Surreal continuing story: walking through doors and passageways

[NDP]

They’re all dressed in crimson blouses, green and red tartan skirts that end just below the knee, red stockings, and black pumps.

“Is this a bridal shower or an all-girl production of Braveheart?” Daniel comments.

“It was my idea,” Jeanette says. “I thought the theme would be fun.”

“What is it?” Daniel says. “‘If it’s not Scottish, IT’S CRAP!’”

“Are you going to be serving scotch?” I inquire. “I hope the theme doesn’t include serving haggis.”

“Well, because Gwen will be there, I was thinking of preparing vegan haggis,” Eloise says.

“Vegan haggis,” Daniel shudders.

It then occurs to me to give Alice the envelope with the Sanskrit parchements inside. I explain what Fred, Joan, and I found inside and ask how good she is reading Sanskirit.

“It’s not one of my better languages,” she says as she pulls out the parchments, “but I can do it.”

Alice studies the parchments for a moment and says, "I think this one says…

[dougie_monty]

“‘Nikolaos [Alice pronounces it a syllable at a time here] is the all-powerful mediator between Man and God.’” We all pause.
“‘Nikolaos is the source of enlightenment… he has shown mankind the path out of the darkness…” :eek:

She continues for a while. So far it sounds like an arrogant variation on the doctrines of the New Testament, with Red “Nikolaos” substituted for Jesus Christ.
Alice senses this, too. She hesitates. She skips to the end of the first manuscript, whose final paragraph reads:

“It is hoped that the reader will make a proper appraisal of this text and understand the place of Richard Nikolaos in the development of recent history. He is neither blasphemous devil nor pure saint. The proper understanding of this text may only be reached through the reading of Text II, which will be completed at a later date. Pradeep Thakkar, January 1, 1888.”

We are more mystified than ever.
“I’ll do a thorough translation of the manuscripts tomorrow, before the finals of the mixed tournament,” says Alice.

She looks at the other one. She scans the first few paragraphs and decides that it is identical to the text she’s been decoding from the Sequel book—the one using the Baconian Cipher.
“The date on the second manuscript is at the start, not at the end like on the first one,” Alice says. “The date is July 1, 1915, when Nicholas was firmly ensconced back in the Morpheus.”

“Well, it couldn’t be Thakkar who wrote it, obviously,” I comment. “According to our sources, he died in 1903.”
“Besides,” adds Alice, “We know that William Astorbilt composed the Sequel volume; this would seem to be his work too.”

“Certainly—he did know Sanskrit,” says Jack Sharp. “He even taught it in college for a while. If memory serves me, the college was Balliol, at Oxford.”
“Balliol,” says Lorna. I sense something proud welling up inside her and inside Alice’s sisters-in-law—and in Dr. Clouse as well.

Laura says, “I was premed at Balliol on an exchange program. In fact I took two semesters of Sanskrit there—taught by Zacharias Astorbilt.”
“He must be related to the Lord Astorbilt we know,” I say.

“He is,” says Jack Sharp. “He’s the younger brother of the current Lord Astorbilt.”
“Well, we have a better understanding of this data now,” says Alice, standing with her free arm around me. “I’ll prepare thorough translations of these manuscripts, starting tomorrow.”

Alice and I embrace. Ditto with the husbands and their wives, and the other men and their women friends. I notice a strong affection between Lloyd Werdin and Harriet McKenna.
I say, “Well, now all you women have left to do is the Highland Fling.” The women say nothing but their expressions tell me they aren’t interested. Especially Alice. :rolleyes:

Lupe pauses just before returning to the kitchen; she says, “¡Ay, las escocesas!” (“The Scotswomen!”)
This gets an amused reaction from the mostly-English Alice; Dr. Clouse, who is German; Germaine, of Russian Jewish ancestry; and Bonnie Wyman, whose parentage is mostly Scandinavian. And Latonya Moreland—Fred’s daughter—tries her level best to keep from busting up laughing, but she can’t help it.

We men leave. The men’s tournament final at the House of Tracy is uneventful. The winner in the men’s division is Hector Guzman, with a total score of 596. Andy Sharp and George Galloway tie for second at 589. Daniel takes third place at 580. My colorful ball gets some choice comments; I ignore them. (My total score is 477.) The juniors’ tournament, which includes all members of our group under the age of 21, will take place later on; this includes half of Eloise’s kids, Claudia Hart, and all the other married couples’ kids except for the 23-year-old Cornelis Oranjeboom.

Back at the mansion, with the shower still going on, I retrieve the manuscript from Alice that was among the items Vickie Sanders presented me with in the Starbuck’s. (The packages included the keys and the paperwork for the Lexus, and the little gold ingot.) I find a comfortable overstuffed chair in the library to read it. Buster saunters in and jumps onto the table next to the chair, and lies there contentedly.

I start to read the typewritten manuscript Alice composed for me. I keep having to wipe away happy tears. Oh, that dear woman Alice…

[NDP]

it almost seems all too perfect.

“What are you reading?” Buster asks. “Must be a real tear-jerker.”

“Oh, I’m just reading Alice’s translation,” I reply as I wipe away the tears from my eyes and quietly blow my nose. “I’m just at a part where it discusses the Hindu god Brahma and how, according to one myth, he creates the universe by ‘dreaming’ it into existence while meditating during the day and then reabsorbs it at night.”

“Yeah, I remember hearing about that once,” the cat replies. “I think there was something about how one of Brahma’s days and nights lasts the equivalent of over eight billion human years.”

“Over 8.6 billion,” I inform him.

“Right, I knew it was a lot,” Buster says. “I just wish I could remember where I heard that. Probably some show on PBS about mythology.”

Fred enters the room. He says to us…

[dougie_monty]

“Bob Long called. He said several of the people we’ve suspected, have not only confessed, but have turned state’s evidence.”
“That’s happened a lot lately,” says Buster.

“Well, there’s a new wrinkle. All of these confessors have implicated one or more of the original five operatives of Sikes-Potter. It would appear that their operation was deliberately ‘spread out’ so as to catch Alice and you unawares.”
“In other words, even though the five minions are dead or in jail, they could still cause discomfiture for us.”

“Precisely,” says Fred.
“So all the people who have made trouble for us since Lady Calley was taken into custody, are accounted for?”

“Well—no,” Fred answers. “For one thing, although The Cigar Band’s local roadies were arrested after Leo helped us locate evidence, only Reid Foraker has confessed and revealed evidence.”
“What about Donoho?” asks Buster.

“He’s apparently comatose,” says Fred. “He and Foraker were duly arrested and Mirandized. Twelve hours later, in a holding cell, Donoho passed out in front of Foraker. He’s at Kaiser Permanente, in the jail ward. He isn’t ill or injured; he just hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“I’d sure like to know when they had a chance to sabotage that plank that broke,” I say.

“Well, Bob Long inspected the planks. While the break was fresh, the cut marks were not—they’d been made sometime before. It’s likely that Foraker and Donoho did it when they were working up in the lighting grid six weeks ago.”
“I sure hope Jack and Eloise have had the overhead area thoroughly inspected,” I comment.

“Well, Stan and Joe have checked it out periodically—especially after that temblor we had. The planks were in storage in the wings—Daniel must not have inspected them before he started working up there.”
“Any other news?” asks Buster.

“Yes, there is. The League has made a temporary appointment to replace the suspended Arty Morty as a senior administrator.”
“Whom did they appoint?” I ask.

“Samantha Hoffmann.”
I smile. “Well, that’s good to know. I’m happy for her!”

I think I’ve read enough of Alice’s manuscript for now. Fred and I leave the library and walk to the Green Room, with Buster scurrying along. The bridal shower is over and only a few of the women remain. When we enter the Green Room, Alice and Latonya approach us. Alice embraces me; Latonya hugs her father.
She says, “Oh, Daddy, Lorna got such wonderful gifts. Ms. Terwilliger and her friends are so nice…”

Alice and Latonya certainly look attractive in the outfits Jeanette got for them. I know, of course, the skirts bear the McManus tartan and neither Alice nor Latonya has any claim to it.
We approach Lorna, her face streaked with tears. She chats with Jeanette, Dr. Clouse, Eloise, and, surprisingly, Grace Tolliver.

Alice, Fred, Latonya and I join in the conversation.
Fred repeats to Alice what he had told me in the library. She comments appropriately. Buster leaps up onto Lorna’s lap and purrs.

After a while, most of the women who’d been at the bridal shower gather to return, en masse, to the House of Tracy, for the women’s finals. All now wear clothes more appropriate for bowling. (Lorna is in the tournament, and she properly wears a blouse with her tartan pattern, along with dark-blue slacks.)

The group includes Eloise and her adult daughters, Brenda, Doris, Frannie, and Helen. Eloise and her girls all wear identical tan blouses and faded blue jeans and most of us can’t tell them apart; the only easy distinction is that Eloise’s eyes are steel-gray while her daughters all have blue eyes. Jeanette Strong and Joanie Sharp, Andy’s wife, both wear red jeans and white blouses—but there the similarity ends. Samantha is not in the group; she has had to meet with Parker and Breastly.

The caravan of vehicles, including Eloise’s big van, Alice’s talking Beetle, and my Lexus, parks at the House of Tracy. Our big group goes into the building; no “rave” this time. A bunch of soused older men, seeing Alice, Jeanette, Jane, and Mary, holler at them, calling them “bimboes,” “babes,” and “boobsies.” :mad: Jeanette is the only one to react openly; in her powerful contralto voice, she snarls back at the tipsy chauvinists:

[NDP]

“There’s nothing more appealing to a woman than a man who’s stupid, drunk, loud, … and impotent.”

The mention of the word “impotent” apparently hit close to home with some of the men and they clam up immediately. The others feebly try to put together witty retorts, but are in such a drunken stupor that all comes out is some incoherent slurring.

“You really didn’t have to respond to them,” Alice says to Jeanette. “They aren’t worth it.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I hear Jeanette agree, “and my reply wasn’t that good. I’ll probably think the perfect squelch just before I fall asleep tonight.”

Unfortunately, one of the drunks–a 6’ pot-bellied guy with mullet and a receding hairline–isn’t quite done yet. He staggers up to Alice and slurs: “Heyyyyy pretty lady. You’re English aren’t ya?”

“Yes, last I checked,” Alice answers with a polite but uncomfortable smile.

“And you’re a movie star too aren’t ya?” he asks.

“No, I’m not an actress,” Alice says firmly (but still smiling).

“Yes, you are!” the drunk insists. “I saw ya on TV last night in some damned Shakespeare movie or somethin’. But, damn, you were hot.”

“Look, you have me confused with someone else,” she states with an annoyed tone. “My name is Alice and I’m a grad student at the university.”

“Yeah right,” he sarcastically answers while reeling around in front of her. “I don’t believe that fake identity shit you’re pulling. I know who you really are.”

“I really am Alice!” she says angrily. “Now, could you please leave me alone!”

The drunk is unconvinced by Alice’s claim and undeterred by her plea. He steps toward her and puts his right hand on his shoulder. He then moves his face close to Alice’s and opens his mouth wide in a inebriated attempt to French kiss her. When I see this, I rush to her defense. However, just as I’m ready to toss this bozo down the closest lane, Alice grabs the drunk’s right arm, pins it behind his back, and forces him down on his knees.

“Are you going to leave me alone?” she calmly asks the drunk as he grimaces in pain. “Or do you want to learn how to use your left arm?”

“Please don’t do anything,” the guy whimpers. “Not in front of my friends.”

“Jeanette, get security over here,” Alice requests.

The security people are quickly on the scene and take custody of the drunk who’s relieved to be out of Alice’s grasp. I walk over to Alice and say…

[dougie_monty]

“Good show, honey. I guess this guy was bothering you…”
“He was,” says Alice. “But he isn’t going to cause us any more trouble. Isn’t that right, Mister?”

I’m not in the line of sight but I’m sure Alice is looking this bozo right in the eye. The guards have a hammerlock on him now.
“Yes—er, no—ah, no, I won’t bother you anymore!”

He looks first at Alice, then at me, just before the guards hustle him away. While he’s six feet tall, I’m six-two. I use ESP and manage to pick up a thought emerging in this man’s sozzled brain: If this little woman can do this to me, what would her husky boyfriend do?
One of the security guards is a tall slender man whose name tag reads “W. Smith.”

Alice says calmly, “I didn’t hurt you now, did I?”
“No, you didn’t,” the drunk says innocently.

Smith and his partner, a compact and powerfully-built young black woman, lead the tosspot away. While he was standing near us, however, I noticed the name “Gilbert” in a faded metal tag on his baseball cap, and his tattoos: a big butterfly on one arm, and the name “Gloria” in script on the other, obviously done by a skilled tattoo artist. There are other tattoos.
In the distance I see an old Ford station wagon park; a thin, small, older woman with light brown hair gets out. Smith and his partner, escorting the drunk away, are now some distance from us; the woman approaches them, and the drunk hangs his head. The guards now lead the man away and the weary-looking woman goes into the House of Tracy herself.

I see the remaining drunks sitting together, still outside, just as Alice and I go through the doors. They avoid the woman, and actually seem afraid of her.
Now Alice and the other women take their places at the lanes. Alice is paired with Lorna again; they constantly talk about the bridal shower, the upcoming ceremony, the performance—and the silver ingot.

Lorna saw the confrontation between Alice and “Gilbert,” and comments that he seemed to have a tattoo that resembled a swatch of the McManus tartan. Alice nods and shrugs.
Sharing Lanes 23 and 24 with Alice and Lorna, are Jeanette and Jane. On one side I see Dr. Clouse, Grace, Lupe, and Joanie Werdin Sharp; on the other side are Eloise’s eldest daughters, Brenda, Doris, Frannie, and Helen. I now notice that they have their names embroidered on the front of their tan blouses; the name “The Sharps” is embroidered on the back. Without the names on their blouses, the young women are very much identical.

Gene announces that the final part of the women’s division has begun. I call a waitress over and order a glass of sherry, and sip furtively as I watch Alice and the others.
The other men we know arrive and sit near me: Bob Blonda, Pete Oranjeboom, Joe Bradley, Jack Sharp, Stan Brown, George Galloway, Andy Sharp. The unmarried men arrive as well.

A few of them order beers, but mostly they concentrate on watching their wives or girlfriends. Mr. Galloway, Pete, Andy, and Johnny Goss sit at my table.
The thin, small woman sits a short distance away. She sips a bottle of Evian and smokes a cigarette: Gene had designated a smoking area in the establishment. The woman hasn’t evinced particular interest in the tournament, but just sits there mulling over the incident outside with “Gilbert.”

Now a younger woman, wearing an old purple dress, approaches. She has a physique similar to Jeanette’s; she wears a brooch reading “Natalie.”
She steps up to me and asks, “Have you seen Will?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I answer, ”I don’t know the name.”
“He’s a guard here,” she says. “He’s 6’3” and slim. I understand he collared someone a little while ago.”

“Yes,” I say, “and they were outside. Ask Gene Dearborn.” She thanks me and walks over to the counter.
“Did you see what happened outside, with a bunch of drunks?” asks Johnny, puffing on a cigar. “I bet Jeanette had something to do with it.”

“She sure did,” I say. I tell the guys what happened:

[NDP]

“Some drunks were harassing the girls as they came in. Jeanette cracked back on them by saying they were all impotent. We thought that was the end of it but then one of them–some mullet-headed putz named Gilbert–started hitting on Alice. She, of course, tells him to back off but he instead tries to put his tongue down her throat. Next thing we know, he’s on his knees and Alice has got his right arm pinned behind his back. From there, security took over.”

“Wow,” comments Johnny, “remind me never to get on Alice’s bad side.”

“I’ve seen her do worse damage,” I tell him referring to the John McGowan incident.

At that moment, the thin, small, older woman approaches.

“Excuse me,” she says to me, “but I couldn’t help but overhear that you witnessed the whole encounter between the petite English girl and Mr. Gilbert?”

“Yes, I did,” I answer.

“Well, let me first introduce myself,” the woman says as she holds out her hand to shake mine. “My name is Ruth Newport. I’m the probation officer for Shane Gilbert–the man who was just taken away by security.”

“So this guy has a record?” I inquire.

“Oh yeah,” Newport wearily growls in exasperation, “selling stolen property, bouncing checks, a count of second degree assault, bunch of drug offenses, DUI’s–a real all-around loser.”

“And I take it this last little episode with Alice is going delay his eventual rehabilitation into a viable member of society?” I comment.

“Pretty much,” she says with a sigh. “Anyway, I need to talk with the other people who saw what happened. I gotta write a report on this.”

“Well, let me take you over to them,” I say.

We walk over to lanes 23 and 24 where the woman are now taking a short break. I introduce Ruth Newport to Alice who comments…

[dougie_monty]

“I agree, Ms. Newport, Gilbert is a real loser. Perhaps he might not behave that way if he didn’t drink; his breath reeked when he tried to ‘soul kiss’ me.”
Now Jeanette has been attracted by the conversation. She stands up. First Ms. Newport is awed by the stately figure turning to face her and then she says—“Jeanette?”

Ms. Strong says, “Ruth—Ruth Thomen?” It’s a small world!”
They embrace in the manner of old friends.

“Ruth and I grew up together in Stamford,” Jeanette explains. “She joined the Army when I started attending Juillard in New York.”
Ruth also says she married a Pinkerton detective named Dave Newport.

“I’m ________,” I say. “I was dating Jeanette when she first came to California. Now I’m keeping company with Ms. Terwilliger here.” Alice and I embrace.
We get back on track. Ruth asks, “What all did you see, Jeanette?”

The stately platinum blonde says, “Alice, ______, and I, and a few others, were just about to come inside and a bunch of rummies approached us. They called us ‘bimboes’ and ‘babes’ and ‘boobsies.’ That’s when the scumbag with ‘Gilbert’ on his cap stepped in front of Alice and insisted he’d seen her on TV. And he put one arm on her shoulder and tried to push his tongue into her mouth. So she got a hammerlock on his right arm and made him kneel.”

Ruth nods. “You’re not the first person to do that to him, Ms. Terwilliger. With all the stuff on his rapsheet, Shaun has a knack for provoking bystanders to deal with him themselves. Of course, we in the probation department would prefer that they did not interfere.” Jeanette, Alice, and I nod.

I’m curious. “Can you give me some examples?” I ask.
“Oh, yes… once he attempted a burglary—in the home of a semipro football linebacker. Who owned a pit bull!” :eek:

Jeanette, Alice, and I chortle.
“One of the NSF checks he wrote, was made out to a men’s clothing store. The owner happened to be the son of the local District Attorney!”

Now Ruth takes out a notebook.
“Who saw the incident besides you, Ms. Terwilliger, and Ms. Strong?”

Alice points out Jane Bradley, Dr. Clouse, Lorna, and Eloise. I point out Andy Sharp.
Ruth takes down names and phone numbers.

“I’ll want to get in touch with you later, to get full statements,” she says. Eloise gives Ruth the phone number for the Morpheus (Jack’s office); and her home phone number at the mansion.
“Are any of you involved in the tournament after today?” she asks us.

“Well, the junior tournament is tomorrow morning, and the mixed finals are in the afternoon,” says Alice.
“Well, ask all the people who saw the incident to meet me in the Sparkle Plenty Room [the bar] after the afternoon tourney ends. I’ll be in touch. I’ll get back to you, Jeanette.”

We wave goodbye and Ms. Newport leaves.
We’re all still shaking our heads over this. The women’s tongues are wagging as they return to the lanes and resume the tournament.

Mr. Galloway asks me, “Does that woman know Jeanette?”
“She does,” I say. “They grew up in Connecticut.”

I turn to Andy. “Oh—Ms. Newport gave me her card—she wants to talk to you about what you saw when that drunk approached Alice.”
“Sure,” says Andy; he takes the card. “The Sparkle Plenty Room…” (Ruth had written that on her card.)

I watch the tourney again but I’m getting a telepathic signal:
We Hellmouth creatures have been watching the people who distributed the silver envelopes for you—and delivered the flounder. We even managed to get photographs—long story. You may want to notify Fred Moreland and James Parker. Ask Parker to contact Ruth Newport about Gilbert, too. We have no news about Nicholas or the Morpheus. This is Al the Alien.

Thanks, Al, I reply telepathically.
I resume watching Alice get strike after strike. She, Lorna, Lupe, and Frannie Sharp in particular are in great form.

Now Mr. Galloway, who senses such things, asks me what’s on my mind. He has apparently guessed that Al just contacted me…

[NDP]

“Alien Al and the gang have some photos of the people who are behind the flounder the silver envelopes,” I tell him. “They want us to contact Fred and Parker about it.”

“Let’s get the ball rolling,” Mr. Galloways says as he pulls his cell phone out of this coat pocket.

“Oh, Al also wants us to tell Parker to contact Ruth Newport about Shane Gilbert,” I add. “I guess somehow that low-level felon is mixed up in League business somehow.”

In order to better hear the phone conversation, we walk up the long passage to the House of Tracy’s exit. When the crashing of pins becomes a dull rumble, Mr. Galloway dials Fred’s number on his cell. It’s quickly answered on the other end of the line and Mr. Galloway puts it on speaker so I can also hear him talk. We inform Fred about what Al told me and, to our surprise, he tells us…

[NDP]

“Alien Al and the gang have some photos of the people who are behind the flounder the silver envelopes,” I tell him. “They want us to contact Fred and Parker about it.”

“Let’s get the ball rolling,” Mr. Galloways says as he pulls his cell phone out of this coat pocket.

“Oh, Al also wants us to tell Parker to contact Ruth Newport about Shane Gilbert,” I add. “I guess that low-level felon is mixed up in League business somehow.”

In order to better hear the phone conversation, we walk up the long passage to the House of Tracy’s exit. When the crashing of pins becomes a dull rumble, Mr. Galloway dials Fred’s number on his cell. It’s quickly answered on the other end of the line and Mr. Galloway puts it on speaker so I can also hear him talk. We inform Fred about what Al told me and, to our surprise, he tells us…

[dougie_monty]

“I’m way ahead of you. The Alien sent Salbert the same message, because he didn’t know whether he could get through to you with all that noise in the bowling alley.”
“So who delivered those envelopes?” asks Galloway.

“Dennis Walsh, according to Al the Alien,” says Fred. “Walsh also dropped that flounder into the library chimney—he sneaked up on the roof and lifted the spark arrestor off. Bob McMillan put another arrestor on there, and took the old one down for Hermione to fingerprint. Walsh’s fingerprints were the only ones on the spark arrestor—and on the herring jar [along with Luis Vasquez’ fingerprints, and those of Brent Donoho, of course]”

“So Walsh is behind all this,” I suggest. :rolleyes:
“Not quite,” replies Fred. “The aliens got pictures of Walsh, Foraker, and Pula Kinlai. [Him again!] They somehow caused passersby with cameras to photograph Walsh and the others, and managed to cause copies of the prints to be made. I know that sounds far-fetched, but that’s what Al told me happened.”

“How did Kinlai get out of custody?”
“He was bailed out by Letitia Frazier. He has recovered from his injuries.”

“That figures.”
“But when she was taken into custody, Kinlai was rearrested—some outstanding charges were pressed against Pula, and there was no Newsome or Gingerich or Thallwood to bail Pula out again. Now he and Ms. Frazier are facing charges of conspiracy and soliciting the commission of a crime. Stalking and harassment.”

“Where are they?” asks Mr. Galloway.
“They’ve been sent to detention facilities near Bakersfield. And the Hellmouth critters are keeping track of them.”

“Thanks, Fred,” says Galloway.
“Oh—George, how’s the women’s tournament going?”
“Alice, Lorna, Frannie, and Lupe are in great form.”

“All right, George, ______; I’ll see you back here when the tourney is over.” Fred signs off.
We return to the lanes. I sip my sherry; Galloway gets a bottle of Budweiser.

Well, the women’s tournament ends. And what a finish it is! Alice, Lupe, and Lorna finish in a triple tie for first place! The next highest scorer is Frannie Sharp. She and her sisters—and their mother—look so much alike…
Alice, Lorna, and Lupe approach the counter. Gene asks, “Do you want to be co-champions or would you like to play a tie-breaker?”

“No thanks,” says Alice.
“Co-champions is fine with us,” says Lorna.
“It suits me fine as well,” says Lupe.

So Gene, who does the engraving on the trophies right there behind the counter, issues three First Prize awards—money, a trophy, and some minor perks—to each of the three women. He gives the runner-up prize to Frannie Sharp. The other bowlers cheer and applaud.

I stand with Alice and embrace her happily. Frannie photographs us. Jock, who has just come off duty, appears, and apologizes to Lorna for not being able to attend the tournament. They embrace. Frannie photographs them too. “For your album,” she says.
Frannie herself now embraces Gene Dearborn, and Alice takes the picture. “This is for your album, Frannie,” she says.

We all return to the Sharps’ mansion for a midday celebration, in the big dining room.
I notice George Sharp helping Lupe and Armand, and others, with various tasks. Alice notes this too. “He must be trying to make up for what he has done that was amiss,” she tells me.

After we’ve all sat down, Jack Sharp stands on a stepstool in the center of the room and calls for attention. He mentions four matters of unfinished business:

1. The contact—through Leo, of course—with William Astorbilt and Pradeep Thakkar, concerning Nicholas’ time in Jubbulpore, India.
2. Sylvia Goldstein’s professional critique, which she herself will deliver shortly, from the dais.
3. More detail on what Al the Alien and the other critters found out about Walsh and the others.
4. Dr. Clouse’s diagnosis and recommendations concerning Nicholas.

We also know we’ll want to prepare the kids for the junior tourney tomorrow morning, and prepare ourselves for the mixed finals tomorrow afternoon, and have the meeting in the Sparkle Plenty Room with Probation Officer Ruth Newport after the tourney. Jack and Eloise sit with Alice, Jeanette, and me, to discuss this issue, as well as the contrite attitude of their son George.

[NDP]

“Red’s certainly making an impression on him,” I comment.

“Yes,” agrees Eloise, “and George and I are pretty worried about his influence.”

“It’s not that we necessarily believe Red is some kind of poweful evil force,” Jack says, “although the thought has crossed our mind a few times since we first found him in the Morpheus sub-basement.”

“I have noticed that whenever George and Red get together, something weird happens,” Alice mentions. “Granted, it’s been nothing really evil but you can’t help but feel a little disturbed.”

“That’s true,” Eloise states. “In fact, I really don’t know what to think of Red Nicholas. Up close, he certainly seems charming and his TV obsession seem to have rendered harmless…”

“But then you have his ‘joint projects’ with George, his pranks, and his notorious history,” adds Jack. “I guess I would characterize my feeling toward Red Nicholas as that of rampaging ambivalence.”

“That sounds about right,” Eloise comments. “Still, we do have to keep George away from Red somehow.”

“I think I have an idea,” Alice suggests.

“What is it?” Jack asks.

"Well, I think…

[dougie_monty]

“I could draw a parallel between Red Nicholas and George on one hand, and the plant kingdom on the other.”
“Make it a little plainer,” says Eloise.

“Well, when Mum first showed me how to plant things in the back yard—I was six then—she showed me two plants she would never put close to each other: fennel and wormwood. Plants don’t have noses, of course, but these two repelled each other, because of a scent wormwood gives off.”
“So you’d like to try attaching a scent to Red that would put George off,” suggests Jack.

“Sure,” says Alice, with a snicker. “And we know about vampires and garlic…”
The rest of us laugh, but we think there is actually something to this idea…
Jeanette, whose breasts wobble like Jell-O when she laughs, now asks Eloise, “What kind of scents repel George?”

“Well, he can’t stand the scent of Pine-Sol®,” says Eloise. “Fifi washed the upstairs bathrooms floors with Pine-Sol® and George shrieked with disgust. He ran downstairs to use a bathroom off the foyer.”
“He also hates the smell of cooking Polish cabbage rolls,” says Jack. “Armand prepared some of them about a year ago, and George got up from the table, saying he’d rather starve than eat them!”

“Oh—and I almost forgot,” says Eloise. Ben-Gay®. I tried using that on him when he was about ten, and he had a sore leg. He whined for hours about that!”
“So would I,” I say. “And I remember when I was doing cleaning at home, and my Mom would kvetch about me using Pine-Sol®.”

“Well, we have a few things to try. The trick now is getting Nicholas to wear such a scent on a regular basis, to keep George away,” says Alice.
“Who wants to bell the cat?” comments Jeanette.

“Well, let’s find out first what scents that George hates, don’t bother Red Nicholas,” Jack says. “Dr. Clouse will have her diagnosis ready soon, and she can give us necessary information then.”
“We can ask the Hellmouth critters too, using telepathy. So far as I know, George doesn’t have the power of telepathy,” I suggest.

Now Bob Long comes in.
“Dennis Walsh is in the jail ward at Lodi General,” he says.

This sets off some murmuring.
“What happened?” Eloise asks.

“Nothing really out of the ordinary. Walsh was out on bail, and he started speeding across town—in a stolen car. He hot-wired a 1988 Rabbit in a bar parking lot, and headed east on Highway 74 about 80 mph.”
“Where was he going?” asks Alice, who has her arms around me.

“We don’t know,” says Bob. “But a big rig sideswiped the Rabbit at an intersection. The Rabbit smacked into a lamppost. The big-rig driver got out—he was unhurt and his truck did not suffer serious damage either—and he went over and beat the stuffing out of Walsh. Broken jaw, teeth knocked out, sprains…”
“Sounds like bad karma for Walsh,” I say.

Now we notice something else. George Sharp has continued to do various chores, as a tireless worker; he has been assisting Lupe and Armand with food; loading the big dishwasher in the backstage kitchen; wiping tables and hauling trash out.

At one point George takes a break, and sits at a table he has just cleared. His seven sisters—Brenda, Doris, Frannie, Helen, Jean, Linda, and Nancy—sit with him; they look enough alike to be septuplets. And Irwin is with them. Apparently Helen and Irwin have long since forgiven George; he says something and the siblings laugh; Irwin says something and George laughs.

“If he were trying to make up for the hat trick and the suggestion about incest, he couldn’t make a better effort,” I comment.
Changing the subject, Jeanette now asks, “What about the juniors’ tournament tomorrow morning?”

“That’s still on,” says Jack. “George and Claudia are in it, and so are all the littler kids—including Grandson Jack.” He is quite proud of his grandson. “You’d be surprised how well that little boy can roll the ball!”
We react with delight.

Now Sylvia Goldstein takes the floor. All of the performers are present. She produces a clipboard and a thick legal pad, and, after getting everyone’s attention, gives her recommendations for the performance. Even Leo and Buster (lying calmly on our table, in front of Jeanette) listen.

[NDP]

“Overall, pretty solid all around,” Sylvia says, “Of course, that’s taking into account you are all either amateurs or haven’t performed professionally in awhile.”

I guess that a positive review–albeit with reservations.

“I was really impressed with the original songs that Prester John’s Aunt did,” she continues. “I also think Lorna McManus has real onstage presence and–I hope this doesn’t sound strange coming from a woman–exudes a strong sexuality in her vocal style. However, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the penguin sketch. Also, the whole absurdist “queen is dead” routine looks like something people thought was advant garde in the 50’s.”

(I have to admit I didn’t get the "queen is dead’ bit when I saw it either.)

Sylvia is about to say something else when she coughs three times. She clears her throat and tries to resume talking but only starts coughing again–this time more violently–another eight times. She tries to clear her throat again but this only results in another coughing fit–seven loud hacks that reverberate throughout the theater. Concerned, Alice walks over to Sylvia and gives her a paper cup of water which she slowly drinks. For a second, we think Sylvia’s cured but then she expells five sonic whoops that sound like she’s choking on all the sand from a Sahara storm. I’m about ready to rush onstage and give her the Heinlich when she finally stops dead and spits an unexpected object out of her mouth.

It’s a …

[dougie_monty]

tarantula!
Daniel smirks and says, “Ms. Goldstein, didn’t I tell you they aren’t good to eat?” Hermione slaps him slightly; everyone else glares at him. Even Buster growls.

“I’m sorry,” he says.
In a contrite gesture, he goes and gets a camera—a Polaroid he borrowed from Dr. Clouse. He points the camera upward at the dais, and takes several shots of the ceiling overhead.

He shows the prints to Alice and Eloise. There’s a small, square vent hole, about two inches across, in the ceiling at that point. Stan gets a ladder and climbs up with the Polaroid camera, and takes a picture inches away from the hole, just far enough down so the flash will flash into the hole.
The print shows another tarantula in the hole.

Stan leaves for a moment; he returns with a piece of fine mesh, about the size of an ordinary book page, and a carpenter’s hammerlike stapling tool. On the ladder, he fastens the mesh over the hole.
Meanwhile, Dr. Clouse carefully checks Sylvia’s mouth, general appearance, and vital signs.

Oddly, Sylvia asks for a bottle of Tabasco. Lupe brings one from the kitchen. Sylvia takes a quick swig, as we all wince. :eek:

Now she takes a few long breaths and sighs. She’s been lying on her back on the floor, and now sits in a chair.
Little Jack II has chased the tarantula Sylvia spat out; it’s still very much alive. He gets it into a Mason jar with a perforated lid, and hands it to Mary Blonda, who knows about such things; she examines the huge, hairy spider closely.

Stan has climbed onto the roof. He finds no more tarantulas except for the one that was still in the vent shaft; he removed it and put it into a box, and nailed mesh over the other end of the shaft.
“This must be someone’s idea of a prank,” mutters Alice.

But whose? I don’t know that the dais in the conference room was necessarily always directly below that vent hole in the ceiling…
Sylvia, still closely attended to by Dr. Clouse, regains her normal color, and poise, and stands back up as we settle down. She asks Lupe for a can of Ballantine Beer, from a six-pack she had put in the lounge refrigerator.

She has no real criticisms for anything else except the magic act—more subdued—as presented by George Sharp, and my singing of “Fer the Good Times.” She suggests George might do well to get advice from an experienced magician. (Alice, Fred, Leo, Eloise, and I, snicker inwardly.) :rolleyes:
As for me, she suggests I might “block” the song more expressively, and look less deadpan and stock-still during the performance.

She has no complaints about Jane Bradley’s C&W numbers, or about The Contralto Quartet, either in terms of technical aspects or repertoire. And she suggests that Claudia’s mime act not be the closing act; I wonder whether there is a common bond between Sylvia and Claudia I didn’t know about. Alice seems to feel the same way.
Sylvia has a few more random comments, none of which is particularly dramatic.

She finishes her critique and her can of beer. Laura Clouse approaches and urges Sylvia to have a full medical examination. Sylvia agrees and she and Sylvia go to a dressing room for the purpose. Our meeting in the big conference room breaks up.
We return to the Sharps’ mansion, where Alice and I both shower and set out clean clothes for ourselves. She is still naked as she tries the stuff on that I bought for her at Victoria’s Secret.

Everything fits except the bustier, which looks to be two sizes too small. She tries an older bustier on, marked Size 10; it fits just fine.
“Are you sure you got me the right size?” Alice asks. “This isn’t a Size 10; more like Size 8.”

“I guess not,” I say. “Although the tag says Size 10.”
She slips the misfit bustier off and dons underwear, jeans, and a light, sleeveless blouse. “The bustier must have the wrong tag.” She finds the receipt. “Let’s go exchange it.” She and I embrace.

As it turns out, Eloise wants to go to Victoria’s Secret too—with her seven daughters, to get them some underwear. Dr. Clouse wants to buy a sheer nightie, and cotton underwear (so she doesn’t raise static electricity in the operating room); and Jeanette wants to get some sexy stuff “to titillate Johnny and Jerry,” she says.
So we all go, in Eloise’s big van—Alice, Eloise, the seven daughters, Dr. Clouse, Jeanette, and me. Alice brings the VS bustier, the receipt, and her old Size 10 bustier.

The saleslady who approaches to wait on us is one I don’t remember from the time Stan and I were in the store. She is an older, prim woman in a white tailored blouse and dark skirt; her name tag reads “Joyce Bondurant, Assistant Manager.” I say to myself, This skeptical-looking woman is in for an unusual series of transactions…

[NDP]

Eloise allows Alice to go first since all she has to do is exchange her bustier. She goes up to Ms. Bondurant and explains why she wants get one in a different size.

“What I can’t figure out is why this Size 10 is too small,” Alice states as she hands the saleslady the item, “Anything else that’s Size 10 is usually almost too big for me.”

Bondurant closely examines the bustier and then looks at Alice apparently trying to visually guess what her real size might be.

“I think this bustier doesn’t have the right size on it,” she says. “You’re so petite, I fail to see how you could possibly be more than a Size 10.”

“I thought it was mislabelled too,” Alice says. “What size do you think it really is?”

“I can’t really tell,” Bondurant replies, “but, judging from how it looks, I think it’s a Size 6.”

“That is quite a difference. Do you have any Size 10’s available that I can exchange for it?”

"Unfortunately, no. We ran out yesterday and won’t get another shipment in for another two weeks. We could give you a rein check-

Bondurant abruptly stops talking and grabs Alice’s returned bustier off the counter. With an intense expression, she looks over the garment thoroughly. She’s discovered something unusual about it.

“I think the label on this bustier is hollow,” she says while running her fingers across it. She’s right. It opens wide and out pops a tiny envelope with even tinier lettering on it. Bondurant puts on her glasses and holds the surprise envelope up to her face. Her face squints as she tries to make out the writing on the front.

“This envelope is apparently for someone named ________ ________,” she announces.

“That’s me,” I say.

“What are the odds of that?” the saleslady muses as she hands it to me.

Another weird envelope with my name on it. I do a quick ESP scan of its contents; nothing dangerous but a slip of paper inside. I ponder for a second whether I should let my curiosity get the better of me and rip it open or be cautious and wait till I let some of the DXM people take a look first.

I decide to…

[dougie_monty]

…suggest Alice keep the bustier until the store has a supply of Size 10’s, or whichever size fits her better. According to Ms. Bondurant, that will be two weeks from now. Alice puts the bustier with the “hollow” label back in the bag.
Alice tells me telepathically, Whoever left that envelope in the bra may have left this as well. Until the proper size is available I’ll keep this one and scrutinize the slip of paper—and the entire garment as well.

Now Laura Clouse steps forward. “I’d like to see some cotton underwear. I’m a licensed physician and surgeon and I want to avoid buildup of static electricity on my person when I’m in surgery.”
“That’s right over here,” says Ms. Bondurant. She points Dr. Clouse to a series of shelves with cotton bras and panties. Laura thanks her and looks the stock over.

Now Jeanette approaches the counter. She wears a sleeveless white blouse, red running shorts, and plain white flats.
“I’m looking for the really sexy nightgowns and such,” she says. “I have two boyfriends [Johnny and Jerry] and I’d like some outlandish stuff to wow them.”

You probably “wow” them just the way you are, you blond Amazon, thinks the saleslady. Jeanette reacts slightly; she must have read Joyce’s mind same as I did. But she won’t make an issue of it.
“The sexy nighties and such are over here, ma’am, but I can’t guarantee that we’ll have a full selection in your size,” says Ms. Bondurant.

“I understand,” says Jeanette. “I sometimes wonder whether Lane Bryant has everything I would need.”
“Frederick’s of Hollywood may have it as well,” suggests Nancy, Eloise’s youngest daughter.

I smirk and ask Alice, “How does she know that?”
While Jeanette and the saleslady go through the sexy nighties, to find some that will fit Jeanette’s six-foot frame, Alice and I step off to the side.

She tells me, “I’ll put that label under the microscope in my computer room in the catacombs.”
I say, “Oh—and while we’re at it, let’s look at those CD-RW’s we got from Don Clay at the police station—the ones the League made from the ‘sub-basement’ and ‘livers’ books.”

Alice answers, “I’ve also nearly finished the decoding of that ‘sequel’ book. I’ll key it up in MS Word, and furnish copies for Fred, Parker, Mr. Galloway, Dr. Clouse—and Mary Blonda.”
Alice and I have been standing close together while Jeanette and Ms. Bondurant have gone over the “sexy” items that will fit a statuesque six-footer. We embrace, and kiss a couple of times.

As if on cue, Daniel appears, with Arthur; their wives, who are still in uniform, have dragged them to the store. Daniel jeers Alice and me lightly until Hermione and Winifred—and Arthur—chastise him.
Finally, Jeanette and Ms. Bondurant return to the register and ring up a few purchases. I can’t help but wonder what-all this saleslady thinks of this woman, Jeanette, who speaks so frankly about her life with two men.

Now, Eloise approaches with her seven daughters, all dressed alike—white tank tops and black jeans—and looking as alike as seven peas in a pod.
The girls look at Joyce with identical blue eyes—inherited from their father. (Eloise’s eyes are gray, and so are her sons’ eyes.)

While Eloise discusses what she wants with Joyce, Alice and I call Winifred and Hermione off to the side to talk to them. Alice shows the bustier to her brothers’ wives. (Arthur and Daniel have decided to wait outside the store.)
Hermione looks at the label and its contents.

“Buster is right, I guess, about the Hydra’s heads. Or, I guess, he was.”
“How’s that?” I ask.

“That guy who delivered the envelopes and the flounder, and probably this slip of paper, has been in the confessional at Father Abromowitz’ church for the last two hours, baring his soul. He posted bail but I think he’s about to sing.”
We also talk about the agenda for tomorrow: the juniors’ tourney in the morning, the mixed finals in the afternoon, and the rendezvous with Ruth Newport, the probation officer, in the Sparkle Plenty room of the House of Tracy. (The tournaments are at the regular lanes, not in the bar. :p)

Meanwhile, Alice, her sisters-in-law, Dr. Clouse, Jeanette, and I, hear Ms. Bondurant—who sounds skeptical indeed, even as she has the attention of Eloise and her seven look-alike daughters. We’re still a little distance away from them.

[NDP]

“Why do you all want the same style and color?” the salesmanager asks. “I would think at least one of you would want to show a little individuality and pick something different.”

“That’s what we all want,” Eloise states speaking for the whole group.

“But it’s almost like I’m putting together a set of lingerie uniforms for everybody,” Ms. Bondurant comments. “Is it okay if I ask each of your daughters.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Eloise says. In perfect unison, the daughters all nod in agreement with their mother.

“Well, I’ve got what you’re all looking for in back,” Joyce says with a befuddled tone to her voice. “Let me go back and get it.”

I use this break to mention something to Alice that’s been bothering me. “I still can’t figure out how that guy managed to stay exactly one step ahead of me,” I exclaim. “I mean how would he know in advance I would be coming in here and that I would be buying that particular incorrectly labelled bustier for you?”

“Maybe we’ll find out soon,” Alice answers. “Hermione said he was ready to crack.”

“Whatever we do find out, I’ll find this whole experience disturbing,” I say.

At that moment, Joyce Bondurant returns from the backroom with the underwear Eloise and her daughters wanted. They’re certainly unusual to say the least. For one thing…

[dougie_monty]

The bras and panties are all in a small check pattern, white alternating with a random splash of violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red. The only real difference is that the sizes for the three youngest girls—Jean, Linda, and Nancy—are slightly smaller. Eloise looks the merchandise over and shows it to her daughters, who likewise inspect it.

Each one picks what she wants, which consists of two bras and two pairs of panties, in her size.
The girls, holding their packaged garments, see me facing them. “Don’t look at our underwear,” they say in unison.

Joyce rings up the purchase; Eloise writes a check.
Ms. Bondurant notices the address on the check. “Ms. Sharp, that address is vaguely familiar to me.”

Eloise smiles. “Yes—it’s just outside of town, a few miles from here.”
“Well,” the saleslady says, “Somebody told me that people there are producing a show…”

“That’s right,” says Eloise. “We’re putting on an AIDS benefit, under the aegis of ______ University, at the Morpheus on South Bradford Street.”
“Oh, that lovely old theater…I heard it had been restored, and I’ve driven by there a few times. Are the tickets available yet?”

“Yes, they are,” says Ms. Sharp, producing a sheaf of envelopes from her purse. “They’re fifteen dollars each.”
“I’ll take four.”

Eloise produces four tickets and hands them to Ms. Bondurant, who gives her three $20 bills.
Just before we’re ready to leave the store, the saleslady says: “I’m quite impressed with your daughters, Mrs. Sharp. They’re pretty, and obviously courteous. Rearing them must be a demanding task.”
“Well, it is,” says Eloise, “but we’ve had a nanny to help us.” She introduces the daughters by name—Brenda, Doris, Frannie, Helen, Jean, Linda, and Nancy. Each girl nods courteously at the mention of her name.

“That’s almost an alphabetical set of names,” Joyce says. “Why did you skip a letter?”
“We didn’t skip a letter,” says Eloise. “My husband and I alternated between boys and girls.”

“Boys? How many boys do you have?”
“Eight.”
“Good Heavens!” Ms. Bondurant is stunned. “You have fifteen children?”

“I sure do,” says Eloise.
We all bid the assistant manager goodbye and return to the van. Everybody gets into the back except for Alice and me; Alice drives. I glance back inside the store; Ms. Bondurant is still reeling from the idea that Eloise has so many kids.

Alice and I engage in a telepathic conversation, while Eloise switches on some “Muzak”-like music, to the slight annoyance of her daughters, who prefer rock.
I think we’ll have some important questions answered when I finish with the decoding of the “Livers” book, Alice thinks to me.

I’ll go ahead and print out the text of the CD’s Parker furnished us with. How many pages are in the books?
Both are about 150 pages. Then again, the books aren’t 8 ½ x 11, so you won’t have to print 150 pages.

We get back to the Sharps’ mansion. Fifi assists the others in bringing the purchases in. Alice and I talk to Fred, who is back doing butler stuff right now.

“Hermione called and said that Dennis Walsh—who delivered the envelopes and the flounder—has signed a confession. In fact, he wanted to get in touch with Rita Waterford, Clell O’Houlihan, and a couple of others who have called it quits with Sikes-Potter’s organization. They intend, according to Hermione, to turn over critical information to the police—and they’re ready to plead guilty. I don’t mean plea-bargaining, either.”

“That’s good to know,” Alice and I say in unison. We leave Fred now, and go on up to bedroom No. 35. We sit in the overstuffed chair, with Alice on my lap; we wrap our arms around each other, under our shirts (and wings).
“I can’t help but feel that Eloise’s girls were paying very close attention to us when we were using telepathy in the van,” says Alice.

“You know, honey, I felt the same way. They may have inherited their mother’s mental powers.”
“Well, she and Jack are lucky to have those girls—they’re all so pretty and smart.”

“Speaking of which…” I get Alice in a close embrace; we kiss happily.
In the morning, we round up the kids who will be in the junior tournament at the House of Tracy.

George Sharp, and all of his younger siblings.
All three of Louise’s sons, Artie, Brian, and Chuck.
Mary Blonda’s three kids.
Loora Oranjeboom’s son Jan and her two daughters.
Jane Bradley’s five kids, Mike, Susan, Billy, Doris, and Jimmy.
Claudia Hart—and, of course, seven-year-old Jack Sharp II.
(Leo, Salbert, Jock, and the husbands are looking after the Morpheus this morning.)

Alice returns to the Terwilliger digs to finish the decoding of the Sequel book. She’ll stay in touch with me telepathically. I go with Eloise, Jeanette, and Loora to take the kids to the tourney. We see the same derelicts near the building, but they see me and keep their distance. A cop car parks nearby.
Eloise allows her youngest son, 13-year-old Owen, and her grandson Jack II, to present the group’s entry ID’s to Gene Dearborn at the counter. We all gather behind Owen and little Jack, with Eloise watching her youngest son and his nephew as they present the ID’s.

[NDP]

The whole procedure goes on without incident. We are assigned lanes 23 and 24–again.

“I wonder why we keep getting those lanes,” Eloise wonders aloud. She then leads her troup over to the lanes where they start preparing for the tournament.

While they do this, I am momentarily distracted by a stangely familiar video game in the arcade nearby. I can’t quite see what kind of coin-op machine it is but from its colors and design, I know I’ve seen it before long ago during my youth.

I get closer enough to identify the machine. It’s a Qix game–and it’s in surprising good shape considering it’s probably over 20 years old.

There’s also a 3" by 5" silver card with red lettering taped right next to the One-Player “Start” button. I can’t quite read it from where I am but I think I know what it says. Sure enough, when stand in front of the Qix game, my guess is right. It’s my name: “_____ ______”.

I rip the card from off the machine. It’s folded over (but not sealed) and I open the card. Inside is another message in red ink: “Please Press the One-Player Start Button.” I’m about ready to follow the instructions on the card but then when one word suddenly bolts into my head: BOMB!

I do an ESP scan of the Qix machine. I sense nothing explosive–just the usual c.1981 circuits. Knowing the video game is not booby trapped, I confidently press the One-Player Start button.

The machine reacts by…