"What do you want?" the guy said, and Jim jumped.

"Um. Oh. Hi. I'm Jim," he said, then took a deep breath. "Jim Ackerman. Yeah, my father loved the Rockford Files. I have some papers for you. Your wife needs you to sign this paper so she can sell your house and needs to know where to send your half. Um. You are Lee Harris, aren't you?"

Jim watched warily as this strange fellow's eyes unfocused and darted in several directions. Finally, they seemed to refocus.

"Okay," Lee said. "Where are the papers?"

That caught Jim up short. Gumshoes weren't supposed to be caught up short. He had left the papers in the file. On the bed. In the motel. Across town. He informed Lee of this, steeling himself for another bout of unfocused eyes, but Lee seemed to have a better handle on it. He told him he'd run right over and get them.

"No. It's okay," Lee said, and seemed to be unfocusing again. "I have to think about it anyway,"

"What's to think about, buddy?" Jim asked quickly. "Can't you use the money?"

"Of course I can use the money," Lee said, almost shouting, little bits of saliva escaping from the corners of his mouth. "I'm sleeping on a fucking couch!"

Jim was very confused. Private dicks weren't supposed to get confused. They were supposed to get their man. Or was that the Mounties?

"Well, you'll get half, won't that be good?" he said almost apologetically.

"So will the Jerk," Lee said. "Come back sometime tomorrow. I have to think about it."

"It won't take me long to get..."

"I said come back tomorrow," Lee said, a vein pulsing in his forehead, an artery pulsing in his neck, and his fingers pulsing dangerously near that pocket.

"Okay, big guy, okay, it's okay," Jim said, his eyes following the hand, hoping against hope that this wacko wasn't packing heat. "I'll see you tomorrow. It's okay."

He didn't want to make any sudden moves. He eased back slowly and turned around, trying to look nonchalant as he walked back down the walk. As he turned the corner, he hoped that the unsightly, un-dick-like wetness under the arms of his designer knock-off shirt hadn't appeared until he was out of sight. And that holding his arms tightly to his sides would hide the odor. He bent his arm at the elbow to look at his watch. It was eight fifty-nine.

Lee stood on the sidewalk for several minutes. An umber cat rubbed against his pant leg, and he glanced down at it, then turned and went back into the diner.

"I thought you needed some air," Twain said.

"I'd rather be stifled," Lee said. When Twain actually looked interested in that odd comment, he added, "Beverly wants to sell the house. She sent a guy to find me so I could sign the papers. I could get thirty-five or forty grand if she gets a good agent. But so will she."

"Saw her picture. She's a dish."

Twain put his coffee mug down and got off the stool. "Anyhow, you'll have all weekend to think about it. I'm leaving tomorrow night. I'll reopen the diner Monday morning."

"Wait. What?" Lee said. "Where are you going?"

"Where I go every year. Don't worry, you can still sleep upstairs."

Lee shook his head, making a mental note to be grateful for his unparalleled luck, and went upstairs to think. He sat on the couch and looked out at all he now owned. And all of Twain's castoffs. And the singed rat foot in the corner. He used to have food. He used to have fun. He used to have sex. It shouldn't take that much to have food and fun, he realized. He really didn't need the money from the house. Beverly wouldn't be able to sell it without his signature, and she'd never be able to live like they had lived. She would hate holding down a full time job. She had cleaned him out to pay for the mortgage. And to keep her standard of living for as long as she could. And the Jerk is a sign painter. How long can he keep her in necessities by putting business names in metal leaf on store front windows? I, on the other hand, can start from scratch, he thought. I built it up once, I can do it again. I could even get a job as an accountant right here in River Bend. Then I'll get another house and another wife. Who falls for another sign painter and cheats on me. No. I'm starting fresh, here. Completely from scratch. Brand new beginnings. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I can do anything. I am woman, hear me roar. Well, hear me roar, anyway. Serve her right. I need to celebrate.

But he only had a few coins. Maybe Twain would advance his pay. No, he had to do this by himself. He could sell something. Tools. No. CDs. He could sell a few CDs. He used to buy them at used CD shops. Someone had to sell them to the shops if they were used. He should be able to get ten bucks apiece for these. He kept them pristine. Not one jewel case had a scratch on it. And they were still alphabetized. He went to the kitchen-sized moving box full of CDs and started pulling them out one at a time and stacking them into neat piles, looking for some he could part with. After going through the entire box, he had only found three, but one of them was a double. All totaled, that should bring in forty dollars. With forty, he could go to The Office, be VERY careful about what he drank, chat up one of those college girls in designer jeans, buy her a couple of drinks and go to her place. Afterwards, he would still have enough for Sizzler™. A steak (a designer knock-off one, but a steak), a salad, a potato and a glass of wine. Food. Fun. Sex. He carefully put the rest of the CDs back into the box and skipped downstairs to ask Twain where a used CD shop might be.

"There are three," Twain said. "The nearest one is Mom's Used Records and it's just past Bubble Gum Alley."

"Where's Bubble Gum Alley?" Lee asked.

"Who are you?" Twain asked, puzzled, then gave him directions.

As he was leaving, Lee turned and looked at Twain. After a brief moment, he said that Twain didn't need to shut the diner down on the weekend, that he could run it.

"No," Twain said.

"Just like that? No?"

"Yup."

"But Matt could..."

"Nope," Twain said, effectively ending the conversation by going back into the kitchen.

Lee found the CD store and proudly presented the CDs to the kid behind the counter who only removed one side of his headphones to talk to him. He looked at them and said

"A quarter each for these, and fifty cents for this."

"Fifty? Cents? But it's the Cars Greatest Hits."

"Fifty cents."

"I paid fifteen bucks for it."

The kid shrugged with an apologetic smile. "You could have gotten it here for five. We have eleven of them. If it was Britney Spears, I could give you three bucks. I'd be ashamed to do it, I wouldn't sleep, but we could get ten dollars for that. I know. It's a travesty. We gotta make a living, too."

"And this is a double."

"But it's ®Abba®," the kid said.

"It was a gift," Lee said quietly. "What would you have given me for the Blue Note Sessions?"

"You're not serious, are you?"

"No. Just curious."

"Some questions are best left unanswered."

The shop air smelled of damp wood, dry cardboard and conflicting stale incenses. Lee looked up and saw, on the shelf behind the counter, a copy of the Beatles "Yesterday and Today" album with the original distasteful cover. His mouth watered.

"Oh, pal," the kid said, actually pulling the headphones down around his neck. "Don't do this to yourself." He looked at Lee with obvious deep sympathy. "You need money."

Lee was mortified. The kid asked why he didn't just sell plasma.

"Like in blood? They buy that?" Lee asked, strangely intrigued. "I thought people just gave that away."

"Oh, no," the kid said. "They give away blood. They sell plasma because the drug companies buy it to use in drugs. And Ramen flavoring. Man, I've spent lost weekends on a pint. It's a renewable resource."

Lee thought that there were at least fourteen things wrong with that. He had donated blood, of course. One does. He had fainted when he did it. One does that, too. But to sell it. Or at least some of it. He did want money. There was celebrating to be done. He asked how much you can get for it. The kid answered by explaining the whole process of drawing the blood, putting it into the centrifugal force machine to separate the platelets from the plasma, and then put the platelets back into your veins with a large needle. And that you could do it every two weeks.

"Who are you?" Lee asked.

Lee would have to drive to the clinic where they bought plasma, so he decided to do it after lunch. As he rode the Stingray back to the diner, he poked his head down Bubble Gum Alley to see what the buzz was about. It was an unbelievably disgusting wall of used gum, and he wondered why someone didn't just clean it up. He shuddered all the way back, and washed his hands as soon as he got into the diner. Twice.

Lunch wasn't very busy, and when Lee had served the last Tang packet to the last customer, he stood behind the counter and casually mentioned that Twain might think of having a different special sometime. Perhaps enchiladas. Twain's panties bunched.

"And you want to run my diner?" he said, his neck reddening.

"I could do it," Lee said. "I'd have Matt here to help me. And I wouldn't change the menu. At all. I promise. Nothing on it. I wouldn't. Really. I promise."

Twain ignored him loudly.

On his way to the clinic, Lee strategized. The kid hadn't told him how much he could get, but he figured it must be around thirty. For that, he could go to The Office and have a club soda. Chat up one of those college girls wearing designer knock-offs who is a few shooters into her evening and buy her a well drink. Go to her place, and afterwards still have enough left over for a small pizza and a beer. Food. Fun. Sex. Then he thought about Beverly and the house. What do I need money for, he thought. I have everything I need. Besides, I'm getting really trim. She can just stuff it. And my debt to this town will be paid off fairly soon, so I'll have my entire diner pay to work with soon.

The plasma center was on a street that was actually called Skid Row. When he went in, he noticed a guy sitting in one of the molded resin chairs in the waiting room who had matted hair and deep fried beard and looked and smelled years past the point where new dirt simply slid off. The floor of the room was square tiling that was old and chipped, and the walls were painted two-tone green and green-gray. The air was astringent. There was a television set in a corner on a shelf by the ceiling tuned to a network station playing "Quincy" with no sound, and the room smelled like victory. Lee shuttered. Only the thought of food, fun and sex made him force himself to walk up to the counter and sign in. The woman behind the counter, who smelled like witch hazel, asked if he was over eighteen.

"Uh, yeah," Lee said, and she asked if he had ever sold plasma before.

"Um, no."

Then she looked at his face with a strange expression, and reached over and gently pulled his lower eyelid down. Her hand smelled like Dial™ soap, and he reflexively pulled his head back away from her.

"When was the last time you ate?" she asked.

When he told her, she shook her head and told him he needed to go home and get some food, and to come back when he was a little healthier. Lee was perturbed because he had come there so he could afford to eat. Not to mention have fun. And sex. Which he probably wouldn't have mentioned in any case. He asked about the health of the guy waiting over there on the molded resin chair.

"Mind your P's and Q's," she said. "And don't judge a book by its cover. He's as healthy as a horse. You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet. Here."

She put a plain donut on a cocktail napkin and handed it to him.

"Just what the doctor ordered," she said with obvious pity in her eyes. Too many people were looking at him with pity, obvious or otherwise. Lee left the clinic, holding the donut in his outstretched hand, not sure what had just happened. Except that he was sure, now, that he would sign the papers in the morning when the dick came back. Fuck Beverly, he needed the money. As he drove back to the diner, he realized that he had used almost half of his remaining gas and wasn't a penny richer. Or closer to an evening out. And the donut stuck in his throat.

Lee sat on the green Naugahyde© couch with his elbows digging into his knees and his face digging into his hands. With that money, he could get an apartment. He could set up his CD player. He could take a real shower. He could actually take one of the college girls to Sizzler, then back to his place for cocktails. But Beverly had fucked him over. Twice. She had wiped him out. Why the hell should he give her and the Jerk anything, for Christ's sake. Lee was the one who had earned the money, she just spent it. But she'd lose the house if he didn't let her sell it. When is the mortgage due, in a few days? Let the Jerk pay the mortgage. Let her stew in her own vileness. With a dash of corn starch. He'd be just fine.

But the attic was dank, and the couch smelled of spit. He stood and paced frantically.

I can't stay here anymore, he said. I gotta do something. I gotta go somewhere. It didn't even matter if it was fun. He started to leave, then stopped and turned back toward the couch, then turned again and stormed down the stairs. He stormed out of the diner, got into his car and slammed the door. He put the key in the ignition and turned it, but when the gauge went up to less than a quarter of a tank and stubbornly stayed there, he turned it back off again and tried to shake the steering wheel with all the energy he had. It wouldn't shake, so he shouted and collapsed back into the seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the ash tray at the bottom of the dashboard.

His eyes widened. He slowly, fearfully reached out and gently, carefully opened the ash tray. It stuck at first, then gave way with a strange squeak. A chorus of angels sang. There, in the ashtray, neatly folded with crisp creases, was a twenty dollar bill.

"You fucking idiot," he said. He often put spare cash in the ash tray. Spare tissue he put in the glove box. He did the Snoopy dance sitting down. He picked up the twenty, looking around to make sure no one was watching, and put it very deeply into his wallet. Warm redness spread across his face in quick pulses. What could he do with twenty found dollars? He could still, somehow, have food, fun and sex. Tap water at The Office. A college girl wearing hand-me-down irregulars at last call. Buy her a shot of grain alcohol. Take her back to the trailer. Afterwards there might be enough left over for a liquor store microwave corn dog and a warm Colt 45. Or, he could buy some cheap hors d'oeuvres at the market. Stay in with a nice bottle of beer. Maybe buy a dart board. Turn on the radio and just hole up. So to speak. And a Playboy. Food. Fun. Sex.

Playboys were expensive. There had been a used book store right next to Mom's. Used book stores always had stacks of National Geographic. What other magazine did people collect? Playboy. They had to have those, too. Probably way in back. The shop was called Comma, Colon and Dickens. As he walked in, he wished he hadn't left his signed first edition of The Winds of War back in Chicago. That probably would have brought in ten or fifteen bucks. He found the stack of Playboy magazines. In the front aisle, right next to Curious George. There was one toward the bottom of the stack that he could afford with the loose change in his pocket and not even break the twenty. It was from 1992 and featured the Girls of Congress. As the old man behind the counter was putting the magazine in a brown paper bag, he asked about his first edition. The old man told him he could only get a couple of hundred for that. He staggered when he left the shop.

Grocery stores have a distinct smell. Cold air mixed with produce and the faint, far away scent of fried chicken and freshly baked bread. Lee breathed in the flourescent lighting and bustle as he pushed his cart down the canned meat and fish aisle. His body buzzed with anticipation. There had been a sale on olives so he already had a can in the basket. He compared the price per ounce of the different types of sardines and decided on the can packed in tomato sauce. When he turned down the cookie and cracker aisle, he saw Agnes Livingstone in a smart, low cut print frock, putting a package of gourmet crackers next to the two bottles of French wine in the child carrier part of her cart. He was about to turn and run when she glanced up and saw him.

"Lee," she said in a throaty voice. Her hand rested lightly, almost absentmindedly, on her bosom. When he answered her salutation, she fingered the string of pearls resting in her cleavage. When he picked up a box of generic soda crackers, the single tube, quarter pound kind, her fingertips traveled down the rest of her cleavage, then down her torso before they rested on the handle of her cart, and she walked down the aisle. Lee watched her just a moment too long as she walked away, at the way the dress draped softly against the contours of her body as she moved. My God, she's probably older than my mom, he thought, and snapped his head down to study the contents list on the side of the soda cracker box until he was very sure she was gone. Salt, bleached flour, water.

At the end of the aisle, he looked both ways to be certain the coast was clear before going down the toy, stationery and greeting card aisle. There actually was a dart board, but it was a Nerf dart board, and it was eleven bucks. Darts were no fun if you couldn't puncture something. There was a deck of cards, but the thought of playing more than one game of solitaire would make him want to burn the cards. Which might be fun. But he didn't have money to burn. There was a box of crayons. Eight colors. In a green box. The kind that were made of candle wax. They were only fifty-nine cents. If they wouldn't draw, at least they would burn. He put them in his cart.

At the deli counter he looked through the glass at the bowl of Greek olives and sighed, remembering when he used to go into a deli and get a pound of this and a quart of that and think nothing of spending a hundred bucks for a quiet evening at home. He used to enjoy those evenings at home with Beverly. Now she was having them with the Jerk. And wanted to use Lee's house to finance them.

"One-eighth pound of thinly sliced salami and one-eighth pound of thinly sliced Swiss cheese. I want to be able to see through it," he said. "And not just through the holes."

The robust woman behind the counter smiled at the challenge, set the slicer and got thirty-seven slices of cheese that came to exactly point one-two-five pounds. She wrapped the cheese, and, after slicing and weighing the salami, put in an extra slice before wrapping that.

"A sample," she said, winking, then turned to wait on the next customer. He briefly thought about asking her out, but would feel like a jerk not being able to take her anywhere.

Lee picked up a small crusty baguette before leaving the deli aisle and moving past the dairy case. Debating picking up a small carton of sour cream to make a dip, he quickly added up the contents of his cart. Just barely past five dollars, plus tax. He got the sour cream, making a mental note to find a packet of dry onion soup mix. His heart sang a jaunty tune as he turned down the beer, wine and spirits aisle, picking up a small bag of generic ruffled potato chips from the end display as he went. They had three rows of single bottles of premium beer with little descriptions of the qualities and ingredients of each. A nice beer would be the one extravagance. He would start with that, then the rest of the evening a six pack of domestic would taste fine. He debated the varying charms of the different brews and settled on a Belgian lager, then picked up the six of domestic cans.

As he passed the spirits shelves, a half pint of Canadian whiskey caught his eye. He picked it up, debated in his mind, put it back, picked it up again. It was three-fifty. He added up the contents of his cart again and calculated the tax. He could still afford it.

The magazine and book rack was in the corner by the exit door, right next to the flowers and empty carts. When he passed it, he noticed a Mad™ Magazine. He hadn't even seen a Mad© Magazine in years. He picked it up, then almost dropped it on the floor. Mad® Magazine used to be thirty-five cents cheap. He thumbed through it.

Oh my God, he thought. There were advertisements in it. Actual, real, not parodies advertising. Full page ones. The back page was one for a web site called JosephCoaler.com with a pretentious satirical serial called Weeping Willow, whatever the fuck that was. Ads in Mad. What had happened to the world? At least Dave Berg and Marginal Thinking were still there. Spy vs. Spy was in color, which was upsetting, but it was there. And the back page fold-in. Some things can't change if the world is to make sense.

"Well, hello," a large voice said.

He turned and there, skimming through a magazine on guns and ammo, was Officer Bacon.

"Bachelor food," the officer said as he glanced into Lee's cart. In Bacon's was a thick, beautiful, fresh, firm, glistening pink Alaskan salmon filet, a bunch of fresh asparagus, a bottle of fresh Cabernet, romaine lettuce, a single white rose, and a box of Banquet Extra-Crispy Frozen Fried Chicken. "You know what I always liked on a night like that?"

"No," said Lee, not sure he wanted to know.

"Tuna spread and crackers. Get a nice can of albacore and put some salt, little pepper, mayonnaise. Not Miracle Whip®. That's a stupid spread. Chopped celery, scallions. Finely diced dill pickles, capers and some olives. And you already have the olives. A drop or two of fresh lemon. Top it off with a dash of dark mustard ... Savory flavor. With a subtle aftertaste you don't want to complicate with a flavorful cracker. Water crackers. That's the way to go."

The officer looked like he was tasting it, then looked into Lee's cart again and saw the soda crackers and tiny packages of deli-wrapped food.

"Of course, when I was in school, tuna and mayonnaise on Saltines was the best late night meal you could ever want over a ... Mad Magazine." He nodded, smiled quickly, put the weapons magazine in his cart, and moved on.

Lee thought about it for a moment, and realized it did sound good. He could put the sour cream back. He put the Mad back, and went for the dairy aisle to drop off the sour cream. He passed the produce aisle on his way back to canned meat and fish, and dropped a single small orange in his cart as a nod to the plasma center lady. This was going to be a wonderful evening. He was really going to impress himself. He might even put out.

There was a special on water packed tuna, two cans for a buck. He picked up one. At the end of the aisle with the real mayonnaise (not the Miracle Whip [Pat. Pend.] which he agreed would never do), he saw a small jar of dill pickles. That would really be good in the tuna. He added up the contents of his cart in his head carefully, seeing the columns of numbers click by as he did. With tax, if he got the pickles, he would be seventeen cents under twenty dollars. He picked up the jar of pickles and it slipped out of his hand. He watched it turn end over top, in super slow motion like a shot in a Sam Peckinpah movie until it hit the floor, bounced, hit the floor again and shattered; shard, shrapnel and pickled cucumber spears spraying up and out like a plume of wasted money. Just as a stock boy turned the corner.

"I broke the pickles," Lee said, watching his evening spread out across the tile flooring of the store. "Shit. I can't afford to break pickles."

The stock boy looked at him, nonplused.

"You don't have to pay for that, sir," he said. "Breakage insurance."

The kid took another jar of pickles off the shelf and put them in Lee's cart, then turned and hurried off.

Lee moved to the checkout aisle quickly before he broke anything else. As he started unloading his cart, the loud speaker squeaked.

"Clean up, aisle five," the voice said.

Lee put his head down so no one would see him, and didn't notice that it was Agnes in front of him in line until he had already unloaded half of his items onto the conveyor belt. She was writing a check for her purchases. Maybe she wouldn't notice him.

She noticed him. She handed the check to the clerk, and handed Lee the corner of a deposit slip that had already been torn off.

"My number," she cooed. "When you're done with your finger food, you might want the main course."

She turned and left. Lee's cheeks burned from the inside out. He turned to the clerk and smiled sheepishly.

"Paper or plastic?" asked the clerk.

"Paper!" Lee said, happily taking the focus off of Agnes. "I can draw on that!"

"Nineteen eighty-three," the clerk said, without further comment.

Holding a grocery bag under each arm, and a small paper bag in his teeth, Lee bounded up the stairs to his lair two at a time, the seventeen cents jingling in his pocket. He hadn't bounded up stairs in a very long time. He set the bags down next to his popcorn machine/Twister mat coffee table and bounded back down the steps. The crowd at dinner was light that night, so he helped Matt refill the salt and paper, restuff all the napkin holders and top off the ketchup, then got bowls, spoons, knives and whatever else he could use for his night in. Matt looked at the pile of dishes and utensils in his arms with awe.

"You have a hot date tonight, Mr. Harris?" he said awkwardly with the glint only a sixteen-year-old could conjure.

Lee smiled and went up with his goods.

After carefully, lovingly, preparing the tuna and setting the bowl down on the Twister mat, he arranged the sardines on a plate surrounded by soda crackers, put the chips in a mixing bowl, peeled the orange and arranged the slices tastefully on a plate. To the sounds of Big Band coming from the old radio he fanned salami and cheese and pieces of the baguette that he had sliced on the bias onto another. There were a few pickle spears and olives that hadn't gone into the tuna, so he put them in a bowl. The mayonnaise, in a small bowl in the middle of the cheese and meat tray, had a delicately swirled peak.

He poured a small splash of the Canadian, then opened the Belgian lager, carefully poured it into a glass and sat back admiring the spread.

"Here's to me," he said, toasting the air with a smile. "Clink."

He took a long hearty mouthful of the beer, letting the wonderful bitter taste fill his head, and swallowed it slowly. It was cold going down, and immediately brought heat to his cheeks. He sighed through his smile, then leaned forward to decide where to start. He thinly spread some mayonnaise on a slice of baguette, put one slice of salami on that and one slice of cheese on that. He breathed in the pungent mixture of scents, then carefully bit off half and slowly chewed it, letting the flavors mix and mingle in his mouth. He gently laughed through the food. Never in his life had he ever enjoyed salami and Swiss cheese so fully.

After extracting all the possible flavor and texture from the bite, he swallowed it and sat back, taking a sip of whiskey. It burned wonderfully all the way down. He felt really good. Twenty dollars. That used to be a tip. Man, he thought, waiters must eat really well. He set the whiskey down, rubbed his hands together, gently picked up and ate an orange slice to cleanse his palate, then surveyed his bounty. With a spoon, he placed a dollop of tuna onto a cracker and bit that in half. He could not imagine it could have been any better with capers and lemon juice.

He meticulously tore a square from one of the paper grocery bags, set it inside-up on the table, and opened the box of crayons. What could he draw? He hadn't drawn since high school, and then it had been doodles of fighter planes, rockets, boxes and trees. He'd draw a tree. He took the brown crayon out and drew and filled in the trunk. It just made the paper shiny. Well, it was the same color as the bag. He used the green to make the top of the tree. That just made the paper shiny with a green tint.

He looked around for some matches.

The Playboy would be next. He ate some sardines on a cracker, finished the good beer, opened a can of the cheap stuff, and reached down to pick up the brown paper bag leaning against his table, and slowly extracted the magazine.

There was one can of beer left by the time he reached the centerfold. The music was now soft, sensual, New Orleans blues. Each plate and bowl still had a little of its contents left, and there were crumbs everywhere. Lee was full, satisfied. Satiated. He had a gentle buzz, and the smile on his face was only partly because of the magazine. He felt good. He had spent three hundred dollars on an evening and not felt this good. He wanted to feel even better. He looked around to see how he might. The room felt strangely cozy. He would never have imagined that this room could feel cozy. He felt cozy. He wanted to sing Bali Ha'i. He didn't. If he had that money from the house, he could finish the evening off in a jazz club or a late night movie. He briefly wondered what Officer Bacon's salmon had tasted like. It didn't matter. The tuna had been just fine. He slid down on the couch and put both hands into his pockets, his body glowing from top to toe. There was something in the left pocket . He pulled it out. It was the corner of Agnes's deposit slip. With her phone number printed on it. He remembered the fall of the dress she was wearing that afternoon, and a smile spread unbidden on his face. He sat back up. Could he make the leap from looking at twenty-somethings to looking at sixty-somethings in one night, skipping middle age altogether? And if he did, could he make his way back? He put the paper to his nose as he thought.

The smell of the first pot of coffee brewing matched perfectly with his mood. He actually sang as he got the diner ready for breakfast. The Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge Song (Feeling Groovy). He was greeting the lamppost happily and asking after its flowers when Twain came in and sat down at the counter. Twain studied him intently as he poured the coffee.

"Something happened last night," Twain observed.

Lee just smiled and went in back to get the butter out, humming the rest of the Simon® and Garfunkle© song. Twain followed him back.

"One slice of cheese," Twain said, "at an angle to the bread."

"What?"

"I'm telling you how to run the diner while I'm gone."

"What?" Lee said again, stupidly. "I mean good. Uh. What made you change your mind?"

Twain cocked his head to one side and regarded Lee for a moment.

"A clean, crisp piece of lettuce leaf, no halvsies," he continued and Lee ran to find the pad and a pen to take notes. "One slice of tomato from the middle or two if it's cut from the ends."

The next hour, between serving what few customers came in, was an intensive course in running a Twainified diner. There were strict rules to be followed. No exceptions. No enchiladas. And Twain assured him he would know if any rule was broken.

While Lee washed the breakfast dishes, the thought of Officer Bacon's salmon and wine dinner floated back into his head. He hadn't tasted salmon in a very long time. The glow started to leave his cheeks. With thirty-five or forty grand, he could have a salmon dinner every night until he got sick of it. And listen to jazz while he ate it. Sitting next to a tall platinum blond escort who called him lover in a Russian accent. No. He shook his head and remembered the taste of the salami and cheese and the feel of an old magazine, and the warmth came back.

At eleven seventeen, Jim Ackerman entered Twain's. Lee looked up from the lesson on bologna slicing and smiled. He felt good again. He didn't need to be vindictive. Let Beverly have her money. And then he could afford a little salmon. And a Britney Spears CD. He came around the counter and Jim handed him the papers. Lee had to go around back again for a pen because Jim hadn't brought one. He set the papers on the counter, found the signature line on the back page and put the pen to paper.

"I'm glad," Jim said, pushing his young blond hair away from his young blond forehead. "I was getting worried. My dad will be happy. Your wife will, too, I imagine. She spent a lot of money on us."

Lee stopped and looked up at Jim.

"You gonna sign it, partner?" Jim asked, getting nervous, holding his arms close to his sides just in case. He glanced at his watch. It said eight fifty-nine.

Lee cocked his head.

"No," he said.