Surreal continuing story: walking through doors and passageways

[NDP]

“Politics.”

“The Sharp’s politics or the Astorbilt’s politics?” I inquire.

“A little bit of both,” Galloway says with a sigh. “Although you’d never think it from looking at them, the Astorbilts are die-hard Green Party leftists.”

“And Jack and Eloise are conservative Republicans?”

“Oh no! Far from it. Both the Sharps and the Astorbilts are pretty much your typical limousine liberals.”

“So why are the Astorbilts treating the Sharps like they just came out in favor of selling heroin to schoolkids?”

“Well, as I said, the Astorbilts are ardent backers of the Green Party. Lord Astorbilt is a Green activist in Britain and Lady Astorbilt, who’s American and was named Eleanor Dixon before she married Lord Astorbilt, backed Ralph Nader in 2000. The Sharps backed Gore.”

“So is that the root of the freeze-out?”

“Most of it. One time Jack got on Eleanor’s case about Nader and said that a vote for Nader was a vote for Bush. Well, she just tore into Jack like a starving pit bull and a steak. She accused him of being a ‘sell out’ and he countered by repeating that old cliche` about a part of something being better than all of nothing. That didn’t help things. Soon Lord Astorbilt joined in and basically said if anyone who voted for Gore, they would be selling their soul. Then Eloise came in to support Jack (and Gore) and, within a few minutes, they were all trying to shout over one another. In the end, none of them convinced the other to change their vote but they all felt a new sense of bitterness towards one another.”

“That’s too bad. And you’re right about what I thought about the Astorbilts when I met them–I would’ve never pegged them as leftists.”

“Did I tell you that the Astorbilts have a residence in Florida and that Eleanor was a registered voter there in 2000?”

“Oh boy.”

“You guessed it. All during the recount and the declaration of Bush’s victory, Eleanor kept saying she still wouldn’t change her vote and that even if Gore was elected, it still wouldn’t have made any difference. Of course, Lord Astorbilt (who’s still a British citizen and can’t vote) was never far behind in stridently supporting his wife’s vote for Nader. It would never take much for them to go off on the subject. Finally, the Sharps stopped talking to them. There’s only so many times they can take getting their heads bitten off.”

“So why do you think they invited them here?”

Mr. Galloway sighs and says…

[dougie_monty]

“Again, it’s politics, and the fact that the Sharps own the Morpheus. With all the people rehearsing there, Eleanor apparently hoped she could garner a few votes for herself.”
“Tell us more,” says Alice.

“Eleanor would like to get elected to the _______City Council. If the Astorbilts invite all of us to an upper-crust party, that’s about forty votes she can be sure of on Election Day. Of course, for the Astorbilts to invite the performers and snub the theater owners would be political suicide.”
“At least the Astorbilts didn’t offer to buy instruments and equipment for Prester John’s Aunt and The Cigar Band,” I snort.

“Don’t give them any ideas,” says Betty Galloway, a vigorous woman in her mid-sixties. I sense from whom Samantha—and Sam’s daughter Thalia—inherited good looks.
“Well, obviously, we aren’t that easily swayed,” says Betty’s husband. “In any case, Lord Astorbilt didn’t look to see who among us are registered voters—and in local precincts.”

“Obviously not,” comments Alice. “Lena and Amy are from out of state.”
“And so are Jeanette and her partners,” I say. “I think they live in Stamford, near New York City.”

“And where are you registered to vote?” asks Mr. Galloway.
“Locally,” I say. “My family lives in Gardena in L. A. County. But after two years living in the dorm at college I re-registered locally.”

“And Salbert is a resident of Arizona; Dr. Clouse lives near St. Louis; Lloyd and Tim Werdin are from Springfield, Illinois,” adds Mr. Galloway.
“Eleanor must not have realized all this,” says Alice.

Now we hear a commotion nearby. A tall man in a gray suit, with a mustache and dark hair, is ranting, in a voice I can’t make out, to several people in servants’ clothing. At this moment the Astorbilts’ butler Jeeves approaches us. As I listen to what the tall man is saying I gather that he is speaking in French and the others don’t understand him.
“It’s odd that someone would come in here and speak French if there’s no one to understand him,” says Alice.

“That is Alain, brother of Louis, our chef,” says the slightly snooty butler. “Louis is out with the flu and we hired a professional replacement for the party. But Alain does not speak English and he can only communicate with Louis.”
I mull this over. “Jeeves, would you mind if I try to speak to Alain?”

“Not at all,” says the butler.
I step over to Alain and the servants. He keeps asking, “Où sont mes vêtements?” (“Where are my clothes?”)

I tell the servants, “He wants to know where his clothes are.”
“Oh, I understand,” says one maid. “Louis left Alain’s clothes in a box near the window in the storeroom.”

“Elle me dit que vos vêtements sont dans une boîte près de la fenêtre dans la salle d’entreposage,” I tell Alain.
He smiles now, says, “Ah, merci, Monsieur,” and gives me a handshake. He goes into the storeroom and returns with a big cardboard box of clothes. Just before he leaves he hands me his business card, with a flourish. I cordially wave goodbye.
“Thank you, Sir,” says the maid. “Louis is the only employee here who speaks French.” I say “You’re welcome.”

Now Lord Astorbilt approaches. The maid tells him what happened. He looks something like Colonel Mustard in the Clue game with photographs of the various suspects—sideburns, almost white hair, monocle; he always carries a riding crop, even when he isn’t riding (this according to Mrs. Galloway).
He says, “That man gets agitated whenever he comes here and Louis is absent.”

“Maybe Louis and Alain should have cell phones to communicate with each other,” Alice suggests.
“Jolly good idea. Thank you, young lady. I’ll suggest this to Louis when he returns.” Astorbilt is apparently surprised that a guest speaks French. Alice and I introduce ourselves to him. (If he only knew about Alice’s expertise…)

Now he pauses, as if he’s heard our names before. And I think I see a familiar ring on his hand…

“You will excuse me for a moment. I must speak to Jeeves.” He does so, and Jeeves announces,
“Dinnah is served.”

We all go to the dining room. Like the rest of the mansion it’s elegantly appointed. We all sit at one of several oval tables set for us with things like napkin rings, finger bowls, and complicated settings of crockery and silverware.
Alice, as usual, sits to my left. The left-handed Louise Brown sits to Alice’s left; Stan sits with her. The senior Galloways sit to my right. Across the oval table from us are Daniel, Hermione, Jeanette, Johnny Goss—and Jack and Eloise Sharp. Jeanette wears a black gown that doesn’t reveal anything that is beneath it.

Mr. Galloway says, “I’ll show you which fork to use, and so on.”
Daniel makes a silly comment about the finger bowls. Hermione scowls and scolds him softly, like a mother scolding her child. He shuts up. (I notice that Hermione has skillfully hidden her service revolver inside her gown, same as she deftly hides her wings. I remember her pointing the gun, and her badge and ID card, out to Jeeves and Lord Astorbilt as she entered the atrium.)

I know that the servants will bring the food in momentarily.
Mr. Galloway tells me, “The Astorbilts may have an interest in those ingots themselves.”
“Go on,” I say.

[NDP]

“The Astorbilt family actually has a connection with the silver ingots,” Mr. Galloway explains. "You know that journal you found in the Morpheus’ attic?

“The one that’s currently under the DXM League’s lock and key?” I respond.

“Yes, that one. Well, Lord Astorbilts grandfather, William, wrote it.”

“So he was responsible for imprisoning Red Nicholas in the sub-basement?”

“Not just him; there were others. But he played the biggest role in it.”

“This may be a stupid thing to ask since it seems pretty obvious, but was William part of the DXM League?”

“He most definitely was–as is the current Lord Astorbilt (although you probably guessed that by now).”

I see Jeeves approach me. “Would you care for a beverage Mr. _____?” he asks.

“Yes please,” I answer. “I’ll start with a club soda.”

“Would sparkling mineral water be acceptable?”

“Sure.”

Jeeves turns to the beverage cart, pulls a blue bottle of mineral water out of an ice bucket, and twists the top off before pouring its contents in my glass. It turns out that it wasn’t only the bottle that was blue–the water is too!

“Excuse me Jeeves,” I say, “but what brand of mineral water is that?”

Jeeves stops pouring long enough to read the label and tells me, "It’s…

[dougie_monty]

“Ohio Springs Mineral Water, Mr. _______.” I remember that brand from a fake ad in Games.
Now I ask Jeeves for a glass of sherry and sidestep the matter of the mineral water.

Now Daniel turns deadly serious.
“Don’t drink that water, _____,” he says. I see a strange glint in his eye.
“Why?” I ask. “What’s in it?”

“It’s what you Americans call a Mickey Finn. You drink it and you’ll pass out.” :eek:
Chloral hydrate. Well, I had a serious reaction to that, at a party a few months after the head-cheese fiasco. At that time I had an unfortunate tendency to ingest questionable foods and liquids. As it happens, I have a severe allergic reaction to chloral hydrate. The host of that party didn’t know that. At any rate, my parents screamed bloody murder and almost sued the host; but he settled with them by paying my hospital bill and giving me a few thousand dollars. We let it go at that.

Hermione takes her police notebook out of her purse and writes this down. She also takes a strange pellet from a pillbox in the purse and drops it in the glass. The liquid turns clear.
“That will neutralize the chloral hydrate,” says Daniel. “Now it just looks like a glass of water.”

I send out a telepathic message to the others at the tables: Don’t drink the blue water. Alice slips away with the suspicious drink and finds a sink in a bathroom off the dining room, and pours the drink down the drain; nobody saw her. I don’t see anyone else with blue water.
“Well, Daniel,” I say, “It looks as if you have a special sense yourself—chemical analysis.” He smiles, rather smugly.

By now the food has been served. Chicken Kiev. And it’s really good.
Mr. Galloway says, “Astorbilt told me about the substitute cook he hired—Mando Guzman. He’s Lupe’s and Hector’s brother. (Hector owns the body shop.) Mando was a substitute cook for Betty and me for months when our cook was laid up.”

Alice now asks, “Mr. Galloway, was anyone else hired here for the party?”
“Hmmmm… there was one other hireling—a husky fellow named Quentin York.”

Alice and I remember the name. From what we read in various papers we saw in the preparations for the federal depositions we gave, the name Quentin York appeared. We sense he was a flunky of Lemoyne’s or Sikes-Potter’s; one of few remaining since the death of Argo Rank and the arrest of Minerva Calley. Not a full-ranking operative, Alice tells me telepathically—but a low-ranking minion much like Clell O’Houlihan, Kurt Todd or those bikers.

The rest of the dinner is uneventful. The food is exquisite, including parfait and peach cobbler for dessert. My Mom made peach cobbler occasionally when I was a kid…
The Astorbilts have hired musicians to play dance music—waltz, polka, and so on. Alice and I try a few dances; we haven’t been out on a dance floor much.

I happen to notice that George Sharp—he of the outrageous hat trick—is watching things out a window. It’s just started to get dark outside; George slips his good jacket off and dons a heavy black sweatshirt from his tote bag.
After a few minutes Lord Astorbilt approaches, and asks Betty Galloway, “Has anyone seen Eleanor?”

“No, Sir, I haven’t seen her since the dance music started. I think she went into the kitchen…”
Hermione hears this. Along with Betty Galloway, Lord Astorbilt, George Sharp, and Hermione, I go to the kitchen. Mando Guzman lies on the floor, bound and gagged, and writhing. Betty frees him.

He says, “Lady Astorbilt—outside—Quentin!”
“I see him!” says George angrily. With Hermione on his heels, George sprints out the kitchen door. Quentin York is out there, straddling Lady Astorbilt. She wails in terror. Her gown is pulled up around her neck.

George charges York, who had his pants pulled down, and yanks him off Eleanor. George is on a college wrestling team; he stands York up and gets a hammerlock on one arm. He doesn’t strike York, but simply restrains him. I help Eleanor up; Alice comes out and sits with the shaken hostess to console her. Hermione slips her handcuffs and portable police radio out of her purse. She calls the station; she also handcuffs and Mirandizes York. He keeps quiet. George sits down, reeling from the experience himself. So do Betty Galloway and I.

The party’s over. We all go inside. Hermione speaks to the four patrol officers who arrive; one pair haul York away and the other remain to get Lady Astorbilt’s statement. Hermione tells Daniel she’ll have to go to the station to book York.
Lord Astorbilt excuses our group. Jeeves apologizes profusely for the suspicious “drink,” which even he suspects Quentin York prepared for serving. I tell him York will have to apologize—the hard way. The sherry, like the Chicken Kiev and the peach cobbler, was excellent.

With Eleanor somewhat recovered, Lord Astorbilt meets with Alice, me, Mr. Galloway—and Jack and Eloise Sharp, along with their son George. I sense that, although we all ate Chicken Kiev, our host is about to eat crow.
Astorbilt speaks:

[NDP]

“I’m sorry about everything,” he says.

“There’s no need for you to be sorry,” Jack says. “What happened to Eleanor isn’t your fault.”

“It’s not just that. It’s been the last couple years between you and Eloise. There was really no reason for us to hold a grudge.”

“I’m sorry too. It’s too bad that we couldn’t have resolved things at a better time.”

“George … thank you for what you did. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to attend to Eleanor.”

With that, the evening comes to an uncomfortable end. We all quietly exit through the front door and return to our cars. It’s not until we’re almost back at the Terwilliger’s house and that Alice says something.

“_____,” she says, "I wonder if…

[dougie_monty]

“…the Astorbilts’ grudge against the Sharps prompted them to spike the water…?” She pauses as she realizes this is implausible. We both muse about it.
I have my left arm over her shoulder. “I think it’s more likely that bum York used his wiles to get the job for the party.”

“Well…I still have to wonder whether we aren’t being watched. Someone seems to know where we are. Here, the Morpheus, the Sharps’ place…” Well, I’ve thought about that myself.
We approach the garage. Alice says, “Car, open the door.”
The Fran Drescher voice says, “Sure.” The door rises and Alice pulls the car inside.

Before she turns the headlights off I notice something odd on a shelf. It’s a book in an old-fashioned leather binding. As we exit the car I go over and pick it up. The title is The Obscenity of Livers. That title is vaguely familiar to me. The first two words are in gold leaf; the last two in silver leaf. Alice locks the car and pushes a button to lower the overhead door; we go out the side door and lock it.

Alice walks to my right and puts her left arm around my waist. I hang my right arm over her shoulders. I carry the book along with the black velvet jacket Alice wore in the car.
We go inside. Paul and Eda are still watching TV. Daniel, Arthur, and Winifred are there; she is still in uniform. Buster is there too; Daniel says he brought the cat back.
“Daniel told us about the incident at the Astorbilts’,” says Eda.

“That young George Sharp certainly redeemed himself—he must be good at heart.” Hermione had told Paul and Eda about George’s hat trick.
“Oh, Alice,” says Paul, “We polished the floor in your room and the den today. The floor should be dry by now.”

We go to look. The floor is dry in both rooms but the fumes are still strong. We could sack out in the library…
“I have a better idea. Why not use the secret bedroom?” I ask Alice, out of the others’ earshot. “Something just occurred to me…”

Alice embraces me. She steps into the parlor and says, “Mum, Dad, we’ll go to the utility shed—the fumes are still strong.” Daniel winks.
“Very well, Alice,” says Eda. “The sleeping bags are still there.”

Alice takes her keys. I go into her room long enough to open the window slightly, to ventilate the room; and to pick up some nightclothes and towels. I also open the den window a crack. We go out to the shed, and get down to the catacombs. Buster follows.
In the hidden bedroom we undress and hang the formal clothes on hangers in the closet. Alice sheds her underwear, jewelry, and glasses; then she dons a sheer nightie and I put on a T-shirt and pajama pants. We get into the bed; Buster sits on an overstuffed chair near the headboard.

“Oh—Lord Astorbilt wants to meet us at the Morpheus when the rehearsals continue tomorrow,” says Alice. We just lie there, arms around each other; I stroke her long hair lovingly. This wonderful woman…

“When did he say that?” I ask.
“Just as we went out the door,” she says. “He wants to meet with Fred, Jack and Eloise, Mr. Galloway, you, me, Salbert—and Leo!”

“Oh, he knows about Leo, eh?”
“He does indeed,” says Alice, pushing her breasts against my chest and kissing my cheeks. I caress her shoulders and her hair. “______, what occurred to you?”

“Well, we could take up Al the Alien, and Leo’s Italian ghost friends, on their offer. They said they owe us one—of course, the De Caro ghosts said it to Leo in Italian…”
“Make it plainer, please.”

“Well, if someone is spying on us, telepathically even, I believe the Hellmouth critters and the ghosts would sense it. And, hey, Joe and Jane Bradley’s radar sense would help in this regard.”
“Oh, yes—Jane sure zeroed in on that microwave oven!”

I remember Jerry Britton’s awful pun. And I had suggested we use the secret bedroom, knowing it is shielded with lead and concrete. That would be impractical to use on the Morpheus, so we should use a detector instead of a shield.
Alice glances at the book I brought in, on a dresser.

“You said you thought the book The Obscenity of Livers was familiar, _______.” She starts to thrust her hips toward me.
“Yes, I did. About 30 years ago I had a dream that our small dog Duchess walked out of my room carrying a torn-off male member in her mouth—”

“Ohhhhh! That’s awful! It’s good that was just a dream!”
“Well, yes. And the other thing I saw in the dream was a book with that title.”

“And when did you have this dream?”
“About 1970 or 1971.” I want to know what is in that book…

“That’s about the time I was born!” Now I see lust in Alice’s eyes. “I trust your male member is intact!”
Slightly piqued by this sally, I mischievously slip Alice’s negligee off. She pulls my T-shirt up and my pants down. We fling the covers off. She lies on her back and I mount her. We kiss and hug and fondle and moan and screw…

Then we just lie there, panting and satisfied.
Now Buster, who apparently had been napping, faces us, wide awake with those cat eyes big and round and dark like black saucers. He has something to say.

[NDP]

“Oh, don’t mind me,” the tomcat exclaims. “After all, I have no such interest in that sort of thing any more what with MY FREAKIN’ BALLS CUT OFF! Not that I’m really upset that it happened since I know there are good reasons to fix a male cat and that Eda certainly had my best interests in mind when she took me to the vet so he could turn me into A GODDAMNED EUNUCH!”

“Well, somebody has issues this morning,” Alice comments.

“Issues?” Buster replies. “Why should I have issues? I mean, I get no more agitated from watching two human beings copulating than you would watching two dung beetles fucking to Mozart on the Discovery Channel. … Except, of course, it does remind me that MY GONADS ARE GONE!”

“We’ll be more considerate next time you’re in the room with us,” I tell him.

“No, just do what you normally do,” says the cat. “Besides, I really don’t want to talk about this subject anymore. Let’s change it.”

“Good idea,” agrees Alice. “Now, is there something else you want to say?”

“Yes,” states Buster, “I was just going to ask _____ what kind of dog Duchess was.”

“She was a Pomeranian mix,” I answer.

“A yappy lap dog, huh?” the feline comments. “I could whip the ass of one of those when I was a kitten.”

“Duchess wasn’t really a spoiled lap dog,” I say. “She was actually pretty friendly.”

“I’m sure she was. Now, tell me, do you remember what was going on in your life when you had the dream?”

I think for a few seconds and say…

[dougie_monty]

“Duchess was dumb but loving,” I say.
“Get on with it!” pleads Buster.
“All right.”

“My life was going nowhere at the time. I’d been out of high school a few years—this was a year after the head-cheese disaster—and I hadn’t made any decisions on what I was going to do with my life.
“I had begun discussing my dreams with two older women—no personal relationship—they were into metaphysics. Then the husband of one—the other was divorced—was found dead on the beach in south Hermosa Beach!” :eek:

Alice and Buster both scowl at this.
“The local police ruled it a suicide, but I still wonder…”

Alice and I have redonned our nightclothes. We sit on the edge of the bed with arms linked as we continue the conversation with Buster, concerning the Morpheus, the benefit, the Astorbilts, the book I found near the roof exit, George Sharp’s deeds, and Quentin York.
Buster frowns when I mention that last name. “I think he tried to pass himself off as a vet when Alice took me for treatment for cat fever,” he tells me. “The real vet—whom I’ve known since kittenhood—came in just as York was about to give me an injection.”

“Oh, I remember that,” says Alice. “Quentin tried to run out of the medical building but the security people stopped him. The police came a few minutes later. York pleaded guilty to the charge of impersonating a veterinarian and spent a few months in jail; Old Doc Prothro pressed charges and we never head from York again.”
“Prothro?” I ask. “Old Doc Joseph Nathan Prothro? An older bald man, looking much like Svensen the janitor from the Archie comics?” (Bob Long had taken his golden retriever to Prothro once).

“That’s the one,” says Buster. “Kind old fellow. Still in vet practice.” Buster sighs. “He ‘fixed’ me. He was as humane as he could be.”
I lean over to stroke Buster. He appreciates it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought you were asleep when Alice and I were humping. I wouldn’t have done it for the purpose of ‘flaunting it’ to you.” :o
“Don’t worry about it,” says Buster, purring. “You meant no harm.” Alice and I both stroke his fur; he nods off.

Alice and I lie back down, cuddling happily.
“Tell me about that book The Obscenity of Livers,” I say, gently running my fingers through her long auburn hair.

She smiles coyly and kisses me. “Let’s talk about that tomorrow at the Morpheus.**********
In the morning we go to the theater; Buster asks to stay home this time, but he may want to contact us telepathically.

All the others are there, except, of course, for the kids, who are in school. Jeanette’s brother Nate is present; he says Rita Waterford is recovering and she seems attracted to him. For one thing, he has a complete collection of Christina Aguilera CDs.
We begin the day with the meeting with Fred, Jack, Eloise, Mr. Galloway, Salbert, Leo—and Lord Astorbilt. George Sharp has college classes today. Alice has brought, among other things, the book The Obscenity of Livers; Fred recognizes it.

Just as we’re ready to start the meeting, we get a fax from Harry Rudolph, with a first draft of the flier for the benefit.
Fred and Lord Astorbilt start the meeting.

[NDP]

“As you probably know, there was an unfortunate event involving my wife Eleanor last night,” begins Lord Astorbilt. “She’s okay now but, as you can imagine, she’s still a bit shaken up.”

“They caught the guy didn’t they?” inquires Leo.

“Oh yes,” Astorbilt answers, “and I’ll see to it that bastard is punished to the fullest extent of the law! … I’m sorry … I should control myself better.”

“That’s okay,” Fred sympathizes, “I’m sure we all understand how you’re feeling.”

“Thank you,” he says composing himself. “Now, getting back to the meeting, Fred has brought to my attention that Alice Terwilliger has brought a rather interesting book with her. Is that true Alice?”

“Yes, Lord Astorbilt,” she answers, "It’s called The Obscenity of Livers.

I hear the group erupt into excited murmurs and whispers. Apparently, everyone is even more curious about this book than I am.

“Well Alice,” states Fred, “could you tell us more about this book?”

“With pleasure,” she replies, "this book…

[dougie_monty]

“…discusses neither pornography nor internal anatomy. It deals with high-level conspiracies and elaborate procedures for combating them.”
Leo suddenly speaks up. “I believe I know who published that book.”

Alice thumbs to the title page, printed in a very plain typeface. The bottom line reads, “Manhasset Press, 1928.”
“Yes,” says Leo. “The president of Manhasset Press was Byron Rhex. He was killed in 1955 in a burglary in his home. I’ve met him in my ghostly realm—out here in California. He often contacts me about discontinued products.”

“Sounds out-of-type for a deceased publisher,” I say.

“Well, he was returning a favor,” answers Leo. “Some pirate publisher tried to issue a new edition of The Obscenity of Livers in 1962, in Nassau County in New York State, and I saw it. I alerted him, and he caused his living descendants to discover it. Only the opening chapter had even been set up in type when the pirate publisher was raided. The printers were arrested, along with their ringleader, and all of their materials were confiscated, including the original book Rhex’s company had printed. It’s still under lock and key, in the property storage of the New York Police Department.”

Lord Astorbilt takes the floor again.
“Our aim is to treat the cause and not the symptoms. In the matter of Sikes-Potter and his ilk, you all have done remarkably well in combating his minions, such as Lemoyne and Calley.” Now he faces me. “And there are some such persons who are even related to those of us here—your aviator cousin, for example.”

Jack Sharp asks, “Do you mean others among us have relatives who were caught in Sikes-Potter’s web?”
“I admit this is but conjecture,” the nobleman answers. “But ordinary awareness should suffice to defend against such persons.”

Mr. Galloway now asks, “So the information in The Obscenity of Livers is enough to strike such conspiratorial entities at their roots?”

“No, Galloway, it would not suffice. One would want to combine the material from the other two books—Ms. Terwilliger’s ‘herring’ volume and the book ______ found in that alcove below the Morpheus’ roof.”
“That may explain why the DXM League is holding onto that book,” says Alice, as she clasps my hand firmly.

“Exactly. You are not the victims of an unreasonable arbitrary ruling in this regard. In fact, I happen to know that James Parker will provide a facsimile of that book, for your use. But it must be checked out from the local police station, under the authority of Lieutenant Donald Clay.”
“So Don Clay is a DXM person too,” says Alice.

“Yes, he is—he’s been with the League for years. And, incidentally, a number of deceased NYPD officers, all killed in the line of duty, remain in the property storage to keep an eye on that copy of Livers there. Of the original run of the book, only 500 copies were printed—and only 23 of those survive to this day, and all are being watched by living DXM members or people now within Leo’s realm.”

“Were there later runs of that book?” I ask.
“No record exists of any,” says Astorbilt. He continues. “The League is putting the book you found in the roof access, onto a CD-ROM. You may only use it on a computer that does not have a modem connection.”

“I can do that,” says Alice.
“You’ll be able to start on this after your benefit is over,” Astorbilt concludes. He declares the meeting ended.

We all go out to the stage area. Lloyd Werdin is in beatnik clothes, doing his the-queen-is-dead routine. Astorbilt chuckles and says, “Truly avant-garde.”
Now Claudia Hart gets on stage and does her silent sketches, with Jane Bradley at the piano. We applaud, in a way she can see; Astorbilt apparently catches on that young Claudia is deaf.

“That’s Nicholas’ descendant, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Alice says. “She’s his great-grandniece.”

I get on stage and sing “Fer the Good Times.” This gets the usual laughs and applause; Lord Astorbilt, who hasn’t heard it before, is convulsed with laughter.

Then The Contralto Quartet performs “I Am Woman” with Johnny Goss at the piano, in the style (?) of Jonathan & Darlene Edwards. Astorbilt laughs and calls the women “majestic ladies”; he particularly notices Jane Bradley—as if he recognizes the former Janie Thompson from somewhere; perhaps the Thompsons were acquainted with the Astorbilts when Jane was a teenager…

As The Cigar Band sets up, Dr. Clouse, Pete and Loora Oranjeboom and their son Cornelis, and Cornelis’ wife Hannah, hurry up to Eloise and Mary. The latter two women sit near Alice and me. Cornelis introduces his wife Hannah, a pretty little blond woman, to Alice and me, and to Lord Astorbilt. Dr. Clouse also introduces herself. Hannah Goes Oranjeboom is apparently descended from the wife of President Martin Van Buren.

Cornelis and Hannah speak quickly and sotto voce to Eloise. Their eyes are blurred with tears, but their expressions are happy. Likewise with Pete and Loora. Mary and Eloise stifle happy sobs and Loora, unable to hold back the tears, keeps embracing both her son and her daughter-in-law. Hannah herself has a heavily tear-stained face and keeps wiping her cheeks with a hanky.

Alice and I lean forward. We clasp hands. We think we know the good news Cornelis and Hannah have, but we’re curious enough to ask Loora anyway. She has started speaking, her voice encumbered with happy sobs and a thick Dutch accent. I’ve rarely seen someone who is happy about something shed such copious tears as Loora is doing. Alice and I are on the verge of shedding happy tears ourselves.

Loora composes herself and gives us the happy news:

[NDP]

“Hannah is pregnant,” she exclaims. “I’m going to be a grandmother!”

“Congratulations,” I tell her, “but you look too young to be a grandmother.”

“Oh, thank you,” Loora says slightly embarrassed.

“When’s the baby expected?” asks Alice.

Loora wipes her eyes with a kleenex and says…

[dougie_monty]

“…around Christmastime.” She and Pete are in a close embrace.
All the others present come down to congratulate the happy young couple.

Alice and I take our glasses off and keep wiping tears off each other’s cheeks.
“Loora does look too young to be a grandmother,” she comments. “How long have you known her?”

“They used to be neighbors of mine—the Oranjeboom family a few doors down and the Vos family across the street. Loora was Dirk and Greta Vos’ only child. She graduated from high school a few years after I did. She hated to dress modestly—didn’t mind her underwear showing. And she had a fiery temper. She got married to Pete at 18 and bore Cornelis a year later. He’s 23 now.”

“She does look a lot younger than 42,” Alice comments.
We all go to the conference room. Mr. Galloway has a little surprise for us.

“Sit down, everybody,” he says. He opens the refrigerator and takes out several bottles of champagne, and some two-liter bottles of 7-Up. Samantha passes out glasses and ice; Mr. Galloway distributes the bottles, allotting the 7-Up to tables where the kids sit.
The champagne and 7-Up are poured. We drink a toast to Cornelis and Hannah, and to Pete and Loora.

Now Mr. Galloway has a few other announcements.
“We’re going to have the final dress rehearsal in a few days. You all may want to contact friends and relatives for the sneak-preview performance.

“Harry Rudolph has issued a first draft of the flier for the benefit. You’ll find copies face down on your tables.” We all look at the fliers, composed as only a professional publicity man like Harry Rudolph could do it. There are a few pictures, of Prester John’s Aunt (Alice at the piano); The Cigar Band; The Contralto Quartet; Doris Sharp’s Punk Band (yes, that’s the name they chose); and some other individual performers.

“Now we’ll want to get over to the House of Tracy this afternoon for the first round of the bowling tournament,” he says. Galloway himself, and just about everyone else present, have entered.
Some other visitors arrive. One is the letter carrier; he gives junk mail to Mr. Galloway; Dr. Clouse gets a letter from a medical lab. I figure it’s test results for Red Nicholas. Laura scrutinizes the letter carefully before opening it; then she takes a knife and slices the envelope open. She reads it carefully and nods. Unless I miss my guess, the lab wants her to contact them about Nicholas.

The visitors leave; the kids all go with Pete to the lounge. Now all present in the conference room are DXM people, except for Cornelis and Hannah. I tell Loora I sense the impending arrival of Leo; she gets her son and daughter-in-law to go to the lounge as well. They leave the room to the cheers of all present.
Leo appears, chains clanking, and makes an announcement.

“Nicholas seems to have lost his overriding interest in TV. Why, yesterday he didn’t have the set on at all!” :eek:
We all gasp in astonishment.

“What does he do now?” asks Alice.
“He spends hours discussing things—just about every topic under the sun, and the sun itself as well, with the Hellmouth critters. I swear—the Morlocks and Godzilla are beginning to sound like William F. Buckley!”

A few of us laugh at this.
“He also asked me to have you send seed packets down there, to plant in the dirt along the banks of ‘Alph, the sacred river,’ as he calls it. [There is light filtering down into the cavern, by means none of us understands.] “And he’d like a couple of cookbooks.”

I know he already has a source of drinking water, and a stove; we hoped someone down there would use them, if Red couldn’t tear himself away from the TV long enough to do his own cooking. I guess he now wants to be an underground farmer.
We shrug.

Alice and I excuse ourselves. Leo says he may want to contact us; we nod. We go into a nearby dressing room, to read The Obscenity of Livers together.
The first chapter is rather boring; it’s a summary of high-level conspiracies throughout history, ending with the Russian Revolution. We start reading the second chapter, which is more absorbing and tells how various organizations—including a prototype for the DXM League—have been combating such conspiracies; the book also suggests that procedures used in the past are likely to be just as effective today.

We’ve spent two hours reading the book. We return it to Eloise and Mary; Mary stuffs it back into her huge Louis Vuitton purse. We’ll want to pick up our bowling balls, shoes, and gloves, and head for the House of Tracy, a few blocks away.
I’m surprised to see the aristocratic Lord and Lady Astorbilt (she appears fully recovered now from Quentin’s attack) with bowling equipment.

Before we leave, we take another look at the flier Harry Rudolph prepared. Its text and layout are like this:

[NDP]

UNIVERSITY OF __________ PRESENTS

_____ __, 2003 at 7:00 P.M. AT THE MORPHEUS THEATER

“EVENING BECOMES ECLECTIC”

An AIDS Benefit Concert

Featuring:

The Cigar BandThe Contralto QuartetLorna McManusand the newly reunified Prester John’s Aunt with Gwen Berryand introducing Doris Sharp’s Punk Bandand others

Tickets $15

The text and layout are in retro 60’s psychedelic lettering with vibrant pinks, greens, blues, and yellows that–in my view–mug the eyes.

“I think they could tone done the color a bit,” I comment to Alice as we walk out the front door and onto the sidewalk.

“How did Gwen Berry get billing but no one else in the group did?” Alice asks. “She’s only one part of it.”

“Maybe it’s because she was a solo act for awhile and more people are familiar with her by herself than as a part of Prester John’s Aunt,” I suggest.

“That might be true,” she replies, “but I don’t remember anybody saying anything about putting Gwen’s name out but not me or any of the others.”

“So, talk to Rudolph about it. That flier is just a draft anyway. It’s going to be changed.”

Alice sighs. “Yes, that’s true. I’d still like to know whose idea was it just to put Gwen’s name on it and not everyone else’s.”

At that moment, we walk across the parking lot up to House of Tracy Bowling. It’s an easy building to spot because it’s a gigantic cobalt blue bowling ball lit up with an animated neon sign above the door depicting a pin being knocked down. I open the door for Alice and then walk in behind her. We then proceed down the sloped floor and follow the thunderous noise of crashing pins to the lanes. However, as we do, we both notice…

[dougie_monty]

…an ambience that reminds us both of something we remember well, but not too favorably.
There’s a crosshatch pattern on the walls, which is generally white lines on dark blue; the pattern surrounds the ubiquitous panels from “Dick Tracy” that appear in the place. I try to remember where I saw such a pattern before—and remember the background on the nameplate of the treadle I stumbled on in Alice’s yard.

This puts me on guard. Very likely Lemoyne designed this layout, I tell Alice telepathically.
I see a plaque on a wall near the cashier’s station, where we’ll check in. It includes the line, “Erected A. D. 1948—Templeton-White Construction, Hayward, Calif.”

“Lemoyne didn’t build this bowling alley,” Alice points out.
We get up to the cashier’s counter and I see an overhead display of names of persons who bowled perfect games.

They include:

Vic Lemoyne 300 2-29-48
Vic Lemoyne 300 4-18-60
Dana Holbreigh 300 1-6-59

But we also see:

Paul Terwilliger 300 11-19-79
Gwen Berry 300 6-2-95
Don Clay 300 12-25-84
Alice Terwilliger 300 7-8-89
Alice Terwilliger 300 7-9-89

I embrace Alice. “You got perfect games back-to-back!”
I hear a jeer and notice the sharp-eyed Daniel nearby.

We check into the tournament. The cashier is an older man resembling Mr. Hoople from Sesame Street. (Or is that “Hooper”?) :rolleyes:
Alice asks him, “Do you remember Lemoyne and Holbreigh?”

“Yes, I do, Alice,” Dearborn says. (obviously he remembers Alice too.) “Lemoyne used to come in here regularly. But he ain’t been here since that perfect game in 1960. And Holbreigh mysteriously disappeared the day after his perfect game.”
Alice and I pause a moment. Then Dearborn assigns us a lane and gives us a tournament scoresheet.

We go down to the lanes and put on our bowling shoes and gloves. Our lane is No. 23.
We key in our names and information on the computerized scorepad, at the center seat behind the ball return for our lane. Alice unzips her hot-pink bowling bag and takes out a shiny, crystal-clear acrylic ball, with holes obviously drilled to accommodate her left hand. My ball is an ordinary, but slightly heavier, solid black one.

Suddenly all the lighting on the lanes goes out. Dearborn gets on the loudspeaker.
“The mixed part of the tournament will begin in 20 minutes. All bowling will stop until the totalizators are reset. I’ll come down to the lanes and sign your scoresheets. When the lights come back up the tournament will begin.”

We shrug. Alice and I sit together, arms linked. On one side of us is Lupe Guzman, the Sharps’ cook, with her brother Hector, the body-shop owner. On the other side are Dr. Laura Clouse and Fred Moreland. I also see, in nearby lanes, Mr. Galloway; Tim Werdin; Jeanette (in red jeans and a very tight sweater); Daniel and Hermione; Carol Woo, from the Chinese restaurant—and Gwen, Amy, and Lena.
“Well, I guess the gang’s all here,” I say. Other familiar people appear farther away.

Since we have a little time before the tournament starts, we order drinks. Alice gets a bottle of Guinness stout and I order a glass of sherry. (We know we’ll have to finish with the drinks before we pick up the balls.) We talk about what we’ve seen of the House of Tracy and its ambience.
“Who knows whether Lemoyne had anything to do with that wall pattern?” Alice asks. “I think the old Ohrbachs clothing store used that pattern too.”

“Maybe he paid for the refurbishing,” I suggest. “Of course, if he hasn’t actually been in the place in 40 years he may have pulled strings…”
Again we shrug.

“You noticed ‘Dana Holbreigh’—Walter Locke’s real name,” says Alice. “So he ‘mysteriously disappeared’ in 1959 after his perfect game, and he was killed in the bungled holdup at the Courier-Times.”
Harry Rudolph, in loud clothing including a garish Hawaiian shirt, comes down to a lane. Alice says, “Let’s ask him about Gwen’s featured billing on that flier.”

This is interrupted by a small dustup on the main walkway. Don Clay, in mufti, suddenly handcuffs a slender man with a dark ponytail, and turns him over to two uniformed cops, who quietly lead the man out.
Alice sends subtle telepathic messages to Harry Rudolph and to her sister-in-law Hermione. Officer Terwilliger wears a roomy, checkered blouse and dark blue slacks. She embraces Daniel (I make a gesture to him mocking the one he had made to Alice and me ), and then steps toward us.

Now Harry and Hermione are with us. The tournament will start in a few minutes. Dearborn, in fact, has begun walking down by the lanes signing scoresheets. He is at Lane No. 1. He’ll get to Alice and me in due time.
Alice asks Hermione what the handcuffing was about; and Harry Rudolph, about the wording on the first draft of the flier.

[NDP]

“Drunk and disorderly,” answers Hermione with regard to the handcuffing. “This guy in a rather advanced state of inebriation was running around the bowling alley bothering the patrons and shouting ‘Figments, figments!’ He then invaded the lanes and dared the bowlers to throw their balls at him since they’d go right through him. One of the alley attendants then tried to tackle him but he ran away only to be apprehended by Mr. Clay. Curious thing he yelled before he ran off the lanes though.”

“What was it?” I ask.

“Something about ‘we are the dreams stuff is made of’ or something like that,” she replies.

(That mangled Shakespeare quote again.)

“You get all kinds of tweaked people in this part of town,” comments Harry Rudolph. “Anyway, if you don’t mind changing the subject, what did you think of the fliers?”

We try to be diplomatic in our response.

“Well … they’re colorful,” Alice says. “They certainly leap out at you.”

“Good,” Harry responds, “that’s what I was going for.”

“Yes … but we think they may leap out at you a bit too aggressively,” I state.

“Do you want me to tone down the color a bit?” asks Harry, “because I don’t have a problem doing that if I have to.”

“Yes,” Alice says, “because some people (not necessarily me or ____) might find the fliers a little too garish. And, there’s another thing I want to ask about.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the wording on the flier. I noticed that Gwen Berry’s name is on it even though she’s performing as part of a group.”

“Yeah, Gwen told me to put her name on the fliers.”

"Gwen told you to do that?" repeats a suddenly peeved Alice.

“Well, not exactly Gwen herself,” Harry answers, “but her people did.”

“Gwen has ‘people’?”

“Well, not really her ‘people’ per se. More like her agent.”

“Gwen has an agent now?”

“I guess so judging from the phone calls, fax, and e-mail I got from him. Wasn’t anybody I knew though. Probably some rookie the agency’s just breaking in.”

“What agency does Gwen use?”

“A new one–they’re not even in the phone book yet. It’s called Orange J Talent.”

“Are you sure they’re legit?” Hermione inquires.

“They seem to be,” Harry says. “I called Gwen just to make sure and she said they now represent her and all everything has to go through them.”

“Did you get the name of actual agent?” I ask.

“Yeah, Gwen’s agent is Jay Orange,” Harry answers. “I haven’t talked to him personally though; just to his assistant, Jan–a real young sounding guy. I have one of their business cards at my office. I give you one later.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Alice states as Dearborn walks up to us to sign our scoresheets. He comments that…

[dougie_monty]

“This guy had a really fair complexion. I’ve contacted lots of agents in my time, but nobody really young like this. He seemed to have a slight Dutch accent.”
Jan Oranjeboom, Alice and I say to each other telepathically.

Well, this may be a mere indiscretion on Gwen’s part; but Pete and Loora’s second son Jan has a little too much chutzpah for his own good.

Alice quickly writes a note, which she hands to Mr. Galloway. He has just enough time, before Dearborn declares the tournament started, to acknowledge the note. Pete and Loora are nearby and Galloway gives them the note. Loora reads it and nods. (Hardly anyone else in our group under the age of 18 has entered the tournament. Claudia, 18, bowls with Susan and Jane Bradley, and Brian Brown, Louise’s 15-year-old son. The two seem really attracted to each other.)

Alice tells me, just before she steps up to bowl her first frame, that she’ll take the matter of Gwen’s billing up with Amy and Lena: early on, all the members of Prester John’s Aunt had agreed not to claim special billing. And she’ll also discuss it with Professor Fields (who has not entered, lest any of us sense he uses psychokinesis to gain an advantage in the competition).

I watch Alice bowl. She wears a white blouse and roomy jeans. She starts to drift slightly toward the left edge of the lane as she steps forward, but then snaps the ball quickly and rolls it straight at the “pocket” between pins 1 and 2. She gets a strike.
We high-five. I step up with my shiny black ball, and roll it down the lane. I get a spare—6 first ball, 4 second. Alice’s technique appears quite natural, as if she were born to bowl. My technique I had to learn from tutors, including my older brother Grant.

I notice impressive scores from those around us. Mr. Galloway gets four straight strikes in his first four frames; Lupe Guzman makes six straight spares, including two 7-10 splits. Every time she scores a spare—or a strike—she hollers some delighted exclamation in Spanish. After each split she exclaims, “¡Somos los sueños de quienes se hace materia!”

This makes me pause. I write what Lupe says down, and resolve to translate it into English—although I think I already know what she is saying.
Alice and Mr. Galloway continue to bowl strikes. We order 7-Up (me) and Evian water (Alice). After each strike or spare we high-five or kiss. Sometimes Lupe glances at us and smirks; a time or two she says to Hector, “Los amadores” (“lovers”).

This part of the tournament ends; we’ll continue tomorrow morning. Alice, Mr. Galloway, Amy, and Jane Bradley all score perfect games! I embrace Alice happily; Betty Galloway, who has not entered, hugs her husband; I see Joe Bradley do likewise with his wife Jane. Then Mike Brown, Louise’s eldest son, runs up and gives Amy Dolan a passionate kiss—to her surprise, since Amy is almost ten years older. Mike has always been a gentleman and here he is positively gallant—even ready to apologize to Amy if he startled her. His embrace of Amy gets a puzzled look from his mother, Louise, and jeers from his younger brothers Brian and Chuck.

A little later, we all leave; we go first to the Sharps’ mansion, to shower and put on fresh clothes and go to Sam Chu Lin’s. Carol Woo, who scored 208 in the first round, goes on hostess duty. We use a private dining room again.
The table Alice and I choose seats eight; The Cigar Band, along with Mr. Galloway and Professor Fields, who came directly from his college office, joins us.

Before we order, I confirm with Hector that the Spanish phrase his sister used, after making each split, translates into English as “We are the dreams stuff is made of.” Well, we’ll discuss this here and now!
Jeanette and her partners sit with us. They all scored reasonably well in the first round; she is satisfied. Here she wears a housedress much like one of June Cleaver’s, along with pearls.

Alice, Galloway, Fields and I take up two subjects, before the food is served: Lupe’s quote, albeit in Spanish; and Gwen’s proposed featured billing on the flier and on the program, which Mary Blonda has just finished. She sits nearby and hands me a penciled draft of it. Mr. Galloway urges Alice and me to be diplomatic, in any case, for the sake of the show (and Jan’s hide, since Pete and Loora will question him about it). Fields speaks first.

[dougie_monty]

Louise Brown’s eldest son is Arthur, not Mike… :o

[NDP]

“It’s certainly curious the way that quote keeps turning up,” he says.

“Did I tell you that weirdo Lt. Clay and Hermione apprehended at the bowling alley yelled the same thing?” I mention.

“No, I was unaware of that,” Fields states, “As if things couldn’t get even more odd…”

“Do you see any connection?” Alice asks as she sips a small cup of green tea.

“Not off-hand,” Fields answers. “It seems mostly coincidental so far. However, the next time you see Lupe, be sure to ask her what she meant when she said that.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” I tell him, “That was the first thing I thought of doing when I found out what that quote meant in English.”

“Well, it’s good to know we’re on the same wavelength,” Fields concludes. “Now, what about this business with Gwen’s billing?”

“Gwen has an agent,” Alice says to Fields, “Somebody named Jay Orange who, I think, has a lot in common with Pete and Loora’s son Jan.”

“Are you suggesting Jan Oranjeboom is trying to pass himself off as an agent?” Jeanette asks. “Isn’t he only 16?”

“Yes and yes,” Alice answers.

Our waiter brings the appetizers–egg rolls and cold BBQ pork slices–as we talk. Apparently overhearing a part of our conversation, the waiter mentions…

[dougie_monty]

“You mentioned Jan Oranjeboom. I don’t think he’s here.” The waiter is Mark Lum, the owner’s 18-year-old grandson.
“Well, he wasn’t in the tournament…you know him?” asks Alice.

“Sure I do,” says Mark. “My Dad is a coach at Jan’s high school.”
“Uh…look, Mark, can you and Ms. Woo meet us in the atrium after our meal? We’d like to take this up with you when you have more time.”

“Sure,” says Mark. “My shift ends in half an hour anyway.” He leaves, to serve at other tables.

I have known the Oranjebooms for years. Jan has a rather independent temperament; he likes to do things in his own way. I’m still puzzled about who conned whom when he and Gwen shared a bed in the Sharps’ mansion. I sense he is developing into a hustler type…

Mark Lum comes around again, serving water glasses along with chopsticks, Chinese mustard, and soy sauce. I say, “One quick question, Mark—do you know if Laurance Rudolph [Harry’s son] goes to Jan’s school?”

Mark chuckles. “Oh, yes. Laurance graduated from that school last year. He and Jan and I were in several classes. Laurance and Jan still play Pop Warner football, and soccer, and chess.” Then Mark continues serving.
Alice says, “Well, Jan sure had plenty of opportunity to learn hustling from Harry’s son Laurance!”

Now I see Loora go over to the table where Gwen is sitting, with Amy, Lena, Andrew and Joanie Sharp, and Dr. Clouse. Loora questions Gwen briefly. As Alice and I observe, Loora shows Gwen Mr. Galloway’s note. Gwen has a blank look, and appears baffled, and (Alice and I turn our ESP on now) insists emphatically to Loora that she knows nothing at all about her “agent” or the featured billing.

“Unless she is a first-rate actress like Bette Davis or Elizabeth Taylor or Glenn Close, Gwen is telling the truth,” Alice comments. I note that Amy and Lena, who obviously saw the papers Loora had, are just as puzzled as Gwen appears to be. Loora returns to the table where Pete is, and starts to nibble on an egg roll; Gwen and all the others at her table start talking in a lively manner about Loora’s news.

We order our main courses from Mark. Alice chooses pressed duck; I decide on pepper steak. The others at our table order similar dishes.
I look around the tables and notice a few things.

Artie Brown, who had embraced Amy after her perfect game, sits at another table, but facing Amy. She happens to turn to face him, and now he blushes deeply.
Katrina Oranjeboom is really starting to blossom out physically, although like Bobby Blonda, her boyfriend, she is only 12. They sit side by side and clasp hands a few times like Alice and I do. Maria and George seem quite happy to sit side by side too.

I sit to Alice’s right. The left-handed Phil Ramírez sits to Alice’s left.
Jeanette now tells me, with a chuckle, “We almost started late. Phil forgot his own ball and went searching frantically in the racks for another left-handed one.”

Now I notice that Lupe and Hector, who sit at a table behind Alice and me, turn and say something in Spanish to Phil. He laughs. Before Alice thinks to ask him what they said, Carol Woo, who has come into the dining room for another reason, speaks to Lupe in Spanish. She laughs at Lupe’s answer. I remember that Laura Clouse and Carol Woo were in the Spanish club at Rio Hondo High; Lupe was in the club at the same school years later. Obviously, Ms. Woo has learned Spanish very well.

The meal is over. As usual, Jack Sharp pays the whole tab—no huge orders from Daniel this time. Alice, Mr. Galloway, Fields, Pete, Loora, Lupe, Carol Woo, and Mark Lum (the last two have just clocked off) and I, prepare to meet in an anteroom off the main entrance. Alice calls Gwen over.

We get there. Apparently Loora called Jan on her cell phone to come over. He comes in when I’m standing near the door. (Incidentally, Salbert, Leo, and Jock are on guard duty at the Morpheus.) He sees our group—and I glance toward the others to see Pete and Loora facing him, with a serious look in their eyes that tells Jan he has some explaining to do. Loora has Mr. Galloway’s note and the draft of the flier. We’re ready to discuss Gwen’s billing (and Lupe’s exclamation) in the anteroom.

“Come to de anteroom, Jan,” says Loora in the thick Dutch accent she uses when she is agitated. “Ve vant to talk to you.”

[NDP]

When we get to room, Jan apprehensively approaches his parents and asks, “What do you want to see me about?”

“Jan, we were wondering if you have a summer job already lined up,” Pete states not trying to reveal any type of accusatory tone.

“Yes, I do,” Jan replies, “In fact, I’ve already started working. I was going to tell you about it sooner but I got too busy.”

“Vaht kind of a job is it?” Loora inquires.

“Oh, it’s an office job,” Jan answers, “a nice air conditioned office. Much better than flipping burgers in a hot greasy fast-food kitchen, mowing lawns in the sweltering heat, or some other type of grimy job.”

“That sounds good,” Peter comments. “What exactly do you do?”

“Oh … typical office stuff,” Jan evasively explains, “You know … answering phones, … running errands, … sending faxes and e-mails–that sort of thing.”

“I figured that’s what you did,” Peter says, “but what kind of business is it?”

“Oh … uh … entertainment,” Jan, who’s getting visibly uncomfortable, answers. “It’s a new talent agency that represents some local acts.”

“Interesting,” comments Peter, “What’s this agency’s name and how many acts do they represent?”

“It’s … uh … called Orange J Talent,” Jan stammers, “and I don’t know the exact number of acts they represent. I mean they’re still pretty new so I don’t think it would be that many–so far.”

“Who’s your boss?” Loora inquires.

“Guy named Jay Orange,” Jan, who has composed himelf somewhat, answers. “He looks pretty young but he’s a real pro.”

“Jay Orange?” Peter repeats. “That’s not his real name is it?”

“I don’t think so,” Jan replies. “He probably shortened it from something else.”

“Like Oranjeboom?” Loora knowingly inquires.

“Hey, could be,” Jan states with mock flippancy. “Say, I’m kind of in the middle of something so how much longer do I have to stay here.”

“Not much longer,” Peter says. “We just have a few more things to ask you. Like, for example, does Orange J Talent represent Gwen Berry?”

Jan gulps and his face turns beet red. I can tell he knows we’re on to him.

“Uh … yes, we do represent Gwen,” Jan admits. “She’s reviving her music career and needs a good agent to protect her from all the sharks in the industry.”

“And Jay Orange is good?” Loora inquires.

“He’d die to prevent anyone from trying to screw her over,” Jan exclaims.

“Has any of your work involved Gwen?” Peter asks.

“Yes, I’ve done a few things,” Jan answers.

“Jan, we have a flier here for the upcoming AIDS benefit concert at the Morpheus,” Loora states as she hands the loudly colored sheet of paper to him. “We noticed Gwen has special billing. Did your ‘boss’ have something to do with that?”

Jan quickly glances at the flier and hands it back to Loora.

“Mr. Orange might have,” he says. “Gwen’s a special talent and he thinks more people will show up if they know she’s performing.”

“He does realize Gwen’s part of a group–not solo?” Loora says. “Why can’t the other women in Prester John’s Aunt also get billing? Do you think ‘Mr. Orange’ could talk to them about it?”

“He could,” Jan snaps, “but he’s much too busy right now. Starting a new agency takes up a lot of time.”

“You know, Jay Orange sounds like an interesting guy,” Peter states. “I’d like to meet him myself. We could be related.”

“You could be,” Jan answers. “Look, I really have to go now. Maybe you should talk to Gwen about this.”

“Just one more thing,” Peter states, "We were wondering…