SITTING DUCKS (novel)

75,000 words

first draft 1992 this version 2013

Sitting Ducks

Chapter   

1    Smoking Gun Morning    

2    Smoking Gun Afternoon   

3    Evening  

4    Jailbirds and Binaries   

5    As It Was  

6    Danger and Opportunity  

7    Bang, Bang . . .  

8    Passing Nods to Anarchy 

1                                    Smoking Gun Morning

Thursday

 Jerrod

Smoking Gun Morning

Thursday

    1

Grinding and growling, the hydraulic compactor in the garbage truck compressed trash from the households of the Hills Dozed Flat development and woke Jerrod, whose left cheek and was mashed against white linen pillow permitting only his right eye to open seeing the orange peel textured white wall two feet away.  Jerrod did not enjoy this noisy, blank, idle moment for long, because he realized the blank wall was glowing with the brightness of sunrise and two disagreeable thoughts came to him — “Gotta work today” and “Gonna be late.”  

He closed his mouth and tried to swallow, but his throat caught, and he coughed explosively, then probed gently with his tongue, expecting to find bloody bits of tonsil strewn about his mouth.  He sensed only the foul odor of residual alcohol sugars.  His left arm had been pinned under head and was so numb the nerves didn’t even tingle, so when Jerrod rolled on his back and stretched arms and legs, the numb arm waggled wildly and struck the bedside table.  He used his good hand to flop the sleeping arm across his stomach, then in quiet repose Jerrod breathed through his nose.  

Something was wrong.  Not his tonsils.  Not his fingers tingling as if dosed with novocaine.  But the music, ethereal and improbable, played between the whirs and bangs of the garbage truck.  The music was wrong.  Jerrod rolled toward Lynda’s edge of the bed, his nose pressed her pillow that smelled of gardenias and reached for the small clock-radio, gripped it as a mason takes a brick, and placed it on the mattress in front of his eyes.  The red digits squarely facing him, the dots blinked once each second.  Then the minutes changed to the next higher digit,  7:45.

"Crap," Jerrod shouted, "I shoulda been up at six!"  

This outburst did not disturb Jerrod's wife or his children.  Lynda was not in the room; she was not in the house; this was unusual but not a surprise to Jerrod.  The previous evening after Jerrod had come home late from work, drunk, and irritable, she had taken Jules, their girl, and Jonathan, their boy, across town to stay with Jerrod's parents.  She had begun to think Jerrod should not be in the same house with the children.  

Jerrod punctuated his outburst by squeezing his eyes shut and exhaling his opinion of this particular morning, "Fuck!"  Had he the time and desire and intellect to explain that word, Jerrod would have said that God should not be trusted with children.  However, Jerrod did not have one philosophical cell in his brain.  'Fuck', with a certain inflection, summed up the essence of his existence.

Jerrod considered physics to be understandable so he wondered why the clock-radio was singing, not alarming.  The clock was brand new; Lynda had brought it home yesterday.  Jerrod rotated the clock-radio and examined its selector dial.  A raised white bump on the knob's edge pointed to 'Music', and a white flake on the knob's face pointed to 'Alarm', but this flake popped off under pressure from a fingernail, just a speck of .

Jerrod rolled on his back again.  He pulled the clock-radio away from the bedside table, until the electric cord stretched in a series of angles from the wall outlet, around a table leg, over the table's edge, to the singing box in his hand.  He yanked and killed the digits and the music.  Swinging his legs free of the covers, he stood up and shook his tingling left arm.  In these seconds he resigned himself to what he had to do today — eat, work, sleep, and cope with Lynda, Jules, and Jonathan.  The clock-radio was still in his hand.

He walked out of the bedroom and into the hall.  To his right where the passage opened to the living room, the farthest wall was seven meters from where Jerrod stood.  He cocked his arm and waited as if teasing a dog to play fetch, then he pitched the clock-radio.   It streaked through the air.  Like the tail of a kite, the electric cord followed.  When the plastic box broke against the wall and fell to the carpet, Jerrod was already staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror; his black hair was sticking straight up.

"I look like a goddam rooster," he said.

The telephone rang while he was peeing into the sink.  He squeezed and shook a last drop onto the tiles. He stepped from the bathroom; the hardwood floor of the hall warmed his soles; the kitchen linoleum chilled his bare feet.  He lifted the receiver on the fourth ring.

"Hello?" asked Jerrod, even though he knew the caller would be Lynda.

"Good morning.  Did you miss me?"

"I smelled gardenias on your pillow when I woke up this morning.  I could smell you, but you weren't here to hug."  He opened the refrigerator.

"Aw, Jerrod.  For a drunk, that's pretty good."

"I was drunk last night.  One night I'm late for dinner.  You didn't have to leave."  Jerrod put the receiver between his shoulder and chin.

"But I wanted to.  Did you remember to set the new clock-radio?"

"It didn't work.  I'm late.  The garbage truck woke me."  He moved a can of ground coffee from the refrigerator to the counter.

"Oh, I'll take it back.  I'll exchange it for a better one."

"No, Lynda.  I don't like the electric ones.  Where did you put the old wind-up one?"  Jerrod reached to the coffee maker, swung open the filter basket, and lifted the used filter and grounds.

"I threw it out."

"You what?  You mean I've got to gun down, I mean, run down the garbage truck?  Where did you put it?"  Jerrod held the soggy filter between thumb and finger.

"In the bedroom wastebasket, the one next to my dressing table.  But why don't you let me exchange the clock I got yesterday?  I'll get a better model!"

"No!  I don't want you to buy anything.  I mean, I like the wind-up one.  I like the way it ticks.  It rings good and loud.  I'm used to it; I don't want another alarm clock."  Jerrod dumped the old grounds in the trash bag under the sink.

"I'll exchange it for something else then."

He pressed a clean filter into the filter basket. "Well, you'll have to glue it together first.  I threw it against the wall."  

"Jerrod!  Why?  You're always complaining that I spend too much money, then you go and you do something like that!"

"Listen, Lynda, I don't have time.  I'm standing here in my shorts.  I'm late for work, and I haven't taken a shower yet."  Jerrod reached for the coffee pot and accidentally knocked the filter basket.  It swung shut.

"Are you forgetting something, Jerrod?"

"Lynda, you know I love you.  Things just get to me, sometimes."

"No, I mean Jonathan!"

"Oh."  Jerrod winced.  Jonathan gets to me, too, he thought.

"I wish you could see them.  Grandpa and Jonathan are having cold cereal.  Everett says the cereal gives off heat when the sugar is sprinkled on top.  He's telling Jonathan to hold his hand above the bowl to feel the heat — Oh!  Everett!  Now look what you've done!—"

"What's happening over there?"  Jerrod turned on the kitchen tap and let water run to clear the pipes.

"Your father, Jerrod!  Everett smacked Jonathan's little hand into the bowl.  He splashed milk and cereal all over! — It's okay, Jonathan, don't cry.  Grandpa's just playing.  See!  There!  Look, Jonathan.  Grandpa will let you hit his hand in his cereal! — Oh!  Your father just tricked him!  When Jonathan went to smack his hand, Everett opened his fingers so his hand can't fit inside the bowl. — Now, Grandpa!  Play fair!  You let Jonathan hit your hand in your cereal, too!  Yes!  Okay, Jonathan, now you take good aim and hit Grandpa's big old hand.  Yes, go ahead.  Momma won't be angry with you.  Go ahead.  Oh!  Everett!  You horrible man! — Your father!"  

"What happened, Lynda?"  Jerrod filled the coffee pot with four cups of water.

"Your father pulled his hand away.  Jonathan's fist smashed into that bowl.  Now, the table is covered with milk and bran flakes, and Jonathan's run from the kitchen crying. — What?  Oh, Everett! — Your father says he just wanted to see if Jonathan had any spunk.  I've got to go, Jerrod."

"Jonathan's crying?  Lynda, why doesn't he have any spunk?"

"Oh, he's just a boy, Jerrod!"

"Will you be home tonight, Lynda?"

"Are you going to drink after work?"

"No."  Jerrod poured the water into the coffee maker.

"Then I'll have dinner ready for you."

"Lynda, tell Jonathan, Grandpa played the same trick on me when I was little.  Listen, I've really gotta go.  I'll see you tonight."  He set the coffee pot in position under the filter basket.

"And Jonathan, don't forget Jonathan."

"Right.  I'll see you and Jules and Jonathan after work.  Bye."  Jerrod returned the coffee can to the refrigerator.

"Bye, Jerrod, and thanks for calling."

"But you called me, Lynda."  He pressed the coffee maker's switch.

"I know."  

Jerrod hung up the receiver, grabbed a loaf of wheat bread, and put two slices in the toaster.  He was already walking toward the hall, so he had to lean back to push the toaster's lever.  Pleased with how efficiently he handled the call and the coffee, Jerrod strutted to the bathroom.

That pride vanished in the bathroom mirror.  A fly holding to the mirror's chrome frame witnessed the fading sparkle in Jerrod's eyes.  His lower eyelids were darker and baggier than usual; his face, pale.

I didn't think it would be like this, thought Jerrod.  I'd like Jonathan to smack my hand in my cereal.  I'd like to see some spunk.  Anything, but those big, silent eyes.  Why can't I get through to that boy?  He treats me like a stranger.  He won't come out and play.  And he's supposed to go see a psychiatrist.  Why does a five-year old kid need a psychiatrist?  What's happening to us?  I never expected my life to turn out this way.

Jerrod wet his hair over the sink, then roughly toweled it dry.  No shower, no time.  He washed his face and brushed his teeth.  He shaved and cut his chin.  Smelling smoke, he ran to the kitchen and found the toaster stuck.  He unplugged it.  The coffee pot held four cups of clear, hot water.  

"Fuck-fuck-fuck!"  He pressed the switch off, and hurried to the bedroom.  He dressed without changing his sleep-rumpled boxer shorts.  

"Goddam," Jerrod grumbled, "I haven't had a shower.  My shorts are fighting up my crack.  How am I supposed to teach people today?"

He opened the top drawer of his dresser and reached for a pair of socks.  The heel of his hand pushed against the weight of the pistol.  His hand paused over the weapon, then grasped and lifted the gun.  His thumb and the cylinder pinched the toe of one sock, so this sock and its mate were lifted from the drawer, also.  The socks were dark brown and Jerrod's pants were dark blue, but he didn't care.  He tossed the socks to the carpet near his black shoes, then he hefted the pistol first in one palm then in the other.  He curved his finger around the trigger.  

He imagined a black shadow tiptoeing through the bedroom door.  In this daydream, Jerrod shot first and asked questions later.  The burglar had no right, Jerrod had no remorse.  He liked this simple and swift and lethal justice.

But this daydream annoyed Jerrod.  It made his life seem complicated, slow, and interminable.  This morning he was unable to get the trouble in focus, but he was certain that he never imagined things would turn out this way.  He was bored and bothered.  Unable to mark a villain, his mind went absolutely blank, void of images, void of thoughts.  Then one idea gleamed brightly, like a neon sign far away.  His mind approached and read slowly, "Exit Now."

Jerrod threw the gun into his open briefcase and slammed it shut.  He hurriedly pulled on socks and shoes.  He found the suit coat and selected a tie and brushed his hair and buttoned down his collar and grabbed his keys and wallet.  Then Jerrod rummaged through paper and dirty cotton balls in the wastebasket where Lynda had tossed his favorite alarm clock. Holding this clock, he carried his briefcase using two fingers of the same hand and used his other hand to carry the car keys and lock the front door.

Jerrod ran to his car at the curb, passing under the branches of a scrub oak.  He didn't notice the leaves beginning to display autumn colors.  While the motor warmed, Jerrod wound up the clock, set the time at eight-thirty, and looked to see that the red alarm hand pointed at the six.  Like a child with a seashell, he listened to the ratchet clicking comfortingly.  Then he pulled out the alarm knob, thinking he had done all he could to start Friday properly.  Jerrod did not think well; he had no training session scheduled Friday, and the alarm would now ring at six o'clock in the evening.  He placed the cocked timepiece on the front seat.

Jerrod obeyed the stop sign before turning on the county road.  The county road ended at a wheat field beyond the subdivision.  Anyone leaving the neighborhood had a clear view of traffic; the stop sign was unnecessary.  Residents routinely ignored the sign — a passing nod to anarchy.  But Jerrod always stopped.  Because his life was out of his control, he respected signs that told him where to go, what to do, or how to do it.

While stopped, Jerrod opened the glove compartment and grabbed a roll of breath mints.  He had these mints stashed everywhere; each of the rolls with a torn wrapper and some mints missing.  Participants in his public speaking seminars got rolls of breath mints to help their self-confidence.  At end of class, people often left the open rolls of mints on their desks. Jerrod always collected these before leaving the room.

He peeled off a curl of paper and thumbed the next mint into his mouth, then accelerated on the county road.  He steered with one hand; the middle finger of his right hand was in his mouth.  He isolated an irritating hangnail between his front teeth and bit at its root.  A tiny portion of healthy skin ripped when he pulled his finger from his mouth.  

"Ow!"  He spit out the bit of flesh, not caring where it landed.  

He wiped the wet finger on his pants, then raised that same finger — his middle finger — and shoved it up, shoved it in the face of nothing in particular and everything in general.  He just extended that middle finger straight up from his fist and shook it at the sky. This gesture summed up Jerrod's opinion of being human as eloquently as, 'Fuck!'  Sometimes a person simply didn't feel like talking.  

He left the gesture there to block the morning sun.  The road pavement formed a bump just before the level surface of the Coyote River Bridge.  Jerrod was driving too fast.  At the bump, the front wheels left the pavement and then landed hard.  The car's roof staved his middle finger.

"Stupid idiot!"  Jerrod sucked his finger and accelerated.

The morning sun glared the windshield.  When Jerrod passed the parked Patrol Car, he lifted his foot from the gas pedal and resisted the urge to brake.  He hoped the deceleration would appease the officer, but the lights on the roof of the Patrol Car flashed at him.

Jerrod parked immediately.  He hoped the process would not include a lecture and a sobriety test.  The officer cooperated, just a simple speeding citation.  

"The fine will be $420 dollars, sir."  The officer handed him a copy of the ticket and returned Jerrod's license.  "You'll see that amount deducted from your next paycheck, Mr. Hunter."

"Thank you.  May I go now?  I'm late for work."

"Of course, sir.  Travel at the posted speed limit, sir.  You'll find you get to work faster."

"Of course, good bye."  In the mirror, Jerrod watched the officer walk back to his cruiser, watched the regulation holster and pistol waggle with each step.  "Fuck!  What a morning!  Shit, piss, and walk in it!  And Lynda wanted to buy that new couch with this next paycheck.  Well, she'll just have to wait.  Man, oh man, I hate it when she gets in one of those I-want-it-now moods." He opened his briefcase, dropped in the ticket, and noticed the silver pistol. Glancing at the side mirror at the officer, he transferred the pistol to the car’s glove compartment, closed that and the briefcase, then restarted the engine. The comforting rumble seemed to also restart the day.

The commute was only fifty kilometers; however, the drive always took at least an hour and a half.  He let the horses run until the county road intercepted Meadowlark Skyway, then he merged with gridlock traffic at a trot.  Ahead, he could see the twenty-four floored, glass-skinned national office of Manifest Destiny Corporation, his only client.  He taught company employees how to improve their speaking skills.

The multinational corporation owned media, publishing, mining, lumber, oil and agricultural enterprises.  However, the public associated MD corporation with its family and healthcare products.  The best advertising firms that money could buy carefully painted the corporate face, giving it the kindly visage of a country doctor.  People recognized and trusted the brand:  MD — Your Family Doctor.

After parking, Jerrod gathered his presentation materials from the trunk of his car.  Precariously balancing flip charts and two kit bags, he threaded his way through a crowd also intent on getting to work quickly.  These people suddenly realized that Jerrod was exactly where they needed to be.  Three people bumped into Jerrod.   Each without encumbrances, each presumably sighted, yet each jostled him violently enough to dislodge the rolled flip charts from his bent arm.  One person stepped on a flip chart, flattened the roll, and walked away.

My son acts as if I'm an intruder in my own house, Jerrod thought.  My wife tells me I'm a selfish imposter of the man she married, and now strangers go out of their way to bump into me.  

Jerrod picked up the flip chart.  

"That bastard could've at least apologized," he grumbled to himself.

Above his head, a helicopter, looking like an very expensive dragonfly, landed on the roof of Manifest Destiny Corporation.  

    

Harmon

Chirping and twittering, the shore songbirds chatted up the morning and woke Harmon.  The left side of his face was mashed against a blue satin pillow, so he opened only his right eye and looked out the bay window at the gently swaying pine branches, catching the flit of feathers as a finch flew to another perch.  Harmon enjoyed this green and idle moment.  A prudent and profitable thought came to him — Zawanabanir wants a Cobra!

Harmon had slept with his mouth open; now he tried to swallow.  His throat caught, and he coughed explosively.  Harmon probed gently with his tongue, expecting to find bloody bits of lung strewn about his mouth.  He found nothing but a faint taste of Isabelle.  

Harmon rolled on his back and slid an arm under her head and shoulders.  Isabelle languidly stretched; her left arm extended above Harmon.  He admired her pale delicate hand opening to the morning light, then that hand abruptly dropped, striking him on the nose.  He grimaced and lifted the offensive hand, bending her elbow and setting the hand on her wonderfully flat stomach.  She hummed sleepily, breathing through her nose.

Then something was right.  Not the birds.  Not Isabelle's breasts, although they were just good, Lord knows, they were good.  But a ringing, bald and flightless, played between the chirps and twitters of the birds.  The telephone was right.

Pulling his arm out from under her body, Harmon rolled onto his stomach, to the edge of the bed.  The box springs sproinged and popped under his tall and heavy boned body, his wide shoulders, his massive head.  His nose pressed a pillow that smelled of last evening's sexual play, but this scent did not distract Harmon.  He groped for the receiver, grabbed it as a rapist grips a wrist, and brought it to his lips.  

"Hello," he croaked.  With his eyes shut, he listened to the caller.  The corners of his mouth drew up into a smile.  When he heard the word 'settle', Harmon began salivating; winning always made him hungry.  "You get her to play ball with us, Whipsnide," he whispered.  It was a command.  Then he added, "I want to see our file on King Zawanabanir, and call Rolls Royce.  Find out where the King stands on the waiting list.  See you at the office. . . .  Yeah, I slept in today. . . .  What?  Listen, either that nut of a woman settles out of court, or I'll castrate you with my bare teeth."  He yelled this last phrase and slammed the receiver on the cradle.

This outburst did not disturb Harmon's wife.  Henrietta was not in the room; she was not in the house.  She had stayed, as usual, at the city estate, where the grandchildren go to school and the nanny goes with the children, where a butler answers the door, a chef cooks the meals, and a secretary answers the telephone.  

Harmon's outburst did not disturb Isabelle either.  She had had, as usual, just the right amount of champagne after last night's dinner.  

Harmon punctuated his outburst by rolling to Isabelle's side, squeezing her, and exhaling his desire on this particular morning, "Fuck me!"  Had he the time and desire and patience to explain that phrase, Harmon would have said that the cosmos is delicious, that God alone should be the judge in lawsuits, and that the only real break you get in life is during orgasm.  However, Harmon had neither time nor patience, and he had only one consuming desire:  Penetrate Isabelle's voluptuous body.

At this moment between silk sheets, Isabelle wondered why Harmon was in such a rush; his haste reminded her of that first time in his office after work.  She yielded to him, said nothing, and felt little.  She thought she had trained him better than this.  She knew he was trainable, but he disappointed her this time.  She would have to accelerate the training of this lover.  He knows better, she thought and pressed her hands against the bed's headboard, undulating her hips to meet his insistence.

Finished, Harmon rolled on his back again.  He pulled a corner of the sheet to his mouth and wiped at his lips.  While absently caressing Isabelle's flat stomach with one hand, he lapsed into daydreams of white sand beaches and bathing beauties with extremely tan skin.  Then he reached to the carved wooden humidor next to the telephone and selected a fine fat cigar.  

Swinging her legs free of the silk sheets, Isabelle set one knee on either side of his chest and snatched the cigar from his hand.  Breaking the cigar in two, she tossed it aside and grabbed his penis, hard.  Harmon would have objected, but before he could speak, she let go and sat on his face.

"Before you go to work, Harmon, you have to eat," she said with the tone of a master to a slave, yet coyly — a coy master.  He obediently ate, and Isabelle was sated.  When he walked to the bathroom door, he paused to look back at the woman.  She lay with one finger held between her lips, a pin-up girl seductively licking her finger and sweetly smiling at him.  

"You were good," Isabelle said.  She reached to the humidor and threw a cigar to Harmon.  He caught it and placed it between his teeth.  He chewed on its end a moment, then motioned as though to tip the brim of a cowboy hat to a lady.

"Frankly, Isabelle, I give a damn," he drawled, then stepped into the bathroom and stared at his reflection.  "I look like a rooster!" he said, pressing down a ridge of curling auburn hair.  He sat on the toilet, lit the cigar with a silver lighter, and pick up a copy of International Business Report.  The phone rang as he was sitting there.  He glanced his watch and grabbed the wall telephone above the sink cabinet.

"Hello?" he said, even though he knew the caller would be Henrietta.

"Good morning, dear."

"Morning, Henrietta.  Did the kids get off to school okay?"  He spoke loudly to warn Isabelle.

"Oh, Harmon, you'll just have to talk with Junior when you get home tonight — you are coming home tonight aren't you?"

"Yes.  I gave Marie the list of items for the party this weekend as you asked.  And Dorales understands he must paint the trim and wash the bird shit off the driveway before Saturday noon.  I told them the President will be among the guests."

"And the flowers, remember the flowers, Harmon."

"Right."  Isabelle came into the bathroom at that moment and turned on the faucet.

"Is that Marie?  You must be in the kitchen, I can hear water running.  Please tell Marie about the flowers, dear."

"Right," Harmon said again, then turned to Isabelle, "Marie, Henrietta wants to be sure you know to change the flowers—"

"All the flowers, Harmon, tell Marie to remember the gardenias in the bathrooms."

"All the flowers, Marie, even the gardenias in the bathrooms."  Isabelle, naked as a baby, performed a mock curtsy for Harmon's benefit.  "Okay, Henrietta, now what is this about Harmon Junior?"

"Well, they just left, right before I called you.  It's almost eight o'clock  He and Trisha are late for school again.  And it's his fault, Harmon.  You've got to talk to that young man.  Before he gets dressed, he has that video game on, and he won't even talk to me when I look in on him.  Getting that boy dressed and fed is like pulling teeth.  And that nanny is no help.  I know I agreed we'd give her another week, but really, Harmon, she is clueless."

"Yes, dear."  Isabelle sat on Harmon's lap and blew lightly into his free ear.  "Don't you—" Harmon started then mouth silently to Isabelle, 'Stop that'.

"What, dear?"

"Uh, don't you think you should call the agency and begin interviewing new nannies."

"Well, yes, but you were the one who thought—"

"Henrietta, you know best what to do for the children.  I'm sorry I butted in.  You go ahead and call the agency today, okay?"  Harmon reached under Isabelle's bottom and lifted her off his lap, slapping her bun as she stood.

"What was that?  I thought I heard something.  It sounded like a slap."

"Yes, dear.  A fly was pestering me.  I don't understand why Noah had to include two flies in his list of passengers."

"Well, have Marie bring in the electric bug lights from the patio for the next two days.  I certainly don't want a fly landing in the President's cocktail.  And you said you'd call the editors of your papers today, remember?"

"Yes, I'm supposed to be sure they don't send any black reporters to cover the Ambassador's reception.  But, Henrietta, the Ambassador himself is black."

"All the more reason not to make a blunder.  He'll appreciate that we only want to have the best reporters in his audience."

"Well, listen, Henrietta, I just don't want to ask that.  I don't feel right about it.  Now, I know this is your affair, and everyone raves about your parties.  So, so you call the papers, Henrietta; I'm not going to."

"Well, yes, I guess I'd had better."

Isabelle leaned over an open drawer at the sink cabinet.  Even at this angle, her silicon implanted breasts held their shape, and Harmon reached out and cupped the closest in a hand.  Isabelle smiled and pressed her hand beneath his, massaging gently .  Then she pulled his hand away and placed it between her thighs.

"Yes, you do it best," Harmon said to both Isabelle and Henrietta.  Isabelle selected a washcloth and slammed the drawer shut.

"Oh, Marie's still with you in the kitchen?  I wanted to talk to her about the dust on the top of the door frames.  Put her on the phone will you, dear."

"Yes, dear.  Oh — well, she just left with a cloth in her hand.  Perhaps she read your mind, dear.  I'll be sure to tell about the dust.  Listen, I'm late.  I'm not even dressed for work yet, dear.  I slept late."

"That's not like you to sleep in, Harmon.  Do you feel well?  You should take more breaks from work."

"Yes.  I'm fine, but I really should get off the phone now.  I have to meet Whipsnide at the office by ten."

"I wish you could do without that man.  He gives me the shivers.  He has hands like a dead fish."

"His hands may be cold, but he has the Midas touch.  He's the best financial consultant in the country, maybe the world.  For what I pay him, he'd better be."  Isabelle pouted in front of the shower, tired of waiting.  "There's only one person who treats me better than Whipsnide."

"Who's that, dear?"

Harmon lowered the receiver from his mouth.  "You," he said to Isabelle, but of course Henrietta thought he meant her.

"Thank you, dear."

"Now, I really must go.  I'll be in hot water soon."

"Harmon?"

"Yes?"

"You'll talk with Junior when you get home?"

"Yes, dear.  Goodbye now."  Harmon hung up the receiver and puffed thoughtfully on his cigar, appraising Isabelle's immaculate curves.  "You take your shower," he said to her.  "I need something to drink.  Want some orange juice?"

"Yes.  Thank you.  Just set it on the sink there."

Harmon tipped his imaginary cowboy hat again to the lady.  "Yes, ma'am," he said and backed out of the bathroom, reluctant to leave his beauty.

In the kitchen, Harmon phoned the house managers, Dorales and Marie, who lived in a small but comfortable home on the estate grounds.  He told Dorales that he and his companion would be out of the house by nine-thirty and repeated Henrietta's instructions to Marie.  

As he spoke, he opened the refrigerator.  Marie had left fresh squeezed orange juice in a crystal pitcher.  She had squeezed the fruit last evening; Harmon knew this because Marie had penciled yesterday's date on the decorative frosted stripe circling the pitcher's girth.  She had added the abbreviation 'p.m.' after the date, as Harmon had requested.  He hated discovering the juice had gone off only after swallowing a big gulp.  

The last time the juice had soured in the pitcher, Harmon had taken a full swallow, expecting sweet refreshment.  Instead the sharp tang of fermentation enraged Harmon.  He had thrown the crystal pitcher into the sink.  Marie had had to order another from Belgium; she ordered two, just in case.

He poured two tall tumblers full of the golden juice, then on the rim of a short glass he cracked an egg.  He lifted the glass to his nose, sniffed, and studied the yolk.  He dumped this egg in the sink and broke open a second egg, using a second glass from the cabinet.  Displeased, he set this glass in the sink and repeated this operation with a third and fourth egg before being satisfied with the orange-yellow color of the yolk.  

"Dorales isn't giving his chickens enough scratch," he said to himself.  "Chickens need a lot of ground to roam and scratch.  These eggs might as well have come from a factory."  He picked up the glass, swirled the raw egg, then tossed it in his mouth.  He bit open the yolk and savored its flavor before swallowing.  

"Damn eggs have no flavor," he mumbled and carried the two glasses of orange juice upstairs.

At nine-thirty, Isabelle and Harmon buckled the seat belts of a corporate helicopter.  Harmon wore a cowboy hat and aviator sunglasses.  He piloted the craft in a wide arc, sweeping over the pines of his ocean estate, out over the cliffs, over the old coast highway, and finally over the blue water and white waves of the shoreline.  Last night was the first time he had brought Isabelle to the ocean house, and he wanted her to see the estate in the morning light.  He turned inland again and pointed to the coastal mountains, explaining to Isabelle that the estate extends from the ocean to the mountains.  He pointed out the chicken coop and the home for Dorales and Maria, then passed low over the main house and garages.  Isabelle noticed a single garage that appeared newer; it stood between the house and the multiple garage.  

"Is that where you keep the Royce Fellini Cobra?"

"What?  Oh, yes."  He paused a moment, this time appraising Isabelle's mind.  "That's observant of you.  But how did you know I had a Royce Fellini Cobra?  I just took possession a month ago."

"Oh, you know how people talk at the office.  In fact, people were betting on how soon you would get the car.  What color is it?"

"Red.  You know there are kings waiting to get one of those.  I drive it only on Sundays; I drive it to the Seagull Inn to get the morning paper.  I don't even stay for a cup of coffee.  I tell you, you can't imagine the pleasure in driving a car like that."

"Well, before yesterday, I couldn't imagine what it was like to ride in a helicopter.  Thank you for the wonderful evening, Harmon."

"It's just the beginning for us, Isabelle."

"I like to hear you say that."

They cruised inland at top speed over the ridge of coastal mountains ("See there?" asked Harmon.  "See the fence?  That's the boundary of the estate.") and the broad valley beyond.  As they neared the city, Harmon cut the throttle a notch or two, wanting to prolong his morning with Isabelle.  He pointed to the expanse of cultivated grain surrounding the city.  The view was breathtaking to Harmon, his corporation owned most of that farmland.

Isabelle noticed the green fields of young grain in the valley, and she noticed a bald, dirty housing development.  A bald, dirty river made a wide loop around the subdivision.

"Is that the Coyote River?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Why is it empty?"

"It's not empty."

"Looks empty to me," she said watching the river below.

"There's water in it."

"No there isn't, Harmon!  Look!"

"Yes!  See there and there.  Water."

"Well, my family used to picnic by that river when I was young.  We used to picnic in a park out this way, somewhere."

"The River Bend Park?"

"Yes, that was it," she said with transparent hope.

"That's where we were.  A developer bought the land from the county and built those houses on it."

"But when we were there the river was full of water, all year.  Where did the water go?" she asked glumly.

"People need that water, Isabelle.  Water that simply flows to the ocean is wasted.  People need that water for drinking, for growing food.  That's what happened to the water," Harmon said.  He was sorry to tell her this truth, sorry to damaged her childhood memories.  "Look," he said gesturing at the wide city now below them.  "While you were growing up, men like me made this city what it is today.  In ten years it has quadrupled in size; that means jobs and wealth for thousands and thousands of people.  You work with me in the tallest building in this city.  It's just beginning for us, Isabelle."  

The entire valley rotated like a record on a turn table as Harmon piloted the helicopter in a descending turn, approaching the roof landing platform.  The traffic on streets below was thin, and Isabelle could read what had been written on the pavement.  On the streets bordering the office, someone had spray painted, "THE DOCTOR IS A QUACK."  The words were done in white paint; the letters formed by dots, as if by a giant dot matrix printer.

"Look what someone has written on the roads!" said Isabelle.  "Why would someone say that?  Why would someone say that about you?"

"I don't know, but I sure as hell am going to find out who did it."