5000 Dollars a Plate Wednesday Morning, 9am, Sunnyvale, CA "Welcome to the Domain Hotel!

I'm Carla, what can I do for you?" He didn't feel a greeting like that was appropriate to 9am on a Wednesday. "Checking in," he said, "James McCleary." Carla kept smiling at him, somehow knowing exactly the keys to hit to check the status of his reservation. "We've got you in for just the one night, no?" Carla had not looked at the screen. "Right." James would have taken off his glasses, but he still suffered under the delusion that they made him look more like a writer. She only broke eye contact for a moment, and then only to grab two cards, pass them through encoders. She caught his eyes again, smiled, and offered up the keys. "337, on the third floor, left out of the elevator. You need help with your luggage." Carla asked, a slight tilt of her head and an increased smile. "All I have is right here." James lifted his beat-up metal suitcase. "Top-secret documents?" Carla asked. "The toppest. Third floor, to the left?" "Third floor, to the left." James turned, walked across the lobby to the elevator. The doors were brushed silver, but he could make himself out fairly well. Six-two, lean, khakis, blue shirt with a black sports coat. Maybe the Air Jordan's were a bit too much of a 90s stand-up image. The briefcase was a nice touch thought. He could have been the world's worst courier, but as he thought about that, the doors slid open, and he stepped in. Typical. He had been in small hotel elevators more times than he would feel comfortable counting and this one took the top prize as must unremarkable. Three walls, faux wood grain. One wall brushed metal, with three buttons directly on the wall beside the sliding portion. No numbers, no panel, no advertising poster in a holder in the back. Just the three buttons. He pressed the top one and the doors closed slowly. He looked across the lobby and noted that Carla still stared and smiled towards him. Sometimes, he hated excellent customer service. The box began to rise, slowly. He imagined some sort of Rube Goldberg machine connected to a winch which pulled a weight connected to rope tied to a clicky rachet-y thing which was powered by a mongoose who was chasing after a fake cobra. God help him if that mongoose ever caught that cobra. Like that unlucky racing greyhound, he'd never run again. The elevator stopped on the third floor. Smooth, he'd give it that. As the doors slowly opened, he finally noticed what should have been apparent at the moment he walked in: the giant atrium. There were four

tracks that surrounded the giant, fern and palm covered atrium area. It looked like the kind of place you'd have a John Woo shoot-out, but the one at the start of the movie, not the end. He could almost picture the doves taking wing in slow-motion, going for sky that was only beyond those glass ceiling panels, a dying buddy cop being cradled by Chow Yun Fat as he finally expired. Walking down the slight ramp of the skybridge, he found the room right in front of him, a small door hanger on the entry lever saying "Welcome to Your Room! Enjoy Your Stay!" The wonders of the Modern Boutique Hotel. Move-in for James was always the same: dip the card in the slot, push the handle, enter, cross immediately to the desk, set the metal suitcase down, flip the latches, pull out his MacBook, set it next to the TV, open it up, launch the DVD player and start watching Festen. This he did without a wasted motion beyond the useless ritual of it all. The first moments of the film started to play across the screen as James walked to the far bed, and folded himself down slowly. He never could figure out why he chose a Double Queen Room every time, but it was a tradition he would not break. He kicked off the Jordans, stretched to his full on the bed and pulled the cell phone from his pocket. He watched, half-watched really, as Christian walked up the road, about to get picked up by his brother Michael. James hit re-dial. "Hello, James." The strident nasality of Dr. Hynek's voice would never be called soothing, but it that was how it effected James whenever he would call. "I'm in Sunnyvale. At the Domain, all checked-in." "Good, James, Good," the Dr. was obviously typing something furiously while he spoke with James, a typical feature of the many calls between the two, "you're sure you want to do this?" "I've already started watching the movie again. "Good, but you're still sure you want to do this? You want to go see your father?" James paused. It had been eight years since he had seen his Dad, three years before he started therapy, and two years before he published his first novel. James was, in every way that mattered to him, a completely different person than he had been during his father's 50th birthday party. "I'm sure." "Alright," The good doctor's typing paused, "I am forwarding a few eMails your way. They're from the start of our therapy sessions. Do you remember when I had you write them?" James did, vividly. As long as he had been writing, these were the hardest things he had ever committed to any sort of permanence. "Yes, I remember." "Good. Read them over, look at who you were and think about who you want to be and if after that you still want to make the trip, then there's nothing to stop you."

James wasn't looking forward to the eMails, not at all. He could recite most of them from memory, but still, seeing them would hurt. Dr. Hynek's methods ofter were painful, but that wasn't his goal, James knew that. He also figured that the techniques employed in his therapy were a-traditional, which is probably why he felt so lifted by them. These were risks, ricky treatments, and backing out now would mean turning his back on the risks. He would see his father, Dad he reminded himself, tomorrow and then it would all be clear. Clear. He hadn't thought that word in years. A Scientologist phase had taught him the great price of 'clear'. "James?" "Sorry, I'll read them as soon as they're through." "Very good, James. Get some rest. I suspect you'll need it." The click indicated that the call was over. James didn't remove the phone from his ear. Instead, he let it slid from his hand, fall on to the pillow. Danish dialogue tended to put him to sleep faster than anything else. Wednesday Afternoon, 12:35pm, the hills above Los Gatos, CA Nick wasn't late. He prided himself on the ability to show up on time, and more-oftenthan-not, sober. He hadn't had a drink yet, but with nearly a full day before anything important started happening, who knew what the future held! The bottle of Laphroig in his bag would, most likely, rear its peaty head. Darleen had spilt something on the passenger seat. Why on Earth he ever let that girl borrow the Mercedes Nick could not figure out. Marcus, he never spilled anything, not a drop. That kid was clean as his tennis shoes. Nick would make sure he had a talk with young Darleen when he got home on Friday afternoon. Traffic would be hell getting from the Bay Area out to Sacramento, but that was the life of a retorter, wasn't it? He was actually amazed that there were any reporters left after more than two decades of cuts at every major, and even more every minor, newspaper around the world. He had seen eery one of his Columbia coalumni lose at least one job while he kept his office across from the capital. He was happiest seeing the smuggest of the bunch get the harshest cuts. He has spent far more time partying and reading Philip K Dick novels than he ever did working on the school paper. Hell, he'd only ever had three articles published, all of them widely-read, and had even won a student Pulitzer. That would be as close as he got to a real award his entire life. The drive, at least, had been relaxing. So relaxing that he had missed what was obviously a wine stain on the white leather seat of his 1987 Mercedes. He didn't tend to miss these things when the stress had built up to proper pressure behind his eyes. He might buy Marcus his own car, hell Nick'd get his own new Lexus and hand this one off to Marcus as a gift. That'd teach Doreen to keep the cork in until after she'd made it home. The road through the heavy trees thickened in front of Nick's car and a

guy was standing next to a gate. Typical rental security: wind-breaker, ball cap, sunglasses, a clipboard and a walkie strapped to his side. He didn't think he was so close to the McCleary estate already, but if the family was as such as everyone said, it would drake sense that they'd own the road this far down. Nick pulled a little off to the side as the Rent-a-Cop walked over to the vehicle. Nick reached over and pushed the power window button on the passenger side, his own version busted by what he suspected as a lustfully thrust heel by Doreen when she was still with Scott. God, how Nick had hated Scott! 'Hey there, here for the McCleary fundraiser?" The voice of the guard was clear and friendly and business-like. He reminded Nick of Ted McGinley from Love Boat. "Yeah, Nick Andros, Sacramento Bee." The guard pulled out a pen, clicked it against his thigh, made a large, theatrical check on the paper held by the clipboard. "Awful early, Nick." He said, smiling broadly. "Well, I didn't want to come in during traffic, so it was either be awful early or awful late." Nick said this trying to match the friendliness of the guard. He probably even managed it too. "You got that right," the guard leaned in a bit, "you mind popping the trunk? Nothing personal. They just told me to check and the paranoid bastards turned the cameras on." "Sure, no problem. Should I turn the car off." "No need, unless you don't have a clicker. Nick shifted her into park, and made sure the parking break was on. Doreen always remembered to set the brake, but taking it off a was another story. Nick opened the door, unbuckled his seatbelt, reached down and listen the lever that released the truck. He stepped out and walked to the back. The guard was already standing a feet behind the right bread bumper. "Just go ahead and open it and you'll be on your way." "Glad to hear it." Nick said as he Nick opened the trunk and, sadly, didn't hear the shot that went directly into his right ear. He hadn't even been paying enough attention to notice that the guard had a Gloc sitting on top of the clip board, nor that had had spent so much time crafting the neatly lettered 'Chuck' name tag that perfectly match Highlands Security Corporation's. "This guy was sloppy." he thought to himself as he pushed the rest of his body into the trunk. Once he had folded the legs in neatly, he reached in Nick's left pocket, grabbed the wallet and pulled it out. Then he pulled the small suitcase out. Luckily, no blood splatters on it! It had taken time to learn that skill. Setting the case on the ground, he walked back to his small duffle and brought it to the trunk-side area. Unzipping it, he removed a can of Fabreez and unloaded it over the corpse like a co-ed on her first apartment's cockroach. After he'd emptied the can, he pulled out a tangle of little green tree airfreshners. He had picked up that little hint from watching Se7en when

he was in college. Had made things a lot easier. Finally, he pulled out a solar blanket and set it over Nick's poor corpse. The former Nick Adros' corpse. He was now the NEW Nick Andros, or at least would be until he finished his job. He would earn his three hundred grand as Nick Andros, but he's spend the money as himself Or at least that was the plan. New Nick closed the trunk, gathered his stuff, well former Nick's stuff and his own, and walked to the driver's side. "Nick Andros. Nice to meet you." he said, pulling off the parking break and noticing the pale purple stain on the passenger seat. "What kind of savage lets that happen to his Mercedes?" Nick asked the Former Nick, now far away in the mists.

The Clearing House, Los Gatos, CA 1:17pm, Wednesday Mary pushed the table closer to the window, hopped up on it, then reached over and opened the window. Sub-One's staff dining room didn't have quite the view of the one a dumbwaiter's ride and a few steps to the right did, but it was a lovely view of the smaller canyon that fell away from the house. She could barely see the roof of Sub-two, but she knew it was there. Technically, she could climb out, lower herself onto the deck where she had sunbathed so often as a teenager trying to seduce as many of the young male workers as she could. In fact, it was on that very roof-top deck that she had both managed to lose her virginity to the Topiary gardner, and her ladyginity to Marlena, the house keeper. She had been a saucy one, Mary remembered. After they'd enjoyed a good four hours of hastily assembled contorsions and re-positioning, Mary had found herself eyebrows deep in Marlena wondering when it would get fun. Of course, it wasn't long after that that Marlena started barking orders and things turned awesome real quick. All on that little deck. Mary lit a cigarette. Looking out, she could see the south road, which wound around the mountain to allow folks to disengage their cars at the front of The Clearing House, a name she'd always hated for the house she grew up in. She drew in and caught sight of a 1984 Chrysler LeBaron convertible wind through a few trees. "Shit." she said out loud, no one around to hear her. Mary kept smoking and made note of every time the car poked through the fabric of her view. She was half-way through with the cigarette when the car made the last pass, possibly close enough to see her if they'd been paying attention. She sat, smoked and watched the top of Sub-two, remembering nights that left her sticky, out of view of anyone but the servants who would spend their time in this dining room. "Hey, Sis."

Dammit. Benji. "Hey, Benj." There was no pleasant in that pleasantry. "Saw you smoking in the window, figured I'd come up and say 'hi', maybe bum one off of you." That was a tradition that she was well acquainted with. He'd been suckling at the McCleary Trust teat for a couple of decades already. She pushed the pack of Tarheels across the table towards Benjamin Copeland McCleary, the youngest of the kids, and the only one who never played in the family business. Benji picked up the pack and shook one out, popped it between his lips and laid the package back down on the table. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Zippo. No markings, no branding, just the lighter, flipped it with both hands and lit himself up. "I didn't know you still smoked?" Benji said, walking to her side and putting his far too-tall self on the table. He still towered over poor Mary, the one who got the short genes. Mary wasn't a hefty either, so when Benji took his seat, the table tilted. If it weren't the heavy Oak that Mama McCleary preferred, they'd have toppled over, probably out the window onto that deck below, though that would not be the first time either of them had landed there. "So, the ringmaster has managed to keep her hair in place." Benji quipped. He knew she hated the Ringmaster stuff, but she had a hard time seeing how it wasn't true. "Well, the show's a fair way off, you know." The two sat there, staring out the window at the canyon below. They'd spent much of their childhood exploring down there: first the terrain and then they're perspective coupling partners, two separate sets which overlapped in three places. "Dad's got you working hard?" Benji took a heavy drag. "Harder than ever." "Go figure." "Yeah, go figure." The two of them just kept smoking. "They're upstairs, playing in Kennedy's room." Mary said, preemptively. "I figured." "You know I don't like it." Mary started smoking in earnest. "The kids love it." "You're exploiting them." "For it to be exploitation, there has to be gain on my part." Benji started smoking harder, too. "They love you, Ben, they'll do anything you ask them. The two of them haven't got a Dad around, so you're fitting the godddamned bill for 'em and I don't like it." Mary and Ben both froze. There was no elevation in that outburst, no accusation, just the statement of displeasure. "Sorry, sis, but they like getting to see their words out on Twitter. Hell, I

got an offer for the three of us to appear on Good Day by the Bay." More smoking. Mary ran out of stick, had to lay flat on the table to reach the pack to grab her next one. "They love you, Benji, and you're trading on that." "They worship you, Mary, and you're ignoring them." Mary lit the second cigarette, tossing the old one out the window only after she'd made sure the second one survived. "I don't ignore them." "You ignore the fact that they're there." "I have shit to do." "You've got shit to do." "I've got shit to do." Another pause. Benji reached for the pack, but Mary picked it up and put it into her purse on the other side of her from Benji. "They're up there, probably playing Supercop." Mary smoked deeper, but slower now. "That's their favorite." "I know that much." Mary said, bitterly. Benji stood up. "The interviews start tonight at 9, so I'll need you to be ready for a press appearance by then." Benji walked to the arch that separated the Help's dining room from the kitchen. "You mind if I put the kids down at 8, an extra 30 minutes to get out some of the energy?" "Yeah, sounds good." Benji walked out, and Mary tossed the remainder of the cigarette out the window. Benji was the only one who stuck around. James went to Seattle, the kids' dad had been living in Santa Cruz when he veered into on-coming traffic on the fourth day of a 24-hour bender, Mom and Dad were never around. At least she knew that Benji, no matter how much she didn't want to spend time with him, was there for the kids. The Kidlings. She hated that he called them that. Kennedy had been born on a Friday and by that Sunday, she had become The Kidling. Thirteen months later, when miss Aisla was born, they became The Kidlings. It wasn't but twelve months after that when he started the Twitter account @AskTheKidlings, and not but a few months later when he was handling nearly 100 questions a day, all answered by the young Carlsons and entered by Benjii on his ever-present iPhone. Even Mary couldn't help but be a bit impressed when she witnessed young Kennedy entering a response to a question about what to make a husband for dinner. 'sup nd bred' he's typed. Benji occasionally let the little ones doing the typing, but mostly he just let them dictate. Why had she not had Benji take 'em to Disneyland or something? Mary could have sent them off, gotten Benji out of her hair to, and been free to focus all her worry on her dad's performance. That was a tough

one. Now, she had to worry about Dad, and the Kidlings, and Benji, and for fuck's sake, she had to worry about James. Mother had insisted they all be there, together, to present the perfect image of a family back together to support their ever-loving father. She had to put it all together, again. It had been a tough eight months already. When she asked her father to appoint her head of his campaign, he had been happier than she had seen him in ages. She had moved back into the Clearing House less than a month after Carl left her, which he had not enjoyed. Mary couldn't understand why; he was home less than one night in four, the parental bedroom on the first floor, the Carlson quarters on the third. The separation was required for both Mary and her father's sanity. Mary got down off the table, pushed it back into place. looking around, she could hear another making it's way up the drive, but didn't have the energy to go back to the window to see who it was. 127 DuPont Circle, Washington DC, 3:57pm, Wednesday "Hilary, have you got your brush?" Amanda had rearranged her bag twice already, and if she was going to have Lake Placid smooth brown locks, she was going to need a brush and a place to put it. "Hilary?" There were a few sounds from Hilary Barkley's room, but nothing in the shape of words. "Hilary!" "I've got my fucking brush, now shut-up." Hilary passed by Amanda's room, then turned and went back into her own. "Well, I'm going to need it for the interview and I've not got any room in my bag." This exchange, as simple as it seems, represented the most words to pass between Amanda Neal (8pm Easter/Pacific on CNN) and Hilary Evanston Berkley (Current exhibition showing at the deYoung Museum, separate admission required) in nearly three months. That record was set seven minutes after Amanda had kissed Celia (Appearing in Shear Madness at the Kennedy Center) good-bye after their first night at Amanda's. Amanda hadn't even been informed that Amanda had taken-up with a new lover, no less was bringing her over for the night! Hilary, for her part, had gushed every expletive she knew upon Amanda. Amanda, in return, had tried to remain logical and point out all of the problems that bringing another woman over to the apartment would present. Hilary, when she began thinking more clearly, unleashed an entire wave of new, more creative expletives onto Amanda, who again tried to reposte with logical, calm, rational arguments. This lasted some thirty-eight minutes, until the very moment that if Amanda had not run out the door she would not have been able to make it to Foggy Bottom stop, then over to her studio for her show. As it was, this was one train later than

she preferred, but it would have to do as sometimes personal matters do have to be given some measure of priority. The difficulty, as she thought as she walked across to the station, was that they could not announce that they had parted company, were no longer the most by-far happiest lesbians in the lower 48. Though Hilary had suggested they go to Massachusetts or even her old hometown of San Francisco and get married in the blink of an eye that it was legal, they had not done so because "It wouldn't be right." as Amanda had put it. The pair were the poster children for Young Gay Republican Love, and had been for the better part of six years. As Amanda walked to the Metro that morning, Hilary broke down the six years they'd so far spent together. Amanda had seen her across a crowded gallery in New York. Then only a local reporter with the number three station, and straight out of Emerson College's Journalism department, all of which showed on her pretty blue-eyed blonde face. Hilary had noticed, but how would she ever recognize a television personality? A phone call, who had given Amanda her number?, and a then a date in Georgetown. Three months of dating and they'd not slept together was odd for Hilary, but par for the course when it came to the keynote speaking at the meeting of the Young Republicans annual convention in Richmond that year. Of course, once the seal was broken, pandora's box unleashed a sexual evil unto the world. or at least that's how Hilary imagined Amanda saw her own furious passions. Three months later and they were living in the same building and started appearing together at functions. Amanda's show got picked up by FoxNews, which gave her the kind of platform she'd always wanted. She exposed conservative ideals in the body of a leggy former cheerleader from the cozy side of Belmont, Mass. She was a healthier Ann Coulter, both of body and spirit, and that made her irresistible in a way. When her lifestyle would be brought up, even the staunchest Southern politicians would hail her for true believer, even if her tongue was well-acquainted with the taste of Mortal Sin. Hilary had come with her then, and when she was poached, two years later by CNN, she took that trip too. All along, her art was drawing raves. She met Amanda four days short of 30, seven years older than her admirer. The grey had taken over her spiky red-brown, her eyes were looking lightly lined, even under those Sharpieblack arcs that extended to either side. She always filled her face with makeup, always waking up at least an hour before Amanda's alarm to make herself presentable. It was her way. She'd kiss Amanda good morning at the top of her neck, slightly ahead of her ear, at the connection of her jaw. Usually she would apply a light scrape of tech to go along. Four years went by and things had started to become more difficult. The apartment seemed to big for Amanda, who only needed a bed and that kiss on the neck every morning. The apartment, the building Washington, was far too compact for Hilary. She wanted air and cigarettes and cameras

and a barn to paint in and a loft to fuck in and a beat-up old Chevy to take the kids out into the country. The first serious fight was the one about wanting to move to the country. There were lovely parts of Virginia not an hour outside the city. Or Maryland, even so close as to be on the Red line! That fight had been rough, and the weeks after rougher. They went to the Republican convention in New Orleans, where Amanda worked the floor, and Hilary, back in the hotel, was worked on the floor by at least seven different women. So very different were their priorities. That little incident only came out during the break-up battle seven months ago. Hilary was tired of playing second fiddle and living in the SnoGlobe that would someday slip from Amanda's fingers as she lay dying. Amanda was having trouble understanding the problem; wasn't she always there for her to kiss in the morning? Had she always made sure that the photographers got good shots of Hilary at every event, even when she wasn't dressed to the standards of the organizers? Hilary had mentioned her time with CythiaJenniferMarshaJenniferOmaraShelJennifer as the final nail, but Amanda tacked the forgiveness route. Hilary then announced that it was over and she was leaving. That sprung Amanda into action. She begged, not in the intellectual way that she had always held herself, but flat out on her knees PLEADED for Amanda to stick around. She couldn't stand the thought of not having her around, having Hilary in her bed. It was a passionate plea, the kind of thing that Hilary would have never expected from Amanda in a thousand years, but it happened. Hilary walked quickly to her painting room and slammed the door. The rest of the night she could hear Amanda bawling on the couch. The next morning, it all came together. Six forty-five and Hilary emerged from the studio having slept on her beat-up old couch. Amanda was on the living room couch, already done-up as if she were on the air in 5-4-3-2 "You can't move out." Amanda said like she was reading an 11:15 market up-date. "Like fuck I can't!" Hilary didn't quite scream. "I don't want to be with you any-" "You don't have to be with me." Hilary never understood how Amanda, even without any emotion behind her words, could stop her dead in her tracks by just saying anything. "You just can't leave. There's the elections, and as soon as their over, we'll go our own ways, but until then, I need you." "You need me." Hilary had turned those words into a dagger. "I need you to stay here, and maybe, once in a while, pretend that we're together at an event. You just have to show up with me. Don't even have to talk to me." Amanda was staring at the television as if it were instead a camera. "I can't leave? You're precious image is too important?" "Not mine," Amanda seemed to have found some feeling and was

working to tamp it down, "not mine, ours." Hilary was more angry than she ever had been before, but as had always been the case, she had no fallback, no backup plan for what would happen if she lost her place with Amanda. "You won't mind if I go out and party under every Senatorial housewife?" Hilary always loved watching how Amanda would squirm when she brought sexual shenanigans out in open. As if she knew that was the desired reaction, Amanda remained unmoved. "Even if you slept with the First Lady herself." Hilary paused. NO ONE was more hated by the young Miss Neal than the First Lady. "Fine. Order a bed for my studio." "Fine. I'll have Morgan order one delivered when I get to work." Hilary looked at the back of Amanda's head from the hallway. The ponytail was tight, pulling at the scalp, Hilary could tell. "I'll be here. All day." and Hilary turned and walked back to what was now her room in Amanda's house. And now, in the apartment, the two were packing for a trip. That discussion have happened two weeks prior via IM. Amanda - We have to go to California. Fundraiser. Hilary - Like fuck I do. Amanda - I need you. Just this last time. Hilary - Why? Amanda - It's a fundraiser for Hetch McCleary. You remember him? Underwrote the San Jose exhibit. Hilary - He's having a fundraiser? Amanda - He's running for Senate. Hilary - fuck. Amanda - I need you to come and we've got to play like a happy couple, jut for a day or two. Hilary - fuck. Amanda - It's important. Hilary - I'll need to see my parents. Amanda - You can stay a few days after. I'll get you a first class seat for your return. Hilary - fuck. OK. Amanda - Thank you, Hil. Amanda made the arrangements, steered clear of Hilary for a couple of days, sent all the plans through eMail. All of them up to asking for the brush. "The car'll be here in ten minutes." Amanda says to the doorway, the hall beyond. "I'm done packing." Hilary called back to the hall. "I'll be in the living room." Amanda says, picking up her bag and moving out of her bedroom, the one she had shared with Hilary until the

break-up. "Let me know when the car is here." Hilary called back. "I will" Amanda said, hoping that Hilary would respond. That hope was never fulfilled.

The Clearing House, Los Gatos, CA 2:21pm Wednesday Mother McCleary sat on the couch, drinking her water and gin. This was a typical afternoon activity, but one she had said wouldn't happen today, the day that the wheels set into strongest motion. Nine reporters would be moving in, and seventeen other guests. They had 21 bedrooms, seven extra dens and sitting rooms, so that wasn't a problem. Mary was seeing it all through. Mary was the smart one, the dedicated one, the one who only knew the right path to getting things done, even if that path was through the wrong means. She was also Hetch's favorite, so there was that. Two useless sons who had made themselves into figures people loved, but hardly a non-trust dollar between them. Awards, appearances on television, what good was it without the funds behind them? Hetch, smart boy, he'd gone for money first, thirty years of a cash grab in publishing, wisely backing internet start-ups, then selling out when the bottom hit, when the time was right. He got out not only with his shirt, but with several other people; enough to start his own laundry. Hetch, smart Hetch, had listened to Mother when the time was right, had ignored her when she was too drunk to see straight. Smart Smart Hetch. The door to Mother's library opened and in came Mary. "Mother, we're going to need you to move in a bit. We're doing the first round of interviews in here and need to get the lights rigged." Mother sat up. "Where's your children?" "They're up-stairs." "With Benjamin?" "Yes, with Benji." Mother set her drink on the small table next to the leather couch. "He's very good with them." "Yes, they love him." Mother looked Mary over, slowly, as she often had in the past. Short, thin, pretty like her grandmother, without the fierce eyes. That hair would have killed Gran, though. So short, severe. It had been going grey since high school, but why give in so thoroughly? Mary still had the figure, damn her. Mother had maintained a slimness, but she'd never had the experience of breasts like three-quarter cantaloupes. The McCleary endowments had gone to her, for certain. At least as much as the McCleary Endowment was being eaten alive by her brothers.

"You should have the children visit your father. Children have always calmed him." Mary let out an exasperated huff. "We really need to turn this room around in the next half-hour, Mom. Can you please relocate, just for now?" Mother stood up, then picked up her drink from the table. "Fine, I'll be in my sewing room." There were three liquor cabinets in there, as the thirteen year old Mary had discovered, the sixteen year old Mary utilized and the eighteen year old Mary abused. Mother walked out the door, but stopped before she was all the way out. "Have them see you father. It'll calm him down." She said as she walked out into the hallway.

1428 Moorpark Ave., Studio City, CA 2:55pm Wednesday Charlie Onser had to figure this out before the flight at 6. Red with the Brown coat, silver with the black? These things always stumped Charlie. It was why he had an assistant back in the days of Across Town. Charlie would make an appearance, they'd tell him where to go and in the dressing room, there'd be a suit coat, a tie, sometimes a vest. No problem, the kid would take care of it. That was how he felt right up until the day he had to fire him. Well, his agent fired him the day he let Charlie go. How many sad Hollywood stories were there? Charlie knew a lot of 'em, used to hear 'em from Kenneth Anger sometimes, Bogs when they were on speaking terms. He might get a few invites now and again, a couple a year, but once the memory of Across Town had faded, it was like he hadn't starred in a string of completely average movies for the better part of a decade prior to it. Television was a bad step, because you can always fall back on TV if you've got to, but if you choose to go there, that's your only hope. At least now he had a gig. Branson had been two years ago, and the Follies comedy turn in Palm Springs had nearly sucked his will to live. It was work, money, a payment or two for a while. This place, this was a disaster for a guy who could have bought a complex of apartments like this three times a season, but money does flow from high to low, and now he was the low, living off whatever scraps come down to him. Living off the meals of the rich, he prayed to God someone would feed them bigger meals! Charlie hadn't been the MC at anything as important as a senatorial fundraiser in more than a decade. He hadn't done political comedy for years, it's always the first to go when you're on the downslope, but he still had a lot of work to do.

Was this any way to treat the guy who blazed the way for Bill Cosby? When Good Times was bringing America down, Across Town was making him a huge star as the Black family that was neither scratchin' and survivin' nor had moved on up. They were the middle class black family who America fell in love with. And the hell he caught when he came to speak for Ronald Reagan! He was already three years out from Across Town, and he'd appear at a half-dozen rallies, but it didn't help him out at all after Reagan won. He made a few appearances for Bush the Elder, a couple for Pete Wilson for Senate in the 1990s. He slipped further and further down the line. His phone hadn't rung for a rally in years, for a paying gig even less often. He was living from paycheck to paycheck again, and its harder to do that when the checks aren't written by networks anymore. Black with Silver. It only made sense.

The Clearing House, 3:37pm, Wednesday Benji knocked on the door. "Enter." Hetch called. Benji opened the door enough to poke his head in. "Hey, Dad." "Come in, come in, Benjamin." "How is it I'm here three times a week and it's been months since I've seen you?" Benji said as he walked across to the green upholstered piece from the old McCleary House on East Egg. Benji sat down. "It's been a busy time. Busy time, Benjamin. Not easy getting the support of enough of the corporate interests to get on the ballot and have a snow ball's chance in hell of winning." "Others would say that is far over-reaching your chances." Hetch smiled, somewhat grimly. "It's true, I'm a long-shot, but that sister of yours, she's already closed us in seven points, ten if you look at the Times poll." Benji shrugeed. "You're going through with it, even if you're twenty points on the down side?" "As only a McCleary could." "Or would." "Or would." Hetch chuckled. "Grampa!" A pair of small children, six and four-and-a-half burst through the doors, running full bore at Hetch's desk. Aisla ran around, but Kennedy climbed right on top of the desk and ended up in Hetch's lap at the exact same time as Aisla. "Well, well, The Kidlings!" Hetch boomed.

"Will you sing the song Grampa?" Kennedy asked. "PLEASE???" called out Aisla. "I think they want you to sing, Dad." Benji asked. "I don't see why not." Hetch said. Hetch grabbed the arms of the chair and stood up, sending both Kidlings to the floor. As they bounced off the carpet, they both giggled. "Oh Danny Boy, the pipes the pipes are call-ing. From glen to glen" Hetch kept singing, his voice stronger than it usually was. Kennedy and Aisla were rapt and Benji was smiling. He had always liked Hetch's voice, but he had seldom sung like this when he was a kid. When Mother dragged them to church, he'd boom along with the hymns, but that was it. Here, he actually seemed to be enjoying himself, playing with the kids. Aisla kind of knew the words, and mouthed along with Grampa, but Kennedy just sort of followed along with an open-mouth humming. Hetch worked to a big finish, which brought the house down. The kids jumped to their feet, clapping, and even Benji clapped along with them. "Thank you, kids. Thank you much!." Hetch took a theatrical kind of bow. "Grampa, are you going to be President?" Kennedy asked. "No, I'm actually not eligible. I was born in England, and not at the Airfield where Grampa McCleary was stationed. I am running for Senator. You know what a Senator is?" Hetch asked. "They're elected for six years, and the Houses are elected for two years." Kennedy said. "You're going to move to Washington?" Aisla said. "Well, that's a bit ahead of the curve, Aisla. First I've got to win the election." "Is the election tomorrow, Grampa?" she asked. "No, it's in November. Tomorrow is a fundraiser, where we'll have dinner and people will talk about the issues that are important to them. Some people want to talk to me about their businesses, and some want to make sure that I say some things during my campaign." Mary walked into the room. "Dad, you've got your first interview." "I thought the first one was at four thirty." Mary walked over to the desk. "It is, but we've got make-up and should go over talking points." Hetch paused, looked down at the kids, still sitting on the floor. "Your mother's right isn't she?" Hetch asked the Kidlings. "It's probably true." Aisla said. "She usually talks sense." Kennedy said. Hetch sighed. "Alright, take me away, Mary," Hetch buttoned his coat, smoothed his grey templed chestnut hair. "you three can stay here, but try not to carve anything permanent in the desk. Benji I'm looking at you."

"That was one time! I was nine!" Benji called. "We'd never do that." Aisla and Kennedy noted, in tandem. "I never thought you would." Hetch said as he followed Mary out of the room. The Kingman Residence, Santa Clara, CA 7:15pm Wednesday Alex had the list in front of her and did not like the options. The Annual Rotary Club of Santa Clara's Cioppino night The Meeting of the Board of Directors of Intel. The Elect Hetch Fundraiser in Los Gatos. Mike Whipman's Fiddles & Riddles Bluegrass Comedy Jam. What kind of week was this? None of them sounded like the cash cow she could use a week before rent was due. She looked over the description of the events again, finally noting something she had glossed over. Hetch McCleary was a Republican! Alex hadn't realized she'd been sitting in the nude all morning, first reading the Metro Looking For Love ads for a guy who might be an easier mark than a single night's tumble, then going to the community calendar. She also hadn't realized it was nowhere near the morning any more. She hadn't even taken in any clients last night, just a bit of cam time with the kid from Georgia with the giant cock and missing testicle. Nice kid, she thought, and his card was good, so she half-enjoyed the hours with him, billed at a dollar-fifty a minute. Someday, she would learn his name. The phone rang. It seemed that only the elderly and hookers had landlines these days. "Yeah?" "Alex, this is Century Affair Limousine Service." "Cut the crap, Vic." "Alex, listen, you need a ride tonight?" "Yeah, I do. Los Gatos." "You're thinking the Hetch Hetchy thing?" "Elect Hetch, yeah. It's a Republican fundraiser, Vic. That's pussy money waiting to get spent." "Can't fight you on that one. The year their convention was here made my year and then some." "How many girls did you drive out for that one?" "Maybe fifty. There was a deal that we could only bring in so many girls. No limit on guys though. They made the big money that weekend." "Makes sense. What's the cut, Vic?" "We'll go a flat one-fifty." "Fuck, Vic, that's a lot of money. I got rent." "How you gonna get in without me?"

"How you gonna get me in?" "I got it covered already. Figured at least one of you would want in on that action." "You think of everything ahead of time." "Plus, I've had two drop-offs there already this afternoon, got a car there right now dropping off some CNN bitch and her mate." "CNN bitch? Like Soledad O'Brien?" "You shittin' me? If we had that sort of gold riding with us, we wouldn't be a shipping service for ass like yours, now would we?" "I think you do it for the fringe benefits." "I won't lie, that don't hurt." "Well, for some of us it does, Vic." "Yeah, but that only makes it better for me." "That's why I stopped letting you." "And that's why I'll keep driving you. Hope must spring eternal." "And internal." "True. Ok, I'll go for one hundred." "That'll earn you an afternoon, just not for a week or so." "I'll take it, sugar bear." "See you in an hour?" "I'm sending Mikey." "See Mikey in an hour?" "You'll see Mikey in an hour, maybe an hour-and-a-half." "You're almost human, Vic." "More human than human, baby." "See ya." The Clearing House, Los Gatos, CA, Wednesday, 7:35pm "Amanda, welcome to the Clearing House." Mary always laid it on thick for the bigger media personalities. "Mary, it's always wonderful to see you," Amanda walked through the french doors that the two well-dressed security guards were holding and gave Mary a lovely wrapping hug. "you remember Hilary, don't you? I believe you met at the opening at the CAM." "That's right, it's lovely to see you again. You have an exhibit at the SFMoMA right now, yes?" Hilary walked forward and offered her hand to Mary. She shook it with no enthusiasm whatsoever. "Yeah, I'll be going up to see it on Friday." Hilary was exhausted and let it show. Amanda refused to look at her, but gave the continued confident smile she always kept for greeting. "Jake and John will bring your bags up to your room. You'll be on the second floor in the Cameron bedroom. I seemed to remember you enjoying it the last time you visited, Amanda."

"Was that where I stayed? It was simply lovely. II wish you could have been there, Hilary. SHe stayed with her parents that weekend. Hadn't seen them much, had you? Must have been lovely to get a chance to see them after so long away." Amanda said all of that to the foyer. Mary looked to Hilary. "It was." Hilary said, "I wish I could have joined you, Hil. Her family is lovely."\ Amanda noted. "They are." Hilary added. Amanda stopped in the middle of the foyer. To her left, the staircase to the second floor. To her right, the one to the third. They both wound 180 degree, each finishing at the same point laterally, but twelve and a half feet separated. Behind and beneath each were staircases, one to Sub-one, the other to Sub-Two. Amanda turned and smiled smartly towards Mary. "And you grew up here?" Amanda said, heartily. "I did. The best was sliding down from the third onto the foyer, then having my brother fling me around to Sub-two. that was a ride worth taking. It did finish with a slide into the chef's office, though. That often got us bad news." Hilary stirred a bit at Mary's side. "We're on the second floor?" Hil asked Mary, dripping exhaustion. "Yeah, right at top of the stairs, third door on the right. It's open and I believe it's the only one with the light on. If there's a large painting of a mother and baby pegasus in a clouded glen, then you're in the right room." "You're serious?" Hilary asked. "Sadly, yes," Mary walked towards Amanda, "my daughter fell in love with it at a yard sale a couple of years ago. I think she was two. She made me buy it. I didn't want to hang it, especially not where I'd have to look at it, but she insisted. Since she an her brother play in there most days, I thought it would be best to keep it there until she started to develop artistic taste." "You'll be lucky if she does." Hilary placed a bit of the sarcaustic charm she was well known for on that phrase. "So, the boys will be bringing your luggage up shortly. Would you like me to send anything up from the kitchen?" "No, I'm sure we're-" "I would kill for a steak sandwich." Amanda shot a look at Hilary, whose eyes had come completely alive for the first time since they'd arrive. "Are you sure you're hungry, dear?" Amanda tried to put a stop to it with the subtlest of tones. "That won't be a problem, Hilary. We've got plenty in the stores, won't be a problem at all. I'll have Jayla send it up, though it might be a half-hour or so." "It's OK. I'll be awake for at least an hour or two." Hilary said. "She does keep artist's hours, don't you, dear?" Hilary didn't look at Amanda.

"Second floor, on the right, you said?" "The room with the pegasus family painting. Can't miss." Hilary practically bounded up the shorter staircase. "She's a woman of highs and lows." Amanda said to Mary. "She's an artist, isn't that how it goes?" As Hilary walked up the staircase, Nick walked down. "Excuse me, Mary, right?" Amanda turned around, saw the name badge on his sports coat. "Well, Nick Andros," Amanda dripped heavy admiration into the greeting, "I owe you a debt of gratitude." Amanda extended her hand to Nick. New Nick took it gladly, halfrecognising her from THe Bank's over-head TVs in the afternoon. She was some sort of commentator, but since Jim kept the volume off, he had no idea what she was ever saying. "Nice to meet you. I'm a fan of your work." Nick said. "You saved me days of research with your series at the end of Schwartzenegger's term. He Won't Be Back was an absolute godsend!" AManda was positively beaming. "Thank you, thank you." New Nick said, then turned to Mary. "Say, can you tell me when Nathan Bretschneider will be here? I've got to sit down with him," Nick said, then turned to Amanda "I'm hoping we can work on my next article together." "Ooh, the top California political reporter and LA's top economist together? I may swoon right here and now." "Please don't darlin'," New Nick noted, "I can't catch ya, my back is killing me!" ALl three of them laughed. "Sadly, Nathan called in an hour ago. he won't be in until tomorrow, probably around 5." Shit. Nick needed some time to track his movements, figure out how to get the bead on him, put him down with minimal fuss. 5 meant that he would have less than an hour to prep before the dinner. The Market had been very clear: don't foul-up the dinner, don't let anyone see him get it, if it can be helped at all. If you've got to put someone down to make it happen, do it, but keep it at least somewhat undercover. He knew that taking the journalist out was something of a risk, but he was a newspaper guy! Can you think of what any newspaper writer looks like? "It's OK, I can wait until tomorrow to chat with 'im." Nick was about to turn upstairs. "Oh, you're on the schedule to interview Hetch in ten minutes." Nick paused. While he was a regular NPR listener, he did not know enough to provide a kind of thorough interview of a man running for the Senate. Besides, he wouldn't be writing an article, would he. Brzz-ut, Brzz-ut Former Nick's phone announced a text. New Nick tapped at the screen, thankful that he hadn't had one of those stupid software locks on it.

Nick - need copy for McCleary piece by 9:30. Shit. Nick hadn't written anything more serious than a death threat in more than fifteen years. Hell, he hadn't even written half his papers while he was in college. Shit, this was all going to fall apart. "Editors," Nick smiled at Amanda, "always pressing for more and more, am I right?" Amanda laughed. "Always." "Come this way, Mr. Andros. We'll get you set-up in the den so you're ready to go once Dad comes down." "That'd be excellent." New Nick noted, walking a few feet behind Mary as she turned down the hall. Amanda, now alone, made her way up the stairs. She could hear the guards with the suitcases closing up the car and readying to bring the luggage up to the room. She waited at the top of the stairs as the men brought her bags up. Their bags up. Amanda had to remember that for the next thirty-six hours, they were a couple again. The men dropped the bags just inside the door of the room. Mary was right: that painting was a bit of a child's dream. The colors actually seemed to glow, especially the white, fluffy clouds and the ridiculous rainbow that arced over the mother pegasus nuzzling her young baby. The two men dropped the bag and nodded, then left. Hilary closed the door behind them. "One fucking bed." Hilary wasn't happy. "What was I supposed to do." Amanda was not asking a question, just putting out the hopelessness of the situation. "I don't know, get us a hotel, or better yet, leave me the fuck at home!" "We need to be seen together, Hilary. We're still -" "I know, we're still the fuckiing poster daughters of sapphic Republican love. I fucking get it, but it can't go on forever." "It doesn't have to, Hilary. Just until the election." "And then?" Amanda didn't want to go down this path. "And then, you can do whatever you want. Come back to California, go to England, most in with your" Amanda didn't want to complete the thought, no less the phrase. "Yeah, well. Whatever. You're sleeping on the fucking couch." Hilary had saved her most bitter tone for this, the hopeful end of the argument. "Fine." Amanda made her way over to the couch, sat down. "Tomorrow, all you'll have to do is come down for the dinner. If you want to stay up here all day, that's up to you. I'm interviewing Hetch at ten,

then I'll be doing recording for the podcast until 3. Then I'll be up here getting dressed." Amanda spoke the words expecting a simple 'huph' in response. "Good," Hilary was sensing what Amanda wanted, something she had always been very good at, "I'm planning on a day laying around this room, dissecting the meaning behind the half-closed eyes of that fucking flying horse, then I might head downstairs naked, see if any of the other reporter want a sticky tumble on the hardwood, then I thought I'd come down to dinner and air our dirty laundry for all the high rollers." "Don't even joke, Hil!" Amanda scooted forward on the couch. "Take a fucking joke, Amanda!" She increased her volume. "Keep you voice down, Hil." There was some urgency there. "Fine!" she hissed the syllable like a snake with fangs unfurled. "This is only for thirty-six more hours. After that, it gets easier." "You'd think after three months, it'd already be easier." Amanda couldn't think of anything to say. She just pushed back into the couch.

The Clearing House, Los Gatos, CA 8:55pm Alex stepped out of the Limousine as young Mikey opened the door for Alex. She was dressed in a conservative skirt suit. Though she was only twenty-five, she could shave easily passed for forty in this outfit. The beauty of a conservative outfit like this was the versatility. She knew that the jacket could easily be buttoned on the lowest button, a pushup bra employed and a smaller white shirt donned, giving the effect of turning her into a high-class secretary of the 1980s porn industry. Doing away with panties could also be of use, allowing her to give a gentle flash that oct men would easily see as an invitation to party, even if they had to pay for it. Of course, it wasn't too difficult for her to attract men. It had always been her super-power. At fourteen, she was getting all the attention she could handle from college boys, not to mention all the weed, beer and tequila. At sixteen, she attracted San Fernando Valley videographers and cash payouts and just enough blow to keep herself entertained when she wasn't being called out for unfilmed joy with mid-list TV stars. Eighteen brought her back home, and to webcamgirls.com, housegirl.net, and her favorite, slutroulette.com. She even managed a few years of college while working as a working girl. She found her way to Vic when a john at Google sent it over to grab her. Vic was driving, struck up a conversation, mentioned his agreements with various other girls around, and thus the world was right. Even if she had to sleep with him a couple of times a month in the beginning. Mary walked out to greet the car.

"I'm so sorry, I don't have you down on my list for tonight," Mary was poking at her iPhone "you're with" Alex pulled out an iPad, poked at it a few times, handed it off to Mary. "I'm with the Mercury. Clark should have called you an hour ago." Mary looked down at the pad. She poked a few things and saw an eMail from her eDress to the Mercury, saying that they were sending a reporter after all. "So sorry. We've had so many messages going back and forth. We've got an extra room open, on the third floor, I think. You'll want an interview with the cantidate, but we're pretty stacked up through the dinner tomorrow. Would you mind waiting until Friday morning, instead?" Mary handed the iPad back as Alex answered. "Not a problem. I know how these things go." Mikey brought out a suitcase, then gave a strange bow to Alex, an even stranger bow to Mary, and then returned to the car. "Europeans. Always odd." Alex said. Mary nodded approval. "So, welcome to The Clearing House. I'm Mary McCleary, Hetch's daughter." "And chairman of his campaign committee, no?" "Exactly, Let me show you around a bit. Built in 1926 as home to" Alex wasn't listening. She had looking around for locations where she might be able to grab moments with johns who had only a few minutes. As she understood it, the funders would arrive throughout tomorrow, and tonight it was all journalists. At least the place was comfy looking. "So, let me walk you up to your room." Mary made her way up the tall staircase to the right. They went up and Mary described the history of the place, how she grew up there. THey arrived at a room at the far end of the hall. Comforatble-looking, for sure. "Sadly, no private bathroom, but there's one just across the way that the three rooms at this end share. They're not being used tonight, so it'll pretty much be all you in here for now. The only concern might be if the kids get up early. My kids sleep on the other end of the hall, but they're somewhat rambunctious." "Kids are like that, none mores than me when I was a kid." "A hell raiser, were ya?" "I thought my name was "Alex, get the hell off of that!" when I was a girl." Mary laughed. "I'll see if I can get you in sometime earlier tomorrow so you don't have to stay an extra night." Alex had to pull it in. That would NOT be the best case scenario. "If you can, but don't worry about me. I'll be fine just talking with the other reporters." "Well, I'll let you settle in. Can I have the kitchen make you anything?" Alex had to think fast. Yes, she certainly wanted ANYTHING, but she

had to know exactly what a second-rung reporter would ask for. "Would it be at all possible to get a caesar salad, a little chicken, and some wine? It's been a LONG day and I'd really just like to relax for a couple of hours." Alex asked. "We can do that. I'll have it sent up. Might be half-an-hour or so." "You're my hero." Mary smiled. "That's nice to hear. So seldom is the Republican strategist called the hero." "What do you expect? Us blood-suckers gotta sitck together!" Mary laughed, nodded slightly and turned to walk down the hall. Alex put the suitcase on the small desk. Tasteful, probably late 19th Century. Most of the room seemed mid-Victorian, save for the bed. That was obviously a Sears special from the mid-1980s, but what did she care. It had enough of a fake iron headboard to allow her to tie dow any big spender if the need arose. She got out of the suit fast, changed into a pair of comfortable waffletype pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. Not sexy at all, which was how she liked to live in her everyday. She pulled up Angry Birds on the iPad, and made sure she read over the dossier on the Mercury reporter she'd be playing. It wasn't all fun and games. The Clearing House, Wednesday, 9:20pm "Jayla, they put it all out for the week, no?" The chef turned from her work. "Benji! How are you?" Benji walked over to where she was working over a chicken breast in the pan, a medium bowl of greens with croutons on the edge of the counter. Jayla turned from her pan and hugged Benji tight to her. "When was the last time they brought you in for the cooking?" Jayla let go of the hug and turned back to the pan. "I was here for your dad's birthday." "That makes one of us." Benji gave that smile that she was so fond of. Jayla flipped the chicken breast in the pan, grabbed a spoon and spooned the butter over top of it. She took the spoon, slid it under the breast, lifted it and brought it to the cutting board. Tossed the spoon into the sink, then grabbed a knife and made five cuts into the breast, then slid the knife underneath it and lifted it into the salad bowl. She spent a moment tidying it. "Mary said he's coming." Benji said. Jayla stopped. "I didn't ask." "Yes you did." "I did, didn't I."

"The moment I came in." "He's coming?" "He's coming." "What have you heard from him?" Jayla turned to face Benji, leaning against the counter. "Last time we talked, he said he couldn't wait for Iron Man II." "Be serious." "I'm not fair off. it was a few years ago." "Mary talks to him?" "Mary barely talks to me, Jayla." "I know he's-" "He's an idiot, Jayla. He was an idiot fifteen years ago, he's an idiot today." Jayla picked up the salad. "Lemme take it. Where's it going?" "The 1865 room on the third." "Got it." Jayla grabbed a tray, set it on the counter. Then a short bottle, a wine glass, and a small roll. "Salad." she said, winging her fingers towards herself. Beni recognized it, handed it over and she set it on the tray. She handed it to Benji. "He'll come see you." "I know he will," Jayla said, "I just gotta figure out if I want him to." Benji walked away from the kitchen with the tray held high. He had briefly worked as a waiter, but he was never very good at it. He climbed the short stair case to the foyer, then the long stairs to the third floor. He climbed up and then down the hall. He knocked with the toe of his shoe, which managed to open the door all the way. "Hey, I've got your ALex." "Shit." "OK, you are Alex." Benji put the tray on the edge of the desk. "You're here with a a client?" Alex put the iPad down. "Hey, Benji. No, I'm here for I'm here for the Mercury." Benji laughed. "You lied to get in here. You're going to be working tomorrow, right?" "What are you doing here? You're a waiter?" "Hey, Benjamin Copeland McCleary, son of Alexander Hetcher McCleary, Senate candidate, 2012." Alex leaned back in the chair, put on the eyes. "So you're the man around the house." "Don't bother." "Shit. Benji, I can't lose this one. There's money to be" "Don't worry, it might actually be helpful to have you around." "Really?"

"You gotta promise that you'll play straight." "Always." "You took my watch." "I had a car payment." "It was worth maybe 20 bucks." "I know that now." "Yes, you do." ALex stood up. walked over to the door, pushed it closed. "You want twenty percent? Thirty? Freebies?" "Not tonight." "You weren't satisfied last time?" "Why, would that qualify me for a refund?" "What the fuck do you want, Benji?" Benji sat on the antique chair in the far corner. "Nothing. I just need to know you're not going to do anything stupid. There are a couple of people who I know could use the company." Alex walked over to the chair, straddled Benji and settled down firmly on her lap. "You sure you don't want to have some fun?" "Not tonight." Alex looked into his eyes, then turned them off. "You wanna talk about it, Benji?" Benji put his hands on her ass. "My brother." "You've got a brother?" "And a sister." "Sister?" "I'm guessing you met her when you walked in." "Mary?" "That's her." "Her kids are down the hall." "I watch 'em. I'll be wranglin' them most of the day tomorrow." "They're fun, right?" "They are." "That's what's bothering you?" "You're trying for Hooker with a heart of gold, aren't you, Alex?" "Little bit, but a guy hires you once a week for six months, you kinda grew to know him." "You obviously didn't know my last name." "That's not the point," Alex smiled her grim smile, "I think I know you a bit." "It's my brother. He's coming home tomorrow and it's been rough." "He's the favorite?" Alex asked, bringing her knees up towards Benji's armpits. "Far from it." Benji reached below Alex, picked her up and walked over to the bed, laid her on top of him.

"He's the black sheep?" "No, he's the one who managed to get away from the family and actually make a name for himself." Benji started to kiss Alex on the neck. "So, he's coming back for the first time. How long's he been gone?" Alex reached between the two of them, fiddled with Benji's belt. "Seven, eight years. He's a writer." "Anything I might've read?" Alex managed to get the belt undone, and started working on the button. "Depends. What do you read?" "Gail Carriger, lately. I like paranormal romance." Benji started pulling at the bottom of Alex's shirt, pulled it towards her head. "He writes mysteries. The Cameraman series for Hard Case Crime is his big series. I think he wrote a few westerns, too." "So, he's good?" Alex moved her mouth to his neck as she finished off the pants and eased them down enough to free his manhood. "Better than most. Won a Sheamus a couple of years ago." Alex grabbed the back of her shirt and finished it over her head, tossing it on to the floor. Benji reached her hands to her hips, hooked his thumbs inside the waist band of her pajamas and her panties, pushing them down just enough to give access. "And what's waiting for him when he gets here?" Alex reached down and guided Benji into the goal. She shuddered a little, but it was mostly theatre for his sake, though she was pretty sure he barely noticed. "Well, Dad, for one thing. Not sure how he'll react, but my guess is he'll be too busy with his reporters and supporters." "Alex reached down and pushed her pajamas and underwear down further. Benji finished it off, got them off and Alex brought her knees up and she straightened, robove him, placing her hands on her thighs. She ground into him, hard, then gentle, which was lovely for Benji. "He left a girl behind. Twice." "She's here?" "The chef." "She good?" "Try the salad." "I'm busy." Benji started to play along a bit with Alex, and she was rather enjoying this. Even when it was work, she had a certain fondness for the friction of the festivities. Benji had always been a good customer, and she'd always had a good time since he was never demanding, and had tastes that were not demanding. "She's good. Been around the family since our teens." "And she was your brother's first?" "Hell no, but she was the one that stuck."

"I get that." Alex moved her hips in clockwise circles. Benji in a lateral motion. "Jayla, lovely woman. The two of them were married in a way." "What does that mean?" "James, my brother, he more or less dedicated himself to her. She wasn't working at the house full-time anyore, so he got a place with her. Three years they were together. She had a kid, not James' but he loved James like a dad." "And he left." "He left." Benji rolled her over and she re-positioned her legs to grant him more access. Alex complied, and thoroughly. "And he came back?" "He came back." Benji started engaging in a more active way, forceful, and slow. "So, he moved in with the chef again?" "No, he moved back here, she was still living here at the time, and they reconnected. They were settling back in together when he bolted, but fast." Alex was matching him, and Benji went a bit harder. A good deal harder. "Affraid of committment?" "No more than any other guy." "Weird." At that, Benji went faster, in great circles. No talking, just a few grunts, a couple of moans. Alex wasn't putting on a show, and Benji was too busy thinking about everything to play it up. Many men wanted to know that they could make the whore moan, proving they were the match and better of any other man! Not Benji. He'd rather enjoy himself, take what was given, and give back enough to make sure he could get a return appointment. Alex was happy to have his money, and though they'd only tlked at length afterwards a few times, she knew him. Really knew him. And then a clutching, and Benji was finished. Alex put a bit into her end, but then she was done. No need to go any further with the act, though she kept him right where he'd been. "You think he's going to see her." "Yeah, I do." "Not smart for him." "Probably not." Benji rolled off to the side, and Alex put her hands behind her head, laced her fingers and used them as a pillow on top of her pillow. Benji took the bowl from the tray, picked up a fork and handed it over to Alex. "Try the salad." Alex had set herself in a tableau, hoping it would give him some sort of thrill, but realising he was all business, she flung her arms down, pushed herself up and took the salad and the fork. "That wasn't work product." "What?"

"That was a freebie." "Oh. Thanks, Alex." She took a bite. "Shit, that is a good Caeser." "Jayla's good." "Looks like it."

The Clearing House, 9:21pm, Wednesday New Nick was lucky. Former Nick had pretty much written two-thirds of an article and it was left open on the MacBook's desktop. He had asked about a dozen stupidly simple questions of Hetch, had engaged in ten or so minutes of chit-chat (How had he not known that Hetch McCleary had written the famous pamphlet "How to Fillet a Shad"?). He sprinkled a couple of quotes in with the article, sent it off to the editor who had sent half a dozen eMails gently badgering Nick for his article, reminding him that he's got another 2,400 words by 9:30 Thursday night. New Nick would no longer be Nick by then. Either that or something would have gone terribly wrong. Bretschneider would be dead, he bolt downstairs, out the window of the staff dining room, then jump down to the deck below, then out into the canyon. That was his plan. Brzz-ut, Brzz-ut What now? Got article. Not your best stuff, but it'll do. Try and get some quotes from Mary Carlson. Nick almost thought to try and rouse Mary to see about getting an interview, but then he remembered that he wasn't actually a reporter. Nick went into his bag, found that he had only four tools - the beretta, a small knife, double-sharpened, a hunting knife, and a small stilletto. He always hated how folks thought of stillettos as a woman's tool, but he'd used it a lot. He had researched Nathan Bretschneider when he first got the assignment. Pretty basic hit, obviously. Huge Keynesian, graduated top of his class from Harvard, taught at Stanford. Used to write science fiction novels about a planet where the idea of money was just being introduced after 30,000 years of agriculture and animal husbandry and manufacturing. They had plastic, but no idea of money. It was weird, but Nick had finished the first book in the series, and started the second. Weird. Nathan had been married twice, was currently living with his lover, a former TA of his at Stanford, then his houseboy. Nick didn't judge. Bretschneider moved to LA to teach at USC, and he started several small companies, including a very smart investment group that was making money at the rate of five times prime. He also had a lot of outstanding debts, almost all of them under the

table. He was out about four hundred grand all over LA, and a couple bar to bigger fish to make sure that the Bretschneider Group could provide 'five times prime' return. Debt'll kill ya. Brzz-ut, Brzz-ut Doreen wants the car tomorrow night. Shit. He had known that Former Nick was his man when he saw him, but that left him almost no time for research. So far, he'd read all the articles on the computer, but hadn't taken any time to shake the machine down for any personal information. He knew he was married, he'd grabbed the wedding ring and placed it on his finger, though it was slightly loose, and he figured that this text meant that he had kids. Kids of driving age. Maybe it was her that caused that stain on the front seat. Savage. Bong His cell. "Yeah?" "Word?" "There's no word yet. Hasn't arrived." "What do you mean?" "I mean he begged off the early arrival." "How did we not know this?" "If we knew his every move, we probably wouldn;t have needed to do the job here." "True." "I know, that's why I said it." Brzz-ut, Brzz-ut Christ! Does this guy's phone ever stop buzzing? Plus, Marcuss tuition is due on Monday. Maybe I did Nick a favor. "You still there?" "Yeah. It won't be a problem." "OK, I trust. Never missed one. The pay's still fifty large." "Still sounds low." "Expenses on my end were higher than normal. Plus, I'm working it as a favor." "Fine. Update after the job." "Done." New Nick hung up. Brzz-ut, Brzz-ut Christ.

The San Jose International Airport, San Jose, CA, 10:30 Where the hell are they? Charlie stood outside the baggage return, waiting for the car. He had gone over teh whole thing with the chairwoman. FLight arrives, 9:40 Limo will be waiting aat baggage claim Limo to The Clearing House Arrive 10:20-10:30 Sit-down with Hetch immediately after. A black sedan pulled up. "Excuse me, are you Chalie Onser?" the driver called out. There was a time when he'd have known me by sight. "Yes I am." "Hop in. You were at the wrong baggage claim." Charlie was ready to explode on him, but decided to let it all go. Back in his better years, he'd have stormed back to the terminal, bought a ticket to Rio or Toronto or Tokyo, then turned around and sent the bill to the organizers. Now, not an option. He needed the check more than a week in the sun. Charlie settled into the sedan, not quite a limo, but comfortable nonetheless. There was a small bar built into the console separating the driver from the passengers. Nothing was filled, but it was there and that gave it all a sense of style. "If you need to head out of The Clearing House any time tomorrow, I'll be driving you." "Thank you?" "Oh, yeah," the driver stammered ever so slightly, "Paul." "Nice to meet you, Paul." The sedan rolled along the road. "So, you're the MC?" "Yes I am." "DOne it before?" "Yes I have. Used to be MC all the time." "Where at?" "Mostly fundraisers like this one, but I used to host auctions, award shows. Even hosted the Emmys once." "The Emmys? Like on TV." "Very much like on TV." "Wow. I couldn't do that." "Do that?" "Be on TV." Charlie chuckled. "It's not a hard as you think. I used to be on TV all the time. TV is easy. Theatre's hard." Paul made a turn onto a dark street surrounded by towering trees.

"I couldn't handle all those people looking at me." "It's a lot harder when no one is looking at you." "You can get away with a lot of no one is looking at you." Charlie thought about that for a moment. Being in the spotlight was hard, of course, but there was something to be said for his time out of the spotlight. No cameras caught his roughest days, out cold on the floor of his apartment or the accident in Fresno, visiting his daughter. That was nice. "So," Paul interupted what he didn't know as being thought, "are you going to open with a joke?" Charlie hadn't thought about that. "I probably should, shouldn't I?" "Have you ever done comedy?" Charlie was getting mildly annoyed. "How old are you?" "Twenty-seven." Man, had his name gone so far that young people who were alive during his major run? "I've done stand-up and sit-coms." "Really? That's awesome. Any of them last?" Charlie rolled down his window. The smell of tree wasn't nearly as overpowering as he'd hoped. "One of 'em." "Awesome." They turned onto the road up to The Clearing House. The turns started to get a bit more frequent. "You should open with a joke." Paul said. "I probably should." Silence. Charlie wished Paul had the radio on, but in these mountains, it probably would have been cutting out. Weird how being only a few minutes outside of the tenth largest city in America you could lose signal so easily. Forget about signals, perhaps. Maybe it was a good thing. They took more turns, a giant, looming house poking out from between the trees with a few scattered lights on. Charlie had spent a lot of time in the giant mansions of Beverly Hills, Malibu, and the Santa Barbara coast, but this place felt more like a hotel in a horror film than the home of a Senate candidate. A horror film. How many of those had he turned down when they flashed in front of him. That was where careers went to die. His career hadn't died, it merely limped along, crawled. Those might have labeled him as a has-been, which might have been preferable to the state of zombification his livelihood had seemed to shamble in over the last couple of decades. A final turn and they were under an over-hang, an entryway leading to a pair of french doors. Waiting in front of them was a woman, maybe 35, short, but she was built like a television star, even if her face wasn't finely cut like one. She must be Mary Carlson; the Chairwoman.

The car stopped, Paul walked out as Charlie shifted himself towards the door. "Paul, you were half-an-hour late." She said as the young man opened the door. "He was waiting at the old Baggage pick-up." "Oh. That would do it," Mary stepped forward as CHarlie got out of the sedan, "hello, Mr. Onser, I'm Mary Carlson." Mary offered her hand, which Charlie took in his own. "It's nice to meet you, miss." He said. He broke off the shake and turned back to the sedan, pulled out his over-night bag. "I hope you know that our family has been big fans of yours for ages. Dad requested you specifically." "Glad to hear it, miss. Glad to hear it." And it was good to know that he wasn't totally forgotten. "Follow me," Mary said, turning towards the doors, "Dad really wants to meet you." Charlie followed into the massive house. There were staircases, two of them, one on either side, though they went to different parts of the house. Charlie wondered if he would have have to go down to the foyer to go up a single floor. You have to go down to go up. He'd heard that before. Mary led him to a hall way that was dark-paneled and cold. He should have expected that. While the floor was wood (redwood?), the cover by trees and the altitude must keep this place temperate even in the hottest time of the summer. Mary brought him to a door, heavy, mahogany door. Mary knocked twice, a voice called something unintelligible out, and she turned the knob, pushed it open. "Head on it. I can take your bag up to your room. I'll be door to take you there in a few minutes." Charlie handed his over-night bag to her. "Thank you, miss." Mary took the bag off to the near staircase, then up. Charlie walked in as Hetch rose to his full height, offering his hand across the desk. "Charlie Onser! It is an absolute pleasure." Charlie walked across and shook the hand of the grand old man. "It's a pleasure mister McCleary. This is an amazing home you've got." Hetch sat and Charlie took a seat on the other side of the desk. "My father was a rather successful publisher. The family had an estate on East Egg in New York. Huge Eastern estate. He moved out here in the late 50s. This was a hotel in the 20s and 30s. Dad bought it, built it up, added thirty-five rooms. There were almost 30 already. He built a giant pool, tennis court, a goat-pen. We don't do goats anymore." "They're a delicious animal." "Absolutely, absolutely. Tasty as all get-out! We turned that area into the parking lot. We've got a few goats living wild around the place though. At least a dozen escaped, they've bred. I think they keep the mountain lions fed, too." Hetch reached into a drawer and pulled out a bottle. Rye. Nice.

"You've got mountain lions?" Hetch grabbed two glasses. set 'em one in front of each of them. "Yeah, a few. we don't see 'em too often. Had a pair of young ones cavorting around the tennis court last year. They were adorable! Of course, they did kill Mother's young pug several years ago, but what are you gonna do?" Hetch poured them both a large splash of the stuff. "It's from Alameda. Small distillery. St. George Spirits. Great stuff." Charlie picked up the glass, sniffed it, feeling the burn float up his nostrils. He took a fast sip. "It's good." Charlie said. "Better be, what they ask for it." Hetch said, taking it all down in a flood, "so yeah, we've got mountain lions. And deer, wild boar, a few wild turkeys. I used to go bow-hunting sometimes, but really, I much preferred just target-shooting out on the tennis courts." Hetch leaned back and let the alcohol flood in. "The pause that refreshes." He said. Charlie sipped at his again. "This is wonderful, you inviting me to host the event." Charlie said. "Well, we needed someone with a name to play host, and you were among the biggest." That past tense worried CHarlie. "I'm sure you could have gotten a bigger name than me." "The Baldwins are backing Feinstein, save for Stephen." "and you're better off without him, I'd say." Hetch laughed. "You've still got it." "I've still got it." Hetch leaned forward. "I hope you'll open with a joke. Only way to go with that one." Charlie took another sip. "So I've been told." Hetch leaned forward, reached into another drawer, came out with a check book. He grabbed a pen and started writing on it. "The deal was twenty-grand, no?" "It was." "A lot of money, lot of money." Hetch finished filling out the check. "Less than what I was making an episode on Across Town." "And back then, twenty grand really meant something. Now, it's good for two hours of entertainment at a dinner party!" Hetch had been drinking, Charlie thought, so he'd let it slide. "So, you think you can win this one?" "If I did, I doubt I'd be drinking." "So now you're the funny one." "Opening with a joke. It's the only way to go."

Charlie laughed, finished his drink. "You have plans for the day tomorrow?" Hetch, asked. "I might head into Saratoga. There's a winery down there I'd like to taste at." "Crooner's Bluff?" "Crooner's Bluff." "You'll love it, Charlie. You'll love it." "You a wine drinker?" "I dabble." "That's what I do. Dabble." Another knock and Mary was in the door when Charlie turned to see. "Mr. Onser, your room is ready, if you'd like to retire." Charlie turned to Hetch again, set his glass on the table and offered his hand across to Hetch, who shook it with great firmness. After he released, Hetch grabbed the checkbook, tore out the check and handed it to Charlie. "I am so glad you agreed to come, Charlie." "I'm so glad you agreed to have me come, Hetch." CHarlie stood, walked to the door and followed Mary towards the near stairs. "Are you hungry? I can have something sent up?" "It would be nice if I could have a get a sandwich. Maybe a steak sandwich?" "A popular choice this evening." She walked him up to his room, stopped by the door. "We'll have a spread out for breakfast starting around seven. Paul'll be available to take you around anytime tomorrow. Just have to be back by 4:30 or so." Charlie entered into the room. Comfortable, four-poster bed, a dresser, a desk. All very nice. "Jayla'll bring your sandwich up, but it'll probably be a bit." "That'll be just fine." Mary walked out, closed the door behind her. Charlie kicked off his shoes, walked to the desk where a blotter held an oversized pad of paper, a cup held a raft of pens. Charlie grabbed a Biro, and sat at the desk. "Gotta open with a joke." Charlie said out loud as he started jotting down ideas.

Thursday The Domain Hotel, SUnnyvale, CA, 6:25am, Thursday James had been awake since three in the morning, Festen having cycled through almost a dozen times as he lay sleeping. More than fifteen hours. A LOT more than fifteen hours.

And now, three hours awake and a room service breakfast later, he was watching it again. The movie was at his favorite part, as Christian stands-up, toasts his father by re-counting the time his mother walked in on his father abusing him and his sister. It was a riveting scene. When Dr. Hynek had first told him to watch it, this was the part that got him thinking, that made him feel like it applied to him. When he returned to The Clearing House after his time in Boston, he could feel it pressing in. THIS was what he was dealing with. Then he left again. Quick as a flash as if there was nothign tying him down. THere was nothing tying him down. Not a knot, not a cord, not a tether. James' last leaving had been so sudden, and so thorough, the family had stopped sendign Christmas cards, though they still left answering machine messages on the holidays. "James, Merry Christmas from The CLearing House! Mary and the kids are here, having a wonderful time! Maybe next year you'll be here, too!" He heard it as it recorded. James picked up the cell phone. half the LCD battery was yellow. He'd have to remember to recharge it at the House. Re-dial. "Hello, James." "Morning, Dr. Hynek." "Today is the day, right?" "It is." James put as much certainty into that pair of words as any other he had said in his life. "Alright." "Any advice?" The doctor started typing. "You have to be sure you're doing the right thing. It's never easy to confront an abuser, and your choice of timing is well, it will make things more difficult. You're going to be facing down your father, your mother, your sister, your brother, the journalists, everyone. Just think about that. There's no shame in backing out, but if you're going to get beyond this, you must confront him. Public or private." James sat up. "I'm ready." "You sound ready." "I am ready." "Then you just have to go and do it." "Thank you, doctor Hynek." "Call if you need anything, James." "I will, Doctor Hynek." James clicked off the call. The movie was still on. It was always on. He had seen it so many times he had meorized the Danish words with no idea what they meant. He knew it in and out, without question, and as he got out

of bed, he walked over to the computer and pressed the eject button. It was such a simple act. So simple. He pressed a single button, and the disk slid out. It had been almost three years since he had taken the disk out. IT wasn't on anymore. The DVD player software minimized, exposing the desktop. He closed all the other programs. How long had that Word window been open and untouched? He'd not written a word in the novel since last June. Wow, long time. He had forgotten about it. Time to close it down. James sat on the bed, took off his shirt, socks. stood and unzipped his pantsm pulled down the boxers. He gathered it all together in a ball, set it on the bed. He pulled his good shirt, pants, even his best socks and pulled them out of the metal suitcase. He stuffed the dirty clothes into the case, then headed into the shower. Once, while writing his third book, he had realised that when he was stuck, he'd shower, and when things looked the most difficult, he took longer and longer showers. Today, he was in there for almost ninety minutes. Stepping out, the room was freezing; all that time surrounded by steam will do that to you. He got dressed, got ready. When he was finished, he kew he was ready. He got ready to pack the computer in, when he looked at the desktop for the first time in a long time That was Jayla and James, arm in arm, at Mary's wedding.

The Clearing House, Thursday, 6:46 am Why am I doing this still? Hilary looked at herself in the mirror. She applied the liquid eyeliner under her left eye, over her right. She had been awake for more than an hour. First she just lay in bed, on her left side, staring at the couch, unable to sleep. She couldn't place it in time: it certainly was an antique, but there was something false about it. it must have been a knock-off, maybe from the 50s imitating the 20s. They did that, back then. And in teh 60s. The 70s. Today. Oh, and AManda was on the couch. She was that too, wasn't she. No. Hilary lost her train of thought. She got up and went into the bathroom, sure that Amanda would be up any minute and there was no way she'd be seeing her undone. define the eyes, the eyebrows, the lips. This time she chose silver-grey lips that matched her hair. Her blue eyes played well with the color. Amanda had pointed that out, even if she disapproved of many if not all of Hilary's personal make-up habits. quarter-sized dollop of pomade in her palm. run it from front to back, then fingers through the hair; twice towards the left, one towards the right, and up. That was what she was looking for. She was an artist, so these things

were expected, but even she she hadn't been, she'd probably have been that shopgirl who dressed weird. Ah, a shopgirl. She had trolled those waters for years, enjoyed her regular catches. Imagine what she'd have done if she dwelled among them. As always, in the morning, she was naked. The last thing she did before getting her breakfast was to dress. Amanda refused to consider it dressing. What AMANDA did was dressing; what HILARY did was puttin' on clothes. The difference between the two techniques was obvious in many ways. Amanda took her time, had clothes laid out and bit-by-bit built her outfits, created a shape to accentuate her shape. Hilary might hate her with venom like a BlueRinged Octopus, but she could not deny the narrow waist, the 3/2/3 proportion of her body that she sculpted over time spent in gyms and other athletics. Athletics that had, for years included Hilary as a sort of jungle gym. Hilary wasn't quite stick thin, she had hips, thank God, and her legs had form more than the slender sticks that so many of her art school friends had developed. No musculature in the arms, they were the twigs, and her shoulders were just north of bony. It was the neck that was long, slender and actually graceful. It turned the tide when people considerred her. Her nose was long, but not distracting. Eyes were heavy, slight lines hidden in half by heavy liner. The check bones high, her chin more or less a flat place. She wasn't quite lovely, but she was memorable, and she knew where to accentuate. What the fuck as I going to do today? Hilary had her notebook, that would provide some entertainment. She had a game she'd play at events like these, ones that she had been dragged to by her girlfriend. She'd sit in a corner where people were within eyerange, and then she'd draw them, naked, in the tasks of the day. If she had time, the drawings would be detailed, sketches worthy of the study of anatomy or Leonardo's workbook. Other times they were mere cartoons, outlines with exaggerations of faces, legs, feet, genitals. She was dextrious, which allowed her speed, and she was multi-facted, which allowed her range. She knew breakfast would be buffet downstairs, so she took a final look at herself. "Done." she said, certain no one but her heard it. Hilary opened the door and there was Amanda, on the floor, doing crunches in her pajamas, tiny pieces of sushi dotting the fabric. She did not stop, and Hilary was especially sure Amanda had not looked at her naked body. She walked to her suitcase, left open the night before, and pulled out a loose-fitting button-up shirt, already buttoned, and slid it over her head. Then her favorite pair of panties, black and just managing to hold together by force of will. FInally, green courdaroy pants, the ones she wore when she was trying to make an impression. They were in slightly better shape than the panties, but the wear appeared to be planned instead of merely collected, which gave them a certain cache. No shoes. Today would be a day of no shoes. "I'm going down to breakfast." Hilary announced, as if talking to an

empty room. "You need to wait for me." "Why?" "We need to appear like the kind of couple who can't" Amanda stopped when she could feel the lecture that this would lead do; could feel teh fight that would ensue. "And?" Hilary asked. "Never mind. Go down, have some food. Just make sure to know that I'm preparing for the interview, all right?" Hilary was almost impressed that she could let that go. "I'll tell 'em that I let you sleep in a little extra." "Thank you." Amanda had stopped crunching. Hilary opened the door and walked into the hallway. There, at the top of the stairs, was the guy Amanda had been in such awe of. Nick somethingorother. Andrews? Didn't matter. "How are you this morning?" she asked. "Fine. Comfy place they got here." New Nick answered. "I'm Hilary." she said, offering her hand. "Nick Andros, Sacramento Bee." They shook. "What brings you here, Hilary?" "My girlfriend. She's a reporter." "CNN, right?" "Yeah." "What about you? You fond of Mr. McCleary?" Nick leaned against the railing. "Not particularly. He's just another publisher turned politician. Very Citizen Kane." Nick laughed slightly. "Why is it every publisher wants to be President while every reporter wants to write movies?" "I know I've seen enough screenplays on Amanda's desktop to verify that one." Hilary had, too. There was the one about the young painter who fell for her art teacher which was cloyingly sweet. The one about the young lesbian coming out to her gay father only to discover that her mother was 1) still alive and 2) her older girlfriend, showed some promise if you read it as a comedy instead of the tragedy that she meant it to be. Still, there was promise in the dialogue. The last one she had written was a psychosexual thriller that she was writing for Hilary to direct. With only a few minor touches, it would have made a great porno, but she'd never mentioned that to Amanda. "Care to join me for breakfast?" Nick asked. "Sure, sounds like fun." The two walked down to discover that the first floor was nearly empty. There was a guard sitting by the door, and off the foyer was a large parlor

set-up with a long table and a series of chaffing dishes. It did smell good, though. Very good. Really good. Breakfast had been one of the few things that she had given up for Amanda. Amanda wasn't a Vegatarian, but she didn't eat meat, or sausage, or bacon. In fact, before lunch, Hilary had never seen her eat anything but coffee, vitamins and and Aleve. It was her way. Hilary walked in to the parlor and counted the dishes, eight of 'em. Nick stepped around and opened the first one. French toast. Amanda could smell that there was cinnamon. She loved cinnamon. "Looks like they put out quite a spread." Nick said, grabbing a plate and slipping a couple of pieces of toast onto the serving spoon. Amanda grabed a plate. "So you're a reporter?" She asked. "I'm a reporter. Long time now." He opened the next dish and it was a mound of eggs. He scooped a few on to his plate. "And you?" Nick asked, opening the next as Hilary piled the cinnamon french toast on to her plate. "Painter." "Really? What kind of painter?" "I'm a Stuckist." "Well, neo-figurativist." Nick grabbed the next lid, which revealed sausages that looked like they were homemade. Hilary took some eggs for herself. "Wow, you the arts reporter?" "Nah, I just get Art in America and Art Review. I went to that exhibition We Just Wanna Show Some Fucking Paintings at Jesse's gallery." "I was in that show." "You were? Which piece?" Nick picked up the next one, full of three types of bacon. "Jesus, that smells good," Hilary said, "I did the painting of the girl on the subway with the balloon with the face of her mother on it." "The huge one?" "Twelve-by-eight. Second biggest thing I've ever painted." Nick grabbed a few pieces of bacon, but he could feel Hilary crowding him for her shot at them. She picked up the tongs and grabbed one of each kind, making three criss-crossing patterns on the plate, then turning from the line and heading over to one of the small tables. NIck went through the rest of the line (Pumpkin and cranberry pancakes, fruit salad, biscuits and croisant, some sort of fried rice?) and joined Hilary at the table. "So, a Stuckist. Fascinating." Nick said. "It's a weird movement. It's basically over, but I still produce in the same field." "I worked, briefly, at a gallery in the 90s. Gallery LA."

"I remember it well. First time I saw Koons shit. I remember thinking that this was what I wanted, but I wanted to have at least a shred of integrity." "Yeah, he's a decent guy, despite what he's been doing to art for the last twenty years." "I dunno. I kinda liked Puppy." "You've been to Bilbao?" "They've got one of my paintings." "Amazing. What's that like?" Nick picked up a piece of the french toast, wrapped it around one of the homemade sausages." "It has a lifecycle." "A lifecycle?" Nick said microseconds before he took his first bite, full of cinnamon and sage and fennel, and perhaps a touch too much brown sugar. "Yeah, it's crazy, the moment you hear a museum's buying one, or they commission one from ya. I always go on-line and look at the gallery space, or I'll even fly out and not tell anyone I'm there, and I'll check it out, in my head figuring where it's gonna go, what's gonna be next to it. The first time they showed one of my pieces at the MOMA, a museum I know better than my own studio, I knew where I wanted it for light and impact, and, of course, it was nowhere near it, completely different floor, in a landing. But that first few weeks, that feels like something special. At the opening, you're a star and it glows and you want to look at it all night, look at everythign that's next to it." "That wears off?" "Not so much wears off, as you start to find the gaps, you see the framing, the story of the exhibit. I still feel there's some magic, be it's the kind of magic that feels imperfect, messy." "Like a marriage." "You're married?" "Married. twenty-three years" "Cool. So yeah, you have a painting in a museum and that first year's cool. Then the next year, you're tired. No matter if you have only been there for the opening, you go and you look at it and it's not what you do anymore. It's what you were painting, what you've grown out of. It's like looking at the skin you already shed." Hilary paused, grabbed a piece of the lean crispy bacon, and took a bite, feeling the crumbles in her mouth as she chewed. "Then there's a period, if they're up permanently, where you realise that that moment you caught, was the peak, the pinnacle. You'll never capture that moment, and for me, that means I go back and try to do it again. Luckily, that passes after a while and finally you forget about it until the one day you run across it in a magazine, or when you're walking through, and then you can really experience the piece as a piece and not as something you created." "That's when you get your distance?" "That's when you get your distance."

Hilary took a fork-full of eggs and a bit of the irish bacon with it. God how had she lived without this for so long? "It must be the same for you reporters, right? You go up and down on what you've written when you revisit?" "Nah. IT's only briefly news, then it's gone." Nick polished off the French toast sandwich. IN the hallway, Alex appeared in a smart skirt suit. Black hair, not brunette, but black, and lipstick the color of brass instruments. Nick noticed the conservative skirt, right at the knees. Hilary noticed that she had a face that was not made for distance viewing. This was a woman who was meant to be seen up-close, her eyes examined, her nose and cheeks scanned and re-scanned. She wasn't beautiful, that wasn't the right work, but her face somehow encouraged a sort of transit of thoughts, startings with admiration, continuing through kissing and ending with fingers sticky and sweet. She was carrying an old laptop, one of the clamshell iBooks, and a small notepad. There was a pencil stuck behind her ear. Alex approached the table. "Hi, mind if I join you?" "Not at all," Nick said, half-standing, "I'm Nick Andros, Sacramento Bee." "Alex Kingman, Pleasure." Hilary put out her hand. "Hilary Barkley." "Nice to meet you." Alex put her computer on the table, the notebook on top, pulled the pen from behind her ear and placed that as the capper. She wandered off towards the service area where the coffee urns were kept. She grabbed a mug, drew herself a cup, picked up one of the pastries that Hilary hadn't noticed were sitting at the end of the line of chaffing dishes. Sitting down, Alex wiped the pen and notebook to the side, set the cherry cheese danish on top of the computer. "You must love that laptop. I think it's old enough to vote." Nick quipped. "Probably is. I've had it since I was in law school." "Law school?" Hilary asked. "Yeah, Santa Clara. Never graduated, but I did my time." "You look far too young to have even graduated high school." Hilary added. "Well, aren't you sweet." "Who you with?" Nick asked, rolling another sausage in the french toast. "The Mercury, though politics isn't my usual beat." "Really? What is?" Shit, Alex thought. "I bum around the Arts pages." Hilary leaned in.

"REally? I paint." "She paints," said Nick, "she's a Stuckist." They were talking crazy. Why had she picked the fucking Arts section instead of sports. Of course, in that case the girl would have turned out to be Hilary Navratilova or some other shit. FUCK! Two kids came running into the room, one a boy carrying an iPhone, the other a girl with a deck of cards. Following them was Benji, wearing a suit and tie. Alex had to admit that he looked really good in the outfit. "So those are the Kidlings?" Alex called over to Benji as he chased after the two of them. "Indeed, that they are." "Kidlings? Like AsktheKidlings?" Hilary asked. "The same, apparently. I had no idea until last night." "You're on Twitter?" "In my line of work, you have to be." Alex answered, tellign a truth for both her real and imagined professions. "I'm @HilArtY" Alex blanched a bit. "@AlexGoodAss1987" "Picked that one out while you were in law school?" "Worse, bartenders school." ALex quipped. That got them laughing, which allowed her to turn the conversation direction. "Do y'all know Benji? Benji McCleary." Shit, Nick thought. He should have recognised the name. "No, I don't think I've met him. How do you know 'im? SHIT! Alex wasn't used to subterfuge, but something told her that the Nick guy was. He had been feeling her like the bottom of a lake with a lure. "Can't even remember anymore, it's been so long." Nick gave her a look that Alex feared was suspicion. "Benji, how did we meet?" Alex called across the room to where Benji was arranging the Kidlings at a far corner table. "Law school." "That's right. I think it was our orientation day." Nick smiled. He was pretty sure he could follow the idea here, but he tried not to let on to heavy. He took a bite of his french toast sandwich, the brown sugar a little lighter this time. "So, why do they have the Arts girl covering this shindig?" Hilary asked. "Long story. I'm sort of up in the air right now with all the cut-backs. One week I'm copy-editing for the Living section, the next I'm writing ad copy, and this week, I'm covering a political fundraiser. No idea what comes next." "Sounds horrible." Nick said. "At least I'm still getting a check." "and at least it's still clearing." Nick said with a mischeifious twinkle in his eyes. Alex thought that she'd seen that before. Hell, she'd practiced that

before, in front of a mirror, for hours at a time. Alex reached down and took a bite of her danish, searching Nick's face for signs of intention. And they were all over it. "So, when are you interviewing Hetch?" Nick asked. "Mary, was that her name?, she's working on getting me some time. Might be after the dinner, though" "He's easy. We had a great interview last night." A small boy appeared at Hilary's elbow as she was nibbling on more bacon. "Excuse me, would you draw something for me?" Kennedy said, holding out a sketch book and a black crayon. "Sure, little guy." Hilary said, taking the book and crayon from him. "WHat's your name, little guy?" Alex asked across the table, taking a sip of her coffee right after asking. "I'm Kennedy. Uncle Benji is your boyfriend, right?" Somehow, Alex managed to not send any of the coffee into her nasal cavities. "Is that what he said?" Alex asked. "No, but I could tell he likes you." "And how is that?" "He looks at you and doesn't stop." "Is that so?" "Yep." "Good to know." "I'm thinking you've known for a while, no?" Nick interjected. "I'm pretty sure I didn't." Alex answered. Hilary had decided to give little Kennedy an image of a young woman's face. She was lovely, without being overly sculpted. she had done the hair first, a trio of s-curves defining an area of white she filled with an eye, a nose, and a mouth, some shadowy cheekbones. Once she had that. she turned the outer area of her hair into an orgy of women, naked and in various states of undress. Her wild hair was a beastiary of sexualized women. Benji came over. "So, how's everything over here?" he asked. "Well, little Kennedy said that I'm your girlfriend." "He did?" Benji seemed calmer than she had hoped. "He did." "Well, isn't that interesting." "It is." "He also likes the lady downstairs." "Lady downstairs?" Alex raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, the one who does the cooking." "He's talking about the chef, Jayla." "Jayla? You like Jayla." "No, I mean yes, I mean, Kennedy, where'd you come up with that?"

"Mommy was talking about how her brother was in love with the Cook. And you're her brother." Alex came over with a look that expressed a sadness she barely understood. "I am, and so is James." "Who's James?" "He's your uncle." "But you're our Uncle." "I am, but there is another. "Oh." Hilary paused in her drawing, then gave a couple of more swipes with the crayon. That was enough, she determined, and handed the book back to Kennedy. "You didn't sign it." He handed it back to Hilary, who took the crayon and gave her signature. "There you go." Kennedy smiled. "This'll pay for college." And he scampered off. "Well, he's a fun one." "He is." "HAve you answered Kidling questions today?" Hilary asked. "Ah, you figured that out, did you?" "I asked a question once."Hilary said. "Really? What was it?" "Should I stay with my girlfriend?" "What'd we say?" "If u love hr, yez" "I should have typed that myself." "Probably."

The Clearing House, 8:15am Charlie's face was creased. He was looking in the mirror, and the pain in his back was the first indication that he had fallen asleep at the desk, but that crease said it to anyone outside of himself. The corner of the blotter was perfectly outlined across the side of his face. Sadly, while he was sleeping, he had not managed to find the right opening joke. He wasn't about to give it up, but Charlie wasn't ready. He didn't know why, but he knew that he was going to be failing for the time being. CHarlie turned on the hot water tap, let the steam start to pour

upwards. He pulled the bar to stopper the sink, letting it fill with hot water. Charlie quickly dipped his hands in, brought the water up to his face, trying to steam the wrinkles out. Well, the recent ones, at least. He tossed another handcup full into his face. Charlie went back to his bed, sat down. What the hell is funny these days? The Palm Springs Follies were easy. All he had to do was made the jokes he did on Carson in the 70s, Arsenio in the 90s. It was so easy. It is never a difficulty to appeal to grey hairs. Charlie loved how it was easy money more than any of the material he had to do. He went back to the desk. There were fragments here. Two or so three dozen starts, a few punchlines. He thought about what would happen if the mountain the mansion was built into was a new Vesuvius, an ash-spewing monster that gave no warning. The place would be filled with ash, preserved forever. Some historians of the Past of Comedy, would find these fragments and believe that they were represented the pinnacle of comedy of the early 21st century. It would be held up for research, recreations of Charlie delivering these would happen when whatever Hipsters would mutate into got into Juliard's graduate program. It would be all that reained of him, of comedy. And it would not be good. He started writing again. There had to be something in here. A knock. Charlie stood up, walked across to the door and opened it.Mary stood in the hallway, looking as if she'd gotten less sleep than he had. "Mr. Onser, so sorry to bother you, but I was hoping I might be able to get you for a couple of minutes for a photo op. Charlie knew he looked like hell, he noticed that his shirt was wet from the splashes. Of course, he was not able to say no, couldn't deal on prior success. He'd traded that in on prior bad behavior. He could punt. "Let me change my clothes, run a comb through my hair, and I'll be right there." Charlie closed the door, stripped off his shirt, grabbed the polo shirt from his bag. The pants from yesterday would have to do. He tucked everything in, smoothed it down. He might have gained a few pounds, but he still had enough of it together. He simply smoothed his hair with his hands. A quick trip to the mirror in the bathroom and while the faint outline of the blotter edge still showed, it wasn't nearly that noticeable, he thought. Then again, he thought that his career would last forever, so maybe his opinion wasn't perfect. Back to the door, Mary was still standing there with her ever-present clipboard. "ALright now, Miss Carlson. Let's take some snapshots." Charlie followed her down the stairs. "The first of the guests are arriving, they're planning on playing a little

tennis today so they're arriving early. Have you heard of Ling.com?" "I am deeply familiar with it. Use it to buy all my spring-planting exotics" "Well, the founder, Gregory Findelmann, just arrived." "Findelmann? I thought it was based in Hong Kong?" "It is, Findelmann moved it there when he changed the name to Ling from Find-it-Findel.com. In CHina, it's a secret that he's the owner, though. "An ancient Chinese secret, huh?" Mary looked at him. "Like the old commercial. Funny. Hope you're giving us a little more of that this evening." Charlie lost all vestige of a smile. I've got to get back to writing gags. Arriving at the foyer, a tall, balding gentleman with a goatee that would seem better suited to a face three times his size stood with a younger Asian woman, maybe thirty. She was in tennis whites, a skirt that seemed to be composed of a dozen strips of white pleather. Nice legs, Charlie thought, but she wore a look on her face that seemed annoyed at existence. "Charlie Onser, this is Gregory Findelmann. Greg, this is our MC for the evening, Charlie." Gregory stepped forward, offering his hand. "I am a great big fan of your work!" that exclamation point well earned. "Thanks." Charlie said, somewhat tiredly, takign Greg's offer. "My wife, oh, this is my wife Cassandra, and I watch Around Town all the time on Nick at Night, just great family viewing. Great family viewing." This guy had bumpkin stamped all over him. "Shall we get a photo?" Mary asked. "Oh, yes, yes, yes! A photo would be great!" Gregory said, moving around to Charlie's side, swung his arm around Charlie's shoulders. Charlie noticed he was wearing collone. Aramis? Mary had her iPhone out, and ready. After a few second, a brief pop of light, followed by a final, brighter flash. "One more." Mary said. Another pair of flashes. "That is excellent, that is excellent!" Gregory said, not removing his arm from around Charlie. "Gregory, let's go to the room and get ready to play." Gregory removed his arm from Charlie. "I did promise some tennis with the Linkledder boys." Gregory said to Charlie. "Rick and Rich? I haven't seen them in twenty years." "You know R 'n R?" "Rick directed a pilot I did. That was back when Rich was still Rachel and was just writing scores." "Well, I'll be! Cassandra, Charlie here knows the Linkledders!" "I heard, Gregory." "Well, you should come down and join us!"

Charlie's mind raced. RIck and Rich Linkledder were the directors of the biggest movies of the last decade, The Killings Saga. Cyber-punk brought to the screen with a lead actor as wooden as a Cigar shop Indian. It had also relaunched the career of Adrienne Barbeau. "I'll be happy to, though I'm workign on my act for this evening, so I'll probably just stop by." "Oh that is fantastic! Just fantastic!" Gregory enthused. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to grab some breakfast and then get back to work." Charlie said, running through all the possibilities in his mind. "Totally understand, you are a busy man, busy man. It was excellent meeting you! So excellent!" "Nice to meet you, Ma'am." Charlie said to Greg, then Cassandra, completely forgetting her name. He had bigger things on his mind and the only names that were sticking were Rick and Rich. The Clearing House, 9:07am, Thursday James pulled over at the turn-out right before The Clearing House gates. What the hell am I doing? James hadn't been here for nearly a decade. He'd be 38 in two weeks and the last birthday he'd spent at the house was his 30th. Thirteen days later, after watching Festen for the first time, he packed a week's worth of clothes, his computer, a few photos, his old typewriter, and slink downstairs. He slid a note under Jayla's door. Sorry. I've gotta get out of here. She'd only see it after Hank had colored over much of the paper. Even at 7 he was a constantly coloring on any piece of paper he found. James now sat at the base of the mountain, able to see the window of the staff dining room. How many times had he and Jayla sat on the deck beneath it, smoking weed and drinking Mother's Crown Royal? Late at night, watching the stars, inevitably one of them rolling on top of, and then onto/into the other. That last time at the house had settled much, started much. That was the first time he watched Festen. He had appeared at Dr. Hynek's office in Santa Cruz a few months before, referred by the benefits administrator of the McCleary Endowment. Dr. Hynek had come most highly recommended, and almost immediately he understood why. He'd often call in the middle of the night, early in the morning, Saturday night at 6pm. Whenever he called, he could talk; the good doctor often backing him down from the edge. The most powerful of all the issues were the ones about his father. James had always felt inadequet in the view of his Dad. And afraid of both his disapproval and that he would end up like him. This issue had come up in the office during a marathon three hour discussion of James' latest novel. Dr. Hynek recommended a Danish movie, Festen, and said that James should watch it carefully, take in the message. When James asked for more

details, Dr. Hynek said don't look into it, just get the DVD and watch and understand. James got it, took the doctor's advice, and by the midway point, he understood. As Christian had confronted his father for the years of sexual abuse, James had realised his own troubles with his father. He was barely 7 years old, maybe younger. He had been forced to perform on his father, for his father's pleasure. Unlike the protagonist Christian, he had to suffer alone. Christian had his sister, James had no one. His father had singled him out, had forced him to serve him in the capacities that his drunken mother could not. James was not the wife, only the portion of the wife's duties Mother was no longer interested in performing. And that night, he packed up, left a note with the woman he loved, and walked out the door. He stopped at a gas station in Paso Robles, sent a text message to his sister. Need money for apartment. By noon the next morning, it was wired into his account and he had a place in Newport Beach the next afternoon. No bed, no desk, just the stuff he brought with him. He'd accumulate the rest over the next month and by the time his next rent check was due, he'd built an apartment for himself that one could live in. But only one. And he started to write. 6am, wake up, turn on the TV and put the DVD on in Repeat mode. Pull out the orange juice, the jug of water from the fridge, grab a couple of granola bars, then down to the desk and start tying. Noon, stop typing, throw out the empty orange juice carton, refill the water jug, switich it for the full one in the fridge, grab two Cokes, make a sandwich, then back to the desk to write. 6pm, call for Chinese or Pizza delivery, make some tea, refill and switch the water, then back to the desk. Midnight, everything off, refill the water jug and off to bed. Every day. Seven days a week, with night off on Wednesdays for provisions shopping, Monday mornings he'd do his laundry (as it is commanded in scripture). He managed to get an agent with his first submission. Sold his first novel within three months. Short stories in Ellery Queen, Asimov's, The New Yorker. Hard Case Crime bought his Cameraman series, Harcort-Brace his Lunger Cycle. He wrote and wrote for five years, then slowly let it fade away. It had been more than a year since he had written anything. He'd done a few book tours (he had eight novels waiting to be published when he stopped, now there were only two awaiting the masses) and had made NPR appearances. He even accepted a Sheamus award for his third Cameraman novel. But he hadn't written. He had more on his mind. He had to have his own Festen, his own Celebration, and it had to be soon. He'd let so much become affected by his

discoveries that he finally understood the point of Dr. Hynek giving him the movie. He had to come to his father and confront him, but to do it in private, a mano-y-monster would be of no use. He had to let the family know. Why did his mother drink? That was obvious now, crystal clear. She knew, she understood. When he heard that his father was running for Senate, that was the moment he knew what he had to do. He had to let the world know, not just his family. he had to ruin all chances of his oil slicking the rest of the world. When Mother had called, he said yes, without question. That was the opening, the perfect timing. A dozen marathon sessions with Dr. Hynek, who had coincidentally moved less than an hour away from James new aparment, had made it possible. WHile the Docotor said it was necessary, he had also constantly asked James if he was sure, that there were other ways. James was sure. There was no other way. And now, at the turn-out in front of the gates to The Clearing House, James was sitting, waiting to turn the car back on and drive up. He could see the window, right up on the ridge, and he knew, if he stayed there long enough, Mary would show up for a cigarette, Benji would climb out with whatever women he'd corraled for the night, and maybe Jayla would show up, lookign out on the canyon, looking for deer or maybe one of the goats. James turned on the engine. Another car drove up to gates; a beat up old Honda. Whoever it was talked with teh guard for a minute, was handed map and headed up the hill. James inched forward. "Hey, can I see some ID?" the guard was a woman with a voice like curdled milk. James fished in his pocket, pulled out his wallet and handed the whole thing over. "So, you're a McCleary." she said. "I am." James admitted, as if it were a distasteful thing like admitting to being a Nazi. "You probably won't need a map then." She said, stepping back to let him through. James started his drive. It's a good five minutes up teh road to the house. He'd done the trip so many times that he hardly thought about how many turns it took, how fast he could go. After less than a minute he had caught up with the beat-up Honda. There were no turn-outs after the gate, so what would have taken him five minutes ended up taking almost ten. No matter, there was no great rush. Finally, they arrived at the clearing, a bulldozed meadow of wildflowers imported from house on East Egg. The Honda must have noticed that deer on the edges, just before the slope that lead to a brief plateau that preceded the great fallaway. It was happily eating the flowers, the grasses. The gardeners always tried to shoe them away, but Hetch, and especially Mary, thought they were good luck, invited them to stay, more or less. This one was far less nervous than many of the others. This one was at home on the

campus. Only James had thought of the house as a campus, but it fit. There were only three areas on the outside of the house that were both flat and not covered with buildings: the parking area beyond the covered Wagon-stop, the tennis courts and meadow, and the swimming pool on the other side. He hadn't spent much time in the pool since he was a kid, but the many times he'd swum from one end to the other, the nights when everyone else was gone and Jayla would strip down and dive in while James admired and finally took the leap, he knew that pool. The Honda pulled in under the wagon stop as close to the house as possible, practically running over the toes of the young guard who came to greet him. James pulled alongside, a car's width between them. James didn't move, he simply put the car in park. Out of the Honda stepped a short, bearded gentleman with a suit that probably cost more than James' apartment. He tossed the keys to the guard and walked beyond him without a pause. James thought he might have recognised him for a minute, but probably not. The guard tossed the key to a gentleman in a suit nearer the doors and walked over to James' window. James rolled it down and leaned on teh window ledge. "Morning, sir.Got any luggage?" "Hi, I'm" "James!" called from the door. It was Mary. The guard opened the door for him. "The metal suitcase in teh back's the only thing I've got." The guard nodded as James walked across to his sister. "Hey, Mary." James managed. MAry rushed at him and hugged him close. "It's good that you're here! My god, how long has it been." "You weren't even pregnant the last time I saw you." "I was still a newlywed, for god's sake." There was a pause. Mary examined James' face: tired, so tired, she decided. "Your room is still there. Mother made sure that they dust it every Friday. The kids like it, s there may be some tornado damage." James smiled. He had missed his sister, perhaps more than any other member of the family. When Benji came along, three years after James, she had made sure that the two of them always played nice, even though she was only eighteen months older than James. She was part mother, something which always seemed to annoy Mother, and she had always tried to keep them occupied with games and contests and swimming, and most importantly, hiding. She would give James and Benji comics or notebooks and pens, and sometimes puzzles or a tape recorder, and tell them to go and find a place in the house to hide out. She'd search for them later. Occasionally, they'd hide so well, become so engrossed in their own fun that they'd b there until supper, or sometimes until bed. Mother never missed them, and Hetch, well, he was in his den as far as anyone knew. "Dad's packed with interviews wall-to-wall until the dinner. You should go and rest until dinner. Grab a plate from teh buffet, take it up to your

room." James knew what she was doing. "She's here, isn't she." Mary paused. "Yeah," Mary said, "she's here." "I thought she'd left, gone on to bigger things." "Mother insisted we bring her back for the night. She's a big deal. Probably sold five more seats based on her name." "I won't bother her until after dinner, if at all." "That would make me happy." James stepped to the stairs. The banister had been repaired since he was last there, the wood darker. "What happened to the banister?" "My kids did. Kennedy and Aisla teamed up and managed to push the upright down the stairs one afternoon last summer. "Two kids managed to push a piano down the hall and down teh stairs?" "They are no ordinary kids." "So says Twitter." "You read that, too?" "No," James had never much cared for Social Media, "I just read about the TV pilot in Variety." "Can you believe that almost made the air?" "Benji make much money off of it?" "Not really.He did the right thing, set it aside for the Kids for college." James had a hard time considering his sister as a mother. Well, as a mother ot anyone other than himself and his brother. She was the mothering type, but not when it was forced upon her. She hated things being put upon her, but she was all for putting things upon herself. It was her great contraditction: she wanted to responsibility, but she would be happy to take on any number of challenges. James walked into the parlor for the buffet. Whenever the family'd do a fundraiser (the all-time favorite was a fundraiser for a science fiction magazine marketed towards the LGBT community called Out In Space), the parlor would be where the food was set-up. Walking in, he saw a young man, maybe 15, He was tanned, maybe Latino, and he had the whisp of a mustache. James knew who he was, but the kid, the kid didn't seem to even register that James was in the room; he simply went about restockign the sausage. James took a plate, picked up some french toast, a couple of strips of bacon, a danish. There were traveler mugs for coffee. He grabbed two: filled one with coffee from the urn, the other with water from one of the half-dozen pitchers. He started his way up the stairs when he saw a young child, a girl, sitting on the top step. "Who goes there?" James smiled, remembering when Benji would play Palace Guard and

Mary would be the Princess. This was usually played after Christmaas when wrapping paper tube swords were at their highest availablity. "It is I, James of McCleary." The little girl stood. "Benji, it's James!" she called. Poking his head out of the doorway of James' old room was Benji. God, James thought, he's so skinny again. "My good God, James! You're back!" He came across, then registered that James was carrying food. "Wouldn't miss this." James said. The little girl wandered off into James' room. "It's serving as a castle at the moment, but I'm sure you'd like to get yourself seated." "It'll be like that time we went to Medieval Times." "Only without the booze." Benji laughed. "And probably without having to bribe a cop." "One can hope." James said, a dry chuckle. Benji and James walked to teh room where a young man (Lincoln? Taft? James couldn't remember) was seated in the old rocking chair, holding an orange with a yarn God's Eye in one hand, the other hefting a sceptre made of one of James' old drumsticks. "King Kennedy, may I present the James of McCleary?" "Hi." Kennedy said. James walked over to the desk, set down his plates. "You're our other uncle?" "I am." "Why haven't we met you?" Aisla asked as she wrapped a light blue towel around her shoulders as a cape. "I live in LA. I'm a writer." "Oh." Aisla said. "But now you're here! Let us feast!" Kennedy said popping up, and he dropped the sceptre and orb and ran out of the room. Aisla picked up the pieces and took took Kennedy's seat. "Kneel before Queen Aisla!" she commanded. Instead, James went to his seat and placed his plate on the small table in front of him. Queen Aisla began making demands which her knave, Benji, was forced to perform. It was like a bizarre version of SImon Says. Some of the tasks involved Benji running to another room or making a Twitter post. James was endlessly amused by the game. If you'd asked James which of the siblings would make the best parent, he'd have said himself, but he'd also have said he'd be terrible at it. Here, Benji was proving every bit the Dad he thoght he could be. Kennedy ran into the room with a plate of polvorn. James knew who'd made them.

"One cookie for each member of the royal household!" he declared, and marched about the room, handing a cookie to each loyal subject. James took his from Kennedy with a grave bow of his head. "Now, we march!" Kennedy announced. Aisla jumped off her chair, and Benji stood up. "They keep you on your toes, don't they?" James asked Benji. "When you've got to worry about them pushing a piano down teh stairs, it's best to stay alert!" And with that they marched out. James nibbled on his bacon and danish, drank coffee and water alternating one to the other. H ehad no sense of time. He had spent so long judging time by the distances between one part of Festen to another that he had lost all sense of a natural flow. All he knew was that he had been sitting there for some amount of time when the door opened, Jayla walked in, closed and locked the door behind her. The Clearing House, 9:35am, THursday Mary peaked her head into the den where Amanda Neal was interviewing Hetch. She'd done a remarkable job of it, gettign into the corners of his qualifications. Initially, she had been chosen for the MC slot, but then removed when Hetch pointed out that though she was seen as the sinle most acceptable reporter to most of his party, there was still an element that did not want her lifestyle promoted. Hetch, it should be said, was a progressive, but moreso a pragmatist Mary looked at her clipboard and noted that the next interview was from the LA Times. She had only seen Michael DuBont for a brief moment as he got out of his trademark beat-up Honda, but she had head that he had arrived. She'd been dealing with making sure James got to his room, had got his food. She had to take care of family, reporters, supporters and others, all at the same time. Most were low-maintainance, but others, well, luckily most of them had yet to arrive. Mary noted the reporter from the Mercury was sitting in one of the dens that had been given over to use as a communications center. She was using one of the machines Mary had rented instead of the near-decade old iBook she had brought with her. Mary walked into the Den. "Is everything satisfactory?" Mary asked. Alex stood up, startled, afraid that her cover had finally been completely blown. "Yeah, it's great. Just sending some eMails." "Sorry to startle ya. I would imagine our machines have a bit more pep than that one." "No doubt, but old habits die hard." "So, how'd you get the assignment? We were under the impression that the Mercury had no interest in providing this sort of coverage to our campaign."

Alex sat back down. "They've been trying to figure out what to do with me. I'm under contract and they have cut so far back in so many areas, they're using me as a floater." "Must be tough." "Yeah, things can get like that." "I don't see a time when my father'll be free until after the dinner, and if you wouldn't mind staying until Friday morning." "I wouldn't mind staying at all," Alex looked at Mary, "in fact, I'd much appreciate it." "Nothing to go home to?" "Nothing I'm going to miss for an extra day here." Mary took a seat in of of the high-backed chairs. "I know what you mean. I used to love coming back for a weekend when I was living with my husband. We'd come and swim, play tennis, watch the deer." "I love it when I get to see deer. I had a client on Mount Liddell who used to have deer come into their garden." "Client?" Shit. She wasn't meant for this kind of subterfuge. "Back when I was consulting." "Consulting?" "For Schacter." "Really? How's a girl go from the third largest law firm in the world to a junior at a local paper?" "Bad decisions." "I know those." Alex smiled at Mary. "You've got a pool, you said?" "We do." "I know it's kinda weird, but it's been so long. Would you have a swimsuit I could borrow so I could take a dip. That would jus be so great." Mary liked this girl. "No problem. I've got a couple of 'em from before I had my kids. I bet at least one would fit you." Alex could see the resemblance to Benji, the eyes, the chin. Alex, searching the rest of Mary, saw that she wasn't the kind of woman who would do well in the business, but she was exactly the kind of woman you'd want as a wife. The marrying kind. "Follow me." Alex said, standing up again. Alex was amazed that she had managed even the few seconds that she had. Alex got up, leaving her laptop behind. Mary led the way up to the third floor. There was Michael DuBont. "Michael, I'll be down in a few minutes and we'll get you set up." Mary said as she walked by. Mary and Alex made it up to the top of the stairs, turned right and

three doors down. This was obviously a room that Mary had once used and had moved out of to take a room next to the one her kids inhabited. This room was exactly the kind of room that you'd expect for a teenager: easy access to an escape route, walls that would be perfect for posters, a bed that had room for stuffed animals that were never really needed. Alex waited at the door as Mary entered. "Come on in." Mary said as Mary went to the closet. "This was your room when you were a kid, right?" "How many times did I sneak out that window?" "I'm guessing a lot, if your teenaged daydream was as vivid as mine." There was no way that Mary had as a vivid a teenaged dream as Alex. Between the porn, the parties where she played the hostess to gentleman callers at the front and back parlors, top-side and bottom, she also had every possible joy a teenaged runaway could desire. She'd had an apartment across from the Magic Castle. She had friends at UCLA who would bring her along on live action role-playing jaunts that would last all weekend. She'd sometimes find herself at Disneyland, three or four guys that would help her be inappropriate in the Tiki Room or the line to Star Tours. The parties on the beaches where she'd roll in like the waves, then find herself spread across the sand waiting for the feeling of the weight atop her to withdraw. She hadn't made wise choices, she had often made terrible choices that would lead to pains down the road that she would regret with out exception. She hoped that Mary's life was vibrant, that from this room many sexy adventures had found their origin, but she knew they would never approach her excitements. Mary went into the closet, came out with three suits. "THis was a long time ago. Probably thirty pounds ago." "Thirty pounds? You must have been a tent pole." "Well, even with that, they might still be a bit loose on you." Alex looked them over. One of them, a black and green number where the cups were long rectangles, across both shoulders. The bottom was solid black, cut skimpily. "Let me try that one." Alex said, reaching for it. Mary handed it over. "I forgot I used to wear that." Mary said. Mary indicated the bathroom with a a point of her chin. "I've got to get back to the grind, but if that doesn't work, you can try these." "Thank you so much, Mary." "Not a problem. Best way to the pool is to take the long stairs down to Sub-one, then around the tennis court on the gravel path to the left. You can't really see it until you're through the bushes. They kinda formed a tunnel. Mary headed out of the room and Alex made her way to the bathroom. It was obviously little used. She turned on the tap, a rattle in the pipes before the water came through. Here, there was a window that looked down on the

parking lot. It was more than half-full now, probably be packed to overflowing. She could see a crew of four playing tennis on the courts. One of them was wearing a bizarre skirt. Alex tried on the bikini. It was perfect, obviously tighter than the young Mary had enjoyed, but she was thinking of the way the work would be improved. "This is a thirty-percent mark-up swimsuit." she said out loud, a phrase that she had picked up from some John or another. Mary went in, found a wrapskirt in the closet. She threw her shirt on, then the skirt. Ths would get her through the house without an off-look. "Excuse me." That was Nick. "Oh, hi, Nick." "So, how long you been hooking?" Nick asked. The Clearing House. 9:30am, Thursday Charlie sat at the top of the path from the house to the tennis courts. Rick and Rich Linkledder. They were the money of the moment. They launched a hundred knock-offs of their near-future angonies, and they even funded some of them. Their name had become gold, pure gold. And he'd worked with Rick. He could see them working on the court. Rich was never very athletic, but Rick, well Rick could go! Neither Gregory or Cassandra looked like they were being challenged, hardly breathing heavy. The game seemed to be the kind of thing done to allow for conversation between the teams, but alas, it seemed as if there was none. And Charlie had to find a way to get in with 'em. Nut up, Charlie thought to himself. Up he stood and walked down the path to the court, the half-height fence that surrounded the court. He could see that there were dozens of yellow tennis balls in the bushes. He got to the little gate, flipped the flange that allowed the gate to open. "Say, Rick and Rich Linkledder." Charlie called from teh edge of the near court to the two gentlemen on the far court, three other courts sperartaing them. "Is that Charlie Onser?" Rich, the tall one, broke into a small jog, across the courts. "Charlie? Really?" Rick said. Rich arrived at Charlie before he had managed to cross the near court. "It has been so long!" Rich wrapped excessively long arms around Charlie. "it has been so long, Rich." "We've never actually met, Charlie." "That's right, you knew Rachel pretty well, though." RIck said. Charlie laughed. Rick arrived.

"Charlie, so good to see you again. It's been what, five years?" "Maybe twelve?" "Jesus, time flies." "Time does fly." "What have you been doing with yourself, Charlie?" Rich asked. "Little stand-up, a couple of pilots. Nothing major. I've retired, mostly." "Retired? You're what, 50?" "Nearly 70, actually." "70? Christ, it has been a while." Gregory arrived. "So, we're re-connecting, are we?" he said. "Yeah, it has been a while." Charlie said. "I remember the last time we saw you, it was at the Emmys, wasn't it? Or the Oscars?" Rick said. "Emmys. The one that Mark hosted." Rich answered. "Mark! I miss him.It's been a long time then. He's been dead for at least a decade." "Twelve years, at least. I wore a dress to his funeral." Rich said. Charlie smiled. "It's like a family reunion!" Gregory said. "We're a very non-traditional family." Charlie replied. "If you're not doin' anything, we do have a project. Movie. Big one." Rich said. "Really?" Charlie said. "We usual do have a project." Rick said. "I'd love to hear more about it." Charlie said, trying not to lick his lips. "Greg, Cassie, would you mind playing with us for a bit while we talk with Charlie here about a projet?" Greg looked ecstatic while Cassandra had her sourest sour face on. "If it gets Charlie back on the screen, y'all can take him forever!" Everyone but Cassandra laughed. Charlie walked off with Rick and Rich, heading into the house. Cassandra went to the opposite side of the tennis court. "So, it's singles, Greg?" "Looks like it."

The Clearing House, 10:05am, Thursday Hilary had positioned herself on a settee across the hall from the interview den. From where she sat, she had an excellent full-facial view of Hetch McCleary, animatedly chattering away at Amanda, half-hidden behind a weird plant. She could still see sloghtly more than a sliver of her face. She'd been drawing Hetch, naked, of course, in a variety of of suggestive positions. Some skipped from sugesstive to out-right pornographic. Hetch on

all fours, ass in the air, face turned to the viewer. There was a Hetch being chuked by unseen hands, his business in the breeze showin' appreciation. And surrounding these were images of a face, blonde, pretty, hair up in a smart ponytail. Hilary had drawn just the face, profile, 3/4 profile, full-on. These filled gaps between naked, middle-aged politicians in terrible sexual distress. "Hi." it was the little boy, Kennedy, standing at her side. "Hey there, little guy. Have you turned that drawing yet?" "No, it's a soft market." he answered. "Where'd you learn that?" Hilary asked. "We watch a lot of Barter Tales when we're with Uncle Benji." "I was on that show." "I know. You painted the girl's picture for a car." Hilary seldom did those kinds of crass commercial events, but Amanda had said it woul be good for her. She not only got a 1988 Caddy for her troubles (a 4 x 6 canvas of the owner riding a whale at an aquatic circus, but she also received sixteen other commissioned, twice her normal fee, all of them with open deadlines. Amanda thought it would being in the cash Hilary needed to get her parents above water on their mortgage and, sickening as it was, Amanda was proved correct. Of course, Amanda could have just written a check, but what would that say about personal responsibility and the right of bank investors to make a profit? Hilary wrote the check herself, and had enough left over to buy a couple of t-bills. Hetch stood up, and so did Amanda. She stood up and leaned across the desk, to shake his hand. My god, that ass. Amanda had often used the classic 'Oh, I dropped ____" technique to require her to bend at the waist and entice Hilary with a view of the fullness of her backside. Shit, Amanda'd got her thinking backside. Amanda started drawing another face of Amanda's "SO, what you drawing?" "Well, I drew a few of your Grandpa, I guess. And some faces of the reporter in with him right now." "She's pretty." Kennedy said. "Yes, she is, isn't she?" Kennedy pulled out a cookie from his pocket. "Would you like one?" Hilary looked over at the cookie, which was one she'd seen at Mexican markets in San Jose. "Sure, I'll take it." Kenddedy pulled a small napkin out o fhis overall pockets, put the cookie on it and handed it over. Hilary could not help but think of Dennis the Menace, though instead of being an insufferable shit, this good was suave. He was almsot James Bondian for a guy that young. Kennedy took a seat on the settee as Amanda walked out. "And who is this little guy?" Amanda said, bending forward a bit to look him in the eye.

"I'm Kennedy Benjamin Carlson." "Ah, so you must be one of the Kidlings everyone gets talking about." "That's me and my sister Aisla. And Uncle Benji." "He's the smartest kid in the world." Hilary said, finishing off her sketch of Amanda. "Don't tell me you're still doing those" Amanda paused for the words, having always HATED the way Hilary had passed the time at these events with her dirty picture, "drawings." Hilary closed the pages of her note book after a final line defining Amanda's nose. "He shook me down for a drawing earlier today." "well, he knows a good investment.." Amanda said. "You're a reporter?" Kennedy asked? "I am. I work for CNN." "Do you know Wolf Blitzer?" Kennedy asked, his eyes getting wide. "I have met him a few times." "Is he as smart as he looks on tv?" "I'd wager he's smarter." Kennedy's eyes got huge. "He's smarter than Sherlock Holmes?" "You should know better than that, Kennedy," Hilary said, "No one is smarter than Sherlock Holmes." AManda laughed, and Kennedy seemed to be weighing the matter. "I've got a call with my editor. I'll be in the room." Amanda said. "I'll be down here, then." There was a bitterness in the tone, but honstly, foe the first time in ages, they'd had an exchange that did not make Hilary angry, or sad. Amanda walked off. Hilary's eyes followed her. "WOuld you like to be my girlfriend?" Kennedy said. Hilary, somewhat stunned by the question, stopped drawing and looked at the kid. "I can think of lots of things wrong with that." "Are you married." "No." "Neither am I," Kennedy said, "Do you have a boyfriend?" "No, not at all." "A girlfriend?" "Not anymore." "Is it because you're older?" "I'm not that old! A woman could still oh, you mean older than you. Yeah, that's a problem." Hilary said. "The difference is that you're six, I'm Thirty-seven." "That's not too many." Kennedy said. "Maybe not, but I still don't think it's going to work." Hilary answered. "So, then we have to wait." Kennedy says. "I think that's a fine idea." Hilary answered.

"Have fun drawing pictures of grandpa naked!" Kennedy said as he slipped off the settee and ran back towards the stairs.

The Clearing House, Thursday, 10:10am "So, you're back." Jayla was leaning against the d, oor. "I thought you weren't working for them anymore." "They offered me ten thousand dollars to come back for the one night." Jayla might not have been looing at James. He couldn't tell from how hard he stared at the floor near her feet. "I thought you were the hottest chef in all of San Jose. Didn't they just show you new place on Food Network?" Jayla was silent for a long moment. James was completly still. "You're not even looking at me." Jayla finally said. "I know." "You fucked up, James." "I know." "Are you going to tell me why?" "Not yet." "Not yet?" "No, not yet. But you'll know." "I'll know?" "You'll hear." "I don't even know what to fucking say." James lifted his eyes to her. Jayle was still everything she had always been. The streak of grey off-centered in her hair was where he started, then worked down to the eyes. Brown eyes. He had always remembered them as black when he thought back, perhaps a side-effect of the poor screen on his laptop. "There's probably nothing you need to say, Jayla." "Why'd you leave?" "You want the short answer, or the one that's kept me in therapy for the last eight years?" "Which ever one you think is the truth." "There's far too much truth." "Don't play with me, James." "I'm not." Jayla turned started to open the door. "How'd you know I was here?" "Hank told me he saw you in the parlor." "That was Hank?" "Yeah, he works at my restaurants too." "He looks like he's grown up good." "He has." Jayla and James were silent for a few moments.

"I'm sorry." James called. "What did you say?" Jayla called over her shoulder. "I'm sorry." "You've been gone for eight years, and you say you're sorry." "It's all I can give you at the moment." Jayla turned to the door, walked out. James reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his cell phone, hit redial. "Hello, James." "Good monrning Dr. Hynek." The Claering House, Thursday, 10:15am Alex put the bikini bottoms and wrap back on in the bathroom. She rearranged herself in the top. At least he was quick about it, just told her what he had on her, dropped his pants and she went to work. She was giving maybe 60%, but he was fully satisfied. It's not often that she put as little into it as she did with Nick, but two times in twenty-four hours and neither paying made her quest for a piece that much more important. He'd figured it out the minute she came to join them. No reporter, unless there was something to gain, would install herself at a table with anyone who might be another reporter. She had walked up to teh table like she was used to forcing her image on the eyes of a john. Made sense, but she had enjoyed chatting with them. Perhaps she was just too persaonable for the profession. She'd have to look into that. She looked out the window of the restroom again, down onto the tennis courts. There was only one couple down there now, a kind of gangly guy and his Asian bride, or so it seemed. Those were the most difficult to get, the guys at events with their wives, but if you moved it right, found the precise moment to put yourself in the possibility realm, they tended to pay well above asking. Here, she was sure there'd be moments. She wished she could see the pool. Were there chairs for her to lay out on, shine in the sun? She wanted to get a swim in, dip herself, possibly allow for an exit like the temptress in some 1980s titty comedy. Hell, the suit, just a tough loose on her, would probably heighten that attack for cash. She perfected the wrap, made sure she looked good, but not like a prostitute ready to pounce, and made her way out of the room. Benji was in the hall, the little girl sitting cross-legged in the hall. "Howdy Benji. IS she staging a sit-in?" "She doesn't want to take a bath." "But Mommy's being mean!" She said. "She just wants you to get clean, little girl." "NO!" Alex hadn't spent as much time around little girls as you'd think for the oldest of four daughters. She had always been diving into the world of male attention, fist of an innocent sort, and later of the sort that is not so

innocent. "Benji, I'm going down to the pool for a while, and it's not so much fun to swim alone. If she promised to take her bath, you think she could swim with me for a while?" "I need my bathing suit!" Aisla said and scurried off into her room. "There's a shower in the pool house, so she can get one in there. She'll probably only swim for five or ten minutes" Benji said. "You look like you could use the hand." she said. He did too .He had left her room very relaxed, almost too relaxed. He looked good, but he always did. Now, he had a sort of harried look to him, his hair was messed up in a 'My God Why is the World Still Turning" sort of way as opposed to the 'I just rolled out of bed and am too cool to own a comb' sort of way he often employed. "I'll bring Kennedy down in a bit, bring her some clothes and get her ready. We're doing a family picture at noon." "Cool." Somehow, Aisla could bend time and fold space. She emerge with a towel, a pink swimsuit with She-Ra on it, and a pair of plastic sunglasses. "OK, let's go!" Aisla said. Alex offered her had to Aisla who grabbed it and actually started pullign her towards the stairs. "Bye, Uncle Benji." And they marched down. Alex couldn't believe she was doing this? There is nothing that'll foulup a deal faster than a kid around. Benji needed the hand, but still, she felt like she was self-sacrificing. She needed at least two regular, or a top-buyer, to make the trip worth-while. Hell, three would mean she could pay rent with a little left over. This Aisla girl was strong, though she still took the time to put both feet on each step as she went down. She ulled Alex through the house, out past the tennis courts. A bright yellow ball flew out of the caged area. "That's the third ball you've hit into the bushes, Greg!" the Asian wife called across. Alex and Aisla stopped for a minute, and kept on going towards the pool. ""That's it, I'm going up to teh room!" The guy at teh far end of the court called. "Fine! I'll get the balls myself!" Gregory opened the gate and headed back into the house without a backwards glance. Cassandra stewed for a moment, then started gathering up the balls that were around the court. She tossed them all into the tennis bag she'd brought, along with her racket. She made her way towards the gate so she could get the ones that had gone into the bushes. As she made it to the side, a deer leapt over the half-height fense, ran across the tennis court, leapt over the net, then again over the opposite fence. Cassandra couldn't think of a time when she'd seen a deer so active so close to people. It was majestic, the way it leapt. She wished she'd had her iPhone out to

capture it and put it on her Facebook. She walked around the edge of the court, found the first ball right on the edge of the path. She second was further along and a little bit further into the bushes. She could see the young woman and the kid she was walking with just as they turned into the far bushes, disappearing into the folliage about a hundred yards down. She stood up and got back on to the path, looking for that third ball, she thought she saw it a few feet to the left and turned. This meant that her back was to the mountain lion when it leapt out, clamped it's teeth into her neck, a wrenching twist as she hit the ground. It released, then reapplied it's mouth onto her shoulder and dragged her deeper into the bushes. She hadn't made a sound, the wind being knocked out of her on impact, the wounds to her neck so deep that there was no way she could have screamed anything louder than a gaspy wheeze. And even that had been forced away in the surprise of it all. Cassandra's bleeding had been severe, but the whipping of her neck and the impact had killed her faster than a gun. The cougar dragged her ten yards, to the center of the thicket, and started to feed. The whole time, Cassandra had not let go of the tennis bag. Aisla and Alex heard none of it. They arrived at the pool just as Cassandra arrived at her resting place. The place was amazing. The pool was a crescent, stretching out about twenty yards in either direction. On the other side of the pool was a small house the size of her apartment complex. it was only two stories, but it was done in the style of a Roman villa. The shadow of the building, along the tall trees, put most of the pool in the shade this time of morning. In the centre of the far arc, tangentially connected to the pool, was a hot tub area that would seat seven to ten people easy, fifteen at the Hollywood parties she used to attend as the designated under-water server. Aisla walked her off to one side, where an umbrellaed table and a few rattan chairs sat. Aisla put her towel on the table, then her sunglasses. "Come on!" Aisla said. Alex realised that she had forgotten the towel back in the room. COME ON!" Aisla yelped. Aisla ran over and jumped into the pool with a glorious cannonball. Alex walked over, made a graceful dive into the pool just after Aisla had popped back up. When she surfaced, Aisla was staring at her with wide, amazed eyes. "You're so good! Are you a diver?" "I've had a lot of practice." "Oh." Aisla said, as she started splashy swimming towards the hot tub. It w, mostly as bubbling and as Alex moved towards it herself, she could tell it was getting warmer. There were tall redwood trees all the way around the pool area, providing shade and that distinct scent that redwoods give off. Alex had loved that smell when she would work some of the parks in Santa Clara. that scratchy bark against her back being a favorite 'You Had To Be There' kind of laugh.

Aisla was in the hot tub, then reached over and pressed the button to start the jets. Alex swam over to the hot tub and slid in over the under-water wall that mostly separated the hot from teh merely warm. She took a seat on the mosaic seat that ran along teh side. "Are you Benjo's girlfriend?" "No, he's just a friend." "Where'd you meet him?" "Law school." "Benji went to law school?" "For a while." How do you tell a kid that her uncle picked you up at a bar, took you to his room where you sprung it on him that you were working and the grind for the cash was two-hundred fifty, three hundred for any more than the standard. He put five hundred into her hands at the end of the night. She gave him her regular phone number, not the call-forwarding service. He put five hundred down every time, and she often added nicetites. She'd even started bringing him little treats. She liked to have a personal relationship for her regular clients, and he was her best customer. He had come over directly from a difficult week trying to sell a television show to a local station. It hadn't gone well, and he still showed up, but in no mood for a roll in the hay. The two of them just sat for an hour, she'd deflected a call from another potential, and she gave him a massage. No release. They talked a little, she gave him a couple of glasses of good sweet white wine, they shared a pair of cupcakes. And yeah, she blew him, but it was more Benji feeling bad for not participating more. He dropped the five hundred, and she couldn't help but think that maybe she shouldn't have charged him. Of course, she knew the stories about girls who got hooked on their johns, and she had to admit that he was slightly more than a john. HE was a friend, too: a friend who helped her make rent. Aisla and Alex soaked in silence for a few minutes. Alex was already plenty loose, she always was after doing business, but now she was more deeply relaxed. She put a jet at teh small of her back, which pushed her forward, forcing her to lean back on the rim of the tub and let her lower body be sent upwards. It was quite comfortable. Aisla stood up and walked up the stairs. "I'm going to take my shower now." "OK, your uncle'll be here soon." Alex stayed in the tub. This was the life, she thought. Benji used to live here, those kids STILL live here. How much would she pay for the right? Too bad that Hetch was obviously a rope-pusher. Alex closed her eyes, resting in the warmth, letting it go all the way through her. She wasn't sure what had happened, but as soon as she opened her eyes, there was Benji, holding a small pile of light blue clothes. "Where's the little master?" Alex asked. "He's up watching TV, and flirting with the artist." "Hilary?"

"Yeah, the girlfriend of the reporter." "He likes older women." "It would appear so." Benji had seen Alex naked more often than not, but seeing her in a swimsuit had a strong effect on him. Alex made a note of the impact. She had realised that he enjoyed her in pajamas (he just wanted to know that she was comfortable) and this would have to be re-included in her future endeavors. "She's already in the shower?" Benji asked. "Yes she is. She barely lasted five minutes." "Go figure. She lives life fast." "It's this generation." Alex said, leanign back and closing her eyes. Benji stared for a moment, basically to make sure that Benji was given enough opportunity to take it all in. "I'm going to give these to Aisla," Benji said, raising the piles of clothes, "Maybe I'll join you after the photos?" "If I'm not engaged," Alex said. "That's right, this is a working weekend for you." "It is, though I've had no nibbles." "We'll have to fix that." Benji said. That was unexpected. Alex opened her eyes and smiled at him. "Well, there's always going to be some downtime." "Maybe I'll help you occupy it." Alex said. Benji went into the poolhouse.

The Clearing House, 10:21, Thursday Amanda was in the shower, hotter 'en anything, crying her eyes out. This was rare, very rare, but this was one of those moments. SHe had totally botched the interview with Hetch. COmpletely. She had managed to hold it together when she ran into Hilary, but now, alone, buffeted by near-boiling water, she was crying with the kind of release you only see in movies. Her last cry like this was at the gym in D.C. the night after the last fight with Hilary. She had made sure no one was around, stepped in and just let it all out. This wasn't the kind of thing a powerful, intelligent woman like Amanda was supposed to do. How bad had the interview been. She had hoped to get the full stories of his years publishing, the ways he had fought as an advocate of the middle-class by making them the focus of his paper's coverage. Of course, she had done none of that, instead basically asking puff questions and letting him direct her from question to question. A reporter was never supposed to allow that. When the cameraman would give her the tape, she'd relive it all, try to learn from it. Of course, she knew the truth about people who said that. You didn't learn from failures. Failure just sapped your resources, made you weaker.

Yeah, you'd learn what not to do, but there were far more way to fail than the one you'd tried. A failure was almost always completely unacceptable. She'd try and kill this story. That was the only option, she felt. Amanda turned off the shower. Grabbing a towel, she dried herself off. As with everything in her life, the process of drying off was regimented. First, she dried her hair to the point it was no longer dripping, then face and shoulders, armpits, arms, breasts, stomach, flinging the towel around her, she did her back, her ass. She'd then sit on the edge of the tub and dry her legs, her feet. Then she'd stand up, hang the towel, and walk into the room, naked, to change. This had another hook she had for Hilary. How often had she showered, walked into the room, and found Hilary's mouth upon her own, or her breasts, or her neck. it had slowed their attendance at various events. Opening the bathroom door, she didn't know that Hilary was in the room already, sitting on the couch, drawing. "Sorry, I didn't know" Amanda started. "Don't worry, it's nothing I haven't seen before." Hilary said, not looking up from her drawing. AManda, somehow more annoyed by that than anything else that had happened between them in recent memory, walked to the clothes she'd laid out. "You OK?" "What?" Amanda said. "You OK? You only shower during the day when you need the time to cry." Hilary had not looked up from her drawing. Amanda said nothing, just picked up and put on her panties, grabbed her bra and put it on. "I don't just shower to cry." Hilary looked up from her drawing. "Yeah, you do." With three exceptions, Amanda had never allowed Hilary to see her crying. Those three; the death of her grandfather, when she broke her wrist falling in the kitchen, and the night she begged her to stay. Amanda slipped herself into her bra. "It was a rough interview." Amanda said. "He was playing you. He had the look on his face that he was making it go his way." Amanda sat there and realized that Hilary asn't being mean. SHe wasn't trying to hurt her, she was just telling her what she saw. Hilary always read a situation perfectly. Amanda could never hope to be nearly as observant as Hil. It was probably why Amanda had never been much of a reporter, but was an exceptionally good journalist. Amanda realised that she should have figured that Hilary would know of her shower-crying technique. "It was rough. I'm going to go and try and interview a few of the other guests. There are a lot of folks here that are worth a chat with." Hilary looked up from her drawing.

"I saw the Linkledder boys downstairs.." "Really? Might be worth a shot. They don't do a lot of interviews." Hilary turned the page and started drawing again. "Yeah, good idea." Amanda said. Amanda got dressed the rest of the way. "What are you drawing?" "Something for that little kid Kennedy," Hilary said, "he asked me to be his girlfriend." "Really?" "Yeah. apparently, they don't teach gaydar in kindergarten yet." "He's a catch. Family has money." Hilary smiled, then, perhaps, realised how she felt for Amanda, and shut herself down, returned to her drawing. "Yeah, he's great." Hilary said, nothing behind her voice. AManda finished getting dressed in silence. Hilary kept drawing, in silence. "I'm going to find the Linkledders. Thanks for the heads-up." "Sure." Hilary said. Amanda grabbed her case and walked out. Hilary just kept adding more details on her drawing of Amanda's naked body being doused from the shower, and somehow the tears still being visible. The Clearing House, 10:32am, Thursday Nick hadn't wanted to nail her, but he did. it was the only thing that would keep her honest, he told himself. If you're a hooker at an event, you better expect that you're gonna give it up to anyone who figures you out. In reality, he had his fun, and let her go. Work product, he told himself. He had more to work on. Mary had told him that Bretschneider wouldn't be there until 5, so he had more than six hours. Playing the role of a reporter wasn't hard, but he was still fielding calls from the office and from teh family. He'd figured out how to completely silence the cell phone, and he'd discovered that the guy had a huge variety of games on the phone, so he started going through 'em. After his post-coital shower, he picked up the phone and started playign a game where you were a snake trying to eat a rat that was loose in a maze. Mary knocked on the door. "How are you, Nick?" "It's been good. My editor is calling me endlessly for more material." "I'm just letting you know that we'll be doing a lunch buffet starting at eleven. There's going to be Indian, Chinese, and Thai selections. I'm hoping that'll work for you. "I love Thai." "Excellent. And then you'll want to come down and get the press guides in the Sunroom."

"Is there any word on the arrival of Mr. Bretschneider?" "Not yet, but I'll let you know when I get an update." "Thanks so much. Have you had a chance to read the article from the Bee this morning?" "The Warroom kids downloaded it this morning. I've got a printout, but with everything going on, not a lot of time for reading." "Or chatting with an again reporter from Sacramento." Nick said with a twinkle in his eyes. "Well, you're not wrong. I'll talk to you later." "Thanks." Mary left the door open. Nick got back into the game. After a few minutes, he wanted to get a walk in. He threw on his coat and walked out into the hall, then down the stairs to the foyer. A lot more people had arrived since he was last down there. You could tell the reporters from the money marks by where they were standing. The closer to the walls, the more likely they were to be reporters. Walking out of one of the small rooms were the guy who'd be MCing the dinner, and the two filmmaker guys. The Fassbenders? Something like that. He recognised Charlie from his years on TV. Nick was maybe eight when he'd watch Around Town every week. It was his Mom's favorite. Nick made his way over to them, but was intercepted half-way through by an older gentleman in a tie, but no jacket. "You're Nick Andros?" He asked. "Yes, I am." New Nick said. "Oh great, I've been so hoping to find you. It's been so long." "You've got me at a disadvantage." "The last time I saw you was at Columbia." Nick hadn't gotten that far into Former Nick's life, and this guy was going to make things difficult. "Man, that was an age ago, wasn't it." "It was! My God it was. We lived hard back then, didn't we?" "Too hard!" Nick said in a brash sort of laugh. "And, you'll never guess." "I bet I won't!" "Cassandra is here!" "Cassandra? You're sure about that." "Mary McCleary herself told me! A lot of Columbia folks here!" Nick wasn't entirely comfortable, but when the Linkledder brothers walked by with CHarlie, he jumped. "Excuse me a second," Nick said, heading over to the trio walking passed, "Pardon me, Mr. Osner, I'm Nick Andros of the Sacramento Bee." Nick extended his hand. Charlie slowed, then stopped, turned towards him, and took his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Nick." "I was hoping I could get an interview with you, nothing too long, but I know my readers would love to hear what you've got coming up."

Nick knew that no actor who has long since walked from the public eye could resist a journalist. "You should, Charlie," one of the bothers said, "you can even talk about our new deal." "Where should we go to interview?" Charlie asked. "Let's head off this direction." Nick said, leading Charlie off towards the back area of the house, perhaps out towards the tennis courts.

The Clearing House, 10:50am, Thursday James hung up with Dr, Hynek. The doctor had tried to talk him down, to get him to just stay in his room and let it pass, then try when there was no one around. James wouldn't do that. it had to be here and today, but he also thought that as long as his father was exposed, he'd be happy. He decided that telling his father what he had remembered, then giving an interview would work. The first thing had to be to talk to his father, which Dr. Hynek completely agreed with. So, he would do that now. James got up and walked out of his room, down the stairs to the foyer. He knew that his father was in one of the dens doing interviews, so he could just pop in, tell him, and then grab any reporter at hand. He walked down the hall, passing various people who had just arrived. A lot of happy smiling white folks. The two Hispanics he saw were a guy he was pretty sure owned the local Telemundo station and Hank, the young man who was nearly his step-son. Either way, he didn't think he could come up with anything to say to either of them and he just kept going. it didn't take long to figure out which one was the den where Hetch was holding court. There were three benches, velvet padded and from some castle in Scotland, if James remembered right, currently with four people sitting on them, two with notepads on their laps, two with cameras at their feet. James walked up to the front of the line, noticed that the door was slightly open. James looked in and saw that Hetch was standing, shaking hands with a reporter, who then turned and walked in. "Sorry guys," James said to the folks waiting on the bench, "I jsut need to run in and talk to my Dad for a minute." James walked in, stood off to one side and let the reporter walk by. His cameraman was still breaking down his set-up. James looked at his father, saw him smile at him. "James! You're back!" "Hi, Dad." James alked to the desk and sat down. "How are you, James? It's been a long time." Hetch, who looked like he wanted to hug his son, took the seating of his son as a point towards something serious, put himself down in his chair.

"I've gotta talk to you for a bit, Dad." "Sure, we've got interviews set-up for the rest of the day, how about -" "It'll only take a minute." "Well, go ahead." James paused. "So, I left because -" "Dad, James!" Mary rushed into the room. "James!Glad to see that you got to Dad while he wasn't busy, but Dad, we've got to get to channel 7 right now or we're going to lose 'em. You understand, don't you James?" James looked at Mary. "It'll just take a -" "We'll find you a bit of time later in teh afternoon, OK, James?" Hetch stood up. "Well, if we've got to get to 'em, we can. We can talk later, OK, son?" James stood, walked up to Mary, who put her hand on James' shoulder, pushed him along. Hetch walked behind them, then stopped, arranged himself, smoothed his coat. Mary hurried James out, game him a light push. "All right, channel 7, let's go1" She said as soon as he was clear.

The Clearing House, 11:10am, THursday Gregory needed to find Cassandra. Greg had left his wallet in the tennis bag. He got to the tennis court where a couple of people had started playing, but there was no sign of Cassandra or the tennis bag. He walked around the court, finding nothing. looking around the near bushes, he could see a couple of balls playing around, and maybe the caterers dropped some soup or something in the dirt. Maybe a red pepper soup? Greg walked along the hedges, far along, Maybe Cassandra was having one of her moments and headed deeper into the shrubbery to steam and stew. Anyhow, he needed that wallet. All his business cards were in there and he already owed one to a reporter from the Wall Street Journal. Greg made the turn and found the path that led to a pool with a massive Roman villa in the background. The semi-circle of the pool had a bump at the center of the arc with a woman sitting in it. Gregory walked around the edge of the pool to the hot tub where Alex was still steeping. "Excuse me, miss, but I'm looking for my wife." ALex recognised him as the guy who had been playing with the Asian wife. This, she thought, coud not have gone any better for Alex. "Asian woman in a white skirt?" "That would be her." "She passed by, not but ten minutes ago. She was on her phone. She

looked like she was going for a walk-around the property." Alex set the play into action. "Would you mind terribly grabbing my towel on that table over there?" Greg always happy to help, turned and walked around the pool, grabbing Aisla's towel, which she had left when she went inside, a trail of wet footsteps and drips testifying to her passing. Gregory was 3/4 of the way back when she launched herself out of the hot tub. There were three keys, each of which took all her concentration. She made sure she was deep in water when she started her rise. Those led to massive amounts cascading off of her, accentuating the curves with rivulets and sheets of water. She stood, back properly arched, the top of the bikini weighed-down, exposing a bit of nipple on her left breast. She then walkeed, throwing her wet hair to either side. She made sure it ended up over her left shoulder. Greg froze up. That was the best sign possible. "Could you dry off my back for me, please?" She turned her back to him. She could tell that he was staring at her ass. After a moment, she took a quarter step closer to him, at which he started to dry her back. He took a moment, drying her shoulders, and then runnign the towel lower, at which she turned around, leading him to run his left hand across her breast. Sh caught his eyes, then took the towel and started to dry herself off. she made sure to catch the bikini in a way that would give at least a little exposure. Greg was caught in her eyes, which was ultimately the goal. "You know, I was hoping someone would come along, Since it sounds like your wife is going to be gone for a while, maybe you can help me upstairs?" "Back to teh house?" "No, I was thinking in the Villa." Greg had no defenses. "Yeah, I'll give you a hand." Alex dropped the towel to the ground, took Greg's hand and led him inside. Stepping into the villa, it was a central round lobby with a hallway off to either side, a paired stair-case winding up either side at the back of the lobby. She could hear the kids and Benji playing, so she hurried him up the stairs, They climbed up the stair to see that the secodn floor was very much like the first, when they were half-way up the stairs, Benji emerged, the kids in front of him. She caught sight of him, but made a faster pass up the stairs. The upper floor was just a series of small rooms off of a central circular lounge with wicker chairs in the middle. The doors were all open and she saw one had a day bed and a window that overlooked the pool. She led Greg into the room, he was like a pony on a lead, let go of his hand when she was halfway in, went back to close the door, then crossed to the window, taking off the top of the bikini as she looked down, saw Benji and the kids walking around the pool. "Alright, here's the deal: five hundred per tumble, three for twelve-fifty

if you can handle that." She said, turning around to make sure he was aware of the fact that she was serious and that her breasts were perfect. "I'm sorry, what?" "It takes cash for ass." She said. "I don't have five hundred. My wife, she has my wallet. That's why I'm looking for her." Fuck, Alex thought. "You've got no money?" "All I have is my tipping cash." "How much is that?" Alex asked. Greg pulled a half-folded stack of bills out of his pocket. He handed it out to Alex, who walked across a took it from him, counting it. 65 goddamned dollars! Alex was ready to throw him out, but then a thought came across her - she'd not played the game right, which wasn't this poor schmuck's fault. Always make sure they can pay. That's rule two (the first: no one rides free she'd already broken twice) and she had not done so. "OK, this won't get you full service, but, well, you'll be happy." She siddled up alongside Greg, her hand down, unzipping his shorts. Forty-eight seconds later, it was over. "Twenty seconds after that, he was out the door, Alex looking around for a box of Kleenex. She had ot admit, on a second-per-dollar basis, this was not half-bad. The Clearing House, 11:15am, Thursday Mother McCleary woke up and wandered where she'd put her drink. This was a typical reaction to regaining consciousness for Mother. The bedroom had a door connecting to Hetch's, but she seldom opened it. Hetch certainly never did, hadn't for years, hell, decades. He had his tastes, and Mother had not been it for a long time. Hence, her near constant search for the bottle. Or so she told herself. She'd fallen asleep in her clothes again. Sittign up in the bed, there was the bottle of Gilbey's she kept for just such an occasion, the top already removed. She grabbed it, tipped it back and drank deeply. The door opened up and a little gentleman ran in. Mother could tell from the footsteps as heavy as a bomb that it was Kennedy, and he was followed by the soft feet of young Aisla. Benji wouldn't be far behind. That's always his role, to be behind the leader, but never too far. "Gramma, Gramma, you gotta get up! We're going to take a picture! Gramma! Gramma!" Kennedy jumped onto the bed, crawled across and gave her a hug. She barely had time to put the gin bottle on the table. "Well, if this isn't the best alarm clock in the world!" She said, giving Kennedy a hug. Aisla came around ot teh side of the bed.

"Morning, Gramma." Mother reached out and hugged her too. Benji stood in the doorway. "We're taking the photo in forty-five minutes, so we want to make sure you were awake." "Thank you for your concern." She put as much cold-heart as she could into those words. "We're in our SUnday bests." said Aisla. "And it's only Thursday!" an excited Kennedy noted. "You two go run off with your uncle and I'll meet you in teh parlor for a snack before the picture," she stared out at Benji, "if that's OK with you." Benji stone-faced her, as he often did. "OK, come on kids, let's get a snack." Kennedy and Aisla came running to his side. Why the hell did it always seem like Benji treated her like the third child that lived in the house? Mother got out of the bed, stripped down, walked to the dresser and picked out an outfit for the day. She took her time, they would wait for her. She walked into the bathroom and picked up a washclothe, ran it under the water. Turning off the tap, she pushed the cloth into her face, wiped down, bringing with it yesterday's make-up. She didn't nearly as much as she used to, what the hell for?, but she still tried. she scrubbed a bit, then started making herself up. After ten or so minutes, she was done, ready to apply clothing. After she got dressed, it was nearly 11:45. Mother walked out of the room and into the hall looking like the matriarch of the most powerful family in the bay area. She arrived at the parlor, her mouth feelign a bit like a cesspit. She entered as she always did, with a stand-up gumption that showed through every step. "Morning, family and friends!" she called, entering and walking to the plates station. She picked up a plate, stepped to the Chinese section and piled her plate with pork fried rice and Beggar's Chicken. She took her plate to the table where Mary was seated, watching while the Kidlings fiddled with Benji's phone. "Good morning, Mary, darling." "Morning Mother. You're looking splendid as always." "Such is my duty to family." James entered the room. Mother didn't see him as her back was to teh entry, but James made a b-line directly for her. "Morning Mother." James personal exhaustion showed through his words. Mother turned. "JAMES! After all this time returned!" She stood up, walked to him and embraced him. "It's godo to see you." "And to see you. Why, you look like you haven't aged a day in the

decade you've been gone." "Eight years, Mother." James noted. Mother broke and sat back down at the table. James followed, pulling out a chair. "Have you eaten, darling? You should eat." "I had a large breakfast." "Oh, but Jayla has put together the most sensational menu for us!" Mother did not look at him, instead sticking a fork into a piece of chicken and then bringing it to her mouth slowly. "She always does." James knew this was Mother's MO. She would make statements to make the children uncomfortable. Hetch stood in the doorway. "Well, for the first time in who knows how long, we're all together again!" Hetch called from the entry. The Kidlings ran up and huggesd him. "Hi, Grampa!" "Come here, kids." Mary called, and for once the children listened. Hetch walked into the room, shaking a few hands of people who were just milling around. Eventually, he picked a samosa off the line, munched on it and walked to where James was sitting. "So, what'd you want to talk to me about, son?" he asked. James knew this was the time. It would have the impact he was looking for. "Well, Dad, I" "Dad, we should get out to the meadow. I think we'll get better light out there." Mary said, standing up. "Mary, i think you're right." Hetch added. Hetch put his hand on James' shoulder and he nearly flinched. "These things keep popping up. We'll sit down sometime before dinner." Hetch said to James, then turned and lead the family out into the front meadow, where indeed, the light was far better.

The Clearing House, 11:25am, THursday Hilary had gotten tired of drawing naked people in the house, so she headed out to the gardens. She was not a landscape artist, but she often enjoyed using real settings for drawing nudes doing unspeakable things to one another. She walked out to find the tennis courts, where a pair of young men were playing a vigorous game back and forth. This failed to catch her interest. She walked down te epath along the court, alongside the bushes. These were neatly trimmed, though it looks like the caterers who must have

been setting up down here had dropped a bowl of something. Borscht? She could hear something moving in the bushes, but she had no idea what it was. Maybe a deer, though she'd been reading about the recent crash in the number of deer on the west coast during her morning NPR listening. She'd heard a couple of late arrivers talking about the deer they saw on their way up the mountain, so that must be it. She kept following the path, hoping it would open on to a meadow or something similar. Instead, as she reached a bushy wall with only one opening, she could see a pool, a blue crescent of water, where perhaps the singular sexiest woman she ever saw was sitting on a rattan chair, taking in a little of the sun that was peering through the trees. It took her a moment to realize that the sexpot in front of her was the same woman she'd had breakfast with. As if approaching a lion on the savanna, Hilary slowly approached where Alex was sunning. "What brings you out to the pool while everyone's milling about inside?" "I'm on the bottom of the interview list, so why not come out and get a little sun?" Hilary pulled up a chair and sat across from Alex, her back to the sun, her notebook on her lap. "You mind if I draw you?" "Am I going to be naked doing terrible things with a wild animal in it?" "Not if you don't want me to." "No, that'd be fine, just as long as it's not some huge, greasy man." "I can handle that." Hilary said as she put her pencil to the paper. She started with Alex alone, on a rattan chair relaxing in front of a Roman villa. "So, you're an arts critic?" Hilary asked, "At times. Mostly, I just bounce around." "I'd love to watch that." Hilary said. When she was in college, she'd learn that she could flirt while she was drawing and no woman would stop her. For her part, Alex played along. "I do bounce pretty well. I've had practice." Alex said, a sharky smile on her face. Hilary kept drawing. "So, you're big time, then?" Alex asked. "I've been lucky. I've got a few exhibitions of my stuff. I just came along at the right time." Hilary started to add the Nazi dirigibles in the background of the image. As it stood, Alex was only a body outline with the suggestion of a head and face. Hilary had made the notes in her head of what this woman actually looked like, how she appealed. Her breasts were at that point between perky and large. With a little assist, they could be seen as impressive, but now they were marvelous swells. She had a flat stomach, not overly toned, with just a touch of fleshiness, the kind that made Hilary want to give it a bite. Her legs were on par with Amanda, but they were far more

tan, and they had a sheen. Hilary, used to having the entirety of a persons image on first glance, had not noticed much of this the first time they had met. She was pretty, gorgeous, but not this sort of simmering sexy. The shock of the change was probably the peak of the allure; the shock of the seldom shocked. Hilary started in on defining the body and the face. Of course, Alex was naked, sitting in the sun as Hitler over-took Augustus. Sunbathing in the glow of the bombs. Somehow, this was all an influence of all those hours listening to Smiths lyrics. "So, what are you putting in?" Alex asked. "Ancient Rome, being bombed by the Nazis." "I'm naked, right?" "Of course." "I like it. Would you mind drawing something for me next?" "Name it." "Me wrestling a luchador in an ancient colisseum." Hilary looked up at Alex." "Really? I didn't peg you for a wrestling fetishist." It's hard to peg someone down to their fetish." "Unless that's their fetish." Hilary said. "Quite true." Hilary took a moment to polish off the Rome picture, then whipped the page over. "SHould I stand up, give you a different view?" Alex asked. "Sure, if you don't mind." Hilary said. At that, Alex got up out of the rattan, reached back, untied her top, shucked down the bikini bottom. Hilary, who should have been used to this sort of thing, was taken completely a back. Alex put herself in a pose where her full-frontal presence was made, but she stood as if she had just vanquished a foe. And Alex was hoping she already had. Hilary started to unconsciously draw Alex, her eyes never leaving the vision. She started with the hair, always the hair, and gave the general shape the rest of the way down. Alex was certain she wouldn't miss the sign, that she was a piece of meat in a window for her. At least she was certain she wouldn't have missed it if a mountain lion hadn't walked out from the bushes by the entry to the pool area. Hilary wouldn't have noticed, but it gave out a call and she started, jumping out of the chair towards Alex. Alex screamed, right into Hilary's retreating ears. "Whatdowedo? Whatdowedo!" Hilary screamed. "How the fuck should I know?" Alex answered. The mountain lion stayed where it was, its head going back and forth between them. "We, we, we need to make ourselves look big!" Hil said. Hilary raised her arms over her head. her notepad still in one hand, the pen in the other, Alex thrust her arms out to the side from behind Hilary, as if

forming a Shiva. The puma did not retreat. They stood there for a minute, panicking heavy the whole time. "It's not leaving." Alex said. "Look at it, it's probably starving! Deer are disappearing." The cougar was thin, and had in fact had an increasingly difficult time getting a hold of deer. Or goat. Or wild pig. Or Ostrich. Or anything, really. Age, coupled with the fact that there were less deer, and seemingly only the fast runners and great jumpers, had led to a hunger that even a single Asian female stomach could satisfy. Now, she wasn't preparing to eat, but this was her territory and she'd be damned if she was going to give it up to any human who decided to move in on it. "This isn't working!" yelled Alex, still naked. Looking around, Alex walked back, still looking at the cougar, and reached, grabbing the rattan chair. She grabbed it and swung her arm aroundHilary, flinging the chair towards the cougar, but stopping well short. It still backed up a few feet. "Alex, I've got an idea," Hilary said jumping up a bit, waving her arms, "go get the umbrella off the table." Alex did not turn her back on the cougar, backed away until she got to the table, edged around it and lifted the umbrella out of the hole in the center of the table. "Open it all the way up!" Hilary yelled, which led Alex to turning the ritating handle on the side. After a few comical moments, it was open full. The cougar noticed and had turned it attention fully to the 7 foot diameter rainbow circle now facing it. "OK, now you need to run at it." Hilary called to Alex. "Are you out of your fucking mind!" Alex yelled. "No, trust me, it'll work. ALex was certain this would get her killed. There she was, naked as the day she was born, with an umbrella leaning on the ground, held ahead of her as if it were a lance. "Now, run at it, like you're trying ot run it through. Then, when you're just about where it was when you started, turn around and we'll run together into the villa. "OK." Alex set herself for the suicide mission. She always knew she'd die naked, but this was not the way she had hoped. "AH!" Alex screamed as she charged forward, the canvas of the umbrella leaving coloured lines where it was pinched between the concrete and the ribs. She was screaming all along, and the cougar, at first confused, first took steps back, the turned and ran, through the bushes, and actually out the other side, down the hill, through the parking lot. It didn't stop until she got to the thicket half-way down the mountain.. Neither Alex nor noticed this. They were running to the villa, up the stairs as fast as they could. Mountain lions could climb stairs. They were just like zombies, right? Alex chose to run to the same room she'd plied her trade in earlier. Hilary had chosen the bathroom nearest the top of the stairs. Alex

immediately ran to the window, lookign down on the pool. There was no mountain lion. "Where are you, Alex?" Hilary called. "Out here"" Alex yelled back. Hilary came out of the bathroom and after peaking her head out the door like Velma in Scooby-Doo, she walked into the hallway and quickly across to the room where Alex had called from, closing the door behind her. "Is it down there?" "No sign of it." Hilary still had her notebook, and she started looking out the window next to Hilary. Alex had forgotten completely about her plan for cash. "Can you hand me that sheet?" Alex asked Hil. Hilary went over to the bed, grabbed the sheet and brought it over. Alex fashioned it into a toga of sorts. "We need to get back to the house." Alex said. "We can go back out there. What if it's still there?" "I think we scared it off." "How do you know?" Hilary asked. "If a naked chick charged at you with an umbrella, wouldn't you run off?" "I would." "Find something to defend ourselves." Looking around the room, there wasn't anything ideal. Alex opened the door and ventured to the next room. Nothing good. She tried all the rooms, finding nothing. Hilary joined her, they walked down the staircase and in the first room was the pool and sporting equipment. Hilary grabbed a pool skimmer, which would keep any monster at length. Alex grabbed a tennis racket. They ventured out onto the deck seeing nothing. Hilary led the way, leading Alex towards the bush passage. They made their way, then once they got to the passage, they stood back to back, alex facing forward with her tennis racket, while Hilary held the poolskimmer and walked backwards. From an the window of the den where they were discussing the casting of They'd Rather Be Right, the Linkledders and Charlie watched the scene in amusement. When they were within twenty or so feet of the door to the main house, they just dropped everything and ran into the door. When they got in, a small army of waiters and cooks were surrounding Jayla. "We'll be serving the What the hell are you two doing?" Jayla said, the gathered staff turning to see the two women. "THERE'S A FUCKING PUMA OUT THERE!" Hilary yelled.

The Clearing House, 12:15 pm The family McCleary walked into the foyer. Howard, one of the waitstaff hired for the week, was there, waiting for Mary.

"Ma'am, can I speak with you a minute?" Howard said as Mary approached. "Yeah, sure." James was walking next to his father. "Would now be a good time to talk, if you've got a minute." James said. "Of course, I do son." Mary hurried over to her father's side. "Dad, we're going to need to get some photos with a few of the donors. I think they're waiting in the Lennon lounge." "Really? Right now?" James asked. "Yeah, there won't be any time later." "Sorry, son. We'll find a few moments today, I promise." Hetch said. Mary took her Dad's arm and walked with him, hurrying him along. Howard entered a light job to keep up. "Ma'am we've got a situation." "A situation?" "Yes," Howard was already regretting the three stacks of pancakes this morning, "apparently two of our guests had a stand-off with a mountain lion out by the pool." "She was out by the pool?" Hetch said. Mary stopped walking. "She?" "Yeah, the female mountain lion that shows up down by the creek. Never seen her up this high." Mary pulled Hetch off to the left, immediately into the den where Hetch had been doing interviews. Howard hurried in as Mary slammed the sliding doors together. "You've seen a fucking puma on the estate and didn't say anything about it!" "It's never come higher than the road below the meadow." "My kids play in that meadow all the time! And now it's out by the pool! Why didn't you say anything?" Mary was fuming. "It's never hurt anybody, and I've never seenit close to the house." Hetch said. "Well, that first part might not be true any longer." Howard said. "What?" Mary asked. "We sent out two of the guards, the ones allowed to carry weapons, and they didn't see the cougar, but there was evidence of an attack." "What sort of evidence?" Hetch asked. "Blood-soaked dirt and a trail where it appears it dragged whatever it attacked." "Fuck." Mary let slip. "It's probably one of the goats. Or a deer." "There's another issue, sir: one of the guests is missing." "Shit." Mary pulled out her phone. "Who is it?"

"Cassandra Findelmann." "Gregory's wife?" Hetch said. "Shit." Mary said. "The guards are still out there, but they have instructions to call in if they find anything." "Greg's our second biggest donor." Mary said. "I know." Hetch noted. "We haven't called animal control yet -" Howard started. "And you won't be calling them." Hetch answered. "Why the hell not, Dad?" "They'll come and they'll kill her and that is unacceptable. We're running on a platform of natural preservation, and if we allow one of the rarest of mammals in the area, the small edge we've got with enviornmentalists will be completely shredded. No, not a single word." "It might have EATEN one of our guests, for fuck's sake!" "Howard, we've got to keep this quiet. Call off the guards, bring them in. Get a couple of the downstairs regulars to get a couple of the rifles from the hunting closest. Send 'em out and tell 'em if they find anything to call up. We'll get it taken care of." "What the hell do you mean? We've got to-" Mary tried to convince Hetch. "We'll get anything they find taken down the mountain, onto the Silko property, maybe. Just make it look like it didn't happen here." "And the women it tried to eat?" "Give 'em somethin', anything." "We're out of pocket on this?" Mary asked. "Damn right we are." Hetch said. "Get the girls who saw her down here. I'll chat them up and see what they need." Mary was in disbelief. "You're not fucking serious?" "Howard, make it happen." Hetch said, and Howard turned and made the preparations. "Dad, this is exactly the wrong idea." Mary said as soon as Howard closed the doors from the outside. "I'm saying this to you as my Committee Head and not as my daughter; we need to tamp this down and hard or it's your job!" Hetch said. "You're covering up a death!" "Potential death." "I'm sorry, a woman goes missing not 100 yards from where a mountain lion is seen is more than just a potential death. It's way-more-thanlikely!" "Think of the publicity. You should be looking at ways to stop any of this from splashing on us! This is YOUR job, Mary!" Hetch stopped. He went back behind the desk. Mary had taken a lot, had made a lot of choices that led her to this spot, and a minor cover-up was not going to put her down.

"I'll go and bring the witnesses in here." Mary sure. "You damn well better." Hetch said. Hetch arranged himself, grabbed the lockbox from the drawer. He grabbed the bourbon bottle and poured himself a short swallow. He let it linger, the feeling of warmth swelling under his tongue. After several minutes, there was a knock on the door. It was the girlfriend of the reporter from CNN; the one whose exhibits they'd funded. "Hello, Mr. McCleary. Mary called for me." "Yes, come in, it's excellent to see you again. I thoroughly enjoyed your exhibit at the Museum of Art." "Thank you, Mr. McCleary." "Call me Hetch," "I'll try." Hilary said. "I understand you had an encounter with a mountain lion this morning." "We did, Alex and I." "It's a beautiful animal, isn't it?" "I was a little busy fearing for my life." "It's a shame, isn't it?" Hilary wasn't sure what was going on here. "A shame that we were cornered?" Hilary asked. "That, and the fact that they'll have to put it down." "The mountain lion?" "Well, yes. When a mountain lion gets this close to a population center, when it faces off with a person and doesn't run away, they always kill the animal." Hetch was trying his best to appeal to her artists compassion. "Did it look well?" he asked. "It looked kind of thin, and there was blood around its mouth." "Probably took a deer." "Well, maybe you've heard, but deer are in short supply right now." Hilary added. "Let me come to the point. We've entered into the domain of this majestic animal and if we give any sort of indication that it had a face-off with a person, well, that's one less puma in the world." Hilary didn't like where this conversation was going. "So, you want me to keep my mouth shut?" "That's one way to put it." "At what price?" "Well, it would be best if it was for the love of the animal and its continuing presence in the world, but I can make you an offer." "An offer?" "I'd like to purchase a few paintings. Five, perhaps? Small-ish paintings, nothing over-the-top. Paintings of the mountain lion, perhaps." "At twice my going rate, since you'll be wanting these within six months, right?"

"That sounds reasonable, though you'll understand I can only give you a portion of it right now." "How much would that be?" Hilary asked. Hetch pulled a wad of money out of the lockbox. It was rubber banded already. "Five grand now, which will leave?" "Forty-five thousand, which I'll need a check for before I can start work, especially if this is a rush." "Well, it is. I'll make sure there's a check waiting for you by the time you leave in the morning." "That will do nicely." "Now, you say you were with a friend?" Hetch asked. "I was, Alex Kingman, with the Mercury." "Can't say I know her." "She's good people." "Good to know. If you see her, would you send her in here?" "I can do that." Hilary said. Hetch stood and offered his hand. "I'm looking forward to seeing your new works." "And I am looking forward to creating them." Hilary said. Hetch knew the local publishers and something didn't feel right. The Mercury was a rag, a small one at that, and if there was a young female reporter, there'd have been talk. Hetch picked up the phone and started making phone calls.

The Clearing House, 12:38pm, THursday Sara Rodtz's car pulled up under the overhang exactly eight minutes later than she had told Mary. This would certainly reflect on the gratuity given to the driver. They had left her home in Almaden exactly at 11:57, and it was a 33-minute trip in the current traffic conditions, according to Google. The head of the Santa Clara County Republican party didn't have time to spend in cars that we're making proper time. She also had the annoyance of being required to attend this monstrosity. She had never been a fan of McCleary, not when he was publisher of the Times and they'd trumpet her candidates while supporting environmental causes and regulation. They even supported Gore over Bush; an absolute crime. Sadly, in the bluest state west of Massachussetts and south of Oregon, he was exactly the kind of candidate that was likely to pull away a few morons who cared more about trees and Sage Grouse than they did about jobs or taxes. Hetch toed the line in many ways, but where he broke away, these were what troubled her. Sara had championed the social agenda for the party in the state, had beaten several candidates into shape over the years. She was, in many

ways, the Inquisitor, the one who beat people into proper attitude and doctrine. Hetch was not her cup of tea, but the State Chair wasn't able to make it, or so he claimed, and as Vice-Chair, she was the one who bit this particular bullet. Her meetings with Hetch had faced a wall of disagreement. Even when they threatened to cut his slice of the state coffers, he insisted on his environmental policies, and lessened social agreements. They had pushed Gunning in the primaries, but somehow, Hetch had made it through, got the second most votes, went on through to the election against a juggernaut Democrat on her fourth term. Being double-digits behind her was not a help, and if he'd just listen, come in to the fold, he wouldn't have lost so many true Conservatives to the radical parties that lived like romora off the Republican shark. In many ways, he was the worst case scenario, and this dinner would hardly make-up the gap with the Democrats, but he'd managed to fund his way this far, maybe he'd be able to pull it out. Mary wasn't waiting at the door. She'd known Sara was coming. Sara had nearly insisted that he hire one of the real Republican strategists, like Pournelle or Minter, but he'd more strongly insisted that his daughter, with no real experience, run his campaign. The man made terrible choices, but his papers were still on his side, even though he'd de-vested of them. One of the hired guards walked to her car, opened the door. "Welcome to The Clearing House, may I ask" "Just get me to Mary Carlson immediately." Sara said. Sara walked into the foyer, a dozen people milling around, a parlor with food. This was the kind of thing you could afford to run with your own money, then claim the entirety of the income from the fundraiser as profit, make it look like you were bringing in big bucks. Sara noticed several of the significant Silicon Valley players around, though she'd obviously arrived at the time when most were gorging. This was not an ideal scene, especially since she recognised a number of the attendees as 'Otherwise Democrats' who came out because they appreciated Hetch's take on homosexuality or the environment or some other faulty thinking. That group was not who they should be courting, and they were not likely to give any help to any of the REAL Republicans who needed to win seats. "Sara Rodtz, is that you?" Mother McCleary called. "Janine, how lovely to see you." Sara said. The two women gave each other the kind of hug only women in their late 50s who almost despise one another could share in public. "It's wonderful that you could make it." Mother McCleary said. "Well, Janine, I couldn't miss it." Two things that Sara Rodtz knew: first that any sort of indiacation of requirement would annoy her, and second that calling mother Janine was not at all the kind of thing she'd want to hear. "I'm terribly sorry, but I really need to chat with Mary." Rodtz said. "She's dealing with a situation at the moment."

"Then I'll wait for Hetch." Sara said. "He's stacked with reporters right up until he has to change for the dinner. Perhaps we could go over whatever it is you need to talk about?" Mother McCleary knew that nothing would annoy Sara Rodtz more than being pawned off on a lower-level employee, even if it was the wife of the candidate. Sara, reluctantly, followed Mother McCleary to the Flower room, so named for the floral wallpaper that rubbed everyone who ever entered into it the wrong way. Mother opened the door, one of the few non-sliding doors on this level, and motioned into the room. Sara entered and found a chair along one of the walls. Mother took a seat with one between the. "So, Sara, what would you like to say to Hetch? Or is it Mary you wanted to chat with?" "Let us say that this is a message for the campaign." "For the campaign? Then this must be serious." "Cut the crap, Janine, you;re fifteen points back." "It was twenty-one three weeks ago." "It was. Hell, it probably still is." Sara was settling back. "Oh, where are my manners? My I offer you a drink?" Mother stood and craosed to the desk. "None for me, but I know you need one or you'll start to come over in shakes." Mother picked up a umbler, flipped it right side up, then grabbed the small bottle of Campari, splashed some in teh glass and returned to her seat. "I'm sorry, maybe I missed the message you had for 'the campaign." "I know you bought yourself the primary, got a place on the ballot, but Hetch is a drag on what could be a gain in the state." "And how well did your fellow do last time round? Barely polled 39 percent, right?" "Hetch can't win, but there is a way he could still be a player." "He can win." "Hetch can't win. If there was even a glimmer, we'd pour every penny we could spare to push him." "It's not about money." "The Bitch has money. That's why she wins." "We've got money, but that's not why we'll win." "You're sitting on splendid philosophies." "Sara, speak plain." "Get in line." "What?" "You heard me. Get in line." Mother finally took a sip of the alcohol. "You want be plainer?" "You are not toeing the line, you are not promoting the ideals that the Republican party today needs to be pursuing." "I see. You don't like the environmentalist stuff?"

"Oh, that's hardly the biggest problem, Janine." "Oh, you're referring to the gay marriage thing?" "Don't toy with the phrase, Janine. Not only did he come out in favor of it, but you've got a lesbian here as an interviewer." "The second most popular commentator on CNN, and the only one who always breaks your way." "And there were Useful Jews for the Nazis. You've just identified yourself with her quite thoroughly. It's tainted your entire campaign." "You're archaic." "You're radicals who think it's easier to climb the mountain on our side than to go the other way." "It's the way the country is going." "And that's why we've got to stop it. Get on the fucking boat." "Charming." Mother took another drink. "If you manage to win, and I shouldn't even entertain the idea, we will block every piece of reform and legislation you support as if it were Barack Obama himself setting it on the table. The State and the National party agrees with me. Hetch is a loose cannon and if he is allowed to gain even a toe-hold in the Senate, he'll poison the entire well." "So you say, Sara." "But there is a way he could get something out of this." "David Kahaine is down by four points in Stockton. Ellis Mayer in Redding by three. Michael Townsend by a half-dozen." "Yes, they're all losing by very close margins." "And they're all strapped for cash." "I hear Kahaine might have to sell his Sunday Porsche." "He's got his money tied up in the business." "Don't we all." "Not Hetch. Not you, Mother." "All of a sudden, I'm Mother." "The Take Back the House PAC is bleeding money, and the Dems have out-raised us two-to-one." "Sounds like you need a better fundraising strategist. Mary'll be free after she gets Hetch to the Capitol." Mother punctuated this by finishing her drink. "Donate ten million to the PAC and we'll get you events with all three of them, plus endorsements of Wilson, Carton, Byers, probably even Arnold." "For ten million dollars." "You're worth two billion, you won't miss it." "It's more like three billion, and that's not the point." "You have to play ball." "We took the primary spot against your Golden Boy." "You out=spent us five-to-one" "Again, not the point. All the support you could give a candidate and you couldn't beat Hetch, didn't even come within ten points." "Because of your money."

"Money we still have." "Money you still have, and money that we need." "Ten million, Mother, to get real Republicans elected. Ten million to take back the House." "Hetch won't like it." "He'll come around." "Mayer's practically a Nazi." "I won't argue with you there. He's a detestable piece of shit. Ten minutes after he's elected, he'll have every Muslim e can find rounded up and shot. He's also the most brilliant economist we've got on the ballot anywhere and will get things done for the party," Sara said, "beside, who's going to miss the half-dozen Muslim in his district?" Mother couldn't help but laugh a bit at that. "We want at least one of them to specifically endorse our environmental regulations." "You're out of your fucking mind, Janine!" "Not a negotiation. We've got the cash, you provide the service. One of those three has a 'Come to Jesus' and endorses Hetch's plan. Christ knows I don't agree with 'im, but that's the minimum if we're bankrolling this PAC of yours." Sara's eyes became clouded, half with anger, half with concentration." "The California Republican Party won't have it." "Then the PAC won't have what's ours." "Be reasonable." "Buyers aren't supposed to be reasonable. They're supposed to be demanding and the seller has to deliver what they demand, or the buyer goes elsewhere. Basic business theory. Y'all might wanna look into it." "Kahaine's flexible." "So I've heard." "I'll take the check and we'll get it all done this weekend." "Endorsements first, then the check goes through." "You must think we're idiots if -" "I don't think you're an idiot," Mother said, "I think you're a beggar, and that makes ME the chooser." Sara released whatever it was she was holding in. "Fine, I'll make the calls this afternoon. You'll probably even have a few of them for you to announce at your little dinner." "That would make a lovely bit of conversation." Mother said, returning to make herself another drink.

The Clearing House, 12:54pm, Thursday Charlie and Rich and Rick were going over ideas. They'd written a script, a good one, and Rich had run to grab his MacBook to let Charlie read it. The role that was perfect for Charlie was Isaac, the old wise warehouse

nightwatchman who was one part Yoda, one part Charlie Manson. It was a meaty part, heavier than anything he'd done outside of the season he spent at the Ashland Shakespeare Festival. It wasn't his movie. It was more like the kind of thing you'd get a Lawrence Fishburne (who had played Charlie's visiting nephew in Around Town!) or Chi McBride (who had won the role in Boston Public over him!) but he would make it work beautiful. Charlie had been reading the script for more than an hour in the comfortable second floor den. Rick and Rich had been drinking from the various bottles in the cabinets. "So, Charlie, you like the script?" Rick asked. "It's good. Damn good." Charlie answered. Rich passed the bottle of Rye across to Charlie, who set down the laptop and took the bottle, slugged off of it. "We've got the money, but we have to wait until The Rock is available." Rich said. "The Rock's playing Hunter?" "Nope, Raglan." "Really?" Charlie was surprised, instead of the powerful gun-toting musclehead, the most powerful musclehead in movies would be playing the professor. An interesting switch. "We'll be a fast shoot, 48 shooting days." Rick said. "Money's not huge, we're out-of-pocket on this one mostly, but it's going to be steady. You'll need to agree to some press events. You got time for that, Charlie?" "Nothin' but time, Rich." "Excellent." A small girl carrying a scepter walked in. She also had a few cookies. "ANyone want a cookie?" Aisla asked. "I'll have one." Rich said, and Aisla handed him one. "What's your name, little girl?" RIch asked. "Aisla Carlson." "Nice to meet you, I'm Rich." "You make movies." Aisla said. "Now how did you know that?" Rick asked. "I watched your interview with Mary Hart last month. Mommy said your last movie was garbage." "She's right about that." Rick said. Aisla handed Charlie a cookie. "Thank you, little girl." Charlie said. "You're welcome. I don't know who you are." Young Aisla answered. "You would have twenty-five years ago." "Were you in the movies?" "Some. Mostly television." "We don't watch TV." "No?" "No. Mommy has Hulu Plus."

"That's the way of the world, these days." Rich said. "It seems so." Charlie added. Aisla sat down on an empty chair next to CHarlie. "Whatcha readin'?" "It's a script." Charlie said, turning the pages towards her. "Is it good?" "It's very good." "Thanks, Charlie." Rick said. "We wrote it." Rich added. "We're going to make a movie." "And you're gonna be in it?" Aisla asked Charlie. "It looks like I am." "He certainly is." Rich added. "What's it about?" Aisla punctuated that by taking a bite of her cookie. "It's about the world gone mad." Rick said. "Is it in the future?" Aisla asked. "Yes it is." Charlie answered, taking a bite of his cookie too. "And it's about the past too." Rick noted. "You can't have the future without the past." Rich added. "You're smart guys, right?" Aisla said. "The smartest." Charlie added with a wink that was suitably grandfatherly. "So, if you guys are smart, why did your last movie stink?" "Well, the short answer is that we're smart enough to know that sometimes, you just gotta play ball." Rich said. "And that was us playing ball." Rick said. "Like this dinner?" Aisla said. "Exactly like this dinner," Rich answered, "sometimes, you have to make money by making people fell like you're willing to do what they want as much as you're willing to do what you want to be doing." "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours?" Aisla asked. "You scratch my back, I'll scratch your's, exactly." Rich answered. "You are a very smart little girl." Charlie noted. "I've got a good mommy." And at that moment, mommy entered teh room. "Aisla, let these gentleman have their chat in private." Mary said. "No fear, ma'am," Charlie said, "she's a delight to have in here." "Good to hear. Anyhow, Uncle Benji is looking for you. He's doing today's batch of AskTheKidlings." "That's you, little girl?" Rich asked. "Yeah. It's our Hushtag." "Hashtag." Mary corrected "Hashtag." Aisla said. "Well, I'm very impressed. I've been reading your posts for quite a while now." "We have seven trillion followers."

"Seven million, sweety." "That's what I said." "Still a lot of people." "More than could fit in the house." Aisla said. "It certainly is." CHarlie noted. "Charlie, we've got a couple of people who would like to get some photos." "Well, boys, looks like this'll cut the afternoon short." "We'll have plenty of time later." "On-set." Charlie said with a smile he'd not used in years. "On-set." Rich agreed. The Clearing House, 1:30pm, Thursday Amanda had been through the entire interview. It was savable, serviceable. The key was to space out the obvious puffiness and scatter the serious in the cracks. That would make it look like she was trying to keep it light. This wasn't the best of the interviews she'd done, but the few shots of her from over Hetch's shoulder had shown her looking her best. That was just as important. Her cameraman, Carl, came back into the den where they had set-up. "So, I've got to get this off to Washington in an hour. You've got an order in mind?" he asked. "Yeah, I've noted it." "It's fixable?" "It's fixable." "Good." Amanda made a couple of notes, ripped the sheet out of her notebook, passed it to Carl. "I'm working on getting a sit-down with Charlie Osner. You think you could tape that?" "Once I get this sent, sure." Carl said. "You're the greatest." Amanda stood up, walked out of the room. She had seen Charlie Osner a couple of times, but briefly and from afar. Last she had seen him, he was headed out this direction, and if he wasn't in this room, it was likely that he'd gone down the stairs to the sub levels. According to the introduction packet, the Sub-levels were the best way to the tennis courts and the pool. There was a building marked "pool house" that caught her attention. Amanda would make her way there. Hilary loved pool houses. They'd stayed at a friend of her Mother's in Beverly Hills, the pool house being their's for the two days they were staying, between trips to Disneyland (AManda had lost that fight to Hilary's more childish urges) and a dinner at the Hollywood Roosevelt. Hilary had taken the time to give Amanda a once over in the small bedroom when they arrived,

followed by a late night fondling when Amanda took her shower before her morning run. That evening, after they returned from the amusement park, Hilary had led Amanda into the room where they kept their pool supplies, removed all her clothing and then used her mouth and tongue to produce the small chirping sound from AManda that meant she was only moments from her knees giving out. Amanda thought of that moment, when Hilary's tongue explored deep realms and her fingers dug firm into the flesh on her hips, and she had to lean forward on the stacked-up deck chairs. That weekend, to years ago, had seemed like the high water mark of their entire relationship. The moment when they were happiest, when things were working. Not only sexually, but emotionally, especially for Amanda. The combination of comfort and contentment was perfect. And now, she was lost to her, but at least she understood the practicalities. "I'm going to track down Osner, then we'll set up the interview in the pool house?" "I'll set-up the transfer and set-up over there." "Sounds good." Amanda said. "You OK?" Amanda paused. "It's been a rough few weeks." "I'd say, Hilary leaving you and all." Amanda was stopped dead. "How'd you know that?" "She used to call a 3:30, every day, You'd come back rose-cheeked and breathless." Yeah, Amanda had always been vexed by Hilary's propensity towards turning any phone conversation into phone sex. At first, Amanda had tried to deflect this practice, but then gave in, largely because Hilary was so damn good at it. "Yeah. That's" "Don't worry about it. I figured you were keeping it under your hat." Carl said. "Thanks." Amanda left the room, walked into the hall. On one of the padded benches was a kid, a young boy, with Benji, Hetch's middle child. "Uncle Benji, it's that reporter you think is so cute!" The kid said, pointing directly at AManda. Benji, who many have accused of having no shame, showed a bit of it by blushing brightly. "Kids, 'eh?" Benji said. "Or Kidlings, right? You're 2/3 of AskTheKidlings, right?" Amanda said. "Yes we are." Little Kennedy said proudly. Benji stood up, crossed the room to AManda, offered his hand. "I'm Benji. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you." Amanda responded. "So, you think I'm cute?" Benji blushed." "Yes, well, there's." "We watch you everyday while Uncle Benji enters our answers." Kennedy said. "Really?" "Yeah, Uncle Benji likes to watch you." Amanda gave him an amused, playful look. "I totally know I'd be barking up the wrong tree." "Completely wrong forest." "That too." "Can I ask a question of the Kidlings?" "Of course, pretty lady!" Kennedy enthused. "What color should I wear to the dinner tonight?" AManda asked. "RED!" Kennedy answered without pause. "Actually, the Kid's got it dead right on the first." "I know. That's what I was planning on. " And Kennedy sat and smiled to himself, knowing he was dead on the money. At that moment, Sara Rodtz walked out of one of the reading rooms and into the hall. Amanda had been wanting to get to her for ages. She might not be the most powerful person in the Republican party, but she ran the real ground operations, far more than anyone ever let on. She had opposed Hetch, still did if the reports out of her moles in her office were true, but he'd out-spent them on every turn and won the nomination. She had championed candidates with money from SIlicon Valley in places as far away as Florida. Many pointed to her direct work as why there were a majority of Republican governors. And Amanda had never managed to crack her. Oh, she'd tried, but often her requests went unanswered. This was the first time she'd be able to directly. "Excuse, Mrs. Rodtz." Amanda said, running to catch her. Sarah turned. "Yes, go on." "I'm Amanda -" "Amanda Neal, CNN, I know. What do you want?" "Well, I've been hoping to-" "Yes, you want to interview me and then gain access to the rest of the team that I'm supporting." "Well, that's-" "All you have to say. Good day." "I'm sorry, ma'am?" "Listen, Miss Neal. I'm quite happy you're on our side, because frankly the media, especially those in TurnerLand, are usually not our friends, and you've pursued a magical combination of Conservative economic and social values while also living a life that is obscene and un-rightous. I am not going

to associate myself, of any of my candidates, to you. You are poison, though poison that helps us in the right dose." Amanda needed to get to a shower, but tried not to let it show. "I'm sorry I've wasted your time." She said, and turned to make her way up the stairs. The Clearing House, 1:40pm, Thursday Mary needed a cigarette. More than any other time in recent memory. A fucking mountain lion, she thought to herself. She made her way to the window of the staff dining room, only to find Jayla already there, already smoking. "Your brother is a piece of shit, Mary." "So I've heard. Mary pulled out her smokes and lit up. "He told you why he left yet?" "No." Jayla kept looking out the window, "You want him to?" MAry asked. "I don't know. I think he wants to, though." "Probably." mAry noted. The two just kept smoking. Mary wanted to get it all over with, since the days until the election were getting shorter. If she could pull it off, she'd be free and claear. Jayla was counting down because once the dinner was over, then she'd be able to go away, back to the restaurants. It would be so much easier. "You want him back?" Mary asked. "No." "Really?" "No. I want answers, then I want him back." MAry laughed. "James's got troubles." "He always has. I think it runs in my family. We've all got it." "Your Dad's a piece of work." Jayla said. "Damn straight." The two smoked some more. "We miss you around here." Mary said, breaking a smoke-filled silence after pushing smoke through the open window. "I miss you guys, too, but I gotta admit it's nice to be a Big Name Chef." "You won a James Beard, I wouldn't hang around here either if I were you." Jayla drew deep. "Hot House is failing." "I thought it might be." "People around here aren't willing to pay for top-flight." "And you're surprised?" Mary said.

"The other's are doing pretty well, but the fine dining isn't selling." "That's rough." "We might have three, four months." The food's great. I brought my Dad there a few weeks ago," "You didn't tell me. I'd have comped you!" "And that's why you're going under." Jayla laughed. "Yeah, yeah." "He loves you, you know." "I suspect he does, in his way." "I know he does." Jayla tossed the rest of her cigarette out the window. "Thanks for that." She said, and walked out of the room. Mary sat on the table, looking down on the road, and sneaking up towards the house, a mountain lion who had obviously seen better days.

The Clearing House, 2:02pm, Thursday James hadn't realised it, but he'd been typing. It was a story, probably a novella, certainly something more than a little influenced by the Hemingway short story he'd read last month. It was an economical story of a man looking for his wife who had either been carried off or run off, something that he wasn't sure of, but it had been a month and he had not found her. It was a good story, at least at a thousand words. He hadn't written in so long, it felt odd to realise that it was coming out of him at such a pace. There was a knock at the door. These were never good things. "Come in." The door opened and in walked his Dad. "Hey, son." Hetch said after he was in the room, leaving the door open behind him. James visibly flinched when he processed it. His fingers stopped typing. "You said you wanted to talk to me?"Hetch said. James took a moment, trying to figure out what would be the proper way to address: standing or sitting. One showed remarkable calm in the face of most serious emotions. Sadly, James couldn't figure out which was which. He stayed seated. "I wanted to talk about when I was a-" Mary came hurryingly into the room. "Dad!" Mary walked in and James was paused. "Dad, I need to We're working on a discussion with a couple of the reporters. The Emsh room." Hetch looked at James. "Right now?"

"Yeah, Dad. They're itchin' to get goin'." Mary said. "Sorry son, this is just a weird, weird time. We'll talk in a bit?" "Sure you will, Dad." Hetch turned and left the room. "Had a nice little chat with Jayla earlier." Mary told James. "I talked to her a little." "You shouldn't have come back." She said. "I had to. I've gotta talk to Dad." "It can wait. The election is the big deal." "This is more important." James noted. "No, it's not." Kennedy came into the room. "Mommy! We wanna go swimming and Uncle Benji said he'd take us, but he said we had to ask you and now-" "NO! Stay in the house. No swimming today." "But-" "No swimming!" Kennedy looked as if he were about to become one of those kicking and screaming kids, but as always, he bucked up and strode out the room. "There's a mountain lion outside." Mary said, a bit of constrenation coming across her face. "A mountain lion? Like a cougar?" "Yeah, I saw it from the dining room window." "Lemt me guess: that's where you and Jayla had your little talk." "Old habits." "Yeah. Old habits." Mary stood there a moment, obviously wanting to say something but not wanting to talk about it. "Dinner starts at five-thirty." "I've got my suit." James said. Mary took a moment, then left the room. James managed to start typing again, but it was a much less grand story. The Clearning House, 210pm, THursday Jeff held the shotgun, Scam held the noose-stick, meant to be slipped around it's neck. Why the hell had they drawn this duty? Mary McCleary had seen it sneaking around the front of the house, looking for more tasty human meat to snack on. She'd very smartly put together a plan to keep everyone inside by hosting a Q+A with The filmmaking brohters, the Linkledders, and the MC for the evening, CHarlie someone-or-=other. This was the darkest mission, and the shotgun was only there if it pounced on Scam while he was trying to but the noose around the

cougar's neck. "You ever caught a puma before?" Jeff asked. "No, but I used to work for the Park service, so I got the training." "Where'd you work?" "Yosemite. They get bears, but there's no good way to catch them. Racoons, deer, sometimes coyotes, but you don't mess with bears." Scam stopped walking. "You hear something in the bushes?" "Yeah." Scan said in a whisper. They'd worked their way around back after a good survey of the front of the house. They'd reached the bushes behind the tennis courts. Scam was looking into the tangle of wood and leaves and branches and such. "There it is." Scam whispered. Jeff lowered the shotgun and Scam started into the bushes. He could see it, about thirty feet into the dense tangle, and it appeared to be eating. Scam tried to push through as quietly as possible, but in all honesty, he sounded like a two hundred-forty pound man pushing his sleep-deprived body through a thicket. Jeff stayed close behind, fully drawn upon the cougar. The mountain lion paid no attention them, seemingly intent on filling it's belly. They got within ten feet, the cougar positioned away from them, its body blocking almost all of the view of its meal. Scam could see the spine, the ribs on the old girl. His fifteen foot pole with draw-noose was just about the right length for the attempt. Scam lifted the stick and slowly moved it forward, nearing the neck cougar. The bottom of the noose tapped the mountain lion's ear, and it started, swung and backed away, somewhat unsteadily. Scam staggered back, first because there was a mountain lion who looked as if it were ready to try and pounce, though it was obviously low on energy so it might not have the strength to take him, and second because he could now tell that it had been feeding on a woman. "Shit!" Jeff said. The mountain lion had not moved, and Scam made lotions towards it with the stick. The cougar was annoyed, and finally moved back, headed out the other side of the thicket. Jeff pulled out his cell phone. "Who are you calling? Get on the radio!" "No, Mary said to call her directly. No radio." Jeff said. Jeff dialed. "Hello, Mrs. Carlson? We found the mountain lion. It appears we've also found the lost woman. It was feeding on her." There were instructions. Jeff nodded, said 'OK' several times. Jeff hung up. "We've gotta get it." "Get what?" "The body." "We've gotta get the body?"

"We've gotta get the body. Gotta move it." "Move it?" "We gotta move it, take it off the property, put it at the base of the mountain, make it look like she was attacked when she was off for a jog." Scam looked sick. "I'm not touching her." he said. "You want your job, you are." "Fuck." "Stay here. I've gotta go and get some garbage bags." Jeff said, handing Scan the shotgun. "And get someone else to do my carrying." "Not gonna happen." "Fuck." Jeff headed off. Scam couldn't help but stare at the scene. The woman was wearing a tennis outfit, stained rust with blood and brown with the dirt of the bushes. Her stomach had been ripped open and served as the buffet for the cougar's hunger. It was too much for him to look any closer. He stared at her hair, long black hair that had caught on a low branch formed a downward wave. He must have been working to memorize the scene because he looked at her as long as it took Jeff to get the bags and return with a couple of large towels and a long leather jacket. "What's all that for?" "Give me the stick." Jeff said, taking it from Scam and handing him the towels and setting the jacket on the ground. "I'm going to lift her up with the noose, then you put the towel under her, I'll put her down, you wrap it around her." Jeff said. Scam did not look impressed. "Come on, there's a deadline on this one. Scam took one of the towels and opened it up, walked a bit out of the way so he wouldn't have to approach the eaten end of the body. Jeff wrangled the noose so it was around her forehead, slowly lifted the stick to tighten the noose and then slowly pulled her up. He had to anchor the stick beneath his armpit to get leverage, but eventually he raised her head a foot off the ground. Scam put the towel across the ground, spread it as wide as it would go. Jeff lowered her down on top of the towel. "Ok, now put the ends over her." Scam grabbed the ends of the towel and wrapped it around her. He tried not to look at her face, but he couldn't help but notice that one of her eyes was open, the open on, punctured by a long tooth, was closed. He covered it quickly. "OK, put her in the bag." Jeff said, tossing it across to his. "You put her in the fucking bag!" Scam said, starting to walk over to where Jeff was, dropping the bag on the ground next to her. Jeff waited until Scam got to him, then handed him the noose stick, and picked up the other towel. Jeff walked over to the body, picked up the

bag, opened it and then grabbed the towel, lifting her head. He slid the bag over and walked around the side pulling it as far down as he could. "Throw me the other bag." Jeff said. Scam did as he was asked. Jeff opened the towel and went to her feet. He lifted her foot by the tennis shoe, the smell of foul death hitting him at that moment. He grabbed the other one as well, then wrapped the towel arround them both. "What with teh towel?" Scam asked. "Better not to any of our direct evidence on it." "Won't the fibres show up?" "I doubt they'll go that far in the investigation." Scan thought he might be right. it was be very easy to determine the cause of death - Fucking Mountain Lion Attack! Jeff put the feet in the bag, then pulled it up towards the gore of her stomach. "Come on, grab the bag, under her shoulders." Jeff said. Scam put the stick down, came over and lifted the plastic and towelwrapped torso. Jeff took both her legs under one arm. They lifted her. "We gotta go out the back of the bushes." Jeff said. "The way that the puma went?" Scam asked. "Boss's orders." Jeff led the way, facing forward with the legs tightly wrapped under his arm. They made it to the edge of the thicket, to the field of ankle-high grass that led to the cliff on the far western edge of the property. Calling it a cliff might be over-kill, as it was only a twelve foot drop, but it was the far edge, whatever it landed on would be someone else's problem, in this case the County of Santa Clara. "OK, take her out of the bag." Jeff said, dropping her feet. Scam did just that, dropping her and then pulling the bag off. he pulled away the bag away, as did Jeff. Laying a foot away from the edge, they piled the materials a few feet away. "So, do we just kick her over?" Scam said. "Nah, we gotta throw her, so it doesn't look like she was dragged from the property." "Then why the hell did we take her out of the bag?" "You think it would look more natural to have her wrapped in plastic? It worked so well in Twin Peaks." "Fuck." Scam said. "Here." Jeff said, tossing him a pair of latex gloves. "Great." Scam responded, putting them on. Scam took her by her wrists, Jeff her ankles. They took a half-step back, slinging her between them. "To the Earth below we commend your body." Scam said as they swung her back once, twice, and then let her fly on the third. She took the fall most splendidly, landing on her back, splayed with arms towards each of the cardinal directions. Her innard popped out a bit,

which was fine, for the thin cougar was down below, now ready to finish her interupted meal. The CLearing House, 2:32pm Thursday New Nick had slipped out. No one had been watching the doors towards the cars. In fact, there didn't seem to be anyone on that whole side of the house. He walked to the car, unlocked the door and slid himself inside, pulled out his phone and dialed. "You called?" "There's been a change." Nick never enjoyed being told that plans were being remade. "How drastic." "The event has to be public." "What?" "It has to serve another purpose. You've got to make sure that everyone who has these debts must get them covered and nothing'll keep them safe." "There's security all over this place, half of them armed." "The money's got better, and up-front." "How much better." "One-point-five." "SAy that again." "One-and-a-half MILLION dollars." "That's a big jump." "These are men who understand how to compensate good work." "Wire it to my account." "Already did." "What if I'd said no?" "You wouldn't." "Fucking right I wouldn't." "I'll figure something out." "Good." Line dead. How the hell was he going to publicly shoot Bretschneider without getting plugged himself. He'd have to walk through the dining room and seeing about a potential window jump. He knew that seating was assigned, but he hadn't been able to find an unguarded description of where everyone was sitting. There were ways to get around without the knowledge, but he didn't like to create on stage, as it were. New Nick got out of the car that the smell from the trunk had made it's way into the cab. Wouldn't be more than a few hours before you could smell it from a few feet away from the car. It wasn't a good time. He walked back into the house, setting his clothes straight. "Mr. Andros?" it was Mary. "Yeah, hi." he said.

"We were looking for you." "I just had to go and get something from the car." "I know you're going to want to be getting ready, but we'd love it if you would get a few words with Sarah Rodtz." Nick had no idea who that was, or what he would possibly ask her, but he also got the feeling that she was dangling her in front of him, knowing that he'd not pass up an option to chat with her. "I'd be happy to. I'll need just a few minutes, though, if you don't mind." "No problem, we're meeting in the Gordon room." "Be there soon." Nick said. Nick went up to the room and got immediately on the internet, searching for anythign that would give him a lead on what to ask. After only a minute or two, he realised that this was a problem. She was a Sacramento insider. Dead Nick was a Sac-town reporter. The odds of her recognising him would be pretty high. If he didn't show up, it might arouse suspicions as well. Shit. Nick got up when an idea hit him. He took out Dead Nick's. cel phone and looked through it. If she was a big deal, and he had met her, he'd have put her in the phone. Nick scrolled through teh name. Nothing. Not a Sara, not a Rots, nothing. He figured he was safe, threw on the better sports coat and headed down. Arriving at the room, there were a batch of reporters sitting around in armchairs while a middle-aged woman sat behind a small table. She was rambling about the Santa Clara County Republicans, how they were leading the nation in bringing the values of the Party to business and the ballot box. She never once mentioned the name Hetch McCleary. Not once, and it became obvious to New Nick that this was intentional. "OK, we'll take some Q+A" Mary said. New Nick raised his hand. "I was wondering if you could talk about the support the party has for Hetch McCleary's campaign." Sarah looked at him with a great deal of distaste in her stare, though she seemed to be smiling, much like a fox in the mind of the hen. "As a Republican candidate, we're behind him, and several significant candidates in other races are preparing to announcement their personal support for the McCleary campaign." "Does the Santa Clara County Republican Committee support him and his policies?" Sarah's false smile faded. "We're always hoping to gain a stronger foothold in the Senate to keep America on the right-" "I'm sorry, I should have been clearer," Nick interjected, "is the Party supporting Hetch McCleary's policies, his views." Sarah was actively frowning. "There are differences between Mr. McCleary's platform and what we in

the Party consider to by our platform, yes, but we are in full support of him in this race that will help determine the fate of-" "Sorry again," Nick was starting to enjoy this, "in what ways will the Silicon Valley Republican COmmittee be supporting the McCleary campaign? It seems like he's marched on his own so far." "We'll be giving him every piece of support he asks for-" "Financial support?" "If he asks for it, we'll be glad to help where we can." "I know the party supported his opponent in the Primary." "Yes, but the party voters spoke and they chose McCleary as their candidate." "Against the wishes of the Party committee?" "What are you getting at?" The others in the room seemed to feel the tension growing. Mary stood to the side like the referee in a boxing match that was getting ugly. "I'm just trying to see what level of support has for Hetch McCleary's campaign." "You want to know what level of support we have for Hetch McCleary? Total and complete. That's it. We may not be fond of all of his views, but we're behind him." "In every way?" "In every way." "So the Silicon Valley Rupublican Organizing COmmittee will be providing material and on the ground support?" Sarah set her jaw tight. "Yes, every support possible." Mary stepped forward. "The McCleary campaign and the SVROC have been in close discussions on ways in which we can best use our combined resources to help the Republican ticket across the board, and teh SVROC will be releasing an official endorsement for Hetch McCleary in the very near future." Sarah tossed daggers with her eyes at Mary. "Yes, we'll be releasing a statement very shortly." The rest of the conference was very perfunctory, especially for Nick. Mary seemed to be enjoying herself. She had made a move, obviously, Lwith the call for the endorsement. She had read the situation and had put it out there and had certainly won a major concession. New Nick had to admit he rather liked her. The conference ended without much fanfare and folks started to drift off. It was nearly time for the preparations for the dinner to begin. Nick left the room and walked into the area in the kit that indicated where the dinner would be. Yes! Place cards. The staff had set them out, but had not yet dressed the table. Nick went over the seating at the huge set of matched tables. On the end, he could see that they were stuck together with tongue and groove edges. Well

made, they were. Nick Andros was across the table from Amanda, who was seated next to Hilary. Bretschneider was three seats down from Hetch. 2/3 of the long table away from Nick, in the nook. There was a window behind Hetch, the end of the table sitting in a vestibule of windows that ended just before it reached Bretschneider's seat. There wouldn't be much room to walk up the aisle with the people seated, plus it would be likely that one of the war hero business fucks would probably tackle him, not to mention that there would be armed guards. Looking over the table set-up, there was a doorway between his seat and Bretschneider's, and that would be the fastest route to the restroom. If he excused himself, headed to the washroom, came back and shot from the doorway, four, maybe five yards from the target, he could turn and run through the foyer, out the front door, or maybe turn towards the downstairs, which he would check out when he 'went to the bathroom'. Whichever had the least security. It would be simple, and hitting him from that distance would work. He'd leave the car, run out through the thicket, then to the road below. His car was at the base of the mountain, in the garage of a family on vacation for the next three days. The run would be a little more than a mile, but it was almost entirely downhill. This could work. Looking over the others seated by the guy, they were either family members or the big donors, like Mack Lindhoffen, who wouldn't be missed if he put an accidental bullet through his forehead. Nick had the plan. All he had to do now was change into the tuxedo and wait for the moment. He'd wait until after the appetizers, since he really loved cabrito, and Jayla was starting things off with her goat tamal.

The Clearing House, 2:42pm Thursday Alex was on the bed. Alex stared up at the ceiling. Alex hadn't moved since she went up there. No thought of moving, but when there was a knock on the door, she rolled over. It was a kid. One of Benji's kids. "Hi, lady." "Hi." The kid was the girl, who had crumbs all over her little dresslet. "My uncle asked me to check if you were in here. He's Tweeting right now." Alex sat up. "You like doing the Kidling stuff?" "It's fun, and we help people." "You think so." "Yep, that's why people send us presents." "They send you presents?" "Yeah, lots of 'em. There's a Playpal"

"It's Paypal." "Yeah, a PayPal button on our website. We've got college funds now." "Good for you." Alex slowly swung around and reached over, brushed the cookie crumbs off of her dresslet. "There, you look much more like a lady." "I'll go tell Uncle Benji that you're in here. He told me to check if you were alone." Alex smiled at her. "GO and tell him that I'm alone and would like to chat with him when he's done exploiting you kids." "OK." And off Aisla went, out of the room, crumb-free. The Clearing House, 2:52pm Thursday Elliot Brill wasn't the biggest of fish, and he knew it. He had worked on the McCleary campaign, had run the office in Sunnyvale, and though 5 grand had hurt to pull out of his savings (intended to serve as a down payment on a small house in Oakdale), he had to be here. He had to come and see Mr. McCleary, support the campaign and make sure Hetch made it all the way to the Senate, finally bringing wise conservatism to the Capitol. Standing in the foyer of The Clearing House, he knew he had made the right choice. The busyness of the place was incredible. He had seen major figures going back and forth, even caught sight of the manager of the campaign. She had called him 'Eli' for no good reason, but it was nice. Elliot walked around the foyer, found that they were in the middle of tearing down the buffet, and that there were reporters and supporters gathered in a room, asking questions. Elliot didn't feel like he could intrude, sit down and start asking questions with the big shots. Elliot found a bench in the hall where he sat himself down, pulled out his laptop and started typing. A novel. He had never published any writing, nothing, but he had written seven novels, three dozen short stories, notebooks of poetry, and most impressively, 3605 Yelp reviews. He was an amazing writer, though what he wrote was best qualified as trash. He wrote his first two paragraphs in less than five minutes, tuned into a realm of indestraction. To tell this story, it is necessary to first to go into roughly a thousand years of linguistics, geography, politics, religion, and wrestling history. Haesl, the great continent on the great planet of Kaesl, developed a language of its own centuries after the Landing seeded it with life. That was nearly six thousand years ago, and as it has been told, there was chaos until The Great Saint Haesl-Al brought the people together under his sword, then taught them Faith, and later The Faith. He was the first to institute the naming of people. All have a forename, it can be any word of any of the six

languages. Take Heaf, meaning the Moon, a masculine name typicals, and then add the indicator of birth. Al, the west, is given to those descended of the Western people, those from the nation of Hure, largely desert and vast, stretching far, far into the massive sea. Ol, South, those from the edge of the Campek landmass, and the islands beneath it. Il, East, the cold and mountainous region covered in dense forests. Ul, North, the flatlands. While seldom used in antiquity, El, Central, is the name given to those of the City of Poles. Thus Heaf is the Moon, but Heaf-Ol is the name of Heaf whose family descended from the Southern lands. They are sometimes called the Water People. This applies for men. For women, it is -*n. L is masculine, N feminine. Jeast, Wisdom. Jeast-An: Wisdom of the Western people. Strange stuff. He had no idea where he was going with this, but by next month it'd be finished. Tolstoy by way of Heinlein, Asimov. He was sure they'd appreciate the business. He'd been bouncing the story around in his head for months, years. He'd loved the story, but mostly he loved the idea of bringing wrestling into the world that the characters lived in. Adding the history aspect basically made it all the stronger. He kept typing. The six languages are not that different from one another, though all are distinct in many ways. All use the same naming, though some pronounce them differently. The shared written form, Aslo, is the form spoken in the City of Poles. The script is simple: a glyph for every word, the pronounciation of that glyph changing for each separate language. The language of The City of Poles is crisp, clear. It is a city of people that cycle through, so the vocabulary is huge. Nearly a million people live in The City of Poles, which has no fixed pronouncing, only the concept which each language treats its own way. The City of Poles, named for the tall, natural pillars that surround the northern side, topped by archers in antiquity to defend from the barbarians who would attack it. The language of the North is noted for its drawl, though it is closest to the talk of the City of Poles. The great difference is the grammar. What the people of the City of Poles would say as "Heasl no Holsed Jum" (the land of Heasl is an island, or literally transcribed, Heasl is Land Island) would be said as "Holse-No Heasl jum" (Land(-is) Heasl island). The differences becoe more complex, with many dashes. The language of the South is stranger, some say darker, with many words being understood. The Land of Heasl is an Island would simply be "Heasl Hol Jume" : Heasl Land Island. A simple form of speaking that allows it to be the most widely understood, though those of the other speaks tend to think them simpletons; those of the south seeing the others as over-complicated. He hadn't noticed that a woman had come to sit next to him. "Hi there." Elliot started. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," Hilary said. "Hi there." "So, you're a writer?" "No, not really."

"But you're writing." "I am, but I'm not a writer." "Why not?" Elliot sat for a moment, took the moment to hit Command-S and named the file AsMuchAsNeeded1, and then looked at the woman sitting next to him. "I don't publish." "Oh. Why not?" "I'm not very good." "Really? You sure?" "Yeah." "Can I read what you're writing?" Elliot looked at the screen. "Sure," He said, completely uncertain as he handed her the laptop. Hilary started reading it, turned her head a bit to the left, her mouth taking a strange sort of fromning grimace. "See, it's terrible." "It's not great." She said, handing him back his computer. "You read a lot?" he asked. "Sometimes." "Why only sometimes?" "Not a lot of time for it." "What do you do?" "I'm a painter." "You any good?" "I'm fucking awesome." Hilary said, not at all bragging. Elliot got a look across his face that Hilary couldn't decypher. "Here, take a look." Hilary said, handing him her latest notebook. Elliot looked at it with straining eyes. He could see what she did, took images of the ordinary and combined them with sexualized situations. The results weren't sexual at all, save for the ones of the lean woman. Those were certainly the most sexuall things he had ever seen, especially the ones which just showed her head and shoulders. She had done somethign with the eyes. "You are fucking awesome." He said, closing teh book and handing it back to her. "You could be a great writer." "How do you figure?" "Just keep writing. By the law of Infinite Monkeys, eventually you write enough and you'll write a work of Shakespearean quality." "That's not how it works. It would require infinite mes and infinite time." Hilary looked at him deeper. "You are a science fiction fan, aren't you?" "All my life." He started typing again, and Hilary took out a pencil and started

drawing as he typed. She drew him typing, but sitting on top of a pair of women in the sixty-nine position, though the horns she drew on them were serving half as tripods, raising their heads a little. He typed. The West holds a language that is considered cold and complex. There are many constructions and it can be difficult to think along the lines of a Westerner. The Land of Heasl is An Island can be said three ways - "Heasl Holsed Jump No Tes" (Heasl Island Land is True) is you are speaking to a friend or relative, "Heasl Holsed-in Jump Heno Tes" (Heasl Island(is) Land (present tense) True) if you are speaking to someone of a higher station than yourself. "Heasl Jump Holsed Tes No In Tes Ans" (Heasl Land Island True Is verifible (now) true (present tense)) for legal documents. Much of the literature of Heasl is written in Western talk, but only because there are so many different ways to say different things that it allows a writer much great freedom (true present). He stopped, not sure why,, and looked at Hilary as she was still drawing. "You're drawing me, no?" "I am." He wanted to lean over and look at it, but somehow felt that would be an invasion. Then again, she wasn't shy with her art, so she'd offer it to him at the finish. He just went back to writing. She had atually finished his portrait and had gone back to drawing memories of Amanda. He wrote more, faster, on the laptop. The east is home of two languages. The first is called Besk. It is a melange of all the languages with a simple grammar - Object-verb-subject. "Holst Jum No Heasl" Land Island is Heasl. It is also informed by contact with the other language, the language of the people of the deep desert: the Basdlol. So different is this speech that it is seldom understood, but it's roots are the same and it adopted the system of writing. "Heasl ols jeets Notes" Heasl Land Island Is. The Basdlol are seldom seen outside the deserts of their home, the heat and sands and packs of wild asses and dogs keep many away from all the but the edges. This group is less-understood than most. Some fear them, others have a strange fascination. Hilary stopped drawing, tapped him on the shoulder. "You wanna take a look?" "Sure." She handed him the notebook. He was impressed with her drawing of him, he looked exactly like he thought he looked, and the two women beneath him were pleasant enough, but it was that woman whose image was so dirty across all the other pages. "That's good." "It's what I do." The two sat there for a moment. Elliot was taken with the picture. "You know why I'm so good?" Hilary said. "No." he answered.

"Because I don't let anyone think I'm not." "That's hard, especially when you don't think you're any good." "Maybe that's what you change first." "Yeah, maybe it is." Hilary took back her notebook. "Nice chatting with you." she said, turned around and walked off. Elliot returned to his writing. This'll have to do, he thought. The Clearing House, 3:53pm., THursday. Charlie had revived his career. He could already taste the hors d'eouvres at the Oscar post-parties, the Governor's Ball, Elton John's shindig. He had planned on one set of events, had stumbled into another, far more profittable to his future. He still hadn't written that opening joke. He looked over the schedule that Mary had written up and it was going to be tough. They'd serve the Apps, the soup, the entree, then he'd stand up and the official part of the evening would begin, led off, of course, with the joke he'd written to open with. Or, as it stood now, been unable to write.