Peter Principal, Abby Holiday, Twain Newton, Agnes Livingstone, Kim Anderson, Veronica Park and Danny Bonaduce all needed to get drunk, but that has nothing to do with this installment. Ferrante & Teicher blared from the cassette player as Abby directed Lee to some mysterious destination. During their heart-rending rendition of Paint it Black, the music started to speed up in a queer way.

"Oh, shit," Lee said.

"What?"

"It's eating the tape."

Lee pushed the eject button, but it didn't make that satisfying deep clicking sound that resulted in the cassette jumping suddenly just past the slot edge. (Just say the goddamn tape didn't come out.) The goddamn tape didn't come out. (Happy? Hmph.) Lee kept pushing the button and the car swerved in an unsettling way on the wintery road.

"Drive. I'll take care of the tape."

Abby deftly grabbed it with her fingernails, yanked it out like a robin plucking a worm from the ground, and in one movement opened the windows and tossed the tape out.

"Don't..." Lee said as the cassette arced gracefully out the window with a long, delicately fluttering tail of tape streaming behind it, then landed in a snowdrift next to a frozen and slightly soiled athletic sock with blue and red bands that were turning to gray. "... throw it out the window. Oh, great. Littering."

"Nothing'll happen."

Twirling red and blue lights flashed suddenly in the rear view mirror accompanied by the whoop whoop of the police siren. Lee's stomach shouted "fuck" at his heart which responded by pounding out a conga version of the love theme from Dr. Zhivago. He hadn't had much luck with the police in the last several months. He pulled to a stop while looking accusingly over at Abby who just looked forward, cheerily whistling Paint it Black. Her window was now up and she looked very innocent. With her hands folded in her lap. I hope your baby has two heads, Lee thought. (Steve! Well? Even in his thoughts he would never think that. Do you have cloven hooves? I mean really. You should really be ashamed of yourself. I mean, I know you have no shame, but really. Two heads? It's his own baby, for God's sake. I mean if she's pregnant. Really. Sheesh. And don't act all Abby on me, you know you've done wrong. Stool. That's really obscure, Steve. Can I have a beer, now? Not until you've redeemed yourself. Oh, man, I'll never get one, then. Okay, where were we? Napoleon.)

Officer Bacon sidled up to the side of the car and Lee rolled his window down. The cold air struck his face and he wondered if Bacon had been tailing him for some reason. For the past several months. Or if he were the only police officer in town. Or why people mixed peanut butter and bananas and put them in sandwiches.

"Hello, Lee," Officer Bacon said. "Abby."

"Hi, Cuddles," Abby said. (No, she didn't, Steve. Go home. Watch sports. Abuse yourself.)

Abby nodded, and Officer Bacon asked for Lee's I.D.

"You know who I am," Lee said.

"Yeah, I know. Procedure. And your registration. And proof of insurance."

Lee opened the glove box and pulled the appropriate papers out. A neatly folded twenty dollar bill fell to the floor. Lee just stared at it dumbly and Abby picked it up and tucked it into her coat pocket. Lee looked at her dumbly and she smiled at him innocently. Officer Bacon cleared his throat. Not because he was impatient; he had just had a banana and peanut butter milkshake at American Bun Stand. But Lee thought it was because he was being impatient, so he stopped looking at Abby dumbly and gave the officer the papers.

"Nice picture."

"Thanks."

Officer Bacon started writing a ticket.

"But Abby threw the tape out the window."

"Yes, but you're driving the car," Officer Bacon said as he handed the ticket to Lee. "She's your responsibility."

"Hear that, Lee," Abby said. Innocently. "I'm your responsibility."

"Besides," Officer Bacon said before Lee could tell Abby to shut up, "I don't blame her. It was Ferrante & Teicher."

Lee looked at the ticket.

"Twenty-six bucks?"

"Yeah," the officer said. "That's not your sock, is it?"

Lee looked back to where Officer Bacon was pointing and saw the poor, abandoned sock laying next to the errant cassette and shook his head.

"Good, because socks are fifty-seven bucks. Each. Of course I've never found two. I found two tennis shoes once hanging from a power line. I don't understand that. I've never seen anyone tie their shoes together and throw them over a power line. We don't have a fine for that. Technically, I guess, it's not littering until it hits the ground. The tape still would have been if it just hung from a guard rail or something, though. I guess it's how close to the ground it gets. Anyway."

"Come on , guys, I'm lactating," Abby said.

"Oh," Officer Bacon said. "Bye."

He got in his car and drove away very quickly.

Lee started forward, also quickly, then he slowed down and looked at her.

"Lactating?"

"You're just too easy," Abby said with a smile.

"Twenty-six bucks. You're paying for this."

Abby pulled a neatly folded twenty dollar bill from her coat pocket and handed it to Lee. Lee put it into the ashtray.

"Let's go tobogganing," Abby said, as if that would be a natural thing for two adults to do on a Saturday afternoon.

"What," Lee said, as if he were a rather staid adult. "Now?"

"No," Abby said. "When it really snows. On Beard's Hill. We go every year."

"Who?"

"Everyone."

"I don't have a toboggan," Lee said.

"I do."

"I don't have boots."

"I'll buy you some."

"I'd need gloves."

"Lee, you just got a ton of money."

"It wasn't a ton."

"Stop being cheap."

"I'm not cheap."

"Then you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"Then you're cheap."

"Look, I don't toboggan," Lee said, finally, exasperated at having to admit it. He had had an incident as a child. Something involving a toboggan with a hole, a rock and a lot of other children laughing. That's when he'd decided to become an accountant.

"Look, it's a party," Abby said kindly. "It happens every year the first time we have over twelve inches in one storm. Turn here."

"I'll go if it gets to forty-five centimeters," Lee said smugly. He really didn't want to go, but was beginning to know Abby well enough to know that she wouldn't quit unless he said something.

"Seventeen point seven inches, huh?" Abby said. "Give or take. That's a lot of snow."

"How did you convert that so fast?"

"Look, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. You'll go if it reaches eighteen inches."

"In one day," Lee said. "By the end of the month."

"The end of the month is next weekend."

"Not my problem."

"Fine," Abby said. "Okay. Whatever."

"Uh," Lee said, trying to decide if that was a safe bet. Eighteen inches was a lot of snow for one storm. "Okay."

"Okay. It's a deal. I'll get you some gloves."

Abby smiled and nodded and Lee wondered if he had just been hornswoggled. Then he wondered why he would have thought the word hornswoggled even if he had been. He was about to get into one of his frustrating, circular wondering loops, but Abby told him to turn again. He turned. The pavement was worn, and in the bare spots, old, uneven, dark red brick peeked through. How cool, Lee thought. The streets were made of brick here, once. Or someone had spent a lot of effort making it look that way. Like the wall of a new Italian restaurant trying to look old.

"Park here," she said.

Lee parked and waited. Abby pointed to the store they were parked in front of. It was an old, brick building. The glass in the two small windows appeared wavy from age and had a greenish tint. The name of the establishment was painted directly on the brick in now faded white block letters with faded gray drop shadows.

"Aunt Gladys and Sons Janitorial Supply?" Lee asked, and Abby pointed to the newer sign under that, just next to the door.

"And Condom Emporium," Lee stammered, then thought for a moment, then stammered, "I guess that means we're... um... still... "

A slight reddening spread out across Abby's face, starting at her nose and ending at her earlobes. (Editor's note: At Steve's request, we must say that this is Geoff's line. Editor's note 2: At Geoff's request, we must say that they all are.)

"I... uh...," Abby said. "Thought... I mean, if you still want..."

"But what if you're... Um..."

"Let's go buy a condom," she said. "Some. Condoms."

Lee looked around the gravel parking lot and was relieved that there was only one vehicle in it besides theirs; an old, battered white van with a ladder on top and "Dick's Plumbing" painted on the side. At least he wouldn't be humiliated by too many people. When they entered the store, it smelled like Borkum Riff™ cherry pipe tobacco smoke, which Lee had always found to be a wonderful, mysterious aroma. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. And his ears. There were lots and lots of people milling around the tightly packed aisles where little neon signs in strange, conflicting pastel colors announced the different style of wares in the different sized bins hanging from the pegboard. Nobody was smoking pipes, cherry flavored or otherwise. There was also driving techno-pop music playing and Lee noticed one sign shaped like a...

Lee's eyes darted from section to section until he found actual janitorial supplies, and he moved there very quickly, spotting buckets of muriatic acid. He picked one up. It would come in very handy cleaning the black marks that had marred his back stoop since New Year's Eve.

"What are you doing with that?" a voice asked.

"Huh?" Lee asked over his shoulder, and saw Abby, who had kept right up with him. "Oh, it's you. You move fast."

She just looked at him.

"You always need muriatic acid."

"What do you use it for?"

"Removing stains from cement."

"You scare me," Abby said.

"Hey, I'm not the pregnant one," he said.

"Yeah, but your butt looks big in those pants," she said, took him by the hand and led him out past the section whose pale pink and green neon sign said "Young Love", and one whose purple and green sign glowed "Senior Moments" and ended up at a section whose orange and green sign buzzed "Marathon Man©".

"Thanks," he said.

She pushed him into the aisle. There was a couple perusing the aisle who looked like a cross between Bea Arthur and Mel Torme. Lee looked back at Abby for mercy, but she was gone. She did move fast. He walked down the aisle, his face pointedly facing forward, his eyes darting against his will toward the bins where packeted and boxed and individually wrapped packages sat laughing at him with their lurid artwork and garish colors. There were pictures of women that looked like Lady Godiva and men that looked like Mr. Olympia and drawn, graphic instructions complete with anatomically correct...

Oh, my, he thought and hurried down another aisle. On the third aisle he went down, he saw the word "Trojan", sighed, relieved, and quickly grabbed a box, hoping against hope that none of the hundreds and hundreds of people that now seemed no longer to be shopping, seemed to be staring at him like one big eye, knew him.

"Haven't you ever bought condoms?" Abby said.

Lee whipped around. Abby stood just behind him, proudly showing him a packet of "Ribbed for Her Pleasure". Lee turned his head to avoid being sprayed with Brut. (See Installment One.)

"If I turned those inside out would they be ribbed for his pleasure?"

"No, you would just be an idiot," she said. "You never have bought condoms, have you?"

Lee looked around at the throngs who now seemed to have grown one communal ear that was tuned in to them like a huge satellite dish.

"No," he said, very quietly, his head down. "Beverly was on the pill."

"Didn't she ever miss?"

"Yeah," he said, very quietly, trying desperately to hint by his pointed quietness that she should also tone it down. Way down. His chin was so close to his neck that his lower jaw didn't move when he spoke.

"What did you do then?" Abby asked, not taking the hint. She seemed to really want to know.

"We didn't have sex," Lee said.

"Wow."

"Yeah. It was a pain in the ass," Lee said, and when Abby laughed out loud, he wished he could turn invisible. Maybe the muriatic acid would remove him from the store. Abby showed him the triple pack of glow in the dark she had in her other hand. Lee stuffed his free hand in his pocket and shuffled away toward the check out stand. He felt like the little boy whose mother had taken him with her to buy lady's underwear. Except not as good as that.

There was a young man at the register, disinterestedly ringing up small packages with soft-core pornography emblazoned on them. Lee was glad that the kid, at least, treated it like it was a deli counter and he was just another number. On the shelf behind the bored clerk, between a Bon Ami display and bottles of 3-In-One, WD-40 and Astroglide, was a bobble-head doll of Danny Bonaduce that looked as bored as the clerk. Lee kept his eyes focused on the counter, where there were small plates with what looked like small pieces of candy. After a moment, it dawned on him what they were.

"They have samples," he hissed to Abby.

"Of course," she said, and grabbed a pink one with a stick attached.

"Have I mentioned, yet, how much I hate you?" Lee said.

Abby just smiled. Lee put the muriatic acid and the box of Trojans on the counter. Abby added her stash to his.

"Thanks, Timmy, I'm back," a sweet, soft voice said. "Why don't you restock the mop heads?"

Lee watched his bored young man disappear, then slowly, with a great force of will, turned his head to see who had replaced him. He knew his number was up. She was tall, perhaps six foot, give or take an inch, thin, with long thin arms, dressed with a loose fitting, light beige sweater over a light blue blouse. Her face was kind, but old, her hair silver, and pulled back in a utilitarian way. Her name tag, a small piece of brown plastic with letters cut through to the white plastic beneath it, said "Gladys". And she was anything but disinterested. She was the kind of woman who never got mad and never had a reason to get mad because no one ever dared give her a reason.

"Oh," she said as she rang up one of Abby's particularly unkind choices. "You'll love that flavor. It warms with use."

Lee tried to close his face down as he paid, vowing to get Abby back somehow. This would be really funny if he were watching someone else go through it. Damn her.

"Oh, hi, Abby," Aunt Gladys said. "Going to the hill next weekend?"

"Oh, yeah," Abby said. "We'll be there."

"Don't forget your mittens," Aunt Gladys said as she bagged their purchases, then turned her attention to the next person in line, a man with big thumbs and a hat that said Butte on it.

Lee could barely walk. His mind was racing down two distinct alleyways; one trying to figure out how the heck Aunt Gladys the condom pusher knew Abby so well that they were on a first name basis, the other trying to discern if the hill that Aunt Gladys was talking about was Beard's Hill and why Abby was so sure they would be there. And why Aunt Gladys would be there. And why they thought it would be next weekend. And how Abby knew how many inches were in forty-five centimeters. I need to go watch football, Lee said. And I don't even like football all that much. And how Abby knew Aunt Gladys.

When they got back into the car, Lee realized he hadn't been breathing.

"Was all that completely necessary?" he asked Abby.

She patted his leg and told him that they were even, now, then smiled and said that the embarrassment was for the way he had treated her the last week, but that they did need what they'd bought. Then she sat a moment, watching the look on his face not change. Then she apologized for going overboard. He grinned suddenly, which puzzled her.

"I have five gallons of muriatic acid," he explained.

"You really are a scary man, you know," she said, and he kept grinning like a mad seven year old who had recently lost his two front teeth. "It's kind of exciting."

Lee liked that. Then the grin disappeared, and his mind went right back to wondering how Abby and Aunt Gladys knew each other.

Rehearsals were actually going well. Lee was surprised to discover that he enjoyed rehearsing with Jim. Roy got to be really snotty to Vinnie, so Lee could be snotty to Jim and Jim didn't even get it. In fact, Lee suspected that Jim wouldn't get it even if he weren't being so indirect with his snottiness. It was only the fourth rehearsal he had attended for the play, but he decided it was going to be all right. It still bothered Lee that he occasionally caught Jim just staring at him, but it happened less and less. Well, he is gay, he thought. That made him shudder. He thought of power tools. Which made him think of Agnes. That made him shudder. Which made him think of Agnes and Jim. Which made him shudder. Okay, so he's straight, Lee thought. Sort of. He thought of painting his shutters. That worked. Stupid bird. Then he noticed Jim staring at him again.

"What?"

"Nice pants," Jim stuttered, then turned away very quickly and looked longingly at Agnes.

Lee shivered. At least I didn't shudder, he thought with a quiver.

He was also surprised to discover that he already had a strong sense of his lines. It was easy to remember the ones he directed to Jim, what with the whole snotty thing, but the poker playing group was growing on him, so talking to them and joking with them and ribbing them came easily. Rehearsing at Agnes's was also comfortable. It would be a while before they moved into the theatre, but the set was basically a living room, so doing it in a living room made it very easy. They were already beginning to block the play. Agnes had moved the rehearsal table out and brought in a couch and dining set that were to serve as the furniture in Oscar's and Felix's apartment.

There were a couple of things that seemed at odds with the general feeling of comfort Lee felt, though; the entire previous evening, Kim had hardly spoken a word to him. He assumed it had something to do with her and Abby fighting. He would probably have to say something to her, eventually. He hated that. Why couldn't theatre people just repress their emotions and pretend everything was all right like real people? Another thing that was at odds with his comfort was that, at least twice, Agnes snapped at Jim. Once when she was blocking him (I didn't know Agnes played football. Yes, Steve, she was drafted early in the third round in nineteen sixty-three from Clemson by the Browns. Ran the forty in four-two. Geoff? Can we continue, now? Um. Yeah.) and he didn't understand quite what she meant. It had been sudden and Jim had looked hurt. The other time was during the break. He was walking too closely behind her when she turned and it made her spill a drop of coffee. It was only a drop, but when she snapped "Careful. Shit," the entire room got really quiet for a second, then really noisy when everyone started talking at once to hide the fact that they had noticed Agnes snap and been caught being quiet at her.

The poker playing group was gathered, as was becoming their custom during breaks, around the fireplace.

"Going to the hill this weekend?" the guy playing Speed asked, his eye still on Agnes and Jim, not wanting to miss any of the action.

The others nodded, except Lee, who was beginning to really hate this incestuous town again. He wondered why everyone thought it would snow enough by this weekend for the tobogganing thing, and if he was actually going to have to go. Is everyone I've met going to be there? And how does Abby know Aunt Gladys, and does everyone I've ever met know her, too? He was going to ask out loud, but really didn't want to open up that whole "I was tricked into going into a condom store because I thought I might have made Abby pregnant" conversation. Then he blushed, and figured it was a good time to talk to Kim.

"Hi, Kim," he said as he sidled up to her.

"Lee," she said, sounding noncommital.

"Um," Lee said. It seemed the thing to say, so he said it again. "Um."

Kim just looked at him. Maybe it wasn't such a good time to talk to her, but now he was committed.

"Abby says you guys had a fight."

Kim just stared at him.

"She really feels bad about it."

"Good," Kim said. "She should feel bad about it. She really hurt my feelings. We've been friends a long time, but I never realized what she thought about me. I mean, I guess it's a good thing because now I know what she thinks I am. I mean, I trusted her. I always wanted her to be happy. But she never trusted me, you know? I mean never. How could she think I wanted to take you away from her? I mean, you? You know? I mean, even if I were attracted to someone, I would never try to take them away from someone. I mean, I wouldn't try to take them away from her, she's my best friend. Was. My best friend."

"Well, she," Lee said when he was sure Kim had stopped.

"I mean, how dare she? What else does she think I do? Shoplift? I mean there was that one time in high school, but that's beside the point. I was there when her parents split up."

"Her parents are still together."

"Yeah, but they split up when she was in high school. Her mom wanted to find herself. Abby was a mess."

"She never told me that."

"Well," Kim said. "She tells me everything. She's my best friend."

Kim started crying. Lee was really confused. He never imagined that Kim, with her fashionable jeans and smart casual tops, could cry in public. In private, maybe. With her best friend. He wondered if he should hold her, but the whole thing was about Abby being jealous, so that was out. No one had ever been jealous about him. And even if it hadn't been about jealousy, he would never just hold someone in public. Especially someone with fashionable jeans and smart tops. He didn't have a hanky to offer her. Who would carry a hanky? Those things were a breeding ground for germs. The thought made him shudder. Maybe if he put his hand on her shoulder. But that was too much like holding her. He would just wait. Eventually, she would have to run out of tears. It's physics. Sure enough, she did. Eventually.

"I'm sorry," Kim said.

"No, it's okay," Lee said, grateful that he wouldn't have to hold her. "She really does feel bad."

"She should feel bad," Kim said angrily (She already said that, Geoff. We're going around in circles, here. That's how people talk, Steve. I don't. You're not people. Hey, wanna talk about football? No.) and stormed off.

"What the hell did you say to my assistant?"

Agnes had appeared without any warning, and Lee had to spin around to talk to her.

"Nothing," he said. "She..."

Agnes didn't wait to hear his explanation. Jim, again close behind Agnes, smiled, relieved that Agnes was snapping at someone else.

"What are you smiling at?" Lee asked him.

"Um," Jim said. "Nice pants? Big Guy?"

"Jim!" Agnes said. "Come away from there. Okay, everybody, let's get started again."

As Jim walked away, Lee heard him muttering. He couldn't be sure, but it sounded something like "I used to be a private eye." For the first time, Lee had a glimmer of sympathy for the poor sap. A glimmer. If he had heard him correctly.

Jim wasn't sure why Agnes decided that they should go to The Office that night. He wasn't even sure why Agnes wanted to go there at all, but it was after rehearsal, late, when most of the people there would be college kids, so it made even less sense. But she was being nice to him again, and that should be enough. When she asked him to take her there after the last of the cast had said goodbye and driven off, he'd jumped at the opportunity. She seemed excited to go, which excited him in ways he was becoming accustomed to, which in itself was exciting. But going out in public wasn't usually what Agnes wanted to do with him. Jim had an impulse to be confused, but resisted it.

The neon sign out front said "Cocktails". Jim had seen that before, of course, with Peter and back when he was investigating Lee, but the neon seemed brighter in the cold, cold air. Wondering why didn't occur to him. In the parking lot, Agnes took him by the hand and led him toward the door. Agnes wasn't the hand-holding type. He almost questioned that.

The young, carefree voices that mingled with the smells of grilled burgers and fries drew Agnes closer to the door and she drew Jim in with her to the room. The crowd was young. That night's specials, listed on the chalkboard that hung on the post behind the bar, were lemon drop shooters and buck shots for a dollar each. And it was Dollar Draft night. There was a television on, a show with sweaty young people dancing to pulsating music, and there were young people all over the room, flirting and drinking and playing pool and Asteroids©, hormones raging. Agnes stopped short, and Jim bumped into her. For a moment, she was glad she was holding his hand. The beat of the air filled her blood in a way that felt forbidden. She hadn't realized she would need to cling to Jim. Maybe this had been a really bad idea, she thought. Then she noticed the bartender. Thick, dark, shiny hair and sparkling blue eyes.

Jim felt Agnes's hand tighten on his. He just went with it. Agnes was showing him off. And she didn't seem to be her usual confident self. She seemed like a deer in headlights, a fish out of water, a snow storm in July, a horse with no name. He would protect her. He felt so masculine, which confused him right through his resistance. I thought I was masculine, he thought. But feeling it made him realize he hadn't felt it in a while. Which confused him. A couple left a table and Jim started toward it, but it was covered with beer mugs, pitchers, spilled beer and french fry baskets. He hesitated, knowing that Agnes wouldn't like to sit there until it was cleaned up. The moment he took to look for someone to take care of it was the moment a group of girls descended upon it with an outburst of giggles. He looked around, lost. There were two stools at the bar and he started toward them, but stopped.

He was about to try to figure out what to do, but his head started to hurt, his eyes started to burn, his ears felt hot and the skin on his fingertips tingled. My father liked the Rockford Files, he thought, and that familiar refrain calmed him somewhat.

Agnes looked at Jim and noticed his face was turning red. He's trying to think, again, she thought. Poor dear.

"It's okay, Honey," Agnes said. "We can rough it."

She led him to the two empty stools.

"What'll you have?" the bartender asked.

"Beer," Jim said quickly, like a man. Which he was. Always had been.

"No, Dear," Agnes said, squeezing his hand one more time before letting it go. "I don't think beer would agree with me."

Jim felt the world disappear with her hand.

"Oh, um," he said. "Of course. That's for me. Um. The... um... lady... would like..."

Agnes removed her fur coat and set it in her lap. She was wearing a black cashmere sweater and Jim couldn't help noticing the figure she cut. What a dame, he thought as her perfume wafted out from the fibers of the sweater and brushed him seductively under the chin.

"What would the lady like?" the bartender asked the lady, leaning in over the bar and speaking loudly over the tumult in the room.

His cologne wasn't in the same social class as Agnes's perfume, but carried itself well, seemed almost a counterpoint to hers. Private eyes weren't supposed to notice that sort of thing, Jim thought, and shook his head in an attempt to regain the feeling of being Agnes's protector.

"Do you have a wine list?" Agnes asked.

Headline chuckled politely, pointing to the faux wine cask with taps protruding from it.

"White and Rosé," he said to her. "You'd probably be better off with the beer."

"Oh," Agnes purred, "dear."

"Let me make you something special."

"I'll have one, too," Jim said.

"You'd probably be better off with the beer, Champ," the bartender said kindly, giving him a manly tap on the arm with the side of his fist.

"Yeah," Jim said, not feeling manly at all, all of a sudden. "Chief."

Agnes patted Jim on the thigh and leaned in to let him know she was going to freshen up. Jim's pants tented. The bartender brought Jim's beer, then nodded toward Agnes.

"That's Agnes Livingstone, isn't it?" he said with a look in his eye that could be described as impressed.

Jim nodded, a little surprised.

"Billy is a friend of mine," the bartender said, a look in his eye that could be categorized as conspiratorial.

Jim didn't know who Billy was, but went along.

"Are the stories true?" the bartender asked, and his look was definitely inquiring.

Jim had no idea how to react to that. He was sure he was blushing, which embarrassed him. The bartender extended his hand.

"Headline," he said.

"Jim," Jim stammered. He was about to add "Ackerman," but it didn't seem prudent.

"I remember you," Headline said. "Boilermakers. Lots of them."

He winked and turned to start the special drink.

"Hey, Stud," he continued over his shoulder, "I can get anybody I want, but I want what I've heard she has."

He's just a kid, Jim thought.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty-three. You?"

"Twenty-eight," Jim said like an older brother. A much more worldly older brother. Whose father liked the Rockford Files. He thought about puffing out his chest. This guy's father probably liked Full House. Or that show with the two guys and the twins. What was it called?

Jim wanted to put all the facts from this conversation into some pattern he could then use to deduce some sort of point, but his mind-o-meter pointed to the red and he could only watch as Headline pulled out a small snifter and poured hot water from a coffee pot into it and set it down. Then he reached really high to pull down a bottle of expensive brandy, dust it off, and set it next to the steaming snifter. When he did, his shirt pulled loose from the side of his pants, revealing a small patch of bartender skin. Jim caught himself looking and quickly turned his head. Then he slowly turned his head back, his eyes following a moment behind. Headline reached under the counter to pull out a clear blue bottle of expensive vodka shaped like a double helix, dusted it off, and set it by the brandy. The shirt tail was still out, but the skin was sufficiently covered. Then Headline pulled a bottle of clear apple liqueur from the front shelf and set that down.

"Don't worry, Chief," Headline said over his other shoulder, "I'll charge you well prices."

He winked again, then poured the water out of the snifter and quickly wiped it out before the glass could cool. He deftly filled it three-quarters full with the brandy. He poured a small dash of the vodka on that, and a smaller dash of the liqueur on that. He gave the glass one quick twirl, then set it down and grated nutmeg from a fresh nut on top with a flourish. Then he picked the flourish out with the tip of his pinky.

He poured more hot water into a small highball glass and set that at Agnes's place. Just as Agnes sat back down, he gently set the bowl of the snifter in the mouth of the glass. The steam from the glass lifted out around the snifter, enveloping it, almost obscuring the pale cinnamon colored liquid within, and sensuously welcomed Agnes back.

"What have we here?" she asked, and the question completely ignored Jim.

She picked it up and swirled it. The thick, aromatic vapors escaped from the snifter and pleasantly stung her nostrils. The liqueur and brandy raced up and around, then clung to the sides of the glass, slowly draining back in a thin, clear, uneven, delightful film like an old window. She sipped it daintily and found it charming. Her nipples shot holes right through the sweater, poking Headline in his shiny blue eyes. (Steve, you just ruined a perfectly good scene. We can fix it. No. We can't. And besides, his eyes are sparkly, it's his hair that's shiny. Yep, you're gay.)

"I could tell you what was in it," Headline said with a mischievous grin, "but then I'd have to kill you."

Jim was about to say he'd seen the whole thing, and knew exactly what was in it, then realized, somehow, that that would be intruding, then laughed inappropriately in an attempt to join the party. Agnes was looking down with a coy, embarrassed grin. Jim didn't imagine coy was even in Agnes's vocabulary. It certainly wasn't in his. He really had no idea what was happening and just wished they could go back to her house so she could teach him something new that would erase the image of her being coy from his mind.

Eventually, they did, but her heart didn't seem to be in it.

Twain was also looking at Lee oddly, lately. Lee stood at the sink washing pots, and the steam, surrounding him like a cloud of smoke at a Rotary Club meeting, caused perspiration to bead on his face and gather in the small of his back. The suds were so thick his arms were submerged from the elbow to just above the wrist before he even touched the hot, hot water, and they billowed out over the top of the stainless steel sink. The apron he wore was wet with suds and splashed water that soaked through, drenching the front of his shirt and trousers. Sometimes work was wonderful. Until he felt Twain enter the kitchen. And then he felt Twain stop for a moment and look at him oddly. Lee knew he was being looked at oddly. (Enough with the "oddly" stuff, Geoff. I let you get away with that with the whole "pleasant upper middle class" thing in Installment Eighteen, and look what happened then. It took six months to get another one out. Sorry. Enough. Sorry. I mean it, Geoff. Sorry. Art is knowing when to stop. I get it, Steve.) He could feel it in the sweat on the back of his shirt. He refused to look around, because, if he did, he knew he would have to ask Twain why he was looking at him oddly, (Geoff... Just checking) and the whole Kim and Jim thing was all too fresh.

He concentrated on scouring the crusted meatloaf from the pan in his hand. He couldn't see the pan through all the suds, but he could feel the crust. Then he sensed Twain open the refrigerator, take out a bowl of butter, shut it, look at him once more, then leave. He realized he hadn't really been breathing, and breathed in really hard. And a dollop of suds chose that moment to dislodge from its fellows and waft toward his face. It went right up his nose and covered his eyes. He started coughing and sneezing which made him drop the meatloaf pan in the hot, hot water, which splashed all the way through all the suds, up to the apron, through the apron to his shirt which was cold with water, making it suddenly very hot with water just as he lifted his suds encrusted arm to wipe the suds from his eyes, which caused his eyes to burn in a completely different way from the way his shirt, and now pants, were burning.

He slammed his fist down in the sudsy water, making it splash and burn him again.

"FUUUUCK!" he shouted, slapping the water again and again, sounding like a cross between Joe E. Brown and Mel Torme.

Everything, including The Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge Song (Feeling Groovy) that was playing on the batter encrusted radio tuned to the local college station, came to a momentary, embarrassed stop. Lee frantically shook his hands and arms to rid them of suds, then, trusting they were sufficiently suds free, frantically felt around the counter top by the sink for a towel to remove the suds from his face. He found one, but when he brought it to his face, realized by the smell that it wasn't one of the clean ones. He froze, trying to decide if he should use it or not, when another towel magically appeared in his hand.

It smelled clean, so he wiped his face with it, then opened his eyes.

"Thanks," he said to Matt, who offered him a Gummy Bear®.

He shook his head, no, then noticed that Matt was standing a few inches beyond arm's length, and his hand was shaking. He's not going to start looking at me odd.... I mean strangely, too, is he? Lee thought, then half heartedly accepted the Gummy Bear® by way of apology for scaring the poor kid. I gotta get a real job, Lee thought. Then Twain came in, stopped long enough to look at him, then offered him a Mentos. Lee shook his head. Then Twain handed him the Cuss Jar. Lee reached into his very wet pocket, and, after fighting with the clinging cloth that was quickly cooling, produced a very shiny, damp quarter and deposited it in the jar. It hit with a clink. His wet pocket hung limply by the side of his pants and his keys, Chapstick, vitamins, two pogs, Trojans and the CD of the Cars Greatest Hits hit the floor with a clatter.

Twain looked at him again.

"What?" Lee said, and the word had the full force of a soaking shirt and pants, burning nose and eyes and frustrated heart.

Twain looked at him a moment longer.

"Be free," Twain said, then turned and left the kitchen.

Lee watched him leave. Matt left quickly, pulled along in Twain's wake. Lee heard the phone ring, and a moment later, Twain called back saying Abby was calling. Again? Lee thought as he took off his apron, collected his spilled stuff, then tried vainly to dry his shirt and pants, and went out front. She had already called him twice that day, just to give him a weather report. At ten, she informed him it was snowing. At noon, she advised him it was still snowing. This time she simply said it was already up to ten inches, then laughed and hung up. Lee looked at Twain, who was still looking at him.

"Sorry about all the personal calls," Lee said, knowing how much Twain hated that.

Twain smiled a strange half-smile and sucked on his Mentos, and Lee had the distinct impression he was being guerilla theatre for Twain, again. He hated that.

He stepped behind the counter and the man in the John Deere™ hat offered him a Zagnut Bar. He declined and refreshed the man's coffee. The man wearing the Fedora offered him a Necco Wafer. A licorice one. He politely refused and wiped the counter in front of him. The Girl from Ipanema offered him a sheet of Dots. He turned them down, and only took one step before the woman from Venus offered him a coffee high colonic, which he accepted. (Steve! Espresso high colonic? No. Decaf? No. No colonic. People are eating. Not any more. Just stop. Wanna talk about football? Okay. Brian Piccolo is dead. That's cold, man.)

The phone rang again, and Twain answered it.

"For you," Twain said, this time effectively communicating to Lee with the two words that he was receiving way too many personal calls.

It was Andrew.

"You're calling me in every installment," Lee said.

"Got the papers from Illinois today," Andrew said to him. "The divorce is final."

Lee didn't know how to react to that and was trying to see if anything occurred to him when Andrew added that there was also an offer on the house.

"But you said no one would want to buy it in winter," Lee said.

"I'm not God, okay? Anyways, the offer was for a hundred sixty. Beverly wants to accept it."

"We agreed on one seventy-five," Lee said, quickly calculating how much less his share would be with this offer. Seventy-five hundred, minus commission and fees. He was about to object when Andrew said he'd be responsible for the mortgage if he didn't accept.

"Can they do that?"

"Look, let me drop by your house after work," Andrew said. "We'll talk about it then."

"It's snowing," Lee said, really upset at himself for having to admit it. "I'll come to your place."

"No. I wanted to talk to you about something else, anyways. I'll see you, what, around six-thirty?"

"Okay," Lee said, not wanting to admit that he didn't know why talking about something else had to be done at his house.

Lee hung up. Just then the front door bells clanged and a burst cold air and snow swirled into the room, followed by Peter, who sat down at the counter.

"Did you hear the news, today?" Peter said, shaking the snow out of his hair.

"Why, what happened?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing happened today. Nothing. Going to the hill tonight?"

"What is it with this town?" Lee exploded. "Do you know Aunt Gladys, too?"

"Yeah," Peter said, confused by the outburst. "She runs the janitorial supply house out on Bell Road. That's where I get my muriatic acid. Why?"

Then Peter noticed the water all over Lee.

"Nice pants," he said, and Lee had a whole new reason to be upset, what with the whole Jim and the staring and the nice pants thing.

"Is this some type of gay thing?"

Peter just shook his head.

"Did I just ask that out loud?"

"What?" Peter said.

"About being a..." Lee said. "Never mind."

The scene ended with a close up on Peter's reaction, then faded to commercial. (Making it easier for the network miniseries, Steve? Always thinking ahead. Keep it up. Nice pants. Thanks.)

Lee stomped the snow off his shoes at his door step, shook it off his coat, and opened the door. He looked around the living room. Piece by piece, the house was becoming a home. It had the faint odor of fireplace smoke and grandma's panties. (Art is knowing when to stop, Steve. Hey, get your own line.) He looked at the stupid yellow bird in its cage that was sitting on an end table, not moving.

"Hello, bird," he said.

Maybe I'll call it Charlie Parker, Lee thought, and tried it out.

"Hello, Charlie."

The bird cheeped once. Lee considered that. Stupid bird, he thought, and took off his coat.

Shortly after Andrew arrived, the phone rang.

"Fourteen and a half inches," Abby said gleefully, then hung up.

Andrew was sitting on the couch. He pulled the packet of papers from his briefcase and handed it to Lee, who was beginning to be a little frightened by Abby's persistence. Or by the snow. Okay, he was frightened about the strong possibility that he may have to go tobogganing. He thumbed through the papers, noticing the signatures and court stamps in red and green, with dates in blue and black. He set them down.

"So that's it, huh?" he asked, weakly.

"Yup. Except for the house, that's it. I brought Champagne and sparkling apple juice. Which'll you have?"

"A beer," Lee said, getting up to go get it.

"Got one for me, too?"

When Lee returned with the two bottles, he asked again if Beverly really could make him be responsible for the mortgage if he didn't accept the offer.

"Yeah," Andrew said. "She can. It's a fair offer, and they could argue that you were obstructing the deal if you didn't accept it. And she needs the money. And so do you."

Lee nodded. Eighty thousand would come in handy. Minus fees and commissions. And the bank loan. Hell, thirty-six seven could last him a couple of years in this town. Even if he stayed working at Twain's. Which he didn't plan on doing. For much longer.

"Okay," he said, finally. "What else did you want to talk about?"

The phone rang.

"Fifteen and three quarters," Abby said. Lee could hear the gleeful grin all the way over the phone line.

"What was that?" Andrew asked, noticing the fear peek out from under Lee's eyebrows like the brick under Bell Road.

"What else did you want to talk about?"

Andrew sat back with a huge smile, intertwined his fingers and set his hands on his stomach.

"Your house," he said.

"My...?"

Andrew had been doing research. The Gardners had built the house Lee was renting in the early thirties, and their daughter, Evelyn, had been born shortly after that. Andrew remembered that she had a dog.

"Big thing. Called him Gable," Andrew said.

Andrew intertwined his own memories with the research he'd done. Lee was beginning to think Andrew was a dangerously obsessive man. Then Lee excused himself to wash his hands. Twice. When he came back, he got two more beers, and Andrew continued his story. After high school, she'd gone to Korea in the nurse's corps where she was killed by friendly fire.

"I knew she wasn't the type to die for love," Andrew said, proudly. "So it can't be her ghost haunting your place."

The family had lived there for another three years after she died, then moved out of town. They moved to Chicago and never came back. Andrew had checked on all the other owners. No one had ever died there. It had become a rental sometime in the mid seventies, and it was a little harder to get the facts, but someone dying there would have been reported in the Bee. He was about to go into a detailed account of everything he'd found in the Bee about the house when there was a knock at the door.

"Knock, knock," the door said.

"Eighteen," Abby said as soon as Lee opened it. She was holding a pair of new, dark brown leather gloves.

"No," Lee said. "It can't be."

Abby flicked on the Kensington transistor radio she was holding in her other hand.

"... Eighteen inches since this morning," the radio said in a moment entirely too reminiscent of Bullwinkle for Lee's taste.

Abby clicked it off.

"Hey, Abby," Andrew said. "Taking our boy to the hill?"

"Oh, yeah," Abby said with palpable glee.

"Oh," Lee said very weakly. He clicked his heels, but no one transported him back to Kansas.