mind, though.

MY fans. Doesn't that have a good ring to it?

This was the first of many scheduled book signings. He kept wanting to jab himself with the ballpoint to check if he wasn't dreaming. Many times he'd visualized this situation but had never really believed it would happen. Everything was perfect—except for his romantic prospects.

He'd started the next book in his murder mystery series and was falling back into his solitary habits. His life had always been rather cheerless, and it still was, except that now he had lots of money.

His mind turned toward Kayla Braun, the sexy heroine of _Murder Among Co-workers_ —smart, attractive, virtuous. She was assistant to Vance Hewlett and had to work hard to win the crusty private investigator's confidence. She'd proved her worth and would be appearing in the next novel.

Where is she when I need her?

He looked up at the next person in line, and all thoughts of Kayla vanished.

"Hi," he said.

A young woman smiled at him, a celestial creature looking down from heaven. Green eyes, reddish hair, creamy skin.

"Hi." She passed him a copy of _Murder Among Co-workers_.

Phil took it. The volume tingled his hand. It seemed unworthy of attention from this fabulous woman.

"That's a very effective cover," she said. "I do graphic design myself, and I recognize good work."

"Thanks." Phil opened to the title page. "So... who should I make this out to?"

She handed him a business card. "Make it out to me, please."

He examined the card: Tricia Kilraine, graphic designer – email, phone, website.

Kilraine – Klacik...

"Okay, Tricia."

Phil's hand no longer felt tired. In bold, swirling letters, he wrote an eloquent dedication. He returned the volume reluctantly.

"Thanks." She flashed an extraordinary smile and moved off.

Phil watched her go with an aching heart. He turned the card over. On the back, a hand-written message:

The future lies ahead.

Call me if you like. – Tricia

* * *

Everyone left Scotty's together, relaxed and content from an excellent lunch. They were bound for a nearby street art fair that Allie just happened to recall was being held today.

As they strolled through the mall, Cher marveled at Allie's skill in orchestrating events. First, the 'chance' meeting with Greg's gorgeous cousin, then a low-pressure afternoon wandering the art fair, getting better acquainted, setting the stage for good things to come.

I owe you, girl.

A line stretched along the main concourse, leading to a table with a placard announcing:

Phil Klacik, book signing

author of

Murder Among Co-workers / Murder Among Friends

Cher moved beside Allie and spoke in a low voice. "Do you suppose he remembers us?"

Allie shrugged. "I doubt it."

"Hey, I read those," Greg said.

"How were they?" Jack said.

"Excellent. Lots of mayhem and romance." Greg wrapped an arm around Allie's waist. "Would you like an autographed book?"

"Mmm, no thanks. I'd rather read yours."

THE END

Thanks for reading! You must have liked the story if you got this far, so why not write a review? Just a few words, either at the online bookstore where you obtained this book or in any other medium you wish. May numerous blessings come your way.

# Connect with the Author

Please visit my website and blog at: "The B2"

Also, my Smashwords author page

# Brian's Other Books

Here are brief descriptions of my other adult books. They are available at all major online retailers in ebook format. To find the relevant links, please visit my website at "The B2"

ROBOT HORIZON SERIES

Return to Mech City

Book one of the _Robot Horizon_ series

The end of the world as you've never seen it before. Life goes on in Mech City, but it is no longer human.

As mankind succumbs to its follies and exits the stage, scholar model robot, Winston Horvath, makes a perilous journey to Mech City where he was manufactured. He meets Star Power, the world's only functional female robot.

Things unravel when a Roboto Fascist dictatorship seizes power. Its leader has designs on Star. Winston flees with her to gather forces for a counter-coup and, perhaps, get himself upgraded so as to bring Star true satisfaction.

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Expedition Westward

Book two of the _Robot Horizon_ series

What is the cost of rediscovering true love in a shattered world? Whatever it might be, Star is willing to pay, or not survive the outcome. A trek along dangerous roads provides the answer. The dystopian adventure continues.

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Battle for Mech City

Book three of the _Robot Horizon_ series

Winston Horvath regains control of Mech City, but his success is soon threatened. Violent religious fanatics are approaching with a robotic army. A disgruntled Dr. Che is also coming to kidnap Star. Meanwhile, Star's out of control sexuality is causing difficulties with various robotic and human partners. The fun continues!

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Great Republic on Rye

When dissolute card sharp and ladies man, Eugene Walton, unexpectedly inherits a plantation, his life assumes new purpose. After freeing the slaves and narrowly escaping a lynch mob, Eugene moves into the wider world bearing a message of liberation.

Accompanied by dedicated friends and a shadowy former bondsman, he plans to found a "Great Republic" based upon the highest ideals. But things are not so simple in an unready world. Let no good deed go unpunished!

Adventure / Social-Political Satire / Dark Humor

Raptor Aces

The terrifying Zone of Destruction – ZOD, the absence of God. It has taken over the Raptor Aces, an elite Youth League air squadron.

Its leader, Dytran, is the cream of his totalitarian country. His world unravels when a poor decision goes horribly wrong, resulting in death and destruction. He grabs at a chance to volunteer for support aviation duty in the war. At the front, he and his comrades are swept up in violence and revenge until escape seems beyond reach.

New Adult / Action-Adventure / War

Strange Tales for Cozy Nights – 1

Nine offbeat tales to disturb your cozy nights. From strange voyages and baffling powers to dystopian athletic competitions and the in-laws from Hell, these stories are for you if you enjoy burning the midnight oil with a good yarn.

Horror-ish / Mystery / Whatever

4th Musketelle

Trophy wife Laila Armstrong chafes under the domination of husband Frank. When she learns her adult "step children" are plotting to cut her out of their dad's lucrative business affairs, she must act fast to avoid being thrown back into the poverty she escaped years earlier. Murder seems to be a reasonable solution – much better than a messy divorce.

Laila plots to use Frank's infamous temper against him and make his death seem like an "accident." Things don't work out as planned, though, and it's not certain who will survive the final cut.

Dark Humor / Romantic Homicide

DAS ROAD

A road novel with fascinating turns through exotic Asia, workaday America, and Iran caught up in revolution. Travel realms where anything is possible, wonderful, or horrible. And always on the road ahead, the mythical figure of Jon Glass who haunts the entire journey. A story imbued with meaning just below the level of articulating. A siren call to your wanderlust.

Travel / Mystery

Career Moves for Burnt Out Personifications

Santa, the Grim Reaper, and others scramble to find new careers and identities. Outrageous political and social satire. "A smorgasbord of paranoid ramblings ideally suited to today's sensibilities."

Humor / Political Satire

