FREELANCER
  By Richard B. Schwartz

Published on the Web by NEFARIOUS - Tales of Mystery 
http://www.thewindjammer.com/nefarious/


Sometimes you catch a break and sometimes your luck takes a turn and you catch three or four. A year and a half ago I was ready to settle in behind a few square yards of polished walnut, flick memos at other peoples' problems, and court out-of-town clients over lobster and sirloin. Maybe even commandeer some A-space on the twenty-ninth floor and look out toward the Pacific rather than at a parking garage, a cheapo Chinese place called Hot Wok, and a steady line of cars waiting to get on the Harbor freeway.

It never happened. When I missed the bonus trip to Cabo by 120K's worth of second-quarter sales the suits sat up and took notice. They took a quick meeting, checked the numbers, and concluded that the best action all around would be for them to have a nice lunch and me to have two months' pay and two weeks' notice.

The competition started to make some halfhearted overtures, but I knew they'd take whatever I knew, wring whatever they could from it and then cut me loose without a single twinge or a moment's hesitation. I put them on hold as a fallback, told them I was taking some time to "explore other opportunities" and lined up a piecework job in the valley installing computer equipment for small businesses.

It was strictly autopilot stuff: open the box, put the manuals on a vacant shelf, plug in the cords, pop in the disks, and set up the unit. I knew the real money would come from some freelancing on the side and I figured it wouldn't take any major brainpower. All you need to do is smile a little, act polite, help when you can, drop a few words, show a few keystrokes. By the second day you're the resident guru. By the third you're a consultant.

I still can't believe how easy it was. I'd go into an office with a screen saver package or a box of toner cartridges or connector cables, wait till a head turned, hit a key or two, turn a screen into screaming chaos, and then piously volunteer to help. By the end of the client's coffee break I'd solved the problem. By the end of the next afternoon I'd drummed up some additional business, helped myself to some spare disks from an open desk drawer, and stripped whatever software I could use from the company system. The next week I was installing free product at just-below-market rates to my next customer. My mother always told me to buy low and sell high.

But that was only part of the game. The real fun came after I polished the act and started to get into the rhythm of it. I'd start with a little drama--sit down uneasily, lean in, click the mouse, and stare at the blue genie. I'd freeze my expression in a mask of deadly-serious deep concentration and then I'd start to listen.

Amazing what I learned. At the AutoFoto at the top of the Glen the junior desk clerk is dating the senior film processor. By mid-afternoon they're usually ready for a trip to the plywood portrait studio in the back of the store. They settle in on the shag-upholstered platform in front of the Waikiki sunset and make like they're in paradise.

Over at Mr. Security, a credit checker on the north end of the boulevard, half the employees are checking on their relatives and boyfriends rather than on their clients' customers. "Look at this," a woman named Myrna keeps saying, "he still owes money on the truck and the van and now he's trying to buy a Viper from some guy in El Monte. No wonder he never takes me anywhere but the discount matinee and the North Hollywood Big Boy."

Lesson One: most of the people riding a desk are spending their days bitching to friends, gossiping with their coworkers, thinking about lunch, or calling somebody to help them figure out why their computers won't work. Lesson Two: if you pay a little attention and figure out how to bleed the system you'll never need to look for the offramp to Easy Street. You're already there.

I file away every word, not knowing when I might need it. In the meantime I troll for more easy business. Yesterday morning I hit the mother lode. I set up a network of Macs for a guy named Al Greene, a Toyota dealer over on Moorpark. First we agreed on a preliminary price. It came out to about $220 an hour. I told him I'd get the system up and running, come back the next day, make sure everything's copacetic, then check back from time to time--even give him a discount on the service calls. When I came in this morning he took me aside to show me his pride and joy. It was sitting on a table next to his desk: a powerhouse with more RAM than a New Zealand sheep ranch and 12 gigs worth of memory. His twelve year-old recommended it. He went for the top-of-the-line to impress the kid and now he wants to know how to turn it on.

I load him up with a set of spreadsheets on permanent loan from Mr. Security and some clip art I lifted from Design-a-Mug and ReadyPrint. I show him how to print up some handmade letterhead. I throw in some games to amuse the kid on the days when Al has to play daddy and I show him how to play a couple. Then I ask him if he'd like to record his own alert sound, maybe put in something the kid would like, only I don't call him the kid. He rehearses a few samples and settles on the long "duh-h-h-h" that the kid gives him whenever the old man boofs. Then we record. I hit the sample box, he hears his own voice and he lights up like a coconut head in a loincloth who's never seen himself on a polaroid.

"Here," I tell him, "go to the end of that line of text and start hitting the space bar. "Duh-h-h-h, Duh-h-h-h, Duh-h-h-h," the computer responds, and he can't get enough of it. He offers to buy me lunch and I tell him thanks but I've got too much work to do.

A couple hours later I'm sitting at his computer table with the screen turned away from the showroom door. I'm drinking somebody else's Pepsi from the office refrigerator and playing Spin Doctor. Suddenly she walks past the open door: very tall and very soft, with green eyes, chestnut-brown hair, 3-inch heels, legs from here to San Berdoo, and a short skirt which swings back and forth when she walks as if it knows that it's waving to a man in serious need. She looks at me for a second and I lower my eyes.

Her suit is all business, but so are her hips, and her chest is pushing her jacket buttons so hard that they're practically parallel to the showroom floor. I shut down the computer game, put the Pepsi can under some papers in the basket next to the desk, and think about moving in for a closer look.

Her desk is the third on the right, toward the front of the showroom, next to the red MR2 with the special spoiler and the black leather seats. You can look right across the top of it and not miss a bit of her. She's going over some forms, filling in boxes. She puts her pencil down, makes a phone call, and turns toward her calculator, punching in a series of numbers.

By now I'm standing at the water cooler, sipping a second cup of Lake Arrowhead's best, and trying to appear invisible. I put the cup in the basket, take a pen from my pocket, and walk across the showroom to the empty desk on the opposite wall from hers. The pen is my insurance. I'm trying to look like William F. Buckley, Jr. making a house call rather than Leisure Suit Larry leering at the help. I put the pen in my shirt pocket, sit down on the edge of the seat, and turn on the computer.

For a moment I catch a glimpse of her. She's still working the phone and the calculator. I'm checking out her posture, admiring how everything turns in just the right direction. I change position, checking connections at the back of the computer, moving to the floor to check the surge protector and the phone line. Each time I move I catch another angle. She looks better every time. I can see her ankles and calves. Her legs are smooth; she isn't wearing nylons. She's talking more intently now. As she pushes the calculator to the edge of the desk her hair falls across the side of her face. She slips it back over her left ear with two fingertips and the bright red polish gleams in the midday sun.

Suddenly this windowshopper comes in, looking for a way to kill some time. He stands next to the MR2 and when I turn again he's blocking my view. I move to the next desk. It's occupied by a guy in a cheap suit with a Tag Heuer watch. "How's your computer working?" I ask. "Never use it," he answers. "I let the accounting types worry about things like that. If I sat here all day playing with toys I'd never move any product. And pal . . . I move a lot of product. Try this--how about twenty-seven units last month?"

I smile meekly and start to walk away. He leans toward me, as if he's really interested. "What are you driving now?" he asks.

"A Rabbit," I answer. "Plus the van, of course."  There's no reason he has to know about the Beemer.

"A Rabbit?" he says, his lips twisting as if he just tasted some spoiled yogurt.

"It gets me around," I say, as I smile and start to move on. The next desk is vacant and there's no computer there. I'm two desks away from hers. Progress. The next is occupied by a salesman with a mark. He's explaining the true meaning of the numbers on the dealer's sheet and the sucker is lapping up every word of it. "This is our price, this number here," he says. "As a consumer you should know that."  I pause for a moment and listen. I love to hear a pro at work.

The next desk is occupied by a young guy in a dual-breast, beige linen suit. He's wearing a white tee shirt and chunky gold ring, trying to look like Mr. Hollywood. He blows it by saying "Swell" and playing with a quarter while he talks. He probably calls it his lucky piece. I don't want to hear its complete history so I look knowingly at his computer screen, give him a wide berth and a thin smile and move on.

In the few moments before I get to her desk I try to hear part of her conversation. She says "Sure," then she says, "No problem," but she says it like she's agreeing to something interesting. Not routine office stuff, maybe something involving cool drinks and soft lights.

By now she's off the phone and looking over some more forms. I check some wall ports, look at the connections behind her machine, give her my meekest smile, and in a quiet voice ask, "How's your computer working? Is there anything I can help you with?"

"It's great," she answers. Her eyes are as deep as mountain pools and I want to stare forever, but I don't. Then she gives me a smile and says it was nice of me to ask. She's still using the soft-lights voice.

I tell her that it's my job to help and that she should give me a call whenever she needs anything. I say it in a businesslike tone but I add some soft edges. Nothing threatening, but maybe just a slight invitation, opening the door wide enough to let in a little light.

"There is one thing . . ." she answers.

So there really is a God. I try not to jump too fast. "Sure. How can I help?"

"Well," she says, "it's probably not complicated at all for somebody like you, but it's giving me fits."

I lean down, look at her screen as if I'm checking for symptoms, and catch the smell of her hair. She lets me come in close for a second but then stops, checks her watch, makes a frustration sound with her lips and the tip of her tongue, and tells me she's sorry for wasting my time. "I've got to go out on the lot for awhile," she says, "and then I've got to drop off some of these forms and meet with some people in Thousand Oaks. I'm not going to be back until around 8:00."

"I should still be here then," I answer. "Otherwise, I can check it out tomorrow."  I feel a little jolt of pride. I'm telling her that I'm available but not overanxious. This is all strictly business. I'm a nice guy. Helpful, decent, not some drooler who's planning to cozy up to her in a dark showroom after everyone else has packed it in and left.

When the clear-glass door closes behind her her hair is swinging from side to side in parallel with her hips; the back of her looks a whole lot better than the rear of the used Corolla wagon that eventually blocks my view. Instantly bored, I check the refrigerator but there's no more Pepsi. I think about springing for some from the machine in the service department waiting room, but finally go for some free, fresh coffee from the sales staff's kitchenette.

Since I'm planning on a little overtime I help myself to a second cup of coffee and recalculate Al's bill. Then I return to her desk and try to find some note or form that lists her name. I figure someone is watching, so I rest my right hand on the keyboard of her computer and stare thoughtfully (yes, the doctor is in). Meanwhile I slide open her center drawer slowly with my left hand and cast my eyes down every few seconds to see what I can see. Maybe I'll get lucky, I think, maybe find something personal.

I check the contents of the metal dividers in the front tray, but the most promising discoveries are a packet of matches from a swish restaurant on Robertson called Kalamata and the business card of a couch salesman from Leather Life. Just behind them are a couple of paper clips--the plastic, triangular type--and a rusty staple remover whose points are covered with something that looks like old pocket lint.

When the guy with the bad suit and the good watch comes by I ease the drawer closed. He looks down at me and forces a smile. "A Rabbit, huh? I thought computer jocks made big bucks. I figured you for a Supra or something with a little more jazz."

"I couldn't afford a Supra," I say meekly, "but it's a very nice car. Maybe some day. . ."

"Whenever you're ready," he says, "give me a jingle. I could even run some numbers now if you'd like me too."

"Thanks," I answer, "but not now."

He gives me a little two-fingered salute, checks his watch, and strolls across the showroom floor, whispering promises in the browsers' ears and offering his business card to whoever will take it. I return to the center drawer of her desk but begin to come up empty. There's even less in the side drawers, not even a stray paper clip or dried rubberband.

By now it's 4:35 and I'm starting to check my watch every six or seven minutes. I decide to go out to my van for a little personal happy hour. I've got a bottle of Stoli on ice in the cooler and I figure a couple of scooters will add some glow to a slow afternoon. I open the front seat windows and ease back behind the driver's seat, leaning against the side panel and listening in on the outside world.

A couple of twangies from West Hollywood are arguing about a leather package for their new Camry and a Consumers Report thumper from the north Valley is arguing trunk space and acceleration with the guy with the Tag Heuer. He promises the mark that the car he has in mind will hold more than a moving van and get to 60 in less time than it takes him to ask his next question. The mark is undaunted and asks him whether or not both airbags are the same size and shape when they inflate.

On the other side of the van is a beach boy who wants to put his board in the back of a Corolla wagon to check the fit. I take another hit from the Stoli and wonder whatever happened to the human interest stuff--the guys putting the moves on perfect strangers or the girls reporting on their boyfriends' performances and statistics. So far I haven't even heard a good argument or a clean joke. I pick up the Stoli bottle and slide to the rear of the van, checking the back window for better game.

And suddenly there she is. Back early. I return the Stoli to the cooler and check the glove compartment for some mints. They say you can't smell vodka but that's bullshit. Especially Stoli. There's always that little hint. I find some tic tacs, pop a handful, check myself in the mirror, straighten my collar, close the front windows, pick up a couple of disks and wires, and make my way back to the showroom.

I'm moving slowly, Mr. Cool with the tools of his trade, but just before I get to the door she's on her way back out. She flashes me a smile, says she forgot something, that she has to go back out, but that she'll return at 8:00 and hopes I'll still be here. I tell her I'll do my best, wave good-bye with one of the disks, and return to the showroom.

Al returns a few minutes later. He's wearing a new gold necklace. Getting ready to hit the lounges on Van Nuys. He walks past the guy with the Tag Heuer, pats him on the shoulder, hears the sound of the cash falling into the register in the back of his head, and walks toward me.

I tell him the system is purring like a tomcat and he refers me to a parts dealer in Northridge who might also be in need of my services. Says they had lunch together today. I give him gratitude and a little grovel as he checks out his necklace in the mirror above the water cooler.

At 6:10 I take off for a little dinner. I go for protein and caffeine and when I return I remove the tic tacs from the glove compartment and take a few for insurance, just in case she comes back early.

My luck holds. At 7:52 she walks into the showroom, looking as fresh as she did the first time she crossed my screen. She's even carrying a gift-wrapped, oblong package in royal purple, maybe 8" x 20". I can see it sticking out of this boutique bag with plastic handles. I'm sitting in Al's office, looking out through the doorway, checking out the red satin bow and the broad ribbon, thinking maybe negliges or garter belts, a little gift to herself. Something she might like to share. I stay in my seat and give her a 'whenever you're ready' wave. She walks over to the door and stands there, silhouetted against a sky that is suddenly all yellow with streaks of reddish orange. She tells me she's ready and I nod that I am too. "This is really very nice of you," she says.

"I'll be right there," I say, popping an extra tic tac for backup as she walks toward her desk. I follow her like a loyal retriever. "It's the printer," she says  "It always worked fine before, but now there's some kind of problem. Something happened when you put in the network."

"Probably an Appletalk/Ethertalk problem," I answer. "I'm sorry. I should have caught it earlier."  Giving her vulnerable. "It's all yours," she says, standing back so I can sit down at her desk. "I'll get out of your way for awhile."

She picks up the scissors from the front of her desk and walks off with her package. I think of the possibilities--cutting off the tags and those damn little plastic connectors with the t-shaped ends. I hate those things. They're like worms in farm apples; you always get one half but then you have to worry about the rest. They scratch the back of your neck all day or fall out on your date's bed or carpet that night. Lets her know you put on a fresh shirt just for the occasion. Gives her ideas.

I diddle for a few minutes longer than I need to. Raise her appreciation level a little. After awhile I look around. She's not there, so I diddle some more. Five minutes later she's back and she's thanking me as if I just saved her life.

"It was a simple problem," I answer. "It should be fine now. If you need any more help, just let me know."

"I'm sorry you had to wait around for me like this," she answers. "Let me treat you to dinner. Nothing fancy, just a little thank you."

"I had a sandwich before," I answer, "but that's very nice of you."

"Then how about a drink?" she says.

Like I said: sometimes the breaks just keep coming.

"I'll tell you what," she says. "Give me a few minutes' lead time to make a stop and change my clothes and then meet me at my apartment. It's just a couple miles away, in Studio City. There's an Italian place down the street that's got a nice lounge. Here. . ."

She jots down her address on a card and hands it to me. Then she asks me to promise her that I'll be there. I tell her not to worry, that I'll follow her in forty-five minutes. "Make it forty," she says and I'm suddenly feeling like a sixteen year-old at the entrance to the drive-in.

When I get in my van I notice that my good blazer is hanging from the hook above the side door. As I drive out of the lot I'm thinking it's like some convergence of the planets. Normally I'd turn on KFI and listen to callers spill their guts to strangers lost on the freeways, but tonight I figure I'll leave the radio off and just sit back and enjoy the anticipation.

I figure her for a classy name, not something bubblegum like Brenda or Debbie. Maybe Sarah. or Caroline. And no nickname. Something formal and adult . . . add some spice when the hair comes down and the buttons are undone.

Along the way I stop off at a Ralph's, make a pass through the family planning center, just in case she's picky. That phrase always kills me. I'm not planning on creating any family. While I'm there I pick up a bottle of California champagne. Pretty good stuff. Besides, it's on sale. Twelve minutes later I'm back in the car.

It's hard to keep my mind off those eyes and that hair, but then my mind turns toward the basics. I pick up the card she gave me, which is sitting on the passenger seat. I hold it up to my nose, try to catch some scent. Maybe she used her fingertip to dab on some perfume.

I'm thinking now of her voice, how I want to listen to every word she speaks, to every syllable. I want to hear her voice in different rooms and in different positions--across the table, across the couch, from above me and from below.

Enough of that. I'm starting to drift. A guy in an old Dodge Dart cuts in on me and I nearly drive up the back of his bumper. Idiot. I don't need anything like that now. I've got to concentrate. I'm only a few minutes from her house. I want to be on time and in one piece.

I check the card again. Mountain View at Grove Lane, apartment 4-C. Probably upstairs. Maybe it will actually have a view of the mountain. We'll go back there after we have some drinks. Check it out.

My mind starts wandering again. I'm back to the smell of her hair against her neck. I turn on the radio for distraction. There's some guy talking about his job, how he can't make ends meet. I feel sorry for him. He needs a deal like mine and some clients like Al Greene. Deep pockets and small brains. Al can tell stories and sell cars; he just can't do long division without a calculator or figure out which button makes his tv screen go blue. I love guys like Al; they make guys like me possible.

The guy with the scut job finally hangs up. He's followed by a woman who says she can't say no to men. I jump in before the radio shrink has a chance to answer. "That's not a problem, babe, it's a career choice."  I hear a slight bump in the back of the van. The ice is melting in the cooler and the Stoli bottle is washing around. I don't need it anymore anyway. The sign for Grove comes into my field of vision. I turn, heading south toward Mountain View. I'm moving the wheel with the heel of my hand. Cool, relaxed, anticipating.

The apartment is in the last building on the west end of the development. The entry is lined with miniature fan palms in beds of dark wood chips and the balconies are draped with bougainvillea and framed by banana trees. All very neatly trimmed. No brown fronds or trash stuffed among the greenery. Upscale all the way. Just what I expected.

I park the van, check my collar, run my comb through my hair once or twice, and put on my blazer. I slip the champagne into the cooler, saving it for later. I'm walking toward the steps, thinking about that package again. I always like surprises, especially those involving women with long legs and all that goes with them.

The lights are dark in the adjoining apartments. Fine. When I get to the door and knock there's no response. I reach for the knob, think that maybe I should have stopped to pick up some flowers--nothing fancy, just a gesture--and then figure, no, no reason to look overanxious. Let her make the gesture. Better that way.

The knob turns and I walk in. The lights are low and there's music playing. Something old with a lot of violins. The sound is faint. Maybe it's coming from downstairs. I step inside, say "Hello," and a light comes on in the corner of the room. There's a guy sitting there in a bad suit, smoking a cigarette. There's another one behind me. He's in shirtsleeves, picking at the ridges of his left thumb with the point of a penknife.  Except for the smoker's chair the room has no furniture.

The one in the corner stands up, takes a few steps toward me, and asks me to identify myself. "What is this?" I ask.

"Just answer the question," he says. I do and then he starts in with this "You have a right to remain silent . . ." shit.

"Wait a minute," I say, interrupting him. "What's the charge?"

He keeps reading from his card while the guy behind me moves in a little closer. When he finishes he says, "The charge is grand theft. You hacked into Mr. Greene's corporate account and transferred out eighty-seven grand. We don't know where yet, but we'll find out."

"That's bullshit," I say. "I haven't stolen a penny from Mr. Greene. Where is he? I want to talk to him. He'll clear this up."

"He's back at the dealership, waiting for us," the guy behind me says.

"Fine, let's go there," I say. "This is one hell of a misunderstanding. I hope you guys have some good lawyers, because I guarantee you l do."

"Let's go," the guy from the corner says, slipping the Miranda card into his coat pocket as the guy behind me takes out a pair of cuffs.

Al Greene is sitting in his office and he doesn't look happy. The gold necklace is gone and he's dropping the remains of a cigarette into a cup of dead coffee. His kid is sitting in the corner of his office, listening to a portable cd with earphones, in his own world. I tell Al I'm glad to see him and he stares at me and says, "Really? After you ripped me off?"

"What do you mean?" I ask. "I never touched a penny of your money."

"Yeah?" he answers. "I've got something you oughta see."  He picks up the phone and talks to some guy named Harry in Security. A couple minutes later Harry comes in, carrying a TV with a built-in VCR, the kind you see in the stores playing advertising loops. He's an old guy with a wrinkled uniform and a wrinkled face. When he sets down the TV you can see his hands shake. Jesus, I'm thinking to myself, this is their witness?

He plugs the set into the wall and we wait for the picture to come up. It's Wheel of Fortune and everybody's laughing their ass off and applauding like hell. He reaches over with a twitchy finger and hits the play button. Suddenly everything's in black and white. I'm sitting at her desk, working the keyboard. The time is blinking in the lower right hand corner of the screen: 8:00, then 8:01. The security camera pans. All of the other screens are shut down, the desks empty. Harry fast forwards. At 8:08 I'm still sitting at her desk, working away.

"The money was transferred out at 8:06," Al says. "Do you see anybody else in the movie?"

"It was the woman," I answer.

"What woman?"

"The saleswoman. That was her desk where I was sitting. I was fixing her computer."

"I don't have any women selling cars for me," Al says.

"She must have been in your office," I say, "transferring the money. She set me up."

"Bullshit," Al says. "The techs were already here to check the fingerprints on the keyboards. Those on mine look the same as the ones on the computer at the showroom desk. You were there last, buddy boy. The camera doesn't lie."

"What about the camera in your office? Let's see that tape."

"I don't have any camera in there. Why should I? I don't have to worry about myself. It's my goddamned dealership."

Then it hits me like a steel beam across the bridge of my nose. "She carried in her own keyboard. She had it wrapped up in a box. She unplugged your keyboard and temporarily plugged in her's. That's why you found my fingerprints. I'm telling you, she set me up."

"That was a gift for my kid," he answers. "She picked it up for me. Damn nice of her too after the way she was treated."

"In a purple box with red ribbon?" I ask.

"Yes. She had it wrapped for me. I asked her what she thought my kid would like and she said a set of cd's. The complete collection of some band he likes. I thought that was a pretty good idea."

"She used the gift box to distract me," I tell him. "She must have had the keyboard in there too. She cut the ribbon, took out the keyboard, transferred the money, and then taped the package back together. She wrapped up the keyboard in her shopping bag and slipped out when I wasn't looking, probably went out the side door to her car. I'm telling you, she set me up."

The two cops are looking at each other as if they just heard the lie of the century. "Look," I tell them, "she gave me the address of the apartment and told me to meet her there. How did you know about it? She tipped you off. She had to."

"The address was right here," Al says, pointing at a piece of paper next to his computer. "You recalculated my bill and typed your address on the bottom, so I'd know where to send the check."

"I didn't do that. She did," I tell him. "What were you doing here anyway? How did you know that your money had been transferred?"

"I come back every night at 8:30 with the kid," Al says. "He transfers the money for me. When it was already transferred he noticed right away. That's why I got the new computer. He operates it all the time so I got him the kind he wanted. I figured I'd also get him a present. He's gonna be thirteen years old next week."

"I don't believe this," I say. "I'm telling you the truth and you're believing her."

"And I'm telling you she was straight arrow," Al answers. "The best accountant I've ever had. Freelancing for me, checking on my people. I'll tell you this much--she was a hell of a lot cheaper than you and she gave me better service. She used to work for a big-eight firm. Plus, she was more than happy to run the errand for my kid's present. But now she's not coming back. You know why? You know what happened? Talk about a chickenshit organization with some pissant employees. She put a can of Pepsi in our refrigerator and somebody in the office stole it. She told me she could work under just about any conditions, but she couldn't work with thieves. Can you believe anybody would be that cheap . . . steal a damned can of Pepsi? Anyway, she thanked me, left the present in my office, and told me to please call somebody else the next time I need an accountant."

I look around the room and they're all staring at me in disbelief, all except the kid, whose eyes are closed as he plays the drums on his knees. I start to respond and the cop in the bad suit takes my arm and starts walking me to the door. "That's enough," he says. "We got other stuff we got to do tonight besides listening to you."

"But you don't understand!" I yell.

"We understand, buddy," he says. "We understand it all."


RICHARD B. SCHWARTZ is Professor of English and Dean of the College of Arts and Science at the University of Missouri, Columbia. In addition to his scholarly writings, he is the author of a crime novel, Frozen Stare, and, most recently, The Biggest City in America, a collection of memoir/short stories.

Copyright (c) 2000 Richard B. Schwartz