VAMP By LARRY BLASKO Jews get Tay-Sachs disease, Blacks get sickle-cell anemia, Slavs get vampirism. You think all that blood sausage is accidental? Which is one hell of a depressing thought as the 7:00 Express grinds out of the Port Authority for the Lincoln Tunnel. Especially when your teeth are starting to grow. It's like this: You've been an ordinary Stash, one more Moo in the herd doing twice-daily penance on the Jersey Turnpike. The morning bus ticket is express to Boss; the evening ticket is express to Wife. Same Boss. Same Wife. Twenty years. So what? This ain't a picnic, it's the New York Corporate Real Estate business, it's Real Life. Or Real Death. Take your pick. Either way it costs $5.25 on Lakeland Bus Lines, and they don't take checks. Or vampires. So you just don't tell Lakeland Bus Lines you're a vampire. Easy. But you also don't tell anyone else, which is harder. Lots harder. For one thing, vampirism is forever. Except for me. Leo Staski is going to beat it. After dinner. BEGINNINGS It began, like a lot of things, in bed. If you have time to think about it, most of us are made in a bed and born in a bed; finally, we rot in a bed-in-a-box and the euphemism is "laid to rest." In bed with Charlotte, there's certainly time to think. My technique shows the skill of married repetition: (1.) Roll to the left, pressing close (2.) Heel of right hand on hip. (3.) Kiss nape of neck (4.) Go for it. My wife's skills are equally practiced: (1.) Feign deep sleep (2.) Roll off hand (3.) "Stop it." (4.) "You're making me angry." It's like playing professional chess -- mate in four moves, no-mate in two or less. Which gives me time to think about Catherine "Kate" O'Shaugnessy, administrative assistant, career woman, feminist, flirt, leg-crosser, Now Starring In a Fantasy Near You. She closed the office door and perched on the desk, one shoe dangling from an extended toe. I grabbed the shoe, the toe, the leg and... Just out of the shower, towel wrapped around my waist, I answer the knock on the hotel room door. "I'm sorry," she says, "but this dress zipper is stuck and..." "Keep your eyes on the road," she says as she hikes the hem of her skirt to smooth her pantyhose. The rental car tries to drive itself down the highway. "Am I distracting you?" The hem inches past the tops of her thighs and..." And none of that ever happens, which is not to say that it couldn't happen. A life of years-familiar snores and snufflings can be changed in a moment. But there is risk to be managed. Managing risk is simple. Ask any stockbroker who hasn't been caught. It's as basic as 1,2,3 -- maybe 1 to 2 if you turn state's evidence: (1.) Establish the objective. (2.) Assess the situation. (3.) Make and execute a plan. There are occasional unforseen risks, but there's a solution for almost every problem. Scratch that: There's a solution for every problem. Some just aren't obvious. Anyway, the problem of Catherine O'Shaugnessy: OBJECTIVE: Get Laid, aka It's Not All Through at Forty Two, (aka Cheat On Your Wife if you go and get all moral about it.) SITUATION: Catherine "Kate" O'Shaugnessy, 26 (almost); university-educated firstborn daughter of Michael and Bridget O'Shaugnessy, he of the hurting arts with NYPD, she of the healing arts at Bellevue. Kate is bright. Worse: Kate is beautiful -- 118 pounds sketched over a 5-7 frame of long legs, small waist, graceful arms, gentle fingers. Dark, sparkling, inquisitive eyes are framed in a short-cut wreath of brown-black hair. Freckles splash on a fair skin, dusting down into the secret places. Oh, she walks, she talks, she has yet to learn to crawl on her belly, but I can teach her. I'll have to -- she's inexperienced and it shows. She'd deny that. With her politics, shopworn is a badge of honor. But there's no mistaking the way she flirts, sometimes writing more than intended to her page and reading less than is written on mine. Not her fault -- first time through the book and this one isn't covered in Cliff's Notes. MORE SITUATION: I'm her boss, which gives me the chance to set the pace and pick the place. I'm older, which means experience, which means no panic when a woman opens her mouth just for conversation. It might once have been possible to describe me as acceptably handsome -- six feet, 160, dark blond hair, bushy black brows, dark deep-set eyes -- but the manly chest went south for a rest five years ago. At 42, the best hope is "distinguished," meaning you can afford tailoring to hide the paunch. No need to speak of other measurable resources except to say that like a guerilla army, my sometimes-dwindling troop must use tactical skill more than brute force. YET MORE SITUATION: On my college newspaper, when I was going to save the world instead of sell it, everything could be summed up in The Five Ws and an H -- Who, What, Why, Where, When and How. The "Who" "What" and "Why" parts had solved themselves from the first time I laid eyes on Kate. "Guy/Gal Friday for small Manhattan real estate office," the ad said, although the chances of my hiring a Guy Friday were lower than an alderman's ethics. "Room to grow for the right person." She sat like a schoolgirl for her job interview, knees together, hands in lap, back straight and voice firm. A serious blue suit, starched white blouse and plum-colored floppy bow tie completed the dress-for-success outfit that must have been copied from a moderately progressive order of teaching nuns. Yes, she could type. No, she had no previous experience in real estate. Yes, she had been graduated cum laude from Princeton, major in foreign relations, minor in Russian. (Earning a Living wasn't on the curriculum.) I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair, studying her. She looked straight at me, almost through me, waiting for the next question. "Princeton's an expensive school," I said, hoping to switch from interview to conversation. "Yes." The word was delivered neatly, like a cube from an ice dispenser. "It must have cost your parents a bundle." "No." Second cube. She sat so still I couldn't even be certain she was breathing. "Oh, were you on a scholarship?" (It clearly wouldn't have been for making small talk.) "Yes. And I worked." (At a socially responsible job, no doubt.) Half the art of selling corporate real estate is making conversation, finding openings, and here was an opening I had worked pretty hard to get. "Tell me about the jobs you worked," I said, exhaling a Marlboro cloud and stubbing the butt out. "I managed a concession at South Street Seaport, supervising 20 employees and was responsible for daily receipts of more than $6,000," she said, staring right at me and sounding like a tape deck. It almost made me nervous. I lit another weed and she edged against the back of her chair, tape still rolling: "My responsibilities also included inventory, planning and payroll, and -- put that out!" It wasn't a request. I caught myself reaching for the ashtray before anger intervened. "I'm sorry, Miss, but I smoke. Lots of people smoke. And I've got to tell you, I'm not used to quite that peremptory a tone from someone who wants a job." "I'm allergic, but if you want to continue to kill yourself, I'll go outside and wait." "Wait for what? The sound of the body hitting the floor?" She allowed me a sarcastic smile and stuck to her guns. "For my job interview to continue. It obviously can't continue while you're smoking that thing and you obviously aren't able to control yourself long enough to stop smoking it now, so I'll just wait," she said as she started for my office door. "Miss, that just won't be necessary, there's no point in..." my dismissal was preempted by the door slam. "Damn it to hell!" I started to follow, then caught myself. Since when had Leo Staski started chasing job applicants? If the self-righteous little bimbo couldn't handle it, let her haul her tight little ass down the block! "Allergic" my ass!" I said to the furniture. "Half her generation does cocaine for breakfast, but she's after Demon Tobacco. Nervy bitch!" I got angrier the longer I talked. A good rant can be therapeutic, but the phone rang, and in real estate, a missed call is a missed deal, is a missed commission, is a pain in the ass. I got to my desk on the second ring and it stopped. "Shit!" Then the intercom buzzed and I grabbed it without remembering that there shouldn't have been someone to buzz it. "Mr. Crummins from Cushman & Wakefield on line one. Are you in?" Habit punched the phone button before Brain got up to speed, so Crummins was greeted with "Who the hell said you could use the phone?" It took a lot of explaining... And we never did finish that interview. When the Crummins call was done, Kate marched in and deposited a completed W-2 form on my desk. The worksheet bespoke a salary of $400. "Look, you're just starting and Christ! Starting? I haven't even offered you the job! What starting? And even if you were starting what makes you think I'd shell out $400 a week for someone like you?" "I believe it's important to be fair" -- mischief danced in her eyes-- "and we can talk about paying me more after I've proved my worth." "Worth? More?" I stopped my sputter and just stared. It's a tactic. A deal closer. Sometimes it works. My gaze worked from the tips of her sensible black pumps up to her carefully combed hair. I let it work overtime in the places you'd expect, X-raying that Sisters of Success outfit. Kate's not easy to intimidate. She returned the stare, first stubbornly, then brave-but-worried, but she held her ground, even when I reached into a shirtpocket for a cigarette -- which I fumbled to my lap, where it rolled nicely off an impromptu tent. "Damn!" Kate looked down. I looked up. Kate struggled with a smile -- and lost. She looked away. I grabbed the cigarette. "I'll go outside while you satisfy that urge." The closing office door cut off the certain beginnings of a giggle. The Marlboro Man has his limits in the urge satisfaction game. When Charlotte noticed three weeks later that I'd stopped smoking, I said it was to feel better and get better health insurance. Two months later, I said the same thing when my evening routine started to include a half-hour with a set of garage- sale weights. And truth be told, I was feeling better and I did get better health insurance, but by then I did it because it was part of The Plan. THE PLAN: The Plan would mix Who (Kate O'Shaugnessy) and What (total sex) and Why (stupid question) with Where, When And How. Tie up a few loose ends and I could see the double-deck headline on the newspaper of my days: BROKER BANGS BOFFO BIMBO MOLTEN MS. MOANS "MORE, MORE!" So okay -- maybe my best contribution to journalism was to take up real estate instead. That still left the loose ends. Of those, "Where" was the most important. "Your place or mine?" only works in the movies. ("Hers" is filled with unwashed dishes and eclectic laundry; "yours" is filled with a wife and kids. The laundry and dishes won't bother you, but they'll trigger her housekeeping reflex. "Wait, just let me clean up a little" has wilted more passion than "I think I'm pregnant.") A hotel is the obvious answer to Where, but I had to get a legitimate reason for the two of us being there. Kate considered herself a Nice Girl and a Feminist. They play by special rules. A Nice Girl and Feminist will never openly enter a hotel for the express and only purpose of letting some man do everything her mother warned about. If, however, she is in the hotel for some other, wholesome purpose -- a Save The Snail Darter Sing-Along, perhaps -- she is permitted to certify her personal freedom by wrapping her ankles about your ears. So I booked the two of us into the Hyatt Regency Columbus, telling her I wanted her to get some experience being in on the close of a deal. "Is that the one where the Minrat group is taking 100,000 square feet near Upper Arlington for its data processing group?" "The very same," I said. "We'll leave Wednesday from the office. Read the Minrat file and get on the horn with Frap, Tharb and Billmer -- tell Frank Tharb to meet us for dinner and we'll go over the deal." Where and When were in the bag. "Yassa, Massa, sho' nuff!" I was getting the standard "don't be a bossy boss" treatment, but Kate's big smile said she was pleased. "Dinnah 'an dealin' wif' Massa Tharb." My tossed paper clip was too slow to catch her as she bounced out to the phone -- but not too slow to just miss Pierce Shelly, the Shelly of Shelly & Associates, all-around Realtor, civic leader and SOB. Also BOSS (mine). "Sorry, Pierce -- didn't see you coming." "Yeah." Pierce was in his monosyllabic mode. He'd probably overdosed on John Wayne movies, his favorite (and only) form of recreation beyond the primal daily urges of exercise, money and power. He even looked like a younger Big John, that is if you can handle John Wayne in a $1,500 suit and a rattlesnake's smile. "How's Crankleman?" He hooked his thumbs into the lizard-something belt, low and taut across a board-flat stomach. "They're just reviewing the lease. It should be in the bag." "That's not what I hear at the gym." This "gym" was Pegine's, $30 million worth of mirrors, marble and masseurs that catered to all the physical needs of some of New York's wealthiest. "What do they say at the gym?" "They say Crankleman's going with the Hunkley offer. Benny told me." Benny was Pierce's "personal physical advisor," the kind of guy who oils himself in front of mirrors. He and the other "trainers" ran a gossip mill to shame any dozen girls schools. "Benny's wrong this time, Pierce. I've got Crankelman delivered. It's all done except the signature and that's on the way." "When?" More cowboy talk. Translation: You'd God-damned better be right. "Friday. I'll have it by Friday." Maybe. Please God. What the hell was Harry J. Hunkley & Co. up to and how did Benny know? "Lots of money here. Check with me Thursday." Oh, shit. "I'll give you a call." "Call? Going somewhere?" "I've got to go to Columbus and wrap up the Minrat deal. Frank Tharb called me today." (A lie, but so what?) "Shit, man, you've been working that one forever." He paused, squinting towards the window, jaw jutting out so I could see he was thinking. "Well, you know I let everyone run their own show. Call that assistant of yours and leave a message with her." "Kate's coming with me." Pierce arched his eyebrows. "To handle the numbers and the typing." His head cocked in exaggerated listening display. "And the details." Pierce did his thinking shtick again, then favored me with a big, unfriendly grin. "Like I said, you run your own show, you call your own shots, you use ... (more grin) you use your staff however you want -- and we celebrate both deals Friday." Pierce left abruptly, but I'd been on this roller coaster before. I waited for the parting kiss and right on cue, Pierce's head reappeared in the doorway. "And Leo -- don't disappoint me, okay buddy? I just hate to be disappointed." The son of a bitch left then. Now I had three problems, Kate, Crankleman and Pierce Shelly. I got back to the important one: When and How? Getting Kate drunk after dinner with Frank Tharb seemed to be a good, workable answer. Ogden Nash had it more or less right: "Candy is dandy, But liquor Is quicker" At the "business" lunches that were now a weekly ritual, Kate seldom ordered alcohol and then only a light beer or a glass of white wine, neither of which would be finished at meal's end, either of which brought a flush and some giddiness. Three drinks should drop her inhibitions while my more experienced liver would be protesting a drought. Of course, I'd still need a hook of some sort. Asking for the sale is the toughest part of any pitch and the most important. It's what makes the rube think that what happens next is all their idea. I'd been a pro for 20 years. Piece of cake. Piece of ass. Wednesday. I dialed Mike Sheba, who handled corporate real estate at Crankleman, smiling at the pictures that played inside my eyeballs while my mouth ran the conversation on autopilot. We got through the Howrya-Good-Fine-Thanks stuff and the obligatory dirty joke (never have liked them; sex is serious stuff). I put my mouth back on "manual" and got down to cases: "So, Mike, when can I pick up that lease? Or has New York's biggest, richest, investment firm decided to low- profile and move to Hoboken?" "I don't know, Leo, there are some things that need to be worked out." That didn't sound good. "So we work them out. What's the first one?" We'd been over this fifty times. "Still worried about that $6 expense stop?" "No, I think that's pretty well covered, it's just that on a deal this size, it can't hurt to make sure everything's covered, everything's in place...everything's taken care of." Typical in-house real estate guy. If they were any good, they'd be in the market, taking the risks, making the bucks. But they're not, they know it, their company knows it, so they bump along on $50,000 a year and a shiny suit, trying not to make a mistake that'll get them noticed. "Mike, we've got this one nailed down. The buildout money's right, the base rent's below market and you've got your standard use and sublease clauses -- you want the landlord to kiss your ass on the first of every month or what?" The edge on my voice had a kind of bullying tone and it came across. "Take it easy, Leo. I'm not trying to screw up a commission here or anything, it's just that taking another 50,000 feet for ten years is a big deal to a little guy like me. I don't do this every day I just want to make damn sure that everything and everyone involved has been covered." "Everyone?" "Hey, Leo, I've got responsibilities. If this turns out to be a fucked-up deal, who's going to be looking out for Mike Sheba's family, huh? Christ, you know how hard it is -- we both know the risks in this business -- but at least you walk away with the dough. I just get the paycheck. I gotta be careful. I gotta think about it -- and maybe you should think some more too, huh?" He wanted a cut. It was that simple. He'd pretty damn near said it. "Okay, Mike, if that's what your gut is telling you to do, we'll do it. I'm going to be out of town Wednesday, back Thursday afternoon late. How about we think about it until then, have dinner and wrap it up?" "Yeah, okay, you got a date. Where you want to meet?" "I'll call you, Mike, but let's pencil in the Assembly, okay? And hey, don't worry -- we've worked our way through tougher things than this one." "Yeah -- but we just gotta be covered." "Leave it to me." "Talk to 'ya." Covered. They all want to be "covered." Every single damn corporate real estate type wants to be covered. It's the money. Our commission rate card was like most: On the rental for all or any fraction of: the 1st and 2nd years, inclusive.............5% the 3rd......................................4% the 4th through 7th years, inclusive.........3% the 8th through 21st years, inclusive........2% the 22nd and all succeeding years............1% Sometime we even got all that we asked for, but most of the times we got most of it. Sheba's 50,000 square feet on Hudson Street down by the Holland Tunnel was going for $20 a square, so the calculator said the commission would be $320,000 -- enough money to bend anyone's attention. No, it didn't all come at once and 75 per cent of it would go to Pierce Shelly, one way or the other, so I'd be looking at maybe $40,000 now and $40,000 later, providing that didn't get eaten up by the draw and "expenses" Shelly levied to cover the facilities for his "family of brokers." Sheba wanted money. That would cost me maybe $10,000 -- plus my license in the unlikely event that Sheba talked. Which would leave me with $30,000 for five months work. Fucking thief. "Here are your tickets," Kate said as she walked into my office. "And I've got mine." The ruby-red silk blouse was buttoned to the neck, but it contrasted nicely with the grey jacket and dark wool skirt that stopped just above the knee. "Thanks." Sheba still had me all pissed off. Kate looked at the frown clouding my face and shot it back at me. "You're grouchy," she teased. "No, I'm not." "Yes, you are -- I can see it in your eyes." She stared straight at me, leaning forward until one hand rested on each arm of my desk chair and her face was inches away. I covered her hands with mine. Her face furrowed deeper into its mocking frown, "You. Are. Grouchy." "Well, maybe I am -- and maybe I'm not -- what else can you see in my eyes?" The laugh was quick and teasing as she pulled back and walked out the door. "Don't forget to come packed tomorrow," I called to the opening. "We'll be leaving around two in the afternoon." Her head popped back in the doorway. "Why so late?" "Late? The flight's not until 3:30, for Chrissakes, and it's not more than 30 minutes from here to Newark." "My mother said you can never be too early for a flight. She always said that and told me to remember it. It's wise advice." A leg had joined the head in the doorway, arched at the ankle, innocently (maybe) displaying a nice curve of calf. "What kind of mother tells her daughter about catching airplanes? She's supposed to be telling you how to be a good little girl -- or did you just miss that part?" "Can't we leave a little earlier?" She swung around now, straddling one side of the door frame, leaning back and hanging on to the molding. "Please?" The cup-your-hands-around-it curve of her bottom pushed nicely against her skirt. "Please?" "OK -- we'll do it your way. Have the car come around at 1:30 and we'll take it right after lunch. Now get out of here and let me do some work -- and fill in the time by doing some of your own! This ain't a charity program!" "Yassuh, Boss!" I turned back to the desk and got to thinking about Mike Sheba and the Crankleman deal. Maybe Sheba wasn't looking for a payoff from me after all. Maybe he already had a payoff and was looking for a way to ease me out. Shelly had said that the word from Benny was a guy from Harry J. Hunkley had the deal sewn up. Several of the major players at Hunkley used Pegine's, but not all of them used Benny, either from personal distaste or worry about Benny's habit of talking after his mouth was full. Putting the arm on Benny for the source of his tip wouldn't be a good move. He'd either lie or whine to Pierce, probably both. And trying to get the higher ups in Pegine's to even admit that someone was a member was impossible -- privacy, after all, was what they were selling at a very premium price. So maybe the best route was a small scam. Of the Hunkley people who were likely to be trying to eat my lunch on the Crankleman deal, Maurice "just call me Mo'" Pierpont took bastard-most-likely honors. A small, precise, tidy man who dressed as though he'd just climbed off a wedding cake, Pierpont was noted as a master in a business not ever likely to be cited as a moral beacon. Pierpont did most of his telephone calling though a succession of secretaries, all male, any one of whom would last no more than six months, but all of whom were carefully trained to follow a script: "Good morning, this is David from Mr. Pierpont's office. Mr. Pierpont would like to speak to Mr. Smith. Is Mr. Smith available?" Christ knows what else Pierpont trained his secretaries to do, but it made the long lavender line sound pretty much the same. At least I hoped so as I dialed Mike Sheba's secretary -- right when Sheba should be at lunch. The phone rang eight times before a hurried and irritated "Hello?" was followed after a noticeable pause by "Mr. Sheba's office." I hoped my phony falsetto held up. "Good afternoon, this is (who? shit! what's my name?)... this is Franklin from Mr. Pierpont's office. Mr. Pierpont would like to speak to Mr. Sheba. Is Mr. Sheba available?" "He's at lunch now. Would you care to leave a message?" "Oh my... I had so hoped he would be available. But I suppose it really is all my fault and I'll just have to take the consequences." "What's your fault?" Sheba's secretary sounded more interested. "Welll.... oh, no, I can't tell you, it would just sound too silly to be believed." "Try -- maybe I can help." She was hooked. "Oh, my, well...I suppose...well, you see, it's about the appointment Mr. Pierpont has with Mr. Sheba this week?" "Yes?" (BINGO!) "Well, I had it written down in my personal appointment book so I would be very, very sure to remember it, and -- well, it's just like me -- I left it last night at a friend's. I swear, I would forget my head sometimes if it wasn't attached. Would it possibly be too much trouble for you to peek at your book? You sound much more organized." "No problem. Thursday, 12:30, the Rainbow Room. And don't worry about being disorganized. Without us, would they ever remember anything? Oops! Gotta go -- another call. Bye!" "Thanks! Bye Bye!" Bastard! Sheba was going to get fat with all the high- style dining. First lunch with Pierpont, then dinner with me. The best I could do now was hope that my kickback would be bigger than Pierpont's unless I could come up with a better idea -- and I had more pressing things on my mind. The afternoon drained away between routine phone calls and fantasies, some of Kate and some of Sheba, Pierpont and Shelly. The Sheba-Pierpont-Shelly ones were kind of messy. By 5:30, Kate was skipping out to "do some shopping" (probably to buy a new outfit for the trip) and I was beginning the trudge to the Port Authority. It's an interesting walk from the Rockefeller Plaza headquarters of Shelly & Associates -- fine-sounding talk for an ordinary office in the International Building, but that was the point. Walking south on Sixth Avenue to 48th Street, I crossed and started the diagonal hike that would cut through a couple of building lobbies, across Times Square, through the motor lobby of the Marriott, down Shubert Alley, over to Eighth Avenue and into the 41st Street side of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, home to commuters, cops, bums and almost every kind of nasty two-legged germ imaginable. It's a 12-minute walk, 15 if it's raining and you have umbrella jams. Not a lot to worry about until you get to Times Square and then only if you join the tourists around the perpetual three-card monte games or the break-dancing, drumming, singing spectacles designed to attract donated dollars and involuntarily donated wallets. The Marriott motor lobby is a safety zone and there's not much to be wary of in Shubert Alley until you emerge to the backside of the New York Times, Sardi's, a line of theaters and the new Mama Leone's. The run to the bus terminal along Eighth Avenue is the final dash. All of New York's street life is out and in full bellow. "Smoke, smoke, smoke" competes with "Showgirls, fine showgirls" and old and young men who stop to negotiate menus and prices. Spaced out drunks and druggies stagger in chase of demons or handouts, sometimes stopping to urinate more or less on building walls. Younger hookers in whatever minimum the law and temperature demand strut while the older ones wait in doorways to snatch and tug at coatsleeves with grime-coated finger nails. "Wanna date?" Wide-eyed tourists dumped from the inbound buses from the United States stand surrounded by luggage as the sharks and wolves circle with offers of getting a taxi, giving a tour, collecting a "Baggage handling fee." Over it all hangs the smell of urine and hundreds of never-washed bodies, some of them rotting with open sores. Veteran commuters learn to move through this sewer at a brisk pace, avoiding eye contact and keeping one hand free. Trapped in a line waiting for the bus, we stand close together and look into the distance as first one, then another and another of the terminal's fauna rattle dirty styrofoam cups in front of us and chant the Port Authority Litany "Sparechange?Sparechange?Sparechange?" It is, as they say, a formative experience. Tonight's walk encountered no more than standard weirdness and the Lakeland Bus Lines 6:30 p.m. Apex Express left Gate 402 at 6:40 p.m., because the 6:30 bus filled up by 6:20 p.m.. -- perfectly normal, considering. I'd been pretty lucky, getting a window seat and a slim young woman for a seatmate. Nothing touchy-feely involved. The damn bus seats must have been designed for a race that weighed no more than 110 pounds full grown, so it was SOP for any decently-sized male to try to pair up with a young woman and avoid having to spend 45 minutes with some other gorilla's elbow in your ribs. Older women were also okay, providing they hadn't gone to fat, and you seldom saw an old man, probably because after a lifetime of commuting, they were damned if they were going to do it in retirement. It takes about 45 minutes and one light year to cover the 26 miles from the Port Authority Bus Terminal to Apex, New Jersey. Most of the distance is psychic. Apex is a town of 22,000 or so, nestled lovingly along the crests and slopes of the Watchung Mountains, sheltered by tall trees and obscene incomes. Stately homes, Victorian and otherwise, dot tidy, quiet streets and no one older than 10 ever raises a voice or a sweat except on the tennis court. Not, the citizens would hasten to add, that Apex is without problems. It even has a ghetto, East Apex, where the homes cost around $200,000. . . It's a 15-minute walk from the main bus stop to my house at 150 Lily Street, just off Peaks Avenue, and I use the time to plan. Tonight's planning time was devoted mostly to getting into Kate's pants. I'd just gotten them off when I found myself climbing the steps on the back deck. The three kids were in the family room, draped over the furniture in the rubber-backed manner of those under 20. No sign of Charlotte. "Where's Mom?" "She's at a meeting," said Lawrence, the oldest. Only he said it in standard 16-year-old mumblemouth and it actually sounded like "Sheezattameetun." "What meeting?" "Wedunnoshejussedsheezgonnabeelate." This from 14-year- old Paul, his diction not helped by his almost upside-down posture as he and the others watched Bill Cosby beam good humor (probably because he'd read his latest bank statement). "What did you kids have for dinner?" "Mommy made casserole. She said you could have hot dogs or whatever you wanted, Daddy." Ten-year-old Elaine hadn't hit the teen-age troubles yet, and her twin goals in life were to be so cute it made your teeth hurt and to rat on her brothers at every opportunity. "The boys were wrestling again, Daddy." "So? Boys wrestle." "Yeah, but they did it when Mommy wasn't home and they broke something." I never had a sister and the way Elaine grinned as she tattled made me glad of it. "OK -- what did you two bozos break?" The twin "Huh?" responses -- standard to any adult question -- triggered my by-now standard roared repeat: "I SAID: WHAT THE HELL DID YOU TWO BREAK?" I ignored Elaine's "Daddy said a swear" and honed in with the cross exam. It developed, under questioning, that the broken article was a broom handle. "How in God's name did you break a broom handle?" "On Lawrence's head," said Paul. "I hit him." "Why?" "Cause I called him a dork," said Lawrence, satisfied in the apparent logic. You learn early on that there's small gain in attempting to penetrate the hormonal fog of male puberty. Just shovel food and advice in the kid's general direction and get on with the rest of your life. I just shook my head and turned toward the refrigerator. "Mom's gonna be mad," Elaine egged on in the hopes of seeing her brothers in deeper shit. "Yeah," I said. "With her broom all busted up, she's going to have to walk instead of ride." "Daddy!" That would be reported to Charlotte, of course. But so what. What was she going to do, cut me off? Stop cooking? I put three hot dogs on a paper plate, set the microwave to Nuclear 3 and thought about tomorrow night, which, if things went according to plan, would be different indeed. COLUMBUS Continental Airlines Flight 353 snarled down the runway at Newark International Airport, shooting for wheels-up at 3:30 p.m., only 25 minutes late and not bad at all -- especially not bad because the pretty lady in 3A had my left arm in a deathgrip and was trying to burrow into the crook of my shoulder. The pilot banked to the left in the turn that would aim us south and west towards Columbus and Kate huddled closer as the plane tilted away and her bottom started to slide across the leather seats of First Class. "You okay?" A hint of her perfume reached me as I stroked the back of the hand grafted to my arm. "There's absolutely nothing to worry about." "Easy for you to say -- your life's already half over," Kate said more or less to my breast pocket. "Not necessarily -- if we go down now, both our lives are completely over. Think of it that way." The roar of the engines shifted to a whine as we reached cruising altitude. "Oh, Gosh -- wonder what that is?" "Stop it!" She kicked me in the ankle, but didn't loosen her grip. "I don't think it's very funny." "Why didn't you tell me you didn't like to fly?" "That's personal information. It's not job-related. You have no right to ask." Pure Kate. When in doubt, attack. "Sorry. Far be it from me to get personal with someone just because they look scared enough to pee their pants." That earned me another kick as the flight attendant came by. "May I get you something to drink, Ma'am?" Kate's reply was barely audible but certainly negative. "Sir?" "Jack Daniels on the rocks, please -- and would you be kind enough to reach us a blanket first?" "I'll be fine," Kate protested. "I don't need a blanket like some five-year-old." The flight attendant handed me the blanket and went forward to fix my drink. "Then stop behaving like one. Lots of people don't like to fly. Most of them try to sleep through it." I freed my arms to unfold the blanket while Kate gripped both armrests and refused to look at the Garden State rolling by 20,000 feet below. "Here..." I spread the blanket across her lap."Why don't you just kick your shoes off and curl up against the window?" The panic look that crossed Kate's eyes said that the window was clearly out. My drink arrived and I took a sip, savoring the situation and the whiskey. "Look --- we've got almost two hours to go. If you're not comfortable leaning against the window, that's why God gave men shoulders." "But that's so unprofessional, I just..." she stopped as the cabin bumped along like a bus on the Turnpike's potholes. "What was that?" The Fasten-Seat-Belt sign illuminated for answer and the PA filled with the drawl of the captain: "Uh folks, I've turned the Fasten Seat Belt Sign on and I'd appreciate it if those of you who are up and about the cabin would return to your seats and buckle up. Ground control says we got some bumpy air up ahead. We're going to try to work out a way around it, and in the meantime we'd like you to buckle up, relax and enjoy the flight." The plane bounced a couple of more times. Kate turned white. "I won't tell if you won't," I said, reaching an arm around her shoulder. She let it stay there, not resisting exactly, but not melting either -- until another bump dissolved her doubts. Off came the shoes, up curled her legs and I wrapped the blanket around her with my free hand as I kept a wary eye on the whiskey bouncing along the armrest, catching it just before it passed the edge. "I'm sorry," Kate murmured. "Don't be," I said, giving her shoulder a pat. I sure the hell wasn't sorry -- about two thirds of the battle with any woman is getting touching privileges. It's a whole lot easier to get to the fun places once your hands have been admitted to the amusement park. Kate's warmth as she drowsed against me, the feeling of her delicate shoulder blade under my hand and the effect of the whiskey were combining pleasantly in my crotch, but there wasn't any point in fueling a fire that couldn't burn now, so I concentrated on Frank Tharb, who would meet us at Port Columbus. Francis Dominic Tharb got his dreams from his Italian mother and the bulldog stubbornness from his German father. It made him capture his dreams in concrete, steel and nice returns on investment. Twenty-five years ago, when cornfields surrounded the airport and Columbus was little more than a sleepy state capitol dominated by the Ohio State University's all-embracing presence and the industrial muscle of Cleveland, 70 miles to the north, Tharb could see a different town. So he bought parts of the existing town that no one seemed to want. A few acres of abandoned warehouses down by the train tracks. Some more acres of cow pasture near the airport. One or two blocks of depressing brick buildings near the capitol itself, but not as near as the Neil House, the grand old hotel that dominated downtown. Tharb got the money for his buying by doing a little selling of his own, beginning with himself. His marriage to Dorothea Lupus, product of old, old money and bad, bad genes had given him his first infusion of cash and a grateful father-in-law for a partner. By the time the old man began to wonder aloud about grandchildren, Tharb had other investments. A couple of bars on High Street brought in a nice return by allowing the liberated female children of the 60s to earn $10 an hour dancing more or less naked while Tharb sold beer for $4 a pop with a $20 cover, netting $11,000 per joint in a good week, a convincing percentage of which Tharb dutifully reported to the tax people. Some naysayers hinted that Tharb's expenses included individual retirement plans for key police officials, but by the late 70s, when naked coeds were routine, an unindicted, unarrested, unrepentant Tharb sold the bars (at a profit), sandwiched himself between two starched Presbyterian partners and became a pillar of the community. He even kept Dorothea, who was allowed to grace the social pages of the Columbus Dispatch as she worked to benefit this or that group of unfortunates and otherwise keep out of Frank's way. Dorothea kept so far out of Frank's way that there were no young Tharb's, but even Grandpa-never-to-be Lupus had grown resigned to that. Most people grew resigned to whatever Frank Tharb wanted. It was easier that way. The seatbelt sign blinked off and Kate stirred slightly, then snuggled back against my shoulder. I silently held out my glass to a passing flight attendant, who just as silently brought a refill and a smile that suggested she found the picture "cute." The whiskey tasted good. Kate felt good. Screw what the flight attendant -- or for that matter, anyone else -- might think. The dinner tonight with Tharb would be brief, over in two hours at most. There was little to discuss. Columbus had grown to one of the most economically diversified cities in the country, a headquarters city that now overshadowed its rust-belt rival to the north and offered affordable housing, a cheap and talented labor pool and a very pro-business local government. Minrat, the giant department store chain, had searched the country over and selected The Commons, a Frank Tharb development, to host the computers that made certain the $15.95 you charged in Housewares was both under your credit limit and instantly in line to earn Minrat interest. Minrat had retained Pierce Shelly & Associates through one of Shelly's connections (of what kind I'd rather not know) at Pegine's, so Pierce was the listing broker, I had just done the work. Minrat was also big enough to demand a kickback ("co-broker" was the preferred term) of half the commission so at $23 a square, the five-year term would gross $606,000 in commission, half of which would go immediately back to Minrat. Tharb himself, who could have insisted upon a local broker, would graciously slice another $50,000 from the pie. When all was said and done, Pierce Shelley corporately (and personally) would make $180,000 tomorrow when I handed Frank the executed leases. Leo Staski, his heirs and assigns, would make $83,000 (less expenses) for a year's work. Which wasn't great, but Kate stirred beside me as we began our descent, and it was easy to focus on things other than money. The captain got on the horn and announced that we'd be down in 20 minutes or so and thanked us for flying Continental, and Kate snapped upright, looking sleepy, soft and desirable as the wrinkles of my jacket still pressed into her cheek. She blushed. "I'm so sorry, Leo, I just..." The blush deepened as she struggled to get out from under the blanket and find her shoes, which had moved forward with our tilt to descend. "Here." I bent down to corral the shoes, thought of sneaking a glance up her skirt, decided against it. Ya gotta have class. Kate spent the rest of the time in a kind of aimless dabbing at her makeup between bouts of arm clutching -- both mine and the seat's -- as the landing routine rolled on. With the lead flight attendant chanting the obligatory "...certain your seat backs and tray tables are in the full upright and locked position and that your carry-on luggage has been returned to the overhead compartment or stowed securely beneath the seat in front of you," we dropped smoothly onto the runway, reversed thrust and taxied to the gate. The seat-belt sign turned off and Kate popped into the lavatory in the same instant. Five minutes later, with most of the rest of the passengers deplaned, a pale-looking, but now all-business Kate marched beside me down the jetway. Frank Tharb was waiting. "Leo, my friend!" Tharb's only friend was in his wallet, but he strode forward nonetheless with outstretched hand as soon as we appeared. "Frank, it's good to see you." I shook his hand and watched as his eyes went right by me to Kate. "Frank, allow me to present my associate, Catherine O'Shaugnessey. Kate, this is Mr. Tharb." "Please, Miss O'Shaugnessey, call me Frank -- I feel quite old enough without carrying the weight of Mr." They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries about the flight, which Kate dubbed "routine," showing developing skills as a liar. "All our luggage was carry-on, Frank, so we're ready if you are," I hinted. I wanted to get us into the hotel and through with dinner -- and through with Frank. I had plans for tonight. "Yes, of course. My car's waiting just outside." Tharb reached for the garment bag Kate had slung over her shoulder and I waited for him to get her mini-lecture on women being just as capable as men, only to be surprised by her "Thank you...Frank" and the kind of grateful itty-bitty-me smile that they teach in Bimbo 101. Although it is perfectly possible for three (probably 30) persons to walk abreast down the main aisle of Port Columbus, it somehow worked out that Frank and Kate walked ahead and I followed a step behind, listening to Frank manufacture shit about what a great city this had become (with his help) and how nice it was to see someone young in business. Kate wore the bright, attentive, perky look of someone learning The Meaning of Life and it encouraged Tharb to go on and on until I was certain he was going to explain how, in the early days, he had dug the Olentangy and Scioto Rivers personally, knowing a great metropolis would arise. We reached his car, a stretch in gleaming silver, and someone with "Bill" stitched on his cap popped out of the driver's side to hustle open the doors and take the luggage. Kate went in first, then Frank, which meant I was volunteering for one of the jump seats. My mistake. "I think the three of us can squeeze in here, don't you Kate?" Tharb said. "Come on, Leo, inhale!" Kate giggled approvingly at this smashing witticism as Frank put an arm around the seat behind her and slid close. "We're at the Hyatt Regency Ohio Center," I offered, which only sparked another self-congratulatory outpouring from Tharb, who explained to a seemingly fascinated Kate how the land had once been worthless, but he had this vision... Tharb's "vision" continued all the way to the hotel, where we checked in to rooms on different floors, Kate in 1803 and me in 1730 and agreed to meet Tharb in the lobby in 30 minutes. He would, he said, "make a few phone calls." The first phone call I made was to room 1803. "Look," I started without preamble, "If Tharb is becoming a pest, just say so and I'll take care of it." "Why, he's just delightful!" Kate said. "How could you say such a mean thing about a such a nice man?" "Nice man? Dirty Old Man is more like it." I could almost taste the mischief as Kate replied "Well, Leo, he's not much older than you are, is he?" "That's not the point." "So what is the point? Frank's a nice man. I like him. And if you'll excuse me now, I must get changed." The click of the receiver precluded any crushing rejoinder, which was lucky because I couldn't think of one, so I unpacked, changed shirts and stared out the window at the other rooms and the city beyond. At the appointed minute I went to the elevator banks and punched the down button. The door opened to my right and there was Kate, already aboard. She wore her black worsted man-tailored suit with a peach colored silk blouse, buttoned to the neck and secured by a gold pin. Simple loop earrings and dark-hued pantyhose with plain, black heels completed the outfit that on another woman would have looked like a model for the matron's uniform at Reformatory Number Seven. On Kate, it looked smashing. I said so and got rewarded with the small, tight smile reserved for little boys who make rude remarks. The door opened and Tharb spotted us, booming from a distance of 20 feet "You look great!" I assumed he didn't mean me and watched as Kate sparkled her thanks and did a twirl for his viewing pleasure. Our dinner reservations were in Germantown, another now-trendy area rescued by the vision, the greatness, the -- you get the idea. The entire meal was Frank Tharb, appetizer through dessert, and Kate ate every crumb of it and asked for more. Attempts to focus on the Minrat deal were met grudgingly with bits of information. Somewhere between the salad and post-desert cordials, we established that: * The meeting tomorrow was at 10. He'd send a car around at 9:30. * Thanks to all the various wonderful qualities of Frank Tharb, he had found a way to meet every Minrat need, so, if I didn't manage to fuck things up, we had a deal. Kate had already had a glass of wine with dinner and the raspberry liqueur that Tharb had ordered brought a flush to her cheeks as she glistened and twinkled under Tharb's monologue. I moodily sipped a brandy and, when it came time for the check, pointedly let the big man take the bite. Francois or whatever the hell his name was had just started to go orgasmic over the size of Tharb's tip when I rose and said "Well, we'd best be going -- big day tomorrow." "Certain I can't interest you in a nightcap?" Tharb said, making it clear that he didn't really give a damn about my interests as he looked right past me to Kate. "Thanks, no, we've got to get back." The flat tone of my voice suggested that there wasn't much slack in that line, but Kate didn't hear it. "I'd love one Frank! And besides, Leo, it isn't all that late for you, is it?" "Just one," I said without enthusiasm. "And then we really must be going," I added, catching Kate's eye. Frank ordered Kate another fruit-something and had her tinkling with laughter at some interminable story and then it really was time to go. Bill and the stretch appeared and the three of us surfed back to the Hyatt on a self-generated wave of Frank Tharb's vision of the future, a vision interrupted only briefly to focus on Kate's skirt when it inched above her knee on the turns. When we reached the Hyatt, I couldn't get away fast enough, but Kate stayed under the hotel portico to wave at the departing limo. When it was out of sight she turned to me. "You're being obnoxious." It was a judgement, dropped from heaven. It was horseshit. "I'm being obnoxious! You spend four hours hanging on him like white on rice, and I'm being obnoxious? For Christ's sake, you did everything but pat him on the ass and call him 'Honey'!" The doorman pretended to be invisible and I waved my hands around, winding myself up for another burst of rant. "Besides, aren't you the one always worried about 'professional' behavior? Aren't you the one.." she grabbed both my windmilling hands and finished my sentence: " Aren't you the one who's behaving like a jealous old goat? And didn't I get us a lot of information?" She had a point, of sorts, but the "old goat" part reminded me that I had other plans for ending this evening that didn't include a fight. I made a show of struggling with myself, then exhaled. "OK. You're right. Don't gloat." "Is that an apology?" She wore her schoolmarmish look now. "It's an apology and an offer of a truce-sealing nightcap's nightcap, all right?" "Accepted!" she said and took the offered arm to escort her to the bar. Starting program, I told myself. Step one under way... The bar of the Hyatt Regency Columbus is one of those living-room sort of places that allow traveling business people to tell themselves they're relaxing as they would at home -- which is true if they make a habit of putting on a coat and tie to belt down some quick ones in the parlor. I steered Kate to some wing chairs arranged around a low table. The waitress materialized, took our order and left. I switched back to Jack Daniels and Kate, still on her fruit kick, had asked about the liqueurs, settling on some B&B in ginger ale. "Your drink's not going to win you this evening's sophistication prize," I teased. "Why didn't you ask for a Shirley Temple?" "Because I'm secure enough to drink what I like," she smiled back. "It must be tough having to drink that horrible stuff straight just to show the other macho nuts that you're as rough, and tough and hairy-assed as they are." "That's hairy chested -- and nice talk. What do ladies know about hairy asses?" Kate's giggle and the look on our arriving waitresses face told me the conversation was enlarged. "I'm sorry, Sir, were you talking to me?" the waitress asked, barely controlling the smirk on her face. "No, no -- not at all... " I blushed, to the intense amusement of both women. "Run a tab, please," I said as brusquely as possible. Amusement still danced in Kate's eyes as we both took a pull at our drinks. She tried to sit primly, but the alcohol took a bit of the starch out and she had allowed herself to relax against the available wing of the chair. "They are hairy, you know." "What?" She smiled conspiratorially and leaned a bit forward. "Men's asses." "You say this out of vast experience, or has Playgirl taken to running business articles?" Those drinks were beginning to show. "I'm not a schoolgirl, you know," Kate said defensively. I'm a grown woman...." "You and Mother Theresa." That got me a kick in the ankle, but to do it, Kate hitched herself closer. And she stayed. The banter went back and forth for a couple of kicks in the ankle, another drink, and once, in a burst of laughter, a hand that landed lightly on my knee. Kate was flushed now, eyes slightly soft in the glow of the booze, but they focused enough to read my watch as I reached for a handful of the peanuts sacred to those willing to pay $5.50 a drink. "It's eleven o'clock!" Kate said. "Hey, give the little girl a prize. Still tells time after a couple of drinks." "Cute. We've got that meeting tomorrow, remember? One of us has to be sharp." Kate tried to look severe, and it was a visible effort. "Yes, Mom." I waved our waitress over." A one-and-a- half liter carafe of white wine, then the check, please." Kate looked puzzled. "Who's the wine for?" "For me. Beats waiting for room service. I'll walk you back to your room, then watch a movie or two." Kate tried to look disapproving, almost made it. "I can just imagine what sorts of movies, too. You ought to be ashamed." "Maybe so, but I'm too tired for it. You be ashamed for me. I understand it gets you saints extra points." That got her eyebrows up, but before she could launch her counterattack, the wine and the check arrived. A pair of $20 bills on a $32 tab brought a quick smile from the waitress and no more than a second glance when I took the carafe and a slightly unsteady Kate and headed toward the elevators. "I'm no saint," Kate said sullenly as the elevator door closed and I punched the button for 18 with my free hand. "And I resent it when you always say that." I didn't always say that -- and Kate didn't always lean provocatively in the corner of elevators, but the evening's flood of alcohol was beginning to have a pronounced effect, washing her normally straight posture into more fluid lines. "Sorry," I said, "maybe 'saint' isn't the right word. I guess I just mean that you're a hard-working, sober, industrious person, very dependable, trustworthy, not the kind to take chances or do anything wild-- just good old 'Count-On-Her Kate." The elevator doors hissed opened on eighteen and she stomped off towards her room. This was where my evening got made or broken. Kate fumbled with her key, one of those slips of plastic that told a central computer you were legitimate, or at least paid in advance. She finally opened the door and walked in the room without looking back -- or closing the door. "Hey, Lady -- you didn't close your door," I said, walking into the room behind her. "So close it, creep -- and just for insulting me, give me a glass of that wine before you go." I grabbed two of the glasses set on the table besides the ice bucket, filled them both and took a seat without asking. Without a word, Kate moved toward the bathroom, her kidneys probably awash. The large queen-sized bed, already turned down, dominated the room. There's a danger in being too blatant. I was steering her to "prove" that she wasn't a saint, but I couldn't just tumble her into the sack. You can lose many a sale by closing too quickly (and many more by not knowing when to close, but that's another story.) The room needed a different focus. I opened the floor-to-ceiling drapes to a view of Columbus -- and what looked like a poker party in a room in the hotel's other tower across from us. Kate returned, plopped into her chair at the end of the table by the now-uncovered window, crossed her legs and took a pull at the wine. "Why did you open the drapes? Now everyone can see us." Bingo! The idea arrived all at once, full-formed. The good ones are like that -- no assembly required. "Who cares if they see?" I asked nonchalantly. "No chance they're going to see anything untoward. All anyone can see is a tired, dependable, modestly dressed business woman having what looks to be a glass of seltzer before she draws the curtain and goes to her proper rest." "Stop..." Kate made a face. "You make me out to be some sort of spinster or something. I'm just not a bimbo." She sounded defensive -- and more than a bit drunk. Perfect. "No one said anything about being a spinster, Kate, but face it -- one look at you says that you've never done anything wild and crazy in your life and that you're never going to do anything wild and crazy." Kate drained her glass and nudged it forward for a refill. "You could be surprised, Leo," she said with a show of liquid bravado. "I wouldn't bet that I'm not capable of lots of wild and crazy stuff." "I would," I said as I filled her glass to the brim. "In fact, I'd bet five hundred bucks that you wouldn't do anything even mildly wild." She hesitated, sipping at the wine, watching me over top of the glass with kittenish curiosity. "Such as?" I ignored the question and kept selling. "I'll even make it risk free. You do something wild tonight, you win the five big ones free and clear." I paused to let that sink in and watched her superior smile. Now for the hook..."But...you stay in character, which is what I figure is going to happen, and it doesn't cost you anything -- except admitting that I'm right, that you're just too dependable, steady and predictable to be wild." Kate took another slug of the wine, lurched to a standing position and stuck out her hand, the bravado straight out of a late-night movie. "You're on." I shook her hand. "Now what evil thing do you want me to do?" she asked. I told her. . . "Everything?" Kate asked, in a little-girl tone of rising panic as she plopped back in the chair by the window. She tugged nervously at the hem of her skirt, moving it back down over her knee. "Everything," I replied. "Although if it's just too wild for a dependable type like you..." Kate's only answer was a trapped-looking smile and another pull at her wine. This was going to work. I could feel it. Hurriedly, before she could do much more thinking, I dragged the table away from the window and turned up the room lights. The effect, as seen from the outside, would be to frame whoever stood in that window in a bright rectangle of light. Kate was still struggling with herself. "Do you have to watch?" she asked as I fiddled with the clock radio and got some rock going. "Kate, all of Columbus is out there, plus half a dozen guys at some party in the other tower. Lots of people could be watching. What's one more? Unless, of course, it's just too wild..." I refilled her wine glass, added some to my own, then sat in the chair next to the window, just out of view. "C'mon, little girl -- I'll coach you." She sneered at that, then stood. "I'll kill you if you ever tell, Leo Staski. I'll just kill you!" She took another gulp of wine, shuddered a bit as it went down, and moved in front of the window. "What do I do now?" she asked in a small voice. I told her. Kate started moving to the music, dancing stiffly in a circle, arms barely lifting, hips not even shaking. "That's not very wild, Kate. Stretch yourself, get into it." I peered around a corner of the curtain and saw one of the card players get up and idly stare out the window. "Besides, you're picking up an audience. Or are you going to chicken out?" Kate's eyes flashed and her movements got looser. I took another look at the other tower. Two more men had joined the first and they were clearly looking this way. "Bigger audience now, Kate. Better give them something to see. Take off that suit jacket -- but keep dancing and turning." Kate hesitated, looked out the window, turned beet red and continued dancing for a long minute. Finally, she stuck out her lip and began to unbutton the jacket. At the last button, Kate let it slip back from her shoulders along the silky fabric of her long-sleeved, peach-colored blouse. "Catch it and twirl it." "Leo!" "If you're gonna give 'em a show, Kate, give 'em a show. Take a look -- you got at least three men watching you now, total strangers, wondering what's going on, maybe even starting to get turned on. Who knows how many more are out there looking at you? Get into it." Kate danced close to the window, peering out at the faces in the other tower, her own face so close to the glass that it fogged with her breath. A moment or so passed, then the coat began to twirl. Faster and faster it spun while Kate danced back and forth until she slammed it to the floor, face flushed and breath coming quickly -- and not just from the exercise. "Do you think they like it?" Her hip motion was getting smooth and elliptical, center of rotation right where it should be. "I can't believe I'm doing this!" She giggled. "Like it? They love it! Now let's get on with the Kate O'Shaughnessy Show. Start lifting up your skirt." Kate hesitated, looking at the window, then at me, her hands dropped protectively to her middle. "C'mon," I said. "Those legs aren't that bad." She made a face and hitched her hem mid-thigh. "Is that enough?" "Only if you want to lose the bet, Lady. Now turn around back to the window and pull it higher." Kate looked away, but did as asked, inching the skirt up to the bottom of her behind, the edge of her good-girl cotton panties glowing white through the dark blue pantyhose as she bounced in rhythm to the radio. I could see the blush coloring her neck. "Nice, Kate -- real nice. Those are world-class legs," I said as she worked up the nerve to look at me, first sideways then face-on. She was nervous, embarrassed, excited. "This is crazy." She dropped her hem and looked away again. "Sure is -- wild and crazy was the bet. And I've got confidence in you. You're going to chicken out. You just flashed your legs to who-knows-how-many strangers." I paused to let that sink in. "And now the Kate Show is going to get better. Wanna quit?" Kate took a deep breath, stopped dancing and turned away. Maybe I had pushed too far. "Kate?" "No." Her shoulders moved with another breath and she started dancing again. "I'll show you, Leo Staski...." "That you will," I said. "Now you're going to show me more, Kate, skirt all the way up. Let's give everyone a view of that great little ass!" I turned up the radio volume. "Shake it, baby!" Kate looked away, licked her lips and slowly hauled the skirt to her waist, bending forward slightly as the hem cleared her round little bottom, now bouncing nicely for those out the window. "Way to go, Kate! Now turn around and show off the front side." Kate turned, trying a few clumsy bumps, then faced the window. She let the skirt fall back into place, then hiked it almost all the way up. "Peekaboo!" She let it fall again, dancing like a fool all the while. "Hey, sexy lady, give us another look!" "I'm thirsty," Kate said. "Okay -- but you don't get it unless that skirt's around your waist." "Pig!" Kate snorted -- but she hauled her skirt up and danced towards me while I poured. I held out the drink, sticking my arm so it would show in the window to the audience outside and Kate took it, laughing. "Wanna get in the act?" "I'll just help. Turn around." Gulping down the wine, Kate rotated. I grabbed the waistband of the skirt, unshipped the clasp and released the zipper. "Dance it off," I said. "No hands." She spun away and the skirt inched over the curve of Kate's hips, down the slope of her tummy and hit the floor at about the same time Kate hit the bottom of the glass. She handed it back to me and stared at the window as I watched those long, smooth legs twitch and flex, the muscles in her thighs and behind dimpling with every step. "See what good help can do?" I asked. "Now a half-dozen total strangers are seeing you dance in your blouse and pantyhose. You should thank me." Kate stared again at the window. "Maybe they can't see...." She sounded hopeful. "They can see just fine, Kate. Pretty soon they're going to see everything there is to see of Kate O'Shaughnessey. Saint Kate is going to dance naked for strangers, making them excited. " "No," Kate said -- but she didn't stop dancing. I had her. "Yes," I said, "they're getting excited. Even Kate is getting excited. Saint Kate is getting hot. Show them, Kate. Show them how hot you're getting. Face the window and put your hands on your breasts." "Leo...." Kate went scarlet again, but she turned to face the window and slowly brought her hands up to cup her breasts. Her hips continued to move to the music. "Now rub them," I ordered "make the nipples hard." Kate's hands moved softly in circular motions and her breathing got heavier. Her dancing slowed. "They know your breasts are hot Kate, but you're hot everywhere. Move one hand down, Kate, down between your legs. Show them you're hot all over." "Leo!" The fiery blush made her face glow --but she didn't stop dancing. "Spread your legs a little, Kate. Make sure they can see you enjoying it." Her hand dropped to her thigh then edged upward... I let her dance there for almost a minute, sighing as she touched herself. "Now we can't let the show get boring, Kate. Time to take off your blouse." "Help some more," Kate said, her hands lingering. "More wine." I poured a splash more and Kate danced over with an uncertain giggle to take the glass. I reached for the gold pin at the throat of her blouse, taking longer than I should have to undo the simple clasp, but not bad for a man whose hands were shaking. The buttons followed one by one, revealing a soft, creme-color camisole beneath which the hardened points of Kate's nipples already pouted. My hands were under the camisole in an instant, reaching for her breasts, but Kate danced away and finished with the blouse, saying "Gotta give 'em a show, boss man!" She did the twirl and toss routine with the blouse, then stepped out of her shoes and turned her back to the window, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of her pantyhose and yanking downward. The seat of the panties caught against the friction of the nylon and her bottom shone brightly as she bent to finish removing the hose, all dance routines at a stop except the rotating hips that had me rock hard and ready to roll. "Oops," she giggled. "You peeked!" Kate danced barefoot and almost bare-assed over to my side of the window. "No fair!" She stood in front of me, twitching her hips, the panties down at back and barely covering the beginnings of smooth, dark hair in front. My hands went for the camisole and it vanished. Kate's breasts tilted nicely upward, the rose colored nipples begging for my hands. I reached out, but Kate danced back away from me. "That's not fair, either!" Kate protested. "Your turn!" She pressed her nipples against the window glass and rotated her bottom at me, the roll of her scrunched-down panties clinging precariously. "C'mon, Leo! Let's give a real show!" I thought about the watchers for maybe two seconds and started popping out of my clothes. By the time I was down to my shorts, Kate had danced over to the wine, taken another slug from the carafe, and danced back to pull me by the waistband square into the middle of the window. I grabbed her and kissed her, pulling her breasts against my chest, but she struggled away with drunken laugh. "Show me, Leo!" she said, dancing, moving her hands lightly down my chest. "Show me now!" She yanked at my shorts, pulling them to my knees and almost banging her nose on the now-freed erection that leaped to greet her. "Oh!" Kate said, "it's nice!" I just reached for her, but her hand went to my chest again and held me away. "Let's play with it!" Her face moved close and I could smell the alcohol. The radio blared and my cock throbbed as I stroked her breasts while her hands moved down. Kate touched me tentatively at first, the soft tips of her fingers exploring and her nails scraping lightly. Still rocking, still putting on a show, she bent slightly and kissed the tip, the coolness of the wine on her tongue sending a special jolt right to my spine. "Tastes fuckin' good," she slurred. "Maybe we should give a fuck show." She swayed slightly. "Yeah," I managed. "Maybe we should." I grabbed Kate, found her nipples with my mouth and slid the panties down her legs, caressing her and sliding my fingers to the warm, slippery spots. Kate drew in her breath and moved towards my touch, the musky-salty-sexy smell of her heat rising up with every movement. We were framed like that in the window, on display for all of Columbus and the poker party next door -- and I didn't care if NBC News was broadcasting this live to my mother. I was going to fuck this girl, fuck her hard and fuck her good -- or die trying. My hands moved down to her thighs, spreading them while and I sank to my knees, bringing my fingers up slowly. Kate's breathing grew deep and her hands rested on my head as my tongue worked its way from her nipples to her navel, then down. Kate moaned. We sank to the floor and I straddled her head to toe and began kissing her calves, her knees and the insides of her thighs, hoping she'd get the hint and reciprocate. Kate moaned again and pushed against me. Clearly, she wanted to be on top. She was learning fast. Barely letting go, I rolled to the side and grabbed Kate's hips, spreading her thighs so she now straddled me. My fingers stroked the tight hot pink parts of Kate O'Shaughnessy, just inches from my face. Kate moaned again and shifted her weight forward and down, bringing her face close to my crotch, my balls beginning to tighten in anticipation. Kate moaned again and I felt the rush of her warm breath as I waited for her lips and her tongue. And then she threw up. Yeah. There. Stings like hell. GREYHOUND It had taken a half-hour and tearing the spare blanket into rags to get Kate's room reasonably liveable. Not that she cared, sprawled naked on the bed, sleeping the sleep of the just plain potted. Another five minutes in her shower got me a bit less fragrant. I moved back into the room to dress, the drapes long since closed, and looked down at Kate. Her legs were slightly parted and my crotch stirred automatically. Yeah, it was tempting. No, I didn't do it. Yeah, maybe I should have. What I did instead was get dressed, cover her, pat her bottom and leave, locking the door behind me. My balls ached and my head wasn't much better -- I'd also had a lot to drink -- so I punched the lobby button and the elevator started down. A walk would at least help the headache. And maybe the front desk had some aspirin. The front desk didn't have aspirin. The gift shop was closed. The desk clerk had been chatting up the switchboard operator and clearly didn't like the interruption. "Anything open nearby? Drugstore? Seven-Eleven? News stand?" "There's a news stand right outside, Sir," the clerk said, "just a bit to the left of the front door." I hadn't remembered one, but I hadn't exactly been paying attention to the landscape when we pulled in, so I groaned my way to the front door while the clerk went back to trying to make his own switchboard connection. Right outside the front door, just to left, were three newspaper vending racks. So okay. Columbus, Ohio wasn't New York. But it was at least a probationary part of the Western World, which meant that someplace in the God-damned town would be able to sell me some aspirin, even if it were after midnight on a weekday. I boiled back through the door and over to the front desk, where the clerk had apparently dropped some huge witticism on the switchboard operator, who was giggling so hard her tits were bouncing. "Excuse me," I said, and waited the New York-standard two-second interval for a response. It wasn't there. "Hey! Got some time for a customer?" That brought a frown that stayed until I made a point of staring at the nametag. Bob. I motioned him to come closer. "Look, uh Bob," I said in almost a whisper when his face was about a foot from mine. "I think you like this job. Do you think you like this job, Bob?" The kid looked puzzled. "Yeah -- it's okay." He glanced back at the switchboard. "I like it fine." I leaned still closer to him and smiled. He smiled back. "WELL IF YOU WANT TO KEEP THIS JOB YOU DUMB-BOB SON OF A BITCH, SEE IF YOU CAN TELL ME WHERE TO BUY SOME ASPIRIN IN THIS GODFORSAKEN HOLE! DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?" He jumped back at my roar as though he'd been hit, while the cutie at the switchboard froze wide-eyed. I turned to her. "AND YOU, WE PAY YOU TO ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE, NOT TO COCK TEASE THE STAFF. GOT THAT?" She nodded her head liked the dashboard ornament on a shot-suspension taxi. I moved my stare to the clerk and lowered my voice again. "Okay," I said tightly. "We can let this go without getting in your record -- just once -- but I want to know where to buy aspirin. What's open?" I watched the panic cross his face as he took a mental tour around downtown Columbus, and saw the relief as he struck paydirt. "The Greyhound Terminal is open, Sir. I'm sure they have aspirin there. It's about seven blocks away. Let me call you a cab." "Thanks, I'll walk. Which way?" The clerk gave the simple directions and I started for the door, stopping midway to spin around and point a finger at them both. "Remember," I said. "Not on our time." Without bothering to acknowledge the twin "Yes, Sir" replies, I moved out the door and into the night. It was warm for May, somewhere in the low 50s, and the streets were empty except for the sound of my heels and the internal echo of my headache. Here and there a light burned in an office building. Except for those guys in the poker party across the way, Kate and I had been safe enough -- no eyes of any sort, probably, let alone prying eyes. The thought of Kate brought back the whole scene, her reluctance at first, then embarrassment, then abandon. The look, feel and taste of Kate O'Shaugnessy flooded over me and added one more level of problem: my head wasn't the only body part now throbbing. The Greyhound terminal glowed just ahead, a two-story pile of 1950s brick and 1980s misery. I walked through the sliding doors and stared down the long, cavernous waiting room, benches lined up in the middle, concessions on one side and bus gates on the other. A few bored-looking employees held up parts of walls and a couple of dozen bums dozed or stumbled among the benches. It wasn't going to make the Columbus Chamber of Commerce brochure, but it wasn't the Port Authority Bus Terminal, either. No danger here, just decay and stink. A tired-looking red neon sign about a third of the way down said "Notions." Aspirin, at least, was probably at hand. My business suit drew a few curious glances from the local fauna, but none that a New Yorker's return-fire scowl didn't handle and I moved into the rat's nest of dusty souvenir mugs, thumbed magazines and stale candy bars to the counter. The girl behind the counter had her back to me and was drinking a can of something when I said "Do you have any aspirin?" It startled her and she choked on the liquid, coughing some of it out before her windpipe cleared. I was certainly having a consistent effect on young women. "Pardon me?" she said, adding an involuntary "HIC!" "I asked if you had any aspirin." She was plain and kind of chunky, the kind of girl who would look 50 two weeks after her 30th birthday. But she was about 20 now, and acceptable in the university uniform of jeans and sweatshirt, a "Polish Power" pin on her shoulder just below her brown-yellow hair. "Aspirin? What kind HIC! do you want? We HIC! got Bayer, Anacin, TyHIC!..." she dissolved in a hiccup- punctuated giggle and indicated a shelf next to the cash register. I smiled in spite of my throbbing parts. "That's okay -- I've got it," I said as I reached for a bottle of Bayer's best. "What do I owe you?" Her answer started on one hiccup, bounced along two more, managed a "That's twoHIC!" and then crashed into the giggles. "Look," I said. "Just hold your breath for a minute. It'll make them stop. Never fails. C'mon -- I'll time you." I shot back my left cuff and watched her eyes widen a bit at the gold Rolex. "Ready? Go!" She sucked in a great whoosh of air that filled out her sweatshirt nicely and puffed out her cheeks. The first 15 seconds were easy. By the time the gold second sweep hit the half-minute mark, she was getting red and nervous. "You've gotta go the distance, Honey," I said. "Hang in there!" By 45 seconds she was bouncing from foot to foot. At 50 seconds I started a countdown. "Ten -- nine --- eight -- seven -- six -- five! four! three! two! one! Cured!" She exhaled with a rush and took a tentative breath, waiting for the hiccups to return. When they didn't, she relaxed. "Thanks! My hero!" "No problem. Works every time. Don't they teach that at Ohio State?" "Not in Slavic Studies," she smiled. " But how did you know I was a student?" "Well, let's face it, you sort of stand out from the crowd around here..." I indicated the terminal with a sweep of my hand, then pointed at her sweatshirt. "And I also read." "Oh," she said, glancing down at her chest. "I guess it is pretty obvious at that. Anyway, hardly anyone ever comes after eleven and I have from then until six to study." "Pay pretty good?" She made a face. "Awful. $15 a night, three nights a week -- but like I said, it's usually pretty quiet. That'll be $2.65 for the aspirin." "Right." I reached for my wallet and thumbed through the bills. A couple of 50s and three hundred-dollar-bills. I started to move for the pocket money clip where I keep the singles, then stopped as the idea hit me. Maybe there was more than headache relief here... "Sell me a Coke while we're at it," I said as I opened the aspirin bottle. "I think I need a couple of these babies right now." "Big night?" she asked as she turned to the cooler. "Disappointing night," I said as I palmed three aspirin, popped the tab on the Coke and swallowed them down. "but maybe it'll get better." "That's $3.55 with the Coke," she said. I handed her one of the hundreds. Her eyes grew wide when she read the bill's numbers. "I can't change that! Don't you have anything smaller?" "Nope," I lied "in fact, all the things I have are bigger." I wrapped her fingers around the bill. She stared at the money, then at me, and didn't seem overawed either way. "Like I said, I can't make change for that much money." "Gee, Miss, if you can't make change, maybe I could just buy something more expensive..." She looked around the racks of five-dollar dustcatchers uncomprehendingly. "What?" I told her what. "What makes you think I'm that kind of girl?" The indignance seemed a little forced, and Eve must have been the first one to say that, but I wasn't interested in rape, so I just reached for the bill, saying "Sorry, my mistake -- if you don't need the money..." She held on to the money. "I don't want to get pregnant." "Not with what I have in mind you won't. Now c'mon -- you want the money or don't you?" She considered for another few seconds. "We can go in there," she said, indicating a door at the back with a jerk of her head. "No one will bother us." She put the money in the register, locked it, slipped the key into her jeans and led the way with more assurance than seemed right at this point. "A stiff prick knows no conscience," my uncle once said. It's not too swift at picking up details, either. The "storeroom" had a row of boxes up front -- and a bed and lamp in the back. "I study here sometimes," she said as she reached for my belt buckle, laughing. "You can learn a lot in here." I'd been had. The sweet little "student" was at least a semi-pro. And I had just argued her into twice the going rate! I opened my mouth to protest just about the same time she opened hers to get to work --no contest. She pushed me awkwardly backwards, my legs hobbled by my pants and shorts, until the back of my knees found the bed and I settled back. "At least make it last," I said. She was good. If they start to teach blowjobs at Ohio State, she should head the department. Her tongue and lips played me like a flute, while she cupped my balls in both hands, gently tugging them down every time they moved up to explode. I'd been reduced to a single point of feeling, glowing and throbbing between my legs. I got ready to come, part of me too involved to give the polite signal and part of me saying that $100 was signal enough. Her lips tightened around me, her tongue was tipped with fire and I thundered towards the point of no return like a freight train. "HIC!" Her teeth clamped down. Hard. Derailed the train. Difficult to describe. You had to experience it... "For Christ's sake, I'm fucking bleeding!" "HIC! Sorry! HIC! HereHIC! Let meHIC!" She reached for a tissue and I grabbed it from her, dabbing and cussing. No damage, really -- just a scratch. Not much more damage than being too hasty with a zipper. Still... "You madHIC! at me?" I hauled up my pants without a word. "WannaHIC! HIC!try againHIC! hon?" My departing back was my only answer. Like they say, Once Bitten, Twice Shy. Or maybe 50 times shy. The walk back to the hotel was slow. I reviewed the evening: First, several boring hours with Frank Tharb. That was a good beginning. Then Kate, beautiful, wonderful naked Kate, now snoring away the night. Then buying three aspirin for around $30 each, not including the unkindest cut of all. And to top it off, it was now two in the morning, and I still had the God-damned headache -- in fact, it was getting worse. I reached the hotel and shuffled through the lobby to the elevator, ignoring the clerk who still seemed to think his job might be on the line. I punched the button for 17, my head screaming at the lurch of the elevator, and I wondered whether I ought to take another couple of aspirin. Shit. They were back at the Greyhound terminal. And by now, all I wanted to do was hit the bed. Even the little green doorknob light that said the computer recognized my keycard seemed too bright for my pounding head. I remember getting my clothes off. Nothing more. Not a very good night. Especially as a last night... MORNING My body brought me awake all at once and ugly. Pain. Like a toothache. Only every tooth felt that way and every joint, bone and part of me ached in a chorus of hurt. My calves and thighs were locked in cramps and my ribs hurt when I breathed. Heat. Like sunburn, but everywhere, except my skin was pale, not fiery red. The bedsheets felt like sandpaper. I'd had a hangover or two before, but this... The bedside clock said 6:12 but a far harsher light than dawn was searing through the sheers on the window. I'd only been asleep about four hours. I needed more sleep, I needed to stop hurting, I needed to shut out that damned light. It hurt to even look that way. Getting out of bed was a major effort. Nothing wanted to work, it only wanted to hurt. I stumbled naked to the window, groping against the awful glare for the cords that would pull the heavy drapes across the sheers. It helped a lot. At least the muscle cramps eased and I was able to get to the bedside clock and thumb the alarm dial for 8:30. What the hell had been in that wine last night? Or the food? I crawled underneath the covers and felt better, except for my head, which still hurt, so I pulled the covers completely over my head. And I was asleep again, a deep, still, dark sleep that I could almost see, a sleep like the inside of a long black velvet bag. The blackness was soft, warm and good. From a long, long way away there was a beeping sound. That irritated me. Nothing should disturb the blackness. The beeping continued and my irritation grew. Who dared? Why? Like a swimmer coming up after a long, deep dive, I burst from the covers and grabbed for the phone. The pain from that terrible light washed over me as I grabbed the handset. "Hello? Leo? " It was Kate. I thought it was Kate. Maybe it was Kate. I was certain of only one thing, the hurt. Waves of pain crashed over me and I screamed, the sound not even human, just the teeth-bared hiss of a cornered animal. "Leo! What's wrong? Leo! Talk to me! Leo!" I had to get back into the dark, the safe black dark and I had to stop the tinny little voice, so I squeezed it. The phone receiver broke easily, the little pieces spraying away from my hand like a crumbled cracker. I was back under the covers and back into the velvet bag for just a little while and then there was more noise, a dull repeated thud, like a drum, and someone calling my name: "Mr. Staski! Hotel security! Are you all right?" Who was Staski? Why didn't they go away? They were spoiling the dark and it was making me angry. "Mr. Staski? Mr. Staski?" I heard another voice, a woman's saying "He's hurt, I tell you! We've got to get in there, I heard him scream." Then it was quiet for a moment except for some clicking sounds and footsteps and I sensed that there were others nearby, but I wasn't going to leave the dark. "He's asleep, he didn't hear ... my God, look at that phone." "Leo?" a woman said and pressed on the blankets over my shoulder. I wanted her to go away. I wanted them to go away. I wanted only the dark and tried to tell them to leave, but it came out all funny, like a growl. "Sir? Are you all right?" A man's hand shook me and I tried to say "Go away!" again, but it still came out wrong, and then I heard a scraping sound and the hand this time pulled away the blankets. The full light of day from the now-opened drapes hit my face like a thousand needles. I howled and the man jumped back, still clutching the blanket and now the needles were everywhere, burning, stabbing. Someone screamed and someone said "Good God! Look at him! I grabbed for the blanket-holder. He had made the hurt come. He had to go away. I took the blanket and pushed him hard. He flew backwards and hit the wall. The screaming sounds got stronger, but I was going back into the blanket and the dark and then they went away. Now something else was coming into the dark, a smell. It was a good smell, salty and sweet all at once. But where was it coming from? The smell made me hungry, a gnawing pain forming in my stomach. I thought about the smell, the good smell, and I thought about the room and the horrible light, and then I knew what was making the smell because a picture formed in my head and I could see the man who had tried to hurt me. He was on the floor by the wall and the smell was coming from something that leaked out of his head. He made no noises and didn't try to move. I wanted more of the smell but I was afraid of the light. But I was hungry. But the light. But the hunger. Maybe I could move the blanket over to the smell and have the smell with me in the nice dark. Maybe. I started to move and then there were others and someone yelled "Now!" and a small pain and then there was nothing... ..."Leo?" I started at Kate's voice, wondering how she had gotten into my room and what time it was. Anyway, it was good sign, and I smiled as I opened my eyes -- and stared straight into the eyes of someone in a lab coat who needed a shave and looked concerned. "What the hell?" I looked over and saw Kate, who looked both nervous and relieved, and around her what seemed like a very good simulation of a hospital room, which was ridiculous. "You're in College Hospital, Mr. Staski. I'm Dr. Moreno." I tried to sit up and couldn't. Broad, strong cloth bands held my arms and legs to the bedrails. Clear fluid from a plastic bag dripped down a tube towards my right arm, past the point where I could see. Now that I was awake, the bed felt cold, clammy, kind of rubbery. And as near as I could tell, I was naked underneath a thin sheet that was held away from my body by some sort of wire frame. "Well, you sure as shit don't look like Hyatt room service. Now suppose you let me out of this rig and tell me how I got here while I decide whether I want to call a lawyer." The young doctor shook his mop of curly black hair in a determined negative. "You're a very sick man, Mr. Staski, and we can't have you hurting yourself..." he paused and glanced at Kate "...or others." "Bullshit! I feel fine, except whatever you've got me on is starting to freeze my ass off. And what's this crap about hurting myself or others? How did I get here?" "Oh, Leo," Kate said, "don't you remember anything?" "I remember the last time I saw you, if that's what you mean," I said. "Should I explain it?" Kate colored, but said "I already have explained it to the doctors, but they say it couldn't possibly be related. Don't you remember the security guard?" A very dim scene, shadows on shadows, something hitting a wall, a scream. I felt tired. "Someone take it from the top, please." The bare bones of the story came mostly from Kate. When she had called me before our scheduled meeting with Frank Tharb because "there were things we had to talk about," she heard "an animal" and then was cut off. "It frightened me. I tried to dial you again and all I could get was a busy signal." "I don't remember being on the phone...what time was it?" Kate shifted a bit and glanced at the intern. "About 14 hours ago -- 6:30 in the morning." That hit me hard. Wherever I was, I couldn't draw a map of how it took me 14 hours to get there. "What time is it now?" I asked. "About 8:35 in the evening, Mr. Staski," the intern answered. "The police brought you in to us a little before eight this morning. You've been out all that time." "The police? Did I have a heart attack?" Dr. Moreno turned toward Kate. "Mrs. Staski can probably tell you better than I can, and I'll leave the two of you alone for a bit." He headed for the door, motioning Kate to follow. "Remember," he said, "no more than five minutes, Mrs. Staski. We still don't know what he has." Kate nodded and came back to my bed. "Mrs. Staski?" Kate looked uncomfortable. "I had to Leo. They wouldn't treat you unless your wife or a relative signed. I just told them that we were married, but that I used my own name for business and that was why it didn't appear on my ID. And Leo," she paused and put out her hand to touch my shoulder, "I was scared." I smiled at the touch and Kate's eyes widened. She withdrew her hand quickly, as though I might bite it. "Kate, talk to me. What happened today?" Oh, Leo..." the tears started to roll and she turned away for a moment, fishing around in her purse for a tissue. She blew her nose, squared her shoulders, turned around and moved close again, resting a hand near my bare shoulder, but not touching me. Then she told me. When she couldn't raise me on the telephone, she called the hotel security desk. It took some argument, but the report of the "animal scream" was unsettling enough to convince security to knock on the door. After two or three minutes of unrewarded pounding and under the constant prodding of a worried Kate, the guard used his passkey. They found me huddled in bed, the drapes drawn, blankets pulled tightly around me and a shattered telephone receiver. I apparently growled --literally-- at Kate's effort to wake me and so she opened the drapes to let in some light while the guard grabbed the blanket to see if I was hurt. The guard got hurt instead. Kate said I shoved the guard backward so hard that he fractured his skull against the wall and slumped down bleeding and unconscious. Kate had run from the room, screaming for help and an emergency squad paramedic and a team of cops had zapped me with a drug and brought me here. Kate said I woke up once before, in the emergency room, and went wild again before enough nearby cops and orderlies held me down long enough for a double dose of a knockout drug, which accounted for the restraints. "I can't believe that. Cops? I don't remember a thing like that. What do they say is wrong with me? I feel just fine!" Kate seemed to want to avoid looking at my face. "They don't know, Leo. When you were brought in, they said you had a fever of 106." "That's impossible, Kate. Any adult with a fever of 106 would be dead or brain-damaged in short order. They've got to be making a mistake." "There's no mistake Mr. Staski." I hadn't heard the intern come back into the room. "We can't explain it except to say that it clearly accounted for your delirium." "So what have I got?" "We don't know yet. There are still lab results not in and some tests we can do tomorrow. But for now, it's best for you to rest." He tried to put a look of authority into that, tough when you're only about 26. "Great, I'm tired, I'll rest and then we'll sort this out. But how about getting me out of this rig and into a real bed?" The young doctor looked uncomfortable. "I can't do that, Sir. You still have a temperature of 106 fahrenheit and you need to be on the water-cooled mattress pad while we try to bring it down." "So at least let me use my hands." "The head resident has to give those orders, Sir. She'll be in tomorrow." "Bullshit! How am I supposed to go to the bathroom? How am I supposed to eat?" "Although you can't feel it, we have you catheterized, Mr. Staski. A tube at the foot of the bed is collecting the urine. And you're being fed intravenously." Great. Tube-in, tube-out and they clearly thought I was a dangerous head case. Even Kate looked dubious. I turned to look at her and offer a conspiratorial smile. It seemed to bother her. "Please, Leo. They're trying to help. Please?" My counterproposal was cut off by the loudspeaker announcing that visiting hours were over. The doctor said "Five minutes more," spun on his heel and left the two of us. Kate's hand lightly touched my shoulder and then she drew it away as though I were hot enough to burn. I still wondered how I couldn't account for the time when I should have been at ...Jesus! "What about the meeting with Tharb? And I was supposed to be having dinner with Mike Sheba tonight in New York. And what about..." Kate face was firm. "And what about the other Mrs. Staski?" "Well, yeah, her too." For Charlotte, Kate's call had probably been filed under "suspicions confirmed." "Mrs. Staski will be here tomorrow morning, Leo. She had to find someone to take care of your children. Frank Tharb's sending a car to get her at the airport. The hospital thinks she's your sister. And I called Mike Sheba, who sends his regards, and, of course, Pierce Shelly." "What did Shelly say." Kate's serious, almost sad, face brightened a bit to an ironic smile. "He said to take all the time you needed to get well and that he'd see you next week." "I got it-- all the time I need as long as I can see him by next week." "Something like that." Kate paused and looked at me in a way that was puzzling, sort of tender and sort of sad. "I hope I can see you next week, Leo. I'm going back tomorrow..." "Kate, I'd hug you if I could -- in fact, I'd do a lot more than hug you, but..." "I know, Leo, I..." Her eyes filled with tears again and she looked away. "Kate, what's wrong? Look, I probably went a little overboard, and I sorry, and I'll make it up to you just as soon as I'm back on my feet, okay?" She just stared, the tears welling, then said something muffled about "love" and was gone, moving through the door without looking back. I was left alone, or at least as alone as you get in a hospital's constant buzz of activity. The big question: what the hell had happened? No clue. Zip. I heard a rustle and turned toward it. A nurse, with some sort of probe attached to a gadget came toward me. She put a disposable sheath on the probe, smiled and asked me to "Please open your mouth so I can take your temperature." I did. "Oh!" It popped out of her involuntarily. Then she was all business, waiting until the box attached to the probe beeped and writing the results of the digital readout on a chart. In the real estate business, you learn to read upside down -- it helps in negotiations. It helped here, too, except that what she wrote down was "106 -- no change." What the hell? NIGHT Hell probably comes tailored to individual dislikes. One of mine is to be hungry. The last real meal I'd had was with Kate and Frank Tharb, now almost 24 hours ago, and whatever stuff the doctors had dripping into my arm wasn't doing anything about the twinges coming from my belly. At least they started as twinges. By around 11, the twinges turned to aches. By midnight, when yet another nurse came to check my temperature, the aches had graduated to full-fledged pains. About every third breath, some little demon in my gut jabbed around with a knife. "How are we doing?" the nurse asked as she put the sheath on the temperature probe. "Are we ready to settle down for the night?" "We're hungry," I snapped. "And you gotta admit, I'm about as settled in this bed as I can get. When do I get something to eat?" "Open," she commanded, inserting the probe. I opened. "Oh!" It was an exact replay of the first nurse's reaction. What the hell was going on? Had someone tattooed an obscenity on my tongue? Everyone who seemed to look at my mouth reacted. "Bad breath?" I asked. "There's nothing wrong, Mr. Staski," the nurse said without conviction. "Please open again." "Nuts. Every time I do, somebody jumps. If you know something's wrong, tell me now. For God's sake, it's my face. Better -- don't tell me: just get me a mirror." The nurse thought about that for a moment. She was a motherly middle-aged woman, the kind that makes cupcakes for bake-sales and knows all about manipulating problem children. "Well, just let me take your temperature and I'll see about a mirror as soon as I finish with the other patients." I cooperated. She left. She didn't return. Surprise, surprise. The hallway lights were dimmed, indication that those patients who could sleep, should sleep. I could see a hand reach in the doorway to my room and hit the light switch and hear a hurried "Goodnight" as the aide moved on to the next room. That left me with nothing to do except watch the clock on the wall and wince at the pain in my stomach. By 2 in the morning, I was moaning with the pain. I had never been so hungry. I yelled for help and a nurse and an aide came running. "Feed me! I'm starving and it hurts! Feed me, God-damn you!" My anger blazed. The nurse stepped back a bit, but the aide, a muscular young man, stayed put. "There's no reason to become violent, mister. The chart says NPO, nothing by mouth, and only the doctor can change that." "So get the bastard in here and have him change it! I'm hurting, I tell you!" The aide folded his arms. "The doctor will be around in a few hours for morning rounds. We can talk about it then." He turned to leave. "I WANT THE DOCTOR NOW!" The volume of that roar surprised me. I've always been able to bellow, but this was like thunder. Both the aide and the nurse jumped and whirled in surprise. I tried it again, pushing it even louder. "I WANT THE DOCTOR NOW!" By this time, other patients, disturbed by the noise, were also complaining. Fuck 'em. I hurt. "DOCTOR! DOCTOR! DOCTOR!" A sour looking face came into view. Moreno, the young intern, had obviously been roused from wherever interns go to sleep. "I'm here, Mr. Staski, I'm here. Now you must stop shouting. It's disturbing the other patients and we have some very sick people here. Are you in pain?" "Yes! I'm hungry! It hurts, God-damn it, and I need some food and I need it now!" He moved down to the foot of the bed, took the clipboard holding the chart and shook his head. "I can't do that, Mr. Staski. I just can't do that. It would kill you." "The pain's going to kill me. And how do you know that food would kill me? Do you know what's wrong with me? No! Fuck you! Give me something to eat!" Moreno moved closer to the bed, shoving his face down until it was about an inch from mine. "I ought to give you something to eat, you asshole. It would rid both of us of a problem. But I'm not going to and there's not a damned thing you can do about it until morning, when you can ask for another doctor and give the stinking problem that you represent to some other poor son of a bitch." He shoved himself away from the bed and moved through the door, demanding the key to the narcotics locker. He returned a minute or so later with a hypodermic needle and a small glass jar of clear fluid. "What's that?" I asked as he filled the hypo. He ignored me as he lifted one side of the sheet on the frame and swabbed an area on my right thigh with something wet. "What the hell are you giving me? What is that?" The needle slammed into the big muscle of my thigh. Moreno looked up. "That, Mr. Staski, is a good night's sleep." I was woozy before he left the room and out before the bastard probably reached his own bed. Not that I blame him much when I think about it calmly. But I seldom think about it calmly. The blessed oblivion lasted little more than an hour, and then I was back, back to being tied around the blazing fire that was in my belly. The pain sat in my belly and gnawed and slashed, a swallowed rat fighting its way out. If eating something would kill me, I hoped for a quick death. And the smell made it only worse. It was nearby. I was certain of that. The salty, sticky, sweet scent was overwhelming. I had to go there. Now. I started to sit up, slowed a bit when something resisted for a second, then finished the movement, dropping quietly in my bare feet to the tile floor. The rat in my gut gnawed some more, but the smell pulled me to the door. I stepped into a hall, pausing only to glance at the pool of light towards one end before the smell pulled me through a door labeled "STAFF ONLY." The smell was everywhere now and the rat tore harder inside me, claws and teeth slashing wildly. I lunged towards a metal locker of some kind, the smell moving me almost bodily and ripped it open. The rat inside me saw bags of something and he ripped them open and ... And the rat began to die, drowning in the first pint of glorious blood as I reached for another and then a third. There is nothing so wonderful as the end of pain. Nothing. It can even make you momentarily overlook that you are standing stark naked before an open blood locker, red stain around your lips. But you shouldn't overlook it for long. And I didn't have very long. Footsteps were coming closer to the door and I could hear a man's low voice and a woman's soft laugh. I looked around for another door. No dice. When the lone door opened, I was behind it. When the young couple walked into the center of the room and stopped to stare at the open blood locker, I ran out as fast as I could, hoping to be back in my room before they could think to raise a cry. It was easy. Surprisingly easy. I was in my room for seconds before I heard the slightest stir, washing the stains from my face. And then I was tired again and back in bed, the hunger gone and the black, black sleep closing in like some dark benediction. It lasted until the nurse came to take my temperature and discovered that the IV bottle had disconnected. Then I sat up in bed and we both discovered that the restraints had been broken, the broad cloth straps ripped in half, not to mention the disconnected catheter. "How did that happen?" she asked, backing away towards the door. The stories of my behavior had probably gone the rounds. "I'm not sure I know," I answered, tucking the sheet around my waist. "Maybe you'd better get a doctor." She didn't need to be asked twice. While I waited for the troops, I idly tore at one of the cloth straps. It parted for me as easily as though it were paper. Young Dr. Moreno, syringe in hand, moved warily through the door, two bulky nurses' aides behind him. "Mr. Staski?" "I don't think you're going to need that," I said, moving off the bed and wrapping the sheet around my waist. He stared at the bed. "How did you do that? I gave you enough narcotics to put you out for hours. How did you do that?" I shook my head and moved towards the window. "I was hoping you could tell me." I pulled open the drapes as the first slivers of dawn begin to fill the sky. "And while we're at it, how about something warmer? It's cold as hell in here." I sat down in the chair and the burly aides started to move forward, but Moreno stopped them with a gesture. He put the syringe on the bedside table. "Mr. Staski, you should be dead." "But I'm not. Why not?" He shook his head slowly from side to side. "I don't know. I just don't know." "That's encouraging," I said, "but while we figure it out, I'm freezing my ass off. What about some clothes?" I moved out of the chair towards what looked like a closet and one of the big aides barred the way. Without thinking about it much, I picked him up and set him aside. "Hey!" "Excuse me," I said, "but you were in my way and --" It hit me then. "And I just moved you aside like a toy..." I turned back to the doctor. "What strange stuff have you been giving me?" The young intern didn't even bother to answer. I shrugged and opened the closet door, finding a couple sets of hospital-issue pajamas and a cheap cloth robe. I grabbed a pair and the robe and moved towards a door marked "Toilet." The other aide looked towards the intern for direction, but gave it up when I said "I don't need help, thanks." In the bathroom, I dropped the sheet and yanked on the pajama pants, then turned towards the sink. There were bloodstains on the rim. Then I looked in the mirror, a two-day growth of beard and sweat-clumped hair making me a passable excuse for a Port Authority panhandler. The thought made me smile at myself -- and I almost screamed. Smiling back through the beard were my nicely white, evenly capped, well-maintained teeth, augmented by canines that were now a quarter-inch longer than they used to be and tapered to needle-sharp points. I looked down at the sink, back at my reflection, down again at the bloodstains and remembered. It didn't make sense, but I remembered. I didn't want it to make sense. Someone was knocking at the door. "Mr. Staski? Mr. Staski? Are you okay in there?" I pulled on the robe and opened the door. "Just fine, doctor, just fine." I had barely enough time to step into the room before Charlotte burst through the door and damn near tackled me: "Leo! Leo! Thank God you're all right!" A nurse followed in close pursuit, sternly lecturing that only spouses were permitted and looking confused when Charlotte snapped from around my shoulder "Oh shut up! I'm his wife!" Her next comment to me, "Ugh! You need a bath and a shave!" confirmed that. Only a wife would welcome you from death's door with a grooming critique. But she had a point. "Charlotte," I said, "this is Dr. Moreno. He has as much an idea as anyone what's been going on. In the meantime," I turned to one of the aides, the one I had handled like a toddler,"I had luggage in the hotel. Any idea where it is? I need my razor." "Go ahead, Byron," the doctor said. "Nurse, please get a thermometer and take Mr. Staski's temperature. Mr. and Mrs. Staski, please set down." "What happened to Leo?" Charlotte demanded. Doctor Moreno turned to me. "Maybe Mr. Staski can tell us what he knows. Until quite recently, he hasn't had a chance to talk much." I could tell what I knew all right, and I could even speculate on what I was beginning to suspect, but Momma Staski hadn't raised any sons that dumb. "That's the maddening part," I said. "I don't know much. I had dinner Wednesday night with Frank Tharb, talking about an impending deal. It was one of those all-business dinners, and Frank insisted I bring along my administrative assistant to handle any details on the spot." That, I hoped, would lay a groundwork for answering what had to be the first question on Charlotte's agenda: What in hell had I been doing in Columbus with Kate O'Shaugnessy? The young doctor made a couple of notes on the clipboard and asked "Yes -- and then?" in a way that suggested he already knew some of the answers. Then I remembered Kate saying she had "already explained it to the doctors" when I had been enough of an SOB to remind her of our evening. "Then we finished dinner, had a nightcap with Tharb at his insistence, and his limo brought us back to the Hyatt." "And...?" Dr. Moreno was enjoying this. He propped his chin on his fist and said "Did you do anything else that evening Mr. Staski? Anything unusual?" Yes, you son of a bitch. I got my assistant drunk and tried to fuck her for an audience in the window of room 1803, But she barfed on my bat, so I went over to the Greyhound terminal for some aspirins and a blowjob, then a local amateur with the hiccups damn near bit it off. And how was your evening? -- At least that's what I wanted to say. What I did say was "No, I had a headache and went to bed." "Didn't you escort Mrs. Staski to her room?" "She's not Mrs. Staski. The real Mrs. Staski is here. Her name is Catherine O'Shaugnessy, and she's my administrative assistant. She just told you she was my wife so you guys would treat me without peeing in your pants for fear of lawsuits. And of course I walked her to her room -- girl like that wants to avoid guys your age, she should probably carry an Uzi." "Probably not just my age," Dr. Moreno said. "But that's it, that's all you remember?" "That's it, at least until I woke up strapped to that beer cooler over there." The nurse entered with the thermometer machine, slipped one of the plastic sheaths over the probe and inserted it into my mouth, officiously telling me not to bite it and to stop talking. That left Dr. Moreno the floor and he used it to explain the rest to Charlotte -- that I had been found moaning in my hotel room, where I had assaulted a security officer, who, as a matter of fact, was a patient in the same hospital. Then I had roughed up a couple of cops in the emergency room, lain with a blistering fever, had a lucid interval, then howled like an animal that I was hungry, until he had administered a knockout-shot. "That brings us," Dr. Moreno said, "to about where you came in. Your husband is up, awake, alert." "And his temperature is normal," the nurse said. "So let's find my clothes, pay the bill and get the hell out of here," I said. "It won't be that simple," Dr. Moreno said. "Leo," Charlotte said. "Leo, we have to find out what's wrong with you." She had been uncharacteristically silent during Moreno's outline of events. I could remember her pushing her own diagnosis whenever one of the kids had to see a doctor, but this was different. "Not to mention," Moreno added, "what the Columbus police want to do about the damages, including that guard." "Okay, maybe you've got a point," I conceded, just about the time Byron returned with my garment bag. "Might as well find out what happened -- maybe it was an allergy or something." I reached into the bag for my shaving kit. "In the meantime, I want to get presentable. Do I break any rules if I shower?" "None that matter," Dr. Moreno said. "Go ahead. I'll make my rounds -- and I'll get you off food restriction and see that you're included on breakfast. I want to talk to some other doctors. In the meantime, please don't leave the room, okay?" "You got it." I turned towards Charlotte. "Maybe you want to get a cup of coffee or something?" "No," she said, settling back. "I'll wait. I want to think." That made two of us. I grabbed my shaving kit and hit the bathroom.
